X-Files Fanfic Challenge 1: CSM's New Ink

Author: SyndicateGirl
Archive: Yes, definitely! But please keep my headers attached and let me know where it is if you can. Thanks!
Spoilers:
Rating: PG
Classification:  Response to Fanfic Challenge: Someone in the Syndicate gets a tattoo.
Summary: CSM gets a tattoo.
Disclaimer: The X-Files characters are Chris Carter's and 1013 Productions', not mine, unfortunately; no infringement is intended. Please don't sue - I'm a writer, and have no money! :D

TITLE: CSM's New Ink.

CSM was in the last place he ever would have guessed he’d be on a Thursday at midnight.  He was in a tattoo parlour downtown.  

At first, he had simply walked by on his way to a local diner, but now he found himself standing in the waiting area looking at designs.  

He had been standing there for nearly an hour.  Partly trying to decide on a design, partly trying to muster up the courage to go through with his plan.  

No identifying marks or scars - that had been his motto.  It’s what he had wanted during his younger days.  Nothing to give away his identity.  No marks on his skin that would make him stand out in a crowd.  

Hell, the clouds of smoke that preceded him were bad enough, he didn’t want to have to worry about anything permanent blowing his cover.

It was different now, though.  He wasn’t a kid anymore.  He had moved under the radar and above the law for a long time, without so much as a name.  Now he wanted something that identified him as his own man.  He craved something that was his own.

He knew it would have to be a tattoo.  It wouldn’t be a person, he was sure of that.

His kids sure as hell weren’t planning a visit anytime soon.  Teena was gone, Cassandra, gone, Marita and Krycek were both pissed at him…the only thing he had left now was his worn body and his typewriter (which looked almost as worn out as he felt).  

This tatoo would finally be something permanent in his life.  Something that would be his for eternity.  He wanted something that would make him human again.  Not the evanescent being that lurked in the shadows, but a real human being.  

He was half tempted to get his life story inked onto his back, just so someone could finally read the truth about him one day.  That idea passed quickly once he realized how much tattoo that would require.  

So what to get?  His eyes scanned the wall as he took another drag of his Morley.  

Pictures of his kids?  That seemed to be a popular choice.  He shook his head, thinking about having to explain the twisted family web and cloudy paternity issues that he had been a part of.  

US Army Insignia?  Scratch that idea.  According to the world he had never been in the Army.  Bad choice.

Okay, what about a skull? Nah. What the hell was he a biker? The thought of the Well Manicured Man stuffed into a sidecar made him chuckle out loud, leaving the young girl in the waiting room shifting uncomfortably away from him.  

A typewriter?  He starts to nod, but soon the bitter memories of a butchered story in Roman A’ Clef begin to surface.  No. No typewriter.

A heart with his girlfriend’s name…oh….no, even worse choice than his last few ideas.

Pack of cigarettes?  Morleys, of course.  No. Too obvious.  Particularly if it were a tattoo poised over his lungs - that was just tempting fate.

Ouroboros?  No, those look better on the hips of young redheads than they do on the biceps of old smokers.  

UFO? Kind of inappropriate, all considered. The last thing he wanted was to have the alien invasion occur only to have a tattoo on his ass serve as a mockery of their transportation.  That likely wouldn’t go well for him.

Finally the idea came to him.  It was simple.  

A statement that he had lived by, and kept close to him all these years - both physically on his lighter, and in his mind.

He walked over to the man behind the counter who looked up, “So, finally decide on the perfect tattoo?”

The Smoking Man nodded, “I believe I have.”

“So, what’s it going to be, Pops?”

CSM stifled a flinch at the too familiar nickname, and forced an uneasy smile onto his face in an attempt to appear friendly.  

“I just want one sentence,” he patted his upper arm, “Trust No One."

CSM: Nothing vanishes without a trace...burn it!