IN THE CLEARING

by Rae Lynn (rae_lynn05 at yahoo.com)

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: SA

SPOILERS: Through "Requiem."  

KEYWORDS: Post-episode for "Requiem."  Character death.

SUMMARY: Two years after "Requiem," Mulder is returned.  Warning: a character is 
already dead at the beginning of this story.  From Skinner's point of view -- 
here, let him tell you himself: "He weighed 132 pounds when we found him -- 
bone-thin, his legs knobby like Erector Set legs, swollen and disfigured at the 
joints.  It almost ached to see him; my voice died on my lips like I was 
eighteen and back in the jungle where I'd seen so many things that would make 
this man -- this ragged, tortured shell of a man -- look like a blessing.  But 
this wasn't 'Nam and Mulder wasn't my CO or even my friend, Mulder was just a 
guy who'd put his ass in the fire for so many people that it was starting to 
look a little scorched around the edges."

AUTHOR'S NOTES: At end of story.

DISCLAIMER: With one tiny exception, all the characters contained within are the 
property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions.  No profit will result 
from this story and no copyright infringement is intended. 

_____________________________________

He weighed 132 pounds when we found him -- bone-thin, his legs knobby like 
Erector Set legs, swollen and disfigured at the joints.  It almost ached to see 
him; my voice died on my lips like I was eighteen and back in the jungle where 
I'd seen so many things that would make this man -- this ragged, tortured shell 
of a man -- look like a blessing.  But this wasn't 'Nam and Mulder wasn't my CO 
or even my friend, Mulder was just a guy who'd put his ass in the fire for so 
many people that it was starting to look a little scorched around the edges.
	
What I saw first were the burns -- radiation burns, as it would turn out, but at 
the moment they just looked bad, a patchwork of smooth white scars across his 
back and legs.  I knew the moment I saw them that nothing on this earth could 
have caused those burns.  Yes, Virginia, the aliens *are* among us.  For a split 
second I was living in a twisted Aesop's parable:   And the moral of the story is...

He tried to stand when he saw me.  I searched his eyes for a shadow of that old 
shit-eating grin and when I couldn't find it I searched again for a hint of that 
old weary defiance, and when I couldn't find that either I tried for fiery 
determination and it was there, thank God or a lifetime of particularly painful 
strife, I don't care either way because it lasted him a good five seconds, that 
resolve, long enough to push himself off the mattress halfway until he sank back 
into its soft sheets and drew his knees into his chest.

"Agent Mulder," I said, as evenly as I dared.  "We've been looking for you.  For 
a long time."

At the sound of his name Mulder's head jerked up, and in his dark eyes I could 
see the gears in his mind processing, rapidly clicking into place.  God.  So he 
hadn't known me when I walked in, then.  There was a low rumble in his throat -- 
the sound of years of screaming and silence clearing away.  Maybe more.  He 
licked his parched lips and was silent for longer than I could hold my breath.

"Sir?" 

I was still "sir" to him.  I could have cried with relief, but I doubt Mulder 
would have believed his eyes. 
 
"Come on, Mulder," I said as I offered him my hand and he took it, his legs 
struggling to stand while his eyes struggled to comprehend.  "We're going to get 
you out of here."

* * *

At the hospital, I paused in the doorway to take stock.  Mulder was facing away 
from me, his lips moving wordlessly, and from the door I imagined I could count 
his ribs through his back, even mottled as it was with those burns.  Jesus, 
Mulder.  What have they done to you?

He must have felt me standing there -- Mulder always did know when he was being 
watched.  He shifted in the bed, painfully.

"Sir," he said, the word coming more easily to his lips this time.  I took it as 
an invitation to step fully into the room and cautiously pull up a seat by his 
bed.

"How are you feeling?"

The corners of his lips curved briefly, as if he was set to crack a joke.  
  But his mouth drew 
back so quickly that I wondered if I'd imagined it.  

"I feel -- "  He spread his arms tentatively, as if taking stock.  "I 
feel...intact, I guess," he offered, as if "intact" was the best he could do.

"What do your doctors say?"

Mulder leaned his head back against the pillow.  "That there's nothing wrong 
with me that some cortisone cream and a few Big Macs won't cure."  His eyes 
flittered from me to the doorway and back and it was obvious from the look in 
them that Mulder wasn't sure he agreed.  He drew in a deep breath.

"Sir," he began haltingly.  "Nobody's told me anything.  I need to know what..."

"What do you remember?" I asked sharply.  Mulder's eyes were lost, far away.

"I don't -- I can't..."  He shook his head, frustrated.  "It's gone," he said, 
"it's all gone.  I remember...the forest.  A bright light.  There was...there 
was screaming."

Screaming?  Christ.  His own, no doubt.  Mulder's eyes were darting around the 
room and I was positive it wasn't the hospital room that he was seeing.

"Mulder."  I touched his shoulder and he winced.  "Why don't you take some 
time."

He shook his head, swallowed hard.  "I know how much time I've lost already, 
sir," he said in a low voice.  He paused, then looked at me, hard.

"How did you find me?" he said quietly.

How did we find you?  We looked, Mulder.  We looked every day.  We sent teams of 
federal agents streaming over every inch of the Oregon forest.  We put out 
bulletins to every hospital and homeless shelter in four states.  Every John 
Doe, every unidentified suspect, every unclaimed body.  We devoted an army of 
manpower.  We devoted our lives.

But I didn't tell him that, not yet.  Instead I said, "An anonymous tip pointed 
us toward the shelter.  They said they'd picked you up on the outskirts of the 
Bellefleur forest.  You were..."

I trailed off abruptly.  When they'd found him, Mulder had been murmuring a 
name.  Scully's name.  And I didn't want to be talking about Agent Scully, not 
yet.

But it was too late; Mulder had picked up on my hesitation.  His eyes tracked to 
the doorway again, as if he expected her to be standing there.  Hell, I almost 
expected it myself.  But then, Mulder always had been mentally three steps ahead 
of everyone else inhabiting his sorry universe.  He'd probably known as soon as 
he recognized me in that shelter instead of his partner...who wouldn't have let 
an army stop her if she'd had any chance in heaven or hell of reaching his side.

Mulder bowed his head, as if gathering strength.  "Where's Scully?" he asked, 
almost inaudibly.  I knew I looked uncomfortable.  

"Mulder..." I trailed reluctantly.

His next breath was sharp, almost a gasp.  We'd waited two years to hear that 
breath again.  And now -- how was I supposed to explain this to him?

Christ, Scully will never forgive me for this, I thought wearily.

Mulder broke our silence first.  "She's dead, isn't she," he said flatly as his 
eyes flickered and then died, his lashes sliding shut.  When he opened them, 
they were wet with anguish.

"I owed her -- I owe her -- my life," he said hoarsely, looking away from me.  
"I..."  He rubbed his face with his hands, hissing in pain as the motion 
disturbed his IV.  Letting out a last shaky sigh, he turned back to me and his 
eyes met mine, half devastated and half defiant.

"How?" he said stiffly.  We were locked in an eye standoff.  As weak as he was, 
Mulder was still Mulder, and I broke away from his gaze first.  

"There was an explosion," I said, biting off any useless words of sympathy.  
"Almost a year ago.  A fire, in her lab."  Suddenly Mulder's eyes were seized 
with a kind of desperate hope that I felt it was better to extinguish before he 
could get any further.

"There was a chemical screw-up.  Explosives stored in the wrong location.  She 
was there, Mulder.  She was in the building."

His words were sharp, insistent.  "You don't think they can't make it look like 
-- "

I cut him off, knowing what he was about to do.  "It doesn't matter what they 
made it look like.  What matters is what happened."

His eyes were harder than I had ever seen them.  "How can you say it doesn't 
matter?" he hissed in a low voice.  "She *fought* for you!"  And it was true, 
she had.  They both had, even though Scully had been convinced more than once 
that I had betrayed her -- betrayed the X-Files, betrayed them both.  Jesus, as 
far as we were concerned, they were all the same thing.  I watched his jaw work, 
his face as though he was swallowing bile.  

"There's something else," I said rapidly, knowing full well that it might be 
more than Mulder could bear.  Christ, he had barely survived the three months 
Scully had been missing and now I was asking him to endure a lifetime without 
her.  I knew he was exhausted.  He sank back into the bed, a hand over his eyes.

"Just after you..."  He nodded once, hearing my hesitation; he'd rather I didn't 
use words like "missing" or "abducted" right then, either.  "Agent Scully 
discovered she was pregnant."

Mulder's hand, which had been gently rubbing his closed eyelids as if willing 
the moisture beneath to go away, froze.  I could hear his harsh breathing, in 
and out, as if he had to will himself to work at it.

"Mulder, you have a son."

* * *

Two days later I found myself boarding a plane bound for Washington, D.C. with 
Mulder, who'd slept fitfully for the remainder of his hospital stay and said 
little more than two words together since I had unceremoniously dropped the 
bombshell that destroyed what was left of his life.  I'd made damn sure we were 
seated in first class -- in the bulkhead, no less, the better for flight 
attendants to reach us should he come close to dropping dead en route -- but 
Mulder scarcely seemed to notice.  

I'd argued unsuccessfully -- the same way Scully used to, I imagined -- for 
further hospitalization.  

"You can't tell me you're thinking of releasing him," I had growled to his 
doctor.  "The man's been gone for over a year.  He can barely stand."

But Mulder's doctor was, like me, six foot tall, a Vietnam veteran and not 
easily intimidated.  

"And I'm telling you there's nothing else we can do for him here.  He needs 
physical therapy and, I'd wager, some emotional therapy as well, but not 
hospitalization and not any more tests.  Take him home, get him into a good 
rehabilitation program.  I have some numbers you can call."

On the plane, Mulder's legs quivered with the effort of boarding as he folded 
himself gracelessly into his seat and closed his eyes.  My throat burned at the 
sight of him:   Damn them.

"What's his name?" Mulder whispered raspily, his eyes still closed.  I startled; 
I should have known better than to think he was sleeping.

"Who?"

Mulder's eyes slid open, and with great effort he pulled himself upright to look 
at me.  His eyes told me I knew damn well who he was talking about and he 
resented me making him say it.  "My..."  I let him stumble over the words, 
willing him to finish.  "My son."  

I felt myself letting out a breath.  "Liam," I told him.  And after the briefest 
of pauses: "Scully chose it to...honor you."  Off his look, I continued, 
reluctantly.  "It means 'unwavering protector.'"

Mulder made a sound deep in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  
"Scully," he said, his voice strangled and tight. 
 
"She spent every day looking for you," I said.  Mulder nodded wearily, as if he 
had been expecting this: me telling him what he doubtless already knew.  All of 
a sudden I saw some of her in Mulder's eyes -- the grim firmness of Scully's 
face those many months he had been missing. 
 
God damn, but the universe was cruel.

When the stewardess came around Mulder tiredly asked for some ginger ale.  I 
watched closely as his hand trembled slightly bringing the cup to his lips.  
"So," he said carefully around small sips.  "Tell me about him."  His voice 
caught on the last word, betraying him as easily as it used to when he was 
called on the carpet in my office.  

Wordlessly, I reached into my wallet and pulled out the photo I'd been carrying 
for weeks.  I didn't need to look at it to know exactly what he would see: Liam 
with his wispy red hair, so like Scully's.  A grin that exposed his front teeth.  
The New York Yankees overalls Scully had purchased for him.  Mulder's face was 
impossible to read as I passed it to him, but as soon as he looked at it his 
face seemed to crumple.  Two fingers absently stroked the glossy surface of his 
son's face.

"He looks like her," he breathed despite himself.  

"Scully always insisted he looked like you."  

Mulder looked up at me, his eyes somehow hooded and wild.  "Is he..."

"Agent Mulder, I know this is hard for you," I interjected.  *Agent* Mulder.  
The words slipped out before I could help myself -- before I remembered that the 
man sitting in front of me was not Agent Mulder but the shell of him.  

Mulder shook his head fiercely.  "No, it's not hard," he said brusquely.  "It's 
not hard, it's impossible."

"He's with Scully's mother," I said after a few moments.  At the mention of 
Margaret Scully Mulder sucked in a breath.  

"God, Scully's mother," he muttered under his breath. 

"Mulder, she doesn't blame you for anything that happened to Scully."

His head snapped up.  "No?" he said bitterly.  

"Agent Scully made a choice," I said neutrally.  "And she chose her life with 
you."

Abruptly Mulder looked away from me, his jaw clenching and unclenching.  "Why 
are you doing this, sir?" he said, his voice sounding muffled as it echoed off 
the plane walls.  I couldn't decide what he was really asking me -- why had I 
come to Oregon myself to retrieve him?  Or why was I torturing him with 
information about his dead partner and his 22-month-old son?  

Mulder cleared his throat.  I could tell even without looking at him that he was 
attempting to compose himself, something I had seen him do so often after losing 
his temper in my office.  It was perversely reassuring -- Mulder, the shadow of 
his former self fighting his way back.  Mulder, sprung from the darkness.

"Where are we going?" he asked, fighting to keep the roughness from the edges of 
his voice.  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Your things are in storage," I said.  "You'll stay with me."

Mulder made a sound very nearly like a snort -- a pained snort, I thought.  He 
closed his eyes and I could see the lines spreading across his forehead.  The 
young agent I'd met those many years ago -- cocky, defiant -- was gone.

"Thank you," he said, so quietly I could barely hear him.

"It's good to have you back, Mulder," I said.  But Mulder was already asleep.  

* * *

Mulder slept so deeply for the remainder of the flight -- through not one but 
two in-flight meals he sorely needed -- that I feared I would have to dump a cup 
of ice water in his lap to rouse him as we landed.  When the pilot's voice over 
the PA system welcomed us back to our nation's capital, though, he awoke with a 
gasping start, sucking in a breath as he bolted upright in his seat.

"Easy, Mulder!" I said as he sagged back against the window, rapidly rubbing his 
face with both hands.  Damn it.  Privately I had always thought of Mulder as an 
emotional man, prone to passionate outbursts and unable -- or unwilling -- to 
rein in his emotions.  When Scully had been returned, I arrived at the hospital 
in the middle of the night to find three rather large security agents 
restraining Mulder while he ranted and raved about justice, revenge and 
punishment for Scully's assailants.  My stomach twisted at the memory -- Mulder 
was never going to protect his partner again.

But this was different.  I'd never seen Mulder's private pain so raw.  Exposed.  
Until, that is, I remembered his sheer desperation when Scully was missing -- 
the dark circles under his eyes, the way his clothes hung off him.  It wasn't, I 
thought ruefully, all that different from the way he looked now. 
 
Mulder was moving cautiously as we deplaned, but he was alert enough to be aware 
that I was watching him attentively from behind.  

"Is there something I can help you with, or are you just admiring the view?" he 
said caustically as we headed out of the airport.  

"Of your bony ass?  Get real, Mulder."

The sun felt warm on my shoulders as we stepped out into the D.C. sunshine, and 
I glanced over to find Mulder stopped dead in his tracks.  His face in the light 
of day was somehow even more pallid than it had been at the Oregon shelter.

"Mulder?"

A shudder seemed to run through him.  He shook it off with a twisted smile.

"Yeah.  I just haven't been outside in..."  He took a deep breath of the fresh 
air and it seemed to revive him.  He turned to face me and I once again caught 
sight of that wobble in his legs.  

"It doesn't matter," he said quietly.  "It's been a long time."

"It does matter," I said as I hefted our bags onto my shoulders and nodded 
toward the car I'd called for.  "Come on."

* * *

Mulder paced my apartment like a caged animal, his unsteady gait becoming firmer 
in the enclosed space.  After his third lap around my bookshelves I cleared my 
throat audibly.

"Sit down, Mulder, you're making me dizzy."

Without turning around he lifted a book off one of the shelves.

"I never figured you for a Dickens man, sir," he said conversationally.  
"Hemingway, maybe."

"Hemingway, Mulder?" I said to his back.  He turned to face me.

"He's a man of few words," Mulder responded, studying me guardedly.  He glanced 
down at the book he was holding and smiled again -- that twisted, recriminating 
smile.

"'A Christmas Carol,'" he said.  "I guess that makes you the Ghost of Christmas 
Yet to Come.  'I fear you more than any specter I have seen' and all that."  He 
flopped onto the couch and tipped his head back onto the pillows.

"Your doctors in Oregon couldn't stop telling me how lucky you were to be 
alive."

He glanced at me through slitted eyelids.  "Do you think I'm lucky?" he said 
unemotionally.

"I think you look like shit, for one thing," I replied.  Mulder's only response 
was a short bark of laughter that quickly disintegrated into a cough, choked off 
at the root by Mulder's grim swallow.  

"Scully used to say the same thing to me."  

Scully.  At the mention of her name all the air went out of the room.  Mulder 
stared ahead at nothing.  I had witnessed him without her enough times to know 
that Mulder without Scully was a desperate, ferocious man, recklessly driven 
even to the edge of sanity.  But this Mulder merely seemed haunted, adrift.

"I assume there was an investigation," he said without looking at me.  I didn't 
need to ask what he was referring to.

"I headed up the task force myself," I offered grudgingly.  At this Mulder's 
head whirled around to face me, his eyes dark and accusing.

"You didn't tell me that before."

The anger I felt at the reproach in his voice was irrational and sudden.  "So 
you could do what, Mulder?  Demand that I bring Agent Scully's autopsy photos to 
you in the hospital?" I spit.

At the mention of the word "autopsy" Mulder's face had gone white.  Unsteadily 
he rose to his feet and moved painfully to the window, gazing out as if he 
expected to see her walking on the street below him.  Something told me Mulder 
was going to be seeing Scully everywhere for a very long time.

"Please," he said haltingly, bracing himself against the sill with slow, 
measured breaths.  "Just tell me what you found."  

I could feel my jaw clench; it was impossible to keep the tension from my voice, 
but I knew that Mulder would not be denied.  

"I know what you believe, Mulder," I said in a low voice.  "Hell, I expected it 
too.  But all the indications -- *all* of them -- are that what happened to 
Agent Scully was an accident.  Four other agents perished.  All of them died of 
smoke inhalation.  Their bodies were intact, there was no indication of external 
trauma.  The alarm system was working, the sprinklers went off.  It appears that 
they just...didn't make it out of the building in time."

"What was she working on?" Mulder asked without turning around.

"What?"

"A case, was she working on a case?"

"No."  I paused as Mulder seemed to take it in.  "She'd gone back to teaching at 
Quantico.  Nine to five.  She hadn't performed a consult for VCU in several 
weeks."  

Unconsciously Mulder rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes.  "The X-Files?" he 
asked.  I was surprised to note that it was the first time Mulder had mentioned 
them.  There had been a time, I thought ruefully, when his work there had been 
all that mattered to him -- and his impassioned defense of it all that mattered, 
professionally, to me.

"The division's still open," I told him, registering the note of surprise that 
flitted briefly across his face and was gone.  "Two agents are assigned to it.  
John Doggett and Monica Reyes.  They're both familiar with your work."

His lips curved with the ghost of a bitter smile.  "Mulder and Scully, the next 
generation?"

"They're doing solid work.  Though I must say their expense reports are much 
less...creative...than yours."  

At this Mulder didn't come close to cracking a smile.  Instead his head dropped 
forward until his chin was nearly touching his chest.

"Scully," he whispered aloud tonelessly, more to himself than to me.  I stepped 
forward, intending to put a hand on his shoulder, but I found I couldn't bring 
myself to touch him.  

"Why don't you sit down, Mulder, you look like you're ready to collapse."

It was an unfortunate choice of words.  When Mulder did look up at me, his eyes 
seemed to burn with despair.  In his time with the X-Files Mulder had saved my 
life -- and the lives of many others -- more than once, and in return I'd found 
myself doing my damndest to save his career, but we had never had a close 
relationship outside of the terse, clipped arguments upon which the fate of 
Agent Scully's life and sometimes the entire world seemed to rest.  Now, with 
Mulder in front of me barely able to speak his unspeakable loss, I found that I 
had no earthly idea how to help him.  

Before I could try, we were interrupted by the insistent drone of my doorbell.  
As I moved to answer it I could feel Mulder's deep breaths behind me, 
concentrated, as if he'd forgotten how.  Christ, maybe he had.  

I'd intended to ask any visitors to kindly take a rain check, but when I looked 
through the peephole I knew there would be no turning the three men away.  Even 
Mulder's pale face seemed to regain some of its color as the three Lone Gunmen 
paraded single file into my living room.  A slow smile spread across his face, 
though it was obvious from the look in his eyes that there was no real joy in 
it.

"You boys come to see what a dead man looks like?" he said, his voice rough as 
though it hadn't been used for a long time.  Frohike let out a low whistle in 
response.

"Jesus, Mulder.  I'd say it was good to finally see your pretty face again, but 
-- "

"I know, you'd be lying," Mulder cut him off somewhat good-naturedly.  "How'd 
you know I was here?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Langly responded.  "We've been looking out for you, 
Mulder."

"All of us," Byers added, throwing a significant glance in my direction.  Mulder 
followed his gaze to meet my eyes.

"I know," he said.  I looked around my living room and could hardly comprehend 
the scene: three conspiracy geeks and Mulder, back among the living.

"Well."  I cleared my throat.  "Why don't you gentlemen get settled and I'll set 
you up with some lunch."  

"Say no more, Skinner!" Frohike responded with a flourish.  "We brought Mulder 
here a present.  Figured he could use it."  He nodded toward Byers, who was 
setting down a parcel I hadn't noticed he'd been holding.  When he stepped aside 
I could see what it was: a caseful of Ensure.  

"Chocolate," Langly nodded encouragingly at Mulder.  "Know how much you used to 
enjoy the stuff in the hospital, Mulder.  Bulk you right back up."  

"I knew there was a reason to live," Mulder murmured, then flinched as if he'd 
been struck.  All three men studiously looked down at their feet, but it was 
Frohike who broke the silence.

"I'm sorry about Scully, Mulder," he said, in as gentle a way as he probably 
knew how.  "We looked into it, of course."  His own voice seemed choked, now.  
"It was a damn shame."

Mulder was looking away as if he couldn't bear to see Frohike start to cry. 

"What about Liam?" he said suddenly.

"What?" Langly said.

"Liam," Mulder repeated tightly.  "Her -- our -- child.  Have you 'looked into' 
him?"

The three men exchanged startled glances.  "Well -- yeah.  Of course we've been 
keeping an eye on him for you, Mulder," Frohike offered.  

"And?"  Mulder's voice was pressing, insistent.

"He's a healthy, active toddler," Byers responded guardedly.  "There's no 
indication that there's anything...unusual about him."

"And more importantly, none of your government goons have shown any interest in 
him whatsoever," Langly added.  He glanced at me.

"No offense."

"None taken," I answered grimly.  "Mulder, I appreciate your concerns, but 
believe me, I have done everything in my power to ensure Liam's continued 
safety."  

Mulder's tense shoulders seemed to relax slightly in response, but his eyes were 
no less wild.  

"Now c'mon, Mulder," Langly said brightly, "how about that Ensure?"

* * *

The three Gunmen were true to their word, refusing to leave the apartment until 
Mulder -- who looked more pained with each sip -- finished every drop of a can 
of high-calorie Ensure.  By the time they had gone, Mulder was positively 
glowering, which I chose to take as an improvement over his previous state.
When I noticed that my answering machine had messages waiting, I hit the button 
without thinking...only to be confronted with the last voice I wanted Mulder to 
hear.

"Mr. Skinner, this is Margaret Scully.  When you called a few days ago you 
mentioned following up on some kind of lead in Oregon and I just wondered -- "

Fuck.  Automatically I jabbed at the 'delete' button, but the damage had already 
been done.

"You spoke to her," Mulder said.  His voice still had the accusing tone from 
earlier in the afternoon, but now the venom had gone out of it and he merely 
sounded tired.

"We've been in touch.  She wanted to be kept informed."  I paused, taking in the 
unspoken question in his eyes.  "Look, Mulder.  I'm sure you've realized that 
there are those who thought your disappearance might not have been...entirely 
outside your control.  But I assure you that Margaret Scully is not one of 
them."  Not after seeing the way the loss of Mulder nearly destroyed her 
daughter, and Agent Scully's stubborn insistences that Mulder would be found.
Mulder looked as though he wanted to say something else, but only nodded.  

* * *

It wasn't until later that night, when I was sure Mulder was fast asleep in the 
guest bedroom, that I returned Margaret Scully's call. 
 
"Mrs. Scully?  It's Walter Skinner.  I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to return 
your message earlier."

"Of course," she said tentatively, obviously afraid to ask the question that was 
clearly on her mind.  "And your lead...?"

"Mrs. Scully, perhaps we shouldn't be discussing this over the phone."

Her tone changed immediately.  "It was Fox, wasn't it," she asked, but there was 
no question mark in her voice.  "You've found him."

I sighed.  It had been almost two years of these awkwardly painful phone calls, 
two years during which I was sure Margaret Scully had lived and died by the 
ringing of her telephone.  There would be no keeping her from the truth.

"Yes," I said reluctantly.  "He's badly malnourished and he appears to have 
suffered some...radiation burns.  But he'll be...he'll be fine."

She let out a long breath.  "And he knows about Dana," she said.  Of course he 
knew, I wanted to say, he would have known even if I had never told him.  But 
instead I only confirmed her query.  "He's devastated," I said honestly.  The 
line was silent for a moment.  

"So am I," she said finally.  Then, anxiously: "Is he with you?  Can I speak 
with him?"

"He's asleep, Mrs. Scully, he's exhausted," I answered.  "But I know he'll want 
to see you -- "

"Please," Mrs. Scully said.  "Sometime soon.  I need to see him.  And he needs 
to see his son."  

Mulder had been too shell-shocked since receiving the news to demand to see 
Liam, but I didn't even want to try to contemplate the shit-storm that was sure 
to go down if anyone even entertained the thought of attempting to keep him from 
his son.  

"I will be in touch," I agreed.  

On the other end of the line, just before Mrs. Scully hung up, I imagined I 
could hear Liam crying.

* * *

As I pored over Mulder's medical reports -- "severely malnourished," "evidence 
of prior second-degree burns to the legs and back" -- I could hear what sounded 
like a scuffle coming from the guest bedroom.  Mulder tossing and turning in his 
sleep, no doubt.  

The doorway was open.  As I stepped into it and my eyes adjusted to the light I 
could make out Mulder, whose own eyes opened, huge, as his whole body seemed to 
shudder.

"Mulder," I said forcefully.  But his eyes stared through me. 
 
"Agent Mulder," I said again.  "Do you know where you are?"

Suddenly awareness seemed to set in.  His body slumped forward, and he ran a 
hand repeatedly through his short hair.  

"Sir," he said.  His breath was coming in short gasps as he waved off the glass 
of water I moved to offer him.

"You were having a nightmare."

"My life is a nightmare," he managed to mutter in response as he pushed himself 
upright.

"You experienced episodes of pronounced night terrors in the hospital," I told 
him.  In response he merely stared at me, the vacancy in his eyes replaced with 
a slow, sharp anger.

"When I was gone I prayed for death," he said, his outstretched palms turned up 
toward his face.  "But this?  This is worse."

I couldn't argue.  Instead I watched him sit there, silent, for a long time.

* * *

In the morning Mulder seemed drawn, easily startled by mundane noises like the 
coffeemaker and the neighborhood garbage trucks.  

"I want to see Scully," he announced forebodingly over a physician-recommended 
high-calorie breakfast that seemed to make him more nauseous than energized.  
For a split second I felt an encroaching horror --  -- before I realized that he had meant her gravestone.   
 
I opened my mouth to protest, but immediately relented.  I couldn't deny him 
this.  

"And," he added in a quieter voice, staring into his plate, "I want to see 
Liam."

"Fine," I said, "but first we've got to get you some clothes that fit."  

* * *

The only clothes that seemed adequate for his tall but emaciated frame were in 
the boys' department.  I'd made it my policy to be honest with Fox Mulder since 
his return, but I was goddamn certain I would never tell him about this.  An 
hour later Mulder was outfitted in jeans and a dark green sweater, because 
despite the unseasonably warm weather I was sure that otherwise I would catch 
him shivering.

Dana Scully had been buried next to her sister in a small Catholic cemetery 
almost a year ago.  Liam had wailed inconsolably through the entire service 
despite the entire Scully family's attempts to soothe him, and toward the end of 
the ceremony Frohike, with his flair for dramatic mourning, very nearly joined 
in.  Even Kersh had the decency to wear a dark suit and scowl uncomfortably from 
the back row.  As we walked back to our black cars after the ceremony, I had 
been certain I saw cigarette smoke wafting towards her headstone.  Out of 
respect for Agent Scully I had resisted the urge to duck behind a tree and punch 
the living shit out of the tall, dark figure I was sure I would have found 
there.

I'd expected Mulder to stumble on the rough ground at the cemetery -- hell, he 
was barely capable of sitting up straight without snapping in two-but as we 
approached Scully his steps were somehow surer than ever and his voice, which 
had seemed stretched so thin yesterday, was unhesitating and strong.

"I'd like a minute alone."

Of course.  I nodded, not trusting my voice.  I'd chewed out Mulder's ass more 
times than I could count, but to choke up in front of him was unthinkable.  I 
stepped away and Mulder's gaze followed me from out of the corner of his eyes, 
waiting until I was well out of earshot.  From a distance I watched him stare 
hard down at the gravestone, and I turned away.  If he wasn't back in twenty 
minutes I'd have to make sure he hadn't fallen and cracked his head, but until 
then I left him to grieve in private.

* * *

When Mulder returned his hands were trembling.  He must have felt the tremors, 
because he shoved them in his pockets and turned his face up to me defiantly, 
his gaze clearer than it had been since I had first seen him.  

"When Scully was...returned," he said suddenly, turning his face into the 
breeze, "her sister made me stand by her bedside and...wave my arms, around her 
body.  I told her I felt ridiculous.  Do you know what she said to me?"

I shook my head mutely.

"She said, 'Her soul is here.'  She told me that I could feel it."  He paused.  
"I told her she was wrong.  But now..."

He looked at the ground.  "If Scully were alive," he said bitterly, "I would 
feel it."

I was treading on thin ice, but I asked the question anyway.

"What *do* you feel?"

It was a cheap question to ask a man who'd been educated in psychology at 
Oxford, and I didn't anticipate an honest answer.  If I had, I might have 
guessed anger...sadness...guilt.  But to my surprise, Mulder seemed to consider 
the question for a beat longer than I'd expected.  Then he turned to me with a 
small, humorless smile.

"Tired."

* * *

Mulder's breaths came quick and shallow in the car on the way to Margaret 
Scully's house.  "Mulder," I finally growled, glancing over at him, "you keep 
breathing like that and you're going to knock yourself into a heart attack."  
"That might be for the best, sir," he shot back immediately.  So there was some 
of Mulder still lurking there beneath the surface, then.  As we pulled up I 
could see Mrs. Scully's head duck out of sight through the front window.  She 
had obviously been expecting us.

"You all right, Mulder?" I asked as we started up the driveway.  It was a 
preposterous question; Mulder was never going to be all right again.  But he 
nodded without looking at me.  If they had only known it would be so nearly 
impossible to break this man, I thought, they might never have dared to try in 
the first place.  

Mrs. Scully answered the door almost immediately and, like the Gunmen, drew 
back, stunned into momentary silence at the sight of Mulder.  It wasn't his 
gauntness, I had decided, having suffered through the same reaction myself, but 
the mere presence of him.  Surely there was an apt metaphor somewhere --  -- but I had yet to unearth it.  

Scully's mother recovered quickly, though, as Mulder's mouth attempted to form 
words.  "Fox," she said quietly, reaching out to grasp both his hands with hers.  
"Please, come inside."

With great difficulty, Mulder seemed to regain his power of speech.  "Mrs. 
Scully," he said, in a voice that was almost a whisper.  "I am so sorry about 
Dana."

Mrs. Scully managed the ghost of a smile.  "I know you are," she said.  "And I 
know that Dana would be so...pleased...to have you home again."  She paused.  
"She always believed that she would find you."

There was a fleeting moment of panic in Mulder's eyes, but he managed to compose 
himself and took a step closer to Scully's mother.  "And she has," he said 
brokenly.  "She has."

Christ, we were a maudlin bunch, I thought as Mrs. Scully retreated to the 
kitchen to make tea.  Mulder's eyes flittered nervously around the living room, 
drinking in the obvious significance: a high chair here, a playpen there, a 
photograph of Scully holding Liam that Mulder gazed at reverently before shaking 
his head to break the spell.  Mrs. Scully reappeared in time to answer the 
question that was clearly written on Mulder's face: "Liam's just down for a 
nap," she reported gently.  "He should be waking up any minute now."

Mulder nodded uneasily.  One uncomfortable round of tea later, Mrs. Scully 
seemed to gather her strength and turn to Mulder, who was staring vacantly into 
his cup as if he expected the tea leaves to reveal Scully's face.  

"Fox," she said.  "Would you like to see him?"  

Mulder opened his mouth to answer but instead merely nodded.  As Mrs. Scully 
left the room, I attempted to think of something encouraging to say to my former 
agent but came up completely empty -- Hallmark, I thought bleakly, had never 
made a card for this.  I settled for a brief nod in his direction that escaped 
his notice completely as he clenched his fists to keep them from trembling.  
I had seen Liam just a month ago, but he looked twice as big as he had then.  
Margaret Scully was whispering soothingly into his ear as he drowsily rubbed the 
sleep from his eyes with chubby hands.

"Liam," said Mrs. Scully as she smoothed his hair from his forehead, "do you 
remember Mr. Skinner?  And this," she added slowly as she reached Mulder, who 
had begun to rise painfully from his chair, "this is Fo  -- "  She cut herself 
off, momentarily stricken.  "This," she said, "is your father."  

From across the table I inspected Mulder's face.  The expression I saw there was 
like nothing I had ever witnessed from him: a sharp blend of sheer terror and 
gentle longing.  For a moment he only looked at Liam in open-mouthed wonder 
before finding his voice:

"Hey there," he said softly, as if worried he might frighten the baby.  "Hey, 
Liam."

Liam had never warmed to my presence, likely because I had been the bearer of 
bad tidings to the Scully household more times than I wanted to count.  But he 
seemed positively transfixed by Mulder, reaching his arms to him as if demanding 
to be held.

"He recognizes your voice," Mrs. Scully said, looking fondly at her grandson.  
Startled, Mulder said, "I don't...I don't understand."  Mrs. Scully glanced 
away, embarrassed.

"Dana had some audiotapes...of you.  From your work.  Not many," she added 
hastily, "that were entirely suitable for a baby's ears.  But..."  Her eyes were 
wet.  "Dana thought...she always said I was being foolish.  But I played them 
for him."

Mulder looked stunned, his eyes uncertainly darting from Mrs. Scully to his son 
and back again.  Finally he reached out, gently, and carefully lifted a 
chortling Liam from Mrs. Scully's arms.  

"Well, kid," he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "that must've made some 
pretty kick-ass bedtime stories for you."

In response, Liam grinned wildly and lunged for Mulder's nose with both hands.
"His fine motor skills appear to be intact," I observed.

"He can play with it all he wants, I'm just grateful he didn't inherit it," 
Mulder retorted mildly as he disentangled himself, glancing at Mrs. Scully and 
appearing relieved to find her smiling.  

"Mrs. Scully," he said hesitantly as Liam attempted to chew on his fingers, 
"thank you.  For...for taking care of him."  

Scully's mother pressed her lips together and glanced away, toward the window, 
as if she didn't want Mulder to see her face as she spoke.

"Fox.  When Dana told me...about her pregnancy..."  Her eyes met his 
reluctantly.  "I didn't know what kind of father you could be.  What kind of 
life you and Dana could have without putting your child in danger."

It wasn't an invalid concern; Mulder, with his penchant for running off in 
search of personal truths and government secrets, had unquestionably endangered 
Dana Scully's life a thousand times.  Even so, hearing Mrs. Scully speak out 
loud what Mulder was undoubtedly thinking, he flinched as if he had been struck.  
He nodded, slowly, a choice seeming to spread across his face.

"I can't argue with that," he said in a low voice as Liam watched interestedly.  
"But..."

Mulder swallowed hard.  He watched Liam tug at his fingertips for a long time.  
Then, taking a breath that seemed to signify his resolve, he looked directly at 
Margaret Scully's face.

"He is my son," he said, his voice shaky but firm.  "Mrs. Scully, my father..."  
Mulder paused, and sighed.

"My father," he continued in a quiet voice, "thought he could have both.  A 
family and a conspiracy.  He tried to have both, and it destroyed us."  
Unconsciously Mulder reached out to stroke Liam's head.  When he resumed 
speaking, his voice seemed to stretch, taut, across the past ten years.

"I will not do that to my son."

If he had expected a seismic shift in the order of the universe at his 
pronouncement -- a bolt of lightning, perhaps, or a foreboding directive from 
above-I wouldn't have blamed him.  Over the past decade I had watched Fox Mulder 
devote every fragment of his being to what he had more than once referred to, 
without any hint of irony, as his "quest"...and the Holy Grail, in my opinion, 
had nothing on Mulder.  Pursuing the truth with a fervor born out of a passion I 
had always respected but could never understand, Mulder had sacrificed 
everything.  Everything.  Let the truth be known, though the heavens fall.

But the Mulder I saw in front of me was not the same Mulder who had gone into 
the woods in Oregon two years ago.  Mulder was gripping his son with a 
fierceness that seemed almost painful.  His son, I realized-the core of both 
Mulder and Scully, the life they had built together, the truths they had sought.  
The essence, as it were, of Mulder's heart.  

"If Kersh and his agents want the X-Files," he said intently to me, as if he had 
suddenly forgotten Margaret Scully's presence in the room, "they can have them.  
And if the Director wants my badge, even my gun, he can have that too.  But I 
want assurance -- I want an oath in *blood* -- that my son is not to be touched.  
Or I *promise* you," he hissed, "that I will bring them down."  

In response, Liam's face crumpled and he began to wail.  "Fox," Mrs. Scully 
interjected, touching his arm before plucking Liam from his hands and allowing 
the crying baby to bury his face in her shoulder.  Mulder only stared at me, 
harshly, his eyes communicating what he and I both knew: that Mulder without 
Scully, without Liam, would be a more brutally dangerous man than any of his 
betrayers had ever imagined.  

It was several deep breaths and one ear-splitting shriek from Liam before Mulder 
could speak again.  

"I know I put Dana's life in danger," he said in Mrs. Scully's direction, his 
voice dangerously low.  "But I lo -- I loved your daughter."  It came out as a 
croak.  "And I would be lying if I said I didn't want justice for what was done 
to her or answers to the questions we sought.  But I need to take responsibility 
for my actions.  I need to protect my son, Mrs. Scully.  You have to let me 
protect him."  

Mrs. Scully gazed at him wearily but unflinchingly over the top of Liam's head.  
"And you think you can do that," she said finally.  "Protect him."

"Whatever it takes," said Mulder forcefully.  They seemed to be at a standoff: 
Mulder and a Scully, just like old times.  Hell, I could only imagine what 
Mulder would give to have an argument with Dana Scully again.  I found myself 
briefly imagining what the outcome of a custody battle between Mulder and 
Margaret Scully would be -- Mulder was destined to lose, that much was obvious, 
but I wouldn't have been surprised if the judge threw in a restraining order and 
possibly involuntary commitment for good measure.  Fox Mulder, paranoid 
investigator of paranormal phenomena and government conspiracies, father of a 
toddler.  What a sitcom that would make.

Mrs. Scully drew in a deep, shuddering breath.  "Fox...he has already lost his 
mother.  And my motivations are not that malicious.  I would never want 
to...keep him from you."   She paused, her face drawn and tight.  

"I think Liam's had enough for today," she said abruptly. 
 
Mulder's voice was imploring.  "Mrs. Scully, please..." 
   
I stepped in between the two of them.  "I think we've all had more than enough 
to deal with for the moment," I said in a low voice, letting Mulder read the 
message on my face:   

"We'll talk soon, Fox," Mrs. Scully said as she led us to the door.  "When 
you're feeling -- "  Her voice shook.  " -- stronger."  

Mrs. Scully had obviously been misreading him.  Mulder may have been physically 
frail, but the intensity of his eyes and voice as he pled for his son had been 
stronger than ever.  

* * *

"That went well," Mulder observed caustically as he slumped into the front seat 
of the car, flinging a hand over his eyes.  I glanced over at him.

"She just needs some time," I said, striving unsuccessfully to make my tone as 
gentle as I knew how.  "She's lost her daughter, she's -- "

"Due respect, sir, are you really going to sit there and talk to me about loss?" 
he interrupted.  

Touche, I thought.  

"Mulder.  I have spent the last two years updating Margaret Scully weekly -- 
sometimes daily -- on the federal investigation into your disappearance.  And 
believe me, she has wanted nothing more than for you to be found.  Not just for 
your own sake but for Liam's."

At the mention of his son's name, all the wind went out of him.  Mulder's eyes 
seemed to soften, losing the bitter glint in them that had surfaced when he had 
first mentioned the X-Files.  

"I-I never saw myself as a father," he said, choosing his words carefully.  "I 
never wanted to...to take the risk that I might have the same impact on my 
children that my own father had on me."  

"If what you said in there," I replied cautiously, "about the Bureau, about the 
X-Files -- if that's any indication -- then you won't."

 Mulder closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the seat.  Our tender 
moment, I thought grimly, was clearly over.

"How can you be so sure?" he said, his voice betraying a quiet agony.  I could 
tell he didn't expect or want an answer, not the empty platitudes I'd been 
attempting to offer him since his return.  Instead I shut up and drove, and by 
the time we reached my apartment I had to shake him so forcefully to wake him 
that I thought he might snap in two.  He gasped violently as he awoke -- a 
characteristic of Fox Mulder's I had become all too familiar with lately -- and 
startled us both.

"Jesus, Mulder," I said before I could help myself.  "You sleep like the..."

"Dead?"  He smiled twistedly.  "You should be so lucky."

I glared at him, sharply, but he was already beginning to push himself out of 
the car, refusing the hand I offered him and sagging against the door frame at 
the same time.

"Mulder, would you let me help you?" I said, exasperated. 

The look he gave me in return was piercing.

"You can help me," he said evenly as he started for the door, "by getting me in 
touch with some of our mutual friends at the FBI.  It's been a long time since 
they've heard from me, and I have a feeling they're about to get an earful."

I sighed.  There was no stopping Mulder; there never had been.  In the past, his 
relentlessness had saved lives on countless occasions.  

It had also come damn close to costing him his own.

"I don't have that kind of access, Mulder," I said carefully as we entered the 
apartment.  

"I think you do, sir."

I shook my head, suddenly uncomfortable.  Christ, as if the past few days hadn't 
been uncomfortable enough.  "I'm not your boss anymore, Mulder, you don't have 
to call me 'sir.'"

"Well, then, Skinman, I need you to do me this favor," Mulder replied promptly, 
sounding perversely more cheerful -- if that were even possible -- than he had 
since his return.

I couldn't hold back a small sound of disbelief.  "It's a hell of a favor."  I 
paused.  "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"As opposed to what?" he retorted angrily.  "Ignore them and hope they'll go 
away?  Or should I just turn my son over to them, save us all the trouble?"

"Look, Mulder, I'm not suggesting -- "

"Then what are you suggesting?" he interjected.  "If you've got ideas, I'd like 
to hear them."

He was breathing hard, almost panting, when it hit me that we'd been here many 
times before, Mulder and I.  The dead ends, the defeat.  The unvoiced specter of 
Dana Scully hanging in the air between us like a heavy weight on both our 
hearts.  God.  I couldn't give Mulder his life back.  I realized that.

But I could do this for him.

"You can't make a deal with the devil, you know that better than anyone," I said 
finally.  Mulder's eyes glittered dangerously.

"I'm not asking for a deal." 

"Then I'm asking you to agree to certain conditions," I said warningly.  "First, 
that you keep your own death wish in check for the sake of your son.  You heard 
Mrs. Scully, Mulder, she wants you in his life."

He didn't even blink.  "And the second?" he said evenly.

I had to speak quickly to get my entire sentence out because when I knew that 
when I had, the proverbial shit would hit the fan.  "That before you get 
involved you let me have someone evaluate you."

Unconsciously Mulder glanced down at his wasted body.  "You heard the doctors in 
Oregon, they said I was fine."

My jaw was clenched so tightly I thought I was have to unhinge it just to speak.  
"I'm not talking physically, Mulder."

He stared at me, realization brimming.  "You want me to see a psychiatrist," he 
said flatly.  "No, I'm sorry -- you want to 'have me evaluated.'"

"I don't think you're crazy, Mulder."

"No?" he rejoined, his eyes wide and fierce.  "That's funny, sir" -- even in his 
rage, I thought, I would always be "sir" to Fox Mulder -- "because I do.  And I 
doubt your psychiatrist is going to be able to tell me anything I don't already 
know."

But I had seen the way his eyes looked as he came bursting forth from sleep, the 
dark pools in them that seemed to liquefy as he brooded at the walls.  

"It's not negotiable, Mulder.  Do this or our deal is off."

His voice was cutting.  "I told you," he said, "I'm not asking for a deal."  

"Agent Mulder," I said icily, using the title I knew would get his attention, 
"you and I both know that you are more than capable of managing this situation 
on your own.  Now, you *asked* for my help.  Let me give it to you."

It was Mulder's second standoff of the day, and it was clearly wearing him down.  
He sighed wearily and rubbed a hand over his eyes.  It was something I'd watched 
him do over and over since Oregon and I was beginning to wonder if the doctors 
had missed some retinal damage we didn't know of.

"Is the light bothering you, Mulder?" I said quietly.

"It was dark," he said without thinking.  "It was dark and I was..."

"Where?" I asked, more harshly than I had intended.  

His hand cast a shadow over his eyes.  "The light was blinding," he murmured.

"Mulder, where?"

Suddenly his reverie broke and he startled, staring at me. 
 
"I told you," he said, his voice a flat mockery of itself, "I don't remember."

I wanted to believe he wasn't lying.

* * *

There was only one psychiatrist I knew who had a prayer of surviving a session 
with Fox Mulder.  The violent protest Mulder clearly wanted to stage played 
itself out only in his eyes, where a mutiny was obviously brewing.  Frankly, I 
was surprised Mulder hadn't yet mentioned retrieving his meager possessions from 
the storage locker I'd rented and striking out on his own, but I figured that it 
was only a matter of time.  Or maybe, I considered as I glanced at him in the 
car, he was just too goddamned tired.

"So what happened to my apartment?" Mulder asked disinterestedly as we drove.  
Ah.  There it was, as if on cue.  Spooky Mulder strikes again.

"It's up on the market," I said.  "Landlord's having trouble trying to rent it."

Mulder looked over at me.  "Yeah?  Why's that?"

Maybe the truth would cheer him up, I thought.  "Neighbors have been telling 
potential tenants that the place is haunted," I admitted.

I was right; Mulder looked almost delighted.  "Really?"

"It seems," I said neutrally, though I believe I almost could have managed a 
smile, "that the last tenant suffered a rather unfortunate string of bad luck 
while living there.  Strange noises in the middle of the night, more than one 
911 call placed from the apartment -- "

"All right," Mulder interrupted.

" -- duct tape residue on the window," I finished. 
 
"You should have been this funny when you were evaluating my case reports," 
Mulder muttered under his breath.  

His face registered surprise as we pulled up to our destination.  "Not the 
Bureau?" he said, glancing at me.

"So you could eat a few OPR shrinks for breakfast?" I rejoined.  "It might have 
been fun to watch, but it's not what I had in mind, Mulder."

"It's never fun," Mulder said after a beat as he climbed out of the car.
Dr. Reginald Graver had been a psychiatrist before we'd served together in 
Vietnam, and since the war's end and the post-traumatic stress that came with it 
he'd been treating psychiatry's most difficult patients -- grown men in agony, 
men who'd escaped from the pit of hell only to find that their lives 
suspiciously resembled the place they thought they'd left.  Mulder shook his 
hand uneasily, as if measuring his own fragile grip against Reggie's powerful 
one and coming up short.  For a moment he looked exposed, unbalanced, but just 
as I'd seen him do in my apartment, he quickly shook his head and recovered.

"Dr. Graver, I'm Fox Mulder," he said, glancing over at me.  "But then I'm sure 
Skinner's told you all about me."

"Just the Cliffs Notes version, I'm afraid," Reggie replied easily.  "It's good 
to see you again, Walt," he said to me.

"It's been a long time, Reggie.  Your hair's gone gray," I noted.

"And you've gone bald," he said, grinning.  Then he turned to Mulder, all 
business.  

"Shall we begin?"

I moved to let myself out of the room, but Mulder rolled his eyes.  "Knock it 
off, sir, you've been reading my mental health reports for years," he growled.  
"I know your friend here is going to give you a full run-down once we're 
through, so you might as well stay and enjoy the show."

Undaunted by this little outburst, I lowered myself into a chair on the far side 
of the room, but not before Reggie flashed me a smile.  "These mental health 
reports," he stage-whispered, "were they a stimulating read?"

"You have no idea," I muttered dryly.

"So!" Reggie continued brightly.  "Mulder, is it?  That's what you prefer to be 
called?"

Mulder closed his eyes briefly as if to signal his impatience.  "I sincerely 
hope you're not getting paid by the hour, Dr. Graver," he said.

"I wouldn't think of accepting payment from Walt," Reggie replied pleasantly.  
"Tell me about yourself, Mulder.  What'd you major in in college?"

Mulder looked at Reggie as though he were itching to tell him what a colossal 
waste of time was being had, but he managed to swallow his irritation as he 
answered the question.  

"I have a Ph.D. in psychology from Oxford University," he said witheringly.  
"What do you think I majored in?"

"Oooh, you've got me there, Mulder," said Reggie.  "Let's see, I wanna say home 
economics, but..."

Mulder merely glared at him.  

"Fine, what did you minor in, then?"

Mulder opened his mouth -- preparing to offer a sarcastic retort, I was sure -- 
but as he surveyed Reggie's expectant and imposing figure, he seemed to 
reconsider.  "English literature," he admitted.

"Really!  Ah, your still waters run deep, then."  Reggie looked positively 
delighted at this little tidbit, and I had to admit that it seemed incongruous 
with what I knew of Mulder's personality.  I might have guessed criminology, or 
even history, but I never would have guessed English literature.  I tried to 
picture Mulder, refined, at nineteen or twenty, earnestly scribbling notes in an 
Oxford classroom and then meeting his flatmates for tea.  The image seemed 
utterly ridiculous.

"So you're a brilliant criminal profiler and a literature buff to boot," Reggie 
observed.  "Would you care to enlighten us with a little poetry, then?"

For an instant Mulder looked massively tortured and then his face changed, as if 
he'd decided he preferred this to the alternative head-shrinking that would no 
doubt ensue otherwise.  He focused his eyes on some faraway spot on the wall and 
took a deep breath, his breathing slowly evening out as he acquiesced, words 
tumbling from his lips.

	"Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
	Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
	A lonely impulse of delight
	Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
	I balanced all, brought all to mind,
	The years to come seemed waste of breath,
	A waste of breath the years behind
	In balance with this life, this death."

There was a moment of silence in the room as Mulder shifted his eyes to focus on 
me.  His eyes looked hard into mine for a second, but then he blinked once, 
shaking his head as if coming out of a dream, and looked away.  

Reggie was nodding sagely.  "Yeats," he said.  "One of my favorites."  

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Mulder said shortly.  "Are we done?"

"Not quite, Mulder, why don't you tell me what happened in Oregon?" Reggie said 
smoothly, in one breath.  Mulder looked momentarily stunned, as if he'd been 
blindsided.  Then he smiled.

"I see.  The poetry, lulling me into a fugue state from which I might reveal my 
twisted confession.  That was good, that was a new one.  No one's asked me to 
recite Yeats in twenty years."

"Do you know any Auden?"

"I have a photographic memory," Mulder said evenly.  "I know a lot of poetry.  
In fact, we could sit here all day and -- "

"You know a lot of other things, too, don't you, Dr. Mulder?" Reggie asked as he 
leaned forward, his eyes suddenly piercing.  I glanced uneasily back and forth 
at the two of them.  

"I know you're not going to get anywhere springing questions on me like you 
expect me to be taken by surprise and tell you what you want to hear," Mulder 
said, sounding easily more comfortable than he had since his return.  

"What is it that you think I want to hear, Mulder?" Reggie asked.

Mulder's shoulders moved in a half shrug.  "That I'm irreversibly haunted by the 
memory of what happened to me.  That I'm out for revenge for myself...for 
Scully.  That I'm unhinged and I need to start dealing with it."

Reggie raised his eyebrows.  "That's what you think I want to hear from you?  
Imagine the things I might be afraid of."

Mulder's eyes narrowed.  "Dr. Graver," he said, "I'm a behavioral psychologist.  
I've profiled murderers -- hundreds of them -- profiles that led to their 
arrests..."

"I'm aware of your credentials," Reggie responded.  "You were...25, 26?  Weren't 
you?  When you started with the ISU?"

Mulder nodded as I considered for the first time what that meant.  Twenty-six 
years old, shot straight like a rubber band from the higher academia of Oxford 
to the ugliness of the ISU.  I hadn't been just trying to flatter him those many 
years ago when I had told him that there were agents in the Bureau who had been 
talking about him when he was in the Academy.  I had been one of them.  The word 
from Quantico back then was that this Mulder kid was brilliant, intuitive, 
practically empathic with his instinctive grasp of the criminal mind.  There 
were rumors that Mulder might someday give Bill Patterson a run for his money, 
or at the very least a solve rate that climbed through the roof as the eerily 
on-target profiles kept rolling in.  Twenty-six years old.  Christ.  Suddenly I 
had to fight to keep the bile down.  Mulder had been good at his job, so good 
that when he'd burned out on Patterson's exhaustive and somewhat twisted unit, 
he was allowed the freedom to pursue his own personal interests within the FBI 
in exchange for an occasional stint back at VICAP.  Mulder had been so good that 
the FBI had allowed him the X-Files, and in exchange the X-Files had brought him 
to the brink of every truth he had ever pursued...and effectively destroyed his 
life.  

Fate, I thought, had not been kind to Fox Mulder.

"So you've been doing this for a long time," Reggie observed.  "Have you ever 
profiled yourself?"

Mulder gave a short laugh.  "Haven't you?" he asked pointedly.

"Haven't we all?" Reggie responded vaguely.  "Look, if it makes you feel any 
better, I'll go first: Obsessive workaholic haunted by the memory of a past 
tragic event, driven by a savior complex but prone to destructive relationships 
with loved ones.

Mulder looked mildly impressed.  "Were you describing me, or yourself?" he said 
neutrally.

"You tell me, Mulder."

Mulder grimaced, obviously starting to feel pissed.  Reggie leaned in further -- 
as if moving in for the kill, I thought privately.  

"Are you tired of it yet?" he said in a low voice.  "The verbal sparring, the 
light-hearted little dance we're having?  Because I can go all day, Mulder, and 
we've barely just scratched the surface.  Now I know you've got to be tired.  
And I know you don't feel like talking and probably never will.  What you choose 
to say here is entirely up to you.  But I'm telling you now -- consider this 
your warning -- that what happened to you will haunt you.  Forever, if you let 
it."

Mulder had listened impassively to Reggie speak, and when he finally spoke I 
could barely hear him.  

"What do you want me to say?  That I have nightmares even when I'm awake?  That 
losing the past two years of my life may have been more distressing that the 
trauma I was experiencing before I was gone?  That I'm *angry*?" he spat.  "Do 
you really want to know?  It's all true.  And it turns out it wasn't a 
nightmare, the dream I've been having for the past twenty-five years of my life, 
it was real.  And I lived it, and I have to go on living it, whether or not we 
sit here for another hour while I tell you my feelings."

By the end of his speech Mulder was breathing hard, but his eyes were dry and 
filled with a simmering anger, not the broken and hollow grief I'd grown 
accustomed to over the past week.  Reggie nodded at him encouragingly.

"You're right, Mulder," he said.  "And I never said there was anything we could 
do to change that.  I can tell you're a tenacious man.  Passionate.  And I can 
tell you from experience that that's what it takes."

"To do what?" Mulder said flatly.

"To do just what you said," Reggie answered, as if he were providing Mulder with 
the answer.  "To go on living."

Mulder merely stared at him.  Then, without a word, he got up and walked out of 
the room.  

"That's it?" I said to Reggie, who was gazing thoughtfully at the door Mulder 
had just walked through.  "That's your idea of an evaluation?"  Reggie looked me 
over shrewdly.

"What was it exactly that you thought I could do for him?" he said.  "Fix him?  
He's not broken, Walt.  You heard him, he knows he probably needs concentrated, 
intensive therapy and he doesn't want it."  He tilted his head towards me.  "I 
know you, Walt.  And all I can tell you is that whatever your friend Mulder's 
got it in his mind to do, I'd say he's going to do it whether or not you have 
him evaluated, tested or even committed by a hundred doctors.  That man is not 
kidding around."

"Tell me something I don't know," I said grimly.  But I couldn't help pressing 
him further: "He keeps telling me doesn't remember what happened."

"Maybe he doesn't," Reggie shrugged.  "Maybe he does and he doesn't want to 
discuss it with you.  You were his boss.  He doesn't need to be coddled by you."

Even so, I left the room to go find Mulder.  He was leaning over a water 
fountain in the hallway, splashing drops on his face.  He didn't look up as I 
came towards him.  I stood there for a moment, watching him -- that slight 
tremor in his hands, his face showing age where he once had not.  There had once 
been men in the Bureau who envied Fox Mulder his youth, I thought.

"Yeats, Mulder?" I said in a low voice, trying not to startle him.  But for once 
he didn't seem surprised to see me as he straightened up.

"Scully used to complain that she missed out on all the good English classes 
going pre-med.  On long car trips she used me as her own personal literature 
generator.  She liked Yeats because he was Irish."

Mulder almost smiled at the memory.  But then he bent double, drawing in a 
shuddering breath, his hands gripping his knees.  Some things, I thought, he did 
remember.  And most of those seemed to be more than he could bear.

"Mulder?" I said, concerned.  Almost immediately he straightened up and flashed 
me a weak smile.

"Bet you didn't know I used to play the piano, either," he said.  I raised my 
eyebrows.

"And here I thought the only thing you played was Hide and Seek with paranormal 
phenomena," I said wryly.  At the mention of his former career, Mulder's face 
was suddenly all business.

"Well, 'Walt,'" he said, "did you get accomplish everything you needed with this 
little exercise?"

I knew I had to be honest with him.  "According to Dr. Graver," I said, "I can't 
hold you back from doing what you want to do."

"How astute of him," Mulder observed bitingly.  "One point for the psychiatric 
profession."  He paused, studied me carefully.  "Now, I want to see Kersh."  

Privately I was almost relieved; at least he was asking to see Assistant 
Director Kersh -- who was ostensibly still a respectable government figure -- 
and not Krycek or some other, far more dangerous arm of the consortium that had 
plagued his life, as it turned out, since before his sister's disappearance.  
But I had no doubt that Kersh was, as I had once been, an unwitting lackey for 
powerful men with an insidious interest in Mulder's investigations, and I knew 
that a confrontation between Mulder and Kersh could turn ugly in a hurry.

"Mulder."  I hesitated, aware of how exasperated my voice sounded.  "You can't 
just walk into his office and make a demand, you've got no leverage -- "

"Yeah, but I've still got my good looks." he interrupted.

" -- and you and I both know that these are powerful men we're talking about, 
men who can drop you in a second," I finished while Mulder glared at me.

"Are you finished?" he said.  Obviously my "Try Anything Stupid and Dangerous 
Conspirators Will Be There to Kick Your Ass" speech had not been cleverly 
disguised enough; Mulder had heard it several times before and, as usual, he 
wasn't buying.  

"I'm going with you," I said, my voice sounding to my own ears like a strict 
principal laying down the law.  In response, Mulder pulled an exaggerated frown.

"Sir, this isn't ," he said.  "And I'm not asking for backup."  

"Authority, then," I said.  "In case you've forgotten, Mulder, I still work for 
the FBI.  And my personnel file is less...littered...with reports of probation 
and censure."

Mulder's eyes were searching.  "Why are you doing this?" he said quietly, his 
voice stronger but no less haunted than it had been when, on the plane, he'd 
asked me the same question. 

"Despite what you may think, Mulder, I've always thought you were a good man," I 
said.  "I'm just trying to keep it that way."  

If I had been hoping for an instant bond to form between us, man to man, as 
might happen in the movies, I was badly mistaken.  Mulder's eyes were already 
looking past me as he began to stride down the hallway.  

"Then you'd better call A.D. Kersh," he said, "and tell him to expect visitors."  

"You want to do this now?" I said, not bothering to deny Mulder's inherent 
assumption that he was calling all the shots.  In the two years since Mulder's 
disappearance, Agent Scully and I had devoted all our resources to finding him, 
not to probing into the extent of Alvin Kersh's position on the totem pole of 
government officials who were out to destroy Fox Mulder and his work.  Frankly, 
I had no idea what Kersh's influence was, but I was willing to bet-and Mulder 
obviously was, too -- that whatever Mulder said to him in the relatively safe 
halls of the J. Edgar Hoover Building would wind its way back to the people who 
mattered...in what was quite possibly the highest-stakes game of Telephone ever 
played.  

His voice rang back at me: "There's no time like the present."  

I couldn't see his face, but I could have sworn he was smiling.

* * * 

He was less confident by the time we arrived at the Hoover building, his eyes 
large and dark as he studied it through the car window.  As Mulder seemed to 
work up the courage to reach for the door handle, I reached across the car and 
stopped him with a light touch on the shoulder.  Mulder drew back, exasperated  
-- "What?" he said pointedly -- but I was rreaching for the glove compartment as 
he watched, puzzled.

"You may need these," I said neutrally as I handed him his badge and gun.  
Mulder stared at me.

"You kept them in your glove compartment?" he said incredulously.  

He'd forgotten, then, that by all rights he should have been carrying the two 
items when he had disappeared in Oregon -- and, in fact, he had.  State troopers 
had recovered them from the forest three weeks later, tossed into a dirt cairn 
and splattered with mud.  And as inconsequential as it had seemed, I had never 
been able to bring myself to remove them from my car...as if I thought that one 
day while I was out for a drive I might come across Fox Mulder lying somewhere 
in a ditch, perhaps, or wandering aimlessly by the side of some country road, 
and that I would be able to atone for having lost him by instantly providing him 
with two-thirds of what I thought of as Mulder's holy triumvirate of existence: 
his badge.  His gun.  

And Scully.

But after two years, I didn't have the energy to tell him the truth.  

"What did you want, Mulder, an exhibit at the Smithsonian?"

But Mulder was preoccupied, hefting his gun in his hands as if to confirm the 
weight of it, staring at his badge with an expression that seemed very much like 
wonder.  I found my own sense of wonder begin to surface: Was Mulder really 
about to give them up?  Could he?

When he finally looked up at me, his eyes, clear and hard, removed all doubts.  
"Let's go," he said, his voice clipped.

Inside the building, Mulder scarcely seemed to take notice of the fact that he 
was back inside the halls of the Federal Bureau of Investigation after his long 
absence.  He strode up to the desk and turned on what I could only assume was 
the infamous Mulder charisma I'd heard so much about, from agents completely 
baffled as to how Mulder could be so charming one moment and so damn infuriating 
the next.  

"Would you tell Assistant Director Kersh I'm here to see him, please?" he said 
pleasantly.  The receptionist obviously wasn't listening to the dangerous fringe 
lurking around his even tone, because she peered at him boredly over the top of 
her wire-rimmed glasses.

"Do you have an appointment?" she said.

Mulder flashed her a smile that revealed his teeth but contained no sense of 
warmth.  "Just tell him Fox Mulder is downstairs.  I'm sure he won't mind the 
interruption from an old friend."

Something in the receptionist's brain must have clicked, because her mouth 
dropped open slightly and her glasses seemed to tremble on her face.  

"M-Mulder?" she stammered a little nervously.

"And guest," Mulder replied nonchalantly, nodding in my direction.  "I'm sure 
you know Assistant Director Skinner...?"

There was a silence that seemed to stretch forever.

"May I ask what this is regarding?" asked the receptionist once she had regained 
her composure.

"I'm afraid that's private," Mulder replied coolly.  I had never spent much time 
in the field with him, but oh, I remembered that voice -- the smooth tones of an 
investigator that projected total confidence in his techniques.  I hadn't heard 
it in almost two years, and as I stood there in the lobby I felt an inexplicable 
pang of guilt.  

"You know what?" Mulder said abruptly, turning to me.  "I'm sure I remember 
where A.D. Kersh's office is.  We'll just head on up and you can let him know 
we're on our way."  

The receptionist took in Mulder's skeletal frame, the way he held himself 
tightly together and the gleam in his eyes that made it clear he meant business.  
She nodded mutely as Mulder walked -- no, he fairly strolled -- the length of 
the lobby toward the elevator.

"Mulder," I said through gritted teeth as I hurried after him.  

"Relax, Walt," he said sardonically.  "We're going to do this nice and 
civilized."  As we reached the door to Kersh's office, Mulder took in a long 
breath before simply walking in as if Kersh had been expecting him.

In her astonishment, the downstairs receptionist had obviously forgotten to 
alert Kersh to Mulder's arrival, because Kersh's eyes widened in such phenomenal 
shock that it might have been comical had the situation not been so serious.  
His surprise gave Mulder momentary pause: "It's nice to see you again, sir.  It 
seems as though someone might have forgotten to inform you of my return," he 
said, glancing at me.  

"I may have neglected to mention it," I agreed, playing bad cop to Mulder's 
good.  But to me, Kersh's alarm signaled more than just fear of the potential 
danger inherent in Mulder's presence; it indicated some kind of massive security 
breakdown within the consortium he presumably served.  What kind of self-
respecting conspirators had stopped keeping tabs on Fox Mulder?  I'd assumed, of 
course, that they had been aware the instant he touched down -- so to speak -- 
and that a contingency plan had gone into place immediately, particularly at the 
first place to which he was likely to return.  I had, in fact, surreptitiously 
asked the three Lone Gunmen to work counter-intelligence, as it were, and keep 
me informed of any movement.  Could it be, I wondered, that Mulder's nemeses had 
simply lost interest in him?

Kersh recovered quickly, narrowing his eyes and opening his mouth to speak, but 
Mulder held up a hand to stop him.  "I came here to give you this," he said, 
flipping his badge open with the easy, practiced grip every FBI agent has 
perfected.  He tossed it onto Kersh's desk without a second glance.

"And this," he added, pulling out his weapon and cocking it expertly, the barrel 
aimed at Kersh's head.  Jesus Christ, I thought.  I'd emptied the gun of its 
bullets eighteen months ago -- Mulder hadn't fired a single round, that day in 
Oregon -- but then Mulder always did have a flair for the dramatic, especially 
when it came down to standoffs at gunpoint.  

But if Kersh was panicking, he didn't show it.  "What can I do for you, Agent 
Mulder?" he said, surveying Mulder calmly.  Mulder lowered the gun to his side; 
show's over, his eyes seemed to be saying.

"I'm going to make this quick," Mulder responded, sounding every bit the feature 
film gangster he seemed to be emulating.  "I want out.  I don't want to hear 
from you, or anyone you work for, ever again."

Kersh raised his eyebrows.  "Would you like that in writing?" he said.

"I'd prefer it in blood," Mulder responded easily.  "Yours, if necessary.  But 
in case you think that might be too messy for the FBI to deal with, I want 
assurance.  I want you to leave me, and my son, alone."

"We have left your son alone," Kersh said coolly, "or haven't you noticed?  
Don't you think anyone who wanted to could have gotten to him a dozen times 
already if they'd thought he was of any use to their projects?"

At the use of the word "project," Mulder blanched.  It was a fraction of a 
movement, so small I doubted Kersh had noticed it, but Mulder had obviously 
caught the meaning in Kersh's words.  

Kersh was gaining momentum as he continued: "Do you know what I think my co-
workers would say if I informed them that Fox Mulder wanted to disappear from 
their radar screens?" he asked rhetorically, the slight inflection on the word 
'co-workers' compounding the irony of the statement.  "I think they would say 
hallelujah.  You have been nothing but a thorn in their sides, Agent Mulder, 
since the day you started working for this office.  And as I'm sure you're 
aware, there have been considerable forces devoted to the effort of...*removing*  
you...from your position."  Kersh looked Mulder up and down, as if taking him in 
for the first time.  Mulder's jaw was clenched, his face angry and indecisive at 
the same time.

"And now you tell me you wish to remove yourself," Kersh went on.  
"How...convenient.  Be my guest, Mulder.  But ask yourself: Are you willing to 
endure the consequences of what might happen without you around to keep these 
men on their toes?"  He stared meaningfully at Mulder for a second.  "Are you 
willing," he said deliberately, "to walk away?"

For a moment I thought Mulder would stop breathing, that I would have to dig up 
my CPR skills right there on the floor of Kersh's office.  Mulder stared at 
Kersh, his eyes locked on him as if he were incapable of looking away.  Clearly, 
he no longer had the upper hand.  Kersh, I realized with a growing sense of 
dismay, was absolutely right.  Mulder had always had enemies in the FBI, and 
those enemies had wanted to shut him down since the inception of the X-Files-
first in subtle ways, with the assignment of the young and skeptical Dana 
Scully, and later by more intrusive means.  What they strived for -- what they 
had always sought -- was nothing less than the total destruction of Mulder's 
career and, should it come to it, his life.  Those men had no reason to oppose 
Mulder's resignation from the Bureau or his renouncement of his quest.  The 
burden, rather, lay with Mulder himself -- could he walk away, knowing he might 
be forfeiting his only chance to stop what he believed to be the invasion of the 
planet, the surrender of mankind?  *Would* he?

Mulder still seemed powerless to speak, and I found myself stepping forward.  
"You're bluffing," I said, with more bravado than I felt.  "There is no project 
and there is no plan.  And there is no reason you and your men should want to 
devote even one iota of your time to playing any more mind games with Fox 
Mulder."  

Kersh raised his eyebrows.  "Director Skinner," he said.  "It's becoming 
increasingly clear to me what side you plan on."  

"You can't choose sides when there is no game to be played, Kersh," I growled at 
him in my best "talking to subordinates" voice.  "Mulder?" I said expectantly.

Mulder shook his head as if coming awake.  His awakening, I thought, his 
rebirth, his return.  They were all the same thing.  For no other reason than to 
remind myself that Fox Mulder had not always been this driven, this haunted, I 
tried to picture him as I had seen him first: from a distance, of course, as he 
was breaking a Quantico obstacle course record to the whoops and hollers of his 
Academy classmates.  It had been a blistering July day, and Mulder had looked 
tan and muscular -- a rookie with a hell of a promising future at the FBI, his 
instructor had confided in me as I glanced up to see what all the cheering was 
about.

But that man was gone, and the pale, troubled specter in front of me was what 
was left.  His awakening, his rebirth, his return.  I had told Mulder that Agent 
Scully had made her choices.  Since his disappearance, I had come to think of 
Mulder as a man who'd had no choice-no choice but to hunt eternally for his 
missing sister, no choice but to stand against the sinister conspiracies that 
seemed to plague him, no choice but to drive himself endlessly in pursuit of the 
truth.  But Mulder, I realized, had also made choices that led him to this 
moment, this choice of all choices: his life, or his work?  His son, or his 
career's desire?

Mulder stared at Kersh for a long moment.  Whether he was having any of the same 
thoughts, I had no idea.  But he straightened up and looked Kersh in the eyes 
with the same steely resolve that had been so familiar to me in my time 
supervising the X-Files.  Mulder, I believed, had made his choice.

"I am walking away," he said steadily.  "I suggest you remember that.  Because 
if there is any indication -- one suspicious phone call, one unmarked van parked 
outside -- that you or anyone you work for has forgotten, I will devote every 
fiber of my being to taking you down." 

And without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of Kersh's office, 
leaving Kersh and me to eye each other like two pit bulls circling for the kill.

"You heard him," I said to Kersh in a low voice.  "He means it.  So whoever 
you're shilling for, I suggest you start drawing up some contingency plans."

"You'd let him walk away?" Kersh responded pointedly.  "Knowing what you know?"

"All I know," I replied deliberately as I turned and left the office, "is that 
Fox Mulder is his own man."

I found Mulder by the elevator, looking possibly more like himself than I had 
seen him since Oregon.  "Kersh was less than welcoming," he observed.  "I didn't 
even get a welcome-back fruit basket."

"Mulder," I said carefully.  "When you worked on the X-Files you believed that 
these men were trying to take away from you what you valued most."

"My work," he agreed.  "And Scully."

"They've done that," I said.  "But they didn't count on Liam.  Kersh is right, 
Mulder, he's of no...interest to them.  His tests, his aptitude, all indicate 
that he's..."

"Normal?" Mulder interrupted.  "Where are you going with this?"

"I think," I said, "that you and these men are at a stalemate.  Stay away from 
them and they will stay away from you.  The question is, can you do that?"

"Sir," he said, tipping his head back so that his eyes tilted away from the 
light, "nothing would make me happier."

Fox Mulder, happy.  Now there was an image I would have to see to believe.  But 
Mulder passed a tired hand once more over his eyes and then looked at me, 
closely, his eyes so clear I thought he had forgotten to draw the veil over them 
for once.

"I may never know what was out there," he said quietly.  "Whether I was being 
paranoid, seeing what I wanted to see, chasing evidence of the paranormal 
wherever I could find it.  I may never know what I believe.  But it's gone on 
long enough.  I need to stop now.  I need to stop."

He smiled resignedly -- still so damaged, I thought, but somehow less troubled.  
I looked down at his hands and noticed with a start that the tremor in them was 
gone.  And just like that, I thought, as long as I lived I would remember Mulder 
in the hallway of the FBI, tired and gaunt but otherwise awakened.  Reborn.  
Returned.

* * *

FIVE YEARS LATER
	
It had been twenty-six degrees and snowing when I left D.C., and the Arizona 
sunshine was shockingly warm on my shoulders.  It seemed incongruous, I mused 
idly as I squinted inside, that Fox Mulder could survive in a place so...bright.  

Maybe, I reflected, that was the point.

"...also reflects the desires of our unconscious minds?" a voice was asking as I 
attempted to slip unobtrusively into the large lecture hall.  

"Some might call that a radical interpretation of the text."  The room fell 
silent.  My eyes went immediately to the front of the room, where the lecturer 
was lounging by a large whiteboard, his hands loose and relaxed as his students 
waited expectantly. 

"Which is exactly why I'm pleased to hear you bringing it up."  I glanced at the 
girl who'd asked the question.  Her face had broken into a relieved smile.

I couldn't help my own small smile.  Mulder's voice.  For the first time I was 
hearing it with no edge in it, no hardness sharpened from years of experience.  
It had taken five years and a move clear across the country, but Fox Mulder had 
finally shed some of his oldest demons.  In Arizona, it seemed, he had forged a 
new path, and it looked for all the world as though it agreed with him.  His 
skin was tanned, no doubt from spending actual time outside in the Arizona sun, 
and he had fortunately put back on the weight he had lost in Oregon.  He looked 
strong and fit, I thought -- healthy.  No longer just returned, but reborn 
nevertheless.

I might have expected that I would stand out in a room full of men and women in 
their twenties.  Hell, Mulder's keen ears had probably picked up the sound of my 
dress shoes tapping down the hall.  In any case, I watched as his face lifted up 
to the top tiers of the auditorium, his eyes searching the rows of students with 
their laptops and notebooks until they landed on me.  His nod in my direction 
was almost imperceptible, but I felt a small buzz run through me all the same.  
Mulder, awakened.  

"All right, that's it for the day," Mulder announced easily.  "We'll pick this 
up next week.  And Shirley?" he called over the din of notebooks being hastily 
shoved into backpacks and pens being capped.  "Don't let go of those extremist 
views on Greenblatt," he said with a wry smile.

I waited until most of the sea of students swarmed past me before making my way 
down the stairs to the front of the room.

"Dr. Mulder?" a student was saying.  "I was just wondering if you're going to 
give us any advance notice before our next quiz, or..."

Mulder smiled.  "If we fail to anticipate the unexpected," he said breezily, 
"may we not also fail to confront our anxiety of it?  That is, isn't it a 
natural facet of human nature to attempt to foresee every possibility, no matter 
how remote, and plan for it accordingly?"

In response, Mulder's student merely stared at him; he had clearly heard this 
speech from his professor many times before.  "Uh...yeah," he said, sounding 
disappointed.  "Thanks, Dr. Mulder.  See you next week."  

Mulder dismissed him with a nod and then turned to face me; I was relieved to 
see that the warmth in his eyes hadn't disappeared upon sight of me.  "Sir," he 
said, reaching out to shake my hand.  His grip was firm, self-assured.  "This is 
unexpected."

Sir.  And he hadn't worked for the Bureau in almost seven years.  "It's been a 
long time, Mulder," I replied.  "But I think you've earned the right to call me 
Walter."

Mulder shook his head, but he was still smiling.  "Old habits," he said mildly.  
"It'd be like calling Frohike 'Your Highness.'"  

"You look good," I said.  He looked down at himself and then around at the empty 
lecture hall, suddenly uncomfortable.  "Why don't you follow me back to my 
office?" he said.  

The hallway was typical of any major university: fluorescent lighting overhead, 
crowded bulletin boards on the walls, students clustered in groups who 
occasionally nodded in Mulder's direction with a greeting of "Hi, Dr. Mulder."  
It was, I noted, utterly unremarkable.  "Did you ever think," I said aloud as we 
threaded through the building's maze of narrow hallways, "that you'd succumb to 
normality?"

Mulder's response, I was reassured to hear, was a short bark of laughter.  "You 
mean, did I ever think I'd one day spend my evenings grading papers and reading 
Harry Potter out loud for the twentieth time?" he called over his shoulder.  "I 
think back then I would have eaten my gun."  

"And now?" I asked pointedly as Mulder pulled out the keys to his office.

"And now I'm just grateful J.K. Rowling stopped after seven," he said ruefully.  
"Poor kid won't even look at another book until he's done with Harry.  He thinks 
Hogwarts might implode if he leaves it alone too long."

I was too busy studying the walls of Mulder's office to respond.  They looked 
very much as they had in the basement of the Hoover building, plastered with 
reports of paranormal phenomena and cluttered with newspaper clippings.  I 
recognized a few as being from respectable publications -- "The Use of Hypnosis 
as an Investigative Tool in Regaining Subconscious Memories," by Fox Mulder, 
Ph.D., from Psychology Today caught my eye -- but many of them seemed like 
garden-variety X-Files, the kind Mulder had so enjoyed coaxing his partner to 
investigate.  "CORONER SAYS HEIRESS DEATH 'UNEXPLAINED'," read one in bold 
letters.  "THEY'RE HERE!" screamed another. 
 
Mulder caught my survey and his eyes narrowed.  "It's a hobby," he said shortly.  
"Nothing more."  His face softened, the tenseness replaced by a calm expression 
I was unaccustomed to seeing on the face of Fox Mulder.  "Anyway, Liam thinks 
it's a riot."

"He's a skeptic?" I asked carefully, knowing full well what memories the word 
dredged up for Mulder.  His mouth quirked.  

"You have no idea.  You should hear him disprove Einstein."  He paused and let a 
small sigh escape.  "He takes after his mother."

His mother.  Scully.  I waited for Mulder's inevitable flash of anger, but it 
never came.  His face was as impassive and as difficult to read as it had ever 
been.

"How much does he know?" I asked quietly, taking a seat in a chair opposite a 
miniature statue on Mulder's desk that looked like a cross between Gumby and a 
Reticulan.

"About Scully," he responded evenly, "or about the international global 
conspiracy that plagued my life until he was two?"  Our eyes met, but in 
Mulder's, to my surprise, I saw no trace of bitterness.

"About either," I said, trying to regain my equilibrium.  If the first Mulder I 
knew had been passionate and driven, and the second enraged and haunted, this 
new Mulder seemed unusually composed and at peace, the arid and open space of 
the Arizona desert agreeing with him more than the crowds and smog of D.C.  For 
four years now I had been trying to picture Mulder as psychology and criminology 
professor, Mulder as Little League coach, Mulder as average neighborhood dad.  
The image had seemed laughable, but the man in front of me was no joke.

He sighed again.  "He's full of questions about Scully -- I'm afraid I've given 
him the impression that she was practically super-human.  Leapt tall ice floes 
wearing big high heels, that sort of thing.  He knows I used to work for the FBI 
-- we've got Fed-Ex coming and going all daay with those packages of yours 
stamped with the return address of the Hoover Building.  Naturally he doesn't 
want to tell his friends that Dad's a college professor, it's too boring, so the 
word slipped out to the seven-year-old set and now I've got entire Cub Scout 
troops pestering my son to bring in my badge for show-and-tell."  

He must have decided to wait until Liam was much, much older before telling him 
about marching into Kersh's office and throwing his badge on the desk, then.  
Still -- show-and-tell.  I must have been fighting to hold back a smile, because 
Mulder glared at me warningly.  "I know it's hard to believe, sir, but these are 
the kinds of problems I face nowadays."

"Not at all, Mulder," I said innocently, and I meant it.  For all his grousing, 
Mulder seemed -- dare I think it? -- happier than I had ever seen him, and he 
deserved every ounce of it.

"So what brings you to Arizona, sir?" he inquired as he leaned back in his chair 
and absently began cracking open a sunflower seed.  

"I came to congratulate you," I said, "and thank you for your assistance with 
the Glendower case.  Your profile was right on the money, Mulder.  Local PD 
nabbed the guy clean."

Mulder nodded, but somehow I doubted that he was genuinely interested.  He had 
done so many long-distance consultations for the VCU that I thought it was 
likely he kept the Postal Service in business mailing profiles back and forth 
across the country.  As far as I knew, agents at the Bureau still referred to 
him as "Spooky" Mulder, but it was a nickname they had come to use with 
admiration for his skills as a profiler.  How ironic, I thought, that he had had 
to leave the FBI to earn its unmitigated respect.

"And you came all the way across the country to tell me in person?"  He raised 
his eyebrows.  Still as sharp as ever, Mulder, I thought.

"And I wanted to see you," I acknowledged.  "See for myself how you were doing."  
Mulder smiled wanly.

"You could have called," he noted.

"I wasn't sure you'd want to see me," I said honestly.  "Consulting for the FBI 
isn't the same as working there, Mulder.  I know it's a time in your life you -- 
and your son -- might prefer to forget."

"I can't forget it," he said quietly.  I followed his gaze to three small, 
framed photos on his desk: his sister, her hair pulled back from her face in two 
braids.  Scully, holding a baby Liam and smiling radiantly.  And...

"This must be Liam," I said, reaching for the third photo before I could help 
myself.  There was a smattering of freckles across his face now.  His red hair 
had darkened somewhat to a burnished wood color, and he was laughing as he swung 
at a baseball out of camera range.  

Mulder nodded.  "He's with Mrs. Scully in San Diego for the weekend.  Kid logs 
more travel hours than I did with the FBI."  

I must have looked mildly alarmed, because Mulder went on: "He was relentless.  
After we first moved, I had half the neighborhood kids at our house every 
afternoon because I wouldn't let him out of my sight.  Then he wanted to do Cub 
Scouts, Little League, sleepovers with his friends and what was I supposed to 
tell him?  'Sorry, son, I'm still afraid you might get abducted by aliens 
working in conjunction with a secret government conspiracy.'"  He rubbed his 
temples wearily.  "I used to have him tailed.  Frohike and the boys set me up 
with a private investigator out here who used to bring me these sinister black-
and-white surveillance photos of Liam on the swings at the park or, I don't 
know, napping at kindergarten.  Then one day some teacher at recess spotted a 
strange man lurking in the bushes and called the police.  I had to lie to the 
principal about a custody battle just to ensure extra protection."  He tilted 
his head against the back of his chair.  "They've never tried anything.  Not a 
phone call, not an unmarked van, just like I warned them.  But I'm afraid the 
moment I let my guard down..."

He trailed off and I nodded, knowing exactly what he was afraid of, that he had 
every reason to be.  They hadn't tried anything at the Bureau, either, though 
three weeks after Mulder's now-infamous altercation with Kersh, the assistant 
director had quietly resigned and -- so the rumors said -- moved to Bermuda.  
But I had long had a sinking feeling that they were only biding their time.  
Obviously Mulder had felt the same way.

"How's he doing in school?" I prompted, hoping to divert both our attentions to 
a less ominous subject.  

Mulder grimaced.  "He keeps trying to set me up with his teacher."  Off my look, 
he continued, "...who is at least 65, and very happily married."

"Ah," I said.  If there was one thing about Mulder's life in Arizona that I 
didn't find the least surprising, it was that he was still single.  I could 
imagine the thoughts of the other parents at PTA meetings at Liam's school: 
Mulder was attractive, intelligent, an attentive father and obviously quite a 
catch.  But it was evident to me that Dana Scully would remain, even in death, 
the only woman in Mulder's life.   

"He's...precocious," Mulder went on, "but not unusual."  His eyes added the 
unspoken   "He wants to be an astronaut when he grows up.  If I have 
to see 'Space Camp' one more time I may disconnect our television."

I winced -- I had been the one who had included the movie in my last shipment of 
case materials -- but Mulder grinned.
  
"I didn't even know they made VHS anymore, sir," he said.  "I had to go out and 
buy a VCR just so he'd stop bugging me to see it.  He's in this phase where he 
thinks all government servants must be heroes; he thinks anything that comes 
from you is cool because you work for the FBI."  He paused.  "I'm sorry he's not 
here so you can see him.  Next time you're in town, call ahead, we'll have you 
over for dinner."

I fought the urge to chuckle.  Fox Mulder, longtime bane of my existence, 
inviting me over for dinner like he was a neighborhood welcoming committee in 
the '50s and I'd just moved to town: Spookyville, population one.  

"Well, Mulder," I said after a long pause, moving to stand from my seat, "I 
won't keep you.  I'm sure we'll be in touch."

"Sir," he said, something in his voice stopping me.  I met his eyes and was 
almost stunned to see something of that old, forgotten Mulder burning there, 
that flame that hinted of justice and passion and truth.  He hadn't even asked 
about the X-Files, I realized with a start.  After all these years.  

"Thank you," he said, his voice nearly a whisper.  "For everything.  After 
Oregon...you didn't have to pick up the pieces for me.  But you did."

I looked around his office: the files, the clippings, the three photographs.  
Samantha.  Liam.  Scully.  "I'm not the one who rebuilt your life," I said 
honestly.  "You take care of your son, Mulder.  When he grows up he's going to 
learn that it's not only FBI agents who can be his heroes."  

Mulder nodded shortly, as if he didn't trust himself to speak.  I thought of him 
as he had been in the hospital in Oregon those years ago: crumbling, destroyed, 
crushed under the weight of Scully's memory and his missing years.  The man in 
front of me held himself as though he knew he had been restored, piece by piece, 
in a painstaking process that was by no means over.  He hadn't been reborn, I 
realized.  He had been reconstructed.  He had made the choices that had led him 
here, and he seemed determined to live with them.  Mulder had once worried that 
he would become his father, and he had worked hard to avoid that particular 
nightmare.  But Liam...

Liam, I thought as I started down the long hallway to the blinding Arizona 
daylight, would be privileged to turn out like his. 
___
(END.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: It. Has. Been. A. Looooooong. Time. Since I've written any 
fanfic.  This story began, believe it or not, very soon after "Requiem" actually 
aired...almost five long, long, LONG years ago.  I have no idea what made me 
want to revisit it -- and I have NO idea what made me want to write a post-
"Requiem" story, from Skinner's point of view, with no Scully to be found.  To 
be perfectly honest, if I read a summary of my own story, I wouldn't want to 
read it.  But then, fanfic always did work in mysterious ways.  I suppose it's 
fitting that this story was finally completed on the day I read that The X-Files 
was coming back to the big screen for another movie.  XF nostalgia for everyone!  
Fanfic resurgence all around!  

In the interests of full disclosure, I must confess that I rather cheesily took 
the title of this fic from Simon & Garfunkel:

"In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries a reminder 
Of every glove that laid him low and cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame:
'I am leaving, I am leaving'
But the fighter still remains."

I accept and appreciate feedback at rae_lynn05 at yahoo.com.

    Source: geocities.com/rae_lynn05