Vietnam War Memorial, Washington DC.

December, 1999

It was a bitterly cold night. The man parked his car and got out, his breath clouding the air as he walked across the grass, frost crunching underfoot. He pulled his coat collar up around his neck to ward off the chill wind, but despite the cold he didn’t begrudge the fact that this particular anniversary fell in December. One night every year spent shivering was still one more night than his fallen comrades had been granted.

His pace slowed as he reached the implacable black granite of the Wall, the shiny surface reflecting the moonlight, and his own image. He paused, and ran a finger over the smooth granite, feeling the engraved names beneath his fingertips. Each one had been a real person – somebody’s son. He walked slowly along the Wall, his head bowed, then he turned, and walked back again. He glanced at his watch, and looked around, clearly expecting someone.

A frown creased his wide forehead, and he went to sit down on a nearby bench, taking with him the bag he had brought from the car. After half an hour he glanced at his watch again, and shook his head, his dark eyes concerned.

An hour later, he decided that he couldn’t wait any longer. He opened the bag, and removed the candles – one for each lost comrade – and wondered if he should have brought an extra one this year. Stifling that thought, he straightened, and walked back to the Wall. He knew where each name was by heart – years of doing this had etched their positions in his memory. He placed the candles on the ground by the sections of the wall where his comrades’ names were engraved. The candles sat in a little cluster, huddled together – his brothers in arms had all fallen on the same day. United in life by their energy, and youth, their names were linked forever in death. He lit each candle carefully, then stepped back. He was not a sentimental man but he was a dutiful one, and this was a duty that he fulfilled, every year, without fail – and usually with company.

He kept his lonely vigil all night. Waiting. He watched as each candle burned down to nothing, the faint, flickering lights melting in the night as those they honored had done so many years ago, their lives wiped out in three minutes of chaos that had changed his life, and robbed them of theirs. He didn’t sleep, or eat, throughout that long night. He just sat, his black gloved hands resting in his lap, his mind far away. The tip of his nose was frozen, and his lungs ached from breathing in the cold air for so long. He was reminded of a poem, as he endured his lonely vigil. How did it go? Is there anybody there? said the Traveler, knocking on the moonlit door…

The man grunted, trying to remember the words, but recalling instead only the sense of melancholy and grief that the poem evoked. The cold seeped into his bones, causing at least two old wounds to ache – both of them legacies from Vietnam. He glanced over at the black shadow that was the Wall, and saw the first faint rays of the sun lightening the darkness. Dawn. He looked at his watch one last time.

“Tell them I came, and no one answered, that I kept my word,” he quoted. Then he turned on his heel, and walked back to his car.

Alone.

______

Hoover Building. Washington DC.

August, 2000

“What do you mean – he’s on vacation?” Mulder asked, his voice rising an incredulous octave in pitch.

“I mean, he’s on vacation,” Kim replied firmly, wondering idly how Mulder could be so cute, and so difficult, at one and the same time.

“Where? When?” Mulder demanded. “How long?”

Kim raised an eyebrow. “The Assistant Director is entitled to take a vacation without sending out a memo to all his agents informing them of the details. Or do you think that he should email you his complete travel itinerary so that you can pester him while he’s taking his well deserved break?” she asked tartly, a certain familiarity in dealing with Mulder over the years lending her tone its asperity. Mulder made her boss’s life misery, and when the Assistant Director was in a bad mood she was in the direct firing line, so she had her own special grudge against the agent.

Mulder rocked back on his heels, and nodded.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve grown kind of used to having him available 24/7 to sign 302’s, and give me the green light on various X Files. I’m kind of thrown that he isn’t here.” Mulder glanced around the empty office, hands on hips, in an unwitting parody of its usual occupant.

“Well, he did brief his stand-in, AD Kersh, on the, uh, special nature of the X Files,” Kim smiled sweetly. “So I’m sure that he’ll be able to help you if you go and see him.”

“Right.” Mulder glanced around again, tugging his bottom lip anxiously. He clearly had no desire to work under Kersh again, with or without the X Files. “How long did you say he’d be gone for?” he asked Kim.

She raised her eyebrow at him for a second time. “I didn’t,” she replied, holding the door open.

______

Mulder parked his car, and then looked out of the window at the seedy downtown Washington neighborhood, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead.

“Well, as vacation destinations go, I wouldn’t exactly put this top of my list,” he murmured to himself, glancing at the rundown tenement block he was parked outside.

He had no idea what Skinner was doing here, but this was the address the Lone Gunmen had come up with. Mulder wasn’t even sure why he had pursued this the way he had, but something inside didn’t feel right, and he wasn’t the kind of person to ignore his instincts.

It wasn’t just that Skinner had taken a vacation without telling him, or even that he had taken a vacation full stop – which was unheard of in itself – it was the aura of secrecy about it. That had been like a red rag to a bull to Mulder. He had done some digging, and discovered that Skinner hadn’t taken any of the huge bank of vacation time he had accrued. Instead he had requested – and been granted – a mysterious leave of absence. There was nothing on Skinner’s personnel file, which Mulder had purloined, to indicate why, although it had been approved at the highest level. Skinner’s Crystal City apartment lay in darkness – Mulder had checked there too, and found that his boss hadn’t been seen for several days. In the grip of a mystery, Mulder had turned to the Gunmen for help tracking down his errant boss, and this was the address they had come up with.

Mulder glanced at the building again, and chewed on his lip trying to reach a decision. What the hell was Skinner doing here? With a shrug, he decided that there was only one way to find out.

The elevator in the building wasn’t working, which didn’t surprise Mulder. He began walking up the 8 flights of stairs, his footsteps clattering on the concrete, his nose assaulted by the distinct and unpleasant stench of urine.

JERK OFF, a line of graffiti proclaimed loudly, above a brightly hued rendition of the name ‘JOE’.

Mulder smiled at the messages benignly, wondering whether it wouldn’t have been more interesting to combine the two messages into JOE JERKED OFF HERE which was not an entirely unlikely scenario considering the dubious substances he could see seeping out of the dark, damp corners of the building.

Mulder was panting slightly by the time he reached the eighth floor. He checked the address: Apartment 1313. “Unlucky for some, doubly unlucky for others,” he murmured, pausing outside it. One of the 3’s was hanging at an angle that could have been described as ‘jaunty’. Mulder raised his hand to rap on the door, and then hesitated, wondering again what the hell he was doing here, and what his reception would be. Then, with a careless shrug, he knocked anyway.

There was silence for a moment, and then he heard the thump of footsteps within the apartment, and the sound of keys turning in the lock, before the door was opened a fraction, hitting an internal security chain. Mulder just had time to take in a pair of long legs clad in black jeans, and a muscular torso encased in a black tee shirt, before the occupant muttered an angry: “Damn it, Mulder,” and the door was slammed rudely in his face.

Mulder stood there for a moment, considering the shut door.

“Hmm. Playing hard to get are we?” he murmured, raising his hand to knock again. The door opened before he had a chance, and a big hand grabbed hold of his jacket and dragged him inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I was hoping you’d go away, but on second thought I just knew that was never going to happen,” Skinner growled at him. “So instead I’d like an explanation, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder straightened his jacket and glanced around the one-room apartment, with its peeling, discolored wallpaper, and damp walls. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he murmured. “What’s the matter? Crystal City too down-market for you?”

“Mulder.” Skinner’s tone held a very dangerous warning in it. Mulder glanced at the big man, then did a double take. Skinner looked totally different in these clothes; his gun nestled on clear display against a heavily muscled arm, a knife thrust casually through his belt.

“Uh,” Mulder cleared his throat, wondering why seeing his boss dressed like this was having such a disconcerting effect on him. He supposed it was because Skinner was such an office animal. He looked like he had been born to wear a crisp white shirt, and tasteful tie, and read reports, and somehow he seemed out of place in this environment, dressed like this.

“Well?” Skinner’s dark eyes clearly registered his irritation.

“Kim said you were on vacation, but nobody seemed to know where, or for how long. You know how I hate mysteries,” Mulder shrugged.

“You tracked me down because you hate mysteries?” Skinner asked incredulously. “Did nobody ever tell you the cautionary tale about curiosity and the cat, Mulder? No, don’t answer that.” Skinner waved a weary hand in the air. “I suspect it isn’t mysteries you hate so much as being temporarily transferred back to A.D. Kersh. What’s the matter, Mulder? Missing your tame old Assistant Director? The one you had trained to sign off on your latest absurd request for a 302?” Skinner’s tone was angry, and his jaw was set in a hard, belligerent line.

“No – just wondering if a friend was in trouble,” Mulder stated softly.

Skinner glared at him for a moment, and then backed off with a sigh. “Mulder, I appreciate your concern, but as you can see, I’m fine.”

Mulder glanced around the empty apartment, taking in the stained mattress on the floor, the half-empty whisky bottle, and the complete lack of any other furniture, then turned back to Skinner with one eyebrow raised.

“Fallen on hard times?” he asked.

Skinner frowned. “Mulder, I’m just checking something out. Something personal. I don’t need your help, and I’m not in any danger.”

“That would explain why you’re wandering around like a walking armory in your own apartment then.” Mulder gazed pointedly at the knife in Skinner’s belt, and the gun under his arm.

“Drop it, Mulder,” Skinner said softly. “If you really mean what you said, if you’re really just looking out for a…friend,” he paused, a wry half-smile hovering on his lips at this description of himself, “then drop this. Go back to the Bureau and get on with your work. I can assure you that I’ll come back when I’m good and ready.”

“It’s an undercover op then?” Mulder wandered over to the window, and glanced outside. It gave him a good, clear sight of the front of the building, and all the way up and down both sides of the street. “Nice view,” he murmured. “I expect that’s why you chose it.”

Skinner inhaled sharply, but refused to rise to the bait. “Just go, Mulder,” he said.

“An undercover op on your own, without backup?” Mulder raised his eyebrows again. “You’d have my hide if I pulled anything like this, sir. Unless…this isn’t official Bureau business, is it?”

“No,” Skinner said, his dark eyes full of some emotion that Mulder couldn’t even begin to guess at. “This is personal.”

“I see. And you couldn’t use a friend?” Mulder suggested hopefully.

Skinner shook his head firmly. “Definitely not. No.” He walked to the door, unlocked it, unfastened the chain, and held it open pointedly for Mulder to leave. With a sigh, Mulder walked towards it, and exited the apartment.

“If you need help, just call,” Mulder said, trying, and failing, to find some clue in Skinner’s dark, unreadable eyes.

“I won’t need any help,” Skinner replied firmly.

Mulder looked at him for a moment, then gave up, turning on his heel to go.

“Mulder.”

He turned, halfway down the corridor. Skinner stood framed in the doorway, his large body casting a shadow.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Just let this go.”

“Okay,” Mulder said, with a half-smile and a shrug. “When hell freezes over, bossman,” he muttered to himself, trotting back down the stairs.

______

Mulder watched the queue of pale-faced people hanging around outside the door of the abandoned warehouse. He had been staking the place out for the past few days, having followed Skinner here a week ago, but he still couldn’t figure out why the hell his boss was posing as a drug dealer.

His usual enthusiastic, single-minded digging had revealed that Skinner was working for a drug gang led by a minor thug called Cassidy. Further digging had turned up the information that Cassidy in turn worked for one of the biggest drug suppliers in the state – a mystery figure called Morgan. Mysteries were anathema to Mulder at the best of times, and he had a very real feeling that Skinner was involved in something dangerous. He wasn’t sure why that should bother him, but it did.

Mulder watched as the queue whittled down to nothing, the constant stream of visitors leaving the building as listlessly as they had arrived, wafting out like ghosts, clutching their little plastic packets, and disappearing into the dark night.

Mulder took a deep breath. Was he going to do this, or wasn’t he? Fools rush in…He made his decision and began walking towards the warehouse – then stopped as a tall, familiar figure emerged. Skinner was talking to one of the other gang members, a stocky man with blond hair who Mulder knew was called Frank. They began crossing the street. Mulder paused. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he started running even before he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. He just had time to yell out a frantic “get down” before crashing into his surprised boss, and throwing him to the ground just as the bullet whistled overhead.

“What the hell…?” Mulder found himself looking down into Skinner’s confused dark eyes.

Frank, meanwhile, had started pursuing their mystery assailant up the street.

“Mulder!” Skinner hissed. Mulder put a finger over his mouth as the other gang members ran out of the warehouse to see what the noise was about.

“He got away.” Frank came jogging back, and filled his comrades in on what had just happened.

“Looks like you’ve got some enemies,” Cassidy grunted at Skinner.

The big man shrugged, then gave an almost feral smile that took Mulder by surprise. “Hasn’t everyone?” he replied.

“Who’s this?” Cassidy looked at Mulder. Mulder smiled his most disarming smile in reply. Skinner glared at him.

“I have no idea,” Skinner said. “Perhaps,” he crossed his arms menacingly over his chest, “you should enlighten us,” he snapped at Mulder.

Mulder found himself being dragged back into the warehouse. If Skinner hadn’t been there he’d have been even more nervous than he was. Even so, the odds weren’t exactly in their favor. Apart from Skinner, there were four other members of the gang: Cassidy was a small individual with boyish and somewhat effeminate good looks, who, Mulder had discovered, also answered to the unsurprising if inappropriate nickname, ‘Butch.’ The two remaining gang members went by the monikers Elvis and Scar. Mulder might have felt faintly amused by this motley collection of lowlifes, but he wasn’t stupid enough to underestimate them. They were all drug dealers, and they were all armed and dangerous.

“So – who are you?” Cassidy grabbed a handful of Mulder’s hair, and held his knife to the agent’s throat.

“Morgan sent me,” Mulder managed to choke, not looking at Skinner.

“Morgan?” Cassidy hesitated, and Skinner stiffened.

“I’m new to the organization. I’m his nephew…he said…he said I should learn the trade from the bottom up…sent me here with a delivery…” Mulder swiped in his pocket, and held up the consignment of drugs he had acquired – still wrapped up in its original packaging. Cassidy took them, the pressure of his knife easing from Mulder’s throat. “It’s got Morgan’s seal on it,” Mulder said quickly, pointing at the label on the bag. “You can call him if you want to check it out.”

Mulder watched Cassidy’s reaction carefully. He thought it was unlikely that Cassidy had Morgan’s number. He suspected that, like a lackey, the small man awaited phone calls, and instructions. It would fit with Morgan’s modus operandi, from what he had learned.

“That won’t be necessary,” Cassidy said smoothly, confirming Mulder’s hypothesis, “but I’m still not convinced.”

“I did save his life,” Mulder added, pointing at Skinner. Cassidy thought about it for a moment, then clearly decided to give Mulder the benefit of the doubt.

“All right.” Cassidy finally released him. “You can get up…and next time don’t fucking lurk outside – you almost got yourself killed.”

“Sorry,” Mulder shrugged, and got to his feet, flashing the gang his most charming grin. He sensed that his boss was just itching to wipe the smirk off his subordinate’s face with the back of his hand. Mulder turned briefly towards him, giving him a wink, and was rewarded by Skinner’s low growl, and the involuntary clenching of his fists.

“So – Morgan wants you to learn the trade, huh?” Cassidy strutted around, clearly pleased that the boss had chosen hislittle gang to instruct his nephew.

“Yeah. I’m kind of…well…don’t tell anyone…” Mulder lowered his tone conspiratorially, “but my uncle has chosen me to be his heir. He wants to make sure I know the trade inside out – that’s why he sent me down here to help you guys out for a couple of weeks. He’s a great believer in getting your hands dirty.”

“Right,” Cassidy nodded. “Well, you’ll sure as hell get ’em dirty here. What’s your name?”

“Spooky,” Mulder grinned. “On account of how I don’t scare easy.” He winked at Frank, who grinned at him. Skinner sighed.

“I don’t like it,” the Assistant Director snapped. Five pairs of eyes focused on him. “Maybe Morgan just wants to put a spy in here?” Skinner suggested to Cassidy.

The little man’s face twitched as he processed that suggestion. “Well, what if he does? We don’t have anything to hide. We pass Morgan’s cut onto him, and split the rest between ourselves. It’s kosher.” There wasn’t much Cassidy could do about it if it wasn’t, Mulder thought, as turning away the boss’s nephew would undoubtedly result in a swift, and probably fatal, reprisal. He had chosen a good cover story.

“Where’s the kid going to stay?” Skinner asked. “Or does he run back to Uncle every night and tell tales on us?”

“Actually, Uncle said I had to make my own living arrangements,” Mulder piped up, an innocent expression in his hazel eyes.

“He can stay with you,” Cassidy told Skinner. “As you’re the one who’s so suspicious of him, you can keep an eye on him. In fact…” He drew himself up to his full height, which just about made him level with Skinner’s chin. “You can be responsible for him. Keep him out of trouble – show him the ropes.”

“Fine by me,” Skinner snapped. “You…Spooky,” he snarled. “Get your ass over here. I’m going to show you where home sweet home is for the next few weeks.”

Mulder flashed another charming smile at the gang before scrambling after his boss.

Skinner didn’t say a word as they got into his battered car to drive back to his rundown apartment. Mulder was seemingly oblivious to this fact as he got into the car. The passenger seat was wedged up tight against the dashboard, and Mulder folded his tall body into it with some difficulty.

“Hey, where’s the lever?” He looked around, trying to figure out a way to get more space for himself, and failed. Eventually, he gave up, and placed his long legs on the dashboard, knees scrunched up against his chest. He got out a packet of sunflower seeds, and stuffed a handful in his mouth, opening the window and spitting out the husks at regular intervals. Mulder kept up a continuous monologue throughout the journey, seemingly unconcerned by Skinner’s response – or lack thereof.

“Interesting bunch of guys…you know Frank’s got a string of convictions as long as your arm? Sure, yeah, of course you knew that. You’ve done your homework, right? What’s weird is that Cassidy’s never gone down for anything…they call him ‘Teflon’ in Narcotics – nothing ever sticks. Still, he’s young…plenty of time…whoa – red light…never mind…did you know that sunflower seeds have selenium in them? It’s supposed to attack free radicals, and help you live longer…secret of eternal life…did you ever see that movie? What was it called? You know, Ursula Andress…you’re going to kill me aren’t you? You’re just considering the method. You have motive, you have opportunity…it’s just method you’re figuring out. Make him choke on his own sunflower seeds, strangle him with his own shoelaces…or just bludgeon him to death with his copy of Martha Stewart’s Good Hostess Guide, which is a great book incidentally. Just remember to hide the body well – I’d hate to see your career come to an insalubrious end just because the temptation to kill me was too much.”

The monologue came to an abrupt halt as Skinner swerved the car to a screeching stop in the street outside his apartment, and got out. Mulder fumbled with the car door, then followed his boss, making a face at the other man’s stiff back as they walked into the apartment block, and up the concrete stairs. They had just got inside the door of Skinner’s apartment when the big man swung around, pinned Mulder against the wall, and growled:

“If you fuck this up for me, you little shit, I promise that I really will kill you. And I won’t give a damn about my career, or anything but kicking my boot up your insubordinate ass. Now what part of ‘I don’t need your help’ didn’t you understand,Spooky?”

“The part that ran ‘I’ll be fine’?” Mulder suggested, glancing down at the big arm crushed against his neck. “Let’s just say that I wasn’t convinced.”

“This isn’t about you.” Skinner took hold of him by the shoulders, and shook him bodily. “Not everything in this fucking world is about you, Mulder, and this sure as hell isn’t.”

“No, it’s about you, and from what I can see, you might be in over your head,” Mulder replied, his teeth rattling inside his skull from the force of Skinner’s anger. “Judging by that bullet with your name on it that you so narrowly avoided today.”

“What the hell do you know about it?” Skinner’s face was incandescent with rage, mingled with some other emotion – grief? – that Mulder had never before seen in his usually self-contained boss.

“Not much. Why don’t you tell me?” Mulder offered softly, trying to reach the other man before he snapped completely and did him some serious damage.

The gentle tone shocked Skinner out of his fury, and his fingers relaxed their grip on Mulder’s shoulders. He smoothed the agent’s shirt down, and backed away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “There was no excuse for that.” He disappeared into the kitchen area, pulled a couple of beers out of the fridge, chucked one to Mulder, and held his own to his lips, downing it in a few deep gulps. Mulder sipped more circumspectly. He didn’t like beer much, but it seemed to be the only beverage on offer right now, and he certainly wasn’t going to push his luck by demanding an Iced Tea.

Mulder perched himself on the edge of the mattress – which was the only available area to sit on apart from the floor – and watched his boss. Skinner was leaning with one arm on the wall, his forehead pressed to the cool glass of the windowpane, staring at nothing. Dressed in his new uniform of black jeans and tee shirt, he melted into the darkness of the unlit room, only his bare expanse of scalp clearly visible, illuminated by the glare of the neon sign flashing from the bar across the street.

“Have you ever been in love, Mulder?” Skinner asked unexpectedly.

“I try to avoid it as much as possible, sir,” Mulder replied, with his usual flip deflection of anything too personal. He could have kicked himself when he saw the shutters come down over Skinner’s face. Damn! The man had been trying to tell him something, and he’d just jerked him off with bullshit. “That is…” Mulder cleared his throat. “Yeah – once or twice. You?”

“Three times.” Skinner carried on staring out of the window. “Jamie said taking drugs was like being in love. He said he looked forward to the hit like he looked forward to sex, and that cold turkey was like the pain of being dumped.”

Mulder sat silently trying to process that information for a while, wondering if Skinner was going to say any more.

“Who’s Jamie, sir?” he prompted softly after several minutes of silence.

“Jamie is…Jamie was…an old friend,” Skinner shrugged.

“What happened to him?” Mulder asked, never taking his eyes off the other man. A tiny grimace tugged at the corner of Skinner’s mouth.

“I don’t know,” he said, turning. “You hungry? There’s some cold pizza in the fridge. Remains of last night’s supper.”

“I’d rather hear the story, sir,” Mulder said.

“I’m hungry.” Skinner strode into the kitchen, and returned with two slices of pizza. He handed one to Mulder, then glanced around for somewhere to sit. “Sorry – this isn’t exactly home. I don’t intend to be here long, so I didn’t waste time furnishing it,” Skinner muttered.

“S’okay.” Mulder slid up the mattress, and sat with his back against the wall. He ate the pizza, watching as Skinner ate his. Skinner went and got another beer, then sat down on the floor, leaning his shoulders against the wall opposite Mulder, facing him. “Jamie?” Mulder prompted again.

“You never let up, do you, Mulder?”

“That’s what makes me such a good investigator, sir,” Mulder grinned.

Skinner shook his head. “And modest with it.”

“Yeah,” Mulder chuckled. “Tell me about Jamie, sir.”

“Jamie…Jamie Gale was one of those people everybody wants to take care of, you know?” Skinner paused, and swigged back another deep gulp of beer. “He had charisma, I guess. Everybody loved him, everybody wanted to get close to him. He was one of the beautiful, damaged people.” Skinner paused for a moment, and glanced at Mulder speculatively, then shook his head as if dismissing a private thought. “I mean, you could see that just by looking at him, and your internal ‘wacko’ radar was going off like a fucking siren, warning you to stay away, but you just didn’t listen. You needed to be his friend – you needed him to accept you. Hell, I was 18 years old, and all I saw was this Sergeant who mouthed off to the Lieutenant and got away with it because of his goddamn charm.” Skinner smiled ruefully. “Jamie showed me every single different way you could get stoned on your ass in Saigon, and he could outwit the MP’s every damn time they came to pick him up – which was often enough because that kid was a goddamn trouble magnet. He didn’t play by the rules – hell, I’m not sure he even knew what the rules were. He was a couple of years older than I was, and I hero-worshipped that guy. I followed him around everywhere in ‘Nam, maybe hoping that some of his magic would rub off on me, maybe just because being with him was better than being on drugs. For me at least.”

“He was a junkie?” Mulder asked, watching Skinner’s mouth move in the eerie pink half-light. Skinner didn’t answer for a long time, and then he moved his head angrily.

“That’s what Vietnam made him,” he snapped.

Mulder nodded, his lips wetting the top of the beer bottle, not taking a sip. He tried to imagine this picture Skinner was painting of himself as a gauche teenager, and failed. Skinner was too big, too solid, too much the boss. Had he ever been this naïve young corporal, tagging along behind the older, more street-wise soldier, like some kind of kid brother?

“Jamie was always there for me, Mulder,” Skinner told him. “When I shot that ten-year-old kid with grenades strapped to his body, it was Jamie who took me out, got me smashed, listened to my maudlin ramblings, then carried me back home. When I got separated from my unit, it was Jamie who volunteered to go back into the jungle and find me. And when the unit was wiped out in that ambush, it was Jamie who saw me through those long days and nights, when everything hurt, and all I could think of was that I was alive and they were dead, and I wished I’d damn well gone with them.”

Skinner broke off, and took another long, deep drink. Mulder watched, noticing the way the other man’s hand shook, the memory still affecting him after all these years.

“People say that time heals, that you can get over anything in time,” Skinner said softly, “but that’s bullshit. Jamie knew that. Jamie knew that there are some things you never get over, and to even pretend is a load of patronizing crap. During the months after the ambush, he was the only thing that kept me sane – and alive.” Skinner glanced down at his hands, tried, visibly, to stop them trembling, and failed. “I tried to kill myself a couple of times.” Skinner looked up, and the flashing light from across the street illuminated the dark depths of his eyes. “Shocked, Mulder?”

“Hell, no. You were 18,” Mulder shrugged. “I don’t know how the hell anyone copes with that kind of shit. When…” he paused, but the half-light lent their confidences a certain anonymity, and Skinner had shared so much that he wanted to reciprocate in some way. “When I was 12,” he avoided saying it, but he knew Skinner picked up on the reference. “I used to lie awake at night, listening to the tree outside my bedroom scratch against my window. I longed for it to crash through the glass, and flatten me, smash me into a million pieces so I didn’t have to live through the misery of one more day.”

“I’m sorry,” Skinner murmured. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you,” Mulder said forcefully. “I’m confused, though. Jamie was part of your unit? I remember you telling me that your entire unit was wiped out in that ambush. I thought at the time that you must have had one hell of a case of survivor’s guilt about that, but where was Jamie? How did he survive?”

“Jamie was injured a couple of weeks before the ambush. He was already in the hospital when I arrived. The damn fool crawled through a minefield on his way home one night after taking god knows what. The MP’s were out looking for him, and he thought the minefield was a safer bet than the court martial he’d been asking for since day one. As it turned out, he was wrong,” Skinner shrugged. “The first thing I saw when I woke up was him sitting next to me, holding up a porno magazine.” Mulder gave a wry smile at that. “We were both invalided out a few months later.”

“Your injuries were that bad?” Mulder asked in a shocked tone.

“Oh yeah. Hell, I was shot to pieces. I was a year in a VA hospital when I got back,” Skinner told him.

“You’re okay now. In fact you seem pretty healthy to me, judging by the neck lock you had me in earlier,” Mulder commented with a wry grin.

“I worked hard to get back to normal, and I was young,” Skinner shrugged. “Sometimes, when it’s raining, I ache all over.”

“Me too, but I don’t have any excuse,” Mulder grinned.

“I’m not so sure. I’ve been there – waiting outside various hospital rooms for news, remember?” Skinner lifted an eyebrow. “Over the years you’ve probably taken as many knocks and bullets as I have.”

“I doubt it.” Mulder glanced at the window. “What happened to Jamie?” he asked, knowing that this was something Skinner kept avoiding, and wondering why.

“Jamie was ruined by ‘Nam. Looking back, it was always on the cards. He was one of those bright, brilliant people, the kind that just burns out. He couldn’t deal with what ‘Nam threw at us. He brought his drug problem home with him. First it was prescription drugs – Demerol, the stuff they gave him for his injuries, but it was only a matter of time before he was back on the hard stuff again. I’ve lost count of the number of times he phoned me in the middle of the night needing money, or help, or a ride to the hospital after being mugged in the street because he was stoned on his ass. I was doing a law degree at this point, and he seemed part of a life I’d left a million miles behind,” Skinner mused.

“But you helped him anyway,” Mulder predicted, accurately.

Skinner shrugged. “Wouldn’t you? We’d been through too much together not to,” he said. “Later – well, we drifted apart. I think that he didn’t want to be a burden – he had too much pride for that, and I was making a success of my life, in conspicuous contrast to what he was doing. Maybe he found someone else to call.”

“Or maybe he gave up the drugs,” Mulder pointed out.

Skinner shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. Anyway, we saw less and less of each other, but we didn’t lose touch completely. You see, we had a kind of ritual.”

“A ritual?” Mulder’s ears pricked up.

“Yeah, not that kind of ritual.” Skinner’s teeth gleamed white in the neon light. “I’m not talking black magic here, or any of that kind of crap you usually dig up. I’m talking about paying our respects to our lost comrades. Every year, on the anniversary of their deaths, we’d meet up. At first we met at Arlington, standing outside the cemetery all night, and later we moved the whole thing to the Wall. It was Jamie who came up with the idea of burning a candle for each of them. I used to bring the candles; he’d say a few words.”

Mulder suppressed a smile in the half-light. That about summed up these two different personalities. Skinner got to be practical, and his old comrade got to make the speech.

“We both wanted to make sure they weren’t forgotten,” Skinner continued. “You see, it’s so easy to forget. To really forget the people, I mean. Their faces, their voices, their hopes, and fears, and dreams. Each of them was an individual – that’s what’s hard to remember.” Skinner leaned back, and gazed at the ceiling, taking another swig of beer.

“Jamie would spout this stuff – things about them, each and every one of them. Just little things, like how Tom Rance snored loud enough to raise the dead, and Donny Michaels had six girlfriends on the go at the same time, that kind of stuff, but it was enough. Enough to bring them back to life, just for one night of the year, to show them they hadn’t been forgotten. Not by us, at least.”

Mulder felt touched by Skinner’s story. There was so much he had never known about this man, and he felt honored that his boss had shared this with him. It felt like he was trusted, and Mulder found it so hard to trust other people that he fully appreciated the gift of being trusted by someone – especially someone he liked, and respected.

“Then, when the candles had all burned down, and dawn broke, we split up, went our separate ways, and didn’t meet up again until the next year,” Skinner continued. “Every year, without fail, no matter what was going on in our lives. We would have moved heaven and earth to be there on that night. We never missed a night, not either of us. Not when I had a gunshot wound that meant I could hardly stand, not when Jamie was supposed to be in a secure psychiatric unit undergoing treatment for PTSD, and his drug abuse problems. We were both there. Every year…” he trailed off, looking thoughtful.

“Until last year,” Mulder guessed.

“Yes,” Skinner whispered.

“Did you try to find him?”

“Of course. I’ve spent the past eight months looking for him, but there isn’t a trace. All I could find was that he got involved with Morgan’s drug empire, then he disappeared. I filed an APB on him, but the police aren’t interested. He’s just another junkie to them. Jamie doesn’t have any family, nobody who cares whether he’s alive or dead, except me. I used the Bureau’s resources, did some digging in my spare time to see if there was any clue as to what had happened to him, but he’s just vanished.”

“So what are you going to do? Just go up to Morgan and ask him what happened to your friend?” Mulder wanted to know.

“Something like that.” Skinner gave a wry shrug. “The trouble is – first I have to catch Morgan. This gang I’m working for are the closest I’ve managed to get, and that’s not nearly close enough. Morgan’s damn powerful in the circles he moves in. If Jamie got on the wrong side of him, Morgan could have wiped him out with a snap of his fingers.”

“Jamie’s a junkie, but he isn’t a pusher, is he?” Mulder asked, startled. Skinner looked into his bottle for a long time, then sighed.

“You know, Mulder, I never asked. It got to the stage where I was just glad he turned up alive each year. I didn’t want to know the details, but…knowing the kind of life he led…I wouldn’t be surprised. He was bitter after ‘Nam, Mulder. There was so much anger in him…let’s just say that I don’t think it’s impossible that he decided to spread his problem around. Let’s face it – what other kind of job would give him the same access to drugs?”

“I see,” Mulder nodded, uncertainly.

“No, you don’t. If you can’t see beyond the fact that I’m risking my life out here looking for a junkie and a pusher, then just leave now, Mulder, because Jamie was a hell of a lot more than that to me.” Skinner got to his feet, his body knotted with tension, and Mulder held his hands up.

“Hey…I wasn’t passing any judgment. I just want to understand the situation.”

“You can’t.” Skinner turned, hiding his face from the other man. “You can’t ever understand the situation, Mulder,” he murmured softly, and Mulder shivered at his tone. “I don’t need you, Mulder. Like I said, this isn’t official Bureau business. It’s personal.”

“With all due respect, sir, it seems to me that you need someone to watch your back. There was an attempt on your life today, remember?”

Skinner sighed, and rubbed his forehead wearily. “I guess I owe you some thanks for that,” he said ruefully.

“I was wondering when you’d finally get around to it,” Mulder grinned. “Let me stay. I want to help, but I realize this is your mission, and you’re in charge. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“That’ll be a first.” Skinner gave a wry smile. “All right, Mulder. You might be useful to me. I have to spend a lot of time following up leads, and talking to people. It would be helpful if you could stick with Cassidy. I don’t think he’s ever actually met Morgan, but he talks big. Stay close to him. Find out what you can.”

“Okay,” Mulder nodded. “What about that bullet? Who wants you dead?” he asked.

“I don’t think anybody wants me dead but I’ve spread the word around that I’m looking for Jamie. It looks as if somebody is trying to warn me off,” he mused thoughtfully. Mulder suppressed a shiver of foreboding. “It’s late – or should I say early.” Skinner squinted out of the window at the gray light of dawn as it started to filter over the concrete jungle. “There’s only one bed. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“That’s fine,” Mulder shrugged. It was a big double mattress – there was no reason for either of them to be uncomfortable. He had slept in far worse conditions during an undercover operation. Endless nights cooped up with Scully in a car during stake-outs sprang to mind.

Mulder got up and used the bathroom, returning to find Skinner stretched out on the mattress, his eyes closed. Mulder lay down beside him, and pondered the implications of Skinner’s revelations. Something wasn’t right. There was something he hadn’t been told. His inquiring mind ran back over the conversation, and he knew that he had been given a clue. Something that connected, and didn’t connect, something said in passing that wasn’t in the right place. Finally, unable to piece the jigsaw together, he fell asleep.

Being a drug dealer meant long hours of intense boredom interspersed with moments of extreme danger. Mulder decided that he didn’t like it. The adrenaline highs were an almost painful counterpoint to the tedium, and it left his nerves frayed. Mulder was impressed by how well Skinner was dealing with the pressure, though. Watching the other man work in the field was a revelation. He stayed in character, collected information effortlessly by subtle inquiry without drawing attention to himself, and never missed a thing.

Mulder grew to like the big man more than he would have thought possible. He was quiet – but prone to making comments that were slyly amusing, often making Mulder laugh out loud in surprised appreciation, and he was never anything less than a consummate professional, following up every lead he got, and phoning through the information to the Bureau to check it out. Mulder was impressed by his untiring efforts to find his friend, but aware also of a growing sense of urgency in Skinner’s actions. He didn’t know how much leave his boss had negotiated to work on this, but sometime soon he’d have to accept defeat, and give up. Mulder didn’t want that to happen, and redoubled his own efforts, but Morgan was proving to be a difficult man to track down. He had a massive drugs network in operation but nobody ever saw him, or knew where he was based. He used a number of small gangs, like Cassidy’s, to get the drug supply out onto the streets, and raked in a considerable profit.

“I wish I’d worked with you before you took the damn desk job,” Mulder commented admiringly to his boss one night as they returned to the apartment.

“You wouldn’t have liked it. I was arrogant, prone to chasing after leads without backup, disobeyed orders from my superiors regularly…”

“Really?” Mulder’s eyes gleamed.

“No,” Skinner grinned. “Gotcha. As a matter of fact I was a model agent, which is why I’m an Assistant Director now and why you, my insubordinate friend, never will be.”

“Oh well, some prices are just too high to pay,” Mulder laughed, unconcerned by his lack of promotional prospects. Skinner shook his head, and opened the door to his apartment. Behind him, Mulder stiffened, seeing a shadow in the darkness. He pushed Skinner out of the way, drew his gun, and was halfway across the room before Skinner snapped the lights on. Mulder found himself with his arm across a man’s windpipe, pinning him to the wall, his gun pressed to the intruder’s head.

“Who the hell are you?” Mulder snarled.

“Mulder.” Skinner’s voice sounded faintly amused. “This is Detective Mark Raven. He’s with Narcotics. He helped me set up my little operation here.”

“What?” Mulder looked into the bemused eyes of his captive. Raven was a lean, wiry man, about the same age as Mulder. Skinner gently tugged Mulder’s arm away from the cop.

“Mulder – I’m grateful for the protection, but he’s on our side,” Skinner smiled. “You didn’t think I’d muscle my way into this kind of territory without permission and backup, did you?”

“Well…” Mulder released his captive, looking somewhat sheepish.

“Yes, I know.” Skinner patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “You would have done. Do you want a beer, Mark?”

The other man nodded, holding out his hand to Mulder.

“Sorry to startle you. Didn’t Walter tell you I had a key to this place?”

“No, actually.” Mulder shot a hard glare at his boss. Skinner shrugged, throwing a beer to each of them. “Keeping secrets seems to be the Assistant Director’s MO,” Mulder commented acerbically.

Skinner gave a wry smile. “You aren’t the only one with endearing little habits, Mulder,” he murmured, leaning against the wall. “Mark and I used to work together.”

“Yeah – I was Walt’s last partner – before he took the big job, and I transferred into narcotics.” Raven grinned, startling Mulder by glancing at Skinner with an expression that was nothing short of hero worship. “Walt here was viewed as a safe pair of hands to baby me,” Raven confided. “I was pretty green, and I’d been involved in a traumatic case, got shot up, lost my confidence. Walt saved my career, and got me back on track. I owe him for that.”

Skinner blushed slightly, and shook his head.

“You just needed time, Mark. I didn’t do anything,” he shrugged.

Raven glanced at Mulder. “Yeah. He did. He’s a patient man, Mulder. I threw some crazy shit at him and he just hung in there, and never gave up on me. I hope you appreciate him.”

“I do,” Mulder nodded, realizing for the first time that he did.

“Yeah. I guess that’s why you’re here, helping him out.”

“Not that I need his help,” Skinner remarked, downing his beer.

Mulder was impressed by just how much the big guy could drink. He always felt out of place with macho, beer swilling men – they reminded him of how much he didn’t fit in. Nobody could ever accuse him of being a regular kind of guy. Skinner was different, though. He didn’t make Mulder feel anything less than included, and part of a team. He always had. Mulder was grateful to him for that – being an outsider could get pretty lonely sometimes.

“I went to Mark when I first started looking for Jamie. When I approached him about trying to find Morgan, he laughed his head off.” Skinner glared at his former partner affectionately.

“Morgan is the ultimate mystery man,” Raven explained to Mulder. “Nobody sees him, nobody knows who the hell he is. If we could bring him down, we’d wipe out at least 50 percent of the drug supply in this area, but he’s too damn clever, and we never even get close. We’ve had people working on this for two years, with no luck. I’m not sure that Walt can accomplish in a few weeks what we’ve been trying to do for so long, but, hell…I’ll help him any way I can. No questions asked,” Raven shrugged. “I don’t think we’re looking at a happy ending here though, Walt. I don’t think there’s any question of finding Jamie alive.”

“No.” Mulder noticed the way the hard, corded muscles in Skinner’s back stiffened. “But I’ll find out what happened to him. He won’t just be forgotten, one more victim of ‘Nam.”

The theme of being forgotten was clearly important to his boss, Mulder realized. Maybe that was the legacy of Vietnam, and the appalling reception the returning soldiers had received, to say nothing of a whole country being in denial over that disastrous war for so long. Mulder also knew that however much of a success Skinner had made of his life, survivor’s guilt had to be a part of his psychological make-up. Maybe he had even been driven to be so successful for that very reason. His whole unit had been wiped out, and only he had survived that ambush. Maybe he felt that he had to be successful for all of them, to live out a dream, to achieve status and a high powered career in order to prove that fate hadn’t chosen unwisely in allowing him to be the only survivor. He doesn’t want to let them down, Mulder realized with a sudden flash of insight, watching his boss’s body language, and feeling a sudden surge of affection for the big man. He’s never let his dead comrades down in the way he’s led his life, and he won’t let them down in his search for Jamie either. And of course it didn’t matter whether Jamie was alive or dead; Skinner knew what his duty was. Duty. Mulder shook his head. It wasn’t an alien concept to him, but he had never known anyone to so completely embody the ideal as his boss.

He watched as Skinner updated Raven on what he had learned so far.

“It’s helpful,” Raven nodded. “You’ve found out a lot about Cassidy’s operation, but what about Morgan?”

“I know,” Skinner sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his face. “We’re no closer to the truth.”

“Walt – I won’t ask you to give up, because I know there wouldn’t be any point…but…” Raven hesitated.

“Go on.” Skinner looked at his former partner searchingly.

“Well, it’s just that…I know you’re getting desperate, but you’re starting to get yourself noticed.”

“I had to. A word here or there wasn’t working,” Skinner replied. “It was time to take some risks.”

“I’m just concerned that it might draw you to the attention of the wrong people,” Raven murmured.

“Maybe that’s just what I need to move things along.”

“Maybe,” Raven shrugged. “Or maybe it’s a short cut to a bullet in the back of the head.”

There was silence for a moment, then Skinner stretched his large body. Mulder winced as he heard a bone crack. Skinner had been working on this 18 hours a day for the past two weeks. He knew how little sleep the other man had been getting.

“Mark – what else can I do?” Skinner’s tone was despairing. “I can’t believe that one man can just disappear so completely, as if he never existed, and nobody knows what’s happened to him. Hell, nobody’s even seen him.”

“Maybe he was abducted by aliens,” Raven grinned, attempting to lighten the tension, but just succeeding in winding it up another notch.

Mulder stiffened. “It’s not impossible,” he commented, much to Raven’s surprise.

“Mulder here is a UFO expert,” Skinner informed his former partner.

“That’s not why you brought him along though, right?” Raven looked baffled.

“Actually I didn’t bring him along. He just followed me,” Skinner said with a grimace. “But no, it’s okay, Mark. I don’t seriously think that the little green…sorry, gray men have Jamie.” He nodded his head in Mulder’s direction with a wry hint of a smile. Mulder returned it.

“Which is a shame,” Mulder commented. “I’d like to be here in my capacity as ‘expert’ instead of ‘willing henchman’.”

“Oh, but you’re doing a great job as that,” Skinner told him seriously. Mulder felt a surge of pride at the praise.

“Well, I just thought I’d give the warning,” Raven said with a shrug. “You know where to reach me, Walt.”

“Sure.” Skinner escorted the other man down to his car, while Mulder sat on the mattress, pondering the implications of the detective’s visit.

“I’m beat,” Skinner told him, returning a few minutes later. Mulder glanced at his watch. It was nearly 2:00 a.m., and they’d both been on their feet for the previous 16 hours. Skinner threw himself down on the mattress with a thud, and Mulder lay back, his hands under his head, still thinking. He could smell his own scent, as well as the musky odor of the man lying next to him. Hygiene wasn’t exactly a priority on this job, and while they snatched showers whenever they could, there weren’t many opportunities to get the laundry done. They’d both been sleeping in their clothes as well, which didn’t help. Mulder closed his eyes – he just knew that he was missing something, but he couldn’t work out what. He fell into an exhausted sleep, still mulling it over.

It was nearly 4:00 a.m. when something woke him. He wasn’t sure what it was, a movement maybe. He rolled over and glanced sleepily towards the window, then opened his eyes wider. Skinner was standing there, looking out. His shoulders were stiff and tense, and Mulder felt as if he had intruded on a moment of intense, private grief.

“Go back to sleep, Mulder,” Skinner said softly, clearly sensing the change in Mulder’s breathing. “I’m fine. Please, go back to sleep.”

Mulder ignored him, sat up, and leaned back against the wall. His mouth opened and went into gear before his brain could catch up.

“You and Jamie were lovers, weren’t you?” He heard himself say it, then immediately wished it unsaid.

There was a long silence. Skinner continued gazing out of the window. Finally he straightened, and turned, an expression on his face that Mulder had never ever seen before, and had never thought he would see. Vulnerability, sadness, and an aching grief.

“Yes,” Skinner answered with a simple honesty. “Vietnam was crazy. I found out a lot about myself out there. Trust me, loving Jamie was the least of my surprises. Does it make you uncomfortable?”

Mulder glanced at him in surprise, wondering what on earth he meant, then realization flooded in. “Oh…” He flushed. “You mean, me, you, here,” he gestured at the mattress. “No. Shit, no!”

“But you’re shocked all the same.” Skinner gazed at him keenly.

“Not really,” Mulder shrugged. “Surprised maybe, but not shocked. Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Skinner echoed. “I’ve lived with it for a long time – it’s just something that’s part of me. You’re the one who probably feels the need to talk.”

“Well, no. I mean, I wouldn’t want to pry.” Mulder felt himself tripping over his own tongue, and wished the ground would open up and swallow him. “I’m sorry – it makes this whole situation much worse for you. I guess I can understand it better now.”

“It was a long time ago,” Skinner shrugged, “but they say you never forget your first love.”

Mulder nodded, trying to imagine an 18-year-old Skinner with the invisible Jamie, a man he’d heard so much about that he felt he knew him, and yet who remained so elusive. He also remembered Skinner’s comment the other day – about having been in love with three people in his life. He idly wondered who the other two were, and whether they had deserved this complex, serious man he’d come to know so well, and like so much.

“Go back to sleep, Mulder.” Mulder couldn’t see the other man’s slight smile, but he could hear it in his voice. “I’m all out of revelations for now. I’m sure I could think up a few more for you in time, though.”

“Of all the things I’ve discovered about you recently, this whole sense of humor thing has to be the most disturbing,” Mulder grumbled, putting his head back down on the rolled up sweater that he was using as a pillow. He heard Skinner give a snort of laughter, and pretended to close his eyes, feigning sleep. When he was sure that Skinner had turned back to his silent musing at the window, he opened them again, and examined the other man.

Skinner was dressed in black jeans and tee shirt, and Mulder could make out the powerful muscles beneath his flesh. Skinner reminded him of a resting cat; all languid, feline grace combined with a hint of menace. He wondered whether the big man also liked having his tummy tickled, and almost gurgled out loud at the thought. Best not to go there, Mulder, he told himself. Not if you want to stay alive. Skinner was still staring out of the window, and for a big man, he looked so achingly vulnerable that Mulder had to fight off an urge to get up and go and put his arms around him. He respected the other man’s pride too much to do so, to say nothing of the growling swat he was sure he’d receive, but even so, the impulse was there. Mulder had asked himself a hundred times what the hell he was doing, risking life and limb for another man’s quest in this way, but in that moment he had his answer. It wasn’t an answer that surprised him. Like Skinner, he had lived with that particular truth about himself for a long time. He supposed that at the back of his mind he’d always known he was powerfully attracted to his boss, but he had sublimated the desire, as he sublimated everything personal, too consumed by his own quest to take pleasure from sex, or even companionship.

Skinner was gone when Mulder woke up. This wasn’t entirely unusual – the big man had taken off on several leads during the past couple of weeks, giving Mulder strict instructions not to follow him. He did always leave a note, which, Mulder admitted grudgingly, was more than he usually did for Scully when he got a bee in his bonnet about one of his own pet projects. Skinner was a conscientious partner – Mark Raven’s obvious affection and respect for the big man seemed testament to that.

Continued in Chapter 2