SWEENEY: But here's what I was going to say.
He didn't know if he was alive
and the girl was dead
He didn't know if the girl was alive
and he was dead
He didn't know if they were both alive
or both were dead
If he was alive then the milkman wasn't
and the rent-collector wasn't
And if they were alive then he was dead.
There wasn't any joint
There wasn't any joint
For when you're alone
When you're alone like he was alone
You're either or neither
I tell you again it don't apply
Death or life or life or death
Death is life and life is death
I gotta use words when I talk to you
But if you understand or if you don't
That's nothing to me and nothing to you.
Sweeney Agonistes, Fragments of an Agon
T.S. Eliot
Skinner put the phone down. For a man who didn't sleep all that well at this point in his life, he had the impression it had been ringing for some time before it woke him. He swung himself over the side of the bed and stood up. Moving silently, a habit that bachelordom with all its newly attendant liberties had not yet rid him of, he went into the bathroom where he took some aspirin. He allowed himself the luxury of a shower, staying under the water for only a minute or so, and in the bedroom pulled on the first pair of pants he could find, his shirt clinging to his back where the towel had missed stray drops of water. Although he made every effort to hurry, it felt to him as though he was lingering, dawdling in some obscure way. His head didn't help, protesting the rush of blood as he bent down to do up his shoes, reminding him of how old was too old for this shit.
"Goddamnit, Mulder."
Unplanned, the words hung in the bedroom. Skinner flinched, slapping his hand over the light switch in an excess of temper that felt as awkward and melodramatic as invoking Mulder's name had been and looked around for his car keys. Only then did he remember the ISU man. In all likelihood the guy - what the fuck was his name? - was already waiting outside for him. He had been early both other times. Grabbing his watch from the bedside table almost as an afterthought, he slid it onto his wrist.
The ISU man was waiting and Skinner gave him a nod of approval. With the sun not due to rise for another hour yet and a blanket of mist smoking itself off the ground, the quality of light available to them alternated between dim and near dark. When they reached the dump site he wasn't surprised to see an army of flashlights being put to use, ghosting across the trees, weaving paths over the ground. The men not working the site stood around shivering in their uniforms, logging in evidence. Well aware of the puzzled looks thrown his way, Skinner chose to ignore them. Fragments of conversation made up the background buzz, floating over to him.
"What the fuck is this? Where's Crime Scene? Who the fuck is…"
"…guy I never seen before is in the bullpen, telling the boss how it was gonna be. He looked fit to..."
"…the hell I wanna know. This shit gives me the creeps. And there's Wendy sure I'm sneaking off on her again and me not allowed to breathe one frigging word to anyone on account of…"
"So I tossed my guts, Mendhelson, so go fuck your mother. No damn dead bodies where I give out traffic tickets and I'll tell you something else about the sick fuck that did this - he didn't have…"
Skinner let it go. Silence might be damning but there were no other options. The very fact that he was out here attested to the precarious nature of the investigation. Mulder or no Mulder, from the word go, it had been a prime candidate for a hush-up. Talking would only add to the problem. Who better to play wolf, Walter? That's what Manning had said to him, expecting him to take it as a compliment. And Skinner did; he had made a career out of tailoring himself to suit his face. There were worse things.
A man in a brown leather bomber jacket made his way over to him and introduced himself. "James Perry. My crime scene, by default - first man on scene, but we're all just hanging tight, waiting for homicide. I'm guessing you're our man?"
Skinner nodded, sizing up the man before him. Plainclothes but a holster clearly visible under the jacket - rank, not file. He needed a shave badly and his tightly curled dark hair looked as if it had been combed with his fingers. If he knew it, he didn't care. Late twenties, at best, and a smoothness of manner that telegraphed whiz-kid to anyone who cared. Skinner did not; Mulder's little finger had enough whiz-kid in it to keep his teeth grinding well into the night.
"Walter Skinner, FBI," he said shortly, not bothering with further explanation, ignoring the spark of interest that set off in Perry's face. "Has anyone touched anything they shouldn't have?"
A muscle jumped in Perry's jaw before he replied. "No Sir, they have not." A pause and then, "You're not at liberty to give me any more detail than that, Sir?"
You guessed right, son, but even if I was, you wouldn't know about it. Skinner felt a little twisted at the smile that wanted to curl around his mouth. He said nothing and that was reply enough to send Perry lurching into speech again.
"Okay, I'll leave you to…" He trailed off and blinked at Skinner in consternation, clearly unsure how to finish the sentence.
Even clearer to anyone who saw it - and there were a few interested faces turned their way - was the fact that he was not used to being unsure. Take your toys and fuck off, there's a good boy. Skinner let his face show some of that thought before turning back to the body, dismissing Perry from his mind even before he walked away.
The ISU man stayed close to him, managing to be unobtrusive about it, and made his own notes. Finally he asked respectfully, "Know the body, Sir?"
The two men had been together for two hours now but this was his first question. Skinner didn't reply for a while but the silence was more quiet than rude.
"No one really," he said, finally. "Just someone I may have known."
He could feel the agent - Ramsey, that was his name - waiting hopefully but that was all he said. The man who would have called Ramsey on the emergency number, would also have told him to show Skinner what he wanted to see, answer any questions, don't ask any and forget all about him. A little curiosity couldn't be helped, he supposed. He was already stepping around Ramsey before the profiler moved to allow him access to the body. From the look on his narrow friendly face, Skinner got the impression that he had been expecting more fumbles from a man of his size.
He dropped loosely to his haunches, his knees bunching up under him as he leant forward a little. No one said anything but he could feel their eyes on him and it felt surreal enough to make him step out of himself and see what they did. One hand coming out of its pocket to hang motionless over the dead man's face. One finger extending to travel around the spoilt, full mouth and then pressing hard, hard enough to place fresh bruises on the lower lip. Ramsey leaning forward, confused and saying his name, one hand on Skinner's shoulder. Skinner slammed back into himself and jerked his finger away. Blinking, he got to his feet, feeling himself shift back into his own head again.
Turning on the other man, he issued a command, not bothering to couch it as a request. "Make sure nothing happens before all scene photos are taken. I don't want any fuckups."
If Ramsey found him unfair, he made no mention of it. The men were galvanized into action, scrambling into motion, the quiet spell broken. Photographs and temps were taken, the body was carefully swabbed and checked from navel to earhole to asshole, powder dusted, prints made, samples taken for the bug boys and route tracked to an old Chevy parked off the road, two miles to the east. Skinner oversaw their approximations of what was rightfully a crime scene job, as best he could. Even he was the wrong man for the job and he knew it. Mulder had been to more dump sites than Skinner had had birthdays. He put that thought aside, dodging the unease that inevitably chased it down his spine. Until he could sway Manning, Mulder was blacklisted from the investigation and that was that.
John Manning. Skinner felt his jaw begin to clench and deliberately massaged it with the heel of one palm. Manning being in a position to yank his chain, being his boss, was something that he had taught himself to stomach. Half his resentment came from an indistinct urge for promotion, notions of being his own man and having Mulder on a tighter leash, sinfully entangled. The other half stemmed from a distrust of Manning that was next to impossible to overcome. Carrying out his orders rankled but Skinner had had little room to manoeuvre, so far. Looking down at the body, he had an idea that there was a chance here for things to change.
The dead man was young; he couldn't have been more than in his early thirties. He had a clean, almost feline cast to his face with high cheekbones. Bloated and discoloured though that face was, it had obviously been very attractive in life. Short dark hair fell back from the temples, clotted intermittently with spatters of dried blood. Skinner frowned for a moment, then turned his gaze again upon the mangled, obscenely full lips, his hands clenching inside his pockets. A goddamn mess. In the end, that was what this was going to come out to.
Twenty minutes later, when the crime scene was under control as far as could be reasonably expected, he retrieved the cell phone from his pocket and made his call. Not long after, federal agents arrived and shepherded the cops off the scene. He weathered their glares with a nod and some words of thanks that didn't make him any friends. He saw no point in telling them it was the most acknowledgment they were going to get. Getting dragged out of bed to deal with a crime about which they were allowed to know nothing, wasn't where it stopped. Back at their station houses they would all get the same talks from their bosses, each of whom would be pissed. And deservedly so; no one takes kindly to being leant on without being given a reason. Not that Manning gave a fuck about that.
Of course, Manning had never given a fuck. He came from the school of thought that saw law enforcement as a map of jurisdictional hierarchy. In his kingdom, federal agents were gods incarnate. He had laid down the law. Every man at the crime scene today would go back to threats to keep silent about the incident on pain of dismissal without pensions and the full fuck you very much routine. Skinner snorted. Things like this never stayed under the radar. Not for long. All Manning had done was put it off for a week or two, and fucked up FBI and uniform relations over a spread of five precincts in the process. The repercussions, of course, would be visited on Skinner's head the next time he had to call up some guy wearing the pants somewhere and ask that concessions be made for his people, that courtesies be extended, that Mulder be suffered with whatever grace that could be mustered.
He could feel Ramsey's curious gaze moving over him, itching at him in a way that his constant presence had not yet done. Putting aside the urge to snarl, he gave an order to get moving over his shoulder instead and walked back to the car. The silence he maintained on the drive back didn't do a thing to shake the agent's friendly admiration. Skinner winced at the thought of his ego being stroked because he was Mulder's keeper. Even after all this time, he wasn't used to the groupie effect that surrounded Mulder, particularly when it spilt over onto him. Ramsey, at least, confined himself to passing his regards on to Mulder from 'his buddies back at ISU' before handing over the slim file that only he and Skinner had worked up, together.
He went inside without waiting for the other man to drive off and swallowed two more aspirin dry. Made a mental note to forget all about mentioning Mulder's 'buddies' to him. The problem of Patterson aside, he suspected Mulder had made few real friends there. It was unusual to come out of a group of profilers and have that be the situation, but then again, Mulder was unusual enough to fall out with just about anyone he set his pain in the ass mind to. He looked down at the open file on the table and frowned again at the slack-eyed face staring sightlessly back up at him. His hangover had made itself comfortable and he could feel an army of woodpeckers gathering force behind his right eye. Putting on some water to boil, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat down and began to go through the file.
Four hours later, he took his hand made notes and drove himself to work.
As he turned down the passageway to his office, a determined voice called out, "Sir? Sir, may I have a word?"
He looked over his shoulder impatiently and then slowed himself down to a halt. Scully. Naturally.
"Yes, Agent Scully?"
He watched her stride purposefully down the corridor towards him, the sound of her heels echoing behind her. She stopped, a little breathless, and as always, a little begrudging when she had to incline her neck to look up at him.
"Sir, Mulder just called me. He told me there was another one."
Skinner looked at her a moment. "Did he."
"Did it -- was it another one? Mulder said it's another one."
He grimaced, understanding the somewhat cryptic inquiry perfectly. A silent debate led to an equally swift decision. It would be around the Bureau in the next half-hour in any case. As Mulder's partner, she had a right to know.
"Yes," he said, shortly. Then forced himself to expand, feeling an odd reluctance to do so. "This is the third body. It's safe to assume the worst. Tell Agent Mulder I want to see him now, in my office."
Leaving Scully in his wake, looking more than a little frustrated, Skinner went into his office, stopping only to have a quick word with his secretary. Kim, through the mysterious practice of whichever black art she favored, managed to free an hour in his schedule for Mulder. He glanced down at the wide, mute face of the watch on his hand, wondering why he bothered with it. Another understated present from Sharon. Apology or sly impulse, he had never known. It was now 9am. At 9:30am, Skinner began to go through some of the other files piled up on his desk, making a mental note to buy more aspirin for the office. It was still the same day with no end to it when Mulder showed up finally, an hour late.
Skinner didn't look up when he came in, saying instead, "Sit down, Agent Mulder."
He looked at the file for a minute or two more, then spoke to Kim again who promised him nothing. All the while, he remained aware of Mulder's resentment and unease, as he moved a pen here, twisted a paper clip there. What a goddamn mess, he thought again, his mind too sluggish to consider repetition a crime.
Mulder put down the clip hastily after an irretrievable bend and scowled at Skinner's desk. Just what he needed, he thought glumly, a little bit of schizophrenic Skinner to start the day with. Patterson, even if he had been a bastard, had been consistent. Any concern he had shown for Mulder's well being had related directly to the getting of results. In return for those, Mulder had been given the freedom to do any damn thing he wanted. Hell or not, it had been uncomplicated. Working for Skinner was a series of landmines, the things that set him off, as incomprehensible to Mulder as the things that pleased him. By sheer dint of keeping his mouth shut, he remained immune to anything more than Mulder's crudest profiling. Where Patterson molded his men into his own image, Skinner kept himself shuttered and locked down.
Yet he took an interest in Mulder that was clearly unrelated to solve rates or budgetary blow-outs. As early as three months after being transferred to the XFiles, Skinner had begun angling for a change in the distance between them. What exactly he was trying to achieve, was hard to say. As much as Mulder could make it out, he was going a little out of his way to be an ally of sorts. Whether Mulder wanted that or not. More often than not there were times when Skinner's brand of empathy was the last thing he wanted; times when Scully would take up a softer tone with him, unaware of the leeway she was given, would always be given, unaware that it didn't help a damn. Skinner, by contrast, got none and didn't seem to care. He continued to turn up in the basement, heedless of Scully's glares, poking at Mulder wherever he was most thinly contained. Belatedly Mulder would realize just how inadvisable his responses were, and hard on the heels of that, would come another realization, never failing to get a rise out of him. For all that Skinner transparently wanted to haul off and draw blood at such times, somewhere in all the graceless words they spent on each other, he was content.
Skinner, content. Nothing that could be seen on his face, heavy with whatever burden he chose to carry so faithfully. Close study was out of the question yet he knew he wasn't imagining the shift in the air when it came. He wasn't sure if it made him happy. That much was uncertain still. But he was grateful. Most of the time, he was grateful. He found himself looking for words which could be carelessly strung together, words to match the other man's precise, stilted kindnesses. They only ever translated into an isolated comment or another clue, a better way. Yet Mulder remained grateful.
Then this. Since the bodies began to turn up two months ago, Skinner had barred Mulder from any involvement and stonewalled all his attempts to find out about the investigation. This was the first time in one month that he had seen the inside of the AD's psychosocially neat office, without Scully. Slumping lower in the armchair, he worried at the inside of his cheek, cringing at himself, blistered and exaggerated. Pathetic. He worried a moment longer, then looked up to see Skinner watching him, a grave look at the back of his eyes. Unreasonably, it irritated him.
"Sir? Scully said you wanted to see me."
His tone, deliberately off-hand, a little insolent; nothing that could be held up and examined.
"How did you know there was another one today, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder stared. Skinner knew; somehow he knew. "Scully spoke to you, Sir?"
Skinner didn't reply, refusing to be drawn in. He simply waited, and looked as though he might go on waiting endlessly. Mulder had no intention of finding out for himself.
His admission, when he made it, was genuinely unhappy. "I...know someone from the crime scene, Sir."
He looked down at his hands, laced together tightly in his lap. Why? Why be so stupid? Why take the risk? Given another body, at the very most, Skinner would have had no choice but to bring him aboard the investigation. Fuck. He risked a glance up. Fuck. Skinner let him twist a moment longer before showing him just how much slack he'd hung himself with.
"He would have left the scene at 6:00 am in the morning, Agent Mulder and been at his station house by 7:00 am. Every officer was accounted for, at both ends. What circumstances arose that lead him to pass on that knowledge to you at some point during that time and 7:00 am?"
"Son of a bitch!" He breathed the words out even as he tried to bite them back.
"Oh, I've been busy." Skinner smiled thinly. "Now. I asked you a question."
Mulder tensed in his chair, his voice gaining a thick edge, audible even to himself. It cost him something to tell the truth but he wouldn't have thought to do otherwise. Not right now. Not if he ever wanted to lie to Skinner and get away with it.
"I was sleeping with him at the time Sir."
He leant back in his chair, too angry to speak for a moment. Finally he said, "What in hell do you think you're doing, sleeping with someone who worked the crime scene?"
"I didn't plan it." Mulder said bleakly. "I didn't even know he was a cop until this morning."
"And how long have you known him for, before this fact became obvious to you?"
Mulder hesitated. "Since last night."
Skinner got up from around his desk abruptly and walked past Mulder towards the door, saying, "Stay there."
Mulder didn't reply but Skinner could see the resignation in his eyes. What did he think was going to happen, an execution? Let him stew, he thought to himself with uncharacteristic malice and left his office, telling Kim to free up the rest of the afternoon. He dodged her protests without any real success and caught an elevator up to Manning's office. That would be a cross to bear for another day. After a few moments, the doors slid open with a sigh and the desk men waved him through as he nodded to them. This was the fifth time this month that they had seen him up here. The reason they were up here was that they had forgotten him every single time.
After more useless manoeuvring, he was admitted to Manning's inner sanctum. He greeted the dapper man standing behind the large desk and was given a glimpse of that flashy, ever-ready smile. Simon Gills was there as well. He nodded carefully at Skinner, his soft, blond hair flopping over one temple like a schoolboy's cowlick, and kept one eye on his superior. Skinner remembered when Gills was just another agent, despising along with him the type of high flyer that Manning represented. Then the offer came down from Manning, who had always had a keen eye for would be acolytes, and Gills was tempted once too often. If it ever bothered him that the only position he would fill would be as chief bootlicker, he hid it well. In fact, as far as Skinner could tell, he revelled in the position. Looking at him now, he found it impossible to place Gills in the same circle of men he'd spent long, tired, jittery hours with in Georgetown bars, winding up or winding down, according to the need. Not that it was easy to place any of those faces any more; it all seemed a lifetime ago.
Ignoring Gills, he said flatly to Manning, "I need Agent Mulder."
Gills moved one hand to his hair, brushing it out of his eyes agitatedly, about to speak.
Skinner overrode him. "There was a third body today. It's identical to the others. There can be no more question of coincidences."
Manning made an overly thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. "Just between us, Walter, the potential public risk factor of this investigation is already beyond what we, here, would consider acceptable. What's more, in this particular investigation, Agent Mulder can hardly stay objective. And, as we all know, at the best of times, he has never been particularly... biddable. What kind of leash can you keep on him?"
"If you're asking for details, you won't get them, John. You know that. Agent Mulder obeys orders where I am concerned, as much as he will for anyone else. There can be no guarantees but I'll be breathing right down his neck. That'll have to be enough. What I know that you don't, if there is such a thing, is a moot point."
Manning's face took on a look of exaggerated surprise tinged with just the right amount of indulgence. "Walter, Walter. I know you aren't at liberty to discuss every single thing. That's the beauty of this organisation isn't it? Wheels within wheels. Have your man, Walter, have him. All I ask, is that you control him. Even a slight deviation could prove...unwise for Agent Mulder, as I'm sure you know."
Manning lifted supplicating hands up to Skinner and Gills smiled brightly at his chief's show of magnanimity. Skinner remained visibly unmoved.
Finally, he said, "These are the rules then. No surveillance - no watchers, no taps and no reports apart from my own."
Manning replied a little too quickly, a little derisively, "What will you do then? Marry him?"
Skinner replied quietly, "Not exactly. But you organize an apartment in a prominently private area and Mulder and I will move in there, together."
Manning said, a little louder than necessary, "Out of the question. Walter, are you mad? This...this personal connection is suicide. If Mulder jumps, you fall."
Gills looked anxiously from one man to the other, looking for all the world as if he doesn't know whether to bark or wag his tail, thought Skinner viciously.
He said curtly, "That's my point exactly, John. You know he's necessary from this moment onwards. If I'm not there, he will jump. As it is, I'm having trouble keeping him out of this thing. You have to agree that the sooner this is over, the better it'll be for all of us." He paused, feeling the same weariness that always invaded him up here, creeping into his voice, and tried to correct it. No point in curdling the milk while he still had plans for it. "All the bodies have been men, John."
Both Gills and Manning looked slightly nauseous for a second and then Manning nodded. "Okay Walter, this one's your call. Simon will make the arrangements."
Skinner nodded, ignoring the unspoken warning and made for the door, saying as he did, "Thank you. John...Simon. I'll move Agent Mulder onto the investigation right away. No point in wasting time."
He stood erect in the elevator going down, resisting the impulse to massage the small throbbing point behind his left eye. He looked down at his watch. Twenty minutes for that little 'moment in the life of'.
He surprised Mulder attempting to reshape the paper clip when he returned to his office and Mulder promptly tossed it back into the bowl on his desk, where it lay carelessly.
"You can do as you're told then?" he said mildly, for the sake of saying something.
Mulder spared him a distantly polite smile before staring back down at his hands. Skinner took in the half-brooding, half-sullen look Mulder was wearing, the telltale paleness around the corners of his mouth. He hated that look. It made him feel like a needle in a vein. There was something indecent in the way Mulder exposed his neck that way, showing Skinner the damage done to him, the capacity to take it, because take it he must. How else did he go on, with only his ghosts for company? He didn't see this side of Mulder very often and he was wholeheartedly, selfishly glad of the fact. It did something to him; it brought some unpleasantly generous tolerance out of him, both alien and unwanted.
Even as he sat there, Skinner felt it, felt that upsurge of sentiment - pity was too fine, too noble a word for it - for the other man, threading itself into his distaste, tempering the anger flowing fast and heavy between them, under their shared silence. He knew his almost overwhelming fear of personal taint. Such a perverse eccentricity in a man who would cross any boundary in his professional life, never apologetic. Aware that he was chasing muses while Mulder was watching him tensely, Skinner put him out of his misery.
"Relax, Agent Mulder, the Morality Police aren't going to pay you a visit, cleverly disguised as pizza boys. I just got you onto this investigation."
Mulder stared back at him incredulously.
Skinner couldn't help a touch of smugness in his voice as he asked, "Speechless? Didn't know it was possible."
Mulder finally found his voice again and asked bluntly, "Why?"
Skinner felt his jaw tightening even as the other man spoke, and gave it to Mulder just the way he was angling to get it. "Mulder, all the bodies are men. The killer tortured and raped them before killing them. And...all three look like you."
At that, Mulder almost laughed out loud. Holy shit. Jesus. Je-SUS, he thought again, this time with a spurt of anger to chase down the thought. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting - some kind of bizarre revelation at the very least. But oh, apparently, these guys Looked like him. Well, fuck.
"Sir," he said patiently, careful not to give in to the urge to drawl. "Have you had a good look at me? I'm tall, have dark hair, dark eyes, a big nose. A lot of people look like me."
Skinner shook his head slowly. "No, Agent Mulder, I don't think you understand me."
He scowled at Mulder, his face tight and uneasy. "Mulder, when I say they look like you, I mean exactly that. Do you understand? These men could be your doubles."
Mulder made an aborted little gesture with his right hand and then placed it carefully by his side. Stop that. This had to be a joke right? He looked at Skinner and trying to make light of it, said the first thing he could think of, "So, here I was, thinking that my honed deductive skills were in hot demand and you want to know who I sleep with."
Even to Mulder, it didn't sound that funny. Taking a look at Skinner, it didn't seem to him as though he was that far off the mark. Something dark and displeased chased itself across the other man's face, and when he spoke, his voice was flat, all interest erased from it. "Look, I don't want to do this but I need you on this case. Maybe you haven't thought this through yet but apart from the obvious implications of this information, someone is trying to kill you."
Mulder looked down at his hands, laced together in his lap, knitting Skinner's face and words into a revelation of disgust. Yeah, well, that made two of them. If he could pick a secret and a person that he least wanted to come together, this cheery moment was a clear winner. He'd do it all again, he thought then, fiercely. What did Skinner's disgust matter? That was natural. And good. A shove in the back, a clenched fist, even better. He had earned it. How much of this would Skinner need to know, want to know? More to the point, he thought belatedly, how much does he already know?
"Sir," he said tightly. "Sir, how long have you known of this possible threat to my life?"
Skinner didn't even blink. "From the moment we found the first body, Agent Mulder, there was a decision made, at a higher level, to keep you under constant surveillance."
Mulder decided that asking questions was bad. Maybe if he just sat there and stared some more, all this would just fall away. Hard on the heels of this eminently suitable plan of action, he felt a knot of fury marshalling force within him. Constant surveillance. They were watching him, listening to him. Anger flared within him, hot and shameful. The newest of resolutions broken and he spoke again, keeping his eyes on the dull shine of Skinner's desk.
"So, people have been watching me? Listening to me?"
He was sure he was imagining it but Skinner's voice almost seemed to have dropped a notch or two, until it was almost conciliatory.
"I had no choice, Mulder."
"I understand, Sir."
Bleak, short words but they were all he could force out. They'd have to do. If he pushed anything else out, he might not be able to stop just there. Words, like worms, were crawling across his tongue, sloughing off the insides of his cheeks as though they had been waiting for this very moment. Skinner was not the man he planned to piss off today, not just for the sake of spitting them out.
He risked a quick look at the AD and then wished he hadn't as Skinner, taking it as a sign of recovery, said with cool sympathy, "I've seen the tapes and read the transcripts, Mulder. There was no...choice."
Not the right time to take a breath. He was fairly certain that stopping his own pulse didn't range amongst his talents, but no harm in wishing. He wondered if he had always been falling towards this moment, or whether discovery was always such a drawn-out affair. Who'd want a choice like that? Hey, Skinner, not having enough fun being in charge of 'Spooky' Mulder? Well spend a few hours sifting through the sordid mess he calls a private life. See the pathos and filth and misery that one man can generate for himself. Put suspicion aside, see the proof. Look at what you didn't know. Mulder gave himself a mental shake. Stop it.
He said carefully, nearly awed by the sound of his own voice, steady as a rock. Career on the stage? Why fucking not.
"So, what vital services am I here to perform?"
"Move into an apartment with me so that the killer thinks you have a serious lover and tries to overstep himself."
Overstep himself. Mulder blinked, his eyes nearly unfocused from the effort of trying to see what was right there in front of him. Skinner shifted his gaze away, clearly irritated by the scrutiny that Mulder ordinarily tried to spare him. He felt a sudden desire to tear at the heavy face of the other man until he could see past it to the thoughts inside. He was being hedged into corners. Move into an apartment with me. No sorry, no by your leave. Just demands. Serious lover. Outrageous demands.
Skinner watched the conflicting expressions move through Mulder's darkening eyes. Playing the schoolyard bully over this, left a taste in his mouth that any number of shouting matches over Mulder's expense accounts, his unreasonable risk-taking, his stubborn refusal to see another point of view, would never do. Not that Skinner had changed his mind; the task remained the same. He had been made painfully aware of just how unbiddable Mulder was.
"Well?" he asked. "What do you want out of this, Agent Mulder? Time is not at a premium."
"What choice do I have. Sir."
Bare agreement, but it was good enough. Had to be good enough.
"Questions?"
His attempt at normality only served to deepen the lines of strain at the corners of Mulder's mouth. He was again sharply aware of the potential this whole investigation had, to simply spiral out of control.
"You know about the...the motels?"
Wishing he could have one hour without repercussion, alone with Manning, Skinner nodded deliberately before saying, "There were no cameras in your apartment, Mulder. Every recording was made in the motel rooms. There were taps on your phone but since you rarely place any personal calls, this shouldn't worry you."
Rethought that last sentence immediately as Mulder's eyes brightened with humiliation. He paused, warning himself and then winced at the sight of Mulder holding it together in front of him. He'd gotten his end of the bargain; he could afford to be a little magnanimous.
"It might ease your mind to know, Agent Mulder, that at the moment, I am the only one privy to any recorded data on you and I hold it all."
Mulder's face took on another, albeit unreadable, expression.
Skinner rephrased, sure the other man hadn't understood him. "I mean that I personally view the data. No one else sees it and I make an edited report of your movements. That was one concession I managed to get for you."
Mulder blinked solemnly at him for a moment, for all the world like a studious child contemplating an answer just outside his grasp. The very next instant, he flowed out of his seat and stood, swaying silently, one hand touching Skinner's desk. Skinner wasn't aware he'd followed suit until he found himself looking down into Mulder's ominously pale face.
"Mulder? What is it? What's wrong?"
Mulder replied in a soft, dislocated voice, "I'm going to throw up. Please...please Sir."
Skinner noted almost clinically that the flesh on Mulder's forearms, exposed to the elbows in rolled up shirt sleeves, was raised in uneven bumps. He stood there helplessly, staring at the man he had thought he was beginning to understand.
END OF PART 1
