Legacy
by Cadillac Red
Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner et al do not belong to me; they belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I mean no harm and will make no money from their use.
Spoilers: None
Setting: Seventh Season.
Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash.
Summary: Mulder is feeling insecure as the AD becomes more caught up in work and family pressures.
Danville, Pennsylvania
January 5, 2000
2:15 a.m.
St. Basil's Russian Orthodox Church was festively adorned with red and white poinsettias. The air was heavy with the scent of incense used throughout the long Midnight Mass and the worshippers were jammed into the main part of the chapel, responding to the priest's chants in clear, strong voices. Tomorrow was Eastern Orthodox Christmas and tonight's service would begin the Skinner family's second Christmas. The first was the one on which they exchanged gifts and participated in the rest of the christian world's Christmas celebration. The second was their religious observance and would be capped by a traditional Russian dinner tomorrow afternoon.
Tonight's service was exotic and beautiful and Mulder found himself responding with the rest of the congregates, at least in the simple Russian phrases he'd heard before and understood. Over the course of his childhood with the Skinners he'd attended a number of Russian Orthodox services and his eidetic memory served him well in this regard.
The worshippers stood in the main hall in the traditional Eastern Orthodox manner. There were benches for the old and infirm, and anyone else who needed to avail themselves of their comfort temporarily. They were built-in at the side of the chapel but none of the Skinners ever made use of them. At least until this evening.
Walter Sr. leaned down and spoke to his wife softly, then moved as unobtrusively as possible to the side and took a seat on the wood bench there. Several elderly people were there, along with a young woman who looked as though she would give birth at any moment. The eyes of everyone else in the family tracked his progress until he turned to sit down. Then everyone's heads snapped to the front and remained there except for the concerned glances that Joe and Andy and Jean and Walter exchanged with each other for the remainder of the service.
Finally, Skinner couldn't wait. He leaned his head down and whispered to his mother. "Is Dad all right?"
Rachel nodded as she continued to watch the priest. "Yes, dear," she said softly. "He tires a little more easily now. Don't make a big deal of it."
Skinner nodded too, then gave a reassuring glance to his sister and brothers. But none of them were really reassured. Something had changed, a small change perhaps, but one that shook the very foundation of the family's security. And that was something none of them missed, nor fully appreciated.
The homey, familiar smells of dinner were beginning to make Skinner's and Mulder's mouths water and they decided to join Joe and Andy outside until everything was ready. The two other men were watching Andy's kids play on the tire swing by the tree. Walter and Fox joined them and it was immediately clear what they were talking about.
"Walt, is Dad's heart worse than we thought?" Andy asked him as they approached.
"No, not as far as I know, Andy--" Skinner replied but he was interrupted by Joe.
"Don't be the 'great protector,' Walter," Joe said argumentatively. "We deserve to know the truth."
Skinner blinked and took a deep breath, trying not to respond in kind. "I'd never keep the truth from you guys," he said. "He's having a double bypass. The doctor says they do thousands of them a year. It's not risk-free but it's not a big deal--"
"Since you're the only one who knows the truth, I guess we just have to take your word for it," Joe responded. Mulder was taken aback listening to the interaction between the two men. He'd never known the Skinner brothers to have a cross word before and he was momentarily caught off guard. Andy jumped in to act as a buffer.
"It's not that we think you're holding back on us, Walter," he said quickly. "It's just . . . you tend to be a little overprotective. And so does Dad--"
"Well, thanks for the insight, Andy," Joe said. To Mulder's ear he sounded almost angry. "But Walter and Dad only do what's 'best' for all the rest of us. Even though we're all adults and can make our own decisions. Maybe we could even be helpful, if we had the chance."
He shook his head and looked a little embarrassed by his outburst if not at all likely to back down from it. "I'm . . . going inside. I could use a beer."
Mulder and Andy's mouths both hung open as they watched him head into the house. The Assistant Director merely grimaced and muttered something under his breath. Then he stalked off in the other direction, down toward the river. "I'm gonna take a walk," he called back over his shoulder, not bothering to ask if anyone wanted to accompany him.
"What the hell was that about?" Mulder whispered to Andy as soon as Skinner and Joe were out of earshot.
"Oh, you know, everybody's worked up about Dad," Andy sighed in frustration. "Joe's ticked because Dad will only let Walter go to the doctor with him. And Walter's stressed out 'cause has to take time off from work, when he can hardly afford it after being out so much lately. But Walter always does what's expected of him. And it's stupid because Joe's actually off with winter break and has the time to do it but Dad's funny about this stuff. He . . . relies more on Walt than on me and Joe. He always has. But of course, Joe can't let my father know he's upset, so he's taking it out on Walter. Who's too tense to let it roll off his back like he usually does." He finished his monologue and forcefully blew out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. "And I'm just glad you decided to come for another Christmas dinner, Fox. 'Cause I hate to be the only one in the middle of these things!"
FBI Headquarters
Wednesday, January 12, 2000
Fox Mulder sat in his usual chair across from Skinner's desk. He'd received a call from the AD's assistant that morning, asking him to stop by at 1:45. Kim had said there was a fifteen minute block open in the Assistant Director's schedule and he wanted to see Mulder. Not Mulder and Scully, just Mulder. And only fifteen minutes. Hardly long enough to rip me a new one for the New Year's Eve fiasco!
The younger agent took all this to mean the visit would be of a personal rather than professional nature and he was relieved and pleased. The days since they'd returned from Danville had been hectic for Skinner and as a result the two men had barely spoken. The AD was working eighteen hour days, six or seven days a week to catch up on the backlog created by his 'special assignment' in the latter part of the past year. Looking out for Mulder when he was forced to repeat his childhood on fast-forward had absorbed a good part of the AD's time and, as he was wont to say, no one did his work when he wasn't there.
In addition, Walter Skinner, Sr. had been scheduled for bypass surgery the following week. In the aftermath of his heart attack, it had been discovered that two of the older man's coronary arteries were nearly blocked. His doctor had given him a month to get his strength back, then scheduled surgery for the following week. Unfortunately, Mr. Skinner was not accustomed to being ill and he'd decided the only one he'd allow to accompany him on doctor visits was his oldest son. Yet another responsibility that fell on the Assistant Director's wide shoulders.
So Mulder was pleased when he got the call to come up to Skinner's office, even if it was just for fifteen minutes. He'd nearly recuperated from his injuries and, even though he expected there'd be hell to pay for the actions that put him in harm's way, it would be nice to just be with the AD. Even if he was getting yelled at. Christ, Mulder! What has come over you?!!
Skinner was on the phone, talking to someone but it didn't appear to be anything urgent. Just annoying, at least from what Mulder was discerning from the man's body language. It appeared there was a dispute about the way someone had handled something and Skinner was defending his agent's actions to another Assistant Director. Mulder listened, thinking it was good to know he wasn't the only one for whom Skinner had to do that. And from the sound of it, the AD's patience level was rapidly waning.
"I understand," he said shortly, crooking his head slightly in a gesture that always told Mulder he was stressed and trying to ease the tension in his neck. "You do what you think you have to do, Vince. My agent made the only sensible choice he could make under the circumstances. I'll be happy to defend Clarke's actions at an OPR hearing. And I have no doubt he'll be cleared of any wrongdoing but if you want to waste all of our time, be my guest." With that he hung the phone up and exhaled forcefully.
Mulder's eyebrows had risen as he listened to this conversation. Having been the recipient of Skinner's support and protection often, he knew the AD's style and it was generally measured and diplomatic rather than confrontational. He wondered what had gotten under the other man's skin to the point he felt the need to push back on a colleague like that.
Skinner didn't bother to explain the overheard conversation. "How are you, Fox?" he asked wearily. "Arm's okay?"
Mulder demonstrated the full range of movement he had gotten back with a smile. "Yeah. Doctor says I can go back to unrestricted duty next week."
"Good," Skinner replied. "I'm sorry I've been so out of touch. Between the backlog here and the Management conference in Chicago last week. And . . . my Dad. Well, it's been hard to find enough hours in the day . . . . but I managed to score two tickets for the Knicks and Wizards tonight--"
"You did?" Mulder exclaimed, nearly jumping out of the chair. "How much did that cost you?"
Skinner shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I thought you'd be interested--"
"You didn't have to think long about that, did you, sir?" The smile on the younger agent's face told Skinner the tickets were well worth what they had cost him.
"No, I didn't," the AD chuckled.
"I'll spring for dinner--" Mulder began but Skinner interrupted him.
"I'm sorry, that's what I was just going to tell you," he said casting an eye on the mound of paperwork still on his desk. "I have to prepare for a briefing with the Director and the Attorney General tomorrow. Y2K wrap up and some other pending things that can't wait. We're still on bravo level alert in domestic terrorism as you know. I wanted to give you time to ask somebody to go with you--"
Mulder felt a wave of disappointment but he worked hard not to let it show. His face took on a mask of polite indifference. "Oh. Sure. I'll . . . ask somebody. No problem," he said, nodding his head actively.
Skinner sensed Mulder was upended and he opened his mouth to say something but the intercom on his desk interrupted him. With an impatient sigh he reached for it. "Yes, Kim," he said curtly. "What's so important?"
"I'm sorry, Assistant Director," she said quickly, her voice apologetic. "But it's the Deputy Director and he asked me to interrupt you."
Skinner winced a little as he leaned back in his chair, at least that's how it looked to Mulder. "I'm. . . sorry, Kim," he said. "Put him through." He glanced at Mulder and gave him an apologetic shrug. "Agent Delaney's around today if you can't come up with anyone else."
"Well, I have a couple of friends I'll try first," Mulder said as he rose and headed for the door. "But if no one else can make it, I'll try Delaney." He stopped at the door and looked back. "I-- Thanks for the tickets, sir," he said but Skinner was already in conversation with his caller and merely nodded his reply as the younger man closed the door.
FBI Headquarters
Thursday, January 12 2000
12:20 p.m.
It was bone chillingly damp outside, spitting rain mixed with snow, so the cafeteria was mobbed. No one in their right mind wanted to be outside the building today. Scully and Mulder were in line awaiting their turn and just about everyone else on the FBI payroll was either ahead of them or behind them it seemed.
Mulder noticed Agent Delaney seated at a table already and the younger man smiled and waved. Mulder nodded in response but didn't tell Scully who was engaged in conversation with someone ahead of her. The two of them rarely ate in the cafeteria and Scully always enjoyed the chance to catch up with colleagues she didn't often work with. Mulder was hoping they'd take their food and return to the basement office to eat.
He idly scanned the rest of the room and saw Assistant Director Skinner in line behind him. He knew the AD could get a sandwich delivered to his office if he was eating in but Skinner often used opportunities like this to tour the building and catch up with people informally. "Management by walking around," he called it. He was only about ten people behind Mulder and Mulder thought it was strange he hadn't said hello.
Then he noticed Skinner was with Assistant Director Jana Cassidy and they were deep in discussion. Mulder knew immediately it was Skinner's idea to come to the cafeteria. AD Cassidy usually lunched in the Director's dining room if she was in the building.
He and Scully made their choices then took their trays into the dining area to scout a table. Mulder saw Delaney's tablemates were leaving and he ushered Scully in that direction.
"Hey, Delaney," he said jovially, if a little loudly, as he settled his tray. "What'd you think of that game last night?"
"It was awesome," Delaney gushed. "I mean, the last two minutes, my heart was in my mouth! I wish you could have been there, Mulder. My girlfriend's not much of a basketball fan so she didn't really appreciate it the way you would have."
"Well, I'm sorry, too," he answered checking in his peripheral vision to see whether Skinner was close enough to hear their exchange. He was, and the AD's attention had definitely been caught. "But you know how it is sometimes. You get busy . . . ."
In the line Skinner shook his head imperceptibly then Jana asked him something and he knew he'd missed whatever it was she'd said prior to the question. "I'm sorry, Jana," he apologized. "What were you saying?"
"I was saying, let's take our sandwiches back to my office. This place is a complete zoo . . . ."
A little while later they sat in the quiet confines of Cassidy's office. It looked remarkably like Skinner's and they chose the sofa and chairs over the conference table since this was a friendly lunch not a working lunch. The two of them had been partners twenty years earlier and since they were both assigned back to headquarters, they tried to do this at least once a month. It was a good way to network and, in Skinner's case, keep ahead of what the Office for Professional Responsibility was going to do at any given time. In his case, it was generally what they were going to do about Agent Mulder that concerned him.
He leaned back in his chair and winced then he shifted into a more comfortable position.
"Are you all right, Walter?" Jana asked, as she popped open her soda can.
"Yes, I'm fine," he answered hurriedly. "An old ache is all. This weather does it to me."
Cassidy knew his 'old ache' dated from Vietnam and he was reluctant to talk about it. So she let it pass without further remark.
"So, what are we going to do about Agent Mulder?" she asked as she picked up her sandwich and prepared to take a bite.
"Well, you don't stand on ceremony, do you, Jana?" Skinner chuckled. "Let's get right down to brass tacks . . . ."
"You can't distract me with your bottomless well of cliches, Walt," she laughed in return. "He broke all the rules in that . . . zombie investigation--"
"And solved the case! And kept the FBI from getting smeared by the fact a rogue group of former agents had been trying to raise the dead! And bring an end to the world--
"I know the outcome," she answered reasonably if a little facetiously. "He saved humanity once again! But . . . do you think we could get him to follow one or two of the rules when he performs these heroic feats? Just for heck of it."
Skinner tried not to respond with equal sarcasm. He recognized Jana was teasing him but he didn't have much patience for this kind of thing right now. "Jana," he sighed. "Believe me, I'd like to get him to follow the rules, too. More than you probably--"
"Walter, I know how you feel about rules and procedures. I worked with you, remember? And I know all about Mulder being a 'special case.' But I have a responsibility here and I just can't stand by and let a single agent flout all of our rules and get away with it. We're calling him in for a review tomorrow and, barring something mitigating, I'm sure he'll get an official reprimand."
Skinner put his sandwich down. His stomach was roiling with acid and he couldn't swallow another bite. He picked up his can of ginger ale and downed almost all of it before replying. "He's been back on duty for less than a month. And his record is . . . less than stellar in this respect, as you know. A reprimand will probably result in suspension without pay--"
"I know, Walter," Cassidy answered shortly. "I'm paying attention. But we can't just look the other way on these things. What does it say to the other agents?"
"I don't just look the other way," Skinner replied impatiently. "I have never failed to discipline Agent Mulder appropriately. It's just that . . . traditional bureau discipline doesn't have much of an effect on him. And anyway, who do we really punish when we take Mulder's investigative skills out of the mix?"
Cassidy picked at the crust on her sandwich as she considered what he'd just said. "Well what do you suggest we do to discipline Agent Mulder? If the 'traditional methods' at our disposal don't work, what are we supposed to do? Spank him?"
Skinner nearly choked on his ginger ale and it was all he could do to keep from showing it. "No! That's not . . . what I had in mind, Jana," he said, trying to regain his equilibrium. "I was thinking of sending Mulder down to Quantico, to teach the new academy class's section on investigative procedure. To teach it, you have to know it backwards and forwards--"
"Oh, Christ, Walter," Cassidy exclaimed. "We could end up with an entire Academy class who don't know, or care, about the rules!"
Skinner smiled at her. "Well, I was thinking that we should tell Agent Mulder that if the class doesn't score in the top say . . . twenty percentile range in their final test on that module, he'd spend the rest of the year teaching the same subject until one of his classes did. Mulder hates routine and--"
Jana Cassidy picked up her can of Sprite and took a long sip from her straw while she considered his proposal. As she put it down, a satisfied smile sprang to her lips. "Why, Walter, that's positively diabolical! I think I can get the OPR board to accept that solution. Will you be at the hearing tomorrow?"
Skinner shook his head. "Not if we're agreed about the resolution. I'm just so damn backed up . . . "
FBI Headquarters
Friday, January 14, 2000
10:29 a.m.
Mulder was wearing his best suit and a crisp new white shirt. He'd put on one of the ties Skinner had bought him last year, too. It was conservative and understated. Now he sat nervously awaiting the start of his hearing.
Overnight he'd had a change of heart, berating himself for the childish actions of yesterday. He'd felt neglected and wanted the AD to know it but going over it all alone in his apartment last night, he'd felt ashamed. The man was obviously overworked and he, Mulder, was the root cause. Skinner had stuck by him through the entire return to childhood, something no one else would have done, just as he'd always stuck by Mulder before. Chastened, the younger agent had resolved to apologize to Skinner. And maybe ask him to lunch today if Skinner could fit it into his schedule.
Mulder opened and closed his hands, rubbing them on the legs of his pants every now and then to keep them dry. Having to face Skinner was daunting. Having his actions 'reviewed' by AD Cassidy was positively terrifying. He'd learned a long time ago to come early to these things, as long as AD Cassidy was in charge. But today, Skinner was late and he hoped Cassidy wouldn't hold that against him. I can't be held responsible for Skinner's punctuality, right?
Jana Cassidy came in, along with the two Supervisory Agents who would complete today's panel. This was not a formal review, just the normal every day kind that occurred when an agent failed to comply with rules and procedures. He tried to comfort himself with the fact he'd been through a couple dozen of these over the years but somehow that fact wasn't very comforting.
"Uh, ma'am, should I call AD Skinner? He must be running a little late," he said as he rose from his seat.
"No, that's not necessary, Agent Mulder," she said motioning for him to sit down again. "He's not coming. Let's proceed . . . ."
The news that Skinner would not be there hit Mulder hard. He sat back down automatically, not even feeling his legs bend. Skinner had never failed to accompany him to a review board in all the time he'd worked for the man, except once when the Bureau forbade him to attend. The two of them had not spoken the night before because Mulder was in his snit earlier in the evening and feeling ashamed and embarrassed later. And besides, Mulder reasoned, the AD had not called him either so, what the heck? The phone worked both ways.
But today he regretted his rash decision. Skinner must have been ticked off that he failed to get a check-in call. And, with everything else Mulder had done recently, the AD must have given up on him. Professionally. And probably personally as well.
He barely participated in the hearing as his mind raced with all the possible implications of Skinner's absence and he responded in monosyllables when Cassidy or one of the others asked him a question or requested an explanation for something. He didn't even try to defend his actions New Year's Eve and Cassidy found herself wondering whether Skinner had gotten to Mulder before he came in. His normal feisty nature had clearly been checked at the door today.
She closed the hearing as quickly as possible, telling Mulder that he'd receive their decision about disciplinary action that afternoon. "I'll notify AD Skinner."
Mulder rose blindly and waited for her and the others to leave the conference room, then he sank back onto the chair.
"That's assuming he gives a shit what happens to me," he whispered as a solid lump of tears rose in his throat. Their lack of contact in recent weeks meant exactly what Mulder feared, that the AD was distancing himself from the agent. After all they'd been through in recent years, part of him didn't want to believe it. But the other part, long buried but firmly entrenched in his psyche told him it had to happen eventually. And in fact, that little voice had been pushing him to test the bond, to prove to himself it would not hold indefinitely.
Mulder had failed to check in most nights, waiting to see what Skinner would do. But one night, in an act of faith, he had gone to the Crytal City apartment and waited for the AD to return. At 1 a.m., he'd finally gone to bed and missed Skinner arriving some time later. The next morning, he awoke to find the man knocking on his bedroom door at 6 a.m. The other man was fully dressed and ready to leave.
"I have a breakfast meeting with the Attorney General at 7 o'clock," Skinner had said by way of explanation. "I left you cereal and fruit on the kitchen table, and coffee's brewed. Sorry we didn't get a chance to talk, Fox." He'd nodded and left the apartment.
That morning he hadn't mentioned a word about Mulder's recent behavioral lapses, nor even looked like he'd given them a second thought and Mulder had been briefly comforted by how normal everything between them seemed. But then Skinner had fallen out of contact again until yesterday, when he'd offered Mulder basketball tickets. The ones the younger man blatantly passed up and passed along to Delaney, then made sure Skinner knew about it.
Now Mulder shook his head miserably as he sat in that conference room alone, trying to get control of his emotions. Finally, he recovered enough equilibrium to make his way back to the basement office and to face Scully.
But by the end of the day, he'd moved through despair to what he thought was righteous anger. Scully had tried to calm him down, taking him out of the building for lunch and letting him vent to his heart's content out of earshot of anyone from the Bureau. But that had only served to stoke the fire, it seemed. She'd sent him off to his meeting with Skinner with a final admonishment.
"Mulder, don't do anything stupid."
Her words served an opposite purpose to her intent, though. He slammed the door behind him and headed up the stairs to the fourth floor, his anger growing with each step. By the time he got to Skinner's outer office, he was like a bull just waiting for a red flag. And it appeared, in the form of Special Agent Wesley Clarke. Clarke was stepping out of the AD's office and he was practically blubbering his thanks to Skinner as he went, Mulder thought cruelly.
"Thank you, sir," Clarke said for the fourth or fifth time since the door opened. "I really . . . appreciate your support, sir. I-- I never had a single reprimand since I joined the bureau! Or any trouble with anyone! I don't know if I could have handled this if you weren't there for me, sir. I-- I don't know what to say--"
"That's quite all right, Agent," Skinner was saying, trying to move him along. "It's my job. And you did exactly what I would have done under the circumstances."
"Thank you for saying that, sir," Clarke continued. "I guess I should call my wife. We've both been losing sleep over this--"
"No, I think you should go home and tell her, Agent Clarke," Skinner said, fairly pushing the man out of the office. "It's almost five o'clock anyway. Go home and have a drink. And forget this ever happened."
Clarke nodded spastically, then gave Mulder and Kim a sheepish smile and hurried out of the office. Skinner continued over to Kim's desk. "Any calls I need to know about?"
"No, sir," she replied. "Your brother Joe called. Said to call when you free up. And Deputy Director Casey said we can reschedule your Tuesday appointment with him for later in the week. He said to tell you he sends good wishes for your Dad's surgery."
Skinner nodded and turned to Mulder, gesturing toward the door. "Agent Mulder?"
The younger agent rose and stalked into the office. Skinner's eyebrows both rose as he correctly interpreted the body language and he sighed and walked in behind Mulder, closing the door silently. He paused a moment, taking a deep breath and cracking his neck, trying to ease some of the pain and tension that had been building up in recent days.
"This sucks!" Mulder fumed. He'd reached the desk and turned right around. "I solved that case! I kept the Bureau from getting another public black-eye! And this is the thanks I get--"
"Stop it right now, Agent!" Skinner yelled. "And sit down!"
Mulder blinked and fell hard into the chair behind him. He wanted to respond but he found himself tongue-tied in the face of the AD's wrath.
"First of all, YOU didn't do anything alone, Agent! You had help. From Agent Scully. From Frank Black. From me, and the rest of the Bureau. A team solved this thing. What YOU did was break every procedural rule we have! You left here without a back-up. You told no one where you were going. You worked off a location list no one else had seen! You didn't check in when you found out your cell phone was out of range. You entered the premises without a search warrant--"
"And I forgot to eat lunch, too! Isn't that a rule? There are so many, it's hard to keep up--"
"That's it!" Skinner bellowed. "I don't want to hear another word from you, Agent Mulder. I do the talking here--"
"Oh, another rule! The only people with more fucking rules than the fucking FBI is the Skinner family, right? I just can't catch a break, can I . . . ?" The words were out of his mouth before he knew it and then it was too late. All the regret in the world couldn't get them back and allow him to shove them back own throat.
Skinner stopped cold and his arms dropped to his side. In his peripheral vision, Mulder saw the man's fists clench as his ironclad emotional control slammed down like a gate between the two of them. Skinner's body untensed, but his neck and jawline looked like solid granite as he walked around the desk, coming to stand on the side opposite Mulder.
"Okay, that's enough," he said tightly. He'd lowered his volume to the point Mulder almost had to lean in to hear him. The AD picked up a file, Mulder's OPR file the other agent noted irrelevantly. "You managed to avoid another official reprimand. But you are being reassigned--"
"Reassigned?" Mulder leapt to his feet and slammed his hand down on the desk. "How could-- Just for ignoring a few rules?" He knew immediately Skinner must have asked for him to be reassigned.
Skinner glared at him, silently commanding him to sit back down. When he did so, the Assistant Director began to speak again. "Temporarily, Agent," he said meaningfully. "There's a new class starting at the Academy next week and you're going to be their instructor for the 'Investigative Procedures' module. I--"
"What? I'm not a teacher--" Mulder began to protest but Skinner stared him down again.
"To teach well you have to know your subject, Agent Mulder. And most of the instructors at the Academy are simply agents with special expertise. Which you will have by the time the class begins. Here's the manual, in case you can't . . . find your own. And the teaching notes."
Mulder stared at them as though they were something obscene and refused to move to take the materials Skinner had slid across his desk.
"If your class scores in the top fifth of class averages in their final test, you'll come back," the AD said ominously. "If not, you'll stay on this assignment indefinitely until one of your classes does--"
Mulder's head snapped up to stare at him when he heard the last part. "What about . . . the X-files?" he whispered.
Skinner flexed his head to the side a little, trying again to crack the tension and pain lodged there. "This assignment is not a full-time one," he said impatiently. "The class meets four days a week for a couple of hours a day. You'll still have time to do a lot of your own work--
"But I won't be . . . here." Mulder's words struck a dual tone. One was resignation. But the other had the faint echo of hope.
"No. And perhaps that's for the best, Mulder." Skinner reconsidered his statement the moment the words were out but he was exhausted by the confrontation and the constant need to corral and tame the young agent in front of him. In fact, he was exhausted by his entire life in recent weeks.
Skinner had harbored great hopes that, after Mulder's recent experience growing up among the extended family of Skinners, he would be changed some. Perhaps a little more willing to conform. And with less of a need to take on the world at any temptation. But it appeared the old Agent Mulder had returned with a vengeance he thought dispiritedly.
A searing burst of pain made him realize that the headache he'd developed a few moments earlier was becoming blinding. He needed aspirin desperately, for the headache and the pain in his neck and back, but he would not admit that weakness to the other man. So he stayed the course, knowing it was always better to come down hard on Mulder at the outset, then soften your stance later.
Mulder's shoulders had slumped for a moment but now he sat back up and raised his head. He stared at the AD for a long moment, then he picked up the books on the desk and turned to go. "What about Scully?" he asked, stopping in mid-step.
"She's done nothing wrong," Skinner said wearily. "She'll remain here and you'll work from Quantico. If she'd prefer to work from there, that's fine too. Mulder, you haven't been removed from the X-Files. You've gotten a . . . 'punishment assignment.' Don't blow things out of proportion--"
Like you always do! Mulder heard the unspoken addendum to the AD's sentence and knew what it meant. Skinner had lost patience with him finally. After all this time, and all they'd been through, he'd finally hit the limit of his tolerance. The 'son' in him fought the notion but the 'agent' and 'profiler' won the debate handily.
Mulder nodded resignedly and opened the door slightly. Then he paused, not able to continue and out of the office, needing to take one more shot at fixing what was wrong between them. "Sir, I'm s-sorry-- for all the trouble. . . ."
Skinner's face reflected his confusion but the intercom buzzed before he could ask what had brought the comment on. He picked up the phone impatiently. "Yes, yes I'll take that," he told Kim then took advantage of the moment it would take her to connect the call.
Mulder was still standing in the doorway. Skinner knew needed to move Mulder along before taking this call from AD Kendall. The AD in charge of Quantico was incensed to hear who they were sending him to teach the 'Investigative Procedures' course. And Mulder, whose ego was equally outsized and fragile, did not need to know he wasn't wanted. "Don't mention it," he said briskly, an incongruous smile on his face. "It's . . . my job. Goodbye, Agent."
Mulder reacted as though he'd been slapped and he moved jerkily into the outer office and closed the door, not wanting Skinner to see. He looked up to see the AD's assistant Kim watching him warily and he gave her what he hoped looked like a jaunty smile and hurried out into the hallway.
"Agent Mulder?" she called after him. "I . . wanted to talk to you. About the Assistant Director--"
"No time, Kim," he called over his shoulder, afraid to let her see his emotional state.
Well, thank you, Agent Mulder! She stared after him angrily and sat back in her chair. The AD had been acting strangely, as if he was in pain. And she thought Mulder would be the right one to discuss her fears with. He and Skinner were close, like family. And he was normally very observant and, despite his attempt to seem detached from things at the FBI, the fact was he cared a great deal about the place and the people. Especially the Assistant Director. But his behavior today certainly didn't demonstrate it.
Kim cared about Skinner too. And she was worried about him. He'd been working too hard, and too many hours. And he'd been short-tempered and abrupt of late, much more than usual. He had a lot of family things giving him added stress. And something seemed to be wrong with him physically, too.
The day before Kim couldn't raise him on the intercom and she'd gone in and found him stretched out on his couch, with a heating pad on his neck. He'd been embarrassed and jumped up immediately, telling her something about an old 'football injury.' But she'd also noticed their office supply of aspirin was disappearing far faster than normal.
She pushed those thoughts out of her mind as the man himself stalked out of the other room. The call with AD Kendall must not have gone well because he appeared angry. He strode over to the cabinet in which they kept the aspirin and palmed four, swallowing them dry until Kim poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her desk.
"Can we fit Agent Scully in this afternoon?" he asked her as he took a sip of the water. It turned out there was a free ten minutes right after his next appointment. And his scheduled phone call with one of his west coast subordinates was coming in at that moment. "Good! Ask her to come by in half an hour."
He went back into his office, closing the door behind him and sighed painfully as he took a seat in his desk chair. It had turned out the price of getting Jack Kendall to accept Mulder as his 'Investigative Procedures' instructor had been giving him Scully too. To teach the Forensics module. But perhaps that wasn't so bad after all. Skinner knew he wasn't able to pay as much attention to the younger agent lately with everything piling up. And Scully and Mulder managed to amuse themselves alone better than any pair of agents he'd ever seen.
In reality, they barely needed a supervisor Skinner mused, something to which the Bureau had given tacit recognition by assigning the X-files to report directly to Skinner, an AD with vast responsibilities. No, perhaps this was the best way to get through all of this after all. He picked up the phone, feeling his heart lift a little for the first time in weeks. Skinner's commitment to Mulder was intact but now that he was an adult again, he expected the sense of day to day responsibility would just naturally fade. As it was beginning to already.
Harrisburg Regional Medical Center
Monday, January 18
6:25 a.m.
Skinner pulled into the parking lot exactly on time. His father was scheduled for for pre-operative blood work at 6:30 with the surgery taking place at 9 o'clock. It was just the two of them in the car this morning. Andy was home from Chicago, despite his Dad's protests that people 'shouldn't make a big deal of this' but he and Joe would bring Rachel and Jean in a couple of hours. Walter Sr. had loudly insisted that the entire family didn't have to get up in the middle of the night and relocate to Harrisburg 'just to sit and wait.'
They parked in an almost empty lot and began walking toward the entrance to the surgical wing. As they approached, a familiar figure rose from where he was sitting on the steps there.
"Fox!" Mr. Skinner exclaimed. "It's twenty degrees out here! What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm waiting for you," Mulder said with a tentative smile. His face was flushed from the cold and his eyes were bright but wary as he checked out Skinner's reaction from the corner of his eye. He let himself be embraced by the older man and nodded at Skinner. The AD smiled tightly and nodded in return.
"Fox," he said, giving no hint as to whether he was angry or not. Skinner handed Mulder the weekend bag he was carrying for his father. Then he and Mulder fell in step behind the older man who was heading into the hospital. "Aren't you supposed to be in Quantico?"
"I-- well, you know they don't actually have any classes on the first day," Mulder said, speaking quietly but rushing to get it out, hoping to minimize the AD's anger. "Just check-in and security stuff. AD Kendall said I could report tomorrow after I told him . . . about my . . . family medical thing. I just couldn't .. . not be here." He wondered if Skinner would call him on the little lie about it being a 'family' matter but the AD merely nodded, a tired half-smile on his face.
"Okay," he said. Mulder was uncertain what the tone he used meant but he was committed to the course of action he'd undertaken. The elder Skinner had been so good to him, it would be sign of immense selfishness not to be here, in the young man's mind. He was hurt and still confused by the AD's decision to put distance between them but . . . he'd overridden his bruised feelings and made the trip anyway because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Skinner and Mulder dropped Mr. Skinner off at the surgical floor so he could be prepped for surgery, then the Assistant Director suggested they get some breakfast. Mulder wasn't certain if he was asking out of a sense of responsibility or because he felt sorry for the younger agent but he agreed just because it had been so long since the two of them had spent time alone. Part of him was scared but a larger part of him hoped . . . . Hell! What is it you hope for, Fox?
"The cafeteria's not open yet," Skinner told Mulder. "But there's a coffee shop down the street. And we've got a couple of hours to kill."
They went down the street to the "Country Maid" coffee shop. Mulder's stomach was in knots and he needed to collect himself before the two men spoke. He was afraid he was wearing his heart on his sleeve and that would surely put the AD in an awkward position. He excused himself to go to the men's room the minute they got inside so Skinner requested a table from a pleasant middle-aged waitress and sat down to look at the menu.
"Can I getcha anything to start, hon?" she said.
He ordered drinks for the two of them. Mulder returned a moment later to find the AD perusing the menu, a cup of coffee and a large glass of milk on the table. He sat down, staring at the glass, and Skinner looked up over the menu.
"I ordered you--" he began then stopped, noting the strange expression on the younger man's face. His eyes descended to the table. "Oh, jeez! I . . . Don't ask me what I was thinking." He looked around for the waitress quickly. "Miss? Could we get another cup of coffee instead of the milk?"
"No, that's all right," Mulder responded as he picked up the glass. "I . . . I could use the nutrients, I guess. But I would like a cup of coffee too."
Skinner protested that he didn't have to drink the milk but Mulder had already downed half the glass. The waitress came over with another cup of coffee, chuckling good-naturedly. "Ya got a kid, huh?" she said to Skinner. "I know the feeling. It's automatic. You forget they're not with you sometimes."
Skinner simply nodded, not wanting to get into any details. He ordered buttermilk pancakes and ham and Mulder asked for the same, then they lapsed into silence. The sun was just peeking out under grey clouds that looked like threatening rain and Skinner stared out the window for a minute, lost in thought.
"Where's everyone else?" Mulder asked as he took a seat on the other side of the table.
"Dad . . . doesn't like a lot of people around for these things," Skinner said as he prepared his coffee. "He doesn't deal well with being sick, as you know. They're all coming later, right before the surgery."
"I hope he doesn't mind . . . that I came," Fox said, suddenly self-conscious about the decision.
"No, it's okay. I'm glad . . . you're here. I could use the company." Skinner took a gulp of the hot coffee, then sighed with satisfaction.
Mulder stared into his milk glass, trying not to read too much into the other man's statement. He was struggling to find a way to start the conversation he wanted to have. "I'm . . sorry--"
"I'm sorry--" Skinner said at the same moment, then they both laughed. It eased the tension of the moment a little.
"Things have been . . . hectic, Fox," Skinner said when there was silence again. "I know I've been out of touch. . . ."
"And that's all my fault,"
"No, it isn't," Skinner said firmly. "Don't start taking responsibility for things you didn't do, or control."
"I know how much you did for me, sir," the young agent responded. "I know you'll say it's 'your job' but nothing in your job description requires you to do what you did . . . ."
Skinner sensed there was a tidal wave of meaning behind that statement. He'd gotten to know this young man as a son, down to the vulnerable core that fed his anxieties no matter how much he was reassured about being loved and wanted. It was a legacy from his first childhood, Skinner knew. And his paternal instinct told him that Fox was struggling yet again with truly believing he was part of the Skinner family, no matter what.
"Son, it is my job," Skinner said with conviction. "Being here for you, good times, bad times and everything in between. It's not a choice, it just . . . is."
Mulder's eyes glistened with tears and he looked down at his hands, clasping them to keep them from shaking. Inside him the pendulum of hope swung in the other direction and he tried to face the truth. He'd let himself believe he was more than 'a job' to Skinner but things had changed. His own family was now draining away so much of the AD's time and attention, he had none left over to extend his official responsibilities to Mulder and his personal problems. Mulder knew he should be grateful for everything Skinner had done for him over the years, so much of it above and beyond the call of his job as Mulder's supervisor.
He nodded, trying not to let the new reality rock him. This man had enough on his mind now without Mulder adding to it. "But it's a fact you wouldn't be so behind at work if it wasn't for me--"
"No, it's a fact the Consortium did something to you and whatever came after was not your fault," Skinner replied crisply.
"How about New Year's Eve?" Mulder asked, a glint of hope in his eye. He was trying to turn the conversation light and push away the sense of personal loss that was descending on him. And perhaps, given everything, the AD would reconsider the decision to send him away to Quantico. Skinner was not a heartless boss, the younger agent knew from long experience.
"That was all your fault," Skinner replied, a hint of a smile touching his lips before he turned serious again. "And there will be punishment, Fox. Now that you're arm's almost completely healed.
Mulder's eyes flicked up in shock and pressed his lips together. "There w-will?" he stammered, a new interpretation of their conversation beginning to take hold. He decided to test it. "The doctor says it could be months before it's completely back to normal--"
"Nice try, kid," the AD said, grinning broadly. He was relieved to hear Mulder respond so normally.
Mulder found himself smiling despite the reality of what had just been promised him. He was still confused and uncertain but he let himself hang on to the small hope that some part of their personal relationship remained in place and would continue as before. Both men lapsed into silence, and Mulder automatically finished the glass of milk as he stared out the window.
"How are you doing with . . . all the memories?" Skinner asked out of the blue. One of the problems the younger man had been having in recent weeks was an occasional inability to sort the memory of two childhoods correctly. He'd remember something happened then have trouble deciding whether it was in his first or second go-around.
"Better. I think it was too much of a shock for my brain to . . . organize things right away. But I have fewer lapses now. Almost none, actually."
Skinner smiled. "I wish I could say the same," he said his eyes flicking to the now empty milk glass. "And I wasn't drugged!"
"But you are exhausted," Mulder replied.
"I'll survive," Skinner said, closing off that discussion as well. He was never comfortable letting anyone see him in less than complete control or discussing his own physical well-being. In that way, he and his father were virtual clones.
Mulder sensed his discomfort and turned the conversation in another direction. "But there are times when I still can't believe . . . it happened at all. The other day I heard that Barney song in a department store. That annoying little jingle And less than six months ago, I wouldn't go to sleep without hearing it! It's kind of . . . embarrassing."
Skinner watched him passively. "No, Fox," he said after a moment. "Embarrassing is standing at a crowded telephone bank in the Atlanta airport SINGING the Barney song."
A sheepish smile broke out on the younger man's face just as their meals arrived. He vividly recalled the night Casey was baby-sitting him and the AD's flight home was delayed in Atlanta by summer storms. Fox had had a temper tantrum, telling Casey his Dad SAID he would be home by bedtime and only he could sing the song right. The poor girl was nearly driven to distraction before Skinner finally called and resolved the stand-off.
"You win, sir," he said. He'd never pictured any of it from the other man's point of view before. And the image of Skinner actually singing that song in a public place, well, that was one he'd have trouble forgetting ever now that he knew. He was struck again by a sense that things had changed between him and Skinner. And yet, curiously, they remained the same.
They ate in easy silence but something was niggling at Mulder. Finally, over a final bite of hotcakes dripping with warm maple syrup, he got up the nerve to raise the subject.
"Sir, I--" he began, then he thought better of the approach. This wasn't an AD question, this one was for his . . . 'Dad.' His expression turned to one of slight consternation as he struggled to decide whether to continue. And to find a way to start.
The waitress came over and refilled their coffee cups. As she departed, Skinner spoke softly. "Just spit it out, son. I know something's bothering you. . . ."
Mulder's eyes burned with tears he was fighting hard not to show. "It's just that-- I hate it that you and Uncle Joe-- I mean, you and Joe! That you're mad at each other! You never . . . fought before I was around. Or didn't talk to each other-- I'd hate myself if it turned out my stopover in the family . . . ruined things for you and Joe--"
"Fox," Skinner interrupted but the younger man didn't hear him. He struggled to continue but Skinner reached out and put a hand under his chin, raising his face so they were in direct eye contact. "Fox! Stop."
Mulder blinked and closed his mouth immediately. He looked at the other man worriedly, afraid he'd introduced a touchy subject.
"Thank you," Skinner said succinctly, lowering his hand and his voice. "First of all, Joe and I were okay before he left Christmas Day. Our . . . arguments never last more than a few hours. And believe me, they predate your arrival by oh, how old is Joe now? Around 42 years. Ever since Joe crawled into my bedroom and drooled all over my Howdy Doody picture!"
Mulder laughed. "You had a picture of Howdy Doody? You?!"
Skinner raised his coffee cup and took a sip. "May I remind you, you had a Pokemon poster not too long ago," he said dryly, with just the smallest hint of amusement.
Mulder silently conceded defeat on that point as Skinner set the cup down and continued. "Joe's . . . sensitivity about this is an old story. You see, my Dad and I spent a lot of time together at hospitals and with doctors--"
"You did? When? I didn't know Gran had ever been sick before!" Mulder unconsciously used the term he'd used for Mr. Skinner all during his second childhood and Skinner noted it and let it pass without comment. It pleased him actually.
"Well, he wasn't," the AD replied quietly. "But I was in the hospital for months after I came back from Vietnam, Fox. As soon as I was stabilized, they shipped me back home, to the VA hospital in Wilkes-Barre. I . . . was in pretty bad shape. And so shell-shocked, I didn't really want to see anyone, not even my family. I tried to get them to send me somewhere else, not in the state. So I wouldn't have to deal with my family but-- You know the government."
"My parents came right away," he continued, beginning to become lost in the memory. "It was just before Easter. It's a big holiday in the Orthodox calendar and the family missed it that year. The kids were staying with neighbors and my folks were in Wilkes-Barre with me. . . ."
Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania
Veterans Administration Hospital
March, 1971
Dr. Stanislaus saw the couple sitting in the waiting area and made some quick assumptions. Blue-collar. Locals. Probably struggling to make ends meet. And a son who might never walk again. Hell, he might not even survive the way things were looking. He sighed and tried to keep from hating his job.
Walter and Rachel Skinner sat there, waiting anxiously for someone to tell them where their 18-year-old son was. They held hands and every now and then he would give her a reassuring smile, despite the fact he had no information that might provide the first bit of reassurance. It was an old habit and he automatically fell into it now, under stress.
"Mr. and Mrs. Skinner?" the doctor who was approaching them said. He introduced himself and asked them to sit down. Having had many of these conversations over the years, he suspected there'd be tears and a great deal of anguish. And rightly so.
"I want to prepare you for what you're going to see," he said gently. "Your son was severely injured. He has a broken arm and a broken leg and we've got him in traction. The cuts and abrasions you'll see are healing but he had many of them. Shrapnel does that. The real concern though are the pieces that embedded themselves deeper in his back. There are three of them, all very close to his spinal cord. One in the neck, two in his lower back. He's experiencing some paralysis."
Mr. Skinner had been following the doctor's narration silently but now he interrupted. "Was the spinal cord damaged, doctor?"
Dr. Stanislaus paused, making a mental note that this man was quicker to understand the implications of what he'd said than most. Both he and his wife had handled what they'd heard so far admirably.
"It's too soon to tell, Mr. Skinner," he replied honestly. "Several pieces of shrapnel broke vertebrae and lodged close to his spine. He has only intermittent feeling in his extremities now and little control of his legs but . . . the cord was not severed. It's not a good sign but it could still be spinal shock. It's only been three weeks since he was injured."
"But you need to remove the shrapnel," Walter Sr. said definitively. "And that kind of surgery can be dangerous."
"That's right," the doctor replied still more impressed with his patient's father's quick comprehension. "If we leave the pieces where they are, they could move and sever the cord. But in removing them, we could damage it. And in his condition, there's some risk to performing major surgery. I don't want to give you any false hope. It will be an uphill battle . . . and there's some chance he won't make it."
Rachel sucked in a breath and the doctor was afraid this would be the start of the tears. But she pulled herself up short even as her husband reached out a hand to steady her. She squared her shoulders and gave her husband a direct look that spoke volumes.
"As to the surgery, we'll wait until he's a little stronger and present the facts to him. It's . . . a decision your son will have to make. Or you, if he's . . . incapable of making the decision."
"Why would he be incapable?" Rachel Skinner finally spoke up. She looked worried but her voice was strong and clear. "We heard he was conscious."
"Well, he is," Dr. Stanislaus said quickly. "Most of the time. But he's heavily medicated. Morphine for the pain. And that causes . . . a number of things. Depression for one. And confusion You may find some of what he says disturbing but it's to be expected."
She nodded her understanding. "I want to see him, Doctor," she said firmly. Her husband nodded and they rose, ready to face whatever lay ahead. The physician was often surprised and touched by the fortitude displayed by the parents of his patients. But these two were unusual in a number of ways, their intelligence, their courage and their resilience in the face of the worst kind of information. He found himself hoping their son was a chip off of these old blocks.
"Walter, honey," Rachel whispered as she rushed to the side of her son's bed. He was on a ward with seven other patients, all of them seriously wounded. She didn't want to disturb any of the others. "It's Mom and Dad, sweetheart. We're here."
Walter's eyelids fluttered open and his gaze drifted from his mother to his father and then back again. His mother took a quick inventory and it took all her strength not to break down.
He was on an IV and hooked up to several monitors that tracked his heart rate and other vitals. One arm was in a plaster cast and one leg was casted and in traction. His head was braced within a metal halo to keep it from moving and the bed tilted to keep him from lying in one position all the time.
Walter had no trouble reading the expressions on his parent's faces despite his hazy mental state and his dark eyes flooded with anxiety.
"Hi," Mr. Skinner said, trying to wrest his attention away from whatever was causing him pain. "How are you doing?" He placed his hand on the boy's head and caressed his forehead gently.
A single tear fell from the young man's right eye and he tried to speak. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered, barely able to make himself heard.
"Hush," Rachel said quietly, cupping her hand around his cheek and brushing the tear away with her thumb. "You have nothing to apologize for, Walter. We're very proud of you. And everything's going to be all right."
"All you have to worry about is getting well, son," his father said with a smile. "I'll worry about everything else. That's my job."
Days passed and the young man's prognosis grew a little brighter. Feeling and movement returned to his arms but the fragment of shrapnel in his neck caused him a great deal of pain. The doctors studied and worried over its proximity to the spinal cord and the --- nerve. Their opinions about whether to attempt to remove it differed violently. And he still had no feeling in his legs.
Rachel finally returned home at her husband's urging. There were three other children there, all suffering at the absence of their parents, and the fear of what had happened to a beloved older brother. Having lost their youngest not two summers before, the Skinners were particularly focused on maintaining some level of normalcy for Jean, Joe and Andy throughout the ordeal. They'd asked Walter if the kids could visit but he'd grown so upset and agitated at the suggestion, both parents had put it aside and not mentioned it again.
"I think the other children need to come, Volodya," Rachel told her husband as they got ready for bed one night in the rooming house down the road from the hospital. "They never got a chance to say goodbye to Jeremy. And Walter's been gone a long time. They know something's wrong. I think not knowing and wondering is worse for them than dealing with the reality."
"No, Raya," he replied using the diminutive form of her name. In private they always used their Russian names. And they spoke in their native language as they usually did when the situation was most critical. It was a little thing that provided some comfort when there wasn't much to speak of. "Walter will hate them seeing him like this. And it would be frightening to the kids. I don't think it's a good idea."
She tried to reason with him for a while. "The children know Walter's in the hospital. And we're here. This is already frightening for them--"
Her argument only succeeded in making her husband insist she go home. To provide a little reassurance and normality for the other children. Walter Sr. announced he would remain behind, for as long as his supervisor at the steel mill would permit. And if he needed to stay longer than that, well, there were other jobs, he told his wife. And over the course of the next weeks he spent many long hours with his son, talking him through the pain and listening to his horrifying memories of Vietnam.
"I never expected to be the only one. . . " Walter Jr. told him late one night when the pain and the demons worked overtime to drive away any hope of sleep. The metal head brace had been removed earlier in the day but he was in a great deal of discomfort. "The whole platoon, all of them dead. Except me! Why. . . ?" His tears came freely and Mr. Skinner lowered the side of the bed and sat next to him, letting the young man cry out his pain in the warm security of his father's arms.
"Shhhh," the older man whispered, trying to comfort him and to keep him from waking the others on the ward. "I know, Volodya. But you must believe there is a reason you survived. And you must get well, so you can discover that reason, son."
"I c-can't--" he said, nearly choking on his tears. "I don't even think I want to. . . It's too h-hard--"
"Now you listen to me, young man," his father said firmly, turning his body so that they could make eye contact with Walter. "I don't want to hear another word of that! You did survive. And you will get better. Because you owe it to those others who weren't able to come back, to honor them with your memories. With whatever you make of your life. And you owe it to yourself, Walter Sergei! To survive such a thing and give up now would be shameful."
His son hiccupped and swallowed down a lump in his throat. "What if . . . what if I don't make it?" he whispered into the darkness, admitting his deepest fear, waiting anxiously for the response.
"That won't happen," his father said definitively.
"But what if I can't w-walk again?" he asked, betraying his terror at the thought of being helpless.
"That won't happen either."
Walter nodded his head slightly and exhaled deeply, releasing the last of the fear for the moment. Somehow, those simple words of faith from someone he trusted to tell him the truth had provided reassurance none of the medical establishment could.
His voice took on a tone closer to its normal tenor. "What if I go bald?" he asked finally.
"That might happen," his father replied concisely but his heart rang with joy at a small act that spoke so eloquently about his son's reemerging resilience. He ran a gentle hand through the younger man's grown out dark hair. "And if it does, take it from me, you'll live."
The Country Maid Coffee Shop
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
January 15, 2000
"Looking back, it seems like he was there constantly," Skinner was saying. He took no notice of the waitress refilling his coffee cup for the third time. His eyes were focused on a point somewhere in the middle distance and Mulder suspected he was seeing it all vividly.
"He could have lost his job," the younger agent said softly, thinking about the months Skinner had spent with him recently away from his job. "That's a long time to be off--"
"It was tough for them. At a steel mill, you don't get paid when you don't work. I told him he should go home all the time in the first few weeks. I would have paid him to go, if I had any money! But he wouldn't. I was his son . . . . and I needed him. It's as simple as that," Skinner said with a long sigh. "Looking back, I still can't believe everything he did. It was . . . a real sacrifice, more than anyone would have a right to expect."
Mulder picked up his own coffee cup and took a sip, hoping the movement would draw attention from the tears flooding his own eyes. It was exactly what he'd expect his grandfather to do. He knew the man well enough to be certain of it. And for the first time, he realized just how much his son was like him. When a child named Fox 'needed' Skinner, the AD put his career on hold to be there for him. Like father, like son.
"Hmm?" Skinner asked, drawn from his memories. "Did you say something?"
"No!" Mulder replied, shaking his head. Had he said that out loud? "When did he finally go home?"
"Well, I had a couple of surgeries in the first few weeks. One to remove the shrapnel from my back. And another to try to remove what was left in my neck. They . . . got most of that. Then came the rehab and that was almost worse than the injuries! It was nearly three months before I was well enough to go home. My Dad stayed for the first six weeks.
Mulder nodded, understanding that, by then, the rehabilitation would have been difficult but not dangerous. So of course Mr. Skinner would have returned home. His concern would have shifted a little to the rest of the family by then. And the other kids had to be aware of, and worried about, the lack of a salary coming in.
"My Mom came every weekend. She showed up with the kids one day right before the first surgery. We only had one car in those days so they'd all taken a couple of buses. Pennsylvania State mass transit left a lot to be desired then. It took them hours to make the trip."
"I was in traction, a cast on my arm and my right leg. And the metal halo that kept me from moving my head. She came in and told my Dad and me that Jean and Joe and Andy were in the hall. I panicked. I didn't want them to . . . to see me like that. And my Dad was on my side. He told her it was a bad idea, that they would be scared and upset--"
"That kind of thing can be scary for children," Mulder agreed. "How old were they?"
"Jean was 16. So Joe was still 13 and Andy was 11. I got upset and my parents went outside. I just wanted to get up and run! But of course, I couldn't move out of the bed. I was . . . trapped. In a little while, my Mom came in and she told me Dad took the kids for ice cream. And she started to talk to me."
"Did she try to convince you to see the others?"
Skinner smiled. "You've gotten to know her, haven't you? She's a power to be reckoned with when she's got a cause! She just told me how much the kids missed me. And how important it was for them to know I was all right. Not a hundred percent, but on my way. And how no one had the chance to say goodbye to Jeremy so now they were naturally afraid the same thing could have happened with me, if I had died in that ambush. Only God spared me and let me come home. And they needed to see the evidence of that."
"I told her I couldn't . . . bear it if they were frightened or upset and she just laughed. 'Oh, Volodya!' she said. 'They'll see only you, not any of this stuff!' I thought she was wrong but when my Dad returned, she brought the kids in. And she was right. Andy had snuck his pet ferret in in his pocket and it got out on the ward. Had everyone in the place laughing! And Jean brought pictures of my high school girlfriend that all the other guys had to get a look at. Joe had the hardest time dealing with everything. He hung back for a while but then he opened up and started telling me how he had my old position on the football team. It was the first good afternoon I can remember after I came back. I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to see them all leave. . . ."
Mulder stared out the window as the rising sun peered weekly over the horizon. It was a cold and damp morning and the weak excuse for a sunrise didn't offer any hope of changing that. "Did they all go home then?"
"Mom took the kids home that day. She came back for my surgeries, both of them. And after the second one, after the first couple of weeks of physical rehab, my Dad went home, too."
"You must have missed them--"
"Well, Dad drove over to Wilkes-Barre every day after work actually. Every day--"
"Every day? That's what, a ninety minute drive?" Mulder squeaked, incredulous.
"Yeah, about that," Skinner answered. "He'd go into the mill early, start at 7:30. Then get out at 3:30 and drive over. He'd get there in time for dinner and stay until visiting hours were over. Usually they had to pry him out of the chair. The other guys on the ward didn't have many visitors so he brought magazines and books for all of us. On weekends, he'd show up first thing in the morning and stay with me through rehab and then dinner. It was . . . tough. It was my first experience with weight training actually. But my muscles were so weak and had to be retrained after the paralysis lifted."
"That must have been hard," Mulder responded, thinking he'd been through several bouts of physical rehabilitation but nothing like Skinner was describing.
"The worst was coming down off the morphine," the AD said with a wry smile. "I had been doped up with it from the moment they discovered I was alive. High dosage because they didn't think I'd survive. They were just . . . 'making me comfortable' until the end came. I remember there was a priest in country who kept telling me I was going to make it. But none of the medical people had any hope. I could see it in their eyes."
"After the surgeries were over, they had to wean me off the drugs. . . ."
VA Hospital
Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania
April 1971
"Walter?"
"Wh-what?" the young man asked anxiously. He felt as if he was going to jump out of his skin. Dry mouth, shaking hands. Sweat running off him in streams. All signs of his rapid withdrawal from the morphine regimen he'd been on. They'd started lowering the dosage a bit of late now that he'd grown stronger and the pain had diminished. But now he was coming off it completely and his nerves were frayed to the point of breaking.
"Drink some water, son," his father said offering the glass.
"NO!" Walter said angrily. "I don't want any water--"
"Just a sip," Walter Sr. said lifting it to his lips. "You're parched--"
"I said NO!" he yelled, swiping at his father's hand with his good arm and sending the glass flying. Water splattered both men and the glass shattered in the corner. "Don't you listen?"
Mr. Skinner sighed and put the reins on his immediate reaction. The doctor had told him this process would be difficult and painful for his son. And that's why they'd moved him off the ward and into this private room.
"He'll have some tough times," Dr. Stanislaus had told him. "I don't want to minimize it. It . . . might be better if you stayed away a couple of days. Let the professionals help him through this."
Mr. Skinner smiled sadly and shook his head. "No, Doctor," he said with certainty. "I appreciate your concern by this is my son. He's going to go through hell and I don't want him to do that alone."
"But he won't be alone," the doctor interrupted only to find himself the victim of the same.
"I know the staff will be here and I appreciate that. I'm not a doctor but . . . I'm his father. I've already seen him through a lifetime of good times and tough times. And I'll continue to do that as long as I live. That's my job."
Dr. Stanislaus watched the other man speak and thought back over the past two months, recalling all the time this man had spent in this hospital helping his son back to health. When Lance Cpl. Walter S. Skinner arrived, they'd had little hope he'd live and almost none that he'd walk again. But this man, with his odd combination of good nature, high standards and tough love, had helped spur a recovery that was nothing short of miraculous. Suddenly the physician realized he wouldn't want to prescribe any kind of medical procedure for Cpl. Skinner without his father standing by.
"You're right," the doctor said with an appreciative nod. "It will take about two days and they'll be two days of hell."
And one day into hell, it was turning out to be far worse than he'd expected, Mr. Skinner thought as he went about cleaning up the shards of glass on the floor. Walter had gone from jumpy to downright surly in the first twelve hours. Now his attitude and his demeanor were something the older man had never expected to see from him ever. The physical symptoms, sweating, nausea, shaking were far worse than he'd expected, too.
"I know you must be feeling pretty bad," Mr. Skinner said calmly.
"Oh, please!" Walter Jr. said sarcastically. "Spare me the sympathy! If you really cared, you'd get me something for this goddam . . pain. I feel like my head's gonna explode!"
"I know, son," his father said. "You just have to hang on. You're almost there--"
"AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT, HUH?" his son shouted before grabbing his head. The volume of his own voice felt like it would split his skull.
"I know what the doctor told me," Mr. Skinner said quietly as he poured another glass of water. "And I know what I'm seeing. The doctor said you'd get dehydrated and that would make things worse. Drink some water, Walter."
"I SAID I DON'T WANT ANY WATER!"
"And I said I want you to take a sip," the older man said evenly. His voice was quiet and well-modulated but it bespoke a will of steel and the intent to back it up.
His son stared at him for a few more seconds but then his common sense reasserted it self. He blinked and lowered his eyes, nodding acquiescence.
"Here you go, son," Walter Sr. said as he held the glass to his son's lips. The doctor opened the door and stepped in at the same moment.
"Well, how's my patient this morning?" he asked pleasantly. He was greeted by a sour scowl and a grunt.
"I'm afraid it's been a . . . rough night," Mr. Skinner said.
"Well, that's to be expected. It's 6 a.m. Why don't you get a cup of coffee, Walt? I need to spend a few minutes looking my patient over."
The younger Skinner shook his head, angry at being spoken about as if he wasn't there. But he held his tongue until his father exited. Then he turned his most persuasive face to the physician.
"I need something, Doc," he said quickly. "Just a little . . . My heart feels like it's gonna explode! And my head feels about the same. I can't take any more--"
"Walter, we're committed to getting you off the morphine. I know it's rough! But this is the quickest way. You said you want to get out of the hospital as soon as you can--"
"But I can't take any more!" the young man responded desperately. "I had no idea-- You never told me it would be this bad!"
"I tried to explain it as best I could, son--"
"I'm not your FUCKING SON! AND I'M SICK AND TIRED OF EVERYONE THINKING THEY KNOW WHAT'S BEST FOR ME! YOU! HIM--"
The door opened again and his father stepped back into the room. He'd gotten only a short way down the hall when the shouting had caught his ear.
"That's enough, Walter," he said firmly. "I think you owe Dr. Stanislaus an apology."
His son glared at him and the doctor began to protest. "I understand how he's feeling--"
"Well, so do I, Doctor," the older man said evenly, staring back at his son. "But that doesn't make this any more acceptable."
The two Skinner men's eyes were locked in anger and the physician watched them, wondering what he could do to defuse the situation.
"Do you have something to say, Walter?" the father said quietly.
His son hesitated then a wave of rebellion crested over his agony and his eyes took on the look of two hot coals. "No."
"I see," Mr. Skinner responded, never taking breaking his gaze. "Would you excuse us, Dr. Stanislaus?"
The doctor's head swiveled from one to the other but something told him this was not a medical concern and he nodded. "I'll check on another patient and come back. Will that be long enough?"
Walter Sr. didn't move but he saw his son's eyes flicker just a little before the steely glare returned. "That will be fine."
Neither of them saw the physician leave but they heard the door close behind him. A tense silence descended over the room, broken only by the sound of the younger man's labored breathing.
"You know I won't tolerate this behavior," Mr. Skinner said finally.
"I-- I'm SICK, for God's sake!" the son responded, his words bursting out behind a sudden jolt of anxiety. "And anyway, I'm-- I'm an adult now! I've been gone for nine months, fighting a war! Almost getting killed! You can't-- I mean, it's not the same anymore!"
"Walter, some things never change. The rules don't change. Our standards don't change. My expectations of you, and all my kids, they don't change just because you've been away."
"Well the rest of the world would think . . . they'd think your 'rules' and-- and everything are pretty stupid!" He spat the words out and they refreshed his anger. "You don't have any idea what the world's really like!"
"I have a pretty good idea what rudeness looks like. And disobedience. And I don't care what you're going through right now, they're both unacceptable."
His son stared at him angrily, then all good sense and judgment took a flyer. "Well, here's a news flash. I don't really care what you think." His eyes widened in shock when the other man simply flipped him over onto his back and delivered a sound whack to his backside. "Oww!"
The younger man struggled against the hold but his father pinned one arm to the small of his back and added two more smacks. "Care to rethink your position on that, son?"
"You can't-- Stop! STOP! I'M NOT A FUCKING KID ANY MORE!"
"No, you're just acting like one," his father said authoritatively. The older man held his squirming quarry firmly with one hand and used the other to slide the cotton pajamas Walter was wearing down below his butt cheeks. Then he issued a dozen good hard slaps to the bare bottom before him. He listened closely to the younger man's cries, waiting for the rage and resentment to turn into something else. Vulnerability. Acceptance. Remorse. The boy's tears were cleansing and Walter Sr. knew they'd been long overdue. He pulled his son's pajamas back up and rolled him over. Then he lowered the side of the hospital bed and slid in beside the weeping young man.
"I'm s-sorry! I'm so sorry, Dad," he murmured into the embrace into which he'd been taken. "I don't know-- I didn't mean any of those things. . . . "
"Shhh," his father said, reassuring him as he rubbed his back slowly. "I know you didn't mean them. I know you're just in pain right now."
"I just don't-- I don't want you to be d-disappointed in me--"
"Volodya, Volodya," his father said affectionately, pulling him into a tight hug and laying a kiss on the top of his hair. "I will never be disappointed in you, son. When it's my turn to leave this world, I'll leave nothing else of value behind except you and your sister and brothers. You're the best I have to show for myself. For my life. Who you become as adults, what you do with your lives, how you live, those things will be my only legacy. That's why I want . . . I will always be here with you. Making sure you'll be everything you can be. That's my job."
The doctor came back a few minutes later and was pleased and surprised to receive a heartfelt apology from his patient. He glanced quickly at the father standing by the window, then back to the red-rimmed eyes of the young man in the bed.
"I accept your apology," Dr. Stanislaus answered, wondering what magic the father had wrought to bring about such a change in his son in the middle of his withdrawal. And whether he could put it in pill or IV form and administer it to a hospital full of other patients who sometimes let their youth and fear get the best of them.
"How much longer . . . will I feel this way?" Walter Jr. asked him.
"You're through the worst of it now," the doctor told him with a smile. "Your Dad wants to take you home for dinner tonight. I'm inclined to think you'll get that pass, the way things are going."
The Country Maid Coffee Shop
January 14, 2000
"And you got to go home for dinner?" Mulder asked. "What did Gram make?"
Skinner laughed. "When did food become so important to you?"
"Well, I know your favorite is her Goviadina Po-Guasarski. And potato pancakes. And pirozhki topped with onions and sour cream--" He pronounced them all in accent-free Russian, something else he could thank the Skinners for.
"They don't call you the best profiler to come out of BSU for nothing, kid," Skinner answered fondly, pleased to hear him pronounce the menu items so flawlessly. "She made that and just about every other Russian favorite of mine, all in 24 hours. Said she needed to fatten me up a bit! I was still on crutches but . . . God, it was good to be home." His voice choked and he stopped to pick up a glass of ice water that had been sitting on the table all long. He drained about half the glass then put it down and looked back at Fox.
"So," he said, glancing at his watch to check the time. "You've gotten a little more family history. Still wondering where you fit in?"
Mulder's eyes reflected his shock. His uncertainty and misgivings had all been internal, he was certain of it. How did Skinner know. . . .? "I-- I, it's just that I was starting to feel a little . . . insecure, I guess. I guess I never thought Gran-- I mean, your Dad, would think of looking out for you as his job. I thought . . . when you said that stuff about me being 'your job,' I thought you were trying to pull back. Not that I'd blame you--"
Skinner picked up the check, looked it over quickly and dropped some money on the table. He stood up and pulled on his parka, then waited for Mulder to do the same. "And why exactly wouldn't you blame me?" he asked patiently. "I mean, I've told you that you're family, Fox. I've given you my word and told you you can count on it. Breaking that promise, if I even could at this point, well that would be . . . unacceptable."
He draped an arm over the young man's shoulder as they headed out of the coffee shop. "And I give you permission to tell my Dad if that ever happens, okay?"
Mulder's eyes widened with the realization of what the AD had just told him. "I-- I couldn't do that! I mean, I wouldn't!"
"Fox, listen to me," Skinner said, stopping in the parking lot. "If you don't get this, well, we'll keep working on it until you do. The rules are the rules, for everyone, kid. If you break a rule, it's my job to deal with it. And make sure you learn the important life lessons. And if I broke one of the rules, same thing. My Dad's got that job but it's just the same. . . ."
He stopped suddenly, realizing the father he counted on for that support and guidance was in the hospital down the street, waiting to have open heart surgery. It wasn't a risky procedure but the reality was frightening nonetheless.
"He'll be okay," Mulder said, sensing immediately what had stopped the other man. He nodded vigorously. "I just know it."
"Yeah, I know it too," Skinner said, beginning to walk again. "He's still got work to do. And my Dad never leaves anything unfinished."
"No I didn't think so," Mulder responded huskily. "But he will leave a helluva . . . 'legacy' some day."
"Yes. Yes, he will. What do you say we go remind him?" Skinner said, a wide grin lighting his face. He dropped his long arm around the younger man's shoulders as they began to walk again. He tousled Mulder's hair from behind and laughed as he quickly tried to smooth it back down. "And some day I plan to leave a helluva 'legacy' myself, kid. So don't go thinking you get a free ride, no matter how busy I am . . . When we get home, you've still got some things to answer for. Am I making myself clear?"
Mulder felt his heart lift with each word the other man spoke despite the fact punishment for the New Year's Eve fiasco was implicit in his statement. "Yes, sir," he said, a silly grin washing over his own features. "It's just that this 'legacy' probably needs a whole lot of work before it's ready to be left."
"Yeah, I know. It's my job to know," the AD said, recognizing how hard it had to be for Mulder to put himself on the line like that, to admit to 'needing' someone. "And I'll let you in on a little secret, kid. So does this one!"
"Maybe we should make sure Gran knows that," Mulder said with complete seriousness.
Skinner laughed heartily as they headed up the driveway to the hospital. "Don't worry, son," he returned. "I'm quite certain he knows!"
THE END