The Danville Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: 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: None Setting: Sixth Season Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash. Title: Running Scared Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Mulder runs off to chase another clue about his sister, backing out on his commitment to be godfather to Skinner's new nephew. When his search ends in failure, he's too ashamed to face Skinner or his family. Running Scared Mount Pleasant, Washington Friday, May 21 9:13 p.m. Special Agent Fox Mulder pulled his rental car into the last spot available in the Last Chance motel's parking lot. It was raining hard, a chilly, drenching rain that belied the fact that it was late Spring in the state of Washington. The space was at the farthest reaches of the long building and his room was at the complete opposite end. It had grown dark an hour earlier and he was not dressed appropriately for rain, nor was he carrying a flashlight. And the lights in the parking lot, if they'd ever worked, had long since given up the ghost. All of these bits of data passed through his senses, but his mind and body were in a state that could best be described as numb. He didn't know how long he sat in the car before some automatic impulse made him open the door and head for his room. A smiling young couple passed him, the boy carrying a large umbrella that covered him and the girl at his side and they rushed by, trying to get to a dry, warm room quickly. Both people noted the man in the business suit, without an overcoat or umbrella, walking slowly, as if in a daze. But they sensed from his gait and the way he stared blankly at the ground in front of him, that it was best not to disturb him. They reached their room and hurried inside, the light blinking on and shining through open drapes that they immediately pulled closed. Mulder noted the shaft of light that appeared, then disappeared along with the laughing couple, and he finally reached the door to room 52. He realized as he stood there in the rain that he didn't remember where he'd put his room key and he began to check all of his pockets, finally locating it in the left pocket of his thoroughly soaked suit jacket. He let himself in but didn't bother to put the light on. He shirked off his jacket and dropped it on the floor, then followed it with his tie and shirt and undershirt. He toed off his shoes and unbuckled his belt, dropping the trousers in a heap he stepped right out of. Even his boxers were wet and he stepped out of those as well, finally reaching down to take off first one, then the other wet sock. He could make out the bed in the dark room by the minimal light coming in the window, and he went to it and pulled down the covers, sliding under and burrowing down into them, nearly pulling them up over his head. He knew he couldn't block it out that way, but he had no other thought or plan, and maybe sleep would come and deaden the pain and the shame, however briefly. *********************************************************************** FBI Headquarters The previous Tuesday "Mulder, what are you giving the baby for a christening gift?" Scully asked him over the sandwiches they'd brought in for lunch. He looked at her, and she thought she sensed panic underscoring his words. "I don't know, Scully," he said. "What would be appropriate?" Scully laughed at him, despite herself. He was still upended by the fact Andy and Eileen Skinner had asked him to be godfather to their new son. He'd flown to Chicago with the AD a few days after Eileen delivered the baby and taken a slew of stuffed animals, a baseball mitt, and the smallest Knicks T-shirt she'd ever seen. But as the time approached for the child to be baptized, she sensed he was apprehensive, not certain what this commitment would mean and whether he was the right candidate. "Well, there are a lot of things you could choose," she said. "Savings bonds. Stock. A silver baby spoon, although I personally find those completely useless. I gave my godson a silver frame with his initials on it for his christening." He nodded. This conversation didn't resolve the problem in the least. "You've only got a couple of days, Mulder," she pressed him. "Why don't you ask Skinner what he thinks? Or what's traditional in his family." He nodded again. He knew from a great deal of experience that the Skinner family was big on tradition. That would probably be the safest bet. Mulder was scheduled to fly to Chicago on Friday evening. The A.D.'s brother and his wife had invited Scully too, and Mulder and she planned to go together. Skinner was in Omaha doing an office review and he would fly in directly from there. The rest of the Skinner family would do the same, coming from Pennsylvania on Friday night. And all of Eileen's family were in Chicago, so the clans would be gathered to welcome the new child officially into their midst. The christening was set for early Saturday afternoon, to be followed by a luncheon at Andy and Eileen's home. But Wednesday morning, Mulder had received the first of two mysterious deliveries. The first came through his e-mail, a series of photos taken in a rural part of the state of Montana. They were innocuous photos of people from a local PTA group at some fund-raiser, and he'd looked at them briefly and wondered why anyone would send them to him. They'd come from an address he didn't recognize with a cryptic note that he 'might be interested in seeing these.' But there was nothing strange or even slightly X-filish about them and he filed them for future reference. That night, a letter was slipped under his apartment door. And this delivery went right to the heart of everything he'd hoped for, searched for, all of his adult life. "Dear Fox, I know I told you I'd get in touch a long time ago. And I've been negligent in keeping that promise. Forgive me, my dearest brother. It's taken me a long time to get this far, to even accept the fact that you are out there, that you've been looking for me for all these years. I'd thought you were dead. And Mom and Dad as well. And I built a life for myself out of the ashes of that which I'd lost, my other life in which you were the most beloved part. I have a husband, and two children, Fox. I was afraid that allowing the remnants of my destroyed past life to touch my new one might somehow cause me to lose this, too. And I selfishly chose not to chance that. I know it's selfish. And cowardly. But for now, it's the best I can do. I am a wife, and a mother, my darling brother. My husband sells insurance and, though we have moved often, we've settled for now in a place that I love. I teach religion at our church and I volunteer at my kids' school two days a week. I'm the vice-president of the PTA and a soccer mom. It's a mundane, boring, predictable and immensely fulfilling life. Not what you would want, I'm certain, with your brains and your career with the FBI. But it brings me joy and a sense of security that I could not live without. Please don't hate me for choosing to stay in my safe little hideaway for now. Someday the time will be right and we will see each other again. In the meantime, Fox, know that I love you, the little boy I remember from so long ago, and the grown man I met in that diner last year. Be happy for me as I am glad for whatever happiness you find. With all my love, Samantha" He'd stared at the letter for what seemed like days, re-read it over and over. The letter was dated more than two months earlier. Why had it taken so long to get to him? It had no postmark, so it had been delivered by someone other than the US Postal Service. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins as he sat there, feel the pounding in his chest of a heart that had been broken for more than a quarter of a century. A part of him read the words and took them at face value. She was fine. She was happy. She would get in touch when the time was right. But the FBI agent responded differently. There must be a clue here, some evidence that would lead him to her. Perhaps, in person, he could convince her that waiting was unnecessary. That they had already lost more than a quarter of a century, well more than half of both of their lives. Another second longer was insupportable. No names to trace. He's an insurance agent. She volunteers at their kids' school. She's the vice-president of the PTA. . . . It hit him suddenly, like a jolt of electricity. The photos he'd received earlier in the day, of a PTA group. He hadn't looked closely enough at them. Mulder threw his jacket back on immediately and sprinted down the stairs to the street, then into his car. He drove back to the District, to the Hoover building, where he flew up the stairs from the parking garage and into the office of the X-files. "Where are those damn photos?" he asked aloud, despite the fact there was no one in the basement of FBI headquarters at that hour. Even the custodial staff had gone home already. "Where'd you put them, Mulder?" He remembered he'd printed them out, then filed them with a bunch of general information he kept simply because it might become important some day. He pulled the papers out and turned on the desk lamp, taking a magnifying glass out of the desk drawer. He anxiously scanned the photo for a familiar face. And found it, in the middle of the photo, smiling at him expectantly. It took less than a second for him to know what he had to do. The last flight out of Dulles that night got him as far as Milwaukee. He stayed in the airport hotel, then caught the first flight to Helena. A commuter plane hop to Jefferson City, then a car rental and the drive north to Cascade, a small town just south of the Canadian border. He made it into town just after noon, only to find that the local insurance agent had moved suddenly, about a month earlier. The neighbors didn't know where, nor did the people in his office. Mulder felt a rush of panic and rage. He'd been so close, this time, he felt it. How could she slip through his fingers? Again? Someone was determined to keep her away from him and he was certain he knew who the black-lunged bastard was. Disconsolate, he wandered over to the library to look through the local newspapers. He was seeking any shred of information about the family of James Flanders, his wife Samantha or their two children. It was a small town and he found enough to reassure him that she must be happy, and living a good life. References to the Flanders family went back nearly three years and there were photos of bake sales and mention of Jim Flanders' support of a little league team. Their son Robert played baseball and his team made it to the playoffs the year before. Their daughter, Lynne, was the recipient of the school science award and played soccer. The couple co-chaired a dinner dance to raise funds for the new computer center last year. Mulder read and found himself feeling glad that Samantha had managed to carve out a life of such contentment. But at the same time, he was enraged that, because she'd written him that letter, this idyllic interlude had apparently come to an end. He sat there, staring at the papers in front of him, wondering what else he could do. "Everything all right here, sir?" a voice startled him out of his reverie. "You've been sitting here for hours now. And we're going to close soon." He recognized the librarian, a woman about his age who had greeted him and steered him toward the newspaper stacks when he arrived. "Yes," he answered, starting to gather the papers together to return them. "I'm . . . fine." "If you don't mind my saying, you look like you lost your best friend," she said, her words filled with sympathy. "No," he shook his head. "I lost someone a long time ago. My sister. And I thought I might find a lead to her here. But . . . " "I know everyone in town," the woman answered quickly. "Perhaps I can help you." "No, the people I needed to find have moved. And not left a forwarding address, apparently." "Oh, you must mean the Flanders family," she replied, smiling sadly. "No one moves in or out of Cascade often. And they did go kind of mysteriously. Samantha Flanders was a friend of mine. Buy me dinner, and I'll tell you what I know about her and her family. Perhaps that will help." It turned out there was one place to eat in town, other than your own home. It was a diner with three booths and four stools at the counter, one of which had a missing seat. But the food was good home-cooking, and the librarian, Marian Carr, was actually an interesting and informative dinner companion. She'd known Samantha the entire time she lived in town, and they'd grown to be good friends. Marian remembered that she'd left town the year before, to see some family. And when she'd returned, Samantha had confided that she had met her long-lost brother, someone she'd thought was dead. "Did she seem . . . scared? Or sorry that we met?" he asked her, anxiously. He had to know if he'd caused her a moment's pain. "She was shocked, I think. And not sure how to . . . digest everything. Meeting you called her beliefs into question. She began to have doubts about the things her father had told her--" "That man is not her father," Mulder responded instantly, then regretted his outburst. "I'm sorry. It's just that she was . . . taken from my family. And the man who apparently raised her. . . . I think he's the one who took her. Or arranged for her to be taken." They talked for a while longer, then Mulder walked her home. She told him about the town on the way, and he gazed wistfully around, trying to imagine Samantha there, with her husband and children. Happy and at peace. "I know she never wanted to leave here," he said suddenly. "I think she was finally happy here." Marion Carr reached her house and stopped. "This is where I get off. Will you be leaving town tonight?" "Yes. You were sorely lacking in hotel facilities, I'm afraid. Even ones that would be acceptable to me. I'm registered in the Day's Inn in Rock Hill." It was a slightly larger town about 30 miles away. "Well, it was good meeting you, Mr. Mulder," she said, shaking his hand. "I'll keep your business card and, if I hear from Samantha, I'll let you know." The next morning, though, as he was packing to leave for Helena, and his flight to Chicago, Marian Carr called him at the motel. "I spoke to Samantha," she said. "Well, not 'live.' I didn't know what to do so I e-mailed her. She gave me an address to contact her, in case you ever came looking for her. She's living in Mount Pleasant, in Washington State. But she thinks, if they find out you're looking for her, they'll be forced to disappear again. She said you'll have to hurry." Marian Carr gave him Samantha's new address and wished him good luck. Mulder had caught the first flight from Helena toward anyplace in Washington. Then he'd taken a commuter hop north to Olympia. And then rented another car and headed toward Mount Pleasant. He'd finally called Andy early Friday afternoon, just before he left to go to the house where Samantha was now living. It was on a family farm about 8 miles outside of Mount Pleasant. Mulder was so excited about finally finding Samantha, he had nearly forgotten about the christening scheduled for the next morning. He'd told Andy just the bare bones, that he was out of town, in Washington. And would be unable to make the christening the next day. Even if things went like clockwork, the last plane out of Seattle to Chicago would leave before he could get back there. Mulder experienced a wave of searing guilt, but the prize that awaited him, finally locating Samantha, outweighed that burden. To be able to bring her home to his mother at last, to end the quarter of a century of waiting and not knowing, that tipped the balance far in the other direction, he knew. And it was not like he could see Samantha any time. Marion had said he had to go now, or they would surely disappear once more. Perhaps never to be found again. Mulder knew the AD and his family would be upset. But they would understand, they'd have to understand, once they saw what his absence obtained. He considered contacting Scully and Skinner as he drove toward the site of the farmhouse, wanting to share the sense of victory he felt. And make certain they both understood why he'd gone without telling them, without assistance. There had been so many false leads over the years, he just couldn't force Scully on one more wild goose chase. Or put Skinner in the difficult position of having to determine whether he could justify a plane fare and the opening of an investigation. No, this was personal, and he'd made the decision alone, personally. And finally, finally, he would reach his long-awaited goal. He had no doubt he could convince her to come home with him this time. Then he'd be able to tell Scully, and Skinner, and his mother, what he'd been up to. With victory at hand. Mulder pulled up into the long driveway of the house he'd been looking for. It was a large, white clapboard with a full front porch and a swing in the front yard. Exactly the kind of place he'd imagined Samantha living. He took the steps quickly and went right to the front door and knocked. A woman in her mid-sixties answered immediately. She'd obviously heard his car come up the drive. "Hello. I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI. I'm looking for Samantha." He realized he didn't know her new last name but that wouldn't be much of a problem. The house was large but unlikely to hold any one who didn't know the rest of the tenants. It appeared to be a one-family home anyway. "Samantha who?" the woman asked him curiously. "I'm Libby Dennis. Only my husband and I live here now. At least since our last child moved out nearly eight years ago!" His mouth opened in shock. "Perhaps I have the wrong house. Is this your address?" He handed her the piece of paper on which he'd written the information Marian had given him. "Yes, that's this house. My husband and I have lived here for nearly 40 years. But there's no one named Samantha here." "Perhaps there's another house nearby, with a new family in it? A couple in their thirties, with a son and a daughter?" "Well, I'm sure I know everyone in town and no one has moved into Mount Pleasant in several years," she said, shaking her head. "I'm afraid we're not attracting any young families. It's a rural, farm town. We can't even keep our own kids here any more." Mulder felt a cold vein of fear in the pit of his stomach, but he shook it off. The woman had to be wrong. Perhaps she didn't really keep up with who moved into town. Samantha had only gotten there recently. He thanked her and got back in his car, screeching the tires as he headed out of the driveway and onto the rural route that led back to town. He had to reach the town hall, or municipal office, before it closed. But that had proven futile, too. Mrs. Dennis had been right on top of the local population shifts. No one had moved into Mount Pleasant in years. No family fit the profile of Samantha's family. He'd been fooled again. Mulder left the town hall just as dusk was turning into night and the cold drizzle was becoming a hard rain. He'd walked slowly, numbly back to his car and returned to the motel. ********************************************************************** FBI Headquarters Monday, May 25 11:20 a.m. Skinner sat in a budget meeting with Agent Arnold, his budget chief. The man was one of the most intensely boring people Skinner had ever worked with, but he was on top of the numbers like no one else. Usually Skinner could manage to stay with Arnold when he droned on about variance reports and statistical models but today, it was impossible. He was too angry at the missing Agent Mulder to focus on anything else this morning. Mulder had been gone since Thursday, he'd called Andy and reneged on his commitment to be godfather to Andy's new son and thrown the entire Skinner family into a bit of turmoil. And he still hadn't contacted Skinner, Scully or anyone else since he spoke with Andy on Friday afternoon. The door to his office opened and his assistant, Kim, came in. "Assistant Director," she called softly. "Can I see you for a moment?" Skinner was surprised. Kim rarely disturbed him during a meeting unless there was a real emergency. But today, he was grateful for the distraction. He walked over to the door and she handed him a sheet of paper. "I just received this e-mail for you, sir." He took the paper and began to read. It was a short memo from Special Agent Mulder resigning from his position with the FBI, effective immediately. Skinner read it, then read it again. "Agent Arnold," he spoke finally. "I'm afraid I have to postpone the rest of this meeting. Something . . urgent has come up that I must attend. to." Arnold stood immediately, and gathered his files, exiting quickly through the door Kim held open. She closed it behind them as Skinner walked to his desk and opened his private e-mail. As he expected, there was another note from Mulder. This one was longer and full of shame and self-blame. But it didn't give Skinner any more of a clue as to where the younger man was, or what he was planning to do. "Dammit, Mulder," he breathed. "Why do you keep doing things like this. . . ?" His office door opened and this time it was Special Agent Dana Scully. She held a single sheet of paper in her hand as she rushed in. "I know, I know, Scully," Skinner told her. "He didn't happen to include his location in yours, did he?" "No, sir," she answered, coming to a halt next to his desk. "This is extreme, even for Mulder. Did you speak to him at all? After he backed out on being godfather?" Skinner knew Scully had come to the same conclusion he had reached. Mulder had run off half-cocked many times before, ditched his partner and gone after some whisper of a clue without back-up or permission. He would surely expect to be punished for such behavior, but fear of punishment would not engender this reaction. In his note to Skinner, Mulder obsessed about how he'd turned his back on everything Skinner and his family had done for him, all that they'd offered him by taking him in as a member of their family. Mulder thought this was so great a sin that he could never be forgiven, never deserve the family's forgiveness. And that was what had driven him to such an extreme action. "We have to find him before . . . before he does something--," Skinner began, then stopped, shaking his head in frustration at the reaction he'd gotten from Scully. Her eyes were wide with fear now. "I don't know what I mean, Scully. We just have to find him. Any ideas at all?" They'd conferred another moment, then Scully had returned to the basement to see if she could find any information about what had gotten Mulder's attention the previous week. Skinner didn't want to alert anyone in the Bureau to the situation, not unless it became absolutely necessary. Instead, he flipped through his rolodex and found the number for the Lone Gunmen. He recognized the voice that answered as the one belonging to the tall, long-haired, unreformed hippie member of the trio. "Langly, it's Assistant Director Skinner," he said authoritatively. "Turn off the tape." In a warehouse a few miles away, Langly dropped his feet off the desk with a resounding thud, reached , and turned off the tape recorder. "It's off," he said. "Thank you," Skinner responded. "I have a . . . problem, and I need your help. . . ." Last Chance Motel Mount Pleasant, Washington Monday evening Skinner approached the door to Room 52 with trepidation. The desk clerk had mentioned that Mulder had not been seen since Saturday. Or at least the man he recognized from the photo of Mulder the AD had shown him. He had checked in under yet another pseudonym. Just as he'd flown from Montana under the same false identity. Luckily, the Lone Gunmen were apparently kept apprised of his array of choices. The guest in Room 52 had refused room cleaning ever since he checked in. Today, the maid had not even tried to get in there yet, the motel manager told him. They were beginning to worry about the situation. But now that the FBI was there, he was confident the problem would be resolved. Skinner had nodded, not wanting to mention the fact that the FBI had been there ever since their mysterious guest checked in the Friday before. He knocked on the door and heard nothing in response. His heart was racing, fear driving up the anxiety he'd been feeling since he left Washington, D.C. that afternoon. He had no idea what was going on with Mulder yet, and the Assistant Director was not a man who dealt well with the unknown. He knocked again, this time louder and harder. "I don't want the room made up," he heard Mulder's voice call through the door. It was muffled by the door, but it sounded thick with emotion. "Good. Because I'm not here to make your bed, Agent Mulder," he called back. Then he waited for the door to open. He heard sudden movement, then Mulder opened the door. The young agent looked like hell. Several day's stubble made his face look gaunt and accented the circles under his eyes. And his eyes were red-rimmed, blood-shot evidence that he'd been crying. "How--" he began, then thought better of it. It didn't matter how he'd been found. He just stood there. Certain Skinner might just deck him and leave. Part of him wishing the other man would do just that. Skinner stared at him for a few seconds as his fear melted into something else. Then he stepped into the room, enfolding Mulder into his muscled arms. "Thank God you're all right, kid," he said softly, pulling the shocked young man into an embrace. Mulder didn't respond at first, then his head came to rest on the A.D.'s shoulder, and he began to weep as though the world had ended and it was entirely his fault. The Assistant Director let him cry, hard, racking sobs that shook his entire body within the circle of the other man's arms. Skinner still didn't understand this extreme reaction. He had no data, no information as to what had led Mulder to this point, in a seedy motel in a backwater town just this side of the Canadian border. But he sensed he'd get none until the young man was ready to tell him. And that would be some time after he cried out the shame and remorse that was overwhelming him right now. "It's okay, son," the AD said, caressing the back of his head and running his hand up and down the back of his tee-shirt. "I don't know what this is about, but you just get it out. And then you can tell me, okay? . . . . Take as long as you need." In a little while Mulder's sobs reduced to hitching sounds that betrayed his emotional and physical exhaustion. Skinner steered him toward the unmade bed and, once he was lying down, he immediately slipped into unconsciousness. The AD used the break to call Scully and reassure her he'd found Mulder and he was relatively all right. Then he slipped out of the room for a few minutes and walked down to a roadhouse just south of the motel. He ordered two turkey sandwiches with all the trimmings to go, a couple of bottles of apple juice and a coffee for himself. He spotted some pound cake that looked home-made and asked for a couple of slices of that as well. Then he made his way back to the room where he found Mulder still sleeping, but tossing and turning restlessly. Skinner dropped the food on the table by the window, then went to sit beside the troubled young man. He placed a hand on Mulder's back and felt his tension begin to ease. He remained a few minutes and Mulder drifted into a more peaceful rest. The younger man finally awoke several hours later. He opened his eyes and saw Skinner sitting in a chair by the window, reading. He shut his eyes again, sure he was having that same dream again, the one in which he hadn't fucked up his life and thrown away everything that held any meaning for him. But his deep, soul-wrenching sigh got the A.D.'s attention. "Hey," he said softly. "Welcome back." Mulder's eyes popped open and he stared at the apparition in the corner. If he didn't know better, he'd think the man was really here. "I got you a turkey sandwich and some apple juice," Skinner said as he began unpacking things from a couple of brown paper bags on the table. "Go get cleaned up." Mulder sat up, trying to shake off the sense of unreality that still hung on from his deep sleep. It occurred to him that this had to be the real Skinner. Only the real one obsessed about what Mulder ate, and when, and how often. He rose from the bed without speaking and headed into the bathroom. Seeing himself in the mirror, though, he was overcome once again by the enormity of what he'd done, by the shameful memories that made him unable to face the man in the other room, or his family, to begin with. He looked around the bathroom in a panic and his eyes fell on the window. It was small, but he could squeeze through it, he knew he could. He opened it, a squeaking noise attesting to the fact the window had not been opened in years. Then he stepped onto the closed toilet seat and shimmied himself through the window, catching the leg of his sweat pants and ripping them but managing to get out nevertheless. As he made his made his escape, it occurred to him that the keys to the rental car were still in the room, and he was barefoot. "Smart, Mulder," he muttered sarcastically as his feet hit the still damp mud below the window. "Not smart, Mulder," Skinner said quietly. He was standing by the side of the building, his arms crossed over his chest. He jerked his head in the direction of the room. "Let's go." Mulder was unable to make eye contact with the other man. Head hanging, he slowly made his way back into the motel room, tears pooling in his eyes yet again. Once there, he stood in the middle of the room, unable to figure out what to do next. Skinner sensed his confusion, and his emotional turmoil. He wanted to know what was going on, but he knew Mulder well enough to know the young man had not eaten a real meal in days. And without fuel in his body, he'd be too physically spent to handle what was coming next. He took over the thinking for the both of them, knowing from experience it was the only way to get them both out the other end of this situation intact. "Sit down," he ordered, vesting his words with all his authority. "I want you to eat." "I can't--" Mulder began, his voice catching before he finished the sentence. "You will. Now do what I told you." He proceeded to unpack the sandwiches, pickles and cole slaw as Mulder reluctantly settled himself in the chair across the table. Skinner uncapped the bottles of apple juice and placed a straw in each. Skinner was starving himself and he picked up his sandwich and took a giant bite as he watched Mulder staring at his own, watching it as if it would beg for mercy at any moment. "Eat," he ordered, startling the younger man into compliance. Mulder took a tentative bite, and found his body was indeed craving nourishment, even if his brain told him he couldn't eat a thing. He took another bite, then reached for the apple juice to wash it down. The two men ate in silence. Skinner handed him a piece of pound cake as soon as he'd downed the sandwich, waiting until that too had disappeared before raising the subject he had come so far to discuss. "Okay, Mulder," he said quietly. "You've slept and eaten. Now we talk." Mulder's eyes flooded with tears. This was the moment he'd been dreading, ever since he'd realized that Skinner was really here, not a figment of his deepest hopes and wishes. Not a projection of his heartfelt desire to turn the clock back and relive the last week once again. And do it right this time. "I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, afraid that if he lifted his voice to normal volume, the tears he was holding back would break free and overwhelm him once again. "I know you're sorry," Skinner responded. "But that doesn't tell me what you're sorry for. Start at the beginning, kid and tell me the whole story." Mulder swallowed hard and began, detailing the first contact from whomever, the photo of the PTA group. Then the letter slipped under his apartment door. It was sitting on the night table next to the bed, and Skinner went and got it, reading as he listened to Mulder's narration of the events of the previous Thursday and Friday. The woman in Cascade, Montana, who'd either been primed to steer him in this direction or used unknowingly. The shocking realization that he'd been played for a fool, yet again. And sacrificed everything important in his life in pursuit of something that probably didn't exist. His regret, his shame, were like two additional presences in the room, they were so tangible. Skinner found his emotions pulled in more directions than he could track but, by the end of Mulder's recitation, it was his anger that prevailed. He got up and stalked to the end of the room, taking one deep breath after another. He strode back and stood, looming, over the younger agent. Mulder was staring at his bare feet, afraid to look into the face of the man he'd grown to consider his closest friend and surrogate father. Until he'd blown it all to hell last week. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, his voice cracking with stress and strong emotion. "I know I f-fucked up. I don't . . . know why you even bothered to come. I know I fucked it up completely--" "Mulder," the AD roared, and Mulder's head snapped up against his will. "You are a brilliant young man. Why is it you can't get this? Huh? Why is this so hard for you to understand?" Mulder flinched, as if he was expecting to be struck at any moment. Not spanked, not punished the way Skinner would have in the past. He understood that was something Skinner used to do to show Mulder he was a part of the Skinner family, that the AD loved him and would not let him stray too far out of the boundaries of that love. But Mulder had violated the trust of that relationship so completely that the younger man knew he'd killed even the possibility that the AD and his family could ever forgive him. Or take him back. And so he waited, for the final blow, the final words that would seal his fate. For his part, Skinner was struggling mightily against the anger that reared up inside him, and made him want to shake this young man until his brains rattled. He forced himself to take another deep breath and willed his voice into something closer to normal range. "Mulder, how many times have I told you that you are family to me? That my family is your family? How many times?" Mulder stared at him, unresponsive, not even aware he was expected to respond. Skinner sighed and went on. "So, if my family is your family, does it not logically follow that your family is my family, too?" The younger agent blinked at this sudden change in the way he'd anticipated this confrontation going. Confused, he struggled to follow the words he was hearing, to understand their meaning. "If you had a chance to find your sister, Mulder, I would drop everything and help you. My entire family would, if that's what it took. How is it you don't understand that? How could you lie to Andy and tell him you were away on business? How could you not let me know what was going on? I need answers, kid. I have to know how I'm failing to get through to you." Mulder was shaking as the other man's words sank in. Could it be he had completely misunderstood? "But . . . but I know I--" He faltered, unable to complete the sentence as another wave of emotion overtook him. "You fucked up, is that what you're gonna say, son? Well I have to agree with you, you did fuck up," he said softly. "But not because you went after Samantha. Because you didn't tell me. You didn't ask for help. You didn't trust me to be there for you, to want you to find her as much as you want to. You lied to Andy, when the truth would have more than explained your absence. That's the real fuck-up here, Mulder." "But I--" Mulder began to answer, then stopped, trying to get a grip on his roiling emotions. "I didn't show up for the christening. I backed out at the last minute . . . " "And you told Andy I would be a better choice, I know about that, Mulder," the AD responded. "Andy told me all about your conversation with him. But you don't get off that easy. They rescheduled the christening--" Mulder's gaze snapped to Skinner's, a look of shock widening his hazel eyes. "They-- they rescheduled?" "Yeah. There are only two key players at a christening, Mulder. You and Eileen's sister, for this one. Well, and the baby. But he goes where they tell him to! Unlike you, unfortunately. They have two baptisms a month at their church and they just rescheduled for two weeks from now. You're still the baby's godfather." "How can you . . ." he shook his head, trying to get his mind wrapped around what the AD had just told him. "How could they want me, after what I did?" "Mulder, they want you because you're family. And because of the things we know about you, about the kind of person you are. You've spent 25 years searching for your sister, son. Everyone gave up. Everyone. But not you. And you never will, because that's the way you are. And that's the kind of man they want to be this baby's godfather, kid. I don't know why this is so hard for you to get. But I'm not letting you leave here without understanding it, no matter how long it takes." Skinner rose and went to the weekend bag he'd carried in earlier. It had a change of clothes and some other necessities in it. And one other thing that would hardly be considered a necessity, except when traveling with Fox Mulder. He pulled it out and snapped the handle into place. "I had a feeling this travel paddle would come in handy eventually," Skinner said as he took a seat on the bed. "But I had no idea how soon." He crooked his finger and motioned for Mulder to come over. The younger man hesitated, still rocked by the news he'd just heard. "Now, Mulder," Skinner barked. He hid a smile that threatened to appear as his surprised young charge snapped to and instantly rushed to comply. In a few seconds, he was kneeling at Skinner's side, fresh tears pooled in his eyes. "I'm sor-- sorry, sir," he said, betraying his sudden fear that he was in for a spanking he'd remember for a long time. He'd had a taste of that paddle before and knew he was right. "I know, kid," the AD said as he got him properly positioned over his knees. "And you'll be even sorrier soon." He pulled Mulder's sweats and shorts down to his knees and laid the paddle lightly against the fleshiest part of the young man's buttocks. Mulder shivered in anticipation and clenched his cheeks, expecting it to begin. "What's this paddling for, Mulder?" the AD asked, waiting. He felt the young man over his lap tense, steeling himself for the first stroke but Skinner waited for an answer before beginning. This time he wanted to be certain Mulder understood exactly what he was being punished for. And what he would not be punished for. "For—for, um, for backing out on Andy and Eileen," he said, gulping down the tears that were already springing to the surface. "No," the AD answered him quietly. "Think it through, son. Remember what I just told you. What's this punishment for?" Mulder was crying and gulping air, and Skinner's heart went out to him. He seemed so lost and confused and the A.D.'s immediate inclination was to pull him into an embrace and just comfort him. But Skinner knew that would not do the trick, not unless the young man over his knees opened himself to hearing, and understanding, what he was saying. "Please," Mulder spoke suddenly, pleading. The waiting was pure torture. "Pleeease, sir. Just do it. Just . .. go ahead and sp-spank me. Please." His voice fell off into heartbreaking sobs. "Not until I'm sure you understand," Skinner told him, reaching down to tousle the hair on the back of his head. "Tell me, Mulder. What are you being punished for?" The dam broke suddenly and Mulder bit out his response. "For being a total fuck-up," he railed. "For—for not trusting you. Not telling you what was going on. For – OWWW!" Skinner smacked the paddle down hard onto this butt, then followed it in quick succession with a flurry of additional smacks. "OUCCHH! OHHHH! For not tell-telling you what was going on! OWWW! OUCHHH! For not asking for help! And f-for lying UNHHH! For lying to Andy! And—" His voice fell off into pitiful wailing as Skinner continued to apply the small, leather paddle to his reddened cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . " The Assistant Director sensed he'd broken through the wall of resistance as thoroughly as he could hope. He dropped the paddle on the bed, and pulled Mulder to his knees, taking the weeping young man into his arms and letting him sob until he had no more tears to give. He reached down and pulled up his sweat pants, then watched him settle down onto his haunches, his head resting against the other man's thigh. The leg of Skinner's trousers was soon wet from his tears but he ignored it, running his hand through the young agent's matted hair and making quiet soothing noises. "Do you understand now, Mulder?" he asked him gently. "Do you understand what you did wrong. What you'll always be punished for and what you'll never be punished for?" Mulder nodded his head. "Because I'm a total fuck-up, that's wha—" He was taken by surprised as Skinner lifted him up bodily and slammed him back down over his knees. In what seemed like a split second, his sweat pants and shorts were back down around his knees and the AD was smacking his butt with the small, leather paddle. "What did you say?" Skinner spit out between spanks. "Tell me again, Mulder. We'll keep doing this until you get it. What's this punishment for?" The younger agent howled in discomfort and frustration as he tried to reach back and cover his already well-punished backside. But he held back from answering, for some reason Skinner could not understand. Finally, though, his walls came tumbling back down for good and he gasped out the answers the other man wanted to hear, once again, this time with feeling. "I—I lied to Andy about where I was," he sobbed. "And I should have told you where I was going. I should have asked for help. You—you would have helped me, if I just told you . . . . " Skinner applied one additional, hard swat to the burning flesh of his bottom, then pulled up his sweats and deftly slid him off his knees and onto the floor. This time Mulder did something he'd never done before. He wrapped his arms around the other man's waist and laid his head in the A.D.'s lap. Skinner let him cry for a few minutes, caressing the back of his head in a comforting pattern until a knock on the door disturbed them both. "Housekeeping," the woman on the other side of the door called. "Oh, no!" Mulder exclaimed in a panic. "No, thanks," the AD called back through the door. "We'll be checking out in a little while." He smiled at the young man kneeling next to him. "You go take a shower and I'll settle your bill. We can make it back to Seattle tonight, then catch a flight home first thing in the morning." Mulder nodded and got up to go do as he was told. He took two steps toward the bathroom, then turned and threw himself into the A.D.'s startled arms again. "Thank you, sir," he said sincerely. "Thanks for coming all this way. And for taking me back--" Skinner smacked his backside smartly and he yelped. "I mean thanks for—for letting me stay! In the family. And everything." Mulder's hands were crossed over his butt, attempting to protect it as he backed away from Skinner, toward the bathroom door. "You know what I mean," he said, the beginning of an exhausted smile creeping onto his face. Skinner shook his head as he watched him go. He picked up the travel paddle and collapsed the handle, then dropped it into his overnight bag. They had a long ride back to Seattle ahead of them and he knew Mulder would be uncomfortable. Good, the AD thought to himself, that's the entire point. He left to go pay Mulder's bill, wondering how much extra it would cost him to buy a bed pillow. He was relatively certain the younger agent would try to sneak one out of the room to sit on during the drive ahead of him. Better to just pay for the thing. With Mulder's luck, he'd end up the object of a high-speed pursuit for stealing it, Skinner chuckled, as he headed for the front desk. They arrived in Seattle and dropped both cars off at the rental place in the airport. Then they headed to the airport hotel. Skinner had called ahead and booked them a room. He had no intention of putting the expenses for this side trip through official channels so the two men would share a room with two beds. It was simple, but damn sight cleaner and more modern than the hole-in-the-wall where Skinner had found Mulder that afternoon. Mulder had been immensely grateful for the pillow that was sitting in the driver's seat of his car when he went to leave Mount Pleasant. It had been a godsend during the several hours drive south. He was a little embarrassed when they went to return the cars, however, until Skinner loudly asked him how his back was feeling. That little kindness had not gone unnoticed, or unappreciated. But the A.D.'s soft spot hadn't turned out to be as large or deep as Mulder was beginning to hope. Once they were in the room and had gotten their dinner from room service, the younger man had turned the television on to watch the news while they ate. Skinner tolerated that without comment but when dinner was over, he reached over and picked up the remote control and turned the television off. "What'd you do that for?" Mulder asked. "Take a wild guess, kid," Skinner responded evenly as he stood and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "We still have some business to attend to, don't we?" Mulder gulped. He'd been so sure the other man had missed the other thing. Or had chosen to overlook it. At least, he'd spent the past six hours trying to convince himself that he'd gotten lucky, for once. "I don't know what you mean," he said quietly. Skinner had gone to his travel bag and taken out the paddle, had snapped its handle into place with a flourish. "Oh, come on now, Mulder," he responded patiently. "I can spank you until you remember. That was always a good memory jogger for me. And then, of course, I'll spank you again for what you did. Or we can just skip right to--" "I snuck out the bathroom window!" Mulder blurted out so quickly he stumbled over the words. "I tried to run again! While you were waiting for me. I-- I'm sorry!" "Very good, kid. I had a feeling it would come back to you. He sat on the edge of the bed and pointed at his thighs. "Here. Now." Mulder hit his knees next to the other man's legs immediately. He unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped them, pushing them and his boxers down below his butt. It was still a little sore from the earlier punishment he'd received, and he sighed deeply, anticipating what was coming next. "I know, kid," Skinner said, brushing a lock of hair back off the young man's forehead. "But I also know you don't learn from leniency. It's not in your nature. And anyway, it's not how we do it in this family, right?" Mulder felt tears sting the back of his eyes as the Assistant Director pushed him forward over his legs, positioning him just right. Mulder had really believed he'd never hear those words again from Skinner, not directed to him. It felt so good to hear it, he almost welcomed what was coming next. Almost, but not quite. "What's this paddling for?" Skinner asked him, laying the first stroke across the place where his butt met his thighs. "Oww! Ouchhh! For sneaking out! Through the bathroom window! Ohhhh! OWWW! OUCHHH! For n-not telling you I wanted to run! For not trusting you to be there for me! AHHHHH!" Skinner finished with a dozen good, hard swats, then let the young man cry over his knees for a few minutes. Then he slid Mulder off his legs and pulled him into a heartfelt hug. "I want you to remember this, Mulder," he said. "Tomorrow we've got a long ride back to D.C. and we'll buy you a blank pad in the airport. You can spend the trip writing me 500 lines of "I will never forget I'm part of the family again." Then 500 lines of "I will always tell my family about important things in my life." "What? My hand could fall off!" Mulder sputtered, irritatedly. "Mulder, I'll be carrying this travel paddle with me at all times. You can write those lines, without further complaint. Or you can write them sitting on a very sore butt. What's your choice?" The young man dropped his protest immediately, then let himself be steered toward the bed. He stepped out of his jeans then slid under the covers in just his boxers and tee-shirt. Skinner held the covers up, and the younger agent turned immediately onto his stomach and closed his eyes. "Well, what's it gonna be, kid?" Mulder grimaced. He should have known the man would expect a response. "I'll write those lines without further complaint," he sighed, stifling a yawn. "Sir." "See? You're making better choices already," Skinner said, pulling the covers back up over him and turning out the light next to the bed. Mulder sensed there was a hint of facetiousness in the A.D.'s statement, but he also knew there was a giant kernel of truth underneath it. He couldn't help but smile as he drifted off to a deep and restful sleep. *********************************************************************** Ten day later St. Francis of Assisi Church Chicago, Illinois Mulder tightened the knot on his tie for about the hundredth time that morning, swallowing nervously as he waited in a pew for the rest of the family to arrive. Scully was sitting right behind him and Eileen Skinner's sister was beside him, waiting for Eileen and Andy to come in with their new son. He didn't see Skinner join Scully in the row behind him but he felt the man turn him around by his shoulders and loosen the tie, just a little. "Your eyes look like they're about to bug out of your head, Mulder," he said quietly. "Just try to relax." "I am relaxed," the younger man responded. Then he remembered where he was. "I'm as relaxed as I could be, under the circumstances," he revised his statement on the spot, not wanting the walls to come tumbling down on the entire assembly because of him. The rest of the Skinner family made its way into the aisle behind him and now Andy escorted Eileen and the baby to the bench next to Mulder and her sister. Organ music played in the background, but the young FBI agent's mind was unable to process what exactly was playing. He had read, and reread his lines the night before. And though he had a prodigious, photographic memory, not a word was currently retained in his brain. Thank God there was a program. He'd just read along while Eileen's sister, Erin, held the kid. That was the plan and he was sticking to it. Until Eileen tapped him on the shoulder and deftly transferred the baby to him. "I-- I don't think--" he stammered. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and winked at him. "You'll be fine, Mulder. It's best just to dive in and swim." He looked to see if Erin was ready to take the baby, but she was speaking to someone in the family just behind her. He looked around in a panic and Scully reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're doing okay, Mulder," she whispered. Then she caught Eileen's attention. "I love his name, Griffin Mikhail Skinner." "Well, Mikhail is Russian, That's a Skinner family tradition, you know. We had no choice about that one," Eileen laughed. "And Griffin is derived from an old Celtic word. It means 'small woodland animal'." A look of shock registered on Mulder's face, and Scully watched him with delight. "Small woodland animal," she repeated. "Like a fox, perhaps?" "Exactly," Eileen answered with a laugh. "Griffin Mikhail," Scully said, caressing the baby's face softly. "I like it even more, now that I know what it means." THE END