By WickdZoot
Wickdzoot@aol.com

Day 1

Okay, Horowitz, I'll keep the deal.  I'll goddamned well write in
this fucking journal between sessions to keep from having to come
down there every goddamned day.

What did you ask me the first visit?  What happened to me, that's
what you asked me.  How did I come to be here.

I died in 1997.  Or people thought I did.  And until Walter Skinner
went to work for whatever the hell they call this organization, they
kept thinking it.

The first time I laid eyes on Skinner after almost three years--
although, believe me, I had no idea if it was three years or five--
was with Watts, who had hustled me through the airport at
Calgary and into a private plane, up into the mountains to an
airstrip, and from there by four wheel drive up slopes rugged
enough that I had vertigo and dry heaves toward the end of that
trip.

Of course, Watts is such a nice guy, he had his pet medic give me a
shot that left me reeling so badly I'm not sure I could have
remembered my own name.

It was wearing off by the time we got here, and thankfully had
gotten dark, so I didn't have to look and see that our chances of
falling off the mountain were pretty good.  I might have
been asleep when we got to Skinner's.  Or just fugued out.  Watts
reached in through the open car door and I nearly panicked again,
completely at sea about where I was, who he was, all those little
facts that let you get your legs under you.  Skinner's shape in the
doorway was familiar, but it was a sort of pleasant familiarity and I
tried to get my breath, to actually get my legs under me for real.
When I got a look at him in the light, I started shaking.  It was
Skinner, it wasn't a trick.

They weren't just moving me from one Consortium site to another.
Notice, Horowitz, that not even in my worst nightmares and
paranoia did I ever think that Skinner was a Consortium
clown, even though I'd wondered about that a time or two early on
in our association.  For the first time, I didn't mind being a little
shorter than him, it was just so damned good to see him.
He immediately got an arm around my shoulders and walked me
into the house slowly, giving me time to get my feet in place, not
rushing me.

There was a shortish, muscular guy standing there, sandy blonde
hair and an improbable mustache.  He was introduced or
introduced himself as Jack.

Ah, Jack, my personal nemesis.

Jack proved himself that right away.  Hot bath to get my guard
down, and the son of a bitch wouldn't even leave me alone to take
it.  Please, I checked, there weren't any sharp things in the
bathroom, although at that point I wasn't processing enough to
start planning my check-out from Planet Earth.  He at least let me
wrap a towel around my waist to walk back into the
bedroom.  I balked at the door.

None of the furniture was mine, but everything else--Skinner told
me yesterday that since I'd made Scully executor, she'd taken care
of bequests, gotten rid of the furniture, and simply stored
everything else.  He thinks she simply couldn't face going through
it, and her mother gave him the key and told him to take care of it.

The usually pragmatic  Walter Skinner paid the fees for the last
two and a half years rather than throw my stuff away.  Not that I'm
complaining, after hell it's nice to have the sweats that I wore so
often I got a hole in the left knee.  Or my favorite sweater.  Or my
Quantico sweatshirt.

Jack decided that I needed to have a physical exam, the jerk.

Skinner and he clashed there for the first time, because Skinner had
decided I needed to get dressed.  I liked Skinner's idea a lot better,
needless to say, and obediently reached out for the sweatshirt he
handed me.  It was  my Quantico sweatshirt.  Any composure I'd
gained in the bathtub went right out the window.  A real and
tangible indication that I had once been a real person, with a real
life, no matter how obsessive.  I wasn't a lab animal or--well,
outside of toy, I'm not sure how Wilkinson would have viewed me.
So I sat there on the edge of the bed hugging that stupid sweatshirt
to me like a kid with a teddy bear, tears streaming down my face
and rocking back and forth while Skinner got me a different shirt
to wear.

But going back to balking.  I saw all these books and bookshelves.
I didn't remember having bookshelves like that, so I was
reasonably certain they weren't mine, but the books were.
Books I hadn't had out of boxes since I left Oxford.  I stared at
them until Skinner came and gently took my arm.  No, he didn't
really take my arm, he sort of nudged me forward to the
bed.

A real bed with clean crisp sheets, sheets dried outside in the sun
and fresh air.  The smell of clean sheets has always been one of my
favorites.  So as Skinner handed me the sweatshirt, I was sitting
there surreptitiously rubbing my fingers on the sheets.  Oh, the best
kind, worn almost silky with age.

Then I got the sweatshirt, which I've already discussed.  Jack, as I
said, decided I needed to have a physical exam right then.  And
while he was snapping on the latex, he and Skinner were having a
terse, whispered exchange.  I think the only reason I didn't freak
out was that he wasn't holding either a syringe or a scalpel.  And,
of course, Skinner was there arguing with him.

I'm still angry about that, Horowitz.   I'm angry that Jack couldn't
leave me the hell alone when I was still so raw and upset and
barely processing that I was really safe for the first time in
three years.  Or almost three years, excuse me, Doctor, if I'm less
than precise.  And I'm angry that Skinner was convinced against
his own better judgement to let him.  Not that I'm blaming Skinner,
exactly, and there was a certain relief in seeing his jaw go tight.
And he handled the whole thing pretty calmly, as if he sat next to
one of his half-naked agents every day and talked them through an
anxiety attack and physical exam.

But I'm still furious with Jack.  Like I couldn't have lived without a
physical examination right at that moment.  And when he actually
wanted to get out the KY and probe places I really didn't want
probed, particularly not in front of my boss or former boss or
whatever, Skinner snapped at him.  "That's fine, Jack, he's freezing
and he's obviously not in immediate danger, Watts had him looked
at before the flight."

I would have kissed him, but considering what Wilkinson's done to
my reputation, I thought it wiser not to.  So instead, I just sat up
and let him help me into the rest of my clothes.  Oh, man, they
were clean and soft on the whip cuts on my ass and the backs of
my thighs.  Those were healing, lest I lead you to believe that Jack
didn't do a good job and check me thoroughly.  But it still felt
good to have soft fleece there.

Skinner motioned and I swung my legs into the bed.  He'd piled
about three or four pillows behind me and I scooted up to the
headboard.  And there we were, staring at each other like
bandits in a Mexican stand-off.

"Jack," Skinner's tone was mild, despite his earlier irritation.  "Why
don't you get him some of that clam chowder and bread and
butter."  I started salivating.  On top of whatever Watts had
given me, I felt a little queasy, but God, I was starving.

Jack went out without a word.  I think he figured out that Skinner
was going to be a problem for him long before I did.  Of course,
since I think Jack secretly dreams of having Skinner invite him into
the big kahuna's bedroom, that must have hurt.  Do I care?  Not a
lot, no.  I'm heartless, Horowitz, live with it.

Skinner and I stared at each other in silence for several moments.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed by this time.

"Fancy meeting you here," I finally said, although I'm afraid it was
hard to recover a cool exterior after sniveling over a Quantico
sweatshirt.  "Yeah."

He smiled then.

I haven't seen Skinner smile often.  Occasionally at office
functions.

"I'd ask you how you're doing," he told me, "But that seems like a
really stupid thing to ask.  No offense, Fox, but you look like hell."

"Don't call me that," I promptly said and hugged my sweatshirt a
lot more tightly.  "My name is Mulder."  Tight voice, trying to
keep it from shaking.

An arched eyebrow, but he nodded.  "Sorry."

Of course, I immediately wanted to apologize and tell him he could
call me Fox.  Not really, and he certainly didn't look disturbed or
like his feelings were wounded.  But my normal reactions weren't
in operation and I was operating out of this mindset that didn't
want to upset the only person who really seemed to give a shit
about me.

I started to apologize, but he shook his head, smiling a little bit.
"It's been a while, I guess I forgot."

So I leaned back against the pillow and tried to loosen my
deathgrip on the sweatshirt, tried to think of witty repartee for the
occasion.  Let's see, he'd told me I looked like hell.  Hmm,
nothing really good came to mind.  Except maybe, "You don't."
And he didn't, he looked good, fit and rugged and a helluva lot
more relaxed than I would be if *he'd* been the one to
come back from the dead.  "Watts says you got me out."

He shrugged.  That's so Skinner, it really kills me.  Gary Cooper to
a T.  "Once I'd figured out it was you, that you weren't dead, yeah,
I guess I got the ball rolling to get you out of there."

See how he tells it?  Minimizing the fact that he actually went in
and got the big boss--who did head up UNCLE, anyway, in the old
series, I can't quite retrieve that--to get me out of the clutches of
THRUSH.  "Thanks."  I mean, what do you say?

"You should have left me there, I'm better off dead."  That's what
you say and I said it.

Did I say I wanted to punch him out for it in spite of everything?

"Maybe."  Skinner just kept giving me this uncharacteristically mild
look.  "Maybe not.  Judgement call, besides, it's been dull without
you."

Jesus.  I had to look away and blink hard then, and Jack came back
in with a tray and laid it across my    knees, fortunately preventing
me from saying or doing anything it would embarrass me now to
remember.

Jack was miffed over having Skinner put a stop to his do-gooding.
He left Skinner to watch me inhale the clam chowder.  New
England style, thick chunks of potatoes and pieces of clam, it was
the best thing I remembered tasting in--in my entire life, if you
want the truth, Horowitz.  I almost moaned in pleasure.  Thick
sourdough bread with butter--god, real butter, I swear, I got tears
in my eyes again.  I felt obscenely full by the time it was gone.

Lolling back against the pillows, I watched drowsily while Skinner
turned on the small television set that sat on the dresser.  He
handed me the remote and I blinked at it.

"You want to tell me how all this happened?" he asked softly.

Not particularly.

"I'm tired," I told him shortly and pulled the bedclothes up to my
chin.  A down comforter on top of a couple of nice homey thermal
blankets.  It must get colder than shit up here, I thought and
wiggled my toes in the silk-wool blend socks Skinner had so
thoughtfully provided me.  "I want to go to sleep."

He nodded and turned off the lamp.  I almost reached out and
turned it on, but there was an infomercial coming on the television
and I hadn't seen one in three years.  Enthralled, I watched for a
moment as somebody touted a real estate course.

"210 channels, Mulder," Skinner's voice came from the door.
"Knock yourself out, but try to get some rest, okay?"

Heh.  I fiddled with the channel button, discovering that there were
actually 214--trust Skinner to err on the conservative side--and fell
asleep within the first few minutes of Alien.  The first one.

Is that what you wanted to know, Horowitz?   No homey little
House on the Prairie reunion here.
 

Day 2

Okay, we had another pointless session yesterday, Horowitz.  I
don't know what the hell you want me to say about any of it.
Yeah, I was pretty  ragged when I got to Skinner's that night.
So, what's your point?  How would you expect me to be?  Did you
want me to hang on Skinner's neck and cry?  You and Jack, I
swear.

Yeah, Skinner had gotten me out of Consortium hands.  He'd
gotten me out of genetic testing and medical experiments and a
rest cure at the Wilkinson estate.  And yeah, Horowitz,
Wilkinson was a sexual sadist.

I want to differentiate between guys who dress up in leather and
whip their chosen partners, Horowitz.  Wilkinson's the kind of guy
I used to hunt.  I should have been grateful, I should have hung on
Skinner's neck.  But what I really wanted to do at first was punch
his lights out.  I was reasonably certain that if things had gone on, I
could  have gotten Wilkinson to kill me. My instinct was to
survive, like it always had been, but I was working around to the
opposite point of view on that.  He was dedicated to snuff films,
was Wilkinson.

The people you meet in the Consortium, as I now call it, are so
charming.

Terry Watts may have been leading the team that extracted me, but
Skinner got me out. They wouldn't let Skinner go.  His face was
known, and he hadn't had any interesting cosmetic surgeries to
change that.

Right after they got me up here in the Canadian Rockies, in this
little enclave of secrecy, I had to go into their clinic for surgery.
To remove the implants here there and everywhere.  So I spent the
first two or three weeks pretty well zoned.

I'm told by Jack, who also expects me to be grateful, that Skinner
didn't leave the clinic except when I was asleep.  I was pretty
strange.  Especially after they told me that Scully had died almost a
year and a half earlier.

Actually, I am grateful, Skinner was the only face I knew and I was
out of my head a lot of the time.  I kept thinking I was back in the
experimental lab with my old friends, the Mengeles, undergoing
things I'd never known existed, even though I'd imagined plenty.

So, when I was well enough to leave the clinic, i.e., they didn't
have a suicide watch on me and I was healing from the surgeries, I
went home with Skinner, about fifteen miles up-mountain from the
clinic.  They say that a lot here, up-mountain.  Weird people.
They're okay, mostly.   Except for Jack and Horowitz, my duly
assigned shrink.  She looks like this nice little Jewish grandmother
and acts like the Bitch of Belsen.

Hey, I can say that, my mother is Jewish.  At least by heritage,
even if she's never seen a synagogue since she married my father,
and wouldn't set foot in a church if you threatened to burn her as a
witch.  The first time they made me go in to talk to Horowitz, I sat
there silently for the entire hour.

After the first ten minutes and a few gentle leading questions, she
went and got some embroidery out of her desk drawer and sat
there and did needlepoint or cross stitch or whatever the hell it
was.  And when Skinner collected me, like you collect kids after
kindergarten, she shook her head at him and said, "Not a good day
today, Walter."

Except she has a heavy European accent and it sounded more like
"Not a gut day today, Valter."

I swear, life is a comedy and God is a sick, sadistic son of a bitch
jokemeister.

The second time, she decided on a different approach and read out
loud from the file they'd put together on Wilkinson.  I had to stop
there a minute, Dear Diary, so I could go and throw up.  But I'm
improving.  I don't get so many physical memories when I hear his
name these days, except for the hot sweet urge to go diving in the
Bermuda Triangle, pull up his rotting corpse and do things to it
that my mother would faint to hear about.  I spent that hour
throwing up into her wastebasket and the bitch wouldn't let me
leave.

God.  I spend years dancing around shrinks and I end up with
Horowitz.  She doesn't care that I went to Oxford and she won't let
me engage in detached analytical bullshit.  I wish I still carried a
gun.  Either for myself or Horowitz.  And Skinner and Jack won't
let me miss an appointment and I have to go every goddamned
day.  It's like having a root canal.

Imagine Walter Skinner as my guardian angel.  Or my mother.  I
can't even begin to imagine him as my father, Skinner's too decent,
and I don't think irony is in Skinner's vocabulary.

I keep waiting for him to say something touchy feely like "I hear
what you're saying, Mulder", or worse, "I feel your pain, Mulder",
and I'll punch his lights out, but it hasn't happened yet.  And at my
present weight, I probably wouldn't even leave a dent in that steely
jaw.

That prick Watts thinks Skinner is fucking me, he thinks Wilkinson
did such a good job on me that I just crawled into Skinner's bed
and said, yes, Master, do me however you want.  Now there's
someone I could justifiably shoot.  Along with Jack.

Jack hasn't got a clue, I swear.  He thinks Wilkinson's habits were
no kinkier than the average S&M freak.  Whips and handcuffs and
leashes, Oh, My.  Of course, Wilkinson liked the accoutrements as
a spice to his entrees, but he could forego that without any trouble.

Anyway, after a week of apparently pointless sessions, with me
throwing up into the wastebasket at the slightest opportunity,
Horowitz let me cut back to three times a week if I kept this
fucking journal.

Oh, no, not a nice easy cognitive learning journal, she wants the
life and times of Fox William Mulder.   Well, she ain't gonna get all
that--you hear that, Horowitz?--but I'll give her the recent life and
times of Fox William Mulder so long as she doesn't press me for
details on the last two years.  Or the last year.  Or whatever it was,
I kinda lost track of time.

Evidently Skinner doesn't read these pages before he takes them
down to her.  In fact, I know that, I watched him seal the last set
into an envelope and give it to Jack.   Jack would probably read
them, Jack thinks he's going to be my messiah because he survived
six years of sexual slavery and came out of therapy intact.  He
thinks Horowitz is the answer to a submissive's prayer and is
horrified when I don't cooperate.  At least Skinner won't let him
use the needle too often, or I'd have to contemplate shooting Jack,
too.

I hate surviving one year of Wilkinson, and the fucking wasn't the
hard part.  My fingers ache when it turns cold because he thought
it was amusing to break my fingers after I caught hold of the leash
he tried to use on me.  Needless to say, I decided I'd rather keep
my fingers and let him have his way after he produced the magic
pictures of Scully.

I keep asking myself where they got those pictures, but it's really a
fool's question.  I certainly wasn't around her twenty-four hours a
day, and some of them, where she looks healthy and strong, were
taken before she got sick.  But Wilkinson had his little ways, he
did, and most of them included pain and loathing for me.

And that's not even why I hate surviving, I hate surviving to find
out that I was pathetic, I bought into the biggest lie of all, I
believed that cigarette smoking motherfucker when he said
they'd cure Scully if I turned myself over to them.  Naturally, I
thought they were going to kill me.

Oh, surprise, Mulder, you're only going to wish they did, and
everytime you gave them any real trouble, everytime you had the
strength to give them any real trouble, they threatened you
with that, produced the healthy Scully pictures and reminded  me
that they'd taken her the first time and could do it again, far more
easily.  That five years, really, should go by before she was
pronounced cancer free.

Lies, lies, lies.  And I swallowed them whole, walked out into the
darkness of that night, watched them take in my body double, heh,
and got swallowed up myself.

My father let them experiment on his kids.  I know that for a fact
now, and they were fascinated to study the spiral of my DNA and
figure out what worked and what hadn't.  I got fat on the drugs
they gave me, lazy and sloppy and so completely blitzed I was
lucky I could find my dick with both hands.  I'm not sure how long
that took.  I was too stoned most of the time, and they weren't
going to let me get clean until they'd gotten what they wanted
medically.  The baseline I think Scully would have called it.

Wilkinson worked the fat off me in no time.

Everytime we sit down to eat now, Skinner eyes me if I even slow
down.  Jack threatened to give me insulin or something to trigger
this horrendous appetite that I wouldn't be able to fight.  Hah.
Little does Jack know the Mulder temperament.  Or the Skinner
temperament.  Skinner put a stop to that in a New York second.

I may hate surviving, but I like Skinner.  I used to wonder if he
expected me to fall on his neck in gratitude for getting me out of
there and finally asked him yesterday.

He gave me that funny little twist of the mouth he's developed
since joining UNCLE or whatever the hell these people call
themselves and shook his head.  "Nope."

Sometimes, Skinner rivals Gary Cooper as a man of few words.
He also manages to work my ass to exhaustion.  How can anybody
living in the mountains come up with so many outside projects?
First, it was cutting wood, enough wood to build the fucking
house twice over again.  I had blisters on my blisters, which didn't
make me any happier to have to go talk to Horowitz every day,
except that it meant I wasn't chopping or digging or sanding or
planing.  I suspect he's planning one of those Japanese Gardens and
spent too much time watching the Karate Kid back in the eighties.

Work will set you free.

I called him Napoleon Solo to his face the other day and he
cracked up, plain and simple.  I can die a happy man, now, I've
seen Walter Skinner with tears running down his face from
laughing.

Maybe that's why I like Skinner, he's complex, but uncomplicated.
And he treats me like Mulder, not like a victim.  Well, except for at
night, when I've had a particularly vicious nightmare.

Scully is dead.

There, I've written it down as a hard fact.  She died thirteen
months after my alleged death.  In the hospital.  Ravaged by
radiation and chemo.  Or so I imagine, Skinner doesn't want to
talk about it much except he said that he used to go and see her
every few days.  I had to cry then, which upset him, but he sat
there with his hand on my shoulder looking out at the sunset over
the mountains and just let me be.  He also told me he promised her
he'd make them pay.

With that twist of the lips, letting me know that he thought it was
probably a lost cause, but he was going to damned well do it
anyway.  It tells me something that he left the FBI, that he
didn't think he could even make a start there.  I finally convinced
Skinner that the bad guys were all around us and all I had to do
was die.

No, that's not fair, he knew, they tried to frame him, tried to kill his
wife.  And he tried to save Scully.  After that little frame-up, I
figured they were jerking him off and after Kritschgau, I figured
that the only way they'd save Scully is if I was gone.  As in dead.
They knew damned well they couldn't co-opt me.

I think my sister is probably dead.  The really horrible thing about
living through everything is that I can accept that, even if it isn't
true.  I don't want to look anymore, I just don't fucking care.  I
can't win this one.  I'm never going to win it, even if I'm still
breathing.

Okay, I've been putting it off.  Horowitz, you know about Mengele
and his cronies and what they did to Jewish prisoners in the
concentration camps.  Imagine that much fun, only with people
who actually didn't want you to die until they finished with you, so
they kept bringing you back again and again.  That was how I
spent my time before Wilkinson.

And when, for some reason, maybe fucking stupidity, I kept
surviving, they got all excited and muttered darkly about the
changes to my DNA and put me out to pasture with Wilkinson.  In
case they wanted me again.

Wilkinson told me that little tidbit, when I was raging at him to just
fucking kill me and get it over with.  Regretfully, no less.  "I can't
kill you, Fox, I have orders not to."

In a way, that was a relief, it was the first inkling that I wasn't
really intended as his little tidbit.  That was just an unfortunate side
effect of my captivity.  I was able to keep in mind that I was
a sort of political prisoner a lot more easily.  Not that it helped
much.

Political prisoners get tortured all the time.

I still wish he wasn't dead, I'd like to have him here in a cell and
just drop by two or three times a day to do something reptilian to
him.  Except I'd have to touch him for most of them, and I couldn't
stand that, so I'd have to invest in some of his nifty electrical toys.

I also have some dandy scars in various places from interesting
surgeries.  I suppose I should be grateful they didn't castrate me,
but evidently they didn't want to fuck with the natural biochemistry
of the machine much.  So I didn't even get any really swell drugs.
Hey, how do you feel about having the bends, Horowitz?  Or
traveling at the speed of light?  I don't want to brag, but I've
damned near done it all, including a lot of things I didn't think
anyone could do, not even with the fucking technology I knew
damned well they had.

Our brothers from beyond the stars aren't particularly interested in
us as an intelligent species, I've decided.   It's more like the Roman
Coliseum.  They drop by to see the latest gladiator action.

That's it for today, Horowitz, I'll catch you tomorrow.

Day 3.

How's that for uninspired, Diary, I didn't even put a date.

I had a real screamer last night and woke up to find Skinner talking
to me again, his hand cupping my face.  Talking me back out of the
netherworld of my dreams.

It's so fucking humiliating.  I can give him shit all day long, classic
me in high roller mode.  He doesn't even get pissed.  Just gives me
that weird smile again or laughs outright.  Sometimes I think it's
because he knows that in the middle of the night I'm going to
regress again to about five years old--and that may be generous--
and he's going to be dealing with my inner child.  I really hate my
inner child.  There was a great song a few years ago about finding
your inner child and kicking its ass.  I wish I could remember.

I used to remember everything.

On the other hand, maybe that's one of the few mercies of the
Great Jokemeister in the sky.

He says I don't scream, but if I don't scream, how the hell does he
know I'm having a nightmare?  Does he sit up at night waiting for
the slightest sound from my room?  He said no, when I asked him
and just shrugged.

Am I supposed to believe that Skinner, by the book, ramrod
Skinner, has a psychic connection to my dreams?  Jesus, that's
scarier than Roche.

BTW, Dear Diary, I found out, Horowitz is Freudian.  Thereby
giving me further confirmation of my view of a supreme being.  I
survive the last two  and a half years, and I end up being
forced to go to a Freudian.  No wonder she wants me to write
about my life and times.  Not a chance, Horowitz.  This stuff is bad
enough, count yourself lucky.  And the only reason I'm doing that
is because Skinner seems to think there's a good chance I can make
it back all the way and stop thinking about using his cutlery to
redesign my hydraulic system.

I don't know why he bothers.  I drove him fucking crazy for four
years.  Well, okay, I saved his ass a couple of times, but he saved
mine, too, so we're even.  I don't know why he keeps going around
with the guilt sword hanging over his head.  He denies it, but I can
practically see the wheels turn when I make some remark about
offing myself.  On the other hand, he said Scully felt guilty, too.

I'm not ready to write about Scully, yet.  It's hard enough to keep
remembering she's dead.

Skinner has a good question, though.  Why didn't they just kill me?
I told him when he figures it out, let me know.  I guess it's the
medical/genetic shit, which they didn't bother to share with their
lab animal.

Julie Wilson is the physician of record here, did I say that already?
She assures me I'm perfectly human, which was, I confess,
something of a relief.  I mean, bleeding red when I cut myself
shaving used to be a good enough sign for me, but it doesn't work
that way anymore.  Not after the things I saw.  I probably have
kids out there who are one quarter alien and bleed red. Tank
grown, so they're already halfway mature enough to use.  I don't
have anxiety attacks when I think about it anymore, but I did tell
Skinner so if somebody, sometime, shows up who looks exactly
like me, he knows to shoot first and ask questions at the autopsy.
He passed it on to someone who passed it on to someone and I got
to talk to that prick Watts again.

Skinner told me drily that I should capitalize it when I write that.

That Prick Watts.

He and Watts act like two alpha males at a wolf shindig.  Skinner's
shoulders get twice their natural size and Watts just smiles that
shit-eating, fuck you grin like he's waiting for Skinner to turn his
back so he can knife him.

I was too zoned the first time I saw them together, but when Watts
showed up to interview me, you would have thought I was kinner's
fifteen year old virgin daughter the way he acted.  Actually, it was
reassuring, Watts wasn't above fucking anyone, and he'd had a
little taste of me when I was tied down on Wilkinson's estate.  Like
I said, he thinks Skinner's my big leather daddy, and I suppose it
was like pissing on Skinner's territory.

Skinner caused something of an uproar when he found out I was
on Wilkinson's estate, evidently.  Jack told me that in hushed
tones--Skinner may not expect it, but Jack expects me to fall on
Skinner's neck and weep in gratitude and he gets annoyed when
I'm not properly grateful.  I think Jack wants to fall on Skinner's
neck and weep in something other than gratitude, I think he's still
secretly a sub and wants to lick Skinner's Marine boots clean.

Anyway, Skinner's interference pissed Watts off and he had to
move sooner than he wanted to, or so I gather.  So they didn't get
everything they wanted.  And Watts is still pissed.

So I had to look at mug shots, no shit, and go through every
goddamn record they had on the Consortium, as the men from
UNCLE call it, and I was still in bad enough shape that it upset
me, and Skinner got Watts the fuck out of the house.  They
exchanged some hard words outside, it was impossible to miss.

I went into my room and actually curled up on the floor under the
desk Skinner put in here for me.  Another sterling moment in the
history of Fox Mulder.  Closets were bad enough, at least I was
dreaming then.

Eventually, Jack ratted on me and Skinner came in and sat cross-
legged on the floor.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked quietly.

I most certainly did not, although I was embarrassed enough to
come out from under the desk.  And sat there on my heels, waiting
for him to either ream me or do something even more embarrassing
for both of us.  But he didn't.  He just waited.  For a long time.
Apparently quite patiently.

Another new thing, Diary, this new world contains a patient Walter
Skinner.  Oh, Brave New World-- wasn't that Shakespeare? I was
psych, not lit, and even though my brain stores endless amounts of
information, I think some of the old data got damaged during my
rest cure with the Consortium.

He reminded me of those old daguerreotypes you see of Apaches
on the reservation, patient expressions, even though they drove the
US Army crazy before they got rounded up.

"I don't want to talk about it," I finally ventured, since he obviously
wasn't going to say anything unless I answered him.  He's worse
than Horowitz that way.  I've accused him of taking up Zen since
his resignation from the Bureau and he just laughs again.

I think he's met Buddha on the road to enlightenment and killed
him.  He's entirely too cheerful about having to nursemaid me and I
know it's not in his nature.  He even thinks it's funny that Watts
thinks he's fucking me.  I don't think it's funny, but he does.  I just
don't have the energy to get pissed about it.

"He's a weasel, Mulder," he told me once, very seriously, "But he's
good at what he does.  Just ignore his bullshit."  Easier said than
done.

But we were sitting in front of the desk on the floor, weren't we?
Yeah.

Skinner nodded at my declaration of self-imposed silence as if he
agreed with it.  "You want something to eat?" he then asked.

He asks me that about ten times a day.  I know I look bad, I weigh
myself every morning on the scale in the bathroom, I know I'm
hideously thin and I  wasn't ever really fat to begin with.  Except
on the drugs, when I basically slept all the time and ate whatever
they gave me.  I felt like Brian Wilson, of the Beach Boys.

"No."  I managed to look straight at him.  To my relief, he didn't
look like he was feeling sorry for me.  Exactly.   But he was
watching me pretty closely.  Worried about the cutlery, I
imagine.

"Let's go outside," he suggested.

I didn't have a good reason for disagreeing with that suggestion,
and I'd actually put my shoes on that morning.  A new high in
Mulder's life.  Until today, when I shaved by myself.  My hands
have been shaking too badly, and if I wanted to get shaved, I had
to get Jack or Skinner to do it.

I wasn't going to ask Skinner, and I sure as hell wouldn't cross the
street to piss on Jack if he was on fire, so I went unshaven a couple
of days.

Skinner resolved that by getting an electric razor from somewhere.
Which was better than nothing, but I hate those things.  I get
ingrown whiskers from them.  Today, I managed a razor all by
myself, without cutting my own throat with it.    But I digress
again, Horowitz, forgive me.

So....I nodded and got up and followed him out to the front hall--
this house is built into a hill, did I say that yet?  It doesn't have any
fucking windows except one over the kitchen sink and one in the
livingroom and one helluva lot of filtered light that gets routed
through in some arcane way.  A bermed house, that's what they
call them.  The whole fucking settlement is like that, and
camouflaged heavily against satellite photos.

Anyway, I followed him out to the front hall and he tossed me a
familiar jacket.

My jacket.  My leather jacket.  The smell made my throat hurt, but
I put it on and followed him outside, blinking at the sun.  Trees
everywhere.  It reminded me of New England, except New
England doesn't have mountains as high as the Canadian Rockies,
and we were in the Canadian Rockies.

Instead of working me hard, Skinner walked me a long way.  Into
the trees and across the slope.  We came to a spring and Skinner
stopped dead.  Put a hand on my shoulder and turned me toward
more trees.

I saw the doe then.  It was fall, she had the fawn near her.  I didn't
know we were low enough to see deer, I somehow had this vision
of being on the roof of the Western Hemisphere.  And I froze and
just watched her.

She was scenting the air, testing it for danger.  Skinner was smiling
a little when I glanced at him, watching her.  After a moment, she
flicked her tail and she and her baby ran away from us, back up the
slope.  And Skinner was still smiling.

"I love this country," he said softly.  "We haven't murdered it yet."

I wondered if he meant Canada or the mountains in general and
decided on the latter.  I somehow couldn't see Skinner suddenly
developing a rabid allegiance to Canada, not when all governments
were, at the dark heart of it, the same.  And I'd never thought he
was stupid.

"It's pretty," I agreed and shifted from one foot to the other.

He gave me a mild look.  "Yeah.  Time to turn around, Mulder,
before I wear you out."  So we started back for the house.  A man
of few words, like I said.

 Finally, I asked him, "Why are you doing this?  Why do you care?"

Another mild look.  "Why shouldn't I?"

I wanted to stop, stand in the middle of the forest and scream at
the top of my lungs while tearing out my hair.   He keeps telling
me that every goddamned time I ask him either question.

Instead, I just stopped and scowled.  "That doesn't tell me
anything."

He just kept walking.  "I'm not trying to tell you anything, I'm
asking you why I shouldn't.  You went to Oxford, I think your
verbal skills are good, Mulder.  Tell me why I shouldn't."

Because I didn't think you even liked me, I wanted to begin, but I
knew that wasn't true.

Because you aren't a cop anymore?  For all I knew, he didn't see it
that way.

Because I'm a fucking basket case and you have nothing to gain?  I
actually said that and got that weird little smile again.

"Sure I do.  I can look at my own reflection when I shave."

Oh, great, a moralist.  While I thought about that, he got ahead of
me and I had to scramble on shaky legs to catch up.  "That's
bullshit."

That smile again.  "Then you tell me, Mulder.  You're the psych
fella.  Why  am I doing it?  Why does anyone do anything?"

That was easy.  "Because they want to.  Because it makes them
feel good."

 "Bingo."  The smile again.  I wanted to scream in frustration.

"But why does it make you feel good?" I persisted.

"You're the psych--"

"Fella, yeah I know."  I scowled at him.

"Profile me, Mulder," he challenged and then grinned outright.
"Figure it out.  Maybe it's an X file."  He kept walking.  And got
ahead of me again, the bastard.

Profile him.

Yeah, maybe I will, I thought, but I haven't.  Maybe I don't want to
know why he's doing this.  Maybe I'd rather think he just liked me
and thought he'd do me a good turn by getting me out of hell.

I was thinking about that the other day while sanding wood and
started giggling at the thought of him as Orpheus to my Eurydice
and he stopped and frowned at me.   I actually told him why I was
giggling and his face cleared.

"Yeah, but I was smart enough not to look back.  Of course, that
meant you had to deal with That Prick Watts."

Which got me giggling again until I had to put the sander down.  I
could hear the capital letters in his tone.  I think he thought it was
a good sign.

Maybe it was.  I don't know anymore.
 

Day 4

I really hate Horowitz.   And yeah, I know you're reading this,
Horowitz, so fuck you.

Walter Skinner can't possibly represent my father because he's a)
only nine years older than I am, he told me himself, and b) just
because he was an authority figure doesn't mean my unconscious
confuses him with my father and c) my father was an alcoholic who
managed to blame me for his own sins and compounded that by
getting shot in the head and dying as he asked me to forgive him.
Talk about no closure.

And my toilet training was not traumatic, thank you very much.

And my mother's still alive, so let's leave her out of it, and
Skinner's actually told me he's going to try to get them to let her
come up here.  So she knows her only son isn't dead by his
own hand.

I have mixed feelings about that, Horowitz.  In an honest effort to
do some therapeutic work, I tried to talk about that yesterday, but
you were fixated on Skinner.  You and Watts both make me tired.

I told Skinner he could read these pages before he seals them up
and sends them.  I'm not sure why, maybe an exercise in self-
abnegation.  See, why are you doing this, I'm an asshole and I'm
not worth it.

He read the last batch and cracked up in several places.  And when
he looked up, he was still smiling.  "You're going to make it,
Mulder.  Don't ever doubt it."

It's a good thing he's not a shrink, I'm not sure *I'd* have that
much confidence in a patient in my condition.  But from Skinner,
who used to think I really was crazy, it's reassurance.

Go figure.  And don't tell me it's because I'm starving for approval
from my father figure.

When I told him he could read them, he looked at me for a long
moment, completely Gary Cooper.  "Mulder, these are for
Horowitz, not me."

I gave him my best shit-eating grin.  "Yeah, but you want to, you
know it."

Shake of the head, one eyebrow lifted.  "No, I don't."

Maybe that's why I wanted him to read them, he's probably one of
the few people currently associated with me who doesn't demand
to know what's going on in my head.  "Okay, but I want you to."

He gave me a long look and I managed to keep a straight face.

Heh.  Gotcha, you stone faced bastard.  I haven't asked you for a
goddamn thing since I got here.  And it worked, by Christ, he
finally nodded and sat down to read them.

With the result that he decided I'm not completely insane.

At least he doesn't keep telling me I'm a survivor, he just keeps
working me to death.   Right now, this project is taking shape as a
kind of an enclosed porch, as far as I can tell.  And he really knows
what he's doing.  I'm afraid, I'm very afraid.

I can manage to fix my plumbing and change my car battery and
figure out if my carburetor isn't running right, but I'm not sure I
could manage an undertaking like this.  Fortunately, I'm only
handling the grunt work.

I'm afraid to ask him, I'll bet he spent the last two years building
this damned three bedroom berm himself.

Today he told me that he'd told Horowitz that he'd read my
rantings.  Not quite that way of course, he said, "I told Dr.
Horowitz that you asked me to read your journals."

No wonder she thinks he represents my father.  Jesus.  I'd rather be
seeing a shaman, I didn't have any ill effects from the Blessing Way
Albert Hosteen and the elders performed on me.  I'd trust them a
lot more not to take off on tangents unrelated.

Yeah, okay, I guess I trust Skinner.  For one thing, he hasn't patted
my ass and asked me to slip into something more comfortable.
Although if he had, I think Wilkinson's training would have
deserted me and I'd have simply gaped at him like an idiot.  Or
laughed hysterically.  Or something.

For another thing, he really doesn't have a goddamned thing to
gain by having a lunatic live in his second bedroom.  Although he
acts like he doesn't.  He still persists in treating me as normal, even
after a month of having a lunatic in his second bedroom.

Although maybe he does have something to gain, a goddamned
enclosed porch for his three bedroom berm.

It doesn't seem enough, somehow, to warrant not trusting him.
We haven't talked FBI at all, except for when he explained that
he'd resigned to start a new life as Napoleon.  And him telling me
to profile him.

And it's weird, he knows stuff about me that he shouldn't.  Like
sleeping with the television on.  Like hating to be drugged when
I'm upset.  Like digging up the fucking potato on the sideshow
murder case.  I finally asked him how he knew all this stuff--
despite Scully's insistence during the Roche case, I can't really
believe that somewhere out there exists a Fox Mulder web page
with pertinent details about my life.  And even if there was, it's not
exactly the kind of research project I'd expect from Skinner.

He really thought the Gary Cooper comparison was funny, BTW.
He thinks the strangest things are funny, and it's generally the
things I'd expect to piss him off.  Like Watts' certainty
that he's fucking me.

He said, "Well, Mulder, when we get snowed in this winter, with
that long dark hair, you might actually start to look appealing."

That's typical cop humor, Horowitz, I used to come up with much
worse to Reggie and Jerry Lamana and another couple of good
friends.  But here he is with this mental invalid living in his house
and when I tell him that fucker Watts thinks I'm his little warm and
toasty, he laughs and hands me that line.

I snickered and froze, the smile congealing on my face, flashing
one of those goddamn visceral somatic memories of Wilkinson
running his fingers through my hair.

Skinner's face changed.  "What?"

It passed and I was really proud of myself, I didn't throw up, throw
a screaming temper tantrum, or burst into tears.  Instead, I let the
smile take on some real force and said, "I was wondering how one
of those pre- Raphaelite curly perms would affect you."

And he said, I kid you not, "As long as you don't go around in all
those gauze draperies."

How many people have I known that could pick up on the pre-
Raphaelite reference and zing me back with it?   Not many.

Nothing in his tenure as my AD prepared me for this.  I told
Horowitz that far from representing my father, Skinner was
starting to make me crazier than any of the Consortium
clowns had managed.

Anyway, I asked him how he knew all this shit about me and he
looked at me kind of quizzically and said, "Scully told me."

Well, naturally, Mulder, get your head out of your ass.  I think I
turned a little red.

He went back to smoothing wet cement for the porch floor.  "It
helped her to talk about you," he told me, and his voice was a little
muffled, as if he didn't like remembering those days.

I didn't like thinking about them.  I stood there like an ass with
tears running down my face and holding onto the damned trowel
that I was useless with until he stood up again, put an arm around
my shoulders and led me back to sit on the boulders at the edge of
what was supposed to be a yard.

If I find out he moved those boulders there himself, the cutlery will
not be safe.  I couldn't even manage to get myself out of durance
vile alone.

Anyway, we sat there for a minute and I managed a couple of
appalling sniffles to keep my nose from running.

"She missed you a lot," he said softly, turning the trowel over and
over as if it held the secret of the universe.   "And when she talked
about you, it seemed to help.  There weren't many other people she
could talk about you with.  None of the people from the Bureau
came by, except me and a woman who was in her class at
Quantico.  And her mother sure as hell didn't want to talk about
you, she didn't even like seeing me show up.  The Bureau killed her
daughters, to her way of thinking.  I think she was too Catholic to
spit at me, but she'd get up and leave without a word when I
showed up.  I kept showing up because there were things
Scully wanted to say."  His voice was rough.

I nodded, even though I couldn't see anymore.  "I killed her."

"They killed her."  He sat straight up, as angry as I'd ever seen him
back in the good old bad old days.  "You didn't kill her, Mulder.
You were doing your job and she was doing hers.  And they
decided to try and stop you by taking her."

I wasn't going to argue with him.  I knew better.   She thought she
was just going to follow me around and find scientific explanations
that made sense for the things we dealt with and I never told her
that I knew they'd kill us to stop us.  Well, I suspected, the closer
we got.  I was never sure until they took her.  Which was a
meaningless distinction, I never said to her, say hey, Scully, we
might really get into  trouble here, you know, that might not stop
at shutting down the X files.  And so she took that damned metal
implant home with her.  Which might not have made any difference
if Krycek told Barry where to find her.

It makes my head ache to think about it and I keep thinking about
it late at night.  And wake up screaming in Skinner's second
bedroom like the lunatic I am so he can come in and soothe me
back to sleep.

Okay, Walt, maybe not screaming, but shaking and sweating and
moaning, satisfied?

My father, for your information, Horowitz, never bothered to
soothe me back to sleep.  If I woke him up screaming, I had plenty
of other reasons to scream when he was done with me.  Jack
generally wants to trank me when I wake up like that.  Or did.

I don't know what he thinks of Skinner's insistence that I go back
to sleep naturally.  Maybe Skinner is just this natural way freak,
you know, no drugs, lots of hard work, fresh air, and good food.
There used to be this thing called Muscular Christianity in the last
century, but Skinner may not be as pure of heart as those guys.
For one thing, I think Julie Wilson sneaks into the house at night.

Presumably, they think the mention of sex is going to send me
screaming for the knife drawer.  I have very little libido, of course,
but having surgery and being a head case probably has more to do
with that than Wilkinson fucking me.

He might have gotten me to do what he wanted, but he didn't get
into my head.  Exactly.

I do wonder why I managed to lie myself into turning myself over
to them.  I was that desperate to save Scully, says the little voice
that also asks me why I'm being such an asshole to Jack, who really
is trying to help me.  And I can accept that, but I can't accept that
I kept buying it.

Maybe I had to in order to survive.  One of those deeply held
instincts for survival.  But I never was terribly strong on that.

Actually, I'm glad somebody is sneaking into Skinner's bedroom.
Somebody, at least, is having a normal life.  And Jack sneaks off at
night down-mountain, so presumably he's got some kind of sweetie
somewhere.  If Skinner had taken a monastic vow while I'm here, I
think I really would punch him out.  It *is* tasteful of him not to
have her parade around in her underwear, but I'm a big boy, I can
stand to find out that my former boss is getting some regularly.

Sorry, that was rude.  I just hate being patronized.

Anyway, back in time, I guess.  Cancerman wouldn't look at me
when he came to get me that night.  Maybe he was a little
embarrassed about turning me over to the Mengele squad.

I wonder about that.

I asked Skinner about him a few weeks ago, while he had me
slaving over the planer.

"He's dead.  I think."  Skinner held up the board to study it and
nodded his approval.  "Blew his brains out, Mulder, about six
weeks after you allegedly blew yours out."

Trust Skinner not to tiptoe around it.  I grinned and went back to
work.  Hey, I might still be skinny, but I weigh more, I have to say.
All that free labor for Skinner is putting muscle back on the way it
ought to be.  Even if my jeans still slide down my hips.

Once I realized I wasn't going to be shot execution style on my
living room couch, I wondered what was going on.  I thought
they'd brought the body double to keep Scully from looking for
me.  I was right, they had.  But not right about why.

"You said you think he's dead."  I looked up at him before turning
the planer on again.

"Well, you're still alive."  He gave me that twisted little smile again.
"He could be."

 "I can only wish," I told him, thinking about the last two years.

"Me, too."  Skinner's tone was flat.  "Come on, let's break for
some lunch."

Jack goes down to the main enclave during the first part of the day.
Skinner won't let him stick me, so I suppose he's not really needed
up here.  And despite the tools, Skinner keeps a pretty close eye on
me.  I was digging through his tool box, I don't even remember
what I was supposed to hand him, and came across an evil looking
pair of needle nose pliers and had sort of an anxiety attack.  I don't
think I'd done anything more than gasp and he was right there,
getting me back on my feet and walking me around before sitting
me on that damned
boulder.

So I could probably get about as far as I did with my juice glass
when they told me that Scully was dead.   Inside of the left arm,
about fifteen sutures required.  I got that far when Skinner's bulk
hit me.

If Skinner didn't play football in high school and college, the world
lost a great linebacker.  I swear, I still have bruises from hitting the
floor that time, although I didn't notice it then.

Not for a couple of days.  I was otherwise occupied doing the full
tilt, going out of my mind boogie.  And trying to bang my head
against his floor.  He did let Jack stick me once that morning, the
first morning I was here. And really, it wasn't really his fault, I'd
not only asked him, I'd told him I wanted Scully to doctor me if
anyone did.

Anyway, I don't plan on getting any more bruises.  If I decide to do
it, I'm going to wait until he's otherwise occupied, believe me.  He
doesn't need any more guilt.

Cancerman wouldn't look at me as they took me to the car, which
should have told me something.  Instead, it confused me, and
robbed me of strength to fight back when they first took me.   And
I'm not sure that I want to remember that.  Horowitz seems to
think I need to.  I'm not sure if I do or not.  Maybe it's enough to
survive and find pleasure in doing something with my hands and a
few jokes with somebody who cares that I make it back.

I asked Skinner this morning what he thought about recovering
those memories.  He stared at me for a moment and then got up to
get more coffee.   And yes, God, they finally let me have real
coffee instead of fucking decaf.

Evidently, I'm considered healthier now and allowed a mild
stimulant.

Of course, I only get one cup a day, while Skinner could swill it all
day long without getting anything but an adoring look from Jack,
but it's enough of a pleasure that I don't gripe.  Much.

This time I got another half cup, the Coffee Policeman having
already finished his breakfast and started his shower.

Skinner grinned as he poured it.  "Don't tell Jack."

I inhaled reverently.  "I may be crazy, Skinner, but I'm not stupid."
That got me a rap on the head, like he was my fucking big brother
or something.

There, Horowitz, you want family identification?  You got it.  The
authoritarian older brother who keeps the younger kids in line.  I
gave him a look and he chuckled, then put the pot back and sat
down.

"I don't know what to tell you, Mulder.  On the one hand, my
common sense says why bother?  You made it, you're coming back
just fine.  And on the other hand, I 'm not so stupid--what you
don't remember can ambush you when you don't expect it."

Fair enough.  And sensible.   Why is it that I'm taking all my
psychological advice from Skinner, the man  with the master's
degree in Administration of Justice?  Hey, I like him better than
Horowitz and he doesn't bullshit me with how homey and warm he
is.

Fictional shrinks are always perfect, they handle their patients just
the right way.  I remember too much about my education to think
that's true.  Alan Brainerd, one of my professors, made a pass at
me and I was barely sixteen, took a good whack at seducing me,
and nearly got himself thumped when some of my friends, who had
decided I needed looking after since I was just a pup, found out
about it.  I suppose that doesn't rule out the possibility that he
could have been a decent therapist, but since they tell me that I
looked like a tall thirteen year old at sixteen, I keep thinking that
pedophilia would cause him certain problems in dealing with
patients.  And he wasn't the worst I've ever seen.

I think Horowitz is probably a good shrink for some people, but
she's not exactly my dream shrink.

"Why is it you don't like Horowitz?" Skinner asked me this
morning, after the facing-your-fear talk.

I grimaced.  "I hate Freudians."

Skinner's mouth twitched suspiciously.  "You tap danced around
anybody we ever sent you to in the Bureau."

"They were hacks."  I gave him an innocent look.  "I don't tap
dance."

Snort.  Skinner leaned back in his chair, mouth still twitching.

I couldn't help it, I grinned back.  "Okay, maybe I did a little soft
shoe.  But if I can think rings around them, why bother?"

He laughed, shaking his head.  "Mulder, you can't deal with this
alone."

Another innocent look.  "I thought that's why we were building
House Beautiful."

He kept shaking his head, amused.   "No, the plan is to keep you
from brooding and to get you back in halfway decent shape."

Well, it does keep me from brooding, but not from thinking.  I
turned my coffee cup between my hands, circle after circle after
circle.  "She hasn't got a clue, that's all.  If I tell her the reason I
turned myself over to them was to save my partner and get her a
cure for cancer, she's going to shoot me full of Thorazine and put
me in a strait jacket.  If I tell her my sister was kidnapped by aliens,
how do you think that will go over?"

"You're not sure of that."  He had stopped laughing and was
listening.  "You yourself weren't certain that Roche wasn't telling
you the truth."

I hated thinking about that, too.  Another little girl had nearly died
because of my obsession.  "Yeah.  You're right, I'm not sure.  But
if I tell her that I was regressed and that's what I thought I
remembered, how do you think she'll take it."

Skinner sipped at his coffee.  "About five years ago, there was a
woman who managed to get her father convicted of murder, did
you follow that case?"

I nodded, feeling glum suddenly.   "Yeah.  I'm still not sure.  Sure,
the bastard raped his kids and beat them, but I'm not sure he's
guilty of murder."

He nodded.  "So, your memories may either be screen memories or
they may be false, things that were suggested to you post-
hypnosis."

I folded my hands and rested my chin on them.  "Someone's been
doing his reading."  That weird smile again.

"I was a field agent, Mulder, I'm not completely ignorant."  That
was true.  I guess I'd gotten used to thinking of him as a
bureaucrat, no pun intended.

I considered that.  "You think they might be screen memories?"

"I have no opinion on that, Mulder.  I do know, from what Scully
told me, and what I've learned here, that your father was neck deep
in whatever they're hiding.  And I do believe that they're hiding
something bigger than a breadbox."  He looked into his coffee cup.
"And I've seen enough evidence here to know that it may possibly
involve something not native to this planet."

I almost fell out of my chair.  Walter Skinner mentioning ETs?
"Watch out, Horowitz is coming after you next."

He almost smiled.  Not quite.  "You might be surprised.  Horowitz
might be the one to help you remember what really happened.
She's part of the enclave, after all, not some imported Freudian we
brought in to drive you out of your mind.  Or back into it."

"Out of body," I said smartly and grinned at the way he looked at
me.  "Hey, it sounds good.  Not as good as it did, say, a month
ago.  Your cooking is better than mine."

That made him smile for real.  "It's so hard to chop effectively with
a plastic knife, Mulder.  Wait until you're ready for the real stuff."

Like I said, he doesn't tiptoe around the hard stuff.  He might not
go in with guns blasting, but he doesn't pretend that I'm A-Okay,
or treat me like I'm a victim or an invalid.  How could I not trust
the guy?

He's not trying to railroad me anywhere, except into building a
porch, and I do have the feeling that if I just sat on the boulder and
watched, he'd be okay with that.

On the other hand, I do remember Skinner on a roll and I'd rather
not find out.
 

Day 5

I really hate Jack.  And right now, I'm not sure how I feel about
Skinner.

I didn't feel like writing and dug my heels in about going to talk to
your Loveliness, Horowitz, and the end result was having Jack stab
me with a needle--he doesn't do it very well, Horowitz, and I like
to think it's indicative of his sexual style.  He and Wilkinson would
have gotten on very well together.

So after getting tranked to the gills, I ended up getting thrown in
the local equivalent of the funny farm with regular dope to keep
me too zoned to think or write.  I still feel fuzzy.   And if Jack
threatens me with that needle again, I'm going to go for his throat.

Not wanting to talk to you, Horowitz, does not indicate suicidal
behavior.  It actually indicates health.  I hate Freudians, I've told
you, and your persistence in trying to make Skinner my daddy only
drives me up the fucking wall.   I told you, Skinner is basically too
decent to be my
father, the first one was fine, and I don't need another one.  But
don't believe me, hell, I'm not only trained in the field, I'm intelligent and verbal, so I must
be lying to you!

I guess you can tell, Horowitz, that right now I hate you, too.

Okay, I had a bad couple of days.  That's going to happen, it
doesn't mean Skinner's going to find me hanging in the front hall
closet.  But I didn't feel like writing and that penny ante tyrant
Jack decided I had to.  He got my back up, and by the time Skinner
came back inside the house, we were in a full fledged battle, with
Jack waving the needle around.  Skinner, whether from general
principles or because he really understands how it scares me,
doesn't let him use it.   I don't think Jack is exactly Skinner's choice
for help in dealing with me.

He gets a look on his face like he used to get with Ted Ryerson.

Remember Ted Ryerson, dear Diary?  Not a bad agent, but he'd
get this mind-set.  On the rare occasions I actually had to behave
like a team member with VCS, I used to watch Skinner lead Ted
through the rationale for whatever investigatory plan we had and
watch Ted get this blindly stubborn look on his face.

I actually used to envy Ted sometimes, Skinner just used to cut
loose on me.  On the other hand, when I asked him about that, this
morning, he stared at me and then shook his head.

"Mulder, I never needed to lead you by the hand through anything.
If anything, I needed to nail you down and keep you where you
needed to be."

 Grue.  Nail me down.  That's something our friend Wilkinson
never tried.  At least Skinner didn't say anything about putting a
collar and leash on me, I might have lost my limited breakfast right
then.

But we were back with Jack.

Skinner got me on the couch and took Jack out into the kitchen to
talk to him.   And when he came back in, he wasn't looking happy.
"Come on, Mulder, we need to go talk to Dr. Horowitz."

Jack.  God, I saw red, just flamed out and went totally ballistic, I
was screaming and raving about Jack and cocksuckers this and
motherfuckers that, with the end result that Jack *did* get to use
the needle and they hauled me down here to this fucking clinic.

The only good thing is that today Julie Wilson came in and gave
me some mild shit about her stitchwork on my left wrist and
brought me a real cup of coffee.

Dr. Wilson, I worship at your feet.  No, I'd better leave that to
Skinner, but I'll worship from afar.

I still don't like you, Horowitz, but I'll take your word for it that
you've talked to Jack about his zeal.  Skinner came to get me, and I
thought his expression was relieved when he told me it was time to
blow this pop stand.  No kidding.  I think he watched too much
Miami Vice in the eighties.

And even though it hurts to type it, I want to thank you for
listening to Skinner over Jack.

I was still wobbly from the drugs and being restrained in the bed
the first few days.  He was very matter of fact about that, helped
me get into my jeans and boots, helped me on with my jacket and
got me the hell out of the clinic.

Jack was a little subdued when we got back to the house.  I
remember that I used to feel pretty subdued after Skinner got done
with me, and from the look on Jack's face, his hero gave him a real
reaming.  And just  because I feel smugly pleased about that
doesn't mean I think Skinner's my daddy and Jack's my bratty
sibling, and Daddy likes me best, Horowitz.  You've got a one
track mind, I swear.

What it does mean is that Skinner thinks I'm a real person, not just
this case he's taken on, and Jack thinks I'm a case.  I've said that
before, I know, but it's still just as true.  It's nice to be home, if that
isn't too weird a concept.  And even if I hate writing this thing,
there's something calming about it.  I can come in here and spew
venom about that asshole Jack and I feel a little better.  The only
thing that would make me feel a lot better is thumping him on the
head  with Skinner's cast iron skillet, that sucker is heavy.

At least I don't want to shoot people anymore.

We got back and I went straight back to my room.  After a while,
Skinner tapped on the door and stuck his head in.  "You ought to
be too tired to be this mad at me."  His mouth had that funny quirk
it gets lately.

"I'm not mad at you," I muttered and sat up to scowl at him.

He leaned against the door jamb.  "Yeah, you are, and I don't
blame you. Sometimes, Mulder, I don't have much of a choice, not
when I think you're a danger to yourself."  He used to growl that at
me when he'd force me to go to counseling.

Civilian life has had a softening effect, he didn't growl it this time.

"I wasn't."

"But I'm not exactly an expert in this area."  Faint smile.  "Maybe
you could give me a little more information to stand Jack off next
time, instead of bouncing off the ceiling and walls."

That was fair.  I didn't like it, but that was fair.  I jerked my head in
a nod.

"Hungry?  Or is your stomach still messed up from the meds?
How do you feel about salmon?"

Immediately, my stomach sat up and took notice.  "I feel like I
could eat a lot of it," I said unwisely.

That got a half-grin and he nodded.  "Baked potato?  Maybe a
vegetable."

"I'm eating enough vitamins, I shouldn't need vegetables," I
growled.  "Skip the vegetables.  Can I have butter *and* sour
cream on my potato?"

"What other way is there to eat a baked potato?" he asked.  A man
after my own heart.

Death by cholesterol, much easier and more comfortable than any
other form of suicide.

I deigned to get up and mosey out to the kitchen after him.   He
really can cook, can Skinner.  I'm a little envious.  He was
obviously an Eagle scout in his youth.

Jack never did apologize.

Day 6

I guess I should point out at this point that this really isn't the sixth
day of journaling in sequence, unless you elect to drop the two
weeks I was sick as a dog out of the sequence entirely.  And there
was the week Horowitz left me so jellified that I stayed in bed
every day until Skinner dragged me out to eat.  And then I'd go
back.

If I'd fit, I probably would have been under the bed.

Horowitz was worse than the bronchitis, but it's been three weeks
since I started this thing.

How did Horowitz jellify me, you ask, oh, Diary?  Horowitz
knows, so I suppose there's little point in journaling it, but I didn't
explain it to Skinner, I just went on bed rest and refused to
talk beyond "Pass the salt, please."

So, here we go.  Into the murky depths of my subconscious mind
and memories.

I got shoved in the trunk when they picked me up.  Not an entirely
comfortable place to be.  Duct tape on my mouth and binding my
hands.  Real original, guys, I at least hoped for something really
high tech and cool.  The spare kept digging into my kidneys.
When we got where we were going, I was hauled out to stand
blinking in bright light, my legs half-asleep so that I had trouble
standing.  As beatings go, the first one was pretty bad.  Just
softening me up.

Why did they beat me if they were going to take me out and drug
me?  I must have really pissed off the Jokemeister and his
equivalent in the Consortium, that's all I can figure.  Or else I
pissed off a lot of people in the Consortium.  And they don't
always talk to each other, God knows, or the Third Elder wouldn't
have spoken to Scully,  and the Brit guy with the sensational
manicure wouldn't have warned Scully, and so on.

Oh, for a nice monolithic conspiracy.  You can count on that.
You know what to expect.  Here I am, shoot me, and they shoot
you.

Tissue samples aren't that bad, compared to a beating.  You lie
there restrained on a table while they take cells from the inside of
your mouth and various other places.  It was, however, extremely
upsetting to have somebody jerk me off to get a semen sample.
Hell, I'd have been glad to let them if they'd given me a pretty
technician.

Try being stoned and lying there mortally embarrassed and stark
naked while they treat you like a lab animal.  All the rational
thought in the world ain't gonna get you past that one.

Then I got packed off to a reasonably decent room with a
reasonably decent bed and not one goddamned thing to do or to
read.  They didn't even manacle me to the bed.  Just locked me
in.  For what seemed like a fucking eternity.  Nobody to talk to.   I
think I lost it after four or five days, and I was always more
introverted than most.   By the time they came for me again,
I was almost tearfully grateful.

Hey, beat me, mistreat me, but don't lock me in that room again.
Naturally, they did, but I'd done myself, ah, a little damage in the
interim period, which was why they came to get me, so this time, I
got really good shit in my food and drink.

I thought about not eating, actually managed it for several days,
just drinking water from the tap.  Ah, but I was an amateur.
Remember my tainted tap before the MJ fiasco, Walt, old
buddy?  When I punched you out and you had to wrap me up in a
choke hold before I stopped.  I remember that fondly, actually, if
only because I did get one lick in.

No, I'm kidding.   I think.

Okay, so there I am, buzzed to the eyeballs, drinking tap water.
And it finally penetrated my thick skull that I might as well eat, the
water was drugged.  So I did.  And ate and ate and ate.
I had about four feet in which to actually walk.  I think I tried to
summon up everything I'd ever known about t'ai chi at one point,
but I was too buzzed to actually do it.  And I was too buzzed
to beat off, even if I'd wanted to provide them with the
entertainment.   So I slept a lot.  A whole lot.  And was sleeping
when they came in for me again.

More tissue samples and then I was off to the Mengele squad.
And I'm not up to remembering that at the moment.

I don't know what it is, but every Freudian shrink I've ever known
has the worst decorating taste I've ever seen.  Horowitz has chintz,
god, worse than Aunt Margaret had when I was a kid.   So, there I
was in her office, lying on the goddamned couch with the chintz
fabric in Horowitz' office, working, diligently to talk about these
things, to remember them and suddenly I get this physical flash of
memory, of having my fingers broken one by one while Wilkinson
leans over me, inhaling the smell of pain and fear and wanting to be
dead.

I ended up behind the couch, curled up on the floor and Horowitz
sat there and kept doing that needlepoint or whatever it is.

I think I finally managed to pull myself together enough about five
minutes before Skinner showed up.  He gave me a funny look, so I
suspect I wasn't looking as together as I wanted or needed to.

He didn't say much in the car to me.  He did ask me if I was all
right and I made some noncommittal sound that probably didn't
fool anyone.  And I went to bed for a week.   Except for meals,
and that was only because Skinner doesn't believe in coddling me.

Jack wanted to wave that needle around again, but Skinner told
him plainly that the last thing he thought I needed was to be
drugged into unconsciousness and if Horowitz thought I'd
needed that she would have recommended it when he picked me
up.

The Battling Bickersons.  Jack carried on for a while longer and
kept looking in on me to make sure I hadn't smuggled anything
sharp or breakable into bed.

Skinner mostly left me the fuck alone, although he'd come in after
I'd make my escape from dinner and just sit there and read quietly.
For some reason, he finds my library fascinating.  He's already
worked his way through the Narnia tales and Swiss Family
Robinson and about fifteen other tomes from my lost youth.  I
think he's reading Jung now, although what a hard headed Admin
of Justice man can find in Jung to entertain him for a week is
beyond me.

Maybe he's trying to learn enough about it to keep Horowitz from
killing me.

Anyway, I'd finally brought myself to emerge from my room again
and behave like a reasonably sane and intelligent human being
about the time it started raining while I was dragging Skinner up
and down mountain in a frenzy of walking and exploration.
Frenetic activity to keep me from thinking.  So it started raining
like crazy, which turned to sleet--it's October, for God's sake--and
I was shivering like the proverbial drowned rat by the time we
got back.  And Skinner had given me his jacket, too.

I hate being a fucking invalid.  I hate being weak.  And I really hate
being sick.  Scully used to tell me loftily that going outside when
you're wet never caused anyone to catch a cold or anything else,
but I woke up in the morning with my throat swollen and my nose
stuffed up and a raging fever that scared the shit out of Jack and
certainly got Skinner's attention.

I don't remember that particularly, but it's not trauma, it's delirium
that robbed me of that, and I find that strangely comforting.  Sick,
isn't it?

The first week, I was just plain sick, so sick that mostly I slept and
coughed and took my medicine and slept some more.  Great, I lost
more weight.  Just what I needed.

I spent the next week eating Skinner out of house and home.  He's
worse than any Jewish grandmother, even though it's Horowitz
who looks like one.  I told him that he had to be Jewish and he
thought that was as funny as the Gary Cooper thing.  I have no
idea why.

So, I broke even, weight wise, and looked like "death eatin' a soda
cracker" as a witness once described a suspect.  And it had snowed
while I was vegetating.

Fortunately, during my absence and in between haranguing me to
eat, Skinner had gotten one helluva lot done during three weeks.
The exterior was finished on the porch and he was working on the
inside, a space heater plugged in to take the nip out of the air.  He
even had the goddamned windows in--only on the front.

Our next big project is probably going to be to berm the damned
thing.  Which reminds me, he also thought the boulder thing was
funny, Horowitz. I can't decide what's harder to process, what I let
happen to me, or that Skinner has a really twisted sense of humor.

So, the first day I was allowed out of bed, I put on my woollies
under my clothes and ventured out to admire his handiwork and
hopefully bark my knuckles on a tool or two.

He turned to look at me in disbelief when I stepped out.

I cleared my throat.  "It looks good."  That distracted him for a
moment.

"Yeah, it's coming together nicely.  Doesn't have to be fancy, I just
want someplace to shed boots and shit."

Skinner as homeowner.  God, it's as strange as finding out he was
married.  I scuffed my toe on the cement floor like a goddamned
little kid and cleared my throat again.  "So, what's the next step.
Astroturf?"

That got a grin.  "No, just plain old wood, Mulder.  Hate to
disappoint you, though, so if you've got your heart set on Astroturf
I can see about bartering down at the foot of the mountain."

"Nah, I just wondered."  I studied the inside of the porch.  He was
leaving the wood unadorned, but it smelled like he was varnishing
it.  "Painting?"  I gestured to the wall.

"Waterproofing.  Keeps the wood from rotting.  I did the outside
last week.  Too cold to do the inside right now, we'd end up
asphyxiating ourselves." He was doing something arcane to
what looked like a carpet cutter, but which probably wasn't.

I shifted from foot to foot.  "Want some help?"

That brought him back to incredulity.  "I don't think so, not today.
I'm just cleaning some edges up right now. And you don't need to
be out here in the cold."

My stomach did a slow, lazy roll.  Shit.  I was an invalid after all.
Maybe he saw it.

His face didn't change though.  "Hell, I don't want to be out here in
the cold, but I needed to clean this up."  He dropped whatever it
was he was holding into the toolbox.  "I'd kill for a cup of coffee.
You want one?"  He stepped past me to the door.

I stood there and thought about it.  "Don't patronize me."

A hand fell on my shoulder.  "I'm not.  You don't need to be out
here in the cold and I'm finished.  You wanna check the work and
see?"

My throat hurt too much to say anything.  I shook my head.

Hell, it was probably true.  I'd slept late this morning and Skinner,
dare I say it, is a morning person.

But he stepped back and tugged on my sleeve.  I followed him
over to the window, listened numbly as he told me what he'd done
and why.  Went to the other window, too.  Nodded in all the right
places.

"Cut yourself a little slack," he finally said, waving a hand in front
of my nose to get me back to Earth Now.  "And let's get warm,
please, my balls are starting to crawl up into my body for the
relief."

I don't know where I was or what I was thinking, but I followed
him in.  Even with the space heater, it was colder than shit out
there.  He was right about that.

The coffee--my illicit second cup, heh--tasted great.  The bastard
could not only cook and build, he could make good coffee.   I
slunk into the livingroom and curled up in a corner of the couch.
More kitchen noise ensued and he came out with sandwiches, set
the plate on the coffee table and sat at the other end of the couch.

"I'm not patronizing you," he told me seriously.  "But I'm damned
if I'm going to let you do something that's going to do you in.  Not
on my watch, Mulder."

Okay, I could accept that.  So why were my eyes leaking again?  I
took a drink from the cup and turned a little to the side.

He leaned back and drank his own.

I don't ever want to be around talkers again, by the way.   I mean, I
loved Scully dearly, but her not talking was frequently passive
aggressive.  I still missed it.  But Skinner's not talking was pretty
comfortable.  We sat there and I finally cleared my head enough to
notice there was a fire in the fireplace and it was a damned good
fire.

Jesus, a damned good fire, I sound like Hemingway.

Finally, I reached for a sandwich, if only to make Skinner's yenta
half happy.

He gave me the briefest glint of a grin, like he knew it, he knew I
knew it, and we were both okay with it.

Jesus, now I sound like I'm big on transactional analysis.

"I hate being treated like there's something wrong with me."

Skinner shrugged.  "There isn't anything currently wrong with you,
I just tend to lose more of my hair when you have febrile
convulsions."

I blinked at that.  Nobody'd said anything about that.  "Oh."

Mild look.  "Didn't seem much point to bringing it up to you when
you were delirious."

My face got hot suddenly.  "I hate being sick," I muttered and bit
into the  sandwich.  Roast beef with horseradish.

I wondered if I could come up with a rationale for being gay and
turn Skinner out.  You gotta love the guy's taste and habits.

And Julie Wilson is a knockout, for a tough, no-nonsense doctor.
When she was stitching my left wrist back together, I was too
intimidated to be noncompliant.  And as she stitched, she advised
me how to better slice and dice myself, then looked me in the eye
and told me that if I messed up her sutures, she was going to make
me wish I'd done a better job.

She's the perfect foil for Skinner.  Which, by the way, he's admitted
to me, more or less.  For some reason, he felt like he had to tell me
that he wasn't afraid knowledge of his sexual activities was going
to send me into hysterics, it was just that Wilson was an intensely
private person and she didn't like other people knowing what she
was doing.

I rolled my eyes at that--it was while I was recuperating and eating
everything that didn't get out of my way--and muttered something
about people in serious denial, which made him laugh again.

Anyway, she's better for him than I would be, even if I could
switch orientation.   When I have erotic dreams, which has actually
begun to happen again now and then, it's about women.  I have to
admit, that's a relief.  I was afraid I was doomed to nightmares
about Wilkinson for the rest of my natural life.  However long that
may be.  Unfortunately, being sick took that away again.

So I bit into the sandwich and nodded my approval while Skinner
smiled and drank his coffee.  "Okay," I finally said, "But I think I
can be trusted not to do anything incredibly stupid anymore.  Life's
getting too interesting.  You're reading Jung."

Another smile.  "It's worse than you know.  I've been watching
your Monty Python videos.  You do have an interesting
collection."  Another raised eyebrow.

I'm not sure why, I blushed.  We're both men of the world, right?
Why am I  blushing?  And no, Horowitz, he is not representative of
my father.

Although after reading my brother remark in the last batch of
journal pages, he threatened to legally adopt me.

Another sip of coffee, another bite of sandwich.  Skinner said, "So,
you think can be trusted with the cutlery now."  Maybe it was a
mistake to let him read these.

I choked and swallowed and  nodded.   He nodded and took
another sip.  "All right.  I'll try to back off if you try to use some
sense.  Mulder, even as an FBI agent, you were, shall we say,
a little reckless at times."

He's right.  I was so goddamned reckless I willingly leapt into hell.
My face must have changed, because his did.

"Mulder," he said gently.  "I wasn't talking about that.  I can't fault
you for desperate measures, you know that.  I took a couple
myself.  And they were just as useless."

That hurt more than I expected.  More than thinking about my own
recklessness.  My hand tightened on the sandwich and turned it
into a shape nobody ever intended for a sandwich.  Very Dali.  But
I did nod at him.

He reached over and patted my knee, then got up and walked into
the kitchen.  Giving me a minute.

Hey, Horowitz, I like his personal therapeutic style better than
yours.  And I'm starting to think he's a Jungian.

Just kidding.  I'm going to give you all the gory details you want
when I start talking about Wilkinson, Horowitz, so charge up your
vibrator.  Skinner came back in and picked up a sandwich before
sitting back down.  And something struck me.

"Monty Python?"

"The Holy Grail," he told me and took a bite.  "You know, 'she's a
witch, she turned me into a newt'?"

I surveyed my sandwich and mashed it back into shape.  "My
image of you will never be the same."

"Live with it," he told me, smiling again.

"It's an X file," I told him gravely and then we both started
laughing.
 

We took a drive down to the main enclave and picked up some
supplies and I actually got flirted with.  No one's told this woman
that I'm the resident loon, evidently, and I must look better than I
thought, unless she's the lame duck type.   And she's very
attractive, so I don't think she's suffering from hard luck and
desperation.

Skinner even noticed it, which surprised me, because I usually
don't notice things like that unless they personally involve me, but
maybe that's why he made AD while I was stuck in the basement.
He didn't make any comment, although I did see his grin when she
waved and told me to come down again next time we needed
anything.

I actually felt really human down there for a while.  Two people
who don't think I'm a cripple.  Not counting my mother, who
apparently now knows I'm alive and is selling her house and
coming to join UNCLE like all good boys and girls do.

I have very mixed feelings about that.  "Where's my mother going
to stay when she gets here?"

"Probably with Julie Wilson," Skinner told me and put the damned
car up a slope that made me grab the dashboard in sheer terror.

I was ashamed of being relieved by that.  My mother, I mean.  Not
the terror. I don't think I can take my mother hovering over me like
the Prodigal Son returned, although she did write me a nice note
that got filtered up during my recovery from bronchitis.  I don't
know what I expected, Dear Fox, How dare you go off and leave
me to think you're dead?  Actually, I think I did expect something
like that.

Especially considering that the last time I spoke with her I wasn't
exactly lucid and accused her of some things I'd rather not think
about.  Like who my father was, or if that bastard Cancerman was
Sam's father.  Please don't let him be my father, I thought and hung
on for dear life while Skinner drove like a madman.

Maybe the wrong person was in therapy with Horowitz.  I should
stick with Skinner and he should explore his death wish with
Horowitz

When we pulled into the flat space in front of the house, I wanted
to get out and kiss the ground.  Fortunately, his amusement at my
pallor prevented that self-indulgence, but I got out on wobbly legs
to help him unload.  "So how do you pay for all this, by sitting
around and taking care of me?"

 "Something like that."  He nodded agreeably.  "And data analysis
while you're zoned out watching the soaps."

"I don't watch the soaps," I protested, but he caught me last week
watching in fascination as a two year old metamorphosed into a six
year old in the space of five days.  Talk about temporal dilation.  "I
watched 'em when I was sick, I was too sick to read."

"Right."  He handed me a box of canned goods and I trudged to
the door.

Jack opened it and gave us a sharp look, as if we'd been playing
hooky.

"Hi, Jack," I said breezily and went past him.

"I'll get my coat," he told me and bent to pull on his boots.
Skinner put him to work, too, which made me snicker.  Although I
managed to keep my face sober enough when I went back in again.

Just so you can check up on me, Horowitz, the woman's name was
Cassie Delevan.  Ask Skinner, I wasn't hallucinating.
 

For some reason, we ended up watching Monty Python tonight.
Jack didn't seem to enjoy it, but the wing span of the sparrow joke
cracked Skinner up.  The only place I felt that ole debbil anxiety
and his twin depression creep back up was during the completely
frivolous Spank Me scene.   I didn't think it was funny any more.

Although the maidens in that gauzy drapery evoked a nice
response before they started seeking chastisement.  Maybe I am
getting better, huh, Horowitz?
 

Day 7

Gloom and more gloom.  We're in the grip of a Canadian Rockies
blizzard and I'm bored and missing my appointment with Horowitz.
Am I going to regale you, good Doctor, with written details of
what happened to me when I first arrived at Wilkinson's?  Or what
those handy dandy Mengele clones liked to do?  Nope, I am not.
I'm going to write about other things.

Things that will make you salivate and cream your elegant slacks.
My family.

Drum roll here, please.

For some reason, at breakfast, Jack started talking about how his
sister loved blizzards.  Hell, maybe I'm being too hard on the poor
guy, I'm a real shit to deal with.  Skinner's used to me, he had me
for four years.  So I listened attentively and somehow got all misty
about pulling Sam on the sled that had once been mine when I was
really little.  Which led back to remembering Dad pulling me when
I was really little.  It wasn't always bad.

My first memory of Dad is him tossing me in the air and making
me shriek with delight.  Mostly.

Sometimes he scared me, and that generally pissed him off, he'd
hand me back over to Mom and stalk off in a temper.  When I was
that small, he only hit me when I got out of my crib.  I think.

 But when I was bigger, say about two, he used to pack me into
that sled and go down the hill behind Aunt Margaret's house.  I
liked visiting Aunt Margaret, but it wasn't so much fun when
I was three and a half and got knocked down the stairs.

Jesus, I'm still doing it.  But I'm getting better, I used to say I fell
down the stairs.  Surviving hell must have made it easier to at least
get to the nitty gritty of it.  My father hit me hard enough to knock
me down the stairs, but even therapy will not make me believe that
he knocked me down a flight of stairs deliberately.  At least not at
three and a half.  So I have a broken leg, I'm in the hospital, and
the doctor who treats me--our doctor is on vacation--has looked at
my records and put two and two together to, gasp, come up with
four.  And he calls the police.

Dad has enough grease that they don't arrest him, but wham, I'm at
Aunt Margaret's.  Mom was pregnant with Sam then.   I was so
scared, I thought they didn't want me anymore, and there was a no
contact order that took three months to void.  The only time I saw
either of my parents was when I decided to ride my trike back
home, confident of my ability to remember the way, and got lost
avoiding bullies.

My father and his smoking friend pulled up in a big, blue Buick, my
father jumped out and I thought for sure he was going to kill me.
Literally.  Our dog had died in the spring, so I had a fairly decent
concept of death for a three year old.   Anyway, the one favor that
Cancerman ever did me was to calm Dad down.

I remember them talking on the way back, Dad was saying
something about he should never have had kids.  Cancerman told
him not to be an idiot, it was a great privilege, that his kids would
be the next ruling class, shit like that.  And Dad got pretty close to
hysterical, said it wasn't worth it, having your kid vanish and
reappear, that I was *too* bright, that people thought it was
strange, and so on.

You know, I don't think I've thought about that conversation until
now.  Did he mean that I was an abductee, too?  Only they didn't
bring Sam back.  And what did they do to me?  Well, whatever it
was, it fascinated both minor and major league Mengeles.

They took me back to Aunt Margaret's and I stayed there for, God,
months. I remember my birthday there, and I started what they
used to call nursery school and now call preschool.  Only I got
moved out of the regular one and into the high-powered one.  And
we had Christmas at Aunt Margaret's.  My parents got to come
and see me on my birthday.  I read to my mom instead of the other
way around when she tucked me in.  And they were allowed to
come on Christmas.  By mid January, just before Sam was born, I
was home again.  And naturally, I missed Aunt Margaret.

But Aunt Margaret came to stay after Sam was born.  Dad insisted
that Mom have some help, and I think maybe she was worried
about what he'd do to me if she didn't.  So Aunt Margaret moved
into my room on the rollaway bed.  I actually didn't mind.

And Sam was cool, I thought, although she wasn't much fun.  She
slept all the time, as babies will, and my father hated to catch me
hanging over the bassinet watching her sleep.  I'm not sure what
he'd thought I would do to her.   Or maybe it just wasn't manly
enough for a son of his.  Oh, Dad, dear Dad--you can't imagine
what I've learned since then.  What treats your good friends had in
store for me.

When Julie Wilson told me I was human, she also told me I was
negative for HIV and that my immune system was actually in fair
shape.  At the time, it didn't impress me much, but I'm feeling a lot
of relief about that now.  Must have been those gauzily clad
maidens.  But I also start to think about Wilkinson, who hated
latex, never used it, and I wonder if I'm immune due to alien
intervention.  Or because of that weird retro-virus that nearly killed
me in Alaska.

I went for years loving my father, but denying what he had done.
But he was a part of whatever they are.  And thanks to Wilkinson's
deep therapeutic intervention, I can no longer deny any of it.  Gee,
all it takes to come to terms with an abusive childhood is to be
tortured repeatedly for nearly three years.  Somehow, I don't think
it's going to make Psychology Today as a popular new therapy
option.

I still love the man my father was sometimes.  And I still love my
mother, though I wish she'd tried harder to protect me.  To protect
us.  Dad didn't hit Sam.  Must be that father-daughter bond,
Daddy's little girl.  Maybe that's why I don't care about finding her
anymore, I don't want to find someone too alien for me to know,
or someone who brings up old resentment about being the
scapegoat.

There, Horowitz, happy now?  That's all you're going to get on my
family, unless it comes up again, believe me.   But I find I really
would like to see my mother.
 

 Day 8

I don't even know why I bother writing the numbers down, I know
the date now.  It's October 13th.   Horror of horrors, I'm thirty-
nine.  Skinner actually had a present for me.

 I mean, it wasn't exactly sentimental, but it was a good pair of
arctic boots.  I needed 'em.  And some snowshoes.  Evidently that's
a big thing here.  Thank God he doesn't have a snowmobile.  I'd
have gotten a suit and goggles.

I still have my wonderful and huge winter parka.  I say huge
because even with the weight I'm slowly gaining, I'm now looking
half-starved instead of concentration camp.  But the boots
were really a surprise.

I wanted to go out and snowshoe, but it was dark and Skinner
convinced me that taking lessons after dark was an exercise in
idiocy.

Actually, what he said was, "Are you crazy, do you want to fall off
the mountain?"

I love his tact.  Are you crazy?  Jack blanched when he said that to
a mentally ill me.  I swear, he did.   And I nearly fell over backward
in my chair laughing my ass off at that.  I  laughed so hard I got the
hiccups.  Or is it hiccoughs?  I guess it depends on whether or not
I'm being proper.  I did finally manage to stop after drinking like a
quart of water and holding my breath.  Then, I grinned at my
former AD and told him, "I used to snowshoe when I was a kid,
for God's sake, I grew up in Massachusetts."

Cut no ice with him.  "Then you should know better.  Besides,
Mulder, you aren't a kid anymore."

Jesus, I guess not.  I'm nearly forty.  That depresses me.  What the
hell have I done in my life but run on the hamster wheel Dad and
his cronies set up?  No sister, no lover, no life.

Well, I have sort of a life, I guess.  If you count being flirted with
by a total stranger while you stare at her, stunned by the novelty of
it.  And to think I used to stand women up on dates when I got a
case in my teeth.  I wish I could go back and change at least some
of it.

What would I change, oh, Diary?  Shit, I hate crying.

Well, first off, I'd tell Dana Scully how much she meant to me.  I'd
tell her up front what I suspected about the people who protected
the lies we tried to tear apart.  And if she quit the X files, I'd have
taken her out on a hot date, that's what I'd change.  I wonder if I'll
ever stop hurting this badly when I think about her.

Skinner says I will.  His wife didn't die, but she nearly did, and for
the same useless goddamned things.  And of course, his marriage
did die.   He doesn't say it, but he thinks I was in love with Dana
Scully.  I don't think that's true, I think we'd have killed each other
in a relationship, I'm crazy and she's passive aggressive.   Was
passive-aggressive, and shit, I'm crying again.  I hate saying was.

And if Jack comes in and finds me crying, we're going to have the
Battling Bickersons again while Skinner stands him off at the door.

Scully was my closest and dearest friend.  I didn't think I'd ever
trust anyone like I came to trust her.  I loved her and I hurt so
badly because she's dead that I want to kill somebody.  Sometimes
that somebody is me.

On the other hand, Skinner's become my friend.  Not just because
he stands Jack off at the door, either.   Reggie Pardue was my
friend.  Jerry Lamana--well, Jerry had too much of the weasel to be
my friend.  Frohicke was my friend, even if he was a weird friend.
About the only thing we had in common was our mutual celluloid
fantasy life.

I think I'm going to have to become a hermit up here in the
mountains.  Maybe Skinner will help me build a little tiny hermit
house.  I can't go back to DC, that's for damned sure.  If I feel
that suicidal I'll just break a glass.  Or better yet, heh, dig into
Jack's little pharmacy and riddle him with guilt

I want Jack to go away.  And it's not even his fault.  He thinks he
knows what happened to me, but he only knows about the most
superficial of Wilkinson's kinks.  He doesn't know who I was
before.  He doesn't help me, even though he tries.  Skinner knows
me, he knows I may sometimes be what could kindly be termed
eccentric, but he sees that person and not this damaged, too thin
guy who cries at odd moments and can't seem to gain weight.

Maybe they fucked with my internal thermostat.  The Mengeles, I
mean.  Wow, raging metabolism, I'd never have to run a day in my
life again.  Pizza and beer and chili dogs.

whatever.  im too tired now to hit the shift key, im going to bed.
 

October 15

I'm almost grateful to be snowed in so I don't have to take your
little prescription of every day sessions.  I've been writing in my
journal and behaving myself, and while I realize you think I
need intensive work, I'm doing fine.

The weather's been unbelievable.  We're actually communicating
with down-mountain by radiophone.   I want to crawl under the
bed and not think about it.  It's a little scary, and I understand why
Skinner loaded up the four wheel drive with supplies.  He's been up
here two years, though, he's gotten used to it, he knows the rhythm
of the seasons.

I told him I needed to start thinking about what I was going to do
for the rest of my life last night.

He went kind of still, staring at the fire.  "Why don't you stay up
here?  The truth really is still out there, Mulder."

I wanted to ask him something really smart ass, like "Is this a
proposal?", but it hurt too much to hear the rest of it.

Right now, I think I'm too damaged to care about the fucking
Truth. It nearly killed me.  It killed my father.  It killed Scully.  It
nearly killed Skinner.  It might have killed my sister.  That's
an awfully high price to pay.  And I'm scared.  The price I paid was
higher than I expected to have to pay.

Death would have been a breeze.  How can you tell someone you
respect that you're doing the Funky Chicken these days and if faced
with the Truth, you'd probably cut your throat?

By the way, Jack and I had a nice long talk last night before my
nice short talk with Skinner.  I told him that I'm sorry I resent him
because he didn't know me before, that I can't deal with him
because he treats me like a patient, and that I appreciate his
wanting to be of help, but I can't let him help me.

He was taken aback, but very nice about it, but after I went to bed
I heard him telling Skinner how noncompliant I was, and how
resistant I was and all this other bullshit that made me want to leap
out of bed, go flying around the corner and wring his neck.

Skinner didn't make AD on his smile.  He listened to Jack very
quietly, then told Jack he appreciated how Jack felt, but Horowitz
felt like I was doing fine.  Did you tell him that, Horowitz?  You're
starting to scare me, I may actually come to like you.  He told Jack
that it probably would be better for Jack to go back to his regular
duties, since I was so noncompliant--I ground my teeth at that--
and resistant to Jack.  He thought that Jack would be happier, and
he knew I would be happier and if we needed him, Skinner hoped
he would feel comfortable coming back.

So next clear day, Jack is going back to the main enclave, and from
there wherever it is he goes when he isn't getting on my nerves.

I feel like screaming Huzzah at the top of my lungs.  I can curl up
under the desk if I want to without fear of getting jabbed with a
syringe full of Thorazine. On the other hand, Skinner sternly told
me that if I got to the point I couldn't function again, Horowitz
was perfectly capable of jabbing me herself.

But she hasn't yet.  I guess I figured her for a psychologist.  She's a
psychiatrist, duly able to handle syringes, drugs, and all that nasty
crap.

Maybe I do respect you, Horowitz, you haven't jabbed me once.
Not even with the embroidery needle.  Except for ordering heavy
shit at the clinic.  And you did finally listen to Skinner long enough
to let me surface.

Getting well is a pain in the ass.  It changes your perceptions.  The
next thing you know, I'm going to find out that Tom Colton wasn't
such a bad guy.

Jesus, that would take psychosis, what am I saying?

So this morning Skinner took me out on snowshoes and I looked
at the mountain all covered with snow and had a vertigo attack like
you wouldn't believe.  I'm not sure having those semen samples
taken by the Mengeles was any more humiliating than holding onto
the ground and telling a very surprised Skinner that I couldn't get
up.

Fortunately, as I've said, Skinner is patient.  After a while, though,
he did lose some of it and hauled me back upright.  So, we're
standing there, I have my eyes squinched shut and I can
feel Skinner's hands on my shoulders through the parka.

"You aren't going to fall," Skinner told me.  "Come on, Mulder,
open your eyes, I'm right in front of you, just look at me, it will
help you get oriented."

Right.  "I have problems in free fall," I gulped.

"You aren't falling right now.  Your feet are on the ground and I'm
holding you.  Open your eyes and look at me."

The worst that could happen was that I'd either fall down or throw
up.  So I opened my eyes a slit.  Up-mountain (see how well I'm
acclimating, Horowitz?) was behind him, and the sky was clear.
That helped.  Not exactly horizon, but close.

And I certainly did feel grounded, Skinner outweighs me by a lot
these days.   I opened my eyes wider, kept staring at Skinner's
nose.  He has an interesting nose.  It's as memorable in its way as
mine, and I never noticed that before.

I finally let my field of vision expand enough to include his entire
face, then what lay in the background behind him, and finally took
in a deep breath of relief.  I wasn't falling *or* throwing up.

"Free fall," he repeated, eyeing me.

"Ever experienced anti-grav?"  I asked him, a pale shadow of my
shit-eating grin on my face.  "Or FTL travel?"

He arched an eyebrow.  "Faster than light?  Can't say I have, no."

"I have," I told him and my smile faded.  I did finally dare look
down at my feet and took an experimental step.  It takes a kind of
step shuffle to do it right, and it took me a while to relearn what I
remembered, but after about twenty minutes, I was making good
time and good distance, keeping right up with Skinner.   He was
pleased.

"You really did do this as a kid, didn't you," he offered.  "It's
coming back pretty quick, Mulder.  It took me nearly a month to
learn these things.  Not a lot of use for snowshoes where I grew
up."

I wondered where that was and got hit again with a vertigo attack
as we started back down-mountain.  Jesus, *I'm* saying it naturally
now.  This attack wasn't as bad though, all I had to do was stop
and look at him.

And he put his hands on my shoulders again, steadying me.
"You're listing," he told me humorously.  "Deep breath, look at me
again."

Only a few minutes this time.  I gave him back a grin and nodded
shakily. "Yeah, better this time."

A pat on the shoulder.  "Good, let's go.  When you get in good
shape, you can walk down-mountain if you feel like, but I don't
think it's the best idea to try today."

Probably not, since it hasn't been that long since I got past the
bronchitis and the cold air cuts like a knife when I breathe too
deeply.  And, of course, the Vertigo.  (Melodramatic Hitchcock
music in the background.)  Still, I was pleased overall.

We got back to the house about the time a snowmobile--Skinner
must be a purist, he doesn't have one, but a lot of other people
down-mountain do--pulled up behind the shanty under
which the four wheel drive resides.  When the driver pulled off the
mask, I was surprised to see Cassie Delevan.

No, surprised is too mild, I was stunned.  And it was nice to see
that my hormones weren't playing tricks on me, she really was a
pretty woman.

She grinned at me, nodded at Skinner and got off the machine.
"Got some mail for you, looked important, thought I'd run it up
here while the weather's good."

"Come on in," Skinner told her and I smiled back, feeling about as
smooth as I had at fifteen when a pretty girl smiled at me.
Somehow, I managed to get the lacings on the snowshoes
undone and get onto the porch.  Skinner shed his coat and opened
the inner door on the mudroom, letting out a draft of warm air.

See what I mean?  I'm even doing it now.  Mudroom, inner door,
down-mountain, up-mountain, we sound like hard-bitten country
folk.

So, we sat and had coffee and I actually managed to make small
talk about the difference between the weather here and
Massachusetts, and Skinner, leaning back against the kitchen
sink, threw in DC and Nebraska, just for conversational fodder.
Pure fluff, nothing heavy duty.

And as she was getting up to leave, Cassie grinned at me.  "Ever
ridden one of these beasts before?"

Skinner took a sip of coffee, but not before I saw his mouth twitch.

"No, actually."  I didn't mention that I wouldn't have been caught
dead on one before my recent resurrection.

"Would you like to?"

Hell, yes.   Cassie even smelled good.  I was practically salivating
just from sitting across the table from her.  Horowitz, I think
Skinner's right, I am going to make it back all the way.
"Sure," I said casually, "That would be fun."

"You'll need a suit," she told me and I gave Skinner a desperate
look.  Shit, shot down again.

"I've got one he can use," Skinner told her mildly and didn't look at
me at all.

Probably afraid he'd start laughing too hard.  This big brother
attitude is getting old.

He produced the suit, I got into it, feeling ridiculously like I had at
three in my snowsuit.  Goggles and a scarf completed the
ensemble, and out we went.

Snowmobile riding itself doesn't do a thing for me.  But by the time
we got down to Cassie's little house, my heart was slamming
around at an excessive rate, even for me.   Heh.  Needless to say,
we went inside, had more coffee, did a little canoodling around and
what can I say?

Reader, I got laid.

And boy, I can tell you, the combination of absolute terror and lust
only works when the only thing you're terrified about is being able
to manage at all.

At least for me, I can't deny there are probably masochists for
whom it works all the time.

I was actually tempted to sing the Hallelujah Chorus on the way
back at the top of my lungs, but I decided that would be a dead
give away that I haven't had a normal, healthy sexual
experience in three years and I didn't want to bring that up.

On the other hand, while I wasn't exactly smooth at all my moves,
Cassie has a sense of humor, thank God, and we managed just fine.
Better than just fine.  We managed better than just fine twice, as a
matter of fact, and if you think I'm sounding insufferably smug
about that, you're absolutely right.

If you're really good, Horowitz, I'll give you a stroke by stroke
description at my next appointment.

We'd been gone about five hours.  As we zoomed up,  Jack came
out in a snowmobile suit, carrying a number of packs and stood
there waiting for me to get off.  I whipped the scarf
down and the goggles off and grinned at her.  She did the same and
stood up to give me a friendly kiss.  "Keep your parts warm," she
murmured and did another wicked grin.  Then, "Come on, Jack,
let's get you out for southerly points."

Jack gave me a look as he went by.  I stopped him and held out my
hand.  Hey, I was feeling generous.  After a moment, he took it.
"It's not you, Jack, it's me," I told him meekly.  "But
thank you for trying to help."  A brief nod, a wink from Cassie, and
they were gone, leaving me standing there like a fool in the cold.

I was still smiling when I got in the house and Skinner was sitting
on the couch reading in front of the fire.

"I'm home, Dad."  I flopped down on the floor in front of the fire
and grinned at him.

He flipped me off.   I think I've definitely decided that life is getting
too interesting.  If I quit now, I'm not going to see what else
Skinner is capable of.

Of course, you know, Horowitz, being the demon shrink that you
are, that my euphoria didn't last any too damned long.

Post coital tristesse hit with a vengeance by dinner time.  Of
course, it was compounded by my mother's arrival.  My mom
arrived about two hours after I got back.  She called from Julie
Wilson's place, evidently they'd already gotten together and had a
nice chat about me.

Which really peeved me.  Skinner picked up on the conversation
and grimaced sympathetically.

Julie Wilson has something called a Sno-Cat that she uses to sneak
up here at night, and this time she actually came openly.

I guess I was nervous about my mom anyway, and I'd taken a nap
on the floor in front of  the fire and had a very evanescent dream
about Scully that seemed like the Jokemeister's punishment for
having fun and getting laid and feeling alive again.

Yeah, I know what you're going to tell me, the Jokemeister doesn't
control my subconscious, that's me.  Whatever.

So I wake up in a shitty mood and my mom tells me that she and
Julie Wilson had a long talk about me, meaning, I suppose, that
Julie Wilson managed to tell my mother everything that
was done to me, which is nothing I ever wanted my mother to
hear.  But it was good to see her.

I hate crying, but I do so much of it, I told Skinner we needed to
invest our retirement in Kimberly Clark.  To which he responded
by handing me a handkerchief and drily remarking that these were
recyclable.   I have to confess, depression aside, that as dearly as I
loved Scully, she'd have had me in the clinic hooked up to a
straight Thorazine feed for some of the remarks I've made to
Skinner.  I can't decide if that means she worries more than he
does, or if it's a guy thing and he can better judge what kind of
emotional weight to place on my remarks.  Worried, Scully
worried more than he does.

Anyway, there was Mom--she looked a little older and sadder, but
pretty much the same.  Jesus, she's nearly seventy.  She put her
arms around me and just hugged me once she got in, before she
even got her coat off and I felt both stupid and pleased at the same
time.  Stupid, because tears were streaming down my face and
pleased because my mom thought enough of me to fly to the roof
of the Western Hemisphere just because I wasn't dead.

Happy, Horowitz?  You got another family confession right there
on the spot.

Anyway, she finally let go of me, I took her coat and ushered her
in to sit near the fire.  Wilson gave Skinner a surreptitious kiss and
goose, which he took like a man and didn't even jump at.  And
since I was desperate to talk about anything but what happened to
me, I kept popping up like a jack in the box to show her the house,
which is a pretty nifty house, even if it is built into a hill, and show
her my room and all my things, and she was bewildered enough
to let me.

Skinner kept glancing at me, frowning a little, but he let me be.
And when we finally sat down in front of the fire, Wilson said, "I
thought Mrs. Mulder could stay here tonight, Walt, since it's
so late."  Panic crept in and closed my airways.

I haven't had an asthma attack since I was four, but I could feel my
chest seriously struggling right then.   Skinner shot up off the
couch and yanked me up in a hurry to pull me into the bathroom,
where, unbeknownst to me, was an inhaler.

Evidently when I was so sick I was delirious, I was seriously
asthmatic.  Of course, I got the stuff in shots, then, but Wilson
gave them an inhaler for me if it started happening again.  I
thought the mountain air was supposed to be good for your chest.
Although my problems probably have more to do with what the
Mengeles put me through than mountain air.

So, Skinner sat me down on the toilet lid and shook the inhaler and
handed it to me, meanwhile instructing me on how to use it.  I was
so floored by that, my panic receded a little and I actually managed
to follow his instructions.  Immediate relief.

"Well, that was interesting."

 "Yeah."  Skinner leaned against the sink, studying my face.  "I
don't know if it's a good idea for your mom to stay here."  His tone
was faintly regretful.

I didn't want him to miss his visit with Julie Wilson, the Medical
Valkyrie, just because I can't handle my mother hovering.  I shook
my head.  "No, it's okay.  I was just surprised."

I know it's no surprise to *you*, Horowitz, that I like my days
planned nowadays.  The fewer surprises the better.   But I smiled
brightly at Skinner and took my second dose of the inhaler.

Good thing I can't go back to the FBI anyway, disability would
really piss me off.

So, Skinner emerged from the bathroom, not that he ever shut the
door on the onlookers this time, and announced that I was fine, I
had a touch of asthma these days, at which Wilson nodded, I saw
her as I came out, wiping sweat-damp hands on my jeans.  Mom
smiled a little worriedly and I managed a credible smile in return
and went back to sit on the floor near her.  But it really was a
decent evening.

The subtext, of course, was that Mom would use the bedroom just
vacated by Jack, since Skinner hadn't revamped it back to an
office, and since Wilson was obviously sharing Skinner's bed, all
was as merry as a marriage bell.  I was really glad that the second
bedroom was next to the master and that there was a closet
between it and the office, because I really didn't want my mother to
hear me in the middle of a full tilt screamer.
 
 

October 19

Well, I didn't realize just how my mom's hearing works.
According to her, mothers always hear their children cry out in the
night, even if they're sound asleep.  I let that one go, because I was
too exhausted to get into a screaming fit of temper about the
nightmares I had when I was little.

Fuck it, let her believe she was Donna Reed.   Even if Skinner did
make it down the hall before she did.

Post coital tristesse turned into the worst nightmare I've had yet.
Wilson suggests that possibly the inhaler had something to do with
it, evidently my nightmares while I was still really ill were
memorable.

Thankfully, I don't remember.

So she's switching my inhaler to a different drug and I can lie here
on the couch limply while Skinner keeps me on suicide watch
again.

It was like reliving Wilkinson, with a few added embellishments
that he hadn't thought of.  Scully was there, healthy and well and
suddenly she was egging Wilkinson on.  Only this time, it wasn't
just the visual dream imagery, which is bad enough, it was like
those physical flashes of memory and I came up out of bed
screaming myself hoarse and tearing at the sweats I was wearing,
completely around the bend.  I do remember insisting that I take a
shower, that I could smell Wilkinson on my skin.

That was after throwing up everything but my toenails.  I also
remember that Wilson wanted to give me a shot to calm me down,
but the cooler head prevailed.

That wasn't a hair joke, Walt.

So Skinner got to baby-sit me in the bathroom while I obsessively
scrubbed myself in the shower with the nail brush.  Which he didn't
know I had and was willing to give me the courtesy of privacy and
then found out I had and was pissed and I feel like shit because in
my right mind, I wouldn't have done it.  I wouldn't have done that
to him.  He's treated me more than fairly and then I scrub myself
nearly bloody.  I suppose I just need to feel guilty for something
other than my mother.

Anyway, I didn't actually draw blood, although Skinner was short
with me and insisted on me applying lanolin to the skin I'd scraped
with the brush.

I was feeling calmer by then, if only because he'd humored me, so I
let him twist my arm.  And I was exhausted.  I had the dimmest
feeling that I ought to be embarrassed, but was still in that fuzzy
place where it didn't much matter.

 When we came out of the bathroom, my mother was sitting on my
bed crying, while Julie Wilson tried to calm *her* down.

Welcome to the Mulder family, Walt.  Forgot to tell you, we're all
pretty high maintenance.

Well, you can imagine how that hit me.  So on top of the
screaming nightmare, I felt guilty.  But instead of doing my really
swell apology that I learned to do from the age of three on, I
looked her in the eye and asked, "Who was my father, Mom?"

Where that came from--you tell me, Horowitz.  Am I languishing
in confusion because I'm no longer precisely sure who fathered
me?  I know who fathered me, it was drunken William Mulder.
Whose seed started me, I don't know.

Maybe Mom doesn't know, either.

She stopped crying and looked at me, clearly stunned.

"Well," I told her, "There aren't that many choices, are there
Mom?"  I was jittering and jiving from one foot to the other,
adrenaline again, pumping enough that my heart was racing.
"Was it William Mulder or his smoking buddy?"

She stood up and advanced on me, her hand coming up as if she'd
slap me again.  I swear, I leaned into it, just waiting.

Skinner was behind me, his hand came out and gently, oh, so
gently, caught her hand.  "Mrs. Mulder," he murmured.  "I can't let
you do that."

 Well, Mom does have a good right cross, I must say, but the day I
thought I'd need someone to protect me from my mother--he
chivvied me back into bed, which had fresh sheets on it.

Probably the only thing I'd been smelling was my own fear sweat.

I was shivering by this time, crashing like a jet without engines.  I
heard Julie Wilson murmur something and Mom came to sit down
by the bed.  She touched my face very gently and I started to cry,
not making even a single noise.  "Fox, it shouldn't matter.  You're
my son.  And I love you. Bill loved you, even though he hurt you.
He was your father."

I didn't know whether or not to believe her.  "There was a folder
with my name on it.  Sam's had been pasted over it."

She stroked my hair back from my face.  I remember her doing that
when I was little and Dad had hurt me.  "Bill was afraid of you and
afraid for you, Fox.  His feelings for Sam were less complicated.
Sam was less complicated than you were."

I still wasn't sure she was telling the truth.  Maybe she was telling
her truth.  But I was too tired anyway.  So I pulled the blankets
over my head.

I heard Wilson murmuring to Skinner, and Wilson came and got
my mom and guided her back to the third bedroom/office.  I was
sliding down into sleep again, just hearing sounds.

The light clicked off and Skinner's hand rested on my shoulder,
dragging me back.  "Mulder," he murmured, "She's right.  It
doesn't matter.  You do.  You're worth