Guns 'n Roses

 by Mort

Mulder paced up and down Skinner's apartment, muttering to himself and frequently snatching evidence bags out of the hands of passing cops with such rudeness that several of the uniformed officers were visibly beginning to get majorly pissed off with him.

Fearing that Mulder would end up in the next bed to Skinner, if he didn't stop his almost manic behavior, Scully dragged him out into the corridor.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped. "I told you he's okay."

"Well I have to take your word for that, don't I?" Mulder snarled back. 

Scully checked her temper and then her watch.

"It's 11.30. He'll be awake soon. Why don't you call the hospital and see if they'll allow you to visit this afternoon."

Mulder reached for his phone, then paused hesitantly. He gazed at her a moment, his eyes surprisingly vulnerable.

"Is he really okay?" he asked.

"Yes," Scully assured him. "I spoke to his doctor about an hour ago. He's going to be fine, but you can ring and check for yourself."

Instead of reaching for his phone again, Mulder spun around and charged towards the lift.

"Mulder?" Scully called.

"I've gotta speak to him," Mulder called back without pausing his headlong rush.

"They won't let you..." The doors closed behind him."...in yet," Scully finished to the empty corridor.

She wandered back into the apartment, her face set in a frown of concern.

"He gone?"  One of the cops growled.

 "Yes," she murmured absently.

"Good riddance," he snapped. A sentiment that echoed around the room. "Dunno what's eating him. Anyone would think the victim was his wife, the way he's carrying on."

Although the cop's quip met with general laughter, Scully's own eyes bulged and she backed out of the room again to give herself room to breathe.  Something was niggling at the back of her head. Something to do with ...with....

A cop brushed past her, carrying coffee cups balanced in a white box, and Scully's brain made the connection.  The day Mulder had finally refused the roses, he had been summoned by the AD and had later been seen scurrying out of Skinner's office with a florist's box. At the time, Scully had assumed that the refused gift had accidentally ended up in Skinner's office.  Now, she wasn't so sure.  What if the roses had been *from* Skinner all along?  What if the refused delivery had turned up in his office because they were 'returned to sender'?

It seemed a crazy notion, but no more crazy than the way Mulder had been behaving all morning. In fact, Mulder had been acting strangely for weeks. It put a different complexion on Skinner's reasons for staying the previous night in Mulder's motel room.  What if Skinner hadn't gone crazy simply because Mulder had put his life at risk, but because his *lover* had put his life at risk? That would explain the terrible tension between them that Scully had sensed all the way back to Washington. Then, before the two men had had a chance to make up, someone had put Skinner in hospital.

And it explained, finally, why Mulder point blank refused to tell her anything about his lover.  Although gay relationships were tolerated in the Bureau these days, relationships between Agents and their direct superiors were still forbidden.

No wonder Mulder was acting like the whole thing was his own fault.  He'd obviously fallen out with Skinner over the Forento case, and knowing Mulder, he now blamed himself for not being there when Skinner was attacked. 

Not that charging to the hospital was going to endear him to Skinner, either. Mulder was likely to spend the next couple of hours pacing up and down the corridor waiting for permission to enter Skinner's room, so he'd be virtually climbing the walls by the time he saw the older man. Scully  couldn't think of anything more likely to bring out the bear in Skinner than Mulder bursting into his room in a fit of agitated guilt.

"Thank you for the roses," Skinner hasped painfully. Although the tube that had been helping him breathe had been removed, his raw throat made speaking almost as agonizing as the ache in his chest. He was unsure how much damage had been done by the doctors and how much had been inflicted by Alex's cock, but the overall effect was the same.

When the roses had arrived earlier, their heavy flowers opulent and heady in the stark sterile hospital room, his heart had lurched with excitement and he had almost disconnected himself from his monitors as he had made a wild lunge to tear the card off their box.

He had assumed they were an apology from Alex. Instead, to his considerable surprise, the card had been signed "Mulder."

Despite his disappointment, he remembered his conversation with Mulder after he'd received the package from Alex.  Had he known then that Mulder's mysterious lover had been his own Alex, he would have understood his own strange delivery and wouldn't have mentioned it to the younger man. Yet he hadn't known, and he had unthinkingly mentioned that he never received roses from his own admirers.

The irony of that almost choked him. He'd envied Mulder for having a lover who gave him flowers as foreplay rather than shooting nanocytes into his bloodstream as Alex had done. Then it had turned out that the same man who regularly used Skinner as a punching bag *was* Mulder's secret admirer and Skinner hadn't known whether to cheer Alex on, just to get rid of him, or break Mulder's neck.

He'd settled for trying to push Mulder out of the picture. Only to protect him, of course.

Mulder had obviously simply remembered his envy and had sent the roses as a kind of 'get well' present. Unless they were an apology, but Skinner didn't want to even think about *that* possibility, because it would confirm that Alex really *had* just beaten him up to get into Mulder's pants and that somehow Mulder knew it.

Skinner's fingers itched as he imagined choking the younger man.

Alex, of course. Not Mulder. Not really.

The nurse had scolded him as the machine monitoring his heart began to register his agitation, but  she had obviously assumed he was simply awed by the two dozen, pure-white long-stemmed flowers.

"Someone loves you," she had teased,  extracting the roses from their box, wary of their vicious thorns, and arranging them in a vase for him.

"Thank you for the roses," Skinner said, in a voice so hoarse that it made Mulder's own throat twitch with sympathy.

Then the words sank in, and Mulder gave a start of surprise as his eyes took in the tall vase of roses.  His cheeks paled until they were almost the shade of the delicate flowers, but he bit his tongue until he walked over and saw the card propped against them.

"Get better soon, Mulder," it stated, in the best imitation of his hand-writing that he had ever seen.

He wasn't sure what game Krycek was playing now. Considering the assassin's almost insane jealousy and clear suspicion that Mulder found Skinner attractive, it made absolutely no sense at all that Krycek had sent the flowers and signed them with Mulder's name. 

Still, whatever Krycek *was* up to, Mulder was too out of his depth to do anything except play along.

The art of profiling was the ability to get inside another person's head, no matter how twisted and convoluted their mind was.  Looking at the bruises that darkened most of Skinner's face, Mulder was all too aware that the cost of a mistake now would be paid with Skinner's blood.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" he said, not prepared to actually lie to the older man.

Skinner gave a tired smile that somehow only made him look sadder.

"Thank you for visiting me, Mulder, but you should be at work."

"I *am* at work," Mulder replied fiercely. "Someone broke into your apartment and beat the crap out of you, Sir. Why the hell didn't you call me?"

"Why would I?" Skinner rasped, reaching desperately for a glass of water.  

Mulder beat him to it. He perched on the edge of Skinner's bed and held the glass for him as he sipped. As Skinner swallowed gratefully, Mulder had to  remind himself that it would be highly unprofessional and possibly fatal to lean down and lick the sweat that was beading on his boss's forehead.

"I want to help," Mulder said, although a flush of shame stained his cheeks. He was well aware that the best way he could have helped Skinner would have been to open his legs for Krycek and say "Yes."

"The police are handling the break-in, Mulder. It's not an FBI investigation."

 "But..."

"But nothing, Mulder. I don't know who did it or why. The police haven't found any forensic evidence and my attacker is long gone. If he had intended to kill me, he would have. It was probably just a would-be burglar who panicked. The important thing is that I'm alive, isn't it?

"You said he," Mulder pointed out. "You told Scully you didn't see your attacker at all."

"I *assume* it was a he, Mulder. They're aren't many women capable of inflicting this much damage on a man my size."

Mulder nodded reluctantly. He wasn't sure what he could achieve here. Even if Skinner *did* know Krycek had been his attacker, he obviously had no intention of saying so, and Mulder couldn't bring up Krycek's name himself without putting Skinner into more danger.

"Sometimes...um...well, sometimes people get involved in things...with people...and it's not their fault and they want to stop it ...but they can't and things happen to other people...and it's hard to know what to do..." Mulder's voice trailed off as Skinner's face went taut with anger.

"Are you suggesting that I am involved in some impropriety, Agent Mulder?" Skinner demanded. "Do you think that's why I was attacked?"

Mulder jerked to his feet in panic.

"No of course not," he mumbled. "I was..."  /talking about me/ he finished silently.

"You were just going back to work," Skinner growled, then coughed so violently that Mulder had to fight the urge to run over and pound him on the back.

He just froze in the middle of the room, his hands itching as he imagined the feel of Skinner's muscles under his fingers.

"WHAT?" Skinner demanded.

"Huh?" Mulder replied, shaking himself.

"You're staring at me," Skinner accused.

"I'm just going," Mulder choked, and fled.

 Mulder was half-way through the doorway, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, before his eyes caught on the doorframe and a stray thought clicked in his mind. Like an important piece of a jigsaw, the idea slipped seamlessly into place and a number of other salient facts tumbled into order so that the picture they formed, though unlikely, was so clear that he made a leap of faith and turned around once more.

 He was damned certain that Krycek had attacked Skinner. Hell, the “He’s Mine” note had been as good as a calling card. Initially, he’d simply thought that Krycek had broken in anonymously as Skinner had claimed, and had left both Skinner’s injuries and the note as a clear message of how pissed off he was that Mulder had told him “no.”

 Only, the more he thought about it, the  less it added up.  Skinner’s apartment had been taken apart with a fine toothcomb that morning in a search for clues, and although Mulder had both expected Krycek to cover his tracks and for Skinner’s place to be naturally in a state of almost military neatness, the whole apartment had been TOO damned clean.

 In the search for forensic clues, they should have found evidence of someone other than Skinner having been in the apartment.  Everyone had visitors of one description or another.  Surely Skinner had friends, relatives, maybe even a girlfriend, yet not one hair or fiber had been found in the whole apartment.  Which led Mulder to think about Skinner sexually. Even if Skinner didn’t have a girlfriend (or even a boyfriend, a wistful voice chirped up in the back of his head) then, unless Skinner was a monk ( which the same little voice pointed out would be a serious crime), there should have been some trace of sexual activity in his apartment, even if it was only a used tissue in a wastepaper bin.

 If he hadn’t known better, given the limited time between Skinner’s neighbor alerting the police and their arrival at Skinner’s apartment, Mulder would have thought that any incriminating evidence had been removed before the assault.  Since there were no signs of ligatures on Skinner’s battered body, he hadn’t been tied up by his attacker. So the only way that Krycek could have had the time to ensure the apartment was clean, was if he had received Skinner’s own help.

Which was ridiculous.

Wasn’t it?

Unless Skinner was protecting him, the same way he was trying to protect Skinner.  If Krycek had threatened to kill *him*,  then maybe Skinner would have both allowed and participated in the attack. Maybe that was why he was pretending he didn’t know who had attacked him. Maybe all Skinner was doing was trying to save Mulder’s own ass, although nothing short of a bullet in Krycek’s forehead was going to do it..

Mulder clenched his buttocks nervously and reminded himself that anyone could get turned on by a tongue up their ass, it didn’t mean they actually were attracted to the owner of the tongue.

Now Skinner’s tongue, on the other hand, was a completely different story. He’d been on the receiving end of enough of the AD’s tongue-lashings to be in awe of the muscle that resided inside Skinner’s mouth.  The idea of that same muscle copying Krycek’s actions was enough to make Mulder’s cock swell with excitement.  He groaned and shook his head, trying to ignore the urge to run back into Skinner’s hospital room and straddle his face.

So, he told himself firmly as he shuffled to ease the strain against his crotch and tried to concentrate on the mystery on hand, it made sense that Krycek had attacked Skinner. It even made sense that Skinner was trying to cover it up.

What really didn’t make sense though, was how the fuck Krycek had gotten into Skinner’s apartment in the first place.

Although he was cautious as he re-approached the hospital bed, he ignored the angry narrowing of Skinner’s eyes.

“I told you to get back to work, Agent Mulder,” Skinner growled. “If you don’t already  have enough to do to justify the taxpayer’s money that pays your wages, I’m sure I can arrange for some of those telephone surveillances I promised you.” Then he choked a little, as his abused lung contracted fiercely to punish his fervor.

“You said that you didn’t see who attacked you,” Mulder said, taking advantage of Skinner’s momentary silence.

Skinner just glared and nodded.

“Yet, whoever attacked you had a key to your apartment. There were no signs of forced entry.”

“Haven’t you heard of picking locks, Mulder?” Skinner coughed sarcastically.

“I know everyone else has accepted that theory,” Mulder agreed slowly, “But I just remembered something. You have a burglar alarm too.”

“So? I was home in bed. The alarm was off.”

“No it wasn’t. That model defaults to perimeter alert, doesn’t it? The internal sensors turn off when you enter,  but the exterior sensors are still monitored. So unless you deliberately turned the default off, your ‘visitor’ knew your alarm code.”

Skinner’s face paled slightly, but when he spoke his voice was steady.

“I’ve been having problems with the system,” Skinner said, glaring at Mulder as though daring him to challenge the story. “It’s been giving false alarms in the  middle of the night, so I turned it off.”

“That’s odd,” Mulder said, taking a chance and lying through his teeth, “because I spoke to the security company who monitor your alarm, and they say the system was on but that someone over-rode it at 2.30am by inputting the correct codes.”

Skinner’s already pale face blanched and despite a slight twinge of Mulder’s conscience for tricking a man who was doped up to the eyeballs with painkillers, the younger man couldn’t prevent a smirk of triumph playing over his lips.

“So, Sir. Just between us, could you tell me why Alex Krycek knows the code to your home security system?”

He had expected a dramatic response and wasn’t disappointed. He was, however, surprised by its nature. Skinner surged upwards from the bed, his hand darting out  as though he intended to rip Mulder’s intestines out. Instead his violent movement ripped several of the sensors off his chest. The room filled with the sound of high-pitched alerts from the medical monitors, Skinner’s lips turned blue as he gasped for oxygen, a stampede of nurses almost bowled Mulder off his feet and he was bodily seized and thrust out of the room.  He found himself out in the corridor, and his last vision before the door slammed in his face was Skinner’s eyes rolling back in his head as he collapsed back onto his bed.

“Oops,” he mumbled to himself, chewing his lower lip and wondering where to go to from here.

"What's so funny?" Krycek demanded irritably. Hysterical laughter wasn't the usual response he received when he stuck the barrel of a gun into someone's neck.

"You here to kill me, or fuck me?" Mulder gasped, then burst into a fresh peal of laughter, completely unaware of the look of guilty fear that crossed Krycek's face at his unconscious echo of Skinner's words.

"I SAID what's so funny," Krycek growled, grinding the pistol into Mulder's skin while he fought to contain his own discomfiture.

"Skinner gets roses, and I get a gun," Mulder explained. "You have a weird way of romancing a guy."

Krycek blinked uncertainly, but his only answer was to shove Mulder roughly in the back, pushing him far enough into his apartment to allow Krycek to close the door he had been lurking behind.. Mulder stumbled forward from the force of the blow and struggled to keep his balance as he turned to face his attacker. He was surprised to see Krycek casually replacing his gun into his waistband. Mulder wasn't sure whether the move was because Krycek was satisfied he wouldn't struggle, or because he had been shamed by his comment, but still he breathed a little easier for knowing Krycek was no longer holding the gun on him.

His own gun felt comfortably heavy and reassuring under his jacket, and his fingers itched as he began to unconsciously slide his hand towards his own waistband.

"Don't even think about it," Krycek purred, with a mocking smirk. "In fact, maybe you should put your hands behind your head, where I can see them, and assume the position."

"Which position did you have in mind," Mulder drawled back.

He saw Krycek's eyes flicker with shock.

/That's it/ Mulder told himself. /Keep him off balance. Take control/

Krycek waited until Mulder's hands were laced behind his neck, then stepped forward and pulled Mulder's weapon from its holster. Then he stepped back again and sprawled casually on the sofa, lying the gun on the coffee table between them.

Mulder was careful not to let his eyes flicker to the weapon, although he was carefully judging his chances of lunging forward and grabbing it before Krycek. Slim, to none, he reluctantly admitted to himself, unless he could lure Krycek away from the couch. With Skinner so vulnerable in the hospital, Mulder wasn't willing to risk attacking Krycek until he was damned certain of winning the encounter.

"Strip," Krycek said coldly.

"Is this because I spent an hour alone in Skinner's hospital room?" Mulder mocked, as he unbuttoned his shirt. "What do you think I was doing there? Fucking myself on his cock while he lay there defenseless?"

Krycek growled, and although the sound sent a fission of fear through Mulder, he couldn't resist the urge to keep pushing at the assassin. He knew that deliberately pushing Krycek's buttons was a damn fine way to get hurt, or maybe dead, but it was also his best chance of stealing control of the situation. Even if he forced Krycek to hurt him, it would be him orchestrating the situation rather than Krycek this time..

"I thought about it," Mulder said, as he began to peel his pants down to reveal the bulge in his boxers. 

He fondled himself slowly, enjoying the way Krycek's breath caught in surprise. Mulder slowly rubbed himself, never taking his eyes off Krycek's face, enjoying the flush that spread over Krycek's cheekbones. "I've been hard all day thinking about it. Thinking about how much I want a cock up my ass." He waited until Krycek's eyes flickered with excitement, then added, "Skinner's cock."

With a roar of outrage, Krycek lurched to his feet and lunged for Mulder. Mulder danced backwards, kicking his feet free of his pants so that he wouldn't stumble, and he laughed wildly at the look of furious hurt on Krycek's face.

"What you going to do, Alex? Beat me up? Rape me? Go ahead if you want to. I won't fight you any more. I'll even beg you to fuck me if it makes you feel better," Mulder smirked.

Krycek froze, his fists clenching as he fought to resist the urge to smash the smile off Mulder's face.
"You'll beg me?" he asked, disbelievingly.

"Sure Alex," Mulder replied. "If that's all you need to make you happy." / you sad fuck/ "I'll do it now if you like. Please fuck me, Alex."

He gave Krycek a blinding smile, then eased his boxer's down until his engorged cock sprang free.

"How do you want me?" Mulder asked calmly, moving slowly until he was *almost* between Krycek and the gun.. "On my back or on my hands and knees?"

Looking like a little boy who had too many Christmas presents in front of him to be able to choose which one to open, Krycek just gaped at Mulder for a moment. Then, he shook himself and growled, "Bedroom."

/Fuck/ Mulder said to himself. He'd counted on Krycek wanting to simply fuck him on the living room floor. He had to force himself not to look back longingly at the coffee table, as Krycek herded him into the bedroom. Without waiting for Krycek to ask, Mulder threw himself down on the bed, pulled his knees up to his chest and reached over to the bedside table to retrieve the lube Krycek had left the night before.

"I'm clean," Mulder said casually. "I know how you feel about that, so I prepared myself at the gym before I came home. I figured you might come here tonight."

/Of course, I hoped I'd get here first so I could tape my gun under the mattress/ he added silently.

Krycek just stared at him, his green eyes flickering dangerously, then he reached his right hand inside his jacket and withdrew his gun. He placed it carefully on the edge of the bed, then slowly undressed, never taking his eyes off either Mulder or the weapon.

/God, he's fucking gorgeous/ The thought leapt unbidden into Mulder's head, and he shook his head fiercely to thrust the realization away. Krycek might be gorgeous, but he was also a dangerous murdering sociopath, Mulder reminded himself quickly,  when Krycek reached over him, grabbed his wrists and locked them around the headboard with a pair of handcuffs.

"You like this bondage crap, don't you?" he commented, in a show of bravado.

"So do you," Krycek pointed out, running his hand suggestively over Mulder's erect cock.

Mulder just bit his tongue, waiting until Krycek climbed onto the bed and settled between his knees before speaking with studied casualness.

"So how long have you been fucking Skinner?"

It was just a guess, just an intuitive leap, but Krycek's reaction was almost as dramatic as Skinner's had been earlier.

It was also a hell of a lot more painful.

Mulder screamed as Krycek grabbed for his gun and jammed it violently between Mulder's open thighs until the muzzle breached the first ring of Mulder's ass.

"What did you just say?" Krycek demanded.

Although the cold metal pressing into his anus was terrifying enough to make most of Mulder's brain skitter in complete panic, Mulder had faced death enough times for him to pretend an aura of calm. He couldn't help a small, nervous giggle as he pictured the crime scene photos if Krycek pulled the trigger, but even on the tail end of that hysterical thought, two important facts registered. He hadn't heard Krycek disengage the safety and Krycek had lost his erection. 

"Oops. Wasn't I supposed to ask that? I guess you think honesty in relationships is over-rated, huh" he quipped bravely.

"Don't fuck with me," Krycek growled, but his eyes were panicked and most of the color had blanched from his face.

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" Mulder asked, then chuckled. "No, I guess not, since I *did* ask you to fuck me, didn't I?"

Krycek just glared at him.

Mulder looked pointedly at Krycek's now disinterested cock.

"Not in the mood after all, Alex? Never took you for the guilty type. I mean, you just put your boyfriend in hospital just so you could cheat on him with me. Seems a waste not to go through with it."

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up," Krycek spat, twisting the gun viciously against Mulder's pucker. "He's not my boyfriend."

Mulder gasped in pain, but he was enjoying Krycek's unexpected panic too much to back down.

"I've been thinking about that note you left for me in Skinner's apartment. It obviously *was* meant for me, since Skinner was out for the count at the time.  I thought 'He's mine' was referring to me, but I was wrong, wasn't I? Is that what this is all about, Alex? I don't think it's *me* you want at all. You're just scared I'm going to steal Skinner off you, aren't you? You think I'm after him and he'll choose me, cos I'm not a psychotic murderer like you."

"He's nothing to me. NOTHING!" Krycek screamed.

"So why the fuck did you send him the roses, huh?" Mulder challenged. 

"What roses?" Krycek demanded.

"Don't 'what roses' me, you fucker. The two dozen long-stemmed roses you sent to his hospital. Though why the hell you signed the card from me is too twisted for even me to figure out."

"I didn't send him any fucking roses," Krycek snarled furiously. "Why the fuck would I send him flowers and put YOUR name on them?"

Mulder's heart leapt in his chest. Unless Krycek was schizophrenic as *well* as psychotic, he was telling the truth.

Krycek roughly jerked his weapon free, not even hearing Mulder's yelp of pain. He scrambled back off the bed and quickly began to dress.

"Where are you going?" Mulder asked, his earlier bravado swept away by the pure, unadulterated hatred in Krycek's face.

"I'm going to kill him," Krycek promised. 

"Who?" 

"Skinner. I'm going to blow his fucking brains out. Then you'll know, won't you?"

"Know what?"

"That *you* are mine," Krycek snarled. "I should have killed him last night. I should have known he'd tell you about us."

"He didn't, Alex. I swear. I just guessed, that's all. He didn't mention you at all," Mulder told him frantically, realizing that in some way he'd been as wrong as he'd been right.  Skinner and Krycek *were* in a relationship of some kind, but it was equally obvious that Krycek's pursuit of himself was genuine. Which meant that Mulder had just landed Skinner in a shit load of trouble. "It wasn't his fault. It was just a lucky guess," he garbled frantically.

"A lucky guess based on two dozen roses in Skinner's hospital room," Krycek pointed out.

Mulder blinked. "You think he sent them to himself, just to tip me off?" he asked, in disbelief.

Krycek just gave him a cold smile.

"I'll bring them back for you."

"What?"

"The roses. They keep for fresh for a week, you know," Krycek murmured.  "Put them in water and you'll be able to send them to his funeral."

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Scully murmured.

Perhaps it was the effect of the pain-killers that made any coherent thought impossible, but Skinner didn't even feel embarrassed by her comment.  They *were* beautiful, and after he'd torn up Mulder's card he'd just lain there all afternoon, his nostrils filled with their sweet scent, and he'd pretended to himself that Alex had sent the flowers after all.

The room was darkening around him as he lost his battle to keep his eyes open. He was barely conscious when Scully spoke again, and her voice seemed little more than a far away echo as he tumbled into sleep.

"I know he finds relationships difficult," Scully murmured, "but he does love you, Sir. I'm sure of it."

She didn't even think he'd heard her, but then although his words were muffled, she heard him mumble, "I know I shouldn't love him, but I do," and a tear trickled down from between his closed eyelashes.

Praying he wouldn't remember the conversation when he woke, Scully ran her fingers gently down Skinner's cheek to erase the errant tear.

"Love isn't a crime, Sir," she whispered. "No-one can help who they fall in love with."

His only answer was a low snore.

Scully looked sadly at the bruises that mottled Skinner's face and wondered, not for the first time, why the hell Mulder wasn't there looking after him. Didn't he realize that under Skinner's gruff exterior there was a man as vulnerable and needy as himself?

She sighed and walked out of the corridor, itching to phone Mulder but too aware of the medical equipment surrounding her to dare turn her mobile on until she was outside. Damn him anyway, she thought. What more could she do? The roses had cost her a fortune, although the smile on Skinner's face had made them worthwhile, but Mulder could at least have phoned and thanked her for sending them on his behalf.

Feeling totally unappreciated, she didn't even notice the tall, dark-haired man in the white doctor's coat who slipped past her as she entered the elevator.

The End