Title: The Skinner Journals: One Breath
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: PG -- maybe R for language 
Category: V
Spoilers: none
Keywords:  Skinnerfic, M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes!  Please! 

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by 
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television 
Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life 
by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. 
I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox 
if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material 
they can profit from. 

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den
http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden


The Skinner Journals: One Breath

October 24, 1994

Mulder looks bad.  He's lost weight, his suits hang
on him, and it's obvious to me that he isn't sleeping 
well or enough.  He's beginning to remind me all too 
much of that fragile and overworked young man I met 
all those years ago when he was still profiling full 
time.  Back then, it was Patterson loading him down 
with one case, then another, then another, then another.  
Never any downtime.  Never enough rest.  And nothing 
but pressure to succeed.  Pressure to catch a killer, 
find a rapist, save another life.  And if he didn't?  
No punishment Bill Patterson could ever lay on the kid 
would compare to what he put on himself.  Mulder has 
been punishing himself ever since his sister disappeared; 
he has it down to a fine art.

And now, he's added Scully's disappearance into the mix.  
I can't imagine what he tortures himself with at night, 
what images dance behind his eyes when he tries to close 
them and sleep.  I know what haunts me.  I feel the 
constant ache that I should have done *something.*  I 
should have been more aware of what was going on, should 
have kept a closer eye on Mulder and Scully, should have 
somehow been able to prevent this whole debacle.  And I 
torment myself with visions of what could be happening 
to Scully.  That bright, promising young woman just -- 
taken.   It's unforgivable.  I can't imagine what her 
family must be going through.  Not knowing, not being 
able to rest, wondering where she is, what's happening 
to her, if they'll ever see her again.

And for Mulder, it must be his worst nightmare all over 
again.  First his sister, then his partner.  Both vanished 
in the night, both taken against their will, and him 
powerless to stop it, powerless to find them.  I'm amazed 
the man is even functional at this point.  

I worry about him.

I worked late tonight.  As I was walking out the door, 
almost on a whim, I went down to the basement.  Sure 
enough, the door was shut but light leaked around the 
edges.  I was going to knock, then thought better of it.  
If Mulder had been sleeping, I didn't want to wake him.  
I opened the door slowly, and found him sitting at his 
desk, notepad out, files scattered across the desktop, 
but the man himself was unmoving.  He didn't even react 
as I stepped in.  I called his name, once, twice, three 
times, each time a little louder, but he never moved.  
I put my briefcase down, grabbed a cup from a shelf by 
the door, then went back out and filled it with water 
from the fountain.  Mulder still didn't move when I came 
back in.  I reached out, took his hand, and he finally 
reacted, jumping as if I had scared him to death.  I 
told him to take it easy, stroked his shoulder almost 
like you would a scared animal, and I was gratified 
that he settled almost immediately beneath my touch.  
He apologized of course, in a dry and cracked voice, 
as if he had anything to apologize for, but I only shook 
my head.  I touched him, watching him watch me curiously, 
then wrapped his hand around the cup and urged him to 
drink.  He stared at the liquid as if he'd never seen 
water before, then quickly drained it.  His hand shook 
when he passed the cup back, and I patted him again before 
I went back out and refilled the cup.  He drank greedily, 
and his hand shook so badly the water sloshed over the 
edge, wetting his notes.  I reached out and wrapped my 
hand around his, steadying him until he once again emptied 
the cup.  I made two more trips between the water cooler 
and my agent before he seemed to have satisfied his thirst. 

When he spoke again, his voice sounded better.  A little 
more like himself.  "Thanks," he said. He turned back to 
his notes, wiping almost brutally at the water that had 
dared to land on them.

"You're exhausted, Mulder," I told him.  "You need to 
sleep."

He shook his head angrily, dismissing me without thought, 
and went back to whatever he was working on.  

I stepped out in the hall, made a couple of quick calls, 
and then went back into Mulder's office to sit and wait.  
Again, I don't think he realized I was there.  I pulled 
some papers from my briefcase and settled in to work.  
About forty-five minutes later, there was a light tap on 
the door.  I looked at Mulder.  He wasn't working, 
wasn't moving, wasn't reacting -- but he wasn't sleeping, 
either.  He was just sitting there again, lost in whatever 
waking nightmare haunted him now.

I went to the door.  Gave Franklin, the security guard, 
some money to cover the Chinese I'd ordered, and took 
the bag he held out.  Franklin looked over my shoulder 
at Mulder.  "He okay?" he asked.

I shrugged.  "Been a rough couple of months," I replied, 
edging him out by closing the door.  "Thanks."

I went back to Mulder's desk.  He still didn't move.  
This time, I cleared his papers away, trying to make 
some sense of what he was working on.  I gave *that* 
up quickly enough and simply cleared space.  I'd gotten 
him soup, hoping it would fill him up but not be too hard 
on a stomach that clearly hadn't been filled on a regular 
basis lately.

He jumped again when I touched him, and once more settled 
beneath my hand.  As he focused, he blinked at me, then 
removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  "Did you need 
something, Sir?" he asked.

I shook my head.  "Do you know what time it is, Mulder?" 
I asked.  

He looked confused.  I took pity on him.  Instead of 
pressing the issue, I pressed a spoon into his hand 
and directed him toward the soup.  He looked at it 
with the same look I would imagine he gave his aliens, 
then seemed to recognize what it was and dug in.  He 
finished it quickly, drank another bottle of water, and 
managed to wolf down half of my egg foo young as well.  
I didn't mind sharing; I was glad to see him eat.  As 
his belly filled, his eyes began to droop and I barely 
managed to clear the rubbish from his desk before he 
laid his head down, asleep at last.  I cleaned up, then 
went back to the chair I'd been in before and pulled my 
paperwork back out.  He slept for three hours before the 
nightmare kicked in.  He broke out in a cold sweat, 
waking up in fear and calling for Scully.  I touched his 
arm; it took longer for him to calm this time, longer 
for him to recognize me and become embarrassed.  

"You need to go home, Mulder," I said, once I was sure 
he was back with me.

He shook his head.  "I have work to do."  He chewed his 
lip for a moment, then briefly touched my hand where it 
rested on his shoulder.  "I remember," he said quietly.

"Remember?  What do you remember?"

"I remember you -- when I was in VCS.  You, uh, fed me 
then, too, and let me sleep."

"You were working too hard."

He shrugged.  "I had to.  My boss, the case ..."  
He let the rest remain unsaid.

"I'm not Patterson," I said.  

The eyes he lifted to meet mine were red-rimmed and 
painful to look at.  "It's not a normal case either, 
is it, Sir?"

I couldn't argue with him on that.  "No," I said and 
cleared a throat that was suddenly thick with emotion.  
"No, it's not."

He stared at me, then pulled that stack of folders 
over to the clear space on his desk, opened the top 
one, and began to make notes.  Just like that, I had 
been dismissed.


I packed up my briefcase, gave him one last look, and 
headed for home.

It was nearly three in the morning when I got home -- 
late even for me.  It saddened me that it didn't matter 
anymore.  Sharon wasn't there anyway.  She'd gone back 
to what she loved and was working in the ER at Georgetown 
Memorial.  I'm sorry I ever asked her to give it up, sorry 
I made promises and didn't keep them.  We rarely see each 
other anymore.  Yes, it's sad, but we don't fight anymore 
either.  She's sleeping in our bed again so I guess I've 
been forgiven, but we still don't *talk.*  I wish she 
could understand that I can't.

I.  Just.  Can't.  


November 2, 1994

I hadn't seen Mulder since Monday last week when I sat 
with him in the basement, made him eat, and watched him 
sleep.  I've been trying to keep a closer eye on him, 
check in on him more frequently, but I just haven't been 
able to connect with him since then.  But today was 
different.  Kim told me Mulder had planned to meet with 
Scully's mother today.  I had a feeling he was going to 
be down in the basement again, probably in the same shape 
he was the last time I found him.  

And I was right.

He wasn't as dehydrated -- I'd had a water cooler 
installed in the office, and at least he was making 
use of it, but he was once again sitting at his desk, 
unmoving.

"Mulder?" I called from the door.  

He turned to look at me, his eyes haunted.  "She bought 
a tombstone."

I was shocked.  "A tombstone?"

Mulder nodded grimly.  "Tombstone, grave marker, memorial, 
whatever you want to call it."

"But ..."  I wasn't sure what I wanted to say, wasn't 
sure what I was feeling, but I didn't like it.

"Dana Katherine Scully," Mulder recited.  "1964 - 1994.  
Loving Daughter and Friend."  He gave a bitter laugh.  
"I think her mother thought I'd be pleased at the inclusion 
of 'friend.'"

"We still don't know anything.  It's still too early," 
I said, as if my words could undo what had already been 
done.

"The Spirit is the Truth," Mulder murmured.

"What was that?"

"The last line on the tombstone. It says, 'The Spirit is 
the Truth.'"  He looked up.  "It's from the Bible.  John, 
Chapter 5, verse 7."

I still didn't know what to say.  I'm not good with words.  
I never have been and I probably never will be.  It's the 
biggest problem in my marriage; I just can't talk.  

But I can act.

I grabbed Mulder's jacket, pulled him to his feet and 
literally dragged him out the door.

"Where are we going, Sir?" he asked, apparently having 
picked up pretty quickly that I wasn't going to take 
no for an answer.

I half-pulled, half-dragged him into the elevator and 
hit the button for the parking garage, then changed my 
mind and hit the button for the ground floor.  With what 
I had in mind, it was better if we walked.

The elevator beeped, the doors opened, and I exited, 
watching to make sure my agent was still following me.  

"We, Agent Mulder," I said, as we passed through security, 
"are going to get well and truly drunk."

And he did.

I've mastered the art of looking like I'm drinking even 
when I'm not, and I used that skill tonight.  Once Mulder 
was completely shit-faced and feeling no pain, I called 
a cab and took him home.  His bedroom's inaccessible.  
He sleeps on the couch -- which worked out fine, since 
that was pretty much where he passed out.  I picked up 
the papers outside his door, emptied his mailbox, threw 
out all the junk mail, then stacked the bills on his table.  
I fed his fish, and bundled up the garbage -- which had 
begun to reek -- and set it to the side to take out with 
me.  That done, I managed to strip off Mulder's suit coat 
and tie, remove his shoes and socks, undo his belt and 
the snap on his pants.  I figured that made him as 
comfortable as possible without me going any further 
than *I* was comfortable with.  I left him a bottle 
of water and three aspirin on his coffee table, turned 
the TV on, but muted the sound, and let myself out.

He's going to hate me in the morning.

Later

Sharon called me.  A young woman matching Scully's 
description had been brought in tonight.  She called 
me from the unit where the woman was admitted and from 
everything she said, it certainly sounded like Scully.  
I went down and ID-ed her, then had the hospital notify 
her mother.  It was the middle of the night and over 
an hour's drive from Baltimore to the hospital, but Mrs. 
Scully said she was on her way.  I waited, and pumped 
Sharon for information.  Scully is in critical condition; 
she's in a coma.  She has no awareness of herself or her 
environment.  No evidence of language comprehension, no 
response to external stimuli.  No one knows how she 
arrived at the hospital or how she was cared for prior 
to her arrival.  And because she's been missing, they 
don't want to hazard a guess at a prognosis.  They don't
know how long she's been like this.  They just don't 
know anything.  

I waited until Scully's mother got there, spoke to her 
briefly, then left to get Mulder.  It had been a good 
four hours since I'd dropped him off, so I was hoping 
I'd be able to rouse him enough to get him up and over 
to the hospital.  But when I got to his place, he was 
gone.  I called Sharon and sure enough, Mrs. Scully had 
called him and he was already there.  He'd apparently 
raised quite a fuss and made a number of threats, but 
when I spoke with Sharon, he was in with Scully's doctor 
and her mother.  

I'd gone back to the hospital, expecting to see a lot 
happier man than the angry and discouraged one who'd 
faced me.  I'd watched him talk to Scully's sister, 
then waited for him when he came out.

"Agent Mulder?"

He seemed surprised to see me.  "She's back," he replied.

"So I see."

"She's in a coma."  His shoulders slumped; his head hung 
in despair.  "They don't know what's wrong with her; don't 
know what was done to her."

I placed my hand on his arm.  "Let me take you home."

He straightened and I could see the effort he made to 
pull himself together.  "No, that's all right.  Thank 
you, Sir."  He turned and walked quickly away, and I 
wondered at how quickly we'd gone from drinking buddies 
back to 'Sir' and 'Agent.'  

What the hell is wrong with me? 

November 3, 1994

Scully's family took her off the respirator today.  

I wasn't aware of their plans and, of course, there 
was no reason I should have been.  Sharon knows that 
Scully works for me, and she's been leaving me messages, 
letting me know what's going on.  Apparently, the 
unconscious woman who mysteriously reappeared after a 
mysterious months-long absence is quite the talk of the 
hospital.  I would imagine, knowing how people function, 
there was some sort of pool as to whether or not Scully 
would make it off the machines.  

She did, I'm pleased to say.

She's still unconscious, no real change in her condition,
 but she's breathing on her own now.  

Sharon tells me that Mulder -- my agent, she calls him -- 
was there and Mrs. Scully invited him to join them when 
they actually pulled the plug.  Sharon also tells me that 
prior to taking that action, Mulder met with Scully's doctor, 
her mother, and her sister, and tried to convince them that 
there might be alternative methods for treating her.  He 
apparently talked about something he called 'branched DNA,' 
a term I am familiar with because I've actually done some 
follow-up research of my own on some of the reports Mulder 
has filed.  I know that Mulder was talking about technology 
that officially doesn't exist; technology to mark people 
at the genetic level; the ability to track anyone, anywhere.  
It not only doesn't officially exist -- it should *never* 
exist.  The whole concept terrifies me when I think of the 
potential for misuse and abuse.  I suspect Scully is a 
perfect example of why humanity should *not* go too far 
down the genetics road.  Sharon had never heard of it and 
asked me what it was.  I told her I didn't know, but she 
didn't believe me.  Once again, she accused me of refusing 
to communicate with her.  Refusing to *trust* her.

And she was right.

I wasn't able to satisfy her curiosity and despite how 
grateful I was that she took the time to call me, our 
conversation ended badly.  She's working all night and 
won't be home until I'm gone in the morning.  I'd like 
to see her and apologize.  Wonder if I should send flowers?

November 4, 1994

Well, I remember now why Mulder makes me absolutely crazy.  
I've been worried about him since Scully disappeared.  
Hell, I've always worried about him, but in spite of that, 
the man does have the ability to make me question his sanity.  

I started this fine day with a visit from the Smoker.  
I was a little more prepared today; the 'No Smoking' sign 
I've been meaning to buy was finally bought and prominently 
displayed on my desk.  I should have known that he would 
ignore it.  All that did was manage to annoy the shit out 
of me.  

But I know I'm walking a fine line here.  I shudder to 
think of what would happen to Mulder if I piss off the 
wrong people.  I get the feeling that I am the only thing 
standing between Mulder and his own mysterious disappearance
a la Scully.  And if I am out, and Mulder is out, I'll bet 
you could count in nanoseconds how long it would take until 
Scully's case was closed and filed under 'Unsolved.'

With that very firmly in the forefront of my mind, I tried 
to ignore the cigarette smoke that circled lazily around 
my desk and focus on the bastard who was speaking.  He threw 
a document on my desk and ordered me to read it.  Told me 
it was all there, and if I was having a hard time sitting 
on Mulder, that *they* would have no trouble at all.  I 
stared at the document, tried to think through what I was 
going to say when Mulder arrived.  I almost missed the 
Smoker's quiet exit, but I saw he'd stubbed his cigarette 
out as he left.  So that Mulder would know he'd been here, 
I'm sure.  

I did not want to have this conversation with my agent.  
Not then, not ever.  Since when did the FBI begin 
investigating rumors?  But still, I figured it was better 
that it come from me than someone else.  From one of the 
shadowy *theys* who would have no trouble sitting on 
Mulder, as I'd just been reminded.

"I called you up here because of rumors about an incident 
at the hospital last night."

Of course, Mulder had a smart reply and asked if I was 
referring to the tooth found in the cafeteria Jello.  
I fought back a smile.

"The rumor has it that you were involved in an incident 
in the laundry room?" I ask.

He surprised me with a blatant lie.  

"No, sir."

Didn't he realize how serious the situation was?  A man 
was dead.  Mulder had been linked, at least through rumor, 
to that death.  Didn't he know I wanted to help?

"A man was executed, Agent Mulder," I reminded him.

He tells me he was with Scully. 

"Traces of her blood were found at the scene."  And I 
sure as hell wanted to know how *that* happened, but I 
knew Mulder wasn't going to share information with me 
today.
 
"May I see the police report?" he asked.

What did I say?  This was Mulder, driving me crazy.  
"There is no police report of this incident, Agent Mulder, 
and there is no body. You know that."

Smartass Mulder kicked it into overdrive.

"Since I am unfamiliar with any such incident, sir, no, 
how would I know that?"

I got to my feet.  He was really pissing me off.  "Knock 
it off!" I said, working hard to keep from snarling.

"How's it feel? Constant denial of everything, questions 
answered with a question?"

"I want to know what happened, damn it," I told him.

"Him. That's what happened."  Mulder rose and picked up 
the ashtray.  He put it on my desk.  "Cancer Man! He's 
responsible for what happened to Scully!"

I was truly curious by then.  "How do you know that?"  I 
wondered if he had proof.

"It's a rumor," Mulder replied and any hope for proof I 
might have had went right out the window.  "Who is he?"

I took a minute to try and think things through.  If I 
found out where he was, this Cancer Man, what would Mulder 
do?  And could I even find out?  I just didn't know.  And 
I didn't want Mulder challenging that man.  I don't think 
Mulder realizes how deadly this man can be.  I do.  I've 
known men like him.  I've served with men like him.  At one 
time, I thought I might even be a man like him.  I didn't 
want Mulder to have to go through that.  "It's not your..." 
I began.

He cut me off.  

"Oh, you can have it all, you can have my badge, you 
can have the X-Files, just tell me where he is."

I'd known that was where things were heading.  If I'd 
thought Mulder was on a crusade before, that was nothing 
compared to the commitment and intensity I saw in his 
face at that moment.

"And then what? He sleeps with the fishes? We're not 
the Mafia, Agent Mulder," I remind him, letting a bit 
of the snarl show this time.  "I know it's easy to 
forget but we work for the Department of *Justice.*"

"That's what I want."

His words cut me to the quick.  He wanted justice.  
Justice for Scully.  Justice for his sister.  Justice 
for himself.  It was too much for me to deal with in 
that one conversation -- too much for me to be able to 
offer assurances for.  And just then, I was afraid the 
cost would be too high.  I thought it might very well 
cost Mulder his life if he continued on that course.  
I was getting desperate, grasping for straws and having 
them slip through my fingers.  Every possible course 
of action I could think of ended badly for Mulder.  I 
couldn't give him what he wanted, even if I'd had it.  
I had no way of knowing if we were being monitored, if 
my every word and action was being relayed to people 
who could take me out as quickly and cleanly as they 
had removed Scully.  And then where would Mulder be?  
Sick to my stomach, the one thing that might possibly 
distract Mulder slid into my mind.  I rejected it 
immediately, but nothing else presented itself and I 
finally sighed and said, "Agent Scully was a fine officer. 
More than that, I liked her. I respected her. We all know 
the field we play on and we all know what can happen in 
the course of a game. If you were unprepared for all 
the potentials, then you shouldn't step on the field."

Mulder turned away and walked a few steps before looking 
back at me.  His face was desperate, pain visible in 
every muscle of his body.  

"What if I -- I knew the potential consequences but 
I -- I never told her?"
 
God, this is killing me.  But I harden myself, reaching 
down for the steel that kept me going in 'Nam, that got 
me through vicious murder cases, rapes, child abuse.  I 
stand tall.  I stand firm.  I draw the line I have to 
draw and pray it doesn't backfire on me.

"Then you're as much to blame for her condition as -- the 
Cancer Man."

I waited until the door closed.  Waited a bit longer to 
see if someone would be joining me uninvited.  When no 
one entered, I buzzed Kim, told her to cancel my 
appointments, told her I wanted to be alone.  

Then I collapsed at my desk and wished, wished, wished for 
once that I could talk to my wife.

November 5th, 1994

I think I made a bad decision.  I haven't seen Mulder -- 
can't find him.  I suppose I could track him down at the 
hospital, but I hate to have a major confrontation with 
him there. I may have had the best of intentions when I 
laid the responsibility for Scully's condition at Mulder's 
feet, but I know it was a bad decision.  Damn!  I know 
how seriously the man takes things like this.  I know the 
weight of the guilt he already carries and I just piled 
several more lifetimes worth onto him.  The road to hell 
is paved with good intentions.  I did mean well.  I only 
wanted to divert him from going after the Smoker, but 
I don't have the right to make that call.  And I'm not 
sure I should.  I was probably right not to talk to 
him there, in my perennially bugged office, but I was 
wrong to tell him he was to blame for Scully's condition.  

I was very wrong.

And since I'm not much on talking about things to set 
them straight, I decided to take action to fix this.  
Or, more appropriately, to let Mulder fix this.

It wasn't easy, but I found out where the Cancer Man 
is.  I spent most of the day tracking him down.  I 
offered bribes, called in favors, tagged everyone I'd 
ever known who might possibly be able to help me.  
In a way, it was funny, because all my superior 
detective skills, all my executive decisions, and 
professional power brokering only netted me a low 
level flunky.  But it was enough.  When all is said 
and done, I'm not above thrashing someone to get 
what I want.  And I'm a big, strong guy.  I barely 
have a mark on me and aside from being a little stiff, 
no one can tell I nearly beat a man to death. 

I left the address on a pack of Morley's inside a 
cigarette machine at the hospital.  If Mulder finds 
it first, he'll know what it is.  If someone else 
finds it, I'm going to assume some higher power stepped 
in to intervene. 

November 7th, 1994

I heard through my unofficial connections that Mulder 
paid a surprise visit to our smoking friend.  Both 
emerged relatively unscathed -- physically, at least.  
Mulder, however, has come to the end of his endurance.

He has submitted his resignation.  

I'm back to pondering how to salvage this disaster.  I 
need to give him something to believe in and I don't 
have much to offer.  I keep coming back to the fact that 
I'm not good with talking about things.  I wasn't always 
like that.  I think it started after 'Nam.  When I was 
injured, I had to go through mandatory counseling.  I had 
to talk about what I'd seen, what I'd done.  We talked 
and talked and talked.  Individual counseling.  Admitting 
what I did over and over and over again.  Group counseling.  
Listening to others talk about what they did over and 
over and over.  There were too many whose stories sounded 
more like bragging than catharsis.  Too many stories that 
didn't need to be talked about and discussed and *shared.*  
There are things that men do, that they do out of fear 
or necessity, things done in the dark that *shouldn't* 
see the light of day.  I had done those things and once 
I had talked about them; I never wanted to talk about 
them again.  

But what happened to me in 'Nam was all I had to offer 
Mulder.  It was all I could give him that might help him 
believe.  Because that was why he had resigned.  He didn't 
believe anymore.  And what did I want him to believe in?  
Extreme possibilities?  Paranormal experiences?  The 
existence of miracles?

I headed for the basement, entered his office and made 
some offhand remark about how his office used to be the 
copier room.  He was packing.  I waited for him to look 
at me, then tore up his resignation.  Told him it was 
unacceptable.  He just went back to packing books into 
a box.

I told him I knew he felt responsible for Scully, but 
that I would not accept resignation and defeat as 
self-punishment. 

He said something about how, after all this time, after 
all the science and investigations and eyewitnesses, he 
still had nothing.  "To lose myself -- and Scully. I hate 
what I've become."

I knew this wouldn't be easy.  I took my glasses off.  
Sometimes, it's easy to talk when you don't have to really 
see the person you're talking to.  Learned that little 
tidbit in group.

"When I was eighteen, I, uh -- I went to Vietnam. I wasn't 
drafted, Mulder, I -- I enlisted in the Marine Corps the 
day of my eighteenth birthday. I did it on blind faith. I 
did it because I believed it was the right thing to do. I 
don't know, maybe I still do. Three weeks into my tour, 
a ten-year-old North Vietnamese boy walked into camp 
covered with grenades and I, uh -- I blew his head off 
from a distance of ten yards."

I could see it all, hear it and smell it and feel it, 
like it happened yesterday and not twenty-three years ago.  
I knew all the correct responses to what I did.  I had 
to do it.  The kid would have killed me and everyone else 
in the camp if I hadn't killed him.  It was common over 
there.  I bet one in every ten guys did it.  Killed a kid.  
I never did understand how they got the kids to do that.  
How did you get a little kid to stand still while you 
wired him or her up, and then get them to willingly walk 
into what was sure to be their death?  I mean, the kids 
had to know, right?  It happened all the time.  The kids 
had to know they were walking to their death.  And where 
the hell were the parents?  What kind of parent lets 
someone load their kid up with grenades and sends them 
off to be a walking bomb?  What kind of parent does that?  
I pulled myself back from the past and looked at Mulder.  
He was -- shocked.  He was hanging on my every word.  
I wanted his attention and I got it.  

"I lost my faith. Not in my country or in myself, but 
in everything. There was just no point to anything anymore. 
One night on patrol, we were, uh -- caught.   And 
everyone -- everyone fell. I mean, *everyone.* I looked 
down -- at my body -- from outside of it. I didn't 
recognize it at first. I watched the VC strip my 
uniform, take my weapon and I remained -- in this 
thick jungle -- peaceful -- unafraid -- watching 
my -- my dead friends. Watching myself. In the morning, 
the corpsmen arrived and put me in a body bag until..." 
I shrug.  "I guess they found a pulse. I woke in a Saigon 
hospital two weeks later."

That was it.  That was my experience.  I never talked 
about that in counseling.  I'd have gotten a Section 8 
in a heartbeat.  I've never talked about that at all.  
But it was all I had to give him.  I couldn't give him 
Scully, healthy and restored.  I couldn't give him his 
sister.  I couldn't even give him the answers for most 
of the things he investigates.  I sure as hell couldn't 
give him his beliefs back.  But maybe I could give him a 
little bit of hope.

"I'm afraid to look any further beyond that experience," 
I told him.  "You?  You are not."  

His willingness to look at things like that has been 
something I've admired about him from the beginning.  
I'm quite sure that ability to think outside the box 
and pursue alternative lines of reasoning is what made 
him so successful as a profiler.  I'm sure it's also 
responsible for why profiling nearly killed him.  He 
follows those non-linear progressions too intently, gets 
too involved in the heart of darkness and can't always 
get out.  But it's made him what he is.  Who he is.

"Your resignation is unacceptable."

He stops me with a word.

"You."

I wondered if he'd figure it out.  I turned back 
and looked at him.

"You gave me Cancer Man's location. You put your 
life in danger."

What could I say to that?  I did give him the 
address and I did put my life in danger.  So what?

"Agent Mulder, every life, everyday is in danger. 
That's just life."

I walked out.  Took the stairs up.  Walked through 
the parking garage and passed right by my car.  I 
walked up the concrete drive, walked out onto the 
sidewalk and walked away from the FBI.  The Hoover 
is at 10th and Pennsylvania.  I headed down 10th 
and turned right on Constitution, then detoured over 
to the mall and walked to the Wall.  It's funny.  
Most people go to the Wall to see someone they knew, 
to touch the name of someone who was important to them.  
I was the sole survivor of eight young men who died 
in a hot, humid jungle twenty-three years ago.  I'm 
not sure I even remember all their names.  I've never 
looked at their names.  Instead, I am always drawn 
to panel 41E, line 30.  Walter F Skinner.  Walter 
Francis Skinner.  PFC.  Marine.  Born in 1948.  Died 
in 1968.  Seven years older than me, he died three 
years before I ever arrived in-country.  I stared at 
the letters on the wall.  Black.  Dark.  Reflective.  
All appropriate for that wall of death.  Walter F. was 
not quite 20 when he was killed by hostile forces.  
The official cause reads "other explosive device."  
I wonder what that was.  A bomb?  A grenade?  A mine?  
Did some ten-year-old boy covered in grenades make it 
to Walter F. faster than the one I killed?  I'm fascinated 
by this name on the Wall.  I know he was from Soledad, 
CA.  He was Catholic.  He was single.  I wonder if he 
left a girlfriend to grieve for him when he died.  Does 
anyone other than me come to mourn Walter F?  He was 
only in-country six months when he died.  From February 
1967 to August 1968.  Six months.  That's all.  And for 
Walter F., it was six months too long.  Why him and 
not me?  Why did I survive?  Why am I here?  Why Walter F. 
and not Walter S?  I touched his name, bowed my head, 
turned and walked away.

I did what I had to do.

I did what I had to do.  

I walked and walked and walked and my steps beat 
a rhythm on the concrete sidewalk.  

I did what I had to do.

I did what I had to do.

I no longer knew if I was thinking of what I did 
in Vietnam, or thinking of what I did with Mulder.

I told him he was responsible.

I did what I had to do.

I gave him the address.

I did what I had to do.

I refused to let him resign.

I did what I had to do.

I -- I told him what I did.

I did what I had to do.

I told him what I saw.

I did what I had to do.

My feet hurt.  I'd walked a long way -- miles and 
miles and random miles -- in my street clothes and 
dress shoes.  They weren't designed for that kind of 
punishment.  I stopped for a moment and looked around.  
I looked up and saw a hospital and without thinking, I 
walked into the emergency room and sat down.  Someone -- 
a security guard maybe -- came and talked to me, but I 
didn't have the energy to respond.  I didn't have anything 
left.  Someone else came and talked to me -- a woman this 
time.  Nurse.  I looked up for a brief moment and saw the 
compassion in her face.  In my wife's face.

She touched my face.  Asked if I was all right.  

"I ruined my shoes," I said.

She looked down, nodded in agreement, then told me to wait. 

Where would I go?

I studied my shoes and wondered what my feet looked like.  
In Vietnam, taking care of your feet was a life-saving 
necessity.  You couldn't afford to let your feet get 
messed up.  It could kill you.

Sharon came back and took my hand.  I let her.  She 
pulled me gently to my hot, sore feet and led me out the 
door.  I followed.  I followed her across the lot and over
to her car.  I let her open the passenger door and settle 
me into the seat.  She leaned in and buckled my belt, 
touching me gently.  As she pulled back to stand, I 
reached out, grabbed her wrist almost desperately and 
said, "I did what I had to do."

She looked at me and I could almost find forgiveness 
in her face.

Almost.

"I know, Walter," she said softly.  She pulled out of 
my grasp, stood, closed the door and walked around to 
climb behind the wheel.  I leaned against the window and 
the next thing I knew, we were home.  She put me to bed, 
spooning behind me, holding me tight, and I wished, 
wished, wished I could accept what she offered.  

I wish I could give something back.  

But I'm not sure I have anything left.

November 8th, 1994

I woke alone this morning.  The phone woke me and it was 
Sharon.  She was calling to tell me that Scully was awake.  
Awake, aware, alert.  Talking.  Her mother and sister were 
there.  Mulder had been by.  I had showered, shaved, dressed 
and headed for the garage before I remembered I didn't have 
a car.  And my feet hurt too badly to walk to the Metro 
station.  

I called a cab.  

I watched Scully through the window as she talked with 
her mom, laughed with her sister.  She seemed fine.  I 
asked Sharon to find out what the doctors were saying 
and the prognosis was not just good, it was excellent.  
Blood work normal. Other than a complete lack of memory 
of the time she was gone, she was fine.  She *is* fine.

I can't say I'm sorry she doesn't remember.

Some things are better left forgotten.

I'm going to rush through her paperwork and get her back 
to work.  I've had an inquiry from a volcano research 
group with a station in Washington State.  Something 
strange has happened.  The team at the station sent a 
request for evacuation and then dropped off the map.  
No response to any attempts at communication.  I told 
the man who place the inquiry, a scientist named Pierce, 
to go ahead and make the arrangements.  I was planning 
to send Mulder, but if I can get Scully cleared quick 
enough, they can both go.    

I think I know her well enough to know that will be 
what she needs.

I definitely know Mulder well enough to know it will 
be what he needs.

And I think it may be what I need as well.

I found Sharon and told her thank you.  It was all I 
could say.  "Thank you."  I hope she knows I didn't 
just mean thank you for calling me about Scully.  That's 
just a small part of what I meant.  There's so much more.  
Thank you for being there for me all those years ago.  
Thank you for following me all over the country as I 
climbed the corporate ladder.  Thank you for not giving 
up on me.  Thank you for taking me home last night.  
Thank you for not pushing me to talk.  Thank you.

She touched my cheek and smiled.  "I love you," she 
said.

I don't know why, but she does.  And I love her, too.

Maybe it's not too late.  

Maybe love really is enough.