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From: mgtrek@juno.com
Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2001 17:09:27 -0400
Subject: Sacraments by EmGee
Source: direct

Title:  Sacraments 
Author:  EmGee 
Rating: R
Classification: SRA
Spoilers: Existence
Keywords: Mulder/Scully/Skinner romance, slash
Archiving: Sure, just let me know where.  I like to visit my 
babies.
Summary: Skinner angst.  Lots and lots of Skinner angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.  Pity, that; I'd treat them 
better than TPTB. And I don't make a penny on them, either.
Email: mgtrek@juno.com


SACRAMENTS
by EmGee


Eventually, I realize that someone is knocking on the door.  Has 
been knocking for some time.  All I want to do is ignore it, but 
the volume is steadily escalating.  Whoever it is, he -- or she -
- isn't going to stop.

I put my glass down, or try to.  It catches the edge of the table 
and a pungent splash of scotch cascades over the polished surface 
before the glass tumbles from my hand and onto the rug.  "Damn," 
I say automatically but with no real regret.  What does it 
matter, really?  "Go away!" I shout, and the knocking stops for a 
moment before beginning again.  It's even louder this time.  
Pretty soon it will attract the attention of the neighbors.

I shift my legs, preparing to rise, and hear the dull thud of 
something landing on the rug.  Oh, yeah.  My weapon.  Not the one 
I'd used to--  But I don't want to think about that.  I stare 
down at it for a moment, trying to decide if I should reach for 
it.  No, better not.  If I bend down I'll probably fall over.

It's difficult to get out of the chair.  Once I manage the task 
and look at the level of liquid remaining in the open bottle on 
the table, I understood why, in an alcohol-fogged sort of way.

A voice has been added to the sound of rapping knuckles.  "Are 
you all right, sir?"

"Damn."  This time I mean it.  I drift to the door, not quite 
sure where I'm putting my feet.  By the time I reach it, the room 

is spinning.  I lean my forehead against the frame and hope I 
won't fall; the floor seems a very long way down.  "What do you 
want?"

"Please, sir.  Open the door."

"Go home, Mulder, and let a man get drunk in peace."  Why did I 
say that?  Bad move, very bad.  I'll never get rid of him now.

"I'm not leaving.  Let me in, sir."

I sigh, shift myself carefully while maintaining contact with 
solid objects at all times, and open the door.  Mulder's face 
floats before me, a little fuzzy around the edges.

"I don't think you need to *get* drunk.  It seems to me, sir, 
that you're already there."  Mulder moves my arm aside and 
insinuates himself into my apartment.

"I'm still cons-- conscience.  Con-scious," I say.  My mouth 
isn't working quite right.  "Awake.  So I'm not drunk enough yet.  
And I'm not your boss anymore, so don't call me 'sir.'"  I try 
for my usual growl but the look in Mulder's eyes tells me I 
haven't been too successful at it.

"All right."  It's Mulder's usual faintly amused, let's-not-take-
any-of-this-too-seriously tone.  The tone that has made me want 
to smash him against the nearest concrete wall on more than one 
occasion.  "What should I call you?"

"Walter," I say.

Mulder nods thoughtfully.  "Walter it is, then."  He looks around 
the darkened room.  "Thought I'd stop by and say hey."

"Hey.  And goodbye."

He ignores the directive.  Nothing new there.  "Mind if I turn on 
some lights?  And why is it so damned hot in here?"

I shiver.  I've been cold, bone-chillingly cold, for days.  
"Doesn't feel hot to me.  Why are you here, Mulder?"  I shut the 
door and lean against it, trying for the casual look.  In 
reality, I don't trust myself to move without falling over my 
feet.  And the room is beginning to tilt alarmingly.

Mulder is a positive flurry of activity, turning on lamps, 
sniffing into and then capping the open liquor bottle, crouching 
to pick up my gun lying on the rug, leaning over to fish the 
glass I'd dropped from under the chairside table.  All that 
motion is making me feel very queasy.  Finally, mercifully, 
Mulder straightens, stills, and looks at me.  "You've been 
conspicuous by your absence, Walter.  Scully's been wondering 
where you've been hiding yourself."

"I've been busy," I mumble.

"Try again.  We know you're on administrative leave pending 
investigation of the incident."

Incident.  It's such an innocuous word for such a monstrous 
event.  Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  I've spent all day and night, 
and the past three days and nights, trying to forget that 
particular reality, and here is Mulder ripping down all my 
carefully built defenses.

My stomach turns over.  I'm suddenly aware that the prospect of 
puking my guts out is no longer a question of if, but when.  
Better get to the toilet if I don't want to ruin what's left of 
my iron man image.

"Kitchen's that way," I say, waving vaguely in the general 
direction.  "Help yourself.  I gotta--"  I swallow convulsively, 
feeling the saliva start to flow, and stagger to my bedroom and 
on through to the bathroom.

It's a close call, but I make it just in time.  Tomorrow my knees 
will be bruised from the force with which they hit the tile 
floor, but I hardly notice that now.  There comes a brief but 
extremely unpleasant period of energetic worship at the porcelain 

altar, followed by a short pause and then more of the same.  
Finally my stomach is empty, but it refuses to get the message.  
The dry heaves remind me why I seldom get drunk.  I know that my 
stomach and back muscles will be sore in the morning, if the 
mammoth headache I can feel building behind my eyeballs doesn't 
kill me sooner.

Somewhere in the middle of the action I become dimly aware of 
hands removing my glasses -- I'm just sober enough to be glad 
they didn't fall into the toilet -- and supporting my head.  The 
last thing I want is for Mulder to witness this disgusting 
spectacle, but I'm pretty sure I can't hold my head up on my own.  
I feel one hand leave my head to flush; watching the swirling 
water makes me dizzy, and I close my eyes.  Then that hand moves 
to my back.  The circular rubbing motion is oddly soothing.

"Take a breath, Walter.  A deep breath," he says.

Great, just great.  Mulder is coaching now.  But I do as I'm told 
and after one more sickening lurch, my stomach settles back into 
its normal position.  A jackhammer pounds in my head. 

"Aspirin," I croak.  "I need aspirin."

"Not yet," Mulder says, putting down the toilet lid and helping 
me off my knees to stand in front of the sink.  "It won't stay 
down."

"The voice of experience?"  I squint at the image in the mirror.  
Haggard, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, face the color of library 

paste -- I barely recognize myself.

"Don't sound so disbelieving, Walter.  I've been known to tie one 
on from time to time."  He hands me my toothbrush.  "If you can 
run that around your mouth without barfing again, you'll get 
toothpaste."

I don't dare try to brush the fuzz off my tongue, knowing that it 
will set my gag reflex in motion.  Just the sensation of 
something in my mouth is nearly enough to get me going again.  
Mulder hands me a cup of water and I rinse, stifling one last 
impulse to retch as I bend over to spit.  I wave off the tube of 
toothpaste he holds out to me.

By the time I put down the brush and wipe my mouth with the back 
of my hand, Mulder has started the shower.  I can't figure out 

why all this hovering and caretaking isn't making me jump right 
out of my skin.  But it's not.  I'm actually starting to be, if 
not happy, then at least not actively annoyed that Mulder is 
around.  

I get a  whiff of myself in the close confines of the bathroom.  
I haven't showered or changed my clothes in a couple of days, and 
I'm pretty ripe.  It's obvious why Mulder, who usually looks like 
he's stepped off the pages of GQ and who generally smells better 
than most women, seems so anxious to reacquaint me with soap and 
water.  I start to take off my shirt, fumbling with the buttons, 
and Mulder leaves me to it.

It takes all my concentration to remain upright under the warm 
spray.  Thank god I've got one of those wall-mounted bath gel 
dispensers in the shower; I'd never be able to keep a bar of soap 
in my hands.  By the time I turn off the water, my eyes are 
drooping shut.  I towel off and then carefully and slowly put on 

the clean sweats that Mulder has left for me.  Getting my legs 
into the pants without falling over proves to be a major 
challenge.  The anvil chorus is still pounding in my head, and 
the harsh bathroom light seems to be drilling right through my 
eyeballs, but miraculously my stomach is steady.

In the bedroom Mulder is waiting.  "Here," he says, handing me 
four pills and a huge glass.  "Aspirin.  And drink all the 
water."

I sit down on the edge of the bed, take the pills and wash them 
down.  Meanwhile my alcohol-soaked brain is trying to make sense 
of the situation.  Who is this man in front of me?  Surely not 
the Mulder I know, the motor-mouthed, acid-tongued, supercilious, 
insubordinate pain in the ass who has caused me more trouble than 
all my other agents combined.  Did he shed those attributes along 
with his FBI ID and his gun?  This Mulder is thoughtful, 
attentive, and blessedly quiet.  Has fatherhood had such a 
profound effect already?

Suddenly it all comes back, the reason I'm sitting here with a 
raging headache in the company of an overly solicitous former 
subordinate.  And then I wish I were a lot drunker so I could 
blame the alcohol for the way I'm shaking.

Mulder deftly divests me of the glass before I drop it.  
"Walter?" he asks.  He's crouched in front of me.

I look into his worried eyes.  "I'm okay, Mulder," I lie.  "Just 
tired.  And cold."  Even the hot shower hasn't melted the core of 
ice in my soul.

He helps me lie back onto the pillows and swing my legs onto the 
bed.  I let him cover me.  I don't deserve his concern, his help.  
Didn't I forfeit the right to those things when I--

I beat back the thoughts, as I've been doing for days.  "Why are 
you here, Mulder?" I ask one more time.

He smiles, not so much with his mouth as with his eyes.  "We'll 
talk about it tomorrow," he says, and stands to leave.

"There's something else I have to know," I say, feeling myself 
slip into the cloying sleep that alcohol brings.

"What's that?"

"How in hell can you afford Armani suits?"

He chuckles, and as I force my eyes open one more time I see him 
looking down at me with an expression of -- affection?  "Good 
night, Walter."  

As I fall into sleep I imagine his lips on my forehead, a 
benediction.

###


I turn off all the bedroom lights except for one small lamp on 
the bedside table.  Then I leave Walter, already starting to 
snore lightly, and pull the bedroom door partly shut.  

I don't know exactly what I expected to find when I came here 
tonight, but it wasn't this.


The Walter Skinner I knew was a man of control and confidence, an 
Atlas who lifted all of us on his broad shoulders.  Even when he 
was in the clutches of the smoking bastard, even when they 
infected him with the nanocytes and he couldn't be sure if his 
next breath would be his last, he was strong.  And he managed to 
walk a pretty straight path through some pretty tricky moral 
minefields.

I spot the thermostat in the living room and check the 
temperature.  Seventy-eight degrees, but Walter is cold.  The man 
usually radiates heat like a blast furnace; he keeps his office 
refrigerated to meat locker standards.  But tonight, in 
temperatures that he'd normally consider tropical, he was 
shivering.  No, not shivering -- shaking.  Only one kind of cold 
causes that sort of reaction, and it's not a physical chill.

I can identify the cause because I've been there, felt the same 

icicles stabbing me in the heart.  This Walter Skinner is a man 
who has lost his way.  I think I know why.  What I don't know is 
whether what I came here to propose will put him back on the path 
or send him over a cliff.


I flop down on the living room sofa, pinch the bridge of my nose 
to try to head off the headache I feel coming on -- sympathetic 
vibrations, I guess -- and pull out my cell phone.

Scully answers on the second ring.

"Scully, it's me."

"Mulder, where are you?"  She sounds a little worried, a little 
harried.

"I'm at Skinner's place.  Are you all right?"

"I'm tired.  And my nipples are sore.  William's a slow eater."

A picture pops into my head, William at Scully's breast, and for 
a moment I'm giddy with happiness.  I seem to have at least one 
such moment each day.  It's usually followed by a wave of sheer 
panic as I wonder how someone who's led a life as seriously 
fucked up as mine could possibly be a successful parent.

"Mulder?"

I drag some air into my lungs and try to remember why I called.  
"I'm here.  Walter's in a bad way, Scully.  He was drunk when I 
got here.  He looked like he'd been drunk for a while.  He hadn't 
washed or shaved.  And he'd been holding his gun."

I hear her long, slow intake of breath.  "Do you think he might 
hurt himself?"

I sigh, and think about the look of pain in his eyes, the look he 
tried so hard not to show me.  "I don't know.  I don't want to 
give him the chance."  I look at my watch.  Eleven p.m.  "I think 
I should stay."

"I think so too.  Where is he now?"

"In bed.  Sleeping it off."

"I assume you took his gun."

"Well, it's not in his bedroom with him, if that's what you 
mean."

"Put it away.  Somewhere safe.  Lock it in your car if you have 
to."  Her words are urgent.  She's scaring me a lot more than he 
did.  I get up and walk to the bedroom, pushing the door open 
just enough to see Walter lying in the bed exactly as I left him, 
still asleep.  "If he's determined to do himself harm, and he 
can't get to his gun -- don't leave him alone, Mulder."

A part of me refuses to believe that he would ever try to take 
his own life, but another part of me acknowledges that everyone 
has a breaking point.  And the last few months may well have 
brought Walter to his.  I begin to catalogue the available 
implements of self-destruction.  Kitchen knives, razor, belt, 
pills.  Probably a dozen more I haven't thought of.  And -- the 
balcony.  Scully's right; I can't leave him alone until I'm sure 
he isn't planning to check out.

"I'll keep him safe," I promise.  "I won't let anything happen to 
him.  Will you be okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder.  My mother is here; she'll stay the night."

"Have you talked to her?"  Scully and I have spent the last three 
days in endless conversation about our future.  Whether or not 
things turn out as we plan will depend mostly on Walter, which is 
why I came here tonight.  It also will depend a lot on Scully's 
mother and whether she can accept some of the unconventional 
choices we're making.

"We've discussed some of it," she says.  "She says she fears for 
my soul, but she hasn't disowned me.  She's trying.  It'll work 
out.  How about you?  Will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine.  I'm glad your mom is with you.  I'm glad you told 
her."  If we're to have any hope of happiness in the life we're 
trying to build, we'll need all the support we can get from 
Maggie Scully.

"Take care of him, Mulder.  Make him understand.  Bring him 
home."

"I'll take care of him.  As for the rest . . . I'll do what I 
can."

"I know.  Call if you need me.  I love you."

She never said these words to me, before I died.  Now she hardly 
ever leaves me, or ends a phone conversation, without them.  
Scully's declaration is a reminder of the wilderness I've 
crossed, the time that divides my existence on this earth into 
two distinct lifetimes, BD and AD.  Before Dead and After Dead.  
I guess I should be glad I don't remember WD, While Dead.

There isn't a day goes by that something or someone doesn't 
remind me that I've been dead and buried, then reanimated like 
some ghoul in one of those cheesy zombie movies I used to fall 
asleep to.  The horror of it doesn't crawl up my spine any more.  
Not most of the time, anyway.  In fact, I'm glad of the 
reminders.  They renew my gratitude for the simple, special 
pleasures of life, like learning to accept the truth of Scully's 
words, learning to speak a truth of my own.

"Love you too, Scully.  Kiss William for me."

"I will.  Good night."

"Good night."  I pocket my phone and find a hiding place for 
Skinner's gun, out of sight in a recess at the top of an armoire 
in the living room.  On second thought I put my own weapon up 
there too.  I may no longer be a Federal agent but there's no 
way, with everything that's happened to me, that I'll go unarmed.  
I still hold a carry permit, and I still take target practice 
every week.  I have a lot more sympathy now for the rabid 
activism of the NRA.  Anyone who wants my handgun will have to 

pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

There's nothing I can do about all the other potential implements 
of suicide; there are too many of them in any uncontrolled 
environment.  Scully understood that when she told me not to 
leave Walter alone.  There's an armchair in his bedroom.  Not 
nearly as comfortable as the couch would be, but I don't dare let 
him out of my sight.

In the bedroom, I strip down to my tee shirt and briefs.  Walter 
has stopped snoring.  He's lying on his side, his back to me.  I 
would dearly love to just lie down there beside him, and it's 
precisely because of how much I want it that I don't do it.

Walter's too deeply asleep to be bothered by my rummaging around 
for a blanket.  I find one on the closet shelf and settle down in 
the chair, sure that even if I fall asleep I'll wake if he does.

Some time later I come to with a jolt.  A troubling sound has 
wormed its way into my consciousness.  At first, I don't remember 
where I am but as I toss the blanket aside, I reorient myself to 
time and place.  I look at my watch.  It's almost five a.m.

The sound comes again.  It's Walter.  He's kicked off the covers 
and is tossing on the bed and making strange choking noises as if 
someone's strangling him.  I'm afraid that he's in the midst of a 
heart attack or some kind of seizure, but as I go to the bed and 
sit beside him I realize that he's having a nightmare.

I'm about to put my hand on his shoulder and shake him awake when 
he stops the choking sounds and starts talking instead, words and 
fragments of words, a lot of it unintelligible.  I sit back and 
listen.  Every now and then I catch something that I can 
understand.  Even without getting all the words, I have no 
trouble discerning the content of his dream; it's entirely 
predictable, considering the events of the last months and 
particularly the last few days.  

"Lost . . . Mmm . . . Mulder!  Noooo . . ."  The word comes out 
not as a scream, but as a moan of despair.  He's still sound 
asleep, but even with his eyes closed I can see the tears 
forming, squeezing out of the corners of his eyes.  Scully told 
me how upset Walter was to have lost me in the woods outside 
Bellefleur.  Clearly it still disturbs him, though I'm sure he 
knows intellectually that there's nothing he could have done.

"Scully . . .shhh . . ."  His hands are restless now, grasping 
and releasing the sheets over and over.  "Mulder . . . oh . . ."  
What is he dreaming now?  I wonder if it's about when I was 
returned.  It took a lot for me to get Scully to talk about that.  
I didn't really want to hear it, and she definitely didn't want 
to tell it, but I needed to understand it from her perspective.  
And I need to understand Walter's role, too. Being dead didn't 
kill my powers of observation; the relationship between Scully 
and him is obviously very different now than it had been before I 

disappeared.

He's grabbing his chest now, and his shoulder.  "K-k-k --"  
There's sweat on his forehead.  In fact, his whole body is 
drenched.  Shit, maybe he *is* having a heart attack.  That's it; 
I have to wake him up.  Whether he's sick or not, I can't let his 
agony go on any longer.  I lay my hand on his arm, and with that 

he sits bolt upright.  "Krycek!" he shouts, and takes a swing at 
me.

Well, not at me, really.  I just happen to be in the line of 
fire.  I know that to be the case because I've had my share of 
nightmares and I'm well aware of what can happen to anyone or 
anything within arm's reach when I'm coming out of them.  Just 
ask Scully.  I clocked her one once, right on the jaw, and she 
had a bruise for a week.

So anyway, I'm prepared, and I block Walter's punch.  And 
suddenly, like flipping a switch, he's awake.  Awake, but not 
oriented.  He's big and strong, and flailing, and I grab him 
tight in self-defense, pinning his arms to his sides.  "It's 
okay, Walter.  It was just a dream.  You're okay now."  I 
concentrate on keeping my voice calm and steady, which isn't 
easy.  My own heart is going a mile a minute.  I'm beginning to 
understand what Scully meant when she said that she thought it 
was worse for her to watch me in the grip of a nightmare than for 
me to have it.

To top it all off, I'm uncomfortably aware of my half-dressed 
state.  I've got my arms full of a very attractive man, scruffy 
though he may be at the moment, and a certain part of my anatomy 
is taking a little too much pleasure in that.  At least that part 
isn't in direct contact with his body.  I do my best to get 
myself under control while Walter does the same.

It takes a couple of minutes, but eventually he quiets.  
"Christ," he says finally.  He's shaking like he did before, and 
he's sweaty and cold at the same time.  

I get up to retrieve a towel, and on my way to the bathroom I 
retrieve my jeans.  No way am I going to wave my boner in his 
face, to say nothing of the wet spot that's starting to develop 
on the front of my briefs.  It's not easy to get myself properly 

covered without doing permanent zipper damage, but I finally 
manage it and return to sit once again on the edge of the bed. 
"Here," I say, offering the towel.

Walter takes it from me and begins to mop at himself the way he 
would after a hard workout.  "Bad one, huh?" I say, watching the 
tremor in his hands.

"Yeah."

"Not the first time."

"No."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."  He tosses the towel aside.

I don't want to push him.  "Okay."  I stand up and make it all 
the way to the door, figuring I'll go look in his refrigerator 
for a cold drink -- and maybe an ice pack for my dick -- before 
he speaks.

"I killed Krycek."

I don't know what has made him change his mind about talking to 
me, but I'm glad he did.  I turn around and return to the bed, 
sitting as I had before.  "I know.  I was there."


"He was the devil."  There's a hatred in his voice that I don't 
think I've ever heard before.

"Yeah."

"No, Mulder.  I mean it.  He wanted . . ."  His throat works.  
Whatever it is he's trying to tell me, he's choking on it.

"It's all right, Walter.  Just say it."

It takes him a minute, but he finally gets it out.  "He wanted me 
to kill the baby.  It was his price."

It's been clear all along that there are people who wanted 
Scully's child dead, though for some reason I didn't expect that 
Krycek would be the one pressed into service for the job.  
However, given Ratboy's involvement I'm not surprised that he'd 
try to blackmail someone else into doing his dirty work for him.  
"His price for what?"

"For the vaccine that would save your life."

"Jesus."  I try to imagine what it would do to me to be forced 
into such a decision.

"I couldn't do it, Mulder.  I couldn't do that to Scully.  But I 
couldn't let what happened to Billy Miles happen to you.  I went 
to your hospital room and disconnected your life support."  His 
voice is flat, without affect. 

"Scully told me that being taken off life support's what saved 
me."  Saved me from mutating into that . . . that *thing* that 
Billy Miles had become.  The thought of what almost happened to 
me has wonderful deflationary effects on my hard-on.  I guess 
every cloud has a silver lining.

"But I didn't know that.  I intended you to die.  If Doggett 
hadn't stopped me, I would have taken your pillow and smothered 
you with it."

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that Walter had been the one 
turned into an automaton.  His voice is empty and lifeless.  It's 
the voice of someone who has endured pain beyond imagining, who 
can't go on, who sees only one way out.  This I understand all 
too well.  I came to feel the same way, lying on that table, 
being drilled and sliced and probed.  The only thing that stopped 
me from killing myself was the lack of means to accomplish the 
task.

I'm absolutely sure now that Scully's right; he can't be left 
alone.  I think he may be all too willing to end it all, just to 
stop the pain.

"I have to ask you something," I say.

"What is it?"

"Last night, when I got here, your gun was on the floor by your 
chair."

"Yeah?"

I put my hand back on his arm.  "Were you planning on using that 
gun?"  He doesn't answer.  I don't think it's because he hasn't 
heard me.

Oh, fuck the indirect approach.  "Are you having suicidal 
thoughts, Walter?"  The proper question, phrased in the proper 
way.  My clinical practicum supervisor would be proud.

The silence stretches, and in a way that's my answer.  But this 
is too important for any misunderstanding.  "Walter . . ."

"I think about it sometimes," he says, looking at me.  "Not 
often.  I have ever since . . . ever since Bellefleur."  Ever 
since I was taken.  "While you were . . . gone . . . and with 
Scully pregnant, vulnerable . . . Kersh ready to cut me off at 
the knees . . . Krycek out there with his damned Palm Pilot . . . 
the weight of it all . . . I could hardly breathe sometimes."  
This is so hard for him.  I can see him struggling to be honest 
with me, with himself.  "You must know what it feels like."

"I know."  My mind is racing.  He's said his thoughts haven't 
been serious, but I'm haunted by the idea of him sitting, drunk, 
with his gun.  It's been a long time since I've done any clinical 
work, and I never had much experience dealing with suicidal 
patients.  I try to remember the risk assessment protocol.

"Do you have . . . a plan?" I ask cautiously.

"What kind of plan?"

"A plan to kill yourself."

He snorts.  "Don't be na�ve.  How does anyone in law enforcement 
end it all?  It's quick, and it's pretty foolproof.  What kind of 
a plan would I need?  And to answer your question -- yes, I was 
holding my gun tonight, and no, I have no immediate plans to kill 
myself.  It's just that after everything that's happened, I feel 
-- well, safer, somehow -- when it's nearby."


"I can understand that.  I feel the same way."

He assesses me shrewdly.  "Still carrying?"

"My gun's like my American Express card.  I don't leave home 
without it."  There is one other question I want him to answer 
for me, and I change the subject abruptly.  "Would you have 
killed yourself if you had killed me?"

"I don't know."  But I see the truth in his eyes.  He would have 
eaten his gun.  It's what I would have done, in his place, and in 
some ways he and I are very much alike.  But that doesn't mean 
that he's suicidal today.  I think the immediate risk is small, 
but Walter is a man in dire need of counseling.  The trouble is, 
I don't know who could listen to everything he has to say without 
labeling him delusional at best, paranoid schizophrenic at worst.

"Who am I, Mulder?  What have I become, that I could do that?  
That I could even think of doing it?"  Walter's affect isn't flat 
any more.  Now he's oozing pain from every pore.

So this is what's tearing at him.  His guilt is badly misplaced, 
though.  "It was the right decision.  The baby was not -- is not 
-- expendable.  And I'm grateful that you tried to save me from 
Billy Miles' fate.  There are some things worse than death."  I 
should know.  Most of them have happened to me, at one time or 
another.  "You were forced to make impossible choices, Walter, in 
impossible circumstances.  All I can judge are the results.  You 
protected Scully and the baby.  You saved me."

"And I killed Krycek.  No.  I didn't kill him; I executed him."  
There's anger in his voice now.  He's bouncing from emotion to 
emotion like a ping-pong ball.  "I didn't have to use that third 
bullet.  He was down, he could hardly move.  All I had to do was 
kick away his gun, cuff him."

"He was dangerous.  He wasn't to be trusted.  Hell, you said it 
yourself.  He wanted Scully's baby --"  I stop and force myself 
to acknowledge my fatherhood.  It's not easy; I'm still adjusting 
to the idea.  "He wanted our baby dead.  He held my life hostage 
to make that happen.  Everything he did, every angle he played, 
everyone he betrayed, everyone he hurt, everyone he killed, 
everyone he tried to kill--"  I shake my head.  

"I'm a law enforcement agent, Mulder.  A law enforcement agent, 
and I put a bullet in the brain of an unarmed, injured man.  It 
goes against everything I believe in, everything I am.  Or 
thought I was."

I hadn't considered his actions from that perspective, which just 
goes to show how distracted I am these days.  Walter, sworn to 
uphold the law, would see what he did as unlawful.  Perhaps even 
more important, he would view his use of that third bullet as 
dishonorable.  I'm under no such illusions.  I believe with every 
fiber of my being that what he did was completely necessary to 
save his own life, mine, Scully's, William's -- and the lives of 
a lot of other innocent people.

"But that's not the worst part."  He can't even look at me now.  
He sounds a hundred years old.

"It's not?"

"No."  He's staring straight ahead, and I see him in profile.  
I've never seen that expression on his face before, and I'm hard 
pressed to identify it.  "What's worse is that when I did it, I 
felt nothing."

I shake my head.  Only a man like Walter Skinner could feel 
remorse over not feeling remorse.  Despite the fact that I 
actually liked that rat bastard Krycek some of the time, I am not 
similarly conflicted.  The only thing I feel about his death is a 
savage satisfaction that we're free of his manipulations.

I'm humbled, and ashamed of myself, in the face of Walter's 
fundamental decency.  It's hard to know what to say to him, and 
while I'm thinking he closes his eyes in dismissal.  "Go home, 
Mulder," he says.  

He outweighs and outmuscles me; I figure if he really wants me to 
leave, he's more than capable of throwing me out.  In the 
meantime, I'm staying put.

"Walter, none of this is your fault.  I suppose that's cold 
comfort."  The clenching of that jaw muscle is the only 
indication that he's still awake and listening.  "I know how hard 
it is to choose between the lesser of two evils.  I know 
something else, too.  It's one thing to have regrets, to feel bad 
because of what you had to do.  It's another thing to let the 
guilt consume you.  Because if you do, you're not the only one 
who'll suffer."


His eyes are open now.  "Sounds like you're talking about 
yourself."

"How do you think I came by this knowledge?"  I was sure I'd get 
at least a hint of a smile, but instead I'm treated once again to 
the sight of his jaw doing the macarena.  "I spent years dragging 
my parents, Scully, you -- everyone I cared about -- into my 
obsession."  He doesn't give any indication that he understands 
what I've just said so obliquely.  "I wasn't just trying to find 
my sister, Walter.  I was also punishing myself for having lost 
her in the first place."

He puts his hand on my arm.  "It wasn't your fault, Mulder.  You 
couldn't have stopped it."

"I know that now."  His touch feels good -- warm and strong.  I 
put my free hand over his and squeeze hard.  "And what happened 
to me isn't your fault, either.  Not one bit of it.  If I thought 
it was, I wouldn't be here."

"Why *are* you here?"

He asked me that before, and I thought he was too drunk for the 
truth.  Now he's not too drunk, but I sense that he's still not 
ready.  "I thought you might need a friend.  We are friends, 
aren't we?"

"Yes, I'd like to think so," he says.  "But that's not all, is 
it?"

Damn, he's good, even depressed, stressed and half hung over.  
"Can we talk about it later?  I don't know about you, but I could 
use a few more hours of sleep."

He withdraws his hand and turns his head, breaking eye contact.  
I can feel the walls going back up.  "Whatever," he says.

I return to the armchair.  Walter is asleep long before I am.

###

I sleep through until almost nine and take my shower while Walter 
is still sleeping.  He wakes to find me rummaging through his 
dresser drawers for a clean tee shirt.

He's almost amused by my request that he leave the bathroom door 
open.  I'd already scoped it out and discovered that he has a 
straight razor.  He must be the last man in the industrialized 
world to use one.  I'm not about to prevent him from shaving and 
I figure that he's unlikely to try to cut his throat in my sight.  
It wouldn't appeal to his sense of chivalry.

There isn't much in his kitchen for breakfast.  I find cereal, 
but the milk in the refrigerator is spoiled.  There's bread in 
the freezer and a few eggs on the verge of old age in a carton 
behind the milk.  There's enough juice -- grapefruit, yecch -- 
for one small glass.  I'm not much of a cook, but even I can 
scramble eggs and make toast.

After breakfast we hit the street.  Walter needs to walk, to 
clear his head.  I'm familiar with the process if not the 
procedure.  When I'm in a place like Walter is right now, I need 
to escape myself, and walking just doesn't cut it.  Running does, 
though.  I leave everything behind except my breathing, and the 
pumping of my arms, and the feeling of my feet on the pavement, 
stride after stride.  Eventually the extra oxygen and the 
endorphins get me to a place where I can stand my own thoughts 
again.

I probably don't cover any more mileage on my runs than he has on 
this little excursion, but my way to inner peace would have been 
a lot faster.  We've been walking for a couple of hours at least, 
and I can see that he's exhausted.  The guy's in great shape for 
someone who sits behind a desk most days, but lately he's been 
drinking too much and eating too little, sleeping badly, and 
letting himself get way too stressed out.  And he's not as young 
as he used to be.

Finally he shows signs of wanting to stop.  We find a small park.  
The benches are set near the road, which isn't very pleasant, but 
there's some decent grass under a couple of trees, away from the 
traffic and the few pedestrians out in a residential neighborhood 
in the middle of a weekday.

Walter props his back against the trunk of a dogwood, his knees 
bent.  I sit crosslegged facing him.  We catch our breath for a 
while.  The silence is long but surprisingly unawkward.  I'm the 
one who finally breaks it.

"What's happening with the investigation?"

He leans his head back and closes his eyes.  "I haven't the 
vaguest idea."  The message is clear.  'Back off, Mulder.'  But 
then again, when have I ever done what he wanted?

"How many times have you been called in?"

He sighs, knowing that once again I'm to be the thorn in his paw.  
"Just once."

"That's good."  And it is, too.  It means they're not trying too 
hard to poke holes in his written statement.  I don't know what 
he wrote, but I'm sure he reported the facts accurately.  I'm 
equally sure that he did not cite death by nanocyte, attempted 
infanticide, blackmail, human-alien hybrids, revenge, rage, fear, 
or love as reasons for his actions.  The fact of Krycek's gun 
pointed at my head was only the last little push.

"I was accurate, but I wasn't truthful," he says, echoing my 
thoughts uncannily.

"The Bureau doesn't need the why, Walter, just the what.  In this 
case, the truth won't set you free."

"No.  It'll put me in Cumberland, serving a life sentence."

"Nah," I say flippantly.  "Ten years at Petersburg, max."  He 
doesn't laugh at my reduction of his self-imposed judgement of 
murder two to manslaughter, and I kick myself for trying to turn 
this into a joke.  "You didn't commit a crime.  You used deadly 
force appropriately against an armed and dangerous felon."  I'll 

say it, and keep saying it, until he believes me.  Today, 
tomorrow, next year -- however long it takes.

We sit for a while longer.

"What are you going to do now, Mulder?"

"What do you mean?"

"Now that you're out of the FBI.  What will you do with 
yourself?"

I shrug.  "Write, or teach, I guess.  Make a life.  I've never 

really had much of one before."

"A life with Scully," he says, and I go very still inside.  This 
feels like the moment of truth.  I just hope I can play it the 
right way.

"That's part of it," I say.  "But if the two of us were enough 
for each other, we would have set up housekeeping long ago."

"What do you mean, enough for each other?"  He sounds a little 
curious but mostly weary, like someone who is just making 
conversation to be polite.

"There's someone else that Scully loves."

I've startled him out of his funk; though that wasn't my 
intention, I'm glad of the side benefit.  "That's impossible.  
She loves you wholly, Mulder.  I saw how she was, when you were 
gone.  And when we thought you--"  He stops and corrects himself.  
"When she found out you were dead, well, I think she would have 
died too, if it weren't for the baby."

"She does love me wholly, Walter.  I know that.  It's been that 
love, and her faith in me, that have seen me through some pretty 
dark times.  But Scully is a remarkable woman, and she has a very 
big heart.  More than big enough to love two men at the same 
time."

"Do you love her?" he asks, looking like he's not sure he's going 
to like the answer.

"As completely as she loves me," I say.  I've never felt the 
truth of that as strongly as I do now.

"Then how can you -- aren't you jealous?"

I take a deep breath and let it out, slowly.  "No.  This other 
man that Scully loves -- I've come to realize that I love him 
too."

I've shocked him speechless.  I watch him try to get his brain 
around it.

He turns wide eyes to me and I look steadily at him and answer 
the question he hasn't asked.  "I like women, Walter.  I always 
have.  But I also like men."  Just now, one particular man.

He blinks.  With his round glasses, he reminds me of an owl.  "Me 
too," he says.

"Which part of what I said is the 'me too' part?"

There's a ghost of a smile on his lips, for all that his eyes 
have that trapped animal look.  "All of it, Mulder.  I like 
women.  I always have.  And I also like men."

Wow.  I'm dumbfounded, not by his revelation -- though the part 
about liking men is very happy news -- but by the fact that he's 
been so honest about it. 

"You were married," I say.

"Yes.  So?"

"So . . ."  I'm not sure how to ask.  It's none of my business, 
but I really want to know.  "While you were married . . ."

"While I was married I was faithful to Sharon.  But there were 
men before.  A couple of them.  In Nam."

The way he says that makes me think that maybe those men never 
made it home.  "And since Sharon?"

"I've dated a little, but only women.  CGB and his associates 
were always too close.  I couldn't take the chance.  Besides--"  
He breaks off and looks down at his hands, in his lap.

His jaw is doing that little dance it does when he's trying to 
control himself.  I want to reach out and soothe away the tension 
in the muscle.  But I don't.  Instead, I say, "Besides, what?"

He doesn't look up, and if anything his jaw muscle clenches even 
tighter.  But he answers me.  "There was only one man I was 
interested in."  And then he does look up, squarely into my eyes.  
"I didn't think he was interested in me."

I can still see the apprehension in his eyes, and the 
hopelessness, but now there's something else, too, the beginning 
of -- hunger.  The meaning couldn't be any clearer.  A wave of 
relief rolls through me, followed by one of fear.  I've learned 
the hard way not to be sure of victory until it's firmly in hand.  
"Maybe you were wrong about that," I say.  My voice is just a bit 
hoarse.

"Maybe I was."  And his voice is just a bit hoarse, too.

The traffic noises have receded, masked by my intense focus on 
what's happening between Walter and me.  I glance around.  No one 
else is in the park; there's no foot traffic on the sidewalk.  I 
deliberately push aside all the reasons not to do what I want to 
do, not to take this next step in helping Walter to understand 
the role that Scully and I want him to play in our lives.  I get 
up on my knees, shift myself over, take his glasses off, pull him 
towards me and kiss him.

He kisses back, tentatively at first and then with more 
confidence.  It's a surprisingly chaste kiss, considering that 
neither of us is inexperienced with men.  There's nothing rushed 
or nervous about it, but there's a gravity to our actions that 
speaks of something profound, something sacred.  Our tongues 
don't even touch; we celebrate this first communion with our lips 
alone.

When we lean away from one another, he's flushed but calm.  My 
heart is beating rapidly and I'm half hard, but I'm in no rush to 
take matters any further.  I'm not ready for more and I don't 

think he is either.

"Scully loves me?" he asks finally, and I realize that he's not 
calm so much as dazed.

"Yeah."

"And you?"

It's so heartbreaking the way he asks the questions.  Like he 
can't fathom how we possibly could find something in him to love.

I take his hands in mine.  "Yes, I love you."  I lift one hand 
and then the other to my lips, and kiss his palms.  It's the only 
way I know to show him that I trust those hands never to harm me.  
The only way to tell him that he need have no guilt about Krycek.  
The only way to prove to him that, as far as I'm concerned, his 
hands are clean.

He pulls free and looks at me with an expression of pain and 
grief, and as he does, the dam that he's built to hold back the 
floodwaters of his emotions begins to crumble.  It's terrible to 
watch this strong, proud man fall to pieces, terrible to watch 
him fight himself every inch of the way.  I take him in my arms 
and he fights me, too, not wanting me to see him come apart, but 
I hang on and eventually he relaxes against me and starts to cry. 

I'm surprised and gratified that he's accepting this embrace.  
I'll bet that he'd rather be flayed alive than do this in front 
of someone else -- especially another guy.  Yet here he is, in my 
arms, and it feels so right to be the strong one for a change.

He hates himself for what he did to Krycek, and nothing that 
Scully or I can say will turn that around overnight.  He's sick 
over his betrayal in choosing Scully's unborn child over me; 
he'll have nightmares about that one, I think, for a long time.  
He finds it hard to believe himself worthy of love, and there's 
no quick fix for that either.  I'm sure he'll spend some time, 
maybe a long time, pushing us away.  I can understand that.  I've 
felt the same way, behaved the same way, for most of my life.  I 
don't do it any more.  Death, and Scully, and Walter too, cured 
me of that particular affliction.  I hope that Scully and I can 
help Walter heal, help him find some happiness.

We're there for a long time, my arms tight around his shoulders 
and his head on my chest, tucked under my chin.  His own arms 
have crept up between us and he's got an iron grip on my 
sweatshirt.  My knees are killing me but I don't want to disturb 
him by shifting my position.  I rock him a little, back and 
forth, mostly because I think it will be comforting but also to 

relieve a little of the pressure on my kneecaps.  

When he finally stops crying, he doesn't pull away.  I'm not sure 
he has the strength; he feels as limp in my arms as a rag doll.  
I would hold him forever, but if I stay on my knees like this 
much longer I think I'll be crippled for life.  I manage to shift 
to a sitting position without letting go and, surprisingly, 
Walter lets me pull him into my lap.

His breathing is ragged, and so is mine.  I stroke the back of 
his head and along his shoulders and think about a war photo I 
saw once in a book.  One soldier was holding another, comforting 
his crying buddy.  Walter and I, and Scully too, may not be 
soldiers, but we've been in combat.  The horrors we've 
experienced won't be put to rest overnight.

Walter mumbles something into my chest.  "What?" I ask.

He lifts his head just a little and says, "I said, now will you 
tell me why you came to see me?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet?"

"Yeah, I guess I have."

"And you haven't run screaming.  This is a good sign."

"Not yet, anyway.  God, Mulder, I'm so tired."  His exhaustion is 
so profound that he sounds drugged.

"I know.  What do you say we blow this popsicle stand."

"I'm not moving unless you carry me -- or find us a ride."

"I think I can handle that."  I lay him back on the grass and 
step out to the curb and flag a cab.

###

I can't understand it.  Mulder knows I tried to kill him, knows I 
did kill Krycek, and he's still here.  Not only has he not turned 
his back on me, but he says he loves me.  And he says that Scully 
loves me, too.  I want to believe.  I just don't know if I can.

Mulder opens the closet, finds a duffel bag, and tosses it onto 
the bed.  "Pack some things, Walter."  It's not exactly an order.  
More like a demand to make a choice.  Lie down here at the side 
of the road and give up, or pick myself up and keep going.

He looks around, taking in the bland spread on the bed, the bare 
walls, the functional furniture, and I watch him and know what 
he's thinking.  I'm thinking the same thing.  I've never let 
myself want more than what this place represents.  But now, with 
an ache that is fresh and raw, I begin to hope that there can be 
more, that maybe I can even dare to choose the path that would 
bring it to me.

"Where am I going?" I ask.  I can't take my eyes off him.  He 
finishes his slow inspection of the room and looks at me, and in 
his eyes I see an invitation.

"Home," he says, and with the word I catch a glimpse of what the 
future could be.

Mulder reaches out a hand to me.  As in a dream I watch myself 
reach out, slowly, and take it.  And with that handclasp I know 
I've made my decision.  There's still a part of me that hurts so 
much, that is so weary, that it wants to crawl away and die -- 
but for the first time in a very long time, I have hope for the 
future. 

As if he's just pulled me from a precipice, Mulder draws me to 
him quickly, wraps his arms around me.  He's trembling, but then 
he takes a deep breath and his body calms.  He presses his lips 
to my forehead.  It's a familiar sensation, and I realize that I 
did not imagine his kiss the night before, on the edge of sleep.  
It feels like something holy, like a sacrament.

He steps away.

"There's just one thing," I say.

"What's that?"  He's wary, as if I'm about to place an impossible 
condition on our relationship.  Well, that remains to be seen.

"I refuse to call you 'Mulder' in bed."

His eyes go wide, and then he smiles.  "Walter, in bed you can 
call me anything you want."

"Anything?"

He's amused.  "Well, maybe not anything.  'Honeybunch' would 
certainly not put me in the right mood.  'Darling' is icky."

"Is 'baby' icky too?"  I try to keep my tone light, letting him 
take this either jokingly or seriously.  I would prefer the 
latter; this particular endearment is one of the very few that I 
can imagine myself using with him, God only knows why.

He thinks for a minute, forming the word silently, testing it 
out.  "It has potential for ickiness, but I could live with it, 
if you said it that way."

"How about 'Fox'?"  I've never understood why Mulder doesn't like 
his name.  Maybe it's just because no one, since his sister's 
disappearance, has spoken it with love.  Until now.

He gets very quiet, and I think I've gone too far.  He looks away 
for a long moment, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are 
bright and full.  "That's not icky at all."

I nod thoughtfully, the way he did last night, a lifetime ago.  I 
feel a tiny lessening of the pain in my soul.  Maybe this is how 
to make it all disappear, bit by bit -- by letting myself love, 
and be loved.  "Fox it is, then."

His smile is slow and sweet.  "Come on, Walter," he says.  "Let's 
go home."

###


William is peacefully asleep in his cradle when they arrive.

Walter puts the duffel bag he's carrying down by his feet and 
stands to look at me.  He seems lost, and afraid, and very tired.  
I've spent most of today going over and over the events of the 
last few months, trying to view them from his perspective, and on 
an abstract level I can understand the enormous pressure he's 
been under.  Now that I see him, that abstract understanding 
becomes concrete.  I realize how easily we could have lost him, 
and that realization -- along with postpartum hormones, no doubt 
-- undoes me.

Somehow I manage to cross the room without turning into a 
blubbering heap.  I go to Walter, standing in front of Mulder, 
and put my arms around him.  Mulder steps forward and does the 
same, pressing against Walter's back, one hand slipped between 
our two bodies and the other cradling the back of my head.  It 
sounds more awkward than it is.  It doesn't feel awkward at all.  
It feels perfect.

Walter's head is bent over mine.  "Dana," he whispers.

I turn my eyes upward, not moving my head from Walter's chest.  
He's crying, silently, the tears falling heavily, one by one, 
down his cheeks and onto my forehead.  Mulder is crying too, just 
as silently, making a wet spot on Walter's shoulder.  Well, that 
makes three of us, I think, watching my own tears dripping onto 
Mulder's arm.

There was a time when I'd do anything to avoid crying in front of 
either of these men.  And then Mulder was lost.  During the 
months that he was missing, and then after we found his body, I 
think I cried an ocean onto Walter's shoulder.  But I was always 
embarrassed at my weakness.  It's not easy for me to lean on 
anyone.

This time, though, I feel no shame.  Maybe it's because they're 
both crying too.  There's an equality to it that feels right.  I 
don't expect tears to be a habit with any of us, but it's been a 
long road to this moment and the only other thing that would 
defuse the buildup of months of tension and fear and grief is 
mind-shattering sex.  And that's just not going to happen 
tonight, and not only because I'm out of commission.  Walter's 
clearly ready to drop, and Mulder isn't far behind.

I'm waterlogged, and I sniff loudly.  Walter is shaking and for a 
minute I think he's sobbing, but then I realize that he's 
laughing, just as silently as he'd been crying.  "We must be a 
pretty sorry sight," he says, sounding more than a little 
waterlogged himself.

I laugh a little, and we disengage from one another and begin the 
mopping up operation.  Walter takes off his glasses to wipe his 

eyes, and when he's done he doesn't put them on again but sets 
them down on the entryway table.  He looks younger and more 
vulnerable without them.  I find myself wondering if he wears 
glasses instead of contacts for that very reason, to bolster his 
tough-guy image in the Bureau.

A little normalcy is what we need, so we talk for a while about 
normal things like the weather and how I'm feeling.  I take 
Walter by the hand and lead him to William.  He reaches out one 
big finger and caresses William's little bald head so gently, so 
tenderly, that I think I might cry again.  "A miracle," he says, 
and I have to agree.

Mulder is sitting on the sofa watching us, a look of utter 
satisfaction on his face.  I go to him and he pulls me into his 
arms and then lifts me to sit across his knees.  Walter looks at 
us uncertainly, as if he's not sure of his place in this blissful 
little domestic scene.  I reach out a hand to him.  "Join us," 
Mulder says, and he does.  He kneels before us and lays his head 
in my lap.

It's such a trusting gesture, and so unlike him -- I can't help 
myself.  I start to cry again.  As my tears fall I wipe them away 
with my thumb, tracing the sign of the cross on Walter's forehead 

as I do.  I don't know why, exactly; I don't even know if he's a 
Christian.  He could be a devout agnostic, like Mulder.  I only 
know that this feels like a moment requiring a sacramental 
observance.

Walter crawls onto the sofa, puts his head back in my lap, 
reaches for Mulder's hand, and in minutes he's asleep.  

"Thanks, Mulder," I say softly, watching Walter's features smooth 
out in sleep.  "You did good." 

I can feel Mulder's cheek rubbing along my hair.  "Did I?" he 
asks.  "He's here, but he's a mess.  He's scared, Scully.  And he 
doesn't like himself much right now."

"He's hurting, but we'll help him.  He's carried us for a long 
time; I think we can carry him for a while."

"You sound very sure that we can make this work."

"I've already seen one miracle.  How can I fail to believe in 
another?"  I rest my head on Mulder's chest and drift, comforted 
by his heartbeat just as William is calmed by mine, safe and 
warm.  Happy. 

A profound peace descends on us.  I know it can't last, this 
perfect moment.  It doesn't matter.  The memory of it, I think, 
can see us through anything that might come.

Mulder stirs a little.  "Walter said that he won't call me 
'Mulder' in bed."

I smile.  "Did he offer any alternatives?"

"Yeah.  Do you think you could stand it if he referred to me as 
'baby'?  Strictly in the privacy of the bedroom, of course."  He 
looks down at me.  "Stop giggling.  You'll wake him."

"Sorry.  I don't dislike it, actually.  I was just surprised.  I 
can't quite imagine him using that word."

"Right there with you, Scully."

"That was his only suggestion?"

He's quiet for so long that I think he's not going to answer.  
Then he says, so softly that I can barely hear him, "Fox.  He's 
going to call me Fox."

The brushing of his fingers across Walter's cheek tells me how he 
feels about that, and now it's not the hormones making me cry.  
I'm so grateful to Walter for giving Mulder back his name.

Walter sighs and shifts without waking.  One leg hangs over the 
arm of the sofa.  I can't imagine how he could sleep that way, 
but he doesn't seem to be having any trouble.

Still, we're going to have to buy a bigger sofa.  This one's a 
little cramped for three.

I think we'll need a bigger bed, too.


~ The End ~