The Danville Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, Alvin Kersh and Jana Cassidy 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: Multiple. The Ghosts Who Stole Christmas, The Pilot, Little Green Men, The Host, Nisei and a few others in little ways (smile). Setting: Sixth Season Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash. Title: Resolutions Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Approaching year-end, Mulder comes down with something unexpected, and still manages to get himself in hot water with the AD But his attempt at avoiding punishment results in a crisis of faith for both men. Resolutions The J. Edgar Hoover Building Monday, December 21 The auditorium in the Hoover building was being used as a giant briefing room, with more than 100 agents jammed in to be brought up to date on a high profile, potentially volatile case that had fallen under Bureau's jurisdiction. Three Assistant Directors had been assigned to the case, one that had political implications for the government, and by extension, the Justice Department and the FBI. Several rapes and assaults had taken place over several months in the Capitol Building and its surrounding legislative offices. What little evidence there was led to the suspicion that a single, serial rapist was at work. Now the perpetrator had escalated to a murder over the weekend, and another attempted murder last night. What had been kept fairly quiet suddenly garnered the attention of Washington's media with a proverbial bang. And the media, always quick to criticize, was already questioning why no suspect had been arrested, despite the fact that the crimes took place in some of the most secure real estate in all the world. And their questions were emblazoned in two-inch type across the front pages of the world's most well-read newspapers, and led off the evening news programs on all the networks. The eyes of the world were focused on the Bureau, and the Director and the Attorney General wanted a quick, professional and resolute response. Special Agent Fox Mulder sat slouched behind a table about halfway back on the right side of the auditorium. Unlike the rest of the attendees, he was in shirt-sleeves, having left his suit jacket at his desk And those shirt-sleeves were rolled up halfway to his elbows. That, and his slightly askew tie, more than telegraphed his lack of enthusiasm for whatever his new Assistant Director had ordered him there to do. Mulder's partner, Special Agent Dana Scully sat beside him. Unlike him, she was scrupulously dressed and taking prodigious notes while he simply absorbed what he needed on a single level of his consciousness. Several other levels were preoccupied observing and providing ongoing analysis and commentary as the briefing progressed. On one level of his mind, he was watching and comparing the three A.D.'s who together ran the briefing. He and Scully were sitting within the largest group on this task force, those under the command of Assistant Director Alvin Kersh. They were the foot soldiers of this effort, assigned to conduct door-to-door (or office-to-office) interviews in the three buildings hit by the rapist/murderer and the surrounding area of the Capitol district as well. Mulder leaned over to Scully as Kersh droned on about the plan of attack, something that had been complete and obvious to Mulder the moment the man put the map up on the overhead screen. "Isn't this door-to-door canvass something the local P.D. should be handling?" he whispered to her, earning him a glare from another agent immediately in front of them. Ignoring it, and Scully's attempt to ignore him, Mulder continued. "Wasting highly-trained FBI agents on--" He was interrupted by AD Kersh clearing his throat and raising his voice. "Do you have something to add, Agent Mulder?" he asked pointedly. "I'm sure we'd all like to hear whatever it is." Mulder colored slightly, his eyes darting from Kersh to the other two A.D.'s as he tried to think of what to say. Jana Cassidy, head of the Office for Professional Review, was providing oversight on the Bureau's response and she and her team were acting as liaison with other enforcement agencies and Congress. They were also charged with acting as media spokespeople. Assistant Director Walter Skinner stood to her right. His team carried the burden for the guts of this investigation, the analysis and profiling, the sifting and cataloguing of evidence, the real meat of any investigation. And why not, Mulder, thought. They were the best the Bureau had. His heart lurched a little. He glanced quickly at Skinner and the expression on his former boss's face gave Mulder chills. "No, I have nothing to add, sir," Mulder finally replied, turning his attention back to Kersh. But his antipathy for his new boss won out over self-preservation. "You're doing just fine," he added with just the right trace of arrogance. "Why, thank you, Agent Mulder," Kersh replied, sarcasm dripping from every word. "But I'm sure we can all benefit from whatever words of wisdom you were sharing with Agent Scully." He folded his arms over his chest and waited. The room was silent and all eyes were trained on him and Scully. He could ignore them all, except the pair behind AD Skinner's glasses, which were boring a hole in the side of his head at that very moment. Mulder swallowed hard and took a deep breath before plunging into the abyss. "I was just saying that, the pattern we've attributed to a single perpetrator doesn't seem right to me, sir. With all due respect to the BSU guys, I think the recent pattern change bears further analysis--" "Thank you, Agent Mulder," Kersh interrupted him. "We all have a role to play in this effort and yours is collecting data for other, more qualified agents to analyze . . . . Now as I was saying. . . ." He turned back to his map and resumed his presentation. Mulder heard a snicker or two from the surrounding rows after Kersh's obvious and heavy-handed slap and he felt a wave of anger on his behalf come off of Scully. He also noted out of the corner of his eye a slight, almost imperceptible signal from Skinner just before the AD whispered something to Jana Cassidy and quietly left the auditorium. Mulder waited for two minutes before getting up himself and slipping out through a rear door. He and Skinner were supposed to have no contact but he was certain he'd read Skinner's non-verbal signal correctly. Coming around the corner, he saw the Assistant Director pacing in the hall ahead of him. Skinner glared at him, then quickly turned and strode down the corridor toward the men's room. Entering the restroom, Skinner continued his angry stride, heading into the room and banging his hand on the first stall door. It slammed open. He moved on to the second and third stalls, slamming their doors open as well before turning on his heel and repeating the action with the three doors on the other side. Assuring himself that the place was empty, he moved back toward the main door just as Mulder entered. "Do you think this is a good idea?" the younger man asked him, annoyance underscoring his words. "I mean, what are we here for--" Skinner strong left hand grabbed Mulder's left arm and pulled him fully into the bathroom. "We're here for a little attitude adjustment," the AD growled as his right hand issued three stinging slaps to the younger agent's backside. "Owww! What are you doing--?" Mulder whispered frantically as he tried to pull away from the other man's grasp. His eyes darted around the room, trying to ascertain that no one had seen, or heard, the Assistant Director's action. Skinner held him firmly, following up with another hard slap to Mulder's butt as the young man tried vainly to jerk his arm out of the A.D.'s grasp, one eye trained on the door behind him. "You look at me, Mulder," Skinner barked at him. "I want your full attention to what I'm saying. I'll watch the door." Mulder's eyes snapped to the other man's face immediately. His own face was burning with shame but he fought hard not to show how shocked, and humiliated, he was by Skinner's chastising him, in a public place, in the Hoover building, for God's sake. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked him angrily. "Trying to show Kersh up in front of the assembly is a stupid, needlessly disrespectful move. Do you think crap like that will earn you points from anyone? Do you?" Hot tears stung the back of Mulder's eyes and he blinked hard to push them back. He knew Skinner was right. But he was loathe to admit it, even to this man. Admitting he was wrong was not something he was practiced in, and not something that came easily even in the best of circumstances. And this was decidedly not the best of circumstances. So he maintained a sullen silence. "Don't bother to answer, Mulder," Skinner said to him. "Just listen to me very carefully. If you don't give a shit about your career, fine. Walk away. But don't take Scully down with you. And don't dishonor your fellow agents with that 'smarter than everyone else' wiseass shit!" Mulder's head snapped up as though the AD had slapped him, hard and he had to remind himself to breathe. "Now you either get back in there and behave in a manner that won't disgrace either of us or walk out the front door, Mulder. Your choice!" The Assistant Director pushed him toward the door, with another smack across his backside, not waiting for any response because none would be adequate. Mulder left the men's room, shooting a hateful glance back at the other man as he left. He reentered the auditorium from the rear and slipped back into his seat for the end of Assistant Director Kersh's announcement of assignments. From the overhead, it was clear his current supervisor had originally assigned Scully and Mulder to the detail covering the blocks surrounding the Capitol and the two congressional office buildings. But Kersh announced a change, assigning Scully and another agent that job. "Agent Mulder will man the hotline here," he said casually, just as Skinner reentered the room from the side door. "Any team that has information to report or to be followed up on should call it in to Agent Mulder who'll take notes and hand it off to the appropriate investigators. And, of course, any calls from the public will be routed to him as well." Mulder felt himself flush, despite his best effort not to let the fact that he'd been reduced to a secretarial role get to him. Without looking up, he knew Skinner was watching him like a hawk and he continued to stare at the table in front of him, hoping against hope he looked indifferent. Assistant Director Cassidy cut in suddenly to issue an admonishment to all not to speak with the press under any circumstances. "All public announcements will be handled centrally," she told them. "In this instance, the Bureau will speak with one voice and we," she glanced quickly at AD Kersh and then nodded more fully at AD Skinner. "We will decide what becomes public, and when. Any leaks will be fully investigated by OPR, and anyone found to be at fault will be disciplined to the full extent of our regulations." AD Skinner finished up the briefing he'd begun earlier with a concise summary of the situation and an update on evidence the FBI lab had been analyzing. Somehow he'd managed to get the new information and return to the auditorium with it, as though he'd stepped out for that purpose. Mulder sighed quietly, noting that no one seemed to have taken notice of the fact they'd both been gone at the same time. He felt a small sense of victory as Skinner announced that the BSU had gone back to the drawing board with their profile "in light of a recent pattern change that calls their original analysis into question. But for now, ladies and gentlemen, we go forward with what we have and report everything through our hotline, whether it seems important or not. Cases like this are solved with details, Agents. Thank you all." Congress recessed for the Christmas holiday two days later and, despite hundreds of hours of painstaking investigation, no resolution presented itself. By Christmas Eve, the Bureau had reduced its task force by two-thirds for the holiday weekend. Nearly deserted halls and heightened security in the buildings were likely to assure that nothing further happened over the next few days and by mid-day on Christmas Eve, the J. Edgar Hoover office building was relatively deserted. Mulder was still at his desk at 4:45, typing a lot of irrelevant data into the central database that had been established for this investigation. Scully, and most of their colleagues had been released for the holiday at 2 p.m. but AD Kersh announced the hotline needed to be manned until 9 o'clock on Christmas Eve, and from 9 to 9 on Christmas Day, putting an end to Mulder's planned Christmas with the Skinner family. The younger agent refused to let on that he was disappointed, even to Skinner. Mulder was still a little pissed off at him for the men's room incident and, despite his underlying acknowledgment that he'd probably earned that rebuke, he wasn't yet ready to admit that to the other man. So he toughed out the change in plans, dropping off his gifts for the Skinner family with the AD on Wednesday night and not even staying for the beer the other man had offered. He and Scully had spent Christmas Eve in what was possibly a haunted house They'd had breakfast together and exchanged gifts, the best part of the entire day, Mulder thought morosely. Then he'd reported to a deserted Hoover building for his assignment, eight hours of watching a phone that never rang. Except for a call from Scully to check on him. And another from Rachel Skinner to wish him a Merry Christmas. A call in which every member of the Skinner family had gotten on the phone with him. He hadn't realized how much he missed seeing them all until then, hadn't let himself focus on it really. Finally, the Assistant Director got on the line. "Merry Christmas, Mulder," he said. "Are you behaving yourself?" Stung in a place that was still tender from the other man's earlier reprimand, Mulder spoke thoughtlessly. "I've had worse assignments, sir. At least it's not wiretap surveillance. Or security clearances." There was an awkward moment of silence. Both men recalled a time when Mulder still worked for Skinner and the AD had assigned him a punishment detail of wiretap duty. And yet another incident in which Skinner had assigned him a week of background checks as punishment for another transgression. Mulder immediately wanted to take the words back but it was too late, and he was mute with regret. Then finally Skinner spoke. "We'll see you on Sunday, Mulder. My parents are looking forward to it." Mulder hung up the phone, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions; a ton of loneliness mixed with fear that Skinner was finally reaching the limit of his patience with him. He alone knew how paralyzed he was by the complete shambles he'd made of his career. And to top it off, he was deeply ashamed that he'd once again taken the brunt of his anger, and his disappointment, out on Skinner. Mulder had pulled all the files from the case and read through them in the morning. Shaken by his inexplicable slap at Skinner, and a terrifying sense of inevitability about where he was going, he buried himself in the files once again. Jana Cassidy walked past the bullpen where he was sitting on the way to her office. After having Christmas dinner with friends, the Assistant Director in charge of the Office for Professional Responsibility decided to stop in at her office to see if there was any further information on the case. She was surprised to see anyone in, and even more surprised to see Special Agent Fox Mulder with his feet up on a desk, apparently lost in a case file in an otherwise deserted area. "Merry Christmas, Agent Mulder," she said, stopping in the hallway behind him. His feet hit the floor and he stood, quickly. "Merry Christmas," he replied. "I - I wasn't expecting anyone. . . " "No, I imagine not. What are you doing here?" "I'm manning the hotline. You know, we can't have thousands of people calling and no one home at the FBI." Cassidy smiled ruefully. "And have there been 'thousands of calls' today, Agent Mulder?" "No," he shook his head at the phone. "Not even one. But I'm here, pen at the ready, just in case." Cassidy stared at him a moment, thinking that anyone with half a brain would recognize what a waste it was to assign Mulder to this kind of brain-numbing work. She had not become as big a fan of the young agent as Walter Skinner but one had only to look at his record, checkered though it may be, to see the underlying brilliance. And if AD Kersh couldn't see it, it could only be because it wasn't in his interest to see it. She shook her head at the turn of circumstances that still perplexed her and made a decision. "I'm going to the vending machine for a soda, Agent Mulder. Can I bring you one?" "Y-yes, ma'am. Thank you. A coke would be nice." She brought his coke and her Diet 7-Up into the bullpen and took a seat next to Mulder. Overlooking his nervousness at her presence, she'd tried to put him at ease by asking him about his take on the case. And been literally rocked by the clear and cogent recitation of the facts he presented. How in the world could anyone digest the amount of data in these files and reorganize so much disparate and competing information so quickly and completely into a single thread, reaching a possible conclusion that had not yet occurred to anyone else, as far as Cassidy knew? She'd asked him if he planned to share his theory with AD Kersh and the young agent had laughed and picked up a pad of telephone message slips. "I really doubt he wants to hear anything from me, unless it's on one of these 'While You Were Out' slips!" And, of course, he was forbidden from communicating with Walter Skinner Jana Cassidy listened to the rest of his analysis and took mental notes. ********************************************************************** The King's Head Inn Annapolis, Maryland December 27 Fox Mulder felt as though the restaurant was buzzing around him and he was having trouble focusing on the conversation at the table. And even more trouble trying to participate. He looked around the table at the rest of the gathering, Assistant Director Skinner and his parents, and Dana and Maggie Scully. The Skinners had come to Washington on the day after Christmas to attend something at the Kennedy Center, a present from their son. And today, they were all having Sunday dinner at one of Annapolis' historic inns, a chance for Walter, Sr. and Rachel to see Fox, and Maggie and Dana Scully before they returned to Pennsylvania. Mulder thought it was odd that the others were oblivious to the absurdly high temperature in the room and that strange, buzzing sound. He'd barely touched his food, but thankfully none of the others had noticed. He attempted to stretch out the achiness in his back and neck as unobtrusively as possible. Scully leaned over and whispered to him. "Are you all right, Mulder?" "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just not. . . that hungry." "You seem a little out of it. I know you weren't really yourself on Christmas Eve--" "I said I was fine," he responded, a little more sharply than he intended. He tried to make it up to her immediately. "I wasn't feeling well yesterday but I'm just a little stressed out, that's all," he whispered, thinking that it must he been that weird 'ghost thing' they'd run into on Christmas Eve. Then he sat back up so as not to attract anyone else's attention. But it was too late. "Fox, honey, you've barely touched your meal. Are you feeling all right?" Rachel Skinner asked him. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, "I'm fine. I was just telling Scully I'm a little overstressed, that's all. Just work stuff. . . ." He smiled at her reassuringly, then glanced toward the other end of the table. The A.D.'s face turned toward him and Skinner trained a laser-like gaze at the younger agent. "What's wrong at work, Mulder?" Skinner asked him immediately. Although Mulder and Scully reported to someone else now, and they were all forbidden to have official contact, their former boss continued to have an abiding interest in both their careers and lives, particularly Mulder's. And given their last few exchanges, Mulder did not want to get into it with Skinner. He'd been half ignoring the other man all evening. "Nothing, sir," he replied hastily. "I just meant . . . I'm a little stressed out, I don't know why." He laughed nervously. "I mean, I'm even breaking out, like a teenager or something. It's some kind of stress . . . . and there isn't much else going on in my life. . . So I figure it's gotta be work stuff. Think I can file a worker's comp claim, Scully?" He glanced at his partner beside him, hoping she'd rescue him from the scrutiny he'd unintentionally invited. "Did you call that dermatologist I suggested, Mulder," she asked him, refusing to let him squirm out from something that might involve his health. "It is unusual for someone your age to suddenly start breaking out. You may be allergic to something." "I-- no, I didn't call her," he responded curtly. "It's Christmas weekend. I'll call next week, if it doesn't go away--" Before he could get another word in, Rachel Skinner was on her feet and standing beside him. She had her hand on his forehead and she immediately clucked. "You're running a temperature, Fox," she said matter-of-factly. Then she lifted his chin to get a look at his face. Her own took on a strange expression. Maggie Scully was sitting on the other side of Mulder and she leaned over to check on him as well. The two women exchanged a knowing expression. "Dana, sweetheart," Maggie asked her daughter. "How is it you missed the fact that Fox has the chicken pox?" Mulder, Skinner and Scully reacted as one. "Chicken pox?" they exclaimed in unison. "No, that can't be--" Mulder continued in a panic. "Let me see--" Scully interrupted, reaching to pull his head in the other direction. And from the other end of the table, Assistant Director Walter Skinner broke into a belly laugh that nearly knocked him out of his chair. "Chicken pox. I thought everyone got that when they were a child. How did you, of all people, manage to miss a major childhood disease, Mulder?" "I cannot have chicken pox!" Mulder responded to them all. "I'm sure I had it when I was a kid--" He stood up and immediately felt light-headed. He grabbed the back of his chair to steady himself but shook off the assistance Scully, her mother, and Rachel Skinner proffered. Rising to his full height, he told them succinctly. "I don't have chicken pox. I'm gonna go call my mother right now and find out when I had them. She'll remember." He returned several minutes later, looking green around the gills and immensely annoyed. Reseating himself, he grabbed his water glass and downed its contents in a single swallow. "Well, Mulder?" Scully finally asked him. "You never had chicken pox, did you, Mulder?" Skinner cut in. Mulder bit down on an ice cube he'd salvaged from the water glass. Chewing it slowly, he crossed his arms across his chest before responding, Irritation underscored every word. "No. Apparently the Mulder children were too busy being abducted by extraterrestrials to fit in all the normal childhood diseases." After everyone finished commiserating with him over his predicament, and Skinner had gotten over his second laughing fit at Mulder's expense, they then got down to the business of planning how to deal with it. Despite ongoing protests from the patient that he was "just going to go home. I can take care of myself." No matter how many times he said it, in countless variations, no one was listening. "I have the entire family staying for Christmas week, Fox. And little Matthew's just turning a year, he hasn't had chicken pox yet," Maggie Scully said, shaking her head. No matter how she turned it over in her mind, she couldn't figure out how she could take care of Mulder. "You can stay with me, Mulder," Dana Scully cut in. "I can take a few days of vacation, until you're over the worst of it--" "No, Dana," Rachel Skinner interrupted her. "You don't need to take any time off. And chicken pox in an adult can take a lot longer to pass. It looks like Fox is only in the early stages. . . " "Really, I don't need anyone to take care of me," the object of all their concern blurted out. "I'll be fine--" "No, Mulder, Mrs. Skinner is right," Scully told him. "You are just beginning to develop the lesions. And chicken pox is much worse in an adult, you could run a high fever, you could develop pneumonia or even neurological complications. Not to mention the potential for scarring, if you scratch the lesions." "And believe me, Mulder, you'll want to scratch," Skinner laughed from the other end of the table. Mulder gave him a look that would kill a lesser man but the AD blithely ignored it. "You're going to Danville with my folks. I'll drive up in a couple of days with some of your things. I was planning to be there for New Year's anyway." He put up a hand to forestall any further protest. "Don't even think of arguing with me, Mulder. If you think you're uncomfortable now--" Mulder nearly swallowed his tongue and he glanced rapidly at Scully and her mother to see how they'd heard, and interpreted, Skinner's remark. "If you think you're uncomfortable now, wait a day or two. I promise you'll be glad to have someone taking care of you!" ********************************************************************** ***** The Skinner Home Danville, Pennsylvania December 27 Mulder was lying on the couch in the Skinner family room, privately agreeing with the Assistant Director's prediction, although he'd never let on to the other man that he'd reached that same conclusion. He felt like hell. He was running a fever that veered between 101 and 103 degrees. His head hurt, his throat hurt, his back hurt. The inside of his mouth had chicken pox lesions, making it hard to eat. He had broken out all over his torso, arms, legs and in places he didn't want anyone to look. And he itched like crazy. He was trying to concentrate on whatever the A.D.'s father was watching on television, but none of it hung together in his head. He surreptitiously tried to scratch the part of his body that itched the worst at this moment in time, his chest and stomach. Pulling the afghan he was under up almost to his chin, he reached under his sweatshirt-- "Fox, honey, are you scratching again?" Rachel Skinner called from the kitchen. Walter, Sr.'s head turned immediately from CNN. "No, ma'am," he replied, hastily pulling his arm out from under the afghan and trying to look nonchalant. "I'm not scratching--" He looked over at the A.D.'s father and was immediately struck by the lie he was in the middle of telling. ". . . much." The older man smiled at him and returned his attention to his program as his wife entered the room, carrying a tray. She set it on the coffee table in front of Mulder. "I made you a milk shake," she told him. "You need some nourishment and that shouldn't irritate your mouth. And I have some more calamine lotion for you." "I can do that myself, ma'am," he told her, reaching for the bottle and thinking he'd take it upstairs with him. "No, that's all right, Fox," she replied. "Besides, you can't even reach all the places you have pox!" He was immensely uncomfortable, in more ways than one and trying desperately to figure out how to tell her. Escape was another option but . . . . Rachel continued her monologue. "I'll do the parts you can't reach, Fox. Then I'll give you the bottle and you can do the rest, okay?" She received a relieved smile in return. "I raised three sons, you know. Give me a little credit, okay?" He took off his shirt and let her dab calamine lotion on what seemed like dozens of itchy spots on his back, then he let her do his face, chest and stomach while he sipped the vanilla shake. Once she'd finished the public areas, she closed the bottle and handed it to him with a smile. "Your turn, dear. And I think you ought to try to take a nap, while you're feeling a little more comfortable. Your fever's definitely up, Fox." He didn't want to nap and he started to argue with her, a move that earned him a glare from Mr. Skinner that nearly bored a hole in the side of his head. Without a second of eye contact, the A.D.'s father communicated his displeasure at Mulder's tone and his words, and the young FBI agent changed his tune immediately. "I guess you're right," he said quietly. "I will try to take a nap." Feeling a little sorry for himself, and a lot relieved to get out of there without a rebuke (or worse!) from the elder Skinner, he dragged himself up the back stairs and into the study that had become his room whenever he was in Danville. After applying the pink lotion to his legs and several other parts of his body, he threw himself into the bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep. When he woke, his body ached and his fever was up again. He had chills and he was feeling nauseous. He lay there, feeling miserable and well and truly sorry for himself, trying to remember the last time he'd felt this bad. The study door opened and Mr. Skinner looked in. Seeing Mulder was awake, he opened the door and came into the room. "How are you feeling, son?" "Okay." The older man studied his glazed eyes and flushed face and gave him a tight smile. "We've talked about lying before, Fox." Mulder sighed and dropped his eyes momentarily. Raising them once again to the A.D.'s father, he started again. "Well actually, I'm not feeling too well, sir." "That's better," he smiled as his wife came in behind him. "I think Fox's temperature's back up, honey. Did you bring the thermometer?" Mulder watched the two elder Skinners as they worked together, speaking a private shorthand that consisted of half-sentences and glances, a language perfected in almost 50 years of marriage and the rearing of a houseful of kids. His temperature was over 103 degrees and Mrs. Skinner announced a cool baking soda bath would be just the thing. Mulder nearly fell out of the bed at the thought that she might be planning to bathe him but Rachel merely prepared the bath, leaving her husband to help the younger man in and make sure he stayed long enough to reduce his fever. Once he'd cooled down, exhaustion overtook him again and the older couple was barely able to get him coated with calamine lotion and get some tea and toast into him before he fell back into a deep sleep. The rest of the day and the next passed in the same routine, with Mulder making the short trip between the family room couch and the bed in the study but venturing no further. The family doctor paid a house call and opined that the young man had 'the worst case of chicken pox I've seen in 10 years!' He told the Skinners that if his temperature rose above 104 degrees, he should be hospitalized. But barring that, Dr. Murphy told them, they should just keep doing what they were doing. And he admonished the young man not to scratch. "Really? Everyone else here seems to think scratching is the only way to go," Mulder had told him and received a side-ways glance from Walter, Sr. that told him he didn't find his humor especially funny. "Just kidding, Doc," he added, hoping to appease the A.D.'s father quickly. Thursday was New Year's Eve and by then he was feeling just a little better physically. But his mood was black and he knew he must be getting on everyone's nerves. He was certain of that because the A.D.'s middle brother, Joe, showed up mid-morning, obviously called in to give his parents a little relief. And Joe told him pointedly that Walter would be arriving around dinner time. Mulder knew he was a terrible patient, and he'd tried valiantly to fight that tendency for the benefit of the Skinners. But every man has his limits. It turned out the Skinner family traditionally gathered at their parents home for New Year's Eve. Although Andy and Eileen wouldn't be there, the A.D.'s brother Joe and his wife Nora and their kids came for dinner as did his sister Jean and her family. The Assistant Director made it there just past 7 o'clock and, after greeting his relatives, went immediately to check up on their troublesome houseguest. "So, I hear you're a regular ray of sunshine, Mulder," he joked with the young man. But Mulder had just awakened, and was stiff and suffering from a pounding headache. He'd grimaced at the A.D.'s remark and barely held back the biting response he'd wanted to deliver. "Okay, don't bother to answer. I can see you're in as foul a mood as Joe told me," Skinner said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Do you think you can come down to dinner? Or should I bring you a tray?" He wanted to give the younger man the option of being alone, if that was more comfortable for him. But Mulder heard his words as a threat of punishment for his bad humor. "You're making me stay in my room?" he asked angrily. "This is a great place to be sick. Nobody understands that I'm feeling like shit. They want me to be a fucking 'ray of sunshine!' Then you show up and start threatening me--" "Whoa, Mulder! Get a grip--" Skinner barked at him, standing up and glowering at the young agent from his full height. "I didn't--" "Yes, you did! I'm not fucking deaf. You said you weren't gonna let me come down--" "I never said any such thing! And watch your mouth, young man--" Joe burst in from the hallway into the middle of the escalating argument. "What the hell's wrong in here?" Mulder kept yelling, and Skinner attempted to outshout him for a moment before walking over and slamming the door shut. He turned back to Mulder, who'd immediately quieted down, not sure what to expect now that the Assistant Director had closed the door. "I've had enough! You're sick and I'm trying to be patient with that. But this kind of behavior is not going to be tolerated, Mulder. You're confined to this room tonight. We'll send your dinner up. And when you're feeling better, you can rest assured you're gonna get the punishment you earned yourself with this little scene. Do you understand me?" He waited for a response but received only an angry glare. "Do you understand me, young man?" Mulder felt a rush of fear, followed by another wave of anger. But this time, fear won out. He blinked twice, refusing to make further eye contact with Skinner, or acknowledge that he'd heard the other man's angry threat. Hands on his hips, the Assistant Director waited. And waited. Finally, Joe could stand it no longer. "Mulder's just sick, Walt," he said, reaching for an excuse for the younger man. "Yes, he is," his brother ground out between clenched teeth. "Which is why he's not getting the strapping he so richly deserves right now." Mulder felt his face burn with shame. Joe decided to try another approach. "Mulder, just tell him you understand--" "He knows what I want to hear, Joe," Skinner told his brother. Locking eyes with the young man in the bed, he continued. "And I can wait all night, if that's what it takes, Mulder." Mulder was a study in insolence, his mind searching for a way out of the corner he'd painted himself into. But the A.D.'s massive form blocked every exit, physically and psychologically. Finally, he relented just enough to get the other man to leave. "I understand," he said bitterly, glaring at Skinner. "I understand everything, sir." The family had a quiet dinner in the dining room. Rachel Skinner had delivered a tray to Mulder's room just before they sat down, and returned with it a moment later when the patient told her he wasn't hungry, that he wanted only to go back to sleep. The family meal had been quieter than normal, with Andy and Eileen and their kids not there, and Mulder very obviously not in attendance as well. And to top it off, the AD was there in body but definitely not in spirit. He barely said a word and excused himself as soon as dessert and coffee were served to get some fresh air. He was standing on the porch, watching a cold rain fall and turn to ice when his brother Joe came out. "You okay, Walter?" Skinner turned and gave him a blank look, then immediately attempted a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine, Joe. Just taking a moment to . . . collect my thoughts. Go ahead back inside." But Joe ignored his instruction, instead finding a place on the porch railing to lean against and looking out into the glistening ice-covered scenery. "He's a real handful, isn't he?" he asked, not bothering to identify the subject of his comment. Walter snorted in response. "You don't know the half of it. . . . On the other hand, I was just out here trying to figure out when I turned into Dad." He smiled and looked at his brother. "It was like an 'out of body' experience when that 'young man' line popped out. I still can't figure out how Dad had managed to throw his voice out of my mouth." Joe laughed. "Actually, you used it twice . . . But who's counting?" Skinner smiled wryly. "I was just thinking about going up to apologize." He sighed heavily, waiting for a response from Joe but none was forthcoming. "He is sick. I shouldn't have flown off the handle like that--" "Walt, he's got the chicken pox. He's not dying. And he's over the worst of it, except for the itching. And being sick, it's not an excuse for that behavior. He's plenty well enough to push all your buttons . . . in the exact, right order to guarantee an explosion, I might add!" He shook his head, confusion evident in his expression. "I just don't get it. You would never have this much patience with Andy or me! Or Mike or Doug!" "Yeah, but Mulder's not you or Andy . . . . I keep telling this to Dad. He has a choice--" "No, you're wrong there, Walt. He HAD a choice. And he made it. And that's all she wrote. I tell this to my players all the time. You're either on the team, or you're not. You're in the game, or you're not--" "Enough with the sports analogies, okay?" his brother interrupted him, his voice tinged with impatience. "I hear you, but this is different, Joe--" "I don't think it is. The way you keep dancing around it, it's no wonder Mulder's still insecure about all this." "You're wrong, Joe. I've watched this for the past two years, longer even. He takes one step in and then two steps back. . . " Skinner faltered, trying to find a way to explain the self-destructive pattern he'd observed in the young FBI agent asleep in the study upstairs, the pattern he'd failed to break or even bend a little. The pattern that had him dancing on the line between holding on to his career at the Bureau and being drummed out in disgrace. "That's exactly my point, Walter! You have to stop letting him step back. That's not an option. He's family. Good, bad and everything in between! Period." Joe shivered and started back toward the front door. "The temperature's gotta be dropping into single digits. You coming?" "No, I just need a couple of more minutes. I'll be in soon," Skinner told him, crossing his arms over his chest and turning back toward the front yard. He gave Joe's input some thought but reached no conclusion. He wanted to think he knew best when it came to Mulder but, the truth was, the young man was a complete puzzle to him, and always had been. The AD veered between following his head and following his heart, never certain which direction was right. And always feeling like he was walking through a minefield, only one in which Skinner's misstep would end up destroying Mulder. He suddenly felt the chill in his bones and realized he was shivering violently. With a final glance up into the stormy, black sky, he sighed and headed back into the house. Skinner got a cup of coffee, then settled into an armchair in the family room, joining his relatives as they watched the television coverage of New York City's Times Square and awaited the annual ritual of the dropping ball. Around 11 o'clock, he heard movement from upstairs and guessed Mulder was up. Still unsure what to say to the younger man, he elected to send an emissary to test the waters. "Hey, Mike," he whispered conspiratorially to his 16-year-old nephew. "Get a glass of cider out of the refrigerator and take it upstairs to Mulder, would you? I can hear him moving around but he probably doesn't want to risk coming downstairs." Mike got right up and did as he was asked, returning a few moments later and sitting quietly down on the floor with his back to his father and his Uncle Walter. "Was he awake, Mike?" Skinner asked him, thinking he might go up and ask Mulder if he wanted to join them for the midnight festivities. "Y-yeah." Mike looked over his shoulder and nodded, then turned back to the television. Skinner wrinkled his forehead, thinking something didn't feel right. Then he leaned over and tapped Mike on the head. "Was Mulder all right, Mike?" Mike nodded again, somewhat tentatively. "Yeah, he was . . . okay." Joe and Walter exchanged curious glances, then Joe leaned forward and physically turned his son around. "Michael. What's wrong?" "N-nothing, Dad. Nothing's wrong--" "Michael Alexei Skinner, don't even think of lying to me. What's going on with Mulder?" His father spoke quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the rest of the family, but his meaning was crystal clear to the 16-year-old boy. "Well, he's okay. . . " He looked at his father nervously. "It's just he's not exactly here--" "Where is he, Mike?" Skinner interrupted him. "He-- he left, Uncle Walter. He said . . . he said that you were gonna-- he said if he stayed here, you were gonna beat him, so he left." Skinner was momentarily stunned but he immediately pushed the boy's words out of his mind, electing to focus on the salient point, that Mulder, barely past the worst of the chicken pox, had just headed out into a freezing rain, on foot. He rose and headed for the back door, grabbing his parka and his car keys, with Joe hot on his heels. "I'm coming with you, Walter," his brother said unnecessarily. "Michael, which way did he go?" The boy had followed them into the kitchen, clearly worried about whether he'd done the right thing in telling them, and just as worried that he'd been wrong to wait so long to do it. "He went out the back door. I watched him head for the back road, toward the river, Dad. Then I lost him in the dark." Both Skinner brothers broke into a run as they headed out to the jeep. Not waiting for the car to heat up, Skinner threw it into "Drive" and tore out of the driveway in the direction Mike had told them. Turning his headlights to bright, he started scanning the road for his runaway, muttering to himself about Mulder's irresponsibility and mulish inability to give a single thought to his own welfare. And just what he was going to do when he caught up with the errant young man. They spotted someone on the road up ahead, just before the old wooden bridge that crossed the river behind the Skinner place. "I think that's him," Joe said. "Who the hell else would be out walking on a night like this?" Mulder was already feeling the bite of the frozen rain and a chill that was shaking him to his shoes. He was not really dressed for the weather, wearing only his leather jacket, a shirt and jeans, and a pair of sneakers. His feet were already soaked and numb and he pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck, as though that might help him retain a little body heat. Which it didn't. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a car approaching, obviously coming from the Skinner house. He looked around frantically for a hiding place, hoping they hadn't spotted him yet. The only shelter he could see in the driving rain was the bridge itself. If he could get down the embankment and under the bridge, they might just pass him by. Then he could circle back and head for the main highway. Mulder broke into a run and started down the slope, but he misjudged its steepness, and the slickness from the icy rain. Slipping on an ice patch, he tumbled fast and freely down the embankment and into the freezing water, face first, hit his head on one of the rocks that jutted out from the rushing water, and lost consciousness. Skinner and his brother lost sight of the younger man for a few moments as the rain turned to hail and they pulled the car up next to the bridge and got out to look for him. "Where the hell did he go?" Walter shouted, anxiety illuminating his features. He frantically scanned the road in both directions. "He can't get very far in this weather," Joe assured him before he finally spotted the body in the water. "There! In the water!" "Oh, fuck," Skinner whispered, his heart racing as he scrambled down the embankment and into the water below the bridge. The same place where Jeremy had died, nearly 30 years earlier. "Oh, God, don't let him be dead. Please, don't let him be dead." He pulled the younger man out of the water and saw that he was still breathing, though he was unconscious and was bleeding profusely. "Help me get him up," he told Joe and the two brothers carried the other man between them to the jeep where they gently laid him on the back seat. Pulling a blanket out of the back, Skinner wrapped him in it and climbed into the back seat to cradle him while Joe put the jeep in gear and raced back to the house. They got him back into bed and let Rachel and Jean treat his cut head while the Assistant Director called the family doctor and requested another house call. Thankfully, Dr. Murphy was an old-fashioned kind of doctor, and an old family friend as well as a neighbor. He was there inside of half an hour. Coming down the stairs from the study, the physician found the family waiting in the kitchen and accepted a cup of coffee and a brandy. "Happy New Year," he said, receiving a lukewarm response from the Skinners. "Well, not to worry. He's going to be fine. He is a bit . . . accident prone, isn't he?" "Does he have a concussion, Doctor?" Walter, Sr. spoke first, asking the question on all their minds. "Yes, it appears so. But a mild one," he replied swallowing the rest of the brandy. "I don't think he needs to be hospitalized. Just wake him a few times during the night. If you can't rouse him, then get him to a hospital. But I expect he'll be fine. A headache in the morning and a scar on his forehead that may take a while to go away, nothing more . . . . Just exactly what was he doing swimming in the river on a night like this anyway?" The Assistant Director knocked back the rest of his brandy and rose, extending his hand to the Doctor. "Thanks for coming so quickly. I'm sorry we ruined your New Year's Eve." "Oh, the Skinner boys cut into a number of my holidays over the years," Dr. Murphy laughed. "It's a good thing we didn't have that 'caller ID' thing when you kids were young. I might not have answered all the times your folks called me away from holidays and family dinners!" He sat down and accepted another brandy as Skinner headed up the stairs. "I'll keep an eye on Mulder," he told his family before disappearing into the darkness of the upstairs hallway. And despite their attempts to get him to let someone else take a shift, he stayed by Mulder's bedside throughout the night, waking the young man hourly to be certain he didn't slip into a coma. By daybreak, it was apparent Mulder had come through barely worse for the wear and Skinner finally slipped out of the study quietly. He ran into Joe in the kitchen. Like his older brother, the middle Skinner brother was an early riser, generally up at dawn no matter what day of the year it was. But this time, he'd gotten up with a purpose. "Walter, you can't blame yourself for last night," he said, anxious to convince the other man that his take on this was correct. "No? Then who do I blame, huh? How do I ignore the fact that kid was so scared -- of me -- that he nearly killed himself last night?" He slammed his coffee cup down on the counter, creating a spout of hot coffee that shot up and spilled out onto the counter. His brother shook his head firmly. "I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous, Walter! He wasn't scared. He was just being manipulative. And it was a superb performance. Oscar caliber, if you ask me--" The Assistant Director shook his head. "You're wrong, Joe. I -- I've gotta get outa here," he whispered, grabbing his jacket and heading out the back door. Mulder woke to the smell of bacon and eggs and fresh-brewed coffee and was surprised to see Joe at his bedside with a tray. "Never fails to get me up, Mulder," the other man smiled, setting the tray on the desk. He helped the young agent sit up and propped a couple of pillows up behind him. "It's almost noon. You must have needed the sleep." Handing Mulder a cup of coffee, he placed the plate on the nightstand and handed Mulder a fork. "Bon appetit!" Mulder knew he must be feeling better because he was famished. He dug into the food while he tried to think of a way to broach the subject at the top of his mind. Where exactly was the AD? And just how pissed was he? Joe continued to make small talk while Mulder ate. His mother visited for a few moments to say hello and check on the dressing on Mulder's forehead. Rachel felt his head momentarily and smiled when she announced he had no fever. Then she gathered up the dishes and left, never having mentioned the incident the night before. As Joe had not brought it up either. Finally Mulder couldn't take it any longer. "Where's . . . " He cleared his throat. "Um, where's your brother this morning?" His attempt at appearing nonchalant was pathetic even to his own ears. "He went back to D.C. this morning," Joe told him matter-of-factly. He studied the young man in the bed and watched him turn as white as the sheets. "He left?" Mulder's eyes fell to his hands and he appeared to struggle with the news. "He just . . . left?" "Yeah, lucky break for you," Joe offered, giving him a sympathetic smile. "If Walter sat up here with me all night, waking me up every hour on the hour, I'd be pissed. I'm sure it's not exactly how you'd like to start the New Year!" Joe left him alone to chew on that. And over the course of the next week, as he continued to recover, no one in the family mentioned his middle of the night escapade, or the absent AD Mulder knew he called daily because he heard him speaking with Rachel, or Walter, Sr. And he could ascertain that the other man always inquired after Mulder. But he never asked to speak to him. By the following Saturday morning, Mulder was over the chicken pox, and the effects of his fall. He still had itchy spots all over his body, but he was no longer contagious and it would take a few more weeks for them to fade completely. And he was overwhelmed with claustrophobia and the need to get back to his own place, far away from the constant reminders of what he'd done. Reminders he created in his own head, to be sure, but they were all the more real to him because of it. Mulder heard Joe's car in the driveway around three o'clock and rushed down the stairs to try to speak to him. "Can you drive me to the bus station?" he asked, without preliminaries. "I think I should go home." Joe scratched the side of his face as he considered the request. "You think you're well enough?" "Yes. The doctor came by yesterday afternoon and he said I'm not contagious any more. And I haven't had a fever for three days. I feel fine." "Okay. You tell my folks, and I'll drive you over to Harrisburgh. That's the closest bus station." Mulder grabbed his already packed bag and found Mr. & Mrs. Skinner in the kitchen with Joe. He told them he needed to get home, and over their protests, reminded them that even Dr. Murphy said he was ready. "Thanks for everything," he told them shyly, knowing that because of him, their son had left their home on New Year's Day. And neither of them had mentioned it, or made him feel responsible in any way. He was filled with awe at their . . . love and acceptance of him, flaws and all. And he knew he was undeserving of their regard. "It's going to be okay," Rachel whispered to him as she walked him out. "You just give Walter some time. I want to see you both back here soon." He nodded, but he knew that was an unlikely scenario. He was certain the relationship he'd had with Skinner had been irrevocably broken. He'd been through this kind of thing before, with his father. With his mother. With just about everyone who'd ever been important to him. Eventually he disappointed them all. Mulder tried to maintain his outward equilibrium but he knew this would likely be the last time he returned to Danville. Trapped in this cycle of self-blame and depression, he was slow to recognize Joe talking to him as the middle Skinner brother steered the car onto the interstate toward Harrisburgh. "I'm sorry. What did you say?" Mulder finally responded. "I said, how do you sleep at night?" Joe glanced at him briefly, then turned his eyes back to the road. "What?" "You heard me. How do you sleep at night?" Mulder felt his blood pressure rise, intuitively recognizing that he was in for a fight. "Actually, I don't sleep much, thank you." The last thing he wanted was to get into it with Joe. He'd already pissed off one Skinner brother and paid the price. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the head rest. "You really are a piece of work, Mulder," Joe said shaking his head. "I gotta hand it to you. I've never seen anyone take Walter down before. But you - - you did it. Congratulations." Mulder swallowed hard, but refused to open his eyes. Tears burned behind the lids but he squeezed his eyes closed even harder to hold them back. "I mean, really. That whole 'I'm scared' routine. And then getting yourself knocked unconscious, right in the spot where Jeremy died. That was brilliant--" Mulder gasped and looked at the other man, the shock of his statement knocking the breath out of him. "Oh, God! I didn't--" Joe looked at him incredulously. "Oh, come on! You knew where it happened. My Dad told me all about you and Walter and the bridge incident last year." Mulder shook his head vehemently. "I didn't . . . I didn't put it together! And I didn't get hurt on purpose. . . ! I wouldn't--" He began to shake, unable to hold back the storm of emotions and self-recrimination any longer. Joe pulled the car off the side of the road onto the shoulder and put the car into "Park." He watched Mulder lose the battle to stave off tears, cursing and berating himself under his breath. Joe waited, taking his time to assess whether the younger man's reaction was as sincere as it appeared. Finally certain, Joe reached over and pulled him into an embrace. "It's okay, kid," he said gently. "I just had to know. I'm sorry I said those things to you-" He resisted Mulder's attempt to pull away until the younger man finally surrendered and leaned into his chest, sobbing unashamedly. "No, I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I just didn't think. I was just so . . . so angry-- at everything. At the whole fucking world. And I just wanted it to go away . . . ." His voice lowered to a whisper. "Like if I took it out on someone else, it wouldn't hurt so much. . . . " "And Walter's like solid rock, right? Nothing ever seems to affect him," Joe said quietly, feeling the other man take a deep, tear-soaked breath. "Andy and I always thought that way, too. I kind of think of him like the North Star. When the clouds roll away, it's there, right where you expect it to be. Something you can always count on." Mulder drew in a ragged breath and nodded, glad that he could tell this to someone who understood and felt the same way. "Yeah. A beacon in the night. . . " He recalled thinking it a hundred times over the years he'd known the Assistant Director. "I never meant to . . . I just didn't want to get p-punished. . . ." Joe laughed out loud. "Yeah, well, been there, Mulder! But honestly, wouldn't it be a whole lot easier just to take your licks and move on, skip all the drama?" He let the younger man calm down a little more then turned the car around and reentered the interstate heading in the direction of Washington, D.C. They had a three and a half hour drive ahead of them and Mulder spent nearly every moment of it talking. ********************************************************************** Skinner Apartment Crystal City, Virginia January 9 At just past 8 o'clock, the Assistant Director was lying on his couch, a half-drunk glass of whiskey balanced on his stomach. He'd poured it thinking a drink would help but having swallowed half, he already knew alcohol wouldn't prove to be an answer. And a couple of hours of serious weight lifting in the morning hadn't helped either. Lost in thought, he didn't hear the buzzer from his front door immediately. Then whoever it was began banging on the door. "Just a minute!" he yelled, smoothly transferring the glass of whiskey to the coffee table and getting up. "Hold your damn horses!" He opened the door angrily and was shocked to see Mulder standing there. Skinner's mouth opened, then closed again without a sound. He stared at the younger man for another few seconds. "Go home, Mulder," he said finally, starting to close the door. "No! Please! Don't send me home." Mulder pushed his arm against the door, forcing it back open. Skinner sighed and considered his plea. Then he shook his head. "I think it's best if you just go. Don't make me do something we'll both regret." He began to close the door again but Mulder pushed his entire body against it. "No! I- I have to talk to you, sir. Please!" His voice had reached a fevered pitch already and Skinner realized it was echoing in the hallway. Wanting to avoid a scene that would have his neighbors talking for weeks, he finally relented and stepped back, opening a path for the anxious young man to enter. Skinner closed the door behind Mulder and turned, folding his arms across his chest. "Okay, Mulder. You've got two minutes. Talk." Mulder was dumbstruck for a moment, not sure exactly what to say. Or whether he could say it in two minutes or less. "I um, I wanted to tell you. . . . Um, I just wanted to say that . . . . I mean, when you left--" He bit down on his lower lip, hard, trying to focus on what he had to say. And how the hell to say it. "Damn! I just--" Skinner watched him and knew his first inclination had been right. He sighed heavily and then spoke, as gently as he could. "Mulder, you should go home. Now." He turned back to the door and pulled it open. Staring at the back of the door, he waited for the young man to move. When he didn't, the Assistant Director glanced over at him and was shocked by what he saw. Mulder had unbuckled his belt and quietly slipped it out of the loops in his jeans. He held it out to Skinner. "You forgot something before you left," Mulder said with quiet certainty. He held eye contact with the other man, his face open and trusting. It was a countenance Skinner had rarely seen on him and he was stunned and unsure of his own response. He closed the door once again, then rubbed his hand over the top of his head and gazed off into the distance, trying to get a handle on his own feelings. With another heavy sigh, he turned back to Mulder and looked into his face, into the clear, hazel eyes. He looked for a sign of fear, or doubt. But there was none. "I'm not afraid, sir," Mulder whispered, as if he had read the A.D.'s mind. "I- I never was." Skinner felt a huge weight come off his chest at that moment and he took another deep, mind-clearing breath. Releasing it, he reached out and took the belt from Mulder's hand, a grin spreading over his face. "Be afraid, Mulder. Be very afraid." Despite himself, the younger man felt a laugh burst forth from his gut. It felt good, better than he'd felt in weeks. Tears filled his eyes, but these were tears of relief. Relief that rapidly swung back into a sense of dread. "You're- you're kidding, right?" "Mulder, I never kid. Let's get this over with, shall we?" the AD replied, draping an arm over his shoulder and leading him into the living room. The brown leather chair they'd used in the past was sitting in its usual place. Skinner tousled the young man's hair and waited for him to prepare himself for punishment. Unbuttoning his jeans, Mulder was talking to himself internally. He unzipped and pushed his jeans and cotton boxers down to his knees, then he leaned forward over the back of the chair and turned his head to the side, closing his eyes tightly, still talking to himself. "Don't worry, son. Just one strapping tonight," Skinner said quietly, aware that the younger man had been thinking out loud. It seemed to happen whenever he was under stress. "But before we begin, Mulder, I have a question. Have I ever beat you?" Mulder's heart nearly stopped; he fully understood where the question had come from, and why. And he was as deeply ashamed as he'd ever been. "No," he said. "NO, SIR! You never have. And I'm sorry I told Mike . . . what I told him, sir." Skinner felt like a ten-ton weight had just rolled off his chest. "Okay, then. I just wanted to be sure we're on the same page here. What's this punishment for, Mulder?" He brought the belt down on his butt, then followed immediately with another lick. "Ahhhh! For-- for mouthing off to you, sir! Unnnhhh!" "You're all better now, Mulder. I know, I spoke to your doctor the other day," Skinner replied, issuing three more hard licks right across the fleshiest part of his bottom. Mulder clamped his mouth shut hard and ended up biting his lip when the next lick burned a red stripe across his backside. "Owwww!" Tears were running down his cheeks and he wiped them on the sleeve of his tee shirt. "Don't make me start again, Mulder," the AD warned him. "What else is this strapping for?" "For lying to Mike! About being afraid of you! Aahhhhh! Ouccchhhh! Unnnnnhhhh! I'll never do that again!" he sobbed, as a half dozen hard licks rained down on his upturned butt, in a place that would make sitting down painful, if not impossible, for several days at least. He knew Skinner was making a point about that one. "Tell me what else, Mulder." Another lick landed on the top of his thighs, causing him to jump and pull up from the chair. Skinner responded as though he'd been expecting it, pushing down on his back to anchor the young man in place. "Stay there!" "Oucchhhh! Owwwww! Aahhhhhhn!" Mulder gritted his teeth as three more licks landed across his burning flesh. "I-- please!" "The ball's in your court, Mulder," Skinner told him evenly. "I'll keep going until you answer me. . . " "Uhhhhhhnnn! What- what was the question?" His voice was frantic. Skinner couldn't hold back the smile that creased his face, and he paused momentarily in delivering the rest of the young agent's punishment. "Stay with me, Mulder," he said gently. "I already know all the UFO hot spots. I used to read all your reports, remember?" Mulder sobbed loudly. The pain of being reminded that Skinner no longer read his reports was worse than the punishment he was getting. The Assistant Director recognized his reaction immediately; his own heart had grown heavy as he'd said the words. But he wasn't going to let Mulder dwell on that right now. Reaching down to push the younger man's sweaty hair off his forehead, he spoke a little more forcefully. "One more thing, Mulder. One more thing you're being punished for. And it's the big one. Let's go--" Mulder nodded and sobbed again. "F-for running away! Unnnhhhhhhh! Owwwwww! Oooooohhhhhhhh!" His tears came fast and furious now as the AD blistered his butt painfully, driving the point home over and over. "That's the one, son. You risked your life! For what?" Skinner delivered one more hard lick, then dropped the belt on the floor beside the chair. He squatted down beside the crying young man and spoke to him quietly but with all the firmness he could muster. "You could have died, Mulder. . . That's the one thing you could do, that would be unforgivable. To kill yourself over something so . . . so stupid!" He heard his own voice crack and stood up quickly, walking over to gaze out the window while he tried to regain his own equilibrium. He heard Mulder get up, hiccuping sobs beginning to settle into sporadic hitches. Then he felt the younger man standing beside him. He'd managed to readjust his clothes but fresh tears were streaming down his cheeks. "You're wrong, sir," the young man said resolutely. "The one thing that would be unforgivable is if you thought I didn't know . . . didn't appreciate how much you've done for me." He nodded his head as though he were agreeing with himself. "I know I don't always show it. Hell, I probably don't show it at all! But I know. . . I know your life would be a helluva lot easier if you just walked away! I know your career took a big hit, because of me! And I'm s-sorry. . . !" He broke off into new sobs and the Assistant Director reached over and pulled him into an overpowering embrace. Mulder continued babbling into Skinner's shoulder. "I'm so sorry. . . I'm so sorry I got you into this--" "I want you to listen to me, young man," Skinner told him forcefully, pushing him back to arm's length and grasping his shoulders firmly. "Nothing happened to ME. Something happened to us. We're family now. What affects one of us, affects all of us. . . . " He felt Mulder go limp and surrender to the emotions washing over him. "And we have to hang together. We're stronger together. And it's the only way we're gonna fight this thing." Skinner watched him nod, finally, then lean back into the other man's muscled arms. The AD held him, rubbing circles on his back until his crying wound down to ragged breaths, then he began to move the young man into the spare bedroom. From past experience, the AD saw that Mulder had reached the state of near-unconsciousness that always followed the release of strong emotions for him. Helping him into bed, Skinner spoke to him soothingly as Mulder flipped over onto his stomach and began to drift off to sleep. "It's okay, kid. It's okay, now. I want you to get some sleep. . . " Mulder's head popped up suddenly. "What about Joe?" he blurted out. Skinner sat down on the edge of the bed. "What about Joe?" he asked, immediately worried about whatever had Mulder thinking about the Assistant Director's brother. "He's waiting for me downstairs! In the car," Mulder said as a giant yawn overtook him. "He's been waiting in the car all this time?" Skinner shook his head, and placed a large hand on the side of Mulder's head, pushing it back down onto the pillow. "Go to sleep, Mulder. I'll go get Joe." Joe Skinner stretched his arms up to the ceiling of his Explorer and yawned as he listened to the all-news radio station begin its news cycle again. 'You give us 22 minutes, we'll give you the world' was their slogan and Joe thought idly that he was about to get handed the world for the fourth time that night. "What the hell is taking them so long up there?" he wondered out loud, jumping visibly when someone rapped on the window next to his head. His brother Walter was squatting next to the car. Joe hit the button to lower the window. "Everything okay, Walter?" he asked needlessly. He could see from the expression on his older brother's face that everything was fine. "Yeah. Sorry you've been waiting so long. Mulder neglected to mention you were down here until a minute ago. Just before he went out like a light!" "Not before you gave him everything he deserved though, right?" Joe laughed when his brother raised an eyebrow noncommittally. "I hope you weren't too tough on him, Walt. He's a good kid, I got to know him pretty well on the drive down here." "Yeah, he is. A least, when he's not driving you stark-raving mad," Skinner laughed. "Come on up now." Joe demurred, telling the Assistant Director he was planning to drive home. But Skinner was ready for him. Reaching in through the open window to unlock the door, he opened it and reached over his brother to turn the car off. "It's already 9 o'clock, Joe. You can get a good night's rest and then drive first thing in the morning, when you're fresh." "I'm fine, Walter. I'll stop at 7-11 for a cup of coffee and that'll keep me going until I get home--" "Joe, don't make me tell you again. I've got a strap upstairs that's all warmed up, and I'm on a roll. . . ." Joe immediately ceased protesting, recognizing the tone of voice and the set of his brother's jaw. "Unlike our young friend upstairs, I feel no compulsion to test your resolve, Walter," he said as he stepped out of the car. "Been there, done that!" At 7:00 the next morning, Joe was quietly gathering up his things in the spare bedroom and getting ready to leave when Mulder woke with a start. "Sorry, Mulder," Joe reassured him quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you." The young man stretched and yawned, then took a look at the radio alarm clock on the nightstand. "No, it's all right. I've been asleep for. . . almost 10 hours!" he responded, surprised himself that he'd gotten such a long rest. Curling one arm under his head, he smiled at Joe. "I always sleep great here, for some reason. Maybe it's this bed. . . ." Joe laughed at him. "Or the fact that Walter's right next door!" Mulder turned pink and instantly regretted some of the things he'd told Joe on the long drive down from Pennsylvania the night before. Joe laughed again as he folded up the bed sheet and blanket from the cot. "Don't worry, Mulder," he said quietly. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll tell you a secret. . . . He's my hero, too. Always has been." He gave the young FBI agent a wave good-bye and headed out of the room as Mulder sank back into the bed, letting Joe's comment settle over him to see if it fit. And it did. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes again. ********************************************************************* Skinner Apartment Crystal City, Virginia January 10 In the late afternoon, Mulder and Skinner were watching the second football playoff game of the day. The AD was sitting at the far left end of the couch, listening with half an ear and reading the final reports on the "Violence Comes to Congress" case, as the media had christened it. At one point in the investigation, he'd wryly told Jana Cassidy that CNN was creating a theme song for their continuing coverage of the case and Cassidy had informed him they actually had. Mulder wasn't medically cleared to go back to work until Tuesday so he'd spent Sunday with Skinner, watching football and relaxing, instead of going home to his own place. Now he was lying on the couch, taking up the other 80% of the sofa. His sock-covered feet hung off the other end of the furniture and his head was nestled on a pillow propped up against the A.D.'s left leg. Every now and then he unconsciously reached up to scratch one of the remaining itchy red spots on his face or neck. Without a word, Skinner would reach over and grab his wrist, moving it away from wherever he was trying to scratch. In between, whenever there was a commercial, Mulder managed to doze, always waking up exactly when the game resumed. The older man watched the routine with amusement. Skinner had finished AD Kersh's report of the investigation. Not much had been accomplished with the mass interviews but it had been a show of force from the FBI, and that's what the Director and A.G. had wanted. The real work of the investigation had been accomplished by Skinner's people and they'd solved the thing very quickly, on a tip from Jana Cassidy. Skinner threw Kersh's report binder on the coffee table and reached over for Cassidy's. It took only a minutes to reach the critical information. The tip Cassidy had supplied had come from Special Agent Fox Mulder, her report said. Mulder had concluded on his own that this was not the work of a single perpetrator, that it was most likely a group, although there might be two brothers involved. And he had begun to research how the five lawmakers targeted were related, something that had been looked at and discarded early in the investigation. The legislators ran the gamut from a conservative Republican to one of the more liberal Democrats still in office. But Mulder found they all supported a gun control bill the year before. And sure enough, a thorough analysis of their correspondence identified one group that had written in protest to all of them. A fringe militia organization with no more than a dozen members, led by two brothers. One of whom had immediately confessed when the local FBI office sent a team of investigators to their Oregon camp. Cassidy's report was profuse in its praise for, and recognition of, Agent Mulder's development of the primary lead before being sidelined for medical leave. Skinner removed his glasses and took a good look at the young man dozing beside him. Before retiring the night before, he and Joe had polished off a couple of beers. And his brother had told the AD something he found hard to believe. That Mulder was as committed to his career at the Bureau as Skinner was, although the younger agent's approach and chosen career path were very different. Walter had laughed, and assured his brother he was wrong. "That's why traditional Bureau discipline never made an impact on him, Joe," Skinner had said. "Because he doesn't care about career advancement." "I just spent three and a half hours listening to him talk, about just about everything," Joe responded, shaking his head. "I'm not wrong. He may be marching to a different drumbeat. But it's the same band, Walt. It's one of the reasons he's reeling now. He's worried about you. And he's worried about Dana, sure. But he's also terrified about where his career goes, now that they've put him back on rookie work. And basically shown him the door." Skinner had given it some thought as he drifted off to sleep the night before but for the life of him, he hadn't been able to see it. But now, something clicked and he shook the young man out of a light sleep. "Mulder, you didn't tell me you supplied the lead that broke this case. Why?" "How did you--" he turned on his side and propped his head on his hand. "I just told Assistant Director Cassidy what I was thinking, is all. I had all day Christmas to think about it. It just sort of came to me--" "Well, you'll be pleasantly surprised to hear AD Cassidy gave you full credit in her report," Skinner told him. "Kersh didn't mention it in his. . . " "Another thing he can hold against me," Mulder sighed, putting his head back down on the pillow. "I never told him." Skinner suspected Kersh wouldn't have pursued it if Mulder had told him but he didn't voice that thought. He also knew the other AD would be furious to have it come out in someone else's report. It was painfully apparent Kersh had not been aware of his own agent's input. Skinner laid a hand on Mulder's shoulder and quietly spoke to him. "Make any New Year's resolutions, kid?" Mulder smiled at the odd segue way to . . . what? "Nah, I never do. As soon as you tell the Fates what you want, they conspire to make sure you don't get it. I'd rather keep them guessing!" "Well, this year, I want you to make a couple." Skinner stopped the younger man's protest short with a stern look. "Humor me, Mulder. Fate rarely bugs my apartment! I want you to promise me you'll recommit yourself to getting your career back on track. It'll be a whole lot harder for me to get you reassigned to the X-files if you get fired before the opportunity presents itself." Mulder didn't move or respond; Skinner wasn't certain he was even breathing. So the AD continued. "And I want you to look around and see how many people care about you. It's time to ditch that 'I'm in it alone' routine. The 'poor, misunderstood me' stuff. And the whole 'FBI's Most Unwanted' act. I always hated that one! You're one of the brightest people I know, Mulder. And the best agent I've ever seen. But you could play it a whole lot smarter than you have been. And that's what I expect from you in the future. Okay?" Skinner watched him swallow hard but he didn't utter a sound. Still, the AD was not about to let him get away without a commitment. "This is important to me, Mulder. I want to hear you say it." Mulder swallowed again, wanting to be sure his voice wouldn't fail him on this. "It's important to me, too, sir," he said quietly. He nodded his head forcefully and looked up into Skinner's eyes. "I'll . . . try. I will. . . . And sir? I just want to say . . . thanks. For not letting me, you know, get away with anything. And for pulling me back when I step too far out of line--" he faltered and looked away, blinking at the television screen. The Assistant Director laid a hand on his head momentarily. "It's gonna be okay, Mulder," he said quietly. "I believe that as surely as I believe anything. And you're gonna be all right, kid. . . . Even if I have to beat you daily to ensure it . . . !" Mulder sputtered and let out a yelp of laughter. "Yeah,. right. You've never beat me!" He looked up, expecting to see a glint of amusement in the A.D.'s face. But Skinner looked dead serious. "You're . . . you're kidding, right, sir?" "I told you, Mulder. I never kid," he replied, deadpan. He watched fear and confusion race across the younger man's face before he quietly laid his head back down on the pillow and began to watch the game again, careful not to do, or say, anything that might upset the older man. The Assistant Director finally smiled. THE END