My Name is Paul

By Daydreamer
Daydream59@aol.com


Date: Sun, 11 Aug 2002
Rating: R
Category: SA
Spoilers: none
Keywords: Skinnerfic
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes!  Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and Skinner are owned by Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc.  
They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny,
Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi.  I will make no profit
from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor
and have nothing material they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought
to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire!
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/

Summary: Skinner is dead -- or is he?  Mulder and Scully's
investigation into his death brings them up against still
unseen enemies, who conspire to control them all.


My Name is Paul


Prologue
Arlington Cemetery
August 26, 2000
11:00 am

"And so, it is with great sadness and regret, we have gathered
here today to lay to rest the earthly remains of Walter Skinner."

Mulder stared at the young man.  He was an anachronism at this
gathering of somber men and women who all wore the prescribed
dark suits despite the sweltering heat of Washington August.  
The man looked like a refugee from the sixties; ragged jeans, a
threadbare knit shirt, and unbelievably old, worn sandals on his
feet.  Mulder shrugged within his own dark suit coat.  At least
the young preacher had put shoes on; when Mulder had met with
him, the man had been barefoot.

He forced himself to listen again, and heard the preacher say,
"And so, those of us who knew and respected Walter, are glad
to have this opportunity to say goodbye to our colleague, our
co-worker, our helper and" -- here the young man stumbled over
his words -- "our friend."

It was no surprise to Mulder that the man found it difficult to
call Skinner a friend.  He and Scully couldn't use the term
about Skinner either, though there had been several times when
he thought they'd broken through.  When Scully was missing.
When that prostitute and then Skinner's wife had been killed.
When Scully's cancer had gotten so bad.  And most recently,
when Skinner himself had been so close to death, infected with
some still unnamed, unknown technological virus.  But always,
always, Skinner had pulled back, put up the walls, refused to
take a stand, choose a side, make a friend.  It was frustrating
to no end, but Mulder was convinced that beneath all the
deceptions and seeming betrayals, Skinner was fighting with
them.  It was why he was here today.  

Well, that and the fact that he and Scully had arranged the
funeral.

When the call had come in to the Hoover, that Skinner was dead,
the body identified, asking who was handling the arrangements, it
had landed in Kim's lap.  She'd pulled her boss's personnel folder,
determined that his parents were deceased, his wife was dead, he
had no children, and the only relative was a brother who lived in
California.  A brother who had been less than interested in the
fact that Skinner was dead, and had refused to take responsibility
for the funeral, giving Kim a lawyer's name and the old 'have his
lawyer contact my lawyer if there's anything left to me.'

Scully had come into the office at that point, found Kim near
tears, heard the whole story and volunteered them to take
care of the arrangements.  Which was how Mulder now found
himself knowing a whole lot more about his boss's private
life than he was entirely comfortable with.  It was also why
there was a storefront preacher, one who ran a soup kitchen,
presiding over the grave.  It was one of two things Skinner
did outside work.  He boxed at a hole in the wall gym in
the wrong part of DC, but had no close acquaintances there.
Mulder scanned the assemblage again.  No, there was no one
here from the gym.  And Skinner's second activity -- surprise,
surprise -- was working at a soup kitchen that was mainly
frequented by down on their luck vets.  He was a regular,
every Tuesday night for four years.  And even there he had
been aloof, stand-offish.  He did his part, spoke pleasantly
to everyone, but never allowed any degree of intimacy to
develop.  Mulder shook his head sadly.  Skinner had been
a very lonely man.

Mulder jerked alert again as the first volley of gunfire
echoed through the cemetery quiet.  It was followed in rapid
succession by nine more and Mulder flinched with each
one.  It made his skin crawl, as if each shot were a hammer,
pounding nails into a coffin that would remain sealed for
all eternity.  Or perhaps each shot was a door closing,
another avenue toward the truth closing with no hope of
being opened again.

The planes were coming in now, low and fast, and as
Mulder looked up, one peeled away, the sun glinting
off the silver underbelly, almost blinding him with
its brightness.  It was hot, so hot, and the sweat on his
brow had trickled down and caused his eyes to water.  
The blinding sun, the August heat, they were the only
possible reason that his cheeks were wet and his eyes
stung from salty tears.  

He chanced a glance at Scully, and saw that she was
looking up at him in concern.  A barely noticeable nod
redirected his attention to the young Marine who stood
by the casket, a neatly folded flag held in his hands and
no one to whom he could present it.

Mulder swallowed hard, then stepped forward, arms
extended and the visibly relieved Marine placed into
his hands the United States' last recognition of the
strength, the courage, the man who had been Walter
Sergei Skinner.

***************************************
Act One
Mulder's Office
August 26, 2000
2:15 pm

"I can't believe he's gone."  Scully handed Mulder
a cup of coffee as she sat down and sipped her own
steaming cup.

"I can't believe you can drink coffee after being out
in the heat this afternoon."  Mulder took a swallow,
grimaced, and put the cup down on a desk overflowing
with papers, files, and loose photos.  

"How can you find anything in that mess?" Scully
asked, sighing out loud as she took another sip of
her favored beverage.  "And don't avoid - it's not
like you."  She narrowed her eyes as she studied him
over the rim of the still steaming cup.

Mulder gave a sigh of his own, and shook his head.  "I'm
not avoiding.  I'm just not sure I can accept this yet."

"What's not to accept, Mulder?  The man is dead.  We
just came from his funeral, for God's sake.  What more
do you need?"

"A cause of death, a reason he was out there on that road.
Hell, a body would be nice," Mulder muttered.

"We have a body.  We have a cause of death."

"We have a severely charred bunch of bones that Kersch --
Kersch, for Christ's sake -- identified!"  Mulder stood and
began to pace, one hand pushing back the lock of hair over
his brow as the other worried his lower lip.
 
"Severely charred would seem to give us cause of death,"
Scully said quietly.  "And as to why he was that far out of
the city, at that time of night -- well, he was a big boy.  Even
Skinner had a life."  She shrugged.  "We didn't know him
that well, Mulder.  There's no way to know what he did, or
why he did it."  She sipped her cooling coffee as she
studied her partner's pacing form.

"That's just it.  I do know him now.  I know him a hell of
a lot better than I ever thought I would.  He didn't have
a life.  He worked, he slept, he worked some more.  He
boxed when he couldn't stand the office politics anymore ..."

"Or maybe when he couldn't stand you anymore," Scully
interrupted with a smile.  

"Maybe," Mulder conceded.  Scully's deflection had worked,
and he stilled, the need to move defused.  Mulder shook his
head, amazed again at how well she knew him.  He threw the
slightest of grins her way, saying, "If I may continue?"

"You're profiling him, now?  Now that he's dead?"

"I need to understand."  Mulder dropped into his desk
chair, leaning back and throwing his legs up onto the
papers and files.  He tilted his head back, stared at
the ceiling, then closed his eyes.  "He fought his survivor
guilt by feeding homeless vets.  He worked, he slept.
He boxed to relieve tension.  He ran occasionally.  And
he lived with guilt.  Guilt and regret."  Mulder's chin
dropped, his eyes popped open.  The long legs slid
to the floor and he sat erect, pinning her with eyes of
swirling green and gray.  "That's *all* the man did.  
He *didn't* have a life."  

"Well, for someone who didn't have a life, he's still
extremely dead, Mulder, and all the profiling in the
world isn't going to change that."  Scully rose and
walked to stand beside him, one hand placed gently
on his shoulder.  "He's dead and we have to accept
it."

Mulder gave a soft sigh, looking up into her eyes.  
"Do we have to accept it, Scully?"  He lifted one hand,
carefully removed hers from his shoulder, then rose.
"Is he really dead?"

***************************************
Undisclosed Location
September 12,  2000
6:30 am

"Paul!  Breakfast's ready!"

The man in the shower shook himself, enjoying the
sensual feel of the water rolling over his shoulders,
sliding down his back and legs.  He ducked his head
under the shower head and shook again.  You had to
enjoy your pleasures where you got them.  Somehow,
getting older had made him more and more aware of
that fact.

"Paul!  Did you hear me?"

He grinned beneath the cascade, grabbed a loofah and
began to scrub.  God, he loved showers!  The moist
heat, the feel of the water as it caressed his skin, even
the scent of soaps and shampoos -- it was a sensory
feast.

"PAUL!"  The door flew open and she was standing
there, small and trim, her curly hair still in disarray
about a round face, legs bare beneath his faded old
T-shirt that she often wore to sleep in.  "Breakfast
is ready and we're gong to be late if you don't get
moving.  Didn't you hear me?"

She shook her head at him and he laughed, amazed
at how many things there were in life to be thankful
for.  Showers, and hot water, breakfast and work
he enjoyed.  And a wife that still captivated him,
even after all these years.  "What time is it?" he
asked as he ran the soap over an abdomen that,
despite being almost fifty years old, was still rock
hard.  He had a life he loved, he wasn't going to
blow it by letting himself go to pot and then being
sickly and unable to enjoy it.  And thinking of
enjoyment ...

He eyed Karen, standing there with a smile on her
lips, head tilted to the side, one hand on her hip.  
It was a pose he knew all too well.  She wanted him
to get his butt moving, and NOW.   "It's late," she
answered.  "But if you, dear sir, will move that very
fetching ass, we can still sit down to a civilized meal
and not have to race into the school like a couple of
teenagers."

"Maybe I feel like a teenager," he teased as he reached
out and pulled her into the water with him.  The shirt
soaked quickly and he liked what he saw.  "A love-sick
teenager at that," he amended.

She struggled at first, raining tiny fists against his
chest in mock resistance, then laughed and wriggled
against him.  In one of the sexiest moves he'd ever
seen, she swept the T-shirt up and over her head and
he felt himself unable to breathe as he looked at her.
"Maybe we should skip breakfast after all," she murmured,
her voice gone soft and low.

Paul nodded, pushing back dark strands of wavy
hair, then bending to whisper into her ear.  "Do you
know how much I love you?"

She laughed as his breath tickled her, and glanced down
at him.  "Oh, yeah," she purred.  "I've got a pretty good
idea."

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

September 12, 2000
7:50 am

They were almost late again, running from the teacher's
parking lot into the building.  They got to his classroom
first, and stopped as he pulled the door open and handed
her her satchel.  He leaned down and kissed her, quickly
at first, then a bit longer, a bit deeper, and he could feel
himself being pulled into her very soul.  The sound of
laughter, then applause caused him to pull away in
embarrassment.  He looked down into her flushed
face and they both laughed as the kids surrounding them
continued to clap.  

"Time to get to class," she murmured.

He laughed and let her go.  "See you tonight," he called
to her retreating form before he turned and said, "All
right you monsters, nothing else to see here."

"Already got an eyeful, Mr. J," someone cried, and the
group erupted in laughter again.  

"Get to class, all of you," he ordered, but his own laughter
made it hard to sound stern.  It was hard to be stern
when he felt so full of joy.  He turned and entered
his classroom and began to pull books and papers out of his
briefcase as the teens filed in and took their seats.

"How long you and Ms. J been married?" one of the kids
asked, and Paul looked up, grinning.  

"Almost twenty-five years, and let that be a lesson to you
all.  It's worth waiting for the right person.  You'll be glad
you did."  He smiled at the class, his face softening and his
eyes warm behind his glasses.  "Now, can we all open our
books to page 95 ..."

******************************************
Office of the Lone Gunmen
September 12, 2000
7:00 pm

"Mulder, this is crazy!" Scully said for the tenth time.
"You're going to get us both fired!"

"I need to see the reports, Scully."  Mulder leaned over
Byers' shoulder, staring at the monitor as the other man's
fingers danced across the keyboard.

"You saw the reports, Mulder."  

"We saw what they wanted us to see."

"I'm in," Byers said, looking up quickly to see Scully
move across the room and stand over his other shoulder,
next to her partner.

"They, they, they, Mulder.  It's always they.  Why can't
you accept that Skinner died in that car wreck.  If you keep
this up, we'll both be out of work, and you," she tapped
Byers on the head, "you may be in jail."

"Not Byers," Langly said.  "He's too fast to get caught."

"What do you think you're going to find?"  Scully stared over
at Mulder, then down at the monitor.  It briefly flashed the
emblem of the Fauquier County Sheriff's Department, then a
directory tree.  Byers moved the mouse, made a selection, and
the screen changed again.

"I just want to see the original reports, not the ones that
Kersch gave us."

Scully sighed.  They'd been over this a hundred times in the
last few weeks.  "Mulder, he was FBI.  Fauquier called the
Bureau right away.  There *are* no original reports!"

"What local office ever willingly calls the Feds to take
over their case?"  Mulder reached out a long finger and
tapped something on the screen, then nodded as Byers
clicked again.

"There was no case.  There is no case.  There was nothing
to take over."  

"Never mind why Skinner was out there at that time of
night, Scully.  Never mind that there's no record of anything
he was working on that could have had him in Fauquier
County.  But it was a clear night, a straight road,
and Skinner's not known for drinking and driving.  So
what made him veer off the road, at over 90 miles an
hour, at the only point in three miles in either direction
where there was something to crash into?"

"You don't know he hadn't been drinking.  He does,
you know."

Mulder raised an eyebrow.

"Drink," she went on stubbornly.  "He does drink.  He
could have been drinking.  The accelerator could have
stuck.  There could have been a bee in the car."

"A bee in the car?  Is that the best you can come up
with?"  Mulder tapped the screen again, then turned to
face Scully.  "If he's dead, I want to know what happened.
We owe him that."

"I agree, but I don't see that there's any reason to
doubt that he's dead."  Scully folded her arms across
her chest and stared levelly up into Mulder's eyes.
"If nothing comes of this, I want you to agree to drop
it, Mulder.  Accept it and move on.  We've got other
things that need our attention."

Mulder took a deep breath and stared at the floor.  "I want
to see Fauquier's report, and I want you to check the autopsy
report.  If there's nothing in either of those, I'll let it go."  He
looked up.  "But that's depending on nothing else coming
up that looks fishy."

She smiled at him, her face softening.  One hand came out,
took his arm and pulled gently, drawing him away from
his hacker friends and over to a wall where they could
speak quietly.  "I'm worried about you, Mulder.  Obsessions
are one of your favorite things.  And we need to focus
on other things now.  You're wearing yourself out over
this."

"I know, I know."  He ran a hand through his hair, then
scrubbed at his face in exhaustion.  "I just need to see
the reports for myself.  The originals, not something Kersch
has doctored."

"Fine.  Then hack away and don't get caught.  And once
we've seen them, we move on, OK?"  She smiled slightly
to soften her words.

"Agreed."  He rubbed his face again and turned to head
back to Byers and the monitor.  "Unless something else
turns up."

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

September 12, 2000
3:45 am

It was dark and he was carrying something.  Something
heavy.  He grunted as he shifted the weight on his
shoulder and tried to find a comfortable grip.  But
it wasn't comfortable.  It was big, whatever it was,
long and thin and it bounced against his back with
every step he took.  

He shifted again and took a deep breath.  The air smelled
funny, a sort of strange scent that he couldn't place.
Saltwater and decay.  He looked around and realized
he was on a pier, a pier with no ships tied up, but littered
with crates.  From truck-sized to boxes small enough to
carry, the pier was stacked with crates.  He didn't know
where he was, or where he was going, carrying this long,
thin thing.  

Everything was silent, like a movie with the sound
off.  He should be able to hear something.  Water lapping
against the pier, traffic from the streets nearby, at least
the sound of his own breathing.

He was confused, unsure of what was happening, and
he stopped, longing to put the thing he carried down,
but somehow knowing he shouldn't.  His gut was
tight with fear and his nerves jangled from the adrenaline
that surged in his veins with every move he made.
Sweat rolled down his brow, and he shifted his burden
again, then raised a hand to wipe his forehead.  But his
hand was wet already, wet and sticky, and he squinted
in the darkness as he stared at the hand and tried to
figure out why it was wet.

He wiped his mouth and tasted something metallic.
Oddly familiar, with a coppery tang.  The adrenaline
flowed again as he first realized it was blood, and then,
in shock, wondered how he would know the taste of
blood.  He shook his head in confusion, then bent
again to readjust the load he carried, and a bullet sliced
the air where his head had been a split second before.  
He dropped to his knees, rolling to one side, ducking
behind a shipping crate.  He realized he could hear
again, even as he reached out and grabbed the man
he had been carrying -- he'd been carrying a man! --
and pulled him into the temporary safety of the crate.

It was like he was two people.  There was the person
moving, ducking, rolling, pulling, the man who seemed
to know what was happening.  And then there was
him -- the high school teacher who didn't even know
where the hell he was or how he'd gotten there.  

Another shot rang out and the wooden crate splintered
over his head.  He looked down and found a gun in
his hand.  How the hell had that gotten there?  He didn't
know anything about guns.  Or maybe he did.  As he
watched in disbelief, his hands thumbed the safety off,
pulled back on the barrel and he began to fire.  He looked
down at the man beside him -- tall and lanky, his face pale
from the blood he was losing -- and fired again at the unseen
threat.

He could hear something else now, something besides
bullets.  There was shouting -- someone was crying out,
"Kill them!  Kill them!" -- and a barrage of gunfire assailed
the crate.  He grabbed the injured man by the collar and
slithered further back, behind more crates.  He felt a sharp
pain in his arm and looked down, saw that he'd been hit
and was bleeding now.  He had to stop the bleeding.  He
looked at the unconscious man beside him, somehow
knowing that he knew him and yet having no name for
this tall person with dark hair and the oh, so pale face.

Another shot whizzed by, pulling him back to the present.
He reached into a pocket, reloaded the gun, and began
firing again.  His arm was bleeding freely, and he was
out of ammunition when a figure stepped around the crate,
a gun leveled at his head.  He strained to see the face of
the man who was going to kill him, but it was shrouded in
darkness.  

He thought again about the absurdity of it all.  That he,
a high school math teacher would end up dying on a
nameless pier, killed by a nameless man, for no reason
he could comprehend.  He didn't know how he'd gotten
here, or why he was here, or how he knew how to handle
this gun.

He looked down at his hands, watched as the gun dropped
from numb fingers and wished with all his heart he was
back safe in his bed with his wife.  "Karen!  "Karen!"
The first cry was hoarse and almost unintelligible.  But
the second one rang out clear.  

He stared at the man before him, his finger on the trigger
pulling back almost imperceptibly.  He was going to die.
He closed his eyes, and screamed again, "Karen!  Karen!"
waiting for the bullet to sound, for the pain he knew was
coming.  Waiting ...

"PAUL!"  

His head rocked back from the force of her palm and his
eyes snapped open.  His wife was straddling him, her
fingers digging into his shoulders.  

"Paul!  Are you awake?"

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded, and let
himself fall forward into her embrace.  She wrapped her
arms around him, holding him tightly and stroking his
back until his breathing slowed and he could manage to
make his tongue work.

"It's getting worse," he whispered thickly, feeling her
answering nod.  

She tightened her grip on him, holding him as if she would
fight the world to keep him safe, then reluctantly let go
and slid off his legs, leaving him to hold himself upright.
"You go and shower," she said softly. "You're drenched
and the sheets are soaked.  I'll strip the bed and make
coffee."  

He nodded obediently, not able to think yet, and struggled
to his feet, padding softly toward the bathroom.

She cocked her head as she studied him.  "We'll
talk when you get done."

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

Mulder's Office
September 13, 2000
10:00 am

"Are you satisfied now?"  Scully dropped the folder
on Mulder's desk.  I've gone over the autopsy and I
don't see anything other than what went into the report."

"Nothing?"  Mulder opened the file, staring down at a
Skinner-sized black lump on a stainless steel table.

"The body was badly burned, Mulder.  Not just beyond
recognition, but to the point where the bones began to
break and fuse.  Not even the teeth could be used for
identification."

Mulder jerked alert, staring up at his partner.  "No dental
ID?  What did they use?"  He shook his head and added,
"And don't tell me his wallet."  A quick glance down at the
picture in the folder and then, "No way the wallet survived."

"No, Mulder.  It wasn't his wallet."  She tilted her head
as she looked at him.  "I thought you knew."

"I don't *know* anything!" Mulder said in disgust.
"That's why I'm trying to find something out."  He rose
and began to pace the small office.  "I just think it's too
convenient that once Skinner begins to be a little more
dependable when it comes to backing us up, he suddenly
turns up dead.  Dead, in a weird, single car crash, on a
deserted road, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle
of the night."  He heeled around, facing her.  "Nothing
new, I know, but he had no reason to be there, nothing
anyone can find that would explain why he was out there,
or what caused the crash."  He started pacing again, three
strides to the door, then a quick turn and back toward
the desk.  "And now you tell me not only was he burned
beyond recognition, his teeth were destroyed too?"
He halted at her side, staring earnestly into her face.
"How do we know it's him?"

"Oh, Mulder," Scully sighed, one hand reaching up
almost hesitantly to push gently against his chest,
forcing him to sit.  "I thought you knew."  When he
was seated, she propped herself on the desk in front
of him.  "It was him, Mulder.  He broke his leg when
he was a child, a bad break.  I saw the x-rays.  Right
leg."

Mulder's head dropped as she spoke and she could
see the beginnings of acceptance slide across his
features.  

"The body was badly burned, the bones included.
But you could still see the healed fracture on the
right leg."  She stopped and took a deep breath.
"It was him, Mulder.  It had to be him."

Mulder shook his head as she spoke, still staring
at his lap.  She could see as he closed his eyes tightly,
fighting unnamed emotions, and when he opened them
and lifted his head, she could see the exhaustion in the
drooping, red-rimmed lids.  His whole face was etched
in exhaustion and she chided herself for not watching
more closely, not having confronted him sooner.  Staring
down at him, she wondered just how much sleep he'd
gotten in the week since Skinner died.  

He stared up at her and she was struck by the sudden
bereft look on Mulder's features and she realized he
had truly not believed that Skinner was dead until this
moment.  

"Mulder," she said softly, "I miss him, too.  But the fact
is, we didn't know him that well, and we couldn't really
depend on him.  He never really took a stand."

Mulder just shook his head.  "I know he was on our
side.  There were other things going on, things that made
him seem to sit on the fence, but he was on our side."

"Mulder ..."  She reached out and touched his head,
surprised to find he was warm to her touch.  "Mulder?
Are you all right?"

He shook his head, pushing her hand away.  "No, I'm
not all right."  He looked up at her impatiently.  "Don't
you get it, Scully?"  He shook his head again.  

"We're really on our own now.  We're alone," he said,
in an almost stricken voice.

"We're not alone," she whispered.  "We have each other."

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

Act Two
September 13, 2000
10:00 pm

He was humming softly, something from the early seventies
that he knew but couldn't remember the name of.  He
scanned the shelves in front of him, searching for the
brand she liked, found it, and threw two packs of paper
towels into the cart without missing a beat.  It amazed
him how much he enjoyed the every day things in life.  
Before they'd moved here, he'd had friends who talked
of feeling trapped in their marriages, trapped in their
lives.  The every day joys seemed to elude those men,
but not him.  He couldn't imagine anything more wonderful
than this life he led.  A wife who loved him, a job he was
happy at, one that gave him pleasure.  A chance to
shape young lives, to contribute to the future.  A chance
to make a difference in the world through the children he
taught.  

He laughed as he picked up toilet paper, then tissues, and
stacked them on the almost full cart.  Some people weren't
content with the every day life, thinking life had to be
exciting and an adventure in order to be worthwhile.  Or
they needed to do something on a grand scale to feel
they were making a contribution.  But he knew better.
It was the little things, the every day things, that made
life worth living.  He could think of nothing sadder than
a life with no family, no friends, no hobbies.  A man who
only worked and slept and worked some more.  He shuddered
as he opened the dairy case and pulled out a carton of
eggs.  He carefully opened the lid, first checking to be
sure none were broken, then moving each egg in its
cradle, as Karen had taught him all those years ago, to
make sure none were cracked on the bottom.  

This was what life was all about.  Not -- he shuddered
again -- not the macho heroics of those horrid nightmares
he'd been having.  It was about love and friendship.  
About grocery shopping and grading tests at night
with someone you loved.  Someone who loved you.  
It was about mowing the grass and backyard barbecues
with friends.  It was about baseball in a minor league
park on a hot summer night and fireworks under the stars.
It was about helping a bright young girl find a scholarship
so she could go to college and watching a kid add
A + B for the first time and really get an answer.

He moved on to the checkout, and idly noticed the long
coat the man in front of him was wearing.  A glance at
the big thermometer that hung over the customer service
counter reminded him of what he already knew.  It was
September in Georgia; that guy had to be dying in that
thing.  He shrugged and went back to wondering how he
got to be so lucky.  How he was the one who knew what
made life worthwhile, when millions of others wandered
blindly along, never satisfied, never content.  As far as
he was concerned, the life of this high school math
teacher was all he needed, and he was going to thank
God every day that he had it.

A shrill cry jerked him from his reverie and he came
alert, looking around.  The man in the long coat had pulled
a gun and had it aimed at the young cashier.  She was
the one who had cried out.  He looked at her more closely.
It was Cheryl Pierce.  She was in his algebra class.  He
seemed to remember she'd once told him she was junior
class VP.  Made sense -- she was active in school.  He
knew that.  Even had a school T-shirt on at work.  A lot of
the teenagers wouldn't show that kind of school pride.   
She was a bright girl, cute and funny, but she hadn't
been satisfied with the D she'd gotten in algebra and
was repeating it again this year.  She said she just
couldn't seem to get the hang of using letters for numbers
last year, but he was inclined to think it was more the
teacher's fault than the girl's, since she seemed to be
doing fine in his class.

He studied her closely.  She wasn't doing fine right
now.  Her face was pale, almost transparent, and she
was crying.  Not loud, sobbing cries, but crying
nonetheless.  Tears streamed down her cheeks and
she breathed in little gulping sighs.  Her nose was running
and as he watched, she lifted a shaking hand and
swiped it, a little child's action.  The man in the
coat said something, but it was strange, almost
like his dream.  He couldn't seem to hear, he just
suddenly knew how to act.  Part of him was appalled
that anyone would threaten a child this way, that
anyone would dare to infringe on her innocence and
stain her with violence.

But another part of him was moving, shoving his full
shopping cart forward, watching as the man in the long
coat fell forward, the gun going off at the ceiling.  Paul
shoved again, then leapt over the moving belt on the
counter, tackling Cheryl and pulling her to the ground
with him.  

Sound was suddenly back and he could hear screaming
all around and he saw people scurrying away.  The man
with the gun was up, because when Paul rolled again,
he saw the barrel of the gun come down over the counter
and he felt the bullet as it exploded into his arm.  He
somehow kept rolling, Cheryl beneath him, then above,
and soon they were behind a refrigerated display case full
of ice cold sodas.  He heard the glass on the front of the
case shatter as another bullet found its way home.  He
pushed away from Cheryl, shoving her toward the door,
screaming, "Run!  Run!  Run!" even as he leapt to his feet
and raced toward the shooter.

This was insane.  This was madness.  He'd lost his mind.
He was Paul Johnson, math teacher, and he did not
*ever* charge down men who were holding a gun.  

He stared at the barrel of the gun, watched as it rose
and pointed directly at his chest.  He was still moving
forward, a final dance with death, the barrel of the gun
wavering only slightly.  He could hear screaming, taste
the fear in his mouth, feel the blood on his sleeve.  The
man holding the gun grinned, his lips pulled back to
reveal teeth locked in a death's mask parody.  He could
see the finger on the trigger, pulling, pulling, pulling, and
he could almost feel the jolt as the gun fired, the bullet
leaping from the barrel and as he went down, he thought,
"Karen is never going to forgive me for this."

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

September 14, 2000
5:15 am

The hammer came down again.  BANG!  He pulled back
and looked down at his work.  For someone as unhandy
as he was, it was turning out all right.  He raised the
hammer once more -- BANG! -- and then nodded in satisfaction.
He was done.  He set the hammer on the bench, then
turned for sandpaper.

BANG!  BANG!  BANG!

He looked down in surprise, then glanced at the workbench
to make sure the hammer wasn't acting on its own.

BANG!  BANG!  BANG!

Mulder jerked awake, the old blanket slipping to the floor
as he sat up on the battered couch.  The TV was
still running, sound muted, the picture causing weird
shadows to dance across the walls.  

Weird shadows, weird dreams.  Something about building
something.  And a hammer.  

Mulder rolled his shoulders, then stretched, standing as
he lifted his arms over his head and arched his back.  It
was September, in the nineties, but the AC was blowing
full force and he shivered in his boxers.  

Very weird dream.  Wood and nails and hammers.

Hammers.

Pounding.

He froze in mid-stretch and shot a glance at the door.

"Nah," he muttered, padding into the kitchen and turning
on the water.  He pulled the basket from the coffeemaker,
dumped the old filter with a grimace.  It was a solid lump,
gray and fuzzy, and he swore for the hundredth time to
wash the damn thing every time he used it.  He stuck
the basket in the sink, letting the now hot water bathe
it as he rummaged in the cabinet for a new filter and the
coffee.

Pounding.  He been dreaming of pounding.

Or had he?

He shook his head again, forcing his thoughts back to
the coffee.  The coffeemaker had been a gift from
Scully's mother -- and he actually used it.  Not as often
as he'd thought he would.  He always seemed to be
running from one emergency to another, and when it
wasn't an emergency, he was just plain running late.
But on nights like this, or the occasional weekend, it
was nice to be able to make a cup of decent coffee --
something drinkable that still served its purpose to
keep him awake and keep him going.

Pounding.

He glanced at the door again.  Why couldn't he shake
the dream?  Oh, the dream itself was fading.  He'd been
making something, something that involved pounding.
It was the pounding that kept coming back to him.

He filled the filter with coffee, then put it in the basket,
filled the pot with water and dumped it into the reservoir.
Put the pot on the burner, flick the switch, and voila!  In
mere minutes he'd have coffee even Scully couldn't
fuss about.

He scrounged for a cup, but couldn't find a clean one,
so the hot water came back on and he put the least
filthy one right in the stream, letting the hot water soak
his latest science experiment.

Pounding.  

That was it.  He looked at the half-filled coffeepot, then
stared at the water overflowing the coffee cup.  It was his
favorite.  It had a picture of the space shuttle and the
words, "Space - the final frontier."  He liked it because
it was so normal.  It was the kind of cup anyone could
have.  It wasn't really about aliens or UFOs or anything
else weird or strange.  Just a typical cup that any old
guy might have sitting on his desk at work.  It made him
feel almost normal.  

Pounding.

He shook his head and gave up at last, walking quickly
to the door to the apartment.  He yanked it open, looking
right and then left.  

Nothing.

He looked down, not really surprised to see the bulky
manila envelope that lay there.  He bent and picked it
up, checked the hall again, and shut and locked the
door.  Even as he walked back to the kitchen, he could
tell it was a videotape.  

"Scully would be proud of me," he muttered as he
finished rinsing the cup and then filled it with coffee.
Cup in one hand, tape in the other, he moved back
to the living room and turned on the VCR.

The image was in black and white, shot from a distance,
and from a stationary position.  It was the inside of a
supermarket.  It took him only a moment to realize
this was a surveillance tape from the store's security
system.

As he watched, a man in a trench coat got into a young
girl's line and moved forward.  When he got in front
of the girl, he pulled a sawed off shotgun from beneath
the coat and pointed it at her.  He watched as the girl
began to cry, as one hand rose and wiped uselessly at
her nose, the shotgun never moving from in front of
her.  He was staring at the girl's hands, certain he could
see them shake, even on this grainy film, when the cart
behind the gunman shot forward, knocking the man to
his knees, then down again as the cart was shoved a
second time.  A big man appeared in the camera's view,
leaping over the counter in a single smooth movement,
then the man and the girl disappeared and the gunman rose,
shoving the cart back and then leaning over the counter
and firing.

Mulder watched as the big man and the girl appeared
again, blood blossoming on the big guy's arm.  He ignored
the wound and rolled the girl away.  Just before the man
and the girl disappeared from the camera's view again,
the man lifted his head, searching for the shooter and
unknowingly stared into the camera's eye.

Mulder choked, hot coffee spraying from his mouth as
he hit pause and struggled to regain his breath.

"Holy shit!" he muttered as he stared at the all too
familiar face on his TV screen.  "I don't believe this."

His eyes never left the screen as he scrambled for the
cordless phone, hit the speed dial button and waited
for the familiar answer.

"Scully," she said.

"Scully, it's me."

"Of course it's you, Mulder," she answered in a grumpy
tone.  "No one else would call me now.  Do you even
know what time it is?"  He could hear the sleep in her
voice, knew her lips were pursed as she studied the
clock on her bedside table.  Knew she was annoyed, but
knew as well she'd forgive him, and in about five seconds
she'd be as awake as he was.

"Scully -- you aren't going to believe what I just found."

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

Hospital Room
September 14, 2000
7:30 am

He woke up, surprised to find that he could.  The room
was bright and cheerful, and there were flowers covering
every surface he could see.  There was a small hand
in his own larger one, and he tightened his grip slightly.

Karen gasped, then sat up, coming immediately awake.

"You're awake," she said, squeezing him back.

"Yep."  He nodded, not sure what else to say.  He stared
into her worried eyes and finally asked, "What happened?"

"You decided to be an idiot and got yourself shot."

Paul blinked.  The store, the gunman, Cheryl.  Cheryl.
He felt his heart rate pick up and a frown crept across
his face.  "Cheryl?  The girl from the store?  Is she
all right?"  

Karen smiled.  "She's fine.  Telling the whole town how
her favorite teacher saved her life."

"I didn't, really.  I just tried to get her out of the way."
He glanced up at his wife.  "What happened to the man?
I thought he was going to shoot me."

"He did."  Karen nodded at his arm and he looked down
at the bandage then shook his head.

"No.  Here."  He pointed at his chest.  "I thought he
was going to shoot me here."

Karen's face sobered.  "So did the cops.  They got there
just in time to see the end."  She wrinkled her nose at
him as she asked, "You really don't remember what
happened?"

He shook his head again.

"According to the cops, as the guy started to pull the
trigger, you lunged at him, then did some sort of drop
and kicked his feet out from under him.  Then you
rolled on top of him and took the gun away."  She
narrowed her eyes at him.  "You hit him with the butt
of the gun, almost knocked him out.  The cops said
it looked professional, like something you'd practiced
a hundred times to get that smooth."

"They get him?"

She shook her head.  "In the confusion, he managed to
get to his feet and get out the back."

He blinked again, then looked around for his glasses.
She saw him searching, opened the drawer to the bedside
table, and pulled them out.  "Looking for these, hero?"

He nodded, slipping them on his face, even as he said,
"I'm no hero.  I was scared shitless."  He pushed the
wirerims up against the bridge of his nose, then settled
back into the pillows.  "Then what happened?"

"Then, Mr. Hero-Man, you fainted."  She couldn't suppress
the grin that stretched across her face.

"I fainted?"  He laughed, then laughed even harder when
she joined him, nodding.  "I really fainted?"

"Apparently.  The cops said it was probably the adrenaline
coupled with the blood loss from the shot to your arm."

"I don't think I've ever fainted before," he murmured when
they had both stopped laughing.  

"I don't think you've ever tackled a man with a gun before,
either," she said, laughter still in her voice.

He chuckled as he looked at her, but somehow, this time,
he couldn't agree.

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

Scully's Apartment
September 14, 2000
6:30 am

The image frozen on the TV screen was the same one he had
stared at in disbelief for so many long minutes.  Only now,
it was frozen on Scully's TV and she was the one who
stared in disbelief.

"Oh, my God ..." she whispered for the fourth time.  Her
eyes finally slid off the screen and traveled up to meet
his.  One small but strong hand half-covered her mouth.
"What have they done?"

Mulder shook his head grimly.  "I still don't know that,
but I know what they haven't done."

"What?"  Her eyes had moved back to the image of Skinner,
arm bloody, face dirty, and eyes that seemed to stare
directly at them from the TV.

"They haven't killed him."  Mulder stood and stepped to
the VCR.  He pushed a button and the image disappeared.
Seconds later, the tape slipped halfway out of the machine
and he pulled it free, then pocketed it.  "We need to find
him."

"Can we get Bureau help, do you think?  Is it safe?"

Mulder shook his head in frustration.  "I don't know.
Not everyone can be involved, but I don't know who is
and I don't know how far their reach extends."

"Pretty damn far if they managed to 'kill' Skinner and
almost get away with it."  She rose from the sofa and
moved into the kitchen, turning to study him as he
followed her.  "I'm making tea.  My bet is you've
already had at least a pot of coffee."

"We need to find him, Scully!  If they want him gone
this badly, I sure as hell want him back!"

The kettle was filled and on the stovetop now, and she
had moved to the kitchen.  Sandwich makings were
appearing on the small table as she pulled one thing
out after another.

"I'm not hungry, Scully!  We need to get started!"

"Hush," she ordered, turning to look at him.  "You've
gotten started.  You've got the tape."

"I didn't *get* the tape.  It came to me.  I haven't done
anything, yet."  He slumped into a chair in frustration.

"You didn't let it go, Mulder.  That's your biggest
strength."  She patted him absently and began to make
sandwiches.  "You also didn't sleep or eat much since
we got the word."  She placed a paper plate with a
ham and cheese sandwich on it before him as the kettle
began to whistle.  "Now -- I know you.  You're not going
to eat or sleep much until we find him."  She was pouring
hot water into mugs as she spoke, then adding sugar.
The milk was already in a small pitcher on the table.
"And God only knows how long it's going to take,
considering all we have to go on is the tape."  She turned
and placed the hot mug in front of him, pleased to see
half the sandwich had already been wolfed down.  "You
can't let yourself get worn down.  He needs you."

Mulder shook his head, mouth full.  He chewed hard, then
swallowed and said, "He needs us both.  I've looked at the
tape and I haven't got a clue as to where it is.  It could be
any grocery store in any town in America."  He took one
more huge bite and the sandwich was gone.  "I don't
know where to start."

"Let's go look again.  This time, instead of watching the
action, we need to watch what doesn't move."  She had
almost finished cleaning up her impromptu sandwich
makings.  The mayonnaise went back into the fridge
and she grabbed a dishcloth and wiped the table.  

"What do you mean?"  Mulder was stirring milk into
the tea, staring up at her.

"The background."  She walked to the trash can, shook
bread crumbs from the cloth, then went to the sink.  "There
must be something there to give us a clue as to where he is."

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

Office of the Lone Gunmen
September 14, 2000
8:30 am

"There!"  Mulder pointed to a fuzzy image on the screen.
"We think that's a newspaper.  Can you enhance it?"

"C'n try."  Langly scratched his head.  "None of the
images are real clear."  He rolled the tape back, stopping
at another frame, then squinting at the screen.  "I still
think that's just a clock."  He turned and looked at
Scully.  "Why do you think it's a thermometer?"

"A grocery store we went to when I was a child had
one of those.  I always thought it was neat -- a
thermometer that looked like a clock.  It was when
we were stationed at Mayport and it would get so hot
in the summer.  I remember wondering what would happen
when it got over a hundred, since 100 was as far as the
thermometer went -- the twelve o'clock spot."

"We'll see what we can do with the girl's shirt, too."
Frohike spoke from a seat in front of another monitor.
"I swear that looks like a school mascot."

"She's just a kid, Frohike.  Make sure the mascot is
all you check out."  Mulder tossed out the warning
without thinking and Scully had to laugh.  

Mulder glanced at her, smiled in acknowledgment, then
turned back to his friends.  "We're taking copies to the
FBI, get them working on it too."

"Is that wise, Mulder?"  Byers rose and tugged at his
vest.  "Surely someone there was involved in this."

"Probably," Mulder nodded grimly.  "But at high levels,
not down in the labs."

"At least that's what we're hoping," Scully added.  "You
guys are good, and we appreciate what you're doing,
but we need all the help we can get."

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

September 14, 2000
5:00 pm

"How's the arm?" Karen asked as she set a plate before
him.  

He sniffed appreciatively.  Barbecued chicken, mashed
potatoes, corn on the cob.  So much for their resolution
to eat salads for dinner during the summer months.  He
grinned up at his wife.  "It hurts, but not too bad.  And
if anything can make it feel better, a meal like this can!  
Thanks, babe."

She leaned down and kissed him.  "You're welcome.  Just
promise me you're done with heroic stunts like that, please."
Her voice softened and she looked deep into his eyes.
"I couldn't bear to lose you."

He pushed the plate aside, scooted his chair back
from the table, and pulled her into his lap with his
still good arm.  He kissed her hungrily, then buried
his head against her breasts.  "I couldn't go on without
you either."

They sat that way for a long moment, until she rose,
ever the practical one, and said, "Well, enough of that
sap.  Just you mind your p's and q's, Mr. Johnson,
and don't make me have to track you down in a
hospital again."  She took a deep breath, steadying
herself, and put his plate back in front of him.  "Eat,
before it gets cold.  That detective is coming over
after dinner to talk to you again."

They ate together, talking about the kids at school,
the new house, what a good decision it had been to
leave the city and move to this small town.  And how
sad it was, that even in small town America, crime
had to rear its ugly head.  They finished and she
wouldn't let him help with the clean-up, so he sat
and kept her company while she washed and then dried
their dishes.  There was chicken left over -- it would
make a wonderful lunch tomorrow.  She had just wiped
the table down, making him lift his arms so she could
do the whole thing, when the doorbell rang.  

A look of concern slid across her face, but she covered
it quickly and said, "I'll let him in.  You two can talk out
here.  I'm going to go in the living room and read."

"I *can* move, you know," he said, reaching out to
stop her and pull her to himself.  "It's just my arm and
it's going to be fine.  I'll only have a little scar."

She took a deep, shuddery breath.  "I know, I know.
And I know I'm fussing."  Her head came up and she
met his eyes.  "Let me fuss.  I was scared.  I felt so damn
helpless.  I couldn't *do* anything when they told me
you'd been shot."  

He stroked her hair as the doorbell rang again, murmuring,
"I'm sorry.  It's all right now."  

She kissed him then, a quick brush on the lips and pulled
away.  "Of course it's all right.  You saved Cheryl's
life."  She turned and walked to the doorway, then looked
back.  "Just let me fuss a bit more."  Her eyes dropped and
she studied the floor.  "It helps chase away the scared
feeling."  

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

FBI Lab
September 14, 2000
5:00 pm

"I can't believe it's really him!"  Danny looked up at
Mulder in astonishment.  "And you just found this
tape outside your door?"

"Yeah, and nobody knows I've brought it to you
and I want to keep it that way."  Mulder brushed
his hair back and stared down at the younger man.

Danny lifted both hands in a surrender gesture.  "No
sweat, Mulder.  Your secret's safe with me."  He
dropped his hands and fiddled with the controls on
the monitor.  The image of Skinner doubled and then
doubled again until they could stare into the man's
eyes.  "But why, man?  I'd think you'd want all the
resources of the Bureau working on this."

"I'm not sure I can trust the Bureau.  Someone went
to a lot of trouble to convince us all that Skinner is
dead.  Until I know who that someone is, and why,
I don't want anyone to know about this who doesn't
absolutely have to."

"I hear ya."  Danny shifted the image on the screen
and the thermometer over the customer service desk
leapt into view.  It was still fuzzy, but it was clear that
it wasn't a clock.  Scully had been right.  "They won't
hear it from me."  He played with the dials again, and
the number cleared.  "Ninety-four degrees."

"Ninety-four."  Mulder nodded, pleased.  "That'll help
narrow it down if we can get a date."

"I'm working on it.   I'm gonna try for the newspaper --
that'll give us a date and a name, hopefully.  If I can't
get that, there may be a receipt showing in one of the
frames and I can pull a date off that."

"Good man."  Mulder patted the other man's shoulder.
"Let me know as soon as you get anything I can use."

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

September 14, 2000
6:00 pm

"White male, five-eleven, 18 to 25.  Brown eyes and
brown hair past his earlobes.  Blue jeans and a white
T-shirt, and of course, that damn coat."  Paul stopped
and looked over at the other man.  "I'm amazed you
didn't get him."

Detective Franco snorted.  "So am I.  And I still don't
know how he slipped out."  He narrowed his eyes as
he studied Paul.  "And you, you give a description like
a cop would.  What's up with that?"

Paul laughed uncomfortably and lifted one hand in a
little 'forget it' gesture.  "Didn't know I'd done it."
He rose and got the iced tea from the refrigerator,
refilling both glasses.  "Must have watched too much
NYPD Blue."

"Yeah -- uh, thanks."  The detective took another swallow
of the tea.  "That must be it."  He lifted one hand and tugged
absently at a lock of hair.  

Paul stared at him.  The movement looked almost familiar,
but he couldn't place it.  He shook his head and put the
pitcher back in the refrigerator.  Probably something one
of the kids did in class.  

"So there's nothing else you can tell me, Mr. Johnson?"
The detective set the tall glass of iced tea back down
on the table.  "Nothing at all?"

Paul shrugged in frustration.  "I don't know what you
want from me.  It all happened so fast."

"Yeah, and you reacted like a pro.  That roll over the
counter was one of the slickest moves I've ever seen."
He shook his head.  "And the way you avoided the
man's shots -- I was amazed.  We all were."

Paul pointed to his bandaged arm.  "Didn't avoid them
all, as you should recall.  Just lucky on the rest."

The detective was still shaking his head.  "No, you
don't understand.  We've checked the trajectories of
all the shots.  What you did went beyond luck.  It
was something any one of us would have been proud
to have pulled off.  It was like you knew where he would
aim next, like you'd studied criminal behavior and knew
where and how to move to stay ahead of the guy."

Paul laughed now and took a deep drink from his tea.
"'Fraid you've got the wrong guy.  Me?  I'm just a high
school math teacher.  Always have been.  No cops and
robbers stuff for me."

"I guess."  The cop looked disappointed.  "We checked
your background -- you came up clean."

Paul choked on the tea, coughing long and hard enough
that Karen came to the door to see what had happened.
He caught his breath at last and waved her away.  "I'm
fine -- just swallowed wrong."  He smiled up at her, sorry
to have worried her further.  "Go read -- we'll be done
shortly and I'll join you."

When she had retreated to the living room, he turned
and looked at the cop.  "You checked my background?
What the hell for?"

"You're new in town. You interrupt a robbery despite
your mild-mannered high school teacher persona.  You
move like a cop -- or a professional bad guy -- someone
with a lot of experience at staying out of a bullet's way.
I wanted to know who you are."

Paul stared at him.  "And who am I?"

The cop shook his head.  "I don't know.   Everything
I found says Paul Johnson, math teacher.  Grew up
in a small town in Ohio, OSU for college.  Met Karen
Riley there, married her upon graduation, and you've
both been teachers ever since.  She grew up in foster
care, your parents are dead -- it's just the two of you."

"What the hell does my life have to do with what
happened at the Shop-n-Save?"

"I don't know, Mr. Johnson.  And if I've invaded your
privacy for no reason, I can assure you I'll apologize.
But from my point of view, it just looks pretty weird."

Paul stared at the man in amazement.  "Don't you have
anything better to do than dig around in my past?  Can't
you see I'm one of the most boring people you'll ever meet?
Don't you have a life?"

The cop rose, still shaking his head.  "You've got the life
a lot of us cops wish we had.  The wife, the house, the job
you love."  Franco lifted his glass, walked to the sink, and
dumped the ice.  He set the empty tumbler on the stainless
steel carefully, then turned to face the man in the chair.
"Some cops can balance it all, but most of us can't.  Failed
marriages, too much liquor.  We eat and sleep and shit
our jobs.  It becomes the sum total of all we are, and it's
pretty damn lonely, Mr. Johnson."  Franco dug in his
pocket, pulling out car keys.  "I'll give you that apology
now, sir.  Maybe it was just envy that made me want to
dig around in your past."

He walked over and extended a hand, shaking when Paul
extended his own.  "Thanks for the help with our bad guy.
Sorry we let him get away after you worked so hard to
save the girl.  We'll let you know when we find him."

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

Act Three
Mulder's Apartment
September 14, 2000
11:00 pm

"I picked it all up from our friends, Scully.  They've
got the name off the paper, and the date.  We already
had the temperature.  All that's left is the symbol on
the girl's shirt."  Mulder could barely contain his
enthusiasm.  "When can you get here?"

She sighed sleepily.  "On my way.  Give me about an
hour.  I'm clear across town from you and I'm half asleep.
I don't want to have a wreck."  Mulder nodded
as he heard her hang up the phone, disconnecting them.

He glanced at the clock, then headed for the kitchen.
Scully always fed him when they worked at her place.
After an initially skeptical start, she'd thrown herself
wholeheartedly into the search for Skinner.  She
deserved at least a sandwich or a cup of soup.  He
opened the refrigerator.  Mustard, mayonnaise,
a carton of sour milk and an onion were the only
occupants.  Damn!  He'd forgotten to shop again.

No sweat.  There was always soup.  He went to the
cabinet and opened the door.  Bare shelves.  Well,
not completely bare.  There was an opened bag
of noodles that he couldn't remember buying and
a can of cranberry jelly, left from Thanksgiving.  
That was it.  He briefly pondered cranberry jelly
soup, then wrinkled his nose in disgust.  He grabbed
the phone and hit speed dial 2 and the familiar voice
of the woman at the Chinese restaurant answered.

The food taken care of, he looked down at himself
and sniffed.  Phew!  Now he was really disgusted.  
When was the last time he had showered?  He'd
been so obsessed with the search for Skinner, he
couldn't remember the last time he climbed into
a shower.  He glanced longingly at the envelope
with the papers and the disk from the Lone Gunmen,
then sniffed again.

No contest.  He pulled the T-shirt over his head
and started unbuttoning his jeans as he headed
for the shower.  

He was just getting out, towel wrapped around his
waist, when the doorbell rang.  "Coming," he called
as he scooped up his wallet and headed for the
door.  He had the money in one hand and the
other hand on the door knob, when the door
frame shattered, and he was thrown backward into
the wall.  

His vision blurred and he shook his head, even as
he tried to get to his feet.  The head shaking had been
a mistake and a wave of nausea held him pinned to the
floor as he struggled for breath.  One man stood over
him, a gun sighted at his head.  The other one was
coming back from the living room, the packet of
material about Skinner in his hands.  

He surged upward, ignoring the gun and lunged
at the man with the envelope.  The other man grabbed
him and threw him into the wall again, this time the
gun was pressed against his chest.  Mulder stood
still, panting heavily, still eyeing the envelope.

"Don't try it," the man with the gun said.  "I'm not
supposed to kill you, but that doesn't mean I can't
shoot you."  He slid the gun up Mulder's chest and
settled it against the scar Scully's bullet had left.
"This seems to be a popular spot."

"What the hell's going on?" Mulder grated out between
clenched teeth.  "What do you want?"

"We want you to leave the AD alone.  He's happy, content."
The gun moved pack and forth over the scar, almost as if
the man were scratching it.  "Leave it alone, Mulder."

Mulder stared at the two men.  He'd lost his towel at some
point and standing here naked did not add to his confidence,
but he'd be damned if they were going to walk out with all
his hard-won information without a fight.  Mulder dropped
his head, nodding slightly.

"Good boy," the man said.  The gun pulled back from his
shoulder fractionally, and Mulder moved.  He dropped and
rolled, sweeping the gunman's feet out from under him.  
The man fell with a crash.  Mulder was up in a split second
and lunging for the second man.  The second man danced
back barely avoiding Mulder's grasp.  Mulder struggled
with balance for a second, then got ready to leap again.

The muscles in his legs were taut, his body was coiled
like a spring and he was going to get this guy.  The
adrenaline was flowing and he was ready and the man
was just standing there, not running, not trying to get
away.  Just waiting.  Mulder was poised, ready to
plunge, when something heavy came crashing down
on the back of his head and everything went dark.

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

September 14, 2000
11:45 pm

His gun was missing.  He was searching for it
but he couldn't find it.  It was just gone.  Someone was
pounding on the door, someone that didn't wish him
well, and he couldn't find the damn gun.  He could
hear the door as whoever was out there threw himself
against it.  He raced through the house, pulling open
drawers, digging through closets, his hand sliding
between the mattress and box springs in the bedroom.

Where the hell was the damn gun?

He heard the door crack again -- knew it was just moments
before the man on the outside became the man on the inside.
He raced down the stairs and into the kitchen, settling
for a large butcher knife.  If he couldn't find his gun,
he'd be damned if he was going to face them unarmed.

He went to the fuse box and hit the circuit breaker, turning
off all the lights.  It was hard to aim a gun when you couldn't
see.  A knife, on the other hand, had only to make contact.
Contact in some places was better than others, but any
kind of contact constituted a score.

"Paul!"

He looked around, startled, trying to see who was in the room
and who they were calling.  Was Paul the one trying to break
his door down?

The door frame finally gave and he could hear feet tread on
the carpet as the man moved into the condo.  The man was
moving slowly, carefully, and he could imagine the gun held
out in front as the head turned from side to side.  

"Paul!"

He ignored it this time, focused on the man moving silently
toward him.  The knife was clenched in his right hand; he
crouched behind an overstuffed chair and struggled to
control his breathing.  He was almost there.  It was almost
time.  He waited, holding his breath now, not daring to
make a sound, because he might only get one chance at
this.

The man stepped around the chair and he sprung, leaping
to his feet and plunging the knife in as hard as he could.
He pulled it out and stabbed again.  And again, and again
and again.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"  

The scream shocked him.  It wasn't the man in his arms.  That
man was unmoving.  

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

He lifted his hand to stab again, but something happened,
something moved, and ...

"Karen!"  He sat up, drenched in sweat.  She lay on the
floor where he'd thrown her? pushed her? and his heart
broke.  He scrambled out of the bed and moved toward her
but she scuttled away and he froze.

"Karen?" he said softly.  "Are you all right?"

"Paul?"  She was crying and he strained to see if he'd hurt
her.

"I'm going to turn the light on, OK hon?"  He stayed on
the floor, crawling to the table and flipping the switch.  
As the room lit up and he could see, he stared at her,
still huddled by the foot of the bed.  "Are you all right?"

"Paul?"

"Yeah, babe, it's me."  He moved forward slightly, and
when she didn't move back, he went to her.  "Are you
OK?"

"Yeah," she nodded, the tears starting to stop at last.

He leaned back and grabbed the tissues from beside
the lamp, handing them to her.  She wiped her eyes then
blew her nose noisily.  When she was done, she tossed
the tissue aside, then smacked him on his good arm.  
"You threw me out of the bed, you big oaf!"

"Aw, shit, Karen, I'm sorry."  He reached out and pulled
her into his arms, ignoring the pain in the injured one.
"I'm so damn sorry."  He kissed her hair, then shifted to
lean up against the bed and pull her into his lap.  "I
don't know what's going on with me.  God!  I'm so
sorry."

"Shhhh.  I know.  You didn't mean to.  But Paul, this
is getting serious.  You're a big guy and you could've
hurt me."

"I would never hurt you!"

"Not deliberately, I know that.  But these dreams, Paul ...
You have to do something."

"I'll find a shrink, see a hypnotist.  I will, Karen.  I
couldn't stand it if I hurt you."

"I know."  She laughed.  "Somehow, sweets, I don't
think I'd stand it too well either."  She stood and
pulled him to his feet, then let him engulf her in his
arms again.  "But it's getting out of control, Paul.
You've got to get some help."

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

Mulder's Apartment
September 15, 2000
12:00 am

"How many fingers, Mulder?"  Scully asked again.

"Stop that," he groused, "and at least get me my pants
before anyone else gets here."

"What the hell were you doing answering the door in
the buff anyway?" she called from the bedroom.  

"I'd just gotten out of the shower and I had a towel
on."

"You know better than to open the door like that."
She threw a pair a dark boxers at him and waited while
he struggled into them before handing him the jeans.

"I ordered Chinese," he admitted sheepishly.  "I figured
it was the least I could do since you were driving over
and I knew we'd be working all night."

"Delivery!" a voice called from the hall.  "Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder groaned and started to get up, but Scully held
him down with one hand.  "Just a sec," she called.  
"Where's your wallet?"  

He pointed to the wall by the door where he'd first
fallen and she strode over and picked it up.  

"What happened this time?" the delivery boy asked as
he accepted the money and passed over the brown paper
bag.

Scully shrugged.  "Don't know yet.  I just got here."  
She narrowed her eyes at the boy.  "You know someone
who can fix his door at this time of night?"

"My uncle.  He's fixed it before."

Scully dug another twenty out of Mulder's wallet and
handed it over.  "Get him, please."

The boy nodded and ducked out.

"His uncle's gonna come do your door, Mulder."  She
dropped his wallet in his lap.  "I gave him twenty."

"Twenty?  Scully, you're breaking me here!  I usually
only give him ten to get the uncle."

"So sue me."  She studied him again, noting the slightly
dilated pupils and the knot on the back of his head.  "How
bad does it hurt?"

He winced.  "Bad enough.  Aspirin?"

She nodded and went into the kitchen.  "You want to eat?"

"Still too nauseated.  Just water.  And the damn aspirins,
please."  He was gently touching the knot when she came
back, two white pills in one hand, a cup of water in the
other.

He took both.

"What did they want?"

"They took the stuff from the guys, which makes no sense
whatsoever.  They've gotta have known I'd have already
looked at it."  He tapped the side of his head, then moaned.

"Smart, Mulder."  She reached out and touched his head
gently and her touch took the sting from her words.  He
could see she was really worried.

"I'm OK, Scully, really."  He reached up and caught her
hand, holding it for a moment as his eyes met hers.

She stared at him for a minute, then sighed.  "Of course
you are.  A little bump on the head isn't going to stop
you when you're on the hunt."  She headed back to the
kitchen.  "Will the smell bother you if I eat?"

He started to shake his head but stopped in time and
said, "No, go ahead."  When she came back in with a
plate and curled up in the chair, he said, "I'd already
looked at the stuff."

"And?"  The word was more of a grunt as her mouth
was full.

"And the paper was dated three days ago."

"Name?"  She was still eating.

"You were hungry," he observed.

She swallowed.  "Yep.  Good thinking, ordering the
food."  She cocked her head as she looked at him.  
"Sorry it got you knocked out."  She rose and walked
over to him again, putting her plate on the coffee
table.  One hand came out and gently touched the back
of his head again, then came around to cradle his cheek
for a moment as she met his eyes.  "You do seem to
have a knack for attracting trouble."  The words were
spoken softly and her eyes sparkled as she said them.

He lifted a hand to meet hers.  "Not deliberately."

"I know."  

They stayed that way for a moment, frozen in time and
then she pulled her hand away and grabbed her plate.
This time she sat on the other end of the sofa from him.
"So, what do you know?"

"The paper is the Bayville Herald.  There are 26 Bayvilles
in the country and 4 of them have a paper called the
Herald.  Washington state, Maine, Virginia, and Georgia."

"So where do we go?"  She opened her mouth and took a
bite of an egg roll.

"Washington's having rain -- cold front passing through."
Mulder sipped his water.

"Maine doesn't get into the nineties too often either,"
she mused.

"Right."

"So it was 94 degrees where?"

"Georgia and Virginia."

"Anything else to narrow it down?"  She took a last bite
and wiped her mouth as she plopped the plate on the
coffee table again.

"Better?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You bet."  She sighed contentedly.  "Anything from
the girl's shirt?"

"We decided it was something big -- bear or bull or wolf
or something like that.  Some kind of animal."  

She rose and headed for the kitchen.  "Spill it, Mulder.  
I know you know where to go.  What is it?"

"Bayville, Virginia's mascot is a scorpion."  He leaned his
head back and closed his eyes.  It didn't help the pounding
at all so he sat back up and looked at her.

"Georgia?"

"Bayville Bruins - big ugly grizzly looking thing."

"So we're off to Georgia."

"Yep.  It's a small town.  Three grocery stores.  Two are
chains and the employees wear uniforms of sorts.  One
insists on white shirts and black pants, the other white
shirts and khakis."

She eyed him.  He did so love to drag things out at times.
"And the third one?"

"The third one is an independent.  Cashiers wear what they
want -- including school T-shirts."

She nodded.  "When do we leave?"

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

Bayville, Georgia
September 16, 2000
3:00 pm

The yard was full of teenagers.  There were five or six
adults as well, parents who'd come along to help chaperone
and to meet the "hero," but it was mostly a day for the
kids.  Cheryl Pierce was helping Karen shuck corn, and
he could see them talking quietly.  As he watched, the
girl dropped the ear of corn she was holding and hugged
Karen, who hugged back, corn and all.  

Somehow, he didn't want to know what they were saying.
He looked around the yard, the kids sitting by the speakers,
talking.  Though how they could talk over the volume he
had no idea.  Another group had brought a volleyball
and there was a full court game going on, minus net and
court, but the kids were squealing with enjoyment.
A group of boys stood by the grill, turning hot dogs
and hamburgers, and huddled together, almost in self-defense,
the adults were off in a corner, watching it all in content
bemusement.  

One of the fathers came over to him.  "I don't know how
you've done it, Mr. Johnson ..."

"Paul," he interrupted.  "My name is Paul."

"Well, Paul.  This is a small town, good kids.  But they
don't usually want to party at the teacher's house with
their parents present.  This is no small accomplishment."

"Glad to have them."  He looked at the man and smiled.
"Karen and I never had kids of our own -- it just never
happened.  We feel blessed that folks like you will share
yours with us."

"Share?  Hell, you can *have* that rascal of mine.  Did he
tell you what he's done now?  He was moving my car out
of the driveway so he and his buddies could play basketball
and he hits the mailbox on his way down.  Then he tries to
correct his course and he manages to wing my wife's car
as well.  Got a nice little crinkle in her bumper now, and two
matching dents in my car!"

Paul laughed.  "Did he confess on his own?"

The man laughed as well, shaking his head.  "Yeah.  Yeah,
he did.  Can't complain on that count.  Even offered to pay
for the damages."

"What'd you say?"

"I told him he'd be better off spending his money on
driving lessons!"

Both men roared with laughter and then Paul said, "He's a
good kid, you know."

"Yeah, I know."  The man looked up and met Paul's eyes.  
"He was in the store that day, waiting for Cheryl to get
off."  The man's face fell and he reached out, gripping
Paul's good arm.  "He could have been shot, killed even.
We'll never forget what you did."

Paul nodded, uncomfortable now.  He tried to laugh but
it didn't quite come out right.  "I'm glad everything
turned out all right."

The man nodded again and squeezed Paul's arm once
more, an awkward thank you.  "Well, I better get over
there and check on the dogs.  God only knows what the
kids are doing to them."

Paul nodded and watched the grateful father walk away.
He watched his wife shuck corn with a gaggle of giggling
girls, watched the boys cook burgers and dogs, watched
the parents as they watched their kids play volleyball.
One of the moms lifted a beer in a sort of salute to him,
and he raised his own back at her.

God!  He loved his life!  He was the happiest, luckiest
SOB on the planet!  He had it all!

So why did he feel like everything was slipping away?

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

Bayville, Georgia
September 16, 2000
3:00 pm

"Well, that's either him or he's got a twin we know
nothing about."  Mulder sighed and dropped the
binoculars.  "So what the hell is he doing out here in
the middle of small town America?"  He reached up
and rubbed his temples.  

"Head still hurt?"  Scully asked as she lifted the glasses
and took a turn watching their boss as he supervised
a backyard barbecue.

"A little.  Now I can't decide if it's the bump on the
noggin or the tension from finding him and not knowing
what to do."

"I know what to do."  She lowered the glasses and looked
at him.  "We go over there and ask him what the hell is
going on!"

"Scully, we can't just storm in and demand answers.
We don't know enough yet.  The cop we talked to, the
one that gave us the address.  She said that the detective
on the grocery robbery had done some investigating into
Mr. Johnson's background."  Mulder looked at his partner
and turned the ignition key.  "Let's go talk to him."

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

Bayville Police Department
September 16, 2000
4:00 pm

"The man's clean as a whistle."  Franco nodded at the
file that lay on his desk.  They'd paged the man and not
been surprised when he'd agreed to come meet them at
the station to discuss Paul Johnson.  

"Of course, he's clean.  He's just not Paul Johnson."
Mulder lifted the folder, scanning quickly.  He read the
whole file, then whistled softly.  "Damn, Scully, they
really did a good job on this."  He looked up and met
her eyes.  "Everything's covered."

"But why, Mulder?  Why not just kill him?"  

"I don't know.  Why is he such a threat at this time?
Enough that they would go to such elaborate lengths
to get him out of the picture, but still not kill him?"
He turned and looked at the detective.  "This man is
not Paul Johnson."

"What?  You're kidding me, right?"  Franco's cigarette
swung at half mast from parted lips.  

"No.  He's an Assistant Director with the FBI.  He's our
supervisor.  And he was killed in a car wreck a few
weeks ago."

"You're shittin' me!"  Franco rose and began to pace.  "I
knew something wasn't right with this guy.  He moved too
smooth."  The detective stopped and faced Mulder and
Scully.  "Even the move to town was a little too smooth.  I
mean, we suddenly have two teachers die, there's openings
just when school is ready to open, and these two show up.  
It was just weird."

"Two people died?"  Scully looked at Mulder in concern.
"We hadn't figured that they'd killed people this time."

Mulder shrugged.  "I'm sorry, but I can't say that I'm
surprised."

"Whoa!  Hold your horses there.  I may be suspicious of
our Mr. Johnson, but nobody killed anybody.  Mark and
Jeannette were rock climbing.  They both liked to climb
and had been doing it for years.  It was just an accident."

Mulder looked at the man.  "And Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had
just happened to have moved to town, shiny bright teaching
certificates at the ready."

"They'd signed up as subs for the year.  We were lucky
they'd already moved and were willing to step in at the
last minute like that."  The detective scratched his
head, then snuffed out the cigarette in an overflowing
ashtray.  "I gotta stop smoking.  It's gonna kill me."

Mulder and Scully exchanged an amused glance.  

Franco took a deep breath then spoke.  "I'm willing to
believe Mr. J isn't who he says he is.  But what are you
trying to say?  That someone kidnapped him and killed
Mark and Jeannette so that he and Karen could have
full-time jobs?  That's insane."

Scully smiled wryly as she looked at Mulder.  "Told you
so."

"Our boss, AD Skinner, disappeared almost a month ago.  
It was made to look like a car wreck, but the body was
burned beyond recognition.  I think he was taken
somewhere, given new memories, and then planted
here with a new identity, a wife, a job, a cozy little life."

"New memories?  New identity?  A wife?  What the
hell are you talking about?"

Now it was Mulder's turn to pace.  "I just don't know
why they didn't go ahead and kill him."

"The nanoprobes," Scully murmured.  "Maybe it's the
nanoprobes."

Mulder stopped and looked down at her.  "What?  What
did you say?"

"I said maybe it's the nanoprobes.  Maybe they don't want
to risk killing their prime subject while they can still study
the nanoprobes."

"What the hell is a nanoprobe?"  Franco thundered.  

Mulder shrugged him away, shaking his head.  "Not now,
Franco."  He looked at Scully.  "Maybe.  It's thin, but I
can't think of anything better at the moment."  He took a
deep breath.  "Anyway, we have a bigger problem."

"What's that?"

"How do we convince Paul Johnson he's Walter Skinner?"

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

Paul and Karen Johnson's House
September 16, 2000
6:00 pm

"Federal Bureau of Investigation?"  Karen sat on the
couch, tight up against Paul and she clutched his hand.
"Why would the FBI be interested in us?"

"Well, not you really, Mrs. Johnson, but your husband."

"Agent ... Mulder, is it?"  Paul stroked the back of Karen's
hand as he spoke.  "I don't understand any of this.  Why
would my foolhardy action in a grocery store have the
local police investigating my background and the FBI
down here in Georgia checking me out?  How the hell
did the FBI even find out about that little stunt?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, sir.  But I can tell
you that it's not your actions that concern us.  It's
your identity."

"My identity?  What the hell are you talking about?"
Paul stood and strode to the window, staring out
across the street.  Two boys played basketball in
the driveway across the way, and a little girl rode her
bike up and down the sidewalk.  His neighbor, the
retired Tom Davis, was out mowing the grass and he
knew if he opened the door he'd smell that intoxicating
scent of fresh cut grass on a hot summer day.  

It was perfect, damn it!  Perfect!  So why did he feel
like it wasn't his?

"Sir, we need to confirm your identities.  I'm sure this
is uncomfortable, and I assure you it is as awkward for
us as it is for you.  But a man is missing ..."  Scully
trailed off as the man named Johnson stared at her.

"Are you accusing me of something?"

"No, sir."  The answer was automatic, and for a moment
it was like it really was Skinner before them, questioning,
probing, demanding.  She shook the sense of deja vu
off and went on.  "Actually, we think you are the missing
man."

"Ridiculous!" Paul dismissed the thought with a snort.
Karen joined him at the window and he put his arm around
her.

"Sir, where did you live before you moved here?" Mulder
asked.

"Atlanta, but I'm sure you've got that in your investigative
reports."  He could feel Karen trembling and he pulled her
closer to his side.  "And we both taught at Eastside High."

"Yes, sir.  We do have that in the reports.  Would it surprise
you to know that no one at the school has any recollection
of you, no one knows who you are?"

"What are you talking about?  We were there for thirteen
years.  We taught, I coached the track team, worked at a
local gym teaching disadvantaged youth to box.  Karen
chaired the yearbook committee.  She volunteered at a
battered women's shelter.  We were both active in our
church, St. Thomas the Apostle.  How can you say no one
knows us?"

"Because no one does, sir.  We've had agents out for two
days knocking on doors.  They've talked to other teachers,
students, people at the church."  Mulder rose and looked
the other man in the eye.  "No one has heard of you."

"This is insane."  He turned to look at Scully.  She was
pulling a fingerprint kit from a small case.  

"If you will, sir?  This could let us begin to straighten
this whole mess out."  

Paul walked over to the table, not speaking, and let her
take his fingerprints.  When she was done, she motioned
to Karen.  "You, too, Mrs. Johnson."

"Paul?"  Karen pulled close to him.  "Paul, are we going
to let them do this to us?"

"Why Karen?  Why do you need Karen's prints if I'm the
one you think is someone else?" he asked Scully.

"Well, sir, if we can prove that you are the AD, then we
need to find out who she is as well.  Her memories seem
as real as yours."

"Paul, I don't want to do this."  There was panic in her
voice and he held her close for a moment.  "Karen," he
said softly, whispering in her ear.  "Remember the dreams?
What if something *is* wrong?"

"Not this, Paul.  Not what they're saying.  I know who
I am.  I know who you are.  We've been married twenty-five
years and I'm not going to lose you to something as
absurd as this."

"Please, Karen.  Just do it.  It'll get them out of the
house."  He grinned down at her.  "After all, what
do we have to be afraid of?"

She hesitated a moment longer, then sat on the
couch and let Scully print her.  He moved to the
window again, watching the children play, the
old man next door push his lawnmower, a little
spoiled terrier following in his wake.  It was too
perfect, wasn't it?

Paul turned and walked back to the couch, pulling
Karen up to stand beside him.  

"I don't know what you think you're doing, or who
you think we are.  But you've gotten your fingerprints
and we've answered your questions.  Please go."

The two agents nodded and rose.  When they got
to the door, Mulder looked back and said, "I'm sorry,
Sir," and then they were gone.

"Paul, when will we know?"  Karen's face was buried in
his chest.  

"We know right now.  You're Karen Johnson and I'm Paul
Johnson.  My name is Paul."  He said it stubbornly, as if
voicing it would make it true.  

"Catch them, Paul.  Find out how long we have to wait."

He nodded and moved to the door.  The two agents were
climbing into a rental car in the driveway.  He had gotten
halfway down the sidewalk toward the car -- the man, Mulder,
had gotten out and was coming to meet him.  There was a
curious expression on his face and then there was a look
of panic.  

It was like one of his dreams, the bad ones.  The sound
seemed to have disappeared.  He was flying through the
air, slamming into the man and they both went down.  He
felt a rush of wind, a tongue of heat, and he rolled over,
looking back as his house, his wife, his life exploded and
went up in flames.

"Sir, Sir, are you all right?"  It was Scully, hovering over
him and touching a gash on his forehead.  His glasses
were broken and everything was blurry but he wasn't
sure if that was from the lack of glasses or the tears that
ran down his face.  

Scully was pulling Mulder to his knees, checking the
back of his head and then they were both pulling him
down, away from the burning house.  

"No, no, no," he sobbed.  "This can't be happening."

"Sir, are you all right?  Can you answer me?"  Scully
looked at Mulder who nodded.  "Paul, can you talk to
me?"

Skinner looked at her, tears in his eyes.  It was all
there, his whole life.  The life of a lonely man.  A soldier,
a cop.  A man with a failed marriage, a wife who was
dead because of him.  A man whose whole existence
was work, work, and more work.  A man without friends,
without activities, without much of anything.  Oh,
yes, he had his life back, but now he knew, he had no
life.

"No, Scully," he whispered.  "Not Paul.  My name is
Walter."

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

Hospital
September 18, 2000
10:00 am

"Who was she?"  Skinner asked.  He had a small bag
open on the bed and was packing the few bits of personal
items he'd accumulated in his brief hospital stay.
Toiletries, underwear and T-shirts, socks, a plain
gray sweatsuit.  He was amazed it didn't bother him
more to know Scully had been shopping for underwear
and deodorant for him.  

"Theresa Wimbley, a schoolteacher from Ohio.  She
didn't have any family and her coworkers all thought
she'd been killed in a car wreck."  Scully paused and
looked at him.  "Familiar, eh?"

Skinner shrugged.  "I don't remember that part.  I just
remember waking up with Karen and a whole lifetime
to look back at and a future to look forward to."

"Do you remember it?"

He dropped his head.  "Yeah, I do.  I remember all of
it."  He tapped his head.  "I remember Walter Skinner
very clearly.  Everything from my time in Viet Nam to
my life with Sharon to all those years with the Bureau."
He paused, staring down at the bed, then walked to
stand by the window.

"But I remember Paul Johnson, too.  He was an ordinary
man, living the life I never had."  He turned and looked
at her.  "I envy him that."

"It wasn't real, Sir.  You know that."

He nodded.  "Yeah, I know that.  But I miss it just the same."

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

Epilogue
Mulder's Office
September 20, 2000
8:00 am

"Morning, Mulder."  Scully set the drink carrier on the
desk, two paper cups still steaming.  She looked up
and saw Skinner.  "Sorry, Sir.  I didn't know you would
be here.  

"It's all right, Scully.  I came in to work today, but they
won't let me."  He sighed in disgust.  "Apparently, I'm
still officially dead and I can't do anything until that is
sorted out."  He looked around the small basement.  "So
I came down here."  He shrugged, embarrassed.  "It's
the only place I feel halfway comfortable."

"You're always welcome, Sir," Mulder murmured.

"Thanks."  Skinner shook his head at Scully's offer
of one of the coffee cups.  "Don't have too many places
I feel welcome."  He turned and looked at them.  "One of
the things I intend to do now."

"Do, Sir?  What's that?"

"I intend to find some places I feel welcome.  I didn't
ask for what happened, didn't want to be pulled out
of the game at this point in time."  He slammed a fist
down on the table.  "But, damn it!  I can learn from my
experiences.  I don't want to die a lonely man."

"None of us want to die lonely."  Mulder was speaking,
but his eyes were on the floor.  

"Well," Skinner said softly, "I just wanted to tell you both
thanks.  Let you know I appreciate that you didn't just
let them kill me off."

"Do you really, Sir?"  Mulder looked at him.  "Were you
happier there?"

Skinner shrugged.  "It wasn't real, Mulder.  It felt real, but
it wasn't."  He walked to the door then turned.  "For now,
this is where I belong."

End