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Office of Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner

FBI Headquarters

Hoover Building

Washington, DC

May 8, 1998, Friday, 5:30 PM Solar Calendar

4-13-98, Lunar Calendar

Year of the Earth Tiger, Containing Earth On Wall,

Month and Hour of the Snake

The light in his office was playing tricks on her again. She wouldn't have put it past him to have arranged his office with just this effect in mind. It couldn't be an accident that he could look so damned imposing just reading a report.

It didn't surprise her in the least that the light did his bidding, just as everyone else did. The light loved his severely handsome features and massive torso. It molded his impressive, bald, leonine head, broad chest and shoulders into a sculpted Homage to Power and Control. The light obligingly glinted off his glasses and hid his eyes from her, giving his face a vaguely inhuman cast. It made his sharp, white shirt glow supernaturally bright. In short, the light connived with Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner to make Kimberly feel less like the shrewd, efficient Administrative Assistant that she was, and more like a newly deceased sinner facing her God on Judgement Day. Make that a newly deceased sinner who knew that she was going to be cast into the fiery pit on Judgement Day...

Not that A.D. Skinner ever actually did anything that would cause her to fear him. He was a fair man, a decent one, even kind in his own way, but still, Skinner in Fear Me mode was not something she longed to see. Unfortunately, it had been a Psycho!Agent Mulder kind of a week, and Skinner was now in FEAR ME mode. From the dark circles under his eyes, she didn't think he had gotten much sleep for the last three days, and it hadn't improved his disposition. She wondered if she could just sneak out now, and after the disaster struck, he'd have so much on his mind that he'd forget to question her.

He looked up, and over his glasses, and waited. His dark eyes were every bit as forbidding naked.

Busted. She had no choice but to tell him the news. She took a deep breath, and hoped that he wouldn't kill the messenger. "Sir, that was the Calumet Mercy Hospital of Chicago on line two. Their psych ward released Agent Mulder about three hours or so ago. He told them that he was going directly to your office, which means he should be here at any time."

His eyes narrowed, his lips tightened into a grim line, and he sat staring at her for so long that she nearly whimpered with relief when he finally spoke.

"Oh for Christ's sake! The man tried to kill two people. I've spent all this week trying to get his ass, and the bureau's, out of hot water. Why wasn't I advised of this immediately?" he said, never once taking his eyes off of her. His voice was so cold that she shivered.

She broke down, and hated herself for the whining tone of her voice. "I'm so sorry, sir! Dr. Cervantes had an emergency. One of the other patients was holding a staff member hostage threatening to kill her, and he forgot about it until one of his staff asked him, and he was very apologetic, and he said he felt really sick when he realized he hadn't called immediately... I just got off the telephone, really, sir, and I would NEVER, ever think of not telling you. I always keep you informed, and..."

His face eased up from grimly furious to merely serious, and she relaxed somewhat in response. "Of course, you always do," he said. "It's the reason that I have always relied upon your professionalism above and beyond anyone else's on my administrative staff. I expect nothing less from you. Proceed."

Mollified, she smiled slightly to acknowledge his praise, and implicit apology, and continued as bidden. "Well, Doctor Cervantes said that Mulder was okay for now, but was really shook up about being placed in restraints. He got the impression that Agent Mulder was considering filing a complaint against him, the hospital, the FBI, and you. Do you want to take the call?" Kim said. Then seeing that her boss had taken off his glasses, and was rubbing the bridge of his nose, as she knew that he would, she added, "Would you like me to tell them that you're in a meeting? You look like you could use a break."

He closed his eyes and bit his lip as he continued to massage the bridge of his nose. "That won't be necessary, Kim. "Just tell them to reserve a room for me."

Kimberly raised an eyebrow, and wondered if he was joking... Since Agent Mulder was involved, it was best not to take anything for granted. "Sir?" she asked in a carefully even tone.

The A.D. didn't look up. "And while you're at it, see if we can get a group discount for the X Files Section," he said.

Definitely joking, she decided. She thanked God that his sense of humor had returned. Amazing what a little well-timed sympathy could do. "Sure thing, Kim said dryly. "I'll check about monthly rates and a waterbed for you while I'm at it. Now, I'm going to handle that call. Yell if you need anything." She turned on her heel, and walked out.

Skinner nodded, giving her a small, rueful grin. He kept his aching eyes closed though, exhausted yet dreading the prospect of sleep. He was sick of the nightmares of Vietnam that had jerked him awake a dozen times or more a night ever since this case began. If his dreaming mind tired of Vietnam, it dredged up Mulder in the psych ward, bucking wildly against his restraints, screaming not to be left alone, yelling about the monsters surely coming to get him. To think that he'd left him there like that "for his own good," and the poor bastard had been attacked. Worst of all, the A.D. vaguely realized that he had merged his two favorite nightmares into one terrifying extravaganza last night; and knew that it was important that he remember his dream, but couldn't.

Skinner just knew that after the terror wore off of his dreams this morning, that he had felt guilty, and when he felt guilty, his subconscious mind always dredged up Scully to function as The Voice of His Conscience and put him in his place. He groaned, and took out the Economy Sized Bottle of Maalox tablets that he kept in his lower right hand desk drawer. He shut it, then thinking about the frustrating conversation that he'd had earlier with Scully, reopened it, and withdrew its partner, the Giant Economy Sized bottle of Excedrin tablets that always kept the Maalox bottle company.

In as many ways as he could improvise, he'd tried to find out if Agent "X-Cedrin Headache" Scully (In the New! Improved! Concentrated Formula! Delivers the blinding, searing, migraine-like, pain of other tension headache vectors twice her size!) could substantiate Mulder's crazy story about just what had attacked him. Still, as was always the case with the woman that his subconscious used whenever it needed to inflict massive amounts of guilt upon him, he had managed to have two conversations with her: what they had actually said, and what they had actually meant by what they had said.

What he'd actually asked her was: "Agent Scully, I have to say I'm at a bit of a loss here. Do I infer correctly from this that you believe there's some ... merit to Agent Mulder's claims?"

What he'd actually meant by that was: "You mean that you believed that Mulder's allegations of the existence of giant, insectoid, killer zombies were true all long? For Christsakes, why didn't you tell me everything that you knew? Don't you realize what that means?"

What she had actually replied was: "I believe that Agent Mulder is mentally sound and fit for duty. Aside from that belief, I can only present to you the few hard facts that I've been able to gather. That, as per Agent Mulder's assertions a toxin has been found to have been injected into the spine of the shooting victim, Mark Bacchus. As of yet, we've been unable to identify it. Furthermore, Gregory Pincus has apparently disappeared without a trace along with half a dozen other key witnesses integral to this investigation - among them, Agent Mulder's nurse at the hospital and several VinylRight employees. I can personally vouch for the fact that there was an intruder in Agent Mulder's hospital room..."

What he felt that she actually meant by that was: " Yes, I realize what it means, but even if Agent Mulder were insane, I would never leave him helpless to fend for himself in the psych ward, unlike YOU, sir. How was I to know you would do anything more than manhandle him a little like you did the LAST time he went crazy? Besides, you and I both know that his enemies were behind THAT time too, so I am going to give you just enough information to torture you with guilt and doubt. That is my duty as Your Guilty Conscience."

What he had actually said was, "Men and women described by Mulder as zombies. Describe this intruder."

What he had actually meant by that was, "Okay, you've done your duty, and tortured me with guilt. Now tell me the truth. Mulder may describe these people as zombies, but surely your observations are of a more rational, scientific, nature. Did you or did you not see a zombie attack Mulder while he was in restraints, totally unable to defend himself? God, please say no."

After a pause, what she had actually replied was, "It was dark."

What he felt that she actually meant by that was, "No, sir, I will NOT say one way or another. If he really DID see a giant, zombie, killer, cockroach, I would never admit it. My professional reputation as a scientist is at stake. I will not have anyone pointing at me, and yelling "Hey, Spookyette!" as I pass by. No, I have given you sufficient cause to clear him, and that is all that you are getting from me. Besides, as you are well aware, I have determined that you deserve all of your guilt and more. Sir."

What he'd actually said was, "You must have gotten a glimpse. What did you see?

What he actually meant by that was, "Scully, damn it, I'm begging you. Please tell me that goddamned giant bug doesn't exist, and that Mulder let his imagination run away with him! I've got to know that what he claims just isn't possible. It would mean I almost get him killed. That couldn't be true...could it?"

What she had actually said was, "It was a Folie A Deux, a shared madness, sir,"

What he thought that she actually meant by that was: "No sir, I'm not going to tell you, and I have come up with a unique way to side step all of your inquiries into this matter.

I have just implied that if I did see what Mulder saw that I am as crazy as he is. What this means, sir, is that, what I observed cannot be trusted, just my observation that my observations cannot be trusted can be trusted. Paradoxically, that just makes my judgement appear to be that much more rational, since it highlights my capacity to be objective, and detached about my own mental deficiencies.

Understand it now, sir? Well, never mind. You'll never know what I know, and that's all you need to know. Game, set, and match to me, I win big time. You should know better than to argue with Your Conscience, sir."

That had been that. Scully had managed to be "unavailable" for further conversations since then. With his only avenue of objective information closed, the safest thing had been to act as if he had done the right thing. When it came to Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner's word versus Spooky Mulder's, there was no contest, so it was easy enough to . . . get away with it?

Kimberly buzzed him and broke his train of thought.

"Yes?"

"Sir, that was Agent Scully...She wanted to warn you that Mulder is on his way up...and to please, remember that she DID try to stop him."

Skinner shook out three Excedrin tablets into his hand and muttered, "Your dinner is served." He tossed them into his mouth, and washed them down with a gulp of his typically wretched, overheated-and-left-to-cool bureau coffee. Well, vile might be closer. He choked and scowled at the Styrofoam coffee cup, and crushing it, threw it into the wastebasket without a glance. Munching the Maalox tablets only made it worse, leaving him fumbling for his last three, slightly lint-covered butterscotch Lifesavers, anything to get rid of the taste in his mouth. It was marginally successful.

Ah, Scully! The woman had pulled a gun on him more than once, accused him of being a traitor, and lied to him and evaded his questions on a regular basis, so of course he was in love with her...NOT. His subconscious mind nagged at him that sometimes she'd had her own reasons, which could even be construed as valid on occasion, if considered from her point of view, but since he wasn't feeling particularly charitable, he pushed those thoughts away.

"Christ," Skinner muttered. "I'd like to know what could be more infuriating, confusing, and irritatingly manipulative than a woman?"

"Fox Mulder is outside demanding to see you, sir," Kim said breathlessly as she banged the A.D.'s door shut behind her.

Skinner scowled. "There is a God, and is She ever Politically Correct."

Kim stared at him, silently willing her lips not to quirk into a grin. "Sir?" She finally said. It seemed the safest response.

"NOTHING!" He barked. Then seeing her jump, his expression softened, and he smiled and spoke to her with a surprising gentleness. "What I meant to say was, nothing. Please, show him in. I doubt if either one has a choice about it anyway."

Kim smiled back, "Okay, but I hope you've got something stronger than Maalox and Excedrin hidden in your desk drawer. This is the worst I've EVER seen him."

Skinner's facial expression became as stony as ever, but he paled visibly. Kim had been nearby when Mulder had decked him, and he'd been forced to restrain the insubordinate agent in a headlock. The worst promised to be the most ulcer-inducing, migraine-producing, stomach-churning, godawful encounter with Agent Maalox Moment that he had ever had.

He didn't have long to dread the encounter. Mulder, looking as though he came directly from a GQ photo spread, slammed the door open, sending Kim scrambling to avoid being knocked through the wall. He strode past her, and placing his hands on Skinner's desk, leaned over until he was nearly nose to nose with the A.D. "We need to talk. Now. SIR," Mulder spat out.

"I'll cancel your meetings for the rest of the week, sir." Giving her boss a sympathetic and apologetic smile, Kim ran out of the office and shut the door.

Skinner ignored her. He had already begun to track the new, more dangerous, game invading his territory. Mulder was strung to his limit, every muscle in his lean, elegant body tight, and tense, and hair-triggered, as every good trap should be, waiting for his boss to make the first move.

Of course, no matter who was in the right, that meant that Mulder would have to wait for it, even though they both knew who would speak first. His boss needed time to gather his thoughts in the face of such anger. For a moment, Mulder's expressive, scalene shaped hazel eyes reminded the A.D. of the sharp-edged Nipa palms that had bloodied his hands so long ago in Vietnam. They had housed a predator and a trap too.

Skinner's expression gave no hint of such concerns; however, it was carefully bland with just a hint of the Arctic. After waiting just long enough for his subordinate to start chewing his pouty lower lip, the A.D. picked up a file and scanned it. "Agent Mulder, I wasn't aware that we had an appointment..."

The elegant trap sprang. With one angry sweep of his arm, Mulder cleared off most of Skinner's desk. "An appointment! Thanks to you, a fucking Cockroach the size of Refrigerator Perry almost ate my ass, and you want me to make an *appointment*! I don't THINK so. With all due respect, SIR, I've just barely escaped, and again, no thanks to YOU, so excuse ME if I really don't give a rat's ass about protocol because your bureaucratic etiquette, policies and chain of command have become synonymous to me with officially sanctioned hypocrisy and lies! SIR!"

Skinner felt his face and head flush red and purple with rage, and his guilt go flying out the window. He sprang out of his chair which, since Mulder had been nearly nose-to-nose with him, had his agent back-pedaling as fast as he could. That reaction was satisfying enough that it made it possible for the A.D. to regain his control. Even so, he made it around his desk and into Mulder's personal space in three bounds. "THAT'S ENOUGH!" he yelled. "I'm not in the mood to take any of your insubordinate crap today, Agent Mulder! Your butt is still in a sling as far as I'm concerned, and protocol is the least of it. You broke the window and kicked in the door of that poor woman's house, and then you damn near kill Pincus in his own office...." Skinner clenched his fists, his anger threatening to overwhelm him

Mulder's huge hazel eyes grew round with fear. Nevertheless, he held his ground. "FUCK YOU!!" He yelled, and his boss stepped back, shocked at how thoroughly his subordinate had abandoned any pretense of civility and respect, uncharacteristic behavior even for Spooky Mulder. "You and I BOTH know what he was, and we BOTH know that I saved your arrogant ass. You don't have to thank me, but you could at least have the balls to admit it. "

Skinner's eyes narrowed, and he laughed contemptuously. "Mulder, you dick, you know OPR isn't going to buy that sack of shit about a giant, zombie cockroach..."

Rage and humiliation kaleidescoped over Mulder's face, and his voice was hoarse with both emotions. "No, they tend to buy more sacks of shit from conventional, kiss ass types like you than they do from dicks like me. They sure as hell wouldn't have given back MY job if I ever said that my personal, Vietnamese spirit-babe left her fluorescent lipstick all over the corpse of some slut that I woke up with...."

As Mulder spoke, Skinner started to hear the laugh of the Old Woman of Quan Ho, and that could only mean bad news. The first time this spirit being had come into his life, he had been near death in Vietnam, and the second time, his wife had had her own brush with death.

Skinner's mind twisted and feinted like a boxer to avoid facing all the roiling, gut-churning emotions that he had damned up inside for so many years, reducing Mulder's words to a mere droning, meaningless, accompaniment to her laughter.

Instinctively, he realized that she was here because of Mulder, and desperate to ward off the impending disaster her appearance always presaged, he grabbed his agent's shoulders, and shook him roughly, anything to make them both shut up. It worked, although the A.D. couldn't see that his agent's attitude had improved appreciably. Mulder had merely fallen into a sullen silence. It would have to do.

Slowly and patiently, Skinner ground out his words in a tone that he usually reserved for known felons chained to his balcony. "Son, what I believe is this. The more distance that you can put between us tonight, the better it will be for your career. Just calm down into some semblance of a professional manner, and leave."

Mulder smirked. Nothing said "I know exactly what you're thinking, boss", better than that smirk. "I really expected more understanding from a man who regularly suffers from anima possession, projection, and abandonment, Wally. Cuckoos of a feather must flock together."

Skinner froze. No one ever called him Wally, ever, and Mulder had lost him entirely: Again. He'd never figure out how that twisted mind worked. Equal parts anger and curiosity warred within Skinner, finally curiosity won. He crossed his arms and scowled. "Okay, FOXY, you have exactly one minute to explain yourself."

This time, Mulder blushed.

Skinner scowled and gestured impatiently, as much to keep from laughing out loud, as to encourage this thorn in his side to keep talking and thereby prove he was nothing but a little prick. "Sixty seconds," he said curtly.

Mulder starting ranting pompously, "When you told investigators that you had discovered the dead prostitute in your bed, you presented a startled, disoriented affect..."

Skinner shook his head and laughed. "If you mean that I was shocked as shit because one minute I was having a drink with an attractive, intelligent woman, and the next I was waking up with her corpse, yeah, I presented a `startled, disoriented affect'."

Mulder snorted, and continued. "You have to admit that your memory lapse was suspicious-looking, considering that you had been seen leaving the bar with her, that no one else had been seen entering or leaving your hotel room that night, and..."

Skinner smiled, but the dark look in his eyes dared Mulder to go further with this subject at his own risk. "...the fingerprints taken from her body were EXACT matches for mine. You also knew that I had a sleep disorder, so I couldn't be sure what the hell was going on. I was cleared in spite of that, and yes, thanks to you. What are you trying to say? That from that moment forward, that you should never have been subject to disciplinary action from me? That I owe you? As if I had never done anything for..."

"NO GODDAMN IT!" Mulder shouted impatiently. "I'm just saying what the hell gave you the right to pass judgement on me? You're as crazy as I am! What the fuck difference is there between me seeing a giant zombie cockroach and trying to stop it from killing you; and you seeing a spirit being who tells you who to go shoot, and when?"

Skinner closed his eyes, and flashed back to standing in a hotel bathroom with a smoking gun, looking down upon the body of the man he'd just killed. Panic rising within him, he was desperately hoping that he wouldn't have to explain how he had known where to find the man who'd tried to destroy his career. //Yes, that time you listened. You need to listen to me again// the ancient voice in his mind said. Skinner shook himself, and opened his eyes, glaring at his reckless agent. "The DIFFERENCE is," he said slowly and dangerously, "I don't start go beserk, and start ranting and raving threats to kill anyone based upon what is clearly..."

That stung Mulder, infuriating him and hurting him as much as the forced commitment had. //I love you. I saved your LIFE! How can you treat me this way? I'm gonna make you hurt as much as I do, you ungrateful bastard!//"BLOW ME, SKINNER!" Mulder snapped. "She shows up every time you get loaded, and someone close to you gets murdered. That first time, your whole platoon got wiped out."

Skinner gaped. "Am I to understand that you think that I'm a drug flashback crazed psychopathic killer? That...that I killed..." Skinner's voice broke, and he stopped, his face twisted in anguish, his muscles bunching in knots.

Mulder's eyes widened, "Sir, I..."

"SHUT UP", Skinner said, "I just want to know one thing from you. Are you fucking accusing me of the fucking ambush? Because if you are..." The A.D. backed his accuser into a corner and placed his hands palms flat against the wall on either side of Mulder's head to let him draw his own conclusions. Assailed by memories of gunfire, and the smells of mold, and rot, and gunpowder and blood and burning flesh, the burly man looked both frightened and frightening.

Mulder scrunched back against the wall as far as he could, belatedly taking the A.D.'s advice to put as much distance between them as possible. Instead of looking hurt and guilty, as Mulder had intended, Skinner looked like he could lose his legendary self-control.

Mulder gulped, and shook his head vigorously, "I didn't mean to imply that...You know, it's just that in similar circumstances... well, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and ... Uh, look, maybe I should just take your advice and leave."

"Maybe you ought to finish what you started, boy," Skinner growled, "You're not leaving until I say so. When you open up a wound and pour salt in it, expect that there will always be consequences from me. Proceed. NOW."

Mulder would have preferred to stop what he'd started, but he knew his boss was going to make him continue just for the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. As miserable as this was going to be, he'd have to go on. He wondered for the ten-thousandth time at least, why he had fallen for such a scary, incomprehensible man, one who could betray him, then make him feel so guilty and small for confronting him over it. Looking younger and smaller by the second, Mulder continued in a shaky voice, "I just meant that you displayed all the classic signs of Anima Possession. That old woman sounded like an anima figure if there ever was one."

Once again Skinner felt the memories of the Vietnamese jungle and the Old Woman closing in around him, threatening his sanity, and once again to stop it, he grabbed Mulder, this time so tightly that Mulder was sure to bruise. "WHICH IS WHAT, GODDAMN IT?!?! WHAT THE FUCK DOES ALL THIS AIRHEAD, PSYCHOBABBLE CRAP HAVE TO DO WITH YOUR LAST CASE? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL?" Skinner snarled, and brought his face nose-to-nose with Mulder's.

Their breathing grew harsh and ragged together, and sweat began to trickle down Mulder's high cheekbones. Reflexively, he licked his lush lips, licking his boss's lips at the same time, tonguing the sweet tastes of sunflower seeds and caf‚ latte between them.

Both men inhaled sharply.

For a moment, Skinner saw another thirty something, combat ready, hard-bodied man, with full, sensual lips and a predatory smile standing there. For a moment, he could distinctly smell sandalwood incense, sweet spices, and flowers, and everything was covered in blood. Involuntarily, he jerked his head back, eyes bulging with terror, and froze.

Mulder was both puzzled and frightened by Skinner's reaction, and he felt his own rage cooling as he saw the distant, terrified expression in his boss's eyes. If he'd been punched out for licking the man's lips, he could have understood it...but terror? Mulder went on profiling overdrive to understand. His boss had been the one to make this confrontation a physical one. Was Skinner afraid of a sexual harassment suit...or was his boss afraid of just how much he had enjoyed the taste of his subordinate on his lips? He thought he'd felt his boss's hard cock pressing against his for just a moment, but that could have been wishful thinking on his part. Confused, and troubled by this new side of his boss, Mulder averted his eyes to answer the question that his boss had asked, hoping desperately to find a graceful way out this emotional minefield as he talked. "It tttypically involves sssubjects who have difficulty assimilating a traumatic experience into their everyday lives. In response, these people conjure up a personality who draws life from a source beyond the mundane, such as various deities and demons, the spirits of the dead, deceased or dying ancestors to aid them, however unconsciously and unwillingly, in this task."

"And your point is?" Skinner's voice was hoarse and raspy with barely restrained, panicky anger.

Still refusing to look up, Mulder bit his lip, and took a deep, shaky breath. "That we both look as delusional as hell, and you should have given me the same benefit of the doubt that I gave you!"

"Benefit of the doubt?" Skinner said sarcastically. "Is that what you were giving me every time you pointed a gun at my skull?"

Mulder sighed. "Okay, you have a point there. Both of us have trouble communicating..."

Skinner laughed, "Oh, I think that pointing a gun to my head communicated what was on your mind quite effectively Mulder."

Mulder shook his head in annoyance. "No, no, no! I mean we can't just stop the posturing, and say something real, and I think that we both want to."

Skinner raised an eyebrow, "I always thought that I enjoyed being a surly, uncommunicative son of a bitch."

Mulder smiled the first genuine smile since he stormed into the office. "I don't think you do. You see, anima figures force the ones that they possess to connect with the outside world, to admit that they need other people when they're too scared to do it on their own. That scares you shitless, to need someone, doesn't it?" he said softly, gently, and his eyes took on a faraway, dreamy look. "That's the real reason you go ballistic like John Wayne on steroids, isn't it? It's the reason you always get physical with me? You want to be close to me, to touch me, and don't know any other way. Maybe it's the real reason I've gotten physical with you in the past, too. I'm not much good with this sort of thing, either, but . . . AGGGH!!!!"

Terror and brute force combined to finally achieve a goal that common sense never could: Mulder shut up. Jaw clenched, Skinner gripped his terrified subordinate's head in his meaty hands, and squeezed it tighter, and tighter, and tighter, until the younger man yelped. Not even Mulder's wide-eyed look of stupefaction assuaged Skinner's cold fury. He began to squeeze again, and Mulder began to babble. "Oh God, I totally misinterpreted...I mean, I thought...Please let me explain..."

Skinner's face was hard and contemptuous, and he spat out each word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth. "Shut up. You fucking make me sick. Find another man to star in your sick fantasies." He pulled Mulder away from the wall as if he were a rag doll, opened his door, and shoved his astonished agent out of his office so hard that he stumbled and fell flat on his ass onto the equally astonished Kim's desk. Both Kim and Mulder were afraid to move.

Skinner loomed over them both like Vesuvius over Pompeii, but he scowled for Mulder alone. "GET. OUT. NOW!!!!" he bellowed.

Mulder gave up all attempts at keeping his dignity, and scrambled for the hallway door.As he opened it, Skinner called to him, in a silkily dangerous voice. "Mulder?"

Mulder whipped around and answered hopefully, "Yyyess, sssir?"

There was something deeper, sadder, and wearier around the edges of his boss's severe expression that frightened Mulder more than the threat of a beating ever did. Still, he didn't expect what he heard. "Don't come back," Skinner said. "Ever."

The younger man looked as though he'd been gut-punched. Panic made his voice rise a couple of registers and crack. "Sir? What do you mean? Sir, Oh God, sir, please, talk to me, please?" Mulder ran across the office just in time for Skinner to slam the door in his face. He pounded on the door until it was embarrassingly obvious that it wasn't going to open any time soon. Kim walked to the file cabinets, and looked for a file that she didn't need; all the better to pretend that she didn't see Mulder as he ran out of the office utterly humiliated and defeated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Condominium of Walter S. Skinner

Crystal City

Washington, DC

May 8, 1998, 11:00 PM Solar Calendar

4-13-98, Lunar Calendar

Year of the Tiger,

Month of the Snake,

Beginning of the Hour of the Tiger

"Every artist dips his brush in his own soul,

and paints his own nature into his pictures."

Henry Ward Beecher

There was a bottle of J & B, half full, sitting on his end table, and dozens of drawings and paintings on the kitchen table and coffee table.

Walter Skinner kept drawing, oblivious to the time, or to the smudges of acrylic paint and charcoal all over his face and once blindingly white shirt. He'd gone from capturing his images in bold contrasts, and confident, quick, strokes that had almost ripped through the paper the first few drawings, to drawings and paintings of such a sinuous, sensuous subtlety that his subordinates would never have guessed the artist.

"Very nice, Walter," the Old Woman of Quan Ho said, "Tell me about what you've drawn."

He looked up in the direction of the sound of her voice. Hovering over him, he saw the Old Woman, her solemn, faded blue eyes, wild mop of white, cottony hair, and her obvious power reminding him of a witch. He glared at her.

She leered at him.

He bit his lip, and turned away from her. In this state of mind, everything he'd done was a jumble of tones, colors, lines, and forms, without meaning, and she knew it. Irritated that she would ask the question anyway, and frightened about what it could mean, he picked up the drawings to toss them into an already overflowing trash can, suddenly determined that he would NEVER know what he had drawn. Maybe THIS time he could avoid the inevitable pain that followed her like a tidal wave.

"Forget it, Walter," the apparition said as she entered his body. "You aren't tearing them up, throwing them out, or otherwise destroying them."

He struggled for control of his body, but he couldn't resist her. Soon, he felt his hands go weak, and couldn't have held a Post-It note. All he could do was watch his drawings fall out of his hands back onto the table, into an annoyingly, neat stack. He stared off into space, refusing to acknowledge either his work, or the spectral being floating around him.

"Talk to me, Walter," she said.

Walter shut his eyes, irresistibly reminded of his ex-wife. Dead wife.

//My fault.//

Sharon had said, "Talk to me, Walter" to him often enough that he once signed the card for a conciliatory bouquet of roses to her, "Love, Talk-To-Me-Walter". That had cost him a romantic weekend in Cape Cod before she forgave him. Said she forgave him.

It was Sharon who had recognized that there was artistic talent buried in the doodles that he had made on virtually anything. During their honeymoon after a uncomfortably silent dinner, one of his "doodles" in particular caught her eye, and she rescued it for posterity before the bus boy could dump the remains of her baked potato on it. It was a beautiful, sensitively, and lovingly, drawn sketch that he had done of her...on the restaurant's paper place mat. As a talented artist from a long line of artists, Sharon knew right then that Walter was an artist of exceptional ability, and depth of feeling, feeling which was not expressed elsewhere. It was Sharon who had insisted that he learn to paint, and had pushed a paintbrush in his face at every opportunity. "You really should develop your talent, Walter. It's important that you learn to express your feelings, sweetheart," she had said. And said. And said.

Desperate to encourage his talent, even if she had to guilt trip him to do it, she started hanging up all of his doodles...napkins, paper plates, telephone messages, everything. "I am NOT trying to embarrass you," she would tell him as he blushed furiously. "You know How Important Art Is To My Family, And How We Feel We Must Encourage It In All Of Its Forms... If only you would draw or paint something on good quality materials, I would hang that up instead. You could do a painting if you tried. Just let me teach you a few watercolor basics."

Finally, worn down and out maneuvered by equal parts flattery and guilt, he'd given in with a show of contriteness that he did not feel, and let her teach him. In his guilty, resentful heart of hearts, he had secretly resolved to show her his paintings whenever she asked him about his feelings, instead of having the usual tightlipped, monosyllabic, guessing-game, conversations about them, such as:

"Are you ANGRY, Walter, is that it?"

"No."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Talk to me, Walter."

"Hmpfh."

"What does hmpfh mean? Walter, don't you love me?"

At this point, he would become dry mouthed, unable to give even the monosyllabic answers that tested her patience.

"Walter, what's wrong? Are you afraid to tell me that you *don't* love me, or afraid to tell me that you *do*? Why? Talk to me Walter..."

//It would only scare the hell out of you if I told you, Sharon. Do you really want to know that by doing either--and I HAVE--it still makes me a worthless, no good, selfish son of a bitch? //

Yes, showing her his paintings was by far the better choice. He had tried to keep his resolution. His first, surprisingly good, painting had been full of his feelings mixed with some spiteful, bullshit symbolism, just for Sharon, to simultaneously throw her off, and keep her happy. He had been shocked when she could see right through the bullshit symbolism to what was real, shocked that what he was feeling could be revealed so starkly without saying a word.

From then on, he chose his thoughts carefully while he painted, like bait, depending on what he wanted to reel in. Maybe if he'd been honest in his art, the marriage would have lasted, but the last thing he wanted was to be known for what he really was by anyone, even himself. A thing like that could lead to love, and a thing like love could lead to...

//Don't go there.//

Ironically, once she'd left, he'd been driven to painting and honesty in equal measure.

With a chill, he realized that if he DID look at the paintings that he had just done that he WOULD know himself for what he really was. The Old Woman's use of Sharon's catch phrase had been calculated to induce his reverie in order to prepare him for that eventuality.

"That's right, Walter, you've got to look at this sometime. You might as well open your eyes. Until we come to an understanding, I'm not going anywhere."

His dark eyes flew open at the sound of that ancient, mocking voice. Panicked, he ran to the door, and opened it, prepared to escape, but with a mere thought, The Old Woman slammed it shut. The strength and energy emanating from her took his breath away.

"And neither are you, honey," she said. "Now calm down. They're just pictures. I've helped you through worse."

When they had found him in bed with the dead prostitute, The Old Woman had merely taken over the bodies of other women to speak to him. Then for a time, wraithlike, she had been content to haunt his dreams. Now, she was as irresistibly powerful as she had been in Vietnam, where he first became enmeshed with her, and his life shattered so thoroughly it could never be made whole.

"Yes, I remember Vietnam well, little one. You didn't want to accept my help then either, did you?" She said as she stroked his face. "You'll be glad that you did soon enough, though."

Never once taking his eyes from hers, he allowed his resentment to rage out from every pore for reminding him of the worst moments of emotional and physical pain of his life. He shrugged his shoulders again, and nonchalantly picked up the half-full bottle of J & B that he'd been working on most of the night, ignoring his shot glass. Wearily, he stumbled to his couch, flopped down, and began to drink in earnest straight from the bottle.

"You can't drink me away either."

To his amazement, the Old Woman snatched his Scotch bottle from his hand, and threw it against the wall. It shattered and splintered, and he watched in dismay as the amber liquid splattered across his once spotless apartment.

Her ancient face wreathed itself into smiling wrinkles. "That's much better. It makes a lovely, transparent wash over your eggshell white walls."

Walter stared as the rebellious liquid formed wide swathes of abstract Jackson Pollock patterns on his wall. He groped reflexively around the end table for the bottle of J & B, then snarled when he remembered why it wasn't there. He pounded the end table with the flat of his hand, the solid, the-oh-so-reassuringly solid, oak coffee table. It comforted him in a way that he desperately needed, and his pounding changed to a caress.

"Something solid," he murmured. "REAL. I've got to hang onto something real."

He heard an abrupt bark of laughter, and he jerked to attention, his eyes riveted to the source.

The Old Woman continued to laugh, shaking her head as she looked at Skinner fondly, not once flinching at being on the receiving end of The Official Assistant Director Skinner Steely-Eyed Glare. "Honey, when did you start to associate having conversations with coffee tables with sanity?"

The Official Assistant Director Skinner Steely-Eyed Glare crumbled to the Wide Eyed and Blushing Eight Year Old Walter Look of Mortification. Reflexively, he looked around to see if anyone saw him, and blushed even harder when he realized that he was alone if he didn't count the Old Woman. He ducked his head, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he always did when he needed comfort.

"Oh, but I do count, Walter. I count at least twice." Two gnarled fingers gently tucked under his chin, and raised it until he was staring helplessly into the solemn, faded blue eyes of the Old Woman. He jumped at her touch at first, but otherwise didn't move. Her scent, a scent of all things ancient, fed by all the museums, and all the archives, and all the tombs of the world, surrounded him, paralyzed him with fear.

He jerked away from her warily tracking her with his eyes as she flew to his scotch-splattered wall.

"I did a good job of decorating, didn't I?" she said as she turned to grin at him. "Your apartment's always been a little too obsessively neat and Spartan, for my taste, Walter," she said playfully smearing the rivulets of scotch running down the walls into swirls. "Always hated the Spartans."

"Don't quit your day jobb," Skinner said tersely.

The old woman chuckled, and swatted his thigh, causing him to jump. "On the contrary, little, one, I think that I may have a great future as an artist! Don't you see echoes of Jackson Pollock and any number of Rorschatz tests in my masterpiece? It explores a new artistic medium too. Not many artists drool J & B over the walls."

Skinner snorted. "There's probably a good reason for that. Maybe because there's better uses for scotch?" he said, tipping an imaginary glass of JB to his lips.

"Nonsense, little one," she said, as she did a perfect, mischievous imitation of his hands framing a scene when he attempted to find the best composition. "This is an exact portrait of your state of mind, and I found the perfect medium to paint it with."

He felt anger replacing some of his fear, and his chin jutted out defiantly. "I got enough of that `you're crazy' crap from Mulder."

She just laughed at the dark looks she was starting to receive again. "Madness isn't so bad, Walter. I always loved the Maenads. Approved of their `find your mind by losing it philosophy'. Too bad you two weren't born female. You'd have made great Maenads. You are madness and sexualized violence personified." She laughed as she flew around the room.

Walter slammed his fist down on the coffee table, and growled up at her flying form, "Why the FUCK am I seeing you like this again! What do you want?"

She circled once, then landed on the back of the couch to peer down at him. "Not what I want Walter. What you want. What you need. You're seeing me for the same reason you always see me like this: Because you need my help. Enough of this nonsense! Look at your paintings, young man. NOW!" she said sharply.

He jumped off the couch with an involuntary, startled jerk at her tone. Embarrassed by that brief lapse of control, he slowly walked back over to the kitchen table, his ghostly nemesis floating behind him. He looked down to face his paintings, and instead, he found beautifully rendered, deftly composed, color-coordinated nightmares.

There was a painting of the Old Woman carrying him away from the white light, as his body was bleeding from a hundred places, a study in contrasts, young against old, light against dark, red, wounded, human flesh against the impersonal, standard issue, olive green Marine uniform. It was like a Rembrandt redone by Carravagio.

There was one of the Old Woman, evil and debauched and naked and wrinkled, reaching out for him from the smoke-filled temple of Quan Ho, half-corporeal, half-ethereal, a Kabuki vision hallucinated by Hokusai.

There was one of the 10-year-old Vietnamese boy, a running, screeching, chaotic, snarl of grenades and trip wires from head to toe, who Walter had been forced to shoot to kill in order to save the platoon. To his horror, he realized that his painting was a compositional marvel. He had arranged the child's mutilated body into a Picassoesque abstraction of colors and forms in which nothing appeared out of place, and yet, considering the subject matter, everything about it should have.

He looked up at the Old Woman, begging her silently to let him stop but she merely shook her head. Scowling bravely one last time, he surrendered to superior forces, and began to rummage through his paintings and sketchpads, just hoping to find something that wouldn't make him vomit when he got a good look at it.

Finally, there was one painting, peeking out from yet another pile of more variations on the above themes, which filled his need for that moment. With shaking fingers, he pulled it out about half way, just enough to see the head and torso of the subject. It was a carefully and honestly rendered, Ingres-like portrait of himself as an eighteen year old Marine, and he lingered over it, since it was comparatively unthreatening. He hadn't needed glasses then, or much of anything else, his lithe body was tough. Still, he wasn't the burly man he was now. He hadn't attained his full height and bulk until he was twenty-five, so he had been a good two inches shorter, maybe twenty-five pounds lighter. His shoulders weren't nearly so broad either, just held the promise of good things to come. His face had still had its baby fat, which, with his large, dark brown eyes and sensual, soft lips, made him look pretty, rather than handsome.

Walter smiled to see how lovingly he had rendered the shiny, silky, black hair of his youth. It had been so shiny, so silky, so luxuriant that, more than once in class, he'd been startled to feel the hesitant, shaky fingers of yet another girl running her fingers through it, stroking it.... He'd been surprised to find how much he'd missed that attention after he'd enlisted in the Marines. His hair had become the first casualty of his idealistic and patriotic desire to serve his country...or was it of his desire to run away from home?

Six weeks into his tour, motivated more by nostalgia for home than by politics or vanity, he'd started keeping his hair longer than strictly regulation. It was all too obvious that his C.O. was routinely too stoned off his ass to give a shit, which expanded his grooming options considerably...

"Mmmmm...very nicely rendered hair, honey," she said as she patted his bald head. "You were a beautiful boy back then, but do you really believe that you were thinking about your hair at that moment? I think you and your C.O. had more...important matters on your mind."

Walter frowned up at her, and tried fruitlessly to bat her hand away, finally giving up when it became obvious that her hand was only going to be solid at her convenience, and that she found the whole thing as funny as hell. He felt compelled to look at the painting, if only to have a good excuse to ignore her, and was struck by the expression on his eighteen-year-old face. It was...distracted to say the least. Finally, he looked back up at her. "It would appear that my thoughts at that moment were somewhat more intense, yes."

"Somewhat!" she snorted, "It was much more than somewhat, and you know it." Seeing his expression starting to darken, she patted him again, and added slyly, "But prove me wrong. Show me the rest of the painting."

He took a deep breath, and pulled the painting out of the stack. He quickly sat down before he fell down, shocked by this painting, the most blunt statement of his memories and feelings that he had ever made. Young Walter was stark naked, and being pulled down to his knees by an equally naked, and by the size of the erection he was sporting, deeply appreciative, handsome man. Young Walter's face was luminous with pleasure as he gazed upon the face of that man; the man he idolized more than any other man on earth, the man he'd modeled himself after since he was old enough to walk, his commanding officer, Lt. Harry Matthews, USMC.

It was a visceral blow on more levels than he cared to contemplate to see him again in any form. It made the blow that much harder that he had captured Harry to perfection. There was the sun-streaked, spiky, sandy brown hair. There was the bold, rugged face with every angle and plane evoking strength and solidity. There was the defiant set to his strong jaw and chin. Those intense, large, gray, almond-shaped, I've-got-a-secret eyes glinted with humor at him. The full, sensual lips smiled wryly at him, revealing even, pearly white teeth. The smile looked even brighter contrasted against Harry's honey brown skin.

Walter absently started to trace his lover's face with his forefinger, glad that the paint was dry, so that it wouldn't smear. Slowly, his finger traced its way down Harry's torso, and Walter was remembering how the original felt, taut, hard, like living marble, like living art. Even though his body had been as beautiful as any sculpture by Praxiteles, Mies van der Rohe would have been proud to claim him: Form had indeed followed function where Harry had been concerned. His CO's well-toned legs and slim hips had been the result of weeks of marching through miles of jungle swamps, and his strong arms and back, and broad chest the result of carrying backpacks and guns...and the occasional, uncooperative, smart mouthed corporal. Guilt and sadness overwhelmed him as it always did whenever he thought of his lover. If not for him, Harry would have...

An awareness that the worst was yet to come tingled at the edges of his mind. She had evoked Sharon for the purpose of reminding him that he expressed his deepest thoughts, fears, and emotions through his art. Why had she calculated her words to sound JUST like Mulder... only to allow him to find the painting of Harry and his younger self? Walter's chin jutted defiantly as he glared at the spirit being hovering over him. "Okay, so, I'm an asshole. So, I didn't want to admit to him that I'm gay. So, I kicked his ass when he as much as admitted to me that he is. So, I'm a hypocrite. So what? Tomorrow, I'll call him, and tell him that I overreacted, and that he still has a job. Happy?"

The Old Woman's eyes become steely blue, and she arched her eyebrow in an all too familiar way. "No, I am NOT happy, Walter. What are you going to tell Mulder? I think you're still trying to ditch truth."

He turned pale, and buried his head in his hands.

//Scully, now she's Scully. This just keeps getting worse. //

"You're trying to tell me I'm running off whenever you try to tell me something that goes against what I want to believe, is that it?" He said, his voice muffled by his hands.

She pursed her lips, "Very good. And? You know that's not all. You were very clear about what she was this morning."

He looked up at her, then quickly averted his eyes, unable to withstand the coldness of her gaze. "Ever since, I found out what had happened while he was in restraints, I've had Scully's voice in my head torturing me with guilt. This is about something else I've done to him, isn't it? It's going to be one of him lying there in the shrink ward, with a fuckin' monster hovering over him, isn't it? This is about my other hypocrisy, my betrayal, isn't it? Not even Mulder has a ..."

". . . personal, Vietnamese, spirit-babe with florescent lipstick. Yes, I heard the little idiot," she said sourly. "No, Walter, nothing so easy. You already know that you screwed that up. Guess again."

"Why do I have to guess? Why can't you just tell me?" He snapped. He winced as he realized how cranky and childish his tone was.

"It's not as if I haven't tried, Walter," she said wearily, "I've been trying to tell you everything in your dreams, but you've refused to remember them, which is why we're going through this nonsense with your paintings. It's the only way you will allow yourself to access the information I've given you. If I thought that you would listen if I told you outright, I would GLADLY do so."

"You didn't even give me a chance," Walter said, and turned his back to her.

"Okay, Walter," flinging her arms up in exasperation, "I'll give it a try. Madame Ly's curse has never been lifted. All of the conditions are in place for the curse to be fulfilled yet again, and it will make your worst nightmare come true exactly as it did 27 years ago, all the blood, the destruction, the helplessness of watching everyone around you die . . ."

Walter whipped around, and bellowed, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? IT CAN'T COME TRUE AGAIN! IT CAN'T! I HAVEN'T ALLOWED MYSELF TO FEEL ANYTHING SINCE. . ."

"You mean you won't ADMIT that you've felt anything since," she said, nodding her head sadly.

"BULLSHIT! I'M NOT LISTENING TO THIS!" Walter yelled, then put his hand over his mouth as he realized he had jjust proven the Old Woman right.

They stared at each other for a moment in embarrassed silence.

Finally, the Old Woman spoke, "You've GOT to face this before midnight, honey. A lot of lives are depending on this."

"Why can't you stop it?" he said petulantly.

She stroked his face gently. "Walter, you know I can't. That curse was made under the ideal conditions for evil effect. I'm powerful, but that curse arrayed a lot of other guardian spirits on Madame Ly's side, and for the next 24 hours, astrological conditions will make it so hard for me to help you that I won't come to your aid unless you're dying. I'll be outnumbered, and probably useless, unless you act quickly."

Walter was still in shock. "I just don't see how it could happen again," he kept mumbling. "I was so careful."

The Old Woman dropped her hand and sighed. "Look at the paintings. You're a smart boy. You'll figure it out."

His face contorted in shame. "NO! I-I-I can't, because, I, well, I CAN'T!"

"Why? Because you're afraid? Because you feel guilty? Because you're embarrassed? Too bad! Not only can you; you shall look, Walter. You have no choice. You never do where I'm concerned. NOW DON'T MAKE ME ASK YOU AGAIN!" she said utterly exasperated, like a mother with a cranky three-year-old. "LOOK AT THE PAINTINGS, BOY!" The Old Woman drew back her arm, and hurled a discharge of white bright energy. A waterfall of paintings arranged themselves directly in front of Walter on top of the other ones he'd been looking at.

Walter took a deep breath, and turned back to look at the new arrangement. His eyes widened in recognition, and he blushed more furiously than he ever had in his life. "MULDER! Oh SHIT!" he said as he backed away. "I've got to burn these!" He was embarrassed to see that he'd taken a break from illustrating his nightmares, and gone directly to illustrating his wet dreams. Walter cringed when he thought of Mulder's reaction upon seeing these. Just more evidence of his hypocrisy toward the younger man; just more evidence of an obsession of an order of magnitude from yet another crazy A.D. with a passion for his lanky body.

"Calm down, Walter," she said sadly. "You aren't anything like Patterson, and these aren't anything like his hideous gargoyle statues. Your artwork is beautiful...but what's going to happen ISN'T."

He couldn't tear his eyes away. There were dozens of sketches in dozens of poses. The Mulder paintings, in a variety of styles from Ingres to Da Vinci to, Jesus H. Christ help him, VARGA, were breathtakingly erotic. Mulder's skin looked so soft, so silky, so inviting over his hard, lean, muscles that Walter just wanted to crush the painting to his chest, sure that he would feel the man himself there. There were so many Mulders. Particularly damning was the Mulder lying on his stomach looking seductively over his shoulder, practically begging his boss to fuck his pretty ass. Worst of all, he couldn't have made it more obvious WHOSE bed the younger man was gracing. Walter looked at the next sheet of paper, and his stomach lurched when he realized that he had painted Mulder sucking cock. There were at least fifty sketches of that lush, full mouth wrapped around a cock. There were as many more of the younger man putting his tongue to innovative uses. If the other painting had damned him, these placed him squarely inside hell's inner circle.

Walter, trembling and sweating, looked down to see one more painting, one that brought it all home for him, and felt his stomach macrame itself into knots.

It was a horrifying take off on Eugene Delacroix's "The Death of Sardanapalus" in rich, lush, colors. The original depicted an Assyrian potentate in one of Byron's poems who was determined that the invaders at the palace gates should not enjoy anything he himself prized. The potentate watched as all of his treasures-including his concubines who were in various stages of being murdered-were heaped upon a funeral pyre. Walter's version was much the same, except that the Vietnamese boy was the potentate, Walter was all of the murderous palace guards...and all of the concubines were Mulder.

"I'M NOT KILLING HIM, AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!" he screamed, and ran out the door.

"WALTER!!!!" The Old Woman screamed after him, "YOU'VE GOT IT ALL WRONG!!!! RUNNING WON'T STOP THIS!"

He didn't hear her, and it would have been too late if he had. It was midnight, and the Old Woman found herself facing the cold, glittering eyes of Madame Ly, the Sorceress she had so dreaded seeing.

Madame Ly smiled at her, and said in Vietnamese, "It has begun," and the Old Woman disappeared...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~