"Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, from The Downward Spiral

Mulder's absence feels wrong, sour to the taste, as treacherous as the poison that claimed the conscience of his partner. Valiantly, Skinner hopes that he will see him beside her bed, or in this office, demanding the answers or asking for justice. Ever since Dana Scully's life fled from beneath his fingers, an event he has now lived through twice, he somehow recognizes that there is little chance of that happening.

Still, he waits.

"Assistant Director Skinner..."

He jerks, only now realizing that a visitor occupies the space in front of his desk. "Agent Blair, how can I help you?"

The young agent's eyes watch him earnestly from under the long lashes. "I wanted to ask, sir, if there had been any change in Agent Scully's condition."

"No change," Skinner replies. His voice is monotone, and his face is expressionless, but the weight of the words settles between his shoulder blades, heavier than the world itself. "No change yet."

Aaron's cheeks go from blushing red to shady white, as if the answer was everything that he was unprepared to handle. It is not an ordinary concern for a colleague, and Skinner feels sorry for him, on more than one count.

"I hope she gets well soon," Aaron offers humbly.

Skinner nods, anxious to end the conversation. "Will that be all, Agent?"

"Yes, sir," he stumbles, flustered. "Thank you, sir."

"Friends and family are welcome to visit her," Skinner adds as a consolation prize. The young man stiffens imperceptibly, and the suggestion spoken in kindness now hangs between them like a noose.

"I'll do that," Aaron replies. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

Too young, Skinner thinks. Too young, too inexperienced, but eager to please and quick to react. Something about Aaron Blair today has set off warning bells in his mind, and he digs through his impressions, uncomfortable, searching for a nugget that will give him an explanation. The young agent's slightly insecure posture grows more assured with every day, and the regulation haircut that at first appeared to have been done at home in front of the mirror, now looks sharp and expensive. Somewhere along the way, Blair has picked up good taste and learned to dress: the newest suit looks more than elegant, made to fit him, as only ridiculously overpriced labels can appear.

It's the kind of suit that Mulder probably spends half of his salary on, the kind that seriously sets off Skinner's own budget once in a while, the kind that Blair would never be able to afford, not on the money that the Bureau pays him.

On the day when Scully collapsed, Skinner had almost forgotten to dismiss the guards. By the time he walked upstairs, the shift changed again and Aaron Blair had been on duty. Skinner's grief refused to be shared, and even to this day, he had told few people about what had happened. Then, he couldn't even master a reply to Blair's question, "Is Agent Scully all right? She looked a little pale when she left here." He had walked away without giving any indication that he had heard.

Later, when Skinner followed the smoker's advice and reconstructed that morning down to the smallest detail, Aaron had given a sincere, puzzled account. "She looked the same to me. Said she'd go to the cafeteria and get some breakfast."

Skinner's heart locks in a metal fist and beads of sweat roll down his back in the air-conditioned office. And he knows that Aaron is the would-be assassin - but he also knows that he can never prove it, that the traces are swept away, that the admission of guilt will never be gained. And when he picks up the phone and dials the familiar number, he is ecstatic to hear the smoky voice, for the first time in years.

During the rest of the day, he waits for the pain to diminish. The matter is put to rest, justice is served, and the questions are finally answered, yet his anxiety doesn't subside. As he measures his room in quick, tormented strides, he finally recognizes the darkness that seeps through the walls of the office, settling like fog inside him.

It is not the killer's face that wears the mask of evil today, but his own.

Skinner walks downstairs to Aaron Blair's cubicle, only to be told that the agent had just left. Unspeakable dread - what if he is mistaken? - makes him run, tear through the crowd of other agents leaving the building. Outside, he sees a discreet van parked across the street. The doors swing open and several ubiquitous men in suits leave it simultaneously.

Surely they would never attempt this pick-up in broad daylight, in front of the FBI building. The smoker would never dare, not unless he was extremely anxious to chat with the duplicitous agent. Not unless an Assistant Director of the FBI himself sanctified such actions. Forgetting protocol and common etiquette, Skinner shouts Aaron Blair's name. This is a matter of life and death.

This is a matter of taking one small, but crucial step in the right direction, away from the shadows that hold him fast in their grip.

The young man swings around, and his eyes find the Assistant Director immediately. The pure malice and fear that Skinner sees inside their blue depths staggers him.

In that moment, they know each other. Skinner's throat is dry as he searches for a breath. Blair's face pales and he takes a step backward, the first step on the long staircase that winds down from the front doors to the Pennsylvania Avenue, from life as he knows it to what will have been an interrogation room in one of the Consortium hideouts and eventual death. Instead, and perhaps it's a better deal, his bones count every one of these stairs, as his spine breaks halfway down, as his ribs splinter one after another, as his skull cracks on the third step from the bottom.

Skinner doesn't hurry to join the bystanders and fellow agents who gather on the street. He knows what he will see.

A broken, ugly body dressed in a beautiful but bloodied suit that was bought for thirty pieces of silver.

Back to Fire Eaters index

Look at Soundtrack