by Kassandra
kassxf@aol.com

website: http://home.earthlink.net/~harsesis/kassandra.htm
Prequel stories for this universe: Tempus Fugit, Victorious in Defeat, Rolling the Dice, Sanity as an Index of Reality, Sanity Reprise, Ships and Sails and Sealing Wax, Interlude, All I Want For Christmas, Home, 1-800-TRU-STME, Consensus Reality and Cats

"Mulder, I'm sorry to say this, but I have to tell you, your personal relationship is affecting his supervision of the X files."
Fox Mulder stared at his partner, feeling very much as if he'd been sucker-punched. The argument had been over the validity of their case, the suspicious death of a genetic researcher. He was convinced that the murder was related to the shadowy conspiracy, and she was convinced it was a case of Dr. Hathaway being murdered by Ms. Goodbar.
The evidence was suggestive, but hardly conclusive, and Skinner had given him the green light on following up his suspicions. "That's bullshit," he finally told her, keeping his voice even with an effort. "And you know it. We walk that line very carefully and--"
"Mulder, it's becoming obvious to everyone that he's showing favoritism." Her tone was flat, her steps quickened as they approached the car and she slanted him a look that held--Christ, something of compassion that made his stomach knot.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he snapped and opened the driver's side door. Slid behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition, waiting until she'd gotten in and closed the passenger door before starting the car.
She gave him that pursed lip look that drove him insane. "Mulder, everyone's noticed it. Skinner's pet ASAC, they're calling you, and it's been going on for a long time. You shouldn't even have been on the Modell case, given your history with him, but Skinner put you on it. They're still talking about that. It's compromising his effectiveness and undermining his authority, and today is just another example of it. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest this is anything the Bureau should be involved in, but you say jump and Skinner asks how high."
He pulled out of the parking place with rather more acceleration than was required. "That is such bullshit, Scully, and you know it. He reams me just as often as he ever did, and--"
"He cuts you slack he'd never allow anyone else," she told him evenly. "You're so close to it, you don't even realize. But other people are. And I'll tell you something, Mulder, they don't even respect his authority anymore. The other day, he had to call Jack Rossiter down and Rossiter thought it was just plain funny. Made a remark about how he wasn't Spooky enough to keep Skinner off his ass."
Mulder opened his mouth, closed it, face hot. It was too--detailed to be just another Scully exaggeration. She had never been comfortable with his relationship with Skinner, but since last fall, she'd been--she'd been growing downright hostile again. She hated going to Skinner's office, had suggested once or twice that he handle the meetings alone, she was just extra baggage.
"Sometimes I think he insists both of us be there to give it more validity," she continued now, her tone a little edged. "He sure as hell doesn't listen to anything I have to say. This is a waste of Bureau time and manpower--"
He slammed on the brakes, took the next right and went around the block, pulled up in front of the Bureau. So furious and scared that his hands were shaking. "Get out, Scully." Short, clipped voice. "I'll take care of it."
Abruptly, Scully seemed to realize she'd gone too far. She stared at him, lips parted slightly. Chose a placatory tone. "Mulder, I'm your partner."
Abruptly, Scully seemed to realize she'd gone too far. She stared at him, lips parted slightly. Chose a placatory tone. "Mulder, I'm your partner."
"Get out." He looked away from her. "Go on and do whatever else you have to do, I'll go to the lab by myself." His face was still hot, he was afraid to look at himself in the rearview mirror.
"Mulder--"
"Go." Through clenched teeth.
After a heartbeat, she did, slamming the car door with unnecessary force.
He pulled off while she was still in the street, his stomach clenched tight, his hands still trembling on the wheel.
Christ, was she right? He wondered. They'd thought of a lot of possibilities they might have to face, but not this one. Not that Skinner's career would be compromised. He had to wonder if Scully had said anything at all, given any hint to anyone.
It wouldn't take much. Just a long suffering look and a comment about having to follow him because the AD had okayed it. He knew how the Bureau gossip network ran, knew that careers had been damaged on less.
He didn't care that much about himself, except for the files. He was already a pariah. But Skinner--Skinner might lose a shot at becoming Director. And what else did a man work to do but progress? To rise.
Christ.
His hands shook all the way to the lab.

Later, Skinner reflected that he should have seen the storm coming.
He was aware that his professional relationship with Dana Scully was becoming more and more strained. Hadn't been entirely certain what to do about it. She seemed to be happy only when he kiboshed some of Mulder's loonier 302s, such as the return trip to Lake Okebogee, because of a recent flap.
There weren't any casualties, no abductions, nothing the Bureau would be interested in, he'd quashed that one flat, had to deal with a bit of strain for a few days, but it had blown over. Scully had been--indecently pleased, he rather thought, which didn't dispose him to favor her position, but rationality remained rationality, whatever her position, and he'd held his own.
No trip to Okebogee.
When he questioned Mulder's conclusions in their meetings, Scully's face took on a serene, cat that ate the canary look. An I told you so look, at least when she glanced at Mulder.
When he questioned hers, her professionalism seemed a little strained. He'd liked her better five years before when she'd asked, "May I ask, sir, what more you require?"
Which was personal on his part, and when her review had come up, he'd gone through all their case reports and commended her on her work. Despite his unease with her.
He'd suggested a few areas in which she could apply herself--professional development, for one, she hadn't attended a seminar outside of that disastrous team-building fiasco, and her questing mind seemed to have taken a sharp right turn into stasis with the onset of her illness.
Hardly surprising. A terminal illness tended to redirect focus inward, he didn't fault her for it, it was human and natural, and being in management meant understanding that. But now that she was in remission, it was time to guide her back outward again.
She hadn't liked that, but that was part of the job. Managing people. He'd approached it by suggesting with her health issues more or less resolved, she should take more time for her own professional development, talked to her about a Forensics seminar in Chicago.
Only the icy glint in those blue eyes had warned him that she was, against his design, taking it as criticism. He couched it in careful words, reaffirming the positives, and taking care that the seminar sound like an opportunity, not a reprimand.
But she'd clearly chosen to take it as one, and there was nothing he could do or say without getting egregiously personal. He chose not to do that.
Her reaction to Mulder's interpretation of the evidence surrounding Dr. Mark Hathaway's death was--unlike her. Very unlike her. The very reason the Bureau had been called in was the fact that Hathaway worked for the NIH. Yet, Scully had insisted that it was an open and closed case of stranger homicide, that Hathaway had picked up the wrong woman.
Aileen Wuornos had proven that women, too, could be serial killers, but it was still uncommon. And Hathaway was a young man, strong and healthy, tall and well-muscled. He'd been stabbed several times and any one of four of the wounds could have been mortal.
He didn't necessarily agree with Mulder's theory that it was conspiracy related. But it didn't seem likely that Ms. Goodbar, as Scully called her, had done that kind of damage to a healthy man without so much as alcohol in his system.
Signs of her temper had been clear when she and Mulder left for the lab in which Hathaway had done his research. Glint in the eye, crisp tone, that glance up from under her hair as if she were too angry to speak.
He'd let it pass.
Now, on his way back from the data records section, he saw her in the hallway. "Back already?" he asked evenly, even though that was impossible.
"No, sir. Agent Mulder chose to go alone." Despite the set jaw, he rather thought she sounded disturbed.
He nodded. It wasn't that uncommon for them to split up. "Keep me updated," he told her.
She gave him a quick glance, pursed her lips. "Yes, sir."
And strode down the hallway toward the elevator, her shoulders and back stiff.

Mulder was at home when he got there, at nearly seven-thirty. Sitting on the couch, suit jacket hung over the back of the armchair. Sleeves rolled up and a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Hi," Skinner said and moved to the front closet, hung his coat up. "You look tired."
Mulder's expression was set. "We need to talk."
Skinner eyed him. "All right." Evenly. He chose the armchair, rested his elbows on the arms, laced his fingers loosely together. "What's up?"
Mulder sighed, looked away. "I think this is a mistake."
Frowning, Skinner tried to decipher that. "What?"
Mulder waved vaguely. "This. Us." He looked at Skinner again.
Thunderstruck, Skinner stared back. Abruptly, his gut burned, warning of sudden stress. "What brought this on?"
Mulder rose suddenly, paced around the room, raking a hand through his hair. "I--I've just been thinking." He avoided Skinner's gaze. "It's hard, that's all, keeping work separate from private life, it's a strain."
Skinner stood up. "I thought it was worth it," he told Mulder tightly. "Are you saying you don't?"
Quick glance and he saw the unhappiness in the lines around Mulder's mouth and eyes. "I--it's causing problems."
Temper flared. "What kind of problems? I thought we were working them through. I thought we were talking them out."
A headshake and Mulder began pacing again. "It's not working."
Not only flared, but spiked, he took three rapid strides and intercepted Mulder, grabbed him by the shoulders. "Just like that? You don't even let me in on the decision, you just fucking decide? Without talking it out, without telling me a goddamned thing! That's how you want it?"
Mulder's eyes were wide suddenly. "Walt--"
"Fuck that, Mulder. Fuck that. You fucking tell me what problems, and then you can pack your bags and run, I don't fucking care, but you tell me what problems!" He was so angry it was hard to keep his voice under control, hard to keep his fingers from biting hard into Mulder's flesh and bone.
And then it wasn't, Mulder's eyes were overbright, Mulder was white to the lips, this was something else. "What is it?" he demanded. "Blackmail? Has someone approached you?"
"Don't--" Mulder jerked away from him, backed up. "I can't--I can't do this, I can't let you do this. Goddammit, it's causing talk, Scully says, she says people are saying you favor me, you cut me slack you don't give anyone else, that other agents are making jokes out of it." Strained voice, hoarse with emotion. "That's not something you can blow off, dammit, that's your fucking career and mine."
Paradoxically, Skinner felt calm replace rage. "Okay, okay, tell me about it." He stood very still, let Mulder pace again. "What did Scully say?"
"I just told you." Mulder shook his head. "Your authority is going down the tubes, your credibility. Hell, I never had much to lose, but you..." Distressed tone.
"Mulder, that's bullshit." Skinner thought back, shook his head. "Even upper management gets reviewed, I got demerits for not giving anyone enough slack, they told me to go a little easier. It's a kinder, gentler Bureau these days." Sardonically, and it got a look.
Mulder stopped in the middle of the room. Frowned. "I hate to point this out, but you're not in authority over your bosses, they wouldn't necessarily notice. She says Jack Rossiter says--"
"Jack Rossiter pulled a damned fool stunt that would have gotten anyone's ass kicked," Skinner growled. "He risked a hostage in a bank robbery, a kid about seventeen, and what was worse, the kid was a diplomat's son. How do you think that went over upstairs?" Thank God, he heard the wheels turning again, the gears shifting, Mulder was fully engaged, frowning, thinking it over. Christ, Scully had pushed his buttons with unerring skill, and only long practice at self-control kept Skinner from losing his temper. "I heard what the silly bastard said, Kimberly told me, disapprovingly. I told her he was entitled to blow off steam, and I wasn't going to call him in next time I chewed you out to prove him wrong. She noted, and I quote, that you weren't quite as reckless as you used to be, it might be a while. If you'll recall, she types up your field notes because future investigators are not going to be able to read your handwriting."
Mulder's jaw set stubbornly. "That doesn't mean that--"
"I know. I know. Maybe it's something we have to think about. Maybe I need to think about other alternatives, where you're not one of my direct reports. I could hand you back to Draper."
That got through. Mulder gave him an appalled look. "Oh, Christ."
Skinner allowed himself one faint smile. Draper was a transplanted Mormon and made Skinner's by the book attitude seem like criminal laxity.
"Okay, not Draper. I need to think about it. There's a way, dammit. Don't jump just because Scully pushes your fucking buttons."
Turning away, Mulder raked his hair again, left it standing on end. Thoughtful silence. Then, very quietly. "I can stand what they say about me, I always have. But I don't want you getting fucked over because of me."
Relief made his knees feel rubbery. "Give me credit for some sense, okay? I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. If it's causing problems with Scully, it does have the potential to cause other problems farther down the line. So we'll figure something out."
Mulder sighed. Shook his head. "Hathaway had been quarreling with his boss over the results of his work. I think Scully's partly right. No conspiracy. Dr. Allred got pretty nervous when I was there, asked me why the Bureau was looking into it. I handed what I got off to McRae, the homicide detective."
"No Ms. Goodbar?" Skinner kept his voice gentle
"Doesn't look that way. The pathologist says the wounds are too deep, and McRae's located the woman, she's covered for the time of death and is left handed. The depth and angle of the wounds on his chest make it unlikely that she's a viable suspect." Almost absently, that mind still working at the problem. "Okay." Mulder sighed again. "Okay. But I mean it, Walt, I'm not letting you flush your career down the toilet."
Skinner studied him.. "I understand that."
Mulder turned back to face him, smiled diffidently. "I guess I sort of overreacted." Hesitant tone.
Smiling faintly, Skinner nodded. "Next time you make major decisions, I'd appreciate it if you let me in on them."
Mulder's smile faded a little. "Yeah." Distracted tone. "Yeah."
His shoulders still felt too tight, his hands wanted to close into fists. Pushing back temper, he managed to loosen them. "Look, let's get something to eat. Let's toss around some ideas, it's better to be prepared."
Another glimmer of light, Mulder offered him another diffident smile. "Yeah. That sounds like a good idea."
But even with that smile, he wanted to flay the diminutive Scully. Alive.

The smoker was still very much undercover. He was, in effect, supposed to be a dead man, but one of the joys of factional dispute was that he was, after all was said and done, too valuable to be murdered without repercussions.
However, a year later, he was still held in reserve, dealing in the background with their uncertain allies. Allies without whom he would not have survived the attempt on his life.
Pulling the car up into Tina Mulder's driveway, he looked sidelong at the woman next to him. "Are you ready?"
She nodded, swallowed visibly. "I think so." Quick, faint smile. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"Don't forget the photographs," he told her gently and reached out to touch her cheek. "You'll want those."
She nodded again. Smiled and put her hand over his. "I'm glad you came. I don't think I could have done this alone, Daddy."
"Of course you could have," he told her, "But you don't have to." She could have, he reflected and opened the car door, but it was unlikely that Tina Mulder would have believed or accepted her. That was the problem with factions. Another faction had used the likeness of her daughter in an attempt to forge Fox Mulder into a weapon.
Belief would not come easily, not even with him there, but he owed this much. Not to Tina Mulder. Not to Fox Mulder. But to the woman with him.
Closing the door, he smiled at her over the top of the car, came around to the walk and pulled her hand to the crook of his arm. It was full dark, or he wouldn't have risked this. And there was little interest in Tina these days.
Her son was still getting a fair amount of attention, but the events of last year suggested that Mulder had become less of a danger, less of a focus. Surveillance was maintained, of course, it didn't do to become complacent, but the general opinion appeared to be that Agent Scully's remission had reduced Mulder's threat.
He wondered sometimes. Wondered if his apparent death had contributed. Hard to fight a faceless enemy, and Mulder thought he was dead.
He wondered.
But the fun was about to begin.
"Let me talk at first," he told his companion. "I think she'll accept it from me."

Mulder was nearly asleep when the phone on his nightstand rang. Beside him, Skinner muttered something and buried his face more deeply in his pillow. The problem with having two phone lines, Mulder thought blearily and reached for his. "Mulder."
"Fox, it's me."
His mother's voice had the same effect cold water might have. "M-mom?" Guiltily glancing over at Skinner's sleeping shape. He didn't call his mother from home, he called her from work, using his phone card, or from pay phones. He'd told her he'd moved, given her his new telephone number, and never expected her to use it. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes. No. I--I don't know. I--your sister was here this evening."
He sat bolt upright. "What? Are you sure? Is she still there?"
"I'm sure." Wearily. Her voice husky with....tears, maybe. "Believe me, Fox, I'm sure. I gave her your telephone number. I expect you'll hear from her. She's not here now, she went home, she has two small children." Her voice trembled suddenly. "She's going to bring them next weekend."
"Where is she? Where does she live?" His hand was sweaty on the telephone.
"She wouldn't tell me." Receding again, after she had called him, called him to share this with him. In his mind's eye, he saw her face getting smaller and smaller as she withdrew, as the distance between them resumed. "I--I just wanted to call you, Fox. I want you to come up next weekend. Can you do that?"
"Of course." His own voice was thick. "Of course, Mom, I'll come up Friday night."
"Good." She sighed. "I'm sorry if I woke you up, you sound like you were sleeping."
"Yeah, it's okay, Mom. This is--incredible." Even as he said it, guilt twisted his gut. "I can't believe it. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Finality in her voice, cutting him off. "I'll talk to you next week, shall I? Make final arrangements."
He opened his mouth. Thought better of it. "Sure, Mom." Letting her retreat. Letting her distance herself. "I'll talk to you next week." The line went dead. After a moment, he hung the telephone up carefully.
"What did your mother want?" Skinner's face was a pale smudge in the darkness of the room. "Everything okay?"
"My sister came to see her."
The bed shifted as Skinner sat up. A click and Mulder squinted in the lamplight. "Your sister?" Disbelieving voice.
"Yeah. She said she was sure this time. She didn't tell me why." He swallowed hard, remembering a diner and cold coffee. "I have to go up there next weekend, Walt."
Long look from Skinner. "Okay. If you want me to go--"
"God, no." Mulder laughed weakly. "Gee, Mom, I just happened to bring my boss to a family reunion. And why is that, son? Oh, because I just happen to be sleeping with him." Abruptly, he put his hands over his face, found he was shaking, near tears. "Oh, Christ, Christ." Scrubbed his face with both hands and felt Skinner's hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, Fox." Gentle voice. "Easy. It was just a suggestion."
"I know." Mulder lifted his head, managed an imitation of a grin. "I know. And thanks, I mean...." He shrugged, sighed. "My sister. Maybe she really is my sister. But I think I'll insist on a DNA scan this time."
"Sounds sensible to me." Skinner's expression was grave. "After the last time."
Mulder studied him, saw the concern. "I'm okay, Walt. Just feeling a little shaky." Wryly. "My mother tends to affect me that way."
"Yeah, I can relate. Parents do." Skinner smiled. "Next weekend?"
Mulder nodded. Laughed shortly. "Long week."
Skinner's hand moved to the curve of his neck. "You okay?" Very softly.
He tried to smile reassurance. "As okay as I need to be." Leaned forward and kissed Skinner's mouth very lightly. "Let's go back to sleep."
"Sure." Skinner reached and clicked the light off, leaving a reverse image of himself printed on Mulder's night vision.
Sliding down, he folded himself around his pillow, smiled a little when Skinner's warmth spooned behind him. Raised his elbow to let Skinner's arm slide around his ribs and put his hand over the one that rested on his belly. "Thanks," he whispered.
The only answer he got was a kiss in the crook of his shoulder, but that was answer enough.

A week had passed since Scully's assertions. They had managed to work civilly together, despite that, although Mulder held the sneaking suspicion that it was only possible because he'd admitted that it seemed that Hathaway's death was in any way connected to a conspiracy.
Detective Thomas McRae was carefully building a case against Dr. Harold Allred and it would seem to be a case of professional jealousy going pathological.
So, in essence, she had been right. Which meant smooth sailing, at least for the time being.
Fine with him, it all kept him very busy, as did Skinner's consideration of various other possibilities, like handing the X files section off to another division. He wasn't excited about that particularly, but he did have to admit that Skinner was doing research, checking people out and checking details out before ever taking it to the Director.
He did not, however, have much hope. Despite their initial clashes, almost a half a dozen years earlier, he'd learned early that Skinner was by the book honorable. Tough enough to take a stand against the shadow operators.
He didn't have that faith in anyone else. And yet....if this woman really was his sister, hadn't his initial aim been to find out what or who had taken her? Hadn't she told him?
The question was, what could he believe? And what did he value? If she was his sister, if she had been fine, if Scully was right and this was human malfeasance, nothing to do with anything not of this planet--maybe he needed to reconsider his priorities.
By Friday, he had a persistent headache and left early. Went home and packed a bag, and left for his mother's home.
He couldn't make any decision until he saw her. Until he knew for sure. His gut would tell him, he was sure.

His mother answered the door, smiling in a way he hadn't seen in--he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen it. "Fox," she said and tugged him in. "Come in, out of the cold."
"It's not that bad, Mom." But he came in, heard the voices of children, heard a woman's voice, too soft to make out what she was saying.
"Come and meet your niece and nephew," his mother told him, taking his arm. "And your sister. It's strange to think that, but we don't know her, and she doesn't really know us, does she."
"No, of course not." His pulse was thudding in his ears as she led him through the French doors into the livingroom.
It was her. She offered him a tentative smile.
"Of course, she told me that she'd met you before, that she'd asked you for time." Faintest edge in his mother's voice, but there was no temper, just a cool, even tone. "She told me that she'd asked you to wait."
Mulder closed his eyes. Swallowed hard. "I didn't know for certain it was her, Mom." He said it very quietly, staring at the children. Very young, the youngest barely toddling. The little girl didn't look more than three or four, and her hair was dark and curly like her mother's. Like their father's had once been, when he was young. He remembered his mother telling him that when Sam was a baby. He nodded at his sister. "Mom, can I talk to you a minute?"
"About what?" His mother's gaze was clear, untroubled.
"Just for a minute," he pleaded, quietly.
"Not now, Fox." She let go of his arm and went to sit on the couch, smiling at the children.
The boy toddled to her and held out a ragged toy. He blinked, blinked again and recognized it. God, he couldn't believe she still had that, it had been his until....it didn't matter. But it was strange and poignant to see one of his toys in the hands of a child again. His sister's child.
"Mom," he pitched his voice softly. "I need to talk to you for a minute."
Her eyes were ice when she looked up. "Is there a problem, Fox?"
Samantha's eyes were on him. A little watchful. She leaned toward his mother and murmured something. His mother nodded and patted her hand. Rose again to lead Mulder to the doorway.
He closed the door behind him. Sweating underneath his leather jacket. "Mom, I need to know why you're so sure."
Her expression went stony on him. "All you need to know is that I am sure, that I have reason to be sure."
A rivulet of sweat went down his back. "Why? Mom, please, I need to know, I need to believe, too." Pleading with her.
Her eyes were cold again. "I can't share that with you, Fox. But this time, I'm sure. I don't have any doubts at all. Not like last time."
"But I do." He found his throat was tight. "Mom, I want to believe, God, I want to believe. But I need proof this time."
"Is that why you didn't tell me you'd seen her? Spoken with her?" His mother's tone was sharp. "Is that why you didn't tell me my daughter was alive?"
God, she was good. He was thirty-seven years old and his mother had only to push one button and he was nearly hyperventilating. Taking a step back, he shook his head. "She asked me to wait." Stupidly. "Mom, you said she told you."
"And so you did, even though you knew--you knew how I would feel to know she was alive?"
Not even raising her voice. Not like she had last time. A part of him wondered if he needed to brace himself for another slap. "Mom."
"If you can't just accept this, Fox, perhaps you should leave."
He was hot, nervous and flushed, then cold to the bone, the sweat chilling him further. "Mom," he began. Stopped. "All right, Mom." Trying to put a good face on it. "Want me to make some tea?"
His mother's expression relaxed slightly. "That would be very nice, Fox." She moved back to the door. "I'll see if your sister would like some. We should get the children to bed soon, would you mind helping me get the crib down from the attic?"
"Of course not." He felt numb abruptly. "I'll put the kettle on."
A faint, false smile and she was gone, leaving him to stand alone in the hallway.
He heard Samantha's voice, soft in inquiry. And his mother's reply, too low to make out.
Tea, he thought blankly, and headed for the kitchen.

"There," Samantha said, wiping down the last newel on the crib. "As good as new." Her fingertips caressed small toothmarks. "Mom said this was mine."
Mulder nodded, looked back at the bolt he was tightening. "Yeah, it was ours." The air of unreality was persisting despite his mother's insistence on apparent normality. "I can remember when I got a regular bed. Well, sort of regular, it had those wooden rails on the top half to keep me from rolling out at night."
"Kelly had one of those." Samantha's mouth curved and she looked over at the double guest bed where his mother sat, entertaining the children.
His gaze followed hers and he allowed himself a faint smile. Cute kids, and bright, too. His mother had gotten out some old albums before his arrival, comparing their small faces to her own children's photographs.
Weird behavior from his self-contained mother. He'd gotten the crib down from the attic, gotten the mattress down, still zipped into a vinyl case. Samantha had helped him clean the dusty, cobwebbed frame, had wrestled the mattress out of the cover while his mother unearthed linen and a baby quilt.
An aunt had made it before his birth, if he remembered the story rightly. It seemed....right to have a baby using it again, if it gave his mother that much happiness.
He just wished he knew if the baby in question was really her grandchild, or another pawn used by either the clones or the Consortium.
Except that Samantha appeared genuinely to be their mother.
Scully was sterile as a result of whatever had happened to her during her abduction experience. And Samantha had children. Which brought him back to the question of what had happened to her. Her explanation last year had been brief and unsatisfying.
"Fox, let's get the mattress into the crib," his mother said and rose.
"I can get it, Mom," he told her and did, manhandling it quickly. Took the sheet she was holding and tucked it under, nice hospital corners under his mother's eyes.
She'd been keeping the children and Sam between herself and him, not allowing him to have a moment alone to ask her questions she wanted to avoid. Understanding it didn't ease his frustration.
"There you go," his mother told Samantha. "If you need anything, you just knock on my door."
Samantha had picked Jonathan up. "Thanks, Mom."
His mother hugged them both. "Good night, Samantha." Kissing his sister's cheek. Kissing the baby. And then, bending over the bed, kissing Kelly.
Samantha had turned back toward the bed, retrieving the baby's quilt and the ancient stuffed animal.
Mulder drifted toward the door. His mother stayed, watching, tucking Kelly into one side of the double bed. He waited, leaning against the door frame, waited until his mother straightened, hugged Samantha again.
Waited while they murmured, odd man out. "Good night," he told his sister, when his mother parted from her. "Sleep well." And his throat was too tight, ached.
Her smile was genuine, she came to the door, leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Good night, Fox. And thank you for giving me time." Her eyes were very bright.
"You're welcome." Thickly. He backed up, letting his mother pass, smiled shakily as Samantha closed the door.
Leaving them alone for the first time since his arrival.
He looked away, looked back at her. "You're sure, Mom?" Very quietly.
Her expression was impassive. "I'm quite sure, Fox." Steely edge under her soft voice.
No use, then. Maybe...maybe there was a way to talk to Samantha. A way to find out for sure. To still the nagging whisper of doubt in his heart. Why had she come? After a year.
But he nodded at his mother. Saw the faintest softening in her expression. "I'm going to use the phone."
Her hand came out, touched his shoulder briefly. "I've got fresh linen in your old room, and towels. Good night, Fox."
"Mom," he began, then stopped, suddenly queasy, as if he'd been on a roller coaster. What was the point? He'd lost her daughter, her daughter had come back. "Good night." When she looked at him questioningly. "I'll be downstairs for a while, I've got some calls to make."
"All right." She nodded. "Sleep well." And walked down the hall to her bedroom.
The sound of the door closing had never seemed so final.

"Walt?"
"Who else?" Skinner's voice was easy. "How was the driving? Weather channel said something about sleet."
"Not until I got up here." Mulder grimaced. "It made the last forty minutes a little hairy, but it was okay. She's here."
There was a brief silence. "What do you think?"
"I think my mother knows something I don't." The words came without thought, but his queasiness eased a bit. "I think somebody brought Sam back, or encouraged her to come back. I didn't tell her where Mom lives. And she showed up a week ago."
"The situation does have interesting aspects," Skinner agreed. "What does your gut tell you?"
"That I shouldn't have had the onion rings on the way up." Settling into the corner of the couch, Mulder reached up, turned out the lamp.
"Ah, you're finally starting to suffer from the ravages of junk food. I told you, you shouldn't have had that birthday last month."
"Asshole." But Mulder smiled in the dark. Kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs out. "My mother doesn't want to talk about it. The kids are cute, I guess. I'm not an expert on kids, but they seem pretty bright. The little one looks at me like I'm an ogre, I think he's a little over a year."
"Didn't she say?"
"She and Mom are bonding." Mulder kept his tone light. "She, ah, hasn't said a whole lot to me outside of small talk."
"Ah."
"Besides, I sort of badmouthed that smoking bastard last time, she thinks he's her father."
Skinner's silence was--indicative.
"I don't know, maybe he is. Maybe he's mine." He hadn't made that admission aloud since accusing his mother.
"That must be an uncomfortable thought." Skinner's tone was thoughtful. "I take it you haven't had this discussion with your mother?"
"She slapped me." Mulder slid down further into the cushions. Why was it easier to talk about things on the phone, he wondered. "That's not a conclusive answer."
"No, I wouldn't think so. Fox, are you all right?"
"I'm okay. I'm tired. And it's kind of unsettling, I keep getting caught up in my mom's act that this is all normal. And it feels like a really weird acid trip."
"God, I'd guess. Maybe that's her way of adjusting."
"That's just her way. Let's pretend." Mulder shifted his head, wedging himself comfortably into the corner of the couch. "Welcome to the life and times of the Mulder family, Walt." Drily.
Skinner chuckled. "Will it help explain some of your quirks?"
"Nope, mine are all my own."
"As long as nobody dissolves into a puddle of green goo, I think it will be fine."
The words were light, but the underlying tone was not. Mulder blinked in the dark. Swallowed hard. Pulled the afghan down from the back of the couch, he rolled onto one side. "So how was your day?"
"Long. Scully said you went home with a headache. You feeling all right?"
Mulder grimaced. "I'm fine. It's just a headache, Walt."
"I'm sure. You've been remarkably healthy since August. I just still get a twitch now and then." Comfortable voice. Not nagging him, just...just letting him know. "You'd tell me if you were sick, wouldn't you? We've gotten past that macho, I'm not sick shit, haven't we?"
Mulder smiled faintly. "Hey, if you can admit it, butch, so can I."
Another chuckle. "Good. What are you wearing?"
"Jesus, Walt, I'm in my mother's living room on her couch." But he was laughing softly anyway. "Are you nuts?"
"Nope, just have a vivid imagination." Skinner laughed low, husky, the sound that made Mulder's skin prickle to gooseflesh, to the faint flush of arousal. He loved listening to Skinner laugh like that, it was a side of Skinner that was shown to very, very few. Somehow, he rated. "So, tell me about the Hathaway case."
"Nah, I'd rather tell you about something else." Mulder closed his eyes. "Something that wasn't in our reports on the carny murders."
"Okay." Skinner sounded dubious.
"And the night Scully and I exhumed a potato because we thought it might be a body part." Mulder tugged the afghan over himself more closely, let himself sink to drowsiness, telling the funny side of the case. Listening to Skinner chuckle at the right moments, genuine amusement that didn't get shared very often.
Before he knew it, he was nearly asleep and Skinner was telling him to hang the phone up. To call tomorrow. "Will," he told the phone blurrily. "Bye."
And hung up, fell into the velvet pit of sleep, let it envelop him.

"Mommy, why is that man sleeping on the couch?"
"Hush, Kelly."
Sound of whispering and footsteps and Mulder surfaced, realized, to his chagrin, that he hadn't made it upstairs after all. Kept his eyes closed, though, waiting for the parade to pass him by.
No such luck. His mother's hand descended on his shoulder, a reminder of years gone by as she shook at him. "Fox, what on earth are you down here for?" A line between her brows when he looked up. "I had your room all ready for you."
"I fell asleep." Weak rejoinder. "I was just going to lie here for a minute and I fell asleep." Not wholly true, but close enough. "Sorry, Mom."
She sighed, tied the belt on her robe more tightly. "Go get cleaned up, I'll make you some breakfast."
"Sure." Pushing himself up, he realized that his muscles were stiff and sore, that his headache hadn't vanished. "Mom, have you got some aspirin. I've had a killer headache for a couple of days, just can't shake it."
"In the bathroom." Her hand touched his forehead reflexively, he tipped her a sudden grin and she gave him a Mom look. "Go along with you, you don't have a fever."
"I didn't think so." But it cheered him unreasonably, he went upstairs to shower whistling under his breath.
By the time he got downstairs, his mother had scrambled eggs and fried bacon. Kelly was sitting on a telephone book, gamely eating oatmeal with cinnamon and brown sugar, and Samantha was feeding some to the baby.
His mother turned from the stove to pour a mug of coffee and handed it him. "I'm taking Samantha and the kids into town, Fox, I want to do some shopping. You're welcome to come with us."
He sipped at the coffee and took a chair. "Grocery shopping?"
"Possibly." His mother moved back to the stove, picked up a plate and filled it, set it down in front of him. "I want to pick up some things for my grandchildren." The smile she offered Samantha made Mulder's throat tighten again.
Not just because of his worry that this was another game, if he were totally honest with himself. Because he hadn't gotten a smile like that since....since well before Sam had disappeared. Which was completely childish and reprehensible of him. "I don't know, Mom, that doesn't sound like much of a guy thing."
Samantha flicked him a grin. "Coward."
"Guilty as charged." Some of the ache lessened. He grinned crookedly, heard her laugh under her breath. "I'll stay here and try to get rid of this headache."
"That sounds like a good plan," Samantha told him and fed another bite to the baby. "Want me to bring you anything?"
The last twenty-five years, he wanted to say, but smiled, shook his head. "Nope."
"He's fine," his mother said and sat down with her own mug of coffee, sharp eyes on him. "Aren't you?"
He patted himself. "I feel fine." An ancient joke.
Samantha looked startled, grinned. "Oh, god, I remember that."
His heart thumped once, not excitement, not alarm. Just because--one ancient joke between the two of them didn't mean it really was his sister. It was something that smoking bastard could have picked up years ago and fed to her. But it reinforced his desire to believe that this really was his sister.
Returned to them.
His mother looked puzzled. "What?"
"It was a joke," Samantha explained, laughing a little. "A dumb joke. Then there was the time I asked you to make me a paper airplane."
Mulder's heart sped again. He gave her a casual smile. "And I always said?"
"Zap, you're a paper airplane."
Kelly got that, giggled and put her hand over her face shyly when he looked at her. "That's silly." Little girl voice.
"It certainly was," said his mother, a little quellingly, and gave him another sharp look.
He looked innocently back. And wondered how innocent he really was. "I'll go for a run while you're gone," he told her solemnly.
"Is that going to help your headache?"
"When the headache eases up." Picking up his fork, Mulder took a bite of eggs. As always, his mother tended to scramble them until they were dry, he used the buttered toast to shovel them onto the fork and keep them there, earning himself a mild frown.
"Is your name really Fox?" Kelly peered at him curiously.
"Blame her," Mulder told the child, smiling, pointing at his mother. "It was her idea."
His mother, thankfully, seemed to find this amusing. Kelly looked at her. "Why did you name him Fox, Nana?"
"Because your grandfather wanted to name him Harold. I thought Fox was better."
"Harold?" Samantha's eyebrows went up. "Harold?"
This was the first Mulder had heard of it. "You could have called me Hal."
"Don't be ridiculous, Harold Mulder would have been a horrible name. You were beautiful child." His mother's nose wrinkled. "After your father's grandfather. I convinced him to use your great-grandfather's surname, which was Fox."
"You never told me that," Mulder grumbled, taking another bite. "And God knows, I asked often enough."
"I knew it wouldn't make sense to you when you were a child, Fox," his mother told him, her tone reasonable. "Things like that never do when you're small. And when you were older--I suppose I didn't want to think about the old days."
Of course not. He couldn't suppress a small, bitter pang at that. She wouldn't tell him, but she'd tell a four year old grandchild. Ah, well, that made his place in the scheme of things pretty clear. He took another few bites, but his appetite was somewhat diminished, which was pretty goddamned silly. It wasn't like he'd ever believed he'd had much of a place. He was the one not taken, the one left behind.
He had been the one chosen for the sacrifice, if the files in West Virginia meant anything. But Samantha had been taken instead.
And if he kept thinking along these lines, he was going to start feeling sorry for himself. A lot of other people had gone through worse at the hands of their parents, he had it easy. And, he was beginning to believe, he had his sister back, too.
Whatever all that meant.
Breakfast ended as the children finished their oatmeal, as Samantha cleaned them up and herded them out. Leaving Mulder alone with his mother again.
"Finish your eggs, they're getting cold."
Mulder nodded, took another bite. Thinking. "Mom, I need to ask you something."
Her eyes narrowed over the rim of her cup. "About what?"
"About Dad," he told her hastily, seeing her expression go shuttered. "Please, Mom, I need to know."
For a moment, her expression softened. "What, Fox?"
"You said he chose. But I need to know. He chose me, didn't he?" His voice was steadier than he expected.
And her eyes went cold on him again. "I don't want to talk about this, Fox." Reaching, she took his plate, rose from the table to move toward the sink. "It's all in the past, it's over." Emphatically.
Staring at his coffee, Mulder finally nodded. "Yeah. I guess so." Flatly. It was over, more or less. Why didn't he feel better about it? He'd gotten what he'd been searching for since his twelfth year.
And his coffee was getting cold. Picking up his cup, he took it into the livingroom, went to the front porch and retrieved the newspaper.
He was reading it when Samantha came downstairs, carrying Jonathan and leading Kelly, all three of them dressed for shopping.
"Hey, you want some more coffee?"
He looked up, managed a smile. "Yeah, that would be great. Mom still upstairs?"
She smiled back. "Yeah, she's almost ready." She took the mug from his hand and vanished with the baby into the kitchen. Leaving Kelly to regard him thoughtfully.
"You don't look like my Uncle Tom," she told him seriously. "He wears a uniform."
"Does he? Is he a policeman?" Mulder smiled at her.
"I don't think so." She tipped her head to consider him. "Mommy says you're kind of a policeman."
"Sort of. I don't wear a uniform, though."
"That's a matter of opinion," his mother's voice came from behind him. She smiled at him. "You all wear suits."
"That's not a uniform, and besides, I don't wear Brooks Brothers."
His mother shook her head, chuckled. "You have your own variation. Come on, Kelly, let's get your coat on."
Footsteps in the hallway and Samantha and the baby reappeared. "Nice and hot. You drink it black, right?"
"Right." Mulder rose, accepted the mug. "Thanks, Sam."
"Hey, that's what sisters are for, right?" Her mouth trembled suddenly, despite her smile.
"If I'm lucky," he told her gently. His hand came up part of the way, he meant to touch her cheek, but she turned toward his mother.
"Ready, Mom? Come on, Kel, let's get your coat on, sweetheart."
"Bye," Kelly told him and followed Samantha into the hallway.
"You know where everything is, Fox," his mother told him, her tone brisk. "Make yourself comfortable, we'll be back this afternoon."
"Sure, Mom." He nodded agreeably. "Have fun."
"I will." She moved to the door. "Perhaps we'll find something for you." Lightly.
"I don't need anything, Mom," he told her easily. "I'm fine just the way I am."
Brief look and she was gone, closing the French doors behind her.
Moving to the window, he looked out at the street. Blinked hard suddenly as a treacherous sense of loss caught up with him.
As a psychologist, he knew the drill. He'd lost purpose with his sister's return. And his doubts of the entire situation didn't help matters. Or was it the other way around?
His mother's coffee was the worst in the world, outside of what he'd had in police stations. And now it tasted overcooked. But it was coffee, and as Skinner had laughingly declared, he'd take it IV if he could. Especially after last night.
Settling back on the couch, he went back to the paper. Sipping his coffee. Until he found himself sliding back onto the cushions, the print blurring into smears of black, his only conscious thought not to spill coffee on his mother's couch. Sliding into dark water. Into the deep.....
 

"Fox?" His mother's voice was sharp. "Fox, wake up."
Not yet, he told her, or wanted to. Not yet, just another little bit before he had to get up, it wasn't time to get up yet.
Sharp sting on his cheek and he turned his head, opened his eyes. He was lying face down on the couch, his mother's face was near his, eyes wide with concern.
"Mom?" Rustily. "What are you doing back already?"
"Fox, it's nearly seven. We stopped and got dinner on the way." This time, she didn't smack his cheek, her fingers were gentle. "Fox, are you all right? You didn't want to wake up."
Seven? He shifted, sat up slowly, discovered he'd unbuttoned his jeans at some point and hastily rebuttoned them under his mother's worried gaze. His headache was gone, but his mouth tasted like hell. "God, seven?" How in the hell could he have slept the day away? "Sorry, no, I'm fine, Mom." Waking a little more each moment. Christ, they'd left at 11:15. He'd been reading the paper and that was the last thing he remembered.
Samantha stood behind their mother, her face shadowed in the faint light from the hall. "I hope you're hungry, we got enough food for a small army."
But his mother's fingers touched his face again, that faint line between her brows. "You're not feverish."
"No, I feel okay." Mulder swallowed, found his throat dry. "I'm not really hungry, but I could sure use a glass of water, Mom, don't look so worried, I've been working a lot of hours. I'm probably just catching up."
The line eased. "Of course, that's probably it." She patted his knee, rose from her seat on the coffee table. "We can eat in the kitchen, I'll get you some ice water."
"Sounds great," he told her and rubbed his face with both hands. How in the hell had he slept through the whole day? He hoped to Christ he wasn't getting sick again, but he'd had that goddamned headache for the last three days and this...."Mom, I think I'd better head home."
Scandalized look. "You certainly will not. If you're coming down with something, Fox Mulder, the last thing you need to do is drive all night."
He was hard put not to smile. "Mom, I slept all day."
"And you'll sleep all night. Sleep is the best medicine."
It struck him as funny. "That's what a friend of mine says," he grumbled and pushed himself up, winked at Kelly. "I need water, I'm dying of thirst."
His mother's gaze was critical. "You don't look entirely well, Fox. Why don't you go up and get in bed with a book, I'll bring you a tray."
"I'm fine, Mom." A little more sharply than he'd intended. He put an arm around her shoulders in apology. "Honestly. But I'll take you up on that book and the couch after dinner, okay?"
Her mouth twitched. "All right. But no more talk about driving all night to get back to Washington. You can leave in the morning."
It was a small enough concession, so he made it. "Deal."
Samantha smiled, too, a little tremulously. "Shall we get dinner on the table?" she asked, and moved toward the livingroom door.
"Sounds good to me," he told his mother and followed.

Skinner was in bed when the telephone rang, reading one of the paperback thrillers he'd picked up for Mulder after his return from Atlanta. He'd chosen with care, it was a good one, with reasonable realism for a piece of fiction and he was presently absorbed, picked up the phone without looking away from the page. "Skinner."
"Hi, it's me."
The book went down on his chest. "Hi, how's it going up there?"
"Weird," Mulder told him, but didn't elaborate. "I'm going to leave early, I think, I ought to be home around six or so."
"Yeah?" Skinner took off his glasses. That suggested to him that things weren't going well, but he wasn't sure he should pry. At least, not at this point. "That sounds great. I'll have something on for dinner when you get back."
A chuckle. "What do you have on now?"
"Nothing exciting. It's turned cold, I'm wearing sweats." Skinner smiled, tilting his head back on the pillow. "How's your headache. Gone, I hope?"
"Yeah." Rueful tone. "I took a nap today, I got a little worried I was catching something, but I feel fine now."
"Good." Skinner smiled. "I'd have to gag you if you started complaining again about being sick."
"I wouldn't. I've learned my lesson. When I'm sick, I get good room service."
"I can see there needs to be a change in my approach."
"Well, it's not my fault you made it fun."
"I'm sure." Skinner laughed softly. "That'll be the day. How are you doing up there?"
"Okay, I guess. I didn't see anyone much today, Mom took them all shopping around eleven and didn't get home until about seven."
"Jesus, eight hours of shopping. You're lucky you didn't get dragooned into going with them."
"Tell me about it." Mulder sighed. "I have to tell you, it's beyond weird to see my mother in full grandmother mode. And as weird as that is, it's even weirder to hear this midget call her Nana."
"I would imagine." Skinner considered that. "Does it bother you? Seeing her with the kids?"
Puzzled silence on the other end of the line. "Well, it's strange, she's a lot warmer than I remember her being when we were kids."
"That's just being a grandparent, if I recall correctly."
"You're a grandparent?" Appalled tone.
"No, you moron, my mother told me when my brother and sister began to reproduce." Slightly acerbic. "Jesus, how old do you think I am?"
"Forty-seven and ageless." Mulder's grin was apparent, even through the telephone. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
"I don't know, can you?"
Exasperated sigh. "May I?"
"Go ahead." Skinner grinned again, rubbed his forehead.
"Why didn't--I mean, you and your wife didn't have any kids."
Taken aback, Skinner thought about his answer. It was Sharon's issue, too, and it felt...unsettling to consider revealing too much to Mulder about someone else's life. Nevertheless, Mulder was a part of his, and his tone, as usual, suggested that he was prepared to be rebuffed. There was something satisfying in confounding those preparations. "Well, I had some concerns, after Vietnam, and by the time those proved not to have any basis, we discovered that Sharon was, ah, infertile. And we were on the wrong side of the age group for adoption, unless we went the private route. And by that time, I think my career was already eating up too much of our relationship, I suspect she decided against it, went back to school."
"Oh." Mulder sighed. "I have to admit, I've never been possessed of any desire to create a replica of myself."
Unable to prevent himself, Skinner laughed. "The world isn't ready for two of you."
It wasn't a fortunate moment. Mulder was silent. "I suppose not." Uninflected tone.
"Although it would certainly clean up Washington," Skinner added, not quite believing that Mulder had taken that badly.
Short laugh, not quite humorless. "Oh, he could rebel against me, I suppose, and go my dad's path."
Oh, shit, he'd definitely put his foot wrong. "Is that what you did? Rebel against your dad?" Softly.
There was a long silence. "No, I suppose not." Another sigh. "I was going to come home tonight and my mother decided to behave like a mother after she found me asleep on the couch. I figured it was better not to upset her."
Particularly not after the stroke, Skinner thought. "In this instance, I probably approve."
"Probably?" Light voice again. "Thank god it's not certainly, I already have one mother."
"It's not parental concern in me, I just like all your body parts in their original order."
"Ooh, talk to me, Walt?"
He laughed. "What are you wearing?"
"Sweats. Isn't that an interesting coincidence? We're both sleeping alone and wearing sweats."
"I suspect that's because when we're sleeping alone, we're cold." But Skinner chuckled. "Anything under them?"
"Nope. Just me."
It conjured an image of warm skin, he'd peeled sweats off Mulder and tasted skin like that, warmed by fleece. "Keep talking like that, I'm getting very turned on."
"I wish I could. But even I'm not tough enough to have phone sex in my mother's livingroom." Droll tone this time, that cracked Skinner up. "It's not funny, Walt. Do you realize what this says about my psychosexual development? I'm still frozen in adolescence."
"Your libido certainly is," Skinner agreed. "A fact for which I am profoundly grateful. I think you've revved mine up pretty well."
"I'm not complaining either, believe me." Mulder made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a yawn. "Well, I'd better get to bed if I'm going to get off early tomorrow. Pity me, I'm sleeping in the same bed I had when I was ten. It's actually more comfortable on the couch."
"Drive safely." Skinner blinked, grinned. "Tomorrow, I mean. And try not to fall out of bed."
"I won't, it's not as much fun if you aren't there to fall on top of me."
"Go to bed," Skinner growled, and then, "Hurry home. Safely."
"I will." Very softly. "Night, Walt."
"Good night."
He was still smiling when he hung up the telephone. Only a fool would overlook the fact that he was getting calls when Mulder was out of town now. And on this occasion, both nights.
"What are you looking at?" he asked the cat, who merely twitched the tip of its tail at him. "I know, I know, he's your buddy all of a sudden, he'll be back tomorrow."
This was how far down he'd gone, that he was talking to the damned cat. He picked up the book again and found his place, but the smile stayed on his face for a long, long while.

~~~

Astonishingly, Mulder had slept well that night, despite the discomforts of the twin bed that had been his until he'd left home to go to school in England. He woke early, however, and showered before anyone else had woken up, emerging from the bathroom to find Kelly standing in the hallway with her thumb in her mouth.
"Hi," he said, startled. "Is something wrong?"
She pointed shyly to the bathroom and comprehension made him hastily sidestep to let her have access. She didn't close the door, of course, and Samantha came out of the guest room, rumpled with sleep, tying the belt of her robe.
"Oh, hi, Fox." Still half-asleep. "Did Kelly--"
He jerked his thumb backward and headed to the stairs, abruptly feeling foolish and not sure why. Outside of the fact that he wasn't used to children.
Once in the kitchen, he started coffee and, suffering a guilt pang over his relief at leaving, started pancakes for breakfast.
By the time his mother came down, carrying Jonathan, the first stack was ready and wrapped in foil to keep it warm.
He offered her a diffident grin. "Thought I'd surprise you, Mom."
Her expression was surprised, in fact, if a bit taken aback. "That's very thoughtful, Fox." Accepted a cup of coffee with a dubious expression and settled into a chair with Jonathan on her lap. Took a sip from the mug and nodded approvingly. "Very thoughtful."
Mulder laughed. "Mom, contrary to popular opinion, I do know how to cook. Think that little guy could eat a pancake if I shred it for him?"
"I do," she agreed, "Just a little butter, Samantha doesn't like him having too much sweet." She looked down, stroked the downy hair. "This takes me back. I think he looks a bit like you, Fox."
Mulder looked, failed to see any resemblance, but smiled anyway. "Mom, he's a baby. Don't wish that on him."
"Don't insult my son's appearance," she told him drily and took another sip of coffee. "What time are you leaving?"
Guilt struck again. "I thought I'd better get started after breakfast. I've got things to catch up, I left early on Friday."
His mother nodded. "I think Samantha was glad to see you." Awkwardly.
He wondered. The entire visit had been--strange. Samantha had been, by turns, affectionate and distant, which he supposed was natural enough. As his mother had said, she was essentially a stranger.
It was just that they had been dreaming this day for so long.
Which also brought guilt. Why wasn't he happier? Why did he have a hollow feeling in his chest? Maybe his paranoia was getting out of hand....or maybe, just maybe, his life's quest had been resolved with a whimper, not with a bang. His father was dead, having shown him the first sign of approval in--in his life.
Psychologist, heal thyself, he told himself and fixed a plate for his mother and Jonathan. Poured four circles onto the griddle for a new batch as he heard footsteps on the stairs, heard Kelly's voice raised in query.
"Good morning, Mom." Samantha came in, holding Kelly's hand, bent to kiss their mother's cheek. "Hi, baby, did Nana bring you down?
Mulder put a plate in front of his mother. "Some pancakes?" he asked his sister.
"Sounds great." She helped Kelly into a chair and went to get a mug from the cupboard.
It shamed him, the twitch he got from that, from her casual ease in his mother's house. Hell, he didn't feel that comfortable in his mother's house, not as a rule.
He was going to be very glad to leave.

 The drive back to Washington was long and he managed to just escape snow flurries as he left Connecticut. It had taken longer than he'd wanted to get out of the house, Samantha had abruptly turned warm again, wanting to talk about their childhood. It appeared that more memories were coming back to her, for which he was grateful.
It made him brood that he didn't really want to share any of them with her. Not resentment. Something else, part and parcel of his sense of.....of loss. Naming didn't make it go away. It didn't make him feel better. But it did give him a spurious sense of self-control and self-awareness.
Maybe he'd figure out what to do about it eventually.
 Brooding left him tired and achy by the time he reached home. But when he opened the door that led into the kitchen, something smelled delicious, which lifted his spirits somewhat.
Too, it didn't hurt to have Skinner already standing in the door to the kitchen when he got there, a smile transforming his face. Simply and unequivocally glad to see him. "You made it early." Delighted tone.
And Mulder simply dove into open arms and buried his face in Skinner's neck, breathing in the scent of skin and clean denim. "You look pretty butch in that denim shirt," he muttered. "You smell pretty good. You feel even better."
Skinner's arms went around him in a nearly bruising embrace. "So do you," he murmured and slid his hands down to cup Mulder's ass. "On both counts."
Laughing, Mulder lifted his head, took the kiss gladly, tasting Skinner's mouth, drinking him in. Big hands slid up his back, under his shirt, tracing the angle of each of his shoulder blades, finding the knots and undoing them, one by one until all but one key part of his anatomy was limp. Breaking away, he kissed and licked Skinner's jaw, felt Skinner's hands pull away from his back, move up to cup each side of his face, to press hard on the tense spots, massaging his scalp. God, it felt incredible.
"I'm the one getting spoiled," Skinner growled. "I missed you more this weekend than I do when you're on a case."
Mulder offered him a smile, a low chuckle. "That's because the AD part of you knows I'm doing my job when I'm on a case."
"Ah, that must be it." Skinner's eyes were intent, drawing him in. Still holding his head, a gentle brush of lips, the quick flick of Skinner's tongue across his mouth.
He dove in again, happy to drown. Skinner tasted wonderful, felt wonderful, he'd understated it. Slipping his fingers into Skinner's back pockets, he rubbed his cheek against Skinner's, held his hips close and felt a flash of heat lick his spine. Not just heat, something more, and it scared the hell out of him. The hell if he wasn't going to take this chance, though. Skinner was taking risks of his own, he wasn't going to let him stand out there alone. "I'm glad you talked me into this," he confessed diffidently.
Skinner's mouth curved. "Yeah, so am I." Humor and comprehension.
God, he loved not having to explain every utterance. He was going to make Skinner an X file one of these days, the strong evidence of telepathy. Skinner's mouth covered his again, sensuous and slow and luxurious, learning his mouth again, learning the shape of his jaw, the edges of his teeth, the way their tongues stroked against each other. Surfacing from the kiss, he caught his breath, smiled at Skinner, a little dazed. "Can we go upstairs? I want to get naked with you, I want to be in my own bed."
Skinner's smile broadened. "Dinner's ready, not that I'm vetoing the idea."
"We can eat first," Mulder told him dreamily. "Up in bed. Can't we?"
"Grab us a couple of beers. I'll get the food, you go on up and crash." A hand cupped his cheek. Skinner's eyes were intent again, amazingly so.
"Okay," Mulder agreed and kissed him again. He wasn't sure why it turned him on to have Skinner let his military instilled sense of order lapse, but it did. For him. Indulgence of a kind he'd never known and wouldn't have known how to ask for. Until now.
This kiss ended with a series of shorter ones that persisted until he laughed at himself. "I'll meet you upstairs."
"I'll hurry," Skinner murmured and released him.
Pausing only to grab the beers, Mulder started for the door. Stopped and turned back to get the bag he'd dropped at the door. Heard Skinner chuckle. No sting to it, it was appreciative, it made him laugh under his breath as he went up the stairs.
Skinner cut him far too much slack around the house and he was determined not to take advantage of it, that was all. He took the stairs two at a time, and suddenly realized that his sense of malaise had evaporated, that he was feeling nearly exuberant.
This time, he didn't let the guilt hit him, refused to allow it purchase on his soul. His sister had returned to them, certainly, and certainly he should have been sadder to leave her at his mother's home.
But she and her children were strangers, as alien in some ways as the clones with her loyalty to the late and unlamented smoker and her absent husband and her abrupt closeness to his mother.
It was never going to be the way he'd hoped it would. It might never have been the way he'd wanted to remember it. He'd forgotten the sense of exclusion he'd felt whenever the three of them had been together, his father safely away somewhere. The mother/daughter thing, maybe. Maybe he should have had something closer with his father, but wishes were old news and there was nothing to be done now.
Skinner was here and now.
Emptying his clothes into the hamper, he closed it with a bang, startling the cat, who sat in the hall, regarding him pensively. "Fuck that noise, Cat," he told it cheerfully. "I guess this is my home, huh?"
He was going to get cleaned up and celebrate in his own way, dammit, with Skinner. And at this point, that seemed more than he had ever expected or deserved.
 It took Skinner a little longer to get upstairs with the tray than he'd planned, but by the time he reached the bedroom door, Mulder was watching television, stripped down to his underwear and white socks, sitting in the middle of the bed cross-legged and tormenting the cat.
Multi-tasking, Skinner thought, hilariously and grinned when Mulder turned to smile. "Nice look," he approved and carried the tray to the bed. "Nothing fancy, but I think you'll like it."
"Cornbread and--is this the famous Skinner chili?"
"None other." Stretching out, Skinner sprawled across the bed with the tray between them.
"And is that real butter?" Mulder tasted, beamed at him. "Good stuff."
"Eat it before it gets cold," Skinner advised and looked around for the beer. The two bottles sat on his nightstand, he sat up briefly and snagged them both, handed one to Mulder, who seemed uninterested, who was licking the bowl of his soup spoon, completely unconscious of what it looked like.
The cat, abandoned, curled up in resignation, watching them. Mulder took a bite, closed his eyes briefly, making little pleasurable sounds in his throat. "'S good."
"Of course it is." Picking up his own spoon, Skinner took a bite, watched as Mulder stretched out, mimicking his own posture. Long legs, those ridiculous white socks, the man simply had no idea of how alluring he was, especially licking the spoon like a kid. "Hey, you."
Mulder's head lifted, he smiled, evidently happy and relaxed. "Hey, yourself. It's good to be home." A rushed confession, and as if embarrassed by this admission, he turned back to his chili.
"Nice to have you home," Skinner told him, a little gruffly. God, the man was incredibly, lying there, eating chili and eating his cornbread, wearing nothing but underwear and white socks and he still made Skinner's pulse speed.
Especially when he licked that damned spoon like that. He looked back at his own, took another bite. "Eat, you're going to need your strength."
Mulder was already obeying, absurdly dressed, sexy as hell, making those little satisfied sounds in his throat that drove Skinner crazy.
It was all he could do to focus on his own meal. "Did you miss the snow?" he managed to ask.
"Caught some flurries as I was leaving Connecticut, nothing too bad." Mulder licked the spoon again. "God, this is good."
It was too much. "If you don't stop licking that spoon, you're going to have to eat it cold," Skinner growled.
Arched eyebrows and a chuckle. Stretching out one foot, Mulder hooked an ankle over Skinner's legs. "And you talk about my libido."
Skinner sighed, captured Mulder's foot between his calves. "It's the vitamins I've been taking. Now eat."
Laughing, Mulder obeyed, neatly and quickly and, aside from those damned sounds, mostly in silence. Skinner followed suit, but found himself watching Mulder, just enjoying the sight of Mulder happy. More or less happy. Mulder's foot stroked his calf and for some reason, those white socks made him seem almost naked, despite the fact that he wasn't.
Blood pooled below Skinner's waist, his cock thickened, throbbed, trapped by denim. As if stirred by his notice, Mulder's cock did likewise, not full erection, just thickening and lengthening slightly. It worked on Skinner's nerves quite pleasurably, heightening his anticipation.
Until they were finished.
Mulder pushed himself up, smiled. "Want me to take the tray down?"
"Hell with that," Skinner growled and shifted it to the floor, moved back to catch himself an armful of warm, laughing Fox Mulder. Mulder's mouth opened to his, he stroked his tongue in, tasting the meal they'd shared, relearning what he hadn't really forgotten in less than a handful of days.
Pulled Mulder to straddle his lap, leaned back against the headboard and drew back, feeling smug and entirely pleased. "Definitely good to have you home."
Mulder's face seemed lit from within. "Yeah? What can I say, you're clearly irrational."
"Hah." Skinner's fingertips traced brow and cheekbone. "Mmm, I seem to have made a tactical error, I'm still dressed and you're on top of me."
Mulder chuckled, leaned forward to lick the hollow of his throat, fingers busy with the buttons of Skinner's shirt. Warm mouth moving down as skin was revealed; Skinner hissed slightly, tilted his head back as Mulder's teeth and tongue found a nipple. "Oh, yeah."
"So eloquent," Mulder muttered and moved to the other.
Cupping the back of Mulder's head, Skinner stroked his palm down over silky dark hair, down the vulnerable nape of the neck. Slid his hand sideways, the curve of shoulder and neck.
Mulder's nimble fingers had the shirt completely unbuttoned, Mulder shifted to begin on the button and zipper of his jeans and Skinner moved, toppling Mulder backward to breathless laughter.
Stood up for a scant moment to peel out of his jeans and then lowered himself over his lover. Arms sliding underneath him, hips settling between Mulder's legs. "You," he growled, "Are incredible." And kissed him hard, searchingly. Well aware that Mulder did not want to discuss the trip, that this, as true as it was, was also a method of not thinking about whatever he wanted to avoid.
He was willing to give Mulder that respite. For now. Not entirely unselfishly, it pleased him to see Mulder happy, it more than pleased him to take advantage of the wickedly lovely body for their mutual pleasure. And it drove him decadently crazy to hear those little sounds come out of Mulder's throat again.
Lovely, lovely length of him--an old joke, acres and acres and it's all mine, wafted through the back of his mind, making him chuckle as he nipped at Mulder's throat. Somehow, he managed to worry the shorts off, freeing Mulder's rising shaft, kissed his way down to it and tormented it briefly with a few flicks of his tongue.
"Hurry," Mulder whimpered. "Oh, God, I want you in me."
"Patience, patience," Skinner chided gently and pushed long legs up. "Where'd you pick this up?" Touching the back of one knee, a small, livid purple spot.
Mulder craned his head up, peered at it, squinting. "Dunno. Probably walked into something."
Skinner shook his head, smiling, kissed the spot and pushed Mulder's legs back. Worked his way down, kissing the insides of Mulder's thighs impartially, licking the seam where his thigh joined his body and sucking gently. Marking him. Slowly and surely, he covered the exposed skin, taking his time, licking and nipping and sucking and teasing until Mulder was reduced to inarticulate, half-voiced demands.
"Walt, God, come on--no, don't stop that, that's so--shit, will you hurry up?"
"No," he told Mulder serenely, so hard that his balls ached, his own cock higher against his belly than any man pushing fifty had a right to boast of. Bent again and continued his journey, the light blue tracery of veins on the underside of Mulder's arm, the inside crook of the elbow--the right one, then the left one, marveling again at the difference in reaction. Mulder wanted to be fucked stupid, it was a pattern he'd noted and even been willing to play into on occasion. But not tonight. He wanted Mulder to know that he had been missed. It was embarrassing to admit, even to himself, how badly he'd been missed, on a goddamned weekend, up visiting his mother.
He wanted all the lazy sensuality he'd missed this weekend; Mulder no longer spent Saturday hunched over his coffee table working on files, Mulder tended to a lazy Saturday morning in bed that stretched out past noon. He'd missed that this weekend, gone in dutifully in the morning, without Mulder to keep him there until afternoon. Gotten finished indecently early, gone to a movie by a himself, had a beer with friends innocent of Mulder's presence in his life, come back home and rattled around a house that seemed too big, too quiet, and too empty.
Salty skin under his tongue was all he needed to wash that away. The firm, solid shape of muscle and bone, of Mulder's body moving under his, gasps and pleas and arms around his shoulders and back, fingers gripping his shoulders when he moved back down. Pushed his hands under Mulder's ass and simply lifted it toward him, tongue strobing across tender skin, the ring of muscle, the smooth space in between it and Mulder's balls. The crumpled velvet of Mulder's scrotum, his tongue pressing gently on the sensitive shapes within. And that lovely shaft, gone from blush rose to a deeper, almost purple shade. The vein throbbing almost visibly on the underside.
Mulder, by this time, speaking in tongues again, his private erotic language that turned Skinner's bones to water. Lube. Where was the goddamned lube--reaching, he fumbled, got it, squeezed it out onto his fingers and slid the first, the second inside Mulder. Added more lube. Another finger, all of them buried to the knuckle, twisted his hand to rub his knuckles and Mulder arched upward. He pulled Mulder up onto his thighs. Worked his fingers more, watching Mulder's face, blind and ecstatic.
Fingers out, wiped on discarded shorts, he guided his cock, felt the head gripped, popped it in and out and got what was nearly a shriek. Slid in a few inches and gasped. God, tight and hot. "Easy," he said, hardly aware that he'd said anything at all. "Easy."
"Do it!" Mulder was back to English, his mother tongue, pleading. "Oh, God, please, you son of a bitch, do it!"
He supposed that was an endearment, sweat was dripping from him suddenly, Mulder's hair was damp with his own, his torso gleamed in the lamplight. He sank in all the way, leaned over Mulder on his hands. "There."
Mulder's legs rose, hooked together by the ankles in the small of his back. "Oh, Christ." Blind again, he rolled his hips up into Skinner's groin, no rhythm, just movement, driven to it by Skinner's attentions. "Oh, yeah." And he tossed his head, put his hands up on Skinner's shoulders, lifted his head to meet Skinner's kiss.
Devouring him, Skinner began to move, slow thrusts, regular thrusts, holding Mulder back from hurrying. Heard little whimpers in Mulder's throat again. He felt like he was standing too close to a fire, could feel the flush that covered his skin, his head, the curve of his ears, skin hypersensitive, he could almost feel the whorls that marked Mulder's fingertips and his hips moved faster.
Mulder's cock was trapped between their bellies, Mulder arched up to grind it against him, their mouths still sealed together and Mulder surrendered to his rhythm, stopped trying to speed it or fight it.
A rhythm that sped with their heartbeats, gaining speed as Skinner found himself unable to resist that silken grasp, unable to deny Mulder anything he wanted.
Heat and the clench of Mulder's body, friction and sweat--he nipped at Mulder's mouth, sucking that seductive lower lip, licking inside to get Mulder's tongue and he could feel ecstasy, a lightning bolt away. Wanted it desperately, wanted to hold it off, wanted to freeze the moment right here, before he came, before Mulder came, just to keep it forever.
Mulder's flesh tightened on him unbearably, he took the cry in his mouth, Mulder's body spasmed underneath him, hot wetness scalding them both as Mulder came, cock still trapped against his belly.
And he couldn't hold back, not with that grip, he thrust savagely, felt his cock explode, felt the slippery sensation as he spilled into Mulder, again and again and again.....until he sagged, still resting his weight on his hands, felt himself pulled down and surrendered, laughing hoarsely.
He tried to catch his breath, heard Mulder's ragged inhalations. "God." He burrowed into Mulder's throat. Nipped gently. Licked to soothe it.
"Uh huh." Mulder's voice was thin, tired. "Oh, Jesus, Walt, you don't know."
He wasn't sure what he didn't know. But he nibbled Mulder's earlobe. "I know a lot." A whisper.
Mulder's head turned, their mouths met briefly. "It scares me." Sad little confession for a moment like this.
"What scares you?" Skinner kept his voice very low. "What scares you, Fox. This?"
Quick shake of the head and it was Mulder's face in his neck. "What I feel." Barely audible.
Maybe there were limits, Skinner mused. "Don't be," he murmured and rolled to his back, pulling Mulder across his chest. "I feel it, too."
A sigh. "Yeah."
And then a long comfortable silence. His hand stroked Mulder from the nape to the small of his back.
"Shower?" Mulder muttered, sounding drowsy.
"Bath. I'll even let you use your bubbles."
A low chuckle. "Okay."
Sticky and sweaty, they made it off the bed and into the tub. Water almost too hot, melting away any tension Mulder still harbored.
Small talk, nothing too serious, and they finally emerged, Mulder snickering over the way the tips of his fingers had wrinkled.
Back to bed. Television on. Mulder in his arms, against his chest, watching some ridiculous report on Bigfoot on Sightings.
"How was the trip," he finally asked.
Mulder sighed. "Weird. I had a long time to think on the way back, Walt. I'm still thinking. I think she is my sister. She remembers too much. Little things. I don't know why she decided to contact Mom. I don't know why she didn't contact me. And I guess I feel--kind of cheated." Quick glance up. "I didn't find her myself. I guess that was my life's quest. And now it's done, resolved."
"Hard to find your balance," Skinner noted and shifted, skin against skin. Not erotic, just--comfortable. "You going to be okay?"
Short laugh. "Yeah. I will. I just have to think about some things, Walt. I have to make some decisions."
He wasn't entirely sure he liked the sound of that. "Decisions?" Warily.
Mulder lifted his head. "Not about this." Very solemnly. "I already made that one."
Foolishly, Skinner's pulse sped, he felt a fatuous smile form and tried to quell it, to no avail. "Good." Softly.
Mulder put his head back down. "I'm tired."
"Ah." Skinner clicked the remote off. Reached up and turned off the lamp, turned and pulled Mulder closer. "Go to sleep then."
"Uh huh." Mulder shifted, put his palm against Skinner's belly. "Thanks, Walt."
"For what?" Drowsily.
An almost wriggle. "Just for being here."
"Don't want to be anywhere else," Skinner told him and slid further down in bed, draping Mulder over him. "Count on it."
His only answer was a sigh.

 The alarm clock went off at 5:00, its shrill voice dragging Skinner out of a pleasant dream of the ocean. Reaching out, he slapped it off, sank back and stared at the darkness of the ceiling above him, trying to force himself to stay awake.
Beside him, a warm lump under the bedclothes, Mulder made a querulous sound and burrowed more deeply into his pillows. Skinner patted the curve of blanketed hip and pushed himself up, swung his legs over and nearly stepped in the dishes from the night before.
God, he'd forgotten about them. His Marine training was appalled, but he gazed down in the darkness and sighed. The world was most assuredly not going to end if he left dishes on the floor and it was time he got over it.
Shifting a hand's breadth to the right, he got out of bed, padded across the hall to the bathroom to turn on the bathroom light, the shower. Squinted at himself in the bright light over the sink and sighed. He still hadn't made any decisions about Mulder's section. He'd been checking and evaluating other section heads, trying to decide which of them was honest enough, free enough of pressure points to trust. But they had families, mortgages, the usual range of weaknesses that could be used against them, even if they were honest initially.
He knew too well how that pressure worked. Sharon's near death, the call girl's murder--these had been used against him.
Stepping into the shower, he let the hot water sting him awake, sluice away the onset of worry. When he emerged, the bathroom door was closed, the room was steamy. And sitting neatly on the counter, he saw his underwear, his robe was hung on the back of the door.
Mulder. It both touched and amused him. Mulder was one of the least domestic human beings he'd ever met, but he saw a gradual softening in Mulder's resistance, a gradual thaw that he hadn't expected. Mulder was--Mulder, he had neither expected or hoped for that thaw, he wanted Mulder the way he was. But he couldn't suppress a suspicious tightening of his throat at moments like this.
By the time he'd returned to the bedroom, his bedside lamp was on low and Mulder was back in bed, a long bump under the blankets again, his head under a pillow. Laughing silently to himself, Skinner dressed quickly, moved to Mulder's side of the bed. The aroma of coffee had drifted upstairs and the tray of dishes was gone--really gone, not just shoved under the bed--which meant that Mulder had been busy while he was in the shower.
Lifting the pillow off, he bent and brushed a kiss over Mulder's nape, took another one when Mulder drowsily turned his head for it. "See you later," he murmured, "Thanks for the coffee."
"Mmmhm." Mulder blinked at him. "Take some with you, I made a whole pot."
"I will. You, too." Mulder's hair was silky and clean. He rubbed his cheek against it, unable to resist, straightened and put the pillow back on Mulder's head.
And took a travel mug with him, feeling unreasonably cheerful.

 Mulder was somewhat dismayed to find Scully in the basement office when he arrived. But it was evident that she was in the mood to extend an olive branch to him, there was a large Starbuck's coffee on his desk keeping company with a sticky pastry guaranteed to clog his arteries. "Good morning, Scully. Thanks for the uh," and he gestured at his desk.
"Good morning." She looked up from her reading, rose and came to stand near him, her arms folded. "I owe you an apology, Mulder. McRae and his partner arrested Allred this weekend and he's singing a very interesting song about a secret government research project."
Rocked, Mulder stared at her. An apology and vindication, his sister showing up....it was going to make him very nervous if events kept running this way. "What kind of research project?"
"Gene splicing." Scully's mouth quirked unhappily. "Remind you of anything?"
He considered it. "Berube?"
She nodded. "Anyway, McRae called me this weekend when he couldn't reach you." Subtle hint of reproach in her tone.
"I went to my mother's. My sister is back." It pleased him that Skinner hadn't spoken to her, hadn't told her. Even though he knew that Skinner guarded his privacy as zealously as he guarded his own. Moving around his desk, he sat down, glanced up to see her staring at him. "Yes, I'm sure she's my sister. I never told you this, but when the smoker tried to recruit me, she was one of the inducements he used. Well, that and your cure, but he gave me the chip up front. Sort of earnest money, I guess."
Her eyes widened, she opened her mouth and then closed it. He waited, watching her, keeping his expression smooth. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"What, that he tried to suborn me? I did."
"About your sister." Very quietly.
He looked at the folder on his desk. "It wasn't something you needed to worry about then." Equally quietly. He reached for the phone. "I'd better call McRae, we need to get over and talk to Allred."
"Yeah." She went back to her desk, sat down. Not looking at him.
Upset with him, no doubt. It bothered him, but he figured it was tit for tat. Eidetic memory or not, he had a feeling it would still have been impossible to forget the words she had flung at him in the car the other day. Pushing it from the forefront of his mind, he dialed McRae's number, only half-aware of Scully getting up and leaving the room.
 He found Scully upstairs in her rarely used office. "I just talked to McRae, Allred hanged himself in his cell."
She looked up, startled. "What? How?"
"Shoelaces." Mulder leaned on the doorframe. "Which is bullshit. Somebody sure as shit got to him in the jail. It's happened before."
She nodded, remembering the man who had killed her sister, who had meant to kill her. "Jesus."
"Yeah." He grimaced. "I'm going to meet McRae at Allred's, McRae's already gone through his office, he wants to take a look at his apartment. You want to come with me? You've got the medical background, you might pick up something we'd miss."
"Sure." Colorlessly. "You'd better get authorization from Skinner to work with Metro."
He looked at her. "Sure." Equally colorlessly. Advancing into the room, he called Kimberly, asked if Skinner was available.
He was not, and not likely to be available until afternoon. "Pencil us in," Mulder told her and hung up. Gazed at Scully for a moment. "This afternoon at 1:00. I'll see you then."
She nodded, let him walk to the door. "Mulder, you're going to meet McRae anyway, aren't you? Whether Skinner authorizes this or not."
He paused at the door. "Are you going to tattle on me, Scully? If not to Skinner, to OPC?" His voice was edged, he tried to tone it down. "You do what you think you need to do, and I'll do what I need to do."
Abruptly, Scully rose. "Mulder, dammit--"
"Scully, it's okay. I mean it. You do what you need to do. But be fair, whatever else you do." He left her there, walking fast to the elevator.
It made him sad, seeing how far they'd drifted apart. They'd been partner. Friends. And now, he wasn't sure what they were.
But they were farther apart than they'd ever been at the beginning. She'd still respected him then, respected his ability, his insight, if not his theories. He missed those days. Sure, it was understandable, she'd been abducted, there were weeks she didn't remember at all, except for brief, traumatic fragments. She wanted to believe that it was ordinary human malfeasance. That the perpetrators were human, could be arrested.
And maybe they were. That didn't mean that all of the other evidence they'd found was false. But Scully persisted in believing that it was. Or pretending that she did.
 He met McRae at Allred's apartment. A tall, lanky man in his late forties with cafe au lait skin, he greeted Mulder warmly. "I've got the key."
"What did you find out about Allred?"
"Nothing much. Trusty took him his dinner earlier. When the guard checked later, he was dead." McRae's eyes were weary, cynical. "Somebody got paid to look the other way, most likely. Question is, what did he know that scared somebody bad enough to kill him?"
"I might be able to figure that out," Mulder told him.
They had to flash their badges at the doorman, and McRae did some great fancy talking to get them past.
It was an expensive building, the apartment had large and airy rooms. "He was makin' good money," McRae remarked, as they stood in the foyer.
"Yeah. Interesting." Mulder rubbed his chin and reached into his pocket for gloves. "Where do you want to start?"
"I'll take the livingroom," McRae told him. "What the hell am I lookin' for?"
"Private papers. Anything from the lab. Telephone and address books." Mulder pulled on the gloves. "Private correspondence."
"Gotcha." McRae pulled on his own. "Let's get to it. Christ, I hate searching stuff like this."
"Especially when we aren't sure what to look for," Mulder agreed, flicking him a grin.
McRae rolled his eyes in answer and advanced into the room.
 The search was more or less fruitless, aside from Allred's financial records and one small black address book.
Personal correspondence seemed to be confined to perfumed notes from women...young women, if the heart shaped dots on one of the notes was any indication. Despite everything, Mulder found he was feeling bemused respect for any forty plus, myopic scientist with this active a love life.
Although it hadn't gained Allred anything.
It was nearly four when he and McRae separated at the street again. "Maybe Tom's found something interesting at the jail," McRae groused, referring to his partner. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."
"Thanks." Mulder sighed. "I'll see what I can find out through my sources."
McRae waved vaguely, already moving toward his car.
Standing on the street, Mulder sighed, moved toward his own. The Gunmen might be able to come up with something. He hoped to Christ so, because this was looking like another one of those cases. And he didn't have any trustworthy informants like the man he'd called Deep Throat to wake him up in the night to watch the eleven o' clock news.
The Gunmen were, in their various ways, glad to see him. Langley at once settled down to hacking financial records while Byers discussed gene splicing with the air of one who has done his research quite, quite thoroughly.
It made him wonder if Byers hadn't developed a touch of a crush on Scully himself.
Allred, it appeared, had an investment fund to which large deposits were made monthly. The only withdrawals were on interest sums, which explained how he'd managed the luxury apartment on a government salary.
The funds deposited came from a bank in the Caribbean. "Money laundering," Langley said, sounding satisfied. "It'll take a while, but I can find out where that came from."
Standing behind him, Mulder nodded. "Yeah, thanks. I'll give you a call tomorrow." Glancing at his watch, he was horrified to note that it was past seven already. "I need to get going, guys. Thanks. I appreciate your help."
It was dark outside, the November air crisp and slightly damp with the rain he'd missed, inside the cave of the Gunmen.
The lights were on in the house when he pulled up, and Skinner's car was in the garage. When he opened the kitchen door, he found Skinner sitting at the kitchen table, gazing dourly at nothing at all, a glass of amber liquid at his right elbow.
It took him aback. "Hi." Cautiously, and he closed the door, flipped the bolt.
But Skinner turned a smile toward him. "Hi yourself."
Mulder lifted his chin at the drink. "Bad day?"
"Long day." Skinner's tone was uninformative. "For both of us."
Crossing the room, he leaned down and kissed Skinner, tasted the smokiness of scotch and found his tie tugged and held for a moment.
When he straightened again, there was a glint in Skinner's eyes. "Scully said you were following up on the Hathaway case."
The proverbial light bulb went on. Appalled, Mulder took a step back. "Oh, fuck, I missed the meeting."
One corner of Skinner's mouth lifted. "Agent Scully appears to have forgotten procedure. She seemed to be laboring under the misconception that you required further authorization to pursue a case that was assigned to your division at the outset. Mind telling me why you didn't just remind her of this?"
His face went hot. "Oh, shit." He took a half step away, turned toward the stove on the pretext of checking the simmering contents of the pan on the burner. Chili. "I guess," painful honesty, "I just get tired of her questioning me all the time. I wanted her to hear it from you, for what that's worth. She seems to think all I have to do is bat my fucking eyelashes and I get whatever I want."
Skinner made an amused sound, Mulder turned back with relief to find no anger there. "Speaking of that, I've been thinking. You know, I'm eligible for early retirement this year. My logical successor is Saul Blumenthal, he's a good man, honest and relatively free of pressure points. And over the last few years, I've had a few offers in the private sector."
It took the wind out of him suddenly, he had to sit down, sank down into a crouch, his back against the oven door, staring at Skinner. "What?"
"It would certainly be a solution." Skinner eyed him, one eyebrow arched.
He cast about in the chaos of his mind, seeking some reasonable protest. "You're only forty-seven."
Skinner grinned. "Forty-eight."
He filed that away in the back of his mind for later interrogation and dry-scrubbed his face with both hands. "But why? You've made it to Assistant Director, Walt, you're on a good career track."
"Not as good as it might seem," Skinner told him gently. "Do you really think, after the last two years, that I have a chance at Deputy Director? At Director? A man who was considered a suspect in a murder case, the murder of a call girl found in his bed?"
His stomach roiled, he slid down further, shocked silent. Skinner was right, of course, it was only logic. But....he knee-walked to the chair, settling himself between Skinner's knees. "Don't do this." And absurdly, ridiculously, his throat was tight, his eyes burned. "Don't--you can't do this." The knot in his chest made it hard to breathe, to think. "You can't do this, Jesus, Walt, this is your career." Babbling.
"Hey, hey." Skinner leaned forward, drew him closer, he had his hands on Skinner's thighs, feeling the muscle under the expensive wool. "These days--Fox, if I take early retirement, I'm actually better off, I'm not staying there, being passed over again and again for promotion."
He couldn't speak, the words wouldn't come. The sense of loss he'd felt since the weekend rose up, choking him, silencing him. Grief and anger and panic and disappointment and Christ, what was wrong with him?
Hell if he knew; he leaned forward and pressed his face against Skinner's shirt, his arms went around Skinner's waist. Solid underneath his touch, muscle and bone and flesh and he couldn't hold it back, couldn't control it any more with rational thought or reason. Tears came, silent and painful and mortally embarrassing, he kept his face pressed against Skinner's shirt, his arms tight around him.
"Hey," gently, and Skinner's hands were on his shoulders, cupping the back of his head. "Jesus, Fox, talk to me, what's wrong? Why the hell is this upsetting you so much?"
His shoulders shook, but he managed to keep from making any sound. Still, Skinner's arms tightened around him, Skinner went silent, just holding on. Waiting.
Fortunately, the storm passed quickly, but he was still embarrassed. Still ashamed. And he couldn't even explain why, it wasn't rational, he couldn't tell himself. Drawing back hastily, he broke away from Skinner's embrace, rose and turned toward the livingroom. "I have to think about it."
Rustily. And he took long strides to the front closet, shrugged out of his coat and was fumbling blindly for a hanger when Skinner caught up with him.
He couldn't see, Skinner took the coat from him, he heard the scrape of the hangers on the rod, and he was turned toward the couch, big hands on his shoulders.
"Talk to me." Firmly.
He shook his head. Christ, he just wanted to get the hell away, he hadn't been this embarrassed in years. But Skinner wasn't having any of it, Skinner tugged him down on the couch until they were both sprawled there, and he was listening to Skinner's heartbeat.
"Just relax," Skinner suggested. "Don't try to answer me yet." Steady voice, calm.
Mulder blinked, managed to clear his vision. Turned his cheek into Skinner's shirt and tried to think.
Christ, he was needy. This relationship was turning his world view on end. "Why are you considering retirement as a solution." His voice was rougher, harsher than he'd intended, but he couldn't modulate it.
Skinner's hand moved in his hair. "Because it's a feasible answer. Because my career is essentially a dead end right now. Because you need to do what you do, there isn't anyone else with the guts to do it. Because despite everything, I still have enough power to position your section well before I go. And because you're worth it to me."
He wasn't. Worth it. He hadn't realized he'd said it until Skinner tugged at his hair, almost painfully. "I'll thank you to let me decide what you're worth to me, Mulder." A little sharply.
Embarrassed again, he nodded, propped himself on one elbow to search Skinner's eyes. "Why?"
"Why is the sky blue?" Skinner's tone was ironic. "Go and catch a falling star / Get with child a mandrake root--"
Mulder's mouth quirked, "Tell me where all past years are / Or who cleft the devil's foot....yeah, yeah, okay, it's an X file."
Skinner smile was pleased. "Well, not quite that. Fox, I can't tell you what you're worth to me, I'm not good with words. I know I was slowly petrifying, it's been years since I've laughed as much as I've laughed with you. Since I've just plain enjoyed my life as much as I have the last year. Since I've felt really and truly alive. That's worth it to me."
There was nothing he could find to say to that, nothing rational. He hadn't been worth that much to anyone in his entire life, he realized and he'd been sternly denying the pain of that to himself since childhood. "Christ, Walt, you're crazy. I'm not..." What? Skinner thought he was worth it. What was he to say to that?
He had no fucking clue, and, as Skinner had mildly noted, he had no right to contradict what his lover was feeling. So he put his head back down on the broader chest. Listened to the steady thump of Skinner's heart. "Don't do anything yet," he asked huskily. "Let me think about it, okay? I've got some decisions to make of my own."
Skinner's chest rose and fell with each breath. There was a long moment of silence. "What kind of decisions?"
"About my own career." Absurdly, his heart sped, the grief lifted slightly as he considered the other side of his sister's return. As he considered the possibility of freedom. Abruptly, he lifted his head and kissed Skinner, nothing too demanding, just--just a kiss. Skinner's hands cupped the back of his head, stroked the shape of his skull through his hair, Skinner's mouth opened to his. God, he was in deeper every day, no one, no one had ever wanted him this much, he was so scared that it was founded on quicksand, that Skinner was doomed to disappointment.
He couldn't give it up, though. It was going to rip his heart out when this ended, but he couldn't give it up.
And he was abruptly near tears again.
Skinner drew back. Stroked his cheek with a thumb. "Listen, dummy, I want you here. And it's not just your undeniable physical appeal, you know that." A faint smile. "At least, I hope you know that." Somber again.
"I'm a disaster waiting to happen," Mulder told him, with difficulty.
"The hell." Skinner kissed him again. "We'll get by. I'll hold off, but I want to know what's going on in that head of yours."
From somewhere, Mulder pulled a crooked grin. "Okay. Let me figure it out first, though."
"Deal." Skinner's smile was like sunlight. "Now, shall we go and keep our dinner from burning?"
"Sounds good." Pushing himself up, Mulder slanted Skinner a diffident smile. "Sorry."
"Sorry, my ass. The only thing you need to ever be sorry is not talking to me." Sitting up, Skinner poked him in the ribs, eyed him humorously.
He found another grin. "God, you really are crazy."
"Whatever," Skinner told him loftily and rose, stretched, hands in the small of his back. "As long as I'm happy and functional, you shouldn't complain."
He laughed under his breath, watched Skinner start toward the kitchen. Steady. Strong. Maybe he could trust it. God knew, he wanted to.
Maybe he needed to restructure his world view. But for now, he was going to help Skinner with their meal.

 Mulder was...okay, if subdued for the rest of the evening. They ate, cleaned up the dishes together, ended up straight upstairs afterward.
The usual nightly routine, and Mulder leaned up against him, drowsily watching the eleven o'clock news.
Until the light went out. He let himself begin to drift, aware of the warmth at his right hip, opened his eyes in the dark when Mulder shifted closer.
"I've been thinking, Walt."
"A dangerous occupation," he grumbled and rolled to face Mulder. "About what?"
Soft chuckle. "About my career. You said I'm the only one who has the guts to do it, but what the hell have I really accomplished? Everytime we get close, they rip the ground out from under us. And Scully--you know how I feel about Scully, but she's actually doing the job they want these days. Debunking every step I take. I started out wanting to find the truth about my sister. I may never know that, but she's back. The smoker's dead, but he's probably already been replaced by someone faceless, someone I don't know. I thought--" A sigh. "I thought the FBI would be a good place for me to be, that there were more resources there for me to use. But it hasn't turned out quite that way."
Skinner's stomach rolled. "Fox--"
"No, please, let me finish. Maybe there's another way." Mulder's hand settled on his ribs, fingers spread. "My dad left a pretty good inheritance. It's all investments, except for the house on the Vineyard. I could sell that, split the proceeds with Samantha. Put some of the investments in trust for her and her kids. And I could still get by on that, use that to work privately."
The thought of Mulder working privately was not one he found reassuring. "That's dangerous, Fox. If you're doing it privately, you don't have the protection of being a federal agent."
Another soft chuckle. "I have you."
His heart turned over. "Damned straight." A growl.
"Well, I figure you'll haul my ass out and ream me anyway, whether I'm in the Bureau or not." Playful tone. Deceptively light.
"Count on it."
"And Scully and I--we can't work together anymore. It's just....it's just too hard for both of us. Maybe we can find our way back to being friends again."
Skinner reached in the darkness, touched the pale smudge of Mulder's face. "Maybe." Heart thumping. "Let's think about it, okay? Let's think carefully. You'll need contacts if you're going to do this."
"I've got them." Confident tone. "That's not a problem. But...Christ, Walt, I've poured my life into something and gotten fuck all back. I just want something for myself." Shaky voice, suddenly. "I want you. I don't want somebody slam-dunking you. Or me."
"We'll think about it." Skinner stroked, felt the day's worth of stubble. "Okay?"
"Yeah." Relieved tone and Mulder burrowed into the hollow of his shoulder.
He stayed that way, his arm over Mulder's waist. And let himself drift again.....

 Mulder was hard at work, going through his file cabinets, marking cases that were still open, sorting out those that had been closed, when Scully came in.
"Good morning, Mulder."
He glanced up. "Hi, Scully. Sorry about the meeting yesterday, I really did forget, Sam and I were in that apartment all afternoon." He hoped his tone was sincere, God knew he was embarrassed about it.
Her mouth quirked. "No worry, Mulder. I thought we'd closed it, you didn't need additional authorization." Drily.
"S'okay, I got called on the carpet anyway." In a manner of speaking, but he kept his tone rueful.
"Really." She seemed amused. "Probably because he had to deal with me. He was very correct yesterday, more formal than usual. He could have just told me the case was still assigned to us, he didn't have to send Kim for the file."
He dropped his gaze. "Yeah, well, he's walking a fine line. I told him what you said." Flat admission and when he raised his eyes, she had the grace to look horrified.
"Mulder--" Her hand came up to her mouth briefly, fingertips covering her lips. "Mulder, why?"
"I had to take it seriously." He gave her a quizzical look. "I had to tell him, Scully. It's his career."
She dropped her hand, nodded blankly. "No wonder he insisted on showing me the file." Softly, sounding chagrined.
Mulder nodded back. "Yeah, anyway, I'm glad you're here, I've been thinking, there's something I need to talk to you about. You want some coffee?"
She frowned, moved toward her desk. "I'll get it. What do you need to talk to me about?" Wary tone, really, and he couldn't blame her.
"I think you'd better sit down." He smiled, picked up his own mug and grabbed a chair, sat down in it with his chin on the back.
Scully filled her cup, added the creamer and sugar she always used and came to sit on the edge of her desk. "Okay, what is it?"
"I've been rethinking things, Scully. We've worked together for a little more than six years and what have we got to show for it? Everytime we get close, they pull the rug out from under us. We have very little evidence that isn't ambiguous, nothing we can take to a prosecutor." Mulder stared at his coffee mug. "Nothing. We can't even get the men who were behind your abduction. Who murdered your sister, who murdered my father. You said it yourself, Scully, in the Congressional hearing. It's a culture of lawlessness."
Her face was pale, but composed. "That doesn't mean we won't get them eventually, Mulder."
He sipped at his coffee. Considered that. "How?" Drily. "Scully, we can't even agree on what to have for lunch any more. We don't agree on evidence. We don't agree on what time the sun rises." He saw her flinch at that, gentled his voice. "My sister is back. I don't know what that means altogether. But one thing it does mean is that my search for her was pointless." It hurt to admit that. "My search for the truth hasn't been successful. And I'm tired of subsuming my life to that search." His voice had dropped, it was like he was admitting it to himself. "It's like they created me to be their pawn, I've done as much for them as for the truth, and I never intended to." Brief, bright-eyed look back at his partner. "Face it, Scully, it's almost a slapstick joke."
Scully was staring at him. "Mulder...I don't know what to say. We have discovered some things, we have a high resolution rate."
"Sure, for liver-eating mutants," he told her bitterly. "But for the stuff that matters? Hell, Scully, you believed Kritschgau. That they wanted me to believe."
Another flinch. "You can't blame me for that."
"I don't. But all of it--I can't forget it, I can't pretend it doesn't exist." His throat felt tight suddenly.
"What about Emily?" Soft voice, no sign of distress. "What about that, Mulder? Who did that?"
He refused to look up at her. "Human beings, Scully. I don't know how they did it, or why they did it. But--who shot me full of some weird shit in Mississippi? Even I don't believe that ET shot me in the back of the neck, Scully. I don't know how it was created, but I think it was human malfeasance, not extra-terrestrial." He took another sip of coffee, cleared his throat. "I want to finish this case and then....I believe I'm going to leave the Bureau." Lifting his head, he managed a thin smile. "I wanted to let you know, I figure you need some time to plan ahead. I don't think they'll keep the files open, Scully, and I doubt you want to continue working them anyway. So, this gives you some time to get your ducks in a row, maybe arrange to go back out to Quantico again. You liked teaching."
She was so pale that her hair looked scarlet. "Mulder, I....are you sure about this?"
"Reasonably sure," he told her and sighed. Rubbed his eyes. "I'm trying to through these files. Sort out the open ones, sort out the ones that VCS mind condescend to re-examine. A lot of 'em--well, they're going to remain unsolved, I guess, they go back about forty years." He shrugged, smiled faintly. "Like the Mothmen, remember?"
"I don't know what to say," she repeated, clearly shaken. "I just...I can't..." Stopped. Stared at her mug as if wondering how it had gotten into her hand. "I guess I'll start making some calls."
"Yeah." It felt like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. "I don't want you getting stuck somewhere you don't want to be. I don't want them to try and stick you with the files."
"Okay." She took in a deep breath. "Mulder, what brought this on? Your sister?"
He looked inward, considered. "Partly. I think I was on the way there after Kritschgau, Scully. I don't think I've really had the same focus since then. And what you said the other day, we decided there had to be something we could do to avoid...well, if you were right, if people were starting talk..." He shrugged. "Everything just sort of came together." A massive understatement.
"Well." Scully finally held her mug to her lips. Took a few sips. "I guess that's....that."
He nodded. "Yeah. You wanna help me sort through these files?"
"Sure." Scully's expression was still almost shell-shocked. "What if I decided to stay?"
Mulder was already out of his chair, moving back to the file cabinets. "I'd wish you luck," he told her drily. "And recommend you for the position, if it didn't predispose the Powers That Be against you."
Scully laughed shortly, pulled out a drawer. "Thanks, Mulder."
"De nada." He slanted her a smile. "By the time this case is finished, I'll bet you're champing at the bit to get back to Quantico though."
"You're probably right." She pulled out a stack of files. "Shapechangers, huh? I think we're probably safe on this stack."
"Some of them are closed, sort those out." Mulder was already deep in another drawer. "And then we'll figure out which ones are still viable."
She nodded silently, moved over to her desk and sat down. "I can't help feeling that this decision is pretty sudden, Mulder."
He glanced up at her. "Not nearly as sudden as it might seem," he told her somberly. "But yeah, I can see why you'd think that." He went back to work, half-hoping she'd just let it go, that she'd count it a lucky break.
It might have been worn out loyalty that kept her here. It was the least he could to free her before he freed himself.

 Coming into the bedroom, Skinner smiled to himself. It was impossible not to tell when Mulder was feeling more or less happy. Even his body language conveyed it--but only here, in what Skinner supposed was safety.
Mulder, at the moment, was watching television, one hand wrestling with the cat, who was quite happily biting and wrestling back. Cross-legged in bed, under the blankets, wearing a disreputable Grateful Dead t-shirt, he looked as relaxed as Skinner had ever seen him.
"Hi, how was your meeting?"
"It was...a meeting." Skinner grinned. "You're in bed early tonight. Long day?"
"Sort of. It was interesting." Mulder's face was lit from within, as if he was brimful of delight. "I made up my mind. I had a talk with Scully. I sorted through about 1500 files and deep-sixed the impossibles in the archives before I packed up the rest for VCS."
Skinner stared at him, following that line of statements. "You're going to resign?"
"Yes, I am." Mulder wasn't smiling, there was something greater than a smile in his eyes. "And I think it's the right decision, Walt. I've been their tool, I'm tired of playing their game. I want my own life back."
It eased the worry he might have felt. Stopped his tongue on the words he might have said. Instead, he loosened his tie, came to Mulder's side of the bed and sat down. "You're sure?" Solemnly.
Got an equally solemn nod. "I wasn't until I realized how good it felt to consider unshackling myself."
"So what are you going to do?" Skinner arched an eyebrow. "I know you too well to believe that you're going to play houseboy."
Mulder did grin then. "You think I'm too old for the job?"
"I think you'll never be too old for the job." Skinner eyed him. "But if you're going to go into private work, I want you to tell me. I know some people..."
Mulder's laugh took him by surprise. "God, you...." Words failed him, he shook his head, his eyes bright. "I'm considering that. Walt, I've got plenty of money and plenty of time. A lot more money than you can imagine. My goddamned father left me....well, I was pretty stunned, let me put it that way. I can still pay my part of the house payment."
"I wasn't concerned about that," Skinner growled.
"I know, but I am." Mulder leaned forward, kissed him. "I don't know. I mean, I have this doctorate, I could look around for academic positions and do this on the side, or I could...."
Skinner kissed him hard, shutting him up. Ran his hands up under the t-shirt, felt the warm, smooth skin of Mulder's back. Too warm, he thought distantly and finally pulled back. "Are you feeling okay? You feel a little feverish."
"I am not," Mulder told him, laughing again. "And if you get that fucking Thermoscan out, we're going to find out how hard it is to surgically remove it."
"Are you threatening me?"
"Only in fun." Mulder beamed at him. "Did you get something to eat? I picked up something, I can go down and heat it up for you."
"I grabbed something before the meeting." Skinner cupped his face. "If you're sure, then I'm glad, I guess. I want you to do what you need to do."
"I need to do this." Mulder went solemn again. "I want my life. I want you in my life."
"Damned straight." Skinner patted his cheek, rose. "So, what are you watching?"
"Some completely goofy movie," Mulder told him and hand-pounced on the cat. Wrestled it again. "One of those serial killer profiler things. They always crack me up, like we really go into a trance and close our eyes and intone all the major characteristics of the bastards." He rolled his eyes.
Skinner had to turn toward the closet before Mulder saw his grin. Mulder didn't think that's what he did, and it wasn't, not really. It just looked that way to those who didn't see the patterns the way he did. It was like those damned optical illusion photographs that had been all the rage a year or so ago. Some people, and he was one of them, could strain all they want and never see the image. Others simply took one look and it was there.
Mulder was one of the latter. Only in this case, few people ever saw the image. It wasn't a talent he envied. But listening to Mulder critique his cinematic peers was a riot.
Predictably, perhaps, Mulder wolf-whistled at him as he got undressed for bed. Pausing only to raise his middle finger, Skinner hung the suit up, pleased nonetheless. Which led to throwing the cat off the bed and some semi-naked wrestling of their own a short while later.
Nothing heavy duty, just play. Until Mulder kissed his way down Skinner's chest and belly to his groin and enveloped him, until Skinner twisted his body around and captured Mulder.
Long and slow and sensual until it wasn't any more, until it was fast and hot, almost a humorously competitive race. The kind of race they both won--and Mulder came first, lifting his head and half-laughing, half-gasping out his name.
Then it was his turn, and Christ, it was good. It was true, as Mulder had once said, that sex was seldom actually bad, but it was rare to find someone whose erotic rhythms were so in tune with his, someone who seemed instinctively to respond to what he did, someone who unerringly knew how to touch, how to please.
It was the least of the reasons he was living with Mulder. The least of the reasons he wanted to be living with Mulder. But he couldn't deny that it was like getting a bonus.
After, Mulder sprawled on his belly, purring as Skinner gently rubbed the small of his back. "That's nice." Drowsily.
"You are tired," Skinner noted and wondered again if he was imagining the heat of Mulder's skin. He cast a critical eye down the long body and frowned. "Jesus, that bruise is fucking huge, it's gotten bigger, what the hell did you do?"
Mulder raised his head, craned it. "I don't know." Curious tone. He offered Skinner a comical look. "Maybe today with Sam McRae. We went through the late Dr. Allred's apartment, we were bending and lifting a lot. Maybe it just sort of woke the damned thing up. It doesn't hurt much."
"Good." He smacked Mulder's ass lightly. "Get under the blankets, I'm going to brush my teeth."
"I already did." Mulder rolled, tugged the bedclothes over himself and leaned back on his pillows, already reaching for the remote. "Watch the news?"
"Yeah." Skinner swung his legs down, sighed. He was worrying for nothing, probably. Scully and Pearson had agreed, there were going to be some weird things to watch out for, given the equally weird nature of the virus that had stricken Mulder in June. And Mulder still hadn't gained back the weight, despite his efforts at feeding him up. And despite appearing relatively healthy, he still had no stamina, still tired easily. This was not the man who had once been awake thirty-six hours on a case. He made a mental note to check in the morning, to see if Mulder's skin still felt hot. And if it did, he was going to know the reason why if he had to cuff Mulder to the bed.
Which in itself wasn't an entirely bad idea and left Skinner chuckling to himself all the way to the bathroom.

 The smoker was not in a pleasant mood. Samantha had finally confessed to him, confessed to drugging her brother and diverting her mother out of the house.
"They promised they weren't going to hurt him," she'd told him, a little defiant. "And they said they were going to give you amnesty. I had to do it. For you."
He'd settled her down, cautioned her against ever doing such a thing again. But it troubled him. And this latest business troubled him even more.
Now, he sat in his car, in front of Tina Mulder's home again. Sitting in the dark. The manila envelope under his hand. He had to talk to her, had to convince her to act. And to do so, he had to give her some reason.
The fools thought they had a weapon against Mulder. But he knew better. Thanked whatever god there was that he'd kept the electronic surveillance on Mulder's office, despite his weakened position in the Consortium.
Now he was back. With more credibility. Changing the status quo might change that. And worse, changing the status quo threatened Mulder.
He didn't like to think what Tina Mulder would do if she lost another child.
With a sigh, he stubbed out his cigarette, compressing it in the car's ashtray. Opened the car door and got out, pulling the envelope with him.
He just hoped she'd be reasonable.

~~~

She let him wait in the cold for a good five minutes before letting him in. "What do you want," she asked him bluntly.
"I need to talk to you."
She froze, her shoulders stiff. "Is this about Samantha?"
"No," hastily, shaking his head. "It's about Fox."
She didn't relax. "What about Fox?"
And he saw the brief flicker of alarm, so quickly hidden underneath the controlled exterior. Never let it be said that Tina Mulder didn't have an iron will, he told himself, inwardly amused despite everything.
"It's cold," he said patiently, "And what I have to say will take a while. May I come in again?" A not-so-subtle reminder that he had brought her daughter back to her.
Her mouth thinned, but she stood aside from him, holding the door with one hand, holding the collar of her robe closed with the other.
He didn't speak until they were in her livingroom. "Has Fox spoken to you recently?"
"He was here last weekend, just a few days ago." Flat statement. No affect at all.
He admired that about her. "Did he talk at all about his personal life? About his job?"
He wondered if she knew how little she gave away, and how well he could read her. Despite that control. The muscles around her mouth and eyes tightened fractionally, then relaxed. "He was here to see Samantha." Coolly.
Nodding again, he reached into his coat. "Do you have an ashtray, Tina?"
Stiff with resentment, she rose, went across the room and came back, dropping the ceramic dish on the coffee table before returning to her chair. Sitting straight, shoulders back, even in her bathrobe.
Oh, he admired her. Still. Even after all the years since Samantha's....abstraction from her life.
"Your son has shown some remarkably bad judgement," he told her casually and lit his cigarette. "Did you know he was bi-sexual, Tina?" His eyes rested on her, God, she was good, not even a flicker of surprise.
"I'm not sure that's any of your business," she told him evenly, "Or, for that matter, any of mine, unless my son chooses to discuss it with me. He's an adult."
Extra points for the effort to put him in his place, he decided and handed her the envelope. "He's sleeping with Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Or rather, he's living with Walter Skinner. While it shows poor judgement on his part, not to mention Mr. Skinner's, that's not the worst of it. He's decided to resign from the Bureau."
She wouldn't take the envelope. He saw that instant of fear again. "I would think you'd be pleased." Cutting tone. "You can not only discredit him once and for all with a sexual scandal, you won't have him to trouble you any more."
"You know better than that, Tina. If he leaves the Bureau, I can't protect him any more. And there are those who would very much like to see him....eliminated completely."
There was a long silence. He put the envelope on the couch beside him. There wasn't anything in it that was explicit. Photographs of Mulder taken entering Skinner's apartment building, the two of them standing at the balcony window, half dressed, both men entering their house together, an ambiguous embrace in front of the kitchen windows. He'd kept the tapes out, those were rather more explicit and he doubted he'd get anywhere forcing her to listen to her son asking to be fucked. Subtlety was everything.
"What do you want?" Her voice was tired, suddenly, and resigned.
"I want you to convince him not to leave the Bureau." He leaned against the back of the couch. "I don't know how, you'll have to come up with the proper maternal attitude on your own."
She looked away. "Why? Why does he have to stay if he wants to leave? Are you telling me you don't have enough power to protect him outside the Bureau? Lo, how the mighty have fallen."
It wasn't bad, considering that she had to be shaken. If she'd known of her son's proclivities before, he'd expect to see airborne pigs in the morning.
Hell, he hadn't known. Mulder must have been extraordinarily discreet before taking up with Skinner. Extraordinarily. Unless he'd only just discovered his true nature, which was doubtful, given the level of, ah, expertise he appeared to have, if one were to accept the tapes as unvarnished truth.
"Because he has protection within the structure of the Bureau." Evenly. "And he has powerful contacts as long as he stays in federal employ. You know that."
"All right." Abruptly, she rose. "I'll talk to him. That's all I can do, you know how strong willed he is."
"Apply a bit of guilt," he told her maliciously. "You and Bill were always good at that."
Frozen silence.
"You know, you do surprise me, I thought you would be shocked." He took a puff, smiled at her. "I'm impressed, Tina."
Bitter laugh and she shook her head. "You don't know me quite as well as you think. You don't know how I feel."
He chuckled. "You haven't asked how I feel, I notice."
She rose, her expression stony. "I think it's rather late for you to express any feelings one way or the other. You could have had your chance to discuss the birds and the bees with him, and chose not to."
Smiling, he put his cigarette out and rose, leaving the envelope on the couch. Found his own way out and locked the door behind him, standing on the porch long enough to light a cigarette again.
There were men above him who didn't realize the risk they were taking. Whatever they and Mulder thought, his mother would move heaven and earth to revenge herself upon the men who had destroyed her family if, and this was the operative word, Mulder died under questionable circumstances.
Still. Despite Samantha's return.
It angered him personally that they had suborned her. It was just good fortune that Mulder's paranoia had not been aroused. And he was going to find out why they had done it, he didn't find the story of medical tests completely believable. Believed it was a screen to keep Samantha compliant.
Mulder was a stranger, essentially, and he was not. He couldn't fault her for her loyalty. But it was time for she and her husband, one of his junior colleagues, to move.
Buttoning his overcoat, he stepped off the porch. Into the night.

 November deepened, carrying them closer to Thanksgiving. They hadn't discussed it, Mulder realized, the week before, still sorting through files and archiving those that no one would care about. He wondered if Skinner usually shared the holidays with his brother, or if he, too, generally spent them alone.
Last Christmas, they had both been alone. Just remembering that made his face go hot again, Scully came in and found him gazing at the wall, thinking about it, and forbore to comment.
That night, he broached the subject. "The holidays are coming up."
Skinner looked up from the vegetables he was slicing for salad. "They sure are." Faint smile, and he went back to the slicing.
Hmm. Not very informative. "I hate turkey."
Skinner's mouth curved, he could see it. "We could live it up and have prime rib."
One question answered. Relaxing, Mulder stirred his pasta sauce. "Sounds good to me."
Skinner glanced at him, a glint of mischief visible, chuckled under his breath. "Do you have any religious objections to pumpkin pie?"
"Actually, I like mince." Putting a lid on the sauce, Mulder sauntered over and goosed Skinner, got a startle reaction, a low chuckle and slipped his arms around Skinner's waist. "But we could have both." Generously.
"As long as you eat both, you still haven't gotten back the weight you lost this summer." Gently reproving.
"Hey, I'm eating as fast as I can." Mulder rested his chin on Skinner's shoulder. "Can't fault me there."
One of Skinner's hands briefly rested over Mulder's. "I'm not faulting you. Just commenting."
"More onions." Mulder licked the side of Skinner's throat and let go of him, went to the cupboard and got out plates. Rummaged in the drawer for silverware.
"More onions, huh? Good thing we're both eating them."
"We're manly men, we can take it." Mulder flicked him a grin, moved to the table to arrange plates and silverware. "You want a beer or tea?"
"Tea."
"Tea it is." Returning, Mulder retrieved glasses, went to the refrigerator and filled them with ice. "I love this feature."
"That's because you have the heart of a kid, it's a gadget." Skinner smiled again, genuinely amused. "I confess, so do I, that's why I got that one."
He grinned back. "The difference between men and boys..."
"Is the price of the toys," Skinner agreed and threw the vegetables into the salad bowl, used his hands to toss it. "Although, I have to confess, I find it odd to consider the icemaker a toy."
"It's not nearly as much fun as other toys I can think of," Mulder agreed and set the glasses on the counter, retrieved the pitcher from the refrigerator, then juggled all of it to the table. Paper napkins and he surveyed the table, went back and got salad dressing.
He caught Skinner watching him on his way back and stopped, suddenly wary. "What?"
"Nothing," Skinner assured him, "It's just-I enjoy watching you occasionally do the domestic sort of thing. I don't want you domesticated, but I get a kick out of it when you give it a shot. You do very well, by the way, I'm not yanking your chain."
Mulder frowned. "I'm no