The Danville Series
by Cadillac Red




ays later
AD Skinner's Apartment

Special Agent Dana Scully sat at the kitchen table with a cup of 
coffee and watched the AD cut a pancake into small pieces and slather 
it with maple syrup. He placed the small plastic plate on the high 
chair tray in front of little Fox and patted him on the head as the 
child grabbed a piece in his right hand and shoved it in his mouth. 
Skinner picked up a small fork and put it in his hand. "Like a big 
boy," he said to the child, while he absentmindedly filled a sippy cup 
with apple juice and placed that on the tray as well. 

Fox looked to be about 18 or 20 months old now, to Scully's eyes. 
Based on his physical and cognitive development, the experts estimated 
he could be up to 24 months old. And the pace at which he was growing 
was speeding up considerably.

"So that's it, Scully?" he asked, taking a seat across from her. "No 
one has a clue how to reverse whatever was done to him?"

Scully lowered her eyes. She'd been preparing herself for this 
conversation since the medical team met the evening before. But that 
didn't make it any easier. She was struggling with her own emotional 
reaction to the devastating news as well.

"Sir, we can't even figure out how . . . how they did it to begin 
with." She shook her head, shaking off her deep sense of failure and 
abject fear of what was going to happen. "It's scientifically 
impossible. And we can see he's aging, even faster now. But we have no 
idea what this is going to entail. Or how it will affect him. Or 
whether . . . he can survive the physical strain. There's no 
precedent. . . . "

Skinner blinked at her inference but brushed it aside immediately. He 
would not spend any time contemplating that eventuality. He couldn't. 
"We have to rely on Krycek, then," he said quietly. "On his word. We 
have no other choice."

Scully took her cue from the AD and moved on. It was her natural 
inclination as well, to focus on what could be done, not what might 
happen if . . . . "I contacted Dr. Werber, asked him to consult with 
us," she said evenly.

"The hypnotist?" 

"He's a respected psychologist, sir. Except for his . . . interest in 
alien abductees. And, even in that area, he's a voice of reason, for 
the most part. He did a lot of work with Mulder, and I thought he 
could help us figure out how to make certain this child--" she 
gestured at the boy, who'd given up on the fork. He was happily 
stuffing pancake into his mouth, with both hands. "That he'd . . . 
grow up to be as much like Mulder as possible."

Skinner put a hand out and laid it on Fox's. "Chew first," he said 
simply, watching the child do as instructed. "Swallow." Then he handed 
the sippy up to the boy. "Now drink some juice." The AD gave Scully a 
rueful half-smile. "He's actually a whole lot more cooperative in this 
state. . . "

She smiled and nodded. "Yes. I see that. But that's why I wanted to 
get in touch with Dr. Werber. Who knows how Mulder's life experience 
worked to make him who he was? If he . . . When he grows up again, we 
want him to be the old Mulder. There's a lot of debate about the 
nature vs. nurture issue. Some things are genetically programmed. But 
other stuff is directly the result of the experiences and 
relationships and . . . so many other things."

"Scully, it's not possible for us to replicate his childhood. It's not 
possible for anyone to do it. The world has changed. His father's 
dead. His sister's missing. His mother's 35 years older than she was 
when he was a child. She doesn't live in Martha's Vineyard--"

"I know, sir," she interrupted anxiously. "And we have no idea how 
he's going to learn. He can't go to school, aging at the rate he is. 
It's just a complete . . . unknown. But we have to focus on it now, 
before it's too late--"

"More!" the little boy interjected, loudly demanding their attention. 
He banged his sippy cup on the tray. "Me want more juice!"

Scully and Skinner were startled out of their concentrated attention 
on each other and they smiled simultaneously. "What do you say when 
you want something, Fox?" Skinner asked as he rose and stepped toward 
the refrigerator.

The boy furrowed his forehead, thinking. Then he remembered. "Now!" he 
said triumphantly. 

"And you were worried he wouldn't turn out to be the old Mulder," 
Skinner chuckled as he poured more apple juice into the sippy cup. He 
held the sippy cup in front of the child and looked directly at him. 
"And the word I was looking for is 'please,'" he said as little Fox 
reached up to grab it.

"Dankoo," the boy said, a maple-syrup smeared grin telegraphing how 
pleased he was with himself.

Skinner sighed and turned to Scully. "Well, we have to figure out 
where he's going to stay on a more permanent basis, soon, Scully. I 
have to get back to work. And, as you can see, I'm not the best 
candidate for this job."

Scully listened and nodded. This arrangement would not work for the 
long-term, if there was a long-term. But she couldn't help thinking 
that, based on what she'd seen so far, there probably wasn't a better 
candidate for this job.

********************************************************************

The next night
2:12 a.m.

Skinner started awake, alerted by the sound of a child crying. He was 
out of the bed and down the hall in a flash.

"What's wrong, honey?" he asked as he flicked on the light and strode 
over to the crib. The baby was standing up in his crib, and he was 
covered with vomit, as was the sheet. He was crying fiercely, and he 
reached his arms up immediately, wanting to be held. The AD lifted his 
shirt over his head, then stripped off the pajama bottoms. The child 
had vomit in his hair, too but he lifted him into his arms anyway and 
was stunned to feel how hot he was.

"You're running a fever," he said soothingly, trying to decide what to 
do next. They'd bought a baby thermometer that first day. Where was 
it? He remembered putting it in the hall bathroom and walked the child 
there, still trying to calm his crying. The thermometer was one of 
those new-fangled ones that you stick in the ear and he pulled it out 
of the medicine closet and used it quickly. "104.2," he said 
worriedly. "Now what?"

He went straight to the phone and called Scully. "Put him in a 
lukewarm bath," she instructed. "I'll be right over."

Skinner did as instructed, trying to hold the child in the barely warm 
water over his strong, physical protests. "Shhh," he said as quietly 
as he could and still be heard. "This is gonna make you feel better. 
And my neighbors are gonna think I'm killing you if you keep this up."

But the boy continued to kick and scream and finally, Skinner pulled 
him out and used the thermometer again. His temperature was a little 
higher than it had been before. "Where are you, Scully?" he asked out 
loud. "I need help here. . . "

He waited another minute, then heard his doorman buzzing. Gathering 
the screaming baby into a towel, he ran to the intercom and told the 
man to send her up. He opened his door and went back to the bathtub, 
running some more cold water in and placing the child back in it. 
Scully appeared behind him and he quickly told her the situation. 

She tried the thermometer again. "105.4."

"It's gone up again, Scully!" he responded. "Even though he's in a 
cool bath."

Scully made an immediate medical judgment and acted on it. "We have to 
get him to the emergency room," she said, gathering up things as 
Skinner pulled him back out of the bath. The child's agonizing cries 
were sending both of them over the edge with worrying and wanting to 
do something to ease his discomfort.

They rushed him to Georgetown Medical Center where the emergency room 
staff was already alerted. They were met at the door to the emergency 
room and the staff took him and plunged him into another tub of cool 
water. The child's screams rose precipitously and he fought them 
furiously, trying to climb out, looking at Skinner with huge, wounded, 
tear-filled eyes. "No! NO! NO! PLEEEASE! NO!" he babbled, giving the 
AD a look that bespoke his fear and sense of betrayal that Skinner 
would let them do this to him.

Skinner stood there, thinking his heart was going to pound its way 
right out of his chest until Scully pulled him out of the treatment 
area and into a waiting room. "They know what they're doing. Let them 
work," she said.

He was still pacing in the waiting room when she returned 20 minutes 
later with the attending physician. The doctor explained that his 
temperature was still rising, they'd only slowed the progression. "And 
he's in a great deal of pain. His heart rate's dangerously high. We're 
going to have to give him something for it. Does he have any 
allergies?"

Skinner and Scully exchanged a glance that was filled with unspoken 
thoughts and feelings. She was still unconvinced about what was in the 
vial. He had been carrying it with him at all times, anticipating the 
moment when it would be needed. The A.D.'s eyes begged the question: 
is this the time? Hers answered, communicating her frustration at not 
knowing what it was, or what it would do to the child. 

"We need to see him," Skinner told the doctor. The physician shot him 
a look of surprise and irritation. 

"This is a critical situation-'' he began, only to be interrupted by 
the AD brushing past him, toward the treatment room. Scully scrambled 
to catch up with him.

"Sir," she whispered as she strode up beside him. "What are you going 
to do?"

They could hear the child screaming now, loud and anguished cries. As 
Skinner and Scully approached, the boy's eyes lit on them and he 
reached out, trying to escape the nurses restraining him. Skinner's 
arms responded and the boy nearly leapt off the table and into his 
embrace. "Shhhh, Fox," Skinner said quietly. "It's gonna be okay." The 
child's cries grew a little less hysterical, but he was clearly in 
agony.

Skinner asked the nurses to give him a minute and they exchanged 
surprised glances but responded to the quiet authority the AD exuded. 
Scully watched them go, then turned to Skinner.

"I just don't know--" she began, then stopped as he pulled the silver 
cylinder out of his shirt pocket.

"What choice do we have?" he asked, as the baby's crying began to 
increase in volume again. Whatever was happening to him was getting 
worse.

"We don't know what this is," she responded angrily. "What if it . . . 
kills him?"

"His fever's getting higher, Scully. He's burning up. He could go into 
convulsions at any moment. And the doctor doesn't have a clue what to 
do except to give him painkillers. Am I missing another choice here?" 
The child screamed in pain and clutched at Skinner's neck. He was 
simply babbling now, no coherent words just sounds that nearly broke 
both of their hearts. "I'll do it, Scully. You hold him."

Scully closed her eyes for a second, then came to a decision. "No, you 
hold him," she said, uncapping the cylinder and taking out the 
hypodermic. She popped the cap off and loosened the child's diaper, 
before plunging the needle into an area on his right buttock. He 
yowled once again, clutching at Skinner and trying to escape as Scully 
refastened the diaper tab, praying she'd made the right choice.

In less than a minute, the child's crying began to subside. Scully had 
quickly recapped the hypo and put it back in the cylinder, then 
slipped it in her purse. Skinner was walking the child around the 
treatment room, rocking him gently and speaking to him in soothing 
tones as the boy quieted quickly and looked like he would drift into 
an exhausted sleep. The doctor came in with a nurse right behind him.

"What's happened?" he asked anxiously. Scully told him she thought the 
child's fever had broken and he checked it immediately. It was down 
below 102, and the boy's pain seemed to have ended as mysteriously as 
it had begun. Skinner let him fall asleep in his arms, then laid him 
back on the table, where his temperature and vital signs were checked 
yet again. They were rapidly falling to normal ranges and the doctor 
was visibly stumped. "We'd like to keep him overnight, for 
observation," he said. But Scully and Skinner insisted they would take 
him home. Over the physician's strong protests, they were finally 
allowed to do so.

An hour later, they both stood next to the crib and watched the little 
boy sleeping peacefully in his own crib, no sign of the 
life-threatening ordeal he'd been through a few hours earlier. 

"It worked," Skinner said quietly. "Whatever it was, it saved his 
life. Krycek was telling the truth."

"Yes, it would appear so," Scully agreed, however reluctantly. "Let's 
just hope he comes through with more, for the next time." She turned 
and headed for the bedroom door, intent on getting to the laboratory 
at Johns Hopkins. There would be some residue in the hypodermic in her 
bag and she had work to do. "Good night, sir." 

"I'll walk you to the door," Skinner answered, taking one last moment 
to make sure the baby was settled. He didn't know how long it would be 
until the next incident. And the fact they were relying on Krycek to 
get more of the life-saving medicine worried him to distraction. All 
he could be sure of was that for now, tonight, the child was safe and 
secure in his own bed. It wasn't much, but in some ways, it was 
everything.

Several days later
The New England Thruway

"I am firsty," little Fox said from his car seat in the back of 
Skinner's jeep. "We stop now?"

"No, Fox, we're not stopping again," the AD answered, glancing in the 
rear-view mirror. "We already stopped six times on this trip. We only 
have a little bit more to go." He watched the little boy's face turn 
to look out the window and knew he was bored. Deciding he could stand 
to hear "Wee Songs" one more time, Skinner popped the CD back in the 
player and listened as the child sang along, a little off key but 
enthusiastically nevertheless. 

Between "Michael Row Your Boat" and "I'm a Policeman Dressed in Blue," 
the boy spoke again. "I am hungry," he said. Skinner smiled to 
himself. His facility with language was growing every day, his grammar 
adjusted and corrected on a continual basis, but he had not yet 
developed real cunning. They'd stopped at McDonald's and had lunch 
less than an hour earlier. 

"We're almost there, kid," the AD told him. "We're not stopping."

The child received this information without protest and proceeded to 
sing along to the next two songs. Then he spoke again. "I have to go 
pee-pee," he said emphatically.

That was all Skinner needed to hear. "Hang on," he said. The boy was 
just getting the hang of toilet training and would not be able to hold 
it very long. He pulled the car off the turnpike at the next exit and 
drove right to the first fast-food place he saw. He practically flew 
out of the car and opened the back door, unbuckling the belt on the 
car seat and lifting the child out and into his arms. Then he strode 
as quickly as he could into the restaurant and right to the men's 
room. Where the boy proceeded to expel not more than an ounce of 
liquid before announcing he was done. 

"We get soda now?" he said innocently, as Skinner was helping him zip 
and button back up.

"Why you sneaky little. . . son of a gun," the AD said, breaking into 
an involuntary laugh. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He lifted 
the boy to the sink and let him wash his hands. "Remind me not to 
underestimate you again, pal."

They stopped for sodas and got back in the car. As the child sipped 
his, he suddenly raised the subject the AD least wanted to discuss 
again. "Why we go here?"

Skinner had tried to prepare Fox for the fact they were going to 
Greenwich, to his mother's home. He'd called and broken the news to 
Teena Mulder a week earlier. She'd been shocked and tearful by the end 
of the conversation and Skinner had decided to let her absorb it 
before discussing the next item on the agenda. Now that Fox was a baby 
again, where did he belong? 

They didn't know how long it would take him to grow up again. His 
growth rate was faster than normal at the least, and incredibly rapid 
as his need for the vaccine grew. If they got enough, as often as he 
needed it, it could be six months to a year before he was back to 
normal, Scully estimated. If they didn't, he might not survive at all. 
But they were both counting on Krycek to come through for them now. At 
this point, it was their only hope.

But Skinner and Scully had debated long and hard about where he should 
be during this second childhood. The so-called experts could provide 
no sure guidance. There was no precedent for this situation. Dr. 
Werber and the developmental specialist both advised that he be 
somewhere familiar, so his memories would return as intact as 
possible. They all thought the child would probably be best served 
with his real mother. That left Skinner with the difficult task of 
telling Mrs. Mulder what had happened to her son. And then telling her 
what the experts suggested. Mulder's relationship with his mother was 
strained at times, and distant at best. This was not a conversation 
the AD undertook with much confidence. But he knew he owed it to 
Mulder to try to work things out.

"We're going to see your mommy," Skinner told him for about the 
hundredth time. This child had no frame of reference for mother, 
apparently. His memories, so far, seemed to be limited to what had 
happened to him in this second go-round. But everyone expected that, 
sooner or later, his old memories would return. Unless his mind had 
been wiped clean. The truth was, they had no clue.

"Then we go home?" he asked. Skinner frowned. He'd told Fox several 
times that he would be staying with his mommy. Talked about how much 
she wanted to see him, and be with him. And all the things Fox would 
do with her. For some reason, though, the boy refused to accept it. 
The AD hoped that, once they were together, the natural bond between 
the mother and son would surface.

"No, we're both staying tonight. And then you get to stay with your 
Mommy, remember?" he said enthusiastically. "And she'll read to you. 
And put you to bed. And take you to the playground. . . ."

Skinner could see the boy's face cloud over with worry and his heart 
went out to the child. In his short lifetime, he'd been moved from 
place to place already. Taken care of by multiple people. Experienced 
two hospitalizations, one accompanied by more pain than any baby 
should have to endure. No wonder he was apprehensive at yet another 
change. The AD pressed the track changer on the CD player and got to 
the song that was the child's favorite. "Tell you what," he said. 
"I'll sing "Old McDonald" with you, okay?"

The smile that lit the child's face made even the 16th round of 
"Ee-eye-ee-eye-o" worthwhile, the AD thought as they both began to 
sing.

**********************************************************************

Teena Mulder's Home
Greenwich, Connecticut

Skinner pulled the jeep into the driveway of the big white house. Fox 
had grown quiet in the last few minutes and Skinner thought he might 
have fallen asleep. But he was wide awake when the AD lifted him down 
from the back seat. Skinner kept up a cheery patter about how good it 
was they were finally here, and how much fun they would have as they 
walked up to the door and onto the porch. He lifted his hand to knock 
but the door opened right up.

"Hello," Mrs. Mulder said but her eyes were on the child. She teared 
up immediately. "Oh, my God. It's . . . really true," she breathed. "I 
heard what you said but I couldn't really grasp it, Mr. Skinner. But . 
. . that's him. That's my son at the age of two. Exactly the same." 
She knelt down and reached out for the boy, who wrapped both arms 
around Skinner's left leg and hid his head behind the man's muscled 
thigh.

"Fox," he said gently. "Say hello to your Mommy. She wants to see you, 
son. It's okay," he continued as he deftly pulled the boy off his leg 
and picked him up so Teena Mulder could get a better look at him. 
"He's just a little shy sometimes. He'll warm right up."

"Oh, I understand. This is hard for me and I'm an adult. . . " her 
voice trailed off, as she realized what she was saying. Her 
38-year-old son was no longer an adult, but a two-year-old toddler who 
didn't recognize her. She seemed flustered and overwhelmed and Skinner 
stepped in to ease the situation.

"Believe me, I understand what you're going through. I've had weeks to 
get used to it and it still sends me reeling at moments. Can we come 
in?"

"Oh, of course! Please forgive me." She led the way into the living 
room and motioned for him to take a seat on the sofa. Skinner looked 
around the room and noted all the glass and porcelain knick-knacks 
with a quiet sigh. She'd obviously forgotten what it was like to have 
a 2-year-old in the house. He'd have to keep a close watch on Fox's 
little hands until she realized these things had to be put away, for 
now. Which he estimated would take no time, once the little boy warmed 
up and began to explore. He only hoped he could avert serious damage 
before that happened.

Mrs. Mulder bustled around getting the AD a cup of coffee and Fox a 
glass of juice. Skinner saw the glass she was going to give him and 
quickly extracted a sippy cup out of the one bag he'd brought in with 
him. He hadn't wanted to scare her with all the things in the back of 
the jeep right away. "Better safe than sorry," he said breezily. "He's 
not too good with glasses yet."

"Oh, of course not," she responded. "I'm afraid it's been a while. I 
wasn't thinking--"

"No, don't worry. It's taken me a while to get the hang of it. I'm 
sure you'll adapt a lot faster. You've had children," he told her, 
then kicked himself mentally when he saw the dark cloud that passed 
over her eyes. <Good one, Walter! Go ahead and remind her about her 
missing daughter, why don't you?> 

He was trying to think of a way to distract her, when his eyes fell on 
the two-year-old holding a porcelain vase that looked expensive. Very 
expensive. He rose quietly and covered the distance in two long 
strides, carefully taking the vase out of the child's hands and 
substituting his juice cup. "I think you should put this someplace out 
of reach," he said with a smile. "Looks valuable."

"Oh, yes! Thank you, Mr. Skinner. That's a family heirloom." She put 
it on a shelf of the bookcase about five feet high. Then she surveyed 
the rest of the room with this newly remembered perspective. "My 
goodness. I'll have to put a lot of things away, I guess," she said 
quietly. "I don't know why I didn't think of it. . . . "

Skinner helped her 'Fox-proof' the room, then he settled back into the 
sofa. Mrs. Mulder had brought a fresh cup of coffee for the both of 
them as Skinner pulled a coloring book and crayons out of the bag he'd 
brought in. He gave them to the boy and watched him plop himself down 
on the carpet in the middle of the floor and begin coloring. He hadn't 
yet gotten the idea of staying within the lines, so his efforts were 
largely unfathomable but he was proud of them nonetheless. The two 
adults made polite conversation that never touched on the real reason 
for this visit until he came over with the book to show Skinner his 
efforts.

"That's great, Fox," the AD said. "What color is this?"

"Gween," the boy answered, with a proud smile.

"And this one?"

"Bwue. And wed and yewow," he added, pointing out two more colors he'd 
used.

"Very good! Why don't you show your Mommy?" the AD said, giving him a 
gentle push. "She'd like to see your pictures, too."

The boy smiled at her shyly, looking up from beneath thick, dark 
lashes. He stepped closer and thrust the book toward her.

"Oh, that's very good, Fox," she said and he beamed in response to the 
praise. "I remember what a good colorer you were. And look at this 
one," she added, turning the page to the next picture. 

Skinner watched them hopefully. The first few minutes had been awkward 
but perhaps, once she was able to get used to the idea, this would 
work out after all. Scully had been doubtful but they all knew it was 
the best possible solution if Mrs. Mulder agreed to let him stay with 
her.

It was a beautiful spring day, almost summer-like and Mrs. Mulder 
suggested they sit out in the yard. It was a big, green expanse of 
lawn, with lawn furniture placed strategically around the garden. But 
there was little for a small child to do and Skinner went back inside 
and got a bottle of bubble solution he'd brought along. They spent the 
next hour pleasantly, all three of them laughing easily as the boy 
chased and tried to catch the bubbles the AD blew into the afternoon 
breeze. Fox tried to blow some, too but his pucker and blow action 
wasn't quite up to snuff yet. But his carefree laughter and wondrous 
facial expressions were a joy to both adults.

Skinner and Teena were chatting when Fox suddenly appeared at the 
Assistant Director's side, tugging at his sleeve. He looked a little 
sheepish and, as Skinner leaned down, he cupped his hands and put them 
to the A.D.'s ear. 

"Oh, that's okay, honey," Skinner said quietly. He gave Mrs. Mulder a 
wink as he lifted the child into his arms and headed into the house. 
"We've had a little . . . accident. Be right back."

They returned in about 10 minutes, with the two-year-old changed into 
a new outfit. Skinner was carrying a large plastic whiffleball and a 
plastic bat and the boy ran out into the yard and stopped about 50 
feet away. "Frow me the ball," he yelled back.

Skinner laughed and waved him in a little closer. When he was about 20 
feet away, the AD tossed him the ball, which passed him about a second 
before he swung the bat. He laughed and quietly assured Mrs. Mulder 
she had nothing to worry about. "He never hits it," he told her. "His 
eye-hand coordination's not up to this yet, but he'd spend hours at 
it, anyway!"

"Call me, Teena, please," she answered with a smile. "He was always 
single-minded, even as a baby."

"Thank you. And please call me Walter," the AD responded. He was 
certain this was going well, better than he'd expected. By this time 
tomorrow, he'd be on his way back to Washington and the little boy 
with the bat would be safely at home with his mother. He was surprised 
at the lump that formed in his throat at that realization. 

The three of them had a pleasant dinner, marred only by Fox dropping a 
carton of milk when he tried to pour himself a glass while no one was 
looking. The boy grew fearful and teary when it happened but the AD 
laughed it off, helping himself to paper towels and cleaning up the 
mess with dispatch. "Good try, champ," he told the child. "But next 
time, you should ask for help, okay? Promise?" The child nodded his 
agreement and the man gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head and 
returned the conversation to what they'd been discussing before the 
incident. 

Teena Mulder had made a lemon meringue pie for dessert. Fox tasted it 
and declined more with a face that would put a gargoyle to shame. 
Luckily the AD had packed some of his favorite cookies and he happily 
chewed on a couple of those while the adults had coffee and finished 
their meal. By 7 o'clock, though, the baby was beginning to fade fast.

"Would you like to get him ready for bed?" Skinner asked her. "I'll be 
happy to clean up here--"

"No, dear," Teena said quickly. "I can take care of things here. You 
know what you're doing. Why don't you get started and I'll come up 
when I'm through in the kitchen."

Skinner nodded, although he was disappointed by her response. He was 
only staying for one night and he thought it was important to get the 
boy comfortable with her before he left. But so far, she'd left all 
the parenting to him. He sighed quietly and tousled the boy's hair. 
"Ready for a bath, Fox?" he asked, and received a sunny smile and a 
big nod. "You pick out a story to read before bed while I run the 
water, okay?" The boy jumped down from the chair he'd been kneeling on 
and took Skinner's hand. Teena watched them head toward the stairs, 
one big and tall, the other small, heads turned toward each other. She 
could hear their easy laughter as Skinner lifted the child and carried 
him up the stairs. It was a joy to her heart to see Fox so happy and 
carefree. She thought back, but it was hard for her to remember a time 
like that, she realized.

Teena stood at the door to the hall bathroom a little while later. 
Skinner was sitting on the closed toilet seat and Fox was in the tub. 
She could overhear their conversation about nothing much at all. What 
book Fox wanted read before he went to sleep. How many pages. What 
they would do tomorrow. She recognized that Skinner was dancing a 
little around the subject of tomorrow as he helped the child out of 
the tub and into the warmth of a dry towel. He toweled Fox's hair, 
then lifted him up to the mirror so he could see his hair standing 
straight up, which set the boy laughing hysterically. Skinner caught 
sight of Teena in the hallway and carried Fox into the bedroom to get 
him dressed, smoothly bringing her into the conversation by asking if 
she'd be willing to read to her son. 

"Tell her what book you want, Fox," he prompted the child.

"Peter Pan," the boy told her. "I like Peter. And Hook. And Smee. And 
Tiger Wiwwy and Wendy and John and Mike. . . ."

Teena glanced at Skinner, startled. "Mike?"

"We read this a lot. We've reached a high degree of familiarity," he 
chuckled.

"Peter can fwy," the child continued. "And Tink, too."

Skinner lifted him into the big bed, placing him square in the middle. 
"Tinker Bell," he told the child as he settled him in and asked him to 
find the page where they had left off. "He avoids all words with "L" 
in them, when possible," he quietly told his mother. "But his speech 
improves noticeably every day."

"He learned fast the first time, too," she answered, settling down 
beside him. Skinner had run out to the store not long after he'd seen 
the bedroom she planned to give Fox. He'd purchased a nylon siding 
that attached to the bed's headboard and footboard and would serve to 
keep the child from falling out of the bed. It was hanging loose on 
one side right now so Mrs. Mulder could sit with him and read. Skinner 
crept out of the room and left them alone. He'd come back and put it 
in place later.

He was sitting in the study, thinking, when she came downstairs a 
while later. "I tried to put the siding up," she said as she reentered 
the study a while later. "But you may want to check to see if it's 
tight enough. And we finished the book. He wouldn't let me stop until 
we reached the end."

"He'd do that every night, if you let him get away with it," Skinner 
laughed. "He's somewhat strong-willed for a toddler."

"He always was," she said, settling down in a wing chair. "It was a 
sore point with Bill. Fox questioned everything and he . . . my 
husband had little patience with that."

Skinner nodded. Mulder had shared only a few stories from his 
childhood but he knew from what he'd heard that his relationship with 
his father had not been good. He had never said much about his mother, 
Skinner realized now.

"Bill wasn't a bad man, Walter," she said suddenly. "He . . . we 
became trapped in something we couldn't control. In those days fathers 
were not actively involved in raising children, not like today. He 
loved the children but he was . . . detached. He traveled a great deal 
with his work. And when he was home, he left everything related to the 
children to me. I guess that's why he was able to . . . to choose. . . 
." Her voice had become barely more than a whisper.

Skinner was shocked beyond words at her revelation. He mentally shook 
himself into responding. "You . . . you were asked to choose," he said 
simply. "To choose which of your children would be taken?"

Teena Mulder sighed wearily. "Yes. I've never even told Fox. We were 
asked to decide which one they could have. And we chose him. But they 
took Samantha."

Skinner felt his skin go cold with fury and an overwhelming sense of 
grief. To be asked to give up one of your children was a horror no 
parent should have to face. To have to choose which one was monstrous, 
inhuman. And the Mulders had done it. However unwillingly, they had 
chosen to give up their son. And the bastards in the consortium had 
been even crueler in the end. They'd taken the other child, the one 
the parents wanted to keep. 

Or at least the one Teena Mulder wanted to keep with her. He 
understood that truth now, as surely as he knew anything. And he 
wondered if the adult Mulder knew it too, on some subconscious level. 
The young man had been as intuitive as hell.

A while back Mulder learned his father had helped conceal tests that 
showed his son would be the best choice to go, so Skinner suspected 
Bill Mulder was a party to the decision to let them take Samantha. But 
he'd never told his wife that. The secrets within the Mulder family 
were deep and far-reaching. And Skinner knew without a doubt it was 
those same secrets that had put their son in the precarious situation 
in which he now found himself. The Assistant Director remained silent, 
afraid anything he said would betray his anger and his shock.

"My husband and I never spoke of it again," she continued. "After 
Samantha was taken, we hardly spoke at all. And I'm afraid, Fox 
suffered for our sins. He was devastated when she disappeared. When I 
look back, I realize he . . . he must feel like he lost his entire 
family that night. My . . . guilt and sorrow . . . Bill's anger. . . . 
They used up every ounce of energy we had. There was nothing left over 
for him. . . ." She stopped, her voice choked with emotion.

"I--," Skinner began, but he knew whatever words he offered would be 
inadequate. So he focused on the only positive thing he could think 
of. "Perhaps this . . . situation, is your second chance," he said 
quietly. "To make it up to him. To do right by him."

She looked up at him, uncertainty and fear unmistakable in her eyes. 
"Perhaps," she said tentatively. "Perhaps you're right, Walter."

**********************************************************************


3:24 a.m.

Skinner woke suddenly, unsure what had disturbed his sleep. A crack of 
thunder and a flash of lightning outside the window caught his 
attention and he dropped his head back down on the pillow, thinking it 
was the storm that had awakened him. But a cry from Fox a few seconds 
later got him up and running. He knew immediately that the child's 
crying was the thing that had pierced the outer boundary of 
consciousness and demanded his attention.

"Shhh," he whispered as he entered the room across the hall from his. 
"It's okay, honey. I'm here." He untied the nylon safety and sat down 
on the edge of the bed, taking the small boy into his arms. "It's only 
a rainstorm, Fox. Nothing to be scared of."

"I n-no like tunder," the boy sobbed, wrapping his arms around the 
A.D.'s neck and climbing into his lap. "I no like wightning, too."

Skinner smiled at his lapse in grammar. In the daytime, he was fully 
able to form correct sentences, at least simple ones. But in the 
middle of the night, scared and shaking, he reverted a bit. "It's just 
a rainstorm, nothing to worry about. I'll stay with you for a while. 
Until it's over. Will that help?"

"Yes, you stay," the boy said firmly. "You sleep here." He patted the 
bed beside him and waited for the AD to agree. 

"Okay, I'll stay a little while. You go back to sleep now and I'll 
stay right here." Skinner laid him back down and pulled the covers 
back over him.

"No! You stay here," the boy responded, at full volume.

"Shhhh, Fox," Skinner answered, with as much authority as he could 
invest in a whisper. "You don't want to wake your Mommy, do you? I'll 
stay with you until you fall asleep, okay?"

"No! You stay with me! You sleep here! Please!" The child had begun 
sobbing again and Skinner quickly lifted the covers and slid under 
them himself.

"Okay, kid," he said, trying to calm and quiet the boy at the same 
time. "I'll stay. You go back to sleep now. I'll stay right here." 
Skinner pulled the pillow under his own head as Fox snuggled into his 
arms, his head resting on the A.D.'s chest. The boy sighed and fell 
back into a peaceful slumber despite the continuing storm. Skinner 
decided to wait it out before going back to his own room but he also 
fell asleep before the storm passed. 

Skinner was embarrassed, and surprised, that they slept until almost 8 
o'clock in the morning. He got Fox up and dressed as quickly as 
possible, then sent him downstairs to his mother while the AD showered 
and dressed. Skinner could smell fresh-brewed coffee as soon as he 
woke and guessed she'd been up and waiting for them. When he entered 
the kitchen, Mrs. Mulder had coffee and fresh-cut melon waiting. Fox 
was kneeling at the kitchen table, coloring in his book and drinking 
something from his sippy cup. Things appeared to be going well, 
Skinner thought.

They had a cereal breakfast and Mrs. Mulder popped some cinnamon buns 
into the oven. Skinner suspected they would not appeal to Fox, and he 
was right, but they smelled heavenly and he himself downed four of 
them with a second cup of coffee. Once breakfast was done, he helped 
clean up the kitchen while Fox watched Sesame Street on television in 
the den. 

"I'll start bringing in the rest of his things now, if it's okay," 
Skinner said as they put the last dish away. "I was afraid the amount 
of stuff he comes with might be overwhelming at first--"

"Mr. Skinner," she interrupted him. "I mean, Walter. Can I speak 
frankly?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out at first. So he 
nodded, then found his voice. "Yes. Of course."

"I was up most of the night," she said, taking a seat at the kitchen 
table and motioning for him to do the same. "I don't know what you 
think of me. I can only imagine. But I love my son. I want the best 
for him."

"I have no reason to doubt that," Skinner told her sincerely. "That's 
why I brought him here."

"I know you brought him because you thought it would be best for him. 
But, Walter, I'm an old woman. I've been ill. I recovered from my 
stroke, far better than the doctors thought possible, but I'm at least 
a step or two slower than I was. I can't begin to try to raise a child 
again. I don't have the energy, or the patience anymore."

Skinner heard her words and a part of him was angry, and afraid for 
Fox. Afraid this would be just one more rejection for him. But another 
part of him knew she was speaking the truth. He'd suspected it in the 
time he'd been here, but hadn't wanted to believe that she would be 
unable to take care of Fox. He had no back-up plan, no one else in 
mind to take the boy.

"I don't know what to say," he said slowly. "I-- When we spoke last 
night, I thought you. . . . I thought this would be a second chance 
for you and him."

"I think this is a second chance for him," she responded warmly. "He 
was short-changed the first time, in more ways than one. Bill and I 
did the best we could but he deserved better that we could give him."

She stopped speaking and began staring out the window, and he thought 
she must be lost in her recollections. But she was not thinking back 
very far. "I've watched you with him," she continued, turning back to 
Skinner. "I peeked in and saw you sleeping in his bed this morning, 
and I heard you comfort him last night. It's done my heart good these 
last two days, to see him this way, so happy, so secure and loved. So 
you see what I'm saying, Walter. I think perhaps his second chance is 
with you. Perhaps it was meant to be, all along."

A little while later, Skinner found himself loading all of Fox's 
clothes and toys back into the jeep. He'd been stunned by Teena 
Mulder's refusal to keep her son, although he had begun to think 
raising him again would be more than she could handle. He'd thought 
she'd get help, a nanny, perhaps. She could certainly afford it. Now 
he was about to leave with Fox and he had no idea what to do next. 
He'd extended his vacation a second week but he had to go back to work 
soon. 

And the child was confused now. Skinner had been preparing him to stay 
with his mother for days before they arrived here. And while the boy 
had been anxious and unsettled at the thought of being separated from 
Skinner, this sudden change in plans would be unsettling in another 
way. He had to find an explanation that would not make the boy feel 
unwanted. Just as he had to find someplace for Fox to live. His mind 
spinning with concern, Skinner finished packing up the jeep and 
returned for his last item, the boy. As he entered the house, he heard 
him in the study with Teena.

"I go home now?" Fox asked her. "Not stay here?" Skinner had already 
explained it to him, but he seemed to be checking the accuracy of what 
he'd been told, the AD realized sadly. His sense of security had been 
shaken, it appeared.

"Yes, you're going home now, darling. I'm so glad you came to visit 
me," Teena told him, giving him a hug. "I hope you come back soon."

"Okay," he said agreeably. He seemed to relax visibly at her words. "I 
ask Daddy."

Teena Mulder's eyes caught Skinner's just as he came into the room. He 
turned pink and was clearly startled and embarrassed at the boy's 
remark. Fox had never called him that before. But Teena smiled at him 
as the toddler jumped off the couch and ran over to him, putting up 
his arms as a signal that he wanted to be picked up. Skinner responded 
automatically, lifting him into his arms.

"Daddy, we go home now!" Fox said firmly. "Come back later, okay, 
Daddy?"

Teena rose from the couch, laughing. She gave Skinner a kiss on the 
cheek, then she took the child's face in her hands and kissed him, 
too. "Yes, Fox," she said. "You and your Daddy come visit often, okay, 
darling?"

"Okay," he said with all the authority a two-year-old could muster. 
"Good-bye."

"I think that's our signal to go," Skinner said, relaxing a little. 
Mrs. Mulder didn't appear to be upended in the least. He'd let the 
incident go as well. He bid Teena farewell and he and Fox headed for 
the jeep as she waved from the front door. He buckled the child into 
his car seat, then checked to make sure it was securely fastened onto 
the back seat.

"Well, kid," he said, tousling the little boy's hair, "it looks like 
it's just you and me. Don't ask me how but we'll figure it out, okay?"

The boy gave him a giant grin in response. "I am firsty," he said. "We 
go to McDonald's?"

Skinner shook his head and closed the door, sighing dramatically as he 
walked around to the driver's door. "We're not even out of the 
driveway yet. This is gonna be the longest day of my life," he 
muttered under his breath. 

But as he got into the car, and the boy in back asked for "Wee Songs" 
on the CD player, a smile slowly spread over his face. "How 'bout a 
little 'Old McDonald?' I feel like singing, kid," he said as the boy 
burst into a fit of giggles in the back seat.

The Skinner Home
Danville, Pennsylvania
1:45 p.m.

Walter Skinner pulled his jeep into the driveway of his parents' home 
and smiled when they came running out of the back door. His smile grew 
even wider when they rushed past him and opened the rear passenger 
side door to greet the two-year-old in the car seat first.

"Glad to know where I fit in the food chain now," he chuckled, looking 
over the back seat as his mother helped the little guy out of the car 
and into her arms for a big hug. 

"Oh, honey, you know you're still important," she said. "But I don't 
get to see Fox very often. And he's growing so fast."

Skinner and his father exchanged a look that bespoke their mutual 
concern about just how fast the boy was growing and would continue to 
grow. But for now, his mother was not focusing on that aspect of the 
situation. And truth be told, her method of dealing with it might well 
be the best one.

She carried the little boy into the house, listening to his story 
about how they'd gone "to see my mommy. Not stay there," he said, 
shaking his head emphatically. "I stay with Daddy."

The AD sighed as he got out of the car and reached into the back to 
pull out the bag with his and Fox's clothes for an overnight stay. He 
hadn't found a way to deal with the issue of Fox calling him 'Daddy.' 
It was one of the things he'd come here to get his parents' assistance 
with. But not the most important thing.

When Skinner had finally understood, and accepted, that the baby left 
at his apartment door was the real Fox Mulder, he'd been hesitant 
about how to explain this news to his parents. They'd grown to love 
Mulder like another one of their own kids and this situation was 
mind-numbingly unbelievable. They'd been shocked when he came to 
Danville to tell them. But they recovered far quicker than their son 
had anticipated and drove right down to Washington to see the baby in 
the hospital. And they'd been back to visit for a weekend before 
Skinner took him to Greenwich.

Now the AD was faced with a decision about where the boy would stay 
for the next months, or longer. However long it took for him to reach 
his real age again. If the process of rapid aging didn't kill him. The 
decision was immensely important and, when it came right down to it, 
he knew his parents would be integral to the final outcome.

They repaired to the kitchen and Rachel fixed little Fox and him an 
afternoon snack. She'd begun baking oatmeal cookies as soon as Skinner 
called from the road to say they were coming. Walter, Sr. put up some 
coffee for the adults and Rachel filled Fox's sippy cup with apple 
juice while Skinner took the booster seat out of the closet. His folks 
were always prepared for a visit from one of their grandchildren. The 
closet was filled with all the paraphernalia needed to keep a child 
here for weeks, if necessary.

Over cookies and juice for the little guy and coffee for the rest, the 
boy filled the elder Skinners in on his adventures of the last two 
days. The storm that scared him. The visit to his "mommy's house. I 
not stay there." He added that editorial comment every time he 
mentioned the trip. Their several stops at McDonald's during the 
course of two very long car rides. "And he's not exaggerating when he 
says long," the AD concurred. "I won't even begin to tell you how many 
times we stopped!" 

The boy repeated several times that he would "stay with Daddy. Right, 
Daddy?" Skinner turned pink each time he said it, uncomfortable with 
not correcting him on either assumption, but not sure how to do it 
properly. And gently enough. Finally, the boy ran out of things to 
tell the Skinners and the AD was able to lure him into the family room 
by turning on the TV. They could see him from the kitchen and he was 
engrossed in something on Nickelodeon and had a coloring book and 
crayons in front of him as well.

"Sorry about that," Skinner said as he returned to the kitchen. "I 
just knew he'd have to expend a little energy before we could talk 
undisturbed. He was cooped up in the car a long time. And the last two 
days were a little . . . unsettling for him, I think."

Rachel Skinner laughed at her son. "No need to apologize, dear. We do 
have a little experience with kids, you know."

"Which is why I came, Mom," her son responded seriously. He proceeded 
to quietly fill them in on the short stay in Greenwich, and Mrs. 
Mulder's decision not to keep Fox. "I know she's right. She's not up 
to it. But that leaves us with the problem of where he can stay. I've 
extended my leave a few more days but I have to get back to work. I've 
given this a lot of thought. And I'll understand if you don't agree. 
But . . . maybe he could stay here, with you. And I'll come every 
weekend. I know it's a lot to ask--"

"Honey, it's not a lot to ask. You and Fox are family. Our family. If 
this is the best place for him to be--"

"That's exactly right, Walter," his father chimed in. "Whatever you 
need, or Fox needs, is yours. He could stay here as long as need be."

Walter, Jr. was almost overcome with relief and a giant lump of 
emotion that suddenly appeared in his throat. He stood up, went to the 
counter and poured himself another cup of coffee while he regained his 
composure. 

He lifted the milk pitcher on the table and saw that it was empty so 
he turned and went back to the refrigerator. He'd brought in a small 
container of milk left over from Fox's lunch at a McDonald's on the 
Pennsylvania Pike. It had come with his Happy Meal but the boy had 
preferred the A.D.'s coke and drank most of that instead. Skinner 
opened the container and walked back to the table, where he sat down 
and poured some of it into his coffee.

"My milk!" a small voice yelled from the doorway to the family room. 
"That my milk!"

"Fox, you didn't drink it, remember?" Skinner responded patiently. 
"You drank my coke-"

"No! My milk! Mine!" he shouted, stomping over to the table. "You take 
it out! My milk!"

"Stop it, Fox," Skinner answered him, trying to keep his voice low and 
quiet, hoping the child would mirror his tone. "I can't take it out. 
It's already in my coffee--"

"YOU TAKE IT OUT!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. 

"Fox, you heard me," Skinner said firmly, hoping he didn't sound too 
angry to his parents but that the little boy got his message. "I 
cannot take the milk out of the coffee. You can have the rest of 
what's in the carton--"

"NO! MY MILK! YOU TAKE IT OUT!" The child was red-faced and screaming 
as though Skinner were across the state line.

"I said stop it!" Skinner said, raising his voice a notch. "I told you 
I can't--" He was taken by surprise when the boy reached over and 
grabbed the coffee cup by the handle, then dumped it out on the table.

"No, Fox!" Skinner shouted, reaching to lift him out of the way of the 
hot coffee that poured off the table. Rachel and Walter jumped up and 
backed away from the table as their son clutched the screaming child 
and did the same thing. Once everyone was out of harm's way, the 
Assistant Director put the boy down, and held him by one arm.

"What did I tell you?" he asked, raising his hand to swat the boy's 
bottom. Immediately struck by the absurdity of someone his size 
hitting someone the size of Fox, he pulled back and gave the boy a 
half-hearted smack on his jeans-clad bottom. 

The child's eyes widened with surprise and he put both hands back to 
protect his backside from further punishment. "YOU HIT ME!" he 
screamed indignantly, then proceeded to wail as though he'd actually 
been hurt. He was screaming so loud the AD could barely hear himself 
think.

"I think you need a nap, young man," Skinner said, struggling to 
figure out what had caused this strange behavior, and what exactly he 
could do to put a stop to it. 

"NO! NO NAP! I NO TAKE NAP!" The child was screaming now as if his 
life were being threatened. "NO TAKE NAP!"

Skinner was at his wit's end and he picked the boy up and headed out 
of the house. At the very least, he could walk the kid away so his 
parents wouldn't be subjected to this tantrum. And think this was how 
the child was all the time. With Fox crying at full volume, he strode 
out of the house and into the yard. At first, Fox fought him but the 
man was much stronger and the child was exhausted, and within a short 
time, his crying abated and he simply sobbed into the ad’s shoulder.

"You hit me," he sobbed, still obsessing on that indignity.

"I'm sorry about that," Skinner told him sincerely. "You didn't listen 
to me. And you scared me. I thought you might get burned by the hot 
coffee. But I didn't hit you hard, did I?" He turned his head to look 
at the child whose face was buried in his shoulder.

The boy lifted his head and nodded yes at first. But he was not yet 
able to tell a direct lie, it seemed, and the nod quickly mutated into 
a shake of his head. "No," he said, taking a deep, hitching break that 
would make you think his heart was broken.

Skinner gave the boy a hug and rubbed his back soothingly. "Well, I'm 
sorry all the same. Why don't we both try to do better, okay?" He felt 
a small head nod into his shoulder, a deep, soul-wrenching sigh 
accompanying it.

Skinner walked him back toward the house once he had quieted some, and 
spotted his father's hammock tied between two trees out back. It had 
been a Father's Day gift the year before and the elder Walter made 
good use of it on summer afternoons.

He took a seat on the hammock, then toed off his topsiders and swung 
his long legs into the hammock too. Then he settled himself back, 
letting the boy rest on his chest. He knew the adult Mulder would fall 
asleep as soon as he was lying down, whenever he was emotionally 
overloaded. In a minute, he knew the two-year-old version followed the 
same pattern. 

The AD decided to let him go into a deeper sleep before moving him 
inside but, in a couple of minutes, he too fell asleep, as the world 
quieted and a warm breeze blew through the trees. The two slept there, 
peacefully, for two solid hours, undisturbed by Rachel Skinner 
tip-toeing out of the house with her camera and taking several photos 
of them. When the Assistant Director finally awoke, he carried the 
sleeping child into the house and up the stairs to the study.

Coming back downstairs, he found his parents on the front porch. "I'm 
sorry about that," he said, taking a seat in one of the chairs. "He's 
not usually like that--"

He was surprised when both his parents laughed. 

"Volodya, we had five children of our own. And eight grandchildren. 
We've seen the 'terrible two's' before!" his mother said.

"That's what that is?" Skinner asked, relieved there was an 
explanation for this change in the boy's behavior. According to Scully 
and the developmental specialist, he did appear to be just over two, 
in terms of his size and physical capabilities. His speech was a 
little advanced compared to the average child that age, but Mulder's 
mother had confirmed he'd been advanced in that area the first time as 
well. 

His father added his two cents. "Son, believe me, that's not even 
close to the worst we've seen. You were a terror at that age!"

"Worse than that?" the son chuckled. "It's a miracle you ever had any 
more children, then. I'm awed by your courage." He settled back in the 
chair and pressed his lips together, thinking. "I hope this doesn't 
change your minds. About letting him stay here. . . "

"Nothing would change our minds," his father said, emphatically. "He 
is welcome here just as any of our kids or grandkids are welcome here. 
Any time. Any way. Period."

The AD relaxed visibly. He'd known his parents wouldn't refuse to keep 
Fox. But he also wanted to be certain their consent was freely given 
and unconditional. Which it obviously was.

"But honey, we do have something to say," his mother added. "It may 
not change your mind about anything, but . . . we wouldn't feel right 
not telling you."

Skinner felt the skin on the back of his neck go prickly at the 'but' 
word, and his jaw tightened reflexively. This was not something he'd 
anticipated, whatever it was. "I'm listening," he said quietly.

Rachel looked at her husband, not sure which of them should begin. 
Finally, Walter, Sr. jumped into the void. "Son, it's not that we 
don't want him. We do. It would be a pleasure to have a child around 
full time. And this one is a challenge, all right. But he's a sweet, 
affectionate, bright child. And they're always the most fun to have 
around."

"But? I hear a giant 'but' coming," his son responded, trying to get 
them to the point.

"But, Walter, it's clear he's bonded to you. He's attached to you. He 
calls you 'Daddy,' son--"

"I don't know where he picked that up," Skinner cut him off. "And I've 
been trying to figure out how to tell him I'm not his father. . . ."

"Why? He's a two-year-old. There's no one else in his life who'll be 
upset that he calls you that. Why would you want to stop him--"

Skinner shook his head at the question. He was surprised to realize he 
didn't have a good answer. It just seemed . . . wrong to him. It made 
him feel like an impostor.

Rachel Skinner reached over and laid her hand on his larger one. "I 
know it probably seems strange to you, but think about it from his 
perspective. He has one constant in his life right now. One person 
he's been living with. One person looking out for his needs, taking 
him places, getting him ready for bed every night. Of course he thinks 
you're his 'daddy.' And he wants to stay with you. Because everything 
else in his life so far has been in flux. In the hospital twice, up to 
Greenwich to see if Teena Mulder would keep him. Doctors, nurses, 
people coming and going, even your Dad and me. You're the only 
security he's had, Walter. Don't take that away from him, unless you 
have no other choice."

Her son stared at her, listening to the words and letting them sink 
in. He hadn't thought about it like that. And it did make his plan 
seem cruel.

"But what choice is there, Mom?" he asked quietly. "Eventually, I have 
to go back to work--"

"Walter, there are single parents in the world, you know," his father 
snorted. "Don't take this the wrong way but, it's not like you'd be a 
pioneer, or anything."

A small voice called from upstairs before he could respond to his 
father's good-natured jibe. Standing, the Assistant Director nodded at 
his parents as he made his way back into the house. "I'll need some 
help for a little while, till I get things squared away."

He looked back from the doorway and his parents were nodding their 
agreement. "Whatever you need, son," his father answered firmly.

"I'll take him home in the morning. If Fox is going to stay with me, I 
need to make some more permanent arrangements. And I want to get him 
settled in a routine, before I go back to work." His mind was racing 
with things to do. He heard the boy call him again and he called up 
the stairs, "I'll be right up, Fox."

Skinner turned back to his parents momentarily and grinned at them. "I 
guess I've got two things to be grateful for today. First, that you're 
so smart. And second . . . the terrible two's shouldn't last more than 
five or six weeks!" 





"AD Skinner?"

Walter Skinner's head snapped up, and he looked around quickly. He had 
been listening to Agent Arnaud’s recitation of the monthly statistics, 
and their variance from forecast and he realized with chagrin that 
he'd nearly fallen asleep. He'd always said Arnaud could cure insomnia 
but Skinner never thought he'd actually be the final proof.

Trying to cover, he glanced around quickly, hoping to gauge what the 
man had asked him from the expressions on the other attendees' faces. 
When that didn't work, he fell back on a trick he'd occasionally used 
before when his attention lapsed. "I'd like to reserve judgment on 
that, Agent Arnaud," he said. "Please continue."

An uncharacteristically delighted smile lit Arnaud’s face, and the 
other agent's faces all fell in unison. Skinner realized too late he'd 
just given Arnaud the green light to continue his presentation to its 
interminably tedious conclusion. He sighed inwardly and motioned for 
Kim to bring him more coffee. 

Skinner had been back at work now just over a week. He'd been out more 
than three weeks and so he returned to a workload that would normally 
take several weeks of 16-hour days to resolve. But with Fox at home, 
waiting for him, he wasn't able to put in the kind of hours he 
previously would have. Not to mention, the child rarely slept through 
the night. He was experiencing something called 'night terrors,' from 
what the pediatrician said. And the screams he emitted in the middle 
of the night were enough to wake the dead.

The boy appeared to be about three years old now, perhaps a little 
more. He was speaking well, and he seemed to like the woman that 
Skinner had hired to take care of him. Casey Barton was a graduate 
student at Johns Hopkins that Scully met when she was asked to do 
research on Mulder's developmental needs. She was bright and energetic 
but had a sweet, loving nature. She'd developed a special rapport with 
the child during the days he was at the University being studied. So 
when Skinner began looking for someone to stay with the Fox during the 
day, Scully thought of Casey. They were both relieved when she agreed 
to take the position.

Casey worked Monday through Friday and Skinner was grateful she was 
willing to stay until he got home each evening, whatever time that 
was. She had even begun cooking for them and, though her repertoire 
was limited, it was nutritious and generally good. And that was one 
more thing he didn't have to worry about during the week. But Casey 
left when he arrived and then he found himself feeding the child, if 
it wasn't too late. And bathing him and reading him a story before 
bed. Sometimes two stories. Then the boy went to bed, but that didn't 
always take the first time. Fox turned out to be a wanderer and, now 
that he had outgrown the crib, it was a lot easier for him to roam. 
Skinner often put him to bed two or three times a night.

Fox woke with nightmares often, and that disturbed the A.D.'s sleep 
each time. Then the child woke every day at dawn. It wasn't a problem 
for Fox. He napped every afternoon. But Skinner was finding the sleep 
deprivation taking its toll on him, usually around mid-afternoon, 
particularly when Agent Arnaud was speaking. He pinched the skin on 
his forearm under the table, hoping the pain would help him focus his 
attention a little better. 

Finally, Arnaud concluded his report and Skinner wrapped up the 
meeting in about two additional minutes. As the group left, Kim 
returned with another cup of coffee and a stack of messages.

"The top one's the most important," she said with a smile. "Fox 
called. He's got that speed-dial function down now! He said to tell 
you to call him back. Just like he says every day." 

Skinner had only told a few people in the Bureau about Mulder's 
predicament. The Director. The Deputy Director in charge of 
Operations. Jana Cassidy in OPR. And Kim. Everyone else thought Mulder 
was on special assignment somewhere. Both Scully and he thought that, 
when Mulder returned, he would be uncomfortable if everyone at the FBI 
knew what had happened to him. That decision betrayed their fervent 
hope that he would return to work at some point.

"The kid's amazing, Kim," Skinner said, picking up the phone to dial 
his home number. "He can't tell time, but he calls at the same time 
every day. I could set my watch to it."

"The really amazing thing is that Agent Mulder was never on time for 
anything," Kim laughed as she exited and closed the door behind her.

"Hi, Fox," he said as soon as the child picked up the phone. He waited 
by the phone very day for the return call. "How's my boy?"

"Good," he responded, with a smile the AD swore he could actually 
hear. "When are you coming home?" 

Skinner held back a chuckle. Same conversation every day. He'd been 
assured by the pediatrician it was a normal thing for a child this age 
to do. A chance to assure himself that Skinner would, indeed, come 
home. The AD found it touching and he had told Kim to leave a 10 
minute gap in his afternoon schedule every day just for this purpose. 

"I should be home at the regular time tonight," he answered. "Have you 
been good for Casey?"

"Yes, I am very good. Well, I broke Peter Pan." The two sentences 
followed, one after the other, without even a breath in between. He 
hadn't yet learned the art of pacing.

"You did? You broke the videotape?"

"It was an accident," he replied, using his favorite new expression. 

"Oh, another accident. How did you accidentally break the tape?"

"I dunno," he answered, which was another favorite expression. It 
meant he didn't know. . . or he didn't want to tell Skinner what he 
had done to break it. 

"Okay, well you can show me when I get home, okay, Fox?" Skinner 
answered patiently. "Did you go to the park with Casey today?"

"Yes, we go to the park. Fox get lost."

Skinner smiled at the jumbled conversation. The boy had gotten the 
hang of grammar and syntax pretty quickly, but he was still struggling 
with tenses. And he occasionally spoke of himself in the third person. 
Usually when he did something with which he didn't want to be 
identified. The meaning of his words sank in suddenly.

"You got lost? At the park? Let me speak to Casey," he said, trying 
not to appear overly concerned. Which he was.

Fox put the phone down without another word and he waited for the 
young woman to come on the line.

"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Skinner," she said as soon as she picked 
up the phone. "I know he told you he got lost. But I could see him all 
the time. He couldn't see me, because he wandered away from the swings 
into a crowd of older kids from the elementary school. And he got a 
little panicky, that's all."

Skinner took a deep breath and gave himself a mental shake. He had 
been more concerned than necessary. It was not in his nature to worry. 
Except when it came to his family. And his agents. And especially this 
child. He found himself admitting that, in fact, he was a worrier. But 
no one else needed to know that.

"Okay, I just thought I'd check, Casey. I know you wouldn't let 
anything happen to him." They spoke for another minute about what she 
planned to leave for dinner, and what time he'd be home. Then Skinner 
went on to his next meeting with a lighter heart, and a second wind. 
Talking to Fox seemed to do that, every time.

************************************************************************

Saturday morning
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia

"What their names?" Fox asked as Skinner scooped the goldfish out of 
the tank one by one and put them in plastic baggies filled with water. 
After Scully and he had spent the last month driving over here every 
day or two to feed them, he'd finally decided to just move the fish 
tank to his place.

"I don't know, pal," the AD told him. "I never asked. I guess you 
could name them."

"Okay," he said agreeably. "This one's 'Casey,' and that one's 
'Dana.'"

Skinner chuckled. "Those are good names," he said as he put the third 
fish into a baggy. "What are you going to call this one?"

"Um, that one 'Daddy,'" the boy said, taking a close look at the fish.

The Assistant Director was touched. And he realized that 'Daddy' was 
the only name by which the boy knew him right now. "And what about 
this last one?"

"His name is 'Fox,'" the boy said emphatically.

"Those are all great names," Skinner answered as he tied off the last 
baggy and began dumping the water out of the aquarium. He wondered 
casually at what age Mulder had developed such an aversion to his 
first name that he didn't let anyone use it. This boy certainly had no 
problem with being called Fox. He even named one of the fish after 
himself. The adult Mulder will be pissed when he gets back . . . . 
That train of thought left the AD feeling oddly sad and he shook it 
off and gathered up what they needed.

He put the fish and some other stuff in his jeep, then took the little 
boy to the parking lot. Skinner realized Mulder's car hadn't been used 
in well over a month and he thought he'd run the engine for a few 
minutes. It probably wasn't necessary, but he decided to do it anyway. 
The vehicle had a layer of dust on it and Skinner decided he'd drive 
it to the car wash next week, if there was time. The little boy sat in 
the front seat beside him and played with the radio while he let the 
engine run.

Sitting there, watching the child fiddle with the buttons, he noticed 
an envelope peeking out from behind the sun visor. He pulled it out to 
get a closer look. It was stamped, and addressed to him. Overcome with 
curiosity, he tore the envelope open and saw it was a birthday card. 
Mulder had disappeared about two weeks prior to Skinner's birthday. 

"Happy birthday to the guy who always stands by me when I'm in 
trouble," it read. He opened the card and continued. "Of course, 
you're generally the one who tells me I'm IN trouble! Happy birthday, 
Dad!" It was signed "Fox." Skinner's eyes immediately went to the 
handwritten note on the opposite page.

"I'm mailing this card because I'd be too embarrassed to tell you in 
person. I hope you don't mind what the card says, but I thought of you 
when I saw it. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you. How 
much I've learned from you, about love, and responsibility. You're 
always right behind me, backing me up. Except when I'm in the worst 
trouble, and then you're standing right in front of me, protecting me 
from my worst decisions. I just wanted you to know that I know how 
much you do for me. And that I could never begin to repay you. With 
all my love, Fox."

Skinner blinked back tears and took a deep breath. He missed the adult 
Mulder greatly, and this was like a hand reaching out and touching 
him, Mulder's hand. In his mind, he could hear the younger man's 
voice, speaking the words. The little boy beside him noticed the 
change in his demeanor.

"Daddy okay?" he asked simply. "Fox is good, right?"

"Yes, Fox is very good," Skinner said, gathering the little boy into a 
hug. "You always were. Well, most of the time anyway!" He turned the 
car off and the two of them headed, hand in hand, for the jeep and 
home.

Skinner had dinner plans for the evening with his brother and 
sister-in-law, Joe and Nora. They were coming to D.C. to see Fox this 
afternoon, then the three of them, and a lady friend of Skinner's, 
were going to dinner and a performance at the Kennedy Center. First 
thing in the morning, they'd all drive to Danville to spend Father's 
Day with Walter, Sr. 

Casey Barton had agreed to baby-sit the little boy tonight but Skinner 
had errands to run in the meantime. Fox was growing so fast, he needed 
a steady stream of new sneakers and clothes and the AD wanted to get 
him into the store, and out, before nap time. An exhausted 
three-year-old was the worst shopping buddy in the world, he'd 
discovered. 

**********************************************************************

Sunday morning
June 21
7:12 a.m.

Skinner woke with a start. It was already light outside and he'd slept later than normal. He had been out late with Joe, Nora
and his friend, Kate, last night. That had to be the reason he'd slept so late. But, even when his body needed sleep, little Fox
habitually rose at first light and made his way into the A.D.'s bedroom as soon as he woke. A crashing noise from the kitchen
got Skinner up in a flash and he ran as fast as he could to see what the child was up to.

He flew into the kitchen and came to a fast stop. Fox was standing on a chair at the counter, attempting to spread jelly on a
piece of overdone toast that was crumbling in his hand. There was an apple juice spill on the kitchen table, along with two
half-filled glasses, and the juice was still dripping off the table top into a puddle on the floor. A kitchen towel had been
thrown over the spill and was soaking wet on the floor. The refrigerator door was open and there was a neat jelly handprint
on the door. The Assistant Director didn't need the FBI lab to tell him whose handprint it was.

The little boy turned around, a disappointed look on his face. "Oh, I 
am surprising you," he said and Skinner was stumped at first at his 
meaning. 

"Well, this is a surprise," he said slowly, trying to determine 
exactly what was going on. "What are you doing?"

"I am making brefast," Fox said as he put the toast smeared with jelly 
on a plate and got down from the chair. "For you."

Skinner felt a laugh roll up from his belly but he bit his lip to 
suppress it. The boy was so serious about this, he didn't want to 
spoil it for him in any way. The AD sat down in his usual place, 
carefully wiping the jelly off the seat first. Fox pushed a half-glass 
of apple juice his way and placed the plate with the well-done toast 
in front of him. Then he ran out of the kitchen, returning in about 
thirty seconds with a folded-over piece of construction paper.

There was a picture of a big person and a little person on the cover, 
holding hands. In blue crayon, the boy had printed: 

"Happy Fathe

rs Day"

It was definitely Fox's handwriting. The 'p's were facing the wrong 
way and the word Father's was missing an apostrophe and continued over 
on the next line, when he had obviously run out of room to finish the 
word.

Inside he'd written the words: "Love, Fox" and drawn a bunch of O's 
and X's underneath.

Skinner felt tears spring to his eyes and he found himself too 
overcome to speak at first. Which Fox interpreted for himself.

"Casey writed it and I copy," he said quietly, chewing on his lower 
lip. "I know it's not too good--"

"Oh, no, Fox," Skinner interrupted him. "It's very good! You wrote it 
beautifully!. And this is the best present I ever got. Ever." He 
reached down and lifted the child into his lap, and gave him a giant 
hug. The boy threw his arms around Skinner's neck and returned it with 
all his strength.

"This is the best present I ever got," Skinner repeated, his voice 
thick with emotion, "except for you."

The child laughed and pulled out of the hug. "I am not a present," he 
said, as though Skinner was dealing from a less than full deck. "I am 
a boy."

"Yes, you are," the AD said, reaching for a piece of cold, jellied 
toast. "I'm just glad you're my boy."

The child nodded and reached for his apple juice. "Me too," he said 
matter-of-factly.