Title: Retrieval 01/03
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-Mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: R - for violence and disturbing imagery
Category: SA MSR
Archive: Yes, please
Feedback: Yes! Please! 

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, and CSM are owned by
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network,
etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny,
Gillian Anderson, Mitch Pileggi, and William B. Davis. 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: Thanks to my X-Phriend Vickie Moseley, for her wonderful
support and encouragement! 

Summary: Mulder and Scully mysteriously disappear, and Skinner
must face his past to save them. 

Retrieval 01/03 

Mulder lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other
draped over and around Scully, holding her close to him, tucked
securely to his side. Her hair tickled his nose, a minor
discomfort, but one he would willingly submit to for all
eternity in exchange for the pleasure of being here with her,
like this. He stared at the ceiling, wondering how something,
anything, in his life could be as wonderful as this. 

He blew softly through his mouth, watching the wisps of red
rise gently, then settle again, tickling, teasing his nose and lips.
Across his chest was a river of soft auburn, flowing from Scully's
head, covering his torso, neck, and shoulder. She slept with
such abandon. It amazed him, to watch her like this. So controlled,
so reserved in her waking life, but so free, so unrestrained in sleep. 

And in love. It had come as a tremendous surprise to him, the
enthusiasm, the elemental wildness, the *passion,* she brought
to their lovemaking. Whoever said redheads were the most
passionate of lovers, certainly knew whereof he spoke. At least
where Dana Scully was concerned. He sighed contentedly, the
sigh of a man sexually sated, replete with the euphoria of good
love, and kissed her tenderly, softly, not wanting to wake her. It was
the sigh of a man wholly at peace with his life. 

Since he and Scully had become lovers, he felt complete.
Whatever loss Samantha had created in his life had been filled
to overflowing by the presence of this woman. She settled him,
she balanced him, she filled the empty places in his soul. He was
whole, the future was before them, and life was good. While his
work was still there, still engrossing, still enthralling, still calling him
for answers, it was no longer the focus of his life. 

His focus was here, a compact redhead, curled trustingly next to
him. One who valued him completely, cherished him above all,
wantonly fulfilled his every desire, and loved him with an intensity
that both frightened and amazed him. Amazed him because he had
never been loved like this in all his life. Frightened because it was all
so wonderful, so unreal, that old niggling doubt would resurrect and
whisper, "not you, never you," and he would have to find her, touch
her, be with her to lay it to rest once more. 

Never had he been the center of the universe for another person. Oh,
Scully was reserved, restrained, refined, but when she gave her heart,
she did so unabashedly, with no holds barred, and a take no prisoners
level of commitment that sometimes kept him up nights, contemplating
that depth of emotion. And he knew his own commitment was no less.
His own obsessive personality had displayed itself repeatedly since he
had known her, and now, he knew, he channeled that particular trait
into her. Everything was Scully, and Scully was everything. He was
quite sure that if the world came to an end tomorrow, but Scully were
with him, they would continue on together for all of eternity. What was
between them could never end. 

He sighed again, pulling her even more closely to him, his hand making
lazy circles on her bare back. She half waked, moving her head to
nuzzle his chest, her tongue darting out to dance tantalizingly against
his overstimulated nipple, before she snuggled more deeply into him,
and he felt the weight of her head settle as she drifted back to deepest
sleep. His eyes drifted shut and he felt the call of Somnus, a siren song,
not to be refused. 

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

Rough hands, pulling, and he instinctively resisted. The hands pulled him,
pulled Scully, tearing them apart. Merciless, brutal, they ripped her from
his arms, her screams went unnoticed, her cries unheeded. A familiar pattern,
a nightmare he knew only too well. He struggled to bring himself awake, to
lift his lids, to stare hungrily at Scully's sleeping form, to shudder and shake,
and finally throw off the terror of the night. To rise and wipe the fear sweat
from his body, to slide once more between the cool sheets and into her
welcoming embrace. 

He lifted his lids, the famine of her absence almost overcoming him, and faced - 

His nightmare come to life. Scully was held between two men, her arms cruelly
twisted behind her back, her cries cut off by a hand held tightly over her mouth.
Her eyes screamed to him, fear, worry, warning, but he was blinded to everything
but reaching her. He left the bed in one smooth movement, heading directly for
the man on her left. His feet hit the floor, he felt a jarring impact at the
base of his skull, and his forward momentum carried two steps more, then
he crumpled to the ground. As the darkness swallowed him, he heard once more,
"not you, never you. . ." 

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

They'd been missing a week. Walter Skinner paced his office, the carpet
where he trod showing the tracks of his steps. He hadn't been that upset when
they hadn't come in Monday. With Mulder, anything could have come
up over the weekend, and he was never one to be overly concerned
with appropriate paperwork when he was on the chase. 

But Scully, Scully was thorough. And on other occasions when they
had seemingly vanished, he would hear from her before the day was out.
An explanation, a report, a request for funding, vouchers, resources.
But Monday had come and gone. And still he had not been overly
worried, secure in the knowledge that Tuesday would either bring a
phone call or a visit, and the explanation he awaited. 

But Tuesday came and went, and there was no call, no report, no
request, no visit. And when he finally went home Tuesday, at 2300,
he was concerned. He'd slept fitfully that night, unsure of what to
do, who he could go to if they really were missing. He really didn't
know who could be trusted, who would help and who would hinder. 

By Wednesday, rumors were flowing throughout the building.
Spooky and the Mrs. were AWOL. He'd gone round the bend
and they'd committed him. She was keeping vigil. She'd cracked
under the pressure of the past five years. He was keeping vigil.
Her cancer was back and she was dying. He was too broken
to work. They'd both been abducted by aliens, this last offered
with a sly look and a smirk from that jerk Colton. 

By Wednesday afternoon, he'd been to both their apartments.
Mulder's spare and empty, layers of dust on every surface. He
apparently hadn't been staying there for sometime. The closets
were empty, the drawers bare. Even the fish tank was gone. 

Scully's, immaculate, a place for everything and everything in its
place. Including Mulder's fish, who had taken up residence on
a small bookcase in Scully's living room. He had walked over
and they swarmed to the surface, so he had dropped in a handful
of fish flakes, and watched as they greedily fought for the bounty. 

He had wandered through, feeling vaguely like a voyeur, stealing
glimpses at something he hadn't been invited to see. He'd been careful
not to touch anything barehanded; he'd wanted to leave no prints. 

He had walked to the bathroom, and if he had needed further confirmation
of Mulder's presence in Scully's home, here it was. A man's razor,
shaving cream, aftershave. Two toothbrushes, two deodorants, two
kinds of shampoo. 

He had gone quickly to the bedroom and opened the closet. And there
were the missing clothes. Hers had hung neatly on her half of the
closet rod. His suits and shirts had hung in the other half of the closet.
He had opened a drawer, top left, and shut it quickly when he realized
it contained her underthings. He'd then opened top right, and been
confronted with men's boxer, men's socks, men's T-shirts. Mulder had been
very much at home there. 

He had walked out to the living room again, and stood, taking in the apartment,
the situation, the possibilities. He had turned slowly in a circle, eyes noting
the placement of everything in the room, mind frantically trying to make
a decision. When he had made a complete circuit, he had stopped. He had
closed his eyes for long moment, took a deep breath, and murmured,
"God forgive me if I'm wrong." 

He had returned to the office and ordered an APB on both of them.
Federal agents, missing. To be taken into protective custody on sight.
Assume hostile intentions of anyone seen with them. Assume armed and
dangerous of anyone accompanying them. He had put together a task force,
and assigned team leaders, each with specific duties, all designed to
track and trace their disappearance. 

Agents had dusted both places for prints, were still tracking phone records,
and bank transactions. Verifying credit card usage. Interviewing the
neighbors. He had had the unpleasant task of notifying Margaret Scully
that once again, her daughter was missing, and the F B *fucking* I
couldn't tell her a thing about it. He'd driven to Baltimore on Thursday
for that little job. He'd wimped out on Mrs. Mulder, sending an agent
from the Boston office, then following up with a personal call. 

Mrs. Scully had been frantic, desperate, begging for help, then pleading to
be allowed to help. He'd thought rapidly, and finally told her about
the fish, the poor starved fish. Would she feed the fish, so he could focus
on the investigation? She'd looked slightly shocked - she'd not known
of their living arrangements, but then she'd latched onto it gratefully, aware
it was a bone, willing to take anything thrown her way that let her feel she
was being helpful. 

He'd stayed several hours, talking with her, explaining patiently,
over and over, all the things they were going to do. He'd promised,
*promised,* he would absolutely keep her informed of every move they
made. And he vowed nothing barring death itself would keep him from
finding her daughter - and future son-in-law, he'd been told. 

Mrs. Mulder on the other hand, had seemed almost unconcerned. Cold,
distant, unreceptive to his empty words of hope. She had listened
politely to his smoothly mouthed platitudes, then thanked him for the call
and hung up. He had sat, looking at the phone for long minutes, until
it began a monotone buzz, then he had slowly replaced the receiver. 

Teams had begun reporting by Thursday night, and the reports were
all negative. Nothing had been uncovered to indicate where his two
agents were, how they got there, or even exactly when they had
disappeared. As best he could determine, they had been seen together
at the local grocery the previous Friday after work, and then vanished. 

He hadn't gone home Thursday, electing to stay and pace in his office.
In the morning, he'd showered in the gym and changed into his extra
suit, the one he kept at the office for emergencies. And he'd returned
to pacing, watching the clock drag its hands slowly around its face,
waiting for the phone to ring with a call that never came. Finally, he came
to a stop. He strode purposefully to the phone, punched in a number
he had sworn to himself he would never use again, and waited to speak
with the Devil. 

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

They met in public, in the park. They walked and talked as two civilized
gentlemen. No one observing would ever guess that lives were being
bartered for, souls were being wagered. Just two middle aged men,
strolling in the park on a brisk autumn day. 

"I am only provisionally back in the loop, so to speak, Mr. Skinner."
The man took a deep drag on the ever present cigarette, the smoke
swirling lazily in the chill breeze. "I am not consulted on every move
that is made. And I was not consulted on this one." 

"I don't really care if you were or were not consulted, are or are not
involved. I only want to know where they are, and how to get them." 

"Ah, there's the rub, my friend. I know where they are, and you can
get them, but *you* are the only one who actually can get them." 

"What do you mean? Are you saying I have to trade myself for them.
Because if that's all, then it's done. Send them home. I'm here, we
can go now." 

"Such noble self-sacrifice. Pity there aren't more like you. But, alas,
it's not that easy." The man sucked hard on the cigarette, the tip
glowing brightly, then dropped the small stub, and ground it out under
his heal. "When I say you will have to go and get them, I mean just
that. *You* will have to go and get them." 

"Don't be cryptic," Skinner growled. 

The man stopped walking and looked at Skinner. He held out a piece
of paper, an offering, and said, "Mr. Skinner, I know what you did in
the war. I know *what* you are. I've seen the real records. And where
they are, who has them, what they are doing to them? Only you can get
them out." 

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

Skinner was pacing again, this time in front of the window wall in
his apartment. He stopped suddenly and stared out into the velvet
sky. He was going to do it, he knew it. He had known since that
black lunged bastard had held the paper out to him, known since
he taunted him with what he'd done in the war. There was always
a chance he was being set up, but with nothing else to go on, this
was the best chance he had to find his agents. To stop whatever
unnamed horror was occurring. 

He sighed heavily. He'd never wanted to do this again. He walked
to his dining room table and looked again at the maps he had laid
out. Aerial surveillance. A small island off the rocky New England
coast. Too small to have a name, despite the fact it was privately
owned and home to the estate of one of the richest men in the world.
Also one of the most reclusive. A home with the most serious of
security. Armed guards, trained dogs, video cameras, lasers; all of it
designed to create an impenetrable fortress. 

A fortress in which his people were being held. A fortress he was
planning to penetrate. He shook his head. He'd been on the fence
too long. It was time to take a stand in the game that was being
played out. He'd been on both sides, sometimes willingly, sometimes
not so willingly, but now he was taking his place. When this operation
was over, there would no longer be any doubt where Walter Skinner
stood in the grand scheme of things. 

He walked to the window and looked out again. He leaned his head
against the cool glass, staring at the peaceful lights of the city. This
was what he had wanted, all he had longed for when he had come back.
Peace. A home. A chance to do something useful. A chance to forget.
But the past has a way of creeping up on you, and some things can never
be forgotten. 

He stared into the night for a bit longer, a single tear finding its way to
his eyes, spilling over, and sliding slowly down his cheek. He realized
then, that he was mourning. Mourning the boy who had gone to war,
mourning the innocence so quickly lost. And mourning the man he had
worked so hard to become. A good man, a decent man, an honest and
loyal man. A man created from the dregs of that lost-innocent boy. A
man created more by what *not* to be, than what *to* be. He sighed
once more, wiped his now dry cheek with the back of his hand, and turned
his back on the peace of the night. 

He turned and walked into his little used second bedroom. More an office
than bedroom, despite the day bed there. He walked to the closet and
removed the sliding door from it track, leaning it against the bed. He needed
room to work. Sometime later, enough of the false wall had been removed
that he could reach the trunk, and he pulled it out, wondering once again
just why he had saved it after all. 

'For this,' his mind replied. 'You saved it for this.' 

The lock was old. It hadn't been touched in over thirty years. He'd dragged
the battered old trunk through all the moves he'd made, always creating a
safe place for it, always knowing it was there, never again wanting to open
it. He tried the lock, then quickly resorted to cutters, too impatient to work
the worn tumblers. He knelt quickly, opened the trunk, then sat back on
his haunches, and began to face his past. 

A black nylon jumpsuit, fabric decaying from neglect. No names, no insignia,
no rank, just a non-descript jumpsuit designed to cover the flesh and protect
from the elements. It went in the discard pile. 

Guns - state of the art thirty years ago - dated now, in light of the new technology.
Not having been cared for, their mechanisms stiff with disuse, these too went
in the discard pile. 

A black canvas backpack. Heavier duty than the nylon, this had lasted.
He could use this if he wanted to, but he put it aside as well. It was heavy
by today's standards, and he didn't want to carry any more weight than he
had too. He might have injured coming out. 

The knives. These he could use. Throwing knives, perfectly balanced,
their blades still sharp. A small utility knife, single blade, good for cutting
rope - and throats. Larger knives, to clear a path, through forest or through
people. Skinner felt his gut clutch and his stomach heave, and he shoved
down his reaction, quickly pulling out the knives and their sheaths. The
*to use* pile was beginning. 

Throwing stars, a martial arts tool, beautiful in flight, deadly when handled
by someone who knew how to use them. He knew how to use them.
They went in the *to use* pile. 

He went on quickly. The other survival gear he'd replace. The canteen,
drinking cup, first aid kit. The numerous little survive in the wild gizmos,
fishing line and hook, tablets to purify water, ration bars, these would all
be outdated. He lifted a small ground cover, and finally reached the
main thing he'd come to get. 

The money. $500,000.00. A half a million dollars. Idly, he wondered
what it would be worth now, if he had invested it instead of sticking
it in a trunk and nailing it up behind a false wall. It was his pay-off for his
service to his country. His original deal with the devil. 

He'd never touched it, never been able to look at it. But with what it
could buy for him now, perhaps he might be able to, in some small way,
make it clean. Blood money - but used for good. Did that make it all
right? He shook his head. Too deep an issue for right before an
operation. Act now, think later. Amazing how quickly it all came back.
He shook his head and thought, sadly, how your past never really
lets you go. 

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

Three more days. It had taken him three more days to get the equipment
he needed, make the arrangements, acquire the information. His smoking
*friend* had been most cooperative in providing intelligence on the layout
of the island, the house, and the security. He apparently wanted Mulder
and Scully out as well. This taking appeared to have gone against quite
a few of the players' wishes, and while he knew he was operating alone,
as always, he had been offered resources he'd never have been able to
get on his own. 

He sat in the boat, bobbing several miles off shore of the island. He checked
his gear one last time. He'd had to be extremely careful in his choices of
what to take. The two mile swim in to the island would be brutal, rough
waters, cold temperature. He'd had to anchor far enough away not to be
picked up on the island's perimeter cameras. 

He reviewed his plan. Swim in. Up a rocky incline and into dense woods.
Stop, shed the wetsuit and redress. Stash the suit and the other items he
wouldn't need until later. Make his way to the house. Breach security,
find Mulder and Scully, get them out. Hope they could both make the swim
to the boat, and get the hell out of Dodge. 

He hefted the first of the of the waterproof pouches that would be strapped
about his person. One on each thigh, one on each bicep, and the largest,
of course, on his back. Inside, everything he would need, safe from the
harsh salt water, ready for use upon arrival. Altogether - fifty pounds. He'd
made swims like this with twice that weight in Nam, but that was 30 years
ago. He couldn't risk not making it, or being so exhausted he couldn't function,
so he had been brutal in his selections. 

Many things that he would never have thought of going on an operation without
long ago, were conspicuously absent. But some of the essentials were still there.
Drinking water. Ration bars. Weapons. Medical. Shelter. It had been a hard
choice, but the items available now were amazingly light compared to what he
had been used to, and he hadn't had to leave as much behind as he had at first
thought. 

He finished strapping on the pouches, checked that they were secure. One last
look around the boat, a check on the compass setting, the goggles pulled down,
and he slipped into the water and began to swim. It was cold, colder than he had
imagined, but he forced himself to keep going. The waves knocked him about,
but he kept eyeing the compass and maintained a steady pace and eventually
he reached the shore. 

He lay low in the water for long minutes, fighting the cold, but regaining his breath
and a steady heart beat. When his body was stilled, his mind focused, he leapt
up and sprinted for the foot of the incline, climbing rapidly, and slipping like a
wraith into the woods. He quickly moved deeper into the trees, searching for a
small clearing and came upon one, partially surrounded by a bramble thicket, and
began to strip. 

The pouches came off, then the wet suit. From one of the pouches came dry
clothing and moccasin like shoes. Light weight and quiet, but protection. The
jumpsuit had pockets for his knives and stars. No guns on this operation.
Silent but deadly - in and out - it was the only way they would make it. A
backpack, complete with those essentials he had deemed necessary. He pulled
a small pot from one pouch and began to blacken his face and head. He smiled
ruefully. The last time he's done this, he hadn't had to worry about the expanse
of exposed skin on the top of his head. Ah - youth . . . 

The explosives were last - small but deadly. It seemed that every pocket on his
suit was filled with death. Some silent, some not so silent, but all just as deadly.
He spent a few minutes repacking and threading the pouches and equipment that
would remain here together, tying it off in a webbed pouch, and securing it high in
a tree. The thin brown nylon cord blended perfectly into the bark, visible only to
one who was looking for it. He shrugged into the backpack, pulled the night
goggles over his face, gave himself a minute to adjust, then set off at an easy lope
through the woods, moving forward towards the house - and back to face his past. 

End of part 01/03 

Retrieval 02/03 

He'd lost track of the days. At first, he had tried so hard
to keep track of time, they both had. But as the pattern of
their captivity emerged, it seemed less important than other
things. They'd had no food since the first day. He'd been
told he could eat, but she could not. He had refused, and she
had argued, and he'd given in, but he'd slipped bits and
pieces to her, and they'd been caught. She'd been punished,
but now, neither one of them got food. 

It should have been a warning to him. He should have seen
it coming. It set the tone for the remaining days. Always,
he was treated gently, carefully, no injury beyond the initial
bump on the head. But Scully, Scully was slowly being
killed. And he was being made to watch. 

Sometimes they beat her. Sometimes they humiliated her with
their words and actions. Sometimes they did - other things.
And, through it all, he was always, carefully, gently, tenderly, restrained
in velvet lined padded cuffs, against a soft wall. Always present
to watch as they destroyed her bit by bit, unable to save her,
unable to hurt himself. 

He'd fought them at first, resisting when they came for him. Lashing
out with fists and feet. They simply sent more men, and he was
always overpowered. And she was always punished for his actions.
He quickly stopped resisting. They could have his complete
cooperation in anything, his total agreement to whatever they wanted,
but they asked him no questions, made no demands. They simply
made him watch. 

It was the most potent torment they could use on him, and he was
rapidly falling into an abyss from which there was no way out. 

She'd been fitted with an ankle bracelet, a security monitor that
sent a surge of electricity through her small body if she tried to
cross the unseen halfway point between his side of the room and
hers. He could go to her, but she could not come to him. 

At first, she had comforted him. Reassured him that she didn't
blame him. Told him there was nothing he could do. Wiped the
tears from his face with her bloodied, broken fingers. That was
when she could still stand to touch him, and to let him touch her.
But as the days progressed, she withdrew. Now, she wanted no one
near her body. She was so beaten down, she had no resources
left for him. 

She might fall unconscious during one of their *interrogations.* Then
he would hold her till she roused, releasing her reluctantly at her command.
He would slink quietly to his side of the room, leaving her the blanket,
the sheets, the pillow from the cot they had supplied him, but deemed
off limits to her. They'd both been nude when they were taken, and while
he had been supplied clothing, she hadn't. He'd refused to dress at first,
but after the first rape, he had been concerned his nudity would distress
her more, and he wore the pants he had been given. 

They had water - there was a sink and a toilet, but they were on his side and
she was not allowed to use them. She'd designated a corner for her necessity,
and used it with dignity. God, he admired her. He took her water, in his hand,
and they allowed that. But as the days progressed, she refused the water.
Her refusal weakened her further, and he was afraid it was deliberate, an
attempt to put an end to this once and for all. He refused to drink as well. 

There were long periods when they left them alone. Sometimes she would
talk to him then. An attempt to let him know she still didn't blame him.
Normal conversation - how bout those Knicks? He'd try to go to her
then, but she'd flinch, and tremble, and pull away without even realizing
she was doing it. And it broke his heart and killed his spirit, but he
answered, and talked, and laughed at her jokes, because it was all he
could give her now. 

She slept often, seeking surcease from the pain and torment in the
embrace of Morpheus. He would creep silently to her side, and kneel
beside her, watching her, denying himself a touch, a kiss, anything that
would relieve his own pain, his own torment. Then, when she would
begin to stir, he would steal silently back to his own side of the room,
and sit and wait, and see if this time, for these moments, she would be
able to face him, to talk to him, to be with him in any small way. 

He was destroyed, and he was waiting to die. 

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

Skinner was at the house. He crouched in the underbrush at the edge of
the woods, a few yards away from the servants' quarters. From the
quarters there was an underground tunnel to the house. Convenient.
Also, severely undersecured. It was his way in, and hopefully, their way
out. 

He entered silently, a knife in one hand. He crept to the entry to the
tunnel and saw the single guard. No way into the tunnel without passing
him. He paused, and once again renewed his commitment. In and out.
Down and dirty. Silent and deadly. He expelled a small puff of air, then
glided up behind the guard, placed one hand over his mouth, the other on
the back of his head, twisted sharply, and broke his neck. He dragged him
to a closet, stuffed the body inside, and moved quickly down the corridor. 

The tunnel came out in the kitchen. Of course. Another guard, this one
with his back to the entrance as he watched a small TV. Well, one thing
was still true after 30 years; boredom breeds complacency. In this case,
it saved the man's life - for the moment. 

Skinner slipped into the hall and began his search. The interior of the house was
unmonitored. Most of the high tech security was reserved for the exterior
and island perimeter. The concern seemed to be more with knowing when some
one approached so they could be warned away, rather than any real
fear of a security breach. Guards in the house and a few laser traps
were the extent of internal security. If he could just avoid them, they'd all
get out all right. 

He had tentatively ruled out certain areas on the ground floor, determining
that the best place to retain his agents would be in one of the rooms
on the second floor. He stood in a darkened doorway and observed the
stairway. Minute traces of red light, barely visible even to his special
enhanced goggles, crisscrossed the treads making it impossible to climb
up without notifying the guards someone was in the house. 

He sheathed his knife, taking one last glance around and walked
to the stairs. Grasping the railing on the banister, he began to pull himself
up the outside of the staircase, moving smoothly and silently up to
the landing. When he reached the landing, he pulled himself up
until he could grasp the banister itself, then dragged his legs up and
over, and dropped softly into a crouch in the upstairs hall. 

He waited, panting quietly, but he was still unobserved. Shit, this
was harder than it had been when he was young. He was still in good
shape - excellent shape for a man almost fifty, but he was almost
fifty nonetheless. He pushed the thoughts from his mind - nothing
negative. He focused on breathing, on slowing the racing heart,
he focused on the operation. 

He walked carefully down the hall, every nerve ending on alert for
the slightest sound, a hint of movement, always looking for his next place
of concealment. As he walked he took in the doors - so many doors
and each one could be hiding death behind it. He had reached the end
of the hall and was ready to begin opening doors, when a door further up
opened and several men walked out. 

He slid into an alcove, hidden in the shadow of a curved wall and a curio
cabinet, and watched as the men strode down the hall to another room. 

"They've rested long enough. Coming for her in the middle of night
will throw them both off. Don't want them to get to *comfortable,*
now do we?" 

The man laughed and Skinner's blood turned cold. He knew that voice.
He'd seen that man. Suddenly, the help he'd been given, the information
he'd been supplied, began to make sense. This was no altruistic move on
the part of that cigarette smoking bastard. This was a power play, plain
and simple. Skinner had been sent in to kill the competition. He'd been
set up, but not as he had feared. Rather, his unique skills were once again
being exploited in the name of *national security.* 

But with his agents' lives in the balance, he had no choice but to go along
and play the game to its conclusion. If they got out of this alive, with his
skills renewed, his talents updated, perhaps he would pay a visit to his smoking
*friend.* 

He was interrupted from his reverie by a cry. A man's voice, broken, hoarse,
defeated. The sounds he made seemed more from habit than from any real
attempt to change things. There was an odd emotionlessness to his pleas,
a roteness to his begging. He was dragged out of the room, dressed only
in a pair of trousers, unusual looking cuffs around his ankles and wrists. 

He didn't fight, merely refused to assist, and was taken quickly to room
further up the hall. Skinner could just make out the repeated chant of,
"I'm sorry, Scully, I'm sorry," recited in a sad, dull monotone. 

He drew further back into the safety of the alcove. At least he knew where
they were now. Two more men came and Scully was carried out, unmoving,
and taken to the same room Mulder had just disappeared into. There were
now six men in the room, and Mulder and Scully. Six - six was easy, he could
do six. There was a time when six wouldn't have even made him count. 

But now, thirty years later, six men. Six men could be a lot. And there were
innocents in the room. It wouldn't do to damage what he had come for.
Besides, Scully already looked injured. She had been totally still as she
was carried down the hall. This could present a problem for getting out. 

He pulled the utility knife, holding it in his left hand, then placed several
of the throwing stars between his teeth. He tucked a throwing knife into
his belt and held one in his right hand. He stood and stepped into the hall,
a tall, broad swath of darkness, ready to retrieve his own. 

He began to detach, pulling in every vestige of humanity, shoving it
down hard to the depths of his soul. For now, he was ruthless, he was
here to succeed. There were no people, no bodies, only an objective
and impediments to attaining that objective that must be removed. As he
prepared himself mentally, the air was torn by a shriek of pain. The high
female cry was immediately followed by a deeper, longer lasting male
groan of agony. 

He shoved it away - to hurry now would ruin everything. Success was
paramount. Time was critical, but it must be used to his advantage. Only
attaining the objective mattered. Another cry, and he began to walk
slowly toward the closed door. 

He paused outside the door, a stealthy look in both directions, then
very slowly placed his hand on the knob. He waited patiently for another
scream, then turned the knob, the sound of the scream and accompanying
wail from Mulder adequately masking any sound the door would have
made as the mechanism retracted. 

He pushed in slightly, creating a crack that he could see through. He
was counting on everyone's attention being focused on Scully, and
it was. He risked moving the door open slightly more at the next
scream, and had a fair view of the room. The men were gathered around
a bench? table? to which Scully was secured. One man stood at the
bottom of the table, between her legs. He was the one who made her
scream. 

He gazed around. Mulder was seated, secured to a padded wall, both
arms pulled out and away from his body, legs locked to padded
braces on the bench. He could watch, but he couldn't move, and he
couldn't hurt himself. His head hung down on his chest, and he was
muttering something repeatedly. Skinner couldn't make it out, but he
could guess what it was. He appeared to be almost in shock. 

Skinner redirected his attention to the men surrounding Scully. No -
the *impediments* to attaining the *objective.* His eyes narrowed
as he worked out the order in which he would remove those impediments.
He eased the door in a bit more and moved more fully into the room.
Everyone was focused on the table. Everyone but Skinner. 

He waited, and at the next scream, he struck. Like an avenging angel
straight from hell, he launched the throwing knife at the impediment
leaning over the objective. It toppled forward slowly, and the objective
began to scream again. As the first one fell fully forward, the knife pushed
deeply into its heart by the weight of its body, there were two more
screams, then silence as full contact was made. 

The others, the ones with their backs to him, froze, and another knife
made its way to another throat, and two stars imbedded themselves in
two chests. A neck snapped, and the last impediment went down as a
knife went up, between the ribs and into the heart, and blood flowed. 

It was over that quickly. It was over before the last body hit the floor.
Removing the last star from his mouth, he slipped it back in the pouch
with the others. He looked around quickly. He had to sanitize the scene,
now, or the extraction of the objective would be compromised. Removing
his weapon, he grabbed the one that bled most, and hauled him first to
the closet. Opening it, the body went inside. 

He turned and went to continue the clean up. Mulder was staring at him,
eyes wide in shock. "Get him off her," he whispered, "get him off of her." 

Skinner turned and saw one of the impediments was lying on the objective,
covering it But it wasn't messy and the mess had to be cleaned up first.
Sanitize the scene, leave not trace. Make them work to find you. It had
to be done that way. He looked at Mulder and ordered, "Be quiet." 

He went to the next body removed the weapon, and hefted it up, carrying
it to the closet as well. Mulder began to protest, his voice rising, "Get him
off of her!" 

Skinner dropped the body on top of the other one, then turned and walked
over to the padded wall. He looked at Mulder then reached out and grasped
his face in his hand. "You *will* be quiet," he whispered fiercely. "Let me do
what must be done. Don't make me gag you." 

Mulder stared at him, eyes filled with a combination of wary recognition and
question. He looked pleadingly in Scully's direction, but remained silent. 

Skinner continued the cleanup. Two more bodies fit in the closet.
Removing clothing from them, he carefully wiped up what blood he
could from the area. There was a sofa against a wall, and a little
maneuvering created a space he could use for the last two, that
wouldn't be noticed on casual inspection from the door. 

He dumped the second to the last one back there, then returned
to the table. The last one was draped over the objective - Scully -
he screamed to himself. His pants were around his ankles and it
was quite clear what he had done to make her scream so. 

Skinner lifted him, pulled the knife from its burial place deep in
this one's chest, and piled him on top of the other, behind the small
couch. He returned to the table. She was unconscious, but
breathing. 

He walked to Mulder and looked at the cuffs. "Which one has
the keys?" he whispered. 

Mulder nodded in Scully's direction. "The last one." 

Skinner went to the couch, checked pockets, and returned. He
unfastened Mulder's bonds, then helped him stand. He watched
as Mulder moved immediately to Scully. "I - I need to take care
of her now," he said softly, "before she's awake." 

Skinner checked his watch, then nodded. He walked to the table,
looked briefly at Scully, then took her ankle in hand and quickly
cut the security bracelet off. He took the backpack off, and pulled
the clothing he had brought for them - black jumpsuits like his own,
moccasins for their feet. Handing both sets to Mulder, he said,
"Just get her dressed. We don't have time for anything else right
now. You have five minutes." 

Skinner slid silently to the door and peered out. The hallway was quiet,
no sign that an alarm had been raised. He stood, waiting, watching the
minutes tick by, then turned around promptly at the five minute mark. 

Scully was dressed, curled in a ball on the floor. He couldn't tell if
she was aware or not. Mulder sat beside her. Mulder was pulling the
jumpsuit up his legs, over his trousers. He stopped when it reached his
waist and put the shoes on Scully, then himself. He rose shakily and
pulled the 'suit up the rest of the way, shrugging his arms into the
sleeves then zipping. 

Skinner was alarmed. Mulder was weaker than he first appeared. He
went to the other man and said, "Are you hurt?" concerned that an unseen
injury would slow the extraction. 

Mulder shook his head, and Skinner asked, "Then what's wrong
with you?" 

"How long?" Mulder responded numbly. 

"Eight days." 

Mulder's eyes filled with tears and he looked at Scully, curled protectively
around herself on the floor. "No food." he said. "No water the last
day, maybe two." He lifted his eyes and met Skinner's gaze. "I lost
track of the time." 

Skinner nodded, then looked at Mulder. "You have to carry
her till we get out. I have to have my hands free." 

"She won't let me touch her when she's awake." Mulder's
voice was dead, defeated. "I couldn't keep them from touching her." 

Skinner took the pack off, dug through it for a moment, then
extracted a syringe. He turned to Scully and knelt. He looked
up at Mulder. "It will make her sleep. She has to be quiet
until we get out. It'll help the pain, too." 

Mulder nodded, and Skinner injected Scully. He rose, shoved
the syringe back in the pack, hauled out rope and a harness. He
said to Mulder, "Go to the bathroom and drink. Get some fluid
in you." 

Mulder nodded and went obediently to the bathroom. Skinner
heard water run. He knelt again and threaded Scully's legs into
the web harness. He secured the straps, making sure she was firmly
ensconced. Mulder returned and Skinner looked up at him. 

"Can you carry her, just till we're out?" 

"I can carry her to hell and back if it gets us out of here." The words
were spoken with more spirit than before, as if Mulder were coming
back to himself. "How did you find us, Sir?" 

Skinner rose and patted Mulder on the arm. "Later." Nodding at Scully,
he said, "Let's move out." 

Mulder bent and lifted Scully in his arms. Skinner had gone to the
door, and Mulder followed. When he got there, Skinner said softly,
"Stay directly behind me. I want you so close to me, I can reach
back and touch you. Got that?" Without waiting for an answer,
he pulled the goggles down over his face. 

Mulder nodded, and they moved out into the hall. Skinner pulled the
door shut behind them and headed swiftly for the landing. Eyes roaming
constantly for traps, he made the landing and began to secure a rope
to the banister. He nodded at Scully, then the floor. Mulder laid
her gently down, then Skinner pointed and Mulder went over the side
and down to the first floor. 

Skinner fed the rope through Scully's harness, the gently lowered
her to Mulder's waiting arms. He removed the rope, slipped over
the rail, and lowered himself the same way he had gone up. Arm over
arm, rail over rail, he descended quickly. He tapped Mulder and they
moved back toward the kitchen. 

The ball game was no longer on, and the guard was moving about
the kitchen, making a sandwich. Skinner closed his eyes, gave a small
shudder, then his arm lifted, something flashed, and the guard was falling,
Skinner soundlessly at his side before he hit the floor. Weapon
removed, body in the pantry, and they were moving rapidly down
the tunnel corridor. 

The other end remained unguarded, and Skinner turned and relieved
Mulder of Scully. When Mulder attempted to protest, Skinner hissed
a warning, and the man fell silent. They crossed the small room,
exited the building and dashed into the safety of the woods. 

Skinner kept a steady pace, heading for the clearing. It was a chill
night, he had injured, and his original extraction plan was no longer
feasible. Scully could never make the swim, and he doubted Mulder
could either in his weakened condition. He needed to get the remaining
supplies, get his people to a place they could rest and tend to Scully,
and then he could review his plans. 

They reached the clearing and Skinner told Mulder to sit. He placed
Scully in the man's lap, then found his cord and pulled his supplies from
the tree. He pulled the wetsuits and threw two at Mulder. "Strip and
put this on, then put the jumpsuit back over it." 

"Why, Sir, a moonlight swim? I didn't know you cared." 

Mulder's weak attempt at humor fell flat, but it was an attempt,
a sign that the man was returning to himself. Skinner looked
at the younger man. He was trying to take Scully's 'suit off
without putting her down. "Put her down, Mulder, and get a move
on." 

Mulder just gestured at the rough ground, strewn with rocks and
sticks, and other hard and uncomfortable things. Skinner sighed, then
pulled an emergency blanket, part of their shelter supplies, and laid
it on the ground. "Now, Mulder," he said. "We don't have much time." 

Mulder gently laid the sleeping Scully on the blanket and quickly
removed the jumpsuit. When the suit was off, he froze, and Skinner
turned impatiently to look at him. "She's bleeding, Sir." His face was
a mask of pain. 

Skinner took a quick look then opened the medical kit. Moving
quickly, he wiped Scully as best he could with the antiseptic
wipes. Using several cloth bandages he fashioned a pad and placed
it gently between her legs taping it into place. He rose and stared down
at Mulder, who had watched all this in silence. "The wet suit,
Mulder. Get her in it. Then you get yours on." 

"She can't swim like this." 

"For heat, Mulder, to retain body heat. It's cold outside." 

While Mulder dressed Scully and himself, Skinner was assembling
the guns. Away from the house they could be used. And he was
going to have to leave Mulder and go back to finish at the house.
He had to get them to a secure spot, get them locked down, and then
implement plan B. 

Mulder was finished and he stood dazedly, awaiting the next command.
Skinner strode over to him, handed him the packs and said, "Put these
on. I'll carry her." Mulder pulled the packs on, then started when Skinner
pressed a gun into his hand. "Cover our back Mulder. Ammo's here."
He patted an outside pocket on one of the packs. Skinner bent and lifted
Scully, still wrapped in the emergency blanket, and said, "Let's go." 

He headed back to the rocky incline he had first used to access the island.
He had seen an indentation in the incline, not really a cave, but perhaps
a place he could leave these two while he did what had to be done. They
reached the slope and Skinner began to make his way down, struggling
to retain his balance with Scully dead weight in his arms. He slipped slightly,
then regained his balance as his roaming eyes just made out the shadow of
the indent through the night vision goggles. He moved left and made
his way over. 

He pushed his way inside and laid Scully on the ground. It was little more
than a hollow in the side of the hill, but it would keep Mulder and Scully
out of sight until he could do what was needed. Mulder stumbled in behind
him, and Skinner pulled him to the ground. "There's not much time
Mulder. I have to go for a while. You have to stay here and take care of
Scully." 

At Mulder's bewildered look, Skinner paused. "Mulder," he said, somewhat
harshly, "you have to get it together here, man. Whatever guilt trip or blame
you want to lay on yourself, put it aside. You can deal with all that later. Right
now, I need you here and focused." He paused again, trying to judge if he
was getting through. "Scully needs you focused." 

Mulder nodded, and to Skinner's eye, appeared a little more in control.
He softened his voice and said "Keep the gun ready, Mulder, there are
dogs on the island. There's food and water in the pack. Eat something.
Whatever you do, don't fall asleep." Mulder was nodding, taking in his
directions. "Scully should sleep for several more hours. If she starts to
wake, there's one more dose in the kit. Give it to her; we can't deal with
her now." 

Mulder was looking at him as if he didn't know him. "When can we *deal*
with her?" he said bitterly. 

Skinner looked at him sadly and said, "When we're clear of this place."
He took one of the packs, donned it, and headed to the opening. "The
watch in the pack is set with mine. I'll be back in about three hours. Give
me four, but if I'm not here by then, you're on your own. There's a boat
anchored about two miles off shore. The heading is in the pack, and there's
a waterproof compass as well. Any questions?" 

Mulder was still looking at him, that same strange look in his eyes. "Who
are you?" he asked finally. 

Skinner gave a short, bitter laugh. "Just a man whose past has caught up
with him." He turned and slipped out into the dark of the night. 

End of part 02/03 

Retrieval 03/03 

Mulder stood staring at the opening Skinner had disappeared through.
'The man moves like a cat,' he thought. 'I don't even know who he is.'
He stood unmoving for a few moments more, then shook himself and
went back to Scully. 

She lay on the blanket on the ground, unknowingly curled in a
ball again, as if she could protect herself that way. She was still
asleep, or unconscious. Whatever Skinner had given her had certainly
worked. There was nothing more he could do for her now. 

He knelt beside her, watching her. His hand snaked out and gently
touched her cheek, a privilege he was only now willing to grant
himself. She was alive. She had survived. 

It baffled him - the whole abduction. What had been the point,
except to make them suffer? And how had Skinner gotten involved?
Or was that the real point? He thought of this new side of Skinner
he had seen, a man he knew and yet didn't. He shook his head. It
didn't matter right now. 

All that mattered was getting off the island, and getting her
to a hospital. She was strong - the physical wounds would
heal quickly. The emotional would take time. But now,
thanks to Skinner, a strange, dark Skinner he didn't know,
they had that time. He touched her cheek again, a feather-light
stroke. They had all the time in the world. 

He pulled back and went to the pack, rummaging until he
found the ration bars and water. Opening the canteen, he
took a small sip, then peeled the wrapping off the bar, and
began to eat. He scooted back until he was seated next to
Scully, the gun in his lap, facing the opening to the hollow.
He looked at the watch Skinner had left. Fifteen minutes
had gone by. He moved closer to Scully, and settled in
to wait. 

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

Skinner worked his way quickly through the woods. There
really wasn't much time now. The loss of the captives
would be discovered any time, if it hadn't already. The run
through the woods gave him time to more fully make his
plans. 

Getting Mulder and Scully off the island the same way he
got on was out of the question. Mulder might make it,
though he was weak, but Scully - no way. Her injuries
were too severe, to say nothing of what her mental state
might be upon waking. Until they were away and relatively
safe, if there was such a thing, she was going to have to
stay out of the picture. 

Of course, that introduced a new time element. The injection
he had given her should keep her under for a few hours.
And there was another dose. But after that, he had very
little left he could give her, and he felt sure she would be
in a great deal of pain. Ideally, he needed to have
both of them, Mulder and Scully off the island, and far from
it by the time she began to wake. 

He began to construct a timetable in his head. Assume she
would be awake in approximately 4 hours. Maybe five, but work
with the low number. Working backwards, he would allow
10 minutes to get them from the island to the boat. Twenty
minutes to move the boat directly off-shore from where they
were hidden. 

It had taken him a little over an hour to make the swim in the
first time. He carried more weight coming in than he would going
out, but he was tired now. Better allow an hour and a half. That
was two hours. He'd told Mulder he'd be back in three, and
he'd already used fifteen of those minutes working his way
back to the house. Allow fifteen more to return to the shore, and
that left him 30 minutes to do what he had to do in the house. 

He crouched at the edge of the woods, watching the small servants'
quarters for movement. To get back in the house, he needed access
to the tunnel again. Skinner found it hard to believe that with
all the security, all the guards, they were still unaware they had
been breached. He watched silently for another half minute, then
made his move. 

As he started across the small open area between the woods and the
house, he heard barking and a large dog came barreling straight at
him. So much for getting in unseen. He crouched again, waiting,
and as the animal leapt at him, he jumped forward, meeting it
halfway, grabbing it by neck and back leg, lifting high, and
slamming it down on the ground. He heard a sharp crack as its
spine broke and a small whimper. Kneeling quickly, he used a
knife and put it down. 

Wiping the knife in the grass, he rose and went on to the house.
There was still no guard on this end of the passage. Skinner
stood silently, exploring the ramifications of the lack of guard.
After deliberation, he decided the most logical reason there
was no guard was that they had discovered the situation in the
main house, and everyone was occupied there. That would also
explain why the dogs were out. 

Right or wrong, there was no time to second guess. He moved
smoothly into the tunnel, and over to the main house. The
kitchen was empty as well, lending credence to his 'occupied
elsewhere' theory. If he was correct in his assessment of who
had been in the room with Scully, the voice he had recognized
would have been the decision maker here. Loss of the leader
could have the remaining troops unsettled, unsure of themselves,
unknowing of what actions to take. 

'Good,' he thought grimly. 

He eyed the kitchen then quickly found what he was looking for -
a door to stairs leading down. He slipped through and made his
way to the basement. Surveying the basement, he identified the
load bearing points, and began his work. 

As he drew the small explosives from the pouch, he worked
quickly, knowing that this was the point of no return. Once
the timers were set, he would have to get out, and quickly,
or Mulder would be on his own. He moved around the basement,
setting the explosive, attaching the timers, checking his watch
and moving on. It had been a very long time since he
had worked an environment like this. 

He stopped briefly and wiped the sweat from his brow, a smudge
of black face paint coming off on his hand. It took 12 minutes,
but they were all set. He checked his time. The dog had taken 2
minutes. Four minutes from the small house to the main house.
One minute in the kitchen. Nineteen minutes down, 11 to go. 

He stopped and took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and
murmured under his breath, "God forgive me." He pushed the
button on the controller that activated the timers on the explosives,
and headed for the stairs. He had 10 minutes to clear the house
and get as far away as he could before all hell came raining down. 

When he reached the top of the stairs, they were waiting for him.
Two men, one on either side of the door. He'd walked right out,
lulled into a false sense of security by the ease with which he
gained entry. 

He saw them out of the corner of his eye as they began to move,
He twisted and fell forward into a controlled roll, but the one on the
left managed to hit the small of his back, over his kidney, and the
other one landed a glancing blow to his shoulder. 

Skinner came out of his roll and rose into a crouch, a knife in
each hand. This was what he hated, this was what terrified
him about what he was, what he had become. Even as he began
the dance of death with the two men, he felt it rise inside him.
The excitement, the anticipation, the *intensity* of this moment.
There was nothing else like it; he longed for it, he craved it,
God forgive him, he *enjoyed* it, and his own reactions sickened
him. 

But for now, he gave in to it, and let his body do what it had
been trained so well to do. He toyed with the men, first drawing
them out, then moving in quickly for little nicks and cuts that
weakened his opponents and wore them down. Finally, he feinted
left, then moved sharply to the right, and one man went down. 

The other backed up slightly, obviously rethinking the wisdom of
only *two* against one, when it was this one. Skinner advanced,
knife gleaming in the muted kitchen light, and lunged. The man,
backed away again, twisting to the right, and Skinner's knife caught
his side, a trail of blood immediately springing forth. 

Skinner backed up, panting, a small smile on his lips. He stopped
and shook himself, realizing what he had done. He'd had the
opportunity to end it, but had, unthinkingly, extended the confrontation.
And he'd enjoyed it. And one man was dead. Bile rose in his throat, and
his stomach heaved. The remaining man was eyeing him warily, and Skinner
stared at him. Finally, he glanced at his watch - 4 minutes left. 

His gaze met the man's and he said, "You have one chance. Get out
of the house." He turned, made his way to the tunnel entrance, and began
to run toward the smaller house. He reached the servants' quarters with
2 minutes left. There was no time to search out the best place. He quickly
placed explosives in opposite sides of the room, attached the timers and
was moving toward the woods with less than 30 seconds to go. 

He was running full out as he reached the tree line, knowing that he wasn't
going to be far enough away. Just as he crossed over into the woods, the
world exploded. Wind roared, the night lit up, and heat surged toward
him. He was lifted bodily into the air and flung forward, making a sudden
stop as he impacted a tree. He landed heavily, the air knocked from his
lungs, and lay panting. From his position he could see the flames as they
settled back down among the ruins of the two structures. 

Well, he could go and get the boat now without having to worry about
being seen. That is, if he could still move. He hurt everywhere, and he
was exhausted. If there had been any doubt as to his age before, it had been
laid to rest. This was a young man's game, and he was definitely not
young. He did a quick survey, realized he was bleeding in several places,
and winced. He tried to rise and was overcome by a wave of dizziness.
He closed his eyes to fight back the nausea, and quietly slid into unconsciousness. 

When he came to, the first thing he did was look at this watch. Shit! Almost
45 minutes. There was no way he'd make it back in three hours now. And
Mulder would only wait four, if that. He snorted in disgust, then struggled to his
feet, ready to begin a shaky trot back to the shore line.



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

Mulder looked at the watch for the three hundred and sixty eighth time.
Another minute had passed. Skinner had been gone for almost three and
a half hours. Mulder was beginning to ache with the need to do something. 

The explosion had scared the crap out of him. He had risked going out of the
hollow and had seen the sky light up. What if Skinner had gotten caught
in the blast? 

He'd been tempted to head out to the boat at that point, but two things
had kept him back. He didn't want to leave Scully if there was
any way to avoid it, and, this new Skinner didn't seem to be the kind
of person who would deal lightly with not following instructions.
Truth be told, he was a little afraid of the man. And so, he had decided
to do exactly as he had been told, for once in his life. He'd wait the
full four hours. 

About 30 minutes after the explosion, Scully had begun to stir. He'd been
desperate to talk to her, and since Skinner had said three to four hours,
he had decided to risk not following the order to keep her sedated. He
smiled into the darkness now, thinking of how she had talked to him,
touched him, and let him touch her. 

He had gone to her, taking another blanket as an offering. 

"Cold, Scully?" 

"Mmm, no" she murmured. One eye opened. "Mulder?" 

"Uh, yeah, it's me. You're OK, Scully, it's over. We're out." 

"Mmm, ok." 

She was drowsy, the sedative and pain killer still in her system. He
knew she would probably go back to sleep if he'd let her, but he needed
to talk to her. Selfish, selfish, selfish. He kicked himself mentally. He
was always so selfish. But he seemed unable to stop himself. 

"Scully?" 

"Mmm?" 

"Will you drink some water now?" 

She looked at him again, her eyes struggling to focus. 

"It's really over?" 

"Yeah. Skinner got us out." 

"You have water?" 

He rose, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get the canteen. He started
to help her sit, but withdrew when she flinched from his reaching hand. 

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she had said. "I know you won't hurt me; I just can't
help it." 

He nodded, head lowered to hide the tears that gathered in his eyes. 

She reached out her hand. "You'll have to help me." 

He smiled now, as he thought back to how he had lifted her up, holding
her securely in his arms, and held the canteen to her lips. She hadn't flinched
at all that time, and had even rested her head against his chest for a moment
before laying back down. 

"Skinner?" 

"He said four hours, Scully. That's about 2 and a half more hours." 

Scully closed her eyes, then said, "Hmm. Hurts." 

"I know, Scully, I know." Mulder was on his feet again, going for the
pack. He pulled the other syringe. "Skinner left this - sedative and pain
reliever. Tell me when you're ready." 

She nodded, then said. "Not your fault, Mulder." Her eyes sought out
his, as she went on. "You know that, right? It's not your fault." 

The tears that had been hovering behind his eyes since she first woke
up, broke loose and ran freely down his face. He reached for her, then
pulled his arm back quickly before she could flinch again. But she
raised her hand, lifting it toward him, and he went to her slowly,
carefully, taking her gently into his arms. He had held her for a long
time, and she had seemed content to be with him. At last, she had
asked tentatively, "Mulder?" 

"Hmmm?" It was his turn to be non-vocal. He laughed at himself as he
realized how ridiculous he was. Still on the island, Scully injured,
Skinner missing, and yet, he was so content to sit and hold her, that he
had almost let himself drift off to sleep. He shook himself back to
wakefulness, and said, "Yeah, Scully?" 

"Are you OK, Mulder?" 

"I'm great, Scully. Everything's great." 

She laughed softly, then said, "Well, I could be greater if you wanted to
give me that pain reliever now." 

He looked down at her, snuggled in his lap securely, and saw the pain
etched across her features. How long had she been fighting it to give him
this time? He shook his head, saying, "Sure, Scully." He laid her
back on the blanket, helping her settle comfortably, then lifted the
syringe. 

"Ready?" 

"Mmm hmm," she nodded. 

He gave her the injection, then sat with her while she drifted away again. 

And now there were 15 more minutes till Skinner's four hours would be up.
He turned to look at her once more. She was sleeping peacefully, still
curled on her side, but the tension that had been present on her face even
in sleep for the past 8 days, was gone. He rolled onto his knees, facing her
and reached out to gently stroke her hair. 

He was lost in thought, staring dreamily at Scully when suddenly,
something slammed into him from behind. He fell forward, landing
heavily across Scully as he felt sharp teeth sink into his shoulder.
The dogs! He'd forgotten about the damn dogs! 

He rolled sideways, off Scully, and the dog released its bite to avoid
being crushed. He pulled himself into a crouch, backed against the
side of the cave. The dog growled menacingly. He reached for
the gun, but the dog lunged and he quickly drew his hand back. 

The dog eyed him, then looked at Scully. Mulder began to move
slowly away from Scully. The dog stood, watching him. As Mulder
moved, the dog turned slowly, keeping its attention on Mulder, and
away from Scully. 

There was a sound at the entrance to the hollow, and the dog shifted its
attention. Mulder lunged, grabbing the gun and firing in one
smooth move, and the animal dropped, dead. The sound at the
entrance repeated and there was movement. 

Mulder lay on his back, where he had rolled as he shot the dog,
the gun now firmly aimed at the entry. The movement increased
and a shape formed in the doorway. 

"Freeze!" Mulder commanded. 

"Jesus, Mulder, put that down!" Skinner replied. "You scared the shit
out of me!" 

Mulder lowered the weapon and rose to his feet. "You're very nearly
late, Sir." 

"I'm surprised you waited. Patience isn't usually your strong suit." 

Mulder grinned. "Didn't want to leave Scully." 

"Ahh, yes, well, pack up. The boat is right off shore." 

Mulder turned and did as directed. Skinner looked at him, then at Scully.
He cleared his throat. "Mulder, can you carry her?" 

Mulder looked closely at Skinner. "Are you all right?" 

"I'm nearly fifty, Mulder. It's been a long night, and I'm tired." 

Mulder handed him the pack, then went and lifted Scully. 

"As far as I'm concerned, it's been too long a night. The sooner
it's over, the happier I will be." He moved to the entry, then turned
back to face Skinner. "Shall we go?" 

Skinner pulled the pack on, nodded, and followed Mulder down the
incline to the shore. They waded quickly out to the boat, Skinner
climbing up first, then taking Scully when she was handed to him.
He placed her on a bench seat and moved to the small wheelhouse.
Mulder came next, pulling the ladder up behind himself as Skinner
started the engine. 

Mulder check Scully then, followed Skinner to the wheel. "Why no
lights on the boat?" Mulder asked. 

"The explosion. Planes and copters have been overhead for the last
couple hours." Skinner took a towel and began to wipe his face clean
of the last of the paint that had not been washed off in the swim. 

"There's a small cabin down below, with a bunk. Take Scully and
get her settled. There's clothing and a galley and a bath. You can
clean her up, treat what injuries you can, maybe eat. It's gonna be a
long, slow trip back without lights." 

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

The sun was coming up when Skinner finally felt they were far
enough away for him to stop and safely rest. He slowed the engine,
then cut it completely, and dropped the anchor. He rose wearily,
stretched, and walked slowly and stiffly to the steps to the
the small cabin below decks. 

He came down to find Mulder and Scully talking quietly, Mulder
seated on the bunk next to her. He wore no shirt, and a loose
wrapping covered the marks the dog had left on his shoulder. He
held Scully's bandaged hand gently in his lap. They both looked
up when he entered. 

"Thank you, Sir," Scully said, "thank you for not giving up on us." 

Skinner waved the thanks away, looking uncomfortable. "How
are you feeling, Agent Scully?" 

"Better. How on earth did you get access to the drugs in this
medical kit?" 

Skinner grew even more uncomfortable. 

"Now, Scully, you know the government has a new policy of 'don't ask,
don't tell," Mulder teased, easily deflecting the topic. 

They all laughed, then Mulder added, "There's coffee in the galley, Sir.
Can I get you a cup?" 

"That would be nice, Mulder, thank you." 

Skinner took a seat at the small table and Mulder placed the mug of
coffee before him. 

"Where are we?" he asked. 

"A few miles off the coast of Maine. We'll wait a few more hours, and
then go in as just another group of fisherman returning from a morning
at sea." He sighed. "I'm pretty sure it's over, and you're safe now, but
I don't want to take any chances." 

He sipped the coffee, then said, "I need to clean up." He peeled off his
shirt and headed for the small bathroom, halting when he heard twin
gasps from behind him. He turned. "What?" 

"Your back, Sir," Scully said. "It looks like the skin was flayed away." 

"Oh." Skinner flushed. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. You didn't need
to see that." 

Mulder looked at Scully. "It's all right, Sir. What caused it?" 

"The explosion, I guess. There was a lot of stuff flying around." He
shrugged. "I don't know. It could have been the fight." He rubbed
his face. "I don't know." His legs suddenly trembled and he sat back
down quickly. 

Mulder was at his side instantly, Scully rising in the bunk to look more
closely at him. "You need to rest, Sir," Mulder said. 

Skinner nodded. "I know. I can't do this anymore." He shuddered
and laid his head tiredly on the table. 

"Do what, Sir?" Scully asked gently. 

"Kill. I can't kill anymore. I won't be that person. They told me the
only way to get you out was for me to come in and do it. And I did.
But it wasn't about you, either of you." He looked up and met both
their gazes. "What you went through, it was all part of a set up to
assassinate one of the big players, carefully orchestrated to legitimize
the assassination, with me as the assassin. 

"I played my part, and men are dead now." He lifted his head and said,
"I'm a killer; it's what I was trained to do. I do it very well. I'm one
of the best. But it's not who I want to be. For over thirty years, I kept that
part of me locked away. I thought it was behind me. I thought I had it
mastered. But I killed again on that island. Without thought, without
remorse. I can't do it anymore. I hate what I am." 

Scully spoke up. "You have to let it go, Sir. We all have things that
happen and we have to let it go." 

"I can't let it go," Skinner said. "People are dead because of me. How
do you let that go?" 

"People are alive because of you, too, Sir," Mulder added. "Alive and
very grateful." 

Skinner looked at them then, haunted eyes seeking reassurance, seeing
only acceptance in their faces. "And who forgives me for what I've done?"
he asked. "Who will absolve me of my sins?" 

Scully reached for him, and he moved to her side, kneeling by the bunk. 

"There can never be total absolution unless and until you forgive yourself.
Every one of us has a dark side, a part of our nature we don't want to see
or acknowledge. You've been forced to examine your dark side much more
closely than most of us ever have. But that dark side is often what gives us
strength - a good thing when tempered with our positive attributes -
compassion, kindness, loyalty, self-sacrifice, love. You have all those things,
Walter Skinner. Forgive yourself. Accept yourself." 

She reached out again, one hand in Mulder's, one on his. "Love yourself."
Her hand touched his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "We do." 

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

Title: What Cost, Friendship? (1/2)
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for violence
Category: SA - ADV
Spoilers: None
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship
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. 

Summary: With the threat of Scully's cancer returning,
CSM blackmails Skinner into another covert operation. When
Mulder finds out what is happening, he insists on being
involved. 

Comments: For the background on Skinner's Viet Nam era
covert ops experience, you need to read "Retrieval," available at
Daydreamer's Den: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/
It can also be found at the WalterTorture site:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/7855/ 

What Cost, Friendship? 01/08 

Skinner walked silently beside the other man,
his hands clenched tightly into fists, but
shoved deep in the pockets of his overcoat,
away from temptation. He shivered in the chill
autumn air, but whether from the cool breeze
or from disgust, he could not tell. The man
was still speaking. 

"Your recent performance in obtaining Agent
Mulder and Agent Scully's release was," the
man shot him a look from the corner of his
eye, "well, considering your age and the time
you have been -- out of practice, shall we say? --
your performance was amazing." The man
paused, obviously waiting for a response. 

Skinner continued to walk, remaining silent
until it was clear the man would go no further
without some reaction. His hands tightened
even further and he thought how easily he
could kill this man. He took a deep breath
of the clean, crisp air, then grunted, all the
acknowledgment he was willing to give. 

The man laughed, then crushed his cigarette
under his foot and lit another. "Ah, Mr. Skinner,"
he sighed, "how eloquently put." 

Skinner stopped abruptly and turned to face
the man. "I'm here as you *requested,*" he
snarled. "Let's stop playing games. What do
you want?" 

The man had stopped as well, and was staring
at him. Skinner was struck by the picture they
must make. Two middle-aged men, apparently
facing off in the middle of the Mall. He shook
his head at the absurdity of it. He was tired of
the games. He held the man's eyes a moment
longer, then shifted slightly to look up at the Capitol. 

The man must have sensed Skinner's shift in
mood for he pivoted and began to walk again,
and Skinner began moving as well. They
continued on in silence for some time, then
the man asked, "How is Agent Scully?" 

Skinner took his time in answering, acutely
aware that any information he gave could
later come back to haunt them, but even more
convinced that the question was rhetorical, and
the man already knew the answer. "She's --
recovering," he said finally. "She's on medical
leave." 

The man was nodding, smoke curling lazily
over his head. "I did not -- advocate -- the
treatment she received at the hands of her captors."
He coughed then, almost in embarrassment, and
Skinner glanced his way. "They were only
supposed to hold your agents. The rest, well,
it was one man going too far." 

He stopped, then gazed unseeing up the grassy
expanse of the Mall. "You can see now why he
had to be eliminated." 

Seeing the man's expression, one of anger and chagrin,
Skinner slowly nodded. He felt some of the tension
leave him, then reminded himself to never relax,
never believe, when this man was involved. The
two continued to walk in silence, each lost in his
own thoughts. 

"She is very strong," the smoker commented. 

Skinner's anger returned. She was strong, but there
was no reason for her strength to continually be
tested. He was seized once more by the desire to
turn and break this man's throat, ending the hold
he had on them all. His hands opened and closed,
deep within his pockets, but his face remained impassive. 

"It is a trial to have to be civil to me, isn't it, Mister
Skinner?" the man said harshly. 

Skinner remained silent, refusing to be baited,
refusing to look at the man. 

Another cigarette fell to the ground, and the man
sighed as he fumbled in his coat for the pack. He
pulled one out, then dug in his pocket for his
lighter. Once lit, he sucked greedily, then sighed
again. "There has been no recurrence of Agent
Scully's cancer, has there?" he said in a dry,
flat tone. 

Skinner looked sharply at the man, his hands itching
to make their way to his throat, or perhaps his head.
A quick twist - but, no, he would not let his thoughts
go there. It brought too much pleasure. He shivered
again, this time in self-disgust. "No," he said shortly.
"Why do you ask?" 

"I have need of your -- ah, *skills* -- again," the other
man answered. "I simply wanted to make sure we
were clear on the environment we were operating in
before we move on to the topic at hand." 

Skinner nodded shortly, then said, "We're clear.
Move on." 

The man laughed again. "Ah, Mr. Skinner, I do
like dealing with you. Always to the point." He
pulled on the cigarette again, then added. "It is
actually quite refreshing." 

"I won't be your errand boy forever," Skinner
said. "Perhaps you should be making future
plans." 

"There is no need," the man responded. "Listen
carefully, for I will only make this offer once. You
should be quite pleased to know that with the
successful completion of this small task, I am
prepared to provide you with a chip that will not
just keep Agent Scully's cancer in remission, but
will cure it permanently." 

Skinner noted the man was attempting to maintain
an unconcerned facade, but was sneaking looks in
his direction out of the corner of his eye. "How can
I believe you?" 

"The first chip worked, did it not?" The man stopped
walking again, and turned to look expressionlessly at
Skinner. "This one task will assure Agent Scully's health,
and you will no longer be - let us say, *indebted* -- to me.
But as I said, I will only make this offer once." 

Skinner's mind was racing. A way to save Scully. A
chance to free himself. But it all hinged on the ability
to trust this man, a man who had repeatedly proven
himself far less than trustworthy. "What do you want
me to do?" he asked finally. 

"No, Mr. Skinner, nothing is that easy. I want your
commitment first, then we can discuss the specifics
of the task at hand." 

Skinner started walking again, and the man followed.
He had known it wouldn't be that easy, but had had
to try. 

"I will say this," the man offered, "you will be working
for the security of this nation, and this planet." 

Skinner snorted. National security. Now where had
he heard that before? "Am I going to have to kill?"
he asked, and shuddered at the frisson of anticipation
that ran through him. 

"Probably," the man said shortly. 

Skinner's thoughts were whirling madly. Could
he do it again? It had taken him years after Viet Nam
to put it behind him. He'd been young. A boy from
the country. Good with a gun. Naive. Innocent.
Idealistic. He'd been easy to twist to their purposes.
Easy to entice with words like *Hero.* *Patriot.*
*Righteousness.* And, of course, the ever famous
*National Security.* Even now, he could hear the
capital letters as his captain recruited him into the
special forces unit. Covert ops. 

He'd killed. And he'd been good at it. He'd done it
willingly. He'd been praised for it. He'd been known
for it. He'd been a success at it. And, God forgive him,
he'd *enjoyed* it. The anticipation. The sense of his
own mortality. The rush. The *aliveness* of it all. 

And the money. Off the record operations. Black
nights filled with even blacker deeds. *Compensation*
for good work and silence. Even then, he'd known
the money for what it was -- blood money. Some of
the boys killed for the money. He'd always looked
down on them. He'd felt he was there for the right
reasons. *Loyalty.* *Justice.* *Truth.* 

But it had still warped him. He'd had no choice but to
enter law enforcement. He couldn't live without his gun
at that point. He'd done two years on the DC police
force, two years of hell as he tried to adjust to a world
where you didn't shoot people who were different
from you. A world where you didn't shoot people
at all, if you could help it. 

But he'd had three shootings in two years -- all good
shoots, all clean kills -- and he'd been found justified
in his use of force each time. But had he been? Could
he have found another way if he hadn't been so eager
to ride that adrenaline wave all the way to completion? 

He sighed, then looked at the man. "I need some time,"
he said. 

"There is no time." 

Skinner sighed. He'd known the answer. "Leave me
for a few minutes," he demanded. 

The man stared at him, then nodded. He jerked his head
toward a bench that faced the concrete path they walked
on. "I will await your decision over there. Do not test
my patience." The man walked away and Skinner turned
his back to him, staring out over the Reflecting Pool. 

To kill again. To knowingly go into a situation where he
would have to kill. Could he do it again, and have any
hope that his soul would emerge intact? The addiction
was still there; he could feel it deep in his belly, stirring,
demanding, rising to be fed. 

After the last shooting, it had been there too. Insistent,
an ever present need for the rush, need for the excitement.
He'd disgusted himself with his own lust for killing.
He'd left the force and gone to college. Shocked his
family -- simple country people who worked with their
hands. No one had ever gone beyond high school before,
but Skinner knew he had to find a different path, or he'd
never survive. 

He'd finished college, then applied to the FBI. Law
enforcement, but more investigative than confrontational.
And he planned from the beginning to get out of the
field and into an office. He knew the dangers of the
field. He'd felt he could protect others who fought
the same deadly desires he had. He could weed them
out, steer them to safe places. Channel their abilities
in sane directions. 

And he'd accomplished his goal. Locked the money
away. Put the tools of his former trade to rest. He'd
moved up quickly, and been successful in his own
career plans, and in his ability to recognize and
remove agents who were a danger to others or to
themselves. 

But like an alcoholic who can never drink again,
he was a killer who could never kill again. The
rapacious need was still there, hovering just
below his consciousness, ready to rise and fill
him with self-hatred, and loathing, and disgust
at the pleasure he found in the act of ending a life. 

He'd avoided the triggering act -- bringing death
to another -- for years now. Until recently. Until
this man -- he turned back and stared at the man
on the bench, cigarette in hand -- this man had
manipulated him into a termination contract without
his knowledge. 

This man had approved the taking of two people and
unspeakable things had been done to them. Scully had
suffered physically, suffered in a way that should never
have occurred. But, Mulder? Mulder was still
overwhelmed. Being forced to watch helplessly as
Scully was abused, being reminded of his own
ineffectiveness, his inability to protect those he loved,
it had nearly destroyed him. 

Even now, Mulder was on shaky ground. Skinner was
watching him closely, unwilling to let him out alone
on a case. Insisting he spend time with Scully at her
mother's. And it had all happened because of this
man. Perhaps knowing, perhaps not, it mattered not,
because the man *did not care.* And that was what
made him dangerous. 

He scowled, then turned away again, looking back
to the Pool and the serenity the still water offered.
A deceptive serenity. The water was dark, hiding
unknowns beneath its murky depths. Rather
like the smoker with his facade of stillness as he
awaited Skinner's decision. What unknowns did
he hide? 

He sighed aloud. There was no decision. Once again,
there were no other options. Once again, he was
being manipulated. He lowered his head as the
conflicting emotions of rage and humiliation washed
over him. He was still in thrall to this bastard, and he
might never be free. 

He stood silently staring at the clouded water.
What lay hidden beneath its shallow surface?
What would the smoker demand of him this time?
Could he do this for the right reasons? To secure
Scully's health. To help heal Mulder. To free
himself from servitude to this man. 

Or would he be doing it for other reasons?
He hung his head in shame as he acknowledged
the emotions that flowed through him. Would he
do it because it appealed to his baser instincts?
Because he was good at it? Because he *wanted*
to? He was paralyzed as he forced himself to face
the truth about himself -- a truth he still ran from.
He wanted to kill and he wanted to live. But if
doing this didn't kill him, would he be able to live
with himself? 

He turned abruptly and strode briskly over to
the seated man. "I'll do it," he said. "But then,
you knew that already didn't you?" he added
bitterly. 

The man rose, once more dropping a cigarette
stub to the ground, and grinding it beneath his
shoe. "I suspected as much, Mr. Skinner," he
responded mildly. He pulled a legal size
envelope from an inside pocket and extended
it to Skinner. "Read this. Formulate a plan.
I will call you." 

"Scully's cure?" Skinner asked. 

"Upon completion." 

"Then I'm done as well," Skinner said. "Don't
think you can call me again after this. I won't
do it. Ever. Do you understand me?" 

"I think we understand each other, Mr. Skinner,"
the man said. "Call me if you need to. There is a
number in the packet." He turned and walked away,
and Skinner watched as he lit up yet another cigarette. 

'The devil makes his own fire and brimstone,' he
thought, as he watched the man walk away. The smoke
twisted and curled as it rose above the man in the brisk
November air. 'And I deal with the devil. Does he
own me completely now?' He sighed again, then turned
and began the trek back to the Hoover, resigned to his fate,
ready to begin. 

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

Mulder sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial,
his long legs splayed before him. He'd come to think,
to sit in the sun and stare at nothing as he continued
to try to make sense of all that had happened in the
past few months. He laughed humorlessly at his own
thoughts. As if there could be any sense in what had
happened to Scully. 

She was so strong. She was recovering physically
from the trauma inflicted on her. And she seemed
to be coping well psychologically. He tried to assess
her reactions in the context of his own psych training,
but it was a useless attempt. He was too closely involved
to have any objectivity, despite his best efforts. 

And his own feelings of guilt and remorse and shame
were too overwhelming for him to make any assessments
on her condition. They were all colored by his own
emotions. He had been useless. Worse than useless. He
had been part of the instruments of her torture. If Skinner
hadn't come ... He rejected the thought -- refusing to
allow his mind to travel to the realm of 'what if?' 

It was only Scully's steadfast resolve that she did not
blame him that allowed him to remain among the
living. That, and the knowledge that she really would
be hurt if he killed himself. Though why she continued
to care about him was beyond his comprehension.
Surely she could see that if she went away from him,
stayed away from him, she would be safe. She could
have a life. There could be a husband, perhaps children. 

But she refused. When he spoke to her of leaving, she
brushed him away, angered that he would want
her to go. She claimed he made her feel unwanted,
unloved, and he had hastened to prove how far from
the truth that was. He no longer spoke to her of
leaving. Instead he tried to show her how much he
cared, how important she was to him, as vital as the
air he breathed. 

He was committed to being with her all the time,
never letting her be alone. If she wanted to stay with
him, he was intent on being vigilant, keeping her
safe. He had then smothered her so completely, he
drove her to distraction and she sent him back to
work, with orders not to come every day. 

He locked his guilt away, determined not to make her
carry any more of his burdens than she already bore.
But it made him shaky, edgy, even unstable. He had
to stay away from her, so he worked. Skinner still had
Scully on medical leave and she was staying with her
mother. The distance let him excuse himself as he
complied with her orders to stay in DC. 

But Skinner was watching him as well. And Skinner
had an uncanny knack for knowing when agents didn't
belong in the field. Everyone at the Bureau knew it --
Skinner's ability to recognize those on the edge had
saved more lives than could be counted. And Skinner
had labeled him as 'on the edge.' Mulder snorted.
'Not on the edge for me. I'm so far over the fucking
edge ain't nothing but my fingers visible on the top --
holding on by sheer determination and the Scullycord
that keeps me from plunging to the bottom.' 

He scrubbed his face with his hands, then rose and
climbed to the top of the Memorial. He stood staring
at the giant statue of one of the greatest leaders
in the history of the world. A man of great compassion
who struggled through difficult times -- a man who
persevered in his beliefs in the face of great obstacles. 

The words of Lincoln's most famous message were
engraved on the wall of this Memorial, and forever in his
own memory. "It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated
to the unfinished work ..." Mulder paused, pondering
this charge from a great man of the past. Unfinished
work. He had unfinished work. Scully would be
coming back soon and he had to be ready. The psychologist
in him knew he needed to deal with his guilt, get beyond
his feelings of uselessness, recognize that he was far
from ineffective. 

He straightened his shoulders and stood erect. He
could do this. He could go on. Scully would come
back. Skinner would see he was all right. He would
go back to his unfinished work. He turned to leave,
walking briskly toward the steps, then froze as he looked
out over the expanse of the Reflecting Pool and the
grassy Mall beyond it. 

There were two men facing each other, almost squaring
off, at the other end of the Pool. As Mulder watched,
the tension flowed out of the tableau before him, and the
men turned and began to walk. Mulder had thought he
recognized them, but as they faced him, he was sure.
Skinner and the smoker. What the hell was going on? 

Mulder huddled down in the shadow of one of the tall
columns of the Memorial and watched as a fascinating
scene played out before his eyes. Skinner and the other
talked as they walked, and Mulder could see the tension
that grew, almost exponentially, in Skinner's body. The
AD's hands were deep in his pockets, but Mulder would
have laid odds they were clenched into fists. 

The men had stopped again, then the one turned and
walked to a bench and sat. Skinner paced to the side of
the Reflecting Pool and stood, apparently lost in thought.
Mulder watched as Skinner waged an inner battle, then
reached a decision and returned to the other man. A short
conversation followed, then a packet of papers changed
hands and the smoker walked away. Skinner stood staring
at his retreating form for some time, then turned and walked
away himself. 

'Unfinished work,' Mulder thought. 'It's come to me.' 

He descended the stairs quickly then walked hurriedly
after Skinner, determined to know what was happening.
The smoker had been involved in the last episode where
Scully had been so grievously injured. What good could
possibly come from this meeting? 

He was almost upon the older man now, consumed with
a need to know what was happening. He came up behind
the AD, then reached out, catching his shoulder as he
spoke. "Sir?" 

Skinner whirled, his arm coming up to catch Mulder's
wrist as he pivoted smoothly and turned Mulder in
his grasp. When he stopped moving, Mulder's arm
was wrenched up tight behind his back, and Skinner's
arm was pressed against his throat. 

They stood unmoving for a long moment, both surprised
by Skinner's instinctive reaction. Finally, Mulder managed
to croak, "Uh, Sir, could you let me go now?" and Skinner
immediately released his hold. 

"Sorry, Mulder," he mumbled shamefacedly. "You startled
me." 

"No shit," Mulder responded, gingerly rubbing his neck
above his tie. "Remind me not to *startle* you again." 

Skinner smiled slightly and gave a half-amused snort.
"What are you doing here? I thought I told you to go
spend some time with Scully." 

It was Mulder's turn to be embarrassed. "I, uh, that is,
we need some time -- how do I say this -- she wants, um,
she needs ..." 

"You were getting on her nerves," Skinner said shortly. 

"Yeah." Mulder smiled. "I do that to people." 

"No shit." Skinner echoed Mulder's words back to him
and the younger man laughed. "You were hovering." 

"More like smothering to hear her tell it." 

The two men smiled at each other, and Mulder noted
that Skinner was truly relaxed, at ease with him. The
tension he had noted during the earlier exchange with
the smoker was gone. 

Skinner turned and began walking again, and Mulder
moved quickly to catch up. "Uh, Sir," he began,
"I was sitting in the Lincoln for a while back there ..."
He trailed off again, allowing Skinner to make the
connection. 

Skinner flushed slightly, but kept moving. "For how
long, Mulder?" he asked conversationally. 

"Long enough." Skinner stopped and Mulder halted
as well. The two men looked at one another. "What
did he want?" Mulder asked. 

Skinner searched Mulder's eyes for a long moment,
then shook his head. He turned and began walking again.
Mulder fell into step beside him once more. "You
look better, Mulder," Skinner commented. "More
focused." 

Mulder nodded. "I've been working on things," he
responded. 

"And Scully comes back to work next week," Skinner
added. 

"Yeah." Mulder couldn't control the grin that spread
across his face at that thought. "She does at that."
He looked over at Skinner, noted the tension was
back in the way he carried himself, the worry lines
that creased his forehead. "Is something wrong, Sir?
Something about Scully?" 

"No, Agent Mulder." AD Skinner was firmly in place
now, a sudden and confusing change. "I will be
very glad to have my top team back together. I have
several cases on my desk I'll have sent down to you,
to be pursued only *after* Agent Scully returns next
week." 

Mulder stopped suddenly, and reached out to grab
Skinner's elbow, pulling him to a halt as well. "What
the hell happened just now?" he demanded. "We were
talking, like normal people, and then, wham! you
put the AD suit on and everything's business as
usual. What did that bastard want? What did he
do? And how is Scully involved?" 

Skinner stared pointedly at Mulder's hand, still
clutching his arm, and the younger man slowly
removed it. They glared at one another for a
moment, then Skinner lowered his eyes and sighed. 

"He offered me a cure for Scully's cancer. Not
just remission. No more threat of recurrence hanging
over her head. He offered me the cure." 

End part 01/08 

What Cost, Friendship? 02/08 

He was in the back bedroom again, the old trunk on the
floor in front of him. Only now, instead of a thirty year
old lock, there was a new Master padlock closing a shiny
new hasp. He crouched before the trunk, one finger reaching
out to stroke the lid as he thought back to the afternoon. 

Mulder had followed him back toward the Hoover, determined
to find out what exactly was the smoking man's deal. 

"What do you mean 'a cure?'" Mulder asked. He was walking
fast, almost running, as he tried to keep up with Skinner's
determined stride. 

"A cure, Mulder. Surely a man with your education knows
the meaning of a cure," he'd responded sarcastically. 

"But, she's OK. Isn't she? I mean, she is OK, right?" 

"She's in remission, Mulder. Another word you should
be able to define." Skinner was impatient. He needed time
to think. Time to plan. Time alone. In peace. Without
Mulder. But the younger man just wasn't taking the hint. 

"Yeah, but I thought ..." Mulder's voice trailed off as
he worked things through. He reached out and grabbed
Skinner again, pulling him to a stop. 

And though he didn't want to, he stopped, for to have kept
moving would have created an even bigger scene than the
one that was occurring. "Let me go, Mulder," he growled
warningly, but from the look in Mulder's eyes, he could
see the man hardly heard him. 

"I thought that as long as she had the chip, she was
protected," he said accusingly. 

Skinner sighed, and reached up to gently pry the
agent's fingers from his arm. "I thought so, too,
Mulder, but apparently not. Or maybe so. You know
who we're dealing with." Skinner shrugged, then
turned away from Mulder, and the anguished look
on the man's face. "I can't afford to take chances," he
murmured. 

He stood silently, then turned back to find Mulder
staring at the ground. When Skinner reached out and
touched his arm, he jumped, then lifted pain-filled
eyes, and said, "Neither can I." He nodded grimly
as if coming to some kind of agreement with himself,
then asked Skinner, "What do we have to do?" 

Skinner closed his eyes and shook his head. He should
have seen this coming. "Nothing," he replied. "*We*
don't have to do anything." 

"What do you mean? That bastard made a deal with you
for something -- I saw it. Now -- what does he want?"
The animation was back in Mulder; anger and frustration
creeping to the forefront and threatening to get the best
of the younger man. 

"It doesn't concern you, Mulder," Skinner said sharply.
"I'll handle it." He started to leave, then added, "Go see
Scully. Stay with her. Make sure she's OK." 

Mulder was shaking his head -- oblivious to the instructions
he'd just been given. Skinner could see the man was already
focused on one thing -- finding out what the smoking man
wanted, finding out the terms of the deal. 

Skinner turned and began walking again, surprising Mulder
with his abrupt departure and it took a minute for the agent
to get moving. But once he found his feet, a quick sprint
brought him abreast the AD. "Don't walk away from me." 

"This doesn't concern you, Agent Mulder." The Assistant
Director was fully in place. Anything to get the man to go
away, to leave him alone, to let him do what had to be done. 

"Like hell it doesn't," Mulder hissed. "If it concerns Scully;
it concerns me." 

"Agent Mulder, I am giving you a direct order. You are to
go and check on your partner. Ensure her safety. I will not
tolerate your insubordination in this matter." Skinner pulled
himself erect, somehow seeming to tower over the thinner man,
though they were almost the same height. His build and
presence worked to his advantage in situations like this. He
looked at Mulder and saw him bristle. Well, sometimes it
worked to his advantage. 

"I want to know what he wants. What do we have to do
to get the cure?" 

Time to try another tack. "Not we, Mulder." Skinner relaxed his
body, lowered his voice and tried to speak soothingly. "Me.
What he wants *me* to do. And it doesn't matter what it is."
He reached out again, touching the agitated man's shoulder.
"You go stay with Scully. I'll handle this." 

Mulder was glaring, unplacated. "I'll go check on Scully. But then
I'm coming back. And when I do, I want answers." Mulder
knocked Skinner's hand from his shoulder. "And if you won't
give them to me, I know how to find the man who will." He
whirled and walked away, leaving Skinner standing on the
street, his arm still half-raised. 

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

Skinner was pacing now. The old trunk had been brought out
to the living room and he was moving back and forth in front of
the picture window. 

Oh shit, that had been a mess. Just thinking about the whole
scene still pissed him off. At Mulder and at himself. Would he
never learn how to handle his mercurial subordinate? What was
he going to do about Mulder? The man would go to the smoker;
he would sell his soul if he thought it would buy Scully's freedom. 

Skinner stopped in his tracks suddenly, as a new thought crossed
his mind. Maybe that was what the smoker wanted all along. He'd
been trying to get Mulder from the beginning. Could he have known
Mulder was in the Memorial? Was this whole "task" nothing more
than a way to get Mulder? Oh shit! God damn the man. The
stubborn, stubborn man. Skinner was going to have to take him
with him, or as sure as there was fire in hell, the smoker would
get him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. God, this whole thing screamed
set-up. But there were no other options. 

Skinner walked to the bar and poured a scotch. He drank it in
one long gulp, then poured again. Walking to the desk, he withdrew
a notepad and a pen. He went back to the trunk, sitting on the
couch in front of it. He placed the pen and paper beside him,
then reached out and turned the tumblers on the lock. Sharon's
birthday, their anniversary, the day she died. The lock clicked
and sprang open. He pulled it off and set it aside, then slowly
lifted the lid. 

When the doorbell rang at 3:15 the next morning, Skinner was
still awake, still sitting in front of the open trunk. The contents
of the packet from the smoker were strewn haphazardly across
couch, table, and trunk. The trunk's contents had been removed
and sorted through, and there was a pile on the floor to his right.
The notepad had a list a page and a half long. 

Skinner got to his feet a bit unsteadily, and moved to the door. He
opened it without looking, saying, " 'lo Mulder. I've been waiting
for you. C'mon in." 

Mulder peered sharply at his boss, then asked, "Are you drunk, Sir?" 

"I certainly hope so, Agent Mulder," Skinner replied. "I've been
working on it all night and I hate to think I failed at something
so simple." He walked back to the couch and sat again. 

"Fuck," Mulder breathed. 

"Exactly," Skinner agreed. "How is Scully?" 

"She's fine. Exactly as fine as she was the last time I saw her,
and tired of me." His voice slipped into a hangdog tone as
he added the last. "I don't mean to hover, really I don't." 

Skinner nodded. "She'll realize that. Give her some space." 

"Space?" Mulder asked bitterly. "Correct me if I am wrong, but
didn't you *order* me to go see her this afternoon?" 

"Well, yeah, I did. But I've had a chance to think." He lifted
his glass in mock salute. "And drink." 

"And?" Mulder asked. He moved to a chair and plopped down. 

"And I have decided that we are fucked." 

Mulder lifted an eyebrow. 

"You have to come with me." 

Mulder nodded. "What are we doing?" 

Skinner rose. "No," he said. "No. You start right now. You learn
the rules. MY rules. My game, my rules. Rule number one: you
do what you're told and you don't ask questions." Skinner drained
the glass, then looked down to see Mulder smiling at him with
the amusement the sober often feel for the drunk. "And don't fuck
with me about this, Mulder. You don't follow my orders in this,
and not only do you end up dead, but it could kill Scully as well." 

The smile disappeared from Mulder's face, and he nodded, appearing
to accept the gravity of the situation, though he still knew no specifics. 

"And you?" he asked quietly. "Do you end up dead as well?" 

Skinner laughed bitterly, then said, "I don't die. Hadn't you noticed?
When you sell your soul, they can't kill you. You're already in Hell." 

He picked up the pad, rereading it, and missed the mixed look of
sympathy and concern Mulder shot him. He tore the top two pages
off the pad and shoved them at Mulder. "Here." 

"What's this?" 

Skinner tilted his head and made a "tsk tsk" noise as he shook his
finger before Mulder's face. "What's rule number one, Agent Mulder?" 

"Don't ask questions." 

"Right. I knew that fabled memory was in there somewhere." 

Mulder held the pad, scanning the list, then looked up again,
but this time he remained silent. 

Skinner nodded approvingly. "Very good. That's your shopping
list." He reached into the trunk and pulled out a packet of bills.
"Here. Get everything on the list. Get exactly what it says. No
substitutions, no exchanges. Not even color is optional. Don't
screw this up, Mulder." Mulder was nodding as Skinner narrowed
his eyes and looked at him again. "I have one more last ditch
option about you. I can tie your ass up and leave you in a deserted
warehouse for a few days while I take care of this." Skinner's
voice took on a faraway quality, as if he was speaking more to himself
than the man in front of him. "I'd do it, too, but I'm afraid he'd get
to you. He'd get to you and warp you; he'd make you like me. I don't
think there is anywhere you can hide from him." 

He shook himself, then addressed Mulder again. "But if you
screw this up, this *simple* assignment," he spat the words out,
"that is exactly what I'll do. You understand?" 

Mulder nodded. He didn't understand at all, but he knew enough
to know that this was not the time to go into it. He'd seen this
man before. This Skinner, this focused Skinner, this *intense*
Skinner, this was the man who had saved him and Scully on the
island. This was not a man to mess with. Questions could come
later. For now, he had shopping to do. 

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

The plans were detailed, he had to give the smoker that. It
was all laid out for him, every possible point of egress, interior
pathways, including ductwork, last known position of the target,
security measures, it was all there. 

Skinner sighed. An old farmhouse hiding an extensive
underground lab complex. Twenty miles off the nearest
road, and only one drive leading back to the house. One
seemingly unguarded drive, but actually, very cleverly
guarded. A 'farmer' with a shotgun, hostile and direct, who
would suddenly appear out of the woods and stop any vehicle
trying to go down the road. Challenging them over being on
private property. People would be so intimidated by the gun
and the farmer's hostility, they would be only too willing to
apologize for the inadvertent trespass and turn around and
leave. They were truly hiding in plain site. 

No way to get in by the road. They'd have to hike in.
The property was immense; acres and acres of undeveloped
land. According to the smoker, there were perimeter guards,
but there was no way they could cover the whole property.
If they dressed right, and moved right, they should be able
to remain unseen as they made their way to the house.
Skinner had no doubt he could make the trek without
incident, but Mulder? Mulder was another story. 

He chuckled ruefully. For all his interest in the paranormal,
Mulder was a very mundane man himself. Yes, there was his
eidetic memory and his gift for profiling, which Skinner was
convinced were related; the memory allowing him to make
connections others missed simply because they couldn't retain
the sheer volume of information that Mulder could. But aside
from this, which certainly wasn't paranormal, Mulder really
was, well, ordinary as far as unique abilities were concerned. 

He chuckled again as he thought of what Mulder's reaction
would be when Skinner began to instruct him in how to
move through the woods and not be seen. On how to 'think'
himself invisible. On 'willing' himself to be part of the
background, unseen, unheard, unknown. On seeing a shadow
and becoming a shadow. All skills Skinner had acquired in
the jungles of Viet Nam, under masters of Eastern beliefs
and philosophies. 

Not really paranormal, but not standard skills either.
And he was sure it would amuse Mulder to think that
his stern and serious boss had a metaphysical bent.
Mulder had a tendency to be open to the extreme,
willing to accept and willing to believe, but tending to
see the unusual in others, not himself. Skinner, however,
looked for reality, wanted proof and substance, and
yet, he had nearly mastered the art of becoming invisible
at will. 

He turned back to his plans. An underground lab
complex. Heavily guarded. He was to secure something
called 'black cancer' and a supposed vaccine for it. That
was the objective. Easy enough. But now, thanks to
Mulder's impetuosity, he had a second objective -- to keep
his agent alive. Skinner shook his head. He didn't like
working with two objectives. Invariably, you ended up having
to prioritize, and the only way to succeed at your objective
was to make it *the* priority. And you couldn't have two
priorities. 

He began to sketch out a rough plan. Hike in; they'd need
to find a secure place to rest, maybe sleep a little. It was
over twenty miles from the point of entry he had identified
to the lab complex. Too far to make in one day and have
any reserves left for potential conflict within the complex.
And he only wanted to travel at night. 

They'd go in one night, make fifteen miles, then lay low till
the next night. Hmmm. Could he make Mulder stay at
the base camp? He would try, but he better plan on the younger
man being with him. Odds were, even if Mulder agreed to
stay behind, he would not keep to the agreement. They would
make the raid. It was another down and dirty operation; no time
for subtlety. He would kill anyone who impeded his progress;
anyone who threatened either of his objectives. 

They'd locate and secure the target then retreat. Pick up the
equipment left at the base camp and keep moving. Depending
on how long the actual operation inside the complex took, they
would make anywhere from five to fifteen miles back out
that night. Another day of laying low, then they would hike the
final miles and be clear. 

And Scully would have her cure. 

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

Mulder had done his shopping. His purchases were spread
across Skinner's living room as the AD checked each one,
verifying that it was what he had requested. Mulder had
apparently taken Skinner's 'no questions' rule to heart, for
he sat quietly watching, but did not speak. 

Finally, Skinner nodded, final approval on Mulder's
preparations. He looked up to see the agent fidgeting
in his chair, but still holding himself silent. 

"You have questions, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked. 

"Yes, Sir. Thank you." Mulder's relief was palpable.
"We're not wearing these -- he held up a pair of the
moccasin-like slippers that Skinner preferred for their
silence -- to trek through the woods, are we?" 

Skinner shook his head. "No, you can wear your hiking
boots. We'll only wear these the last bit before we actually
enter the compound." 

"Why are you only taking two guns?" 

Skinner smiled slightly. "You don't need but one if you hold
onto it." He grew serious, then added, "I don't like guns,
Mulder. It's" -- he hesitated -- "a personal thing." 

There was no way he was going to explain to Mulder that
guns took away part of the rush of killing. The feeling as
the blade slid in, feeling the body twitch, feeling the heat
of the blood pouring over your hands, that was part of
the thrill. The part you didn't get with a gun. 

He shuddered in disgust at his own thoughts, and looked up
to see Mulder staring at him quizzically. He straightened,
mentally snapping back to the present, and asked, "Anything
else, Mulder?" 

"Yeah. How do we get to the drop-off point?" 

Skinner cringed inside. Leave it to Mulder to hone in on the
weakest point in his plan. He had planned to disable the car
and leave it near the point of entry, hopefully looking like
a breakdown. But three days was a long time for a car to
sit. He was hoping that since it was a rural area, it wouldn't
be questioned, but it was undoubtedly the weakest point
in his plan. 

Mulder was watching Skinner's face, noting the almost
unnoticeable changes that occurred as the AD rethought
his concept. 

Skinner briefed Mulder, and Mulder nodded. But, God,
it was weak. 

"If the car gets towed or something, what do we do?" 

"We deal with it. We'll look like campers, got lost in the
woods and couldn't find our car. Someone will pick us
up." 

"If it's the wrong someone?" 

Skinner shrugged. He didn't have the patience for this.
"I'll kill him and we'll have a car." 

Mulder shifted uneasily, but said nothing. 

"You have everything you need?" Skinner asked, changing
the subject. 

Mulder nodded again. 

"What did you tell Scully?" 

"That since I was annoying her so badly, I was going to
go check on a werewolf sighting in Montana this weekend,
and that I'd be there Monday morning to drive her to work." 

"She buy it?" 

"Yeah, I think so." 

"All right then, you get some sleep. Plane leaves at 0924."
Skinner pointed up the stairs. "Make a left at the top.
Bedroom's on the right. Bath in the hall." 

"What are you going to do?" Mulder asked as he lifted his
bag and prepared to climb the stairs. 

Skinner was fiddling with the clothing and equipment that
was still spread throughout the room. "Get us packed and
ready to go. I have a few more preparations to make." He
looked up to see Mulder watching him. "Go to bed, Agent
Mulder. Get some sleep." 

Mulder nodded, and headed for the stairs. 

End part 02/08 

What Cost, Friendship? 03/08 

Skinner stood for a moment, scanning the almost
unnavigable thicket, then dropped his pack, saying,
"We'll stop here." 

Mulder looked around, trying to see what it was that
had made Skinner choose this copse of trees rather than
any other of the hundreds they had passed on their trek
so far. He waited for Skinner to explain, but when no
explanation was forthcoming, he continued to honor
the 'no questions' rule, and dropped his pack as well. 

Mulder watched as Skinner rummaged in his pack,
almost twice the size of his own, and withdrew several
small, disc-shaped objects. 

"Stay," he hissed, and then slipped through the trees,
seeming to vanish before Mulder's astonished eyes. 

Mulder shook his head. It wasn't the first time his boss
had pulled his amazing disappearing act, and each time
it took him by surprise. The black clothing Skinner wore
and the paint he had used to adorn his bare skin made
it understandable that the man would be able to blend
into his surroundings, but Mulder still found it eerie
when the man walked away and seemed to fade into
invisibility. It was like he became a shadow or something. 

Also dressed in black, his face painted as well, Mulder
had originally felt more than a little ridiculous. But
Skinner treated all of this cloak and dagger, green beret
stuff with utmost seriousness, and Mulder rapidly found
himself doing so as well. After all, Skinner was the one
with the experience here. And he had gotten them off
that island; no mean feat. He sighed, thinking again of
what had been done to Scully and of his own uselessness
in preventing it. If Skinner hadn't come ... 

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped, then
whirled to find himself face to face with Skinner. The
older man looked vaguely amused at his reaction, but
made no comment. Instead, he asked, "Hungry?" 

When Mulder only nodded, Skinner added, "You can
talk now, just keep it down, OK?" 

Mulder nodded again, then asked, "Where did you go?" 

"I put out some alarms. It'll give us a chance to make a
move if we need to." He walked to his pack and pulled
out two MREs. "Now, which do you want? Chicken and
noodles or beef stew?" 

Mulder shrugged and Skinner tossed him a packet. Both
men opened their canteens to add water to activate the
heating elements in their 'Meals - Ready to Eat,' then
sat quietly as the required time for preparation elapsed. 

As they were eating, Mulder looked up. "Why did we
stop here?" he inquired. "We're only about 13 miles in by
my count." 

Skinner was nodding. "Yeah, that's what I've got, too, but" --
he waved at the tightly packed trees surrounding them -- "this
is too good to pass up." 

Mulder looked around again. The thin moonlight made it hard
to get a really good look, but it looked like any other stand of
trees to him. He turned back to Skinner and shrugged
uncomprehendingly. "I just don't see it." 

Skinner sighed as well, then took one last bite of his stew and
rose. He held his arms out at full length, contacting a tree with
each hand. Turning slowly in a circle, he had to pull his arms
in at several points to complete the circuit. "See how close the
trees are? Makes it hard for someone to get in. Most people are
gonna want to walk in the more open areas." He walked to a fallen
tree and pointed. "Look. See how earth is washed away behind
this log? Makes an indentation in the ground -- an indentation
that can be used to hide a body. You lay in the hollow and cover
up with leaves. As long as no one steps on you, you can remain
undetected for days." He pointed up a tree, to where the trunk split
forming a natural 'V.' "Perfect for storing equipment. When we
leave tomorrow night, we'll pull everything we're not taking with
us up into the tree and leave it. People don't think to look up when
they're searching. You have to train yourself to look up. It's the
forgotten dimension." 

Mulder was nodding again. As Skinner spoke, his reasons
became perfectly clear and he was once more reminded that this
man knew what he was doing out here, and he himself was just
a rank amateur. "Why did you bring me?" he asked. "This
would have been a whole lot easier for you if you didn't have
me along, wouldn't it?" 

"Would you have stayed behind? Short of me tying you up,
that is?" 

"No." 

"And you would have tracked him down, the smoking man, if
I hadn't told you what was happening?" 

"Probably." 

"Probably?" 

"Well, yes, I would have tracked him down." 

"Then I had to bring you." Skinner said it as if it explained
everything. He didn't add that Mulder needed to be there
for his own sanity. His helplessness, his total inability to
protect Scully or to prevent the things that were done to her,
threatened to drown Mulder in guilt and self-blame. Being
so ineffective in the face of the pain inflicted on Scully
was tearing the younger man apart. Being here, being
part of this operation, would be a way for Mulder to regain
some of his confidence in himself. 

Mulder shook his head, still not understanding, and Skinner
sighed again and began to pace. 

"You're a real pain in the ass, you know that Mulder?" he
began. "I don't like talking about this." 

"I'm sorry," Mulder said perfunctorily. 

"Sure you are." The older man halted, then lifted his hand
to his head, a smudge of black paint coming off as he rubbed
his forehead. "You know what I did in the war." When
Mulder didn't answer, Skinner laughed humorlessly and said,
"I know you must have looked it up. Once you knew what you
were looking for, you found the real records, didn't you?" 

Mulder nodded again, then said, "I'm sorry," and meant
it this time. 

"Yeah, well, so am I." He sighed again and then went and
sat on the fallen tree. "I was just a kid from the country,
good with a rifle. It started as sniper work -- from a distance.
But I was good, real good." 

In the moon's pale illumination, Mulder could see Skinner's
eyes narrow and the furrows that creased his brow as he
remembered. 

"I was so good, they decided to train me for 'special' work.
The kind you couldn't do from a distance. Up close and personal.
Assassinations. Hostage recovery. MIA rescue work. The kind
of stuff you have to get your hands dirty on. And I was good.
I was the best. I was probably one of the top five in the whole
damn war." 

Skinner covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, then rose
and stood with his back to Mulder. 

"I was good, and I was doing what I was ordered. But," his voice
cracked and he paused a moment to get control, "I *liked* it too."
He shuddered, then went on. "I liked the excitement. The rush.
The high you get when you take a life. It's" -- Mulder could see
him struggling for words -- "addictive. I was good because I
*enjoyed* what I was doing." He shuddered again, then turned
and looked at Mulder. "You're here because I won't let them
turn you into someone who *enjoys* doing something vile and
evil." 

"You're not evil," Mulder said softly. 

"Do you think that smoking bastard started out to play games
with people and ruin men's lives?" He began to pace again.
"No. It's an acquired taste -- something I understand completely.
He would have started out for all the right reasons. Protecting
his country. Maintaining national security. Maybe a bit of
selfish desire to advance his career. All perfectly acceptable
and understandable reasons. But somewhere along the line,
he got warped. He became addicted to the power, the control,
and all the good reasons just became justifications for feeding
his addiction. It doesn't matter who gets hurt, or what damage
is done, all that matters is that the monster within be fed." 

Mulder was watching Skinner as the man's pacing grew more
frenzied. Suddenly, he stopped and faced Mulder. 

"If I didn't bring you, you would have gone to him and done
whatever he asked. And he would feed you, little bits and
pieces of your heart's desire, until you were so warped yourself,
you didn't know what you wanted anymore. You couldn't tell
right from wrong. You wouldn't have anything left. 

"I saw it happen in myself. My intentions were honorable in
the beginning. But by the end, I was killing because I *wanted*
to kill. Forcing myself to stop was the hardest thing I ever
did." 

"I've killed men before," Mulder said. "It hasn't changed me." 

"It's not the same for everyone. For me it was killing. For the
smoker it was the power. What would it be for you, Mulder?"
Skinner walked over to stand before the younger man. "The
truth? The answers? Finally understanding? What would
be your downfall? I don't know, but I bet he does, and I'm
not playing games with your life." Skinner turned and strode
angrily to his pack, pulling out a lightweight bedroll. "Or
with Scully's." He thrust the bedroll in Mulder's direction.
"Here. Go set up in the indent I showed you, behind the log.
Sleep. I'll wake you about midday so I can sleep." 

"Sir, I, uh," Mulder began but Skinner cut him off. 

"Enough talking," he growled, then softened his tone. "Just
get some sleep now, OK Mulder?" 

Mulder nodded and headed for the log. 

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

The day passed slowly. Mulder woke at sunrise, but at Skinner's
insistence, remained in the hollow behind the log and surprised
himself by actually falling back to sleep. When he did wake,
it was past noon. He rose and stumbled over to where Skinner
sat, sorting equipment and fitting it into a smaller pack. 

"I didn't expect to sleep like that," he mumbled apologetically. 

" 's all right." Skinner waived the apology. "The combination
of nerves, tension, anticipation; it all can lead to exhaustion if
you're not careful. You hungry again?" 

At Mulder's nod, Skinner passed him another MRE, then rose,
yawning. "I'm gonna sack out for a few hours." He turned to
face Mulder, all business now. "You see the 'V' in the tree?"
He pointed up and Mulder glanced that way, nodding. "You
move from beyond this thicket, and I will tie you up and leave
you in the tree, you understand?" Mulder nodded again, and
Skinner reiterated. "Mulder, I am not playing here. I told
you before, don't screw this up. This is not the time for you
to play lone ranger. Anything, and I mean *anything* unusual
happens, you wake me immediately." 

"I will, Sir," Mulder replied. "This is Scully's life we're talking
about. I'm not about to screw this up." 

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

They began moving once it was full dark. Skinner had allotted
two hours for the last seven miles. Late enough for things to
have settled down in the complex, but still plenty of time for
them to complete the operation and return to the safety of the
thicket before day. 

Skinner wore night vision goggles, and Mulder stayed right
behind him. Skinner didn't expect any alarms in the woods --
animal activity would make it impractical -- but he didn't want
to take any chances. 

They reached the tree line by the farmhouse at 2215 hours, and
Skinner had to hold Mulder back from charging right in. 

"No," he hissed quietly. "We wait. The guard has to go, so
we wait for the change at 2300, then we should have at least
eight hours until the next change." Skinner was studying the
vehicles parked on the far side of the house. Several sedans,
a pick-up, and a jeep sat in a small cleared parking area. 

When the shift change occurred, Skinner still held back for
another 20 minutes, then ordered Mulder to remain in the
trees. Moving like a shadow, he drifted across the open area
and pulled himself up to the porch of the farmhouse, carefully
avoiding the stairs. Mulder lost sight of him once he moved
into the shadows on the porch, but he could just make out an
almost silent scuffle, then a low whistle floated across to him.
Taking that as his cue, he moved toward the porch. 

He reached the steps, then halted, not sure what Skinner
wanted him to do. 

"Mulder." It was a bare whisper, sliding into his ear as if
the words were his alone, and he found himself shivering
slightly. He looked around, then spotted Skinner to his right,
when the older man stepped out of the dark for just a moment
and became visible. Before his presence could register, he
was gone again, and Mulder was left wondering if he had
imagined it after all. 

He moved to the right, then hoisted himself up to the porch,
moving as quietly as he could, but the noise he made still
seemed to echo in the late night silence. How the hell had
Skinner done this without a sound? He climbed to his feet,
then waited and within a moment a hand took his arm
and he was propelled forward, joining Skinner in the shadows. 

They moved to the door and Skinner pushed it open without
sound. Entering the hall, Mulder looked around for the guard
and was not surprised to see there was no trace of him. The
closet, he assumed, or under the stairs. Wordlessly, Skinner
handed Mulder a uniform of some sort, and indicated he
should put it on. 

Mulder took it, then shrugged helplessly, as if asking, "Why
me?" 

Skinner stepped closer. "I'm too big," he whispered. 

Mulder nodded, then quickly changed, handing his own
clothes to Skinner, who somehow made them disappear. 

Skinner moved again, tugging Mulder behind him and
the younger man tried to follow as noiselessly as he could.
They crept lightly to the storage area under the stairs, and
Mulder ruled that out as the hiding place for the body
when Skinner opened it and began to descend the stairs that
were hidden there. Pulling the storage door shut, Mulder
followed quickly, wondering all the while why the stairs
were silent as Skinner trod them, but creaked with each
step of his own feet. 

Halfway down, Skinner turned and pulled Mulder's head
down until his lips were in contact with Mulder's ear. 

"Step where I step. Watch what I'm doing." 

Mulder nodded, and refocused on Skinner's movement,
trying to place his own feet as exactly as possible in Skinner's
tracks. Amazingly, the creaking ceased. 

They reached the bottom and Skinner waved him to stand
behind him, out of the way, and Mulder moved to obey.
When Skinner was satisfied Mulder was where he wanted
him, he pulled out a couple of alcohol wipes and began
to wipe his face. He passed several to Mulder who followed
suit. Once his countenance was clear, Skinner placed a
hand on Mulder's chest, indicating 'stay,' then quickly
opened the door and disappeared. 

Mulder remained in hiding nearly fifteen minutes, each one
longer than the previous, and wondering with each passing
second if Skinner was coming back. He hadn't really
thought about what he would do if the older man were
killed or incapacitated. He really hadn't thought it was an
option. 

He was surprisingly close to real concern, when the door
opened a crack and Skinner slipped in. Mulder could just
make out the sheen of sweat that covered the AD's face,
and he noted Skinner was breathing a bit heavier than
usual. He now wore a set of surgical scrubs and his small
pack dangled from his hand. 

Wasting no time, Skinner said, "We're hiding in plain
sight. You're a guard, transporting me, the subject, under
the direction of Dr. Brayboy. I lead, you follow." 

Mulder nodded and the two men stepped out of the cramped
stairwell. Skinner set off down the hall, shoulders slumped,
head down, and feet shuffling. He held his hands crossed
behind his back, and only Mulder knew those hands held
certain death for anyone who dared to challenge them. They
followed a labyrinthine hallway, making one turn after
another, until they came to a T intersection in the corridor.
There was a door to a laboratory at the juncture of the T,
and Skinner halted. 

He fiddled with the knob for a minute, then stepped away,
pulling Mulder with him. There was an almost silent
"whoosh" of air, and the door rattled. Skinner gave a
satisfied nod, then stepped back to the door. "You are
just a guard on duty here. Don't move, don't talk. If
things get ugly, knock on the door. I shouldn't be long." 

Skinner opened the door and slipped in, and Mulder was
left alone. He stood sentry duty for another twenty
minutes, trying desperately to look as if he belonged and
was where he was supposed to be. Thankfully, he was
left undisturbed until, from down the corridor directly
in front of him, he heard a sound. He listened harder,
sure he could not have heard what he thought he heard,
but then a man dressed as he was came into sight. Mulder
could feel his eyes grow wide at the sight before him,
and he had to stifle an outraged cry. 

The man carried a little girl, who was crying loudly,
and was dragging a young boy. He pressed a button
on the wall, a door slid open, and he roughly shoved
the boy into the room, then almost threw the little
girl in behind him. The door slid shut, and the guard
looked up, noticing Mulder for the first time. 

"Damn brats. Drives me nuts when they carry on
like that." At Mulder's lack of reaction, he continued,
"Oh well, won't be for much longer, will it? Once they
terminate the project, the subjects won't be far behind."
He gave an evil wink, then turned and retreated back
the way he had come. 

Mulder stood in shocked silence. The boy had looked
to be 7 or 8; the girl surely no more than 3. What the
hell was going on here? He glanced over his shoulder
at the door behind him, then down at his watch. Half
an hour. How much longer was Skinner going to be?
He could feel himself beginning to fidget, an internal
battle already being waged. His feet were moving,
almost of their own accord, toward the room down the
hall, even as his mind acknowledged that Skinner was
going to kill him, if they lived through this. But really,
what else could he do? He could still hear the little
girl's cries in his mind. 

He reached the door and stared at the button on the
wall. No keypad, no apparent security. Just a button.
Shrugging his shoulders, he reached out, pressed the
button, and said a silent prayer. The door slid smoothly
open, and he was promptly tackled by a small ball of
fury. 

"You leave her alone!" the boy yelled. "Just leave
her alone!" 

"Shhh." Mulder hurried to quiet the boy, even as he
picked himself and the child up from the floor and stepped
into the room, whirling too late to catch it, as the door
slid shut behind them. 

End part 03/08 

What Cost, Friendship? 04/08 

The boy wriggled out of his grasp and moved a few feet away.
"Shhhh," Mulder shushed again, not knowing if the room
was wired. He scanned for cameras and didn't see any, but
that was no guarantee of safety. For all he knew, there were
guards on the way to take him right now. He looked down
at himself. Hey! He was a guard. If he was being monitored,
they would only see a guard in the room with the children.
Hopefully, there would be no alarm until he managed to
find a way out. Trying to leave with the children might
clue any watchers into the fact that he wasn't what he appeared
to be. 

And there was still Skinner to contend with. He needed to get
the children out and find the older man. Regardless of his
feelings, Skinner would never leave these children here. Not
now. Not after what Mulder had heard. Termination. It could
only mean one thing. 

He looked around. The little girl -- really little, he revised his
age estimate down to two years -- sat on a small cot, thumb in
mouth, watching him with huge eyes. The boy stood several
paces away, between him and the girl, obviously prepared to
fight again. 

He looked around. Table with one chair. Toilet and sink
in a corner, a small bookcase with diapers. He was right
about the girl's age. 

Mulder knelt, taking himself down to the boy's level, but not
moving any closer. "Hey," he said quietly. "My name's Fox
and I'm here to help you." He waited but got no reaction.
"I'm here with a friend and we're going to take you with us
when we leave." He waited again, smiling tentatively and
willing the boy to believe him. "What's your name?" 

"Teeben." The answer came from the girl. 

Teeben? What was that? Her name? The boy's name? What
the hell was Teeben? 

He refocused on the boy and asked again, "C'mon now, I
told you my name, and how many people do you know
named Fox?" That earned a slight smile from the child.
"The least you can do is tell me yours." 

The boy's smile widened a bit, and a mischievous look
lit his eyes. "She already told you," he teased, then
immediately grew somber again as the situation reasserted
itself in his mind. "Are you really here to take us home?" 

Mulder nodded. "Yes. I'm getting you both out of here." 

The boy continued to stand rigid for a moment, then relaxed,
tension flowing out of his small body. And this time when
he flew to Mulder it was not in attack, but in need, and Mulder
found himself holding a crying child and murmuring soft
words of comfort. 

The boy's crying had upset the girl, and she was wailing on
the cot now, but oddly enough, that seemed to help the boy
get control of himself. He took a couple of shuddery breaths
and pulled out of Mulder's arms, then walked to the cot and
climbed onto it. The little girl immediately held out her
arms and the boy pulled her into his lap and began to soothe
her. " 's OK, Jess. You don't have to cry. We're gonna go
home now." He looked up at Mulder again. "We are gonna
go home, right?" 

Mulder was looking at the door now, trying to figure a way
out and he turned around and answered, "As soon as I can
get us out of here." 

The little girl was quiet now, and the boy tried to rise, but
she was insisting on being held. He finally managed to get
to his feet, still holding the baby, and carried her over to
where Mulder was looking at the door. 

"Is your name really Fox?" he asked. 

"Yep. It really is." 

"Cool." 

"Coo," the girl echoed, face half buried in the boy's neck.
She was sneaking the occasional peek in Mulder's direction,
then hiding when he caught her eye. Getting out of here
was gonna be hard enough. Getting out with two children
was gonna be nearly impossible. Skinner was going to kill
him. 

"I wish I had a neat name like Fox. Steven is just boring." 

"Teeben," the little girl repeated. 

Oh, so that's what Teeben meant. "So, Steven, how old are
you?" Mulder asked as he worked on the door lock with a
small pick. 

"Seven. I had my birthday just before I got here." 

"And your sister? How old is she?" 

"She's not my sister." 

Mulder froze, then turned to look at the two children.
They looked so much alike. He would have sworn they
were siblings. 

"How ..." he trailed off, not sure what he wanted to ask. 

"She was here when I got here. She cried a lot at first,
but now she likes me." He patted the little girl on her
back and she snuggled into his arms more securely. 

"How do you know her name?" 

"Me Jess," the girl piped up. 

"Oh," Mulder laughed softly, "well, that does make it a
bit easier, doesn't it?" 

"Can we go now?" the boy asked. 

Mulder returned his attention to the door. "I'm trying.
I'm just not very good at this. My friend would have us
out of here by now." 

"So why didn't your friend come get us?" the boy asked
logically. 

"He was, uh --" Mulder pushed the pick again, and was
rewarded with a soft click, "busy, but we're gonna go get
him now." He slid the door open and stuck his foot in it
to keep it there. "You ready, Steven?" he asked. 

The boy nodded, then put the baby down. She stood next
to him, holding his hand, thumb back in mouth. "Sorry,"
he mumbled up to Mulder, "she gets heavy." 

"Will she let me carry her?" Mulder asked. "Because we
need to be able to move fast." 

The boy shrugged. "Ask her." 

"Jess?" This was a really weird feeling. "Can I pick
you up?" 

She clung to the boy, moving to hide behind his legs.
"Who dat?" she whispered up to him. 

"C'mon, Jess," Steven said to her. "You know who that
is. His name is Fox." The boy giggled slightly when he
said the name and Mulder felt his face flush. This was
getting ridiculous. 

"Pox," the girl said, then she giggled too. This was beyond
ridiculous. 

Mulder reached out and picked the girl up, settling her in
his arms as gently as he could. She stiffened at first, then
relaxed and laid her head on his shoulder, one chubby little
hand coming up to play with his hair. "Pox," she whispered
in his ear, and he found himself smiling. 

"C'mon Steven," Mulder said, "let's go find my friend." 

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

Finally! Skinner gave a sigh of relief and pulled the vials
from the specimen drawer. The smoker had gotten him to
the correct lab, but finding the properly labeled vials had
been up to him. It had taken him much longer to search
than he had planned for. But Mulder had not knocked and
there was no indication the younger man was in any trouble. 

Skinner opened his pack, and pulled the small container
that had been brought specifically to transport these little
tubes -- tubes that meant the end of the threat hanging over
Scully's life. Stowing them with utmost care, Skinner
closed the container and secured it back in the pack. He
hefted it, then moved swiftly to the door. 

A tug on the handle and he was in the hallway, ready to
move out but there was just one small problem. He was
totally alone. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The chant was ringing
in his head. He was going to *kill* Mulder, if he found
him again. He glanced to the left and then right, then
stared at the hallway before him. Fuck. The man could
be anywhere. And no indication if he was captured, or
if he just wandered off in typical Mulder fashion, seeing
something that intrigued him and following without thinking
of the potential results. 

Skinner looked down at the pack in his hand. The chip
would be almost useless if he returned without Mulder.
Scully would never accept something that was earned with
Mulder's life. She'd be angry enough with the two of
them for bargaining with the smoker. Where the hell had
Mulder gone? 

There was noise from down the hall in front of him, and
Skinner stiffened. He crossed to the wall in front of him,
flattened himself against it, and peeked carefully around
the corner. There was Mulder, stepping out of a doorway,
and -- Skinner felt his eyes go wide. It couldn't be! Not
even Mulder would -- How could he -- Skinner couldn't
even finish a thought. He came around the corner and
moved swiftly down the hall. 

"Agent Mulder," he gritted out, "what ..." 

"Shhh," Mulder cautioned, "you're gonna scare the baby
if you don't keep it quiet, and *nice.* Use soft tones." 

"The baby?" Skinner stared at the little girl in Mulder's
arms, then looked down at the boy cowering behind his
agent's legs. 

"This is your friend?" the little boy asked. "He doesn't
seem so friendly." 

"Hush," Mulder chuckled, "he's not as fierce as he acts."
He looked over at Skinner, then shrugged. "What was I
supposed to do? Leave them?" 

"Who are they? How did you find them to begin with?" 

"Me Jess," the baby chirped, then hid her head when
Skinner glared at her. 

"Do we need to do this now?" 

Skinner shook his head. "No," he growled, "you're
right. Let's move out." He looked at the children again,
then said, "No more hiding in plain sight. Just stay
with me, all right?" 

Mulder nodded, and looked down in time to see Steven
nodding too. 

"He's in charge, isn't he Fox?" the boy whispered up to
Mulder, and Mulder smiled and nodded. 

"Fox?" Skinner asked. 

"That's his name," Steven said. "What's yours?" 

"Mine? My name?" Skinner was stammering and didn't
like the feeling one bit. 

"Yeah," Mulder smirked, "your name. That's not that
hard, is it?" 

Skinner just looked helplessly at Mulder. "I can't do
this," he said. "I'm not good with kids." 

"Try this. 'My name is Walter.' How hard is that to
say?" Mulder responded. He looked down at the boy.
"Hear that? His name is Walter." 

Steven nodded and Skinner moved down the hall.
"Hey, Walter," Steven called. "Wait a minute!" 

Skinner froze, then came back to where Mulder still
stood in the doorway. "What's your name?" he demanded
as he stared down at the little boy. 

"St - Steven," he responded. 

"Well, Steven, we need to be *very* quiet, you understand?
No more yelling. If you need something, you tell Mul -- Fox." 

The boy nodded gravely. "Sorry," he whispered. 

When Skinner didn't answer, Mulder patted the boy's head
and said, "It's all right Steven. What do you want?" 

"I need to go to the bathroom." 

Mulder took the boy back into the room, leaving Skinner to
hold the door. It was going to be next to impossible to get
out of here now. Two children, one who had to be carried.
Neither old enough that he could be assured they would keep
quiet. Even the boy wouldn't be able to keep up with the pace
they needed to set to get away. And someone was bound to
notice something. There was no way the children were
unmonitored. His whole plan was right out the window. 

Mulder returned with the boy, the girl still in his arms. 

Skinner squatted down to speak to the boy. "Now Steven,"
he began, "it's very important that we be as quiet as we can.
No talking. And you have to keep up. Hold on to Agent
Mulder," at the boy's quizzical look he corrected himself,
"hold on to Fox, and he'll keep you safe. Do you understand?" 

"Yes, Walter," the boy replied. "But ..." 

"Do you have a question?" Skinner figured they might as well
get as much of this over with as possible. There wasn't
going to be time for talking once they started moving. 

"Yes. Aren't you going to take anything for Jessie?" 

"Anything? What are you talking about?" Skinner had
to restrain himself from snapping at the boy. 

"You know, diapers. She's not big enough to go to the
pot. And she probably needs to be changed." 

Skinner closed his eyes. This was too much. It was positively
surreal. His simple mission, retrieve the vials, had turned into
a routine from the Keystone Kops. First he had to bring
Mulder along, and now he had two children to contend with,
one still in diapers! He groaned softly. He rose to his feet,
eyes still closed, and said, very quietly, very precisely, "Agent
Mulder, would you attend to that matter please? I am going
to look for another way out." His eyes opened and he fixed
Mulder with a hard stare. "Stay here. Do NOT pursue any
additional investigations, no matter how intriguing they may
be. Is that clear?" 

Mulder swallowed. "Yes, Sir." 

"And be ready to move when I come back." 

Mulder nodded, not willing to risk Skinner's wrath by asking
questions at this point. He stepped back into the room, taking
the boy with him, and suppressed a frisson of anxiety as the
door closed behind him. 

"He's coming back for us?" Steven asked worriedly. 

"Oh yeah, he'll be back. He's very reliable." He found his own
words comforting somehow. He shifted Jess to his other arm,
then asked Steven, "Now, do you know how to do this thing
with her diapers?" 

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

Skinner was walking, eyes automatically scanning for traps
or other potential problems, but his mind was frantically
working on a new plan to get out. With the children. With
Mulder. And with the vials. He shook his head, then ducked
through a doorway. From around the corner, he could hear
steps coming down the corridor. Hiding, he watched through
a window as two men dressed in the "guard" uniform walked
past. 

When they were out of sight, Skinner emerged and headed
off to follow them. He visualized the floor plan the smoker
had given him. There were no other exits indicated besides
the one they had used to enter the complex. But there had
to be another way out. There had to be some ventilation
shafts, something, that could be utilized to get back to
the surface. In his preparations, he had outlined several
alternate routes in the event of an emergency change in
plans. Two children should qualify as an emergency
change in plans. 

He headed for the electrical room he had seen on the
diagram, and once there, quickly picked the lock and let
himself in. Sure enough, there was an air-shaft. Now,
if only it would be large enough for them to crawl through.
Working as swiftly and silently as possible, he removed
the grate, and hoisted himself into the overhead. He pulled
the grate up behind himself, and secured it with a small
cord. Pulling a flashlight from his pack, he set off to
follow the vent and see where it emerged. 

He crawled for about ten minutes -- the complex was
huge! -- and finally found what he was looking for. A
vertical shaft with a fan at the top. If they timed it
right, they could get out this way, and never have to
make the long trek back to the stairwell. There was less
chance of being caught with the children if they stayed
out of sight. 

He made his way back to the electrical room, and peered
through the grate. The two men he had seen walk past
him earlier were now in the room below him. Skinner
checked his watch. It was getting late. They had to
get out and get away, or there was no hope their escape
would be successful. 

Oh God! That was a whole different set of problems.
How were they going to keep the children quiet all during
the daylight hours later today? And he and Mulder needed
to sleep some too. He shook his head. He'd have to deal
with that situation when it came. He looked down again
and saw the two guards had apparently chosen this as their
hidey-hole while on duty, for they had broken out a deck
of cards and seemed to be settling in. 

Skinner shuddered. He looked at his watch and knew he
couldn't outwait these two. He shuddered again, and then
felt the disgust creep over him as the shudder turned to a
shiver of excitement and he knew what he had to do. The
throwing knives came out, and he hefted one lightly in his
hand. Delicately balanced, it was honed to a razor's
sharpness. 

His eyes narrowed as he stared down at the two men and
willed himself to stillness. Emptying his mind of everything
but the task at hand, he took several deep breaths, focusing
intently on the targets. When he was ready, he cut the cord
that held the grate up, dropped through to the floor, and
launched the first knife. It caught the target square in the
chest, and the man stood a moment, staring at the knife
protruding from his breast, then his eyes rolled back in
his head and he crumpled to the ground. 

The other man had been frozen in place, but now he moved,
dashing frantically for the door. Skinner bounded over the
first body, and caught the new target as it reached for the
door handle. The man whirled, and Skinner was shocked
to feel a flash of pain across his arm. He glanced down and
saw blood, and a wave of rage rolled across him. His body
began to act, even as his mind disengaged completely. 

Sometime later, he came back to himself, and found he
was kneeling in the room, both targets having been dispatched.
The first had died from the knife wound, the second had been
beaten to death. Skinner glanced down at himself. There was
a bloody bandage around his arm. He didn't remember doing
that, but he must have. His "borrowed" hospital scrubs
were bloodstained in several places. He felt weak and a little
queasy. 

He shook his head, then pushed himself up to his feet. Swaying
slightly, he decided the knife must have nicked an artery for
him to have lost enough blood to be dizzy. He took a moment
to gather himself, then moved the bodies to one side, out of
sight of the door, but visible if someone searched the room. He'd
been gone too long to do much else. He had to get Mulder, and the
children, and they had to get out now. 

Cautiously opening the door, he checked the corridor, then left
the electrical room and began to jog back to where he had left
Mulder. He moved quickly and was left alone. Reaching the
children's small "cell," he pressed the button and the door
slid open. Mulder stood across the room, holding the baby,
and the little boy stood next to him. Seated on the only chair,
with gun in hand, was a man. 

"Assistant Director Skinner," he said, "we have been waiting for
you." 

End part 04/08
Date: Wed, 6 Jan 1999 02:43:53 EST 

Title: What Cost, Friendship? (2/2)
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for violence
Category: SA - ADV
Spoilers: None
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship
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. 

Summary: With the threat of Scully's cancer returning,
CSM blackmails Skinner into another covert operation. When
Mulder finds out what is happening, he insists on being
involved. 

Comments: For the background on Skinner's Viet Nam era
covert ops experience, you need to read "Retrieval," available at
Daydreamer's Den: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/
It can also be found at the WalterTorture site:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/7855/ 

What Cost, Friendship? 05a/08 

The man rose languidly and walked to stand behind Mulder
and the children. "It would seem, Mr. Skinner," he said,
"that this is the second time you have been called into play
to assist our mutual friend in his struggle for control. Do you
not find that an awkward position to be in?" 

Skinner's eyes had gone black, and he narrowed them as he
stared at the man, then shrugged. He had no time to waste
on power games and issues of control. He had to find a way
to salvage the situation and still get everyone and everything
out of here. And he was running out of time. One plan had
presented itself but he didn't like it, and he didn't think Mulder
would either, but he had yet to think of another option. 

The man was still speaking. "... so it really just comes down
to that." He paused and waited but Skinner had missed the
vital points so he remained unspeaking, unmoving. 

Finally, the man spoke again. "Your decision, Mr. Skinner?
You can take Agent Mulder or the vials, but not both." 

Ah, that was what he missed. His brow furrowed as he tried
to figure Mulder's importance in all of the covert power
plays that seemed to surround the X-File department. Mulder
would never leave without the vials, and Scully would never
accept the chip if it was purchased with Mulder's life. He'd
already been through this circular argument. 

"You can even have the children, Mr. Skinner. They are no
longer of use to us as we are shutting down this facility now
that it has been breached. Consider it your payment for services
rendered. Your thirty pieces of silver so to speak." He nudged
the boy, but the child wrapped his arms around Mulder's leg
and clung to him. 

Mulder bent slightly and whispered to the boy, then gently
pried the small hands from his legs. He placed the little
girl in Steven's arms and pushed the boy forward. The boy
took two steps, then stopped and looked back at Mulder.
"You said you were gonna take me home, Fox," he said
with just the slightest whine. 

"Walter will," Mulder replied. "Walter will take you home." 

"He's scary, Fox, like the other guys here." 

"He's not really scary, Steven, he just acts that way to
scare the bad guys. Inside, he's a real nice guy. He'll
get you home in no time. You take Jess and go on over
there now, OK?" Mulder smiled encouragingly at the
boy, then looked at Skinner, nodding toward the children. 

Skinner spoke for the first time. "Come, Steven. Bring
the baby and come stand with me." He tried to smile at
the child but it felt more like a grimace and he was afraid
he'd done more damage than good though the boy did
start moving again. 

The tension in the room was palpable. Every nerve in
Skinner's body was on fire and he was sure Mulder felt
the same. No other options had presented themselves
so he was ready to act on his plan. He needed the children
out of the way though. When the boy finally reached him,
Skinner gently directed him to stand behind and to the side
of himself, never taking his eyes off the other man as he did
so. 

"Stay there, Steven," he said softly. When the boy started
to put the baby down, he added quickly, "And please hold
onto Jess." 

Steven hitched her back up on his hip, but said, "She's
getting wiggly, Walter. And she's heavy." 

"I know. Can you hold her till we get things settled here?
Just a little longer?" 

The boy nodded. "Isn't Fox gonna come with us?" 

"We're working on that." Skinner's eyes were still locked
with the man standing behind Mulder. 

The man had been quiet through the whole exchange.
"Which is it, Mr. Skinner? Agent Scully or Agent Mulder?" 

Skinner's chest grew tight. So this was the cost of friendship.
When you let someone into your heart, you had to make
painful choices. How could he choose between Scully and
Mulder? He shook his head. He couldn't. 

"Neither. I'll stay, and Mulder takes the vials and the
children and goes." 

"NO!" Mulder was adamant. "That was not an option,
Sir." 

"Quite correct, Agent Mulder. That is not an option." 

The man was still standing behind Mulder, carefully
keeping his agent between himself and Skinner. There
was no way Skinner could get a clean shot at the man,
unless Mulder moved. And with the gun in his back,
Mulder was not likely to move of his own accord. 

"Why is that not an option?" Skinner asked curiously.
He was still searching for another way to move Mulder. 

"You are not as important to the program as Agent
Mulder. Or Agent Scully for that matter." The man's
voice took on a thoughtful tone. "Though I will admit
our smoking friend has found a creative way to use your
natural talents." 

"So I can have Mulder, or I can have Scully?" Skinner's
voice had dropped to a dead monotone. Had Mulder
known him better, he would have recognized that as a
sign that Skinner was detaching, preparing for action. 

"Your choice, Mr. Skinner." 

"I don't like that choice." Skinner's hand flashed and
a star flew, striking Mulder hard in the thigh, sinking deep
in the muscle there. The younger man screamed, then
dropped without thinking, and Skinner's hand moved
again, and this time it was the man behind Mulder who
fell, a star protruding from his chest. Skinner was across
the room before the man hit the floor, the gun kicked loose
from his hand, and a knife sliding in to finish the job his
star had started. 

He knelt beside the man, staring into his eyes as the life
slipped slowly from them, his hands warm in the crimson
that flowed over them. And for the first time in over thirty
years, there was no flush of excitement, no endorphin
high. This man had almost killed someone he cared
about, and killing him had been a necessity, not a
game. 

Skinner's head dropped for a moment, and then slowly,
he began to take in the surroundings again. The children
were crying, and Mulder had crawled over to them and
was trying to soothe them. He looked up to see the trail
of blood Mulder had left and knew he needed to get his
agent's wound bandaged, and they needed to get out. 

He pulled his star and knife from the body. Who was this
man? What was his role in all of this? More unanswered
questions. He looked up to see Mulder with his hand on
the star still embedded in his thigh. "No," he called,
"don't. Let me get it." He tried to smile again, then
added, "After all, I put it there, I should take it out." 

He wiped his weapons on the man's clothing, then restored
them to their hiding places. He pulled himself to his feet
and walked over to where Mulder had pulled himself to
sit, leaning against the wall. Jess sat on Steven's lap,
teary-eyed, with thumb in mouth, and the boy was talking
to her between his own quiet sniffs. As Skinner approached,
Steven cringed slightly and Mulder was quick to soothe
the boy. 

"Shhh, Steven," he said, "it's all right. Walter's here to
help us." 

Steven nodded and Skinner knelt beside Mulder, looking
at the star embedded in his leg. He shook his head ruefully,
then rose and walked to the small cabinet and took one
of the diapers. 

"Why did Walter hurt you, Fox?" Steven asked. 

"Hur' Pox," Jess echoed around her thumb. 

Mulder tried to smile. "It was the only way to get us out
of here. I told you my friend was good at this stuff." 

Skinner slipped off his shirt and began to rip it, making
long strips of the material. 

Steven was staring up at the older man, his eyes wide in
admiration but still tinged with a little fear. "He's like
Hercules, isn't he? He can really get the mean guys." 

Skinner had torn the bottom of his shirt and formed several
lengths of the cloth. He pulled what was left of the shirt back
on, then cut the diaper up, and laid both cloth and diaper
beside Mulder, kneeling again. 

Mulder laughed and said. "Yeah, he is in a way." He reached
out and touched Skinner's arm, forcing the older man to meet
his eyes. "I'm just glad he's on our side." Mulder's hand
tightened for a moment, then he let go, and clenched his teeth.
"Go on, Sir, take it out." 

"Gonna hurt," Skinner muttered, looking closely at the star
and the depth it was buried. "I think it hit bone." 

"It already hurts. And I *know* it hit bone. Just get it out." 

Skinner shifted, sitting on Mulder's leg just below the knee,
trying to immobilize the younger man as much as possible.
Once settled, he took hold of the star and pulled steadily, his
own muscles bunching with the effort. Mulder's eyes were
closed and his whole body was rigid as he fought for control.
Skinner was sure he was trying not to frighten the children
any more than had already occurred. The star was deep, and
it was resisting even Skinner's considerable strength; obviously
it had not only hit bone, but was embedded there. 

"Sorry," Skinner murmured again, then he wiggled the star to
break it loose. Mulder stiffened even more, then his whole body
relaxed. Skinner grunted. Mulder had passed out. At least he
wouldn't have to suffer through the rest of the extraction. Skinner
shifted his grip, threw all of his strength into it, and the star
finally came free. 

"Is Fox all right?" Steven asked, tears still hovering in his
eyes. 

Skinner nodded. "He'll be OK. This hurt and he's resting
now." Skinner had the piece of diaper pressed tightly over
the wound, covering the little geyser of bright red blood
that had erupted with the weapon's removal. Bright red meant
arterial. They could only hope it was one of the small surface
arteries that was nicked, and not a deeper, life-threatening one.
It should respond to his pressure and stop bleeding if it was
the surface kind. 

Skinner continued to bear down on the wound, glad that Mulder
was unconscious and not having to suffer through this as well.
After what he felt was a sufficient period of time, he gently
lifted the diaper and checked. The bleeding had stopped. He'd
gotten very lucky this time. He hadn't killed his friend. He
placed another piece of the diaper over the wound and bound
it there with the strips from his shirt. 

Rising shakily to his own feet, he walked to the sink and
filled a plastic cup with water. He also wet a small towel
and came back. Wiping Mulder's face carefully, tenderly,
he shook the man gently, and called his name. 

After two or three more shakes, Mulder came to. Even
though his eyes were still closed, Skinner was aware that
the younger man was back with them from the shift in his
body posture from totally relaxed to tight and stiff. Skinner
stroked his face once more, then asked, "You with us?" 

"Oh yeah," Mulder answered, "with you and aware of
*everything.* Is it out?" 

"Yes," Skinner responded, "and I'm sorry." 

Mulder waved the apology away. He opened his eyes and
saw the cup in Skinner's hand. "For me?" 

Skinner nodded and started to hand it to Mulder, but noted
the trembling in his hand, and held it to his lips instead.
Mulder took several swallows then nodded. "Thanks."
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, neither
one quite sure of what to say. 

Finally, Jess reached out from Steven's lap and patted Mulder's
shoulder. "Got owie?" 

Mulder took a deep breath and then gave a shaky laugh.
"Yeah, Jessie, you could say that." The baby reached for him
and he took her, settling her in his lap. "What do we do now,
Sir? I'm afraid my mobility is compromised." 

"I know." Skinner stood and began to pace. "Do you think you
can walk at all?" 

"Probably, but I doubt I'll be moving very fast." 

"I can help him," Steven said. 

Skinner regarded the small boy seriously and said, "Thank you,
Steven. I'll rely on you for that." He turned back to Mulder.
"Did you get the things needed for the baby before --" he stopped
and pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder toward the
body -- "that?" 

"Steven changed her, but we didn't pack the supplies." 

"Steven?" Skinner spoke to the boy now. "Can you take this,"
he dumped his pack and handed it to the boy, "and put the diapers
in it for me?" 

The boy nodded and moved to perform his chore. 

Skinner lowered his voice. "Mulder? Have I scarred the kid or
anything? I mean, seeing that ... well, it can't be good for him." 

"I'm not sure what has happened to them, but I don't imagine
any of it has been fun. I think he's doing amazingly well
considering he's been ripped from his family and God knows
what they've done to him. I haven't even had a chance to ask
him." 

"What about his sister?" Skinner nodded at the baby in
Mulder's lap. 

"She's not his sister," Mulder said flatly, and Skinner's eyes
widened in surprise. "I know. That's what I thought too. They
sure do look alike, don't they?" 

"Are they -- could they be -- well, you know?" 

"I don't know. Anything's possible, and there must be some
reason they were here." 

Steven was back now, the full pack in his hand. "Are we
going now?" he asked. 

Mulder nodded. "Just as soon as I get up. Here," he lifted
the baby and set her on her feet, "hang onto her for a minute." 

Steven took the baby's hand and pulled her a few steps away,
giving Mulder room to maneuver. Skinner leaned down and
put his arms around Mulder's chest, then lifted. A strangled
gasp slipped out, but other than that, Mulder was quiet. His
forehead was bathed in a sheen of perspiration, but he was up
and he leaned against the wall, holding Skinner's arm for
additional support. 

"You all right?" the AD asked gruffly. 

"Just fine," Mulder mumbled. "Give me a minute, OK?" 

Mulder closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and Skinner
stood watching him closely. Steven was watching as
well, and all three were jolted from their concentration
when the baby suddenly said, "Bang!" 

Skinner whirled to find her holding the dead man's gun,
pointing it directly at him. Oh shit! There was no special
ops course in the world that covered this situation. 

He was moving without thinking, scooping the child up,
pulling the gun from her hands gently, holding her awkwardly
when she began to cry. "We've got to go, Mulder," he said. "I
can't control this environment." 

Mulder nodded, then spoke. "Give her to Steven." He looked
at the boy. "You need to hold onto Jess for a bit. You can put
her down if she gets heavy, but you've got to hang onto her,
OK?" 

The little boy nodded, then took the baby's hand. "That was
bad, Jess," he scolded. "Bad girl." 

"Bad Jess," the baby echoed happily, and Skinner shook his
head. Could you control an environment where children were
two of the variables? He didn't know, but he assumed he
would be finding out shortly. Quickly scanning the room for
any more dangers, he knelt to sort through the items he had
dumped from his pack. He pocketed many of them in the
special waist pack he wore beneath the borrowed scrubs.
The remainder he passed to Mulder, who slid them into his
own borrowed pockets. The last item, a second pack made
of nylon, he unfolded and studied for a moment. Pulling a
knife, he made several modifications, then sat back and looked
at what he had created. 

"Bring the baby over here," he ordered and Steven complied
quickly. 

The boy walked back to stand beside Mulder, reaching up to
carefully slip his small hand into the agent's much larger one.
He looked up at Mulder and said, "He's a good guy, right?
And he really is in charge, isn't he?" and Mulder nodded. 

The baby was looking cautiously at Skinner, and he wished
Mulder were able to bend down and do this. The younger
man seemed to have established a rapport with these two
right off. Perhaps because he was so much like a child
himself in many ways. He debated on how to handle his
next move, then just decided to hell with it. He was not
going to debate a two year old. He picked the little girl
up and set her in the modified pack, her legs slipping
through the holes he had made. He zipped the side to hold
her securely, then used some of his cord to wrap around
her to make sure she wouldn't fall. He hefted the pack
and slipped it on, then wrapped the cord around himself,
tying the baby to his torso. 

Skinner looked up to find Mulder watching him in
amazement. "Well, what else was I going to do?" he
asked in exasperation. "You know I have to have my
hands free, and you can't carry her now." 

"I can carry her," Steven piped up. 

"You carry her pack, please," Mulder interjected quickly.
"That would be a big help." 

Steven nodded and put the pack on, turning obediently when
Skinner knelt to tighten it for him. "Now, Steven,"
he began, "I told you before you would have to hold onto
Fox, but that won't work now, because I am going to
have to help him walk. So you need to stay right with us." 

The boy was nodding, but Skinner went on. "I mean
right with us. I need to be able to turn around and touch
you, that's how close you have to stay. And no talking
unless it's an emergency, OK?" 

The boy nodded again, and Skinner rose and walked to
Mulder. He put one arm around his waist, then Mulder
threw his arm around Skinner's shoulder. The baby
patted Mulder's arm happily, then leaned over to plant
a sloppy kiss on his ear. "Pox," she said. She touched
Skinner's head, her chubby little hand polishing his
bald pate. "Who dat?" she asked. 

Mulder smiled despite his pain. "Walter, Jess, that's
Walter." 

"Oh. Wa-tah." 

"Good, Jess. It's Walter," Mulder praised. 

"Wa-tah, Wa-tah, Wa-tah," the baby prattled happily. 

"Mulder," Skinner suddenly had a thought, "how do we
keep her quiet?" 

"We don't. We can't. We just get out of here as quick
as we can." 

"Shit." 

"Szit," the baby echoed. 

"You, uh, might want to watch that, Sir. Her parents aren't
likely to appreciate her new, more colorful vocabulary." 

"Shit," Skinner repeated, then shook his head. "Sorry," he
added sheepishly. 

"Szit," Jess said again, giggling, and Steven laughed too. 

Mulder just looked at Skinner this time. "Shall we move?" he
suggested. 

They turned to the door and were ready to leave, when another
thought crossed Skinner's mind. "Steven," he asked, "do
you have to go to the bathroom?" 

End part 05a/08 

What Cost, Friendship? 05b/08 

The secondary exit of the air-shaft was out now. Mulder
wouldn't be able to make the crawl. That meant retracing
their steps to the stairway. Though they were back in
the more heavily frequented front end of the complex,
they were completely undisturbed as they made the trek
back. 

Mulder struggled gamely along, jaw clenched tightly
against the pain, only speaking to softly murmur to the
baby, "Shh, Jess, shh." 

What had taken them twenty minutes to cover coming in,
took almost an hour going out. And there was no way
Mulder could travel seven miles through the woods
before day. Skinner knew he had to find another place,
closer, where they could stay till full dark tonight. He'd
seen several on the way in, his natural instinct to always
have a backup kicking in, but the closest of those was
about two and a half miles out. 

He looked at Mulder. The man was still moving as
fast as he could. No word of the agony he must be in
with each step jarring the wound. Could he make another
couple miles? Skinner shook his head. He didn't like it,
but there was no choice; he'd have to make it. 

They had reached the stairwell, and Skinner lowered
Mulder to sit on the stairs. He retrieved the items
they'd left there, sorting through them rapidly. He changed
his clothes back into his all black from before, then helped
Mulder change as well. In deference to Mulder's injury,
Skinner pulled the dark clothing on over Mulder's "guard"
uniform. The younger man was in considerable pain, and
every movement wracked his body, but there was nothing
to be done for him now. Skinner rummaged in his supplies,
and produced another black shirt, and pulled it on over
Steven's head. It hung past his knees and the short
sleeves hung below the boy's elbows, but it covered most
of his light colored clothing. 

Pulling out a small pot, he began to blacken his own face
again and was startled when laughter bubbled up from
Steven. 

"Me, too," the boy cried. "Do me, do me!" 

Skinner laughed softly. "Shhh, remember? And I'll
do you next, OK?" 

The boy smiled happily, then eagerly lifted his face up
when it was his turn. When Skinner was done, he asked,
"Aren't you gonna do my head too?" and this time it was
Mulder who laughed. 

"Your hair covers your head Steven," he said. "I don't
have to do my head either." Mulder pointed to his own
dark hair. Mulder was streaking his face as he spoke, the
paint mixing with the pain sweat that layered his skin.
He finished and asked, "What about her?" 

Skinner shrugged. The baby was asleep and he didn't want
to risk waking her, but she would be visible if she began to
move. He thought a moment then shook his head. "Let
her sleep. At least she's quiet." 

Mulder nodded and let Skinner pull him up. They managed
the stairs again, though there was no controlling the
creaking this time. Once at the top, Skinner slipped out
first, then motioned Steven forward as he helped Mulder again.
They moved unmolested to the front door, out to the porch
and down the steps. Skinner scanned the area again. No
vehicles in sight. Not a good sign. The breach had been
reported and they were evacuating the complex. The man
said they were terminating, and Mulder had heard that from
the guard earlier. So they knew about the breach, but were
they still searching for them? 

No way to tell. Have to assume they were. He half pulled,
half dragged Mulder through the yard to the woods and then
they all faded into the trees. 

The sun was beginning to come up when they reached the
backup spot Skinner had decided on for their day's wait
for night to fall again. Mulder was gray when Skinner
lowered him to the ground. Gray and cold. He checked
the bandage. The wound was seeping blood again. He
looked up at Mulder, warning him with his eyes, and
received a brief nod of approval. Skinner pressed hard
on the wound, and felt Mulder stiffen involuntarily. He
held the pressure for long moments, watching silently
as Mulder gritted his teeth and tears formed in his eyes.
At last, he peeled back the bandage again and looked.
The bleeding seemed to have stopped. For now. Mulder
was going to have to move again, and that was likely
to start it up once more. 

"Steven, you need to stay here with Fox, OK? I'll
be back as fast as I can." 

The boy nodded and then Skinner turned back to Mulder.
"Mulder? Hey, Mulder, wake up." The younger man
was already half asleep -- or was it unconscious? 

Mulder lifted heavy lids and peered up at the AD.
"Where're you going?" 

"I need to go get our stuff." He peered back over his
shoulder and saw Jess was still sleeping. "I'll take her
with me and be back as soon as I can." He focused on
Mulder again, handing him a gun out of Steven's sight.
"Mulder, you've got to stay awake till I get back." 

"Yessir," Mulder slurred. "I will." 

Skinner nodded. Mulder would do the best he could. 

He took off through the woods at a steady trot, moving
quickly, but not fast enough to wake the baby still
sleeping against his shoulder. He reached the tree
with their supplies, pulled them down and slung one
pack over each arm, boxing Jess in behind him. 

He turned to head back, acutely aware of his own injury
and blood loss. And his age. He was feeling his age.
It took longer to retrace his steps and the sun was full up
when he finally reached Mulder and the boy. Mulder
was awake, but barely aware of his surroundings, and
Steven was asleep in his lap. At some point, Mulder had
stripped off his outer shirt, and pulled the uniform shirt
off, using it to cover the small boy. He must have exhausted
himself in the effort, for the black turtleneck was still on
the ground beside him, and Mulder sat shivering in
the early morning dew. Skinner suppressed the fear, and
the anger born of fear, that the sight of Mulder's pale chest
gave him. Anyone looking for them would be able to
see them from a mile away. 

"Mulder," he called softly, not wanting to startle the barely
conscious man into shooting. "Mulder? You with me?" 

Mulder stirred, looking blearily around, his eyes finally
lighting on Skinner. "Yessir, 'm here," he mumbled. 

Skinner knelt and took the weapon from his agent's
numb fingers. The man was like ice! "Here," he said
quietly, lifting the shirt and pulling it down over Mulder's
head, "Let's get this back on, OK?" 

"Sorry, sir," Mulder mumbled. "Steven was so cold." 

And you weren't? Skinner once again felt a mix of admiration
and anger at the way this man was able to put everyone ahead
of himself, regardless of the consequences. 

"It's all right, Mulder," Skinner said calmly. "I've got the
bedrolls and no one needs to be cold. You can let yourself
rest now. I'll take first watch." 

Mulder nodded gratefully and let his eyes close. "Wake me
for my turn," he mumbled even as he drifted off to sleep. 

Skinner dropped the packs, and began to pull the
bedrolls out and make spaces for the children and
Mulder. He had the clearing set the way he wanted it,
the alarms were laid out, and he was moving the boy to
the first bedroll when there was a muffled explosion from
the direction of the farmhouse. 

The project was officially terminated. 

End part 05b/08 

What Cost, Friendship? 06/08 

Skinner got up again and began to make the same small circle
he'd paced so many times before. The baby was squirming in
the makeshift pack and he had a feeling walking wasn't going
to settle her this time. He sighed, then glanced over at Mulder
again. If only he would wake up. Mulder could keep the baby
entertained for a while and then he could possibly grab a few
hours sleep. Skinner jostled the baby once more, but nothing
seemed to be helping to settle her. 

"Did you change her?" a small voice asked. 

Skinner stopped and turned to look at the boy. Change her.
That was what he had forgotten. He wrinkled his nose in
distaste. 

"She's probably hungry too. Do you have anything to eat?"
Steven continued. He was climbing to his feet now and looking
around the clearing curiously. "Uh, Walter?" he asked. 

"Yes?" Skinner answered absently as he worked the knot on
his chest free so he could put the baby down. 

"Where do I go to the bathroom?" 

"I set up a latrine area over there." Skinner waved toward a
small thicket of bushes near a natural ditch. 

"What's that?" 

Skinner sighed again. The knot came loose and he slipped
the pack off, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he enjoyed
the relief from the weight. He pulled the baby out of the pack,
settling her against his chest then immediately holding her out
at arm's length. "She's wet!" he exclaimed. 

"Well, duh!" Steven responded. "Babies get that way if you
don't change them. Don't you know anything?" 

Skinner dropped his head and murmured, "Apparently not."
He set the baby on her feet and she began to wander about
the clearing. He watched her a moment, then decided this
was not too bad. She was just looking at things as she toddled
around. 

"I really need to go, Walter," Steven said again, and Skinner
nodded. 

"Here, come with me." He led the way to the temporary latrine,
and provided a handful of leaves in response to Steven's request
for toilet paper. He waited until the child was done, then led him
back to the clearing. Mulder was still sleeping in his bedroll;
his condition seemed unchanged. Skinner scanned the area quickly,
then scanned again. 

"Where's Jess?" Steven asked. 

Shit! Where was she? "Steven," Skinner ordered, "go and sit
with Mul - Fox. DO NOT move from his bedroll, OK?" 

The boy nodded and went and plopped down next to Mulder,
who opened his eyes and asked, "Wha'?" 

"Walter lost Jessie," Steven volunteered, and Skinner felt
his skin flush. 

Mulder was struggling to rise now, and Skinner had to waste
valuable time soothing the man, and forcing him to stay and
"watch" Steven. And more time instructing Steven to "watch"
Mulder. Shit! He was never going to find the child. 

He set off through the woods, quietly calling, "Jess? Jess?
Where are you?" Fuck! How far could a two year old go
in woods this dense? He called again, and then realized
he'd reached the perimeter alarm. He turned, looking for
anywhere she could have gone and began to make a circle,
working his way back in toward the camp. 

He was walking past yet another fallen log, still softly
calling the baby's name, when he heard a tiny giggle. He
froze and called again. "Jess? Come to Walter." 

He was rewarded with a little louder giggle, and then
a small voice echoed, "Wa-tah." 

He bounded over to the log and found the baby sitting
in a pile of leaves, her pajama bottoms and diaper sitting
next to her. She looked up at him and smiled. "Hi, Wa-tah." 

His head sagged as he realized how ridiculously pleased
he was to see the child. He knelt beside her and held out
his arms and she stood and came to him. 

"Jess," he whispered into her soft baby hair. "You scared
me." 

"Jess wet," she said fussily, pointing at the soiled diaper. 

"I know," he answered. "I'm sorry. C'mon," he stood, holding
the baby in one arm, and the wet diaper and pants in the other.
He headed back to base camp, saying, "We'll take care of that." 

The baby was playing with his glasses, her little fingers leaving
smears all along the lenses, and tickling his ears where the frames
rested. With both hands full, there was nothing he could do to
stop her, so he endured it stoically. 

He reached the clearing to see that Steven was still sitting by
Mulder, but his agent was unconscious again. From pain or
blood loss, Skinner didn't know, but he needed to find out. 

He put the baby down, then took out a diaper. He spread the
child's legs and was in the process of situating the diaper
between them, when he heard a distinct giggle from behind
him. 

He turned to face Steven. "What?" he asked. 

"Not like that. It'll never stay on. You have to lay her down." 

Skinner carried the baby to the bedroll and set her down, but
she immediately popped back up. He gently laid her down
again, and watched for a moment to make sure she stayed
there, then turned to retrieve the diaper. When he turned
back she was up and gone again. He looked around and
saw her smiling at him from across the clearing. 

He rose to his feet again and went and got her, settling her
on the bedroll once more. She promptly rolled over on her
stomach and began to crawl away. 

Steven was laughing out loud now, and Skinner was getting
more than a little annoyed at both children. Was it his
fault he didn't know how to do this? He reached out and
caught the baby's feet, pulling her back gently and turning
her over again. With one hand on her tummy, he slid
the diaper up under her bottom, only to hear Steven call,
"No, Walter, not like that. That's backwards." 

Walter looked back at the little boy. "Do you know how to
do this?" 

The child nodded. 

"Well," Skinner paused, reaching for control, "I really would
appreciate it if you would take care of this for me," he said
through gritted teeth. 

"Sure," Steven said, and he bounced over to where Walter
still knelt holding the baby. 

Skinner rocked back on his heels, out of the way but ready
to lend a hand to keep the wiggly baby still if needed. He
watched as the baby turned to tummy again and began her
break for freedom. 

"Bad Jess," Steven said, and the baby froze. "Come get
changed. Right now." 

The baby obediently rolled over and scootched down toward
Steven, where he efficiently picked her legs up by the ankles,
slipped the diaper underneath, and then pulled it up and
together, fastening it with small tapes that were attached to
each side of the thing. He looked up at Skinner and smiled
proudly. "You just have to tell her what you want her to do." 

Skinner nodded, still staring at the baby who was now sitting
quietly on the bedroll and playing with the zipper. He shook
his head, then asked, "Can you watch her for a while, Steven?" 

"She's OK now, but I'm hungry, Walter," the boy responded.
"Can we have something to eat?" 

"Yeah, let me see what we have." He went to the pack and
pulled out an MRE. "Chicken and noodles?" 

Steven nodded and the baby clapped her hands. 

Skinner added water to activate the heating element
then set the cardboard container against a rock for it
to warm. He stepped over to Mulder and checked him
again. Damn! From being gray and cold, he'd gone to
flushed and warm. Did the man have a fever now? He
carefully pulled the makeshift bandage free, noting that
it was again soaked, and began to cut up another diaper
to redo Mulder's leg. 

As he placed the absorbent pad down on the wound and
pressed, Mulder remained unmoving, convincing Skinner
he was indeed unconscious and not just sleeping. Fuck!
There was no way Mulder would be able to walk the
16 or so miles to the road. How the hell was he going
to get everyone out? 

He wet a cloth and sponged Mulder's face, then lay the
cool strip across his brow. "Best I can do," he whispered,
then turned to check on the children's lunch. 

Steven was kneeling by the rock, watching the box and
it looked to Skinner as if he was counting. Jess was --
Skinner looked around -- Jess was gone again. 

"Steven," he called, "where's the baby?" 

The boy looked around, bewildered. "She was here a
minute ago, Walter. Is lunch ready?" 

Skinner reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose,
biting his tongue till he tasted blood. "Just a few more
minutes, Steven. I need to find Jess again." 

The boy nodded and went back to watching the box. 

Skinner set off again, calling softly and searching through
the woods. She hadn't wandered too far this time, and he
was back shortly with her in his arms. 

"I need you to help me watch Jess, Steven," he said to the
boy when he returned. "She can get hurt out here." 

The boy nodded, then said, "She needs to be able to move
around. I told the men at the place, but they always wanted
her to be still." He gave a tiny snort of disgust. "I'm just
a kid and I know babies have to be able to play, but they
didn't listen to me." He lifted big eyes to Walter. "They
were mean to her." 

"And to you?" Skinner asked gently. 

The boy shrugged. "She's just little. You shouldn't be mean
to little ones." 

'Amen,' Skinner thought. 'You shouldn't be mean to little
ones.' He cleared his throat and asked, "How 'bout lunch,
you two?" 

They ate ravenously, and Skinner was amazed at the amount
of food both children put away. He had intended to share this
meal with them, but there was none left for him when they were
done. "Didn't they feed you?" he asked as Steven finished the
last of the noodles. 

"Just some yucky oatmeal stuff. All the time. It was all we
ate." He shuddered, then said in a conspiratorial tone, "I think
they put something in it. It was nasty tasting." 

Indeed. Skinner looked longingly at Mulder. He was the
psychologist. He would be so much better at talking to the
boy about this. But he was out. And that was something else
Skinner was going to have to deal with before nightfall. 

"Steven, do you think you can sleep some more, now?"
he asked as the boy yawned. "You were up all night,
and we're going to be moving tonight as well." 

The boy nodded sleepily. "I am sorta tired, Walter, but
what about Jess?" 

"I'll watch her. She slept in the pack last night, so she
probably won't sleep as much today as you and Fox." 

Both man and boy turned to look at Mulder. 

"He's pretty sick, isn't he Walter?" 

"His leg is hurt, but he'll be OK. When we get to the
car, we'll take him to a hospital and they'll fix him
right up." 

The boy wandered over to his bedroll and Skinner
followed. 

"And you'll call my mom and dad?" the boy asked. 

"Yes, we will. And they'll come and get you and you'll
go home." 

The boy slipped under the top cover and wriggled a bit,
getting settled. Skinner reached out and gently stroked
his hair back from his face. This child was being so brave,
so strong, it was easy to forget how very young he was too. 

"And Jess?" 

"And Jess." Skinner looked up, appalled that he had forgotten
the baby again, and sure enough, she was nowhere to be seen. 

"Sleep, Steven," he murmured, "I need to go get Jess again." 

The boy laughed, but closed his eyes obediently. "You gotta
watch her better than this, Walter," he said, then yawned again. 

Skinner patted him once more, then rose and began the
now familiar search pattern until he found the baby again.
This time she was perilously close to the edge of the latrine,
and Skinner refused to even consider what would happen
had she finished her explorations in that direction. 

He carried her back to the clearing, then rummaged in his
pack. Within minutes, she was tied to a stake in the middle
of the clearing, with about a ten foot circle of room to
wander. She explored her new "freedom" happily for
a while but then began to fuss. Skinner rummaged in the
pack again, and presented her with an assortment of items
to keep her occupied. A compass, small flashlight, closed
pocket knife, his extra pair of glasses, and his cuffs. For some
reason, she liked the cuffs best, and was playing contentedly
with them. Skinner went and sat by Mulder, sponging his
forehead again and again, as he watched the baby play. 

He was dampening the cloth again, when Mulder spoke.
"Guess you showed her, huh, Sir?" 

Skinner blinked and looked down to see Mulder's eyes,
fever bright, staring at the baby across the way. Her tether
was clearly visible around her waist and she had managed
to put both hands through one of the cuffs, effectively trapping
herself, but she seemed quite pleased with the results and
was banging the flashlight on the ground as she hummed
a little tune. 

"What?" he asked as he looked back at Mulder. 

"You showed her. Got her tied up and cuffed. She knows
who's in charge now." 

Skinner laughed, then helped Mulder to sit up a bit, and
offered him water from the canteen. "Oh yeah, there's
no doubt who's in charge," he answered. "No doubt at
all." He looked down at Mulder and watched as his eyes
slid shut again. He lowered the man back to the blanket
and tried to adjust him more comfortably. He glanced up
at the baby again, and when she waved at him, he self-
consciously waved back, glad no one was awake to witness
the action. 

"No doubt who's in charge here," he repeated. "She is." 

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

The baby had finally fallen asleep, but Skinner was too nervous
to try to sleep himself. He had visions of her escaping her bonds
and wandering off, never to be found again. He filled the
remaining hours of the day building a travois. Or at least as
much of one as he could fashion without use of the bedrolls
that Steven and Mulder were sacked out on. 

Mulder continued to feel feverish, and even with no movement,
the wound was seeping blood. Skinner went and applied pressure
frequently, but he knew there was no way the younger man
would be able to walk again. As he knelt beside him, wiping his
face yet again, Skinner was amazed that Mulder had managed
to walk as far as he had last night. He was pretty sure the bone
was broken. It had to be serious for the level of pain that
Mulder was experiencing and the concomitant manifestations --
sweating, chills and fever, drifting in and out of consciousness. 

He had condensed what they were taking out down to one
pack. The other pack, and miscellaneous items that would
remain were secured high in a tree. The bedrolls would form
the support for the travois, and he would carry the baby in
her pack, but strapped to his chest this time. 

He scrubbed his face and took a sip of water. God, he was
tired. How was he going to get them all to safety? They'd
been incredibly lucky that no one had pursued, no one had
found them. But there was no way to be sure that luck would
hold. He could feel his eyes trying to slip shut, and he rose
to walk, knowing that movement would keep him awake,
even if it added to his fatigue. 

He looked at his watch, then gazed up at the sun. Several
more hours till dark. He was ready but they had been
safe here and he didn't want to take any chances. Best to
stick with as much of the original plan as possible. He
walked to Steven and gazed down at the sleeping child.
Dark hair fell across his brow, and Skinner knelt to push
it back, feeling the slightly sweaty brow that often accompanied
hard sleep. The child murmured something and rolled to
his side, and Skinner rose again. 

He looked at the boy, then looked over at Mulder. His eyes
narrowed as he looked again. He shifted his glance to take
in the baby -- the baby who was *not* Steven's sibling, but
who looked so much like him. He looked at Mulder again,
then back at the boy, then the baby. They looked like him.
The children looked like Mulder. Shit! Skinner couldn't
believe he'd missed the resemblance before. The boy even
had Mulder's slightly oversized nose and the same cowlick
that caused that strand of hair to flop in his face. He looked
again at the girl. She was so much younger, still unformed
in many ways, her features still distorted with baby fat, but
she had the same hazel eyes, the same wayward hair. These
two could be Mulder's kids! What the fuck was going on?
Who were these children and why were they here? 

Skinner suddenly went cold as one of the alarms he'd set
was tripped and the sensor in his pocket began to vibrate.
He woke Mulder quickly, helping the man to sit up, and
ignoring the pain that flashed across his face at the movement. 

"We've got company," he murmured, as he checked the
clip in Mulder's gun, then shoved it into his hands. "Do
the best you can." 

Mulder nodded muzzily, but remained sitting up when
Skinner let go. He checked the boy -- still sleeping --
then checked the leash he'd attached to the baby. He
may be slow, but he did learn. She was asleep, and still
secure in the harness he had fashioned for her. He looked
back at Mulder, nodded once, and slipped into the trees,
vanishing amidst the shadows. 

He headed directly for the alarm that had been triggered,
keeping to the shade and shadows of the trees. As he
approached, he caught sight of a man in a guard uniform
from the complex. Rifle in hand, the man was examining
the alarm, which looked like a pine cone. The man placed
the cone back on the ground, then stood and surveyed the
area, obviously searching for something. Searching for them,
Skinner amended. This man was searching for them. They
weren't going to let them get away this easily. 

Skinner tensed, and when the man turned his back, he
pounced, tackling him from behind, and bringing him
down smoothly. A quick twist of the man's head, a snap
as the neck broke, and it was over. Skinner was hardly
breaking a sweat from exertion, but he was suddenly shaking
from fear. What if there were more? What if they found
the clearing while he was out here? What if this was a ploy
to separate them, to force him to leave the vulnerable ones
alone? He had to get back. 

He hefted the man's body and began to circle back to the
clearing. He deliberately came up on the side of the latrine,
and used the natural ditch to form a shallow grave and hide
the body. He would come back and cover it later. For now,
he needed to check on his charges. 

He crept up to the clearing and checked it carefully before he
risked showing himself. Mulder was still holding himself up,
barely able to maintain a sitting position, the gun held tightly
in one hand, but laying limp in his lap. The two children still
slept. There was no indication that anyone was there, or that
they had been. He called softly to his agent, "Mulder?" and
was rewarded with a nod. 

He strode into the camp, and took the gun from Mulder's hand.
"Good job, Mulder," he said, "very good. Rest now." 

"I'm not going to be any help, I don't think I can even sit
up again," the man muttered as Skinner helped him to lay
back down. He winced as he shifted on the blanket. "Shit!
It really hurts, Sir." 

"I know, Mulder, and I'm sorry. If there were any other way ..."
Skinner began. 

"Not. Your. Fault." Mulder gritted out through clenched
teeth. "Should've been more alert. You were great. Saved
us all. Small price to pay." Mulder stopped, gasping for
breath. 

"Rest, Mulder," Skinner soothed. "Don't try to talk." He
fumbled with the canteen. "You want some water?" 

Mulder's eyes were closed now, but he nodded once. Skinner
lifted his head, and held the canteen to his lips, waiting patiently
as he took several long swallows. Finally, he nodded, and Skinner
lowered him back to the blanket. He recapped the canteen, then
patted Mulder's shoulder gently and rose to his feet. "I'm gonna
wake the kids and we're moving. I don't want to wait any longer
if they're out here looking for us." He checked his watch again.
"It'll be dark soon enough." 

He woke Steven and fixed another MRE for the boy, then while
the child ate, Skinner completed the travois. He pulled it over
near Mulder, then shifted the wounded man around and dragged
him, bedding and all, onto the blanket that now hung from two
long poles. At the first movement, Mulder had tensed and
Skinner could see him clenching his jaw, but by the time he was
situated, and Skinner had secured him to the frame, the man was
unconscious again. 

"Are you finished, Steven?" Skinner asked, and the boy nodded. 

"Jess needs to eat, too," he reminded Skinner. 

"And be changed, I bet," Skinner remarked. 

"I need to go to the bathroom again," Steven said, and
Skinner could see the puzzlement on the boy's face when he
directed him to some bushes on the edge of the clearing, rather
than the latrine. 

Skinner managed the baby's change this time, and helped her to
finish Steven's meal, then he laced her into the now dry pack again,
and slipped it on backward. She was nestled against his chest, her
little body a solid presence beneath his heart. He did a quick weapons
check, making sure he could get to everything with the baby in
place, then slipped the one remaining pack on his back. The night
vision goggles were balanced on his head since it was still daylight,
but ready to be pulled down as the sun sank below the horizon. 

Skinner called Steven and the boy came immediately to his
side. "You must stay right here with me all the time, understand?"
he instructed the boy. "We're going to have to walk for a very
long way, and I need you to be very strong and very brave." 

"I am," Steven said proudly. "I hardly ever cried when they did
the hurting things." 

Skinner felt his heart clutch again. The hurting things. What had
been done to these children? "I know you are, Steven, I know you
are. You must also be very quiet. If you need to say something,
tap my leg to get my attention, then we'll whisper, OK?" 

Steven nodded solemnly, and Skinner bent and hoisted the two
poles of the travois. "Sorry, Mulder, this is gonna hurt like a bitch."
He took one more look down at Steven, then set off into the woods. 

They had only gone a few feet when there was an explosion from
the woods to the left, and Skinner froze. He waited as he processed
what had happened, but nothing else occurred. He set off again,
the baby murmuring little baby things against his chest, Steven
walking quickly by his side, a serious expression on his face, and
Mulder, unconscious, behind him. 

Thirty minutes passed, and there was another explosion, this time to
the right, and Skinner suddenly knew what was happening. 

The woods were mined, and they had decided to try a different
kind of search. 

End part 06/08 

What Cost, Friendship? 07/08 

The little boy was struggling and Skinner wanted nothing
more than to stop and let him rest. And to rest himself,
he admitted. Mulder was an easy 170, the pack had to
be around 40, and the baby? Maybe 25? He was getting
tired. He sighed and looked at his watch. They'd been
walking for about four hours. Their journey continued
to be interspersed with the periodic explosions from
all directions, but none had been close to them. Yet. 

The baby was asleep, Mulder drifted in and out of
consciousness, and Steven? Steven just struggled
along, not a word of complaint despite the exhaustion
the child had to be feeling. 

Skinner glanced down and saw the boy reach up and wipe
his eyes. He looked closer and saw the tears, dripping
slowly down his cheeks. He dropped his head, then
sighed. The child was trying so hard, but regardless
of his effort, he was still a child, and he was never going
to be able to walk the entire way. 

Skinner reached out and touched Steven's shoulder,
then stopped. "We're gonna take a break, OK?" 

The little boy nodded furiously, then limped over
to a log to sit down. Skinner's brow furrowed.
Why was he limping? He laid the travois down,
shed the backpack, and rolled his shoulders a few
times, trying to clear the knots that had taken up
seemingly permanent residence there. 

Skinner followed and sat beside the boy. "Are you
all right?" 

Steven hurriedly wiped tears from his eyes and
then looked up at Skinner. "I won't cry anymore,
I promise. And I'll keep up. Please don't leave me." 

Skinner was astonished. Why would the child think
he would leave him? "Steven," he said very softly,
"I'm not going to leave you. You know that, right?
We're all going out together." 

The boy gave a half shrug, half nod, and Skinner
tentatively put an arm around his shoulder. "I'm
not going to leave you, Steven. You're doing great.
You're a strong, brave young man, and your mom
and dad must be very proud of you." 

He could feel the little shoulders begin to shake,
and the child lifted his hands to his eyes for a long
moment, then turned and buried his face in
Skinner's side. He cried for a very long time, and
Skinner stroked his back and hair, and murmured
soft, soothing words to him. Finally the sobs
began to quiet, and the boy whispered, "I'm sorry,
Walter, I won't cry anymore." 

"Shhh, Steven, it's OK to cry sometimes. Do you
feel better now?" 

Steven was still for a moment, contemplating the
question, and Skinner was again struck by how
much this child was like Mulder. "I think so," he
said hesitantly, then a smile broke over his face.
"Hey! Yeah, I do feel better!" 

"Good!" Skinner smiled back. "Think you're ready
to walk some more?" 

The boy nodded then looked around curiously. "Is
there a potrine around here?" 

Skinner laughed. "That's *latrine,* and you can take
your pick of the local bushes. Just don't go out of sight." 

"Sir?" 

Mulder was calling him. He watched Steven a minute
more, then stepped back to kneel by Mulder's side.
"You're awake," he said. 

"I think I'd rather not be," Mulder said wryly. The
younger man paused and Skinner watched as he started
to drift away. 

He reached out and gently shook the man. "You wanted
to tell me something?" 

Mulder visibly pulled himself back, and said, "Oh, yeah.
Steven. He's beat. He can't walk all the way out." 

"I know." Skinner was frustrated. "I don't know what
else to do. I can't carry him too." 

Mulder nodded. "You're doing great, you know that, don't
you? I can't think of anyone else who would have gotten
us all this far." Mulder's hand came up to grip Skinner's
arm. "Hercules, remember?" and Skinner smiled. 

"Good," Mulder said, "you look better now. Look, can
you ditch the big pack and swap that weight for Steven? I
know you've got to be at or beyond your limit, but maybe
he could ride with me." 

Skinner thought for a moment. What was in the pack that
he absolutely had to take? Just the container with Scully's
vials. He could risk leaving the food and other supplies.
Just take the water and a couple more diapers -- it would
all fit in the small pack with the vials. Most of the weapons
he already carried, or they were in Mulder's pockets. He
looked over at the boy who was sitting wearily on the log
again. "Steven, please come here," he called softly, and the
boy rose and limped over. 

"Why is he limping?" Mulder asked, concerned. 

"Don't know. I think he's just tired of walking. I was going
to ask." 

The boy stopped beside the travois and looked down at Mulder.
"You're awake, Fox!" he said happily. "Are you feeling better?" 

Mulder nodded. "Some. How 'bout you, Steven? How are
you feeling?" 

"I'm OK," the boy said. "Walter let me cry some and I feel
better now. He didn't yell or anything when I cried. My dad
doesn't yell at me either when I cry." 

Mulder and Skinner exchanged a glance. More clues to
what had happened at the complex. 

Skinner had taken off the pack with Jess in it, and handed
the sleeping baby over to Mulder. She settled right in next
to him, never once waking. 

He now turned to the boy and rose. "I need to see how much
you weigh, Steven," he said, and hefted the boy into the air. 

The child's arms went instinctively around Skinner's neck,
legs around his waist, and he snuggled in against the man's
chest. "My dad would carry me when I got tired sometimes.
Even after I was a big boy, like now, sometimes he would
pick me up and carry me." He sighed wistfully. "Daddy
said even big boys get tired too." 

Skinner hugged him tight for a long moment as he looked
down at Mulder. "I can't carry you, Steven," he whispered,
"I'm sorry. But do you think you could ride with Fox?" 

The boy had gone stiff in his arms when Skinner said he
couldn't carry him, but he relaxed at the idea of riding with
Mulder. 

"I could do that. I'll be real still so I don't hurt his leg." 

"That's very thoughtful of you, Steven," Skinner said.
"I know Fox will appreciate that." 

Skinner started to put the child down, but he suddenly
tightened his grip around the big man. The boy hugged
him tightly, planted a soft kiss on his cheek, and whispered
into his ear, "I don't think you're scary anymore, Walter." 

Skinner swallowed hard, then hugged the child back and
slowly lowered him to the ground. He scampered around
to the other side of the travois, and carefully climbed in
next to Mulder. Only Skinner saw Mulder wince, but
when Steven asked, "Is this OK, Fox?" Mulder answered,
"Just fine, Steven. You're just fine." 

Mulder looked up at Skinner. "How 'bout I keep the baby
for a while since she's sleeping? I think I can hang onto
her while she's asleep." 

"Don't count on it," Skinner rumbled, but he left the child
where she was. He rolled his shoulders one more time,
made his own visit to the "potrine," and they were ready
to move again. 

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

It was well after sun-up, closer to late morning,
when they reached the road. The children had
miraculously slept the rest of the night, and Mulder
had continued to drift between varying states of
waking, sleeping, and unconsciousness. The bouts
of unconsciousness were in direct proportion to the
number and severity of the bumps the travois
passed over. 

When Skinner could see the road, he looked for a
place to leave his charges while he went for the car
and made sure everything was safe. The woods were
sparser here, no close set trees to offer the type of
hiding place he'd come to look for, but he did find
a thicket of bushes. He quickly cut them down,
then slid the travois over and set the bushes around it.
It was makeshift, and certainly wouldn't withstand
hard scrutiny, but with continued luck, it wouldn't
have to. 

Skinner had learned his lesson with the baby. He
reattached her harness and tether even though she
was sleeping, and left her with a very short leash.
At least she would be there when he got back. 

Steven had awakened when they stopped moving,
but he had nodded obligingly when Skinner had
instructed him to remain laying down and stay
hidden until he returned. Mulder was unconscious
again. 

His charges as securely hidden as he could manage,
Skinner climbed wearily to his feet to begin the
last leg of their journey. He was feeling every one
of his years today. He'd gotten drunk and not slept
three nights ago. He'd grabbed a few hours
during the day two days ago, and walked all night
that night. Once again, a few daytime hours of sleep,
then had come the raid on the complex, and all the
ensuing events. He hadn't slept again. And the
possibility of sleep anytime soon was looking pretty
remote. 

He shook his head, and hiked on toward the place
they had left the car. Skinner felt a rush of pleasure
when he saw it and realized it was still there. He
was so tired, and the car meant a chance to sit, even
if he did have to drive. Mulder could lay in the
back and the children could sit up front with him. 

Skinner circled the car, looking for signs of tampering,
and relaxed when he saw none. He went to the hood
to open it and restore the wires he'd disconnected to
simulate the breakdown. As he pulled the latch on the
hood, he saw it -- a wire that didn't belong. He turned
and began running, heading back for the woods, only
one thought in his mind. 'Get out of sight; this is
gonna be bad.' 

There was a massive explosion and he was hit from
behind. The fireball lifted him into the air and
he flew the rest of the way across the road and
into the woods. He landed on an incline and rolled
to the bottom. In his mind, he kept hearing a chant,
'I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive,' and then the darkness
of unconsciousness swallowed him and he heard nothing
more. 

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

When Skinner came to, the sun had reached its zenith.
He tried to move his head to check his watch and was
rewarded with lancing pain through his whole skull.
Concussion. He lay still a bit longer, and took a silent
inventory. Everything hurt. There was no way to sort
out one injury from another. He had cuts, and scrapes,
and swollen places on top of cuts, and scrapes, and
swollen places. 

He finally forced his head up and looked at his wrist.
The crystal on his watch had shattered at 11:15. The
sun was directly overhead. He'd been out about forty-
five minutes. His arms were bright red; he looked as
if he had a severe sunburn. He gingerly touched his
face and felt the tightness there, indicating the same
type of burns. He could feel blisters where his glasses
rested; the metal frames had superheated and left the
natural result. 

He forced himself to sit up, then climbed painfully to
his feet, and clutched at a tree for support as he was
overcome with dizziness and swayed. 

He took several deep, cleansing breaths, then twisted
around to look over his shoulder at his back. The
material of his shirt was burned and he could see it
sticking to open blisters in several places along both
shoulders. He couldn't really see his back, but he could
imagine the mess of red, raw skin, and oozing blisters
that it was now. He reached up and touched his scalp,
wincing as he brought his hand quickly back down.
He looked at his fingers -- blood and fluid from more
blisters. He was covered in blood and the sticky fluid
from the broken burn blisters. 

Open burns seemed to attract infection. He had to
get himself and his charges out of the woods and
into a hospital. His reserves had been seriously
depleted before the blast, but now he was perilously
close to collapse, and there was still so much to do.
Starting with getting a vehicle. 

He looked around and realized that the woods
were strangely quiet. He cleared his throat, but
heard nothing. He spoke, and still heard nothing.
And then it hit him. The blast had not only injured
him. Not only burned him. It had deafened him
as well. 

Skinner dropped to his knees, a darkness consuming
him and threatening to drag him under. How could
he finish his mission without his hearing? He relied
so heavily on it. It was integral to his ability to
keep everyone safe. He had to be able to hear to
get them out. He allowed himself the indulgence
of a moment more of self-pity, then struggled to his
feet again. He'd just have to compensate. He refused
to even think what it would mean if this hearing loss
wasn't temporary. 

His ankle was weak, and protested with each step.
Sprained? Quite possibly. But he couldn't stop and
deal with it now. He hobbled back to the tree line
and stared across at the hulk of the car. There was no
sign that anyone had come to investigate and he
assumed that the car explosion just melded into
the mine explosions that had been occurring all night. 

He knelt in the scanty bushes by the road, just out
of sight, as he contemplated his next moves. He
needed a car. This was a fairly well-traveled road.
That was why he chose it. So there should be a
vehicle along any time now. He checked his
weapon then looked up to see a car driving past. 

Shit! Without his hearing, he couldn't be prepared
for the cars in advance. He raised a hand to his
face again, and wiped away blood that trickled
down over his brow. He was hurting, and tired,
and thirsty, and now he couldn't hear. He needed
a break. 

He looked up as a dark sedan stopped by the
burned-out car, and two men exited, both wearing
the now familiar guard uniform. This was his
opportunity. He dug in the pockets of his waist
pouch and quickly armed himself. Two well-balanced
throwing knives appeared in his hands, two
stars went into his mouth, clutched between
his teeth. 

Keeping low, he made his way across the road,
and knelt near the rear bumper of the sedan. He
edged around the back of the vehicle, and eyed
the two men talking by the front of the wrecked
car. With a mighty roar, albeit soundless to him,
he rose and launched the two knives at the men.
The first landed dead center and the man went
down. The other man whirled at the last second
and twisted away, catching the knife in the arm.
He turned to face Skinner, then pulled the knife
from his arm, and bowed. 

Oh, shit! Not this. I really do not need this
Chuck Norris shit. Skinner bowed back, hand
searching frantically in his waist pouch, and
when he pulled himself erect again, he pointed
the small gun at the man, and fired. 

This time, the man went down. 

Skinner sighed. There was no more thrill to killing --
it had become nothing more than a means to an
end, and a disheartening means at that. He stumbled
forward to the driver's door, then looked in and saw the
keys still in the ignition. Slipping into the car, he
moved the seat back to accommodate his long legs,
turned the key and pulled the car in a sharp U to
head back to where he'd left Mulder and the children. 

He parked as close as he could, leaving the car on the
wrong side of the road with flashers going, and made
his way back into the woods. Moving quickly, he
searched for his hiding place of bushes, then halted
abruptly as he saw Steven walking to the side of the
bushes, the baby pulling him by her leash. 

The child looked up at him, a smile on his face and
began to speak, but Skinner couldn't hear any of it.
As he watched, the boy's face fell, and he slowly
stopped talking, and then stopped moving. Tears
were hovering in the child's eyes again, and Skinner
had no idea what had happened. 

He knelt and beckoned the boy to come closer.
Steven picked up the baby, and then moved
slowly toward Skinner. When he was directly
in front of the kneeling man, Skinner said, "Steven,
I'm not mad at you. There was an explosion and
I was hurt a little. I can't hear you right now, but
I'm not mad. Do you understand?" 

The boy was talking again, but his head was
nodding as well, and the smile was back. Skinner
nodded back, then pushed himself to his feet.
There was a tug at his waist and he looked down
to see the boy pointing at his back, a worried
look on his little face. 

"I know. It's all right. Don't worry about me.
Are you ready to go? Is Mulder awake?" 

The boy nodded then shook his head and Skinner
took that to mean he was ready to go and Mulder
was *not* awake. He looked at the boy again.
"Has Mul -- er, Fox, been sleeping the whole time
I was gone?" 

The boy nodded again, and Skinner felt the
worry clutch at his heart, but he forced a
smile for the child. "You were very clever
to keep Jessie occupied while I was gone for
so long. I'm very proud of you, Steven." 

The boy raced the few feet between them, and
threw his arms around Skinner's legs, burying
his face in his thigh and began to cry. When
Skinner winced and pulled away, the boy stepped
back, and then looked at the blood on his arms,
Skinner's blood, and began to cry even harder.
That set the baby off, and Skinner tumbled to his
knees and tugged both children to his chest. 

"Shh," he soothed, "shhh now. It's all right. We're
almost home. Hush, now, hush. We're all going
to be all right." It took some time but the children
settled and Skinner was finally able to go and
free Mulder from beneath the bushes. 

He dragged the travois up to the car, loaded his
unconscious agent in back, piled the children into
the front, then made one more trip for the pack.
The pack with the vials that had started this whole
chain of events. The last thing he did was slice the
side of the pack open and pull out his ID. He had
a feeling he was going to need it. 

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

The drive to the hospital took over an hour. The children
sat beside him, as still as two children could be, sharing
a seat belt. It was the best he could do for safety. 

By the time they reached the city, and he had to begin to
negotiate turns, trying desperately to follow the blue
signs with the large H, indicating hospital, he was weaving
all over the road. He was praying for a cop to stop him,
anything, just so that someone else could take over for
a while and he could rest. 

Finally, he could see the hospital in the distance. Signs
to the ER swam in and out of his vision, competing with
the darkness that was threatening to overtake him again.
There was a circular drive in front of the ER doors and
Skinner wanted to be sure he was close. He knew he wouldn't
be able to walk again. He was going to have to rely on
the hospital personnel. 

He aimed for the door, disregarding the flower-beds that
lay between him and his goal, then handed his ID to Steven.
"Give this to the people in the hospital, Steven. It's got
my name on it. And tell them who Fox is. Fox Mulder." 

Steven nodded and Skinner said, "Good boy, now hold onto
the baby," and the car bumped through the flower-beds,
across the drive, through the glass doors of the ER, and came
to a stop against the sign-in counter, where insurance
information was collected. Skinner's head dropped to the
wheel, and the horn began to blow. 

But he was aware of none of it. The big man had finally
given in, and he was unconscious. 

End part 07/08 

What Cost, Friendship? 08/08 

The first thing he noticed was a beeping sound, and he
lay still, trying to figure out what was so odd about the
sound. It finally hit him, and his eyes popped open. He
could hear it! 

He turned his head to look around, and pain lanced
through his skull. His eyes slid shut of their own
accord, and a soft alto said, "Bet that hurt, didn't it, Sir?" 

Skinner forced his eyes open again, and focused on
a very familiar face. "Agent Scully," he began formally,
but she cut him off. 

"Do not take that tone with me," she began. "I will not
be placated with your AD act. What the *hell* did you
two think you were doing?" 

"Mulder?" he asked, trying desperately to shift the
attention anywhere but on himself. 

"Don't get me involved," said a voice from the other
bed. "I've sat through two days of her lectures. It's
your turn." 

"Mulder is fine," Scully answered him. "Well, as fine
as someone who walked three miles on a broken femur
can be." 

"I can hear," Skinner said. 

"Yes, and you have no idea how lucky you are. Whatever
blast you were caught in could have ruptured your tympanic
membranes and you could have been permanently deaf." 

"Enough!" Skinner raised his hand, IV and all. "I appreciate
your concern," he smiled wryly, "though you do find a rather
odd way of expressing it, but I will not be bullied in my sick
bed." He rolled on his side, turned his back to her, and closed
his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep again. 

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

The next time he woke, there was a nice, objective
doctor by his bed, and she answered all his questions
with no commentary. Yes, he had a concussion.
Yes, he had a pretty severe scalp laceration, hence the
bleeding. He'd needed stitches in several places to
close gashes from the explosions. His ankle was,
indeed, sprained. And while there was still a slight
ringing in his ears, his hearing should be completely
normal within a few weeks at most. The burns were
a little more problematic, and the IV was to make
sure he didn't become dehydrated. 

"When can I go home?" he asked, and the doctor
laughed. 

"You sound like your friend over there," and she
pointed at Mulder's empty bed. 

"Is he gone already?" Skinner asked. 

"No. His wife took him down to pediatrics to see the
children." 

Skinner's heart leapt into his throat. "The children?
Were the children hurt?" 

"Just minor cuts and abrasions from the car wreck.
You totaled our ER, by the way. Social services is
searching for the kids' parents and since they *were*
injured, and the little boy was almost hysterical at
the thought of leaving you, we just kept them here.
They've come up to see you several times, but you
must have been sleeping." 

"How long?" 

"Two days." There was a noise at the door and she
turned to look. "Ah, we were just talking about you."
She turned back to Skinner. "You've got visitors.
Don't exert yourself." She patted his hand and left. 

Scully pushed the wheelchair in, and rolled Mulder
up next to the bed. Jess was seated on his lap, and
she immediately crawled over the rail and plopped
down on Skinner's chest. 

"Wa-tah!" she cried happily. "Wa-tah, Wa-tah,
Wa-tah!" She leaned over and planted a sloppy baby
kiss right on his nose. 

"Jess," he sighed. He checked her over, noting only
a few small band-aids and a couple of bruises. He lifted
her little hand and kissed one of the bruises. "I'm
so sorry, Jess," he whispered. 

"Jess got owie," she said, and then snuggled down
against his chest. 

"Where the hell are my glasses?" Skinner demanded,
and was rewarded when Scully handed them to him,
and Mulder chuckled softly, saying, "Language, Sir." 

"Oh, yes, well," Skinner cleared his throat. "Where's
Steven?" 

"I'm here," said a small voice from behind Scully.
He stepped forward slowly, and stood staring at the
man in the bed. "Are you all right, Walter?" 

"I'm fine, Steven. How are you?" Skinner struggled
to sit up and was grateful when Scully pushed a button
and the bed began to move. 

The little boy touched a bandage on his brow. "I
banged my head," he said seriously. 

"I see," Skinner responded in the same serious tone.
"Does it hurt?" 

"Some. But I'm tough, like you. I can take it." 

Skinner swallowed hard, then wiped his eyes to clear
the sudden blur that had arisen. "Would you like to
come sit on the bed with me, Steven?" he asked. 

The little boy nodded and then clambered over the
rail before Scully could help him. He sat on both knees
next to Walter and looked at him gravely. "You
don't look so good, Walter," he offered. "Are you sure
you're all right?" 

Skinner chuckled and nodded. "I'm just fine now,
Steven, just fine." 

"We'll see about that," Scully grumbled under her breath,
and Steven leaned down to whisper in Skinner's ear. 

"Dana's really mad at you and Fox. Did you leave without
asking permission?" 

Skinner laughed out loud at that, and Mulder joined him.
"See Scully, even Steven has your number," Mulder teased,
and Scully had the grace to blush. 

Jessie had fallen asleep on Skinner's chest, and he suddenly
felt that was a wonderful idea. He patted Steven's back,
and the boy laid down with him as well. Skinner looked over
at Mulder and Scully and shrugged, then closed his eyes
as well. Just before he fell asleep, he offered, "You know,
the doctors think Scully is your wife, Mulder. Why do
you suppose that is?" 

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

Three days later and they were to be discharged the next
day. The children had come to visit several times, every
day, and all the staff commented on how they had bonded
with the two FBI men. Mulder would be in the wheelchair
for several more weeks before he would be allowed to
start using the crutches. Skinner had to suppress a
twinge of guilt every time he looked at the man. There
really had been no other way. His own wounds were
healing nicely, but he would carry reminders of
the burns on his back from now on. 

There was still no word on the children's parents though.
Jess was too young to give a full name, but her picture
and description had been faxed all over the country.
Steven Miller however, should not have been so difficult
to trace. 

They were all down in the pediatrics playroom. Mulder
and Steven were playing checkers and Jess was sitting
on Skinner's lap, when the social worker came in. She
walked to Skinner and said in a quiet voice. "We
believe we've found Steven's parents. They're outside,
but I wanted to give you and Agent Mulder a chance to
prepare him, since he's so fond of you both." 

Skinner nodded. He knew this day would come. Hell,
he wanted this day to come. But it still didn't change the
sudden pain in his heart at the thought of not seeing these
two -- his hand stroked the baby's hair -- each day. "Hey,
Steven," he called, "can you take a break and come talk
to me?" 

Steven nodded and Mulder looked up curiously. When
the boy reached his side, Skinner said, "There are some
people here, and we think they're your parents. Are
you ready to see them?" 

The boy's eyes had lit up at the mention of his parents
and he was craning his head at the door. So much for
wanting to prepare him. He was ready. 

The door opened and a small, blonde woman entered,
followed by a short, also fair-haired man. The woman
immediately burst into tears and fell to her knees, calling,
"Stevie, Stevie." The man dropped beside her and
Steven ran to their outstretched arms, crying as well. 

When Steven began to cry, Jess did too, and Skinner
missed much of the rest of the reunion as he tried to
calm the distraught baby. When Steven had finally
settled, snuggled in his mother's lap, his father's
arms still wrapped around him, only then did Jess
settle as well. 

She looked up at Skinner and demanded, "Down,"
then toddled over to the sofa when he released her. 

"Teeben," she said, standing before the couch.
"Teeben. Get Jess up." 

Steven extracted himself from his parents' arms
and lifted the baby up. Skinner was staring at the
group. The two children, both tall for their age
and dark, and the two adults, the woman only
about five feet tall, the man not much taller. Both
blue-eyed and blonde. There was no biological
connection here, but they seemed to love Steven. 

And now they had made room to include Jess
in their little family group. The baby seemed to
fit right in. Skinner nodded at Scully, and she
pushed Mulder to the door of the playroom.
Skinner followed, and couldn't resist the urge
to turn and take one last lingering look at the
children who'd slipped into his heart. 

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

They were packed and ready to leave. Though
Mulder and Skinner had flown out, Scully had
rented a car and they were driving back. She
was adamant that he not drive, but he felt sure
he'd be able to change her mind once they were
on the road. A two day drive would be enough
to make anyone want to share the driving. 

Mulder was in his wheelchair, the pack with
the vials had been returned from the local police,
and they were set to go. Scully had been kind
enough to go to the local K-Mart and pick up
a few clothes for both men, so they were at least
able to leave in something other than hospital
gowns. 

Mulder seemed to have a knack with Scully.
He didn't contradict her when she lectured, agreed
with her continual assessment that all men were
idiots, and didn't complain when she fussed over
him. After two days of non-stop arguing with
her, Skinner had finally adopted Mulder's approach,
and his life had become much more pleasant. 

As they waited in the lobby for Scully to bring
the car around, Skinner was surprised to see
Steven and his mother walk up. His mother was
holding Jess, and the baby was smiling contentedly. 

"Hi, Wa-tah," she said, and Steven translated for
his mom. "That's how she says Walter." He scampered
over to Skinner and threw his arms around him.
"Hi Walter," he echoed the baby. "Guess what?" 

Skinner laughed. "What?" 

"Jess is coming home to live at my house!" 

Skinner lifted his eyes to Steven's mother. "What?
How?" he asked. 

She laughed and came to sit with them, acknowledging
Mulder as she joined Skinner on the bench. The baby
reached out for Mulder this time, and he took her happily.
She reached up and grabbed his nose, saying, "Pox, Pox,
Pox," and Mulder gently removed her hand as his eyes
began to water. 

"There's no word on her parents and she was going to
have to be placed with foster parents. Since we're already
approved, and Steven is so fond of her, Tom and I asked
if she could come home with us." She shrugged. "I couldn't
bear to tell Steven no, and he was determined not to leave
without her." 

"I suspected Steven was not your biological child,
but you haven't completed the adoption?" Skinner asked. 

"Steven was found abandoned at the hospital where I
work when he was about Jessie's age. He knew his
name, but that was about it. There's been a waiting
period before he is totally cleared for adoption." 

"So your name is not Miller?" Skinner asked. 

"Oh, no," she laughed. "Poor child. He's gonna have to
learn how to spell LaFreniere. But he's so smart -- he
won't have any trouble I'm sure. He was reading by three
and can remember anything he sees." 

"And you're not sure of his age then either?" 

"No, we just celebrate the day we got him as his birthday.
Just like we'll celebrate today as Jessie's until her real
parents turn up." 

Just then, Scully and Tom Miller -- no, Tom LeFreniere --
walked in. "Did you hear," she started to say, then took
in the picture before her. "Oh, of course you did." 

Skinner shook hands with the parents and wished them
well. They were all invited to come and visit again, and
Skinner could see Mulder was already making plans to
do so when his leg healed. Maybe he would ride along
as well. 

Kisses and hugs were exchanged between all the FBI
agents and the children, and Scully received extra
instructions from Steven. "Don't fuss at Walter and
Fox too much, Dana. I'm sorry they were bad and didn't
tell you where they were going --" the child snuck a look
at his own mother -- "but I'm glad they came and got me
and Jess." 

Scully laughed and hugged the little boy. "OK, Steven,
no more fussing. But they better remember the rules
next time." 

At last it was time to leave. The LaFreniere's took their
children and went on to their car. Scully gathered up the
men's few belongings and piled them on Mulder's lap. 

"You ready, Sir?" she asked, interrupting Skinner's
reverie. 

"Oh, yes," he said, looking up from the folder he had
been reviewing. He'd ordered blood tests on the children
and then had the lab compare them with Mulder's
file. Inside this folder was the result. He smiled as
he closed the folder and stood. "Yes, indeed, Agent
Scully. I am ready." 

As he followed his two agents to the car, all he could
think was, 'Mulder is the Dutch form of Miller.' 

*********

Subject: The Price of a Soul (2/3)
Date: Sat, 3 Apr 1999


Title: The Price of a Soul 04/09
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and language
Category: SAH
Spoilers: None
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; est MSR
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 exceedingly 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/
While you're there, take a minute to sign the guest book, and
drop a note to Shirley. Tell her how great she is! 

Thanks: I have been remiss in not thanking my beta readers of
late. It is not that I don't appreciate them, I do, but I sometimes
struggle to find adequate ways to express exactly how valuable
they are. I am blessed to have received some wonderfully
flattering feedback on my stories. Comments that range from
praise of my characterizations to enjoyment of my detail work.
But invariably, I also hear from at least one person who remarks
that my stories are *easy* to read. That they are clear, and clean,
and well-punctuated, with appropriate grammar usage and proper
spelling and good continuity. These are things I value as a reader,
and I know how easy it is to be distracted by a misplaced comma,
an incorrectly used homonym, a misspelled word, or incorrect verb
tense. If you appreciate good *style,* as I do, then join me in
thanking Vickie, Susan, Dee, Sonal, Judie, and Michelle.
It is their hard work and effort that keeps my stories clean. 

Summary: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner go to visit the children and
their adoptive parents only to find tragedy has struck and the
children are missing. 

Third story in the "Retrieval" universe. Follows "Retrieval"
and "What Cost, Friendship." 

The Price of a Soul 04/09 

Skinner limped down the hill to the staging area
where the children had been brought. Ranging in
age from very young to early teens, they sat in small
groups, older ones holding some of the younger ones.
He could see bandages on those who had been
treated, bruises and blood still visible on many.
He scanned the faces as he moved through the
area, stopping now and then to speak quietly to
a worried child or try to calm one crying. 

After his third stop to quell a child's tears, he thought
back on his comments to Mulder from three
days ago. How he wasn't very good with children.
He smiled inwardly, murmuring something
soothing to the four year old he held in his arms
before passing the boy back to a medical tech.
Steven and Jess had changed him. 

He scanned the area again, still hoping against
hope to see a familiar face. It was no good. She
wasn't here. He dropped his head, fighting to
control the sudden urge to scream in frustration,
the need to break something, to hurt someone,
knowing that he needed to keep his cool. He was
about to turn, to retrace his steps back to the
command post and wait for word on Mulder
when a small hand touched his leg. It was a
gentle touch, just below his bandage, and a tiny
voice said, "Got owie, Wa - tah?" His heart
leapt and he looked down to see a small, worried
face looking up at him. 

"Jess!" He reached down to her and she came
gladly into his arms. "Jess," he said more softly,
his face buried in her soot-filled hair. She curled
into his shoulder, one chubby arm reaching around
his collar, thumb going into her mouth. Her
fingers played with the wisps of hair at the nape
of his neck and he could feel a sudden moistness
on his face. 

Jessica pulled back and studied him seriously,
then asked, "Cwyin' Wa - tah?" 

Skinner nodded slowly and pulled the baby's
head back down to his shoulder, gently patting
her back. " 's OK, Jess, it's going to be OK." 

" 'kay, Wa-tah," she said, sniffling now, and
he realized his own reaction had upset her.
He continued to hold her, his eyes still scanning
the area, noting the children with vivid bruises
and bloodstained clothes. There were even a few
with broken limbs and he had to wonder if all the
damage had occurred in the collapse of the
tunnels. Seeing the others' injuries, he was
suddenly aware of the fragility of the child in
his arms. His friend's child. Mulder's child. 

He drew back to look at her again, scrutinizing
her tired little face, and asked, "Are you OK, Jessie?" 

She nodded soberly, and tried to lay down on his
shoulder again, comforted by a familiar presence,
but he was still concerned. "Do you have an
owie, Jess?" he tried again. 

She nodded again, pulling her little shirt up to point
to a livid bruise on her ribcage. "Owie," she
whispered, and his heart seemed to leap into his
throat. Oh God, what if she was seriously hurt?
He'd never be able to face Mulder again. 

"Medic!" he bellowed, immediately murmuring
to the baby when she jumped at his roar. "Shhh,
I'm sorry, baby, it's OK now. I've got you. Walter's
got you." He looked up again, a female EMT
standing before him. "Check her, please," he said,
and started to pass the baby over, but she began to
cry, clinging to him and calling, "No, Wa - tah,
no! Jess tay Wa - tah." 

"Perhaps you should hold her, sir," the woman
suggested. "She seems attached to you now. You
can help keep her calm." 

The baby was crying now, and Skinner felt like
a heel for frightening her. He spent several more
minutes calming her again, then limped to the
side of the staging area and found an equipment
box to sit on. With Jessie sitting in his lap,
he watched as the medic assessed and then treated
her injuries, giving thanks that they were all
fairly superficial. As the last bandage was applied,
his radio crackled and Snipes came through. 

"It's getting worse, Sir. I think you're needed
back up here." 

Skinner looked at the medic and she nodded.
He rose, still holding Jessica, and spoke into
the radio. "On my way." The hike back up the
small hill to the command post was no easier
than the trip down, but it seemed so, even though
he was now carrying an extra 25 pounds or so.
He looked down at the baby, almost asleep on
his shoulder, and sighed. It was because of that
extra 25 pounds that his heart was light and
filled with hope now. If Mulder managed to
reach Steven, they would have both the children.
He frowned then, knowing that while recovering
the children was important, it was good, hell, it
was *wonderful,* it wasn't everything. He still
had an agent out there, still missing, perhaps
injured, and Mulder wouldn't survive if Scully
wasn't found. His commitment to her was complete,
and nothing, not even his own children, would
ever be able to fill the empty places that she did. 

Skinner sighed again, then laughed at the look
Snipes gave him as he reached the summit.
"My agent's kid," he said gruffly. "The reason
we were out here to begin with. The boy is his,
too." 

Snipes' eyes grew wide but he said nothing. The
ground suddenly heaved beneath them, a giant
undulating wave that upset boxes, knocked men
off their feet and threatened to uproot the very
trees. The comm tech looked up, concerned. "That
last blast must have blown the antennae. I can't hear
a thing anymore." 

Skinner considered the irony. The baby slept now,
the trust of the truly innocent allowing her to rest
and let him take care of things. He pulled on a strap,
trying to make the vest more comfortable, and not
succeeding. He decided it was his own helplessness
chafing at him. Not that he had lost control of this
operation; he had never really been in control. NSA
would handle any investigation that came out of this.
Despite his ability to force Bureau involvement, even
his level of authority would not be enough to supplant
the NSA. 

However the NSA decided to cover this up, whatever
*this* was, there was still one question remaining:
What about the children? 

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

Muffled against the Kevlar vest, Mulder could
not tell if Steven still breathed or if his heart beat,
but his own hammered against his ribs like a
wild thing trying to break free of a cage. At his heels,
with a sound like that of an oncoming freight
train, the chaos of fire gained on them. His
own fear of flame was returning, threatening to
drag him down and make him useless. His eyes
began to burn, the reek of smoke filled his nostrils
and stung them. He began to talk to Steven,
comfort and encouragement for the child, the same
for himself. 

"Hang in there, Steven, just hold on. I've got you,
you're safe now. Just hold on a little longer, baby."
The endearment slipped out and for a moment he
was stunned by his own words, but they felt right,
and he hugged the featherweight body tightly as if
the embrace would slow the bleeding, bind the
wounds he had no time to attend. 

He twisted his way through the corridors,
reaching the cave-in. The air here seemed a little
clearer. He slowed, the adrenaline rush of the search
for Steven fading now, fatigue dogging his movements.
Mulder shifted Steven's limp weight in his arms and
mopped his face with the back of his sleeve. His
belly was bleeding again, and he could feel the
lightheadedness of blood loss, only being held back
by sheer determination. How long did he have until
the needs of the flesh overcame his stubbornness?
A tiny draft of coolness played against the heat of
his brow and he turned toward it instinctively. 

"It's all right, Steven. We're almost there." He
tucked the boy under his chin, and the exhalation
of his words ruffled the baby fine hairs on his head,
tickling his neck. The child stirred slightly, as if gaining
awareness. "Almost there," Mulder repeated
encouragingly. 

But then he stopped in his tracks. No way could he
pass through the crawlway holding Steven. Even
if he took off the bulky vest and held him tightly
to his chest, there wouldn't be enough room. He
would be trapped between the wall and debris. He
took two quick breaths, thinking, deciding. He would
have to go first and pull the boy after, as quickly and as
carefully as he could. 

He stepped past the cave-in, then into the cleft in
the wall, telling Steven what he was doing as he
did it. "This is narrow here, baby. I can't go through
holding you, but I am *not* leaving you. I'm going to
pull you in after me. Don't be afraid. I'm not leaving
you. I've got you and you're safe." 

He laid him down, easing the fragile body to the
ground with utmost care. Steven stirred, eyelids fluttering,
opening, veins like marble tracings on them, and then
he looked at him, fear and uncertainty slowly being
replaced with confidence and trust. 

"It's all right," Mulder murmured. 

Steven's lips moved soundlessly, so he raised the child
up again and cradled him close, his ear to the boy's
mouth. He trembled in his arms and slowly repeated,
"Like Walter. He wouldn't leave me either." 

Mulder swallowed hard and nodded, thinking how
incredible that this child could still trust, could still
have faith. 

"I'm going to get you out, Steven," Mulder said, and
watched as the boy's chin moved, ever so slightly, in
the affirmative. He squeezed him, a last hug before
he spoke. "I have to put you down, just for a minute.
I'm too big to get through if I carry you. You have
to be brave a bit longer, Steven, OK?" 

The boy entwined a slender arm tightly around his neck,
fear resurfacing in the face of being put down. 

"I'm here." Mulder kissed his brow despite the dirt
and smoke smudge and faint taste of blood. "I'm not
going to leave you," he repeated. He knelt to position
him again. Steven clung to him with a wiry strength
that both gladdened and saddened him. He still had
strength in him, despite his torture, his hurts, his fear.
Mulder peeled away his arm and quickly stepped away,
holding his hand, their arms linking them as he
extended. Then he let go entirely. 

The loss of contact with his son, his touch, his warmth,
was like a physical blow, and he staggered. A coldness
swarmed him, and he could smell anew the acridness of
smoke. The tunnel shook with a faint booming, another
explosion, and he could hear the concrete and gravel begin
to slide, the ground shaking beneath his feet. Steven
let out a shrill cry. 

Mulder pushed through the narrow passage, then flung
himself down on his stomach, disregarding his own
pain, and reached back in, praying that he had not
underestimated the distance. Another blast rocked through
walls and floor, and the mound next to him shifted,
dirt drifting down. Mulder coughed harshly as he shoved
himself deep into the cleft, reaching, fingers splayed out,
touching ... nothing. 

Oh, God! The panic gripped him and he forgot to
breathe for a moment. He had to be there! He
couldn't have moved. Couldn't have crawled back
into the intersection. Couldn't be gone, not beyond
his reach. He lay on his flank, twisting his neck,
unable to see, his reach one of faith and hope. 

"Steven! Take my hand! I'll pull you through.
C'mon, baby! Hurry!" 

A third blast, so much closer his ears rang with
it. Dirt skidded in earnest, faster and faster, raining
down on him, filling his mouth as he shouted for
the child. 

"Take my hand! C'mon, Steven. Reach for it!
You have to try!" 

He thrust himself in as far as he could, gasping
and choking, straining, hands, fingers, searching
blindly. Then, a tiny touch upon his fingertips. A
whisper of sound carried through -- "Fox ..." He
seized on it. 

"I'm here, Steven," he called. "I'm here." 

Yes! Smaller fingers, chilled ones, and he captured
them and swallowed them up with his hand, hungry
for the child's touch. He had him! His whole hand,
and then, his wrist. Slowly, carefully, he began to
crawl backward. Debris shifted and showered him with
every movement. Jammed between concrete and gravel
and dirt, he could see little as he inched his way back out.
The partial cave-in gave way, cascading down, its weight
dropping onto him, threatening to bury them both. Surging
upward in the violent heaves of floor and walls, a piece
of metal rebar jabbed into the shoulder of his vest -- searing
pain -- snagging him immobile. 

He squeezed his right hand tighter around Steven's wrist.
"I've got you. This is the tough part. Don't let go!"
Squirming, he got his left arm free and tugged at the
stubborn end of the rebar. The twisted metal had impaled
him like a javelin. In his right hand, he could feel Steven
go suddenly limp. Had the dirt smothered him? 

"NO! Steven!" He shook the boy as hard as he
could with only one hand on a still, thin wrist. "Wake
up, you've got to wake up, and *don't let go!*" Fear
rocketed through him. He gave a mighty heave, and
the rebar ripped through flesh and the edge of the Kevlar
vest and then he was free. He clamped down even
harder on Steven's wrist, so hard, he knew he was
bruising him, risked cutting off circulation, afraid to
grip him any less tightly. 

With one last massive pull, Steven's thin form
slipped through, as the tunnel shuddered one
last time, like a dying animal, its gasp an endless
shower as it imploded on itself, trying to suck them
under. Mulder gathered the child up and staggered down
the tunnel, blind in the swirl of dust and smoke.
Fear dried his mouth. The collapsing tunnel spat
him out like Jonah from the mouth of the whale, in
a spurt of smoke and ashes, his marker showing him
the way to the surface. He clambered up the gully,
shouting and coughing. 

Hands reached for him and he could hear, finally,
something besides the ringing explosions. They
drew him up and out and someone took Steven from
his arms, throwing a blanket over him. Someone else
eased the vest from his shoulder, saying, "Jesus
Christ, look at this hole, he's been shot --" but the
words did not sink in. He could not have been
shot, it was the rebar, it must have been but it did
not matter. 

"Steven!" He pulled away from the hands and reeled
after the child until they reached clear air. He turned
and saw billowing smoke geysering up from the hole
in the ground and realized how close to disaster they
had truly been. Nothing could have breathed in that
inferno. Agents drew him with them, the grass dewed
with silvery streaks, and fresh morning light shone
down on them, and he went to his knees, blinking in
exhaustion, as they laid Steven gently down. 

Like an apparition out of nowhere, Skinner was
suddenly there, a looming presence, familiar and
comforting. The AD knelt, his injured leg making it
awkward, and reached out to steady Mulder as he
swayed. "What the hell am I going to do with you?" 

Mulder looked at him, saw the compassion and
concern, and would have answered, but he found
it difficult to breathe. Skinner was totally focused
on him and Mulder could see the man was making
his own assessment. He wouldn't want to wager on
his chances of avoiding a hospital stay this time. One
strong hand still held his arm, oblivious to the sleeping
baby tucked securely in the other. He started to laugh
at the sight, but a spasm of coughing kept him down
until he could finally draw a clear breath. He paused,
looked around, and realized there were bodies on the
ground. "Scully?" 

Skinner shook his head slowly, and Mulder started
to ask about Jess, but a child's whimper interrupted.
"Steven!" 

He crawled to his side and his hands, God bless his
hands, they knew what to do as they gently straightened
the boy's tangled limbs and brushed his hair from his
face. 

Steven gave a rattling breath, and color came back into
his paler than pale skin. He reached for Mulder's
hand, and wove their fingers together, his tiny ones
almost lost in Mulder's long, elegant ones. "Be
careful," Steven whispered. "Be careful." 

Skinner leaned forward. "Shhh," he soothed, and
Steven looked up at the big man. "Walter," he
whispered. "Fox said you were here." He blinked
in confusion, then a smile blossomed on his grubby
face. "And you found Jessie." 

His gaze flicked from Mulder to Skinner and back
to Mulder. He tightened his hand about Mulder's
and reached for Skinner with the other one. "Be very
careful," he whispered again, his eyes sliding shut
once more, hands going limp. 

Skinner put his hand on Mulder's good shoulder.
"He's in shock. Medical's on the way." He leaned
over and caught Mulder in a hug, holding him awkwardly
careful of both the sleeping baby he held and the
injuries Mulder sported. "He's alive! You did good,
Mulder, you did so good!" 

Mulder nodded, inordinately pleased to have the praise
and admiration of this man he respected. He nodded
again, wordlessly, suddenly growing lightheaded and dizzy,
darkness threatening the edge of his vision. He had
gotten Steven this far. And Skinner had Jess. He gently
broke from Skinner's embrace and leaned over Steven
again. "You're alive, son. You're safe, and you're alive." 

He lifted his head to meet Skinner's eyes. "But now --
where is Scully?" 

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

Skinner woke suddenly to wiggling weight landing
on his chest. He groaned softly and was answered by
a high pitched giggle, echoed by a voice to his side. 

"Steven," he said in mock sternness, "didn't I tell
you not to get Jessie out of the crib?" 

"She was getting whiny, Walter," the boy explained.
"She isn't used to having to stay in the crib once
she wakes up." The child's tone turned wistful.
"At home, she had a regular bed, only smaller.
Mama worried because she was always climbing
out of the crib and she was afraid she'd fall and
hurt herself." 

"So they got her a regular bed?" Skinner asked,
one hand gently hanging onto the baby as he
hitched to the side to make room for Steven to
climb up. 

"Yeah," the boy said sadly. "She only had it
a couple weeks but she really liked it." He
lay down beside Skinner, head resting on the
AD's shoulder, and Skinner stretched an arm
around him. "Walter? Jessica and me, we're
not going to get to go home, are we?" 

Skinner swallowed and looked over at the fourth
bed in the room. Mulder was sleeping, the IV
administered pain meds keeping him under. No
help from that quarter. He rubbed the boy's back.
"No, Steven, you're not," he said quietly. 

"Because the bad men hurt Mama and Daddy?" 

"Yes." 

"They killed them, didn't they?" 

Skinner swallowed again, still rubbing the boy's
back. He wasn't prepared for this. He would never
be prepared for this. Who could expect to have to
be prepared for this conversation? "You know
your mom and dad love you a lot, don't you Steven?"
he asked gently. 

"Yeah. That's why they were 'dopting me." He
paused a moment, thinking. "We were gonna have
a party -- to celebrate." 

"I know. It's a good thing to celebrate." 

"They love Jessie, too. They were gonna 'dopt her
when she was old enough." The boy sniffled, and
buried his head in Skinner's chest. From her place
on his other side, he could feel the baby begin to stir
fretfully, worried by Steven's obvious agitation.
"But they won't now. The bad men killed them." 

"Yes, Steven, the bad men killed them." 

The child was silent for a long time, and Skinner
could do nothing but hold him and hope that his
presence was comfort of some sort. Finally, the
boy looked up, meeting Skinner's eyes. "What's
going to happen to me and Jess?" he asked, tears
hovering in his eyes. 

"For now, you're going to stay with me and
Fox," Skinner said reassuringly. They all turned
to look at the man still sleeping in the other bed.
Jessica sat up again, using the hospital bed rail
to pull herself up. 

"Shhh," she whispered. "Pox seepin' now." 

Skinner laughed quietly. "Yep, Fox is still sleeping,"
he echoed. 

"We're gonna stay with you?" Steven asked again,
needing to hear the words. This child had been
through so much, his whole world shattered. Skinner
was glad to be able to offer him this much. 

"Absolutely. For now, you stay with us." 

"Where's Dana?" the boy asked. "When is she coming?" 

Skinner froze. How to answer this one? He played
several options through his mind and finally settled on
honesty. 

"Steven? Do you remember when Dana came? Before
the bad men?" 

"Yeah ..." the boy answered, slightly uncertain. 

"And then what happened?" 

"We played. She said you and Fox were coming later."
He paused, brow furrowing as he thought back. "Mom
fixed dinner and we ate." He sucked in a gasp of air,
trying mightily to stifle a cry. "Then the bad men came." 

"Do you remember what happened to Dana?" 

The little face puckered again, thinking hard. "They
brought her with us," he said finally. "They hit her --
hard -- and then she was sleeping, but they picked her
up and carried her out to the van with me and Jess.
She was fighting but they were really big men. And
they hit her on the head. They didn't bring Mama and
Daddy," he added sadly. 

The boy cuddled closer and Skinner held him tight.
Bandages stood out in stark contrast to the boy's
darker coloring -- Mulder's coloring he thought to
himself. Around both wrists, beneath the hospital
gown, on his chest, and on both legs, razor sharp
cuts had been cleaned and dressed in white gauze.
He'd been cleaned up, given a bath and Skinner
could smell the clean scent of baby shampoo from
both children. He tucked the child in tighter, wishing
he could take away the pain, set things back to the
way they were before. 

"I tried to fight them, Walter," Steven said in a
small voice. "I tried hard. I kicked and I hit, but
the man just picked me up. I was trying so hard ..." 

"You were very brave, Steven," Skinner said,
waging his own battle with the lump in his throat.
"You are the bravest boy I know." He was hugging
the child, wondering where the conversation would
go next, when a nurse walked briskly into the room. 

"In with you again, I see, Mr. Skinner," she said,
smiling. 

"We like Walter," Steven said defensively. 

"Like Wa - tah," Jess echoed. 

"I know you do," the woman said soothingly, "but
you know I need you in your own beds to look at
your boo-boos." 

Steven rolled his eyes. "You mean my injuries,"
he corrected. "I don't call them boo-boos anymore." 

The woman smiled again. "Well, then, into your
own bed so I can check your injuries, young man."
She came to the side of Skinner's bed and let the rail
down. "And you really shouldn't let them climb
over the rail, Mr. Skinner," she admonished. "It's
just not safe." 

"I know," he answered, abashed. "But they snuck
up on me." 

Steven had climbed down and padded over to his
bed. Skinner watched as the boy jumped up into
his bed, not seeming to feel any discomfort from
the numerous cuts and abrasions on his body. The
nurse produced an aural thermometer and Steven
tolerated having the thing in his ear with obvious
distaste. He handled the dressing changes better,
but Skinner could tell his patience was wearing
thin by the time it was done. 

"When's breakfast?" he asked as soon as the nurse
turned away. 

"Soon," she promised as she came back to Skinner's
bed, scooping Jessica up to do her exam. "You must
have a lot of pull," she said jokingly to Skinner. "I've
never seen the hospital allow children to stay with
adults -- not even family members injured in the same
trauma." 

Skinner gave her a warning look, then said quietly,
"We wanted to be with the kids." It was the truth,
but it belied the whole story. The story that had
involved hours of explanations and phone calls, and
was the reason the four of them were sharing a
hospital room with two guards outside the door. 

The nurse finished with Jess and put her down on
the floor, watching as she toddled over to the
impromptu play area they had established in one
corner of the ward room. The only play room
was on Pediatrics, and there was no way Skinner
was allowing the children out of his sight. He
was determined they were all staying right here,
together, until Mulder was well enough to be
discharged and they could all leave together.
Then they would have to deal with the legalities
of custody. And the realities of the same. 

And then, the search for Scully could begin. 

End part 04/09 

The Price of a Soul 05/09 

Scully awoke. That groggy feeling that often came from
being drugged was fogging her mind, clouding her thoughts,
making it difficult to get a clear assessment of her situation.
She lay on a tattered old cot. The smell of mildew thick
beneath her nose. Her hands were bound cruelly behind
her back. And she could feel wire within the cords that
secured her. Her fingers were numb and she wiggled them
uselessly trying to restore sensation. The room was dim.
The only light coming in was through a narrow grimy
window tucked up close to the low ceiling. Wiggling on
the bed, on the cot, she surveyed the room and decided
she was in a basement. Concrete floor and rough
cinderblock walls that glinted with the moisture that
sweat through the brick. The room was quiet. No
sound to be heard. 

Fighting the chemically induced cloud in her mind,
she thought back on the events that led to this. The
trip out to the LaFreniere's had been uneventful. She
had enjoyed an afternoon with the children and dinner
with the family before hell had come to call. She
remembered watching in helplessness as the
children were hauled away before her eyes. And
then the feel of the needle sliding into her tightly
held arm followed by the inevitable slide into
unconsciousness. 

Twisting her head she looked around again. No
sign of the children or Tom or Susan. She kicked
her feet experimentally and was surprised to find
them loose in marked contrast to the tight bonds
that held her hands. Fighting a rising wave of nausea,
she gave a mighty heave and shifted to a sitting
position, her legs sliding over the edge of the
cot, her bare feet resting on the cold concrete floor. 

What the hell had happened? She twisted her head
again, taking in the small, dark, dank room. And
where the hell was she? 

Rising tentatively to her feet, she stood by the cot
for a moment and then began a careful perusal of
the rest of the room. By the heavily filtered sunlight
she could just make out the shape and details of her
cell. She walked across the cool cement floor to
stand by the wall beneath the window. The room
was low-ceilinged, barely a foot above her head, and
were her hands free, she would be able to reach the
window with little difficulty. She snorted in disgust.
Not that reaching the window would do her any good.
It was too narrow to allow even her slender form to
pass through. 

She took three paces from the window to reach the
first corner, then turned and paced five more times
to reach the second. Three paces brought her to a
rough hewn door with no visible latch or knob.
Knowing it was futile she nonetheless dutifully
pressed against the door even going so far as to
make a running jump and slam it with her shoulder.
All that tactic did was earn her a very sore shoulder.
She took three more paces to reach the third corner,
turned again, repeated the five steps of the short wall,
and paused as she reached this last corner. 

There was a small jug of water and a plate that held a
chunk of bread. It almost made her laugh. How was she
supposed to eat or drink with her hands bound behind her?
The third object in the corner could only be a chamber pot.
And she became aware of the pressure in her bladder. Once
again, perhaps the thought counted for something, but the
reality of her situation made using the damn thing almost
impossible. She might be able to get her pants down but
with her hands bound the way they were, she didn't think
she would be able to get them back up. And she was at
enough of a disadvantage as it was. She didn't think she
wanted to meet her captors with her pants around her ankles. 

Her stomach rumbled and she realized she had been kept
unconscious for quite a while. She looked wistfully at the
bread and water but decided she wasn't ready to eat
doggie-style at this point. 

Inspection of the room complete, she returned to the cot
and sat. There was no sound from outside the window -- no
cars, no barking dogs, no children playing, no birds, no
frogs, no crickets -- nothing to give her a clue as to where
she was. The room itself seemed to echo with silence. Her
own ragged breathing and the blood pounding in her ears
was all she could hear in this eerily silent place. 

Since her assault on the island she had kept her distance
from others becoming even more reserved and professional
then was her usual wont. Only Mulder slipped inside the
reserve. She smiled as she thought of her dark-haired lover. 

And Skinner. The man who had saved them both. 

But this silence, this isolation, was too reminiscent of that
terrible time. And she knew her strength would be tested.
The residual effects of the drugs still had her confused,
mildly disoriented, and she knew her thinking was not at
its best. She took one last look at the room, realized no
miraculous escape had appeared, and decided sleep and more
time to clear the drugs from her system was her best course
of action. Laying awkwardly down on her side, her right
elbow digging into her hip, she closed her eyes and let
thoughts of Mulder carry her away. 

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

Skinner stood by Mulder's bed, the baby snuggled in his
arms. She stared down at the sleeping agent and then
demanded, "Pox, wake up now!" and Skinner chuckled. 

"Fox is sleeping now, Jess," Skinner murmured. 

"Pox, wake up now!" the baby repeated more insistently.
She began squirming in his arms and Skinner was
hard-pressed to keep a hold of her. 

"I think she wants down, Walter," Steven said from the
play area. 

Skinner turned to look at the little boy and the baby took
advantage of his momentary distraction to make her escape.
With a kick to his belly and a sharp pull to the right, she
launched herself from Skinner's arms and swan-dived
onto Mulder. 

The younger man woke with an "Oomph!" and raised bleary
eyes to look around. Two little hands reached out to each
cheek holding him still as a tiny nose approached his own. 

"Pox, seep 'nough! You pease wake up now." 

"Uh, Sir?" Mulder began and Skinner immediately lifted
the baby from her roost on Mulder's tender abdomen -- the
baby who promptly began to scream in protest. 

"Sorry, Mulder," Skinner muttered, then repeated himself
in a louder tone when Mulder indicated he couldn't be heard
over the little girl's shrieks. 

"Want Pox!" 

Mulder raised his hands and covered his ears briefly
then lifted long-suffering eyes to Skinner. "How did I
get to be so popular?" 

Skinner snorted. "*You've* been sleeping for two days.
I think she's getting tired of me." 

"Two days?" He looked around carefully, counting beds.
"Scully?" he asked. "Have you found Scully?" 

"Want Pox!" the baby shrieked again, flailing her arms
and legs. 

Skinner was amazed at how much damage those little
feet and hands were capable of. He lifted her higher in
his arms trying to protect the vital parts of his anatomy
from the kicking feet, then held her straight out from
his chest, her feet dancing in the air. "Not yet. I've
got people on it." 

"Want Pox! Want Pox! Want Pox!" 

Skinner cast a nervous glance to the door of the ward
room and wondered how long it would be before a nurse
came to see who was torturing this child. As the baby
landed another blow, this time catching him across his
tender Adam's apple, he gave a strangled cough and
fleetingly wondered if he had the authority to coerce the
guards outside into a more active form of guard duty. He
blinked and she nailed him on the nose and tears sprang
to his eyes. A more hazardous form of guard duty
he mentally amended -- babysitting. Surely one of them
had kids ... 

"Want Pox! Jess want Pox!" 

Skinner was at a loss and was ready to put the child down
and ask for help when Mulder spoke again. "Put her next
to me," he said to Skinner. He reached up with one arm
and grabbed a wildly kicking foot, saying, "Jessica, stop this." 

The baby's noise ceased as abruptly as it had begun. "Pox
wake now," the baby said happily. 

The baby immediately settled in Skinner's arms smiling
with pleasure at both men. 

"Jess," Mulder said quietly, "if you want to sit with me,
you have to sit still." 

The baby's face turned serious. "'kay." She reached for Mulder
and Skinner gently set her down at his side. One little hand
reached out and gently traced the bandage on Mulder's shoulder.
"Pox got owie," she whispered, then leaned over and planted
a sloppy kiss on Mulder's hospital gown. Mulder smiled.
A kiss from Jess was nice, but he really wanted Scully there.
Somehow her kisses were more healing. 

"You're pretty good at this, Mulder," Skinner said. 

"Scully says it's my childlike personality," Mulder responded
self-deprecatingly. "The kids recognize a kindred spirit." 

"What's kindred?" Steven piped up. 

"It means alike," Mulder answered. 

The little boy got up excitedly and moved to stand by
Mulder's bed. "We are alike!" he said. "You and me and
Jess. We have the same hair and we have the same eyes.
We really are a kindred." 

The two men exchanged a knowing look. Mulder seemed
to be pleading silently with Skinner who only shrugged.
They probably weren't going to get a better entre into this
sensitive subject than the one they were offered. 

"Steven," Mulder said, "what do you know about your mom
and dad?" 

"They're dead," the boy said sadly. He took a ragged breath
then lifted tear-filled eyes to gaze at Mulder and Skinner.
He lifted one hand and placed it over his chest. "It makes
my heart hurt when I think about it." 

This was not going as Skinner had envisioned it at all. And
he couldn't stand by and watch this child suffer any more.
He couldn't take away the hurt, but maybe he could do something
to help. He moved swiftly around the bed and lifted the startled
child with strong, comforting arms. The boy's legs wrapped
around his waist and his arms snaked out to encircle his neck,
the dark head nestling trustingly in the hollow of his shoulder. 

Mulder frowned up at Skinner and sent a silent query 'Are you
sure we should do this now?' 

Skinner tightened his grip on the young boy and nodded. This
conversation was never going to get any easier and it needed
to be done. 

"You know your mom and dad loved you, right Steven?" 

The boy sniffed, rubbing his face against Skinner's shoulder
and nodded mutely. 

"They loved you very much," Skinner continued. 

"They were 'dopting me," the boy agreed. 

"Do you understand that you have another mother and
father?" Skinner asked gently. "Your biological
parents?" 

Steven nodded again clutching tightly to the AD. 

In the hospital bed Mulder pressed a button and the top half
of the bed began to rise. The baby giggled happily as she
rode the bed to an upright position. Mulder was sitting up
now and Skinner freed one hand to lower the bed's guard-rail
then seated himself carefully on the foot of the bed. 

Mulder spoke, "Steven, sometimes there are tests that can
be done to find out if people are related." 

The little boy lifted his head from Skinner's shoulder to
look worriedly at Mulder. "Tests that hurt?" he asked with
concern. 

"Oh, no," Mulder hurried to reassure the child. "We've
already done these tests, Steven. Do you remember when
they took some blood after we had the accident?" 

"When you and Walter came and found us." The little
boy nodded. "Jessie cried, but I was brave." 

"Yes, you were," Skinner said, rubbing the boy's back. "You're
still the bravest boy I know." 

The boy beamed happily, thrilled to be praised by his hero. 

"Well," Mulder continued, "from that blood the doctors were
able to find out some things." 

"What kind of things?" Steven asked. 

"You know how you and Jessie look alike?" 

The boy snorted in disgust. "We don't look alike. She's a girl
and I'm a boy. She's a baby and I'm big." 

Mulder laughed and Skinner chuckled, then the older man
said, "But remember what you just said about your hair and
Jessica's hair being alike?" 

The little boy nodded and his eyes lit up for a moment,
excitement clearly visible before it died and a frown
crossed his face. "But Jess can't be my mother," he said,
causing the two men to burst out laughing, "and I can't be
her father." 

"No," Mulder said indulgently. "But you can be her brother." 

The little boy thought about this for a moment and nodded.
"Her real brother, you mean, not just her 'dopted one?" 

Mulder started to speak, but his throat closed up and he
looked helplessly at Skinner. Nodding again, the older
man rubbed Steven's back softly, and said, "We know that
Jess is your sister but we also know who your father is.
Your real father. Your biological father." 

The little boy looked up in curiosity. "Really?" 

"Yep, really." Skinner smiled down at the boy. He glanced
at Mulder and smiled then looked back to meet Steven's eyes.
"Fox is your father. Yours and Jessica's." 

The child's eyes widened in amazement. "You mean Fox
is our daddy?" 

"Pox daddy," Jessica echoed, and Mulder wondered what, if
anything, she understood of this conversation. She seemed
to be listening avidly, alternately at rest in his arms, or
fidgeting restlessly as her brother grew agitated. 

The boy stared somberly at the agent in the bed and Mulder's
heart froze in fear. He had known this wasn't going to be
easy but he had hoped the child would be somewhat pleased
at the revelation. Instead Mulder watched as his son's expression
changed from shock to disbelief and finally to anger. 

Steven pushed away from Skinner and slid down to the floor
moving several feet away. "Are you really my daddy?" he
demanded petulantly. 

"Yes, Steven, I am," Mulder responded quietly with a nod. 

"Daddy Pox," Jessica said throwing her arms around Mulder's
neck and kissing him soundly. Mulder grinned. At least
one of the children still liked him. He patted the baby then
shifted slightly as she settled down beside him. He looked up
to meet the angry and confused eyes of his son. 

"If you are really my dad," Steven said, "why didn't you take
care of me when I was little?" His small hands balled into fists
at his side and his body went rigid. "And how come," he
continued, "if you really are our dad, you didn't take care of
Jessica?" Steven paused for a moment, chest heaving, as he
fought back tears. "Dads are supposed to take care of their kids." 

Skinner's heart was breaking. For Mulder and for Steven. He
didn't know who needed him more but he feared any offer of
comfort to either of them would be rebuffed. For this, they would
have to work it out themselves. 

"I didn't know about you or Jess," Mulder pleaded, the pain in
his voice so tangible it hurt Skinner just to listen. 

"No!" Steven said with a snuffle. 

"Yes," Mulder insisted. "I didn't know about you." He extended
both hands toward the boy. "Steven, you have to believe me. If I
had known about you, I would *never* have let them hurt you." 

"Really?" 

"Really." 

"You would have wanted me?" 

"Steven, I *do* want you," Mulder said injecting every ounce
of sincerity and believability he could into his tone, willing the
boy to believe this most basic truth. 

The child stood stiffly, immobile, as he waged an inner battle,
and Skinner and Mulder waited, breaths held, afraid to move. 

"You really want to be my dad?" Steven asked finally. 

"Oh, Steven," Mulder responded, "I would be so honored if you
would let me be your dad." 

At that, the dam burst and tears began to flow down the child's
cheeks. He ran the few feet to the bed and launched himself into
Mulder's waiting arms. 

Skinner was concerned about Mulder's wounds but this was
more important. 

The boy clung to his father, weeping, and Mulder's tears flowed
freely too. Steven pulled back from Mulder's arms a tiny
bit, and looked up at him. "You're really my 'logical
father?" 

Mulder glanced at Skinner, both men smiling now, and
answered, "Well, I don't know how 'logical' it is, but,
yes, Steven, I *am* your father." 

Steven missed the joke, but nodded and continued to
stare up at Mulder. "And you're not going to leave me?
Or Jess? You're going to stay with us and take care of
us forever?" 

"Forever," Mulder promised. "After all, dads take care
of their kids." He hugged the boy tightly, unwilling to
let him go for even a minute now. 

Skinner lifted a hand to wipe his own eyes, happy to see
this issue resolved, but wondering how they would move
on now. 

As Steven's shudders calmed and the tears ceased, Jessica
solved the problem of moving on when she patted Mulder
and said, "Daddy Pox?" 

When Mulder looked up at her, she pointed at Skinner
and said, "Who dat?" 

Mulder got a big shit-eating grin on his face and said,
"Wellll -- Steven, baby Jess, I'd have to say, that's your
Uncle Walter." 

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

When Scully woke the next time, it was dark. The little
bit of light the narrow window had admitted was gone.
Her stomach rumbled in complaint, and her bladder felt
full to bursting. The drugs seemed to have left her system
for she felt clear-headed and the annoying fog that had
clouded her mind had lifted. She moved experimentally
on the cot, and was relieved to find her hands had been
freed at some point as she slept. 

She rose quickly and moved to the corner where the
food and water had been left - and the other necessity.
She took the bread and water back to the cot, then returned
to the corner and relieved herself. Moving back to
the cot, she spared a minute amount of water to rinse
her hands and face, then drank deeply. The bread
vanished, followed quickly by the water, and she was
amazed that stale bread and lukewarm water could taste
so good. Scully sat quietly for a few minutes, trying
to get her bearings in the blackness, trying to come
up with a plan. 

A sudden cramp clutched at her belly and she
was reminded that gorging on an empty stomach was
never a good idea. Her tummy heaved, and she
tasted bile, but she managed not to vomit, although
the sharp stink of mildew and her wastes made it
a temptation and her mouth tasted unspeakably
foul. She reached up, clawing her hair out of
her face, then ran a weary hand over her eyes,
pressing hard against closed lids. Her head pounded
now, her abdomen quivered, and the darkness
seemed to become denser. 

She was alive. There was that. In the dark, in
an unknown place, held captive for an unknown
reason by an unknown enemy, but alive. Being
alive was not in itself terribly reassuring. She
wondered if the other occupants of the LaFreniere
home had been so lucky. Scully shook her head,
forcing herself to her feet and decided to make
another assessment of her prison. This time
with a clear head. 

She was content with her measurements from
the last time; 6 paces by 5 paces, approximately
12 by 10. The place she was in, other than being
black as pitch, was cool, but not dangerously so.
The concrete was rough beneath her bare feet,
and she wondered for the first time where her
shoes were. And why they had felt it necessary
to remove them. She moved slowly to a wall,
reaching out tentatively and touching the
damp cinderblock. She traced the blocks,
confirming they were cinderblock, and decided
she must be in a cellar or basement, not too
well insulated if the moisture of the ground
was weeping through the block. 

The temperature seemed constant, the earth
itself serving to regulate it, and there were
no sounds or even vibrations to give a clue
as to where she was, or if she was alone.
A sudden thought crossed her mind, and
she felt panic stab at her consciousness.
What if she had been buried alive in this
small room? What if there was no house
above? No one to come for her? No clue
to where she was? She closed her eyes
tightly, fingernails biting into the palms
of her clenched fists. Think, Dana, she
admonished herself, think. Would they
leave you water and food if they were going
to forget you? Would there be a window --
that's right, there was a window -- if this was
a crypt? The temporary insanity receded
and she could feel her breathing begin to
slow and even out. 

She made her way to the cot and sat again,
knowing that she would have to find a way
out. Mulder and Skinner were good, but
she had a feeling her captors were better in
this case. It was probably as if she had
vanished off the face of the earth. But she
was still alive. God only knew if any of the
others still were. She had a sudden case of
guilt. When the men had attacked, beating
Tom and Susan, grabbing up the children so
cruelly, she had been shocked. Not prepared
for violence, she hadn't been wearing her
gun and despite her best efforts had been
easily overpowered. She hadn't been able to
*do* anything to protect the LaFreniere's.
Nothing. 

But despite her situation, despite her seeming
disadvantage, she wasn't shocked anymore.
And she wasn't unprepared. She knew something
that these men didn't know. They would look
at her and see a small woman. Strong, yes,
but they would consider her strong for a woman
her size. They would be like most men were
who tangled with her. Unprepared for her
advantage. Unprepared for her determination.
Unprepared for her readiness to do whatever
it took to get free. 

She drew a deep breath and then froze. She
had heard nothing, but there were vibrations
where there had been stillness, in the concrete
beneath her feet, and in the air that brushed
her cheeks. She paused a moment, thinking
of Mulder. Mulder who was her love, her
strength, her safe place. He was her comfort. 

Then she thought of Skinner. A big man,
a strong man, who had spent time with her
after the island. Time showing her how
to use her size to her advantage. How to use
his size against him. He was her mentor,
her teacher, her friend. 

She flung herself back onto the cot, going
loose in a facsimile of sleep or unconsciousness.
A lock turned, then a bolt, then a chain. Hinges
groaned and then there was light! Real light.
Beautiful, bouncing, blinding light. She readied
herself without moving, prepared to spring up
if the chance presented itself. Tiny, quick
breaths, each one designed to hide the rise and
fall of her chest. 

There were footsteps in the room now. One man.
Were there others upstairs? She dismissed the
thought. One step at a time. If she made it out
of here, she would soon know if this man was
alone. She thought once more of Mulder - his
touch, his taste, his tone. She wanted to experience
him again. They had waited so long to know one
another, she wasn't ready to let go yet. After the
island it had been Mulder, and Mulder alone who
had let her feel safe enough to be a woman. Who
had made it all right for her to be with him. Who
made it good to not be alone. 

And she thought of Skinner -- the black and blue
marks he hid beneath the starched white shirts as
he taught her to fight as he had been taught. The
aches and pains he suffered willingly to make her
stronger, to give her back her security. It had been
Skinner who had made her strong enough to be a
woman. Who made her know again that she could
take care of herself. Who made her strong enough
to be alone. 

She waited in total relaxation on the bed, ready
to react to whatever situation presented itself.
And she thanked both of her men that she was
prepared this time. 

End part 05/09 

The Price of a Soul 06/09 

Mulder paced, nervous agitation making it impossible to stay
still. He cast quick glances at the children; Steven playing
quietly on the floor in the play area, Jessie tucked securely
in Skinner's lap. He'd promised them he would take them
home. But where was home? He was practically living
at Scully's. He still kept the bare essentials at his apartment,
but he spent almost all his time at her place. She had a second
bedroom -- not perfect for the kids but better than his one
bedroom hole in the wall place. 

He thought of Scully, then cursed the men and the conspiracy
that had taken her from him again. This had to stop. There
had to be a way to make this stop. His fist came up, almost
of its own accord, ready to pound the wall, when a throat
cleared from behind him. He turned, seeing Skinner frowning
at him, Jess still distracted, but Steven staring with large, almost
frightened eyes. He lowered his hand immediately and gave
a weak smile, waiting until the boy returned to his toys. 

He wanted Scully. He wanted to tell her these were his children.
He wanted -- no, he needed -- her help and support. Without
it, he wasn't sure he could make this transition to instant
father. But did he have the right to invade her home,
rearrange her life, make this decision without her? A sigh
escaped him, and he realized how incredibly lost he was without
this woman, the one person who had ever completely accepted
him and loved him unconditionally. She trusted him, and
he wasn't going to abuse that trust in any way. He would take
the children home to his apartment. Then, once Scully was
found, they would work out the details from there. 

Finally, he sighed again and lifted the phone, dialing a number
he knew by heart. 

"Langly? This is Mulder." He grimaced, but who else could
he have called to take care of these details? 

"Let me talk to Byers." 

"No, you can't help me. Well, you can help me, but
I need to talk to Byers first." He started pacing again, the
cord on the phone keeping him tethered near the bed, the
wounds in his belly and on his shoulder keeping him
from moving too fast. 

"No, I'm not implying anything." 

"Langly, put Byers on the phone." 

"No, I don't want to talk to Frohike. I definitely
don't want to talk to Frohike." Mulder stopped, fingers
coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose in a gesture
reminiscent of the AD. 

"Well, yes, I am going to need him to help too, but --
damn it, Langly, put Byers on the phone." He looked
at the children guiltily, already regretting letting his
temper force him to raise his voice. 

"No, this doesn't have anything to do with your skills
or abilities. Or Frohike's. I just need to talk to John."
Oh, God. He was whining. Time for a new approach. 

"Langly -- I work for the FBI. I can create investigations.
Put Byers on the phone!" If you can't reason with them,
threats will sometimes work. Mulder smiled smugly as
he heard the receiver on the other end being handed off. 

"John? Yeah, this is Mulder." 

"No, I'm not mad at Ringo." He started pacing again,
one hand coming up to rub his temple. He was getting
a headache. 

"No, I did *not* say he was incompetent." 

"Well, I'm sorry his feelings are hurt, and I'm sorry he's
sulking." 

"Jesus Christ, John, I just have something I need done,
and I think you're the best one to spearhead the operation
without attracting undue attention!" Damn! He had to
get control of his temper and keep his voice down.
The baby had jumped in Skinner's lap when he had spoken,
and Mulder winced at Skinner's reproachful glare. 

"NO!" Deep breath, Mulder. Control. These guys are
not the enemy. "I am not implying that your associates are
weird. No weirder than usual anyway. No weirder than you
or me. You just dress like normal folks. Helps you pass."
His anger subsiding in the face of the incongruity of this
conversation, Mulder laughed. 

"Look, John, I need a big favor." 

He was pacing again, listening. Why the hell did this have
to be so hard? "All right, then, I need two favors. Smooth
things over with Langly and Frohike, then I need you to
get some things for my apartment." 

"Look, just do it, OK?" Soft tones, Mulder, soft tones. He
glanced quickly at the baby again, then looked over at his
son. "No questions for now." 

"All right. Here's what needs to be done. Ditch the
damn waterbed in my bedroom." 

"Yes, I said waterbed!" Another trip around the bed, as
far as the phone cord would let him go, and more deep
breathing as he continued to fight for control. 

"No! I don't care what you do with it." 

"If it'll make things straight with Langly, then, fine,
give it to him." Why not? He didn't want the damn thing.
Hell, he wasn't even sure where the damn thing came
from. He was thinking that should be all that had to go,
when he looked up in horror. More guilt as he looked at
the kids, and then he lowered his voice. "And tell Melvin
to take all the tapes." 

"The videos. They absolutely have to go," he whispered, his face
red. When he looked at the baby again, Skinner caught his
eye, a questioning look on his face. Mulder turned his back
abruptly. "Yes, I'm serious." 

Mulder winced as a sudden pain shot through his shoulder,
then smiled grimly. "Well, that's reassuring. So happy to
know I am back in Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum's good graces."
And off that topic. 

"I need two new beds." Mulder was walking around the
hospital bed again as he spoke, but a bit more slowly now.
Surely he could fit the two beds in his bedroom. 

"Yes, two. Get a twin size bed and a crib." 

Steven spoke up. "Jess has a toddler bed now." 

Mulder hit his head. "Shit! No crib." 

He heard a familiar echo from the corner. "Szit!"
Skinner looked over at him, Jess in his lap and frowned. 

He paused. "Yes, I *did* say crib. Now I'm saying *no*
crib. Get a toddler bed." On top of his other aches,
his head was hurting again. 

"A toddler bed. One of those half size things that are low
to the ground and have rails." 

"How the hell am I supposed to know where to find them?"
Low tones, low tones, Mulder. He took a deep breath.
"At the toddler bed store, I suppose." 

"Yeah, good idea, John. That's why I told Langly I needed
to talk to you. You can think normal when you try." He
laughed. 

"Get sheets and pillows and blankets. Whatever else is needed." 

"How old? Um, seven and two?" Mulder looked at Steven. 

"Two and a half," the boy said in answer to Mulder's unspoken
question. "And Jessie needs a potty." He cast a glance
at the bathroom door. "You know, for when you're still
learning." 

"John? I need a potty chair, too." 

"A potty chair. If you need an explanation for that one,
ask the salesperson." 

"Clothes, toys, games. Kid's stuff." 

"Size? How should I know? They're two and seven." 

Mulder turned to look at Skinner again. "Uh, Sir,
could you see what size her shirt is? And Steven's
too?" 

"John? 3T and 8." 

"Hold on, John." He moved closer to Steven, as close as the
cord would allow and asked, "Anything else, Steven?" 

"We're really coming home with you?" 

"Absolutely!" 

The little boy furrowed his brow, thinking. "Do you have
a booster seat? So Jess can reach at the table?" 

Mulder shook his head, then spoke into the phone again.
"A booster seat -- for the table." He frowned, visualizing
his apartment. "Oh, and get a table while you're at it." 

"A table to eat at. A kitchen table. Or something. With
chairs." 

"You don't have a table?" Steven seemed shocked. "Where
do you eat?" 

Mulder shook his head. "I *do* have one. I just sort of use
it as a desk." This whole conversation was reawakening
his doubts as to his ability to assume his role as father. But,
damn it, they were his kids -- he wasn't going to run out on
them. They'd all adjust. "Don't worry. We're going to have
a table." 

He returned his attention to the phone. "Oh. The older one's
a boy, and the baby is a girl." He looked fondly at each child
as he spoke. 

"Can you guys clean the place up a bit, and get some
food? Real food, not that stuff I usually buy. Fruit and
juice -- that sort of thing." 

"Hey, thanks, man. I owe you big time. Charge everything
to my card. I'm sure you guys can get the numbers." He
grinned, then looked at Skinner who was reading to Jessie
in the play area. 

"When?" he mouthed. 

"Tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow, John." 

"I know it's not much time. Just get it done, please."
God, one day was not much time at all. 

"Do you have a rocker, Fox?" Steven asked, looking
pointedly at Skinner where he sat rocking the baby as
he read. "Jessie likes to be rocked." 

Mulder nodded, thinking of the times he'd caught
Steven in Skinner's lap, being rocked as well. 

"Oh, one more thing. A rocker, John." He pinched
his nose again, listening. 

"Yes, a rocker. Rocking chair. High back, curved bottom?
I'm sure you've seen them." 

Mulder sighed in relief, then stiffened. 

"Yeah, actually, they *are* mine." He smiled in
satisfaction as he hung up on the shocked silence
from the other end. 

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

"Want juice," Jess demanded, and Mulder laughed
when Steven corrected her. 

"How do you ask, Jessie?" 

"Want juice, pease," she repeated, with a slightly
less insistent tone. 

The flight attendant looked at Mulder. "I can
get her some juice, sir," she offered, and Mulder
thanked her. 

When the woman didn't move, Mulder looked
up again. 

"Do you have her sippy cup?" 

"Her what?" 

"You *are* her father, aren't you?" 

"Well, uh, yes, but," he looked nervously at the
woman and then at Skinner. 

"He's a new father," Skinner said quietly. "The
children have been living elsewhere until now." 

Mulder could see the woman thinking, deciding
'custody battle,' and then assessing him. He must
have passed, because she smiled. "I think I can
find one for you. It's amazing what gets left
behind." She turned and walked quickly up the aisle
to the small galley. 

"What the hell is a sippy cup?" Mulder hissed to
Skinner. 

"How should I know?" The older man was engrossed
in his computer, hooked into the airline's phone system.
"You'll find out soon enough." 

Mulder looked at his watch. Another hour and a half.
And he was exhausted already. He checked to make
sure Steven and Jess were both buckled in, then closed
his eyes briefly. 

A small hand touched his arm. "Go potty pease." 

"Again? You just went!" 

Skinner chuckled and Mulder shot him a dirty look. 

"Go potty now," Jessica said firmly, a very determined
look on her face as she fussed with the seat belt. 

"Maybe you shouldn't give her the juice," Skinner
suggested. 

"It's a two and a half hour flight," Mulder said
in exasperation as he rose gingerly to take Jess to the
bathroom for the eighth time. All this up and down,
and back and forth was not helping his aches and pains.
"How often can she need to go?" 

Skinner frowned. "Does she go when you take
her?" 

"Yeah, some." 

"Then I guess she needs to go when she needs to
go." 

"Go potty, Pox," the baby said, tugging at Mulder's
hand. She was standing in the aisle, waiting for him
to rise and perform escort and support duty. No
potty chairs on airplanes. 

Skinner chuckled when he saw Mulder return, Jess
holding one hand and a stack of paper towels wiping
futilely at the front of his suit. 

Mulder looked up, chagrined. "She really gets into
the whole hand washing thing." 

Skinner recognized Mulder's insecurity. This was all
so new to him. New to them both. What the hell had they
been thinking when they said they would take the children?
What the hell had he been doing when he facilitated the
arrangement? He studied Mulder a bit longer. The tall
man was leaning over, buckling the baby into her seat
next to Steven. He paused a moment, looking at the
drawing the boy was making, then ruffling the child's
hair. 

When Mulder looked up again, Skinner said, "You're
doing fine, Mulder. It's an adjustment for everyone."
He sighed and closed the laptop he had been working
on. "I've got a direction for when we get back to DC.
Someone we need to talk to who may be able to give
us something to go on in finding Scully." 

"How? Who?" 

"Dana?" Steven looked up, interested now. "Are we
going to get Dana when we get to your house, Fox?" 

"Well," Mulder exchanged a quick glance with Skinner,
"we need to find Dana first." 

"The bad men have her." Steven said it in a tone so
sad, so final, Mulder could feel his heart breaking. 

"She's going to come back to us, Steven," Mulder
said. "I promise." 

Skinner winced, and hoped desperately that that was
a promise Mulder could keep. 

Steven was nodding as he listened, then he looked up.
"You're going to be our dad, right Fox?" 

"Daddy Pox," Jessica chirped and Mulder laughed and
nodded. 

"I *am* your dad, Steven." 

"Yeah, well, OK. And Walter is going to be our uncle,
but not a real uncle, just a sort of 'dopted one, right?" 

Skinner looked across the aisle, wondering where this
conversation was heading. Mulder was nodding again,
the same obvious question on his face. 

"So, uh, Fox," the boy continued, "is Dana going to
be our mom?" 

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

It was amazing what you could accomplish if you
were willing to spend money lavishly. Though it
had cost three times what it should have, a sturdy
car seat was waiting for them when they arrived
at the airport. 

Mulder carried Jess and her diaper bag -- a gift
from the nurses at the hospital - both bag and
baby cradled on his uninjured side. He moved
slowly, conscious with every step of the tender
belly and bandaged shoulder his clothing hid.
Skinner carried everything else. Both men's suitcases,
the car seat, the children's small bag of belongings.
It was unfair, and Mulder could tell it bothered
the older man to be so overloaded that he couldn't
possibly reach his weapon, but he trudged on
toward long term parking without complaint. 

Actually installing the seat took much longer than
expected, and Mulder had to make the slow trek back
to the terminal when Jess insisted she had to "go."
He had wanted to put her in a diaper for convenience
sake, but she would hear nothing of it -- protesting
quite loudly at the mere idea. Using the restroom
in the terminal was a new experience, too. On the
plane, there hadn't been "Men's" and "Women's"
facilities, but here there certainly were. And taking
his little girl into a bathroom full of urinals and
grown men using them, wasn't his idea of good
parenting. God, this was going to be a lot harder
than he could ever have imagined. Scully would
know what to do. She had seemed to fall so naturally
into her role as mother with Emily and all he'd been
able to do was make goofy faces for the child. 

He stood outside the lavatory for a long time, bottom
lip pulled between teeth, Jess whining and fretting
more with each moment he delayed. He spoke
soothingly to her, but despite his murmured, "Just
a minute more," he knew he couldn't take her in
there. He missed Scully. It was a physical ache,
pounding at him relentlessly. He felt so inadequate.
Why couldn't these men just leave him alone?
Leave Scully alone? Leave his children alone?
He looked down to see Jess dancing back and forth
on her little feet as she struggled to wait per his
command. God, parents had such power to make
their children miserable and didn't even realize it
most of the time. How could he do this? He was
almost ready to take her into the "Ladies" and
let them arrest him, when a man spoke. 

"First time?" 

Mulder looked over, not understanding the question. 

"First time you've had to take her?" 

"Oh, yeah," Mulder nodded, coloring as his eyes
slipped back to the child. 

"Mom's busy, huh?" 

Mulder nodded again. It wasn't worth explaining.
"I don't like the idea of taking her in there with the urinals." 

The man nodded in agreement. "Bothered me at first,
too." He moved slightly closer and spoke confidentially.
"Let me go check, see if it's safe, then I'll let you know." 

"Go potty!" Jess demanded, pulling at her pants. 

"I'll hurry," the man said, laughing as he ducked through
the door. He was back in seconds. "Give it a minute. I
explained and everyone is finishing up and putting things
away." The man winked. "Parenting in the nineties, huh?
No one thought of this when they designed men's bathrooms."
He looked at his watch, then stuck his head in again.
"All clear." 

Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks. I don't think
I would have thought of that. I was ready to take her to the
'Ladies' and just let them report me for a pervert." 

Jess was whining openly now, and the man chuckled again.
"No problem. Us modern dads have to stick together. Better
hurry though, I don't think she's gonna last much longer." 

Mulder took Jessie in, more at ease now, and once finished,
lifted her gently up in his arms for the hike back to the car. He
reached the terminal entrance and was surprised, but relieved,
to see Skinner parked there, waiting. The expedition to the
bathroom, on top of the exertion of the flight, was wearing
his still healing body out. 

"What took so long?" he asked as he stepped around the
car to get the baby in the new seat. He took a second look
at his agent, pale and a little shaky, and reached for Jess. 

Mulder passed her over and she went agreeably. "Well,
uh," he flushed again as he thought back to his predicament.
"I didn't want to just take her in, not with the, well, you know." 

Skinner looked at him, uncomprehendingly. He turned his
attention back to the seat, and the harness that secured the
child to it. "No, I don't know," he said, giving a satisfied
grunt as the strap latched. He pulled back out of the car,
then stood. "What was the problem?" 

Mulder pushed the door shut, making sure the lock was down,
then mumbled, "Urinals." 

"Oh," Skinner responded, understanding dawning in his
face. He walked back around to the driver's side and climbed
in. "What did you do?" 

"A man went in and made sure it was clear before I took
her in." He sighed, then glanced into the back seat. Steven
had his drawing pad out again and was contentedly coloring
a lime green stegosaurus. Jess had leaned back in the new
seat, eyes closing almost as soon as the car had begun to
move, and she slept soundly now. "I had no idea it would
be this hard, Sir," he whispered. "I'm worried about
*everything!*" 

"Give yourself some time, Mulder," the AD advised. "This
is still new, and very unexpected, for you." He reached out
and patted the younger man's shoulder. "You know I'll
help in any way I can." 

"How can I keep them safe? I didn't even know how to take
my daughter to the bathroom. How the hell am I going to
protect them from whoever is after them?" 

"Bathrooms are a new experience for you. You'll learn.
As for the other, that's what you do. It's what you're trained
for. And you are very good at it." 

Mulder snorted. He indicated his stomach wound in disgust,
then gently touched his shoulder. "Not that you would notice." 

"Mulder, you got Steven out when no one else would have
even gone in. You've tracked down killers, mutants, wild
animals, and a few things I'm not even able to name. You
can do this, Mulder. You're probably the only one who
can." 

"And Scully?" Mulder asked. "What about Scully?" 

"We'll find her, Mulder. We'll find her. Remember, we've
got a lead now. When we get into the city, we can set up a
meeting." 

The two men exchanged a quick glance. 

"A meeting?" Mulder looked back at the children. Steven had
drifted off too now, and seeing both children asleep, so peaceful,
so trusting, he was wracked by the damage that would result if
he didn't keep them safe. "We have to find Scully. We have
to meet your contact. But," he turned and met Skinner's eyes,
"what are we going to do with the children?" 

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

"There isn't anyone else I trust," Mulder insisted. 

"We can put guards at the foster home, round-the-clock.
FBI, not locals. We can make it safe. I don't think we
can drag her into it." 

"NO! They're here. They're safe. We told them they
were coming home with me." Mulder paced across the
small living room, ignoring the twinges of pain that
flared from his abdomen, eyes darting from the bedroom
door down the hall to the large man who sat on his ragged
old couch. "I promised Steven he was coming home
with me." The man slowed, one hand raking his hair
compulsively, anguish and determination at war in his
face. "I won't break my promise. And I won't consign
my children to the foster care system. I won't!" 

"Even if it means you can't participate in the search
for Scully?" Skinner was adamant. There was no room
for compromise here. 

Mulder's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I have to be
involved. You know that." 

"You can't do both." 

"I can if she'll come. She can keep them here; they'll
love her. And you can put the guards in the hall and
outside." 

Skinner finally nodded. "If she'll come, then I'll approve
it." 

"She'll come. I know she will." 

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

"Fox, I don't understand this at all. Is there any word on
Dana?" The woman looked up at the other man, and an
expression of disbelief crossed her face. "Mr. Skinner,"
she exclaimed, "I didn't expect to see you here." 

"Mrs. Scully," Mulder took the older woman's arm and
led her into the living room. He gently seated her on the
couch, then took his place beside her. 

"Fox? Have you heard something?" Mulder could hear
the fear in the woman's voice and he hurried to reassure
her. 

"No, no, not yet. But we have a lead. And we'll be
checking into it as soon as we can get this situation
resolved." 

"What situation?" Maggie looked between the two men,
confusion in her face. "What's going on here, Fox?" she
demanded. 

"Well," he hedged, "maybe I better show you." He led her
down the hall and opened the bedroom door. From the light
of the hall, you could just make out the two small forms,
each in their own bed, sleeping. 

"What is this, Fox? Who are these children?" 

Mulder pulled the door shut and led the way back to
the living room. Skinner was pacing by the window,
a silent and almost ominous presence, and Mulder knew
he was planning. 

"Well?" Maggie demanded. "What is going on, Fox?" 

"The children are, uh, mine, Mrs. Scully." Mulder finally
found his voice. 

The shock in the woman's face was evident, a tumult of
emotions racing across her features. Confusion, disbelief,
amazement, concern. "But -- how?" 

"Not in the usual way, I assure you," Mulder said dryly.
"And I'm really not sure how, but the blood tests confirm
it. They're mine." 

"And the mother? Is it ..." Her voice trailed away, not
really knowing if she wanted to ask or not. 

"No," Mulder said sadly. "Not Scully. I don't know who.
I wish -- well, I don't know what I wish." He sighed heavily
and sat by the woman on the couch again. "We don't have
a lot of time," he said. "The AD and I have to meet someone,
someone who may be able to tell us something about Dana's
whereabouts." He paused, looking back at the bedroom.
"But I can't leave them alone." 

Maggie immediately nodded, total understanding on her
face. "I see. You have to go." She looked up at Skinner,
"You both have to go. I'll stay." 

"There could be trouble," Mulder said warningly. 

"You're leaving guards, aren't you? Those two young
men I saw outside aren't just lawn ornaments." 

Mulder chuckled. "No, they're not. And yes, we are leaving
guards." 

"Then go. And don't worry. We'll be fine." 

"There's milk and juice in the fridge; groceries in the
cabinets. I'm not sure what, but I hope it's edible. The
baby's sippy cup is in the sink. Here's my Visa in case
you need something. There'll be plenty of agents around
if you need someone to go to the store." 

"I have done this before, you know." Maggie arched an
eyebrow as she spoke and Mulder felt his heart break.
So that was where Scully had picked up that mannerism. 

Mulder leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'm going to
find her," he whispered, promise ringing from every word. 

"Of course you are," Maggie said serenely. "Now, two things:
Is the baby still in diapers? And what are their names?" 

End part 06/09

 
Subject: The Price of a Soul (3/3)
Date: Sat, 3 Apr 1999


Title: The Price of a Soul 07/09
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and language
Category: SAH
Spoilers: None
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; est MSR;
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 exceedingly 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/
While you're there, take a minute to sign the guest book, and
drop a note to Shirley. Tell her how great she is! 

Thanks: I have been remiss in not thanking my beta readers of
late. It is not that I don't appreciate them, I do, but I sometimes
struggle to find adequate ways to express exactly how valuable
they are. I am blessed to have received some wonderfully
flattering feedback on my stories. Comments that range from
praise of my characterizations to enjoyment of my detail work.
But invariably, I also hear from at least one person who remarks
that my stories are *easy* to read. That they are clear, and clean,
and well-punctuated, with appropriate grammar usage and proper
spelling and good continuity. These are things I value as a reader,
and I know how easy it is to be distracted by a misplaced comma,
an incorrectly used homonym, a misspelled word, or incorrect verb
tense. If you appreciate good *style,* as I do, then join me in
thanking Vickie, Susan, Dee, Sonal, Judie, and Michelle.
It is their hard work and effort that keeps my stories clean. 

Summary: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner go to visit the children and
their adoptive parents only to find tragedy has struck and the
children are missing. 

Third story in the "Retrieval" universe. Follows "Retrieval"
and "What Cost, Friendship." 

The Price of a Soul 07/09 

"Get up!" The voice was harsh, insistent, full of
barely controlled violence. 

Scully lay still a moment longer, willing herself
to appear unconscious, but there was a sudden sharp
jab in her leg, and she jumped, a small gasp escaping.
She opened her eyes, and sat up wearily, all hopes
of pretense and surprise erased. 

"I said, get up!" 

Scully rose slowly, eyes never leaving the man's face.
He was big -- six four or better, and easily weighed
240, none of it fat. And he looked mean. Scully stared
at him and confirmed to herself -- he was *big!* The
tight T-shirt he wore revealed wide shoulders and
bulging biceps, muscles rippling across his chest and
abdomen. His bare arms had the definition of someone
who worked out with weights. A lot. 

Despite her earlier self-confidence, Scully felt threatened,
increasingly uneasy about being alone with him in this
isolated room. She glanced toward the door, closed but
still unlocked. Her only exit. She moved to the side, a
tiny half-step, and watched as the man smirked as he
tracked her movement. He took a step forward, asking
in an oily tone, "Where do you think you are going?" 

"I'm not ..." Scully paused, struggling for control. Focus,
she ordered herself. Don't let all those bumps and bruises
Skinner suffered be for nothing. She moved again toward
the door, always facing the man, letting his amusement
at her fuel her fury -- and her strength. 

The man took a step toward her, and Scully suddenly
had a vision of the Academy. Her instructor. An
enormous man, built like a linebacker, at least six four.
He'd told her to attack, planning to use her as an
example for the rest of the "girls" in the class. Let no
one imply that sexism was dead. She stormed him
in a rage, his verbal taunts and humiliations more than
she could tolerate, and he'd simply picked her up,
one hand holding her completely off the floor with no
more effort than a mother cat expended to hustle a
straying kitten back to the nest. 

The memory of his laughter as she hung helpless from
his hand, arms and legs flailing to no avail, caused
her to flush again now. 

'You think you can be a useful agent, little girl?'
he had sneered. Then looking up, he'd sighted the
men surrounding the gym floor. The two other women
were staring at their feet, but the men, the men had
watched, fascinated. 'Who wants this little lady watching
their back?' 

The man before her took a step, moving so close to her
she could feel his heat and smell the sweat that oozed
from his pores. She sidled away, still inching toward
the door, still aiming for freedom. The man lunged,
and Scully recoiled, his pungent odor startling her as
much as his sudden move. He laughed at her reaction,
and she bit down on the fear. Focus, Dana, focus. 

The instructor had continued to taunt her, and she
had continued to flail, head whipping wildly about
until one of the men caught her eye. She stared at
him for a moment, and saw him visibly relax, then
stiffen. Taking a cue, she had relaxed into dead
weight, surprising the instructor and then kicking
him in the softest spot she could find, grunting in
satisfaction as he released her and went to his knees. 

She'd done the same with Skinner, practicing over
and over until she felt the confidence, the security
that had been taken from her on the island return. 

Focus, Dana, focus, she reminded herself. She looked
at the man before her, still smirking at her, still
so self-assured in his size and strength. She moved
again for the door, then lunged and he caught her,
lifting her as her instructor had done all those
years ago, as her friend had done so many times
not so many months ago. 

'You want to be a fighter, Dana?' Skinner had screamed
at her. 'You want to win? Then don't struggle. Use
your advantage. Stop, drop, and kick the shit out of
me!' 

And she had. And she did. As she had practiced so
many times that it was practically second nature, Scully
relaxed into dead weight, waited for the man's surprised
shift as his balance was threatened, then slammed her knee
into that vulnerable soft spot on his body. He dropped her
and fell to his knees. She kicked again, then again, and
again, not stopping for the groans, or the blood, his protests
falling on deaf ears. And when she finally stopped kicking,
the man lay still and unmoving at her feet. 

Laugh at that, asshole, she thought, as she turned and made
her way out the door. 

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

"I don't like this, Mulder," Skinner said, as he looked
at the empty and decrepit warehouses around them. "I'm
not going to let us walk into this with him holding all
the cards." He reached over and touched Mulder's arm.
"Stop the car." 

Mulder did as directed, then looked over at the AD.
"What?" 

"You go on alone. Meet our contact. Be very careful." 

"Where are you going to be?" 

Skinner smiled, but there was nothing warm or encouraging
in it. "I'll be around, don't you worry. You just watch
out for yourself." Skinner was fiddling with his weapon,
checking the chamber in the gun, and as Mulder looked
on, a knife appeared in the man's hand. He tested the
edge, then grunted in satisfaction. Where the hell had
that come from? Skinner looked up and spoke again,
"We're running silent on this." He tapped Mulder's
pocket. "Don't forget to turn your cell phone off." 

Mulder nodded and watched as Skinner almost rolled from
the car and seemingly vanished before his eyes. It was
uncanny how the man could do that. And what the hell had
suddenly made him so damn nervous? Mulder put the car
in 'drive' and moved on slowly, scanning for the correct
number. Finally spotting it, he stopped again, then took
several minutes to survey the area. 

Deserted, decaying, the warehouses lined a narrow alleyway.
Once a vital part of the city's rail transportation, it was a
long abandoned area, prime for stray cats, rabid dogs, drug
addicts and their suppliers. Homeless people, drunk, drugged,
or just mentally ill, shuffled in and out of the buildings, lay
in doorways or sat unmoving on piles of rotted packing. 

He shivered once, then checked his gun surreptitiously. His
belly was much better, causing him almost no pain at all when
he moved, but his shoulder was still exceedingly tender. He
used his left arm and hand as little as possible, but still refused
to wear a sling, refused to be that restricted. Besides, the one
time he had put the sling on, Jess had gotten very distressed,
and he had removed it almost at once. 

He smiled as he thought of the children. Despite the questions
surrounding their origins, he considered them to be an incredible
gift. He would never have had children. He just didn't trust
himself enough to knowingly bring another life into the world.
To willingly take on the responsibility of that life. He knew all
too well how easy it was to fail in that responsibility. And even
though Scully was supposedly infertile now, they had always
used precautions. Just in case. Neither one of them was
willing to risk having a child who would become the focus
of someone else's attention. They couldn't chance putting a child
through that. Not with their history. 

Mulder was out of the car now, eyes scanning the alley, walking
slowly but steadily toward the battered door of number 84. A
man approached and he tensed, but the man only asked for change
and Mulder passed over the contents of his pocket. Little enough,
but he could reach it with his left hand, and he wasn't going to
put his right hand out of commission, not even for a moment. 

Scully. He was here for Scully. But now Scully and the children
were inextricably mixed in his mind. He could no more abandon
Steven and Jessie than he could ever leave Scully. They hadn't
wanted children, hadn't planned on children, didn't include
children in the few hesitant, tentative discussions they had had
about their future. A future that was itself tentative, uncertain,
unstable. For people like them, what good was planning for a
future if you couldn't even be sure of tomorrow? But that would
have to change now. There would have to be so many changes.
Not just potty chairs and sippy cups, but lifestyle changes, and
career changes. The children had to have security, they had
to be safe. God, he could only hope Scully would be as willing
to accept these children of his, as he would have been to accept
her Emily. 

He reached the door and pushed, stepping back and to the side
as it creaked open. He pulled his gun, then whipped around the
door jamb, eyes raking the dimly lit interior. Tall, dirt-covered
windows, many broken or cracked, let in weak sunlight, giving
the place an almost other-worldly appearance. The air hung
heavy in his nose, dust motes dancing in the streams of light, and
a smell of decay and disuse teased his senses. He stood unmoving,
the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck prickling, standing
upright as he watched for any sign of movement. He missed
Scully. It was all so different when you had someone you trusted
watching your back. 

There was a movement to his left and Mulder whirled, gun
pointing straight at a feral cat, who arched her back and hissed
before darting through a hole in the wallboard. Mulder smiled then.
That cat wasn't the only one to move with feline grace and speed.
He looked around again, looking up at a spiderweb of iron walkways
that crossed and recrossed going up four stories. Where the hell
was Skinner? He shrugged. The man said he'd be here; he was
here. Mulder moved on into the building, the light from the windows
fading as he went further back. Empty packing crates and fifty-five
gallon drums, huge cardboard boxes and stacks of wooden pallets
littered the floor of the warehouse and he threaded his way carefully
through the maze. 

There was still no sign of anyone else. Mulder found a spot, as
well-lit as he was likely to find, back to the wall, but with good
forward and side visibility, and he prepared to wait. 

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

Skinner moved noiselessly to stand behind the man. A brief,
silent communion with himself -- he kept vowing not to kill
again and still he continued to take lives -- then he reached out
and in one swift motion, broke the man's neck, lowering him
slowly to the iron catwalk. It was the fourth man he'd taken
out. And he still hadn't seen Mulder. What the hell was
taking the man so long? 

Skinner took a moment to disguise the body from view, then
scanned again, looking for the next target. How many of them
were there? The guard on the building, the guard inside. The
two he'd found on the catwalk. His intuition had been right.
This was no meeting to exchange information on Scully. This
was a set-up. He wanted to call and check on the children,
prayed this hadn't been a ploy to draw them away and leave
Steven and Jess vulnerable. He shook his head. They would
be fine. Mulder's apartment and the building were crawling
with agents and local police. No one was getting in there. 

There was a flash of movement above him, and he pulled
further back into the shadows, then risked a quick glance upwards.
Another one. Skinner had already acquired two automatic
weapons, one cradled in his arms, one slung on his back,
ammunition, three more handguns, and two knives as he
worked his way through the building. At this rate, he was
going to have to start leaving the hardware behind. 

There was movement below him now, and he looked down.
Mulder. Finally. The man was moving slowly, carefully,
through the labyrinth of discarded packing crates and cartons,
watching for any signs of others. Skinner sighed softly.
Mulder was good -- his eyes never stopped moving, but
the man hadn't looked up once! For someone who was
known for his unorthodox thinking, he certainly seemed unable
to remember the third dimension extended above and below.
Ah, good! A glance up. He was being careful. Skinner
watched him a moment longer, then slipped over to the
ladder to head up to the man he had seen above. 

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

The door led to stairs that creaked horribly as Scully
moved up them. Anyone up there would know she was
coming long before she reached the top, but she
continued onward, greatly encouraged by her victory
over the man downstairs. She paused a few steps
from the top, drew in a deep breath, then rushed the
last bit up and emerged into a tiny, untidy kitchen. 

The sunlight streaming through the window was
blinding, and she blinked furiously as tears flowed
from her eyes. Gasping, she whipped her head around,
looking for any sign that anyone else was in the
kitchen, but it appeared deserted. She paused a moment,
giving herself time to adjust to the light, and to her
newly won freedom, then scanned for a phone. It
was there, on the wall by the refrigerator, but when she
lifted it, there was only silence. Replacing it quietly,
she opened drawers until she found what she was looking
for, then moved out of the kitchen, butcher knife clutched
tightly in her hand. 

She searched the house, ever ready to meet another foe,
and was almost disappointed to find she truly was alone.
The man downstairs, who would be unconscious for a
long time, was her only company. The house was tiny,
consisting of a living room, bedroom, bath, and kitchen.
The basement below completed the house's square footage,
and she went back to the front room, peering through
heavy drapes to see a late model sedan parked in the dirt driveway. 

She could see no other houses from her vantage at the window.
This small cottage seemed to sit isolated, surrounded
by fields of cotton, tobacco, and soy beans. Probably an old
sharecropper's cabin that had been let to some hired hand
now, or possibly offered to migrants during the season.
She let the drapes fall back in place and dropped onto the
ratty old sofa, her eyes scanning the room as she made her
plans. She had to get out of here. The car was her escape.
But that meant going back down and getting keys from
the man in the cellar. 

She shuddered involuntarily. Despite her successful defeat
of the big man, she had no desire to tempt fate by taking
him on again. She really didn't even want to see him again.
But she had no choice. Decision made, she rose quickly and
descended once more to the basement. 

The man was still unmoving where her attack had left him.
Blood dripped from his temple and he was clearly unconscious.
The medical oath she had taken -- First, do no harm -- flashed
briefly through her head, but she thrust it aside in favor of
her own version of 'Do Unto Others.' Her perverse joke
amused her, and she knew she was bordering on psychological
shock to be so easily distracted. She searched the man
quickly, having no compunction at turning him over to
reach his back pockets when she came up empty in front.
Still having no luck, she sat back on her heels thinking.
Perhaps he'd left them upstairs. 

She went back up, moving more comfortably through
the kitchen and into the front room, then looking around.
The only thing that didn't seem to belong was a briefcase,
tucked between the couch and an end table, almost out of
sight. She could see how she had missed it in her first
hurried look through the place. She pulled it out, placing
it on the coffee table and then sitting on the sofa. Holding
her breath as if she expected the thing to blow up, she opened
it carefully and was immediately rewarded with the rattle of
a set of keys. Keys to the car, keys to her freedom. 

She was ready to close the case, shifting it to do so, when
one of the folders inside shifted and a name caught her eye.
Mulder. The folder was labeled Mulder, F. W. Oh, God!
She closed her eyes quickly, suppressing the shudder that
threatened her, then pulled it out quickly. 

It was a comprehensive listing of procedures that had been
performed, and monitoring of the results of those procedures.
Scully slammed it shut, and threw it back in the briefcase.
She didn't think she wanted to know. She licked her lips
nervously, looking around. She had to get out of here.
She had to read this. She had to tell Mulder. Item one
first, she thought grimly, shutting the case firmly and moving
out the front door. 

The car unlocked and started with ease, and she chose a
direction at random, driving a good twenty minutes before
she came to a very small town. The center was really
nothing more than a small collection of buildings along the
highway as it ran through the town. Post office, market,
dime store, church, hardware store, a diner, and finally, what
she had been looking for -- the police department. 

She pulled in quickly, taking one of the three parking places,
the other two being marked "Chief" and "Official Vehicle,"
then turned off the engine. She looked briefly in the mirror,
surprising herself that she could even consider appearances
considering what she had been through. Hell, she didn't even
know how long she had been missing. She wiped the worst
of the dirt from her face, and pushed her rat's nest of hair
out of her eyes, then looked down at her filthy clothes and
bare feet. Shrugging, she got out of the car and walked
resolutely toward the door of the building, briefcase firmly
in her hand. 

The door opened easily and a young woman in a blue
uniform looked up. Her welcoming smile faded quickly
and she wrinkled her nose in distaste, but she still managed
a civil, "May I help you, ma'am?" 

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation, badge number JTT0331613. I've been held
captive in a small house about twenty minutes south of here,
for --" she paused, "well, I was drugged and unconscious
part of the time, so I don't know how long I've been missing.
Also, I critically injured the perpetrator in the course
of my escape so you'll need medical at the scene when
you go pick him up." 

A man walked out of the back office then, and looked at
Scully with a healthy hint of disbelief. "I'm sorry, ma'am,"
he said, "but could you repeat that?" 

"Look, I know what this looks like, but I want that car I
drove in impounded, and get on the phone to the Bureau
in DC. I work for Assistant Director Walter Skinner. His
office can confirm my credentials." 

The man looked doubtfully at her, and she could see he
was trying to decide if he wanted to risk making a fool
of himself by making the requested phone call. He seemed
to be on the verge of declining, when she said, "Think
of how embarrassed you'll be when you find out I'm telling
the truth." 

The man studied her a bit longer, then nodded. "Give
Ms. Scully the phone, Marilyn," he said, and the clerk
rose and opened a panel in the counter, allowing Scully
to come in and sit at the desk. 

"What's today?" she asked as she lifted the receiver and
dialed. 

"Friday. Why?" 

"A week," Scully sighed. "I've been gone a week. Mulder
must be almost insane by now." There was a click in her ear
and when she spoke again, it was to Skinner's assistant, Kim.
"This is Agent Scully, Kim, I need to speak to the AD." 

There was a burst of chatter that even the police chief
could hear, and Scully smiled as she listened to the story
of her missing days. Finally she interrupted, and asked,
"Kim, verify my identity to the police chief here, and
arrange some credit, money, something for me. My
clothes are a disaster, and I haven't eaten in I don't
know how long." 

She passed the phone to the man, then asked Marilyn,
"Do you have another line?" 

The woman nodded and led her to another desk, pushing a
button to light up the second line. Scully dialed quickly,
and was met with a recording, "The cellular customer you
are ..." She hung up before it could finish. She thought
a moment. So Mulder was out of pocket. She dialed again.
Same recording. Skinner must be with him. What the hell
were those two doing now? 

The police chief had finished now, and was holding out
the phone to her. She hung up and walked over to him,
taking the extended receiver with a polite, "Thank you." 

"Scully here." 

"Agent Scully? I'm arranging a credit voucher to be wired
to the market there in town. The chief tells me it's just a
couple doors down. You can get cash for travel expenses,
credit for purchases anywhere in town. The locals assure
me you'll have their full cooperation. The nearest airport
is about an hour away and I'll have a ticket waiting for you." 

"Kim, you're a life saver. Now, where are Mulder and the AD?" 

"They flew in yesterday. They have two people in protective
custody at Agent Mulder's apartment." 

"At Mulder's apartment?" 

"Yes. We have a dozen agents detailed there now. You
can probably reach them there, or I can try and patch you
through to their cells." 

"The cells aren't on," Scully mumbled absently. "I already
tried. I'll call the apartment." She returned her attention to
Kim. "How long till I have cash?" 

"About an hour, I'm afraid. But the next flight out isn't
until three." 

Scully looked at the clock on the wall -- 10:30 -- then spoke.
"That's fine, Kim, thank you. If the AD or Mulder checks in,
tell them I'm on my way. You can reach me here," she looked
up at the chief, who nodded quickly, then rattled off a number.
"I'm going to get cleaned up, try to find some clothes, eat, and
then I'll be on the way to DC." She said goodbye and started
to hang up, but was halted by Kim's tentative query. 

"Agent Scully? Excuse me, and I'm not trying to butt in
here, but shouldn't you have an escort or something?" She
paused, and Scully could hear the woman's indecision.
"I mean, you've been missing for a week. I bet Agent
Mulder would have a fit if he found out you just intended
to get on a plane and fly home as if nothing happened." 

"I'm fine, Kim, really, but thanks for your concern. And
you're right, Mulder will have a fit, but he'll get over it."
She smiled again, thinking of how much fun it would be
to calm Mulder down after she pulled this little stunt. She
was well aware that procedure called for her to have a full
medical evaluation and there should be a thorough debriefing,
and it should happen here, at the site. But she didn't have
time for that. "Thanks again, Kim. I'll check in when I'm
back in DC." 

"Agent Scully?" 

"Yes?" 

"That three o'clock plane gets in to Dulles at quarter to
six." Scully could hear the woman toughening her voice.
"There *will* be an escort waiting for you." 

Scully sighed, and Kim went on. "*You* may be able
to deal with Agent Mulder, but *I* am the one that
has to deal with the Assistant Director." 

Kim was persistent. It was a trait Skinner valued,
she knew, because it kept an amazing amount of
trifling things from ever getting through to him. But
right now ... 

"Fine." Better to give in gracefully. And the woman
was right. She should be waiting for an escort. The paperwork
on this little escapade was going to take weeks. She
dropped her head. And it was going to cost her the right
to torment Mulder over his own foolhardy stunts. "Thanks
again, Kim." She hung up before the woman could think
of another objection. 

A throat cleared behind her and she turned to meet the chief's
eyes. "My daughter is about your size. I'll call home and get
my wife to bring you some clothes. What size shoe you need?" 

Scully told him, thanked him, and picked up the phone again.
She dialed once more, then stood in stunned silence as a voice
on the other end said, "Mulder residence." 

Finally recovering her voice, she asked in disbelief, "Mom?" 

End part 07/09 

The Price of a Soul 08/09 

He wasn't sure what to do next. No sign of the informant,
no sign of Skinner, no sign of *anybody.* The smart thing
to do was probably look around some more, see what he
could learn. He certainly couldn't stay here indefinitely. 

He scanned the area again, almost embarrassed by
the strength of his desire to see the big AD, to just
be reassured that he wasn't really alone. Shaking off
his weakness, he pushed away from the wall and began
to move through the building again. 

There was a sound behind him and he whirled, gun
raised before him, and then there was a shot and his
shoulder exploded in pain. He was going down before
he could even think, and his gun was ripped from
his useless hands. He lay on the floor, panting, agony
shrieking from the shoulder and down his arm, through
his chest and back. 

He looked up at the man who stood above, wondering
who he was, and why this man had such an interest
in him, in Scully, and in his children. 

"Ah, Agent Mulder," the man spoke. "So good of
you to come." He cast a cautious look around, then
added, "Though we didn't expect you to be alone." 

"Someone had to stay with the children," Mulder gritted
out through clenched teeth. 

The man laughed. "An interesting image. I don't
usually picture the Assistant Director as a babysitter.
Though I understand he has become quite attached
to them." 

"Who are you?" Mulder demanded. 

"I am the current director of the -- shall we say --
Mulder project. A project you have seriously compromised
with your rash actions." 

Mulder shrugged, an incredibly painful action,
but one which had the anticipated effect. The man
looked slightly worried, casting a glance around
quickly. 

"What project?" 

"Why, you, of course, Agent Mulder." The man seemed
truly surprised that Mulder had asked. "You and your
children. You adapted fairly well to the genetic enhancements
that were done in utero, but that was, of course, a long
time ago." 

At Mulder's look of horror, the man smiled evilly, and
went on. "With the advances in modern technology,
we really expected more success from mating you with
an enhanced female. But it is a tenuous process at
best and we have had more failures than successes." 

"What do you mean?" 

"None of that is really important, Agent Mulder. Your
usefulness to the project has ended. We have what we
need from you, and your continued interference in things
that should be left alone can no longer be overlooked."
The man seemed to be enjoying his power, reveling in
his supposed superiority over the helpless man on the
floor. "You have had a strong protector in the past,
but he, too, has acted rashly of late, and his position
is eroding." 

"Who?" 

"I think you know who I mean. You tend to think of him
as your nemesis, but in reality, he's been your chief supporter.
An odd dichotomy, I admit, but one which he managed to
balance admirably until late." 

"Why me? Why was I chosen for this?" 

"Everyone in the project from the early days made
contributions. You were your father's contribution." 

Mulder shook his head. He didn't want to hear this.
"Where's Scully? And why have you taken her? She
wasn't involved in the early days." 

"No. But association with you made her useful in the
beginning, but she turned out to have interesting qualities
of her own." 

There was a sound and the man turned. Mulder lunged
forward, his hands sweeping out and knocking the man's
feet from under him. He was pushing up, forcing himself
to rise, to retreat, to run, when he felt cold metal at his
temple, and a voice ordered him back. He went down,
arms collapsing as the adrenaline rush faded, and he laid
his head wearily on the rough flooring. 

"Not so smart, Agent Mulder," the man said, finger on the
trigger. 

Mulder looked up and could see the man's hand tighten,
the finger pulling inexorably, the trigger sliding back.
It moved so slowly he could see the individual muscles
in the man's arm ripple, the veins pulsing in his hand.
This was it. Mulder was surprised to find that your life
really did flash before your eyes at a time like this. And
his thoughts were filled with images of Scully. The first
time. The last time. And every other time. And newer
images of the children. Of Skinner. It was then he realized
how much he had changed. It wasn't until he consciously
thought of what was missing, that images of his mother
and father arose, images of Samantha. He pushed them
away in favor of the beautiful, the loving, the caring images
of his lover, his children, his friend. 

He stared up as the trigger continued to move back,
the slight creaking it made echoing loudly in the stillness
of the warehouse. Mulder drew a deep breath, wishing
it could be Scully's perfume that filled his nostrils for
the last time. His eyes widened and the gun moved slightly,
and he felt moisture on his face. 

Thank you, Sir, for all you've done. 

I'm sorry, Steven, I won't be able to keep my promise. 

Ah, Jess, I'll never really know you. 

Scully, my Scully. I will love you forever. 

He watched, mesmerized, as the trigger moved the last fraction,
and there was a roar in his ears and a darkness in his face, and
then there was nothing. 

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

"Mom?" Scully repeated, a dazed look on her face.
"Is that you? What are you doing at Mulder's apartment?" 

"Dana? Dana? Are you all right? Where are you?
Oh my, sweetie, what happened? Are you hurt?" 

"No, Mom, no, I'm fine, really. A few bumps and
bruises, but I'm OK." 

"We've been worried sick! Where have you been?" 

Scully looked around. "I'm still not sure. I don't
think ... Look, Mom, that's not important right now.
I love you and I know you've been worried -- I'm so
sorry I worried you again -- but I need to speak to
Mulder now." She smiled a quick 'thank you' to the
chief when he handed her a cup of coffee. 

"But Fox isn't here now, Dana." 

"The AD?" 

"Mr. Skinner isn't here now either. Dana, what is
so important you have to speak to them?" 

Scully took a sip of the coffee. It tasted wonderful
and helped give her the strength to face her mother.
That was her mother's best "no-nonsense" voice, and
it was very hard to resist, but Scully had had some time
to perfect her own version of that voice -- with Mulder's
help -- and she avoided the question again. "Why are
you at Mulder's apartment, Mom? I thought they
had two people in protective custody over there." 

Her mother seemed flustered, almost as if she felt
the answer to that one would be obvious. "They
do, dear. That's why I'm here." Her mother paused
a moment, then added, "I'm watching them for Fox." 

Hot coffee flew out of Scully's mouth as she sputtered
over her mother's comment. She began to choke, and
Marilyn slapped her on the back as her mother called
frantically, "Dana? Dana? Are you all right? Dana
Katherine, what the hell is going on over there?" 

It took a few more moments, but Scully was finally
able to breathe again, and she gasped into the phone,
"Just a minute, Mom." She laid the receiver down,
then rose and walked to the bathroom. A quick
splash of water on her face, and some reality
began to seep back into a world that had suddenly
gone very surreal. Her mom at Mulder's apartment.
With people in protective custody. That she was
*watching* for him." Had everyone lost their
minds while she'd been gone? 

She returned to the phone, sitting at the desk this
time, and spoke. "Sorry, Mom, I swallowed wrong.
Why," she paused as she carefully considered her
next words, "are you watching the suspects for
Mulder?" 

Margaret laughed then, and Scully felt her face
flush. What had she said that was so funny? 

"Well, dear, they might be suspect in why there
is water all over the bathroom floor, or who stole
the last cookie, but I think that's about the length
of their involvement in your suspect list. Dana,
I'm watching the *children* for Fox. He didn't
want to leave them with strangers." 

Scully heaved a sigh. Well, the world hadn't gone
completely mad after all. And the children were
safe. "Steven and Jess? They're OK?" 

"They're fine, sweetie. Just fine." Margaret
looked over to the corner of the room where Steven
was patiently stacking blocks and Jess was gleefully
knocking them down. "Steven is wonderful with
the baby. They've both stolen my heart." 

"I'm sure. They have a way of doing that. Mom?
Their parents?" 

Margaret lowered her voice. "The adoptive parents?"
She frowned. Didn't Dana know Fox was their
father? Maybe not. And maybe she should wait and
let him tell her. "They were killed by the men that
took you, and them. Steven has quite a tale to tell
of his rescue by Fox." 

Steven had been listening to the whole conversation
and he got up now and came over to the phone.
Scully could just make out his words. "Can I
talk to Dana, Grandma?" 

"Grandma? They're calling you Grandma?" 

"Well, Maggie is a little too informal, and Mrs.
Scully is too hard for the baby. Besides, Steven
decided it would be a good name for me." She
didn't go on to share his reasoning, but smiled as
she thought of it. Since she was Dana's mom, and
Dana was going to be their mom, then she had to
be Grandma. 

"Grandma," the little boy wheedled, "please let me
talk to Dana." 

Maggie passed the phone over. 

"Hi Dana!" 

"Hi, Steven. How are you?" 

"I'm OK. When are you coming home?" 

"Soon," Scully reassured the boy. "Very soon." 

"Fox and Uncle Walter went to find you." 

She was so intent on the concept of the two men out
hunting for her, she completely missed the shift in the
child's language from "Walter" to "Uncle Walter." 

"Steven, I'm really glad you're OK, but I need to
speak to Mom, uh, Maggie, I mean, Grandma now." 

" 'kay. Bye, Dana." The boy handed the phone to Maggie
and returned to his toys. 

"Sweetie?" 

"Mom? Where did Mulder and Skinner go?" 

"I'm not sure, dear. They said something about meeting
someone who had information about where you were."
Maggie stopped for a moment, thinking. "Oh, well, I'm
sure they'll be home soon. Now that you're on your
way as well." 

Scully sighed. "Mom, it doesn't work that way. Did
they say *anything* about where they were going? Did
they call to arrange for assistance? Take backup?" 

Maggie began to look worried now. "No," she said
hesitantly. "I thought they were just meeting someone to
talk. Honey, I have to admit, I was a lot more interested
in the fact that they might be able to find out where you
were, than how they were going to do it." 

"It's OK, Mom, give me a minute here." 

"Are they in danger, Dana?" 

"I don't know!" Scully could hear the frustration in her
own voice. "Is there a computer around there? A laptop,
not Mulder's Pentium." 

Maggie scanned the room, finally seeing the black case
standing by the door. "I see it." 

"Get it, Mom. We need to see if we can figure out where
they went." 

"Just a minute." Maggie retrieved the case, and opened it,
then lifted the phone back to her ear. "I don't really know
anything about these you know." 

"It's OK, Mom. I'll walk you through it." 

It took a few minutes because of Maggie's unfamiliarity,
but she was finally into the system and had accessed Skinner's
most recent mail. She was reading through requests for
reviews, meeting notifications and reminders, case updates,
when a strange one struck her. "This may be it," she said. 

"Look for Agent Mulder's apartment twice when you come
to see me at the warehouse. Ten o'clock." 

"Does that mean anything to you, Dana?" 

"I think so, Mom." Scully sighed again. "We need to
get some people out to find them. Now." 

"But honey, they're looking for you. Why would they
need to be found?" 

"Because they're stubborn, hard-headed, single-minded,
foolhardy, determined *idiots* when it comes to things like
this." 

"Like what, dear?" 

Scully swallowed hard. "Like me. Like my safety. I
know they went alone; didn't take backup. If anything
happens to them, I swear, I'll kill 'em myself!" 

"Dana! Calm down. I'm well aware that Fox has acted
rather -- impetuously -- in the past, but I'm sure Mr. Skinner
wouldn't allow him to go off on his own ..." 

"Mother!" God, why hadn't she ever explained this to
her mom? "It was *Skinner* who led the way the last time
Mulder got hurt. Granted, I don't think he planned to
take him, but, I swear, the two of them are on some
male-bonding kick or something and I think they almost
*enjoy* working together now!" She snorted. "Look,
Mom? Get me the most senior agent on guard detail.
I really need to talk to him." 

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

Skinner fired, the bullet hitting the man squarely in
the back, and he toppled over, landing directly on
Mulder. The AD moved quickly down from the
catwalk. He was sure he had taken out all the
hidden targets, this one had been last. He had been
hoping to get to talk to him, but when he had
put the gun to Mulder's head, pulled the trigger,
Skinner had no choice but to shoot. 

He leapt the last way, foregoing the stairs in
favor of speed, irregardless of the shock that
rippled up his legs as he landed on the unrelenting
floor. He raced over to the pile of men, wrenching
the man he had shot off of Mulder, and throwing
his body to the side. 

He looked down. Mulder was breathing. No
blood on his face, no open wound in his head.
Skinner closed his eyes, and breathed a sigh of
relief. He had been in time. 

He ripped open Mulder's shirt, looking for other
wounds, then when he saw blood on the younger
man's shoulder, he pulled the dressing off, looking
for signs of new trauma on top of the old. But there
was nothing. He rolled the man forward, into his
lap, and looked at the wound from the back. 

And then he began to laugh. Little puffs of suppressed
laughter at first, laughter that bubbled up from deep in
his belly and quickly turned into huge gulping guffaws.
Only Mulder! Geez! 

The man in his lap groaned, and Skinner laughed even
harder. God, Mulder was going to be so embarrassed,
and Skinner was determined to *never* let him live this
down. 

"Wha?" Mulder said groggily. 

"You awake now?" Skinner asked, the laughter finally
subsiding. 

"What's so funny? You get off on seeing me shot and
almost killed?" 

Skinner chuckled again. "You wish. You're gonna
regret living when you find out what really happened." 

"Huh?" 

"Apparently, Agent Mulder, you haven't been shot at
all." 

"No! I had to be! I felt it -- felt like my shoulder exploded
again!" 

"He missed. Hit the wall behind you. Your back -- and your
shoulder wound -- are full of little pieces of concrete block
and splinters of wood. Must have ricocheted out from the wall
when your friend over there fired. Bet it hurt like hell." He
grinned at the man in his lap. "You fainted." 

Mulder groaned. "Tell me I'm dead," he begged. 

"No such luck," Skinner said cheerfully. "But as I said,
I'm sure there will be many times when you wish you were." 

"You're not going to forget this, are you?" Mulder rolled
far enough over to look up at his friend. 

"Not during your lifetime," Skinner assured him. 

The two men smiled at one another in silence for a moment,
Skinner resting his hand on Mulder's forehead briefly.
Then both looked toward the door as the sounds of sirens
suddenly became audible. Lots of sirens. Heading their way. 

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

Who knew water could be so wonderful. And being clean
could be so decadent. Fresh clothes were a delight to the
skin despite -- Scully looked down at her borrowed retro 60s
jeans with the flowers running down the seams -- feeling that
she looked like an overgrown teenager. And food was
positively heavenly. Scully pushed the plate away and
sighed in contentment. She was clean, she was clothed,
and her stomach no longer complained. What more could
she ask for? 

She glanced up at the clock again. 11:15. The wire from
Kim should be here any time now. Though being in a small
town certainly had its advantages, she no longer needed the
funds to take care of basic necessities. It would be nice to
buy a gun but with no ID, and dressed as she was, that was
not going to happen. Scully looked at the clock again. 11:18.
This would never do. She was worried about Mulder and
Skinner but she left firm instructions with Agent Hankins
that she was to call as soon as Mulder and Skinner were
located. Until the wire came, the call came, and time to
leave for the airport came, she needed something to occupy
herself. 

She glanced around, eyes landing on the briefcase she had
carried out from the small house. She rose and picked it up,
laying it on the desk and opening it. She lifted Mulder's folder
out and settled back in the chair to read. 

Subject: Fox William Mulder
DOB: October 13, 1961 

Father: William Samuel Mulder
DOB: March 19, 1931 

Mother: Martina Louise Kuipers
DOB: August 14, 1934 

Conceived approx: January 25, 1961 

Genetic enhancements: 1, 3, 7 performed April 6, 1961 

Scully paused and rifled through the papers in the folder,
looking desperately for the cross-reference. But there was
no list, no hint of what these 'genetic enhancements' could
possibly be. She turned back and continued reading. This
top sheet seemed to be a summary of Mulder's life. She read
on. 

Milestones:
Rolled over - 3 mos
Sits without assistance - 4 1/2 mos
First word - 6 mos
Crawling - 6 mos
Pulls self to standing - 6 1/2 mos
Speaks two word sentences - 7 mos
Walking - 7 1/2 mos
Speaks three word sentences - 8 1/2 mos
Runs stiffly - 11 mos
25 word vocabulary - 12 mos
Follows simple commands - 12 mos
Runs well - 14 mos
Toilet trained during day - 17 mos
Recognizes colors - 18 mos
Sleeps dry through night - 21 mos
Counts to number five - 22 mos
Knows ABCs - 24 mos
Recognizes written letters - 26 mos
Reads 2-3 letter words - 29 mos 

Scully paused, her finger coming up to tug at her lip
as she thought back on Mulder's development. Several
things leapt out at her. He had developed at an
extraordinarily rapid pace. She was willing to bet
those mysterious 'genetic enhancements' 1, 3, and 7
involved gross motor and language skills. And
recognizing Mulder's remarkable memory, that
had to be his third 'enhancement.' 

She looked back at the page. There was a notation
regarding the birth of the sibling when Mulder was 4
and his apparent comfortable adaptation to the change
in the family structure. The next entry was a narrative
concerning an exam that had been conducted when
Mulder was 7. 

Scully's eyes widened in horror at what she saw next.
"Sibling scheduled for termination at 30 months due
to comparative slow development. Termination cancelled
when impact on successful subject considered." 

The phone rang drawing Scully from her reverie. And
she looked up at the clock again. 11:45. The second
line rang and she watched as Marilyn scrambled to deal
with them both. Finally, she pushed the button to end
one call, then held the receiver out toward Scully. 

"The first one was the market. Your wire is here. And
this one," she waved the phone slightly, "is a very insistent
Agent Mulder for you." 

Scully closed the folder. She wanted very much to finish
reading it, but it seemed to be something Mulder should see
first, or at least at the same time. It was going to be hard
to refrain from looking at it anymore. She put the folder in
the briefcase, then closed it firmly before she took the phone.
"Mulder?" 

"Hey, Scully. How you doing?" 

"I'm fine, Mulder. Where are you?" 

Mulder looked over at the ER doctor and grimaced. "I'm,
uh, getting ready to head back to the apartment." He glanced
quickly at Skinner, saw the frown, and began to wonder if he
was going to get away with this. "Hankins said it was you
who sent the cavalry after me and Skinner." He paused again,
"There really wasn't any need. We were doing fine by ourselves."
He looked at Skinner again, the frown had turned into pursed
lips, and the man was moving toward him. 

"Agent Mulder, give me the phone," Skinner demanded. 

"Uh, Scully, I think the AD would like to speak to you." 

"No doubt," Scully responded dryly. "Maybe I'll find out
where you are now." 

"You really OK, Scully?" 

"I'm really OK." 

Mulder lowered his voice and turned his head to the side
slightly, "I missed you, Scully," he whispered. "I'm sorry
I wasn't there." 

"I know, Mulder. It's not your fault. We'll have plenty
of time to talk about this when I get home." 

"This and some other things," Mulder responded, as
Skinner cleared his throat. He raised his voice and
turned back to look at the AD. "I think Skinner is ready
to talk to you. I'll see you soon?" 

"Count on it." 

Mulder passed the phone to Skinner. 

"Agent Scully." 

"Yes, Sir." 

"Good to hear your voice. You had us all concerned." 

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." 

"I understand from Kim you're planning to fly home today?" 

Scully swallowed hard. Busted. "Well, uh, yes, Sir." 

"And I don't suppose it would do me any good to order you
to stay there and wait for appropriate escort?" Skinner's
eyes were twinkling as he spoke. 

"No, Sir. I'm sorry, not this time." 

Skinner smiled but spoke gruffly, "In that case, I'll have
to order you to be on that 3:00 flight and get your ass back
to DC as quick as you can." 

Scully relaxed back into the chair and grinned. "Yes, Sir.
Thank you, Sir. I can do that, Sir." 

"See that you do," Skinner said as he hung up the phone.
He spoke to the ER doctor. "How much longer until he
can leave?" he nodded at Mulder. 

The doctor, a tall Asian woman, looked up from where
she was pulling bits of concrete out of Mulder's back.
"This man has suffered what appears to be a third
significant trauma in a relatively short period of time.
I really feel we need to admit him for observation." 

Mulder half-rose from the table and Skinner hurried to
push him back down. "You and what army?" the AD muttered
to the woman, patting Mulder's arm as the younger man
relaxed. "He's got to meet a plane in about 6 hours." 

End part 08/09 

The Price of a Soul 09/09 

"When's she gonna be here, Fox?" Steven asked impatiently. 

"Soon, Steven, very soon. Come with me for a minute." Mulder
pulled himself up to his feet carefully, then took the boy's hand
and led him to a display several feet away. 

Skinner watched from where he sat near Maggie, holding the
baby. 

"She's on Flight 426, Steven. Can you find that one?"
Mulder waited patiently, watching as the little boy studied the
monitors. 

"There!" the child said excitedly, finger pointing up at the
display. "There it is! See?" He turned triumphantly to look
up at Mulder. 

"That's right, Steven. Very good!" Mulder praised. 

Skinner was watching this scene with a small smile on his
lips, when Maggie said, "He's very good with the boy, isn't
he?" 

The older man nodded. "Better than me." 

Maggie looked over at the baby, asleep in the big man's arms
and said, "I wouldn't be so sure of that. But Fox has two
things going for him. He's a natural with kids; he really
likes them and they can tell that." She grew quiet, staring
at the man and boy as they continued their lesson on reading
airline displays. 

"And?" Skinner prompted softly. 

"Well, I'm not positive, but I don't think Fox had the best
situation growing up. Not the best role models for parents."
She turned and looked earnestly at the AD. "Mind you, I'm
not being critical. I don't know what it would be like to lose
a child as they did in that family. I can't imagine the stress
it would create." She pursed her lips slightly, face growing
just a trifle hard. "I think it was extremely hard on Fox. I'm
amazed at how well he turned out." 

"How does that translate as something going for him?"
Skinner asked, curious about a parent's assessment of Mulder,
the new father. 

"He's trying very hard to do the right things with the
children. He's patient. And like this. Instead of getting
angry at Steven's repeated question, or ignoring the child,
or just answering him, Fox has turned it into an opportunity
to teach something. And a brief moment to spend some
time with the boy." She smiled as Mulder hugged Steven,
and they turned to come back to the seats. "And he
certainly seems to know what *not* to do, doesn't he?"
she finished. 

"Grandma, Uncle Walter!" Steven called as they approached.
"Dana's on Flight 426. It gets in at 5:47. It's 5:42 now."
The boy held up his arm, Mulder's watch dwarfing his small
wrist. "Fox showed me. That's in five minutes!" He was
dancing where he stood, his excitement uncontainable for
the moment. "Just five more minutes." He looked up at
Mulder, who nodded his approval. "Oh," he added, returning
his attention to Skinner and Maggie, "and the plane's on
time." Another look up at his father. "We checked." 

Mulder was shifting nervously from foot to foot, one eye
watching the monitor to make sure it didn't change, and
Skinner patted the seat next to him. "Sit, Mulder, you're
supposed to be resting." 

"I'm OK, Sir," the man mumbled, looking again at the
display. He turned to look out the window, then looked
down at Steven. "Wanna go watch the planes land?" 

The boy nodded, and Mulder took his hand. "Uh,"
he looked at Maggie and Skinner, "you guys OK with
the baby?" 

Maggie laughed. "Go on, Fox, you're even making *me*
nervous." She snuck a quick glance at Skinner, then
added, "You boys stay where we can see you," and was
rewarded with a red-faced look from Fox, and a loud
chuckle from Skinner. 

The plane landed on time, and Maggie, Skinner and
Jess joined Mulder and Steven to stand and watch every
passenger who exited. Maggie was watching Mulder
more than she watched the passageway, and she could
tell the exact moment he spotted her daughter. His
face underwent an incredible transformation. All
signs of worry and concern disappeared, his forehead
smoothing out and a tension seemed to seep from his
body. His eyes lit up so brightly, Maggie wondered
how he refrained from blinding people with his
happiness. He smiled and started to speak, then stopped
himself, looking down at the boy who clung to his
hand. The child was craning his neck around the taller
people, still searching, and as Maggie watched, he too
saw Dana. 

"There she is, Fox!" he cried. "Dana! Dana! We're
over here!" The boy broke away from Mulder's grasp
and raced toward Scully. Maggie was amused at first,
until she noticed how Mulder immediately tensed,
how swiftly he darted after Steven, total terror stiffening
his body again as he eyed the crowds and made a beeline
for his son. For a moment, she worried he was going
to yell at the boy, or even spank him, but he contained
himself, and simply stood close, very close, as her
daughter knelt and hugged Steven. Oh yes, Mulder
would make a fine father. 

Scully rose slowly from her hug with Steven, her
eyes rising to meet Mulder's. She looked around,
saw Skinner and her mother, then said quietly,
"Hey there." 

"Hey yourself," he responded, eyes drinking her in.
He took in the retro jeans and tight T-shirt, the complete
lack of make-up on her face, and the little pony-tail
she had pulled her hair into. She looked about sixteen.
Sixteen in '65. The business attache she carried was
the only incongruity in her outfit. He grinned and lifted
his hand, the one not holding firmly onto Steven. He spread
the first two fingers into a 'V' and said, "Peace, partner." 

Scully flushed, then glanced down at the clothes she
wore. She gave Mulder a wry grin and commented,
"Apparently, I'm the same size as the police chief's
daughter. She's fourteen." 

" 's OK," Mulder murmured, his hand coming out to
gently trace her cheek. "I kinda like the look." 

She smiled softly, then noticed the bulge at his shoulder.
She reached out and tenderly touched the shirt where
it covered his latest wound, and murmured, "Oh, Mulder."
A sad shake of her head, then she lifted her hand to brush
his hair back, letting her fingers linger on his brow before
dropping her hand slowly. 

He leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against
hers, and he stared into her eyes until he could take no
more joy and he was forced to close them. They stood
that way for a long moment, Steven looking happily up
from between them, one hand still holding his father's.
Mulder drew a deep shuddery breath, eyes behind closed
lids threatening to fill. It was always like this. Just being
with her stole his breath. Seeing her filled his heart to
overflowing. Knowing she was safe made his soul sing. 

"Daddy Pox!" Jess called, effectively stealing the
moment, and Scully looked up, startled. 

"*Daddy* Pox?" she asked. 

Skinner chuckled and Mulder said, "Long story." 

Maggie laughed too, and moved forward to embrace
Scully. She pulled the younger woman to her, then
pushed her away, holding her at arm's length. "Fox
is right. You do look like a refugee from the sixties,
though this is more Melissa's style than yours, if I
recall correctly." 

Scully kissed her mother on the cheek. "Since when
have you ever been wrong about anything?" she teased. 

Maggie hugged her again, then straightened. "Well,"
she said, looking around, "you seem to have things
under control, and I have a long drive home. I think
I'll head on out." 

Mulder went to her and kissed her forehead. "Thank
you so much for coming, Mrs. Scully. I don't know
what we would have done without you." 

"Hush, now," Maggie scolded gently, and she hugged
the tall man, then pulled away. "That's what grandmas
are for." She leaned over and hugged Steven, then
kissed Jess who was starting to squirm in Skinner's arms.
"You two be good, and I'll come see you again soon."
She pulled on her jacket, slipping her purse onto her
shoulder. "Mr. Skinner," she said, nodding, and he
added his thanks to Mulder's. 

"Bye, Mom," Scully called. She now held Steven's hand
in hers, and they watched as Maggie disappeared down the
escalator. 

When she was gone from sight, Mulder sighed. "No
luggage, I take it, eh, Scully?" 

"Just this." She lifted the case. 

"And that is?" Mulder asked. 

"Your life." She turned to Skinner. "Sir, my weapon and
my ID were at the house in my bag. Did you find them?" 

Skinner shook his head. "Sorry. There was no sign of
any of your stuff. Almost as if we were meant to believe
you had never arrived." He shifted Jess to his other arm,
murmuring to her softly, then lifted a hand to push his
glasses back up his nose. "I've already made arrangements
for you to have a new ID made, and you can requisition a
weapon. I'll sign the approvals. In the meantime," he
met her eyes, "you have a spare?" 

"At my place." 

"OK. We'll head there then." 

"Uncle Walter?" Steven had let go of Mulder and Scully
and was tugging at Skinner now. "I'm hungry." He looked
around the busy airport, people hurrying by, planes roaring
just outside, the drone of voices almost deafening. The excitement
had worn off, and his face tightened in distaste as a man almost
knocked Scully over in his haste to get by. "I want to go home." 

"We will, Steven. We just need to go to Scully's -- er, Dana's --
for a minute." 

The normally complacent child crossed his arms and planted
his feet firmly on the ground. "I don't *want* to go to
Dana's. I want to go *home!*" 

Mulder knelt beside him, surprised to see tears in the
boy's eyes. "Shh, Steven, it's OK." He pulled the
boy into his arms, then looked up at Skinner. "Why
don't I take them home and you and Scully can go to
her place?" 

"Nooooo!" the boy wailed. "Fox, we all have to stay
together!" The tears began to fall, and Mulder rose.
He wanted to pick the child up, but his shoulder wouldn't
permit it. Instead, there was a general shuffling as the
adults sorted things out. Steven clung to Mulder's leg
and he stroked the boy's back, murmuring to him, as he
explained to the others. "It's been too much for him.
He's had enough. He needs some stability right now." 

Skinner nodded, passed the baby to Scully, and scooped
Steven up. Since he had been the one to suggest going
to Scully's, he half-expected to be rebuffed. But the boy
wrapped himself in the man's arms. Arms around neck,
legs around waist, he clung to Skinner and wept. Skinner
held him tight and Mulder stroked his back. Scully was
whispering to him as well, and even little Jess reached out
to touch his forehead. When the boy had cried himself
out, Skinner spoke. "Why don't we go home, Steven?" 

"To our home? With Fox?" 

Skinner nodded. "And I can carry you this time." 

The boy sniffed, laid his head on Skinner's shoulder,
and was soon fast asleep. 

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

The drive home had been peaceful, Steven sleeping
most of the way, and Jess playing quietly in her car
seat. The three adults kept the conversation light,
Bureau gossip, weather, what to have for dinner,
almost by unspoken agreement. There was no question
that all three of them would go to Mulder's apartment,
and all three of them would be staying there, at least
until the children were settled and a real discussion
could be had. 

Scully had been somewhat surprised by the appearance
of black sedans -- one in front of them, one behind.
Her whispered "Is this really necessary?" had been met
with a grim nod from Skinner and was the only 'serious'
conversation they had had. 

And now, dinner was behind them -- baths and books and
beds were done. The three exhausted grown-ups lay
sprawled on the sofa and chairs in the living room. 

"I'm never going to survive this," Mulder muttered. 

"You're doing fine, Mulder," Skinner hurried to reassure
the younger man. "Even Maggie said you would be a
good father." 

"Hold it," Scully said, sitting up straighter. "Jess
calls you 'Daddy Pox' now, my mother says you're
a good father, Skinner says you're doing fine, and Steven
calls *this,*" she looked skeptically around the apartment,
eyes widening slightly as she realized how *clean* it
was, and how many toys and books and games had
appeared in her absence, "home." She fastened her
eyes to Mulder. "Is there something you need to
tell me?" 

"Uh, well, yes, there is," Mulder answered, "but it's
not what you think." 

"None of this is what anyone thinks," Skinner interjected.
He sat up straighter too, and when he spoke again, both
agents knew that it was the AD who spoke. "I think we
need to go over everything we know. Share information.
Begin our reports." He softened slightly as he offered a
small smile to Scully. "We'll get to everything, I assure
you." 

Mulder rose at that. "This could take a while. Let me
make some coffee before we get started." He wandered
into the kitchen, picking up toys, shoes, jackets, as he
went, and Scully stared in open-mouthed astonishment
at the sight. 

Her reverie was interrupted when Skinner stood and
walked over to the couch, then sat on the coffee table
before it. "Agent Scully," he began, but then his voice
softened and he reached up and removed his glasses.
One hand slipped out and gently took her smaller one.
"Dana," he sighed, "are you really all right?" 

She smiled at him. "I really am. And I owe it to
you." 

He raised an eyebrow and she nodded. 

"Yep. The guy was big, bigger than you. More like
Quintano." 

"The instructor at the Academy?" 

Scully nodded again. "*My* instructor when I went
through. Anyway, this guy, he just wasn't expecting
me to be able to do anything against someone his
size. I think it was his own surprise that took him down
as much as anything." She gave a satisfied chuckle,
then looked up again. "We ever get a name?" 

Mulder reentered at that moment, three coffee mugs
held in his hands. "Hot, hot, hot," he chanted, "I
could use some help here if you two are done snuggling."
He laughed as Skinner dropped Scully's hand and
jumped up to grab a mug. Mulder handed the other one
to Scully, then sat beside her on the couch. 

"So, where are we, Sir?" 

"We were *not* snuggling, Agent Mulder," Skinner
said, struggling to keep the smile off his face. 

"He's so easy, isn't he, Scully?" Mulder asked with an
easy familiarity, only to have her punch him lightly
on the arm. 

"You better play nice," she warned. "We owe him." 

Mulder's face turned serious as he looked at her, then
took Skinner in too. "Oh, that I know, Scully. That
I know." 

There was an awkward pause, then Skinner spoke again.
"All right, let's get this started. The house, Scully. What
do you remember from the house?" 

She quickly recounted the events, much the same as Steven
had reported, and Skinner dutifully made notes. 

"What about you?" she asked. "What did you do when you
got there? And how," she touched Mulder's shoulder, "did
you get this?" When he started to protest it was nothing,
she narrowed her eyes and added, "I've been very patient.
I didn't even say anything until now. But I want answers." 

Skinner filled her in on the attack on Mulder in the LaFreniere
house, which required a pause while she looked at his stomach
wound, then the fiasco at the farmhouse. "Mulder was the
one that went in. He found Steven, got him out just before
the whole damn thing collapsed," he finished. 

Scully was examining the shoulder wound now. "So this was
rebar, not a gunshot?" 

"Honest. No gunshots. Cross my heart," Mulder said as he
did exactly that. 

Scully snorted at his antics. "Too bad. I thought you might
have figured the first time wasn't enough and wanted more."
She looked at his back. "So what is all this?" 

"We're getting there." Skinner was speaking again. "But
first, the house where you were held?" 

"I can't tell you much, Sir." She was replacing the bandage
on Mulder's wound as she spoke. "I was kept in the basement,
and I believe I was kept drugged for much of the time.
I have no idea why they allowed the drugs to wear off when
they did." She completed her task, then helped him tug
his shirt over his head. A sip of her coffee, then she looked
up. "What did they find out from the man I took down?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

Skinner nodded grimly. "Nothing," he repeated. "When
the police got out there, everything was as you described
it, size of the basement, the wooden stairs, the furniture,
even the pictures on the wall. No doubt you had been there,
no doubt you had been held captive. The rope was still in
the bedroom, with your blood on it. No doubt there had
been a struggle in the basement. There was blood there
as well. Not yours, I might add. But there was no suspect
to be picked up." 

Scully put her coffee down and rose, walking angrily
to the window. She stood silent for a moment, then
said, "There is no way that man walked away from
there." She swallowed hard. "I -- hurt him. Bad. I've
been wondering if I killed him." She turned and
faced Skinner squarely. "That man did *not* walk
away on his own." 

"I believe you," the AD responded. "But you know
what that means." 

"Yes. Someone manipulated the whole thing. The
drugs were allowed to wear off so I could escape. Then,
once I was gone, they came and got their accomplice."
She sighed. "But why?" 

"Me," Mulder said dejectedly. "The man in the warehouse
said I am part of some damn project. He called it the
'Mulder Project.' Said he was the head and I guess I was
the focus." 

Scully walked swiftly to the briefcase. "Not the focus
of the project, Mulder," she corrected, as she opened
it and pulled out the folder. "You *are* the project." 

She pulled out the summary sheet -- passing it to her
partner, her lover, her friend. Skinner moved over
to sit on the table again, and they both began to read. 

"Genetic enhancements? What the hell does that mean?" 

Scully spoke. "I think numbers 1, 3 and 7 relate to
gross motor skills, language, and memory." 

"How did you figure that out?" 

"The summary. Your development was off the chart,
Mulder. Months ahead of most babies. That clued me
on the first two." She flipped through the folder.
"It wasn't until you started school that there are notations
on specific memory traits." 

Mulder's eyes were flashing. "They were going to terminate
Sam? Just because she didn't develop as fast as I did?"
He finished the page, then threw it down in disgust.
"What the hell were my parents thinking?" 

"I'm not sure your parents had much choice, Mulder,"
Skinner said softly. "I don't pretend to understand,
but I think that whatever was going on back then, the
men who were in charge? I think they were all required
to make contributions to the project." 

"So why wasn't I enough? Didn't the Mulder family
do its duty well enough? Let these monsters practice
on an unborn child? Me? That wasn't enough? They
had to take Samantha too?" 

Scully had slid over and was sitting next to Mulder,
her arm was around him, pulling him into her, and he
sat hunched over his knees, not really leaning into
her, but not resisting either. 

Skinner touched his arm, forcing Mulder to look at
him. "We don't know enough yet. We may never
know enough." He sighed. "At least the 'enhancements'
were good." 

"Good?" Mulder exploded, flying off the couch to
pace frantically. "Good? You think it's good? I was
always faster, smarter, better than everyone. I always
had to slow down, think before I spoke. Every word
had to be examined twenty times. Can I say this?
Will this make me look too smart? Is this OK?
Every action had a thousand questions. How good can
I be? How fast can I run? How high can I jump?
I was always *different!* I was always apart. Sam
was the only one I could be myself with. The only
one! And they took her! They took her away and she
never came back!" 

He was gasping now, fighting tears, fighting rage,
shuddering at the effort of self-control. Scully
went to him, and this time when she embraced
him, he let her pull him tight against her, holding
him where he stood. His head dropped, resting
on her shoulder and he stood unmoving, breathing
heavily, for long moments. Skinner rose, carrying
the mugs into the kitchen, giving them some space. 

"Mulder?" she asked finally, when he had not spoken
for some time. "Mulder. You survived. You're here.
And you are your own man. No matter what they
did to you, they don't own you. Never have. Never
will." 

He smiled then, and she could feel him relax against
her. "It's just -- a shock. I always just thought I was
smart. I didn't know I was made that way." He stared
back at the bedroom, where the children slept. "If
they've done this to them ..." The thought remained
unspoken, the threat hung in the air. 

Skinner returned then, fresh coffee for them all. "We
need to finish reviewing the folder. Let's pull the
remaining papers and split them up." 

It wasn't long before Scully gasped, then looked over
at her partner. "They're yours! The children really
are yours!" 

"What did you find?" Skinner demanded, even as Mulder
was nodding. 

She passed the papers to the AD, then spoke again. "When
did you find out?" 

"At the farmhouse. Skinner told me before I went in for
Steven." 

"Mulder." Skinner's face had drained of color. "Jesus,
Mulder." 

Scully was nodding -- she'd already seen this -- and Mulder
was looking confused. "What?" he asked. "What is it?" 

"There are eight listed. Eight. Steven was the first. Jess
is the sixth." 

"Eight? What do you mean, eight?" 

"Eight 'experimental fertilizations of enhanced material.'" 

"Eight? Then where are the others?" 

Skinner looked up, his face grief-stricken. "They were --
terminated." 

"Terminated?" Mulder's head fell into his hands. "Fuck.
When?" He looked up slowly. "No. Why?" 

Skinner's voice caught as he spoke again. This was all so
fucking pointless. Innocent lives, innocent children, wasted
because they didn't meet some arbitrary standard. "When?
At 30 months." He swallowed hard again, then went on.
"Why? Because they couldn't read." 

"No child reads at that age," Mulder murmured, head falling
again. 

"You did," Scully said softly. "So did Steven." 

It took a moment, then Mulder looked up. "Jess, too, right?" 

Scully shook her head slowly. "No. When you and the AD
found them, Steven was there for assessment. Jess was there
for termination." 

"Nooooooooooooooo," it came out as a long, tortured wail,
an unending release of unending agony. "How can I keep
her safe from this?" 

Scully reached out, wrapping her arms around the man
on the couch. "We'll help you. We'll be here every step
of the way. And we will find a way to keep her safe. To
keep them both safe." She looked over at Skinner, nodded,
and he reached out as well, his hands resting tentatively
on Mulder's arms, then biting down tightly as he sought
to reinforce, to reassure through presence alone. 

Mulder shook beneath their touch, a torrent of emotion
raging through him, a storm of passion that could not
be contained. "I never planned to have children. I
never planned it," he muttered repeatedly, "but I
have to keep them safe." 

This litany went on and on, and Scully began to wonder if
she should consider giving him a sedative. He was frantic
one moment, full of self-contained rage the next, and then
almost incoherent. She looked at Skinner helplessly,
but he could only shrug and tighten his grip to keep the
man in one place. 

The clock chimed and Skinner began to wonder how long
they had sat like this, when there was a second chime, softer,
shorter, singular. He looked up in surprise, then looked
around, his eyes landing on his laptop, buried on Mulder's
desk, but still open, still connected from Maggie Scully's
unorthodox search of his computer. The chime echoed in
his head. He had mail. 

He realized Mulder had stilled beneath his hands, and
the man was staring at the computer as well. This was
too convenient, too pat to be anything other than related
to this case, this situation. He looked at Mulder again.
"Better get this place swept for bugs," he muttered as
he strode to the laptop. 

Opening the mail reader, he saw one new piece waiting
for him. With Scully behind him on one side, and Mulder
on the other, he opened it and began to read. 

"Mr. Skinner,
You have been most helpful to me in regaining my former
position of authority. Your assistance on the island, and
then again at the farmhouse was invaluable. And though
it was not your intention to aid me again, and though
we did not negotiate a price in advance, your assistance
at the warehouse was most welcome. As a token of my
appreciation, I wish to assure you, and Agents Mulder and
Scully, that he and the children will be left alone. There
will be no further work on the 'Mulder Project.' That is
my gift to you. For, after all, who can put a price on a
soul?" 

End 

I have been warned that I may be taking my life in my hands
to end this in this way, but, rest assured, gentle readers,
despite my best intentions otherwise, I will do at least one
more story in this universe. Thanks for letting me share
it with you.

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

Title: A Child's Worth 01/04
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and
disturbing imagery
Category: SAR - character exploration
Spoilers: none
Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; est MSR
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: There is another child out there. 

Fourth and last story in the "Retrieval" universe. Assumes
knowledge of the others. Stories in order are:
Retrieval
What Cost, Friendship?
The Price of a Soul
A Child's Worth



A Child's Worth 

Skinner lifted his hand to knock and was startled
when the door opened before his knuckles could
connect. A small, expectant face looked up at him,
one finger pressed firmly against pursed lips. 

"Shhhh, Walter," Steven said. 

"Steven!" Skinner scolded gently. "You shouldn't
just open the door like that. It's not safe." He paused,
studying the sad-faced boy. "And why do I need to
be quiet?" 

"I knew it was you," the boy replied. "I saw you coming
up the walk. And you have to be quiet because Fox and
Dana are sleeping." 

Skinner frowned and looked at his watch. "Sleeping?
It's four o'clock in the afternoon." 

"I know," Steven said glumly. "Fox was supposed to
take me to the park while Jessie was sleeping. But
Dana fell asleep and he didn't want to leave while she
was sleeping, and then," Steven pouted slightly, his
disappointment evident, "Fox fell asleep, too." 

Skinner stepped fully into Scully's apartment, peering
anxiously over Steven's head. His two agents caught
his attention first. Scully sat alone in a wingback chair,
a basket of folded laundry at her feet, and assorted socks
of all sizes in her lap. Her head lolled back, propped
against the side of the chair and a stray wisp of hair
gently lifted and then settled against her cheek with
each breath she took. 

Mulder sat on the couch, long legs splayed before him,
head thrown back in abandon, mouth open. In his lap
lay an open Richard Scarry picture book. Skinner smiled,
thinking what a tribute it was to Jess and Steven that he
even recognized the book as a child's picture book, let
alone that he knew its author. As Skinner stared at the
younger man, his chest lifted and a soft snore escaped the
opened lips. 

He looked around again, noting the clutter and disarray
in Scully's normally immaculate domain. There were
dirty luncheon dishes still on the table on the far side
of the room. Several pairs of shoes, in several different
sizes -- including, Skinner noted wryly, a pair of size
thirteens -- lay abandoned by door, and couch, and half
under the television. Every available surface was covered
in books or toys or some sort of child's paraphernalia, and
as Skinner moved across the room, he picked up another
Scarry book then added Maurice Sendak's "Where The
Wild Things Are," and the ever popular "Where's Waldo?"
A coloring book joined the pile, "Goodnight, Moon" and
"The Velveteen Rabbit" were next, and Steven bent to
retrieve and then hand him a juvenile version of Twain's
"Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court." This was
a household of readers. 

"Mulder give you this?" he asked. 

Steven nodded, saying, "Fox did. He said it was his
favorite
when he was a kid." 

"Sounds like Fox," Skinner agreed, smiling when Steven
nodded. Appropriate book for Mulder to want to
share with his son. 

He looked at the pile in his arms, then searched for a place
to deposit it, but there was nothing clear. Things weren't
going to get picked up like this anyway. He headed for the
table, stopping abruptly at the 'crunch' beneath his foot.
He
lifted his foot gingerly, gazing down in time to see Steven
pick up a small Lego man, now missing a head and holding
a broken lightsaber. 

"Oh, Anakin," the boy mumbled sadly. 

"I'm sorry," Skinner said, still looking around. "We'll try
and fix it in a bit." He gazed down at the child holding
the
mangled toy, and suppressed a shudder of guilt. "Look,
Steven,
where *is* Jess? Is she still sleeping?" He'd been
expecting
to see the little girl come tumbling out at him at any
moment,
and he was getting a little concerned at her continued
absence.
Inexperienced with children he might be, but it hadn't taken
him long to learn that an unwatched, unattended two year
old could get into an incredible amount of trouble in a very
short span of time. 

"I don't know," Steven shrugged. "I was playing with my
Pod Racer Lego," he said, looking down at the little figure
in his hand, "and I haven't checked on her in a while. Fox
was reading to her, and then Dana fell asleep, and then
*he* fell asleep, so I took Jessie back and put her in her
bed." 

"Why don't we go look and see if she's awake?" Skinner
took Steven's hand and led him back down the small hallway
to the second bedroom he shared with Jessica. He pushed
the door open, then let Steven slip by and pull him into
the room. 

Jess was sitting up in her bed with several puzzles
scattered
about her. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to insert Snow
White's body into the opening for Big Bird's head, but she
stopped and looked up at their unexpected entrance. She
smiled happily and clapped her hands, crying, "Wa - tah!"
Forgetting her puzzles, she slid out of the youth bed and
ran
to Skinner, arms raised in silent request. He obliged by
bending over and lifting her, feeling her small body settle
in the crook of his arm. She kissed him sloppily on the
cheek, then laid her head against his shoulder, and nuzzled
her face against his neck. "Wa - tah," she sighed as
she snuggled there contentedly before looking up and
accusing him, "You go 'way." 

He laughed. "Yeah, I had to go out of town, little one."
His eyes scanned the room, lighting on Steven, and he
included the boy in his next remark. "Looks like you two
have been wearing Fox and Dana out." 

At Skinner's words, Steven frowned and sank dejectedly
onto his bed. The AD placed the baby on the floor, then
stepped lightly across the room -- it wouldn't do to destroy
another lightsaber -- and joined him. "What's up, big
guy?" he asked quietly. 

"It's what you said, Walter. That we're wearing Fox and
Dana out. They do seem awfully tired all the time." Steven
dropped his head, staring at his hands resting in his lap. 

There was a long pause as Steven grappled with his feelings
and with putting them into words. Skinner took the time to
remind himself that while this child was only seven, he was
much advanced beyond the average seven year old. And yet,
the older man looked down fondly at the small boy, in many
ways he was just like an average child. He'd been through
far too many traumas for a child his age, and he needed love
and attention and security and time to redevelop a child's
natural trust in the world around him. 

The boy's head popped up, and he asked, "What if they
decide they don't want two kids? What if me and Jess
are too much work?" He dropped his voice and leaned
closer, "What if they only want *one* kid? They might
just want a baby -- not a big kid like me." 

Jessica had sensed her brother's tension and had moved
across the room to stand by the bed, leaning her head
against Steven's knee. The boy patted her absently, and
Skinner was again reminded of how much this small boy
had been through, how responsible he had been in caring
for the baby, even before he had known she was his sister.
He reached down and lifted her, settling her on his lap
as he reached out and placed an arm around Steven,
pulling him close. 

Amazing! Six months ago he couldn't have imagined himself
in this position, and now it was almost second nature. He
thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. 

"That's not going to happen, Steven. You know that
Fox and Dana love you, right? They're not going to
want to get rid of you just because they fell asleep one
Saturday afternoon. When you have a child," he paused
again, thinking, "or when you love someone, you don't
get rid of them if things get tough for a while." He
smiled down at the boy. "You just get through the tough
times together." 

Steven was still looking up at him, as if waiting for more. 

"Like you did today," he went on. "When you saw that
Fox and Dana were tired, you helped out. You put
Jessie to bed, and you played quietly so that they could
rest." 

"Even though I wanted to go to the park." 

Skinner laughed softly and ruffled the boy's hair. "Yeah.
Even though you wanted to go to the park." He hugged
the child, then asked gently, "Didn't your mom and dad
get tired sometimes?" 

The boy nodded, face serious as he considered this. 

"And you weren't worried they wouldn't want you,
were you?" 

The boy shook his head, then said in a still concerned
tone, "But they *picked* me. They wanted me. And
Jess." The droop was back as he looked at the floor.
"Fox just found us, and now he and Dana might feel
like they're stuck with us." 

"Do you remember what we talked about -- in the
hospital after the fire at the farm? About Fox and how
he was your biological father?" 

The boy was nodding now, his head lifting as his
incredible memory called up the details of that moment. 

"And dads take care of their kids." He looked up
triumphantly at Skinner, pleased at his recall. "That's
what Fox said." 

"Daddy Pox," Jess murmured softly, her hand reaching
out to touch Steven. 

"Right. Dads take care of their kids." Skinner repeated
the words, watching as Steven weighed them and then
smiled. Thinking the immediate crisis was averted, Skinner
plopped the baby on the bed next to Steven, then
rose and surveyed the room. "Now," he said, looking
down at his two erstwhile charges, "perhaps we should
do something about this room while Fox and Dana are
sleeping." He scanned the unmade beds, the toys and
clothing strewn haphazardly about, then turned to
study the children. Jessica had her thumb in her mouth
and was staring up at him complacently. Steven had
joined Skinner in taking stock of the room. 

The boy frowned, then reached up and grabbed Skinner's
hand, pulling him back down to the bed. 

"Walter," he began, "Jess and I like living here at Dana's.
It's got more room than Fox's 'partment, and I don't
mind sharing a room with Jess." He looked around at the
scattered mess, then flushed uncomfortably. "We haven't
been doing a very good job of picking up, though, have
we?" 

Skinner shook his head, then asked, "Why do you think
that is?" 

"Mom made us pick up every night before bed. We had
to turn the TV off, then pick up, then be in bed by bedtime.
If it was a big mess, the TV had to go off sooner, and if
we dawdled, then we used our story time to clean up."
He shrugged. "I just figured out it was easier to pick up
a little at a time, then I could watch all of my show, and
still have time for a story at night." 

"Did you tell Fox and Dana about that plan?" 

The boy shook his head. "I didn't want to make them
feel bad 'cause they didn't know how things were supposed
to be." 

"I think it's a very good plan, and I think Fox and
Dana would like to hear about it very much." Skinner
started to rise again, but stopped when he realized
Steven was still looking worried. "Is there something
else you want to talk to me about?" he asked gently. 

Steven swallowed hard, then nodded. He studied
the floor for a few minutes, then his eyes roved
the room, finally settling on Skinner. "Do you think Dana
is too tired of kids, or -- would she maybe like a baby?" 

Skinner blinked, his only outward sign of the shock
and surprise that blindsided him. What the hell made
the boy ask that? Especially after his fears that Fox
and Dana might not even want *him?* He shook
his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts, then
studied Jess, who had slid down from Steven's bed
and returned to her puzzles. Without looking at Steven,
Skinner asked quietly, "Why do you ask?" 

There was a long pause, then Steven said, "I saw
some papers -- I didn't mean to be snooping -- they
were just laying there on the desk." 

He fell silent again, and Skinner waited patiently,
finally prodding him with, "What did you see?" 

"Notes," the boy said. "I didn't understand all of
it. It said I was smart, like Fox." He lowered his
voice and shot a quick glance at his sister. "It said
Jess wasn't so smart." He frowned, lower lip pushing
out obstinately, and added, "But I think that's just
dumb. How can you tell how smart someone is
when they're just a baby?" 

"You can't," Skinner responded. "Those notes were
wrong about Jessica. She's very bright, and quick,
and she's a perfectly normal two year old." 

"They're not going to ter -- termi -- termate her?" 

"Terminate." Skinner turned to meet Steven's eyes.
"No. No one is going to terminate anyone." Except
possibly me, he amended mentally. There are a few
people I wouldn't mind terminating about now. He spoke
again to the child. "No one is ever going to hurt you
or Jessica again." 

Steven nodded, but was still frowning. He picked up
a stuffed bear from his pillow and held it tight, burying
his face in the fur. 

"What else?" Skinner probed. "What's making you
worry so? And why are you asking about a baby
for Dana?" 

"The notes said there were eight of us. Eight 'sperments." 

"Experiments," Skinner corrected automatically. 

"Yeah. But only me and Jess are here." He looked up at
Skinner, wide-eyed, and asked, "What happened to the
others? Were they termi -- nated?" 

Skinner nodded solemnly. "Why, Steven?" 

"Are you sure?" His head dropped back to the bear,
face nuzzling the well-worn creature. Steven ignored
Skinner's question for his own. 

"Pretty sure. That's what the papers said." Skinner
reached
out and tugged the boy's chin up, waiting for him to lift
his gaze and meet his eyes. "Why are you asking, Steven?" 

"There was a lady, back at the testing place. You know,
where you and Fox found us at first." He waited for
Skinner's nod, then went on. "She was in a different room,
but I saw her a few times, and I think I heard some people
talking about her. Some of the doctors, you know?" 

"What did you hear, Steven?" 

"Well, I know she was going to have a baby. I could *see*
that. And the doctors were saying how it was the last one.
Number eight. And that when the baby was born, then the
lady -- the mommy -- she was," he paused, struggling with
the large word, "ex -- exten -- extenble." 

"Expendable?" 

Steven nodded. "Yeah. That's like the other one, isn't
it? Ter -- termi -- nate?" 

Skinner nodded sadly. "Yeah, Steven, I'm afraid it is." 

"Well, it made me sad to think about a baby with no
mommy." His hand went up and touched his chest. "It
made me hurt -- here. But then bad things started
happening,
and then Fox found us, and then you were there, and it all
sorta -- slipped away from me." He looked up, grief-
stricken.
"I forgot about the lady and her baby." His eyes filled
up with
tears, and the words suddenly rushed out. "And then I saw
the papers and I was wondering if it was another baby like
me and Jess, and if Fox knew the lady and maybe he made
another baby with her, and then I wondered if Dana would
be mad, or," he paused here, and sniffled, wiping his nose
on his shirt, "maybe me and Jess are enough work for her.
Or maybe she *would* like a little baby." His voice lifted
hopefully on the last words, and he gazed up expectantly at
Skinner as he said, "What do you think?" 

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

"Mr. Skinner," the man nodded as he walked up to the
AD. A wispy trail of smoke followed him, and Skinner
could smell the tobacco scent that clung to the man. 

"Do you have it?" Skinner demanded. 

"Patience, Mr. Skinner." The man lifted a hand, holding
up one finger. "You really need to work on your diplomacy." 

Skinner grunted. "Right now, I'm working on not killing
you. That's the only thing you need to worry about."
Steely
brown eyes stared unflinchingly at the other man, even as
his hands convulsed into fists. "You told me -- you assured
me -- that there would be no more work on the Project. And
then I learn about this. I don't have time for diplomacy,
not
when there's this much duplicity floating about. Now, do
you have it?" 

The man nodded and reached into his inner pocket, pulling
out an envelope. He passed it over, then said, "I kept my
word. When I told you the Project was over, I was under
the impression that all pending experiments were
terminated."
He dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it even as
he lit another. "No one was more surprised than I to find
that the work had continued." 

Skinner grunted again, not caring about the man's excuses.
"It's just the one doctor now?" 

"As far as I can determine. The man took all the research
and
the infant and fled." 

Skinner had opened the paper and was reading. He paused,
then looked up in disbelief. "He left the country?" 

The man nodded. "Back to his country of origin." 

Skinner scanned the paper again, then looked up. "Japan?"
He shook his head, eyes closing as he fought for control.
"I'll need support then." 

"Oh, no," the smoker said sadly. "I'm afraid that is quite
impossible." 

Skinner raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to raise a
fist. 

"When I terminated the Project, it was completely
terminated.
Any renewed activity will only raise interest amongst those
whom you want to ignore Agent Mulder and his offspring."
The man drew a deep breath, then let the smoke out slowly.
"No. No, I'm afraid you'll be on your own this time." 

Skinner studied the man for a long moment, then said,
"There's
something you're not telling me." 

The man shifted his face to a look of indignant surprise and
said, "Me? Hold out on you?" He laughed roughly. "I don't
think so." 

Skinner took a quick look around the immediate area, then
reached out swiftly and grabbed the man by his collar,
yanking
him forward and nearly off his feet. There was a strangled
yelp, and the cigarette dropped from yellowed fingers, but
otherwise, the man retained his composure. Skinner ground
the butt into the sidewalk, then said softly, "Talk." 

"I can hardly talk to you when you have me at such a --
shall
we say? -- disadvantage." 

"I can snap your neck in an instant. What else is going on?
Tell me." 

"You are not the first person to threaten me with imminent
death. If I was susceptible --" the man paused, overcome
by
coughing from his reduced air intake -- "I would never have
achieved the position I have now." He coughed again, and
Skinner released him in disgust, hand drawing back
reluctantly.
The man spluttered for a second or two, regaining his breath
and balance, then nonchalantly straightened his tie, and
pulled
another cigarette from a crumpled pack. 

"What do I have to do to get the support I need to get in
and out of Japan? What is the price this time?" 

"Who can say what a child is worth, Mr. Skinner? How can
we speak of 'price' in this context?" 

"What would you know of life's value, you black-lunged
son of a bitch?" Skinner snarled. "Don't bore me with
your platitudes. Just tell me what I have to do." 

The man cleared his throat discreetly. "Well," he said,
drawing the syllable out, "there was some other research
that disappeared with Dr. Saito ..." The sentence hung,
suspended, between the two men, stretching as a bridge
across a dark chasm. 

Skinner stared at the other man, hatred in his eyes. His
hand clenched against his leg, and he was acutely aware of
the texture of his trousers against his skin. A car horn
blared as it sped past, and a bird took flight overhead,
startled by the sudden noise. Seconds spun into minutes
and the two men stood, frozen, the only movement the
steady lift and pull of the cigarette by the smoker, and
the occasional twitch of a muscle in Skinner's arm, or
leg, or jaw. 

At length, Skinner forced his body to relax, and he turned
his gaze away. He was being used again. Deep in his
gut, he could feel the surety that this would be bloody.
And yet, once again, he had no choice. Knowing the
child lived, how could he walk away? Whatever the
smoker demanded, it would be a small price to pay for
a child's freedom. 

He turned back and nodded once, a short, choppy motion,
then said, "This time, *I'll* tell *you* what I need." 

The man nodded slowly. "Whatever you think is best,
Mr. Skinner. This is, after all, *your* operation." 

End part 01/04



A Child's Worth 02/04 

The big jet-fuel tanker truck, multicolored in red, black,
and
gray, slowed for the speed bump sixty yards from where
he crouched, huddled in a drainage ditch. As he watched, it
humped painstakingly, axle by axle by axle by axle, over the
rise in the road and proceeded at a crawl along the
electrified
fence to the unmanned gatehouse. It stopped just long
enough for the driver to reach out, insert a key card, and
punch in an access code. Slowly, with clanking and
creaking,
the electronically controlled ram barrier that blocked the
way to the ramp closest to his goal, opened. 

Skinner took his cue. He rolled smoothly from the culvert,
staying low and hugging the ground, and crabbed his way
under the left side of the truck, using the shadows to stay
invisible to the surveillance cameras. Slipping between the
rear axles, he pulled himself along the sharp, greasy frame
past the trailer hitch, and wedged himself in just behind
the
tractor cab. 

Hunkered down, he checked his watch. It was 0210 and this
was the third night he'd made this covert trip into the
Narita
airport. The smoking man's intelligence had been scanty.
He'd
given Skinner information that the child was being moved
again,
this time out of Japan and into North Korea. Apparently the
good doctor preferred to be in a place that didn't have
friendly
relations with the United States. Skinner snorted. As if
diplomatic status would ever stop the smoker and his band
of merry men from getting what they wanted. 

Skinner had been amazed at the assistance his own personal
devil had provided, once he'd agreed to make this retrieval.
He'd flown into Narita four days ago, first class, and was
staying at a luxury hotel in downtown Tokyo -- all his
expenses covered. The suite had been filled to overflowing
with all the Black Ops equipment a good little mercenary
could ask for. Everything state of the art and up to the
minute,
no expense spared. A variety of paperwork was also waiting,
including a passport for one Michael Fogarty, who bore a
startling resemblance to the man Skinner saw in the mirror
each
morning as he shaved. Birth certificate and American
citizenship
papers, duly notarized by the American embassy, for his
infant
"son," Walter, were in the packet, along with a death
certificate
for his "wife," Jana, who had apparently died in childbirth. 

And within an hour of his arrival, a tentative knock on the
door had revealed a docile young woman, hardly more than
a girl, who bowed deeply, and indicated, in hesitant and
broken English, that she was there to serve him. His
stomach had turned at the thought that the smoker had
set something like this up, and it was only after he had
driven the child to tears and forced the manager up to
translate, that he had come to understand she was there
for the baby -- a wet nurse. Skinner sighed. He hadn't
even considered that aspect. 

Several profuse apologies later, the girl had left and he
had assured her he would call when his "son" was released.
It had been an impromptu fabrication, and he hoped it
wouldn't come back to haunt him. He disliked having anyone
involved in his activities, least of all civilians who not
only tended to die easily, but often got in the way and
leaked information without realizing it. 

Skinner sighed again. He was already deep in what he
thought of as his "lost" persona -- that place where he
tended to divide the world into two categories: targets
and casualties. The girl was definitely a potential
casualty. 

Skinner glanced at his watch again as the truck bumped
slowly across the tarmac. The smoker had provided place
and time of Saito's anticipated move, even the date - thirty
one hours from now -- but had left finding the specific
terminal
and gaining access up to Skinner. Which was why he was
riding the fuel truck into the airport for the third time
since
he landed in Japan. 

The big man looked down and ran a quick check. The
cargo pockets of his black ripstop BDU -- Battle Dress
Uniform, thoughtfully provided by the smoker -- held wire
snips for cutting through fences and surgical tape and
plastic
restraints for muzzling hostages. Skinner was hoping to
avoid bloodshed this time out, but wasn't willing to bet
the homestead on it. Or the baby's life. 

His jacket held a dozen different picklocks, two boxes of
waterproof matches, fifty feet of slow burning fuse, and
five
timer/detonators, dry inside knotted prophylactics. It was
the only practical use he had at the moment for the courtesy
supply he'd found in his room's medicine cabinet. In a
small knapsack, he carried half a dozen IEDs -- Improvised
Explosive Devices -- bombs that would attract attention
without doing any permanent damage. Useful for directing
attention elsewhere when required. There was also a change
of clothes, so he could look like any other civilian
whenever
he decided to, and a carrier for the baby, another gift of
the
smoker. It was called a Snugli, and Skinner had spent more
time trying to figure out how to put the damn thing on than
he had on any other phase of the whole operation. 

His left black Gore-Tex and leather boot held a small
dagger, secured in its scabbard. It was one of half a dozen
Skinner had secreted about his person. It was part of his
makeup now, part of who he was. He liked knives, and he
never went into a new operation without at least four. His
right boot held a leather sap, glossy shell surrounding
buckshot, useful in case he had to reach out and touch
someone. His face was blacked out with dark cammy
grease, and he wore a watch cap to cover his bald expanse
of head -- the dark wool long enough to roll down into a
balaclava if need be. 

He was wet and he was cold and his joints were as stiff as
an old man's. Which is what he was fast becoming. Too
damned old to be out here doing this shit. This was a
young man's game. He'd been down in the damn culvert
for over three hours, monitoring vehicle flow, watching
as the pair of television cameras atop tall poles swept
the gate and barrier area, noting the regular rhythm of the
blue and white security cars as they passed by. He shifted
his weight where he crouched behind the truck's cab, and
felt
a stab of pain at his wrist. Looking down, he could see
that
he'd caught his wrist on something sharp between the culvert
and the truck and opened a two inch gash. Fuck! Not a good
omen for night three. He wrapped the wound with one of the
dark handkerchiefs he carried in his cargo pocket. 

He was tired, and he was wet, and he was cold, and he was
dirty, and now he was injured, and he didn't like any of it.
But most of all, he was furious. Filled with rage at the
men
who had manipulated Mulder. Consumed with a fiery fervor
that threatened his concentration each time his mind slipped
into that area. Forced to play "go fetch" for the smoking
bastard, he vowed again to never play in this game. It was
too hard, too painful. It brought up too many memories and
stirred too many emotions. He closed his eyes and
swallowed,
and then forced himself to admit -- not all of those
emotions
were unpleasant, thought he knew they should be. The hunt,
the chase, the kill -- it was too *exciting,* too
*addictive,*
and he had to stay away from it or it would steal what was
left of his soul. 

It was the thrill of this covert entrance into the airport
that seduced. Too easy to just join the throngs of tourists
and move among the terminals, Skinner had opted for the
swift and silent surveillance of his old search and destroy
training. Dr. Saito had co-opted a private hangar, speaking
volumes of the doctor's connections and funding, and it was
very nearly inaccessible. It had taken Skinner the past
three
nights to track it down. Three nights of endorphin-
producing,
adrenaline-charged, heart-pumping reconnaissance, that had
resulted in the location of Saito's private plane, but not
the
necessary level of secure access and egress that he
required.
Tonight was the night to find his way in, and make plans for
getting out. 

The truck turned right, moving southwest onto a well-lit
roadway that paralleled the taxiway, heading toward
one of the satellite buildings, this one protruding off the
south wing of the main terminal. As it slowed past the
terminal and rolled through a huge shadow created by a
pair of docked, darkened MD-80s, he let himself slide back
through the frame, lowered himself between the wheels,
and let the truck run over him. 

He was holding himself off the ground by sheer upper body
strength, the tanker sliding smoothly by above his face,
when,
as he released his hold, all of a sudden the knapsack strap
fouled in an air brake line. There was a sharp tug,
Skinner listed to the side and felt his coccyx connect
hard with
the concrete as he tried to straighten himself out, and his
head snapped back and bounced off the apron a couple of
times. 

Shit -- that hurt. 

He groaned softly, then rolled to his left as the
truck moved past him. Holding his aching head, he
scrambled to his feet and hustled into the shadows
between the ramps. He crouched in the shadows,
waiting, watching and decided a potential diversion
might be useful. Making his way under the fuselage,
he climbed into the nosewheel well of the first plane.
A red plastic streamer was attached to one of the struts,
a reminder to the mechanics to check for hydraulic leaks.
Skinner attached an IED -- a red smoke bomb with an
ear-splitting whistle screamer -- to the strut and then
pulled a detonator from his pocket and set the timer. 

That little job accomplished, Skinner was ready to move on
when something caught his attention. He froze, listening.
The
steady hum and throb of planes landing and taking off, the
whine of engines starting, and the buzz of electric carts
shuttling
baggage and cargo filled the air. But there was something
else. He had started to lower himself back to the tarmac
when
the sound reconciled itself, standing out against the
background
noise. Footfalls. Somebody was coming. He squeezed up
into the wheel well and tried to make himself invisible. 

The first thing he saw was the back of a head, followed by a
wooden shaft. It was a broom man. In Japan, they actually
swept the tarmac to keep it clean. That work ethic and
value system accounted for the fact that Tokyo was one
of the largest, most densely populated cities in the world,
but also one of the cleanest. 

Skinner watched as the man worked his assigned area, the
broom moving back and forth in a hypnotizing rhythm. It was
soothing in a way, and when the man suddenly stopped,
Skinner
almost fell from his hidey-hole, he was so startled. The
sweeper
bent and peered at something on the ground. Skinner's
breath
caught as he realized what the man was looking at. It was
blood.
His blood. Shit! He glanced down at the wound on his
wrist and saw that the handkerchief was, indeed, soaked
through. 

He returned his attention to the small man on the pavement.
Obviously, he thought he'd found an oil leak. As Skinner
watched, he took a rag out of his pocket and wiped the
droplets off the concrete, then looked to see where the drip
was coming from. He looked straight up at the big AD, his
large frame wedged into the wheel well. The broom
clattered to
the apron. 

The man's mouth flew open in astonishment. But before any
sound could escape, Skinner had dropped on top of him. 

"Murrf --" mumbled the little man. 

"I will not kill," chanted Skinner in his mind. 

He cupped a hand over the smaller man's lips, wrapped an
arm around his neck, and began to apply a sleeper hold.
At first, it seemed to be working, as the man relaxed and
grew heavy in Skinner's arms. But then, the son of a bitch
twisted, elbow ramming backward into Skinner's mid-section.
Skinner let out an "Ooomph," as he lost his air, and then
the man dropped, turned, and Skinner was flying over his
shoulder. He bounced off the concrete, head impacting in
what felt like exactly the same spot as it had earlier. 

This was Japan. The fucker knew judo, or karate, or some
other martial art. 

"Shit!" Skinner's expletive broke the frozen silence, and
the man turned to run away and sound the alarm. Rising, he
tackled the broom man from behind, knocking his legs out
from under him. First instinct was to reach for the
knife, and
Skinner had it halfway out of the scabbard before reason
reasserted itself. Instead, he reached into the other
boot and
pulled the sap. Then, still murmuring his "I will not
kill,"
chant, he tapped his prisoner firmly behind the ear. 

The man went still. Skinner rolled him over and dragged
him and his broom under the plane, thinking they were even
now. At least this bastard's head was gonna hurt as much
as his own. He bound his hands and feet with nylon
restraints,
gagged him with tape, then tied him into the nosewheel of
the plane. Last was the application of a sticker, one of
the items he had "requisitioned" from the smoker prior to
boarding his own flight to Japan. It read, in Japanese
and English, "Security exercise." Useful cover. 

It was time to move on to the building he'd identified
and see if he could get in. This was his last night for
preliminaries; if the smoker's intelligence was correct,
it was do or die tomorrow. 

It was amazing what was hidden below ground here
in the Narita airport. Only about one third of the
complex was visible and available to the tourists
who thronged the buildings day and night. Most
of the huge facility was below ground -- a not uncommon
adaptation for land-starved Japan. 

There were three subterranean floors filled with acres
of cargo bays, miles of roadways and baggage conveyor
belts, endless conduits filled with electrical wiring, air
conditioning ducts, and fuel lines. And Skinner felt he
had examined every inch of it in the past three nights. One
potential weak spot had yet to be explored. 

All the airline food was prepared at ground level, but
stored two levels down in huge drive-through refrigerators.
Drive-through refrigerators that had their own accessways
to every outlying building, as well as sloping ramps up to
the airport's apron, where the meals could then be trucked
out to the planes. All the baggage was shuffled, shifted,
and transshipped below ground as well. And freight, too,
moved by a series of underground shuttle trains to one of
the five huge cargo warehouses that sat directly north of
the
main terminal area. 

He moved under the nose of the plane, walked ten yards, and
stared down a long ramp. It was from there the baggage
handling carts, service vehicles, and catering trucks
drove up
onto the apron. The path was clear. He shifted the
knapsack,
wrapped the kerchief around his hand again so he wouldn't
leave a bloody trail for anyone to follow, and started his
descent. 

Two and a half hours and an outrageously expensive cab
ride later, he was back in the suite on the top floor of
the Okura
Hotel, soaking in the huge Japanese tub. He had his way
in. 

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

The next night it was same Bat-Time, same Bat-Channel,
as Skinner once again crouched in the culvert, cold and wet,
watching and waiting. 

He slid the Glock from his pocket and dry-fired it a few
times,
checking trigger pressure. It wasn't his brand -- he
normally
carried a Sig -- but this had been provided in the room
and he
figured better safe than sorry. Another minute to check
the magazine, then a long pause as he debated before
giving in and chambering a round. He still hadn't actually
fired the gun, but it was in perfect shape, and, God
willing,
perhaps it would remain unused. 

This time it was a Coca-Cola delivery truck that drove him
in. He jumped for the rear bumper while the driver punched
in his access code, then held on for dear life as Mario
Andretti
jounced over the speed bumps as if testing new shocks. In
far
less time than the fuel truck had taken, he was going down
the ramp to the subterranean passageways. 

Mario parked near the concourse elevators, letting Skinner
slip
off his perch right under the main terminal area. He
wandered
along a series of hundred foot deep, six foot high
concrete bays
where drivers parked and recharged electric delivery
vehicles
that shuttled baggage and packages up and down the miles
of underground highway. Tempting as it was to commandeer
one of the little carts, he passed on, moving along the
walls
from bay to bay, using the shadows cast by the crates,
containers,
and vehicles to his advantage. It took time to move the
thousand
or so yards down the subterranean road, examining each bay
for
signs of occupation as he worked his way through the dimly-
lit
passageway. 

It was two a.m. as he slipped up an interior ramp and
eased into
the hangar that held his goal. He took one quick look
around, then
stopped short. Departure was supposedly scheduled for
nine a.m.,
but there was activity in the area already. Flashlights
shone at the
far end and he could hear the scraping of wood on concrete. 

The hairs on the back of his neck erected. His whole body
tingled with a delicious mixture of fear, anticipation, and
tension. It was the edginess of that first patrol in Viet
Nam, the
butterflies from the first leap from thirty thousand feet,
the
sheer excitement of drawing first blood, the wired hype of
the
first kill. It was an indescribable, magical sense of
apprehension
coupled with the exhilaration of finally getting to the
job at
hand. At last, it was time to go to work. 

Skinner moved forward inch by inch, to see what was going
on, easing his way around a pile of six foot containers,
working
slowly toward the lights and the noise. 

It was dark in the hangar, shadows clung deep against the
walls and over the floor. Dim lights hung far above on
metal
supports, the low wattage already tired before it reached
the
floor. Listening to the noises, Skinner decided that
whoever
was on the other side of the plane was manhandling crates.
Large wooden crates from the sound of it. It took a minute
to determine that they weren't using the idle forklifts he'd
passed because they didn't want to attract attention. Which
was fine with him. He didn't want to attract attention
either.
He crept closer until he could see them clearly -- six men,
jabbering at each other as four pushed and shifted a large
crate while one worked on a different box, hammering
it shut with the flat end of a crowbar. The sixth was an
older man, off to the side by himself, not participating,
just watching, and Skinner suspected he was guarding
something as his eyes kept traveling to the floor at his
feet. 

He worked his way closer, watching carefully and listening
intently, and all of a sudden the rhythm and cadences of
their chattering became clear. Not Japanese -- Korean.
They were Koreans. He narrowed his eyes and looked again.
No way to tell by looking, but ten to one they were *North*
Korean, lackeys of the good Doctor Saito's new allies. 

Skinner dropped and scuttled across the floor, still trying
to get closer. But his silent scuttle became a booming
clang as his foot hooked a hand-truck, toppling it in the
dark with a loud "Kerrrang!" It hit the hard concrete
with a ring that echoed in the cavernous space. 

Oh, fuck! 

The Koreans turned toward Skinner, four of them producing
weapons in moves too smooth to follow. But Skinner had the
Glock out, raising it and sighting even as he rolled to
the side
and made for cover. As the first of them charged him, the
AD fired, dropping him with a double tap. New gun,
first shoot. Skinner eyed the fallen man critically. It
looked
like a belly shot in the lower left quadrant, then a pull up
and over for a second hit in the neck. Squeeze and heel --
a
rookie error, but Skinner didn't care. The SOB was down. 

Heart racing a hundred miles an hour, blood roaring in his
ears, he rolled right to draw fire and get a line on the
others.
It worked. A piece of wood splintered somewhere above
his head and he saw a muzzle blast at his ten o'clock. 

Surprise, you motherfucker. 

He rolled again and came up on one knee, the knife flashing
silver as it passed through the sliver of light and buried
itself in the ten o'clock man's neck. A look of surprise
registered on the Asian's face and then he was collapsing
almost gracefully onto the concrete and Skinner was moving
again, the night sights on the Glock now three even red dots
in the semidarkness. 

The third man was in the sight picture a mere six feet away,
his round face amazed that this tall, black-faced stranger
had him and he was about to meet his ancestors. Skinner
stared into the man's eyes for a moment, both of them
frozen in time, Skinner fighting for control, calling up the
forgotten chant, "I will not kill." He was silently urging
the man to run when the Korean's gun-hand moved and
broke the deadlock between them. 

Blood lust crashed over Skinner and he muttered, "Fuck you,"
as he pulled the trigger three times and the man rocked
back, a triangle of holes in his chest. 

Skinner rolled again, shoulder smashing into concrete as
he scrambled for cover, firing wildly down the bay while he
shifted. A ricochet came too close and he could feel
wetness
on his cheek. No time to check how bad it was, just move,
roll,
and fire. Move, roll, and fire. 

And then -- the mag ran dry. He dug frantically for the
backup in his pocket. Where the hell was it? He fumbled
around, cursing. 

With three of their number taken out so quickly, the
pause while Skinner worked to change magazine must
have given the remaining men a thirst for success because,
magazine still in hand, hand still in pocket, he heard a big
scrambling of feet, and then, one of them was on top of him,
followed closely by a second. He could see the whites of
the first man's eyes as he rounded the crate at full gallop,
his hand wrapped around a big knife. The gun was still
empty, but Skinner smiled anyway, a feral, animal grin,
his white teeth gleaming in his blackened face. 

Knives. He liked knives. 

A second blade appeared in his hand as if by magic,
and without word, or even thought, launched itself at
the man and was swallowed in his chest in an explosion
of technicolor red. The man was still moving forward
as he slid to the ground, and there was no time, no time,
as the other one was right behind him. 

Eyes fastened on the man bearing down on him, the AD
willed his hands to cooperate. 'Do not be a fucking
fumble fingers, Skinner.' New chant, old words. 'Take
the fucking magazine. Now put it in the fucking gun,
release the fucking slide and shoot the fucking bastard who
is trying to kill you. Do not screw up. Do not screw this
up. Shoot the son of a bitch, Skinner. Shoot him!' 

It felt like it took a week, but finally his fingers closed
around the magazine, pulled it out of his pocket, slammed
it home, dropped the slide, and he shot the bastard -- all
in the space of about a second and a half, or maybe ten
years,
depending on your point of view. And it was not a moment
too soon either. By the time he'd loaded and locked, the
fifth
man was on top of him, charging like a bull, face ratcheted
in anger or fear or both, knives in both hands coming
straight
for his eyes, a scream in his throat. Skinner never even
had
a chance to raise the weapon. It was all he could do to
fire from
his crouched position and send up a silent prayer that he'd
drop like a stone. 

The three pound trigger pulled so soft, so easy, he put five
rounds in him before he could stop, mentally berating
himself
for wasting ammo when he had no idea as to what was still
ahead. What if they had reinforcements outside? His silent
foray had turned into a ground-shaking sortie. Who knew
what
was waiting outside these walls? 

The fifth man went down, but his forward momentum
carried him into Skinner. He ducked the blade -- he was
getting pretty good at ducking blades -- and hit him in
the face with the side of the gun to knock him away. The
Korean stopped moving. Skinner rolled him over, then shot
him in the head at close range to make sure he was dead.
It was a little late for delicacy at this point. He
confiscated
the knives to replace the two he'd given to the man's
compatriots,
and swiftly tucked them away. A last glance at the
dead man showed he'd walked the rounds from his
left thigh through his groin to his heart and then shoulder.
Not his best, but he was working with the handicap of an
unfamiliar gun. It had been reflex firing -- and lots of
luck. 

By his count, there was one man left -- the old man. There
was movement off to Skinner's left, and then the man was
scrambling for the main corridor, about fifteen yards away.
He tried to get him in the gun's sights, but he was so
pumped
up, he was shaking. Leaning forward, he braced his forearm
on top of a nearby crate, acquired front-sight picture, and
squeezed off a controlled, three round burst as the Korean
was silhouetted against the passageway light. Skinner
grunted.
Controlled burst -- like hell. Only one of them hit, but
the
man still pitched forward. It was enough. 

The big man collapsed, sweaty, bleeding, and shaking with
that mixture of excitement, exhilaration, and disgust that
always overtook him after battle. He lay on the cold
concrete,
waiting for the shakes to end, the fire in his blood to
ease,
and his heart to still, wondering if it was worth it all. 

And he listened. Attuned to the slightest nuance, he
listened to the pounding in his head, and the roaring
in his ears, and the minute trickle of blood that dripped
from his cheek. He listened to his teeth grind, one
against another, and listened to his stomach churn,
as he thought of the carnage he'd just created in his
glee-filled blood-craze. Then he listened to the
air as it moved slowly through the immense space,
and the hum of the ground beneath him as machinery
toiled and vehicles moved. He listened to his
conscience tell him he was a stone-cold killer, not
fit to be with civilized men. Not fit to walk with
humans who lived and loved and valued life. Not
fit to love or be loved, to care or be cared for, to
hurt, or have his hurts tended. Not fit to be. 

He sighed, then stiffened as there was an answering
sound. An almost echo of his own slight sound,
tiny and incomplete. It drifted on the chill breeze
that blew through the drafty hangar, and dangled,
tantalizingly, just beyond his auditory reach. He
drew a breath, holding it, and waited in total stillness. 

And it came again. A tiny mewl of complaint, a small,
barely-voiced sound that echoed in his ears. 

He was on his feet and moving, homing in on the sound,
shifting the huge crates without thought of silence or
safety. Everything had narrowed to the one objective. 

Find the source of this tiny noise. 

A crate tipped, shoved by a strong, rough arm, and a
small basket was revealed. Two bright chameleon eyes
stared up at him, shifting gray to green to brown as he
watched, and a tiny hand waved jerkily, as if operating
separate from the rest of the wee body. 

He dropped beside the basket, eyes locked with the
little one's, and paused to regain his breath. 

"You're here," he whispered, one hand reaching out
to gently capture the small hand that still waved.
"It's all right, now. It's going to be all right." 

Skinner released the tiny hand, then gave a short, soft
chuckle as it probed the air, grasping his own pinky
finger, and closed, trapping him. He rolled again,
still half out of breath as he lay on his back in the
cavernous hangar, pulse racing in his ears, and took
a silent inventory. It was an old ritual, time tested and
honorable, this counting of new scars and wondering
if it was really worth it. 

Tonight, for the first time, he could answer that question
unequivocally. 

Tonight, he had been alone. No backup. No friends,
allies, or fellow operatives. 

And tonight, he'd found his answer. 

He pulled himself up, sitting cross-legged on the concrete
and reached into the basket to lift the infant from its nest
of blankets. He cradled the baby carefully, searching
his memory for some long ago bit of lore that reminded
him to support the head, and hold the child close. He
snugged the baby tight to his chest, then looked down
and smiled as the little one cooed up at him. 

Oh yes, it was really worth it.



End part 02/04 

A Child's Worth 03/04 

Skinner sighed and rolled over, gently freeing his
finger from the infant's small grasp, and returning it
to the basket. He pushed himself up, fighting muscles
that were already trying to stiffen, and rose to his feet.
Looking around the hangar, at the boxes and boxes of
equipment and materials that were there, he wondered
how the smoker had ever expected him to secure the
specific research materials that had been stolen. His
mind mulled over the problem as he hurriedly removed
the bodies and stowed them out of sight, harking back
to old lessons to leave as little evidence of your presence
visible as possible. Two empty crates served as
perfect storage lockers, and the dead Koreans were
quickly gone from view. Blood stains were harder
to erase, but he did what he could, then paused to
survey the scene. He nodded once. It would do. 

He went back to the basket, looking down at the
baby. It was sleeping now, one fist stuffed
against its mouth, and the tiny jaw worked up and
down as if suckling. It was smaller than he had
expected -- and incredibly fragile. He'd been able to
feel every bone through the velvet skin when he held it.
Moving the baby was going to be more difficult than
moving the crates. 

He lifted the basket carefully, and took it to the opposite
side of the hangar, creating a hidden alcove behind the
crates he'd stowed the Koreans in. He stood a moment
longer, studying the small face. Even this small, even
this new and unformed, he could see the stamp of Mulder's
genes in this baby. The dark hair, surprisingly thick for
one
so new. The slightly oversized nose; the long, almost
elegant fingers. And, of course, those hypnotic, changeable
eyes, deep and piercing already, and shifting from gray
to green to brown with tiny flecks of gold throughout,
closed
in sleep now, but the memory of them was etched in his
mind forever. 

He smiled, then shook himself, and slipped out of the
knapsack.
Shipping labels, safe inside a plastic bag, tumbled into his
searching hands, and he was soon relabeling and redirecting
every container in the hangar. That task complete, he was
stalled. He needed to get them moved and inserted into
the airport's standard freight flow, but he wasn't going to
leave the baby. And a man his size already stood out
amongst
the smaller Japanese. Posing as a worker would never fly
if he had a baby with him. He furrowed his brow,
considering
the problem, then dug back into the pack and produced the
baby carrier. Antiseptic packets were used to scrub the
grease
from his face, and he stripped down, quickly changing from
battle dress to mufti in seconds. Bare-chested, he strapped
the Snugli around himself, fingers fumbling over still
unfamiliar loops and catches. The baby still slept, not
even
waking as Skinner lifted it and slid it into the carrier.
He stared down at the small head, feeling the soft hair
against his chest, and was tempted to toss the whole mission
and take flight immediately. 

Only the knowledge that there would be no safety for any
of them if he didn't produce the desired results kept him
rooted to the spot. 

He pulled the shirt on, deliberately big and loose, and
adjusted the carrier, so the baby hung low on his chest,
simulating a pot belly. Or so he hoped. 

He turned and moved cautiously down the passageway,
back to the forklifts. A purloined key, a clipped chain,
and he was riding back to the private hangar. It took
over an hour to ferry the boxes out to the public freight
areas and insert them in the processing stream. Preprinted
manifests were attached, indicating contents and origin,
as well as fees paid, and destination. Customs labels
were in place; if all went well the crates would flow
smoothly out of Japan and into a freight handling service
he'd hired in California, to be stored for his eventual
retrieval. Before he turned any of this over to the smoker,
he planned to take a long, hard look at it himself. 

He looked at his watch. Almost four, and beneath the
blowsy shirt, he could feel the baby beginning to stir.
It would be hungry, and probably wet. Or worse. He
wrinkled his nose at the thought, then headed back to
the hangar. If they were moving the baby, they had to
have supplies. 

On the plane were diapers and wipes, cans of powdered
formula and bottles. He looked for food but couldn't
find any, and assumed it was still too young for anything
but milk. Then he mentally corrected himself. 

Gotta stop calling it an it. 

He took a deep breath, smelling something pungent,
and realized he'd be finding out the infant's gender
soon enough. 

The baby was squirming harder now, and beginning to
make noise, and Skinner figured it was time for a
tactical retreat. Out of the shirt. Out of the carrier.
Into something that fit better. Back into the carrier.
Milk, bottles, diapers, and wipes into the knapsack.
The baby's noises were growing louder, and there was
no way to explain to one this young that noise was not
a good idea when you were trying to covertly steal the
entire contents of an airplane, especially when you had
just killed six men. He pulled the baby out of the carrier
and tucked it into his arm, then headed -- fast -- for the
ramp up to the main terminal. He might be able to
pass for a tourist up there. Down here, a squalling infant
would only bring trouble. 

He made it back to the main concourse just as the infant's
mews of discomfort turned into full-fledged cries of adamant
displeasure. He entered the terminal, trying to look as
if he
belonged, and made a beeline for the first men's room he
could find. He looked around for a place to put the baby
while he made up a bottle, but there was nothing. 

He was holding the baby with one hand, trying to open
the formula can with the other, and making ridiculous
cooing sounds at the decidedly red-faced noise machine
in his arms when a hand tapped him on the shoulder and
a polite voice asked, "May I help you?" in carefully
enunciated English. He turned to look down into the
smiling face of a young man, a small boy at his side. 

"I hold baby. You fix bottle," he offered. 

Skinner paused, his paranoia rising. He couldn't let
go of the baby, not even to this apparently innocuous
stranger who only wanted to help. Instead, he shook
his head, smiling, and asked, "Could you fix the
bottle? I'm still real new at this." 

There was a moment of confusion and Skinner wondered
if the man understood, but when he pushed the bottle in
his direction, the man smiled, nodded, made a little half-
bow,
and quickly dumped formula into the bottle, ran water to
warm
it, then filled the bottle, shook it, and passed it back to
him. Skinner took the bottle and stood staring at it
for a moment, the baby's wails growing louder each second
he delayed. The man gently nudged him, and he looked
down, embarrassed as he stuck the nipple between the opened
lips and the multi-decibel noise suddenly ceased. The
baby sucked hard several times, then settled into a steady
rhythm, periodically punctuated with little grunts and
throaty sounds of contentment as the bottle slowly began
to drain. 

"Thank you," Skinner said, offering his own half-bow,
hindered as he was by the feeding infant. 

"Of course," the man said. "It is hard to be father and
travel with child." He looked down at his own son, still
standing soberly beside him. "Good luck to you." The
man nodded once more and he and the child disappeared. 

Skinner sighed and raised the baby up in his arms until
he could tuck the end of the bottle under his chin. He
stood
there, feeling extremely conspicuous, and found it took a
surprisingly long time to feed a baby. And you really
couldn't
do anything else when they were eating. There was nothing
to do but stare at it, watch the little mouth work, the
little
hands wave in the air, the little feet kick and then draw
up.
Listen to the contended grunts and snuffles that accompanied
feeding, the gurgles and coos that came after. Lift it up
and
tuck in into your shoulder, snug in the hollow of your neck
and smell the fresh baby scent beneath your nose. There was
nothing to do but fall in love. 

He took another breath, nose wrinkling, and realized the
problem he had detected at the plane hadn't magically
vanished after all. And despite the baby's full stomach,
it was squirming and beginning to mew in complaint.
He grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped the
counter by the sink, then lay a fresh covering down.
It was a tight fit, but he could make it work. The baby
went down next, the gown went up, and the diaper came
off. 

"A boy!" Skinner froze, then looked around guiltily,
thinking how odd it would appear that the "father" of the
baby was surprised at its gender. But the restroom was
empty. 

"A boy," he whispered to the little one. "So you're a
boy." He cleaned the child quickly, rediapered him
and then stuffed all the escaped paraphernalia back
into the knapsack, slung it over one shoulder, and went
to find a cab back to the hotel. 

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

He walked into the hotel lobby, the baby asleep again
against his chest. Amazing something so small and
perfect-looking could make so much noise when it wanted
to. He was standing just inside the door, off to the side
and
out of traffic's way, behind a large potted plant, staring
down at the small creature that was nestled against him,
oblivious to the world at large and the dangers that lurked
there. Staring down at that small face, he was once
again filled with that feeling, that knowledge, that no
effort, no sacrifice would be too big to bring this child
home and unite him with his parents. He smiled, ready
to move on up and into his room, when he heard his
"name." 

Fogarty. 

It was buried in a spate of Japanese, and the only other
word he could make out was "visa." 

Panic gripped him. He peered around the bush, seeing
police at the lobby desk, and listening uselessly to the
rapid-fire conversation that was going on. With no further
thought, he abandoned the room right then, forgetting the
papers and other supplies, and ducked back out into the
night. 

He couldn't be certain, but he was willing to bet that
someone had betrayed him. His visa had been canceled.
He was trapped on Japan with no identification and no
way home. 

He needed money, he needed supplies, and he needed
to get off this island. 

He needed a plan. 

He checked his watch. It was close to dawn. He weighed
his options. Japan was a friendly nation, he might be able
to get help here. But if the Japanese officials had already
been turned against him, it could be a long and arduous
process to sort things out, and he would surely lose the
baby. 

Without papers, standard transport off the island was
impossible. He needed something private, something
secret, and as the thought crossed his mind, an idea
began to form. 

He lifted his hand, flagging down a cab, and went back
to the airport. He'd blend in better in the airport than
he would wandering around Tokyo with an infant in his
arms. A car stopped, he crawled in, barked "Narita,"
then sank back into the cushions and closed his eyes. 

It had been a long night. A long night following three
other long nights that had followed a long plane ride.
He was exhausted. His back ached and his head hurt,
and his muscles were protesting every move he made.
He was feeling his age. 

And the crazy plan he'd just hatched didn't bode well
for rest and relaxation any time in the near future. 

He reached Narita, parted with a chunk of yen -- gods,
things were expensive here! -- and walked slowly into
the terminal. He moved through the people, a steady
forward motion, ever cognizant of the weaponry he
carried, and the airport officials who seemed to stare
at him as he passed. He hoped it was only his size,
and the incongruity of a man with a baby, that was
attracting the attention, and not something else. 

He wandered through the terminal, buying two or
three bottles of water at each food stall he passed.
He stowed them in the backpack until he could fit
no more in. He would need the water to make the
milk to feed the baby. That task completed, he
eased back toward the baggage retrieval area. 

He slipped into one of the ubiquitous gift shops,
snooped around a bit, then bought a clipboard,
pad and pen. From there he went back to a men's
room, and used a stall to conceal himself as he
stripped down again, strapped the sleeping baby
to his chest, and redressed in the oversized shirt,
covering the baby completely. 

Knapsack over one shoulder, clipboard in hand,
he moved along the side walls of the terminal,
searching for his objective. He paused by a
door marked in Japanese, French, English, and
Russian. 

Employees Only. 

Skinner stood there a moment, acting as if he was
making notes, and from beneath his hooded
lids, he watched the people, seeing if anyone was
watching him. When he felt secure, he moved slightly
till he stood before the door, then reached behind
himself, pushed, and slipped through. 

He immediately turned and began to trot, making
for baggage handling and the access to the underground.
He moved swiftly now, operating under the principle
that if you seem to know what you are doing and
where you are going, people are hesitant to question
you. His eyes were scanning, scanning, seeking out
that one worker who was alone, away from anyone
else, and eventually he found him. A young man, off
by himself in a semi-darkened alcove, a skin magazine
in his hands. He was avoiding his assigned duties, and
Skinner smiled. 

It made what he was going to do a bit easier, knowing
that the kid was a slacker. 

He walked over to the young man, bowed politely,
then asked, "Do you always read girlie magazines when
you're supposed to be working?" 

The kid looked up, startled at the big man's presence,
and confused by the unfamiliar language. He started to
smile, and point back toward the terminal, but Skinner
was reaching out, grabbing him in a choke hold, and
praying this one didn't know judo, or karate, or some
other shit as well. He could hardly afford to go flying
with the baby strapped to his chest. 

But the boy only stiffened, plucked uselessly at Skinner's
arm, and then collapsed as Skinner slowly lowered him to
the ground. He stripped the ID badge from around the
boy's neck, put it on his own, and headed back out to the
main passageway. 

It was an almost direct line to the private hangar from
there. No one stopped him. No one asked what he
was doing. The few people who glanced his way,
quickly averted their eyes when he looked at them and
pretended to make a note on the clipboard. The fear
of being reported crossed international boundaries,
and the workers here just didn't want to draw any
attention to themselves, or their job performance. 

Very quickly, Skinner was through the underground
labyrinth, and easing up the ramp into the hangar, and
then he was slipping through a maintenance hatch,
and crawling through the belly of the plane. He tunneled
far in, behind wires and conduits, and even managed
to remove a baffle that covered an air condenser, and
crawl in, pulling the plate back in place. It was dark
and cramped, and it would be loud and cold, but it
should be a short flight, and he could keep the baby
warm, and the engines' drone would drown out any
cries the child might make. And when they landed,
they would be in North Korea, but at least there he
wouldn't be wanted by the police, and he should be
able to get to a phone and mobilize some help. 

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

"When is Walter coming back?" Steven looked up from
his book and waited as Scully and Mulder exchanged
looks. Skinner's absence seemed to have become the
focus of Steven's life these past few days. 

Scully stood, lifting Jessie and went down the hall to
start the baby's bath, leaving Mulder to answer Steven's
question, again. 

"How long did he tell you he would be gone?" Mulder
asked patiently. 

"A week." 

"And how long has he been gone?" 

Steven thought then said, "Four days?" 

Mulder nodded. "So when should he be back?" 

"That's the part I don't understand, Fox," Steven said.
"I know he said a week. I remember. And a week is
seven days. I know. But sometimes you and Dana talk
about a week at work, and that's only five days, and I
get confused." 

Mulder nodded again. That made sense. Of course,
Steven wouldn't understand the concept of a work week, but
he was aware of it. "Well, Steven, his conference is
supposed
to be over tomorrow, so he should either be back tomorrow
night or the next morning. OK?" 

"So, either one or two more days?" 

"Right. One or two more days." Mulder smiled, then reached
out and tugged gently on the boy's hair. "Hey, how come
you're
so interested in Walter's trip, short stuff? You gettin'
bored
with me?" 

Steven laughed, then flashed a cryptic smile. 

"Walter promised to bring me something this time." 

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

Skinner had risked putting the baby down. The diapers
and blankets, his own BDU, and other spare bits of cotton
and nylon formed a nest, and he settled the infant in place,
hoping he was doing the right thing. He eased back
himself, cramped as he was, and tried to find a comfortable
position for the flight. There were still several hours
until
the plane was scheduled to depart, and he was hoping he
could catch a few winks between now and then. The way
he'd rigged the entry to the cargo bay would alert him when
someone was trying to enter the plane. 

His eyes drifted shut and he was soon nodding, chin
dropping down to his chest. He held the Glock in one
hand, fully loaded and with a round chambered, and his
throwing stars were out and by his side, ready for use if
need be. He was in that fuzzy place, somewhere between
sleep and waking, when he heard it. 

A muttered curse in Japanese. The good doctor had arrived
and found his cargo, and crew, were missing. Skinner jerked
himself awake, then looked at the baby. Until they were
airborne, it wouldn't do to have the little one cry. He
pulled one of the bottles of water, the formula, and the
baby bottle from the pack and quickly made up the child's
next meal. He was working on the one quick glimpse he'd
had as the young father had made the bottle in the bathroom.
He couldn't read the Japanese instructions on the can, and
had no idea if he used too much or too little of the powder,
but he really didn't have an option. He had to hope it
was right, and that the baby would take it and be quiet
when it woke up. 

There was another curse from outside, louder, and then
someone began to yell. Probably Saito. Skinner smiled
grimly. Good. Let the little prick worry. He couldn't
report theft of material he wasn't supposed to have, and
he couldn't very well search for workers who probably
shouldn't even be in the country. Skinner could hear
movement outside the plane, the wooden scrunch of the
crates on concrete, and the shocked exclamation as the
bodies of the Koreans were found. Another hurried
conversation and he heard hammering. Saito and his
gang were recovering the crates, probably going to leave
the bodies where they found them. 

More time passed, and the baby woke and fed, and
Skinner changed it. Time with Jessica had paid off -- he
was almost a pro at this diaper business now. Though
it was harder with one so little. He was almost afraid to
pull on the little legs to lift them up -- they seemed so
fragile he wondered if he would inadvertently break one.
Disposing of the used diaper was a problem, but he shoved
it further into the bowels of the plane, hoping it wouldn't
begin to stink too badly until they were gone. 

It was well past eleven now, and Skinner had begun to worry
that he hadn't plotted things quite as well as he thought,
when Saito reappeared. The plane was boarded in short
order, and within minutes they were rolling onto the
runway and had clearance for take-off. 

Skinner waited an hour -- time to clear the strait of Korea,
and then he made his move. He swaddled the baby more
tightly, and rigged a makeshift strap that would hold it
in place, even if the plane began to pitch. Then he removed
the baffle that concealed them, and crept silently out into
the undercarriage of the plane. A few yards up and there
was
the access hatch into the body of the plane. 

Skinner paused and took a silent inventory. Stars? Check.
Knives? Check. Glock? Check -- with refills. The leather
sap that had lain in his boot had been replaced by one of
the Korean's large knives. No good for throwing as his
delicately balanced toys were, but it would do a hell of
a number on someone if he got close enough. His lips
pulled back over his teeth, and a carnivorous growl
escaped him. He'd always liked knives. 

He made a silent count -- one, two, three -- and he was up,
popping the hatch and sailing into the passenger area of
the small private plane. A man in the mini-kitchen area
dropped, never realizing what hit him, and then Skinner
was moving down the aisle. Two men sat on the left,
a third on the right. Big for Asians, broad and muscular,
and two of them were moving on him. 

He froze letting the first man advance, bent low, arms
extended, the big knife in one fist. The gun was still
tucked
securely in his pants -- he hated shooting on airplanes.
There
was too much potential for disaster. The sumo wrestler
in front of him charged, and Skinner bent further, nailing
the guy with his shoulder then he dropped back in a
controlled roll, and the man was on him, the knife
rising, sinking deep in the rolling belly. A warm, wet,
sticky gush of red flowed over his hands and onto his
chest and Skinner continued rolling back, and the flow
moved upward, thick and viscous as it ran onto his neck
and then his face and finally his head. Then the man
was behind him, laying face down and unmoving,
and Skinner was rising again. 

The other two were standing still, surprise rooting
them to their places, and Skinner let fly with two of
the deadly little stars. The first one caught the man
on the right in the throat. He gurgled once, a strangled
sound that could have been a cry for help or a plea
for mercy, and then he dropped, folding slowly down
into the seat behind him, eyes wide and staring in
disbelief,
until, he slid from the seat and vanished from Skinner's
sight. 

The second star missed. The man on the left had moved,
rolling back and popping up from behind another luxuriously
padded seat in the plane. Skinner saw a gun and dove, just
as the muzzle flashed and the bullet whizzed by, winging
him in the upper arm. The nerves in his bicep exploded,
and soon the blood of the first warrior was mixing with
the red of Skinner's life. He hissed through his teeth,
scuttled sideways again, and moved further back into
the plane, using the widely spaced, thickly padded seats
for cover. 

The gun fired again, and then there was a sound from
behind him, and Skinner whipped around to see that a
fourth man had appeared from nowhere and was almost
upon him. He rose, gave a mighty yell, and charged
the new intruder, taking him down with a knife to the
chest. He twisted in place, dancing with the corpse,
and used it as a shield as he raced forward to the last
man's position. He staggered twice as he felt slugs
rock the body, then tossed it aside as he reached the last
man, and forcibly yanked him up. 

The gun skittered away, and the man came up swinging.
Skinner took a blow to the face, causing his eyes to water,
and his nose to bleed, and for a moment his vision blurred,
but he gripped the man tighter and squeezed, arms like
steel cords wrapped around fragile ribs, tightening,
tightening,
until he heard the first crack, followed by another then
another, and the man moaned. Skinner looked down. 

The man's face was contorted in agony, his lips were turning
blue, and as Skinner watched, his face went gray, his eyes
rolled back into his head, and his body relaxed into death. 

Skinner dropped him without thought, then turned to survey
the cabin interior. Seeing no one else, he made for the
controls, wanting to see if he could "convince" the pilot
that he did speak English, and he wanted to set down in
Seoul, not P'yongyang. But the cabin was empty, the plane
on autopilot, and it was then that Skinner realized where
the fourth man had come from. 

Aw, fuck! He couldn't fly -- it was one of the few skills
he
hadn't mastered. He groaned, then looked out the cockpit
window, seeing only clouds. They were up pretty high.
He'd have to bring it down if he was going to figure out
what to do. He couldn't very well ditch -- not with the
baby. 

He was going to have to land this motherfucker himself. 

He collapsed into the pilot's seat, the adrenaline of the
battle wearing off, and suffered through the shakes that
always followed. He was bloody, in more ways than one.
He'd killed again, and again, and again. In cold-blood,
and without remorse, and now he wore the enemies' blood
like a battle souvenir. He shuddered, disgusted, and
rose. He needed to get the baby, but he had to get the
blood off first. 

Twenty minutes later, dressed in nothing more than his
skivvies and boots, the only clothing he'd salvaged from the
sea of blood, he was clambering back into the hold, and
hauling infant and supplies up into the cabin. The landing
was going to be bumpy at best, and a disaster at worst, and
he needed a way to protect and cradle the little one. He
eyed the lush chairs of the passenger area, got out his
knife
and set to work. Within another twenty minutes, the seats
were metal skeletons, and Skinner had earned his name.
With one of his ever-present knives, he'd skinned the
cushions from their braces, and fashioned a padded cradle,
molded around the infant and several feet thick on all
sides.
A fourth piece of foam rubber was ready to enclose the
cradle, when the time came. 

He carried the baby and its safety contraption up to the
cockpit, then used straps and tie-downs from the plane's
utility bin to tether the thing in place. The task
accomplished,
he turned to the sea of unfamiliar gauges, buttons, and
levers, and began to work. Ten minutes, and two panic
attacks later, the plane was off autopilot and erratically
losing altitude. He dropped through clouds, probably way
too fast for safety, then yanked the nose up when he saw
mountains before his face. 

He managed to pull up, clear the ridge, and then he was
gazing down at farmland. A good sign for it meant that
he was over the agricultural basin, and there would be
people down there. People meant transportation,
transportation meant communication, and communication
was his way out of Asia and back to the World. 

He pushed the autopilot again, then sealed the baby
in its cocoon. There was a mew of protest, but he tuned
it out, offering mental apology and promises to never
do this again -- if they lived through it the first time. 

He played with switches again, until he felt the plane
begin to slow, the flaps coming down and dragging
against the lift of the wing. He throttled down, watching
the airspeed drop, and the ground race up to meet him.
He was coming in too fast, too sharply, but he was
committed now, and then he realized he hadn't put the
landing gear down and he began to frantically push at
buttons, wipers coming on, bells going off, one engine
shutting down completely. He liked that idea, and he
shut down the other, then grinned as the wheels came
creaking down from the hold. God bless the techie who
came up with GUIs for the technologically challenged.
He couldn't read Japanese, but even he could recognize
a picture of a set of wheels unfolding. 

And then it was time, and the ground was before him, a
blanket of multi-colored greens and browns, stretching
out like a carpet. And the wheels were down and locked,
and the flaps were up all the way, and the engines were
off, and the plane was coasting, coasting, still too fast,
still too steep, but he was pulling up, pulling up, and
some long ago instruction, left over from his training
in Viet Nam, rang in his ears. "Keep the nose up, up,
nose up, you shithead, or you'll tip the whole fucker
over." And he pulled and pulled and could feel the
heavy front end begin to nudge upward, and they were
coming in, too fast, too fast, but it was too late, and
there
was a bump, and a crunch, and another bump, and it
was 'nose up, nose up, pull you bastard, Skinner, pull!
Don't you dare kill Mulder's kid! Pull you sonofabitch!'
And he pulled and they hit again, bouncing harder,
then hit one more time and stayed down and Skinner
flew from the seat, feeling a wheel collapse and the
plane list and he crashed into the bulkhead, and then
rolled back across the floor, bouncing, bouncing
with every move of the plane until he, and it, rolled
to a stop, and remained there, unmoving. 

End part 03/04 

A Child's Worth 04/04 

Steven came dancing into the bedroom, leaping happily
onto the bed and crawling up between Scully and Mulder.
He rolled on his side, letting Scully lift an arm and place
it around him, his head coming to rest in the hollow of
her shoulder. Behind him, Mulder rolled over and extended
a long arm to embrace them both. 

"What's up, Steven?" Scully asked around a yawn. 

"It's today, Dana, today!" 

"What's today?" 

"Walter's coming back!" 

Mulder chuckled and Scully drew back so she could look
the little boy in the eye, and said, "Must be some surprise
he's got for you. You're pretty excited." 

Steven pulled out of her embrace, slipping up onto his
knees and beginning to bounce. "It is! It's the best
surprise!" 

Mulder and Scully both laughed. It was wonderful to
see the child so happy, and so -- childlike. He was
far too serious, far too much of the time. 

He leaned over and planted a long kiss on Scully's
cheek. "And it's not just a surprise for me," he
said breathlessly. "It's for *all* of us!" 

"All of us?" Mulder asked, still laughing. "That'll
be the first time my boss has ever brought me a surprise
from one of his trips." 

"Maybe he's just getting even for all the little 'surprises'
you tend to bring him," Scully teased. 

But Steven had turned and taken Mulder's face in his
hands, forcing the man to look at him. "Not your
boss, Fox. Not now. This is Walter. And it's a surprise
for all of us. You and me and Dana and Jessie." He tilted
his head for a moment, as if considering a serious question,
then added. "And Walter." He waved one arm around in
an all-encompassing circle. 

"It's a surprise for our fambly." 

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

Something was making noise. Loud noise. Skinner lay
still for a moment, listening. Very loud noise. His head
hurt terribly, and he wished whatever it was that was making
that awful sound would please be quiet or he might have
to shoot it. 

His eyes shot open and he yanked himself up. The plane lay
on its side -- one wing must have broken off -- and the
improvised
security cradle that held the baby was still strapped to the
floor, only now it was at about a forty-five degree angle.
He scrambled across the floor and undid the fasteners, then
pulled the covering padding off and stared down into a
tiny ball of fury -- red-faced, mouth open, and lungs
working
overtime. He made a cursory exam and decided the infant
was unhurt, though the way it was screaming would lead
one to believe it was being tortured to death. He hurried
to pick it up, and murmured soothing words to it, but this
was definitely Mulder's child and it was having nothing
of it. He'd been shoved in a crate, tossed about, and then
ignored for who knew how long -- Skinner looked at his
watch: broken -- and this child was not going to be pacified
with a few soft words. Skinner sighed and put the baby
back down, made up another bottle, and shoved the nipple
in the open mouth. Within seconds, the shrill shrieks
ceased
and were replaced by contented grunts as the formula drained
from the bottle. 

Skinner used the respite from the noise to take inventory
of himself. His head hurt -- badly. He was bloody again;
it ran from his head, and arm, and there was a particularly
long and deep gash that ran from his upper thigh to his
knee. It probably needed stitches, but that was impossible
now. He needed to get to the city. He needed help. 

The baby was done eating again, and he changed it
and placed it back in the foam cradle. It settled down
quietly, the large hazel eyes watching him seriously
for a moment as he whispered nonsense. And when
he said, "Sleep, now," the child appeared to understand
for it closed its eyes and pulled the little fist back up
to its mouth, and was soon slumbering, oblivious to
Skinner, the wrecked plane, or the fact that they
were somewhere unknown in Korea with no money,
passports, or connections. The baby smiled as if
to say "Those are big people's concerns," and Skinner
chuckled, then rose to prepare for the trek into the
nearest city. 

He gathered the stock of baby things, noting they would,
once again, take up the majority of the pack. He bandaged
his leg, and cleaned himself, and found clothing that almost
fit. He cleaned and restored his weapons, adding the
Asian's
gun to his arsenal. 

And then he caught a break. There, in the back of the
cabin,
in an alcove by the lavatory, was a semi-charged, functional
air phone. Skinner closed his eyes, sure it was a mirage,
but when he opened them again, it was still there, and
he lifted it, punched in a familiar number, and pressed
"send." He could hear the relays clicking, and the
connections connecting, and then a voice said, "Mulder,"
and Skinner thought he would cry. 

"Urgh," he said, most articulately into the phone, and he
could *hear* Mulder's frown. 

"Who is this?" the younger man demanded. 

"Me," Skinner said hoarsely. "It's me. I need your help." 

Mulder's tone changed instantly. "Where are you, Sir?
What do you need?" 

"Listen carefully, and don't argue, I don't know how much
time I have. I need a passport in another name -- something
I can remember. Get it to the airport in Seoul." 

"Seoul? Korea?" Mulder asked incredulously. 

"Yeah. And money. And a ticket. A ticket to Hawaii." 

"What's going on?" 

"Use John Smith. I should be able to remember that. And
then you and Scully get on a plane and meet me in Hawaii." 

The connection was breaking up. Skinner could hear it
crackling
with static now, drowning Mulder out as he asked something. 

"When?" 

"I don't know. It'll have to be something I can redeem
for the
next available flight. You may have to wait for me." 

"What the fuck is going on?" 

Skinner sighed. The connection was nearly gone. "I'll tell
you when I see you," he said, and the line went dead. 

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

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Mulder exploded as he slammed the
phone down. Steven backed away, wide-eyed, and Jess
ran to Scully, whimpering. Mulder's shoulders drooped
immediately, and he dropped to his knees saying, "I'm
sorry, guys. I'm not mad at you." 

"What's the matter, Fox?" Steven was still saucer-eyed,
staring at the man on the floor by the phone. "What
happened?" 

Scully surveyed the situation, then said, "I think Mulder
just got a bad phone call, Steven. Could you take Jess
and go play in your room while he and I talk about it?" 

The boy nodded and walked over to take the baby's hand,
pulling her slowly down the hall, even as he looked back
over his shoulder, staring at Mulder. 

Scully waited until the door to the children's room closed,
then said, "What was that all about?" 

Mulder's face was buried in his hands, and she went
over and placed an arm around him, pulling him up and
leading him to the couch. She rubbed his shoulder for
a moment, and they sat quietly until he suddenly leapt
up, another "Oh, fuck!" escaping and ripped the phone
from its cradle. He dialed, then spoke. 

"It's me and I don't give a shit about your tape, but I
need something and I need it yesterday." There was
a pause, then, "No. Not over the phone. Meet me.
You know where." 

He turned. "It was Skinner. I don't know what the hell
is going on, but he needs a new identity shipped to him
in Seoul." 

"Korea?" It was Scully's turn to be astonished. "What's
he doing in Korea?" 

"I have no idea. I'm gonna go meet the guys, get them
going on the ID. Get an 'on-call' reservation for him,
pay whatever it costs to make sure he gets on the first
flight he asks for, from Seoul to Hawaii." 

"Name?" 

"John Smith. Better wire some money to him as well. If he
needs a name, he's probably broke. And get us a flight out
too. As soon as possible." 

"The kids?" 

Mulder paused, thinking. "With your mom out of town,
there's
no one I'm comfortable leaving them with. They're gonna
have to come with us." 

He turned to leave, then halted when a small voice said,
"Fox?" 

Mulder took a deep breath, then turned back to say, "Yes,
Steven?" 

"I'm sorry I got Walter in trouble." 

Mulder and Scully looked at one another over the child's
head. 

Scully reached out and took the boy's hand, gently
tugging him to the couch. "Maybe you better tell us
what's going on." 

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

On the first day, he met no one, which surprised him
considering he'd just set a plane down in the middle of
someone's field. But no one approached, no one appeared,
no one seemed to be around. He walked from the time
of the crash until dark, stopping only to feed and change
the baby, and to fashion a hat for his head, to protect
him from the too bright sun. 

He slept that night, cliche as it seemed, in a haystack,
in yet another field in what seemed to be an endless row
of fields. The baby woke him three times, demanding
milk and cleanliness, and when the sun rose, he felt
as if he hadn't slept at all. He estimated that he made
about fifteen miles the first day. 

The second day, he walked until noon, then stopped and
drank some of the baby's precious water, the heavy
weight of multiple bottles growing far too light, far
too quickly for his liking. But he was growing faint,
and even he could recognize the danger in dehydration. 

In the mid afternoon, he met two men, walking on the
dirt road he followed. He was heading west, toward the
Yellow Sea, and Seoul. They were heading east. He
bowed and asked, "English?" but was met by vacant
and confused looks. He bowed again and said, "Seoul?"
and this time there were smiles and answering bows,
and the men turned and pointed back the way they
had come. It was the first indication he had that
he was on the right track, or even in the right country. 

In the evening, he felt the first twinges of something new
in the gash on his leg, and peeled back the bandage to
look at the wound. Despite his efforts to clean and dress
it the first day, it was now dirty, and he used some more
of the precious water to wash it and then tore the bottom
from his shirt, and the sleeves, and fashioned a semi-clean
bandage. 

He slept that night in a storage barn, resting on fresh
hay, and with the little one nestled on his chest. Once
again, the baby woke three times, and three times he
made bottles and changed diapers, and when the sun
rose, he still felt as if he hadn't slept at all. 

He estimated that he might have made twenty miles
the second day. 

On the third day, the leg was hot, and it hurt to walk,
but he pushed on. The sun blazed down and he could
feel his exposed arms burning in its harsh light. He
walked steadily, stopping only to care for the baby, who
was amazingly good and apparently enjoyed the sensation
of being walked, for he slept much of the time. 

Shortly after the sun passed its zenith, he came upon
a man riding in an ox-drawn cart. He pushed himself
a bit more, and came aside the rough, wooden wagon,
startling the driver. Once again, he bowed and asked,
"English?" and this time the driver shook his head and
said, "No." He held up two fingers, pinching them together
and added, "Small." 

Skinner nodded, then asked, "Seoul?" and the driver
nodded. Skinner held the baby up, then nodded at the
cart, and the man waved indicating he should climb
aboard. Skinner bowed again, then pulled himself into
the back of the cart, pushing aside cartons of vegetables,
and two crates of chickens to make room to sit. As
soon as he was in position, the cart began to move,
and Skinner sighed. Maybe things were looking up. 

He rode until dark, when the man stopped and fed the
ox from the hay in the cart. He fixed a cold dinner from
the produce in the cart, offering some to Skinner who
declined. His leg was hot now, and swollen, and when he
had peeled back the bandage, ugly red streaks shot out
from all sides of the wound. He was feverish, and sick
to his stomach, and wanted nothing more than water,
water and more water. But he denied himself. The water
had to be saved for the baby. The man ate, then made a
rough bed on the side of the road and fell asleep. Unsure
of whether he should stay or go, Skinner fell asleep before
he could decide. The baby woke three times that night,
and Skinner rose and fed and changed it, moving like
a sleepwalker. And when the morning came, he couldn't
even remember if he had slept at all. 

He estimated he had made closer to thirty miles on the
third day. 

On the fourth day, he was sick. The leg was not just
hot and swollen, it was beginning to ooze a nasty green
fluid, and when he bent his head to look more closely,
a foul odor wafted up. His fever was high, his thinking
was foggy, and he had but one goal: to get to Seoul and
get on the plane to Hawaii. 

He rode in the cart until they came to the outskirts of
the city. There was a teeming farmer's market, and
that was the man's destination. As he stopped, and
indicated he was staying, Skinner gingerly let himself
down from the rear of the cart. He stood for a moment,
testing the leg and his balance, then turned and bowed
his thanks. Baby still strapped to his chest, secure in
the ever-useful Snugli, Skinner turned and stumbled off
into the city, following the planes he could see overhead. 

It took him hours to cross the city and reach the airport.
He walked right by the American embassy, and was
sorely tempted to turn in and seek help, but fear of
what he would find kept him out. He staggered on,
ignoring the looks he received, ignoring the comments
that were made in a language he did not speak, and finally,
finally, reached the airport. 

He moved dazedly in, the air conditioning a shock
to his too warm body that now alternately shook with
fever or shivered with chills. He was pleased to see that
English was plentiful here, at least on the signs, and
quickly found the right ticket counter. The baby was
squalling again, but he couldn't take time to tend to
it this second. He took it from the carrier and propped
it on his shoulder, beginning an unconscious jiggle
that must have come from some deeply ingrained instinct,
passed without knowing from one generation to the next,
on how to care for the young. He by-passed the line,
calling, "English? English?" and was ridiculously
pleased when a young man answered, "Here, sir." 

He stumbled over to the window, ignoring the look of
distrust that his dirty clothing and odor earned, and said,
"John Smith. Do you have a packet for me? And a ticket?" 

"One moment, sir." The man went behind a partition,
and Skinner had a moment of absolute panic, near hysteria,
as he realized how vulnerable he was. Not only was he
carrying guns, knives, and other assorted deadly hardware,
he was sick, and feverish, and too ill to use any of it
should it be necessary. All that need happen now was
for officials to come upon him and place him in custody.
He would be helpless to defend himself. Or to protect
the baby. Who was still crying, though not as loudly,
nor as determinedly, but apparently wanted to be sure
Skinner didn't forget he was there, and hungry. 

The young man came back, smiling, with a large envelope
in his hand. "So sorry you had such troubles, sir. The
bandits are very bad in the mountains. Your passport,
travel money, and other identification is inside. And
an on-demand ticket. When would you like to leave, sir?" 

Money! Mulder had thought to send money! Skinner
would have kissed the man if he was there. "When's the
next flight?" 

"Seven thirty this evening. Should I confirm your seat?" 

Skinner nodded, then asked, "Is there somewhere I can
go to get cleaned up? And a place I can get some clean
clothes?" 

"Our VIP facility, sir. It should have everything you
need." 

Skinner nodded, and accepted the young man's directions,
then turned to leave. He stopped, looked back over his
head and asked, "What time is it?" 

"Two thirty, sir." 

"Thank you," he croaked, and moved off to find a place
to rest. 

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

"He's not on this one either, Mulder." 

The plane was empty now, all passengers had left, and
and yet Mulder was reluctant to leave. It was the fourth
plane they'd met, their fourth day in Hawaii. One plane
from Seoul each day, nine thirty in the morning. 

"Wa - tah?" Jessie asked unhappily. 

"Not today, Jess," Mulder replied. Then, looking at Scully,
he said, "You're right, we should go." 

They had turned to leave, Mulder carrying Jessica, and
Scully holding Steven's hand, when through the open door
they heard a baby cry. It was pure instinct to look back,
and there he was, moving slowly, every step an obviously
painful maneuver, but he was advancing, coming up
the passageway, and holding in his arms, something
small, and something red-faced, and something growing
progressively louder. 

Steven gave a loud, "Whoop!" and broke from Scully,
racing down the passage crying, "Walter! Walter!"
Scully and Mulder were frozen for the moment, but
then they, too, were racing to catch Steven, and to
greet the missing AD. 

He looked terrible. Scully could see immediately
that he was sick. His face and head were bruised,
and there were several small lacerations on cheeks
and brow. He was terribly sunburned, and as he
bent to speak to Steven, she could see that his bald
head had blistered in places. She could see the faint
outline of a bandage on his bicep, and he walked
with a decided limp. And his eyes were fever-bright,
his face flushed, exhaustion seeped from his pores. 

And despite the new clothes he wore, and the care
she could tell he had taken to clean himself, there
was an odor that clung to him. Infection. 

And yet, he was smiling, and nodding at the children,
and then, he was speaking to Mulder. No, he was
speaking to her, and she thought she must be in
shock, because she heard him say, "And so, this is
the last one. Mulder, Scully, may I present your son?"
And there was a tiny baby, squalling in protest being
thrust into her arms, and she was crying, and Mulder
was crying, and then Skinner was collapsing, falling
in slow motion to the carpet, and the airport was calling
for an ambulance, and it was all too much for her. 

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

When he woke, she was sitting there, the baby in her
arms, and to Skinner it was the most beautiful sight in
the world. He watched her for a moment, rocking the
little one, holding him tight to her breast even as
she held the bottle to his lips. She was humming,
terribly off-key and almost under her breath, and she
stopped self-consciously when she realized he was
awake. 

"Hi," she said, almost shyly. 

"Hi." 

"How do you feel?" 

He thought about it for a moment, taking inventory,
then said, "A lot better, thanks." 

Her eyes filled with tears then, and she rose and came to
the
bed. She lowered the rail and sat beside him, turning to
face him, shamelessly showing him her tears. "No, it's
we who should be thanking you. What you did ..."
Her words trailed away, and she leaned down, hugging
him awkwardly, the baby still tucked in one arm. 

He patted her back and held her for a moment, placing
a quick kiss on the top of her head. She'd been through
so much. They'd all been through so much. And there
was so much he wanted to tell them, but he was tired
again, and his eyes were slipping shut. 

She seemed to sense this, because suddenly Dr. Scully
was back, and she pulled away, telling him in a crisp,
clear voice, "You should rest." 

He nodded, eyes closed, and was soon fast asleep. 

When he woke the next time, Mulder was in the chair,
sans baby. 

"Where's the little guy?" he asked. 

"Scully doesn't seem to want to share," he said. 

Skinner laughed. "And to think, Steven was worried she
wouldn't want a baby." 

Mulder rose and walked to the window, his back to the
man in the bed. "You should have told me. You should
have let me come." 

"Why?" 

"He's my child. I should have been the one ..." 

"The one to what, Mulder? Do you really want to know what
happened? Do you remember the island? Remember the things
I did? Remember how you felt? Do you really think you
would
want to have to live with more of that?" 

Mulder turned. "It was bad?" 

"It was bad." 

There was a pause, as the younger man considered this. "Are
you OK with this?" 

Now it was Skinner's turn to pause. He shook his head, then
said, "I will be, though." He cut his eyes to the door
and asked,
"Where's everybody?" 

"Scully took them to the cafeteria to get something to eat.
They'll be back any minute." 

There was a noise at the door and it pushed open, one small
head peeking around the corner, followed quickly by a
second.
And then the air was split with cries of "Walter! Walter!"
and echoes of "Wa-tah!" and before Mulder could warn them
to be careful, Steven and Jess had scaled the bed rails
and were settling in with the big man. 

"You found him!" Steven cried, and then in a quieter more
serious tone, added, "He's really little and he makes a
*lot*
of noise." 

"Baby cwy," Jess agreed, shaking her head vehemently. 

"I couldn't have found him if you hadn't told me, Steven,"
Skinner said. "You should be very proud that you remembered
and that you were brave enough to tell me about it." 

Steven nodded, then said, "So, do you think he's gonna
get quieter when he gets bigger?" 

There was a general round of laughter, everyone amused by
Steven's perception of his new brother. 

"We're working on getting his paperwork," Mulder said.
"He's got to have a birth certificate. I don't want to risk
any problems now. We may 'expedite' Steven and Jessie's
this way, too. Just to minimize exposure, you know?" 

Skinner nodded and Scully said, "But he needs a name.
We can't just keep calling him 'the baby.'" 

Skinner laughed. "That's better than what I did. I kept
calling him 'it.'" He grinned sheepishly. "It, uh, I mean
he was just so -- foreign -- to me." 

Scully snuggled the little one closer, then tentatively held
him out, waiting for Skinner to reach up and take him.
He settled the baby on his chest, thinking the child should
feel right at home there, and gently stroked the small
back. 

"We were thinking of calling him, uh, Walter," Scully
said. 

Skinner groaned. "God, no! I appreciate the gesture,
really I do, but please don't do that to him. Give him
a normal name, something like Jason, or Daniel, or
Andrew. Something that won't get him teased his whole
life." 

"Andrew?" Scully looked up at Mulder. "I like Andrew." 

"Then Andrew it is," Mulder said. 

Scully came around the bed to stand beside Mulder, and
he put an arm around her, drawing her close. Steven had
snuggled in next to Skinner, his head resting on one
shoulder, while Jessie claimed the other. The baby
slept peacefully, looking very small against the broad
expanse of chest. 

Mulder looked down at his children, nestled trustingly
against Skinner. He looked at Skinner, almost asleep, and
yet still holding the children so carefully, so
protectively.
He looked at Scully and smiled. She was so happy, it
gave her a radiance, a joy, that shone from her eyes and
warmed him by its presence. 

"Mrrrmmph," Skinner mumbled, his eyes beginning to
close again. 

"What's that?" Mulder asked. 

"It was worth it."



The End of it All.




So ends the "Retrieval" universe. Thanks to the loyal
readers who have loved and enjoyed Commando!Skinner as much
as I have.