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Title: Beyond This Experience Summary: What if Skinner finds Mulder first? In his dreams, he reaches out and grabs Mulder's coat sleeve, stops his progress to ask a question or make some comment. Then they walk forward together into the woods to find nothing except some scorching of the ground and trees. They pack up their lasers and equipment and he returns Mulder to Scully, just as promised. Life adheres to its expected and logical course. In his nightmares, he once again sees the ship -- the blinding white glow, like lightning -- the vague outline of a huge, black obelisk that hovers for a few seconds, hesitating just above the trees, and then vanishes with an unbelievable burst of power. In his memories, he is once again alone in the darkness, unable to accept or understand what has happened. Something has gone horribly awry and he cannot command or reprimand it back into place. He wears his guilt secretly, a hair shirt beneath his expertly tailored suits -- never one for displaying his emotions. He does penance by going to the gym and works out until he is nauseous and his muscles tremble with lack of oxygen. By appointing himself as Scully's guardian, to intercede for her, to take care of her, to atone for his most grievous sin -- although he knows he is a poor substitute for the man she really wants by her side. So he searches, every free hour of his busy days and every night, with all the resources of an assistant director at the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the desperation of a man trying to save his soul. Seven months. There are those in the bureau who breathed a sigh of relief after the first few weeks when Mulder didn't pop up in Antarctica or Alaska or New Jersey with some renewed conviction that the truth is out there and aliens are among us. There are those who would sweep the agent and his career under the rug marked "Official Embarrassments" and never speak the name again. Scully has a new partner, the X-Files remain open, and he still has a job. Life goes on. Even some of Mulder's defenders are beginning to hint that the manhunt should be called off and perhaps Mulder's affairs should be put in order. On his worst days, he thinks perhaps they are right. On his best days, he thinks that the next phone call, the next e-mail, the next fax will bring Mulder home. Assistant Director Walter Skinner awakened, as usual, at dawn -- an old military habit he'd never been able to break without consuming a bottle of tequila the night before. He took a quick run, showered, shaved and checked his e-mail. This latter activity was a new habit, born of a recent alliance formed with a ragtag trio of misfits -- Mulder's unlikely helpers, now by necessity his own. Despite his initial misgivings, he had soon come to respect Byers, Langly and Frohike. He admired their persistence and technical expertise even as they needed his guidance and connections. Their initial uncomfortable meetings, reeking of suspicion and paranoia on both sides, had become a group effort, even though he drew the line at being called"Skinman." Finding nothing on the e-mail, Skinner finished dressing for work, then noticed the answering machine light blinking as he grabbed his watch from the nightstand. He picked it up and pressed Play. "We've got a John Doe." Frohicke's words sent a chill down his spine. His throat went dry and he felt a surge of adrenalin go through his body. It wasn't the first time he'd had such a call -- there had been several false leads and dead ends, both through official and unofficial channels. And every time he told himself he would not believe, he would not allow himself to hope... He quickly dialed the Gunmen's lair on a special secure line they had set up. Byers answered without greeting or pleasantry. "State police found a man who fits Mulder's description at a rest stop just off I-94 near the Wisconsin/Illinois border. He was unconscious, no ID. They called the EMTs and took him to a nearby hospital." "Anything else?" "Yes. He's got a scar on his left shoulder that looks like an old gunshot wound. And reportedly he regained consciousness in the ER and said ... something about a skull." How many thousands of people in the United States probably had scars on their shoulders? No doubt more than a few of those were from gunshots or looked as if they could be. He didn't want to turn a misunderstood word or two of someone's feverish ramblings into a plea for Scully. But he'd flown across the country with less information. "I'm on my way," he said, and hung up the phone. He pressed another number. "Hello?" The voice was vaguely familiar, but not the one he'd been expecting. He hesitated. "Dana?" "This is her mother, Maggie Scully. Who is this?" "This is Wal-- uh, Assistant Director Skinner. I need to speak to Agent Scully." Maggie hesitated. "She had a bad night. We're going to the doctor in an hour. I wanted her to get some rest first." Although gently expressed, the unspoken command was loud and clear. Do Not Disturb. Skinner knew Scully's pregnancy had not gone well. She'd been sick almost from the first, but had insisted on continuing to work despite his and her doctor's advice. After she'd had a few close calls in the field, he'd put his foot down and assigned her to desk duty. She'd been fine for a while, but had started looking pale and tired recently, and had even taken a few sick days over the past three weeks, which was unheard of. Skinner didn't want to add to her stress when this could just be another John Doe waiting for someone else to claim him. Knowing Scully, she'd skip the doctor's appointment and jump on the next plane, endangering herself and the child, possibly for nothing. He'd lost Mulder. He wouldn't be responsible for Scully losing the baby. "Mr. Skinner? Can I give her a message? Is this an emergency?" Code for "is this about Mulder?" "No. No, it can wait," he was already impatient to be on his way, and there was no reason to give what few details he had to Maggie. Scully would be furious at being left out of the loop, but he'd deal with her wrath later. She could beat him black and blue if he could tell her he'd found Mulder. The plane ride was uneventful, and soon Skinner was at the reception desk at St. Luke's Hospital in Townsend, Wisconsin, greeting Dr. Abbott, a handsome young man who looked as if he should still be dissecting frogs in biology class. The doctor escorted Skinner to the small cafeteria, where they got coffee from a machine and sat at a corner table."I hear you're interested in our John Doe," he said. "We haven't had time to process all the missing persons reports for a matchup yet. Any help you could give us would be appreciated. We're just a small operation here," he grinned."No pun intended." Skinner fought back a growl, his nerves stretched and ready to snap, not a patient man at the best of times. "I'd have to see him first." The doctor's grin faded and a look of apprehension came into his eyes. Skinner forced himself to breathe deeply."Sorry," he ground out. "It was a long flight." Dr. Abbott gulped the rest of his coffee. "Well, then, let's get to it." They started down the hallway and as they walked, the doctor filled Skinner in on the patient's condition. "He's a little more lucid this morning, but still in and out of consciousness. Not surprising. He's pretty banged up -- cracked ribs, contusions on the arms and abdomen, a few cuts that needed some stitches... and a minor concussion. But fortunately nothing that some rest and antibiotics won't cure." "Was there any indication of a brain disease?" The doctor looked surprised. "Just the concussion, according to our X-rays, and as I said, it's minor. I certainly would have mentioned anything else to you, Mr. Skinner." "Of course." Disappointment flooded through him at yet another dead end, but he'd come this far, he might as well see the man. Besides, after seeing Agent Scully cured of cancer, brought back from the brink of death, he'd come to believe in extreme possibilities. What if Mulder's records had been wrong or falsified? Or what if he'd somehow found a cure, wherever he'd been for the past seven months? But the most likely explanation was that this just wasn't Mulder. Dr. Abbott led him into a room, and as the doctor stopped to check the chart at the foot of the bed, Skinner glanced at the patient, already wondering if he could get a flight back that night. Then all the breath left his body and his knees went weak. Before he realized it, Dr. Abbott had shoved him into a chair and was trying to get him to put his head between his knees. Skinner snarled at him and pushed him away, moving over to the bed and taking the man's hand. Mulder's hand. The knuckles were scraped and bruised. Skinner had seen the fingers bandaged like that not so long ago, in a padded room... "His hand is cold." "He was a little hypothermic when they brought him in. His body temp is still a bit below normal, but nothing to worry about." Skinner looked up at Mulder's pale face, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. There was an ugly bruise on his right temple and a bandage on his chin. His hair was dull and shaggy, his lips dry and cracked. An IV was hooked up to his left arm. Even covered by blankets, Skinner could tell he'd lost weight. He looked fragile, as if the slightest touch would shatter him. The way Skinner felt right now. "I assume he's the one you've been looking for?" Skinner nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Dr. Abbott glanced at his watch. "I'm due on rounds, but you can stay if you like. We have some paperwork at the desk, if you wouldn't mind stopping there on your way out." Skinner nodded again, barely listening, his eyes locked on Mulder. Some primitive, superstitious part of him was terrified to look away, for fear the man would vanish again. Dr. Abbott left the room and Skinner moved the chair a bit closer to the bed. "Mulder. Can you hear me? It's A.D. Skinner." Mulder's eyes fluttered open about halfway and he turned his head in the direction of the voice, wincing even at the slight movement. "Mulder, you're in a hospital in Wisconsin. You're going to be fine." Mulder nodded and closed his eyes. Skinner knew he should just let the man rest. Scully would have his head on a platter for slowing down Mulder's recovery, even for a few minutes. But he had been searching for absolution for nine months and was content to have a hospital room substitute for a confessional. "Mulder," he squeezed the other man's fingers gently. Mulder struggled back to consciousness with a groan. This time he seemed more aware of his surroundings, giving Skinner a puzzled look. Obviously he was expecting someone else to be by his side. "Sir...?" he whispered. "You're in a hospital," Skinner repeated. "The doctor says you're going to be fine." "What...what happened?" Mulder shifted on the pillows, glancing around the room almost imperceptibly. Looking for her. A lump rose in Skinner's throat and he swallowed hard, suddenly unable to meet Mulder's eyes. The desire to confess had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming urge to escape. He hadn't expected to be forced to recount his crime to the victim. A lesser man would have taken advantage of the opportunity, to make some excuse and go find the doctor or call Scully or Byers or Frohike, someone who would know what to say and do. But Skinner was an honorable man. "We...We went to Oregon. Back to Bellefleur to - to look for the ship. An alien craft," he stumbled over the words as his instincts screamed at him to run, to leave this until later. Mulder wasn't strong enough to handle this. But it seemed now that he had started, he couldn't stop. "We were in the woods. You...You disappeared. I lost you," he was dismayed at the sudden burning behind his eyes, and blinked hard as Mulder's fingers curled weakly around his, struggling to regain his composure as the memories flooded through his mind. Maybe neither of them were strong enough for this right now. "Wasn't your fault." He glanced up at the whisper, not sure he'd heard correctly. Mulder's face was white, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his eyes met Skinner's unflinchingly. "I..." he paused and closed his eyes for a moment. "I knew." "What?" Mulder licked his lips and swallowed with an effort. "Water...Please?" Skinner poured a glass of water with a hand that wasn't quite steady, and held the glass so Mulder could take a few sips. He forced himself to be patient as Mulder settled back against the pillow, a bit of color returning to his face. "I knew that I was the one. Not Scully." Skinner fought back anger and hurt at Mulder's lack of trust in him. Maybe if he'd known, he would have been paying more attention. He could have stopped this from happening and saved all of them seven months of hell. And that, of course, was why Mulder hadn't said anything to him. He didn't want to be stopped in his relentless pursuit of the truth. Skinner had been his witness, not his protector. "Was it worth it?" Mulder shook his head and closed his eyes. Skinner sensed that the reaction was not so much from exhaustion, but to avoid answering the question. He couldn't blame the man. Mulder's stories and theories had rarely been greeted with anything other than cynicism and derision. Skinner himself had all too often been skeptical, demanding answers and evidence that simply didn't exist. But his attitude had changed since that night in the forest. "Mulder...Do you remember when I told you about what happened to me in Vietnam? How I was afraid to look beyond that experience?" Mulder opened his eyes. "I'm ready now. What I saw in Oregon...I can't deny that, can't pretend it didn't happen. It's changed my life." He paused, gathering his courage. "I'll support your version of whatever happened to you, even if it means my job. I want people to know the truth. I know I've let you and Scully down in the past..." "No. That doesn't matter." Mulder shook his head. "Sir, I'm grateful for your support. But I...I don't remember what happened." "We'll get you help. That man Werber, who worked with you before. I can bring him here-" "No." Mulder sat up a little straighter, wincing as his bruised body protested. "You don't understand. This time *I'm* the one who doesn't want to look beyond the experience," he closed his eyes and sank back against the pillow. "I just want to go home. I want to see Scully." Skinner leaned back in his chair, feeling the same way Mulder must have felt so often in his office. Frustration and desire for the truth burned inside him and he started to argue his point, but Mulder was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He was already drifting off to sleep, and Skinner didn't have the heart to awaken him again. He would simply have to wait. Besides, the Fox Mulder he knew would not be content for long to simply be a survivor. He would have to know why and how. He would have to put meaning to what had happened to him. To move beyond this experience. And this time he would have an ally. The End |
| Title: Beyond This Experience II Summary: The journey back to Scully continues. Author's notes: This is a sequel to Beyond This Experience, in which Skinner finds Mulder -- but I think you can read this as a standalone without too much confusion. Thanks to everyone who asked for this. Hope you like it. And Happy New Year to all the fanfic community!! "Mulder, what does AMA mean?" Walter Skinner glanced behind him to see the normally pleasant demeanor of Dr. Abbott creased in a scowl as Mulder walked toward the exit of the hospital. His usual confident stride was more of a shuffle, but he had shaken off Skinner's attempts to help. Skinner didn't think he looked much better than he had just yesterday, lying semi-conscious in a hospital bed, but apparently the doctor thought he was well enough to be released. "Something to do with discharge procedures," Mulder remarked without looking back, all his concentration focused on getting out the door. He'd borrowed a sweatshirt and jeans from Skinner, and while they would have been slightly baggy on him if he was in good health, they now hung on his thin frame. Skinner understood and shared Mulder's dislike of hospitals and being confined to a bed, but there were times when the body needed to heal. At the very least, Mulder needed a few good meals and a good night's sleep. He wouldn't get that back in Washington. "Mulder, maybe you should consider-" As Skinner touched his arm to get his attention, Mulder jerked away, staggering backward against the wall. His eyes went blank, lungs hitched with frantic breaths -- and Skinner knew he had gone somewhere else, somewhere where simple contact meant terror and agony. After what seemed like an hour but was only a few seconds, Mulder shuddered and closed his eyes, sinking back against the wall. "Don't touch me," he said quietly. More shaken than he would admit, Skinner merely nodded. "My car's out front," he said. They were soon on their way, without further incident, although as the miles passed by, Skinner considered turning around at every exit. Mulder dozed in the passenger seat, still too pale except for the bruises and scrapes marring his face, raw and ugly. He had wrapped one arm around his waist as if to protect his injured ribs, and Skinner couldn't help but wonder about internal injuries. Had the doctors checked thoroughly? He had been missing for months and no one, including Mulder, knew where he'd been or what had happened to him. What if he punctured a lung 30,000 feet over Ohio? What if he collapsed or had some kind of seizure or drug flashback? Skinner gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and hoped he was doing the right thing. This was normally Scully's job -- outpatient care. She would know if the pallor of his face was normal or not, she'd know to check his pulse, feel his forehead for a fever...If Mulder would let her touch him, in his current state. Skinner tried to reach her once or twice yesterday, knowing she'd hate being left in the dark about all this, but kept getting the machine. Thinking back to his conversation with Maggie, he prayed nothing was wrong with the baby or Scully. Mulder would never recover from a blow like that, and Skinner wasn't sure he would, either. He'd come to care about these two more than he'd ever expected or wanted to, and after his experience in the woods in Bellefleur, felt as though his life was even more entangled with Mulder's search for the truth. Not wanting to leave a message about something this important, Skinner had contacted Frohike so that someone back home would know what was going on. Frohike told him that Scully had been admitted to the hospital, but they hadn't been able to hack into the computer system yet to find out exactly what was happening. There were times Skinner wished they wouldn't tell him so much. He'd lied when Mulder had asked him about Scully, sensing that the other man was disappointed she hadn't come for him herself. Skinner had made up an awkward half-truth, saying she was sick, too ill to travel, but she'd wanted someone to get to Mulder as soon as possible. Whether Mulder believed him or had just been too doped up at the time to question the story, the explanation seemed to mollify him, although he'd almost immediately started insisting he was fine and could be released. Skinner had never seen a bond between two people like this one. Certainly not in his own relationships and rarely in others. Of course, partners were close by necessity. You had to have complete trust in the person who could hold your very life in his or her hands. But Mulder and Scully's connection was almost empathic, some kind of deep psychic connection that had often amazed him and occasionally left him a little jealous. But he liked the idea of acting as their connection... especially since he felt he had been at least in part responsible for tearing them apart. When they arrived at the airport, he started to shake Mulder awake, then remembered the incident in the hospital and spoke his name instead. Mulder awoke quickly, but seemed disoriented, fumbling for the door handle to escape until Skinner quietly reminded him he was in the car and they were at the airport, on their way back to Scully. At the mention of her name, Mulder relaxed and gave Skinner a sheepish apology. Skinner's heart continued pounding even as Mulder calmed down. He felt as if he were escorting a man with a bomb strapped to his waist, never knowing what word or action might set off an explosion. The airport was crowded with business travelers coming and going from Detroit and Chicago on commuter flights. Skinner sensed Mulder tense up again as people brushed past them. He could see the fear in Mulder's eyes and instinctively grasped his elbow to steady him. This time Mulder only stiffened at the contact, but did not pull away. "It's okay. We'll be out of here soon." Skinner murmured, finding them seats that were in a relatively quiet area. Mulder seemed to get used to the bustle and noise after a while, even asking questions about some items in the paper Skinner bought. By the time they got on the plane, Skinner thought the worst was over. The two tall men both settled into the cramped seats as best they could, and Skinner was pleased that Mulder seemed to have conquered the fear that had affected him at the airport. Perhaps he'd been held in isolation somewhere and it had simply taken renewed exposure to a crowd to remind him he had nothing to be afraid of...the basic desire for human contact to help him remember the comfort of a touch. Mulder started to drift off before the plane even left the ground. Everything was going to be fine. They had been in the air about a half an hour and the flight was smooth. Skinner had kept a careful eye on Mulder even as he reviewed some paperwork he'd brought with him, but except for a faint moan now and then, Mulder was fast asleep. Skinner envied him, his own eyes feeling dry and swollen after the past 24 hours, but he couldn't ever get comfortable enough on a plane to sleep -- and he wouldn't dare take the risk that something might happen to Mulder if he let down his guard. "Sir, would you like something to drink?" The pretty blonde flight attendant caught his attention and he realized he hadn't eaten or drunk anything all day except a handful of airplane pretzels. "Just water, please," he said, feeling Mulder shift in the seat next to him, wondering if he should get juice or water for him, as well. He was about to ask the attendant for another glass when she glanced past him, a horrified expression on her face. Skinner turned to see Mulder methodically clawing at his face, raking his skin from the temples to his chin, his nails leaving red tracks. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if he were in pain, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. "Mulder," Skinner said sharply, grabbing Mulder's wrists, surprised at the strength as the other man resisted him. "No..." he groaned. "I have to get them out...Get them out..." "Mulder, listen to me. It's Skinner. Walter Skinner. You're having a bad dream." Mulder's eyes opened, but he stared blankly ahead, clearly unaware of his surroundings, still struggling weakly against Skinner's grip, his hands clenched into fists. Then suddenly he jerked in the seat, his mouth open in a silent scream as a violent tremor shook his body. "Is he having a seizure?" the attendant asked breathlessly. "Is there anything I can do?" They were attracting the attention of the other passengers now, some of them craning to look over the seats at what was going on. Skinner hoped someone would jump up and say "I'm a doctor, let me through," but apparently that only happened in the movies. He had to take charge. "Mulder. Can you hear me?" He grabbed the glass of water from the attendant and tossed some of it at Mulder's face. Mulder gasped and blinked, turning to Skinner. "What the hell are you doing?" Skinner grinned with sheer relief. "Sorry, Mulder. Turbulence," he turned to the attendant, who was still looking at them both a little warily. "Could we have another glass of water here?" He waited until she had moved on and Mulder had taken a few sips of his water before he leaned across the seat. "You were having a nightmare. Maybe a memory," he murmured. "Do you remember any of it?" Mulder shook his head. "You were scratching at your face-" Skinner lifted his hand toward Mulder's jaw. When the other man flinched, he lowered his hand slowly as he continued, "You said something about taking them out. You had to get them out. Get what out, Mulder?" Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember," he turned to stare out the window. "But if you could talk about it-" Mulder turned back to him, his eyes dark and haunted, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I said I don't remember," he snapped. "Let it go." Skinner sat back in his seat. Mulder closed his eyes, but Skinner could tell by the tension in his body that he wasn't going to sleep any time soon. The action was deliberate -- to shut out any further attempts at conversation, to avoid any more questions. Irritated at Mulder's stubbornness, Skinner opened his mouth to continue his interrogation, then noticed the scratches -- self-inflicted -- still clearly marking Mulder's face. The man was more fragile than either of them had realized. Did he want to risk causing another seizure or flashback on a crowded airplane? He had seen Mulder with victims of alien abductions and other paranormal phenomena, had watched him gently coax them to tell their stories, had admired his patience, his way of making them feel comfortable enough to relate their unbelievable tales. Skinner's interrogation techniques were rusty at best -- he'd been in an office for too long, he'd lost his touch with the art of dragging confessions from people who didn't want to talk or remember, for whatever reason. And in Mulder's precarious mental and physical state, he was afraid of what might happen if he pushed too hard. He would have been naive to think that Mulder would return unaffected by whatever had happened to him. But he had never suspected that Mulder would not want to recover his repressed memories, would be afraid to face what had happened to him. Mulder's life revolved around pursuit of the truth, and Skinner had seen him risk his life and his job as he pushed and prodded his way through layer upon layer of deception at the highest levels of government. The two of them had butted heads more than once because of Mulder's insistence on uncovering truths sometimes better left hidden. They might have gone on that way for years. But Skinner had seen enough that night in Bellefleur to become a new recruit to Mulder's crusade, a believer in extreme possibilities that he had scoffed at in the past. The bits and pieces he'd discovered in his search for Mulder had only fueled his thirst for knowledge. He'd read all the files, examined all the records, talked to the Gunmen late into the night, becoming more and more convinced that the truth was out there. Except that right now, the truth was here, sitting beside him on this plane. A truth so horrifying, so devastating, that even the intrepid Fox Mulder refused to face it, frantically burying the memories as they surfaced, leaving them to fester deep inside, where they would slowly destroy him. Skinner wasn't going to let that happen. But this wasn't the time or the place. The best he could do for now was help Mulder feel safe. And that meant getting him back to Scully. Mulder finally drifted back to sleep only a few minutes before the plane landed, and Skinner had to wake him up. He was groggy, allowing Skinner to lead him off the plane and through the airport, seeming only vaguely aware of his surroundings, moving in whatever direction he was led. They stopped at a sandwich counter, but Mulder shook his head at the offer of food, looking a bit green as he watched Skinner bite into a Philly steak and cheese. "Mulder, we should probably take you to a hospital," Skinner said as they walked to the car. "No," Mulder shook his head. "I'm fine." Skinner sighed. Scully was going to have his ass in a sling for this. But he had a feeling that if he hadn't gone to Townsend, Mulder would have checked himself out and headed back to Washington anyway. At least someone was here now to catch him if he fell. Mulder didn't want to go to his apartment, even though Skinner assured him the rent and the fish had been taken care of in his absence. He wanted to find Scully, so Skinner took him to the Hoover Building. He suspected she wasn't there, but didn't want to risk barging in on her at home if something had gone wrong with the pregnancy, and he hadn't been able to call Maggie with Mulder constantly by his side. He guessed correctly that Mulder would see nothing suspicious about them going to the FBI headquarters to locate his partner, and Skinner hoped he could get away for a couple of minutes with Mulder back in familiar territory, to make some phone calls and find out what was going on. He escorted Mulder down the stairs to the basement office, feeling like he was putting a child in a playpen to keep him safe and out of the way for a while. Mulder hesitated in front of the door. "This is my office." It was more of a question than a statement. "Of course it-" Skinner suddenly realized the reason for Mulder's confusion. "Kersh removed your name." That comment drew a wan smile. "I suppose he changed the lock, too?" Skinner shook his head, stepping aside so Mulder could open the door. There had been other changes in Mulder's absence, and he wasn't sure how Mulder would handle the new arrangements. He stood in the doorway and watched as Mulder flipped on the light, then slowly stepped into the room, gazing around as if he'd never seen it before. He glanced at the ceiling, where Doggett had insisted the pencils be removed. He stared at the corner where his treasured "I Want to Believe" poster had hung, currently covered over with a map of the Washington DC area. He turned to see the new desk -- Doggett's desk -- occupying a prominent area, crowding the small room. Skinner could have sworn he even sniffed the air, like a wild animal sensing the presence of an enemy. Then he walked slowly over to his desk, running his fingers along the edge, before he turned to Skinner. "My nameplate, too?" Mulder's voice was flat, distant. Skinner couldn't read his expression. He would have preferred anger or sarcasm. He was used to those responses from Mulder. He could deal with them. This man standing before him was a stranger. "I - I don't know what happened to your nameplate." Mulder walked over to the new desk. "Who sits here?" A tone of mild curiosity, but Skinner could see the tension in his body, the straightness of his back. Mulder wasn't as detached as he appeared to be. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea... "Mulder, let's go up to my office and-" "Who sits here?" A demand this time -- the calm exterior showing a crack or two. Skinner cursed to himself. He didn't want to get into this. Not here. Not now. "That would be Agent Doggett. He's -- assisting Scully in your absence." "No!" Mulder's cry -- a sound of pain and frustration -- sent a shudder through Skinner. He watched, momentarily frozen, as Mulder swept the contents off of Doggett's desk, sending them crashing to the floor. Then Mulder turned to Skinner, his body shaking with barely controlled rage. "She's *my* partner. *Mine.*" "Mulder, listen to me. This was all temporary. You have to believe-" Mulder's eyes suddenly focused on something just past his shoulder, and before he could turn around he heard Doggett's voice. "What the hell are you doing here?" There was a pause as the agent assessed the situation. "Sir, are you okay?" Skinner nodded, still watching Mulder. "I'm fine, Agent Doggett. We're all fine." "Should I get some back-up down here?" Doggett said quietly, although his voice could be heard plainly in the small room. A corner of Mulder's mouth quirked as he met Skinner's eyes. Skinner choked back a chuckle. Mulder was more of a threat to himself than anyone else. "No need for that. Agent Mulder is here voluntarily." Then Doggett saw the mess on the floor. "What did you do to my desk?" he growled, stepping forward. "It's not your desk," Mulder replied. "This isn't your office." "Kersh doesn't think so," Doggett retorted. "And neither does my partner...Agent Scully." With a quickness that surprised both the other men, Mulder launched himself at Doggett, knocking him down with the weight of his body and the unexpected attack. He got in a hard right to the jaw that would leave a bruise before Doggett shoved him away and they both staggered to their feet. "Maybe I should call for that back-up," Skinner murmured. "I don't want to hurt you, Agent Mulder," Doggett panted. "The feeling is not mutual," Mulder gasped, throwing a wild swing that Doggett easily ducked. As the adrenalin rush faded, Mulder slumped back against the desk that had once been his, one arm held protectively over his ribs. Skinner stepped in to call a halt before things got any farther out of control, feeling like a teacher breaking up a schoolyard brawl. "Look, let's leave this until later. Agent Doggett, I'm sure you have work to do. Mulder, I'm taking you to the hospital." Mulder shook his head, wincing at the movement. "No. I'm not leaving here. This office is mine. Desk ...is mine. The X-Files...are... mine." "I thought they were ours," came a new voice from the doorway. All three men looked up to see the very pregnant Dana Scully staring at them solemnly. Then she suddenly seemed to realize who she was looking at. Her breath caught in her throat and she bit into her bottom lip, her eyes filling with tears. "Oh my God.," she whispered. Mulder's eyes traveled from her face to her swollen belly, and back to her face again. Skinner caught him just before he hit the floor. Scully hurried over and knelt awkwardly beside Mulder, her hand trembling as she gently stroked his cheek. She raised her eyes to Skinner's. "What's going on? How did he get here?" Even as she spoke, she went automatically into doctor mode, checking Mulder's pulse, resting a hand briefly on his forehead. "He's got a fever. He should be in a hospital." Skinner winced at her accusatory tone, but knew the time wasn't right for explanations. He glanced up at Doggett, who was staring at them from the doorway. "Call 9-1-1, damn it!" he barked, as Scully gasped and put her hand against her side. Doggett grabbed the phone as Skinner leaned toward Scully. "Are you all right?" "I'm fine." He knew better than to argue, although he would have been hard pressed to say which one of his "fine" agents needed the ambulance more at that particular moment. "Is there anything else I can do?" Doggett asked. "Get out of here," Skinner replied, as Mulder started to regain consciousness. These two could continue their pissing contest later -- preferably in some smoky bar or dark alley far away from the Hoover Building. He glanced at the door to find Doggett had already vanished. To give him credit, the man took orders well. "Scully...?" Mulder groaned, opening his eyes slowly. She shifted so she was in his line of vision and cradled his face in her hands. Skinner noticed that the gesture, while one of caring and concern, also kept him from getting another direct look at her swollen stomach. As Mulder slipped his hand around her wrist, his gaze locked on hers, Skinner felt as if he were intruding on an intensely private moment, but there was no room to back away. Not that they were aware of his presence anymore. "I missed you," Scully said simply. A single tear trickled down her cheek -- the only indication of the pain she had endured over the past seven months. Pain Skinner had witnessed in the rare moments when she let down her guard out of exhaustion and hopelessness in the privacy of his office. Pain he had shared, but like her had kept hidden from everyone, finding brief release in the occasional bottle of whiskey shared with Frohike, Byers and Langly. The weight of guilt and worry lifted as he watched the tender moment unfold before him, but left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. This reunion was theirs, not his. "Love you..." Mulder sighed as his eyes drifted shut. A moment later his hand slipped from Scully's wrist. She choked back a sob, turning away from Skinner. "Scully," he hesitated. "Dana." She turned to him and he held out his arms. "Let me help you up." He got her to her feet, where as he had hoped, she clung to him and allowed herself to cry for a few minutes, to let him see the woman behind the stoic Agent Scully. To let him comfort her as he had so often longed to do ever since he'd told her Mulder was gone, and she'd told him she was pregnant. She pulled away as soon as they heard the paramedics clattering down the stairs. There was no reason for him to accompany them to the hospital. Between Scully and the doctors, Mulder was in good hands, and the staff wouldn't allow Scully to overexert herself. He knew they wouldn't have objected to his presence, but knew he could be more productive if he stayed behind, as he always did, taking care of business. After all, he had a report to write, detailing the discovery of Agent Mulder and closing that particular X-File. He had research to do so he could begin helping Mulder remember what had happened to him. But first he had to make a phone call. "Agent Doggett? Please come to my office. We need to talk." The End |
| Title: Beyond This Experience III Summary: Even though he's brought Mulder back to Scully, Skinner finds his job isn't over yet. Author's notes: I recommend reading BTE I & II for fullest enjoyment of this story. Walter Skinner hesitated outside Room 121. He hated visiting people in the hospital. He never knew what to say or do...especially in this case. He had no experience with this sort of thing. But the thought had nagged at him all day, and he knew that he would get no rest from his strict sense of duty and honor if he didn't stop for a few minutes. A quick visit, more to reassure himself that everything was fine than to be of any comfort, but who needed to know his motives were less than pure? He didn't know why this felt so awkward, why he was so indecisive about something that would have been an obvious course for any other person. But he did know. The distance he'd once established had vanished over the last seven months and he couldn't go back to the way things were, as much as he wanted to. He had tried hard to remain neutral, berating himself at each crack in his armor, resolving that it would be the last, and yet he could no more stop himself from caring than he could turn back the clock and erase what had happened. He'd thought after Sharon that he would never allow himself to care for anyone again, and yet somehow, here he was clutching a cheap bouquet of flowers, rehearsing platitudes, like a nervous teenager on his first date. Except this woman was already spoken for. In fact, Mulder was probably by her side, even if he'd had to drag an IV along with him. Skinner's presence, while not unwelcome, would nonetheless be an intrusion. He had nothing to say, while they had volumes. He was about to turn away and leave the flowers at the reception desk when the door opened and a doctor stepped out, nearly running into him. The woman smiled as she saw the bouquet in his hand. "You can go in now." She held the door for him. He would have looked foolish if he'd turned and walked away. Skinner entered the room to see Scully sitting up in bed, looking frustrated, but healthy. He hadn't been surprised to hear that they'd wanted to keep her for observation. She had worried him in the basement office when she'd knelt by Mulder and then grimaced in pain, her hand at her side. He knew she'd struggled with this pregnancy from the beginning, but he had sensed there was a line that he could not cross in asking her about her condition. He'd had little choice in taking her out of the field -- that was an FBI requirement after the second trimester. But she'd given him no choice in doing anything more for her. She smiled when she saw him and accepted the flowers graciously, asking him to sit down. "Are you all right?" he asked, his worry making his voice sound gruffer than he would have liked, but she didn't seem to notice. "I'm fi-" she broke off with a sheepish look. "They're just doing some tests. I might have to be confined to bed for the rest of the pregnancy, but it's a precaution." She must have seen some darkness still in his eyes, because she reached out and put her hand over his."We're going to be all right," she said softly. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. For the last two days he'd been a man on a mission: get Mulder back to Scully. Now that it had been accomplished, he allowed himself the luxury of emotion, and the relief threatened to overwhelm him. He glanced out the window and cleared his throat, searching for familiar territory. "Where's Mulder? I expected to see him here." She was silent for so long that he turned back to her, alarmed. Mulder had been in bad shape, but even Scully, as a doctor, hadn't seemed to think anything was drastically wrong. If Skinner had endangered his life by bringing him back, he'd never forgive himself. Scully met his eyes, her own brimming with tears, and bit her lower lip. "I - He's - He left." "The hospital?," Skinner said stupidly. Annoyance quickly replaced relief at knowing he was apparently able to walk out on his own. The idea of Mulder willingly leaving Scully's side, especially in her current condition, was unfathomable. Had he gone back to work? Back to finish the fight with Doggett? "What the hell was he thinking?" Scully looked down at her her fingers twisted in the blanket. "He... needs some time. This was all a little overwhelming." "That selfish son of a-" Skinner caught himself just in time. Scully wouldn't see it like that. She was loyal to Mulder, whereas Skinner's loyalties lay elsewhere, to be forever hidden. He swallowed his anger, although it nearly choked him. Scully sat up a little straighter, as he had seen her do so often in his office just before she launched into a passionate defense of Mulder's most recent behavior. "I've had seven months to adjust to this, and some days I still can't quite believe what's happening." She gave him a wan smile. "I appreciate your concern, sir, but right now I'm more worried about Mulder. He needs food and rest. He needs some time." He needs you to look after him, was left unspoken. Skinner nodded, putting his hand over hers and squeezing gently. The most intimacy he would allow himself, and the most she would ever accept. "I'll take care of it." "I know." At least this time the search was over with quickly. Skinner headed to Mulder's apartment after a quick call to the Lone Gunmen, who told him Mulder had stopped by for his spare key. They'd tried to get him to stay, but he had insisted on going home. When Mulder opened the door, Skinner's planned tirade vanished."You look like hell," he blurted. Mulder leaned against the door frame and gave him a weary smile."What a coincidence. I feel like hell," he moved aside for Skinner to enter and followed him into the living room, sinking down on the sofa and closing his eyes. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? No, don't tell me, let me guess. Agent Doggett has lodged a formal complaint." Skinner chuckled. "I doubt you even left a bruise." "Too bad." "Mulder...I just talked to Scully-" "Can I get you something to drink? The guys left some beer in the fridge." Mulder shuffled into the kitchen and brought back two bottles. He handed one to Skinner and sat back down on the couch, pale and sweaty from even that mild exertion. "So what shall we drink to?" he asked. "Scully," Skinner replied. Mulder's eyes darkened as they clinked the bottles and each took a swig. Not a soft-spoken man at the best of times, seeing Mulder sprawled on the couch drinking a beer while Scully was stuck in a hospital bed made Skinner speak more sharply than he'd intended. "She's worried about you. And she doesn't need that right now. Why the hell aren't you there with her? Do you know what she's been through over the past seven months?" "No. I don't," Mulder said quietly, absently rubbing at his jaw. Skinner suddenly remembered the nightmare Mulder had had on the flight back, where he'd clawed at his face, muttering about"getting them out." "I'm sorry," he muttered. Mulder shook his head. "It's not your fault, sir. None of this is your fault." "It's not yours, either, Mulder. If staying away from Scully is some sort of self-flagellation..." Mulder stood up and walked unsteadily over to the window, staring out for a few moments before he spoke again. "I don't remember where I was or what happened to me for seven months. There's no predicting the physical and mental repercussions. What if I-" He leaned against the desk, head bowed. Skinner suddenly understood the root of Mulder's fear -- not the aliens, not even his own safety or sanity. "You'd never hurt her...or the baby." "I can't take that risk." Skinner stood up, his scant ration of patience wearing thin with lack of sleep and the stress of the last few days. "Mulder...Do you realize how lucky you are?" Mulder turned and stared at him for a moment, then smirked. "Oh, yeah. I'm one lucky bastard, all right." "Damn it, Dana loves you, Mulder. Beyond reason, beyond fear, beyond alien abductions. God knows why, but she does. You keep saying the truth is out there, Mulder, but it's been right by your side for the past seven years. And if you can't see that, maybe you *should* walk away." He was dangerously close to saying too much, revealing feelings best left hidden, but he wasn't going to lose her without a fight -- even if he had to force this reluctant soldier to go into battle in his place. Skinner forced himself to take a deep breath and count to three -- slowly -- before he continued, "We can help you recover those memories, Mulder. We can work through this. Or you can just give up and check yourself into a padded room somewhere and live a nice safe existence. No risks." Mulder stared down at his beer bottle, focused on peeling off a tiny corner of the label. The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the desk. Skinner stood up, needing to get out of the stuffy room, feeling claustrophobic, smothered by words said and unsaid. He needed something stronger than beer to soothe the ache in his gut and quiet the chaos in his head. He was almost to the door when Mulder spoke. "I've been in a padded room," he said mildly. "Didn't much care for it." Skinner hesitated, then turned to look at him, unable to read his expression in the shadows near the window. "I'm scared."The voice was barely audible, even in the quiet room. "We all are," Skinner replied quietly, his voice not quite steady. Mulder nodded, then set the beer bottle down and grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch. "Let's go see Scully." Skinner glanced at his watch. "Mulder, it's past visiting hours. You probably won't be able to see her tonight." Mulder gave him a grin. "Let's just say I'm willing to take the risk."
Of course the clerk at the reception desk refused their request, unimpressed even when Skinner flashed his FBI credentials. "You could be J. Edgar Hoover for all I care," the bleached blonde said in a bored tone. "Visiting hours are over. Come back tomorrow." She pointed to the sign that said "Visiting Hours: 10 a.m. to 7:00 p.m." "Sorry, Mulder," Skinner murmured as they turned to walk away. "But you could use a good night's sleep anyway, and-" Mulder suddenly stopped and winced as if he were in pain."I - I don't think I..." With a groan, he put a hand to his head, and Skinner barely caught his arm as he sank to the floor. "We need some help here!" Skinner shouted, shaking the clerk out of her ennui. She grabbed the phone and made a quick call. Skinner looked back at Mulder, surprised to find he was still conscious -- and even more surprised when Mulder winked at him. "What the hell are you-" Skinner was interrupted by the doctor, who gave Mulder a quick exam and immediately ordered that he be admitted. Mulder meekly submitted to the doctor's orders, allowing himself to be helped onto a gurney, when Skinner knew full well he hated hospitals and most doctors... except for one. The crazy son of a bitch had done it to see her. After taking care of some paperwork, Skinner got Mulder's room number and permission to stop in and make sure he didn't need anything. No one questioned him when he pressed the button for the first floor instead of the fourth on the elevator, and no one stopped him on the way to Scully's room. But then, Walter Skinner was not a man whose presence anywhere was generally questioned. He always looked like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Even if he wasn't sure himself. He opened the door to find Mulder in a hospital gown, hooked up to one of those portable IVs, sitting next to Scully's bed. The two of them were smiling at each other, talking quietly. Mulder's free hand rested loosely on the mound of Scully's stomach, her hand over his. Unnoticed, Skinner closed the door softly and walked down the corridor. Everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed. Their bond was immediate and strong -- an almost palpable presence in the room, leaving him feeling like a voyeur even in those few moments he had watched them. Once again he would be forced to keep his distance, maintain the status quo. It was honorable. It was right. He should be content with that, as he always had been in the past -- satisfied with his role in bringing them together, in keeping them together, but an unbearable loneliness settled over him as he made his way to his car. The next few weeks would be difficult, but they would survive. They would move beyond this experience. But could he? The End
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