Title: Thanks & You're Welcome Author: TeeJay E-Mail: teejay66@earthlink.net Feedback: You betcha! Date: 3/31/00 Archiving: Sure! Anywhere, just tell me so I can visit. Give me credit and include my addy. Spoilers: everything up to the present. Nothing too specific, just general history of our intrepid heroes. Rating: R for harsh language. Classification: Sk; V; S; A. Keywords: None Summary: The Surly One gives Moose and Squirrel a long overdue piece of his mind. Skinner hasn’t been truly surly in such a long time. For the last couple of seasons, I think he’s been poorly written on the show. He seems docile, almost ... dare I say it... wimpy. He doesn’t seem to be the same man who told Smoky to “pucker up and kiss my ass”. Well, if you want something done right... Disclaimer: Not Mine, rats. No profit, either. THANKS AND YOU"RE WELCOME Skinner: “Stop it. Stop looking at me like you think I’m stupid. You're the ones talking to me about aliens and black oil and clones and those fucking bees. You want me to act? To arrest somebody? Hey, personally, I can’t wait! But as a higher-level law enforcement official, I would have to say direct evidence would be nice to have. And in seven years the two principal agents on the case have not provided that. *My* bosses are impressed. Thanks. Oh, right. *My* bosses. You’re bothered by that. Well, the last time I looked, Janet Reno signs my paycheck. Oh, I’ve had other “offers”. You know that. And you also know that, rarely, I take them. I’m not going to whine to you and make excuses that I had no choice there. I did have choices: *Not* take the offers. Quit this job. Go fishing. In New Zealand. For a month. Find a new lover, get laid a lot. Pack off somewhere far away with eight or nine suitcases full of all the books I’ve wanted to read for the last twenty years. Yeah, guys, I’ve been at this a lot longer than seven. Abandon you and the X-Files, maybe to oblivion. Definitely to what ever vulture they install in may place. Remember Kersh? But, no. I’m still here. I have made the choice to stay. Standing on the line that both teams are trying really hard to cross. Signing off with a straight face on some of the most, ah, interesting expense accounts and acquisition requests anybody in this building ever remembers. Then *explaining* them, and my support, with a straight face, to my bosses. Who will toss me out on my ear when the mood finally strikes them. Leaving you abandoned again. You’re welcome. Some of my choices are not popular. I know that. I don’t care. I’m out of high school, now; I don’t care about being popular. You keep forgetting I’m an administrator here, a *strategist*. That means I think ahead. About everything, including completing this quest to it’s *just *conclusion. That means, to me anyway, bringing these people and their crimes to Geneva so they can do some explaining. And then get what they’ve got coming. I want to win the war, agents, long term. Not just single penny- ante battles. Sometimes, to get there from here, I have to throw a battle, as distasteful and unjust as that is. Those aren’t my favorite choices. Don’t mistake that. That is the hardest part about my job, the most difficult thing about overseeing the X-Files. Oh, I could make myself more comfortable, I could officially cut myself loose from this caseload, and you, but I won’t. Like I said, I’m interested in justice here, and we all know we won’t get it if I’m not here. You’re welcome. Some of my other unpopular choices were intended to keep your asses alive. If you think you’ve had some close brushes with death working on these cases, you should do the tally from my vantage point. You really don’t know how often, or how close. It is a large part of my job, and a frustrating one at that, to ensure the safety of my agents in the field. This job gets harder than it needs to be when one agent, I’ll let you figure it out, frequently goes off half cocked all over the fucking globe, and the other one doesn’t trust me enough to tell me where the hell he is, or what the fuck he’s doing, even though I’m her direct superior. And then expects me to provide knowledgeable, competent help, on demand, without prior notice, when they get in over their heads. I amaze even myself. If they need something from me, I might get a long distance phone call, or even a personal visit, to my humble abode, with known felon in tow, no less, endangering me, my neighbors, our careers, always at some ungodly hour in which I would normally like to be sleeping. Sometimes (and I really love it when this happens) I’m even in a meeting discussing *your* budget, or, will wonders never cease, other caseloads, and in you barge, as if *none of it mattered*, demanding all kinds of retribution or assistance from me, in front of my peers and bosses ( and therefore *your* bosses, too, you keep forgetting that). Smooth move. Thank you. Because your welfare is my number one concern, I still take these damn calls, visits, and intrusions. You’re welcome. Yes, I am a little concerned about what my peers and bosses think. I am not some preening middle management ass worried about looking good and getting those beefy promotions. I’m no idiot, there’s no “up” for me , it’s just “down” or “out” now. As I said before, they have enough on me by now to toss me out whenever they damn well feel like it. No severance, no pension, no restaurant fraud cases in Sequim, WA, for the rest of my life; no, I’m talking *fired*, like the last twenty some odd years never even happened. And we’ve discussed where that would leave you two. I don’t like that scenario. You’re welcome. There are a lot of things here I don’t like, agents, that I can’t do anything about, and I can’t ... I can’t stand it. I don’t like that they keep picking on you. It is nothing more than basic schoolyard bully behavior, and I hate it. It’s playing pretty damn dirty, the abduction, the experiments, the cancer. I don’t like that damn *thing* in your neck, even if it is controlling your cancer. I don’t know what the hell it’s for, I don’t know how it works, or what it’s doing, and I don’t like it. I don’t like all the lies and wild goose chases and dead ends, no matter what we do. And I really don’t like how Ol’ Smoky just sat here, in my office, year after year, day after damn day, just... staring at me- - ewww- -and smirking about everything through that damn cigarette smoke, in this non-smoking office, in this non-smoking federal building, sneaking in ashtrays to replace the ones I toss out. I. Don’t. Smoke. Damn it. I had to fucking shoot at him before he would get out and stay the hell out. I don’t like how they’ve dragged our families into this. I don’t like that my wife is dead; it doesn’t matter that she was going to be my ex-wife soon. I don’t like the murdered relatives. I don’t like being shot by the people who shot them when I reopen one of their cases. I don’t like it when an agent gets mad a t me when we have a disagreement on *why* the case was ordered closed in the first place. I got the damn thing opened again, OK? And lost a couple of pints over it, OK? You’re welcome. Christ, I hate hospitals. I don’t like being in them. Being shot. Being infested with nanocytes. I don’t like seeing my friends and colleagues in them. I don’t like seeing their friends and loved ones in them. I didn’t like it when you were in the hospital, after being abducted, in a coma, not knowing what the hell was wrong with you; I didn’t like you being back in when you got cancer. I don’t like you being in them the odd time you’ve been shot, or injured, or roughed up. I don’t like it when *you’re* in the hospital, either, getting roughed up, or drugged, or nearly drowned, or sick from something weird, or having a psychotic episode for one reason or another. No, it doesn’t matter to me ‘why’, and I don’t like it when you get angry with me if I disagree about the ‘why’ part. I don’t care ‘why’ any of this happens; it’s bad enough for me that * it happens*. And I don’t like busting you out of hospitals, either, although I think I should get used to it, since it seems to be my new hobby. You’re welcome. I didn’t like it when your sister was in the hospital. And I got beaten up in the stairwell when I went to see her--by the usual suspects!-- and lost that damn tape, the only bargaining chip we have ever had in this, maybe even evidence, too. We had Albert for a while, but now he’s dead and I don’t know which of his people are the code talkers. I’m sorry. I don’t like the fucking attitude that certain people have that the whole world revolves around the X-Files, and my only job is to facilitate them. I am an Assistant Director in the Federal Bureau of Investigations; as I figure it, that means I investigate shit. A lot of shit. On my desk right now, in addition to ONE X-File, is one serial murderer case in Atlanta, a really nice piece of work with a thing for nipple clips and seven-year-olds; a money laundering ring working out of Chicago, through most of the other states; a referral from the FDA concerning pediatric clinical trials that may have informed consent problems; a Federal agent working on illegal arms sales to Iran who is now missing-- in Iran; a scary little hacker who especially likes the CDC’s research database; speaking of CDC, I’ve got a bunch of Marines coming down with odd symptoms who haven’t been to the Gulf-- just Plum Island; a really scary missing persons case that’s been going on for, Christ, decades, where the * victim* keeps sending *me* evidence; and another senate resolution that once again makes me wonder what country our elected officials think elected them. Me, my ulcer, and my sleep disorder love this shit. We sincerely and heartily thank every bully and creep in the world. Be quiet, agents, I’m not finished. Add to the list one werewolf- stole -a-baby case. The thing that’s really pissing me off, besides your sitting in my office lecturing me about my my dedication and professionalism, is the nagging feeling that if it wasn’t a werewolf, you wouldn’t be interested in the case in the first place. No, don’t answer that; I want to sleep tonight. I don’t need any of you’re ego- feeding outrage right now; I’m tired. Thanks. Personally, I don’t give a damn if it’s a werewolf or a big hairy guy with bad teeth; somebody stole that baby. I want the baby back. Like you’re the only smart person in the entire FBI; you barely even acknowledge your partner’s brains for chrissakes. I’ve seen the wording in your reports. The FBI doesn’t hire Stupid or Lazy. Get that into your amazing skull, before I or your partner here finally get sick of you. Oh yeah? Ask me what my doctorate is in, agent, then ask me where I got it. Thank you. International Law. PhD. Harvard. Shit. Psych majors. You can get one of those at a community college, for fuck’s sake. So now maybe you can understand my insistence on following the rules, the letter of the law. I feel better knowing law enforcement agents are capable of doing that. And when I question you, or scrutinize your findings, it’s to warn you, not discourage you. I think it would be a shame, a sad waste, to lose one or both of you because you acted rashly on false accusations or shaky evidence, or plain old dumb mistakes. I’m trying to protect you from that, damn it. And I’m trying to keep you from getting killed, double damn it. Your welcome. You think my replacement was Unfriendly? You should see who they have lined up to replace *you*. That Spender kid wouldn’t even come close. No, I can’t talk about it. I can’t talk about a lot of things. Because I don’t want you getting involved. *Because*, agents, I don’t want you getting hurt on my account. You’ve got a full plate as it is, and besides, there’s this investigative confidentiality thing. You are not involved in most of these cases. Here we go again, agents, regulations. Read them. Thanks. And too many people would like to know what I’m thinking and doing in my investigations. Don’t get me wrong, I trust your professionalism; but I thought it was obvious that I’m always under surveillance. They've surveiled you, you’re office, you’re apartments; well, me too. It’s safe to say this is the most bugged 25 by 15 office space in the western world! In addition to Smoky, and Krychek, here’s one from the CIA in that potted plant; this paper weight is no doubt from Military Intelligence; the wall socket there is from the NSA, I think the Mob’s got one in the toilet, and various fake manuals and encyclopedias in the bookcase are from assorted underlings of shady senators and congressmen who don’t like me investigating their bills, and some from our very own people who just don’t like me. And yes, I have a few of my own in here, just to be a punk. They can put that in their pipe and smoke it. They’re welcome. I have quite a lot to do here, agents, so if you would just- - - Hush. No. It’s all right. I’m fine. No, you can’t help. You have enough to do, I’m not kidding. No, guys, I can’t. It’s all right, agents. It will all be all right. You have to let me work. Yes. You’re dismissed, agents. Thank you.”