The Danville Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, Jana Cassidy, and Alvin Kersh, do not belong to me; they belong to Chris Carter and Fox. No money will be made from their use. Spoilers: SR 819, Tithonus Setting: Sixth Season. Immediately follows prior stories "Resolutions" and "The Gift" and references several other previous stories in this series in which Skinner becomes a friend and mentor to Mulder through the 4th, 5th and 6th seasons. The other stories contain Discipline; this one does not. Rating: PG. Some rough language. Title: Hold Back the Dark Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Mulder & Skinner's relationship reaches a new low after the AD is mysteriously poisoned and Scully is accidentally shot by her temporary partner. In the ruins of their friendship, one of them faces a crisis of faith and the other races the clock to intervene before its too late. Hold Back the Dark I have spent a lifetime trying to push back the darkness, to maintain a center where the light remains and shadows do not threaten. Like a boxer, I danced out of its reach more times than I can recall. Eluding its grasp one more time, but never defeating my opponent for good. Once more, I stepped into the ring to do battle but this time, I failed. The encroaching blackness reached for me, pulling me out of the dwindling light and deep into its cold and terrifying embrace. I was not aware when it caught me, and would not have known had it not notified me, first in the mechanical simulation of a human voice, then in the searing pain that racked my body and transported me to the moment of final, overwhelming, eternal darkness. I have often thought that the darkness was always there, outside the circle of light, waiting for me. Waiting to catch me again, this time to hold me forever. Angry because I escaped its grasp once before in a steaming, silent jungle ten thousand miles from home. But this time the darkness has a different shape, a different smell and feel. And this time, the darkness seeks not just me but others for whom I have come to care, despite my vain attempt to keep distance and position as barriers between us. And this I cannot allow. If this is the final round, the last feint and jab against my opponent, in this I cannot fail. **************************************************************** The J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C. Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner strode down the hallway to the executive conference room. He'd been summoned to an emergency meeting of the FBI's senior management team by Deputy Director Kenneth Linstahl's office, pulled out of a scheduled meeting with his department heads without explanation. There were only a few urgencies that warranted that kind of response and Skinner's antenna was decidedly up. His assistant Kim had no explanation, other than that the same message had gone to all the AD's in the Hoover building minutes ago. He met up with Jana Cassidy in the hall and held the door for her to enter before following her in and closing it behind him. It appeared they were the last to arrive. Three other Assistant Directors and DD Linstahl were already seated. The room smelled of tension. "Thank you all for getting here so quickly," Linstahl began. With no further preamble, he got to the reason for their hurried assembly. "One of our agents has been shot in the line of duty, critically wounded. Special Agent Dana Scully." Skinner's face went white and he felt the attention of the others in the room lock on him at once. Despite the fact that he no longer supervised Scully and her partner, everyone knew his long association with the wounded agent and was surreptitiously checking his reaction. Fighting to remain calm, his mind raced with questions. But before he could ask even one, Linstahl continued. "We have no word as to her condition other than that she was badly wounded and taken to NYU Hospital. I'm sure we all pray she'll survive. Our . . . . secondary concern is the circumstance in which she was wounded. The Director wants this handled carefully. It's a public relations nightmare. An FBI agent shot by her partner--" "MULDER shot Scully?" Skinner blurted out, unable to hold back his reaction to this earth-shaking news. Linstahl glanced quickly at AD Kersh, who was seated to his left. "No. Agent Scully was paired with another agent, out of the New York field office, for this case." Skinner gave Kersh a look that left no doubt as to his reaction to this news but he held back, trying to maintain a semblance of objectivity. It would do no good to telegraph his continued contact with Mulder and Scully to this group. But he felt the tension in his gut race up his torso, tightening his jaw and ending in a sudden, incessant pounding in his head. "Where is Agent Mulder now?" he asked tightly. Kersh responded for the first time, his voice betraying his irritation and utter disdain for the subject of Skinner's inquiry. "Apparently he's on his way to New York. Probably there already, actually. Without authorization, I might add--" "His partner of six years has been shot, Al," Cassidy interrupted, her voice edged with annoyance. "It's hardly an unusual response to want to be with her--" "He left for New York BEFORE she was shot," Kersh countered. "Without authorization--" "So we've heard," Skinner thundered, beginning to lose his tenuous grip on his emotions. Kersh blinked but didn't respond, looking to the Deputy Director for support. Linstahl appeared a little off-balance. "We are here for a purpose. To strategize an . . . appropriate response to this crisis--" "Well, the first 'appropriate response' would be for someone in authority at the FBI to make an appearance at the hospital," Skinner responded coldly. Suddenly he didn't care to maintain the charade of objectivity for this audience. He pushed his chair back violently and stood, heading for the door. "Where are you going?" Linstahl asked, evidently surprised by Skinner's sudden move. "To New York," he replied tersely. "Without authorization." He slammed the door open on his way out and let it bang closed behind him. **************************************************************** NYU Medical Center New York City Special Agent Fox Mulder stood outside the ICU, staring at his partner through the glass partition. She had survived surgery to remove a bullet from her abdomen, pronounced 'lucky' by the surgeon who performed the operation. "Damned lucky," Dr. Arakelyan had said. "Didn't hit any major organs. The next 48 hours are important, but I think she'll be okay." Mulder hadn't reacted much to the news. He was still in shock, scared witless by the situation and unable to comprehend the notion that she'd be 'okay.' Every nerve ending in his body was overstimulated by fear and anxiety. He'd been standing there for almost 5 hours now, allowed inside for 15 minutes every second hour. Fueled by the terrifying thought of losing her again and a couple of cups of nearly lethal coffee the nurses had pushed on him. Blinking back tears, he closed his eyes tightly and leaned his forehead against the glass, trying to regain his composure. "Agent Mulder," a voice spoke to him gently, startling him out of his solitude. He jumped, immediately recognizing the voice as that of Assistant Director Skinner, and his eyes snapped up to the other man's. "Who are you today, sir?" Mulder's voice asked sarcastically. "Dr. Jeckyll . . . or AD Hyde?" Skinner fought giving any indication that the younger man had drawn blood. "How is Agent Scully?" he asked quietly. "Her doctor says she's 'lucky,' Mulder snorted, turning his gaze back to Scully on the other side of the glass. "The next couple of days are critical, but he thinks she'll be all right. I want to check out what version of Webster's Dictionary he's using. My definition of lucky doesn't quite jive with this. . . ." Skinner nodded and sighed out his relief. His fear for Scully's welfare had been palpable and now, in its absence, he thought he'd better sit down. "Come with me to the waiting room, Mulder" he suggested to the young man beside him. "You look like you could use a little rest--" "You have neither the authority nor the will to tell me what to do," Mulder replied bitterly. He kept his eyes looking forward, staring into the ICU. "I take my orders from AD Kersh . . . and only AD Kersh." This time Skinner blanched visibly; he'd said those words to Mulder and Scully the last time they'd been together. And relived them, the shame of them, a thousand times since. But having Mulder throw them back in his face rocked him more than he would have anticipated. Something he would not let on to the young man beside him. "Fair enough, Agent Mulder," he said evenly. "I . . . want to try to speak to the doctor." He hesitated a split second, then walked away, back toward the nurse's station to track down the surgeon. Mulder stood ramrod still, but he jammed his hands in his pockets in an effort to hide their shaking. And he bit down hard on his lower lip, letting the physical pain draw attention away from the raw wound where his heart used to be. The Assistant Director was briefed by Dr. Arakelyan, who confirmed what Mulder had said about Scully's prognosis. Then Skinner found his way to the waiting room and finally collapsed into a chair, not sure when he'd be able to get up again. His nerves were raw, fear and guilt hammered at his conscience mercilessly. He knew Mulder had every right to be angry. And God, he was angry. The two men had come to an agreement a few weeks earlier, that Mulder would check in with his friend and former boss daily. And he had faithfully complied, until the night eight days before when Skinner had severed the bond of trust they'd painstakingly built over the years. Turned both Scully and Mulder away as surely and as permanently as he possibly could. Mulder had not called that night, or any night since. And Skinner hadn't called him, not certain he could deal with Mulder's fury and pain. Certain he couldn't deal with his own. And now . . . Scully lay in an ICU, shot by someone she should never have been partnered with. Never would have been partnered with, if Skinner had stepped in and assigned them to continue the inquiry into who had poisoned the Assistant Director. He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat as he replayed the scene in his office yet again, the pain and confusion in on Scully's and Mulder's faces, as the meaning of his words sank in. Sleep didn't come, so the Assistant Director spent the night on his cell phone, using every contact he had at the FBI and elsewhere to try to find Scully's mother. She was apparently out of town, traveling with Scully's brother and his family. That was all Mulder knew and, overwhelmed by fear, he'd been unable to think clearly enough to locate her. So Skinner took it upon himself to do so and before he knew it, it was morning. The charge nurse came to the waiting area to tell him they were moving Agent Scully to a regular room and gave him the location. Skinner stepped into the men's room to splash some water on his face before going up to her room, hoping to clear his head at the same time. Mulder was sitting in an armchair at her bedside when he entered the room. They both looked startled at his arrival and the AD found himself feeling as though he had intruded, turned up somewhere he had no right to be. He attempted a smile for Scully and she gave him a small, sad one in return. "I'll . . . step out," Mulder said, rising. He gave Scully's hand a squeeze, then brushed past Skinner without another word. "You look . . . ," Skinner began, then faltered. "How are you feeling?" "Better," she replied, her voice hoarse. "I . . . my voice. They just took the tube out a little while ago--" "Don't try to speak," he told her quickly, pouring her a glass of water from a pitcher at her bedside. He handed it to her and she took a sip. "I just wanted to make sure you're going to be all right. We haven't called your mother yet, Agent Scully. We've located her in Mexico--" "No, sir!" she shook her head immediately. "I'm going to be fine. I don't want her to come home and miss the rest of her time with Bill and his family. She doesn't get enough time with her new grandson." He smiled fully for the first time. "I've been debating all night what you'd want, Scully. I'm glad I made the right choice." "After all we've been through, you know me so well." Skinner flinched inside. In her way, Scully could be as cutting as Mulder, he thought. An iron fist in a velvet glove. And she'd gone right for his solar plexus as well. Or was it the prism of guilt through which he viewed each word and action that made him feel that way? "I'm going back to D.C.," he said finally. "I think it's best. . . " She nodded, unwilling to lie to him. "Thank you for coming, sir," "Be well, Scully," Skinner replied awkwardly, choosing to flee the room before it closed in and smothered him. Mulder was nowhere in sight when he emerged and he left the hospital and headed for the airport, to catch the next shuttle back to Washington. The next several days passed in a blur for all of them. Scully continued to make excellent progress. The Bureau weathered the storm of media attention the shooting had drawn and a disciplinary review board dismissed Kersh's proposed dismissal of Special Agent Mulder, finding that his actions had helped solve the case Scully and Ritter were working on. And that his 'unauthorized' trip to New York was subsequently justified by his fear for his long-time partner's safety. AD Kersh heard the judgment from Assistant Director Cassidy without emotion or appeal. **************************************************************** The Acropolis Cafe & Coffee Shop Washington, D.C. Walter Skinner and Jana Cassidy were having lunch, something they tried to do about once a month. They had been partners for a short time nearly 20 years before, in the days before male-female partnerships were unremarkable. And though the two hadn't been assigned to the same city again until the previous year, they'd maintained a professional friendship ever since. One that even managed to survive the fact that Skinner, younger and with several years less experience, made it to Assistant Director and the hallowed halls of the Hoover building nearly five years earlier than his former partner. When Cassidy was promoted to Assistant Director and transferred to headquarters to head OPR, Skinner had applauded the move, knowing she'd fought long and hard to make it in the man's world that was the FBI. Still, Skinner had had serious reservations about how the decidedly no-nonsense Cassidy would react to the equally left of center Fox Mulder. And his concerns had proven to be justified, at least at first. "What is it about Mulder that gets Kersh so damned riled up?" Jana Cassidy asked Skinner over a sandwich later that day. "Mulder can do that to you," Skinner replied noncommittally. He had his suspicions about Kersh, and the way in which Mulder and Scully had been mysteriously transferred from Skinner's division to the other A.D.'s, without consultation with Skinner or with Cassidy, the head of the Office for Professional Review. But he was not about to share his suspicions with Jana. He hadn't even told Mulder or Scully, not certain enough to put them in the dangerous position of knowing something, but not enough to fight whatever it was that held them all in its deadly grip. A grip that had grown tighter around Skinner's throat, with the reappearance of Alex Krycek. "Yes, but Kersh-- I don't know, Walter. He's too anxious to get Mulder out of here. We both know how I feel about Agent Mulder's unorthodox style. About his constant flouting of rules and procedure. But for God's sake! His record is filled with as many instances of brilliance as broken rules! How can Kersh not appreciate that?" She shook her head as she slowly chewed her tuna sandwich, finally catching Skinner's eye and pressing for a response. "I don't know, Jana," he replied carefully, putting a toe in the water. "I don't know him well but . . . I always thought Kersh was a straight-shooter. Not someone who couldn't find a way to work with an 'out of the box' thinker like Mulder. I mean, I did. And got the benefit of the brilliance you speak of on my team. And in my division's results. And you know, no one's ever had cause to call me 'unorthodox!' If Kersh can't find a way to work with Mulder, I have to think it's because he wasn't meant to work with him at all. He has . . . . another agenda. And I don't know what it is, or whose it is." Cassidy nodded solemnly. "I've been thinking the same thing, Walter. I've been debating about whether to tell you my suspicions. But something's not right here. And whatever it is, I don't like it." Skinner nodded and felt a rush of relief. He had read her right; somehow, in recent months, Jana Cassidy had turned into a supporter of Mulder and Scully. And he knew they would need every one they could find, every real ally they had, soon. The two A.D.'s compared observations and theories, falling easily into the pattern that had marked their partnership twenty years before. But nothing led to a conclusion and Skinner found himself wishing he could get Mulder's read on all of this. He pushed the plate with the remainder of his sandwich away and called for a check. ************************************************************* NYU Medical Center New York City Mulder stood outside Scully's room, watching her sleep. He hadn't left the hospital since he'd arrived three days earlier, sleeping in a recliner at her bedside what little he slept at all. The doctor and several nurses had tried to get him to go, at least at night, but he'd fought off their suggestions, reluctant to leave her, to run the risk that something else would happen while they were apart. He knew the fear was irrational and his actions looked crazy. But she was his last life-line and he was damned if he would let go of the rope. Assistant Director Walter Skinner stopped at the nurse's station on his way in. He'd taken a late shuttle out of Washington National Airport and arrived after visiting hours had ended. He didn't intend to disturb Scully, only to check on her and see if he could locate Mulder. The charge nurse on duty was the same one who'd been there the other night and she gave him a full accounting of Scully's progress and the problem with Agent Mulder. He nodded his understanding of the situation; he'd suspected as much. Mulder caught his approach out of the corner of his eye; unconsciously, he stood up straighter and his hand went up to adjust his tie before he remembered it was loose and hanging below his open shirt collar. "Agent Mulder," Skinner acknowledged him. "How is she?" Mulder blinked before the mask of detachment descended once again on his tired face. A three day growth of beard made his features look more drawn than usual and accented his exhaustion. "Fine. Thank you for asking, sir." Skinner couldn't miss the verbal wall but decided to press on. "I understand she's doing so well, they may release her by the end of the week." "Yes, so they say." Mulder pressed his lips together tightly, and an awkward silence followed. Finally, the younger agent could stand it no longer. He wanted this visit to end, now. "I imagine you'll want to be getting back to Washington, sir. Thanks for coming." Skinner sighed inwardly. This was worse than he'd expected. "No, I'm not going back tonight, Mulder. I've taken a room at the Kensington Hotel. It's just a few blocks away, on Park Avenue. I want you to come with me." Mulder reacted immediately. "No!" he blurted. "I'm not leaving--" "Mulder, no offense but you're getting a little . . . 'ripe.' And Scully will sleep through the night. You can be back here first thing in the morning--" "No, I'm not leaving. And certainly not . . . . " He let the rest of his words die unborn, but Skinner had already guessed where he was going. He though he'd steeled himself for Mulder's bitterness but it pierced him just the same. "I'm not going to take 'no' for an answer, Agent Mulder--" he began before the younger man cut him off yet again. "I don't have to do what you say! I take my orders from AD Kersh and--" "I know the rest, Mulder!" Skinner ground out between gritted teeth, his voice betraying both stress and a familiar edge of steel before he regained his emotional control. "This is not an order. Consider it a request . . . from an old friend." Mulder's chin dropped unconsciously and he shook his head, but it had a tentative quality and Skinner knew from long experience he was wavering, waiting for the older man to make the decision for him. He reached out and took him by the elbow. "Come on, Mulder," he said as he began to pull him in the direction of the elevator. "A decent night's rest will do you good. And you know it will make Scully happy." That was the final, deciding factor. Mulder nodded and began to follow him but he purposely pulled his arm out of Skinner's grasp and stepped a half foot farther away from the other man, just out of reach. Skinner recognized his unspoken request and stayed outside the physical boundary the young man had established. They reached the hotel in minutes and Skinner let them into room 314. There were two full size beds in the room and Skinner's garment bag and briefcase were laying on one of them. Mulder went into the bathroom immediately and spent 10 minutes in a hot shower. When he stepped back into the room, Skinner was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the room, reading something. The AD had turned down the covers on one bed and the young man threw himself into it and fell immediately into a deep sleep, undisturbed by dreams or the presence of the other man for nearly ten hours. When he awoke, a shaft of sunlight was streaming through a crack in the curtains and he could hear Skinner moving around in the bathroom. The second bed had been slept in but Mulder had not heard the other man at all. The radio alarm clock on the nightstand between the beds read 9:27. "Good morning," Skinner said lightly as he exited the bathroom, dressed in his pants and a fresh shirt. "I wondered how long you'd sleep." Mulder didn't respond to the pleasantry. "I have to get back to the hospital," he said, getting up and heading into the steamy bathroom. He closed the door behind him and Skinner called through the door. "I left you a razor and shaving stuff, Mulder. Don't ever think about growing a beard. You look like a terrorist. I think that's what had the hospital staff so spooked. I'm going down to the lobby for breakfast. Why don't you get dressed and join me?" There was silence from the bathroom and Skinner wondered if the other man had heard him. He opened his mouth to call again but Mulder's answer came back at that moment. "No, thanks," he said with finality. "I'm not going to have breakfast." Skinner exhaled a shaky breath and nodded to himself. He let himself out of the room quietly. When Mulder emerged, showered and shaved, some 15 minutes later, he noticed for the first time that fresh clothes were laid out. His clothes. A pressed suit, a clean shirt and clean underwear and socks. A tie he thought he recognized but had never worn. Skinner must have stopped by his place and packed him a bag. The other man was nowhere to be found, so Mulder dressed quickly and headed down to the lobby. He was making his way toward the exit when Skinner called to him from a table in the cafe just off the lobby. The younger man had hoped to slip out without being seen but, since that hadn't worked, he cooled his heels impatiently near the door while the AD paid his bill and caught up with him. "I have a cab waiting, Mulder," he said as he handed a bill to the doorman and they were directed into the waiting taxi. Despite morning traffic, they made it to the hospital in a few minutes. Skinner let Mulder see Scully alone, sensing that it was important to the younger agent to assure himself that she was well and had not needed him during the night. The AD had called ahead and already knew she was doing fine. He went to the waiting room and used the pay phone to call his office and check in. An hour later, Skinner stood to greet the Director of the FBI as he made his way down the hall toward Agent Scully's room. They spoke for a minute, then Skinner ushered the other man into the small, private room that had been assigned to the wounded agent. Mulder stood immediately, obviously shocked and Scully colored slightly, clearly surprised and a little uncomfortable to be meeting with him in her present state. "How are you, Agent Scully?" the Director asked her, coming to stand by her bedside. "We've all been praying for you." "Th-thank you, sir," she stammered before her professional aplomb returned full force. "I appreciate that. I'm doing much better." "I can't tell you how sorry I am . . . about this. And the fact that it happened needlessly, that it was one of our own agents who shot you, is inexcusable. I want you to know the matter will not be overlooked." "I appreciate that, sir. But as I told the OPR investigators, it was an accident. Agent Ritter didn't mean to shoot me," she said firmly, briefly catching Mulder's eye and sending him a strong message about what to say, and what not to say. "I understand that, Agent Scully," he answered. "And I don't mean to imply that it was intentional. But we need to be certain our agents are fully prepared before we send them into the field. And I don't believe Agent Ritter was ready for the circumstance with which he was presented. An experienced agent would have handled it differently." He looked at Mulder for the first time. "I understand your work was crucial to completing this investigation, Agent Mulder," the Director said, extending his hand to Mulder across the hospital bed. "I only wish you had been the one to have walked in on Agent Scully and the suspect. Assistant Director Skinner assures me we would have had a very different outcome." Mulder found himself unable to craft a response other than "thank you." He nodded once, then nervously crossed his hands behind his back. The Director spent another minute talking with them, then wished Scully a speedy recovery before taking his leave. He nodded at Mulder before turning toward the door. "Agent Mulder. Your assignment is to stay with your partner until she's ready to return to Washington. We're counting on you to get her home safely." He smiled and opened the door, then looked back at Skinner. "You're flying back with me, aren't you, Walt?" "Yes. Take care, Scully. You too, Mulder." With that, the Assistant Director gave them a final glance and followed the Director out into the hallway, the door swinging to a silent close behind them. ****************************************************************** The Kensington Hotel New York City Mulder inserted the key in the door to room 314 wearily. It had been another long day of sitting around the hospital after the morning visit from the Director. Skinner had pressed the room key on him in the cab on the way over to the hospital in the morning, insisting that Mulder promise to make use of it during the rest of his stay. "The room's paid for, Mulder. And it'll get you out of Scully's hair for a few hours every night. It's the least I can do for her." Mulder had stayed until the hospital staff threw him out at the end of evening visiting hours, then he walked over from the hospital, hoping the cold night air would help him clear some of the cobwebs out of his brain. He was still angry with Skinner, even more so by the stream of mixed messages the other man sent him. He'd built up a fresh rage as he made his way across town to the hotel and now he was pacing the small hotel room, wondering if he'd actually be able to sleep tonight, with all this pent up anger and confusion. A knock on the door startled him out of his internal dialogue with the absent AD "Who is it?" he asked, going to the door and looking out through the peephole. A room service waiter answered and Mulder opened the door. "I didn't order anything." "This was ordered earlier today, sir, for when you returned." Mulder was a little surprised but he guessed Skinner had sent it. The Assistant Director seemed to focus unnaturally on what and when the younger man ate, for some reason Mulder couldn't fathom. He signed for the service and let the waiter out of the room. Picking up the plate cover, he saw he'd gotten a grilled cheese sandwich and French fries. Not to mention a slice of chocolate cake that looked like something you'd sell your soul for. A pot of hot cocoa and a glass of milk. A whole selection of Mulder's personal comfort foods. He thought about calling room service and having it taken back but . . . it smelled great and he was starving. And Skinner would never know if he did send it back so, what the hell? He propped the pillows up next to the headboard and settled back to eat the first meal he'd had in days. He nearly swallowed the sandwich and fries whole, washing them down with the hot cocoa as he flipped mindlessly through the channels on the television. Polishing off the main course, he reached for the cake, finally recognizing why the glass of milk had made its way onto this order. After swallowing the first two bites, he realized the dense, sweet chocolate frosting had to be chased by something and milk was just the thing. Peeling the plastic wrap off the top of the glass, he lifted it and took a huge, satisfying gulp. Sighing contentedly, he reached to place the glass back on the tray-- and noticed an envelope that had been hidden under the milk glass. "Special Agent Fox Mulder, Federal Bureau of Investigation" it read. The envelope was heavy vellum, bearing the return address of the hotel, and he immediately recognized the handwriting as Skinner's. Mulder found his hands shaking as he lifted the sealed envelope. It was heavy and he knew there were several sheets of expensive vellum inside. . . . and something else. Slipping his finger under the flap, he tore across the top and slipped the papers out. A silver chain and medal fell out onto his lap. The same medal the Assistant Director had given him several weeks earlier, a replica of "The Prodigal Son" icon. It had been in his family for three generations, Skinner had told him and the AD had worn it for nearly 30 years before giving it to the younger agent just after the New Year had begun. Mulder had put it on that day, and not taken it off until the night 10 days before, when Skinner had dismissed him and Scully so coldly. . . and so permanently. Mulder knew the Assistant Director must have found it on the coffee table in his apartment, when he'd gone to the Alexandria apartment to pick up his clean clothes. Mulder had angrily taken it off and tossed it on the table when he returned from the Hoover building that night. He'd looked at it lying there daily ever since, intending to send it back to Skinner but never getting around to it. He held it in his hand now, remembering how honored and . . . safe it had made him feel before his world had shifted yet again. Swallowing hard, he turned his attention to the papers in his other hand. "M-- I know you're angry. And disappointed in me. You have every right to be both. I told you a long time ago that I don't have the courage to look beyond what I can readily understand, the things I can see and feel and hear and smell. You do. You always have. I've lived my life by simple rules and simple truths, expecting them to be a rudder in the storm, to steer me to safe harbor. But the sea has grown so dark and so dangerous, and the tides so complex, that my rules don't apply any more. And this is as terrifying a place as I have ever been. But what terrifies me most, Mulder, is that I have tried to convince you that my rules, my truths could guide you as well. That was a mistake, an arrogant one I see in retrospect. But one born of a sincere desire to help you. Regardless, it's a mistake I want to correct before it's too late for you. Your own instincts have brought you through the maelstrom countless times, Mulder, fairly unscathed and still standing, on your own terms. That is more than I can say. Your instincts have purchased a safe place in this storm for you and Scully until now and I pray to God that you continue to follow your instincts for they are your only compass, the best hope for you and Scully to remain as safe as possible. I have faith in very little these days, but I have faith in you, Mulder. I have valued your presence in my life more than you will ever know. And I have two things to ask of you finally. First, I want you to stay in touch with my family. They consider you one of their own now, Mulder. And they have already lost a son. Losing another will be a blow they don't deserve. I ask you to find it in your heart to ease their pain and return to them. And most of all, I want you to keep in touch with Joe. He is a truly decent man and you can trust him. He will be a good friend and guiding hand for you, Mulder, if you let him. Let him. Second, I gave you this medal out of love and in the hope that it might help protect you. I cannot offer you protection any more. In truth, I was wrong to think I ever could. But the deep affection that prompted me to give it to you will not change, ever. I hope that's enough to convince you to keep it. We will not speak about this, Mulder. You could not dissuade me. The tides have shifted once more and our courses take us in vastly different directions. I pray yours brings you, finally, to safe shores and the answers you seek. -- WSS" Mulder dropped the pages on the bed beside him as though they had burned through his flesh. He stared straight ahead, paralyzed by an overwhelming sense of abandonment. And the . . . finality of Skinner's letter was not lost on him. Emptied of all his anger, he found himself weak and shaky and unable to fully comprehend what the Assistant Director had written. But he knew he was alone now, in a way he had felt alone in many years, not since Samantha. . . . Not since his parents had withdrawn as well, in the aftermath of her loss. Try as he might, though, he couldn't shake a sudden need to run. Grabbing his jacket, Mulder slammed out the door of the hotel room and sprinted for the elevator. He pressed the button and it lit, then he pressed it again, and again, and again. Unable to wait any longer, he headed down the fire stairs, breaking into the lobby at a run and nearly knocking over an elderly couple in his rush to get outside the building, outside the walls that were closing in faster than he could flee them. Bursting out onto the street, he put his head down and ran full out, first uptown, then across town to the West Side, then south again on Broadway and then east toward the river. He came to a stop, his heart pounding, on a deserted street he didn't recognize, out of breath and shaking with cold and an overpowering sense of being alone in the world. Of having lost someone he loved yet again. Forever. He kept walking, fighting off tears and found himself staring at the NYU Medical Center. A siren wailed in the distance, its incessant moan striking a chord of fear in him and he knew suddenly that he had to see Scully, to reassure himself that she was still there. He went up to the 7th floor and walked down the dark, silent hallway, past the nurse's station and came to a stop outside her room. Seeing her sleeping peacefully through the glass window, he didn't have the heart to disturb her much needed rest. Emotionally spent, he wearily left the hospital and trudged back to the Kensington Hotel. Arriving back after midnight, he walked back up the three flights of stairs and into Room 314 where he lay down and fell into a disturbed and restless sleep. ************************************************************ Skinner's Apartment Crystal City, Virginia 1:17 a.m. Walter Skinner was standing on the very edge of inebriation as he lifted a glass of vodka to his lips and downed the double shot in one swallow. He felt the burning in his throat and ran the back of his hand over his lips before setting the glass back on the coffee table. Next to his loaded service revolver. Skinner stared at it for a full minute, trying to get the courage to pick it up. And use it. To check out on his own terms, under his own authority. He was not a man who had ever had reason to consider himself suicidal. He had spent a lifetime knowing that he would play hard, play fair and win the game. Because he understood and worked the rules of the game better than most men. Until someone rewrote the rules. And worse, moved the field and changed the goddam game to Russian Roulette. He reached down and lifted the gun, welcoming its familiar weight, feeling the butt fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. It had been a long time since he'd been a field agent. In recent years, he hadn't even carried his weapon most days. Days spent in the Hoover building, headquarters of the world's most elite law enforcement professionals. Bar none. Skinner had been proud to be one of them. Prouder still to have worked his way up the ladder to Assistant Director. The son of a steelworker, former Marine grunt. He'd played the game well and with integrity. And been rewarded for it. Looking back now, though, he saw he'd played it safe, kept himself out the fray, positioned himself on the line itself, neither in nor out of most controversies. Skinner let out a sharp, hollow laugh. For all his efforts to remain on the sidelines of Mulder & Scully's quest, he'd become just another pawn in the game. By playing it safe, he'd played directly into their hands. Whoever THEY were. He reached over to the bottle now and slugged down another giant swig of vodka. Despair descended over him like a shroud and he just let it come. Let it wrap him in its cold embrace. Without emotion or second thoughts, he unlocked the safety on his gun and checked to make certain there was a bullet in the chamber. ************************************************************** The Kensington Hotel New York City 1:21 a.m. Mulder awoke with a start, from a nightmare he couldn't quiet remember. Only images, and sounds lingered. Scenes of himself, alone, calling someone who didn't answer. His words were lost in a high wind, carried back to him instead of to the unseen object of his search. He knew it wasn't Samantha. And it wasn't Scully he was searching for, he knew she was at NYU Medical Center, safe and sound. His mind searched for the answer and his eyes fell on the handwritten pages on the nightstand. Fearfully, he picked them up and began to reread the words that had sent his world spinning hours earlier. Only this time, the words changed meaning on him. They were no longer about him, he realized, but about the Assistant Director. He could hear Skinner's voice in his head and this time the inflections changed, the meaning shifted and the sense of finality grew. He realized with certainty the letter was a good-bye, more final than Mulder had feared. His hands shaking, he lifted his cell phone and dialed the number from memory, praying he was not too late. Rrrriinnnngggg! Rrrrriiiiiinnnnnnng! Rrrrrriiiiinnnng! The phone stopped ringing and Mulder heard it drop. Next he heard muttered curses and sighed with a fleeting moment of relief. "Lo?" Skinner's words were slightly slurred and obviously annoyed. "Sir? It's me," Mulder said, barely breathing. "Are you . . . all right?" "Mulder. I thought I was clear . . . I told you not to try to contact me." "I know. I know that. But . . . I need . . . to . . . talk to you. I need to know . . . why." Skinner answered warily. "Why what, Mulder?" "Why you're . . . . handing me off to Joe. Why you're pulling out on our deal! Why you're . . . leaving. . . ." Skinner's alcohol-fogged brain made it difficult to focus on his internal dialogue and come up with a response to Mulder's questions and he hesitated too long. "I'm coming down there, sir," Mulder said. He'd been dressing as they spoke and now he threw his coat on over his clothes and headed out the door. Not bothering with the elevator, he was down the emergency stairs and into the lobby in a few seconds. "No, Mulder! I don't want you coming here!" Skinner shouted, suddenly appalled at the idea the young man would be the one to . . . to find him. It would be another trauma he'd carry forever, another layer of guilt laid over all the others. "Tough, sir," he replied. "I'm on my way. I can't . . . I can't let this night . . . end without getting an answer." He hailed a cab and peeled two $100 bills from his wallet, telling the driver he'd double the fare, whatever it was, if he'd drive him to Washington. The driver looked incredulous until he flashed his FBI badge and handed over another $100 bill. Cupping his hand over the phone, he said quietly, "It's a matter of life and death." Mulder kept talking as they left the city and headed for the New Jersey turnpike. Skinner responded with single words and grunts, desperately trying to bring the conversation to a close. But Mulder talked a blue streak at him and refused to let him hang up. At just past 2 a.m., there was minimal traffic and the driver was able to travel well over the speed limit. "Mulder, I haven't asked much from you," Skinner told him crossly about 20 minutes into their conversation. "Give me this. Do not come here. Turn around and go back to Scully." "Sir, with all due respect, I think you've asked a lot of me," he argued. He was holding the medal in his left palm, unconsciously turning it over, again and again until the silver felt hot to the touch. "More than anyone . . . more than anyone in my life ever asked of me. And I've obeyed you, even when it didn't make sense to me. Even when . . . I didn't think I could. . . . Skinner's head was pounding but he couldn't let that pass without response. "I hardly think you're the poster boy for obedience, Mulder," he said dryly. Mulder found himself cheering silently. The driver continued to speed through New Jersey and the young agent continued to talk non-stop; the cab crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge in less than 2 hours. Mulder's cell phone was beginning to die and he hung it up without warning and slapped a new battery in, then redialed Skinner's number. Praying every second that the AD answered again. Rrrriiiinnnnnggggg Rrrriiiiiinnnnnnngggg Rrrrrriiiinnnnnnnnng "Come on, come on, Skinner! Answer the fucking phone!" Rrrriiiiinnnnnngggg Rrrrriiiinnnnnnnngggg "Mulder, will you give it up?" the AD answered crisply. "Go back to New York. Scully needs you." Mulder found himself unable to speak for a moment, so great had been his fear that the other man would not answer again, would do. . . whatever he had intended to do. But finally, the young agent found his voice. "No. Because right now, I need you, sir. I need you to . . . to help me understand. I'm too confused to be of much use to her now--" "Oh, Mulder," the other man sighed, his voice barely audible. "That's exactly the point. I'm too confused to be of use to you--" "So, we'll be confused together, then. Two confused heads are better than one, sir." There was silence on the other end of the phone. Mulder waited for a response but none came. "You've told me, over and over, that you would always be there for me. That we're stronger together. You made me believe it. Why don't you believe it any more?" "Mulder," the other man sighed. The word was imbued with so many layers of meaning, neither of them could interpret it and so the sound hung between them for what seemed like an eternity. Finally the younger agent spoke again. "This has something to do with you being poisoned, doesn't it, sir? There's something still wrong, isn't there?" Skinner was struck to his core by the leap of faith and logic that got the younger agent there, so suddenly, so truly on target. He didn't respond at first, not wanting to burden Mulder with it. It was a decision the AD had made weeks ago, in the wake of his own realization that he was no longer in control of his own life, or death. That that cigarette smoking bastard and his minion, Krycek, literally held his fate in their manipulative little hands. And he was damned if he was going to dump it on Mulder now. Or let those two motherfuckers decide when and where Skinner's life ended. This, at least, he could still control. "I'm right, aren't I?" the young agent pressed his case. "No, Mulder. You're not . . . right," he responded, cursing the circumstance that brought him to telling this young man an outright lie. "Except to say that, that experience gave me an insight into myself. Into my need to be . . . in control, in charge of . . . things. And how I just can't live with . . . . How much I hate letting other people . . . " "I know, sir. I hate it too! It makes me angry, the . . . unseen forces that are running us, running the Bureau even! But you taught me how to deal with it. To bide my time and wait for the balance to shift again. To be patient until the circumstances change. And they will. I know because you told me so." The sky was just beginning to glow with the promise of morning as the taxi sped through Maryland and onto the Beltway that circled the nation's capital. Mulder let his prodigious memory run wild, repeating back to the Assistant Director nearly every lecture he'd ever given the younger man. Words about family, and personal responsibility. About reaching out to others for help and support, about learning to trust. Skinner sat in his apartment miles south of Mulder's location and watched the sun rise over the horizon on a new day. A day he hadn't expected to see. He realized with surprise that he was still holding the revolver, had been holding it for hours. Listening to his own words rebounding back to him through the phone line, he reached a final decision. He lifted the gun . . . and threw the safety back into place. Then he rose and placed the weapon back in its holster, putting it carefully in the drawer of his desk., closing and locking the drawer. "Mulder," Skinner quietly tried to interrupt the other man's monologue. But the young man kept talking, not hearing him at first. "Mulder," he repeated, a little louder, trying to squeeze a word in when the younger agent paused to take a breath. But he was in the middle of some story about how Skinner had taught him to value his personal safety, his own life, as much as anyone else's. "Because the act of living, of going on, sir, is its own victory. Maybe the only victory we ever get." "Mulder!" he shouted this time. "What?" he replied instantly. "Thank you. What do you want for breakfast? I should have it ready by the time you get here." "I-- I-- Whatever you make will be just fine with me, sir," "Mulder, somewhere along the line, I must have told you to be careful what you wish for," Skinner said soberly. "There's an old Russian breakfast favorite I might try my hand at today. It's made with sardines and onions--" "Sir," the young man interrupted anxiously. "I was thinking it's a scrambled eggs kind of day. . . ." "Yeah," the Assistant Director told him. "Scrambled describes it just about perfectly. And Mulder, when you get here, I have a story to tell you. Something I could use your help figuring out, kid. . . ." THE END