Revising History 
 rac November 2000 
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Slash.
Spoilers: Consider everything up through the current 8th season 
game. 
Archiving: Yes, with all warnings and notes attached.
Notes: Thanks to cdavis for her pithy comments <g> and to devo 
for encouragement. And thanks to Sam for waiting for the right 
version before reading <eg>. Happy Belated Birthday, Sam!  Late 
but at least finished before the end of the year, despite how long 
it took.  This is an odd one, with a bit of a twist. I saw some 
stories come down on lists after the season started, and haven't 
read them, too afraid that I'd be writing the same thing someone 
else did. LOL! I hope I didn't, but if I did, well, I hope you enjoy 
this one, too.
Feedback is welcomed at rac@enook.net Let me hear from you, 
thanks.
>>><<< 
 
Part I. Out of the Depths
The drive south out of Washington took Skinner through 
beautiful countryside. Despite the chill in the air, he cracked his 
window an inch, letting in the occasional sharp whiff of wood 
smoke and the cool, crisp scent of freshly turned earth.
Autumn had a firm grip on the land. The rich and verdant scenery 
of summer, painted in bright primaries, had given way to a more 
gilded palette. Nature’s last efforts dotted the land in brassy golds, 
pumpkin oranges and rusty reds amid a backdrop of fading beige, 
tan and brown. North of the Mason-Dixon, trees were already 
bare, their leaves littering the ground in decaying layers. But the 
south held on to life more jealously, unwilling to relinquish too 
easily to the inevitable.
Maybe that omen boded well. He needed a positive sign.
Thin, weak sunlight disappeared behind a winter-gray haze in the 
sky. Skinner shivered as the temperature dropped, and he 
reluctantly closed the window. The car entered the damp, dim, 
living tunnel of the Great Dismal Swamp. Trees crowded near and 
overhung the road, blotting out most of the sky, making the car 
feel colder than ever.
Sunday afternoon traffic moved surprisingly fast on the small, 
two-lane road as it wound down through the swamp. Traffic 
rushed along the narrow, swamp-enclosed pavement at a brisk 
60mph. Through a tangle of trees, bushes and kudzu vines on his 
right, Skinner saw the Intercoastal Waterway canal paralleling the 
road. A double-masted sailboat and two large cabin cruisers 
chugged south one after the other on the narrow canal, heading 
for the warmer waters of Florida and the Caribbean.
All the signs of life encouraged him. He’d expected…well, he’d 
expected something barren and depressing and without life, when 
he’d been given his instructions. Maybe…
Shaking off speculation, Skinner checked his watch again. That 
was the hardest part, sticking to the timetable they had given him. 
Traffic hadn’t accommodated his need to stick to schedule. After 
leaving directly at noon as he’d been ordered, subsequent 
backups on 95 South had him gunning the Crown Vic to make up 
time as he zoomed down 64 East toward Hampton Roads. He 
only stopped once along that tree-lined length of highway, too 
afraid of falling behind schedule again because of more traffic.
But luck had been with him. The Monitor-Merrimac bridge-tunnel 
had been free of congestion, and he drove over the wide James 
River as the sun, now below the high haze, moved down in the 
western sky. Route 17 heading south toward North Carolina had 
traffic, but no backups. He was right on schedule as he drove 
along the canal bank road.
Skinner started watching for a small picnic area off to the right, 
with a barge full of dredging equipment sitting behind it in the 
canal. It better show up soon; once the sunlight went, it would be 
dark as pitch here, making discovery of any landmark damn near 
impossible.
Twelve minutes later he nearly missed it. With a squeal of tires 
and kicked-up gravel, he pulled off to the right at the last moment 
when he saw the small picnic area. He sat for a moment, feeling 
the accelerated beat of his heart throb throughout his body.
This was it.
Cars continued to zoom by on the road as Skinner cautiously got 
out of the car, surveying the area around the small pull-off. Two 
picnic tables, two trash cans and a gravel-dirt parking area made 
up the area between the road on one side and the canal on the 
other. Trees, vines and brush covered every area not paved, a 
jungle of vegetation. A chain-link fence at one edge of the pull-
off surrounded a tiny, green metal, box-like building; public 
works of some sort, either water or electricity. A barge with a tall 
crane sat silent down on the narrow canal, moored next to a small 
dirt path. The waters of the canal were as still and shiny as a 
polished tabletop.
Skinner checked his watch once more: ten after four. The light 
wouldn’t be around for much more than another fifty minutes, if 
that. He’d better get a move on.
He had tried to prepare for any exigency: the duffel contained 
water and food, a small medical kit, an electric lantern and extra 
batteries, and a tightly rolled-up sleeping bag, all ready for duty. 
A mag-light peeked out of his jacket pocket, and most 
importantly, his SIG lay heavy and comforting within his 
shoulder holster. Heavy denims encased his long legs, and 
waterproof work boots laced up tightly on his feet. He’d packed 
extra sweats, not sure how chilly the nights got in the swamp…not 
sure if he’d need to share his clothing with anyone. Not sure of 
much of anything, but he was willing to be led around on a wild 
goose chase if there was a chance in hell of something 
worthwhile at the end of it.
It had been a long, long time, all this time with no word, nothing. 
The phone call waking him early in the morning had startled him 
in many ways. After hanging up, he laid in bed watching dawn’s 
gradual light filter through the curtains as his mind raced ahead. 
Thinking, planning. Running scenarios, speculating.
Remembering.
He felt ready to deal with whatever they threw his way.
With the car’s trunk lid closed and locked, he hefted the duffel 
bag over one shoulder and trudged among the tangle of vines and 
brush. The bare dirt spoke of many feet trudging regularly to the 
water’s edge, keeping the path clear down the slight incline to the 
canal. Once there, he walked along the water’s edge until he saw 
around the front corner of the barge. A boat sat moored to the 
bow of the barge, just as promised. Hesitating, Skinner took one 
last look around before throwing the duffel into the metal hull.
It was just a small fishing skiff, a metal rowboat with a small, but 
fairly decent outboard motor attached, a motor that felt warm to 
Skinner’s hand. A gas can sat in the rear corner, and Skinner 
unscrewed the lid to check on the contents. Full, and from all 
appearances, it was gasoline. He saw back-up oars and even a 
Coast Guard regulation life vest tucked away under the front 
bench. Without fanfare, he untied the mooring line, then stood 
and braced his leg against a bench, grabbed the starter cord and 
pulled. The still-primed engine caught immediately, a jarring 
sound in the silence. Sitting down, Skinner grabbed the tiller and 
turned the boat up-canal.
He’d missed it when passing it earlier in the car, concentrating 
hard on finding the picnic pull-off, but the side canal now burst 
into sudden view as he drew abreast of it. The setting sun 
reflected on the westward-leading waterway and nearly blinded 
him. Fumbling in his jacket, he drew out a pair of sunglasses and 
exchanged them for his regular ones, buttoning them away 
carefully in his breast pocket.
Feeder Ditch canal flowed off into the west in an exact, straight 
line, as far west as Skinner could see. Trees and vegetation hung 
down on either side, framing the shimmering golden water with 
dark shapes. The sun’s glare obscured any detail even if he 
squinted. Skinner couldn’t help but wonder if that had been 
factored in, one reason why they wanted him motoring down this 
waterway at precisely this time of day. He was virtually blind to 
what was in front of him, except the shimmering golden water. 
All else was obscured in the light.
Slowly, Skinner angled the tiller and headed down the Ditch. A 
very ordinary sign stuck up out of the water near the north side 
entrance, announcing ‘Lake Drummond Reservoir and Federal 
Wildlife Reservation’ in bright yellow letters. Skinner felt less 
alone with that evidence of civilization, no matter how illogical 
his reaction might be. Glancing at his watch, he headed down the 
canal.
His instructions were to travel down Feeder Ditch until he came to 
the spillway crossing it. That half an hour seemed like a virtual 
eternity, with nothing but a diminishing rear view of the 
embankment behind him by which to gauge his progress. The sun 
lowered until eventually it fell behind the trees, and Skinner gave 
a silent sigh of relief to have the glare out of his face as he 
changed glasses again.
He could now see details in the looming cypress and juniper trees, 
saw the cypress knees, their knobby root systems sticking up 
along the edges of the water. A slithering form at the water’s edge 
reminded him that whatever intelligent life form he might run into 
back here, it wasn’t the only threat to his well-being; the swamp 
harbored three poisonous species of snakes, along with black 
bears and bobcats. If it were summertime, he would have been 
dodging swarms of mosquitoes and biting flies; one reason to give 
thanks for the colder weather.
With the sun down behind the trees, the air quickly chilled off 
even more. With his free hand, Skinner pulled out a black knitted 
hat from the duffel and covered up his bare head. The spillway 
couldn’t be much further. After preparing everything for his trip 
early in the morning, he’d done his preparation on the computer 
and pulled up detailed maps of the Lake Drummond region from 
the Bureau’s database. This seemed to be just about the only way 
in or out of the lake region. He wondered just what in the hell was 
going on back here in this federally owned property.
Finally the spillway appeared up ahead, and Skinner cut back on 
the throttle; he could hear the sound of rushing water in the dead 
quiet. Trees and undergrowth thinned, then disappeared to one 
side of the Ditch, marking a small public campground clearing. 
Simple and spare, no one was in residence on this late autumn 
evening. Even the caretaker’s cabin looked empty.
Skinner nosed the boat in to the small wooden dock and secured 
it tightly. Grabbing the duffel with his bedroll, he headed away 
from the canal’s edge toward one of two small, screened huts 
near the outhouse. His instructions had only said to "wait". No 
word on how long he should wait, or for what.
But he could guess. He could hope. And after all this time, to feel 
hope surging through his veins—it felt heady. He worked to keep 
it under control. As high as his hopes flew, they could easily 
crash and burn. Disappointment could ache like the very devil, 
deeper than any physical wound he’d suffered in the past. There 
had been too much of that in the past, way too much.
Something had to go right sooner or later, and maybe, just maybe, 
it would go right tonight.
Maybe he’d get Mulder back.
Maybe.
The words echoed in Skinner’s head, sounding abnormally loud 
in the utter silence as he stalked around the small campsite’s 
perimeter, finding nothing of significance. With a grimace, he 
finally yanked open the screen door to one of the huts, 
determined to set up a small camp and keep his mind too busy to 
obsess on unknown possibilities.
Yeah, yank the other one, Skinman.
He unzipped the duffel bag with undue force, spreading it open 
and rummaging a bit. Out came an electric lantern; he decided to 
wait until the shadows darkened into night before turning it on. A 
bottle of water, a couple of Power Bars and an apple for dinner. 
He’d eaten before leaving, and the anticipation and restlessness 
humming along his nerves had shrunk his appetite to 
insignificance.
With three flicks of his wrist, he undid the ties and rolled his 
sleeping bag out flat. If he ended up staying here any length of 
time, he’d be glad to have it. With no fire, it was going to get 
damned cold here tonight. The weather service had predicted a 
low in the upper 30s for this area, cold enough to give a man a 
serious chill. For now, though, the bag shielded his butt from 
splinters on the rough, cold wooden flooring. And if necessary, 
the heat packs in his duffel would help, also.
Never let it be said Walter Skinner wasn’t prepared this time, he 
thought. One of his jacket pockets held a compass and a Swiss 
army knife. The snap on his holster gave way and he drew out his 
SIG, checking the clip and resetting the safety with practiced 
movements. Everything the well-supplied agent needed in times 
like these lay ready by his hand.
Now all he had to do was wait, the hard part.
Sipping some water, Skinner pulled out his cell phone from an 
inside jacket pocket and checked the display. Reception was 
poor, but amazingly not lost. Better than nothing. With one hand, 
he held it and pushed the auto-dial buttons, hearing the 
connection click through various relays.
It rang once, twice, before a gruff voice answered. "Yeah."
"I’m ready."
"See anything?"
"Nothing. And as soon as I lose the light, I’ll see even less. Talk 
to you in six."
"We’ll be here."
Skinner ended the call, tucking the phone back inside his jacket 
pocket. Specific instruction had been given him to not tell the FBI 
about his excursion, and he hadn’t. Those instructions had not 
told him to avoid telling non-FBI…did Mulder’s three friends 
count? God knows, they did to him. It felt good to know that 
someone waited with him during this exercise, even if they were 
200 miles away. He only hoped they slipped under the radar of 
whomever—whatever—was running this show.
Leaning against the back wall of the hut, Skinner munched on a 
Power Bar and the apple. The lighted dial of his watch said it was 
nearly 5:30. Official sunset for today listed as 5:04 p.m.; there 
wasn’t a shred of light anywhere, and none to be expected since 
they were coming up to a new moon in three days. Nothing but 
dark, dark and more dark.
Before settling in, Skinner hefted the small lantern and made his 
way out of the hut to the outhouse. He hated to use the light; 
might as well advertise his presence with a bonfire. It would be 
foolish to court disaster by having a run-in with the local wildlife, 
though, so he turned the light on with the shield lifted as little as 
possible. Quickly, he used the spare but adequate facilities and 
walked back to the screened hut.
Even with the cold temperatures pushing down from Canada, 
dampness weighted the air. In the middle of summer, Skinner 
knew the din from insects and birds would be overwhelming. On 
this November evening, only an occasional bird call or hooting 
owl pierced the quiet, along with small rustlings heard in the 
undergrowth around the clearing. A low, constant background 
sound came from lake water coursing steadily over the spillway, 
bubbling over into the Ditch.
Skinner felt like he’d been here before, and in a way, he had. 
Nearly thirty years ago in a completely different climate and on 
the other side of the world, but he’d been here before. It had been 
a world of living green, dense and impenetrable, with air so hot 
and thick, it was hard to breathe. A jungle so wet, he never felt 
dry. A place teeming with life, where insects and animals were a 
constant threat. A human enemy so determined and foreign, 
Skinner’s platoon never stood a chance.
Thirty years ago, Skinner had walked into a jungle with his 
platoon and barely made it out alive; when he had, he’d been 
alone. A year ago, he entered a forest with another man—and 
exited alone. Now he found himself alone in another tangled 
wilderness, with a hesitant hope of redressing some of the past, of 
reversing his losses. He had lost too many people in the green.
Back in the hut, Skinner unzipped the sleeping bag and covered 
his legs. He needed to stay awake and alert, and a little chill was 
good for that. Breathing the winter air, having it cold against his 
face and neck helped him keep his edge. But cold legs and feet 
only made it harder to move in a hurry if necessary.
 
Skinner clicked off the lantern and blinked at the utter darkness, 
scooting around until his annoyed, half-century-old body decided 
the position was tolerable. The silence that deepened during his 
excursion to the bathhouse now gave way as night creatures once 
more took up their chatter and foraging. He couldn’t recall the 
exact time he’d last stood a night watch, but old habits were hard 
to forget.
Skinner pulled his hat down around his ears a bit more closely 
before resting his head back against the wall. It was an odd trick 
of sight, a damned inconvenience: a pitch black absence of light 
affecting the mind and inducing vivid mental pictures, memories 
in living color, as if the mind could not bear to stand an absence 
of visual data. Technicolor images—jungle green, blood red, 
smoky hazel, pale flesh—kaleidoscoped through Skinner’s mind 
with waves of emotion right on their heels, fresh like new. 
Skinner thought all sense of loss, the confusion, grief and guilt 
had weakened and bled out long ago; yet one more thing in his 
life he’d miscalculated.
The present had sufficient enemies, no need to resurrect the past 
in that role. Let it go, he told himself. The past is dead and buried.
Bullshit, the imp on his shoulder countered. Why the hell else 
would you be here?
Skinner trained blind eyes on the varying shades of darkness 
surrounding the hut and resigned himself to waiting.
 
Something startled him, he didn’t know what. As he jerked his 
head upright, Skinner realized that sleep overtook him against all 
his efforts. He hadn’t accounted for his lack of sleep last night 
combining with the deadly blankness of the swamp, not to 
mention his memories.
He’d slept like a baby and for God knew how long—his watch 
said 2:27 am. The swamp still oozed complete darkness, but 
something had altered, and some preternatural warning system 
inside him roused him from sleep to an immediate, adrenaline-
filled awareness. Stilling, Skinner extended his senses, trying to 
pinpoint the source of alarm.
The swamp was unnaturally still. The only sound he heard came 
from bubbling water at the base of the spillway. All animal and 
insect noises had ceased. They made no sound, as if nothing at all 
lived here in the depths of this wilderness. Even when Skinner 
crunched through autumn detritus on his trek to and from the 
bathhouse, the animal noises hadn’t disappeared this completely.
Something was out there, something sufficient enough to have the 
animals in hiding.
The hair stood up all down his arms and across the back of his 
neck at that thought—he knew what was out there.
As stealthily as he could, Skinner pushed aside the enveloping 
sleeping bag and strained to see or hear beyond the confines of 
the screened hut. The SIG felt heavy and comfortable in his hand, 
warm from his body. He didn’t know if the gun provided nothing 
more than psychological armor in this situation, but since it was 
all he had, he wasn’t about to put it aside. Three steps on silent 
feet brought him to the screen door; two more had him standing 
outside, still listening.
His left hand curled around the hefty mag-light in his coat pocket 
as he turned a slow 360, waiting. He knew they were here 
somewhere. They had to be.
Skinner felt the vibrations before he heard or saw anything, like a 
mild earthquake stuttering up from the souls of his feet through 
the very ground itself. Instinctively, he looked up. The sky was a 
mottled field of stars visible intermittently through the semi-bare 
branches of the trees. Nothing, nothing…his straining eyes caught 
a mild glow of light in the western sky. The west—the lake.
He couldn’t see much in the midst of the trees, but a small pier 
poked out into the only bare spot around: the canal. Cursing 
silently, he turned the flashlight on, keeping it trained to the 
ground as he ran to the canal. The flowing water sounded louder 
by the pier, not muffled by the trees and undergrowth. Skinner 
flashed the light over the still-moored boat, then flicked it off.
The dark pressed in around him again, but this time a definite 
illumination lit up the sky farther west along the Ditch, on the 
other side of the spillway, out on the lake. He had learned Lake 
Drummond was huge, with no buildings at all in the land around 
it. According to the state of Virginia and the federal government, 
there was nothing out here…or, at least, nothing official.
Or—nothing man-made.
Skinner cursed again. The only way to get over the spillway was 
by manual boatlift. It would be a bitch to do in the darkness, 
Skinner knew, but he had to try. The skiff rocked as he swung 
long legs over the edge of the pier and slid onto the rear seat using 
his flashlight. This attempt was insane—pitch black in the middle 
of a swamp all by himself. But what the hell else could he do? 
Nothing for it but to maneuver the boat over to the lift and then 
work it himself—
The blinding white light took Skinner by surprise, pinned him like 
a butterfly to his seat. The mag light fell out of suddenly 
nerveless fingers to the bottom of the boat, clattering loudly in the 
silence. The white light shined so brightly, it seemed like it 
suffused everything. His eyes fell to his empty hand; it seemed to 
dance and waver with light particles. Skinner raised his eyes—the 
very air around him seemed to shimmer with energy. Everything 
danced and shimmied and undulated—and still he heard no 
sound except the steady gurgle of water.
Then he heard nothing at all.
 
\/ /\ \/ /\ \/
 
Pieces of his mind coalesced out of the light, one thought at a 
time, until he was whole and aware and cognizant.
Skinner opened his eyes.
Darkness surrounded him, and he lay at an awkward angle in the 
boat, his neck scrunched to one side. Cautiously, he untangled 
himself, rubbing the kinks out of his neck as he scanned the 
darkness. The flashlight…he fumbled around in the bottom of the 
boat, trying to find where it landed. Shifting weight, the boat 
rocked slightly as he reached carefully toward the bow—and his 
hand touched something. Something large. Something…flesh.
He recoiled from it in shock, adrenaline like a tidal wave through 
his system.
Oh God.
His brain kicked into gear.
Hesitantly, he reached out and encountered the soft, giving feel 
of naked flesh once more. A body: male, naked—but warm. 
Alive. Sticky and wet in places…blood. Jesus.
"Mulder?" Skinner’s voice quavered and broke on the first 
syllable. "Mulder?"
Where was that fucking light? "Goddammit," he growled after 
smacking his hand hard against a bench. His fingers bumped into 
a metal object…yes. He nearly fumbled it again in his haste to 
turn it on. 
 
He flicked the switch…and almost wished he hadn’t found it.
Bile rose in Skinner’s throat at the sight illuminated by the light. 
Blood red stood out over ghostly white skin and dark hair. Pale 
skin glistened on one side of his head where the hair had been 
shaved away, revealing a raw incision. Bones stood out under 
translucent skin, vein traceries close to the surface where once 
there had been layers of muscle to give sleek definition. Now, no 
muscles were evident, only a broken, weakened form.
Ghastly horror welled up and clawed at his throat. This was 
beyond anything he might have expected, beyond what he’d been 
prepared for, like something out of a horror story. Skinner gently 
gathered up Mulder’s bloody, rag-doll body in his arms and with 
shaking hands, felt for a pulse. There—there it was, faint, so 
faint.
Alive. They returned Mulder like an unwanted, broken toy: He 
broke, we don’t want him. You can have him back.
Skinner sat letting the full horror of it all wash over him. The light 
had sapped Skinner of his own will to move, his ability to think. 
What had Mulder undergone? What tortures of the damned had 
they inflicted on him, and why?
The pale skin under Skinner’s hand started to chill, and abruptly 
Skinner realized Mulder lay naked in freezing temperatures. With 
a muttered curse, Skinner awkwardly clambered out of the boat. 
He had to get clothes, maybe the sleeping bag, to cover Mulder 
up, but good Christ—he couldn’t leave him out here in the boat in 
the dark. He might wake up, thrash around and fall into the water.
Carefully, Skinner knelt down, reached over and gathered Mulder 
from the boat. It was easier than he anticipated; Mulder weighed 
next to nothing. With flashlight in hand while cradling Mulder 
closely, Skinner hurried back to the hut, depositing Mulder on the 
sleeping bag and flicking on the lantern.
He didn’t take the time to clean or examine Mulder’s body, but 
simply took sweats and socks from his duffel and pulled them on 
Mulder, wincing at every wound he covered. The sight of 
Mulder’s shaven scalp and the raw and angry-looking surgical 
incision stabbed through Skinner. With angry motions, he yanked 
the knitted cap from his own bare head and gently pulled it down 
over Mulder’s abused and chilled skin.
Anger heated Skinner now, burning away much of the 
overwhelming, paralyzing horror. Mulder needed to be in a 
hospital. He zipped the unconscious man into the sleeping bag so 
only his bruised and emaciated face showed, then threw things 
into the duffel and zipped it up. The lantern clipped onto his belt, 
and he slung the duffel over his right shoulder before hefting up 
the bulky sleeping bag.
As Skinner walked to the pier, the lantern bumped heavily against 
his leg, swinging wildly and casting a constantly wavering field of 
light into the gloom. But he could see, and arranged his human 
load in the bottom of the boat with extreme care. He flung the 
duffel into the stern, secured the lantern to a cleat in the bow, 
untied the boat from the pier and leaned against the outboard as 
he primed the engine with long pulls of the cord.
The roar of the outboard sounded deafening to ears accustomed 
to the swamp’s stillness. With little wasted motion, Skinner sat 
and turned the boat back toward the canal bank road. The 
lantern’s glow extended only so far in advance of the boat, 
making the going slow. With his free hand, Skinner dug into his 
jacket pocket and pulled out the phone—shit, he hadn’t given one 
thought to calling in. A stab at his watch showed it was 2:53 am, 
nearly three hours past his call-in time.
He’d lost at least fifteen minutes of time.
The phone hardly rang a complete ring when a growling voice 
answered. "Yeah."
Skinner throttled back to hear clearly. "I’m okay. Call off the 
dogs."
"Too late, he left nearly three hours ago. They were foaming at 
the mouth at having been left out of the loop."
Fuck. "Okay, I’ll talk to top dog myself." The silence drew out as 
Skinner hesitated. "I…I’ve got him."
An indrawn breath came from the other side. "Tell us."
"I was…he’s…" Skinner took a deep breath. "I’ll need an 
emergency medical chopper standing by to intercept us 
somewhere…uh, tell them to meet me in the clearing along route 
17 just north of the swamp. They’ll be able to put down there."
"Oh my God…" Frohicke’s voice broke. Skinner knew his 
distress was real. "Is he okay?" 
 
Skinner looked down at the still form in the sleeping bag. His 
throat tightened up around the words…he didn’t have an answer. 
"Use the priority codes I gave you to call this in. Tell them I 
should be there in about…" he quickly calculated how long the 
boat trip had taken him in the daylight and added another 15 
minutes because of the dark, "…in about an hour or so. I’ll leave 
the phone turned on if you need to get back to me…otherwise, 
I’ll call after we’re at the hospital." Skinner paused, trying to calm 
the nervous energy twitching through his body. "What the hell 
hospital is closest here, anyway?"
"Looking it up now…" Skinner could hear the faint sound of a 
keyboard clicking in the background. "Chesapeake General, 
closer than the Norfolk hospitals. We’re on it now. We’ll give the 
watch dog a call and redirect him to it."
"Okay, thanks. Later." Skinner clicked off the phone and throttled 
up again.
Leaning down while keeping an eye on the bow, Skinner laid a 
finger alongside Mulder’s carotid. Still hanging on, still a faint 
pulse.
He thought of Mulder lying in the hospital once before because 
of those fucking bastards, unable to talk and wasting away. 
Incapacitating Skinner tonight had been prudent on their part; 
God knows what he would have done if he’d seen them. 
Fantasizing about a small, timed, nuclear device planted aboard 
their ship satisfied Skinner’s murderous urge and occupied the 
rest of their journey down the Ditch.
Forty-five minutes later, they were back to the main canal, with 
the boat moored once again to the barge. He hefted the duffel up 
and threw it up to the top of the bank. With Mulder up in his 
arms, he struggled back up the canal bank trail. At the top, his car 
sat undisturbed on the gravel lot, and no other cars were on the lot 
or on the road.
Skinner reclined the front seat and placed Mulder, bag and all, 
inside. He shoved the duffel into the rear and yanked the driver’s 
door open. Gravel flew as he spun the car around and floored the 
accelerator. Only one other car heading south passed them as they 
flew north along route 17, and within ten minutes, the night sky 
opened up above him as the car shot out of the tunnel of 
swampland.
The chopper sat waiting, rotors churning and lit up like a carnival 
ride. With disregard to his car, Skinner pulled off the road straight 
into the field, plowing to a stop near the helicopter.
Two men and a woman jumped out. "Assistant Director Skinner?" 
 
Skinner nodded as he opened the passenger door. "Yeah. This is 
Special Agent Mulder. He’s…he’s unconscious, I don’t know the 
exact nature or extent of his injuries."
The EMT’s took one look at the man bundled in the sleeping bag 
and gathered him up, bag and all, carrying him in their arms over 
to the chopper. Skinner watched, feeling helpless as they bustled 
around, getting Mulder settled onto a gurney and setting up an IV 
while reading his vitals. One man began talking quietly into the 
radio before the pilot slammed the door, cutting off Skinner’s 
sight.
"Where are you taking him? Tell me how to get there," Skinner 
stopped the last man.
The pilot turned and looked back. "If you don’t mind leaving 
your car, strap in, there’s room. We’re lifting off."
Without a qualm, Skinner left his car parked in the open field as 
he climbed aboard. The chopper rose up and did a small, banking 
circle in mid-air. Skinner looked off to the west, but no strange 
lights played over the swamp. Then they zoomed northward and 
left the swamp behind them.
Part II. Into the Unknown
 
The sigh and squeak of a body settling into the plastic-cushioned 
chair next to him roused Skinner to semi-awareness.
"You know, the whole thing is a bit ridiculous."
A rough-edged voice spoke quietly next to him, and Skinner 
woke to full awareness.
"I know in the past we’ve discussed how it seemed that, after 
Mulder disappeared, the torch got passed to you. Then by default, 
or actually by foul plan, a piece of it got shoved into my hands. 
But this habit of going hot-dogging off on your own like our bad 
boy used to do takes carrying the torch a little too far, if you ask 
me."
Skinner moved slowly, unkinking his body from the pretzeled 
position he’d slept in for the past couple of hours. He rubbed a 
hand over his unshaven face. He must look a mess, his clothes 
smeared with blood and dirt. Skinner finally opened his eyes and 
looked over to the next chair.
 
Sharp, amused eyes assessed him. "You know, you didn’t have to 
become Mulder to keep him alive."
The cavalry had arrived. Even after a year, Skinner still felt 
vaguely disconcerted by how easily he’d learned to depend on 
this man. "John." Skinner leaned forward, elbows on his knees as 
he contemplated the other man. "What’s the latest?"
John Doggett shifted in his chair, angling himself to face Skinner. 
"Scully’s in with him, going over findings and treatment with the 
doctors. It’s all over my head. He’s still unconscious, that much I 
know." Doggett waited a beat. "Which is better than what you 
look like. Is this all the sleep you’ve had?"
Skinner waved it away. "I’m fine."
"Uh-huh." His laser-blue eyes staring, Doggett shifted and began 
to tick off items from an invisible list. "Mulder’s friends arranged 
to have your car picked up and driven to where we’re staying. 
Don’t ask me how, with no keys. I didn’t ask. I brought down 
some of your clothes, I’ve got a change right here. You can 
shower in the staff locker room, and when you’re done, I’ve got 
something for you to eat."
Skinner could feel the tension in his shoulders fall away with 
each of John’s words, and he couldn’t stop the slight lifting at the 
corners of his mouth. John was here; suddenly the load felt 
lighter.
"Right now, here, have some coffee." Doggett handed over a 
steaming cup.
The rich aroma opened up Skinner’s sinuses, and he breathed it in 
deeply. Heaven. His mouth was full of the hot, dark roast when 
Doggett spoke again.
"And, oh, by the way." He rapped the words out like miniature 
bullets. "If you ever do something like this again, don’t worry 
about those faceless, nameless men…aliens, whatever. I’ll 
personally kick your ass from here to Seattle and back." Doggett 
stood up and let out a long breath as if he’d held it in for a long 
time.
 
"All through?" Skinner asked him, sipping coffee.
Doggett considered. "Yeah. For now. Go take a shower. Out the 
door and left down the hall, it’s the third door on the right, says 
Employees Only. I’ll meet you back here when you’re done."
Doggett thrust a small leather satchel into Skinner’s free hand and 
strode over to the door.
"John."
Doggett turned around. Skinner noticed his usual buttoned-down 
look seemed rumpled around the edges, as if he’d been in a 
hurry: threadbare jeans and an NYPD sweatshirt with his boots, 
and lines around his eyes.
"Thanks."
Doggett shot him a look that said, we’ll talk later. "Go shower 
up." He slapped the doorjamb on his way out of the lounge.
Hospital food might be suspect, but hospital showers are not: 
endless supplies of water hot enough to nearly cook the skin from 
his bones, just the way Skinner liked it. The steam hung thick like 
soup in his stall by the time he finished. His leather satchel 
revealed clean pants, an oxford cloth shirt and a sweater along 
with his kit, shoes and fresh underwear. Skinner left the sweater 
in the bag; he felt as if his bones still glowed red from the heat of 
the shower.
Doggett looked up from the small round table when Skinner 
slipped back to the lounge. "Sit. Eat."
Skinner raised his brows and gave Doggett a look, but never 
hesitated as he pulled out a chair. "Don’t tell me you got this in 
the hospital cafeteria. Smells like homemade sauce." Fragrant 
steam rose up from the plate of lasagna after John ripped off its 
foil covering. Skinner gave two seconds thought to the fact it was 
breakfast time for other people before gratefully digging in.
"Twenty-four hour diner across the street from the hospital that 
caters to the staff. They serve anything, anytime." Doggett 
shrugged. "This was their daily special, it looked good." He 
fiddled with his coffee cup. "I had to send a team in into the 
swamp," he announced abruptly. "If I don’t, well…"
Skinner snorted in disgust. "Yeah, I know. Frohicke give you the 
details on how to get there?"
John nodded. "Yeah. I assembled a team from the Norfolk office 
and let them handle it. Ah, screw it, it’s only for show, anyway. If 
I didn’t, Kersh would be smiling as he called us in front of the 
board."
"You’ll get used to being a political pariah," Skinner said with 
regret, seeing the play of emotions on Doggett’s face. He 
wondered if it would eventually turn Doggett sour about the job 
and make him bitter. "How’s Mulder? Can I see him?"
Doggett sat facing the table in a chair turned around backwards, 
arms draped over the chair’s back, his chin resting on his fisted 
hands. "Yeah, after you eat. They’ve stitched up some wounds 
here and there, taken some x-rays, a CAT scan and have him 
scheduled later today for an MRI. They had to set his left wrist, 
somehow the bones inside had been…kind of chewed up or 
something."
Skinner’s stomach slowly turned over at Doggett’s litany, and he 
abruptly stopped chewing and put down his fork.
"Hey."
Skinner ignored Doggett, lost in the red tomato sauce on his plate, 
like so much blood.
 
"Walter." Doggett’s voice shifted, and he reached a hand out to 
Skinner’s where it lay fisted on the table. "Look at me."
 
Skinner raised grim eyes.
"Snap out of it. As far as Scully and the doctors can tell, he’s 
doing okay. They’re not sure yet about what happened inside his 
head, but there’s no other permanent physical injury. Just a lot of 
messy-looking ones that will heal. You got him back, and Scully’s 
going to do her best to make sure he doesn’t suffer while he’s 
here. Okay?" Doggett pointed to the plate. "Now eat, please. Or 
I’ll really be pissed." An ironic smirk curled up an edge of 
Doggett’s mouth.
Skinner took a deep, shaky breath. "John—"
"No," Doggett shook his head. "We’ll talk later. Right now, eat, 
then you see Mulder. Okay?"
Skinner nodded faintly. "Okay."
 
/\ \/ /\ \/ /\
 
Mulder nearly disappeared against the sea of white bandages and 
linens framing him. Under the relentlessly harsh fluorescent 
lights, Skinner saw more clearly what he’d only seen faintly in the 
deep of the swamp with his flashlight.
Mulder’s skin had almost no color to it. Skinner wondered if his 
blood had been drained by those alien vampires, along with 
whatever else they’d subjected him to. His eyelids lay closed like 
two bruises in a sunken face, veins too obvious on the surface.
Two nurses bustled around, checking machines, twitching IV 
lines and cleaning up the leftovers from suturing and bandaging 
efforts. Scully came marching swiftly around the corner, her nose 
buried in the chart she held. 
 
Skinner reached out and touched her arm to get her attention. 
"Scully. Thanks for coming."
She looked up. "Sir. I would have been down here earlier if I had 
been told," she blinked at him reproachfully.
Skinner frowned. "I had specific instructions. I made a judgement 
call."
Scully frowned back. "Instead of a telephone call, yes. I know."
The two nurses slipped quietly out of the room.
Skinner gave her a stony glare. "I was under the assumption that 
being an Assistant Director meant I didn’t have to ask permission 
from subordinates."
Doggett interrupted briskly, diffusing the bristling tension Skinner 
and Scully generated. "Hey, you got the instructions, it was your 
call to make. Whether or not we think you made a poor one is a 
whole different subject we won’t go into now," Doggett shot 
Scully a significant look and changed the subject. "Find out 
anything new?"
Scully was annoyed, but turned to observe Mulder. "A small 
metal object in his sinus cavity. They wanted to take it out 
immediately, but I…" she shivered imperceptibly, "I convinced 
them to wait until Mulder wakes up and gets some of his strength 
back."
Skinner walked over and looked down at Mulder lying so still and 
slight under the hospital covers. "Wouldn’t it be best, under the 
circumstances, to perform the removal procedure while he’s out 
of it? When he’s not awake and able to relive horrible memories 
of how…how it might have been inserted in the first place?"
Three pairs of eyes watched Mulder, each person imagining their 
own version of the horror. Scully stepped closer to the bed. Her 
arm brushed comfortingly against Skinner as she reached out to 
smooth back an errant lock of hair poking out from under the 
bandage covering Mulder’s head.
"When we remove it, I’ll make sure Mulder’s in twilight sleep and 
not aware of what’s happening. But meanwhile, until I know 
removal won’t be damaging," unconsciously, Scully slid fingers 
up to the back of her neck, "I’d rather not disturb it."
Skinner thought about that, remembered a frail and dying Scully. 
He grimaced. "So right now it’s just a matter of hurry up and 
wait?"
Scully turned to look at both Skinner and Doggett, nodding. "Yes, 
I’m afraid so. They’re going to move him to a room up on the 3rd 
floor this afternoon, so at least he’ll be out of the trauma unit. It 
should be private and quiet."
Skinner frowned. "Make sure they put a TV in the room. I’m not 
sure quiet is the best idea, it could be too…evocative. Mulder 
never liked quiet, even in his own apartment."
"I’ll take care of it," Doggett spoke up. "Scully, how long are we 
looking at here for recovery? Just give me a rough idea."
"Well," she began slowly, "he’s seriously weakened. 
Undernourished and dehydrated. He’s lost a lot of muscle tone 
along with experiencing invasive brain surgery recently. It’s going 
to take a while for the swelling in his head to go down, and for 
the other injuries and the low-grade infection in his system to 
clear up. We’re still running his blood work, God knows what 
we’re going to find there. Anomalies have already surfaced." 
 
"Scully," Doggett interrupted, "the bottom line."
"Weeks, at the very least." She shrugged. "I really don’t know." 
The doctor transformed into a helpless friend as sadness suffused 
her eyes. She stroked Mulder’s face. "I wish I did."
Skinner took a deep breath and gathered the edges of his ragged 
self together. "You’re doing your best, Scully." He laid a tentative 
hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly, wanting to move past 
their earlier frustration. "Where’s Isaac? With your mother?"
Scully nodded, smiling, seizing the change of topic. "Mom’s in 
seventh heaven, says I don’t let her play grandma enough."
"Why don’t you have her send down a picture of Isaac? A nice, 
big one," Doggett suggested. "Mulder’s going to need all the 
incentives you can find to help him get past this event."
That idea seemed to rock Scully somehow, and she stared 
bemusedly at Mulder. "I—Yes. I…I’ll call my mom right now." 
She touched Mulder’s hand hesitantly. "I…I tend to forget that 
Isaac has a biological father. And that’s not fair to either father or 
son, is it?" she asked rhetorically. Straightening her shoulders, she 
wheeled around and left the room.
The monitors beeped and whirred softly, and the oxygen tank 
hissed faintly in the corner. Skinner looked at the man in the bed, 
then turned his head and regarded the one standing next to him. 
There couldn’t be any more difference between them at the 
moment: one vital, healthy and strong; one weak, sickly and 
broken.
One needed him, and the other….
"John." Just as in the lounge, Skinner waited until he had 
Doggett’s attention, then he repeated the same message. "Thanks."
Hands on his hips, Doggett gestured toward the bed with his chin, 
his eyes on Mulder. "He didn’t deserve this."
John hadn’t betrayed himself with anything obvious, but Skinner 
knew. "Neither did you," he said quietly and with subtle meaning.
Doggett’s narrowed blue gaze swung back to Skinner. "I’m a big 
boy, Walter. I knew what I was getting into. Wasted opportunities 
aren’t my style."
The words sliced into Skinner’s vulnerable underbelly and pain 
exploded, spreading through him like acid.
It must have shown in his expression; a look of horror passed 
over Doggett’s face. "Ah, damn, Walter. I didn’t mean—"
"I know." Skinner’s voice cracked. He could feel his nostrils flare 
as he drew in a deep breath before speaking again. "I know what 
you meant."
Lowering the side rail, Skinner sat down on the edge of Mulder’s 
bed. "I know what you meant, John," he repeated, "and it’s all 
right. You’re right. I, I wasted the opportunity, let it slide by for 
years instead of taking it. And look what happened." Skinner 
looked up at Doggett. "You didn’t. And I am glad." He smiled 
faintly. "That’s why they pegged you for the Presidential 
appointment one day. That’s why they perceived you as a very 
real threat. Grass doesn’t grow under your feet, and you’ve got a 
mind like a razorblade."
Doggett looked disgusted. "A tongue like one, too."
For some reason, the humor of the situation caught Skinner and 
rusty laughter welled up and out. "This situation has all the 
makings for a theater of the absurd." At Doggett’s continued 
glower, Skinner chided, "Come on, John. It’s okay." With those 
words, he reached out a hand and brushed the back of his fingers 
against Doggett’s. "If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life is too 
short, too uncertain. I sure as hell can’t control much at work, 
despite my position, and chances to do what pleases me in life are 
few and far between." He tangled their fingers together in a light 
grip. "You please me. Don’t go all noble and high-minded on me 
now. It’s a little late for that," Skinner said with dark humor.
Doggett’s expression eased. He twisted his hand around until his 
fingers surrounded Skinner’s wrist, thumb stroking lightly against 
Skinner’s pulse point. "I guess that’s the truth." Humor crinkled 
the edges around his eyes. "Our careers are in the toilet, I chase 
after monsters and little green men, and I’ve got a thing for my 
boss."
"Gray, little gray men."
Doggett shrugged and acquiesced. "Whatever." For the first time, 
Doggett seemed unsettled. "So what’s the plan now? You’ve got 
Mulder back. It’s what you’ve wanted for over a year."
Skinner felt his pulse speed up and pulled his wrist from 
Doggett’s hand. "Yeah, John. Those alien bastards stole him, of 
course we wanted him back."
"That’s not what I meant and you know it. Don’t snow me now, 
Walter. Let’s keep it honest."
Christ, the open vulnerability in John’s eyes would haunt him for 
years. It was the very thing that drew Skinner in to start with, 
John’s simple, expedient way of taking himself and everything 
around him at face value, including Skinner. No hidden agendas. 
No dark angst. No self-loathing or unconscious shadows. Not at 
all stupid, either, just sharp as hell and simply, plainly, straight 
forward. Unafraid.
That lack of fear reminded him of Mulder. And both men were 
strong. But sometimes, John’s strength scared Skinner, he seemed 
so strong, so together, while Skinner just felt…weak and needy. 
What did John get from him?
"Walter, you with me?"
A hand on his arm brought him out of his musings. "Yeah, I’m 
with you."
"Want me to take a hike?" 
 
"God, no," Skinner burst out irritably. "No, dammit. Don’t go 
putting words in my mouth or thoughts in my head that aren’t 
there."
Doggett’s eyebrows went up. "Got it.
"Sorry," Skinner sighed.
"S’okay. Things are a bit…confusing right now." Doggett looked 
steadily at Skinner. "I knew the score when we started."
"I wish I did," Skinner muttered, disgusted with himself, with his 
own needs.
"Here’s a solution. We nurse Mulder back to health, then we can 
set up a civilized schedule, you know, for the three of us. So he 
and I don’t end up running into each other in your elevator," 
Doggett grinned crookedly. At Skinner’s horrified expression, he 
chided, "C’mon, Walter, don’t take it so damn seriously. You’d 
think your damn face muscles were going to crack if you smiled."
Before Skinner could answer, Mulder stirred. "…hey…" The 
word came out as only a breath of air, but Skinner heard it. 
 
"Mulder." Mulder’s eyes were barely open, but Skinner could see 
the glint of hazel through his lashes. "You’re awake." A rush of 
something powerful coursed through Skinner.
"…Walt…Scully?…" Mulder breathed.
Skinner shifted and took hold of Mulder’s hand, letting his 
fingers curl around comfortingly. "She’s here, watching over you 
with eagle eyes."
"….how…where…" Panic and confusion stood out on Mulder’s 
face.
"Calm down, you’re in southern Virginia, Chesapeake General 
Hospital. I…I got you back down here in the swamp. You’re back 
with us now," Skinner emphasized.
"…no, no more tests, please…" Terror infused each word, and 
weakly, Mulder began to blindly push Skinner and the blankets 
away.
Skinner didn’t budge, but moved closer, wrapping his arms 
around Mulder’s frail body so he couldn’t hurt himself as he 
thrashed and moaned in fear. "It’s okay, buddy, I’ve got you. 
There won’t be any more tests, no more tests, I promise. They 
gave you back, we’ve got you now. Calm down, Fox, or you’ll 
hurt yourself. Jesus, come on, Fox, please, calm down, you’re 
going rip out the IV lines."
Mulder’s weak but terrorized thrashing stopped suddenly, and he 
deflated like a balloon, going limp in Skinner’s arms. He started 
crying, weakly, then gaining in intensity. Skinner felt thin arms 
lift and Mulder’s hands clutched at his shirt, his shoulders, fingers 
digging in with slight strength.
"…no more, please…" Mulder sobbed.
Skinner wanted to cry himself at that pitiful plea. He wanted to 
wrap his arms around Mulder and take away every horrible 
memory in his mind. He’d never felt more helpless. "No more, 
Mulder, I promise, no more. I’ve got you now, okay? No more."
He sat and rocked him until the crying lessened. By the time 
Skinner looked up to find Doggett, he had left.
Scully came hurrying in seconds later. "Agent Doggett said 
Mulder was awake."
"Yeah, he’s terrified." Skinner moved back to let Scully get to 
Mulder, but Mulder wasn’t having it and held onto Skinner’s 
sleeves.
"…no, no…"
Skinner watched Scully hurry out of the room with one eye. "I’m 
not going anywhere, Mulder. You’re stuck with me whether you 
like it or not, okay?"
Scully came back in with a syringe, fiddled with the IV line and 
injected it. "Relax, Mulder," she stroked his face. "Nobody’s 
touching you if I don’t authorize it."
Mulder took a breath. "…okay…okay…" His eyes closed and his 
hands fell limply onto the blanket.
"Dammit, Scully," Skinner said hoarsely, his mouth dry. "What 
the fuck did they do to him?"
Scully just shook her head.
 
/\ \/ /\ \/ /\
Twenty-four hours later, Skinner dragged himself across the street 
and shoved the electronic key into his hotel room for the first 
time. Mulder had kept waking up from the light sedative they 
gave him, and if Skinner wasn’t there, he panicked. He thought 
Scully was on the ship with him, abducted also if Skinner wasn’t 
in the room, so Skinner hadn’t wandered far from Mulder’s side 
for the past day.
The door slammed behind him and Skinner began dragging off 
clothes, throwing them over a chair as he walked into the 
bathroom. The toilet flushed loudly, and he shut the door before 
falling into the king size bed. He was exhausted, more from 
watching Mulder’s panic than any strenuous exertion. He wanted 
to sleep for a year.
When the bed dipped, he barely stirred, didn’t raise his face from 
where he’d buried it in the pillow. "Hey," he murmured.
"About time you caught some sleep."
"Yeah, well." Skinner turned his face out of the pillow until he 
could see Doggett sitting next to him. "How’s the investigation 
coming along?"
Doggett sighed. "I need to take your statement."
"Yeah, I know. At least I didn’t see anything that I have to lie 
about."
"How’s Mulder?"
Skinner moved a hand from under the pillow and rested it against 
Doggett’s leg, feeling the warmth of his body through his suit 
pants. "Scarred, traumatized. As bad as anything I saw after 
‘Nam." Skinner moved his hand onto Doggett’s leg, let it rest 
there.
"He needs you, you know."
"John—"
"No, listen to me. He really needs you, and you need to be there. 
You’ll be there," Doggett repeated, intent and serious.
Skinner’s fingers dug into Doggett’s leg. "I’ll be there," he agreed. 
"But—" he stalled, unable to get the words out.
Doggett leaned down, his face looming over Skinner’s. "Me? I’ll 
be here for you. So. Are we straight?"
A bark of a laugh escaped Skinner. "I used to be the hardest ass 
in the Bureau. Around you, I feel like a piece of limp spaghetti."
"Deal with it. You didn’t answer me."
Skinner sighed. "Yeah, we’re straight. So to speak," he added with 
a blank expression.
Doggett brought his hand down hard on Skinner’s upturned rear 
end. "Smart ass." The hand stayed, explored, caressed curves and 
squeezed before he removed it. "And I still think you’re the 
hardest ass in the Bureau," Doggett muttered in Skinner’s ear 
before hopping off the bed. "Gotta drive to Norfolk Office for a 
meeting. I’ll see you later."
Skinner rolled over. "John, come here."
Doggett turned around, took one look at Skinner and came back 
over. His kiss devoured Skinner’s mouth, sucking his tongue and 
biting gently on his lip before pulling back. "Dammit, later. You 
sleep, I’ve got a meeting."
Skinner laughed as Doggett shook his head and walked back 
through the connecting door, pulling it closed behind him. He 
pulled the covers back up that slid down past his ass during the 
previous minute and burrowed back into the pillow.
He didn’t have a clue what the future would bring. Just have to 
take it one day at a time.
And so far, confusing as it all was, today was turning out to be 
not half bad.
--fini--
For pictures of the Great Dismal Swamp (which is right near me) 
go here: 
http://visi.net/~lawrence/photos.html