THE LONE WOLF AND THE WHITE KNIGHT
By Sergeeva [22.6k, 31st Oct. 1999]
Note: this was inspired by a wonderful idea of Xanthe's for a 
Hallowe'en story. Long live that woman - her plots are the best! 
Thanks also to the great gals of Requited, who set this idea in 
motion, as it were. It's not beta'd, and was rushed off in an 
afternoon, so apologies for any wayward typos, general silliness 
etc.
~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Mulder was at his wit's end. He stared at his inbox screen as if an 
explanation would suddenly appear, but the mysterious message 
was as cryptic as ever:
>>> Lone wolves can only run so long... BE THERE! >>>
It was the sixth message he'd had in the past hour, all direct to his 
private email address, not his Bureau one, all from senders who 
couldn't possibly have access to email. All from people Mulder 
knew to be dead. It had taken him a little while to identify all the 
names, but eventually he could place each as someone he was 
certain was no longer in the land of the living. That in itself had 
been enough to intrigue him, but the content of the messages had 
got increasingly urgent in tone, and the sense of panic had finally 
gotten to Mulder. 
He hadn't disregarded the fact that it was October 31st, of course. 
Hallowe'en. He'd been prepared to find that the first couple of 
messages were just Frohike and co. playing a joke on him. Or 
even someone at the Bureau... get ol' Spooky to race off in 
pursuit of yet another other-worldly show 'n' tell, oh yeah, that's 
be a huge laugh in the bullpen on Monday morning. However, 
something about the terseness of the messages conveyed a real 
chill, and when Mulder had contacted Byers to tell him to drop 
the "voice from beyond" act, he hadn't been all that surprised to 
receive vehement denials of any involvement from all three 
Gunmen. In fact, Langly had been deeply insulted at the idea that 
they couldn't have come up with something better than a few 
emails. 
So Mulder had shifted tack, enlisting his three friends to 
investigate the origin of the emails. None had a visible return 
address, but the expertise of the guys had failed to prove even if 
all the messages came from the same source. Frohike was 
embarrassed that they hadn't been able to help. He warned 
Mulder off from walking into what was probably a trap. Mulder 
shrugged that off, saying he had more sense than that. Frohike 
had made a choking sound and hung up.
All this left Mulder exactly nowhere. It came down to whether he 
was prepared to trust the messages and turn out on a dank, cold 
night, maybe just to make a fool of himself, or whether he 
laughed the whole thing off as a feeble joke and stayed where he 
was, in the warm with a plethora of cartons from The Mandarin 
Palace calling fragrantly to him from the coffee table. He read the 
messages again:
>>> Your friend is in danger. >>>
>>> Remember who your friends are. >>>
>>> Lives will change tonight, one way or another. >>>
>>> What are you waiting for? I thought you wanted to believe? 
>>>
>>> You're needed. Hollathan's. >>>
Hollathan's was an old abandoned theater which Mulder only 
knew about because it had been the scene of a drug bust a few 
months ago. Was something new going down there tonight? What 
"friend"? I don't have that many, Mulder mused to himself. The 
Gunmen had eliminated themsleves, Scully was spending the 
weekend with an old college friend and he'd spoken to her on the 
phone earlier that evening. She was deeply engrossed in hearing 
all about her hostess' troublesome love-life and the only danger 
she was in was of losing track of all the Toms, Dicks and Harrys 
that had made Carole's life a misery for the past year. Mulder 
searched his brain for anyone else who could possibly count as a 
friend... people he said hi to while out jogging, a couple of guys 
he met up with to shoot hoops once in a while, Beverley on the 
HotDreams chat line - oh and Delia too, and maybe Boris... He'd 
gotten to know the girl at the pizza delivery place pretty well 
lately (at least she remembered his aversion to pepperoni now), 
the motherly lady at the dry cleaners who always checked his 
pockets for him... These were the people he talked to most and 
not one of them could be called a true friend. He glared into the 
depths of his Char Sui pork, going over and over the messages in 
his mind. Something was nagging at him, just out of reach, 
something about the wording of one of those messages...
The bit about "I thought you wanted to believe" suggested 
someone who knew him, knew his work... Knew his office... 
Mulder suddenly pictured that poster on his wall in the basement. 
He saw Skinner standing in front of it, leafing through a file... 
Skinner! Maybe the messages were from him, but why would 
he...? Suddenly Mulder knew what had been nagging at him. That 
second message - he could hear Skinner saying "You don't want 
to forget who your friends are". It was Skinner who was in 
danger. He was the "friend", the "lone wolf". How could he have 
forgotten Skinner when he was making his pitifully small list of 
friends? His boss had stood by him so many times, even when he 
wasn't actually his boss any longer. Skinner had taken chances on 
Mulder's theories, had defended his right to investigate cases, had 
protected his tenuous position within the Bureau on numerous 
occasions. From a quiet word of support in a hostile budget 
meeting, to more covert instances of support in closed-door 
committees, to dangerous political game-playing that Mulder 
knew nothing about and didn't want to. He'd made Skinner's 
professional life very difficult over the years, yet the man had 
never used that against him. Yes, he'd hauled Skinner's nuts out 
of the fire a couple of times too, but the AD had had it in his 
power to put an end to Mulder's reckless exploits or even end his 
career and he hadn't done either. He was as good a friend as 
Mulder had.
Sure in his own mind now, Mulder wasted no more time. He 
flung on coat and shoes, grabbed his car keys and took the stairs 
down to the street two at a time, too frantic to wait for the 
elevator. The drive was a nightmare. The neighborhood was full 
of children in an assortment of Hallowe'en costumes, criss-
crossing the roads on their trick or treat trail. Mulder had to drive 
with frustrating caution until he was clear of the residential streets 
and then he drove like a man possessed, his head full of thoughts 
of Skinner and the rising fear that he might be too late to prevent 
something really bad happening. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
The shabby district where the old theater was located was quiet. 
One in three street lamps was out and the maze of narrow alleys 
with their boarded up stores and decrepit apartments wasn't easy 
to negotiate in the dark. Every passing minute stretched Mulder's 
anxiety closer to snapping point. He felt a surge of anger building 
inside - anger at the shadowy world of conspiracy and secrets that 
had taken over both his and Skinner's lives. Anger that they had 
both lost people close to them because of this. Anger that a 
straight arrow like Skinner had been forced to compromise his 
integrity just to survive... Rules and regulations meant little to 
Mulder himself, but somewhere inside him he admired Skinner 
for still having a code of honour, a notion of a line he wouldn't 
cross, an abiding decency that governed his actions... And anger 
that a man like Skinner could be killed because he had chosen the 
"wrong" side. 
Mulder was in no doubt that whatever trap had been set for 
Skinner tonight, it was connected to Mulder's own quest, to the X-
Files, to the deepest secrets of all. He gripped the steering wheel 
with whitened knuckles and took the last corner into the street 
where the theater was. The building loomed dark and forbidding. 
The entrance with its ticket booth was boarded up now, and 
layers of peeling posters draped dismally from the billboards on 
either side. Something clattered in the alley alongside the building 
and a cat's yowl echoed away into the shadows. Mulder drew his 
weapon and kept his back to the wet brick wall as he edged 
forward. Under the lamp at the end of the alley, four large men 
had Skinner backed up against the chainlink fence. Mulder could 
see the glint of at least two knives, and one side of Skinner's face 
was streaked with blood. His right arm hung uselessly at his side 
and he had his coat wrapped around his other fist and was 
fending off the vicious swipes of his attackers' knives with only 
the inadequate protection of those few layers of wool. 
Mulder took in the situation in a glance, his brain frantically 
processing risk factors and rejecting moves as fast as he came up 
with them. Skinner couldn't hold them all at bay much longer 
without a weapon and he was losing blood all the time. Like a 
tiger cornered by hunters he was going to go down fighting. How 
much longer before one of these thugs decided to end the game 
with a bullet? Deliberately, Mulder stepped forward until he was 
under the wash of light from the nearest lamp. If any of the bad 
guys were to turn around now, Mulder would be a perfect target, 
but so far the only person facing his way was Skinner and he just 
prayed that his boss would see him and be able to distract the 
men long enough for Mulder to do something. He stood very still, 
making no movement to draw the eyes of the enemy. Skinner was 
gasping now, losing energy, his head swinging from side to side 
as he tried to summon up his last reserves of strength. Horrified, 
Mulder realised that Skinner wasn't wearing his glasses. His dark 
eyes looked unfocussed and full of pain. What chance was there 
he would even see Mulder, let alone recognise him? 
Mulder calculated his chances of being able to get all of the thugs 
before one of them shot him and Walter both. There was virtually 
no chance, but there was also no choice - he had to try.
"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered and took aim.
Suddenly, he saw Skinner straighten to his full height and square 
his shoulders. Skinner looked truly formidable, blood-soaked 
shirt vivid in the pool of light. His eyes were steady and he was 
looking right at Mulder. The men paused as their prey opened his 
mouth to speak.
"Enough." At the first quietly-spoken word, Mulder winged one 
of the knife-wielding thugs in the shoulder and immediately dived 
out of the light into the shadows. He felt icy water soak into the 
knees of his pants as he crouched, catching his breath and 
sighting for his next shot. The chainlink fence rattled and Mulder 
saw Skinner slump. With a roar, he surged forward, his second 
shot hitting one man in the leg, his third winging another. The 
fourth man dropped his knife with a stream of curses and legged 
it back up the alley after his wounded accomplices. Mulder let 
them go. They were Consortium trash, faceless thugs for hire. His 
attention was all on the fallen man by the fence. 
He fell on his knees in the filth and blood, rolling the wounded 
man onto his lap with shaking hands. Skinner was conscious and 
trying to speak. He gazed up at Mulder, eyes narrowed against the 
pain. 
"I'm too old for this stuff." His voice was husky, hardly more 
than a whisper. There was so much blood everywhere that Mulder 
couldn't tell how bad Skinner's injuries were. He could feel the 
tremors of shock in the strong body in his arms, and see the 
colour draining from cheek and throat between the smears of red. 
"Not dead just yet," croaked Skinner again, before his eyes 
closed. 
"You'd better not be..." Mulder bent over his unconscious boss 
and on an impulse, touched his lips to the pale brow.
Getting the big man into his car was quite a marathon. He was 6ft 
2 of solid bone and muscle and slippery with blood and rainwater 
to boot. Mulder finally got the limp body onto the back seat of his 
Taurus and moved the long legs so that he could perch on the seat 
next to his boss and inspect his injuries at last. There was a nasty 
graze along one temple, which accounted for the blood on his 
face and probably for the merciful oblivion too. He peeled back 
the sodden shirt and found a long slice across the taut abdomen, 
shallow but messy. When he got the shirt off completely, he 
found a puncture wound in the right bicep too, but so far as his 
tentative explorations went, no injuries below the belt. He bound 
up the wounds as best he could with strips from a T-shirt he 
found in his gym bag, and covered the still-comatose man with 
his coat, damp as it was. Climbing back into the driver's seat he 
considered the options. 
Skinner's injuries were treatable. He should probably be checked 
out for concussion with that scalp wound, but right now, Mulder 
had the feeling that a hospital wasn't the safest place to take him. 
Too many busy, distracted people, too easy for someone to slip in 
and finish the job. It was too easy for Mulder to silence all the by-
the-book arguments his rational side supplied too. No cops, no 
reports, no official Bureau involvement until he had found out 
exactly why Skinner had walked into that trap alone. It was the 
safest course. He was thinking of Skinner's safety. There was also 
the little matter of his desperate need to keep Skinner close and 
personally ensure his safety from now on. He didn't want to 
examine that need too closely just yet, but he had felt something 
awaken inside him tonight that wouldn't be satisfied with handing 
Skinner over to anyone else's care.
As he drove back to Hegel Place, Mulder's head was a torment of 
emotions. He was still very angry. Angry at the mindless violence 
that had threatened his boss' life, but also angry at Skinner too - 
for going off without backup, pulling that lone wolf shit. He 
probably thought he was protecting someone, Mulder fumed, 
until the unfairness of that accusation hit him. How many times 
had he rushed off all gung ho to meet some unknown informant, 
imagining that he was protecting Scully by not telling her. Telling 
himself that he was protecting Skinner by not putting him in the 
impossible position of knowing his agent was breaking the rules 
again... For the first time, Mulder really understood the hurt of 
being kept in the dark. He understood how much he had come to 
depend on his boss being there for him, helping him. 
He glanced back at the figure on the rear seat. Skinner stirred a 
little and groaned softly. Mulder suddenly realised something 
else: that final email message had meant more than he'd realised 
at the time. "You're needed" - simple words but so important to 
Mulder. All his life he'd been a trouble to those around him, no-
one expected him to be sensible enough to be helpful, they 
expected him to rush off at a tangent, use his eccentrically-wired 
brain to solve the puzzle, retreat back into his own "spooky" 
world and let them see to the practicalities. And that's exactly 
what he did. Even Scully, bless her, didn't seem to think of him as 
useful in any practical way. Tonight he'd been needed, was still 
needed. He still felt anxious and stressed and uncertain, but being 
needed gave him strength too. Skinner needed him now, and he 
was determined not to let him down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
The bedroom looked tidier than it had since - well, maybe ever. 
The piles of clothes and books and journals that usually covered 
the bed itself were hung in closets and neatly piled in the living 
room. The bed was made up with clean, new sheets, unearthed 
from a drawer, still with Scully's teasing note attached. The 
apartment was warm and quiet and the two figures in the wide 
bed made a picture of peace. Mulder, dressed in shorts and T-
shirt was propped up against the headboard, smiling tenderly 
down at the other occupant of the bed. Walter Skinner, bare-
chested and sporting several impressive bandages and dressings, 
was fast asleep, his head pillowed on Mulder's stomach. Every 
few seconds, Mulder's long fingers would slide over the sleeping 
man's bare neck and up to ruffle the band of fine short hair 
around the back of his head. Or trace the line of Skinner's 
cheekbone and the curl of his ear. His other hand was entwined 
with Skinner's broad, strong fingers.
Needing to use the bathroom, Mulder gently eased himself off the 
bed, settling Skinner's head onto a pillow. He scooped up the 
coffee mugs and soup bowls from the nightstand and padded off. 
A few minutes later he was back, standing in the doorway looking 
at the man in his bed. He'd cleaned Skinner up and ascertained 
that his wounds were not life threatening. Skinner had roused 
himself enough to drink some soup and tell Mulder the brief 
details of why he had gone alone to such a dangerous 
rendezvous. Mulder knew there was more to it than the promise 
of information relating to a case, as Skinner had said, but he 
knew he couldn't push the man yet. Mulder also knew, and knew 
it ever more certainly with every minute he spent touching the 
other man, that he thought of Skinner as far more than a friend. 
He wanted to know this man every way there was. He wanted to 
make up to him for all the mistrust and lies, he wanted to be close 
to Skinner so he could keep him safe, because suddenly having 
this man in the world was the most wonderful thing he knew, 
having this man in his life mattered more than almost anything. 
He was in love, amazing as that seemed, and he had been falling 
in love for six years. He'd just been blind to it until tonight. He 
walked closer to the bed and reached out a hand to touch 
Skinner's bare shoulder. Before he made contact Skinner roused 
and grinned wryly at him.
"I'm afraid I'm a very dull house-guest. No scintillating 
conversation, no office gossip to pass on, no energy to take 
himself home and leave you in peace..."
Mulder knelt by the side of the bed and looked gravely into 
Skinner's eyes.
"I don't want gossip or witty repartee, and I certainly don't want 
you to leave." He leaned closer, laying his hand over Skinner's. "I 
just want the truth of what you were doing out there tonight." His 
fingers tightened around Skinner's, the older man looked at him 
with that solemn intense gaze that went straight to Mulder's heart 
and groin. "Walter... can I call you that?" Skinner bit his lip and 
nodded. "Walter... I found out tonight that I care about you more 
than... hell, this is so hard!... I found out that my feelings... oh 
shit, I think I love you, and I can't bear to think that you'd do 
anything stupid just to protect me, but I know you and that damn 
noble, self-sacrificing nature of yours, and I want you to tell me 
that's not what was going on out there in that alley tonight..." 
Mulder fell silent and dropped his eyes to their linked hands, 
thinking to draw away and spare Skinner any further 
embarrassment. A firm grasp held him there.
"I can't tell you that, Mulder." Mulder opened his mouth ready to 
insist on some explanation, but Skinner's low voice interrupted 
him: "I can't tell you that because I was trying to protect you and 
it was stupid and I almost got you killed." Skinner gingerly 
hoisted himself up onto one elbow, wincing as the dressing across 
his stomach pulled a little. Mulder instantly reached to help, 
wrapping his arms around the wide shoulders and settling the 
other man against the piled up pillows. Skinner took his hand 
again and put such seriousness into his gaze that Mulder 
swallowed in apprehension. 
"I had an offer of information that would help make a sound case 
against one of our enemies. They wanted you to collect it, but I 
argued that my position was more protection for them than that of 
a lowly Special Agent. I told them that any deal would have to 
come through me anyway. They weren't happy but they had no 
choice. You were still in Ohio finishing up the Marrington case 
and I was glad of it. I suspected it might be a trap, but thought 
rather I was caught in it than you."
"Walter! Why did anyone have to be caught in it? Why didn't you 
go through channels? Take some backup? God, if you'd been 
killed..."
"Listen to yourself, Mulder - channels, backup? The way you 
always do it, of course? I couldn't take the chance that it wasn't 
genuine, and risk giving away vital leverage to those who would 
like to see you and I both brought down. Ack, Mulder..." Skinner 
closed his eyes wearily, "... I didn't do this on a whim you know. 
I weighed the risks and reckoned they were worth my life if that's 
what it took. I left a sealed envelope for Kimberly with all the 
details of my meeting and all the evidence I have so far. To be 
opened in the event of..."
His words were stolen by Mulder's lips on his. Softly stroking 
until he opened to them. They kissed for a long time, Mulder 
reaching onto the bed to hold Walter close. Eventually, they 
pulled apart, eyes bright.
"I owe you an apology, Walter." At the quirked eyebrow, Mulder 
continued. "All those times I went haring off... now I know how 
you felt."
"Not quite, Mulder. I knew I loved you. Every time you 
disappeared it was a nightmare. I would have done anything to 
take the risk on myself, to keep you safe. I would do the same 
again as I did tonight." 
"Oh god, we're never going to end this argument, are we? We'll 
either kill each other with over-protectiveness, or kill ourselves 
with noble stupidity. Why don't we retire and just fuck each other 
silly for the rest of our lives instead?" Skinner gave a snort of 
laughter and Mulder blushed. "I can't believe I just said that! Not 
that it's not a great idea, but there is something you can tell me 
about tonight before we get to the fun stuff... how did you know 
it was me, without your glasses?"
Skinner lifted a hand and ran it down Mulder's cheek and jaw. "I 
don't honestly know, but just for a second, my focus sharpened 
and there you were in that circle of light, as clear and bright as 
you are now. I actually wondered if I'd died and gone to heaven." 
He looked a bit sheepish and Mulder dipped his head to kiss him 
again. "So how did you know to be there, my white knight?" 
Skinner asked.
"Ah, now that was the oddest thing... It seems we have some 
'guardian angels' of our own, Walter. Let's just say that I was 
reminded about a friend I had."
"A friend?"
"Well, more than a friend, if you'll let me..." 
"Let you...? Since when could I stop you doing anything you'd set 
your heart on, Mulder?"
"Glad to see you realise it, Walter, now com'ere..."