TITLE: Sad Lovers and Giants 12/? - Seven Kinds of Sin

NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: ccmcdoc@hotmail.com
CATEGORY: M/Sk
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing – STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: A blizzard. A power cut. Finding their way in darkness.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Nnnnnnnnnope.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Skinner NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20^th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king...

Author's notes: Sad Lovers and Giants, the two things hardest to conceal.

If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

Sad Lovers and Giants 12/? - Seven Kinds of Sin

by Mik

He looked surprised to see me, even though I'd called upon our friendship to ask him to make this early morning visit. It was a sign of my desperation that I'd called him, as it had been at least ten years since we'd spoken. Still, he offered me a hand and a smile that indicated long-standing friendship. "Walt. It's good to see you, buddy."

"Cory." I clasped his hand with both of mine.

He read something into the gesture, just as Mulder would have done. Maybe that desperation. "Come on in." He nodded toward his office door.

Once inside, in the intimacy of his workplace, I began to question the wisdom of my decision. I was going to have to make a huge confession to a man with whom I'd crawled through mud and gore and mortar fire. "I don't know where to begin," I confessed, with a weak laugh, hovering over the ubiquitous couch.

"Well," he was smiling wryly, not looking directly at me, "some people like to start by telling me about a 'friend'."

I didn't feel like smiling with him. Nothing I was about to tell him warranted a smile. "The truth is, this really is about a friend. He's also a subordinate. And I'm afraid he's going to kill himself if something doesn't change, and change dramatically. I just don't know how to change it for him."

Cory didn't react to the announcement the way I had expected. There was no alarm or even apparent concern. He merely folded his hands, settled into his chair and said, "Sit down. Tell me about it."

I hitched my slacks and sat. "Do you believe in multiple personalities?" I asked, because that was what I truly needed to know.

A smile quirked around his lips. "They make highly entertaining plot devices in novels and films."

"Then you don't believe in them," I concluded, already sending signals to my legs to rise. This was definitely a mistake. "I won't waste any more of your -"

Cory's response kept me seated. "What I believe is immaterial at this point," he answered mildly. "Does your friend think he has multiple personalities?"

"No. I think he does."

His expression remained impassive. "I see. Do you know the criteria for this diagnosis?" He didn't sound as if he was mocking me. He sounded as if he believed I might.

I shrugged. "Just what he's told me."

"Oh, so he does think he's -"

"No. But he's qualified to describe the criteria to me. He's a forensic psychologist."

"Then don't you suppose he's qualified to make the determination whether or not he meets the criteria?" he suggested mildly.

"According to him, people don't always know that they have more than one personality," I answered. I would have started getting annoyed if I didn't know Cory so well. "Now, stop playing doctor with me. Help me out."

He settled back in his chair, smiling. "You came to see the doctor, Walt." He reached across his desk and picked up a pencil. "All right, let's examine the situation and see if we think he meets the criteria. Tell me about it."

I began slowly, giving him a little of Mulder's training, experience, expertise and just plain scary abilities. I did not go into detail about his childhood.

Cory listened patiently and when I stopped talking he said, "He sounds like a brilliant guy. And I think I hear a little hero worship in all that. What I don't hear are indications of MPD."

"I'm getting to that." I struggled for a moment. "You mentioned hero worship. Well, uh..." I rubbed the back of my neck, "Wow, this is harder than I expected."

"More than hero worship?" he supplied.

"Yeah." I sagged back against the sofa. "A lot more."

"You're lovers?" Thank God he didn't sound shocked or disgusted. He might as well have asked if we were golfing buddies.

"Well, yes and no." I gestured vaguely. "We started something a few weeks ago, but..."

He was quiet for a moment. "What happens when sex is initiated? I'm assuming that's when this condition manifests itself?"

I nodded. "Not all sex. Just..." I know I was starting to blush.

"Anal penetration?"

"Yes," I rushed on. "It's not because I'm forcing him. He seems to want it. He initiates it. But we get to a certain point..." I was once again at a loss for words.

But he wanted words. "What happens?"

"He...changes." There was no other word for it. "It's not just that he fights. He's not himself. He cries. When he speaks, it sounds like someone else."

"Whom?"

I swallowed painfully. "Like a child."

"How does he explain this behavior?"

All of his questions had been asked in a quiet, even voice, for which I was immensely grateful. I don't think I could have gotten that far, otherwise. "He doesn't. That's the most disturbing thing. He doesn't remember any of it. When I let go of him, and believe me, I let go right away, he eventually calms down and then thinks he's had a nightmare that he can't remember. He's apologetic and friendly again."

Cory had been considering the pencil in his hands, his lips pulled together in a frown, but he eyed me thoughtfully when I finished speaking. "What do you think it means?"

I didn't want to answer him. I knew the conclusion he was coming to and it was the same as mine, even though I had yet to articulate it, even in my thoughts. "He was molested when he was a child." I don't know why but saying the words flooded me with rage. We dealt with this reality all the time, but the idea that someone had molested a kid like Mulder, a kid already so traumatized by the loss of his sister and the breakdown of his family, was intolerable to me. I wanted to find that bastard and bring his balls to Mulder gift-wrapped.

Cory shifted in his chair. "Well, trauma like that is very often the root of a myriad of disassociative disorders, up to and including Multiple Personality Disorder."

"Do you think that's what this is?" I asked. This wasn't the answer I wanted, after all. If he suffered from a disorder of that magnitude, it would disqualify him for fieldwork. And that would kill him. There had to be another explanation.

Cory shook his head. "I can't possibly diagnose him from here. I wouldn't try."

"An informed guess?" I prompted.

"Well, you don't describe a very well formed personality, Walt. Would you call this manifestation a fully formed, distinct personality, or just a fragment of your friend's childhood ego?"

I looked at him helplessly. "I'm not sure I can answer that. Is it important? Does it make a difference? I really don't understand how all this happens."

Cory pointed to his laptop. "Think of a person's mind like a computer's hard drive. Sometimes a virus might be introduced which must be quarantined within the hard drive. Those sectors of the hard drive that are infected are partitioned off from the rest of the computer so that the computer may continue to function. The hard drive cannot access those sectors anymore. Forgets that they exist. Any data that was in those sectors is lost within that partition. If further infection is found, it is added to the quarantine. Likewise, the data within those partitions cannot get back out into the main hard drive. It is as if there are two separate hard drives."

"When trauma corrupts a part of a person's mind, usually in childhood when the personality is still forming and is vulnerable to all kinds of influence, very often the child partitions that event into a part of his memory that he can no longer consciously access. If something happens to trigger those memories, that bit of his or her personality that was corrupted is ... revived, if you will. It is still at whatever level of development the child was at when the trauma occurred. When there is repeated trauma, the child stores more and more of his personality into this partition, and sometimes a distinct, and different person emerges to deal with aspects of life the adult is not equipped to handle. Sometimes, more than one person emerges, each with unique life skills, skills the child was too traumatized to absorb into his developing personality. That is multiple personality disorder."

"So, something is wrong with him?"

"Wrong is a pretty judgmental position," he chided gently. "Is the condition incapacitating him in any way? Other than in bed with you, that is?"

I felt my scalp burning, and I slid my hand over it self-consciously. "I'm not sure. He's always had this uncanny ability to get into the minds of the UNSUBs he's profiled. But even though I know it was physically and emotionally demanding on him, I never really saw him incapacitated. Until last night, that is." I tried to describe how I'd found him the night before; in tears, frantic, talking to our UNSUB but appearing to blur the lines between past and present. "I'm afraid he's going to disintegrate in front of me."

Cory looked at his notes. "You said earlier he left the department where these cases were routine. Why is he involved in this case?"

"Because he's the best there is," I stated. "Someone pulled political strings to bring him in."

"And he's working with you on this very stressful case?"

"Yes, I'm leading the Task Force."

Cory closed his notebook, and sat forward, looking at me. "What do you think you ought to do, Walt?"

I was getting a headache. I pulled my glasses off and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Give me a break, Cory. What should I do?"

He stood and came across the office. "I think you know what you should do." He offered me a hand.

I stood with him. "Should I confront him?"

He shook his head. "There you go with those harsh words again. Remember, if he was molested, he's a victim. Don't put him in a position where he is put on the defensive, or made to assume more guilt." He paused. "Look, let's stay away from the morality of being involved with a subordinate. Let's address the potential damage of disassociation, particularly if you fear it's starting to escalate."

"I should stop seeing him," I decided heavily. "I've ended the personal relationship, for his own good, so I guess now I need to end the professional relationship."

Cory didn't nod or frown. He just patted my back encouragingly. "You'll do the right thing, Walt. I know you will."

"Thanks for seeing me, Cory." I left, feeling worse than I did when I got there.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When I got to the Hoover later that morning, the Task Force was already on the move. Mulder had culled three potential sites from the list of air raid shelters in the area, and he was in the Com Room giving instructions to the teams going out.

There was no question of the potential damage of the case. The damage was real. He looked like hell. He'd been up fifty-two hours and had only been home once to change clothes. He needed to eat, shave, shower and be sedated.

He ignored my presence as he concluded his remarks. I said nothing to him during the briefing, but I followed him down to his office after, having signaled Agent Scully to stay back. He was loading the pockets of his Kevlar with extra rounds when I pushed the door open.

He looked up for a moment and resumed his task. "Don't even think about it, Skinner," he warned, his voice husky with emotion and exhaustion.

I had gone down there to tell him that he was being assigned to another Assistant Director, but looking at him, I had to try one last time to pull him off the case. "Mulder, you've done the hard part," I began, trying to sound encouraging. "The most important part. I'll make sure you get the collar, if you -"

"It's not about that and don't insult me by suggesting it is." He pushed his weapon into his waistband holster, and shoved it into the back of his slacks.

"Mulder, this case is -"

"I know what this case is," he snapped. "And I know what you're thinking." He reached for his FBI jacket, slung over the back of his chair. "You think I can't handle a case like this because of my sister. But you don't understand at all." He slid into the jacket. "It's because of my sister than I can handle a case like this. Because of her that I have to do this." He snapped the collar up. "I can't let it happen to anyone else." He put up a hand to forestall my argument. "I know I can't stop them all. But let me stop the ones I can." He pressed that hand to his chest. "I can stop this one."

I reached for him, even against my will. "Mulder, for God's sake, look at yourself."

He sidestepped me, his chin up, his shoulders squared despite the evident weariness of his body and mind. "I know what you see, Mr. Skinner, but you're not seeing everything. I'm going out there and getting this guy because I can. I'm the only one who can, because I know what he's thinking." He pointed to his temple. "I can feel the worms in his brain. If you want Carrie Dolan back alive, get out of my way."

I took a deep breath and made myself say what I had come to say. "Mulder, you've been reassigned. A.D. Hopkins is taking the X-Files and you will be -"

"You son of a bitch." He came across the narrow space of the office swinging both fists.

He grazed my chin as I ducked out of his path, and then I managed to pull him around and force him, face down over his desk, wrenching his hands behind his back. "Stupid fuck," I muttered, pinning him against the desk with my legs. "I wasn't taking you off the case. I am leaving the Task Force to someone else." I tugged at his wrists angrily. "And I'm getting a little tired of you using me as a punching bag every time you get upset. Do you hear me?"

He didn't respond.

"Do you?" I jerked his arms again. Then I realized something frightening. He wasn't fighting me. He was totally still under me. His breath was shallow, his eyes were shut tight, his body was rigid as if he was willing himself not to struggle. I backed off quickly as if his body had burst into flames beneath me. "Mulder?"

He remained still, even to the point of leaving his hands behind his back. I could hear him struggle for breath, gasp as if choking, and then slowly, almost tentatively shift his body on the desk. Carefully he moved his hands forward and braced himself. A moment later he lifted himself upward, and turned.

He didn't speak. He didn't look at me. He just stood there breaking my heart.

I had to say something. Trying to adopt a nonthreatening, nonconfrontational position, as Cory had advised, I backed up to the door and forced the rage from my voice. "Mulder, this is a very difficult question to ask, but ..." I paused, hoping he would look at me, but grateful he did not, "were you molested as a child?"

He didn't move. He just kept standing there, eyes fixed to the floor.

"Mulder?"

Finally, he looked up, and his expression was bewilderment and revulsion. "What did you say?"

I was loathed to repeat it. But I did. "Were you molested as a child?" I watched as feelings tumbled across his downcast face like water over rocks. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't -"

"I can't believe you asked me that." He shook his head, a weak but grim smile coming to his mouth. "What is this, junior psychology week? Just because I know how to get into a bad guy's head doesn't mean I've been molested."

"It's not -"

"No. Don't say anything more." His voice was cold. Colder than a hotel room in Buffalo. "You've said enough for one day. Now, get out of my way."

"Mulder, it has nothing to do with this case."

He was moving toward me, but stopped just outside my reach. "Get out of my way, Skinner."

"No." I shifted my weight, making it clear I was immovable. "You're going to stay here and face this."

"You aren't my supervisor anymore, I no longer answer to you. You kicked me out of your life, and now you're kicking me out of my job. I don't owe you anything, even the time to listen to you."

"Mulder, this isn't about the job," I repeated. "It isn't even really about us. It's about you. About pain you're in. Pain so deep you don't even know its source." I tried to reach for him. I wanted to comfort him. But he jerked out of my grasp. "Listen to me. You have these...episodes...That's why I ended our relationship. Because I thought I was..." I couldn't go on. The look on his face was killing me. "Mulder, do you think I'd deliberately hurt you?"

His eyes were on my shoes. He drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders but refused to meet my eyes. "Get out of my way. I have work to do."

"Mulder, you don't know what's happening -"

His eyes finally met mine with a flash of fire. "And you don't know what you're talking about. Out of my way." Impulsively, he jerked his gun from its holster. "Out of my way, Skinner," he leveled the gun at me, "or so help me, I'll have you up for obstructing justice."

I moved out of his way. There was nothing else I could do.

End 12