Skinner called in to work the next morning and arranged to take a
couple of days off.  He'd spoken privately to Jess Coslow late
that night, after Mulder had gone to bed, and she assured him
that Mulder's calm was nothing but a facade.

"He's facing a crisis, Walter, a big one," she pointed out.
"Sooner or later he won't be able to pretend any longer, and if
he's alone when that happens I don't know what he might do.  I
wish he had agreed to stay at the hospital for a few days."

"I'll stay with him," he promised her.  "He'll be more
comfortable with me anyway.  He'd have driven the nurses crazy. I
can handle him."

"But if he has a breakdown, can you handle that?" she asked.
"He's a very determined man when his mind is made up."

"I can be very determined myself, Jess.  Besides, I used to be
his boss, and that intimidation factor is still present.  I can
deal with Mulder."  He'd hung up, wishing he felt as confident as
he sounded.  He wasn't sure what he would do if Mulder tried to
harm himself, but he knew he had to prevent it if the situation
occurred.  He wasn't about to let Mulder sacrifice himself now.
Not after all he'd come through.

Mulder slept through breakfast the next day, and Skinner was
finally motivated to check on him by the memory that Mulder
didn't use an electric shaver.  It might be a bit difficult to
slash open veins with one of those safety-type razors Mulder
preferred, but it certainly wasn't impossible. With his heart
jumping in his chest, Skinner eased the bedroom door open.  His
relief was enormous when Mulder raised a sleepy head to look at
him.

"Did I oversleep?" Mulder asked, obviously not quite awake.

"No, it's all right.  I was just checking on you."  Skinner began
to close the door but Mulder stopped him.

"Walter, I know you're worried, but you don't need to be.  I'm
fine."

Skinner snorted.  "Sure you are, Mulder.  If you're getting up
now, I still have some breakfast that I can warm up for you."

"No thanks, I'm not really hungry," the object of his concern
muttered, hauling himself out of bed and making for the bathroom.
Skinner shook his head in exasperation and went back to the sofa
and his newspaper. When, he wondered, was Mulder going to admit
that he was not 'fine'?


The pretense continued for another day-and-a-half, and the
catalyst for Mulder's eventual breakdown was something so simple
that no one could have predicted it.  Skinner had tried to shield
Mulder from potentially dangerous topics or situations since he'd
brought the other man home, but a visit to his mother's graveside
usually calmed Mulder.  When Mulder requested a trip to the
cemetery (driving being expressly forbidden by Walter), Skinner
agreed immediately.  The moment his eyes fell on the grave he
knew he had made a horrible mistake, but by then it was much too
late.  Mulder had seen them as well.

The flowers--white carnations.  The type Scully always brought to
Teena Mulder's final resting place.  Skinner turned to Mulder and
found his face to be as white as the blossoms on which his eyes
were affixed.  He was biting his bottom lip so hard that Skinner
was afraid he would see blood trickle down Mulder's chin at any
moment.

"Come on, Mulder, let's go back to the car," he said firmly,
taking Mulder's elbow and guiding him away.  Mulder looked back
at the flowers once, then faced resolutely ahead.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered to himself over and over.  "It
doesn't matter."

Skinner was afraid.  Mulder's eyes had taken on that haunted
appearance again, and he seemed to have closed himself off
somehow.  He situated Mulder in the car and got them the hell out
of there as quickly as he could.

Back home, he wanted to fix the old standy coffee, but was
determined not to leave Mulder alone for even a second, and
Mulder had curled up in a corner of the couch, staring out the
balcony window with dead eyes. Walter was distinctly
uncomfortable with Mulder's preoccupation with that window, and
wondered if some type of lock that would prevent Mulder's opening
it would be a good idea.  Probably not, he decided.  If Mulder
wanted out there, he would simply break the glass. Seeing Mulder
begin to shiver, he picked up the afghan he used on cold winter
evenings while watching basketball games and tossed it over the
other man's huddled body.

"She was there, Walter," Mulder said suddenly.  "She came back to
put flowers on my mother's grave, but she didn't contact me.  Her
mother said she'd left town.  Surely Maggie wouldn't lie to me.
Do you think she's really left town at all?  Maybe she's just
holed up somewhere. Maybe she's really staying with her mother
after all."

"Slow down, Mulder!" Skinner commanded, and Mulder halted his
frantic, almost manic reasoning.

"Sorry," he muttered, and Skinner put a friendly hand momentarily
on his shoulder.

"Why does Scully put flowers on your mother's grave?" he asked,
hoping to bring on the crisis which was so obviously just below
the surface. The sooner they got it over with, the better for
Mulder.

A trace of a smile crossed Mulder's face.  "I asked her that
once, and she said it was because she respected Mom."  A tiny
laugh.  "She didn't think Mom loved me all those years we were
partnered, but once I was sent to prison Scully said she figured
out how much my mother cared."

"Most mothers love their sons, Mulder, even if they don't know
how to express it," Skinner observed.

"Why can't she love me?" Mulder asked in a small voice, and
Skinner's only thought was, 'here we go'.

"Do you know she's never said she loves me?  She's implied it in
so many ways and made me believe it, but she has never once
committed herself to me."

"Have you told her how you feel?" Skinner questioned.  It was
obvious where this was leading, and the tears he expected were
not long in making their appearance.

"Hell yes!" Mulder flared.  "I told her years ago, ages ago, an
entire lifetime ago!  Do you know what she did, Walter?  She
walked away from me."

"That day in the prison?"

"No!  Two years earlier, after that stupid Bermuda Triangle thing
I did," Mulder explained angrily, and Skinner nodded
understanding.

"I finally got up the nerve to tell her and she turned and walked
away and she never mentioned it again, and I was too afraid to
tell her again, and then she--"

"Slow down, Mulder."  His words were gentle, soothing, but Mulder
didn't seem to even hear him.

"--turned her back on me and married *him*!  If she had just
acknowledged me, Walter, if she had only told me what she was
feeling... If Scully loved me, I might have been satisfied.  I
might have given up on that damned quest I was on and just loved
her back.  Maybe we could have made a life together and been
happy, but instead I ended up--"

He stopped, bent double as if all his breath was gone, and now
the tears came, starting not gently, not gracefully, but all at
once, as if someone had turned a faucet on full-blast.  Deep,
wrenching sobs tore from Mulder's body and he clutched at the
afghan as if it were the only stable thing in a world gone mad.

"I lost everything because of her," he gasped through the sobs.
"Everything--my entire life--nothing's left now.  How could
I--have trusted her?  I've been chasing her for so long and
Walter, *she's never said she loved me!*  Not once!"

Skinner let him cry and rail and yell in frustration and anger at
the hand he'd been dealt.  God knew it was a tough one to play,
loaded with low cards and jokers everywhere.  He was surprised
Mulder had stayed in the game this long.

"I could have done so much if she had only told me!  She just
used me, Walter, that's all.  I was someone she could turn to
when she needed help, and I was a sounding board for her
problems, and then just before she left I was a quick lay, one
she'd been promising herself for years, I guess, but she never
loved me at all!  And she *knew*, she *knew* how I felt about her
and she just didn't care!  Why can't she love me? Why am I not
good enough?  What's wrong with me..."

Words stopped, after that, because the rush of tears and the
effort of breathing eliminated their possibility.  For the better
part of an hour Skinner sat and watched Mulder as his heart
finally broke.  All the things he had endured and it all came
down to this one thing:  Scully had never told Mulder that she
loved him.  Grimly Walter wondered what she had been protecting.
The truth had been so very, very obvious, but unless the words
were spoken it meant nothing to Mulder.

Finally, at long last, the tears stopped.  Mulder was exhausted,
and he slumped against the couch limply.  Skinner tugged and
pulled until he got Mulder into a lying-down position, then
carefully re-covered him with the afghan.  Just as he'd thought
Mulder had dropped off to sleep, he heard whispered words coming
from the other man's lips.  Leaning closer, Skinner was barely
able to make them out, and when he did they puzzled him.

"Uncle, Scully."

*****

Scully stared at the envelope she held in trembling hands.  She
didn't even need to open it; she was certain of its contents.  It
would be more pictures of Mulder, alone and vulnerable.  Since
her departure she had received a weekly packet of them.
Apparently it was Zach's way of letting her know that he was
still watching.  She had tried calling him, wanting to tell him
to leave Mulder alone now that she'd given him what he demanded,
but his number was disconnected.  For a moment she had even
considered calling his parents, but decided against it--Zach had
put them through enough, and there was no need to get them
involved.  It wasn't as if there was anything they could do.

Lately she had been debating whether or not to call Skinner, just
to let him know what was happening.  She knew the police ought to
be involved, but remembering Mulder's vehemence against reporting
Zach's attempts on his life she had held off on calling them.
Besides, she told herself, they would have to treat this as a
simple stalking case, which meant until Zach actually harmed
Mulder, there was no action they could take. By then it would be
too late.  So far, she was sure, Zach had only sent her the
photographs to remind her of his threat.  If he found out the
authorities had become interested in him, Mulder might be in real
danger.  Those reasons kept her silent, but the cost was high.
She was in a constant state of agitation now, suffering from
stress headaches and loss of appetite, and the blame could be
laid directly on Zach.  If he would only leave her alone--let her
go on and make a new life--she could cope, even if that life
couldn't include Mulder.  This constant reminder that the man she
loved was in peril, however, was making her a nervous wreck.

There was an unexpected knock at the door and Scully jumped,
frightened for a moment.  Nobody came to visit her here.  Nobody.
Quickly she shoved the envelope into a drawer with the others
she'd received, then went to peer out the peephole.

Bill.  What the hell was Bill doing here?  Their last
conversation had been somewhat less than amicable.  Bill had
applauded her decision to leave Mulder, and as if to rub salt in
her wound had even had the gall to suggest she give her
ex-husband another chance.

"Another chance at what?" she'd asked him sarcastically. "Killing
me?" He had been less than receptive to her jibes.

Now she stood with her hand on the knob for a moment, calming her
shaken nerves before she finally opened the door to confront him.
If she'd expected anger or more suggestions on how she should
conduct her life, she was disappointed.  The only emotion evident
on Bill's face was contrition.

"Can I come in?" he asked hesitantly after a moment of silence.
Her staring made him even more uncomfortable than he'd been while
waiting for her to open the door.  He hadn't wanted to come here
at all, but the urging of his wife, Tara, along with his own
conscience and desire to mend fences with his sister had led him
to her door.

Scully stared a moment longer, still dumbfounded at his
appearance, then quickly regained her composure.  "Sure," she
said curtly, stepping back to allow him entrance.

He stood awkwardly in the living room of her small apartment for
a full minute before she took pity on him and offered him a seat.
Then he sank down slowly, lowering his long form onto one corner
of the sofa.

"Dana, I want--" he began, and stopped, shaking his head.  This
wasn't how to begin.  It wasn't about what *he* wanted, it was
about his sister.

"I've come to ask you to forgive me," he finished hesitantly.

"For?" she demanded, refusing to give him the benefit of mercy.
He had made her life miserable on many occasions, and she didn't
know if she could ever forgive him for posting Zach's bail after
he'd beaten her.

"For everything.  For the way I've acted toward you.  I realize
now I had no right.  I still don't want to see you with that guy,
Mulder, but I'm glad--"

"You know, Bill," Scully interrupted coldly, "you have a
remarkable capacity for making decisions when you have little or
no facts at your disposal.  You decided to dislike Mulder before
you ever met him, and you never even gave him a chance.  He told
me what you said to him outside my hospital room the day you two
met, and I was...Bill, I was ashamed of you."

"I was just upset," he said defensively.  "You were dying, and it
was--"

"It was all his fault?  That's what you were going to say, isn't
it?" At his guilty flush she leaned toward him and her voice grew
intent. "Tell me what it is you don't like about him, Bill.  I
want you to put it into words.  Make me understand."

He sighed and refused to meet her eyes.  How could he put into
words something that was merely a gut reaction?  He didn't know
precisely why, but from the moment he had heard about Mulder from
their mother, heard about the quest he was on, learned the
details of exactly *why* Missy had died, he had been certain that
Mulder was bad news.  That eventually Dana would suffer for her
relationship with him.  And hadn't he been proven correct time
and time again?  Hadn't she been through the wringer and beyond
because of her feelings for Mulder and her devotion to him?

"If not for him you would have had a normal life," he started.
"You'd have married someone you loved, had kids, been happy."

"You don't know that at all, Bill.  Life doesn't come with
guarantees. Everyone has sorrow."

"You've had more than your share."

She shrugged.  "Maybe, but who decides what 'my share' is?  You?
God? You're still not telling me what I want to hear.  Don't say
you hate Mulder because of what might have been.  Tell me exactly
what it is about him that bothers you."

"The guy is crazy, Dana!" he exploded, having had enough of her
crap. He may have come here to apologize, but she was still his
baby sister, damn it, and she should look up to him.  "He
believes in aliens, for God's sake!"

"So what you're telling me," she said calmly, "is that you don't
like him because he has beliefs that differ from yours.  It
doesn't matter to you that he's honorable, and kind, and a
genuinely good person.  You can't deal with him because he
doesn't think like you."

He gave her a chagrined look and refused to answer.

"Well Bill, I don't think like you either," she went on, and he
winced, knowing she was referring to the Catholic beliefs they
had been raised with.  "Does that make you dislike me?"

"Of course not, Dana--"

"Then accept me, Bill.  Stop trying to change me.  If I love a
man you can't accept, the least you could do is keep your mouth
shut about him. I tried your choice of a husband.  It didn't work
out."  The irony of her words reminded him why he had come.

"Look, I didn't intend to get drawn into a discussion about
Mulder," he said helplessly.  "I came to apologize to you for the
way I acted about Zach.  I never should have gotten him out of
jail, but Dana...I believed him."

She sat back and waited for him to continue.

"I know it was stupid, but he had been my friend for such a long
time, and I really couldn't believe he'd ever deliberately hurt
you.  I was ready to rip him into pieces when I saw him that
morning, if that helps," he added with a small smile, and she
nodded.

"It does, a little.  I did feel as though you had abandoned me."

"I'm sorry about that.  I just want you to know that, although I
may be a little dense at times, I do truly love you and want
what's best for you.  I was so taken in by Zach that I just
didn't see the truth."

"And you see it now?"  He nodded.  "What made you change your
mind?" she asked curiously.  She had told nobody about Zach's
threats toward Mulder.  It was her secret, her burden to be borne
alone.

"Something he said to me made me stop and think...there were
things Zach had told me about in the past, but I didn't want to
believe them.  Dana, they were so absurd, you have to
understand--"

"What did he say to you?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with one finger, something he
did when he was agitated.  It was a habit she remembered from
their childhood, and Dana smiled.

"He said it wasn't about the money any longer," he replied,
unknowingly repeating Zach's words to her.  "Which implied that
at one time it *had* been about the money, but Dana, I swear I
never realized that.  You and Mom tried to tell me, but I
couldn't believe it.  I thought the two of you were so blinded by
Mulder that you didn't understand Zach.  Turns out I was the one
who was blind."

Scully wanted to laugh.  At last, she thought, now that it's too
late for it to make any difference, my big brother sees the
light.

"Can you forgive me?" he asked softly, clutching at her hand.  "I
want us to be friends again."

"Oh Bill, of course I forgive you," she said sadly.  "You're my
brother, and I love you.  But I need you to stop telling me what
to do."

"I will, I promise, I'm through with that," he assured her. "Tara
gave me a strong lecture last night, and I started to see how
wrong I've been.  Don't misunderstand me, Dana, I still don't
care for Mulder and I'm glad you're not with him any longer."

"And what would you do if I went back to him?" she demanded, her
hand in his growing suddenly stiff.  "Is this apology sincere, or
would you revert to your old ways?"

"I wouldn't like it," he confessed, "but I'd promise to be more
civilized."  He flashed her a smile, the one that had probably
made Tara fall in love with him, she reflected.  "That's the best
I can do."

Scully sighed.  "Then that's all I can ask."

He pulled her into a bear-hug, which she returned gratefully.
She'd hated being on the outs with him, especially with Charles
stationed overseas, and welcomed the chance to mend their
relationship.

"I'd better be going," he told her.  "I have a long drive ahead
of me, but Tara convinced me I should take the weekend to come up
and see you. I didn't want to try doing this over the telephone."

"I'm glad you came," she smiled, the first sincere smile he had
seen from her in months.  "I want us to work this out."

Bill kissed her quickly on the cheek and slipped out the door,
which she locked firmly behind him.  Tears threatened and she
blinked them back quickly.  With her heart lightened a little,
she started for the phone. Her mother would want to know that she
and Bill had made up.

*****

"When are you going to let me go home, Walter?" Mulder demanded
of his friend.  It had been three weeks since Scully's latest
defection, and he was getting heartily sick of being watched all
the time.  Skinner had taken a couple of days off work to help
him through the worst of the crisis, then enlisted the help of
the Lone Gunmen to keep watch over Mulder while he quickly
arranged to take a two week vacation.  Mulder had been lucky to
grab five minutes of privacy in all that time, and it was
beginning to drive him stir crazy.  He just wanted to be alone to
sort out his thoughts and feelings.

Skinner had also insisted he increase his therapy sessions to three
times a week until he got over the initial shock of finding
Scully gone, and Mulder had grudgingly agreed in order to keep
peace.  Well, it hadn't just been to keep peace, he admitted to
himself.  Inwardly he had been terrified at the way he'd
momentarily considered ending his life. The thought that he might
have actually done it, thrown it all away, all the things he'd
worked for, all the progress he'd made...  There was more to life
than Dana Scully, he told himself angrily, and set out to
convince himself of that fact. He'd been checking into psychology
programs at universities in the area and decided George
Washington was probably his best alternative.  He wanted to get
started as soon as possible.  It would give him something other
than Scully on which to focus his concentration.

Skinner shrugged casually, remembering a Mulder who would have
simply announced his intention to leave rather than asking
permission, but he supposed that Mulder was gone forever.  A lot
of the old arrogance had disappeared, and Skinner wasn't sure how
much of the change came from Mulder's experiences and how much
was simply due to greater age and maturity.  Mulder had differing
goals than before, but all the same, he wasn't *that* changed.
He was still the Fox Mulder that Skinner remembered from the old
days, only tempered with other passions.  Some of the differences
Skinner didn't miss at all.  It was a bittersweet change.

"I suppose I'll have no choice when I go back to work on Monday,"
he answered, feeling nervousness begin in his stomach.  He
quelled it with a will--he had to set Mulder free at some point.
"Why are you so anxious?  Has staying here been that bad?"

Mulder grinned to take the sting out of his words.  "Not really,
unless you count the fact that the only time I can be alone is
when I need to shit."

"Not true, Mulder.  To my knowledge nobody has yet followed you
into the tub," Walter pointed out, returning the other man's
banter.  He knew Mulder hated the restrictions that had been
placed on him, and he'd regretted feeling forced to do it, but
Mulder's safety had to be the prime consideration.  At first he
had truly been terrified that Mulder, determined and obstinate as
he could be, would find a way to injure himself the minute
Skinner's back was turned.  As the days had passed and Mulder had
shown no sign of making that fear a reality, Skinner had relaxed
his watch somewhat, although he still tended to hover a bit.

"No, but I keep waiting for it," Mulder responded, instantly
changing from lighthearted to morose.  These quick mood changes
were what worried Skinner the most.  According to Jess Coslow,
they were an indication that all was not well in Mulderland, in
spite of the man's protestations that everything was (big sigh,
Walter) 'fine'.  He had grown heartily sick of that syllable in
the last few weeks, amazed at the way Mulder--(and Scully too,
Walter, tell the truth)--could turn a seemingly harmless word
into something that made him want to wrap his hands around
someone's neck.  'Fine'.  'Fine' meant 'yes, I'm in deep pain,
but I don't want to talk about it because I can handle it on my
own--see how well I've dealt with it so far?' or 'I don't want to
tell you what I'm feeling because I already feel guilty that I've
caused you so much trouble'.

"You can wait till hell freezes over for that, Mulder.  I draw
the line at washing your back," he answered lightly, thinking it
best to keep things casual.  If Mulder insisted on going back to
his house and staying there alone, there was really nothing he
could do.  Mulder was a grown man, after all, and still
considered psychologically competent. Skinner couldn't exactly
lock him in the bedroom, although at times the urge to do just
that, for Mulder's own safety, was strong.

His biggest fear was that as soon as Mulder was on his own he
would begin searching for Scully, and that, he felt, was the
worst thing his friend could do.  As badly as he'd been hurt by
her apparent betrayal, the best thing for Mulder, in Skinner's
opinion, was to simply put her behind him and move on.  He'd been
pleased at Mulder's plans to continue his education, and to his
surprise that had turned out to be a rock-solid goal.  At first
he'd been afraid it was simply an idea, tossed out in a wave of
desperation, but Mulder was genuinely interested in persuing his
post-graduate degree.  Skinner thought it was probably the
healthiest thing Mulder could do for himself right now.  It would
give him an anchor.

"Seriously, Walter."  Mulder stopped his pacing and threw himself
to the couch.  "I'm ready to go home.  I appreciate all you've
done for me, but I have to be on my own at some point.  I'm not
going to do anything stupid, I promise."

The words were softened by the curve of Mulder's lips, and
Skinner sighed inwardly.  He tapped his fingers on the arm of his
chair while he considered.

"Please, Walter."  Mulder's voice was level, even, and contained
no hint of pleading despite the words he had chosen.  It was the
first sign of the old, obstinate, determined Mulder that Skinner
had seen in a long time, and it helped him make an immediate
decision.

"All right, Mulder.  Obviously I can't keep you here against your
will. You can go, but if I find out you needed help and didn't
call me..."

Skinner let the threat hang in the air, but Mulder knew exactly
what it meant.  It meant 'I'll hunt you down and kick your ass
from here to San Francisco', and Mulder had no doubt that his
authoritative ex-boss would follow through without hesitation.
He'd been on the receiving end of more than one of Skinner's
verbal ass-kickings, and did not wish to face another.

"I'll call.  If I need you, I'll call.  All right?"

Skinner held his eyes for a long moment before Mulder finally
looked away. "What are you going to do?" he asked as Mulder rose
from the couch to begin packing.

Mulder shrugged.  "Swim in the pool.  Play basketball.  Get ready
to start classes in the fall.  Same things I always do."

"I meant," Skinner said carefully, "will you try to find her?"

Mulder was silent and still for a moment.  "I know what you
meant," he admitted grudgingly, his back to Skinner.

"And?" Skinner prodded when it seemed Mulder wasn't going to
answer.

Mulder turned to him with a face that was ravaged.  Pain,
sadness, fear, all manifested themselves on his countenance for a
few seconds before being replaced by the mask of blandness that
Mulder wore so often these days.

"Why would I want to find her?" he asked in a neutral voice.

"Are you saying you don't?" Skinner countered, determined to make
Mulder face the truth.  "Can you let her go so easily?"

The mask almost slipped.  Almost, but not quite.  Mulder got it
back under control in the nick of time.

"I know you and Scully have a lot of history together, Mulder,"
Skinner went on gently, "but it's time you faced the fact that
you may not have a future together."

Mulder fled the room without another word.

Stuffing belongings into his bag, Mulder steeled his heart
against further breakage.  'It doesn't matter,' he told himself
fiercely.  'None of it matters any longer.  Concentrate on the
future.'

Skinner, approaching his bedroom to see if his assistance was
needed, heard the low mutterings as his friend gathered his
things, and with a heavy heart turned and retraced his steps.
Slowly, little by little, he was losing Mulder.  He remembered
his initial suspicion that Mulder would one day cut all ties with
his past, including their friendship, and wondered if it was
nearer than he'd suspected.

*****

Skinner stared at the telephone in his hand, surprised and
furious at the owner of the voice on the other end.  It had been
six weeks since her disappearance, six weeks in which Mulder had
become a frightening shell of the man he'd been before.  The
depression into which Mulder had slipped was deeper than ever,
and were it not for the fact that it would completely destroy
Mulder's trust in him, Skinner would have hauled his former agent
back home to be watched and taken care of once again.

He tried to keep tabs on Mulder from a distance, but it proved
difficult.  Most of the time when Skinner called, Mulder didn't
answer the telephone, and when he did he sounded cold and
distant, and somehow distracted.  Their conversations were brief
and stilted.  Skinner had arrived unexpectedly at Mulder's house
several times, using his key to enter when his ringing had been
ignored.  The first couple of times he had found Mulder sitting
on his couch in the dark, staring blankly at a wall.  He had
seemed surprised to see Skinner, as if not having heard the
doorbell. Each time, Mulder had greeted him idly and gone back to
staring, having nothing more to say.  The only time Skinner was
able to get a decent response out of him was when he threatened
to remove him from the sanctuary of his home again.  At that
Mulder would flare up and insist that everything was 'fine'.  On
those occasions Skinner refrained from injuring Mulder only with
the barest thread of self-control.

The latest visit had been a reaction to the call Skinner had
received from Jess Coslow, Mulder's therapist.  He had missed
three appointments by then, and had refused to answer or return
her calls, and out of desperation she had finally called Walter,
knowing if anyone could tell her what was up with Mulder it was
his only trusted friend.  Skinner had gone ballistic.

He hadn't even bothered knocking that time, arriving at Mulder's
house and immediately letting himself inside.  Sure enough,
Mulder was in his old familiar place on the couch, the room dim
in the fading daylight. He'd stormed across the room prepared to
give Mulder a very large piece of his mind, but the sight of his
friend stopped him short.

Mulder was wearing the same clothes he'd been in four days ago
when Skinner had seen him last, and it was evident he hadn't
moved far from his seat in all that time.  A half-empty glass of
water sat on the coffee table in front of him, and Mulder gave no
sign that he was aware of Skinner's approach.  He waved his hand
in front of Mulder's eyes and felt the first pang of real fear
when it took Mulder several seconds to respond.

"Walter?" he asked at last, stirring a bit on the couch.  "What
are you doing here?"

"Mulder, do you know what day it is?" Skinner demanded gently.

Mulder frowned.  He didn't want to answer questions right now,
certainly not inane questions regarding days of the week.  For
the past week he'd been carefully turning over every moment of
his life that he'd been able to recall, pinpointing where he had
screwed up and what he'd change if he had the chance.  After
careful consideration, Mulder had decided that no changes were
necessary.  His life had been spiralling out of control since he
was twelve years old, he concluded, and no action on his part
would have deviated his life from the course it had taken.
Somehow, he believed, even if he had quietly accepted Samantha's
disappearance, avoided the FBI altogether and made a career in
clinical psychology as he'd planned, events would still have
conspired to bring him to this point.

"When was the last time you ate?" Skinner continued, having
received no answer to his previous question.

Mulder shook his head lightly.  "I don't know.  It doesn't
matter, I don't care.  I'm not hungry, Walter."

Skinner pressed his lips together thinly.  His first reaction was
fury, but he knew that wouldn't help Mulder now.  Instead, he
reached out and hauled Mulder easily to his feet, wondering as he
did how much weight the younger man had lost since Scully's exit.
He seemed smaller, definitely lighter, and somehow transparent.

Putting his hands at Mulder's back and propelling him down the
hall toward his bedroom, Skinner said, "The first thing you're
going to do is have a shower.  Then you're going to eat a meal."

Mulder stopped and turned to Skinner, his face absolutely blank,
as it had been since Skinner arrived.  "Sure, Walter. I'll do
that. But I'm not coming home with you again."

After a second of hesitation Skinner nodded.  He knew Mulder
wouldn't consent to that in his present condition anyway, so
short of kidnapping the man he had no option other than
agreement.

Mulder entered the bathroom at Skinner's urging, taking the clean
clothes that were thrust into his hand.  After locking the door
behind him he stared around the room in confusion.  What was it
he was supposed to do?  Oh yes.  Shower.  Except Mulder didn't do
showers anymore, not since prison, not since he'd vowed never to
make himself so naked and vulnerable again.  As if he were less
vulnerable sitting naked in a tub of water, Mulder sneered
inwardly.  Life would bite you on the ass if it chose to do so,
and there was not a damn thing you could do to prevent it.  He'd
learned that if he'd learned nothing else.

Mechanically, unthinking, Mulder filled the tub and stepped into
it, sinking into the heat of the water with a distant sense of
pleasure.  He had felt so numb lately that any sensation was
welcome, and he had forgotten how good it could feel to simply
get clean.  He lay there for a long time, thoughtlessly
(thoughtless was the key these days, if his mind remained blank
it was easier to get through each day) soaking in the warmth.
When he felt the water begin to cool he sat up, feeling suddenly
uncertain. There was something he was supposed to do next--what
was it?  Dry himself off, that was it.  No, wait. Some steps came
before that.  Allowing his body to move on autopilot, Mulder
reached for the shampoo and soap.  Later he wouldn't remember
washing himself at all.

When he stepped from the tub, still moving automatically, he
reached for his towel and wrapped it around himself.  'What comes
next?' prodded the tiny bit of consciousness he would allow.  He
stared at the sink for a full minute before his eyes fell upon
the tube of toothpaste lying beside it.  Unthinking still, he
completed the task of toothbrushing, spitting the paste into the
sink and rinsing as his thoughts attempted to become carefully
blank again.  When he finally emerged from the bathroom thirty
minutes later, he was fully dressed, clean, his hair combed and
his teeth brushed.  It had taken him almost two hours. Skinner,
who had been listening quietly outside the locked door for the
entire period of time, prepared to break it down if he thought
Mulder was about to harm himself, breathed an audible sigh of
relief.  Mulder had forgotton to shave, but in his present mental
state there was no way Skinner was going to suggest Mulder get
near a razor.

"Come with me," he ordered.  "You have to eat."

Mulder shrugged and followed, sinking into the chair Walter
indicated when they reached the kitchen.  His eyes tracked
Skinner as he searched the kitchen for food and utensils, finally
settling on a can of chicken-noodle soup.  It would probably be
the least upsetting thing to Mulder's delicate stomach, and
Skinner had no way of knowing how long Mulder had been without
food.  Apparently his body's need for fluid had been too urgent
to resist, he thought, remembering the half-empty glass of water.
After heating the soup, he placed it in front of Mulder and
determinedly handed him a spoon.

Mulder accepted the spoon, uncertain for a second of what to do
with it, but allowing his auto-pilot to take over once again.  It
was amazing, he told himself idly as he sipped at the soup, the
things muscles and ligaments could remember with little or no
help from the brain.

Skinner sat across from him silently as Mulder ate every bite of
the soup in a mechanical, automatic way.  Mulder had been
completely cooperative with everything he had asked, cleaning
himself up and eating without protest.  He was certain that the
second his back was turned Mulder would return to his spot on the
couch and forget to bathe or feed himself until someone again
arrived to force the issue.  With a sigh he wondered what his
chances were of getting Mulder hospitalized. Probably nil, he
decided.  Mulder wasn't so far gone yet that he needed to be
committed, and he would never voluntarily submit to
hospitalization.

There had been no conversation between them other than Skinner's
orders and Mulder's silent obedience, and now Skinner began an
attempt to coax words from Mulder.

"Why were you sitting on the couch for so long, Mulder?" he
asked, leaning forward and resting his chin on his fist.

Mulder looked dazed for a moment, gazing around the room and down
at the empty soup bowl as if uncertain how he had come to be
sitting across from his former boss with a suddenly full stomach.

He shrugged again.  "I don't know."

Skinner's jaw tightened but he let it slide.  "Jess said you've
been missing your appointments."

Mulder had stared at him keenly before replying, "I don't care."

If Mulder had denied, or raged at him for interfering, Skinner
would have known how to handle it, but those three words sent a
shaft of cold terror through his gut.

"What don't you care about?" he asked carefully, afraid of posing
the wrong question.

Mulder shook his head slowly, his eyes beginning to lose their
focus. "Anything.  I don't care about anything."

"Not even Scully?"  It was a low blow, he knew, but maybe it
would get a reaction out of Mulder, sort of like the deep-pain
responses medical personnel would seek from a patient in a coma.

Mulder showed no sign of deep pain.  He showed no sign of any
emotion at all.  "I just don't care."

The depth of meaning to the words struck Skinner.  He feared
Mulder had reached the point where he truly didn't care--didn't
care if he ate, or slept, or even whether or not his body took
its next breath.  Not actively wanting to live, not actively
wanting to die, Mulder had achieved a state of true indifference.
He'd had ample opportunity to end his own life in the past three
weeks, but had not chosen to do so. Which, in and of itself, was
scary when you thought about it.  Because if Mulder couldn't even
work up enough passion to want to put himself out of his misery,
what was left of him?  What was truly left inside that
hollow-eyed shell?  Skinner was afraid, and at a loss.

"I'll be all right, Walter."  The words were spoken softly,
almost in a whisper, but they gave a comfortable reassurance.
Mulder was still inside there somewhere.  He had simply wrapped
himself in a cocoon of protection, needing to insulate himself
from a world that had finally gone too far, bitten too hard,
taken too big a chunk out of his ass.  He needed to heal inwardly
before he could take care of himself outwardly.

"I'm afraid for you," Skinner confessed, wondering at the
openness of the moment.  Guys didn't talk like this to one
another.  Guys said, 'hey buddy, how ya doing, you sonofabitch,
you gettin' any these days?' and mindless phrases of that nature.
They did not sit across from each other over a meal one had
prepared for the other discussing deep emotions.  Somehow,
though, 'how ya doing you sonofabitch' didn't seem to fit the
situation, he told himself grimly.

Mulder met his eyes unwaveringly.  "Don't be afraid.  I'm all
right." And after a moment, "Thank you."

Skinner stood, then, knowing there was nothing else he could do
short of committing the felony of hauling Mulder away against his
will.

"I'm going to call Jess and tell her you'll be in tomorrow.  I'll
send one of the guys over to take you there.  Don't fight me on
this," he warned, seeing Mulder about to protest.  "It's either
this, or I *will* take you home and lock you in that bedroom.
Understand me, Mulder.  I am not letting you sink any deeper."

Without waiting for an answer he turned and strode out the door,
leaving behind a still slightly confused Mulder.  He knew,
without looking back, that Mulder would return to his familiar
spot on the couch within minutes.

Since that day he had enlisted the help of Frohike, Byers and
Langley, and Mulder had been ultimately forced to make a
decision: either die or begin living again.  To their collective
relief he had chosen to live, although his presence was more
somber now.  He was darker, somehow, more serious than ever
before, but at least he was eating, sleeping, bathing--living. If
only they could convince him that there was life after Scully.

Now, two weeks after finding Mulder sitting alone in the dark,
Skinner stared angrily at the phone from which her voice was
resounding.

"Walter?  Are you there?"  She sounded uncertain.

Gripping the receiver tightly, he forced himself to remain civil.

"I'm here," he said curtly.  "Where are you?"

She sighed.  "If I tell you--"

"Don't worry, Dana.  I don't plan to mention this to Mulder."

"I'm in Baltimore," she confessed.  "I got a job working in the
county Medical Examiner's office here."

"That was quick," he observed.

"I had been looking into it before..."

"Before you deserted him," he reminded her bluntly.  "Before you
slept with him and then left him high and dry."

He felt rather than heard her sharp intake of breath, and a bolt
of pure satisfaction shot through him.

"I did have a reason," Scully reminded him in a breathy voice.
"It's why I called you today."

"I'm all ears."

For a moment she wanted to throw the telephone across the room,
regretted ever initiating this conversation, but the thought of
Mulder in Zach's clutches made her focus.  Her feelings weren't
important now.  She could deal with her anger and humiliation
later.

"Mulder may still be in danger, Walter.  I need you to keep an
eye on him."

He sat up straight in his chair at her words.  "What do you mean
by that?" he barked at her.

Haltingly, leaving nothing out, Scully related the story of
Zach's visit to her on the day of their divorce hearing, the
photographs he'd given her of Mulder, her reasons for not
contacting either him or the police.  Hoping to make him
understand why she had disappeared so suddenly, she told him of
the pictures she had continued to receive and how frightened she
was that Zach still had access to Mulder.

"What makes you think he's a threat to Mulder now?" he asked.
"Maybe he's only sending the photos as a continued reminder to
you to stay away from Mulder--which I have to admit I think is an
excellent idea."

She ignored his verbal jibe.  "I'm worried because they're
becoming more frequent.  I used to get a packet once a week, then
they started coming two or three times a week.  Now I get one
nearly every day.  Everywhere he goes, Mulder is followed.
Walter, it would be so easy for Zach to..."

"All right, Scully, I'll think of something," he finally said,
rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
"But you have to agree to stay away from Mulder.  It's difficult
enough for him to get over losing you without you constantly
coming in and out of his life."

There was silence from her end of the line for a long moment,
then she answered in a choked voice, "Fine.  Just--protect him,
Walter."

He heard a click and she was gone.  He sat for several minutes,
considering his options, before finally deciding on a course of
action.

*****

"Frohike, pull over."  Mulder had been mostly silent throughout
the drive home from his therapy session, and Frohike had all but
given up on conversation when the unexpected command came from
his friend.

"Why?" asked Frohike suspiciously.  If Mulder gave him the slip
he would be facing the wrath of Walter Skinner, and that was a
position in which the little man never wished to find himself.

"Just pull over," Mulder repeated impatiently, his eyes fixed on
the mirror outside the car window.  "I'm not going to jump and
run, I promise."

"Okay, Mulder, but if you get me in trouble with Skinner I'm
going to hang you up by the balls," Frohike answered, searching
for a good spot to pull over to the curb.  He managed to slide
into a parking place fairly quickly, and turned to Mulder to
demand an explanation.

Mulder's face had gone pale and his hand clutched the door handle
as he stared at a nondescript white sedan passing them.  There
were two men inside; the driver kept his eyes on the road but the
passenger gave them the once-over as the car slipped slowly by
them and turned a corner.

"Do you know those guys?" Frohike demanded, seeing how nervous
Mulder had become.  His friend's hand was trembling slightly and
he was firmly biting his bottom lip.

Mulder shook his head quickly.  "No, but they've been following
me for about a week now."

"No way!" Frohike exclaimed.  "That's not Dana's bastard ex, is
it?"  He was instantly sorry he'd mentioned her name, but the
damage was done. To his relief, he noted Mulder's lack of
reaction.

Mulder grinned mirthlessly.  "Hell no, Frohike.  If he came
around he'd probably just shoot me. Besides, since Scully took
off there's no reason for him to give a damn about me anyway."

"So why would they be following you?"

Mulder turned around to look behind them and sure enough, there
came the car around the block.  When the driver saw them parked
in the same place, he quickly changed lanes and sped past through
the yellow light.

"I don't know," Mulder answered, his eyes on the disappearing
vehicle, "but I think I'd better tell Walter.  Can you drop me by
the Hoover building?  I'll catch a cab home."

"No can do, my friend, I have strict orders not to let you out of
my sight until you are safely back inside your house."

Mulder sighed impatiently.

"I'll go with you."

At that, Mulder nodded and Frohike pulled the car away from the
curb. All the way to FBI headquarters Mulder kept his eyes peeled
for the white sedan, but it didn't make another appearance.

As they approached the front entrance, Mulder felt his steps
becoming slower and slower until finally he stopped outside the
door.  Frohike almost ran into him.

"Hey!" he protested.

"Sorry," Mulder mumbled under his breath.  He was about to do it.
This was one of the last places from his past that he had not yet
visited. How would he feel sitting in Skinner's office, facing
him across the desk without Scully at his side, knowing he was no
longer the man's employee but instead simply one incredibly
fucked-up friend?  His mouth twisted.  Of course he knew how it
would feel.  It would feel like a thousand knives cutting his
soul to shreds.  Been there, done that.

"Memories.  They're a bitch," Frohike announced from behind, and
a second later he felt the smaller man's hands at his back,
giving him a gentle shove.  "But you gotta do this, Mulder."

"Yeah," Mulder finally responded, forcing his unwilling feet to
move. "I know."

The guard at the desk phoned up to Skinner's office, and after a
brief conversation produced visitor badges for the two of them.
"Let me give you directions, Sir," the guard began, but Mulder
brushed him off.

"I know where it is," he said in a voice that was tight with
pain. When, he asked himself, was it going to stop hurting?  When
would life finally get tired of chewing on his carcass and let
him rest?  How much was one man expected to endure, anyway?

They entered the elevator with several other people, all
appearing to be employees, and Mulder kept his eyes glued firmly
to the numbers above his head.  His greatest fear at that moment
was running into someone like Tom Colton, someone who knew him
from before.  Someone who knew where he had been.  Something
worse was waiting for him, but Mulder did not as yet know that.
Sometimes, he reflected later, it's better not to know what's in
store.  Had he guessed who he would meet up with outside
Skinner's office that day, he would surely have turned tail and
run as quickly as he could, but instead, blissful in his
ignorance, he pulled Frohike off the elevator at Skinner's floor
and they turned to the left.

He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, moving more by instinct than
anything else, all the way down the hall.  Occasionally he
thought he heard whispers, and once was certain someone had
called his name, but he ignored them all.  Wasn't he a master at
ignoring whispered comments, after all?  All the years of dodging
painful 'Spooky' comments paid off now, and he was able to
successfully block out the sounds.  They had almost reached
Skinner's office when a familiar smell assailed his nostrils and
he felt himself grow weak with fear.

Slowly raising his eyes, Mulder stood face to face with the man
who had been behind his imprisonment.  He felt his face drain,
felt himself becoming light-headed, but sheer pride forced him to
maintain eye contact and stay on his feet when his body wanted to
whither into a faint.  The elderly man casually removed the
cigarette from his mouth, blowing smoke out his nostrils, and
looked Mulder up and down.

"Hello, Mr. Mulder," he commented mildly.  "You're looking
surprisingly well for a man who's been through so many unpleasant
experiences."

"Stay away from him, you bastard," Frohike growled, but Mulder
put out a hand to stop his friend.

He didn't say anything to the smoking man.  There was nothing to
say. Nothing that could possibly make a difference now.  Hanging
on to the last shred of dignity he still possessed, Mulder met
the man cold stare for cold stare, refusing to back down until
finally, with a gesture of impatience, the smoker continued on
his way down the corridor.  When he disappeared around the corner
Mulder crumpled.

Frohike caught him before he could fall, and Mulder took deep,
gulping breaths, willing the panic tightening his chest to
disappear.  He was dragged the final few steps to Skinner's outer
office, where Frohike shoved him into a chair and asked the
assistant at her desk to bring Mulder a cup of water.  She
quickly complied, and Mulder gulped it down fast, feeling as dry
as a desert.  It occurred to him that he must have sweated out
half the moisture in his body facing down his old nemesis.

Drawn to the outer office by the noise, Skinner emerged from his
inner sanctum and took in the situation.  The smoking man had
just left his office, and it didn't take much brain power to put
together what had just happened here.

"What did he say to you?" Skinner demanded roughly, anger
darkening his voice.

Mulder shook his head, his eyes closed tightly, while he forced
his breathing to slow down.  "Nothing," he muttered.  "It was
nothing."

Skinner looked to Frohike for confirmation, and the smaller man
nodded. "It just took him by surprise, I think," he said by way
of explanation. "On top of what happened an hour ago--"

"What happened an hour ago?"

Frohike turned to Mulder, hoping he would explain things to
Skinner, but Mulder's mouth was a grim line and his eyes were
still firmly shut.  His breathing had slowed down to a normal
level, and the color was beginning to come back into his face,
but he was still apparently battling the inner demons.  Turning
his attention back to Skinner, Frohike jerked his head toward
Skinner's office door.  Skinner nodded understanding.

"Come on, Mulder, let's get you inside," he said, taking the
other man by the arm and helping him rise.  Mulder allowed
himself to be guided into the inner office, and moments later
found himself sitting in exactly the same chair he had occupied
so many times in the past. Forcibly suppressing the agony that
wanted to take up residence in his heart, he told Skinner about
the men who had been following him.

Skinner sat back in his chair, his lips slightly pursed in
concentration.  "Have you seen anyone else following you,
Mulder?" he asked, perhaps a bit too quickly.  'Slow down,' he
told himself inwardly.  'Slow down or you'll frighten him and
he's barely hanging on by a thread now.'

"No," Mulder answered, puzzlement in his hazel eyes.  "Why do you
ask?"

Skinner leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting
his chin on them.  He was silent for such a long time that Mulder
finally prodded, "Walter?  Is there something you need to tell
me?"

"I put the tail on you," Skinner confessed at last.

Mulder's eyes grew wide at the revelation.  "You what?" he asked
incredulously.  "It's not enough that you have my friends acting
as babysitters, but now you have to *spy* on me?"  The betrayal
was clear on his face, and Skinner rushed to correct him.

"That's not the reason, Mulder.  I had another motive for having
you followed."

Mulder sat back, distrust still coloring his features but willing
to give Skinner a chance.  Silently he waited for Skinner to
explain.

"I got a call from Scully last week," Skinner said, rising from
his chair and coming around to sit on the edge of the desk in
front of Mulder.  He wondered, like Frohike, how the mention of
her name would affect Mulder, and like Frohike, was surprised
when there seemed to be no reaction at all.  Mulder merely
waited.

"She was concerned for your safety," he went on at last, and
quickly filled Mulder in on all that Scully had told him.
"Apparently Scully is afraid that her ex-husband is planning to
do you some harm," he finished, "so she asked me to keep an eye
on you.  I knew you wouldn't consent to staying with me again, so
this was the best solution I could think of at the time."

Mulder heaved a long sigh, letting his eyes travel over the desk,
the window, the chair beside him where Scully had sat countless
times as she supported him, backed up his theories even when she
didn't understand them, had been his other half.  Frohike
occupied it now.  'How much?' he asked himself again.  "When does
it end?"

He didn't realize he had spoken the words aloud until Walter
leaned forward to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You'll get through this, Mulder.  All of us are here to help
you.  You don't have to go it alone."

Mulder pushed himself to his feet, shoving his hands into the
pockets of his jeans.  "I know you mean well, Walter.  You all
do," he said with a glance over at Frohike.  "But I do have to go
it alone.  Nobody can feel it except me."

The naked pain in his eyes tore at Skinner.  He would have given
anything in his power to shield Mulder from further hurt if he
could, but there was nothing to be done.  Mulder had endured more
heartbreak in his life than any one man should ever be asked to
bear, and Skinner knew it wasn't over.  There would be more.
Somewhere deep in his heart, no matter how much he might protest
that he no longer cared, Mulder would always love Scully, always
need her, always pine for her.  The connection between the two of
them had long since ceased to astonish Skinner; now he regarded
it with a kind of envy.  He had never had it with Sharon.  They
had been close, but they had never been two halves of a whole the
way his former agents were.  He wondered briefly if either of
them realized how necessary the other was to their survival.  He
had been watching Mulder slowly die for years, seen him flourish
in the brief time Scully had been with him, and witnessed his
descent into what Skinner could only think of as blackness since
her departure.  Scully had been concerned for Mulder's safety;
Skinner feared for his continued existence.

Mulder started for the door without another word, and Frohike
rose to follow.  Skinner reached out and grabbed his arm as he
passed by.

"Watch him," he said softly into Frohike's ear.  "Don't leave him
alone."

Frohike nodded and hurried after Mulder, determined to make
certain that no harm came to him today, by another's hand or by
his own.

***********

Chapter Six

***********


"Where is she?"

Skinner closed his eyes briefly as he suppressed a sigh of
exasperation. He had to give the man standing at his door
credit--he'd held out almost two weeks before showing up to
demand to be told Scully's whereabouts. Skinner had expected less
than one.

They stood silently, facing off, for more than a minute while
Skinner considered what response would be in Mulder's best
interest. Mulder grew impatient.

"Walter?  I know she must have told you."

"Why do you want to know, Mulder?" Skinner asked, stalling for
time. There had really been no way to avoid this conversation, he
knew.  Every time he had spoken to Mulder since the day he'd
revealed what he knew about Scully's ex-husband, Skinner had
expected this question.  Every time it didn't come, and he saw a
little more improvement in Mulder's emotional condition, Skinner
had felt abject relief, but that was over now.  The moment of
truth had arrived.  Hazel eyes bored into his.

"Where is she?" demanded Mulder again, ignoring Skinner's
question.

"I don't know."  The lie was flat, unbelievable, and Skinner knew
Mulder wouldn't be taken in.

Mulder gave him a look that might have been a grimace but seemed
more like betrayal, and stepped around him into his apartment.
'Don't lie to me,' his demeanor warned, but he said nothing, only
waited. The silence went on forever, broken only by the sounds of
their breathing.

Mulder blinked first, as Skinner had known he would.  "If you
really don't know, then help me."  Skinner steeled himself against
the pleading in Mulder's voice.  "Help me find her."

"How?"  Skinner already knew the answer--it was obvious.

"You have all sorts of resources at your disposal, Walter,"
Mulder responded edgily.  "It isn't as if she's vanished off the
face of the earth.  You could find her for me."

Skinner let the exasperated sigh escape now.  How much would
Mulder torture himself with this, he wondered, before he finally
let Scully go?

"Mulder, I don't want to help you find her," he said firmly,
seating himself and gesturing Mulder toward the couch.  "I don't
want you to look for her.  And besides, what you're asking of me
is an ethical violation, one that I'm not prepared to commit."

Now the silence definitely spoke of betrayal.  Mulder ignored the
offer of hospitality and remained standing, his entire body
tense.

"Fine," Mulder said after a minute.  "If you won't help me, I'll
do it myself.  I'll just hire a private detective."

The younger man turned as if to go and Skinner gave in.
Cornered.  It was the logical answer, but he had hoped Mulder
wouldn't go that far. Might as well tell Mulder what he wanted to
know, he decided.  At least that way maybe Mulder would let him
stay around to pick up the pieces when he inevitably fell apart.

"Don't bother, Mulder," he said, the regret in his tone stopping
Mulder. "She's in Baltimore.  County M.E.'s office."

Skinner watched the face before him as Mulder digested the
information, wondering if he should follow up on it or let it
drop.  He prayed Mulder would reach the right decision, but in
his heart he knew his friend really had no choice.  Of course he
would go after Scully.  It was his destiny.

"Thank you, Walter," came the quiet reply, and Skinner sat
silently as Mulder slipped out the door.

"Fuck!"  The exclamation tore from Skinner suddenly.  He was not
a man given to profanity--he thought it unnecessary and
childish--but on this occasion it felt warranted. Mulder was
going straight into the lion's den again, and there was nothing
he could do to stop him. Clenching his hands firmly together, he
made himself resist the impulse to pursue Mulder and pound some
sense into that stubborn brain.  It would do no good.  Once
Mulder had set out on a course of action, nothing short of a
brick wall could deter him.

*****

Scully emerged from her office, tired and drawn after too many
sleepless nights.  The strain of worrying about Mulder had begun
to impact her health, and even her co-workers were beginning to
comment on her appearance.  She hadn't heard a word from Skinner,
and could only assume that he was keeping his promise to protect
Mulder, but the pictures from Zach had continued to arrive, now
on a daily basis.  The only comfort she had was the fact that
these days, Mulder rarely appeared alone in the photographs. One
of the guys was apparently with him every day. She supposed that
was Skinner's doing, and silently thanked him for it.

She made her way toward her car almost blindly, too exhausted to
even take in her surroundings, and with her head bowed as she
walked, she almost ran into him.  At the last second she sensed
his presence and looked up at him in confusion.

"Mulder!" she exclaimed, shock written all over her pretty face
as she stepped back.  "What are you...?"

His mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile.  "What am I doing
here?" he finished for her.  "Funny, I could ask you the same
thing."

Scully gritted her teeth firmly.  She had no intention of
engaging in a war of words with Mulder today--not when she was
feeling so used up inside.  "Go home, Mulder," she said shortly,
reaching to unlock her car.  His hand closed over hers and he
spun her around, gently pushing her back against the door before
she could get it open.

"I don't think so, Scully," he said firmly. "Not before we
discuss a couple of things."

"There is nothing--"

"There is *plenty* to discuss!" he interrupted.  "I think we
should start with your reason for running out on me.  Why did you
even come to me that night if all you were going to do was fuck
me and then leave?" he demanded, the hurt still obvious in his
voice. "Couldn't you at least have done me the courtesy of
leaving a note?"  She had never heard this steely tone before,
and having it directed at her now was almost too much to bear.

She jerked away from him angrily, but he pressed harder against
her, pinning her to the car.

"Answer me," he demanded quietly, placing both hands on the car
next to her shoulders, blocking any escape route.

"I had my reasons," she said, glaring up at him furiously.  'Go
away!' begged her inner voice.  'Go away before he sees us
together!'

He cocked his familiar eyebrow at her.  "And those reasons would
be...?"

Time to lie, she decided then, and lie big.  It was the only way
to get rid of him, which in turn was the only way she could
protect him.  Ignoring the ripping feeling in her heart, Scully
coldly replied, "You were rushing me. You wanted committments
from me that I wasn't ready to make."

He stared at her in disbelief.  "Rushing you?" he said in that
low, controlled voice that meant he was barely hanging onto his
fury. "May I remind you that it was you who came to me?  You who
asked to move in with me?  You who initiated--I told you I would
give you all the time you needed, and I meant it.  Scully, the
last thing I was doing was rushing you."

She couldn't look at him, not at his eyes, not those eyes of his
that always demanded honesty.  Instead she fixed her gaze firmly
on the top button of his shirt.

"It felt rushed to me," she insisted stubbornly.  "I knew if I
said I wanted to leave, you'd argue me down, so I decided to just
go.  How did you find me, anyway?" she asked pointedly.

He disregarded her question.  "Then why did you have to
disappear?" he countered smoothly.  "Why not just move in with
your mother, or get an apartment nearby?  Why quit your job and
leave town with instructions that I wasn't to be told where to
find you?  If you'd told me you felt overwhelmed I would have
gladly backed off for a while.  I can understand you wanting to
leave me, Scully, but for God's sake why did you have to run
away?"

She had to end this confrontation and end it immediately.  The
raw emotion in his voice was killing her, and for all she knew
Zach could be watching them now.  She glanced around hastily, but
saw no one.

"Listen to me, Mulder," she said fiercely, leaning closer and
speaking almost in a whisper.  "I only did what I had to do.
It's over between us.  I've moved on, and you should do the
same."

When he still didn't seem convinced, she decided to pull out the
heavy guns.  If Mulder had known the numbness engulfing her at
that moment, he could have told her he understood
completely--that when the pain became too much to bear, the body
had a way of simply insulating itself, at least temporarily.

"I've been seeing Zach again," she lied.  "We're thinking of
getting back together."  That should do it, Dana, she told
herself sadly.  That should just about finish him, isn't that
what you wanted?  What else could drive him away permanently?

Mulder looked stunned, as if she'd slapped him hard.  Surely,
after her ex-husband's threats toward his safety, after what he'd
done to her, she wouldn't! His face was white, and she could feel
his entire body trembling against hers. Seconds later he drew
back and the contact between them was broken.

"You're serious?" he asked hoarsely.  "You'd really go back to
that bastard after what he did to you?  What he's done to me?"

She looked away, unable to face him.  "You don't understand,
Mulder..."

"You're right," he ground out harshly.  "I don't understand.  Not
you and not myself.  I don't understand why I have this obsession
with you after all the times you've hurt me, but I can tell you
one thing for sure, Scully.  I am through chasing after you."
Tears were streaming down her face now, but he ignored them.

"You've always known how I felt about you.  I've never tried to
hide it," he went on, overriding her attempt to speak.
"Sometimes I thought you felt the same, but you're too hard to
read, and you reveal nothing of yourself.  Well I'm finished with
the guessing games, with the lies, and I'm finished with you.  I
can't stop loving you all at once, Scully, I realize that, but I
will stop.  I don't need you to survive, and I can't trust you
anymore."

She gave a startled gasp--those words, more than any other he
could have chosen, squeezed at her heart.  To think that Mulder,
the man who had been at her side through so many trials, the one
she had seen through so many disappointments and heartaches, who
had said she was the only one he trusted, could fling those words
so casually in her face--until then she hadn't truly understood
the depth to which he felt she had betrayed him.

Before she could formulate her thoughts into any kind of
response, he was gone, had jumped into his car and was squealing
out of the parking lot, loose gravel flying.  Blinking back hot
tears, Scully seated herself weakly in her own vehicle.  It was
the only solution, she assured herself, and he had Skinner to
lean on.  Had Skinner to trust. He would be better off without
her--he would be safe.  She lowered her head to the steering
wheel and finally gave in to the sobs she had been holding back
for so many weeks.  It was truly over now, she knew.  Even if
Zach lost interest in his cause, Mulder would never forgive her
for the pain she had put him through.  Some hurts went too deep
for absolution.

*****

Mulder didn't know what to do so he simply drove.  Racing through
the streets unthinking, that same numbness that had enabled her
to deliver her killing blow now engulfing him in its protective,
if false comfort. He refused to allow his mind to consider the
fact that she might actually reconcile with Zachary Morrow.  It
was simply too much to grasp.  The Scully he had known and loved
for so long would have put a bullet through that man's worthless
carcass, but she was a different woman now.  They were both so
incredibly changed from the people they had been before. Episodes
of intense camaraderie paraded through his consciousness rapidly,
one memory on the heels of another until he was gasping for
breath and barely noticed the tears streaming down his cheeks.
How could two people who had been so completely entwined allow
any one person or experience to separate them?  The fact of his
four years behind bars should have been irrelevant to them on the
day of his release, but it had been too late.  He had turned her
away and she had turned away--each complicit in the destruction
of the thing they held most precious.  Had they been dealing only
with outside forces they could have survived, but with each of
them adding their own special brand of chaos to the mixture, they
had managed to forever lose any chance of repairing the damage
wrought by others.

Hours and miles sped by and before Mulder was aware of it,
midnight was upon him.  He was getting sleepy, his body exhausted
in spite of the mind's turmoil, and reluctantly he turned toward
home.  Should he collapse onto the bed, with its merciless
recollection of their one, treasured night together, or lose
himself in the excruciating memories that went with his leather
couch?  Mentally flipping a quarter (heads you lose, tails you
lose) he decided that maybe he'd just sleep on the damn floor.

It was a little after one in the morning when he parked in his
driveway, and hauling himself to the door he fumbled with his
keys. Finally managing the lock, Mulder almost fell into the
darkened living room.  He closed the door behind him and leaned
against it wearily.  His hand was just reaching for the light
switch when an incredible pain slammed through his right calf,
dropping him immediately.

His nerve endings discovered the pain before his ears could
register the deafening sound or his eyes the blinding flash.  The
cry of anguish that tore from him was all but overwhelmed by his
immediate gasp for breath. Still trying to comprehend what had
happened, Mulder clutched frantically at his wounded limb,
desperately attempting to staunch the flow of blood.  In the next
second, a lamp was switched on and he saw his assailant.  His
blood froze as he looked into the face of Zachary Morrow.  'Of
course,' his mind jeered dimly.  'Who else could it be?'

"Morrow," he panted.

"None other."  The grin on Zach's face was pure evil, and the
light glinted off the small pistol he was now aiming once more
toward his helpless victim.  Mulder struggled to haul himself to
his feet, but before he could regain his balance Zach's second
shot hit him, this time catching him just below his ribcage.  He
was knocked back against the door from the force, and felt
himself sinking slowly to the floor, eyes fluttering as he strove
to remain conscious.  That same detached part of his mind
wondered if he was leaving a dramatic red streak on the whiteness
of the front door. That's how it would look in the movies, he
told himself.  He wondered if Zach was really such a terrible
marksman, or if he was deliberately missing in order to drag out
the torture.

"Why..." he asked in a breathy voice. Sitting propped against the
door, shocked and weakened, Mulder could only watch as his enemy
approached him slowly. His eyes were fixed on the gun.  Glock,
9mm, his trained eye told him, as if it mattered what type of
weapon was used in his murder. Forcing himself to remain in an
upright position, Mulder watched as Zach knelt beside him, his
face only inches away.  Sweat was dripping from his temples,
mirroring Mulder's own.  He saw the insanity in Zach's eyes and
wondered idly what Zach saw in his.

"She still belongs to me, you know," Zach said casually as he
trailed the barrel of the gun down the side of Mulder's face.
"Nothing will ever change that."

Silently, Mulder waited to see what would happen next.  For a
moment he almost hoped Zach would put a bullet through his brain
and be done with it, but in the next instant his survival
instinct awoke.  Maybe if he was able to get rid of this asshole
he could call for help before it was too late.

"You're right," Mulder agreed, his voice tight with pain.  "She
is yours."

Zach's eyes widened--he hadn't expected that response--and then
narrowed to tiny slits.  Mulder was a clever one, he told
himself, but not clever enough.  Trying to throw him off the
track would simply not work.

"I'm so happy you agree with me," he said smoothly, standing
again and backing up a few steps.  "In that case, you won't mind
if I give her what she has coming, will you?"

The frantic question in Mulder's eyes confirmed his suspicions;
Mulder still wanted her, still believed he could have her.  It
was a problem that must be dealt with completely.  Raising the
weapon again, he fired once more, this shot finding the fleshy
part of his victim's upper arm. Grabbing at the new injury,
Mulder felt himself losing balance, and an instant later was
lying prone, gazing up at his attacker in fascinated horror.

"Leave her alone," he whispered, unable to gather enough strength
for a real voice.  "Don't hurt her."

"But she belongs to me.  You said it yourself," Zach argued.  He
stood above Mulder, feet on either side of the limp body beneath
him, and pointed the gun once more.  "I can do anything I please
with her."

Mulder saw the barrel aimed at his forehead and swallowed
convulsively. This was it, then.  This was where it ended.  An
end to the pain, his mind whispered, and with one last defiant
look into his attacker's face, he closed his eyes and waited.  An
instant later he was ripped with agony again as the bullet struck
not his head, but his abdomen. Barely able to breathe now, he
felt the world gray out.  He welcomed the oblivion, wanted it,
reached for it.  Eyes closed, breaths rapid and shallow, Mulder
waited for death.  He heard a voice at his ear, whispering once
again the words, "She belongs to me.  I'll never let her go." His
body was shoved aside as the door opened and then closed behind
Zach.

The pain of being moved brought him back to full consciousness,
and with a flash of terror he realized where Zach was heading.
'Scully,' he thought frantically, 'I have to warn her before I
die.'  Grasping at his last reserves of strength, Mulder began to
crawl obstinately across the room toward the telephone.  His mind
was working even as he felt his lifeblood draining slowly away.
He didn't know her number.  How could he warn her?  Of course.
Maggie.  She was Scully's only hope.

Several excruciating minutes later he reached the table where the
phone was located, taunting him with its nearness and
unreachability. His first attempt to grab at it failed, his
injured arm simply not having the strength to raise far enough
above his head. On the second try, using the good arm this time,
he was able to snag the cord and pull the entire base over the
edge, crying out as it landed on his chest and shot a white-hot
arrow of renewed pain through his stomach.  Fighting now to
maintain the consciousness he'd been almost ready to surrender,
he felt for the speed-dial buttons.  Maggie was number three,
right after Walter and Jess, and he gave a relieved sob when his
fingers touched it.  He pressed the button and waited. Finally,
after seven rings, she picked up.

"Hello?" came Maggie Scully's sleepy voice.  "Who is it?"

"Mag--" he gasped, unable to complete the word.  The grayness was
back now, and no matter how hard he tried to fight against it he
could feel himself losing.

"Fox?  Fox, is that you?"  Her voice was strong now, worried.
She hadn't spoken to him since the morning of Dana's
disappearance--he had simply refused to answer her calls, and
sadly she told herself she understood.  Now, though, he was
obviously in trouble.  She could hear short, harsh breaths from
the other end of the wire.

"Scully--Zach--" he managed.  "Going to--hurt her--"

"What about Dana?" Maggie demanded, fully awake and already
beginning to look for clothes to wear.  "Fox, what is it?"

Her voice carried through the connection, but it was unheard.
Mulder had finally lost his battle with the grayness.

After a hurried call to Dana, in which she ordered her daughter
to leave her apartment immediately, ("Don't ask questions, Dana,
just *go*!") she dialed 911, giving them the sketchy details she
possessed.  Once assured that help was on its way to Fox, she
lifted the telephone once more, this time to call Walter.  He had
been rather distant lately as well, but she knew it was only
because he resented the fact that she had helped Dana hide from
Fox.  Between the two men and their damned Caller ID boxes,
Maggie had been practically cut from their lives.  Jutting her
lip out stubbornly, she resolved to let the telephone ring as
long as it took to get him to pick up.  This was not the night
for grudges.

*****

Scully approached Mulder's bed with hesitation.  He had just been
brought to a room after hours of surgery and then another two in
recovery, and she regarded his still, pale form beneath the
sheets sadly.  He was lucky to have survived.  Tubes and wires
snaked from beneath the sheets, metal and plastic testaments to
the havoc that had been wreaked on his defenseless body by
Zachary's bullets.

There was no doubt as to who the shooter had been, only of his
current whereabouts.  According to Maggie, Mulder had awakened
briefly in the ambulance and begged the paramedics to warn her of
the danger.  The police had visited Zachary Morrow's home to find
it empty, its occupant obviously having left in a rush if the
jumble of clothing in both his and his daughter's bedrooms could
be taken as an indication.  Emmie had been dropped off with his
parents with no accompanying explanation, the police had been
told when they questioned Mr. and Mrs. Morrow, and they had no
idea where their son had gone.

Skinner had wanted to have the police post guards outside
Mulder's door, but after much argument Scully had persuaded him
to call Langly and Frohike instead.  Mulder, she pointed out,
would probably enter full cardiac arrest were he to find himself
not only helpless in a hospital, but with uniformed law officers
guarding him.  He'd be more likely to believe they were there to
detain him than to protect his safety, she had reminded Skinner,
and after some consideration he had agreed. Therefore, two of
Mulder's closest friends (the ones he still trusts, Dana, she
reminded herself sadly) were stationed outside the door that she
slowly closed now, seeking privacy with the man in the bed.

Scully pulled up a chair and reached through the bed rail to take
his hand, fighting back tears at its lifeless, limp feel.  Even
now Mulder's survival was not a certainty, and she was reminded
of her coma, feeling his hand holding hers, hearing his voice
begging her not to leave him alone, but being powerless to
respond.  She wondered if he could hear her now.

"Mulder," she began, and then stopped.  What could she say?  What
apology could be sufficient for the suffering he had endured
because of her?  Finally deciding to forego words, she lay her
head on the rail and satisfied herself with gently stroking his
long, beautifully formed fingers.  Scully had always admired
Mulder's hands--hands that could belong to a concert pianist or
perhaps a skilled surgeon, but instead had been used to solve
horrific cases and capture some of the nation's most dangerous
criminals.  The hands of a hero.  Hands that of late had dried
too many tears.

"Please get better," she whispered, closing her eyes and
continuing to caress him.  "Please don't leave me now."

Toward the end of the day her mother made her go and get
something to eat, so Dana obediently trekked to the hospital
cafeteria and sat, unmoving, in front of a plate containing a
cardboard chicken salad sandwich and a handful of pretzels.  The
empty coffee cup in front of her revealed her nutritional intake
for the day, and as Skinner approached he shook his head.  He
didn't know what to make of the entire situation.  Scully shares
a night of passion with Mulder, Scully disappears, leaving Mulder
a broken man, Scully tells Walter she has to avoid Mulder in
order to protect him, now Scully refuses to leave Mulder's side.
Skinner could only guess at the scenario that had led to the
unprovoked attack on Mulder; Scully admitted that she had
seen her ex-partner the day before, but refused to divulge
details.

She looked up as he seated himself across the table from her,
then dropped her eyes back to the untasted food.

"Did Mom send you?" she asked softly.

"She wanted me to make sure you were eating, but now that I see
this," he replied, pointing disdainfully at the sandwich, "I
advise against it."

A brief smile crossed her face.  "I should have gone for the
burrito. Mulder would have."

"In that case," Skinner observed philosophically, "he'd probably
be lying upstairs due to food poisoning rather than gunshot
wounds."  Seing that his attempts at humor were falling flat, he
shifted in his chair, leaning closer to her.

"I want you to tell me what happened, Scully," he ordered in his
best Assistant Director's voice, and felt inward satisfaction
when her head shot up.  Her instinct to respond to his authority
was still strong.

"Mulder came to see me yesterday," she said finally, slowly, as
if dragging the words from herself.  "But I suppose you knew
that.  You must have told him where to find me."  There was only
a hint of accusation on her face, but Skinner took note of it,
silently daring her to comment on his behavior.

"I had no choice, he was going to hire a private detective.  I
didn't see any reason to put him to the time or expense, since
any decent investigator would have found you easily.  It isn't as
if you were trying to hide."

She nodded, accepting his explanation.

"So what happened?" he asked again, wishing desperately for a cup
of coffee.

She shrugged.  "We fought.  It seems to be the only way we can
communicate these days."

"Sounds more like a lack of communication to me."

"Did you tell him about Zach?  The pictures?"

"I had to tell him everything, Scully.  He came to my office a
couple of weeks ago, terrified because he had spotted the
surveillance team I put on him."

"Surveillance team?" she demanded in disbelief.  "Walter, how
could you? Someone with Mulder's experience could hardly miss--"

"He missed your ex-husband," Skinner pointed out bluntly.

She grinned mirthlessly.  "I'm sure Zach doesn't use approved,
professional surveillance techniques.  He's a stalker.  Obviously
a good one."

It was his turn to shrug.  "Anyway, it didn't help matters when
Mulder had a brief run-in with our cigarette smoking friend in
the corridor outside my office."

Now her expression was horrified.  "What did he say to Mulder?"
she asked, her fingers tightening convulsively around her
styrofoam coffee cup.

"Nothing, really, at least according to Frohike.  I think it was
more the shock of running into the man, and of course, Mulder's
first thought was that he was the one responsible for the tail."

She nodded.  "Naturally.  And that's when you told him?"

"I had to, Dana, he was petrified.  I couldn't very well tell him
I was having him followed without revealing the reason."

She twirled the empty coffee cup between her fingers with forced
casualness.  "What was his reaction?"

"Predictable.  What did you talk about yesterday?"

She flicked her eyes up at him, then down again.  "Predictable
things. He wanted to know why I left.  He never did let on that
he knew about the pictures."

Skinner sat silently for a few minutes, until it became obvious
that she had no intention of continuing.  "Am I correct in
assuming that the two of you didn't reach any kind of
understanding, and also that you probably parted company with
Mulder's rather hasty departure?"

She stared.  "You do know him well," she observed.

"I know his capacity for conflict avoidance, yes.  But he did
seek you out, so I expect he wanted some answers."

"He did."

"And did he get them?"

A tear finally made its way down the left side of her face, soon
followed by a matching counterpart.  "I didn't know you'd told
him," she said tightly.  "I lied to protect him, and it was the
worst thing I could have possibly done."

She buried her face in her hands and let the emotion take hold.
She was exhausted from hours of worry about Mulder and fear that
Zach could show up at any minute, as well as concern that Mulder
might not pull through this time.  'Third time's a charm!' her
inner voice insisted, and she shuddered at the implication that
Zach might meet with success in his latest attempt on Mulder's
life.

Skinner reached a hand out and rubbed her shoulder gently for a
moment. As angry as he had been with Dana Scully after her
apparent abandonment of Mulder, seeing the raw pain coursing
through the woman before him brought back too many memories.
Mulder and Scully still belonged together.  They always would.
Unfortunately, if they couldn't reach an agreement soon, Skinner
thought it might just kill Mulder.

"I'm sure when you have a chance to explain it to him, he'll
understand."

She rubbed away the tears and managed to bring herself under
control with an effort.  "I don't think so," she said sadly.  "He
told me...Walter, he said he doesn't trust me anymore."

It was the last thing Skinner had expected to hear, and his
eyebrows shot upwards.  He wracked his brain for the right words
to say, finally coming up with something he thought might comfort
her.  "You earned his trust once before, Scully.  Surely you can
do it again."

"If he'll give me a chance," she murmured, her slumped shoulders
indicating what she thought the odds of it were.  She stood and
tossed the plate of food into a nearby waste container, along
with the mangled cup. "I'm going back upstairs."

He watched her go with more than a little fear.  Mulder's trust
was so hard-won, but Scully had owned it almost from the
beginning.  If he had lost faith in her, truly, Skinner didn't
know if there was enough of a relationship left to salvage.

*****

She refused to leave his side after that, and on the evening of
his second day of unconsciousness, raised herself from the chair
hopefully when he finally stirred.  She had been watching his
chest rise and fall steadily, each hour that he breathed
increasing his chances of continuing to do so, and when his eyes
fluttered open she knew, without a doubt, that Mulder was going
to live.  Relief flooded her entire body, leaving her weak, and
she sat back limply in the chair, still grasping his hand, as he
slowly turned his head to look at her.

His eyes were slightly unfocused at first, but once they settled
on her they gained a glittering anger that frightened her.  She
attempted to smile through her tears, but Mulder's face remained
stony as he watched. Finally, moistening his lips, he attempted
to form words.  His voice was rusty, cracking through his dry
throat, but there was no mistaking his intent.

"Get--out," he rasped, and she recoiled at his fury.

"Mulder--"

"Now."  His voice gained strength as his throat became lubricated
with saliva.  Glancing down and realizing she held his hand in
hers, he drew away.

As Mulder's fingers slipped from her own, Scully had a brief but
terrifying flashback of the day they had taken him from her in
handcuffs.  He'd not wanted to leave her that day, had been taken
against his will, but this time he was removing himself
deliberately.

"I can't leave," she confessed, reaching to brush the hair from
his forehead and wincing as he tried to jerk away.  The sudden
movement caused the pain in his abdomen to flare up, and once it
awakened, its companions in his arm, leg and side came to life as
well. Seeing the sudden tightness to his mouth and the way his
pale face lost its last vestige of color, Scully guessed the
problem.  Immediately she reached over and pushed the button that
would release a dose of medication into Mulder's IV, and within a
few minutes he was more comfortable, if not comfortably numb.

"Go away, Scully," he whispered, closing his eyes as the drug
soothed his pain.

"Sorry, Partner," she said.  "I'm not leaving you."

He gave a small sigh.  "We're not partners any longer, Scully.
We're not even friends.  And we've never been lovers, in spite of
that one night."

She knew she had hurt him, that he had the right to hurt her in
retaliation, but she flinched at the jab his words sent to her
heart. Still, letting him go now--now that he knew the whole
story of why she had gone--was unthinkable.  Mulder could be
gotten around.  It would just take some time.

"We can get it back again, Mulder," she began, but he slowly
shook his head.

"I don't want it back, Scully.  I don't want *you* back.  Just go
away."

Before she could open her mouth to protest, Skinner was at her
side, firmly but gently grasping her above the elbow.  She looked
up at him, stunned.  Surely these two men couldn't be serious
about making her leave?

"Mulder," she tried once more.  "You must know I never meant for
it to come to this."

He closed his eyes and turned his head away.  "You're the one who
said you wanted to end it, Scully.  Well you've got your wish."

There were no more words to say as she allowed Skinner to pull
her easily from his side, from his presence, from the room.

"He can't--he doesn't mean--" she stammered once outside the
door.

Skinner put his hand on her shoulder and interrupted her firmly.
"Let him go, Scully."  Startled, she looked up to meet his gaze.

"Once and for all, just let him go.  It's the best thing."

She stared at him for a full minute before speaking.  "I'll stay
away for a little while," she said carefully, "to give him time
to recover. But it isn't over between us, Walter.  It can't be.
I can't let Zach win, not after all we've been through.  And I
don't believe it's truly what Mulder wants either.  He still
loves me."

"That may be so," he agreed, "but he can't take any more.  Just
let him go.  Please, Scully."  His soft brown eyes contained more
than a request, less than an entreaty.  He was asking, pure and
simple.  "He can't stand any more of this up and down bullshit.
You've jerked him around once too often."

"I'll go.  For now," she answered finally.  He watched her small
frame as she retreated down the corridor, not taking his eyes off
her until she stepped into the elevator and disappeared from
view.  He wondered how Mulder would react to this once he
recovered from his injuries.

*****

"I'm sorry, Scully, he's sleeping," Skinner lied as his eyes
played over Mulder.  His physical recovery was progressing
nicely, but emotionally his friend was a wreck.  Mulder tried to
hide the turmoil in his mind from Skinner, but hadn't been
successful--Skinner knew every nook and cranny of that mind by
now, and he was acquainted with all Mulder's defense mechanisms.

"I'll tell him you called."  He put down the phone and sighed.
"Are you ever going to speak to her again?" he asked, crossing
his arms and levelling his gaze at the man in the bed.

Mulder shrugged.  "Sooner or later I suppose I'll have to," he
conceded. "But not as long as you're here to protect me." His
grin belied the seriousness of the words, and if Skinner had been
a casual acquaintance he might have been fooled.  Instead, he
recognized the real meaning behind Mulder's choice of phrase.  He
really did feel the need of protection from his diminutive
ex-partner.

"You know, Mulder, I doubt Scully would drag you off behind some
bushes and rape you," he said dryly.  "Just speaking to her on
the telephone wouldn't really put you in that much jeopardy, and
it might get her off your back.  How long do you think she's
going to put up with this brush-off routine?"

Mulder smiled.  "Maybe long enough for me to move to Seattle."

Skinner snorted.  "Yeah, I can just see you in Seattle."

"I hear it's nice there," Mulder commented, the twinkle in his
eye growing.  It had become a running joke with them in the past
week, beginning when Mulder had morosely declared that the only
way to put Scully out of his life forever might be to move across
the continent.

"It rains there," Skinner finished.  Mulder hated rain.  Mulder
hated anything that kept him penned up indoors.  "Seriously,
Mulder."

Mulder looked up at him, shifting his position slightly to take
the pressure off his wounded leg.  He glanced away quickly when
he saw the firm expression on Skinner's face.  Sighing, Mulder
nodded once.  He knew his friend was getting tired of lying to
Scully on his behalf.  She had tried to visit him twice since the
day he had awakened to find her there, and each time Skinner had
politely but determinedly turned her away. Sooner or later he was
going to have to face her.

"I know, Walter, I know.  It's just...every time I think about it
I get chills."

Skinner shook his head in exasperation.  "You tell me you're over
her, but I know you're lying.  I tell her you're sleeping, but
she knows I'm lying.  She says she doesn't want to hurt you
again...is she lying?"

Mulder absently wound a corner of the sheet around his finger,
back and forth, while he thought about his answer.  Finally, he
said, "I believe she doesn't want to hurt me.  I don't think she
ever did.  Scully just made some bad decisions."

This was too much for Skinner.  "You've never made a bad decision
in your life have you, Mulder?" he demanded through his laughter.

Mulder glared up at him.  He wanted to join in the laughter, but
it was too much of an effort just now.  The past few minutes of
friendly banter were all he had the emotional strength for.

"I excel at making bad decisions, Walter," he replied seriously
as he settled back against the pillows.

Skinner frowned.  It had been a fun moment with Mulder, but the
fact was, his friend was still hurting, both inside and out.  The
inner pain would take much longer to heal.

*****

Skinner stood at the nurses station waiting patiently to be
presented with Mulder's discharge papers and prescriptions.  He
would be receiving another week's worth of antibiotics just for
good measure, the doctor had told them, as well as some pain
pills in case he should need them. Skinner already knew they were
a waste of time, but rather than argue with Mulder's physician he
had agreed gracefully.  If Mulder wanted to flush the medication
down the toilet when he got home that was his choice.

Skinner had tried desperately to convince Mulder that returning
to his own home, alone, was a bad idea, but Mulder would not be
dissuaded.  He could take care of himself, he insisted, and would
be more comfortable in his own surroundings.  Skinner had finally
agreed, with the condition that Mulder's house be guarded 'round
the clock--by trained law-enforcement officers this time--and
Mulder had finally, reluctantly agreed.  He ignored the
tightening in his stomach at the thought of someone in a police
uniform approaching him; he knew he was being silly, but the
memory of being marched out of his apartment in handcuffs and
having years of his life stolen was as fresh as the day it had
happened.

Having lost the battle to have Mulder convalesce at his
apartment, Skinner was doing all he could to ensure Mulder's
comfort and safety. He had visited Mulder's house the day before,
checked out his pantry and first-aid supplies, and made a quick
trip to a nearby market to restock those things he thought Mulder
would need.  He had also determined to make a daily visual check
to see for himself that Mulder was coping, but he hadn't felt the
need to share that decision with his obstinate friend just yet.

"Walter?"

A voice at his elbow drew his attention and he turned to find
Scully at his side, hesitant, uncertain.

"What is it, Scully?" he asked brusquely, pretending not to be
surprised at her sudden appearance.  For the last week she had
not called, apparently having gotten fed up with Mulder's
constant refusals to speak with her, and Skinner hoped she had
given up the chase.  That, apparently, was not the case.

Scully glanced nervously toward the door to Mulder's room, then
back to him.  "I want to see him," she said.

Skinner turned fully toward her now, leaning on the nurses desk
and regarding her deliberately.  She flushed under his scrutiny,
but held his gaze steadily.

"Why?" he asked.  "Did you find a piece of him you hadn't ripped
to shreds yet?"

Her mouth tightened in anger, but she clamped down on her temper.
"I just want five minutes," she said levelly.  "If I don't see
him now, I'll find a way to see him later.  There's something I
need to say to him, Walter."

He stood, unspeaking, for a long minute, then finally gave a
single nod and turned away, dismissing her.  Scully swallowed the
lump in her throat and headed for Mulder's room, hoping Skinner
wouldn't change his mind and call her back.

The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open slowly.
Mulder was up, fully dressed, sitting on the bed.  He was shoving
a few personal belongings into his bag, and looked up, startled,
when he saw her.

"You're back," he said in a toneless voice.  "Somehow I knew you
would be."

Scully shut the door behind her, ignoring his cold reception, and
pulled up a chair.  Seating herself before him, she reached out
for his hand. He didn't pull away, but he didn't return her
gesture either--he simply let her take his limp fingers in hers.
Passive.  Unresisting.

"I needed to talk to you," she began, and then stopped.  How
could she convince him of all the emotions in her heart?  He had
said he didn't trust her--did he still have enough trust to
believe her when she told him how she felt?  He waited, his eyes
glittering green, while she gathered her thoughts.

"A lot of things have gone wrong between us," she said in a low
voice, "and most of them are probably my fault."

She waited for him to jump in and accept blame for the
situation--it was what he would have done in the past--but the
man before her was a very different Mulder from the man she had
known for so long.  He sat silently.

"I know I didn't handle the threat Zachary made very well," she
confessed.  "I was confused, and I was so frightened for you.  I
didn't know if you would try to take him on alone, or if it would
send you over the edge into a panic.  And I knew, we both knew,
that Zach was perfectly capable of following through."

She glanced up at him then, and he nodded for her to go on.
Lowering her gaze back to their clasped hands, she searched for
the words to continue.

"I came here to ask you for one more chance, Mulder."  Angrily
she felt the tears attempt to manifest, and forced them to remain
dormant.  Tears would not sway him now, tears would only make her
feel weak and foolish.

She hadn't expected him to speak, and when he did his words were
like the flog of a whip.

"One more chance at what?" he whispered.  "Destroying me?"

Her lips tried to form the word 'no', but he didn't give her a
chance.

"You've already finished the job, Scully," he said, his voice
trembling with sadness and barely held fury and something
else--disdain?  "You were the one, after all that's been done to
me, who finally made me give in and cry 'uncle'.  You broke me
when nobody else could.  How many times do I have to lose you?
God, Scully, how many times do you think I can?"

The tears ran unchecked down her face now, his tormented words
making it impossible to stop them.

"I don't want to give you another chance.  I couldn't survive
another chance."  He shook his head, and the sad smile on his
face was her undoing.  "I just can't do this anymore, Scully."

With that, he gently removed his hand from hers and stood,
turning to zip up the canvas duffel bag.  He ignored the choked
sobs she tried to suppress.

"Mulder..."

"I can't do it anymore," he repeated, tossing the bag over his
shoulder and wincing slightly at the tinge of pain it brought.

She turned around when she heard the door open.  Skinner stood
waiting, ignoring her as well, and Mulder followed him out the
door and down the hall without a second glance her way.  Scully
remained where she was for several more minutes, gathering her
scattered thoughts and composing herself, before rising and
walking stiffly from the building.  She held herself in check all
the way back to Baltimore, forcing thoughts of Mulder angrily
from her mind.  The loneliness she felt when she thought of the
two men who had been her allies and friends for so long excluding
her from their lives was crushing.  With determination born of
years of struggle, Scully forced her mind to organize itself.
She had much thinking ahead.

Her choices were clear, her decision impossible--keep trying, or
move on?

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

Chapter Seven

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


Mulder waited patiently while Skinner settled him onto his couch,
pain medication and antibiotic within easy reach, remote control
in hand, telephone nearby.  He agreed to rest, and to call if he
needed anything, anything at all.  He obediently responded that
yes, he would eat something soon.  He thanked Skinner for his
help, and his offer of still more assistance, but assured his
friend that he would be all right alone and didn't need a
babysitter.  When Skinner finally departed, reluctantly, Mulder
breathed an enormous sigh of relief and hauled himself to a
sitting position.  He had a plan and he intended to carry it out
before the numbness protecting his heart could fade.

Skinner had pressured, had almost insisted that Mulder stay at
his apartment for a few days, but Mulder had dug in his
proverbial heels and remained adamant.  He wanted to go home.  He
would be fine. Skinner's jaw had tightened a little at that word,
but Mulder didn't care.  He was tired of being treated like an
invalid by his friends, and was determined that nobody should
deter him from the course upon which he had decided.

Life, Mulder told himself as he gathered the supplies he needed,
had no business being so painful.  He found his old gun cleaning
kit packed in a box in the bedroom and carried it back to his
couch.  Then he visited the kitchen, where he dug half a bottle
of Scotch from beneath the sink, hidden behind the cleaning
supplies and extra dishtowels.  He considered a glass, with ice
even, and then shrugged his shoulders carelessly. There was
really no need.

The last object he retrieved had belonged to his father, and
Mulder held it with a kind of reverence when he had removed it
from its storage case.  The bedroom light glinted off its
blue-steel exterior, and Mulder held the wooden hand-grip in his
palm comfortably.  He and his father had been about the same
height and build, although Bill Mulder had shrunk a bit in his
later years, as older people will do. Still, the gun fit Mulder's
hand perfectly, and he hefted its weight with confidence driven
by experience.  He hadn't handled a firearm in years, but the
time had melted away the moment he flipped open the revolver.
Properly unloaded.  He had known it would be, but habit dictated
he check. 'Always treat every firearm as if it were loaded', he
remembered his father's voice telling him once.  How many years
ago had that been? Thirty? Thirty-five?  At least one hundred, he
decided at length.

The weapon appeared surprisingly clean in spite of long disuse,
but Mulder carried it back to the couch, along with the
accompanying ammunition, and purposefully set about the task of
cleaning the gun. He had no intention of having his plans upset
by a dirty firearm. There would be no room for mistakes tonight.

*****

Scully reached her Baltimore apartment and immediately headed for
a hot bath.  Her only concession to the fact that Zachary was
still on the loose and dangerous was to lock the front door
behind her.  He could come and get her now, she thought with a
creeping sadness.  He could hurt her, kill her even, and it
wouldn't matter.  Nothing mattered any longer.  She sneered at
herself, realizing her thoughts mirrored a gothic romance novel,
but life had become quite gothic lately, she defended.  And
romance does not always have a happy ending.

For all the past they had between them, Scully had never really
believed Mulder would stop caring.  His eyes, when he'd told her
he wouldn't give her another chance, had been chillingly dead.
She had always been able to read his true feelings in those eyes
of his, but not today. Today they had only conveyed indifference,
and that, more than anything, frightened her.  If Mulder had said
he hated her, she might have had more hope.  Hate, at least, was
an emotion, and a strong one.  There was always the possibility
of turning hatred into love, especially when love had once been
strong.  Indifference was so...final.

She dropped her clothing in a heap on the floor, neatness be
damned, and slipped gratefully into steaming water.  Usually the
aroma of the oil she used in her bath soothed her frayed nerves,
but nothing so simple would ease away today's problem.  She
gasped aloud when the memory of Skinner and Mulder walking away
from her hit, and actually brought her hands up to cover her
heart in a vain attempt to block out the pain.  Forcing herself
to breathe deeply, and shoving the memory away, she blinked back
hot tears.  Tears would gain her nothing now. She had to figure
out a way to recapture Mulder's heart.  'Tomorrow is another
day!' her inner sneering voice quoted, and she quelled it
immediately. Though Rhett Butler he was not, Mulder was meant for
her, and she for him.  Nothing could change that fact.  He needed
her too thoroughly to be able to simply set her aside like a
boyhood hobby now forgotten. Deep within, beneath the layers of
denial and self-protection, he must still love her.  He simply
must.

*****

Skinner paced throughout his apartment restlessly; a Mulder
habit, he thought wryly as he sipped at the coffee that had
become his sustenance in past weeks.  He held little hope that
Mulder had kept the numerous promises Skinner had extracted.  Lie
down, rest, eat, take your medication, don't overdo...

"Damn!" Skinner swore aloud.  "I'm acting like his mother!"
Well, maybe not *Mulder's* mother, he corrected himself, but *a*
mother. Teena Mulder had not been one to fuss over her son, and
it was a damned shame, because had Mulder had a little more
motherly hovering in his childhood, he might not think so little
of himself today.

The crux of the matter, he finally admitted to himself, was that
he didn't trust Mulder completely.  He knew the tendency toward
self-flagellation that his former agent carried, and the scene at
the hospital this morning with Scully had been much more damaging
emotionally than Mulder had let on.  To tell the woman he had
loved for years that he no longer trusted her, that he didn't
want to try one more time to make their relationship work--it had
to have torn Mulder to pieces, but in true Mulder fashion he had
simply swallowed his feelings and put on a mask.  And then turned
his back on her and walked away.

It seemed to always be this way with Mulder and Scully, he mused
as he stood on his balcony and stared at the traffic seventeen
floors below. When one was ready to jump in with both feet, the
other held back, reluctant to commit or even admit to the
feelings.  Eventually, in a sad and bizarre dance of
self-destruction, they would change places, and so the dance
continued as the world played its discordant background music.
They would die for each other, he realized, but they refused to
live for each other.

Saddened at the waste of a perfectly good love affair, Skinner
examined the jump he'd been afraid Mulder was going to make not
so very long ago. Maybe it would have been better all around.
Maybe the most merciful thing now would simply be to let Mulder
put himself out of his misery. He shook his head.  He remembered a 
book he'd read in his early twenties--"The Exorcist" by William Peter
Blatty.  In it, the author had compared (evil) to EVIL!.  Mulder's
life struck him the same way.  It wasn't even misery with Mulder. 
Where most people suffered misery, and sometimes only (misery), 
with Mulder it was Misery, and sometimes MISERY.  Pain and suffering 
of one type or another had been that man's constant companion since 
he was twelve years old.  How many instances of joy had there 
actually been? Few and far between, and most of them centered on the 
woman he'd turned his back on this morning, Skinner decided, and 
wondered briefly how Mulder's life might have turned out without the 
benefit of outside interference.  No use thinking about that now, he 
told himself at last. Everyone's life had outside interference.  It 
was just that Mulder seemed to have it in spades.  At that thought, 
Skinner laughed shortly. Hell, Mulder had *everything* in spades.

*****

The first sip of scotch, taken directly from the bottle, had
burned going down.  Drinking was something Mulder had never been
terribly fond of, the occasional beer with friends being his
usual limit, and straight hard alcohol from a bottle was an
entirely new experience. He'd only bought the bottle in a fit of
depression one day, had made himself a couple of mixed drinks to
loosen up, and then decided if he didn't stop he would find
himself on a road he had absolutely no intention of traveling;
his father had been an alcoholic, and Mulder recognized the
aspect of his personality that could easily be taken in by the
same demon. His defense against such an occurrence had always
been avoidance, and it had worked well. In keeping with that
decision, he had shoved the bottle to the back of the cupboard
and forgotten about it until today.  He'd managed to get through
crisis after crisis without numbing his brain artificially
(although he had to admit that the automatic self-defense-numbing
his body had recently treated him to had been appreciated and
wonderful), but today required more.  If he was going to carry
out his plan, he would need a little courage of the liquid
persuasion, he told himself as he took another drink.  His
swallow was larger this time--bigger than a sip but not yet
qualifying as a swig. He had no doubt that before the evening was
through he would have passed through the swigging stage and
possibly even progressed to gulping.

It was going to be a long night.

He reached for the pen and notepad that he kept beside the
telephone. It simply wouldn't do to put a bullet through his
brain without explanation, he decided.  Walter, at least,
deserved more than that from him, as did Frohike, Byers and
Langly.  Scully deserved nothing.

He'd called Senator Matheson's office not long after his release
from prison to express his thanks and had been told the Senator
was out of the country.  His letter of gratitude had gone
unanswered, and Mulder had sadly decided that his friendship must
be a political liability to Matheson at this point.  He had made
no further efforts at contacting Matheson, having decided in late
childhood that one-sided relationships were not his forté‚ (they
always hurt), and Matheson himself had been silent.  Apparently
his efforts to obtain a new trial for Mulder had been one last
favor for an old friend, one with which he no longer wished to be
acquainted.

He wrestled with how to begin Skinner's letter.  'Dear Walter',
though generally accepted, seemed too sticky for Mulder's taste.
Skinner was much more than 'dear', and nothing of what the word
might imply.  It was a feminine word, one that women could use
easily to address one another and not be thought less of, but men
were required to exhibit more manly emotions--or lack thereof.
'Dear' seemed to indicate someone for whom you had loving, even
intimate feelings, and it simply didn't apply. On the other hand,
Skinner had been so much more than his friend in the past few
years.

Mulder had been surprised at first by Skinner's completely
unexpected dedication to his cause once he'd been convicted.  He
had never imagined the level of support he had received, and had
certainly not allowed himself to hope that Skinner, or anyone
else for that matter, might actually try to help him.  He
anticipated each visit with dread, hoping Skinner would arrive on
schedule and fearing the day he didn't, until finally he had
become convinced that whatever his reasons, Skinner would not
desert him. After a time he had, little-by-little, given Skinner
the trust that the older man craved, and a friendship had been
forged the depths of which Mulder had never experienced with
another man. Having had only Samantha, and having her taken from
him, he couldn't describe his relationship with Skinner in
sibling-like terms, but he sometimes thought this might be what
it would be like to have an older brother. Someone to depend on,
trust in, fight with, hang with, and most of all someone to bring
you back into line when you let your life get so far off track
that you were lost.  Skinner had always been all of those things
to Mulder, only Mulder hadn't recognized it until recently.

Finally deciding on a simple 'Walter', Mulder scrawled the word
across the top of the notepad.  Then he sat, staring at the empty
page wondering how to explain to the man who had been, in an
almost literal sense, his savior, why he was throwing it all
away.

*****

The bath water began to cool before she finally pulled herself
from the tub and wrapped a large fluffy towel around her body.
Some of the tension from the day had drained away, but Scully
still was unable to rid herself of the creeping sensation of
worry she had begun to feel. Something was wrong.  Mulder had
been so unlike himself this morning, and when Mulder set his mind
to it, he could be quite unpredictable. She sat on the edge of
her bed, staring cautiously at the telephone. Should she risk
calling him to make sure things were all right?  What good could
it really do her anyway--Mulder would only tell her he was
'fine', if he answered at all.

Fine. Scully winced, thinking of all the times she had shut him
out with that very phrase.  She'd never realized until recently
how much it could hurt to be on the receiving end.

At first Mulder had been mildly irritated, even somewhat amused,
that she should attempt to feign strength behind a word.  He had
held her in his arms once and allowed her to cry, whispering
words of comfort in her ear, seconds after she had uttered them.
He had never believed her when she used the phrase, even when she
was telling the truth.  In later years he had become angered by
that sentence, and had even turned it on her a time or two, more
as a revenge than a desire to conceal his feelings from her, she
thought. Now, though, it was a desire to conceal. Mulder had
erected walls within walls around himself, and Scully feared that
by now, even if she spent the rest of her life tearing down
bricks, she would never reach the man behind the fortress. And
the man behind the fortress was in such pain...

Resolutely, before she could change her mind, she reached for the
telephone.  The worst thing he could do was hang up on her, she
decided, but she had to at least try to talk to him.

The telephone rang six times before his answering machine picked
up and his voice rattled off the characteristically brief
message.  With a sigh Scully put down the phone.  He might be
out, but chances were good he simply didn't want to talk to
*her*.  After a few more minutes of inner debate, in which she
assured herself that Fox Mulder was a grown man and could take
care of himself, she reluctantly grabbed up the phone again. Fox
Mulder might be a grown man, but there were days when he most
definitely could *not* take care of himself, and she suspected
this was one.  Even though Skinner might rip her up one side and
down the other, at least he was guaranteed access to Mulder,
access she was apparently to be denied.

*****

Skinner didn't want to take her call when it came in, but he knew
he had to; he couldn't leave her hanging.  He was angry at
Scully, and angry at Mulder as well for the way they had acted
lately, but he didn't have the heart to ignore her.  He'd rather
she called him than Mulder anyway.  He had more power to resist
her.

"Skinner," he barked into the telephone when he answered after
the fifth ring. He heard her breathing for several seconds before
she finally worked up the courage to speak.  He knew this must be
difficult for her after what had happened at the hospital, but
that didn't mean he had to make it easier.

"Have you talked to him?" she asked at last, and Skinner could
hear the weariness in her voice.  Somewhere on the edges of his
mind he realized they all sounded the same these days.  Tired.
Worn out.

"Not since I left him at home this afternoon.  Why?"

She sighed heavily, as if reluctant to continue.  "I know this is
going to sound stupid--maybe it is stupid--but something he said
today has got me worried."

He sat up at that statement; he still didn't know details of the
exchange between Mulder and Scully that morning and Mulder had
absolutely refused to discuss it with him.

"What did he say that worried you?" he asked quickly, feeling
around with his feet for the shoes he had discarded earlier in
search of comfort.  Somehow he knew this call was going to result
in a trip to Mulder's house.

"He said--Walter, did Mulder tell you what we talked about?"

"No.  What did he say that worried you?"  He was getting tired of
endlessly repeating himself with this woman.  Somewhere in the
last few years, Scully had acquired a remarkable ability to
approach topics from a perspective that he thought of as
'sideways'.  Quite a change from the former,
straight-to-the-point woman he had known in the past. He wondered
if her marriage to Zachary Morrow was responsible for the switch.

"He said he couldn't do this anymore.  Those were his exact
words, Walter--'I can't do this anymore'.  It didn't sound like
you'd expect. It sounded...creepy."

He rolled his eyes at that.  "Creepy?" he asked in a disbelieving
tone. "Do I need to remind you that this is *Mulder* we're
discussing?"

"I *know* it's Mulder, Walter, but there was something about his
voice...and his eyes," she retorted.  "Something was going on in
that brain of his and I wasn't able to figure it out.  That alone
frightens me.  I tried calling him, but naturally he refused to
pick up."

"Good.  I don't mean to be unkind, but right now you're the last
thing he needs."

She was silent for a long time, and he could almost hear the pain
his words had caused her.  He couldn't bring himself to care
much.

"Maybe you're right about that," she said at last, "but I would
appreciate it if you'd just check on him.  At least he'll
probably answer your call."

Skinner rubbed his eyes wearily.  "Fine," he told her abruptly.
"I'll check on him."

"Thank you," she said in a tone that was just this side of icy.
He heard the distinct click and knew she had gone away angry, but
again couldn't bring himself to give a damn.  Mulder might have
recovered from his stay in that hellhole fairly quickly with her
support--Skinner had never seen him so happy as in the brief time
Scully had stayed with him--but the additional agony she had put
her ex-partner through had sealed his fate.  He was still a
somewhat broken man, only partially repaired, and Skinner feared
Mulder would be this way always.

He stretched, shaking the kinks out his tall frame--napping in a
chair at his age was never a good idea, he reminded himself.  He
reached for the telephone, intending to give a quick check-in
call to Mulder, and hesitated.  Scully may be at the root of a
lot of Mulder's problems, but nobody understood his psyche like
Mulder's former partner.  If she believed he could be up to some
ill-conceived action, it might be better to surprise him by
arriving unexpectedly.  A telephone call would only give Mulder a
chance to lie, provided he answered at all. Checking his pockets
for his wallet and keys, Skinner made for the door.

Mulder, he told himself, you'd damn well better be sitting
quietly watching television when I arrive.

*****

Mulder didn't stir when the doorbell rang; he already knew who it
would be.  After all this time he'd sort of developed a
SkinnerSense, the ability to discern when his friend would worry
most about him and when that worry would get the better of
Walter.  The SkinnerSense had been going off loud and clear for
the last hour, ever since he'd ignored Scully's phone call.  It
hadn't taken brilliance to deduce her next step.  He sat in the
same position he'd held for twenty minutes, his father's gun
lying loosely across his lap, barely grasped in his fingers.  His
thoughts had taken a meandering route during the afternoon, but
had at last, with the help of some unexplained force that still
rocked him, reached a conclusion.  One he could live with.

After a few minutes he heard Skinner fumbling with the lock.  As
the door slowly opened, the last bit of daylight crept across the
room to partially illuminate his form on the couch.  Still,
silent, he waited for Skinner to approach.  Skinner did so
cautiously, as if afraid Mulder might raise the gun to his head
at any second.  When his friend stood quietly before him,
obviously searching for words, Mulder took pity on him at last.

"It's all right, Walter."  He gently placed the gun on the coffee
table, then lightly shoved it toward Skinner.  "I already decided
not to do it."

Skinner tried unsuccessfully to hold back a small sigh of relief,
seating himself in a chair to Mulder's left.  He waited for the
other man to go on.

"I can live without her," Mulder continued after a moment.  "I
know that now."

Skinner stared pointedly at the nearly-empty bottle of Scotch,
and Mulder gave a short laugh.  "I had to get drunk in order to
think clearly, can you believe that?"

Skinner didn't answer, just sat back and let Mulder talk.

"But I am thinking clearly now.  For the first time in a very
long time I'm thinking clearly. And I realized something this
afternoon, Walter. I realized that I've always lived without her.
She was never really mine at all.  From the very beginning I
wanted her, and I opened myself up to her, and I *gave* myself to
her, heart and mind and soul and eventually even my body, but she
was never, *never* mine. I wanted to believe, and I told myself
she returned my feelings, but it was a lie."

Skinner accepted this information wordlessly.  Mulder was
speaking more now than he had in weeks, and even though he knew
it was partially the liquor talking, Mulder needed to unburden
himself. Curiously he nodded toward the gun.  "What changed your
mind?"

He thought he saw a look flit across Mulder's face, but before he
could fully identify it (wonder? fear? awe?), it was gone.
Mulder smiled and settled back on the couch.  "You.  Mom.  Dad.
Samantha.  I realized I owed all of you more than this.  And you
know, Walter, I'm the very last one.  The last of the Mulders, at
least from this branch of the old family tree.  There won't be
any after me.  This is not the legacy of my family I want to
leave the world."

He stared up at Skinner, his smile gone and his face totally
serious. "All of you deserve better than this from me.  You,
especially, deserve more."

"You don't owe me anything, Mulder," Skinner said uncomfortably.

"But I do.  I never would have made it this far without you, did
you realize that?  Hell, I never would have made it through those
four years in purgatory if I hadn't had you to lean on, only I
didn't realize it at the time. You've saved my life, Walter, more
times than I can count."

"Bullshit.  You'd have done the same thing for me, and you'd have
done it for the same reason.  Because you're my friend.  Because
it was the right thing to do."

Mulder smiled again, a real smile this time, his first one in
days if not weeks.  "Maybe.  All I know is, it's time to move
forward.  I'm in the process of making some decisions.  I don't
want to tell you about them until I'm sure, but they do involve
leaving the past behind."

"What about your schooling, Mulder?" Skinner asked curiously.
"You were so determined--"

"I'm still determined.  It's something I've always wanted to do,
and I intend to finish.  I refuse to let Scully, or my past, take
anything else away from me."  He grew very quiet for a moment, as
if gathering his thoughts for explanation, and then said simply,
"Today I wanted to die.  I changed my mind.  From now on, I
live."

Profound, Skinner thought.  Profound, and so much easier said
than done, for at the heart of the matter was still a small
red-haired woman from Mulder's past, present and future.

"Do you still love her?"

Mulder didn't seem surprised at the question.  "I suppose I do,
on some level.  At least, the part of me that my common sense
hasn't yet been able to reason with still loves her.  But I can't
have her.  I never had her.  I'm not sure anyone ever will.  I
can live with that now."  He ran his fingers idly around the rim
of the liquor bottle. "Scully is not the kind of woman any man
can have."

"There are other women, Mulder," Skinner told him mildly, knowing
all the while that it was untrue, that for Mulder there would
never be another woman.  Mulder had given his heart away--it was
no longer in his possession, and any woman who involved herself
too deeply in his life in the future could only face
disappointment.

"There are," Mulder agreed, unable to meet Skinner's gaze.
"There's a whole country full of them."

"Well," Skinner said at last, rising and stretching.  "Get your
shit together, Mulder.  You know the drill."

Mulder threw back his head and laughed.  "You've got to be tired
of having me as a houseguest, Walter!" he argued, knowing it was
useless and taking comfort in the familiarity.  A portion of
himself despised the fact that he'd turned into such a needy,
pathetic individual, but he had seen the improvement he'd made,
he had to admit.  Rising, he grabbed the bag he had dropped
beside the couch when Skinner had brought him home earlier.

"But when you have a change of heart, Mulder, it's a big one,"
Skinner replied, closing the door to Mulder's house firmly behind
him. "You've already had one today, thank God, I'm not about to
leave you here alone to have another."

Mulder laughed again.  "Let's go, boss," he said, grinning, and
Skinner rolled his eyes as he followed Mulder out the door.

It would get better.  It had to get better.  There was nowhere to
go but up.

*****

"Bill!"  Scully's voice was delighted when she answered her
brother's call late that evening.  She'd been moping around her
apartment for hours, afraid to leave lest Skinner should call,
certain his lack of contact meant Mulder was safe and sound, and
resentfully wondering if he would call her even should Mulder be
in danger.  After watching the two of them walk away together
that morning, nothing would surprise her.  They'd closed ranks
against her.

She'd considered calling the round of hospitals Mulder usually
frequented, and finally decided against that action.  Besides,
she argued to herself, what could she do if she found him listed
as a patient somewhere?  Mulder certainly wouldn't welcome a
visit from her, and Skinner would never let her in the door of
Mulder's room anyway. Surely if anything was wrong he'd have
called her.  He had to know she still cared for Mulder, even if
the whole affair had gone horribly wrong.

With these thoughts on her mind, Dana had jumped when the
telephone emitted its shrill ring, hoping against hope that it
would be Skinner, or Mulder, with *any* news.

She should have been disappointed to find her brother on the
other end of the connection instead, but her heart was so raw
tonight that any friendly voice was welcome.  Bill still hadn't
completely accepted the situation, but he was trying, she had to
give him credit. And he had been appalled at Zach's brutal attack
on Mulder's life.

"I just wondered how you were doing," he told her.  "I heard from
Mom that Mulder was released from the hospital today.  I
thought...part of me thought you might be with him tonight."

She bit back the tears that tried to invade, and forced her face
into a stony facade.  It was the only way to get through the
situation.

"He wasn't very receptive to me this morning," she admitted
truthfully, although leaving out the part where her heart had
been ripped to shreds by Mulder and his professed lack of trust.

Bill made a noise of disgust and she found herself growing angry.

"Bill, you don't understand the situation," she said sharply.
"You never have."

He was quiet for a minute, and in her mind she heard his voice
saying the words she hoped he wouldn't actually verbalize.  After
a long minute he agreed, "You're right, and I never will.  But
it's your life, Dana, and all I want is for you to be happy.  If
Mulder is the man who makes you happy, I'll do my best to be
civil."

She almost laughed then, at the thought of Bill willing to be
civil to Mulder now that it was years too late.

"He didn't want me, Bill," she said quietly.  "He turned his back
on me."

"He was probably hurt and confused."

She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it in shock.
Was this really her brother, or one of Mulder's 'clones'?  She
couldn't believe he'd utter a word in support of Mulder, much
less an entire sentence.

He seemed to sense her incredulity.  "Dana, you two have been on
a roller coaster lately, always either up or down.  It's been
this way since he was released--hell, since before then.  You
know, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I really wish
now I hadn't urged you to marry Zach.  Maybe if I had kept my
nose out of your life, you and Mulder would be together and you'd
be happy."

Now it was definite--this could not be Bill Scully.

As if seeing her face, he laughed.  "I know what you're thinking,
Dana, but I've had a lot of time to go over this whole situation
in my mind. Also, Tara has done a lot of talking to me.  I know
I've been selfish and over-protective of you...it's been hard for
me to let go. I'm not saying I'd embrace the idea of Fox Mulder
as a brother-in-law, I'm only saying I'd try to endure it."

"Well, Bill," Dana told him, wondering sadly at the changes in
life that always came too late, "nothing of the kind is likely.
He won't even talk to me.  He told me we were through."

Bill swore under his breath.  "You can't let him leave it like
that--unresolved.  You have to make him at least talk it out."

"Bill, I can't *make* Mulder do anything!  He's a grown man, and
besides, he has Walter Skinner behind him.  If Skinner doesn't
want me to contact Mulder, he'll make sure I can't."

"Go see him, Dana," he urged suddenly.  "Tomorrow morning, go see
him. Show up unexpectedly.  Corner him if you have to.  Do you
still have those handcuffs?"  Only half joking.

She had to laugh.  "Bill!  Of course not!"  Then, "Do you really
think I should just arrive unannounced on his doorstep?"

"I think it might be the only way," he said, his tone serious
again.

She was silent for a long time, thinking, imagining the scenario.
Mulder might slam the door in her face.  He might hurt her even
more than he already had with his vicious words, words that knew
exactly where to aim and just how to wound.  Or, and it was a
possibility albeit a remote one, he just might listen to her.
Suddenly a phrase her father used to use when she was a child ran
unbidden through her mind.  She shivered, hearing his voice as
clearly as if she were still ten years old. 'You're only beaten
if you give up.'

"Ahead of twilight...reach the farthest shore ahead of
twilight..." she murmured, recalling Mulder's half-remembered
poem.

"What?" asked her confused brother.

"Nothing," she told him quickly.  "Just something Mulder said to
me once.  You know, Bill, I think you're right.  I believe I'll
do what you suggested.  Tomorrow."

"Good for you, Dana," he applauded.  "You've always been the kind
of person who took life by the horns.  Don't give up now."

"Maybe I'll stay with Mom tomorrow night," she went on.  "That
way, if Mulder throws me out on my ear, she can fix me hot
chocolate and chicken soup, and 'mom' me to death."

Bill laughed.  "I don't think he will, Dana, I really don't think
so."

She hung up, crossing her fingers and telling herself, 'God I
hope you're right for once, Bill!'

*****

Down the block a man sat quietly in a nondescript four-door
sedan.  He alternately glared and smiled at the small piece of
machinery lying on the passenger seat--a hand-held scanner,
capable of decoding cellular and cordless telephone calls within
a rather large radius.  He marveled that the woman, who had been
an FBI agent for so many years, would be so careless as to hold
personal conversations over a piece of equipment that could so
easily be turned into the equivalent of a public address system.
His face darkened when she revealed her plans for the following
morning to him, but it really didn't matter what she intended,
for he had a plan of his own.  There would be no room for
mistakes tonight.

He watched, casually observant, as the lights in the woman's
small apartment went out, one by one, until only a dim glow was
left shining from the front window.  It was the light beside her
bed, its rays barely making their way out the open bedroom door
to glimmer, oh-so-faintly, from the living room window.  He knew
the layout of her apartment intimately, having visited it many
times while she was away. He knew that she slept with her bedroom
door open because once, in a fit of daring fortified by the Jack
Daniels that was his preferred source of nutrition these days, he
had visited her while she was home, asleep in her bed, confident
of her own safety.  He had stood in the living room darkness
watching her through the open door, near enough to see the rise
and fall of her chest as she breathed steadily, not quite near
enough to touch, and on that night he had begun to formulate his
plan.

His plan.  He had been considering it in great detail--discarding
some ideas and adding others--for days now, examining it in his
mind like a fine work of art, a visible thing, something to be
savored and perfected. When finally he had been pleased with the
finished product, he had mentally stood back and admired it, both
in awe of his ability and in acceptance that it was a natural
talent.  He had hesitated in putting the idea into action,
however, concerned that, should he inadvertently choose the wrong
moment, all his careful craftsmanship would be destroyed. Now it
appeared she had made his decision for him, and there was no more
time to savor, no more moments to wonder and worry that perhaps
*this* tiny detail, or *that* one, should be changed.  The moment
would quickly be upon him, and he would go forward with
determination, and he would win.  No room for mistakes tonight.

*****

Mulder paced.  Again.  Skinner watched him silently, holding his
patience, until he began to have visions of drugging Mulder's
food in order to make him stay down.  At that point he decided
talk, rather than action, might be the proper course.

"Mulder, *sit down!*" he growled in a low voice, and Mulder,
taken by surprise at the suddenness of it, obeyed immediately.

His face was sheepish as he realized what he'd been doing for the
past hour.

"Sorry," he muttered, staring at the carpet.  "Guess I didn't
realize."

Skinner went to the refrigerator and extracted two bottles, then
returned and pressed a beer into Mulder's hand.

"Drink, Mulder," he commanded, and Mulder again obeyed, twisting
the cap off and downing a swallow.

"Good," he commented, surveying the label.  Imported stuff.  He
grinned. Somehow he'd known Skinner would be a snob when it came
to alcohol.

The Scotch he'd had to drink earlier had worn off, and the meal
Skinner had practically forced on him had done its job as well.
Mulder settled back into his chair comfortably, taking another
sip of the amber liquid, and stared at the wall.  He knew Walter
wanted him to spill his guts, but there was really nothing to
say.  Nothing he wanted to say out loud, anyway.

It was obvious a trip to Jess Coslow's office was in the cards
for the following morning--he'd be there now if she hadn't been
out of town for the day--and Mulder knew it would probably prove
to be a long and painful session in which he would have to say
many things he'd prefer to keep bottled up inside.  There was
simply no way to describe to either Walter or Jess the emotional
epiphany he'd undergone that afternoon.

He'd had every intention of doing it--the gun was clean, the note
to Walter written (brief but to the point, as with every note
Mulder had ever written to those important to his life), the
bottle all but drained...all that had remained was for him to
raise the gun and pull the trigger.

He'd gotten halfway there, gun inside his mouth, pointing
upwards, ready to blow what was left of his poor, confused brain
all over the wall, when he'd heard her.  Samantha.  Her voice, as
clear as day, saying, "Don't, Fox!"

Of course, he knew it was a memory from his childhood come back
to haunt him--it wasn't *really* Samantha's voice speaking to him
from the grave, or wherever she may be.  He even recalled the
exact day she'd said the words.  It had been her sixth birthday,
and his mother had invited several of her friends over for a
small party.  He'd smiled when he remembered Emmie's birthday
party not long ago--little girls were the same no matter what
their generation.  Of course, Sam's friends hadn't knocked him
down on the floor and tickled him, in fact, they'd found him to
be quite a pest, as older brothers can be on occasion.

They had teased him unmercifully that day, making jokes about his
hated name, drawing caricatures of him on the disposable
tablecloth with the crayons his mother had provided (certainly
not for the purpose of her son's humiliation), and generally
making his life miserable.  Finally, in a fit of rage, the
ten-year-old Fox had grabbed Samantha's favorite present, a
beautiful doll with a long blue dress and yellow curls, and made
as if to twist her head from her body.  Samantha, believing her
coveted toy was about to be destroyed, had put her hands to her
face and cried, in the very same voice he'd heard today, "Don't,
Fox!"

And he hadn't been able to refuse the sister he adored, even when
she and her friends were being brats.  He'd felt his heartstrings
tug when she smiled her childish, trusting smile at him, and
given her back the doll.  Turning to leave the room, he had heard
one of her friends start to giggle, and had felt gratified when
Samantha immediately shushed her. That evening, after the guests
were gone and the mess cleaned up, she had brought him a drawing
she'd done herself.  It was each of the friends who had teased
him that day, all pictured with uncomplimentary facial features
or clothing, and the two of them had sat on his bed and laughed
about the drawing for a long time.  When finally their mother
insisted they go to sleep, Sam had kissed him on the cheek and
said with the complete guilelessness that only a very young girl
can achieve, "Thank you, Fox."

Now, remembering, he unconsciously rubbed the cheek Samantha had
kissed all those years ago, and heard in his mind, "Thank you,
Fox." He'd surrendered to her then, as he always did.  As he had
today.

There was absolutely no way he could tell Skinner or anyone else
that his long-missing sister had convinced him to live.  They'd
lock him up and throw away the key for sure.

He'd finished the beer almost without realizing it, and soon
found Skinner handing him another.

"You trying to get me drunk, Walter?" he asked, surprised.
Usually Skinner did all things in moderation, but he was well
into his second bottle as well, and Mulder had the impression it
was going to be a long evening.

"You said yourself you think more clearly when you're drunk,"
Skinner reminded him with a grin.  "I don't want your judgement
muddled again before we get you into Jess' office tomorrow."

Mulder sighed.  He was so tired of being treated like a helpless
child, and yet at times he knew he gave the appearance of one.
Aside from that, he was just...tired.  Of everything.  Of life,
of the constant battles he seemed to be waging, both physical and
emotional. As much as his ego may rage against it, there was a
good deal of comfort in sitting back and letting Skinner take
care of things for a while.  It was an iron rod to cling to--that
there was one person who hadn't betrayed his trust and who he
could, so far, believe would not.

He drank the second beer even more slowly than the first, the
alcohol causing a comfortable cloud to gradually descend over his
brain. Kicking off his shoes, Mulder put his sock-clad feet up on
the ottoman and leaned back even farther in the soft chair, and
before he knew it was asleep.

Skinner watched him, grinning, as Mulder slowly lost his grip on
consciousness, and when Mulder's fingers loosened around the
bottle he took it from the sleeping man's grasp.  Throwing an
afghan over Mulder's still form, he quietly left the room.  It
wouldn't hurt Mulder to doze there for a while.  No doubt during
the night he would wake up and make his way to his own bed, but
for now Skinner didn't want to disturb the hard-won slumber.
Mulder's entire body looked worn and tired.

*****