Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania
Veterans Administration Hospital
March, 1971

Dr. Stanislaus saw the couple sitting in the waiting area and made 
some quick assumptions. Blue-collar. Locals. Probably struggling to 
make ends meet. And a son who might never walk again. Hell, he might 
not even survive the way things were looking. He sighed and tried to 
keep from hating his job.

Walter and Rachel Skinner sat there, waiting anxiously for someone to 
tell them where their 18-year-old son was. They held hands and every 
now and then he would give her a reassuring smile, despite the fact he 
had no information that might provide the first bit of reassurance. It 
was an old habit and he automatically fell into it now, under stress. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Skinner?" the doctor who was approaching them said. He 
introduced himself and asked them to sit down. Having had many of 
these conversations over the years, he suspected there'd be tears and 
a great deal of anguish. And rightly so. 

"I want to prepare you for what you're going to see," he said gently. 
"Your son was severely injured. He has a broken arm and a broken leg 
and we've got him in traction. The cuts and abrasions you'll see are 
healing but he had many of them. Shrapnel does that. The real concern 
though are the pieces that embedded themselves deeper in his back. 
There are three of them, all very close to his spinal cord. One in the 
neck, two in his lower back. He's experiencing some paralysis."

Mr. Skinner had been following the doctor's narration silently but now 
he interrupted. "Was the spinal cord damaged, doctor?"

Dr. Stanislaus paused, making a mental note that this man was quicker 
to understand the implications of what he'd said than most. Both he 
and his wife had handled what they'd heard so far admirably.

"It's too soon to tell, Mr. Skinner," he replied honestly. "Several 
pieces of shrapnel broke vertebrae and lodged close to his spine. He 
has only intermittent feeling in his extremities now and little 
control of his legs but . . . the cord was not severed. It's not a 
good sign but it could still be spinal shock. It's only been three 
weeks since he was injured."

"But you need to remove the shrapnel," Walter Sr. said definitively. 
"And that kind of surgery can be dangerous."

"That's right," the doctor replied still more impressed with his 
patient's father's quick comprehension. "If we leave the pieces where 
they are, they could move and sever the cord. But in removing them, we 
could damage it. And in his condition, there's some risk to performing 
major surgery. I don't want to give you any false hope. It will be an 
uphill battle . . . and there's some chance he won't make it."

Rachel sucked in a breath and the doctor was afraid this would be the 
start of the tears. But she pulled herself up short even as her 
husband reached out a hand to steady her. She squared her shoulders 
and gave her husband a direct look that spoke volumes.

"As to the surgery, we'll wait until he's a little stronger and 
present the facts to him. It's . . . a decision your son will have to 
make. Or you, if he's . . . incapable of making the decision."

"Why would he be incapable?" Rachel Skinner finally spoke up. She 
looked worried but her voice was strong and clear. "We heard he was 
conscious."

"Well, he is," Dr. Stanislaus said quickly. "Most of the time. But 
he's heavily medicated. Morphine for the pain. And that causes . . . a 
number of things. Depression for one. And confusion You may find some 
of what he says disturbing but it's to be expected."

She nodded her understanding. "I want to see him, Doctor," she said 
firmly. Her husband nodded and they rose, ready to face whatever lay 
ahead. The physician was often surprised and touched by the fortitude 
displayed by the parents of his patients. But these two were unusual 
in a number of ways, their intelligence, their courage and their 
resilience in the face of the worst kind of information. He found 
himself hoping their son was a chip off of these old blocks.

"Walter, honey," Rachel whispered as she rushed to the side of her 
son's bed. He was on a ward with seven other patients, all of them 
seriously wounded. She didn't want to disturb any of the others. "It's 
Mom and Dad, sweetheart. We're here."

Walter's eyelids fluttered open and his gaze drifted from his mother 
to his father and then back again. His mother took a quick inventory 
and it took all her strength not to break down.

He was on an IV and hooked up to several monitors that tracked his 
heart rate and other vitals. One arm was in a plaster cast and one leg 
was casted and in traction. His head was braced within a metal halo to 
keep it from moving and the bed tilted to keep him from lying in one 
position all the time. 

Walter had no trouble reading the expressions on his parent's faces 
despite his hazy mental state and his dark eyes flooded with anxiety. 

"Hi," Mr. Skinner said, trying to wrest his attention away from 
whatever was causing him pain. "How are you doing?" He placed his hand 
on the boy's head and caressed his forehead gently.

A single tear fell from the young man's right eye and he tried to 
speak. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered, barely able to make himself heard.

"Hush," Rachel said quietly, cupping her hand around his cheek and 
brushing the tear away with her thumb. "You have nothing to apologize 
for, Walter. We're very proud of you. And everything's going to be all 
right."

"All you have to worry about is getting well, son," his father said 
with a smile. "I'll worry about everything else. That's my job." 

Days passed and the young man's prognosis grew a little brighter. 
Feeling and movement returned to his arms but the fragment of shrapnel 
in his neck caused him a great deal of pain. The doctors studied and 
worried over its proximity to the spinal cord and the --- nerve. Their 
opinions about whether to attempt to remove it differed violently. And 
he still had no feeling in his legs.

Rachel finally returned home at her husband's urging. There were three 
other children there, all suffering at the absence of their parents, 
and the fear of what had happened to a beloved older brother. Having 
lost their youngest not two summers before, the Skinners were 
particularly focused on maintaining some level of normalcy for Jean, 
Joe and Andy throughout the ordeal. They'd asked Walter if the kids 
could visit but he'd grown so upset and agitated at the suggestion, 
both parents had put it aside and not mentioned it again.

"I think the other children need to come, Volodya," Rachel told her 
husband as they got ready for bed one night in the rooming house down 
the road from the hospital. "They never got a chance to say good-bye 
to Jeremy. And Walter's been gone a long time. They know something's 
wrong. I think not knowing and wondering is worse for them than 
dealing with the reality."

"No, Raya," he replied using the diminutive form of her name. In 
private they always used their Russian names. And they spoke in their 
native language as they usually did when the situation was most 
critical. It was a little thing that provided some comfort when there 
wasn't much to speak of. "Walter will hate them seeing him like this. 
And it would be frightening to the kids. I don't think it's a good 
idea."

She tried to reason with him for a while. "The children know Walter's 
in the hospital. And we're here. This is already frightening for 
them--"

Her argument only succeeded in making her husband insist she go home. 
To provide a little reassurance and normality for the other children. 
Walter Sr. announced he would remain behind, for as long as his 
supervisor at the steel mill would permit. And if he needed to stay 
longer than that, well, there were other jobs, he told his wife. And 
over the course of the next weeks he spent many long hours with his 
son, talking him through the pain and listening to his horrifying 
memories of Vietnam. 

"I never expected to be the only one. . . " Walter Jr. told him late 
one night when the pain and the demons worked overtime to drive away 
any hope of sleep. The metal head brace had been removed earlier in 
the day but he was in a great deal of discomfort. "The whole platoon, 
all of them dead. Except me! Why. . . ?" His tears came freely and Mr. 
Skinner lowered the side of the bed and sat next to him, letting the 
young man cry out his pain in the warm security of his father's arms.

"Shhhh," the older man whispered, trying to comfort him and to keep 
him from waking the others on the ward. "I know, Volodya. But you must 
believe there is a reason you survived. And you must get well, so you 
can discover that reason, son."

"I c-can't--" he said, nearly choking on his tears. "I don't even 
think I want to. . . It's too h-hard--"

"Now you listen to me, young man," his father said firmly, turning his 
body so that they could make eye contact with Walter. "I don't want to 
hear another word of that! You did survive. And you will get better. 
Because you owe it to those others who weren't able to come back, to 
honor them with your memories. With whatever you make of your life. 
And you owe it to yourself, Walter Sergei! To survive such a thing and 
give up now would be shameful."

His son hiccuped and swallowed down a lump in his throat. "What if . . 
. what if I don't make it?" he whispered into the darkness, admitting 
his deepest fear, waiting anxiously for the response.

"That won't happen," his father said definitively.

"But what if I can't w-walk again?" he asked, betraying his terror at 
the thought of being helpless.

"That won't happen either."

Walter nodded his head slightly and exhaled deeply, releasing the last 
of the fear for the moment. Somehow, those simple words of faith from 
someone he trusted to tell him the truth had provided reassurance none 
of the medical establishment could. 

His voice took on a tone closer to its normal tenor. "What if I go 
bald?" he asked finally, tongue firmly planted in cheek.

"That might happen," his father replied concisely but his heart rang 
with joy at a small act that spoke so eloquently about his son's 
reemerging resilience. He ran a gentle hand through the younger man's 
grown out dark hair. "And if it does, take it from me, you'll live."

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

The Country Maid Coffee Shop
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
January 15, 2000

"Looking back, it seems like he was there constantly," Skinner was 
saying. He took no notice of the waitress refilling his coffee cup for 
the third time. His eyes were focused on a point somewhere in the 
middle distance and Mulder suspected he was seeing it all vividly. 

"He could have lost his job," the younger agent said softly, thinking 
about the months Skinner had spent with him recently away from his 
job. "That's a long time to be off--"

"It was tough for them. At a steel mill, you don't get paid when you 
don't work. I told him he should go home all the time in the first few 
weeks. I would have paid him to go, if I had any money! But he 
wouldn't. I was his son . . . . and I needed him. It's as simple as 
that," Skinner said with a long sigh. "Looking back, I still can't 
believe everything he did. It was . . . a real sacrifice, more than 
anyone would have a right to expect."

Mulder picked up his own coffee cup and took a sip, hoping the 
movement would draw attention from the tears flooding his own eyes. It 
was exactly what he'd expect his grandfather to do. He knew the man 
well enough to be certain of it. And for the first time, he realized 
just how much his son was like him. When a child named Fox 'needed' 
Skinner, the AD put his career on hold to be there for him. <Like 
father, like son.>

"Hmm?" Skinner asked, drawn from his memories. "Did you say 
something?"

"No!" Mulder replied, shaking his head. Had he said that out loud? 
"When did he finally go home?"

"Well, I had a couple of surgeries in the first few weeks. One to 
remove the shrapnel from my back. And another to try to remove what 
was left in my neck. They . . . got most of that. Then came the rehab 
and that was almost worse than the injuries! It was nearly three 
months before I was well enough to go home. My Dad stayed for the 
first six weeks.

Mulder nodded, understanding that, by then, the rehabilitation would 
have been difficult but not dangerous. So of course Mr. Skinner would 
have returned home. His concern would have shifted a little to the 
rest of the family by then. And the other kids had to be aware of, and 
worried about, the lack of a salary coming in.

"My Mom came every weekend. She showed up with the kids one day right 
before the first surgery. We only had one car in those days so they'd 
all taken a couple of buses. Pennsylvania State mass transit left a 
lot to be desired then. It took them hours to make the trip."

"I was in traction, a cast on my arm and my right leg. And the metal 
halo that kept me from moving my head. She came in and told my Dad and 
me that Jean and Joe and Andy were in the hall. I panicked. I didn't 
want them to . . . to see me like that. And my Dad was on my side. He 
told her it was a bad idea, that they would be scared and upset--"

"That kind of thing can be scary for children," Mulder agreed. "How 
old were they?"

"Jean was 16. So Joe was still 13 and Andy was 11. I got upset and my 
parents went outside. I just wanted to get up and run! But of course, 
I couldn't move out of the bed. I was . . . trapped. In a little 
while, my Mom came in and she told me Dad took the kids for ice cream. 
And she started to talk to me."

"Did she try to convince you to see the others?"

Skinner smiled. "You've gotten to know her, haven't you? She's a power 
to be reckoned with when she's got a cause! She just told me how much 
the kids missed me. And how important it was for them to know I was 
all right. Not a hundred percent, but on my way. And how no one had 
the chance to say good-bye to Jeremy so now they were naturally afraid 
the same thing could have happened with me, if I had died in that 
ambush. Only God spared me and let me come home. And they needed to 
see the evidence of that."

"I told her I couldn't . . . bear it if they were frightened or upset 
and she just laughed. 'Oh, Volodya!' she said. 'They'll see only you, 
not any of this stuff!' I thought she was wrong but when my Dad 
returned, she brought the kids in. And she was right. Andy had snuck 
his pet ferret in in his pocket and it got out on the ward. Had 
everyone in the place laughing! And Jean brought pictures of my high 
school girlfriend that all the other guys had to get a look at. Joe 
had the hardest time dealing with everything. He hung back for a while 
but then he opened up and started telling me how he had my old 
position on the football team. It was the first good afternoon I can 
remember after I came back. I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to 
see them all leave. . . ."

Mulder stared out the window as the rising sun peered weekly over the 
horizon. It was a cold and damp morning and the weak excuse for a 
sunrise didn't offer any hope of changing that. "Did they all go home 
then?"

"Mom took the kids home that day. She came back for my surgeries, both 
of them. And after the second one, after the first couple of weeks of 
physical rehab, my Dad went home, too."

"You must have missed them--"

"Well, Dad drove over to Wilkes-Barre every day after work actually. 
Every day--"

"Every day? That's what, a ninety minute drive?" Mulder squeaked, 
incredulous.

"Yeah, about that," Skinner answered. "He'd go into the mill early, 
start at 7:30. Then get out at 3:30 and drive over. He'd get there in 
time for dinner and stay until visiting hours were over. Usually they 
had to pry him out of the chair. The other guys on the ward didn't 
have many visitors so he brought magazines and books for all of us. On 
weekends, he'd show up first thing in the morning and stay with me 
through rehab and then dinner. It was . . . tough. It was my first 
experience with weight training actually. But my muscles were so weak 
and had to be retrained after the paralysis lifted."

"That must have been hard," Mulder responded, thinking he'd been 
through several bouts of physical rehabilitation but nothing like 
Skinner was describing.

"The worst was coming down off the morphine," the AD said with a wry 
smile. "I had been doped up with it from the moment they discovered I 
was alive. High dosage because they didn't think I'd survive. They 
were just . . . 'making me comfortable' until the end came. I remember 
there was a priest in country who kept telling me I was going to make 
it. But none of the medical people had any hope. I could see it in 
their eyes."

"After the surgeries were over, they had to wean me off the drugs. . . 
."

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

VA Hospital
Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania
April 1971

"Walter?" 

"Wh-what?" the young man asked anxiously. He felt as if he was going 
to jump out of his skin. Dry mouth, shaking hands. Sweat running off 
him in streams. All signs of his rapid withdrawal from the morphine 
regimen he'd been on. They'd started lowering the dosage a bit of late 
now that he'd grown stronger and the pain had diminished. But now he 
was coming off it completely and his nerves were frayed to the point 
of breaking.

"Drink some water, son," his father said offering the glass.

"NO!" Walter said angrily. "I don't want any water--"

"Just a sip," Walter Sr. said lifting it to his lips. "You're 
parched--"

"I said NO!" he yelled, swiping at his father's hand with his good arm 
and sending the glass flying. Water splattered both men and the glass 
shattered in the corner. "Don't you listen?"

Mr. Skinner sighed and put the reins on his immediate reaction. The 
doctor had told him this process would be difficult and painful for 
his son. And that's why they'd moved him off the ward and into this 
private room. 

"He'll have some tough times," Dr. Stanislaus had told him. "I don't 
want to minimize it. It . . . might be better if you stayed away a 
couple of days. Let the professionals help him through this."

Mr. Skinner smiled sadly and shook his head. "No, Doctor," he said 
with certainty. "I appreciate your concern by this is my son. He's 
going to go through hell and I don't want him to do that alone."

"But he won't be alone," the doctor interrupted only to find himself 
the victim of the same.

"I know the staff will be here and I appreciate that. I'm not a doctor 
but . . . I'm his father. I've already seen him through a lifetime of 
good times and tough times. And I'll continue to do that as long as I 
live. That's my job."

Dr. Stanislaus watched the other man speak and thought back over the 
past two months, recalling all the time this man had spent in this 
hospital helping his son back to health. When Lance Cpl. Walter S. 
Skinner arrived, they'd had little hope he'd live and almost none that 
he'd walk again. But this man, with his odd combination of good 
nature, high standards and tough love, had helped spur a recovery that 
was nothing short of miraculous. Suddenly the physician realized he 
wouldn't want to prescribe any kind of medical procedure for Cpl. 
Skinner without his father standing by.

"You're right," the doctor said with an appreciative nod. "It will 
take about two days and they'll be two days of hell."

And one day into hell, it was turning out to be far worse than he'd 
expected, Mr. Skinner thought as he went about cleaning up the shards 
of glass on the floor. Walter had gone from jumpy to downright surly 
in the first twelve hours. Now his attitude and his demeanor were 
something the older man had never expected to see from him ever. The 
physical symptoms, sweating, nausea, shaking were far worse than he'd 
expected, too.

"I know you must be feeling pretty bad," Mr. Skinner said calmly.

"Oh, please!" Walter Jr. said sarcastically. "Spare me the sympathy! 
If you really cared, you'd get me something for this goddam . . pain. 
I feel like my head's gonna explode!"

"I know, son," his father said. "You just have to hang on. You're 
almost there--"

"AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT, HUH?" his son shouted before grabbing 
his head. The volume of his own voice felt like it would split his 
skull.

"I know what the doctor told me," Mr. Skinner said quietly as he 
poured another glass of water. "And I know what I'm seeing. The doctor 
said you'd get dehydrated and that would make things worse. Drink some 
water, Walter."

"I SAID I DON'T WANT ANY WATER!"

"And I said I want you to take a sip," the older man said evenly. His 
voice was quiet and well-modulated but it bespoke a will of steel and 
the intent to back it up.

His son stared at him for a few more seconds but then his common sense 
reasserted it self. He blinked and lowered his eyes, nodding 
acquiescence. 

"Here you go, son," Walter Sr. said as he held the glass to his son's 
lips. The doctor opened the door and stepped in at the same moment.

"Well, how's my patient this morning?" he asked pleasantly. He was 
greeted by a sour scowl and a grunt.

"I'm afraid it's been a . . . rough night," Mr. Skinner said.

"Well, that's to be expected. It's 6 a.m. Why don't you get a cup of 
coffee, Walt? I need to spend a few minutes looking my patient over."

The younger Skinner shook his head, angry at being spoken about as if 
he wasn't there. But he held his tongue until his father exited. Then 
he turned his most persuasive face to the physician.

"I need something, Doc," he said quickly. "Just a little . . . My 
heart feels like it's gonna explode! And my head feels about the same. 
I can't take any more--"

"Walter, we're committed to getting you off the morphine. I know it's 
rough! But this is the quickest way. You said you want to get out of 
the hospital as soon as you can--"

"But I can't take any more!" the young man responded desperately. "I 
had no idea-- You never told me it would be this bad!"

"I tried to explain it as best I could, son--"

"I'm not your FUCKING SON! AND I'M SICK AND TIRED OF EVERYONE THINKING 
THEY KNOW WHAT'S BEST FOR ME! YOU! HIM--"

"The door opened again and his father stepped back into the room. He'd 
gotten only a short way down the hall when the shouting had caught his 
ear.

"That's enough, Walter," he said firmly. "I think you owe Dr. 
Stanislaus an apology."

His son glared at him and the doctor began to protest. "I understand 
how he's feeling--"

"Well, so do I, Doctor," the older man said evenly, staring back at 
his son. "But that doesn't make this any more acceptable."

The two Skinner men's eyes were locked in anger and the physician 
watched them, wondering what he could do to defuse the situation. 

"Do you have something to say, Walter?" the father said quietly.

His son hesitated then a wave of rebellion crested over his agony and 
his eyes took on the look of two hot coals. "No."

"I see," Mr. Skinner responded, never taking breaking his gaze. "Would 
you excuse us, Dr. Stanislaus?"

The doctor's head swiveled from one to the other but something told 
him this was not a medical concern and he nodded. "I'll check on 
another patient and come back. Will that be long enough?"

Walter Sr. didn't move but he saw his son's eyes flicker just a little 
before the steely glare returned. "That will be fine." 

Neither of them saw the physician leave but they heard the door close 
behind him. A tense silence descended over the room, broken only by 
the sound of the younger man's labored breathing. 

"You know I won't tolerate this behavior," Mr. Skinner said finally. 

"I-- I'm SICK, for God's sake!" the son responded, his words bursting 
out behind a sudden jolt of anxiety. "And anyway, I'm-- I'm an adult 
now! I've been gone for nine months, fighting a war! Almost getting 
killed! You can't-- I mean, it's not the same anymore!"

"Walter, some things never change. The rules don't change. Our 
standards don't change. My expectations of you, and all my kids, they 
don't change just because you've been away."

"Well the rest of the world would think . . . they'd think your 
'rules' and-- and everything are pretty stupid!" He spat the words out 
and they refreshed his anger. "You don't have any idea what the 
world's really like!"

"I have a pretty good idea what rudeness looks like. And disobedience. 
And I don't care what you're going through right now, they're both 
unacceptable." 

His son stared at him angrily, then all good sense and judgment took a 
flyer. "Well, here's a news flash. I don't really care what you 
think." His eyes widened in shock when the other man simply flipped 
him over onto his stomach and delivered a sound whack to his backside. 
"Oww!"

The younger man struggled against the hold but his father pinned one 
arm to the small of his back and added two more smacks. "Care to 
rethink your position on that, son?"

"You can't-- Stop! STOP! I'M NOT A FUCKING KID ANY MORE!"

"No, you're just acting like one," his father said authoritatively. 
The older man held his squirming quarry firmly with one hand and used 
the other to slide the cotton pajamas Walter was wearing down below 
his butt cheeks. Then he issued a dozen good hard slaps to the bare 
bottom before him. He listened closely to the younger man's cries, 
waiting for the rage and resentment to turn into something else. 
Vulnerability. Acceptance. Remorse. The boy's tears were cleansing and 
Walter Sr. knew they'd been long overdue. He pulled his son's pajamas 
back up and rolled him over. Then he lowered the side of the hospital 
bed and slid in beside the weeping young man.

"I'm s-sorry! I'm so sorry, Dad," he murmured into the embrace into 
which he'd been taken. "I don't know-- I didn't mean any of those 
things. . . . "

"Shhh," his father said, reassuring him as he rubbed his back slowly. 
"I know you didn't mean them. I know you're just in pain right now."

"I just don't-- I don't want you to be d-disappointed in me--"

"Volodya, Volodya," his father said affectionately, pulling him into a 
tight hug and laying a kiss on the top of his hair. "I will never be 
disappointed in you, son. When it's my turn to leave this world, I'll 
leave nothing else of value behind except you and your sister and 
brothers. You're the best I have to show for myself. For my life. Who 
you become as adults, what you do with your lives, how you live, those 
things will be my only legacy. That's why I want . . . I will always 
be here with you. Making sure you'll be everything you can be. That's 
my job."

The doctor came back a few minutes later and was pleased and surprised 
to receive a heartfelt apology from his patient. He glanced quickly at 
the father standing by the window, then back to the red-rimmed eyes of 
the young man in the bed. 

"I accept your apology," Dr. Stanislaus answered, wondering what magic 
the father had wrought to bring about such a change in his son in the 
middle of his withdrawal. And whether he could put it in pill or IV 
form and administer it to a hospital full of other patients who 
sometimes let their youth and fear get the best of them.

"How much longer . . . will I feel this way?" Walter Jr. asked him.

"You're through the worst of it now," the doctor told him with a 
smile. "Your Dad wants to take you home for dinner tonight. I'm 
inclined to think you'll get that pass, the way things are going."

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

The Country Maid Coffee Shop
January 14, 2000

"And you got to go home for dinner?" Mulder asked. "What did Gram 
make?"

Skinner laughed. "When did food become so important to you?" 

"Well, I know your favorite is her Goviadina Po-Guasarski. And potato 
pancakes. And pirozhki topped with onions and sour cream--" He 
pronounced them all in accent-free Russian, something else he could 
thank the Skinners for.

"They don't call you the best profiler to come out of BSU for nothing, 
kid," Skinner answered fondly, pleased to hear him pronounce the menu 
items so flawlessly. "She made that and just about every other Russian 
favorite of mine, all in 24 hours. Said she needed to fatten me up a 
bit! I was still on crutches but . . . God, it was good to be home." 
His voice choked and he stopped to pick up a glass of ice water that 
had been sitting on the table all long. He drained about half the 
glass then put it down and looked back at Fox.

"So," he said, glancing at his watch to check the time. "You've gotten 
a little more family history. Still wondering where you fit in?"

Mulder's eyes reflected his shock. His uncertainty and misgivings had 
all been internal, he was certain of it. How did Skinner know. . . .? 
"I-- I, it's just that I was starting to feel a little . . . insecure, 
I guess. I guess I never thought Gran-- I mean, your Dad, would think 
of looking out for you as his job. I thought . . . when you said that 
stuff about me being 'your job,' I thought you were trying to pull 
back. Not that I'd blame you--"

Skinner picked up the check, looked it over quickly and dropped some 
money on the table. He stood up and pulled on his parka, then waited 
for Mulder to do the same. "And why exactly wouldn't you blame me?" he 
asked patiently. "I mean, I've told you that you're family, Fox. I've 
given you my word and told you you can count on it. Breaking that 
promise, if I even could at this point, well that would be . . . 
unacceptable."

He draped an arm over the young man's shoulder as they headed out of 
the coffee shop. "And I give you permission to tell my Dad if that 
ever happens, okay?"

Mulder's eyes widened with the realization of what the AD had just 
told him. "I-- I couldn't do that! I mean, I wouldn't!"

"Fox, listen to me," Skinner said, stopping in the parking lot. "If 
you don't get this, well, we'll keep working on it until you do. The 
rules are the rules, for everyone, kid. If you break a rule, it's my 
job to deal with it. And make sure you learn the important life 
lessons. And if I broke one of the rules, same thing. My Dad's got 
that job but it's just the same. . . ." 

He stopped suddenly, realizing the father he counted on for that 
support and guidance was in the hospital down the street, waiting to 
have open heart surgery. It wasn't a risky procedure but the reality 
was frightening nonetheless.

"He'll be okay," Mulder said, sensing immediately what had stopped the 
other man. He nodded vigorously. "I just know it."

"Yeah, I know it too," Skinner said, beginning to walk again. "He's 
still got work to do. And my Dad never leaves anything unfinished."

"No I didn't think so," Mulder responded huskily. "But he will leave a 
helluva . . . 'legacy' some day." 

"Yes. Yes, he will. What do you say we go remind him?" Skinner said, a 
wide grin lighting his face. He dropped his long arm around the 
younger man's shoulders as they began to walk again. He tousled 
Mulder's hair from behind and laughed as he quickly tried to smooth it 
back down. "And some day I plan to leave a helluva 'legacy' myself, 
kid. So don't go thinking you get a free ride, no matter how busy I am 
. . . When we get home, you've still got some things to answer for. Am 
I making myself clear?"

Mulder felt his heart lift with each word the other man spoke despite 
the fact punishment for the New Year's Eve fiasco was implicit in his 
statement. "Yes, sir," he said, a silly grin washing over his own 
features. "It's just that this 'legacy' probably needs a whole lot of 
work before it's ready to be left."

"Yeah, I know. It's my job to know," the AD said, recognizing how hard 
it had to be for Mulder to put himself on the line like that, to admit 
to 'needing' someone. "And I'll let you in on a little secret, kid. So 
does this one!"

"Maybe we should make sure Gran knows that," Mulder said with complete 
seriousness.

Skinner laughed heartily as they headed up the driveway to the 
hospital. "Don't worry, son," he returned. "I'm quite certain he 
knows!"

THE END