Chapter two: Excursion Around the Bay

Skinner listened to the shower sounds; water running, Mulder butchering an old Elvis tune; and couldn’t help grinning. He wasn’t one for idle flights of fancy, but if his life was going to be this good, this constant, well then—

He found fry pans and the juicer and another smile, this one for the fat tortoise-shell cat that strolled into the room and wound itself around his ankles, purring expectantly.

“You hungry, Sundae?” he asked, stooping a moment to pet the cat, then turning back to the cupboards. “Well, if you ate the mice you catch instead of just hiding them in my
shoes, I wouldn’t have to mortgage the house to keep you in tender vittles, would I?”

Who are you talking to?” Mulder inquired as he entered the kitchen clad in Skinner’s dark green terrycloth robe. He was using a small towel the same shade to rub the water from his hair

“Your cat.” Skinner replied.

“*My* cat? How come when the box needs changing or the food needs buying, he’s *my* cat, but when he’s being all cute and kittenish, he’s your cat?” As he spoke, Mulder investigated the breakfast Skinner was preparing, and then made his way to the coffee pot. As he filled a large mug with rich French roast, Skinner came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, molding their bodies together neatly.

Nuzzling his hair and then nipping briefly at his earlobe, Skinner replied, “When you’re all cute and kittenish, you’re mine, too.”

Mulder tried to turn and tried to frown, failed at both, and settled for leaning into the warm embrace and muttering, “Kittenish?”

Skinner laughed and released him.

“Puppyish?” he offered.

“You’re getting senile in your old age, Walter,” Mulder said, but the warm tone in his voice banished any sting from his words.

“This coming from the man who insisted on naming his cat ‘Hot Fudge Sundae, International Cat of Mystery.’” Skinner shot back. He gave the bacon frying on the stove a critical eye, and then turned to reach into the cupboard above Mulder’s head for the cat food.

“Hey,” Mulder pouted. “You said you liked the name.”

“We must have had that conversation in bed.” He turned around and called out “C’mon, Sundae, soup’s on!”

Mulder smiled at Skinner’s surly tone; it had definitely mellowed since he’d sat in the Assistant Director’s chair, and he wondered what the agents at the Bureau would make of this kinder, gentler A.D.

He was nose deep in his coffee cup a second later when he heard the skittering sound of what could only be cat food sliding across the linoleum. Even as he was turning, Mulder’s first thought was that Skinner had tripped over Sundae and the animal was about to become *his* cat permanently. “Hey, are you--?”

Skinner had dropped the box of cat food, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. He stared at Mulder a moment, muttered something like “burning?” and dropped like an anvil.

“Oh, shit!”

Mulder’s coffee cup flew as he rushed to Skinner’s side.

“Walter? Walter!”

Skinner’s eyes were open but unseeing, and blood trickled sluggishly from his nose.

“Aw, fuck!” Mulder cried, jumping to his feet. He immediately slipped in a mess of still warm coffee and cat food, nearly landed on his ass, then caught himself and ran for the phone.

***

Mulder paced the small waiting room like a bear in an old fashioned cage, managing to appear both bored and manic at the same time. He alternated between prayers of thanks for the STARS Helicopter Program that Calgary had implemented, knowing the time saved by the air trip might be all the difference Skinner needed, and curses of retribution against the staff and doctors of the Foothills hospital. They had taken slick and effective control of the situation and shunted Mulder right out of the loop, leaving him to cool his heels in the waiting room.

His frustration had just hit the ‘I’m about to take hostages’ stage of the game when the doctor who had met the helicopter walked in, looking perplexed.

“Mr. Mulder?”

“What happened?” Mulder demanded, stepping so close to the doctor that he could smell mint toothpaste and cheap aftershave on the man under the hospital anti-biotic smells.

The doctor held his clipboard up almost defensively. “Calm down, Mr. Mulder. I—“

“Is he okay?”

“Mr. Skinner is resting comfortably. He’ll need to stay with us overnight, for observation, of course. Then we can talk about the next course of treatment.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mulder curled his hands into fists, fighting the urge to shake the doctor. It grew to be more of a losing battle and he clenched tighter as the doctor answered a question with a question.

“Is there a member of the immediate family you can contact? A parent, or—“

“Oh, no!” Another tightening of his fingers and he could feel his nails digging into his palms. “No fucking way! We are not doing this!” He glared through the tears that were threatening, ignored the doctor’s repeated request for him to calm down, and said in a voice thick with worry but perfectly clear: “Hear this: I am as immediate a family member as you are going to find. And if you are going to go all Ralph Klein on me at the expense of my lover’s health, I’m going to find a nice big ‘notwithstanding’ clause, and beat you to death with it!”

“It’s a tumor,” the doctor blurted suddenly.

“A what now?” At first Mulder thought he had misunderstood. When the doctor repeated himself, he felt his insides suddenly turn hot and loose and watery, and he wondered if he was going to piss his pants before he fainted, or after.

“A t-tumor?” Sour gas rose up from his stomach and he added vomiting to his list of options. His head felt swimmy and the doctor’s hand felt hot and heavy on his shoulder. Words were coming from the man, but they sounded muffled and far away.

“Mr. Mulder? Perhaps you should take a seat.”

‘Take it where?’ he thought stupidly, but his feet led him to a chair and then he was sitting and looking up at the doctor and feeling like a little boy.

“Has Mr. Skinner had a history of anything like this before? We can’t get any information on him from our data banks, and—“

“No,” Mulder interrupted, thinking of the hours the Gunmen had spent erasing their very existence from as many of these exact data banks.

“Well, without some more tests, there isn’t much more we can determine at this time—“

“It’s a brain tumor?” Mulder demanded.

“Yes, that’s right. But—“

“Is it operable?” Mulder bit his lower lip, hard, and wondered if he really wanted an answer.

“Normally I would say yes. It’s a small mass, and we’ve found it early enough—you said this was the first time anything like this had happened, is that right?”

“He was fine.  He is fine. You said ‘normally’.” Eyes wide and terrified, Mulder fought the urge to cry, the urge to run, and found his center-- the tempered steel that was at the core of who he was, the part of him that had always and would always demand the truth, no matter the cost.

“Our initial scans have come up with an interesting anomaly,” replied the doctor. He reached into the sheaf of papers in his hand and pulled out what appeared to be an x-ray, presumably of Skinner’s brain. He handed it to Mulder, who stared in horror at the very familiar hexagon shaped spots that were massed together somewhere in his lover’s head.

“It’s a bit blurry, due to their movement,” the doctor told him, but Mulder needed no explanation. And he already knew what the doctor was going to say next, even before the words came.

“They appear to be carbon.”

End 2/19