Title: Blind Faith, Round Two

Author: Barbara D.
Helps if you've seen: One Breath and Hollywood A.D.
Summary: Peace makes strange bedfellows.
Hopefully, her benevolent cheesiness will not mind a late entry, nor that
it's 400 words over 155 <sigh>. Thank you, oh cheese, for inspiring my first
Skinnerfic.

***

"Hey, Skinman!"

Skinner turned and watched his friend loping across the quad. 

"306, man!" Wayne hollered, waving a crumpled paper over his head like a
victory banner. "306! Adios, 'Nam, Hollywood, here I come!"

When they were assigned to room together, four years before, they hadn't
had much in common. Skinner was two years older. He had a livid scar
across his back, and an even deeper one on his psyche. He wouldn't explain
the first, knew the weight of the second kept him apart.

Once in a while, they'd lean out their dorm room window, enjoying the
colorful flocks of co-eds fluttering by in short skirts and teased-high
hair. They'd get drunk together occasionally, tell each other lies. That
was about it, till the night the flash-bangs behind his eyes drove Skinner
from his bed. He found Wayne in the lounge, chanting Bogart's lines as the
Maltese falcon changed hands. It became a late-night ritual. In the
flickering shadows of possibility, where the flawed hero could lose the
war but win the battle for his soul, they bonded.

"Come on, man! 306! Might as well be a thousand. The goddamn war's gonna
be over in six months and they're never gonna get me now." Wayne crumpled
the draft lottery notice into a ball and sent it towards the stratosphere.
"One more month till graduation and we're loading up the Chevy and heading
for tinsel town. Beer's on me!"

Before the paper grenade hit the ground, Skinner caught it and handed it
back. "I'll meet you at The Eight Ball in a few, Wayne. Something I've got
to do first."

"Solid, man, but don't be late. Beer's gonna be an endangered species in
about half an hour." Wayne's jubilation dissolved into a worried frown as
he peered up into Skinner's eyes. "You ain't gonna flake on me, are you,
man? I mean, Cagney and Bogie had stunt doubles, you dig? They use real
guns in the F.B.I. Not to mention they're all a bunch of fascists. You
know that, right? Seriously, man, you already did the duty to your country
thing. Enough already. You don't have to volunteer to get dead all over
again."

A flash of rage made Skinner's voice throb. "Getting dead was never what I
volunteered for, Federman." He paused, hearing the paper in Wayne's hand
crackle nervously. "You dig?"

"Easy, man, easy." Wayne reached for Skinner's arm again. "It's just… you
got a future now and it ain't wire tapping Micah Hoffman." He must have
found what he wanted to see on Skinner's face, because his grin returned.
"Alright, man. I'll see you later." He thumped Skinner on the back, then
started to jog away. As he reached the edge of the quad, he turned and
shouted, "You know, we're gonna make a movie about you some day, Skinman.
Gonna call it 'The Last Superhero.' Woo-hoo!"

Skinner watched his friend do an ungainly three-sixty and jump over the
low hedge bordering the sidewalk. Calm purpose flooded through him. It
felt a little like the blind faith that had deserted him years before. It
felt good.

Wayne would never understand, but that was okay. Doing the right thing
between the main titles and watching the credits roll was never as
gratifying as doing it for real. The business card he pulled from his
pocket said, 'Special Agent Anthony Koster, Training Division, Quantico,
Virginia.'

"So long, Wayne," Skinner murmured, as he traced the phone number
imprinted under the name. "See you at the movies."

***