Chapter 5: Last Beautiful Girl

"You needed to still be friends
Needed me to
Call you if I ever couldn’t keep it all together
You’d comfort me
Tell me but forever
And the promises I never should have believed in…"

The alarm’s shrill beeping pulled him from dreamless sleep, another shower brought him fully awake, and he grimaced with distaste as he pulled on his clothes from the day before, opting to go commando for the day. He wasn’t sure how long the trip was going to take, and he had no expectations of being able to stop along the way to do a load of laundry. He’d just have to make do.

The rain that had dogged his trail thus far was no more than a distant blue memory this morning, and somehow this, combined with the good time he was making, and the lack of government issue cars on the same stretch of highway, all conspired to make him feel a little better. Still the sense of urgency, still some nagging worry, but not the bleak despair that had come over him last night.

Another day passed, another state passed, both in a whirl of highways, secondary routes when he thought they might be quicker, bad coffee and take out food. He found himself having to spend a few extra minutes at a rest stop on the Minnesota border when his stomach rebelled against the greasy hamburger and fries he’d wolfed down on the drive. He found a few choice curse words that he’d been saving, apparently for just such an occasion, picked up antacid at the next town, and kept going.

When the darkest part of the night found him yawning in the middle of nowhere, he simply pulled the truck over as far as he could from the main road, shut her off and reclined his seat. 

It was something like the way he’d felt in Vietnam. His sleep was hard and restful, but short in duration, and he found himself waking automatically only a few short hours later. He didn’t feel tired at all. He was aware that part of this was adrenaline, which was currently being dumped into his system by the bucket, and part of it was fear. In the Asian jungles, you learned to sleep where you stood, and wake at the crackling of a leaf a hundred yards away. You never knew who might be coming after you. This situation felt so similar, that he wondered briefly if looking out his window he might see those damnable child-like soldiers in their black pajamas, waiting to get a clear shot at him.

He adjusted the seat and sat up with a groan as something cracked in his back. It ached at first, and then felt good, and Mulder would have told him that he was just releasing carbon monoxide gas from the joint capsules in his spine. 

Stepping out of the truck, he slipped around the side to relieve himself. Another stretch and a scratch, and he was hopping back into the vehicle. He quickly consulted one of the many maps in the glove box, and was back in motion in minutes, with a silent promise to himself of clean clothes and a hot shower as soon as he hit the border.

The rain he’d avoided all the day before came back with a vengeance, making the truck feel stuffy and closed in. He finally said the hell with it, and opened the window, getting himself damp, but feeling less claustrophobic, not to mention getting the scent of three day old Skinnerclothes out of the vehicle.

By the time he had made it to North Dakota, he was fervently wishing he’d used one of his airline tickets. But he also knew that it would have been the first place they would have looked for him, and that a single vehicle on the run was the safest way to do the job. He didn’t know what he was going to find here, and any time he thought about it too hard, he started to feel queasy, so he had simply made a plan, put it in motion, and thought of nothing but getting to his destination.

The sky was growing dark when he found a truck stop that specialized in big rigs and the men who drove them, and he nearly felt a physical twinge of longing when he saw the sign advertising showers and rooms.

He didn’t think he could manage to stop now, so near his goal, but he knew he was going to definitely take advantage of the amenities. He found an empty stall at the end of the lot, grabbed his bag from the back of the truck, and managed not to get pissy with the man behind the counter, who sniffed visibly when he asked about using the showers. He imagined briefly putting his hands around the man’s skinny throat and squeezing until his eyeballs popped out, then politely asked for directions. The man waved him away with a key and a towel, and he left the office, walked down a little path at the back of the building, and found a large communal shower set back from the highway.

His groan of almost ecstatic relief bounced off the acoustically inclined walls of the large shower stall. He found soap that was of almost industrial grade, not like that lousy motel soap, this stuff lathered up like mad, and washed away all the grit and dirt and a lot of worry with it.

After a half way decent meal, which he wouldn’t remember eating later, several cups of strong coffee, and a quick check up for the Blazer, just because the mechanic on duty was offering, he was back on the road, and the miles seemed to go by that much quicker. His only regret was not shaving. His beard grew quickly when left unattended, and he felt shaggy and unkempt.

As he neared the Bismark city limits, he consulted his hastily scribbled directions, once again silently thanked Langly for his geeky abilities, and in no time at all, he was pulling into the parking lot of a large, sleek and new looking building.

He shut off the truck and just sat looking at the outside of the Bismark General Hospital for a long time. At first, he wasn’t sure that he could actually make his legs move, make his feet take the steps into that building, which housed as much death as life. A building that could hold the end of his lover, and in a way, the end of himself, should that be the case. And then, after remembering Frohike’s assurances, vague as they may have been, he wondered if he needed to find a back entrance. He thought about guards, and surveillance, and things he’d learned as an FBI agent, and as a marine.

Double checking the rounds in his gun, he stepped out of the car.

A cool breeze hinted that the rain, which seemed to be his only constant companion, hadn’t finished with him yet, but the last thing on his mind was the weather.  Noah himself could have been fussing with cubits of gopher wood in the parking lot, and he wouldn’t have noticed at this point.

Once he got moving, it became easier. That litany, the one that had become the soundtrack for his life, got louder and louder: Mulder, Mulder, Mulder…

Inside the hospital, he assessed his options, completely disregarded the admissions desk, and headed straight for the elevators, and the Intensive Care Unit on the top floor. During the ride up he said a quick fervent prayer to a God he hadn’t been sure was still with him until Mulder had come into his life, asking to maintain the status quo in that regard.

He steeled himself with a deep breath when the elevator came to a stop, and stepped out into the hall.

“Walter!” 

He turned at the familiar voice, stunned to see John Doggett racing up the hall to meet him.

“John!” he exclaimed. “How did you get here?”

Doggett smiled nastily. “It’s amazing what you hear when you’re on surveillance.”

Skinner smiled back just as meanly, and they fell into step together.

“Talk to me, John. What happened?”

“Well, we’re not exactly sure.” They turned a corner, and he continued. “And the only one who could tell us ain’t talkin’”

Frohike was standing outside one of the rooms, and when he saw the two men approaching, he rushed the few short feet between them and wrapped his arms around Skinner’s waist with a happy shout. “Big guy!”

“Unh!—hi, Melvin.” Skinner was knocked back a step by the exuberance of the smaller man’s welcome. He gave Frohike a quick, almost embarrassed hug, and then shook him off gently like he was a puppy.

“Okay, I’m here now,” he said, “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Even as he spoke gruffly, he could feel something inside him cringing, wanting to turn, run, do anything but face what might be behind the door Frohike had been guarding.

Doggett held the door open for him.

He felt like he was moving through water, through syrup. His steps felt heavy and slow—he could hear his own heart beat, thudding dully in his chest, in counterpoint to the shrill monotonous beep of a heart monitor somewhere nearby. ‘Cardiac jazz’ he thought stupidly, and then he was glaring at Langly and Byers, who stood blocking his view of the bed. They turned to him and didn’t smile, despite their obvious relief and pleasure at seeing him there. Instead, they parted like human curtains on a hospital stage, slowly revealing the lead actor in this particular play, which at times was a comedy, but was now definitely a tragedy of Tony winning proportions.

It wasn’t Mulder.

So great was his relief that he actually swayed on his feet for a moment, and didn’t immediately show any horror at who was in fact lying motionless in that hospital bed. For a brief instant, he could only be ecstatic that he wasn’t looking at Fox Mulder, in yet another hospital bed, flirting with death.

Byers grabbed his arm to steady him, and Dana Scully opened her eyes.

“Oh, God…” He tried not to see. He tried just to focus on her eyes, and not look at—not see—

It was impossible, and he felt tears welling up in his eyes at the sight of the barely healed and brutally recognizable wounds. Livid scars that were once gaping tears in the flesh, three on each cheek. They were closed over enough that bandages weren’t necessary, but fresh enough to still give Scully’s face a swollen and misshapen look.  Angry red swelling and milk pale skin made her blue eyes nearly black in contrast.

A white sheet was pulled up nearly to her neck, but Skinner didn’t need to see to know what was there. He’d seen Mulder’s body after—after—

She had an oxygen tube in her nose, and something else in the one arm that he could see above the sheet. He glanced away from the needle in the crook of her elbow, saw a thick bandage covering her wrist, and sought out her eyes again.

“Scully…” he whispered, aghast that this could happen again, and to her of all people. And if they had taken her, then what—

His thoughts were cut off abruptly by a noise, like a sigh, from the badly hurt woman. He shook his head immediately.

“Don’t try to talk,” he insisted, even when another part of him was screaming to hear what she had to say. He reached out to brush an errant lock of red hair from her brow, and she suddenly grabbed his arm.

As she moved her own arm, she visibly paled, and her eyes slipped shut.

“Come on.” Doggett had moved in beside Skinner and now tried to pull him away from Scully.

Suddenly her grip on his arm became ferocious and her eyes flew open, snapping and flashing angrily at he two men. She apparently wanted Skinner right where he was.

“Scully—“ Skinner said, and at the same time, “Dana—“ said Doggett.

The two men looked at each other, and Doggett nodded his understanding and moved back. Skinner realized in that moment that there was more going on here than just agent-to-agent concern—at least on John Doggett’s part. He wondered if Scully knew. He hoped so.

A firm tug totally at odds with the frail appearance of the woman on the bed, and Skinner gave her his full attention.

“Walter…” she sighed.

“It’s okay, Dana,” he replied, trying to convince himself. “You’re safe now.”

“Muh—Muh—“

He knew what word she was trying to form, and icy dread settled January-like around his heart.

“What about Mulder?” he asked, unable to raise his voice above a whisper.

Scully’s mouth opened and closed, bird-like, but no sound came out. Instead, she swallowed, winced and closed her eyes again. But her grip on him remained strong.

“Water?” Skinner asked both Scully and the room in general, and got no reply save a small cough from Dana. No one else moved.

“Who’s with me here?” he suddenly snapped angrily. Turning to Langly, who was closest, he snapped, “Blondie, get some damned water in here—NOW!”

Langly nearly tripped over himself running to the bathroom, and would have poured the whole glassful on Skinner on the way back had Doggett not caught the fumbling glass, pulling it smoothly out of the young man’s hands and taking it to the bed.

He brushed past Skinner, who was holding his hand out for the glass, and instead he found a spot on the bed where he could lift Scully’s head, cradle it with infinite gentleness, and hold the glass to her lips.

Once again, Skinner was moved by the depth of emotion radiating out of John Doggett for the woman held in his arms, and he hoped there’d be a future for them, should Scully feel the same way.

Despite the situation, “doctor” Scully made a brief appearance, as she sipped slowly at the water, and drank only enough to slake the worst of her thirst.

Skinner admired her. He knew that had their roles been reversed, he would have drunk greedily, and then thanked them for the water by yakking all over the sheets.

Scully still held him by the wrist, and now she turned her attention back on him, not noticing the hurt look on Doggett’s face.

“Scully,” Skinner said, “Dana, you need to rest. What you’ve been through…I know, but—but—“ His voice cracked. “Was Mulder taken again?”

In the pause that followed, Skinner had time to reflect briefly on Mulder’s last round of Now You See Him Now You Don’t with the aliens, and he knew that his lover could not survive another abduction.

When Scully shook her head he felt another wave of relief crest over him. ‘Much more of this he thought, and I'm going to drown.’

“He—he got away.” The words slipped so softly from her lips that he almost didn’t hear her. A moment later, he processed and tried to smile. Seeing Scully’s injuries, it was impossible to.

“No time,” Scully was whispering again, her eyes imploring. “You have to go.”

“Where, Scully?” Now he was hanging onto her arm as vehemently as she was tugging on his.

“Listen,” More weak coughing, and Doggett moved in again with the water. Scully waved him away, but with a look of gratitude that mollified him somewhat.

“M-Mulder—“ Fine spittle flecked her lips, and Skinner was alarmed to see it was pink-tinged. “Mulder,” she said again. “He—we—there was a plan.” She glanced down at herself, then back up with a rueful hurt grin. “This was not part of the plan.”

Her words demanded a smile despite himself, and he gave it to her, soft and gentle.

“If we got separated, or—or—“ She wasn’t sure how to finish. “We each had a safe place. And a code phrase to use for someone we luh—“ another pause. “My mom…you…”

Skinner brushed a hand over his eyes. Then he leaned in close.

“What did he say, Scully?”

“He said…”

She trailed off, and Skinner was torn between comforting the stricken woman and strangling her if he had forgotten.

“He’s looking for the truth—“

That didn’t help at all.

“Or an acorn…”

Skinner ran from the room.