By WickdZoot
Wickdzoot@aol.com

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Chronology

I'm not entirely sure that this is either desirable or necessary, Dr.
Horowitz.
I've certainly given you enough background information on your
patient that it shouldn't be necessary to have a chronology, and
Mulder really appears to be doing quite well these days.

In surprisingly good spirits, all things considered.

Besides, I'm not sure that having me develop a chronology of
events is required, he has a pretty clear idea of what happened.
I've certainly answered his questions as they've come up.  Unless
he's planning his memoirs, I fail to see what there is to be gained.

However, in the event that you're right and I'm wrong, I'll give
one.

I received a call from the Alexandria police after Scully had
identified the body found in Mulder's apartment.  He had her listed
as an emergency contact on the card in his wallet.  By the time I
was notified, Scully was already making her report to what she
referred to as the Star Chamber conspirators.  I confess, I adopted
that phrase, because it seemed appropriate.  I, of course, was not
there; by that time, I was doing what every supervisory agent
dreads, I was contacting his mother.  If I could have, I would have
driven up to tell her that her only son had killed himself, it seemed
unnecessarily heartless to call her on the telephone and tell her
that.

All I told her after delivering the news that he was dead was that I
would keep in touch with her as I knew more.  Not because I had
any inkling that he wasn't really dead, I'm afraid.  I simply couldn't
tell her over the phone that Mulder had eaten his gun.

That's a phrase I've heard again and again in law enforcement, they
call it the policeman's disease.  You see enough of what people do
to each other, it can happen all too easily.  I've considered it
myself once or twice.

A day after Mulder's alleged death, I met with his mother.  And
then I told her what we knew at that point.  She was numb, I think,
and simply heard me out.  I don't care how gently you tell someone
that their loved one has committed suicide, you are still telling
them something that is so loaded with guilt-

She said, "I wish I hadn't slapped him."  And pressed her
handkerchief to her mouth.

I had no idea what that was about, so I simply kept my mouth shut.
I had taken her other hand-awkwardly, mind you, as my ex-wife
used to tell me ad nauseam, I am not a particular warm person.
This was in Mulder's apartment, which made it that much more
awkward.  Thankfully, someone had cleaned up the worst of it,
although the stains in the floor and paint were still there.

"He was a good man," I told her, which I believed to be true.  He
was also an obsessed and driven man, but if she knew her son at
all, she already knew that.

The apartment door opened and Scully appeared, looking as wan
and tired as one might expect.  She gave me a look that was,
frankly, extremely cold and suggested that I had no right to be
sitting in Mulder's apartment comforting his mother.

It stung, of course, but I've gotten used to that in my dealings with
Scully and Mulder.  They don't trust me, particularly, and I can't
blame them.  When I first came into the division as AD, Blevins
had briefed me on the loose cannon in the basement and his
powerful contacts.  And looking at his operating procedures
certainly didn't convince me that Blevins was wrong.

Freshly appointed AD, I was going to keep the loose cannon in
line.  I had been briefed on the reason for Scully's assignment to
the X files, and Blevins was of the opinion that Mulder had
dazzled her with bullshit and fancy footwork.  Of course, Blevins
was also of the opinion that they were sleeping together, which I
found doubtful.

I found it more doubtful as time went on, but the first time I called
Scully into my office-Mulder already having decamped to testify
at a hearing-I was still operating on Blevins' briefing.  It was the
hearing for Eugene Tooms.  My first real brush with the
unbelievable and the X files.  I dressed Scully down fairly
thoroughly, and the entire time, Mulder's nemesis-I knew him by
the name Grey, which I find appropriate enough-stood behind me
at the window, filling the office with smoke.

I haven't smoked in nearly twenty years.  I quit when Sharon's
pregnancy test was positive, and despite real temptation after her
late miscarriage, I never started again.

I'm not sure when I suspected that the loose cannon wasn't quite as
crazy as his reputation suggested.  Not long after Tooms.  My first
inkling, of course, wasn't that Grey wasn't surprised at the
resolution of the Tooms case.  I had made some inquiries of my
own.  Spooky Mulder had been in Quantico while I was climbing
the Bureau ladder in Texas.  From there, he had gone almost
directly into Behavioral under that lunatic Patterson, a
circumstance generally unheard of.   He was widely considered to
be one the brightest and the best student to come out of Quantico
in the history of the Bureau, but every time I was face to face with
him, he acted like a sullen adolescent.  No, that's not fair.
He was sullen, but he didn't trust me.  Mulder's always sullen when
faced with complete disbelief.  I can't blame him for either, at this
point.

Somehow, I've digressed into a chronology of the time I spent
supervising the X files.  I really didn't intend to, Dr. Horowitz, but
it occurs to me that you may find that helpful as well.  As helpful
as any of it will be, at any rate.

Fox Mulder started out in Behavioral, under William Patterson.
Are you familiar with the profiling unit?  Their offices are 60 feet
under, what would have been J. Edgar Hoover's bomb shelter.  Or
so the legend goes.  William Patterson was brilliant, egomaniacal,
relentless, and dedicated.  I only wish I believed he was dedicated
to anything but his own glory.  He was one of the first generation
of profilers.  And he was ruthless and dictatorial.  He drove
himself as hard as he drove his staff and that's about the only good
thing I can find to say about him.

Mulder wasn't the only agent driven to the brink while working for
Patterson.  There were heart attacks.  A case of meningitis that I
feel sure was caused by a stress-weakened immune system in an
otherwise healthy individual.  Several cases of exhaustion that
were almost certainly nervous breakdowns.  Mulder had one or
two of those.  And then there was a case that drove him over the
edge, child murders.  He was on disability for nearly half a year.
Interestingly, the Bureau has no available record of why.  The
records are sealed.

He left Behavioral and went to VCS.  Oddly, most agents don't go
straight to Behavioral, they have to prove themselves as field
agents for at least a year, and usually two..  But Patterson was
salivating for Mulder, Mulder was every bit as brilliant, and his
empathy for the victims made him ideal to work the
victimology.   Patterson did some maneuvering--maybe he had
pictures of the Christmas party, Hoover was still alive when
Patterson started to shine.  But after Mulder returned to work, he
did some maneuvering of his own and got into VCS.  Or so I've
been told.  I wasn't in DC at the time, so I can't swear to
the accuracy of what I put together, nearly seven years ago.

At any rate, the work was still taking its toll, and he was so
damned good that VCS worked him damned near as hard as
Patterson had.  Allegedly, he did well enough, and made enough
congressional contacts that he more or less blackmailed them into
letting him take over the X files section.

Mulder's sister was abducted when he was twelve, but you
doubtless have that information in his dossier.  His sister's file was
assigned to the X files section, he actually originated it.  There was
an older file, because after the abduction of Samantha Mulder, the
FBI was called in to consult.

I've seen that file, although it was allegedly deep-sixed at the
request of William Mulder, with a little pressure from various
influential parties, most of whom are dead now.  The local police
were baffled at first.  And, as cops do, they started looking at the
family.  First, Mulder, who was more or less catatonic and in the
hospital for some period of time after the abduction.

The parents had been playing cards with neighbors.  The two
children were at home alone together.  No forensic evidence
existed to tie the boy to it.  So they started looking at William
Mulder.  Interestingly, they had turned up something that aroused
their suspicions--I'm not sure what, but I have my own
suspicions--and began to focus on him.  Until William Mulder
called in the FBI, using his powerful contacts in the State
Department.

And then, as suddenly as that, the evidence--if evidence there was-
-gathered by the local police department was either destroyed or
buried.  My own suspicion?  I've always wondered if the father
didn't return to the house and something--and here I'm not sure
exactly what--happened to trigger his temper.  It was hair-
triggered, according to the few sources I have, and he was prone to
acting out violently when he'd been drinking.  So, my theory was
always that he came home, ostensibly to check on the children,
killed his daughter, either accidentally or deliberately, and terrified
his son into a catatonic state.  All he had to do was go back and
play bridge and wait until the evening was over.

Most murders are committed by people known to the victim,
standard police work.

The only flaw in this theory is that the local police, despite their
initial suspicions, never found any forensic evidence around the
house or yard that might have suggested where the little girl was
buried.

Mulder, during some course of Bureau ordered counseling, sought
his own therapist and went through hypnotic regression to that
night, with the subsequent theory that his sister was abducted by
something or someone extra-terrestrial.  I used to think that was
crap.

Now, of course, I know better.  So I don't know what to think.

At any rate, they brought me back from the New York Bureau
office to take the AD slot when Jenkins retired.  I was delighted, it
was the payoff for years of hard work.

I had no idea what I was stepping into.  No wonder Jenkins retired.
With the job came the silent, smoking presence of Mr. Grey, who
was allegedly just easing me into the routine.  Of course, he was
pulling my strings--or was supposed to.  I confess that it gave me
great pleasure when I finally drew the line and dared him to cross
it.  I was bluffing, of course, so my stomach also felt like I'd been
swallowing drain cleaner, but it was not without its enjoyable
aspect.

Mulder and Scully weren't the only agents I supervised, of course,
and they actually were the only agents I ended up supervising
directly, without the layers of command in between.  For one
thing, they were the most high maintenance agents I had.  It didn't
take very long for me to figure out that Grey was terrified of
Mulder's tenacity and determined to prevent him from
succeeding in his quest for the truth and I began to see the moves
behind the moves and get seriously concerned about the two of
them.

They had so little to protect them.  And despite my unwillingness
to deal with the arcane, I respected Mulder's tenacity and integrity.
Well, I respected both of them.  Scully's insistence on framing
rational explanations to things was reassuring and I reported to
Grey that she was doing her job as assigned:  evaluating the
scientific validity of Mulder's work.

But his methods were enough to make me lose what's left of my
hair.  Hauling him in time after time wasn't a treat, particularly
after the Tooms case where he decided that I was Grey's toady.
With reason, I admit, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with
him.

The odd thing is he seems to think he was outrageously difficult in
our face to face contacts, but there were only a few times he lost
his composure and outright challenged me.  When I was reaming
him after his return from Puerto Rico, he took it very meekly.  I
was the one who lost my temper, I ordered Grey to get out.

Much to Grey's surprise.  And Mulder's, I might add.  Mulder's
eyes went very wide for a moment when he realized I wasn't
talking to him.  And he politely averted his eyes from Grey's
astonishment and anger.

I know that wasn't the wisest thing for me to do politically.  My
temper gets the best of me at times, but they were my agents, and
Grey had no business opening his mouth.

Mulder was right to challenge me over Krycek after Scully's
disappearance.  Knowing in my gut that he was right, even if I
doubted that the mechanism was extra-terrestrial in origin, made
me sick.  I was powerless to protect Scully, who I both liked and
respected.

I think my powerlessness was what eventually led to him trusting
me a little.  Paradoxically.  I couldn't do him any favors.  When
Scully was returned, was in the hospital in a coma, I had to call
him in over an execution that took place in the hospital laundry
room.  Yes, execution.

I really didn't think Mulder had shot the man.  But he was
sufficiently angry and distraught that I wasn't certain.  And that
bastard Grey came in and told me in so many words that he would
deal with Mulder if I couldn't keep him under control.

I didn't like to think about how he might control Mulder.  And it
was very hard to keep my temper that day when Mulder came in
with an impassive face and kept throwing my questions back at
me.  He couldn't keep it up for long, his temper wasn't any better
than mine.

He asked for Grey's name and address.  I got the address for him
and he showed remarkable restraint.  He either didn't go or he did
go and thought better of his original desire to kill the bastard.

I suspect the latter.  He tried to resign the next day.  Wrote up a
proper letter and signed it and left it with Kim, who put it on my
desk very gingerly as if she were afraid it might explode.
Evidently, my clashes with Mulder were taking on mythic
proportions in the halls of the Bureau.  Like most myths, they were
greatly exaggerated.

I felt sick, reading that resignation.  And took it downstairs-it was
late, very late, probably after nine in the evening.

Mulder looked defeated.  He acted defeated.  Not just because of
his partner's condition, but because everytime he got close to the
truth, they yanked the rug out from under him.

If I'd acted like I felt sorry for him, he would have known it and
rejected it.  But I didn't.  Instead, I told him a story about Vietnam,
when I'd nearly died.  I told him I was afraid to look past that
experience.  That he was not.  And then I tore up his carefully
typed resignation and threw it into his wastebasket.

He started trusting me a little more after that.  Not a lot.  I wasn't
sure I wanted him to trust me a lot.  I wasn't his friend, I was his
commander, basically, and there would be things I had to do that
he wasn't going to be happy about.

Of course, when I was framed for the murder of a call girl, Mulder
was the one who dug up the truth.  I didn't want him involved, I
wasn't sure what was going on, or why I was being set up, but if a
situation has the potential to blow up into a major disaster, Fox
Mulder's presence will ensure it.

Mulder draws trouble.  I swear, he doesn't always do it on purpose,
he just flung himself into investigations with that damned terrier
persistence that was going to get him killed until, finally, it
appeared that it had.

Trust.  All right, one last thing, and I'll go on from Mulder's
funeral.  When Scully was diagnosed with cancer, I refused to put
him into contact with Grey to make a deal for a cure.  I told him
they'd own him.  But I did contact Grey and I did make a deal.

I'm not sure if they were deliberately framing me for murder then,
or if they were just careless.  I doubt the latter.  I suspect it was
deliberate, and not to see me prosecuted, but to undermine
Mulder's trust in me and to give them a handle on me.  Not that he
had that much trust in me, mind you, but his insistence during the
call girl frame-up certainly got some attention.

Another reason I didn't want him and Scully in on that.  I knew
that it would only make things harder.

At any rate, it nearly worked the second time, but they *were*
careless then, they had to force my desk drawer to put my gun
back in.  Now why would I force the drawer, I asked him, while he
held me at gunpoint.

He might be temperamental, but he's not an idiot.  He actually
dusted the desk himself, got a few smudged prints, and took the
gun into Ballistics.  With the number filed off.

I was stunned, needless to say.  But a few weeks later, he was
hospitalized for having holes drilled in his head-ask him about
that, Doctor Horowitz, I refuse to even try to speculate about his
intentions and his own partner clearly believed that he'd gone off
the deep end on that one--I reamed him in my usual heartless
fashion and gave him a week's suspension.

Three weeks later, he was apparently dead.

All right, the funeral was brief and nondenominational.  Of his
colleagues, Scully and I and two others attended.  Grey was there.
There was a memorable moment when he tried to approach Mrs.
Mulder and Scully stepped between them, giving Grey a long,
level look.  Grey spoke to Mrs. Mulder anyway, I was too far
away to hear what he said.  Mrs. Mulder gently moved Scully
aside and then put her back into a slap that made him step back.
By this time, I had gotten close enough to hear what she said to
him:  "You can't hurt him anymore, and I don't have to tolerate you
here.  Get out."

Now I know where Mulder got his temper.

Scully wouldn't speak to me at the funeral, I got a look like the one
she'd given Grey before she got Mrs. Mulder into the limo.

I didn't precisely blame her, but I stood at the side of the grave for
a long time.  Not brooding or planning revenge, just thinking
about what a goddamned waste it all was.

I didn't start really brooding until Scully went on medical
disability because of her illness.

But since Mulder was gone, I went in to see her anyway, once
they'd admitted her.  She didn't die in the hospital, she died in a
hospice, she said the only thing wrong with her is that she was
dying and since there wasn't much they could do for her, she might
as well be comfortable and not take up space.  Of course,
she said that before the tumor really started causing her problems.
I suspect that when she asked for my promise, she was already
having trouble sorting out fact from fiction.  She saw Mulder a few
times in the room when I was there, which may have been because
she associated me with a time when Mulder was still alive.

Terminal illnesses are seldom as photogenic as they are portrayed
in the movies.  At the end, the only trace of the attractive young
woman  I had known was the color of her eyes.  One of her pupils
was swollen to twice the size it should have been and she was
nearly blind.  It's very hard to write about that, and that's all I'm
going to say about it.  Mulder doesn't need to know what it
was like for her, and I've tried to focus on the non-physical things
in my brief descriptions of it.

I'd appreciate it if you didn't dwell on that if you discuss this with
him.

After Scully's funeral, her mother gave me the key to the storage
unit in which Scully had stored Mulder's things.  She didn't say
anything except, "Dana couldn't bring herself to take care of
Mulder's belongings."

So I took the key and went out to see what was in there.  Thank
God, she'd gotten rid of his furniture, but everything else,
including his computer, was boxed up.  I couldn't bring myself to
take care of it either, so I spent the relatively modest fee to keep it
in storage.

I have no idea why.

A week after the funeral, I was contacted by someone who
eventually led me to Edmund Heatherton, who offered me the
chance to at least partially redeem my promise to Scully.  I was
divorced, of course, and clearly my days at the Bureau were
numbered, either my career would be destroyed or they'd arrange
an accident.  I was the only one left who believed in Mulder's
truth.  I'd seen fragments of it, and was sure that more could be
found.  But if I stayed where I was, I had no chance to assemble
those fragments.

So I resigned, citing health, my ulcer was becoming a real
problem, the stress level *had* also gotten my doctor frowning at
the stress tests she ran to check my heart, and it was accepted
without delay.

Within a month, I was up in the mountains breathing clean air for
the first time since-God, maybe a decade.

I found out Mulder was alive quite by accident.  I hadn't worked
with Watts before and had no idea he was running a long term
surveillance on a long-term member of the Consortium named
James Wilkinson.  Wilkinson was a Canadian expatriate living on
an small island in the Caribbean, not far from the Mexican coast.
Technically, he was on Mexican territory, but he was seldom
bothered and appeared to be a wealthy recluse.

Actually, he was mid-level Consortium.  Trusted so far and no
farther, since his self-indulgences and his sociopathy had evidently
compromised his efficiency.  But meetings were held regularly on
the island between different factions-the Consortium, I am pleased
to report, has a number of very vocal factions, all with differing
agendas.  They have frequent and colorful disagreements,
evidently and I can't help but find that reassuring.  There was a
tech focused group that we knew was working on reverse
engineered technology, and another one working on genetic
modifications for the purpose of combining human and alien
DNA.

Just writing that makes my head hurt.  But I've seen too much to
deny what Mulder believes any more.

There was also another group experimenting with modifications to
human genetic structure for the purpose of improving the race.
Ubermenschen.

At any rate, Wilkinson also had the responsibility of holding
people that the Consortium want held for an unlimited period of
time.  And he had some nasty personal habits, as by now you've no
doubt heard.

The first time I saw Fox Mulder's face in a surveillance
photograph taken by one of the household staff, working for
Wilkinson, I actually thought I was hallucinating.  It was around
three am, I'd been going through Watts' material and trying to
make a decision as to whether or not there was more to be gained
by simply continuing to observe, or by going in and interrogating
him.  And Mulder, even with hair down to his shoulders and gaunt
to the point of emaciation, is memorable.  The man in the
photograph even had the small mole on his cheek that Mulder had.

I got up and washed my face, telling myself that I was projecting
onto a man with a similar build and facial structure.  But
subsequent photographs were no less haunting.

At six am, I went to roust Heatherton and Watts.

"Who is this?" I asked Watts, tapping the photograph."

Watts lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.  "That guy?  He's some
poor slob used to be an FBI agent."  Big smile.  "Like you,
Skinner."

I actually felt dizzy with rage.  "What's his name?"

"Something strange."  Watts' eyebrows drew together. "Fox
something."

"Mulder?"  I remember being surprised at how calm my voice
sounded.

Watts nodded, amused.  "That's it.  Yeah, they've had him on the
island for about nine or ten months, I think.  Wilkinson's supposed
to keep him fed and exercised in case they want him back in the
tech center."

"I want him extracted."  I still had the AD tone of voice, slightly
reminiscent of a drill sergeant I had as a marine recruit.

Heatherton stared at me, and Watts' eyes narrowed.  "You want
him extracted," Watts finally said and shook his head.  "I'm in
charge of this operation, Skinner.  Extracting him means we have
to go in and interrogate, and I'm not in favor of that, that's why you
have my stuff, to make a judgement on either or.  And if you've
got personal reasons, you can't make that judgement."  He took in
another drag and studied me as he blew the smoke back out.

I ignored him.  We were in that conference room for something
like eight hours fighting over the situation.  But Watts is a weasel.
A talented weasel, but a weasel nonetheless.  And I didn't get to be
AD because I was good at sucking up to Grey.  *That* I got on my
own talents.  It was just that Grey came along with it.

Heatherton decided that Mulder needed to be extracted.  Of
course, I may have given the impression that Mulder knew more
about the internal workings of the Consortium than he did, but no
harm done.  If I'm going to learn to lie, I'm going to lie about the
things that I value.

Jack Lenski was medical personnel with an interesting twist.  He'd
been in a sexual bondage situation for six years, from eighteen to
twenty-four, had gotten out of it, had several years of therapy and
been recruited by Heatherton's predecessor because of his peculiar
background.   He arrived and began briefing me on Wilkinson's
nasty habits and what we could expect.

I think Jack expected that Mulder's situation was semi-normal, that
it was a sex scene that had just gotten a little out of hand.  It wasn't
quite the case, and I suspect that's part of the problem Jack has in
dealing with Mulder.  Mulder hadn't gone to Wilkinson's estate as
a sexual prisoner, he'd gone as a prisoner period.  It was
Wilkinson's obsession with him that turned it into what Jack
perceived as a sexual dominant/sexual submissive dynamic.  But it
wasn't.  It was rape and torture, not sexual dominance, and Jack's
inability to recognize that seriously compromises his ability to
work with Mulder effectively.

The medical exam, for example.  I should have dug in harder at
the outset and let Mulder get dressed, but Jack was supposed to
know what he was doing, and I know enough medicine to know
when I have a cold versus pneumonia.  That's about it.  The latex
gloves were a little much, although we honestly didn't know if
Mulder would have any infections, viral or otherwise.  And his
insensitivity was simply the last straw.  I know Jack gave you the
impression that Mulder was gibbering that night, nearly hysterical,
but that's not what I saw.

He was certainly rattled when he saw me, and I may be flattering
myself, but he finally seemed to believe that he had been
"rescued".  I prefer extracted, it has less emotional weight.  By the
time I had managed to get a handle on Jack, Mulder was in bed,
under the bedclothes, knees drawn up protectively and staring at
me.  I'll tell you, I was seriously worried about him.  He was flip,
but exhausted after he ate, and didn't want to talk.  So, calling on
the Mulder lore Scully had provided me, I turned on the television
and let him go to sleep.

Bad dreams that night.  I heard him, not screaming, just moaning
in his sleep, and having some trouble getting his breath.  Actually,
I was having a few of my own and found myself in the hall before
I figured out what I was hearing.  With my gun drawn.

He settled back down quickly enough, just waking enough to nod
blearily at me when I patted his shoulder and told him it was a
dream, he was here, and he was safe.  By that time, I was unsettled
enough that I sat back in the chair near the bed, wrapped a blanket
around myself and dozed for quite a while before I left him alone
again.

Those moans were hideous.

The next morning, he was shaky and subdued, but I had the sense
that Mulder was still living in there behind those terrible, dead
eyes, and we just had to give him time.

Mulder ate decently.  Like many victims of starvation, he couldn't
manage large meals, and I'd seen enough of that in Vietnam to
remember it and warn Jack about it.  I later caught Jack bullying
him over eating_threatening to inject insulin, for Christ's sake_
and made it clear what I thought of that.  As I said, Jack was a
mistake.  He took very small bites, all he could manage to
swallow.  Once we got to the clinic, I found out why.

Managing a fork was difficult, his hands trembled badly.  I had to
suppress the desire to flinch everytime I watched him bring a
forkful of scrambled eggs to his mouth, but he managed well
enough, using a half a piece of toast to help get the eggs on the
fork to begin with.

About three quarters of the way through the meal, he looked at me.
"'S good."  The same cracked voice.

I muttered something in the way of thanks and asked him if he
wanted more.

His eyes looked too large for his face, as thin as he was, and they
widened further.  "Can't."

"Too full?"

He blinked and nodded and went back to the remains of his toast,
all he had left.  And he'd taken the vitamins Jack laid out.  No
caffeine, Jack said, but plenty of juice.  Grape juice_Jack had
told me the night before that malnutrition had left Mulder with
sores inside his mouth.  Orange juice would have been like
rubbing salt in them..

"When you get done eating," I told him, "We're going down to the
clinic.  There's a surgeon coming to have a look at you."
Watching him limp the night before had convinced me of the
wisdom of that.  He doesn't tell me a lot of details, even now, but
some things even a medical idiot like me could guess, looking at
him walk, seeing him wearing only a towel and helping him to get
dressed the night before.

He was still sitting at the table, forcing himself to eat slowly.  That
announcement got a blank look first, then a frown and he reached
for the juice.  His hands shook badly enough that he used both
hands to lift it and when he put it down, he kept them cupped
around the glass.  "I'm fine."

That was patently absurd.  "No, you aren't, Mulder," I told him
gently.  "You're far from all right."

The frown deepened and he looked down at his plate.  "I don't
need a doctor.  If you're going to force me to see a doctor, I want
Scully.  Scully's treated me before."

Jack gave me an uncomprehending look.  I hadn't thought to tell
him about
Scully.

And I was unprepared for it.  I told Jack to give us a moment or
two, a polite way to kick him out of the kitchen, and then moved
my chair a little closer to Mulder's.  "Mulder, I'm sorry, she can't
be here."

"Why not?"  His head came up, raptor quick.  "She's treated me
before.  I don't want anyone else."

I got up, unable to sit still, and moved to look out the window over
the sink.  "Because she's_Mulder, she's not with us anymore."
Never have I hated the platitudes of death so much. "She's gone,
Mulder, she died about a year after you_after we thought you'd
shot yourself."

Bad thing to do.  Sharon may be right about me, I suppose, but I
erred on the side of honesty.  I had looked away when I said the
words, and only the sharp crack of glass made me turn back.  It
had shattered between his hands; he took a piece and drew it down
the inside of his left arm before I could stop him.  I ended up
wrestling him to the floor, whereupon he thumped his head on the
floor, screaming obscenities and threats and calling for Scully.

I think that was what Jack had expected the night before.  Jack had
the syringe out before I'd had time to get my breath and I had to
bark at him not to knock Mulder  all the way out.  Jack looked at
me as though I were crazy and finally nodded.  Which was just as
well, because Mulder's left arm was slippery and I was afraid I'd
lose hold of it.

By the time the drug started to hit, he was simply fighting me,
wordless sounds.  But he got limper and limper until finally I was
lying over him, nose to nose.  "Mulder," I whispered.

"It was all for nothing," he whispered back, eyes glazing a little.
"Everything.  They lied and lied and lied.  They always lie and I
believed them.  It was all for nothing."

I thought I'd be sick.  I hoped I was hearing wrong.  I hoped I was
misinterpreting what he'd said.

We got him to the clinic in a pretty short drive.  Jack had wrapped
up the arm and applied some pressure to it, and I drove down the
rutted path that passes for a road up to my place.

I don't remember how many stitches, but Mulder was pretty
compliant during the process, for a man who'd done the damage in
the first place.  He had a lump on his head from hitting the wooden
floor, but he was still pretty gone from the drug.  They x-rayed
him and found the damage you would imagine, giving the way he
looked and the way he walked.  And little bits of metal here
and there.  Circuits to download, circuits to upload, little bits and
pieces that, when laid out on the operating tray, came to a grand
total of 26 implants.

It explained some of the scars.  He'd had a lot of broken bones.
Julie stared at the pictures for a long time, making little marks in
grease pencil.  This one was old, this one was recent, this was even
more recent.

Healed fractures of the skull, even.   Julie and the surgeon said that
they'd feel better waiting until he was much stronger before trying
to rebreak and rebuild his hip and leg.  That whoever had given
him medical care before should be shot, and so on.

Looking at the x-rays, I agreed.

He was really sick after that.  Feverish and in and out of delirium.
He did recognize me, because when I'd talk to him, he'd calm
down slightly.  I had to argue very persuasively to keep him out of
restraints, not that anyone was really eager to use them.   They
thought it was necessary because he would panic in delirium, but I
found that even sick, he'd listen.  Actually, he'd listen better than
he'd ever listened to me in the Bureau.

His temperature spiked up several times after the surgeries, and
except for one thing to try and correct some damage to his
esophagus, the reason he had difficulty swallowing, the rest were
pretty minor, outpatient stuff.  Christ, no wonder he was stick thin.
He'd struggle in delirium and they'd want to restrain him; it was
then I went into his room and grabbed a book off the shelf.  When
I got to the clinic, I was embarrassed to discover I'd grabbed The
Magician's Nephew, C.S. Lewis, a children's book, part of the
Narnia series, but reading it still seemed to help.  Maybe it was
just the familiar voice.  But he calmed down.

Which helped him tremendously, his heart rate went down, blood
pressure, and ultimately his temp went down.  He went passive
then, which had me worried, justifiably.

I think he was ready to fight back until I told him about Scully, but
I still don't know what else I could have done.  Lied to him until he
was stronger?  That would have cost me what little trust he placed
in me.  I believe that he needs to trust someone if he's going to
come all the way back to being Mulder again.

He was still passive when Julie said he could leave the clinic.  I sat
in his room and asked him outright if he'd rather be in the clinic or
up at the house.  After a very long moment, during which I got the
thousand-yard stare, he finally answered rustily.  "House."

And after getting that word out, he seemed exhausted.  Too tired
to respond any more than that.  So, Jack and I got him up, got his
legs over the edge of the bed, and got him dressed.

That was September 8th.   I noticed, reading his journal entries,
that his sense of time is skewed, hardly a surprise.  He had no idea
when he got here to begin with, and he only knows how long he
was in the clinic because we've told him.

When I drove him back to my place, he was_quenched, is the
only word I can think of.  Jack guided him onto the couch and he
collapsed.

Considering how many spots he'd had sutured, I didn't find that
completely unreasonable.  We managed to get him to eat after a
while, then he put his face to the back of the couch and slept.  Or
pretended to.  I'm inclined to believe the former, healing requires a
great deal of energy.

Jack suspected the latter.  But listening to the small sounds Mulder
made in sleep, I backed him off.

After a few days of letting him lie around in bed in a semi-
catatonic state, I started making him get up and put his shoes on
and come out to work with me.

He watched me chopping wood without much interest, and
allowed me to badger him into carrying and stacking it.  Watching
him limp made my back and legs ache, not to mention making me
feel heartless, but he seemed to actually take on a little more
energy after that.  So I kept putting him to work.  I talked to him
more the first three days than in the entire four years I was
supervising him.

I suspect he finally began talking again in self-defense. By the
fourth day, he was actually giving me monosyllabic replies.
Sometimes his answers were a little disconnected, I'm afraid, he'd
followed some mental trail off that bore very little relationship to
whatever I'd said, but it was communication, at least, and it kept
Jack off his case and mine.

One day, he had stopped and was staring at the cat that wanders up
from the compound below.  You know, Doctor, the big grey tabby
that looks to weigh about twenty pounds and as if it could take on
most dogs without so much as ruffling its fur?  It periodically
comes up and suns itself on the boulders at either side of the
"driveway", regarding me as if I might be something good to
eat, but not worth the time and energy to subdue.  I'm not much of
a cat person, but I like that animal.

"No," he told it.

I stopped what I was doing_stacking the two by fours for the
outer porch I was building_and looked up, a little worried.

Slowly, carefully_his balance still isn't good_Mulder lowered
himself to the ground.  Sat there looking at the cat, while the cat
studied him.  After a few minutes, the cat began licking its
shoulder.  Unconcerned.

Mulder sat on the ground, knees drawn up.

I went back to stacking, keeping an eye on him as I worked.

Eventually, the cat decided to investigate this strange, unnaturally
still human and came to wind itself around Mulder's huddled
figure.  Purring loudly enough I could hear it a couple of yards
away.  I'm telling you, Doctor, this is a mutant animal.

By this time, I wasn't worried, I was amused.  Mulder's very
catlike himself, in many ways.  The cat rubbed against Mulder's
back and wound its way around to Mulder's ankles, still purring
loudly.  After a while, Mulder ducked his head, leaned down just
slightly.  The cat delicately put both front feet on Mulder's knee
and leaned up to rub its face against his.

By this time, I'd stopped stacking and was just standing there,
fascinated.   Mulder and the cat exchanged greetings and the cat
reached up with one paw, batted gently at Mulder's cheek.  I
wondered if it could smell that he was sick.  Mulder's head bowed,
he got licked rather ungently on that cheek and up into his hair.

The whole thing was fascinating.  After a moment, the cat batted
him again, then sank back and cleaned its front leg before trotting
back down the slope.

He just sat there.  It took a moment before I realized that his
shoulders were shaking and had the sense to walk over to him.  He
ducked his head, put his face in his knees; I think, though I'm not
sure, that he was embarrassed, trying to hide the tears.

I don't always know what to do at moments like this.  I crouched
down beside him, looking after the cat, and put a hand on his
shoulder.  Squeezed gently.  After a moment, I heard him take a
shaky breath, he lifted his head and awkwardly pushed himself
back to his feet, breaking my clasp.

He went back to work, but he made more effort to talk, to answer
when I spoke to him after that.

By the tenth day, he was working on polishing his smart ass verbal
skills again.   Still short replies, none of his really good stuff, like
asking me if I was going to have him clean the men's room floor
with his toothbrush next.  But it's a good sign.

And I was tremendously relieved to see it.  It was like his telling
me not to call him Fox, it was a sign that Mulder still lived inside
that head.  At least for me.

I'm not going to bother describing his reluctance to keep his
appointments with you, you're as familiar with that as I am.  Jack
had to threaten to drug him, which I found out later and reamed
Jack about, before he would get in the car.

The first time I picked him up after an appointment, he was chalk
white and I could smell vomit, of course.  Frankly, I accept that
you know what you're doing, Doctor, but I found that highly
upsetting, and he huddled in the car on the way back, as silent as
he'd been after being released from the clinic.

I hope you know what you're doing.  Your predictions for him_I
can accept that it's going to take a long time, but I'm not sure that
pushing him that hard is necessarily the best thing.  Shouldn't he
learn simply to be free again?  Not a prisoner, not under someone
else's control?

I'm trying to give him as much control as possible, do you want
scrambled or fried or poached eggs, do you want to wear the blue
shirt or the grey one, and so on.

I get monosyllabic replies, mostly, but he thinks about it.  I think
he knows that I'll give him as much choice as I can.  I think that's
why he's coming back to life.  However slowly.

Jack wants to guard him, as if he can't be trusted.  I understand
why, after the suicide attempt, but I have to keep biting my tongue.
I did have to browbeat Jack into letting him go into the bathroom
alone, although I condescended to let him remove any sharp
objects from the bathroom.

The razors are safe, you can't remove the blades.  We'd hear him if
he was experimenting with that, the house isn't that big.  Speaking
of which, his latest breakdown came over not being able to shave
by himself.

I've been doing it for him.  But he jerked away the other morning
and took the razor away from me.  He still shakes badly, hands
almost palsied.  It reminds me of my grandfather, who had
Parkinson's.  I managed not to yank it back away from him and
watched him raise it, eyeing his lathered face in the mirror.
Frustration drew those brows together.  The razor came close to
his skin and I got ready to grab it.  It wavered and shook and
finally he threw it into the sink, making a sound like a sob.  He
grabbed the towel on the counter and wiped the lather off his face.
Sank back on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands,
rocking back and forth.

Jack was already there, I suppose Jack thinks I'm dangerously
optimistic or blind.  He muttered something about a shot and I
shook my head, shut the door in his face and sat down next to
Mulder, just holding on to his shoulder lightly.  "You're going to
get frustrated," I told him softly.  "That's going to happen,
Mulder, it doesn't mean you aren't doing well."

The rocking slowed.  I squeezed his shoulder.  "It took three years
for them to get you to this point, Mulder, we can't expect you to
undo it all in a matter of weeks.  Give yourself some credit."

He turned his head to look at me.  Not crying, though his eyes
were red.  Studying me to see if I believed what I was saying, I
suppose.  I've seen that look on his face before, at other times.
Searching for the truth.After a minute, he nodded.  "Okay."

I squeezed his shoulder again, released it and got up.  "I've got an
electric razor somewhere, you can use that for a while."

Faint twitch of the mouth.  He lifted his head, put his hands on the
edge of the tub, to either side of him.  "Why are you doing this?"

"It's an X file," I told him drily and went to get the electric razor.

That seemed to take care of that_thankfully without the needle_
although Jack was miffed with me over my failure to take Mulder's
despair seriously.

I'm not at all sure that Jack is going to work out, Doctor.
Heatherton recommended him_I'd like your honest opinion on
this.

At any rate, he's doing reasonably well now, although he persists
in asking me why I'm doing this, what's in it for me, and so on.  If
he keeps it up, I'm going to miss his near-catatonia.

ws
 

To:  HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Re: Chronology

I'm not sure that my emotional reactions to any of this are
germane.  I didn't spend 3 years in Consortium hands, Dr.
Horowitz.  If you simply want another perspective of the events
Mulder describes in his journal, you might have said so.

ws
 
 

To:  HorowitzE
From:  SkinnerW
Subject:  Re: Chronology

Dr. Horowitz, with all due respect, I fail to see how this is going to
contribute to Mulder's therapy and I am not your patient.

ws
 
 

To HorowitzE
From:  SkinnerW
Subject: Re: Chronology

Very well, since you think it's going to be of value to you in
dealing with Mulder, but I feel very uncomfortable with this.  It
feels very much as though I'm reporting to you about his behavior
and I'm not going to do that without his knowledge.

In fact, I spoke to him last night about it.

He gave me a long look.  "She's turning you into one of the mental
health police."

"Evidently," I agreed and sat down on the end of his bed.  He was
lying on his side, arms propped by pillows and watching an old
science fiction movie.  From before he was born, no less. "Are you
all right with that."

After a moment, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, chin
pressed into the pillows.  "What exactly does she want?"

"Mostly, she appears to want things from my point of view," I told
him uncomfortably.

"Oh."  A line appeared between his eyebrows.  "Doesn't think I'm
giving her the clear picture, huh?"

"She thinks you have a tendency to exaggerate what you view as
negative behavior."

That won a faint smile.  "Sounds like you *have* been talking to
her.  Like calling my nightmares screamers, I guess."  The smile
faded.  "I'm not trying to exaggerate, that's how it feels."

I nodded.

More silence as he thought it over.  And a sigh.  "I guess I'm okay
with it mostly.  It pisses me off that she thinks I'm so unreliable
that she wants to see what you tell her."

I leaned back against the wall and stretched my legs across the
bed.  "Personally, I think it's her tricky way of getting me into
therapy, since I'm not a support group kind of guy.  You've been
telling her all my weaknesses and she's salivating over the chance
of dealing with them."

He actually laughed at that.  "Hey, if I gotta, you gotta."

I arched an eyebrow at him.  "It will probably prove helpful and
save what's left of my hair."

Mulder sank back on the pillows and winced.  "Shit, I'm tired of
this, you know?  I just want to go on with life."

"You are," I told him.

He nodded absently, but he was staring at nothing at all, his mind
working.  It's hard sometimes to reconcile the man I knew with this
man.   Not just physically.  But because this man, while frustrated
and impatient at times, is-quieter.  Maybe that's not the word I
want, he was never exactly raucous to my knowledge, but I think
he's still just taking in the fact of his survival, and that's about all
he can handle.

"I guess I'm okay with it."  Mulder sighed and pushed that
ridiculously long hair behind his ears.  "But thanks for telling me."

I shrugged.

So, what is it exactly you expect from me?

When Watts brought Mulder to the house that night, I had thought
I was prepared.  I wasn't.  He was gaunt, nearly emaciated.
Wilkinson, as Mulder has pointed out, wasn't into S&M
recreationally.  He was a sexual psychopath who was allowed to
pursue his hobby without repercussion because he was the turnkey
of a Consortium prison.  And Mulder's experiences with their
technology faction left him limping badly.  He was wearing
clothes that were far too big for him, Wilkinson's.

He stopped dead when he saw me in the doorway, his eyes going
very wide.  I heard a shaky inhalation in the dark.

"It's all right," I said softly, "Come on in, it's cold."

Watts gave him a shove forward and he stumbled.  I caught him
around the shoulders and got him into the house, got him in front
of the fire.

No tears, no shock, not much of anything.  He kept staring at me
as if he doubted my reality.  I got rid of Watts and came back to
find Jack hovering over Mulder.

Other than pulling away from Jack, he did not make any attempt to
fight.  I'm not sure he had the strength to fight.

His eyes were dead enough that I actually entertained notions
about clones for a few moments.  But I sat down directly in front
of him on the coffee table and he looked at me.

He was still shivering occasionally.  But he was tracking Jack.
"Jack," I finally suggested, "Why don't you go and run him a
bath."

Jack was happy to have something to do.  Mulder's eyes tracked
Jack out of the livingroom and returned to me.

Knowing what I know now about the morphs, I took my pocket
knife out and made a very small cut on the side of my thumb, let
the red well up.  "It's really me," I told him softly.

And his eyes came briefly to life again.  "It's really you." Faint,
cracked voice.  Raspy.  From screaming, Julie told me later, and
there wasn't a lot of guarantee that his voice would ever return to
what it had been, given the damage to his vocal cords.  But he
sounds better now than he did, believe it or not.

"It's really me," I repeated and patted his knee.  "You're safe here,
Mulder.  It's all over."

I'm not sure he believed me, exactly.  But he was certainly
compliant when Jack led him into the bathroom.

Jack came back and hustled him into the bath, which you've
already no doubt heard about.  I did speak to Jack sternly about
letting him do it himself, I can't imagine anything more humiliating
than to be treated like an infant when you've just regained your
freedom, and if he could walk, I couldn't imagine that he couldn't
bathe himself.

Jack agreed with that, but insisted on staying in the bathroom in
case Mulder decided to drown himself.  I opened my mouth to
protest that if he was going to commit suicide, I was a damned
sight more worried about him finding guns_and I removed them
all before we got him out of the clinic, let me tell you_than I was
about him drowning himself.  But Jack nodded knowingly and said
he'd seen it happen.

I have no medical background, as I've said, and I gave Jack too
much leeway in the beginning.

As I've said, he was exhausted, he'd been through enough that day,
although I had no idea what Watts had done until much later.  And
he did have nightmares that night.  Hardly surprising.
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Journal

I'd like to take a moment to thank you for the compromise, Doctor,
I think it was the right decision.   Mulder has been noticeably more
relaxed, even though he bitches everytime Jack says it's time for
him to work on his journal.

Frankly, I'd bitch if Jack kept after me that way, I suspect that's
most of the reason Mulder follows me outside every morning at
the ungodly hour of eight am.  I'm inclined to think that the
outdoor work is good for him; it may be just mindless enough to
let his mind work, but not mindless enough to let him brood
pointlessly.  Yes, we've spoken of Scully a few times.  It's upset
him, which I would expect.  It upsets me.

And yes, I can grudgingly agree that in Mulder's current condition,
he does need a nurse on hand.  I'm thinking of changing my
remodeling plans and building a hut for Jack instead, before he
pushes Mulder over the edge and drives me there, as well.

He did have a bad day last week when Watts insisted on seeing
him.   But I was impressed with his strength, he went through one
helluva lot of material for Watts before it was evident that it was
too much.  I got rid of Watts in about a minute and a half once I
divined that, and when I came back in, Mulder had vanished into
his room.

Under his desk, if you must know the truth.  I acted as if that were
perfectly ordinary and sat down on the floor in front of him.  I
asked him something ordinary and inane.  I don't recall what.
Asked him if he wanted something to eat, I suspect, since we're
both trying to coax food into him.  He throws up so often during
his appointments, I'm convinced he loses ground.

At any rate, he kept shaking his head.  He did come out from
under the desk looking horribly embarrassed.  Instinct versus
intellect, I'd guess.  His instinct was to head somewhere protective,
but his intellect is still that of an adult who knows better.  I finally
suggested a walk, took him up the mountain and just let him be.

On the way back down, he began pestering me again about why I
was doing it.  I'm ashamed to tell you I'm actually amused by his
confusion.  I may have been a hard-ass as his supervisor, but
surely he can't believe that I'd willingly confine him to an
institution_not when he's as compellingly stubborn as he is.

Well, whatever he believes, I challenged him to profile me, he was
one of the goddamned best in the BSU, back when.  Too good, it
nearly killed him.  It shut him up and I could practically hear the
wheels turning, Watts' visit safely forgotten or shoved on the back
burner where it had little importance.

I know he needs to deal with things, Doctor, but sometimes I have
to distract him.  Pull him out of whatever pit he's trying to drown
in.  And he seems to think about whatever it was that upset him,
he'll bring it up later, I've seen it in his journal.

Yes, as you know, he insists on me reading the pages, which was
an hilarious episode in itself.  When I read his description, I had to
laugh at how neatly he mousetrapped me_and how accurately he
perceived it.  I can't decide what I find funnier, the Gary Cooper
description or myself as Zen teacher.

That evening, sitting in front of the fire, cross-legged, Mulder
sighed and looked over his shoulder at me.  Jack was in the
kitchen making himself a snack.  "It was seeing them again, it
brought things back I hadn't let myself remember."

I nodded.  "I thought so."

Wry smile.  Almost a real Mulder smile.  "I figured you did.  You
can't be used to having me sit under a desk."

I managed a smile back.  "No, although there were times I would
have preferred that reaction to having you ask if you were going to
have to clean the men's room floor with a toothbrush."

He actually laughed a little.  Shrugged the blanket more closely
around him.  "I suppose I wasn't the easiest person to work with."

"You were a challenge," I told him diplomatically.  "Part of the
problem was holding you on course, Mulder, your buttons were
awfully easy to push."

As if mine weren't.  I didn't make the deal just because of Scully,
Doctor, although I think I've told you that.  I made it because
Mulder was the only one I knew with the commitment to the truth
to keep doing the job right.  And I thought Scully's death would
destroy him.

He was staring back at the fire again.  "I miss her so much."   Very
soft voice.

My throat tightened.  "Yeah."

He's asked me a few questions, Doctor, I try to downplay what she
went through.  Try to portray it more like the Movie of the Week.
I don't tell him about the times she was hallucinating his presence,
or the periods of dementia caused by the pressure on her brain.  I
don't tell him about her going blind, or the way her fingers felt
brittle and thin in my hand when I came to see her.

More brooding ensued after that, he slips back into the darkness
pretty easily still, and I had to chivvy him up and out of the mood
before I let him go to bed.

For some reason, he puts up with that with a minimum of snarling.
He does snarl, but I can appreciate that.  He's at our mercy, more
or less.

But he's getting stronger.

We talk about the old days, on occasion, although we're both
careful to steer clear of Scully unless he raises the subject.  He
really does make me laugh, Doctor, I told him I'm certain he's
going to make it back, and well in advance of your dire
predictions.  The ability to laugh, even if it's at me, leaves me
certain of it.  I even find I'm enjoying the way he directs those
observations at me, though I'm at a complete loss to understand
where he ever got the notion that I'm capable of Zen detachment.

Sharon must be right about me, he just can't tell what I'm feeling.
And his conviction that I'm doing all this out of guilt is only partly
right.  I couldn't save him.  I couldn't save Scully.  Of course I feel
guilty.  It's unavoidable, even though I can't think of anything
more I could have done.

Mulder is apparently convinced that Watts believes that Mulder
and I are lovers, which strikes me as hilarious somehow.  Mulder,
whatever his foibles, is so obviously heterosexual_at least to
me_and I like to think I am, too, I suppose, a residual type of
homophobia.  I suppose if I ever read in his journal
that he's secretly yearning for me, I'm going to be completely
embarrassed and appalled, but he shows no signs of going there.
And even though he hates Watts, allegedly for Watts
misapprehensions about our relationship_which I
find doubtful, but I'm waiting for Mulder to tell me why, God
knows, I don't like Watts either.  I think he's an exigent and
egotistical prick, if you'll pardon my terminology, Doctor.  At any
rate, despite that, he does laugh when I tell him that his long, dark
hair could be enticing when we've both been snowed in for a
while.  Clearly, he's not worried.

The first time I joked about it, he grinned, then froze, this
indescribable expression on his face.  Like congealed horror.  I
could have bitten my tongue out, I was so angry with myself.  But
it passed, and he blew it off when I asked him, made an equally
hilarious remark with regard to pre-Raphaelite curls, and I zapped
him back and he fell back in the chair, laughing so hard tears
came to his eyes.

He seemed pleased that I'd gotten the reference.  Some days, I do
have to work harder than usual to keep up with his train of
thought, but my reading experience is a little broader than he
expects, I think.  He started snickering outside one day, standing
there sanding, I believe.  Said something about me being Orpheus
to his Eurydice.  He pronounced it the Greek way, the asshole,
so it took me a moment to register, but then I cracked back with
something about him having to deal with that prick Watts and
Eurydice only had to deal with Orpheus.  He came back with a line
about that being all right, Orpheus fucked up, and went back to
work, snickering under his breath, little riffs of laughter that
reassured me a great deal.

I'm sorry, Doctor, but I think your predictions were unnecessarily
dire.  Even when he has bad moments, he's doing so much better
than I'd dared expect.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

This was a difficult day.  He suddenly asked me, while I was
smoothing concrete for the porch floor, how I knew about him
sleeping with the television on.  And a few other things.  I didn't
have any choice but to tell him how, that Scully had told me, those
winter evenings when her life was winding down, before she really
lost touch with who and where she was.

That upset him, understandably, although I didn't put it quite that
way.  I walked him over to one of the big boulders and sat beside
him, wishing I still smoked.  It would have been a great moment to
have a cigarette.  Although it probably would have sent him back
to the clinic to get a whiff of cigarette smoke.  I guess we don't
have to worry about him taking up the habit.

We talked a little about Scully and how she'd told me things, that
I'd gone as often as I could.

He blames himself, Doctor, but Mulder is good at that.  I
responded pretty sharply, but I suspect you'll have to work hard on
that.  If it's his fault, he's in control of what happened.  I can't
blame him.  I felt that same way after Sharon was hurt so badly.
It's a feeling I understand.  If it's your fault, things aren't out of
control, they're just fucked up.

And he's figured out that Julie and I are involved, that Julie sneaks
up at night.  Evidently, it offended him to have her sneak in.  I'm
trying to think of a way to respond that neither betrays Julie's
desire for privacy, nor allows him to think that I'm afraid he's
going to freak out if he knows we're in bed down the hall from
him.  And simultaneously treats him like an adult I respect instead
of a mental patient.  Yes, I know he is technically a mental patient.
But he's also still an adult I respect.  And like.

That may be a weakness.  I think this whole thing was easier
before I figured out that yes, I did like the poor bastard.  And still
do.  He's fighting it so goddamned hard, Doctor, fighting
everything they did to him, and only when he's really tired or
really down does it hit him like a freight train.  He used to
curl up on his bed until Jack drove him crazy, checking him every
ten minutes.  Now he curls up on the couch and zones out on the
television set when it hits him that hard.  One day, still sunny and
mostly mild, he took his blanket out and laid on the grass and just
watched me work.  That damned cat came up and curled up in
front of him.  He didn't touch it, but he let it stay.  And eventually
fell asleep in the middle of my monologue about why I'd laid the
concrete before framing the porch.

It's been awhile since the pliers sent him into a fugue.  He handles
the tools reasonably easily, although I sometimes wonder in
exasperation who the hell changed Mulder's light bulbs for him
before.  No, that's not fair_my dad taught me how to do a lot of
what I'm doing.  Mulder's father taught him about conspiracy.
And guilt.  Mulder's father did a damned good job of that.
Everything was Mulder's fault, evidently, including the abduction
of his sister.

We did talk about the alleged sister, the one who dissolved in
green goo when she was pulled to the river.  If you don't think I
felt terrible about that_God, his sister supposedly comes back
and we fail to get her back from the man who abducted Scully.

Who was, evidently, no man, but a morph.  Scully confessed that
to me before she was so far gone I dismissed what she said as
dream or fantasy or dementia.

The other day, he nodded absently when I mentioned this.  "Yeah,
I figured it out when I went to the clinic, where the fire was.
There were a lot of them there.  I think he got them all.  That's why
I went to the Arctic."

Which is where he nearly died.  And contracted a nasty retrovirus
that nearly killed him.  He arrested, Scully told me, lying in her
hospital bed in the hospice.  While she was dying.   They had to
work pretty frantically to save him.

I thought when I took the AD slot that the worst I'd have to deal
with is Bureau politics and infrastructure fights.  I can't imagine J.
Edgar ever had to make the kind of decisions I ended up having to
make.

At any rate, he sighed and rubbed his face.  "I wonder if my father
knew."

I privately hoped not, but from what Scully told me, I find it
likely.  And that much more reprehensible.  How in hell did he
survive to become the cocky, arrogant son of a bitch who used to
stand in my office and challenge me?  Or the man who was so
good with witnesses, I've seen his record.  Patterson
damned near drove him crazy, but he was still good with
witnesses.  Not so much with families, I expect his own
identification with them made that harder.

"If he did," Mulder mused aloud, sitting cross-legged near the
table in front of the couch_he was playing some arcane kind of
solitaire, he's since taught it to me and it's deadly.  "If he knew and
still_"  and that was all.

But I think I know what he would have said if he'd finished it.

You have more to worry about than whether or not he's identifying
me as a father figure, Doctor.  You've got years of William
Mulder's work to undo.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  RE: Mulder

I can't agree with your judgement, Doctor, I've already told you
that Jack has a tendency to overreact, and certainly, Mulder was
distraught, but drugging him into insensibility doesn't seem very
productive to me.  And frankly, I'm not at all certain that Jack
didn't provoke him.

He hasn't shown any signs at all of self-destructive behavior, he's
been eating well, he's been following directions, behaving himself
inordinately for a man prone to going his own way.  And working
outside with me, not his natural habitat.  I know the journal was
our compromise so that he didn't have to come in every day, but
that shouldn't mean that his punishment should entail being
drugged and confined to the clinic.

I want the dosages you're giving him at least lessened and I feel
very strongly that he was doing better outside the clinic.  In my
house.  I've spoken to Julie Wilson and she's going to speak with
you about my concerns.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  RE: Mulder

Thank you, Doctor.  I appreciate your confidence.  I took him
home and he sulked in his room for a while before dinner, but
emerged, apparently starving, and ate like a wolf.

Jack is now sulking.  I suspect he feels that I undercut him, and
he's damned well right.  If he waves that needle around again, I'm
going to jab it into him.

I also suspect that Mulder knows my feelings and is positioning
himself to take advantage of them.  As irritating as that is, I find
myself at least feeling relieved that he's come back far enough to
think that far ahead.

I also think he's venting his feelings about Jack in his journal,
although I think he's deleting a great deal of it before he sends it to
you or lets me read it.  Aside from the frying pan comment.

I'd like to think that's a good sign, but I imagine you'll disabuse
me.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  RE: Mulder

I appreciate patient/physician confidentiality issues, Doctor, but I'd
damned well appreciate it if you'd give me some clue of how to
deal with a man so shaken up that he stays in his room except
when I drag him out to eat.  Sleeping a great deal of the time, but
even when he doesn't, he's staring blankly at the television, not
even reading.

I'm very worried.  Jack and I had a discussion about it, during
which Jack wanted to shoot him full of Valium, which seemed
counterproductive to me.

After all, he's sleeping most of the time anyway.

I want to know what to do, I want to know what's going to help
him get past this, and since the only time he talks is when he wants
something on the table, I haven't a clue.  And I'd like a little help,
Doctor.  I realize that you didn't really want him in my care, but
he's been through enough, dammit, you've already had your chance
in the clinic with him, and he does better up here.

And no, I am not going to force him to journal when he's in this
kind of shape.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Apology

First of all, I'd like to apologize for being short with you in my last
message.  Mulder is doing much better this week, although I
suspect that some of the ceaseless motion is the effect of
deliberately not thinking about whatever set him off to begin with.
And yes, you're quite right, confidentiality is sacred, and I am
genuinely sorry for being difficult.

I'm beginning to think that Jack is not going to last here.  If
Mulder doesn't get him with the frying pan, I'm going to shoot
him.

I'm trying very hard to be diplomatic with him, I recognize that
he's really worked very hard to help Mulder, I just don't agree that
he's done anything that's worked.  Which may be unfair and
egotistical.  God, I hope I'm not so petty that I have to feel that I'm
responsible for Mulder's recovery, just because I couldn't save him
from himself.

I'm reading too much Jung, I suspect, and it's Mulder's fault.  The
week he went on strike, I would sit in his room in the evening and
read.  Not aloud, he's not a child, just read for my own enjoyment.
I'll confess something, Doctor, not having had much exposure to
the Narnia tales, I started out with those.  It did get him talking
again, however monosyllabically.  And by the time I'd worked up
to Jung, he was completely baffled.  By the end of the week, he'd
roll over just to see what I was reading, so I suppose it worked in
the long run.  I was just afraid he was going to find the protractor
in his desk drawer and hurt himself with it.

Anyway, never fear, he's back to being ambulatory again and
dragging me up hill and down dell.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Cancellation

Mulder won't be at his appointment tomorrow, Doctor.  He's
seriously ill, Julie says he's gotten a nasty case of bronchitis on top
of damage he sustained in Consortium hands.  My ex-wife used to
tell me that standing out in the rain wouldn't give you a cold, but
Mulder got very wet yesterday afternoon.  And cold.  I had my
jacket on him by the time we got back, we got  caught coming
back downhill in that damned sleetstorm.

I'm fine, not even a stuffy nose, but Mulder was delirious by 4 am,
and threw a couple of febrile seizures that   I'll tell you, that
watered my eyes.  I'd gone in when I'd heard him moaning, just
like I always do, and patted his shoulder.  Usually, he wakes up
enough to make some sound or say something to indicate that he's
compos mentis.  This time he did speak, but nothing sane.
Something about the stars, and how much it hurt and I yanked the
covers back to touch his skin and found him radiating heat like the
goddamned woodstove in the fireplace.
 
Julie used one of those unwieldy Thermoscan things and found his
temp had soared to nearly 104 degrees.  How in hell could he get
sick so quickly?  With Jack's help and Julie's advice, we got him
into the shower and got his temp back down, but it spiked back
several more times, and twice he did seize, which left me colder
than the water in the shower could account for.

Julie assured me that this didn't mean brain damage, which let me
relax enough to catch a couple of hours sleep in the chair in
Mulder's room.  By about noon, not too long ago, he was down to
a relatively normal temp of 102.  Coughing and hacking his lungs
out and kind of groggily semi-conscious.

At any rate, Julie says he'll be down for a while, and no way
should he be out in the mountain air.  We've got a humidifier
running in his room, which he grouses about and reminds me of
my childhood, except this is what Julie calls a cool mist humidifier
and ours was always steam.

Fortunately, he's sleeping a lot, so the grousing is kept to a
minimum, and Jack is very relieved and subdued, as if he's
decided he's in over his head.  I'm beginning to think that's true,
but I don't know if Jack's ready to accept it yet.

As soon as he's well enough again, yes, he'll be doing his journal.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  RE: Mulder

Frankly, Doctor, I'm disappointed in you.  Of course it's true about
his birthday.  It's not like I made a point of memorizing my agent's
birthdays, but after he was dead, or we thought he was dead, I did
have to go through the paperwork and his personnel file and
somehow it stuck.

We didn't have cake and ice cream, so please don't start again on
his alleged identification of me as a father figure.  I don't believe
that's true anyway.

He's only just beginning to identify me as a friend, I think.

At any rate, yes, I remembered his birthday.  Probably because I
felt lousy about having to fill out that damned paperwork.  I
always do.  It's the second worst part of the job.  The first worst is
having to tell a victim's parents or family that they're gone, that
despite our best efforts, the victim was murdered in cold blood,
probably died in great pain_I think having Mulder talk about
his family has gotten me down a lot more than I'd anticipated,
Doctor.

My family life was relatively normal.  True, my youngest brother,
Tim, was hit by a car and killed at the age of three, but we at least
knew what happened to him.  And life went on, with two other
kids in the family.  My parents grieved, we grieved, but we buried
him and went on.  My father was certainly stern and didn't take
any nonsense, but he also took us out and taught us to play ball.
Even at his angriest, the most I remember getting is a few sharp
swats on the seat of my pants.  For anything really heinous, we got
spanked and sent to bed without supper.  At least until we were
adolescents, and then we lost privileges out the wazoo.  Had to
chop wood, do various unpleasant chores, whatever he could come
up with.  And he was very inventive.

My mother was capable of losing her temper, but generally pretty
calm and low key.  Sensible.  The one time, other than Tim's
death, that I remember seeing her really distraught was when John
was playing out in the mud and got it all over her clean sheets,
running in between them as he played.

I distinctly remember being glad that I'd been down the street
playing stickball with my buddies that day.  And when the nuns at
St. Agnes told her that I was disruptive and daydreamed, she
marched down there and had a word with the meanest of them all,
Sister Leo.  That woman could have taught drill sergeants their
business, Doctor, let me tell you.

At any rate, I look back at my early life and compare it to Mulder's
and just feel lousy.  I've been a cop for a long time, I've seen the
things that people do to their children.  And rationally, I know that
Mulder's father could have been worse, I've arrested people like
that.  I think about his parents blaming him for his sister's loss,
though, and I can't help but contrast it to my own parents.
They never blamed us at all for Timmy, even though we'd all been
playing in the yard and I was nine years old.

I blamed me at first, but that was another one of those rare
occasions when my mother lost her temper and slapped me.  Her
mother had come over from Ireland, and when my mother lost it,
she had this ridiculous trace of a brogue, called me by my full
name and told me she never wanted to hear me say such an idiotic
thing again.  It took a while before I believed it_I think of Mulder
being twelve and blaming himself anyway, and being told again
and again by his father that he was guilty, having the lesson beaten
in with leather or wood or fists.

Some people have no right to have children, that's all.  He's been
giving me so much shit about how, if anything, he thinks I'm his
older brother, not his father_must you go there, Doctor, I don't
feel at all paternal toward him and I sincerely doubt, given his
record, that he feels at all filial toward me.  He'd either shoot me
or cringe, depending on his frame of mind, and I assure you,
he's never done either.  So, after the last big brother remark, I
threatened to adopt him, which sent him into breathless gales of
laughter.

BTW, Julie says he may actually have asthma, which was one of
the reasons his bronchitis was so bad.  It's not enough the poor
bastard has scars and walks with one of the most painful limps I've
ever seen, he's got to have asthma.

I tell myself that at least he's alive.

Which brings us back to his birthday.  I got him a set of
snowshoes, and I'll be damned if he doesn't know how to use them
already.  Evidently this was not unusual in Massachusetts.  It took
him a bit to get the rhythm back, but he's doing fine.

However, he has a bad case of vertigo.  He says it's related to FTL
travel and low grav.  I believe him.  But I think you may need to
address the vertigo, Doctor, it's going to be difficult for him to
move up and down the mountain this winter if he can't get past it.

BTW, Jack is no longer with us.  Mulder actually appears to have
had a reasonably civil talk with him_yes, I did eavesdrop, and I'm
damned glad I did, because if I hadn't, I might have swallowed
Jack's version, hook line and all.  Jack had to go, and Mulder and I
are in complete agreement on that.  I think even Jack is. Jack is
going back down the mountain back to whatever Jack usually
does, and caught a ride down with Cassie Delevan..

I managed to keep my temper with Jack and actually remember all
my management skills in handling him.

And Cassie came up on her snowmobile before hand, while Jack
was in town, and kidnapped Mulder.  I think I forgot to mention
that she'd been flirting with him when I took him into the
settlement one afternoon for additional supplies. I did have a hard
time not laughing at him, Doctor, he looked so poleaxed
when she rather slyly offered him a ride.

Fortunately, I have a snowmobile suit that I've used perhaps once
in the last year, and I sent him off, once again feeling like your
darkest prophecies were being proven false.

My warm fuzzies over that lasted until he got home four hours
later and called me Dad, but it was genuinely nice to see him
acting like a normal human.  Well, at least as much as normal as
he's ever been, so far as I know.  I've never paid attention to his
personal life before, just the part of it that drove me nuts,
including arguments over expense reports and ruined Armani suits.

And I am determinedly not paying attention to whatever he and
Cassie are up to.  It's all I can do to pay attention to my own love
life.

His mother arrived that evening, surprising all of us; I hadn't
anticipated her showing up for a few days, but evidently, she took
advantage of the clear weather that took Jack away and came up.
A pleasant evening, a  bad night.  This one was a screamer, Doctor
Horowitz, and I have to wonder how much his mother's  presence
exacerbated that.  He was acting, as an old Marine buddy of mine
would have said, like a long tailed cat in a room full of rockers.

By the time I got in there he was tearing at his sweats, trying to get
them off in a panic.  Julie, of course, was right behind me, and
suggested that she get something out of her bag to calm him down.
I vetoed that and let him get into the shower, which had the same
effect.  I'm not sure why so many people want to knock him on his
ass at moments like those, he works through it by himself.

At any rate, he'd used the nail brush on himself to the point that he
was looking a lot like an overdone lobster when he got out.  And
once back in his bedroom, he and his mother had a flashfire
confrontation over who his father was.

Julie was watching in amazement, and I just felt as if another piece
had clicked into place.  I broke up the confrontation to bully him
into bed.  He crashed hard, worn out by adrenaline and hot water,
thank God.

He was groggy in the morning, a nightmare hangover, I suspect,
but his mother apologized for losing her temper with him the night
before.  I think he was gearing up for another confrontation, but
that stole his thunder.

So he went silent and sullen and a little hyperactive on the sofa.
At least in the sense that he was driving his mother crazy when I
emerged after Julie and I had done the dishes.  And snarling at her,
too.

I resisted the urge to thump him on the head and told him to mind
his manners before taking the remote away from him.  He crashed
again, just out like a
light.

"He's so thin," his mother said, eyeing him nervously, as if she
expected him to wake up again and snarl when she spoke.

"He's doing better."

Julie came in, drying her hands and sighed.   "He's gained almost
twenty pounds since he got here, despite throwing up in Dr.
Horowitz' office every other day.  Walt feeds him constantly."

"I try," I told them both drily.  "He doesn't always cooperate."

"That sounds like Fox."  His mother went back to sewing.  I gave
Julie a look and went back into the kitchen where we had a
discussion about the weird family vibes between Mulder and his
mother.  I ended up telling her what I knew about Mulder's family
life, which at least explained that much.

The next few days seemed to go a bit better, after his mother went
back to Julie's to stay at night.  Although I did short circuit a
couple of incipient fights between the two of them before Julie
took her back to Calgary.

And I did have a long discussion with her, which would
undoubtedly enrage him, even now.  I told her plainly what I
knew, what Mulder has told me, about how he was taken and what
was done to him.  That was as difficult as telling her he'd
committed suicide.

She looked at me in silence for a very long while after I'd finished.
"You really didn't know, did you."

"No."  That was hard to admit, too, the extent of my helplessness.
"No, I didn't.  I'd have found a way to stop him."   Which in itself
is an image of helplessness.  Mulder was never very easy to stop.

Her fingers tightened on the loose sleeves of the sweater she wore
over her shoulders.  "They hurt him very badly."

"You caught him at a bad time," I told her tactfully.  "He had an
upsetting session the day before with Dr. Horowitz, and wore
himself out yesterday."  I did not, of course, tell her how.  Some
things one's mother doesn't need to know.  "They did hurt him
badly, Mrs. Mulder, but he's strong.  And he's really doing much
better than yesterday would suggest."

She nodded and glanced away for a moment.  "Would this Dr.
Horowitz talk to me?"

Julie gave me a warning glance that was unnecessary.  "I'm sure
she would," I hedged, "But not about Mulder."

Her mouth quirked a little. "I'm his mother."

"He's her patient, he has to know that whatever he tells her is
confidential."  No sense in hedging about that.

Another glance away.  "I don't know how to help him."

I've gotten used to meddling, I guess.  Or there's no excuse for
what I did then.  "Mrs. Mulder, I think the best way you can help
him is to settle the questions in his mind.  If his father wasn't
William Mulder, I think he needs to know that, for good or ill."

For a moment, I thought she'd try and slap me.  But she finally
bowed her head.  "I told him the truth last night."

I wondered.  The more I learned about Mulder and his family, the
better I understood his drive.  But I left it at that.  I may have a
meddling instinct, but I hope I also have an instinct about when to
leave things alone.
 
But he survived it, even if Julie's diagnosis of asthma appears to be
proven now.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

I understand your concern, Doctor, but I don't want him in the
clinic.  He shuts down there.  He's lucid, regardless of being upset,
and I think that's all we can ask for.  The journal pages should be
reasonably explanatory, although I confess that I asked Heatherton
to provide me with a dossier on Ingrid Volkman after Mulder
babbled her name repeatedly.

Ingrid Volkman was absolutely a logical descendant of the
pseudo-scientists who experimented on human beings in the
concentration camps.   Some of her projects actually did involve
science, but most of them seemed to have involved testing
technology on human beings who had run afoul of the
Consortium.  They also use abductees.

Christ, no wonder he fugued, if that's what he was remembering.

Thank God his mother was here.  Thank God Julie was on her way
up already when he put his arms through the window.   She kept
him stable while I frantically put the chains on the four wheel.  We
couldn't take the time to take the Snowcat.

He did hit the artery this time, and Christ, even with my best
efforts, he bled like crazy.   They pumped a pint of his mother's
and a pint of my blood into him.  Fortunately, she and I both have
the same blood type he has.

I need to stress to you that there was never any suicidal intent, at
least in my well considered opinion.  He was trying to get outside,
but rationality was gone and he couldn't get the door unbolted.

I was in my room, which meant I didn't get to him until terror had
overcome his struggle with the deadbolt and led him to try and go
through the window.  Which he did.  I should have put safety glass
in it.

John Little River came up and replaced the window for me.  I wish
it was that easy to fix Mulder.  He was upset over the implant, but
I thought that was reasonably normal.  There are times when not
being upset is abnormal, and finding an implant in your nasal
cavity give you a nosebleed is certainly one of them, I suspect.  He
remained pretty calm throughout riding to the clinic, throughout a
lot of people running around because they were tracking activity
in the night sky, and even throughout getting jabbed with a
needle_not his favorite pastime, nor mine_and was fine until he
came back and started writing in his journal.

So, despite your many concerns about him not writing in it,
Doctor, it looks as though it was actually the journal that triggered
it.

His recovery period has been marked by a real case of depression,
and from what I've been able to chivvy out of him, it's because he
thinks he's taken such a giant step backward.  But surely some of
that is the physical side of healing.  Fortunately, he didn't quite
turn himself into hamburger, although he's going to have some
nice additional scars on the inside of his arms.  Once they fade,
they'll be indistinguishable from the others.

I really don't think he has, Doctor, and I'm willing to argue with
you.  I think his mind is just getting to the point where he can
handle these things, albeit not without bad reactions.  Yes, I know,
you'll tell me that I've been corrupted by reading Jung, that I now
think I know all there is to know about psychological
healing, and I can't argue your point.  But I still insist that his
reactions, given the circumstances, are normal with the boundaries
of those circumstances.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  RE: Mulder

Apparently, we're in agreement.  Mulder is doing well.  I was
amused all over again to read his description of the snowball fight
and his resultant fall down the hill.  I'm very concerned about that
vertigo, Doctor, and Julie says there is no longer anything wrong
with his inner ear, so far as they can tell.

But he's in good spirits and says he's working with you, along with
grimacing when he says it to prove how hard he's working.  Which
also makes me laugh.  He's certainly doing his journaling the way
he ought to.

I'm beginning to feel like we've gotten to the end of the beginning
phase of his recovery.   Am I being overly optimistic?  Probably.  I
haven't forgotten what you told me about the prisoners of war.
And I was in Vietnam during the war, remember?

I haven't made them all pay for what they did to Scully and to
Mulder.  But I feel I've gotten a start at redeeming my promise
when I listen to him give me grief.  Of course, I give it back, I'm
not his AD anymore.  I think that actually reassures him.

His sense of humor is returning again, which is good to see.  When
I see that, or have to defend myself against some of his remarks, I
feel like he's really come a long way since the window incident.

And he trusts me, I think.  We have interesting conversations that
we could never have had when I was his AD.  I enjoy surprising
him with a snappy comeback when he didn't expect it, I enjoy
hearing that hoarse laughter.  His voice is getting better, believe it
or not.  Not normal yet, I'm not sure it ever will be, but it's closer
than it was when he got here.

I was still feeling good about all this when he told me that Watts
was precisely the sociopath I'd suspected he was.  He's not
completely exaggerating my reaction to the news that Watts raped
him.  I was so enraged that I literally saw red, this sort of
frightening red tinge to everything that made me walk around
the house counting under my breath and breathing deeply until it
receded.

Watts had requested another interview with him_hell, he'd
demanded it, and that got my back up.  I passed it on to Mulder
peaceably and he studied my face, as if judging whether or not I'd
back him, then said, no, he'd talk to my boss, but not to Watts.

Just out of curiosity, I asked him why.  No other reason, at least
none that I'm aware of.

That's when he told me.
 
I nearly went nuclear.

He was worried, he tried to deflect me by making bad jokes, and
all they did was make me angrier until I finally growled at him to
shut the fuck up.  His eyes went wide at that_I did have to laugh
at his description of the discussion, Doctor, I'm not quite the Boy
Scout he would have you believe_and he went very subdued in a
corner of the couch, pretending to read a book while I continued to
stalk around the house and finally put on boots and outerwear
and went outside to load wood we really didn't need.

I wanted Watts' balls, Doctor, with a pure, sweet, incandescent
anger that I hadn't felt, God, in years.   No ambivalence, no
rigorous officer of the law, bullshit.  Mulder's absolutely right,
Watts was getting even for having me upset his plans, and Mulder
was just handy.  Pissing on my boots, Mulder called it.  I think
that's true.

If Peter Watts had been within striking distance that day, I can't
swear I wouldn't have killed him.   Not just on Mulder's behalf,
although I'll admit, remembering him the day Watts had brought
him up gave me unwelcome visions of him tied down and helpless
while Watts took his revenge on me.

No wonder my blood pressure went up.

He was still pretty subdued when I came in.   That's not really
surprising, once I'd thought about it, he's still on pretty rocky
ground emotionally, though he's come so damned far since getting
here, and it occurred to me that he might think I was angry at him.

So I made coffee and poured us both a cup, went back into the
livingroom and sat down on the only part of the couch he wasn't
occupying.  The coffee got a surprised look, but he's not stupid, he
just accepted it, his expression a little easier.

Mulder isn't exaggerating about his coffee fetish in the least,
Doctor.  Even when he's had his quota, I've seen him standing over
by the coffee pot just inhaling the aroma.  He's told me he was so
glad I was into good coffee and even gladder that I knew how to
make it.

At any rate, I sipped at mine and he sipped at his and I finally said,
"I want you to write a full report on this.  Just like a standard
crime report."

Mulder blinked at me.  "On Watts?"   I gave him a long look that
made his mouth quirk.  "Okay, but isn't that going to piss some
people off?"

"I don't really give a damn," I told him grimly.   "I want it on the
record."  Actually, I wanted Watts nailed to a wall, but I figured
that much was already apparent.  I just wasn't sure what was going
to happen.  What would be done about it.  I hoped to Christ that
something would.

Mulder sipped at his coffee again.  "All right."  Very quiet voice.
A little shaky, and he was blinking hard into his coffee cup.

I nodded, not looking at him, giving him a minute.  I can't even
begin to imagine what he went through.  Oh, I know intellectually,
but I can't imagine how he survived mentally.  Emotionally.  And
he is coming back, Doctor, your predictions were so dire, I didn't
expect him to have gotten this far already.

He's still got a long way to go, but he's recognizably as the man I
knew.  Far more vulnerable than he ever was at his worst
moments, of course, but that goes without saying.

What I find strange is that I like him.  I respected him before,
occasionally found myself in sympathy with him, sometimes had
to suppress a smile at his sense of humor, and thought he was,
despite his tendencies to go outside procedures, a damned fine
agent.  One of my best, if you could keep him on track.

Now, I find I think of him as a friend whose gotten into bad
trouble, who needs help.  For the rest of that afternoon, we sat on
the couch and watched the Knicks play basketball.  I ultimately
made popcorn and watched and listened as Mulder's attention was
drawn wholly into the game, thin face lighting up with interest and
enthusiasm as the Knicks trounced the rival team.

Mulder and I met with Heatherton and Heatherton temporized
until I produced the statement I'd had Mulder write up.  And I'll
tell you, Mulder knows how to write a report.

So we'll see if Heatherton actually follows through; if he doesn't,
I'm calling Ellison and sending him a copy of Mulder's report.  I
want that bastard.

I want him badly.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Watts

All right, I'll give you the retrospective, Doctor, but I remind you,
I'm not your patient.  Mulder is.

Shortly after our meeting with Heatherton, Ellison in London
called and asked for a meeting in New York.  I won't go into
Ellison and his request, because it's semi-classified, but I wasn't
really worried about leaving Mulder alone.  A little uneasy,
perhaps, but he's been cocky and funny and generally doing well,
overall.  A few nightmares now and again, but not many.  And
most of those, Doctor, coincide with difficult sessions in your
office.  He did ask me to lock up the knives.

I told him no, I wasn't worried about it, and I was a little amused.
I'd put childproof latches in that drawer and he'd never tried it,
despite his remarks to the contrary.  So I wasn't worried.

And I was right, it wasn't Mulder I needed to worry about.  I've
been to that point on the mountain, Doctor, and for all he makes it
sound like they rolled down a nice smooth slope, out of clumsiness
aided and abetted by vertigo, that's not quite the truth.

There's a slight curve from the spot at which he must have been
sitting, a pretty mild slope.  But it ends, after about three hundred
yards, in a drop-off that ends in a rocky scree butting up against a
shelf.  That's where he landed.  Watts landed on the scree, and
wasn't trying to tuck and roll.

If I'd my druthers, Heatherton would be a dead man.  But I'll rest
content with Watts being dead.  The problem is that Mulder hit the
shelf and broke his leg and hip, which necessitated some pretty
major repair work.

He really isn't such a bad patient, considering everything.  He
doesn't complain all that much to the staff, and Cassie's been in
regular attendance, which eases my mind sufficiently that I don't
feel like I need to be there every evening.  The worst point was
when he had problems with the morphine and wasn't getting
any pain relief.   And despite what he may tell you, he wasn't
screaming and ranting to the extent that he indicates.   He's so
damned proud_or worried about what we think of him_that he'd
rather say he was ranting than say he was lying there in so much
pain that tears were streaming down his face.  He only swore like a
sailor when they came in to shift him, and I can't blame him.
If it had been me, I'd have tried to punch someone.

They finally found something that would work for him, which was
a relief to everyone, not just Mulder.  And since then, he's bitched
now and then, and mostly kept busy reading and playing Doom
with me on the computer.

Which is very funny.  He's so astonished that I've even heard of it,
but I have nephews, hardcore computer gamers.  So I actually
know it very well.  He refused to write in his journal the other
night and when I suggested that it wasn't a good idea to skip it, he
informed me that he was on a journal strike until he got out of the
clinic.

When I got back home, I got an email about a game, so I told him
I was on a Doom strike.  He promptly replied that my behavior
was stunningly passive aggressive for a generally straightforward
person_trust Mulder to be politically correct_to which I replied
that his powers of observation were amazing for someone who'd
never seen my MMPI.  He keeps me on my toes, but then he did in
the X files, too.

He gave up then, and Cassie told me the next morning that he
sulked until she played her flute for him as he went to sleep.

Being that badly hurt makes us act like children, I think. I don't
treat him like a child or an invalid, I learned not to do that over the
first battle of the journal, when he ended up in the clinic for a
week.  And from what he's written, I'm glad I did.

So that's the way I see it, Doctor.  Hopefully that's what you
needed.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  RE: Watts

Yes, Doctor Horowitz, I am still angry.  No, there isn't any point to
dwelling on it, I fired off a long and illustrative memo to Ellison in
London and Heatherton is no longer here on the mountain with us.
Heatherton, if I'm not mistaken, is in New Guinea.

It's a pity that cannibalism is no longer prevalent there.

Jesus, Doctor, what did you think, I went around wishing I could
kill people when I'm in a good mood.  Heatherton is directly
responsible for what happened to Mulder this time.  The
Consortium may have given Mulder the first round of abuse, but
Heatherton and his outright negligence nearly killed
him this time.

Damned right I'm angry.

Ellison either is, or has decided I'm more useful than Ellison.
Right now, I don't care which.  Watts is dead and Ellison has
neutralized Heatherton.

And Mulder is slowly and gradually doing better.

ws
 
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mrs. Mulder

I feel very awkward about  your request, Dr. Horowitz.  Needless
to say, you were the one harping about confidentiality when he
went on his strike and stayed in bed for a week.  Now you want me
to discuss his relationship with his mother, and I scarcely know the
woman.

If you simply want my reactions to her--I think she loves him a
great deal.   I don't think she understands him, but I think, from
observations, that Mulder is essentially in the same boat.  He
hasn't a clue what makes his mother tick.

She arouses all my investigative instincts.  Which I've managed to
suppress, for the most part, although I confess to having her file
sent up to me.  I sent it back before I read it.  It seemed to me that
it was an invasion of her privacy.

I just wish her privacy wasn't at Mulder's expense.  Listening to
him when he was in a great deal of pain, I suspect she's either
forgotten or hidden a great deal--from him and herself, Doctor,
and as a person exceptionally talented at that same thing, I
recognize it very well.

No, I don't see myself as a paternal figure.  I was the oldest child, I
can more easily see myself as elder brother.  And even that's
difficult when I find the cap off the toothpaste.

I'm joking about that.

At any rate, I think it did him good to have her here, despite all the
things I've said above.   He doesn't have anyone left except for his
mother.  No family.  Few friends.  And we've all been down there
in his room at the clinic.  He told me the other day that one of the
unexpected benefits of having been rescued was that he got a
private room for a change.  The Bureau HMO wouldn't pay
for that.

Only Mulder could make jokes about his HMO at a time like this.
I've got to admire his determination to growl and moan and bitch
his way through this.  According to Julie, the reason the morphine
didn't work is that there are so many major nerve bundles in the
pelvic area.  At least, I think that's what Julie said.  You're an MD,
you tell me.

I generally don't care much for celebrating Christmas, but knowing
Mulder, I thought it would be a novel experience.  I wasn't wrong.
He'd had his mother smuggle up a fine bottle of bourbon for me,
which really touched me a great deal.

For God's sake, the man is dragging himself back up from an abyss
and he thinks about Christmas presents.  He had something for
Julie and Cassie as well, which brought proper appreciation from
both parties.   And naturally, he's chivvied Julie into releasing him,
which appalls me.  But Julie and the orthopedic surgeon tell me
that he's under strict orders.  I want to laugh at that, but Mulder is
definitely a more subdued character at this point, so I'm hoping
I'm wrong.

I think he was glad to have his mother here, particularly at
Christmas.  No fights this time.  I suppose being in that much pain
squelched any tendency to battle.

I have to admit, watching him take pleasure in such small things as
a shot glass of Sam Adams beer and a homemade pizza makes me
re-evaluate my own approach to life.  I didn't even have to go
through the hell that he has to learn it.

Which makes me angry all over again about what happened to
him.  About what happened to Scully.  They were my people, my
agents, and I couldn't protect them from their own government.

Having him alive is a small victory.  Having him recover is a
greater one.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

Thank you for your note.   My mother lived a good, full life, and
my brother lived close enough geographically that she was able to
watch her grandchildren grow up.  But it is hard, finding that you
are now the eldest generation, that both your parents are gone.

Mulder is doing as well as you might expect, given the
circumstances.  He's very quiet these days.  It's actually amusing,
for someone who really loathes being less than 100%, he's getting
around in that wheelchair astonishingly
well.

It makes me sick to think of that envelope gathering dust in my
brother's desk.  I'm afraid John and I had some harsh words over
that.   I eventually apologized, and explained in very general terms
why I had been upset, and he then got equally upset.  To which I
replied, ironically, with the same arguments that Mulder's been
using on me.

That makes me equally sick, that he's trying to process what I
brought back with me and is still trying to reassure me.  Actually,
it's both amusing and touching that when I got back, he was trying
to take care of me.

God, I felt like I'd just joined the roster of people to torture him.

But he's handling things as well as can be expected, as I said.  Not
many jokes lately, although he tries.  And that bullshit reassurance
that he keeps trying to give me.

I believe he's about to be freed of the chair, by the way.  So he'll
back for his appointments far more quickly than any of us
expected.   I think the rapid healing bothers him a little on one
level.  On another, of course, he's almost deliriously pleased.

And despite everything, so am I.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

He and Cassie and Julie between them cooked up a birthday party
for me, Doctor.  Including cake.   I'm still amazed at that.

I'm amazed by him, frankly.  With everything that's been thrown at
him since we got him out of Wilkinson's hands, he keeps bouncing
back.  Enough to give me grief about my lack of hair and the
number of candles that should have been on the cake.  Of course, I
nailed him back a few times, which sets him off again, laughing
until he starts to wheeze.

He doesn't like using that goddamned inhaler.  I can't blame him.
Julie says that the damage to his lungs wasn't major enough to
cause serious problems, but bad enough to exacerbate a more or
less dormant case of asthma.  When he groused that he'd outgrown
asthma by the time he started school, Julie told him gently that he
hadn't, exactly, which he doesn't really believe.

She had to chivvy him to get the inhaler.

I grouse back at him about not using it, but I can't blame him.  He
made it through Quantico, and the training there is pretty damned
tough.  Having this come back to haunt him must be difficult.

He's not quite ready to get back to work, but he's doing a lot of
reading.  I think he's starting to think beyond simply getting well.
We've had some elliptical conversations about what he's going to
do when he's finally ready, and I've seen those wheels turning.

He's gone through the maps and told me what he remembers,
which is significant.  Ellison is practically singing the Hallelujah
Chorus over what Mulder's given us.   According to him, Mulder's
extraction is more than justified now, which statement made me
grind my teeth.  In spite of the fact that I'd pretty much sold
Heatherton on it because of that possibility.

Even though I'm not naive or a fool, it makes me feel chilled to
realize that if I hadn't recognized Mulder, he would have remained
Wilkinson's captive.  Or ended up dead at Wilkinson's hands,
despite Wilkinson's orders.  Where do we draw the line, Doctor?
I'm still furious that Watts would have let Wilkinson continue with
his victims, despite knowing what he was.  I'm furious that
Watts knew that Wilkinson's current catch was a former FBI agent.
I'm furious that I had to argue to get Mulder extracted, that I had
to make a case for retrieving whoever Wilkinson's victim might
have been.

I do understand the pragmatic reasons for this.  As I've said, I'm
not a fool.  But I'm compellingly reminded of Burke's comment
that all that is necessary for evil to succeed is that good men do
nothing.

How can we justify our own existence if we don't act to put an end
to the monsters like Wilkinson?

I'm not happy and I trust that I've made my unhappiness known to
Ellison, who is, despite my snarling, a decent man.  He assures me
that Watts was Heatherton's operative, had been recruited by
Heatherton and that the majority of the command operatives were
unaware of what Watts personal style was.

I find that hard to believe, but then a small voice in my head
reminds me that I frequently was unaware of what Mulder was
doing to get himself into trouble until after the fact.

But it doesn't explain the people who worked with Watts.

I get deep into brooding on that and the resident smart ass shows
up and gives me grief over sitting so long at the computer without
clicking any of the keys.

And wants to Doom.  I'll Doom him.  His sense of humor certainly
survived.

ws
 
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

I really don't want to argue with you on the telephone where he
can overhear me, Doctor, but I do appreciate your concern.
Nevertheless, despite my own resistance to giving in to illness, I
do feel pretty lousy.  And it would definitely drive home the
message that we think he's still, as he puts it, non compos
mentis if I don't let him at least help out.

So, now, I'm not going to force him, I'm not in good enough shape
to force him.  If I treat him like a victim, it's going to be very
painful for him.

Instead, I'm going to treat him like a friend and bitch at him to do
extra journalling.  I'll make that compromise with you.

And for God's sake, trust me to tell you if I think he's got a
problem.  I have the flu, I'm not unconscious.  Sending John up to
get him was a little much.  I'm at least glad that you didn't try to
get Cassie to drive up and force him
down.

He was furious, understandably so--at least in my opinion--when
he got back.  I heard his computer keys clicking like mad, so I
suspect he's sent you something.  I can't say that I blame him.

He has talked to his mother, and he's told you about that.  He's
been talking about Scully, and he's written about it as well.

We're going to continue to have this battle, I'm sure, and I'm well
aware that you're the professional, but for God's sake, give the
poor bastard some breathing space.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Journal Pages

No, Doctor Horowitz, I haven't seen the journal pages in question.
I do have them, sealed in an envelope.  He came out and gave
them to me after spending the whole of the previous evening in his
room, in the dark, listening to his stereo.  Julie was somewhat
concerned, but I've seen this before.  Usually, he just needs time to
work through it.

I did manage to chivvy him into eating something, but not much.
He got up before I did the next morning and growled at me until I
finally gave in and just lay down on the couch.

He was jumpy and nervy and was clearly trying to process
whatever the hell it was the two of you had worked on the
previous day.  And not inclined to talk about it.

Finally, I did venture to ask, by the way, I'm not that laissez faire
with his health, physical or emotional.  "Bad session yesterday?"

That got a grim look and a quick nod.  "I really don't want to talk
about it."

I nodded.  But couldn't forbear.  "You doing all right?"

He made this bitter sound.  "Yeah, I suppose.  She just won't
fucking let up, that's all."  Another grim look.

I let that pass.

After breakfast, I heard him typing in his room.  Around noon, he
emerged, looking raw and exhausted and handed me a sealed
envelope.   Evidently, he didn't want to trust this one to email.  Or
let me read it.

"I'll have Julie take it down," I told him.

He nodded, his mind clearly somewhere else.  "I don't want you to
read it."  Very faint voice.

"That's fair," I agreed and tried to offer a reassuring smile.  Not
my best feature, I'm afraid, he didn't look terribly reassured.

But he nodded and went into the kitchen to make clattering noises
and emerge for lunch.  I, in the meantime, took the envelope in
and put it in my dresser.  Not for any particular reason, I'm sorry
to report, I had no idea that he was going to change his mind.  Just
because I felt uncomfortable with it sitting on the couch with me.

He was quiet the rest of the day.  Not brooding, exactly, but
thoughtful.  And that night, he had another bad night.  He hasn't
had one of those for a while.   I found him pressed into the corner
near the wall--at least he hadn't worked his way down this time,
which was a relief--and got him up, into the shower and
back into bed on clean sheets.

I'm not sure he completely woke up during any of these
maneuvers, to be truthful, he seemed completely glazed, even after
the shower.   When I guided him back, he sat on the bed staring at
his feet, a strange expression on his face.

His toenails have all grown back normally, so I'm forced to
assume he was thinking about what they looked like when he first
arrived.  Or what Wilkinson did to him.

"Into bed," I told him softly and he started, looked up at me, as if
he'd just woken up, then sighed and got back into bed, pulling the
blankets up to his ears again.

I reached for the lamp, but he put out a hand to stop me.  "Leave
it."  Muffled
voice.

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was a good night for
me to sit up and read, but I must be getting predictable, he waved
me out.

This morning, he was up again early, before Julie left, acting like
that longtailed cat again.   Jittering and jiving, as he puts it.

When I emerged from my shower, he was pacing restlessly in the
livingroom while Julie watched from the kitchen door.  "I want the
pages back.  Julie says she doesn't have them."

I'm sure I looked dumbfounded.   "No, I haven't given them to her
yet."

"I want them back."  Hyper as hell and just short of manic, still
pacing.

I considered that.  Shook my head.  "Not until you calm down."

Mulder gave me a betrayed look and went past me to his room,
slamming the door.

Julie and I stared at each other.  "Does he still have the meds from
running through the window?"

"Yeah."  I looked over my shoulder at the closed door.  "But if
you think he's going to take them in this mood, I have to disagree."

"I'll talk to Elise."  Julie finished her coffee and went into the
kitchen.   I followed her.  We made our good-byes and she sighed.
"Don't let him destroy them, Walt.  Whatever if it, it's got to be
powerful, which means it's something he needs to work on."

I agreed that I wouldn't, and went in to my room to get out of my
robe and into clothes.  Almost as an afterthought, I moved the
envelope.

And that, Doctor, is that.  I assume we'll have him down there this
afternoon and I wish you joy of it.  But I'd ask one favor.  Don't
push him to the wall.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  RE: Journal

No, he hasn't talked to me about your sessions, and I'm not going
to push him to do so.  That's private, as you've pointed out to me
yourself.

He's doing fine, apparently, and has gotten over being angry at me
for not giving him back the journal pages.

He and Cassie evidently had a fine day together, his spirits seem
reasonably good, and I'm not going to violate his trust by sending
you those pages.  Please don't ask again.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

I appreciate your concern, particularly now that we're snowed in,
Doctor, but the only one currently upsetting him is you.  Strike
that, I'm upsetting him, too, because I won't give him the damned
envelope back.  I've given him my word I haven't and won't read it.
Or send it to you without his permission.

That was the only reason he calmed down and behaved in a
civilized manner last night and today.  Although he's still clearly
angry.  Which isn't exactly comfortable for either of us.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

Yes, he did let me read what he sent to you, and yes, I do
understand why you find this account less than informative.

He's a profiler.  He profiled Wilkinson for you.   No, I will not
bring him down to the clinic, I couldn't make it down there even if
I agreed with you that it was the way to deal with this stalemate.

I know he needs to deal with it, but I cannot agree that forcing him
to deal with it is a wise path.  In fact, Doctor, I have to wonder
why you're forcing him so hard, instead of letting him take it at his
own pace.  Is your curiosity about what was done to him so great?
Fine, I'll get Watts surveillance files and you can read it on your
own and leave him the hell alone.  Just let me know what parts
especially concern you and I'll weed out the rest.  In fact, I believe
that Watts actually had surveillance tapes, you might find those
enlightening.

And frankly, unless you can come up with stronger reasoning than
you have given me--and I remind you, technically, I'm his guardian
at this point--I will not permit you to drug him and take him to the
clinic again over this.
ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

Yes, I did talk to him, obviously.  Or he wouldn't have let me
bring the envelope down.   I deeply regret that it was necessary for
me to have that talk with him.  It was difficult and upsetting for
both of us, and frankly, I'm none to happy with your behavior.  I'm
not altogether happy with my own, but I feel that I at least did
what I could to protect him.

All right, he's given me permission to send you the pages.   I hope
that they're worth what you've put him through.

Needless to say, I'm still both angry and upset.  Not with him,
Doctor, with you.  The more so because you know already what
Wilkinson did to him.

How does your behavior with him differ from Wilkinson's,
Doctor?  Christ, for that matter, how does mine?  In letting him
know that Wilkinson's little pursuits were documented, I violated
him just as much.  In reading those pages, I violated him, never
mind that he'd given me permission to read them.  He gave me
permission because we backed him into a goddamned corner.

I'm not very happy with either of us right now, Doctor, so forgive
me if I sound sharper and more disapproving than usual.  I have to
trust that you know what the hell you're doing, you came highly
recommended and you've dealt with Consortium survivors before.

But I'm not happy.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

As I said on the telephone, Mulder is doing fine.   I appreciate
your comments regarding my sense of guilt, but I remind you once
again, I am not your patient.

I'll deal with my own guilt in my own way, thank you very much.

In any case, he's clearly not blaming me, he blames you.  He thinks
I got caught in the middle, which may be true, but doesn't make
me feel any better.

I have to trust that you're doing the right thing, Doctor, because it
isn't my field.  It's your field and it's his field.    And he isn't a
Freudian.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

Yes, I saw what he sent you.  What can I say, I can't tell him what
to write.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

Yes, I have talked to him about the entire matter.  God knows
why, but he let me come in and sit down and talk about it over a
beer.  Not that he drank much of his.  He was upset, I was upset,
but we talked.

I actually wish I was as good at helping him as he thinks I am.  It
must be the contrast with the last three years that makes me look
good.

The worst thing about rape isn't the violation, it isn't any injuries
sustained during the crime, it's the way it makes the victim feel.  I
know that, I've seen it in victims.  But I don't know it in my gut, so
it's a lie for me to indicate to him that I understand.

I can't even begin to imagine how the hell he survived any of it.
He's told me that he tried suicide several times, but they watched
him pretty closely.  Patched him up and kept anything that could
be used as a tool away from him.

It's very humbling, frankly, I've always thought I could survive
anything if I could survive Vietnam.  I'm no longer quite as certain
of that.  Yet he has.  What I said to him, Doctor, is quite true.
They made him a victim, but he made himself a survivor.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Request

I have a request to make of you.  Mulder has already talked to me
about this, but he's feeling glumly sure that you won't agree with it,
particularly after your intransigence over the journal pages and
doesn't even want to raise the issue.

He wants to visit his mother in Calgary.  In his favor, I have to
point out that he's coming back from the low triggered by the issue
of his journal.   He's feeling very well physically, and he's gained
seven pounds in the last week.  He's also in good spirits, which
only goes to prove my point, that he's much stronger and saner
than you give him credit for being.  And he's been working
hard, pulling up data and providing Ellison, via me, a lot of
valuable analysis.  That's what he's good at.

I've already had a petition prepared giving him back control over
his own life.  I will, of course, wait on your final judgement to
have it filed with the Committee, but I believe he's earned that
back.  And, if necessary, I will take him down to Calgary myself
and stay there for the visit--but I'd prefer to take him down and let
him be alone with his mother.

I think he's earned that, too.

ws
 

To: HorowitzE
From: SkinnerW
Subject:  Mulder

For Christ's sweet sake, Doctor, what else do you want of him?
He's clearly not suicidal, and believe me, if anything should have
tipped him over, it should have been the Wilkinson pages.  I'd be
glad to speak to Ellison and take Mulder to