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: Very general conspiracy spoilers leading up to Fight the Future Setting: Fifth Season Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash. Title: Coming Home Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Mulder runs into trouble with a member of the Consortium. Confused and hurt, his instincts send him looking for shelter the one place he knows he can find it. Coming Home Buzzzzzzzzz Walter Skinner surfaced from a sound sleep, turned over abruptly and reached for the telephone. "Hello?" he said hoarsely, shaking sleep off as rapidly as he could. He was greeted by a dial tone. "What the--" Buzzzzzzzz He glanced quickly at the clock on the night table <4 a.m.! It's 4 a.m. in the goddam morning!> He threw off the bed covers and grabbed a pair of sweats he'd tossed on a chair before retiring. "I'm coming!" he yelled toward the living room and the front door as he quickly pulled them on. Then he grabbed his service revolver and flicked the safety off as he trod off to the front door of his apartment. He took a look out the peephole and saw no one. The hallway appeared empty from that vantage point. Unfastening the safety chain first, he unlocked the door and opened it carefully, his gun at the ready. He still saw nothing . . . until he looked down. Special Agent Fox Mulder lay crumpled in a heap at his door. He tumbled in and onto the floor of Skinner's foyer as the Assistant Director pulled the door open all the way. "Mulder!" he said, checking the hallway in both directions to be certain they were alone before turning his full attention to the young man below him. He cupped a hand under the younger agent's chin to get a look at his face and saw it was swollen on one side and he looked like he'd been worked over pretty good. "Ah, Mulder," he said again, almost a sigh. "What happened now?" Getting no answer, or even recognition from the other man, Skinner grabbed him under one arm and tried to pull him up but he was almost dead weight. Tucking his gun in the waistband of his sweats, Skinner used both arms to lift Mulder onto his feet, then pulled one of the young man's arms across his own shoulders and grabbed him around his waist to get some support under him. Then he half-walked, half-dragged him into the apartment, pushing the door closed behind them with his foot. He took him directly into the spare bedroom and placed him as gently as he could on the bed. "Mulder!" Skinner said, more forcefully. The young man's face was bruised on one side and the AD didn't want to slap him to get his attention, so he grabbed his chin with one hand and patted the side of his face that was unswollen. "Mulder, talk to me!" Finally, Mulder's eyes fluttered open. He flinched immediately, as though expecting to be struck. "Mulder," Skinner said a little more quietly, "it's me. You're here with me." The younger agent calmed down at his words, then the fear turned to something else. Tears sprung to his eyes and he pressed his lips together to keep from sobbing and turned his head to the side to avoid eye contact with the man standing above him. "Are you hurt, Mulder?" Skinner asked him, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He used his hand to turn the younger man's head back to face him. Skinner's eyes sought out Mulder's and the young man finally looked at him directly, shaking his head. "Well, I don't know if I agree with your assessment, from the look of your face, Mulder," Skinner said diplomatically. "I'm gonna get you an ice pack for that swelling." He stood and left the room. Returning with the ice pack, he reseated himself on the edge of the bed laid it gently on the left side of Mulder's face. The cold startled the young man and his eyes reopened immediately. "Now, tell me what happened, Mulder," Skinner said quietly. "Who did this to you?" Mulder shook his head. "I don't . . . I don't . . . ," he stammered, then shook his head again. "You don't know who did this?" Mulder bit back a sob and shook his head yet again. "I don't want . . . to tell you," he finally whispered, averting his eyes again. Skinner was taken aback. "What do you mean, you don't want to tell me? You show up at my door at 4 in the morning, looking like you've been through a meat grinder, and you just want to keep it to yourself? Well, that's not acceptable, Agent Mulder." He was growing angry and the younger man began to look fearful again. Skinner felt a spark of guilt and decided this was not the most productive avenue he could be pursuing at this moment. "All right, Mulder," he said, "you don't have to tell me anything right now. Let's just make sure you're not hurt badly--" "No! I'm . . . okay," Mulder said quickly. "I just need some sleep is all--" "You're not hurt anywhere else, Mulder? Are you sure? You didn't get conked on the head, you don't have any internal injuries?" The young man had had all of the above and more, and knew all the symptoms, Skinner knew. And he didn't appear to be seriously injured, to Skinner's eye. He decided to pursue another line of inquiry; none of this was making any sense to him and Skinner was not a man who enjoyed puzzles whose pieces didn't quite fit. "How did you get here, Agent Mulder? How did you get to my door?" "The doorman was sleeping when I went through the lobby. . . ." "No, I mean how did you get to the building?" he asked, becoming exasperated. "Did you drive yourself here?" Mulder nodded. "Why did you come here, Mulder?" the AD asked him gently. "What made you come here instead of going home to your own place?" Mulder at first appeared not to understand the question. Then the answer came to him and he closed his eyes to try to hold back the tears that threatened to come. "I just wanted to be somewhere safe," he whispered. Skinner was not satisfied by his answer. It opened up another universe of questions, but he decided this was not the time to interrogate his agent. The man was physically exhausted and had been through some kind of an ordeal. The A.D.'s questions would wait for morning. Skinner stood and began pulling off Mulder's sneakers and socks. He started to unbutton his jeans to take them off, but Mulder reacted badly and the Assistant Director elected to let him sleep in the rest of his clothes. Pulling the covers up over him, Skinner paused a moment while tucking them up under his chin. "Okay, Mulder," he said calmly. "You're safe now. I want you to get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning." He stayed with the younger agent while he drifted off to sleep, then he watched him for a few more minutes to be certain he was really all right. Finally, Skinner turned off the light and left the room, leaving the door open so he'd be able to hear if Mulder called out. Going back to bed, he found he was unable to sleep and he watched the clock move interminably toward morning. At 7 a.m., Skinner finally rose and went to his kitchen to make coffee. He knew he needed it and he imagined Mulder would be in desperate need of a caffeine hit when he finally awoke. It was a clear Saturday morning and Skinner had actually planned to go to the office for a few hours, then run some errands. Nothing he couldn't put on hold until he knew the full extent of the Mulder problem. Taking his cup of coffee into the living room, he put it on the coffee table and went to the front door to retrieve the newspaper he knew would be waiting there. On his way back, he quietly opened the door to the spare bedroom to check on Mulder; the young agent had kicked off the comforter and was tangled in the sheets, lying on his side, curled around a pillow. Skinner shook his head, wondering how he could possibly move so much bed linen around in such a short time. Then the AD settled down with the Washington Post and the Saturday morning news on CNN. At 9 o'clock, he decided to make breakfast. Skinner heard Mulder approach as he whisked the eggs for omelets. He'd already chopped up a few vegetables and some ham and cheese and the frying pan was sizzling hot and ready for action. "You've got great timing, Mulder," he said to the young man who shuffled into his kitchen. "Grab a mug and help yourself to some coffee. I'll have the omelets ready in a couple of minutes." Mulder did as instructed, opening his mouth to say he didn't want any breakfast. But Skinner beat him to it. "Don't bother telling me you're not hungry, Agent Mulder," he said amiably. "You know I don't care. I expect you to eat it anyway. . . . Rye or whole wheat toast?" The young agent recognized a universal truth when he heard it and seated himself at the counter. "Whole wheat," he said resignedly. Skinner noticed he was moving gingerly and suspected he'd been hurt worse than he let on the night before but he put off asking any further questions until after he got some food into the pale young man. He knew his agent was generally healthy and physically strong, but he often looked in need of a good meal and today, he looked like he hadn't had one in days. He pulled a carton of orange juice out of his refrigerator while the omelets were cooking and poured Mulder a large glass. They shared breakfast in easy silence, Skinner commenting on the weather and something on CNN and both of them sharing the newspaper. Finally, after they'd eaten, Mulder started to rise and clear the dishes. "No, leave them for now, Agent Mulder," Skinner said. "We'll take care of that later. Right now, I think you owe me an explanation." Mulder reseated himself carefully and Skinner thought he almost winced. He had seen this behavior before, but only when the AD himself was the cause. Mulder had been on the receiving end of a few serious strappings from his boss in the last year and a half and trouble sitting down was an almost certain result of those punishments. But Mulder had not acted up in weeks, to Skinner's knowledge and the AD had not had reason to let him have it. Skinner was not sure what he was seeing and he hated unsolved mysteries. "Well?" he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Mulder squirmed in his seat and his eyes flitted around the kitchen. "I really don't--" "Agent Mulder! I've been supremely patient thus far. Don't push your luck," he said firmly. "I may not have 'the Persuader' handy, but I can certainly get my hands on a good substitute, if necessary." He was referring to the razor strop Skinner's Dad had used on his sons when he needed to 'persuade' them about the foolhardiness of some of their actions. Mulder had been introduced to the business end of the leather strap a couple of times and Skinner felt certain a reminder was all that would required this morning. "No!" he blurted out. "You don't need to. . . . I mean, that's not necessary, sir." "Then I trust you're sufficiently persuaded that I'm not letting you leave here without an explanation," Skinner said evenly, giving him a hard stare. Mulder looked down at his hands, closing his eyes tight to try to keep tears at bay. He shook his head and bit his lip, hard, but the emotional storm he'd been holding off was starting to win the battle. Skinner watched it all play out on his face and decided it couldn't hurt to give him more time. "Listen, Mulder," he said agreeably. You don't have to talk now, not if you can't. I have some errands to run today. Why don't you stay here and relax and we'll talk when I get back, okay?" Mulder opened his eyes, gratitude and relief crossing his face in tandem. He nodded at Skinner. The AD sent him into the living room while he policed the kitchen and started the dishwasher. Then Skinner changed into jeans and a tee shirt. He grabbed a black leather jacket out of the hall closet and his keys off a table in the foyer. He stuck his head back in the living room to say good-bye but he suddenly remembered who he was leaving here, on his own recognizance. Walking directly into the room, he sat down on the coffee table facing the young man. Mulder was lying on the couch, the remote in his hand. He looked up at Skinner curiously. "Mulder, I'll be back in a couple of hours," Skinner said carefully. "I'm leaving you here so you can rest. I expect to find you here when I come back, is that understood?" Mulder blinked at his words. Skinner waited for a response from his unpredictable young agent. Finally, Mulder spoke. "I'll be here." Skinner gave him an unwavering look that signaled his trust in the other man's word. "Good." He rose and headed for the door. "Any requests?" "No, sir," Mulder answered, focusing his attention back on the TV screen. Skinner made stops at the bank, the dry cleaner and the hardware store, then swung by the local market for the makings for lunch. He dropped everything off in his car before remembering that his mother's birthday was coming up and he still hadn't bought her a card. Relocking his car, he headed back into the shopping center, and into the Hallmark store. Scanning the selection of cards looking for just the right one, not too sentimental for him, corny enough for a mother who read every word as though it had been penned by her offspring personally, he was surprised when he was bumped from behind by someone. He turned his head. "My apologies," the other man said. His accent was cultured and British. "No problem," Skinner said, turning back to the card in his hand. "Family is so important in life, don't you agree?" the man continued, standing a little too close and speaking a little too softly. Skinner eyed him warily, then nodded once before taking a step away and turning back to the card selection again. "Of course, for some people, family, or more accurately, family secrets can become an obsession," the man continued quietly. "An obsession that can put them in great danger." Skinner placed the card he was holding back into its slot and turned to face the stranger head on. "Just what exactly is it you're trying to say?" The man gave him a sad smile. "What I'm saying is that we both know a certain young man who is obsessed by his family's secrets, Mr. Skinner. And pursuing that obsession is putting him in great danger, danger that came very close to ending his life." Skinner raised an eyebrow. "And when might that have happened?" "Last night, of course. He's a handful, our young Fox is." Skinner clenched his teeth and hesitated, wanting more information but sensing that he couldn't appear too eager or this conversation would end. "Oh, it's Mulder you're talking about," he said evenly. "Yes, he can be quite a handful. I take it you know him." The stranger smiled again. "I knew him when he was a child. I knew his father quite well. . . . but that was a long time ago. Still, I owe Bill Mulder for things I couldn't explain if I wanted to. And looking out for his son, albeit from a distance, and when it's safe for me to do so, is one way to repay that debt. And more importantly, insure the future." Now Skinner was confused. This conversation was convoluted and rambling but he knew in his gut it was the reason for Mulder's sudden appearance at his doorstep last night. And he was not about to let this man leave without giving him something more concrete than his vague allusions to Mulder's father and the future. "I get the feeling you're telling me all this for a reason, but I'm afraid I'm not following." "No, I expect you're not, Mr. Skinner. And you're not doing your part, either, at least not as well as we'd hoped," the immaculately dressed older man continued. "And that's why I had to step in last night." Skinner's hackles rose at the expressed criticism but he wouldn't let it show. Pretending ignorance had worked so far, he'd play that hand a while longer. "My part? I don't understand." "No, I'm sure you don't. But you don't need to understand, you just have to do your part to keep young Mr. Mulder in line, and alive. We ensured he would be assigned to you, Mr. Skinner, for a reason. Of all the A.D.'s in your FBI, we deemed you to be the most likely to be able to handle this young man, to protect him from his own worst instincts. . . . And he must be protected." A pair of young girls moved up next to Skinner, giggling and trading "Happy Birthday, Mom" cards for each other to read. Skinner and the stranger stopped speaking and moved over to the next section, the one with Condolence cards. The older man pretended to be reading as he continued to speak. "I'm running out of time, Mr. Skinner. . . and so are you. Let me give you the 'Reader's Digest version' as you Americans say. Your agent was lured from his home last night by some of my . . . . partners. Had their plan succeeded, he would be missing now and you would never see him alive again." Skinner felt a constriction in his chest as he listened to the words. "Fortunately, I have my supporters and they agree that Fox Mulder is essential to our eventual success. I can't explain why. It wouldn't make sense to you if I did. Suffice it to say that I was able to intercept him before they were and save him one more time. But they're becoming dangerously anxious and he's becoming dangerously reckless." "Only when it comes to the 'obsession' you mentioned earlier." "But that's all they need, Mr. Skinner! His predictability is his Achilles Heel. Like one of Pavlov's dogs, he salivates and runs blindly off whenever Samantha's name is mentioned." "What did you mean when you mentioned my part?" Skinner asked him straight out. "What is the part you think I should be playing?" "Oh, come now, Mr. Skinner. Your part is to control him, to keep him in line, to save him from his own worst instincts. And you have managed to do that far beyond what most men could pull off, I'll give you that. But not well enough, I'm afraid. And last night, I had to take matters into my own hands." The Englishman raised his left hand and Skinner saw for the first time that he was holding a brown paper bag, the long thin ones that the card store used for rolls of wrapping paper. "I'm leaving this with you. Perhaps you will put it to good use again in the future. Whatever it takes, Mulder must be protected, from our enemies. . . and from himself. He is essential to the future. If there is going to be a future." He thrust the bag into Skinner's hand and turned to go. "No, wait!" Skinner called, grabbing his arm. "I still don't understand--" "You understand as much as you possibly can," the Englishman said cryptically. "Do your part, whatever it takes, keep Fox Mulder from foolishly dying before he does what he was meant to do. Before it's too late." He handed Skinner a card off the rack behind him and turned on his heel to leave. But he immediately turned back and gave Skinner one more piece of information before retreating quickly, disappearing into the crowd near the register. The Assistant Director looked at the card in his hand. "Deepest Sympathy on the Loss of Your Loved One," it read. He angrily put it back into a slot. Then he turned his attention to the paper bag in his other hand. Reaching in, he pulled out a long, thin cane, the kind he knew were used in British public schools. It was about a quarter inch wide and flat, with a rounded handle. Skinner returned home immediately. Letting himself quietly into his apartment, he was mildly surprised to see Mulder still there, asleep on his couch, his face buried in a throw pillow. Skinner sighed in relief. He'd been half expecting that Mulder would be gone and he'd have to hunt him down. He placed the brown bag with the cane on the top shelf in his hall closet and went to the kitchen for a beer. It was just barely past noon, but he needed something to settle his nerves. He checked on Mulder once more just to reassure himself, then stepped out onto the balcony to sit in the afternoon sun and think. "Sir?" Mulder's voice startled him out of his contemplation some time later. "I didn't hear you come in. I guess I dozed off." "You must have needed it, Mulder," Skinner told him, nodding toward another chair on the terrace. "Now I need something. I need you to tell me what happened last night." Mulder had been hoping against hope he could avoid this. He took a deep breath and tried to find some way to 'gloss over' the events of the night before. And failed miserably. Finally, he heaved a heavy, sorrow laden sigh and nodded his head, his eyes rooted on the terrace floor. "I got a phone call last night, sir," he began, remaining on his feet and leaning against the balcony railing. to try to gauge the A.D.'s reaction. At home. Someone who said he had information about . . . Samantha." Skinner gave Mulder a look that could bend steel and nodded for him to continue. "I know it sounds suspicious. It is suspicious! But the caller had information about Sam and me and my family that no one would have access to unless . . . . He knew details, sir! Details you couldn't just make up, or guess!" Mulder pressed his lips together as he watched the emotions that played out over Skinner's face. Mulder knew the AD was fed up with his penchant for running off to chase any shred of hope that he'd find his sister, shreds that usually came from suspicious sources, and chases that were almost always ill-considered and initiated without back-up or proper procedures. Just like last night. He hung his head, hoping Skinner would just leave it at that. "Go on, Agent Mulder," the AD ground out between gritted teeth. "I went to a park in Silver Spring, following the directions I was given by the caller. He said to come alone, and to tell no one." "And of course, you followed his orders," Skinner cut in. "Just like you always follow orders." Mulder recognized this was not going well and he knew the rest of the story would not make his boss any happier. He didn't bother to respond to the comment. He cleared his throat and wished he had a glass of water, or a beer. He eyed Skinner's bottle enviously but thought better than to ask for one himself. "Well, anyway. I went to Silver Spring and I waited in the park. After a couple of hours, I was just about to give up. Then these two goons showed up, out of nowhere. They were huge and they overpowered me from behind." "And of course, that's exactly the reason the Bureau has stringent procedures for meets!" "I know, but . . . he said to come alone--" Skinner was trying hard not to reach out and smack him, so great was his rage at the careless and impulsive actions this man took when even the possibility of the right bait was dangled. He bit back the words that sprung to the tip of his tongue. "Continue, Agent Mulder," he growled. "Did they do that to your face?" Mulder hesitated for a moment before proceeding, trying to find a way to avoid telling the rest of the story. But no escape presented itself. "Yes, I struggled and one of them slugged me, then they threw me in the trunk of their car. And drove me somewhere, I don't know. A tract house in the suburbs of Maryland, that's as close as I could get." Mulder cleared his throat again and this time Skinner got up and went to the kitchen where he got a glass out of his kitchen cabinet. He filled it with ice, then water, then he walked back to the terrace and handed it to the young man. Mulder's mouth was so dry by this point, he downed almost all of it in a single swallow. "Go on, Agent Mulder," Skinner said as he sat back down. "I'm sure there's more." "They took me into this house and there were two more people there, older men. One never spoke, he just . . . watched everything. And the other was British, upper-class, well-dressed, very cultured Brit." Skinner stared at Mulder, waiting for him to continue. The younger agent drank down the last drops of water before going on. "I. . . I don't completely understand everything that happened after that. . . . The Brit was angry at me, apparently, for showing up at the park. He said I was 'careless' and that the meet was a trap. He apparently wasn't responsible for the original phone call I got. These guys were trying to keep me from meeting whoever made the original call. I . . . argued with them--" "Glad to hear that's not something you save just for me, Mulder," the AD said sarcastically. "And then the Brit slapped me--" "Did it work, Mulder? I haven't tried that yet." Mulder pressed his lips together as his face turned a bright pink. This was not going well at all. And the rest of the story was much more embarrassing. He really didn't think he could go on. Skinner took a slow, deep breath and stretched out the tense muscles in his neck. He exhaled hard, then told the young man to continue. "I don't think I can, sir," Mulder said staring out at the D.C. skyline. "I can't tell you the rest. . . " "Mulder, you can tell me anything. I won't promise I won't be angry with you, but there's nothing you can say that will make me back away from our deal, nothing." He watched the younger agent tear up, then he nodded his head once and took a deep, breath to calm himself. Fixing his attention on a point in the D.C. skyline, he started to tell Skinner the rest of the story. "The Brit was angry with me, he said that I was reckless. And that, if he hadn't managed to 'pluck me from the arms of danger' last night, I would be . . . dead, or worse." He gave Skinner a brief, side-long glance, to see what his reaction was so far. The Assistant Director was watching him closely, but his face gave no hint of the emotions that were roiling just below the surface. Mulder sighed and went on with his narrative. "I don't know this guy, sir, I'm sure I don't. But he knew things about me, about my career, and about my childhood. It was . . . confusing, the level of detail was a little overwhelming. And frightening. I got pissed off, I guess, that he was playing me, trying to get my attention by holding out shreds of information but not really telling me anything. I. . . I told him to go to hell and got up to leave--" "And then what happened?" Mulder closed his eyes, trying to see if he could just disappear off the face of the earth by applying enough willpower to the task. But that plan failed. "Sir, I . . . let's just say, the guy decided to 'persuade me' his viewpoint was the correct one," Mulder finally said quietly, hoping against hope that Skinner got the picture and would let him wiggle out of a play-by-play description. "Not good enough, Agent Mulder," Skinner answered. "Tell me what happened next." Finally resigned that he would not escape telling him everything, Mulder gazed out into the distance and finished the story. "He motioned for his two gorillas, and they grabbed me. They pulled me back into the room and up to a wood dining table. . . . Then the Brit told them to . . . one of them reached down to unbuckle my belt and he undid my jeans. I couldn't stop them! The other guy had my arms pinned! I just-- I didn't know what they were gonna do. . ." "It must have been frightening, Mulder," Skinner said gently, trying to encourage him to get it out. The younger man seemed not to have heard him. He swallowed hard before continuing. "The guy, the Brit stepped in front of me. He was holding this thing, this cane! Like the kind they use in English schools. He said he knew I recognized it 'cause I went to school in England. I told him I went to college there not-- Anyway, he said 'surely you know what it's used for, Mr. Mulder. But just in case, I'm going to give you a demonstration.' I panicked, sir! I started screaming at them to let me go, telling them I was gonna fucking kill them all if they touched me. And the Brit and the other guy just smiled. Then the two goons bent me over that table and they pulled down my jeans and my shorts. One of the gorillas went to the other side of the table and held my hands. . . . Then the Brit told me this was to 'teach me a lesson about caution.' And he started to hit me with the cane. I thought I was gonna pass out, it hurt so much and I was so damn terrified. He hit me sixteen times, I counted. Then he said he hoped it would be enough to make me think better the next time. I was in shock I think and I don't remember when he and the other guy left. I only heard their car leave. And a few minutes later, the gorillas threw me into the back seat of their car and took me back to the park. They left me on the road there. When I could, I got back in my car and drove here. . . . And that's everything, until you found me in the hallway last night." His eyes were tear-filled but he had managed to get through the entire recitation without breaking down. Or making any further eye contact with Skinner. Skinner watched him and tried to decide who he was most angry with, Mulder for putting himself in a situation like that (again!), or the Brit for thinking he could abuse his agent. He wished he knew how to find the guy so he could smash his cultured nose. "Are you mad at me?" Mulder interrupted his thoughts of vengeance. "I'm . . . not happy that you let yourself get fooled like that, Mulder," he replied. "I'm sorry it happened to you but, if this finally gets this lesson through your thick skull. . . ." He sighed, exasperated. "Maybe I should just go home now," Mulder said. "No, I don't think that's a good idea," the AD said firmly, taking another deep breath and releasing it audibly. "I need to think about this, Mulder. I don't know what I want to do with you yet. But I know I don't want you out of my immediate vicinity until I figure it out." Mulder's 'trouble radar' was pinging rapidly. He knew he had to get out of here now, to let Skinner get a chance to cool down before he decided what to do with him. "No, sir, I'll be all right at home--" he began. "I said no! You're not going home now, Mulder," Skinner said, raising his voice. "I suggest you just go to your room and wait for me. That's all you're gonna do!" Mulder knew further protest would only worsen his predicament. He left the terrace and headed for the spare bedroom. Skinner heard the door close quietly and relaxed a little. They were on the 16th floor and there was no way out that wouldn't require Mulder to pass Skinner as he left. The Assistant Director leaned back in his chair and tried to get a handle on his emotions and his fears. Mulder had pushed the edge of the envelope yet again and survived, yet again. But each time he seemed to get closer and closer to losing the gamble. Skinner thought about what Mulder had told him. And what he hadn't told him, the additional thing the well-dressed stranger had told him before leaving him in the card store. "Oh, and Mr. Skinner, I told him definitively that his sister is dead. That she's been dead a very long time," he'd said before turning on his heel to leave. "I told him that he's been chasing a ghost all these years." Skinner had reached out and grabbed his arm as he tried to leave. "Is that the truth?" he'd demanded. The Englishman blinked involuntarily. "That's what I told him," he said shaking off Skinner's hand and leaving. Now Skinner was troubled about how to deal with Mulder, and what to tell him about the A.D.'s conversation with the stranger, the one who had apparently punished him severely the night before. He wanted to tell him that he thought the Englishman had lied to him, but the lie might actually protect him, keep him from being lured into danger, and possibly to his death, the next time. And Skinner thought it was telling that Mulder hadn't mentioned the last part to the AD, hadn't included this particular piece of information. Was it because he didn't believe what the stranger had told him? Or because he didn't want to admit to Skinner that he'd been fooled when he met the woman he thought was his sister? And who were these people, who could reach into the Bureau and determine that Mulder and the X-files would be assigned to a particular AD? Who knew enough to determine Skinner would be able to both control, and support, the FBI's most unique and unpredictable agent? From the very beginning, Mulder's assignment to Skinner had been fraught with questions and hints of interest on the part of unseen others, others who tried to manipulate and shape the course of Mulder's investigations. Skinner shook his head, trying to find a way to make all of the pieces fit. Mulder's life was like a massive jig-saw puzzle to him, one with an infinite number of pieces, some were missing, still others probably belonged to some other puzzle. Finding he could come to no real conclusion, he decided to deal with one thing at a time and let the rest fall into place whenever fate allowed. And the one thing he could deal with was the behavior of his most troublesome agent. Rising, he headed off the terrace, closing the sliding glass door behind him. Skinner knocked on the door to the spare bedroom. "Mulder?" "Yes, sir," Skinner heard as he opened the door. "Come in." The AD saw Mulder had been stretched out on the bed apparently, waiting for him. But now he stood and Skinner motioned for him to sit down. He himself took possession of the armchair by the window. He sat down and looked closely at Mulder. Mulder looked worriedly back at him. He was alarmed by the fact that Skinner didn't seem especially angry; he seemed more . . . disappointed in him. And that was even harder to take, the young man thought to himself. "Why did you come here last night, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked him suddenly. "I. . . I . . . I told you last night. I just wanted to be someplace safe." "Your apartment would have been safe, Mulder. And then you would never have had to tell me what happened last night. You could have gone to the Lone Gunmen, or Scully. Why did you come here?" he asked pointedly. He watched the young man struggle with the question, not because he didn't understand it but because he didn't know the answer, Skinner surmised. The older man sat quietly and let him sort it out. He shook his head and shrugged, and tears flooded his eyes. Biting his lip, he finally looked at Skinner. "I . . . I don't know. . . " "I can wait for you to figure it out, Agent Mulder," he said in a quiet but firm tone. "Take as long as you need." Mulder jumped up and began to head for the door, getting as far as putting his hand on the doorknob before turning back. "What do you want me to say?" he asked the AD plaintively. "What is it you want to hear?" Skinner gestured for him to return to his seat on the bed. He hesitated, then capitulated, shuffling back to the bed and sitting on the edge in front of his boss. He remained silent for a moment more, then he started to speak again, but he kept his eyes locked on the carpeting at his feet. "I came here because I was confused. . . . He . . . the Englishman told me that Sam is dead. He said she's been dead for a very long--" he choked on the words and bit down hard on his bottom lip. Regaining control of his voice, he tried to continue. "I didn't know what to think, what to feel. . . . I didn't know what I'd do--" "And you came here because you knew I'd help you? But you must have known I wouldn't let you get away with not telling me what happened." The distraught young man nodded his agreement. "And you knew I'd be angry with you, for running off without telling anyone, without back-up. For nearly getting yourself killed." A tiny sob escaped from his miserable young charge as he nodded again. Skinner nodded also, then he rose and walked over to the bed, and sat down beside Mulder on the edge. "I met that guy today, Mulder. He found me when I was out before. And he told me what he told you. I don't know whether it's the truth or not, but . . . I think you have to start behaving as though it is the truth. Otherwise, they'll always have their hook in you. They'll be able to pull you out in the open any time they need to. You're as good as dead if you go on chasing blindly after every wisp of wind that sounds like 'Samantha.' Mulder was sobbing openly now, but Skinner didn't know whether it was from the stress of the situation or grief over his sister. He didn't care, though, he just wrapped his arms around the young man and hugged him tight. Mulder calmed down quickly and took a deep, ragged breath. "Thank you, sir," he said. "For helping me think it through. And . . . for being here. . . . And for not punishing me." "Whoa, I never said anything about that, Mulder," Skinner laughed lightly. "I don't think I said anything about you not being punished!" Mulder sat back in surprise. "But . . but I already told you, that guy, the English guy, he punished me last night. For, you know, for everything." "Mulder, I think you ought to know me well enough now to know I don't defer my responsibilities to anyone else, certainly not to strangers," Skinner said quietly. "You walked into something last night and got unpleasantly surprised. Maybe it will make you think twice before doing something so stupid again. But I intend to personally make certain that lesson is learned, or die trying. I don't leave it to anyone else to do my job for me." Mulder stared at him in shock. He started to think about begging for time, if not a reprieve. He hated to wait for punishment but . . . he had no choice today. Skinner had gone through a similar calculation, having seen what the Englishman used on his troublesome young agent. He wanted to reinforce the lesson and make certain Mulder knew he'd not get a pass from Skinner on his lack of forethought in scheduling a meet with an unknown informer with no back-up and without notifying anyone of his actions. He sat back and prepared to give Mulder an over the knee spanking. It would teach a lesson but not do any further damage to his backside, the AD reasoned. "Take down your jeans, Mulder," he said evenly. The young man's face registered his panic and his fear. He shook his head and started to say no. "I said now, Mulder!" Skinner said immediately. "You'll only make this worse for yourself if you give me a hard time." "P-please--" he began, then he stopped when he saw the look on Skinner's face. Recognizing he'd already lost his appeal, he stood and unbuttoned his jeans, then pushed them down below his buttocks. Kneeling next to Skinner's legs, he let the AD pull him over until his torso was on the bed and his backside was positioned over the older man's knees. His face went red and hot with shame when Skinner hooked a finger in the waistband of his boxers and lowered them. Skinner was shocked when he saw Mulder's backside. The Englishman had apparently worked from top to bottom, laying a stroke down, then moving a quarter inch or so down and letting Mulder have another. He'd worked with careful precision, it seemed, and the young man's bottom was marked with parallel stripes from just below his lower back to the top of his thighs. Skinner swallowed hard and finally spoke. "What is this spanking for, Agent Mulder?" "For not telling you about the phone call!" Skinner smacked the meatiest part of his bottom. "Owwwww! And for not telling Scully! Ouccccchhhh! And for going alone, without back-up! Ahhhhhh! Owwwwww!" Skinner continued as he listed his sins. Soon, Mulder was out of breath and sobbing raggedly and his bottom was a solid pink beneath the red welts from the night before. Skinner had had to hold on to him firmly, he'd bucked and struggled as each spank hit his already tender backside. Issuing the tenth hard smack, Skinner finally relented. "All right, Mulder," he said quietly. "I think that's about all you can take today." The young man didn't move and Skinner reached over to tousle his hair as he sobbed into the bed. "It's over now, Mulder," he said, pulling his shorts back up as gently as he could. But the younger agent continued crying and Skinner sensed it signaled more than discomfort. He hoped he was finally letting go of a lifetime of grief. Recognizing this, he pulled the young man into a huge embrace. Mulder's tears wet his shoulder as he continued to cry out the pain and humiliation of the night before. Finally, his sobs settled into deep, tear-soaked breaths and he rested his head on the other man's shoulder. "I'm s-sorry, sir" he said. "About being such a pain in the ass." "Mulder, you are a pain in the ass, you're right about that. But you're my pain in the ass. And as unhappy as I am with the fact that you let this happen to you, I'm that much more pleased that you came here last night, knowing you'd have to tell me what happened, and knowing I'd probably punish you. That's a big step, Mulder. And I'm proud of you for taking it." Mulder was startled by how good that made him feel, under the circumstances. Skinner gave him another squeeze then rose and started for the door. "I bought some cold cuts for lunch, Mulder. I'll get sandwiches started while you pull yourself together, okay?" Mulder nodded, then he thought of something he'd wanted to ask Skinner, something he just had to clear up. "Wait!" he blurted out. Skinner looked back at him quizzically. "Before. . . when you sent me here before, sir," he began, his eyes flitting around Skinner's spare bedroom. "You said I should go to my room. . . ." Skinner smiled at him fondly. "Well, it is your room, Mulder, whenever you need to be here. Just like the study at my folks' place is yours, too, whenever you need to be there. . . . I thought you knew that by now." A wholehearted smile lit the younger man's tear-stained face. Skinner shook his head and chuckled, and opened the door to head for the kitchen. "When it comes to some things, you're not exactly a quick study, are you Mulder?" THE END