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Chapter Text

Present Day

Mulder sat with his hands resting in his lap, palm up, one layered on top of the other. He breathed in and out slowly, deliberately, and stared out the window at the cold March landscape. Quiet reigned in the psychiatric hospital but there were background noises coming from outside his room in the hallway: the sound of a cleaning cart being wheeled down the hall, the murmur of voices at the nurse’s station several yards away, light footsteps. Mulder could also hear over his breath the muted sounds coming from outside: cars driving to and from the facility, birds chirping, that occasional rumble from the sky that heralded a shift in the wind or a jet plane going overhead, the clack of tree branches in the oak outside his window.

The weak morning sunlight filtered into the room, creating hieroglyphics on Mulder’s pale face and turning his hazel-gray eyes into luminous silver dimes. He inhaled again though his nose and out through his mouth incrementally. He had a session with Dr. Boswick in a couple of hours and he didn’t want to have to be sedated for it so he forced himself to remain calm. His chest rose and fell under his knee-length hospital Johnny. His fingers twitched. His legs were cold. He had a small egg stain on the corner of his mouth from breakfast. He tried not to wonder if Scully or Skinner would visit him today. He couldn’t keep his mind on that and on his immanent chat with the doctor. If he thought of both things, his mind would short circuit. Oh, God, how he missed not having to think!

Mulder’s breath hitched and stopped. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he swallowed with a heavy clicking noise. His body registered thirst but his mind was elsewhere and trying not to drown in sensation or emotion. Put me back in the suit, for God’s sake!

A light tap on his open room door made him jump and he gripped the arms of the chair he sat in, knuckles whitening.

“Mr. Mulder? You have a visitor,” said a nurse, Della he thought it was but couldn’t quite remember her name.

“What?” he said, though hardly any sound came out of his mouth. He rotated in his chair to see who it was. His pensive eyes tracked across the watery-lit floor to a pair of shiny brown shoes, Oxfords, and a pair of dark blue slacks. He got as far as the long black trench coat and white, blue-pinstriped shirt before he turned around again and slumped back against the chair. “Walter,” he whispered as the tap, tap of the Oxfords drew closer.

“Hey, Mulder,” said Skinner and placed a hand on Mulder’s shoulder with a friendly squeeze. Mulder stiffened briefly and then relaxed. It’s only Skinner, he told himself. “How are you feeling today?” asked Skinner softly as he pulled over the visitor’s chair and sidled up beside Mulder and sat. Mulder stared out the window and focused on a bird sitting on a branch of the oak tree until it flew away.

“Hollow,” he replied in monotone.

“Hollow?”

Mulder nodded very slowly, as though his neck muscles were stiff from lack of use or from whiplash.

Skinner didn’t respond and Mulder knew he had frustrated the man. But Skinner never spoke about feelings, had hardly ever opened up or trusted anyone, not even his wife, with what was going on in his head so he had no right to be frustrated. Except he had trusted Mulder a few times when it counted. Does it count now? Mulder wondered.

“Scully’s coming later, after your session with Dr. Boswick,” said Skinner finally. Mulder nodded in acknowledgement. “Dr. Boswick thinks that you might be able to leave here soon and go home.”

“Home?” asked Mulder, brow furrowing. The concept was foreign to him now. There was no home, only the Hive, only the tank with its tubes from which he drew air and sustenance.

“Yeah,” grunted Skinner. Mulder scratched his leg. It was freezing. He pulled his Johnny down over his knees and curled up in the chair like a little lost child. Skinner must have noticed his discomfort because he offered to get Mulder a blanket.

“‘S okay. I’m fine,” intoned Mulder but he couldn’t hide a shiver. The suit had kept him comfortable and the right temperature at all times. He missed it for the second, no, third, time that morning. It was going to be a long day. A weighty fabric landed softly over his shoulders and was tucked around him. His hand came up between the folds and grasped the edge, pulling it closer, a poor substitute for the Syndicate’s slick bio-latex. Mulder could almost hear the popping squeaks as his bodysuit was polished and lubricated with bio-latex cleaner by the hands of a drone handler. He sucked in a breath and clenched his jaw, settling into his chair while Skinner watched him.

“Don’t you want to go home, Mulder?” asked Skinner. Mulder raised one shoulder and let it drop and continued to stare out the window. “Dana and I… fed your fish.”

“I know. You said the other day,” rasped Mulder. Except when in therapy or in the throes of a nightmare, Mulder hadn’t spoken much in the past few weeks so his voice had become rusty. Rusty. Thirsty. He was thirsty and his lips automatically sought the feeding tube he could count on to give him life-sustaining fluid. No. Wait. That was before. This was now. Now he looked around distractedly for a cup of water. “Thirsty,” he thought he said out loud and must have done because Skinner was on the move again, fetching him some water from a plastic pitcher on the night stand by the bed. He handed a full paper cup to Mulder who chugged the whole of it and handed it back. Skinner poured more. Mulder sipped that one. Skinner resumed his seat.

“We couldn’t save all of them,” said Skinner.

“Krycek?” Mulder asked. He asked after the other drone at least two or three times a day.

Skinner looked away from him and then back. Mulder watched the other man’s jaw clench and unclench. “I meant your fish, Mulder,” said Skinner and Mulder thought he heard another note of frustration, maybe even anger. He hadn’t meant to upset Skinner. He cringed under the blanket. “Krycek’s still non-responsive to therapy,” added Skinner in an undertone. Mulder held his breath and then exhaled in a short burst. He hadn’t been able to save Krycek either but he’d tried. Surely that was worth something?

“He doesn’t have a home waiting for him,” whispered Mulder.

After a moment, Skinner said, “No, he doesn’t. I suppose I wouldn’t want to come out of a catatonic state either if I had federal prison waiting for me.”

“You still intend to bring him up on charges then?” Mulder slow-blinked and rubbed the blanket between his thumb and forefinger.

“Yes, Mulder, we have to. Just because he was found at that facility doesn’t erase what he did in the past!” said Skinner exasperatedly and rose from the visitor’s chair with a screech of chair legs that had Mulder wincing and closing his eyes.

“You have no idea what he went through,” croaked Mulder.

“Yes, I do. I was there when we pulled you out, remember?” Skinner paced with his hands on his hips, looking alternately down at Mulder and at the floor in front of him.

“The DOJ’s not gonna buy time served then, huh?” There was silence from Skinner and then a wry chuckle.

“Was that a joke, Agent Mulder?” Skinner asked and crouched in front of Mulder’s chair with a hand on Mulder’s knee. Mulder’s eyes opened and he looked through Skinner’s glasses deep into Skinner’s hopeful brown orbs. Mulder’s lips turned up in the faintest of smiles and he shifted into a less tight curl of his body.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I guess it was.”

“It’s good to hear you joke, Mulder. You have no idea,” said Skinner, shaking his head, and Mulder heard the strain in the man’s voice. His smile flattened to a line and he looked down at the hand that rested on his knee. He swallowed.

“Don’t be upset,” said Mulder.

“I’m not upset. I’m glad. I’m glad some of your sass is coming back,” said Skinner. “I never thought I’d…” He stopped short and struggled to reign in his emotions. Mulder reached out tentatively and touched the other man’s face with the tips of his fingers. Skinner stood up abruptly and took his handkerchief out of his top breast pocket. He handed it to Mulder who looked at him quizzically. “You’ve got some food, just there,” explained Skinner and pointed to the corner of Mulder’s mouth.

“Oh, thanks,” said Mulder and used the handkerchief to swab away the remnants of his breakfast. It stuck fast and Skinner held up the cup of water for Mulder to dip the corner of the hankie into and try again. “How do I look now? Ready for my date with the doc?”

“Well, you wouldn’t pass marine muster but it’s an improvement,” teased Skinner, trying to suppress a grin. Mulder’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he tried to hand Skinner back the handkerchief. “Keep it. I’ve got more at home.” Mulder gave a short nod and crumpled the square of fabric into the palm of his hand like a talisman. “Well, ah, I just came to visit on my way into work. Good luck with your session, Mulder.”

“You don’t have to go so soon, do you?” asked Mulder over his shoulder as Skinner went for the door.

“I do, unfortunately,” Skinner replied. “I’ll try to stop in this evening when I’m done at the office but I can’t promise anything. Plus you’ll have Scully in later today and she’s better company than I am.”

“You sell yourself short, sir,” said Mulder. “If you hadn’t found me. I-If you hadn’t been there after, I don’t…” Mulder stopped and faced the window again, thoughts clamoring and beginning to spiral. Scully and Skinner had saved him. He owed them everything. He felt a hand on his shoulder, large and warm, and didn’t flinch away. He let out a breath.

“I just meant that you and she have a very special partnership, that’s all.” The hand squeezed as gently as the words were said and Mulder held back a protest. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I thought you couldn’t promise anything?” Mulder looked up at his beacon in the night and Skinner said firmly, “I’ll make an exception and get out of there as soon as humanly possible.” Mulder nodded and touched the hand on his shoulder with his fingertips. Skinner gave him another little squeeze and then excused himself. Mulder listened to his footsteps recede into the background noise.

Twelve Weeks Earlier

They gave him a spinal block and worked on his genitals for what seemed like hours. He’d already been through what he called the injection room where he’d been shaved all over and then suspended, half insensate from the tranquilizer, in a plastic human-form mold and had a thick, warm, black liquid injected into the mold all around him, sealing his entire body in what felt like a constricting latex suit. He had a moment of panic when the fluid surrounded his mouth, nose, and eyes because it reminded him of the black oil but soon found he could breathe through whatever it was they’d just covered him in even though he couldn’t open his eyes. Murmurs of the word “bio-latex” came to him through the quickly adhering and rapidly drying material. Then the mold was removed and he was shipped on a gurney to another room where he was strapped to a chair with adjustable leg stirrups.

He could only remotely sense what they were doing to him down below the spinal and he trembled in fear. He was being fitted with some kind of device that fastened to his private parts and inserted into his anus. Then the device was sealed to his body with another coating of the bio-latex before hands touched his encased head and ran something across his mouth and eyes, unsealing them. He blinked but before he could see what was going on, a respirator with a feeding tube attached to a shiny black mask settled snugly over his head. He tried to hold his breath when he noticed something sweetly chemical coming through the respirator but biology held out and he at last gave in, forced to breathe deeply. A cloud formed in his mind and his eyes focused on the inside of the black face shield of the mask where a rapidly cycling series of words and images was being displayed. Two earpieces were then fitted into his ears and covered with more bio-latex then a pulsing sound started to reverberate in his head. His body relaxed incrementally, the spinal block wore off, and his eyes widened and went slightly out of focus. Then a vibrating massage began to emanate from the devices implanted around his genitals in time to the sound in his brain and the images on the screen of his mask. A few minutes later, he experienced his first forced orgasm of many to follow. The last conscious thought he had as the cycling images sped up and the sounds in his ears increased in frequency was, “I am so screwed.”

Tendrils of cigarette smoke curled elegantly ceiling-ward in the observation room adjacent to the reeducation chamber. “About how long did you say?” asked a clipped but pleased voice.

“Most subjects complete the initial programming phase within a week,” said the other man standing by the smoker’s side. He was wearing a white lab coat over a sweater, dress shirt, slacks, and tie and held a clipboard in one hand. He watched the programming of his latest drone with a mix of curiosity and professional pride as the bio-latex coated form writhed and squirmed within its restraints. He wasn’t concerned; this was a common initial resistance and soon broken by the strong audio-visual-vibrational sequence. He’d programmed thirty-six human drones so far (this newest would be his thirty-seventh) and had had only four failures. The failures had been disposed of.

“He might need longer. His mind, while open to suggestion, is very resilient,” said the smoker and took a puff off his cigarette.

“I know. I’ve read the dossier you’ve so kindly provided. However, I’m confident the primary dronification process will be complete on schedule. Of course all drones receive periodic program reinforcement.”

“You don’t know this man. His file only reveals so much,” countered the smoker, making a mental note to get the dossier back from the other man before he left the facility. “Still, I’ll be interested to see how you get on with him. I’ll check back in a few days.”

“We’re looking forward to it,” said the man in the lab coat with an impersonal smile. The smoker just grinned a rubbery-faced grin that made him look like a scarecrow and stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray that had been provided for him. “There is one thing I noticed in his file, if you don’t mind my bringing it up. It says that you are his biological father.”

“Yes, and?”

The man in the lab coat glanced sidelong at the smoker who looked at him as though daring him to make issue out of the fact. The other man suddenly looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat. “Nothing. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“We all of us have to make sacrifices, Martin,” said the Smoker and patted Martin on the elbow before moving to leave the little room with the observation window. Martin watched him go grimly and shuddered. “Sacrifice” or no, the smoker had given up his own son to the dronification process as though the younger man were no more than unwanted flotsam. Nevertheless, Martin had a job to do and he would do it the same for this drone as he had for all the other drones that had gone through his facility.

Six Weeks Later

Its null bulge throbbed as someone tapped its mouth. It opened its lips automatically. A salty, tender, skin-coated rod sank between them and it understood immediately its function. It swallowed the long member, sucking and working its lips around it blindly. It sometimes had a strip of bio-latex tape placed over its eyes to enhance its sensory deprivation when it got to the fancy room with the stuffed leather chairs and the shadowy men; they didn’t need it to be able to see in order for it to perform its function. Bio-latex was specially formulated to fuse seamlessly to itself so the tape would hold until removed with a bio-latex removal tool like the ones all the handlers carried.

It heard slight groans above its kneeling position and the fleshy, hard member sank deeper into its throat on repeat. It didn’t choke. It was well-versed in obediently giving this kind of pleasure and kept its hands behind its back as it kneeled in silent service. It swallowed eagerly the semen that flooded its mouth a few moments later and opened again for a second penis to attend to. None was forthcoming so it closed its mouth and waited. Soon enough its mask was slipped back over its head and strapped on snugly. Just the feel of the mask going on over its head and rendering its shiny black features void sent a thrum of arousal into its encased genital region. It and two other drones had been transported outside the Hive to provide sexual services to a group of men, some of whose voices it recognized from previous visits. It could hear the other drones engaging in said services and then there was a loud slap of a hand across a bio-latex covered face. It didn’t flinch, having no sympathy or empathy for its fellow drone which had just been punished for some minor infraction, teeth cutting accidentally into sensitive flesh perhaps. The other drone would be corrected and reeducated back at the Hive as the drone that listened had been on several occasions. It sat back on its heels and felt a hand stroke the back of its head but there was no motion to remove its mask again. It accepted the touch complacently as it did all things, not even attempting to fight the incessant erotic pulse of the electrodes implanted around its bulge that kept it randomly on edge. It squirmed slightly, hips gyrating where it kneeled, as the vibrations teased a trapped erection out of it. Someone had set the vibrations on high that day, no doubt in anticipation of this small gathering. Some of the Hive’s clients enjoyed watching drones mindlessly cum and cum and cum.

“There was no need to slap it, Gerald,” said an upper-class English accent.

“It needs to learn that it shouldn’t use its teeth,” replied a raspy, nasal voice. The drone listening knew the shape of the man who owned that voice: large and blocky, soft around the middle, with a stubby, uncut penis that tasted somewhat sour.

“Nevertheless, you’re too quick to violence,” said the Brit. The nasal-voiced man huffed and there was the sound of bio-latex squeaking as a mask was forced over the other drone’s head with much less affection than one had been placed over the head of the drone that was kneeling.

A third voice broke in, belonging to the man whom it had just serviced and who was gently stroking its blackened head around the mask straps. A waft of stultifying sweetness suddenly curled around its nostrils and it breathed deeply the delicious chemical that was its reward for giving proper head. It relaxed some more and silently released a load of pent up cum from its null bulge. As it floated on a high of chemicals and afterglow, it heard its benefactor say, “What’s this meeting about, anyhow?” The man’s voice was sharp and somewhat impatient. He let go of the drone’s head to flick open a cigarette lighter and strike the flint. The rasp of inhaled tobacco followed, the lighter flicked shut, and then the hand was back on its head, stroking, stroking. It tilted its null face toward the man but otherwise kept still. “We have enough to be getting on with with the vaccine. We’re much nearer now that… certain parties have given what was required, but we will still need to test the vaccine when the time comes. Luckily, we have a group of ready test subjects.” The hand groping its head moved down to squeeze the back of its neck.

There was silence in the room for a moment and then the Englishman said, “Not all impediments have been removed. Agent Scully for one and that irksome Assistant Director haven’t given up their search yet.”

“They’re being dealt with,” answered the smoker.

“How?” asked the Brit in a slow drawl. “Your most promising protégé has been relegated to a life-sized pleasure doll.”

“I’ve taken the appropriate measures.”

“Which means you’ve done nothing,” said the man with the raspy voice.

“Perhaps because there’s nothing to be done. Assistant Director Skinner won’t find anything useful to help him in the FBI’s search and Agent Scully will eventually fall in line now that her partner is gone for good,” replied the smoker confidently. Silence again. The spidery hand on its neck slid down its chest and sought out the encapsulated null area between its legs. It spread them accommodatingly.

“I’m still not convinced the dronification process worked completely on him,” said a fourth voice that hadn’t yet spoken.

“It,” said the raspy voice.

“It,” concurred the fourth man.

“It will show you through its compliance,” said the smoker cheerfully and stood with a guiding hand on its neck again. It got up from its kneel and propelled itself across the room via the smoker’s hand signals where it once again kneeled submissively.

“I don’t feel like a blow job,” sneered the fourth man.

“Then the drone will service you another way. All you have to do is tell it,” said the smoker with a smile in his voice. The drone perked its ears around its ear pieces, waiting for any sort of command. Eventually, it was encouraged to bend itself flat over the nearest table and spread its bio-latex covered ass cheeks. It waited silently for the feel of the removal of the back of its null belt and hollow anal plug. Sure enough, in moments someone was prepping it to receive a cock in its ass. Its features remained blank behind its null mask even as said cock drove into it straight up to the pubis. The only thing that changed for the drone was its position as it was slammed forward repeatedly into the table by the man behind it thrusting vigorously. Accordingly, its null bulge grew increasingly ready to release a second batch of cum.

Hot semen soaked its bowels as the man finished and someone kindly wiped it down after the man pulled out before reinserting the plug and re-fusing the bio-latex over the belt. Unfulfilled, it resumed a kneeling position next to the table over which it had been fucked.

“You see? Fully cooperative,” said the smoker and lit up another cigarette.

“I guess so,” said the fourth man.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, can we resume the true purpose of our meeting?” asked the Englishman with a slight sigh.

“I thought we’d come to the conclusion that we didn’t have anything to worry about?” said the smoker.

“You concluded.”

There was another sigh, perhaps from the raspy-voiced man. Someone clicked their fingers and a moment later the drone felt the bio-latex covered hand of one of its fellow drones, perhaps the one that had been slapped, grope its chest, seeking out a covered nipple. There was a tisking noise and the sound of cloth rustling.

“Call me when you decide to have a real meeting, not this orgiastic nonsense,” snapped the Englishman and the drone heard footsteps, a door opening, more footsteps, and the door closing. Meanwhile, its fellow drone was going to town with a hand, pinching, caressing, and generally manipulating. It wondered which number drone touched it, not that it really mattered; they were all the same more or less.

“Let’s have them fuck each other,” suggested a hitherto silent and younger voice than any of the four who had spoken previously.

“Really, Jeffrey,” chided the smoker.

“It’s what they’re here for, isn’t it?”

“I was commenting on your crassness, not the idea itself. Just make sure you reseal any orifices when you’re done being a voyeur.”

More hands touched it. Some bio-latex removal followed. Its mask was taken off again and its eyes unsealed. They met its fellow drone’s eyes, seeing and reflecting nothing but the dead obedience in the green irises. It had not seen this drone before. A directive was given for it and the other drone to fuck with it on top. Both drones complied on the Persian-carpeted floor, bio-latex squeaking with their movements. Though its cock was encased in the bio-latex, it felt every sensation: the slick insides of its lubricated fellow drone, the delicious heat of its fellow drone’s body, the way its fellow drone arched its hips into each thrust. They fucked until they were ordered to cum. Both drones ejaculated silently, the one on top shortly after the one on the bottom as the bottom’s ass muscles milked its cock. Then they disengaged and kneeled side-by-side. Orifices were resealed, masks replaced, null belts re-fitted, and the drones were led back down to a waiting van in a private parking garage. It sat in the back of the van feeling no emotion. It anticipated only being scrubbed clean, lubricated, and placed back in its tank once it reached the Hive after the long drive. It didn’t anticipate that the green eyes of its fellow drone would haunt its thoughts for the foreseeable future.

It floated in its tank, serene and mindless. Sweet-smelling air, a cocktail of oxygen and calming chemicals, pumped into its lungs through the tube attached to its respirator. Another tube provided sustenance though a small mouthpiece in its respirator that it could suck on as needed. The food that it ate was always the same: a thick, sweet-tasting green liquid. A second pair of tubes ran from its null belt to remove waste from its body. With all of its basic needs met, it didn’t need to worry about anything. The tank was filled with slightly viscous fluid. Inside, it felt weightless, like floating in a womb. Occasionally it would feel vibrations or pulses from under its null belt and convulse in pleasure. Words and images would display across the inside of its mask and sounds emanate from its earpieces. It looked forward to these random cycles of programming combined with pleasure. They reminded it of something it used to do before it became part of the Hive but it couldn’t quite remember. “Before” was always blurry. The thought slipped away as the pulses increased and drove it mechanically toward its first orgasm of the day. It would have several.

What the program didn’t erase was the sight of emotionless green eyes. It knew those eyes, too, just like it knew it used to do something that reminded it of the pleasure program. The memory of those eyes before was faint, very faint, and difficult to grasp amid the flashing words and lights and images, amid the tingling feeling in its penis and groin from the electrodes, amid the penetrating high and low noises driving into its brain from the ear pieces. It thrashed once as it orgasmed into its null belt and then settled, drawing heavily on the scented, soporific air from its respirator. Green eyes. Where had it seen those green eyes before? The image of green eyes brought up memories of mixed emotions that it might once have called “anger” and “betrayal” but that didn’t matter now and that it couldn’t feel anyway.

The program ceased after its orgasm and it had a moment to think, not that it usually engaged in much thinking. Usually it just waited to be taken out of its tank again to be of service. Service was pleasure. Obedience was pleasure. But it couldn’t get those green eyes out of its mind, no matter how much the program tried to distract it. It moved its right arm languidly through the fluid of its tank, swirling the light-green, clear liquid. Its bio-latex suit shined in the low light of the tank room. It flexed its fingers, watching them with a detached air then placed its hand against the glass door of the tank. It pressed lightly and was met with solid resistance. Its eyes examined the door carefully. The door had a keypad attached to the outside where it opened. There was a gasket, tightly sealed, around the edge of the door that allowed the tank to hold the fluid in which the drone floated. Below, in the metal floor of the tank, were drains that were currently sealed but which, when open, would drain the tank of all its fluid. Above, there was a shower-like head in the domed top that pumped in more fluid when the tank was ready to be filled. There was no way out from the inside that the drone could see, not that it wanted to get out. It lowered its hand and rotated its head, the breathing and feeding tubes following its motion. It could barely make out through its mask and the fluid in its tank the other shadowy tanks in the room. It wondered which one held the green-eyed drone. It wondered why it should care.

A dream shattered the drone’s serenity and it woke with a start, body twitching in the fluid in which it was suspended. It took a deep breath and swallowed. It felt thirsty. Its lips sought the feeding tube’s mouthpiece and wrapped around it to suck. Dark green fluid filled its mouth and it drank it down, gulp after gulp, but the lukewarm fluid didn’t ameliorate the feelings that had shocked it awake. One thing came to mind after the dream: a name. Drones didn’t have names. They were given numerical designations or simply called “drone.” For example, it had been designated drone 1013 by the men in the lab coats. But, just as surely as it knew it was awake, it knew the green-eyed drone had a name. In the dream, it had been running through a cold pine forest with the green-eyed drone beside it. They were being chased by three men on horseback who carried long whips. It had been the crack of the whip that had awakened the drone. The memory of the violent snapping noise had triggered something in its unconscious and suddenly it knew. Krycek. The green-eyed drone’s name was Krycek. Eyes wide and roving the inside of its mask, it started to panic. It must have a name, too. It must. In the dream which was a memory, it hadn’t been coated in bio-latex; it didn’t wear a null belt or have a mask that concealed its features.

The drone looked down at itself as best as it was able in the narrow space of the tank and examined its attachments. It placed a hand carefully over its null bulge where one of the waste-removal tubes connected. Then it raised its hand slowly to its null face and felt the hoses connecting to its mask. If it removed them while it was still in the tank, it would be helpless and die from drowning. But for some reason it knew it had to get out, to go find the green-eyed drone named Krycek and free Krycek from its tank, too. This idea was wrong, subversive, and it would be “reeducated” if it was caught. It hesitated, not wanting to lose the safety and security of its tank, its suit, its food, and its air supply. An emotion, anxiety, began to fill the drone and it snatched its hand away from its respirator. It thrust its hips, wanting the mind-numbing stimulation of the electrodes implanted in its penis, groin, and perineum. But nothing was forthcoming. It sighed. It would have to wait until the next programming cycle, whenever that was. In the meantime, it would try to forget about the Krycek-drone and the dream and the fact that it knew it must have a name of its own and a purpose beyond being a hole for men’s pleasure.

The smoker received the call in the middle of the night letting him know that drone 1013 had had to be taken to the reeducation chamber after an interrupted escape attempt.

“But it’s under control now?” asked the smoker, none too pleased about being woken so late.

“Yes,” said Martin slowly and the smoker sensed a “but.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes. It wasn’t just trying to escape. It seems it was trying to free one of the other drones,” answered Martin.

“Which one?” asked the smoker, more alert now.

“Drone 0622,” said Martin. There was a pause on the other end of the line. Martin could hear the faint snick of a lighter and then there was a long, indrawn breath followed by an equally long exhale.

“Of course, they have a history together,” said the smoker. “And what of it? Will drone 0622 be reeducated as well?”

“In my professional opinion, I don’t think it’s necessary,” said Martin. “Drone 0622 has been thoroughly programmed and for a much longer time. It has had hundreds of hours of reinforcement of its programming over the past nine months and showed no signs of understanding what was happening at the time we subdued drone 1013. It remained passive and was easily put back in an undamaged tank.”

“Very well. I’ll bow to your expertise. Just make sure drone 1013 can’t cause any more trouble,” said the smoker.

“You can count on it, sir,” said Martin.

The smoker placed the phone back in the cradle and stared into space, thoughts whirling like the smoke that drifted up from the cigarette between his yellowed fingers. It seemed that his son’s brilliant mind couldn’t be so easily suppressed. He didn’t wholly trust Martin’s dronification process but perhaps a second round of intense programming would wipe away Mulder’s resistance for good, making him the truly mindless drone the smoker had initially planned for him to be. He would wait and see what drone 1013’s reeducation would bring.

Must get out. Must rescue Krycek. These were the only thoughts drone 1013 had after its realization. It had tried to forget. It really had. But it couldn’t give in to the relaxed state usually brought on by the chemicals in its air or the warm afterglow of its second daily orgasm. It had even, for once since the completion of its initial programming, paid attention to its body expelling waste through the tubes hooked up to its ass and genitals and felt how odd it was to shit and piss into such receptacles. It squirmed in the tightly grafted bio-latex and touched the smooth shield of its darkened mask. They’re using subliminal programming to make me obey. I’m not a drone. I’m a human being. I have a name.

Over the course of several hours, he formulated a plan to escape his tank and find and free the Krycek-drone. He would wait until the drone handlers came to take him from the tank for service and knock them both out. The handlers wouldn’t expect a fight from a programmed drone and so he would have the advantage of surprise. Then he would check the tanks. He remembered something else about the Krycek-drone: The drone only had one arm. That would make it… him easy to find among the thirty or so tanks in the tank room, no need to see his eyes, no need to remove the mask.

All he needed to do was make sure he held onto the memory and the idea of the plan. When the next programming cycle began, he closed his eyes against the visuals on the screen of its mask. It was all he could do to resist. He had no choice but to hear the audio and feel the pleasurable vibrations and pulses, but keeping his eyes closed was something and he found that he could hold on to “Krycek” and “escape” through several cycles. Between cycles he repeated over and over to himself, I am not a drone. I have a name. It’s… M-Mulder! I have to escape. I have to find Krycek and GET OUT!

The opportunity came soon enough. The members of that secret cabal that met to discuss the fate of the world and some kind of vaccine that would render them impervious to an alien virus never went long without the services of their drones. Sure enough, two handlers came to fetch Mulder from his tank about a day and a half after he had awoken from his dream-memory.

Mulder forced himself to relax, to not show any outward sign that he was tensing for a fight. His tank was drained, his feet settling on its floor, and the two handlers unlocked the keypad on the door. He waited as they unhooked his tubes, lined and sealed his belt, and opened the vents on his respirator. One of them turned his back to make a notation on a clipboard hanging from the side of the tank and Mulder saw his chance. He smashed his hand into the back of the man’s neck, dropping him like a heavy sack of potatoes, and turned to his stunned companion with a mean right hook that rendered the second man unconscious. The first man groaned and struggled to right himself but Mulder kicked him in the gut and pulled him up by the hair, punching him in the face. It was lights out for him.

Quickly, Mulder tore off his mask and tossed it on the floor where it clattered then he dashed from tank to tank, looking for the one-armed drone even as he searched for something to smash off the keypad on the drone’s tank. Luckily, there was a fire extinguisher hanging from a wall in one corner of the room. He grabbed it and carried the heavy thing toward the back of the room where he found what he was looking for in the center tank of a row of five. It took three hard bangs from the extinguisher to break the keypad. Mulder tore it the rest of the way off and pried the door of Krycek’s tank open, bracing himself for the huge wash of clear, greenish fluid that poured out around his legs.

Krycek stood there, unmoving. Mulder unhooked the hoses and lines that ran into Krycek’s suit and peeled off Krycek’s mask. Krycek stared straight ahead, motionless and emotionless. Mulder shook him by the shoulders. “Krycek, it’s me, Mulder. Come on! We have to get out of here.” There was no response, no glimmer of recognition. Mulder slapped Krycek across his bio-latexed face. Still nothing. Mulder shook him again with a little growl. “Krycek, you have to come with me. They’ll know something is up in a minute. We’ve got to go!”

Mulder yanked Krycek by the arm but Krycek refused to move from the tank. Mulder pulled harder and Krycek stumbled out of the tank a few feet, nearly slipping on the wet floor. “That’s better. Come on,” said Mulder and tried pulling Krycek behind him to guide him out of the facility but Krycek resisted again. “Damn it!” cursed Mulder and tried a third time to get through to the drone. “Your name is Alex Krycek. You’re a triple agent who used to work for the Syndicate and they have you brainwashed to be their drone. Krycek, you have to remember me. Remember Tunguska? Where they took you arm? Krycek!”

Krycek remained silent but he looked Mulder in the eye two seconds before he twisted away from Mulder and raised his fist to hit him. Mulder grabbed Krycek’s fist and held it away, grappling and panting as he struggled against Krycek. He gave up on Krycek when he heard voices shouting on the far end of the room near the door and turned away from Krycek to try and break through the small cadre of handlers who had entered the room and spread out to try and surround him. He was forced to back away around other tanks toward the rear wall. There were six handlers with nightsticks, two also wielding needles with, Mulder assumed, some kind of sedative. He lashed out at those men first to try and get them to drop their needles. He fought furiously, kicking and punching, but the men closed in on him, got in some nasty licks with their nightsticks, and pinned him down. He roared defiance as he felt the prick of a needle in his arm and then everything went black.

Two Days Later

“Go! Go! Go!” Skinner commanded into his headset and two dozen SWAT members descended on the facility they’d been staking out for the past four days. They had waited as long as they could, trying to catch certain individuals going to or coming from the facility, one in particular that hadn’t shown his wry, smoking grin anywhere near since Skinner had set up the sting. Skinner suspected that the same person who had given him the info on where to find Mulder had either given the smoker the heads up or had been divested of his knowledge somehow through violent means. Either that or there was a mole at the FBI. Whatever the case, the smoker wouldn’t be caught dead or alive at the facility and Skinner had enough to worry about at the moment without worrying about the source of Cancerman’s timely absence. After four days of tense scrutiny and little sleep for anyone, Skinner finally concluded that they had no choice but to move in. People’s lives and minds were at stake.

He followed two of the SWAT members through the front door with Scully hot on his heels once it was declared clear. They separated, each taking a different hallway, hoping to locate Mulder and the other people who had been taken by the Syndicate that much faster in the maze-like structure. Skinner jogged down the corridor as the SWAT cleared room after room, yelling, “FBI!” or “Federal Agents!” and pulling suspects out of labs and zip-tying their hands behinds their backs even as they protested.

Skinner approached one graying man in a lab coat being pushed to his knees on the floor outside an office and demanded, “Where’s Agent Fox Mulder?”

“Agent who? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” blustered the man indignantly.

“Bullshit. Who’s in charge here? Where do you keep the people you’ve kidnapped?” snapped Skinner.

“Kidnapped?! The subjects here are all volunteers!” protested the gray-haired man.

“Volunteers my ass,” Skinner growled and stalked on down the corridor, gun held in ready position. He looked in doors as he passed them, seeing only empty offices cleared by the SWAT or labs with numerous apparatuses and computers and the occasional caged monkey but no human occupants.

“Sir!” Skinner heard shouted from the other end of the corridor. He turned his head and Scully was calling his name. “We’ve found them! I can’t tell if Mulder’s among them yet. There’s gotta be thirty people here, all being kept in some kind of cylindrical fluid tanks. Their features are hidden behind masks.” She panted as she ran up to him.

“Can you tell what kind of physical shape they’re in?” Skinner asked Scully. She shook her head.

“Not without examining them outside the containment units,” she answered. “I’m concerned that if we rush to remove them, we could do them physical damage. We have to know what’s in those tanks first, how the people are attached to them, and how to safely get the people inside them out.”

“Damn!” he cursed and immediately got on the radio in his pocket and barked orders for a medical response team to get in the tank room and alert the area hospitals that there would possibly be a large number of incoming patients. “We’ll need ambulances, lots of them. Anyone you can round up that’s close by.”

“Copy that,” said a team member over the radio and signed off to obey Skinner’s directive. He then instructed Scully to return to the tank room so she could guide the medics as they arrived.

“Yes, sir,” she said and was off back down the hallway.

There were still shouts and surprised yells coming from all over the facility as the SWAT members found and arrested more of the people that worked there. Skinner strode down the hall, still checking room after room. He turned a corner, walked past a SWAT person pushing another man in a lab coat with hands zip-tied toward the exit, and looked in the next room on the left. The blood drained from his face at what he saw. There was a black-coated figure restrained to a reclining exam chair. The figure was attached to various hoses and lines that connected it to several devices and an IV drip that stood nearby. One device was obviously a heartbeat and brainwave monitor but the others Skinner couldn’t readily identify. He thought one of them might be some kind of oxygen tank but it was unlabeled. The figure in the chair twitched and moaned behind the glass-smooth, obsidian-tinted mask that obscured its features. Skinner crept into the room and holstered his gun, approaching the figure with a feeling of dread.

Carefully, Skinner took hold of the straps of the mask and unfastened them. He gently tugged and eased the straps over the figure’s chin and face, careful not to dislodge the brain-monitoring electrodes on its blackened scalp, and let the mask fall to the floor where it clattered and rolled, emitting strobing lights from some kind of screen inside. The figure convulsed and Skinner gasped. Despite the black, latex-like coating, he recognized the face from under the mask as Agent Mulder’s. Mulder’s eyes were fixed wide with metal rings and there was a mouth guard in place inside his mouth. A good thing, too, since his jaw was clenched tightly around it. Mulder’s breath started to increase toward hyperventilation and Skinner knew he had to get Mulder out of that chair ASAP. But he also didn’t want to harm Mulder. He placed a hand on Mulder’s arm. Mulder jumped in his restraints.

“Easy, Mulder, it’s Walter Skinner. Can you hear me?” Skinner said urgently. Mulder’s ears looked to be sealed with the same material that covered his face but he nodded slightly and his wide open eyes rotated in a frightened manner. He began to strain against his straps. “Calm down. We’ll have you out of here soon, okay? Just take a deep breath.” Mulder inhaled wetly through his nostrils. “Good. Keep going.” Mulder did as he was told. Skinner leaned forward and took hold of the bite guard in Mulder’s mouth. “I’m gonna take this out.” He eased it from the death grip between Mulder’s teeth and Mulder gasped loudly as it dropped onto the floor with the mask.

“Krycek!” breathed Mulder.

“Krycek? What do you mean ‘Krycek’?” asked Skinner, not expecting that to be the first word out of Mulder’s freed mouth.

But all Mulder did was breathe and chant, “Krycek, Krycek,” over and over.

“Okay, all right. I’ve got a whole SWAT team here. We’ll find him. If he did this to you…”

“Nnh!” Mulder whined high and scared.

“Easy, Mulder! Take it easy. I promise you we will find him and bring him in, okay?” Mulder nodded.

“Krycek. Eyes. Please. Eyes,” moaned Mulder and rocked his head side to side. His eyes were still held wide by the ocular rings. Skinner radioed Scully and she was there within minutes, two medics right behind her.

“Mulder!” she cried when she saw him. His eyes tracked to hers and his lips trembled. He bit down on the lower one and choked a gasp.

“Krycek,” he whispered again.

Scully looked at Skinner, eyes wide. “Did he say ‘Krycek’? What’s he talking about?”

“Alex Krycek. The rat must be somewhere in the facility,” said Skinner in a low tone. She bit back a comment, snapped on some exam gloves, and helped the medics take the metal rings from Mulder’s eyes. The medics put some drops in them to lubricate them and he groaned. Then he closed them, thankful to at last be able to blink.

“You’re going to be okay, Mulder,” Scully told him. Over her shoulder she said to Skinner, “Did he say if Krycek had something to do with all this?” The medics worked quickly around her, unstrapping Mulder, removing the heartbeat and brainwave sensors, checking his IV and removing the line going into it, and putting a plain bag of saline into his IV port for transport.

Skinner shook his head. “He just kept saying his name.”

“Tank,” grunted Mulder from the chair and leaned his head back on the head rest.

“What was that?” asked Scully.

“Krycek. Tank,” he repeated wearily. Skinner glanced at Mulder and then at Scully.

“What’s he mean?” she asked.

Skinner thought for a minute and then he had an idea. “There’s one way to find out. Had all the victims in the tank room been checked out by the med team by the time you left?”

“No.” Scully shook her head. “We’d only just started.”

Skinner nodded and got on the radio to whoever could give him a visual on the tank room. One of the SWAT came back with an affirmative and he asked, “Is one of the people in those tanks missing a left arm?”

“Hang on, sir, I’ll check.” A few minutes later, the SWAT member answered with another affirmative.

“Make sure that person has a guard posted outside his hospital room and is taken into custody once he’s cleared medically,” said Skinner dourly into his headset. He looked at Mulder who seemed to deflate and started shaking his head back and forth.

“Don’t… understand. Krycek. Tank. Brainwashed!” Mulder began to shout and Scully went to his side, hushing him. He quieted but kept muttering, “Krycek, brainwashed, tank.” Skinner gave her a look of utmost concern.

“What is that stuff all over him? Latex?” he murmured in her ear as he came over to stand beside her. The medics were still unhooking Mulder from whatever devices attached to his genitals.

“It looks like it but it’s so tight. I’m wondering if it’s not somehow grafted to his skin,” said Scully. We’ll have to find this facility’s records so we know how best to remove it without damaging his skin and the skin of the others in the tanks.” He nodded. He trusted her judgment.

“I’m going to be here for quite a while cleaning up this mess but I want you to go with him to the hospital,” said Skinner. “I’ll get you those records as soon as I can.” She nodded thankfully and turned back to Mulder, discussing moving him via ambulance with the medics. They didn’t see any obvious reason why he shouldn’t be so one of them went and retrieved a stretcher from one of the ambulances that had been on standby when the team broke into the facility. While they waited, Scully took Mulder’s rubbery, black hand. Skinner left the room, directing the confiscation and impounding of any records or materials that related directly or indirectly to what they’d discovered in the facility during the raid as evidence. His best agent was down and he poured his anger and feelings of helplessness into doing his utmost to bring those who had harmed that agent to justice.

Present Day

“Mm, mmmnh!” Mulder’s head tossed and turned in his sleep. His hands clenched in the blankets of his hospital bed and he thrashed until his eyes popped open. “Oh,” he uttered and swallowed, his hand coming up to his head and rubbing at the short, bristly hair that was growing back after they’d removed the bio-latex. At least his eyebrows had grown back in to the point where they looked normal but the hair on top of his head was not as long as he used to wear it. “Oh, God,” he muttered and lay back on the bed. His muscles relaxed incrementally but not all the way. If he closed his eyes, he could still see bits and flashes of the words and images of the dronification program he’d been subjected to and feel the phantom sensation of a strange man’s penis thrusting into his mouth.

The room was mostly dark, the only light coming in from the hallway outside through the small window in the door. He turned away from it and stared at the wall next to the curtained outer window, curling up on his side. A knock on his door a moment later surprised him and he looked back. A tiny grin settled on his features despite his shock from the nightmare. “Walter,” he acknowledged softly as the trench-coated man came through the door and closed it behind him.

“I bribed the nurse on duty to let me have a few minutes,” said Skinner with a wry smile. He came over and sat on the edge of Mulder’s bed. Mulder pulled himself up to sit and raised the end of the bed with a remote so he could prop some pillows behind him to lean on. “How was your day?”

Mulder shrugged. “Oh, you know, Dr. Boswick says she sees improvement. I don’t but, then again, I’m not my psychiatrist.”

Skinner nodded and looked down at the blanket that covered the bed. In the daylight, it was a cheery yellow. At this time of night, it looked like pale Dijon mustard. He looked back at Mulder and tilted his head. “And your visit with Scully?”

Mulder let out a low noise that could have passed for amusement. His eyes did twinkle in the light from the hallway and the sight made something inside Skinner’s chest flutter. “She’s concerned for me moving home alone so soon.”

“So Dr. Boswick is kicking you out?”

A bray of laughter exited Mulder’s mouth and he quickly covered it with one hand, mindful of the other residents trying to sleep. Skinner’s face broke into a grin, pleased to be able to bring Mulder even the smallest bit of joy. Mulder reached for his hand and Skinner allowed Mulder to hold it. “I guess I have been kinda difficult,” admitted Mulder.

“I’m sure they’ve had a lot worse,” said Skinner leaning in confidentially. “It’s a psychiatric hospital.”

Mulder snorted. “Don’t remind me.”

The two men were silent for a moment, Mulder’s thumb unconsciously rubbing the back of Skinner’s hand, and then Mulder said, “I asked Boswick if I could see Krycek.” Skinner stiffened. Mulder sensed his reluctance to let that happen and was ready with reasons. “I want to see if seeing me will help him break out of his catatonia. Maybe it will jar a memory or something. That’s what helped me break free from the drone program and why I was in the ‘reeducation’ chamber when you found me. I had gotten a close-up glimpse of Krycek’s eyes and they triggered memories in me that I thought were forgotten.”

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Mulder,” began Skinner but Mulder interrupted him.

“You want to see him in prison, don’t you? But you can’t do that unless he’s with it enough to be indicted.”

Skinner sighed and felt the soothing touch of Mulder’s hand tighten as Mulder pleaded with him. Finally, Skinner turned to him and asked, “What did Dr. Boswick say?”

“She thinks it’s a good idea, actually. Maybe not the best idea because it might also trigger bad memories of the Hive, I mean the dronification facility, for both Krycek and myself but…” Mulder shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

“And Scully’s thoughts on this little plan of yours?”

Mulder let out a long breath. “She doesn’t understand why I should care what happens to Krycek, considering.”

“I gotta say I’m with her on that one, but I won’t hold you back if it’s something you feel you have to do. I just worry how it’s going to affect you,” said Skinner and squeezed Mulder’s hand. Mulder seemed to realize that he’d been holding Skinner’s hand an inordinately long time and he withdrew his own hand to cup in his lap.

“Sorry,” he muttered and looked down at his knees.

“What for?” asked Skinner softly. Mulder just shrugged. Silence stretched between them like a suspension bridge, connecting them over a long distance and turbulent waters. Eventually, Skinner patted Mulder’s leg and rose from the edge of the bed. “I’ll let you get your beauty sleep, okay?”

Mulder nodded, gave a slight smile, and watched as Skinner gave him a lingering look before seeing himself out the door. Mulder sat staring at the little square of light in the door’s window long after Skinner left.

Five and a Half Weeks Earlier

“We’ve come to see Mulder,” said Langly.

Frohike poked his head out from between his two compatriots and held up a bouquet of flowers and a little stuffed teddy bear with a blue-and-green polka-dot bowtie around its neck. He waved both and said, “Yeah. Figured one or both of you would know which room he’s in.”

“He… He’s been sedated. He won’t be able to talk much, if at all,” warned Scully gently, knowing the three men had a long friendship with her partner. She looked at each of The Lone Gunmen and they looked at each other.

“Hey, that’s okay. We just wanted to let our favorite G-man know we’re here for him,” answered Langly for the group. Frohike and Byers nodded and put on brave smiles. Scully shifted and looked over to Skinner. The lot of them stood in the hallway outside the nurse’s station on the second floor at Georgetown Memorial Hospital in Washington, DC, where Mulder had been transferred from the hospital near the dronification facility that had received most of the victims from the raid. Scully had been there all night keeping watch over Mulder who was scheduled to have the electrodes around his genitals surgically removed in a few hours. They’d managed to clean all of the bio-latex off of him only a day ago and it had been a long procedure. Skinner was there to check on his agent and to spend a few hours with him before the surgery.

Scully spoke, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you guys. I’m sure he appreciates it, or will once he’s aware enough to do so. He’s in room 205. Excuse me.” She walked away down the hall toward a restroom.

Skinner sighed as the other three men watched her walk away and then as one turned back to him.

“I guess we’ll go in now,” said Frohike awkwardly and Skinner nodded, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb toward Mulder’s room.

On the way past Skinner, Byers leaned forward with a serious expression and murmured to him, “We need to talk.” Skinner eyed him and turned to see that Langly and Frohike were timidly entering Mulder’s room. He turned back to Byers and gave the bearded man a short nod. Byers drew him aside into a small, empty waiting room.

“Is this about that program I sent to you?” asked Skinner.

“Yes,” said Byers. “I just wanted to warn you that Mulder’s mental condition might be more serious than anyone suspected.”

“What do you mean?” Skinner put his hands on his hips and spoke low, his heart aching in anticipation of hearing Byers’s assessment. “How bad is it?”

“It’s bad. The program was designed on multiple levels, mainly visual and auditory but reinforced by physical stimulation,” said Byers. “The visuals and audio are both multi-layered with intense subliminals so they affect multiple parts of the brain,” he went on. “They’re run in a sequence that can be modified based on the subject’s responses to the stimuli so that if the person resists, the program essentially modifies itself to erase that resistance.”

Skinner let out a hard breath and looked around the waiting room and then back at Byers. “How? What does it do?”

“Essentially, it’s designed to wipe a person’s personality and replace it with a model for perfect obedience, no matter the task set for them.” Byers’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Jesus Christ,” swore Skinner and put a hand to his head.

“There’s more,” said Byers, “but I’m not sure you’re gonna want to hear it.”

Skinner paced for a moment. There was a sound out in the hall and voices of two hospital staff walking by. They distracted him briefly but his thoughts weren’t on them; they were on the man down the hall awaiting surgery to have stimulating electrodes removed from his genitals. Suddenly the electrodes down there and Byers’s mention of physical stimulation made total sense and he had a foreshadowing of what Byers was about to tell him. “I think I can guess,” said Skinner, “but tell me anyway.”

Byers nodded solemnly and said, “The focus of the program is sexual obedience and submission.”

“Somehow I thought so,” said Skinner tersely. Internally, he cursed the sick fucks who had developed the drone program to sate their own perverse pleasures.

“I can send the FBI the details of the audio-visuals. Like I said, they’re deeply layered and encoded. They’re nearly unbreakable. I’ve never heard of or seen anything like it before. Images within images within images, high-pitched audio overlapping sub-frequencies the human ear can only barely make out in addition to complex binaural and isochronic sound maps and hypnotic vocal repetition. I’ve barely had time to decode a quarter of it. Frankly, I’m surprised Mulder, or anyone, would be able to resist more than a few days worth of that kind of brainwashing,” said Byers. He looked like he was about to add something else but hesitated and Skinner again encouraged him to spill. “I can’t emphasize enough how insidious the program that they designed is. Mulder will most likely have behavior issues for the rest of his life, post traumatic stress being the least of his problems.”

Skinner took in the information Byers gave him with a sense of horror and sadness. What Byers had essentially just told him was that Mulder’s mind was fucked six ways to Sunday and it would be a miracle if Mulder ever fully recovered. The thirty-three victims of the Syndicate’s dronification program had all been sent to various area hospitals. Once the information on how to remove their bio-latex grafts had been disseminated, all of them had been freed from the form-fitting black material and many of them had already undergone surgery to remove the electrodes. But to Skinner’s knowledge, no one had yet checked the victims for signs of sexual abuse, thinking that the electrodes were there simply as a form of shock punishment. Skinner would have to get the word out on the nature of the program to the various psychiatrists who had been assigned to the victims to evaluate their mindsets and potential for post traumatic stress and trauma. All of them, like Mulder, were in some level of shock or semi-non-verbal catatonia, some worse than others. Krycek, for example, didn’t speak at all. He just stared at the walls all day and wouldn’t respond to any human interaction. At least Mulder was talking now and again, even if it was only one or two words at a time. But he also had night terrors and frequent frightened outbursts that required him to be sedated as he was now.

Byers and Skinner stood for a moment, each lost in thought. Finally, Skinner turned to Byers and said, “Thank you. I appreciate you looking into this. Please send me the results of your findings through the Bureau. We’ll need to get the information out as quickly as possible.”

“Sure,” said Byers. “I’m, ah, gonna go visit with him now, if that’s all right?”

Skinner nodded and Byers left the little waiting room. Skinner started to pace again, his hand rubbing his mouth and chin pensively as he stared at the light-pink walls, the white-tile ceiling, the utilitarian linoleum floor, any surface that provided a blank background for his thoughts. The FBI had put a watch on the dronification facility and seen vans come and go from an underground parking structure several times during their initial surveillance. He wondered if those vans had been carrying human drones inside and where those drones had been taken. He shuddered to think that the victims of the dronification program were transported somewhere to provide sexual services to those who controlled the drone facility’s purse strings.

“Shit!” he cursed louder than he intended, wishing like hell they’d been able to apprehend that cigarette-smoking bastard.

A female voice caught him off guard when it said, “Bad news huh? Me too. My daughter’s cancer is back.” Skinner turned toward the voice and saw a late-middle-aged woman with dark brown hair streaked with bits of silver sitting in one of the waiting room chairs. She smiled wearily but sympathetically at him as he blushed, regretful of his sailor’s mouth. He hadn’t even seen her come in.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and brushed a hand down the front of his trench coat.

“It’s no problem. I’ve heard worse,” she said with an understanding laugh. He gave her a tight grin and nodded, excusing himself from the room. She gave him a little wave and watched him go. He turned left down the hall and walked to room 205.

Inside, he found Byers hanging back by the door, Langly and Frohike by the head of Mulder’s bed, and Scully sitting in the visitor’s chair by Mulder’s side. Mulder was barely awake, his eyelids drooping, but his eyes watched Skinner as the big man entered. Skinner still felt shock every time he saw Mulder like this, with shorn head and a vacant expression. But it was better than that horror-movie black costume of irremovable latex.

“Gang’s all here,” said Frohike, false chipper-like. The flowers and teddy bear he’d brought with him sat on a rolling table beside Mulder’s bed.

“Briefly anyway,” said Scully. She looked at Skinner and said, “I’m just heading home. I need to get some sleep. You’ll be here for the surgery?” All eyes in the room turned to Skinner and he nodded.

“Of course. I’ll make sure he comes through it okay.”

Scully stood, smoothed her pantsuit, and smiled. She gathered her purse and overnight bag and patted Skinner on the arm as she said her goodbyes to him and The Lone Gunmen.

“We, uh, have to go, too,” Langly spoke up once Scully was gone. He side-eyed Byers who nodded slightly. “Gotta get that info you wanted packed up and shipped to the FBI.”

Skinner nodded wearily. They all patted Mulder’s arm or hand and said goodbye to him. He looked up at them but didn’t speak or otherwise respond. Skinner wondered if the sedative was the cause of his muteness or if it was just overwhelm at having so many people come to wish him well. Skinner breathed a sigh of relief once they were gone and took over the seat Scully had been sitting in earlier. He took Mulder’s hand in his and rubbed his thumb over the back of it gently.

“You ready to have those things removed?” he asked Mulder. Mulder blinked slowly. “I heard it’s a simple procedure. They’re gonna knock you out for about an hour and you’ll wake up electrode free.” Mulder blinked again. Skinner managed a brief smile for him and patted his hand once before letting go. Then he sat back in the chair and regarded Mulder who stared blankly at him. “You want the television on?” asked Skinner, not sure how to pass the time until Mulder’s surgery. Mulder turned his head in a sharp shake and let out a slight negative noise. Skinner sat up straight and took Mulder’s hand again. “No television?” Mulder repeated the head shake. Skinner smiled. “That’s fine. A hundred channels and nothing on anyway, right?” The corners of Mulder’s lips curled up ever so slightly and Skinner felt Mulder’s hand twitch under his own. Skinner’s heart warmed. But a moment later it chilled again as he realized why Mulder had such a negative reaction to the suggestion of watching television: It reminded Mulder of the flickering images he’d been programmed to watch during his brainwashing. Skinner’s smile turned into a grim line and he looked down in shame for even having mentioned it.

“Hey,” grunted Mulder and moved his hand out from under Skinner’s to pat his arm. “No. No.” His voice was hoarse and hard to understand but Skinner caught the gist. Mulder was trying to tell him not to feel bad. He smiled again and patted Mulder’s hand on his arm. Mulder slid it away and turned his head. His eyes closed and his breathing deepened. It seemed he was falling asleep. Perhaps it was all the activity earlier plus the sedative. As he watched Mulder sleep, Skinner vowed he would do everything in his power to help Mulder recover fully from his time in captivity, no matter what it took.

Present Day

“Hey Krycek, remember me?” asked Mulder softly. Dr. Pamela Boswick, his psychiatrist, stood just inside the door, monitoring Mulder’s visit to the catatonic triple agent. Krycek lay in his bed, starting at the ceiling, not even an eyelid flickering. Mulder stood beside the bed. He was wearing a pair of gray, FBI Academy sweatpants Scully had brought him and a matching sweatshirt and t-shirt, both with the FBI emblem on the front. He’d appreciated the change of pace from loose and revealing hospital-issue Johnnies. “I’m gonna touch your hand. I hope that’s okay.” Mulder slowly placed his hand over Krycek’s. There was no response. Mulder stroked the man’s skin. “Look, I-I know you can hear me, and probably understand me. You don’t have to respond. I get it. I was there, too, in that place.” Mulder lowered his voice. He didn’t really want Dr. Boswick to hear what he was saying to Krycek but she had insisted on being present for his first visit to the insensate man.

“I remember the tank, h-how good it felt just to float there,” said Mulder, voice tightening. Dr. Boswick had encouraged him to speak about his experiences so that they didn’t fester as much so he spoke about them now, trying to draw Krycek out of the hiding place he’d gone to in his mind. “And the obedience programming.” A lump formed in his throat. Dr. Boswick moved closer and he looked over his shoulder at her with a grin. “It’s okay. I’m okay,” he reassured her but he couldn’t help the tear that tracked down his cheek. He wiped it away furiously and turned back to Krycek who remained immovable. Mulder tilted his head and regarded the traitor with an empathetic gaze. “I’m sorry,” he whispered and gave Krycek’s hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry th-they forced you to do all those things. I’m sorry your life has been shit since siding with them.” He looked pointedly at Krycek’s amputated arm. “And… I-I can’t help feeling just a little bit responsible. I swear to you, I’m gonna do everything I can to keep the DOJ off your back when you wake up. Okay? But you need to wake up, Krycek. Please.”

Mulder stood for another few minutes in silence after his speech with Dr. Boswick standing by to offer emotional support. Finally, sensing no change in the triple agent, he gave Krycek’s hand a final pat and turned away from the bed. Dr. Boswick wore a gentle smile on her round face. She held out a hand to guide Mulder from the room. He followed her silent directive past the guard that had been posted at Krycek’s door but couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder at the motionless form in the bed.

“That went well,” said Dr. Boswick as she walked with Mulder to his room. He hugged himself and nodded. “You can visit him again when you’re ready.”

“Do you think I got through to him at all?” worried Mulder as they continued down the long hallway past more patient rooms, a couple of closed office doors, and the nurse’s station and banged a right down a second long corridor, the one Mulder’s room was in. Mulder hadn’t even known until a few days ago that Krycek was being kept on the same floor of the hospital.

Dr. Boswick shrugged. “It’s difficult to tell. Catatonic patients often don’t respond to any outside stimulus.”

“Is the catatonia permanent?”

“Again, it’s difficult to tell. I think it depends on how his therapy goes,” said Dr. Boswick.

“Oh,” said Mulder absently, wondering what kind of therapy one would give to someone who didn’t move or speak or otherwise engage. He, himself, had been a hard sell on the psychotherapy front when he’d first been admitted and hadn’t really started opening up until recently.

“How do you feel, seeing him again? I understand from your boss that Alex has betrayed you in the past, yet you show remarkable forgiveness and empathy for him,” said Boswick. They were several doors down from Mulder’s room, walking sedately. Mulder nodded and turned to her, stopping in the middle of the hallway.

“I… I feel bad for him. What he went through, what we both went through, shouldn’t happen to anyone. He had it worse than I did. He was there longer,” said Mulder. “Traitor or no, I think he’s been punished enough for his sins.”

Dr. Boswick studied Mulder’s face with her light blue eyes and nodded. She left him alone in his room. A pile of books and magazines had accumulated while he’d been in the psychiatric hospital and he went to them, smiling down at the stack of The Lone Gunmen publications the guys had brought him recently. He chose one that they’d put out just last week about a link between aliens, a government cover up, and ancient pyramid power. Langly had reassured Mulder that their sources on that one were top notch and he looked forward to reading it. But once he settled in the chair by the window and flipped open to the main article, he couldn’t focus on any of the words. Images of Krycek lying in his bed unresponsive kept floating through his mind. With a sigh, Mulder set aside the newsletter and curled up in his chair to stare out the window.

Though he was doing better, talking more, and expressing himself in therapy, he didn’t want to leave the psychiatric hospital. More particularly, he didn’t want to leave Krycek alone there without someone who understood what Krycek had gone through at the dronification facility and in the Syndicate meeting rooms. Mulder suppressed a shudder at one of his many memories of being driven to meetings of the Syndicate and of the activities that went on there. Anyone looking in from the outside would say he had no true obligation to Krycek, the man who had killed Scully’s sister and killed Bill Mulder and betrayed them all in any number of lesser but still significant ways over the years. Mulder’s thoughts were heavy and circular and drove him into a tailspin of worry so deep he didn’t notice the light footsteps or the voice of his partner calling his name until Scully came into view beside his chair. He looked up at her, startled out of his reverie, and smiled.

“Where were you just now?” she asked gently, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a little rub.

“Just thinking,” he answered.

“About?”

He sighed and turned to look out the window. “Krycek.” He felt her hand tense on his shoulder and she stopped rubbing. “I don’t want to leave him here all alone.”

“He’s not alone, Mulder. He’s got doctors, nurses, orderlies, and a twenty-four hour guard outside his door,” said Scully. Mulder registered the note of anger in her voice and he took her hand, guiding her around so he could look up at her face more easily. She looked down at him and he took her other hand, holding them both in his with a plea in his eyes.

“None of them understand what he’s been through except me,” insisted Mulder.

“Then you can come visit,” said Scully, “not that I get why. We’ve talked about this before. He may never come out of his catatonia and you aren’t a psychiatrist. You can’t give him therapy or protect him forever. You have to move on with your own life.”

“No, but I could be there when he wakes up. What if… What if he snaps out of it and is scared? You know Skinner wants to throw the book at him, too. What if they toss him in a federal prison where he’s taken advantage of because of his trauma and his disability? I don’t know if he could survive that.”

Scully frowned and her eyebrows drew down. She lifted her hands in his and exclaimed, “Mulder, I still don’t understand why you’re so concerned about his welfare! He killed your father for God’s sake!”

“I…” Mulder hesitated and withdrew his hands from hers in order to hug himself around the middle. “I guess I just empathize with him. He… We were forced to…” He shook his head. He’d barely been able to talk about his own rapes and sexual abuse with Dr. Boswick. He knew Scully and Skinner knew all the drones from the facility had been used for sexual purposes but he’d kept the personal details of his own abuse from them as best as he was able. There were some things he just couldn’t burden them with and some things he was too ashamed to share. Mulder swallowed, trying not to think of how he’d raped Krycek at the smoking man’s behest, knowing now that he’d been only one of many Krycek had been programmed to submit to. “He shouldn’t have had to go through that,” he whispered.

Scully was quiet for a second and then she crouched before him and looked into his eyes, patting his knee the way Skinner had the other day. “He has the best care he could possibly have here. You need to trust that they’ll do what’s best for him just like they have with you.” Mulder thought about what she said and eventually nodded. She smiled at him and added, “I brought dinner. I thought you could use a break from hospital food.”

“Sounds great,” he said and mustered a smile. She helped him pull over his chair to the little table against the wall where the books and magazines were. He dumped the reading material on the floor behind him and reached for the brown paper bag Scully set on the table. “What’re we having?”

“Chinese,” she said and dragged over a second visitor’s chair.

“You know the way straight to a man’s heart, don’t you?” Mulder teased and she gave him a smug look back as if to say she knew exactly the kind of power she had over men’s hearts. They spoke lightly over dinner about The Lone Gunmen’s recent articles, her brother Bill’s latest deployment, and some of the simpler goings on in the halls of the FBI like who got transferred and if there were any promising new trainees. However, their talk eventually circled around to the investigation into the dronification facility that was still ongoing even weeks later. All the victims had been interviewed multiple times with more or less success depending on their level of trauma. A clearer picture of what had transpired in the facility and at the Syndicate meetings emerged as statements and more evidence were gathered. The facility itself was examined in minute detail so that investigators fully understood its function and would be able to testify against those who worked there. Unfortunately, there were still no leads on where the heads of the Syndicate who had ordered the creation of the facility and had overseen its construction and use met or where they had fled to. All of them had escaped the raid successfully and were, as far as anyone could tell, in hiding.

“We still haven’t located the man who gave us the initial information on where you’d been taken. I think that avenue of investigation is dead end,” frowned Scully, “which is unfortunate because he might have been able to provide us the current location of the Syndicate’s leaders.”

“Let it go, Scully,” he said, startling Scully who paused with a forkful of lo mein halfway to her mouth. Mulder poked at his moo goo with a pair of chopsticks, oblivious to her shock. “You’re not gonna find him.”

“Him?” queried Scully carefully. Mulder kept stirring and poking at his food, not eating, just staring inside the little carton as if he could divine the future from the saucy conglomeration of chicken, horse chestnuts, peppers, mushrooms, sno peas, and bamboo shoots.

“The smoking man,” said Mulder in an undertone and set aside the carton. He folded his hands in his lap and focused on the laminate top of the table between him and Scully. “He’s too well protected,” Mulder went on in the same low, hopeless tone. “He’ll never be brought to justice for his crimes.”

“Skinner said the same thing once. I wish I could promise you that he will but I just don’t know,” said Scully sympathetically. Mulder nodded and looked up at her with a vague attempt at a resigned smile. To cheer him up, she offered him a fortune cookie from the bag and he took it but didn’t open it right away. He struggled internally for a moment, wondering if he should tell her that the smoking man, who he was almost certain was his biological father, had sexually abused him while he was a drone, but in the end he said nothing. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to ruin their dinner or cause her any more grief. He hadn’t even shared those facts with Dr. Boswick. Yet sometimes they made him so sick inside he just wanted them out in the open, purged from him so that he didn’t have to bear the memories alone. He wanted to find that smoking bastard and ask him why, why he had done those things to his own son.

Instead of saying anything, he finally opened his fortune cookie and read it silently. With an arch of a brow, he then shared it with Scully and was glad to hear her giggle. “‘About time I got out of that cookie.’” She dug in the bottom of the bag, opened her cookie and read it, then passed it to him.

“I think this one is better for you,” she said. He read the fortune on the little strip of paper and smiled. The paper read, “Doing your best at this moment puts you in the best place for the next moment.”

“Thanks, Scully,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome, Mulder,” she replied. He picked up his carton of moo goo again and resumed eating.

“You’ve shown remarkable progress, Mulder,” said Dr. Boswick a day later. Mulder gave an embarrassed smile at her praise.

“Thanks, Dr. Boswick.”

She leaned forward in her chair and pushed aside the papers on which she’d been taking notes on the little table in Mulder’s room. Mulder longed to read her notes about him but thought that maybe it was best if he didn’t. “I know you’re worried about that other patient, Alex Krycek. You’ve expressed wanting to help him and, while I find that admirable, I think your sense of camaraderie has to take a back seat to your own needs at this time. How do you feel about going home tomorrow? We can ease you back into everyday life with a few therapy sessions back here at the hospital every week and keep them up or taper them off as needed while you get back on your feet.”

Mulder jiggled his leg and looked around anxiously. “I’ve thought about it, a lot,” he admitted, “and I’m just not sure.”

“You can always be readmitted,” she said, understanding his concern. “But it’s important for your mental health that you get back to as normal a life as possible. Plus I understand you have good friends who are more than eager to help you make the transition from hospital to outpatient.”

Mulder picked at the knee of his jeans and couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Frohike, Byers, or Langly babysitting him. He nodded. “Okay, yeah. I guess you’re right,” he said though his heart wasn’t truly in it. He still had his days where he wanted the rewarding stimulation of the electrodes under his null belt and the mind-numbing program to drown out all thoughts and bring him pleasure instead. Hell, only that morning he’d touched himself in the shower and wept at the lack of bio-latex encasing him firmly all over, unable to even get it up without the electrodes pulsing in and around his cock. What was going to happen to him when he had these thoughts at home? These desires for reward for obeying his masters? Of course there were no masters any more. They were behind bars or in hiding. He trembled at the thought of encountering any of them now, on the outside. He’d been protected while he was in the hospital. What would happen if the smoking man and he crossed paths again? Would he kneel submissively and obey his father’s commands? They were questions he hoped he’d never find the answers to.

While he zoned out, Dr. Boswick began to talk release forms and signatures and had Mulder put his signature on several dotted lines after he’d skimmed the documents. Then she encouraged him to call someone to come pick him up at the hospital tomorrow morning at checkout. Mulder told her he would, but when she left he didn’t know who to call first. Initially, he thought Scully because she was least threatening and didn’t remind him of the men who had used him as their own personal fuck toy. The Lone Gunmen meant well, but they would all be falsely cheery and not understanding of his ups and downs. They might crowd him physically and unintentionally set off his anxiety. Plus there were three of them. That was a lot of socialization for him to deal with all at once. Then he thought about Skinner. The man had been a rock for him since he’d been admitted first to Georgetown Memorial and then moved to the psychiatric hospital some time later. He hadn’t flinched from the man’s gentle touches in over a week. A small smile played on Mulder’s face, his eyes going to the teddy bear Frohike had brought to Georgetown for him. He’d kept it even when the flowers his friend had given him wilted and died. Skinner was like that, a big, warm teddy bear. Yes he had a ferocious side sometimes, but inside the man was sweet and kind and protective of Mulder. He was also understanding and attentive to Mulder’s needs, just like Scully. After a long time dilly dallying, Mulder made two phone calls. He’d let them both take him home and watch them duke it out over Mulder-babysitting duty.

Thirteen and a Half Weeks Earlier

Mulder felt the sweet runner’s high start to kick in as he marked his tenth mile. It would be his second marathon in three days if he decided to keep going. It was getting late, though, and he wanted to review the Shannon case again first thing in the morning even though tomorrow was Saturday. He needed sleep so his mind could go over the facts clearly. It was a convoluted case with multiple suspects and several unexplained phenomena that rendered it one for the X-Files. He checked his watch as he passed an all-night convenience store, his breath pluming the cold December air. The time was just past nine-thirty. Time to pack it in, then, he thought. He still had to jog ten miles back home. Six miles short, oh well. He didn’t need to run a marathon every time. He knew his skills and his stamina and knew the pressures of his job and the stress of the approaching holidays would force him into blowing off more steam the same way by the middle of next week come sleet or shine. He shook his head as he did an about face. He didn’t want to think about work or what the hell to get Scully for a Christmas present now. He wanted the serenity that running gave him and it was definitely within his grasp on the ten-mile return trip to his apartment.

He was five miles from home when he noticed a black panel van with super-bright headlights following him. The van wasn’t being very discrete as it slowly paced him, causing a couple of other vehicles to pass it with angry honks of their horns. He looked over his shoulder and couldn’t make out the driver. He cursed himself for not carrying his cell phone and wondered if he was mistaken. Maybe it was just a lost driver looking for a particular address. Nobody knew his running route. Mulder varied where his feet took him each time he ran. So how could someone possibly be following him? More importantly, why would anyone be following him?

Mulder decided to take a shortcut home through an alleyway where the van couldn’t follow. He veered left down it when he came abreast of the alley and put on a burst of speed. Another van came out of nowhere with an angry roar of its engine and blocked the other end of the alley. Mulder halted halfway, confused, his heart rabbiting in his chest. Now he wished he had his gun, but all he wore were his running clothes and all he had on him was his wallet with ten bucks and his driver’s license in it and the key to his apartment. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath and turned around to head back out the way he’d come. The van that had been following him pulled up onto the curb and blocked that exit as well.

Several men in black clothing and bearing guns got out of both vans and Mulder turned his head this way and that, trying to keep an eye on both groups of men and also search for an escape route from the alley. He saw a side door in one of the buildings and tried it but it was locked. He growled and kicked at it but it wouldn’t budge. The men closed in on him, guns raised. Mulder braced himself, ready to fight his way out, but he didn’t have a chance. One of the men shot at him and he felt a sharp sting in his chest. As he sank to the ground, knees suddenly weak, he heard one of the men instruct the others to, “Bring him to the facility.” And then Mulder’s eyes rolled back in his skull as whatever tranquilizer they’d hit him with took full effect and he went under.

Present Day

Mulder looked around the room he’d been living in for four and a half weeks. He’d gathered up all his belongings in two cardboard boxes: one with clothing and toiletries, the other with his books, papers, and Frohike’s bear, which he’d affectionately named Mr. Tiny. He wouldn’t exactly miss the place but the view from the window was nice with the oak tree and the wide lawn and the distant road leading up to the building’s front drive and parking lot. And of course there was Krycek. He’d paid the catatonic man another visit that morning, hoping that he could get through to him. Ultimately it was a one-sided conversation. He had told Krycek apologetically that he was leaving but that he’d be back for visits. When that hadn’t garnered a response, he’d smiled wanly and had given Krycek’s shoulder one last squeeze before turning and walking out of the room.

“You look pensive,” commented Dr. Boswick, coming up beside him as he stared out the window. “Still worried about going home?”

Mulder shrugged and didn’t look away from the window. “Words, Mulder, remember?” she teased him and he gave her a boyish smile.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” he said and he appreciated her honest, open expression. She’d been a good match for him when he’d been down. Ordinarily he was distrustful of psychiatrists. He knew all their tricks to get someone to open up when they didn’t want to and would have struggled through all his therapy appointments, but he’d found a kindred spirit in Boswick when she’d confided in him that she had had a traumatic sexual experience in her youth. It was this that had prompted her to go into psychiatry and try to help rape-trauma victims overcome the often debilitating behaviors that developed out of their feelings of fear, shame, and anger and help them, too, to find healthy ways of expressing those emotions. At one point, in the early days when Mulder was still mostly silent but she had seen him trying desperately to express himself, Dr. Boswick had prompted him to “use his words” and since then it had become something of a joke between them. She had explained that she could do nothing to help him unless he agreed to do the proverbial heavy lifting during their sessions and he’d reluctantly agreed. The program of a drone is silent was, however, a difficult one to break. “I guess I’m just worried that I’m still not able to function properly, you know?” He had managed to relearn how to do all the activities of daily living on his own without prompting like shower, dress, shave, eat, and toilet himself but there was still the fear that he would slip back into the program and forget to take care of himself. In the drone facility, all his needs had been taken care of for him and he hadn’t needed to think about them or lift a finger. And of course he was afraid of running into any Syndicate members.

She nodded at him to go on when he paused, searching for the words that fit how he felt.

“And it’s less about worrying over abandoning Krycek than it is about worrying about my place in this world now that I’m… that I’ve gone through what I’ve gone through. I think working would help me a long way toward feeling normal again.”

Boswick gave him a sympathetic smile. “One step at a time, Mulder. You aren’t even home yet. I want to see you back here three times a week like we discussed. And I want to see you making progress at home. Then we can talk about you going back to work.”

“But I…”

“Anybody need a ride?” said a masculine voice from the doorway and Skinner poked his bald head in the door with a grin, interrupting Mulder. Mulder and Dr. Boswick looked at each other and shared a smile as Skinner walked in the room. He was dressed casually in boots, a pair of chinos, a tan sweater, and a brown leather jacket. Mulder had seen Skinner dressed down a lot in the past month but he was still caught off guard by seeing this softer side of the big, burly AD.

Mulder blushed and his mouth flapped a bit but he recovered and said, “My ride’s on her way, but you can carry these heavy boxes down for me.” He fluttered his eyelashes dramatically and Skinner guffawed, slapping Mulder good-naturedly on the arm. Mulder stiffened for just a moment but then relaxed. Skinner registered the minute change and removed his hand.

“I bet you’ll be glad to get rid of him,” said Skinner to Dr. Boswick who shook her head.

“Not at all,” she said. “He’s been a model patient, for the most part.” She winked. Skinner gave Mulder a raised eyebrow and tilted his head away from Dr. Boswick so she couldn’t see his expression but Mulder shook his head and rolled his eyes. He did not have a fixation on Dr. Boswick like Skinner had just implied. “Well, since half your escort is here, Mulder, I’ll let you get going and I’ll see you on Monday,” she said. Mulder shook her hand and thanked her and both men watched her leave the room.

“Scully’s offered to drive you Mondays and Wednesdays to your therapy. I can drive you on Fridays,” said Skinner once Boswick had gone and Mulder’s eyes widened.

“Sir, I can’t…”

“‘Sir’?” interrupted Skinner with a smirk. “‘Walter’ is no good for you anymore? We’re back to ‘sir’ now? Or are you gearing up to go back to work? Because I know for a fact that Dr. Boswick is not going to sign off for you to do so until you’ve passed all her tests with flying colors.”

“It’s not that,” said Mulder with some minor exasperation. “I just don’t expect you and Scully to reshuffle your busy schedules in order to play chauffeur. I can get a cab for my therapy sessions. It’s no problem,” he protested even though the thought of going out and about on his own terrified him.

Skinner inched closer, pleased when he noted that Mulder didn’t cringe away from his proximity, his brown eyes studying Mulder’s seriously. “You have no idea what Dana and I went through when you went missing, Mulder. We were both beside ourselves when we couldn’t find you. And then when we found out where you were and what had happened to you. Jesus, Mulder, I can’t…” Skinner turned away for a moment, hands on his hips, his chin down. Then he looked back again and said in an even lower voice that was choked with emotion, “So you’ll have to forgive us if we want to keep tabs on you a little bit. And all I want to hear out of that mouth of yours on that subject, Agent, is ‘thank you.’”

“Thank you,” whispered Mulder sincerely, affected deeply by Skinner’s words. Of course Mulder knew exactly how someone in their position felt when someone they cared for went missing, but he wasn’t about to correct Skinner on that; Samantha forgive him. Mulder didn’t expect Skinner to have that personal loss in the back of his mind all the time the same way he did. Hell, even Scully forgot sometimes that he had lost his sister to some unknown abductor or abductors and was still, in some ways, searching for her every day, even if it was just in his memory. Skinner drew him into a bear hug, surprising him, and clapped him on the back a few times, nearly driving the breath from him. When they separated, Skinner didn’t seem to want to lose physical contact. He kept his hand on Mulder’s bicep and they took a moment just to look at each other. That was how Scully found them when she came through the door a few seconds later.

Her eyes went from Mulder to Skinner and back again and a confused little smile broke out on her face. “Am I interrupting something?” she asked huskily and Skinner immediately dropped his hand and cleared his throat. Mulder looked to her and smiled sheepishly. She, too, had casual clothes on, some jeans and a blouse with a sweater on top, and she wore a heavy-weight spring jacket in purple, hot pink, and teal. Her car keys were in one hand and she was using the other to tuck a lock of her radiant red hair behind her ear.

“Nope, not a thing,” answered Mulder and he went across the room to her to give her a hug. Behind them, Skinner stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Scully caught his eye around Mulder’s broad shoulders when she shifted and gave him a curious look. He smiled at her and shook his head as if to say, “It’s nothing,” and she turned her attention back to Mulder. “Skinner was just telling me how you’ve divvied up chauffer duty. I wanted to say thank you,” Mulder told her, having learned his lesson protesting to Skinner.

“You’re welcome, Mulder,” she said with knitted brows. She and Skinner shared another, more amused, look, Mulder oblivious as he went over and picked up one of the two boxes from the bed. He hefted it. It was the weightier of the two with all the books and magazines in it.

“Walter here has offered to do some heavy lifting today. Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Cheeky little shit,” grumbled Skinner affectionately as Scully giggled and Mulder handed him the box. “I’ll meet you two in the parking lot.”

Once Skinner was gone, Scully came over to the bed and rubbed a hand up and down Mulder’s arm, smiling up at him. “What was that all about when I came in?”

Mulder shrugged. Then he remembered Dr. Boswick’s advice and smiled tenderly. “I don’t know. I guess it was our way of communicating. He told me a little of what you and he went through when I went missing. I can relate to that.” He took her hand and squeezed it and then let go and reached for the box with his clothing in it.

“He cares a lot about you, you know,” she said seriously. Mulder looked down into the box in his hands and picked at a bit of torn cardboard at the corner of it. Lying on top of the clothes in the box was the handkerchief Skinner had given to him, now neatly cleaned and pressed. He bobbed his head minutely and acknowledged her words with, “I know.”

“Maybe more than he should,” she said knowingly. His head snapped up, his brows met, and his heart gave a little lurch.

“Wh-What do you mean?” he asked, flustered. “He cares about all the agents under his supervision, you know that.”

“Not to the point of spending almost every waking hour with one of them at the hospital and then visiting them as often as possible for weeks afterward at a psychiatric hospital and then, when they get out of the hospital, offering to drive said agent around town for personal appointments. His apartment isn’t even anywhere near yours, Mulder.”

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty? Cause I already offered to get a cab,” he said, voice rising. “And neither is yours by the way.” He made for the door with his box but Scully stalled him with her hand on his arm again.

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m trying to point out to you the facts.”

A muscle in Mulder’s jaw jumped. “I think it’s time for me to go home, Scully,” he told her, his own voice husky when he thought about what the “facts” added up to. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was seeing things that weren’t there. Of course when one worked long enough on the X-Files, one could suddenly find oneself quite open to extreme possibilities.

Scully held on to him a few more seconds and then let him go. “All right. Riding with me or with the boss?”

“He’s not my boss right now,” grumped Mulder to her as he preceded her down the hall to the elevators.

“Well, technically you’re only on medical leave, so yeah, he still is,” she corrected him as they got in to a waiting elevator. He ruminated on that salient point along with the other facts she’d given him and started putting a case together in his head but it still didn’t add up. Before they left the psychiatric hospital, Mulder stopped in the middle of the hall, causing a bunch of people to go around them, and faced Scully down.

“Do you love me, Scully?”

She gaped at him. “Uh, well…”

“Good,” he said and turned on his heel and headed out the hospital’s doors to the parking lot. He rode with Scully.

Thirteen Weeks Earlier

Scully paused when she came into the basement office and didn’t catch sight of her partner. Hm, must be in the restroom or getting coffee, she thought and moved over to their shared desk to put down her attaché case. She dug out some autopsy reports she’d been going through on the Shannon case from the bag and sat back in her chair to await Mulder’s return. She wanted to show him something in one of them that she’d overlooked the first time around. She hated having to admit she’d missed something, but they were both putting in long hours trying to solve the case, even on the weekends, although they had spent this past weekend apart. Sometimes it was hard to focus on the details when one was so tired they could barely see straight. Scully thought back to medical school and her internship and having to work twenty-four hour shifts. She shuddered. She loved medicine and science but she prayed those twenty-four hour shift days were over. She yawned. God, she’d only had about four hours sleep last night. She could almost feel the autopsy reports burned into her retinas. She checked her watch with a frown. Where the hell is he? she asked herself. It had been about ten minutes and Mulder still hadn’t shown. Maybe he was home, asleep. He’d worked just as hard on their case as she had and no doubt had pulled a couple of all-nighters over the weekend.

She picked up the office phone and dialed his land line. His answering machine picked up so she left a message telling him to get back to her. Then she busied herself notating the autopsy report and typing up her findings. This took a good hour and when Mulder still hadn’t shown or called she decided to try his cell phone. His voice mail picked up and she left a message there, demanding to know where he was and insisting he call her back immediately. She stabbed the end call button with her thumb and stowed her phone in her bag. “He’d better not be in trouble,” she muttered under her breath.

At nine-fifteen, the basement office phone rang and she leapt for it, thinking it was Mulder finally getting back to her. It was Skinner. He wanted to know where Mulder was. Alarm bells went off in Scully’s head and as much as she wanted to stall for her partner who sometimes ran off leaving her hanging, she had to admit to herself that something was wrong here. Mulder was a workaholic. He wouldn’t just not show up for work unless he was in some kind of hot water. “He’s not here yet, sir,” she began, opting for honesty.

“Well where the hell is he?” demanded Skinner in a gruff voice.

“I… don’t know, sir. I tried his cell and his home phone and got no answer,” said Scully and heard a frustrated huff from the other end of the line.

“Well I checked with my secretary and he didn’t call in sick or take personal time so he’d better show up. I’ve got a meeting at ten-thirty with the Deputy Director about the Shannon case and he wants to see progress,” said Skinner.

“Oh, I have an update on that, sir. Should I bring it up?” asked Scully, but her mind was still focused on her MIA partner.

A gravelly sigh dragged itself wearily from Skinner’s lungs and he answered, “Yeah, why don’t you give me twenty minutes and then come upstairs. Maybe Mulder will have shown by then and we can have the privilege of his insight.” Scully couldn’t help smiling at Skinner’s sarcasm.

“Sure, sir. Twenty minutes,” she agreed and hung up the phone. She spent those twenty minutes pacing and checking her watch over and over. Finally, with no sign of Mulder still, she grabbed a printout of her latest autopsy findings and marched to the elevator to head up to the fifth floor.

Skinner was waiting with a grim set to his face. He gestured for her to take a seat as she passed him the printout. He skimmed it with a hum or two, his thumb and fingers rubbing together. Then he looked up at her through his wire rims. “Still no word from Mulder?” he asked.

Scully shook her head. “No, sir.” There was a pause and the air in the office seemed suddenly tense. Then Scully spoke again, hoping that her boss would be as concerned as she was about her partner. “Frankly, sir, I’m getting a little worried about him. I haven’t seen him since Friday and we had no contact over the weekend. He never mentioned to me taking any time off and it’s my belief that he wouldn’t do so while this case is still so hot.”

Skinner silently evaluated her words and gave a slight nod. “What course of action do you suggest, Agent Scully?” he asked.

She fidgeted in her seat. It was almost quarter past ten and Skinner had his meeting soon. “I suggest that I go to his apartment and see if he’s there. Maybe light a small fire under his ass if he is, if he’s capable of coming to work that is.”

A smile twitched across Skinner’s lips briefly and he said, “I think that’s an acceptable route of investigation, Agent Scully. You can light a second fire under his ass for me.” They both stood, sharing an amused look, and Scully went back downstairs to grab her necessities before going to the parking garage.

Scully stepped over a couple of newspapers outside Mulder’s door as she entered Mulder’s apartment and called out to him. His car had been in the parking lot so she was hopeful that he had just overslept. There was no response. She took a look around and found her partner nowhere in sight. Frustrated, Scully tried his cell phone again and heard a ringing nearby. She hunted for the source and found his cell phone in the pocket of his trench coat which hung on a hook by the front door. The feeling of dread that had been brewing since earlier that morning when Mulder didn’t report in to work came to a head and she immediately got on the horn to Skinner’s office. She demanded of his secretary to be patched through, saying her call was of vital importance, and seconds later was telling Skinner the bad news. “There’s no sign of him at his apartment, sir. I think something might have happened to him. He left his cell phone, badge, and both his service piece and personal firearm here and didn’t take in several of his newspapers.”

“Is there any sign of a struggle?” asked Skinner.

“No, but…” she sighed. “This is Mulder we’re talking about.”

“All right. You stay there. I’ll assign a couple of agents here to start calling hospitals and the local PD. I’ll let you know if anyone has reported seeing him in the last forty-eight to seventy-two hours,” said Skinner.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” she said automatically.

“Don’t thank me, yet, Agent Scully,” said Skinner grimly. “Let’s just hope he’s only gotten into garden-variety mischief.”

“Right, sir,” she said and hung up the phone.

While she waited, Scully did a cursory sweep of Mulder’s apartment, checking ingress and egress for smaller signs of struggle: scuff marks, blood, chipped paint, and the like. That was a bust. She also checked his firearms for any indication that he’d fired them recently but both were clean. Scully then played his phone messages from the past week. Most of them were from her and there were one or two from a phone-sex line that made her raise an eyebrow but nothing that sounded nefarious. Considering the lack of any indication of foul play, Scully was at a total loss. Her eyes roved the floor as she thought what to do next and noticed that Mulder’s running shoes were missing from where he usually kept them by the door so they wouldn’t get mud and grime all over his apartment. She hunted his apartment again on the lookout for them but they didn’t turn up.

She decided to report to Skinner again. “I think he may have gone out for a run sometime this weekend and not come back,” Scully said after telling Skinner about the missing shoes while pacing in Mulder’s somewhat cluttered but comfortable living room.

“Okay, next step is to go door-to-door, ask the neighbors if they saw him leave. Someone has to know something,” said Skinner and Scully could hear the concern in his voice. Then he sighed. “None of the area hospitals have reported a man of Mulder’s description come through their emergency rooms.”

“I’m gonna take that as a good sign that he wasn’t in an accident of any kind but…”

“Yeah, ‘but,’” concurred Skinner. “We’re still waiting for confirmation from the DC police. Should I send over some backup for you so you can canvass Mulder’s apartment complex faster?”

“That would be appreciated,” said Scully, unable to keep her emotions from turning her voice to gravel. “I’ll, uh, call his mother, too. He might be with her or she might have heard from him this weekend.”

“Dana,” said Skinner firmly, “we’ll find him. I’m sure this is all just some big misunderstanding. Just hang in there.”

“I will, sir, thank you,” she said. Once she’d hung up the phone, she put a hand to her nose and clenched her eyes shut against the tidal wave of tears that wanted to subsume her. But after a moment, she sniffed it all inside and got herself together.

Opening the door to Mulder’s apartment, Scully picked up his newspapers, put them inside the door, and slowly moved down the hallway to the next apartment. In a daze, she raised her fist and knocked on the door. A few seconds later, an elderly woman opened it. Scully held up her ID and shield and said quietly, “FBI. I need to ask you a few questions about your neighbor in apartment forty-two…”

Present Day

It felt surreal walking into his apartment and seeing his things again for the first time in months. As he drifted into his living room, his eyes tracked from the milky-way galaxy and Royal typewriter posters on the wall to the leather armchair in the corner to the cluttered desk with its computer and clock and stacks of papers to the tall, open-frame bookcase in the corner with some of his collectables, books, and the bright, bubbling fish tank on the third shelf down. The couch looked the same squat, dark, leathery green and was still covered with plump Indian-weave and paisley throw pillows. The coffee table bore the TV and VCR remotes, a couple of magazines, and a book on tales of monster sightings from medieval times to the present.

Mulder took a moment to breathe and take it all in while Scully and Skinner placed the boxes with his things from the psychiatric hospital on his dining table. His head rotated slowly and he peeked in the kitchen. His vintage refrigerator looked so cluttered to him with all its photos and article clippings and magnets. He took another breath and shuddered. The whole place was overstimulating. How could he have lived here for most of his adult life? He closed his eyes and reached for the feel of being suspended in thick, light-green fluid. If he concentrated hard enough, he could also feel the binding constriction of black bio-latex coating his body and the devices over his face and genitals that kept him fed, oxygenated, and clean.

“Mulder?” A quiet voice interrupted his thoughts and he started, opening his eyes with a confused blink. He felt a small hand on his arm and looked down at Scully who looked up at him with concern.

“I’m fine,” he said before she had the chance to ask after his welfare. He caught the concerned look Skinner gave him, too, and tried to give him a reassuring smile. Skinner looked him up and down, mouth not sharing Mulder’s forced jolliness. “It’s, ah, good to be home,” Mulder added with false sincerity, moving away from Scully and seeking out his basketball by the side of the couch. He picked it up and bounced it a few times, glad to know it hadn’t lost any air in his absence. He saw Scully smile and was relieved that she was relieved.

“I don’t know how you don’t get complaints from your neighbors,” she said wryly, gesturing to the basketball in his hands. He flexed his fingers against the orange, bumpy surface and gave her a shrug.

“Are you two hungry? We could order some food. Mulder, do you want to unpack your things or do you want us to help?” asked Skinner gesturing to the boxes.

“I don’t need any help, thanks,” said Mulder, “and I’m not hungry.”

Skinner and Scully shared a glance and Skinner announced, “Well I sure am. I’m going to go get us some lunch. I’ll be back in a little bit.” Scully and Mulder both said goodbye to him and he left. Mulder bounced the ball again a few times and then set it on the couch absently. He went to the window and traced his fingers over sticky marks left by the masking tape he used on occasion to summon help from deep within the defense department… or somewhere.

“Who was it who told you where I was?” Mulder asked Scully without turning away from the window.

She was silent for a moment and then answered him. “You mean that informant we can’t seem to locate? We never got his name. He just came out of nowhere and offered information on your whereabouts at the precise moment we thought we’d never find you.”

“Hm,” said Mulder thoughtfully. He turned and bent over to examine his fish. “Lost a Molly, no, two Mollies.”

“Sorry, Mulder,” apologized Scully and he straightened, looking at her with a smile.

“It’s okay, Scully,” he said understandingly. “You did your best.”

“Maybe not enough,” she said and suddenly her face crumpled and her eyes brimmed over with tears. Mulder frowned and went to her, pulling her into a long hug and hushing her.

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay,” he whispered, his cheek resting on her red hair, and wished he could believe his own words.

Scully used the little red kettle on Mulder’s stove to brew them some tea while Mulder unpacked his clothing and books and magazines. He put Mr. Tiny on one of the shelves above his fish tank in front of a row of books. The bear looked dapper and cheerful. Mulder stroked one finger down its furry brown belly then moved away to stuff the magazines he’d accrued into his storage room. He closed the door to that room quickly. He didn’t want Scully or Skinner to see what a pack rat he was, although he supposed Scully must have seen glimpses at some point or another. As the door clicked shut, he thought maybe it was time to clear out that room, to have a proper bedroom with space for sleeping rather than junk. He wasn’t sure what prompted this sudden urge to simplify his surroundings. Maybe it was the contrast between his cluttered apartment and the extreme minimalist way he’d been forced to exist for a month and a half. There had to be a balance between the two. Mulder stiffened and inhaled and his right hand gravitated toward his crotch as Scully puttered in the kitchen. Good drone. Obey. Good drone. Submit. The image of the inside of his drone tank pushed him out of reality for a second, the words of his programming echoing in his brain. Just as he began to spiral, he gasped and let go of his semi-hard cock and good thing, too, because there was a knock on the door. His almost-erection wilted.

Mulder schooled himself and went to answer the door. Skinner came in bearing an armload of groceries and a bag of takeout food. “Thought you could use some of the basics,” said Skinner as he set everything down on the dining table. Mulder just stood there, still somewhat in shock from his flashback. Skinner noticed his blank look and asked him if he was okay. A moment later, Scully came out of the kitchen and asked the same thing.

“I thought I heard a gasp,” she said. Both of them stared at Mulder, waiting for him to say something. His mouth opened and closed and his fingers twitched. He put a hand to his forehead and drifted over to the couch where he stood between it and the coffee table, facing away from them.

“I, uh,” he began and had to stop a moment to get his bearings. “I’m fine. I’m just kind of overwhelmed right now.” Pride bloomed in his chest, knowing he’d successfully communicated his feelings. Dr. Boswick would be proud of him, too. He sat as Skinner warily began to unpack the take out.

“It’s all right, Mulder,” Scully told him. “Just relax and take a load off.” She set some mugs of tea on his coffee table and helped put away the groceries Skinner had bought. Then she offered Mulder some of the takeout food. He decided a small helping wouldn’t hurt but once he started eating he found himself ravenous and ate two big servings of the fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw. He leaned back sleepily on the couch as his friends finished their own food. Skinner sat in the large armchair in the corner and Scully sat next to Mulder on the couch, having displaced his basketball to the floor where it belonged.

“Thanks, sir, that was delicious,” muttered Mulder and rubbed his belly. The fried chicken was way better than the hospital food he’d had to eat during his recovery aside from the occasional treat Scully brought him. And it was a far cry from the sweet green goo he’d sucked from a feeding tube while he’d been a drone. Suddenly Mulder’s stomach roiled and he felt like he was going to be sick. He rose quickly from the couch, not making an excuse, and dashed to the bathroom. He fell to his knees before the toilet and retched up the contents of his stomach.

When he emerged from the bathroom wiping his mouth on his sweatshirt sleeve, he saw two pairs of worried eyes focused on him and ducked his head to avoid their gazes. Skinner stood in the middle of the living room with his hands in his pockets. “Are you okay, Mulder?” he asked softly.

Mulder nodded. “I think so. I think I just have a case of nervous stomach. I’m sorry,” he said and looked from Skinner to Scully. He was tired of their pitying expressions and just wanted some peace and quiet alone, but Scully immediately offered to stay with him for a few nights while he readjusted to living in his own space. “No, ah, I’m good, Scully. I’ll be all right, I think,” he said, refusing her assistance.

“If you’re sure?” she asked and he put on a brave smile, replying, “I’m sure.”

“I won’t even ask if you want me to stay,” said Skinner, “but you have my phone number if you need to call. I mean it, Fox, day or night. You call.”

“I understand,” said Mulder after Scully echoed Skinner’s sentiment. “And thank you guys for everything, but I think I’d like to be alone for a while.”

“All right. I guess I’ll see you Monday for your appointment,” said Scully and he nodded. She and Skinner both made motions to leave, gathering their jackets and Scully taking her purse. Mulder offered Skinner the takeout leftovers and Skinner insisted he keep them so he could try again later.

“Smaller serving to start might be better,” advised Skinner and Mulder smiled. He leaned with his eyes closed and his forehead against the door after closing it behind them. The apartment, cluttered though it was, felt cavernous and empty when they were gone. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent them away.

The man’s hard cock pounded into him and he could do nothing to resist. Why, Daddy? Why? he cried in his head. The pounding became harsher, the thrusts longer, and the slapping of flesh against bio-latex louder. He was on his hands and knees and somehow also facing his father as the man fucked him from behind. He stared at the gleeful, gremlin image of that haggard, lined face as it took pleasure in destroying its own flesh and blood.

“You want to know why? You had to be brought under control, boy,” answered his father in his dream. The rough, painful fucking continued. Mulder struggled under the harsh hands, the punishing cock. He felt filthy as all the malice his father had to give him filled him from the inside out, as black and constricting as the bio-latex his outsides had been coated in.

No, Daddy! Please! wailed Mulder in his mind.

“Foolish, bright child,” hissed the ghoulish visage of his father. Suddenly, in the dream, Mulder was turned around and raised up on his knees, his mouth opening wide of its own accord. “Obey now. That’s a good drone.”

Mulder took the cock that had just been up his ass into his mouth and down his throat. Down, down, down. He swallowed around its frightening girth, its musky scent penetrating his nostrils like little tendrils or tentacles. He tried to breathe around the appendage but it just kept growing, filling him up like his father’s insidious hate and suffocating him. He couldn’t breathe! He started to flail and a wicked laughter echoed like the program’s auditory stimulus in the center of his mind. He woke with a shout and his whole body shook. He curled on his side on the couch, clutching his pillow, and shuddered through the aftershocks of the night terror.

When he was sure he could move without throwing up, he fumbled for his cell phone on the coffee table. He hesitated between contacts before choosing one and punching the speed dial.

“Mn, hello?” asked a weary voice.

“Sorry to wake you, sir, I… h-had a nightmare,” said Mulder quietly, apologetically.

“It’s okay, Mulder. I said you could call any time and I meant it. Do you want to tell me what the nightmare was about?” said Skinner.

Mulder looked around his darkened living room and reached over so he could turn on a lamp, not wanting to leave the comfort and safety of the couch. He wrapped himself around one of the Indian-weave throw pillows and propped his chin on it. “I had a dream about my father,” he whispered.

“Your father?” The subject of the dream was obviously not what Skinner had expected based on the surprised note in his voice.

“Yeah. He was, um, he was punishing me for interfering in his plans,” said Mulder.

“Was your dream a memory of something you father did or just a product of your imagination?”

Mulder sighed and ran his fingers over one of the tassels on the corner of the pillow. He didn’t think Skinner had made the connection between his use of the word “father” and the smoking man but he wasn’t about to elucidate. “Let’s just say it was very close to some things I’ve experienced in real life,” answered Mulder ruefully.

“I’m sorry, Mulder.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Skinner was quiet a moment and then he asked, “Would you like for me to come over and keep you company? I know sometimes it’s hard to be alone when you wake up from an intense nightmare.”

Mulder thought about it. Mulder didn’t think he could go back to sleep. Then again, he didn’t want to put Skinner out; the man had already done so much for him and Skinner was a good thirty minutes or more away. “I sleep on the couch. I don’t have anywhere for you to sleep,” said Mulder.

“Oh, I dunno. That armchair I sat in earlier today seemed comfy enough,” said Skinner and Mulder appreciated the man’s effort at being more lighthearted. He let out a soft laugh and agreed that Skinner could come over and spend the night in the chair if Skinner wanted to. “I’ll be there in forty.”

“I’ll be awake,” said Mulder and he rang off. He looked at the clock on his desk. It read eleven twenty-six. Mulder shivered and reached for a Lone Gunmen newsletter to take his mind off his nightmare while he waited for Skinner to arrive.

Six and a Half Weeks Earlier

Skinner rode the elevator up to the second floor of Georgetown Memorial hospital. It was early morning, slightly before regular visiting hours. His badge and being in charge of the dronification facility case got him where he needed to be when he needed to be there. And he needed to be there to see that Mulder was recovering from his abduction, captivity, and the traumatic removal of the devices that had kept Mulder enslaved to the Syndicate. Mulder had come out of the surgery that took out the implanted electrodes well but had had to be restrained so he wouldn’t touch his sutured groin until it was explained to him why he needed to keep his hands off for the time being. At first he’d fought the restraints and had been given a sedative. Then he had settled a bit and seemed to accept his situation, though sometimes he grunted the words “tank” and “belt” and “mask” to his friends and the staff as though asking where those items were.

Skinner strode down the hallway, showing his badge again at the nurse’s station and having them wave him onward. He approached room 205 and saw though the small slit window in the closed door that there was an orderly inside folding some items on a cart at the end of Mulder’s bed. The bed’s curtain blocked Skinner’s view of Mulder and he wondered if he was interrupting some kind of minor procedure or maybe Mulder was getting a sponge bath. Skinner paced outside the room for a few minutes, deep in thought over how the investigation was going or rather wasn’t going. The FBI had questioned everyone arrested while working at the facility on the day of the raid and had turned up not much that could be used against the Syndicate. Most of the workers there had no idea there were human captives on the premises or that said captives were being sex-trafficked out to members of an elite that comprised their shadowy executive branch. Other workers, those not in direct charge of the facility but who had a hand in the dronification process, thought that the humans they were brainwashing (they called it “reeducating”) were volunteers. They had even been shown “official” release documents and sample “interview videos” of said supposed volunteers explaining why they wanted to take part in the experiments to create drones. The process had been described to the unsuspecting workers as a behavior-modification technique that was an attempt to create perfect, obedient soldiers. The “volunteers” in the videos expressed their patriotism and desire to serve their country by giving themselves up to scientific research. Ultimately, only a handful of the people running the facility knew the real purpose behind creating the drones. Those people weren’t cooperating with attempts to get any information out of them and had lawyered up tight.

Skinner turned when he heard the noise of a door opening and saw the orderly wheeling the cart out into the hall with what looked like some soiled bedclothes on top of it. The orderly saw him and smiled, gesturing over her shoulder with a thumb. “He’s all yours, Agent Skinner,” she said and Skinner noted her nametag. “Mariah” it read. He thanked her and remembered he’d seen her before in Mulder’s room several times. “Any time. He’s a little fussy today, just so you know.” He gave her a smile and she winked at him. He felt a blush cross his cheeks. She was a good fifteen years younger than he was, not that it mattered, and was very attractive, but he had other things on his mind than potentially hooking up with the hospital staff. He brushed aside her flirting with a polite wave and entered Mulder’s hospital room.

Mulder lay at a slight incline, the bed curtain drawn back again, with the bear Frohike had given him nearby on the table by the head of the bed. Next to the bear sat a plastic pitcher of water, a vase with a bouquet of flowers in it, and a paper cup with a bendy straw in it. His eyes tracked Skinner as the big man walked in the room and greeted him. Mulder blinked and moved his eyes from Skinner to the visitor’s chair and back. He even raised his right hand slightly, the one with the IV running out of it, and pointed.

“Thanks,” said Skinner and took a seat, drawing it close to the bed. “How’re you feeling?” he asked Mulder.

“Accident,” said Mulder croakily, his eyes shiny with weariness.

“Accident?”

Mulder gestured to his pelvic area and looked away from Skinner with a huff through his nose. “Forgot.”

“What did you forget?” Skinner asked gently and put his hand near Mulder’s on the blanket that covered Mulder from chest to toe. Mulder shifted his hand away.

“No belt. No hoses,” Mulder explained. Skinner immediately recalled the hoses he had seen connected up to Mulder’s groin and farther back between Mulder’s legs when they’d rescued him and put two and two together.

“Ah, I see,” said Skinner. Mulder huffed again. “I’m sorry,” added Skinner, imagining how embarrassing it must be to foul oneself by accident. The program had really done a number on the Special Agent’s mind to the point where he needed assistance with daily activities like washing and shaving because he required frequent prompts to start and keep going when he sometimes stopped in the middle of something as though his brain was trying to process too much at once or he had a panic attack during said activities and had to be sedated again.

Mulder shook his head and held up a finger. “‘S okay,” he managed. He seemed desultory and Skinner wished he had some good news or had brought something besides just himself in order to cheer Mulder up and lend him focus.

“Have the docs said how you’re healing?” Skinner tried to redirect Mulder’s thoughts.

“Not infected,” mumbled Mulder and gave a half-hearted thumbs up. He tried to pull the blanket, which had fallen down off his shoulder, back up. Skinner automatically reached to help and Mulder flinched violently. Skinner backed away with his hands open.

“It’s okay,” he said calmingly. “I was just gonna help you with your blanket. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” said Mulder and swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, okay?” said Skinner pleadingly. “Mulder, you’ve been through hell. I can understand if you never want anyone else to touch you again.”

“Have to, though, don’t they?” It was perhaps the longest almost-full sentence Mulder had said to him since being admitted to the hospital. Mulder’s eyes stared somewhere far away and Skinner looked down at his own hands on the edge of the bed. “Shrink’s coming,” Mulder grunted after a while and gestured to his stubbled head. Skinner understood that Mulder had to be evaluated and most likely given therapy like all the other drone victims.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” said Skinner but he knew how much Mulder detested formal evaluations like that.

Suddenly Mulder began to toss his head. His teeth clenched and he started to breathe through them, emitting a stifled, “Mnph!” Concerned, Skinner asked him what was wrong and when Mulder couldn’t answer right away, he reached for the nurse call button but Mulder stalled him with a hand on his wrist.

“What is it, Mulder? Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Skinner, leaning over the bed and looking down at his friend with earnest concern.

“N-Nothing. ‘S okay. Swear it. I just…” Mulder shook his head and let out a little whine. “Was back there… for-for a minute.”

Skinner sat down in the visitor chair again and leaned forward so he could hear every murmur from Mulder’s lips as the younger man haltingly explained that he’d been not at the dronification facility as Skinner had assumed but in another place, somewhere the drones were taken, a darkened room with leather furniture and wooden paneling and evil men who made them do things. When Mulder was done, Skinner sat back, the air leaving his lungs in a woosh and his jaw clenching and unclenching against a rising tide of anger. He remembered the vans they had seen leaving and returning to the facility and recalled Byers’s words to him about the dronification program. Now he had Mulder’s first-hand testimony that the drones had been taken somewhere else to provide sexual services to the Syndicate’s top men. He would have to get someone in to record Mulder’s statement as soon as possible. Maybe Mulder could eventually provide a clearer account of what went on in that room and possibly a location so they could nail the Syndicate bastards down once and for all. But he also knew Mulder was extremely fragile right now psychologically so he didn’t do anything right away with the information Mulder had just told him. It could wait until he got back to the office.

That reminded Skinner that the smoking man had appeared there shortly after Mulder had disappeared to gloat that Skinner seemed to be one agent short of a full department. In Skinner’s mind, that had all but confirmed that the smoker had taken the agent or at least been behind his abduction and it had left a nauseating feeling inside him.

“News travels fast these days,” Skinner had sneered but the smoker had given him no verbal cause to arrest him and the smoker had known it. He had just continued to smile, eyes gleaming, and had told Skinner, “That boy needs to be reeducated so that he’s more biddable. So that he doesn’t keep running off. Don’t you think?”

Skinner had wanted to smash his fist into the smoker’s smarmy face. “If you hurt one hair on his head I swear to you I will kill you,” Skinner had vowed.

“Really, now, Mr. Skinner,” the smoker had remonstrated with a look of temerity, “there’s no need to resort to threats.”

It had taken all of Skinner’s strength not to draw his weapon and shoot the cigarette-smoking bastard in the face. But that would not have gone well. Skinner wouldn’t have been able to provide an explanation for the dead body, nor would he have the smoker alive to glean any more information out of him. He had tried, certainly. “Where is he?” he had demanded through clenched teeth. The smoker had just drawn heavily on his cigarette and blown the smoke all over Skinner’s office before stubbing out the cigarette in an ash tray on the conference table and slowly making his way out via the double doors without saying another word.

In the present, Mulder drew his attention with a sigh. Skinner focused on the younger man, eyes aching at the sight of the stubbled, bald head and shorn eyebrows that had barely started to grow back in. Mulder looked so pale and fragile despite his six-foot-tall frame. Being on a liquid diet for a month and a half had done nothing to help Mulder maintain his athletic physique, but he had gained a couple of pounds since he’d been admitted to Georgetown. As Skinner studied him, Mulder’s right hand crept toward the edge of the bed. Very carefully, so as not to disturb Mulder or the IV, Skinner reached out his own hand palm up and watched Mulder’s fingers tentatively connect with his own. Mulder’s chin lifted and he looked at Skinner. Skinner gave him a wan smile and Mulder’s eyes burned briefly with a kind of inner light that Skinner had only ever seen when Mulder had discovered the key element that would help him solve one of his bizarre cases.

Skinner let Mulder’s fingertips explore his hand like a timid, wild bird. Mulder let out a long breath and swallowed audibly. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“What for?”

“Being here,” said Mulder and Skinner barely heard him. It was Skinner’s turn to swallow. A lump had formed in his throat. He looked down at the bed. Mulder’s fingers had withdrawn, leaving in their wake a welcome tingle that faded faster than Skinner liked. He pulled his own hand into his lap, regretfully. By the time he looked up again, Mulder was asleep, or dozing at any rate. His shaved head had slumped to the side and his lips were parted, his breathing deeper than it was moments ago, and his eyelids were closed over those amazing, intense hazel eyes.

Skinner watched Mulder sleep for a few minutes. Then, making as little noise as possible, he rose from the visitor’s chair and made for the door. He checked his watch as he exited Mulder’s room, shocked to find that he was late for work. He had no regrets, however. In his mind, Mulder would come first for the foreseeable future.

Present Day

“Hey,” said Skinner as Mulder opened his apartment door. Mulder stepped back as Skinner entered and then quickly shut and locked the door behind him.

“Thank you for coming,” said Mulder and tucked his hands in his pockets. Skinner noted the tense, hunched posture and the haunted eyes that seemed not to want to linger on his own for very long.

“It’s no problem,” said Skinner. He hefted his overnight bag that he’d hastily thrown together and asked where he could put it.

“Uh, anywhere is fine.” Mulder gestured to his living area. “You know where the bathroom is and the kitchen. You, uh, want some beer? I still have some in there from… from before.”

“Mulder,” Skinner said softly, “you don’t have to play hostess, all right? I came here because you needed company.”

Mulder stood there looking guilty and Skinner approached him slowly with an arm raised as though to hug him but Mulder darted away and stood with his own arms around his shoulders muttering, “I’m sorry, I can’t,” and shaking his head. Skinner’s raised hand turned placating.

“Okay. Relax. I’ll go over to the chair. I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Skinner in an understanding voice. He’d dealt occasionally with rape victims on some cases he’d worked before rising to the level of Assistant Director and had years of expertise handling people with PTSD from various sources, including himself and his own experiences in Vietnam. And after weeks of getting to know Mulder on a level he rarely got to know anyone, even his deceased wife, Sharon, he could tell that, while Mulder might want his presence close by, that didn’t necessarily mean Mulder wanted to be touched. It was an odd but fairly common psychological dichotomy in rape survivors that Dr. Boswick would probably be better at explaining.

“I’ll get that beer or… or another kind of drink?” offered Mulder again distractedly, rubbing one arm up and down with the opposite hand.

“Sure, Mulder. I’ll just have some water, though. No beer tonight,” replied Skinner and took a seat in the leather arm chair in the corner by the desk. He set his overnight bag beside the chair and looked around. The room was cozy with one lamp on, though Skinner noticed the television was turned off. It didn’t necessarily mean Mulder still had an aversion to the idiot box, but he hadn’t once seen Mulder watch TV in the whole time Mulder was hospitalized. When Mulder hadn’t been daydreaming (Dr. Boswick had called it dissociating), he could often be found reading, doing some kind of word puzzle, or entertaining himself with a game of solitaire. Skinner settled himself comfortably but noted that the chair was probably not as good for sleeping as he’d told Mulder over the phone. Oh well. It didn’t matter. A few hours on it wouldn’t kill him. He was just wondering why his strangest agent didn’t have a bed or a bedroom when Mulder returned to the living area and crept closer to him to set the glass of water on a little side table next to him. Skinner smiled, thanked Mulder, and took a sip of the water. Mulder crossed the room and bundled himself up on the couch in a curled-up position with a blanket over him and his side propped against one of the large throw pillows.

Skinner leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and asked Mulder, “I know the nightmare probably wasn’t the greatest experience on your first night home, but how are you doing otherwise?”

Mulder’s shoulders drew up and then fell. “Hard to tell. I’m not in the best frame of mind right now to be making that kind of assessment,” he answered. Skinner nodded and looked away for a moment. He wanted to do something more to help Mulder but he was at a loss as to what. He leaned back, took another sip of his water, and then crossed one ankle over his knee, putting a hand on the ankle in a relaxed pose. He tilted his head and looked at Mulder who seemed to be studying the coffee table intently.

“You told me a little bit about your dream on the phone. You want to talk more about it?” Skinner asked.

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” said Mulder. He didn’t sound defensive. It was just a statement of fact. Skinner rolled with it.

“Okay, what do you want to talk about, if anything? Or we don’t have to talk. Would you like to turn off the light and…?”

“No!” shouted Mulder and then in a quieter voice said, “Uh, sorry, no, please. I’d like the light on.” He had half sat up when he’d shouted but he settled back down quickly into his protective ball. Skinner waited and didn’t push. Just when it seemed silence was going to descend for the rest of the night, Skinner heard Mulder speak softly. “I sometimes wish you’d never rescued me.” Skinner’s eyes widened in shock but he quickly suppressed his fear that Mulder was entering a dangerous state of mind when Mulder added, “I mean, I’m glad you did. It’s just…” He stopped abruptly and Skinner slowly took up his earlier position of leaning forward, elbows on knees, and hands pressed together at the fingertips. “I liked not having to think,” Mulder went on after a moment. “Out here in the real world, my mind is going a hundred miles a minute and there’s no stopping the little inner voice that tells me I have to keep going, that I always have to be doing something and can’t stop and take a breath sometimes. That’s what the program did for me. It replaced that little voice with its own and shut out anything else. It was… peaceful.” He sounded wistful and Skinner couldn’t help a shake of his head. He sat back and gripped the arms of the chair.

“Surely you don’t mean that?” Skinner said.

“Oh, I do. You have no idea. All the things that made me who I am, the good and the bad, were drowned out and there was this incredible silence between cycles.” A strange smile came over Mulder’s face and his eyes grew more distant as he recounted his experience of what it was like being brainwashed. His eyes darted quickly to Skinner’s and then back toward the recent past. “That’s what I called them, cycles. I’m sure you know by now how it worked. There were these short bursts of sounds they’d play through the ear pieces in my ear and… and words and images in sync with them on the inside of my face mask. Those were timed with pulses from the electrodes in my junk and I’d be gassed with something that smelled sweet that made me relax but aroused me at the same time.” Skinner swallowed. He’d heard similar in bits and pieces from other victims through his agents’ investigations and from Mulder himself also, but never with such clarity or such nostalgia. It almost made him sick. “Pleasure cycles,” mused Mulder and hitched his blanket up by his chin. “They rewarded us with a steady diet of orgasms.” Skinner looked away uncomfortably. It was pitch dark outside except for the street lights and there was no traffic coming or going at that early hour. “I lived for the next cycle; let me tell ya. Now I can barely get it up.” A peculiar chuckle from Mulder drew Skinner’s attention back to the agent but Mulder didn’t seem to notice Skinner’s discomfort at the direction his monologue had taken. Skinner stared as Mulder went on, describing in detail the sensation of being encased in the bio-latex. “I felt safe when I didn’t have any features, when I looked just the same as all the others. Nothing made me stand out or draw any kind of scorn. I was whole. Fulfilled. The black stuff itself was like a tight hug all over my body,” he said. “Couldn’t take it off.” He shook his head and shrugged, giving Skinner a suddenly blinding grin. “Didn’t want to. God, the ever-present pressure of it…” Mulder squirmed under the blanket.

“Mulder…” Skinner whispered, not sure he wanted to hear more but Mulder barreled on, letting Skinner in on things he was sure he didn’t really need to know like how Mulder had taken pleasure from the feel of the hollow plug up his ass and the tubes that caught and whisked his waste away or how Mulder looked forward to his daily rub-down with bio-latex lubricant and inspection of his null belt and respirator or how he’d come to associate pleasure with obedience and learned to love feeling useful in that way before Krycek’s beautiful eyes had shocked him out of his programming and brought reality crashing down on his buried psyche. Mulder even told him guiltily that he preferred the mindless repetition and obedient subservience to worrisome thoughts about his sister and that he hadn’t thought of her once from the point of the program’s initiation sequence until he’d been in the psychiatric hospital for weeks. Eventually Mulder stopped, his words winding down and his breath slowing. Then he said without focusing on Skinner, “I think I could use that hug right about now.”

It took Skinner a moment to respond and when he did he made sure he moved slowly so as not to startle Mulder. But Mulder seemed a little more at ease now and less tense. As uncomfortable as listening to Mulder’s story had been for Skinner, he could see now that it had been beneficial for the younger man to get those things out of his system. He wondered if Mulder had shared all of that with Dr. Boswick and decided it didn’t matter. Mulder had chosen to share it with him. Mulder sat up as Skinner sat next to him on the couch and leaned against Skinner’s chest. Skinner wrapped an arm around Mulder’s shoulder and drew him into a sideways hug. Mulder’s head tucked itself under his jaw and he could smell Mulder’s hair product on the short, inch-long bristles. They sat like that for a long time, Mulder fighting sleep and Skinner wide awake. At last Skinner heard Mulder’s breathing deepen and even out and when he looked down he saw the agent’s eyes closed and his mouth lax. Skinner let his fingers rub gently over Mulder’s arm and wondered if there was a reason Mulder had called him after the nightmare instead of Scully.

The smoker watched from beyond the fence posts as the somewhat irate Englishman stalked toward him, riding crop in one hand.

“What on Earth are you doing here?” spluttered the Englishman when he was a few yards away. “We’re all of us supposed to be in hiding until further notice.”

“You call this hiding?” The smoker raised an eyebrow and looked around them. They stood amid the pristine, white-fenced horse paddocks of the Englishman’s family estate in the chilly March air where the Englishman watched his granddaughter learn to ride. She was doing well, it seemed, and was already a master horsewoman if the smoker was any judge from the little he’d seen of her. Of course that had been from a distance. Then again, he did have an eye for form and a good seat. He rolled his cigarette between his first few fingers and thumb and didn’t let the Englishman’s ire get to him.

“I call it being smart and laying low, yes,” said the Englishman in a terse voice. He stopped approaching when he was within less than a yard and asked, “Why have you come here? Is it to deliver more bad news?” Word of an upcoming raid on the dronification facility had come to the Syndicate members only days before it went down and from their New York headquarters they had scattered like locusts before a storm. None of them had been apprehended and none of the workers arrested during the raid had any real names to hand down to the FBI. Nevertheless, they couldn’t be too cautious. Losing a batch of drones and their dronification facility was unfortunate. They could always start somewhere else and get new test subjects. But what would be truly disastrous would be if their vaccination labs were found and shut down or they were all taken into federal custody. That simply could not happen.

“Not today,” the smoker answered him. “I’ve been told Mulder was released from the psychiatric facility.”

The Englishman’s fury seemed to double at hearing that information and he spat, “You came all the way here to tell me that your pet project is not only compos mentis again but free to run around pointing a finger at all of us?”

“Just so,” said the smoker with his patented smirk. The Englishman narrowed his eyes at him.

“You seem almost pleased. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

The smoker shrugged. “I’m not worried about Mulder. He can’t do anything to hurt us any more than any of the other drones. By the way, I’ve had Martin taken care of.”

“I thought his silence had been bought and paid for?”

The smoker flicked the butt of his cigarette away and reached in his jacket pocket for another Morley from his ever-present pack. He took the time to light it, savoring the first heavy drag of nicotine-laden smoke (though not as much as he used to) before tucking his lighter away. He enjoyed making the Englishman wait. “I was concerned that his mouth would wag if the FBI put enough pressure on him, so I did what any patriot would do.”

“Yourself?”

“No, but I saw pictures. It was made to look like suicide.”

The Englishman clucked his tongue and snapped his crop once against his long, leather riding boots. The smoker knew the Englishman was too old to ride anymore without risking breaking his neck but he dressed the part well so as to guide and impress his progeny’s progeny. Speaking of, the girl had done another turn around the paddock while they were talking, jumped several low jumps set up for practice, and was now working drills with her mount back and forth as though the horse were a Lipizzaner, which it was not. Nonetheless, the horse appeared smart and eagerly responded to the girl’s commands of heel and hand, its breath steaming from its nostrils with its efforts.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” the Englishman said in a low voice, leaning close.

“As sure as I know Fox Mulder is the product of my loins, yes,” smiled the smoker and the Englishman made a disgusted noise. The smoker laughed.

“If that’s all, please leave my property and don’t come here again unless it’s actually important,” the Englishman said and, after glaring at the smoker for a second, put on a smile and waved at his granddaughter as she displayed her and her mount’s skills closer to the fence where he and the smoker stood. Unhappy at being dismissed, the smoker frowned and blew a plume of smoke toward the Englishman but it went upward instead, dissipating into the fair spring air. He chucked the longish butt at the ground and smashed it into the winter-weary grass with the toe of his shoe before turning on his heel and stalking away. Just behind him he heard the girl ask her grandfather who his friend was. “Oh, nobody at all, my dear, nobody at all,” replied the Englishman and the smoker’s frown deepened the already canyon-like lines on his face.

Twelve and a Half Weeks Earlier

Scully and Skinner ran into dead end after dead end in their investigation of Mulder’s disappearance. They had repeatedly canvassed Mulder’s neighborhood to see if anyone saw anything that weekend and only one neighbor had said they saw Mulder leave the building Friday night in jogging attire but couldn’t say which way he went. Scully postulated that he was picked up somewhere along his jogging route.

“If that’s true,” said Skinner solemnly, “we may have even more difficulty finding him.” Despite the odds, Skinner put together a special task force to further investigate around the general area and cold call people asking them to provide any information they might have regarding having seen Mulder at any time that weekend.

“How far does he usually run?” Skinner asked Scully as he listed names on a sheet of paper for the task force. The two of them were in his office, all other cases set on lower priority while the search for Mulder ramped up.

Scully lifted a shoulder and shook her head. “I’m not sure. He’s young, fit. I know he sometimes runs for hours at a time. He could easily be running marathon-length routes or longer.”

Skinner despaired at that assessment because that was a large area over which to spread their search and they had no idea which direction Mulder had headed that evening. He had thought Scully would know Mulder’s usual routes and routines but apparently that wasn’t the case. He asked her to look over the names on his list for the task force and she concurred that every agent on that list would be a good choice. He wrote up a memo and had his secretary disseminate it to the people on the list. Meanwhile, he directed Scully to get in touch with DC police again to check on the APB out on Mulder and confirm with all area hospitals that they should still be on the lookout in their ERs for anyone who looked like him.

Later that morning, the special task force gathered in Skinner’s office around his conference table and listened attentively while he spoke. “An agent of this Bureau is missing. I don’t care how many doors you have to knock on or how many phone calls you have to make; you do it. We aren’t going to rest until this man is found. Any information that even looks or smells like a lead, you follow it, no matter how insignificant it might seem. Understood?” Heads nodded all around. Skinner went on to draw their attention to a map of the area they thought Mulder might have disappeared in and he divvied out assignments to the agents in pairs. Each pair got a section of the grid Skinner had marked out on the map. Scully confirmed that local law enforcement would be joining them to canvas the streets for Mulder and begged the task force members to cooperate closely with them. Skinner backed her up by saying, “This isn’t a pissing contest. I don’t care who finds him or how, whether it’s us or the cops.” After the facts of Mulder’s disappearance had been read out, there was total silence in the room. No one clicked a pen or shuffled paper or fidgeted with their clothes. “All right, you have your individual assignments. I want regular reports, even if you’ve found nothing. You’re dismissed.” The meeting broke up, leaving just Scully and Skinner to sit and contemplate how to move things forward.

At that point, Skinner made the decision to let Scully know he’d had a visit from their old nemesis. Her eyes widened at the news and then her expression grew angry. “If he knows where Mulder is, why didn’t you arrest him!” she exclaimed.

“I only suspect he knows what happened to Mulder. I can’t just detain someone over some offhand remarks that could be easily misconstrued. I’ve got no proof against him. If we make a move on Cancerman without having a location on Mulder in our hands, we may never find him,” explained Skinner. “Besides, that nicotine-addicted fiend is too well protected. Even if we could bring him in on suspicion, he’d be out of our grasp within hours before we learn anything useful. All he’d have to do is clam up and outwait us until the legal holding period is over.”

Scully seemed to shrink at his words and looked down at her hands in her lap. After thinking a moment, she looked up again and said in a voice rough with barely restrained tears, “He may be our only hope at ever finding Mulder and you’re letting him get away with it.”

Skinner cringed. “Dana, I…” he began, but she rose from her chair and stood staring down at him.

“Statistically speaking, if a person who disappears isn’t found within the first forty-eight hours of going missing, they’re more and more likely to turn up dead or never found at all,” she said. “Mulder has been missing for almost a week.” Her bright blue eyes glistened.

He looked up at her, fear and sadness piercing his heart with equally sharpened barbs. “My hands are tied,” he whispered, gesturing uselessly and hoping that she understood. She gave an aborted nod and took a deep breath, excusing herself from his office. He stared blindly at the edge of his desk as she walked away, showing an incredible poise under the circumstances. Once she was gone, he stood abruptly and grabbed a heavy, brass paperweight from his desk, flinging it across the room with a harsh curse. The dent it made in the wall didn’t help to alleviate the feeling inside him that he was letting Scully, and thus Mulder, down.

Present Day

The weekend presented Mulder with some challenges. Waking up beside Skinner later Saturday morning embarrassed him and he apologetically offered the man a breakfast of the groceries that he had bought for Mulder just the day before. Skinner, his butt and back aching from sleeping upright on Mulder’s couch, gave a long stretch and a giant yawn and scratched his stomach, finally uttering a sleepy, “Sure. That sounds good.” Mulder smiled at that and ducked into the kitchen to make coffee. Behind him he heard Skinner get up and go use the bathroom. He wondered with trepidation how he was going to fare for the rest of the weekend until Scully came to pick him up for his appointment on Monday. He guessed he’d have to find something to fill his time but he didn’t want to do it alone. Then again, he couldn’t force Skinner to spend another two days and sleep two more nights with him on his lumpy couch. That would be poor repayment for everything Skinner had done for him until then. Plus, what would happen when Skinner went back to work?

“How do you like your eggs?” Mulder asked as neutrally as he could to hide his nervousness as Skinner came into the small kitchen and helped himself to a cup of the brewing coffee.

“Any way is fine,” said Skinner, blowing across the top of his coffee mug to cool the hot beverage. He drank it black, the opposite way Mulder did. Mulder had to have cream and sugar. The mug was green with big black alien eyes on one side and a cracked handle from when Mulder had accidentally dropped it in the living room one day. Byers had given it to him for his birthday a few years back and he hadn’t had the heart to get rid of it when the handle broke so he’d glued it back together.

“Uh, careful with that mug handle. It’s kind of unstable,” he warned Skinner with a gesture at the mug. Skinner looked down and saw the crack.

“Oh, thanks for the warning. Anything I can do to help?”

“Ah, no. Kitchen’s not really set up for two cooks,” said Mulder, “but thanks.”

There was an awkward silence while Mulder stood over the stove scrambling a half a dozen eggs. He tensed, waiting for Skinner to say something about their cuddle session on the couch last night. He almost jumped when Skinner spoke again but the man’s words were quiet, which Mulder appreciated.

“Nightmares give you any more trouble after you dropped off?”

Mulder gave Skinner a half-smile over his shoulder then turned back to the eggs. “No.”

“That’s good,” said Skinner.

“Yeah,” agreed Mulder and poked the eggs with the spatula in his hand.

“Look, if you don’t think you can sleep tonight, I have a guest room you can borrow,” offered Skinner. Mulder froze at the thought of sleeping at Skinner’s and then relaxed. The man was just being friendly, nothing more. “I’d stay here another night but, uh, no offense, your couch sucks to sleep on,” Skinner added with a chuckle.

Mulder’s eyes crinkled and he looked over his shoulder again, teasing, “You were supposed to take the armchair.” Skinner grinned and he looked so different from the stern, surly AD he usually presented as at the office that Mulder’s breath caught in his chest. He let it out slowly and turned back to the eggs just before they started to catch. “Plates are in the cabinet above you and silverware’s in that drawer,” he indicated with a nod of his head and took the eggs off the heat. He snapped off the stove and reached for some bread to throw in the toaster while Skinner fetched the tableware. They bumped shoulders in the small space and mumbled apologies. At one point, Skinner’s hand made brief contact with Mulder’s back and Mulder found he didn’t mind the steadying weight of it.

Since Mulder’s dining table was covered with books and papers and the like, he and Skinner ate in the living room side-by-side on the couch. “You looking forward to getting back to normal?” Skinner asked at one point, a lump of egg ready to eat at the end of his fork.

Mulder lowered his own fork to his half-empty plate and pushed some of his scrambled egg around thoughtfully. “‘Normal’ would be me working fourteen-hour days chasing down mutants and hunting for aliens,” he pointed out. “No sane person would want to go back to that kind of life.” Then he turned to Skinner with an impish smile and added, “But no one ever said I was sane.”

Skinner evaluated Mulder’s words. He knew Mulder was joking but there was something that ached behind the smile. Skinner looked down at his plate. His eggs were almost gone and he had only a half a slice of buttered whole wheat left over. When he looked back at Mulder, he could see the cracks in Mulder’s self-deprecating humor in Mulder’s eyes. “You’ll get there. You just have to give yourself a chance.”

“I’d rather be back to work now. It would give me some kind of purpose. But realistically I don’t think I can handle it. Hell, I can’t even handle one night alone in my own apartment.” Mulder stabbed his fork until it stuck upright in his eggs and got up from the couch and began to pace, then he went over to his desk and leaned against it, looking out the window. He hung his head. “I’m sorry I dragged you over here in the middle of the night.”

Skinner suddenly felt confined on the couch. He wanted to get up and offer Mulder some kind of physical support: a pat on the back, a hug, something. But he hesitated, remembering Mulder’s initial reaction from last night. It was better to let Mulder come to him. He did stand, though, and put his hands in his pants pockets and said, “I’m not sorry, Mulder, not at all.” Then he gave into his impulse anyway and went over to stand beside Mulder. He looked down at the younger man who didn’t acknowledge him and slowly reached out his left hand to rub across Mulder’s tense shoulders. Mulder held his position for a while but then eventually uncurled and straightened and turned to face Skinner. Skinner’s hand slid from his upper back to the ball of his shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. Mulder’s hazel-gray eyes flickered back and forth incrementally as they studied Skinner’s brown ones and Mulder let out a long-held breath.

“I hope you don’t get tired of me saying ‘thank you,’” said Mulder quietly and tilted his chin toward the window again. Skinner noticed that the oblique, late-morning light struck his pale face in a way that was very becoming. Then again, Mulder had always been a handsome, if sometimes socially awkward, man.

“Not remotely,” said Skinner huskily. Then he asked, “Do you want me to stay?”

“I…” Mulder hesitated. “I don’t think so.” He looked into Skinner’s eyes again. “I appreciate what you’ve done so far but I think I need to try being here on my own again, for real this time.”

“Okay,” said Skinner. “You let me know at any time if that changes,” he added in a serious tone. “Why don’t you call me a couple of times throughout today and tomorrow just to let me know how you’re doing? Kind of like a check-in.”

Mulder nodded and reached for Skinner’s hand on his shoulder. He took it and gripped it in a little squeeze and then relinquished it. Skinner tucked it back into his pocket and regarded Mulder. “You should call Scully, too. I’m sure she’s worried about you,” suggested Skinner.

Mulder huffed and moved back to the coffee table and began cleaning up their breakfast things. “That’s the problem. I don’t want her to worry more. She’ll be over here glued to me with a thermometer in my mouth and that constipated expression on her face.” Skinner couldn’t help but snort at that picture. He shook his head.

“Oh Mulder,” he sighed fondly and Mulder straightened with both plates in his hands and the empty coffee mugs balanced on top of them.

“What?” Mulder asked innocently. Skinner shook his head again.

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Mulder raised an eyebrow and shrugged and the movement caused the green alien mug to slide off Skinner’s plate and crash to the floor, splintering into more than a dozen shards. “Shit!” cursed Mulder and Skinner held up a hand. Mulder began to tremble. Instead of the shattering noise the mug had made, all Mulder had heard was the sound of a smashed tank keypad during his aborted escape attempt at the dronification facility when he’d tried to free Krycek with the aid of a fire extinguisher. He hardly registered Skinner taking the plates from his hands and setting them down on the coffee table again. Then Skinner’s hands were guiding him over to the couch. He obediently sat on the edge of the couch while Skinner ran to go get a broom and dust pan from the kitchen. Mulder’s hands shook and he tried to get them under control but it was no use. Skinner gave Mulder a worried look as he swept up the mug. Then he was gone again for a minute to dump the mug in the trash and back beside Mulder as quick as he could, taking one of Mulder’s shaking hands in both of his.

“Mulder?” he asked. Mulder couldn’t respond except to stare straight ahead and let out a plaintive whine. “Mulder?” said Skinner again, just as gently. “I hope you agree that that mug is beyond saving, cause I just tossed it in the trash.”

“Hm?” Mulder asked and turned distractedly, looking in Skinner’s general direction. His eyes focused on Skinner’s shirt, a tan button-down open all the way and showing his heather-gray t-shirt underneath.

“Mulder, it’s okay. Just take a deep breath. Can you do that?”

Mulder inhaled with a nod and Skinner praised him so he did it again. Good drone. Obedient drone. Obedience is pleasure. Mulder shuddered through another breath and closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head to try and dispel the sounds of the dronification program that echoed deep in his mind. But the flash of a slick, black drone on its hands and knees being fucked up the ass and in the mouth passed before his closed eyelids and he popped them open with a gasp. He swallowed and discovered that his grip on Skinner’s hand was tighter than he’d realized.

“Sorry,” he murmured and let go abruptly.

“It’s okay,” Skinner reassured him and stroked over the back of his head. He twisted away slightly and Skinner got the picture. He moved away from Mulder an inch or two and stopped all physical contact. He gave Mulder a few minutes to collect himself and then asked, “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

Almost immediately, Mulder responded, “Escape.” When he didn’t elaborate right away, Skinner prompted him to continue. “Tried to escape, just before you rescued me. Broke Krycek’s tank and tried to get him to come with me. He fought me.” Mulder leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

“It’s not your fault, Mulder. He was too far brainwashed,” said Skinner but could see that Mulder still accepted the responsibility for Krycek’s condition, which was irrational. Given Mulder’s triggered response to the mug breaking, Skinner hesitated to leave the agent alone like Mulder had expressed he’d wanted earlier. Mulder needed support, structure, and distraction, not to be left alone with his own thoughts. An idea cropped up and Skinner asked, “Would it make you feel better if you could go visit Krycek today?” Mulder thought about it.

“I’ve, ah, only been out of the psych ward for twenty-four hours,” he said with a laugh, “but, uh, yeah,” he admitted, “I think that might help a bit. Would you mind driving me?”

“Sure,” said Skinner. “When you’re ready. Just let me know.” Mulder nodded and they sat on the couch for a while until Mulder was steady enough to go wash his face and brush his teeth and put on clean clothing. Skinner waited in the living room patiently, wondering if they’d run into Dr. Boswick at the psychiatric hospital and what she’d say when she saw Mulder back so soon.

While Mulder was busy, Skinner pulled out his cell phone and dialed Scully’s home number. “It’s me,” he said when she picked up.

“What is it? Is everything all right?” she asked immediately.

“Nothing’s wrong. Mulder called me in the middle of the night after having a nightmare, though. He asked me to come spend the rest of the night at his place so I’m there now,” he reassured her. She let out a breath. “Look, I know you’re not going to like this, but he’s asked to go see Krycek. I said I’d bring him.”

She didn’t reply right away but he could tell from her voice when she did that his prediction was correct; she was angry. “He hasn’t been out of the hospital more than a day. I think Dr. Boswick would call that an unhealthy attachment,” she commented archly.

Skinner eyed the bathroom where Mulder was still splashing water and making gargling noises. “I don’t know if he’s attached, but I do know he thinks he’s responsible for what happened to Krycek.”

“That’s absurd!” she exclaimed. “Krycek made his own decisions that got him into that mess.”

“I agree, but if visiting him will calm Mulder down and help him readjust to being in the real world then I think it’s worth it to let him. I just wanted to let you know where we were in case you called here and didn’t get an answer. I didn’t want you to worry,” said Skinner, talking as quickly as he could. The water in the bathroom had shut off and he could hear shuffling around as Mulder presumably put on clean clothes.

“Telling me you’re bringing him to have a friendly visit with the man who killed Melissa is supposed to make me feel better?” she quipped angrily. He sighed and saw a crack between the door and the door frame of the bathroom form.

“I gotta go, Dana. I’ll call you later and let you know how it goes,” he said in a low voice and turned off his cell before hastily shoving it in his pocket. Mulder emerged from the bathroom squeaky clean and looking resigned. He turned to put his dirty clothes in a hamper just inside the bathroom door and then walked over to where Skinner was standing.

“I’m ready,” announced Mulder. Skinner nodded.

“Okay, let me just grab my bag so I don’t forget it later.” He slung his overnight bag over his shoulder while Mulder threw on a jacket and together they left Mulder’s apartment. The drive over to the psychiatric hospital was quiet. Mulder seemed contemplative. Skinner wondered what was going through his mind. At the hospital, Skinner showed his badge and they were let up to Krycek’s room. Dr. Boswick was nowhere in sight, thankfully.

Skinner stopped to show his badge again to the guard outside Krycek’s room and asked the guard how his charge was. Mulder walked past the guard, who knew him well from his time in the hospital, with a polite nod and entered the room. The bored-looking guard answered with a shrug that Krycek was the same as every day and Skinner took in that information with a nod of his own. Then he stepped inside and joined Mulder in Krycek’s room but stood back to let Mulder have some space.

“Hey Krycek,” said Mulder softly. “I’m here. Remember I said I’d be back? A little sooner than I expected but, uh, I hope you’re not too unhappy to see me.” He stood by Krycek’s bed, arms wrapped around himself, thumbs rubbing his own arms. He looked down at the triple agent whose eyelids were at half mast and whose mouth hung open just slightly. Krycek didn’t move except to breathe. “I’m sorry I made fun of your haircut that one time,” said Mulder to Krycek seemingly apropos of nothing. He gave a little tug to his own bottle-brush locks and laughed a bit. “Look who’s talking, right?” There was a long pause in which Mulder just looked at Krycek and then he sighed and put a hand over Krycek’s. “Are you bored at all just lying here all day? I could come read to you after my sessions with Dr. Boswick if… if you’d like that.”

Skinner’s heart reached out to Mulder in that moment, perhaps more so than at any other point in Mulder’s recovery. The younger man was really trying his best to get through to Krycek and let bygones be bygones but it appeared Krycek was a hopeless case. Skinner couldn’t say for sure that Krycek truly deserved to be stuck in this catatonic state; it was a much more severe punishment than he would have handed down had he had that power. If Krycek had been awake this whole time, however… Skinner reminded himself he still had a job to do and couldn’t let Krycek’s current condition sway what was to happen once Krycek snapped out of his catatonia.

“I’ll be back on Monday, okay? I’ll bring a book about skinwalkers. You’ll like that,” said Mulder confidently and turned away from Krycek’s bed. Skinner was surprised to see tears tracking down Mulder’s cheeks. Mulder seemed oblivious to them at first and then he used his jacket sleeves to embarrassedly wipe them away. Mulder sniffed. “Let’s get out of here,” said Mulder roughly to Skinner who nodded and followed Mulder out of Krycek’s room, his hand hovering near Mulder’s lower back without touching.

Outside, back in the car, Skinner stuck the keys in the ignition but a hand on his arm stopped him from turning it on. He looked up and asked Mulder, “What is it?” Mulder’s mouth opened and closed and then opened again. He looked down at the car’s footwell and then back at Skinner but not at his face. Skinner sat back, head turned toward Mulder.

“I raped him,” whispered Mulder. A chill went through Skinner at Mulder’s barely uttered words and he looked up into a pair of pain- and tear-filled gray eyes.

“Jesus, Mulder,” breathed Skinner. Suddenly Mulder’s continued involvement with Krycek became clear. The Syndicate drones had been forced not only to have sex with members of the Syndicate but with each other. Mulder shook his head and clenched his eyes shut and let the world fall apart around him. Tears rained down his cheeks. Sobs exploded from his chest and he refused the gentle hand that reached for him to console him. He climbed out of Skinner’s car and walked away briskly. Skinner cursed under his breath, got out of the car and slammed the door, and jogged after Mulder to catch up with him. Mulder kept walking down the hospital drive, away from the building, blindly headed for the road. When he reached it, he had the sense to stop before he unintentionally stepped out into traffic, but Skinner arrived beside him ready to restrain him should he do something impulsive. Mulder clenched his hands hard and inhaled through teeth and tears.

“God! Why!” he cried, his face tilted up to the trees that lined the other side of the road and the blue sky beyond. “Why?” he mewled again and pounded his fist against his thigh.

“Mulder,” whispered Skinner, frightened that Mulder really would do something to hurt himself. Noon-time traffic whizzed by them on the road, drivers not slowing even if they saw the two men, one obviously emotionally distraught, standing dangerously close to the edge of the asphalt of a busy two-lane highway outside a psychiatric facility. The world really was a cruel and thoughtless place. “Mulder, please,” begged Skinner, hand outstretched to take Mulder by the elbow but he didn’t touch because he didn’t want to startle him. “Come back to the car and we can talk about this.”

“Don’t wanna talk,” said Mulder, sounding suddenly like a hurt but petulant child.

“Just come back to the car with me then. We don’t have to talk. I’ll drive you home,” said Skinner placatingly. Mulder’s jaw clenched and he lowered his face and stared into the distance. After a tense moment he nodded stiltedly and let Skinner take his elbow and guide him away from the road. Skinner held his breath all the way back to the car, trying not to let his concern for Mulder show too much to the disturbed younger man who obviously felt the heavy weight of guilt on his shoulders. They made it back to the car without incident and Skinner let Mulder in on the passenger side, closing the door after him, then quickly rounded the rear bumper and got in on the driver’s side.

“I’m sorry,” said Mulder with a gulp. “I-I don’t know what came over me. I… I should be in prison.”

“Mulder, no. You were forced to do those things under duress,” said Skinner emphatically. “You weren’t yourself at the time and you know it. You can’t hold yourself responsible.”

“I can. I should.”

“Mulder, look at me,” ordered Skinner and was surprised when Mulder obeyed him immediately. “You have to forgive yourself for any actions you performed while at the mercy of the Syndicate. You were programmed to do things to the other victims without their consent or yours. That’s on them, not you.” Skinner was certain, not that it would come down to it, that such a thing could be proven in a court of law, too. Among the victims’ statements and Byers’s detailed report of exactly what that program could do to a person’s mind, there was firm proof that Mulder could not be held responsible for his actions during that time period. Skinner took a breath and went on. “Have you shared what you just told me with Dr. Boswick?”

Mulder hesitantly shook his head.

“Then I think you need to.” Skinner tilted his head and his expression softened. “Do you agree?”

After a second, Mulder nodded. “Okay,” said Skinner. “Promise me you’ll talk this out with her.”

“I promise,” Mulder whispered and then he took a long shuddering breath and let it out. A couple of wayward tears fell from his eyes but he gave Skinner a wobbly grin. “I’m a wreck huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Skinner as he started the car’s engine and put it into reverse. “I think you’re salvageable.” Mulder laughed and Skinner backed out of their parking spot and pointed his car in the direction of Mulder’s apartment.

Seven and a Half Weeks Earlier

Skinner leaned with his head against his clasped hands, his elbows propped on his desk. He had his sleeves rolled up and his forearm muscles tensed and untensed as he clenched his hands. The investigation into Mulder’s disappearance had come to a complete standstill. Today marked five weeks and four days since the agent had disappeared and they were no closer to finding him than they were at the outset. The office was quiet. The usual sounds from out in the hall such as people talking as they passed by and the elevator bell dinging or the sounds of his secretary at her duties typing and answering the phone didn’t filter into Skinner’s consciousness. He was too focused on his own failure to notice them.

Scully was downstairs in the bullpen with a much-reduced task force from what Skinner had originally put together, following up on some vague sighting of a pair of suspicious-looking black panel vans that had been noticed about five miles west of Mulder’s apartment block the night of his disappearance. Skinner had been forced by top brass to return ninety percent of the task force back to its other cases in progress when it became clear that Mulder wasn’t going to be found any time soon. So far the tip on the vans hadn’t panned out either; no one had gotten any license plate numbers and the vans hadn’t been picked up on any traffic cameras. But Scully was still on top of it like a dog with a bone because it was all they had.

Suddenly Skinner’s phone rang, startling him, and he sat up straight. He grabbed the receiver and said in a gruff voice, “Skinner.”

“I have information regarding the location of Agent Mulder,” said a man’s voice.

Skinner’s eyes widened and he rose from his chair. “Who is this?” he growled.

“No one you know. Arlington Cemetery, eleven o’clock tonight, in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Come alone.” And with that, the person hung up the phone. The click echoed in Skinner’s ears for a full ten seconds before he slammed the receiver down and picked it up again, calling down to phone records for a trace on his line. It was a long shot; the man could have called from anywhere and be a hundred miles or more away and he hadn’t been on the line more than a few seconds. But if he was going to personally give Skinner information on Mulder’s whereabouts then he might just be calling from somewhere inside the DC area.

When he was done asking for a trace, he hung up again and then dialed the bullpen on the third floor. One of the few agents left on the Mulder task force picked up and Skinner demanded to speak to Agent Scully. When the agent replied that he didn’t know where she was, Skinner barked orders for him to find her and have her come up to his office immediately. Then he hung up the phone for a third time and paced his office, hand worrying at his balding head, his mind racing. Come alone. Isn’t that what the bad guy always says when trying to pull a trick on the hero in a movie? Skinner thought to himself. But I’m no hero.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Scully asked as she walked in a couple of minutes later, interrupting his thoughts. Just then, his phone rang again and he grabbed it, motioning for her to shut the door and come have a seat. She obeyed and sat with her legs crossed in one of the chairs across from his desk while he spoke into the phone. Scully’s heart pounded in her chest, sensing that something important was happening. She prayed it was some good news about Mulder.

At last, Skinner hung up the phone and leaned on his hands on his desk then he looked at Scully and took a seat in his chair. “I just had a phone call a few minutes ago from someone who claims to know Mulder’s whereabouts,” he said solemnly and watched a whole range of expression cross over Scully’s face. Then suddenly she was rapidly asking him a million questions like, “Who is this person? Did they say where he is? Is he okay? Who was that you were just talking to?” and so on. Skinner stalled her with a raised hand and ground his teeth, praying for patience.

“I don’t know who he is. He did not say where Mulder is. And he won’t share that information until late tonight at Arlington Cemetery. I’ve been told to come alone. I was on the phone with Holly, trying to get a trace on my line but the incoming call was rerouted several times. There’s no way to get a record for an actual location.”

“What are you going to do, sir? You can’t go alone tonight. It might be some kind of set up.”

“I have to. If I don’t, it could mean we never find Mulder,” said Skinner.

Scully looked around as though searching for another way and said, “We could put agents in strategic places along the cemetery grounds. We could have someone watching from a distance…”

“Dana, no,” said Skinner firmly.

“I’m… I’m just worried that this is a ruse, sir, that you might be in danger from this person. We have no idea who it is or what their motives are,” she explained.

“I understand your concern but I’m not going to botch this. I can’t. It could be our last chance.” Skinner’s voice tightened and he shared a long, hard look with his agent. “I will find out where he is and we will get Mulder back.” She couldn’t fight his determination and so, at around ten p.m., Skinner headed out to Arlington alone to await the mysterious informant who had promised to give him vital information on Mulder’s whereabouts.

The informant had chosen well. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was in a wide open space near the top of a hill overlooking the cemetery with no obstructions and well lit, even at eleven at night. Skinner had shown his credentials at the main entrance gate of the cemetery on Memorial Drive to the night guard who he’d alerted with a phone call earlier saying that he would be arriving on important FBI business. The man gave him a nod and let him in without further inquiry and Skinner drove his car along the winding paths among row after row of white, same-sized tombstones until he came to Roosevelt drive which he followed to the small Wheaton parking lot where he left his car and walked on foot to the tomb.

He waited, not seeing anyone nearby, and paced anxiously in front of the simple, rectangular white memorial. He was a few minutes early by design, wanting to see if he could surprise the man who had spoken to him on the phone and promised to deliver. But the man was not there yet, not that Skinner could see. He paced some more, becoming agitated, until a figure emerged on one of the footpaths coming from the opposite direction in which Skinner had parked his car. He stood stock still and waited, staring at the nondescript man as he approached.

The man was perhaps in his late fifties, with wispy, graying hair and a slight hunch. He wore a dark trench coat over a suit much like the professional outfit Skinner wore. The man’s shoes were shined and his tie was a subdued gray stripe. Skinner pegged him as a government worker of some type; beyond that, he couldn’t postulate. “Are you the one who called me earlier?” asked Skinner to confirm when the man was about three yards away. The man didn’t speak until he was an arm’s length from Skinner and then he just stared for a moment before opening his mouth.

“Your agent is being kept at a facility that turns human beings into mindless slaves,” said the man in a low voice. Skinner felt a pit grow in his stomach. “It uses highly advanced brainwashing techniques to create what they call there, ‘drones.’ In case you’re wondering why I’m here, I owed a debt of allegiance to one of Mulder’s earlier contacts, someone who used to provide him with information essential to his quest for the truth.”

“Where is this facility?” Skinner growled hastily. He didn’t give a rat’s ass this man’s reasons for helping them find Mulder. He just wanted to know Mulder’s location now so he could go retrieve him. He tensed when the man drew something from his pocket but it was only a slip of paper.

“Here.”

Skinner took the piece of paper and unfolded it. The address had a Delaware area code. He looked up at the man and said, “If this is real and not some ruse, I thank you.”

“Oh, it’s real, Mr. Skinner,” the man replied. “I needn’t tell you that this conversation never happened. I also consider my debt repaid. You won’t hear from me again.”

“I understand,” said Skinner.

“Good,” nodded the man. “Then I’ll bid you goodnight.” He turned and began walking away and Skinner thought about halting the man and slapping a pair of cuffs on him but he didn’t want to push his luck. No doubt the man had connections. Being rash now could mean bad news for Mulder. Once the informant was out of sight, Skinner raced back to his car and drove off at speed out of the cemetery and back to the Hoover building where he immediately assembled and ordered a team of agents and SWAT to move out and start surveillance on the address in Delaware. He didn’t sleep that night or the next or the next. He barely caught five hours total shuteye between obtaining the address of the drone facility and taking part in the raid that brought it all down.

Present Day

They drew up outside of Mulder’s apartment and sat for a moment. Mulder turned to Skinner and asked, “Are you coming up?” Skinner got out of the car with him and followed him back up to the fourth floor. He stood in the entryway of Mulder’s apartment, fiddling with his car keys while Mulder went to the coffee table and took up their abandoned breakfast plates to bring to the kitchen. The remaining eggs had congealed into a concrete mass that was going to be hell to clean off.

“Are you going to be all right?” Skinner asked him. Skinner felt even less comfortable leaving Mulder alone since Mulder’s confession but Mulder had reiterated on the ride home that he wanted a little space.

“Can’t make any promises,” said Mulder. “You know how it goes; one minute’s golden and the next one blows. Ha!” Skinner let a small smile pass over his face. Mulder was a miracle of random bursts of high energy and flirtatious, self-deprecating humor followed by precipitous lows and emotional pitfalls. Mulder scrubbed at the crusted egg on one of the plates with a Brillo pad as Skinner came into the kitchen doorway.

“Would you be insulted if I took your firearms home with me?”

Mulder paused his scrubbing and then resumed, trying to hide how much Skinner’s question bothered him. “I’m not going to shoot myself,” he answered softly.

“Humor me, please.”

After a long, tense moment, Mulder let out a sigh and nodded. He left the plates in the sink and wiped his wet hands on the back of his jeans, then went out into the living room. He took his personal hand gun out of the drawer in his desk, removed the bullets, and handed it over to Skinner who put it in his jacket pocket. Then Mulder crossed the apartment to his trench coat hanging by the door and took out his service piece. He took out the clip and passed the empty weapon to Skinner. Skinner pocketed that one as well with a sincere, “Thank you.”

“What are you going to do for the rest of the afternoon?” Skinner asked, making excuses not to leave right away and worried that Mulder was going to just sit and stew in his own despair about Krycek.

Mulder turned to the door of his storage room and pointed. “I’ve got a project.”

“Oh?” Skinner raised a brow. This was good news. He had expected Mulder to flounder and make up a little white lie about taking a nap or reading a book but a project was something more concrete and purposeful.

“Yeah,” said Mulder and went to his storage/junk room and pushed hard on the knob of the door. It crashed open with a bang and a couple of boxes slumped down, spilling their contents across the doorway. The contents happened to be a bunch of skin magazines but Mulder didn’t seem embarrassed to have exposed one of his dirty little secrets. He just gestured at the room and Skinner stared agog. It was completely filled with boxes and piles of junk. “There’s a bed under there somewhere,” said Mulder, leaning on the doorknob. “I figured if I clear it out, your back won’t hurt so much next time you sleep over.” He looked at Skinner hopefully and Skinner shook his head in amazement.

He turned to Mulder and asked, “You want to tackle that alone? That’s a lot of work.”

Mulder shrugged. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. Dr. Boswick won’t let me go back to work yet.” He looked away as though ashamed he was still struggling mentally and emotionally. “Besides, I should never have let it get this bad.”

“What the hell is in all those boxes? They can’t all be porn magazines,” said Skinner with a raised eyebrow and pointed at the ones that had spilled.

Mulder chuckled. “I had kind of an addiction… before.” His smile fell a bit. In truth, he didn’t think he wanted to ever look at a porno or skin magazine again. Those would be the first things to go: the videos to Frohike, the magazines to the dumpster outside. “But no, not all of that is porn. Ah, there are some copies of X-Files in there and reams of reports on UFOs I printed out when the World Wide Web became a thing plus Lone Gunmen newsletters, magazines about aliens and strange creature sightings all over the world, and stuff my Mother gave me at Christmas and birthdays that should never see the light of day. She’s a knitter, you know?” Mulder shuddered at this last statement and made Skinner laugh. He suddenly felt better about leaving Mulder alone.

“I’m glad you have something to occupy your time,” said Skinner.

“Me too.”

“But you’ll call me like we talked about, right?” pressed Skinner. He wanted to make sure Mulder and he were on the same page. Mulder nodded.

“Yeah, sure. Um, this’ll keep me busy for a while but I’ll call later,” he said.

“Okay,” Skinner said softly. He studied Mulder’s face and after a long moment reached out an arm in offering. He didn’t touch. He knew Mulder’s triggers. Mulder hesitated a moment and then placed himself within reach. Skinner drew him in and held him in a one-armed embrace for a few seconds then let him go and looked him in the eye. “Goodbye, Mulder,” he said.

“Bye.” Mulder walked him to the door, giving him a child-like wave as he moved down the hallway to the stairs. He waved back and then he was out of sight but far from out of mind.

The first thing Skinner did when he got back to his Crystal City apartment was call Scully to update her on Mulder and their visit to see Krycek. He told her that they had gone to the hospital but hadn’t stayed long, that Mulder had tried to joke around with Krycek who gave no reaction, and that Mulder had promised the rat he’d come visit him again and read to him. (Skinner could practically hear Scully’s eyes rolling at this last bit of information.) He mentioned that Krycek’s continued catatonia seemed to upset Mulder but he left out Mulder’s confession about having had sex with Krycek and Mulder’s breakdown in the parking lot.

“You really think he’s okay to stay alone?” Scully asked his opinion after he’d finished recounting their day.

Skinner sighed and paced back and forth between his kitchen and dining area. He scratched his head. “I think he’s okay for the time being. We can’t watch him twenty-four/seven. I, uh, did take the added measure of bringing his guns home with me, though, just in case.”

“Was he acting suicidal or giving any hints?” she asked, her voice suddenly deeply worried.

“Er, not exactly. I just think it’s a good precaution,” he backtracked. He didn’t want to explain Mulder’s actions that had caused him to take the weapons away.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“He’s got a project he wants to work on. I figured that was a good sign.”

“It’s an excellent sign,” her voice lightened. “What kind of project?”

Skinner smiled to himself. “I’ll let him show you next time you go over. You’re picking him up Monday. Maybe he can show you then.”

“I was thinking of heading over there tomorrow, actually,” said Scully. “Aside from checking up on him, I had, uh, borrowed some of his classic horror-movie video tapes and wanted to return them. I watched them while he was gone… to remind me.”

“Ah,” responded Skinner. He could almost feel her love for her partner over the phone. He frowned. It was becoming clearer and clearer to him that he and Scully shared a particular way of looking at Mulder and he wasn’t at all certain what to do about it. If those two were in love, he didn’t want to stand in their way. His only prerogative was to ensure Mulder’s safety and well-being, and yet… “Well, uh, I’m sure he’ll appreciate you bringing them back,” he said in a falsely positive tone.

“I don’t know,” she mused thoughtfully. “Did you notice the way he never had the TV on the whole time he was in the hospital?”

“Yeah, I did actually,” said Skinner. “I thought it might be because the pattern of the images coming from the television reminded him of the visuals he was brainwashed with.”

“Did he ever speak to you about that?”

“No, never.”

“Well maybe I’ll ask him. I just hope it doesn’t trigger bad memories,” she said.

Skinner hoped so, too, and said so. The he added, “Good luck tomorrow. Do you want me to call him and let him know you’re coming over?”

“Thank you but no. I’ll give him a call later.”

“All right. You take care, Dana,” said Skinner and they hung up. Skinner stared at the phone in his hands for a moment and then returned it to its cradle. For the rest of the day, Skinner thought often of Mulder and also of Scully but mostly of Mulder. He could hardly concentrate on doing his laundry or reading some case reports he’d brought home with him to catch up on over the weekend. Later that evening, as he cooked himself a light supper, he wondered how Mulder’s not-so-little cleaning project was going and if Scully had had a chance to call him yet. He worried and paced when he didn’t receive a call from Mulder as Mulder has promised. Skinner picked up and put down his phone a half dozen times to call him and then told himself he was worrying over nothing. He had seen Mulder only a few hours previously and it stood to reason that Mulder had immersed himself in cleaning out that horrible room and had simply gotten distracted. In the end, Skinner decided he would let Mulder have his space, but the decision was difficult.

You have it bad, Walter Skinner, his mind supplied as he crawled into bed that night. Shut up, he told it, but it just kept supplying him images of Mulder covered in shiny black bio-latex or lying bald and partly mute in a hospital bed or smiling softly at something Skinner said or giving Scully that great big hug as they were standing in his room at the psychiatric hospital waiting to take him home.

Overwhelming didn’t even begin to describe trying to tackle his junk room. It was a pack rat’s paradise and damn near impenetrable until Mulder moved about six boxes of skin magazines to the dumpster out in back of his apartment building. Those first trips to the dumpster were troublesome. Mulder had to open each box and identify what kinds of magazines were in it first because he couldn’t remember, but for one or two, which boxes contained what magazines. The multiple images of beautiful women in alluring or sexual positions taunted him with his own new fear of physical intimacy. He was mostly over his startle reaction at having someone casually touch him but still had his moments like he had the night before when Skinner had tried to hug him. He knew it was because Skinner was male and large and even though logically Mulder knew Skinner would never harm him, he couldn’t halt that now-ingrained kneejerk reaction of wanting to flee. That he had to ease into such a simple act as a hug or a pat on the back made Mulder hate himself. Dr. Boswick had told him that, over time and with work, he would get better. He supposed she was right, but her assurances didn’t make it any easier. As he tossed the six boxes of skin magazines in the dumpster, the contents of them made him sick with revulsion at his past self, too, and he regretted ever objectifying the women in them. He knew firsthand what it was like to be an object of lust and fall prey to those who had objectified him. The same went for his porn tapes. He shuddered at the thought of watching them now and dragged three full cardboard boxes of them out of the junk room to stack by the door to gift to Frohike.

He thought hard about possibly giving away his classic movie collection, too. The television scared him. It reminded him too much of the flashing images and mind-numbing words that he’d been forced to watch inside his face mask over the course of six weeks. Commercials in particular seemed to him like an insidious kind of programming almost as bad as the dronification program. However, he acknowledged to himself that he might not always feel that way, especially about the old horror and sci-fi films. They were corny and harmless-seeming most of the time and delivered just the right kind of thrill without grossing out their audience. No, he decided, he wouldn’t get rid of those. He tucked them in a corner of his living room out of the way of his path in and out of the junk room and kept plugging away at the rest of the crap that had accrued in there.

The boxes and boxes of papers were the next hardest thing to go through and Mulder found himself distracted by memories of years’ worth of research on alien abductions and UFO sightings. He sat and read some of the stuff he’d printed from the web and had scribbled notes and facts on and sifted through hundreds of newspaper articles he’d clipped and saved and flipped through a dozen or more copies of old, unsolved X-Files he’d brought home as mental exercises until he realized he was procrastinating and shoved it all aside to reach some truly awful sweaters his mother had knitted for him when he was in college. He pictured her frown at seeing them tossed in a dumpster but he grabbed them all anyway, one for each semester, and carried the armload of them down to the trash. It wasn’t that he hated his mother or was ungrateful. It was just that the sweaters were so damned ugly he knew he’d never, ever wear them so why keep them when they’d been stuffed in one of his closets or another since she’d given them to him? Besides, he hadn’t spoken to her since that weekend he’d woken up in Rhode Island covered in blood and having light-therapy induced visions of her arguing with Bill Mulder with the cigarette-smoking man looking on menacingly from the sidelines. He’d accused her of having an affair with the smoker and she’d smacked him across the face. She hadn’t even come to see him in the hospital or psychiatric hospital after his rescue although he knew Scully had informed her of the general situation. Mulder shivered at the memory of the light therapy as he stared at the sweaters he had just thrown away. Had he unconsciously been acting out a foreshadowing of events to follow? He shook his head. Life didn’t work that way, but he had to admit, the light-therapy goggles that hack psychiatrist had put over his eyes were eerily reminiscent of the internal screen of his drone mask.

When Mulder returned from the dumpster, he observed that the middle of his apartment looked like a tornado hit it where he’d been sorting papers and non-pornographic magazines and publications into heaps of “keep” and “throw away” and suddenly he was exhausted.

Mulder turned his head and peered into the junk room. He thought he could almost see one corner of the double bed that was in there but he wasn’t sure that that wasn’t a shirt with Phoebe’s lipstick on the collar that he’d tossed in there one day during the L’Ively case. He swallowed. Thank God that bitch was on the other side of the Atlantic. He’d be ashamed to have her see him as he was now: traumatized and out of work and violated by his own…

He kicked his basketball against the wall and it bounced back and knocked askew a small pile of papers then bumped its way across the floor and settled near his fish tank. He looked over at the little swimming creatures and sighed. Mulder went to the tank and picked up the fish food next to it and sprinkled a little across the top of the water. The fish swam up to nibble on the multi-colored flakes and Mulder sighed again, a nervous habit. They seemed so happy and peaceful in their tank: fed, watered, and kept clean. The tank. Floating. Weightless and content. Mulder closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could almost, almost smell the sweet scent of whatever chemical it was that had been added to his oxygen supply. He rocked forward on his toes and back on his heels and bowed his head over the fish tank for a moment. A long breath shuddered in and out between his lips and he cracked his eyes open. They tracked down to the fish. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. Was everything going to remind him of being a drone? Was everything going to trigger either a dissociative state or a panic attack?

In a daze, Mulder set aside the fish food and went to go sit on the couch. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his hands prayer-like in front of his lips and stared at the darkness beyond the window which was broken only by the sickly yellow glow of the street lamp down by the sidewalk. He jumped when his phone rang and waited until the answering machine picked up.

“Mulder, it’s me…”

He lunged for the phone and answered it. “I’m here,” he said.

“Hi,” said Scully. “I just thought I’d check in on you. How’s it going? Skinner said you have a new project.”

“Uh, yeah, yes, I do. It’s… I’m clearing out my junk room,” said Mulder, cursing himself for forgetting to call the man. It was now nine o’clock. Skinner was probably worried sick.

“You have a junk room?” she said and Mulder could picture one of her red eyebrows groping for her hairline.

“Not for long,” he said and tried for a smile, knowing she was putting him on. He was certain she’d seen it when she’d been at his apartment looking for clues to his disappearance.

“Well that’s great. Listen, I was thinking of paying you a visit tomorrow. I have some of your tapes…”

“Scully!” he exclaimed, cutting her off. “Those are private!”

“Not those tapes, Mulder,” she said with a huff and he congratulated himself on making a funny. She then told him what kind of tapes she was returning and why she had them in the first place and he frowned.

“You can keep them if you want them. I have ton more here,” he offered. He didn’t know if he could accept them back because they’d bear the memory of her heartache at having him missing from her life, even if it had only been temporary.

“I’ll bring them anyway. You can decide what to do with them. They’re, uh, not really my type of movie,” she said apologetically and his smile was back. He felt like his emotions were ping-ponging all over the place and longed for some kind of stability. Maybe he could talk to Dr. Boswick about how to achieve that.

“Okay, Scully,” he capitulated. “What time will you be over?”

“Well I’ve got to drop a gift off at my sister-in-law’s for my nephew’s birthday next week. I should be over around one o’clock.”

“Sounds great,” said Mulder. He figured he’d have enough time in the morning to make progress on his cleaning project and also to shove anything back in there quickly before Scully arrived so she wouldn’t see the mess. He calculated it would take him several more days to fully clean the space on top of and around the bed and then he had the closet and under the bed to contend with and then he had to check the old mattress’s firmness and change the sheets and blankets and…

“Mulder? Are you there?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about the junk I still need to clear out,” he admitted and heard her let out a little breath of relief. She must have thought he was having some kind of episode. “I’m fine, Scully,” he reassured her.

“Okay, Mulder. Don’t overdo it on your project.”

“Yes, Mom.” She scoffed and pointedly told him goodbye and the two of them hung up. Mulder surveyed his domain. It was a shambles. Of course it would be. That was why he usually shoved everything into the junk room in the first place, so it wouldn’t crap up his living space. He sighed and got up and shuffled the keep and toss piles into some semblance of neatness then went to the kitchen to go make himself a late dinner. Skinner had left plenty of sandwich supplies so Mulder threw together a ham and cheese on the same whole wheat he and Skinner had eaten as toast for breakfast and settled down on the couch to eat. He glanced over in the corner at the empty leather arm chair and thought wistfully of the big man who had occupied it last night, if only briefly. His body had felt so good against Mulder’s on the couch, firm and secure, safe. Mulder thought about calling Skinner, but he was doing okay and really didn’t see the need. Plus it was getting late and he didn’t want to disturb the man two nights in a row. Instead, after dinner, he shuffled around more piles of paper and sorted a few bits and pieces into the to-go pile.

Mulder slept that night with no nightmares, which was a small miracle in itself but did happen on occasion. The first thing he did in the morning was haul more boxes of papers and general detritus to the dumpster. A lot of the non-paper hoard was composed of freebees that Mulder had gotten at UFO conventions or while on the road for work, plus he had a small stash of FBI-logo-bearing key rings, pens, pencils, coffee mugs, plastic binders, and any number of ostensibly useful office clutter. Everything went to the dumpster. Mulder now could see the end of the bed and had a path up one side of it. Not once that morning had he thought of being a drone or of being forced to his knees to give a blowjob to some fat fuck in a suit with too much power and not enough deodorant.

At around ten, Mulder made a whirlwind tour of his apartment and tossed anything that looked slovenly back into the junk room, which thankfully wasn’t all that much. The only things that remained out were the stack of boxes of porn by the door and his other, less controversial, video collection that he moved over in front of the television so he didn’t have to look at the blank screen. Then he hopped in the shower so he wouldn’t stink for Scully.

The warm water cascaded from the showerhead and soothed his labor-weary muscles. Mulder soaped himself from the head down, rubbing the bar over his body like a drone rubbing bio-latex lubricant into its blackened skin. Squeeakk! Poppopp! He tilted his head to the fall of water and opened his mouth. The heat surrounded him and enclosed him and he let out a little moan. His soapy hand brushed over his genitals. He fingered the tiny scars from the removal of his electrodes. His eyes closed and he rolled his neck sinuously. “Oh,” he moaned. Some water flowed into his mouth and he swallowed. It was thick and green and tasted sweet. “Ohhh,” he moaned louder and passed both of his hands around and over his cock and balls. He could feel something, a vibration. He drank more of the warm liquid. The shower filled up to the top with fluid. Mulder cracked his eyes open and saw though a sea of light green. His breath hissed in and out through his respirator, the air scented and sedating. His right hand gripped his cock and stroked. “Mm.” Stroked. “Ah!” Stroked. “Shit!” He pictured his null belt whisking away his cum but it was just the shower rinsing it down the drain. Suddenly, Mulder started to shake and his limbs went numb. There was no mask over his face so no familiar images had bombarded him. His noise-generating ear pieces were missing from his ears so he didn’t hear the complex sound program he’d been expecting to. He stuck his finger in one ear and felt nervously around the earlobe. No bio-latex, no vibrations. He blinked and stared at the tile walls and after a minute, slammed off the shower. He stood with his legs shaking and his hands holding him up against the wall. He might have stood there all day but he remembered he could call Skinner if he needed to.

Mulder stumbled out of the shower, almost slipping on the damp floor, and grabbed a bathrobe hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. He threw it around himself, yanked a towel from his linen shelf, and brought it out into the living room to towel dry his short hair while he dialed Skinner’s phone number on his land line.

“Mulder, is everything okay?” asked Skinner when he picked up.

“When are people gonna stop asking me that?” snapped Mulder and whipped the towel at the floor where it landed with a thwack.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a minute and then Skinner asked, “You gonna let me know what that was all about? Or why you called?”

Mulder let out a harsh breath and rubbed the top of his head briskly with his free hand. “I’m sorry,” he said as he paced in front of the window. “I didn’t mean to be a grouch. I was just in the shower and it felt… I felt…” Mulder took a deep breath and squinched his eyes shut against the memory. “I just needed to call, all right?”

“Okay. Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I probably should,” said Mulder and grimaced, opening his eyes. “Dr. Boswick isn’t gonna be too happy with me if I start bundling everything up inside again.”

“No, she probably isn’t,” chuckled Skinner. “But you don’t have to talk about everything all at once.”

“I know that. I know,” said Mulder. He toed the edge of the rug under the coffee table with his left foot.

“Did Scully call you and tell you she’s coming over?”

“Uh, yeah. She’ll be here around one. Walter?”

“What is it, Mulder?” prompted Skinner gently and Mulder counted his lucky stars he had someone he could call upon to make him feel better, two someones, but Skinner was better because he didn’t get all emotional and mother-hen-like the way Scully sometimes did. Not that that was a bad thing, but once in a while he just needed Skinner’s towering reserve instead of Scully’s insightful sensitivity.

“Thank you,” said Mulder.

“I didn’t do anything,” protested Skinner with another chuckle.

“Yeah, you did,” insisted Mulder and then changed subjects. “I, er, have a path to the bed in the other room now.”

“That’s fantastic! How long do you think it will take for you to clear the whole room?” Skinner asked and Mulder and he went back and forth about some of the stuff Mulder had thrown away (not the skin mags because that was too emotionally triggering for Mulder but other things). Skinner guffawed at the amount of FBI tchotchkes Mulder had accumulated when he told him. Skinner related a time when he had gone to a management conference for the FBI and all the attendees had to wear these truly awful paisley ties with the letters B-O-S-S down the front of them. Mulder laughed out loud at that and felt much lighter than he had coming out of the shower.

He happened to glance at the clock at one point in their conversation and saw it was almost twelve-thirty. “Look,” he said, “I have to go. Scully will be here in about a half hour and I still have to get dressed and put away some crap.”

“All right,” said Skinner. “Take care, Mulder.”

“You, too. And I’m sorry for not calling you yesterday.”

“As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters. It was just an idea to help you get through but you seem to be handling things pretty well,” said Skinner. Mulder wasn’t entirely sure about that, but a weekend that had loomed over his head like the worst forty-eight hours of his life to get through had, so far, turned out not all that bad.

Mulder hung up the phone after thanking Skinner and saying goodbye a second time and stared at the moist towel on his living room floor then he burst into action, swiped it off the floor, and dashed for the bathroom where he shaved, deodorized, and made sure his short hair didn’t look any worse than it usually did. After that, he threw on some clean clothes and did one more cleanup pass of his apartment so Scully wouldn’t think he was a total slob.

Scully held up the bag with his video tapes in them when she arrived and his eyes brightened. He let her into his apartment and took the bag from her, thanking her for returning them even though he still wasn’t sure he was going to keep them. He had even considered, before hiding it behind a wall of VHS, getting rid of his television all together. But then he had looked at the computer screen on his desk with just as much distrust and sighed. What was he going to do when he got back to work? Make Scully type up all his reports and e-mails and do any and all database and Internet searches for him? No, he had to get a goddamned grip on himself, that’s what.

“Come on in,” he said and ushered her through to the living room. She took a look around curiously as she took off her jacket and laid it across one arm of the couch. Mulder looked at the tapes she had brought back. He hadn’t even noticed them missing from the few he always kept by the TV and as he read their titles he smiled. One of them was Plan 9 from Outer Space. There were a couple of Hammer Horror vampire films and a few Universal Pictures monster classics like Dracula’s Daughter and Creature from the Black Lagoon. He was about to go set them on top of his “safety barrier” of other tapes when he looked up and saw Scully doing a double take at the VHS boxes that obscured his TV.

“Yeah, uh, well, I just put them there temporarily,” he said when she gave him a look and a raised eyebrow.

“What is it about the TV that bugs you so much?” she asked seriously as she sat on the edge of couch and watched him set the returned tapes where he’d intended to.

He shrugged and didn’t turn around for a moment. “I guess it just… reminds me,” he said quietly and schooled his features before he turned around and offered her lunch. His freezer had a stash of frozen pizzas in it from before his abduction. Going into the kitchen, he pulled one out and stuck it in his oven on 450 for twenty minutes then returned to the living room and to a worried Scully. “Uh-oh, you have that look on your face.”

“What look?” she asked. He passed her a bottled iced tea he’d snagged from the fridge on his way past it. Then he sat next to her and popped the cap on his own iced tea and took a long chug before answering her.

“Constipated. Are you getting enough fiber, Scully?”

Scully huffed and set her tea on the coffee table.

“I’m just worried about you, Mulder. Have you talked to Dr. Boswick about your TV phobia?”

Mulder clenched his free hand by his side and said, “I don’t have a phobia. It’s… It’s more like a trigger. Look, at this point my mind is drawing all kinds of connections between everyday objects and events and my drone experiences. I can’t help it if I don’t want to have a movie-marathon night or binge watch old Twilight Zone episodes. You have no idea what it’s like to have essentially a tiny television screen attached to your face twenty-four/seven and have it regularly bombarding you so rapidly with images and words that your mind can only process them on a subliminal level but which turn you into a rubber doll for sick men’s amusement!” He drew a sharp breath and then said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“It’s okay, Mulder. I get it. I do,” said Scully gently. “But at some point, you have to face those triggers and overcome them. That’s why you should tell Dr. Boswick; she can help you.”

He nodded and rubbed his arm a little. “I will,” he promised. He had a boat load of things to tell Dr. Boswick it seemed. He looked morosely down at his iced tea and picked at the paper label on the bottle, thinking about his next appointment with her. Suddenly he got up off the couch and went to the open bookshelf next to it and grabbed a book from the shelf above the fish tank. “I was thinking of reading to Krycek, you know, to keep him from being bored. I thought he’d like this,” he said, coming back to the couch. He hesitated to show Scully the book when she frowned a little at the mention of Krycek but she reached out her hand and took it from him all the same.

“Skinwalkers?” She raised an eyebrow and set the book aside on the table without opening it. She looked over at Mulder who perched on the very edge of the couch cushion, eager for her approval. “Mulder, why are you still being so nice to Krycek? I understand you went through a shared traumatic experience but he… he’s still Krycek in there.”

Mulder chewed the inside of his lip and poked at the book. “I guess I just… want him to know that I don’t consider him an enemy anymore.” He couldn’t tell her what he’d told Skinner. He wasn’t even sure he could keep his promise to Skinner and tell Dr. Boswick. It had taken all his willpower to be able to tell the AD because he’d been afraid Skinner would see him differently and not want to be his friend anymore. He had the same fears about telling Scully, though she would more than likely take the hard line and tell him Krycek had it coming to him. But still, he would have changed in her eyes and he’d gone through enough rapid change as it was recently. He didn’t know how much more he could tolerate. He looked over when he heard her sigh and saw that her eyes were on the skinwalker book. He studied her face. She seemed disappointed. His heart sank. He hadn’t meant to upset her. “I’ll go check on the pizza,” he mumbled and got off the couch to escape to the kitchen.

Scully didn’t stay long but she did eat lunch with him and did ask him to show her how his junk room was coming along. He blushed and shrugged his way through a couple of excuses. He really didn’t want her to see it until it was cleaned up, or so he said. But eventually he capitulated and opened the door. At least this time there were no skin magazines falling all over the place. She took a long gander at the space he’d cleared to the end of the bed and followed with her eyes the little trail he’d dug out beside it.

“Well,” she said with her hands on her petite hips, “you still have your work cut out for you. How the hell did you accumulate so much stuff?” Her fingers reached out and touched the hem of the Phoebe shirt. Mulder snatched it away from her, or tried to. It was stuck fast under a heavy box of textbooks that was also on top of the end of the bed. He gave up when it didn’t budge more than an inch. She held up a hand in surrender and didn’t touch anything else.

“It’s a bad habit,” said Mulder. He really didn’t want to talk about his old pack-rat ways but he found himself going on. “I figured it would be a good one to break, since I’m already on a self-improvement streak a la Dr. Boswick. Besides, now I’ll have a place for someone to sleep over.” He said that last like an overeager kid, thinking only of Skinner and Skinner’s poor, aching back.

“I think I’d rather sleep on your couch,” she commented, staring at the bed and wrinkling her nose. “How old is that mattress?”

“It’s brand new, or it was when I got it,” said Mulder, hiding his blushing reaction to her assumption that she would be the one invited for a slumber party once the bedroom was clear. It was a natural assumption to make. They were very close and he had always confided in her and trusted her, practically from day one. Skinner, on the other hand, he had taken some time to come to trust, though he did so now implicitly.

Scully turned to him with a doting smile. “All right, Mulder, but no one is sleeping in here yet.”

Damn straight, he thought to himself. To her he said, “I’m working on it,” and returned her grin. He put an arm around her shoulder and ushered her out of the junk room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow around nine,” Scully spoke after she had used his bathroom. She gathered her jacket and put it on. He bobbed his head and walked her over to the door where he wrapped his arms around himself and asked, “You won’t mind if I read to Krycek for a little after my appointment?” His eyes pleaded with her as she looked down at her car keys in her hand.

“I don’t know, Mulder,” she murmured.

“A half an hour, that’s all I’m asking, please?”

“Are you going to read to him every time?”

Mulder’s heart ached but he answered her honestly and determinedly, “I’d like to, yes.”

A wobbly smile crossed her full lips and she nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeated. He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

She looked up at him. “Sometimes we can only move forward, and clinging too hard to the past becomes the stone we pull over ourselves that crushes us. I guess I feel my animosity for him crushing me,” she whispered. “But you have shown me the strength to lift it off.” Her eyes glittered and he looked down at her with all the tenderness he could muster. He leaned down slowly, his eyes focused on her forehead and ready to plant a kiss there. She must have misread his intent because she tilted her head up at the same time and their lips met. Mulder pressed them together for a brief second, not registering the tangent right away, but then pulled back in shock and held his fingertips to his mouth, his eyes wide. Scully saw the look on his face and apologized immediately, her face reddening, and reached out a hand for his arm to touch it. He backed away, his head negating her urge to comfort.

“Goodbye, Scully. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said in monotone and opened the door for her. She looked at him a second longer, then nodded and left his apartment.

He closed the door behind her. He turned the lock. He breathed.

Twelve Weeks Earlier

The tank drained all around drone 1013. Its feet settled on the metal floor of the tank while two handlers unhooked its hoses, lined and sealed its null belt, and placed inserts in its respirator vents, which they left open. It was given a quick, all-over lubrication and it felt a vague sense of something that might be termed curiosity but then that useless emotion fled as it was commanded to step down from the tank and follow its handlers. It obeyed without hesitation. They walked it out of the tank room behind several other drones and their handlers down a long, brightly lit corridor with a bunch of closed doors. The corridor ended at an elevator bank and the drone was guided inside an open elevator car next to the others. The handlers crowded in and one of them pressed a down button. The elevator moved. The doors opened moments later to a parking garage with a small fleet of black panel vans waiting just a few yards away. One of them had the engine idling. All of the drones were strapped into bench seats in the back of the idling van. The handlers rode in front of them, one acting as the driver.

Drone 1013 stared straight ahead, its slick, bio-latexed hands resting flat on its blackened thighs. It did not move save for the way the motion of the van caused its body to sway in its straps. Occasionally, on a wide turn or a sudden stop, it would bump into a fellow drone by accident. There were no apologies. It and the other drones kept silent as they were programmed to do. A drone did not deserve an apology anyway.

The drive was long. Drone 1013 felt the urge to expel waste somewhere along the route and let a long stream of urine go into its null belt. The receptacle inside it swelled briefly with the urine and then warmed, quickly trapping the liquid and the more solid salts and other particles in a sanitary lining that would be removed when it was returned to the facility. The technicians at the lab had thought of everything.

Eventually, the van drew into another parking garage and the drones were unloaded and ushered into another elevator. The elevator doors opened onto a lavish hallway with plush carpeting, dark panels, and subdued lighting. Drone 1013 was ordered to follow its fellow drones down the hallway to a set of doors at the end. It obeyed. One of the handlers knocked on the doors and they were opened by a young man in a suit. The young man had dark hair and a dark expression.

“Ah, the drones are here. Good!” A tall, aged man holding a cigarette rose gleefully from a leather armchair among several other men in suits and gestured for the drones to come forward. The drones obeyed and stood in a small group in the center of the room. The cigarette holder eyed all of the drones and then went over to one of the handlers and asked, “Which one is drone 1013?”

“That one, sir,” said the handler and pointed to said drone.

“Thank you,” said the smoker with a twitchy grin. There were a few curious looks among the gentlemen at the new drone and then the other members of the gathering were claiming the other drones as they saw fit, leaving drone 1013 standing alone. Hands groped and pushed and directed until one member was receiving a blowjob from one drone, another had his drone sitting on his lap while taking his cock up its ass, and a third drone on all fours received a pair of probing fingers in its anus as it attempted to balance its master’s drink on its back. The handlers were dismissed. The smoker stepped into drone 1013’s view and regarded it with an eager gleam in his eye. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth without taking his eyes off the drone.

Drone 1013 stood silently, waiting for instructions. It did not know the man in front of it. It didn’t matter who the man was except for the fact that he was not-drone; therefore, he was master. It remained still as the smoker reached out the hand with the cigarette and caressed its smooth null mask. The man seemed fascinated with it. This confused drone 1013. Surely the man had seen other drones before. How was it different? The thought flickered and disappeared like all its other thoughts. Unknown to it, this morning a reinforcement program was constantly being projected across the screen of its mask at such a high rate of speed that its eye did not see it. This programming took place covertly between the more directly stimulating “awake cycles” and served to subsume higher thought function. Good drone. Submit. Drones are obedient. Drones are submissive. Obedience is pleasure. A drone is silent. Obey. Good drone. The screen appeared blank and semi-opaque from the inside, black and obsidian-mirror-like from the outside. Tiny mechanical chirps from its ear pieces that it could hardly hear accompanied the visual program and, of course, there were the electrodes that stimulated and provided pleasure.

The smoker lowered his hand and said, “Come with me drone 1013.” He turned and the drone followed him to a side chamber much like the one they had left, though smaller. It contained only two wing-backed armchairs, a small fireplace, a table between the chairs, and a drape-framed window that looked out over the city. “Close the door,” ordered the smoker casually. The drone shut the door and turned to face the smoker. It stood with its hands hanging by its sides, its feet planted firmly on the gold-and-blue Persian rug that covered the floor. The man sat and looked at the drone from head to toe. “Come closer,” the man said. Drone 1013 crossed the rug and stopped within a foot of the smoker’s legs. “Good,” said the smoker, not bothering to hide his lascivious expression; there was no need to. He took another drag of his Morley and flicked the ash in the general direction of a brownish glass ashtray on the table. Then he reached over and stubbed the cigarette out, rose from the chair, and stared into the blank mask inches from his own face. “Do you recognize me?” he asked in a low voice.

The drone thought for about five seconds and then slowly turned its head from side to side. The man in front of it let out a relieved breath and uttered, “Good,” again. A crapey, nicotine-stained hand came up and settled on the drone’s neck, just below the lowest strap of its mask. It breathed, waiting. The vent linings of its respirator contained the same chemical that was pumped through the oxygen hose while it was in its tank. The chemical calmed it, not that it was anxious or anything. It felt the man’s hand rove down its chest, examining it out of some unknown fascination. The roaming hand cupped its side and dipped low to caress its ass. “You had to be brought under control,” murmured the smoker. “You understand.” The drone did not know what the man was talking about. All it knew was that it was here to obey and provide whatever service its masters required. “We couldn’t have you destroying all our work,” the man continued. The drone’s eyebrows pinched under its mask. Work? What work? The groping hand moved to gently rub knuckles over the drone’s null bulge. Good drone. Submit. Drones are obedient. Drones are submissive. Obedience is pleasure. A drone is silent. Obey. Good drone. The rheumy eyes studied the mask. “It’s almost a shame it came to this but not quite. Such a mind, captured and repressed.” The old man clucked his tongue but he smiled broadly. A thrum passed through the drone. Master was pleased with it. “Come, sit,” said the man and patted his lap as he resumed his seat.

The drone turned and perched with its long legs wide astride the old man’s. “That’s good. My, you’re rather heavy!” he chuckled and his hands curled over the drone’s thigh and waist. “Such a large specimen. I wonder if you’re… proportional?” The done felt a hand move and seek a latch or buckle for its null belt. When the man didn’t find any, he frowned. “That’s right, I forgot. I need one of those damned tools. Go and fetch me one, that’s a good drone.” He pushed the drone upright again and patted its ass. The drone did not move. It wasn’t sure what master required. The man’s face became cross. “Did you not hear me? I said fetch one of those latex removal tools!” he snapped and the drone suddenly understood what the man wanted. It went out into the other room. Several pairs of eyes rose to watch it when it entered but then dismissed it as just a drone and looked away. It scanned the room. There, on an end table by a chair with a man fucking another drone was what his master in the other room required. It strode over and took up the tool. The man driving his penis into the other drone looked up and gave drone 1013 a sly grin but drone 1013 was already moving back to the small antechamber.

It brought the tool over to the smoker and presented it on its open palm. The man took the tool and once again instructed the drone to close the door. Once the drone had obeyed and returned to the man’s side, the man took the tool, fiddled with it a moment, and ran it along the seamless joins of the null belt over the drone’s hips. “Let’s just see what we have here, hm?” inquired the smoker as he set aside the tool and gently pulled the null piece away from the drone’s genitals, setting it aside on the table next to the ashtray. “Ah! Exquisite!” he exclaimed when drone 1013’s bio-latexed cock and balls were exposed. The man cupped them and the drone immediately grew hard in response. “Exquisite,” repeated the smoker in a reverent whisper. “Like father like son,” he looked up as he chuckled and palmed the drone’s low-hanging balls. The drone squirmed in pleasure.

The man took a few moments to admire the drone’s genitals and then stood again to remove the drone’s mask. At last they were face-to-face. The drone twitched briefly at its sudden separation from the visual reinforcement program and calming chemical, finding it strange to be breathing regular air. The scent of the old man’s cigarettes tickled its nasal passages with an uncomfortable familiarity. The man’s fingers touched its shiny, black cheek and suddenly the man’s expression went from pleased to mercilessly hard. “Get on your knees,” he ordered sharply. The drone obeyed. The craggy, evil grin returned to the old man’s face. “Open my trousers.” The drone raised its hands and worked open the belt, button, and zipper on the man’s trousers. “Take out my cock.” The drone reached inside its master’s briefs and removed a large, hard, fleshy member. “Now suck,” came the command and a hand guided the drone by the back of the head. It obeyed.

Present Day

“Hello, Mulder,” said Dr. Boswick with a fond smile.

“Hey, doc,” said Mulder. Scully had come into the psychiatric hospital with him and handed him off to Dr. Boswick, promising him that she’d come to pick him up in an hour and a half. That gave him his hour with the doctor and a half hour to read to Krycek. Mulder had the book about skinwalkers in his hand.

Dr. Boswick saw the book and gestured to it. “What’s that?” she asked and turned to begin walking down the hall to her office where they would have their session. He walked by her side and transferred the book to both hands, his eyes flicking between the cover, Dr. Boswick, and where he was walking.

“It’s a book about these creatures known as skinwalkers. They’re a kind of maleficent witch native to Navajo culture. They’re supposed to be able to shape-shift and take on the form of any animal. There have been lots of reports about them, not just from the Navajo peoples but from all over the world,” Mulder told her.

“That sounds fascinating,” she said and sounded genuinely intrigued. “But why have you brought the book with you? Is there something you wanted to show me in it?”

Mulder curled the book to his chest and hugged it. “No. I thought I might read a bit of it to Alex Krycek. He must be bored to hell with nothing to do all day.”

She stopped suddenly in the center of the hall and turned to him with a soft expression. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Shall we go in?” she raised her hand and pointed. Mulder hadn’t even realized they were already at her office door. He went ahead of her and stepped through into her office. It was large and inviting, like a living room, with a small couch against one wall with end tables bearing lamps and handy boxes of tissues. There was also a coffee table in front of the couch with some psychology publications on it. On the other side of the room was a marginally cluttered desk and tall pair of bookcases filled with psych and medical books. A framed picture of an orange-and-black Baltimore oriole perched on a branch hung on the wall behind the desk and there was a large, comfortable desk chair rolled into the desk well. Beside the desk stood a water dispenser with paper cups hanging from a rack on its side.

Dr. Boswick followed Mulder and closed the door behind them. Mulder set his book on one of the end tables and sat on the plush, beige couch with his legs spread and his hands between them. Dr. Boswick rolled her suede-upholstered executive chair out from the desk and sat it in. She held a clipboard with a notepad and pen in her hands.

“So, tell me how it feels to be home,” she began. Mulder took a deep breath and smiled bravely, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms on his jean-covered thighs.

“Scary,” he said.

Dr. Boswick tilted her head. “Scary how?”

Mulder shrugged and clasped his hands together, leaning one elbow on the arm of the couch. “I dunno, just scary. I feel very alone but I also don’t want my friends hovering over me. Everything reminds me of what happened.” His hand flew out and he gestured randomly. “I can’t take a goddamned shower without thinking of the tank!” He stopped abruptly, realizing his voice had risen. “I’m sorry.” He looked down at his hands and laid them carefully on the tops of his thighs.

“It’s okay,” said Dr. Boswick softly. “Can you tell me more? How are you sleeping?”

He laughed and answered, “Like shit. One night I was fine but I’m having nightmares. Walter…” He stopped again, blushing and trying to reign in his words.

“What happened with Walter?”

Mulder’s head snapped up and his eyes widened. “Nothing! Nothing happened with him. I mean, I had to call him, you know, because of a nightmare. He came over and spent the night.” He mumbled this last, feeling shame that he needed such a deep level of support.

“You have a strong relationship with Mr. Skinner, don’t you?”

“I guess,” admitted Mulder, not quite sure what she was implying. It made him uncomfortable. “No more so than with Scully.” He noted then that Dr. Boswick gave him an assessing look but she switched subjects.

“Let’s talk more about what you said, that everything reminds you of what happened to you. Can you identify these triggers, besides the shower I mean?”

“Uh,” he thought about it for a moment and remembered the television, “well, I can’t watch TV.”

“Why not?” She made a note on her notepad. He looked at her hand as it wrote and then looked back at her attentive, sympathetic face.

“Because it… it’s the same as having the drone mask on. All the images, flashing lights, all the words and sounds. It… I can’t,” he choked out, feeling anxious just talking about it. “It’s invasive and behavior-modifying,” he came up with. “Insidious.”

She nodded. “I see. Have you tried watching anything at all? Something short like part of a comedy program or newscast?” He shook his head. “All right. Here’s what I’d like for you to do in that regard. Try watching television for five minutes at a time. It can be anything you choose, comedy, news, drama…”

“Old horror and sci-fi movies?” asked Mulder.

She shrugged. “If that’s your preference and if you think they won’t be too overstimulating. The goal is to desensitize you to the experience of watching something innocuous.”

“I understand. What if… What if I can’t do it? What happens then?”

“Nothing. We can try something else. Maybe shorten your exploration to one minute or even thirty seconds until the anxiety lessens,” she answered and he breathed out with a nod.

“Okay, I’ll try. I do miss the movie marathons I used to have with Scully.”

Dr. Boswick smiled. “Then we’ll try to get you to that stage where you can enjoy them again. Are there any other triggers or issues you’d like to mention?”

Mulder thought about it. “Uh, yeah, actually,” he said and his jaw worked to iterate his feelings. “There’s the… issue of… intimacy?”

A knowing smile reappeared on the doctor’s lips. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

Mulder smiled at her question and ducked his head. When he looked back up his eyes twinkled. “Telling,” he said. “I just wish there was some kind of stability to my moods and reactions when it comes to someone touching me. Sometimes I’m okay with it and have no problem. Other times I freak out. I… I know that r-rape victims have trouble with people touching them, but is it normal for my reaction to be so inconsistent?”

“There is no ‘normal’ when it comes to dealing with the repercussions of being a victim of sexual abuse, Mulder,” she said solemnly. “There are some commonalities among victims’ reactions to intimacy after the fact but not everything is black and white in that regard. Some rape survivors even become hypersexual instead of the opposite as a means of feeling like they have control over their own bodies and what happens to them. Everyone who goes through it deals with it differently.”

They talked some more about his mood swings and triggers and Dr. Boswick gave him a few tips on how to head his knee-jerk reactions off at the pass before they caused a spiral or extreme emotional outburst. Finally she asked him if there was anything else he wanted to talk about. Mulder hesitated.

“Yeah, y-yes, there is,” he stuttered finally. His hands clenched on his knees and he gave the skinwalker book on the end table a glance. “I w-wanted to talk about Krycek.” He looked Dr. Boswick in the eye and swallowed nervously.

She sat forward and replied in her ever-open manner, “Sure. What about him would you like to talk about?”

“I…” Mulder’s voice stalled in his throat, his confession on his lips. He remembered Skinner saying, “Promise me,” and his fervent reply agreeing that he would tell Dr. Boswick that he had had non-consensual intercourse with Alex Krycek. But the words wouldn’t come. He looked down at his lap and picked at the seam of his jeans with a couple of fingers.

“Mulder, anything you say in here is confidential. You know that. There’s nothing you could say that I haven’t heard before and even if I haven’t heard it, I’ll reserve judgment. That’s my job,” said Dr. Boswick reassuringly when he’d been silent for a whole minute.

He glanced at her and nodded then looked down again, eyes distant and heart hammering. He closed his eyes for a moment and blew out a hard breath from his lips then opened his eyes again and said in a rough voice, “I was forced to have sex with Alex. At the time I just obeyed but deep down I didn’t want to. They told me to fuck him so I did.”

Dr. Boswick was silent, her fingers moving over her pen slowly. Mulder feared what she was thinking but she didn’t look shocked or angry or disgusted, only calm and considering, her features neutral. His arms rose of their own volition and wrapped around his shoulders. He tucked his head down and added in a whisper, “I feel so guilty about it and I don’t know what to do.”

“Is that why you’re being so kind to him? To make amends?” Boswick asked. He looked up like a startled deer in headlights and nodded vigorously.

He was surprised by the kindly smile the doctor gave him and it caused him to relax just a bit. The thumb of his right hand rubbed over the ball of his shoulder and he sat breathing deeply in response to her expression. “It’s a nice thought,” she said, her eyebrows rising, “but you understand that he may not see your efforts to befriend him in the same way.”

“Oh,” he said dejectedly and lowered his head again. It was bad enough that he felt like shit about hurting Krycek while under the influence of the dronification program but he hadn’t realized he might be compounding Krycek’s trauma. “I guess I shouldn’t read to him then,” said Mulder and picked up the skinwalker book, holding it in his lap and studying the cover. The title read, “Shadows Walk Among Us: The Legend of the Skinwalker,” and it bore the menacing figure of an old man dressed in wolf pelts and holding a bent staff.

“Normally, I’d say reading to a catatonic patient would be beneficial. I can’t say that it wouldn’t be in this situation as well. He may not realize who is reading to him or why. It’s just that I worry if he is processing everything that goes on around him, if he does come out of his catatonia, he might be full of resentment rather than gratitude.”

“So I can’t see him anymore,” stated Mulder despondently. It made sense to him, what she had said. He just wished it wasn’t true. He hoped that somewhere in there Krycek knew he was sorry for what he did and didn’t hold it against him.

“You can visit,” she said in a lighter tone, “certainly. Just be aware that your actions might have consequences that you have to be prepared to handle. Remember, he can’t consent.” Mulder flinched.

“I-I-I think I’m done now, doc,” he rasped and his throat contracted around a lump. “I’d like to call Scully and have her pick me up.”

“You’re not going to stay and try reading to him?”

“You just said he can’t consent,” said Mulder with an edge of frustration in his voice. “I’ve already violated him once; I don’t want to do it again.”

“There’s a vast difference between what you had to do under the influence of that program and what you intend to do with that book,” Dr. Boswick pointed out and he shook his head. He laid the book in his lap and rubbed his face with his hands.

“Okay, now I’m really confused.”

Dr. Boswick rolled closer in her chair and gave him a moment and then she spoke. “It’s a complex situation with complex feelings around it. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t allow two patients who had had non-consensual sex with each other in the same room without both of their express agreement.” Mulder cringed at the words “non-consensual.” “But you have both been violated at the same time by the same consortium of men and have a shared traumatic experience. He may see you as simply another survivor of their machinations. Try reading to him and see if he reacts negatively. If not, you can keep reading to him. The worst that can happen is that he tells you to stop if he ever comes to.” She looked at her watch. “We’re over time just a bit. You have about twenty minutes if you want to go and read him a few pages.” Mulder sat up, palmed his thighs again and picked up the book.

“All right, I’ll go see him now. I just hope he doesn’t hate me for foisting my reading material on him,” said Mulder and stood. Boswick stood as well and guided him to the door which she opened. He turned to her in the doorway and looked down at her. “Thank you, doc. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Right at ten,” she confirmed with a smile and he bobbed his head before starting down the hallway in the direction of Krycek’s room. He walked slowly, thinking about Dr. Boswick’s warning even though he was short on time before Scully came to pick him up. He paused outside of Krycek’s room, giving the guard there a brief greeting before taking a deep breath and plunging inside.

Krycek lay half sitting due to the angle of the head of the adjustable bed. He stared at the ceiling, not making any sign that he’d seen or heard Mulder come in. Mulder approached the bedside and looked down at Krycek. He tentatively held out the book so it was within Krycek’s field of vision and said quietly, “I brought it, just like I’d said. I… I hope you don’t mind me reading to you. Dr. Boswick said you might resent it because… because of what happened between us and I just want to tell you that I’m sorry. I don’t really know how to ever make that up to you but I’m gonna try.”

Mulder drew over the visitor’s chair next to the bed and opened the book to the first chapter. He began to read in a clear voice, noting the time on the wall clock opposite Krycek’s bed. He had fifteen minutes before he had to go down and meet Scully at the entrance to the hospital.

On the ride back to Mulder’s apartment, Mulder was quiet. Scully looked over at him a couple of times and noted his distant, thoughtful expression. She worried for her partner, not just because of what he had gone through but because of who he was and how his experience had seemed to change him. After a few silent miles, she asked, “So, how was your session with Dr. Boswick?”

“Fine,” he answered glumly.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Leave it alone, Scully, please?” Mulder’s knee bounced anxiously. His head swam with thoughts about facing his triggers and what he could expect from doing so head on and also about Krycek and how he was potentially hurting Krycek all over again. And of course he was still worried about the intimacy factor. He felt ill inside at just masturbating in the shower yesterday and look where that had led. If he became intimate with another person, what would that do to him? He shuddered and stared out the car window, watching but not watching the landscape pass by.

“Do you think therapy is helping you at all? It doesn’t seem like it did today,” commented Scully.

Mulder sighed and closed his eyes for a moment then opened them. “It’s helping, just not as fast as I’d like.”

“Did you mention the TV thing to Dr. Boswick?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted and slumped down in the passenger seat, his knees poking up like great, bent tree stumps. He stuck his arms between them and gripped the bottom of the seat. Scully gave him another concerned look but he didn’t notice. His eyes were still watching out the side window.

“What did she say?”

Mulder told her about the exposure exercise the doctor wanted him to try and Scully thought it was sound advice. She offered to be there when he tried it the first time. He was frustrated and didn’t really want to deal with all that today. He’d rather keep going on his cleaning out of the junk room and said so. “Well, you’ve got to start sometime,” said Scully. He acquiesced with a groan and she gave him a smile. When they got back to his place, he helped Scully move the boxes of tapes from in front of the television. The sight of the blank screen made Mulder’s heart race for a minute but he calmed himself down by taking a few deep breaths and pressed the power buttons on the VCR and television.

“Pop in Plan 9, will you?” he told Scully and she sorted through the tapes she’d brought back to him to find it then put it in the VCR. She first had to remove a tape that was in there and raised an eyebrow at the title which she read out loud.

“The Boobyguard? Really?” Mulder snatched the tape and crossed his apartment to add it to the boxes waiting to be given to Frohike. When he came back, she had Plan 9 from Outer Space in the machine and the movie paused. It was a good first choice. He’d already seen it a million times and knew it by heart so there would be no surprises. “Ready?” she asked him, noting his sideways glances at the television and his uneasy, restless posture. He nibbled on the edge of his thumb and nodded. She pressed play. The first minute or so of the movie didn’t bother him too much or the credits but then he started to get nervous and twitchy at about the two-minute mark and by the time American Flight 812 was passing over the gravediggers and radioing in he was tearing the remote from Scully’s hand and stabbing the off button until the TV screen went blank. He didn’t realize he was almost hyperventilating until Scully told him to come sit down on the couch and have a glass of water. He didn’t want to sit. He wanted to run. He brushed her aside and started pacing the apartment, wringing his hands and muttering.

“Shit! Shitshitshit. What is wrong with me?”

“Mulder, relax,” said Scully gently. “Take a deep breath. Nothing is wrong with you. You did really well. I’d say you made it almost the five minutes.” She hadn’t been timing him or she would have noticed that it wasn’t quite as long as that but it didn’t matter.

Mulder let out a crazy-sounding laugh and pitched himself down onto the couch, stretching one leg around end of the coffee table and bending the other to fit between the table and the couch. He put a hand on his forehead and leaned on the other arm. “I’m royally fucked,” he muttered.

“No you aren’t,” said Scully firmly, coming around the table to sit beside him. She put a hand out slowly and took his wrist, pulling his hand away from his forehead and sliding her hand down to hold his. “You just need a little time. What’s important is that you tried it and that you keep trying it. But if you can never watch TV again, so what? That crap is all overrated anyway.”

“You think so, Scully?” he asked hopefully, not even considering computers into the bargain. For some reason they didn’t scare him as much, maybe because he felt he’d be more in control when he was the one surfing the Web or doing a search or sending an e-mail. Those would be his choices. If he had the TV on… well, anything might be projected into his consciousness against his will. Mulder remembered the televisions in Braddock Heights, Maryland that had been highjacked with fake cable splitters that inserted some kind of psychosis-inducing program into regular newscasts resulting in several murders in the area committed by those affected. Mulder had been lucky during that investigation due to his color blindness and hadn’t succumbed to the behavior-modifying images but Scully had. Unfortunately, someone at the dronification facility had taken into account his color blindness and modified the dronification program to work around it.

“I know so,” she smiled and swung his hand lightly. This got a grin out of him and he thanked her sincerely. “Any time, Mulder. Any time.”

The next day, Mulder, after a rocky sleep and a rapid morning shower, got on the phone to The Lone Gunmen. Langly answered the phone.

“Hey! G-man! How’s it hanging? You glad to be out of the nut house?” exclaimed Langly and someone in the background hushed him. He told that person where to stick it and Mulder chuckled. He assumed the other person was Byers, the more straight-laced of the group.

“Yeah, I am glad to be out of there,” he said. It was mostly true. “Listen, ah, is Frohike there? I have something for him if he wants to come pick it up.”

“Sure, he’s here. FROHIKE!” Langly hollered for his friend, barely moving the receiver away from his mouth and Mulder yanked his phone away from his ear.

“Jesus, Langly,” he muttered.

“What? Oh, sorry. Listen, I think he might be in the shower…”

“The LGM headquarters has a shower?” Mulder raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, for use in emergency decontamination.”

“I’m not gonna ask,” said Mulder, rolling his eyes and smiling a little.

“Hey Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t ask me to turn off the tape. Are you feeling okay?”

Mulder didn’t answer right away. He was doing okay this morning, sure, aside from his terror of his personal hygiene routine turning into an erotic flashback session and dreading having to turn on his television without Scully there to keep him from panicking for his prescribed five minutes of viewing and the dreams of blackened hands groping all over him that had kept him awake most of the night. After a protracted moment of silence he said deadpan, “Langly, turn off the tape.”

Langly laughed nervously and assured Mulder said tape was off. Mulder sighed. He hadn’t heard any click to indicate Langly had complied but he was too tired to argue. “Well when his Royal Cleanness gets out of the bathing chamber, will you tell him to get his shining ass over here?”

“Sure thing,” said Langly. “What’s this item we’re picking up?”

Mulder smiled and glanced at the stack of porn tapes by his door. “What Frohike’s always dreamed of owning, that’s what.”

Mulder answered the door and cringed back a little but tried not to let it show. The three Lone Gunmen stood there, blocking his only escape route. Mulder’s heart hammered until he told it to knock it off, that it was his friends standing there, not the drone handlers or his father. He pulled the door wide and stepped aside, deftly avoiding Frohike’s friendly hug and ignoring Langly’s and Byers’s attempts at a handshake by putting on a falsely cheery face and offering and fetching them all drinks. Then and only then did he direct Frohike’s attention to the three boxes beside the door.

“They’re all yours, Frohike. I’m turning over a new leaf,” said Mulder somewhat cryptically. Frohike’s eyebrows drew together and he looked from Mulder to the boxes and then back to Mulder. He pointed at the boxes.

“Those aren’t what I think they are, are they?” Frohike asked.

Mulder smiled and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets with a slight shrug. He stood in the space between his living room and the entry/dining area. “Yeah, I… don’t think I’m gonna need them anymore.”

Frohike was struck dumbfounded. His eyes widened and he looked at Langly and Byers in an awkward and ecstatically charged moment of silence. Langly shrugged and looked at Byers. Byers looked at Mulder with concern but Mulder ignored him. At last, a great big grin took over Frohike’s animated face and he laughed, saying, “Okay! Your loss is my gain! But are you sure you want to part with them?”

“I’m sure.” Mulder’s expression softened and his eyes twinkled as he watched his friend be overcome with joy.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” commented Langly from the living room and sipped on his orange juice.

“What, er, prompted you to get rid of your collection, Mulder?” asked Byers quietly. He held a glass of water in one hand while he sat on Mulder’s couch.

Mulder looked at him and said, “It’s just time, that’s all. I’ve undertaken a massive clean-out of my junk room. Wanna see?” He gestured to the closed door of The Room That Was Slowly Improving^TM and they all eagerly exclaimed their desire to see it. He went to the junk room door and opened it, standing back so the guys could move closer without crowding him. He leaned against the living room doorjamb.

Langly whistled at the state of the floor and the bed. Mulder had spent all afternoon yesterday after Scully left bringing armloads of crap down to the dumpsters and had managed to get the bed entirely clutter free and one whole side of the room’s floor visible. He’d taken especially great relish in finally tossing the Phoebe shirt into the dumpster alongside all his other trash.

“You should have seen it three days ago,” commented Mulder when Frohike raised a lip at the several piles of whatnot that still remained in front of the closet. “I felt like I needed a project, something to keep me busy.”

“You’ve done a great job in here, Mulder,” said Byers with respect.

“Thanks,” Mulder replied and before his brain caught up with his mouth he said, “I’m doing it partly for myself and partly for Walter.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him and he realized what he just said. He flushed a bit but met their gazes head on, refusing to be cowed. Their stares were not judgmental, however, simply curious and perhaps a little bit confused.

Frohike stood up on his toes, looking all of two inches taller, and cleared his throat. “Not Scully?” he asked hopefully.

Mulder bit the bullet and smiled softly. With a shrug he answered, “No,” and didn’t elaborate. Another protracted moment of silence had Mulder saying fondly to the bouncing little gnome he called his friend, “She’s all yours.”

Frohike’s facial features went comically wide and he cried out, “YES!” and gave a big fist pump. Langly grinned and patted Frohike on the back while Byers rolled his eyes and huffed. “That little lady won’t know what hit her,” said Frohike and waggled his eyebrows. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them gleefully. “I’ll start with the traditional courtship ritual of dinner and a date, bring her some flowers. Yes. Mulder, what kind of flowers does she like? Oh, wait, maybe she’d rather have chocolate. Women love chocolate. She’s not on a diet, though, is she?” Mulder blurted out a laugh but before he could answer, Frohike was off again, spouting about how special Scully was and how maybe instead of traditional tokens of affection she might like something else more practical like a subscription to the American Journal of Medicine or a first aid kit for her car but then discarded that because she probably already had both of those things.

“Easy there, tiger,” said Mulder and went over and clapped Frohike on the shoulder. “If you go slow and play your cards right, you may not need those tapes.” He winked and pointed to the pornos. Frohike turned his head, looked at the boxes, and licked his lips. Then he looked back at Mulder.

“Well, just to be safe, I’d better take them. By the way, what size does Dana wear?”

“What size what?”

“Lingerie.”

“All right, that’s enough,” interjected Byers and placed a hand on Frohike’s other shoulder. Mulder backed off, too many people in his space, but he still wore a grin a mile wide. “Let’s grab your smut and get out of here.”

“But I need pointers from Mulder. He knows Dana better than I do,” protested Frohike as his two compatriots each grabbed a box of tapes from the stack.

“Just be yourself, Frohike,” advised Mulder. “She can’t help but fall in love with a man with confidence.”

“Maybe I should get a new cologne,” muttered Frohike as he picked up the last box of tapes. “Uh, thanks, Mulder, for these.” He hefted the box. “And good luck with the rest of your room there and, um, everything.” Mulder knew he meant good luck with Skinner. He said a sincere thank you to Frohike who followed his friends out into the hallway. Mulder watched them head to the elevator, listening to Frohike’s plans to woo Scully all the way down the hall. When they were gone, he closed the door and leaned his back against it. After a moment, his head rotated toward the door of the junk room. His mind immediately thought of Skinner and pictured the big man sleeping soundly on the bed in there. A pleasant feeling grew in his chest and belly and he sighed. Maybe later he would call Skinner and tell him how his session with Dr. Boswick had gone yesterday. Skinner would appreciate an update. Yes, that’s what he’d do, right after he finished digging out the other side of the bed…

Skinner’s voice warmed him over the phone as he settled down in one corner of his couch against a throw pillow, propping his bare feet on the coffee table. After some small talk, Skinner asked him how therapy was going. Mulder knew what he was really asking was if Mulder had brought up the Krycek issue. Mulder took a deep breath and related everything Dr. Boswick had said about treating Krycek like a friend.

“She’s probably right, Mulder,” said Skinner and Mulder’s lips turned down slightly. He fiddled with the corner of the throw pillow, bending the little point back and forth. Mulder didn’t want to stop reading to Krycek. Spending that time caring for the triple agent was the only thing he could do to try and make up for the pain he’d caused him. He didn’t want to be talked out of it by anyone, but he had to admit that it was a convoluted situation.

Mulder cleared his throat and said roughly, “I know she’s right. I’m just trying to make amends, that’s all.”

“‘You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,’” quoted Skinner fondly and Mulder felt a fluttering in his chest. From there, an outpouring of the rest of his session followed. He mentioned the television thing. He hadn’t yet tried testing himself again. He was a little afraid without Scully or someone there to calm him should he freak out. The TV glared at him blankly from the corner of the room. He turned his head away from it and looked toward the window. It was mid-afternoon. His “junk” room was starting to look more like a bedroom now that he’d cleared along the other side of the bed. “I figured there was something up with the way you didn’t watch television while you were in the hospital. I’d guessed it had something to do with the way they brainwashed you,” Skinner said.

“Yeah, I, um, it was the mask. I can’t help associate the two for some reason,” explained Mulder quietly and squirmed. He tucked his legs up onto the couch. The image of a group of smooth, blank, faceless drones rose up in Mulder’s consciousness and his groin began to throb. He shook his head and closed his eyes, letting out a sharp breath. He grabbed another pillow and placed it between his legs, over his crotch.

“Are you okay?” asked Skinner, hearing Mulder’s exhalation.

“Fine. I’m fine. It’s just… hard to talk about it.”

“I understand.” There was that underlying familiar note in Skinner’s voice again. “I’m not sure you want to know the details of how they caused your behavior modification,” added Skinner slowly, “but there’s a full report on the dronification program in the FBI’s database. I had your friend Byers break it down into both technical and layman’s terms for the Bureau just after the raid. If you ever want to look at it, it might help you understand some things.”

“Thanks. I’m not sure I could deal with that right now but, uh, I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Okay. I have a meeting in about five minutes so I have to go. Is there anything you need? Do you want me to call you back later?” asked Skinner.

Mulder hesitated. He could use a few more groceries but he didn’t want to put the man out. Ever since Mulder had been out of the hospital, he’d been afraid to venture out of his apartment beyond his trips to the dumpster out back and back to the hospital for his therapy session with Dr. Boswick. The fear of leaving his safety zone was founded in the fact that his father was still out there somewhere, roaming free, and could appear at any time to terrorize him. He hadn’t even gone and started his trusty Oldsmobile Cutlass; it had been languishing for months while he was missing and then in recovery. He wondered if Scully or Skinner had thought to rev it up every once in a while. No one had mentioned it to him while he was in the hospital. Mulder’s hands trembled and he swallowed hard. “No, ah, I’m all set. Thank you, Walter,” said Mulder, forcing himself not to be such a wuss and trying to inject a note of confidence in his voice. He couldn’t depend on Skinner and Scully for everything.

“All right, Mulder. Take it easy. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure. Bye.” Mulder hung up the phone and then sat hugging his throw pillows for a while, his mind on groceries and the car and the Syndicate members who had gotten away with enslaving him and over thirty other people. He suppressed the urge to throw the phone at the wall and carefully set the receiver back in its cradle.

He got up on wobbly legs, walked over to his trench coat, and took his car keys from the pocket. With a deep breath, he left his apartment, walked down the hallway to the stairwell, and told himself to relax, that he had made this journey a hundred times before in just the past few days while cleaning out his junk room. He got to the bottom of the stairs and hesitated before pushing open the outer door. There would be no harm in just turning the car on, would there? No. He had to make sure it still ran. He’d be headed back to work soon, or so he hoped, and needed the independence of his own vehicle.

Mulder’s vision narrowed as he sought his Olds in the parking lot and he went to the driver’s side door, his hands fumbling through the keys to find the right one to unlock it. He stuck the key in the lock and twisted. The locks thunked open. He opened the door and got into the vehicle. He closed the door and stared at the steering wheel, his heart hammering. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just turning it on, he told himself and stuck the key in the ignition. After another moment’s hesitation, he turned the key. The engine chugged a bit but turned over in due time and Mulder huffed a relieved laugh. Good old American engineering, he thought and patted the steering wheel like the car was a favorite pet.

The car’s windshield was dusty as hell from sitting unattended for so long. Mulder pressed back on the windshield wiper handle and a spray of washer fluid spurted up over the windshield. The wipers swiped back and forth, clearing away some of the muck. He had to repeat the wash and wipe several times before the windshield was clear enough to see through. He thought of taking the car to a car wash but didn’t want to have any human interaction at the moment. And going to a grocery store was an even bigger no-no. Way too many people getting in his space. Way too many unknowns. Way too many possible triggers. Mulder realized that he was developing some truly debilitating avoidant behaviors. He hated that part of himself and, with a huff, angrily turned off the car. He slammed the door of the car as he got out and locked it only as an afterthought.

There were several people coming and going from their apartments at this time but they were pretty far away from him and no one he recognized so he was able to ignore them and duck back inside the building to gain the safety of his own apartment. Once there, he took several deep breaths and got himself a cold glass of water from the kitchen sink. Mulder chugged it and wiped his mouth, leaving the glass in the skink. The cold helped him to focus and clear his head. He gravitated toward the junk room. He so wanted to finish cleaning it out today but didn’t think he had the energy. On the other hand, he just had to have something to do.

Instead of making headway on his cleaning, he changed trajectory toward his desk and tentatively booted up his computer, standing back quickly as though the monitor might reach out and suck him inside. Mulder waited breathlessly as it started up and then pulled over his desk chair and sat in front of it. His hands slowly reached for the keyboard. He started to type.

Hours later, Mulder sat shaken, staring at the blank computer screen. Mulder had at last forced himself to turn off the computer. His eyes burned from taking in the whole of Byers’s hundred-and-forty page breakdown of the dronification program. He had logged into the FBI system remotely and drawn up the report as a mental exercise and nothing more, or so he had told himself. He used to read all kinds of violent, strange, and terrifying incident reports and autopsy results and case histories for work. This should have been no different. Drones are obedient. Submit. A drone is silent. Obey. Drones are submissive… He could hear it in his head and see it flashing before his eyes. He could recall with excruciating clarity the pulsing vibrations in and around his groin as the words and the images that accompanied them blotted out everything else in his mind. He was hard. His aching cock strained against his jeans. He swallowed and put his head against his clasped hands, elbows on the edge of the desk, and tried to calm himself by breathing deeply. His erection refused to go down.

Angrily, Mulder yanked open his jeans and pulled his dick out from his underpants. With eyes closed, he began to masturbate. Black mask. Black body. Slick with lubricant. Bend over now. Accept. Submit. Null parts. Empty mind. Obey. Mulder came with a shout, his semen striping the underside and edge of his desk and contaminating his hand. He sat slumped in his chair and so much self-loathing welled up inside him that his mind couldn’t focus on anything else. After a good five minutes of sitting battling his emotions, he stood abruptly and, with an inarticulate roar, swiped his arm across the top of his desk, scattering papers, his clock, pens and pencils, his stapler, and any number of other items all over the floor. Some hit the fish tank, startling the fish inside. His chest heaved and he stood staring blankly for a minute before he realized he was acting irrationally. He rubbed his clean hand over his face, wiping away some tears and snot, and tucked himself back in his pants. Then Mulder shakily got down on hands and knees and began cleaning up the mess he’d made, plopping everything back on the desktop haphazardly. His clock had taken a good hit. The face and workings of it had popped out of the casing but it still worked. Mulder could glue it back in, but he wasn’t going to deal with that now.

Instead he put it back on the desk with all the other stuff he’d knocked down and went to the coffee table to grab the remote controls for the TV and VCR. “In for a penny,” he muttered to himself as he jabbed on both machines. If there was one thing Mulder had learned from Byers’s account of the dronification program, it was that he would likely have it running in the background of his mind for the rest of his life, no matter how much therapy he went through, no matter how many exercises he did to expunge its insidious hold over his subconscious. He pressed play on the VCR. He would watch the next five minutes of Plan 9 if it killed him.

“Mulder! You look exhausted!” exclaimed Scully when she came to pick him up for his Wednesday appointment.

“Gee, thanks, Scully,” muttered Mulder. His eyes were red, his face was pale, and his expression was dazed.

“Didn’t you get any sleep last night?” she asked.

“Not much,” he intoned.

“God, Mulder. Maybe you need to ask Dr. Boswick to prescribe some sleep aids or something.”

He laughed at that. Sleep aids? All those would do would make him think of the chemical they pumped into his respirator to make him calm and compliant. He didn’t want a sleep aid, thank you very much. “I’ll be okay, Scully. Just drive.” They were in her Ford Taurus on the way out of his apartment parking lot. She sighed and complied with his grumpy directive. Despite his lethargy from being up most of the night, he had remembered to bring his skinwalker book to read to Krycek. He clutched it on his lap and stared at the dashboard. “I watched a little of Plan 9 yesterday.”

“That’s good. Did you make it the full five minutes this time?” asked Scully curiously. Mulder shook his head.

“I gave up at the fifty-five second mark,” he admitted with a croak.

“Oh Mulder,” she sighed. Then she glanced at him, noting his hunched posture and the way his eyes seemed a million miles away. “I’m sure you’re going to have your ups and downs for a while,” she remarked. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Is that why you couldn’t sleep?”

Mulder shook his head again, his fingers fiddling with each other. “No. I… read Byers’s breakdown of the dronification program,” he said quietly.

“Are you sure that was wise?” she prompted but not harshly. He could hear the worried tone in her voice.

“Too late now,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Walter told me about it. I was curious,” explained Mulder. Scully’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. It was unlike Skinner to compromise Mulder’s well-being like that and she didn’t think he’d done it deliberately, but she couldn’t help feeling anger toward him for mentioning it to Mulder while Mulder was still so vulnerable. “I tried to approach it like an X-File but I couldn’t detach myself enough. I had some doozy nightmares. Almost called him to come over again,” he admitted softly.

“You could always call me,” she suggested.

He looked at her with a tiny upturn of his lips and said, “I know, but I didn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep.”

“Are you saying I need all I can get? That I’m ugly?” she teased and was gratified when his tiny smile turned into a grin.

“No, it’s strictly maintenance at this point. You’re already beautiful,” he said and she blushed. She knew deep down that something was going on between Mulder and Skinner and she wasn’t sure what. But she couldn’t help feel that special tingle whenever Mulder made comments like the one he just had. Maybe he didn’t realize he did it. Maybe flirting just came naturally to him. Hell, of course it did; he’d flirted with her off and on since day one but had never made any kind of move to advance their partnership out of the friend zone except for that one kiss at his door which, in hindsight, had obviously been a mistake.

“Thank you,” she said simply and drove on. They arrived at the hospital on time and Mulder once again followed Dr. Boswick to her office where they sat down and got preliminaries out of the way. Then the doctor asked him how his TV experiment was going. He told her the results and, despite his measly showing of fifty-five seconds yesterday, she said he was doing well and to keep it up.

“Try a few times a day instead of just one. That will help you get desensitized faster,” she said and he nodded. They discussed what he’d been doing the past couple of days. He explained his junk-removal project and said he was almost done cleaning out the room and had given away his porn collection to a friend. She smiled at that and he smiled back embarrassedly. “Did that make you feel good, to get rid of the tapes?” she asked him and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I felt the need to purge that aspect of my life. I think it had mostly to do with objectification and intimacy.” Dr. Boswick nodded. “But some of it was my fear of the TV.”

“Are you afraid of being objectified?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you be?” he said somewhat accusatorily. She shrugged.

“Of course. No one likes to be objectified. You’ve experienced objectification on a much more intense and heightened level than most men experience it, too, so the outcome is also intensified. I can see where that could be a frightening thing.”

Mulder looked down, thinking about her statements. When he looked back up at her, he changed the subject by bringing up what happened yesterday regarding his fear of leaving his apartment. “I get nervous that my… that one of the Syndicate members is going to show up,” he said, his leg jiggling up and down as he explained his anxiety.

She tilted her head and made a note on her notepad briefly and then looked at him. “Are you afraid they’re going to abduct you again?” she asked. His breath halted for a moment before he remembered air was a necessity.

“I don’t know. I mean logically it’s unlikely, right?” his eyes pleaded with her but she didn’t reply, seeing his question as rhetorical. “What are the chances that the cigarette-smoking bastard will appear out of thin air when everyone in the FBI is looking for him?” Mulder went on, his voice growing angry.

“You’ve mentioned this man before, the smoker. You don’t know his name?”

“If I knew his name I’d tell Walter and he’d have the fucker arrested for kidnapping, rape, and psychological torture,” Mulder ground out. Dr. Boswick nodded calmly. She always showed decorum in front of Mulder and let him have his moods, never taking any of it personally. She knew his ire wasn’t directed at her.

“He’s the one who sexually abused you?”

“Yes,” sneered Mulder and clenched his fist. “Not the only one, but he was the worst.”

“Was he more violent than the others?”

Mulder looked away, eyes fixating on the water cooler. “Him fucking me was a more personal betrayal. He’s my biological father.”

Dr. Boswick’s eyes widened slightly and then her expression softened into deepest sympathy. She said, “I’m so sorry, Mulder.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to be treated like a piece of meat by someone who, for all accounts and purposes, should be there to love and protect you. He hates me and I have no idea why.” Mulder felt a burning anger growing in him, but it also felt good to unburden his horrible secret to someone.

“You’re right. I have no idea what that’s like, but I can tell you that in cases of familial incest where the parent is the abuser, there are often feelings of inadequacy and inferiority on the part of the abuser. This man who raped you more than likely hates himself, not you. I know that doesn’t make what he did any easier to bear.”

Mulder nodded. “No, I get the psychology of it. I do. But I think you’re wrong in this instance. I think he does hate me or he wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have…” Mulder stopped, biting down on his words. He felt a sting behind his eyes and valiantly tried to hold back the tears that wanted to cascade down his face. “He enjoyed every moment I was there on my knees in front of him or taking him inside me,” he whispered. “What father can take pleasure from that from his own son?” His voice broke on the last word and he inhaled sharply, a whine of pure mental anguish caught in his throat as he recalled the memory of his father’s lascivious, hateful stare at his eleven-year-old self while he watched, paralyzed, in the hall of their Rhode Island summer home, his parents arguing loudly in the background. Dr. Boswick reached forward and handed him a box of tissues. He took it automatically and yanked two out of the box but he didn’t use them, just clutched them in his trembling hand.

“There is no justification for what your father did to you, Mulder,” said Dr. Boswick firmly. “What you need to do now is prove to yourself that you can survive beyond the abuse, and you can survive.”

“I-I don’t know,” muttered Mulder.

“Mulder, look at me.” He looked. Dr. Boswick’s face was a fortress of kindness and stalwart faith in the best of her patient’s abilities to accept, learn, and move on. “This is a good thing, opening up about this now. I’m proud of you for telling me and I want to give you the tools to strengthen yourself. We’re going to work together to overcome your anxiety and fear of going outside, starting right now.”

“Okay,” he mumbled and finally dabbed at his eyes with the tissues. She waited patiently while he blew his nose and disposed of the tissues in a nearby wastepaper bin. He sat back down with a laugh, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hands and sniffling a few times. “God that was tough,” he commented.

Boswick smiled at him and said, “I know.” Then she delved into a few tips and tricks to help him begin to venture outside again without being overwhelmed. Their hour together flew by and before he knew it she was saying goodbye to him. He walked down the hospital corridor to Krycek’s room, past the guard, and went to go sit in the visitor’s chair beside Krycek’s bed. Krycek was the same but Mulder greeted him as usual, with shy deference and hope.

Before he opened the book he was about to read, he said softly to Krycek, “Did you know the cigarette-smoking man is my father?” There was no response, not that Mulder expected any. “I just wondered if you knew all along or not.” Krycek just lay there so Mulder opened the skinwalker book and began to read from where he’d left off on Monday.

On a whim, Skinner decided to go over to Mulder’s Wednesday evening after work. The day had seemed longer than usual, the raid on the dronification facility still causing ripple effects. There was a concerted effort to collate evidence against the people who ran the facility and present it to the government so prosecution could move forward. Skinner went over everything his agents submitted to him with a fine-toothed comb. He wanted to make sure every I was dotted and every T crossed so that no one slipped through the fingers of justice on a legal technicality. In addition to that, Skinner had secretly chosen the best of the best agents who had been on the Mulder-finding task force, partners named Ellison and Waterhouse, to attempt to track down the cigarette smoking man and anyone else who fit the descriptions the victims had given the FBI of the shadowy men who they serviced in that dark room they were all driven to. It was a long shot at this point and prosecution was unlikely, but Skinner told himself he had to at least try, if not for Mulder than for the other thirty-two victims whose lives were turned upside down by their captivity and brainwashing. And, of course, the dronification case wasn’t the only case on Skinner’s plate. There were other, smaller but no less important, cases he had to have his agents catch up on now that Mulder had been found, which meant mounds of paperwork crossing his desk every hour.

Skinner got into his car and headed for Mulder’s apartment around six-thirty. He thought of giving Mulder a call ahead of time but decided to surprise him. Maybe they could go out and get a bite to eat together or just sit and vent about their day while having a quiet meal in. Regardless, Skinner looked forward mightily to seeing Mulder and an excited tingle grew in his chest as he got closer and closer to Mulder’s place.

Mulder answered his door with a tired smile and waved Skinner inside. “I wasn’t expecting you,” said Mulder as he closed the door and locked it.

“Yeah, I hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this,” said Skinner. “I just wanted to see how you were and maybe, I dunno, get some dinner together?”

He was rewarded with a big Mulder-grin but his heart sank when that smile turned into a pinched and faded expression and Mulder stared at the floor, tapping his fingers lightly on the paper-littered dining table. “Ah, I-I really don’t feel like going out,” he said shyly. “Sorry.”

“We could eat here,” suggested Skinner.

Mulder shrugged. “I don’t have a lot in the fridge. Your groceries and those leftovers didn’t last too long. But we can make due if you want to rummage,” he offered hopefully. “I hope you like frozen pizza and eggs.”

Skinner thought about it. “You have a favorite takeout joint? I’ll buy.” It was a compromise. Skinner didn’t really feel like frozen pizzas or toast and eggs for supper. He slipped out of his trench coat and hung it on a hook by the door next to Mulder’s.

“Uh, s-sure.” Mulder scratched his head. “I have some menus around here somewhere.” He went into the kitchen and fussed around in a drawer. He came back and handed Skinner some paper menus that looked like they’d seen better days. Mulder gestured to them and said, “Pick what you want. I’m really not fussy.”

Skinner flipped through the several menus and chose some food from a little Thai place down the road. He used Mulder’s phone to order while Mulder cleared them a place at the coffee table. Mulder seemed a little morose and quiet until Skinner got off the phone and then he brightened and said, “Come here. I want you to see.” He led the way to the junk room and opened the door, turning to Skinner for approval. Skinner looked around and whistled.

“It looks great. You did a fantastic job,” said Skinner with a smile. Mulder grinned his boyish grin and threw himself down on the center of the now cleared bed. His long-sleeved shirt rode up slightly, showing a sliver of his belly. Skinner’s eyes automatically gravitated to that patch of white and his breath caught for just a moment. His eyes traveled up Mulder’s torso, his mouth going dry, and they met Mulder’s own eyes. For a brief moment, Skinner detected heat and want and then it was gone and Mulder was pulling his shirt down self-consciously.

“It’s ready for habitation,” said Mulder. “Just don’t open the closet doors.”

Skinner chuckled. “My back thanks you in advance,” he drawled teasingly and Mulder shifted so he was standing beside the bed. He smoothed the covers on it and patted it like a long lost friend. He offered Skinner a drink while they waited for the food and they sat on the couch together sipping beers that had been hiding in the back of Mulder’s refrigerator since before he was abducted. Mulder hadn’t indulged in any alcohol since he’d gotten out of the hospital so he went slow, not that beer had much alcohol in it. He’d probably have to drink a six-pack before he got tipsy.

“How’s work going?” Mulder asked Skinner.

“Busy. I’m down one very important agent, you know,” said Skinner and gave Mulder a sideways look. Mulder felt his cheeks heat and took a sip of his beer to hide his smile. But then he looked down at the beer bottle and Skinner noticed an immediate shift in Mulder’s mood. Those moods were so mercurial these days, like Mulder’s fascinating eyes. One minute Mulder radiated joy like some golden sun-child; the next moment could bring a cloud of despair to darken his handsome features and make him seem older and world-weary.

“I read Byers’s report on the dronification program,” said Mulder quietly, not looking up from his study of the beer bottle.

“I thought you said you weren’t ready for that?”

“I was right. I wasn’t ready. But I read it anyway. It was a mistake. I haven’t slept since and I keep hearing that damned program in my head,” replied Mulder. Skinner didn’t know what to say. He wished he’d never told Mulder about the report in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” said Skinner.

Mulder shrugged and looked his way. “It’s not your fault. I made the choice to read it.”

“Did it clarify anything for you or help you to understand how the program affected you?” asked Skinner. If some good came out of Mulder reading the report then Skinner didn’t have to feel too guilty.

“Still affects me,” said Mulder. “It’s never not going to affect me. That’s the only thing I learned and I can’t say if that helps me or not. It makes me angry, actually, to think that I’ll always be enslaved to it, no matter what.”

Skinner looked down at the beer in his own hand and set it on the coffee table. “Mulder, you’re not enslaved to it,” he said and risked putting a hand over Mulder’s. Mulder didn’t flinch or pull away so he took that as a good sign. In fact, Mulder turned his hand over, palm up, and entwined his fingers with Skinner’s. “You don’t have to be. Can’t you just… let it run in the background and ignore it?”

Mulder scoffed and shook his head. “Walter, I know you mean well, but you have no idea what it’s like to have that in your head twenty-four/seven.” Mulder looked at him and Skinner tilted his head slightly.

“I suppose I don’t,” Skinner admitted softly. “I just want you to be happy, Mulder.” He squeezed Mulder’s hand in his and Mulder echoed the squeeze, saying, “I know. I want me to be happy, too.” They shared a smile and Mulder’s buzzer rang. The food had arrived.

Skinner answered the door and paid, not noticing how Mulder made himself scarce in the kitchen getting plates and utensils to avoid dealing with the delivery person. They settled at the coffee table again and doled out the food onto the plates. Skinner commented on the deliciousness of the food after a half-dozen bites and asked Mulder how his second session with Dr. Boswick had gone that day.

Mulder chewed and swallowed the mouthful of spicy-peanut noodles he’d taken before answering. “Pretty good. I’ve got a lot of stuff still to work out.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” asked Skinner.

“Like my issue with the television for one. I’m not doing so well with that,” Mulder answered. “Plus,” he added drolly, “I seem to have developed agoraphobia.”

“Fear of going outside?” Mulder bobbed his head and forked more noodles into his mouth. Skinner appreciated the adorable way Mulder wriggled the noodles as he slurped up their hanging tendrils. “You’ve made a million trips to those dumpsters out back and you’ve gone to the hospital and back with Scully without a problem,” he pointed out to Mulder.

“Yeah but the thought of going any farther than that alone…” He stopped and gave a little shudder. Skinner understood. Mulder’s abusers still hadn’t been arrested.

“Is that why you’re so low on groceries?” asked Skinner gently. “You could have told me on the phone. I would have picked up some stuff for you.” Mulder automatically shook his head.

“I can’t depend on you and Scully forever. I have to get over it. Dr. Boswick is helping me,” said Mulder and Skinner relaxed a little. At least Mulder wasn’t wallowing in self-pity and ignoring the problem. Nevertheless, he thought Mulder might be being too harsh on himself regarding going outside.

“One step at a time, Mulder. And if there’s any way I can help, I want you to know you can ask me and I’ll do it,” said Skinner fervently.

Mulder studied him for a moment as though considering his offer. He seemed to come to a decision and gave a short nod. “Thank you,” he said, “I appreciate it.”

“Want to go grocery shopping tonight?” Skinner asked and consulted his watch. “It’s not too late to find an open store.”

“Nah,” said Mulder. “Not tonight.”

“How about a walk then?” Skinner proposed. “We don’t have to go far and I’d like to walk off some of those calories I’ve just packed away.”

Mulder’s eyes softened into a smile and he said, “Watching your figure, sir?” Skinner gave him a look.

“Careful, Agent Mulder. Remember I’m still your boss,” Skinner growled mock-angrily. Mulder just returned his teasing with a grin and agreed to a short walk around the block.

They put on their coats and exited through the front door of the apartment building. Skinner gravitated one way but Mulder tugged his sleeve and pointed in the opposite direction. “This way,” he said and Skinner fell into step beside him down the sidewalk. Skinner was unaware that Mulder had specifically chosen to walk in the opposite direction from the way he had run the night he’d been abducted. They walked side-by-side. The night was cool and slightly moist, presaging rain in a few hours, and there were no other people out walking in the area. Some light traffic passed them on the other side of the road, but for the most part the night was quiet. Skinner kept one eye on where they were walking and the other eye on Mulder who stared straight ahead at the sidewalk, seemingly lost in thought. To draw him out, Skinner asked about Krycek. “How’s the reading going?”

“The same. I wear my vocal cords out and Krycek just stares at the ceiling,” said Mulder but he didn’t sound resentful; rather, he sounded sad. He put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Skinner hummed. They walked a few more yards and then Mulder said, “I wish I knew what he was thinking in there.” Skinner looked at him and then forward again.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t,” he commented wryly, trying to make a joke out of it but Mulder frowned.

“No. I need to know. I need to know if he forgives me or loathes me,” said Mulder decisively. Skinner stopped walking and turned to Mulder who halted after a step or two and turned back to face Skinner, confused as to the sudden stop.

Skinner shook his head. “Don’t do this, Mulder. Don’t keep beating yourself up over something over which you had no control.” His eyes searched Mulder’s, or tried to; it was difficult to see them in the low light between the street lamps. Mulder stepped closer. They were only feet apart just standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, their breaths pluming the humid night air.

Mulder looked down at Skinner’s chest and mumbled, “I could have resisted, should have resisted.”

“Mulder,” Skinner began and his hands automatically came up to cup Mulder’s biceps. Mulder stiffened but Skinner didn’t let go. He relaxed his hold, though, and rubbed circles into Mulder’s arms. “You said yourself that the program made resistance impossible. I’m sure if Krycek were aware and talking, he’d tell you the same.”

“You’re just saying that,” said Mulder roughly.

“No, I’m not,” said Skinner. “Look at me.” Mulder looked. “I’m not,” reiterated Skinner once he had Mulder’s undivided attention. Mulder took a deep breath and after a bit he nodded. They stood like that for a few seconds, silently communing, and then Skinner lowered his hands. Mulder took one of them in his own, pleasantly surprising Skinner. They continued on down the street hand-in-hand, coming around one side of the block and circling back to Mulder’s apartment complex. It wasn’t a long walk, maybe twenty minutes altogether, and free from any other pedestrians. As they approached Mulder’s building, Skinner felt Mulder’s hand nearly crush his own and Mulder froze with a gasp. “What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Skinner worriedly.

“Sh!” Mulder hushed him. Skinner removed his hand from Mulder’s and placed his arm protectively around Mulder’s shoulder as a dark figure stepped out of the shadows near the door of the apartment building with a lit cigarette. Mulder sucked in a huge breath and Skinner felt him start to tremble in his arms.

“Nice night,” said the smoker, oblivious to Mulder’s distress, and just from his body-shape and friendly voice Skinner knew it wasn’t the smoker. But Mulder didn’t seem to be able to make that distinction. He kept his head down and didn’t say anything. Skinner nodded and grunted, “Yeah, it is,” before ushering Mulder around the back of the building to the rear entrance. Mulder wove his way up the stairs with Skinner’s guidance. In the hallway of the fourth floor, Skinner could see that all the blood had drained from Mulder’s face. The younger man was extremely pale, near hyperventilation, and looked about ready to faint. A cold sweat had broken out on Mulder’s forehead, too. “Come on,” murmured Skinner encouragingly and guided Mulder into his apartment.

He quickly got Mulder’s coat off him. Mulder was shaking violently now and barely able to stand. His arms were curled up defensively against his chest and his teeth chattered. “Sm-moker. Th-Thought it w-was him,” stuttered Mulder as Skinner eased him over to the couch and sat him down.

“I know,” whispered Skinner. “It’s okay. It’s not him.”

“I kn-know that b-but I c-can’t…” Mulder shook his head, unable to finish his sentence. Skinner hugged him and pressed his lips against Mulder’s clammy forehead.

“Sh, it’s okay. It’s okay. He’s gone. He’s not here,” Skinner whispered. Mulder was utterly silent except for his ragged inhalation and exhalation for a long time. Skinner rubbed Mulder’s arms and held him until Mulder’s breathing eased and the shakes wore off. Eventually, he sat up and looked at Skinner who gently petted the side of his face and neck with one hand, the other still around Mulder’s shoulders. They regarded each other for another long minute and then Mulder surprised Skinner again by leaning forward and kissing him on the lips. The kiss was tender and hesitant and tasted salty. Skinner half closed his eyes, felt his lips part slightly, and the barest hint of tongue-tip grazed his mouth. At last, Mulder pulled back and whispered, “Thank you.” Skinner breathed, his heart racing and his groin apologetically achy.

“Mulder,” Skinner whispered but couldn’t find any other words. He searched Mulder’s eyes but Mulder looked down, avoiding his gaze. He wondered what was going on in Mulder’s head. He had never expected Mulder to make a move on him and he was too hesitant given Mulder’s recent abuse to allow his feelings to drive him to take advantage of Mulder physically.

“I’m sorry,” uttered Mulder and put a little distance between himself and Skinner. “I’m a little nervous and… and kind of confused.”

“It’s okay,” said Skinner reassuringly.

Mulder’s eyes met his and Mulder shook his head. “No, it’s not. I shouldn’t lead you on like that.”

“Mulder, it’s fine. You aren’t leading me on,” insisted Skinner gently.

“But I am. I can’t make any promises to you, not with the way I am. I… Dr. Boswick says some r-rape survivors become hypersexual so that they can control what happens to their bodies and when. I’m not like that. I-I can barely get it up unless…”

“Unless?” Mulder’s hands had found his again and Skinner stroked his thumbs over the backs of Mulder’s hands. But Mulder wouldn’t have it for long. He pulled away again, despite his having initiated contact, as though he was unsure of what he wanted or needed and tucked his hands under his armpits, his arms crossed over his chest.

“The only times I’ve gotten off since I was rescued are when the program takes over in the back of my head,” said Mulder in a barely-there whisper as though he were confessing a horrible sin. “So you see, I kiss you but I can’t promise you it’s going to lead to sex.”

“It doesn’t have to lead to sex, Mulder,” said Skinner, worried that Mulder thought that was all Skinner expected of him after this. “You know that not all kisses lead to that.” He paused a moment and then asked, “Why did you kiss me? Was it because you wanted to or because you thought you had to?”

Mulder looked at him wide-eyed and his bottom jaw opened to speak but no words came. He shook his head and his shoulders rose and fell. Eventually he said, “I think I just wanted to.” Skinner gave Mulder a relieved smile.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said in a low voice.

“You are?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Oh,” said Mulder and gave a nervous laugh. Skinner felt an upwelling of love inside him, love and longing. “Do you, um, want to spend the night again?” offered Mulder and quickly backtracked. “I-I don’t mean f-for that. I just mean to sleep.” He seemed so shy and innocent in that moment that Skinner’s heart nearly broke from the affection he felt toward him.

He patted Mulder’s shoulder. Mulder seemed to have relaxed a bit if his posture was any indication. His hands were now in his lap and his shoulders were less hunched and he sat straighter. “Not tonight, Mulder. I need to be getting home because I have an early day tomorrow so I can take the time off Friday to take you to your appointment. Will you be okay?” Mulder nodded after only a brief hesitation and Skinner gave him another tender smile.

“Good. I’ll see you Friday. Call me if you need anything,” said Skinner.

“Okay. I-I think some groceries?” he asked as though Skinner might refuse his request despite Skinner’s offer.

“Go draw up a list and I’ll bring them Friday. Are you good until then?” Mulder nodded. “Okay.” Mulder rose from the couch, much steadier than he had been an hour ago when they’d come in from their walk, and got a piece of scrap paper on which he scribbled a list of things for Skinner to bring on Friday. Skinner took the list and some cash Mulder handed him from a secret stash in one of Mulder’s kitchen drawers to cover the groceries and went to the door. Mulder followed him and they stood for a moment on the threshold. “Goodnight, Fox,” said Skinner.

“Goodnight, Walter,” said Mulder and he awkwardly leaned forward and gave Skinner a tiny kiss on the cheek. Skinner fingered Mulder’s cheek in return and then exited the apartment. On the way down the hall he couldn’t help smiling to himself.

Thursday came and went for Mulder with a nerve-racking confrontation with his television again in the morning, a phone call mid-afternoon from Frohike who went on and on profusely thanking Mulder for his donation of the porn tapes and asking for more hints as to how to get Scully to like him, another try at the TV that had Mulder needing to take a break by driving his neighbors mad with his basketball, and a friendly check-up call from Scully who related a new case to him. She was solo on the X-Files until he was cleared to come back and she was looking into a couple of deaths, one in Baltimore and the other in DC, that had some strange commonalities, namely odd marks left on the backs of each of the victims that bore spines in them from some unknown fauna. Mulder perked up at that and had her reading him the details of the initial police reports over the phone after much hemming and hawing on her part.

“You know there’s a reason Dr. Boswick won’t sign off on you coming back to work just yet,” said Scully as he wheedled her.

“Well I don’t see what harm reading me a few basic facts will do,” grumbled Mulder as he passed his basketball back and forth between his hands, the phone receiver tucked under his chin. “C’mon Scully, I’m bored. I spent plenty of time in the hospital doing nothing. I want to get back in the game!”

“Mulder, there must be something else you can do with your free time. And you know Dr. Boswick isn’t doing it out of malice or misunderstanding. You have some very real issues you need to deal with before you come back.”

He sighed loudly and bounced the ball off the wall and back to him, catching it adroitly. “C’mon,” he whined like a little kid and was satisfied when he heard a frustrated growl from the other end of the line. “That’s my girl,” he said and could just picture her glaring at the phone.

She read the reports. Mulder suggested a couple of possibilities, all of which Scully denied as too implausible. “Have I ever been wrong?” Mulder asked. There was a sigh on her end and she promised to check it out if he promised to sit down for five more minutes with the television. “Deal,” he said and they hung up. He bounced the ball a few more times and then stood facing the boob tube. Suddenly a light bulb went off in his head and he muttered, “Genius,” to himself. He set the ball aside and turned on the television and VCR. Plan 9 was still in the machine. He was barely fifteen minutes into it. As the tape started to play, he picked up his basketball again and began to bounce it all around his apartment. The sounds of the television provided a backdrop to his activity which became his focus instead of the images. Every now and again he glanced at the screen as he dribbled and didn’t feel so much overwhelming anxiety. His confidence boosted, he bounced through a whole ten minutes of the movie then spun his basketball on the end of his finger, let it almost drop, then caught it and sat with it on the couch to watch as much as he dared. Any time he started to get freaked out, he just got up and started bouncing the ball again. He made it to the end of the movie and gave a whoop of joy. “Problem solved!” He couldn’t wait to see Skinner tomorrow and tell him the progress he’d made.

Mulder’s stomach was in knots. He kept looking at the clock and checking his image in the mirror. He had gone for casual attire considering Skinner was only driving him to his psychiatrist appointment but he still wanted to look good. Mulder had picked out a pair of dark gray stonewashed jeans, a long-sleeved sage-colored pullover shirt with a white t-shirt underneath, and a pair of his most comfortable boots. His hair had grown out a little more but he still worried that he looked like a fuzzy brush. Maybe it was time for a decent haircut so the new growth didn’t stick out all over the place but getting to a barber was a little beyond his comfort level at the moment. He wondered if he could convince Scully to take a little of the back and sides with his electric razor. Then again, if she botched it… Looking in the mirror, Mulder had a quick visual of a black, bald head with no face and swallowed down his panic. He backed away from the mirror and left the bathroom for the hundredth time since showering, brushing his teeth, and shaving earlier that morning. He paced his apartment and checked the clock again. He’d glued the workings back into the casing yesterday after neatening his desk. Skinner was due at his apartment to pick him up in eight minutes. Mulder hoped he didn’t have bad breath from the extra garlic and pepperoni pizza he’d had last night for dinner. He breathed into his hand. He was just thinking of gargling some mouthwash (again) when his apartment buzzer went. He dashed to the door and buzzed Skinner in then waited anxiously for the man to come up.

“Mulder,” came a voice through his door a couple of moments later in lieu of a knock, “it’s me. I’ve got groceries.” Mulder opened the door quickly and let Skinner in. The man carried two heaping brown-paper grocery bags. Mulder took one from him with a grateful thanks and Skinner followed him to his kitchen with the other. Mulder hurried to put the groceries away so he wouldn’t be late for his appointment.

“Was the money I gave you enough?” he asked Skinner who placed the other bag on Mulder’s kitchen counter.

“It was plenty,” said Skinner. “I hope I got you all the right brands and everything. I wasn’t sure on some of the items on your list.”

Mulder gave him a smile over his shoulder as he shoved some cereal up into his cabinet and dug in the first bag for more. “I told you, I’m not fussy when it comes to food.”

“Right, I forgot,” said Skinner, returning his grin. Mulder smiled down into his hoard of groceries and pulled out a bunch of bananas. His mind, for some reason, immediately went to how good Skinner looked in his work clothes under the long, dark trench coat. He set the bananas aside, his mouth widening, his cheeks practically hurting from smiling so hard. “Gonna tell me why you’re grinning like a fool?” Skinner teased and caught Mulder’s eye. He watched appreciatively as the younger man efficiently unpacked and stowed away the two bags of food, drink, and other basic necessities.

“I watched all of Plan 9 from Outer Space yesterday,” said Mulder. It was almost true. He hadn’t rewatched the first fifteen minutes, but Skinner didn’t need to know that. Skinner’s face brightened and he leaned on the counter.

“Hey, how’d you do it? You could hardly watch five minutes of the idiot box a couple of days ago,” said Skinner.

“I know,” Mulder winked, his confidence in himself coming back now that Skinner was there. “Trade secret.”

“Mulder,” Skinner drawled out Mulder’s name and gave him a look. Mulder laughed.

“Don’t worry, boss-man. All I did was play a little b-ball while I watched it. No biggie.” Mulder put away the rest of his food in the refrigerator and checked the time again. “I think we’d better get going. Thanks again for getting all that stuff for me.”

“It’s no problem,” said Skinner and followed Mulder to the door. “And that’s a great way to distract yourself from the TV. You don’t think Dr. Boswick’s going to consider it cheating?”

“Nah, she gets me,” said Mulder and grabbed his jacket. While the days were getting warmer, they still bore a faint chill and Mulder felt better with his jacket on. Out of habit he checked his pockets for his keys, wallet, and cell phone then reached for his gun holster only to find it wasn’t there. Then he remembered Skinner had his guns and somehow felt terribly naked. Maybe he ought to bring it up at some point. If that cigarette-smoking bastard ever did come for him again he wanted to be prepared.

“I’m glad she does,” said Skinner as they walked down the hallway to the stairs.

“You get me, too,” said Mulder. He started down the stairs at a rapid pace.

“So does Scully.”

Mulder looked back up the stairwell as Skinner came down behind him and waited for the big man to catch up. For a moment, they stood looking at each other on the third-floor landing and Mulder moved in closer. Skinner stayed very still. Almost too still. Mulder tentatively touched his hand to the other man’s waist under his trench coat and let his eyes roam over Skinner’s strong jaw for a hesitant moment before he made his decision, closed his eyes, and put his lips against Skinner’s. The kiss was soft and chaste but heartfelt and Skinner leaned forward to chase Mulder’s mouth with his own when Mulder pulled back after a few seconds of contact. Mulder looked into Skinner’s eyes and said cheekily, “That’s for picking up the groceries.”

Skinner couldn’t help his rough exhalation. He hadn’t expected another kiss from Mulder so soon after the last. Especially considering his and Mulder’s conversation regarding sex and promiscuity after rape survival. But before Skinner could analyze Mulder’s actions further, Mulder was already halfway down the staircase. Skinner stowed his arousal, cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and followed Mulder down and out into the parking lot.

“I kissed someone,” said Mulder almost immediately after he and Dr. Boswick had sat down in her office for his session.

Her eyes lit up and her eyebrows lifted. “Ah, and how do you feel about that?” she asked.

Mulder couldn’t help his grin. “It feels really good, actually,” he said and rubbed his hands over his bouncing knees. For some reason, he felt full of energy today.

“And did you initiate this kiss?”

“Two kisses. And yeah, I did.”

“I see,” said Dr. Boswick. The clock ticked, or it would have if there had been a visible clock in her office. Mulder grew uncomfortable in the extended silence and he looked around for some protracted seconds, his eyes glancing over her books and the framed picture of the brightly plumed oriole before settling on a publication lying on the coffee table in front of the couch where he habitually sat.

“Um,” he uttered, “I-I admit I kind of confused myself.” He shook his head slightly and looked up at her.

“How so?” she prompted.

“Well I,” began Mulder and paused before carrying on. “I just wonder if it’s me or the dronification program making me want to kiss this person.”

Dr. Boswick fiddled with her pen and considered his statement before asking, “Have you had romantic feelings for this person before?”

Mulder started to shake his head but then he really thought about it and changed his answer. “I think I may have and I just didn’t realize it until now. The confusion I’m facing has less to do with the person and more to do with their gender. I-I’ve never… with a man. N-Not before…” Mulder’s voice drifted off and he looked at his hands in his lap. He picked at some dry skin on the edge of his cuticle on one finger. After a minute he looked up at Dr. Boswick and asked, “Do you think the program could have made me desire only men? Could have changed me like that?”

Dr. Boswick leaned forward, her arms on her crossed legs as though she were leaning in to tell him a confidence. She tilted her head, her blonde hair falling more over her left shoulder than the right. “Would it matter if it was the program that awoke sexual feelings in you for this other person? You said you had feelings for them before but you hadn’t realized it. What would those feelings look like and what outward form would they take if you hadn’t gone through the brainwashing?”

Mulder once again hesitated. He really thought about his answers. Would it make a difference if it was the brainwashing that had flipped the switch in his brain? He’d always considered himself straight in the past, yet when he thought of Walter, he couldn’t help but smile. That couldn’t be a bad thing, could it? He gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh and palmed his jeans again, a nervous habit he’d picked up in recent weeks. “I guess it wouldn’t matter. Or it would matter since normally I don’t think I would have ever gotten so close to him but… but I’m glad I have.”

She gave him a smile and praised him for examining his feelings on the matter. Then she commented that he obviously was getting better with the intimacy issue. He replied in the affirmative but said he still balked when it came to the thought of sex and told her about the conversation he’d had with Skinner. “It sounds like he understands you and your needs at this point. Would you agree?” she asked and he did allow that Skinner was being the ultimate gentleman. “Do you want to have sex with this man?” she finally asked.

“I-I don’t know. Maybe someday, just not now. I can’t,” he said, his voice taking on a pleading, defensive edge. He felt inadequate in that moment and wished that was something he could offer Walter. But the thought of taking another man inside him or giving someone a blowjob, no matter how much they cared for each other, made him feel physically ill. He frowned.

“That’s completely understandable,” said Dr. Boswick. “It’s important that you don’t push yourself too quickly beyond your comfort zones, especially when it comes to sex. It’s important, too, that you don’t let your friends or an intimate partner push you too far too fast. They might in the mistaken belief that they’re helping you to overcome what you’ve experienced.”

“Oh Walter’s not like that,” said Mulder, coming to the man’s defense. “He-He’s very patient.” Mulder’s eyebrows drew together and he suddenly laughed.

“What’s so funny?” she queried curiously, amused that he was amused.

“I just realized he’s the complete opposite of what he’s like at work when he’s with me at home,” said Mulder. “It’s like night and day practically.”

She smiled. They moved on from that part of their conversation to discuss how Mulder had been occupying his time. She praised him for his ingenuity in dealing with the television issue but warned him not to rely too heavily on the basketball. “Try weaning yourself off it as you go along.” He nodded and promised to try. Then he told her about his panic attack at seeing the smoker and admitted that he didn’t think he would have made it through if Walter hadn’t been there. She commented that he probably would have, he just had to remember to call on the breathing and distraction techniques she’d taught him near the beginning of their doctor-patient relationship. He had forgotten about those in the presence of Walter but realized she had a good point and promised to try and remember them in future. But she seemed to disapprove of his telling her he had helped Scully with some case work. “I’m just worried that the disturbing details of the crimes you tend to investigate might trigger a trauma reaction. Promise me you’ll tread carefully?” She raised a brow and he made a promise that if his consulting got too intense he would back away. “Good!” she smiled again and that was their time. Mulder had made quite a few promises. Only time would tell if he could keep all of them.

Mulder went immediately after his appointment to Krycek’s room. Krycek lay as always, unmoving and unresponsive. Mulder watched his face for any sign of change for a minute before he sat down in the visitor’s chair and began to read out loud from his skinwalker book.

Skinner strode through the halls of the psychiatric hospital. He was a little early to pick up Mulder so he thought he’d go up and find him in Krycek’s room. He nodded to the guard outside the door. The government would probably soon stop footing the bill to keep Krycek under twenty-four/seven security. Hell, Skinner was surprised the funding hadn’t stopped weeks ago for such a thing when it became obvious from Krycek’s condition and his doctors’ prognoses that the young rat wasn’t going anywhere. Skinner paused in the doorway and observed Mulder. Mulder sat in the visitor’s chair facing Krycek’s bed and did not notice his arrival. Skinner watched and listened as Mulder read with all the poise and clarity of a well-practiced public speaker. His voice was soft and calm but carried in the small room. Skinner admired not only the rhythm and cadence of Mulder’s voice but his generosity toward the man in the bed who Skinner knew didn’t deserve it. He knew that generosity had initially been born of guilt, but at some point it had to have stopped being about guilt and transformed into being about empathy. A warm feeling stole over Skinner’s heart.

Mulder stopped reading and addressed the figure in the bed, still unaware that his ride was in the room. “I’m getting better,” said Mulder with a little pride. “Dr. Boswick’s happy with my progress I think. I know you can get better, too. Yeah it’s hard, and there are a lot of challenges but if I can get through it, I know you can.”

The warm feeling in Skinner’s chest expanded and his throat grew tight. He cleared it and Mulder looked around, startled. But then he smiled when he recognized who stood behind him and greeted the big man before turning back to Krycek and saying, “Don’t worry, Krycek, he hasn’t come to take you to prison just yet, I promise.” He patted Krycek’s lifeless hand and turned back to Skinner.

Skinner came a little closer and said, “You don’t have to stop if you’re not done reading. I don’t have to be back to work until two.”

Mulder gave a shrug and replied, “It’s okay.” He marked his place in the skinwalker book. “I think he’s had enough for today anyway. I’m a little bit tired, too.”

“Difficult session?” asked Skinner as Mulder got up from the chair and pushed it back against the wall so it was out of the way.

“Not really,” he said but didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to tell Skinner what he’d initially talked about with Dr. Boswick.

“You’re ready to go then?”

“Sure.” Mulder nodded and turned back to face the bed briefly. “Goodbye Krycek. Stay outta trouble,” he said.

Skinner shared a smirk with Mulder at that but looked disapprovingly at Krycek over his shoulder as they left the room. Mulder didn’t see the frown Skinner gave the catatonic patient. There was no love lost there. Mulder might be able to let bygones be bygones but Skinner couldn’t. He still intended to bring down the hammer of the law on Krycek should the triple agent ever come out of his stupor. Skinner wondered, not for the first time, if Krycek was faking it to escape justice but ultimately came to the conclusion that there was no way someone could fake a catatonia that deep for so long.

Skinner drove Mulder home. Their conversation was more or less normal. They discussed basketball mostly, not in relation to Mulder’s new television habit. After reminiscing over some past pro games they had both been witness to, Mulder told Skinner he had given Frohike permission to woo Scully and Skinner guffawed at that. He asked Mulder half-seriously if Frohike stood a chance and Mulder shrugged, giving Skinner an enigmatic smile. They laughed some more and it was the best Mulder had felt in a long time. Back in the parking lot at Mulder’s place, there was an awkward moment in the car where Mulder longed to invite Skinner up and spend some more time with him but he knew Skinner had to be getting back to work and didn’t want to monopolize Skinner’s valuable time. He felt as though Skinner had bent over backwards to help him, especially this past week during Mulder’s transition out of the hospital and back into the real world. Mulder turned to Skinner and gave him an assessing look, his eyes focusing on Skinner’s lips. He was about to lean forward but thought better of it and turned his head away. He tensed when Skinner put a hand on his knee and said, “You can kiss me if you want to.” Mulder’s lips quirked up in a grin but he ducked his head down shyly.

“Do you mind if we don’t?” he asked. “I-I mean, don’t take that the wrong way. I know I kissed you first and... and kissed you again in the stairwell. I just want to take things slow.” His eyes met Skinner’s, afraid of what he’d find there. There was a note of disappointment but there was also a hell of a lot of understanding and fondness. Mulder felt the tension in his chest ease as Skinner studied him with all the adoration the man could muster. In Skinner’s mind he was thinking how brave and wonderful Mulder was, and his hand gave Mulder’s knee a little squeeze.

“Okay. You have a good day.”

“You, too,” said Mulder softly and got out of the car. He watched Skinner drive away and gave him a little wave before sighing longingly and going up to his apartment.

From there, things got easier. Mulder’s morning showers had less and less of an ominous drone-sex overtone and more of a relaxing, cleansing bent to them. Feeding his fish no longer made him stiffen at the analogy between their tank and his old drone tank. With the help of his basketball, he worked his way from watching large chunks of old, familiar sci-fi films to enjoying new-to-him multi-genre films, comedy shows and dramas on live television (though he still taped them when he could to fast forward through the commercials), and the occasional newscast.

Scully and Skinner both helped Mulder desensitize himself to going out in public. While they still did the odd errand for him, they worked with him until he was able to drive himself to get groceries and other necessities for himself and go for walks around the block without looking constantly over his shoulder for the cigarette-smoking man and his cohorts. At first they would go for little drives with him in his own car with one or the other of them in the driver’s seat until Mulder grew comfortable and stopped showing signs of anxiety like fidgeting or sighing repeatedly. Then they would let Mulder be the driver and increase the length of the drives they took. Next came outings with purpose like trips to the corner store together. Eventually they tried having Mulder drive by himself with one of them following him in his or her own car to a certain location like a park or mall where they could go for a meander together. By then, Mulder’s assurance that he would not be abducted just around the corner had grown and he finally got in the car alone one day and did his own goddamned grocery shopping, thank you very much. Walks outside followed the same pattern: at first with company and kept short and round-trip, then with company and for longer and with purpose, and finally to Mulder perambulating his block several times in a row by himself for the exercise and just because he could. Skinner finally gave Mulder his guns back, too, once he was assured Mulder would be responsible with them and having them helped a long way toward bolstering Mulder’s self-reliance. And even though Mulder still spent a fair amount of time in his own apartment, he occasionally went over to Scully’s for short visits, a much-needed change of pace, and that haircut he had been contemplating.

Mulder began to spend a lot of time hanging at The Lone Gunmen’s place again, too, once he felt more confident driving himself around. Initially they just played card games together and shot the breeze or talked about the articles the guys published in their Lone Gunmen newsletter. One day, however, Mulder mentioned to Byers that he had seen Byers’s report on the dronification program. Byers asked if it bothered him to look at all that stuff and Mulder told him that it had at first but now he was curious about it. So they ran over the specs of the dronification program together in chunks manageable for Mulder’s sensitivities and Mulder was able to identify short bursts of coded images and sound for them that they had been unsure caused what kinds of behaviors. They would play a combo of sight and sound for him on their computer and he would listen and, if possible, describe to them what it had used to make him feel and/or do. It was a sometimes intense and disturbing process and Mulder had to take frequent breaks to walk off the icky, and occasionally inappropriately arousing, feelings hearing and seeing the program again engendered in him but it was well worthwhile. It made him feel useful and gave him a purpose beyond getting himself stable; now he could help the other thirty-plus victims of the Syndicate’s fiendish program. The Lone Gunmen passed on all relevant information through Skinner’s office and from there on to the survivors’ doctors and psychiatrists.

After punting around a few ideas one day, Mulder asked the group why many of the program’s victims, like Krycek, were still in a catatonic state. Byers postulated that the program was installed with a kind of “kill switch.” When the switch was flipped by someone other than a Syndicate member or dronification facility worker opening the drone tanks one-by-one and instead releasing their captives en mass, the program gave a final order that caused the drones to go catatonic or near-catatonic, thus protecting the Syndicate from being identified and accused of its misdeeds by credible witnesses. Byers explained that that was why Mulder was spared Krycek’s fate, because Mulder hadn’t been in the tank room and Skinner had already removed his mask before the other drones were released as one so the kill switch hadn’t been triggered for him. Mulder took in all this information, processing it silently and discussing that and other important discoveries about the drones, the program, and himself with Dr. Boswick during their multiple weekly meetings.

As a consequence of his efforts, Mulder’s flashbacks became fewer and farther between and his nightmares slowly lessened. Skinner and Scully both took turns every once in a while staying the night in what Mulder now proudly called his “guest room.” Mulder himself still slept on his couch out of habit every night, though he sometimes considered sleeping on the double bed in the former junk room, usually in conjunction with Skinner spending the night, but Mulder wouldn’t let himself creep in there and join him. He was still too afraid of his own reactions to physical touch to make any more moves even though Skinner touched him all the time now, albeit in a nonsexual way, and Mulder still found his wires crossed in the sense that he couldn’t get much of an erection without conjuring thoughts of bio-latex and null masks. That was the one thing that, for some reason, he kept back from his discussions with Dr. Boswick.

Over the course of two months of thrice-weekly therapy and sometimes difficult and emotional discussions with Dr. Boswick, Mulder came out of the survival mode of post traumatic stress and into a better place mentally and emotionally. He still had his days of course, but they, like the nightmares and flashbacks, became fewer and fewer. In addition to all that, Mulder was nearly finished reading the whole skinwalker book to Krycek. He was continually disappointed by Krycek’s lack of response to the reading material or even just to his presence, but he didn’t give up on his fellow survivor. Mulder was about to read the last chapter of the book to Krycek that morning. He went up after checking in at the front desk and getting a visitor’s pass and noticed Krycek’s guard was gone. He knew it was going to happen sooner or later; Skinner had told him. But he hadn’t been expecting it and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts before going into Krycek’s room. No guard meant that Krycek was unlikely to ever come out of his catatonic state. Mulder’s heart sank at this realization and his head turned to the still figure in the bed. He finally went inside and sat down to read without greeting Krycek and within twenty minutes had closed the completed book.

Then he stared at Krycek and took the man’s hand in his, holding it gently. “I’ll bring another book next time. Dr. Boswick thinks one therapy session will be enough for me going forward,” he told Krycek softly. His thumb moved in little half-circles over Krycek’s papery skin. The triple agent had lost a lot of muscle tone during his stay at the hospital and now looked like a frail ghost of his former fit self even though the staff had made a point to stretch him every day. “But I’ll still come three times a week so you don’t miss out on our little book club, okay?” Now that he was driving himself to his appointments, he could stay as long as he liked afterward, visiting with the catatonic patient, and come and go when he pleased on the other days. Mulder suddenly felt his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He looked down from Krycek’s face to the other man’s hand and his fingers unconsciously squeezed as though someone were about to separate the two of them by force.

Silently, Mulder stood up and leaned over Krycek’s bed, leaving a barely-there kiss on Krycek’s forehead. He stroked Krycek’s face and looked into those lifeless green eyes. “See you Friday,” he whispered then let go of Krycek’s hand and walked out of the room.

A moment later, unbeknown to anyone, Krycek’s forefinger gave a slight twitch.

“I’m bringing over pizza and your favorite brew,” said Skinner in Mulder’s ear. Mulder grinned, the phone in his hand as he jotted a couple of notes on a notepad for Scully about her, their, case. Mulder had been consulting for her in bits and pieces here and there while he was still on medical leave but now that he’d be going back to work on Monday, the most recent case he’d been unofficially working on would officially become their case, together. That had a nice ring to it, or so Mulder thought. That was why Skinner was coming over after work with fresh takeout and brewskies, to celebrate Mulder’s return to work. Dr. Boswick had signed off on his release forms only just that morning. Their therapy sessions were on Mondays but he still went to the psych hospital on Wednesdays and Fridays, too, to read to Krycek. As he’d been leaving the catatonic man’s room, Dr. Boswick had intercepted him and held out a piece of paper and her hand to shake.

“I’m sure you’d find out soon enough, but I wanted to tell you in person. You’ll be glad to know I’ve reviewed your file and all the remarkable work you’ve done these past couple of months, Fox. This is the release for you to go back to work full time. I had it faxed to your Assistant Director Skinner as well so it can go immediately on your record. Good luck.” She had taken his hand, a grand smile on her round face, and he’d shaken her hand in pleased disbelief.

“Thanks doc,” he had said with an answering grin. “I guess we’ll have to rearrange the time of our Monday sessions?” he had asked eagerly. She had brushed a hand in the air and had shaken her head.

“You can call the desk and let them know what works for you. I’m proud of you, Mulder. I mean it. Keep up the good work and I’ll see you around,” she had answered, patted his hand, and then walked off down the hallway to make the rounds of some of her other patients. Mulder had stared after her for a moment and then had glanced back into Krycek’s room. He had thought, then, how great it would be to go back to work but his face had fallen with the knowledge that he would have to severely curtail his reading sessions with Krycek. I’ll work something out, he had thought to himself and had left the hospital with his mind whirling.

Skinner got the fax before Mulder was home and called from work to tell him about the pizza and beer idea.

“That sounds perfect,” replied Mulder. “I’m just brushing up on the Painter case.” He heard Skinner huff. “What?” he asked innocently.

“You only have the weekend left to enjoy the rest of your leave and there you are working your butt off,” said Skinner. He sounded both amused and exasperated.

“Heaven forbid,” said Mulder. “Then I wouldn’t look so hot in these jeans.” He got the satisfaction of hearing Skinner snort a laugh.

“Which, ah, jeans are you wearing?” asked Skinner, lowering his voice.

“The dark navy Levi’s,” answered Mulder. Skinner had now spent enough time with Mulder to know his wardrobe fairly well.

“You’ll always look good in those, darlin’,” said Skinner in that same sexy drawl Mulder had come to know and love.

“You’d have said that no matter what pair of jeans I was wearing,” deflected Mulder but he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” said Skinner.

“All right there, hot stuff, tone it down,” Mulder warned teasingly. He and Skinner hadn’t graduated beyond fairly chaste kisses and light petting yet but Mulder could feel something brewing between them that was nearly ready to come to a boil, or so he hoped. He was still just a little nervous, a little unconfident of his own needs and desires, to have let anything major happen yet. “What time will you be here?”

“Ah, probably some time around seven. That okay?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“And you trust me to get the right pizza?”

“Always.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then, Fox.”

“Bye you big, bald, beautiful man, you,” said Mulder and added an eyelash flutter even though he knew Skinner couldn’t see it. It went with the package. He got another snort and a sterner, “Goodbye Mulder,” and Skinner hung up.

“Oh my God that smells good!” exclaimed Mulder as he took the pizza boxes and takeout bag from Skinner and gave him a one-armed hug. “Or maybe it’s just you,” he added playfully and nipped at Skinner’s earlobe. Skinner gasped.

“All right, darlin’,” said Skinner with a laugh as he gently held Mulder away. “Where do you want the beer?” He held up the six pack in his hand. He carried another under his arm.

“One in the fridge for later and the other can go on the coffee table,” said Mulder, moving into the living room and putting the food down on the flat surface in front of the couch. Skinner followed him after briefly setting down the beers so he could take off and hang up his trench coat.

“I got us a side of hot wings to go with the pizza,” said Skinner from the kitchen as he stowed the extra six pack.

“Sounds like heartburn. Did you bring the Tums, too?” joked Mulder as he opened one of the pizza boxes and took a big whiff of the circular mass of crust, tomato sauce, cheese, pepperoni, black olives, onions, and green peppers.

“Nah,” said Skinner, returning to the living room. He hiked up his pant legs and sat down on the couch while Mulder pulled an ooey, gooey slice from the box he’d just opened. A huge string of cheese hung suspended between the remaining pizza and Mulder’s chosen slice until it snapped and Mulder plopped down on the couch beside Skinner with a satisfied sigh. “That’s what the bleu cheese dressing is for, cools the burn.”

“You government men know all kinds of secrets, don’t you?” Mulder winked and his eyes radiated mirth and contentment. He wrapped the dangling cheese string around one finger and broke it off his slice, shoving it into his mouth with a hum. Watching Mulder suck down that cheese took Skinner’s breath away for a few seconds but he shook his head with a little grin and grabbed a paper plate from under the hot wings bag. He helped himself to the appetizer while Mulder inhaled the pizza.

They ate companionably for a few minutes, the sounds of chewing and grunts and appreciative moans of gustatory satisfaction filling the air with cave-man-like soundwaves. Skinner was glad he’d grabbed a stack of napkins from the pizza place since both of their fingers were soon covered in hot sauce and grease. Mulder reached for the nearby six pack and popped the cap on two beers. He handed one to Skinner and raised his own in a toast. “Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers,” echoed Skinner and they clinked bottles before each taking a long swig of the cold brew.

“Ahh!” Mulder sighed and set his beer down so he could start on another slice of pizza.

Skinner looked Mulder up and down consideringly while his fingers worried at a grease-soaked napkin. “Are you nervous about going back to work?” he asked Mulder quietly.

Mulder thought about it while he chewed and after he swallowed he shook his head, replying, “Surprisingly no, I’m not.” He looked at Skinner and Skinner saw the open honesty and confidence of the old Mulder, pre-dronification. Skinner admitted to himself then that he’d been in love with Mulder from day one, despite them often butting heads. There was something in the way Mulder operated that made him particularly endearing and loveable. Maybe it was how Mulder was always on the search for the Truth with a capital T or the way Mulder never stopped even when the odds were against him or how Mulder never accepted pat answers to questions about impossible situations. Or maybe it was just the whole of him that Skinner loved. Skinner looked down at his hot wings, embarrassed by the sudden upwelling of feeling inside him.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said and gave Mulder a smile. “You want to put on a movie?”

“Sure. I bet you’ve never seen Bride of the Gorilla,” said Mulder and Skinner chuckled.

“Is that your idea of a romantic film?” he teased.

Mulder didn’t answer. He just smirked and went over to his stack of VHS tapes, made a little search, and pulled one out to stick in the VCR. He returned to the couch and used the remotes to power on the television and fast forward to the intro credits on the 1951 classic where a man marries his boss’s widow and gets turned into a gorilla via voodoo curse. He and Skinner proceeded to watch the film while they ate and when they were thoroughly stuffed they snuggled down side-by-side to watch the rest. Every once in a while, Mulder would murmur some factoid about the film or its actors. Skinner would hum in appreciation of Mulder’s impressive knowledge base regarding classic movies. They each got up once to use the bathroom, Mulder pausing the tape so they didn’t miss any of the film, and returned to their relative positions on the couch. They consumed more beer and snuggled closer. Eventually, as the short-ish movie came to an end, Skinner reached for the remote and turned off the television. Then he turned to face Mulder over whose shoulders he had put a comforting arm at some point during the movie. Mulder had his hand on Skinner’s knee.

“Did you like it?” asked Mulder quietly. “I always liked it. I-I mean aside from all the socio-political and gender-equality issues it tramples over, I like how they made it unclear whether the plantation foreman’s transformation was actual or in his head. Reminds me of some of the best Twilight Zone episodes.” While Mulder spoke, Skinner moved his hand up and cupped Mulder’s cheek. Skinner tried to read Mulder’s face to know if it was okay to touch him. He desperately wanted to kiss Mulder in that moment but he didn’t want to trigger him. Mulder had been doing so well lately on that front. He hoped Mulder could read his intent in his eyes. Their heads drew closer. Skinner could feel Mulder’s breath puff against his mouth. It smelled of pizza and beer. Not a terrible combo and Skinner was sure his smelled the same so it was immaterial. His hand stroked slowly over Mulder’s rough five o’clock shadow, appreciating the catchy texture of the stubble. Mulder slid the hand on Skinner’s knee up Skinner’s thigh and Skinner inhaled sharply, his lips hovering inches from Mulder’s.

“Can I kiss you?” whispered Skinner.

“Please,” breathed Mulder and Skinner pressed their mouths together. The kiss was heavenly, all warm and deliciously slow. Skinner used his tongue gently. Mulder accepted Skinner’s probing inquires into his mouth and replied with a little tongue action of his own. It was the deepest kiss they had shared thus far and Skinner found himself suddenly very aroused. He pulled back slightly, not wanting to scare Mulder with his ardor, but Mulder’s hand was now at the juncture of his groin and thigh and could probably feel his hardness. Mulder chased his lips, resuming their kiss where Skinner had left off and tilting his head to get the best angle. The men’s breathing increased. Their hands started to roam and explore. The heat in the room intensified. Sweat caused their shirts to begin to cling to their bodies. Skinner gasped loudly when Mulder unexpectedly put a hand over the growing bulge in his trousers and gave him a tender squeeze.

“Mulder,” panted Skinner. He looked in the younger man’s eyes and kissed him passionately again as Mulder rubbed him. When they parted again, Skinner glanced down and saw that Mulder was also sporting an impressive bulge in his jeans. “I want to touch you. May I?” asked Skinner, his voice thick with arousal. Mulder nodded and Skinner placed a hand over Mulder’s crotch. Mulder gasped and thrust up into the hand, his eyes closing. “Is this okay?” Skinner asked, worried that it was too much, too soon. But Mulder just nodded again, rocking his hips into the firm stimulation provided by Skinner’s palm and five fingers.

“It’s a miracle,” gasped Mulder between thrusts, never leaving off Skinner’s own trapped cock for a moment.

“What is?” rumbled Skinner.

“This,” replied Mulder. What he didn’t say was that it was a miracle that he was fully erect for the first time since his capture without having thought anything drone-related. For the longest time he hadn’t thought he was capable of getting it up anymore without imagining himself covered in black bio-latex and sporting null equipment.

The two men made out for a long time, petting each other and grappling at each other’s bodies and clothing. They had begun over their clothes but soon Mulder wanted more. He popped the button on Skinner’s trousers and looked up at Skinner through his eyelashes. Skinner gave him the go-ahead with an encouraging nod and Mulder unzipped his pants, seeking out his hardness inside his briefs by first carding his fingers through Skinner’s pubes and then curling them around the base of his shaft. Skinner moaned when Mulder’s skin finally made contact with his own and gave Skinner’s cock an experimental pump. Skinner’s eyes glazed over and he barely restrained himself from just out and out reciprocating without asking permission first, but his higher brain won out at the last second and he puffed, “I want to do the same to you.”

“Okay,” panted Mulder and nodded. They kissed as Skinner fumbled with Mulder’s jeans and Skinner looked down to make sure he could see what he’d waited a very long time to see. It was beautiful, long and cut and perfectly thick and very, very aroused. A pearl of precum oozed out of Mulder’s slit and Skinner used his thumb to swipe it over Mulder’s cock head. Mulder gasped, his jaw dropping and his eyes clenching shut again for a second. He had forgotten what it was like to have someone else’s hand on his cock without the slick coating of bio-latex. He reciprocated by kissing Skinner’s cheek and nibbling along his neck as Skinner pulled his member from his boxers. Mulder let out another gasp and then a long, low moan as Skinner worked him gently. “Fuckthat’ssogood!” exclaimed Mulder breathlessly and swallowed a sudden rush of saliva into his mouth. He threw his head back against the couch and Skinner pumped him again. Mulder fucked his cock up into Skinner’s hand and reached for Skinner’s dick which he’d lost contact with momentarily. The two men fondled each other, tit for tat, lustily exploring each other’s genitals and providing each other with as much pleasure as they could with just their hands. After a while, Skinner slipped his fingers lower and cupped Mulder’s balls, his fingertips caressing Mulder’s taint. Mulder froze. Everything spun. An icy chill washed over him and he sat up immediately and pushed Skinner away.

“Stop,” breathed Mulder, his chest heaving. “Stop. I-I c-can’t. I’m sorry,” he whispered shakily and ran his hands over his face in shame and fear.

“Mulder…” Skinner said, concerned.

“No, I…” Mulder swallowed and looked down at his exposed groin. He covered himself with his hands, his erection slowly wilting, and tucked himself in his jeans, leaving them gaping.

“Mulder, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, all right? I promise. Was it something I did? Because I won’t do it again if it makes you nervous,” said Skinner imploringly, ignoring his own flagging erection.

Mulder shook his head and just stared at nothing for a moment. Then he said dejectedly, “I don’t know. I just got scared.” Then he apologized again and Skinner hushed him.

“It’s okay,” said Skinner in understanding. He wanted to hold Mulder, to comfort him, but he knew that might not be welcome at a time like this. Mulder seemed so shaken. But suddenly he got angry and stood from the couch and began to pace.

“No, it isn’t okay! I-I want to, want you so much, you have no idea.” His hands gesticulated as he paced and one rose up to card through his spiky hair. Skinner thought about arguing that he did have an idea what it was like to want someone so badly but not be able to have all of them but he kept his mouth shut so he wouldn’t hurt Mulder’s feelings by making him feel guilty that he couldn’t share himself physically beyond some kissing and light petting. “I can’t believe I’m not over this bullshit already!” declared Mulder.

“Mulder, it is okay. We can wait. I can wait,” said Skinner, gently insistent as he tucked himself back in his trousers while Mulder was turned away. He got up from the couch and stood nearby while Mulder tried to exorcise his demons by walking them out and taking deep, centering breaths like Dr. Boswick had taught him. Eventually Mulder calmed down enough to stop pacing and stood with his arms around himself, not quite looking at Skinner.

“You don’t mind waiting?” asked Mulder uncertainly, his eyes pleading for patience and understanding.

Skinner drew closer and said fervently, “Mulder, I will wait thirty years if it takes that long.” Mulder looked at him like he’d just grown a second head but after a moment he leaned forward, unwrapped his arms from around himself, and put them around Skinner’s broad shoulders, using them to pull Skinner to him for a hug. Skinner held him silently, rubbing little circles between Mulder’s shoulder blades.

“You mean that?” Mulder asked doubtfully.

Skinner reached up and cupped Mulder’s face, looking into his eyes. “It’s a promise,” said Skinner and he kissed Mulder’s forehead. Mulder let out a tiny mew of contentment before tilting his head up for a peck on the lips. But he could say without doubt that the mood was broken and it was also getting late. Despite feeling guilty that he hadn’t given Skinner what the man wanted, what they both wanted, Mulder wished Skinner would spend the night and begged, “Stay with me tonight.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t. I have a meeting first thing in the morning,” rumbled Skinner reluctantly. Mulder’s worried gray eyes changed again to express sudden disappointment and frustration.

“Who calls a meeting early on a Saturday morning and why the hell do you have to be there?”

“The Deputy Director calls it because crime never sleeps and I have to be there because I’m an Assistant Director,” replied Skinner with raised eyebrows as though daring Mulder to contradict his statement. Mulder pouted for a minute but then his expression melted and he kissed Skinner again, deeper this time. Skinner groaned. “You’re making this difficult.”

“I know,” said Mulder drolly but then pushed Skinner away. “Better take off before I edge you again without letting you cum,” he purred. Skinner’s mouth went horribly desert-like and he just chewed his cud, trying not to look too lustily at Mulder for a minute before Mulder took pity on him, kissed him one more time on the cheek and pushed him toward the door. Skinner took his coat and slung it over his arm instead of putting it on.

“I get how it is. First you ask me to stay; now you’re kicking me out?” teased Skinner with a crooked grin, turning again to face Mulder.

Mulder lifted a shoulder and smiled shyly. “I never said I was consistent.”

Skinner lifted his right hand and touched Mulder’s cheek. “Will you be okay?”

Mulder’s hand found his and held it against his face for a moment then he nodded. “Yeah. Call me when you get out of the meeting?”

“I will.” Skinner leaned in to kiss Mulder’s cheek and Mulder accepted this with aplomb. Then he showed Skinner out the door and closed it behind him with a sigh.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered to himself. He looked down at his still-open fly and said to his dick, “What the fuck happened, man? You were doing so good for a while there.” When his dick didn’t answer him, Mulder zipped up his jeans and went back to the living room to start cleaning up the takeout mess and putting away the leftovers. He mulled over his aborted makeout session with Skinner. He had been excited and aroused and overjoyed that they were finally getting somewhere more physical but something had jarred him out of that special space and frightened him enough to make him want to halt everything. It had been when Skinner had touched his perineum. He’d been afraid Skinner would want to work a finger into his asshole and his mind had balked. Mulder shuddered. Would it have led to more? Would Skinner have fucked him? He couldn’t say. He doubted he would have been able to go that far and that upset him.

Mulder put the leftover pizza in the fridge and gave another ragged sigh. He and Dr. Boswick had talked about something like this happening. Not specifically the butt thing but that his boundaries might one day be pushed beyond what he was prepared for and that he had every right to say “no” if they were. There was no sense in feeling guilty for refusing, but he still did. Then he had gone and teased Skinner about denying Skinner completion and that was unfair. Yet Skinner had seemed to take the teasing in stride. As he morosely finished tossing greasy paper plates, used napkins, and empty beer bottles into the trash, Mulder thanked his lucky stars he had Walter as his romantic partner.

“Walter, I love you. I need you,” said Mulder and reached out to Skinner. Skinner approached him from yards away, looming larger and larger in Mulder’s vision. The AD looked hungry for Mulder and ready to pounce. Mulder grew frightened and started to shake his head. He wanted desperately to back away before Skinner reached him and put his arms around him but Skinner was now feet away, inches, and Mulder felt the frigid hand of fear along his spine. “No!” he cried and pushed a larger-than-life Skinner away from him just as the other man put his huge, Popeye-like arms around Mulder.

Mulder successfully managed to fend a now furious-looking Skinner off and stood breathing heavily. Skinner started shouting at him and gesticulating wildly but Mulder, for some reason, couldn’t hear him. It was as though there was a soundproof barrier between the two of them. “I-I can’t hear you,” said Mulder. Skinner shouted something else and his hand flew out. Mulder flinched back but the hand never made contact. “I’m sorry!” shouted Mulder desperately and it was like he was shouting into a particularly large cavern. The sound of his own voice echoed all around him, marking the rest of his surroundings as eerily quiet. “You-You’ll have to talk louder. I can’t…” But just then Skinner stopped shouting silently and his hands fell to his sides. With clenched fists he gave Mulder the most disappointed look Mulder had ever seen apart from on his parent’s faces when he’d done something bad as a child. Skinner turned abruptly and began to walk away.

With a sinking dread, Mulder knew that this was forever; he would never see Skinner again. “No!” he protested. “No! Don’t go!” He clung to Skinner’s enormous bicep to no avail. Skinner didn’t turn and he didn’t stop walking away. Mulder’s hands clung to him but the power of Skinner’s stride yanked him off his feet and Mulder lost his grip, landing on his hands and knees in the dirt. “Noooo!” cried Mulder, hand out, pleading.

He woke with a sharp, indrawn breath and sat up on the couch like someone ejecting from an airplane. It took him a long moment to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. Mulder applied Dr. Boswick’s trick of in for four, out for seven several times before he felt calm enough to analyze his dream. He swallowed against the message his unconscious had projected at him in his final REM cycle and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a tired hand. He hadn’t had a doozy like that in more than a week. This one was new. He’d never had a nightmare about his relationship with Skinner before. Mulder’s hand flopped onto his lap and he looked out the window. The sun was barely coming up. He groaned. He didn’t want to be up this early but there was no way he was getting back to sleep again after his nightmare.

Mulder peeled himself off the couch and dragged his weary ass to the bathroom for a quick piss before crossing to the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee for himself. He figured he could get some more hours in on the Painter case while his mind was relatively fresh, and reviewing the details would distract him from his worries about driving Skinner away with his inability to reciprocate all of Skinner’s amorous attentions. In addition to that, he’d score points with his favorite red head come Monday. He smiled faintly, got dressed in a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt, and took a mug of coffee over to his desk where he booted up his computer. As he put his mug down, he happened to glance out the window then did a quick, startled double take. He went around the edge of his desk and peeked cautiously through the window blinds, checking out the surrounding street and parking spots outside the front of his building. He could have sworn he’d seen someone standing outside on the sidewalk just under a tree but there was no one there. For the second time that morning Mulder’s heart got a rapid workout but he finally squinted a moment at the scene and then dismissed it as his not-quite-awake eyes just seeing a car drive by or one of his neighbors projecting a backlit shadow from a lower floor through a window as he or she got ready for work.

He returned to sit at his computer and took a sip of Joe before bringing up the file on the Painter case. Nearby were Mulder’s notes that he’d taken earlier before Skinner had arrived with the pizza and beer. Mulder glanced at the clock. He sighed and wondered what time Skinner’s meeting would get out. He wanted the reassurance of hearing the man’s voice, especially after his dream. It would be hours, though, before Skinner would call and Mulder told himself to stop being so needy. Instead, he focused on the reports Scully had sent him and cross-referenced them with the notes he’d already taken briefly before delving deeper into the particulars.

The Painter case, so called because each crime scene had had a very complicated and very detailed mural painted in the victim’s own blood, occupied a good three hours of Mulder’s time before his eyes began to cross. Each mural depicted scenes of torture that looked like they could have been pulled straight from a Hieronymus Bosch painting. No one could figure out how the perpetrator of these murders managed to paint such large and delicate artworks in the short period of time he or she spent with the murder victims or how he or she had worked so expertly and efficiently with the victim’s blood without using any chemical thinners or anti-coagulants. The substrates, too, were all different. In one victim’s house, the mural was on a wallpapered wall in the living room; in another, the painting had been done on the bathroom tile wall. It was impressive but grotesque. Thus, thought it wasn’t really in Mulder and Scully’s purview, it had been relegated to the X-files. He pinched the bridge of his nose and made a mental note to make an appointment with his optometrist. Seemed like he needed new reading glasses. The old ones he chucked onto his desk and grabbed his coffee mug to go refill it when the phone rang. He answered, thinking it was going to be Skinner, but was surprised to hear Scully’s voice.

“Howdy, partner, how’s it hanging?” he asked her after her usual greeting of, “Mulder, it’s me.” He had thought she was busy this weekend, something to do with going over to her Mother’s and helping her move some stuff out of the garage for a yard sale on Sunday. When he asked what happened to the yard sale she exasperatedly asked him if he ever watched a newscast.

“It’s supposed to pour Sunday so Mom thought it would be better to wait until next weekend,” Scully explained.

“Ah, so I’m second fiddle, is that it?” asked Mulder, fake pouting and then real pouting when he realized with a shake of the coffee pot that he had less than a quarter inch of the dark liquid left. He’d have to make a new pot if he wanted a full mug or switch to something else. He sighed, turned off the coffee maker, and rooted around in the fridge for some orange juice.

“No, Mulder,” she said, “you are not second fiddle. I just found myself with some free time, that’s all. I wondered if you’d like to…”

“Go over the Painter case?” asked Mulder overeagerly and chugged some of the OJ he’d found behind a jar of pickles. He’d had a microsecond of trepidation pushing the pickles out of the way to get to the orange juice; the yellow-green brine they floated around in reminded him of his drone tank. Why had he bought the pickles anyway? Oh yeah, they had gone with the Reuben sandwiches he and Scully had indulged in from the deli down the street one evening about three weeks ago. The pickle spears were nearly gone, only three remaining. The rest of the jar was just the pickle juice. Mulder stopped and stared at the pickle jar and then he started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Scully asked him. He had almost forgotten she was on the phone. He started to laugh even harder and had to set the orange juice carton down on the counter while he clutched his stomach. “Mulder? Are you okay?”

“Oh! Oh, I’m fine, Scully. I’m totally, totally fine.” Mulder said between giggles. He tried to stifle his laughter but it was no use until he heard Scully huff in frustration and ask if she should call back later. “Nope, I’m good, really. Sorry. It’s just that… oh man.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes.

“Are you going to tell me what your laughing fit was all about or leave me in the dark?”

“Sorry, Scully, um, yeah,” he fumbled around for the right words to explain his outburst. “I was just laughing at the jar of pickles in my fridge.”

“Why would pickles make you crack up?” she asked warily.

“Ah…” Mulder hesitated. It was just possible that he would be the only person to see humor in a non-humorous situation but he told her anyway what he had been thinking. “I hope you don’t think I’m crazy or unfit for duty or something but, uh, the juice in the pickle jar reminded… reminded me of the drone tank.”

“That’s not funny, Mulder,” she said.

“No, I know but… but it is funny if you picture all the drones as giant pickles,” mumbled Mulder. There was silence on the other end of the line. Shit, he thought, she does think I’m crazy.

Finally, surprising Mulder with her affection, Scully said warmly, “I’m glad you can look back and see some humor in it. I was really worried for a while that your experience in that place had destroyed any hope and joy you could have.” Her voice was laden with emotion and it gave Mulder pause.

“I didn’t mean to sound insensitive,” he backtracked. “It still affects me every day.” He thought of the disaster he and Skinner making out had turned into plus the nightmares and any number of small, daily reminders of his time in captivity.

“I know and I understand you making a joke doesn’t equate to you being ‘over it’ in any sense, but it is good that you can laugh about some of it. That gives you power over it.”

Mulder smiled and leaned against the kitchen counter. “You’re amazing, Scully, did you know that?” he said tenderly.

“Of course,” said Scully cheekily, “it’s a gift.” He laughed again lightly.

“So what did you want to ask me to do with you today since Mother Scully has postponed your mother-daughter bonding moment?” Mulder finally circled back around to her original reason for calling.

He could hear the smile in Scully’s voice as she answered. “I was only going to ask if you wanted to come over to my place for lunch. You haven’t been here in a while and I thought it might be nice for you to get out of your apartment.”

“I go out of my apartment,” insisted Mulder.

“I know but you hardly ever come over here.”

“I never go to Skinner’s place either,” said Mulder. It was true; the last time he’d been over at Skinner’s was the day he’d been retrieving Krycek from the balcony. It had to do with comfort levels, he thought. The idea of being in the big man’s space intimidated him for some reason. Speaking of comfort levels, his old agoraphobia had reasserted itself and he didn’t really feel like going out. That shadow person standing, or rather not standing, outside his apartment earlier that morning had freaked him out more than he thought it did at the time. Could someone be watching him? He brought the phone into the living room and peered out his window again. Aside from one of his neighbors he recognized walking her miniature Schnauzer, the coast was clear.

“The point is, I’d like us to spend a little time together before you come back to work on Monday and we’re up to our necks in blood, slime, and conspiracy theories,” said Scully, interrupting his thought process.

“Okay,” he finally acquiesced. “I’m expecting Walter to call in a little bit but that shouldn’t interfere with lunch. How does twelve-thirty sound to you?”

“All right, Mulder. I’ll see you then.”

Almost immediately after he hung up with Scully, the phone rang again and it was Skinner. He had just gotten out of his meeting. Mulder asked how it went and Skinner sighed dramatically.

“We’re getting some flak about our source on the location of the dronification facility. Some of the lawyers for the facility’s top scientists are claiming that our warrant was no good and that if we can’t produce this source in court we have no case against their clients,” said Skinner.

“That’s bullshit!” exclaimed Mulder. “We go off anonymous tips all the time. We’ve gotten warrants on far less than what that informant gave you and Scully.”

“I know,” said Skinner. “It doesn’t mean those lawyers aren’t going to try every trick in the book to get those bastards off Scott free.”

“Damn it!” Mulder cursed and grabbed his basketball with one hand, flinging it angrily at the floor. It bounced but luckily didn’t ricochet into anything breakable.

“That was exactly my reaction,” grumbled Skinner. There was a short pause and then Skinner said quietly, “We’ll fight it, Fox, every step of the way.”

Mulder battled some hard emotions and nodded then said in a croaky voice, “I know.”

“Aside from that unpleasant news, how are you?” asked Skinner. “Still cranking away at the Painter case?”

“No, I have an appointment to luncheon with a certain red head after our little tête-à-tête on the phone,” said Mulder, brightening a little.

“Ah, is this a work date or…”

“What, exactly, are you implying, Walter?” asked Mulder with mock effrontery in response to the tease in Skinner’s voice.

“I just want to know if I should be jealous at all,” said Skinner and Mulder snorted.

“Kinda late for you to start being jealous now. I’ve been over to Scully’s plenty since you and I became an item. We are an item, still, aren’t we?” Mulder’s dream suddenly came rushing back to him and filled him with uncertainty.

“Of course,” Skinner reassured him and he wrapped himself in the warmth in Skinner’s voice. “Listen, I have to go but I’ll see you here on Monday, all right? You have fun with Scully.”

“Will do. Don’t work too hard. Gotta save some of your energy for dealing with your fully rested, raring to go special agent in a couple days,” said Mulder and was pleased to hear Skinner chuckle. Mulder hung up the phone and turned back to his computer to put in another good hour and a half researching the Painter’s paintings before he got ready to go over to Scully’s. On the way out the door, he tucked his notes for the case under his arm at the last second just in case his partner changed her mind.

They sat down on her couch shortly after he arrived. She offered him a drink while they waited for their lunch to come. He chose just water while she had a diet root beer. She had pointed at the notepad under his arm as he had come through the door and said, “That better not be what I think it is.” He had shrugged sheepishly and asked her, “Don’t you want to see what I’ve got so far on the Painter’s art symbolism? It’s really interesting. Our friend here has a thing for bastinado, the maw of Satan, and his imps.” She had given him one of her Scully-brand glares and he’d chucked the notepad onto her coffee table with a defeated sigh. “Not until Monday,” she had told him with a finger on his chest. “You’re still officially on medical leave until then.”

Of course they had plenty else to talk about. Mulder told her the bad news Skinner had given him about the dronification scientists’ lawyers putting up a stink. She sympathized with him and told him the same thing Skinner had, that the Bureau would fight to ensure those people went to prison and paid for their involvement in the Syndicate’s dronification program. Then Scully told Mulder that she’d gotten a rather bizarre visit from his friend Frohike. Mulder’s cheeks colored and he tucked one hand under his bouncing leg while he fidgeted with the other in his lap.

“It was the strangest thing, and rather sweet, actually,” mused Scully. “He came to the door with a bunch of flowers in his hand and said something about how he admired me and my work. Then he handed me the flowers and said he just wanted me to know that he would wait, no matter how long it took. Then he walked away.”

“That’s it? That’s all he said?” squeaked Mulder. She looked at him sideways.

“Isn’t that weird enough?” she asked him and he gave a nervous, too-loud laugh. “Mulder, what is wrong with you?” Her brows pinched and then realization dawned on her face and she stared at him. “Did you have something to do with him coming here?”

Mulder shook his head and tried to look innocent. “Nooo, not me,” he added but he could tell she saw right through him by the chiding look she gave him. His shoulders drooped and he admitted that he had given Frohike permission to woo her. “I’m sorry!” he protested when she smacked him on the arm. “He just wanted my blessing, that’s all.”

“First of all, you are not in any position to give that blessing, and second of all, why the hell would you encourage that? No offense, but he’s not my type,” exclaimed Scully.

“Aw, come on now, Scully. Frohike’s a good guy. I feel kind of bad for him, you know?”

“Why?” she asked facetiously. “Because he’s a nerd?”

“Watch it, that’s my friend you’re talking about there,” he warned her half-seriously. Personally, he thought Scully and Frohike might actually make a good couple, but he didn’t voice his opinion. She smiled and he grinned back. “And you’re wrong,” he said more seriously. Her eyebrows drew together in question.

“What do you mean?”

“I am in a position to have given him my blessing,” said Mulder. He reasoned that it was time he told her about him and Walter, hoping that she’d forgive him for keeping their relationship a secret.

“How so?”

“Well,” he demurred and rubbed his hands together. “Frohike thought you and I might be an item sooo… I reassured him we’re not by basically telling him my affections lay elsewhere.” Scully’s eyes widened and he rushed on. “Look, I know you and I have gotten very close and I’m really, truly sorry about that kiss. That was a total accident, but I can see where you might reject Frohike’s advances because you thought you and I might someday have a thing together but we can’t. Scully,” he took her hands in his and said, “I love you like a sister. I do. But I’m in love with Walter.”

Scully’s brilliant smile surprised him. He had been expecting her to act all disappointed and such, but she gave a low laugh and squeezed his hands.

“I know,” she said huskily.

“You do?”

“Probably way before you did, yes.”

Mulder was at a loss for words. He and Skinner had tried their best to be discrete and not kiss or give any public displays of affection whenever the three of them had been in each other’s presence so it eluded him as to how she knew about his and Skinner’s romance. Luckily her doorbell rang and she went to answer it and pay for their food so he didn’t have to say a thing. Mulder sat on her couch, stunned, while she put the food on the coffee table and went to go get plates, napkins, and utensils from her kitchen.

“I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed, but I am truly happy for you, Mulder. The question is,” she said as she munched on her Greek salad and Mulder picked at the large Italian sandwich he’d ordered, “does Skinner know?”

Mulder had a brief flashback to some of his and Walter’s kisses and the ill-fated makeout session. He frowned down at his sandwich. “I sure as hell hope so,” he said.

“Well, have you told him?” she asked, rolling her eyes. He looked up at her as though her words were a revelation.

“No, I-I haven’t,” he said quietly and felt foolish for never having voiced his feelings to Skinner out loud. The man had been a steady light on shore while Mulder was rocked and buffeted by a stormy sea of his own emotions and trauma reactions over the past few months and he hadn’t once told Skinner how he felt about him.

“Hadn’t you better?” she prodded.

“I-I dunno,” he mumbled and looked down at the meat and vegetables and cheese sticking out from between two long pieces of fresh bread in front of him. He’d ordered a large sandwich and now his stomach was telling him, “No way in hell, buddy.”

“You don’t know? Mulder, you just told me you loved him,” said Scully. “Why is it so easy to admit it to me and to Frohike of all people when you can’t even tell the object of your affections?”

A small smile touched the corners of Mulder’s lips and he looked up at her, his face illuminated by the golden afternoon sun streaming though Scully’s living room windows. “I guess I’m just afraid to in case it doesn’t work out.” She gave him a questioning look and he set aside his sandwich. He wasn’t hungry at all now.

“Why wouldn’t it work out?” she asked softly. “I’ve seen you and Walter together. You obviously care very deeply for each other.”

Another blush rose on Mulder’s cheeks and he avoided her gaze as he replied, “I’m afraid I can’t give him what he wants.”

“And what would that be?”

Mulder looked at her finally and said, “You know. That.”

She arched a brow. “That?” It took her a second. He didn’t dare elaborate but she caught on and declared, “Oh, that!” There was a quiet moment where she stopped eating and set her salad on the coffee table and he fidgeted. Then she turned to him and said, “Mulder, sex isn’t the be all and end all of a relationship; you know that.”

He nodded rapidly and stammered, “I-I do know that. I know. But… it’s just…” His hands spread in a helpless gesture and he pushed one of them up through his hair. “We tried making out last night and I had a spaz,” he admitted around a ball of frustration growing in his gut. “I couldn’t go through with it.”

“Have you talked to Dr. Boswick about your sex life at all?”

“Of course,” he said. “She explained to me that it’s okay to feel unsure and that I have every right to halt the proceedings if I get uncomfortable, but I can’t help feeling like that’s unfair to Walter.”

“Mulder, I’m sure he understands. I can’t imagine he’d react in any way other than with total concern for your comfort and needs.” Mulder bobbed his head in acknowledgement of her assessment. It was true. Skinner had stopped immediately at Mulder’s say-so and hadn’t pushed him to complete their intimate act. Still, Mulder shuddered at the thought of losing Skinner’s love and support over something like his inability to engage in sex. He supposed he was acting foolish and asked Scully if she thought so. She shook her head. “No, I don’t think you’re being foolish, but I think you’re misreading the situation if you think Skinner’s going to end your relationship. Has he given any indication he wants to call things off?”

“No,” said Mulder, giving a shake of his head.

“Then there you have it. Next time you see him, give him a big kiss and tell him you love him,” she said with a smile.

“And have him head for the hills,” said Mulder although he, too, was now smiling. Scully’s grins were infectious.

“He’s stuck with you this far. He’s not about to give up on you now,” she said. He looked at her with all the fondness of a brother for his little sister and took her hand, giving it a loving squeeze.

“Thanks, Scully,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome, Mulder. Now, are you going to eat any of that sandwich or did you buy it just for decoration?” He looked at the large Italian with its tempting slices of Genoa salami, Capocollo, and provolone cheese.

“It’s going to be decorating my stomach in about three seconds,” he quipped, appetite suddenly returned, and grabbed one half of the stuffed-to-bursting baguette. He put the sandwich to his mouth and bit down, moaning at the burst of salty and savory flavors tempered by the cool lettuce and tomato and spiced delicately by the mild red onion. “Mmph! Delicious!” he mumbled around the huge mouthful. Scully giggled, stabbed a chunk of iceberg lettuce from her salad, and munched on it daintily while he made himself a pig of his own lunch.

“Welcome back, Agent Mulder,” said Skinner in his best AD voice as he shook Mulder’s hand. Mulder smiled and thanked him while Scully watched on proudly from beside him. Skinner didn’t return his smile, however, and Mulder got a sudden nervous feeling in his stomach. Skinner released his hand and gestured for his two agents to take a seat. “I hate to hit you with some bad news first thing. I know you’ve been itching to get back to the X-Files, but I thought you might want to hear this.”

Mulder sat next to Scully across from Skinner who remained standing, his hands on his hips. “What kind of bad news, sir?” asked Mulder, stifling the urge to call Skinner “Walter.” Skinner took a breath and looked down at his desk, then back up at Mulder.

“I got a call just before you came in that Krycek has disappeared,” said Skinner.

Mulder’s ears began to ring and his vision narrowed. His head shook in denial and his mouth gaped as he tried to process what Skinner had just told him.

“H-How?” asked Mulder, his face expressing disbelief then anger and finally fear. He stood from his seat, Scully and Skinner watching him with concern as he paced Skinner’s office, a hand to his mouth. “That… That’s impossible!” he finally declared, leaning on the back of the chair he’d just vacated. He closed his eyes and tried to get his breathing under control.

“I have a couple of agents headed to the psychiatric hospital now to investigate,” said Skinner, trying to reassure him.

“They won’t find him,” said Mulder, pushing himself upright and starting to pace again. “The Syndicate took him. They took him and… and they’re going to make sure he doesn’t talk, ever. Maybe it would have been more merciful to put a bullet into his brain when I had the chance. God knows what they’ll do to him. I’m sure they’ll find something worse that the living hell he’s been through recently.”

“Mulder, until we know what happened, you need to stay focused and not jump to conclusions,” warned Skinner.

Mulder whirled to face him and glanced at a worried Scully before he demanded, “Put me on the case. I’ll track him down. We have to get him back from those bastards who took him.”

Skinner shook his head. “Uh-uh. You’re too close to the situation and I need you on the Painter case.”

“Goddamn it!” shouted Mulder and smacked his hand on Skinner’s desk, turning away and going to the conference table that he stared down at unseeingly.

Skinner tempered his voice to soothe his irate partner. “Krycek always survives,” said Skinner, “one way or another. Besides, he may have just woken up and walked out. We will have no way of knowing until Ellison and Waterhouse have finished questioning the hospital staff and going through the hospital’s security footage.”

Mulder stood, silently fuming and worried over his fellow survivor’s wellbeing. Scully and Skinner said nothing for a moment, letting him have his space. After a few minutes, Skinner said, “Let it go, Mulder. You’ve done enough for him.”

“Have I?” Mulder wondered, turning back to glare at Skinner with challenge in his eyes. Skinner just met his glare solemnly. Mulder’s jaw clenched and he stalked out of Skinner’s office to head for the basement. He couldn’t believe Skinner’s attitude when the man knew how important Krycek was to him. Let it go? he thought to himself as he descended the stairs rapidly. Yeah, right.

Chapter Text

Scully came down to the office fifteen minutes later. Mulder was sitting in his desk chair and working on something on his computer. When she asked him what he was doing, he snapped at her and said he was working on the Painter case, what else? She sat with a sigh in her own chair.

“You know, Mulder, Krycek, if he is awake and aware enough to go on the run, can take care of himself,” she said.

“No, he can’t. He couldn’t have just walked out of there, Scully. Dr. Boswick and the other doctors consulting on Krycek’s condition were all convinced that his state was permanent. Hell, you saw him! He was so deeply catatonic that he wouldn’t respond to anything and now he’s awake and sane enough to go off by himself? I don’t buy it,” ranted Mulder with a shake of his head. He stared at his computer screen as Scully watched him with a mix of anger and concern. The anger was toward Krycek and how much the murderous rat occupied Mulder’s thoughts and the concern was for her partner. She knew Mulder wouldn’t let this go, despite Skinner’s warning. She was also worried for the two men as significant others. Skinner had used his authority to keep Mulder from immediately traipsing off to find Krycek. She predicted Mulder was going to chafe against such a sanction and that that small rift between him and Skinner might grow into something irreparable. Such a situation was exactly why workplace romances between supervisor and subordinate were forbidden; they caused too much workplace friction. But she put that thought on the back burner for now and concentrated on dealing with the more immediate issue.

“Besides,” Mulder went on, “if he is awake, I can’t imagine him being in any better state of mind after coming out of a month and a half of catatonia than I was coming out of the Hive… dronification facility at the outset. He’s got to be scared, traumatized, have PTSD, the whole nine!” Mulder threw his hand up and stood behind his desk. His hands went to his hips and he looked around, seemingly desperate to plot a course of action even though he’d been denied access to the case of Krycek’s disappearance.

“Mulder, he might not remember his time at the drone facility,” said Scully, trying to placate Mulder by staying calm and reasoning with him, but she could see that her partner was agitated and needed to blow off steam somehow. This was a hell of a first day back at work so far and Mulder had only been there for twenty minutes. “And even if he does remember, he may not have the same reactions you did. Everyone processes trauma differently.”

Mulder leaned forward with his palms flat on his desk and hung his head. Scully watched as he tried to calm his breathing. Was he having a flashback? She didn’t know and she worried for him, that this Krycek thing was going to break him.

Suddenly he moved, walking quickly to the door and grabbing his trench coat. “C’mon, Scully, we’re going to the hospital.”

Scully rose with surprise etched on her face. “Mulder, no. Skinner said…”

“I don’t give a shit what Walter said,” Mulder snapped as he turned to face her, slinging on his coat as he did so. “Are you coming or not?”

“Ellison and Waterhouse can handle it, Mulder,” she said, not backing down.

“No, they can’t. They don’t know Krycek and they don’t know the Syndicate,” countered Mulder. “And I need answers.”

It was this last statement that moved Scully. If her partner wasn’t going to listen to reason and would go to the psychiatric hospital anyway, she wasn’t about to let him go alone. She got up without a word and got her coat, putting it on as they wound their way along the basement hallway and into the elevator. Mulder got on and punched the button for the ground floor. He closed his eyes for a minute as the elevator doors closed and took a deep breath. The trip up was short and he was out of the elevator like a shot, causing Scully to have to dash to keep up with his long strides as he headed for the parking garage.

Some agents and other FBI personnel looked at him askance as he walked by them. Scully knew he was used to funny looks from his coworkers and peers for his work on the X-Files but he wasn’t used to the level of pity she saw in their gazes and wondered briefly how he was processing this new view of him through their eyes. She, too, got some strange, pitying looks but ignored all of them as she followed Mulder into the parking garage and over to his car.

“What’s your plan, Mulder? Ellison and Waterhouse are going to be there. What are you going to tell them?”

Mulder got in the car and unlocked the door for Scully who got in the passenger side. “Ellison and Waterhouse sounds like a goddamned law firm,” grumbled Mulder as he jammed the key in the car ignition and turned it.

“Mulder…” Scully began to chastise him as she put on her seatbelt but he interrupted her.

“I’m going to interview the staff to see if they saw anyone going in and out of Krycek’s room meeting the description of that chain-smoking asshole, that’s what,” said Mulder. “Skinner’s law firm won’t think to do that.”

“Those agents are more than thorough,” protested Scully again as Mulder directed the car out of the garage and onto the street. “They were a great help when we were searching for you and they have a description of the cigarette smoker. I’m sure they’ll interview the staff with the same thoroughness you will. You know this is redundant and we should be back working on the Painter case!” Scully couldn’t contain her exasperation any longer.

“I don’t trust them,” said Mulder.

“What? Mulder, they’re FBI agents! They’re on our side,” she exclaimed noting that Mulder’s foot was a little heavier than it should be on the accelerator.

“Anybody could be on the smoker’s payroll,” muttered Mulder and Scully gaped at him.

“That’s paranoid talk, Mulder,” she admonished. He glanced over at her.

“What’s your point, Scully? Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” said Mulder.

Scully was very concerned now. While Mulder had shown paranoid tendencies in the past, he had usually been justified in his paranoia and didn’t allow it to make him dysfunctional in any way. This time, she thought that his paranoia was way out of the ball park. He had no evidence whatsoever that the two agents Skinner had sent to investigate Krycek’s disappearance were in any way culpable and she told him this as they drove along. All he said in response was, “I have my reasons for being a little paranoid, Scully.” And this she couldn’t deny. The cigarette-smoking man was still out there along with all the other Syndicate members. Maybe Mulder had a point. But to suspect Ellison and Waterhouse, who he’d barely even met previously… something was off. She questioned Mulder on his sudden suspicions and he brushed her questions aside. They were almost at the hospital and his focus was not on their fellow agents but on one missing assassin.

At the front desk of the hospital, Mulder flashed his badge and demanded to speak to Dr. Boswick. He was told she was with a patient but that they would page her. Mulder paced in the waiting area and Scully stood by for him. His thoughts were going in a hundred directions at once. He grew more agitated the longer they waited but finally drew a sigh of relief as Dr. Boswick appeared.

She held out a hand toward Mulder as though to touch his elbow in a friendly manner but didn’t touch him when she saw how worried and high-strung he seemed. “Mulder, what’s wrong?” she asked immediately and glanced at Scully for some kind of clarity. Mulder looked about to speak but seemed suddenly unable to. He put his hand to his forehead and Scully stepped forward to intervene.

“We’re here because we heard about Krycek’s disappearance,” said Scully confidentially. Mulder let a breath out through his nose and Dr. Boswick looked from Scully to him worriedly.

“Yes, Agents Waterhouse and Ellison and I spoke earlier. I’m afraid we’re not sure how he left the building on his own power,” she said and Mulder started nodding before she’d even finished her sentence.

He gesticulated and turned to Scully, saying, “See? He couldn’t have left alone, so someone had to have taken him.”

“All right, Mulder,” said Scully, “we’re going to find out who.” She said this to placate him even though she wasn’t one-hundred percent convinced yet that Krycek hadn’t just woken up and walked out.

“The other agents are going over the hospital security footage now,” said Dr. Boswick. “Perhaps you can talk with them in the security room.”

Mulder shook his head. “No. I want to see Krycek’s room. I want to talk to the staff who were on hand when he disappeared.”

“Mulder,” said Scully, “I know you don’t trust Ellison and Waterhouse, but I do and I know they will give a complete report on their findings. Let’s let them do their job, please?” She put her hand on his arm and looked up at him. Dr. Boswick stood by, watching her patient and his partner. Mulder looked down at Scully then he turned and looked at Dr. Boswick. He had an appointment scheduled with the latter for Thursday.

“I…” he uttered distractedly and gave an aborted shake of his head. “Please just let me go up there, to his room?” he said. Scully and Dr. Boswick shared a look but Scully nodded and Dr. Boswick offered to escort them up. Mulder walked as though in a trance down the hall, into the elevator, and up to the second floor. His feet stopped outside Krycek’s former room and he waited a moment before going inside.

The room, of course, was empty. The bed and accoutrements of Krycek’s stay had not been touched. The blankets were rumpled as though someone had recently vacated it. “Fingerprints,” mumbled Mulder. “Someone should come up and dust for prints.”

“I believe Agent Waterhouse has ordered a forensic team here,” said Dr. Boswick. “The staff has been instructed not to enter the room or touch anything.” Mulder nodded at her words though he seemed in a world of his own. He went over to the bed and hovered a hand over the emptiness of it.

“Did anyone see a tall, older man, graying hair, hazel eyes, clean shaven, reeks of cigarette smoke, has a kind of… kind of cruel, haggard look?” Mulder asked softly, gesturing to his own face.

“I don’t think so, but you’d have to ask the other staff,” answered Dr. Boswick, coming closer to Mulder. He didn’t look at her, only nodded in acknowledgement of her statement. “Is this man you describe suspect in Alex’s disappearance?” she asked. He nodded again, silently. “Mulder,” began Dr. Boswick again and hesitated before going on, “is this suspect the same man you and I have spoken of before? The cigarette-smoking man?” Mulder didn’t move or speak for a minute and then he nodded. “I see,” said Dr. Boswick. She glanced at Scully and Scully picked up on her worried thoughts.

“Dr. Boswick, may I speak to you for a moment?” Scully asked. She turned to Mulder and asked him, “Will you be all right alone here for a minute?” His response was only to nod. Apparently a temporary muteness had set in, which worried her even more, but she had to speak to his doctor for advice before this Krycek thing got out of hand. She and the doctor stepped out into the hall and closed the door to Krycek’s room. Scully turned to Dr. Boswick and stated, “As you can probably tell, I’m worried about my partner. He’s obsessed with finding out what happened to Krycek. He’s not going to rest until he gets answers. He’s only been back on the job for a couple of hours and I’m not sure where all this is headed. And I’m afraid his paranoia surrounding the cigarette smoker is clouding his thoughts about what really happened here.”

Dr. Boswick bobbed her blonde head and her eyes echoed Scully’s concern thoughtfully. “I agree that his focus seems to be misdirected. I understand why. This smoking man is somewhat of a regular boogey man for him, and with reason.”

Scully nodded and looked down. “I know,” she replied softly. “This man has been behind some rather… diabolical plots in Mulder’s past. I just worry that Mulder’s overlooking the obvious explanation in lieu of pointing the finger at a known enemy. I’m not sure how to get through to him and change his mind. I’m also not sure how to get him to let others take the reins on the investigation.”

Dr. Boswick gave Scully a sympathetic look and replied, “It is tempting to want to blame every bad thing that happens on someone who is known to have engaged in criminal activities, especially someone who shares a personal history with the accuser. I can’t say whether Mulder is overlooking the obvious or not. In my opinion, it is highly unlikely, almost impossible, that Alex Krycek walked out of here under his own recognizance but spontaneous waking from a catatonic state does happen. I wish I could give you better answers, for Mulder’s sake and yours.”

Scully nodded her thanks and gave Dr. Boswick a little smile.

“If it makes you feel any better, I can bring this up at my next appointment with him, but he may not wish to talk about it,” added Boswick.

“I understand. Thank you. I’d better go back in there and try to reason with him again. We have another case we need to focus on and he can’t do that if he’s mooning over Krycek,” said Scully.

“You don’t like Krycek, do you?” asked Boswick point blank.

Scully took a deep breath and replied, “No. He killed my sister.”

Dr. Boswick’s eyes widened a fraction but she simply nodded and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” said Scully and reached for the door handle to Krycek’s room, her sleeve pulled down over her hand to avoid leaving prints. She entered while Dr. Boswick stayed out in the hallway. Mulder was more or less in the same spot they had left him, staring down at the empty bed as though he could read in its surface the truth of Krycek’s disappearance. Scully gently called Mulder’s name. “I think it’s time we should go,” she said, coming up beside him.

“What did the doc say?” croaked Mulder.

“She said basically that it is possible that Krycek walked out on his own, though not likely,” said Scully. “But we knew that and Waterhouse and Ellison are going to take care of everything, I promise you.” There was a small flurry out in the hallway and Scully and Mulder turned their heads. The forensic team had arrived and Agent Waterhouse was with them. Mulder charged out into the hall and confronted Waterhouse immediately.

“I want every goddamned surface in this room checked for prints, understand,” said Mulder as though he were talking down to a trainee. “What did you see in the security tapes? Where’s Ellison?”

Waterhouse, a medium-build man of about forty with short brown hair, light brown eyes, and a neat moustache drew himself up and his eyebrows rose. “Agent Mulder, I presume?” he asked.

“And you’re Waterhouse, yeah. Where are you with the security footage?” demanded Mulder again.

Scully came up beside him and touched his arm. He flinched violently and stepped back from her, his hand coming up as though to defend himself. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Everyone in the hall, Dr. Boswick, the forensic team of three technicians, Waterhouse, and Scully froze and watched him with varying degrees of worry and confusion. Finally Mulder took a deep breath, let it out though his mouth, and lowered his hand. He opened his eyes at the same time and took a dazed look around. Waterhouse looked at the lead forensic technician and nodded for him to go in with his team and begin taking prints and looking for other microscopic hair and fiber clues to Krycek’s disappearance.

“Agent Ellison is still working closely with the hospital’s security staff to review the video from last night and this morning. It’s going to take several more hours to go through it all and then we’ll write up a report,” said Waterhouse calmly to the group. His eyes moved from Mulder to Scully to Dr. Boswick and back. “I, uh, wasn’t aware that you and your partner had been assigned to the case,” he added questioningly.

Mulder’s face clouded over with anger and he opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Scully, noting Mulder’s instant animosity toward Waterhouse, interjected that they weren’t officially on the case. “Then what’s your interest?” asked Waterhouse, turning to her rather than facing Mulder who stood fuming silently.

He wasn’t silent for long, though, snapping, “It’s personal,” in response to Waterhouse’s question.

“We were just leaving,” corrected Scully, trying to avert a territorial war between the two male agents. Dr. Boswick watched on, concern for her patient evident on her face.

“Yes, I think that’s a wise idea,” she interjected. “I have other patients I must see to. Mulder, we’ll talk Thursday?”

Mulder, shamed momentarily by Dr. Boswick’s rational voice, nodded, though he didn’t take his eyes off an increasingly uncomfortable Waterhouse. Dr. Boswick gave Scully a look and Scully nodded. The doctor walked away and it was just the three of them left in the hallway. Waterhouse inched closer to Mulder, crowding him, perhaps about to demand why he should let Mulder in on the case. Mulder didn’t back down but Scully could see Mulder was tensing, ready to lash out. She stepped between the two men and looked from one to the other. “Mulder,” she said firmly to her partner, “Let’s go.” Mulder’s jaw clenched.

“I want to know everything you find,” he said in an undertone to Waterhouse. “Everything.”

Waterhouse said nothing, only glared, and Scully had to physically drag Mulder away with a hand on his arm. Once they were halfway to the elevators she let out a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding and said to Mulder, “Did you find any evidence in Krycek’s room?” He rubbed the back of his neck and freed himself from her grip on his arm.

“No,” he murmured tightly. “There’s nothing there.” She nodded solemnly. The journey back to the parking lot was quiet.

“You want me to drive?” she offered. He ignored her and put his hands on top of the car, hanging his head.

“I came all the way over here. I should be in that security room watching those tapes. I…” He slammed his palm on the car with a loud bang. “He has him, Scully! I know it! He’s gonna…”

“You’re talking about the cigarette-smoking man,” she stated. He nodded. “What is it you think he’s going to do to Krycek? Kill him?” She remembered Dr. Boswick’s words about bogeymen.

“No. Worse. He’ll reprogram him. Enslave him. He’ll make it so Krycek’s the perfect little drone again and take advantage of him,” ground Mulder through clenched teeth. He looked up at Scully’s face and said emphatically, “We have to stop him.”

She looked down at the car for a minute and then rounded it to stand by his side. He put his arms down and she cautiously reached out to rub his back. He accepted her touch without jerking or tensing, which was a step up from his earlier reaction in the hallway outside Krycek’s room. “Mulder, I understand your worry about Krycek. But can you understand that a lot of your worry might be you projecting a feared future for yourself?” she asked gently. “Cancerman is not going to just pop out of nowhere and abduct you again.” Mulder inhaled sharply and closed his eyes at that statement. She could see him struggling to get his emotions under control.

“I… I’m not so sure,” he whispered. She didn’t know about the figure he’d seen outside his apartment Saturday morning. He hadn’t told Skinner either, mainly because he hadn’t been sure that it wasn’t his imagination but also because he didn’t want to worry either of his partners or have them think he was too unstable to return to work. Now he was proving that he was on the edge of his ability to maintain objectivity and started to worry that his actions this morning would get him relegated to desk work only or worse. He couldn’t tolerate being on any more forced medical leave, especially given Krycek’s MIA status.

At last, Mulder reached for the car door handle. “Let’s go, Scully,” he said. As he got in the car, Scully took a second to take a deep breath and straighten her suit jacket. She brushed a fallen lock of her hair out of her face and got in the car.

Back at the Hoover, Mulder answered the phone in their office when it rang shortly after they arrived back. He told whoever was on the other end of the line, “Okay, yeah, I’ll be right there,” then hung the phone up with a sigh and scrubbed his face with his hands.

“That was Skinner’s secretary,” said Mulder in answer to Scully’s unasked question. “He wants to see me.”

“Alone?” she asked. He nodded.

“Yeah.”

She looked sympathetically at him and said quietly, “Good luck, Mulder.”

Mulder left the office, his mind whirling, his heart pounding, and his palms sweating. He’d been stupid to go to the psychiatric hospital instead of just putting his nose to the grindstone on the Painter case and now he was in deep shit with his boss and lover. Hell, who knew, maybe they wouldn’t be lovers after this. Lovers? Fuck, they’d barely gotten to the fumbling around in each other’s pants stage. The thought that he’d never get to make love to Skinner because of a disagreement at work hurt Mulder deeply. He entered Kim’s office in trepidation and she told Skinner through the phone that Mulder had arrived. Mulder took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth. Four. Seven. Skinner opened his office door.

“Mulder, come in,” he said and gestured with his hand into his office, his other hand on the doorknob. He didn’t sound angry and it gave Mulder momentary hope until he sat across from Skinner at Skinner’s desk and Skinner told him that he’d gotten a call from Waterhouse. Mulder cringed.

“What did he say, sir?” asked Mulder, hardly daring to look Skinner in the eye.

“He had a complaint,” said Skinner. “He claims you were interfering in his investigation.”

Mulder swallowed and rubbed his palms on his pant legs. His eyes traced all over Skinner’s desk, searching for something to say to excuse his actions. Skinner sat up straight in his chair and said, “I took what Waterhouse said with a grain of salt, trust me. But Fox, I want you to talk to me. I need to know what’s going on in your head or I can’t help.”

Mulder looked up, startled. It wasn’t what he had expected Skinner to say and he floundered, trying to find the right words. Eventually he just shrugged and shook his head, his mouth closed for a moment before uttering, “That could be me. Krycek could be me.”

Skinner let out a long breath and nodded, his serious brown eyes looking at the space between them. He tapped a finger on his desk as he thought while Mulder sat, lost in his own world of what ifs. Finally Skinner pinned his gaze on Mulder and asked, “If, and that’s a big if, if I put you on a task force to find Krycek, will you stand down when I tell you to?”

Mulder wanted to promise to be an obedient FBI agent and tell Skinner that yes, he would stop looking for Krycek when Skinner thought they were finished exploring all possibilities and all avenues of investigation. He wanted to say that he would prioritize the Painter case, an actual X-File, when the hunt for Krycek came to its inevitable dead end because that’s what Skinner was saying here and now, that having more than two people looking for Krycek was a waste of time and man hours, that he wasn’t likely to be found if he had either disappeared on his own or had been taken by the Syndicate. But something in Mulder ached to be the one to find him, to keep looking against all odds and to follow up any lead, no matter how false it ended up being.

“I wish I could promise that, Walter, but I can’t,” said Mulder honestly. He felt a burn around his eyes. This return to work was turning into an emotional rollercoaster for him.

“He’s not your sister, Mulder,” said Skinner softly and Mulder’s heart froze. He rocked a little in his chair and shifted so that his body was angled away from Skinner who had made a direct hit to his psyche with that last statement. “You do not have to feel responsibility for his disappearance any more that you should feel responsibility for Samantha’s. And you don’t need to take up half your life in search of either of them. Mulder,” Skinner paused, his jaw working, “I just don’t want to see this Krycek thing consume you, but I do understand you identify with Krycek in a way nobody else can right now. I’m going to tell Waterhouse and Ellison to send you their reports and keep you informed on all developments regarding Krycek but if I see this negatively affecting your other cases, I’m going to tell you to stop and take a step back and I hope that you’ll listen to me. Do you understand?”

Mulder sniffed. His face had that fullness in its sinuses that heralded a long cry but he refused to allow himself to fall to pieces on his first day back. Instead, he gave Skinner a nod and whispered, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Skinner stood and Mulder followed suit. They stood looking at each other for a full minute before Skinner wordlessly held out his hand and gestured to the door.

“I’ll, um, get back to the Painter case while I wait for word on Krycek,” confirmed Mulder in a low voice. Skinner nodded. Mulder was about to leave when Skinner said his name. He turned and looked. Skinner had his hand forward in invitation for a handshake. Slowly Mulder raised his own right hand and gripped one of the strong hands he’d come to rely on in past months. Skinner squeezed his hand gently and patted his right elbow. It was the closest they could get to an embrace in the hallowed halls of the FBI. Mulder and he shared a longing look and Mulder wanted to kiss Skinner so badly in that moment. He wanted to know if Skinner wanted that too and had the temerity to ask him.

Skinner’s lips curled in a micro-smile and he said in a deeper voice than his usual, “More than you can possibly know. Get back to work, Agent. We’ll talk later.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mulder, his heart lighter. He returned to the basement and let Scully know Skinner’s plan to keep him in the loop on Krycek.

“Well,” she said, “that must make you feel better.”

“Yeah, it does,” he said and offered her a smile.

“Telekinetic powers, Scully. It’s the only explanation,” said Mulder, throwing up another slide of one of the macabre murals done in blood from the Painter case.

“Mulder, it is not the only explanation. The perpetrator must just work incredibly quickly and be incredibly talented, albeit sick-minded. You have no evidence that this is the result of telekinesis,” exclaimed Scully gesturing to the screen. They’d been going on back and forth for days while trying to wrestle with the mystery of who done it. Mulder had also been looking into the symbolism of the murals some more to try and see if there was a clue in their hellish landscapes as to who painted them with no results. Whoever it was seemed to know a shit-ton about medieval and early renaissance art, though. Meanwhile, Scully was taking the less esoteric route by going over any possible connections among the victims and the manner in which they’d died. The Painter happened to also be a stabber and used some long, thin, sharp object to murder his or her victims. The murder weapon had yet to be identified but was postulated to be some kind of long dagger or short sword.

Mulder had been on rocky ground since his return to work. The Krycek thing had him distracted a lot of the time and he took valuable time off the Painter case to go over Waterhouse and Ellison’s reports, disappointed that the forensic team had found nothing of value pointing to who might have taken Krycek. Mulder even went so far as to corner both of them and get the scoop all over again verbally just to confirm that none of the hospital staff had seen anyone entering or leaving Krycek’s room between rounds and the security footage showed nothing. The hospital’s internal cameras didn’t have a very good angle on Krycek’s room. In fact, they barely showed the floor three feet on the other side of the hallway from it. Waterhouse and Ellison had stared at hundreds of feet coming and going on that side of the hallway for hours and seen only identifiable nurses’ or doctors’ feet approaching and leaving Krycek’s room. The external cameras hadn’t shown much either, only several cars that couldn’t be tracked down and identified because the license plates were too blurry in the footage, one of which might have held an escaping or kidnapped Krycek… or not. Again, it was difficult to tell in the grainy night footage whether there was even one or two occupants in the cars driving away from the hospital during the time period in which it was thought Krycek had disappeared.

“I have to see the tapes,” Mulder had declared in Skinner’s office on day three. “They must have missed something.”

“Mulder, that would take hours. Waterhouse and Ellison have already gone over them with a fine-toothed comb. I can’t allow you to waste valuable time re-watching those tapes,” Skinner had said. Mulder had sworn at him and stormed out of his office. Later that night, Mulder had called Skinner at home with an apology.

“I know, Mulder. I understand this is very frustrating for you,” Skinner had said gently. “But you have to understand I need to allocate people’s time where it will be most effective.”

“I-I do know that. I shouldn’t have sworn at you,” Mulder had admitted.

“It’s okay. I’ve been told off before. I’ll live,” Skinner had told him wryly, drawing a much-needed laugh out of his younger lover. “Will I see you Friday night?” They had made a date of sorts for Friday at Skinner’s apartment to catch up over the events of Mulder’s first week back at work and to reaffirm their relationship outside of their workplace roles as AD and agent.

“You mean you don’t see a conflict between our personal lives and me taking orders from you at the office?” Mulder had half teased.

“As long as you don’t hold anything I tell you to do at work against me, no,” Skinner had answered. “You don’t, do you, Fox?”

“No, not really. It’s just hard, you know.” Mulder’s fingers had worked anxiously over one of the throw pillows on his couch. “I want to obey you but then I feel strange, taking orders like… like some drone.” Skinner had sighed and for a moment Mulder had thought Skinner was upset with him. But Skinner’s voice had been full of compassion when he’d next spoken.

“We’ll work it out. You need to keep talking to me, just like this, but I’ll try to make sure we work together instead of against each other on my end. We have the same goals,” Skinner had told him.

“I know,” Mulder had said quietly and his heart had swelled for the man on the other end of the phone.

Now it was Thursday and Mulder was hyper because he had his appointment with Dr. Boswick coming up at three and he was still trying to bust open the Painter case and make an ID on the perp so they could make an arrest before another body dropped and another mural creepily appeared on the victim’s wall. Mulder stared and stared at the slides of the monochromatic murals while Scully studied autopsy lab results of the most recent victim. Mulder leaned in close to the screen and squinted his eyes.

“When’s the last time you went to the optometrist, Mulder?” asked Scully but he didn’t hear her. He was concentrating too hard on a tiny little section of the mural that was blown way up on the slide projector screen. “Hm?” she prodded him again when he didn’t respond. Suddenly he was in motion, dashing to the projector and ripping out the slide. He set it on a light table and grabbed a loupe from a drawer under the table and switched the light on. He hunched over the slide, setting the loupe against the table and his eye against the loupe. “What is it do you think you’ve found?” Scully asked, getting up and going over to stand beside him.

He slowly straightened in his seat. “I don’t know why I didn’t notice before. There’re no brush strokes, Scully.”

“That’s not possible,” she said.

“Have a look,” he moved aside so she could bend and look through the loupe. As she did so he stood and grabbed an art history textbook from a pile on his desk and began flipping through it. “I just proved my point about the telekinesis,” he said as she carefully examined the slide for any indication of brush strokes.

“No,” she corrected him, straightening. “You just proved the perpetrator did his painting without a paintbrush. That doesn’t mean he or she did it via telekinesis. He could have done it with an airbrush.”

“That would have just speckled the blood against the wall and it would have been all drippy instead of having these… these clean lines and intricately precise details. Look at this Scully.” He had the art book open to the page he’d been looking for and pointed at a paragraph and an example photograph above it. “In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, master artists who ran large guilds sometimes employed a primitive printing technique using wood blocks to transfer paint outlines to linen or wood panels as a sort of paint-by-numbers for their apprentices.”

“That’s not telekinesis, Mulder, that’s just using one’s noggin,” Scully said smartly. “But that technique couldn’t be employed by the killer any more than telekinesis could. I mean, they’d have to have the images carved out of wood block or laminate and carry what are essentially huge stamps with them to their next kill. On top of that, there would have to be large, even puddles of still-liquid blood for them to cover the whole surface of the stamp and they would have to apply enough pressure on the stamp after dipping it in the blood after pressing it against the wall and then remove it without smudging which would probably require at least two people given the size of the wall covered by mural. It-It’s impossible.”

“Boo ya!” declared Mulder and slammed the book shut. “I rest my case. The only way the perp could have done it was by telekinesis.”

Scully sighed. She feared, as usual, that her partner wasn’t thinking straight, so eager was he to find answers. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched him lean back in his chair and prop his feet up on the desk. He put his hands behind his head and waggled his eyebrows at her. “How does that help us identify the killer, Mulder? Do we keep an eye out for people in the area exhibiting other telekinetic behaviors while we’re at the next crime scene?”

“Nope.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Scully gestured for him to do so. He put his feet and arms down and leaned across the desk with a grin. “I think it’s time we go see how the printing process is done today,” said Mulder and she let out a scoff.

“You have no idea who it is, do you?”

“Not a clue,” said Mulder, rising and grabbing his suit jacket.

“This is a fool’s errand, you know. It’s not like the perp carried a printing press in his or her back pocket. That’s even more absurd than the other theory about the block print,” she said as she rushed to catch up to him. He stabbed the elevator button and when it responded too slowly he made for the stairs.

“Someone who understands the basic concept of the process is going to be our killer, Scully, I know it,” said Mulder.

“But that could be hundreds of people,” she panted as she emerged with him from the stairwell and they hurried to the parking garage. “Journalists, editors, artists, art teachers, graphic designers, writers…”

“But not all of them have a connection to one of our victims,” said Mulder as he unlocked the doors to his car and they both hopped in.

“What connection, Mulder? I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark,” she grumbled as she put her seatbelt on, though she was secretly pleased that Mulder was hyperactively on the scent of the Painter killer. She hadn’t seen him this animated in a long time.

“Remember, Scully, vic number one worked at a printing press,” said Mulder with vindication as he peeled out of the parking garage and headed for the highway out of DC and into Virginia. “We just have to narrow it down to the right employee and we’ll be golden.”

“And how are you going to prove it in court?” mumbled Scully under her breath. She had no doubt Mulder would find a way, however.

A few miles outside of town, Mulder’s mood abruptly changed. He kept glancing in his rear- and side-view mirrors and his formerly cheerful demeanor turned grim. “What’s the matter?” she asked him after a couple of miles of him acting suspicious and frowning.

“We’ve got a tail,” said Mulder.

“What?” she asked. “Who would be tailing us?”

Mulder glanced over at her and asked, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, Mulder, I am not kidding.” She checked the side-view mirror on her side and couldn’t get a good angle so she started to turn to look over her shoulder but Mulder hissed at her to not look back. “Mulder, there can’t be anyone following us. They would have had to have been waiting in the parking garage the whole time we’ve been at work. They wouldn’t have known when we would be leaving.”

“When I was leaving,” corrected Mulder and changed lanes without signaling. Someone blared their horn at him and he ignored them. Scully gripped the dashboard and snuck a look over her shoulder in time to see a nondescript silver sedan change lanes into theirs. She turned around to face front and swallowed.

“Who do you think it is?” she asked quietly.

“I’m hoping it’s Krycek, but I can’t know for sure until I see the driver up close,” said Mulder. Then in a tenser tone he added, “It might be the Syndicate keeping tabs on me.”

Scully wondered what to do. On the one hand, if it wasn’t a tail and Mulder was just being paranoid, then she was seriously starting to worry again about his mental health. On the other hand, if they did have a tail, they were going to have to do something about it. She began to pull her cell phone from her purse in the foot well but his hand stopped her.

“Don’t. I need to know if it’s Krycek,” said Mulder.

She stared at him. “If it is Krycek, we need to stop him and bring him in and if it isn’t Krycek, we still need to find out who it is and why they’re tailing us… you. That’s why I was going to call for backup.”

Mulder imbued his next glance at her with as much determination as he could and let go of her arm. “Please, Scully,” he begged, “let’s just… give it a few more miles.” He looked in the rear-view again and saw that the silver sedan was still behind them. He let out a breath.

Scully sat up and gave Mulder a quick nod and the car behind them a quick glance. Then she looked out the windshield and silently prayed.

Mulder, his heart thudding wildly, changed lanes again, employing some defensive driving skills. More horns blared. A glance in the rear mirror confirmed the sedan was still with them a few cars back. Mulder’s lips pursed as he let out another short burst of air.

“Mulder, pull over and let me drive. You’re going to get us killed this way,” said Scully anxiously. He tittered a nervous laugh at her.

“Seriously, Scully? Your driving’s about as good as my grandma’s was, after the stroke.”

Scully was about to raise her voice and tell him to watch it or she’d tell Skinner he was driving recklessly but thought that threat wouldn’t hold much water. Just then he yanked the wheel to the right and aimed down an off ramp, only decelerating near the bottom where the traffic was backed up. “Shit,” cursed Mulder and Scully assumed the sedan was right behind them but when she turned to look she didn’t see it. “Shit!” cried Mulder again and slammed his hand on the steering wheel as he brought the car to a stop amid the others waiting for the light at the end of the ramp to turn green. “It’s not him. It’s not… fuck.” Mulder’s chest heaved and he had to roll down his window and get a gulp of fresh air.

“If we lost him, that means it isn’t anyone from the Syndicate either, Mulder. Try to relax,” said Scully soothingly. Just to be sure they hadn’t missed the sedan, once the traffic started rolling again, Scully checked out the back windshield and didn’t see any sign of it. Mulder morosely drove through the light and followed signs to the next on ramp to get back on the highway in the same direction they’d been headed. They drove in silence for a while, each checking the mirrors every now and then for any sign of the sedan. Several silver cars passed them but none displayed the earlier stalking behavior that had gotten Mulder so agitated and so hopeful all at once.

Mulder drove safely the rest of the way to the printing press where the first victim, Macy Atwater, had worked. The press was small with only a local distribution for town newspapers, advertizing booklets, and church bulletins. Macy had been a newcomer to the press group and while her co-workers mainly had good things to say about her, some had indicated she was kind of a trouble-maker, or at least it seemed like she was cast in that light by some of the more senior employees that also worked at the press. Mulder had missed out on much of the initial legwork on the case due to his being on leave but wanted to personally question the employees again. On the way, Scully tried to assure him that everyone had been thoroughly interviewed already.

“I know, Scully,” he said as they got out of the car and walked toward the front door of the press building. “But now we know we’re close and I think a second visit from the FBI might spook our killer into a confession.”

Mulder had been right. One of the press operators, a Harold Steinberger, saw Mulder and Scully flash their badges to his supervisor in the printing room and was off like a shot. After a long chase through the press building, out the back door, and across a deserted lot behind the building, Harold’s lungs gave out and he gave up. He submitted to being handcuffed and questioned and admitted to killing Macy Atwater.

“What about the others?” asked Scully.

Steinberger looked at her and sneered. “They were just like Macy: young, uncultured, crass, and woefully disrespectful of their elders’ knowledge and experience.” Each victim, he explained, had wronged him through their ignorance, insulting him and putting him down as a blue-collar drudge working for a third-rate, local-yokel press. One victim had gone to the same church Steinberger attended and had once called him stupid. Another victim knew him through his second, part-time job delivering papers in their neighborhood and had railed at him for throwing the papers in the wrong place on their property a couple of times, calling him a high-school reject. And, of course, Macy had known him through their work at the printing press where she’d talked down to him regularly like he was dirt under her shoe even though he knew more about the printing process than almost anyone at the press.

“The murals, Harold, explain those to me,” Mulder prompted.

Steinberger smirked. “All scenes from my own, personal hell. I’m going there, you see, when I die, or so says my pastor.”

Mulder and Scully shared a glance. Steinberger went on. “Each scene depicts a special torment I’ve come up with, eternal torture for my sins. I took inspiration from the great masters of medieval art. I studied them, you know.” His eyes gleamed and he shivered. “All I needed to do to earn my place was to commit a few crimes so heinous that they could not be forgiven.”

“How did the murals get on the walls?” Mulder pressed. Steinberger tilted his head and smiled.

“I think I’d like to speak to a lawyer now,” he said silkily and Mulder huffed, turning to Scully. She raised her eyebrows.

“Let’s bring him in,” said Scully.

It was a long process, bringing Steinberger in, booking him, and getting back to their cozy basement office. Mulder stretched and cracked his back. He was stiff from driving and from his off-and-on tension from thinking someone was following him and he still had to sit at a desk and write up a full report to close the Steinberger nee Painter case. Mulder checked his watch and groaned.

“What’s the matter, Mulder?” asked Scully, pausing typing on her laptop.

“I missed my goddamn appointment with Dr. Boswick,” said Mulder and picked up the phone.

“Oh,” said Scully while he dialed the psychiatric hospital.

“Hello, may I please speak with Dr. Boswick. This is Fox Mulder,” said Mulder into the phone. He waited. He was a good ten minutes on hold before Dr. Boswick came on the other end of the line. Mulder apologized profusely for missing his appointment, explained what had happened, and asked if they could reschedule.

“Of course, Mulder,” said Dr. Boswick. “I’m glad to hear you closed a case. That must feel good.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” said Mulder. Steinberger still hadn’t fessed up as to how he put the hellish murals on the walls of his victims’ homes after further questioning and this put Mulder out. Without that information, there was no verification for Mulder’s telekinesis theory. Nevertheless, they had stopped a killer. Steinberger had told them where they could find the murder weapon and what it was, a fifteenth-century stiletto dagger he had purchased at an antique auction several years ago. He’d expounded on the simplicity and beauty of the weapon and how the Renaissance-era Venetians had used similar for assassinations. Steinberger’s state-appointed lawyer had seemed both ruffled and bored by his client’s goings on. Steinberger seemed to make a point of rubbing his self-education in people’s faces.

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” commented Dr. Boswick.

“No, I’m happy. It’s just…” Mulder paused and glanced over at his partner who was politely trying not to listen in on his conversation. But the office was small and there was no way she could block his discussion with Boswick out. “Uh, s-something else happened today that shook me a little,” said Mulder quietly.

“Ah. Would you care to talk about it? I have fifteen minutes before my next appointment,” offered Dr. Boswick.

“I’d, ah, rather talk about it when I see you, if it’s all the same.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, Mulder,” said Dr. Boswick and she didn’t sound at all insulted that he didn’t want to talk over the phone. “I hope the rest of your first week back goes well.”

“Thank you,” said Mulder. They hung up and Mulder sat back, fiddling with the pencils on his desk.

Scully looked up from her typing and said, “You could have asked me to leave the room. I wouldn’t mind. You wanted to talk to her about the driver you thought was tailing us today.”

Mulder nodded. Scully smiled gently. “No one’s following you, Mulder, but I understand your worry.”

Mulder sighed and pushed the pencils away from himself and then back to the edge of the desk. “It’s hard to not be looking over my shoulder all the time,” he said.

“It will get better.”

“I know.”

It was late by the time Mulder got home and fed his hungry fish. He had left his report on Steinberger in Skinner’s secretary’s in box with the intent of going over it in the morning with the man himself. Skinner had already left for the night by the time the report landed in Kim’s tray. Mulder had stared wistfully into Skinner’s darkened office for a moment before leaving. On the way home, Mulder had compulsively checked his car mirrors for any sign of a tail and had nearly frozen in fear a couple of times when a car or two happened to be going the same way as he was for several miles. But there was no tail and Mulder had heaved a sigh of relief as he parked his car in the otherwise quiet lot outside his apartment.

His fish swam up to nibble with gaping mouths at the flake food. Mulder watched them swim for a moment and then turned off their tank light and got ready for bed.

Good drone. Obey. Drones are submissive. Submit. A done is silent. Good drone. Obedience is pleasure. A hand gripped his null bulge, contracting around the tubes and feeling him up through the heavy layers of bio-latex. He found it impossible to not thrust into the stimulation. A noise kept ringing through his head like the persistent sound of some high-pitched electronic device. Words told him he must obey. His eyes were open and focused on a screen only inches from his face. Trembling, he inhaled and smelled something sweet. He inhaled again, unable to get enough of the delicious scent. The hand groping him continued to manipulate his bulge. The screen showed him rapid-fire images of men in slick, black bio-latex getting fucked by other men who were sometimes naked, sometimes partly dressed, and sometimes fully dressed except for the part necessary to fuck their submissive partner. He groaned and pressed into the hand touching his null bulge, unable to look away from the stream of pictures. He was unaware that the pictures were embedded with subliminal messages for obedience and submission but he felt certain that he was meant to service whoever was groping him.

Suddenly he was put on his hands and knees and opened up by the same hand that had cupped his straining bulge. He pushed back on the fingers sinking into his hole with a stifled moan. A drone is silent. The fingers worked him for a few seconds and then a cock pressed in to replace them, a huge cock, one that nearly tore him in two. Submit. He loved the cock. He milked it with his aching muscles and welcomed the discomfort of entry. The cock pumped harder and faster than was humanly possible as hands gripped him by the hips. Inhale. Sweetness. It smelled so good. Rock back. Fullness. That felt so good.

Then the cock was gone only for him to be placed on his back and his null bulge groped again before his legs were pushed to his shoulders and he was bent double to re-receive the man who fucked him. He could hear the man’s grunts and moans over the program running through his head. The slide of the man’s cock in and out of his anus made him writhe in pleasure. The images on his mask bombarded him with positive reinforcement. He felt an orgasm building. He tried to see out his mask, beyond the flashing images, to the face of the man who was taking pleasure from reaming him. The features were shadowed, obscured by the visuals. A drone is obedient. A drone does not question. Obey. More sounds and sights of drones providing pleasure. A rapid, pulsing vibration from the electro-stimulators in and around his groin. Fingers working the straps around his head and loosening his face mask. Inhale deeply that chemical bliss before it’s lost. Slick, heavy pressure against his prostate. Arousal pooling. His mask coming off. The man between his legs. Walter!

Mulder nearly fell off the couch as he shocked himself awake from the dream. “Fuck!” he gritted and palmed the nearly painful erection between his legs. He groaned and lay there, panting and trying to get his shit together. “It was just a dream. It was just a dream,” he chanted to himself, his eyes closed tight. He bit his bottom lip and willed his erection to go down but it was no use. The images from his dream turned him on. “Sick,” he muttered even as he snuck his hand down his pajama bottoms and wrapped his hand around his cock. “Sick. Sick. Sick,” he said as he stroked and came with a whine of frustration and denial. Why the hell was it that he could only get off when he pictured himself as a drone? He’d gotten it up with Skinner once without bio-latex and null equipment entering into the equation but he seemed to have backslid lately. Was it stress? He berated himself for indulging his perverted, twisted fantasy and got up to go clean the filth from himself in the bathroom.

It was early. The sun hadn’t yet come up. But Mulder was wide awake now and decided a shower would be better than just swabbing off the cum from his belly. He stripped and got under the hot spray. He thought, not for the first time, about telling Dr. Boswick his little problem but a blush of shame covered his cheeks when he pictured her round, pleasant face listening to the details of his sex life, such as it was. Mulder decided he had enough to talk about with the whole paranoia thing and turned off the water. He brightened a bit when he thought of seeing Skinner later at work and also seeing him at home for their little date. But then he thought about the dream and what Skinner would say about it if Mulder told him. Mulder shook his head as he dried himself with a towel. He would hide that part of himself from Skinner forever. He didn’t want his lover to think he was a freak.

He looked in the mirror over the sink after wrapping the towel around his waist and contemplated shaving versus moping about his situation. Moping won. He could always grow a beard. He fingered the stubble on his face. The dronification facility personnel had shaved every hair from his body before encasing him in the bio-latex. He’d been a month and a half in that suit and not had to have been re-depilated. There must be something about the bio-latex that suppressed hair and nail growth. Had the bio-latex been developed using stolen or recovered alien technology? Mulder stared into his own eyes in the mirror and breathed, picturing himself back in that deliciously tight suit. He could almost feel the black liquid adhering to his skin and fusing with his pores. He looked away quickly. It wouldn’t do his sense of self-worth any good to induce another erection at the moment. He forced himself to go get dressed and get some breakfast even though he didn’t feel much like eating.

“Nice work on the Painter case, you two,” said Skinner as he signed off on their final report with a flourish and capped his pen.

Mulder flushed, feeling the praise like a lover’s warm breath against his neck. Scully wore a pleased smile of her own and thanked Skinner demurely.

Skinner slid the report across his desk for them to put back in the X-File cabinets downstairs and looked at Mulder. “One thing I don’t understand is how Steinberger got those murals onto the walls of the victims’ homes,” Skinner said.

“I have a theory but I couldn’t get confirmation,” said Mulder hesitantly. “I don’t think you want to hear it.”

Skinner’s eyes softened. “Officially, maybe it’s better if I don’t,” he teased. “Unofficially, I’d love to hear more about it tonight when you come over.” Mulder smiled and his blush deepened. Scully cleared her throat and Skinner coughed into his hand, sitting up a little straighter. “Sorry, Agents, that was inappropriate,” muttered Skinner. Mulder had told him over the phone one night that Scully knew about their relationship and Skinner found himself being more open about it when it was just the three of them in the room.

“Any word on finding Krycek, sir?” asked Mulder hopefully, switching gears after giving Skinner a nod. Now that the Painter case was over, he could concentrate on finding the missing triple agent. Skinner pinned him with a look and glanced at Scully who seemed somewhat abashed. Mulder tried reading their expressions and asked, “What? Is there something going on I should know about?”

“Dana, will you excuse us?” Skinner said. Mulder leaned back in his seat and watched as his partner nodded, got up, and walked out of Skinner’s office. Then his head rotated to face Skinner again.

“What’s this about?” he demanded. “Has The Law Firm found Krycek?”

Skinner was silent a moment, his mouth twitching minutely at Mulder’s epithet for Agents Waterhouse and Ellison, and then he said, “No. I’m afraid not.”

“Why’d you ask Scully to leave then?”

“Because she informed me what happened yesterday on the way to apprehend Steinberger,” said Skinner solemnly. Mulder’s heart sank. His two companions were talking behind his back. He looked abashedly at his lap for a second and then he turned his embarrassment outward and glared at his lover. “Yeah, so what?” he demanded. Skinner wasn’t fazed. “I’m worried that your paranoia is going to interfere with your ability to do your job. More importantly, I’m worried about you,” he said, quickly raising a hand to stymie a protest from Mulder. “You also missed your appointment with Dr. Boswick.”

“Yes I missed my damn appointment with Dr. Boswick!” exclaimed Mulder. “I was going after Steinberger. It wasn’t like I could just drop the case in the middle and drive back to DC to have a friendly chat!”

“I understand that but I think it’s vital that you keep going to see her and talking to her. Scully said you thought you were being followed by Krycek. Is that true?”

“Yes, or someone from the Syndicate. I didn’t know who.”

“But it turned out to be nothing.”

Mulder grimaced and put a hand over his mouth, crossing his legs defensively. Eventually, after a long staring contest with Skinner, he nodded. “Right, it was nothing,” he admitted quietly, ashamed that he hadn’t told Skinner himself and thus forced his partner to rat him out. He was still angry with her for doing so, though.

“Krycek is most likely dust in the wind by now, one way or another,” reasoned Skinner. “Waterhouse and Ellison are working with DC police. They’ve put out an APB for Krycek but there’ve been no sightings yet.” Mulder nodded silently and nibbled on his thumbnail. “We’ve got a couple of cases in Baltimore that need our attention now. Are you going to be able to focus on them?”

Mulder thought about it. He’d been intending to go on a Krycek hunt. There was one person he could call that might know where Krycek had gone or been taken but it was a long shot and he really didn’t want to engage with her if he didn’t have to. She reminded him too much of the Syndicate members: cold, ruthless, secretive, menacing. It was a particular feeling the thought of her evoked in him. He didn’t trust or feel comfortable around her even though he hadn’t been forced to have sex with any women during his time as a drone and all the other drones he’d seen in and out of the tank room had been male. Had there been a reason for this? He didn’t know.

“Mulder?” Mulder flinched at the sound of Skinner’s voice and let out a breath. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

“Sorry, I was just thinking,” murmured Mulder. Finally, he put his hand down on the arm of the chair and glanced at Skinner. “Yeah, I’ll be able to focus.”

“And you’re going to talk to Dr. Boswick soon about the whole paranoia thing?”

Mulder looked up at Skinner sharply but then read the look of worry in Skinner’s eyes and tempered his immediate defensive reaction. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her eventually. I still haven’t set up a new appointment.”

“See that you do,” said Skinner gently and then added, “I’m looking forward to tonight. We can put aside work and just relax. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mulder. Skinner handed him two sheaves of paper.

“The Baltimore cases. There are some inexplicable facts in each that require your and your partner’s expertise,” said Skinner. Mulder couldn’t help smiling at that. He took the files.

In a rough voice, Mulder said, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Mulder.”

Out in the hall, Mulder flipped open the top pages of the two cases Skinner had handed him. He began to skim the reports as he walked, barely aware of his surroundings. Other agents and personnel bustled by him, avoiding his meandering track toward the elevators at the end of the hall. He happened to glance up once about halfway there and saw a familiar silhouette disappear around a corner and down another corridor. He froze mid-step and all the blood drained from his limbs. A thunderous noise began in his ears like a great rushing and his chest hurt with how fast his heart started to beat. The case reports fell from his suddenly numb fingertips and he staggered back against the wall, hands on his knees for support.

A couple of people stopped walking, turned to see he was beginning to hyperventilate, and rushed to his aid. One asked if he was all right and it sounded to him like they were talking at him down a long tube. Another’s lips moved in slow motion as they asked if he needed medical assistance but again, the sound was off behind the ringing in Mulder’s ears. A third called out for someone to call a medical team to come up to the fifth floor. With other people starting to crowd around, Mulder felt claustrophobic. His vision narrowed and he tried taking great gulps of air but he felt like he couldn’t breathe. His eyes pinged around wildly, looking for the man who had caused his panic attack.

Someone touched his arm and that was it. He lashed out, thrusting them away with both hands and a terrified scream.

Back in his office, Skinner heard the scream and came rushing out to see Mulder grappling with another agent. He dashed down the hall to the commotion and broke Mulder away from the agent with one hand on either man’s chest. Mulder let out another frightened bleat and hit at Skinner. Skinner blocked his arms.

“Mulder!” Skinner shouted. “Mulder, calm down! It’s me!” Mulder backed away from him, still on the defense.

“He was here!” gasped Mulder. “Cigarette man. He went that way down the hall!” He flailed, pointing in the direction he’d seen the shadow moving away from him.

The crowd around him had enlarged but Skinner ignored all but one person and murmured to that agent to go down the hallway Mulder indicated and look for a man bearing the description of the cigarette smoker. Then he turned to Mulder who was leaning against the wall and shaking like a leaf. Gently, he reached out and with calming words managed to guide Mulder back to his outer office where he loosened Mulder’s tie, instructed his secretary to get Mulder a cold glass of water, and made Mulder lie down on the short sofa on one side of the room. Mulder tossed his head this way and that, muttering about the smoker and how he had come to take him back to the Hive.

“Call Agent Scully,” Skinner said to Kim as she handed him the cup of water. She nodded and went to her phone to do as he asked while he helped Mulder sit up and sip some of the water. The cold liquid felt good to Mulder but he was still hyperaware of his surroundings and tense with fear.

There was more bustle out in the hallway. Scully arrived, paramedics right on her heels. Mulder sat a little straighter and handed the half-empty cup to Skinner, shaking his head.

“No, no medics. I’m fine,” said Mulder, trying to wave them all away.

“You are not fine,” said Skinner firmly. “At least let them give you the once-over.” Skinner waved the paramedics close to the couch and they got a blood-pressure cuff on Mulder and listened to his heartbeat with a stethoscope. They asked a couple of questions like if he was in any pain and if he could take a deep breath for them and if he could count and track some fingers one of them held up. Mulder complied, mumbling his answers, while Skinner quickly briefed Scully on what had happened. “Can you go check and see what happened to Agent Swanson? I sent him to check the hallway for Cancerman,” said Skinner under his breath to her. She nodded and, seeing that her partner was in good hands, went to do as Skinner had bid her. Meanwhile Skinner hovered over Mulder and the paramedics. One of them turned to him and said that they thought it might only be a panic attack but that they should transport Mulder to the hospital for testing just to be safe.

“No hospitals,” moaned Mulder emphatically and put his head in his hands. His breathing was still a little rapid but he seemed to be calming down.

Skinner knelt by Mulder and put a hand on Mulder’s knee. “Mulder, are you sure?” Skinner asked in a worried undertone. Mulder lowered his hands and one of them found Skinner’s and squeezed it briefly. After a moment he took a deep breath and let it out with a nod. He looked Skinner in the eye and Skinner answered his nod. Skinner turned to the paramedics and said that he would keep an eye on Mulder and make sure he got to a hospital if there were any other signs of distress. They packed up their gear and left the outer office. Scully returned and Skinner raised an eyebrow at her. She shook her head and straightened her pencil skirt, then sat next to Mulder on the couch.

“I’m fine, Scully. I just had a scare,” muttered Mulder.

“I know,” she said and brushed her fingers over his hair which was finally getting long enough on top to style. Skinner stood by with his hands on his hips. It seemed neither he nor Scully knew quite what to do for Mulder.

Suddenly, Mulder looked up at Skinner and said, “It was him. I know it was him. I… At least I thought it was.” He hugged himself tightly. “I don’t want him to take me back. He can’t take me back.” This last he whispered and Scully and Skinner exchanged worried looks.

“Fox, I want you to take the rest of the day off. Go home. Get some rest. We can talk more about your work schedule tonight,” said Skinner and Mulder stood up to protest.

“No, Walter, please. Home’s the last place I want to be. I need to be working. I need to have something to take my mind off… off…” He swallowed and looked away.

Skinner weighed the pros and cons of allowing Mulder to stay on the clock. On the one hand, Mulder’s PTSD could be triggered at any moment and he could have another severe panic attack, next time requiring hospitalization. On the other hand, without some kind of stimulation to keep Mulder’s mind occupied, he feared that Mulder would dive into depression and withdraw into himself. Skinner rubbed his bald head and gave a short sigh. “All right, but no field work for now. Understood?”

Mulder nodded. Scully fussed and helped him straighten his clothes. “I’ll make sure he stays put,” said Scully in a low voice that sounded more concerned than chastising. She looked up at her partner and saw his far-away expression.

“The agent I pushed. I should probably apologize,” muttered Mulder.

“I’ll deal with him,” said Skinner. “Take the Baltimore cases. See if you can make any headway.”

Once Mulder was ready, he let Scully escort him down the hallway. Everything had returned to business as usual and the hall was quiet except for a few people going about their business and moving from hall to office or office to elevator. A couple of them gave Mulder a glance but no one said anything. Someone had kindly stacked the case reports Mulder had dropped and set them on a chair outside one of the offices. Mulder picked them up slowly, then he glanced down the long corridor that intersected the one he and Scully stood in. There was no sign of the cigarette-smoking man. Mulder let out a breath. Someone was following him. He was fairly certain now and he was determined to find out who, but he needed to get his shit together and not let his emotions get the better of him again.

“C’mon Scully, let’s go,” he muttered and headed toward the elevators. She followed by his side, a reassuring and calming presence.

Skinner came down to the basement around six-thirty. Scully had gone home a half hour prior and Mulder still had his nose buried in the two new Baltimore cases. Skinner stood in the doorway with his briefcase in one hand, watching Mulder for a minute, and a smile curled up one side of his mouth. “Solved them yet?” he teased and Mulder jumped. “Sorry,” apologized Skinner. He kicked himself for not realizing Mulder would be on the defense after what had happened earlier in the hallway upstairs.

“It’s okay,” said Mulder. “And no, I haven’t solved them, but I do have some theories.” His eyes shone with that familiar enthusiasm and Skinner was very glad to see it. It vindicated his decision to let Mulder stay at work. He stepped closer and put his free hand in his trouser pocket.

“You want to follow my car or ride with me?” he asked Mulder.

“Ah, follow. I can’t stay the night,” said Mulder. Skinner raised an eyebrow at that and Mulder explained. “I managed to reschedule with Dr. Boswick but it’s at seven a.m. tomorrow. She doesn’t normally see outpatients on Saturdays but made an exception for me if I agreed to the ungodly hour.”

“Ah,” grunted Skinner. He watched Mulder gather some papers and shove them in a briefcase and then Mulder picked up his suit jacket, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed the briefcase, and nodded for Skinner to lead the way out of the basement. Skinner turned and did so. They stood side-by-side in the elevator and Mulder snuck glances at Skinner. “What?” drawled Skinner as the elevator doors dinged and they stepped off.

“Thank you for helping me today,” Mulder answered quietly. “This hasn’t been easy for me, coming back.” Skinner acknowledged his thanks with a fond, “You’re welcome.”

They walked down the corridor and out into the parking garage. Many of the FBI’s support personnel had already left for the day and there weren’t many cars remaining on that level. Skinner stepped closer to Mulder, stopping in the middle of the garage. He looked around and put a hand on Mulder’s arm. “I’m glad you’re coming over,” said Skinner and Mulder blushed, smiling a bit.

“Me too.”

“See you there,” murmured Skinner and had to drag his hand down so it didn’t rise and caress Mulder’s face.

They parted to their own vehicles. Skinner got in his and drove to the exit, idling out of the way of a couple other drivers to wait for Mulder. When he saw Mulder’s vehicle in his rear view, he pulled out and led the way to his apartment in Crystal City. He obtained a guest pass for Mulder’s vehicle from the parking garage attendant and parked in his numbered spot on the second level. Mulder took a nearby visitor’s spot and stuck the pass in his windshield.

“I hope you’re gonna leave those case files in the car,” said Skinner wryly, coming over to Mulder’s vehicle on foot, his own briefcase in hand. Mulder was already half out of the driver’s seat. He’d slung off his tie and left it on the rear seat of his car along with his suit jacket. Skinner couldn’t help giving him the once-over as Mulder unfolded himself completely from the driver’s seat and closed and locked his vehicle behind him.

Truth was, Mulder had seen some pretty interesting anomalies in the two new X-Files and was chomping at the bit to start solving them. It wasn’t every day that he and Scully had simultaneous X-Files to work on. But he acknowledged to himself that he needed a break. He’d had a rough afternoon and was still wired from seeing Cancerman, or at least his likeness, in the halls of the Hoover’s fifth floor. He took a deep breath and sighed and gave Skinner a content look. “Case files stay there until I get home. I promise,” said Mulder, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the briefcase in the passenger seat.

“Come on up, then. I already prepared dinner,” said Skinner. Mulder’s face scrunched in confusion and Skinner chuckled. “You’ll see,” he said mysteriously and put his hand under Mulder’s elbow to guide him to the elevator.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Mulder turned to face Skinner in the small enclosure and pulled him into a long, thorough kiss. Skinner put his empty hand carefully across the center of Mulder’s back and drew him closer. Their breaths mingled and Mulder couldn’t help nudging Skinner’s five o’clock shadow with the tip of his nose. Skinner let out a soft appreciative noise.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since breakfast,” whispered Mulder and pecked Skinner’s lips again.

Skinner cleared his throat as the elevator doors opened on his floor and the two men reluctantly separated so they could cross the hall to Skinner’s apartment. Once inside, Mulder smelled something heavenly delicious. “Oh my God, what is that? Is that chili?” he asked as Skinner set down his briefcase and hung up his coat. “It smells amazing!” Mulder sniffed his way toward Skinner’s kitchen but Skinner prevented him from achieving his goal by wrapping two big arms around his tummy with a growl and hugging him snugly while kissing and nibbling under his ear. Mulder giggled and tried to pry Skinner off him but it was no use; he was trapped. A good trapped, though, not trapped in the reeducation chair for intense, mind-wiping programming or under the punishing hands of one of the Syndicate members as they held him down and fucked him. Mulder sucked in a breath and tensed as the initially good feeling was tainted in his thoughts by the instant comparison his brain drew. His trauma wouldn’t leave him alone for one goddamned minute apparently. Skinner let go and apologized the moment Mulder went rigid in his arms. Mulder turned to him and negated his apology with a shake of his head. He took up Skinner’s left hand and kissed the back of it. “No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry.” Mulder forced himself to relax.

“Mulder, I…” Skinner’s mouth worked but finally, instead of speaking, he just leaned in and kissed Mulder tenderly on the lips. “It is chili. Slow cooked in my crock pot. I hope you’re hungry. It’s, uh, Sharon’s recipe.” Mulder saw a little blush come over Skinner’s face and wondered what it was about.

“Oh,” said Mulder softly. “You never talk about your wife,” he added. It was a statement but there was a question behind it. Skinner’s brown eyes considered his.

“It’s been a couple of years but it doesn’t seem to get much easier,” said Skinner, alluding to talking about his estranged wife’s passing. “First six months or so was the worst.”

“Did she know?” Mulder asked curiously and knew that Skinner knew what he meant. Skinner looked at their joined hands briefly and nodded his head then looked back into Mulder’s eyes.

“I think so. I think it was part of the reason she wanted the divorce in the first place,” replied Skinner.

“I’m sorry,” said Mulder again. He remembered his brief encounter with Sharon before her death and how she’d pointedly told him that Skinner talked about him at home. He hadn’t put two and two together at the time but now her reason for bringing it up was obvious. He felt guilty all of a sudden that he’d caused, or at least not helped, that rift. It seemed like all he did these days was either thank Skinner for saving him yet again or say he was sorry. Skinner surprised him by laughing softly and caressing his face.

“Don’t be. Shall we eat? I made corn bread last night to go with.” Mulder groaned. How had he ended up with such an amazing significant other?

“That sounds perfect,” he smiled, his concerns banished by the prospect of sharing good food with the man he loved, and followed Skinner into the kitchen.

Mulder applied a little pressure to the two strips of masking tape on his window and then aimed his lamp at the resultant X. He hadn’t had an informant in quite some time aside from that slinky bitch, Marita Covarrubias, and to his knowledge she was not privy to his bat signal. It was difficult for him to picture her creeping around the skeevier parts of the DC area in the middle of the night just to pass on a little info. He didn’t think he could fully trust her anyway, even though she had helped him get to Tunguska. He only crossed his fingers that he still had friends somewhere within the defense department and waited. It was Saturday night and he’d had a nice beginning to his weekend by spending a tasty hour Friday eating chili and washing the dishes in Skinner’s kitchen with the big man and then another several tasty hours on Skinner’s couch before prying himself reluctantly from Skinner’s arms. They were still no closer to engaging in penetrative sex of any sort but Mulder had gotten half hard from Skinner’s careful and tentative explorations and he had managed to give Skinner a halfway decent hand job by keeping his eyes on the big man’s and not watching his hand run up and down Skinner’s warm, velvety rod. At one point in the proceedings, Mulder had closed his eyes with the intent to just let himself feel what Skinner was doing to his body but an echo of the program rang in his skull and he had to shake his head and open his eyes again to banish it. He didn’t want his dysfunction to come between him and Skinner, even if he knew it would make him wholly hard. Besides, with his eyes closed, he’d nearly conflated Skinner’s touch with another’s, and that he most definitely did not want under any circumstances.

The following morning, Mulder had pulled himself off the couch, gotten dressed, sucked down a mug of dark roast, and had driven himself to see Dr. Boswick with one eye still on his car mirrors, just in case. Their conversation, in his mind, had been routine but not bad until he had brought up the issue of his paranoia.

“I thought it would be getting better as I expanded my ‘comfort zone’ and everything,” he had commented. “But it just seems to be getting worse and worse. I keep thinking I see people following me or watching me. It’s really unnerving.”

“But you’ve confirmed with others that each time there’s been no one there?” Dr. Boswick had asked.

Mulder had nodded slowly but then had changed his mind and said, “Well I thought I saw someone standing outside my apartment building once and I didn’t tell anyone but the other two times, yeah, there was no one. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not hallucinating. It’s just…” He had paused.

“I think I understand,” Boswick had replied, saving Mulder from having to explain himself further. “The stress of returning to work has you on edge. You’re also spending a significant amount of time around strangers or near-strangers again which probably makes you feel vulnerable. Combine that with Alex Krycek’s disappearance and the fact that the men who abducted you and raped you are still uncaught and unpunished… It makes for a perfect storm of anxiety. What you need to do now is convince yourself that you aren’t being followed and that you’re safe.”

“I think I have a plan for achieving that,” Mulder had said. Dr. Boswick had raised her eyebrows at that and admitted her curiosity about his plan but he’d just smiled and said, “I’ll let you know if it works out.”

Later that afternoon, Mulder had called The Lone Gunmen. Their discussion had centered on finding a way to locate Krycek. Langly had told him it wouldn’t be easy considering Krycek was basically a ghost. His FBI personnel record was mostly falsified information and any and all background he might have once had had been scrubbed clean by someone after Krycek’s first disappearance after the Duane Barry case. “Try, please?” Mulder had begged. Langly had agreed but said that Mulder would owe him big time. In addition to asking them to keep an eye peeled for word on Krycek, Mulder had also requested the guys set a computer algorithm to keep track of the cigarette-smoking man by some of his supposed aliases like “Mr. Hunt” and “Raul Bloodworth.” Frohike, who had been listening, had interjected and had said, “You realize those are just pen names from that magazine I read a while back.” Mulder had admitted it was a long shot but that the smoker had a particularly macabre sense of humor and might just be living under one of those names while he was lying low. The Gunmen had agreed to Mulder’s requests and made tentative plans with him for a game night sometime in the near future.

Now Mulder waited tensely for some sign that his request for information had been sighted. He settled on the couch with the phone on the coffee table. It might be a long wait or his request might never be answered. He had a hunch, though, that there was still someone out there who had his best interests in mind.

The clock ticked. Mulder put on the TV and watched a little bit of the classic sci-fi flick Phantom from Space. The so-called phantom had crash landed on the California coast, killed several people, and was being chased around the area by law men and one intrepid female scientist. When the spaceman took off his helmet, there appeared to be nothing underneath until someone shined ultraviolet light on him, thus the “phantom” epithet. Mulder was halfway through the movie, his anxiety somewhat heightened by the flickering images on the television, when the phone rang, startling him. He picked it up and said, “Hello?”

“The western end of the Lincoln Reflecting Pool, midnight. I don’t need to tell you to come alone,” said a man’s voice on the other end and then the line clicked. Mulder held the phone for a few seconds, listening to the dial tone, and then hung up. He stared at the X on his window then slowly rose from the couch and went to turn off the light. He peeled away the taped X. The tape came off the window easily with just a slight tackiness left over. Mulder fingered the phantom X mark and remembered his first two informants: the mentor-like Deep Throat and the irascible and mysterious X. He had a way of going through people who gave him information and hoped the one he was about to meet didn’t already have a death sentence hanging over his head.

Mulder drove into DC proper and parked as close as he could to the Lincoln Memorial along the Mall. He wore his trench coat over his clothes mainly to hide his gun, which he never left home without anymore, but he also felt a chill even though the spring had moved on and the nights were now growing increasingly warm. He chalked his body temperature up to his nervousness and kept walking. There were a few people out enjoying a quiet, late-night stroll or jog but none of them looked like they were at the reflecting pool to meet someone. Mulder reached the west end of the pool and stood restlessly, looking around in all directions. A slight breeze ruffled his hair. The scent of cherry blossoms carried from some nearby trees. Mulder waited impatiently and checked his watch a couple of times. At 12:05 a figure, also in a dark trench coat, approached from the north. Mulder watched as the man seemed to make an unhurried beeline for him.

“Hello, Agent Mulder,” said the middle-aged man with gray wisps of hair, a clean-shaven face, and a slightly bent posture when he was about a yard away. For a minute, Mulder thought it was Deep Throat resurrected but Deep Throat had had a more regal air about him. This man had the air of someone worn down. Mulder let out a breath he’d been holding. This new informant stepped a little closer and Mulder’s fingers twitched beside his thigh, ready to draw his gun if necessary.

“Were you the man who told Skinner where to find me?” Mulder asked. “The FBI has been looking for you.”

“And it won’t find me, except in clandestine meetings such as this. I told your Mr. Skinner that he wouldn’t hear from me again. I’d intended to disappear altogether but… changed my mind,” said the informant with a little wave of his hand.

“Why? You don’t know me. Why would you help me?”

The man shrugged. “Why would any man help another? You’re important to the overall picture and I owed one of my predecessors a debt. I’ll help you in any way I can, but be aware there are certain limitations on the kind of information I can provide,” the man answered.

Mulder took the man’s words at face value and raised the issue at the top of his list of questions, hoping that it was not in the “don’t ask; don’t tell” column. “How did you know I’d been taken by the Syndicate and where to tell Skinner he could find me?” he asked.

The man considered Mulder for a minute and looked briefly out across the long, glistening expanse of the pool with the giant, phallic symbol of the Washington Memorial illuminated in the background. “I know people who know people. I heard whispers,” said the informant.

“That’s not good enough,” declared Mulder, wanting a straighter answer.

“It will have to be. I need to protect myself, too.” The man stared him down and Mulder’s jaw clenched. He shifted his feet and turned his head, knowing this man wasn’t going to reveal his source.

“I could arrest you right now for aiding and abetting,” threatened Mulder and was surprised when the man chuckled.

“On what basis? I’ve admitted nothing and I’m not about to. I didn’t have a hand in that operation.” He meant the dronification program and sounded insulted that Mulder had insinuated his collusion. Just the mention of the dronification program set Mulder on edge, not that he hadn’t been a moment ago. Mulder decided to change tack. He was aware that their conversation might be under a time limit and he had no intention of losing informant number four to a sniper’s bullet or something equally deadly.

“I think someone is following me. I need to know who,” he said.

The man shook his head slightly and said, “Oh you’re safe enough, even if someone is following you. The Syndicate won’t try something so bizarrely self-serving and self-titillating again. They have bigger fish to fry.”

That gave Mulder pause. “Oh yeah, like what?” he asked.

His informant answered, “You remember the black oil? The alien virus? They’re working to perfect a vaccine, not to protect the world but to protect themselves when the aliens invade and attempt to make a slave race of humans before they commit wholesale genocide.” Mulder cringed and thought about this for a minute.

“But they aren’t following me? They won’t try to capture me again?” he asked worriedly, thoughts of world domination on the back burner compared to the more imminent threat of him being re-abducted and re-conditioned.

The informant seemed to sense his anxiousness and replied solemnly, “The FBI successfully brought down their only dronification facility. If they do start the drone program up again, it won’t be anywhere in this country.”

“Is that the best you can do? To reassure me that there won’t be any more people brainwashed by them in our own back yard? And what about the vaccine and this alien slave race? Why do these Syndicate men think it’s okay for every human except them to become slaves of some alien overlords? Are they all megalomaniacs? Is that what they were trying to do with us drones? Create their own slaves so they could keep up with the galactic Joneses?” demanded Mulder, his voice rising with each query at the sickening absurdity of it all. He realized he was nearly shouting and looked around to see if he’d drawn unwanted attention but that part of the Mall was empty now beside the two of them and quiet at that time of night with only the distant hum of some light traffic breaking the silence. He took a deep breath and let it out for a count of seven and waited for an answer.

The informant studied Mulder’s reaction to his words and shook his head. “I’m afraid the only ones who can answer those questions are the men who took you, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder shrugged off his trench coat and hug it on the hook by his apartment door. He drifted across his space with his mind off in a million different directions. He’d learned practically nothing from his informant about his own role in the Syndicate’s plans but he had learned more about the big picture and it frightened him.

The apartment was in shadow, but Mulder didn’t turn on the light. Instead he went to lie on the couch and put his right arm across his eyes, letting the other one rest on the couch beside him. He thought about the answers to his questions. Despite the informant’s reassurances that the Syndicate wasn’t waiting in the wings to swoop in and steal him away, Mulder still had the nagging feeling that someone was keeping watch over him and he didn’t like it but, after some deep introspection, finally acknowledged that it could just be the trauma clouding his reasoning. He didn’t like that feeling either and ached for the mindless clarity of a null mask. Mulder had been right when he’d told Skinner being a drone was peaceful, at least inasmuch as higher brain function went or rather, didn’t go. He let out a slow breath and cautiously allowed himself to inhabit the mindset of a resting drone. The couch was too hard to allow him to fully capture the serene sensation of weightlessness of floating in a columnar tank of light-green fluid, but he did manage to turn off his nagging doubts before falling into a restless sleep.

Four Months and Two Weeks Earlier

Millisecond flashes of a labeled, computer-generated outline of its respirator came onscreen. Its eyes took the informative pictures in without fully registering them as they cycled in conjunction with auditory instructions on how to obtain food through the mouthpiece attached to the respirator. Its lips sought the tube via the power of suggestion and it sucked. A smooth, protein- and vitamin-rich fluid filled its mouth. Its tongue tasted sweetness and a hint of vanilla just before it swallowed. Curiosity and hunger drove it to suck again. More fluid entered its oral cavity. It fed for a while until its hunger was sated. The null mask flashed again, many pictures and so fast that its eyes burned trying to keep up with them but the endeavor was useless. They became a seamless flow, imprinting themselves in the drone’s memory cortex. Eventually the urge to urinate triggered transferred knowledge it had been imparted with regarding its null belt from its subconscious to its conscious and it understood that the null belt would dispose of any waste products from its body. It released a hot stream of urine into the belt, feeling it swell ever so slightly before gravity whisked the urine away through the tube attachment. Fecal matter would follow but it had no control over that. The plug in its anus was working to keep its muscles open wide. No resistance, it thought as the contents of its bowels slid through the silicone aperture and disappeared through a second tube.

Now relieved of two uncomfortable pressures, it twitched as a low buzzing feeling began in its nether regions. It was due for a pleasure cycle. These, along with the superfood fluid and the calming chemical air it breathed, were still novel, and its drug-and program-controlled body eagerly looked forward to the release of dopamine and oxytocin at the completion of this next cycle. Its eyelids lowered but remained open. Its breathing increased in time to the gradual switch in images and sounds. It became erect within the confines of its null belt, its null bulge straining against the heavy-duty bio-latex. Had it had normal reactions, it would have moaned, but it had learned early and quickly that a drone is silent, a drone obeys, and obedience is pleasure. Even as the vibrations from its electrodes increased, it remained silent but for its heavy, aroused breathing. After orgasm, it relaxed again.

Several minutes later, there was motion outside its tank. It saw through its mask and the tank’s glass a humanform shadow moving toward it. A wavy figure stopped just outside its tank and unhooked something from the tank’s side. The drone’s head tilted, watching through the semi-opaque lens of its null mask and the viscous, clear-green fluid in which it floated. Whoever was outside was neither covered in bio-latex nor had any null apparatuses. Instead, they wore a long white coat over their regular clothing. They stood in front of the tank for several minutes, holding something flat in their hand and making motions just above it with a long, thin object. Pen. Notes. The words popped up in the drone’s mind and were instantly gone. It had no reason to wonder what the person outside the tank was taking notes about or why. A flash across its mask read: Submit. Obey. Obedience is pleasure. Its genitals buzzed again and its thighs tensed reflexively, its anal muscles clenching around the unforgiving plug, bio-latex covered lips under its respirator parting for a moment to allow an anticipatory tongue to swipe over them. It would submit if its electrodes kept bringing it orgasms. It would submit anyway because it had been programmed to submit and obey.

The person outside the tank hung the clipboard on the side of the tank again and reached in their pocket for something. They held it up and a narrow beam of light shone through the tank and the drone’s mask into the drone’s eyes. The drone’s pupils shrank but it did not squint against the glare. “Drone 1013, place your hand on the tank wall,” it heard through its ear pieces. Automatically but unhurriedly, it raised its hand and did as the voice had asked. Its black-coated hand splayed flat against the glass. “Drone 1013, lower your hand.” It obeyed. The light turned off and the person in the lab coat tucked the penlight back into their pocket. The drone noticed that another shadowy figure had joined the one in the lab coat outside the tank. The lab-coated figure turned to the new arrival and said something but the words were too muted for the drone to hear. This didn’t concern it. If it had been meant to hear, it would hear. Ignoring the figures on the outside, it returned its attention to the screen on the inside of its mask and sank into the all-consuming numbness of its reinforcement programming while it awaited new orders.

One Year Earlier

“Agent Mulder needs to be brought under control. We must protect the Purity program,” rasped their most senior member who the Syndicate members sometimes referred to among themselves as the elder and other times by his first name, Gerald.

“Yes,” said the Englishman. “He went too far this time. That senate committee was meant to end his search for what he calls ‘the truth’ by bringing him up on charges and marring his record, thus also bringing his career to an end.”

“False charges,” the cigarette-smoking man said.

“It seems that your double agent, what’s his name, Krycek, has also turned against you. I thought you had him well in hand?” a fourth, angrier voice rose on the other side of the room.

The smoker drew languidly on his cigarette. Of course they would hold him accountable for this mess after the debacle with the data tape, the sins of the son heaped on the father, guilt by blood association. But he didn’t allow their fear to rush him to rash words or actions. He released a plume of smoke from his thin lips and smiled confidently, flicking his cigarette ash into a nearby ashtray sitting on a side table next to his chair. “The Purity program is on schedule and quite secure. We needn’t worry about a few rogue elements,” he said calmly.

“On schedule?” barked the Englishman, rising from his seat and approaching the smoker. He glared down at the smoker’s weathered features and added, “We’ve lost doctor Charne-Sayre, all her test subjects, and any progress we’d made thus far. We’re years away from a viable vaccine and you know it!”

“That’s why we’re going to steal it from the Russians,” grinned the smoker and there was a restless silence throughout the room. The Syndicate members glanced at one another.

“How?” asked the block-shaped Gerald with his raspy voice.

“We already have it, technically. We just have to retrieve it,” said the smoker and took another long drag on his cancer stick. It was an unfortunate habit, one he had tried to break several times over the decades. He’d succeeded once, for a brief time, before it came back to enslave him again with an endless need for nicotine. But, he rationalized, they were all slaves to something. “And it will kill two birds with one stone.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Englishman suspiciously.

The smoker smirked and flicked his cigarette again at the ash tray, the little gray-white flecks of ash descending into the fire-proof receptacle like tainted snow.

“You need to be clear, Charles,” said another member, one of the more rational ones. He was their de facto chief in charge of the scientists they had on payroll trying to catch up to where doctor Charne-Sayre had left off devising the vaccine against the alien virus.

The smoker, Charles, rose from his chair and stood at the center of the group. He looked at each of their faces and then summoned their factotum who waited by the door to run any kind of errand the others might want. The younger, dark-haired man listened as Charles whispered in his ear and then strode out of the room. Several members spoke up in the gopher’s sudden absence.

“Where’s he going?”

“Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“I have a plan,” said Charles and leaned over to stub out his cigarette butt into the ashtray then straightened and reached in his suit-jacket pocket for another from the nearly full pack he carried. “I’ve been consulting with Martin at our test lab,” he said, flicking his lighter and touching the flame to the end of a fresh cigarette, and watched their science chief’s eyes widen and then narrow in distrust. All discussions about the virus and vaccine and requests for information thereof were to go through him. Charles could see the man was not happy about someone going around behind his back and monopolizing one of his best scientist’s time. He was confident, however, that once the chief saw his little plan, he would be forgiven.

The factotum reentered the room with a long, cardboard tube in his hand and several packets of papers. Charles took the tube from him with thanks and uncapped the plastic end while the young man handed each Syndicate member their own packet. “Martin and I have drawn up some blueprints I believe you will all be interested in. Theo is handing you a summary of something we’ve devised to keep our assets in line and under our exclusive control. Read it over then you can look at the blueprints.” Charles spread the blueprints he’d pulled from the tube out on the long table on the other side of the room where they sometimes sat in congress to discuss weighty matters.

The members scanned the papers they’d been handed. When they were done, a couple of men got up and went over to examine the blueprints. There were several grunts and hums of interest. Those noises pleased Charles as he puffed away on his new cigarette. Only the Englishman seemed displeased with what he was reading and tossed the papers away on a table with a noise of disgust.

“Is this level of behavior modification possible?” asked Gerald, his eyes suspicious but curious.

“Martin assures me it is, but it would need to be tested,” replied Charles.

“It’s a waste of resources,” snapped the Englishman.

“Not if we get the vaccine out of it,” said Charles. “And not if we have a way to control those we deem too important to kill but too dangerous to be allowed to run amok, like Fox Mulder.”

“You are advocating the creation of a group of mindless sex slaves, not vaccine test subjects,” said the Englishman, still obviously turned off by the whole proposition.

“From what I understand, Mulder was exposed to the alien virus while he was dallying in Russia,” Charles began to explain. “He was also given a version of their vaccine. We take him in, examine and test his blood. We could reverse-engineer the Russian’s vaccine.”

“But why the brainwashing when we could just waylay him and take blood samples? Really, Charles, this is the most prurient idea I’ve heard since my college years,” said the Englishman. There were murmurs of both assent and dissent. Charles waited a few breaths as the members discussed among themselves.

“You agreed you wanted Mulder under control. This is the only way to fully control him,” said Charles after the discussion had died down. “After the dronification, he’ll remain in a completely biddable state, as will anyone who undergoes the program. Imagine all of our operatives or threats to our plans taking our orders without question.” His eyes gleamed and his fingers fiddled with his cigarette. His lips puckered around the end of it and he inhaled.

“And Martin says this will work?” asked another member, echoing Gerald’s earlier question. Apparently there were still doubters among them.

Charles returned to his seat after a longing stroke of his hand over the blueprints. “The way the program is designed is flawless. Even if someone should come out of it on a conscious level, it will always be in their brain subconsciously. That’s the beauty of it. I, like you, expressed my concerns to Martin. I know Mulder’s will to be quite strong. He would no doubt resist. However, his mind is also very open to suggestion. He underwent hypnosis about a decade ago to retrieve the memory of what happened to his sister on the night she went missing.”

“Was he able to retrieve those memories?” asked Gerald. Charles turned toward him and smiled.

“He was very easily hypnotized into believing that he had,” purred Charles.

There was another moment of silence as the group processed everything Charles had told them thus far. Looks were exchanged. The Englishman sat and glared at him. Charles allowed the other man’s ire to wash off his back like water off a proverbial duck’s. He understood the group’s hesitation; the dronification program he and Martin had come up with was a massive and costly undertaking but he was assured that the rewards would justify the time and expense.

After a while, Charles added in an undertone, “Of course there are other benefits to the dronification program, personal benefits.” If he knew these men correctly, he knew their hunger. They had given up friends, family, and chosen careers to fight the incoming expansion of alien empire from within. Many of them led lonely lives with little companionship. Having ready-made and fully willing sexual partners available at all times with which to blow off a little steam was a tempting option for them. Especially if they knew they could maintain their new harem beyond the point of colonization. Charles watched with growing excitement as several of the Syndicate members subtly licked their lips and shifted to accommodate growing erections. He had them.

“When can you have this ready to test?” asked Gerald.

“Most of the groundwork has already been laid. The bio-latex has been developed and perfected. Martin is finalizing the design of the tanks and other hardware and his audio-visual people are recording and compiling the necessary images and sounds as we speak. I’d say… three months, tops,” answered Charles smugly.

“You went behind our backs, Charles. That won’t be forgotten,” intoned the Englishman but no one seconded his warning.

“And a test subject?” asked the chief, ignoring the Englishman.

Charles turned sedately to look at the man who was in charge of their scientists and said, “I know just the right person.”

Present Day

“Have you recovered from your panic attack in the hallway the other day?” asked Scully cautiously. She and Mulder were in the basement office getting ready to go interview a witness in one of the cases centered in Baltimore. Mulder had studied the preliminaries all weekend and thought it might be a good idea to question the person who had discovered the first body. There was something about her statement that didn’t jive for him.

Mulder rolled his eyes and shrugged on his suit jacket, checking his pocket for his badge and his holster for his gun. “It’s not like I passed out or anything,” he grumbled.

“I know, but sometimes it takes the mind and body a little while to reset,” said Scully.

Mulder snorted. “Not a whole weekend.” Then he thought about what had happened, how quickly his body had gone into flight-or-fight mode at just a glimpse of someone he thought had been his father. A little shudder passed through him. “Actually,” he added in a slightly embarrassed tone, “I’m worried about having another one.” He fiddled with his jacket buttons and stared at her high heels. “I don’t want it to impact our work.” He finally looked up and saw the sympathy in Scully’s clear blue gaze.

“You’ll have to find a way not to let it,” she said and patted his arm. He nodded and they left the basement.

Ingrid Larsen stood six foot two and had dirty blonde hair and moss colored eyes. She had found the first body in what was being termed the “Stone Boy” case. A youth of about sixteen had been found on one of the trails in Baltimore’s Gwynns Falls Park. His body appeared to be in some kind of abnormal and advanced rigor mortis that had turned his skin to a granite-like consistency and color for which there was no medical explanation as of yet. At first the police had thought someone was pulling a prank and had left a stone sculpture on the trail but upon closer inspection they noticed distinct bite wounds and a large open gash in the boy’s abdomen that couldn’t possibly be anything someone had carved. Since the body’s discovery, two more people had been found in similar condition in isolated parkland around Baltimore.

Scully had performed the autopsies, or at least tried to. She’d reported back to her partner that the process was difficult due to the state of the bodies. “It’s as though they’ve been permineralized,” she had told him over the phone after the second autopsy.

”Per-what?” Mulder had asked.

“Perminerlized,” Scully had repeated. “It’s what happens when a fossil is created. The organic matter is slowly replaced by minerals, turning the remains into stone. But the process usually takes at least ten thousand years, sometimes millions so the soft, fleshy parts of the deceased animal or human decay and only the fossilized bones remain. I can’t imagine the right conditions would be present to turn three people into complete fossils nearly instantaneously. Fossils are also very fragile and are usually handled very delicately. I had to use a diamond blade to cut through to the chest cavity on the first two victims they were so hard.”

Mulder had absorbed this information with a hum and had told Scully that hopefully they would find the answers soon to the conundrum posed by the state of the victims’ remains. “Let me know if you find anything different with the third body,” he’d said. She hadn’t and they were no closer to an answer after the third autopsy, thus their current line of investigation.

“Ms. Larsen? We’d like to ask you a few more questions about your discovery of the body of Thomas Kellerman,” said Mulder to Larsen as he and Scully held up their badges. Larsen looked from one to the other and twisted her hands together but invited them inside her modest home. She gestured for them to have a seat in her small but comfortable living room and stood with her hands in her jeans pockets as they sat on the semi-worn but clean furniture.

“I-I don’t know how much more I can help you. I’ve told the police everything I know,” said Larsen. Her voice was husky, low for a woman’s, and she stood slightly hunched as though from a lifetime of trying to hide her tall stature.

“We know, and we appreciate your cooperation,” said Scully. “We just have some follow-up questions.” She nodded at her partner and Mulder took the reins.

“Right,” said Mulder. “When you found the body, you said you were out for a walk, is that correct?”

“Mm-hm,” hummed Larsen and tucked a lock of her shoulder-length hair back behind her ear.

“Do you often walk in Gwynns Falls?” he asked and she gave a shrug.

“S-Sometimes, if I feel like it. Not too often but, uh, I like to get away from people and it’s quiet there,” she offered.

“Do you frequent other parks besides the Falls?”

Larsen hesitated then she replied, “S-Sometimes.” She looked Mulder up and down, her eyes taking on a flighty look as though she wanted to bolt.

“Were you in Druid Hill Park recently?” asked Mulder. Druid Hill Park had been the location of another stone-body discovery.

“Uh, maybe. I don’t go there often either, just sometimes.”

“Did you know the deceased at all Ms. Larsen?”

She shook her head wildly and put one arm up to wrap her hand around her opposite bicep. Her eyes went wide. “I told all this to the police,” she said defensively.

Suddenly, from outside came the sound of distant church bells tolling the noontime hour. Larsen let out a short cry and covered her ears. “Please go!” she gasped. Scully and Mulder shared a confused look but Mulder started to have an inkling of what was going on. He rose from the couch and Scully stood from the armchair she sat in.

“You don’t like the church bells,” stated Mulder to Larsen. She shook her head, her hands still over her ears. The pealing of the bells stopped and she removed her hands, tucking them under her armpits. “Why is that, Ms. Larsen?” She looked at him with her keen eyes, worry etched across her face.

“Never have, never will,” she rasped, eyeing both Mulder and Scully with a hard glare. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Mulder stood a moment, contemplating, and then said, “Maybe it doesn’t.” He turned to Scully and motioned for them to leave.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Larsen,” said Scully as she and Mulder headed for the door. Larsen followed them out and watched from her tiny porch as they got in their car and drove away.

Scully sat in the passenger seat and asked Mulder, “What was that all about with the church bells?”

“You’ve heard of trolls, Scully, haven’t you?”

“Trolls!” she exclaimed and looked at him for a shocked second before straightening and staring out the windshield as he drove. “Mulder, you can’t be serious. Aside from those little plastic things with the fuzzy fake hair, they don’t exist.”

“It would be an explanation for why Ingrid Larsen doesn’t like church bells. In Scandinavian folklore, trolls are notoriously anti-Christian in behavior and any sound from a church bell drives them bonkers,” said Mulder. “And they don’t like people. They tend to hide from them or spend a lot of time in places that are isolated away from human activity. There are even some legends that state trolls turn to stone at the first touch of the sun’s rays. I’m thinking the legends might be wrong in that the trolls can turn humans into stone with a touch or a look or, in this case, a bite, kind of like the Greek Medusa.”

Scully was quiet for a moment and then she said, “So Ingrid Larsen is a troll and she’s the one who’s been taking chunks out of hapless hikers and turning them into stone effigies of themselves.”

“Got it in one, Scully,” said Mulder cheerfully and Scully muttered, “Oh brother,” under her breath. Sometimes her partner’s theories were so out there as to seem wholly irrational but she decided to go along because, really, there was no scientific explanation for why the three bodies had turned up around Baltimore half eaten and turned to stone… yet.

Their second case in Baltimore centered on the murders of two clergymen in their parish homes. One had been a deacon of the St. Ambrose Church and the other was a priest who had tended his flock downtown at the St. Ignatius Church. Both religious had been bludgeoned to death with heavy objects found right in their homes near their bodies. No suspect’s prints had been left on the weapons or anywhere else in the houses. The FBI had been called in to assist the Baltimore PD and try and provide a profile of the killer before he or she struck again. The great mystery of both murders was how the killer got in and out of the men’s homes since all the doors and windows had been locked tight at the time the bodies had been discovered.

Mulder drove them first to St. Ambrose Church on Park Heights Avenue. They had an appointment to speak to the priest there, a Father Mahoney. Mulder could feel his partner shoring herself beside him as they walked up the stone steps. He assumed any case having to do with the Catholic religion was going to be difficult for Scully as it had the potential to test her faith versus her scientific reasoning. As they approached the top of the stairs, a bee buzzed around them aggressively. Scully ducked it and Mulder swatted it away. It flew off, presumably back to its hive, or so Mulder thought and he stared after the insect for a moment before shaking his head and following Scully inside.

Father Mahoney was supposed to meet with them in the sacristy. There were several congregants among the pews even though there was no mass being said. They sat or knelt in silent prayer or contemplation. Mulder and Scully respectfully approached the altar area via one of the side aisles. Scully paused before the altar to genuflect and make the sign of the cross. Mulder waited patiently. Scully had explained to him one day during his medical leave that when he’d been missing, she’d prayed to God for his safe return and that when her prayers were answered, her former lapsed faith had been renewed, so he understood how important it was to her. He looked around the church. It had a welcoming air. One would never suspect that one of its most valued members had been murdered recently. Mahoney surprised the two of them by coming out of the sacristy just as they were about to knock on the door. He wore a kind smile and had a white, close-cropped beard and a bald head in the manner of a monk. His eyes glittered a lovely, cornflower blue and he shook their hands, inviting them into the sacristy. The room was small and had several large armoires, presumably for the clergy’s vestments. In one corner of the room was a stand with a metal crucifix atop a pole in it. On the other side of the room were two doors, one of them open to reveal a small restroom. Next to that door sat a low, glass-front cabinet with some items inside like gold-colored bowls and cups and a hand-held bell.

“We’ll have total privacy here,” Mahoney said in a quiet voice, shepherding them to two basic office chairs with minimal padding and plastic arms after closing the door behind them. Scully and Mulder took a seat and Father Mahoney sat in another similar chair. “I understand you wanted to talk about Deacon Francis,” he said.

“Yes, Father,” said Scully. “We were hoping you could shed some more light on his activities prior to his death.”

“Activities,” mumbled Mahoney thoughtfully. “Yes. Well, he had helped me with mass the day before his murder and after that he had gone out to do some errands, have the car tuned up, get some groceries for the house. That’s about it.”

“Did he go anywhere out of the ordinary or meet with anyone in particular that day or days immediately prior to his murder?” Scully asked.

Mahoney thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “He had a few scheduled appointments with some of the new members of our church. Deacon Francis was in charge of our RCIA program…”

“RCIA?” interjected Mulder and Scully turned to him and said, “Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults. It’s how adult converts and those of no prior faith wishing to become Catholic study and are baptized into the church.”

“Correct,” said Mahoney with some surprise. “You’re of the faith, Agent Scully? I wasn’t sure, though I see you wear a beautiful cross.”

Scully dipped her chin with a slight blush and cleared her throat. “Yes, Father, I was raised Catholic.”

“Bless you, child,” said the priest and Scully gave an embarrassed smile.

“Ah, back to Deacon Francis?” said Mulder, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

Mahoney looked at him with an open expression, awaiting his next question. “You said he was in charge of the RCIA program. Do you have many converts?”

“A few this year, not as many as in years past. I’d say about a half-dozen at the moment,” said Mahoney.

Mulder nodded. He next inquired if any of those in the RCIA program had had any kind of difficulty with or animosity toward the deacon.

“Oh my, no, not that I know of,” said Father Mahoney with a confused expression. “All of the people in the program are sincere, devout, and joyous to be a part of it. Some catechumens have more zeal than others, of course.”

“What do you mean? Like who?” Mulder leaned forward. He could feel the glance Scully was giving him and he knew she disapproved of his line of questioning, thinking he was gunning after another religious zealot like Steinberger. She couldn’t be more mistaken and he felt he might be on the right track when Mahoney answered.

Mahoney waved a hand in the air in a circular gesture and grinned, saying, “Well, there was Mark Ernst. He just started the program about three weeks ago and he’s been rather a go-getter. He’s taken part in every Bible study, our preliminary weekend retreat, attended every mass since then.” Mahoney shook his head in wonder. “He attends more masses than I do!” He chuckled. Mulder leaned back again and rubbed his hands on his pant legs as he looked at Scully. She looked back solemnly as if to ask where he was going with his prodding but he didn’t let this stop him.

“Do you know what prompted him to join the RCIA program, Father?” asked Mulder.

“Well,” and here Mahoney shifted uncomfortably, “that kind of thing is usually between God, the catechumen, and their deacon and priest.”

“It may be important to our investigation,” prompted Scully gently, surprising Mulder. He looked over to her gratefully and then back at Mahoney who seemed to be waging an internal battle of sorts over whether or not to reveal his new congregant’s inspiration for becoming one of the flock.

Mahoney took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. He looked to each agent in turn and then focused on Mulder. “Mark told us he’d had an encounter with some terrible evil, something that frightened him like nothing else in his entire life. He’d been dating this woman, you see, and he said she had revealed to him a very dark side of herself. He’d prayed to God to be saved from her evil and in turn God had rung the bells of the nearby church at an hour not normally reserved for such a thing. The church bells tolling had frightened the woman away from him when she’d been about to do something unspeakable to Mark and he’d come the very next day to our church, insisting on joining our congregation.”

There was silence in the sacristy for a moment. Mulder’s mind made the immediate, obvious connection and he was sure Scully made it as well when he caught her eyes sidling over to him for a second. Father Mahoney laughed suddenly, breaking the silence, and said, “You probably don’t believe in such tales.” Then he looked more seriously at Mulder and corrected himself. “Or maybe you do. You look like a man who has seen evil face-to-face, Agent Mulder.” Mahoney’s voice was sympathetic and somewhat sad and his blue eyes radiated a kind of genuineness that drew a swallow out of Mulder as his throat suddenly tightened.

“I’ve seen a lot of things, Father,” rasped Mulder.

They stared at each other briefly and then Father Mahoney said, “If you ever need to talk to someone, please feel free to come to St. Ambrose.”

Mulder nodded but said, “Thank you, and ah, no offense, Father, but I have a very good therapist already.” He gave the priest a fleeting smile and Mahoney answered it but his face returned to its sympathetic expression quickly, trying perhaps to suss out what Mulder’s trauma was. Mulder shifted awkwardly. He really didn’t want to talk about his own experiences with the evil that men could get up to.

He was saved by Scully who asked, “Do you know the name of this woman that Mr. Ernst was dating?”

Father Mahoney shook his head. “Unfortunately not. I’m sorry,” he said with open hands. Scully nodded and looked at her partner who seemed to have gone into some kind of internal thought spiral.

“Mulder?” she asked quietly. He shook his head and looked at her with a faint smile.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she told him. She looked at Father Mahoney and stood from her seat, holding out her hand for him to shake. “Thank you for all your assistance, Father. If we have further questions, may we come back?”

“Of course!” exclaimed the priest and stood to shake her hand with a genuine smile. He patted her hand, too, and invited her to come to mass sometime.

Scully smiled and said, “I just might.”

“You, too, Agent Mulder. All are welcome at St. Ambrose!” Mulder stood and gave a sheepish grin and just nodded politely. He shook Father Mahoney’s hand and walked with him and Scully out of the sacristy and into the church proper. There was no one in the pews now and the church was silent. Father Mahoney walked them to the main entrance and wished them well on their investigation as they stepped out onto the top step leading up to the church. There they were immediately attacked by another bee. Mulder went pale before they successfully defended themselves from the stinging creature and sent it on its way. Mulder smoothed his suit jacket and tried not to let his nervousness show. He hadn’t been afraid of the bee itself but the symbolism it evoked in his brain about hives, specifically the “hive” of his own dronification but also the giant hive he’d hidden in from the alien bounty hunter with Jeremiah Smith and a clone of his sister. Once again, he wondered if he had subconsciously been acting out his future by taking refuge in that enormous hive silo. Like the bee, the program suddenly buzzed in his head (Obey. Good drone.) and he had to scrunch his features and put a hand over his face for a moment before he could gather himself. Father Mahoney looked at Mulder quizzically and asked if he was allergic to bees.

“No, I’m allergic to hives,” said Mulder in a monotone, dropping his hand.

Thinking Mulder was joking, Father Mahoney laughed. He put his hands on Mulder’s and Scully’s shoulders and said confidentially, “You’ve just been blessed by St. Ambrose. He’s the patron saint of beekeepers.” Then Mahoney winked and waved at them as they headed down the church steps. They gave him polite nods in return and headed to the car side-by-side while Mulder struggled to bury his thoughts about bees and hives; he and Scully had a case to solve.

“The next step is obvious, don’t you think, Scully?” asked Mulder as casually as possible once they got to their car, ignoring the way she was looking at him, as though he were about to start blubbering and cringing at every living thing that crossed their path.

“Go question Mark Ernst?” asked Scully.

“Bingo.”

Mulder played confident while they continued their investigation, but he was still shaken by how Father Mahoney had seemed to see right through to his trauma and by the triggering incident with the bee. Was he that transparent? Did he wear his emotions on his sleeve? Could Father Mahoney tell he’d been taken and mind-wiped and raped by a half-dozen men or more? He suddenly felt dirty, tainted in a way he hadn’t before now when compared to people like Mahoney. Mulder trembled slightly as they drove to Mark Ernst’s apartment after calling information for his address. He kept his worries from Scully, however, and kept his shaking hands on the wheel. He didn’t want her to sense his turmoil like she had back at the church. He didn’t want her to have to step in and rescue him all the time. That wouldn’t do his ego much good.

They pulled up in front of Ernst’s apartment building and went in and rang the buzzer. Mark let them up after they’d identified themselves and they showed their badges to him at his door. He ushered them in to the neat, two-bedroom apartment and asked politely what he could do for them. They replied that they had some questions in conjunction with the murder of Deacon Francis at St. Ambrose’s and Mark’s face fell. In fact, he appeared close to tears on just the mention of the murder and Mulder and Scully looked to each other, each thinking that they might have to tread lightly.

“Deacon Francis was a good man,” sniffled Mark, his hands clasped and twisting. “The best. He-He really h-helped me when I first joined St. Ambrose. What happened to him was… just awful!”

“We understand and we’re trying our best to find out who killed him. That’s why we need your help,” said Scully. Mark Ernst was a man in his mid-thirties but younger looking, with neatly parted short brown hair, brown eyes, and an average frame. He was dressed in slacks and a white dress shirt open at the collar with a yellow sweater-vest over it. He nodded at Scully’s pronouncement and shifted to sit on an armchair in the living area in which they all stood. Scully followed suit, perching on his short couch, and Mulder remained standing.

“We spoke with Father Mahoney earlier today and he said you’re very active in their RCIA program,” Scully continued, easing into their true line of inquiry. Meanwhile Mulder looked around Mark’s apartment, noting the religious icons and crucifixes scattered here and there among Mark’s secular possessions. In particular, there was an eight-by-ten, full-color print of who he assumed to be St. Ambrose hanging on the wall just above the couch. The man in the image wore bishop-like vestments and stood beside an old-fashioned, domed beehive. Ambrose’s right hand was raised in benediction, his left hovered over the hive. Mulder shuddered but hid it behind a soft cough into his hand.

“That’s right,” said Mark in answer to Scully’s question. “I love St. Ambrose Church. The people that worship there are like a big family. They offered me sanctuary when I needed it most.”

“Why did you feel you needed sanctuary?” asked Scully.

Mark hesitated. He glanced at Mulder, who tried to give him a reassuring smile, but then focused on Scully. “I-I don’t see what that has to do with Deacon Francis’s m-murder,” said Mark, almost at a whisper. “You don’t suspect me, do you? I couldn’t hurt Deacon Francis!” He leaned forward, speaking earnestly and anxiously. He clutched something around his neck and Mulder saw that it was another crucifix, a small wooden one on a leather string.

“No, we don’t suspect you, Mr. Ernst,” said Mulder. “But we may suspect someone close to you, or someone who was once close to you. Can you think of someone from your recent past who might have wanted to kill the deacon?”

Mark looked down, clutching the crucifix so tight Mulder was afraid Mark would do himself damage. He choked back a few near answers and finally let loose with a volley of sobs and some hiccoughing words. “I-I-I was d-dating this woman… this woman and she,” he shook his head. “She was evil. It was she who drove me to seek God just to protect myself from her!”

“What kind of evil?” prodded Mulder. Mark’s brown eyes pierced his own.

“I was staying a few nights every week at her house. I’d gotten there before her and she didn’t show up after she got out of work. I was worried, but I knew sometimes she went for walks at a local park. When she came home later that night,” his voice lowered to a whisper, “she was covered in blood. At first I was afraid something had happened to her. Her face was all twisted and bulbous, totally unlike her usual face. But s-she told me she’d been out in the park and had been jumped by a teenage thug. She claimed to have outmatched him. Said she’d taught him a lesson and then she laughed, just laughed! I’ll never forget that laugh.” He gave a full-body shudder and then his face turned to disgust. “Then she licked her bloody hand like a cat licks its paw. I swear I thought I saw her transform into a black cat for a second, b-but not a little cat, a great big one, tall and standing on its hind legs! I was afraid she was going to attack me but… but I prayed and the bells rang. She hissed and covered her ears and suddenly she was Ingrid again… oh!” He covered his mouth, realizing he’d given away her name.

“It’s all right Mr. Ernst,” said Scully soothingly. “We know Ms. Larsen.”

“You do?” he queried and she nodded. He took a deep breath and seemed to center himself then in a calmer voice he went on, “Anyway, the illusion broke. I-I guess you find it hard to believe what I say. It sounds totally crazy, but I was convinced I was looking at the face of the Devil. The next day I found the closest church to where I live and I told the priest, Father Mahoney, that I wanted to join.”

Everything Mark Ernst had just told them cemented Ingrid Larsen as their murderer in Mulder’s mind. He and Scully left Mark’s apartment after a few more questions. Scully said on the way back to the Hoover that she didn’t understand the whole cat thing or Larsen’s motive for killing Deacon Francis or the priest at St. Ignatius.

“Trolls have been known to turn into cats on occasion,” said Mulder with new verve in his voice. “If she could transform into a smaller cat than the one Mark saw, she might have been able to sneak in and out of the rectories without notice, changing back into a human form and locking the doors behind her once she was done killing. As for motive, she was angry that Ernst abandoned her to take up with the church. She targeted the men she held responsible for wooing him away from her but maybe she didn’t know exactly which church Ernst had fled to so she was planning on hitting each one until she’d made them all pay.”

“That motive is kind of a stretch and I don’t buy the transformation thing or the turning people to stone thing but we have enough to go on based on what Ernst told us to get a warrant for Larsen’s arrest and get a dental impression from her,” said Scully.

“People have killed for less, Scully,” said Mulder and looked over at her. They were nearly back at the Hoover building and she acknowledged his statement with a considering hum.

As they parked in the garage and got out of the car, Mulder saw a human shadow pass behind one of the garage’s large concrete pillars and his heart froze for a moment. Scully asked him what was wrong and he shook his head, heart pounding. “N-Nothing,” he stuttered. The shadow was gone. Startling Scully slightly, he jogged over to where he thought he saw the person but there was no one behind the pillar.

“Mulder, what are you doing?” Scully asked, coming over to him.

“I, uh, thought I saw someone, that’s all,” he said, trying to act casual, but in reality his mind was going a mile a minute while his body threatened to shut down. He took a deep breath, trying to hold a panic attack at bay.

“It’s a parking garage, Mulder,” said Scully. “It is possible you saw another agent or some FBI personnel headed for their car.”

“I-I know,” said Mulder dejectedly. Scully patted him on the shoulder. He was having difficulty believing his informant’s reassurance that he was not in danger of being picked up by the Syndicate like he was sure they had retrieved their other wayward drone, Krycek. Were they trying to rebuild the Hive? Mulder’s right hand clenched into a fist around his car keys and he silently cursed himself for acting so paranoid.

“Come on, let’s go give Skinner our report and get the ball rolling on getting a warrant for our suspect,” said Scully and he bowed to her common sense instructions.

By the time they reached Skinner’s office, Mulder was calm again and reassured to see his lover in his element as Assistant Director. They sat and explained to Skinner how the Stone Boy case and the religious murders were connected and who their suspect was. Skinner praised them on their quick work, though he raised an eyebrow at Mulder’s description of Ingrid Larsen as a troll.

“She can’t be that ugly,” said Skinner with a wry grin and Mulder couldn’t help barking out a laugh.

“Uh, no, sir, not ugly. Sh-She’s a literal troll,” said Mulder and gave Skinner a rundown on all the attributes of trolls that Larsen had exhibited. He could see his lover trying not to squirm at the outlandish explanation but in the end, Skinner signed off on their reports and gave Mulder and Scully the go ahead to obtain a warrant.

Later that week, Mulder recounted his and Scully’s success in apprehending their suspect and closing two cases at once to Dr. Boswick. But he also recounted to her the taint he had felt upon leaving St. Ambrose’s and the continued worry he had over having another panic attack on the job.

“These feelings are new to you,” Dr. Boswick had stated and he’d nodded. “In particular the feeling of being dirty or tainted?”

“Yeah, I, uh, spent a while in the shower that night,” said Mulder, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenched his teeth. “But that kind of filth doesn’t wash away, does it?”

“Rape survivors often have these feelings of being dirty or marred in some way by their experiences. I’m actually rather surprised you’re developing these kinds of feelings so long after your initial trauma. What survivors have to come to realize is that they aren’t dirty or sick or bad because of what happened to them,” said Boswick.

Mulder nodded. “Logically, yeah, I know. I can’t really explain it. It was just the way he seemed to see right through me and notice something was off, that I…” Mulder stopped and Dr. Boswick waited patiently for him to continue. “That I had been touched by evil. Stained by it.”

“I’m sure, if what you told me about the way he cooperated with your investigation is true, that he only has your best interests at heart. You said he offered you an ear if you ever needed to talk. That doesn’t sound to me like the words of a man who is judging you or who sees any stain on you,” commented Boswick slowly, making sure her words sank in. Mulder fingered the seam of his jeans and stared into the space between them. “Mulder,” she said when he hadn’t spoken for a while. He looked her in the eye. She leaned forward on her elbows. “No one can know what you’ve experienced unless you tell them. You say you’ve been marked by evil and no doubt it feels that way sometimes, considering. But that evil is not a part of you. You are a survivor of that evil, not its cause or carrier or perpetuator.” Mulder gulped and looked down again at his knees. He couldn’t help flashing back to his revolting desire for his drone equipment: the null mask, the null belt, the taut encasement of his bio-latex outer skin. She was wrong: He did carry it inside him and all it took for that sickness to come out was his imagination and an erection. Despite his heavy thoughts he put on a smile and nodded. She seemed to accept his acceptance of her statements and they moved on to discuss his anxiety over having another panic attack at work.

“Unfortunately, sometimes just the fear of having one can evoke a panic attack,” said Boswick. “I’d recommend using the breathing techniques I gave you at the beginning to stem any anxiety at the first sign of it. Plus think, when you do have a panic attack, it’s good to acknowledge it by saying out loud, ‘I’m having a panic attack,’ and asking the help of someone nearby. It may be hard to trust a stranger with something that seems very personal and embarrassing but you’ll find most people can be sympathetic and helpful in such situations.” Mulder took in her advice and he admitted that there had been plenty of people around him to help him when he’d had his recent panic attack. She was right, though, trust wasn’t easy. He had resisted assistance out of fear until Skinner had arrived to calm him down and move him away from curious onlookers.

Eventually, Dr. Boswick asked Mulder how his plan for finding out if someone was following him worked. He gave her a grin and said, “I’m still not a hundred percent sure I’m not being followed. The first part of my plan had mixed results but I’m hopeful the second part will bear fruit.” He’d been less than thrilled with his meeting with his new informant but he still trusted that The Lone Gunmen would be able to either track down Krycek or his father even though they hadn’t reported back to him yet on that front. He’d get the dish from them next Wednesday during the game night he’d agreed to participate in.

Skinner met Mulder at his apartment after therapy and greeted him with a big kiss, his hands cupped over Mulder’s cheeks. “I’m so proud of you, darlin’,” said Skinner, his Texas lilt coming out in his endearment. “Closing two cases in one week.” He kissed Mulder again and Mulder made a little mew of pleasure. “Making your appointment with Dr. Boswick this time.” Mulder’s lips pursed as Skinner kissed him yet again. “Getting through everything without another panic attack.” Skinner smoothed his hands down Mulder’s neck and shoulder and drew the agent into a hug. Mulder rested against his lover and let his arms mirror Skinner’s, returning the embrace and thinking to himself that the latter had been a near thing. Then Skinner separated them and observed Mulder whose face bore a contented, if somewhat embarrassed, look. “Let me take you out to dinner,” offered Skinner. A range of emotions crossed Mulder’s face including gratitude, hopefulness, and hunger but also fear.

Mulder stepped back and put his hands in his jeans pockets, his shoulders drawing up toward his ears. “I’m not exactly dressed to go out,” he said as an excuse.

“You can change. I’ll wait,” said Skinner, missing Mulder’s anxious cues. Skinner was still dressed in suit and tie from the office. Mulder, who had taken the afternoon off to make sure he didn’t miss his appointment with Dr. Boswick, was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Uh,” Mulder said and scratched his head, “d-does it have to be someplace swanky?”

Skinner shook his own head. “No. We can go wherever you want, but it’s my treat.” Mulder smiled. He hadn’t been out to eat on a proper date since… before. He didn’t count takeout. The thought of sitting in a fancy restaurant didn’t do him any favors, though. He’d rather eat somewhere ordinary if Skinner was going to insist.

“There’s an Indian-food place about six blocks from here that I like,” said Mulder. “No ties required.” He flipped the end of Skinner’s navy-and-red striped tie and Skinner chuckled.

“Indian food it is,” said Skinner and waited while Mulder put on socks and sneakers and grabbed his cell phone, keys, and wallet. Mulder fed his fish before they left, too, telling them to be on their best behavior while he was gone. This earned a snort from his lover and Mulder grinned. Skinner drove them to the restaurant and they entered. The place was clean, nicely decorated and lit, and wasn’t too noisy or crowded. The host sat them at a corner table after a short wait and Mulder settled into his seat opposite Skinner, letting out a long breath as he picked up the menu and began scanning it to see what appealed to his taste buds. “You okay?” Skinner asked him after a minute.

“I’m fine,” said Mulder but he didn’t look up from his menu. Despite the casualness of the restaurant, Mulder couldn’t help feeling a little overwhelmed by the unfamiliar susurrus of conversation coming from the other diners, the clink and clack of dinnerware, and the rattle of ice coming from people’s glasses. “The chicken curry looks good,” he continued, unaware of Skinner’s concerned look at his stiff posture, lack of eye contact, and the ever so slight tremor in his voice. Mulder’s chest began to feel tight and he started to sweat. Just then their waiter appeared and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Mulder mumbled water and an iced tea and tried not to fidget. Skinner ordered the same. The waiter left. Mulder’s fingers tightened around the menu.

“Mulder?” Skinner asked softly, trying to get Mulder’s attention. Mulder set his menu down and closed his eyes, bringing his hands up to his face with palms pressed together. He breathed in for four and out for seven several times. “Is there anything I can do?” asked Skinner after a couple of moments of watching his lover deep breathe. Mulder shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he muttered against his hands. “I’ll be okay. I’m just a little anxious. I’ve had a couple of reminders this week about… you know, and this is the first time I’ve been out on a dinner date since…” He stopped short.

“We can leave,” offered Skinner understandingly.

“No. No. I’m good,” Mulder insisted. Dr. Boswick had been right, just voicing that he was having anxiety helped. He breathed a few more times and lowered his hands to the table. The waiter came back with their drinks and Mulder gulped half the glass of ice water. The cool helped him to center him and ease his physiological reaction to the stress he was feeling.

“What can I get you gentleman to eat?” asked the waiter. He looked at Skinner first and Skinner ordered some spinach paneer. Mulder got himself together and ordered the curry he’d been ogling on the menu only a minute or two before. The waiter took their orders and disappeared again.

As they waited for their food, Mulder spilled about how he felt under Father Mahoney’s scrutiny and about the whole bee incident. He did not confide in Skinner about his assignation with his anonymous source the other night, but he did tell Skinner he had set the Gunmen on Krycek’s and Cancerman’s electronic heels.

Skinner leaned forward and regarded Mulder. “Are you sure that’s wise,” said Skinner about the Gunmen thing.

“Wise or not, I’ve got to know what they’re up to,” said Mulder. It was probably the only way Mulder would stop looking over his shoulder. His eyes were steady as he watched Skinner. The other man gripped his napkin on the table top. “You’re angry at me,” said Mulder tensely.

“I’m concerned, concerned that you’re chasing ghosts,” said Skinner and something about the intensity of his tone ruffled Mulder a bit. He tried to turn Skinner’s statement into a witticism.

“But that’s what we do in the X-Files, sir, chase all manner of creepy crawly and spooky ookey, like ghosts and sasquatches and aliens.”

“Mulder,” Skinner said with a huff. “I’m serious. Ellison and Waterhouse haven’t turned anything up and I won’t be able to keep them on Krycek much longer. We need their help elsewhere. I can’t justify the expense of having them follow up on Krycek’s whereabouts and keep returning no results. I was hoping you would have let it go by now.”

“Is that all you care about? Your budget?” snapped Mulder, suddenly angry that Skinner didn’t care what happened to Krycek.

“You know it isn’t. But like I’ve said, I also have a job to do and part of my job is balancing man-hours,” said Skinner. “We’re rolling in to deposition time for the court case against the people in charge of that dronification facility and Ellison and Waterhouse will be needed to provide their expert testimony. I can’t tie up resources on some two-timing assassin.” Skinner paused and sensed that Mulder’s mood was about to boil over from angry to irate if he didn’t curb his tongue. “He’s still on the wanted list,” he added as a small concession. It was Mulder’s turn to scoff.

“Thank God I’ve got Frohike, Byers, and Langly then,” said Mulder peevishly and stared into his iced tea, wondering anxiously if he’d be called on to testify. Apparently the dronification scientists’ lawyers’ ploy regarding the raid warrant hadn’t panned out for them, which was good. That meant that the trial would proceed. Yet it meant one more hurdle for Mulder should he have to face them all in court and he knew he would need Skinner’s help to get through it. He suddenly felt like shit picking a fight with his lover, but he also felt justified considering Krycek’s importance to himself and the Syndicate. He’d bonded with the insensate Krycek during his days in the hospital and directly thereafter. It didn’t matter to him that Krycek had only lain there. Mulder twitched slightly as he felt Skinner’s hand discretely cover his own after the older man had given a quick look around the restaurant to make sure no one was paying them any attention.

“You have me, too. Trust me, I want him found as much as you do,” said Skinner in an undertone. Mulder drew his hand away and put it in his lap.

“Yeah, and I know why,” grumbled Mulder. He could only trust his lover as far as Skinner’s desire to help didn’t interfere with Skinner doing his job. Mulder wondered if there would always be that kind of conflict in their future and he sighed, letting the fight go out of him.

Returning to the subject before the one of Krycek had come up to divide them, Skinner went on, “I’m sorry your investigation brought up bad feelings. Do you want to talk about them?” Mulder gave a shrug.

“I’ve talked about them a bit with Dr. Boswick. I don’t know what else there is to say. I just felt… wrong coming out of that church and then to have that damned bee attack us… I had this irrational notion of myself as just an insignificant drone like that bee, programmed to do one job and one job only.” Mulder’s jaw clenched. His next words came out all bitter. “Like my self-worth was based on fitting in with the other drones and being an obedient little pleasure slave.” He saw their waiter coming with their food and stopped talking. The men were silent while the waiter set down their plates and they both answered no politely when he asked if there was anything else he could get them. Once he had left, Mulder looked down at his chicken curry and realized he wasn’t hungry. Then he felt guilty for not wanting to eat since this was on Skinner’s dime.

“You know that isn’t true, Mulder,” said Skinner, also seemingly not wanting to dive right into his paneer.

“I know, but it’s how I felt,” said Mulder, valiantly picking up his fork and attacking his meal with it. He raised a forkful to his lips and pushed it into his mouth before he could think too hard about it. Despite his worries, the food was delicious and the zesty taste of it woke his hunger again slightly.

“Maybe feelings like those just take time to go away,” said Skinner thoughtfully and took a bite of his own food.

“But that’s just it,” said Mulder, twisting the paper wrapper that had come with his iced tea straw. “I didn’t have those feelings until recently. It’s a new phenomenon and I’m afraid of where it’s headed.” He stopped eating, appetite once again crushed under such a weighty subject.

Skinner’s gaze softened on him and Skinner asked, “Are the feelings really new, or are they just coming to the forefront since you’ve been back to work?” Mulder thought about it. Maybe the feelings weren’t new. He could recall mentally punishing himself multiple times over his erotic drone masturbation fantasies which had made him feel perverted and sick. He looked up at Skinner with new respect and admiration for Skinner’s insight.

“You know, I think you might be right,” said Mulder. “M-Maybe I’ve had them all along but I just haven’t confronted them until now. I’m not sure how identifying that fact is gonna help me but… but it helps put my feelings into some kind of context.”

Skinner gave him a loving smile and said, “That’s a good first step, don’t you think?” Mulder smiled back.

“Yeah,” he said and then told Skinner, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Skinner replied and their dinner proceeded unencumbered by the shadow of Mulder’s abduction and dronification.

Mulder sat alone in the basement Tuesday evening. His hands searched feverishly through his desk for a MUFON newsletter that he knew he had in there somewhere. Mulder had read rumors online about a new spate of UFO sightings, abductions, and the mass burning of groups of people in Russia and in the United States, specifically Kazakhstan, Skyland Mountain in Virginia, and Ruskin Dam in Pennsylvania. The members of MUFON were coming forward to tell their abduction stories and how they connected to some similar abductions from five years ago. Mulder wanted to compare the previous abduction stories with what he knew about the new events during his down time, thus his ransacking of his own desk. Frustrated at not being able to locate the newsletter, Mulder pulled open the bottom drawer on the left-hand side with a little growl and started combing through its contents. It wasn’t where he would normally put a newsletter like that. Usually he kept those in the right-side file cabinet drawer. He lifted a few random, empty file folders, mumbling to himself, “Where the hell is it,” and shifted an old stack of expense receipts from a case he and Scully had investigated out in Wisconsin a while back.

He paused when moving the receipts revealed a stack of three or four video tapes. Mulder sat back in his chair and looked at the rectangular black plastic. He’d almost forgotten about his work porn stash. Slowly, Mulder picked up the first tape and checked the label. The corner of his mouth curled up in a little ironic grin as he read the title: Bodacious Busty Blondes. The grin didn’t last long, though, as he picked up another tape and read the label on that, too: Naughty Penelope Gets Punished. He’d practically memorized those tapes as he’d sat in his office late at night and masturbated to the fantasy of being the one giving it to one of the actresses. He pulled out the other two tapes and set them on top of his desk and just stared at them with a little shake of his head. The idea of watching porn still turned him off almost completely and he found himself unable to identify with the man who had not only once kept porn at work and an even larger collection at home but who had routinely masturbated to those videos.

I used to get it up for anything with tits, he thought. Now I can’t get it up for anything without a null mask. He found it ironic that he had a tendency to fixate, even now, on fantasy rather than reality and made a silent apology to Skinner in his mind. Prior to his abduction, his sex life had consisted primarily of those tapes and his right hand. Now his sex life consisted primarily of his memories of being a drone and his right hand. He stared at the top video tape and recalled the minimal plot and resultant sex, his mind automatically putting bio-latex and null equipment on the participants. Mulder let out a soft moan and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, his hand went to the tapes and touched them lightly. The beginnings of an erection taunted him but he pushed the feeling aside. He suddenly wondered what happened to all the equipment from the dronification facility. He reasoned that the FBI must have kept a good portion of it as evidence. His teeth caught his lower lip as an idea began to form in his mind but then he shook it off and picked up the tapes to put into his briefcase. He would give them to Frohike tomorrow night to top off Frohike’s hand-me-down collection.

The members of the Syndicate had temporarily come out of hiding for this important occasion, minus one particular member who they didn’t quite trust. He had screwed up, again, and they were punishing him by not taking him into their confidence regarding the status of a certain experiment even though he had been the one to initially propose it. They had agreed unanimously that the dronification facility debacle and fallout couldn’t be repeated, thus their covert meeting. They stood in a circle above an operating theater at a secret medical facility watching as, below, one of their Syndicate doctors prepared a comatose Marita Covarrubias for an injection of their new vaccine. She had been picked up on the roadside after an anonymous phone call to one of their rank had tipped them off to her whereabouts. They had taken her to the medical facility when it became apparent that she was infected by the black oil. How this had come to be was anyone’s guess but some postulated that she’d been in contact with an infected survivor from the Kazakhstan incident when she’d been sent over there to investigate the recent UFO crash and mass burnings of witnesses to that crash. Marita hadn’t reported back to the Syndicate after that and they had assumed she’d defected based on the horrors she’d seen until she’d been found comatose.

The Englishman looked at the other members and said, “We now have a vaccine. Initially developed by the Russians and back engineered by us from the genetic material of one of our drones.” There was silence all around and several of the men shared dubious looks. The Englishman went on. “Do you see what this means? Resistance is possible. We have the weapons and the magic in hand.”

Gerald, their spokesman, said, “We don’t know the vaccine works.”

“It will. And if it doesn’t, we have a new alliance to be made.” The Englishman tapped a black-and-white photograph he had been showing around the group of a man, hideously disfigured, who was reputed to be a resistance fighter against the alien invasion. The resistance fighter had been apprehended outside a military base in West Virginia and was currently in military custody but easily transferrable to under the Syndicate’s auspices with a few discrete phone calls.

Gerald turned to the Englishman, eyes widening a fraction, and rasped, “Side with the resistance?” The thought was distasteful to many in the group. It went against long-established principles developed by the group to maintain secrecy and a certain measured amount of human autonomy in a colonization situation.

A third member in a striped shirt and tie commented, “Suicide.”

“They’ll squash us as they do them,” said Gerald. “We must turn the rebel over.”

Seemingly ever the only voice of reason in their midst, the Englishman said firmly, “But first, wait till we know the vaccine works.” He had a particular reason to ensure that the vaccine was viable, but he kept his silence on that and instead tapped on the glass ceiling panel over the operating room, indicating for the doctor to open Marita’s eyes.

The doctor, remembering their pre-arranged signal, did as she was asked and they could all plainly see a black slick slip-sliding over Marita’s corneas. The alien virus was alive and well inside her, much to their mutual benefit now that their second batch of planned test subjects was no longer available. The men above held their collective breaths as the doctor carefully injected the syringe of light-brown vaccine into Marita’s IV.

“These were hiding in my desk at work,” said Mulder as he entered The Lone Gunmen’s headquarters and passed a plastic shopping bag containing the tapes to Frohike. Frohike peered into the bag and grinned.

“Hey, thanks Mulder,” said Frohike. “I’ve gotten through almost the whole first box you gave me.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve given up on winning Scully to your side,” joked Mulder as he took off his rain jacket and set it over a chair.

“He’s spent so much time working through your old porn collection that he hasn’t had the time to beg a date from her,” snickered Langly.

“Has she, um, talked about me recently?” Frohike asked Mulder in a hopeful undertone. Mulder patted him on the shoulder.

“Sorry, buddy. That lady is all business,” Mulder told him and Frohike sighed. Mulder shared a smile with Byers and Langly at Frohike’s dramatics. The guys had cleared space at the end of one of their long work tables for a game of cards and had gone all out to purchase an impressive pile of junk food: chips, soda, Funyuns, pretzels, ranch dip, Cheese Whiz, Snickers bars, Spree, Bottle Caps, and beer. It had been weeks since they’d sat around just playing and having a good time and Mulder was really looking forward to it, but first he had some business to talk about with the guys. Mulder faced the trio and tried to ask casually, “Anything on the Krycek or Cancerman front?”

The guys shared a look and Byers shook his head. He bore a sympathetic expression when Mulder put on a fake smile and nodded. “Thanks for trying,” he said quietly.

“It’s no problem, dude,” said Langly.

“We can still keep an eye out,” Frohike piped up.

“I don’t want you to keep wasting your time,” said Mulder but he felt exactly the opposite. He wanted someone to keep looking until they found who he was after but he kept his mouth shut.

“The computers actually do most of the work,” said Langly with a shrug.

“I-I know but you don’t have to. It’s okay,” replied Mulder. His mind went to his and Skinner’s argument about Krycek over dinner the other night and about how Skinner had told him that he had hoped Mulder would have let Krycek go by now. Under ordinary circumstances, Mulder would never give up on something like that. But things being what they were, Mulder finally acknowledged to himself that maybe his quest to locate Krycek and his father were doing his mental health no good. He tended to obsess over things until they consumed him. He didn’t want to be consumed by this.

There was an awkward moment of silence among the men that Mulder finally broke by pointing at their game table, specifically the pile of junk food, and asking, “Are there any Charleston Chews in there?” This had the desired effect and the guys loudly and happily divvied up the food and the cards. They played a few long rounds of Texas Hold ‘Em and Gin Rummy for chips and points respectively.

“Loser buys the snacks next time,” declared Langly.

“Mulder, did you see the news about the MUFON members’ abductions?” Byers asked at one point when they’d all had too many carbs and too much sugar.

“Yeah, I was going to look into it but I got distracted by the tapes I gave to Frohike tonight,” answered Mulder. Frohike chuckled.

“I just bet you did,” he teased and Mulder blinked at him, then Mulder chuckled, too.

“It’s not like that,” he said and explained how the tapes had caught his attention, his thoughts turning to giving them to Frohike and thereby distracting him from his quest for the old MUFON letter. He did not tell them about his introspection on his masturbation habits.

“Ah, well, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again,” said Frohike and threw a chip into the center of the table. “Your loss is my gain.”

“H-How’s it going with Skinner, Mulder?” Byers asked and another uncomfortable silence descended.

Mulder swallowed and looked around the table at each of his friends. They seemed to eagerly await his answer to Byers’s inquiry and he smiled softly. He appreciated them trying to engage him in a discussion about his significant other regardless of that other’s gender and it made him feel all warm inside. “We’re doing great. We’ve, uh, had a couple of ups and downs since I got back to work but we’re good.” There were relieved smiles all around and the game commenced as if nothing awkward had happened. The men fell into an easy camaraderie and joked and laughed the evening away. Before Mulder knew it, it was nearly eleven o’clock. He looked at his watch and cursed. “Sorry guys,” he said. “It’s been fun but I’ve got to go. I’ve got work in the morning and then my therapy appointment in the afternoon.”

The Gunmen understood and they all said their goodbyes with some handshakes and hugs and back-slapping. Then Mulder was out the door and back out into the moist, warm air. He didn’t bother putting his jacket on since the rain had let up and tossed it on the passenger seat of his Cutlass before putting the key in the ignition and heading for home. The drive, thankfully, wasn’t long. Mulder was tired from his social interaction, but as he got out of the car all of his senses woke up and went on alert. A person’s shadow had darted around the corner of his apartment building; he was sure of it. He reached under his shirt for his gun as he ran after the figure and swore when he didn’t find it in the small of his back. He’d forgotten to put on the holster he usually wore when not on duty which bore his personal firearm.

Despite this disadvantage, Mulder valiantly followed the shadowy presence behind his apartment building and to the alley with the dumpster. But by the time the smell of rotting garbage hit his nostrils, there was no one in sight. Breathing heavily from his pointless dash and the excitement, Mulder turned and went back to his car to lock it, keeping a wary eye for anyone else stalking him, then headed inside.

There was no one in the long hallway as he stepped cautiously out of the top of the stairwell and he breathed a sigh of relief. His keys jangled as he flipped through them to his apartment key and put it in the lock. He turned the knob and let himself into the darkened apartment. A couple of steps in, he paused. The light from the hallway revealed something square and white on his floor. He stooped to see it better and his heart began to pound. On the floor was a note. The note read, “Things are looking up.” He reached down with trembling fingers to pick up the note when out of nowhere lunged a shadow. The shadow barreled into him so hard it knocked the breath out of him and drove him across his apartment and down onto the floor in front of his desk where the intruder pulled a gun and shoved it in his face. Even in the dim light from the window, Mulder could see the intruder’s face. He froze, not because of the gun being aimed at him but in shock at who was holding the gun.

A smirking Krycek looked down at him and said, “You must be losing it, Mulder. I could beat you with one hand.”

Mulder couldn’t help himself. His sass came back to make a muddle out of their reunion, though he didn’t really feel like poking the tiger. He was still awestruck that Krycek was walking, talking, and holding a gun pointed at him. “Isn’t that how you like to beat yourself?” he asked flatly and a look of confusion crossed over Krycek’s face. Mulder instantly regretted his naughty insinuation as the gun raised slightly, aiming for his temple. “If those are my last words, I can do better,” he added hastily.

Krycek shook his head slightly and his lips turned up at the corners. This close, Mulder could do nothing but focus on Krycek’s face, those beautiful eyes, mesmerizing even in the shadows. No wonder they’d shaken him out of his programming. “I’m not here to kill you, Mulder. I’m here to help you.”

With a gun to my face? thought Mulder. Now there’s irony. But then he supposed he deserved it. His body, which had started to ratchet into flight-or-fight mode, began to tremble slightly under the weight of his oppressor and his breath caught. Yes, he deserved anything Krycek sent his way because of what he’d done to the lowly rat. But apparently, sarcasm was his only defense at the moment so he tried to keep his voice from shaking when he said, “Hey, thanks.”

Krycek tilted his head and inched closer, his eyes narrowing. “You know, if it wasn’t in my best interests, I would just as soon squeeze this trigger,” he hissed.

“I’d let you,” said Mulder fervently. “I deserve it.”

Krycek gave him a quizzical look and shifted so his body weight wasn’t fully pinning Mulder to the floor. “What do you mean you deserve it? You want me to shoot you?” Mulder shook his head.

“No, I don’t want you to blow my goddamned head off, but it’s what I deserve. Krycek… Alex, you have to know how horrible I feel about what happened between us while we were drones,” Mulder croaked out, shaking his head again. “I’ve waited so long to give you an apology but it just doesn’t seem adequate. Nevertheless, I am sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for…”

“Yes, I do. Krycek, I raped you. There’s no excuse for that,” said Mulder breathlessly. The assassin went utterly still and Mulder saw Krycek’s jaw tense. Mulder went on before Krycek could reply. “You remember the hospital? Do you remember me reading to you? I was trying to make things up to you, to say I was sorry for doing those horrible things to you.”

Krycek’s voice lowered to a near whisper as he said, “Yeah, I remember. Thanks, buddy.” He didn’t sound all that grateful, which Mulder could understand, but his sarcasm still stung.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, Mulder’s eyes never leaving Krycek’s. Eventually, Mulder asked softly, “Where does this leave us?”

“There is no ‘us,’ Mulder,” Krycek sneered and Mulder’s heart fell, though he didn’t know what he’d expected from his fellow ex drone. His apology had been dismissed. Apparently, Krycek intended to bury what happened to him at the dronification facility and in the Syndicate meeting room and never let it see the light of day again. Before Mulder could muster another try at getting Krycek to open up, Krycek launched into a dire warning of epic proportions. “Hear this, Agent Mulder: Listen very carefully because what I’m telling you is deadly serious. There is a war raging, and unless you pull your head out of your ass, you and I and about five billion other people are going to go the way of the dinosaur. I’m talking planned invasion. The colonization of this planet by an extraterrestrial race.”

Mulder’s eyes widened and he let out a nervous laugh but then he saw the look on Krycek’s face and said, “You’re serious?”

Krycek nodded. “Kazakhstan, Skyland Mountain, the site in Pennsylvania. They’re all alien lighthouses where the colonization will begin but where, now, a battle’s being waged, a struggle for heaven and Earth where there is one law: fight or die and one rule: resist or serve.”

“Serve who?” Mulder was enraptured and terrified. Krycek’s warning rang through his head, more sinister than the dronification program and more far-reaching than any pitiful attempt at creating the perfect human slave that the Syndicate could come up with.

“Not who, what,” Krycek corrected. After a beat, he added, “You’re being followed. Do you know that?”

“Yeah, by you,” said Mulder.

“No, not me. Someone else. That’s why I’m here as a friend,” insisted Krycek and Mulder gave the gun a glance.

“I’m supposed to believe you’re my friend when you stick a gun to my chest?” asked Mulder in disbelief. Ironically, he recognized it as his own gun, the one he’d forgotten that night in its holster when he’d gone out. Krycek seemed to reconsider his actions and backed off a little.

“Get up,” he murmured and Mulder shifted slowly so he was sitting leaning against his desk chair. Once Mulder was reasonably comfortable, Krycek went on. “I was sent by a man, a man who knows as I do that resistance is in our grasp, and in yours. You heard about the recent mass incinerations?” Mulder nodded slowly. It was what he’d been trying to research in those MUFON newsletters along with the abductions. The incinerations had been all over the news, too, decried as some kind of UFO-cult self-immolations like the Heaven’s Gate suicides the year before. Mulder had been too busy with the Painter and Baltimore cases to investigate but now… “They were strikes by an alien rebellion to upset plans for occupation,” Krycek went on. “Now, one of these rebels is being held captive. And if he dies, so does the resistance.” Before Mulder could absorb Krycek’s words, Krycek leaned forward and pressed his lips hard to Mulder’s cheek then Krycek sat up, uncocked the gun, and dangled it by the trigger guard, offering it to Mulder who took it with numb fingers. Krycek rose from the floor, stared down at Mulder, and said something to him in Russian that sounded a lot like a final farewell. Then he was gone from Mulder’s apartment while Mulder was still trying to process the kiss that burned against his cheek.

Mulder sat on the floor for a long time contemplating that kiss, his cock rising in his jeans as he remembered having sex with Krycek on the expensive, hand-woven carpet in the Syndicate’s meeting room. He put his head back against his desk chair and let out a soft moan as shame coursed through him. He had wanted to apologize to Krycek, to get him to understand that he felt guilty about sexually abusing him but here he was getting aroused on the memory of pushing his bio-latex covered cock into that tight, barely lubed passage. Mulder looked down at the gun in his hand. The safety was on. He thumbed it back and forth: off, on, off, on. His erection didn’t go away, even at the thought of blowing his brains out. Had Alex forgiven him? He didn’t know and probably never would, but it seemed that the man was willing to let him live and trusted him to go save this alien rebel. Mulder’s hands shook. He put the gun down, drew his knees up toward his chest, and put his hands over his face, the crumpled note Krycek had left him still in his right hand. After a time, he lowered his hands and unfurled the note.

“Things are looking up.” Was it some kind of code as to the rebel alien’s whereabouts? Mulder tried to decipher it but failed, his mind not able to focus on logical permutations of the simple sentence. Maybe it had just been a taunt, a way to get him distracted so Krycek had been able to catch him off guard enough to tackle him. Frustrated, Mulder turned over the little piece of paper and his eyes widened. On the back was one word.

“Walter, I need you. Could you please come over? It’s important,” said Mulder into the phone. His voice was level, calm, but inside he was anything but calm. In fact, he was on the verge of a panic attack. He could feel his limbs going numb at the extremities, his skin exuding fear-sweat, and his breathing increasing in a delayed reaction to his Krycek encounter as he listened to his lover say that he’d be right over.

“Hang in there, Mulder,” said Skinner as a goodbye and hung up the phone.

The wait was interminable. Mulder sprawled himself on the couch, his safe place, and closed his eyes, trying to count and steady his breathing. By the time Skinner arrived and let himself in with a spare key Mulder had given him a little while ago, Mulder was mostly calm.

“Are you okay?” asked Skinner quietly, seeing Mulder sitting there in the dark. He came over to the couch and stood looking down at Mulder who stared off into space.

“Just dandy,” said Mulder in his patented monotone. Skinner tried to wait patiently for Mulder to explain why he had called Skinner to come over in the middle of the night. But after a long silence, Skinner decided to try to coax Mulder out of his reverie.

“What are you thinking?” he asked Mulder.

Mulder rocked his head against the back of the couch. “Oh, the usual. Destiny. Fate. How to throw a curve ball. The inextricable relationships in our lives that are neither accidental nor somehow in our control, either.”

Skinner grew concerned. Mulder seemed to be rambling. The larger man tucked his keys in his jacket pocket, walked around Mulder’s coffee table, and took a seat beside Mulder on the couch, angled to face him. Mulder still hadn’t looked him in the eye. “Fox, tell me what’s wrong,” he cajoled.

“Krycek was here,” said Mulder and Skinner’s whole body tensed. A range of emotions passed over him, his concern for Mulder’s safety morphing into hate for Krycek and then anger that he hadn’t been there to protect Mulder and arrest the rat bastard. His worry and ire grew when Mulder explained as though he were passing on the weather forecast how Krycek had broken into his apartment and had lain in wait for him. He told Skinner how Krycek had both threatened him and also claimed to be offering important information like that he was being followed and that he had a mission for Mulder.

“I tried to get him to talk about what happened when we were brainwashed. He didn’t respond,” said Mulder in a desultory manner.

“Mulder, he held a gun to your head,” said Skinner, trying to point out the obvious danger Mulder had been in.

“I know,” whispered Mulder and held the note out to Skinner. Skinner took it and looked at the words, “Things are looking up.”

“What’s this?” Mulder took the note out of his hand for a second and flipped it over, handing it back. Skinner looked at it again. “‘Wiekamp’? As in the air force base?” He looked quizzically at Mulder.

“Krycek gave that to me,” said Mulder. “He expects me to go there and rescue some alien rebel who’s key to preventing the mass invasion of Earth by extraterrestrials.”

“Mulder,” Skinner said breathlessly. He couldn’t believe it. Was his lover going to go off chasing aliens at a time like this? Mulder finally looked him in the eye and pointed at the note.

“Skyland Mountain? Kazakhstan? Ruskin Dam? Those names ring a bell?”

Skinner swallowed. “The mass burnings…”

“And abductions. And UFO sightings.”

“The Bureau investigated Skyland and Ruskin Dam. They were just cults of deluded people…” Mulder and Scully hadn’t investigated Skyland Mountain or Ruskin Dam. The mass immolations of dozens of people had happened when Mulder was just getting out of the hospital.

“No. They were all abductees,” said Mulder firmly and sat up, turning to face Skinner. “I think I have to go.”

“Don’t go, please,” said Skinner and reached up to touch Mulder’s cheek. He unknowingly touched the place where Krycek had kissed Mulder and Mulder turned his head with a blush. He hadn’t mentioned the kiss to Skinner and had no intention of doing so. He swallowed. “I worry about your safety,” Skinner went on. “That bastard said you were being followed, and if Krycek can get in here…”

“It’s okay,” said Mulder. “I don’t need protection.”

“But what if this is a trap?” asked Skinner, holding up the piece of paper with “Wiekamp” printed on the back. Mulder’s eyes pierced Skinner’s and Mulder put a hand on Skinner’s knee.

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Mulder.

Skinner shook his head in disbelief and then his face hardened. “No, Mulder. I won’t let you do this.”

“You can’t stop me,” said Mulder, his voice becoming harsher in response to Skinner’s ultimatum. He moved his hand from Skinner’s knee and stood up. He was about to go get his gun so he could leave for the base but Skinner stood and grabbed him by the bicep. Mulder froze.

“Please, Fox, don’t,” begged Skinner.

“Let go,” said Mulder tersely. Skinner eased his grip, realizing that his restraining of Mulder might trigger a panic response. He instantly regretted his rash action and let go as Mulder had said. Mulder went over to his desk and picked up his gun that he’d put there after Krycek left. He checked the clip and made sure the safety was still on.

“I love you, Fox,” said Skinner and Mulder froze on his way to grab his holster from the hook by the door where he hung his jackets. “I’m asking you not to go to Wiekamp, for me, for us.” Mulder looked at him and Skinner came closer, trying not to crowd his lover but also wanting to be near so he could impress upon Mulder how much he cared about him.

In the streetlight coming through Mulder’s living room window, Mulder’s hazel eyes shone. Something passed between the two men who stood only a few feet apart in the doorway of Mulder’s living area. “I love you, too,” whispered Mulder tenderly.

“Give me the gun,” whispered Skinner and held out his hand. After only a brief hesitation, Mulder handed it over and Skinner put it on the dining table. He returned to stand before his lover and reached out to cup his hand around the side of Mulder’s neck, his thumb buried in the soft hair at the base of Mulder’s skull. He leaned forward and drew their faces together. Mulder went easily, his own hands rising and settling around Skinner’s waist. Their lips met and Mulder’s eyes closed instantly, squeezing out a couple of tears he’d been suppressing. Skinner kissed him gently but fervently, pausing only to breathe now and again. Mulder responded with soft sounds of pleasure, excitement, and overwhelming want as his lover and he explored each other’s mouths. Skinner’s other hand ended up cupping the opposite side of Mulder’s neck and face, caressing Mulder’s jaw and feeling it move up and down in a sensual motion that echoed their increasingly passionate kisses.

After a few minutes of this, Skinner gently drew Mulder into the bedroom and closed the door behind them with a kick of his booted foot. He turned Mulder and guided him backward toward the bed. Mulder began to pull and tug at Skinner’s clothing to remove it. Skinner did the same with Mulder’s. Hands stopped to caress newly bared skin. Mouths descended to place a kiss here or there on any part that looked kissable. Skinner breathed in the scent of Mulder’s overworked but still kicking deodorant as he pulled Mulder’s t-shirt over Mulder’s head. Mulder petted Skinner’s shiny balding head, fingers playing lightly with the fringe of hair still clinging to the back of it. Skinner toed off his boots and Mulder bent to remove his sneakers then they picked up where they had left off and together they lay down on the bed, Skinner draped over one side of Mulder like a particularly amorous blanket. The weight of him reassured and comforted Mulder.

The big man ran a palm down Mulder’s nude torso, watching as Mulder’s muscles rippled in tune to his touch. He sucked a love mark over one of Mulder’s clavicles while Mulder moaned and stroked over Skinner’s still-clothed back. Skinner’s shirt, a plaid button down, hung open. Mulder’s other hand found Skinner’s right nipple and gave it an exploratory tweak. Skinner grunted and responded by sucking on one of Mulder’s own nipples. Mulder arched into the stimulation, gasping, and Skinner’s hand wound its way down to Mulder’s fly. He stopped. Mulder wasn’t hard. He raised his head and looked down at Mulder who lay panting, seemingly aroused and yet not aroused.

“We don’t have to do this,” murmured Skinner, searching Mulder’s eyes in the gloom of the bedroom.

“No, I wanna do this,” said Mulder, “I really, really want to do this.”

“But you’re not…”

“Sh, come here big boy,” said Mulder both soothingly and seductively. He wrapped his arms around Skinner again and pulled Skinner down into another feverish kiss. This time it was Skinner’s turn to pull away with a shake of his head.

“Mulder, I can’t. I can’t knowing you’re not getting any pleasure out of this,” said Skinner and sat up to lean against the headboard of the bed. His cock ached in his pants but he would rather shoot himself in the foot than force himself on Mulder. He took a deep breath and tried to think of unsexy things to make his boner go down but it wasn’t easy with the object of his affections lying so near and half undressed. Mulder looked up at him and raised himself so he was sitting astride Skinner’s lap. He looked down at Skinner with hooded eyes and rubbed his jean-covered ass against Skinner’s crotch. Skinner groaned.

“I do want this,” said Mulder in a low voice and he leaned down to meld Skinner’s lips with his own.

“God, Mulder,” said Skinner breathlessly when they parted. He rubbed his hand over Mulder’s hip and thigh. “Are you sure?” he asked worriedly. His cock throbbed when Mulder put a hand over it.

“Positive,” said Mulder and unfastened Skinner’s pants. He rooted around in Skinner’s briefs for Skinner’s member and drew it out with a cunning smile. “Haven’t seen you for a while,” he said to Skinner’s cock and Skinner barked a laugh, relaxing a little. Mulder chuckled and slinked down the bed so he was face-to-face with the blunt, weeping erection. Skinner gasped and gripped the headboard as Mulder licked a long swath up the underside of his veined shaft and then put his lips around the head, giving it a little suck. Skinner’s hand found the back of Mulder’s head. He didn’t push or pull, just held it there while Mulder began a slow, sensual blow job that caused Skinner to writhe and moan like he hadn’t in bed in years. Mulder alternated between a delicate lapping technique, random shallow and then deep siphons, and using his hand to extend the pleasure and give his throat a momentary break while he kissed and ran his moist lips over Skinner’s tip. Skinner watched all this with lowered eyelids, amazed at his lover’s expertise. It didn’t occur to him that that expertise had been programmed into Mulder. All he could think of was how good it felt and how he wanted to do the same to Mulder when Mulder was finished. Mulder let go of Skinner’s cock suddenly and opened wide, inhaling the whole of Skinner’s length. Skinner let out a loud gasp and his hand clenched in Mulder’s hair. Mulder’s head bobbed as he deep throated Skinner effortlessly and Skinner gritted his teeth.

“Cumming!” he gasped when he couldn’t hold back any longer and he felt the simultaneous spurt of his own semen and the muscles of Mulder’s throat working to take it all in. After another couple of long sucks to make sure he’d gotten every drop, Mulder pulled off with a gasp and licked his lips. Skinner breathed hard, his hand gone from Mulder’s head but still reaching out to grasp what was no longer there. He looked at his lover and lowered his hand to the bed. “That was amazing,” panted Skinner. “Gimmie five minutes and I’ll return the favor.” He grinned. Mulder gave him a forced smile and curled his long limbs up against his chest, hugging his knees with both arms.

“You don’t have to. I’m good,” said Mulder. Skinner frowned.

“God, Mulder. Are you sure? I feel like I’m taking advantage here,” he said and sat up straighter, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up. Mulder sniffed and rested his head on his knees. Skinner watched him and his heart ached to see Mulder so upset. He put his left hand on Mulder’s hunched back and drew him into a hug, tucking Mulder’s head under his chin. Mulder’s shoulders shook with silent sobs and Skinner hushed him, rubbing his right hand over Mulder’s upper arm. After a while, Skinner kissed the top of Mulder’s head and murmured, “Thank you, darlin’. That was wonderful. Are you sure you don’t want me to reciprocate?” He felt Mulder’s head shake against his chest and neck. Mulder was on the verge of telling Skinner how the level of his pleasure was dependent on whether or not he pictured himself as a drone while they made out but didn’t want that dark fantasy to come between them and mar their relationship. He pictured the look on Skinner’s face if he told him that he’d prefer to fuck in a bio-latex suit with a mask over his face and shuddered. Skinner mistook his physical reaction and backtracked his offer. “Okay, it’s okay. We don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable. I love you.”

“I love you too,” whispered Mulder, his voice muffled by Skinner’s body. He reached up a hand and clung to Skinner’s shirtsleeve. “I love you,” he said a little louder but not much. Now that he’d said it, he wanted to never stop saying it and if he told Skinner his dirty new sexual fetish he might not be allowed to say it any longer. So he decided to take comfort in what he could have so he didn’t have to face that awful rejection.

Skinner spent the night and this time Mulder slept with him in the double bed. It was a narrow fit for the two large men but it meant that Mulder could keep his lover close. In the morning, instead of following Krycek’s breadcrumbs to Wiekamp Air Force Base, Mulder got showered and dressed for work. Skinner watched him from the living room as he passed in and out of the bathroom several times. “I think you’re making the right decision,” commented Skinner as Mulder tightened the knot on his outlandish, puke-colored tie and straightened his shirt collar. Skinner came up to him and brushed some stray lint from Mulder’s shirtfront and Mulder thanked him quietly. Mulder then looked up into Skinner’s eyes and they studied each other.

“I still think I should go. If what Krycek said is true, then don’t you think we have an obligation to free the alien rebel?”

“I think,” said Skinner, running his hand from Mulder’s chest to his shoulder, “that it’s not your job to save the planet and anyone who tells you differently is trying to sell you something.”

“But if not me, then who?”

“Krycek has all the information. Why send you when he could just go himself?” Skinner asked and Mulder had to admit the man had a point. Nevertheless, making the decision to ignore Krycek’s warning and go in to work was one of the most difficult Mulder had ever made. He sighed and nodded and basked in the glow of the smile Skinner gave him. “You done in there, prima donna?” asked Skinner, pointing to the bathroom.

“Yeah, I’m done,” said Mulder and kissed Skinner on the side of the mouth. He watched Skinner disappear into the small room to take his own morning shower. Skinner was going to be late to work anyway. He still had to return to his own apartment and change into his work clothes. Mulder considered the closet in the guest room. It was still pretty full even after his little OCD cleaning spree when he’d gotten out of the hospital, but he thought he might be able to clear up some space in there to house some of Skinner’s clothes in case something like this ever happened again. Hell, he’d already given Walter a spare key to his place, so what was room for a few suit jackets and trousers? That warm feeling that Mulder loved so very much crested inside his chest and put a verve in his step as he grabbed a travel mug of coffee from the kitchen and left Skinner a quick note on the dining table where Skinner was sure to see it:

Dear Walter,

You’re wrong. It is my job to save the world. See you at work.

Love,

Fox

Mulder hoped he hadn’t just confused his lover but there was something in everything that had happened lately that gave Mulder an inkling of things to come. If pressed, he wouldn’t be able to explain it, but it was there and he had wanted to express it somehow. He kissed the note before setting it on the table and scooting out the door to his car. He didn’t want to be late.

“Why didn’t you arrest him, Mulder!” exclaimed Scully after Mulder had arrived at work, sat her down in their office, and told her the whole Krycek story.

Mulder stood with his hands on his hips and gave her a look. “Did you miss the part where I said he had a gun pointed at me?”

“Not the whole time,” she countered and stood up, trying to be on more equal footing with him as she stared him down… up. “You said that he gave your gun back to you at the end and you just… let him walk out. How could you, Mulder?”

Mulder hadn’t told Scully about the kiss, either. She still was unaware of the guilt he bore for having had non-consensual sex with Krycek, but there was no way he was about to explain all that to her now. Besides, Krycek’s kiss had burned away some of that guilt. It had been his forgiveness, he supposed. He just exhaled roughly and let go of his hips. “I was in shock. All those things he told me about someone following me, the alien invasion, and the rebel alien being held at Wiekamp. I think you’d be in shock, too.” He pointed at her.

She gestured to the floor. “He is a murderer and a traitor and now he’s invaded your space and threatened you…”

“He came to warn me,” he cut her off. “Warn us.”

“And how are we supposed to stop these bad aliens? How is freeing one man, one extraterrestrial,” she practically scoffed, “supposed to prevent a full-scale invasion? It sounds a little too much like Star Wars to me. I think Krycek is just pulling your strings, Mulder, and you’re letting him.”

Mulder shook his head. “No I’m not. I didn’t go to Wiekamp like he implied I should. I restrained myself. Well, Walter talked me out of it, but it’s the same thing.”

“Well I’m glad you listened to the voice of reason at least,” she murmured and threw up her hand. “God, I can’t believe all this.”

“What are you more angry about, that Krycek isn’t catatonic anymore or that the human race faces immanent extinction?” asked Mulder partly facetiously. Scully crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the evil eye.

“I can’t believe that you are giving someone you used to hate more than I do a free pass,” she intoned, wrath just below the cool surface of her voice.

“I thought you’d given up your animosity toward Krycek,” Mulder countered, remembering their conversation in his apartment a few months ago when he’d first told her he was going to read to the catatonic Krycek.

“It was contingent upon his condition at the time and how much I saw that you letting your hatred go was helping you,” replied Scully. Mulder bobbed his head, acknowledging the fact that Scully had a right to her feelings.

“I’m sorry, Scully. I don’t want you to be mad at me,” he said contritely. She continued to glare for a moment and then her expression softened and she sighed.

“I’m not mad at you,” she relented and put her arms down. “I just worry about you, about your safety, and about this new mess that someone is trying very hard to put you in the middle of. You said Skinner talked you out of going to Wiekamp. Is that a permanent decision?” She raised an eyebrow.

Mulder crossed the office, pulled out his desk chair, and sat back in it, legs crossed and hand poised with a pencil in it. “What do you think?” he asked. He tapped the eraser end against the desk a few times while Scully thought about the situation.

Finally she said slowly, “I think that the old Mulder would have run off to the air force base already and gotten himself into all kinds of trouble.”

“An astute assessment,” said Mulder. He would have done just as she said prior to his abduction. Now he wasn’t so keen to rush in to danger.

“But I also think this is going to eat away at you until you come up with a solution,” she added and perched on the edge of his desk, looking down at him.

“Maybe,” he said.

“Mulder?”

“Yes, Scully?”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I may not have to do anything,” said Mulder, leaning forward and looking up at her. It was a rare vantage point and he appreciated it while he could. “If I’m right, there are much larger forces at play here than just Krycek being a delivery boy of information. Trouble might come find me rather than the other way around.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” disapproved Scully.

“I know, but for now I’m trying to play the long game. Should we see what new cases Walter’s tossed our way this week?”

Scully raised a graceful eyebrow and shifted off his desk. He mourned the loss of her proximity but she took his mind off his disappointment when she slapped a thick dossier on Mulder’s desk and jabbed a nicely manicured fingernail at it. “Skinner hasn’t given us anything so we’re reopening a case that got buried back in 1979 because a couple more bodies have been found that match the MO of the person or persons who committed the three original murders.”

“Ooh, Scully! You’re turning me on!” Mulder said and pulled the old X-File closer.

“Save it for Walter,” grumbled Scully regarding his enthusiastic flirting and Mulder was glad to see that her earlier anger over the Krycek thing seemed to have simmered down.

He knew the file in front of him. He put on his reading glasses and opened to the top facts sheet. He practically purred. “Looks like the Tennessee Twister has struck again.” The fresh kills and the three victims who had been found back in ’79 had all had their lumbar spines twisted so that their torsos were facing the wrong way while they were still alive. The official cause of death, however, was strangulation. No one could figure out how the murderer had had the strength to do something like completely rotate a human being’s torso like that and the case had gone unsolved when no evidence led anywhere and no suspects had turned up. The murderer had been called the “Tennessee Twister” because the first two murders had occurred in that state before the killer had moved south into Georgia. The two new bodies had been found in a dump in Delaware and an abandoned sand pit in Pennsylvania.

Over the next hour or so, Mulder and Scully sat down and chewed over the facts of the case, looking for answers and trying to come up with a legitimate course of action.

“I say we visit the dump,” said Mulder, taking off his glasses and tossing them on his desk. Scully dipped her chin and didn’t say anything. “What? You don’t like our nation’s fine landfills?”

“It’s in Delaware, Mulder,” she pointed out and he shrugged. “In Wilmington, where the dronification facility was,” she added gently.

“And you think I can’t handle going there again,” stated Mulder. He slapped the pages of the case file shut and sat back in his chair. “You’d rather go to pretty PA where there’s less chance I’ll have a nervous breakdown.”

“No,” drawled Scully and looked over at him, “that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” he bit back. On the one hand, she was justified in her concern over him; he still had PTSD and could, conceivably, have issues if something triggered him while they were in Delaware. On the other hand, he couldn’t just leave stones unturned on an investigation because he might have a panic attack. Besides, it would get him out of Washington and possibly away from whoever Krycek had said was following him. Then again, so would going to Pennsylvania. But he resented her trying to talk him out of going to Delaware like he was some hysteric.

“All I’m saying is maybe we should go to Philadelphia first. Something there might solve the case for us and we wouldn’t have to go to Delaware at all,” answered Scully.

“Scully,” began Mulder with a new gleam in his eye, “did you know that a fireball was reported over Kecksburg, Pennsylvania in 1965? That this same fireball was witnessed over Ontario, Canada and Detroit, Michigan on the same night? And that there were differing reports as to what this object was? Some say it was a meteor burning up in Earth’s atmosphere. Others say it was a Soviet satellite. Many people still believe it was an alien craft.”

“Are you going somewhere with this Mulder?”

He held up a finger and grinned. “Fragments of the object were found at a crash site and supposedly determined to be said satellite but the records of the findings were lost by 1987. Both the military and NASA have been accused of a cover up. Since then, people have been calling the incident ‘Pennsylvania’s Roswell.’”

“Your point?”

“My point is that you’re right, we should go to Pennsylvania first,” said Mulder as he reached in his desk for a 302 form for Skinner to sign.

“Mulder, Kecksburg is not Philadelphia,” said Scully, “and we’d be going there to solve a series of murders that has nothing to do with UFOs.”

“I know,” said Mulder as he filled out the form.

“Well then what was that all about?” she asked with a note of exasperation in her voice.

“Nothing,” said Mulder as he signed the bottom of the 302 and handed it over to her to sign. She scribbled her name at the bottom, glancing over his notes on the form. Nothing on it mentioned anything about UFOs or extraterrestrials. “I just wanted to educate you about the wonderful state we’re about to fly to. By the way, Wilmington is closer than Philly, but we can always hit it on the way back.” She stared after him as he darted out of the office to the elevator with a boyish grin on his face.

Skinner clicked his pen a couple of times as he read over the 302. Then he set the pen and paper down on his desk and looked at Mulder who sat waiting for him to sign it. “This’ll be the first time you’re flying out anywhere after your abduction,” Skinner said. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? We have other cases, ones where you wouldn’t have to leave Washington…”

“Not X-Files, sir,” Mulder interrupted him. “This is an X-File. That’s what Scully and I do, solve X-Files.”

Skinner’s mouth flapped as he tried to come up with an argument. He finally said, “I understand that there are some elements of this case that are unexplained but it’s still a murder case. I could put other agents on it.” He felt the burn as Mulder practically glared two holes in his skull.

“Like who, sir?” ground out Mulder.

“Well,” said Skinner, “not Waterhouse and Ellison. They’re busy in a renewed effort to track down Krycek since there has been a recent sighting of him.”

Mulder sat up straight and opened his mouth to protest but Skinner held up a hand. “I had to, Mulder. I can’t just let him get off Scott free, especially since he just tried to involve you in some shady goings on.” He lowered his hand again and Mulder rubbed his mouth.

“What did you tell them?” he said tightly.

“That someone fitting Krycek’s description had been seen near your apartment complex a couple of nights ago, that’s all.”

“That’s all,” repeated Mulder. “Goddamn it, Walter!” He slammed his fist onto Skinner’s desk and stood up to pace between the visitor chairs and the conference table. “He’s their victim! Can’t you see that? He’s my victim.”

“And that doesn’t excuse his actions!” snapped Skinner, rising behind his desk and pointing at it. “We’ve talked about this before. Are we always going to be on opposite sides of the fence over this?” When Mulder didn’t answer him but just continued to pace and fume silently, Skinner added his usual refrain of, “I have a job to do, and so do you.”

“Then sign the fucking 302,” hissed Mulder and grabbed the paper, shoving it at Skinner.

“You are out of line, Agent!” Skinner barked.

“Go to hell!” Mulder flung the paper behind him in a dramatic swoosh and stormed out of Skinner’s office. “Lover my ass,” he grumbled on his way to the elevators. Several people in the hallway stared at him as he strode by them but he ignored their funny looks. In a blind rage, he stabbed the elevator button over and over and when the elevator didn’t arrive quickly enough for him he skipped it and hurried for the stairs.

Down in the basement he stopped in the hall to pace and take a few deep breaths, his hands clenching and unclenching, before he schooled himself and walked into his shared office. “We’re not going to Pennsylvania,” he said flatly to Scully who sat with the case file open in front of her comparing autopsy results from the 1979 victims and the recent ones. She looked up as he drifted over to his desk and stood with his hands on top of it, staring blankly down at the computer keyboard.

“What happened? Skinner wouldn’t sign it?” she asked, confused and worried at the sight of his tense shoulders and trembling arms. He worried her even more when he just shrugged in answer to her questions and then exploded into action. He grabbed the wastepaper basket from beside his desk and slammed it into the file cabinet behind him with an inarticulate roar. “Mulder! Mulder, calm down!” cried an alarmed Scully and held up a hand. She got up from her chair as he proceeded to abuse the hapless basket, crushing it beneath his shoe and scattering waste paper and sundry other bits of trash all over the floor. “Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on,” she insisted when he was about to start casting documents from his desk in his fury. She put a hand over them to stop him and he just panted for a minute until he came to his senses.

“I told Skinner to go to hell,” said Mulder breathlessly and swallowed. His mouth was unaccountably dry and he felt like he wanted to scream… again.

“Why?” asked Scully.

“He’s having his two fucking prize bloodhounds track down Krycek based on the fact that I saw him last night!” he said angrily and threw himself into his chair for all of five seconds before he got up again and started to pace, kicking balled up pieces of paper this way and that. He scratched the back of his head. Had his life always been this fucked up? That he’d defend someone like Krycek to the love of his life and to his work partner who were both sworn to see Krycek behind bars? Hell, he was sworn, too, and would have once gladly done the same as they wanted to. Should do the same if he was to keep his pledge to the FBI. But now? And this thing with the alien resistance? It was so unlike him to ignore something like that. He felt like a shadow of himself just then and it terrified him. Personality changes. Panic attacks. Triggers. Obsessive thoughts and behaviors. Thought spirals. Feelings of guilt and shame. Sexual dysfunction. Mood swings. He almost laughed at the list. Was he ever going to be normal again?

The phone rang. He ignored it, but Scully picked up and spoke quietly into it. “Yes, sir, he’s here. No, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir.” She put the phone down in its cradle and regarded Mulder who had finally stopped pacing and was standing with his arms wrapped around himself and his chin tucked toward his chest. He couldn’t meet her gaze. “Walter says you can come up and get your 302 when you’re ready,” said Scully. “He wants you to know that he’s not angry with you and that he’s very worried about you.”

Mulder let out a tittering laugh and then his face crumpled. He began to weep even though he tried his best to hold it back. He felt like he had last night in Skinner’s arms after they’d made a kind of half-love there on the double bed: worthless and broken. Scully got up, put a hand on his back, and rubbed it. When this only prompted more tears, she pulled him into a hug. “I don’t deserve him,” sniffed Mulder. “I don’t.”

“Sh, of course you do,” said Scully.

“We said that we loved each other for the first time last night,” said Mulder, his voice pitching high and wavering vulnerably.

“That’s good. It’s about damn time.”

He shook his head. “I’ve blown it now, though, haven’t I?” he asked, separating from her and palming his eyes dry. His face burned. He had always been an ugly crier and didn’t like anyone to see him cry, but he’d cried so much over the past few months that he’d almost gotten used to having an audience. But now… now he felt that keen embarrassment again and hid his reddened nose in a tissue he snagged from Scully’s side of his desk.

“You haven’t blown it, Mulder!” she snorted. “Couples have arguments all the time and make up. Didn’t you ever fight with what’s her name? That stuck up Greene woman?”

“Phoebe?” he asked, hiccoughing as he tried to steady his breathing and get rid of accumulated mucus.

“Yeah, that one,” said Scully.

“Uh, actually, we weren’t together long enough to fight and we weren’t, uh, we didn’t…. We were more like friends with benefits,” answered Mulder. He didn’t want to tell her that Phoebe had broken his heart once upon a time. Back then, he’d thought he’d found his forever girl, but then she’d played her mind games with him and he couldn’t tolerate it. She’d called him a poor excuse for a man when he told her to knock it off and then she’d dumped him. Mulder crouched, picked up the squashed wastepaper basket, and undented it as best he could. Then he began to scoop the bits and pieces of trash back into it.

“Ah,” said Scully at his little revelation. “Still, lots of couples fight. You and Skinner won’t be the first and you won’t be the last. And it’s not like this is even the first time you and he have had a difference of opinion.”

“Yeah but what if…” Mulder stood and put the basket back next to the desk. It was a little worse for wear after his tirade but it still served its purpose.

“What if what?”

“N-Nothing,” said Mulder. “I just had a thought, that’s all. I’d better get back upstairs and apologize for taking it out on the boss-man.”

“Yeah, I think you’d better,” she smiled at him. He couldn’t help smiling back.

“Thanks, Scully,” he said fondly.

“What for?”

“Just for being here.”

“Fox,” said Skinner softly, looking over his shoulder at the tentative knock on his open office door. He stood behind his desk and said, “Come in and shut the door.” Mulder swallowed and obeyed, approaching Skinner’s desk with no small amount of trepidation.

“I’m sorr…”

“Mulder I’m…”

They spoke at the same time and Mulder stopped, gesturing for Skinner to go first.

Skinner gave a short nod and went on. “Mulder I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you upside the head about Waterhouse and Ellison following up on Krycek like that. And I apologize for shouting at you.”

“I deserved it, sir,” said Mulder. “And I’m sorry, too. I overreacted. You have every right to discipline me.”

Skinner’s eyebrows rose. “Discipline you?” he nearly laughed. “If I disciplined every agent that shouted at me the whole department would be permanently riding desks.”

“That’s hardly tr…”

“Fox, listen,” Skinner interrupted Mulder’s protest by coming over and putting his hands on Mulder’s shoulders. He looked at Mulder’s hurt and guilty expression with compassion and longing. “Are you sure you’re ready to go to Philadelphia?” he asked Mulder. Mulder thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “All right. I have your 302. Be careful out there.” He patted Mulder’s arms and went over to his desk where he picked up the 302 form for Mulder to bring down to accounts. He held it out for Mulder to take and Mulder did so like the paper was gold. “Good luck. I’ll look forward to seeing you when you get home.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Mulder around a lump in his throat. Skinner was acting kind to him but he still wasn’t sure where their relationship stood. “I, uh, l-love you,” he whispered. Skinner smiled, relieving him of some of his emotional burden.

Skinner stepped close into Mulder’s space and looked him over before whispering, “I love you, too, darlin’. Now go solve your case.”

“I will. I-I mean, we will,” said Mulder with a blush. He and Skinner were so close. All he had to do was lean forward a few inches and he’d be kissing his lover on the lips. The temptation was overwhelming, but this was the FBI. If they were caught “fraternizing…” Hell, they’d already broken protocol just admitting their love for each other out loud in the workplace. Mulder forced himself to take a step back and held up the 302. “Thank you, Walter. I really appreciate this.”

Skinner smiled and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” This made Mulder laugh and he stood a moment just giving Skinner the once-over. Apparently Skinner was doing the same because he cleared his throat loudly and said, “That will be all, Agent Mulder.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mulder in a much more cheerful voice than he had when he’d first entered. “I’ll call you when we get to Philly.” Skinner nodded as Mulder backed out of his office and closed the door gently behind him. Skinner let out a groan. He’d so wanted to throw Mulder down on the conference table and make love to him but it was those kinds of thoughts that could get them both into hot water with the top brass should they be discovered. Besides, Mulder still had to be handled with kid gloves in the sex department. He walked stiffly over to his desk and adjusted himself as he sat down. He’d just have to wait until his lover came home; that was all.

After dropping the 302 off in accounts, Mulder went down to the basement. Scully asked him how it went with Skinner and he told her that they were once again right as rain. She gave him a little smile and said, “Told you so.” He just grinned and picked up the phone so he could call Dr. Boswick and cancel that week’s appointment. He talked to her briefly and explained the reason he couldn’t make his regularly scheduled discussion with her.

“I’ve got a case that’s going to take me out of state. I’m not sure for how long,” he said apologetically.

“That’s all right, Mulder. As long as you’re confident you can handle the travel, we can reschedule for next week instead,” said Dr. Boswick.

“I won’t be alone,” Mulder reassured her. “My partner is coming with me.”

“Well that’s good. She can keep you out of trouble,” teased Boswick and Mulder grinned at the phone.

“Easier said than done,” he teased back and heard Dr. Boswick laugh.

“All right, Mulder, safe travels,” she said and they said their goodbyes. Then he dialed the number for Dulles International to purchase two plane tickets to Philadelphia for him and Scully. Philly was only about two and a half hours away by car but they’d save an hour and a half by taking a small commuter flight from DC. When he got off the phone he announced to her that they were scheduled to fly out early the next morning.

“Phew,” she said, looking at her watch, “we’d better get on the horn to the Philadelphia field office, then, and let them know we’re coming.”

“On it,” said Mulder and picked up the phone yet again. The rest of their day was spent speaking with their counterparts in the Philly field office and with the local PD about their imminent arrival and what they would need when they came up. Then they studied carefully the old ’79 Twister case as well as attempted to commit to memory the details of the new cases. Scully was still trying to wrap her head around how someone could twist a person’s body like that while the person were still alive without leaving any kind of damage to the extremities.

“The only thing I can think of is that they had the person in some kind of vice or caught under something and then used some kind of machine to turn them,” she said at one point. “But to do it while someone was still alive…”

“No heavy machinery,” said Mulder, his nose buried in the old case file as he studied the photos of the victims.

“Well no, you’re right, because that would have crushed the limbs or at least left heavy contusions or abrasions,” agreed Scully. When Mulder didn’t comment, she said acerbically, “Please don’t tell me you think it was trolls that did this.”

“Hm?” He looked up distractedly at her and she gave him a smile. “No, not trolls, either,” he said and she tilted her head.

“Go on. I know you’ve got a theory, so let’s hear it,” she added.

“Believe it or not, I’m just as in the dark about this as you are, Scully,” said Mulder and looked back at the case file. He took out one of the photos and rotated it ninety degrees, studying its every detail. Scully blew a lock of hair out of her face and went back to re-reading the autopsy results for each victim, beginning with the first one found in 1979. It was as she was reading that something jumped out at her regarding the tox screen.

“Mulder?” she asked, pointing to the first victim’s autopsy report.

“Mm.”

“Come look at this,” she said and kept a finger on the tox screen while she dug through the other autopsy reports for the other victims. Sure enough, there was the same result in each one. “This is really odd.”

“What is?” asked Mulder and came to stand and look over her shoulder at what she was pointing at.

“All of the victims had a high level of ergotamine in their blood at the time of death,” she said.

“Ergotamine?”

“Yeah, it comes from a toxic fungus that grows on wheat. It’s also been used for centuries as a medicine because it acts as a vasoconstrictor. Originally it was used to induce childbirth but now it’s being used to treat certain kinds of migraines,” said Scully.

“Could it have caused this kind of rotation of the body?” asked Mulder.

“I highly doubt it,” said Scully. “I mean, in high doses or prolonged exposure it can cause tingling or biting sensations in the skin like bugs are crawling on the person and cause the body to have muscle spasms. Because it’s a chemical precursor to LSD, it can occasionally cause hallucinations, too. But in order for enough vasoconstriction to happen to cause the rotation of the spine the dose would have to be ten times the lethal amount and there would be a darkening of the skin around the area of constriction; however, these numbers here indicate only high amounts, not lethal, and the bodies are otherwise unmarred by bruising except the strangulation marks around the throat.

“Huh,” said Mulder and Scully looked up at him.

“All you can say is ‘huh’?” she asked disbelievingly.

He shrugged and patted her shoulder. “Sorry, Scully, good work. We’ll have to see what it all means when we get to Philly.” Scully huffed and gave her partner the hairy eyeball as he sat back down and started playing with a pencil in between taking notes about their case.

They both left the office a little early so they could pack their overnight bags and get plenty of sleep before heading to the airport for their seven a.m. flight. Mulder, however, was too wired to go to bed at an honest hour. Instead he stayed up past ten o’clock dribbling his basketball to help him think. As usual, his mind was raveling out in a hundred different directions at once. He had so many things to think about: Krycek’s whereabouts, Krycek’s warnings, his own relationship with Skinner, what his informant had said about his personal safety being in contradiction to what Krycek had told him, the fact that he was being followed (though he hadn’t noticed anyone trailing him since Krycek had accosted him in his apartment), Scully’s findings on the Twister case, his disturbing sexual fixation on drones. Normally, Mulder would have gone for a run to clear his head, but aside from a few quick walks around his block every week right before or after work while it was still light, Mulder had not used that kind of aerobic exercise to relive his worries since his abduction; thus, the basketball. Of course, even with the basketball’s help, his mind didn’t want to settle. At ten twenty, he gave up and set the basketball next to his couch, got ready for bed, and lay down on his couch. In the dark, he turned his head and looked at the blank television screen. He’d never use it as a sleep aid again, though he had desensitized himself enough to enjoy movies and other programs on it regularly. Mulder let out a long breath and closed his eyes, trying to ease into sleep. It took a while, but he did fall into a deep, dreamless sleep only to be awakened in the wee hours of the morning by the ringing of his land line.

“Ugh,” he grunted and fumbled in the dark for the phone. “H’lo,” he said sleepily, thinking it might be Skinner or even Scully. But it was Langly saying something rapidly into the phone. Mulder’s brain, still muzzy from being woken out of a dead sleep, didn’t quite catch what Langly was going on about. Mulder interrupted him and asked him to repeat what he’d just said.

“I said, a UFO has just been sighted over Wiekamp Air Force Base,” repeated Langly, sounding frustrated. Mulder’s eyes widened and he sat up straight, his hand clenching around the phone.

“What?” he asked dumbly.

A small growl emanated from Langly but he went on excitedly. “Yeah, the reports started pouring in on online chat rooms about a half hour ago. There was some major action over the skies in West Virginia. The ship is huge, according to radar. Mulder, I think you need to go investigate. This could be the one, the answer to all our questions!”

Mulder rubbed his sleep-crusted eyes and blinked a few times. “I can’t,” he said. “I have a plane to catch in a few hours.” He reached over and flicked on the light. His clock told him it was quarter to three.

“Well cancel your flight, dude,” said Langly. Mulder could almost feel his exuberance through the phone. He cleared his throat.

“No offense, but why don’t you, Byers, and Frohike investigate?” he asked.

In return, Langly gave a tittering laugh and replied, “Cause we don’t have the credentials to get into the base.”

Mulder sighed and seriously considered hopping in his car and zooming over to Wiekamp. It was what Krycek had wanted and what Mulder had yearned to do ever since Krycek had dangled that carrot in front of him. But he recalled Skinner begging him not to go and knew he had an important case to solve that he couldn’t let either Skinner or Scully down on. He did wonder if the UFO was the rebel ship or belonged to the invader aliens and must have said something out loud about it because Langly asked him what he was talking about.

“I’ll bring you up to speed later. Right now I need a couple more hours of sleep before I fly to Philadelphia,” said Mulder.

“What’s in Philadelphia?” asked Langly curiously.

“I’m chasing twisters,” said Mulder with a grin.

“But Philly isn’t in twister country,” said Langly and Mulder chuckled.

“I’ll explain that later, too. Do me a favor and call me if you get any more reports of UFOs in that area. I want to keep an eye on any activity there,” said Mulder and Langly agreed. Mulder sat back on the couch after he’d hung up the phone, his arms dangling between his spread legs. Wiekamp. Was the rebel alien now dead or had he been rescued? Mulder might never know. The yearning to go find out was strong but, realistically, by the time Mulder got there, the action might all be over. He stared at his galaxy poster on the opposite wall. How far had these aliens come just to commit cosmic warfare on Earth’s soil? And why this planet? Were there resources here that the aliens wanted that couldn’t be found on other planets? Why involve the human race at all? All these and more questions roamed Mulder’s mind until his alarm went off and he dragged himself to the bathroom for his morning piss and ablutions before getting dressed and hauling his sleep-deprived ass so he could meet Scully at the airport.

After a brief moment of arousal-tainted anxiety when the air stewards demonstrated how to put on oxygen masks should the cabin depressurize, Mulder untensed his hands from around his seat’s arm rests, shifted his hips so his semi wasn’t so obvious, and turned to Scully to tell her about Langly’s phone call. “I think the rebel alien’s buddies came down to give him a ride home,” he said to her once he’d given her the rundown.

“How can you possibly know that?” she asked doubtfully.

“I just have a feeling,” said Mulder.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t run off and start chasing that UFO,” said Scully. Then she smiled and put a hand on his arm. “I’m proud of you, Mulder. You’ve come a long way.”

He looked down at her and his lips curled up in an echo of her smile. “I guess I have, huh? I bet you’re just glad you didn’t have to come rescue me from myself,” he said. She patted his arm and moved her hand away, reaching for the in-flight magazine in the pocket of the seat in front of her.

“Well, you did say once that I needed my beauty sleep,” she answered, trying to sound serious and failing. He laughed and adjusted his seat so it reclined slightly, tucking a pillow he’d grabbed from the overhead bin under his head. He was going to try and catch a few of the winks he’d missed out on during the night even though their flight was only going to be about an hour long.

When they got to Philly, they rented a car and drove straight to the Philadelphia field office where they were met by Special Agent in Charge Bob Hanscomb. Agent Hanscomb was late forties, about Mulder’s height but wiry, with slightly balding dark brown hair and brown eyes. He had a tough look to his clean-shaven face like he’d been through several wars but his demeanor was genial. He brought them to his office and briefed them on the body they had lying in the morgue, saying he was glad they were taking over the case because it was proving to be a hell of a strange one.

“I’d imagine someone whose body is twisted like that would present a conundrum,” said Scully. Hanscomb shook his head.

“It’s not just the way the body was found,” said Hanscomb, correcting her.

“Oh?” she queried with raised brows. He held up a finger and reached for a stack of papers on his desk about an inch thick. “The crazies have really popped out of the woodwork on this one and the local PD have had hundreds of ‘tips’ offering suggestions on how the body got the way it did. Either that, or the callers are claiming responsibility for the murder. You can look through those and talk to the cops but they’re getting flooded with this crap on a daily basis.” He slapped the stack in front of Scully and she looked down at them after a glance at her partner.

“You’re aware that the general public likes to play detective?” she asked him.

Hanscomb shrugged. “Oh yeah, I’m aware. One too many re-runs of Murder She Wrote and all that. Some of the public’s theories are really out there, lemmie tell you.”

“I thought the fact of the body’s condition had been kept out of the press,” said Mulder as he pawed through the stack of “tips” from Joe Public with Scully, attempting to see what help the good citizens of the City of Brotherly Love had tried to provide. His eye caught on one theory which said that the Jersey Devil had come up from its usual hunting grounds and committed the murder. He could chalk that one down as inaccurate and impossible. He’d met the Jersey Devil and knew these murders didn’t fit her MO. Besides, the Jersey Devil was no more. He set the piece of paper aside with a sad smile at the memory.

“We didn’t say anything. There may be a leak in the Philly PD,” said Hanscomb. “It’s the only explanation.”

Mulder just hummed at this and Scully scooped up the sheaf of papers. “Mind if we take these and look through them?” she asked.

Hanscomb shrugged again. “Be my guest. But I doubt you’ll find anything useful in there,” he said.

Internally, Mulder praised his partner. Ninety-nine percent of those tips would be worthless, but there might be one in there that could lead to the killer. Sometimes killers liked to insert themselves into the investigation into their murders, even going so far as to write letters or make phone calls to the police or FBI either taunting them or providing clues as to how they committed their murders. Among the false leads and made up theories might lie a grain of truth.

Scully looked at Mulder and said, “I’d like to examine the body before we delve into this.” She held up the stack in her hand.

“Sure,” said Mulder. To Hanscomb he said, “Where’s the morgue?”

The morgue wasn’t at the FBI field office. It was several blocks downtown, closer to the police precinct that had initially handled the Pennsylvania Twister victim. It was early afternoon by the time Scully and Mulder arrived, met with the lead medical examiner, and were shown the body of one Sheila Markowitz, a bottle-blonde woman, twenty-six years old at the time of her death. The body lay partially face down on the morgue table due to her torso being so twisted. There had been no attempt to straighten the body, for which Scully was glad. She donned scrubs and gloves while Mulder stood back and watched her poke and prod and ask the ME questions.

“The tox screen indicated ergotamine in her system at the time of death,” said Scully.

“I did notice that, yes,” said the ME, a short man with a graying beard and thick glasses. “Not totally uncommon. Sheila Markowitz had migraines. The ergotamine was prescribed by her neurologist.”

“And these bruises around her throat?”

“Manual strangulation.”

“Did you get a hand spread from them?”

“Ah, yes, but no prints,” said the ME, consulting his notes. “We’re pretty sure the perp wore gloves.”

Mulder looked at Sheila on the slab with as much detachment as he could muster but it was difficult. She’d been a good-looking woman, young and full of potential like so many murder victims. As his partner examined the corpse, he tried to picture the kind of person or creature that could have wrenched Sheila’s upper torso halfway around while she was still kicking and screaming and then finished the job by placing their hands on her throat and choking her to death. He ruminated while Scully worked and paced to the end of the table where he looked down at Sheila’s feet. It was then that he noticed something.

“Sheila was found naked, right, no shoes?” he asked as he leaned over to look at her feet more closely. Both the ME and Scully turned to look at him.

“That’s right,” said the ME. “From what I understand, the other victims were also found naked. It’s not uncommon in multiple murders.”

“No, I know,” said Mulder. “Scully, come look at her feet.”

Scully came down the end of the table and carefully manipulated Sheila’s feet and the overhead light so they could get a better look. Mulder pointed without touching at the scuff marks on the soles of Sheila’s feet. “What do you think of these abrasions here?” he asked Scully.

“Mm, she could have been dragged,” said Scully.

“Yeah but then the abrasions would be on her heels,” said Mulder and straightened.

“You think this has significance?” asked Scully, flicking off the light.

“Maybe,” he mused and looked down the length of Sheila’s twisted corpse. He asked the ME if there were any soil samples taken from Sheila’s body. The ME consulted his notes again and nodded. “Yeah, from her toenails. The dirt was embedded pretty deep under them, like she’d been walking around barefoot a lot and not washed.”

“Do you have a theory, Mulder?” asked Scully as she snapped off her gloves and deposited them in a trash barrel by the door of the autopsy room.

“I’m getting there. I don’t recall the results of the soil analysis being in the case report,” said Mulder.

“Must have gotten lost in the shuffle,” said the ME. “I’ll get you a copy right away.” The man left the room briefly and came back with a printout of the results of the soil sample analysis. “Looks like it matches the soil at the sand pit where she was found.” He handed the paper to Mulder who looked at it for a long time, his mind whirling to put the pieces of the puzzle together: ergotamine, the twisted bodies, the rawness of Sheila’s feet. The only thing at this point that didn’t fit was the strangulation; therefore, he didn’t share his burgeoning theory with his partner. All he did was ask the ME if there were any good places to get a Philly cheese-steak nearby. He was positively starving.

“All of the victims had abrasions on the bottoms of their feet and soil embedded deep in their toenails that matched the composition of the soil in the places where the bodies were found. You were right, Mulder,” said Scully as they mowed down two giant cheese-steak sandwiches while sitting in Mulder’s hotel room.

“I’m always right, Scully,” said Mulder, his voice muffled by a bite of food. She rolled her eyes at him and he grinned.

“Are you going to tell me now where you’re headed with this?” she asked, motioning to the messy piles and spread of case-related paperwork in front of them on the bed and little table by the hotel room window. They had been going through the stacks of “tips” given to the Philadelphia PD and had sorted them into varying levels of plausibility. The least plausible included a warning from a Mrs. G. Smudge that the end times were coming and that demons had twisted the bodies and a note from an anonymous tipster who blamed their neighbor’s dog for the killings. Somewhere in the middle were those from women blaming their ex husbands or boyfriends, claiming said men had been in the right place at the right time but didn’t mention the twisting whatsoever. There had been a few that were from self-confessed murderers who also didn’t mention the twisting and whose letters indicated that they had no idea that there were murders in 1979 that matched the MO of the new ones. Only one tip had struck a chord and it had been from another anonymous person who had simply sent a typed sheet of paper with the lyrics to “The Twist” on it. The cops had dismissed the latter as coming from someone with a bizarre sense of humor but Mulder had set it aside for further analysis later.

“Not yet,” replied Mulder and startled slightly when he heard the buzz of his cell phone. He fished through his suit jacket on the back of his chair to find it and pulled it out, hitting the call button. “Hello?” He smiled broadly at the sound of Skinner’s voice on the other end of the line.

“So you are alive,” growled Skinner sarcastically. “I got worried when you didn’t call like you said you would.”

“Sorry, I got caught up in the case,” said Mulder and stood to go to the other side of the room.

“That’s all right. How’s it looking? Are you any closer to solving it?”

“I’ve got a theory but it won’t tell us who the killer is, yet,” answered Mulder.

“Well I’m sure you’ll get there,” said Skinner, his voice soothing Mulder. Mulder’s schoolboy grin softened and he gave Scully a glance out of the corner of his eye. She stood with a smile, gathered the remnants of her cheese-steak and slipped through the adjoining door of their rooms, closing it quietly behind her.

“Where are you now?” asked Skinner as if he’d sensed a change in the atmosphere.

“In my hotel room,” replied Mulder and sat on the edge of the less-paper-covered side of the bed.

“Alone?”

“Yep. What about you? Where are you?” Mulder glanced over at the clock on the night stand. It was just past six o’clock. After the morgue, instead of going to get their sandwiches, Scully and Mulder had decided to go question the police who had originally been assigned to Sheila’s murder and question them about the scene of the crime, anything they might have noticed that was unusual, and about the myriad reports and tips that seemed to have bombarded them after the details of the murder had been made public. That had taken the better part of the afternoon and they hadn’t gotten food until supper time. Mulder lay back against the headboard and brought one leg up on the bed.

“I’m on my way home,” said Skinner.

“You know they’re saying it’s dangerous to drive and talk on a cell phone at the same time,” said Mulder.

Skinner grunted. “I’m not in the car yet. I’m on my way down to the parking garage.”

“Oh, well,” purred Mulder, “you wanna call me back when you get home?” He slid his hand down his shirt-covered torso to the buckle on his belt and played with it. “I’d hate to be the cause of you driving that sleek, government car into a telephone pole.” He heard Skinner chuckle.

“You’re such a tease, darlin’,” replied Skinner. “I’m at the car now. I’ll call when I’m back at my place.”

“Don’t drive too fast,” warned Mulder. “I’d never forgive myself if you had an accident.”

Skinner let out a soft, amused, “Oh Mulder.” Then he said, “I’ll talk to you again soon.”

“Can’t wait,” said Mulder sexily and was satisfied when Skinner growled out, “Goodbye, Mulder,” and hung up the phone. Mulder turned off his phone, leaving it by his side, and untucked his shirt tails before unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. His cock was still soft inside his underwear but he figured if he concentrated hard enough he might manage an erection before his lover called back.

Mulder allowed his hands to wander. First they slowly undid the buttons on his shirt. Then they untucked his undershirt and raised it up so his abdominals showed. He closed his eyes and slid his hands down his stomach to the waistband of his boxers. His left foot was still on the floor, his right leg on the bed. He brought his left leg up and shifted so his feet were both planted on the bed, knees skyward, while he reached inside his boxers with his right hand to start playing with his cock. “Unh,” he uttered as his hand made contact. His head tilted back and he licked his lips, trying to picture Skinner there with him. His mind conjured the other man’s bald visage, broad shoulders, and strong arms. “Oh,” sighed Mulder and worked studiously at his penis. A faint stirring grew in his loins and he rocked his hips. His eyes opened slightly and he looked down at himself. “Nnh!” He pushed his rising cock into his fist, pumping it gently and roughly in turns. Mulder closed his eyes again and pictured himself under Skinner’s large body, being made love to.

In his mind, Skinner kissed him soundly and laid a trail of more burning kisses down his torso, pulling off his clothing as Skinner went. Each piece removed revealed shimmery, black bio-latex. Mulder flinched and took a breath but kept masturbating. His cock grew harder as he pictured Skinner between his bio-latex covered legs, sucking on his encased penis in time to vibrations from electrodes that were no longer there. Mulder’s thumb and fingers hardly noticed the tiny scars anymore; they were a part of him, just like the long-healed gash the Jersey Devil had left on his ribcage or the round bullet scar Scully had put on his shoulder. Mulder lowered his legs and paused his masturbating to shimmy out of his pants and boxers. He left his socks on and raised his legs again, one hand between them. He let his knees fall open so his legs were spread wide, heels pointing at his butt.

“Walter,” he whispered as he continued to stroke himself and cup his tightening ball sac. “Nnh!” he breathed and tossed his head. The hand he’d clutched around his balls let go and dragged up, up, its fingers pinching a nipple. “Ah! Mmph!” Mulder’s eyes slid closed again and he licked the palm of his dick hand to smooth the way as he pulled on his cock and completed the picture of himself under Skinner by adding a null mask to his own blackened face in his imagination. Dream Skinner touched the shiny, smooth surface of his mask just as he entered Mulder’s body and Mulder came with a shout. He lay breathing deeply for a moment and then swore. He hadn’t meant to cum. He hadn’t meant to add drone stuff to his fantasy either but it had been automatic. That one image of the null mask that had set him off came back to him and he released a long breath. Now when Skinner called back he’d have to fake his reactions should Skinner want to engage in a little phone sex, maybe. Mulder looked again at the clock. Skinner would be about halfway home already. Mulder fiddled with the gelatinous mess on his stomach and sighed. He got up, making sure not to dribble cum everywhere, and went to the bathroom to swab off his mess. As he washed himself off with a facecloth, he looked in the mirror over the sink, his mind superimposing a null mask over his features. His hand slowed its dabbing. “Hm.” He thought for a moment. There was something he had to ask Scully and something he had to do when they got back to DC.

“I made it as fast as I could,” said Skinner into the phone about fifteen minutes after Mulder had finished in the bathroom in his hotel room in Philly.

“Sorry, big guy, I couldn’t wait,” said Mulder.

Skinner groaned and said huskily, “Tell me about it. Give me the juicy details.”

“Mm, well, I started with my shirt open and my hands down my pants,” said Mulder silkily.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” breathed Mulder and got back on the bed in the same position he’d been masturbating in and proceeded to give his lover a blow-by-blow description of his masturbation session. “I pictured you and me together, you entering me,” said Mulder in a low tone and listened to Skinner’s heavy breathing on the other end of the line. Mulder, to his surprise, was getting hard again just through the retelling. He kept one thing from Skinner, though: his imagination bringing up his drone fantasy. He teased Skinner with all the other details, however, and soon, after Skinner had also described to Mulder what he was doing, Skinner and he were mutually masturbating to completion a hundred and forty miles apart.

“Oh God, darlin’, that was hot,” panted Skinner. Mulder could picture the bigger man, his forehead artfully beaded in sweat, his work shirt damp at the armpits and between his shoulder blades since Skinner hadn’t bothered to take it off.

“Yeah,” was all Mulder could say for the moment.

“You hurry up and solve that case and come home so we can do that in the same bed,” Skinner commanded and Mulder chuckled.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Then softly he added, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Fox,” said Skinner. “Have a good night.”

Mulder hung up the phone. He felt light and free for perhaps the first time since he’d left the psychiatric hospital. The first masturbation session that evening had cemented something in his mind and he realized he had a moment there when he’d just… accepted what he’d been fantasizing about rather than beat himself up over it.

He got up for a second time to clean himself and decided to take a shower. In the heat and flowing water, he let all his worries wash down the drain. That night, he slept soundly.

“Saint Vitus’ Dance? Mulder, Saint Vitus’ Dance is a manifestation of rheumatic fever and is typically found only in adolescents,” said Scully as they stood in the abandoned sand pit where Sheila Markowitz’s body had been found.

“Right, that’s the modern common name for the spastic and dragging movements caused by the fever,” said Mulder, crouching so he could get a better look at the scuff marks found all around the floor of the pit. It appeared as though either the local PD hadn’t been too careful and had trampled all over the site during their investigation or the scuff marks were from something else, perhaps feet dancing or dragging all over the pit in a furious frenzy of uncontrollable activity. “But in the middle ages, large groups of people from all social strata and all ages were taken over at various periods by a strange ‘dancing mania’ sometimes called Saint John’s Dance or, more commonly, Saint Vitus’ Dance after the patron saint of dancers. The participants would dance for days until they were exhausted and the phenomenon would end just as quickly as it had begun without explanation.” Mulder rose from his crouch and strode across the large, sandy area to get a different perspective.

“Let me get this straight,” said Scully, holding up a finger. “You’re saying Sheila Markowitz, and indeed all of the Twister victims, danced their bodies so hard that they literally twisted themselves around?”

Mulder didn’t seem to notice her incredulous stare as he combed the ground with his eyes for some clue or sign that would help their case.

“Mulder, that’s physically impossible,” Scully told him. “And that doesn’t explain the manual strangulation or the ergotamine or get us anywhere closer to a suspect.”

“I don’t think the ergotamine is a coincidence,” said Mulder, setting his own foot carefully beside a faint footprint in some of the harder sandy compact. “Some historians postulate that large harvests of grain tainted by the ergot fungus were to blame for the Saint Vitus’ Dance outbreaks. The killer knew each of the victims was being treated for migraines.”

“So… we’re looking for a neurologist or a general practitioner who has been in practice since ’79, has moved frequently, and who had all of the victims as patients,” postulated Scully.

Mulder stopped his examination of the ground and came over to her. “Not a doctor. They all had different prescribing physicians.” He shook his head. “Who else would know about each victim’s migraine prescriptions?” Scully’s eyes widened.

“A pharmacist?”

“Got it in one, Scully,” said Mulder and headed out of the sand pit to their rental car. They headed back to the Philadelphia field office to do some cross-checking and try to come up with a suspect. It wasn’t difficult to obtain each of the two newest victim’s pharmacy records and soon they had a short list of possible suspects but only one had transferred from a chain-store pharmacy in Delaware to the same chain-store pharmacy in Pennsylvania in the past six months: a man named Barney Dolan. Scully put in for an arrest warrant immediately. While they waited for the warrant to come through, Mulder sat mulling over the strange facts of their case. Scully came and sat beside him in a small cubicle office they’d been loaned to work out of for the duration of their visit to Philly.

“You look morose,” said Scully at Mulder’s slight scowl. He fingered some glossy photographs of Sheila Markowitz’s crime scene. “You should be happy that you solved the case and that we didn’t have to go to Delaware.”

“I can’t quite understand what prompted these people to dance themselves into such a position,” said Mulder, ignoring his partner’s dig about Delaware. “I mean, historically and medically, Saint Vitus’ Dance is exhibited mainly by the flailing of limbs.”

“Well,” she said quietly, “maybe things will become clearer once we question Dolan.” He nodded at her observation but didn’t say anything else for a long time. Once they got the warrant, they and three armored agents drove over to Dolan’s small, aging tract house just outside Philadelphia in a somewhat noisy suburb. Dolan surrendered quietly when they busted through his door. The man was in his late forties with a reddish comb over, thick sideburns that would have looked more appropriate in an earlier era, and a slight paunch showing over his belt where his polyester polo shirt was tucked in haphazardly. He didn’t look like serial-killer material. “Barney Dolan? You are under arrest for the murders of Sheila Markowitz, Claire Sumner, Deana White, Felicia Damien, and Lee Wong,” said Scully as two of the armored agents cuffed Dolan. They read him his rights and ushered him out into a waiting vehicle while the other agent remained behind to secure Dolan’s house so it could be gone over for forensic evidence. Several curious neighbors poked their heads out of their windows and doors to see what all the hubbub was about. Mulder drifted around Dolan’s house, looking at Dolan’s things. He noticed a portable record player sitting in the corner and on impulse turned it on. The cheerful notes of Ernest Evans, AKA Chubby Checker, singing “The Twist” made Scully turn her head to him.

“Mulder, what are you doing?” she asked him incredulously. He knew better to touch anything until the room had been cleared by their SOC people. He pointed at the record as it spun on the turntable.

“It fits, Scully, everything fits,” said Mulder. They would have to get the page of typed lyrics in the tips documents tested for Dolan’s prints. He bet, too, that Dolan had called in information to the local newspapers giving them the gruesome details about Sheila’s body, thus prompting the public’s dubious aid in trying to catch the killer, in this case, Dolan himself.

Scully glared up at him and covered her hand with her sleeve so she could turn the record player switch off without adding her fingerprint to his. Mulder looked at her apologetically and bobbed his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I got carried away.”

“It’s all right,” she said quietly and took his wrist briefly before being summoned to the door. The Scene-of-crime people had arrived in their van and were moving into the house to find any evidence they could use to link Dolan to the murders per the arrest-and-search warrant. Once Mulder and Scully were sure everything was well in hand, they drove back to the Philly field office where Dolan had been taken for questioning.

SAC Bob Hanscomb met the two of them outside the secure interrogation room. They watched Dolan through the observation window for a minute. The man had been processed after he was taken into custody and now wore an orange jumpsuit instead of the polyester getup he’d been wearing at the time of his arrest. His hands were cuffed to a bolt in the center of the table. He sat there, seemingly unconcerned about his fate.

“Has he said anything?” asked Mulder, his eyes trying to gage how this man could have killed five beautiful young women by strangling them but first causing their bodies to torque to such a degree that they were, in essence, headed in two different directions.

Hanscomb shook his head. “Naw. We’ve asked him the usual. He hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet, though, which gives me hope. You feel like going in there and having a poke at him?” he asked but Mulder was already moving for the door of the interrogation room, Scully right behind him. She was unsure who was about to play the good cop and the bad cop but she decided to let Mulder take the lead and see where things went.

Mulder approached the side of the table opposite Dolan and introduced himself and Scully then offered to get Barney something like water or cigarettes. So he’s the good cop. Great, thought Scully. She didn’t like being the bad cop. With her stature it was a little difficult to pull off and the perps tended not to take a female agent seriously.

Dolan looked up at Mulder with clear, light-brown eyes and said, “I don’t smoke.” Mulder nodded.

“You know why you’re here, right Barney? Can I call you Barney?” asked Mulder. “Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead. And yes, I understand why I’ve been arrested,” answered Dolan. He didn’t comment on Mulder using his first name. Mulder sat in the chair opposite him. Dolan glanced at Scully, looking her up and down as though she were an oddity. Scully leaned against the observation window wall and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t like that look and felt an immediate empathy with Dolan’s victims.

“You’ve worked as a pharmacist for a long time,” commented Mulder. Scully knew he was trying to get Dolan to warm up to him with general leading questions. When Dolan didn’t say anything, Mulder went on. “You worked for Greenbriar Pharmacy in Tennessee in 1979, then moved to Georgia that same year and took a job at Pearson’s Pharmacy in Macon.” Mulder paused. Dolan still didn’t say anything. “Then recently you moved north to Delaware where you put your pharmacist skills to work at a Rite Aid… You see where I’m going with this?”

“I get your point, agent. I’ve already told you I understand the charges,” said Dolan calmly if a little icily. Mulder kept his eyes pinned to Dolan’s.

“You’re not refuting them,” said Mulder. “Why?”

Dolan shrugged. “I figured I’d be caught someday.” The way he said this so matter of factly sent a chill down Scully’s spine.

Mulder nodded and looked over his shoulder at Scully. They wouldn’t need to do the good cop, bad cop routine after all, then. She just returned his look and he turned back around to face Dolan. “All right, walk me through one of your kills, Barney. I’d like to know how you do it.”

A gleam entered Dolan’s eyes and he almost smiled but not quite. “You mean you’d like to know how I twist their bodies,” he said in a low voice. His lips twitched as if he found that incredibly funny and was trying to hold back laughter. Scully shivered but tried not to let it show. Nevertheless, Dolan glanced at her and ran his eyes up and down her form again. “Did you find the record?” he asked, his eyes sliding back to Mulder.

Mulder seemed to freeze and then he relaxed but only slightly. “I did, yes,” he said. “Is that how you do it, play the record for your victims after administering a large dose of ergotamine?”

“Oh, you’re a smart cookie, Agent Mulder,” purred Dolan. Scully saw her partner struggle not to launch himself at the killer. It was a near thing and she prepared herself to go grab Hanscomb or the nearest agent that looked like he was strong enough to hold her partner back but that ended up being unnecessary.

“Is it that record in particular or can the song be played any which way: CD, tape, radio?”

“Mm,” hummed Dolan and seemed to consider his answer before leaning forward and saying confidingly, “Let me tell you a story, Agent Mulder. Once upon a time, a young man fresh out of college, went browsing for records. Always a fan of the classics, he found the Checker, sans cover, in a second-hand store and decided it would be just the thing for his collection. He brought it home. He played it. It delighted him. But it also… gave him ideas, sick, twisted ideas.” Dolan chuckled at the look of horror that Mulder found himself suddenly trying to conceal. “The more the young man listened to the record, the more he wanted to do what the record told him to do. So he chose a dance partner.” Dolan’s sparse eyebrow rose and Scully could see Mulder was growing increasingly uncomfortable with Dolan’s recitation of his little “story.” “He chose a dance partner,” repeated Dolan, “and he made her listen to the record, too, over and over and over.” Mulder’s hands clenched on the table top. “When she refused to dance any more, the young man used his knowledge of drugs to dose her with something that would keep her dancing, keep her obedient to the music.” Mulder glared at Dolan, his jaw tightening. Scully stood straight from the wall and took a step toward her partner, ready to intervene. “The young man watched in fascination and delight as his dance partner did ‘The Twist’ as she had been told by him and by the Checker.” Dolan giggled at this. “She was so absorbed in the music, she didn’t realize she’d… twisted herself right around!” Mulder rose from his chair like a shot and stood breathing heavily through his nose. Scully reached out a hand but didn’t touch him. “What’s the matter, Agent Mulder?” taunted Dolan. “You don’t like the Checker?”

Mulder turned on his heel and stormed out of the interrogation room. Scully gave Dolan a glare and then followed Mulder out into the hallway to the evil strains of Dolan’s cackle. She found Mulder leaning against a wall, his face white and his forehead beaded with sweat. He had his head titled back and his eyes closed and she could see that he was trying to deep breathe the way his psychiatrist had taught him. She gave him a minute while she found a water fountain and fetched him a paper cup of cold water. “Here, Mulder,” she said softly and handed it to him. He opened his eyes and took a sip but then set it down on a nearby chair.

“I don’t want water, Scully,” he said and began to pace nervously. Several agents passed them in the hall and gave them a look. Mulder ignored them but Scully gave them a nod to let them know everything was under control.

“Talk to me, Mulder. What happened in there?” she asked him.

“Nothing happened, Scully,” said Mulder and passed a hand over his cooling forehead. He tugged at his tie then decided to take it off all together. It drooped from his hand like a colorful, albeit dead, snake. She came over to him when he stopped pacing.

“Why did you run out of there?”

“I didn’t run out of there. I…” Mulder fisted his tie with both hands, curling it over them like a garrote and pulling on it. He finally looked his partner in the eye and whispered, “It reminded me of the dronification program, what he said about the record.” Scully nodded at this. There wasn’t much to be said about it. The comparison had triggered a panic response in Mulder. She put a hand on his arm. He seemed better to her now but she thought it might be best if they left the rest of the interrogation to Bob Hanscomb and his agents and said so. Mulder nodded at her wisdom.

“You know, he’s more than likely schizophrenic if he’s hearing voices in that record telling him to kill,” Scully postulated rationally as they walked down the hall to go tell Hanscomb that Dolan was all his.

“I know that, Scully. It still doesn’t explain how those women twisted their bodies like that, though, listening to that record.”

“Well, Dolan said that he administered a large quantity of ergotamine…”

He stopped short in the hall and turned to her. “But you said yourself that the amount of ergotamine it would take to cause that kind of torque would be fatal, but those women were strangled to death by Dolan.” He shook his head. Once again, they’d solved a case without solving the most mysterious aspect of it. Scully could tell Mulder was headed for some serious letdown if he wasn’t there already.

“It’s possible that because these women were being treated with ergotamine for their headaches, the additional dose that Dolan gave them could have caused that kind of twist without outright killing them because their bodies would be used to it in their systems already,” said Scully slowly, trying to work out a scientific explanation. “And… perhaps they all had high metabolisms that processed the drug faster, thus creating a greater effect as their bodies were placed under stress by Dolan driving them to dance longer and harder.”

“What about the record?” asked Mulder, his death grip on his tie having loosened.

“What about it? It’s just a record,” said Scully. Mulder looked away from her and swallowed.

“You don’t think there’s a possibility there are subliminal messages on it?”

Scully looked at him worriedly and said gently, “No, Mulder, I don’t. I think Dolan is sick and I think he controlled those women with drugs and forced them to follow his orders.” Mulder drew in a sharp breath and let it out in a long, controlled stream from his nose. God, I know that feeling, he thought, identifying with Dolan’s victims.

“We should have it analyzed,” said Mulder tightly.

She hesitated but eventually nodded, knowing Mulder wouldn’t feel right until the record was tested. “All right. We’ll send it on to Washington and have Chuck Burks take a look at it,” she said. He nodded his thanks and they went to go find Hanscomb and hand over the reins of the investigation.

Mulder was a little nervous about going back to DC because it had been nice to not have to look over his shoulder for a little while and to leave behind the responsibility of knowing about Earth’s possible hostile takeover, but he wanted to put a little distance between himself and the bad feelings the Dolan case had conjured in him and also desperately wanted to see Skinner. Their phone sex the night before had given him ideas and he still had them in the back of his mind as he and Scully boarded their evening flight. After stowing their carryons in the overhead compartment, Mulder buckled himself into the aisle seat while Scully took the window. He settled into the seat with a sigh, trying not to conflate what he was about to talk to Scully about with what Dolan had told them earlier about that Chubby Checker record. He waited until after takeoff to broach the subject he’d been thinking of off and on for a while now.

“Scully?” he said her name without looking at her.

“Yes, Mulder?” she had her nose in the in-flight magazine again, though what she saw in it he had no idea. Maybe she was browsing for gift ideas or something.

“Do you know what happened to all the drone stuff from that facility in Delaware?” He tried to keep his voice merely curious but couldn’t help the slight nervous edge that came out of his mouth.

“It was impounded as evidence,” said Scully.

“All of it?”

He saw out of the corner of his eye her head turn toward him. “Well maybe not all of it, but enough to be studied and to present in court, certainly. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” he said, again putting on a false-casual tone. He could feel her staring at him but didn’t want to face her. He opened his mouth slightly and surreptitiously wet his lower lip. Scully went back to flipping through her magazine and Mulder closed his eyes in relief that she wasn’t going to ask him any follow-up questions. They got into Dulles at around seven p.m. and both hired taxis to bring them to their respective apartments. “See you tomorrow, Scully,” he told her and she waved goodbye to him at the taxi pool.

When Mulder got home, he checked his phone messages. He deleted one from a phone sex line he’d employed on occasion before his abduction with a roll of his eyes and listened to a message from Langly telling him that the skies over West Virginia had gone mysteriously quiet after the incident over Wiekamp. Mulder frowned. He didn’t know if that was good news or bad news. He went over to his fish tank and checked on his fish. They were all accounted for. Skinner had apparently fed them because there was a note taped to the front of the tank reading, “Don’t let them fool you into a second dinner tonight. See you in the morning. Love, Walter.” Mulder smiled and took the note off, setting it lovingly on his desk. Then he leaned over the desk to the window and looked outside. There were several pedestrians taking in the fair night air but none looked or acted suspicious so Mulder couldn’t tell if any of them were there to keep an eye on him or not. Suddenly he hated Krycek for telling him that he was being followed. It was one thing to be paranoid and imagine someone was keeping tabs on him; it was wholly another to have confirmation. Krycek could have lied of course, but for what reason would he? Mulder shook his head and moved away from the window to go unpack his carryon and set out clean clothes for the morning. As he did so, he ruminated on two things: who might be stalking him and the little plan he was formulating that resulted from his revelation the other night after his and Skinner’s phone sex.

The former had to be someone from the Syndicate, though why they were keeping tabs on him was the question. He hadn’t done anything. Sure he’d given a sworn statement toward the beginning of his recovery about his abduction and dronification, as much as he could remember, minus the fact that his father had been involved, and he would probably be called upon to testify in court at some point as one of the only ex drones compos mentis enough to do so. He was vague on those details, however, and hadn’t received any court documents or summons yet. This train of thought made him wonder if he should get a lawyer, but he didn’t think so. There was nothing anyone could hold against him. Unless they found out about his non-consensual sex with Krycek. He frowned, the old worry taking over his tired mind. Mulder took a deep breath and sighed it out as he sifted through the shirts hanging in his closet. If the Syndicate wanted him out of the way, all they had to do was have someone on their end, one of the dronification facility “doctors” perhaps, testify that he’d willfully taken part in the sexual molestation and abuse of his fellow drones. It would be an easy way to discredit him and he would lose his career. Either that or they could just shoot him. Mulder stared blankly at a white shirt with blue pinstripes. He fingered the cuff of the sleeve, his lover’s reassurances that the court would see him as a victim not holding much weight in the lonely emptiness of his bedroom.

Speaking of bedrooms, Mulder’s mind jumped to his plan and he took the shirt he’d been fondling out of the closet to hang on the bedroom door along with a gray suit and green-and-yellow checked tie. His color blindness didn’t allow for very good color coordination so he lived with a plethora of ugly ties and plain suits. He touched his hand to the tie, smoothing it over the shoulder of his suit so it wouldn’t wrinkle before tomorrow. This was the suit he would wear down to Evidence. He swallowed then moved back to the closet to get rid of some clothes to make room for Walter’s.

Once again, they stood above the operating room, looking down on a helpless Marita Covarrubias through the glass of the operating room ceiling, their rank consciously reduced by one. Each man bore a solemn face. The Englishman silently rejoiced that the rebel alien had been freed from Wiekamp by his compatriots, no thanks to Krycek and his attempt at trying to involve Agent Mulder, but he kept his satisfaction to himself for the moment. He knew Gerald had wanted to trade the rebel alien to the invaders to save their collective behinds. It might have worked, but then they would have made a different enemy. This way, they remained neutral, or at least as neutral as they could be while still trying to pull the wool over the grays’ enormous black eyes.

The men were gathered to see the results of their vaccine testing. Some still didn’t believe it would work since their poor guinea pig, Marita, hadn’t shown any signs of improvement. Nevertheless, the Englishman had hope. He looked into the eyes of each of his fellow Syndicate members and several of them nodded. Gerald simply gave him a hard, indulgent look which the Englishman ignored in favor of leaning forward and tapping lightly on the glass ceiling.

The doctor and her assistant looked up through the glass and gave a nod. The needle was already prepped with the latest permutation of the vaccine. The doctor lifted the IV line going into Marita’s vein and injected the vaccine. They waited. There seemed no change in Marita but when, after fifteen minutes, the doctor pried open her eyelid and there was no sign of the black oil, the Syndicate members sighed in relief and turned to each other with smiles and handshakes. The only one who seemed not to share their collective joy was the elder.

“You are satisfied, now, I suspect?” he rasped the Englishman’s way.

“Aren’t you?” snapped the Englishman, his compatriot’s attitude finally getting on his nerves. “This is the future! We’ve just saved our own hides!”

“That remains to be seen,” murmured Gerald and saw himself out of the observation room. The Englishman scoffed but then was inundated with congratulations by the others in the group and they remained standing around talking until the novelty of their success had worn off. The Englishman made sure he was the last out of the room and then he went down to the operating room and looked in on Marita. She was beginning to stir, though the doctor had assured him she would be kept sedated until the full effects of the vaccine were recorded. Marita had paid the ultimate price for her involvement in their schemes and he felt for her a bit. But he was also grateful that she had been infected by the alien virus in the first place; otherwise, they might never have had this opportunity.

The doctor approached him and unfastened her face mask. “We’ll keep an eye on her for a while,” she reiterated and he simply nodded.

“Do you have the sample we discussed?” he asked her after a moment of observing Marita’s pale, pasty face which was beginning to get some color back into it at last.

“Of course. It’s over here,” said the doctor and led him over to a table. She took off her gloves and opened a small pouch containing a capped syringe filled with brownish liquid.

“And you haven’t told the others?” he asked her. She shook her head. “Excellent. Thank you.” She put the syringe back in the pouch and handed it to him. He tucked it in his pocket, gave her a nod, gave Marita one last look, and walked out of the room.

Scratch, scribble, scratch. Mulder watched the pen of his lover sign along the dotted line at the bottom of the Twister case report. Technically, it would go down as the Philadelphia FO’s close but Skinner still had to sign off on Mulder and Scully’s version of events. “Nice job, Fox. You, too, Dana,” said Skinner as he capped his pen.

“Thank you, Wal… I mean, sir,” said Mulder and the three of them traded smiles, Mulder somewhat abashedly. He tried to keep his leg from jiggling nervously as Skinner asked them some follow-up questions about their time in Philly.

“Were you able to take time out for a cheese-steak?” he asked at last and Mulder and Scully looked at each other with raised eyebrows. They turned as one to Skinner and shook their heads, drawling, “Nooo.”

“Well, maybe just a little one,” said Mulder and held his hands up about twelve inches apart. Skinner looked between Mulder’s hands and a sly grin came over his face. He looked Mulder in the eye and Mulder caught on immediately to that look. He blushed, cleared his throat, and lowered his hands. Scully sat there with a satisfied look on her face and said, “We’re glad to be back in Washington, though, sir.”

“And I’m glad you’re back. Ready for your next assignment?” said Skinner and pushed a different case file toward them across his wide desk. Mulder leaned forward and picked up the file, opening it to the summary page. Scully leaned over so she could see the contents. They both read for a moment and then Mulder looked up with a frown.

“Sir, this isn’t an X-file,” he said. “This looks like a kidnapping case.”

“I know,” said Skinner, fiddling with his pen. “I thought you could use a break from all the crazy.”

“But crazy it what I, what we, do,” said Mulder, correcting himself, and set the case file down as though he wanted no part of it. Scully picked it up and began to look at the case in more depth and Mulder side-eyed her as though she’d just betrayed him. “You can’t just take us off the X-Files.”

“I’m not taking you off anything,” said Skinner. “But we don’t have any active X-Files for you to solve at the moment and could use your profiling expertise on this one.” Mulder huffed. He could see what his lover was doing, playing to his ego, that and Skinner knew a kidnapping case would hit close to home for him because of his sister. It was a dirty trick.

“At least it’s local, kind of,” muttered Scully. The victim, an eleven-year-old female named Lacey Morehouse, had been taken from a playground she’d regularly stopped at on the way home from her school only a block away from her house. DC police had an APB out on a green pickup truck that had been seen cruising the playground in the week beforehand. The suspect was a white male, twenty-five to thirty-five with brown hair, beard, and glasses, last seen wearing a red baseball cap and gray t-shirt. The little girl was curly-haired, fair, and was last seen wearing a purple, long-sleeved shirt and pink corduroy pants. Her school backpack had been found left at the playground but no one had actually seen anyone take her, only the green truck driving off from the scene in somewhat of a hurry with two people inside. Traffic cameras hadn’t offered much more to go on except a partial Maryland plate with the last three numbers being 052.

“I need you to go interview the parents, see if they know anyone fitting the description of the suspect or have seen that green truck in the vicinity of their neighborhood recently,” said Skinner, gesturing to the file in Scully’s hand. “I’ll be accompanying you.”

Mulder looked sharply at Skinner and fought to keep his tongue. “This is a delicate situation,” said Skinner in a confidential tone, noting his reaction. “The parents are beside themselves but one of the local PD who first questioned them thought they might be holding something back.”

“You suspect one or the other of them with colluding in the kidnapping?” asked Scully as Mulder tried to get his emotions under control. It was as if Skinner suddenly didn’t trust him to handle himself in a case, “profiling expertise” aside. Hadn’t he proven himself three times now since he’d gotten back to the job? Wasn’t he doing much better these days? Hell, even his little spaz with Dolan was nothing compared to the panic attack he’d had right here on the fifth floor prior to the Stone Boy case. He could hear Skinner briefing Scully on the particulars of the new case but wasn’t following a word the man said. After a moment of this, Mulder broke in and said, “Can I speak to you for a moment alone, sir?” Skinner stopped talking and gave Mulder a serious look then glanced at Scully who was looking at Skinner for direction after glancing briefly at her partner. Skinner nodded and Scully stood up, saying that she’d be just outside.

Both men waited for her to leave and shut the door, their eyes on each other. “Why are you doing this, Walter?” Mulder asked in a hushed, hurt voice. He gestured to the kidnapping case file. Skinner looked down at the top of his desk guiltily then back at Mulder.

“Because you are, hands down, my best agent. You and Scully are the best team I have and I have the Director breathing down my neck on this one,” said Skinner firmly. “The little girl’s been missing less than twenty-four hours. We have a really good chance of solving this one…”

“You’re keeping me distracted from Krycek and his warning about the invasion, aren’t you?” Mulder cut him off. Skinner’s mouth hung open for a moment and then he closed it. His eyes drifted to his desk again and he shifted in his chair. “And keeping tabs on me,” Mulder accused.

Skinner looked up at that and countered, “I’m showing the girl’s family that top brass has a deep interest in the safe return of their daughter, and so do I. I won’t interfere in your investigation unless we aren’t getting the results we want fast enough.” He held up a hand to forestall an indignant protest from Mulder and said, “And then I will help you get those results. I would think you have a personal interest in this case as well, Agent Mulder.”

“She’s not my sister,” Mulder said tersely.

“Of course not, but she could be someone’s sister. She happens to be an only child, which makes it all the more difficult for the parents.”

Mulder hung his head. He couldn’t look at his lover right now. He was angry and sad and frustrated. This was not the homecoming he had wanted, had needed, after the eerie comparison of Dolan’s subliminal-message spewing record to his own embedded programming.

“All right,” Mulder finally said after some tense silence. “I’ll start on the case, go interview the parents.”

“Thank you, Fox. I’ll meet you and Scully there shortly. I have a couple of phone calls to return,” said Skinner. Mulder nodded as he stood and went to join Scully out in the hall with the case file tucked under his right armpit.

Scully looked up at him and asked if everything was okay. He ignored her question and told her they had to go interview Lacey Morehouse’s parents.

The kidnapping case consumed all of Mulder’s mind. He had no time for thoughts of alien invasions or of anyone who might be following him or of other, more… personal issues. His first instinct when speaking to Lacey’s parents was that they were, indeed, hiding something, but it was not something like collusion in her disappearance. No, it was something about Lacey that they hesitated to tell anyone for fear of derision or not being taken seriously; he just couldn’t figure out what. He and Scully sat with them for a good hour, discussing Lacey’s habits, talking about her friends, any adult acquaintances of the family who might have seen her recently, the man in the truck about whom they knew nothing nor recognized his description. Finally, unable to take any more, Lacey’s mom left the room in tears. Skinner sat with Lacey’s father, trying to reassure the man that the FBI would do everything in its power to return their little girl safe and sound.

Scully went after Mrs. Morehouse to try and console her while Mulder walked around the Morehouse’s living room and dining area, looking for some kind of sign as to the thing that Lacey’s parents were keeping from the investigation. There were family photos hung on several walls of the living room: a picture of Lacey as a baby in Mrs. Morehouse’s arms, a picture of the three of them with who Mulder assumed were two of Lacey’s grandparents, an extended-family photo of the same grandparents and some of Lacey’s cousins and aunts and uncles, an older picture of Lacey with her parents at what looked like a petting zoo, and an even more recent photo of Lacey holding the family cocker spaniel. Everyone in all the photos was happy and content looking.

Finding no clues, he sat back down across from Mr. Morehouse who had grown extremely quiet and was just sitting with Skinner there as a silent sentinel. Skinner rose and excused himself to go make a few more phone calls. He’d grumbled to Mulder in the Moorehouse’s entryway that he had to make hourly reports to the Deputy Director and the Director on the progress of the case. Mulder didn’t envy him that, but he was still upset that Skinner had put him on the kidnapping and so, pettily, hadn’t offered any conciliation.

“Mr. Morehouse,” said Mulder quietly, getting Doug Morehouse’s attention. “I understand how difficult this situation is, believe me. My sister was taken when I was twelve.”

“Did they find her?” gasped Mr. Morehouse. Mulder hesitated but opted for honesty. He shook his head. Mr. Morehouse cracked and tears flooded from his eyes.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t find your daughter, Mr. Morehouse. We can find her, but we need your help. Whatever information you think might sound foolish or… or strange or irrelevant, we might be able to use to find Lacey,” Mulder pressed on, trying to get Morehouse to open up to him.

Morehouse sobbed quietly for a while, sniffing and shaking his head. Then he moaned as he glanced up and his lower lip trembled. Mulder followed his gaze as it met his wife’s as she re-entered the living room with Scully by her side. Mrs. Morehouse had composed herself but at the sight of her husband in tears she started to cry again. “My baby! Our baby!” she wept and held out her hand as she approached the couch where Mr. Morehouse sat. He took her hand and they sat with their foreheads pressed together in a moment of grief and indecision. “We have to tell them,” said Mrs. Morehouse in a strained whisper. She and her husband looked in each other’s eyes and Mr. Morehouse nodded. He wiped his face with his hand and sat up straight.

Skinner, finished with his phone calls, entered the room just in time to hear Mr. Morehouse tell Mulder how special their little girl was and that they’d been afraid to tell the police because they didn’t want the police suspecting them or thinking they were crazy. “She can see things, uh, k-know things ahead of time,” said Mr. Morehouse with a little wave of his hand. “It sounds ridiculous. When she first started talking, she was able to point and say something like, uh, ‘fall down’ to something on a shelf just before it got knocked over or ‘tel-phone’ only seconds before the phone would ring.”

Mulder felt excitement wash over him followed quickly by a rush of guilt. He was excited because this was turning out to be an X-File after all, and he felt guilty because here he was getting distracted by evidence of psychic abilities when they had a missing child to find. He glanced at Scully and then at Skinner and nodded for the Morehouses to go on.

“We think someone t-took her because they knew she had this ability,” said Mrs. Morehouse chokingly. “But we’re not sure who else would know. We taught Lacey to play down her abilities so she would fit in at school and with the neighborhood kids. We never talked to anyone about her gift. We tried our best to protect her! Oh God!” Lacey’s mom broke forth with fresh tears for a second time and her husband drew her close to try and soothe her.

“Thank you,” said Mulder gently. “This may just help us break this case.” He rose from the armchair he’d been sitting in and motioned for Scully and Skinner to step out into the hallway.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Skinner in an undertone.

“I think so, sir,” said Mulder, also keeping his voice low so the Morehouses wouldn’t overhear him.

Scully looked up at both men. “It’s someone in the family?” she asked solemnly. Both men nodded. “That makes sense. Most kidnapping victims are taken by someone they know, usually a family member. But the Morehouses said they didn’t recognize the man in the truck or the vehicle.”

Mulder shrugged. “The family member could have hired someone to grab her from the playground.”

“All right,” said Skinner with a hand up between himself and Mulder. “I just got word that the truck was reported stolen from a man in Baltimore a week ago and found abandoned in a parking lot of a corner grocery store in Georgetown a few hours ago. I’m going to get more people in on this. We need all the manpower we can get. We should question Mr. and Mrs. Morehouse about the family, anyone close enough to know about Lacey’s psychic abilities. I’m going to have a team on standby once we have an idea of who the suspect is and get a warrant so they can get their asses over there and make the arrest. Meanwhile, I don’t care what the parents said about not telling anyone about Lacey; we should question the neighbors and any close friends of Lacey’s. Secrets like that have a way of outing themselves.”

“Let me handle the follow up, sir,” said Scully. She and Mulder returned to the living room. Mrs. Morehouse had excused herself to go make tea and her husband was now standing. He wanted a blow-by-blow of what was going on. “We need a little more information if you think you’re up for it or we can wait until your wife gets back,” said Scully. Mr. Morehouse nodded his head.

“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

Hours passed as they spoke with the Morehouses about anyone in Lacey’s close circle of friends, parents of friends, or teachers who may have given recent signs that they had figured out Lacey’s gift. They cross-questioned them about family members, anyone who was close enough to spend time with Lacey regularly or had been around her enough to perhaps have an understanding that Lacey was psychic. Skinner directed teams of agents over the phone to go question anyone who might even have the slightest inkling about Lacey. Meanwhile, Mulder’s mind caught on to a bit of information regarding Mr. Morehouse’s cousin when Mr. Morehouse explained that in the past, he and Mrs. Morehouse would send Lacey to his cousin’s for a couple of weeks during the summer so they could have their own, grownup vacation. They stopped that tradition when Lacey had come home last summer telling them that she didn’t want to visit cousin Betty any more. When Lacey had been questioned why, she had just shrugged and her parents had decided that she’d simply grown out of spending her summers up at Betty’s cabin in West Virginia. However, both parents swore up and down that Betty wouldn’t hurt Lacey and loved her like a daughter since she couldn’t have children of her own.

“That’s where we’ll find her,” whispered Mulder as he and Scully held another conference out in the hallway. They told Skinner and he called in all available agents to rendezvous at Betty Silverman’s cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains region of West Virginia while he got search and arrest warrants sent their way.

Betty had nothing immediate to say to the agents that arrested her but young Lacey Morehouse took Mulder’s hand in hers and looked up at him, saying, “I wasn’t scared. I knew you’d come.” He smiled down at her. He was no longer angry at his lover for putting him on the case. Betty’s accomplice was picked up several hours later once she spilled where he’d been laying low, at a run-down motel off of route sixty-four between Lewisburg and Beckley.

Back at the Hoover much, much later, Mulder stared longingly at the first-floor button on the elevator on his way up to Skinner’s office. He wanted so badly to go to Evidence but he was too Goddamned tired. Instead, he rode to the fifth floor and walked by Skinner’s and Scully’s side to Skinner’s office. There, the trio threw themselves down in various chairs and let out sighs of exhaustion.

After a moment of silent reflection on all their parts, Scully intoned, “Apparently, according to cousin Betty, she was only ‘borrowing’ Lacey until Lacey gave her the winning lottery numbers for the next big payout. It must have skipped her mind to tell Lacey’s parents.”

Mulder held up a finger. “But her accomplice who we picked up has a rap sheet a mile long so even though dear cousin Betty said Lacey was in no danger from her, we have no idea how the kidnapper himself would have reacted if Lacey hadn’t given them the numbers before the drawing.”

Skinner shook his head with a rueful smile. He put his elbow on his chair arm and leaned his chin in his hand. “Ever wonder why the bad guys do it?” he mused.

“All the time, sir,” said Scully and they shared a chuckle.

“I’m just glad Lacey is safe at home with her parents tonight,” said Mulder soberly. Scully looked at her hands in her lap and Skinner opened his mouth to apologize for putting his lover through the emotional ringer but Mulder smiled and cut him to the chase. “It was worth it, today, to see them together. It felt good.” He nodded.

“Shall we celebrate?” asked Skinner. “How does a late dinner sound? My treat.”

“Oh, God, no, sir,” said Scully and hauled herself out of her chair with a groan. Then she yawned. “We’ve got mounds of paperwork to do tomorrow. I’m going home to get some sleep.” She looked at her watch. It was quarter to eleven. “See you tomorrow.” Both men bid her a goodnight and watched her leave. Then Skinner looked at Mulder.

“How about you, darlin’? You hungry?”

Mulder couldn’t hide the blushing grin that came over his face but he shook his head. “I am hungry, but my body says it needs sleep more than food. I hope you aren’t insulted.”

“Not a bit. I’ll let you take a rain check. My sorry ass could use a few Z’s, too. You’ve had a long week, traveling to Philly, solving a case, then hopping off the plane and turning another case right around. I wish I had that kind of energy,” said Skinner fondly.

Mulder stood up and smoothed his suit jacket which had become somewhat rumpled during the course of the day. He slowly rounded Skinner’s desk. Skinner watched him as he approached. “I missed you,” said Mulder quietly and reached out a hand for Skinner the way Mrs. Morehouse had reached for her husband’s at the height of their investigation. Skinner hesitated only briefly and then raised his hand to take Mulder’s. He kissed the back of Mulder’s knuckles and pulled him gently between his legs. Mulder bent his knees and crawled onto Skinner’s lap, straddling him. Both men’s breaths increased in frequency and Skinner’s palms settled on the small of Mulder’s back.

“This is a bad idea,” murmured Skinner. “Anyone could come in.”

“There’s hardly anyone in the building, sir,” said Mulder and leaned down to meet Skinner’s lips in a tender kiss. “I missed you,” he added when they parted.

“I missed you, too. I was worried that you would have a hard time with the travel,” said Skinner, his right hand moving to touch Mulder’s chest. Mulder took that hand and kissed Skinner’s fingers the way Skinner had kissed his knuckles. Skinner let out a soft groan and Mulder could feel him growing hard beneath him.

“The travel part was easy,” said Mulder and explained what had happened about the record. “It’s in Evidence now. Chuck’s going to take a look at it for me soon.”

“Mm. I’m sorry the case upset you, both cases,” said Skinner, correcting himself.

“I don’t think I can ever escape what they did to me. A part of me doesn’t want to,” admitted Mulder and when Skinner gave him a confused look he explained, “Escaping it is like denying it ever happened and as much as I’d like to do that, it’s not true. I can’t deny the past. I have to accept it and move on.” Skinner said nothing to that. He put his hand on Mulder’s face and stroked his cheek. Mulder gave him a soft smile and they kissed again.

“I’m glad to hear you say it Mulder. I’ve waited so long,” whispered Skinner, looking up at him. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to dinner or… staying the night at my place?” He ran his hands along Mulder’s thighs and up his back, giving him a little massage.

“Mm, that feels good, but no. I’ve got to get some sleep,” said Mulder and bent down to put a kiss on the top of Skinner’s head. Skinner let out a sigh but patted Mulder gently and let him slide off his lap.

“Rain check?” he asked.

“Rain check,” winked Mulder and gave Skinner a couple of lingering glances over his shoulder before leaving the man’s office.

“Damn.” Skinner looked down at his aching crotch. Lucky he loved the man who had just stiffed him for a hard couch and the company of a half-dozen fish.

A town car pulled up beside Mulder’s vehicle in the otherwise deserted parking garage, setting him immediately on edge. Mulder had just been about to unlock the driver’s side door on his Oldsmobile when the shiny, black, well-maintained and thus nearly silent car approached him. His heart began to trip over itself and he reached for his service piece under his open suit jacket.

“I assure you, that won’t be necessary. Get in, Agent Mulder,” said an upper class British accent through the open window of the back seat of the town car. The door opened and the Englishman looked out at him.

“No, you’re one of them,” Mulder gritted out and reassured himself by curling his suddenly sweaty, shaky hand around the handle of his gun. They hadn’t come for him. They hadn’t.

A look of total disgust crossed the Englishman’s face. “I never partook in any of those… harem activities,” he sneered loftily.

Mulder shook his head in disbelief and his own, more righteous, brand of disgust. “But you were there. You were there and did nothing to stop them.” When the Englishman said nothing to justify his past inaction, Mulder asked angrily, “What do you want from me?” He pulled his gun and leveled it at the Englishman’s face. In the front seat, the driver made a move to turn around and pull his own gun on Mulder but the Englishman stalled him with a hand up then he sighed and sat back.

“I want nothing from you; it’s something I want to give to you.” He reached for his suit jacket inside pocket. Mulder leveled his gun and kept an eye on the hand. He wasn’t expecting the small, black cloth pouch the Englishman pulled out. The Englishman reached out his arm and held the pouch as far across the back seat as he could without stretching unbecomingly.

Mulder eyed the pouch, and the man, with distrust. “What is it?” he asked.

“The means to help man survive the coming invasion,” replied the Englishman solemnly.

Mulder still refused to step any closer to the car. He wasn’t sure he believed what the Englishman said. “Why give this to me?” he asked, his voice almost breaking. Maybe Krycek had been right about the rebel alien, about Mulder’s role in helping fight the good fight, about… everything. Resist or serve. Mulder swallowed, his jaw twitching, and took a better grip on his gun.

A light entered the Englishman’s eye that reminded Mulder of something close to greed but it was not avarice that resounded in the Englishman’s voice when he answered, “Because the world needs someone like you to be its champion.”

Mulder scoffed. “Champion? You tried to turn me into a drone, a mindless slave, for your own sadistic pleasures!” Mulder chanced a glance around the parking garage. It was still empty except for their dangerous little tableau at the center of that level. Mulder hadn’t registered any other cars headed down and out into the night either. He was well and truly alone with this man and his driver. The only hope he had if there was any trouble was Skinner who was still upstairs in his office, burning the midnight oil.

A flicker of motion as the Englishman shook his head drew Mulder’s eye back to his target. “No, Agent Mulder, not I. You know who was behind the dronification program.” The Englishman’s cool blue eyes bore holes into Mulder’s gray ones and Mulder glared angrily at him, defiant in a way no Syndicate drone would ever dare be.

Ignoring Mulder’s silent fury, the Englishman went on, “The greatest thing you can do now to prove that that man has no power over you or anyone is to get this vaccine out into the world.” And once again he held up the little pouch on his palm in a gesture of invite. “Do so and you upset his plans and the plans of all his compatriots.” Mulder bit his lip and his eyes darted from the man to the pouch to the man to the driver and back to the pouch. In a move calculated to keep his body as far away from the town car, and thus danger, as possible, Mulder darted forward and stretched his left arm out as long as it reached to snatch the pouch from the Englishman’s hand then he stepped back quickly, the whole while keeping his gun aimed in the Englishman’s direction.

“Have it analyzed by the FBI’s specialists. I think you’ll find it works wonders against the black oil,” he smirked at Mulder.

Mulder tucked the pouch in his pocket and said boldly, “I will.”

With a sly smile, the Englishman murmured, “Good drone.”

Mulder flinched and raised his gun again at the Englishman’s face but the man was already closing the door to the town car and raising the tinted window. Mulder watched the black vehicle drive down the parking garage ramp and out of sight then his gun hand fell to his side and he slumped against the door of his car. He clutched his pounding chest with his left hand and inhaled as deeply as he could before letting out a shuddering breath. “Jesus Christ,” he swore and scrambled at once to get into his car, but once he was inside with the door closed he just sat there, his hand holding his gun on the passenger seat, his other clutched around the cloth pouch with the syringe in it in his pocket.

A pounding on her apartment door woke Scully from a sound sleep. She put a robe over her silky pajamas as she shuffled sleepily toward the door. The pounding continued as she unfastened the locks and called out, “Just a second!” She flipped her messy bed head out of her eyes and opened the door, the safety chain still attached. Her eyes widened when she saw Mulder standing there still dressed in his work clothes and holding a small black pouch in one hand.

“Let me in, Scully,” said Mulder.

“Of course,” she said and closed the door enough to take off the safety chain. He brushed rudely by her and turned around to show her the pouch before she even had the door closed. She faced him and put her hands on her hips. “What is that?” she asked and before he could answer she said, “And more importantly, why are you knocking at my door at half past midnight to show it to me?”

“This is it, Scully, the cure for the alien virus,” he breathed with a manic gleam in his eyes as he held the pouch aloft. Her eyes widened and then narrowed.

“Where did you get it? Last time we spoke, you, Skinner, and I were all too tired to so much as get a bite to eat. Did that rat bastard give it to you? Because I swear, Mulder, if you let him get away again…”

“No, it wasn’t Krycek,” said Mulder and came closer to her, lowering the pouch to put it in her hand. Cautiously she reached out and took the pouch, unclasping the snap on the side to reveal the full syringe. She held it up to the light from her living room lamp. “I need you to test it, find out if it’s legit but I think it is. I think this is the real deal.”

Now she could understand Mulder’s zeal in driving over to her place in the middle of the night, but she worried about this new development and what it might mean for him. “Who gave you the vaccine?” she asked, carefully wrapping the syringe back inside the pouch and fastening it again.

She could see his jaw working as he debated whether to tell her or not. Gently, she took his hand in hers and looked up at him. “Mulder,” she said, “we’ve been partners for a long time. I would hope by now that you would trust me with the truth.”

“I-I got it from one of the Syndicate members,” he said in a barely audible whisper and looked away from her astonished and suddenly very angry face. She could see he misinterpreted her look. She wasn’t angry at him. She was angry for him, that he had had to face one of those bastards by himself and stand up to him long enough to get the vaccine. He pulled away from her and went to stand over by her bay windows. The street outside was quiet, as it should be at that time of night. She followed him and touched him on the shoulder. He flinched but allowed her hand to stay.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a low voice. He nodded briefly but didn’t say anything so she insinuated herself between him and the window, forcing him to face her. “Mulder, talk to me.” She rubbed his arm with the hand that had been on his shoulder. “Please,” she begged after a protracted silence. Her emotions were high after their long day and her short amount of sleep and now this strange development. She felt tears prick her eyes and struggled to hold them back. Mulder, it seemed, was struggling too, because his voice, when he spoke, came out watery and rough.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have stopped him. S-Should have arrested him but… I think… I don’t think he was ever really one of them. I think he defected or something. I’m sorry.”

“Mulder, don’t apologize, okay? This man who gave you the vaccine, do you know his name?” asked Scully. Mulder sniffed and shook his head. She let out a short sigh and lowered her eyes then looked back at him. “Was he on foot or in a car? Can you provide a description of his car if he was driving? Maybe we can get a detail after him…” She left him for the telephone and he rushed after her, grabbing her by the wrist.

“I think it’s more important now that we get the vaccine tested against the black oil,” said Mulder urgently. “Does the FBI still have samples taken from that Dr. Sacks guy while I was in Russia?”

“I-I think so,” said Scully, brushing hair from her face again. “The meteorite he was working on was destroyed but we have infected samples of Dr. Sacks’s blood at the lab.” Her mind was starting to whirl. Mulder began nodding vigorously. He took her by the shoulders, turned her around, and pushed her toward her bedroom. “Mulder! What are you doing?!”

“C’mon, Scully. Go get dressed so we can bring this to the lab tonight,” said Mulder. She dug in her heels and rounded on him.

“Woah, woah, woah! Nu uh. Fate of the world aside, I have had exactly one hour of sleep and am in no shape to be running medical tests before the sun comes up!” she protested and gave Mulder a disapproving look when he pouted at her.

“Don’t you want to save the human race?” he asked innocently. This caused her to nearly burp a giggle and she had to stifle it with one hand. She was definitely running on empty if she was reacting like this to his little-boy enthusiasm.

“Just let me get five or six more hours sleep,” she said once she’d calmed down enough to keep a straight face. “And you need to get some sleep, too, or you’re going to fall over. C’mere. She dragged him over to her couch and pushed at him until his knees bent and he plopped his butt on the center of the piece of furniture. He allowed her to slide off his jacket and take off his tie and shoes. He drew the line at his belt, though.

“I’ll, uh, take care of that, Scully, thanks,” he murmured and she smiled benevolently down at him before going to fetch him a blanket and pillow. When she returned, he opened his mouth as though he was about to engage her in a heavy discussion about the vaccine again, but she put a finger over his lips and prodded him until he lay supine. Then she threw the blanket over him, tucked him in, and kissed him on the forehead.

“Get some rest,” she whispered and turned out the light on the end table.

“Yes, Mom,” he muttered through a yawn. She smiled to herself as she walked back to her bedroom but once she was there she let out a breath. A vaccine against aliens? Could it be real? She had no idea, but she trusted her partner when he said it was something they should look into. Whether aliens existed or not, an effective vaccine against an emerging virus was nothing to sneeze at. She took off her light summer robe and slid under the covers of her bed. Even though she was incredibly tired, she lay for a while with her eyes wide open, thinking about Mulder.

“Well, it’s definitely reacting to the sample, though how and why I can’t say yet,” said Scully as she stared into the microscope. She backed away from the isolation unit in which she’d been manipulating the sample of the black oil with the seamless, unwieldy gloves fastened to the outside of the unit. She and Mulder had gone to Quantico early to use their superior labs in order to test the vaccine. Scully had taken a few micro-milliliters and added them to a smear of the oil from Dr. Sacks’s lab accident cutting open the meteorite they’d recovered from a diplomatic pouch Krycek had once led them to. Then she had watched as the vaccine had invaded the oil in Dr. Sacks’s infected blood and dispersed it on the slide until it was gone.

“But it works?” asked Mulder, peering over her shoulder and into the microscope.

“In a fashion, yes. We’ll need to study it a lot closer before we can determine if it’s safe for humans and how to replicate it. Meanwhile, I think we should let Skinner know,” said Scully. Mulder kept his eyes pressed to the microscope for just a second too long without saying anything. “You don’t agree with me,” she said. “Why?” Mulder straightened and looked at the isolation unit where the salvation of humankind was doing battle with a deadly invader from outer space.

“I’ll tell him when we know more,” said Mulder evasively. She looked him in the eye.

“Mulder, why would you hide this from him? He’s…” she looked around the lab and lowered her voice. “He’s your significant other. Why wouldn’t you tell him about something that could save the world?”

“I’m not sure he’d believe me,” replied Mulder, being painfully honest.

“He stopped you from chasing that supposed rebel alien over at Wiekamp Air Force Base. Why would he do that if he didn’t believe aliens exist?” she pointed out.

“I-I don’t know. Maybe he just didn’t want me getting in trouble with the military personnel over there. But he never said he believed in aliens.”

“And he never said he didn’t believe. I can’t believe you want to keep him in the dark about this,” she continued to argue and he closed his eyes for a moment, holding a hand to his forehead.

“Stay out of it, Scully, please.”

“No. I’m not going to stay out of it because I’m in the middle of it already.” Her voice rose as she spoke. “You don’t want to tell him because then you’ll have to tell him where you got it from and you’re afraid he’s going to be less understanding than I was. Is that it?” When he started to walk away from her she grabbed his sleeve and demanded, “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Mulder turned his head to face her and he looked so frightened for a moment that Scully thought he might be having another panic attack. She let go of his jacket sleeve. He was wearing the same suit and shirt he’d worn yesterday, not having bothered to go home and change. In fact, he’d woken up after only about four hours of restless, nightmare-filled sleep and helped himself to a large bowl of corn flakes and some orange juice from Scully’s kitchen then sat up waiting for her to rise while he contemplated the covered sharp in the black pouch the Englishman had given him. The Englishman saying, “Good drone,” had reverberated over and over in his head during that time and he had wondered if he wasn’t about to carry out some secret sub-program he’d been brainwashed to perform.

“He’ll believe. You just have to trust him,” said Scully affirmatively when Mulder appeared at a loss for words. She was gratified when she got a slight nod out of him and returned to her work while he paced the lab behind her. “Mulder, go find something to do. I’ll let you know if I learn anything new,” she said without turning. She heard his footsteps stop and then shuffle and then he was striding with purpose out of the lab, down the hall, and away from Quantico altogether.

The smoker’s phone rang as he was watching television, some documentary on World War II filled with black-and-white footage of young men being blown to smithereens and the resultant fields of bodies. He picked up the receiver and spoke a greeting into it, not taking his bloodshot, hazel eyes off the television. A raspy, nasal voice entered his ear.

“We have a job for you,” said Gerald.

“Ah ha. I see,” said Charles. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. It’s been awfully quiet on the western front these days.” He smirked at the reference but his thin lips drew into a line when his humor was ignored and instead he was issued with instructions for said job.

“One of our number has defected,” Gerald said. “He’s given Agent Mulder the vaccine. He can no longer be trusted and must be disposed of.”

Charles’s eyes suddenly took on a new gleam in the flickering light from the television. He leaned over and stubbed out his ever-present cancer stick. “Mulder has the vaccine?” he asked somewhat breathlessly.

“Everything we’ve fought for is ruined. Someone has to pay,” said Gerald, his raspy voice taking on an angry edge.

“Who?”

“The Brit,” replied the elder and Charles sat back, his thoughts whirling. Of course the Englishman would be the defector. “We need you to do it and then disappear.”

“And your plans?”

“None of your concern.”

“Of course. Well, I’ll see to it,” said Charles full of hope and excitement. Things were getting very interesting with this new development.

“Good. No need to make it look accidental.”

Charles chuckled and thought of his beloved sniper rifle. “I like things better that way,” he purred and reached for another cigarette. There was a disapproving grunt on the other end of the line but he didn’t give two shits what the elder thought of his sadistic proclivities.

“There is one other thing,” said Gerald.

“Yes?” Charles put the new cigarette to his lips and flicked his lighter. The tip glowed as he inhaled and he shut the lighter case in a familiar, easy move of his hand. He tossed the lighter on the side table next to him.

“Mulder was visited by your old boy toy. We think he tried to pass on sensitive information. We can’t have any collusion between the two of them,” answered Gerald.

“Why not? Mulder already has the vaccine,” Charles pointed out almost gleefully. “As you said, all your plans are ruined.”

“Our plans,” corrected the elder.

“Our plans? Really, Gerald. You’ve kept me out of the loop so long, I thought you’d forgotten your old friend,” chided Charles with a sallow grin and took a long drag on his cigarette. On the television screen, the footage had changed from the killing fields of France to Nazi rally marches. Charles shifted in his chair, the mirror image of the swastika flag reflected on his cornea. There was a frustrated huff on the other end of the line. Charles took the opportunity to get another dig in while he could and added, “I wasn’t even aware we had a viable vaccine yet. How did that come about?”

“In secret,” was all Gerald said.

“Obviously.”

“You will take care of both threats?” queried Gerald imperiously but Charles heard uncertainty underlying the question. Gerald and the rest of the group obviously feared him as a wild card which made him realize that if he complied with their wishes, he truly would have to disappear and most likely keep an eye out over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Ah well. He had a beautiful cabin up in Canada he could retire to as no hardship.

“Why not kill Mulder and just be done with it?” suggested Charles lightly. He would take no pleasure in killing his own son but would do it if necessary. However, he would rather see this fascinating story play out. How would the world react to knowing about aliens? About an alien virus that could enslave and then kill the human race unless they took the vaccine that a shadowy group of men had reverse-engineered from a captive human’s virus-exposed blood?

“Because it’s too late, now,” said Gerald, his voice rising. “He’s no doubt shared knowledge of the vaccine with others. We would have to kill him and everyone he’s told and spend the rest of our lives living in the shadows.”

Charles wondered what the difference was. They were all already living in hiding over the drone facility debacle. But he didn’t feel like dragging out this conversation any longer. “All right, I’ll take care of the Englishman and Krycek,” he said and heard a sigh of relief from the elder. He smirked.

“Good,” said Gerald and hung up the phone. Charles slowly lowered his phone receiver to its cradle and continued to smoke while he watched his program. In his head, he was already planning how to take his two targets out of the playing field.

“Knock, knock,” said Mulder cheerfully as he rapped his knuckles on the open door of Chuck Burks’s office on the first floor of the Hoover building only a few yards down from where the FBI stored a large portion of its evidence from past and ongoing cases.

Chuck looked up from his work at the computer and gave Mulder a smile, greeting him with familiarity of long association. They shook hands and Mulder pointed at the record on the turntable beside Chuck’s computer. “How’s it going?” Mulder asked, planting his hands on his hips to hide the tremor that had developed in his hands on the way down to Chuck’s office.

“Pretty good,” said Chuck and gestured to the still record of Chubby Checker’s version of “The Twist” taken from the Dolan case. “I played it several times, got a good recording, and had the computer analyze its sound signature against other known recordings. I even found a copy of the same record and played and recorded it for comparison,” said Chuck. Mulder nodded along with his description of his analysis, holding his breath for Chuck’s final judgment. Chuck turned the knob on the turntable and moved the needle arm onto the record. The happy sounds of the very danceable tune came out of the speakers attached to the turntable. Chuck turned to Mulder, oblivious to his anxiety or the way Mulder had braced himself when he’d turned on the record player, and said blithely, “It’s just music. Nothing else there, no subliminals whatsoever.”

Mulder let out the breath he’d been holding, wholly relieved. It didn’t explain why Dolan’s victims had danced themselves into such contorted positions. He supposed the ergotamine would have to explain that or perhaps some strange, persuasive power in Dolan’s voice not unlike that of The Pusher’s, Robert Patrick Modell’s. But at least the record wasn’t chock full of subliminal messages telling people to twist themselves so that they faced backwards or giving people like Dolan homicidal ideas. Mulder clapped Chuck on the shoulder and thanked him profusely for his time and expertise.

“No problemo,” said Chuck, taking the record off the turntable and tucking it in a plastic evidence sleeve. “Do me a favor, though, and return this to Evidence for me? I’ve got a lot to do here on another case involving tape surveillance. They want me to see if I can clean up some pretty choppy audio and it’s going to take a while.”

“Sure thing,” said Mulder, perhaps a little too eagerly. He had intended to head to Evidence anyway and this gave him a legitimate excuse. There was something in there that he needed to see, to touch.

“Thanks, Mulder,” grinned Chuck and turned back to his computer.

Mulder left Chuck’s office and turned right down the hall, striding as casually as he could and trying desperately not to look guiltily over his shoulder as he went. As an FBI agent, he had every right to go into Evidence and view the object he wanted to view but somehow felt that he was doing something illegal or subversive. At the front desk in Evidence, he signed in the Dolan record and then asked the evidence custodian behind the desk if he could look at some of the evidence taken from the dronification facility case.

“You have the case number?” asked the bored-to-tears custodian.

Mulder had it memorized and rattled the number off to her. She typed it into her computer and wrote the shelf number on a slip of paper. “I’ll show you where it is. Come on,” she said and he followed her through the long room filled with shelves and shelves of all kinds of evidence taken from all kinds of crimes: reams of paperwork, computer hard drives and discs, victims’ stained clothing, bags of counterfeit currency, murder weapons of all sizes and descriptions, impounded drugs. The list went on. The room was shadowy and somewhat cavernous, with lights at even intervals between the stacks. Mulder had mixed feelings of dread and anticipation as he followed the custodian down one narrow space between shelves. She consulted her little paper and looked around a bit then without a word pointed at a double row of labeled, cardboard boxes on two shelves. “These are all from that case. Were you looking for anything specific?” she asked him.

“Uh,” he floundered. Of course she was going to be there while he looked at the evidence. Chain of custody was a serious thing in the halls of the Hoover. One missing object from these boxes could have dire consequences to a case. Besides, he’d made the mistake of taking a box cutter from Evidence once without returning it and had nearly become a suspect in the case. “I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “I’ll know it when I see it, I think.” He tried to play dumb. He needed to be alone with the evidence. Just then, the sound of a phone ringing had the evidence custodian cursing under her breath and excusing herself to go answer it.

“Just don’t remove anything from the room. If you do, you’ll have wait and fill out chain-of-custody forms. I’m sure you know the drill,” she said and handed him the little slip of paper with the shelf number and slot position on it.

Saved by the bell, thought Mulder to himself as he looked at the row of full boxes of evidence before him. He took his service flashlight out of his pocket and raised the lid of the first box on the second shelf. There were about ten boxes all together. He would have to hurry if he wanted to find what he was looking for and abscond with it before the custodian came back to keep her eagle eye on him and his sticky fingers. At first he had just intended to find what he wanted and look at it, but a split second decision made him realize a quick glimpse would never do. He had to take it instead, consequences be damned. He opened lid after lid, poking through the boxes, his breath going faster and faster, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. Much of the evidence from the drone case was paperwork and computer hardware. He ignored those boxes. A few of them had medical equipment in them from the reeducation room, including little jars filled with electrodes meant to be implanted in the male drones’ anatomy. He shuddered at finding those objects. In the sixth box, Mulder halted his search. His flashlight reflected off deep black through a clear evidence bag among a pile of similarly filled bags. His breath caught and the fingers of his left hand reached out to touch the object in the bag. He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat and his loins started to ache. Then he heard footsteps headed his way and snatched the bag from the box, tucking it into the back of his pants, hoping like hell his suit jacket would hide the telltale bulge.

He settled himself just as the evidence custodian rounded the row and came down. He pretended interest in another box of evidence from the drone case and mumbled out loud, “It’s not here. I guess I’ll have to rely on photographs.” He turned to her and shut off his flashlight, giving the custodian a grin. “Thanks for your help.”

She gave him the hairy eye but said, “No problem. Sorry you couldn’t find what you were looking for.” He motioned for her to precede him out of the evidence room and she led the way to the front desk.

“Have a nice day,” he said, still forcing his smile and doing his best to face her at all times so she wouldn’t see his contraband. She just grunted and turned to her computer. Her phone rang again as Mulder slipped out the evidence room door and out into the quiet hallway. He let out an enormous breath once he was back past Chuck Burks’s office and then ducked into a men’s room a few doors farther down and pulled his prize from his waistband. He looked at it for a few seconds with deep longing and an emerging hard-on and then schooled himself. It would do no good to be walking around the Hoover building with a stiffy. He did some deep breathing and tamped down on his erection by imagining the Deputy Director dancing on the National Mall without his clothes on. Once he was in control of himself, he tucked his stolen evidence under his jacket again and headed down to his own office in the basement, hoping like hell that Scully was still at Quantico working on the vaccine.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he found himself alone on home turf and took the object out from under his jacket once again. He caressed it through the evidence bag and held it to the side of his face, closing his eyes and picturing it covering his features. “Oh,” he breathed and slowly opened his eyelids. His stomach fluttered with butterflies. He would put it on tonight when he got home. Until then, he had to keep it hidden. He slid the item into the bottom drawer of his desk and locked it and none too soon, either, because just then there were footsteps outside his office and Skinner walked in.

Mulder sat up and tried to look innocent. “Hey,” he greeted Skinner. “How’s it hanging, Skin-man?”

Skinner raised an eyebrow at Mulder’s strange greeting. “‘Skin-man’? My friends in college used to make fun of me using that name,” he said with a frown and Mulder apologized. Skinner shook his head. “You know what, it’s not important. Where were you this morning? I was worried when you and Scully didn’t show up and submit your reports on the Lacey Morehouse case.” Skinner came closer to Mulder’s desk and looked down at him.

“Ah, well, you know how it is,” Mulder said evasively with a charm-school smile and Skinner’s other eyebrow joined its brother near the top of his forehead. “Faulty alarm clock?” tried Mulder. Skinner’s dubious look turned into his AD, don’t-give-me-any-shit glare as he crossed his arms over his chest and Mulder frowned. Then he sighed and leaned back in his desk chair, looking anywhere but at his lover. “The truth is I went over to Scully’s last night because one of the ex Syndicate members gave me a vaccine against the black oil alien virus. Scully’s over at Quantico right now trying to figure out if the vaccine is viable.” His jaw tensed, waiting for Skinner’s judgment.

What Mulder didn’t expect was the soft, nearly pained voice asking, “Why didn’t you come to me?” Skinner lowered his arms.

Mulder looked up at the other man, eyes wide. “I didn’t think you believed in all the alien stuff,” he answered in a hushed voice.

“Of course I believe you, Mulder. How could I not believe you after everything I’ve seen and heard while working on the X-files over the years?” Skinner sounded exasperated and hurt that his lover didn’t trust him. “Why do you think I didn’t want you to go to Wiekamp the other night?” he asked in a gentler voice with a gesture of his hand. Mulder looked down at his desk.

“I thought it was just because you didn’t trust Krycek and wanted to keep me from getting into trouble with the military,” mumbled Mulder guiltily. He heard Skinner sigh and caught movement out of the corner of his eye that indicated Skinner was rubbing his head wearily. Skinner sat on the edge of Mulder’s desk and leaned on it with one hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked Mulder in a concerned tone. Mulder looked up at him, confused.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” asked Mulder.

Skinner’s brown eyes studied Mulder’s through his glasses. “You said an ex Syndicate member gave you the vaccine. I assume you had an encounter right after you left work. That couldn’t have been comfortable for you.”

Mulder was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head, but his eyes never left Skinner’s. “No,” he admitted, “it wasn’t. But I managed and I got something important out of it, vitally important.”

Skinner nodded. He had had a moment there when he’d been incredibly angry at Mulder for not telling him about meeting with the Syndicate member and going off to Scully’s without informing him about his whereabouts or the vaccine. But he couldn’t hold a grudge against the man he loved and so he forgave Mulder his course of action, glad to see that he was sitting here before him, whole and not negatively affected by his encounter last night. Besides, he allowed that Scully was the more logical choice to handle the vaccine because of her medical background. Skinner would have insisted she become involved regardless. “We’ll have to see that it goes through the proper channels, inform the CDC, the FDA, the president and his staff.”

“You think they’ll believe?” asked Mulder hopefully.

“I think that when presented with evidence of a new viral threat to humanity, then yes, they’ll believe. I think we’d better leave the alien thing out of the picture, though, at least for now,” reasoned Skinner.

“Hm, maybe you’re right,” said Mulder. “Can you spare Scully to work on the preliminaries? It would be better if we could give the authorities a complete overview of the vaccine’s properties and potential side effects.”

“Sure, but not for too long. The study of viruses and vaccines isn’t in Scully’s job description except in rare instances where it coincides with a federal case.”

“But this does coincide with a case, my case, the dronification thing,” insisted Mulder. Skinner mulled over Mulder’s words. The younger man wasn’t wrong, considering a member of the cabal the FBI was hunting from that case had passed on the vaccine to him. But giving Scully the hours to fully study the vaccine and come up with a comprehensive report on it would be hard to justify to the top brass without a stronger connection to the dronification case. Plus, they would question why one of their agents hadn’t simply taken said fugitive into custody. Skinner understood that Mulder’s PTSD might have caused him to hesitate where in the past he wouldn’t have. Those above Skinner might not take Mulder’s hesitation lightly and might call into question his fitness for duty.

“All right,” agreed Skinner. “I’ll see if I can give her a week.”

“A week!”

“Tops,” said Skinner firmly and gave Mulder a look. “Meanwhile, you’re on desk duty.”

“What for?!”

“You’ve been running ragged since you came back to work and without your partner by your side, I don’t want you out in the field. It’s only temporary until Scully can rejoin you.”

“Walter, that’s ridiculous,” Mulder protested. “I’m fine.”

“You’re overtired and you’re stressed to the max,” said Skinner. “Tell me how you really felt when you saw that Syndicate member who gave you the vaccine.”

Mulder sucked in a breath and held it a moment. God, Skinner really knew how to push all his buttons! But he couldn’t stay angry. Skinner was right. His body and mind were on high alert. But desk duty? Surely there was an alternative. Then Mulder’s mind flashed back to the night before and how he felt when that menacing black car pulled up beside him in the parking garage and his eye twitched. His heart had been beating out of control until the Englishman had been long gone but at least it hadn’t been his father. If it had…?

Slowly, Mulder said to Skinner, “There’s, uh, something else I have to tell you, not about last night but… but something I’ve been meaning to tell you and I just haven’t found the right moment.” His eyes pleaded for Skinner to listen to him without prejudice and he was buoyed by the way Skinner softly asked, “What is it?” Mulder let out a shuddering breath and palmed his hands across the desktop. He bowed his head a moment and then looked back into Skinner’s expectant eyes.

“The smoking man is my biological father,” said Mulder as though chewing on something rotten. He looked away from Skinner at the sight of Skinner’s eyes going wide and his face going grim with shock. “And he… he was one of the ones… the main one who… w-when I was a drone,” added Mulder in a whisper, unable to utter the R word.

“God, Mulder, why didn’t you say something earlier?” asked Skinner and Mulder tensed but Skinner negated his question by saying, “No, never mind. I know why you didn’t. Jesus, when I think what that bastard did to you…” He clenched his teeth and looked away for a moment, the rage inside him almost ready to burst out. But he tamped it down and reached for Mulder’s hand. Mulder pulled away and put his hand in his lap. Skinner looked hurt but didn’t comment on Mulder’s resistance to his touch.

“Please don’t. I don’t want your pity. I just thought it was time you knew.” Mulder studied the items on his desk without really seeing them, their familiarity causing them to be just so much background decoration.

“I’m truly sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me before,” said Skinner. “That’s on me. Don’t feel like you ever have to hide anything from me, Fox. Ever.”

Mulder’s looked at him and read the sincerity and love in his features and Skinner breathed a silent sigh of relief when Mulder nodded, seemingly accepting his words at face value.

It was Skinner’s turn to look away for a moment at the items cluttering Mulder’s desk: a stapler, a bunch of pencils, a glass paperweight, several stacks of files, a letter opener, two cheap ballpoint pens. Then carefully he asked the first thing that had come to his mind after his declaration of support, “Dare I ask how you know he’s your father?”

Mulder told him briefly about his suspicions about the cigarette smoking man from his time up in New England with the whole light therapy and ketamine-induced hallucinations thing and how his Mother all but confirmed it with her reaction when he had accused her of having an affair with the smoker.

“But you don’t know for sure,” said Skinner, looking for a loophole that would ease his lover’s troubled mind.

Clear but wounded eyes regarded Skinner and Mulder replied, “I know just as sure as I know my sister was abducted by aliens.”

Skinner refused to point out that the “facts” of Mulder’s sister’s abduction were anything but verifiable. He simply nodded, though, and accepted that Mulder wouldn’t admit the fallacy in his own thinking. His concern for Mulder’s wellbeing, however, wouldn’t allow him to drop the subject entirely. “Have you talked to Dr. Boswick about this?” asked Skinner seriously.

“Mm-hm.” Mulder nodded.

“Good,” said Skinner and both men were quiet for a while. Then out of the blue, Mulder smiled at Skinner and said, “I knew you came down here to check up on me, but was there anything else, you know, that you maybe wanted to tell me or show me?” He waggled his eyebrows and Skinner chuckled, rising from his awkward position on the corner of Mulder’s desk.

“You go from zero to sexy in about two seconds flat, do you know that,” said Skinner and gave Mulder a little grin and a shake of his head, not quite understanding how Mulder’s mind hopped so rapidly from such weighty matters as abuse at the hands of his supposed father and his sister’s abduction to wanting physical affection from his partner at a very inappropriate time and place. Perhaps his lover was trying to deflect the pain by inviting pleasure to drown it out. It made Skinner vaguely uncomfortable.

“I know,” said Mulder, lowering his eyelids becomingly. Skinner damned the man for having such beautiful eyes and let out a little sigh.

He tilted his head and gave Mulder the once-over, but by the time he reached Mulder’s face again, his expression had softened from desiring to simply loving, minus the sexual charge. “Not at work, darlin’,” he reminded Mulder. “Should we rendezvous elsewhere later?” he proposed instead. Maybe he could get Mulder to talk more about Cancerman. Skinner didn’t think he could bear to hear some of the detestable things that man had done, but he wanted Mulder to know that it was okay to talk about them with him if he needed to.

“Ah,” Mulder leaned back in his chair and scratched his head, “actually, I was thinking of making an early night of it, considering I’m on desk duty for the next week while my partner works her butt off in the exciting area of extraterrestrial disease control.”

Skinner gave him another longing look and said only somewhat disappointingly, “All right, but remember our rain check.” He pointed a finger at Mulder and Mulder grinned.

“How could I forget?”

“Cheeky,” said Skinner and began to walk out the basement office door. “I’ll see you later when you bring up the Lacey Morehouse report.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” declared Mulder with a mock salute and blew Skinner a kiss. Skinner laughed all the way to the elevator but deep down he worried.

Dana Scully’s Journal: In my efforts to study and understand the vaccine given to my partner by a mysterious man who might, in broadest terms, be called a benefactor, I’ve come to the conclusion that it contains no ordinary compounds but a complex protein synthesis that could only be stumbled upon through rigorous testing on humans. Certain proteins indicate that the vaccine was developed from the genes of someone who had already been exposed to the virus, someone like my partner who, through his misadventures in Krasnoyarsk, Russia, was not only exposed but also, according to him, inoculated in a cruel and inhuman manner. Could it be that my partner has had the key to defeating the alien invaders all along circling around in his blood? Such potential would be worth a great amount to those seeking to control a narrative in which the only weapons are secrecy and human sacrifice and might be one of the reasons he was taken as part of a sick experiment in human debauchery.

Mulder had called Scully after his little talk with his lover to let her know she had Skinner’s blessing to analyze the vaccine and to complain to her that he was confined to being a desk jockey for a week. He had given himself a few minutes to decompress, first, though. His morning had been rife with emotional pitfalls, some of which he had created by committing robbery in Evidence right under the evidence custodian’s nose and of course by giving his revelation about his father to Skinner. But Mulder was tired of hiding the latter, painful, secret from Walter and needed his lover to understand, in hindsight, how personal his abuse had been. Now there was only one secret between them. Mulder felt much lighter but also had had a moment of letdown wherein most of his heavy burdens had been released and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. There were no cases pending. His boss had him on desk duty. He supposed he should put together some kind of legible report on the Morehouse thing. His fingers absently tapped the keys of his computer, entering in facts in the dispassionate way he had been taught as a trainee at Quantico all those years ago. Seemed like a lifetime, actually. His mind drifted. If he knew then what he would have to go through... He tried to think of advice he would give to his younger self and nothing sage came to him. Eventually, he pulled back from the brink of zoning out and banged out the rest of the report. It took a couple of hours. He proofread it carefully, that usually being Scully’s job, before packaging it neatly and bringing it up to Skinner’s office.

Skinner was on the phone, so he had to wait in the outer office for a few minutes before Skinner invited him in. Mulder handed Skinner the Morehouse report and sat while Skinner double-checked his work and signed off on it. Then Skinner looked up and said, “I was just talking to one of the lawyers on staff, Joshua Tate. He said we’ll be asked to give testimony in court soon regarding what happened with the dronification case.”

Mulder’s hands clenched on the armrests of the chair he sat in. “I wasn’t notified,” he managed to croak.

“I know. The summonses are probably in the mail right now. I’ll be deposed on what happened during the raid but you’re going to be the prosecution’s main witness as to what went on outside the dronification facility,” warned Skinner. “Do you think you can handle it?”

“I-I’m not sure,” said Mulder, his voice thick and his skin suddenly pale. God, the hits just kept on coming this morning, like bullets shot from an automatic rifle. And the moment he righted himself, another fusillade put a few more holes in him.

“I’ve asked Tate to come speak with you, to coach you on what’s going to happen, so you’ll be a little better prepared,” added Skinner, trying to allay his lover’s fears of appearing before a judge, jury, the men who had brainwashed him, those men’s lawyers, and several dozen other court officials and onlookers while he told them about how he was drugged, brainwashed, and pimped out to perform sexual favors for a group of men who, thus far, had escaped both identification and capture. Mulder began to sweat. He took another deep breath.

Skinner saw Mulder’s reaction and said softly, “You don’t have to do this, Fox. We can speak to Dr. Boswick and get her to sign something that says giving testimony would be too much for you. The statement you gave after we rescued you would be enough for the court. It happens all the time so you wouldn’t have to feel ashamed.”

Mulder’s head snapped up and he looked his lover in the eye. “No, I want to testify,” said Mulder firmly. He knew this had been coming and had dreaded it but had put it in the back of his mind what with all the other things going on and all the cases he and Scully had had to work since he’d gotten back.

“You’re sure about that?” Skinner asked. He was wary for his lover’s sake, especially considering what Mulder had just told him a couple of hours ago down in the basement. He didn’t want to cause Mulder any more psychological harm by putting him through reliving what had happened to him before he was ready.

“I’m sure,” said Mulder. The muscle spasms he was unaware of having had stopped and the sweat was beginning to cool on his forehead and under his armpits.

“All right, I’ll let Tate know you’re ready for him to coach you. His schedule’s pretty busy so he probably won’t make it up here until the beginning of next week.”

“When is the trial, sir?” asked Mulder, fidgeting slightly.

“Not for another month,” answered Skinner. Mulder nodded, relieved but also knowing that he would probably not sleep well for the next four weeks. Skinner tilted his head and regarded him.

“I know this is tough for you. If you need to talk about it, you can come to me any time,” offered Skinner. “Or if you don’t want to talk to me, talk to Pamela.” Mulder just nodded. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to anyone at the moment. His mind, which had barely settled before he brought the Morehouse case up to Skinner, was in turmoil again. “When’s your next appointment with her?” Skinner asked, jolting Mulder out of a thought spiral.

“Huh? Oh, um,” Mulder thought a moment, “next Monday, I think.” Skinner nodded approvingly.

“And… what are you doing this weekend?” asked Skinner more personally.

“Uh, I h-hadn’t really thought about it,” muttered Mulder and his brain instantly provided an image of the thing he’d stolen sitting in his bottom desk drawer. He flushed and crossed his legs.

“Would you like to go out somewhere, take your mind off things? We could take in a movie,” offered Skinner.

Mulder put on a fake smile and said, “Sure, that sounds good.” Skinner smiled back and his happy visage made Mulder melt inside. He relaxed slightly.

“Saturday night?” Mulder nodded. “All right, then. It’s a date.”

Mulder felt butterflies in his stomach of a wholly different order to that nervous flutter he had a few minutes ago when talking about the trial and his fake smile turned genuine. He and Skinner were going on one of their rare dates. Initially, the thought of sitting in a darkened movie theater with dozens of strangers while being bombarded by images on a massive silver screen had held little appeal when Scully had suggested it a while back. But the thought of being able to hold hands or snuggle with his lover if the movie got too intense made the experience seem less threatening. “Do you know what’s playing?” he asked curiously and Skinner chuckled.

“No, but I’ll find out and let you know. Meanwhile, I have some wire-tap transcripts I’d like you to go over on a couple of drug busts we’ve been working with the DEA on, see if you can’t make heads or tails out of what the fuck the suspects are talking about. Apparently the tapes were pretty garbled and the transcriber did the best she could.”

Mulder groaned. Tape surveillance again (kinda)? What the fuck was this, How to Keep Mulder out of Trouble and out of His Mind 101?

“I know, not the most glamorous job on the planet, but we need all hands on deck on this one. If we help the DEA bust these two groups we could shut down a huge East Coast supply line,” said Skinner and handed Mulder a stack of transcripts.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mulder begrudgingly and rose to take the ream of paper from Skinner’s hand. Skinner held his side of the documents a moment longer, holding Mulder in place, and looked up at him seriously.

“This isn’t a punishment, Fox. I want you to know that,” said Skinner. Mulder regarded his lover bristlingly for a couple of seconds and then his ire settled and he nodded.

“I understand,” he said quietly and Skinner let go of the transcripts. Mulder tucked them under his arm and said, “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Of course, darlin’,” said Skinner and Mulder couldn’t help the blushing smile that crossed his face. He loved it any time Skinner called him “darlin’” with that charming Texan lilt. Most of the time, Skinner didn’t present any specific regional accent while speaking, but every once in a while, Mulder got his own personal taste of the Lone Star State from Walter’s lips.

“Later, big guy,” Mulder said with a wink and Skinner told him mock-seriously to get the hell out of his office before he was put on transcript analysis permanently. Mulder rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, and sashayed out of Skinner’s office. Once he was in the outer office, he laughed to himself. Kim Cook, Skinner’s secretary, looked up at him and smiled but he shook his head and she understood that she wasn’t to be let in on the joke.

Never pictured myself as much of a sashayer, Mulder thought to himself amusedly as he walked at a normal pace toward the elevators down the hall from Skinner’s office. He couldn’t help camping it up sometimes, though, especially in an institution that was so stalwartly heterosexual at the best of times and outwardly homophobic at the worst. Luckily, neither he nor his lover had had any issues thus far with their not-quite-as-secret-as-it-could-be relationship. They’d been careful, but maybe not as careful as they should be. Mulder decided not to worry about it as he got in the elevator and rode down to the basement to begin his boring transcript work. If the top brass wanted to do away with the X-Files over something as stupid as whom he slept with, Mulder swore to himself he would sue their collective asses off. Then again, if he got fired, he wouldn’t have to keep his relationship with Skinner so secret. This tangent brought Mulder back to his office without him having to think about where he was walking. He plunked the transcripts on top of his desk with a sigh and looked longingly at the phone. He’d talked to Scully not that long ago but still wondered if he should call her for an update on the vaccine. How much headway could she realistically have made in the past couple of hours, though?

Mulder sat down. He looked at his desk, at the large pile of transcripts, at the bottom-left drawer that was locked against any snoopers. His legs spread slightly and his right hand drifted south. What the fuck am I doing?! his mind screamed at him and he snatched his hand away. He swallowed and his hand shook as he reached for the top transcript and a pencil from his pencil cup on the other side of his desk. Later. You’ve got work to do, drone.

The evidence bag crinkled as Mulder opened the seal on it and gingerly slid its contents onto a cleared space on his dining table. His breath caught at the unimpeded sight of his prize as it glimmered blackly at him in the low light of his apartment. He took his hand off it after placing it so that it was lying perfectly face up and absently set aside the plastic evidence bag.

He’d broken federal law by removing this piece of evidence without signing it out through proper custody channels. His heart, oddly enough, was relatively calm at that thought. It wasn’t calm at the thought of what he was about to do with said evidence, though. Heat pooled in his groin and his chest rose and fell quickly as, with careful hands, he picked up the null mask and turned it to face away from him. He raised it to his face, his eyes seeing through the darkened screen on the inside of it to the opposite wall of his apartment and the doorway to the bathroom. The mask’s straps prevented him from getting a close fit unless he wanted to pull those over his head and put it on right away. Instead, he deferred the pleasure, lowering the mask and inspecting the inside of it as his tongue swiped hungrily over his lips and his pants grew tighter across his crotch.

The inside and outside of the mask were pristine aside from a few of his fingerprints. He reasoned that the mask had not been in use at the time of the raid on the dronification facility but had been in storage, waiting for a new victim’s face to obscure. The screen on the inside was inert, having no program being projected across it. The small feeding tube that connected to the respirator poked out cleanly from the front inside, ready for a mouth to wrap around it and suck life-sustaining green sludge through it, except there was no food supply attached. There was no hose for oxygen, either. Instead, the respirator’s air vents were open and the hose attachment closed. Mulder hefted the weighty thing in his hands, his finger running along the rubber face seal that kept out fluid and gas other than what was deliberately pumped into the mask. Its foreign familiarity titillated him. It was perfect and it was insidious and it was his. He let out a soft noise of appreciation and palmed his dick through his work pants. It was time to get naked and strap on his new toy.

“Hey, sweetheart,” purred Skinner as he picked Mulder up for their date Saturday night.

“What? No ‘darlin’’?” teased Mulder and Skinner chuckled. He petted Mulder’s hair on the side of his head and drew him into a quick kiss hello. Mulder looked good in a pair of stone-washed blue jeans and a black polo shirt. Skinner himself was in a pair of khakis and a light-yellow, long-sleeved button down. Mulder, despite his attractive casual front, seemed jittery to Skinner and he wondered if it was because of the movie. They’d opted to go for something on the lighter side. Skinner had told Mulder on Friday what was playing at the Cineplex downtown and Mulder had chosen The Truman Show, a dramedy with Jim Carrey, America’s funnyman. Still, Mulder hadn’t been to see a film on the big screen since before his abduction. Skinner noted the way Mulder rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans as Skinner kissed him and didn’t seem to want to make eye contact very much.

“You okay, darlin’?” Skinner asked him, hand gently resting on the back of Mulder’s neck after the kiss.

“Mm-hm,” Mulder hummed and nodded.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” stated Mulder, “let me just go feed the fish.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the fish tank in the living room and Skinner let him go with a little squeeze. Mulder smiled and strode over to the other side of the apartment. Skinner watched him pick up the little canister of fish flakes, uncap it, lift the lid on the fish tank, sprinkle in some of the food, and watch the fish swim eagerly up to the top to begin nibbling. Mulder lowered the lid after a moment, turned off the tank light, and capped the fish flakes. Then he set the canister beside the tank and walked back over to Skinner. “All set,” he told Skinner and Skinner put an arm around Mulder’s back, ushering him out of the apartment.

Mulder’s rubbing of his hands on his thighs resumed once they were in Skinner’s car and Skinner told Mulder he could put the air conditioning on if he was too warm. “I’m fine,” was Mulder’s refrain and he stopped palming his jeans. Skinner gave Mulder a worried glance or two out of the corner of his eye as he drove. Mulder had transferred his nervous energy from leg rubbing to leg jiggling and spent nearly the entire ride to the theater giving his right leg a hell of a workout. Maybe the movie had been a bad idea. Mulder stuffed his hands in his jean pockets while they stood in line for tickets, shuffled his feet a lot, and mumbled his order to Skinner at the concession stand rather than place it himself. He seemed a little calmer once he had a large popcorn in one hand and a soda in the other, though, and walked confidently beside Skinner as they entered the screening room numbered on their tickets.

“In the back,” Mulder leaned in and whispered in Skinner’s ear as they came around the end of the ramp at the bottom of the theater’s stadium seating. The scents of stale popcorn and sticky candy had assaulted them on the way in. There were groups of other people and other couples already there and moving around, trying to find a good seat. Skinner peered up the stairs in the dim light and saw two seats toward the left side in the back. He pointed with his free hand and Mulder went in front of him up the long flight of shallow steps. They settled into the two hinge-seated chairs with a sigh and a grunt, respectfully. Mulder settled the popcorn between them to share and took a long sip of his Coke. Skinner held his own soda balanced on his knee and casually looked around before putting his arm around Mulder’s shoulders. Mulder grinned over at him and he stole a smooch off Mulder’s forehead, thankful that there was no one else in the back row yet and everyone else in the theater was busy taking their seats or talking in quiet murmurs about the movie that was about to start.

“Thank you for this,” said Mulder. He wanted to put his hand on Skinner’s knee, jealous of Skinner’s soda cup, but the popcorn was in the way. He took a large handful and began to munch with the idea that the faster he got to the bottom of the container, the faster he could put his hand where he wanted it.

“You’re welcome, darlin’,” murmured Skinner and gripped his soda between his thighs so he could use that hand to eat some of the popcorn. The big, silver screen across from them and the theater’s speakers suddenly came to life and advertisements for the theater came on as a prelude to the previews. Mulder reached up and squeezed Skinner’s hand around his shoulder with a death grip. Skinner sensed his turmoil and hugged him closer. “Hey, it’s okay. We can leave whenever you want.”

Mulder shook his head, his eyes glued to a cartoon video reel singing about how the audience could purchase snacks at the concession in the lobby. “No, I’m good. I wanna stay,” he said firmly and his grip eased ever so slightly. Skinner kept an eye on Mulder through the commercials and the previews just to be sure Mulder wasn’t going to bolt out of the theater without warning. He was reassured when Mulder resumed grazing on the enormous tub of popcorn between them and sipping on the extra-large Coke he’d ordered.

Skinner couldn’t say that he paid much attention to the film’s plot. He laughed at a few of Jim Carrey’s antics and enjoyed Laura Linney’s and Ed Harris’s performances, but his eyes kept drifting to Mulder throughout the movie. Between them they had finished the popcorn within the first fifteen minutes of the film and Mulder had transferred the empty bucket to the floor. Then he’d snuggled as close as he could to Skinner with the arm of the chair between them and rested his hand on Skinner’s thigh, which Skinner found far more thrilling than discovering Truman Burbank’s life was actually a reality television show. He abandoned his soda on the floor on the other side of his seat and pulled Mulder around to him. Their eyes met, followed by their lips, and they both missed a good portion of the middle-end of the movie. The two men were more intent on making out like two teenagers than watching the big screen. Mulder gasped into Skinner’s mouth as they took a brief break from playing kissy face and pawed a hand over Skinner’s neck and shoulder.

“Take me home as soon as this is over?” begged Mulder.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Skinner and dove back in for another tooth-extracting kiss. They were the first out of the theater once the credits rolled and couldn’t stop eyeing and petting each other all the way back to Mulder’s apartment. Mulder fumbled his keys on the way in, panting and laughing as Skinner practically mauled him in the hallway. Then they were through the door, Skinner kicking it closed behind them, and into the bedroom, peeling clothes off as they went. “Oh God,” panted Skinner.

“Fuck yeah,” agreed Mulder as he fell back on the bed with Skinner on top of him. Skinner’s hands fished around in Mulder’s jeans and came up with an award winner. Mulder thrust himself into Skinner’s groping and pulled Skinner closer by the man’s big, meaty butt. Skinner gnawed on Mulder’s shoulder and kissed up his throat to his jaw. Mulder turned his head and planted a sloppy kiss on Skinner’s cheek. Skinner’s cock rubbed against Mulder’s thigh. Mulder whimpered as Skinner suddenly abandoned his upper body and slid down to unwrap Mulder’s lower half from jeans and boxers while taking Mulder’s waving, throbbing sex into his mouth. Mulder’s hand found the back of Skinner’s head and stroked it while Skinner tongued and sucked. Skinner smiled around his mouthful as he heard the sexiest moan emanate from Mulder’s mouth while he gave Mulder the very best blow job he had to offer. It was only fair; he “owed” Mulder after all, not that anyone was keeping score.

“That’s it, so fucking sexy,” rumbled Skinner and licked the tip of Mulder’s cock. A string of saliva dangled for a second and then broke and Skinner admired the pretty sheen of it against Mulder’s blushing skin before going down again on his lover. He felt Mulder’s hand flutter over his head and knew Mulder’s other hand was grasping and tugging at the blankets. He held Mulder’s hips as Mulder bucked and writhed beneath him, trying to contain that restless energy to some degree so he wouldn’t choke on Mulder’s gorgeous, lengthy appendage. Mulder let out a shout and Skinner doubled his efforts to get his lover to cum. A moment later, Mulder obliged with a quick, breathless warning and Skinner swallowed his spunk with a few last gentle sucks. He kissed Mulder’s softening, sensitive cock afterward and gathered Mulder into a spooned position with a bunch more kisses to Mulder’s chest, neck, and face.

“Mm, that was amazing,” said Mulder, his eyes hazy and his face beatific in its pleasure. He had his hands curled around Skinner’s protective forearms as Skinner nuzzled his neck and cheek. “What about you?”

“Give it a minute,” said Skinner and Mulder nodded. He’d give Skinner all the time in the world but he would return the favor. It didn’t seem fair that Skinner had given him such a fantastic blow job and hadn’t gotten to get off. Skinner’s left hand roamed down Mulder’s belly and rubbed gently. Mulder could feel the other man’s hardness nestled in the valley of his ass and shifted a bit so it wasn’t quite between his legs. That was too big a step, though he was proud of himself for getting it up, keeping it up, getting off, and not freaking out about it. His mind went briefly to his closet and he closed his eyes, humming contentedly. Skinner didn’t need to know that not all Mulder’s inspiration that night had come from Skinner’s amorous attentions. Someday, maybe, but not now.

In the dark of the bedroom, Mulder rolled over and cupped his hand around Skinner’s hardness. He caught Skinner’s eyes with his own and they kept close as Mulder masturbated Skinner to completion. Skinner praised him and kissed him and thanked him profusely when it was over and they stayed like that facing each other for a while before Mulder dragged himself off the bed to go get a warm, wet washcloth in the bathroom so they didn’t wake up with crusty trails of cum all over them. When he got back to the bedroom, he was about to switch the light on but Skinner said, “No, leave it off.” Mulder complied and slinked back to bed where Skinner had moved and was now leaning with his back against the headboard. Mulder sat beside him on the edge of the bed and began cleaning Skinner’s belly with the washcloth. “Thanks, darlin’,” said Skinner when Mulder’s motions slowed and the cum was all wiped away.

“You’re welcome.” Mulder’s fingers twisted in the wet washcloth and he looked down at it contemplatively. “I… can’t believe I was able to do all that without, you know, freaking out.”

Skinner reached out a hand and stroked Mulder’s arm. “Did it feel good?” he asked Mulder.

Mulder looked up at him with awestruck eyes and nodded. “Yeah, real good.” Skinner smiled back at him.

“Good. I’m glad. That doesn’t mean that you can’t say no when you need to. You understand that, right?” asked Skinner. Mulder gave a short nod and Skinner said, “C’meer.” Mulder left the washcloth on the nightstand next to the bed and crawled up on the other side of Skinner. Skinner lifted the blankets and they settled under them together, arms around each other until they fell asleep.

Monday. Four p.m. Dr. Pamela Boswick’s office. “It’s been a few weeks since we were able to have a chat,” she said and gestured for Mulder to have a seat on her office couch. He sat down and crossed his legs, smoothing his pants over his knee and fussing just a little bit until he was comfortable.

“Yeah. A lot’s been going on but I’m not sure where to start,” said Mulder. He wore a smile that was only slightly anxious. He’d actually been looking forward to talking to Dr. Boswick about his life and his troubles so he could get an outsider’s perspective. Even though he talked to Skinner and Scully all the time, they were hardly objective when it came to him, his decisions, and the events that affected him for better or for worse. He was unsure he could talk to Dr. Boswick about the whole alien thing, though. She might sign him up for one of the rubber rooms at the psychiatric hospital and never let him out, thus the anxiety. He would have to censor himself somewhat.

“We can start wherever you want,” offered Boswick with her congenial smile. She sat in her suede rolling chair with her notepad on her lap, ready to add to her compendium on Mulder’s thoughts, moods, and progress since being rescued from the dronification facility.

He nodded and thought for a second before saying, “Uh, okay. I guess I’d like to talk about… a realization I’ve come to recently.”

She bobbed her head slightly in a motion for him to go on and he took a long breath before letting it out and grinning. “I’ve… come to… accept certain aspects of my sexual needs that I hadn’t before and it’s made my relationship with Walter a little easier, I think,” he said haltingly.

“What aspects are those?” she asked him.

“Just that it is okay to engage in sex but I don’t have to and I don’t have to beat myself up over it if certain things turn me on even if they remind me of…” He stopped. He was dangerously close to telling her about his drone fetish.

“Remind you of what?” she gently prodded. When he struggled to communicate without revealing all of himself she stepped in and reminded him that he didn’t have to answer and that they could change the subject. He shook his head and scratched behind his ear.

“No, I was just thinking of what to say. Ah, if they remind me of my time in captivity,” he got out. Her eyebrows rose slightly but she didn’t say anything, waiting to see if he would elaborate. It was difficult for him to do so because he still didn’t want her to think of him as a freak even though logically he knew she had to have been privy to much stranger during her career. “S-Sometimes I freeze up when Walter touches me. I don’t mean to do it, but the other night he was over and we were fooling around and it felt really good. I didn’t freeze and I think it’s because I let myself enjoy a fantasy I’ve had for a while now that I hadn’t before.”

Boswick nodded and seemed to understand he didn’t want to get into specifics but still felt the need to unburden. “You implied that this fantasy of yours reminds you of something that happened during your time at the drone facility. Can you perhaps explain that a bit more?” she did ask.

“Hm, n-not really. It’s kind of personal,” he said, slightly flustered. “N-Not that I’m trying to hide it or-or anything. It’s just, it’s not really something that happened per se but it’s an… esthetic I noticed I started to like after the fact, if that makes any sense.” Mulder was starting to grow uncomfortable. Why was he telling Boswick all this? Maybe because it sounded less crazy and maladaptive than the alien virus stuff? He shifted in his seat and re-crossed his legs.

Boswick regarded him for a moment and made a little notation on her notepad and then she set it aside on her desk and leaned forward, her hands clasped together. “Mulder, I’m incredibly proud of you for expressing yourself and how your sexuality has grown. Have you talked with your partner about your new fantasies?”

Mulder stiffened. At first when she said partner, his mind immediately went to Scully, but then he realized she meant romantic partner, not work partner and he damned the English language for having so many meanings for the same word. “N-No,” he breathed out and his head moved sharply from side to side, his clear gray eyes growing pensive.

“Do these fantasies involve him in any way?”

“Kind of. Not really. I mean, yes, they could. I’m just not sure how to tell him without him thinking I’m a freak or something,” blurted Mulder and his face colored slightly.

“You said earlier that you’ve come to accept these sexual desires of yours, but from what I’m hearing, you still have an incredible amount of self-doubt,” commented Boswick. Mulder looked down at his hands resting on his lap and brought them together to pick at his thumbnail.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” he admitted quietly. “I’m just not sure what to do about it.”

“I recommend talking to Walter about it. Communication is vital in any relationship, especially in matters of intimacy,” said Boswick. She peered at him until he looked up and met her hopeful-for-him gaze and he gave her a nod and a shy smile. “The worst he can do is ask not to participate in whatever this fantasy is about.”

Mulder disagreed. The worst that could happen was that Skinner would think he was sick and not want to be his lover any more. Mulder didn’t think he could get over that if that happened. He said as much to Dr. Boswick and they both pondered the issue.

“A man who has supported you through all of your months of recovery is not about to come down hard on a little matter of how to get it on in the bedroom,” said Boswick sagely and sat up in her chair. “Has Walter once pressured you in the bedroom or asked you to engage in any intimate acts you were uncomfortable with?” Mulder shook his head. “And you do trust this man that you’re going out with?” Mulder almost gave an inappropriate snicker at the term “going out with.” It sounded so juvenile. But Boswick meant well and he knew it so he nodded.

“Implicitly,” he answered and she could see that he meant it.

“Good. I think you’ll find he’s more open than you think he is,” she commented and Mulder thought back to his and Skinner’s discussion in the basement a few days ago regarding Mulder not thinking he believed in aliens.

“You know, I think you’re right,” said Mulder and she smiled. From there, they moved on to Mulder’s paranoia and panic attacks. “They’ve both toned down somewhat,” said Mulder when Boswick broached the twin subjects. “I, ah, h-had an encounter… with someone who was there when we drones h-had to, um, s-service those men,” he said in hushed voice. He saw Dr. Boswick’s eyes widen and he spoke quickly before she got the wrong idea. “It’s not what you think. He… He wanted to give me something important. He wasn’t there to hurt me and I didn’t have a panic attack, well, not really. I stood my ground.” He nodded and watched her reaction. She slumped in her chair as though the wind had been knocked out of her and shook her head. It was the first time Mulder had ever seen Dr. Boswick so affected by something he’d said and he was afraid.

“Mulder,” she breathed, “is this man in federal custody now?”

“N-No,” said Mulder. She leaned forward again.

“Why not? Does Mr. Skinner know you met with a member of this Syndicate or whatever you call it?”

“He knows, yes.”

“I see,” murmured Boswick and seemed to be trying to gather herself after such a shock.

“You’re angry,” stated Mulder and he could understand why. He had let a wanted criminal escape.

She shook her head and tilted it to give him a genuinely concerned look. “No, Mulder, I’m worried about you, about how this encounter affects you.”

“Don’t be,” said Mulder. “I got something important out of it, really important, so it was worth the strain on my nerves.” He gave her a nod and a smile, trying to make light so she wouldn’t keep staring at him with that horrified expression.

“What could possibly be that important?” she queried, disbelieving his statement.

His smile turned soft and his eyes got that faraway look they sometimes got when he thought about the big picture. “A way to save the world from what’s coming.”

Mulder didn’t tell Dr. Boswick about the aliens. He explained that there was a deadly virus out there, recently discovered, that the Syndicate had been working to find a vaccine against. They had succeeded but wanted to keep that vaccine for themselves so they could control the human population. He went on to say that the man whom he’d had an encounter with wanted no part in such a diabolical plan so that man had defected and given the vaccine to Mulder. Dr. Boswick’s raised eyebrow at all this information amused Mulder and he tried to soothe her by telling her that Skinner and Scully were both privy to all this and Scully was working even now to study this new vaccine.

Eventually, Dr. Boswick gave Mulder a crooked smile and asked, “Should I be worried? About the virus?”

Mulder thought about it. He didn’t want panic to set in or for her to rush out and tell anyone. “So far it’s only affected a tiny proportion of the population. I think you’re pretty safe, and with any luck the vaccine will be ready if the virus should become a greater problem.”

Boswick let out a breath and touched her throat. “Well, that’s good!” she exclaimed and they both shared a chuckle. Then Boswick leaned forward and spoke seriously, “Considering your meeting with this man who gave you the vaccine, are you still worried that someone is following you?”

Mulder thought about it for a moment. He’d already had an encounter with Krycek and gotten over that hump, and he’d already knocked heads with one of the Syndicate members, albeit one with humanity’s best interests in mind, so he was kind over that hump, too. He shook his head and told her no, he wasn’t worried about that any more. He was relieved when she gave him one of her typical, kind Boswick smiles and reached forward to pat his hand. “Keep up the good work, Mulder,” she said and he promised that he would.

The next day, Skinner called Mulder up to his office and introduced him to Joshua Tate. The man was in his late thirties and wore a neat, navy-blue suit with a white shirt and blue-and-gray checked tie that bore an onyx tie pin. Tate’s blond hair was carefully styled to one side and he had a fresh, clean-shaven face with narrow jaw and high forehead. Mulder shook Tate’s hand nervously and met his blue eyes only briefly. Despite wanting to do the right thing, he was uncomfortable having to discuss what happened to him with a stranger and said so point blank. Tate took it in stride and replied that it was better to relive it there first, with him, than to relive it for the first time in court in front of dozens of people.

“I guess you’re right,” agreed Mulder.

Skinner interjected and asked, “Would you two care to use the conference table in here? I don’t have any meetings for the rest of the afternoon.”

Mulder looked to Tate for the answer. Personally, he would have liked to have Skinner there in the background in case Tate asked him some difficult, uncomfortable questions, but then he changed his mind when he saw Tate hesitate and spoke up, saying, “No thank you, sir. We can go down to my office.” Skinner regarded Mulder for a minute and then nodded.

“Call if you need anything,” said Skinner, looking directly at Mulder but Tate misinterpreted and promised that they would if they did. Skinner nodded and the two men left his office.

“It’s a little out of the way, but we’ll have total privacy,” explained Mulder to Tate as they entered the elevator and Mulder pressed the down button. “My partner’s at Quantico working on a special assignment.”

“You don’t mind working out of the basement?” queried Tate. “Seems a little odd, considering most of your fellow agents work on the upper floors.”

Mulder smiled at this. Apparently, no one had briefed Tate on the X-Files. “Trust me, you get used to it,” was all Mulder said as the elevator doors slid open and they stepped out into the gloomy, crooked hallway. Mulder again led the way until they got to the door with his nameplate. He opened it and gestured for Tate to enter.

Tate looked around at the UFO poster on the wall and the board with articles and pictures of cryptids, unexplained events, and alien sightings all over it. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, immediately uncomfortable. But he tried to hide it with a smile and looked to Mulder, saying, “There’s only the one desk. Your partner doesn’t work down here with you?”

Mulder scratched his head. “She does. It’s just a bit of a tight fit for two desks so… Ah, anyway, have a seat,” he replied and gestured to the rolling chair Scully usually occupied when she was down in the office. Tate pulled it out and sat and set his handful of papers on Mulder’s desk. Mulder sat in his own chair and picked up a pencil he could fidget with. Tate leaned forward and leaned his arm on the edge of the desk.

“Tell me, do you really believe in all this stuff?” he asked confidentially and gestured to the board behind him with a thumb over his shoulder.

Mulder laughed and pointed with his pencil over his own shoulder to the “I Want to Believe” poster.

“Ah,” said Tate sagely and nodded. They were silent for a moment and then Tate smiled and got down to business. “The defense lawyers in this case will try and make it seem like the scientists working at the dronification facility were oblivious to what they were really doing, that they were told they were creating soldiers with the help of volunteers, and that they had no idea the drones were being driven to elsewhere to perform sexual acts against their will. Your job isn’t to try and refute all that. That’s a job for the prosecution. The lawyers will duke it out by asking witnesses questions but you should stick to your story and try not to get flustered if you can’t answer something,” said Tate. Mulder nodded, listening intently. He’d given depositions in court before on a regular basis with more or less success. It was part of being in federal law enforcement. But he had never been so close to a case as he was with this one and was worried that he wouldn’t be able to express himself adequately once he was on the witness stand.

Tate went on to tell Mulder the kinds of questions he could expect from both the prosecution and the defense and they went over Mulder’s responses for each of them. This exercise went on for quite some time and after some rapid-fire queries from Tate about the sexual nature of the activities that occurred away from the facility, Mulder faltered and, putting a hand across his forehead wearily, he asked, “Can we take a break? I’m… I’m a little tired.”

“You won’t get a break in the courtroom, Agent Mulder, not until the judge dismisses you,” Tate pointed out. He wasn’t trying to be cruel, only honest, and Mulder nodded, asking him to repeat his last question. Tate did so and Mulder answered to the best of his ability. This back and forth continued until Tate was satisfied with Mulder’s answers. He picked up his stack of notes and told Mulder they would meet again several more times before the trial. Mulder nodded and showed Tate back out to the elevator, thanking him for his time in monotone, then Mulder drifted back to his office and sat in his chair, rotating slowly back and forth and staring at his desk. He jumped when the phone rang and picked it up with a quiet, “Hello?” instead of his usual, cheery, “Agent Mulder.”

“How did it go?” It was Skinner and Mulder let out a long sigh, relieved to hear his lover’s voice. “That bad, huh?” Skinner chuckled.

“No, not bad, just…”

“I imagine Tate brought up a lot of painful stuff,” said Skinner, sobering quickly at Mulder’s tone.

“You could say that. I mean, I understand why it’s important that the jury gets a full picture. It’s just hard, you know?”

“I know,” said Skinner sympathetically. “But I have every confidence you’ll do well in court.”

“Thanks,” murmured Mulder but he didn’t share his lover’s confidence. If he was honest, giving testimony in front of a courtroom full of people terrified him. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want Skinner to worry about him. Instead, he turned on the charm and said, “Hey, I, um, really loved what we did Saturday night.” He was pleased when Skinner chuckled again.

“I’ll bet. I loved it, too,” said Skinner. “Would you care for an encore at some point?”

“Well,” Mulder demurred, “I don’t know if I want to go to the movies again just yet but, uh, maybe a repeat performance of the after show would be nice.”

Skinner hummed. “Then we’ll have to make plans,” he said, lowering his voice.

Mulder thought briefly about the mask he’d taken from Evidence and shivered in anticipation. He couldn’t tell Skinner yet but decided that having made that object the center of his erotic fantasies was definitely helping him grow more intimate with his lover. “Um, how does this Friday sound to you?” asked Mulder.

“Well, depending on how the week goes and if I have to work any overtime, yes, Friday sounds great,” said Skinner.

“Okay then,” said Mulder, inserting the hint of a smile in his voice to let Skinner know he was now eagerly awaiting the close of Friday’s workday. Speaking of work, Skinner then asked how the transcripts were going and Mulder told him that it was going slowly and boringly. Skinner soothed him by reminding him that his assignment was both important and temporary. Mulder didn’t have much to say on that so he said, “I’ll talk to you later. I want to call Scully and see how her research is going.”

“All right. Goodbye, Fox,” said Skinner warmly.

“Bye, Walter,” said Mulder and hung up the phone gently. He hadn’t lied to Skinner when he’d said he wanted to call Scully; however, he needed to take a moment and think. He sat back, exhaling through his mouth, and let his fingers slide over a couple of pencils on his desk in front of him. The rolling motion acted like a little massage for his hand and gave him a physical focus while his mind drifted. He thought of Tate and his personal, probing questions. He thought of Skinner and their date the other night and how that had ended and how very much he wanted Friday to be just as exciting and sexual. He thought of the null mask he’d tucked up on the shelf in his bedroom closet. Another breath released from between his lips and his eyes slid closed. Good drone. Obedience is pleasure. Mulder’s cock gave an insistent throb. What would his lover say if Mulder told him he needed the null mask in some way, shape, or form in order to get off? Would Skinner be amenable to bossing him around in the bedroom or would that be too much for the both of them? Mulder gave a little shudder. Too much, at least for now. But the mask itself? Would Skinner let him wear it as they…?

Mulder swore and threw the pencils across the room in a sudden pique. Dr. Boswick had told him to talk to Walter about his sexual fantasies but it wasn’t so easy. How did one bring up something so… twisted with the one they loved? How could he explain that what had once held him captive now captivated him? He leaned over and put his head in his hands, breathing deeply to calm himself. Eventually, he sat up and rolled closer to the desk and picked up the phone. He punched the number for Quantico’s labs and asked to speak to Scully. He had to wait a few minutes but she was soon on the line. They greeted each other and he told her about his session with Tate.

“I didn’t even know a date had been set for the trial,” said Scully. “But then again, I’ve been kinda busy.”

Mulder smiled at that and asked her how things were going with the vaccine. “Good,” she said lightly. “I’ve isolated how it attacks and disperses the virus and run it through several tests to see if the change is permanent or if the virus can cause secondary infections in the body or come back in another, separate infection. So far, the vaccine is one-hundred percent effective at destroying the virus in infected mice.”

“Lucky mice,” quipped Mulder and Scully chuckled then she asked him how he was doing and what he was doing. Mulder groaned. “Oh, you know, the usual. Lover boy has me going over surveillance transcripts. I want to tear my hair out with boredom.”

“But you’re getting plenty of rest, right?” she asked.

“Yes, Mom,” he said and she gave a little huff that made him smile.

“And how was your weekend? Did you and Skinner do anything fun?”

“Scully, you shouldn’t be asking questions like that,” said Mulder in mock mortification.

“I meant did you go out or anything like that, you perv,” she remonstrated teasingly. Mulder swallowed and frowned slightly, glad she couldn’t see his reaction to her calling him a pervert. With effort, he put a happy tone in his voice when he answered her.

“We went to go see The Truman Show and when I say we saw it I mean we missed half of it because we were too interested in watching each other instead.”

She laughed at that and commented, “Well then you had a very nice weekend indeed. Uh, I’ve gotten quite a few phone calls from your little friend.” She said this last very casually but Mulder brightened and got a sly sense of satisfaction when she added, “He’s very difficult to ignore.”

“Did you actually talk to Frohike or just brush him off?” asked Mulder.

“Most of his calls were messages on my answering machine telling me how beautiful I was and how much he’d love to worship me for the rest of my life,” said Scully and Mulder struggled to hold in a guffaw. “But, uh, he’d left so many calls, I felt like I had to return the favor at least once, even if it was to tell him I wasn’t interested.”

“Aw, Scully, how could you? The man adores you,” insisted Mulder.

“I know,” she said and by the tone of her voice Mulder could tell that she was seriously rethinking her actions regarding telling Frohike off. Hope bloomed in his chest.

“Well, whatever you decide, Scully, I’m there for you, both of you,” said Mulder and she thanked him then told him she had to get back to work studying the vaccine. She said she was developing a dossier on its properties and effects to present to the authorities so they could disseminate it when the threat of the alien virus inevitably loomed. “Maybe it won’t,” mused Mulder. When Scully asked him what he meant he said, “I mean, if the aliens get wind that we have a weapon against colonization, maybe they’ll just give up and leave us alone.”

“Don’t you think that’s wishful thinking at best, Mulder?” asked Scully and his spirits dipped slightly.

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighed. He didn’t want to hang up on a depressing note but Scully rushed him saying that she had to go check on some kind of time-sensitive electrophoresis of the virus versus the vaccine so he let her go, hanging up the phone absently and rubbing his hand across his mouth. His eyes eventually turned to the stack of transcripts that were his work for the week and he gave them a baleful look. He glanced at his watch and decided to hell with it; it was close enough to going home time that his leaving a few minutes early wouldn’t be noticed by anyone. It wasn’t like he punched a time clock. He rose and grabbed his suit jacket and slung it over one shoulder, hitting the office light switch on the way out and plunging his office into darkness.

Mulder stood in his bathroom. He studied his eyes in the mirror. He had already changed when he got home and was dressed in a simple, light-gray t-shirt and navy sweatpants, no underwear. He wanted to be comfortable. That was difficult, though, considering his arousal was flying high as a kite. His cock jutted out, tenting the soft fabric of the sweatpants. He adjusted his sac and dick with one hand and swallowed the saliva that had pooled in his mouth as he watched himself in the mirror. The null mask sat on the sink countertop, waiting, along with a bottle of lubricant. Mulder had polished all the fingerprints off the outside of the mask with the soft, white handkerchief Skinner had given him. That sat on the countertop as well, two talismans side-by-side.

Without taking his eyes off himself, Mulder reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head with a shush of fabric. He set the t-shirt on the toilet lid and ran a hand across his abdomen. He’d lost some weight and some muscle tone while he’d been in captivity. Most of the weight had come back. He’d yet to do any exercises to keep his stomach in top form other than his walks around his neighborhood and a couple of sit ups here or there while he was bored or trying to work out the particulars of a case in his down time. The idea of going to the FBI gym and revealing his body to semi-familiar faces in the men’s locker room just to go for a swim or hit the weight machines did nothing for his anxiety. There was only so much progress he had made on that count despite leaps and bounds elsewhere regarding coming back to work. He didn’t want hungry eyes on him, checking out what he had, unless they belonged to Walter. Yet here he was, making love to his own image in the mirror. What a narcissist, he thought, but it didn’t prevent him from snaking his hand down his abs to the waistband of his sweats and delving below it to take hold of himself and give himself a few teasing strokes.

“Like that?” he questioned his reflection, his chin rising and then dipping as he gave himself his best sultry look. He flexed his chest muscles as his arm worked to get him even more excited. Soon he was panting and making little erotic noises and had the sweatpants down around his thighs. He’d worked up a sweat, too. “Who needs the gym?” he said out loud and laughed a smoky kind of laugh. Mulder’s eyes traveled to the object he’d prepared for this occasion and his hand grew still around his shaft. He swallowed again and a breath shuddered out of him as he took his hand off his dick and bent to lower his sweatpants all the way and take them off. They joined the t-shirt and Mulder stood back from the bathroom counter so he could see more of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes traveled from his hair, which was no longer spiky but soft and wavy, to his head and shoulders, down to his bare chest and peaked nipples (he’d played with them as a prelude while he had stroked his cock), on to his stomach muscles, the vee of his pelvic region, then the glorious flushed tumescence between his legs. “Oh,” he said softly. His fingers twitched at the ends of his arms. They hung loose by his sides as he looked his fill.

Suddenly, his gaze hardened and he looked himself in the eye. “Good drone,” he said in a voice that was strong, almost biting. “Obedience is pleasure. And pleasure…” Mulder picked up the mask and raised it over his face, sliding the straps over his head and pulling them snugly as he fitted the respirator piece against the bridge of his nose and over his mouth. “Is obedience,” he finished in a muffled voice as the mask settled into place and hid his face completely. His cock throbbed hard and gave a rollicking twitch. Mulder breathed harshly into the respirator as he stared at his modified reflection. His left hand came up and touched his cock lightly, his right hand reaching for the lube. He squirted some on his cock and hissed at the cool feeling before working it up and down his shaft with his left hand. “Oh God, unnh! Fuck!” he gasped as his hand sped. He leaned forward, right palm against the wall beside the mirror and watched it masturbate. It was fully aroused, large and ready to cum any second. Its eyes saw its masked visage through a darkened screen, unable to see its null face behind the mask. It didn’t need a face to cum. It didn’t need a face to obey. Its lubed hand sped up on its cock and it thrust its hips a few times. Something was different. Something was wrong. Its skin was pale, not coated in black. Its ass didn’t have the insistent pressure of a plug inside it. Its pleasure came only from its own hand and not from any electrodes implanted in its skin.

It straightened and stood with its feet planted shoulder-width apart and removed its hand from its cock. It touched the mask, caressing around the respirator and then placing its hand over the obsidian face shield. It’s not enough, it thought but its cock had other ideas. Its balls tightened and it splattered spunk over and down its thigh. Most landed on the floor. It stood, panting and shuddering after its silent orgasm. Good drone, it heard in its head and it wasn’t entirely sure the voice had been its own or the robotic, hypnotic voice of the program.

Every night that week, Mulder took the drone mask out of its hiding spot on the top shelf in his bedroom closet and put it on while he masturbated. Sometimes he stood in front of his bathroom mirror so he could watch himself. Other times he performed the ritual in the bedroom, lying on his back in the center of the bed and pretending Skinner was there, hovering between his thighs, waiting to penetrate him but taking the time to appreciate his null beauty before plunging inside. Mulder used his fingers then, to fuck himself, the side of his null mask pressed into the pillow, his other hand pumping his cock. He always came silently. A drone is silent. A drone is submissive. But prior to that, he let loose with all kinds of moans and grunts of pleasure.

When he was finished, he would clean himself off and then spend some time naked, wearing only the mask until he forgot that normal people didn’t regularly wear drone masks, until it became seamless with his home existence. With his mask on, he didn’t speak. He would sit for hours on his couch, nude, his legs splayed while he played with himself and watched whatever came out of his television through the darkened mask and pretend that it was the program, calming him, educating him, modifying him.

At the office, he had trouble concentrating on his transcript work. It was boring and tedious and he longed for the distraction that his null mask could provide. When Skinner called him up to give a report on his progress, Mulder gave him short, monotone responses to his questions. He could tell Skinner sensed a change in him and corrected his behavior to hide it but it wasn’t easy. He sought the serenity of blissful blankness of thought and by Thursday night knew he had reached it when his phone rang and he just stared at it through the mask as the jarring noise it made barely entered his consciousness.

“Mulder, it’s Skinner. If you’re there, pick up. I wanted to know what you’d like to do tomorrow night,” said Skinner’s voice into Mulder’s answering machine.

Drone stared at the machine. Master had told it to pick up. Slowly, it raised its mask and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” it said emotionlessly.

“Hey, darlin’. How’s it going?” asked Skinner.

“Everything’s fine,” intoned Mulder. There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Are you sure, Mulder, because you’ve been acting funny all week,” commented Skinner. “If you don’t want to get together tomorrow night, that’s okay. You just have to say so. I don’t want you to feel any pressure to repeat what happened after the movie on Saturday.”

“Saturday,” echoed drone.

“Yeah, you know, our little, uh, makeout session?” Skinner chuckled. Drone said nothing. “Mulder, are you there?” Skinner’s voice went from amused to worried immediately when Mulder didn’t respond to his prompt. “Mulder, is something wrong? Please talk to me.”

“Hm? Oh, uh, s-sorry, Walter, I…” Mulder sat down hard on his sofa, snapping out of his drone-like trance at the sound of Skinner’s voice raised in concern. His naked butt hit the smooth leather with a light thwap and he shifted uncomfortably, raising the mask fully off his head and setting it gently beside himself. He stared at the black-mirrored visage and let out a shuddering breath.

“Mulder, what’s going on?”

“N-Nothing. I was just a little distracted, that’s all. What were you saying about tomorrow night?” said Mulder, closing his legs and sliding his butt toward the edge of the couch cushion. He suddenly wanted to cover himself as though strangers’ eyes were on him.

“Darlin’, I’m worried about you. You haven’t been yourself for a couple of days. Did something happen at work or home…?” asked Skinner gently.

“I’m fine,” insisted Mulder. Then he gave a nervous laugh and said temptingly, “I’m really looking forward to tomorrow night.” The fingers of his right hand unconsciously gave the edge of the null mask a loving stroke.

Skinner let out a breath and then his voice dipped as he said, “Me too. What would you like to do? We could get some food on the way home or you could come here and I’ll cook for you. We could go out again. You said you didn’t want to go to another movie but we could go out to a nice restaurant or there might even be a baseball game we could still get tickets for…”

“I want you to come over here,” said Mulder. He stared blankly at the little side table beside the leather chair in the corner of his living room.

Skinner hesitated. “Is there anything you want me to bring?”

“I’ll stop after work and pick up something for us to eat,” said Mulder. His mind was slowly beginning to engage with his surroundings and with whom he was talking. It was like coming up out of a deep dive, the rich, peaceful darkness replaced by light and sound and color.

“Okay, that sounds good,” said Skinner in a lighter voice, though he was still concerned about Mulder’s recent behavior. “Movie marathon night?”

This made Mulder chuckle and Skinner breathed a silent sigh of relief. The laugh made Mulder sound like his usual self. “Only if you want to,” said Mulder. “We could play strip poker instead.”

Skinner guffawed at this last and said, “Oh, darlin’, I think that’s just asking for trouble, don’t you?”

“Mm, I think it would be fun.”

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” said Skinner, trying not to conjure his lover taking off a piece of clothing at a time as they played round after round of poker.

“I’ll have those transcripts finished by noon,” promised Mulder.

“Good job,” said Skinner and Mulder heard the faint echo of “good drone” in his ears. His chest warmed and a soft smile came over his face.

“Thanks,” he said and they said their goodbyes. Mulder hung up his phone and let out some air from his lungs. It was a warm, early summer night, but he felt chilly and realized he was completely naked. He looked down at the null mask and fingered the front of it above the respirator, tilting his head to get a different angle. He rose from the couch and picked up the mask, carrying it into the bedroom where he took Skinner’s handkerchief down from the top shelf of his closet and rubbed away his fingerprints from the mask’s face shield and the moisture from his respiration from the inside of it. Then he tucked the mask carefully up on the shelf next to a box of dress shoes he never wore because they pinched his toes. He folded the handkerchief into a neat square and tucked that under the mask then closed the closet door before digging out some sweats and throwing them on to cover his nakedness.

Mulder finished his transcript work by nine o’clock. Scully appeared briefly that morning to check in with Skinner and let Mulder know that she’d learned as much as she could about the vaccine in the week she’d been allowed and was putting the finishing touches on the report for the CDC, et al. She still wanted her last day in the lab, however, so she made a quick turnaround and was out of the Hoover and back to Quantico before Mulder was done the work he’d promised Skinner. He had wished her good luck on her way out the door and she’d given him a benevolent smile.

Skinner’s phone call last night had made Mulder realize he had to at least act normal when he was in the presence of others. This drone fetish thing was getting out of hand, much like his old porn addiction where he used to spend every free hour watching porn, sometimes masturbating to it but more often than not just teasing himself by watching it or fantasizing about it to fill his free-time hours or the space between thoughts about aliens, unidentifiable creatures, weird phenomenon, case work, and his sister’s disappearance.

Despite his realization, Mulder caught himself going back to the past three nights with the mask and how it had felt to put it on and make himself cum. There was still a faint element of self-disgust, mainly in relation to anyone else finding out about his fetish, particularly Walter. Those thoughts made his heart pound. But his acceptance of his need grew the more he indulged himself and he kept coming up with imaginary conversations between himself and his lover where he revealed his fantasy and had it accepted without question as simply a part of who he was now.

It wasn’t difficult to finish annotating the surveillance transcripts. He’d been plugging away at them all week and really could probably have finished them by Thursday afternoon but he’d been too busy fantasizing. As he typed up the finishing notes on his interpretation of the two suspects’ transcribed conversation, he had another thought: What if the null mask wasn’t going to be enough for him? He bit his lip and his fingers paused over his computer keyboard. He checked his watch. Last time he had gone to Evidence it had been in the afternoon. He didn’t know the evidence custodians’ schedules. Would the same woman be working the desk there, guarding all the evidence from being swiped by people like him? He finished typing and hit save and then print. The document was lengthy and would take a while to spew out of the fat, slow printer that squatted in the anteroom of his office and he had three hours before he had promised it would be on Skinner’s desk.

Mulder gathered his nerve and wended his way through the lower levels of the Hoover building to Evidence. He confidently strode up to the desk, relieved to see that a different custodian was on duty, and asked to see the evidence from the dronification case.

“All of it?” asked the custodian with a raised eyebrow.

Mulder shook his head. “No. I need to check out a certain item,” he said.

“Okay, follow me,” said the custodian. Mulder obeyed, acting as though he hadn’t just been there last week on the same errand. “What item were you looking for?” the custodian asked as they turned down the correct row of shelves and came to the set of boxes that housed all the dronification evidence.

“It’s a belt that was used on one of the drones, er, victims. It’s, um,” Mulder pretended to blush and looked down for a moment with a forced chuckle. “It’s one of those… sex-type things.”

“Ah, I see,” said the custodian and cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what box it’s in. Hold on.” The custodian slid one box after another off the shelves, doing as Mulder had done previously, dismissing the boxes with the paper, computer, and medical evidence and digging to find the more titillating pieces. It took all Mulder had while he waited not to jump forth and pull down the correct box himself with all the drone equipment in it. “Is this it?” The custodian presented Mulder with a large-ish labeled evidence bag. Mulder took it in his hands and turned it over and over again, his eyes roving the heavy bio-latex contraption. He let out a short breath and nodded. “Don’t know why you need that thing,” the custodian commented as he slid the box the belt had come from back onto the shelf.

“Research,” mumbled Mulder as he fingered the null belt through the plastic. There was a plug attached to the back of it and Mulder shivered but hid it well as the custodian shook his head and grinned.

“That case is so bizarre. It’s like something out of a science fiction novel, a dirty science fiction novel,” the custodian said with a snicker, leading the way back to the front desk. Mulder followed blindly, his eyes on his new acquisition, and ignored the man’s ignorant statement. At the desk, the custodian pulled up the records of the dronification case evidence and began typing in Mulder’s badge number, date that Mulder removed the item from the evidence storage, and other sundry details. Then he printed a copy and had Mulder sign the bottom.

“Thanks,” said Mulder absently and tucked the belt under his arm.

“You have fourteen days to return it to Evidence,” the custodian informed him. Mulder panicked. Fourteen days. Of course there would be a return due date. He paused on his way to the door and turned back.

“What if I need more time with it?” asked Mulder. The custodian gave him a funny look.

“More than fourteen days?” Mulder nodded.

“Well, of course you can check it out again but... no offense, why would you want to?”

Mulder just gave a weak smile and said, “Never mind. I’m sure fourteen days will be plenty.” Then he turned around again and slipped out into the hallway, his heart racing. He held the belt inside the evidence bag with two hands all the way to his office and threw himself down in his chair, placing the belt on his desk with a soft thunk. He put his head in his hands and studied the thing that had captivated him not quite as much as the null mask but nearly so. The fingers of his right hand sought the black thing through the plastic bag. Had he really worn something like this for six weeks? He touched the hose attachments, the hollow plug, the space for the absorbent lining for when the drones were away from their tanks in the Hive. He should have thought to take some of the linings from Evidence as well but he’d been on a lightning-fast mission to satisfy his immediate hunger for more and hadn’t thought that far ahead. Besides, what purpose would the linings serve other than to be there for authenticity? He let out a groan. He only had fourteen days with this object before it had to be back in Evidence. What was he going to do after that? Plus, he fully intended to wear the belt but that would be problematic when he went to return it and he would have to make sure it was in the same or better condition than when he checked it out.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Mulder,” he told himself out loud and angrily opened his lower-left desk drawer, tossing the heavy, constricting belt inside and shutting it roughly. He locked the drawer for good measure, just in case, and sat staring gloomily as the pages for his transcripts continued to spew out from the ancient printer.

Saturday afternoon, Mulder tore himself away from staring at his stolen null equipment laid out on his bed where he and Skinner had once again successfully brought each other off with a little sixty-nine action the night before after their sci-fi movie marathon. The knowledge of the presence of the null equipment in his closet had helped arouse Mulder and kept him aroused through completion. If Skinner noticed something was off about Mulder’s reactions, he hadn’t said anything, only kissed and praised Mulder for being an amazing person and asked him if what they’d done was okay. It had been more than okay. It had been stellar. Mulder had cum so hard he’d nearly blacked out. He tilted his head with a smile at the memory and gave the null belt one final touch before leaving the room. It would be waiting for him when he got home. He and Scully had a lunch date at her place to talk over the vaccine and catch up on each other’s weeks.

Mulder drove to her apartment on automatic, his thoughts elsewhere, like how to keep from having to return the null belt to Evidence in thirteen days. He’d already tried it on once, after Skinner had left his apartment last night. The fit had been tighter than he remembered, the bio-latex form-fitting and unforgiving to his dangly bits as he tried to adjust himself inside it even as his cock had risen. Eventually he’d given up and just accepted that his erection was hopelessly trapped while he had squirmed and clenched his anal muscles around the hollow plug that he’d inserted. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to clean out a messy belt should his bowels evacuate and cursed himself again for not stealing a pack of the sanitary liners to go with it. But thankfully his body hadn’t embarrassed him in the three-quarters of an hour that he’d indulged before bedtime. The sight of himself in the bathroom mirror with both null mask and null belt had made Mulder itch to have the whole suit, that exquisite pressure over every inch of his body that moved with it but also restricted it, that looked wickedly sexy and reflected the light when it was properly lubed up. He had shuddered and cupped his hand over the crotch of the null belt, imagining running his hand over rugose tubing extending out of it as though it were an extension of his already prodigious cock. He’d cleaned the resultant cum out of the belt with no regrets.

He and Scully were halfway through their lunch when there was a knock on Scully’s door. She looked at Mulder and he looked at her as though questioning who might be there. Mulder shrugged and took another bite of his pizza. Scully rose to go answer the door and Mulder watched curiously. They were both surprised when the person who’d knocked presented Scully with a huge bouquet of flowers in a mighty vase. The bouquet nearly obscured the delivery person who handed Scully a clipboard with a pen attached so she could sign for the delivery. When Mulder saw how huge the bouquet was, he quickly wiped his greasy fingertips on a napkin and got up to help Scully with the flowers while she signed. They both thanked the delivery person and Scully closed the door after them while Mulder hefted the vase. The flowers smelled divine.

“My, my, Scully,” said Mulder cheerfully. “It looks like you have a secret admirer.” He set the bouquet down on Scully’s dining table and rotated it toward her. She smiled, running her eyes wonderingly over the giant spray of peach gladiolas and spotted day lilies and searched for a tag among them. An elegant, gold-colored gift card sat on a thin plastic pick poking up from the center of the bouquet. Scully plucked it off and read it, her cheeks reddening. She rolled her eyes. She looked up at Mulder with raised eyebrows and an exasperated look and handed him the card.

Mulder read it out loud “To my darling Dana, wishing you a Saturday as beautiful as you are. Love, Melvin.”

“This is all your fault,” she remonstrated. “You need to fix it.” She stabbed a finger at his chest. He just shrugged and put the card back on the little pick.

“I don’t know that I can,” he said. “Why don’t you just give him a chance?”

Scully shuffled her feet, put her hands on her hips, and sputtered, “Because… Well… Because…”

Mulder simply gave her a “hey there” look and she growled at him, hitting him on the arm and stalking off to the couch to go finish her pizza and try to ignore the elephant in the room. Mulder laughed and joined her back on the couch. He watched from the corner of his eye, delighting in her faux imperiousness as they finished their lunch. He would have to mention the flowers at his game night with the boys on Sunday.

It turned out Mulder didn’t need to mention the flowers at all. Frohike launched himself at Mulder on Mulder’s way into The Lone Gunmen bat cave the following evening and gave him an enormous hug, knocking the breath out of him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mulder asked with a chuckle, patting his enthusiastic friend on the back.

Frohike didn’t let go but stared up at Mulder as he clung to him and said in an awed whisper, “She said yes.”

Mulder, stunned for a second, grinned and then laughed. “Wh-What?”

“Dana said she’ll go out with me. Thank you thank you thank you thank you…” blathered Frohike and squeezed Mulder until Mulder thought his bladder would explode.

He wondered silently when Dana had given in and called the little gremlin but said happily, “That’s great for you, Frohike. I’m glad.” Frohike continued to thank him profusely, jumping up and down and shaking Mulder in the process until Mulder’s teeth rattled. Byers and Langly eventually had to pull Frohike off Mulder who was laughing and giving Frohike verbal tidbits of encouragement.

Everyone then settled down around the game table and Mulder told the guys about his trip to Pennsylvania, Krycek, the alien rebel, his encounter with the English ex Syndicate member, the vaccine, the alien invasion, and how the latter would be thwarted as soon as they had the info to the authorities about the virus and vaccine. He almost laughed at the comical looks of astonishment on the other men’s faces as he told the long, rambling tale but sobered when Byers was the first to apologize to him regarding how he came by the vaccine.

“We should have had an ear to the ground for anyone from the Syndicate on your tail so we could warn you,” Byers said.

Mulder shrugged, receiving several cards as Langly dealt, and replied, “It’s not your fault and besides, it worked out okay.” Mulder did work up the nerve to ask if his friends had heard anything about the smoking man. They just shook their heads.

“Dust in the wind, man,” said Langly, unknowingly echoing Skinner’s statement about Krycek several weeks past. Mulder swallowed. If Krycek, who had supposedly gone to ground, had shown up again, what did Langly’s statement mean regarding his father?

Byers, seeing his apprehension, commented, “People like that can disappear in the blink of an eye and never be seen again no matter how many people are out there looking for them.” Mulder nodded at him, and they carried on with their gaming, though he remained slightly pensive for a while.

The mood lightened as they played round after round, which was good because it took Mulder’s mind off both his father’s whereabouts and his impending court appearance in a few weeks. He broached the subject of his testimony at one point during a lull wherein Frohike excused himself to go use the restroom. Langly and Byers, though they had never given testimony in court, tried to reassure Mulder that he’d do just fine. Mulder thanked them for their support and the game resumed once Frohike returned from draining the lizard. Before Mulder left for the night, he covertly pulled Langly aside and asked him to hack into the FBI evidence database.

“Dude!” Langly hissed in excitement and Mulder shushed him, not wanting to attract Byers and Frohike’s attention. The other guys were busy cleaning up the empty snack bags, paper plates, and empty soda cans scattered around the game area. Mulder passed Langly a slip of paper with the case number and evidence number off the null belt bag.

“I need you to make it look like I returned this,” whispered Mulder, his eyes holding onto Langly’s. Langly hesitated a second, his throat contracting, and then he nodded. Mulder patted his shoulder and slid his hand away and then the other two Gunmen were surrounding him. Byers shook his hand and Frohike gave Mulder another long-lasting hug from which Mulder finally extracted himself and said his goodbyes. On the way home, he strategized ways to get a hold of the hardcopy of the custody form he’d signed at the evidence desk. He was getting in deep now, but it couldn’t be helped if he wanted to keep doing what he was doing so he could give Walter and himself the best sex life possible.

Over the intervening weeks, Mulder was coached four more times by Joshua Tate. Each time he felt less and less self-conscious but he was still nervous about having to answer deeply personal questions about his time as a drone. Plus it was difficult to compartmentalize now, given his newfound love for all things drone-like in the bedroom. Scully valiantly tried to keep him busy by suggesting that they comb through the X-Files cabinets and look for unsolved cases that they might now be able to solve due to advancements in DNA testing. Mulder obliged her only because they had no other X-Files to investigate at the moment. The transcripts Mulder had been working on to fill in the holes in the dialogue with what his best guesses were led to several arrests and Skinner and the DEA’s undying gratitude.

Skinner and he sat on Skinner’s couch one night as Skinner praised him for his transcript deciphering genius.

“It was nothing,” said Mulder humbly. “Anybody could have done it.”

“Not just anybody,” Skinner corrected him and leaned over to begin kissing his temple and the side of his jaw.

Mulder tilted his head back with an appreciative hum. His and Skinner’s adventures in the bedroom had been getting bolder and bolder. Two nights ago, Skinner had asked Mulder to penetrate him and it took a little bit of cajoling but Mulder eventually complied. When it was over, he didn’t have the self-loathing he had thought he would have considering his history with being the one on top. Skinner had held his silent form as they had both recovered from their orgasms.

“What are you thinking?” Skinner had murmured in Mulder’s ear.

“Mm. Nothing, really,” Mulder had said softly. They had been spooned back to front but Mulder had rolled over to face Skinner to touch his cheek gently and look him in the eye. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Mulder had asked and had been surprised when Skinner had chuckled and had shaken his head.

“You did perfect,” Skinner had whispered and then kissed the end of his nose which had prompted a fit of giggles.

Mulder thought of it now, how good it had felt to be inside the bigger man, to have that deeper connection. He wanted to be on the receiving end of that kind of lovemaking but didn’t know if he’d ever be able to give Skinner that, despite his evolving fantasies acting as a sex aid. “Would…” he began and then paused as Skinner continued to pepper him with butterfly-light kisses along his jaw and throat and began to feel up under his t-shirt.

“Would what, darlin’?” questioned Skinner, not stopping the progression of his exploration.

“Would you be upset if I could never be the one on the bottom?” Mulder asked. Skinner paused his kisses and looked at Mulder’s face. Skinner’s glasses magnified his handsome brown eyes and they reassured Mulder before the man even spoke.

“I’ll never be upset about that,” whispered Skinner. He curled his hand around the back of Mulder’s neck and squeezed gently. “What we do, what we’ve done, is plenty. I’m actually a little surprised we’ve even gotten this far. You amaze me, every single day.”

Mulder gave him an embarrassed smile and dipped his head to urge Skinner’s mouth open with his own. His hands slid over Skinner’s broad shoulders and mirrored the grip Skinner had on his neck. Skinner’s hand found Mulder’s trim thigh and stroked there for a while as they kissed. A fog built up on Skinner’s glasses and he took them off at one point. Mulder decided he enjoyed seeing Skinner’s face with or without the glasses. Their making out heated up and Skinner at last had to put a stop to it with a hand between them on Mulder’s chest. “Bedroom, or we’re both going to be uncomfortable,” he murmured and Mulder nodded but didn’t get up from the couch until he’d gotten in another, hungrier kiss. The trip up the stairs was an adventure in groping hands and anticipatory clothing removal. Mulder was naked by the time they reached Skinner’s bed. Skinner had only his underwear and socks still on.

As soon as they were horizontal, Mulder yanked down Skinner’s briefs and freed Skinner’s cock. It thanked him by giving an inviting, come-hither twitch and Mulder ran his right hand down its sturdy length, earning a groan from his lover. He gasped as Skinner did the same to him. With his other hand, Skinner fetched the lube. Mulder heard the pop of the cap and the slick squirt of the viscous fluid and then his cock was re-engulfed by Skinner’s large hand, its motions eased by the glide of the lubricant.

“Mm, fuck that feels good,” said Mulder appreciatively.

“Yeah, baby,” grunted Skinner and brought their cocks together. He added more lube and they thrust against each other into their combined hands. Mulder kissed Skinner as they rocked their cocks, his eyes closed and picturing the two of them coated in squeaky black. He let out a long, low groan. “Like that, darlin’?” gasped Skinner, thinking it was the pressure of their dicks together that was getting his lover off. It was and it wasn’t.

About a week after he’d told Langly to hack into the FBI evidence database, Mulder had managed to sneak into Evidence himself and check to make sure Langly had done his job. Langly had, indeed, done as he’d promised and Mulder had acknowledged that he owed his friend big time. Then Mulder had made off with the chain-of-custody form tucked into his jacket pocket with the evidence custodian none the wiser. It had helped that Evidence was hopping and that there were a couple of agents in front of him who required the custodian’s assistance, taking her away from the front desk and leaving it more or less wide open for his undercover mission. He had had to fiddle a bit on the computer to get the right password into the database, information passed on to him by Langly during a brief phone call the night before. But then he’d been in and had his confirmation. The mask and belt were his. He hadn’t felt too terrible about taking them, either, when he had gotten a glimpse of the list of items taken from the dronification facility during his hacking session. There were multiple masks and multiple belts. No one would miss two out of the dozen.

“Yeah, like that,” breathed Mulder against Skinner’s throat. They pumped each other to completion and Mulder lay with a wide cat-that-got-the-cream grin on his face. Skinner reached over to him and curled their lube-y, cum-y fingers together.

“You staying?” he asked.

Mulder, face nearly hurting from smiling so wide, said, “Yeah, I’m staying.” He would miss his time with his null equipment but it was worth it to spend a rare night at Skinner’s apartment. He leaned up on his elbow and bent to kiss Skinner’s lips. Skinner let out a quiet moan.

“Give me fifteen minutes and we can go again,” he said.

Mulder laughed.

“Whatcha working on there, partner?” Mulder asked, peering over Scully’s shoulder. She turned her head to look up at him.

“I’m just putting the finishing touches on my dossier about the vaccine,” she replied and turned back to her laptop.

“Oh. I thought you were finished with that weeks ago. When are you giving it to the CDC?” asked Mulder curiously and rounded his desk to take a seat and draw up an old, unsolved X-File from just before Scully joined his crusade. He thought there might be some trace evidence bearing DNA that had been overlooked and wanted to re-read the file to see if said evidence had been stored and cataloged so it could be tested.

“Well, when there’s no immediate threat, it takes a while to get everyone in the same room,” she explained. He nodded but kept skimming the case file. “I’ve had Skinner help me contact the appropriate members of the CDC, the FDA, the WHO, and several people in the president’s cabinet. The earliest they could meet was July fifteenth.”

Mulder’s head came up and he swallowed. “That’s my court date, and Skinner’s,” he said.

“Ah.”

There was a moment of silence while Scully typed and then Mulder said softly, “I was hoping you’d be there.”

She looked at him sympathetically and said, “I’m sorry, Mulder, it wasn’t my choice.”

He looked away solemnly and nodded. “I know.” Then his face brightened and he said to her, “By the way, how’s it going with Frohike?”

Scully leveled him with a look and he shrugged as if to say, “Hey, that’s what friends do, talk about their significant others to each other.” He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head to give her his undivided attention. She turned her face coyly, eyes on her laptop.

“Spill, little lady, or I’m going to have to ask for a new partner,” warned Mulder but his grin belied his true feelings.

Scully tilted her head and opened her mouth a couple of times before replying, “It’s going… surprisingly well, actually.”

She typed something else and Mulder waited until her silence drove him to rotate his head and shrug, prompting, “And?”

She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look that he didn’t buy for a minute and said, “And what? There is no ‘and.’”

“Bull,” he called her out and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “He’s got you, hook, line, and sinker. I can tell.”

“Mulder,” she chided him but then the giggle that came from her gave it all away and Mulder leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look on his face.

“I… have to appear in court next week and give witness testimony,” said Mulder to Dr. Boswick at their weekly appointment. “I’ve been briefed by one of the FBI lawyers but it’s not the same as having to go up there on the witness stand,” he added.

“And you’re nervous about it,” suggested Boswick. He nodded.

“I mean, I’m not the only one. Walter, he has to go up there, too, and tell the court what happened in the raid. But facing all those people. Seeing some of the men who…” Mulder stopped and took a deep breath, putting on a brave smile. Then he went on. “The ‘doctors’ or scientists or whatever they call the people who developed the dronification program will be there on the defense and I don’t know how I’m going to react to seeing them. It’s, er, making things difficult.” What he meant was that he’d been spending more and more time imagining himself as a drone as a means to get away from the stress to the point where he’d almost forgotten to put away his null equipment before Skinner had come over the other night. His heart had been pounding out of his chest when he’d heard the key in the door and he’d ripped the drone mask off his face and threw it in his closet just in time to straighten his clothing and hair and go out and greet his lover. Skinner had given him a questioning look as though Skinner had sensed something was up but he’d brushed it off with a smile and they’d gone on to have a nice night in, no sex but plenty of cuddles and murmured conversation.

Dr. Boswick considered before replying that of course he was going to be nervous but that he had to remember that he had the tools and the strength to get through it. “No one will hold it against you if you need to take a moment to gather yourself up there. I’m sure the defense lawyers will attempt to bully you but the judge and the prosecution are your allies. I’m sure the jury will be, too, when they hear what you have to say. Be honest and speak clearly and truth will out.”

Mulder’s eyes crinkled at the corner as his lips turned up at her wise council. “Tate, the lawyer who’s been coaching me, said the same thing. Well, not exactly the same, but similar. I just don’t know how I’m going to tell a whole courtroom that I was brainwashed and forced to have sex with people I didn’t want to have sex with. The brainwashing part sounds so… so…” Mulder was at a loss for words.

“Bizarre?” prompted Boswick. “Melodramatic? Unbelievable?”

Mulder’s head bobbed at all those adjectives and he frowned, his fingers finding the edge of her therapy couch and picking at the upholstery’s decorative edging. A sympathetic and understanding smile grew on Boswick’s face. “When faced with the evidence, I doubt a jury is going to think your testimony is any of those things. However, all you can do is tell them the truth. It’s up to them to decide what to do with that information. Just do your best.”

Mulder’s eyes met hers, seeing the sincerity in them, and he nodded.

July fifteenth. Mulder brushed imaginary lint off his best suit jacket for the fortieth time as he checked himself out in the men’s room on the second floor of the federal district courthouse, Washington, DC. He adjusted his tie, assured that it complimented his suit by Scully who had come to his apartment earlier that morning to wish him luck and he her. She had been dressed in her most executive-looking pantsuit, her titian hair styled perfectly, the little gold cross her mother had given her when she was just a teenager glinting like a miniature torch at the base of her throat. She’d shown him the dossier and he’d smiled at the sight of it.

“You nervous?” he’d asked her. She had nodded.

“You?”

“Never,” he’d lied and had shaken his head. She’d laughed at his buffoonery and he’d made a face at her and then they had walked hand-in-hand down to the parking lot where their cars waited to take them to their separate, simultaneous challenges.

Skinner had met Mulder at the courthouse. Mulder had given a longing sigh at the sight of his lover in a two-piece navy suit cut perfectly to emphasize his wide shoulders and narrow waist. Skinner’s tie bore wide, diagonal red and navy stripes with a narrow band of yellow-gold between them. His shirt was an elegant white, one he hardly ever wore in the office, that bore a subtle stripe in the same white but opposite weave, lending the shirt a slight shimmer when hit with the right light. Mulder’s own suit was medium gray and he wore a light-blue shirt underneath with a necktie of heather gray and thin, diagonal stripes of dark blue at his throat.

Now, looking in the mirror, he wondered if the jury would pay any attention to his clothing, if they would judge him on it or not. When he told them what had happened to him, would they instead see an object coated in bio-latex and sporting null equipment or would they see a victim or both? Would they be disgusted with him for engaging in mindless sex with a group of strangers? Would they be horrified that his body had been modified to accommodate that group of men’s perverted pleasures? Would they see him as perverted? Mulder looked down at the sink in front of him and fiddled with the end of his tie, tucking it into his buttoned suit jacket and re-tucking it when the lay of it didn’t satisfy him. His jaw clenched. His palms felt sweaty. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

There was a knock on the door and Skinner poked his head inside. He had given his deposition twenty minutes ago. Mulder hadn’t been able to sit in the courtroom and listen. He’d been too nervous and rationalized his absence by the fact that he didn’t need to hear how the raid on the dronification facility had gone; he’d been there when it happened. He hoped Skinner had forgiven him. “They’re calling for you,” said Skinner, his demeanor serious. Mulder took one more gulp of air and exited the bathroom. “Are you all right?” Skinner murmured to him as, with a hand near the small of Mulder’s back, he guided him to the big double doors of the courtroom.

Mulder stopped short of the doors and turned to Skinner, looking up at him hopefully and giving him a brief nod. “I think so.” Skinner gave him a smile and patted him on the shoulder and then they were through the doors, Skinner breaking off to go sit behind the prosecution and Mulder approaching the witness stand. The courtroom, with all its people inside, was curiously silent. Only the sounds of shuffling paper and clothing could be heard over the air conditioning system. The bailiff walked up to the witness stand with Mulder as the prosecuting lawyer declared him as their witness and Mulder gave the stone-faced judge a brief glance before turning to face the court, placing his left hand on the Bible, and raising his right hand. As he was sworn in, Mulder saw a group of familiar faces in the crowd. Skinner, of course, and Joshua Tate at the prosecution bench. Behind them in the seats were the three Lone Gunmen in suits and ties and several agents he knew from around the Hoover who he assumed had been in on the raid, including Waterhouse and Ellison. The jury box was full and bore seated a mixed group of men and women with solemn faces and open expressions. A few of them looked tired. The trial had been going on for several days already, with opening statements having been given and various other witnesses and experts having been called upon to testify prior to that day. Mulder’s eyes tried hard not to slide to the defense side of the courtroom. He didn’t want to shock himself out of being able to give testimony, but his eyes traveled there against his will as he sat down in the witness seat. Oddly enough, his heart didn’t freeze when he saw the four semi-familiar faces flanked by two dour-looking lawyers. He didn’t know any of the dronification facility scientists’ names but if he was called on to identify if those men had been there during his captivity he had the reassurance that he could say yes without telling a falsehood.

With a couple of words, the prosecuting attorney drew Mulder’s attention to the task at hand and Mulder was able to block out the intimidating presence of the men who had taken part in brainwashing him.

“Agent Scully,” said a representative of the World Health Organization. “On page fourteen of this dossier, you state that the virus is possibly of extraterrestrial origin. Can you elaborate on this?” There was a stir among the assembled panel of authorities and Scully shifted in her own seat. She knew this question would be asked.

Scully took a deep breath in preparation for answering. She and Mulder had gone back and forth again and again regarding telling the whole truth about the virus’s origins. Skinner had weighed in against discussing any hint that the virus was alien, pointing out that saying so might cause the panel to not take Scully’s research seriously and that if she was believed, they didn’t want to cause a mass panic. Scully had sided with Skinner until Mulder insisted on a way to try to slip it in under the radar. A panel of politicians, scientists, and disease experts might not take it seriously if she said that gray aliens had come across light years in their spaceships, visited Earth, and planted the virus to eradicate the human race, but they might believe it if she told them that the virus had hitchhiked on a meteorite and had already caused a handful of confirmed coma-like states followed by the deaths of those infected.

“Yes,” she said clearly into the microphone and made eye contact with the members of the panel. “A year and a half ago, a rock was being couriered from Krasnoyarsk, Russia. The contents were in a diplomatic pouch. The FBI was notified that the contents of the pouch were possibly of a dangerous, life-threatening nature. All effort was made to find the pouch. When it was located and intercepted, the rock inside was tested in a forensic lab by a Dr. Sacks who identified it as a meteorite. While cutting into the meteorite to provide a subsection for further analysis, an oily, black substance spurted out and got inside his hazmat suit, infecting him and causing a coma-like state.”

“And where is Dr. Sacks now?” asked the same panel member, a middle-aged woman with dark skin and piercing eyes.

Scully hesitated. “Dr. Sacks is deceased.”

“From the infection?”

Scully shook her head. “We’re unsure. He was in a stable but coma-like state immediately following contact with the oil and then he was discovered dead on the same day he’d been infected. There is some evidence that there was foul play involved.”

“So this virus doesn’t kill, it causes coma,” stated another member, sounding confused. Scully leaned closer to the microphone as she politely corrected him. The questions came rapidly after that regarding the disposition of the meteorite, if there were more of them, how the virus spread, what were the symptoms besides coma-response, what was the timeline from initial infection to worst-case-scenario for the person infected, and so on. Scully kept her cool and answered each one to the best of her ability, only having a moment here or there to wonder how her partner was doing on the witness stand across town.

“Agent Mulder, you stated previously that you were brainwashed,” began the dronification scientists’ defense lawyer. “Can you describe this state to the court?”

Mulder nodded and it was noted out loud for the record. He cleared his throat and spoke up. “Yes, um, I’d describe it as being in a kind of limbo. Uh, it was a state with very little thought.”

The defense lawyer nodded. “So this thoughtless state, this brainwashing… Did you feel threatened at any time while you were in this state?”

“Um, n-not really. I mean…”

“Objection!” stated the prosecuting attorney and Mulder took a deep breath. This questioning and and objections on both sides had been going on for a long time and the longer it went on, the more Mulder’s anxiety grew. He had already been brought through his experience in the dronification facility step-by-step by the prosecutor and now was being cross examined by the defense. “Expert testimony has been given that shows the victims in this case, of which Agent Mulder is one, were under constant threat of rape and further personality disintegration if they did not comply with the orders they were programmed to obey. That was the whole purpose of the program: to keep these men in line.”

Mulder looked up from the witness stand and saw Byers in his brown suit sit up a little straighter. He and several FBI experts who had examined the dronification program had been the ones subpoenaed to give testimony on its effects.

“I’m only asking if he recalls his state of mind while he was at the dronification facility,” clarified the defense attorney.

“The witness has answered the question. Please move on Mr. Stillwell,” said the judge. The prosecution resumed his seat and the defense attorney went on. Mulder floundered a few times at some of Stillwell’s rapid-fire questioning. When it came to questions about where the scientists were when the drones were driven off site, Mulder hesitated. The prosecution objected that the witness couldn’t possibly know where the scientists were if he was elsewhere at the time.

“My point exactly,” said Stillwell. “I’ll rephrase. Agent Mulder, did you ever see any of these four men,” he gestured to his clients, “at the building you described earlier as the secret meeting place for this… so-called ‘Syndicate’?”

Mulder looked at the scientists and his jaw clenched. They all stared impassively back at him, no doubt coached by their lawyers to appear unaffected by others’ testimonies. “No,” he said and there was a murmur around the court. The judge banged his gavel. Mulder’s heart sank.

“Did you ever see these men in the presence of the members of the Syndicate at the dronification facility?” Stillwell went on.

Mulder’s eyes landed on the defense lawyer’s and then he looked at Skinner who seemed tense. Mulder swallowed and breathed out, “I’m not sure. I…”

“Did you ever hear any of these men taking orders from any member of the Syndicate or discussing anything about the other dronification volunteers with any member of the Syndicate?”

A flash of memory, vague and unsettling, crossed Mulder’s mind and he froze. Suddenly he was trapped in his tank at the Hive, his null equipment hooked up to tubes and the program playing its insidious instructions across the screen of his null mask. He could see his hand, coated in bio-latex, pressed against the inside of the tank, could just barely hear muttered voices through all the material between him and the two figures outside his tank, one in a suit and tie, the other in a lab coat and office-casual clothing. He began to hyperventilate, his heartbeat starting to race. A clammy sweat beaded up on his forehead and his extremities quickly became numb.

“Agent Mulder, please answer the question. Did you or did you not ever hear any of these men taking orders from or discussing the volunteers with any member of the Syndicate?” The defense lawyer’s voice rang in Mulder’s ears and he shook his head quickly back and forth to try and dispel the effect. The lawyer misread his headshake as a negative response and barreled right into the next question but the prosecution could see that something was wrong. Mulder’s trembling hand reached for the banister in front of his seat and his vision started to gray around the edges. Mulder didn’t realize he was in the middle of a panic attack until he vaguely heard someone call for a fifteen-minute recess and then Skinner was there, guiding him down from the witness stand on shaking legs while dozens of people watched him be escorted from the courtroom.

He didn’t see The Lone Gunmen rise to come lend him support but Skinner did and he held up a hand to stay their action so they wouldn’t crowd Mulder. They remained behind while Skinner brought Mulder out into the hall and sat him down on a wooden bench just outside. Mulder landed heavily and bent over his knees, his hands to his face. Skinner kept his hand on Mulder’s shoulder and sat beside him, murmuring to him that he was okay and that everything was going to be fine. Once Mulder had gotten his breathing under control, he hung his hands, his elbows still on his knees, and looked desultorily across the wide, bustling hallway. Lawyers and assistants, court officials and secretaries, witnesses and expert testifiers all passed by without giving him and Skinner a second look. Ironically, Mulder’s little panic attack probably wouldn’t be the only courtroom drama enacted there that day.

“I can’t understand it,” muttered Mulder to Skinner without looking over at him. “That wasn’t even my worst memory of being there.”

“What memory?” asked Skinner gently and Mulder did look over then. Skinner appeared worried but also remained steadfast and Mulder appreciated the support more than his lover could ever know. Skinner had his arm across the back of the bench now and Mulder sat up straight, looking Skinner in the eye.

In a low voice, Mulder related the memory of being in the tank and seeing one of the scientists outside it talking to his father. He watched as Skinner’s jaw clenched at the mention of the smoking man but that was the only way Skinner exhibited strong emotion. Instead, he tilted his head and said, “You need to tell the court what you saw.”

Mulder nodded. He so much needed a hug from Skinner right now that it was difficult to keep his hands off the man. “I know,” he said brokenly, surprised when his voice sounded choked up. He had gotten through the entire description of the rapes and abuse and brainwashing without breaking down and now he had had a spaz when it came to discussing catching just a glimpse of his father. Skinner, braver than he was, put a hand back on his shoulder and gave him a gentle massage. Mulder closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, taking comfort in Skinner’s touch. Skinner checked his watch. The fifteen minutes were nearly up.

“Do you think you can go back in there and finish?” he asked Mulder.

Mulder nodded and said, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

They rose as one and Skinner turned Mulder to him, saying, “I’m proud of you, Mulder.” His eyes roamed Mulder’s face as though memorizing it and Mulder felt a smile melt his anxious features.

“Thank you,” he said quietly and Skinner patted him once more on the shoulder before they turned and went back into the courtroom.

“In conclusion, I would like to propose that the vaccine be made available for immediate further study, that it be mass produced in the event of an outbreak, and that the health communities of this nation and others be made aware of the silent threat presented by the virus as noted in these documents. Thank you,” said Scully. She sat and let out a long breath after her closing statement to the panel brought together to discuss the vaccine and the black oil and waited on tenterhooks while they adjourned to a separate room and discussed among themselves.

It took them only twenty minutes of deliberation but those twenty minutes felt like an eternity to Scully who sat waiting for them to all file back in and give her their decision. In that time, her hand went often to the cross around her neck. She sent up a little prayer for the fate of the world should the panel not decide in her favor and another prayer for her partner. She checked her watch. While there was no time limit on the questioning of a key witness in any given case, she hoped that he was through the worst of his ordeal.

She rose again on trembling legs as the door at the back of the room opened and the panel filed back in to offer her their verdict.

“Call Scully, and then I want you to take me home,” said Mulder as soon as he and Skinner had cleared the courtroom steps. Mulder had performed admirably during the rest of his cross-examination after revealing to the court the memory that had caused him to leave the courtroom. He had stated that he had, indeed, seen one of the facility’s scientists in conference with a member of the Syndicate and left out only that the man happened to be his father. There were some things that were just too painful to entrust to public opinion and he knew there were reporters from various newspapers and television stations in the courtroom and out of the courtroom waiting for any juicy tidbits with which to titillate their audiences. He and Skinner dodged several such individuals on the way out and met The Lone Gunmen down in the lobby of the courthouse. The Gunmen each shook Mulder’s hand and told him what a good job he had done and that they were sure the case was in the bag for the prosecution. Mulder blushed and mumbled his way through their friendly banter, still overwhelmed by the whole procedure and by his earlier panic attack. Skinner did his best to shield Mulder from too much overstimulation and as soon as he could was guiding Mulder outside and into the hot sun.

Mulder loosened his tie and peeled off his suit jacket while Skinner took out his cell phone and dialed Scully’s. Mulder listened with half an ear while Skinner spoke in low tones to her for a few minutes. Then Skinner, beaming, said a little louder, “Why don’t you tell him yourself?” and he handed Mulder the phone.

Mulder took the phone with trepidation and said, “Hey Scully, how’d it go?”

“They believed, Mulder, every word of it. The panel is now putting together an action plan based on our proposal to see to it that the vaccine is made available in the event of an outbreak of the virus,” said Scully excitedly and Mulder’s face split into an ecstatic grin.

“You did it, Scully!” he exclaimed and looked at Skinner who met his eyes with unconditional love and pride. Mulder reached out a hand and patted Skinner’s upper arm.

“We did it, Mulder. If you hadn’t been given the vaccine, none of this would ever have happened,” Scully corrected him. “You just saved the world.”

“Heh,” he huffed a brief laugh and scratched his head. He could hear the smile in her voice.

“And how did your testimony go, or dare I ask?” she said more solemnly. He let out a breath and turned away from Skinner.

“Well, ah, I got through it with only one panic attack,” he said jokingly.

“Oh, Mulder, I’m sorry you had to go through that,” she said.

“No, no. It’s okay, really. But I am tired. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Okay, partner,” Scully replied fondly. “We’ll have to do something to celebrate.”

“We could always watch Plan 9,” he suggested and could almost hear her eyeballs rolling over the phone. Skinner chortled in the background. Mulder whirled on him and pointed a finger accusingly. Skinner held up his hands as if to say, “Don’t mind me.” Mulder grinned again, feeling a little like he’d won the lottery.

“I’ll think about it,” she said tersely and then warmly added, “Goodbye, Mulder. Have a good rest of your day.”

“Will do, Scully. Bye.” He hung up Skinner’s cell and passed it back to him, then let out an enormous sigh and threw his jacket over one shoulder. He stuffed his other hand in his trouser pocket as Skinner stowed his phone. The two men stood regarding each other while the wheels of justice rolled on all around them. After a moment, Mulder said, “I’m tired as hell. Take me home?”

“Yours or mine?” asked Skinner with a note of amusement.

“Mine, please,” said Mulder and he turned as one with his lover and proceeded down the rest of the courthouse steps and down the street toward the parking lot. He planned to leave his car there overnight and retrieve it in the morning. He didn’t feel like driving. Instead, his body felt like it had just run a marathon but without the delicious runner’s high that kicked in when one pushed one’s body through honest exercise and not through an obstacle course of fear, stress, and self-doubt.

He got into Skinner’s hot car and Skinner cranked the AC until the temperature leveled off. July in DC was always hot and so was August and September. Only when October rolled around did the temperatures start to dip into something resembling tolerable. Mulder tilted his head back against the headrest of the passenger seat. By the time they were back at his apartment, he was already asleep and Skinner had to nudge him awake in order for him trudge up the front steps to get to the building’s small elevator. It was only late afternoon, but to Mulder it felt like midnight as he pawed through his keys and let himself and Skinner into number forty-two.

“Gimmie your jacket. I’ll hang it up so it doesn’t get wrinkled,” offered Skinner once they were inside. He could see Mulder was headed for a crash. Mulder made no argument, just handed the garment to Skinner and began to peel off his trousers, tie, and dress shirt. Skinner went into the bedroom and opened the closet. Mulder remained in the living area, presumably because it was cooler than the stuffy little bedroom that used to be a storage space for a lifetime’s worth of clutter. Skinner flicked on the closet light. His fingers carded through Mulder’s collection of dress shirts and other suits until he found an empty hanger and took it off the long bar, smoothing the jacket over its plastic form.

He smiled when he heard a groan come from Mulder. He could picture his lover all splayed out on the couch in his boxer shorts, too weary to even turn on the television. Skinner hung up the jacket and reached for the light string. As he did, his eyes caught the glimmer of something black on the top shelf of the closet and he froze. Heart pounding, he reached up and took the object in his left hand, bringing it down so he could look at it in the light. He let out a held breath. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself.

Leaving the light on, he slowly walked back out into the living area of Mulder’s apartment with the object in his hands. Sure enough, his prediction had been correct. Mulder was lying on the couch, stripped but for his boxers, and had one arm thrown over his eyes to block the sunlight streaming into them through his blinds. He didn’t notice Skinner standing in the doorway to the living room.

Skinner’s mouth worked, trying to find the words to say at a moment like this. He looked down at the drone mask in his hand and then to the dark-haired head of his lover and cleared a lump from his throat. Mulder turned a sleepy, grinning face toward him over his shoulder and the arm of the couch, lowering the arm that had protected him from the sunlight. His face fell when he saw what was in Skinner’s hands and he sat up on the edge of the couch with a nervous swallow. Skinner held up the mask and gave his head a little shake.

“What’s this?” he asked huskily, an unfamiliar burn registering behind his eyelids.

Mulder stood and pressed his hands together, wishing he wasn’t almost totally naked. He looked around and waved a hand, mumbling, “I, um, t-took it from Evidence.”

“Why?” asked Skinner, taking a step closer and watching as his lover struggled to come up with an excuse as to why he had an object in his possession that was the symbol of everything he had struggled to overcome in the past six months.

“I…” Mulder began but then he stopped and just looked at the floor off to one side. He couldn’t answer. This was it. This was the moment where Skinner would dump him over his sick, twisted sexual desires. He felt another panic attack brewing but it didn’t quite manifest. He jumped when he felt Skinner’s hand cup him gently on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” said Skinner softly. “You can tell me.”

Mulder closed his eyes and turned his head, attempting to block the tears that had suddenly pooled in his eyes from falling. When he looked back at Skinner he was afraid that Skinner could see the haunted guilt in his expression.

“I missed wearing it,” he whispered. “I can’t stop trying it on. I… It makes me feel… complete. I know I shouldn’t because of what happened. And I don’t know if it’s me that feels that way or the program making me feel that way but I don’t want to stop.” Skinner looked down at the mask, his hand falling from Mulder’s shoulder to grip the mask by the edge of the face shield. A tear escaped Mulder’s attempt at iron control and slid down his right cheek. More fell in cascading rivulets when he looked up and saw Skinner’s own face overcome with emotion. Mulder supposed, then, that he had better tell Skinner everything, so he said in a barely audible whisper, “When we make love, I-I fantasize that I’m wearing the mask and null belt, that I’m a drone and you’re f-fucking me with my gear on.” His whisper hit a high note and broke on the word “fucking” and his head titled as his neck locked up with the unbearable tension of having to tell the man of his dreams how truly disturbed he was. “It’s the only way I can keep an erection,” Mulder sobbed and shook his head stiltedly, his bottom lip trembling.

“Okay, okay, c’meer,” said Skinner, dropping the mask behind him onto the dining table with a clatter and pulling Mulder into a big hug. Mulder broke down and cried into the larger man’s shoulder while Skinner hushed him and stroked his head and rocked him gently from side to side.

“Been wanting to tell you,” Mulder wept, his hands coming up and clutching Skinner’s suit jacket sleeves. “So long now. Was ‘fraid you’d think ‘m a freak.”

“Okay,” said Skinner, seemingly at a loss for other words. He held Mulder until Mulder had cried himself out and then petted Mulder’s cheek and neck and closed his eyes, kissing Mulder in the center of Mulder’s forehead. Then he pressed his own forehead against Mulder’s and said roughly, “You… are the most beautiful man I’ve ever known, the strongest,” he choked and then resumed his speech once he’d gotten himself under control, “the bravest, most unique person I have ever met and I love you. I love you, Fox Mulder. I don’t care if you need a little fantasy to get off as long as you’re okay and as long as that fantasy doesn’t come between you and me or negatively affect your mental health.”

Mulder gave an inappropriate snort at that last but Skinner hushed him again and stroked the side of his face. “What I’m trying to say is, when I said you could tell me anything, I meant it,” Skinner went on. “So tell me. What do you want? What do you need? And how can I help?”

“Uhhh.” Mulder hadn’t thought this far ahead. By now he had expected Skinner to walk out on him and never look back. His nightmare from a few months ago of Skinner leaving him in the dust and silence popped up in his mind but this Skinner here in front of him wasn’t that Skinner and he knew it now. He looked Skinner in the eyes and said, “I want to wear the mask when you make love to me if… if that’s okay. Please?” Skinner’s eyes studied his for a long moment and Mulder’s whole body tensed as though making itself ready to flee or fight.

“I think,” said Skinner slowly, “that that’s doable if you promise to talk this out. I want to know what you’re feeling, when you’re feeling it. I need to know that this isn’t causing you more damage, because I’ve got to say, Mulder, when I found that mask in there, I was terrified, terrified that I’d lost my lover.”

Mulder immediately, vehemently shook his head. “No, never, not unless… I mean… What I mean to say is that,” he took a steadying breath and finished, “I thought I was going to lose you over this.”

“Oh God, sweetheart,” said Skinner and it was his turn to shake his head and plant a kiss on Mulder’s still-in-shock lips.

“Not ‘darlin,’’” asked Mulder automatically and Skinner let out a laugh. Then Mulder started to laugh, too, and before they knew it, they were both crying tears of joy and doing their damnedest to make out while doing so.

Eventually, they both calmed down enough to take a figurative step back and reevaluate and Skinner glanced at the mask sitting on the table. Then he looked at Mulder seriously and said, “We have a little problem. You took that from Evidence. That’s illegal.”

“I know,” admitted Mulder. He had no excuse. He knew better. But he figured he’d better come clean while he was still in Skinner’s good graces so he said, “I took something else, too. Please don’t be mad.” He disappeared into the bedroom and Skinner took a moment to collect himself, take a deep breath, and wipe his hand over his face. Was Mulder losing it? Was this a discussion better had with Dr. Boswick as a go-between? He decided no, this was not a situation in which she needed to get involved, at least not right away, but he would persuade Mulder come hell or high water to talk to the psychiatrist about it if Mulder hadn’t mentioned it to her already, which he couldn’t imagine Mulder had. Or maybe he had but in a very roundabout way. They obviously had a lot more to talk about regarding Mulder’s fantasies but he ceased his wool gathering when Mulder returned from the bedroom and set a plastic-bagged null belt on the dining table beside the mask. Mulder ran his fingers over the belt and said, “The mask wasn’t enough.” Then he turned to Skinner and asked with shining eyes, “You don’t think I’m sick?”

“Oh darlin’,” said Skinner and put his hands on Mulder’s waist. “No, I don’t think you’re sick. I think the kleptomania has to stop though or you’ll be in big trouble. How the hell did you get those items out of Evidence? They aren’t exactly small.”

Mulder blushed and looked down at Skinner’s tie. He ran his hand over it in much the same way he had caressed the null belt through the plastic evidence bag and said coyly, “I used my feminine wiles,” while looking up at Skinner and batting his eyelashes. Skinner snorted and shook his head.

“Remarkable,” he muttered and nuzzled the end of his nose against Mulder’s jaw. “I’ll get that story out of you someday.”

Over my dead body, thought Mulder. He wasn’t about to implicate Langly in helping him falsify chain-of-custody records, ever. That wouldn’t be him being a very good friend.

“Is there any way I could persuade you into returning them like a good boy scout?” Skinner asked, still holding Mulder close, even in the sweltering summer heat. It did help that Mulder only had his boxers on, but Skinner was still fully dressed from court. He didn’t mind, though. Bodily comfort was the last thing on his mind.

Mulder looked over Skinner’s face and hesitated. He’d never thought of having to give up his toys. “I…”

“You know what?” Skinner interrupted him. “Never mind. It’s okay. I won’t say anything if you won’t. Just promise me you won’t take anything else.”

“I promise,” Mulder said, his voice dipping and his love for Skinner pouring out through every pore. Skinner looked away from him and to the two objects on the dining table. At first he’d been worried that Mulder was having some kind of program-induced breakdown, but now that he knew their purpose for being tucked away in Mulder’s closet, he’d come to the conclusion that his lover had done something incredible: Mulder had taken back his power after going through a nightmarish ordeal and turned two objects of subjugation and objectification into harmless objects of pleasure.

Still holding Mulder in his arms, Skinner leaned around him and picked up the mask. He looked at Mulder and asked gently, “Would you like to try it on now?” Startled at Skinner’s offer, Mulder looked from him to the mask and then back with wide eyes. When he read only acceptance and love there, Mulder took a deep breath and let it out with a nod. “Let me?” Skinner made a motion to put the mask over Mulder’s head. Mulder shivered in anticipation.

“Please,” he whispered.

Skinner slowly raised the mask and placed it over Mulder’s head and face, tightening the straps in the back. “How does that feel?” Skinner asked in a hushed tone.

“It feels… good,” said Mulder, his voice sounding muffled by the mask. He looked out through the inert screen at his lover and saw Skinner regarding him with curiosity and just a hint of lust. He smirked, glad that his expression remained hidden. Skinner couldn’t help reaching for Mulder’s obscured features through the obsidian dome. Mulder allowed him his cautious exploration. An electric charge filled the air, so much emotion between them that it became its own creature, a tulpa of sorts, guiding them to the bedroom where Mulder’s cock grew gravid with blood and Skinner’s soon followed as Mulder serviced him by removing one article of clothing at a time and setting them aside neatly. He touched Skinner gently in lieu of kisses and Skinner pulled him into an embrace only mildly encumbered by the mask.

They made love with the ovular obsidian shield and respirator between them, their bodies dripping sweat in the close air of Mulder’s bedroom. Mulder passed Skinner the lubricant and a condom at one point and raised his legs, rubbing at his own, sweat-moist entrance in invitation. “Are you sure, darlin’?” asked Skinner, hovering above Mulder on all fours. Mulder silently nodded his permission and Skinner prepped him lovingly until he was sure Mulder would be able to take him without discomfort. Still, he paused before putting his cock inside Mulder and said that he would stop any time Mulder told him to; all Mulder had to do was say no.

“I know, babe,” said Mulder and it sounded so strange coming from under the respirator that Skinner nearly laughed but then he was sliding home inside Mulder and drawing him close with gentle rocks of his hips that Mulder gasped into. Mulder’s arms wrapped around Skinner and urged him on, as did Mulder’s long, lean legs. Skinner needed no urging. This is where he had wanted to be from day one and had never imagined, after Mulder’s abduction and captivity, actually getting to. He looked at his panting reflection in the mirror of Mulder’s mask, his breath fogging the shatter-proof plastic, wishing he could see his lover’s eyes but understanding that this was how Mulder needed to be made love to. Eye contact would come later when Mulder’s self-worth had been reassured by more lovemaking and the strength and silent (and sometimes not so silent) support of his partner.

After an explosive, nearly simultaneous orgasm, the two men lay recuperating on the double bed, Mulder still and at peace behind his drone mask. Skinner rolled over to face Mulder and ran the fingers of his hand along the edge of the mask, his eyes roaming over it, trying to picture his lover’s face underneath. “Should we take this off now?” he asked gently. He so desperately wanted to kiss Mulder on the mouth.

“Actually,” said Mulder and cleared his throat, “could you go get the belt for me?” Skinner thought it an unfair advantage that Mulder could see his eyes and thus know what he was probably thinking whereas he could see only his own face reflected back at him, but he rose up on his elbow and pushed himself from the bed, saying, “I’ll be right back.” Mulder thanked him and that eerie mask titled toward the bedroom door and watched him go. It was still watching him when he got back but he didn’t shiver because he knew Mulder was under there. He put the belt in its package on the bed and sat beside Mulder who lay supine. “Put it on me,” purred Mulder. Skinner swallowed and ran his hand over Mulder’s abdomen and over his hip.

“Are you sure?”

The mask dipped and rose, nodding. Skinner let out a little breath and took the belt out of the bag. He observed its unusual and cruel features. Then he helped Mulder into it without another word. Mulder let out a grunt as the hollow plug settled home and Skinner checked to make sure the belt was snug but not cutting off any blood flow. Then he pulled Mulder to him and spooned him and lay awake as Mulder fell asleep. Eventually, Skinner, too, fell asleep, not weirded out at all at falling asleep next to a man wearing null equipment.

When they awoke a few hours later they had a serious talk about Mulder’s sexual and psychological needs regarding the drone equipment. Mulder said he wasn’t quite sure where his need came from, only that he’d had it almost from the moment he’d been in the psychiatric hospital for a couple of weeks. He told Skinner that he’d talked to Dr. Boswick about it, kinda. Skinner asked if Mulder was going to bring it up to her again. Mulder shrugged.

“I dunno, maybe,” he said. “If it becomes a problem.” Skinner brought up the fact that it already was a problem in the sense that Mulder had stolen to get what he’d needed. Mulder countered that that part was done. He’d made his promise and he didn’t need more that the mask and belt. “Except…” he said hesitantly and Skinner urged him to be open with him. Mulder looked in his eyes and said firmly, “Except that I was thinking about buying a latex suit, to go with them. Not bio-latex, not the stuff they encased us with. Something removable. Something sexy.” He gave a crooked smile at this last and Skinner gave him the once over as they sat side-by-side on Mulder’s couch. Both were dressed in casual clothes and Mulder had brought a battered AC unit up and put it in his window, cranking it to full blast to clear out the sweltering heat that had oppressed the building throughout the day while they’d been in court. They had ordered takeout and its remnants sat on the coffee table in front of them like evidence of good memories.

“Mm,” hummed Skinner. “After that raid, I never thought I’d think latex would look sexy but…”

“Yeah?” breathed Mulder inquisitively. Skinner’s right hand was on Mulder’s opposite thigh and Mulder’s arms were around Skinner’s middle. Skinner moved his hand up and down Mulder’s leg slowly, turning the sight of Mulder in a latex bodysuit over and over in his head. Without warning, he brought their lips together and showed Mulder just what he thought of Mulder’s idea. When they parted, Mulder murmured, “I’m going to wait a little bit, though, see if the feeling passes.”

“You don’t have to,” said Skinner, not wanting Mulder to make excuses because of what Mulder might think of his reaction.

“No, I need to, for me,” said Mulder and Skinner nodded. He understood now. Mulder needed to feel in control and that was his right. Skinner would do everything he could to provide a safe space for his partner in this. Meanwhile, they had another serious discussion that they needed to have.

Eight Weeks Later

The six friends sat around a large table at Mulder’s favorite Italian eatery a couple of blocks away from the Hoover building. He sat beside Skinner, one hand holding a large cheese slice by the crust as it dripped grease onto a classy red-and-white checked paper plate. His other hand was under the table, holding Skinner’s on Skinner’s warm, solid thigh. Across from them, Scully sat next to Frohike, she unable to stop giving him that little giggle that Mulder had once thought was exclusively for himself and Frohike unable to stop staring up at his titian-haired Goddess and whispering sweet nothings between bites of pasta and breadsticks. At the other two ends of the table, Byers and Langly held the fort by their bachelor selves, Byers occasionally engaging Mulder in conversation about his and Scully’s latest case or the state of computer technology and Langly discussing music (mainly The Ramones) with Skinner.

After they’d all had a decent amount of food and had congratulated Scully and Frohike on their engagement, Mulder cleared his throat and said that he, too, had something to announce. As the table fell silent, he turned and looked lovingly at Skinner who gazed back at him and caressed the back of Mulder’s hand with his thumb. “Walter and I are moving in together,” said Mulder dreamily and there was a whoop from one of the Gunmen. Scully graced Mulder with an angelic, congratulatory grin, looking over to her own short-statured, big-hearted man and suddenly everyone was talking and laughing excitedly at once except for Mulder and Skinner who just sat, adoring each other with their eyes. When the clamor had died down, Skinner raised his napkin and dabbed at the corner of Mulder’s mouth with it. “You’ve got a bit of food, just there,” he said huskily and Mulder blushed.

“Do I pass marine muster yet?” asked Mulder, the quiet conversation of their friends and, indeed, the whole restaurant background noise falling away from his conscious thought.

“For this old marine, you do,” murmured Skinner.

“All right you two!” declared Scully. “Quit making googly eyes at each other…”

“Yeah, we wanna know when the housewarming party is!” Frohike piped up.

“There’s gonna be a housewarming party?” asked Langly cluelessly as he looked around the table.

“We’d better go gift shopping,” said Byers seriously to his blond compatriot.

“Naw, we don’t need any gifts. Between the two of us, we’ve got enough shit,” said Skinner. “But if you’re talking wedding gifts for these two, now there’s a challenge.” Skinner pointed his thumb at Scully and Frohike and let his eyebrows ride high on his forehead.

“What I was trying to say was…” Scully began again but someone else interrupted her and she arched her eyebrow across the table at her partner as the men’s chatter drowned her out a second time. Scully relented and picked up her beer glass, raising it in front of her. Mulder made eye contact with her and raised his own glass. They clinked glasses over the table and each took a chug of their beers. Mulder passed her a napkin when Scully set her beer glass down but she just wiped the resulting bear-foam moustache from her mouth with the back of her hand and another of those adorable little giggles. With a fond smile, she titled her head and mouthed, “Congratulations, Mulder.”

“Thanks, Scully,” he mouthed, and then was drawn back into the melee by Byers who wanted his opinion on “his and his” towels for the bathroom. Mulder just thanked his lucky stars he had cleaned out his bedroom five months ago if they were going to get slammed with gifts and shook his head, looking over at Skinner again. Through whatever sixth sense marines in combat situations or surly ADs running a department full of FBI agents developed, his lover seemed to sense eyes on him and turned away from his and Langly’s conversation about slow cookers. Their eyes connected again and Mulder raised their conjoined hands to his lips for a quick, discrete smooch to the back of Skinner’s. Skinner smiled at him.

“You want to head home, darlin’?” asked Skinner in an undertone, ever attentive to Mulder’s PTSD. Mulder hadn’t had a panic attack in a long time, however, not since the verdicts for the four scientists that had been in charge of the dronification facility were handed down a month prior. All four had been found guilty on thirty-three counts of aiding and abetting kidnapping, false imprisonment, and sex trafficking and on thirty-three counts of repeated mental and physical torture. They had been handed down the maximum sentences for each count which added up to sixty-five years per man. Joshua Tate had given Mulder a reality check when he’d said that they could be out in twenty for good behavior and that was when Mulder had had the panic attack. Skinner had tried to reassure Mulder that a lot could happen in twenty years and that white-collar offenders like that didn’t stand a chance in federal prison. Besides, two of the scientists, already in their mid-fifties would be old men in twenty years. Eventually Mulder had calmed down and since then had remained untriggered, though he did have his days where he would sometimes stare out the window, lost in thought as though searching for something or someone or get carried away and nearly get himself injured or killed on some work assignment. Skinner was always there to reel him back in and if he wasn’t there physically, he was just a phone call away. That was soon to change, though, and a warm feeling crept through Skinner when he remembered how that conversation had gone right after their emotional discussion about Mulder’s sexual needs. “Flip a coin for who’s gonna tell my mother,” Mulder had joked after they’d agreed to pick out a new place to live together rather than try and cram both their lives into one or the other of each other’s apartments. Skinner had tackled him to the couch with a lusty growl and given him a good tickle until Mulder had laughed himself silly and cried “uncle.”

Mulder shook his head and took another sip of his beer. “Nope, I’m good,” he said, putting his beer glass down.

“I’m glad to hear it,” commented Skinner sincerely and together they pulled another two slices of pizza from the pan in the center of the table, their hands still conjoined underneath.

Eleven and a Half Weeks Earlier

It had been almost too easy for Charles to infiltrate the Englishman’s family estate in Charlottesville. Sure, the Brit had paid protection, as did many of the Syndicate members. But they were ineffectual against Charles’s wiles and experience. He had set himself up in the surrounding woods in a small blind, prepared to wait days for the perfect shot. He had prepped his gun and prepped his mind. The excitement had been intense enough to temporarily curb his cigarette habit, which was a good thing considering plumes of smoke would have given away his position to a discerning eye.

In the end, he hadn’t needed to wait days, only about eight hours. The sun rose with a fiery glow of deep crimson against a blanket of clouds, a sunrise more appropriate to deep winter than to early summer. Red sky at morning, mused Charles as he sighted his quarry through his gun’s scope. The old man was out for an early morning constitutional around the horse paddocks. Even at this hour, he was dressed to the nines in a light beige linen suit and sporting a silk tie shot through with purple and red against a navy background. Foolish, giving me such a pretty target. The smoker chuckled. He raised the muzzle of the gun slightly. There was no wind, but he had to compensate more for gravity at this range. His hideaway was approximately a thousand yards away from where the Englishman was now walking.

Charles took a deep breath and let it out slowly as the Englishman paused by one of the horse paddocks to watch the animals. He fired on the exhale, the large gun kicking his shoulder like a skittish colt kicking up a fuss at being trained to the bit. A second later the sound of the shot echoed through the valley. Charles watched through the gun scope as the bullet punched through the back of the Englishman’s skull and blasted out the front, decimating the man’s face in a spray of blood. Some nearby horses shied away and whinnied piteously, instinctually afraid of death even though they were in no danger. The body slumped to the ground next to the paddock fence.

As much as Charles wanted to stay around and watch chaos unfold as the family slowly woke up and the Englishman’s hired security investigated the shot, he knew he had to be out of there. He broke down his gun into its constituent parts in less than thirty seconds, stowed it in a carryall with the rest of his necessities, and beat a successful retreat through the woods for two miles until he came to a rural, two-lane road where he had parked his rental car. He had a long drive ahead of him, but with any luck, he would have compensation waiting for him when he arrived.

Three days and two overnight pit stops later, there it was: the cabin. It was small, rustic, and just enough for one man to live comfortably alone for a long time. The nearest domicile was almost twenty miles away. Charles sighed in anticipation of some peace and quiet. He got out of the car and stretched his legs and back. Long drives at his age were hell on his body, but it was worth it not to take a plane or train or bus and leave a trail for the bastards who had engaged him to kill. He wouldn’t become their target.

He took a deep breath of the mountain air, the firs surrounding the cabin lending their pine-pitchy scent that would, come winter, be crisper but now smelled sticky and almost sweet in the warm Canadian summer sun. Charles saw with delight signs that his delivery had been made. There were fresh tire tracks on the dirt driveway not belonging to his rental. He suppressed a grin and popped the trunk to retrieve his belongings.

Approaching the side door of the cabin, he noted the stacks of cordwood on the porch even though it was summer. They weren’t decorative. Nights this far north could still get chilly, even in the warmer months. Charles pulled out his key and unlocked the door to the cabin, pushing it open on well-oiled hinges. He stepped over the threshold and looked around, eyes lighting on a kneeling figure by the cold woodstove. The figure trembled as it heard him enter. Charles grinned. Unhurriedly, he set down his two bags, one with personal effects, the other with his sniper rifle, and closed the door. Then he turned back to the figure and stood studying it while he lit up a cigarette and had a nice, leisurely smoke.

The figure’s breathing sounded harsh through the respirator mask over its face. Its lone wrist yanked at a cuff attached to a chain around its waist just above a constricting black belt that obscured its genitals. The chain rattled.

“I’d be still if I were you,” Charles warned the figure and could see it working to settle itself but it still couldn’t control its trembling. Its breathing increased as Charles approached it and looked down on it. After a moment, Charles reached out and carded spidery fingers through the figure’s short brown hair around the mask straps. “You’ve been a bad drone, Krycek,” said Charles smoothly and the figure’s shaking increased to include random muscle spasms, its knees twitching apart to help it try and keep its balance. Charles gripped its hair and yanked back on its head. “But you’ll obey like a good drone from now on, won’t you?” he asked it. The drone’s fingers spread and flexed and it nodded as best it could with its hair in that unforgiving grasp. “Good,” purred Charles, a maniacal light entering his eyes. “You’re here as compensation for me having to permanently take myself out of the limelight,” he explained in a low voice as he used the hand that held his cigarette to explore the drone’s bare chest. The pale skin was an interesting contrast against the shiny black of the mask and null belt, not quite as esthetically pleasing as the bio-latex all-black but pleasing nonetheless. A cigarette ash fell to the floor as he rubbed a nicotine-stained finger over an unresponsive nipple. Charles kept his grip on his drone’s hair and lifted the cigarette to his lips, inhaling and exhaling the smoke. The drone shifted again, its chain clanking.

“Are you uncomfortable, Alex?” he asked it. He assumed it had been here kneeling for quite some time.

“Yes,” came a muted answer from behind the respirator. The grip on its hair tightened and its arm strained against the cuff chained to its waist as it growled in response.

“You forget your programming, drone,” hissed Charles. “We’ll have to fix that.” He reached for the side of the mask, for a little hidden button that controlled a receiver for the screen inside. Charles had made sure that the dronification program would be available for transmission before having his consolation prize delivered to his new address.

“No. NO!” shouted Krycek. But his protest didn’t matter because he was already being bombarded with words and images.

“Keep those pretty eyes open, Alex. Or perhaps I should call you drone 0622,” smirked Charles and took another, shorter inhale of smoke. He released the drone’s hair and went to go relax in a comfortable armchair on the other side of the cabin. Krycek twitched and shook as the program inside his brain reactivated and he sank deep, deep down into mindless submission. Charles watched, his eyes roving the somewhat thin but still attractive, youthful body, thinking of all the ways he was going to violate it in the coming days, months, years. Indeed, the winters were long in this part of the world. It was good to have a drone to keep one company through the snowy months….

END