The Danville Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and Walter Skinner do not belong to me; they belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I mean no harm and will make no money from their use. Spoilers: "Monday," multiple little ones from the series regarding Samantha's abduction and the conspiracy. Setting: Sixth Season. Immediately follows previous story, "Hostage to the Future" Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash. Title: Meltdown Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Mulder experiences a delayed breakdown in the aftermath of revelations about Samantha's abduction. Meltdown J. Edgar Hoover Building Friday, March 5 10:15 a.m. Assistant Director Walter Skinner exited the elevator at the basement level. The act alone had a welcome, familiar feel. For much of the past year, he had had little hope of feeling this way again about the trip. The door to the office of the X-files unit was ajar and he pushed it open and called out. "Agents?" "Sir?" Special Agent Dana Scully replied from the other side of the room. She was sitting behind her desk, an open file in front of her and her reading glasses perched on her nose. She smiled. "What brings you to the basement?" "Just checking in with you and Mulder," he replied. "I . . . didn't get down here much over recent months but I'm putting this stop back on my regular tour!" Scully sat back in her chair. She was more relaxed in his presence than she had ever been and she wanted him to know it. It seemed appropriate, given all they'd been through in the past year or so, and the secret they now shared about how the Assistant Director was keeping her partner in line. "Mulder will be sorry he missed you," she told him. "He's not here? Where is he, Scully? You don't have an active case, at least not one that I know about. . . " This also had a familiar feel for Skinner. Mulder was an incorrigible wanderer, often without notifying anyone in authority. Since he'd gotten Mulder & Scully back under his management scope, Skinner had been working hard to keep Mulder on a shorter leash than before, to try to tether him a little better to the Bureau's mainstream. It was a strategy he'd settled on for the sake of Mulder's career as much as his own sanity. But the Assistant Director had found himself wondering how long it would be before the old Fox Mulder resurfaced. "Well, he decided to take the day off and go visit his mother for the weekend," she replied, a little pensively. "I guess everything that happened with the Daniels case made him want to spend some time with her. I . . . thought it was strange, given the state of their relationship. But maybe all of these recent revelations are making him realize he needs to do some repair work." To Skinner's ear, she sounded more hopeful than convinced but he nodded in reply. He wanted to believe her theory, and didn't wish to worry her. But every fiber of his being rebelled. As much as he wanted to believe Mulder was spending the weekend with his mother, his gut was a skeptic. He spent another minute with Scully, reviewing her and Mulder's report of a bank robbery they'd broken up earlier in the week, then took his leave. He returned to his office and went back to work but his mind was preoccupied with his potential Mulder problem. ******************************************************************* Office of AD Skinner Friday, March 5 5 p.m. "You wanted to see me, sir?" Agent Scully asked as she popped her head in the door. She was carrying her coat and her briefcase. "Kim called and asked me to stop by on my way out." "Yes, Scully. Thank you," he replied, motioning her to a chair in front of the desk. He appeared a little uncertain about something, but Scully decided to wait for him to come out with it. She was in no particularly hurry to get home, and she knew Skinner was the cautious type. "I was uncertain about whether to share this with you, but I need some information to decide what to do, so. . . " He took a deep breath and made his final decision. Then he went forward with dispatch. "I called Agent Mulder's mother earlier. It seems he was there earlier today, for lunch. Then he left. He told her he was going to Massachusetts, on a case." Scully's face was a mask that did not betray the sinking feeling in her stomach. She had been suspicious of Mulder's story but. . . . "Do you have an active case in Massachusetts, Agent Scully? Or even a pending one?" She bit her lip, stalling while she considered her options. It was a long-standing habit to protect Mulder's back. But protecting him from this man seemed counterproductive and foolish now. She exhaled, a sigh of resignation. "No, sir. Not that I know of. The only connection I can think of to Massachusetts is the Daniels case. And . . . and Mulder's been brooding a bit lately. I thought it was a delayed reaction to everything that happened. . . . Now I'm sure that must be it." Skinner removed his glasses and placed them on the desk. He leaned back in his chair and nodded his head. "I was thinking the same thing, Scully. When Mulder checked in with me last night, it was just after 9 o'clock. He never said a word about this weekend trip, which leads me to believe it was a spur of the moment decision. But he did sound a little preoccupied. . . and a little down. Like he was brooding, as you said." Scully hid a smile at his mention of Mulder 'checking in.' She'd noticed he seemed to make a lot of regular calls to the AD for a while now and she had begun to think of it has his 'check in' call. Skinner didn't take note of her response before continuing. "I spent the day trying to line up tickets for a basketball game this weekend. I figured it would be good for him, distract him from whatever he's obsessing about. That's why this whole thing about going to Greenwich worried me. And talking to his mother didn't help. She said he seemed disturbed." Scully nodded. Skinner's story, and Teena Mulder's observation, worried her too. "What do you think we should do, sir?" Skinner paused. This is why he'd been reluctant to call her. "I don't think WE should do anything at this point, Scully. You deserve a weekend off! I'll just wait and see if he calls me tonight. If he does, I'll find out where he is, and what he's doing. And I'll let you know, I promise." Scully appraised him with a look that he'd seen her give Mulder hundreds of times over the years. "Really, Agent Scully. Mulder's a big boy and we should give him the benefit of the doubt. But I will keep you apprised of anything I find out. I promise. And if he calls you, please let me know. Okay?" But Mulder did not call either of them. He and Skinner had agreed a while back that he'd check in with the AD daily, so that in itself was unusual. And given his sudden trip, a trip he had not mentioned to Skinner, being out of contact was worrisome. On Saturday morning, Skinner decided to go to Massachusetts. ********************************************************************* Brookline, Massachusetts Saturday, March 6 2:30 p.m. Carl and Beth Daniels were perplexed by the visit from Assistant Director Skinner. Their children were playing in the back yard, both of them safe, thanks to this man and Agent Mulder. But they had not expected a follow-up visit. And they had not spoken to Mulder, they said, since Skinner, Scully and Mulder returned Amanda a few weeks earlier. "I just thought I'd see how everyone was doing," Skinner said, trying to make the question seem casual. "I was in the area, you see. And so was Agent Mulder, which is why I thought he might have stopped by." Their son Brett entered from the kitchen, his face flushed from playing in the cold New England winter. It had snowed recently and he had obviously been outdoors, enjoying the remnants of the latest storm. He seemed a little surprised to see Skinner in the living room but his parents called him over to say hello. He nodded shyly. "Is Mulder in trouble again?" The Assistant Director was taken aback by the question, as were his parents. When they questioned him, though, his answer was truthful. "Well, I know he got in trouble for taking me that time. And I thought maybe you were mad about him playing hooky yesterday. He told me-" "You spoke to Agent Mulder?" his father asked him. "When?" Brett blinked at the question. He was not so sure now whether he should have volunteered this information. "Yesterday. He walked Mandy and me home from school. He said he was playing hooky, that he was supposed to be at work. And he said we should never do that, 'cause it would get him in more trouble." "Did he say where he was going, Brett?" Skinner asked him gently. He didn't want to scare the boy off of sharing whatever he might know about Mulder's whereabouts. "No. He just said he wanted to make sure me and Mandy were okay. And that I should, you know, keep an eye on her. Like you always say," he finished, looking at his father. Skinner was more concerned about this information than he wanted to let on so he decided to finish the conversation quickly. But Beth Daniels broke in before he made his move. "Brett had a birthday yesterday," she said, wrapping an arm around his waist and smiling at him. "He turned twelve." "Agent Mulder knew about my birthday," the boy told them. "That's partly why he came yesterday, to wish me happy birthday." "Well, let me wish you a happy birthday, too, son," Skinner said, rising and taking his leave from the Daniels family. Once back in his car, he sat for a moment, trying to decide where to try next. He checked his answering machine at home, and his voice-mail at work. No calls from the wandering Agent Mulder. Finally, he called Scully. She had not heard from him either and she correctly guessed that Skinner was somewhere in the state of Massachusetts. "No, actually, I'm somewhere in the state of frustration, Scully," he replied, trying to deflect her next comment before it came. "I'm coming up there, sir," she said. "Two of us looking— "Won't accomplish anything if we don't have a clue where to look, Scully." He convinced her he was right and ended the call. He stopped for a cup of coffee in Brookline, then drove slowly toward the interstate, mentally flipping a coin about where to go next. He was stalling for time, waiting for inspiration to strike. Mulder had grown up on the island of Martha's Vineyard just off the coast of Massachusetts, so that was one possible destination. The AD remembered he'd gone there once before, when he'd been in crisis about something. But Skinner also recalled he hadn't stayed there that time. He'd continued his tour of places that were meaningful to him but ended up at Skinner's door, thankfully. He made another call, this time to the lobby phone in his building in Crystal City. "Carlos? It's Walter Skinner," he told the doorman who answered. Carlos knew Mulder well, the younger man had spent a good deal of time at Skinner's place in recent years. "I seem to have missed a connection with Mulder. Is he there, by any chance?" The doorman said he had not seen him and he checked the visitor book. "No, sir, we haven't logged him in here today." Skinner thanked him and disconnected his phone. He'd spent the past 25 minutes postponing the decision about where to go next. But the interstate was just ahead and he needed to decide which way to go now. His phone rang at that moment. Hoping it was Mulder, he grabbed it fast. "Skinner," he said, knowing he sounded hopeful. "It's me, sir," Agent Scully's voice responded immediately. "Did you hear from him, Scully?" "No, sir. But I'm at the office. And I think I know where he went." She explained that she'd headed there as soon as they hung up before, to see if there was anything on Mulder's desk that would indicate where he'd gone. Or what he'd been working on before he left. "We have the box of files here, the ones we found at the clinic in Barstow," she said concisely. "They arrived Thursday. Two are missing—" "Let me guess. One is Samantha's. And the other one—" "Is Mulder's," she finished for him. "He's gone back to Barstow, sir. I think that's it." Skinner had come to the same conclusion and was already entering the interstate, heading north toward the mountains. "I'll call you when I get there, Scully. Either way." ********************************************************************** Barstow Psychiatric Clinic Barstow, Massachusetts 5:13 p.m. Skinner pulled his car up to the front of the abandoned building. It looked even more deserted than it had the last time, if that was possible. The new chain on the front gate had been broken and the gate had been left open. He looked around the building quickly as he got out of his rental car, trying to find some evidence of Mulder's presence. He spotted another car, also a rental, on the side of the building. Now he was certain that Mulder was here. Guessing the power to the building might have been turned off, he removed a flashlight from his overnight bag on the back seat before entering the building. Bounding up the front steps, Skinner found the front door unlocked and stepped into the dark lobby. Flicking a switch by the door, he found he'd been right about the power. The sky outside was overcast and it was already dusk so the interior light was minimal at best. He turned the flashlight on and began searching. There was no one to be found in any of the rooms downstairs, nor any sign that anyone had been there recently. He climbed the stairs and began searching the rooms on the second floor. They were almost all bedrooms, with the feel of private hospital rooms. There was a lounge type room at the head of the stairs but again, it was deserted. Skinner methodically made his way down the hallway, shining a beam of light into every room. Finally, behind a door marked '206,' he found what he was looking for. Fox Mulder was sitting on the floor, next to a bed. He looked as though he'd leaned against the wall, then slid down to a sitting position, and his head was bowed over his bent knees. He hadn't reacted to the light from the flashlight and Skinner thought he must be asleep . . . or— "Agent Mulder," he said anxiously, not wanting to startle the young man but needing a quick answer to his unspoken question. Mulder's head popped up and he blinked in the glare of the flashlight. Skinner turned the beam away, but not before noting that the young man's face was wet with tears. Mulder stared at him a moment, as though he was unsure who he was. Skinner squatted beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Mulder, are you all right, son? What are you doing here?" He waited while Mulder looked to the side and furtively tried to dry his face on the shoulder of his shirt. "I—I just wanted to see. . . . This was the room where they kept her. I just wanted to see it . . . " His voice trailed off and he hung his head, not wanting the AD to see the fresh tears that were spilling from his haunted eyes. Skinner noted the two files on the floor beside Mulder. He understood immediately that Samantha's file must indicate she spent the weeks after her abduction in Room 206. And Mulder, being Mulder, just had to come here and immerse himself in the pain of knowing this was the last place she was before she was handed over to the aliens. The last place she could have been rescued from, if only he had known. And if only he hadn't been a 12-year-old. Skinner sighed. He was continually surprised and dismayed by Mulder's need to torture himself this way. And he knew he had to get him out of here, distance him from the deep pain and loss this place represented. "Come on, Mulder. Let's go now," he said quietly, trying not to upset him further. But the younger man was unresponsive, lost in his thoughts. He stared at the bed as though someone were there. Skinner tried again, shaking him lightly to draw his attention back, to no avail. Finally, he reverted to a form he knew always worked with Mulder. "Agent Mulder," he said in his most authoritarian tone. He watched the young man's eyes snap to, a look of shock and confusion on his face. Skinner lost no time taking advantage of Mulder's surprise. "Get up, now. We're leaving." He hauled Mulder to his feet and directed him into the hallway and down the stairs. When Mulder hesitated at the top of the stairs, Skinner fell back on the tried and true. "Now, young man. Don't make me tell you twice." They took the car the AD had rented and drove toward the interstate. Skinner entered the turnpike and pointed the car in the direction of Boston, and Logan International Airport. Then he called the rental car company and gave them the location of Mulder's car. Finally, he turned to Mulder, who had not moved since Skinner helped him into the passenger seat back at the clinic. His head was leaning against the window and his eyes were closed. "Do you want to call Scully, Mulder?" he asked. "You know she's worried." Mulder shook his head, a motion that was almost imperceptible in the dark car. Skinner sighed and hit the speed dial button for Scully on his own phone. She answered anxiously and he told her that he'd found Mulder, that he was all right and they'd be back in Washington later tonight. She asked to speak to Mulder and Skinner asked him if he'd changed his mind. "No," he answered listlessly. She overheard his response and told Skinner she understood. "Take care of him, sir," she added before hanging up. Skinner hit the 'End' button on his phone and turned to the young man next to him. "That wasn't very nice, Mulder." The younger agent didn't respond but the AD caught a tear running down his cheek before he turned his head back to the window. Skinner made a sudden decision and pulled into the next rest area, to see if he could implement it. When he came back, he brought Mulder and himself a coke but the younger man shook his head, refusing it. Skinner popped his own can and took a long swig, then he took the car back out onto the interstate in the opposite direction. "Where are we going?" Mulder asked, once he realized they were now heading away from Boston. "Chuck Talbot has a small cabin on a lake not far from here," Skinner replied. Chuck was a long-standing friend from the AD’s Marine Corps days. "Doesn't use it much anymore, since his divorce. His wife liked it more than he did. But she moved out of state a few years ago and gave him back possession of the cabin. I called him from the rest stop and he said we could stay there as long as we like." "I want to go home," Mulder immediately began to argue. "You said we were going home." "Change of plans," Skinner said definitively. "We're going to the cabin." ********************************************************************** Lake Pines Village Candlewood Lake, Massachusetts 7:12 p.m. They arrived an hour later and Skinner found the key exactly where Chuck said it would be, under the wood bin by the front door. He let himself and Mulder in and shivered at the pervasive cold inside. The cabin had a woodburning stove and the first thing he did was bring in a couple of pieces of wood and start the stove going. He knew from past experience it would heat the main room quickly. Then the circulators would move the heat throughout the other rooms. But that would take longer. He next went to the kitchen, to start a kettle of water boiling. There would be no fresh food, but knowing Chuck, there had to be a well-stocked kitchen full of non-perishables. He wasn't disappointed. "I'm making tea, Mulder," he told the young man who was still standing where he stopped when they entered almost 10 minutes ago. "Or there's hot chocolate mix. No fresh milk, of course. Make yourself comfortable in the living room and I'll have it ready in a few minutes." Mulder looked uncertain whether to follow his direction or not. Skinner watched him warily, thinking he might even try to make a run for it. But finally, Mulder went into the living room and sat down in an lounge chair, without removing his jacket. When the AD came into the room, he took a seat on the couch opposite Mulder. He dropped two mugs on the table. "Your choice. Tea or hot cocoa." Mulder merely shook his head. He was still playing the silence card, Skinner thought. It was a weapon he wielded with expertise. But not one the older man was prepared to let him continue to use. The AD grabbed the mug of tea and sat back. "Talk to me, Mulder," he said firmly. "What's going on?" Mulder shook his head, yet again. "I just want to go to bed," he sighed, getting up from the chair. "Sit down!" Skinner hollered at him. Mulder jumped, then sat right back down, blinking at the sudden change of tone and volume. "You're not going anywhere until I get some answers, Mulder. Now, I asked you a question." Mulder's behavioral arsenal included a few other staples like the silence thing. The next one he pulled out was belligerence. "I DON'T want to talk about it," he said sarcastically. "I don't think the Bureau has any rules about having to talk to your boss about personal stuff. . . . Sir." "No. The Bureau has no such rules. But we have rules about this, Mulder. You and me. And I expect you to tell me what the hell's going on, young man. Right now." Mulder gave him a look that signaled trouble. "Don't call me that! You're my boss, not my father! I don't have to—" "That's the second time you've said that to me recently, Mulder. I let it go the first time but not this time. We've been through this before. You are family to me—" Mulder shook his head, angrily. "Stop that! We are family, Mulder. We're long past you having a choice about that. I'm not trying to be a father to you, I'm a little young for the role. But I am someone who loves you. Who cares what you do. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you self-destruct like this." Mulder stared at him, expressionless, for a good twenty seconds. Then he folded his arms tightly over his chest and turned his head slightly, just enough to ensure he and Skinner would make no eye contact. The AD took a sip of his tea, using the moment to regroup. Finally, he decided to pursue another strategy. "I don't understand this, Mulder. Help me understand. It seems to me you should be feeling vindicated. You were right all along! And now you even know who to blame for your sister being taken. It doesn't get her back, I understand that. But no one other than you could have solved this thing. You should be feeling good about that." He stopped, waiting for a response. Mulder didn't disappoint him. He bent his knees up, propping his sneakered feet on the edge of the chair and slunk down a little lower in the seat, effectively erecting a wall between himself and Skinner. The AD didn't let on how much that simple action bothered him. His neck and jaw tensed up but he took another deep breath and decided to try again. "Mulder, you keep telling me I'm not your father. I'm not trying to be but . . . sometimes I feel like you cast me in that role." He spoke quietly, gently, trying to feel his way through what he suspected was an emotional minefield for Mulder. "I know from things you've told me that your relationship with your Dad was difficult. But you should be glad to hear how he felt, even though it's too late to hear it directly from him. Carl Daniels and Dr. Kleinschmidt both said he was proud of you, that he believed in you—" "NO!" Mulder shook his head violently, dropping his knees at the same time. "Don't try to tell me what he thought! I know what he thought! I know what I know-" He stood and headed for the front door. He was still wearing his jacket and Skinner found himself wondering if the younger man had just been waiting for him to do something that would give him an excuse to run. Skinner rose and strode quickly up behind him, putting out his hand and leaning his full weight into the door, to keep Mulder from opening it. The younger man's frustration was immediately apparent. "LET ME GO!" he shouted. "You can't keep me here!" He continued futilely pulling on the door knob. "No, you're not leaving, Mulder!" Skinner shouted back at him. "Not until we get some things resolved. Now, get back over there and sit down. NOW, MULDER!" The younger agent stopped struggling immediately when he raised his voice again, but Skinner couldn't tell whether it was because he had surrendered, or because he was using the time to come up with Plan B. The AD waited and Mulder moved back into the living room. He came to a halt, still standing, just behind the couch. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said evenly. "Go then, Mulder. Then come right back. We still have a lot to talk about." He watched Mulder head for the other end of the cabin, where three doors stood open. Two were bedrooms and the third was where he wanted to go. He turned on the light and shut the door. Skinner knew from previous trips to the cabin that the bathroom had a small, diamond-shaped window Mulder couldn't possibly fit through so he felt relatively secure he'd come out eventually. He used the break to pick up his empty mug and Mulder's now cold cocoa and head back into the kitchen. He reheated some hot water and made the younger man another cup of hot chocolate. And he opened a couple of cans of beef barley soup, poured them into a saucepan and put it on a burner. He also found some bread, cheese and bacon in the freezer. Neither he nor Mulder had eaten, and soup and grilled sandwiches sounded good. As he was beginning to prepare their dinner, though, he heard his troublesome charge come out of the bathroom and head right into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door behind him. Angrily throwing the potholder he was holding onto the counter, Skinner stalked over to the bedroom door that Mulder had closed. It was locked. That alone sent his blood pressure to about three thousand. "Mulder! Open this door. Right now!" he shouted and received no answer. He banged on the door with his fist. "I'm giving you one more chance, Mulder. Before I break this door down. Open it NOW!" The Assistant Director waited another thirty seconds, hoping to hear some evidence of obedience from the other side of the door. Worried and angrier still, he reared back and pounded the full weight of his body into the door. The lock shattered and the door banged open, and the AD nearly lost his balance and hurtled into the room. Mulder lay on the bed, fully dressed except for his jacket and the sneakers he'd kicked off and let fall next to the bed. He stared, wide-eyed, at the man who'd just busted in the door. "Who's gonna explain that to Chuck?" he asked bitingly. "We're not going to have to explain it because you're gonna fix it before we leave," Skinner told him as he strode up to the bed and grabbed his arm. "Get up." Mulder thought about refusing to move but the death grip the other man had on his arm gave him second thoughts. And this whole thing had not gone as he'd expected anyway. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, angrily. A strong offense was always his first defense. "What did I tell you before, Mulder?" Skinner asked as he pulled him to a standing position. Then the AD sat down on the bed. "I gave you a very specific, very direct order. And what did you do?" It was clear to Mulder now where this was going. And he was decidedly unwilling to go there. "Okay. Let's go back in the living room, if that's what you want," he offered reasonably, taking a step backward, toward the door. "That's what I want," Skinner agreed, "but first we're gonna deal with that little scene a minute ago. With my having to BREAK DOWN A DOOR to get to you, Mulder. With you DEFYING my order to come right back—" "No, you don't have to. . . I get it—" "Get your jeans down, now, Mulder. You know the drill. And you know the penalty for making me wait," Skinner added, pointing toward the floor next to his knees. Mulder's stomach churned up what felt like a gallon of acid. He took another step back toward the door, weighing the chance he could make it through the cabin and out the front door before Skinner caught up with him. He knew he was much faster than the other man in the long haul but . . . . He was startled when the AD reached out and grabbed his arm again, pulling him back toward the bed. With his other hand, Skinner unbuttoned the stunned younger agent's jeans and pulled on them, forcing the zipper to open on its own. Then, with one, swift motion, he pushed Mulder's jeans down to his thighs and pulled a now paralyzed Mulder over his knees. Finally, he hooked a finger in his boxers and pulled them down, exposing his backside. Mulder was shocked by Skinner's sudden change in modus operandi. The Assistant Director had always insisted on Mulder's cooperation before. "Now, what's this spanking for, Mulder?" Skinner asked him as he issued a stinging slap to the younger man's upturned butt. He followed it up with a half dozen more, waiting for a response but Mulder stayed mute. "I asked you a question! What is this spanking for?" Another dozen smacks rained down on his rapidly reddening flesh but no answer was forthcoming. Skinner continued his assault on Mulder's bottom for another minute, asking him two more times why he was being spanked. The only sound he got in return were gasps and sobs. Reluctantly concluding he was not making any headway, and rocked by his own and Mulder's uncharacteristic actions, Skinner stopped and pushed the younger man off his knees. "Pull yourself together and come inside," he said tersely, as he rose and left the room. Skinner angrily turned off the burners under the soup and the kettle off while he waited for Mulder to return to the living room. Food was going to have to wait, for both of them. Then he stood in the hallway, arms crossed, waiting. The younger man slipped past him, turning slightly as he passed the AD, as though he thought Skinner might seize the opportunity to take one more swipe at his butt. Then he lowered himself gingerly into the chair he'd occupied a little while earlier and took the same position he'd assumed before. Knees bent, slouched down, arms crossed. His face was almost completely hidden behind his legs. Skinner reseated himself on the couch and exhaled, using the break to let his own blood pressure settle down. He'd been shaken more than he wanted to admit by what had happened in the bedroom, by Mulder's refusal to accept, and cooperate with, the punishment Skinner delivered. In all the previous times the AD had disciplined him, Mulder had acquiesced, sometimes after a battle, but he always capitulated. Something new was going on, something Skinner was not sure how to deal with. "All right. Where were we, Mulder?" he asked, hoping for, but not really expecting, a response. He was not surprised to receive none. "We were talking about how somehow . . . I always end up assuming a parental role, Mulder. . . ." Skinner heard him exhale with unmasked exasperation. A theatrical sigh, the AD thought to himself extraneously. "I'm not the psychologist here, Mulder," he said, trying hard not to let this behavior push his buttons. "You tell me. Have I got that wrong?" Another impatient sigh was Mulder's entire response. Fighting for control, but losing the battle, Skinner felt his blood pressure spike once again. "Sit up like an adult, Mulder. RIGHT NOW!" he bellowed. Mulder dropped his knees instantly and pushed himself into an upright position. "You want me to act like an adult but you treat me like a child!" he spat out angrily. "You say you know you're not my father, but you act just like . . . ." He shook his head and bit down on his lower lip, hard. Skinner recognized the gesture and knew it was an attempt to hold back tears. But tears of what? Frustration? Pain? "How do I act, Mulder? What are we talking about here?" Mulder gave him a look of undisguised annoyance. "How?" he asked caustically, imbuing that single syllable with more layers of meaning than Skinner could unravel in a split second. "How, Mulder?" the older man asked, struggling to maintain a reasonable tone. "Tell me what you're talking about. I don't want to make the wrong assumptions. This is too important." Mulder slouched back down into the chair, but his feet remained planted on the floor. He fixed the AD with a look that Skinner recognized as his 'rebellious adolescent' imitation. "Okay, help me out here," Skinner said with an impatient sigh. "I'm having trouble deciphering that look. Are you feigning ignorance? Or indifference?" Anger flared in the younger man's eyes for a micro-second but he wrestled it back down immediately and replaced it with the mask. "I don't know . . . and I don't care," he answered sarcastically. "Okay. That does it! You found the right button," Skinner said, rising and reaching for his belt. He watched the mask of indifference drop from Mulder's face to be replaced by the most honest expression he'd seen in a while now. "What—what are you doing? I thought we were talking here—" he sputtered, physically pulling his long frame back into the chair as far as he could. "No, I was trying to talk, Mulder. You were playing some game, and I'm not gonna tolerate that. Get up. Take down your jeans. Now!" He looked at the young man in the chair and saw he had not moved a muscle. "If I have to do that for you again, Mulder, you will regret it. DO IT NOW!" Mulder jerked to his feet, clearly fighting an internal war. And Skinner was truly uncertain which side would win. In Mulder's mind, a battle was raging. He was enraged that Skinner was planning to use a strap on him, and that scared him. But he was even more scared that, if he fought him like before, the AD might just walk away. Mulder wanted to run, to put this entire day behind him, to forget it ever happened. But another part of his heart knew he had no place to run. No one to run to. The only person he sought out when confusion overwhelmed him was right here, preparing to blister his backside. As Skinner was watching, the younger agent reached some temporary truce with himself. He fixed Skinner with a glare of hostility, while at the same moment unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down to his thighs. Skinner debated whether to push him down over the back of the chair but his gut told him he needed to maintain more physical contact with Mulder today. They had hit a crisis point unlike any they'd ever dealt with before and the AD was seriously concerned that their relationship might not survive it. "Come here," he said firmly, unwilling to let Mulder see his own uncertainty. Somehow Skinner knew that would be more than Mulder could handle right now. The younger man hesitated only a few seconds. Then the look on Skinner's face frightened him into compliance. He stepped over and let the other man pull him down over his lap, immediately grabbing his shorts in the back and pushing them down below his cheeks. Instantly, the Assistant Director began smacking his belt again the still pink flesh of Mulder's butt. "What's this strapping for, Mulder?" he asked, praying the young man would revert to form and cooperate. But this night, Mulder was playing by his own rules, however unfathomable they were to Skinner. He bit his lip to keep from speaking, or crying out and Skinner continued the strapping until he'd delivered twenty burning strokes. Then he stopped and let Mulder sob quietly for another minute. He was surprised when the younger man stayed there, sobbing, hanging over Skinner's legs instead of retreating into his own space. Skinner found himself rubbing the younger man's back soothingly, out of deep concern as much as habit. Mulder didn't speak but eventually his sobbing subsided and he sank to his knees and leaned against the coffee table, away from the AD He was breathing raggedly, wet, tear-soaked gulps that made Skinner's heart want to break. But no words came, no sign of remorse or desire for rapprochement. Mulder's bottom was stinging worse than after any punishment he could remember, and he found himself overcome with frustration, and blind fury. Strong, conflicting emotions overwhelmed him and he found himself struggling just to breathe. Earlier, Skinner had made a conscious decision not to give the kind of closure he always provided when Mulder was punished. No hug, no comfort, until he abandons this stubborn willfulness, Skinner had vowed to himself earlier in the evening. Before he found himself spending a never-ending night in hell with Fox Mulder. But now he was prepared to abandon that resolve. He reached out and placed a hand on Mulder's shoulder -- and the young man shirked it off. He looked up from his position on the floor, making direct eye contact with the AD for the first time in what seemed like hours. "I hate you," Mulder said angrily, investing the message with all his raw emotions. Skinner was taken aback by the words, and the venom with which they were delivered. He blinked, momentarily confused but he knew his response would be important. "Well, that's too bad," he said quietly, "but I still love you, kid." This time Mulder blinked, and the mask slipped again, for a few seconds. But it was quickly restored and this time, the angry young man went for the jugular. Reaching for the chain that hung around his neck, he lifted it from where it hung below the collar of his tee shirt. It was the medallion Skinner had given him just after the holidays, a replica of the Prodigal Son icon. It had been in Skinner's family for three generations and the AD had given it to Mulder to wear, as a symbol of the fact that he'd been accepted into the Skinner family. Mulder pulled it up over his head, obviously planning to take it off. "Don't do that, Mulder--" Skinner warned him. But the miserable younger man was too far down this road to stop himself. He pulled it all the way over his head and threw it on the table. Then he turned his tear-streaked face back to the AD, pain darkened hazel eyes defying him to respond. Skinner took a long, deep breath, willing himself to remain calm despite every gut instinct that made him want to reach out and shake this young man until his teeth rattled. "All right," he said quietly, numbly, running a hand over the top of his head. "I think we both need a break, Mulder. Why don't you go wash your face." Skinner rose. He walked to the chair by the door where he'd tossed his jacket when he came in. He lifted it slowly, threw one arm into a sleeve and opened the front door. "I'll be back. You . . . just wait for me, Mulder." Stepping out into the cold, night air he jerked the other half of his jacket on and zippered it up, surprised to find he was already shaking. It was pitch black except for the weak light of a crescent moon and a few stars that peeked feebly from behind the cloud cover. Skinner walked about a hundred yards toward the lake and took a seat on a bench that had a good view of the front door, just in case Mulder decided to make a run for it. A deep sense of depression, and helplessness, descended on him as he sat there and time seemed to stand still. He didn't know how long he sat there, his mind empty of all thoughts except the pain of not knowing what to do next for the troubled young man in the cabin. He realized, suddenly that his hands were cold and he shoved them into his pockets. He was momentarily surprised to find his cell phone in one. Without a second thought, he took it out and dialed a number he knew by heart, one he could punch out even in total darkness. "Hello?" "Dad? It's me, Walter. I hope I didn't call too late--" "Walter! Where are you? Your mother called you earlier today but you weren't home." "I'm . . . in Massachusetts. At Chuck Talbot's cabin on Candlewood Lake." "Oh, say hi to Chuck for me. What are you guys doing up there this time of year? Skiing?" "No, Dad. Actually, Chuck's not here. Mulder's with me. . . ." "You sound upset, son. Is that young man giving you some trouble?" The older Skinner's voice betrayed a slight chuckle. He was well aware of the kind of trouble Fox Mulder could get himself into. Skinner hesitated, not sure whether he should have placed this call to begin with. His father interpreted that correctly. "Something's wrong, isn't it, Walter? Is Fox all right?" "Yeah. I mean no. . . . He's okay physically but--" "Tell me what's going on, son." "That's just it, Dad. I don't know what the hell is going on! He's having some kind of meltdown. But he's not letting me help him. If anything, he's acting like I'm the enemy! Ranting about how I treat him like a child, how I remind him of his father. . . ." "And that's not a good thing, in Fox's mind, is it? I've gotten the impression his relationship with his father left a lot to be desired," Skinner Sr. said thoughtfully. "No. He hasn't told me a lot about his Dad but almost none of it's been good. And somehow he's gotten it into his head that I'm some kind of surrogate for his father or something--" "Well, son, there's a lot in your relationship with Fox that's very paternal. Anyone can see that. And I think that's been good, for both of you." Skinner was thrown off a little by his father's analysis. He'd never thought of Mulder as a surrogate son. Why would anyone think that? "Well, some day you'll have to tell me what you mean by that, Dad. And why you think that . . . would be good for me. But right this minute, it's Mulder I'm worried about." Walter, Sr. smiled on the other end of the phone, knowing his son couldn't see him. The ability to put your kids' needs ahead of your own was a prerequisite to being a parent, in the older man's mind. It amused him his highly intelligent son was blind to that aspect of his relationship with Mulder. But the AD was continuing his monologue, not waiting for a response from his father. "He's in some kind of tailspin and nothing I do seems to help. If anything, I just keep pushing him further away. His attitude and behavior's been atrocious, and I spanked him, Dad. And for the first time, he just . . . refused. You know? I had to wrestle him down . . . He knows that's not how it goes in our family. I. . . . I know I did pull that once--" "And Joe did it once. And Andy did it once! But none of you ever did it a second time," the elder Skinner chuckled. His son smiled ruefully. "Well, if they experienced anything like I remember, I don't wonder no one ever tried it again!" he said, remembering an especially long session in the family woodshed just before his fifteenth birthday. Then he sighed. "I don't know, though, Dad. This is different. Mulder's not a 14-year-old. A little while ago . . . . he took off the medallion. And he said that . . . he hates me." Walter, Sr. took a deep breath before speaking again, to make certain he'd sound sufficiently grave. "Walter, one of the most important skills a parent has to have is the ability to tolerate being hated, for short periods of time." Skinner was becoming a little annoyed at his father's insistence that he was a father figure in Mulder's life. But he knew better than to let the older man know it. "Okay, well, that helps. I guess I should go back in," he said casually, trying to bring the conversation to a close. "No, that didn't help you, Walter. We have more to discuss, you and I, before you go back into battle. And that's what this sounds like to me, a battle for Fox's soul. As I said before, I don't know much about his relationship with his father. I don't get the impression it was physically abusive, although his relationship with his mother is strained at best. What's he told you?" "Not much, like I said. His Dad was a drinker, I know that. He did tell me his father punished him some times, but that he often didn't know what he was being punished for. Something that never happened in our house, so I found it hard to relate to!" Skinner's father had always insisted his sons answer for why they were being punished, every single time. No confusion ever existed in Walter's mind about what he was being disciplined for, and he knew Joe and Andy would concur. It was a tradition Skinner had insisted Mulder follow and, until tonight, the younger man had always cooperated. Walter, Sr. was glad to hear his son lightening up a little. He wanted to keep him talking a while longer, to help him regain some perspective before he went back to his skirmish with the rebellious Fox Mulder. "You know, you said something before that I think is important, Walter. You said Fox is not fourteen. But from what I know of his life, it changed dramatically when he was about 12 or 13, right? He once told your mother and I that he divides his entire life into two segments, "Before Samantha disappeared" and "After Samantha disappeared. And the way he said it, I sort of thought that he really lost his whole family when that happened." Skinner listened and found himself nodding in agreement. Then he remembered it was a phone call and his father couldn't see him nodding. "Yeah, Dad. I think you're right about that. I think both of his parents withdrew after their daughter was taken. In a lot of ways, he was on his own after that." "So, then, maybe my point will make some sense. Maybe Fox is still stuck in that place in his life, at least when it comes to people who love him, and how he understands and deals with family situations. I gather he got a lot of mixed messages over the years, Walter. You've done a good job of helping him work his way through a lot of them. But he must be dealing with something big now, something that's got him willing to risk pushing you out of his life completely. What do you think that could be?" Skinner found himself staring at the cabin. The woods surrounding it were dark and lonely. But the windows of the cabin shone with light, a warm, welcoming oasis in the bleakness of a New England winter. Only that's not how it felt to him right now. And he was a hundred percent certain Mulder wasn't feeling warm and protected inside. He shivered and stood up from the bench. "I don't know, Dad. But I'm not leaving here until I find out. Thanks for listening . . . and for the advice. I love you." "I love you. Don't give up on that young man, Walter. I . . . think you would regret that as much as he would. Call me if you need me, no matter how late it is. And when the time is right, make sure Fox knows we all love him, too." Skinner let himself back into the cabin and was surprised to see Mulder sitting in the lounge chair again. He'd been prepared to break down another door. Perhaps this was a hopeful sign. He shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the chair by the door. Then he walked into the living room and sat down, giving the younger man a tight smile. He noticed the medallion still on the table and ticked that off in the 'less than hopeful' column. Settling back down on the couch, he surveyed the rebellious young man before him. Mulder stared back at him, an angry, wary look on his face. His face was still streaked with tears and after a few seconds, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back, as though he were going to sleep. "Stay awake, Mulder!" Skinner said, raising his voice a notch and investing it with every ounce of authority he could muster. Mulder's head snapped back up and he stared at the AD belligerently. "This dialogue requires two participants, young man," the AD finished. Mulder stared at him a full ten seconds before replying. "I told you not to call me that. And I also said I want to go to bed." This time Skinner let the silence continue for ten, twenty seconds before responding, firmly. "And I told you neither one of us is going to bed until we get this resolved, young man. One way or another." He watched Mulder process this information, his eyes drifting surreptitiously to the clock on the wall behind Skinner's head. Then he folded his arms tightly over his chest, and proceeded to stare at a point in the distance, deliberately refusing to make any further eye contact with the other man. Skinner sighed and crossed his arms over his chest as well. "Looks like it's gonna be a long night," he said out loud to the room at large. "It already has been," Mulder whispered, just loud enough to be heard. "So, let's see. Where did we leave off, Mulder?" Skinner asked, not expecting a response. He suspected he'd have to prod the young man a few times to get a reaction. "I think we were talking about your father. How you don't seem to want to believe he was proud of you. That he believed in you and--" "I don't believe it, because it's not true!" Mulder shouted suddenly. Skinner was shocked at how quickly he rose to the bait. "Mulder, you heard what Carl Daniels told me. You heard Dr. Kleinschmidt yourself--" "And how much time do you think either one of those people ever spent with my father, huh? A few hours? A couple of days? I spent a lifetime with him. I KNOW what he thought!" He was breathing hard now, his adrenaline level must have jumped dangerously, Skinner thought. Mulder continued his diatribe. "He didn't speak to me for years. Did you know that? For years!" "Let me ask you something, Mulder," Skinner responded. "Were you speaking to him all those years he wasn't speaking to you? Silence is a two-way street, you know." Mulder blinked at Skinner's observation, but he deflected it immediately. "You don't know. You don't have any idea what he thought." "And what is it he thought, Mulder? You're the big authority on this. Tell me." "He thought I should have protected Samantha. He thought I was irresponsible and . . . and--" He was struggling, Skinner saw, with painful memories and the shame of a lifetime spent believing he'd failed his sister, his parents, everyone. Finally, he looked the AD straight in the eye and let go. "He thought I was a loser! Is that what you want to hear? Huh? He thought I was a total loser. . . and he was right! And no matter how hard you try, you can't change that!" The last few words came out in a sob and his hands went to cover his face as he leaned forward over his knees and the floodgates opened. Skinner was at his side in less than a second, his large, muscled arms circling Mulder's shaking frame. But the young man fought him off. "Don't! Don't do that," he said angrily. "I don't . . . I don't--" "You don't what, Mulder? You don't deserve to be loved?" Skinner fought back, not letting him pull away from the embrace. "I guess I don't know what your father thought, Mulder. I only know what those people said. But I know for sure what I think. And I know you're not a loser, kid. And I know you're not irresponsible. And I'm not letting you go on believing crap like that." Mulder shook his head firmly, still struggling to escape Skinner's hold on him. "Don't tell me that! I don't want to hear it. I can tell what you really think. I know what everyone thinks! That I lost Samantha. That I was too cowardly to save her--" He was working himself into a frenzy and Skinner recognized he was losing it, fast. The AD knew he had to end this soon, get Mulder back down to a place where he could process what the other man was saying to him. "Stop it, Mulder! Right now!" he yelled, in a voice that generally commanded the young man's attention instantaneously. But he was too far gone for verbal intervention, at this point. "I said stop it, Mulder. Just settle down!" Skinner tried once more, hugging him more tightly than ever. He wanted desperately to arrest this slide without having to resort to a more drastic measure. But Mulder didn't react except to try harder to pull free from Skinner's embrace. "Okay, Mulder," he sighed loudly. "You're giving me no choice here, kid." The AD pulled Mulder out of the chair and reached for the button on his jeans. Snapping it open, he pulled the waistband hard, releasing the zipper. Mulder was not fighting him at all this time and Skinner quickly sat down in the chair, pulling Mulder to his knees beside him. He was staring at the AD, tears running down his face, waiting, Skinner thought internally. But waiting for what? He pulled Mulder over his knees. Then he pulled his jeans and shorts down to his thighs and smacked his bottom, hard. "That's to get your attention, Mulder," he said, knowing that single slap on his already sore backside would do the trick. "Now repeat after me, Mulder. I am not irresponsible." He followed every couple of words with another slap to the younger man's rump. "I am not a loser. Let me hear you say it, Mulder." Mulder was crying, hard. Loud, hiccuping gasps came back, punctuated by the word 'No,' but he refused to say the words the AD wanted to hear. Skinner kept up the assault on his bottom, repeating the sentences like a mantra but Mulder held out stubbornly. "No! NO!" he sobbed. Skinner heart was bleeding for the stubborn, misguided young man and he second-guessed, and third and fourth-guessed himself relentlessly but he stuck with his plan. It was the only one he had. "I'm not stopping till you say it, Mulder," he said firmly, blinking back tears of his own as the suffering young man squirmed and cried, and tried to escape from his position over Skinner's lap. "Say it, Mulder. I am not irresponsible. I am not a loser." "Owww! Ouccchhhhh! Please! No more, please!" Mulder pleaded. His backside felt like it was on fire but he held out, refusing to yield to the A.D's request. "Pleeaaase! Owwwww!" Skinner continued to smack him but his heart was heavy with the sense that he had failed, yet again, to stop this slide into self-destruction for Mulder. The Assistant Director was physically and emotionally exhausted by the battle. He was close to giving up for good when Mulder's protests changed suddenly, to something Skinner had not heard before. "You think it too!" he cried, the words coming out between gasps of pain. "You think I'm irresponsible! You think I'm a-- a loser! Don't-- don't pretend you don't!" Skinner stopped in mid-smack and pushed the sobbing young man to his knees. He grasped him by the shoulders and shook him. "What the hell are you talking about, Mulder?" he asked him. "Tell me! What are you talking about?" "I'm talking about you!" Mulder sobbed. "Ever since you got me back, you've been acting like-- like you can't trust me out of your sight! You make me go to meetings I never went to before. You st--stop by the office every day. You keep me in Washington. You wouldn't even let me leave town without Scully or you! You c-came with me on the Daniels case! How many AD’s do you think go out on cases with their agents, huh? Only you. And only with me! 'Cause you think I'm irresponsible. You think I'm a loser, and I'll screw up on my own! Like before . . . like always!" He collapsed onto his haunches and leaned his head into Skinner's knee, as though the act of getting all that out had sucked every bit of energy out of him. Skinner was stunned and overwhelmed by Mulder's speech. And relieved to finally know what had gotten them to this crisis point. He reached down and stroked the back of the young agent's head as he continued to sob into the AD’s leg. "Mulder," he said quietly. "You are one of the most insightful, intuitive people I know. You can figure out things no one else can. But kid, when you're wrong, you're the wrongest guy on the face of the planet!" Mulder didn't appreciate the humor. He shook his head into Skinner's knee and muttered, "I'm not wrong!" "Yes, you are," Skinner told him with a smile of relief. He reached down and encircled the shaking young man in a hug, caressing the back of his head as Mulder wept into his leg. One leg of Skinner's jeans was wet with tears, but at least Mulder was not fighting him, the AD noted. In fact, they were both clearly spent and exhausted. He waited another couple of minutes, holding the younger agent as his tears subsided into hitching sobs and he began to look like he was going to fall asleep on the floor, with his head resting on Skinner's left leg. "Now I want you to get up and go wash your face," the Assistant Director said quietly. "This time, consider that an order. Throw on some sweats and come back. I'm gonna make us some dinner--" he eyed the clock and corrected himself. "Make that an early breakfast. Then I've got some things to say to you. And you're gonna listen, Mulder." He pulled the younger man to a standing position and helped him adjust his clothes. Then he pulled him into a long, heartfelt bear hug. The Assistant Director recognized that Mulder was a passive participant at best, but that was okay. At least he didn't fight it. Skinner turned him toward the bathroom and gave him a gentle shove. Skinner had hot soup and grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches ready when Mulder returned 10 minutes later. He'd laid out two place settings on the breakfast bar, guessing Mulder might want to eat his meal from a standing position. The younger man was subdued but he mutely leaned against the counter and stared at the bowl of soup. "Eat, Mulder," Skinner ordered, as he pulled the sandwiches off the grill and put them on plates. He watched Mulder pick up a spoon listlessly and take a taste of the soup. Then he must have discovered how hungry he was, because he quickly took another spoonful and another. In a minute, the soup was gone and he had started on his sandwich. Skinner sat down on the other side of the counter and began to eat. Downing his own sandwich in a couple of bites, he reached for the kettle and poured hot water into two mugs with powdered hot chocolate in them. He handed one to Mulder and kept one for himself. Then he began to speak, quietly but insistently. "I want you to hear me out, Mulder. Because this is important. You told me about some things that have changed, some things I'm doing, and your . . . interpretation of those things. Now I want you to hear my side of it, okay?" Mulder began to protest but Skinner silenced him with a look. The younger agent lowered his eyes and took another sip of hot cocoa, and waited for whatever it was the AD was going to say. "You are right about me keeping you . . . closer than before, Mulder. But that's the result of a lot of things. Almost losing you a couple of times recently, for one. And maybe I shouldn't let personal feelings affect my management decisions. But you've nearly died countless times, Mulder. Most FBI agents go an entire career without that happening once! Maybe it's your turn to step off the firing range. Once in a while! And me going with you to Boston. That was because I knew that case would hit you hard, Mulder. I hope I'd do that for anyone who works for me. It's just that I don't always know their stories as well as I know yours. That's all that was about, Mulder. And believe me, if hadn't had faith in you, if I hadn't known that you were the one person who could solve that case, I would never have let you anywhere near it. You proved me right. And you made me proud of you, kid." He watched Mulder's eyes flicker for a moment, but he looked right back down and stared into the mug. So Skinner continued. "And I have been including you in more things, more meetings and mainstream activities. But that's because WE decided you were gonna work on getting your career back on track, Mulder. And you can't do that the way you managed your career before. You and Scully, all alone in the basement, never making contact with anyone else in the Bureau unless it was absolutely necessary! That's why, when things went sour last summer, you had no support, no network to fall back on. So yes, I'm making you come to meetings and participate. How else are people going to know how good you are, Mulder?" "Like that meeting last week, the one you missed because . . . because you 'just knew' there was a guy in a bank down the street with dynamite strapped to his chest!" For the life of him, Skinner was still stumped by this one. "The report you were supposed to deliver at that meeting, that you handed to me the next day, was the best, most insightful analysis of how Gen-X'ers and whatever we're calling the group that follows them, will force us to change our investigative and predictive techniques. In clear, easy to understand English, you defined the future of law enforcement, Mulder. I sent your report to the Director and he asked me to have you present it at the next management conference." He saw the color drain from Mulder's face, either because he finally recognized he was wrong, or because the thought of presenting to the FBI's most senior leadership left him weak in the knees. Either way, Skinner sensed he had to bring this to a close and put Mulder down for the night. "So, no, Mulder, I don't think you're a loser. And I don't think you're irresponsible. You sometimes do irresponsible things. But more often than not, those things result from you taking too much responsibility for things you can't control, son. So, at the end of the day, no one can really call you irresponsible. Am I getting through that thick skull of yours?" Mulder had not raised his eyes once during the Assistant Director's speech. He noticed, for the first time, that Skinner had moved the medallion from the coffee table to the breakfast bar. Tentatively, Mulder reached out and fingered it. "I was wondering, sir," he said slowly. "When you gave me this 'Prodigal Son' medal. Was that a coincidence? Or was there a message there?" Skinner laughed out loud, relief and exhaustion coupling to deepen its resonance. He picked up the medal and came around the counter. Mulder was shocked and touched to see the AD’s eyes shining with what looked like tears. He stood, paralyzed, as Skinner put the chain over his head. The AD pulled him into a hug and was gratified to feel Mulder's arms lock around his waist, returning the gesture forcefully. Skinner ruffled the back of his head affectionately. "Mulder, don't take this the wrong way but . . . sometimes I think you might be some kind of idiot savant!" The next morning, both men slept late. When Mulder appeared out of the second bedroom, sleep-tousled and slightly disoriented, Skinner poured him a cup of coffee. "Drink this," he said, "then we're gonna take a walk down to the general store on the other side of the lake. It's about a mile each way. We need milk and eggs and the fresh air will do you good, Mulder." Mulder took a sip of the coffee and yawned. "I . . . don't know if I'm up for a walk, sir. My butt's kinda . . . sore. . . " The AD fixed him with a direct look that captured his full attention. "Here's a tip for you, Mulder. Things can always get worse!" Mulder gave him a sheepish half-smile that said the message was received, loud and clear. He picked the mug up to take back into the bedroom. "I'll be out in five, sir," he called. "No rush. You should call Scully before we go, Mulder. And your mother. Just let them know you're all right," Skinner replied, settling down at the counter with his own mug of coffee. Mulder's voice called back from the other room. "I already called the both of them. I woke up early and called, then I went back to sleep. And I called your Dad, too." Skinner's head jerked toward the bedroom. "My Dad? Why?" "Well, I saw you on the cell phone out the window last night. And I kinda thought he's the one you'd call, under the . . . circumstances." He pulled on a pair of jeans and socks, then returned to the living room with his sneakers, still talking. "I mean, I call you when I'm confused. I figured you probably call your Dad." Skinner felt a small lump form in his throat, but he swallowed it down, not wanting to do anything to interfere with Mulder's story. He revealed himself so rarely, and usually in these kinds of asides and unexpected gestures. And it didn't escape Skinner's notice that Mulder seemed to equate the two relationships, apparently a lot more casually than Skinner did, until now. "Anyway," Mulder continued. After sitting down carefully on the couch, he began lacing up his sneakers. "I called your Dad to let him know everything's okay. I didn't want him to be worried, or anything. That's not good for a guy his age." Skinner fought off a smile. But he was too curious what Mulder and his father had spoken about. "What did he say, Mulder?" Skinner asked casually as he grabbed his jacket and put it on. Then he picked up Mulder's ski jacket and handed it to the younger man as they made their way out into the cold morning air. "He said he was glad it all worked out, that he knew it would. And then he said something I didn't get. Something about you and me being slow learners. What the hell do you think that's about?" THE END