I love them. God only knows what they'd do if I shared this information with them. Run for cover, probably. It's certainly not the kind of thing a woman who like Agent Scully - a woman who's spent nearly a decade proving herself just as tough, just as capable as her male colleagues - wants to hear from her male superior. And, as much as she wouldn't want to hear it, Agent Mulder wouldn't want to hear it ten times more. He's definitely not the kind of man who wants to her professions of love from another man.

So, I'll never tell them. Because they'd
misunderstand. She'd assume I was making some sort of
sexually suggestive remark and he'd assume I was
experiencing homoerotic urges.

But it's not like that. It's nothing like the feelings I felt for Sharon, the woman who was my wife for so many years. It's not even similar to the mildly erotic enjoyment I get from occasionally letting my gaze linger a bit too long on my pretty young secretary. It's closer, I suppose, to the feelings I felt for the other Marines in my unit in Vietnam. A comrade in arms type of feeling.

They don't seem to have many friends, but they've got
each other. And those weird computer geeks. They've
got me, too, but sometimes they seem a little unsure
as to whether or not I'm truly their friend. My own
fault, I suppose. For too many years, I tried to walk
the line.

Quite frankly, their passion scares me. Their passion
for the truth, for justice. . .but most of all, for
each other. The one thing I've learned over the years
is that you don't stand in Mulder's way when he's
trying to save Scully's life. Or vice versa. She
almost shot me, years ago, when she thought he was
dead and I had been a party to it.

That's why I shot the man who carried in his
bloodstream the cure to the disease that was ravaging
Agent Mulder's body. It's a decision I'll have to
explain to my own superiors, one that won't be easy.
An assistant director at the bureau should know better than to shoot an unarmed man. But I was saving the lives of two of my finest agents. Oh, I probably won't put that into my official report. Officially, the only life I was saving was Mulder's. But I know in my heart that to lose him would kill Scully just as efficiently - and almost as quickly - as a bullet to the brain.

When I walk into the hospital room, she's sitting on
his bed. Ruffling his hair with her fingers, leaning
low to whisper in his ear, smiling at him. He must be
doing better.

Mulder actually sees me first, gestures with his hand. Scully turns to look at me and smiles.  One of the things I like about them is that they never go through that nervous "who, us?" routine when I catch them in what most agents would consider a compromising situation. Like when I knocked on Agent Mulder's door at seven in the morning a few months ago and Agent Scully answered. She didn't offer any explanations as to her presence, nor did I ask for any. The three of us have our own particular version of the "Don't ask, Don't tell" policy.

"He's doing better, Agent Scully?" I ask.

"Yes sir. The nicotine treatment seems to have
worked."

"Good, then. I'm heading back up to D.C. I trust
you'll stay here with your partner until he's
recovered to the point where he can travel?"

"Of course, sir."

"Skinner," Mulder rasps out, his voice gravelly from
the infection and treatment he has undergone.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

I give them a brief smile. "You're welcome, agents."