By Maria N.
n-sulgit@students.uiuc.edu
 
 

Rating: PG-13

Category: S
Date: Wed, 28 Oct 1998 16:48:35 -0600 (CST)
Spoilers: Folie a deux, Pine Bluff Variant, Bad Blood
Keywords: None

Summary: Skinner deals with the fallout from PBV and Folie a deux.

Disclaimer: They belong to Fox and 1013 and any number of people, but
not me.
 
 

   The clock hand was pointing towards seven, his head, neck, and

shoulders had been aching slightly but persistently for over an hour,

and his desk was almost clean. Skinner decided to call it a day. It

had been the kind of day where the only working law had been

Murphy's, the kind of day that made Skinner seriously consider

quitting the FBI for a life of crime since it appeared that every

officer of the law that he met was an incompetent asshole who

wouldn't be able to catch him. It was the kind of day that could only

properly be described as a bitch.

   Usually, these kinds of days involved some contact with Mulder,

but Mulder had been conspicuous in his absence this last week. This

should have been restful, except that Skinner knew that part of his

nagging but persistent headache was caused by a nagging (but

persistent) sense of guilt. Had putting Mulder into the mental ward

of a hospital been justified, based on his behavior and the evidence?

Probably. Had it been the right thing to do in retrospect? Almost

certainly not.

   Apologies didn't come easily to Skinner, and he had the feeling he

owed one to Mulder, although since he wasn't sure how he could have

behaved differently, he didn't know what exactly to apologize for.

   The point seemed to be moot, since Mulder had been avoiding him

as if he carried a government-engineered toxin. The paperwork from

the X-Files office had been written primarily by Scully in her clear,

concise prose. The sections of reports that did come from Mulder had

been notable both for their brevity and for the absence of the

philosopical bullshit that he almost always managed to include

somewhere. His writing had been lucid, smooth, objective, and
 

completely lacking in life or creativity. While Quantico instructors

encouraged precisely this kind of prose, it made Skinner deeply

uneasy in some indefinable way. The paperwork was impeccable, and he

had no excuse to call either agent into his office to reassure himself

of their basic health and sanity.

   He kept expecting an explosion of some sort, literal or

metaphorical; had Mulder started taking hostages in the building

cafeteria one day, claiming that Skinner was a large insectoid

monster, he would not have been entirely surprised.

   Per requirements, Mulder had gone in to see Harry Madison, one of

the Bureau psychologists. Harry had met with him for thirty minutes

and proclaimed him to be in wonderful mental health, as Harry always

did. Skinner suspected blackmail of some sort, as Mulder's life had

been such that he was quite obviously in need of years of intensive

therapy even aside from recent events, but he'd always thought it

better not to question too closely. Even had Harry recommended or

mandated therapy, who would Mulder have gone to? Records could be

stolen, or a therapist could be bribed to reveal secrets that Mulder

and Skinner both would prefer to keep from Higher Powers, and how

many therapists wouldn't sent Mulder to a mental hospital for things

that Skinner knew were perfectly true?

   Skinner consciously redirected his thoughts, as his headache was

growing worse. Seven o'clock. He was going to leave his office,

without bringing paperwork home with him. He was going to head home

and watch whatever ESPN had to offer.

   Just possibly, he would indulge in his one secret addiction and

watch the golf channel, a channel he found immensely entertaining in

a perverse sort of way.

   He was already standing, ready to leave, when the knock at the door

came, and he sighed and said, "Come in."

   He was unpleasantly surprised to see that it was Donald Leamus, who

had retreated into the woodwork since the whole deal with the New

Spartans ended. Mulder had refused to work with him, and Skinner

couldn't disagree with that sentiment even though he suspected that

Garrison, who had handled the extensive debriefing instead, was just

as dirty.

   Not that there had been hard evidence of government involvement,

as Skinner had pointed out to both his agents, but neither had taken

his words seriously. In truth, Skinner hadn't either, but if Scully

wasn't going to play her accustomed role as ballast and balance to

Mulder's impulsive anger, someone had to.

   "I thought the whole matter with the New Spartans was resolved?"

Skinner asked politely and neutrally. The smoking bastard had taught

him neutrality, at least, even when he wanted to punch someone's face

in.

   "Almost, yes. Garrison said that Mulder was quite a help."

   "That's good." Except for refusing to work with Leamus, Mulder had

been every inch the professional, and if anyone besides Skinner and

Scully had noticed the tamped down anger in his eyes, they hadn't

commented on it.

   "Finding the headquarters, even."

   Skinner gritted his teeth. Bastard. Garrison, Skinner, Mulder,

and Scully had gone out in one car the day after the bank robbery,

with a few other cars of agents following, to try to find the New

Spartans' headquarters. Mulder had sat in the backseat, eyes closed,

occasionally issuing instructions to turn left or right when his

mental clock told him to. He'd been amazingly accurate. They'd found

the abandoned headquarters after only two wrong turns, and Mulder had

led Garrison through, describing events in a flat, even tone. This

is where they broke my finger the first time I was here. This is

where they burned the money. This is where Jacob Haley and I knelt.

This is where the skinhead fell after Bremer shot him.

   There had been blood on the ground, which everyone knew should

have been Mulder's. Scully's face had been worn and pale, her eyes

distant. Head bent down slightly, hair tucked behind her ear, she

had looked like a carved, angular statue. Skinner, who had always

privately acknowledged that Scully was beautiful as well as a good

agent, had been shocked to notice how her beauty had fled in the

late afternoon light, colors leeched out by shadows.

   "Yes, we found the headquarters," Skinner replied. Bastard. He

had seen the toll that the trip had taken in Scully's silence, in

Mulder's retreat behind sarcastic humor on the car ride back.

   "I understand Garrison wanted Mulder to undergo further

debriefing?"

   "There was a case that required him elsewhere." Although Mulder

had plainly not appreciated the assignment, trotting out his

disillusioned adolescent act, Skinner had meant well with the Pinkus

case. The debriefing had been ridiculously repetitive and drawn out.

Mulder had been restrained, but he had also been getting cranky, and

Skinner had thought it wise to intervene before Mulder did something

to earn a reprimand as well as the commendation that he'd received

over this case. Chicago had seemed far enough away, and a threat

assessment a fairly relaxing assignment.

   Leamus smiled. "So I heard." So everyone at the Bureau had heard.

Skinner had already decided to forego his next well-meaning action,

as this last one had turned out so badly.

   "Was there something you wanted?" When in doubt, change subjects.

   "We received this in the mail, and thought that you and Mulder

might want to take a look. Maybe even forward it to Quantico for
 

training purposes...how an agent responds to a tense situation."

Leamus pulled out a videocassette from the manila envelope he'd

been holding.

   Skinner took it warily. He didn't thank Leamus.

   "Should Mulder ever tire of the X-Files, you might consider

reassigning him to terrorism," added Leamus helpfully.

   "I'll keep that in mind," Skinner responded dryly. Leamus looked

at him for another moment, as if he expected a further response, but

Skinner had long since learned, as Mulder was only beginning to, that

silence gave your enemies little with which to work. The other man

left after a brief, uncertain pause.

   He could have left it for another day, but Skinner had never been

one for shirking his duties. He walked reluctantly down to a

conference room and slid the tape into the VCR.

   He had expected, for some reason, the bank robbery. But the

picture, although grainy and indistinct, was clear enough that he

could make out Jacob Haley in the room had Mulder had shown them. ("He

was sitting there when I came in, and they sat me down across from

him.")

   "Damn," Skinner muttered to himself. He'd read and heard the

account of this meeting; he didn't need or want to see it in person.

   In the mail, indeed. Skinner knew that Bremer had probably set up

the camera that showed Mulder being led in, blindfolded and clumsy. He

may have sent it to Leamus in the mail, but it was equally likely that

he had handed it to him in person. Skinner remembered Mulder coming to

talk to the two of them after his finger had been broken, nonchalance

hiding edginess, and Leamus's refusal to give him a tail. Mulder's

eyes had been dark and unsurprised as he had walked back out into

danger without protest. Had Leamus still been in the room, Skinner

might have given into his impulse to deck the man.

   He watched with a certain sick horror as Mulder, defiant and

scared, played for his life, felt an inordinate amount of pride when

Mulder head-butted the nameless skinhead, and cringed when Mulder's

finger audibly snapped.

   He looked away when Mulder buried his face in his arm to keep from

screaming. He had seen far worse in war, and in the FBI, but it was

still difficult to stand passively by while one of his men was hurt.

   The irony that he himself had ordered Mulder into restraints two

weeks later did not escape him.
 

   The screen went gray after Haley had finished telling Mulder what

he wanted of him, and although Skinner fast forwarded, that scene was

all there was. Skinner had no doubt that any other surveillance

information had been wiped off, or never put on this copy. He wondered

why Leamus had bothered to give him the tape at all. A threat? But if

so, threatening what?

   Odds were, Mulder had left for home. Skinner decided to go leave

the tape on his desk with a note. Mulder could view it tomorrow and

come up to talk about what it might mean.

   Heading down to the basement, videotape and note in hand, Skinner

wondered if Mulder would even come up to question him. Before this

last week, he would have expected Mulder to storm past Kimberely,

demanding answers. Now, he half suspected that the tape would

disappear into the X-Files office, never to be seen again.

   Or, he thought with a touch of amusement, if Mulder were thinking

that Skinner were a large bug, he might come up with a videotape in

one hand and a large can of bug spray in the other, Scully beside him

reluctantly and skeptically wielding a fly swatter. Mulder had never

let danger, real or imagined, deter him from the truth, and his

methods for dealing with danger could be quite...innovative.

   Using garlic breadsticks to ward off vampires came to mind. Skinner

smiled a little. The Ronnie Strickland incident had been anything but

funny at the time, but only Mulder would reach for breadsticks instead
 

of his gun.

   The basement door was open, with the lights on, and Skinner stopped

smiling and prepared to enter. Mulder was on the phone, leaning back

in his chair with his feet on the desk and his face staring at the

ceiling, gesturing in the air with a pen. Scully wasn't there, but

her coat still seemed to be on the coatrack.

   "No, I don't think so...I'd check on the people at the marriage

counselor's office instead...no, I...I'm just saying that the profile

may not be...sir, if you take the two minutes to run the names through

...yes, I understand that, but..." Mulder looked down, saw Skinner,

and briefly froze. The pen ended up on his desk and his feet went back

on the floor. Skinner sat across from him and mentally ran through the

list of men whom Mulder would address as sir...probably Bernard

Gentile, the head over in BSU since Patterson had left, a man whom

Skinner had never liked but who had a fair amount of power

nonetheless. Skinner hadn't realized that Mulder was working on a case

for him. He sincerely hoped that Mulder wouldn't piss off the other

man. His own career was in a precarious enough position, and the

X-Files might need other allies someday.

   "I know they don't have enough people on this case, but it won't

hurt to send two of them to check to see if..." Mulder exhaled sharply

and tapped his fingers against his desk. Skinner could hear Gentile's

voice droning on before Mulder responded, "Yes, I'll check on it

tomorrow morning and talk to you again." There was another pause, and

then Mulder scowled into the phone. "Yes, I'm feeling just *fine*."

   Skinner gathered that Gentile had just inquired into Mulder's

mental health, a wonderful way to start off this meeting.

   "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir."

   "Not a problem. Bernard Gentile?"

   Mulder nodded.

   "I didn't know you were working on a case for him."

   "I'm still listed on with BSU as a consultant. Occasionally he asks

for a second opinion on a profile."

   It had sounded like more than a second opinion. Skinner had known

that Mulder still got called for consults, but now he wondered how

much work Mulder was expending on them. It was rare that agents gave

him credit, and he hoped that Mulder was getting repaid somehow.

   Possibly he too felt the need for future allies.

   "I didn't realize you did fieldwork for him," Skinner pointed out

mildly.

   "I suggested a course of action that didn't agree with the current

profile. He doesn't want to change the profile until there's evidence

to support that change."

   "Providing the evidence isn't really your job on a consult,"

Skinner pointed out even more mildly.

   Mulder, who had evidently learned the proper usage of silence

somewhere down the road, shrugged slightly and didn't respond.

   "Is Agent Scully still here?"

   "She's checking the lab for some test results. She should be back

soon. Did you need to talk to her?"

   "No, actually. Leamus stopped by my office just now."

   Mulder stilled. "Why?"

   "Ultimately, I'm not sure. He dropped by a videotape." Skinner

handed it over the desk. "All that's on the tape is the time they

broke your finger."

   Mulder looked up from an examination of the videotape sharply.

"August Bremer had that taped?"

   "I assume so. He said it arrived in the mail."

   "Yeah, right."

   "I'm not sure why Leamus sent it on."

   "Did he give a reason?"

   "He said that you'd done good work on the case. Mentioned the

possibility that I should forward this to Quantico for instructional

use."

   Mulder looked briefly terrified before the cloak of cockiness

dropped over his shoulders once again. "I'm sure the whimpering and

crying will be very instructive."

   "The tape is yours, Mulder, not Quantico's." Although, actually, it

would have been instructive--confrontations with terrorists while

undercover were very rarely videotaped, for obvious reasons. "But

Leamus was right, you did do good work."

   The other man nodded slightly. "Thanks."

   They held another brief staredown contest. Skinner pondered what

exactly he should be apologizing for. Mulder had tried to attack an

unarmed man who had appeared harmless, after ditching Scully and

leaving her with an autopsy about which (it had been clear) she knew

nothing.

   "I'm not sure what I could have done differently with the Pinkus

case," he started, and paused. Mulder was focused on the videotape,

as if it contained answers on its dark case. "I wish that I had been

able to think of a better solution at the time."

   "You could have looked," Mulder said softly, still examining the

videotape.

   "What?"

   "Behind you. When you were holding me down. I kept telling you to

look, because he was...whatever he was, then. You could have looked."

   Skinner sat still for a moment. He could have looked. Such a simple

response. "You think I would have seen what you did?"

   Mulder appeared to consider this instead of tossing off a reply.

"I'm not sure," he said finally, meeting Skinner's eyes. Skinner had

expected anger, and was somewhat relieved that Mulder only seemed
 

thoughtful. "But it wasn't like I was always seeing Pinkus as a

monster. I didn't in the first situation until Gary told me to look

at a certain time, and I turned around, and..." he shrugged.

   Skinner nodded. "I should have," he admitted. "Part of the reason

I didn't, though, was because of the reports from the field office,

and the fact that Scully didn't seem to know where you were or what

you were doing. The field office I might have been able to dismiss,

but..."

   "She's not my babysitter." Definite tone of peevish irritation

there.

   "She's your partner," Skinner snapped back, "and as such she

deserves to know what you're doing."

   "Like with the New Spartans?" Oh, fine, they were just going to go

through all of Skinner's recent mistakes.

   "That was need to know; this was an assignment that I'd given to

both of you," he said shortly. "Furthermore, you should know by now

that Scully's presence gives you more credibility."

   "Because she's the skeptic and I'm the nutcase. You know, I'm not

entirely gullible. I do look for evidence."

   How had his apology turned into an argument? Skinner counted to

three before answering. He would have counted to ten, but Mulder

seemed about to speak. "I know that. But having Scully there with you

couldn't hurt, could it? And," he glared at Mulder to prevent an

interruption, "as I said, she is your partner, not your assistant.

Assigning autopsies to her behind her back and running off without

telling her is an insult to her as an agent, and not behavior worthy

of you."

   Mulder opened his mouth and closed it again. From the slightly

sheepish expression on his face, Skinner guessed that Scully had

covered this ground already. When he did speak, it was in a quiet

tone. "The thing is, if you assign us to investigate weird stuff--

which is the X-Files mandate, as far as I recall--then you've got to

expect that some of it is going to be weird."

   "I generally expect it to be, yes," Skinner responded wryly. He'd

often thought that he could become a successful science fiction writer

by using the material from their files.

   "So why not believe in this monster? If you send me to investigate
 

strange happenings, and we all know I'm the crazy one who believes

everything, then why throw me into a mental hospital when I do say

that something strange is going on?"

   "As I *said*, Agent Mulder, I wish I'd thought of a different

solution. But when you run halfway across the country on a whim and a

clue, after a hostage situation, on the apparent word of someone whose

main claim to fame is shooting his coworker and claiming his boss is

a bug...you have to expect some skepticism."

   "Yeah," Mulder said, in a resigned tone.

   "I should have looked," skinner admitted again.

   "Yeah."

   In the silence, they could both hear footsteps approaching. Scully.

Skinner stood. "For the record, I thought that you were experiencing

some sort of temporary hallucination brought on by extreme stress in

your recent cases. I don't think you're a nutcase for your beliefs."

   "Everyone else does." But Mulder sounded amused as he said this.

Skinner wondered if he really was. For some reason, he suddenly

remembered Ron Illarson, a fellow Vietman veteran with whom he had

worked when he was in his late twenties. He and Ron had never been

friends, although everyone had somehow expected them to be. One day,

Illarson had had a major flashback, had ended up crying and hiding

underneath his desk. Skinner had crouched by his desk and talk to him

for a long time. Post-traumatic stress wasn't well understood then,

and Ron had resigned soon after. For months afterward, people had

stared at Skinner and given him a wide berth, as if they expected him

to flip out. More than fifteen years later, he could remember how

frustrated he had been.

   Scully was in the doorway now, surprised and wary when she saw

him there. Her eyes flickered past his to Mulder's. Whatever she saw

there relaxed her, and she offered Skinner a slight, reserved smile.

   "I was just dropping off something," he explained, and turned back

to nod goodbye to Mulder. "I'll expect to see the quarterly expense

reports next week?"

   "Yes, sir." Neither of them sounded enthusiastic, but then Skinner

wouldn't have been either.

   He nodded at them once more on his way out. He could hear them

begin to speak, Mulder first.

   "Anything unusual on the lab reports?"

   "Not even close." The sound of a stretch and yawn. "What, exactly,

was Skinner dropping off?"

   "Candid camera...only I wasn't smiling. Bremer taped the finger

thing."

   After a significant pause, Scully's voice came again, "What a joy.

How about we head over to my place, start the damn expense report, eat

some lasagna, and watch you bang heads with the...did you put it...

that sadistic skinhead fuckface asshole?"

   "Can we shred the tape into confetti afterwords?" Mulder sounded

like an eager child.

   Skinner was too far away to hear Scully's words, but he could still

hear the warmth in her voice, and then Mulder's laugh. Sometimes he

missed the days when he had had a partner (But had he ever had a

partnership as intense as theirs? He didn't think so.)

   He glanced at his watch and sighed as he stood in front of the

elevator. 7:35. He was definitely going to zone out in front of the

golf channel. The day had been a bitch, and Mulder and Scully's

expense reports was almost guaranteed to give him another headache

next week. Not to mention their next 302.

   But as the elevator came to take him back up, he smiled.
 
 

End (1/1)
 
 

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