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Title: Another Conversation in the Car This vignette follows my Mulder/ Scully romance, "Heart," which I have reposted, for those of you who would like to read it. "Another Conversation In The Car" is mostly a Walter Skinner "backstory". I have invented everything, since we have been told nothing about Skinner's life outside of, or rise within, the Bureau. It is an "alternate universe" from my other Skinner stories, which do not include a Mulder/Scully romantic relationship, however, I do maintain some of the elements I have created previously, specifically, Skinner's former wife and his daughter. For those of you who may not know, the first "Conversation in the Car": happened between Mulder and Scully in the 1st season episode, "Toombs." It was also in "Toombs" that Skinner appeared for the first time. Comments and critique are welcome, flames humbly accepted.
Fox Mulder stared out of the windshield at the drizzle in his headlights, and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel nervously. As he sat, he thought about Dana, sitting at home, waiting for him. He had almost not told her about this "summons," probably would not have told her if she had not sensed his unease, and wheedled it out of her. He supposed she had always been able to read him so well, but it the weeks since that night in his basement office, since that first sweet kiss, and the aftermath, she had become much bolder in making him share these worries with her. He liked that, actually. It was turning out to not such a difficult thing, after all, keeping the love affair secret. For one thing, they already had a well established professional relationship to fall back on. There was a particular way they dealt with each other when they were working, and it was both easy and comfortable to slip back into that relationship during the week. There were also a few rules that they imposed, some discussed and agreed upon, some just turning out that way. For instance, they did not spend nights together, during the week. In fact, they rarely spent evenings together during the week, both going back to their own places at the end of the day. It was okay, really; besides the need for discretion, they were both intensely private individuals underneath it all, with a deep need for quiet and space. Actually, the enforced separation, and the necessary secretiveness made their time together even more special. Travel etiquette they were still working out, the 'no nights together during work' rule being hard to stick to when they were safely away from Washington. They still got separate rooms, of course, needed to show two rooms on the expense report, and, at least officially, they stayed in separate rooms. Practically speaking, though, one room usually turned into an off-site office. Adjoining rooms with communicating doors, when they could get them, were a godsend. And anyway, they were just the X-Files, right? Nobody much paid any attention to them, except to snigger behind their hands. There were certain advantages to being outside the mainstream. The powers-that-be might keep their collective eyes open, but they were looking for other things. And the rank and file really did not give a damn. It was like living two separate lives. A little schizophrenic, maybe, but less of a problem then they might have originally thought. Mulder looked up in the rear view mirror. Come on , where are you, he fretted. He was not happy with this arrangement, not in the least, especially since the call from this particular quarter had been so unexpected. Headlights shown behind him, finally, and a car rolled to a stop. He killed his own lights. He heard a car door slam, and a moment later his passenger side door opened and Assistant Director Walter Skinner slid onto the seat. Skinner closed the door carefully. "Agent Mulder." "Sir," Mulder said, wondering what the hell this was all about. For his AD to request a clandestine meeting like this, well, it could not be anything good. Then Skinner reached over and handed Mulder a beer, shocking him completely. Walter Skinner looked at the younger man beside him. Fox Mulder. Golden Boy of the Bureau. The hot white light, and eternal thorn in the side. Easily the most brilliant, and most unique agent, and man, he had ever encountered; nearly driven rogue by an organization that would never understand his deepest driving principles. Special Agent Fox Mulder was about as near to a Bureau maverick as an agent could get and still remain an agent in the FBI. Mulder and his X-Files project were a fact of life, however, no matter what the management might think about it. It had been left, to Skinner, therefore, to do damage control, indirectly at first, then, after he had reinstated the X-Files and had it transferred into his immediate reporting structure, directly. Skinner often wondered why this unpopular project had been given to him to shepherd, and in his bitterer moments suspected that it was simply because he was the executive most recently promoted to his position, and therefore, the most expendable. He also suspected that his superiors believed him the one most likely to cooperate with those forces *outside* his office who sought to control Agent Mulder, exactly because of his newness to the position. His superiors wanted him to cooperate. Walter Skinner was his own man, though, underneath it all, and more to the point, he had a personal desire to see these X-Files cases investigated. It was a desire he did not share with the people he answered to, however, and he continued to walk the fine line between protecting his position and balancing Mulder's needs to follow his obsession against the Bureau need for conformity and form. Skinner had, in the process, developed an abiding affection for the stubborn young man, and a deep respect for this spirit who simply would not be denied. In many ways, he thought of Mulder the way he would a brilliant but rebellious younger brother, someone to be protected from himself, guided, disciplined when necessary. But also admired. Wondered at. Cared about. Not that Mulder *knew* any of that; to him, Skinner was just the boss; an obstacle to his goals, rather than an ally. Fox Mulder had given his AD more than his fair share of headaches with his bizarre theories and unorthodox behavior, but Mulder had always been so outside the box, so outre in his behavior, that no one had expected problems from him with any of the more conventional irregularities. His obsessions would put him far beyond the reach of ordinary temptations. For instance, no one, least of all Walter Skinner, had expected Mulder to do *anything* so patently human as fall for his partner. Of course, Skinner knew that Mulder loved Dana Scully, loved her with that wild ferocity that would drive him to risk anything to protect her. If he had had any doubts, Mulder's behavior during Scully's abduction and following illness had laid those to rest. Skinner also knew that Scully loved Fox Mulder with a depth of passion that would send her, literally, to the ends of the Earth to rescue him. But Skinner had not expected them to actually consummate that love in any of the more mundane and traditional fashions. Especially now, after all this time. Silly man. He had almost fallen off his chair the day they walked into his office together, the static charge of sexual energy between them potent he could hear the air crackle. Shit, was the only thing he could think. It finally happened, god damn it. Now what am I gonna do? Skinner opened his beer. So here he was, sitting in the car, in the dark, in the rain, getting ready to have a serious heart to heart talk with this man about the professional and personal risks he ran, sleeping with his partner. Not that he expected them to stop, or even blamed them much. But he did hope he could drive home the need for extreme discretion. He took a deep drag from the can, and nodded to Mulder to open his own. Mulder eyed his AD warily, and popped the tab on his beer can. What the hell is this all about, he thought, but did not ask. Why have you met me, here, and not in the office? Or even in my apartment, you have come there, before, when you wanted to talk off line. What are we doing here? What do you need to tell me. He sipped the beer, and waited, containing his curiosity because he was too afraid to ask. "You and Agent Scully have been working together for some time now," Skinner said obliquely. Mulder stiffened and nodded. What the hell? "Yes, sir," he replied, giving nothing. Skinner looked over, and decided there was no sense in beating around this bush. "Agent Mulder, as long as it does not effect your work, I don't really care what your personal relationship is with Agent Scully. But others will, so please be discrete. I don't particularly want to have to go before the OPC in defense of that relationship, and I'm not sure I could win." Mulder swallowed hard, his brain whirling. Skinner knew. But how, when they had been so careful? And why, why this conversation here? Skinner knew, he *knew*! Then, gradually, the shock lifted, and Mulder registered the words. Skinner knew, but he did not care. He was not going to report them to the OPC. Nor was he going to demand that the relationship end, as the price for not telling. He... he might even protect them, defend them, if it ever came down to that, god forbid. Mulder looked at his AD in astonishment. Skinner cocked an eyebrow at him. Mulder turned back toward the steering wheel, and closed his eyes, fear, relief and wonder making him weak. It was a moment before he could speak. "We... it wasn't intentional," he said, finally. "We... we didn't plan for this to happen." Even as he said it, he knew it sounded lame. But it was the truth. Beside him, Skinner smiled, and sipped his beer. "No," the other man agreed with surprising gentleness. "We never do." "I love her," Mulder insisted, a little belligerently. Skinner nodded. "I know." Mulder turned to look at him. "How did you find out?" Skinner smiled wryly. It never failed. They loved like they thought they invented it. Hell, he had been the same way. He cocked an eyebrow at the younger man. "You're not the first man in this organization to fall in love with a colleague, Agent Mulder," he replied. Mulder turned, expecting some story about "Agent So-and-So," but the look on Skinner's face brought him up short. Unless Mulder missed his guess, and he did not miss very often, the Assistant Director was referring to himself! Mulder's eyes got round with surprise. Skinner almost laughed out loud, but what had happened to him and Eileen was not funny, and if sharing his own tragedy could make these two take care, it would be worth it. And anyway, for some peculiar reason, he wanted Mulder to know. Skinner leaned back against the seat, and looked out at the rain. "It was twelve, almost thirteen years ago. Violent Crimes was a brand new section, spun off from the Crime Division to handle serial killings, and other violent crimes of a particularly heinous nature. It was also right about that time that women were coming into the Bureau in full force, demanding and getting assignments in real field work, not just the paper-pushing and liaison stuff. Eileen was one of the first women to be assigned to the front lines. I was her SAC. She was beautiful, brilliant, capable. She was a lot like Scully, actually. Anyway, I fell head over heels in love with her." Skinner looked down at his beer.
Flashback #1 "Hey, Walt," Special Agent Douglas Clifford called as he walked into the nearly deserted FBI situation room in the brand new, and astonishingly ugly J. Edgar Hoover building. Newly promoted Special Agent in Charge Walter S. Skinner looked up from the map table over which he had been leaning, and watched his friend, former partner, and newly designated subordinate approaching him. He winced at the familiarity. Two months ago, it would have been natural, but two months ago Walter had just been Special Agent Skinner; now he was some other creature, whom he had yet to figure out. Skinner was an ambitious man, determined to rise high, and quickly. He did not want to blow this new assignment. On the other hand, Doug Clifford was his friend. And no one had handed him a guidebook on how to deal with this sudden change in status regarding the people with whom he worked. Special Agent Clifford drew to a stop at Skinner's side, and handed him a mug of coffee. "Or would you prefer that I call you 'sir'." Skinner looked at his friend quickly, his face flushing with embarrassment until he saw the merry twinkle in Clifford's eye. Skinner grinned and shook his head. "Damned if I know," he lamented, taking the much needed coffee from Clifford. "Wasn't in the orientation literature." Clifford grinned. "I think it's part of the test," he said, "to see if you can cut it: 'Can you be hard-assed enough to lord it over your friends without alienating them so badly that nobody gets any work done.'" Skinner made a face. "Now that's a comfort," he sighed. "I'm so glad you explained it all to me..." Clifford patted his friend on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, you'll be fine," he said seriously. "You've done this before. It's no different than when you made Corporal. Just relax and follow your instincts. And don't worry," Clifford added with a mischievous snort, "it will be 'sir' in front of the troops." Skinner smiled, and Clifford smiled back at him. Doug Clifford had been around the Federal Bureau of Investigation for a long time. He had joined right out of college, and he had several years on the man upon whose shoulder he now rested his hand. Clifford had no illusions about his own future with the Bureau; he had gone about as far as he had the talent or ambition to go, but this man, Walter S. Skinner, was destined to go much farther. About as far as a man could, without Congressional connections and a political appointment. Already the one of the youngest SACs at 32, Skinner had reached that position in just five years, rocketing through the ranks on talent, ambition, and an amazing ability to play the party line without compromising his personal integrity. Clifford also knew that his friend had his work cut out for him on this assignment. "Hell, what you do with your old drinking buddies will be a cake walk," Clifford continued. His eyes traveled toward the door of the situation room. "There's your real challenge." Skinner looked up, and followed Clifford's gaze. His eyes rested on the young woman who had just walked through the door, mug of coffee in hand. Special Agent Eileen O'Brien looked remarkably alert, considering that it was only 6:30 in the morning. Tall and slender, she was pretty in a fresh scrubbed, girl-next-door sort of way. Dark ash blonde hair cut short, hazel eyes that showed green in certain lights, and a face sprinkled with freckles, she looked more like a school teacher, or a nurse, than a Special Agent in the FBI. The truth of the matter was, Eileen O'Brien was one of a new breed, a female Special Agent who was actually pulling high risk duty, and not just serving in the usual public relations and agency liaison positions to which women in the Bureau were usually relegated. The trend was not being too well received within the Bureau rank and file, and Skinner knew that his newly assigned subordinate had her work cut out for her. He also knew she knew it, and accepted the challenge. He had no doubts that she would go far. "Somebody must *really* want to find out what you're made of, assigning one of the only four women to qualify as field agents to your team," Clifford continued, watching O'Brien as she set her cup down on a nearby desk and shucked her topcoat. "It's tough enough running one of these task forces without that." Skinner gave his friend a stern look. "She gets the same chance everyone else does," he said. "And the same respect." Clifford looked at Skinner is sudden surprise at the tone. "No disrespect intended," he backpedaled quickly. "I only meant that the guys aren't used to it. Sir." Skinner nodded, and looked back at the woman. "They better get used to it, then, " he replied tersely. Deep inside himself, Walter Skinner sighed. If only Doug Clifford knew the truth. But then, Clifford probably would not believe it. The truth was, Walter Skinner was more than just very impressed with Special Agent Eileen O'Brien's credentials and capabilities. He was more than just demanding of respect on her behalf. The truth was, he was half way to falling in love with her, which was damned awkward, since he was her boss, and a married man. He could still see her as she had walked into his new office six weeks earlier, and smiled at him as he sat in that stark cubby hole behind the ugly steelcase desk. "Sir. You wanted to see me." Deferential, but not in the least intimidated. Sure of herself, sure of her abilities. Somehow, sure of him. They had talked for a long time, first about her credentials, and her assignment, then about more personal things, his family, her goals. There was something about Eileen O'Brien that inspired, if not intimacy, exactly, then confidence. She seemed to understand him in a way so intuitive it took his breath away. That feeling had only intensified as they had begun to work more and more closely together. Not that they had done anything more than touch fingertips when exchanging paperwork, said more than what was necessary in the course of hunting down this monster who was ransacking Washington's Foggy Bottom and leaving the mutilated bodies of young women in his wake. They had done nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, yet Walter Skinner found that he could not get her out of his mind. He thought about her all the time, looked forward to each moment that he would spend in her company, found himself hoping that they *never* solved this case. O'Brien picked up her coffee cup and walked over to the two men. "Well, gentlemen? Anything new?" And she smiled at Walter in a way that was at once deferential and possessive, and he felt his blood start to pound. He was a man in trouble. He did not know what to do.
"The rules concerning that kind of thing were much stricter, then," Assistant Director Skinner told the astonished younger man, as Mulder sat and gaped at him. "Excessive fraternization they called it. Grounds for dismissal, if it went too far, or got too messy. I was still married, then, too. It couldn't have been any worse.
Flashback #2 "Daddy, daddy!" Walter Skinner grunted softly as a small dark head butted him in the thighs and plump little arms wrapped themselves tightly around his knees. He reached out a hand to keep himself from toppling as his four year old daughter, Heather, threatened his balance. Dropping his briefcase onto the floor, he swung the child high over his head. She cackled happily. Skinner lowered his daughter in his arms until she rested comfortably at eye level with his face. She was so beautiful, it amazed him sometimes that she was his child. Small, so fair her skin was almost transparent, her little face framed by a head full of black curls, she looked back at him with eyes so dark the pupils could not be seen in them. Arresting, people said. Heather Skinner was the sort of child who made people stop and stare. Walter knew that his wife had been disappointed the little girl had not inherited her own ice blond coloring, but Walter, himself, was secretly thrilled. Heather looked like his own mother, and he had always considered his mother very beautiful. He brushed the curls off her forehead. He had had curls like that, once, back in the days when he had had hair. Thick, black sausage-like locks that had gotten him nothing but trouble until he had gotten big enough to start lifting weights, and learning to defend himself. Curls he had cursed as a boy, which had begun to disappear on his twenty second birthday, and now were all but gone, leaving only a severely receded hairline that would be totally bald in not too many years to come. The idea did not bother him, particularly, but he knew that it bothered his wife, and made him a little self conscious because of it. "Were you a good girl today?" he asked the requisite father question. Heather had been waiting for it, her reply carefully rehearsed all afternoon. "I have been very good," she replied with a nod, her diction careful, and almost precocious. "Mrs. Delaney said I was the best child in play group. And I did not spill any juice on my shirt today." Walter chuckled deep in his throat, and was about to respond, when a voice interrupted him. "Give daddy a kiss and let him go, sweetheart. He has to get dressed." Skinner turned, and looked at the source of the voice. His wife, Catherine, smiled at him from the doorway. The smile was tense, and not especially welcoming. He frowned, confused. He was late, but he was often late these days, this case was consuming most of his waking hours. Then her words registered, and his frown became deeper. Dressed for what? "Dressed for what?" he asked. "Oh, Walt, you haven't forgotten. Senator Meyer's cocktail party. I told you about it Wednesday, I was able to wangle a last minute invitation out of Marge. This is an extremely important party, everyone will be there. It may be very important to your career. Now, please, go change, you're late, and *we're* going to be late if we don't leave here in twenty minutes." Walter let his daughter slide to the floor as he contemplated his wife. Catherine Lambertsen Skinner was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, was still the most beautiful woman he knew even after seven years of marriage. Tall, Nordic blond, a show-stopper figure, she was the kind of woman who could bring a room to its knees just by entering it. He had met her in college, a young GI just back from the war, and had fallen into immediate infatuation and lust. He had not quite believed it when she had returned the interest. Nor had he been sorry, really, the day she had come to him, and told him she was pregnant; he had been thrilled, in a way, because it meant that she would always be his. And he found that he wanted children. It had nearly broken his heart when the child, a boy, had been born too early, and had died within hours after birth. "Walter, please." "Cathy, I'm sorry, I did forget. I'm very tired..." "You can't do this to me, Walter Skinner. Not after everything I had to do to get this invitation. I told you about it - if you did not want to go you should have said something Wednesday. Now, please, go get dressed, we have to leave..." They had born their grief together, and in some ways, it was the best two years of their life together. Walter had been accepted to the Federal Bureau of Investigation on the basis of excellent grades, and his combat record, and they had moved closer to Washington, to begin a new life. Catherine had become pregnant once more, to the pleasure of both, but once Heather was born, alive, healthy and happy, things began to change. Always interested in the Washington political scene, Catherine had taken to her new setting like a duck to water. Electing to "stay home with the baby," a luxury they could only just afford on Walter's salary, she had launched herself into a full fledged career of social climbing - in that most politically influential of cities. Walter had to admit that the contacts his wife made did make his life a little easier at the Bureau, although he staunchly believed it was mostly hard work that had gotten him where he was, and would get him where he wanted to be. He loved the job, enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment, felt that he was doing something important to protect the lives of people like his wife and his little girl. He saw the job as important in itself. Unfortunately, Catherine seemed to see it only as an entree into the Washington social whirl. When you make Assistant Director these invitations will be automatic, she said time and again as she hurried him to dress for some function or another, often against his will. He tried to be a good sport about it, he knew how much these things meant to her, but he found himself becoming more and more distressed at the amount of time Heather was spending in day care, and at the amount of money pouring into high fashion, and gifts for people he did not know. "Walter, are you listening?" "Cathy, I'm sorry, but I'm really too tired to go out tonight. I've been up since 5:00, and this case..." The case. And Eileen O'Brien. He could envision her standing there at his elbow, discussing some detail in low, gentle tones, asking him if he was okay, he looked tired. Why didn't they take a break, and get a cup of coffee... "Dammit Walter, you cannot do this!" "I *don't* want to go out tonight!" Walter shouted, his temper finally snapping. "I'm tired, can't you get that into your head! Do whatever you want, I'm staying home and going to bed!" At his knees, Heather burst into terrified tears. "Now look what you've done," Catherine sobbed, scooping the child into her arms. "You made her cry."
"We didn't plan it," Skinner said quietly. "We didn't even want it. It was as if it was out of our hands." Mulder snorted, humorlessly. "I know. You deny it, you retreat, and then all of the sudden, it's right there, and you can't back away from it anymore."
Flashback #3 "You know, my mother used to tell me that a problem wouldn't solve itself, just by staring at it..." Agent Skinner looked up from the report in front of him, and smiled at the woman who was smiling down at him. It was late, past ten o'clock at least. They must have been the only two people left on that floor. "Well, nothing else seems to be working, I thought I'd give it a try," he replied, sheepishly. Agent O'Brien's smile widened a little. "What are you reading?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of his desk. "Just the latest police report, again." O'Brien shook her head. "I'd think, by now, you'd be able to recite it." Skinner snorted. "By now, I just about can." His gaze fell on the length of stockinged thigh that rested across the corner of his desk, bare inches from his hand. He blew out a breath, and got up abruptly from his chair. "Have you seen the last batch of photos from the morgue?" He crossed to a file cabinet, pulled out a file and handed it to her. "Yes," O'Brien replied, reaching for it anyway. "Copies came down with the autopsy report." Her hand closed over the file, and with it, over his hand, too. For a moment, everything just stopped. They looked at each other, in panic, and in pain, then Walter released the file and turned away quickly. Eileen reached out and put her hand on his arm. He stopped moving away from her, but did not turn back around. "Dammit, Eileen, I'm not made of stone." "I know," she answered, her voice small. "Neither am I." She dropped her hand and slid off the corner of the desk, turning her back on him and walking a few strides away. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I didn't plan this. I don't *want* to feel way." Walter heard the tears in her voice and turned around. "Eileen." "I'm sorry," she said, still facing away. "But I can't help it, I can't help what I feel." He walked up behind her, touched her lightly on the shoulder. "I know," he agreed softly. Eileen turned around and looked up at him. "I feel it, too." Walter touched her face, and she dropped her eyes shyly. "This is not good, you know," he mused. "I'm your boss. I'm married." "Tell my heart that." "I'm trying." "Tell your own, then." Walter snorted. "I tried that, too." "We're in trouble, aren't we?" Eileen observed, looking up and finally meeting his eye. "I think I'm in love with you, Walter Skinner. And I don't know what to do about it." Walter just nodded. Then he tipped her face up to his and kissed her, softly first, then deeply, as her arms wound around his neck and her body pressed against him. Her lips parted under the pressure of his, and his tongue was in her mouth, needing, demanding. She clung to him as passion overwhelmed them and his hands slipped under the silk of her blouse...
"At first everything seemed to be okay," Skinner told Mulder, swallowing a mouthful of beer. "We were careful. We were discrete. But then we got sloppy. And we got caught..."
Flashback #4 "These rumors disturb us greatly, Agent Skinner. Do you deny them?" Agent Walter Skinner knew that denial was pointless. They must have proof, or they would never have bothered to call him in. He struggled to think of a way to protect Eileen, knew there was nothing he could do but admit the truth and hope for the best. "No, sir." "You are aware of the Bureau's policy on excessive fraternization? Especially with a subordinate?" Skinner just nodded at his Assistant Director. "And you're a married man, to boot." The AD shook his head. "Things bad at home?" The man's tone was conciliatory, which Skinner found insulting. He said nothing. The AD eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. "Such direct flaunting of Bureau policy warrants disciplinary action, you are aware of that," he finally said. Skinner nodded. "You are planning to *stay* with the Bureau, I take it?" the AD went on. "You are not planning on leaving us, and continuing this little affair?" It was all Walter could do to keep his temper in the face of his AD's condescending tone. He knew what the man was thinking, he knew what they all though. Agent Skinner was just enjoying a little on the side, and he got caught at it. More's the pity, but what the hell. As long as it stopped. Skinner felt sick to his stomach at the thought. But the alternative, to admit what he really felt for Eileen O'Brien, would mean leaving the Bureau. And his wife. And his daughter. He closed his eyes. "I had not planned to leave the Bureau, sir," he hedged. He needed time to think, and they were not going to give him any time. "Good," the AD nodded. "An official reprimand will be placed in your file for six months. Agent O'Brien, of course, will be transferred. You will not see her again." Skinner nodded bleakly. He expected no less. In fact, he was getting off a lot more easily than he anticipated, and much more easily than he deserved. Then he frowned and looked up at the AD. "Sir, what about the case? We're ready to close in on this guy, we think we may know where he is..." The AD just looked at him thoughtfully. Skinner pressed his advantage. He would win this little bit for Eileen, at least, she had put too much into this case to lose it now. And it would buy him a little time to think things through. "To transfer Agent O'Brien now would look bad for the Bureau, and might destroy all the work that has gone into this case so far..." The Assistant Director scowled at him. Then he nodded. "You are correct, Agent Skinner. To transfer Agent O'Brien at this time would create unnecessary speculation, and might well jeopardize the case. She will remain until it is closed. I know you are very close to an answer. I trust you will not, uh, fraternize, while she is still here." This last was delivered slyly, but Walter did not care. He had won what little he could win, at that moment, and he planned to quit while he was ahead. If what he was could be considered 'ahead.' "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Then AD nodded. "That will be all." Walter Skinner got up and left. It was still early, but he could not face going back to his office, or to the situation room. He could not face seeing Eileen. She would know, by now, that he had been called in to the AD's office, and he could not trust himself to face the worry in her eyes. They would call her in, too, probably later that afternoon. He knew he should be there, but the prospect was too daunting. He would go home, and call her later that night. Catherine was not at home when he walked through his door, and for once he blessed his wife's obsession with Washington social life. Walter sent to baby-sitter home, poured himself a stiff drink, and dropped into his chair in the den, amid Heather's toys. What in god's name was he going to do? It was all too painful, too impossible. He felt a hand on his knee, and looked down into his daughter's black eyes. "Daddy, read to me this story," Heather demanded with all the imperiousness of a four-year-old. She handed him the book in her hands, and climbed unceremoniously into his lap. Heather settled herself comfortably, and leaned back against his chest. Her warm little body melded against him, and he pressed his face forward into her dark curls; she smelled vaguely of Johnson's shampoo and sweet, baby sweat. Oh god, what was he going to do. He could deal with leaving the Bureau, in spite of all his hard work, in spite of his blatant violation of policy. He could even find a way to justify ending his marriage, although his upbringing cried out against it, and the right Reverend Daniel Skinner, his father, would have a fit. But leaving Catherine would mean leaving Heather; he knew his wife well enough to know that she would throw every obstacle to his daughter in his way, out if spite, if nothing else. And how could he go back on his vows, on the promises he had made. Tears welled into his eyes. What was he going to do? How could he think about losing Eileen? To never touch her again, never again feel the softness of her skin under his hands, the curve of her body beneath him. To never have her beside him, understanding, just being there... Walter choked softly. "Daddy?" He looked down at his little child. Heather frowned up at him curiously. He took a deep breath. "Daddy just has a headache, sweetheart," he sighed, struggling for control. "What's your book?" Heather nodded sagely, and held it up to him. Skinner chuckled, in spite of himself. "The Large and Growly Bear." He settled his daughter back against him again, and opened the cover. "Once upon a time, there was a large and growly bear..."
Mulder looked over at his boss. He sensed, somehow, that this was not the end of the story. "What happened?" he asked. Skinner sipped thoughtfully on his beer. Then he took a deep breath. He turned to Mulder briefly, and the other man was startled to see that he AD eyes were wet. "The call came in that night. They'd located our man, the hammer was coming down. My Assistant Director was true to his word, Eileen went out with us. I wasn't surprised, really, she'd been key on the case from the beginning. To remove her at the last minute would have required explanations that nobody really wanted to give." Skinner hesitated. "She was upset. We both were. I don't know, I guess she was distracted. Anyway, she made a stupid mistake..."
Flashback #5 The call, when it came, found him at home. Cathy was still out, but a neighbor, used to these emergencies, took Heather from him, and he went straight to the stakeout site, a deserted house, on an equally deserted street. Eileen was already there. "Walt, they called me in..." "I know," he said quickly, drawing her to one side. "They called me in, too." "They're going to transfer me..." "I know..." "What are we going to do?" "I don't know," he replied hoarsely. "I don't know, yet. We'll... we'll figure something out..." Eileen just looked at him, and he could see by her eyes that she already knew. Oh, they would talk, and they would cry, but ultimately, they both knew it was over. The pull of his family, his commitment to the Bureau, his whole definition of who he was would not let him leave those things behind to go with her. She knew it. Perhaps she had always known it. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. "Eileen, I swear," he begged her, "as soon as this is over, we'll talk, I promise. We *will* figure this out. But right now, we have a job to do. We have to put this aside, for now..." For a moment, he thought she was going to argue with him, and then she took a deep breath, and straighten her shoulders. She nodded at him once, her face a calm mask of efficiency. Of professionalism. In that moment, Walter Skinner *would* have thrown it all away to go with her. His heart nearly burst with the need to take her into his arms, no matter what anyone said, or thought, about it. He did not, though. He just nodded back at her. The calm was just a facade. He realized it as soon as they crashed the house. He would have realized it sooner if he had not been so distraught, himself, but it was not until the word came down that backup was in place, until the door of the house came down under the combined weights of the agents bearing down on it, not until they were spreading out into the hallway, that he realized that Eileen O'Brien's attention, and her heart, were far away from the task at hand. "Get down!" he shouted as he watched her turning distractedly, trying to get her bearings, a bemused look on her face. She stepped out into the light. "GET DOWN!" She took six bullets before someone was able to bring the gunman down. "NOOOOOoooooo...." Walter Skinner would scream that scream in his heart for the rest of his life.
"I loved that woman like breathing, Mulder. She died in my arms." Mulder felt the air go out of his lungs, and his stomach turned to cold stones. For a little while the two men just sat their, in silence. "Which is why," Skinner continued finally, quietly, his voice a little husky, "the OPC sticks so stubbornly to this archaic policy. It's not just the question of professional conduct. It *does* distract you. It makes you careless. It risks lives." Mulder nodded slowly, overcome. This man, who he barely knew, really, had just shared this incredibly intimate pain, for no other reason that to make sure his subordinate did not make the same mistake. And there was no doubt that Skinner's pain was still fresh, even after all these years. Mulder thought about how he would feel if he lost Dana like that. "I'm sorry," he said softly. Skinner nodded. "The judge gave the son-of-a-bitch who killed her three consecutive life sentences," he concluded bitterly. "But he never went to the gas chamber. The bastard is still alive." Mulder considered what he had just been told. It explained so much. Including why Skinner had given him Cancer Man's address, back when Dana had been dying in the hospital and that bastard knew why. Which brought him to another thought. "I'm not sure," he said, tentatively, "that my feelings for Dana are any different, though, just because she shares my bed, now." It was an honest observation. A genuine sharing. He owed Skinner this. And he needed to talk about it. "I think you may be right," Skinner agreed. "Which is why I personally think the whole question of your sexual relationship is really moot. You love this woman, and she loves you. That's been obvious for a long time. Frankly, I'm surprised you held out for this long." Mulder smiled, and Skinner smiled with him. Then he got serious again. "But I'm not the person you need to convince, Agent Mulder. And I'm not the one who will make the final decisions if it comes before the OPC. So, for God's sake, man, be careful. On all levels." Mulder nodded. Skinner opened the car door. "Sir?" Mulder said before he could get out. Skinner turned to look at him. "Thank you." Skinner hesitated, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. "Good night, Agent Mulder." He got out of the car, and slammed the door. The end
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