Title: Beyond This Experience II
Author: Agent L
Classification: S
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Requiem. Nothing from Season 8, except the
presence of Doggett -- but he's a minor player.
Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name is attached.
Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, Fox, 
and now Robert Patrick: I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or 
even chocolate would be expected or accepted for this. 
Summary: The journey back to Scully continues. This is a sequel to 
Beyond This Experience, in which Skinner finds Mulder -- but I think 
you can read this as a standalone without too much confusion. 
Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone who asked for this. Hope you
like it. And Happy New Year to all the fanfic community!!
Feedback: Yes, please! LHoward388@aol.com

Beyond This Experience II

"Mulder, what does AMA mean?" Walter Skinner glanced behind 
him to see the normally pleasant demeanor of Dr. Abbott creased in 
a scowl as Mulder walked toward the exit of the hospital. His usual 
confident stride was more of a shuffle, but he had shaken off Skinner's 
attempts to help. Skinner didn't think he looked much better than he had 
just yesterday, lying semi-conscious in a hospital bed, but apparently 
the doctor thought he was well enough to be released.

"Something to do with discharge procedures," Mulder remarked 
without looking back, all his concentration focused on getting out the 
door. He'd borrowed a sweatshirt and jeans from Skinner, and while 
they would have been slightly baggy on him if he was in good health, 
they now hung on his thin frame. Skinner understood and shared 
Mulder's dislike of hospitals and being confined to a bed, but there 
were times when the body needed to heal. At the very least, Mulder 
needed a few good meals and a good night's sleep. He wouldn't get 
that back in Washington.

"Mulder, maybe you should consider --" As Skinner touched his arm 
to get his attention, Mulder jerked away, staggering backward against 
the wall. His eyes went blank, lungs hitched with frantic breaths -- 
and Skinner knew he had gone somewhere else, somewhere where 
simple contact meant terror and agony. After what seemed like an 
hour but was only a few seconds, Mulder shuddered and closed his 
eyes, sinking back against the wall. 

"Don't touch me," he said quietly.

More shaken than he would admit, Skinner merely nodded. "My 
car's out front," he said.

They were soon on their way, without further incident, although 
as the miles passed by, Skinner considered turning around at every 
exit. Mulder dozed in the passenger seat, still too pale except for the 
bruises and scrapes marring his face, raw and ugly. He had wrapped 
one arm around his waist as if to protect his injured ribs, and Skinner 
couldn't help but wonder about internal injuries. Had the doctors checked 
thoroughly? He had been missing for months and no one, including 
Mulder, knew where he'd been or what had happened to him. What if 
he punctured a lung 30,000 feet over Ohio? What if he collapsed or had 
some kind of seizure or drug flashback?

Skinner gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and hoped he was 
doing the right thing.

This was normally Scully's job -- outpatient care. She would know 
if the pallor of his face was normal or not, she'd know to check his 
pulse, feel his forehead for a fever...If Mulder would let her touch him, 
in his current state. Skinner tried to reach her once or twice yesterday, 
knowing she'd hate being left in the dark about all this, but kept getting 
the machine. Thinking back to his conversation with Maggie, he prayed 
nothing was wrong with the baby or Scully. Mulder would never 
recover from a blow like that, and Skinner wasn't sure he would, either. 
He'd come to care about these two more than he'd ever expected or 
wanted to, and after his experience in the woods in Bellefleur, felt as 
though his life was even more entangled with Mulder's search for 
the truth. 

Not wanting to leave a message about something this important, Skinner 
had contacted Frohike so that someone back home would know what 
was going on. Frohike told him that Scully had been admitted to the 
hospital, but they hadn't been able to hack into the computer system 
yet to find out exactly what was happening. There were times Skinner 
wished they wouldn't tell him so much.

He'd lied when Mulder had asked him about Scully, sensing that the 
other man was disappointed she hadn't come for him herself. Skinner 
had made up an awkward half-truth, saying she was sick, too ill to 
travel, but she'd wanted someone to get to Mulder as soon as possible. 
Whether Mulder believed him or had just been too doped up at the time 
to question the story, the explanation seemed to mollify him, although 
he'd almost immediately started insisting he was fine and could be 
released. 

Skinner had never seen a bond between two people like this one. 
Certainly not in his own relationships and rarely in others. Of course, 
partners were close by necessity. You had to have complete trust in 
the person who could hold your very life in his or her hands. But 
Mulder and Scully's connection was almost empathic, some kind of 
deep psychic connection that had often amazed him and occasionally 
left him a little jealous. But he liked the idea of acting as their 
connection...
especially since he felt he had been at least in part responsible for tearing 
them apart.

When they arrived at the airport, he started to shake Mulder awake, 
then remembered the incident in the hospital and spoke his name instead. 
Mulder awoke quickly, but seemed disoriented, fumbling for the door 
handle to escape until Skinner quietly reminded him he was in the car 
and they were at the airport, on their way back to Scully. At the 
mention of her name, Mulder relaxed and gave Skinner a sheepish 
apology. Skinner's heart continued pounding even as Mulder calmed 
down. He felt as if he were escorting a man with a bomb strapped 
to his waist, never knowing what word or action might set off an explosion.

The airport was crowded with business travelers coming and going 
from Detroit and Chicago on commuter flights. Skinner sensed Mulder 
tense up again as people brushed past them. He could see the fear in 
Mulder's eyes and instinctively grasped his elbow to steady him. This 
time Mulder only stiffened at the contact, but did not pull away.

"It's okay. We'll be out of here soon." Skinner murmured, finding 
them seats that were in a relatively quiet area. Mulder seemed to get 
used to the bustle and noise after a while, even asking questions about 
some items in the paper Skinner bought. By the time they got on the 
plane, Skinner thought the worst was over. The two tall men both 
settled into the cramped seats as best they could, and Skinner was 
pleased that Mulder seemed to have conquered the fear that had 
affected him at the airport. Perhaps he'd been held in isolation 
somewhere and it had simply taken renewed exposure to a crowd 
to remind him he had nothing to be afraid of...the basic desire for 
human contact to help him remember the comfort of a touch. 

Mulder started to drift off before the plane even left the ground.

Everything was going to be fine. 

_____________
They had been in the air about a half an hour and the flight was smooth. 
Skinner had kept a careful eye on Mulder even as he reviewed some 
paperwork he'd brought with him, but except for a faint moan now and then, 
Mulder was fast asleep. Skinner envied him, his own eyes feeling dry and 
swollen after the past 24 hours, but he couldn't ever get comfortable enough 
on a plane to sleep -- and he wouldn't dare take the risk that something 
might happen to Mulder if he let down his guard. 

"Sir, would you like something to drink?" The pretty blonde flight attendant 
caught his attention and he realized he hadn't eaten or drunk anything all 
day except a handful of airplane pretzels.

"Just water, please," he said, feeling Mulder shift in the seat next to him, 
wondering if he should get juice or water for him, as well. He was about 
to ask the attendant for another glass when she glanced past him, a 
horrified expression on her face. Skinner turned to see Mulder methodically 
clawing at his face, raking his skin from the temples to his chin, his nails 
leaving red tracks. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if he were in pain, 
and his lips moved, but no sound came out. 

"Mulder," Skinner said sharply, grabbing Mulder's wrists, surprised 
at the strength as the other man resisted him. 

"No..." he groaned. "I have to get them out...Get them out..."

"Mulder, listen to me. It's Skinner. Walter Skinner. You're having a 
bad dream."

Mulder's eyes opened, but he stared blankly ahead, clearly unaware of 
his surroundings, still struggling weakly against Skinner's grip, his hands 
clenched into fists. Then suddenly he jerked in the seat, his mouth open 
in a silent scream as a violent tremor shook his body. 

"Is he having a seizure?" the attendant asked breathlessly. "Is there 
anything I can do?"

They were attracting the attention of the other passengers now, some 
of them craning to look over the seats at what was going on. Skinner 
hoped someone would jump up and say "I'm a doctor, let me through," 
but apparently that only happened in the movies. He had to take charge.

"Mulder. Can you hear me?" He grabbed the glass of water from the 
attendant and tossed some of it at Mulder's face. Mulder gasped and 
blinked, turning to Skinner.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Skinner grinned with sheer relief. "Sorry, Mulder. Turbulence." He 
turned to the attendant, who was still looking at them both a little warily. 

"Could we have another glass of water here?"

He waited until she had moved on and Mulder had taken a few sips 
of his water before he leaned across the seat. "You were having a 
nightmare. Maybe a memory," he murmured. "Do you remember 
any of it?"

Mulder shook his head. 

"You were scratching at your face --" Skinner lifted his hand toward 
Mulder's jaw. When the other man flinched, he lowered his hand 
slowly as he continued. "You said something about taking them out. 
You had to get them out. Get what out, Mulder?"

Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember." He turned to 
stare out the window.

"But if you could talk about it --"

Mulder turned back to him, his eyes dark and haunted, a muscle 
twitching in his jaw. "I said I don't remember," he snapped. "Let it go."

Skinner sat back in his seat. Mulder closed his eyes, but Skinner 
could tell by the tension in his body that he wasn't going to sleep 
any time soon. The action was deliberate -- to shut out any further 
attempts at conversation, to avoid any more questions. Irritated at 
Mulder's stubbornness, Skinner opened his mouth to continue his 
interrogation, then noticed the scratches -- self-inflicted -- still 
clearly marking Mulder's face. The man was more fragile than 
either of them had realized. Did he want to risk causing another 
seizure or flashback on a crowded airplane? 

He had seen Mulder with victims of alien abductions and other 
paranormal phenomena, had watched him gently coax them to 
tell their stories, had admired his patience, his way of making 
them feel comfortable enough to relate their unbelievable tales. 
Skinner's interrogation techniques were rusty at best -- he'd been 
in an office for too long, he'd lost his touch with the art of dragging 
confessions from people who didn't want to talk or remember, for 
whatever reason. And in Mulder's precarious mental and physical 
state, he was afraid of what might happen if he pushed too hard.

He would have been naive to think that Mulder would return 
unaffected by whatever had happened to him. But he had never 
suspected that Mulder would not want to recover his repressed 
memories, would be afraid to face what had happened to him. 
Mulder's life revolved around pursuit of the truth, and Skinner had 
seen him risk his life and his job as he pushed and prodded his 
way through layer upon layer of deception at the highest levels 
of government. The two of them had butted heads more than once 
because of Mulder's insistence on uncovering truths sometimes 
better left hidden. 
 
They might have gone on that way for years. But Skinner had 
seen enough that night in Bellefleur to become a new recruit to 
Mulder's crusade, a believer in extreme possibilities that he had 
scoffed at in the past. The bits and pieces he'd discovered in his 
search for Mulder had only fueled his thirst for knowledge. He'd 
read all the files, examined all the records, talked to the Gunmen 
late into the night, becoming more and more convinced that the 
truth was out there. 

Except that right now, the truth was here, sitting beside him on 
this plane. A truth so horrifying, so devastating, that even the 
intrepid Fox Mulder refused to face it, frantically burying the 
memories as they surfaced, leaving them to fester deep inside, 
where they would slowly destroy him.

Skinner wasn't going to let that happen. 

But this wasn't the time or the place. The best he could do for 
now was help Mulder feel safe. And that meant getting him back 
to Scully.



Mulder finally drifted back to sleep only a few minutes before 
the plane landed, and Skinner had to wake him up. He was groggy, 
allowing Skinner to lead him off the plane and through the airport, 
seeming only vaguely aware of his surroundings, moving in whatever 
direction he was led. They stopped at a sandwich counter, but Mulder 
shook his head at the offer of food, looking a bit green as he watched 
Skinner bite into a Philly steak and cheese. 

"Mulder, we should probably take you to a hospital," Skinner said 
as they walked to the car.

"No," Mulder shook his head. "I'm fine."

Skinner sighed. Scully was going to have his ass in a sling 
for this. But he had a feeling that if he hadn't gone to Townsend, 
Mulder would have checked himself out and headed back to 
Washington anyway. At least someone was here now to catch 
him if he fell. 

Mulder didn't want to go to his apartment, even though Skinner 
assured him the rent and the fish had been taken care of in his 
absence. He wanted to find Scully, so Skinner took him to the 
Hoover Building. He suspected she wasn't there, but didn't want 
to risk barging in on her at home if something had gone wrong 
with the pregnancy, and he hadn't been able to call Maggie with 
Mulder constantly by his side. He guessed correctly that Mulder 
would see nothing suspicious about them going to the FBI 
headquarters to locate his partner, and Skinner hoped he could 
get away for a couple of minutes with Mulder back in familiar 
territory, to make some phone calls and find out what was 
going on. He escorted Mulder down the stairs to the basement 
office, feeling like he was putting a child in a playpen to keep 
him safe and out of the way for a while. Mulder hesitated in 
front of the door.

"This is my office." It was more of a question than a statement. 

"Of course it --" Skinner suddenly realized the reason for 
Mulder's confusion. "Kersh removed your name."

That comment drew a wan smile. "I suppose he changed 
the lock, too?"

Skinner shook his head, stepping aside so Mulder could open 
the door. There had been other changes in Mulder's absence, 
and he wasn't sure how Mulder would handle the new 
arrangements. He stood in the doorway and watched as 
Mulder flipped on the light, then slowly stepped into the room, 
gazing around as if he'd never seen it before. He glanced at the 
ceiling, where Doggett had insisted the pencils be removed. 
He stared at the corner where his treasured "I Want to Believe" 
poster had hung, currently covered over with a map of the 
Washington DC area. He turned to see the new desk -- 
Doggett's desk -- occupying a prominent area, crowding the 
small room. Skinner could have sworn he even sniffed the air, 
like a wild animal sensing the presence of an enemy.

Then he walked slowly over to his desk, running his fingers 
along the edge, before he turned to Skinner. "My nameplate, too?"

Mulder's voice was flat, distant. Skinner couldn't read his 
expression. He would have preferred anger or sarcasm. He 
was used to those responses from Mulder. He could deal with 
them. This man standing before him was a stranger. "I - I don't 
know what happened to your nameplate." 

Mulder walked over to the new desk.

"Who sits here?" A tone of mild curiosity, but Skinner could 
see the tension in his body, the straightness of his back. Mulder 
wasn't as detached as he appeared to be. Maybe this hadn't 
been a good idea...

"Mulder, let's go up to my office and --"

"Who sits here?" A demand this time -- the calm exterior 
showing a crack or two. 

Skinner cursed to himself. He didn't want to get into this. 
Not here. Not now. "That would be Agent Doggett. He's -- 
assisting Scully in your absence."

"No!" Mulder's cry -- a sound of pain and frustration -- sent a 
shudder through Skinner. He watched, momentarily frozen, as 
Mulder swept the contents off of Doggett's desk, sending them 
crashing to the floor. Then Mulder turned to Skinner, his body 
shaking with barely controlled rage. "She's *my* partner. *Mine.*"

"Mulder, listen to me. This was all temporary. You have 
to believe --"

Mulder's eyes suddenly focused on something just past his 
shoulder, and before he could turn around he heard Doggett's voice.

"What the hell are you doing here?" There was a pause as the 
agent assessed the situation. "Sir, are you okay?"

Skinner nodded, still watching Mulder. "I'm fine, Agent Doggett. 
We're all fine."

"Should I get some back-up down here?" Doggett said 
quietly, although his voice could be heard plainly in the 
small room. A corner of Mulder's mouth quirked as he 
met Skinner's eyes.

Skinner choked back a chuckle. Mulder was more of a 
threat to himself than anyone else. "No need for that. 
Agent Mulder is here voluntarily."

Then Doggett saw the mess on the floor. "What did you 
do to my desk?" he growled, stepping forward. 

"It's not your desk," Mulder replied. "This isn't your office."

"Kersh doesn't think so," Doggett retorted. "And neither 
does my partner...Agent Scully."

With a quickness that surprised both the other men, Mulder 
launched himself at Doggett, knocking him down with the 
weight of his body and the unexpected attack. He got in a 
hard right to the jaw that would leave a bruise before 
Doggett shoved him away and they both staggered to their feet. 

"Maybe I should call for that back-up," Skinner murmured.

"I don't want to hurt you, Agent Mulder," Doggett panted.

"The feeling is not mutual," Mulder gasped, throwing a wild 
swing that Doggett easily ducked. As the adrenalin rush faded, 
Mulder slumped back against the desk that had once been his, 
one arm held protectively over his ribs. Skinner stepped in to 
call a halt before things got any farther out of control, feeling 
like a teacher breaking up a schoolyard brawl.

"Look, let's leave this until later. Agent Doggett, I'm sure you 
have work to do. Mulder, I'm taking you to the hospital."

Mulder shook his head, wincing at the movement. "No. I'm 
not leaving here. This office is mine. Desk ...is mine. The 
X-Files...are... mine."

"I thought they were ours," came a new voice from the 
doorway. All three men looked up to see the very pregnant 
Dana Scully staring at them solemnly. Then she suddenly 
seemed to realize who she was looking at. Her breath caught 
in her throat and she bit into her bottom lip, her eyes filling 
with tears. "Oh my God.." she whispered.

Mulder's eyes traveled from her face to her swollen belly, 
and back to her face again. 

Skinner caught him just before he hit the floor.

Scully hurried over and knelt awkwardly beside Mulder, 
her hand trembling as she gently stroked his cheek. She 
raised her eyes to Skinner's.

"What's going on? How did he get here?" Even as she spoke, 
she went automatically into doctor mode, checking Mulder's 
pulse, resting a hand briefly on his forehead. "He's got a fever. 
He should be in a hospital." 

Skinner winced at her accusatory tone, but knew the time 
wasn't right for explanations. He glanced up at Doggett, who 
was staring at them from the doorway. "Call 9-1-1, damn it!" 
he barked, as Scully gasped and put her hand against her side. 
Doggett grabbed the phone as Skinner leaned toward Scully.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

He knew better than to argue, although he would have been 
hard pressed to say which one of his "fine" agents needed the 
ambulance more at that particular moment. 

"Is there anything else I can do?" Doggett asked.

"Get out of here," Skinner replied, as Mulder started to regain 
consciousness. These two could continue their pissing contest 
later -- preferably in some smoky bar or dark alley far away 
from the Hoover Building. He glanced at the door to find 
Doggett had already vanished. To give him credit, the man 
took orders well.

"Scully...?" Mulder groaned, opening his eyes slowly. 

She shifted so she was in his line of vision and cradled his 
face in her hands. Skinner noticed that the gesture, while 
one of caring and concern, also kept him from getting 
another direct look at her swollen stomach. As Mulder 
slipped his hand around her wrist, his gaze locked on hers, 
Skinner felt as if he were intruding on an intensely private 
moment, but there was no room to back away. Not that 
they were aware of his presence anymore.

"I missed you," Scully said simply. A single tear trickled down 
her cheek -- the only indication of the pain she had endured 
over the past seven months. Pain Skinner had witnessed in 
the rare moments when she let down her guard out of 
exhaustion and hopelessness in the privacy of his office. 
Pain he had shared, but like her had kept hidden from 
everyone, finding brief release in the occasional bottle of 
whiskey shared with Frohike, Byers and Langly. The weight 
of guilt and worry lifted as he watched the tender moment 
unfold before him, but left a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

This reunion was theirs, not his.

"Love you..." Mulder sighed as his eyes drifted shut.  
A moment later his hand slipped from Scully's wrist. She 
choked back a sob, turning away from Skinner.

"Scully." He hesitated. "Dana." 

She turned to him and he held out his arms. "Let me help 
you up."

He got her to her feet, where as he had hoped, she clung to 
him and allowed herself to cry for a few minutes, to let him 
see the woman behind the stoic Agent Scully. To let him 
comfort her as he had so often longed to do ever since he'd 
told her Mulder was gone, and she'd told him she was pregnant. 

She pulled away as soon as they heard the paramedics 
clattering down the stairs.

There was no reason for him to accompany them to the 
hospital. Between Scully and the doctors, Mulder was in 
good hands, and the staff wouldn't allow Scully to overexert 
herself. He knew they wouldn't have objected to his presence, 
but knew he could be more productive if he stayed behind, 
as he always did, taking care of business. After all, he had a 
report to write, detailing the discovery of Agent Mulder and 
closing that particular X-File. He had research to do so he 
could begin helping Mulder remember what had happened 
to him. But first he had to make a phone call.

"Agent Doggett? Please come to my office. We need to talk."

The End