The Danville Series
by Cadillac Red



& Nora Skinner's Home
Millersburg, Pennsylvania
Sunday afternoon

Walter Skinner stood at the glass door in the family room, looking out 
into the yard. Fox and the AD's brother Andy were sitting on swings, 
not moving, just talking. They'd been out there almost since the AD 
arrived with Fox and Fiona. They'd come in for the brunch Nora made, 
then gone back outside immediately after eating. 

"Still at it?" Fiona asked, startling him with the way she'd suddenly 
appeared beside him. 

"Hmm? Yes," he answered with a nod. "Fox hasn't talked much about what 
happened to me yet. But he seems to have found a sympathetic ear in 
Andy."

"That's good, Walter," Fiona assured him. "Sometimes kids have to talk 
to someone who's not so much of an authority figure. And it's good 
he's talking, period. It's not a reflection on you."

"I'm not . . . I didn't mean it that way. I'm glad he's talking to 
someone, too," he replied quickly but Fiona sensed an undercurrent of 
hurt at the fact it was not him to whom the boy turned in this moment. 

She reached out and looped an arm through his, pulling him closer to 
her side. "He'll probably need to talk about it a lot, Walter," she 
said softly. "I'll make sure he sees one of the counselors at school 
when he returns tomorrow. And I wouldn't be surprised if, sooner or 
later, he starts to talk to you about it. But kids this age start to 
separate from their parents, they need to establish some independence. 
It's a natural progression. And Andy's a good choice, if it's not 
you."

"I guess you're right," he answered with the beginning of a smile. 
"Andy is a good choice. He's been through a lot himself, done some 
incredibly dumb things. Some of which didn't turn out too well . . . . 
All in all, he and Fox have a lot in common."

She gave him a sunny smile. "Come on. I'll fix you another cup of 
coffee. We've got a long drive ahead of us after a late night last 
night." He watched her walk into the kitchen, then turned back to the 
window.

Fox had been talking very seriously with Andy for quite a while but 
now, for the first time today, the AD saw him laugh. Whatever Andy 
said next came as a surprise and the boy burst out laughing so hard he 
seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. But the wide grin on 
his face made his father's heart lighten and Skinner was suddenly 
immensely grateful for Andy's quick sense of humor, and his ability to 
relate so easily to an 18-year-old. It was a character trait his older 
brother wished he could claim. The Assistant Director sighed again and 
followed Fiona into the kitchen. He'd let Fox have as much time to 
talk to Andy as he wanted. It was the least he could do.

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

McLean, Virginia
Thursday morning

Fox sat in the kitchen munching on a piece of toast and reading 
something for school. He looked up as the Assistant Director came into 
the kitchen wearing a crisp white shirt and the traditional gray tie 
that went with his charcoal gray suit. As usual, he looked freshly 
pressed.

"Hi, Walt," Fox said casually and the AD came to a skidding halt 
halfway to the coffee pot. He turned his head and stared at the boy, 
his face betraying nothing.

Fox watched him for a few seconds, then he swallowed down the piece of 
toast that was now stuck in his throat. "I just thought . . . that, 
you know. Now that I'm eighteen . . . probably. Well, I could start 
calling you Walter. . . ." He bit down on his lower lip and waited for 
some agreement but none came and now the boy was beginning to sweat. 
"I mean, if it's okay with you . . . Dad."

Skinner had to work hard not to laugh at the look of terror that 
descended on the boy's face but he managed to keep from betraying any 
amusement at the predicament the boy had gotten himself into. He 
stared expressionless at the kid.

"Or I could just keep calling you 'Dad,' if you want . . . " Fox's 
voice had reduced to something barely more than a squeak and he 
struggled to complete the sentence. "Daddy," he finished as he ran out 
of breath. He chewed on his lip again, waiting.

Skinner softened his expression and continued his walk to the coffee 
pot. "That'd be fine, pal," he said lightly, knowing his message had 
been received loud and clear. "Did you finish the scrambled eggs I 
made you? I want you to eat more than toast for breakfast. I won't be 
able to make your meet this afternoon . . . ." 

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

Later that afternoon

"I don't mind at all, Walter," Andy Skinner was saying for the tenth 
time in a couple of days. "I can work from anywhere as long as I have 
my computer."

"I know, but this takes you away from Eileen and the kids for a couple 
of days. I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't an emergency," Skinner 
said as he dropped his suitcase on the floor in the foyer. He checked 
the inside pocket of his suit jacket for the third time to be certain 
his airline ticket was there. 

"And I told you, her entire family is there. She's not alone, and 
Eileen loves Fox. If you and he need me to be here for a couple of 
days, it's not an imposition. You'd do it for me without a second 
thought."

Skinner looked at his younger brother fondly. What Andy was saying was 
exactly right. Skinner knew it but he still hated to impose. But the 
AD was required on the West Coast by pressing Bureau business. He'd 
been working less than a full-time schedule for most of the past five 
months and now he needed to return to his former work habits or fall 
hopelessly behind in his work, and possibly impede his career. At 
least that's what Deputy Director Calloway had told him the week 
before.

Fox was at an age where a normal kid would probably be able to stay 
home alone for a few days. But the additional security concerns, and 
the recent tragedy that had befallen his friends, left Skinner 
unwilling to chance it. The Assistant Director's parents were away 
with his sister Jean and her husband when this sudden business trip 
came up. And Joe had a full teaching schedule as well as it being the 
middle of football season. That left the option of putting Fox under 
the supervision of another FBI agent for a few days, or Andy. The AD 
had turned that over in his mind but decided Fox, and later Mulder, 
would be more comfortable with a family member under the 
circumstances.

"I'll be in San Francisco, staying at the St. Francis," Skinner was 
saying as he handed over an itinerary. "The local Bureau office's 
number is here and so's my cell phone number. Don't hesitate to call 
if anything comes up. He's been . . . a little erratic since the 
accident. Sometimes he sleeps, sometimes he has bad nightmares. 
Sometimes he's himself, sometimes it feels like the "Bad Seed" has 
moved in. . . ."

"That's completely understandable, Walt," Andy said, trying to put his 
mind to ease.

"Fox's school schedule is right here," Skinner continued, "and his 
swim meet schedule is here, too--"

"I can read, Walter! Please. Just go to the airport or you're gonna 
miss this flight. And yes, I'll go pick Fox up from school at six 
o'clock, just as it says here on this handy-dandy instruction sheet!"

Skinner couldn't help smiling as he reached out and gave his brother a 
hug. "I don't know if I've mentioned this recently but . . . I love 
ya, kiddo," he said. Then he reached down and picked up his bag and 
started for the front door. "But if anything happens to Fox, don't 
think I won't smack you!"

"Nothing will happen. . . !"

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

Friday evening
5:30 p.m.

Fox reached a long arm out and stole the basketball right out of 
Andy's control. Then he pivoted gracefully around the older man and 
sent the ball sailing toward the basket. It swished through without 
hitting the rim and Andy found himself whistling appreciatively. 

"That was beautiful, kid," he said quietly. "If you had only grown a 
couple more inches, I'd be pitching you to the NBA right now."

"A couple more, Andy?" Fox laughed. "Try six or seven. If I was real 
lucky!" The phone rang inside the house and Fox ran off to answer it. 
Andy retrieved the ball from the driveway below the basket and 
followed him into the house. It was growing dark and they had to make 
plans for dinner soon anyway.

"I don't know, Jarrod," Fox was saying as Andy entered the kitchen. "I 
didn't plan to go to the party anyway. I . . . don't really feel like 
it."

Andy's ears pricked up at the conversation. He'd wondered when Fox 
would begin getting back into the regular routines of a kid his age. 
He'd gone back to school and participated in a couple of swim meets. 
But the youngest Skinner brother had noticed he'd remained aloof from 
the other kids most of the time, seeming to brood more than 
participate in any of the social interaction around him. And it didn't 
sound like Fox was aiming to change that any time soon.

"Well, I'll call if I change my mind, Jarrod," he was saying. "But 
don't wait for me." He listened to the other boy for another minute 
then hung up. 

"What's with this party, Fox?" Andy asked him as soon as he'd 
disconnected. "Sounds like it might be fun. You know, spend some time 
with friends, people your own age."

"You seem like you're my age most of the time," Fox responded with a 
grin. "You're a whole lot more fun than my Dad. Don't tell him I said 
that!"

"Well, thanks for the compliment, bro," Andy said, raising his hand 
and exchanging a high-five with the younger man. "But as for being 
more fun than your Dad, well . . . poison ivy generally qualifies for 
that honor, too! And don't tell him I said that either!"

"Yeah, he can be . . . a little serious sometimes," Fox agreed. "He 
worries too much."

"Well, that makes it unanimous. You, me and the world at large think 
your Dad worries too much! But what's that got to do with skipping 
this party? He's not even here."

"Well. . . it's just that I don't know the kid who's having the party 
that well. He's a senior who just got back from three months in South 
America with his family and I only met him a couple of times. And 
anyway, the party won't even get started till ten thirty or so. And I 
have to be home at twelve."

Andy listened to this narrative without remark. He could hear Walter's 
words underscoring the boy's. "You don't even know this boy or his 
family," Walter would likely say. "I don't like the idea of you going 
to someone's house when I don't know them. And don't forget your 
curfew at midnight!" The youngest Skinner brother shook his head. 
Walter was always too conservative when it came to stuff like this. 
But now Andy had a chance to give Fox a little more freedom, let him 
develop a little more self-confidence and independence. And at 
eighteen or so, he should have a curfew later than midnight. <What's 
Walter thinking anyway?>

"Well, tell you what," he said as he took a seat on a stool by the 
kitchen counter. "What if I say you can stay out till one o'clock? 
Think you'd like to go to the party then?"

Fox's eyes lit at the possibility. But he didn't want to appear too 
anxious. "Well. . . . How about two o'clock? That's closer to everyone 
else's curfew."

Andy grinned at him. "Well, let's not go crazy, Fox," he said shaking 
his head. "What if we say sometime between one and one-thirty, okay? 
Use your judgment."

Fox agreed happily, then picked up the phone to call Jarrod back and 
tell him he'd changed his mind. Andy knew Walter would probably blow a 
gasket when he heard but once he saw Fox was capable of handling the 
extra freedom, he'd come around. Probably. Possibly. Oh, well, the 
commitment was made and Andy wasn't about to change it. He pulled open 
the drawer that held menus from take-out places and started sorting 
through them looking for someone to deliver a pizza for dinner.

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

Later that night
4:17 a.m.

Fox pulled the jeep into the garage and sighed as his eyes caught 
sight of the clock on the dashboard. <Thank God it was Andy here, not 
my Dad.> He'd had the same thought a couple dozen times in the past 
several hours. He got out of the car and closed the door behind him 
quietly, then he strolled into the kitchen. He went right to the 
refrigerator in the dimly lit room and took out a Snapple Iced Tea. He 
was popping the top open just as Andy appeared in the doorway.

"Where the hell have you been?" the man asked him shortly. He crossed 
his arms over his muscled chest in a pose that eerily resembled one 
his older brother assumed regularly.

"Oh, hi," Fox replied breezily as he lifted the bottle to his lips and 
took a swallow. "I hope you didn't wait up."

Andy's eyes widened with shock. "Are you kidding me?" he asked the 
young man succinctly. "It's after four in the morning. I was worried 
sick. And I asked you where you've been."

Fox gave him a sympathetic smile as he walked past the older man and 
toward the staircase. "The party was great. I lost track of the time. 
Then we all had the munchies, so we went over to that diner on the 
turnpike. I'm sorry. I would have called if I realized you were 
awake." With that he offered another understanding nod and headed 
upstairs. "Good night, Andy. I'll see you in the morning."

Andy stood in the kitchen in shock, not at all sure he was certain 
what had just happened. But he was sure he wasn't satisfied with 
whatever it was. He thought about it for another few seconds, then 
followed the boy up the stairs. Fox was in the hall bath when he got 
there, so Andy went to the younger man's bedroom and took a seat in 
the chair by the window. When Fox appeared a moment later, the boy was 
startled by his presence.

"God, you scared me," he sad as he flung himself onto the bed with a 
sigh. He was wearing pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt from the Wheatley 
Academy. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," Andy replied succinctly. "I expected you home between one and 
one-thirty, Fox. How do you explain four-fifteen in the morning? 
That's what's wrong."

"Well, you said 'use your judgment,' and I did," the boy explained as 
a yawn nearly drowned out his words. "And nothing happened, and now 
I'm home and everything's fine. I need to get some sleep though. And 
you should too, Andy. I mean, you look exhausted."

Andy felt his blood pressure rise. He knew he should say something, do 
something, but this was new territory for the youngest brother in the 
Skinner family. Someone else was always the bad guy in his experience 
to date.

Fox smiled again. "I gotta sleep," he said. "I'm glad you're here and 
not my Dad. You're so much cooler than he is. He would have given me a 
hard time, and yelled and. . . . everything. And for nothing. Nothing 
happened. The world didn't end just 'cause I came home after four, 
right? I know you understand that. Maybe after this weekend, after you 
explain everything to him, my Dad'll understand it, too." Fox picked 
up the remote control for the small television in his room and clicked 
the 'on' button. "Maybe there's some old movie on that'll put me to 
sleep. Anything black and white usually works. Good night, Andy."

Andy nodded as he rose automatically from the chair. He was still 
dissatisfied but competing internal impulses barred him from knowing 
what to do about it. He walked mutely toward the door still wrestling 
with himself. Fox turned off the lamp and that left the room lit only 
by the flickering light of the television. The young man laid back 
against the pillows and proceeded to surf through the channels. Andy 
closed the door behind him, then he stood in the hall, unable to put 
one foot in front of the other and get himself to the guest bedroom. 
The dialogue in his head had him paralyzed.

<He's right, Andy! Nothing happened. Walt's a worrier and he's got 
this kid on too short a leash. He needs a chance to stretch his wings 
once in a while.>

<What are you smoking now, Skinner! He's eighteen years old and he was 
out till after four in the morning! Without even the courtesy of a 
phone call to say he'd be late. And he had a midnight curfew until you 
unilaterally extended it to one-thirty. Walter's gonna love to hear 
that one!>

<Yeah, but the point is, he can obviously handle more freedom. Nothing 
did happen. The kid's fine.>

<Oh, he's fine, all right. He's watching TV at four-thirty in the 
morning instead of sleeping. And the way he dismissed you and the 
conflict about his curfew is gonna go down real well when he pulls it 
on Walter. Or Joe. Or, God forbid, Dad! And he will, since it worked 
so well this time! I just hope I'm not around to see that explosion!>

Andy stood there another minute, listening to the warring parts of his 
mind. Finally he shook his head in a vain attempt to shut down the 
continuous loops in his brain. A new voice in his head spoke up now.

<What's the right thing for Fox right now?> No answer came.

<What would Walter do? Or Joe? Or Dad?> This time the answer returned 
loud and clear. Andy opened the door behind him again and walked back 
into Fox's room. The door banged against the wall behind it and Fox 
looked up from the television in shock.

"Something wrong, Andy?"

"Yeah. There's a lot wrong, Fox. First of all, you're a kid right now 
and it's 'Uncle Andy' to you. I should have corrected you the first 
time but I was too busy being 'cool.' My mistake. It won't happen 
again, believe me."

Fox sat up immediately. Andy's tone of voice and his posture had 
changed and the boy responded to it instinctively. It was exactly like 
that of his father when he was angry.

"I-- I-- I'm sorry, Andy. I mean, Uncle Andy," he stammered.

"Apology accepted. But now we're gonna deal with your curfew 
violation. I told you one o'clock, or even one-thirty would be okay. I 
probably shouldn't have done that, and I'm sure I'll hear from my 
brother about it. But when I said 'use your judgment,' wasn't it clear 
that meant about what time between one and one thirty to come home?"

Fox opened his mouth but no sound came out before Andy spoke again.

"And Fox," he said firmly, "I want the truth. Trying to bullshit me on 
this will not help your current situation in the least."

Fox lowered his head and swallowed hard. "I . . . I guess I understood 
that," he said slowly. Then he looked up, a trace of defiance playing 
across his face. "But everyone was going out for breakfast! And I 
didn't want to be the only one who couldn't go! Like I'm always the 
only one who can't do things!"

Andy recognized an exaggeration when he heard it. He'd certainly 
tossed plenty of them around himself when he was younger. His eyebrows 
rose as he spoke. "Everyone? Everyone else was going to the diner?"

Fox's face betrayed his mixed feelings about what to say next. "Well. 
. . maybe not everyone. . . . "

Andy watched him without expression, waiting.

"All right! Only me and two other guys who were at the party! But when 
I suggested it, they went right along. No one was gonna yell at them 
for coming home late or anything. . . ." Now his face took on a 
rebellious look again. "Not like me! Everyone acts like I'm a little 
kid! But I'm not! I'm an adult now!"

"Let me tell you something, Fox," Andy said quietly. "Even adults have 
rules to follow. And they get punished when they step out of line."

"But not-- not like. . . They don't get spanked," Fox answered, his 
voice rising even as he stumbled over the words.

"Well, that's where you'd be wrong, kid," Andy said as he reached for 
the paddle hanging on the wall of Fox's room. He recognized it right 
away. It was the one his father had used to deal with all his sons' 
curfew violations over the years. He hadn't heard it made its way down 
to the McLean house but it didn't surprise him in the least that his 
Dad or Walter had thought of it.

Fox's eyes widened with horror and he jumped off the bed and backed up 
into the nightstand that sat beside it. "No!" he cried. "You can't-- I 
mean, you're not . . . you're not my father!"

"Yeah, but I'm standing in for him right now," Andy said as he pulled 
the wood chair away from the desk. He needed a clear spot for Fox to 
bend over. "Get yourself over here, Fox. Don't make me tell you again, 
young man."

Fox looked like he wanted to argue but some thread of common sense 
overrode the instinct. He dragged his feet as he walked over to the 
desk. "This isn't fair," he whined. "You acted like it was okay. Like 
we were friends. And now you're acting like . . . like you're my Dad 
or something."

Andy found himself curious about that statement. "And your Dad," he 
asked the boy. "Isn't he your friend, too?"

Fox's face reflected a moment of confusion and he furrowed his brow. 
"No," he said slowly. "He's just . . . my Dad. He says I can have all 
the friends in the world but I'll only have one father and so that's 
the part he's gonna stick with."

Andy nodded thoughtfully. "And you only have a couple of uncles, Fox. 
But I kind of forgot that's my part. I was thinking I could be both. 
And someday we will be friends again. When you're all grown up. But 
right now, I'd be falling down on the job if I let you get away with 
what you pulled tonight, kid."

Fox's eyes flooded with tears. "I understand now, Uncle Andy," he 
said, his voice animated by the best imitation of sincerity he could 
muster. "You don't have to . . . I mean, I don't need to be punished 
'cause I get it already. I know I was wrong--"

The older man watched his performance with growing amusement and a 
flash of recognition. <This kid reminds me more of me all the time! No 
wonder Walter worries so much!>

"I'm glad to hear that, Fox," he said. "But I know from personal 
experience a little reinforcement doesn't hurt. Well, it hurts but . . 
. it serves its purpose. Let's go, son." He indicated the desk Fox was 
to bend over and waited until the boy was in position. Then he pulled 
on the pajama bottoms and watched them pool around the kid's ankles.

Andy had never delivered a paddling in his life. <All my experience to 
date has been on the receiving end!> He took a deep breath and prayed 
he'd picked up enough during all his sessions with the paddle to pull 
this off without Fox knowing he was a rookie.

"What's this paddling for, Fox?" he asked as he delivered a swat to 
the boy's bare bottom. He immediately knew it hadn't had enough force 
behind it.

"For breaking my curfew," the boy responded automatically. Andy pulled 
back and gave him another whack, this time with a little more 
strength.

"Oww! That hurt!" Fox gasped.

"That's the idea, kid," Andy answered him, adding a third smack. "What 
else are you being punished for?"

"F-for lying about not understanding what time OWWW! what time I was 
supposed to be home!"

"And?" Another swat and the boy's bottom was turning a healthy shade 
of pink.

"And OUCHH! And, I don't know! For lying about everyone going to the 
diner! Ohhhh! Please!"

"Very good, Fox," Andy responded, impressed at the kid's memory under 
duress. "Anything else?" He swatted his nephew's butt one more time.

"OWWWW! For call-calling you Andy instead of Uncle Andy!" Fox wailed. 
He'd broken into sobs a moment earlier. But Andy pulled back on the 
whack he was about to deliver and placed the paddle on the desk next 
to Fox.

"No, that's not something you should be punished for, Fox," he said as 
he pulled the boy up and into a hug. "That was my mistake. I should 
have corrected you the first time it happened. I gave you a mixed 
signal and that's my responsibility." He folded Fox into his arms and 
let the boy sob out his misery for another minute. 

Then Andy let him get himself dressed and into bed. He turned the 
light out and watched as Fox flipped over onto his stomach and balled 
his pillow up under his head. The older man pulled the covers up over 
him and then reached down and brushed the hair out of Fox's eyes.

"What's your Dad say about this hair, kid?" he asked the boy gently. 
He'd noticed how long it had grown in back, well over the collar, and 
it hung in Fox's eyes most of the time. Andy had been stunned to see 
how unruly Fox's hair had become considering he was living with 'the 
ex-Marine' Skinner brother.

"He doesn't like it," Fox said as a yawn spread over his words. "But 
he says it's my hair so it's my choice."

Andy nodded, although the words surprised him. He hadn't expected to 
hear his brother took a hands-off stance on that issue. 

"Uncle Andy?" Fox asked.

"What?"

"Are you . . . . Do you have to tell my Dad about tonight?"

Andy understood where the kid was coming from but he knew the answer 
without having to give it another thought. "Yeah. I'm afraid we do. We 
both did some things he needs to hear about. But you've got one 
important thing on your side, pal."

Fox eyed him curiously. "What's that?"

"You've already been punished," Andy said with a grin. 

Fox looked stricken when he realized the full meaning of the man's 
words. "Oh, God," he breathed. "When he comes home tomorrow, do you 
want me to hide the paddle?"

Andy laughed despite himself. He leaned down and kissed Fox on the 
head. "No, thanks, kid," he said. "I appreciate the thought but . . . 
I'll just take my chances. Good night, Fox."

The Skinner Home
Danville Pennsylvania
Thanksgiving Day

Skinner cousins of all ages and their uncle Andy were playing touch 
football on the side of the house and Mr. Skinner and his son-in-law 
Oliver were acting as official referees. Joe and Walter had played for 
a while but age and common sense had caught up with them both and 
they'd stepped inside for a drink a few minutes earlier. Now they both 
stood at the picture window in the family room watching the game's 
final moments. Walter took the opportunity to fill Joe in on something 
that had happened the previous week. He'd spoken to Joe on the phone 
several times since but held off sharing this story, wanting to see 
the expression on his brother's face when he heard it.

"Andy did?" Joe asked, his mouth going slack at the thought that Andy 
Skinner might have stepped in and disciplined Fox for breaking his 
curfew. "Andy paddled him? I always figured he'd call Dad when his own 
kids reached the age where tough stands had to be taken! Or me or 
you!"

"Well, it surprised the hell out of me, too. Not to mention Fox! But 
he pulled the kid back into line without any help. And then he stepped 
up and took responsibility for letting him get so far out to begin 
with. I'd say little brother's finally grown up, Joe," Walter said 
with a grin. "But don't tell him I said that!"

"So, did you . . . let him have it?"

"Well, I gave him a piece of my mind about extending Fox's curfew 
without talking to me. But I couldn't really be mad. He'd already 
beaten himself up about that. And he may have a point about me keeping 
Fox on too short a leash. Which is the other thing I wanted to talk to 
you about. How do you work this out with Mike?"

"Well, every kid's different, Walt," Joe answered, taking a seat on 
the lounge chair by the window. The game had just broken up and now 
everyone on the field, winners and losers, were exchanging high-fives. 
Which made it hard to tell which side had actually won. "Michael's not 
as responsible as Doug, for example. Which is why I was kind of 
relieved when Mike decided to attend college locally. And the fact he 
picked a college where I work makes it even more convenient to keep an 
eye on him! I don't think he's ready to be on his own. But I do let 
him stay out till one o'clock on weekends."

Skinner nodded, taking the information in and sifting it through his 
knowledge of Fox. The first time around, Fox had gone off to college 
in England at the age of 17. It was hard to imagine the kid who lived 
with him now doing that. This Fox made short forays into adulthood but 
then he always came back, seeking the comfort and security of home. 
The AD wondered if he'd somehow failed to give Fox enough independence 
for him to make the same kind of choices as before. And whether that 
would affect the adult he eventually became.

He looked pensive as he stood next to the chair where Joe was sitting. 
"Fox has occasionally mentioned going to college again. He doesn't 
need to, because all the knowledge from before comes back to him as he 
goes along. At whatever point he learned it the first time. But the 
experience might be a good one for him. If I can find a way to handle 
the security issues."

Now Joe's eyes darkened with worry. "And can you? I'd hate to see him 
in any danger, Walt. And he is . . . very trusting. You can see it's 
in his nature."

Skinner swallowed down the fear and second thoughts that Joe's words 
engendered. It would be difficult to keep Fox safe from their enemies 
as he went further into the world alone. And Joe was right. The boy 
was sweet and trusting. Prior to the accident that killed three of his 
friends, he'd managed to get through this second childhood untouched 
by any of the worst things in life. In that regard, he was very 
different from Mulder. There was not a paranoid bone in this kid's 
body. And a little healthy fear and paranoia would serve him well in 
his current circumstance.

He was distracted from his dark thoughts as the house filled with the 
sounds of laughter and people talking. The rest of the family entered 
through the kitchen door. "When's dinner, Gram? We're starving!" Mike 
called into the kitchen as they passed.

"Everything smells great, Gram," Fox added. 

"Well, one of you boys is gonna turn out to be a charmer," Rachel 
Skinner laughed. She was wearing an apron and standing amidst the soon 
to be served bounty of their traditional Thanksgiving dinner. "I won't 
say which one but . . . Fox, tell everyone dinner is ready!"

Looking chagrined, Michael went over to his grandmother and offered to 
help serve. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and a smile to let him 
know all was forgiven, then handed him a bowl of cranberry sauce to 
deliver to the table

The other adults in the kitchen all waited for something to carry in. 
Jean and Eileen and Nora had helped Rachel cook. Fiona had been 
invited and brought a couple of apple pies for later. And Teena Mulder 
had finally accepted an invitation to the Skinner home. She'd been 
invited several times since Fox had become a de facto member of the 
family as an adult, and more often since he'd begun his second 
adventure in childhood. But this was the first time she'd accepted.

Fox was thrilled to see her and to have her there. He and Skinner had 
made a special trip to the airport in Harrisburg to pick her up this 
morning. And luckily for all, she and Rachel had formed an immediate 
bond. Mrs. Mulder seemed a little overwhelmed by the size and noise of 
the Skinner family gathering but she was clearly touched and relieved 
to see how easily Fox fit into the chaos. The two of them had taken a 
walk down to the river earlier in the day and spent several hours 
catching up with each other. Skinner had been pleased to see them 
spend more than a few minutes together. Fox was immensely curious 
about his 'other life' now and, while the AD could fill him in on his 
career and recent years, he was unable to shed much light on anything 
earlier than 1990 or so.

The family and their guests sat down to a meal that had the dinner 
table groaning. Two generations of family favorites covered tables 
that extended out of the dining room and into the massive living room 
of the family home. Every chair, bench and stool in the house was 
employed for someone to sit on and Mr. Skinner began the meal with his 
traditional Thanksgiving grace.

"Lord, we thank you for the bounty of this table. And the bounty of 
this country and the freedom and opportunity we found here. I thank 
you, too, for the blessings you've bestowed on our family. For Rachel. 
And Walter, Jean, Joe and Andy. And Jeremy, whom we know is safe with 
you today. And Oliver, Nora and Eileen. And Fiona, who's joining us 
for the first time."

"Da-da-da-da-da. . . " little Griffin cut in from the high chair at 
the end of the table. He accompanied himself by banging his spoon on 
the tray.

Andy reached over and grabbed the spoon out of the baby's hands and 
shushed him quietly.

"You leave him be," Mr. Skinner said with a smile. "Healthy set of 
lungs on that boy, but I'm certain I can compete!"

The family settled back down with smiles all around and Mr. Skinner 
continued the blessing. "And we thank you for Doug and Kelly. And 
Michael and Kathy and Amanda. For Fox and Brian and Haley and even 
baby Griffin, loud-mouth that he is! And Emily, the most recent 
addition to our family. And for bringing Teena to us today. We thank 
you, Lord, for giving us another good year in which our family grew 
and prospered, and for keeping our loved ones safe and healthy. And we 
place our faith in you for the coming year and always. Not our will 
but thine, Lord. Amen."

"Amen," the rest of the family chorused.

"We better not let any more people in the family, or we'll never have 
any hot food," six-year-old Brian said, setting off another round of 
laughter. 

Fox sat beside Skinner and he filled his plate to overflowing, taking 
a scoop of everything that went by. Skinner's eyebrows rose at the 
pearl onions in cream sauce. "Do you like that?" he asked the boy, 
leaning over and whispering so no one else would hear him.

"It looks good," Fox answered. Then he tasted an onion and realized 
his father was right. He swallowed what was in his mouth and stared 
balefully at the large scoop he'd ladled onto his plate. 

"Here, put it on mine," Skinner told him, trying not to laugh. Fox did 
as instructed, then he looked at the mound of mashed turnips he'd 
taken when it passed by. He'd never tried them before either. Skinner 
read his mind and continued to hold his plate to the side, waiting.

"You can have these, too," Fox added, pushing the turnips onto 
Skinner's plate without even tasting them. 

"Okay," the AD chuckled as he moved his plate back in front of him. 
"You're on your own now, kid."

Fiona and Teena had watched the action between them with amusement and 
Skinner was a little embarrassed when he turned back and saw he had an 
audience. "I-- Well, vegetables are not a big favorite of Fox's," he 
told them quietly by way of explanation. "He generally avoids them 
like the plague but my mother dresses them up so much, it's hard to 
recognize them for what they are!"

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

Early Friday morning
2:17 a.m.

"No! I-- Don't! PLEASE DON'T!" Fox screamed in his sleep. The young 
man was thrashing around in his bed, living out the details of a 
recurring nightmare. "PLEASE GET OUT!"

Walter Skinner jumped out of his own bed and ran to the room across 
the hall that Fox was using this weekend. The young man normally slept 
in the small study at the end of the hall when he was there but this 
time he'd been put in Andy and Joe's old bedroom. The study was better 
outfitted for a guest and Teena Mulder had that one. Fiona had been 
given Jean's old room.

"It's okay, Fox," he said soothingly as he pushed the door open and 
quickly jogged to the bed. Then he tried to bring the boy out of it 
gently. "It's okay. I'm here. You're all right . . . "

"Dad?" Fox sobbed as he reoriented himself to reality. "I keep-- I 
keep having the same dream! I keep trying to. . . But no one listens! 
No one . . . "

"I know," the man told him as he rubbed his back. "I know you tried to 
get them to listen--"

"But maybe I didn't try hard enough! Maybe it really was my fault!" 
Fox's voice rose as his self-recrimination fueled his pain and his 
body went rigid with fear. "I might be responsible for--"

"No," Skinner told him firmly, shushing him. "I'm not gonna let you go 
on thinking you might be responsible for the fact they died, Fox. You 
did everything you could have done. You tried as hard as you could to 
keep the accident from happening. But you couldn't. I can't tell you 
why that had to happen because I don't know why. But I know you. And 
you never do less than your best, kid. If anyone could have changed 
the outcome, it would have been you."

He felt the boy relax into his arms and his crying continued but was 
less agonized. Now it seemed he was merely letting go of his grief and 
that was good for him. Skinner had come to be able to differentiate 
between the two as Fox's nightmares continued over the past two weeks. 
The counselor had said they might go on for some time.

"I know you pretty well, son," he continued as he rocked the boy 
gently. "You always feel compelled to convince people you're right 
when you know you are. Despite what they say. Or how much they might 
laugh at you. You would never have walked away without trying 
everything you could do to convince them they were heading for a 
problem. But ultimately, you can't save everyone, Fox. And people 
don't always listen--"

"But--" Fox interrupted. "What if there was something else I could 
have done? And I didn't do it. Wouldn't that make me partly 
responsible. . . ?"

Skinner pushed Fox's sweaty hair off his forehead and pulled the boy 
further into the protective circle of his arms. "What else, Fox? You 
did everything you knew how to do at that point in time. Because 
that's your nature. You never give up until long after everyone else 
has thrown in the towel and gone home, kid! Until it's a lost cause. 
You can talk to me for as long as you want, pal, but you'll never 
convince me you bear any responsibility for that accident. Because you 
don't."

He continued to hold the boy as Fox calmed down a little further. 
Skinner let him relax and spoke to him quietly, trying to bring him 
back to reality. "Anyway, I wouldn't be surprised if this nightmare is 
the result of everything you ate today, kid! I was beginning to wonder 
if you thought you'd never see food again." 

Fox let out a short laugh that sounded too close to a sob to Skinner's 
ear. But he picked up the thread. "Yeah, it might have been that pearl 
onion! It felt like I was chewin' on an eyeball--"

"Oh, God, Fox!" Skinner exclaimed. "Well, thanks to you that's another 
food I'll have to scratch off my list of edible things."

But he smiled when he said it, glad to see the boy bouncing back.

Fox recognized the good nature of the response and decided to continue 
his line of thought. "Want to know what those turnips look like?" he 
asked only to be cut off immediately.

"No! Whatever it is, I'll thank you to keep it to yourself! And I 
think you oughta be getting back to bed now, pal." Skinner let Fox lie 
back down and pulled the covers back up to his chin. "I'll stay here 
till you're asleep."

The boy nodded gratefully and closed his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he 
began to drift off again and the AD leaned down and kissed him on the 
forehead. Skinner didn't notice Teena Mulder standing in the hallway 
just out of his line of sight. But she had listened to their 
conversation and, in those moments, years of guilt and shame rushed 
into her heart. She began to shake and tears flooded her eyes as she 
turned and tried to find her way blindly back to the study.

Rachel Skinner took her arm out of the blue. "Are you all right, 
Teena?" she whispered. "Walter told me Fox has been having nightmares. 
But he'll be all right. It's just part of the grieving process."

"No, that's not it," Teena told her brusquely. "I-- It's just I need 
to be alone right now. I'm sorry Fox disturbed you. I'm sorry I--" Her 
voice broke and she walked quickly toward the study and entered, 
closing the door silently behind her. Teena knew she turned on the 
light in the room immediately as a shaft of light sprang from beneath 
the door. Rachel sighed and headed down to the kitchen.

Mrs. Skinner returned a few minutes later with a tray that held a 
teapot and two cups. Fox's bedroom door was closed again but Walter's 
was still open. She looked inside and saw the room was empty so she 
surmised Walter had decided to bunk in with Fox for the rest of the 
night. Next she went to the door of the study and knocked lightly. The 
light was still on in the room so she was certain she wouldn't be 
waking Teena Mulder.

"Yes?" a voice responded immediately.

Rachel balanced the tray on one hand and opened the door. She gave 
Teena a half-smile. "Chamomile tea," she said as she placed the tray 
on the desk top. "It always helps me get back to sleep . . . ."

Teena nodded her head and surreptitiously dabbed a tissue to her eyes 
as Rachel poured. She was holding a photo frame and carefully placed 
it back on the nightstand beside her.

But the situation was not lost on Mrs. Skinner and as she held out a 
cup to the other woman a moment later, she noted her red-rimmed eyes 
and haggard look. And that Teena had been holding a photo of a Fox as 
a two-year-old, asleep in the old hammock in back of the house. He lay 
on Walter's chest and both of them were sleeping peacefully, Walter's 
arm draped protectively over the boy's back.

"He looks positively angelic in this one," Rachel said as she poured 
and then held the cup out to Teena. "But I remember the tantrum that 
preceded it! The terrible two's haven't changed since my kids were 
little."

Teena nodded a little self-consciously. "I'm sorry . . . that Fox woke 
you," Teena began to apologize again.

"No! Please! There's no need to apologize," Rachel stopped her. She'd 
poured herself a cup of tea also and now she took a seat in the 
rocking chair. "Nothing related to Fox would ever be a disturbance to 
me or my family. He is one of us. And he's had a . . . lot to deal 
with lately. It's a small miracle he copes as well as he does."

"Yes. I suppose that's true," Teena said, stopping to take a sip of 
her tea. "I suppose it's always been true."

Rachel thought her remark was odd but she let it pass without comment. 
The woman was a mystery to Rachel Skinner and she suspected pressing 
her would bring no further enlightenment.

"Still, he must have woken the entire household. It was like that when 
he was a boy. Nightmares that roused Bill and I almost every night. 
And Bill . . . didn't have much patience with Fox. He thought he was . 
. . he felt the nightmares were a sign of weakness. Or . . . guilt."

She teared up as she spoke and shook it off immediately. "Your son is 
very good with Fox, though. I've watched them together. When Fox was 
small as well as now. It's been wonderful to see. I'm afraid Fox 
deserved . . . much better than Bill and I were able to give him."

Rachel picked up her own tea and took a sip. "Yes, Walter has turned 
out to be . . . much better at it than he expected. He had a lot of 
doubts about whether he should keep Fox, under the circumstances. He 
wasn't certain he'd be a good father-- or substitute father." She 
wanted to be careful not to step on Mrs. Mulder's toes when it came to 
this subject.

But the other woman was way ahead of her. "No, he's been a father to 
Fox, I've seen it with my own eyes. More of a father than Fox has ever 
had before. I guess the third time's a charm," Teena answered 
cryptically.

"Well, I'm sure you and Fox's father did your best. We all make 
mistakes with our kids. Parenting is not an exact science--"

"No, your kids might know there were mistakes. But Fox . . . even as 
an adult, he didn't have a full appreciation for the things we did . . 
. and how they affected him. How could he? It's so unbelievable."

"I'm afraid I'm not . . . following you completely," Rachel finally 
responded. "His father and you made mistakes, but Fox didn't really 
know about them?" Her face was a mask of confusion but she knew 
whatever Teena was saying was important.

"Fox's father," Teena snorted derisively. "He didn't make 'mistakes.' 
He made plans. Plans that cost me a daughter. And ultimately . . . a 
son. Fox's father. . . ." Her words drifted into nothing and she shook 
her head. "And Bill didn't know what to do with Fox. He saw Fox as a . 
. . . a potential weapon, I think. Someone who might be needed later. 
And he set about making sure Fox was tough enough, smart enough, to 
fulfill that destiny. And my son turned out to be everything they'd 
hoped. And more." 

Rachel was struggling to make sense of Teena Mulder's monologue. "Fox 
is quite a remarkable young man. Now and before."

"Yes, he is," Teena agreed but her face reflected something more than 
maternal pride. "My son . . . There are things I should have told him 
before. When he still remembered his childhood and his own family. But 
I didn't. I failed him in that. Now, though, there's no reason to tell 
him. He's . . . finally escaped from the awful legacy he received. 
Into the loving embrace of your family. He is where he belongs, 
Rachel. And if I must give up another child, at least this time I know 
he'll be better off for my sacrifice. And that his . . . 'father' put 
the events in motion, albeit unintentionally, only makes it more 
satisfying."

Rachel put down her teacup and watched Teena Mulder with alarm. "Give 
him up? That's not . . . . Fox is part of our family, Teena. But that 
doesn't mean he leaves his own family behind. We would never want 
that. That's why we asked you here--"

"I know it's not what you would ask," Teena answered immediately. Once 
she'd put it all in place in her mind, she was back in control. "But 
it's the best thing for Fox. He deserves this second chance. And I am 
so grateful that your son was here for him when this happened. Few 
friends would stand by someone under these circumstances, take on this 
responsibility. And Fox was not . . . is not an easy child, I know 
that from experience. I shall always be in Walter's debt, as will 
Fox."

"Well, I'm sure Walter will appreciate that. But I don't think he 
thinks of it that way. Fox . . . had a special place in his life even 
before this strange situation occurred." Teena gathered up the dishes 
and placed them back on the tray. "And I think this will all look 
different in the morning after a good night's rest, Teena. Sleep 
well."

Rachel exited the room, shaking her head at the convoluted way Mrs. 
Mulder perceived things. <It's like she has to turn everything into a 
giant puzzle. Life's just not that complicated! No wonder Fox had such 
a confused view of family life, poor child!> She left the dishes 
unwashed in the sink and returned to bed.

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

Early Saturday morning
1:05 a.m.

Fox swore to himself as he took the steps to the back door two at a 
time. The lights in the kitchen were on. Someone's awake . . . and he 
didn't have to think too hard to guess who one of the occupants might 
be.

He opened the door and looked around, biting his lip pensively. His 
eyes drifted to the clock on the wall and it read six minutes past the 
hour of his curfew. He sighed loudly and his eyes sought out those of 
his father. Skinner was there with his parents, Fiona and Teena 
Mulder.

"It took l-longer to get home than I expected," he stammered.

"Okay," Skinner told him in a calming voice. "We'll invoke the 'five 
minute rule.' It was an invention of Andy's. Basically, it's just a 
five-minute grace period but Joe and I were a little upset we didn't 
think of it first!."

"Andy was the only one who needed it on a regular basis," Mr. Skinner 
chimed in, laughing. "When your Dad broke his curfew, it was always 
way more than five minutes!"

"No need to go there, Dad," Skinner told him with a good-humored 
warning glance. His father merely laughed again. Fox was already well 
acquainted with the story to which he was referring. And Walter, Sr. 
suspected his son might not wish to share the details with the rest of 
the crowd in the kitchen.

Fox nodded nervously and Skinner's early-warning system went into 
high-gear. The boy should have been relieved to hear he'd been given a 
pass on being five minutes past his ETA. What was going on here?

"Well, I guess I should go to bed," Fox said quietly. He didn't move, 
though. He appeared to be waiting for confirmation of his plan from 
Skinner. The AD's paternal instincts were standing on their hind legs 
and waving at him now.

"Yeah, good idea," he said lightly. Fox stepped over and gave him a 
hug. It was a routine they'd established when the boy was just a child 
and it amused Skinner that Fox didn't seem to give it a second thought 
now that he was older and particularly here, with an audience that 
included his real mother.

Fox wished everyone a good night and headed up the stairs. His heart 
was heavy with guilt but another part of him was wondering if he would 
get away with not telling Skinner about the speeding. He hadn't gotten 
a ticket, only a warning. The officer had been a local boy who knew 
the Skinner family well and he'd chosen to give the boy a talking to 
and an official warning. If they got out of town by Sunday morning, 
how likely was it they'd run into anyone in the Sheriff's department 
who'd tell Skinner? 

He shook his head, annoyed with himself for even going down this road. 
<Who are you kidding? Everybody here knows everybody. Everybody talks 
to everybody! Someone's gonna tell Gran or Gram and then there'll be 
hell to pay. For speeding and lying!>

He was startled when his bedroom door opened behind him. 

"Fox?" Skinner said and the boy jumped a foot in the air. "Is there 
anything you want to tell me?"

"No! Nothing!" the boy answered instinctively. Then the enormity of 
that lie weighed in and he dropped his eyes to the floor. "Well, maybe 
one thing . . . "

Skinner crossed his arms over his chest. His gut had been right on 
target. But at 1:15 in the morning, the last thing he wanted to do was 
play twenty questions with Fox.

"And that one thing would be . . . "

"I got a warning for speeding. Not a ticket, just a warning!"

Skinner sighed and closed the door. Then he leaned back against it, 
his arms still crossed. "I see. How'd you get away without a ticket?"

"Well, the officer saw my name was 'Skinner,' and he asked me which 
Skinner was my father. I told him it was you and he just smiled and 
filled out the warning paper. He said I should show it to you and 
'that will more than take care of this little traffic violation.' I'm 
not sure what he meant by that," the boy added as he pulled the pink 
slip of paper out of his back pocket. He handed it to the Assistant 
Director, still failing to make direct eye contact.

Skinner unfolded the paper and saw it was a simple warning, not even 
one that was officially put in the state's computer system. And it was 
signed "Sgt. Thomas Clayton."

"Tom Clayton and I went to high school together," he told Fox quietly. 
And Tom was well-acquainted with the way Mr. Skinner handled 
misbehavior on the part of his sons. Tom had been there that time 
Walter, Sr. marched a 16-year old Walter, Jr. out of the local bar 
he'd used a fake ID to get into. And Tom was there when he'd returned 
to school Monday morning with a sore butt and a one-month punishment 
tour hanging over his head. He suspected Tom had decided to let the 
Skinner family juvenile justice system take care of its own.

"Well. How fast were you going?" he asked Fox. He was beginning to be 
grateful for the reputation his family enjoyed in these parts.

"Um, fifty-five."

Skinner let the rest of the question hang in the air, waiting. Finally 
Fox told him the rest of what he wanted to know.

"In a thirty mile an hour zone," the boy finished, his head hanging.

"You were going fifty-five miles an hour through town?" Skinner asked 
him, incredulous. Someone could easily step into the street and be 
killed in the small village center.

"How did you know where--"

"I'm from around here, Fox. I know where the thirty mile zones are. 
And they're only in town, near the school and the village square." He 
was angry at the poor judgment the boy had shown and he didn't care if 
Fox knew it.

"I'm s-sorry," Fox mumbled, almost to himself. Tears of shame sprang 
to his eyes but Skinner was not moved by them. This was serious, more 
serious than Tom Clayton's lenient response would lead the boy to 
believe. On the other hand, Tom was probably counting on the fact 
Skinner's response would not be the least bit lenient.

"Please don't punish me now!" Fox's head continued to hang but he was 
definitely tearing up. "I-- please, Dad! Can't it wait till we get 
home?"

"You want to wait until Sunday night?" Skinner was still angry, but 
this request stunned him. Mulder as an adult, and now Fox, hated to 
wait for punishment. What was driving this change in modus operandi?

"Yeah. I mean, no, I don't want to but . . . I-- I just don't want my 
Mom to know," he blurted out, his words running into each other. "She 
thinks I'm good this time! I don't want her to know . . . I don't want 
her to think I'm just like I was before . . . "

"Hold on," Skinner said, taking three giant steps toward Fox and 
taking him by the shoulders. "What are you talking about? You weren't 
'bad' before--"

"Yes I was! And my real father didn't like me, or talk to me because I 
was bad! And even my Mom didn't really talk to me much. I know! I 
asked her and she told me!" He was crying now and Skinner shushed him, 
not wanting anyone else to hear this convoluted, and grossly 
inaccurate, interpretation of past events. He knew it would hurt Teena 
and leave his parents and Fiona feeling less than sympathetic toward 
her. And experience told him Fox had probably misinterpreted something 
to get to this conclusion.

"Okay, now listen to me. We need to talk. And you are going to be 
punished, Fox," he said quietly, holding the boy close to his side. 
"But your mother doesn't have to know about it. And you don't have to 
wait either. I don't think that's a good idea at all. I'll go 
downstairs and in a few minutes everyone else is going to go to bed 
because it's late. You go down the front stairs and out the front 
door. I'll meet you in the woodshed in a little bit, okay?"

Fox nodded miserably. He didn't look convinced but he knew better than 
to argue with Skinner when his tone was so low and insistent. And when 
he was so righteously angry.

Skinner appeared in the kitchen a minute later and saw that, indeed, 
everyone had finished their tea and was getting ready to head for bed.

"The dinner theater was lovely," Teena was saying. "I'm so glad you 
talked me into staying another day."

"Yes, I didn't expect to see such an outstanding cast," Fiona added. 
"And 'The Philadelphia Story' is one of my favorite movies of all 
time. It was a real treat."

Skinner watched both of his parent's heads pick up as they heard the 
sound of someone on the front steps. This old house kept no secrets, 
if you knew what to look for. Each of them gave him a quick glance and 
he shook his head almost imperceptibly. Walter, Sr. smiled and shook 
his head, too. He'd known something was up with Fox from his behavior 
earlier. Now he knew whatever it was warranted an encounter with 'the 
Persuader.' 

"I think I'll take a little walk before I turn in," Skinner said as 
everyone headed up the back stairs. "I'll see you all in the morning."

He waited until things settled down a bit, then went out the back way 
and straight down to the woodshed. It was a short walk and he 
suspected Fox was probably working himself up into a state as he 
waited. He was not wrong.

The boy was still wearing his jacket and pacing back and forth across 
the wood floor. He stopped when Skinner came in and the AD could see 
his eyes were already red and puffy. The man had been debating whether 
to try to talk to Fox first, then punish him. Now he knew the 
punishment had to come first. He was too distraught to really think 
clearly, or be able to communicate what was going on with him right 
now.

"All right," Skinner announced as he closed the door behind him. "You 
know what to do." He took his own jacket off and began rolling up the 
sleeves of his shirt. Then he went to the hook where the razor strop 
hung. It often struck him as odd, how this thing that he dreaded so as 
a kid still kicked up the same reaction from him as an adult. <And 
you're not even on the receiving end anymore, Walt!>

In the meantime, Fox had removed his jacket and pulled the wood bench 
into the middle of the floor. Now he was unbuttoning his jeans, then 
he carefully slid them and his underwear down to his knees before 
looking to Skinner for further instruction. The AD nodded his head and 
Fox lowered himself down onto the bench, biting his lip as he did so. 
He bit back a sob.

"I'm not going to kid you, son," Skinner told him as he took up his 
position. "You really bought yourself a strapping this time, Fox. You 
were going twenty-five miles over the speed limit. That's dangerous 
for you, and for others and I'm going to make sure you remember this 
lesson. One lick for every mile over the speed limit--"

"What? I won't--" He nearly got up from the bench before Skinner's 
strong left arm pushed him back into place. "I won't be able to sit 
down for--"

"You'll be able to sit, kid," Skinner reassured him. He'd had lots of 
experience with the Persuader was completely certain of that. "Not 
very comfortably but that's the price you pay for getting into trouble 
like this. Now tell me what you're being punished for." He laid the 
first three strokes across the boy's bare backside and saw the skin 
pink right up.

"Ohhh! For-just for speeding!" Fox yelled. He was angry at the 
punishment he was facing and didn't care who knew it.

"I'd watch that attitude if I were you, son," Skinner told him 
ominously. "Considering the position you're in, I think it would show 
good judgment." He delivered five more licks that brought loud wails 
of protest but Fox's tone began to change quickly.

"Owww! OUCCHH! I'm s-sorry! I didn't mean AHHHH!"

"What else is this strapping for?" Skinner continued the assault on 
the young man's upturned butt. Five more licks elicited gasps and 
yelps from Fox.

"I-- OWWW! I endangered my-- OHHH! AHHH! myself! And others! I could 
have killed someone going through town like that!"

"That's right, son, and that kind of behavior always buys you the 
worst punishment." Five more licks were delivered in rapid sequence 
and he could see from the boy's squirming his backside was feeling 
them.

"Now tell me, besides the speeding, what else do you deserve to be 
punished for?" He added another two licks, bringing the total to 
twenty. Only five more to go and he wanted to make sure they delivered 
a message.

"What?" the boy sobbed convulsively. "I don't know! I didn't do-- I 
didn't do anything else!"

Skinner reached up and rubbed the back of Fox's head, trying to calm 
him enough to get him to focus on the question. "Think, Fox," he said 
quietly. "What else did you do tonight that you know you shouldn't 
have?"

"Breaking my curfew?" the boy answered tearfully. "But you said--"

"I said I'd give you a pass on that because it was only five minutes. 
And I won't break my word, Fox. But what did you do when I asked you 
if you had anything to tell me?"

Realization dawned and Fox whimpered. "Oh," he said, taking a huge 
swallow of air. "I l-lied. But only for a second!"

"And even a second's too long for a lie, son," Skinner told him. He 
laid the last five licks down on the 'sit spot' and knew that simple 
activity would be an uncomfortable, but not impossible, one for Fox 
for the next day or so. 

Then it was over and Skinner walked over to the hook and hung 'the 
Persuader' back on its hook. He shuddered to think how many times he'd 
been in Fox's place over the years. But he also knew in his heart the 
discipline he'd learned there had served him well in his life. And he 
prayed it would do the same for this young man in the trials he'd face 
in the future.

Skinner walked back over to Fox, who hadn't yet moved from the bench. 
He rubbed the boy's back soothingly for another minute, then he knew 
it was time to get Fox to move along. He helped the boy up and watched 
him dress, seeing the tell-tale wince when his underwear and jeans 
were dragged over his burning backside. Then he pulled the boy into a 
hug, enveloping him in the warmth and security Skinner knew was as 
much a part of the discipline as the strapping he'd just received.

"Please don't tell my Mom," Fox sobbed, his voice low and insistent.

"I won't tell her," Skinner promised. "But I need to know what you 
meant before. When you said you 'were bad the first time.' Because 
that's not true, kid."

"It is true," Fox insisted. "She told me how my Dad didn't even talk 
to me for a long time. And that I didn't go there for holidays or 
anything, even after my f-father died. I don't know what I did but . . 
. But it must have been really bad! 'Cause I'd have to do something 
horrible for you to stop talking to me. Or to not get invited here for 
holidays, right? So I must have been really b-bad."

Skinner found himself smiling as he tightened his hold on Fox and 
caressed the back of the kid's head. He could never predict how Fox 
would mix up his two experiences but somehow the juxtaposition of the 
two sets of information always seemed to lead him down a path that 
made no sense . . . and which always had him holding full 
responsibility for everyone else's actions.

"Now, listen to me, kid," Skinner told him as he continued to soothe 
him. "I know your real father and you didn't speak for a long time. I 
don't know why that was, but it had more to do with him than you, I'm 
sure of that. And as for not spending the holidays with your mother, 
well, not all families do that. It doesn't mean anyone's wrong or bad. 
They just have different ways of being families." He wasn't quite 
certain he actually believed what he'd just said but he was sure that 
Teena Mulder's strange aloofness had nothing to do with her son's 
behavior.

"The mistake you made in this . . . analysis is that you took someone 
else's actions and filtered them through your experience with me. And 
the rest of this family. You would have to do something really 
terrible for me and you to not speak to each other. That's true. The 
truth is, I can't even think of anything you might do that would be 
that terrible! Because I love you no matter what you do, kid. And 
that's not going to change. I may get angry at things you do, and 
you'll always be punished when you do something wrong. But then it's 
over. Nothing would make me turn away from you. Nothing."

"And as for not getting invited here for the holidays, well, that's 
not even a possibility, kid! My family, your family now, celebrates 
every single holiday including Columbus Day! They'd celebrate Election 
Day if the rest of us could get here from wherever we're working. And 
you will always be a part of that because you're a part of this 
family, Fox. That doesn't mean every family does it exactly the same 
way, or that one way's better than another. Sometimes this can get a 
little . . . overwhelming. You know, I've had to listen to my Dad's 
very long version of grace for forty-seven years!"

Fox laughed despite himself now. He'd calmed down throughout Skinner's 
speech and now the AD could hear he was torn between the discomfort in 
his rear quarters and wanting to hear the rest of this story. Skinner 
reached for Fox's jacket and his own and helped Fox on with his. Then 
he pulled on his own and began ushering the boy out of the shed and up 
the path to the house.

"My point is, all families are different. None of them is perfect. We 
all have our little idiosyncrasies and some things you just learn to 
live with because you love your family. But whether or not a family is 
happy, I think that comes from the top, Fox. My Dad sets the standards 
for our family just like I set them for you. And that's his job. If 
something was wrong, it'd be his job to fix it. Or mine, if it was 
something between you and me. You would not be the one responsible. 
And you weren't responsible for whatever was wrong between you and 
your other father or mother. You weren't in charge, you were the kid. 
Does that make sense?"

Fox's face was screwed up with emotion he was obviously holding back 
and he didn't answer immediately.

Skinner stopped their progress and turned the boy to face him. He 
placed a hand on either side of Fox's face and made him look into his 
eyes. There was a full moon and enough stars to provide sufficient 
illumination for them to see each other clearly.

"I'm not trying to make your parents out to be wrong, Fox," he said 
quietly. "I think they probably did the best they knew how to do. But 
so did you. Always. And you can't be held to a higher standard than 
everyone else. You were never bad, not in all the time I've known you. 
You've done some things that were wrong, and learned some tough 
lessons along the way. As we all have. But you were not responsible 
for whatever was wrong in your other family. And I won't let you go on 
believing that you were."

Fox nodded finally, and two large tears rolled down either cheek. "Can 
we not tell my Mom anyway?" he whispered. "I still think she's kind of 
. . . proud of me now and I don't want to ruin it."

Skinner chuckled quietly and pulled Fox back into a hug. He was almost 
his full adult height now but he was still filling out. He was like a 
sleek colt who'd gotten his legs under him but was not yet ready for 
the races. "We don't have to tell her anything, son," he agreed. "And 
she has good reason to be proud of you. As we all do."

They began to cover the rest of the distance to the house, then Fox 
stopped again. "Or Mrs. Barefoot! I don't want her to know either," he 
said emphatically.

"Okay. No need to tell her about it."

"Or Gram! She--"

"Okay! We won't tell her either," Skinner replied, trying not to 
laugh. His mother already had a good idea of what had gone on, of that 
he was certain. But Fox didn't need to know that.

"Or Gran either. Can we not tell him? I don't want him to be mad at 
me, or not talk to me or anything--"

Now Skinner couldn't help the smile that spread over his face. He 
stopped and turned to the boy. "Stop! Do you honestly believe your 
grandfather would stop talking to you because you earned yourself a 
session with 'the Persuader?' I mean really, Fox, if that was true, 
he'd never speak to me, Uncle Joe or Uncle Andy for the rest of our 
lives! And believe me, he did a whole lot of talking in that woodshed 
over the years."

Fox blinked at the thought, then a wide grin spread over his face as 
he realized he was not alone in his predicament. "I guess I forgot I'm 
not the first one who ever got punished like this."

"No, you'd have to fight your way through a long line of Skinners for 
that honor, kid," the AD said as he planted a quick kiss on the top of 
Fox's head. "And someday, maybe I'll tell you all about the first time 
'the Persuader' was put to use."

Fox looked up at him, wide-eyed. "Was it you? Were you the first one 
who ever got it with that strap?"

They walked onto the back porch and were surprised to see Mr. Skinner 
in his bathrobe and pajamas, sitting on a wide rattan chair. Waiting 
for them.

"Oh, now that's a story, Foksik," he said as he rose from the chair, 
having heard the latter part of the conversation as his son and 
grandson approached. He put a protective arm around the boy's back.

Skinner's own eyes grew wide and he interrupted immediately. "That's a 
story that will have to wait for another time," he said firmly. 
Getting his father started on this, at this hour of the night, held no 
appeal for the Assistant Director. And he wasn't ready to share that 
story with Fox at any rate.

He opened the kitchen door and ushered the boy, and then his father 
inside. Fox headed up the back stairs and Walter, Sr. started to do 
the same. Then he turned and gave his son an amused, quizzical look.

"That will have to wait for another time when you and I have had a 
chance to get our stories straight," the AD said quietly.

"What, you don't think my memory's reliable?" the older man said, 
feigning indignation. 

"I think your memory's too reliable," his son replied huffily. "There 
are some things Fox doesn't need to know!" He headed up the stairs, 
then turned his head in shock when his father delivered a stinging 
swat to his passing butt.

"Just a little reminder, son," the older man said. His face was all 
seriousness but there was a twinkle in his eye. 

"Not necessary, Dad," Skinner replied with a rueful smile. "My 
memory's pretty reliable, too!"

The Skinner Home
Danville, Pennsylvania
Saturday afternoon

"Oh, Fox, come in!" Teena Mulder said as she noticed her son standing 
at the doorway to the small study. She had just finished packing up 
her things and now Walter and Fox would drive her back to the airport 
for her flight home. 

"I came to carry your bag down," he said, advancing into the room. 
He'd grown tall, almost full adult height. He was like a young colt 
now she mused, graceful at full gallop but a little awkward in the 
constraints of close quarters. Teena felt a lump of tears rise in her 
throat as she remembered him at this age before, so tentative, so . . 
. hurt. Now it seemed he was as he was meant to be, still feeling his 
way into adulthood but with a sense of belonging he'd never had 
before.

"Thank you, dear," she responded as she closed the weekend bag up. She 
gestured toward the rocking chair. "Have a seat while I check to make 
sure I haven't forgotten anything."

Fox turned a light pink and stammered. "Th-that's okay, I think I'll 
just stand."

Teena bit back a smile and turned away. Fox had apparently stepped out 
of line the night before and she suspected Walter Skinner had dealt 
with it the way he usually did. Now she was certain. But the closeness 
of their bond, and all the affection that surrounded Fox, made 
whatever discipline the AD meted out just another part of the 
father-son relationship they'd established during these past months. 
She had no cause to question the man's methods when she saw the 
polite, well-adjusted young man Fox had become.

"I was just looking at all the wonderful photos of you in this room 
and I guess I lost track of the time," she said, changing the subject.

"Yeah. Gram always has her camera loaded and ready for action!" He 
picked up a picture of him and Skinner with Andy and Brian. The boys 
were wearing baseball uniforms and smiles a mile wide. "This was the 
day I hit my first home run, in Nantucket. Well, it wouldn't have been 
more than a single if anyone on the field could catch but . . . "

"You've been happy, haven't you, Fox?" she asked him suddenly. She 
took a seat in the rocking chair and motioned for him to sit on the 
bed. He did and he wasn't too uncomfortable, she noted.

"Your Dad, I mean Walter, told me you might be a little confused about 
your first childhood," she said. "That you might think you were a bad 
kid, because our family wasn't as happy or . . . normal as the 
Skinners. And you think you might be responsible for that."

The boy chewed on his lower lip and stared at his Nikes. "I . . . 
didn't mean for him to tell you that--"

"No, I'm glad he told me, darling," she interrupted him. "Because it 
give me a chance to tell you it's not true. You were the best son I 
could have asked for. Smart and caring. Very responsible. You always 
looked out for Samantha--" Her voice broke but she shook it off. "The 
things that happened, they weren't your fault at all. You were . . . 
as much a victim as anyone. More than most of us. I can't really 
explain it all because . . . I don't really understand it fully 
myself. But you were the one . . . true joy in my life. I know I 
didn't always show it, and I never told you before. But you've never 
been anything but a joy to me, Fox. You're the one good thing I have 
to show for myself . . . ."

The boy looked at her, somewhat alarmed at the direction the 
conversation had taken. He had the sense her words held more meaning 
than he could understand presently.

Teena saw the expression on his face and knew she'd let her emotions 
run away with her. That happened all too often nowadays. Perhaps age, 
and a sense that the end was coming, made her less able to keep the 
secrets now. 

She glanced at the notebook lying on the desktop and picked it up. It 
was 'the lesson book' Rachel Skinner had shown her. And it contained 
some contributions from Fox, both as an adult and as a child. She 
turned to one page that had amused and touched her.

"I think this is a good idea, this lesson book," she told the boy who 
was now looking a little embarrassed again. "I wish I had thought of 
it when you were young the first time. It's a lovely record of your 
growing up and learning to understand the world. I especially liked 
this one."

She put her glasses on and opened to a page that was headed Fox 
William Mulder, July 19, 1999. It read: 

"It's not smart to punch someone who makes fun of your name. Because 
if they do that, it just means they're igorant and that's something 
that should make you feel sorry for them. So when that kid from the 
house down the street says my name is dum, I'll just laugh and tell 
him what my Dad told me to say like Are you some kind of expert on dum 
names? How much do you get paid for that? And anyway, my name's not 
dum. My Dad helped me find out about some famous people named Fox. 
Like Fox Connor was a General in the Army who was Eisenhower's best 
mentor and advicer. And so I won't punch that kid next time. Because 
my Dad says if I make that mistake again, I'll get spanked. So I 
won't." 

Teena smiled to herself seeing that page again. Fox had always had a 
sense of dissatisfaction about his name. She was pleased Walter had 
helped him resolve it this time around. And his spelling had improved 
rapidly, too. She turned the page to the one she wanted to speak 
about.

"Fox William Mulder. August 27, 1999," Teena began to read aloud. 
"Here's something I learned today. When your father asks "Do I look 
stupid?", don't answer."

Fox turned a deeper shade of pink and gave her an embarrassed smile. 
"I had to come back and rewrite that one, actually," he said with an 
endearing grimace.

"Yes, I know," Teena laughed. "But you did a really good job the 
second time." She began to read again. "I usually think I know better 
than everyone else. And my Dad says that's okay, as long as I don't 
tell everyone all the time. Because sometimes I do know things that 
other people don't know. But other times, my Dad and the other 
grown-ups in the family know better because they have more experience. 
And since it's hard to tell who knows best all the time, I have to 
just trust my Dad because he would never let me do anything dangerous. 
Like riding my bike across a main highway, that's something I thought 
I could do. And I did it without getting hurt. But my Dad said it's an 
unnecessary risk and lots of kids have gotten hurt or killed doing it. 
So I won't do it any more. And if I think I know better next time, 
I'll just remember the spanking I got today and make a different 
decision. And the next time somebody says "Do I look stupid?" I'll 
just keep my opinion to myself. Because being disrespectful is another 
way to get a spanking."

Fox let out a long, deep breath. "I was a lot younger when I wrote 
that," he said.

"I know, dear," Teena said, reaching out to hold one of his hand. "But 
you hit on a very good point. That the grown-ups in your life, your 
Dad, me, don't want anything to happen to you. And so sometimes you 
just have to trust us to do what's best for you. Even if you think you 
know better. Do you understand, Fox?"

The boy looked at her, mutely. He was puzzled by the conversation even 
though, on the surface, it made all the sense in the world. Finally he 
shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so. I hope you didn't read all the stuff in 
that book, did you? 'Cause my Dad did a few pretty dumb things when he 
was a kid, too."

Teena laughed as she rose. "No, I only read the parts you wrote, Fox. 
But I'm glad I did. Or else I might not have known you have such a 
good sense of humor."

She handed him her weekend bag and headed out into the hallway.

Fox followed her, puzzled. "Did I say something funny?"

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

McLean, Virginia
Friday, December 3
8 p.m.

Fox, Skinner and Walter, sat in the family room after dinner. Mr. 
Skinner had come to Virginia to spend a week with them while his wife 
went to Chicago to help her daughter-in-law Eileen. Two of Andy and 
Eileen's kids had come down with chicken pox and Rachel immediately 
hopped on a plane to go help with the patient, Brian and Haley, and 
the baby who hadn't yet come down with anything. Which left Mr. 
Skinner at loose ends alone in the Danville house.

The timing couldn't have been better because the Assistant Director 
was heavily involved in planning for the Bureau's budget hearings 
which would take place before the end of the Congressional session. 
That meant twelve to fourteen hour days of preparation, something he'd 
routinely done before Fox moved in. Now, however, he was torn about 
how to uphold his end of two sets of responsibilities, his job and his 
commitment to the boy who was at another difficult stage in his second 
childhood. 

Fox needed to leave the Wheatley Academy at the December break because 
he'd reached an age where he would have been out of high school. Going 
to college was a logical next step but the security concerns were a 
hurdle. And a school had to be chosen from among the many the area 
offered. Skinner had given it a lot of thought but he was not 
comfortable with sending the young man away to school. It just seemed 
too soon, and too fraught with potential problems.

So when Mr. Skinner readily accepted his invitation to come spend a 
week or two with them, he'd been relieved and pleased. Fox was also on 
a punishment tour following the speeding incident and having company 
around for him when he was home made it easier for the Assistant 
Director to focus his attention on his division's budget needs. 

In fact, Fox should have headed to bed directly after dinner but the 
meal had been fun and carefree and the three of them had not stopped 
talking about college choices, sports and Skinner family history. So 
the AD decided not to be a stickler about the early bedtime part of 
the young man's punishment tonight. He felt Fox didn't get enough time 
to spend with his grandfather and didn't want to prematurely end one 
of them.

"Well, Foksik," his Dad was saying as Skinner entered the family room 
with two more bottles of beer. "That's a long story. But with another 
beer to whet my whistle, I think I might be able to remember it all." 
He accepted the bottle from his son and took a sip.

Skinner went to sit by the hearth. It was a chilly night and he'd 
started a fire earlier. Now it needed tending. "What story would that 
be, Dad?" he asked idly as he poked the logs and added a little more 
kindling.

"Fox was just asking me about the first time I put 'the Persuader' to 
use," Mr. Skinner said with a smile. 

"What? I turn my back on you two for one minute and this is what 
happens?" Skinner replied with mock annoyance. "And Fox, I just 
remembered it's past your bedtime!"

"Oh, come on," the boy responded, picking up on his pretense. "I might 
die before I get to hear this story!"

"Only because I said I might kill you if you asked me about it again," 
Skinner laughed.

"I didn't ask you! I asked Gran!"

"He's got you there, son," Mr. Skinner weighed in. "And I think Fox is 
old enough to hear this story . . . ."

"I don't know, Dad," the AD responded, trying to appear serious. "I 
don't know if I'm ready for him know I'm not a perfect person. . . ."

"I already know that," Fox blurted out. Then his face reflected his 
concern as he thought better of the statement. He started to backpedal 
as fast as he could. "I mean, nobody's perfect right? Not even you. So 
how c-could you--" He let out a yelp when Skinner reached out a long 
muscled arm and pulled him onto the floor beside him, executing a 
wrestling move that ended in a perfect pin. 

"All right, all right," Mr. Skinner interrupted. "I award that round 
to you, Walter. But I'm still gonna tell him the story."

Skinner released Fox with a quick tickle to his rib cage. "Okay, if 
you insist," he sighed. "But I'm gonna stay right here and correct you 
if you get any of it wrong!"

"How likely is it that I'll get it wrong, son?" Mr. Skinner asked as 
he settled back into the easy chair. "Remember, I am the only perfect 
person in the family. And should you forget, I have ways of reminding 
you!"

Skinner rose and took a seat on the sofa and watched Fox settled in 
beside him. Yoda jumped up on the other end of the couch, circled and 
then settled in with his head on Fox's thigh. Skinner had warned his 
Dad that Fox would raise this question and they'd decided together the 
story would be shared. And it had taken less than a day for Fox to 
wrangle an opportunity to ask the older man.

"Well, let's see. Where to begin," Mr. Skinner said as he took another 
sip of his beer. Skinner knew he was going to play this for all it was 
worth and sat back to watch. "I bought that strap when you were about 
fourteen, I think. In an antique store in Lancaster. I thought I'd 
hang it right in our living room so my kids would see it every day, 
kind of as a warning. But Rachel wouldn't go for that."

"Thank God," Skinner added with a chuckle.

His father shot him a sideways glance. "So I hung it in the woodshed. 
And it was there about two years, I think. Never had a reason to use 
it."

"The threat was more than enough," Skinner offered.

"Am I telling this story, or are you?" Mr. Skinner asked him, feigning 
indignation.

"Sorry. You're doing fine," his son responded. Fox smiled at the 
by-play between the two of them. It was hard to miss the fact it was 
good-natured and loving.

"Thank you. Well, now I think it was around the time the union was 
holding that big convention in Pittsburgh. I was shop steward then and 
I'd been elected to go on a trip to Japan, to see their factories and 
get a sense of whether they would be a threat in the future. And I 
knew immediately that they would. So I had to represent the plant and 
carry a hard message about not getting complacent after a few good 
years."

"Wow! You went to Japan?" Fox inquired enthusiastically. "I didn't 
know that."

"Well, I was a bit of an odd duck in the steel mill and the union, 
Foksik. Had a bit more . . . education and some unusual experiences 
and I just couldn't help sticking my nose into things. Trying to 
change things when I knew it was necessary. I saw the Japanese 
approach and knew we'd have to make some big changes in the future to 
stay competitive."

"You were always carrying the tough messages, weren't you, Dad?" 
Skinner said quietly. "I remember when the big strike happened in '59. 
You were the one who kept saying there had to be compromise everyone 
could live with--"

"Well, we had families to support. Principle is important but hungry 
children are the first imperative," his father said firmly. "But the 
Skinners made it through those times okay, better than a lot of the 
others. Your mother deserves most of the credit for that. I think 
that's when she took to raising those chickens. And bought that cow!"

"Yes, that's right! The vegetable garden got so large, we could have 
lived off it for years. And then came the pig and the goat and the 
chickens. And that Thanksgiving turkey we almost didn't butcher 
because Jeremy wouldn't stop crying--"

"Oh, my, that was a nightmare. What was that turkey's name? Oh, yes, 
Clyde. When it came time to butcher Clyde, the entire family 
threatened to become vegetarians! Just to stop Jeremy's crying!"

"You had all those animals?" Fox asked, distracted from the main 
story. "I never knew that."

"Oh, yeah," Skinner laughed. "That would be the 'Great Skinner Family 
Farming Experiment." Things were hard with Dad not working. And Mom 
thought it would help if we raised our own food. Not just fruits and 
vegetables. She came from a farm in a rural part of Russia.. So she 
had a lot of experience with it. But she didn't realize we'd 'adopt' 
every single animal she bought! Joe tried to keep that pig in his 
bedroom one night when it was cold--"

"A pig!" Fox exclaimed. 

"Well, it was just a baby pig when we got it. The god-awful smell, not 
to mention the squealing, tipped my Mom off to where it had gotten to 
real quick," Skinner replied. "Then it was Joe's turn to squeal when 
she got after him with her hairbrush!"

"I didn't even know you had any pets," Fox said with wonder as he 
stroked the top of Yoda's head. "Didn't you just think about getting a 
dog?"

"We had several dogs," Mr. Skinner answered. "Walter brought home 
every stray he ever found. Got to the point dogs all over the county 
considered us a stopping point on the canine underground railroad!"

"That's not true," the AD countered. "We had four or five all told but 
I only brought two home. A mix named Barney that I found wandering and 
nearly starved to death. He lived to be about twelve. And then Shadow, 
he was the runt in Pete Cooper's dog's litter. He got hit by a truck 
when I was in Vietnam, right, Dad?"

The older man nodded seriously. "Yes. I remember Andy nearly cried 
himself sick. For some reason Shadow glued himself to Andy when you 
left and they were crossing the highway when it happened. Just an 
accident but he got it all mixed up in his head, thought you'd never 
come home if you knew Shadow was dead."

The Assistant Director wanted to lighten the mood. Fox had grown too 
quiet. "Of course, Andy didn't have a real feel for dogs or cats. He 
had hamsters and goldfish. And that snake--"

"He had a snake?" Fox asked, exactly as his father had intended. 
"You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not kidding. He never had a pet you could go out and play 
with, our Andy. Don't ask me why," Skinner answered with a smile.

"Remember what he named the snake?" Mr. Skinner asked, then he and his 
son responded together.

"Snake!" they chorused, setting Fox off into a round of giggling. 

"That's the dumbest name I ever heard," he gasped between fits of 
laughter. 

When Fox calmed down, the fact the conversation had taken a turn was 
not lost on him. "But . . . what about 'the Persuader?" he asked 
again.

"Oh, right," Walter, Sr. answered. "Where was I? Things were pretty 
tough for a few years there, most of the kids' childhood, actually. 
Between the kids and the strikes and a few economic downturns, we 
never seemed to get ahead of ourselves. So I went down to Pittsburgh 
and your grandmother came with me. Thought I might need the company 
because I was going to be holding an unpopular position at a time when 
things seemed to be going good. That we needed to make change if the 
American steel industry was going to survive."

"We left Walter in charge," he continued. "We were only going to be 
gone a couple of days. And he was fifteen, almost sixteen, I think. 
Which meant the others were . . . ."

"Jean was almost fourteen. Joe was eleven. Andy was nine and Jeremy 
was seven, Dad. I remember it like it was yesterday."

"Right, I expect you do," his father replied. "Well, we told the kids 
to stay close to the house. It was summertime and there was no school. 
We asked the neighbors to check in on them but then Anya Kosarov's 
mother got ill and they had to go be with her. So they all were on 
their own. And you did fine, until you decided to head into town. 
Against our strict instructions."

"Well, I'd like to offer one piece of information in my defense. They 
were driving me crazy! Four of them cooped up in the house and on the 
property. With nothing to do--"

"We had a yard full of animals! Swings. A river to swim in--" his 
father countered, laughing. 

"And Jean wanted to go to the movies with her friends. I said no, we 
weren't allowed to leave the house. So then she stopped talking to me. 
Which should have been a good thing but I guess I wasn't thinking 
clearly!" Skinner's eyes twinkled when he said that. 

"Well, sometimes you have to take an unpopular position when you're in 
charge, son," his father responded with a smile. "And that's a lesson 
we all learn in time. But if you don't mind, I'd like to finish this 
story for Fox tonight. Which won't happen if you don't let me tell 
it."

Skinner nodded and his father continued. "So anyway. Walter's friend 
Pete Cooper already had his driver's license. And he came by and 
offered to take them all into town. And I think he said that pretty 
young Tess Patterson was going to be there. At least, that's how I 
remember it." He looked at his son for confirmation.

"Am I allowed to talk now?" he asked pointedly. "Well, then, yes. Tess 
was going to be at the movies . . . and I had a major crush on Tess."

Fox was drinking it all in. The idea of his father having a crush on 
someone was intriguing in itself. But he was more interested in the 
rule-breaking. "That's a big one, Dad," he said. "Obedience is one of 
the very important rules."

"Yes it is, kid," Skinner said. "And how do you think I learned that 
important lesson, huh?"

"Exactly. So, they all went into town," Mr. Skinner continued. "And 
everyone pretty much ran wild at that point--"

"A lot of stuff happened between the time we got into town and you 
discovered everyone 'running wild,' Dad," Skinner interjected. "I 
think I have to tell this part of the story."

"Be my guest."

"Thank you. Well, we got to town and next thing I know, Jean's crying. 
Because this boy she wanted to meet at the movies is with someone 
else. And she wouldn't stop crying. And Tess was there, waiting for me 
to go into the movies with her. Only I was hoping Jean would watch the 
boys while I was in the movies with Tess and now Jean can't stop 
crying. She wasn't even hearing me when I asked her to watch the 
boys."

"And Coop decides to ask her to see the movie with him. So she stops 
crying but now she goes into the movies with Coop and I still don't 
have anyone to watch the boys."

"Coop was not the smartest of your friends, Walter," Mr. Skinner said.

"No kidding, Dad," he answered. "He had a good heart though. So, the 
movie is about to start, and I had to buy a ticket for everyone, me, 
Tess, and Joe, Andy and Jeremy. Took every cent I had. I don't recall 
what the movie was but it was definitely over Andy and Jeremy's head. 
I had to lie to the lady at the movies and tell them my parents were 
already inside because she didn't think they were old enough to see it 
without their parents."

"Oh, that's another very important rule you broke, Dad," Fox whistled. 
He was enjoying this story more and more.

"Thanks for sharing, Fox," Skinner told him with a smile. "So we go 
into the movies and the next thing I know, Andy and Jeremy are out in 
the lobby playing cops and robbers, I think. Or cowboys and Indians. 
Whatever. They had these two cap guns that they were firing at each 
other and the manager actually stopped the film to ask someone who was 
with them to come and get them. About halfway through the movie I 
finally decided to give up and go home with them. I figured Tess would 
never speak to me again--"

"You dated her all through high school, didn't you, Walter?" Mr. 
Skinner interrupted. "Whatever happened to her anyway?"

"She's living in Nevada, just outside Las Vegas. Married, a couple of 
kids. Coincidentally, her oldest is applying to the FBI Academy's next 
class--"

"Can we get on with this story?" Fox exclaimed. "Jeez. I still haven't 
heard anything about anybody getting it with that strap! Other than 
me, that is."

The two Skinner men burst out laughing. "Okay, kid. Calm down. I'm 
getting to that," the AD laughed. He extended his legs and rested them 
on the wood coffee table. "Where was I anyway?"

"You decided to go home. Then what?" Fox said impatiently.

"Right. So I decided to go home but now I couldn't find Jean. She was 
in the movies with Coop but I couldn't locate them. And then I 
realized Joe was gone."

"Where'd he go?" Fox asked anxiously.

"Well I didn't know it at the time, but he decided the movie was 
boring and went to the library. To get a couple of books. Because it 
was boring at the house and he always liked to read. So he just went. 
But he didn't tell me so I didn't have a clue. I started running all 
over town looking for him. Thank God it's a fairly small place. I 
finally found him at the library and I left Andy and Jeremy with him 
there and told them not to leave. Then I went back to the movies to 
see if I could get Jean. Only while I was gone, Joe realized he didn't 
have a library card with him. And Andy and Jeremy both found books 
they wanted too. So the three of them decided to sneak the books out 
of the library, with full intentions of returning them. They weren't 
stealing them, they just wanted to take them home that day."

"Mind you, Mrs. Popov would have let them take those books without a 
library card if they'd just told her. But they decided to pull 'a 
heist' instead," Mr. Skinner interjected with a knowing nod.

"A 'heist,' Dad?" his son asked, nearly crying from holding back the 
laugh that wanted to come. "Is that the technical term?"

"Are you going to finish your part of the story?" Mr. Skinner 
harrumphed but he was nearly collapsed with laughter too.

Fox was not far away from a fit of laughter either but he was still 
anxious to hear the rest of the main story. "So what happened next?" 
he pleaded.

"Well, I finally found Jean and she wouldn't come with me because the 
movie wasn't over. And Coop wanted to stay with her, so he gave me his 
keys so I could drive the boys home first. I didn't have my license 
but I knew how to drive--"

"And how was it you knew how to drive before you had a license 
anyway?" his father asked suddenly. "I don't think I ever heard this 
story."

"I'll tell it to you some time, Dad. If you promise not to hit me now. 
We're well past the statute of limitations on that crime . . . "

"There is no statute of limitations in this family, son," Mr. Skinner 
said ominously. There was a twinkle in his eye but it was not easy to 
spot.

Skinner was a little upended by the comment and he decided to focus 
everyone's attention back on the narrative. "Well then I got Coop's 
car and went to pick up the boys. The librarian had figured out that 
they snuck out with the books and she had chased them into the parking 
lot. Just as my folks were driving down the main street. They were 
stunned to see their three youngest kids being held by the librarian 
and the local sheriff for stealing books. They got out and started 
trying to figure out what was going on. Just as I pulled into the 
parking lot in Coop's car."

"Wow," Fox breathed. "That's a whole lot of trouble to get in at 
once!"

"Yes, it is," Mr. Skinner confirmed his assessment. "Well, when we got 
home, I sent Walter to the woodshed and when I got there, lo and 
behold, he was angry at me! Said the whole thing was my fault for 
leaving him in charge of the other kids. When he didn't want that 
responsibility to begin with! And then he started blaming the other 
kids for misbehaving. And I said, 'That's enough! You don't always get 
a vote on whether you take up a responsibility. Sometimes it just 
falls to you. And you don't get to do a half-assed job because you 
never asked for the responsibility to begin with!" And I told him to 
go get the strop off the hook."

Skinner looked over at Fox's face and saw he was completely focused on 
what the older man was saying. His mouth was open as he listened and 
the AD was suddenly certain it was time for him to hear this story. 

"And he refused," Mr. Skinner added.

"You did?" Fox blurted out. He swiveled his head to look at Skinner, a 
look of shock on his face. The AD merely nodded ruefully. But he 
pulled the boy closer to his side, wrapping an arm around his 
shoulders as Fox settled back in to listen to the rest of the tale.

"He did," Walter, Sr. said as he took the final sip of beer out of his 
bottle. "I couldn't believe it myself. I told him to go get it again 
and he refused again. So I went and got it myself. And I told him to 
take down his pants and then I strapped his butt but good. Made a real 
impression on the boy, if I do say so myself. And I hung the strop up 
and asked him to go get it again."

"Again?" Fox asked incredulously. This story was sounding more and 
more unlikely, considering it was his father they were talking about.

"Uh-huh. And he refused. Again. So I got it myself, gave him another 
few licks and hung it up again. And then I asked him to get it for me. 
And he said no again."

"Really?" Fox's voice was tremulous now and Skinner pulled him 
tighter. If he didn't know better, the AD would have thought the kid 
was getting worried. 

"Yep," Mr. Skinner answered looking straight at his son. "You were 
always the most infuriatingly stubborn of my kids." He turned his 
attention back to Fox. "So I got it myself and strapped him again. Put 
it back again. And then I told him to go get it. He was crying hard by 
then and he said to me, 'how long are you gonna keep doing this?' And 
I said, 'until you to understand that my word is the law, son. However 
long it takes to persuade you.' I was close to caving in at that 
point--"

"You're kidding," Skinner exclaimed despite himself. Mr. Skinner 
nodded. 

"It's the truth, son," he sighed. "I was seriously doubting myself at 
that point. And then suddenly you came around." He looked at Fox and 
continued. "He went over and took the strop off the hook. Then he came 
back and handed it to me and said, "Okay, I've been persuaded." And 
that, Fox, is how 'the Persuader' got its name. And its first use!"

Fox looked at Skinner, his eyes questioning a story that sounded 
unbelievable to a young man who began promising anything and 
everything that came to his mind after the first couple of licks with 
that strop.

"I was . . . hard-headed at that age," Skinner said simply. 

"You say that as though something's changed," his father interrupted 
with a snort of laughter.

Skinner rolled his eyes, then he pulled Fox into the protective circle 
of both his arms. "So now you know. And I'll tell you what I told Joe 
and Andy and everyone else who's had occasion to visit that woodshed 
over the years. When you're there, if anybody eve tells you to 'go get 
the strop,' he paused for effect. "Go. . get . . it."

"I'd run like the wind to get it," Fox answered, nodding his head 
vigorously.

"That's what I wanted to hear," Skinner replied. smiling and tousling 
the boy's hair. He remembered a similar incident with an adult Mulder 
a few years earlier and hoped this lesson really had sunk in without 
Fox having to test his, or his grandfather's mettle. He turned back to 
his father and exhaled forcefully. "For some reason I can remember 
dinner that night as if it was yesterday. Mom set a place up on the 
counter for me, because I couldn't sit down. And I was already in my 
pajamas 'cause you sent me right to bed when we got back to the house. 
All the other kids were kind of subdued, watching me out of the corner 
of their eyes, wondering--"

Mr. Skinner snorted. "You have a convenient memory, son," he said 
breezily. "They were in their pajamas, too. And they were subdued 
because, while we were down in the woodshed, your Mom was applying the 
back of her hairbrush to all their bottoms. You all went to bed right 
after supper that night!"

"I don't think I knew-- No, I'm sure I didn't know that! I guess I was 
too focused on my own . . . situation," Skinner laughed.

"And then your Mom and I broke out a bottle of vodka and had a couple 
of drinks, wondering if we were raising a bunch of juvenile 
delinquents," Mr. Skinner finished with a chuckle. "Guess that turned 
out to be a needless worry!"

"Yeah," the AD mused. "I suppose every parent has moments when they 
wonder but . . . " He turned to Fox. "I think you ought to be getting 
to bed now. We've got a long day tomorrow and Uncle Joe will be here 
first thing in the morning."

Fox nodded again and rose. He went over to Walter, Sr. and gave him a 
hug. Then he returned to Skinner and did the same, allowing the AD to 
give him a quick kiss on the forehead. "You're getting so big," the 
man said. "I'd say you're less than an inch from your full height. If 
we can just get a little more meat on your bones. . . " He gave Fox a 
swat on the butt and sent him off to his bedroom.

"He's a fine young man, son," his father said quietly after they'd 
heard his footsteps on the floorboards upstairs. "You should be very 
proud of him."

"I am," Skinner said, feeling his eyes mist up as he spoke. "Sometimes 
I miss the two-year-old, believe it or not! And the four-year-old. And 
the eight-year-old . . . !"

"I understand that," Mr. Skinner responded with a knowing look. "I 
feel the same way about all of you kids, too!"

A little while later, Skinner wandered into Fox's bedroom and found 
him lost in a book. The young man looked up and smiled sheepishly, 
closed it and put the book on the nightstand. Skinner was surprised to 
see it was one of his own books, a history of the Civil War. It was a 
special interest of the AD's and Fox must have taken it off his desk.

"I hope you don't mind," the boy said. "I . . . thought this looked 
interesting." He was wearing a pair of navy blue pajama bottoms and an 
old USMC tee shirt of Skinner's, one that had grown just a little too 
small for the older man years ago. 

"I don't mind at all," Skinner said gently. He sat down on the bed 
next to Fox. The boy was still on a punishment tour and he knew a 
bedtime spanking was part of the deal. Without prompting, the kid rose 
and let himself be guided into position over his father's knees.

The AD tugged at his pajama bottoms and they fell to pool around Fox's 
ankles. "What's this spanking for, son?"

"To remind me," the boy answered automatically. "That I'm being 
punished. And why. . . "

Skinner gave him a sharp slap right across the fleshiest part of his 
butt. "And that would be. . . ?"

"Because of the speeding!" Fox exclaimed. "Ouch! And . . . and 
endangering myself. . . Oww! And other people!"

Skinner smiled to himself and issued another stinging smack. The boy's 
backside was pinking up but he knew he was doing little damage. "And 
don't forget the last thing, Fox," he said as he brought his hand down 
again.

"Ahh! Oh, yeah, and for breaking the law!"

The AD nodded, satisfied with the recitation of sins. It was important 
for Fox to understand all the reasons why he was being punished. And 
when it came to the tough lessons, repetition seemed to be the way he 
learned best. He pulled the boy's pajamas back up and let him sink to 
his knees. Then Skinner gathered him up into the traditional hug. This 
part of the ritual was as important as the spanking he reflected as 
Fox quickly calmed down. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

There was a moment of silence then a muffled voice replied into his 
shoulder. "Yeah," he said, taking a deep breath and releasing it 
forcefully. 

"Good," the man answered briskly and he gently guided the boy up and 
into the bed. Fox burrowed under the covers and Skinner smoothed them 
down, then sat on the edge of the mattress. He reached out and pushed 
Fox's thick hair off his forehead and smiled at him. "Something's on 
your mind, though, right?"

Fox looked a little embarrassed for a moment, then he nodded. "I . . . 
I was wondering," he said softly. "Do you ever worry about me? About 
me growing up to be, you know, someone you don't like? Someone who's a 
jerk?"

Skinner laughed. "No," he said with authority. "I don't. Unlike my 
Dad, I have the luxury of knowing you grow up to be someone pretty 
terrific."

Fox colored slightly and dropped his eyes. "I -- are you sure? I mean, 
sometimes I wonder if I was . . . kind of a jerk. . . "

His voice trailed off.

Skinner wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Why would you think that?"

"Because . . . . Well, because my Mom sometimes acts like she didn't 
like me so much before. And like she had to worry about me a lot. And 
. . . I read some of the stuff I wrote in 'the Lesson Book' before, 
when I was grown up. And I think sometimes I did things that made you 
mad. . . . And you had to punish me then, too." The words had come out 
as barely more than a whisper and the young man never raised his eyes 
from where they were glued to his fidgeting hands the whole time he 
spoke.

Skinner pressed his lips together, buying a moment to consider how to 
answer. He hadn't realized Fox had been investigating himself as an 
adult. Rabid curiosity was a trait he shared with his adult 
counterpart. 

"Well, first of all, I think your mother loves you. Now, before, 
always, Fox. You and she have had some . . . difficulties over the 
years because things were complicated. But you were always a wonderful 
son to her. And she was always a good mother to you. It's just you 
were both . . . strong personalities." He sighed, trying to figure out 
how to explain the rest. "And as for you and me, we were friends. And 
more. You were like a younger brother to me. Or the son I was never 
lucky enough to have. Until now. Even before you were a kid again, 
Fox. This hasn't changed any of that."

Fox lifted his eyes and gave Skinner a questioning look that bespoke 
the depth of his hope that the man's words were true. "But you . . . 
you had to sp-spank me sometimes, didn't you? 'Cause I did things that 
made you mad. Things I should have known better about . . . ."

The AD bit down on his lower lip, forcing back the smile that wanted 
to come. He sensed Fox would not want to think he was laughing at this 
question. "Well, kid," he said slowly, "that's true. But different 
people learn life lessons at different times. You heard my Dad say I 
needed to learn about responsibility. And . . and obedience. Well, so 
did you. Only I learned at sixteen and you learned at 36, that's all." 
<And 37, and 38. . . !> 

"How come it took me so long to learn?"

Now the AD had to smile. "Not because you were dumb," he answered 
fervently. "More because you had a tough life, pal. Lots of things 
took your parents' attention away from you and you kind of grew up 
without them in a lot of ways. And you grew up pretty well, 
considering."

Fox nodded his head slowly. "I was thinking . . . when I start 
college, I might not want to major in psychology," he said, suddenly 
veering off in another direction. "I mean, if I'm gonna remember 
everything I learned the first time anyway, I might as well use this 
time to study something else, right?"

Skinner was impressed by the clean logic of that statement. It was 
Mulder at his best, striking out into the unknown and trusting that 
his instincts would guide him. And a little bit of Fox, seeking the 
AD's approval and agreement.

"I think you ought to follow your heart, kid," he said gently, laying 
a hand on Fox's chest. "Life will take you where you need to go. After 
all, it brought you to me." 

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

Antietam Civil War Memorial Battlefield
Sharpsburg, Maryland
December 4, 1999

A soft breeze blew through the rolling fields where the bloodiest 
battle of the Civil War was fought in September of 1862. It was the 
most costly day in US history with more than twenty-three thousand 
casualties in less than a 24-hour period, a day 'when the romance of 
war was over,' as one noted scholar had framed it. On this December 
afternoon though, it was warm for the season and the scene was 
bucolic. The field was overrun with volunteers, placing a candle in a 
sand-filled paper bag every couple of feet over the entire 
battleground. One for every soldier who'd died here that day.

The Skinner brothers, their father and Fox were among the volunteers. 
It was something the AD had done several times before, a way to honor 
the tens of thousands of young men who perished on this site. At dusk, 
and the candles, each and every one, would be lit by a team of 
volunteers and a bugler would sound taps. The candles would burn for 
hours, long into the night, to mark the passing of a soul on this 
battlefield on late summer day so long ago.

The sky was gray, with large dark clouds hovering overhead. Not rain 
clouds, his father had pointed out earlier but they seemed fitting to 
the occasion, casting a gray pall over the day. Despite the large 
number of volunteers, there was an eerie solemnity to the place, 
everyone going about their duties as if they understood the peace that 
dwelled here had been hard won and should not be disturbed.

"Dad," Fox whispered as the two of them worked their way down a row, 
lighting the candles. Dusk was about to turn to night and the ceremony 
would start directly after. "This is . . . about the coolest thing 
I've ever seen. I'm really glad you let me come with you."

Skinner smiled. He'd thought of asking Mulder a couple of times. But 
the older version of Fox had come to believe he'd died in a previous 
life on another bloody battlefield like this one, in Tennessee. And 
while Skinner had a hard time believing that, he'd come to accept a 
lot of stranger things Mulder believed. And wanted to spare the 
younger agent any pain this might cause. But it was good to be able to 
take a 19-year-old Fox along on this trip.

"You know, you're about the age of the average soldier who died here, 
kid," he told the boy as they finished lighting the candles in their 
row. He looked around and spotted his father and Joe on the hill 
behind them. "Some of them had been fighting for a year or more before 
this battle."

"It's hard to imagine anyone my age, or younger, going to war, Dad," 
the young man responded with awe. "I know you did it but . . . I don't 
know if I could."

Skinner put an arm around the boy and pulled him in, giving him a hug 
of reassurance. "And I hope to God you never have to, kid," he said 
fervently, knowing this boy faced challenges even greater. "But 
whatever your life holds in the future, I know you'll be up to it. 
It's just the way you are."

Joe and Walter, Sr. approached them and they all walked over to the 
memorial area, where the ceremony would begin. Thousands of people 
were waiting for it to begin, then the drive would be opened and they 
would make the several mile journey through the battlefield, flanked 
on both sides by the candles the volunteers had just spent an hour 
lighting. But the Skinner men would walk a good part of the way, 
choosing to give that effort to honor those who'd perished here.

There was no sun and the muted light of the gray afternoon cast its 
final weak shadows and disappeared behind the horizon. Seemingly out 
of nowhere, the lonely strains of a bugle sounded, playing a haunting 
rendition of "Taps." Walter, Sr., and his namesake were both veterans 
and the instinctively snapped to attention and saluted, while Joe 
bowed his head and placed a hand over his heart. Fox watched it all 
curiously, drinking in every sensation, his face a wondrous study of 
the emotions going on beneath the surface. Skinner watched him out of 
the corner of his eye and smiled inwardly.

No applause followed the bugler's effort, though. If anything, the 
quiet deepened and slowly everyone departed. Some to their cars to 
take the drive. Others chose to walk the paths throughout the 
battlefield and that's the route the Skinners took. About twenty 
minutes later, Joe spoke for all of them.

"I'm a historian," he said quietly, "but I don't know if I've ever had 
a full appreciation of the immensity . . . the vast numbers of people 
who died here before tonight. Thanks for asking me to come along, 
Walt."

"I wish Mike could have come with you," his brother answered. 

"Next year, I'm insisting. He had made a commitment already so I 
didn't press it. But I think this has been a good thing for Fox, Walt. 
People don't appreciate . . . hell, they don't even know about the 
sacrifices people have made for this country. People can't be allowed 
to forget."

"Well, whoever wants to make plans for next year, count me in, " Mr. 
Skinner replied from behind them. He and Fox were bringing up the 
rear. "I wouldn't miss this, now that I've seen it."

"How are you doing with this walking, Dad?" the AD asked him. "Do you 
want to go back to the car? We could drive the rest of the way. . . ."

"No, son," the elder Skinner replied with authority. "Twenty-three 
thousand men gave their lives here so that this country would survive. 
Least I can do is walk a few miles to let them know their sacrifice 
was important."

The votive candles were in glasses set in sand-filled bags to keep 
them weighted down. But occasionally one flared up and consumed the 
paper bag. Off to the side, one burst into flame and all four of them 
stopped to watch it burn.

"When that happens, they say that's a soul who died here," Skinner 
told the others solemnly, "just saying thank you for remembering." 

Next to him Fox was staring at the flaming candle. "Wow," he breathed. 
"I wonder who he was. And if he was about my age?"

All three Skinner men bit back smiles as Fox walked on ahead of them, 
his curiosity guiding him on. 

"And just how old do we think that is, Walt?" Joe leaned in and 
whispered to his brother.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Skinner replied, realizing with 
certainty that Fox was now older than his nephew Mike. How much older 
he didn't know, but he was certain he was right. He was struck to the 
core by a surge of emotion that seemed to come from nowhere and 
overwhelm him without warning. His voice dropped and he shook his 
head. "God, Joe," he said quietly as he watched the tall, graceful 
figure wander among the candles under an ink black sky. "It's all 
going so fast, isn't it? It's all going way too fast."

McLean, Virginia
Sunday morning, December 5

Walter and Joe Skinner sat in companionable silence in the kitchen, 
sipping coffee and reading the Sunday papers. It was after 10 o'clock 
and they'd both been up for hours. Fox had developed the habit of 
sleeping in of late whenever he could, but this was highly unusual for 
their father. Walter Sr. had been a 'crack of dawn' type for as long 
as either of them could remember. When the man himself appeared a few 
minutes later, they couldn't help but kid him about it.

"Well, it lives!" Joe said as his father shuffled into the kitchen, 
smiling sheepishly. 

"Can't remember the last time I slept past the rooster," the older man 
answered with a wry smile. "I guess yesterday took more out of me than 
I thought."

"Well, we walked quite a bit," the AD responded as he rose and poured 
his Dad a cup of coffee. "Not to mention two hours of driving in 
either direction. Although you and Fox slept the entire way back, too. 
He's young but . . . what's your excuse?" 

Skinner laid the coffee down on the kitchen table and stepped from the 
table to the back door. Yoda's scratching was the dog's signal he 
wanted to come in. He slept with Fox but when the boy didn't get up 
this morning, Yoda found a way to answer nature's call by finding 
Skinner and pawing him into compliance. The dog pranced in and 
immediately went to greet the new arrival.

Walter, Sr. patted him on the head and wagged a finger at his sons 
with his other hand. "A little respect for your elders would be 
appreciated!"

"Have a seat, Dad," Skinner chuckled. "Since you were being lazy this 
morning, Joe and I took a shot at producing your famous blueberry 
syrup on our own."

"And if I do say so myself, it's almost as good as yours, too," Joe 
added as he rose and took the pancake batter he'd prepared out of the 
refrigerator. He fired up the grill while Walter poured a glass of 
orange juice for their father. 

"How many times did you have to call your mother?" Walter, Sr. asked 
them affectionately. He knew his sons well enough to know they'd 
gotten help from Rachel in Chicago.

"I'm wounded, Dad," Joe replied. "I mean, after all these years of 
watching you make blueberry syrup, having it just about every Sunday 
while we were home, don't you think your two graduate-school educated 
sons could manage to figure out how to make it ourselves--"

"Mom says hello, by the way," Skinner interrupted good-naturedly as he 
started out of the kitchen to get Fox up. "And so do Andy and Eileen. 
And the kids." He ducked out of the way of the potholder Joe threw at 
him as he exited.

"Joseph Dmitri," Skinner heard his father chuckle as he headed up the 
stairs. "Do we need to have a little talk about the importance of 
honesty?"

Skinner knocked on Fox's door but no answer returned. He knocked 
again, then opened the door into the still-dark room. Fox had 
collapsed into bed the night before after being propelled up the 
stairs by the AD. Skinner had all but undressed him before covering 
him up, pulling the shades down and turning out the light. No bedtime 
spanking had been given and now Fox had been asleep for more than ten 
hours.

"Good morning, kid," Skinner said quietly and finally the boy stirred. 
"Time to get up. Daylight's burning and breakfast will be on the table 
in a couple of minutes."

Fox opened his eyes, but Skinner thought they seemed a little glazed. 
He sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on the boy's 
forehead. He was a little warm but that might just be the after-effect 
of a deep sleep. "Do you feel all right?"

"Yeah. I dunno," Fox answered. "I think I feel a little sick actually. 
And I'm really thirsty."

"Well, it's a little warm in this room," Skinner said as he rose and 
went into the bathroom to get a glass of cold water. He brought it 
back and Fox drank it down greedily. "Why don't you get up and come 
downstairs. Maybe a little breakfast will help."

He headed back down himself, beginning to worry if the young man was 
coming down with something. Or if this was the first sign another shot 
was needed. Fox had grown noticeably in the past week, a symptom that 
indicated the aging was speeding up again.

Joe and his Dad were arguing about whether the blueberry syrup was 
thick enough but Skinner ignored it as he went about fixing Fox a mug 
of hot cocoa. That was one of the boy's comfort foods. He'd just 
popped a marshmallow into the hot brew when Fox came into the kitchen 
and plopped himself down on a chair. 

"Good morning," Walter, Sr. said as he appraised the young man before 
him. "You look like 'who did it and ran?'"

Fox laughed. "What the heck does that mean?" he asked as he sipped the 
cocoa that Skinner had just handed him.

"An old expression," Mr. Skinner said with a wink. "Means, you look 
about as bad as I feel. And I'm 75 years old!"

"Well, a plate of pancakes with blueberry syrup will cure whatever 
ails you," Joe said definitively as he placed a plate of fresh 
pancakes in the center of the table. They all sat down to breakfast 
and both Joe and Walter had a hearty helping, along with the sausages 
they'd grilled up. But neither Fox nor Mr. Skinner ate much.

"I guess we're not giving Julia Child a run for her money," Joe said 
as he eyed the plates of half-eaten pancakes in front of the other 
two. 

"I'm just a little off my feed, I guess, Joe," Mr Skinner cut in 
quickly. "But you boys did a wonderful job with breakfast. Couldn't 
have done better myself."

"And what's your excuse, Fox?" Joe asked the boy gently. No one had 
missed the fact he'd mostly pushed his food around the plate, barely 
eating anything. He'd finished the cocoa, that was about it.

"I'm not feeling so good," the younger man answered truthfully. "I 
think I might go back to bed."

Skinner rose and felt his head again. This time he was definitely hot. 
"Why don't you go on up?" he said. "I'll get the thermometer and bring 
you some water."

When he went back upstairs, Fox was almost asleep again. He took the 
boy's temperature quickly and found it was over a hundred degrees. "It 
might be time for another shot, kid."

"No! I don't want-- Not unless I really need it," Fox protested. "I 
hate shots!"

"I know. But you always feel better after this one, don't you?" 
Skinner countered. 

"But, I don't want it if I don't need it yet. Maybe I just have a bug 
or something!"

"Okay, we'll see how it goes," Skinner replied as he adjusted the 
covers on top of him. "You get some rest."

A few hours later, the three Skinner men were in the family room, 
watching television on the wide-screen TV there. The Pittsburgh 
Steelers were playing, and since it was the first game of the day, Joe 
had decided to stay and watch it with his father and brother. He'd 
drive home to Pennsylvania as soon as it ended.

It was an exciting game and he and Walter watched it with enthusiasm. 
The only thing that marred the day was that Fox was still not feeling 
well and so they hadn't decorated the Christmas tree as planned. He 
had slept fitfully since this morning, his temperature rising a little 
more but not enough to force Skinner to give him the shot. The 
Assistant Director had taken the supply of hypodermics out of the gun 
safe where he kept them, certain the next one would be needed. But Fox 
was still resisting, hoping his indisposition would be a passing 
thing.

And Mr. Skinner, Sr. had dozed off during the first half of the game, 
a highly unusual event in his sons' recollection. He was a die-hard 
Steelers fan from way back.

"You don't think yesterday was too much for him, do you, Joe?" Skinner 
whispered. The second half was beginning, and the older man continued 
to snore lightly in the recliner.

"Well, he's not as young as he used to be," his brother noted. "But 
he's still pretty formidable!"

"Yeah," the AD agreed with a chuckle. "Slowed down a step or two but . 
. . I wouldn't cross him if I could help it."

"Then this might be a good time to mention I don't like to be talked 
about like I'm dead," they heard their father growl from across the 
room. Both of his sons started at the sudden contact from someone who 
appeared to be sound asleep. 

"Jeez, Dad," Joe said quickly. "How do you do that? Snore like a 
buzzsaw and keep listening at the same time?"

"Years of practice listening for you boys to come home," the older man 
answered as he sat up and stretched. "I'm feeling a little stiff. I 
think I need to move around a little. I'm going to make myself a cup 
of tea. Can I get anyone anything?"

Walter Jr. rose with him. "Nothing for me, Dad," he answered lightly, 
but it was clear he was preoccupied with worry. "I'm going to check on 
Fox again."

He found the kid burrowed deep under the covers but he was in a great 
deal of discomfort. Skinner had caught a low moan from the hallway and 
now he walked into the room and felt his head again. 

"You're burning up, Fox," he said. "It's time for a shot--"

"No! I hate shots!" he exclaimed grumpily, pulling the covers over his 
head. "I'm sure I just have a virus or something."

"Fox, this is exactly what it looked like when you needed a shot each 
time before," the AD said patiently. He took a seat on the bed beside 
the blanket-covered lump from which the voice emanated. "You'll feel 
better once you get it, I promise."

"What if it's not time yet?" the voice argued. "I could be getting it 
too soon! Then I'll need the next one even sooner! And I HATE SHOTS!"

Skinner shook his head, trying to maintain his forbearance. It wasn't 
easy. "Well, I'm overriding you here, pal," he said. "You need it."

A head popped out of the blankets. Fox's face was flushed, and his 
eyes were glazed but they flashed pure fire at the moment. "NO! It's 
my body and I don't want a shot," he yelled. "Why do you get to 
decide?"

"Because," Skinner replied as he rose and headed for the door to go 
retrieve the next hypodermic. Fox was always cranky and irritable when 
he was sick so he was cutting the kid a great deal of slack.

"Because why?"

"Because . . . I said so," the AD replied succinctly. He was almost to 
the door when Joe appeared in the hallway, looking a little frantic.

"Walt! Dad's not feeling well," he said hurriedly. "I-- I think it 
might be his heart! He's having chest pain . . . and pain in his left 
arm--"

"What?" Skinner exploded. "When did this start? And why didn't he say 
anything before. . . ?" He and Joe ran down the stairs, taking them 
three at a time. They ran full bore into the family room where Walter, 
Sr. was lying on the couch, his head propped up on a throw pillow.

"How ya doin', Dad?" Skinner asked evenly. He knelt by the couch and 
brushed a hand over the older man's bald head. The older man's skin 
was clammy and cold.

"Not so good, son," the elder man said, trying to keep his voice calm. 
"I think I need to go to the hospital." A look of real pain, and fear 
crossed his face before he got to the end of the sentence.

His son nodded as calmly as he could and turned to speak to Joe. "Call 
911," Skinner told him quickly. "Tell them it might be his heart."

Fox had appeared in the doorframe behind them. The boy was 
panic-stricken as he watched Joe call the ambulance and Skinner trying 
to keep Mr. Skinner calm and alert. They both appeared to be working 
on auto-pilot with Joe repeating the address to the operator and then 
asking Skinner for the name of the cross-street with which he was 
unfamiliar. The AD listened as he handed his father an aspirin and a 
glass of water to swallow it down with. Skinner's emergency medical 
training was limited but he knew aspirin was recommended for heart 
attacks. And this certainly appeared to be one.

"Tell them it's Dupont," he whispered to Joe. "And tell them to 
hurry." 

Skinner turned back to the man on the couch. His father looked even 
worse than he had a moment ago. "Come on, Dad," he said with all the 
false bravado he could muster. "The blueberry syrup wasn't that bad, 
was it?"

Fox stood in the doorframe, paralyzed with fear, clad only in his 
pajamas. He was barefoot, and he held his stomach, feeling as though 
he would throw up any moment from the fear that roiled in his stomach. 
He was shivering from the cold and the effects of his own fever. 
Skinner noticed him and dragged himself away from his father to put an 
arm around Fox and guide him back to the stairs. The sound of a siren 
could be heard in the distance approaching their location.

"It's okay, kid," Skinner said. "Get back in bed. It's gonna be 
okay--"

"Is Gran having a heart attack?" the boy asked, his voice edged with 
anxiety.

"I-- I don't know for sure," Skinner told him with as much equanimity 
as he could manage. "It looks like it. But the ambulance is on its way 
and he'll be fine then. I'll come up and let you know as soon as we 
know what's happening." He gave Fox a quick hug, then a gentle push up 
the stairs. From the brief contact he could tell that the boy's fever 
had risen again, but he'd have to deal with that emergency in a little 
while. "I promise, I'll come up as soon as I know anything. You need 
to be in bed now."

Fox nodded but he could hear an undercurrent of concern, even panic, 
in Skinner's voice and that frightened him even more than anything 
else. The ambulance pulled up outside, and he watched as the AD opened 
the door and motioned for the paramedics to hurry. Then he listened 
from the top step as they rushed in and began to work on his 
grandfather.

"It's his heart," one man said. "Get a history. I'll get an EKG 
started."

His partner radioed the ER and began to take a patient history from 
Skinner. When she had the pertinent information, she read it into the 
radio. "Seventy-five year old male with severe chest pain . . . ."

Fox listened, then a sudden surge of pain run through his own gut. He 
got up and ran into the bathroom, barely making it in time as what 
little he'd eaten that day made its way back up. He fell to his knees 
and began to shake as he retched up any fluid left in his stomach once 
all the food was gone. His body had broken out in a sweat and he knew 
for certain now that Skinner had been right. It was time for another 
shot. But now his Dad was tied up with something much more important. 

Fox knew what he had to do. The last thing his Dad needed now was to 
have to worry about him too. Chewing on his lower lip, he got to his 
feet and made his way into Skinner's bedroom, holding on to the walls 
to keep his balance. He knew the hypodermics were kept locked up in 
the gun safe, but he spotted the package sitting on the dresser, 
waiting. The AD had been sure he'd need a shot and he'd been prepared, 
as always. Now, though, the young man would have to administer it 
himself. Gritting his teeth against the pain, and his fear of shots, 
he blindly pulled one of the hypodermics out of the packet and took it 
out of its container. He took the little cap off the needle and took a 
deep breath.

Then he pushed down the bottom of his pajamas to expose his hip and 
plunged the needle into his own skin. As always, the serum began to 
work immediately. He could feel his pounding heart rate begin to slow 
and his entire body relax -- until a moment later when the worst pain 
he'd ever experienced knocked him to his knees. He dropped his head 
into his hands as what felt like a million brain cells exploded in 
agony. 

"Ahhhh!" he gasped, barely able to form the sound as an agonizing wave 
of pain appeared simultaneously in every part of his body. As he 
writhed on the floor, he floated in and out of consciousness with each 
wave of pain. A small part of him thought he should try to crawl 
toward the door and try to make it downstairs but no part of his 
physical body responded to that impulse as all of his resources worked 
to try to quell the unbearable physical pain. He caught sight of Yoda, 
standing in the doorway and started to speak to the dog when another 
agonizing wave blacked out the world.

Below, unknowing, Skinner and Joe watched the paramedics as they tried 
to stabilize Walter, Sr. for the trip to the hospital. They could tell 
the older man's symptoms were not responding as well as the paramedics 
thought they should and that drove cold icicles of fear into both of 
their guts.

Suddenly Skinner noticed Yoda was at his side, nudging his hand. It 
took a moment but then he remembered Fox was upstairs, waiting for 
news. He told Joe he'd be right back and flew up the stairs, wanting 
to offer some reassurance to the kid even though he had none himself 
at this point. Fox wasn't in his bedroom, and Skinner began to look 
around for him.

An unexpected sound from his own bedroom drew his attention, and Yoda 
scooted past him toward whatever was making it. Skinner followed and 
found Fox, lying on the floor, unconscious and whimpering. Skinner 
dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse frantically. He found one 
but it was thready and weak. Then he noticed the hypodermic needle on 
the floor beside the boy. He picked it up and bit out his next words. 
"Shit. What did you do, Fox?"

The hypodermic needle Fox had used was marked "5." The Smoking Man had 
told Skinner they had to be used in order, and number "3" was next. 
But Fox hadn't known that, and he obviously hadn't stopped to consider 
why they were numbered. He picked the boy up and slung him over his 
shoulder, pocketing the used hypodermic and the others. When he got 
downstairs, Joe rushed up to him.

"What's wrong with Fox?" he asked as he held out his arms and helped 
Walter place the boy on the reclining chair. It wasn't hard to miss 
the fact the kid was unconscious. His breathing was irregular and 
worrisome, and he moaned in agony. One of the paramedics rushed over 
and began taking his vitals as Skinner picked up the telephone and 
punched in a phone number.

"This is AD Skinner," he said almost immediately. "I've got an agent 
down at 2408 Lafayette Street, McLean, Virginia. I need a secure 
ambulance with full life support to go to Johns Hopkins. Contact 
Special Agent Scully and tell her to get there, too--" He finished his 
orders and slammed the phone down without waiting for anything more 
from whoever was on the other end of the line. His eyes drifted back 
and forth between Fox and Walter Sr. One paramedic was working 
frantically on his father. The other was trying to get vital signs 
from Fox to determine what if anything he could do to help the boy 
until the other emergency crew arrived.

"Cal," the woman paramedic broke in from her place next to Mr. 
Skinner. "He's as stable as he's gonna get. We've gotta move him now!" 

Joe's eyes filled with tears at the urgency he heard in her voice. 
He'd been watching it all but the shock was making thinking too 
difficult, and he almost wept when his brother's hand reached up and 
squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Walter had no more reason to be 
confident than he did but somehow his gesture was comforting anyway. 
Another ambulance could be heard wending its way toward them, its 
siren keening in the distance.

Then Skinner leapt into action mode. He was never good at waiting and 
doing nothing. He walked up to his father who was lying on the gurney, 
an oxygen mask on his face. "Dad," he said gently as he squatted down 
beside him. "I-- Fox is sick. He has to go to the hospital. They'll 
take you to Jefferson Medical Center. It's a good hospital, Dad. They 
say their cardiac center is the best in the area--"

His father's eyes opened and he reached up to remove the mask. Skinner 
tried to stop him, but the older man shrugged him off and pulled the 
mask away from his face. "You take care of Fox, son," he said. "He 
needs you now." The effort exhausted him and he sank back into 
himself, his breathing labored and shallow.

Skinner replaced the mask onto his father's face and tried to hold 
back the tears that were pooled in his eyes. The weight of the 
decision he had to make, the guilt he knew he'd live with whichever 
route he chose, closed in on his heart and left him weak in the knees. 
He leaned down and kissed his father on the forehead, then he turned 
to his brother. "You go with him, Joe. I'll . . . I'll get there as 
soon as I can."

Joe nodded, still reeling from the situation, and the fact that he'd 
have to accompany his father alone. But he nodded once again, this 
time with conviction and gave his brother a quick hug. "Okay. You take 
care of Fox, you hear?"

A new set of paramedics rushed in the front door and took their 
instructions from Skinner. The first two wheeled Mr. Skinner out of 
the house and placed him in the back of the emergency unit parked at 
the foot of the driveway. Skinner found himself torn once again, 
between two people he loved, both of whom needed him. He shook off the 
second thoughts, knowing he'd made the best decision possible in these 
lousy circumstances, and he offered a prayer that he'd see his father 
again. If the older man didn't make it, he'd second guess himself into 
eternity, he knew.

"What's wrong with him?" one of the new emergency workers asked him, 
recapturing his attention to the present situation. "He's barely 
breathing, heartbeat's irregular and weak-- Has he taken some kind of 
drug?"

Skinner filled them in as best he could as they prepared Fox for 
transport. There was little they could do for him here. A niggling 
voice in his head told him there might be little anyone could do, but 
the boy's best hope was at Johns Hopkins. They were in the ambulance 
and careening through the streets of McLean toward the interstate in a 
matter of minutes. 

"Something's happening!" the paramedic in back with Fox and Skinner 
yelled suddenly, after they were on the road for some twenty minutes. 
Fox had reared up in agony, not quite conscious but physically 
reacting to something. His face was contorted with pain and he 
screamed. 

"Samantha! Saman--" he bellowed, then he fell back into the gurney and 
put his hands to his head, as though the pain were so great he might 
try to crush his own skull to end it. He pulled out the IV they'd 
started, and the paramedic rushed to restart it. The young man's heart 
rate rose precipitously and the monitors in the emergency unit were 
all screeching.

"Sweet Jesus," the paramedic said as he watched Fox's face change 
before his eyes. The boy's face morphed into that of a grown man, and 
he writhed on the gurney as though his insides were exploding. "Drive, 
Gus! We gotta get him there now!"

Skinner reached out and took Fox's hand in his own, trying to calm 
him, but the younger agent didn't respond. It seemed the pain was too 
great for any outside stimulus to break through. But Skinner held on 
to him anyway, helping the paramedic hold him down on the gurney as 
another wave of agony nearly had him pulling free of the restraints. 
He babbled incoherently throughout the rest of the ride, calling for 
his mother, and his father. For Scully. Cursing Krycek and Spender and 
numerous suspects he'd helped identify and jail. Everyone but Skinner 
it seemed to the AD.

They arrived at Johns Hopkins with little time to spare. Fox's 
condition had deteriorated throughout the ride. The gurney was hauled 
out of the ambulance at lightning speed, orders and questions crossing 
each other in the cold afternoon air.

"I thought you called in a 20-year-old kid--"

"I know!" the paramedic from the ambulance blurted out. "I don't know 
what the fuck's going on. He was a kid! Now he's--"

"Thirty-nine," Skinner answered automatically as he ran along beside 
the stretcher, still holding Fox's hand. They flew into the ER where a 
team of doctors was waiting for them. Dr. Cahill, the specialist who'd 
been following Fox's case since the beginning was among them and he 
bent to the task of finding out what had happened.

"Sir?" Scully called. She was running down the hall from the other 
direction. She was out of breath and dressed in jeans and a sweater, 
casual clothes for what should have been a relaxing Sunday afternoon. 
"What happened?"

He briefed her and then they went looking for the doctor, to try to 
get him to speak to them about Fox's condition as soon as he was able. 

"He took the wrong one, Scully," Skinner said, beating himself up 
about it yet again. "I never told him what Spender told me about the 
numbers! I never thought he'd--"

"How could that happen?" she broke in suddenly, her fear turning her 
voice shrill. "Weren't you with him when--" She stopped as they heard 
a monitor in the treatment area squeal. 

"He's coding!" someone yelled from inside, and the drill took on new 
urgency as the ER staff worked in unison to restart the FBI agent's 
heart.

"Oh, God," Scully breathed beside Skinner. "Please don't let him die . 
. . "

Skinner stood motionless beside her, issuing the same prayer silently. 
<Please, God! Don't do this! Not after all he's been through. He 
doesn't deserve to die. . . > 

An hour later the doctor approached Scully in the waiting room. The 
physician looked exhausted and drained by the hour spent battling 
whatever was happening to Fox and he took a seat across from her. 
Skinner watched him approach from the bank of phone booths at the 
other end of the room. He'd spoken to Joe and found his father was 
stable at Jefferson Medical Center. Then he'd called Chicago and told 
Andy first, making sure his youngest brother could accompany their 
mother to Washington. He called Jean next, told her and determined 
Oliver would be able to bring his sister and Joe's wife Nora to the 
hospital. Now he was on the phone with Joe again, getting a progress 
report. 

"Fox's doctor is here, Joe," he said. "I'll get back to you as soon as 
I can."

"Do what you have to do, Walt," his brother replied. "And my prayers 
are with Fox. The whole family's are."

"We don't have much good news, I'm afraid," Dr. Cahill said concisely 
once Skinner had taken his place next to Scully. "He's in great pain. 
We've used the strongest painkillers and barely made an impact. His 
heart and his organs are close to giving out with the stress they're 
under--"

"But he was close to full grown," Skinner interjected. "Shouldn't that 
make a difference?"

"He took the wrong hypo," Scully added. "There was obviously something 
different about that dosage. It . . . should have been given to him 
when he was closer to his real age . . . " The accusation behind her 
words hit Skinner like a brick, and it took all his resources to keep 
his hands from shaking.

The doctor missed her meaning though and returned to Skinner's 
question. "He was perhaps nineteen or twenty at best, before this 
crisis. That means there's close to twenty years worth of aging taking 
place right now, internal organs changing and wearing as per normal 
but in the blink of an eye. Thank God the physical growth is minimal 
or he'd be dead now--"

"What about his memory?" Skinner broke in. "It was returning in the 
ambulance. He asked for Scully. And his mother and sister--"

"Yes," the physician sighed. "It appears his memory of before has 
returned. That may be part of what we're seeing, the sheer impact of a 
lifetime of memories hitting at once would be overwhelming to anyone. 
I'm sorry I don't have anything more to tell you right now. He's as 
deeply sedated as we dare. We'll be monitoring him closely." He rose 
and headed back into the ER just as Fiona Barefoot stepped into the 
waiting room. She spotted Skinner and Scully and hurried over, 
stepping into the AD's arms.

"Walter, Joe called me," she said. "How's Fox?"

"He's-- Well, they don't really know," Skinner answered her, giving 
her a quick hug. He began to introduce her to Scully and Fiona 
reminded him the two women had met before at the McLean house.

"Of course. The last time I almost let him die," Skinner said wearily. 
In return he received a look of shock from Fiona and a blush of anger 
from Scully. He was unnerved by the fact his anger at himself, and the 
situation, was bleeding through his normal reserve and he excused 
himself hurriedly. "I . . . I'll be right back," he said as he headed 
toward the men's room just off the waiting area.

When he returned a few minutes later, Fiona was waiting for him alone. 
His eyes did a quick search of the waiting room and Fiona answered his 
unspoken question. 

"She's in with Fox now," she said quietly. "You can go in too, the 
doctor said."

He shook his head and stood there, arms hanging at his side, staring 
at the floor between them. Self-blame and worry were a nearly visible 
cloak that he'd wrapped around himself.

Fiona watched him for a few seconds, then she moved toward him and 
wrapped her arms around his large frame. "I'm worried--" she began 
only to be interrupted.

"I am too," he said as he allowed his arms to fold around her lithe 
body. 

"The doctor said Fox is stabilized for now. He's still in a lot of 
pain, but not in immediate danger," Fiona said quickly, wanting to 
reassure him. Then her voice grew more firm and sure and her next 
words were pointed. "I'm worried about you." 

"I'm fine," he answered automatically, beginning to pull back from 
her. But she refused to allow it.

"No you're not," she said. "You're blaming yourself for something that 
couldn't have been predicted. Or prevented. And you're letting Dana 
Scully take her worry and anger out on you. Because you think you 
deserve it. But you're setting her up to feel even worse when she 
finds out about your Dad."

Skinner started at her analysis of his behavior, but in a space of a 
second he knew she was right. "God, Fiona," he said after allowing it 
to sink in. "If this is you being comforting, I'm bringing boxing gear 
to our first argument."

She reached up and kissed him tenderly on the lips. "Too late," she 
responded. "That was our first argument."

A while later, Skinner entered the room where Fox was hooked up to 
every monitor available. There was the constant beeping sound of 
something in the background, and the lights were dim to approximate 
night. It was only evening but here in the ICU, the medical staff 
tried to keep all the worries and sounds of the world at bay. Scully 
had come out a little while earlier and gone directly to the ladies 
room down the hall. When she didn't return, Skinner decided to visit 
Fox himself.

The younger man appeared to be in minimal discomfort and the AD issued 
a silent prayer of thanks for that small gift. The painkillers were 
working. Fox was sleeping and Skinner decided to just sit in the 
armchair at the side of the bed. From that vantage point he could 
watch the monitors and see the younger man's face. It was so familiar 
and yet so strange to be seeing an adult where a child named Fox had 
been just a short time ago. 

Images of a three-year old, and a six-year-old swam before Skinner's 
eyes and memories of Fox the last time he was in this hospital as 
well. He'd come in as a nine-year-old and emerged a week later as an 
11-year-old boy. It had seemed impossible, and yet they'd all come to 
accept it on faith. Soon he was staring into the distance, not seeing 
much of anything at all.

"Dad?" a familiar adult voice called weakly, startling him out of his 
own thoughts. "Wh-where am I? I want to go . . . h-home." A grown man 
he remembered well stared at Skinner but Mulder's eyes betrayed him. 
Even the sound of his own voice was unexpected and frightening, and he 
was fighting to regain some handle on this new reality.

Skinner came to his feet and reached inside the rails of the bed to 
run a hand through Fox's hair. "It's okay," he said soothingly. 
"You're in the hospital--"

Fox winced suddenly, as though a searing pain had attacked from 
somewhere and he bit back a moan. "I-- I remember now. Scully . . . 
was here. She told me." He put a hand up over his eyes and rubbed 
them, as if he thought he could ease the pain that way. "I'm s-sorry, 
sir," he added with effort. "I'm just . . . so confused. It's hard to 
know what's . . . real. It's all mixed up in my head--"

"Don't think," the AD said gently. "Just . . . try to rest. It will 
all look better in the morning, I guarantee it. Just try to get some 
sleep, Fox."

"Mulder," Fox whispered as his eyes slipped closed. "I-- It's Mulder, 
sir." His voice trailed off into thin air as he slipped back into a 
fitful slumber. 

Even in sleep his face was tense with pain, and it looked like the 
effort of waking, and speaking, had drained him. Skinner watched him 
for a moment, taking the time to keep his own emotions from spiraling 
out of control. It had been a frightening, exhausting emotional 
roller-coaster of a day, and he knew he needed to lock down his own 
feelings securely to get through the rest of it. 

"Good night, Mulder," he said as soon as he was certain of his voice. 
Then he picked up his coat and left the room. 

Dr. Cahill was in the hallway and Skinner asked about Agent Mulder's 
condition. He was told that Mulder was in no imminent danger and would 
probably sleep through the night with the medication he'd been given. 

"I need to go to Jefferson Medical Center," Skinner said, writing his 
cell phone number on his business card. "My father is in the ICU 
there. Will you call me if there's any change in his condition? Or 
call my office number and tell them it's an emergency if you can't get 
me directly. They can always find me. And in the meantime Agent Scully 
will be here."

Next he walked into the waiting room where Scully and Fiona were in 
quiet conversation. Scully leapt to her feet when he appeared.

"Sir! I--" she began, then she caught herself and started again. "I-- 
I didn't know about your father. I . . . hope everything will be all 
right."

Skinner's eyes flickered to Fiona momentarily, then returned to the 
agent. "Thank you, Agent Scully," he said. "I'm going to see him now. 
I'm counting on you to make sure . . . to stay with Mulder. Call me if 
anything changes."

"I'm sorry," Scully added. "About what I said before. I'm sorry."

He nodded evenly, not wanting to make her feel any worse. "Just take 
care of Mulder, Scully. He needs you here with him." He put an arm out 
and Fiona responded to the signal, taking her own coat and letting him 
guide her out.

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

Jefferson Medical Center
Falls Church, Virginia

The entire Skinner family was at the hospital when the AD arrived, 
Fiona at his side. Rachel was in the CCU with her husband, along with 
Andy. Jean and Oliver and Nora had arrived from Pennsylvania a little 
while earlier, and Andy and their mother from Chicago a few minutes 
after that. 

"How is he?" Skinner asked immediately.

"He's doing all right, Walt," Joe answered for everyone. "They gave 
him a blood thinner as soon as we got here. He responded well, and now 
he's resting. The doctor says they won't be able to tell how much 
damage there's been to the heart muscle until they do some tests 
tomorrow but he thinks it was caught early."

"Thank God," Skinner replied, feeling relief spread over him. 

Andy stuck his head into the waiting room and grinned at them. "Don't 
ask me how but . . . he knew you were here, Walter. He wants to see 
you."

Skinner nodded and gave Fiona a quick glance to make sure she'd be all 
right. 

"Say hi for me," she answered his unspoken question.

He entered the CCU and went to the bed where his mother was sitting. 
Walter, Sr. lay on the bed, a heart monitor beeping quietly next to 
him. It was a scene eerily like the one he'd just left at Johns 
Hopkins but Skinner pushed the thought right out of his mind and 
smiled at the older man.

"Well, that was fun," the AD said. "What do you want to do tomorrow?"

"I thought I might run the marathon tomorrow," his father replied in 
kind. "How's Fox?"

Skinner's eyes clouded over and he blinked back tears that he didn't 
fully understand himself. He swallowed them down and answered as 
lightly as he could. "He's doing okay, Dad. He . . . the medicine he 
took returned him to his true age. He's an adult again."

Rachel and Walter, Sr. both gasped at the news and Skinner rushed to 
reassure them. "He's doing fine. I don't know how long he has to be in 
the hospital but . . . he's not in any danger." It was a little 
exaggeration but the doctor at Johns Hopkins had said he thought Fox 
<no, Mulder!> would pull through. And there was no need to add any 
extra worry to his parents' minds at this point.

"He's the old Mulder," Skinner continued with a tight smile. "You'll 
see. It'll be a relief."

Walter Sr. and Rachel exchanged a look that spoke volumes, but neither 
of them raised the subject again.

Over the next few days, the news on both fronts was good. Mr. Skinner 
had suffered minimal damage to his heart and he was due to be released 
and sent home on Friday. And Mulder had come through the effects of 
taking the wrong the serum, each day getting a little better and a 
little stronger. He was due to be released on Thursday.

Mulder's memories had come crashing back at once and the first 
twenty-four hours had been difficult and frightening. They were able 
to stabilize him physically but his mental state was worrisome as he 
careened through a lifetime of trauma and fear in no particular order. 
Scully stayed by his side through the first night, anchoring him as 
best she could to the hospital room he was in and the reality of the 
present. And by day two, he seemed to have come to some kind of peace 
with it, at least to the extent he could. 

But his memories were still jumbled, which put him on extremely 
unfamiliar and uncomfortable footing. Mulder relied heavily on his 
phenomenal memory and not being able to count on it was unnerving to 
the young agent. So he did what he always did, he pushed it aside and 
simply stopped talking about it, instead drilling Scully on whatever 
had happened outside his presence during the past five months. And she 
was happy to supply those details.

On Wednesday evening, the AD returned to Johns Hopkins. He'd been back 
and forth between the office and his father's bedside all week, 
speaking to Mulder and Scully by phone each day. He'd spoken with 
Mulder's physician daily as well. And Andy and Joe had visited the 
younger man the day before. But now, knowing the younger agent was to 
be released the next day, the AD had come in person. It was after 
visiting hours but he flashed his badge and was sent in. Mulder was 
lying in bed watching television but he clicked the TV off in surprise 
when he saw his visitor.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "I-- I wasn't expecting you."

"I thought I'd come by and see how you were doing, that's all," 
Skinner reassured him too quickly. Mulder's reaction bothered him but 
he wasn't quite sure why.

"Th-thank you," Mulder answered just as quickly. "I'm fine. I could go 
home but the docs want to do a couple more tests. I think I'm the 
guinea pig of the week here."

"Understandable, I guess. You . . . survived something no other human 
being has," Skinner said quietly.

"As far as we know," Mulder added. "How's Gr-- I mean, how is your 
father, sir?"

Skinner noted the sudden change in verbiage, but he chose to ignore 
it. "He's doing all right, thank God. The doctor said only three to 
five percent of his heart was damaged. He'll need some cardiac rehab, 
and medication for a while at least. But he was very lucky."

"Good," Mulder replied, blinking back tears he couldn't explain. He 
swallowed down the lump in his throat. "That's . . . good, sir."

There was an awkward silence, and Mulder wished he'd left the TV on so 
he had something to look at, anything to avoid eye contact with the 
other man. For some reason, the intimacy of the moment felt . . . 
uncomfortable. His memories of his previous life had returned in full, 
but the memory of his time with Skinner had not been displaced. And 
some of that was . . . awkward at best and completely embarrassing at 
the worst. 

Skinner cleared his throat, sensing the younger man's discomfort even 
if he didn't completely understand it. "I wanted to let you know your 
apartment's been kept up. You can return there whenever they let you 
out. I had Andy and Joe go over and air things out today, and stock 
the refrigerator. And they made sure your car's running and gassed up. 
There's money in your checking account. All your paychecks were 
deposited. I moved some funds to a money market account but all the 
paperwork's on your desk. You'll be able to figure it out."

Mulder felt his eyes stinging with tears again. "Th-thank you," he 
said, barely whispering. "I-- thanks. . . for everything. And for 
coming tonight. I-- I know you probably want to get back to your 
Dad--"

Skinner interrupted him. "I saw him earlier. And it's past visiting 
hours, Mulder. But--"

"No! I-- I know you've taken care of all the details for me, sir. And 
I appreciate it. But . . . your family should come first. I don't want 
to k-keep you. . . ."

Skinner stared at him for a second, then he nodded deliberately. 
"Right. Well that's about all I had to say anyway. I'm . . . glad 
you're okay. Let me know . . . when the doctor clears you for work. 
There are a lot of X-files piled up, you know. Scully did her best but 
. . . . Your talents were missed, Agent Mulder. She'll be glad to have 
you back."

He picked up his coat and started for the door. Then he turned and 
gave Mulder a small smile, the first since he'd come in. "We all will, 
Mulder." He nodded again and left, the door swinging silently to a 
close behind him.

Mulder stared at the closed door, tears pooling in his eyes that 
wouldn't respond to his urgent request to cease and desist. He balled 
his right hand into a fist and slammed it down on his thigh. "Damn!" 
he whispered before throwing his head back on the pillow and letting 
the tears flow unchecked. 

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

Thursday evening
7:47 p.m.

"Mulder."

The agent's head never moved from where it was poised over an X-file 
on his desk. He chewed unconsciously on a sunflower seed as he 
speed-read his way through another file. Without raising his head, he 
reached into a pile on the side of the desk and pulled back one he'd 
read earlier, opening it up to a specific page and beginning to 
compare information from one to the other.

"Mulder!" Scully called again, louder still.

"What?" he started, his head popping up in surprise.

"I said it's time to go. It's your first day back and you shouldn't 
overdo it." Scully had known it was a mistake to come right to the 
office from the hospital when he was released this afternoon. But he'd 
been so insistent . . . and she'd been so anxious to have him back, to 
let things get back to normal.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. "I-- had no idea what time it 
was," he said slowly. "Let me just put some things together to take 
home and . . . "

"No," she interrupted him firmly. "It will all be here for you when 
you return tomorrow. You haven't even been back to your apartment yet. 
You need to let yourself . . . settle in, Mulder."

He stared at her, then he dropped his eyes and nodded. "I guess you're 
right, Scully. It's just . . . it feels like I've lost so much time 
and . . . But you're right. Tomorrow."

They got their coats and left the building, going to Scully's car in 
the basement. Mulder offered to get his bag out of her trunk and take 
the Metro home, but Scully didn't even bother to respond to that 
suggestion. She had just left the parkway by the Alexandria exit when 
Mulder spoke for the first time on the ride.

"Would you mind . . . making a short stop, Scully?"

"Don't tell me you want to go to the video store, Mulder--"

"No!" he answered quickly. "It's . . . Mr. Skinner's going to be 
released from the hospital tomorrow morning. I'd like to stop by and 
see him for a few minutes."

"It's after visiting hours," she began, then she stopped herself. 
Mulder had no trouble breaking into high-security government 
installations. He'd be able to talk himself past the nurses at 
Jefferson Medical Center. And she understood why he might want to.

"I'll wait here," she said as she pulled the car up to the entrance to 
the front lobby. Through the glass windows she could see Mulder flash 
his FBI badge and then head to the elevators. She turned the car into 
a nearby space and turned up the radio to wait.

Mulder walked past an empty nurse's station and found the room he'd 
been told was Mr. Skinner's. It was after visiting hours and things 
were quiet on this floor. But when he looked in, the bed was empty in 
Room 534. The television was on, though and he quickly spotted Walter, 
Sr. in his bathrobe and pajamas, sitting in an armchair.

"Fox," the older man said, a smile lighting his face as soon as he saw 
his visitor. "I heard you got sprung today! Come in, son."

"I just wanted . . . to stop in for a minute," Mulder replied 
haltingly. 

"Nonsense. I want to see you," Mr. Skinner said. "Come here."

The young agent walked into the room and stood awkwardly next to the 
armchair until Mr. Skinner motioned for him to take a seat in the 
other chair. 

"How are you feeling?" they said simultaneously then both men smiled.

"You first," Mr. Skinner said. 

"I'm fine," Mulder responded with a small smile. "Took them too long 
to release me but I think they knew I was never going back willingly 
so . . . " He grimaced. "How about you, sir?"

"I'm all right. My heart just decided to throw everyone a little 
scare. Doctor says I'll be good as new," the elder man answered 
firmly. "You look good, Foksik. And I'm glad you came by. I . . . was 
worried about you."

The younger man felt hot tears stinging the back of his eyes and he 
blinked them back quickly, hoping the other man didn't see the 
gesture. It was a fruitless hope but he swallowed the emotions down 
and tried to speak lightly. "Don't worry about me! I'm fine. Went to 
the office already. I'd still be there if Scully didn't drag my butt 
out tonight!"

Mr. Skinner nodded, recognizing the futile effort the younger man was 
making to make this all seem unimportant. His son had told him Fox 
seemed to want to distance himself from what he'd been through in the 
last five months. Walter had definitely hit that nail right on the 
head.

"I understand. I can't wait to get home, too. Don't like hospitals 
much," the older man said quietly. "Will you be going back to the 
house?" 

Mulder colored slightly and dropped his eyes. "N-no, sir," he said. "I 
think I'm gonna head back to my place. It's been a while and . . . . I 
kind of want to get home, too."

Mr. Skinner nodded. "I can understand that. We'll see you for the 
holidays, though, right?"

Mulder looked up and started to lie to the other man but something 
inside him made that impossible. "I-I'll try," he stammered. "B-but I 
don't know how much backed up work there is. And I hope you don't mind 
me saying, your son's not the easiest boss in the world, sir. I-- I 
don't know how long it's gonna take me to get through the stack of 
files on my desk."

Walter, Sr. nodded again. He didn't have any trouble keying in on the 
important words. "Your son" and "boss" were indicators that what the 
AD had told him was true. Fox was struggling with all of this and 
coming down on the side of separating himself from the Skinner family 
as a way of rediscovering who he was before all this happened.

"Dad, you have to give him some time," Skinner had told his father 
earlier in the day. "He's . . . he's confused. And uncomfortable. It's 
like coming back from another planet, in a way. He seems to need some 
time and space to deal with it--"

"I don't know if I agree, son," the older man had said. "You were 
exactly like that when you returned from Vietnam. Shell-shocked. 
Trying to reorient yourself to your life and failing. And we left you 
alone to deal with it, because it looked like that was what you 
wanted. Until eventually it turned out what you needed was to get 
reacquainted with who you were before and you couldn't do that alone. 
Because you weren't alone before you went there."

Skinner grimaced as he recalled how his father had eventually come 
down on him to get him back on track after his stint in Vietnam. But 
he shook his head. "This is different though, Dad," he responded. 
"Mulder . . . is different. And remember he didn't have the benefit of 
a Skinner childhood. . . ." He stopped immediately when his father 
grinned at him.

"Well, that's not exactly true any more is it, son?"

Now though Walter, Sr. could see for himself how confused the young 
agent really was. And how much he seemed to be hurting. So he decided 
to let his son's advice ride. For now.

"Fox, take as long as you need to get reacclimated. But . . . . 
there'll be an empty place if you're not at the table for Christmas 
dinner."

Mulder swallowed down a lump in his throat and tried to make light of 
the comment. "Well, one thing for sure," he answered as he got up and 
started to leave. "My being there has no effect on the vegetable 
consumption!"

Mr. Skinner smiled, recognizing his intent. But there was only so far 
he was willing to go in accommodating this behavior. He motioned for 
Mulder to lean down, and he grasped the younger man's face with both 
of his hand. "We love you and you are part of our family, son," he 
said plainly. "Wherever you are, any day of the year." With that he 
placed a kiss on both of Mulder's cheeks and then released him. 
"You'll always have a home with us, Foksik."

Mulder felt a heaviness in his chest, and he nodded spastically, not 
trusting his voice. Then he headed for the door, turning and giving 
the old man a quick wave good-bye before exiting for good.

Mr. Skinner watched the door hiss to a silent close, then he picked up 
the phone and dialed a number from memory. When the AD answered, he 
smiled into the phone. "Walter? You owe me twenty dollars," he said 
triumphantly. "Guess who just left my room. . . !"

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

McLean, Virginia
Monday evening

The cleaning crew had been by to sweep the safe house earlier, 
preparing it to accept another set of occupants whenever it was 
needed. Mulder had packed up the few things he wanted, his fish and 
the tank, some books and personal items he and the AD had brought from 
his apartment in Alexandria over time. There were a couple of items of 
clothing that would still fit him and fit his grown-up tastes, like 
the New York Yankees cap on his head. The AD had bought it for him on 
his birthday trip to Atlanta to watch the Yanks play the Braves in the 
World Series and the hat was not something he was willing to leave 
behind. He'd packed everything but the hat into his car and returned 
for a final look around just to make sure he hadn't forgotten 
anything. 

There were about a dozen boxes in the foyer that would go to the 
Salvation Army. They contained sporting equipment and clothes for a 
teenage boy, as well as things he'd outgrown in the last several 
months since they'd returned from Nantucket. Mulder looked the boxes 
over one more time, then decided to just leave before anything else 
worked its way into his car. He moved quickly, exiting the house and 
heading to the driveway just as the AD pulled his jeep into it. 
Embarrassed, he pulled the baseball cap off his head and threw it into 
the back seat of his car.

"Hi," Mulder said tentatively when Skinner approached him. He'd 
thought the AD had already been to the house and taken his things so 
his arrival was unexpected. "I . . . was just getting a few things. 
Not much--"

"Take all you want, Mulder," Skinner told him with a small smile. 
"Everything we leave behind is going to charity."

"I know," Mulder said quietly. He took another look at the house. 
"We-- we did a pretty good job with the Christmas lights." He'd turned 
them on before leaving, wanting to make the house appear as normal as 
possible to the neighbors. And he was right, they'd outdone themselves 
with the decorations. "Ours is the best house on the block . . . ." 
His voice trailed off to nothing as what he'd just said sank in.

"Yeah," Skinner answered, pretending not to notice his discomfort. 
"It's been a long time since I used all that stuff. It's been in 
storage since Sharon and I . . . . Well, I guess I'll leave it here 
anyway. For whoever's using the house next. I don't need outdoor 
decorations at the apartment."

"I guess I better be going," Mulder said suddenly. "Or else I'm gonna 
end up with frozen fish for my tank!"

Skinner watched him back his car of the driveway, then he went into 
the house. He'd taken all of his personal items already but something 
had drawn him back, a sense that something might have been left 
behind. Tomorrow morning, everything would be carted away and then it 
would be too late. He walked through the house, searching. His first 
stop was at the big picture window in the family room. It looked out 
onto the patio and the spacious yard.

They'd moved into the safe house when Fox was about twelve. Staring 
out into the dark, the man would almost swear he could see Fox running 
around the backyard, trying to teach Yoda to catch a Frisbee. It had 
been a fruitless attempt but the boy had not flagged in his certainty 
that the dog would learn eventually and he'd spent many happy hours on 
the task.

In the family room, there was another ghost, this one a 
sixteen-year-old sprawled on the couch, a telephone glued to his ear, 
a shy grin plastered on his face. 

Skinner walked back into the kitchen, where yet another memory lived. 
This time it was a thirteen-year-old boy, who didn't care much for the 
healthy meal he'd been given and was surreptitiously feeding 
everything green on his plate to the dog when he thought the AD wasn't 
looking. 

And in the foyer, there was yet another reminder of an even younger 
child in the pink and white, long-eared rabbit that sat atop one of 
the boxes slated to go to charity. Skinner could see the two-year-old 
Fox, clinging to that stuffed animal as though his life depended on 
it. Sleeping with it, dragging it from room to room in the Crystal 
City apartment. Even as he grew out of it, the rabbit had reappeared 
whenever the boy was feeling afraid or insecure. 

Skinner smiled, remembering how he'd first tried to send it off to the 
Salvation Army when they were moving out of the apartment and how it 
had mysteriously made its way out of the charity box and into one 
marked to come to this house. And then somehow it had found its way 
into the closet in Fox's bedroom.

The AD sighed and swallowed back the lump that suddenly appeared in 
his throat. He walked up the stairs to the second floor to search 
those rooms for whatever it was he might have forgotten. He wandered 
through the bedrooms and the study but didn't find it. A noise 
downstairs startled him out of his reverie.

"Mulder?" he called down, thinking it might have been the younger 
agent returning. But no one answered, and he decided he must have been 
mistaken. He finished his tour in Fox's bedroom, recalling all the 
bedtime conversations he'd had with a young Fox there in recent 
months. For some reason that was the child's most vulnerable time of 
day, and Skinner had developed a habit of chatting with him at bedtime 
during this second childhood. Those were the times when the AD got the 
surest glimpses into his heart and soul, his hopes and his fears. 
Skinner realized with a start that he would miss that nightly ritual, 
probably more than anything else.

He shook his head firmly and decided it was time to get home. Whatever 
he might have left behind had already been packed up and boxed anyway. 
And Yoda was at the apartment, waiting to be walked and fed. He hadn't 
yet figured out who in his family to gift with the dog, and so the AD 
was keeping him for the moment. 

He and Mulder had spoken about it twice in recent days and the younger 
man was uncharacteristically indecisive about which Skinner household 
would be best for the dog. But the AD wanted his participation so he'd 
deferred the decision for a little while longer until Mulder could 
make up his mind. Characteristically, all of the other Skinners, 
including Jean and his parents, had offered to take Yoda in.

Skinner headed down the stairs, pulling his car keys out of his pocket 
as he walked. He turned off the lights in the kitchen, stopping to 
take something off the wall there. It was a wood paddle Fox had made, 
although it looked like a small cutting board hanging on the wall. The 
cleaning crew had left it behind because it looked like a kitchen 
decoration but Skinner made a last minute decision to take it home. He 
could always use another cutting board.

He turned off the rest of the lights in the house as he prepared to 
depart but left the lights in the foyer burning. The boxes for the 
Salvation Army were there and he looked them over one more time. 
Something was different from before, though. . . something was 
missing. It hit him suddenly. The long-eared rabbit that had been 
perched atop one of the boxes was gone. The noise he'd heard earlier 
must have been Mulder, returning for it.

The AD stood there for a moment, surprisingly pleased and touched by 
the fact the rabbit would find itself a home in another closet in an 
apartment in Alexandria. That seemed fitting, he thought, like the 
little rabbit was going home. He remembered his conversation with his 
father a few days earlier and a sense of peace descended over him for 
the first time in days. At some point in the future, he knew with 
certainty, Fox would find his way home, too. All the kids in the 
Skinner family eventually did.

Skinner sighed as he opened the big front door. He stopped under the 
twinkling Christmas decorations, taking a moment for one last look 
back into the house. Then he closed the door gently and headed for his 
jeep and home.

THE END