RATING: PG13 for M/M stuff. SUMMARY: TriSlash. Some thoughts about the hospital scene. I know what I saw. NOTE ONE: This is a follow up to "They Also Serve," which dealt with the hospital scene in the movie. If you haven't read that, you won't necessarily understand this. You can find it, among other places, at my website: http://members.tripod.com/~prillalar/fic/fic.html NOTE TWO: For the purposes of this story, I am assuming that everything between the scenes of Mulder in the water was part of his dream, FBI bits and all, but that the hospital scene really happened. I'm still not firm in this, but it's my best theory so far. DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files, not me. Some of the dialogue is taken from Triangle. This time, many thanks to the man behind the curtain, who made this possible. November 1998 THE LUNATIC IS IN MY HEAD by Halrloprillalar That smell again, acrid, antiseptic, hinting at pain, death, and warm green jello. I hate it. Hate the hospital, hate that every time I'm here it's to see Mulder. At least this time it's a happy ending visit. At least this time I can keep my clothes on. Mulder looks like hell, like someone who nearly drowned, someone who's just woken up after a hundred years sleep. He looks wonderful. And he looks at Scully, bubbling with the Mulder-version of events. I've barely taken this all in when the air stirs behind me. A huge man, with flowers. Skinner. Mulder notices. "And he was there, too." Skinner moves with vitality to spare, tossing down the bouquet, teasing Mulder with easy familiarity. "Right. Me and my dog Toto." Mulder and hospital rooms and Wizard of Oz jokes. Deja vu all over again. "No, you were there with the Nazis." Scully leans over him. "Mulder, will you settle down? It's an order." "Not that he takes orders..." Skinner catches my eye and a memory trickles down my spine like a drop of cold sweat, his worried eyes the last time we met in Mulder's hospital room, the bitter taste of fear and coffee that we shared. I don't know what Mulder tastes like. I wonder if he does. Skinner comes back to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the cushion of his body heat. Or maybe I'm imagining that. The fine hairs at the back of my neck shiver a little and almost stand up. I haven't seen him since that day. We've exchanged information a few times, but Frohike is his contact--alpha to alpha, I suppose. I think they meet and drink beer and don't talk about Viet Nam. But I've never asked. The others talk to Mulder, I don't. The weak, silent type: that's me. I watch Mulder with my usual shrouded intensity. Sublimation is bad for the soul, but it's a good social skill. I'm not the only one watching Mulder, but Mulder's alone with Scully in whatever magical land he's inhabiting today. Another glance from Skinner penetrates my peripheral vision. He sees them too. "Get some rest, Mulder," he all but growls, "'cause when you get out of here I'm going to kick your butt but good." I don't want to think about that. We leave Mulder and Scully to whatever Peter Pan and Wendy thing they've got going and troop out, the Lost Boys in the hall. After we get a few doors down, we stop. Skinner's beside me again. I've never known anyone who is as *there* as he is. It's not just bulk, it's a sense of concentrated energy, so much that he radiates it. And I'm in the corona. Langly checks his watch. "We've got time for food." "You in?" Frohike asks Skinner. He nods and Langly shoots Frohike a nervous glare. "Where to?" Got to say *something*, John. "Down and Out OK?" Frohike looks around for objections. "But let's wait in case Scully wants to come." Scully. I don't think I want to see her. The one who could have what I want, maybe taking it as we speak. I feel a ripple of tension in Skinner too. I suspect things are more complex for him than they are for me. She's walking towards us. Frohike steps out to meet her, adjusting his smile to the half-leer she expects. "Agent Scully, we're going out to eat. Would you give us the pleasure of your company?" She runs her eyes over the gaggle of us and smiles. "Thanks, but I'm going to stay for awhile. Someone's got to keep an eye on him." I'll stay. But I don't say it. One more smile and she's back down the hall, stopping at the nurses' station. Frohike turns back to us and shakes his head. "She's throwing herself away on him." A low rumble that might be a laugh pulls my head around to look at Skinner. "Come on," he says, "let's go." *** At the Down and Out, I end up across from him in the booth. Frohike and Langly rave over the Grease & Suds special, but I'm for white wine and there's enough grease on the salads here to meet my RDA without having the Heart Attack Platter as well. Skinner opts for a sandwich and tonic water. When the drinks arrive, Frohike lifts his glass. "We've kept him alive for another day. Good job, men." So we toast ourselves. Fortune favours the foolish by giving them friends like us. "How did you guys meet Mulder, anyhow?" Skinner glances around the table. Langly and I check Frohike for our cue. "He subscribed to our newsletter." Langly chimes in. "He used to write us letters that were weirder than our articles." My turn. I don't want to lie to him. "So we checked him out and thought he'd be a good source." I look him in the eye as I speak. He looks back. "I owe you guys," he says. "If you ever need a favour..." I know what Langly's going to say, what he says to Mulder every few months or so. "Mitnick." Skinner leans in a bit, frowning. "You know I can't get Mitnick." "It was worth a try." Langly seems less jittery now that he's gotten that off. "How about one of Hoover's dresses, then?" Frohike smirks. "I know he wasn't Langly's size, but Byers is a wizard at alterations." Time for my "just a simple tailor" line, but I don't feel like playing. Skinner chuckles and the others join in. I smile a little. The conversation shifts, of course, to Mulder, each trying to top the other with proud anecdotes of his rash and brilliant stupidity. Even I talk this time. "Frohike, remember when he made you go camping in Northern Canada to look for the Sasquatch--" Langly breaks in: "--and that bear knocked over your tent while you were inside sleeping?" "He swore Scully was meeting us there. That's the only reason I went." Frohike swigs down some beer. "Or how about that time he dragged us all out to Chicago chasing some new evidence about Flight 553?" "Which there was." I'm glad I can say that. So often there's nothing. "And that *almost* makes up for him waking us up on X-Day to tell us we hadn't been vaporised." "Langly, you were the only one still sleeping," Frohike reminds him. Skinner seems amused by all this. His mouth twitches slightly and I hope he's got a story for us. He doesn't disappoint. "A low point for me was the time I had to rescue him from Lyndon LaRouche." I can't believe I've never heard about this. Frohike almost spills his beer. "Mulder went to see LaRouche and he didn't tell us?" "Actually..." Skinner pushes back his plate and rests his elbows on the table. "LaRouche went to see Mulder. Had him trapped in his apartment for six hours while he raved at him. Cuffed to a chair. Mulder managed to call me while LaRouche was out of the room. Wouldn't tell me how it happened though, and he wouldn't let me report the parole violation." Amazing. We continue for a while, letting the lighter stories rise to the top and leaving the darker tales undisturbed on the bottom. Then Langly checks his watch. "Guys, we should go. Thirty minutes to show time." Damn, I'd forgotten about the movie. "Better go without me. I'm not really in the right frame of mind." I'm not in the mood to be taken out of myself by an interesting cultural experience. I'd rather sit on the couch in the dark, play sad music, and wallow in misery and martyrdom. Frohike shoots me a hard stare. "You sure?" "I'm sure. I'll go tomorrow." I glance to my right. "You'll want to go back, Langly, right?" "How about you, Skinner?" Frohike turns to him. "We're off to see The Wizard. You can use Byers' Discman." Langly is throwing "don't you dare" signals at Frohike. He must think if Skinner sees him toking on the way to the theatre, he'll drag him off to jail. Frohike ignores it. "Come over to the Dark Side." Skinner looks first at Langly and then Frohike. "Thanks, but I'll take a rain check." Back to Langly. "So relax." Langly doesn't answer, just slides out of the booth. Frohike holds out his hand and Skinner shakes it. Bills on the table and they're gone. I drink my wine, wanting to finish it up and get out as well. Setting down the glass, I catch sight of Skinner's face and I'm surprised by the lines I see there suddenly, creases of concern, weariness and just a touch of sorrow. We have to stop meeting like this--I almost say it aloud. I feel like I should have been obsessing about our last encounter, playing it over and over again in my mind as I lie awake at night. In fact, I haven't. Some things I sublimate, some things I just don't think about. But now I wish I had. It would be something, anyway, something to share. I want to show myself a little, make myself vulnerable to someone who will understand. "He helped me," I say. "Helped me find someone important to me. It was dangerous and it was stupid." Some things I think about all the time. "His area of expertise, then." Dry amusement flattens out the words. A smile flits across my face. "I suppose so. It was...years ago. It didn't end well, but that was something else entirely." Some people wouldn't be satisfied with such vague explanations, but I know he won't press me. There's a moment of silence and I wonder if I should leave. Then he sits back, hands flat against the table, and speaks. "He trusted me when things looked bad. More than once." He trusts me too. I know that. And if I have to have one thing and not the other, I'll choose the trust. Skinner's face is still shadowed with fatigue and his shoulders sag a fraction. I can't help myself--I reach out and cover his hand with mine, hoping that somehow we can strengthen each other. Subconsciously I was expecting some sort of instant and electric connection, but all I feel is the warmth of flesh on flesh. He doesn't shake me off, for all we're in this bar. He clears his throat. "Scully--" I cut him off. "I don't want to talk about Scully." I don't want to think about Scully. We're damned if she does and damned if she doesn't. Scully. A sudden red moment of hungry rage and mad lust pulses through me and I feel like I could take on anyone here, fight them or fuck them, whichever they chose. Fuck you, Mulder, for getting inside of me this way. Fuck you. My hand is trembling. I swallow down the bile as quickly as it rises and all is calm again. His eyes are moving from side to side and I feel him about to pull away. But first he lays his other hand on top of mine and meets my eyes, leaning forward to speak... He changes his mind, sits back and takes his hands away, rummaging for his wallet. After all, we're only ordinary men. "Come on," he says, "I'll drive you home." F I N I S So, was a sequel a good idea or a mistake? Be honest. The looks in the hospital room were my undoing. This and other thoughts can be forwarded to prillalar@yahoo.com where they will be much appreciated.