CATEGORY: SRA, Slash (Mulder/Skinner UST)

RATING: PG13 for language and m/m interaction.

SPOILERS: None

SUMMARY: Mulder finds out more about Skinner's past

THANKS: To Hal for her excellent beta-reading talents and to all our friends for nagging us to finish this.

DISCLAIMER: The characters of the X-Files are the creation and property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting and the talented actors who bring them to life. No infringement of copyright is intended and no money is being made from their use here. The other characters portrayed herein are the creation of the authors and may be used only with permission.

AUTHORS' NOTES: This is the second part of the Replay trilogy. You should read Replay 1:Falling to get the story so far. The trilogy is completed with Replay 3: Warm Thoughts.

FEEDBACK: Always appreciated and answered. Write to the authors at:

[email protected] and [email protected]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder flicked his way through another magazine, and sighed. He had only been here six hours and already he was frustrated by the regime, the enforced bed rest, the way the medical staff all seemed to be on some sort of power trip.

Worst of all was the fact that they wouldn't let him see Skinner. They wouldn't even tell him how his boss was, or where he was. And where was Scully? After a brief visit she had disappeared and he hadn't set eyes on her since. Mulder wondered if she was punishing him for taking off in the way he had, or whether something more important had claimed her attention. More important... like the condition of Walter Skinner. The man who had saved his life with such calm assurance, the man who had rescued him from the jungle and never once reproached him for his foolishness in going there in the first place. The man he had come to realize that he loved.

 Mulder got up and hobbled out of his room, ignoring the protests of the nurse.

"Skinner. I have to find him. Tell me where he is." he demanded, limping off up the corridor, looking in all the rooms and generally making a fuss.

"Scully!" he called. "Scully!" There was no reply. The nurse ran to fetch someone else, and Mulder took advantage of the situation, taking the elevator up a level, getting out, and looking around. He saw the back of a red head disappear into the ICU and followed it, his mind racing frantically. Intensive care? Why? Skinner had been all right - weak but all right. He was sure of it.

"Mulder - what are you...?" He pushed past Scully, charging into ICU, forgetting about his injured ankle, and then stopping, shock stabbing into his breast. Skinner was unconscious, attached to half a dozen monitors, his face deathly pale under the honeyed tan he had acquired on his vacation.

"What happened to him?" Mulder felt his knees weakening, and he fell against Scully. She managed to help him into a chair by the bed.

"He was badly dehydrated. His condition is serious. He deteriorated as soon as we arrived," Scully told him gently, her eyes grave and concerned. Mulder knew what she was thinking: it was his fault that Skinner had ended up like this. She didn't realize that his distress was more than simply guilty concern - much more.

"He's not in any danger though? I mean he'll be all right?" Mulder gasped weakly, unable to take all this in.

"They don't know," Scully whispered.

"But he was sitting up. Talking to us." Mulder protested.

"I know. But that doesn't mean he was well," Scully told him. "He's strong, Mulder - nobody else could have survived what he did. All those hours without water, carrying...I mean, it was a huge strain on him. You did all the right things when you got to the weather station but he's very weak."

"No." Mulder reached out and fingered the sheet next to Skinner's hand. "He's always so strong, Scully. Never weak. He saved my life."

"Mulder, please. We didn't want to tell you in case you reacted like this. Don't blame yourself," Scully told him.

"Oh yeah! And who else should we blame? The government? Aliens? Cancer man?" Mulder asked her bitterly. "No, Scully. This one's down to me. I can't go out there digging for the truth and not accept a few home truths. If he dies..."

"Like I said, he's strong," Scully told him desperately.

"He'll be fine. Now let's get you back to bed..."

"NO!"

Scully looked shocked by the fierce tone of Mulder's voice.

"I'm staying here until he gets better. I'm not leaving his side until that happens, Scully. They'll have to scrape me away with a knife before I leave here. I'm his goddamn limpet."

"All right. All right." Scully said in a soothing tone, clearly assuming that his hysteria was the result of his recent experiences, and probable concussion. "I'll bring you a blanket."

Mulder sat beside Skinner's bed for days, moving only to go to the bathroom, sleeping in the chair next to his boss's bed. He grew to know every piece of Skinner's unconscious features; the smooth skin taut over the high cheekbones, the soft corners of the firm mouth, gently relaxed in repose, the cleft in the strong chin, the blunt broad nose which gave him such a boyish profile...

At night, when it was dark, and nobody was watching, Mulder allowed his fingers to touch Skinner's hand, fingering the other man's palm gently, tracing little circles on it. How had he come to this? He was no stranger to desire, for both women and men, and was accustomed to acting on it. Seldom was he rebuffed, seldom did he suffer, unrequited. But this was more than just lust and its object was more than just a man. Mulder was in love with his boss and had no idea what to do. Were Skinner's delirious mumblings in the jungle real or from Mulder's own fever-dream?

Mulder felt a slight pressure on his fingers, and looked down in alarm. Skinner's eyes were open, and he was staring at his subordinate.

"Fox?" he murmured.

"It's all right. You're all right. I'm here," he whispered, a feeling of great relief sweeping over him. He knew he should withdraw his hand from Skinner's but he couldn't. He waited for the other man to do so but Skinner didn't either. Still, he had only just awakened - he probably didn't even realize what was happening, Mulder thought to himself, knowing he was taking advantage of that but not caring. They sat there for a moment, in unembarrassed silence, hand in hand, until Skinner shifted and cried out.

"Water," he murmured.

"You've had a gallon of the stuff," Mulder told him.
"Several gallons. They've been pouring it into you non-stop for hours. That's what the drips are for. Still, if you want more..."

He got up and poured Skinner a glass from a jug, putting his hand under Skinner's head, and bringing the glass to the other man's lips.

"Mr. Mulder!" The ICU nurse came running up in alarm. "Is he awake? You should have called us."

Mulder felt himself pushed out of the way as a team of medical staff descended to examine their patient.

Skinner was over the worst and was soon moved downstairs. Mulder followed him there, taking up residence in yet another bedside chair.

"This really isn't necessary, Mulder," Skinner sighed upon realizing after fifteen hours that Mulder's company was to be a permanent arrangement. "I'm sure you have your own bed to go to."

"Nope. I'm fine - they discharged me yesterday. Or rather I discharged myself but they didn't kick up much of a fuss so I presume that means I'm fine. You, on the other hand, are not. I've been reading up about severe dehydration - it's serious, sir. And as you're here because of me, I have to make sure..."

"What?" Skinner frowned. "Oh god, Mulder, you're on some sort of guilt-trip? Please don't. I absolve you. There - you can go home now."

"Not until you're back at work." Mulder grinned. "I made a promise to myself. And whatever way you look at it, it's definitely my fault and you did save my life, so I have to make sure that you're OK."

"I am. I'm fine," Skinner murmured wearily. "You can see that I'm fine now."

"No you're not," Mulder told him. "I can tell."

"How?" Skinner sighed.

"Because it's been fully three days since you regained consciousness and you still haven't chewed me out for being in that goddamn jungle in the first place."

"I was waiting," Skinner told him, "until we got back to work. Then I want a full report on exactly why this unauthorised jungle mission was necessary. I can only guess at the expense sheet that'll be awaiting me - helicopter rescues from remote terrains?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow. "To say nothing of the way you seem to have alienated an entire populace during your brief time there. I'm just relieved I didn't have to fix a major international incident."

"Major international incidents - I could cause one of them." Mulder grinned "I'll try harder next time, give you a real problem to fix, not just hauling damn fool agents to safety through jungles for hours on end. That hardly taxed you at all."

Mulder paused, noticing the distant, saddened look in Skinner's eyes, as if he were remembering something else. Skinner shrugged, shook his head ruefully, gave a slight smile. Duly encouraged, Mulder continued.

"And I knew you were on vacation. Don't tell me you were enjoying lying on the beach. And now you have something to hold over my head. Think of it as a gift."

"Thank you, Mulder. So thoughtful. As always." Skinner smiled again and Mulder beamed back, basking in such idle banter with this man whom he liked, admired, and wanted so much. "Now, why don't you go home and get some proper rest?" Skinner suggested.

"No way. I told you... " Mulder began. Skinner held up his hand.

"Really, Mulder, I insist. It's not so much the rest as perhaps, how shall I put this, you need to take a shower?" He wrinkled up his nose slightly.

"Oh." Mulder grinned again, sniffing under his armpits. He did smell. It would be nice to sleep on his nice hard couch for a couple of hours instead of one of these damn chairs.

"All right. But I'll be back tomorrow to check up on you," he warned.

"Mulder you've got it all wrong," Skinner told him. Mulder gave him an inquiring look.

"When you save somebody's life, legend has it that their life then belongs to you - not the other way round. I don't remember ever reading anywhere that the person who does the saving has to be pestered, annoyed and generally clucked over in this fashion."

Mulder shrugged, and waved cheerfully as he left. "See you tomorrow," he stated firmly.

His smile faded as soon as he left the room. Well of course his life belonged to Skinner now. It belonged to him because he had fallen in love with the man. Yet he had no expectation that his feelings would ever, could ever be reciprocated. It's not going to happen, Mulder, he thought to himself. It is just so not going to happen.

He took a long, hot shower, although he suspected that a cold one might be of more use to him, the way he was feeling right now, then he threw himself down on his couch, naked, tormenting himself with memories of the jungle. Memories of Walter Skinner lying ill and delirious in his arms, whispering his name. It wasn't long before his cock was swollen and erect, and he couldn't stop himself caressing his own body, while imagining it was Skinner who was caressing him. He could see his boss's dark eyes, feel his tongue lick against his thigh... Mulder groaned with relief as he came, wiped himself with a towel and then lay back again, falling asleep and dreaming of long nights spent wrapped up safe next to a sensuous, bald-headed, older man.

He slept for far longer than he had intended, and woke up angry with himself. So much for his promise to take care of his boss until he returned to work. When he got to the hospital there was nobody in Skinner's room. Mulder ran up the corridor, worried that his boss had suffered a relapse and been returned to ICU.

"Nurse, where's Walter Skinner? Is he all right?" he demanded.

The nurse glanced at him, and frowned.

"Walter Skinner? Oh yes - he discharged himself a couple of hours ago," she told him with a pleasant smile.

"He did what?" Mulder was astounded.

"Yes, we weren't exactly happy about it either but he wouldn't be told. Is he always this...how shall I put it...assertive?" the nurse asked.

"Oh yeah," Mulder told her. "You should try working with him. Assertive doesn't begin to describe it sometimes."

~~~~~~~~

He rang the doorbell twice, three times in his impatient frustration. Finally the door was opened.

"Mulder?" Skinner peered at him. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Seeing if you're all right. Honestly, sir, what were you thinking of checking out like that?"

"You did it," Skinner retorted amiably enough.

"That's just me. I expected you to be more sensible. You usually are."

"Mulder, I don't like hospitals."

Skinner leaned against the door, breathing heavily. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, and Mulder realized with a pang that he had lost some weight - the tee shirt hung on him.

"Well neither do I. I've spent too much time in the damn places." Mulder pushed past his boss and into the hallway. Skinner sighed.

"Me too," Skinner said softly. "Far too much time."

Mulder swung round.

"Vietnam?" he asked. Skinner nodded. "You were in hospital for a long time after..."

"Yes. Months." Skinner shrugged. "I grew to loathe the place."

"You never talk about your time in Vietnam much."

Skinner shrugged again. "Not much to say. I went there, I died, I came back," he said.

"Yeah, right." Mulder shook his head. "It was a major life experience for you. I'm sure you've got a lot of stories to tell," he said.

"No. I rarely ever..." Skinner paused, his face looking paler than ever, his hand gripping the door frame tightly.

"I knew it! I knew you weren't better." Mulder came forward, and caught the other man just as his legs buckled, helping him over to the couch.

"I'm fine. I just need to rest. I can do that just as well at home as I could in the hospital," Skinner murmured.

"Maybe. But you can't cook, get groceries - all that stuff. That's what I'm here for," Mulder told him.

"You're staying?" Skinner asked incredulously.

"Yeah. I'm staying." Mulder grinned. "And don't argue - I don't take 'no' for an answer as easily as the hospital did."

"I'm in no doubt about that," Skinner said. "I've worked with you for five years. In all that time you've never taken a 'no' from me as answer. Or a 'no' from anyone else for that matter."

"So you know there's no point arguing then." Mulder grinned. "Now, you just sit still. I'm going to phone the hospital to make sure there's no special medication that you need, and then I'll fix you something to eat. Have you had lunch yet?"

"No." Skinner shook his head. "I didn't think I'd bother with it. I thought I'd just take a nap, read some, then..."

"You have to eat." Mulder protested. "You're all skin and bone."

"I'm hardly that." Skinner glanced down at his large frame. "Damn but this is worse than being back at the hospital."

"Anytime you want me to take you back there you just say." Mulder stood over his boss with folded arms.

"No," Skinner sighed. "I don't want to go back there."

"Then accept." Mulder grinned. "I told you - I'll be in your hair until you go back to work. Oops, sorry, wrong expression."

"Oh god." Skinner put his head back and groaned. "I suppose there is no point ordering you to leave me alone?"

"None," Mulder told him. "I'm immune to orders. You should know that by now."

Skinner's head fell back against the sofa cushions and he smiled even as his eyes closed.

"I'm too tired to argue, Mulder."

Mulder was kneeling beside him in an instant, worry drawing his face into a frown. He reached out a concerned hand but stopped short of actually touching his boss. Skinner, sensing him still there, opened his eyes again and sighed:

"Really, I'm OK - it's just tiredness. You don't need to stay."

"Tough guy, huh? Well, you're stuck with me for the moment. I'm going to call the hospital for instructions then heat you some soup - you can at least manage that. Then you can sleep."

He went off towards the kitchen, pulling his cell-phone from his pocket as he went. Skinner shook his head resignedly and let his eyes close again, listening to Mulder opening cupboards while he talked to the doctor.

He couldn't imagine why Mulder seemed so concerned about him all of a sudden. They'd formed a good working relationship at long last, Mulder was outrageous and insubordinate, Skinner chewed him out, Mulder proved he was right all along and Skinner somehow got the unbelievable case reports passed by the upper echelons of the Bureau... but they'd never been exactly friends. Skinner could feel himself slipping into drowsiness. There was something soothing about the sounds of another person pottering in the next room.

He started to think about those hours in the jungle: how well Mulder had handled the awkward situation, how, for all his annoying chit-chat, Mulder was actually good company. Skinner was sinking further towards sleep when Mulder came noisily back into the room, muttering to himself and making a shopping list.

"The doctor says you need to eat regular, light meals, build up your strength with high -quality nourishment. There's nothing in your cupboards, so I'm going out to stock up. What on earth do you live on?"

"I like to buy fresh when I can, I don't use a lot of convenience foods."

"I might have known you'd be a health-freak - don't you have any vices?"

"You don't want to know, Mulder..."

A brief expression of intrigued amusement flitted across Mulder's face and he laughed.

"Don't be so sure... Anyway, I'll be as quick as I can, don't indulge in too many of those hidden vices while I'm gone." With that, he gave Skinner an evil grin and headed for the front door.

Skinner shook his head in despair and called after him. "Take the key that's on the table by the door."

He might as well accept, for the moment, that Mulder was going to be around.

When Mulder got back, his arms loaded with grocery sacks, the late afternoon light had faded and the house looked welcoming on the quiet road with the street lights coming on. He felt happy and domesticated, bringing food for the man he loved, settling in to look after him. Remembering how weary Skinner had looked, the worry came flooding back, and Mulder quickly dumped the bags of provisions and went into the living room.

A fire flickered in the hearth and music, something haunting and classical, was playing quietly. Skinner was stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep.

Reaching to turn a lamp on, Mulder stopped short, entranced by the sight before him. Skinner was lying on his side, one arm curled under his head, his face thrown into soft relief by the firelight. Mulder deliberately held his breath as he knelt to study the sleeping man, afraid his yearning would reveal itself in a moan.

His boss looked so peaceful, his face all soft curves, blushed by the warm light, his chest gently rising and falling, the long lean body relaxed, his bare feet overhanging the end of the sofa.

Mulder let out a shuddering sigh as his feelings threatened to overwhelm him. Love, desire, admiration, gratitude, anxiety all churned within him. He was moving to touch a bare tanned ankle when Skinner stirred and cleared his throat. Grateful for the few seconds grace while he turned back to face his boss, Mulder composed his face and heard himself burbling:

"You lit the fire - I would have done that. You were dead to the world just now, sleeping like a baby. I'll start dinner, do you need...?"

He trailed off as he met Skinner's dark eyes and in the background a lyrical contralto voice filled the room with Bach's heartbreaking aria: Erbarme dich, Mein Gott... Have mercy on me, Oh Lord...The two men locked gazes for a long moment until Skinner broke the intensity with a smile:

"I feel better for that sleep. What did you get for dinner?"

Mulder released the breath he'd been holding for hours, and tried to drag his senses away from Skinner's warm, flushed skin, from the muscled thigh so near his hand, from the ache in his own groin...

"One of everything. I'm no Martha Stewart, though."

Skinner stood up and chuckled.

"Well it happens to be something I enjoy, so let's see what you've brought me to work with."

In the end they compromised. Mulder persuaded Skinner to sit on a stool and direct operations while he did the actual work. He let Skinner tease him about his ignorance and ineptitude and found he was really enjoying the camaraderie as he queried every instruction and Skinner patiently explained...

"Now the carrots - no, they'll have to be thinner than that."

"Why does it matter...?"

"They need to be about the same size as the other things so they all cook at the same rate."

"This looks disgusting! How much ginger did you say?"

"You'll see, with the soy sauce and coriander it'll make a great flavour."

"Why mush up the chicken in this gloop, why not just toss everything in together?"

"Because it's a marinade - it'll flavour and tenderize the meat first... look, just trust me!"

When they finally sat down to a surprisingly delicious meal, Mulder felt absurdly happy and pleased with life. As much as he tried to remind himself that this was only for a day or two, until Skinner got his strength back, he knew that wouldn't be enough for him. He wanted to be with this man, wanted to share hundreds of evenings like this. He wanted to relive that moment when he'd looked into the deep brown eyes and this time take it further: this time lean in and kiss that strong curving mouth, wrap his arms around that gorgeous body...

He wanted to take Skinner's hand now and lead him up to bed, slowly undress him and make tender adoring love to him all night. But he could see the shadows under Skinner's eyes again, see how much the evening's activities had taken out of him. Skinner was still not at full strength, even if he wouldn't admit it.

"Bed for you, sir," he teased, resolutely ignoring the way he wanted to say those words...

It was a sign of Skinner's exhaustion that he didn't protest when Mulder abandoned the dirty dishes and pushed him upstairs. He showed Mulder the guestroom and then retreated to his own room, refusing any further help.

"For God's sake, Mulder, I'm not an invalid, I can brush my own teeth."

Mulder smiled fondly at the growl, taking it for a compliment. Skinner was relaxed enough around him to let his normal good manners slip once in a while.

Something woke Mulder in the early hours, an unidentified sound in an unfamiliar house. He got up, used the bathroom and knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again now. He wandered down to the living room, looking for something to read.

They say you can tell a lot about a man from his bookshelves, thought Mulder, well I want to know everything about this man. Skinner's bookshelves were certainly revealing: political history, law, serious biographies - all to be expected, Plato, Machiavelli, Thoreau - not so surprising, but Kafka, Gogol, Racine, Milton, Homer... they were a revelation. And poetry: he drew a volume of Pablo Neruda from the shelves and opened it at random.

"My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.

I love what I do not have. You are so far."

All too ready to feel the sadness, he turned away and continued his exploration of the room. The music collection was equally eclectic: Mahler and Mozart, Beiderbecke and lots of Bach, rock 'n roll, jazz, blues, classical... Mulder was processing all this new information about his boss as he wandered around the room fingering a tiny Buddha carved in some smooth veined stone, a split geode, glittering darkly inside the rough unremarkable shell, a dark wood box, inlaid with intricate brass scrolling and inside a bundle of faded letters and two medals. One, the Purple Heart, he'd seen before, but the second was the Bronze Star. Mulder knew it was awarded for great gallantry in battle. He turned the metal star on its striped silk ribbon over and read: 2^nd Lt. Walter Sergei Skinner, III MAF Vietnam 1969.

He held the cold metal in his hand for a moment, before tucking it back under the letters and closing the box. He longed to know the stories behind all these unique objects, to know all the stories behind this unique man who occupied his thoughts and feelings so powerfully. Finding he was still holding the Pablo Neruda, he decided to take it back to bed to read.

At the head of the stairs, he glanced left, to Skinner's room and saw that the door was ajar. I should check on him, he argued with himself. It's what I'm here for, just to make sure he's OK... He pushed open the door and stood transfixed.

Skinner was sprawled, more out of than under the bedclothes, the bright moonlight slanting over his bare chest and shoulders, one long leg emerging from the rumpled sheets. Mulder took two steps closer.

As he paused, Skinner shifted in his sleep, settling onto his back and revealing the smooth concave of his lean stomach and the waistband of white boxers sitting low on his hips. Mulder moved closer still, close enough to touch the bareness of Skinner's exposed torso. He kept his hands clenched by his sides though, struggling against the desire that rampaged through him.

Swaying against the edge of the bed, he bit back a groan and sank to his knees. The moonlight shafted across Skinner's all-but-naked body, contouring the bald head, the planes of cheek and jaw, the mass of the broad shoulders, the interlaced muscles over ribs and abdomen, the long curve of the thigh, and silvering the tanned skin. Soft shadows lay in the hollows of temple and eye-socket, in the dip of the navel and where the leg of the boxer shorts gaped a little.

Mulder's gaze caressed each beautiful spot and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lean in and kiss a fragile eyelid, or brush his fingers over a puckered nipple, or slide his hand inside the leg of those boxers... He wanted to, he wanted to wake Skinner with kisses and pin him to the bed with hot, demanding caresses. Even now he was arched over Skinner's sleeping face, his mouth a bare few inches away from the other man's lips, his hands fitted to the curve of the smooth skull, an aching parenthesis, yearning but not touching.

He drew back just in time as Skinner awakened, looking sleepily confused to see Mulder hovering over him.

"Whaa...?"

"Your breathing sounded odd, I was worried." Mulder improvised wildly.

"You could hear my breathing from...?" Skinner glanced in the direction of Mulder's room, then seemed to think better of it and made a show of heaving himself up in the bed.

"What's this?" He unearthed the volume of poems from amongst the tangled bedding. "Ah... Neruda, good choice..." He closed his eyes, speaking from memory:

"How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,

My savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running."

He grinned, wryly and Mulder's heart flipped in his chest. Despite his good humour, Skinner still looked very pale and drawn and Mulder felt guilty for having disturbed his sleep. He put a gentle hand on his boss's shoulder and persuaded him back onto the pillows.

"You need your sleep, sir. I was just on the wander looking for something to read."

The formality of the 'sir' helped a little in pushing the desire back under a semblance of control. He picked up the poems and moved away from the bed.

"There's more to choose from in my study. Second door on the right. 'Night Mulder..."

Sitting in Skinner's study, in Skinner's old, polished leather chair, Mulder felt the comfort of an illusory closeness to the man he loved. He looked around at the walls lined with shelves, crammed with books, pictures, several football trophies, a worn baseball mitt, a sprig of dried autumn leaves tucked into a pewter tankard that seemed to be a prize for a triathlon event, a harmonica, an old gold pocket watch with "To Anton, from your loving wife, Anna" engraved inside the case... He felt incredibly moved to see these glimpses of Skinner's private life, even if he didn't know what their significance was.

He began to scan the shelves looking at the book titles, when he found an old, leather-bound album in amongst the military campaign histories. He hesitated briefly before opening it, but his desperation to connect with the real Walter Skinner drove him on. The album was the old-fashioned sort with stiff black pages and the photographs held in place by little paper corners. Someone, Skinner presumably, had written captions under the pictures in white ink. "Saigon, Summer 1970, Maggs, Jacko, Fisher and Buttwipe". It was from Skinner's days in the Marines, they must have been on R&R. Mulder turned the page: "Hua Binh, Thanksgiving 1970. Jacko, Hog and I carve the turkey." Two young men in mud-streaked fatigues crouched around a collection of mess tins and beer bottles. A third young man stood behind them, his hands on the shoulders of one of the crouching men. Mulder peered at the faces. The standing Marine was small and wiry, his freckled face looking barely old enough to be out of high school, one of the other two was a solidly-built black man with a wide toothy grin and a beer in his hand. The other was unmistakably the young Walter Skinner.

The familiar broad shoulders and high cheekbones made identification easy. The body was leaner, not so massively muscled as it was now, and the young man had a full head of cropped dark hair, but the quiet grace and air of competence were no surprise. He was balanced on one knee, looking up at the man whose hands rested on his shoulders. His face was concerned, as if he was about to ask the other how he was. One bare brown arm was draped across his leg, the other was hooked around the shoulder of the black man beside him.

Mulder pored over the photograph, his eidetic memory storing details of uniform, insignia, badges of rank. He found many more pictures of Skinner with his unit, some from 1968 where he was in a slightly different uniform, usually standing in some grassy landscape, then many more from 1969 and 1970 always in dense jungle, the same few faces cropping up again and again.

After a while Mulder began to feel he knew these young men: Jacko with his tousled sandy hair and neat build. Big hefty Hog, towering over even the tall Skinner. Maggs with his lopsided grin and garish tatoos. Fisher with wirerims more reminiscent of Skinner and always with a beer in hand. Didja who hardly ever smiled and looked as if he found the whole thing a huge puzzle... In many of the pictures Jacko was standing close to Skinner, leaning against him or sitting between his legs. In the photos where Skinner was absent Jacko would be gazing at the camera with intense concentration and Mulder knew that it had been Skinner taking the picture that time.

There was a story here, he knew. Something connected to that decoration for bravery and to those faded letters in the wooden box. He wondered if Skinner would tell him that story if he asked...

The sound of dishes clattering and the smell of coffee brewing roused Mulder in the morning. He lay still for a moment recalling where he was and why, then clambered out of bed and pulled on his sweat pants. He didn't want Skinner overexerting himself again today: he had in mind a leisurely read of the papers, a light lunch, feeling confident the team of last night could produce another success in the kitchen, and a lot of talking. He dragged on an old sweater and followed the kitchen sounds to find Skinner busy loading the dishwasher with last night's plates and glasses. He looked incredibly handsome in faded ice-blue jeans and a soft white cotton sweater. His face still seemed thin to Mulder though his colour was better.

"The coffee's about brewed - help yourself and you can pour me a cup too. How does ham and eggs sound?"

"Sounds wonderful, but even I can manage to cook those, so you sit down."

Skinner sighed, pointedly.

"I told you, I'm not a complete invalid. I slept, I'm fine. Now read the paper and let me cook."

Mulder rolled his eyes and reluctantly went to sit at the kitchen counter with the sports section. While Skinner expertly cooked the best ham and eggs Mulder had ever tasted, he read out headlines to his boss and kept an eye on how he was holding up. Skinner seemed fine, and ate heartily, to Mulder's satisfaction. He wanted to see those muscles pushing against the starched cotton of the man's shirt when he finally went back to the office. Oh God, how he wanted to see those muscles... Enough of that, he chided himself. My mission today is to get Skinner to talk - about himself, about what a pain I am to him, about that damnfool expedition to look for ectoplasm in the jungle, about how he got to be a lieutenant in a special operations unit at the age of 20. About why a gap-toothed, freckled boy had such an obvious crush on him that you could feel the waves of desire coming off the photograph. About how he would feel knowing that his most troublesome agent is falling so profoundly in love with him that he cannot hide it for much longer...

They did talk, though not about everything that Mulder wanted to know. They discussed the Redskins and their chances in the playoffs, they debated the relative merits of two rival exposés of the CIA recently published. Skinner described the coral reefs of Antigua and Mulder boldly announced his intention to return to his investigation of the ectoplasm in the jungle, enjoying Skinner's incredulous horror and appalled expression at the suggestion that he might like to accompany Mulder again.

Mulder could see that Skinner still tired easily and insisted on his boss staying put on the sofa while he made them lunch. He found he'd already memorized where everything was in the kitchen and could let his mind wander while he prepared their meal. He liked being here, liked spending time with Skinner. He knew he was falling in love with the older man and that it was probably a very stupid thing to do, but the more he saw of the man, the more he admired and desired him.

Over the huge and messy sandwiches that Mulder had made for them, Mulder broached the subject of the photograph album, confessing that he'd found it in Skinner's study and was intrigued by the stories behind the pictures. Skinner gave him a long look:

"It's not something I talk about much."

Like I haven't realized that, thought Mulder.

"I've told you as much as I've told anyone about my experiences there..." He paused, looking down at his hands. Mulder held his breath, hoping he hadn't blown it with his reminder of a grim time in Skinner's past, wondering if Skinner remembered their conversation in the helicopter. Skinner looked up at last, searching his face, trying to discover what Mulder's motive was. Mulder got the distinct impression that Skinner wanted to tell him more but that it was hard for his boss to talk about anything so personal.

Mulder jumped in: "I suppose our recent foray brought a lot of it back?"

"Yes, Mulder. There were... similarities..."

Skinner was far away again, Mulder could see by his unfocused gaze, back to a time and a place Mulder could only imagine. He suddenly hated himself for reminding Skinner of those times just to satisfy his own selfish curiosity.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to bring up things you'd rather forget."

"It's okay, Mulder. They're always there - you don't ever forget them."

He looked calmly back at Mulder, but Mulder was ashamed of his probing and covered the awkward moment by gathering up the lunch plates and taking them back to the kitchen. He stayed there a while, stowing the salad stuff away in the refrigerator and starting a pot of coffee, giving Skinner time to... what? Recover? Hell, the man had handled Mulder's inept questions perfectly calmly. It was Mulder himself who was unsettled by all this, so obsessed with his boss that he still wanted to pursue this untold story - just not by barging in with ill-timed questions, he told himself. He'd find his own methods of uncovering the truth about those young men with old eyes, of seeking out the story behind that Bronze Star.

When he wandered back into the living room Skinner had dozed off again, sitting where Mulder had left him, his long legs propped up on the low table, his head tipped back against the sofa cushions, snoring softly. Mulder contemplated him for a moment, feeling the now-familiar flood of tender concern. Skinner was still weak, that was clear, but sleep was probably just what he needed. Mulder hoped it was dreamless.

He headed off for Skinner's study again, wondering if he was crossing a line he'd regret, but knowing he'd do it anyway. He didn't actually refuse to tell me about his past, or forbid me to look for myself, he mused. I'm just saving him the pain of recounting something personal and probably traumatic. Yeah, and incorrigible nosiness has nothing to do with it.

He sat in the big leather chair again and pulled the photograph album down from its place on the bookshelves. This time he worked systematically through the pages, peering closely at each picture and each caption. Looking at the man he loved, half the age he himself was now, crouching in mud cleaning his M16, hunched under a poncho in a dripping jungle clearing, standing shirtless and shaven-headed, laughing at something, his teeth a flash of white in his darkly tanned face, a cigarette dangling from his long fingers...

Mulder's eidetic memory was storing away dates and place names, until he came to the back of the album and found something he'd missed the previous night. Tucked into a flap on the end paper was a slim packet. Mulder pulled it free and saw it was a manila envelope, addressed to Skinner and postmarked June 1992. There was a sender's address label on the top left corner that read:

Thomas H. Dorsey

1138 Sherman Drive

White Falls MD 34004

The packet was open at one end and Mulder peered in. There was a bundle of letters and a few more photographs. Mulder pulled the whole lot out onto the desktop, but bit his lip at the sight of the letters and pushed them back into the envelope - they were too personal.

There were three photographs. One showed a big, burly black man leaning heavily on a walking cane, beside him a plump, sad-eyed woman holding a small American flag. Both were soberly dressed in dark overcoats. The other two photographs were of the Vietnam Memorial. Mulder recognized the sombre black marble Wall. One shot showed the burly man hunkered down, placing the flag at the foot of the wall. The second was a close-up of a section of the polished dark marble. Centred in the frame of the picture was the name: John M.Jackson.

Jacko? And was the big black man Hog? Mulder flipped back through the album, comparing the recent picture with those from nearly 30 years ago. The man was much heavier and had a prosperous, comfortable look the scruffy young Marine had never had, but yes, it was still recognizably the same man. Was he the Thomas H. Dorsey who had sent the packet to Skinner?

Mulder had his cell phone out now, tapping in a speed-dial code and listening to a lengthy series of clicks and beeps before he could speak.

"Byers - it's me. Turn off the tape. I need some information..." He spoke quietly for a few minutes before ending the conversation:

"This is personal, Byers. I'd really appreciate anything you guys can come up with."

He tidied away the photographs and tucked the album back between "The Punic Wars: an Historical Perspective" and "Austerlitz: Napoleon's Longest Shot".

Skinner hadn't stirred when he returned to the living room, so he scribbled a note about going home for clean clothes and let himself out of the house.

He was sitting in the laundry room of his apartment building, watching his clothes tumble inside the dryer, when his cell-phone beeped. He listened to the voice on the other end, his face getting more and more animated:

"Still in White Falls, then...?"

"Yes, it's the same Skinner."

"No, I can't tell you... it's just... look, it's personal, that's all. But thanks... thanks guys."

He clicked the phone off and sat turning it in his hands thoughtfully while he planned what to do next. The Gunmen had confirmed that a Thomas H. Dorsey, a John M. Jackson and a Walter S. Skinner had all served together in a joint services unit between mid 1969 and late 1970, a unit designated only by the code DR2. They seemed to have been a small reconnaissance unit based up around the Laotian and Cambodian borders, intelligence gathering, locating and rescuing POWs, placing agents in North Vietnam. Unit DR2 had been involved in something called Operation Cablecar that had earned them a unit citation and their young officer, one 2nd Lt. Walter S. Skinner, a Bronze Star for "extraordinary valour".

Byers had also confirmed that Dorsey still lived at the Maryland address and that John M. Jackson had been killed in action in August 1971.

Mulder knew what he was going to do: he was going to pay a visit to Thomas Dorsey and find out all he could about Operation Cablecar.

It was going to be tricky, though. He could make the journey to White Falls and back in a day, but he and Skinner were both expecting to be back at work in a few days time, so he was either going to have to invent some reason for suddenly being prepared to abandon Skinner for a whole day, or wait until he was back on duty and find some legitimate case-related reason to go up to Maryland. But then there'd be official paperwork, a 302 that Skinner himself would have to sign... he'd be bound to be suspicious, especially as he knew Mulder had found the photograph album. It was a problem.

Suddenly registering the time, Mulder realized he'd been away from Skinner for over four hours and that he still had reason to be worried about the older man's recovery. He stuffed his laundry into his gym bag and headed back.

Skinner was wearing an apron and drying his hands on a dishcloth when he answered his front door. He pretended to be dismayed at the sight of Mulder back again, this time with luggage, but the appetizing smells wafting from the kitchen and the two places laid at the table told Mulder that Skinner was not really feeling unwelcoming.

They ate Skinner's delicious beef stew and fresh hot biscuits in a companionable silence and watched the ball game on TV in true male-bonding tradition. Mulder stole occasional glances at Skinner's relaxed profile and at the gorgeous big body sprawled beside him on the sofa and wondered it he'd ever be able to tell the other man how he really felt about him. When the game ended he stood and stretched, seizing the relaxed moment:

"I may need to be away for a day during the weekend. I had a call at home... something personal..."

"It's okay, Mulder. You don't have to babysit me. I'm doing fine now and we'll be back in the office on Monday anyway. You're still on your own time, you go if you need to - is it anything I can help with?"

Mulder looked hard at him and almost decided to forget the subterfuge and just ask Skinner outright about his heroic past. But he held back. Skinner didn't know how obsessed Mulder had become, it would seem intrusive to ask about something so specific and how would he explain knowing about the Bronze Star and Operation Cablecar without admitting that he'd been snooping? There was definitely a new level of friendship and trust between the two men but it was probably too soon to test it with a revelation like that.

"No, sir, not at the moment. But thank you..."

They retired to their respective rooms and Mulder took out his cell phone again and began making travel arrangements.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder drove his rental car along Sherman Drive looking out for number 1138. The houses were lavish ranch-style buildings set on large lots and separated from each other by mature trees. Thomas H. Dorsey had done well for himself in the last 30 years. Mulder parked in the driveway of number 1138 and walked slowly to the front porch, wondering how best to approach this.

The door was opened by Mr. Dorsey himself, his broad face shining with bonhomie, not at all suspicious of the stranger on his doorstep.

"What can I do for you, young man?"

"My name is Mulder, sir. I work for the FBI, but I'm not here on official business. My boss is Walter Skinner." He paused, seeing the name register immediately in the other man's face.

"Walt - has anything happened...?"

"He's okay, sir, but something he experienced recently brought up his time in Vietnam and as a friend I thought that if I had a bit more information..."

"Your boss, and a friend, huh? Well, I can see how that could happen. You'd best come on inside, Mr. Mulder - or should that be Agent Mulder?"

"Just Mulder is fine, and I appreciate your seeing me, sir."

"No need for the 'sir', son. Back then I was just 'Hog' and I guess it still fits..."

He led the way into a plush living room with a huge sectional sofa and one whole wall looking out onto a patio and pool.

"My middle name is Hogarth, but I got the nickname because I liked my chow so much - even the C-Rats they gave us in 'Nam." He patted his capacious belly and gestured Mulder to one end of the sofa, seating himself in a huge leather recliner nearby.

"Now, son, tell me what this is all about and how Walt is - he doesn't keep in touch like he used to."

Mulder launched into the tale of his ill-fated jungle escapade and how Skinner had come to his aid, nearly killing himself in the process.

Dorsey listened with rapt attention, nodding several times, as if it was nothing but what he'd expect of Skinner. When Mulder finished Dorsey gave a low whistle:

"Good God - it's Cablecar all over again - no wonder you're worried about Walt."

"That's just it, sir - er, Mr.Dorsey... I don't really know about Operation Cablecar, only that Skinner was awarded the Bronze Star for his part in it. Would you tell me the story?"

Hog looked at Mulder for a long minute before he sat forward in his chair and slapped Mulder on the knee.

"I'm not sure it's really my story to tell, but I can't imagine Walt volunteering to tell you either, however good a friend you are." He grinned at Mulder. "Let's have a drink, though - it's quite a tale."

Before Mulder could protest, the big man was heading off to another room. His deep voice came booming back to Mulder.

"How about jasmine tea, son? I got a taste for it out East, very good for stressful moments it is."

Mulder grinned to himself, mightily relieved that Hog was such a genial host and not dubious about talking to Mulder about his past.

They sat sipping the hot, fragrant tea while Hog unfolded the history of Deep Recon 2 and the events leading up to Operation Cablecar. Dorsey got up to fetch his own albums of newspaper clippings and photographs and to switch on lamps as the winter evening closed in.

"Of course, you need to go back a while before Dong Hoi and the whole Cablecar operation to understand about Jacko and Walt."

Dorsey was sitting forward, his elbows on his spread knees, watching Mulder intently. Mulder had the feeling Hog was telling him more than he was actually saying and tried his best to look calmer than he felt.

"You have to understand, we were all very young and Walt... Walt was always remarkable. He carried us all in different ways..."

He studied Mulder closely again, making the younger man blush at the scrutiny, then started hunting through one of his albums looking for something. Finding what he was after, he passed the bound book over to Mulder.

"We had a photographer from Newsweek with us for a couple of weeks. He took a million shots and let us have some he didn't use. This is one of his..."

Mulder turned the album around to look at the picture and felt his throat close with emotion as he took in the image. It was a 10x8 black and white print of the young Walter Skinner. He was bending over a map table, interrupted in the act of plotting a route, pen still held between long fingers. He looked right at the camera, as if someone had called his name just as the shot was taken, his dark eyes wide and serious. Camouflage pants and a flak jacket hanging open over his bare chest gave him the air of an experienced veteran. The lean body was mid-way between boyhood and manhood: slighter than his muscled maturity but with enough definition in chest and abdomen and biceps to hint at the magnificent physique he would develop. What struck Mulder though, was the maturity in that solemn gaze: this was no green boy, but a young man who had seen death and who carried the responsibility for lives other than his own.

It was a beautiful picture. Sunlight filtered through leaves to outline the curve of the neat cropped head and the graceful bare neck, to catch the glint of dog tags hanging against the bare tanned chest, to cast the shadow of the poised hand and bony wrist across the spread map. Skinner had been beautiful then too.

Mulder swallowed hard and passed the open book back to Dorsey. The older man took a deep breath and began the story...

"We were all volunteers, pulled out of our regular units to form DR2. Five eager young men and one very new Lieutenant, fresh out of Officer Training and already with a half tour as a humble corporal behind him. Walt was a remarkable young officer, a born leader, I would say. Knew just how to pitch his instructions between mateyness and command, knew how to bond us into a real team. We were keen, but basically unused to being in such a small unit, to relying on only ourselves for long stretches, cut off from the main supply-lines. Walt was real quiet, but real patient too. He never asked us to do anything he wouldn't do himself. He did more than his share of digging latrines and trenches and hauling supplies, won our respect from day one. Not a one of us but wouldn't have died for that man...

"Jacko took to him even more than the rest of us though. We could all see that, even before Cablecar. I think Jacko loved Walt from the first time he laid eyes on him. He used to follow him round like a stray puppy, always wanting to do stuff for him. It must have been a real trial, but Walt never said anything, treated him the same as all of us.

"We'd been together as a unit for nearly 4 months when Cablecar was planned. We'd been making regular raids over into Laos and even North Vietnam: intelligence gathering mostly, getting downed air-crews back out... all covert, or course, even today there's official denial that US forces ever operated across the border. We'd got word that there were some POWs being held in N.V., about a two-day march from our camp. The word came down from MACV/SOG we were to go in and bring them out.

"The weather was awful - it was getting into their winter and even in the rainforests where we were it was cold and wet most of the time. Played havoc with extractions - the CH-46s couldn't maneuver accurately in the winds and more than once we'd had to guide aircrews out on foot rather than getting them away by chopper.

"That was the start of things going wrong on the night of Cablecar. Walt had told SOG that the wind would fuck up the extraction, that we didn't even know how many POWs there were to bring out, that the LZ was too far into enemy territory to go ahead when the extraction was so risky... they didn't want to know. We went over the border after dark, getting as far as we could on the first day, hiding up during daylight hours and going on again at dusk. It was nerve-wracking stuff, without much intelligence and without the benefit of radios or backup. We each carried two spare Stabo harnesses for winching out the POWs. The plan was to take the post where the prisoners were, get back as near to the border as we could during darkness, ready for extraction at first light. Walt had identified a relatively clear ridge as the best location for the CH-46 landing zone. But it was the only feasible LZ and if the wind made that spot unusable we would be on our own in enemy country.

"Our intelligence was good as regards the location of the enemy post. Walt had put in hours with the maps and the interrogation reports from a couple of VCs we'd captured in the area. We positioned ourselves perfectly, took them by surprise and found the main force gone, only a few guards left to watch the prisoners. There were five POWs, two badly wounded, but several friendlies we hadn't expected - a couple of women with kids... there was no way we were going to be able to extract them all.

"We started back to better cover in the deep forest, aiming for the LZ on the ridge. The rain was lashing down and visibility was very bad: we were all thinking that the extraction was going to be very risky. One of the POWs had serious grenade injuries - I had to carry him most of the way to the ridge. Walt was carrying the three youngest kids clinging to his shoulders like burrs, their mothers hanging onto his Stabo harness. Maggs and Fisher were guiding the other POWs, Didja was herding the older kids and Jacko was bringing up the rear, covering our tracks.

"We made it to the ridge and Walt got us bedded down as well as was possible in the wet and wind. Sometime just before dawn the main VC force returned to their post and found their prisoners gone. They set out to track us and caught us at early light, laying down heavy fire and wounding two of the children and Didja. I took a bullet in the thigh in their second attack and we didn't even realize that Jacko was down until one of the kids came tugging at Walt's sleeve while he was trying to raise the CH-46 for the airlift.

"We could hear the chopper nearby but we couldn't get the air marker laid out for the wind and there was no way smoke would show up. Walt was incredible: he got everyone together on the edge of the clear part of the ridge, going back three times himself to carry the wounded, while the enemy fired on him. The chopper got in near enough to lift eight of us out, leaving Walt, Jacko, one of the kids who wouldn't go up on the winch and the badly injured POW who needed a stretcher. The chopper came back around for a third attempt and Walt finally got the kid strapped up and I winched her aboard. The wind was ferocious, battering against the fuselage, pushing us back towards the hillside all the time. We got the stretcher lowered and Walt and Jacko started strapping the POW in. The sky lit up with mortars and the enemy took advantage of Walt and the others being out in the clearing at last and fired again. I saw Walt get hit and then the chopper was blown around and we had to lift off with that poor bastard in his stretcher dangling under us. He was dead before we could haul him in.

"We heard later that Walt carried Jacko for eight hours, despite being wounded in the shoulder and side. They got back over the border and were picked up on a dust-off from 1st Recon Battalion base. We all got patched up and had a spot of R&R in Saigon and then it was back to business. Walt would never talk much about that rescue, but Jacko was more devoted than ever after that, saw himself as Walt's personal protection, got real careless of his own safety more than once. It troubled Walt, I know. He didn't want to be idolized, couldn't see what the rest of us could see, that he was a God-honest Hero with a capital 'H'. The whole unit got a citation for Cablecar and Walt got the Bronze Star. Should've been the Medal of Honor if you ask me."

Dorsey was getting choked up as the memories crowded in. Mulder knew it was time to go. He rose and held out his hand to Dorsey.

"Thank you for telling me, Hog. I don't think Skinner has changed that much. He's still a born leader, still looking after his people, still doesn't know what a hero he is."

Dorsey looked up at him with that considering look again:

"Walt didn't know how to take Jacko's friendship back then. Bit of a lone wolf, is Walt. But if you care about him, and I think you do, stick in there - maybe he's ready now. In his line of work I imagine he needs a good friend and his friendship is worth waiting for."

"Yes, sir. I know it is."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was very late when he got back to Skinner's. He let himself in quietly and took his shoes off to climb the stairs. He was turning towards his room when he heard Skinner's quiet voice:

"Mulder, is that you? Is everything OK?"

Mulder stuck his head around Skinner's open door. His boss was sitting up in bed reading, files spread over the covers around him.

"Work, sir? I wouldn't have left you on your own if I'd known this was what you'd get up to. Is this one of those secret vices you mentioned?"

Skinner chuckled and stretched, oblivious to the effect his flexing muscles had on the younger man.

"I had Kimberly messenger them over earlier. I need to get up to speed again before I go into the office on Monday. How was your day, did you get done what you needed to?"

Mulder considered: it was very late, but he might never get another opening like this...

"I think so, sir. I went to see an old friend of yours - Thomas Dorsey." He saw the anger flare in Skinner's eyes and almost flinched, but then the older man's expression softened.

"I suppose I was almost expecting this conversation... if not quite yet. Once I knew you'd found the album and read the letters..."

"I didn't read the letters. I found your medals and just wanted to know the story. I didn't think you'd tell me, so I went behind your back. I'm sorry. I guess I don't deserve your trust after all."

"Mulder, don't leap to take the blame for everything. I didn't show that much trust in you assuming you'd read those letters, not telling you about Jacko..."

"I'd still like to know about Jacko, Walter..." He tried the name on his lips for the first time quietly, liking the sound of it, hoping Skinner didn't mind. He pressed on...

"Mr. Dorsey told me about Cablecar and a bit about DR2, but he only hinted about you and Jacko. I'd really like you to tell me."

Skinner nodded gently, swept the files to one side and gestured to the chair beside the bed. Mulder wasn't having that, and settled himself on the foot of the bed, looking earnestly at the man he loved.

Skinner pulled off his glasses and folded them carefully, taking a moment to decide how to tell this difficult tale. When he looked back up, Mulder was shocked to see his eyes bright with unshed tears. He spoke so quietly Mulder had to lean forward to hear him.

"Jacko was a troubled soul..." He paused, apparently embarrassed to be using such poetic language.

"He'd had a hard life, well - childhood, he was a year younger than me. He'd been regularly beaten by his father and run away from home on his eighteenth birthday to join the Marines. He'd made some friends in his first unit, but lost most of them at Khe Sanh. It happened to a lot of us. We learned to keep part of ourselves to ourselves. Jacko couldn't do that, he was so open..." Skinner swallowed, turning his head away from Mulder, clearly moved. Mulder wanted to reach over and touch the other man, but Skinner cleared his throat and continued.

"He was assigned to DR2 straight from R&R with a rep for great tracking skills, but he came in cocky and confident and messed up his first duty assignment. I had to roast his ass over it and somehow that made me special in his eyes - as if he craved the attention, even if it was negative."

Mulder made a noise and Skinner frowned at him.

"I was just thinking how I could understand that reaction, sir. I know how unforgettable one of your ass-roastings can be."

He saw Skinner looking ready to take offence and smiled an innocent smile.

"I'm sorry, sir. Please go on."

"Well... at first I didn't realize what he was up to, but after a couple of weeks it was clear he was deliberately making bad mistakes in order to be hauled over the coals by me. We were a pretty informal unit - had to be, miles away from any base, no MPs, no radio contact half the time. We didn't make a big deal about rank. I was barely older than most of them anyway, and just out of OTC. I reckoned to demonstrate by example how I wanted things done. We worked together, ate together, slept together..." He glanced at Mulder to see if he would make some smart comment about this last remark, but he found the autumnal eyes watching him gravely, no hint of frivolity there.

"A man who is undisciplined is a danger to the whole unit. I couldn't ignore Jacko's behaviour, but I didn't know how to convince him my patience was wearing thin. One day he was bringing in fresh water supplies and lost the lot. Said he'd been buzzed by VC choppers, but we'd had no intelligence...

"I blew my top, kept him at attention for over an hour while I told him point by point what a waste of space he was and how I was going to have him reassigned. Next thing I knew he was crying. Totally silent, just these tears running down his cheeks. He was still at ramrod attention, looking straight ahead, weeping. I sat him down and suddenly all this stuff came pouring out about his dad and his mom and how no-one had ever thought he was worth anything. I knew that whatever I said to him would affect how he saw himself henceforth."

Skinner was twisting his fingers in the sheet on his lap, his voice was very low. Mulder sensed how fresh this memory still was to his boss, how critically he judged all his own actions. He's so hard on himself, he thought.

"I told him that he had to think he was worth something before he could expect anyone else to. That he was wasting his God-given talents by playing the fool and that he had the makings of a first-rate Marine if he'd sort himself out and be a team player. I couldn't believe no one had said those things to him before this, it was no special insight... it seemed to have an effect on him, though. He was a changed man after that - competent, tireless, enthusiastic. It was something to see."

Mulder watched Skinner shake his head over the image in his mind, a gentle smile starting on his lips and touching his eyes softly. He has no idea of the power he has to command, Mulder realized, charmed with the thought. How he must despair of me, though... I haven't 'shaped up', become a team player. I want to make him proud of me that way, but I just make difficulties for him. Why does he persist with me? Lost in his own thoughts, Mulder started when he heard Skinner's quiet voice again.

"It was as if he grew up overnight. He became a model Marine. It would have been funny, except that he was so earnest about it, you couldn't laugh at him...

"When Cablecar was first proposed I was against it. The intelligence on the number of POWs was vague, the camp was too far into enemy country, there was no obvious extraction point, the weather would be against us at that time of year... I made my points but SOG was adamant. Well, you know what happened..."

He flicked a look at Mulder and the younger man almost flinched at the fury in Skinner's face. He was still incensed after all these years at the way his men had been used.

"It was a total fuck-up. We weren't equipped to get the women and children over terrain like that. The LZ was a no-go from the moment that wind got up... The POWs were too weak, too badly wounded to help themselves any..."

His hands were fisted, the knuckles white, as tight as the muscles in his face. Mulder didn't think about the wisdom of the move, he just reached forward and put a steadying hand on Skinner's tense arm. Skinner's shook him off, not seeming to even be aware of Mulder's presence, lost in that past, that nightmare. He spoke again:

"When the CH-46 finally got off that ridge I knew I had to move Jacko fast. There were still shots coming from the cover of the trees and both of us were already hit, we made easy targets. Jacko was out of it, moaning and drifting in and out of consciousness... all I could do was sling him on my back and get the hell out of there."

Mulder tried that light touch on his arm again, and this time Skinner looked up at him.

"You carried him out? Like you did me."

"Yeah, we got out."

He dropped his head, frowning down at his knotted hands. Was that it, Mulder wondered, was that all he was going to say? The guy carries his buddy for eight hours despite being wounded himself and all he says is 'We got out"? He cleared his throat.

"Would you tell me about that journey, sir? I'd really like to hear that."

Skinner lay back against the pillows, chewing on his lower lip, his arms folded across his chest now. He studied Mulder intently for a few moments, then nodded.

"I wasn't in bad shape, considering, but we'd used all the harnesses to get the others out, so I had nothing to strap Jacko on with. My right shoulder was weakened from the hit and I couldn't hold him up. In the end I had to sling him over my left and pray I didn't fall and break both our necks. The rain made everything slick, the ground fell away in these mudslides everywhere... We were soaked through and the temperature was dropping - that much was different from your jungle - I didn't have anything to keep the rain off him, to keep him warm... He went quiet after a while, but I could feel his heartbeat against my back.

"I didn't dare stop for anything. A man can die from blood-loss, from an infected wound with all those insects leeching onto you, from exposure...I had to get Jacko to somewhere safe where he could get treated. Also, I thought if I stopped I might never get going again. You lie down for a moment and the tiredness and weakness gets you like a drug. I've seen men die within yards of their camp because they lay down and let death take them. I wasn't going to do that so I just kept going. I lifted my head and drank the rain when I was thirsty, I pissed in my pants when I needed to, I didn't think about pain or time or anything but getting over that border."

His voice was harsh, denying the heroism, denying anything unusual or exceptional. Mulder swallowed hard, more moved than ever by the strength and courage of this man.

"I knew when we'd crossed back into S.V. by the smell. Even in that temperature the stench of latrines was inescapable. There were small bases all over that sector, we got a dust-off in a few hours and were at the field hospital in Dong Hoi by early next morning. Jacko was bad, lost a lot of blood, it was touch and go."

"And you?" Mulder almost whispered the question.

"I had a dislocated shoulder, the collar-bone was smashed by one bullet and another one had got two ribs and grazed the lung. It was messy for a while, but I survived. I'd know worse before long."

So matter-of-fact, that steady deep voice. No fuss, no drama. Mulder felt his throat close with emotion. He wanted to take Skinner in his arms, to coax the tears from him that Mulder himself was ready to shed. To tell him that he was loved. But the story wasn't all told yet. He had to wait until Skinner was back in the present. He prompted him gently:

"You got the Bronze Star and you both went back to DR2?"

"After some R&R, yeah. There was a lot of fuss about the citation, they couldn't acknowledge that we'd been across the border... we enjoyed watching the brass trying to work around that. I was pleased for the guys, a Presidential unit citation was a big deal for those kids, something to tell their Moms and Dads. They tried to make out I wassome sort of hero, sent a photographer to take pictures. I just thought how we never got that kind of attention when we were just making maps or digging latrines. That's what they should give medals for."

He laughed, a harsh sound, quickly cut off with a cough. Mulder suddenly realized they'd been sitting there for over an hour, Skinner was still recuperating, he should be under the covers, getting his sleep. With me keeping him warm, he added to himself, letting the longing sweep over him briefly.

"Sir, you should get some rest..."

"Not just yet, Mulder. I need to finish this and it's about you too."

Mulder was startled. Could Skinner have guessed how he felt about him? Had he blown it before he'd even had a chance to...

"People see you differently after you've saved their lives. They want to make a connection that maybe isn't there. Or they see something that..." Skinner took a deep breath, closed his eyes, clenched his hands.

"Jacko thought he... loved me. He wanted more than I could give him. I hurt him by not seeing it right away, by not setting him straight. God knows I loved all those guys like brothers, but not... I didn't know how I felt... He came to me one night, slid under the tarp next to me. We just held each other, it felt good.

"He slept next to me every night for a week and then there was a bad patrol and that night he was shaking and kissing me desperately and we... made love. I knew he thought I could make a difference, that I was a hero, but I was just like him, a scared kid. I had to tell him it wasn't what he thought it was, I wasn't what he thought I was."

Something icy gripped Mulder's heart. He felt the older man barricading himself behind those lonely walls again.

"I think the same thing is happening with you and I, Mulder. We went through a traumatic experience together and it made you see me differently for a while. I can't be anything but your friend and your boss, whatever I...

"I think you've let yourself see something that isn't there and I don't want to hurt you. I'm truly grateful for what you did for me. I owe you my life, but we both just did what we had to do. I don't want you to waste your admiration on me, I don't deserve it and I don't think..."

Mulder broke in, furiously,

"That's all bullshit, if you'll forgive me, sir. I know exactly what you are and what I feel about you. Don't try and tell me that what I feel isn't real. I love you; I want to be with you, I want you to let me into your isolation. I know you care about me, whatever makes you deny it to yourself, I heard what you said while you were unconscious..."

He broke off, seeing the shock drain the colour from Skinner's already pale face. Shit, he thought, why did I bring that up now?

"I think you'd better leave, Agent Mulder. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself until I'm back at work. I appreciate all you've done but it would be best if you left now."

"I don't want your fucking gratitude, Walter!"

"Agent Mulder! Please go."

Skinner turned away and pulled the covers up around himself. Mulder kept his eyes fixed on the bed as he backed blindly out of the room. He was packed and slamming his car door within ten minutes.

In the dark bedroom Walter Skinner lay with his arm across his face, forbidding the tears to fall.

THE END

HOME - REPLAY - SERIES - EMAIL SERGEEVA - EMAIL XANTHE