The Danville Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and Walter Skinner do not belong to me; they belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I mean no harm and will make no money from their use. Spoilers: Redux I and II, Setting: Fifth Season Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash, some R-rated language. Title: Punishment Tour Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Mulder is caught in a downward slide and Skinner decides to try a method of punishment his own father used, with help from the old man himself, to try to break the cycle. Punishment Tour "Mulder, it's me," Special Agent Dana Scully spoke into her cell phone. "Where are you?" "I can't tell you, Scully," he replied. "You'll tell Skinner." "What are you talking about? You've been missing for four days, Mulder. Of course he wants to know where you are," she said trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "We're all worried about you." "You're worried, Scully," he snapped back. "He's pissed." "Well, maybe he is, Mulder," she replied. "Frankly, I'm a little angry myself. You don't show up for work four days running, you don't call in a sick day or a vacation day, you don't call ME!" She sighed and tried to lower her voice. "You go running off to Idaho, for God's sake, on a tip that turned out to be as flimsy as the lingerie in a porno flick--" "Have you been watching my videos, Scully?" he demanded, trying to get some semblance of normality into the conversation. "Stop it, Mulder," she said evenly. "How long do you think you can avoid this? You've got to come back sometime." "Well, actually, I have a few contacts at the Federal Witness Protection Program. . . ." "Very funny, Mulder," she said, calming down a little. He was starting to sound a little more like himself and she didn't want to push him away again. "Unfortunately, I'm certain Skinner's got access to those records, too!" "Yeah, you're probably right," he replied softly. She waited for him to continue but he offered nothing more. "Mulder, what's wrong? You've been acting so strangely lately, not like yourself. . . . Even the work doesn't seem to bring you any satisfaction. . . ." "Maybe I'm just not a believer any more, Scully," he said without even a hint of sadness. "Isn't that what everyone's been wanting all these years?" "We may have wished you'd give up believing in Bigfoot, and shape-shifting aliens . . . and 'things that go bump in the night.' Not this, though, Mulder. This is like you've given up believing in anything." She waited for him to respond, but he said nothing. "What are you going to do?" "I don't know, Scully," he replied. "Good night." *************************************************************** Alexandria, Virginia That night Mulder waited in his car for Skinner to leave his apartment building. He'd known the Assistant Director would come looking for him and he had, last night and again tonight. So Mulder just waited him out from his car, heading home to his apartment only after Skinner had given up and gone home himself. Tonight Skinner had spent a little longer inside the building and Mulder thought he must have stopped to speak to a few of his neighbors, to see what they knew. Mulder wasn't worried, though. His neighbors knew nothing about his comings and goings and didn't really know him, period. He watched Skinner leave and realized he hadn't noticed the AD was carrying a weekend bag. Mulder saw him toss the bag in the back of his jeep and drive off toward the parkway. It was Thursday night, he must be going away for a few days. The young FBI agent sighed and got out of his car, leaving it parked in a crowded lot down the block from his building just in case Scully or Skinner drove by during the night. Then he started walking the long block to his building. He was physically exhausted, not having slept a full night in four days. He didn't notice a car slow up beside him until it pulled into a driveway ahead of him, blocking his progress. It was a Jeep just like -- Skinner! Mulder's adrenaline level skyrocketed; his muscles tensed and he looked wildly around, trying to decide whether to flee when he felt Skinner's large hand clamp down on his upper arm. All the fight went out of him immediately and he just stood there, waiting for Skinner to say something. Skinner walked him around to the passenger side of the car. "Get in, Mulder," were the only words he said as he opened the door and waited for the younger man to do as he was told. Then he closed the door, reaching in through the open window to lock it before circling the car once again and getting in the driver's door. He put the jeep into reverse and backed up quickly, then sped toward the parkway. Neither man said a word until they were on the open highway, heading north. Finally, Mulder couldn't stand it any longer. "Where are we going?" he asked resignedly, without turning his head from the side window he'd been staring out for the past 20 minutes. Skinner didn't answer him at first, he just looked at him, waiting for him to turn his head. When he did, the AD looked him right in the eye for a few seconds. "How many times did I call your cell phone over the last four days, Mulder?" he asked. "How many messages did I leave on your answering machine and your voice-mail?" The younger man shook his head and shrugged. "And how many times did you return a call? Or call in to let me know where you were?" This time Mulder didn't bother to respond. He hadn't called once, hadn't spoken to anyone except Scully today. And he'd only answered that time because the caller I.D. function on his cell phone told him it was her. "Where are we going?" Mulder asked again. They were heading toward I-95 now, going north. It wasn't the way to Skinner's place or the office. "We're going to visit my parents, Mulder," the Assistant Director said, stopping at the toll booth to pick up a toll card before entering the interstate. "They're expecting us." Now Mulder was confused. He'd met Skinner's parents last Thanksgiving when he accompanied the AD home for the holiday. But why would they be going there tonight? It was almost 1 a.m. on Thursday night, they wouldn't arrive there until well after 3 a.m. And for what purpose? His confusion was palpable and Skinner decided it was time to fill him in. "Mulder, you've been on some kind of downward spiral lately. Almost like you don't care about anything anymore. You've been walking on the edge of disaster for months. And I've had it," he said evenly. "And more importantly, the Bureau's about had it with you. If I report these last few days that you've been 'missing in action,' your career's over." Mulder nodded. He knew that. "Do what you have to do," he said simply. "No! That's exactly what I'm not gonna do, Mulder! I'm not gonna do it FOR you. If you want to quit, you quit. But don't put me in the position of being the one to make your decision. I'm not going to be your noose!" "So, then, why are we going to your parents' place?" Mulder asked again. This was starting to worry him; Skinner wasn't responding the way he'd anticipated. "When I was a kid--" "Oh, here we go! One more story about growing up in 'Skinnerville!" The Assistant Director fixed him with a fearsome glare. "I'm gonna ignore that, Mulder. Consider it a gift." Mulder shrugged and turned to look out the side window again. "When I was a kid, a teenager really," Skinner went on more forcefully, "when my brothers and I really stepped out of line, my Dad had this very old-fashioned way of dealing with it. Being an ex-GI, he called it 'a punishment tour.' It was pretty simple. All privileges were suspended and you had to earn them back with good behavior. We'd be grounded, no TV, no telephone, no visits from friends, no free time. Early bedtime, lots of chores and, oh yeah, I may have forgotten to mention "the Persuader." Mulder was feeling sick to his stomach but he refused to let the AD see it. He swallowed down the bile that had risen in his throat and continued to stare out the window. "So I called my folks and explained the situation, Mulder," he said. "And, for some reason, they like you. So they're willing to go through another 'punishment tour,' even though their kids are grown and long out of the house. . . . Although, truth be told, my youngest brother Andy served one some years ago, just before he got married. But that's another story, one Andy will have to share with you himself, if he cares to--" Mulder closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. "What if I just asked you to let me out here?" he asked softly, desperately trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill any minute. "If that's what you want, Mulder," Skinner said. "But I want you to hear me. If that's what you want. . . . it's all over. I'm not hanging in with you if you aren't willing to try to help yourself. And you haven't been doing anything to help yourself lately." Mulder wanted more than anything to tell him to just pull over and let him go. But some shred of hope that he might be able to pull out of that 'downward spiral' the AD mentioned remained within him. So he just put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, counting off the miles to Danville, Pennsylvania. When they arrived, Skinner let them both into the house and quietly ushered Mulder to the study he'd stayed in before. He dropped the duffel bag Mulder had seen him with earlier on the floor and told the younger man that he'd packed all the things Skinner thought he'd need for the next week. Mulder realized now what Skinner had been doing inside his building earlier while Mulder watched from down the street. Then Skinner unplugged the small television in the room, took the younger agent's cell phone and gave him a warning look before wishing him a good night and closing the door behind him. Without changing his clothes, he let himself topple to the side and fell asleep in his jeans and tee shirt. Mulder awoke the next morning to someone banging on his door. At first confused about where he was, he sat up and frantically looked around to get his bearings. "Wha-. . . I mean, who is it?" Skinner opened the door and looked in. Taking in the fact that the younger man was still in the clothes he'd been wearing the night before and the bedcovers that had not been undone, he had a moment of uncertainty about his plan. But he put his doubts aside quickly. "Good morning!" he said. "I thought I'd let you sleep in this morning. It's almost 9 o'clock, though, daylight's burning." Mulder didn't respond; he just looked at the other man with heavy-lidded insolence. "Get dressed and come to breakfast," the AD continued, ignoring his expression. "I want you downstairs in 10 minutes." "I'm not hungry," Mulder replied sullenly. "I don't care if you're hungry or not. I expect to see you in . . . 9 minutes and 40 seconds." He closed the door without another word. He made it to breakfast in just under 15 minutes, ignoring Skinner's look of annoyance as he greeted the A.D.'s parents. Whatever anger he felt for their son, these people didn't deserve his disrespect and he wanted them to know it. "It's good to see you again, dear," Rachel Skinner said rising to give him a kiss and a hug. "We're happy to have you stay with us, Mulder," Walter, Sr. added, shaking his hand, then pulling him into a brief hug, too. "Feel free to stay as long as you need to." But he knew better than to voice that out loud, instead ducking his head to keep from having to make eye contact with the AD Mulder sat down and Mrs. Skinner put a bowl of steaming hot oatmeal in front of him, along with a plate of sliced bananas and blueberries that must have been kept frozen from the previous summer. Suddenly, he realized he was hungry, starving actually. He was hesitant to just dig in and give Skinner the satisfaction of knowing he lied earlier. But the aroma of the oatmeal quickly overcame his reluctance and he found himself dumping the bananas and the blueberries in the bowl, along with a dollop of warm maple syrup and some milk. It tasted heavenly and he realized this was the first real meal he'd eaten in several days. He finished it off with a glass of milk and a couple of cups of coffee. Skinner watched the food disappear and felt a little relieved that at least Mulder was getting some nourishment. He hadn't really noticed last night but the younger man had lost weight and even the color of his skin was worrying. Like he'd been eating too little, drinking too much and getting way less sleep than he needed. Mr. and Mrs. Skinner kept the conversation going through breakfast with family and hometown news. They kept Mulder in the conversation, reminding him if he knew anyone they were talking about and filling him in on the relationships with those he hadn't met. Skinner found himself wondering whether his folks were up to holding the leash while he was gone at work next week. He'd taken today off and planned to take next Friday as well but from Monday morning until Thursday evening, he'd have to rely on his parents to keep his troublesome agent in line. "Okay, time to get this show on the road," he said to get everyone's attention. "I gave Mulder a quick run-down of how a 'punishment tour' works last night but I want to make certain we're all on the same page." The young FBI agent colored a deep red and dropped his eyes, starting to work his bottom lip over with his front teeth. He was afraid to hear what came next. And embarrassed that the AD had brought his parents in on this. "From now until I decide you've learned your lesson, you'll stay here with my folks," he began. "And starting now, you're on full restriction. I'll be here until Monday morning, then I have to go back to work. I'll come back on Thursday night. Based on your recent behavior, you have a lot of work to do to earn back any privileges, Mulder. In the meantime, you'll be restricted to this house and property, unless my parents or I accompany you somewhere. No television, no phone calls. You'll go to bed at 7:30--" "What? I can't sleep at 7:30 at night!" Mulder spat out. "Funny you should mention that," Skinner said reaching for a pad on the counter behind him. "This is a list of chores and projects that I've lined up for you to keep you occupied. I think it's enough to tire you out, Mulder, but if it's not, you get back to me and I'll come up with more." He handed the list to the young agent who quickly scanned it and realized that, if he did all of these things over the next few days, he probably would be exhausted by 7:30 each night. "You'll probably have a couple of hours of free time each day, though," Skinner continued, reaching for a blue spiral notebook on the same counter he'd gotten the pad from. "I'm not sure who this belonged to, but it hasn't been used. You can 'christen it', Mulder. I want you to write me a detailed explanation for your behavior recently, not just this last incident, all of it, for the last couple of months." Mulder shook his head violently. "Fuck you! You can't make me--" he spat out before realizing Mr. and Mrs. Skinner were present and were stunned by his response. "I mean, that's not what I mean. . . ." He appeared too confused to go on. "I'm not making you do anything, Mulder," Skinner said quietly. "This is your choice. You can leave anytime. But then you know the rest." He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. "Okay, time to get to work now, Mulder," the AD finally said, rising from the table. "I think we'll start with the basement. You've been threatening to get it cleaned out for years, Dad. I think it's time." He led the young FBI agent to the stairs off the kitchen and started to head down. Behind him, his troubled young agent stopped for a moment, turning back to Mr. and Mrs. Skinner. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry about my language before. . . " Then he headed down the basement stairs to catch up with Skinner. Mulder was dismayed to see it was a full basement, spanning the breadth of the entire house. And it had obviously been used to capacity. The Assistant Director stayed and worked beside him for the first couple of hours, helping him begin to clear out the stored furniture that would never be used again, along with boxes of kids' clothing and toys, yearbooks and assorted junk that had been kept for future use, then never thought of again. At 11:30, Skinner excused himself to call the office; he'd scheduled a couple of conference calls since this unplanned vacation day cut into his regular calendar. "Wait! Before you go," Mulder called after him. Skinner descended the stairs again and waited for the younger man to continue. "I just have to know when . . . I mean, you said last night that you were gonna punish me--" he choked the words out. "I just have to know when. I can't stand waiting and not knowing. . . ." "I know you hate waiting, Mulder," the AD replied. "After supper. That was traditional in our house. Trips to the woodshed waited until after supper." Mulder let out a heavy sigh and nodded, then hung his head so Skinner wouldn't see the tears that burned the back of his eyes. He waited until the older man left the basement, closing the door behind him. Then he sat down on an old chair they'd uncovered a little while earlier. He leaned forward and crossed his arms over his legs, burying his head in them to cry. They all had lunch together at 1 o'clock, then Mulder returned leadenly to his work in the basement while Skinner and his Dad went into town. At 3:30, Mrs. Skinner came down the steps with a glass of cold milk and some fresh baked brownies. She put them on an old sideboard they'd unburied that morning, remarking that it had been a wedding gift when she married Walter Sr. 'almost 48 years ago!' Then she turned to the sweaty young man and offered him the cold glass of milk. He took it greedily, eyeing the fudge brownies on the plate as well. "Don't tell anyone," she told him with a twinkle in her eye. "Besides, I don't remember hearing you weren't allowed any dessert!" He found himself laughing with her and grabbed the first brownie, swallowing it almost whole, then washing it down with the milk. They talked about nothing much for another minute or so, then they both heard the sounds of Skinner's jeep on the gravel driveway. Mulder stuffed the remainder of the second brownie in his mouth, then polished off the rest of the milk and handed her the telltale evidence to dispose of before her husband and son got to the kitchen. He went back to work, knowing Skinner would want to inspect his progress for sure. In the kitchen above, Walter Sr. and Jr. entered to the aroma of fresh baked brownies. "Mmmm," the younger one commented, eyeing the pan with about a quarter of the brownies missing. "Been eating a lot of brownies lately, have you, Mom?" he asked innocently. "Oh, why do you have to look so close into everything?" his mother asked him good-naturedly. "They call that place I work the "Federal Bureau of INVESTIGATION, Mom," he replied, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "It's a habit, I guess!" He checked on Mulder's progress around 5 o'clock and thought he'd probably worked at half-speed since Skinner left him this morning. But the AD decided not to make an issue of it, instead sending him to the study to work on the report Skinner had asked for until dinner time. Mulder was sullen again and refused to respond, he just headed up the stairs with a look back at his boss that would kill a lesser man. Skinner sighed and thought they were all in for a very long week. At 6:30, Skinner went up to collect his recalcitrant young agent and found him sitting at the desk, staring into space. "How's it going, Mulder?" he asked. "Anything to show me?" The younger man shook his head. "Okay, then, get washed up for supper. We're eating in 15 minutes." After a dinner that consisted of the best meat loaf he'd ever tasted, real mashed potatoes and several vegetables, Mulder was almost content, except for the problem with what was to come next. He'd thought he wouldn't be able to eat, what with the anxiety about the 'trip to the woodshed' Skinner promised him. But this meat loaf was like manna from heaven. "I know my daughter, Jean, gave that recipe to your Agent Scully when you two were in Hopewell last year," Mrs. Skinner told him curiously. "I can't believe she didn't make it for you." "Well, 'my' Agent Scully doesn't really cook for me much," Mulder answered her. "Actually, she doesn't cook for me at all! But now that I know she has this recipe, I may just ask her to!" "Mulder, if I didn't know better, I'd think you're turning into an optimist!" Skinner interjected, chuckling. Mulder stopped short, remembering he was still mad at the AD Skinner watched the younger man go through this mental process and actually thought he could hear the internal debate he was waging with himself. "If you'll excuse us," he said to his parents as he rose and opened the back door, "we have some business to attend to. Mulder?" They made the long walk to the woodshed in what seemed like record time to the younger agent. Skinner held the door open for him and then swung it closed behind them. He got hold of an old wooden bench pushed up against the wall and pulled it out into the middle of the floor, then pulled "the Persuader" from a hook next to the door. It was an old, well-worn razor strop that Skinner's Dad had told Mulder about on his last visit, something the elder Skinner had used to 'persuade' his sons of the error of their ways, apparently. Mulder had gotten a taste of it over Thanksgiving weekend; he feared he'd be getting more than a taste this time. "Okay, Mulder," Skinner said to him evenly. "You know the drill." The younger agent unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down to his knees, then he stopped and glared at the AD Skinner was shocked at his continued rebelliousness and unwilling to tolerate it any further. "Shorts, too, Mulder!" he said, raising his voice a few notches. "Don't make me wait, you will regret it!" Mulder blinked and did as he was told as quickly as he could. Then Skinner grabbed his arm and moved him down onto the bench, getting him to pull up a little further so his butt was positioned exactly where the AD wanted it. "What's this punishment for, Agent Mulder?" he asked him, underscoring the question with a lick of the strop right across his bottom. "Aaaah!" Mulder gasped against all his resolve. Another stroke. "Unnnhhh!" "Agent Mulder, I am not feeling particularly patient tonight, don't push your luck," Skinner told him evenly before bringing the leather strop down across his backside again. "What is this strapping for?" "Uhhhh! For, for going to Idaho, without notifying you or Scully!" he cried, already beginning to sob. "Aaaahhh! And for disobeying your order to come back! Ohhhhh!" "What else, Agent Mulder." "Owwww! For not coming to work, and not calling in!" "And how many days did you do that, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked him, holding the next lick, guessing that Mulder was trying to double up the offenses to try to reduce the number he received. "Four! Four days!" "And how many licks do you think you deserve for that offense?" Mulder sobbed pitifully now, knowing he'd have to answer the question. "Four, sir," he said, "I think four." "Count them, Agent Mulder," Skinner said, issuing the first stinging stroke. "Ohhhh! One! Aaaaaahhh! Two! Unnnnhhh!" Skinner waited a moment for him to catch up, then spoke again. "Don't lose count, Mulder. You don't want me to have to start again." "That's three! Owwwww! Four!" He was crying uncontrollably now and Skinner decided to give him a moment to collect himself. His sobs calmed a little but he seemed lost in his own misery so the AD tapped the back of his head to get his attention back. "What else is this punishment for, Agent Mulder?" he asked him quietly. "For not returning your phone calls, sir!" he sobbed again as the strap came down on his blistered backside. "Ohhhh!" "What else?" Skinner asked him, giving him another stinging slap. He watched the young man shake his head slowly, as though he couldn't remember anything else he'd done wrong. Taking pity on him, Skinner decided to bring this to an end. "What about that 'hiding out' thing, Mulder?" he said, issuing another lick that he immediately followed with yet another. "I really didn't like that hiding thing. Don't EVER do it again!" "I won't, sir!" the younger man cried, "Oucccchhh! Owwwww! I won't ever do it again!" Skinner exhaled deeply and walked to the door to hang the razor strop back on its hook. Then he waited a minute for Mulder's sobs to calm enough for the young man to concentrate again. The AD helped him up and watched him pull his clothes back into place, saw him bite his lip to keep from sobbing as he pulled them over his backside. Skinner remembered the stinging soreness from his own experiences with 'the Persuader' and he averted his eyes until Mulder was back in control again. Then he put his hands on the younger man's shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Okay, Mulder," he said, "we won't visit this shed again this week unless you do something else to deserve it. The rest of the week's punishment is just about you showing you can earn back my faith in you. And maybe your faith in yourself." He tried to pull the young man into a hug and found Mulder fighting him just a little. But that he wouldn't allow and Skinner pulled him in and hugged him hard until he felt Mulder's body relax and his head come to a rest buried in the A.D.'s shoulder. "Okay, that's better." Mulder nodded into his shoulder, with his eyes closed. "Okay, let's get you to bed now, Mulder," he said, knowing he had to get the young man moving or risk having to carry him back to the house. "It's 7:35, Mulder, past your bedtime!" Despite his certainty that he could never sleep at such an ungodly hour, Mulder fell into a dreamless sleep that lasted until Skinner banged on his door at 7 o'clock the next morning. By late afternoon, Mulder had finished cleaning the Skinner basement and been sent outside to clear out debris that had collected in the shrubs and trees behind the house. "A little fresh air wouldn't hurt you, Mulder," Skinner had said as he handed him a pair of work gloves and an old parka that belonged to one of his brothers. It was a cold, clear day and at first the younger agent had been happy with the chance to get outdoors. Now, however, his shoulder and back muscles were aching and he'd filled a dozen trash bags with the remains of a very productive autumn. He stopped for a short break and found himself wondering how far it was to the interstate. He was abruptly pulled from this reverie by the A.D.'s voice, calling him to come inside. "That's enough for today," he said. When Mulder entered the house, Rachel Skinner had a mug of hot cocoa waiting in the kitchen and he drank it down quickly, realizing he was already hungry and dinner was at least a couple of hours away. Skinner and his Dad were watching football in the family room and Mrs. Skinner was leisurely preparing a roast chicken for dinner. It smelled so good, Mulder thought he'd die before it was time to eat. He heard heavy footsteps on the kitchen floor behind him. "The Steelers are losing, Mulder, so the Skinner men are not happy this afternoon," the AD offered as he grabbed a couple of light beers from the refrigerator, "but you'll be glad to hear the Redskins won." Mulder gave him a nod of appreciation and waited for more. But Skinner didn't comply. "Upstairs, now. You have a couple of hours before supper to work on that report." Mulder tried to hold his frustration and anger in check, with minimal success. He stalked off without a word to the AD or his mother, banging the study door behind him when he got there. Then he sat down to wait for dinner. At 6:15, Skinner knocked and opened the door. "How's it coming, Mulder?" The young FBI agent was sitting on the bed, leaning on the pillows he'd propped up behind him. He had the notebook on his knees and a pen in his hand. He just looked at the Assistant Director, making no attempt to respond to his question, daring him to come take a look. Skinner was surprised at his posture and immediately walked toward the bed. "I'll take that to mean you've written me a good explanation for your behavior over the last couple of months, Mulder," he said, taking the notebook out of his hands. "I DON'T KNOW!" was scrawled across the page. Skinner took a deep breath to calm himself before responding, recognizing that this young man knew how to push his buttons and was jumping up and down on one of those buttons at this very moment. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at Mulder, who was now staring at the wall beside him. "Do you want to give me an explanation for this?" Skinner asked him point-blank. "How many explanations do you want? I'm having a hard time keeping them all straight." "Are you really telling me you don't know why you're behaving the way you are, Mulder? Is that really the truth?" The younger man was growing immensely uncomfortable with the way this was going. He'd expected the AD to get mad, to start yelling at him. This quiet, talking-to was not something he was prepared for, and not something he liked at all. "Answer me, Mulder," Skinner said to him. "I'm not leaving until you give me an answer." "What do you want me to say!" he suddenly shouted in Skinner's face. "That I don't know what the hell is wrong with me? Is that what you want to hear? 'Cause that's the truth, okay?" "If that's really true, then I'd say your parents wasted a whole lot of money on that Oxford education, Mulder," Skinner replied calmly. But the young man was averting his eyes again, trying to back away from the emotional engagement of his outburst. Skinner knew he just wanted him to go away, or get mad and lash out at him, and the AD was not willing to do either. "I've got an idea, Mulder," he said. "Why don't you approach it like a profile? Take a step back and profile yourself the way you would any subject. Tell me what motivates the unsub, what makes him behave the way he does. You're the best profiler I know. This should be a walk in the park for you." Mulder shook his head, not wanting to agree to play this game. He was uncomfortable with self revelation and even more uncomfortable with revealing so much to someone else. He shook his head again, this time more firmly. "No." "I'll make you a deal, Mulder," Skinner said. "You write the profile, to the best of your ability. I'll trust you to do that. Then, at the end of the week, if you don't want me to read it, I won't. But you'll have gone through the exercise and, hopefully, you'll have learned something from it. . . . Okay?" Mulder blinked in confusion and looked at the other man quizzically. "You won't read it if I don't want you to?" Skinner shook his head and rose. "No, not if you don't want me to read it. That's a promise. Now we better get downstairs before my mother wants to hang us both. She's been cooking all day and the food's getting cold!" Skinner Residence Danville, Pennsylvania Monday afternoon After working all day in the Skinner garage, Mulder was feeling physically exhausted and his muscles were screaming. Not having a physically demanding job, his regular exercise was limited to running and swimming, two activities his body was superbly conditioned for. This lifting and pulling and cleaning was something to which he was unaccustomed and he was annoyed at the way his body rebelled, and let him know it. Skinner gone back to D.C. first thing in the morning and, to his surprise, Mulder found it a little lonely working all day without him. Mr. & Mrs. Skinner had checked in on him several times but pretty much left him alone to his work. Not like the AD, who actually spent time working along with him both previous days. On top of that, he'd been sitting at the desk in the study for nearly two hours, unable to find a starting point for the task to which Skinner had set him, and he was frustrated and angry at himself as a result. Sinking into a black humor, his mind began to rebel too. Ripping another piece of paper out of the notebook, Mulder balled it up and sent it sailing toward the wastebasket he'd positioned on the other side of the room, just as Mr. Skinner knocked and entered. "Supper's ready, son," he said, eyeing the pile of paper in and around the wastebasket. "Doesn't look like you're making much progress." Mulder imagined he heard criticism between the lines of the older man's statement. He started to work himself into an even bigger bout of anger. Over dinner, Mulder did his best to keep his anger banked but it was a losing battle. He barely ate the stew Rachel Skinner had made and to top it off, Skinner called from Washington just as they were finishing dinner. His father answered and spoke to him quietly for a few minutes. Mulder guessed they were talking about him. Then he spoke to his mother for a while. Finally, she handed the phone to the younger man, who was pushing a piece of apple pie around on his plate, watching the vanilla ice cream on top pool around it as it melted. "Yeah." "Mulder?" "Yeah!" Skinner sighed in exasperation, recognizing the posture without having to see it. "Is everything all right, Agent Mulder?" he asked sternly. "Yeah." Skinner waited for him to continue, determined to make him sweat. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds passed. Finally one of them gave in. "Yes, sir," Mulder ground out. "That's better, Agent," Skinner said with all the authority he could invest into those words. "Don't give my parents a hard time, Mulder. If I have to come back up there—" "You don't . . . " Mulder responded. "Sir." "Good," the AD said. "Now, it's past 7, I think you ought to turn in now. Perhaps tomorrow you'll be able to behave a little better." Mulder blinked and turned pink, even though no one could overhear the Assistant Director's words. "Fine," he said, handing the phone back to Mr. Skinner as he rose and left the room. But tonight he had trouble sleeping. His muscles ached and his heart ached worse. With tears beginning to burn his eyes, he got up out of bed and started pacing the small room. The television was unplugged and Skinner had told him he was not allowed to watch it. His cell phone had been confiscated and the house phones were all in public areas, where the Skinners would see him. Like a wounded animal, he felt fear and tension build up inside him and could find no way to contain it. The tools to understand, let alone manage his emotions just weren't there for him to access. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he threw his clothes on and grabbed his jacket, heading down the back stairs and out the kitchen door without a word to anyone. Breaking into a run, he headed down the driveway and out onto the country road, running at full tilt, not stopping until he hit the highway that led to the interstate. Sticking his thumb out, he pulled his jacket tighter against the chill night wind and waited for someone to take pity on him. Not much traffic passed by that area at 9 o'clock in the evening but, finally, a 16-wheeler slowed down as it passed him. Mulder ran to catch up to it, pulling the door open and jumping up into the cab, his teeth chattering as he thanked the driver. "No problem, buddy," the man said, starting up again. "I'm glad for the company. Where ya headed?" "Washington," he said, "no actually, northern Virginia." "No kidding? I'm headed down 95 to Richmond. I'll go right by there. Name's Pete Cooper," he said, "but folks just call me Coop." "Mulder," the young agent replied, "just Mulder." "Pleased to meet you, Mulder," Coop said. "Where ya coming from anyway? Not much over by where I picked you up. Just the Skinner place, I think." "You know the Skinners?" Mulder replied warily. "Everyone in Danville knows everyone else. You're not one of their boys, though, and, no offense, you're a little too old to be one of their grandkids." "No, I'm just . . . a friend," Mulder said noncommittally. "I work with one of their sons." He turned his head to look out the side window, lapsing into silence. He closed his eyes and tried to look like he was sleeping. In a short while, he was. They stopped at a rest area just outside Baltimore. Coop ran in to use the facilities and brought back a couple of cans of soda for the both of them. Then they headed back into the night, conversing a little about nothing, mostly riding in amiable silence. When they'd crossed over the Virginia line, Mulder was starting to grow anxious to be home, to be back in the familiar darkness of his apartment. Coop pulled into another rest stop and told him he'd be right back. Mulder nodded, not having anything to say about whether the trucker made a stop or not, but wondering all the same about why an interstate truck driver needed to stop every hour. He was surprised when the door on his side opened and someone stepped up – Skinner! "Let's go, Mulder," he said. Mulder was too shocked to answer, or move at first. "How did you. . . how did—" Skinner held the door open and waited for him to step down from the cab. "Coop and I went to high school together, Mulder," he said quietly. "Anchored the Danville High School backfield, actually. When he heard you 'worked with one of the Skinners' and you mentioned Washington, he didn't have any trouble putting it together. So he called me to see if I thought it was strange that someone who worked for me was leaving my parent's house, thumbing a ride, at 9 o'clock at night. . . . Obviously, I thought it was very strange." Mulder was still too stunned to make coherent sense and he just got out of the truck and headed toward Skinner's jeep, shaking his head. He opened the passenger side door and threw himself in, sliding down to put his knees on the dash board and crossing his arms angrily over his chest. Skinner came up beside him and slammed shut the door that the younger agent had left open. Then he got back in the car and reached to put his seatbelt on. "Seatbelt, Mulder," he said angrily to the angry young man beside him. Skinner watched him sit up and buckle the belt. "We're going back to Danville, Mulder," he said, starting the engine and pulling out of the rest area. They were barely back on the turnpike when Mulder exploded. "I thought you said I could leave any time I wanted? Huh? Isn't that what you said?" He was shouting, unnecessary as it was in the small confines of the jeep. "Yes, I said that," Skinner responded quietly. "And I meant it. But I meant 'leave' like a grown-up. Call me up and tell me you're leaving, tell me you're giving up. Say a civil good-bye to my folks. Running away like a thief in the night is not what I had in mind, Mulder. It's not acceptable." Mulder clamped his teeth together, and shook his head angrily. He wanted to respond but he knew the AD was right. And he didn't want to give the other man the satisfaction of knowing he knew it. "And when I said you could leave," Skinner said with emphasis, "I also said you had to be ready to accept the consequences of that decision. We made a deal, Mulder. If you've decided to end it, then you damn well better tell me. I've stuck with you a long way. I deserve at least that much consideration." Mulder's head was aching and his eyes were starting to burn from blinking back tears, tears he was not going to let Skinner see. "You know I'm right, Mulder." The Assistant Director was silent for a moment, shaking his head in honest confusion. "I just don't get it. You spend so much time obsessing about the past, you can't seem to project more than one minute into the future!" Skinner's words stung him like a hard slap across the face. He blinked in surprise, then forced the scowl back onto his face, recrossing his arms tightly across his chest. "So until I hear you say you've given up, I'm sticking with you, Mulder. However much you'd like me to be the one to pull the plug . . . . We're going back to Danville." "Fine. I can't tell you how thrilled I am," Mulder spat out sarcastically. "Can't wait to spend another night in Skinnerville." Skinner felt his blood pressure rise precipitously. He took a long, slow, deep breath and counted to ten as he pulled back onto the interstate going north. "Okay, Mulder," he said in a tone that made the younger man's blood run cold. "Let's see what tonight's little adventure is gonna cost you. . . . I'm sure you've figured out you've got a late date with 'the Persuader.' How many licks do you think you deserve for disobeying me and leaving the house?" No answer came back. "I can wait all night, Mulder," Skinner said agreeably. "But for every minute you make me wait, I'm adding another lick." Mulder remained silent as the minutes passed, two, three, four. He was starting to feel sick with fear and anxiety. At the six minute mark, he blurted out, "I don't know how many. Five?" "Not nearly enough, Mulder." "Ten? . . . . Come on, ten's a lot!" "Ten seems right. And six for making me wait six minutes for your answer," he added, seeing the younger agent shake his head and silently curse himself for his stubbornness. "And what about running away?" "Wha-- what?" Mulder stammered. "That's the same as leaving the house!" "No, leaving the house is going into town, or next door to the neighbors. Hitchhiking back to Virginia is 'running away,' Mulder. And I think I told you before, I REALLY don't like the running away thing! How many for that?" Mulder felt his stomach heave. If he'd eaten any dinner, he knew it would have come up by now. He sighed in resignation. "Ten? Ten for running away?" "Okay, I'll take your bid. . . and raise you two. How many is that?" "Twelve, sir," he replied morosely. "No, how many all together, Mulder? I expect you to keep count." Skinner watched him tense up for a moment as he added in his head. "That's 28." "Twenty-eight. Hmm, and we still haven't dealt with that 'Skinnerville' comment," the AD said agreeably. "What do you think your smart mouth earned you?" Mulder winced, remembering. He hung his head, ashamed and afraid. "I'm waiting, Agent Mulder," Skinner said warningly. "You know the penalty for making me wait." "Ten?" he responded, swallowing down the acid that was creeping up from his stomach. Skinner nodded, considering his suggestion. "Ten's a lot, I would have said five. . . . Let's compromise on eight. How many is that all told, Mulder?" Mulder was certain the Assistant Director knew exactly how many that was and part of him resented the question. But the smarter part knew he'd better answer, and quick, or risk having him add more. "That's 36, sir." "Okay, 36 it is. Now I suggest you try to get a little sleep. I don't know how well you'll sleep after your appointment with 'the Persuader.'" They arrived back in Danville at 1:30 in the morning. Mulder had not actually slept a moment of the ride. The lights in the Skinner house were all out and Skinner pulled the jeep up close to the woodshed, to try to avoid waking his parents. The two men got out and Skinner headed into the shed, turning the overhead light on, then standing at the door while he waited for the younger man to come in. Mulder slumped in and stood there, waiting for instructions. "Get the bench, Mulder," Skinner told him as he took off his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves. Mulder moved the wood bench into the open area. He took off his own jacket and dropped it on the workbench beside Skinner's. The emotional turmoil he'd been fighting for days, even months threatened to rear up and overpower him and he was already fighting off tears. Suddenly anger overwhelmed every other emotion, anger at himself, at Skinner, at this ridiculous situation he found himself in. "Take down your jeans, Mulder," Skinner told him. "No!" Skinner lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "What did you say?" "I said no! I'm not playing this game any more," he raged, raising his voice to an almost hysterical scream. "I'm not-- you can't. . . " He shook his head violently and started to head for the door, fighting back a myriad of emotions he couldn't identify before they were overcome by the next violent impulse. He headed for the door, then stopped without opening it. "Fuck! I can't fucking do this. . . . I can't do this anymore. . ." He put his head against the door and began to weep. Skinner watched this scene play out, unsure where the young man was going or what was driving him to such lengths. When Mulder finally came to a rest, banging his forehead against the door, the AD couldn't stand it any longer. He strode over and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him away from the door, turning him so they were face to face. "Look at me," he said, but the younger agent refused, averting his eyes to look at the far wall. "Look at me, Agent Mulder!" The young agent's eyes snapped up in surprise, meeting his with stunned fear. "This is not a game, Mulder," Skinner said sharply. "I don't play games like this. This is about your career, no, strike that, it's about your life! You've been walking a tight rope for months now, daring fate to knock you off! I don't know what the hell's wrong with you, but this is the only way I've found that actually gets your attention, even for a little while. And the deal I've made with you is that I'll keep trying, as long as you keep trying. . . . And I don't really believe you want me to give up on you . . . ." He lowered his voice and loosened his grip on the younger man's shoulders. "But all you have to do is tell me, Mulder. . . . Do you want to give up? I asked you before and you didn't answer me. I want an answer now." Mulder was staring at the floor again, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. He was almost paralyzed, with fear and anger and self-reproach. About all he could manage was a tentative shake of his head. But that was enough. "All right. Let's get this over with then, Agent Mulder," Skinner said quietly. "You know what to do." The young man unbuttoned his jeans, stepping over to stand in front of the wood bench. He unzipped his fly and pushed the jeans and shorts down. Skinner helped him lower himself over the bench, then the AD walked over and grabbed the razor strop. "How many did we decide on, Agent Mulder?" he asked him evenly. "Thirty-six," the answer came back. Mulder's head was hanging down and he was already sniffling. "Tell me what the first ten were for," Skinner said, as he delivered the first stroke. "Unhhh! For disobeying you, for leaving the house!" Mulder cried as the series of licks burned hot, red welts across his bottom. After ten, the Assistant Director paused. "And then what, Agent Mulder?" he asked him. Trying to stifle the sobs that were already coming freely, the young man answered him. "Twelve, for running away! Ahhhh! Owwww!" Skinner delivered all twelve across the area where his butt met the tops of his thighs, determined to make certain sitting down was a painful reminder of what a lousy idea running away from his problems was, at least for the next few days. "What else?" Skinner asked him after the dozen strokes had hit their mark. Mulder was crying miserably now and either didn't hear him, or couldn't get an answer out. The Assistant Director gave him a minute to collect himself, then reached down and pushed his hair off his sweaty forhead. "We're halfway there, Mulder. Stay with me," he said. "What else are you being punished for?" "For mouthing off to you, sir!" he said finally, "eight for my smart mouth." Skinner shook his head, remembering the 'Skinnerville' comment, but he knew he had to make good on that promise. He raised the strap and brought it down on Mulder's already blazing red backside. "Your mouth never fails to get you in trouble, Mulder. This is a lesson I want you to learn for good." "Owww! Ouchhh! Yes, sir! Unnnhhhh. . . ." he answered between racking sobs. Skinner paused again. His own resolve was flagging now but he knew he had to finish it. "And what was the last thing, Agent Mulder?" he asked. Mulder shook his head, suddenly terrified that he couldn't remember the last thing. Skinner recognized his distress and decided he had to give him a hint. "It was six licks, Mulder. What were they for?" "Oh! For making you wait for an answer! Six licks for six minutes, that was it, sir!" "Very good, Agent Mulder," Skinner congratulated him as he let him have the next lick. This time he aimed a couple at the top of the younger man's thighs; his backside was already blistered and marked with what Skinner knew had to be painful welts. Finishing the last stroke, he knelt next to the bench and rubbed the young man's back for a moment, waiting for him to regain some measure of control. "It's all over now, Mulder," he said quietly. "It's over. Pull yourself together and get dressed." Skinner decided to give him another minute to calm down. He hung the razor strop back on its hook and rolled his sleeves back down. Donning his own jacket, he finally went back over to Mulder and forced him to his feet, helping him put his clothes back in place. Skinner knew this time he needed to get Mulder back to the house and in bed for sure before the shock wore off and real discomfort set in. Adopting his 'command tone,' he got Mulder back in his jacket and muscled him back up the path to the house. His father greeted them at the front door and Walter, Jr. was sorry their arrival had wakened him but glad for the extra pair of hands to get Mulder up the stairs and into bed. The young man turned immediately onto his stomach as they helped him under the covers, dropping immediately into to an emotionally and physically exhausted oblivion. Skinner closed the door behind him and turned to thank his father for his help. "You must have tanned that boy's hide damn good," his father said quietly. "I'm sure I never gave you a licking that left you looking like that." Skinner stifled a yawn as he headed for his own bedroom. "Maybe I just have a better recollection of this than you, Dad," he whispered with a lopsided grin, 'but yes, you did. Several times! Good night!" Skinner knocked on Mulder's door at 6 a.m. and entered quietly. The young man was still asleep, a pillow balled up under his head. He was breathing deep and evenly. Skinner was reluctant to wake him but he had to hit the road back to D.C. "Mulder," he whispered, shaking his shoulder. "Wha-, what?" the started young agent turned over suddenly. "Ow!" he blurted out as his sore butt hit the mattress and he immediately turned back onto his side. He was blinking sleep out of his eyes all the while. "What is it? . . . I didn't do anything--" "No, you didn't do anything, Mulder," Skinner said trying to keep from smiling at his most troublesome subordinate. "I'm leaving for Washington, Mulder. I just wanted to make sure you're okay – and remind you to behave yourself. I mean it. If you think I'm tough, just try crossing my Dad!" Mulder blinked in response, trying to get his brain awake enough to comprehend completely. "Go back to sleep, Mulder," Skinner said. "Sleep as late as you want today. You had a tough night. I'll call you this evening." He watched the younger man fade immediately back into the sleep he'd shook him out of and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him quietly. When Mulder awoke again, it was past 10 o'clock. He thought he remembered Skinner telling him to sleep in but he jumped out of bed anyway, determined to get to work quickly just in case. Rachel Skinner was having a cup of coffee in the kitchen when he got there and she immediately set about getting him breakfast. "I made waffles this morning," she told him, taking them out of the warming oven, along with a plate of sausages. She poured him a glass of orange juice that he drank down immediately and set up a placemat and plate and utensils on the kitchen breakfast bar. Mulder noted that someone had pulled one of the high kitchen chairs away from that section of the breakfast bar so he could eat without having to sit. Which was the only way he was getting through breakfast today. He ducked his head in response, too embarrassed to mention it but grateful nonetheless. "I'm glad you came back, Mulder—" she said then stopped herself. "I just can't get used to that, I'm afraid. Do you really dislike your first name so much?" He considered the question as he chewed. "It's just a hard name, that's all. From kids teasing me about it when I was young, to strange looks from people when I'm introduced to them. . . . " "Oh, I thought it was a way to keep distance between you and other people," she said, smiling. "And I was gonna tell you, it's time to stop that. But I'm sure you know best." Mulder found himself wondering whether he was actually that transparent. As he was finishing the last bite of breakfast, Walter, Sr. opened the back door and entered. "Mulder!" he said with a broad smile. "Welcome back to the land of the living! Rachel and I thought you might sleep the day away." "Well, I've got a lot of chores left on my list, I couldn't afford to stay in bed any longer, sir," he answered. "Oh, no, Walter told us you're to rest today," the older man interrupted him. "Besides, it looks like snow out there, anyway. No point in starting any of the outside projects. There's a bunch of books in the family room, plenty of magazines and I just picked up the papers. You just make yourself at home and relax, young man. And that's an order!" Mulder was surprised and delighted by this news. He obeyed immediately, making himself at home on the couch in the Skinner family room. Mr. Skinner had built a fire and soon he and Mrs. Skinner joined him. The three of them spent the next few hours reading and talking, until Mulder drifted off to sleep again around noon. At 1:30, Mrs. Skinner woke him to say she was serving soup and sandwiches and they shared them in the kitchen as they watched the snow begin to fall. After lunch, though, Mulder realized he was itching to get started on the report Skinner had asked for and he spent the rest of the day alone in the study, getting down the beginning of a profile on himself. He was uncomfortable with the process at first, but then he followed Skinner's advice to 'step back' and profile an unknown subject who just happened to be named Fox Mulder. Things started falling into place quickly and after supper, he returned to the work, staying deep in the process until Mr. Skinner knocked on his door. "It's after 8 o'clock, Mulder," he said kindly. "It's past 'lights out' for you." Mulder looked up in surprise. He hadn't realized it had gotten so late. "I'll just finish up something and turn in. Thanks." At 8:30, his head was still buried in his work and Mr. Skinner tapped a little louder before entering. "I know I told you 'lights out,' Mulder. You're already an hour late. I want you in bed!" Mr. Skinner said in a tone of voice that made the younger man certain where his son got it from. "Sorry," he murmured, closing the notebook and getting into bed. "Good night, Mr. Skinner." Mr. Skinner gave him a look that told him to stay put and turned the light off. "Sleep well," he said, quietly closing the door. But sleep didn't come. Mulder's mind was racing with more insights for his profile and he started trying to write notes in the dark, wishing he had a flashlight to do the old 'under the covers' routine. Even with the window shade open, there wasn't enough natural light for him to do any work and he was frustrated and restless. When the Skinners finally went to bed at 11 o'clock, he waited another 20 minutes for be certain they were asleep, then crept down the stairs to the basement. After quietly closing the door and turning the light on, he settled into an old armchair and started pouring his thoughts out onto the paper. He didn't notice when the basement door opened until he heard one of the wood steps creak and looked up to see Mr. Skinner standing there in his pajamas and robe. His heart dropped. The older man stared at him for another moment, then continued down the stairs. Mulder opened his mouth but Mr. Skinner gave him a look that shut him right up. He watched the A.D.'s Dad walk over to a trunk, open it and begin rummaging around. Taking the bull by the horns, Mulder decided to plead his case. "I was just working on—" he stopped, seeing the senior Skinner give him another look that shook him to his toes. He swallowed hard and decided to try another approach. "Please don't tell him," he begged. "I'm not telling him anything," Mr. Skinner said, turning around, having finally found what he was looking for. He held a worn wooden paddle up for Mulder to see. "I'm very capable of dealing with disobedience, Mulder. I've had a lot of experience at this." Mulder's heart nearly stopped and he felt his legs turn to jelly. He stood, paralyzed and unable to speak. Looking around the basement, the elder Skinner found what he was looking for, an old sideboard, the one Rachel Skinner had mentioned they received as a wedding gift. "I put this to good use with my boys over the years," he said, taking the younger man by the arm and walking him over to it. "We used to keep this in the dining room. Walter found himself over this sideboard many times over the years. I think it will suit our needs tonight." He pushed the stunned young FBI agent forward over the heavy wood piece. "Take down your sweat pants, Mulder," he said. Mulder complied. "Shorts, too." Trembling fearfully, the younger man obeyed him, crossing his arms and placing them on the sideboard. Then he laid his head on them, waiting. "What do you deserve this paddling for?" the older man asked him. "For being disobedient," he replied as the wood paddle was applied forcefully to his bottom. "Owww!" Another swat, then another. "How many times did you disobey me about going to bed?" Mr. Skinner asked him as he gave him another smack. "Three!" he cried, knowing what came next. "Owww! Owwww! Oucchhhh!" He was sobbing mightily as the paddle found its mark on the bottom the other Skinner had blistered the night before. "Okay, that's enough," Mr. Skinner said after delivering the sixth swat. He helped the younger man stand up and gave him a moment to put his clothes back in place. Then the older man gave him a hug to show all was forgiven. "This is traditional in my family, Mulder," he said. Mulder nodded his head mutely; he knew all about this Skinner tradition. Mr. Skinner gave him a final squeeze, then turned to put the paddle back in the trunk where he'd found it. Thinking better of it, he decided to leave it right on the sideboard "just in case we need it again!" Mulder assured him he would not, but the older man decided to leave it handy anyway. "You never know, young man. By the way, did I mention that Walter made that paddle?" "N-no, you didn't, sir." "Yes, Walter was the most stubborn of my kids. Not rebellious or undisciplined, mind you. But the kind of kid who, if he had an opinion on something, you couldn't knock him off it with a two-by-four! We butted heads a lot when he was a teenager." The older man smiled now, obviously remembering it all fondly. "One time, I'd hit the limit of my patience, I think it was about his curfew. He thought it should be about an hour later than I thought. So I gave him this woodworking project. 'Make the paddle I'm gonna use whenever you violate the curfew I set and come home when you think you should.' He made a damn good paddle, too. And then proceeded to keep coming home whenever HE thought made sense. . . " Now Mr. Skinner chuckled out loud. "I think I put that paddle to use every Saturday night for a solid year, until I finally gave up and gave him a later curfew!" Mulder listened attentively, finding it hard to imagine the AD as a teenager, locked in a battle of wills with this man. Mr. Skinner shook himself out of his reminiscence. "It's time for you to go back to bed, Mulder," he said. "And this time, I strongly suggest you stay there!" Mulder nodded and headed for the stairs. Suddenly he stopped and looked back at the older man. "Please don't tell—" "I won't tell Walter," the older man chuckled. "No, I mean, don't tell Mrs. Skinner!" "Oh!" he laughed out loud this time. "Too late. She's the one who heard you hit that step on the basement stairs and sent me down here!" The next morning, a greatly humbled young man found his way to the A.D.'s father before going down to breakfast. Finding him in the master bedroom, Mulder knocked on the open door and waited in the hallway until the older man looked up and beckoned him to come in. "I just wanted to say . . . I mean, I want to tell you. . ." he stammered, feeling foolish AND stupid. "I'm sorry. About last night—" "Nothing to be sorry about today," the older man told him, putting his arm around him and walking with him toward the stairs in the hall. "You paid the price for your disobedience last night, Mulder. Now it's over." Mulder felt tears sting the back of his eyes. "It's just that, that's kind of new to me," he said. "The 'all is forgiven' thing. With my Dad, when he let me have it, sometimes he wouldn't talk to me for days, weeks after. . . . I have a hard time getting how you all just go right back to normal. . . ." "I guess it's just that these are all just 'life lessons' to us," the elder Skinner told him as they headed down the stairs. "People learn them at different times, in different ways. Some people, you for example," he smiled back at him, "need multiple reminders! But it's all part of normal life, now, isn't it?" Wednesday and Thursday passed uneventfully, with Mulder making great progress on the chores list and getting the newly fallen snow shoveled in record time. Rachel Skinner thought he seemed a little lost at times, though. On Wednesday afternoon, she got him to spend a little while with her in the family room just after lunch. She had been knitting a sweater all week and now it turned out it was for him and she needed his help to make sure it was sized properly. Then she got him to stay a little longer to help her unravel and prepare some additional yarn. He was quiet at first but soon he started filling the silence with funny stories about his experiences working with, and doing things, with her son. She couldn't help but laugh at some of the predicaments Mulder got himself into and she was touched by how clearly he seemed to respect and value Walter's good opinion, even if he didn't quite seem to know it consciously. "Walter's very fond of you, too, you know. . . Mulder," she said. The young man turned bright pink and nodded awkwardly. Then he got up abruptly to go back to his chores. He opened the back door, then turned back to her for a moment. "You c-could--" he stammered, then started again. "You could call me 'Fox,' if you want. . . . That would be all right." He gave her a quick smile, then turned and exited just as quickly. Mulder spent several hours each day and evening working in the notebook. At suppertime on Thursday night, they got a call from Skinner saying he was going to be there, but late, after 11 o'clock. Mr. Skinner told him to drive carefully, then hung the phone up and turned to Mulder at the kitchen table. He was just finishing the best pot roast he'd ever had and he was feeling 'fat, dumb and happy.' "Walter said to tell you the Knicks and the Bulls are on tonight—" Mr. Skinner began. "Oh, and he just wanted to rub that in, huh?" Mulder answered him, smiling. He'd actually grown used to not having the TV on all the time, something he never thought possible. He realized now he tended to use the thing as company as well as diversion. "No, actually, he said to tell you you can stay up and watch the game," Mr. Skinner said, "but you don't have to, if you don't want to. . . " A huge grin and the fact that he'd already risen and headed into the family room told Mr. & Mrs. Skinner something different. On Friday, Skinner gave him another break from the chores list, letting Mulder accompany him into town while he ran a number of errands. They stopped over in Hopewell to see Skinner's nephew, Doug and the other people in the Hopewell Sheriff's office that Mulder knew from a previous trip to the area. Then Skinner took Doug and Mulder out for lunch. After another couple of errands, they headed back to the Skinner house in time for Rachel and Walter, Sr. to tell them they were going out for the evening, to 'supper and bingo at the Church.' Mrs. Skinner left them steaks to grill, along with some side dishes she'd prepared during the day. "We'll be fine, Mom," Skinner told her, giving her a kiss on the top of her white head. "We both manage to feed ourselves every other day of the year, you know." After supper, Skinner was sitting in the family room relaxing when Mulder walked in, carrying the notebook. Skinner hadn't asked him about it, deciding instead to trust that he had done what the AD asked. "I did that profile," he said. "Good. Are you happy with it, Mulder?" Mulder turned the question over in his head. "I'm happy with the quality of the profile," he said slowly. "Not so happy with some of the things I figured out about myself." "Well, that was the point," the AD said. "I'm glad you did it then." "Me, too." He paused, not certain about his next move. Finally, he decided to do what his gut told him to do. He held the notebook out for Skinner. "Are you sure, Mulder?" the AD asked. "I don't have to read it. I trust you." "I'm sure," he said, not at all sure but wanting to be. He gave the older man the notebook then headed upstairs to the study to read. About an hour later, he was just lying there, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling when the door opened and Skinner stopped at the threshold. "You found your sister?" the AD asked him incredulously. "Yeah. . . maybe. Or someone who said she was Samantha. . . . and who was with the Smoking Man." "Did you tell Scully?" "No. . . . I didn't tell anyone. . . . Until now." Skinner was stunned by the news and at first unable to put together a cogent question. Finally, he just asked the one question he had to have answered. "How could you keep this to yourself? Not tell Scully, or me? Or your mother?" Mulder shook his head and shrugged helplessly, not able to identify his reasons himself. "I don't know," he said finally. "I couldn't make any sense of it, couldn't decide whether it was Sam or not, whether the Smoking Man was lying to me again. I was confused. . . . I'm still confused. . . ." His voice cracked and he shut his eyes and stopped speaking to keep from choking up. Skinner came over and stood next to the bed. "I would think that's the time you need your friends most, Mulder," he said simply. Mulder listened without moving, then nodded his head slowly, tears threatening to spill over from his eyes. Finally, he opened them and looked up at the AD, nodding once more as the tears began to come. Skinner sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him into a tight embrace, letting him cry it all out. The Assistant Director had been shocked and overwhelmed by the details in his agent's profile, by the sheer weight of the guilt, emotional scars and shame the young man carried around on a daily basis. He held him until Mulder's sobs subsided and he was cried out. Seeing he was emotionally exhausted, Skinner decided to let him go to sleep, suspecting he'd sleep heavily and needed it. Wishing him a good night, the AD dropped the notebook on the desk and it opened to another bunch of pages in the back, all filled with Mulder's neat, unusual handwriting. "Is this your first draft, Mulder?" he asked him smiling. "No, sir," Mulder replied yawning. "I had some extra time. That's my profile of you." "Me?" Skinner questioned, raising his eyebrows at this news. He paused for a brief moment, then picked the notebook back up and took it with him, giving the younger agent a warning look as he closed the door. Mulder watched him go, then broke into a smile as the door closed. "Heh, heh," he chuckled to himself, turning the light out to sleep. "That was a useful exercise, too, sir!" THE END