The Danville Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and the Lone Gunmen do not belong to me; they belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I mean no harm and will make no money from their use. Spoilers: Several but minor (Max, Little Green Men) Setting: Fifth Season Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash. Title: What You Wish For Author: Cadillac Red Summary: Mulder comes close to getting what he wishes for, then wishes for what he doesn't really want. Skinner wishes Mulder would finally learn and steps in to make sure he does. What You Wish For Hoover Office Building Monday afternoon 2:30 p.m. "No!" Special Agent Fox Mulder shouted. "This is something I have to do—" "What you HAVE to do, Agent Mulder, is what I tell you to do!" Assistant Director Walter Skinner roared back at him. The two men were squared off across the A.D.'s desk, their voices and body language reflecting the violence of their disagreement. Special Agent Dana Scully sat in the guest chair next to the one Mulder had bounded out of a moment earlier, watching the confrontation escalate, her head moving back and forth as though she were a spectator at some macabre tennis match. "Sit down, Agent Mulder!" Skinner told the younger agent angrily, moving around his desk and looking for all the world like he was going to wrestle him back into the chair if he had to. " I said SIT DOWN!" Mulder stopped yelling in mid-sentence. He hesitated for a moment, a look of fierce determination settling over his face. Then he saw the AD advancing on him and sat down angrily, crossing his arms and fixing his boss with a glare that would wither a lesser man. Skinner ignored it. Stopping in front of Mulder's chair, his hands went to his hips and he lowered his voice purposefully. "You have nothing more to go on than a report that a girl around 8 or 9 years old was left in a comatose state at Massachusetts General yesterday, Mulder," he began. "A report that suspiciously came in 'over the transom"— "That's not true," Mulder interrupted him. "She fits Samantha's physical description. She was wearing a nightgown, just like Samantha was wearing when she disappeared. She's in the exact same condition Scully was in when she reappeared after her abduction. She just appeared in the hospital, no one knows who dropped her off or where she's been—" "Mulder," Scully interrupted him now. "Let me go check on this while you go to San Francisco—" "No, Scully," Mulder replied too harshly, too quickly. "I can't take that chance, I've been too close too many times. . . " Skinner cut him off. "Mulder, you have a responsibility to appear in court on this Caleb Murray prosecution. That's your first priority. . . . Your sister's been missing for 25 years, there is very little chance that this . . . child is her. Kim is faxing a photo to the Boston field office right now and I'll have a couple of agents check this out right away. If it even looks like it might be your sister, Scully and I will be on a shuttle to Boston within the hour." "No," Mulder said again, this time with a little less vehemence, "you don't understand how important this is . . . If there's even a remote chance. . . ." "Mulder, you have to trust us to take care of this for you while you go to San Francisco," Skinner told him calmly. "You know there's very little likelihood that this is Samantha but I promise you, it will be thoroughly checked out. You have my personal guarantee." Dana Scully was struck by the gentleness with which their boss treated Mulder. Under the circumstances, he had every right to be furious with her partner. But he appeared to understand Mulder's inability to be rational about this and it looked like the AD was stepping in and being rational for him. Mulder continued to shake his head 'no' but his body language indicated he was backing down, ever so slightly. Skinner relaxed his own posture as well and continued. "People have used this . . . situation against you before, Mulder," he reminded the younger man. "And this smells too much like a set-up to me, it's just too 'pat.'" Mulder was staring at the floor now, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. Dana Scully was surprised by his acquiescence; and it seemed to be sincere. She had never seen him change his mind on an issue such as this before, without having to blindly stumble into the mouth of trouble first. Not for the first time, she was impressed with their boss' handling of her partner. Skinner finished his point and sought Mulder's acknowledgment. "Nod your head so I know you've agreed, Agent Mulder," he said lightly. The younger agent sighed and nodded his head. "Say 'I'm going to California now, see ya later,'" Skinner continued, trying to break the tension that remained in the room. "I'm going, okay? You really need a lot of reassurance, don't you?" Mulder returned, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "Only from you, Agent, Mulder, only from you," AD Skinner said returning to his desk chair. "Have a good flight. And call me when you get there, I don't care what time it is. I'll have information for you." The two agents exited his office and headed for the elevator. "You want me to drive you to the airport, Mulder?" Scully asked him. "Making sure I actually go, Scully?" he asked with mock suspicion. "No, I was just trying to be nice. I'll try to avoid that in the future!" He smiled, this time a real one. Scully was surprised to see that he actually accepted Skinner's decision. And that he was going to San Francisco. "I'm gonna leave my car in the long-term parking lot at Dulles," he answered. "My return flight gets in very late Thursday night. But thanks anyway." He got off the elevator at the lobby level, heading for the stairs to the parking garage while she continued down to the basement. "I'll call you from the airport, though, in case there's any news from Boston." The elevator doors closed on her reply. ********************************************************************* Offices of the Lone Gunmen Monday night 5:30 p.m. Mulder was pacing the loft space that was the home of the "Lone Gunmen," anxiously awaiting information he'd asked the guys to hack into. "Come on, come on," he said impatiently. "My flight leaves in less than two hours." "We can call you in San Francisco once we've got it, Mulder," John Byers said. "These things take time. . . " "And time is what I don't have," he answered. "So see if you can hurry it up!" He'd been watching the clock tick the minutes away for the last half hour and he was growing testy. Mulder had changed his reservation to a later flight out of Dulles International for San Francisco that evening but now he was running out of time anyway. In a few minutes he'd have to leave for the airport without the information. Frohike and Langly were running a program that they thought would let them hack into the patient information from Massachusetts General but so far the medical center's computer security system had routinely tossed them out. "We have lift-off!" Frohike suddenly exclaimed as the screen changed to the "Admission Granted" message. Mulder rushed to his side and leaned over his shoulder, eyeing the screen. "Look for information on patient 'Jane Doe,' eight or nine years old," he said quickly. "In the ICU." Langly watched him closely, feeling obligated to offer his opinion. "Mulder, it's not very likely that this 8 year old child is your sister, you know. She disappeared 25 years ago. . . " Mulder didn't look up to answer him. "And what if she was held in some kind of . . . 'stasis?' Something that prevented aging, it's theoretically possible," he replied angrily. "Theoretically, yes," Byers joined in. "But it's never been done. . . . The technology just doesn't exist. . . . No one cryogenically frozen has ever been revived—" "It's been done with some animals," Mulder hammered his point home, then stopped immediately when the screen changed to the information on Jane Doe. They all stopped and read frantically. Byers and Mulder reached the salient point first. "Branched DNA," Byers whispered, stunned by the words and their significance. Langly whistled to indicate his agreement that this was a surprising revelation. "Just like Agent Scully, when she reappeared," Frohike said unnecessarily as Mulder slammed his hand down on the desk next to the computer. Without another word, the FBI agent headed for the door at a dead run. "Thanks boys!" he yelled back over his shoulder before disappearing without closing the door behind him. "Somehow I doubt he's headed to Frisco," Langly said, voicing all of their thoughts. ******************************************************************* Washington, D.C. Monday night Mulder drove straight to Ronald Reagan Memorial Airport, in the opposite direction from Dulles. He managed to make the next US Air shuttle out of D.C. headed for Boston. He never gave a thought to calling Scully, or Skinner or canceling his flight to San Francisco. He was solely focused on his one goal, getting to Massachusetts General Hospital, seeing her with his own eyes. He considered calling his mother to tell her that Sam might have been returned but he put the urge aside. He knew in his gut this was it but he didn't want to get her hopes up until he knew for sure, until he could bring Sam home to her. Unable to concentrate on anything else, he stared vacantly out the window of the plane, hoping, even praying in his own fashion. He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. At Logan International Airport in Boston, he ran out of the plane and sprinted for the exit, cutting the line of travelers at the taxi stand and jumping into the first cab he saw. The driver protested that he had to take the next person in line but Mulder flashed his badge and tersely instructed him to take him to Mass General. ****************************************************************** Offices of the Lone Gunmen Monday night 7:45 p.m. "Fuck!" Langly spat out the word, immediately getting the attention of his two cohorts. He was staring at his computer screen. "This is a set-up!" The two other Gunmen rushed to his side. "What are you talking about, Langly?" Byers asked him quickly. "Look at this," he replied, getting angrier. "I laid the branched DNA analysis from 'Jane Doe' over the stuff found in Agent Scully's blood when she was found. It's exactly the same! And all the other blood factors are exactly the same! This is just a copy of Dana Scully's blood work. It couldn't possibly be from someone else." "Get Mulder on the phone," Byers told him immediately. "We have to get to him right away." But Mulder's cell phone was out of service, shut off or just out of the area. They left a message on his answering machine at home, and on his voice mail at work. But no one was confident that, under the circumstances, Mulder would be thinking to check either. Then they stared at each other, trying to decide whether it was time to call Agent Scully. ******************************************************************** Massachusetts General Hospital Monday night 8:05 p.m. Mike Cangialosi flipped his badge at the head nurse. "Federal Agents," he said, "we're here to see your Jane Doe." His partner held a faxed photo that they would compare to the comatose young girl. The instructions from the Bureau Chief had been explicit. This was a request from Assistant Director Skinner's office, it had to be handled well, and quickly. But Agent Cangialosi and Agent Gannon had been detained by a prosecutor from the Commonweath's Attorney General's office until after 7 p.m. and then they had stopped at a drive-thru place for a quick bite of dinner as well. "This Jane Doe's in a coma," Stacy Gannon had said, "she ain't going anywhere." They figured the Assistant Director in D.C. who made this request had gone home long ago; having the report waiting on his desk first thing in the morning would more than suffice. Now they would check the girl out, file a report and, finally, get to go home for the day. They were directed to the last bed in the Intensive Care Unit, where a frail young girl lay hooked up to more machines and tubes than either agent thought possible. A respirator was breathing for her and beeps and clicks marked the continuation of her life, if not her being. Mike Cangialosi found himself tearing up; he had two girls of his own, close to this child's age. It just hurt to see any kid in this condition, and apparently alone in the world to boot. "Let's see the photo," he sighed. "Although I don't want to be the one to tell anybody that this is their child. . . " Agent Stacy Gannon understood her partner's emotional response; she tried to manage her own reaction but found it hard. She removed the fax photo from her pocket and they put their heads together, trying to determine if this was the same child. In the photo, she was smiling and animated, with a light of mischief in her eyes. This girl had similar coloring and bone structure but it was hard to tell what she'd look like with life in her. "It's not her," a voice startled them from behind. They turned in unison to see a tall, lanky young man standing in the doorway. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes were almost as lifeless as Jane Doe's. Agent Gannon reacted first; she pulled out her badge and displayed it to the man but his eyes never left the young girl in the bed. He moved past Gannon to stand at the bedside. "We're Federal Agents," Agent Gannon said, "and who might you be?" Mulder removed his own ID from his pocket and held it out for them to read. "Special Agent Fox Mulder," Cangialosi read. Then he glanced at the paper Agent Gannon was still holding. "You're the family member . . . ? You thought this might be your daughter?" Mulder shook his head, his eyes still glued to the child. "No, my sister. She's been missing a long time. . . . Twenty-five years. But it's not her." Cangialosi and Gannon exchanged curious glances. This man was in his mid-thirties and this child might be his sister? And she'd been missing '25 years?' If this request had not come from an Assistant Director, they might be asking some serious questions. Mulder gave the girl's hand a squeeze and found it cold and lifeless. He sighed deeply, then finally snapped back to reality. "She's not my sister," he said, "but she belongs to someone. There might be trace evidence . . . ." He gave the two Boston agents a list of things to be done, working against the clock in his head that told him he needed to get back to the airport and get on the last plane to San Francisco. Finishing the list of things to tell the doctors about what worked when Scully was in a similar situation, he vaulted for the door and a slim chance of getting the San Francisco flight. ******************************************************************** Walter Skinner's apartment Washington, D.C. Monday night, 8:20 p.m. Skinner was reviewing paperwork for several meetings the next day over a mug of decaf coffee. He had an uneasy feeling, a hangover from his angry confrontation with Mulder earlier in the day. He hadn't heard from the Boston field agents and had called their Bureau Chief a while earlier, betraying his lack of patience to the woman in no uncertain terms. "I specifically asked for this to be done today," he said. "Boston is still in the same time zone as Washington, isn't it?" Bureau Chief Karen Dylan kept her initial response to herself, not wanting to offend an AD she'd only met once. Skinner had a reputation as a hard-nose but no one thought him unfair or mad with power. There had to be a good reason for his impatience and she responded accordingly. "Let me track my agents down, sir," she said immediately. "I'll call you back and conference them in." She called back in less than 10 minutes, with Agent Cangialosi on the line. He was apologetic about the delay, explaining that they had been tied up with a prosecutor until shortly before. Skinner was only slightly mollified but he recognized that they were doing their best and reduced the level of annoyance in his voice. "Just tell me whether it's the girl in the photo," he said. "No, sir, it's definitely not her," Cangialosi answered immediately. "She's got similar coloring and the age is right, except for that girl disappearing 25 years ago—" "How did you know that," Skinner asked curiously. He hadn't disclosed that to Karen Dylan when he called, not wanting to have this request in any way hampered by the improbability of the scenario. "Agent Mulder told us," Cangialosi replied. "He knew immediately that it wasn't her—" "Mulder was there?" the Assistant Director asked sharply. "Is he still there?" "No, he ran out of here a few minutes ago, something about catching the last flight to . . . California, I think," Cangialosi offered, afraid he'd told the AD more than he should have. "Thank you Agent. And thank you, Chief Dylan," Skinner said before hanging up. He reached for his pocket calendar and turned to the phone section, first trying Mulder's cell phone to no avail. Then he called the Bureau's 24-hour operator and asked for the Special Agent on duty that night. When he reached her, he told her he was trying to find out whether Mulder made a plane from Boston to San Francisco and, if so, when it would arrive. She promised to call him right back. Then he paced his living room trying to decide what form of punishment would be a proper response to this latest act of defiance. While he was waiting and considering Mulder's fate, his phone rang. "Skinner." "Sir?" Scully said quickly. "I think Mulder's gone to Boston. I just got a call from his . . . friends, the Lone Gunmen." "Scully, I can do you one better," he snapped. "He's apparently on his way back to Logan to try to catch a plane for San Francisco." His call waiting beeped in. "Hold on, Agent Scully." He clicked over to the other line to hear that Mulder had missed the last flight to San Francisco from Boston but was able to book himself on a flight from Newark, New Jersey that left at 12:30 a.m. But he was apparently unable to get a flight to Newark and was driving to New Jersey. He clicked back to Scully. "He's driving to New Jersey to try to catch a 12:30 flight." "I don't think he can make it from Boston to Newark in that time," she said worriedly. "That's just too tight." "Well, Agent Mulder will have a reception committee waiting in Newark either way, Scully," the AD said shortly. "I'll pick you up in about 20 minutes." ********************************************************************* Newark International Airport Tuesday morning 12:15 a.m. The flight crew checking people in for the 12:30 a.m. flight to San Francisco were more than curious about the two federal agents who had booked themselves on the flight, then refused to board while they waited for a third passenger. They'd been told now that all departing passengers had to board and they still refused to comply. And they did not look happy. "Whoever this guy 'Fox Mulder' is, I wouldn't want to be in his shoes," one said to the other as they watched Skinner and Scully pace angrily back and forth in the waiting area. "I don't know which one of them looks more dangerous." At 12:25, the more senior ticket agent approached Scully once again. "We're closing the door now, we have no choice." Scully looked at Skinner, and thought she could see actual steam come out of his ears. Mulder was going to miss his court date tomorrow, there was no getting away from it. The door closed and she and Skinner sat down in the empty terminal to wait for the luckless Agent Mulder. When he had not yet arrived at 1 a.m., they decided to return to Washington, reasoning that this long past the flight time, he would not come to the terminal. They got in the car and began the drive with Scully working the phone trying to locate Mulder. He was not answering his cell or home phone and he had not left a message for either of them at their homes or on their voice-mail. This was looking worse all the time for Mulder, Scully thought. As they sped past the Pennsylvania exit on the New Jersey Turnpike, the A.D.'s cell phone rang. "Skinner," he answered tersely. He listened then and Scully thought she saw him swallow hard. "Where?" he asked the caller and listened again. "We're on our way," he said, disconnecting. He began looking for an opening in the metal guard rail that divided the highway. Finding one, he slowed down enough to make an illegal U-turn across the concrete divider. "What's wrong, sir?" Scully asked him pointedly. "Why are we going back?" Skinner took a deep breath and reached out to cover her small left hand with his large right one. "Mulder's had an accident, it may be . . . bad," he said simply. ********************************************************************* Fairview Medical Center Fairview, New Jersey Tuesday morning 3:00 a.m. Mulder was in surgery when they arrived. They managed to ascertain that he had significant injuries, broken ribs, a collar bone and, most worryingly, severe internal bleeding and a head injury that required a craniotomy to alleviate the pressure on his brain. They waited for word from the surgeons. And waited. And waited some more. By 8 a.m., Skinner was finding it hard to maintain even the appearance of calm and he let Scully handle all the questions to the hospital staff. He occupied his time with the State police sergeant who had been on the scene, trying to get a clear picture of what had happened. The state troopers thought Mulder might have been drinking but Skinner was certain that wasn't true and that the blood work would bear him out. The police assumed he was under the influence because he was driving almost 90 miles an hour and veering back and forth between lanes. Skinner knew it was more likely Mulder was agitated and angry with himself and panicked at the thought he might miss the plane. He apparently lost control of the rental car when another vehicle changed lanes right in front of him, opting to hit the divider instead of the other car. His car flipped over the barrier and landed in the oncoming lanes upside down. They'd had to cut him out of the car with the jaws of life. Skinner listened to the recitation and found himself having difficulty breathing. He nodded his thanks to the officer and decided immediately not to fill Scully in on all the details. Finally, a Dr. Levin appeared from the surgical wing. He gave them a guarded update and finished with a disclaimer. "The next 24 to 48 hours will tell," he said. "I'm sorry I can't be more optimistic. . . . It's really all up to him now." ********************************************************************** Fairview Medical Center Wednesday afternoon 3:00 p.m. Assistant Director Skinner had commandeered a room across the hall from where Mulder was still in intensive care. He and Scully had been at the hospital around the clock for the past day and a half. Mulder's vital signs were a little stronger and the doctors all said that was a very good sign. But he was non-responsive to voice or touch; Skinner had seen Scully try both on a regular basis for the past 36 hours. He was in a deep coma; the doctor said that could be an indication that his body was taking the time it needed 'to heal,' or a sign that he might never come out of it, might remain in a vegetative state. Skinner thought for the hundredth time in the past two days that these were the most non-committal people he'd ever run into. The AD occupied his time with the business he could conduct remotely; he called Phil Evans and explained why Mulder was not there (leaving out everything before the accident.) He phoned Mulder's mother regularly with a progress report; she was 'grateful' to him for keeping her informed. Skinner thought it inexplicable that she didn't offer to drive the 2 hours to get to his bedside. He knew his own parents would be camped out in the waiting room if one of their kids were in this condition. Finally, he wandered over to the ICU again just to check on whether there'd been any change at all. Scully was there, with her mother, who'd driven down from Annapolis first thing this morning. They both looked exhausted and the AD eventually was able to shoo them off to get some food. He got Maggie Scully's ear for a moment and suggested she try to talk her daughter into taking a room at the hotel down the street and getting a good night's rest. "If you can't convince her to do that, Mr. Skinner, I seriously doubt I can!" she replied with a tired smile. But she agreed to try. Skinner sat down at Mulder's bedside as soon as they left. He felt foolish trying to speak to the young agent when he was so clearly not responsive. So he just laid his hand on Mulder's uninjured arm and bowed his head, offering up a silent prayer that he would make it back. Dr. Levin came in a few moments later and Skinner got up and went to the window to let him work. He stared, unseeing, until his attention was caught by the doctor's 'hmmm.' "Anything wrong, Doctor?" he asked anxiously. "No, not at all, Mr. Skinner," the physician said quickly. "His vital signs are better and the coma appears to be less profound than when I checked last." He performed some further tests then suggested that talking to him might help. "I wish Agent Scully were here," Skinner said. "She's just better at this than me. I find it hard to hold one-way conversations. . . ." "Just say whatever you'd say if he were awake," the doctor replied, smiling. "It will help him to hear a voice he recognizes. Say whatever he'd expect you to say, whatever comes naturally." Dr. Levin gave him an encouraging nod and left. But the AD shrugged and decided to give it a try. "Mulder," he said, laying his hand lightly on the young man's uninjured shoulder. "I don't know if you can hear me. . . You need to wake up now, Mulder. You're going to be okay, you've got some injuries but they'll all heal. And now it's time to wake up. . . . You've had us all worried, you know. And I've about had it with that, so . . . I'm ordering you to wake up. Do you understand me, Agent Mulder?" Now the Assistant Director was starting to hit his stride; the doctor said say whatever comes naturally, he thought. "Mulder, are you listening to me? Nod your head if you can hear me, I want to know you're listening. Or squeeze my hand," he continued, placing his hand under the younger man's palm. "I'm serious, Mulder, I want some recognition that you're listening to me. Just once, I want you to obey me without argument or rebellion, just squeeze my hand--" He stopped, feeling a weak movement that might be a squeeze. He looked at the young agent's face and saw his eyes flutter open. "Don't try to speak, Mulder," the AD told him quickly, backing toward the door of the room. "They've got a tube down your throat. Stay with me while I call some help. Do you understand me, Mulder?" He caught the eye of one of the nurses and motioned impatiently for her to come. Then he immediately returned to the bedside. "Keep your eyes open, Mulder," he continued, louder. "Do you hear me? I'm ordering you to stay awake." The doctor and the two nurses who responded were a little surprised at the tenor of this conversation but it appeared to have worked so they didn't argue with the large man who kept ordering their patient to 'stay conscious, or else.' ********************************************************************* Fairview Medical Center Saturday evening 8:30 p.m. The Lone Gunmen and Agent Scully were visiting Mulder; this violated the hospital policy that said he was only allowed two visitors at a time during regular visiting hours but it appeared the hospital staff had reached an understanding with Special Agent Mulder. He would not complain non-stop to them as long as he had someone else in his room to complain to. So they looked the other way at the number of visitors and the times they chose to appear. Earlier that day, Jim Harley and his son Will had come. They lived in New Jersey but Mulder was surprised anyway. He'd gotten a call from Danny Pearsall and his Dad, Dave as well. And Chuck Talbot called to say he was coming to see him tomorrow, along with the AD They were all Skinner's friends but he was touched by their show of support. He was not happy to still be in the hospital but all this attention was new and kind of a nice consolation prize, he decided. Byers had just finished filling him in on what they'd managed to find out about the Jane Doe at Massachusetts General. Mulder already knew the blood work they'd seen was fake, that someone had entered that information into the patient record just to get his attention, apparently. Someone who read him like the proverbial book. Assistant Director Skinner appeared at the doorway during this discussion. He frowned slightly when he saw the three Gunmen but quickly hid his dismay. He nodded to them and they returned his acknowledgment, immediately excusing themselves. They occupied a fringe of society that didn't take to socializing with an Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Apparently Agent Scully was planning to drive back with them and Skinner offered her a ride if she wanted to wait. "Actually, I've been here all day, sir," she laughed. "My mother left me here this morning! So I'd really like to get home and unwind." "You're saying I 'wind you up,' Scully?" Mulder teased. "Is it this sexy traction thing?" he asked indicating the contraption that held his left arm in position. "Mulder, please!" she returned, slightly embarrassed at his making such a remark in front of Skinner. "How much medication do they have you on anyway?" When they had gone, Skinner sat down. He removed two cups of Dunkin' Donuts coffee from a bag Mulder hadn't noticed until now. He also had a glazed chocolate donut for Mulder and the younger man found himself salivating. "Scully really was here all day, so I haven't had anything to eat that wasn't salt-free, fat-free, sugar-free . . . and taste-free!" he said, taking a big bite. Skinner chuckled and told him to finish it quick. "Before your nurses find out I'm feeding you caffeine AND sugar! I imagine they'd want to see me in roughly the same condition as you if that happens." "I'll never tell," Mulder vowed, "not even if they torture me. . . . And they torture me pretty regularly, taking blood out, pumping stuff back in. Not to mention this disgusting stuff they call 'food.' It's a wonder anyone survives being hospitalized." "When you come out, you'll need a place to stay, Mulder," the AD said suddenly. "I was talking to your doctor. He said you don't need 'round the clock care' but you shouldn't be completely alone either. So Scully and I decided you should come stay with me for a while. I'm guessing she didn't want to be the one to inform you of that." Mulder started to protest immediately but Skinner put up his hand and spoke with authority. "Don't argue with me, Mulder. The doctor says you shouldn't be on your own for at least the first week or ten days. Scully or I can stop by my place during the day and check on you. And I'll be around in the evenings." He didn't bother to inform the younger agent that he'd called his mother first to see if she might want him to come to Greenwich to recuperate. As Scully had predicted, Mrs. Mulder declined the honor. "No, I can stay at my place and you can both stop by there during the day if you want. I don't need a baby-sitter--" "Well, actually Mulder, you do appear to need a baby-sitter but that's a discussion for another day, after you're better," the AD said, looking him straight in the eye and investing the words with serious meaning. Mulder immediately recognized that tone of voice and stopped arguing. "But for now, this decision stands. . . . It was either my place or Agent Scully's. And at my place you get Sports Channel and junk food, so . . . " Mulder nodded, afraid to argue any further, sensing that Skinner's anger about what had put him in this hospital bed was not buried far below the surface. Skinner was having roughly the same thought, but kicking himself for letting his anger show. ***************************************************************** Walter Skinner's Apartment The following Friday 12:30 p.m. Scully and Skinner helped Mulder out of the elevator. He was having trouble maneuvering and keeping his balance and a light sheen of sweat had broken out on his face. Scully and Skinner both wondered if he was indeed ready to be released but Dr. Levin had finally agreed with Mulder that it was time for him to 'get out of jail.' They each wondered independently whether that was a completely bias-free medical judgment or whether the hospital staff had lobbied for his quick release. He was a terrible patient, who grew worse the better he felt. Skinner opened his apartment door and they didn't bother to stop in the living room, all three of them recognizing he needed to go straight to bed. After getting him settled in the spare bedroom, and watching him drift off to an exhausted sleep. Scully offered to stay for the rest of the afternoon so that Skinner could get back to work. The AD took her up on her offer and she settled down in the living room with a book she'd brought. When Skinner returned at 6 o'clock, she was sleeping in his armchair and Mulder was still out cold in the bedroom. "Oh!" she exclaimed, coming awake with a start when the A.D.'s presence seeped into her consciousness. "I must have dozed off. . . " "Don't worry, Agent Scully. I'm sure you needed it. When was the last time you checked on him?" "Just an hour ago. I checked his pupils and his breathing, everything was fine." She yawned and stretched. "We should probably wake him up to eat something, and he has to take another round of medication after dinner." "That should be pleasant," Skinner noted wryly. They were both familiar with Agent Mulder's aversion to medication. "Why don't you stay? I'll hold him down while you force the medicine down his throat. . . ." ******************************************************************* Walter Skinner's Apartment Sunday afternoon 4:30 p.m. Mulder was sprawled on the couch with several pillows under his head. He and the AD were alone now, having entertained both Scully women and Chuck Talbot earlier in the afternoon. Mulder was recuperating but slowly. Tonight he was exhausted from the effort to stay awake for his visitors during the day and now he was forcing himself to stay awake for the rest of two football games. He had possession of the remote control and he clicked rapidly between two games on different channels, surfing over to something on the Discovery channel when a commercial or time-out occurred. In between, he routinely checked in at CNN in what appeared to be a regular pattern, although Skinner was getting a headache trying to follow it. Mulder readjusted his position on the couch for about the millionth time, Skinner thought, trying to find one that was comfortable. The older man had offered to change places with him twice but he refused, seeming to have developed an aversion to the brown leather armchair the AD occupied. The A.D.'s watch alarm beeped to remind him that Mulder was due for more medication. Skinner got up and went to get it, noting with annoyance that the younger agent had heard the alarm and was suddenly pretending to be asleep. "Here you go, Mulder," Skinner tapped him lightly on the side of the head. Mulder opened one eye. "Can't you see I'm asleep?" he asked crankily. "You're not asleep now. Take this medication, then I'll help you to bed." "I'm not going to bed. I'm watching the game," he said tossing the pills in his mouth and swallowing a large gulp of water. Skinner watched him swallow then proceeded to help him up, letting his protests fall on deaf ears. "You're obviously in discomfort, you can hardly keep your eyes open and, frankly, you're jumping up and down on my last nerve, Mulder," he said. "And that's a dangerous place to be right now. . . " He helped the younger man wash up and get into bed, ignoring the ongoing muttering to himself about his unfair and dictatorial host. "I just wish everyone would leave me alone," he said several times, several ways. Finally Skinner felt compelled to respond. "My mother always said to be careful what you wish for, Mulder," he told him, "you might just get it." "I never get what I wish for," he snapped at Skinner. "Believe me, I've had a lifetime of experience with unfulfilled wishes. . . . " He shifted in the bed, trying to find the position that brought the least discomfort. "And anyway, I knew it was a bad idea for me to stay here. Most people like me less the better they know me." The AD handed him the remote control for the TV in the spare bedroom and shut the light out, noting that despite the game on the screen, he was already starting to drift off. "Don't worry, Mulder," Skinner replied before closing the bedroom door. "I like you now, and I'll like you even better when you're healthy and well again. . . . And I'll still like you after you and I deal with how you managed to get yourself in this condition." He closed the door as Mulder's eyes snapped open. The medication overwhelmed him and he drifted off with the beginning of an escape plan in his head. ******************************************************************* Walter Skinner's Apartment Monday afternoon 2:00 p.m. Scully had just left when the doorman buzzed to tell Mulder that he had 'three visitors.' He hobbled over to let the Byers, Langly and Frohike in, then had to herd them into the living room to keep them from 'exploring' the Assistant Director's apartment. They were inveterate information gatherers and Mulder knew that, left to their own devices, they'd have a dossier on Walter Skinner that even the FBI would envy. In fact, he thought, they might already have one. "So, what's the big emergency, Mulder?" Langly asked. Mulder was uncertain how to play this; he had a plan but his brain was a little addled from all the medication Scully and Skinner kept forcing on him and he wasn't certain it was workable. And he was even less certain how much to share with his three friends. "I need to get out of here," he began, "soon. . . " "Living with the boss not turning out to be a sojourn in paradise?" Frohike asked. "I would have opted for 'Casa Agent Scully' myself." "I didn't exactly get a choice, Frohike," Mulder responded. "It was a 'fait accomplis' when I heard about it." "Well, what's the big hurry on leaving, Mulder?" Byers said, returning them to the subject about which they'd been summoned. "You get better, you move back to your place, right?" "Well . . . kind of. But it's a little more complicated than that, and I don't want to get into it. I just have to get out of here soon and lay low for a while." The three Gunmen exchanged curious glances. Finally, Langly spoke for all of them. "Mulder, no offense, but . . . . what the hell kind of trouble are you in?" "Let's just say I need to make myself scarce for a little while, 'til Skinner gets over his annoyance about my little side-trip to Boston." "Why? So he reads you the riot act, not like it hasn't happened before, Mulder," Langly responded. "What's the big deal?" "No, this is worse than that. . . . " Mulder said in irritation. "What are they gonna do, suspend you?" Frohike interjected. "You're already on disability leave, injured in the line of duty, I might add. We saw the paperwork Skinner filed with the hospital—" "First of all, what the hell were you doing reading my medical records?" Mulder said, growing testier. "And second of all, can we just forget all that and get to my problem, where to hide out until this thing blows over? Can we?" Frohike, Langly and Byers exchanged a look that covered in a split second their surprise at Mulder's insistence, their annoyance at his peremptory tone and their ultimate decision that, despite everything, they had history with the guy and would help him out whether they agreed with his assessment of the situation or not. The four men put their heads together and came up with a plan to hide Mulder out for as long as he thought necessary for Skinner to 'cool off.' They agreed the escape would take place the following afternoon. A little while later, the three other men exited the lobby, glancing furtively over their shoulders and around the parking lot to make certain they were not seen. They hopped in Frohike's old car, parked surreptitiously around the corner, and sped off to make the necessary arrangements. "You know, I wonder if all that medication he's taking has made Mulder's head fuzzy," Byers said to the other two. "I think the guy's just overreacting. . . ." "Yeah," Frohike agreed. "I mean, he's acting like a scared kid, like Skinner's gonna spank him or something!" "Yeah, right!" Langly snorted. ********************************************************************** Walter Skinner's apartment Tuesday evening 8:00 p.m. "Scully, Mulder's missing!" AD Skinner announced into the phone. He'd arrived home a few minutes earlier with a pizza to find his houseguest among the missing. He immediately called the doorman, who told him that Mulder had left the building right after Scully departed earlier in the afternoon. He left alone, but the doorman did see that someone picked him up in the parking lot. "It looked like the three weird guys who were here yesterday, Mr. Skinner," the concerned doorman told him. "I think those three nuts are involved," Skinner said, filling her in on his doorman's intelligence report. Scully immediately got mad, threatening to personally shoot each and every one of the Lone Gunmen if they were involved in Mulder's disappearance. "Let's not start shooting 'til we find Mulder," the AD cautioned her, although he was not completely averse to the suggestion. "Right now, we need to locate him. Then I'll let you deal with the Three Stooges however you like as long as I get dibs on Agent Mulder!" Scully thought he sounded halfway serious and she let it drop immediately. Scully picked the AD up about 20 minutes later, then headed for the home of "The Lone Gunmen." No one was around and the place was locked up tight. Skinner had called the Bureau for more information while he was waiting for Scully and they decided to try the other pertinent locations in order. No one could be found at Byers' place. No one was at Frohike's home either, although his landlady offered that he'd gone to some convention, in New York she thought. They went ahead and tried Langly's place anyway to no avail. Skinner had called the Special Agent on Duty again to get a list of all the conventions going on in New York and to have her check on whether Agent Mulder's credit or ATM cards had been used recently. He and Scully headed to the office next to pick up the information he'd requested. ******************************************************************** Assistant Director Skinner's Office Wednesday morning 1:30 a.m. Assistant Director Skinner had quickly scanned Mulder's credit card activity and found nothing more recent than the day of his accident. He tossed that report aside and looked over Agent Scully's shoulder at the list of all the conventions in New York that week. As she turned to the second page, he heard her exclaim. "Oh, no, I don't believe it." "What is it, Scully?" he asked starting to scan the second page himself. "There's two possibilities as I see it, sir," she answered, "and they're both at the same hotel." "That's convenient," he replied, still scanning the page. His eyes stopped at the first possibility, then quickly jumped ahead to what must be the second. He paused to collect himself. "Tell me this is a nightmare, Agent Scully." "This is a nightmare," she replied, as she headed for the door. ******************************************************************* Wyndham Arms Hotel New York, New York Wednesday morning 10:00 a.m. Skinner and Scully arrived in time for the morning rush hour. Scully had thought the AD was in a foul humor to begin with, fighting the city's cross-town traffic had made it even worse. Despite her anger at Mulder, she found herself pitying her partner when Skinner got his hands on him. They left the car with the valet and entered the large hotel, stopping at the front desk to see if Mulder was registered. He wasn't and neither were Byers, Langly or Frohike. They then asked about the locations for the two conventions. The front desk manager raised her eyebrows; these two definitely didn't look like they would be attending either of the gatherings. "Ballroom A for the Star Trek Convention," she replied, looking directly at the AD He flushed a lovely shade of pink. Then she turned to Agent Scully. "And the Elvis Impersonator Convention is on the Mezzanine level." "Why are you addressing that to me?" Scully asked her as Skinner pulled her away from the front desk and toward the elevators. She turned to Skinner. "Why did she tell me about the Elvis thing?" "I guess because I obviously look like the 'Trekkie,'" he replied ruefully. "Let's not lose sight of what we're here for, Scully." By 1 p.m. they'd searched both locations with no luck, although they'd spoken to a dozen species of aliens and uncounted numbers of Federation officers as well as young Elvis, old Elvis, fat Elvis and dead Elvis. None of them had seen anyone fitting the description of the Lone Gunmen and Agent Mulder. "Those three loony tunes wouldn't exactly stand out in this crowd," Skinner said to Scully over a sandwich in the coffee shop some time later. "We're going to have to eyeball them ourselves, I'm afraid." "M.F. Luder," she said suddenly. "Or George Hale!" Skinner looked over his shoulder, expecting to see one of the two people she'd just named. Behind him stood a Vulcan and someone who was either supposed to be Priscilla Presley on her wedding day, or Morticia Adams, he wasn't certain. "No, sir," she continued, "those are two pseudonyms Agent Mulder uses occasionally. I'll bet you lunch one of them is registered at this hotel." Skinner pulled a $20 bill out of his wallet and dropped it on the table. "Let's go check, Agent Scully. And if you turn out to be right, I can't wait for Agent Mulder's explanation about why a federal agent NEEDS multiple pseudonyms!" Scully went to the front desk to inquire about the names Hale and Luder and Skinner decided to wait in the lobby, just in case Mulder walked through. Mulder didn't but the three Lone Gunmen crossed the lobby and headed down an escalator to the concourse level of the hotel, where Ballroom A was located. Skinner quickly crossed the lobby to catch up to them, stopping on the escalator a step above the three. "You know, I always had faith in Mulder's judgment," Byers was saying, "but I think he's wrong, he shouldn't be out of bed, let alone hiding out here in this hotel." "Not to mention, he's the most goddammed irritating person I've ever met," Frohike added. "Even if it is because he's not feeling well, I think we should load him in the car and take him back to D.C., now!" Langly nodded vehemently. "We should throw in him the trunk and drop him back on Skinner's doorstep and forget we ever got involved in his stupid escape plan--" "I vote for that," an unfamiliar voice boomed from behind them. All three turned at once and Frohike nearly tumbled down the remaining steps of the escalator when they saw Assistant Director Skinner glaring at them from the next step, his arms folded over his chest. "Gentlemen, where exactly IS the 'houseguest from hell?'" ******************************************************************** Room 1249 Wyndham Arms Hotel New York, New York 1:30 p.m. Mulder had managed to crawl to the bathroom and retch up every fluid that remained in his stomach. His head pounded and his entire body shook with exhaustion and pain. He'd left the medications behind yesterday but now he realized they'd been prescribed for a reason. Only now it was too late. He'd barely slept because of the discomfort and couldn't eat because he was nauseous. The smell of the breakfast the Lone Gunmen had ordered from room service earlier had sent him over the edge and they'd left in a huff soon after his eruption. Feeling immensely sorry for himself, he started crawling back to bed. The effort exhausted him almost to the point of losing consciousness -- and just then, the door opened. He looked up, expecting to see the guys and was shocked by the addition of Scully and Skinner, neither of whom looked especially happy to see him. He passed out thinking that at least he'd be unconscious when the end came. Mulder awoke an hour later, finding himself in bed, with a cold compress on his head and Scully in a chair next to him. She gave him a half-smile. "Hi," she said. Tears stung his eyes and he bit his lip. "I fucked up, Scully," he said, "I fucked up so bad." He averted his eyes to keep her from seeing the tears. "Yes. . . I know," she said simply. "Where are the guys?" "They left for Washington, they thought it best once they saw Skinner." He closed his eyes. "And where's he?" "Gone to get your prescriptions filled -- again." "Is he really mad?" Mulder asked her, his eyes still closed. "On a scale of one to ten, I'd say he's about 7 billion," she replied, trying to lighten the conversation without misleading him. "I wouldn't worry about that right now, though. You need to concentrate on getting better." The AD entered the room, momentarily making eye contact with Mulder, then handed the bag from the drug store to Scully. She opened both bottles and shook out a couple of pills from each, then handed them to him along with a glass of water. He took the pills, keeping his eyes on Skinner the whole time. The Assistant Director never looked at him again, addressing his remarks to his partner instead. "When you think he's well enough, we'll head back to D.C.," he told her. "Do you think he needs to go to the hospital?" "No, I think he just needs some rest and to take the medication," she said. Mulder closed his eyes again and started to drift off, painfully aware they were talking about him as though he weren't there. ********************************************************************** Fox Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia Tuesday evening 9:00 p.m. Skinner helped Scully get Mulder settled, hardly saying a word to him. Scully had fussed over him for a while and even ran out to get him some soup and crackers "for later, if you're hungry." She'd been appalled when she saw the lack of supplies in his kitchen. But the AD rushed her along, reminding her quietly of their 'agreement,' that if Mulder wanted to be on his own, on his own he'd be. They left and he slept through the night, waking only once when the discomfort reminded him to take more medication. He woke up some time after dawn, pleased to be home, alone, with no one to bother him or bug him about anything. "Hi, fellas," he said to the fish moving aimlessly around the small tank. "Miss me?" He realized for the first time that either Scully or Skinner had been feeding them over the past several weeks. He heated the soup from the night before for breakfast and popped one of his favorite videos into the VCR, then settled down on his couch. Not for the first time he thought that if everyone had just left him alone to begin with, half the trouble he was in would never have happened. By late afternoon, he was seriously hungry again. Neither Skinner nor Scully had even called to check on him so he wasn't able to ask them to bring food. He began rummaging through his kitchen, looking for something, anything, to eat. Finding a box of strawberry pop tarts, he tore open one of the sleeves and took a huge bite. "Ugh!" he said out loud, spitting the thing out into the sink as quickly as he could. He checked the box for the freshness date, then immediately dropped the entire thing in the trash. He decided to call for something to be delivered. Checking his wallet, he found he had $6; spare change on his dresser added up to another $1.14. Finally, reaching the point of starvation, he decided to call around and see who would take an order charged to his credit card. Finding the local Chinese place would, he placed his order, only to find out they had a $20 minimum on deliveries. "Fine," he said, "add an egg roll and shrimp toast. Does that get me over $20? . . . . No? How about if you add spare ribs?" Finally topping the minimum, he sat down and waited for the delivery. By the time it came, he was so hungry, he wolfed down most of it before realizing it was probably too rich and too heavy for his stomach after several days of little food. Most of the food came right back up and the smell of the leftovers was so overpowering, he threw it all in his refrigerator immediately to try to contain it. Limping back to his couch, he fell into another exhausted sleep wondering where the hell Scully was. And the Gunmen. And Skinner. By Thursday, he'd started to get past being worried about the lack of contact and moved into feeling angry. "If this is how they want it, fine," he told the fish. "I can manage without them!" He had an appointment at his doctor in the afternoon. "I'll show them I don't need any of them. I'll get there fine alone." One arm was still strapped to his chest so he knew he'd be unable to drive, certainly not in rush hour traffic. He didn't have enough cash for a taxi so he decided to walk to the bank to get money from an ATM first, then hail a cab from there. This worked out through the banking part but there were no taxis cruising the streets of Alexandria at this hour. It was too early for the happy hour and dinner crowd that would bring the fleet of taxis. He was so rarely home at this hour on a weekday, he hadn't realized the cab idea wouldn't work. So he walked to the bus stop, checking his watch to see the time. He called the doctor's office to tell them he'd be a little late and boarded the first bus to come along. It required exact change and he didn't have it and no one on the bus was able to change two dollars for him. He got off the bus, at the driver's insistence, and ran to get change, then waited for the next bus. When he finally got to the doctor's office over an hour late, his physician had already left for the day and the receptionist pleasantly told him they'd rescheduled his appointment for tomorrow. There was little point in arguing so he left and began the trek home. The cab he got into got stuck in the evening rush hour traffic on the parkway and he finally got out 45 minutes later a few blocks from his apartment, at the local supermarket. He did some shopping quickly, waited in what seemed like an endless line for check-out then realized he would be unable to carry the two bags of merchandise home with his one arm. He had them repack it in one bag and started the 6 block walk home. By the time he got there, he was shaky and exhausted. He left the bag on his kitchen table and literally fell onto his couch where he slept until almost midnight. When he woke up, he was weak from hunger and had forgotten to take his medication since early that morning. He continued to kick himself mentally while he toasted some bread and poured himself a glass of orange juice. Downing both quickly, he just sat at his kitchen table, staring at nothing for a while, then laid his head down on the table. He woke with a stiff neck just before 6 a.m., then laid back down on his couch, hoping to catch a little more sleep. But it didn't come and he spent the next several hours agonizing over his next move. He decided to try Scully. ********************************************************************* Assistant Director Skinner's Office Washington, D.C. Friday morning Scully and Skinner were reviewing the progress of a case when her cell phone trilled. Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she answered, "Scully." There was a long hesitation and she looked directly at Skinner as she waited for the familiar voice. "Scully, it's me," Mulder finally said, trying to make it as routine as possible. "What's up, Mulder?" she asked innocently. Skinner pulled a $1 bill from his pocket and slid it across his desk to Scully; she'd won their bet about who Mulder would call first. He'd thought Mulder might do the politically correct thing, for once, and call his boss. Mulder told her nothing much was going on and asked her what she was up to. "Oh, not much, just working on a couple of things," she replied. "Nothing for you to worry about." Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. "Are you coming by tonight, Scully?" he asked, a little more anxiously than he intended. "Maybe for dinner--" "Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry," she replied sweetly. "I made other plans. I'm going away for the weekend to visit friends. I haven't seen my godson in a while and I thought, since it's been quiet here, this would be a good weekend to do it." Skinner gave her a congratulatory nod and slid a $5 bill her way. He'd wagered that much that she'd go running the moment Mulder called her and appeared the slightest bit apologetic. Now he thought she'd made these plans to make certain she didn't back down the way Skinner said she would. He was impressed with her ingenuity, as well as her competitiveness. ********************************************************************* Fox Mulder's Apartment Alexandria, Virginia 6:30 p.m. He was exhausted again and very irritated; the effort to get to and from the doctor's office had tired him and he'd had to listen to the man scold him for not taking the medication as regularly as prescribed. "How do you expect to get better, Mr. Mulder, if you don't take the medicine?" He'd held his tongue, just wanting the visit to end. The orthopedist had manipulated his arm and shoulder, a painful experience, then told him he'd be out of work at least another two weeks. "Are you kidding me?" he'd responded. "I have to get back to work, I HAVE to--" "Why, Mr. Mulder?" the doctor had asked him. "You're entitled to disability leave and my nurse tells me your boss said you could stay off as long as you need to. . . ." Mulder had glared at him and gave no response. He took the new prescriptions the doctor gave him and left without another word. Now he was pacing restlessly around his apartment, trying to decide what to do. The video collection held no interest and there was nothing in his mail he cared to see. He turned his computer on and was pleased to find an e-mail from Danny Pearsall. His Dad was an old Marine buddy of Skinner's and Mulder had gotten to know the 16-year-old when he'd gone camping and spent a weekend at the beach with Skinner. He replied quickly to the kid's message, noting it had actually been sent four days earlier. Then he checked the rest of his e-mail, all junk and turned the computer off. <8 o'clock Friday night. Now what, Mulder> He thought about calling his mother but thought better of it. She had a regular Friday night out with 'the girls,' he knew. He decided to try the Lone Gunmen. Reaching their number, he was surprised that no one answered. A recorder came on, but no message, and Mulder started to speak right after the beep. "It's me," he said. "Pick up the phone guys . . . . if you're there, pick up the phone. . . . Come on, somebody must be there, pick up the goddam phone! . . . . All right, you must be out. Call me when you get back." ********************************************************************* Offices of the Lone Gunmen Friday night 8:25 p.m. Byers, Langly and Frohike stared at the phone, listening to the message Mulder was leaving, none of them daring to say a word even though they knew he couldn't hear them anyway. When he disconnected, Byers spoke first. "I don't know, I feel a little guilty--" "That Skinner guy was very explicit, 'don't talk to Mulder until I tell you it's okay,' he said," Langly responded. "I for one don't want trouble with an Assistant Director of the FBI" Frohike nodded violently. "And we're not falling for it the next time Mulder tells us he can ‘handle Skinner!’ That's obviously a crock!" Byers sighed and nodded too. ******************************************************************** Fox Mulder's Apartment Saturday night 10:30 p.m. Mulder thought he was losing his mind. No one had called him all day yesterday or today. He'd gone out in the afternoon to the local X-rated movie theater and sat through part of something he couldn't now name or describe before walking out halfway through. Then he'd wandered the streets of Old Alexandria, stopping at a bookstore where he spent an hour talking to the sales and reference desk staff just to get a chance to exercise his vocal chords. Finally, he'd stopped at a pizza place for dinner, again spending longer than necessary just to avoid going home to his empty apartment. Now he was back, lying on his couch, the television off, with hot tears running down his cheeks, a bottle of scotch open on the coffee table. He'd had a couple of shots before realizing it probably wouldn't mix well with the medication . . . he'd forgotten to take. He swung between self-pity and rage at Skinner, knowing intuitively it was he who was the architect of this particular 'object lesson.' He was well aware what this was meant to demonstrate to him but his pride kept getting in the way of his ending it. Finally he was so angry at the AD, he just had to tell him to his face and he called a cab and set out for Skinner's Crystal City high-rise. Once there, the doorman told him Skinner was out for the evening. He asked if he could wait and the man ushered him to a couple of couches. He took up residence, determined to have it out with the AD, tonight. He brushed that final thought aside; despite his anger at Skinner he couldn't blame the Assistant Director for his poor relationship with his one living parent. That had been true before he ever met Skinner. When the doorman went out to help a tenant with some packages, Mulder slipped into an elevator, deciding to check for himself if Skinner was really out. He went up to the 16th floor and banged on Skinner's door until one of his neighbors opened her door to see what was going on. He smiled sheepishly at her and apologized. When she finally shut her door, he turned his back to Skinner's door and leaned on it, feeling an overwhelming weakness in his knees as his anger gave way to embarrassment and shame. He slid down the door and sat on the floor, pulling his knees up and burying his face in them. In a few minutes, hunger, scotch and exhaustion teamed up to overwhelm him and he was asleep. At 1:30 a.m., Assistant Director Walter Skinner opened the door to his lobby and saw his night doorman dozing contentedly in his chair behind the desk. Well-versed in security matters, his immediate reaction was to wake the guy up and read him the riot act. But Skinner had had a pleasant dinner with a prosecutor from the U.S. Attorney's office in D.C., someone he'd met when she secured a conviction on one of his agents' cases. And it was 1:30, all he really wanted to do was go upstairs and go to bed. He passed the guy and let him sleep. Exiting his elevator, though, he was stopped cold by the sight of someone, head down, sleeping at his door. Mulder. He walked up to the young man and stood over him, finally tapping him on the head. "Mulder," he said quietly. "Oh, sir!" Mulder awoke with a start, realizing quickly where he was. "I . . . I was waiting for you." "No kidding," the AD replied, waiting for him to get up so he could put his key in the door. He could tell Mulder had been drinking but he didn't appear to be drunk. Mulder was growing alarmed at Skinner's reaction so far; he'd run through several possible scenarios in his head. In his worst case scenario, he'd prepared for Skinner to be angry; in the best case scenario, Skinner was just darned glad to see him. Indifference wasn't one of the reactions Mulder had rehearsed for. But Skinner stepped past him and entered his apartment without inviting him in. "Can I come in, sir?" he asked finally. "Come in, Mulder. How's it going anyway? All that 'aloneness' you wanted working out for you?" Mulder's face had turned red and he found himself staring at the floor. "It's okay . . ." he started out, trying to put a better face on it. "Then I guess you'll want to be getting back to it, won't you, Mulder?" Skinner said. "Thanks for dropping by." Mulder was stunned and actually started for the door. He had his hand on the doorknob when blind fury got the best of him. He slammed his one good hand on the door and turned back to Skinner. "No!" he shouted. "I don't want to go! I don't want to . . . . I don't want to be alone. . . I . . I. . . . Why are you doing this to me?" His anger dissipated as quickly as it had come and tears choked off the rest of his words. Skinner was at his side in a single stride and he felt the A.D.'s arms wrap him in a hug, a large hand rubbing a rhythmic circle on his back. He laid his head on the older man's shoulder and continued to cry as though he'd never stop. "It's okay, Mulder," Skinner said soothingly. "That's all I wanted to hear. That's all we both needed to know . . . " He let the younger agent cry it out, then helped him to the spare bedroom. He quickly ascertained that Mulder had not taken his medication since the afternoon and got the old prescriptions out of the medicine cabinet. Getting Mulder a cup of hot chocolate and some toast, he insisted he eat, then take the medicine and get some sleep. The next morning Skinner made breakfast for them both and waited for Mulder to raise the subject he knew was weighing on the young man's mind. "Sir," he started over a cup of coffee. "Are you still mad at me?" "No, I'm not mad, Mulder. I was never mad. . . . well, maybe when I first heard about Boston. And maybe for a while when I was trying to track you down in New York and I was mistaken for a Trekkie. Oh, and I was really ticked about the way you hogged the TV remote control--" Mulder laughed and Skinner thought it was good to see him smile for a change. But then the younger agent's face turned serious again. "I guess what I really want to know is, well, you know. . . ." His face turned crimson and he stared down at the mug of coffee before continuing. "Are you going to . . . punish me?" "What do you think, Mulder?" "I th--, I think . . . " The young man shook his head. "I don't know what I think." "Well, you're not well enough for any kind of punishment now anyway, so you have plenty of time to think about it," the AD said, rising. "Now let's drive over to your place and get your things; you're staying here until you are well, is that understood?" ********************************************************************** ** Three weeks later Walter Skinner's Apartment Friday evening Mulder had just finished packing up. He'd been back to work on light-duty for three days and this afternoon his doctor pronounced him medically cleared for full duty. Scully had accompanied him to the doctor and dropped him off a little earlier. Now Mulder was alone. Skinner was flying in from an all-day meeting in New York City and was expected any minute. Mulder heard the A.D.'s key in the front door and came out of the spare bedroom carrying his overstuffed duffel bag. "Do I need to check my towel inventory, Mulder?" Skinner chuckled, eyeing the bag with a smile. "No, sir! We just kept bringing more and more of my stuff over here but I still only had one piece of luggage." It appeared to be bursting at the seams and both men wondered independently if he'd make it home before the bag gave up the ghost. "Well, if you leave anything behind, it's not like I can't find you, you know, Mulder," Skinner said, still smiling. "I know where you work—" He started to leaf through the mail he'd brought up with him, then realized Mulder was not moving or making any effort that looked like leaving. He glanced up at the younger man. "Something wrong?" Mulder suddenly seemed tongue-tied and Skinner saw he was having trouble making eye contact with him, always a sign something was up. The AD laid the mail down on a table in the foyer and walked into the living room. Finally, Mulder spoke. "Remember what you asked me, a couple of weeks ago?" He was staring at his feet and Skinner thought that, if he didn't know better, he'd think Agent Mulder was deep in conversation with his Nikes. "About whether I thought I deserved to be punished. . . .?" "I remember." Mulder kicked something invisible to Skinner's eyes with the toe of his sneaker. "Well, I've been trying to show you for the past three weeks that I don't—" "You have been remarkably well-behaved. . . ." The younger agent finally smiled and looked up. "You'll never know how hard that's been," he allowed with a short laugh. Now the AD laughed, too. "I thought as much." Mulder's smile disappeared again. "But this afternoon I realized that . . . . well, that . . . . What I mean is, this was really bad. . . for a lot of reasons. And I don't know if it'll ever really be over if. . . if you don't—" Skinner could see he was never going to get the words out and stepped in. "Okay, Mulder, okay," he said walking over to him and laying one hand on his shoulder. "But it doesn't have to be tonight—" "Yes! Yes, it does!" the young man interrupted intensely. "The waiting is the worst part. I don't think I could stand to wait any longer!" Now it was Skinner's turn to laugh. "Okay! Jeez, now that I know this, I may just have to build a 'waiting period' into any future punishments, Mulder!" He thought Mulder looked like he was going to be sick and he immediately took pity on the younger man. "I was just kidding. I always believe punishment should come soon after misbehavior, Mulder. The only reason this waited was because you weren't well." Skinner saw him relax just a little but he realized that the younger agent was not capable of advancing the ball from this point, it had taken everything he had just to get this far. So the Assistant Director in the room took over. "All right, let's get this over with, Mulder," he said firmly. "Give me your belt." The young man complied quickly and Skinner guided him over to the brown leather chair they'd made effective use of several times before. "Jeans down, shorts, too, Mulder." Working together they got him positioned over the back of the chair and then Skinner spoke again. "What is this punishment for, Agent Mulder?" he asked and brought the belt down hard across his unmarked backside. "For letting Caleb Murray trick me into skipping his trial!" Mulder said firmly, betraying his still fresh anger at himself for falling for the ruse Murray had cooked up, with the help of someone they hadn't identified yet. "Oucccchh! And for disobeying you and going to Boston!" Mulder said resolutely. Another stroke blazed across his behind. "And for driving recklessly and getting in an accident! Owwww! That could have killed me or a lot of other people! Aaaaah!" Skinner was impressed so far; it was clear the young man had given this a great deal of thought. He gave him another lick with the belt. "And?" "For being such a pain in the ass when I was first staying with you, sir!" Skinner held the stroke he was about to give him. He picked his left hand up from Mulder's back and reached up and tousled his hair. "You were hurt and in pain, Mulder. I don't consider that a punishable offense. . . . Tell me what else you deserve to be punished for." Mulder sobbed loudly now, for the first time. "For running away," he said forlornly. "Ohhh! Owwww!" Two more strokes landed in quick succession. "And just in case that's not clear," Skinner said as he issued two more hard licks with the belt before tossing it on the coffee table. "Okay, we're through." Mulder was surprised it was over so quickly and he was even more surprised when the AD helped him to his feet immediately, pulling his shorts and jeans up and then taking him by the shoulders and looking directly at him. "Are we squared now, Mulder?" he asked him. "You understand what you did wrong, you've paid the price and hopefully, you've learned these lessons for good?" The younger man bit his lip to hold back another sob and nodded his head; he looked directly into Skinner's eyes and nodded again. The Assistant Director pulled him into a huge embrace, partly because it was part of their ritual and partly so the younger man wouldn't see the tears that had sprung to his eyes. "You know you almost died, Mulder," he said softly. "That's what's really unacceptable." He felt Mulder release all the pent-up tension completely and he held onto him for another few seconds until he thought they were both in control again. "All right," he said, feeling the need to take some action. "Go wash your face, Mulder. I don't know about you, but I'm starving, I haven't eaten all day." Skinner headed for the table in the foyer where he'd dropped his keys a few minutes earlier. "I'm buying you dinner, to celebrate your recovery – and my getting my apartment back to myself!" Mulder was surprised by the offer and unsure he could sit through a whole meal at this point. He started to decline but Skinner was having none of it. "You heard me, Agent," he said, smiling. "And by now, you should know better than to cross me!" THE END