Cruel Summer

by Rosalita

Rosalita@fetchmail.com

August 25, 1997

Fox Mulder haunted him. In dreams he would appear--silent, accusatory. The silence was

deafening, the accusations loud. Betrayal and failure. The twin demons of his waking moments

stalked him, even in his sleep, wearing the face of his dead lover.

Three months had passed since Walter Skinner had learned of Mulder's suicide from Dana

Scully. He'd spent them in an orgy of self-hatred, anger, grief and guilt. Drinking himself to sleep

every night trying to chase away the ghost of Fox Mulder. It didn't work.

Just as his nights were plagued by dreams, his days were filled with a tormenting voice in his

head that whispered, "It's your fault, Walter. You could have helped him, but you didn't."

The voice taunted him into remembering a late night one year ago. He watched himself passing

by Mulder's office and seeing light seeping from beneath the basement door. Mulder was seated

at his desk, his face tear-streaked, his gun in his right hand. Then the voice treated him to a replay

of the fight they'd had the next morning when he had tried to make Mulder see he needed help.

Mustering all of the skill his Oxford training had afforded him, Mulder had talked him out of his

resolve. He had managed to turn the conversation around to focus on Skinner, rather than

himself, and had gotten Skinner to admit his true feelings. Skinner had let the other matter drop,

knowing he should have taken Mulder's gun and forced him to see a therapist.

"He'd still be alive, if you had," the voice accused. "Your fault, Walter. Your fault."

*Yes, my fault,* he agreed wearily.

In his more rational moments, though, he realized that he could have done nothing to prevent

Mulder's suicide. Mulder's life had unraveled in a single night although Skinner knew the threads

had been frayed for some time. Since Mulder had discovered Skinner's duplicity during the

agent's investigation of deadly bees, Skinner had seen little of his lover. That revelation had

changed everything. Even though Mulder had lied to protect him, he couldn't quite hide his doubt

whenever they were together. They began to see less and less of one another.

"Sir?"

Skinner jumped at the sound of Scully's voice. Lost in thought, he'd forgotten he was in Mulder's

former office watching Scully removing what remained of his personal effects before the office

was transformed back into the store room it had once been.

"I'm nearly done," she said. "When will the movers be here?"

"Soon," he said distantly.

He watched as she removed the poster from the wall. A silvery craft, stark against blue sky,

hovered just above the tree line. The words 'I Want to Believe' printed in bold white letters across

the bottom perfectly summed up Fox Mulder's life.

The poster disappeared into a box that held the few personal things that Mulder had kept in the

office. A photograph of his sister, his coffee mug, a few books, that damned skull. The

sparseness of Mulder's mementos saddened him. There should be more to show for a life.

With two fingers, he lightly rubbed the wooden surface of Mulder's desk. A thin layer of three

months old dust had collected on every surface. It surprised him that the office had sat vacant for

so long. The Bureau hadn't wasted any time removing the cabinets that had held the X-Files. It

had been done within hours of the discovery of Mulder's body. The order to shut down the

division permanently had come the following day.

The door opened and four large men wearing coveralls entered the room. Skinner pointed to the

far side of the office and said brusquely, "Start over there."

A fifth man, dressed in casual office clothes and obviously the supervisor, spied the box that

Scully had packed so carefully and said, "No one but us is authorized to remove things from this

room."

Scully, in a tone that brooked no argument, said, "These are Agent Mulder's personal things."

"Let me take a look." The supervisor started toward the box, but found his way blocked by an

angry, large assistant director.

"If Agent Scully says that these are personal, you can take her word for it. Now, I believe you

have things to do on the other side of the room." Skinner spoke calmly, but even Scully

recognized the underlying threat.

The other man looked around the room in disgust. "Don't know what the hell is so important

about this office, anyway. Way I heard it, it belonged to some goddamned nut who offed himself.

>From the looks of some of this shit, I believe it."

The man continued in the same vein about weirdos and UFO freaks, but Skinner barely heard

him. He stood stone still and was utterly focused on the man in front of him. If he could have

stepped outside of himself, he'd see, as Scully could see, his tightening fists, white face and

clenched jaw. He moved toward the other man, but something blocked him.

"Sir?" Scully said loudly. "I need help carrying this to my car." She shoved the box into his

hands, and him out the door.

By the time they reached Scully's car, he had come down from his anger-induced adrenaline high.

Suddenly exhausted, he slumped against the Honda.

Scully took the box from him and placed it in the trunk.

Finally he muttered, "Thank you, Agent Scully. I'm sorry for my behavior."

"Not a problem, sir. I wanted to belt him myself."

He smiled weakly at the mental picture of the diminutive agent taking on a man who was twice

her size. She'd probably win, too.

"It's nearly noon," she informed him. "Would you like to go to lunch?"

Wanting badly to get away from the building, he agreed. "You're no longer under my command.

You can call me Walter."

Scully flashed him a smile as they both got into the car.

Skinner didn't ask where they were going. He just sat in the passenger seat as Scully deftly

maneuvered through the congested streets of Washington in a manner so different from Mulder's

kamikaze method of driving. He wondered why the hell he had agreed to go to lunch with her.

She was just going to spend the time dissecting him as if he were one of her cadavers. What

would she find there? The same thing she found inside the corpses--decay. Not a physical decay,

although if he kept drinking the way he'd been, it wouldn't be long before that set in. No, this was

an emotional decay that had begun with Fox Mulder's death.

Unbidden, images swirled, forming and reforming like an out-of-control kaleidoscope.

. . . The weekend they'd spent on Afton Mountain. Fox lying under him, the fire casting its warm

glow on his winter-pale skin and bringing out sparkling gold flecks in his eyes. Slow and gentle

lovemaking, flesh touching flesh. Hearts beating together in time, bodies moving almost as one

toward completion. Mulder's smoky velvet voice crying out his lover's name as he came.

. . . Mulder standing motionless over the body of John Lee Roche. Himself, removing the gun

from Mulder's cold, shaking fingers; the piercing screams of the little girl Mulder did save still

echoing in the bus. Holding Mulder in his arms that night as the exhausted man poured out all his

fear, anger, and helplessness.

. . . The desperation in Mulder's voice, when he asked again for the whereabouts of the Smoking

Man. His willingness to sell himself for a cure for Scully. The look on his face when he

understood that Skinner had made the deal he hadn't been allowed to make.

. . . Scully's phone call from Providence. Sitting beside Mulder's hospital bed, helpless to stop the

seizures that wracked him again and again. The knowledge that Mulder would do anything to

find the truth, no matter how dangerous.

. . . Finally, a crime scene photo, a simple black and white picture, of Mulder lying on his living

room floor, the gun he'd used to end his own life still in his hand.

Skinner barely looked at it. He hadn't needed to. Cops ate their guns all the time. He knew what

kind of damage had been done. Shuddering, he tried to push that image out of his mind.

"Are you all right?" Scully's eyes were on him, assessing.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Agent Scully," he said mildly. "I'm fine."

Well, that was a lie. He wondered what she'd think if he told her about his dreams. Especially the

one that featured a mirthful Cancer Man standing over Mulder, blowing smoke rings and flicking

ashes on his lifeless body. Now, that was another image he could do without.

He really had to pull himself together. Scully didn't need this burden. True, she was in remission,

but there was no guarantee as to how long it would last. She should be out living her life, not

worrying about him. He often wondered if the remission was natural, a result of his Faustian

deal, or in payment for Mulder's life. Ultimately, he supposed, it really didn't matter.

Scully wheeled the car into a parking space and glanced at Skinner. He didn't seem to notice that

they had stopped. She could see his unfocused gaze reflected in the car's window. Skinner's

strong reaction in the office had surprised her. She'd expected him to defend Mulder against that

clod's insensitive comments, but she hadn't expected the murderous look she'd seen on his face.

Or the wistful, pained way he'd moved around the office, touching things. She hadn't expected

him to accept her lunch invitation, but he'd seemed grateful to her for extending it. Mulder's

death must have hit him much harder than she'd imagined it would.

Mulder's death. She'd gotten so used to pretending that sometimes she forgot he wasn't really

dead. Those were the times she almost hated him for making her do this.

Okay, that wasn't fair. He'd had no choice, she knew. They--whoever 'they' were--had tried to kill

him. They thought they had succeeded, and Mulder had decided it was an excellent time for him

to go underground. To use his "death" to try to find a cure for her, and bring down the

Consortium all at the same time.

Scully had to admire his delusions of grandeur. And his guts. If only there had been another way.

She hated lying and hated having to denounce him. She certainly hated having to graciously

accept the condolences of colleagues who would have just as soon spit on her partner while he

was "alive."

Worst of all had been the funeral. What a nightmare. The Bureau had given Mulder the full

ceremony. Skinner had presented a folded flag to Mulder's mother. She had been so stoic

throughout, never shedding a tear. Shock, one of Mulder's aunts had told her.

Scully had put on a proper show. Crying silently at all the right moments. Except her tears were

real. She mourned because she knew that no matter what happened, wounds created on that day

would be a long time healing-- if, indeed, they ever did.

She shook off the residual sadness. Skinner's mood was rubbing off on her. This may not have

been such a good idea. "We're here, sir."

He started, looked around and followed her inside.

No, not such a good idea at all. It wasn't so much that Skinner was drinking at lunch, it was the

amount he was drinking. The food hadn't even arrived at the table and her former boss was on his

third drink.

She'd seen him at Bureau functions before and had never seen him drink more than two cocktails.

She was searching for a way to mention it tactfully when he blurted out, "Do you miss him?"

"Yes, I do." And she did. She missed seeing him everyday. Missed working with him. Even

missed his awful jokes.

"So do I. Very much." His words were muffled by the rim of the glass against his lips. He

downed the drink quickly and signaled for another. Thankfully, the food arrived with it.

"Sir . . . Walter, don't you think you should switch to water or tea?" Maybe that and some food

would absorb some of the effects of the alcohol.

"No," he said matter-of-factly.

Ooookay. "Well, I think you should," she said firmly. "It's barely one o'clock and you're on your

fourth drink."

He chuckled. "Mulder always told me you were bossy."

"Oh really?" She filed that away to take up with her partner later.

"He said you were always telling him that he should eat or get some sleep or relax . . ." he trailed

off and pushed his food around his plate. He hadn't eaten any of it.

"Well, sometimes he needed to be told those things."

"Yes, he did. He never took care of himself very well, even when . . . ."

Her eyebrows arched in surprise at this personal comment, and she waited for him to continue.

He didn't. He downed his drink and began to signal for yet another when Scully put a hand on his

arm--stopping him--and caught his eyes. "Even when what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"It does matter. Look, Walter, you're obviously very upset. I want you to tell me why. I want to

help."

He toyed with his fork and didn't look at her. He so obviously wanted to tell her, but something

was stopping him. Perhaps it was his pride or the natural reticence of a strong man who didn't

want to appear weak that stopped him. Or maybe he just didn't want to burden her. Whatever it

was, he'd better get over it fast, because she was going to find out what was wrong. She always

let Mulder get away with this shit; for some reason, she didn't want to let Skinner do the same.

"Does it have something to do with Mulder?" she prompted.

He looked up, then, and pain was so clear in his eyes, she nearly gasped.

"We were lovers." The words rushed from his mouth, as if he wanted to get them out before he

could change his mind.

She had to say something, she realized. Skinner was looking at her almost expectantly. Whatever

she'd been expecting to hear, 'we were lovers' certainly hadn't been it. She had long suspected

that Mulder was bisexual, but Skinner's disclosure had been a complete surprise. She

straightened in her chair. "You and Mulder?" she managed lamely.

"Yes. I thought he might have told you. I guess he didn't."

"No." *Dammit, Mulder, you idiot.* "How long?"

"Were we together? Six months. It started right after he returned from caring for his mother."

That explained why Skinner had shown up in Providence and stayed by Mulder's bedside. And

why he'd reamed her out for not calling sooner, with a ferociousness that seemed out of

proportion to her offense. Mulder had seemed irritated by his presence. Had there been some

fight or a cooling off of their relationship? Was that why he hadn't told Skinner his plan? She'd

thought that Mulder had always trusted Skinner much more than she had. What had happened?

"I betrayed him," he said from behind his hands, as if in answer to her unasked questions.

And that explained the drinking. "In what way?"

He was about to answer, seemed to think better of it, and switched gears. "I wasn't there for him;

I should have been."

She was sure there was more to it than that, but she wouldn't push. "You couldn't have known,

Walter."

"But I did know. I suspected. I wanted to get him help a year ago, but I let him talk me out of it."

God, he was blaming himself for a death that hadn't really occurred. Mulder, she thought grimly,

you bastard, how could you?

Her fingers twisted into the napkin on her lap. She had to tell Skinner that Mulder was alive. She

couldn't let him destroy himself, couldn't let him go on thinking Mulder was dead.

But what if Mulder had a good reason for not telling him? What if, for some reason, he no longer

trusted the A.D.?

Damn!

She had to talk to Mulder, give him a chance to explain and let him tell Skinner.

Scully waved for the check. "I"m going to take you home, sir."

He shook his head. "No, I have to get back to work."

She could well imagine the reaction when he walked into the J. Edgar Hoover Building, half lit.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

He stood and wavered a little. The man could hold his liquor. Anyone else would have been on

the floor. "Maybe you're right. But I'll take a cab. Crystal City is out of your way."

She stood with him on the curb until the taxi arrived. He turned before he got in and said, "Thank

you, Scully. Take care of yourself."

She made sure the cab was out of sight before heading for a payphone and punching out the now

familiar numbers of the headquarters of the Lone Gunmen.

"Let me talk to him, Frohike," she rapped out without giving him time to say hello. Impatiently,

she tapped her foot while he swore he didn't know where Mulder was. Scully didn't care. "Well,

you find him, and you tell him I need to see him. Now."

"Okay, okay. You know the old pumphouse on the river? Meet him there. Half an hour."

The falling down old pumphouse sat on the banks of the Potomac. Since leaving field work for

the comforts of Quantico, she'd gotten out of the habit of carrying a pair of flats in the trunk of

her car. She wobbled down the overgrown path in her pumps, careful not to snag her hose or

worse, fall. A loose board was the building's entrance, and Scully went in through it.

Holes in the roof provided the building's only light, and with it she could see that vagrants and

drug addicts had made the place a home. Old mattresses littered the floor, along with liquor

bottles, dirty clothing, syringes and used condoms.

God, she hated this cloak and dagger crap. Meeting Mulder in creepy, abandoned places--usually

in the middle of the night. Always looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being

followed.

Mulder wasn't going to like meeting her in broad daylight. His paranoia level was running so

high now that he practically twitched from the nervous energy. Not that she could blame him.

After all, someone had tried to kill him. And her paranoia level wasn't getting any lower either.

That made meetings with him somewhat tense.

Somewhat? Scully snorted derisively to herself. The tension between them whenever they met

was so thick, you could feel it on your skin.

He was still angry over her initial belief in Kritschgau's lies, although he denied it. She was still

annoyed at his need to save her and terrified he would die trying.

When this was over, would things ever get back to normal between them? Assuming she lived, of

course. Assuming *he* lived. She was in remission now, but her knowledge of medicine warned

her not to get too comfortable, because the disease could come back at any time.

Quiet footsteps approached from her right. Scully whirled and instinctively reached for her gun.

It was Mulder. Her relief did nothing to allay her irritation. "God, Mulder. Could you have picked

a more disgusting place to meet?"

"Yeah, but I chose this instead. It's good to see you too, Scully." The mildly sarcastic reply barely

hid *his* irritation.

It *was* good to see him. They didn't meet often. Too dangerous, he said. In the month since

she'd seen him last, he'd lost more weight and become paler--a consequence of his vampire-like

existence. This was the first time she'd seen him in daylight since his "death." Life on the run

clearly did not agree with him, and she started to ride him about taking better care of himself,

when he interrupted nervously.

"Is everything okay, Scully? You know I don't like being out in daylight."

"No, Dracula, everything is not okay." She held up a hand to stop his forward motion, his sudden

look of panic. "It's not me. It's Skinner."

"What about him?" He tried to sound nonchalant, but Scully saw his forehead crease with worry,

caught the hesitation in his voice.

"He's a wreck, Mulder. I went to lunch with him today. He had three drinks before the food even

got to the table. Do you understand? He's drinking on the job, and I barely managed to talk him

out of going back to the office this afternoon."

Throughout this report, her partner had backed up until he was against a pillar, arms folded in

front of him in defense. She waited for him to say something. When he didn't, she continued,

growing more frustrated with him by the second.

"He told me about your relationship. I'm not going to bitch at you for not telling me. Your sex

life is your business. I do, however, want to know how you could do this to him. I can understand

your not wanting your mother to know. I don't approve, mind you, but I do understand. But to

allow your lover to believe that you're dead? I never before thought you were cruel, but now I'm

starting to wonder."

He flinched. "The fewer people who know about this, the better," he said defensively. "You

know that. Do you want me to tell everybody?" Now he was getting angry. "Why don't I just take

out an ad in the _Post_? Then the Consortium can come and finish what they started."

Well, she'd hit one hell of a nerve. And Mulder knew better than most that the best defense was a

good offense.

"I thought you trusted him," she asked quietly. *That's right, Dana, twist the knife.* However, it

deflated his anger like she knew it would.

Closing his eyes, he wrapped his arms tighter around his chest. "Trust isn't the issue here,

Scully."

"Then what is, Mulder? I find it difficult to believe that you told the Three Stooges, but not the

man you've been sleeping with for half a year."

"The guys can keep a secret," he retorted, avoiding the issue.

"And Skinner can't?"

"Why are you are so worried about Skinner all of a sudden? You've never trusted him."

Not about to let him turn this conversation on her, she reiterated, "He's devastated. He thinks

you're dead, and he's destroying himself and his career. What do you think is going to happen if

he gets caught? No treatment center, that's for sure. Summary dismissal. They're always looking

for an excuse. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not. It's just that . . . it's just that I don't want him hurt again because of me. It's

happened too many times. I couldn't stand it if it happened again."

His voice was nearly a whisper, and she had to step closer to hear him. There was more to it, but

she knew that this was all she would get.

She took the opportunity to study him. Deep creases cut into his face, carved by rivers of pain.

His hair was long and, where none had existed before, a few gray streaks mingled with the dark

brown strands.

His eyes would tell the tale. Mulder might be able to hide his emotions in a sarcastic manner and

a stone face, but his eyes never lied. He was onto her though and turned away. What was in his

eyes that he didn't want her to see? This had to stop. She couldn't allow him to destroy himself

and Skinner for her.

Skinner loved him, that much was obvious. And she couldn't bear the thought of Mulder

throwing that away. Although she held onto hope, her rational mind knew that she had a year to

live at best. When she was gone, she wanted to know that Mulder wouldn't be alone in his grief.

She needed to know that someone would be there to take care of him. Skinner was a very good

candidate. In fact, she couldn't ask for a better one.

"This is killing him. He loves you, Mulder."

"Did he tell you that?" His feelings were plain.

"He didn't have to." She smiled. "I take it you two have never talked about your feelings. Men are

such idiots." She stepped closer and pulled his arms down, took his hand. "Can we go outside,

Mulder? This place is abominable. C'mon. No one followed me, I checked. You need to get some

sun, and maybe we can shed some light on this situation."

He pulled a face at her terrible joke and allowed her to pull him outside. Both squinting and

trying to get their eyes adjusted to the bright light, they walked along the river bank.

As they walked, Scully spoke. "Mulder. I want you to do something for me, and I want you to let

me finish before you say anything, okay? I've never asked you to do anything for me, but I'm

asking you now."

"What?" he asked in guarded tones.

"Stop this. Now. It's not worth what it's doing to you or to Walter." He stopped on the path and

turned to face her, mouth opening. She held up her hand. "Not one word until I'm finished. You

promised." A frustrated nod of his head was her signal to continue.

"You need to start living your life. Go to Skinner, beg his forgiveness, try to salvage what you've

got with him. He'll protect you from the Consortium, just like he's done in the past. When I die . .

."

He made a noise and started to speak again. She silenced him with a look. "When I die," she

repeated calmly, "I don't want you to be alone. I want to know that you're safe and happy. I think

you can have that with Skinner. You have to go to him, Mulder. If you don't, I will. I can't stand

seeing him like that. It's not fair to him."

Her partner was clearly about to explode, so she stopped.

Mulder said, "Are you done?"

At her nod, his words spilled out machine-gun fast. "You're not going to die, Scully. Why do you

think I'm doing this? You can't ask me to stop. You can't. Don't ask me to stop. You may have

accepted death, but I won't. I'm close. I know it."

"You keep saying that, Mulder. What exactly are you doing? I don't understand."

Shifting from foot to foot, he said reluctantly, "I've been seeing Dr. Werber again."

"Christ, Mulder! Are you out of your mind?" What a dumb question; of course he was.

"He's helping me remember," he said calmly in the face of her anger. "Dr. Goldstein's treatment

opened the gate. Dr. Werber is trying to help me tear down the walls."

She rolled her eyes at his statement. "Those memories may not even have been real."

"They were real. I know they were. It's all connected somehow. The Consortium was leaving me

pretty much alone until I started to remember. Then that Kritschgau guy shows up with his story

all wrapped up in a neat little package and the next thing I know, some goon is trying to kill me."

He was pacing frantically now. "Whatever it is that is hidden in my mind is the key to the whole

thing. I'm sure of it. If I can just remember it, I think I can bring them down. And maybe, in the

rubble, we can discover the cause for your cancer and cure it."

Scully wanted to scream at him, hit him, or cry. She did none of those things. He was hell-bent

on his pursuit and she'd known she couldn't stop him, but she'd had to try. Maybe this was all he

had left. Everything else in his life was so murky, right down to his memories of Samantha. His

inability to remember was, in its own way, a cancer, eating away at him for years. If he didn't

cure it, it would kill him. So he focused his boundless energy on finding a cure for her and for

himself. Was she wrong to try to take that away?

"Okay, Mulder, okay. But you don't owe me anything. My cancer is *not* your fault." She'd said

this countless times, and it still didn't seem to sink in. This time was no different.

"You don't believe that," he contradicted. "Kritschgau; when he told you it was because of me,

you believed him."

Scully had been waiting for that one for a long time. "What do you want me to say? Yes, okay, I

believed him. I was vulnerable and angry, and I believed him. But that doesn't mean I blame you.

I don't. I never did. I blame *them.* They did this, Mulder. Not you."

"But I . . ." he started.

"No, Mulder! No more blaming yourself. Do you understand? I don't want to hear it. You . . . are

. . . not . . . to . . . blame," Scully enunciated clearly, grabbing his shoulders. She was strangely

amused at the absurdity of having to stand on her tiptoes to do so. She shook him. "Okay?"

"Okay, Scully. Geez, don't hurt me." It was half-hearted, but it was a start.

"I just don't want you ruining your life for me."

"What little life I have?" he questioned sardonically.

"You may still have a chance at one if you go to Skinner. I'm not kidding about this. I'm going to

call him tomorrow and I better hear that you were there. Comprende?"

"He's going to hate me," he said mournfully.

"I doubt that. He'll be pissed, but he won't hate you. Now, quit stalling."

He gave her a half-smile. "Thanks, Scully." Turning, he started back down the path and she

watched until he was out of sight and then headed back toward her car.

Scully was happy. Skinner was at home--sleeping it off, she hoped. Mulder was on his way to see

him. She hoped Skinner wasn't too hard on Mulder, although her partner deserved whatever he

got. It would be nice to have Skinner's help in watching out for Mulder.

What Scully didn't know was that, as soon as the cab had driven out of her sight, Skinner told the

driver to turn around and head back into the city. Scully had been right of course, he should go

home. He shouldn't even be headed in this direction. No good would come of it; he'd just get

depressed and drink some more. Despite these inner caveats, he found himself seated on a bench

near the Jefferson Memorial--the one he thought of as Mulder's.

It was the downhill side of a long, cruel summer.

A hellish heat wave had started before the season even began and showed no signs of letting up.

The slight breeze blowing off the Potomac did little to cool the oppressively humid air of

Washington. And, yet, despite the heat, tourists swarmed the area. Surprisingly, the bench had

been unoccupied as if passersby knew that it had become a shrine of sorts. Since Mulder's grave

was in Massachusetts, this was where Skinner came when he wanted to talk to him.

Masochist. That's what he was.

It hurt so badly to come here, yet he did it anyway. Because this was Mulder's. He'd often said

that he did his best thinking here, but Skinner knew that was bullshit. This was where Mulder

came to brood and lick his wounds.

He sat and lightly rubbed the flaking paint and fatigued wood, remembering the night he'd found

Mulder here after they'd learned of Scully's cancer.

The chilly air of that late February night held a surprising hint of the spring that would soon

arrive. Skinner stood in a grove of trees, silently studying the man seated on the bench, his back

hunched as he stared across the Tidal Basin. Skinner could tell by his posture that he was

chanting his litany of blame, counting his sins one by one as if they were beads on a rosary.

When Scully died Skinner would have to pick up the pieces. Or try to. He was terrified that

Scully's death would be the one that would send Mulder so deep into the darkness that he'd never

find his way out again..

He straightened up, left the trees and made his way to where the agent was sitting, his back to

him, apparently oblivious to his approach.

"How did you know I was here?" Mulder asked without looking behind him to see who was

there.

He was caught off guard, although he should have been used to this sort of thing by now.

Recovering, he pointed out, "You always come here when you're upset."

"Who said I was upset?" Mulder still hadn't looked at him.

Skinner rounded the bench and sat down beside him. He said nothing, just eyed the agent

knowingly and recalled his manner in the office that afternoon: desperate, pleading with him for

the Cancer Man's location.

This time, he hadn't given in.

"Dammit, Walter, Scully is *dying* because of me."

He'd been expecting something like that. Mulder's guilt could always be counted on. He wasn't

sure there was anything he could say to make Mulder believe that it wasn't his fault, but he was

willing to try. "What makes you think that?"

Mulder's put-upon sigh indicated that his reasoning should be obvious. "If she hadn't been

working with me, she never would have been abducted. No abduction, no cancer."

Sighing, Skinner removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. How many times had

they had this conversation? "Scully was assigned to work with you, Mulder. And she has her own

reasons for continuing to do so. You didn't force her into it."

"I never told her the full consequences of my work. She didn't have enough information to make

a decision."

"That's bullshit."

"It isn't and you know it. You said yourself that I was as much to blame."

Damn my big mouth, he chastised himself silently. He should never had said that when Mulder

had been on a tear over his responsibility for Scully's abduction.

The agent's voice trembled. "I can't lose her, Walter."

"I know," Skinner said quietly and then reached out to gently rub his lover's neck. Mulder slid

closer to him and laid his head on one shoulder.

"We'll think of something," Walter reassured him and felt the answering nod. He planted a kiss

in Mulder's thick hair, burrowing into the satin strands. Mulder's lips were parted when he lifted

his head and moved in. Skinner felt his own lips open in response to the touch of his lover's

mouth. Mulder's warm tongue collided gently with his own.

He arched when Mulder's wandering hand stroked his groin through his jeans. Just a hit-and-run

caress, but his cock responded eagerly, quickly growing hard and thick. Biting off a moan, he

pressed his hips forward under that expert hand.

Graceful as a cat, Mulder slid to his knees on the sidewalk in front of his lover. Fingers teased

Skinner's inner thighs and pushed his legs apart. Tugged at the button and zipper of his pants.

"For God's sake," Skinner protested half-heartedly, trying without much determination to push

the teasing hands away, "we're in public." He glanced around to see if anyone was lurking

nearby.

"It's two in the morning." Mulder pulled the faded sweatshirt up Skinner's body and punctuated

his next words with kisses to his firm belly. "Who's going to see us?"

"The D.C. police." Oh, God. He should stop this, should move away from the hot kisses that his

lover was unendingly peppering his body with. But the willpower he needed to achieve this had

fled him in the face of such overwhelming sensation.

He visualized himself explaining to the Director his arrest for having sex in public with a male

agent under his command. Especially when that agent was Fox Mulder. It was enough to make

him lose his erection. Almost. He laughed the unpleasant scenario away as more kisses blazed

along the waistband of his jeans.

"I come here all the time and have yet to see a cop this late at night. Relax." Mulder's hands

moved down once more.

This time, Mulder succeeded in pulling down the zipper. Hot breath on light cotton raised goose

bumps, and all of his protests hardly seemed worth uttering. When he arched to meet his lips,

Mulder yanked his jeans and briefs down around his thighs.

His hard cock bobbed in the cool night air and Mulder watched it, entranced, as if hypnotized by

its swaying. Skinner felt a little like a snake charmer with his cock as the flute, and Mulder, the

snake.

Normally, he found it fascinating to watch his lover when something really caught his interest,

but he just couldn't take this. "Are you going to suck it, or just look at it?" he growled

impatiently.

Mulder was all teasing smile and sultry promise, "Oh, yeah, I'm going to suck it."

And he did. Sucked it, licked it, kissed it. Long strokes, short strokes. Up and down. Around and

around. Excruciatingly light touches with that wonderful tongue followed by strong suction until

all he could do was grab handfuls of silky hair and hold on. Long, talented hands caressed his

chest, belly and thighs, occasionally reaching up to pinch his nipples.

Skinner looked down at the dark head bobbing under his hands. Sometimes he wondered if

Mulder could read his mind. Almost before he could think it, Mulder would do exactly what he

wanted him to do. It wasn't telepathy, he knew, it was his obsessiveness, his ability to focus on

his task to the exclusion of everything else. And at that moment, making Walter Skinner come

was his task.

Skinner knew that as soon as he was near release, Mulder would back off. As he had anticipated,

Mulder did just that, and Skinner firmly held the other man's head. Mulder understood instantly

what his lover wanted, opening his throat as Skinner slid all the way down, the wet warmth and

strong suction bringing him a step closer to release.

One long finger slid up into him and pressed firmly against his prostate, sending a surge of

pleasure through his body. That was it. He shouted and nearly came off the bench as he pumped

his essence down his lover's throat. When it was over he collapsed, his hand still tangled in

Mulder's dark hair. Mulder rose, climbed into his lap, straddled his legs, and pulled him in for a

long lazy kiss.

Skinner could feel the younger man's erection poking him in the belly. He murmured, "Let me

take care of that."

Mulder removed his hands, stood up, and said, "No, Walter, that was for you." He walked away.

In the moonlight, Skinner could just barely make out his ghost of a smile.

Stunned, Skinner sat, pants still around his thighs, the winter air now cold on flesh still wet from

his lover's mouth.

Now, even that pleasant memory was laced with regret. He'd gone there that night seeking to give

Mulder comfort, but he'd been the one to receive. He should have told Fox then that he loved

him, but he'd held back, and now it was too late.

Skinner put his hand on the bench in the precise spot where he'd found Mulder that night. On this

spot, the agent had met his informants, shadowy men and women who brought him pieces of the

truth. Or so Mulder had thought.

But the truth wasn't out there. Nothing was out there. Those were the things Mulder had learned,

the lessons he hadn't been able to live with. What had he felt in those last seconds of life? Fear?

Probably not. Mulder had never feared the unknown. Perhaps just the relief of knowing that the

pain, loneliness and guilt would soon be over.

Walter Skinner wished he could have soothed that pain, lessened the loneliness, taken away the

guilt--if only he'd been given the chance.

"You bastard," he said aloud to his memory of Mulder. "You selfish fucking bastard." Touching

the bench again, eyes stinging with unshed tears, he murmured. "I miss you."

11:10 p.m.

This wasn't bad. It was still early, and he wasn't too drunk. Just enough to dull the ache of his

memories. If he could get some sleep, he'd probably make it to work tomorrow. The darkness of

the living room was comforting. In the dark, he didn't have to confront himself. If he turned on

the light, he'd see what he'd become, or worse, what he was destined to become.

So weary. He hadn't drunk enough to sleep without dreaming of Mulder. There wasn't enough

booze in the world to stave off that dream.

Resigned to another restless night, he stumbled up the stairs. Halfway up, his spine began to

twitch. Someone was there. Slowly, he reached for his gun. He hoped it was the Smoker. He

wouldn't miss this time, drunk or not.

"Don't, Walter."

That voice. Oh God.

Not possible. That voice was forever silent, its owner dead and buried. He was either drunker

than he thought, or all of the day's reminiscences had caused him to imagine Mulder's voice.

Determined to ignore it, he started once again to climb the stairs.

A light clicked on behind him. He froze, not wanting to turn around, afraid of what he would

find. There was either a ghost in the room, or he was losing his mind. Neither prospect held

much appeal.

"Look at me, Walter," the voice pleaded.

Skinner turned slowly and what he saw nearly caused him to tumble down the stairs.

Standing not ten feet away was his dead lover.

Mental functions shut down; he could do little more than stare dumbly at the apparition that was

gliding closer to him.

"You should see your face," the apparition mocked him affectionately.

It was standing right in front of him now. If he reached out . . . .

His fingertips connected with the sharp stubble of the ghost's face.

Ghosts shouldn't have stubble. This one did. Stubble and soul-weary hazel eyes; soft, soft hair

and his lover's enticing lips.

Had he finally gone crazy? Had he drunk himself into dementia? Or--and this wouldn't surprise

him--was Mulder really haunting him?

The ghost said nothing as Skinner explored his face with both hands.

Real, oh God, he seemed real.

"Fox?" he whispered. Alive? Yes, alive. And in his arms. Solid. Not imagination, not an

hallucination, not a ghost. Real . . . here.

Supple lips touched his, and a warm tongue invaded his mouth, pushing over his teeth and

meeting his own willing tongue. Overwhelmed, he broke the kiss.

"Are you real?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes."

Reassured now, he took in his lover's appearance.

His hair was longer than Skinner had ever seen it, ends brushing the top of his collar. Dark

circles gave his eyes a bruised look and his skin was pale, his features ravaged. Skinner's hands

were still on him as if he were afraid that if he let him go, he'd disappear.

Questions flew out of his mouth in a staccato rhythm he couldn't control. "What happened to

you? Where have you been? Did they hurt you? Was it the Smoker? I knew I should have killed

him when I had the chance."

Mulder stopped the flow of words with another kiss. When they parted, he said, "I'm fine,

Walter."

"What happened? Have you called Scully yet?"

Mulder swallowed. "Scully knows. In fact, she's known for a long time."

"What do you mean?" he asked, confused.

"Let's go sit down." Mulder led him down the stairs to the couch.

Skinner sat, not taking his eyes off the other man, still not completely sure that he wouldn't

disappear. Mulder remained standing, jittery.

"What do you mean?" Skinner repeated when Mulder seemed reluctant to speak.

The other man took a deep breath. "She was in on it," he said nervously.

In on it? What the hell did that mean?

Looking at Mulder for reassurance that it was not what he was thinking, he saw his lover's

familiar look of guilt. As calmly as he could, he said, "Mulder, what are you saying?"

Mulder swallowed again and closed his eyes. Said quietly, "It was all faked. My suicide, Scully's

denunciation of me--everything."

"Faked by who?" Skinner was still calm, but a dangerous edge had crept into his voice.

Mulder finally looked him in the eyes. "Me."

Son of a bitch! Without realizing it, Skinner was on his feet and crossing the short distance

between himself and Mulder. His fist connected with flesh, and Mulder's head snapped back

from the force of the blow. The other man stumbled against the wall and slid to the floor.

Blood oozed through the fingers Mulder held to his mouth. He seemed unsurprised by the blow,

as if he'd expected it. Maybe even wanted it.

Damn. He put his hand out to help Mulder up, only to see him flinch and back away. Skinner's

fury had been like a summer storm--violent, yet short-lived. Now he regretted what he'd done.

"I'm not going to hit you again. Let me help you up."

He sat Mulder on the couch and went into the kitchen. Gripping the edge of the counter, he tried

to get control of his anger. He shouldn't have hit Mulder, but it was hard to believe that his lover-

-his *lover,* goddammit!-- had let him think he was dead. He could have come to Skinner any

time in the past three months and ended his guilt-ridden self-destruction. He hadn't. Was it a

payback for the betrayal?

No. Mulder wasn't that cruel. And he was here now, so presumably, Skinner would get the

answers to his questions.

A blast of cold air hit him as he opened the freezer door and dumped some ice cubes into one

towel. He wet another towel under the faucet and carried it all out into the living room.

Mulder was where he'd left him--on the couch with his eyes closed and his head tipped back. The

bleeding had nearly stopped.

Skinner sat down and began gently cleaning away the blood. He then carefully pressed the ice

against the swollen lip.

"I'm sorry," he said when Mulder winced.

"It's okay," came the muffled reply. "I deserved it."

"Maybe, but I still shouldn't have done it."

Mulder shrugged and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I just want to know why," Skinner continued earnestly. "How could you do this? How could you

put me through this? You let me think you were dead." His eyes narrowed; his voice rose. "I

went to your funeral, goddammit! I watched them throw dirt on your coffin! I had to give the

flag to your mother!" He tried to clamp down on the anger that was rising again. As happy as he

was that Mulder was alive, that's how pissed he was that Mulder hadn't trusted him enough to let

him in on the ruse.

"I know," Mulder said. "I was there."

"Jesus, Mulder!," Skinner exploded as he launched himself off the couch and turned to face him.

"I can't believe you. What the hell's the matter with you?"

Skinner really wasn't surprised.

Mulder was just perverse enough to attend his own funeral. Skinner had stayed at the cemetery

while they lowered the coffin. Everyone else had gone. The diggers wanted him to leave too, but

he hadn't. He couldn't. Couldn't let them put Mulder in the ground, alone. With every inch the

coffin had been lowered, it felt as if one more piece of his heart had been torn away.

Had Mulder stayed there long enough to see that? Skinner found that he didn't want to know.

Mulder shot to his feet. "Do you think I wanted to do this? I *had* to let you think I was dead.

Otherwise, the whole thing might have been blown. They tried to kill me, Walter. And if they

had found out they missed, they would have come back to finish the job."

"Who are 'they?'" Skinner sat back down on the couch.

"Who do you think? Your cigarette smoking friend and his buddies," Mulder said without

thinking.

"He's not my friend," Skinner said tightly.

Mulder nodded apologetically, and moved to perch on the coffee table.

"It started in Rhode Island," he began. "You know, I still don't know what happened to the

Cassandras. I only know that whatever I started to remember as a result of Dr. Goldstein's

treatments, scared the Consortium so badly that they cooked up a very elaborate story to convince

me that it was all a lie--the UFO sightings, abductions, all the evidence, even my own life."

Skinner interrupted. "Scully told me about this. She said you found what you believed to be an

alien body. Was it alien?"

"I think so. A lot of people died because that body."

"Where is it now?"

"Gone. They took it, then tried to convince me it was fake. That's why they sent Kritschgau. He

told Scully and me that the government was perpetrating a hoax and that I was being used to

further it. I was supposed to see the body, believe it was real, and announce the discovery to the

world.

"According to Kritschgau, there are no aliens, no UFOs, no abductions. It's all a hoax to divert

the public's attention from the government's real crimes, which he never elaborated on."

"Awfully elaborate hoax," Skinner commented.

"Isn't it? I think Kritschgau was trying to confuse me, make me think I'd been programmed so I

wouldn't trust anything I did remember. He intimated that my memories of Samantha's abduction

aren't real. They wanted me unsure of what to believe and when that didn't work, they sent

someone to kill me, only I got lucky and killed him instead."

Mulder stood abruptly and paced the length of the living room. "The shot was so loud. I was sure

that everybody in the building would come running." He laughed without humor. "I guess they're

used to weird things happening in my apartment, because no one came."

Mulder shivered, and Skinner came to him and stopped his nervous movements. Mulder relaxed

gratefully into his embrace for a long moment before pulling away and continuing his story.

"I didn't know what to do, so I called Scully. Once she understood that the Consortium had tried

to kill me, she reluctantly accepted that what Kritschgau had said was a lie. We decided it was

better for me to stay dead. I convinced Scully to denounce me, for her own safety; let them think

she believed the lie."

"But the body . . . surely they would have verified it. An autopsy was done. How did you manage

that?"

"Can't tell you all my secrets, Walter. Besides, there are things you're better off not knowing. As

for verification, I guess they took Scully's word that it was me." He flashed a tired grin. "I knew

Scully's relentless honesty would come in handy someday."

Skinner snorted. "I never thought she was an especially good liar."

"She's never had to lie to save her own life before. Besides, I convinced her that the lie was the

only chance either of us had to survive." Two steps moved him closer to Skinner. "I'm sorry for

all of this, Walter. I should have told you."

"It's all right, Mulder. I guess I shouldn't expect you to trust me after what I did for Cancer Man."

Mulder put his hands on Skinner's waist. "I don't blame you for that."

Skinner contradicted him sadly. "Yes, you do. I've seen it in your eyes."

"Okay," he admitted. "It may take me a little while to get over that entirely, but I'm trying. I'm

here, aren't I?"

Skinner only nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by the entire situation. Anger and happiness both

vied for his attention.

He should send Mulder away until he could make sense of it all. But he couldn't. Not when Fox

was standing so close, the warmth of his body heating the air between them. Not when he

smelled like something dark and rich and earthy. Not when he felt so damned good, his soft

mouth now covering Skinner's own, taking his breath and giving it back to him.

Resuscitation. Skinner felt as if he were coming back to life.

He wrapped his arms around Mulder's slim body and returned the kiss fiercely, unmindful of

Mulder's swollen lip until he tasted the coppery tang of blood. Murmuring apologetically, he

licked his way slowly down the arching neck to nip gently at the sensitive hollow of his lover's

throat. Mulder's moan set him on fire and he pushed his hips forward until he met an already

hard groin. They rocked together slowly, pleasurably.

"I can't stay long," Mulder gasped out. "I have to leave before morning."

"Then let's make this count," Skinner said between kisses.

He drew Mulder's shirt over his head and pressed his lips to one succulent nipple. It grew

instantly into a taut little nub. He lapped at it, nipped it playfully, then sucked it hard. Mulder

threw his head back and arched into the pleasure. Took it for a few moments more then pulled

back, panting.

"Your turn," he said huskily and began flicking open the buttons on Skinner's shirt. Long fingers

played across the broad chest, tugging at hair and glancing across nipples.

A wet trail was blazed down his body from chest to navel, then back up. Mulder distracted him

with kisses and with two quick maneuvers, had his trouser button undone and zipper down.

Slipped a warm hand inside his underwear and molded it around the hard cock he found there.

Skinner groaned and pushed against Mulder's hand.

"Impatient, aren't we?" A teasing whisper. He let Skinner go and took him by the hand, leading

him toward the staircase.

Impatient, yes, and so aroused he barely made it up the stairs. Belts, shoes, socks, and pants soon

littered the bedroom floor. Skinner pushed Mulder on to the bed and followed him, settling on

top of him, pressing him down to the mattress, his skin demanding full contact with the body

beneath him. So many places he wanted to touch, so much pleasure he wanted to give. He was

unsure of where to start. Mulder noted his hesitation.

"What's wrong, Walter?"

"I want to touch you everywhere."

"Then do it," Mulder encouraged. "Touch me."

Starting at the beginning, he threaded his fingers through Mulder's dark hair, enjoying the feel of

the velvety strands under his hand. He liked it long like this, more of it to play with. His other

hand moved down to trace the delicate contours of his lover's ear. Fingertips grazed along

Mulder's stubbled jaw, continued down his throat. His partner shivered and moaned. Both hands

now slid along sleek shoulders and down lightly muscled arms.

He picked up one graceful hand and slid a long finger into his mouth, licking and sucking on it.

Enjoying the feel of the callouses under his tongue, he did the same to each finger--then started

on the other hand.

"Jesus, Walter," Mulder moaned. "What are you doing to me?"

Skinner didn't answer, merely licked his way slowly up the underside of Mulder's arm until he

reached his shoulder and gently bit, drawing a gasp. Hands continued their wanton journey,

tracing the other man's prominent collarbone, sweeping down his chest to his flat belly, stroking

down toward his groin. Quite deliberately, he missed it to caress lean legs and sensitive thighs.

Drops of sweat now appeared on Mulder's trembling body. Head thrown back against the pillow

and mouth issuing little pants that grew to moans, he was, at that moment, the most beautiful

thing Skinner had ever seen. His cock pulsated with life, suffused with blood. Red and hard and

curving up toward his belly. He bent and gave the underside a quick lick from base to head.

"God!" Mulder yelled and lifted his hips, trying to lure his lover back. Skinner smiled and gave

him what he wanted. Lowering his head slowly, teasingly, he kissed the springy crown and

grazed his tongue over it. He lingered there for a moment, enjoying the sharp, salty taste before

slowly engulfing him and sucking hard. Nosing down into the coarse brown hair, he let the

familiar sensations of having Mulder in his mouth wash over him, before beginning the long pull

back up. Dragging his tongue along the underside, he savored every quivering inch of it.

Meanwhile, Mulder was coming unglued. As Skinner stilled his thrashing hips, he moaned, "I'm

going to come."

This struck Skinner as funny and his laugh ejected Mulder's cock, "Isn't that the whole point of

this exercise?"

Long arms and legs enfolded the larger man's body, moss green eyes smoldered with need. "I

want you in me."

The unexpected supplication in the soft voice sent a flash of heat directly to Skinner's groin and

left him breathless. He was wrapped in Mulder, head on his chest, arching back toward the

fingers that brushed lightly along his spine.

Stop all the clocks; let the world cease spinning.

He wanted to stay like this forever. Morning would bring Mulder's departure; he wanted him to

stay. Wanted to wake up next to him every morning and fall asleep to the sounds of his breathing

every night. He'd lost him once, or so he'd thought. He wasn't sure he could let him go again.

Reluctantly, Skinner disengaged himself from the tangle of Mulder's limbs, his body needing

completion even if his mind begged for time to stand still. Tried not to think any more about the

goodbyes that would come with the dawn. He focused instead on joining his body with his lover's

and how good it would feel to be inside him again.

Grateful he hadn't thrown the tube of lubrication away and, after a little fumbling, he extracted it

from the bedside drawer. He smiled down at his agitated lover and gently turned him on his

stomach, kneeling between his spread legs. A few moments were spent admiring his finely

sculpted back and firm ass.

Mulder looked over his shoulder, all aching desire. "What are you waiting for?"

It had been awhile and he made sure that Mulder was well-prepared. Thinking about what those

tight muscles would do to his cock made him groan. He stretched Mulder until his muscles

relaxed and Skinner knew he was ready. Withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the head

of his cock.

As he slid carefully inside, the other man moaned with relief, "Yes, Walter, yes."

Oh God. Mulder's heat and his muscles throbbed around his cock as it slid in and out. Hands

entwined, their bodies moved together in graceful symmetry. Mulder's cries of pleasure heated

him up and he pounded harder. Mulder pushed back against Skinner with each stroke, his cock

sliding against the sheets as he moved.

They were bound together with a need for each other that was so profound, it could never be

voiced. There was no need to voice it. They both knew it was there; had always known. It was

alive, palpable. It enveloped them in security and love. It fed them and it fueled a fire.

The fire burned and engulfed Mulder first. He shouted his lover's name, reveling in the searing

pleasure. Skinner soon joined him in the flames, coming hard and long inside him, grinding

against him, wanting as much contact with the hot body beneath him as possible.

When it was over they remained pressed together until the tremors subsided. Skinner withdrew

and rolled over on his back, hand rubbing Mulder's sweat-slick skin.

"Hey," he said when Mulder stayed silent, "you still with me?"

"Yeah," Mulder murmured and shifted until he was lying half on top of him. They fell into a

peaceful sleep, Mulder's body covering him like a blanket.

He didn't dream of Mulder that night. There was no need. The dream was real--a warm,

comfortable weight on his body. It was the careful removal of the weight that awakened him.

Dawn was still an hour away.

Mulder was up and dressing in the darkness. Skinner reached over and turned on the lamp.

Mulder stopped him

"I have to go," he said sadly. "It will be light soon and I don't want anyone to see me."

"Stay here today," Skinner suggested, nearly pleading, aware of how short their time had been

together and wanting just a little more. "Get some rest and leave tomorrow morning."

"I can't." Regret crept into his voice.

"Don't you want to take a shower?"

Mulder shook his head. "I don't want to wash you off."

He felt a small jolt of arousal. That was positively the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to him.

No time to do anything about it, though.

*Not yet, please...don't go yet.*

"At least have breakfast. How about some eggs and coffee?" Skinner rose, pulled on his pants

quickly and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen.

How utterly domestic, Skinner thought as he puttered around his kitchen making their breakfast.

Too bad he couldn't do this for them everyday.

Now there was a dream. A nice little house with a white picket fence for him and Fox? Not

likely, unless he left the FBI along with Mulder. There was no doubt in his mind that if Mulder

pulled off this scheme and lived, he'd be thrown out of the Bureau.

Could he do that? Leave behind a career he'd worked so hard to build for a chance at happiness?

Maybe. Just maybe.

He looked over at Mulder who was seated quietly at the table sipping at his coffee and casting

nervous glances at the approaching dawn. Skinner placed a plate of eggs in front of him. He sat

down across from him and dove into his own breakfast. It was nice to be eating it, instead of

drinking it.

The meal was over too soon, and Mulder took his plate to the dishwasher. On the counter stood

an army of liquor bottles in various states of fullness. Skinner watched him pick one up, read the

label, put it down. He knew what he was thinking. There had never been this much liquor in his

apartment.

Leaning against the counter, Mulder said, "You really freaked Scully out, you know. She gave me

hell and an ultimatum. Either I come to you or she would." He turned and started rinsing off his

plate.

Goddammit! "Look at me."

Mulder reluctantly met his eyes.

"Are you telling me that if Scully hadn't threatened you, you wouldn't have told me you were

alive?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

Skinner slammed a fist down on the table sending his plate crashing to the floor. "Why the hell

not?"

"It's not safe, Walter. The more people who know, the more chances there are that the

Consortium will find out I'm alive and send someone to do the job right this time." He spoke

calmly and rationally. "And then you'd be in danger, too."

"You didn't hesitate to put Scully in danger."

"Scully has a personal stake in this."

"And I don't?"

Mulder sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Observed again the rosy sky. "Let's not do this,

Walter. I have to go and I don't want to leave like this. I know I hurt you. Please forgive me."

He pulled Mulder into his arms, held him close. "I forgive you, but I do have a personal stake in

this. My personal stake is you. I thought you'd killed yourself and I'd done nothing to help. I've

been killing myself slowly ever since."

"I'm not worth it," Mulder muttered into his chest.

"I think you are." Skinner reached for Mulder's chin and gently pulled his head up until the agent

was looking at him. "Do me a favor: be careful. Don't get yourself killed for real. I want you to

come back to me when this is all over."

Mulder kissed him quickly and untangled himself from Skinner's arms. "You can't let on that you

know I'm alive."

"You want me to keep drinking myself to death?"

A ghost of Mulder's sardonic smile played across his lips. "You'd do that for me?"

Skinner snorted. "Yeah, must be love."

Both men recognized the truth behind the joke. Mulder nodded and walked out the door.

Skinner stood still, lightheaded at the implications of a simple nod. Thoughts buzzed through his

head like a thousand agitated bees.

He had so much to do. So much work he'd been letting slide.

First things first. He walked over to the counter and took stock of the eleven bottles of liquor. He

picked up a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels. removed the cap and watched the clear liquid swirl

down the drain.

One down, ten to go.

End.

9/10/97