TITLE:  Dry Heat - Part I

(26 parts - Parts 1 to 8)

NAME: frogdoggie

E-MAIL: frogdoggie@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17. M/SK. SK/O This story contains SLASH. VERY GRAPHIC CONSENSUAL SEX BETWEEN MEN. So, if you don’t like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.

SUMMARY: Post colonization. Walter Skinner is on a quest of his own. Go West Mr. AD. Seek and ye shall find. Missed parts of this story? Surf here: https://www.squidge.org/3wstop to find them.

FEEDBACK - YES PLEASE, AND THANK YOU SIR, CAN I HAVE ANOTHER? Comments, suggestions and healthy debate are always welcome. Flames? Thanks! I need to build a bonfire so I can roast a few weenies!

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: All episodes in Season 6. Fight The Future.

KEYWORDS: story angst slash Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use.

Please ask me before you archive my work. I usually don't mind but I do like to know where my stories are going. Thanks much.

A very special thanks to Susan. O' Beta Goddess - you've got the hoodoo. You know what you do...and you do it with finesse, patience and perfection.

Written during June and July of 1999.

Dry Heat

by frogdoggie

August 4, 2005, About 1 PM in the afternoon. Near Godwillin, New Mexico

I remember saying once...when I retire I want to move someplace warm. Not humid warm. No...I want to live out my days in a dry heat. Well...I guess I got what I wanted and gee, I didn't even have to retire to get it.

New Mexico. The desert. All the dry heat I could want. Be careful what you wish for, buddy. It just may come true.

The desert. It cooks you if you're not careful. Fries you on its griddle and leaves your baked, seared husk for the vultures, coyotes, scorpions and rattlesnakes. But it's a clean death. They pick your bones till they're white. I guess you could say that's one good thing about the desert. No mess.

The other good thing I can think of right at the moment is...the desert's flat. Boringly so - but that's a distinct advantage in a situation like this one. It's an advantage when you need to case a location to determine whether it's safe to ride into it. A situation like I'm in now just outside Godwillin, New Mexico.

The sign says 'Godwillin. Pop. 456 souls...and growing. Gas. Food. Lodging.' Crudely printed white letters on a large piece of metal. Metal sign nailed to a metal post driven into the ground next to what used to be the interstate. Sign for a new town. Post 'relocation' town.

I'm taking a real good look at Godwillin through my binoculars right now. Scoping out the main street. I think the town probably existed in some form during the before times. It's certainly been added to however, and obviously re-christened after the big removal. It's in relatively good shape anyway. Looks like the settlers were an ingenious lot. Even the huge water-tower has Godwillin painted around it. Water in the desert? How you ask? Well...mother nature has new ways nowadays. Mother Nature and alien/human hybrid ingenuity. In some cases, if a town needs water it gets rain...right on cue.

There's an obvious main street to this town. I can see some signs on the buildings that line it. A couple of taverns, a general store, what might have been a post office but now says town hall, and a few other unmarked buildings all squat at various locations along the road. There's even a gas station right across from a motel with 20 rooms about a half mile beyond the end of main street. Set back from those first buildings are a hodgepodge of tents, as well as wood and adobe structures which I assume are private residences. I can see some penned up livestock here and there. Chickens, sheep, goats, pigs, horses, beef and milk cows are all in evidence. Lots of fenced in garden plots as well.

Set way back from all that evidence of a bustling population, sits the gas supply. Fuck...it looks like a damn truck stop. Two rows, 12 vehicles in one row, 10 in the other. Rows of heavily guarded oil tanker trucks surrounded by razor wire and men in elevated guard shacks. I can see in ground hatches as well, so I bet they have tanks buried underground too. The manpower watching over the fuel supply arrangement doesn't surprise me. Yeah, fuel is as precious a commodity as water out here. This town's making sure they don't run out. I can see lots of gas- powered as well as solar-powered generators supplying electricity all over town. God, I hope they have some AC. I could really go for a cool breeze right now.

Some of these burgs have sprouted up like weeds out of the hard packed dirt on the side of the interstate. A few, like this one, started out as old towns and rebuilt or just expanded into new towns. The residents are as hodgepodge as their domiciles. All ages, races, colors, and creeds. A mixture of ex-resistance fighters, detention camp escapees, before time survivalists, and the just plain lucky (or unlucky depending on your viewpoint), to be alive and on terra firma.

New small town America. Another town to serve as standard bearer for what's left in the way of cities. A blip on the road like this one serves to replace big cities like New York and LA before big cities became empty, bombed out hulks. Godwillin. Yeah, it'll do. It has to do. I'm bone road weary, dusty and sorely in need of a shower and meal. It'll be great to crawl between some cool sheets tonight. I lower the binoculars and take them off my neck. I glance down at the old Timex wind-up watch I wear. 1:15 PM. Time to ride.

The Harley Road King Classic sits in back of me leaning on its kickstand. The bike's squat black and chrome body hugs the side of the road, creating its own piece of shadow on the cracked and broken asphalt. I advance on the bike and tuck the binoculars into one of my saddlebags. I pull my helmet off the seat.

Before I don my black plastic protection I adjust my wire rims on the athletic band that holds them around my head. My glasses. Reminders of a life I used to lead during the before time. I seat them more comfortably on my nose. The last accessory I still wear to remind me of FBI Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner. I still need them even with the nanocytes. But I'll never need a stronger pair. I need them, and I wear them with a certain grim fondness for the man I used to be in a time that now seems so long ago. I finally put the helmet on over my head, and snap down the tinted visor.

I climb over the seat of the Harley and straddle the bike, flipping up the kickstand with my steel toed boot. Everything I own in the world is on this Harley. Two deluxe size saddlebags and a big bag on the tour rack full of possessions and road rations. The tour rack holds my sleeping bag and one man tent too. I have some weapons, including my rifle, on board as well. I have quite a few weapons that are visible, including the Remington Centerfire Autoloader rifle. But some are concealed on the bike and on my person. I pack a Bowie knife in a sheath in my right boot, and my Smith and Wesson in a shoulder holster under my arm. I carried a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic back during my Bureau days. Hey, I still 'buy' American. What can I say?

I start the bike, rev it a few times just to hear that deep throated roar I've grown to think sounds just like me when I'm going at full throttle. The roar that'll announce to the residents of Godwillin, New Mexico, that they'd better get ready. Prepare thyself, Godwillin, because ready or not...here comes one bad-ass, bald-headed son of a bitch the likes of which you haven't seen in a very long time.

xXx

I drive the bike straight up main street and down to the Dust Devil Motel at the end. I get a lot of stares. I always do. It's the bike in part. It's one loud muther. It's me too though. A black leather clad stranger in town always draws a lot of attention. I smile to myself. It's that mixture of danger and intrigue I guess. Basic black might not seem logical under the burning rays of the desert sun. But hey, if it worked for the Bedouin I think it'll work for me. So, I cultivate the aura of mystery for the cloak of privacy it so often gives me.

Once I've parked the Harley in front of the office, I climb off, remove my helmet and lay it on the seat. I brush the dust off my clothing next. My jeans, black leather chaps, and motorcycle jacket are covered in it. I kick the dust off my boots. I'll be glad to get my leathers off. I feel like they've grown to me. I stretch a little and twist my neck, cracking it with a satisfying snap.

The office door is shut and so are the windows which tells me the likelihood of AC looms before me. I prepare myself for the change from blast furnace to refrigerator as I saunter over and open the office door.

The draft of fresh, cool air that hits the front of my body as I enter the office is almost as good as a lover's kiss. A bell over the door tinkles several times as I shut the door and take in my surroundings.

Its looks like a fairly typical motel office from the 'good old days'. Long desk facing the door. A few tables and chairs. There's a curtained doorway in back of the desk leading to an inner room at the back. I don't notice any signs that say 'You must check your weapons'. Good. God's willin' but he's also in favor of the right to bear arms I guess. I also don't see any signs that give the room rates. Bad sign. My stay here may be a bit pricey.

Just as I'm thinking of ringing the bell that sits on the reservation desk, I hear a second door open behind the curtain leading to the inner room. A cough announces the return of the individual on desk duty.

"Hang on a sec..." a gruff voice suggests.

I remain silent as the man comes through the curtain, still zipping up his fly.

"Sorry, call of nature," he explains as he takes me in carefully. He squints a little at my get-up and I stare at him sizing him up as well.

I peg him as ex-resistance. He's a compact, muscular man with hard gray eyes and almost white blonde hair. He carries himself with assurance and something that just says 'I don't trust you until I know you...so don't do anything to piss me off'. A lot of ex-resistance have that edge about them. Hell, I do. I guess he can probably read that coming off me as well.

"I'd like a room," I tell him matter-of-factly and walk up to the desk.

"And you are?" he asks, blinking.

"Skinner."

"Greetings, Skinner. Name's Kurtz. I own this dump, for what it's worth."

I nod as he continues to speak.

"Most people do want a room when they come in here," he adds with a slight terse grimace which I guess is his version of a wry grin. "Well, you're in luck. We have one left."

"AC?" I ask, trying to keep the longing out of my voice.

"Yep. AC, in each room - supplied by a combination of generator and solar power." He lifts his head towards the ceiling indicating the array of solar cells I had seen on the roof when I drove up. "There's a water tank and gravity feed available out back for showering. If you want a bath, or a shave in private, you need to haul the water to your room. The tub's drain still works. The toilet will too, if you dump water down it."

I nod again and he continues.

"No cooking in the room. When you need meals you can get them at the tavern. We do have maid service. The maids clean every day around noon or so. They're trustworthy too so you don't have to worry about your valuables."

I nod, and he goes on.

"A month's stay's the limit. One month. After that you're out. If you want to settle here you need to apply for homesteading space at the town hall. That's their rule, not mine. There's a sheriff's force to enforce the rules around here too," he finishes with a shrug.

Ah. Sheriffs. Well that's not entirely bad if they're a clean and reliable force. I'll hope they're not corrupt. If they're honest it means Godwillin isn't totally lawless. Most new towns have a wild west atmosphere - anything goes and it usually does. But here there appear to be limits, some regulation. I won't have to be on my guard 24/7. I'm beginning to think I might stay here a few days. I can look around at my leisure and then move on if I don't find what I'm seeking.

"All right. How much for the room?" I ask at last

"We barter here mostly, buddy...some businesses are on the gold standard in Godwillin and some aren't yet. I'm one of the 'aren't yet' I guess. So, it's gas, guns, ammo, food, salt...the usual. You got anything to barter stranger? I'm pretty liberal in my terms. You show me what you've got to trade, Skinner, and I'll tell you how long you can stay," he gestures out towards my bike and then crosses his arms and studies me again.

I fix him with a hard look. I hate this type of thing. Most towns have a combination of gold standard and barter so I guess Kurtz's statement shouldn't surprise or annoy me. But, some towns are completely back on the gold standard and I've stayed in a few. It's just more easy to conduct business that way. They get enough traffic coming through that they can actually use gold coins or in some rare instances diamonds to pay for goods and services. I've got enough gold coins on my Harley to more than pay for my stay here. It's a whole lot easier to pay in cash. Salt is still a good bartering commodity too however. I've got some salt tablets in my saddlebags also, but I'm running a bit low. I let my breath out in resignation.

Ok. I do have one foolproof thing I can barter with here. I'm not excited about doing it at all, but it seems like I can't get away from this form of trade so much of the time. I place my right arm down flat on the reservation desk and tilt it up so Kurtz can get a good view of the inside of my forearm. I unzip the sleeve of my motorcycle jacket and pull back the leather.

"You know what this means?" I ask Kurtz, looking up at him carefully.

I see his eyes widen slightly. Bingo.

"Yeah, I know what it means. You've got wetware on board."

I give another terse nod and zip my sleeve back up. Wetware. Or as the NT at the end of my camp number FD010409990-NT signifies - Nanotechnology on board.

Nanocytes. Yes - Walter S. Skinner - the bionic man. There aren't many of us around so that makes my bartering commodity very rare and more than I'd ever need to stay here and for a hell of a lot longer than a month. See, my new and improved nanocytes, courtesy of the detention camp bioengineers, make my blood a much desired product. Why is it invaluable? Well it's a long story and I have gaps in my memory over a lot of it. But I remember...

I remember being in a holding pen with hundreds of other detainees. I was captured in Maryland. I never made it any further despite the early warning I had to escape and head for the agreed upon rendezvous. The National Guard soldiers beat the hell out of me at a roadblock when I tried to resist capture.

So, I have very distinct memories of standing, bruised and bloodied, in a holding pen, still wearing my Fibbie daywear, with hundreds of terrified civilians. We were all standing and looking up towards the lights that weren't stars in the night sky. And then I remember...

Being manhandled, my upper body stripped bare, my naked arm held up to some kind of scanner, a red light running over the smallpox scar on my bicep. I remember the look of confirmation in the tech's eyes after he studied the readout and turned to take a close look into my swollen face. The dawning of knowledge as to who he had under his electronic scrutiny. I had to believe there was a list and yours truly was on it. They had my number all right. And soon I had one tattooed on my arm as well. Walter S. Skinner became FD010409990-NT. FD for Fort Detrick - the camp where I was being held.

I remember...six guys trying to subdue me. Stripping the rest of the clothes off me, muscling me onto a gurney, strapping me down. The cold of that room, my balls shriveling up from the chill and the fear. Men wheeling me away and the errant comment "This one goes to the biotechs."

I became a lab rat. I remember a bright, white room and being the center of undivided attention. Men and maybe non-men in masks, scrubs, white coats. Computers, banks of them. Other machines I didn't recognize. I remember blood being drawn. A pleased voice stating, "The information was correct. We have another one with wetware on board here. Prep him."

I remember being IVd and catheterized. And then I remember the pain. I remember screaming until my voice was hoarse and then I didn't remember anything more for quite some time.

Later...I remember explosions and flames and running and...waking up again in a resistance field hospital wearing nothing but a hospital gown and incredibly, my glasses. The resistance - my new home for two years.

I wish I could remember a lot more but I can't. I still have so many questions...and no answers.

Questions? Well for starters - Why reprogram the nanocytes to keep me 47 forever? The reasoning behind the biotech's tinkering is a mystery, and making educated guesses to solve the mystery has ceased to be an appealing pastime. It's just a fact - I'm not aging that I can tell. I'm still bald (well clean-shaven since I've taken to using the razor on my whole scalp), and nearsighted but I'm not any more wrinkled or gray. I never get sick. The injuries I've received on the road - including one knife wound that should have been fatal - are repaired by my on- board microscopic medics with amazing speed and efficiency. I suppose I could age and eventually die if the nanocytes were destroyed or reprogrammed again somehow. I'd...I'd like to find out if that's possible. I...I'm not sure I want to live forever. I'm not sure about it at all for many reasons. But....others certainly seem to desire it.

And that brings me back to why my blood is valuable. There's a thriving market for my nanotechnology. It seems there's even a black market for it. Prices are high as they are for any rare, hotly popular commodity. Yeah, the ticket to even possible immortality is expensive. So when I barter my blood I can write my own ticket. Just like right now. I give Kurtz a raised eyebrow.

"So, I take it you're interested?"

"I'm interested. One CC, and I'll bend that rule about staying a month. You can stay as long as you can get away with it."

"I draw my own blood," I state.

I won't brook any argument on that point. I've had people try to take a lot more than the agreement allows. After I tap the supply, it's up to him to store it, process it and filter off the nanocytes. I assume he wouldn't be amenable to buying if he didn't have the proper equipment to handle the job. But I take my own blood.

"No problem. You give me the juice and I'll take care of the rest," Kurtz assures me.

"Before I say yes, though, I have to tell you when you inject..."

"I know. No guarantees. It might work...it might not work..."

"Or it might kill you," I finish for him, staring into his eyes.

Because that's the Russian roulette you play with essence of Skinner. You're as likely to hit that single loaded cylinder as not...and the sad thing about human nature is...most people are willing to take the risk. So, Kurtz can store 1/2 a CC for himself and sell the other half at a profit, and when he gets up the guts...shoot up and hope for the best. I can tell he'll take the chance. Some have tried and died - but I've seen at least two other people who tried and succeeded, so I know injecting my filtered off blood buddies can work. You become immortal and you don't age beyond the age at which you shoot up. For Kurtz it'll be 30 something forever. It's not a bad gamble I guess.

"Right," he answers nodding grimly, "So...is it a deal?"

"It's a deal," I reply gruffly. "You want the CC now?"

"Yeah, might as well get it. We can do this in the back. I have a first aid kit with alcohol back there."

"All right. I need to get my tools from the bike."

"Get 'em then," he gestures outside with his chin, then he turns and goes back through the curtained door behind him.

xXx

Inside Kurtz's office I wash my hands with soap and water from his water jug and basin. After drying my hands on a clean towel he drags out of a drawer, I sit down on the chair at his desk and pull out my kit. I set the fresh, capped syringe and rubber strap down on the desk blotter. As promised, he supplies the alcohol and some sterile gauze to clean the inside of my arm.

I always feel like a junkie when I'm getting my equipment ready. Ironic isn't it? It's ironic given my ex-law enforcement background. It's also ironic because I don't really need the alcohol and gauze for myself at all. When you have on-board repair an infection won't matter. The customer however...well that's a totally different matter. In their minds it's 'Who knows what ugly bacteria might be crawling around on that arm'. The customer appreciates at least a passing nod towards cleanliness. So, I'm going to swab away.

I take the bottle of alcohol and tip it up on a cotton square. I clean off a spot on the inside of my left elbow. As I'm scrubbing my arm, Kurtz leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He decides to make idle conversation.

"Fort Detrick, hey?"

"Yes," I reply not looking up.

"I heard that was a hell-hole."

I shrug and reply still not looking at him, "I don't remember a lot of it."

"But you were with the resistance after that weren't you?"

I look up at him then and toss the cotton gauze square into a nearby trash can. I recap the alcohol bottle. My face remains impassive, stony. I'm not overly excited about jawing with someone about my private business. But I can tell this guy is probably on the level. I still have a sixth sense about that kind of thing after my years in the Bureau, and on the road. If you don't have that ability you're at a disadvantage. So, if anything, I've cultivated it.

"Just like you," I nod and reach for the rubber strap.

He snorts a laugh.

"I figured. Yeah, you've got me dead to rights too. I came here from out East. I'm New York born and bred. I had buddies who went down to bomb Fort Detrick. I expect you saw some of their handiwork there."

"You'd expect right. I guess I owe your buddies. I escaped when the shit hit the fan," I reply as I tie off my arm with the rubber strap. I watch him give a terse half grin.

"Yeah, they monkey wrenched that camp but good."

"That they did," I reply. "I ended up in a resistance camp hospital. I was with the resistance about 2 years," I add, flexing my fist to bring the vein up better. I clench my fist tight.

"I was in 3 myself. I don't expect you knew my buddies. Both of them bought it during the raid."

I shake my head, "Sorry," is all I have to offer.

He shrugs and watches in silence as I uncap the syringe. I slap my arm a little and then I stick the needle into the vein on the inside of my elbow. Bull's-eye. I draw out 1 CC. Kurtz continues to watch quietly while I pull the needle out and recap it quickly.

"Take it," I mumble, proffering it towards him.

He takes the syringe from my outstretched hand.

"Thanks, man. I have to take this to room 1. That's my own crash space here. I'll put this in the fridge."

I unstrap the rubber from my arm and nod, making no comment.

"I'll be back and then you can sign in and get your room key," he adds, leaving my side. He goes to the office's side door, opens it and goes outside, shutting it behind him to seal in the cool air.

"Fucking vampire" I murmur in disgust. Yeah, and what does that make me, I think with equal bitterness.

I place a second cotton gauze on my arm and hold my arm up tight for a few seconds. When I'm satisfied the nanocytes have closed the hole, I take the second cotton gauze square and toss it into the trash can as well. I glance down at my arm. No hole. Not even a bruise. Finally, I reach to pull my leather jacket off the back of the chair. I stand up and shrug it on, stuffing the rubber strap into my pocket. Then I walk back though the curtain into the reservation area. I end up back in front of the reception desk to wait for Kurtz to return, a healthy dose of self-disgust making my gut ache.

xXx

The white reservation card stares up at me blankly as I tap the pencil on the desk between myself and Kurtz. I haven't filled one of these out in so long...this is a bit surreal. I pick the pencil up in my hand and toy with it, rolling it between my fingers.

"Put down whatever you want, man. It's just for my own records, really. Records, and on the remote chance someone from the before times...well you know. Once in a while someone does come through looking for family or friends...." Kurtz prompts, but my snapping of the pencil makes his voice trail off.

"Sorry, " I rumble, placing the two halves of the pencil down carefully on the counter between us. He sweeps it off into the trash can and pulls another from the drawer below the counter lip.

"No problem, there are plenty more where that one came from, man. And hey...we...we've all lost someone," he replies with sympathy in his voice. He passes me the pencil and I take it from his outstretched hand. I hold the pencil, clearing my throat, and look back down at the white square of paper that rests before me. I place the pencil point to the first box on the paper.

Name. I write 'Walter S. Skinner'. Residence. I write 'original residence Villa Towers, Crystal City, Virginia, USA'.

God, it seems like a lifetime ago instead of 6 years. July 4, 1999. The beginning of the end of my old life. The Bureau. My years as Assistant Director. The whole friggin' ball of wax. I've lost so much, so many people. Hell...most of earth's population...Christ. The depression and self-pity threatens to overwhelm me. So many people lost - but I still hope to find...I still...

My hand starts to shake and I put the pencil down for a moment. I spastically wipe my hand on my jacket, staring at it as if it's not part of me.

"Skinner?" Kurtz asks, quietly. "That's good enough. I'll give you your key," he adds, straightening up. He starts to move away.

There's one more box at the end of the card that I think I can fill in...I want to fill it in. I grab his arm, fast and he turns again to stare at me.

"Wait," I admonish, "I...I can finish this last box here," I add, dropping his arm.

"O-K," Kurtz replies, a glimmer of doubt in his voice.

The last box on the sheet says "Occupation". Kurtz squints down at my hand as I scrawl the pencil across the expanse of paper.

'Mercenary' I write. Then I shove the white card back at him and stand up, taller, trying to shake off the memories.

"Merc? Well...uh...you know...I can use some extra muscle around here if you want an alibi for staying over the month and..."

"I'll let you know," I grunt, taking the key to room 20 that he lays in front of me on the counter. I pocket it. When my hand reaches into my inside pocket I feel my old wallet nestled there. My purpose...my true occupation comes back into mind instantly with that tactile reminder. My real job for this unreal world - Walter S. Skinner - seeker of lost souls - his own foremost amongst them.

"Sure," Kurtz is nodding as I draw out the wallet.

"Listen. I...speaking of lost friends. Can you tell me if either one of these individuals has been through here?" I ask taking two small, battered photos out of my wallet.

"You have pics?" he asks, peering closer.

Snapshots. Yes, I have pictures of the men I seek. I retrieved them directly from my old office in the partially ruined J. Edgar Hoover building. I traveled all the way back to DC during my early tenure with the resistance. I went mostly out of curiosity, but also out of the hope that somehow I might find more than just a bombed out hulk of glass, twisted steel and concrete. I was amazed to find much of the building intact. I still wonder to this day why it was left standing.

One photograph came from a lock-box in my desk - the small framed photograph I kept close to me with a deep and special fondness. The other photo came from my personal files. The likeness of a man I kept close because of my special hatred for him.

I shove that photo at Kurtz first. Even now the eyes in it haunt me as I watch Kurtz take it up and hold it into the light from the front windows. He squints carefully at the color photo.

"No. I don't recognize this guy at all. Does he have a name?"

"Krycek. Alex Krycek."

"Nope. Doesn't ring a bell. Sorry, man."

It's usually the answer I get. But, several times I had someone say they thought they saw Krycek up near Nellis Air Force base in Colorado. What's left of Nellis. I never found him there. If I can ever find him I may get my answers about the nanocytes. I may get a clue as to why I'm doing a walking Fountain of Youth.

I nod and place the photo back in my wallet. I take the other photo out carefully, running my finger over it lovingly. I hand it to Kurtz and he performs the same process of illumination.

I watch as his brow furrows for a moment. He studies this photo longer. I can't help the tight feeling that steals across my chest at the thought he might recognize...

"No...sorry...there's no man around here that looks like this photo either," he shakes his head slowly. There's genuine regret in his voice. I think for a second or two he thought he might have known the man I seek the most.

I nod again. Looking down at the photo. This man's eyes haunt me as well. They haunt my heart with a longing I struggle to keep off my face.

"Does this guy have a name too?" Kurtz asks, quietly. I haven't been able to keep the sadness beaten back enough. He sees it in my eyes when he pins them with his.

"Yes. But if you've never seen him it's of little consequence," I reply tersely, looking down as I slip the photo carefully back in my wallet.

Mulder. It's of more consequence than Kurtz could ever hope to know or understand. Fox Mulder. I find it hard to voice his name now. To even think it...it hurts too much. My lover. My life for 3 years before the end came. The man who, despite my perceived betrayal of him still felt deeply enough for me to try to warn me that night in July when it all came tumbling down.

God. I can see him now - alive, in person - not just this photograph of him. I can see his small, goofy grin and that wider, teasing smile he reserved for me. I can hear that droning, almost hypnotic voice of his as he relates some outrageous theory in my office, arguing his point, making himself a pain in the ass. I can hear him in private, in my apartment or his, or some nameless hotel or motel room, laughing, joking, later murmuring words of love as we spent a lazy weekend together.

I can feel him against me sometimes at night. Over me, under me, in me. The feeling is so powerful sometimes that I reach for him even after six years. The scent of him. The heat of his wonderfully warm body. I...Christ I've missed him for 6 years and...and I know in some unfathomable way that he's still alive...still out here somewhere. I have faith that I can find him, and hope that when I do I can explain and he'll understand and forgive me at last.

I tuck the wallet back into the inside pocket of my leather jacket.

"Thank you for your time," I mutter in an offhanded way, looking back at him at last.

"No women?" Kurtz asks with curiosity.

"What?" I ask momentarily confused.

"You don't have a woman that..." he shuts up instantly at the piercing look of anger I give him.

"Hey, man, sorry. I just thought...."

"No women...at least not anymore," I growl at him as I turn once again towards the office door.

There had been one woman of course. 'The woman' as Sherlock Holmes was so fond of saying in regards to Irene Adler. Dana Scully. Up until a year ago I would have shown him Scully's photo as well. I needed to find Scully almost as badly as I needed to find Mulder. Oh, I don't mean to imply that we were lovers. No, but...we...we had become friends and compatriots towards the end. Before...before Krycek waltzed into my office and orchestrated my apparent betrayal of her and Mulder. I was just as desperate to tell her the truth and ask her forgiveness as well.

Yes, I found Scully. She's alive and she's ex-resistance too. I located her in a tiny new town near Ripon, Wisconsin. Scully's acting as their doctor there. She was rescued from an ova factory at what used to be The Great Lakes Naval Base by Mulder's three computer hacking buddies. All of them joined the resistance after they helped spring Scully from containment and reprogrammed her chip.

In fact, it was one of them, the guy named Frohike, who told me she and Mulder had been separated when the rendezvous point in Virginia had been overrun by National Guard and FEMA representatives. Scully hadn't seen Mulder since, and she blamed me for all of it. She wouldn't talk to me. In fact, she sent word through Frohike to tell me to go to hell and burn there. Frohike said...well he said she's alive and feels like she's needed there at least. He...he's watching out for her. I left her to what little peace she could eke out for herself and traveled west in search of Mulder and Krycek. If I find Mulder...maybe if I brought him to Scully...Shit, who knows. I can always hope. It does keep me going.

I fumble with the doorknob for a moment, my emotions still getting the better of me.

Kurtz clears his throat and fires one more comment as I finally succeed in jerking the door open.

"Take a shower. Get some rest, Skinner. Check out one of the taverns. The cooking's good and there's usually some congenial company in both of them. And later...seriously...that offer still stands regarding needing the extra muscle here. You can't always rely on the overtaxed sheriff's force," he offers, a hint of compassion in his otherwise terse delivery.

'The kindness of strangers' I think as his words fall over me. I nod without turning around.

"Thank you. I'll consider it," I reply somewhat less stiffly making my words in return a blanket statement for all his considerate suggestions.

I hear him grunt noncommittally and then I'm through the door, facing the solid wall of dry heat as I shut the AC in behind me.

xXx

Room number 20 is the last room on one end of the Dust Devil Motel. I drive the bike over to a spot directly in front of the door, cut the ignition, set the kickstand and dismount. I stand there for what seems like almost too long just staring at the motel door. I'm working to beat back memories of Mulder and Scully and every other bloody thing that jumps up and bites me in the ass when I start thinking of our days together at the Bureau. I finally succeed in reining in the years until they're just a dull ache. An ache I'm very familiar with but one I can deal with and almost withstand.

I set the bike's alarm and remove my rifle from the case strapped over the saddlebag attached behind the seat. I sling the rifle over my shoulder and walk up onto the porch that fronts the building. There's one large window that faces the parking lot so I'll have a good view of the Harley. I walk up to the door, insert the key and open the room. It's like a blast furnace inside. I place my rifle on the bed, pull off my leather jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. I can hear the distant sound of the generator running so I move over to the AC unit that's installed under the front window and turn it on. Cool air wafts out almost immediately. I lean over it, my hands planted on either side of the vent as if I'm assuming the position. I let the blissfully cold air wash over my sweating chest and head.

Once the air starts to really circulate I pull back from hanging over the vent and shut the motel room door. I turn and survey the room. The Dust Devil was obviously an old town roadside motel. Maybe a Motel 6 or a Mom and Pop business possibly. The room is standard for that type of motel. It's surprisingly clean so I guess the maids are efficient. A king-size bed is the room's centerpiece. I'm grateful for those sleeping accommodations. My feet won't be hanging over the end. There are two night stands, one on either side of the bed. The rest is run of the mill motel. Clothes closet with mirror front, long dresser, small table, a couple of padded chairs.

The only incongruous aspect of the decor is the TV set. It's sitting on the dresser like some dinosaur from a long lost and lamented - or lamentable as the case may be - before times entertainment industry. It doesn't work, of course. I can't imagine why Kurtz left it here. Maybe it's just his idea of an ironic conversation piece. Or maybe he knows something about the future new age that I don't know. I shrug and focus on the rest of the room. The back section contains the vanity, separate toilet and bath facility. I pick up my rifle and place it in the clothes closet. In a last minute decision I unstrap my shoulder rig and hang my Smith and Wesson inside the closet as well. I shut the sliding mirrored door to conceal both weapons.

Since the room has AC, I figure the rest of the electricity must work as well. I turn on the light in the toilet and walk in. I flip up the toilet seats and zip down my zipper. I reach into my pants and fish around for my dick, pulling it out. It's been a while since I pissed in a can. I aim carefully towards the toilet bowl and sighing, hit my mark with some semblance of accuracy.

As I urinate I contemplate how it's going to be a welcome break to have some creature comforts for a few days. No, it won't be bad to live in relative luxury at all. I start thinking about a few of those luxuries and the first one that still comes to mind is a shower. I can shower now...maybe shave in the morning with some hot water so I can get a nice close shave. This is indeed good. As I finish my piss, shake off and rearrange things, thoughts of a shower fill my mind.

Yeah, I really want that shower. If I leave the room and unpack the bike quickly I can go get a shower, change into some clean clothes and then go check out one of the taverns. Next up on my list of luxuries are a hot meal, a drink and then back here for some shut-eye.

I leave the bathroom and decide to unbelt my chaps. Once I pull them off, I toss them over the leather jacket. I can hardly wait to get out of these road stiff jeans and T-shirt. I'll certainly have to find somewhere to wash these clothes too I think idly as I stretch a little more, getting the road kinks out of my lower back. I finally stand tall again and leave the room to haul my saddlebags and other supplies in off the bike.

xXx

The shower area in back of the motel is easily accessible. Along with the promised showers there are also six converted porta-potties set back further from the building. Kurtz has created his own outhouses as well as the bathing facilities. I guess those are for people who don't want to carry water to their toilets. I'll need to take back some water in one of the buckets that hang on some nearby hooks. I don't like those sani-john things. I've never liked them since a particular X-File case report crossed my desk where...well let's not go there. No thanks. I'll use the crapper in my room.

There are some shaving stations as well. Just tables with basins and water jugs set out in a row. A couple of gas grills are nearby. I expect those are to heat up water that may have cooled off overnight. I suppose you'd need to get water directly from the centralized water tank spigot. Once again, Kurtz has thought about those guests who may not feel like hauling their own water. This guy is 'Mr. Organization'. But he is ex-resistance. It tallies. At any rate, I might give shaving out here in the morning some serious consideration.

The shower arrangement is indeed a gravity feed affair with that large central tank and piping leading to ten private wooden shower stalls. Five are labeled men and five, women. A shower head with a simple rope and lever system to turn it on and off sticks up over each stall. There's a communal changing room attached to each group of five stalls. The place is deserted at the moment. Good. I'm not in the mood for company.

I enter the changing area marked men and look around. There's a bench and some hooks to hang your clothes on. I've brought along my old pair of gray sweat pants to pull on for the trip back to my room after I'm done. I place those on a hook first. Then I sit down on one of the benches to take off my steel tipped boots. My feet are hot but not as sweaty as usual - and for once they're sans stink.

I found a small gas station sixty or so miles back. Sometimes the stations closest to towns like Godwillin are actually growing business concerns again. This one had been, but the owner had recently expired - in fact I found him dead next to one of his pumps. I buried him out back. I figured I'd notify someone in the next town I rode into that the old guy had gone to meet his maker. There was always some entrepreneur interested in a pre-existing profitable enterprise. I'd stop by the town hall later and give them the information.

The gas station proprietor's death looked like natural causes - he was at least in his 70s from the look of him. At any rate, after I gassed up the Harley, I went into the station and liberated a few rather ancient toiletries - deodorant, toothpaste, you know...the basics from the shelves inside. I even found some Dr. Scholls foot powder. My feet have been grateful ever since. I tossed a gold piece into the open cash drawer inside. I might have just taken the items except - well I felt strange doing it after burying the old man who probably ran the place with some pride for a while. Stealing from even a dead man grates on me.

Before I pull off my right boot I extract the Bowie knife out of the sheath concealed inside and place it next to me on the bench. This was the concession for leaving my piece in the room. I decided to make do without the gun. But I will not go totally unarmed. I learned that lesson before I ever hit the post apocalyptic highway. I remove my right boot and shake both boots out a little. I'll have to wear them back to the room so I might as well make sure they're reasonably clean inside. I place them both under the bench.

The rest of my clothes are stripped off in short order, efficiently and as quickly as their road stiffness will allow. It's fantastic to get out of their dusty and sticky confines. The last to go are my socks and jock strap. I hang my jeans, jock and T-shirt over a hook next to the sweat pants. This is the hook nearest the shower entrance so I can keep an eye on my possessions. I place my glasses inside one of my socks and put both socks in my boots. The last thing I do is make sure my room key is still in the pocket of my pants.

There's a stack of towels next to the hook as well as some washcloths and wrapped bars of soap. I decide to take one of the cloths so I can give myself a good thorough scrub. The soap looks homemade - the wrapping is just plain butcher paper. When I unwrap it I find out that yes indeed - it's lye soap. Oh brother. Well, if I wanted a good rough scrubbing I'm going to get it that's for sure. Good. It'll blast the dirt off.

I pick up my Bowie knife, walk a few short steps, and pull open the hinged door that leads inside the first shower stall. The showers are really only walled-in cubicles with stone tiled floors that have gutters for the water to run into the septic system. The men's stalls have much lower walls then the women's area. Oh, no one can see your naked ass, but being as tall as I am, you can see a hell of a lot of me and I can see over the top of the wooden dividers. The better to keep an eye on the area and that suits me fine too. I place my knife on the wooden shelf that runs along one wall. It's obviously made for holding soap and wash clothes. I lay those there as well. I look up and study the lever and rope pulley system. It's easy to see how it operates - yank and it delivers water. Let up and it shuts off. I consider the fact the water may be sun warmed and just how hot that might be at this time of day. I step back slightly and pull down on the lever.

Sure enough the water is hot but it's a welcome, cleansing heat on my skin. I step under, get drenched, and then let up on the rope. I take the soap and washcloth and get to work soaping up my grimy scalp and face.

As I'm washing my stomach and then my groin a memory flashes through my mind so strongly that I fumble with the soap and drop it to the floor of the shower. It makes a dull thud on the stone tile below my feet. I stand there staring down at it and I can...I can almost see...long, elegant, soapy fingers clearly not my own, gently working over the scars on my groin, lovingly stroking, sensuously lathering, moving down, touching my cock...oh Jesus. I close my eyes and shut out the vision as hard as I can. My breath comes in ragged pants for a few moments. I reach up spastically and yank the rope, drenching my head in warm water. I turn my face up into the stream, open my mouth and groan with a sound that's one part desire and one part unfathomable, unendurable pain.

I shake my head under the spray like a wet dog, rubbing my free hand over my face so the soapy water from my hand gets in my eyes and causes them to sting badly for a few seconds. The pain is all it takes to bring me out of the fugue caused by this particular Mulder memory. God, this kind of experience is as bad as a PTSD daymare. Man I hate when this happens. I'd rather not have this memory of Mulder jerking me off in an outdoor shower in Tahiti thank you very much. Not now. Not any time in the near future. Christ.

But I can't help think about it and that much more joyous time. The one long vacation we allowed ourselves over the three years we were together. Two weeks instead of stolen nights and weekends. Two weeks in three years and we went to a tropical paradise where privacy allowed us to shower together, openly, and enjoy each other's touch so much. A place where we could lie together naked all day and make love whenever....

GOD DAMN IT! I growl inwardly. That's quite enough. Shut it off right now. I let up on the rope in punctuation to my inner castigation and the water ceases to flow into my upturned face. I sputter, and naturally as is typical in this type of embarrassing situation, I look around anxiously to see if anyone has come into the area and seen my trip down memory lane.

Crap. Yeah, there's a guy, a young guy and it looks like he just used one of the porta-potties. He's stopped between them and the shaving station and he's watching me. A good-looking kid - well not a kid - but he looks to be in his early 20s and anyone under 30 is a kid to me - always was I guess. A tall, rangy kid with red-blonde hair. I give him a challenging look back to meet the mixture of concern and speculation written in his eyes. Instead of looking down or away under my taciturn gaze, he holds my eyes for a moment longer, studying me. Then he shrugs and walks on, disappearing around the corner of the motel, my eyes never leaving him until he's gone.

I bend down and grab for the soap in anger. One thing I hate more than losing it is losing it in public and having a witness. This makes twice in one day I've had that happen and it pisses me off just enough to make me determined to drag myself back to the Skinner status quo. Just try to forget a little longer, Walter. A little longer and it will all fade back into that familiar comforting haze you know so well. Forget and detach yourself so you can concentrate on the mission. I used to be good at this I tell myself. In Nam and at the Bureau I was an expert. I can focus and my search will end and maybe my fondest wish will come true so I don't have to forget any longer. I nod, and lather up again, but a nagging thought that I'm not going to find it easy to forget this time plays in the back of my mind.

xXx

I jerk awake, arm flailing to the side to hit the alarm that isn't there. Christ on a crutch. I sit up, fumble for my glasses and settle them back on. I look around, dazed for a moment as to my whereabouts. I thought for a split-second that I was back in my apartment in the Villa Towers and it was a work day alarm jolting me awake. Reality returns quickly however and I swing my legs over the side of the motel bed. I stand up, naked, and scratch my balls, shaking my head in bemused self-deprecation.

I guess I was more tired than I even realized when I came back from my shower. I told myself I'd just strip off and lie down in the luxurious cool draft coming from the air conditioning unit for a few minutes. Few minutes? Right. I glance at my Timex where it lies on the night stand. It's a little after 8 PM at night now and from the evidence showing under the window curtains, the sun is just thinking about setting. My stomach is growling and that must have been what woke me up. I twitch a terse smile. I'd better think about getting down to the tavern and taking care of refueling Walter Skinner.

I traverse the short space to the vanity and sink. I brought a bucket with water in earlier to fill the jug in my room as well as flush the toilet. I close the stopper in the sink and tip a little of the water from the jug into the porcelain receptacle. My face and then my whole head gets a quick splashing. I run my hand over my naked scalp and feel the stubble at the back. Yeah, I'll need a complete shave in the morning I muse, reaching for a towel. Fully awake, I dry off and turn my attention to the long dresser where I've stashed my clean clothing.

It doesn't take me long to dress. I pull out and pull on a clean jock strap and adjust it so it's comfortable. The jock is a concession to the heat. I never like to go commando. I don't know...it just makes me feel vulnerable for some reason. 'Modesty, thy name is Skinner' I chide myself as I root around in the drawer for my socks and a clean T-shirt. I guess it'll be white tonight. I find the white athletic socks and put them on. I pick out the white T-shirt and then stare at the sartorial collection before me for a few seconds.

At the moment I have a white T-shirt, two black T-shirts, seven jock straps, seven pairs of socks, a sweatshirt, sweat pants, and three pair of black Levi's straight leg jeans. What I see in this drawer is close to the total sum of my wardrobe - minus my dirty laundry. The rest of it consists of my foul weather gear, my leathers and the steel tipped boots. The days of starched white shirts and pressed wool power suits are long gone - no question. I swap off clothing here and there along the road, depending on the climate. When I need warmer weather or cooler weather garments I get them. I discard them when I don't need them anymore. But this is pretty much my basic kit. I pull the T-shirt over my head and then reach for the button fly pair of Levi's.

After I'm dressed I study my reflection in the mirrored closet doors for a minute. I have a fleeting few seconds of pride at the fact that I do look pretty good. I can thank the nanocytes for keeping me ageless of course. But they don't keep me fit, trim and hard. I've done that on my own and if anything I'm probably in even better shape than I was in the before times. There's a certain satisfaction in that idea. A certain satisfaction and some sad irony since I don't have anyone else to admire my physique. Well...no one I really care to have admire it is more to the point, I guess. I put that thought out of my mind because it's just going to lead me down into another black hole of depression. I need to get my head out of that space and get my ass in gear here. I have places to go, and people to see. I nod decisively at my reflection and reach forward to slide the mirrored doors open. I retrieve my Bowie knife and Smith and Wesson in its shoulder holster from the closet.

xXx

Walking down the main street of Godwillin proves to be a pretty typical experience for me. The man in black again - black jeans, black leather jacket, black leather boots. It cools down in the desert at night nowadays. I'm wearing my black leather jacket to cut the chill and also to conceal both the gun and my tattoo. The ensemble brings the usual stares. Just like the bike, I guess I growl loud, even when I'm not saying a word. Hey, I know what I look like. I exude bad-ass attitude, and I've had years to perfect the surly demeanor that tells people they should think twice before they mess with yours truly. It's kept me whole after all. Over the years I really haven't given the nanocytes a hell of a lot of chances to do major repair work. I'd like to keep that status quo because even though they go about their job very swiftly - they don't deaden the pain and I, just like most people, am allergic to severe pain no matter how short-lived it may be.

So, I get a lot of appraising looks as I make my way to the 'Dark Horse Tavern'. It's the usual interesting new town evening-out crowd with the common mixed reactions to the appearance of yet another stranger. Some of the reactions aren't unfriendly. I actually get a few smiles and nods from couples strolling along the stone walkway that borders the patched asphalt road. I nod back acknowledging that yeah, I might not be a total hard case.

I take a short detour past the Sheriff's Office and decide to drop in to report the death of the gas station attendant. The local police force apparently consists of three men, a sheriff and two deputies. I introduce myself to the officer on duty. The sheriff is actually manning the office, doing paperwork. He introduces himself as Dan Garrity and I can see by the framed diploma in back of his desk as well as the badge he wears that he's an ex LAPD officer. Sheriff Garrity asks me a few questions about where I'm staying and how long. Just enough information to ascertain whether I'm potential trouble. When he decides I'm not, he becomes quite loquacious.

Tonight he's a pencil pusher he laughs, his two deputies out on patrol he informs me. There's one drunk in a cell sleeping it off. Another good sign that the town isn't too much of an outlaw. The ancient CB radio near the sheriff's desk crackles with the conversation of his two deputies. The sheriff is appreciative of the news, polite and professional once he decides I'm on the up and up. He says he'll send a deputy out to lock and board the place up tomorrow. All he can hope to do is put up a 'No Trespassing' sign and add 'Property Available - Inquire in Godwillin on the bottom of the sign and hope for the best. He'll put up notices in town. He also intends to bring the man's death up at the town meeting at week's end. He figures someone will want to take the place over. I thank him and make my exit back onto the street to continue my walk towards the taverns.

I get sized up more than once by the 'working girls and boys' plying their trade near the first noisier tavern I pass by, The Inferno. I couldn't help but notice them because even though I try to ignore the needs of my body I can't always do it. Shit. Sometimes I can't overlook the fact that I need physical release as much as the next man. Jerking off is fine most of the time but...well you just crave the company of another warm body in your bed for a few hours on occasion.

Casual sex is...well it's problematical for me, however. There is always the attendant guilt afterwards when I think of the man I truly love and wish it was him sleeping next to me. But, I give in to my needs because the hot rush of arousal and the freefall of orgasm helps me forget my circumstances for just long enough to imagine it's Mulder giving me pleasure. And God...sometimes I just need that fantasy to get through the night.

It's difficult to admit any of this to myself as well. Keeping my emotions close to my vest had been my watchword for years. During almost my entire life I've been conditioned to keep myself closed off - locked up tight. Almost my whole life. After I was with Mulder...in private I tried to be different. Mulder drew me out of that armored shell more than anyone ever could. With him I felt more free...more able to let go of that control...to allow myself to love, to feel real pleasure and not to worry about the consequences. But with him gone it's...there's often no point. It's easier to slip back into my old habits.

I maintain my stoic demeanor. I appear strong. I do it to deaden the pain because habit keeps me going. Routine helps me to survive my heartache. Besides, signs of weakness bring out the wolves on the road. And the wolves devour the weak. I may not be able to die but lying in agony with let's say, an arm or a leg severed while I wait for the nanocytes to close off the wound doesn't have much appeal. I don't know if they can regenerate a limb. I don't want to find out whether they can.

So outwardly I try to look tough and in control. Inwardly I'm sometimes like one huge raw open wound that the nanocytes are pouring salt into instead of mending faster than lightning. So, I'm trying to look like a hard-ass son of a bitch to the world at large while inside I'm telling myself I'm going to go apeshit if I don't get laid tonight so the sex can banish the pain of loneliness. Then to top things off I can wallow in guilt and self-pity tomorrow. Christ. I'm fucked up right? Yeah, well...welcome to my world.

There's music coming from inside the Dark Horse Tavern. It's not the raucous sounds of rock that blew out of the Inferno. It's a music much more suitable to my mood. The blues. The sounds of a mournful blues song by Robert Johnson being sung with a guitar accompanying the singer's nasal twang. I walk up to the door and since it's wide open to catch the cool desert night air, I step right inside.

xXx

"What can I get you buddy?" the bartender asks me as I seat myself on a stool in front of her. The tavern looks like it might have been one of the original buildings here. It's what you would call a roadhouse. Nothing fancy. I can see AC units, but they must leave them off once the evening brings cooler temperatures. Ceiling fans hang from the wooden rafters, evidently solar power serves to circulate the air. The whole structure is constructed of wood including the floor. The floor even has sawdust on it. There's a long wooden bar, with a mirror behind it and a door to one side leading into the kitchen. Lots of wooden tables but mixed in with these are some plastic as well as metal ones with vomitus avocado green Formica tops. The chairs are a similar hodgepodge of wood, metal, and plastic. So, the decorator must have had a yard sale mentality and the tavern reflects it now in its new town incarnation.

The place is full. The crowd is fairly well mannered tonight. It's a mix of couples, and single men and women most likely trying to become couples. Some of those singles are on the prowl, looking to become the other half of a couple for money I suspect. So...if I'm still looking for company after I eat and knock back a few I guess it's available. I think though that almost everyone is here to listen to the music in whole or in part. They are paying attention to the musician, because he really is uncommonly good.

The stage is on the far end of the room. There's a small amplifier and microphone for the lone guitarist, one of the darkest African American men I've ever seen in my life. The skin over his tall, muscular body glistens under the stage lights. It's probably 10 degrees hotter on that stage despite the small fan struggling to cool it. The man continues to play his guitar in a masterful fashion. He's good, very good and the song he's singing draws me in and captures my attention with hardly any effort at all.

"Buddy, what can I get for you?" the bartender prompts again. I blink and shift my gaze back to her, leaving the bluesman to the crowd, some of them dancing to his song.

"Dinner," I reply, craning to read the menu that sits in back of the woman's strawberry blonde head. The sign's fairly simple. 'Tonight's Special' is printed on a blackboard in white chalk. Under that the words 'steak', 'baked potato' and 'corn on the cob' are written in slightly smaller print. The price in gold is more than reasonable. The blonde watches me read the sign, and when I look back at her she does grace me with a small smile.

"Not much to decide is there?" she asks with some humor.

"No, but it sounds fine. May I take it here?" I ask indicating the bar top.

"Sure. How do you want your steak?"

"Medium rare."

"All right. Anything else?" she asks.

"Water and..." I look behind her again. I can tell most of what's bottled back there is home brew. White lightning, dandelion or some other type of wine, beer from a bathtub and other mysterious rotgut. I frown slightly and the blonde studies my face with alacrity and practiced patience.

"Not much of a choice there either," she snorts as she fills my glass of water from a large, covered jug set in ice in back of the bar. I'm shaking my head at her comment when she turns and places the water before me. I give her a small terse smile of my own and look back into her eyes. Her eyes warm to me a little further.

"Or too much of the wrong kind of choices..." I muse.

She chuckles.

"Yeah. I own this place and I..."

"Own it? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that..."

"Hey it's ok. I know it's not much, and obviously I knock it too sometimes. So, don't worry about it."

"Nevertheless, I do apologize."

"No sweat. And listen. If you have the cash, I do have some Jack Daniel's under the bar. It'll cost you but..."

Ah, so we're on the gold standard all the way in here, I think. Good. That makes things so much more easy.

"Serve it up," I reply decisively.

She eyes me speculatively for a moment.

"I need to see your cash," she states matter-of-factly, drying the glass that she's been cleaning since we started to talk.

I reach inside my jacket and pull out a small leather bag. I unwind the strap and upend it on the bar. The gold coins spill out in front of her. She nods, quickly, smiling again and reaches down to produce the bottle of whiskey. She brings it out and places it on the bar. The shot glass comes from the rack above next, and as I put my coinage back in the bag and the bag back in my pocket, she fills the shot to the top. She starts to take the bottle away and I stretch out my hand, catching her wrist. She stills and raises an eyebrow, anger and nervousness almost well hidden in her eyes.

"Leave the bottle," I request, smiling a little to make up for the fact that she clearly didn't expect me to touch her. She calms and nods.

"Cheers, stranger," she smiles again, setting the shot in front of me, "Hey, Bill, another special out front. Make it medium rare," she calls back through the door at the side.

"Thank you," I nod at her, taking up the shot glass.

"You're welcome. Enjoy," she replies, indicating the stage as she walks to the opposite end of the bar to serve another customer.

I down the shot and set the glass back down with a little clink. I pick up the water and swig some of that down as well. I begin to relax as the shot warms my stomach and suffuses into my blood, warming it too. The music is helping my frame of mind. There's nothing like hearing the low down woes of some unhappy fucker to make your own troubles seem smaller in comparison. I fill up my shot glass and down a second Jack Daniel's, turning around on the bar stool and rocking back to enjoy the show.

Just about the time the guitarist decides to take a break, my food arrives. I reverse myself to face the bar again and my mouth fills with saliva when the bartender sets the plate in front of me. It's a big prime rib and the baked potato and corn aren't anything to sneeze at either. She grins at the hungry wolf expression on my face and I can't help but grin back.

"Thanks," I reply again.

"If you want dessert we do have rhubarb pie. It just isn't on the menu Mr..." she lets her voice trail off. Obviously she wants me to tell her my name. I extend my hand and she takes it, shaking it with quite a firm grip.

"Skinner," I reply.

"Reid. Audrey Reid," she replies, letting go of my hand. "Pleasure to meet you. Welcome to the Dark Horse and to Godwillin, Mr. Skinner. Holler if you want a piece of that pie."

"Thank you, Audrey. It's my pleasure too. And give my compliments to the cook," I add indicating my plate.

"Well you'd better taste it first, " she laughs, heading towards the kitchen door, "but I'll tell my husband you like the looks of it," she finishes, turning away.

Husband? Lucky man, I think as she enters the kitchen. She's someone you can almost instantly like. Genuine and personable. Another hopeful sign that this town isn't half bad. Yeah, she's all right. Tomorrow I'll come back when it's less busy and show her my photos. She'd probably be more than happy to give me a hand in my search if she can.

I nod to myself, picking up the knife and fork that Audrey brought along with the plate. I slice off a piece of the prime rib and pop it into my mouth. The cook definitely deserved the compliment.

I enjoy my meal slowly, savoring it. As I eat, people come and go from the bar. A woman sits next to me for a while, drinking a beer. She tries to engage me in conversation but I'm not up for it so she leaves after a short time. A couple spends some time next to me flirting, then kissing sloppily. After the necking they make a quick exit. The seat next to me remains vacant for a time and just as I'm sipping some more water a man sits down there. After a second, I can sense him looking at me. I'm about to look at him and assess what's up when Audrey comes over and grabs the guy's hand where it rests on the bar. I'm forced to follow his hand up to his face as she pulls him over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. It's the young guy from the shower this afternoon.

"Hey, little brother! I was wondering when you were coming in," Audrey scolds, but with love in her voice.

Of course I can see the resemblance as she busses him on the cheek and releases his hand. He has the same lively blue eyes and reddish blonde hair as his sister. The same strong chin and slightly aquiline nose. He's got a little evening beard stubble although normally it looks like he's clean-shaven. Up close he does indeed look to be in his 20s. His sister is maybe 35. They both have the same tall, lanky build, his truly angular but well muscled, and hers more softly feminine. He smiles at her, showing white, even teeth as he sits back squarely on the barstool again.

"Sorry, Audrey. Ryerson kept me late again tonight. We had to repair another generator over at the Dust Devil. Can you believe that - two in one day. Damn thing went kaput just before quitting time and of course it's always an emergency so..."

"All right, all right, I get the picture. You want your dinner?" she laughs.

"Yeah, I'm starving," he replies, glancing at me again.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Audrey begins, "David Peabody, this is Skinner. Skinner this is my brother, David. Skinner's new in town. David...now go easy...ok? If he gets too nosy, just yell, Mr. Skinner. He can be terrible that way," she finishes hastily, walking quickly towards a guy three seats down who is signaling her, glass raised in entreaty.

"Skinner," David replies, extending his hand. I take it and grip hard, squeezing to test his mettle. He doesn't flinch as I shake his hand. His fingers and palm are rough. Yeah, this guy works for a living. Ok. So I know the earlier conversation was legit. You can never be too careful. He studies my face and when I let go of his hand he smirks a little. "Great to meet you."

Yeah sure. Let's not mention that we already 'met' sonny boy, I think. Well not up close and personal but you certainly got an eyeful earlier. Smirk all you want you little prick. I can play cagey and see where this goes. What the hell.

"Greetings, Peabody," I reply and then I turn back to my plate to finish my meal.

"David is fine..." he suggests, letting his voice, much like his sister's, lead me to believe he wants my Christian name in return.

"Skinner is fine too," I shoot back at him, munching on my potato. I can just see him smile wider out of the corner of my eye. Cocky SOB. Here I am trying to give him the brush-off and he's eating it up like I'm raining compliments on him.

Just as he's about to say something further there's a smattering of applause throughout the room. The bluesman is returning. I'd noticed him seated at the far end of the bar eating his own dinner earlier. Now evidently he's ready for the second set.

"Oh great, Dexter's going to play again. I'm sorry I missed his first set. Did he play 'Cross Roads Blues' yet?"

"Not since I came in," I reply, glancing at him.

"You know Robert Johnson then?" he asks, the sound of genuine interest in his voice.

"Yes."

"Dexter knows every song Johnson ever did. He's really gifted. He knows his blues but he does Robert Johnson's stuff so truthfully it's eerie," David enthuses.

I can't help myself, watching his animated face and eyes I'm caught up in what he's saying despite my intention to stay aloof. I feel something electric licking at my nerves as I put my fork down on the edge of my plate.

"Does he know 'Hellbound on my Trail'?" I ask turning to look at him more fully.

"Oh yeah, he does. God, he plays that one like he's got Johnson's spirit riding him," he replies, pinning my eyes.

Riding him? Oh yeah? I look deep in his eyes and what's written there is plain to see. For a moment something passes between us and I know unerringly that I've found my companion for tonight if I want him in my bed.

"I'll have to request it," I reply quietly, keeping his gaze.

"Hey, let me," he smiles, breaking away from me. He gets up quickly and heads for the stage before I can stop him. I grin a little and as I'm doing so his sister returns with his food.

"Is he bothering you, Skinner? I mean seriously, if he's being a pest..."

"No, he's fine. Uh...I think we've discovered a common interest," I reply, indicating where David is talking to the coal black bluesman on the stage.

Audrey looks at me half in surprise and then she blinks, "Oh, you mean the music," she laughs. "God, yes, David loves the blues. Our father..." she stops for a second and I know this is a before time memory for her. I look down at the bar to give her a moment of privacy.

"Our father was always playing old blues records around the house," she finishes quietly, "I guess we both grew to love that sound."

"The guitarist is one of the best I've ever heard," I tell her.

"Dexter came out here from New Orleans. He's a very talented young man," Audrey smiles. The man I suppose is her husband Bill, calls to her from the kitchen and she smiles. "Gotta go. Remember, if he's bugging you..."

"I'll remember," I assure her as she leaves.

David returns and sits back down.

"Oh man, good," he chuckles, seeing the food.

"It is good," I chuckle in return.

"Yeah, Bill's a fantastic cook. It's too bad he doesn't get more to work with around here sometimes. Listen, Dexter's going to play 'Hellbound' about mid set. So I'd say like, after 6 songs or so. You want to stick around to hear it?" he looks at me casually.

"All right," I reply.

Both of us are companionably silent then while I finish up the last of my meal and he tucks into his.

xXx

Dexter is just about ready to start the third song and David Peabody and I are done eating.

"Buy you a drink?" I ask him as he pushes his plate aside.

"I was just going to ask you the same thing," he smiles at me.

"Well, I'm running a tab. So, how 'bout it?" I offer again.

"Oh. Sure. Yeah, that would be great," he nods, reaching up to take a shot glass down from the rack above our heads.

I pour us both a shot and we clink our glasses together.

"To the blues," David toasts.

"To Robert Johnson," I reply.

We toss back the liquor and David shuts his eyes as it travels down his throat. When he opens his eyes and looks at me Dexter cranks up 'Love in Vain' and my mouth twists into an ironic grimace before I can stop myself.

David is a perceptive young man. He catches the look on my face even as I suppress it. He sets his shot glass down and lays his hand on my arm.

"Hey...uh..."

"Look, I'm not sure...I'm not sure I'm looking for this tonight," I whisper as the bluesman wails plaintively.

"I understand. It's ok. I just thought...well when I saw you over at the Dust Devil this afternoon, I thought...you know...you looked like you could use someone to talk to."

"Talk to?" I echo him turning it into a question.

For the first time I notice annoyance pass across his features.

"Yeah...someone to talk to. I'm always happy to talk. Sometimes...sometimes that's all I do too. But I won't lie to you. I'm honest about what I want. I liked what I saw this afternoon too. So...if you're looking for a little company tonight just to talk or for something more, I'm offering Skinner. No strings attached."

Audrey's earlier surprised look becomes explained as I turn and look up at the stage briefly. I turn back to David and fix him with a hard, appraising look.

"Did you 'talk' to him?" I ask, indicating the bluesman.

"Dexter and I are old news. Pleasant old news. We're still friends," he offers guilelessly.

Well if nothing else this guy has guts. He's honest it seems. He's not exactly my type but he's attractive, intelligent and...ah what the fuck. He'll do. I can feel arousal percolating in my groin so I know he'll do.

"I'm in room 20. Meet me there, unless you want to stick around and hear that request," I nod towards the stage, fishing in my coat pocket for my bag of gold coins.

"No, I'll meet you there," he smiles. From the stage I see the musician give David a thumbs up gesture and I can't help it, I bark a quick laugh at his audacity. "Dexter won't mind," he adds looking at me with frank lust in his eyes.

"Evidently," I snort, standing up and placing the cost for the meal and drinks plus a tip on the bar. David picks up some of the coins and hands them back.

"The shots are on me, I insist," he smiles.

"All right Mr. Peabody...but I'll be calling the shots later," I growl, just so he'll know what he's getting into - or more to the point - what's going to be getting into him.

"No problem," he replies, licking his lips. A bolt of sexual heat goes straight to my cock. Christ. Yeah, he'll do I think. And with that thought comes the ever present twinge of guilt as I turn and make my way towards the tavern door.

xXx

I get back to my room uneventfully and quickly turn on a night stand light so I can see to get comfortable. I take my watch off and leave it on the night stand. I take off my leather jacket, steel tip boots and socks. I hang the jacket and my Smith and Wesson up in the closet next to the rifle. I lay the Bowie knife in there on the shelf as well. I use the bathroom, and then come back out to the vanity to wash my face. I decide to brush my teeth too. After I adjust the AC to a more comfortable nighttime level I prowl the room nervously finally settling in one of the chairs. I'm in the room for about 25 minutes and just starting to think David may have changed his mind when there's a knock on the door. I get up and cross over to it. I unbolt the dead bolt and the knob lock, open the door and David Peabody saunters in.

"I thought you might like another drink," he says, lifting the bottle of Jack Daniel's up slightly. "I hope you have glasses since I forgot to bring some," he smiles in self-deprecation.

There are four plastic glasses on the bathroom vanity. I move to retrieve two of them.

"Will these do?" I ask, bringing them over to where he's pulling out one of the chairs at the small table by the window.

"Just fine. Sorry it took me a bit to get here, by the way. I had to tell Audrey I didn't browbeat you into seeing me," he apologizes, sitting down.

"You told your sister you were coming here?" I ask a little amazed and annoyed.

He takes the plastic cups from me and places them on the table, sitting the booze bottle next to them. I stand and glower down at him.

"Sure. I mean we don't have any secrets from each other. Besides...if you turn out to be some kind of dickhead she knows where I am," he replies bluntly, filling up the two cups with Jack Daniel's.

"Good point. I'll try not to be a dickhead," I rumble a laugh, shrugging off my annoyance in the face of his honesty and evident good humor on the issue.

"Smart move. She's hell on wheels when she's pissed," David laughs in return.

"Your sister seems like a class act," I reply, taking the cup he offers me.

"She's that all right. Audrey and Bill are really the best."

I nod, and toss down the shot.

"So they own The Dark Horse?" I ask after I swallow.

"Yes," he answers downing his shot as well and motioning towards the bottle and then my cup again. I extend my cup. I notice his eyes flick to the inside of my forearm as I do. His eyes widen slightly. I wait for the inevitable comment or question but it doesn't come. I know the subject will come up though. It always does. But to his credit he's not going to draw attention to the tattoo right from the get go. He pours some more Jack into my cup and then some more into his as well as he continues.

"They took over the tavern after the former owner died two years ago. The place was more like the Inferno back then. Now...well now I guess it's a house of blues," he smiles, picking up his shot and tipping it down the hatch.

He sits the cup down carefully, savoring the whiskey again as it slides down his throat. I watch him swallow for a minute, allowing myself to enjoy the finely muscled column of his neck before I answer.

"Looks like it was a successful change. I enjoyed myself in there."

"I'll tell them. They'll be pleased," he answers, looking up at me with a nod.

I down my shot letting the liquid fire burn itself into my blood again. I'm feeling a little high now. I'm still tense but it won't be much longer before I'm high enough to contemplate getting this show on the road. I step forward to place the plastic cup down on the table. When I set it down, David leans forward and captures my arm. He strokes lightly over the tattoo, up and down just once and then holds my hand in his. I stare down at him into a face that I believe is actually showing understanding and compassion.

"There's no shame in this, you know that," he whispers, indicating the tattoo. "It's not going to make any difference tonight."

I extricate my hand from his grasp, and he lets me. I move back and he stands up to face me. He's as tall as I am and can look me in the eyes.

"David I..."

"You don't have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable. I saw the tattoo when you were in the shower. I thought it had the NT at the end of it. I know what those letters mean - it's kind of what made me look at first. I'm...well you probably got the idea I'm interested in machinery of all types," he replies, enthusiastic and boyish again.

"Yeah, well gee, I'm flattered," I husk with bitterness.

"I said at first, Skinner. I looked way past that tattoo," he smiles, touching my cheek gently.

My jaw muscles jump, clenching tight and David strokes there too.

"Jesus, Skinner. You're tense."

"Yeah. Well...I said I wasn't sure about this tonight," I mumble.

He removes his hand and studies my face, coming to an abrupt decision. His next words show reluctance but a willingness to respect my reticence.

"I can leave. Seriously. No harm done. Maybe this isn't..."

"No...don't go," I rumble. "It's...I'm...stay."

I look into his open face and I get the idea that maybe he does really want to be with me. I think for once I've found a one night stand here who is at least halfway interested in my well being. He may not be faking it either. I can see that in his eyes. Maybe this guy is just a hell of a nice kid. He certainly seems like he's a fine young man. If his sister's any indication he's probably ok. But...I can't be sure. I can never be sure. I need...I need to be sure.

"Ok. You want another drink?" he asks interrupting my train of thought. He steps back a little to give me some space and time to catch my breath. I take that time to ponder how I can test his sincerity.

"No, I'm fine," I reply and then I chuckle at the irony in those words.

He chuckles too, getting the joke. But when he answers he doesn't remark directly on the fact that I'm coiled as tight as a spring.

"Yeah, I think I've had enough Jack too. So, you wanna tell me your story? Or maybe you just want to shoot some general shit for a while. I can tell you about Godwillin and my humble part in maintaining the status quo around here if you'd like," he offers genially.

As he utters the words I realize what I need to say to him to find out if there's even a hope in hell I can get through this or that he gives a shit about Walter Skinner as a human being. God, I hope this isn't some kind of fucking line just to get another ounce or two of my blood. A con job to see if any of the wild rumors about what it's like to screw a nanotech are true.

He goes to sit back down and I grab his arm, turning him back towards me. I try to do it with some semblance of gentleness but I can't help but convey some of my anger and doubt in the pressure of my grip. I stare into his temporarily startled expression. I watch as he curbs his own temper, mastering it quickly. His first flush of irritation is replaced with patience as he studies my face. He's waiting for me to make the next move with an open and guileless look in his intelligent, blue eyes. I let my next words out in a rush and afterwards I know it's the only real 'talking' I want to do for the rest of the night.

"Yeah, you're right about the tat. I was engineered at Fort Detrick. I don't remember it so there's no story. Some of the bullshit you've heard is true. My blood can make you immortal, or kill you. If you want to take the chance, it's up to you. You can't get that fountain of youth from drinking my cum though. So, if that's what this is about, Mr. Peabody, we can call a halt to the proceedings right here and now."

He blinks and his face is caught somewhere between amusement, annoyance and a hint of sadness. He has pity for me. I should be really pissed at all those emotions as they play across his face...but I'm not. It's been a long time since anyone has even given a shit to grace me with their attention and it makes me feel human again to be even given this much consideration. His eyes grow soft then, and he replies, his voice husky with desire.

"The nanocytes aren't what this is about. I told you it wouldn't make any difference tonight. I meant it," he breathes out, moving close.

"What is this about then...boy?" I hiss into his face.

"It's about trying to help partly...I...shit I don't know. You just looked like you needed a friend. So...I guess I'm volunteering, even if it's only for a few hours. And hey, I can't lie. You're one hot stud, Skinner. I like 'em big and muscular and you fit the bill all the way around. So...like I said, I'm offering - whatever you want here - well...within reason," he smirks playfully in answer.

I snort a laugh at this point. Ok, I buy it. He's got guts and yeah, he reminds me of the man I'd fervently like to have standing in front of me tonight. And that's the clue really. Even if they don't look like Mulder...if my potential partner even comes close to his smart-ass attitude I'm sunk. I want David now and I'm hoping his bravado will boost mine enough to get through tonight.

"So, you like 'em big and muscular?" I tease him, taking his hand and drawing him towards the bed. I toy with his fingers a little as we move backwards.

"Yeah, I do. What do you like?" he chuckles, letting me pull him closer. He strokes my bicep with his free hand and I pull him into my embrace when we reach the edge of the bed. He settles against me comfortably and I just hold him for a moment, getting used to the sensation of his body against mine.

"Right now...you," I growl into his ear.

"Good deal," he snuffles, nuzzling against my neck.

I pull his head off my neck and look into his eyes.

"You know I'm clean. The nanotechs keep me clean. I can't catch anything either. But if you're still worried I've got protection."

"We still have condoms here too. I'm clean, but I brought some just in case I was wrong about the tat. If you'd prefer we can use yours...or none...whatever. I'm adaptable."

"We'll see how it goes," I reply quietly. I have no idea how this will turn out. On occasion I haven't even been able to get it up so the condom may be a moot point.

"Sounds fine by me," David answers.

I nod and take his face in my hands. He shuts his eyes and I pull his mouth to mine.

After that there isn't need for further discussion. We kiss hard, devouring each other - mouths open, tongues, twisting, tasting, guttural sounds meeting between our lips. We pour all our intent into that first kiss. My intent to fuck him hard, fuck us both into forgetful oblivion, and his intent to go along for the trip with no complaints and no strings attached whatsoever.

When we break apart I rock back and sit down on the bed, pulling him down harshly between my knees. I can't wait any longer. My cock's starting to throb, and I'm thankful that tonight it's starting to swell within the confines of my jock strap.

I fumble with the button fly jeans, cursing silently that I chose to wear these tonight. David's nimble fingers help me to hasten the unsnapping and when I arch up my hips to pull down the jeans he also helps me to wriggle out of them. The jock strap follows the jeans and when my cock springs free I sigh a little in relief.

David looks down at my growing erection and raises an eyebrow.

"Anything I want?" I rumble down at the top of his head.

"I said within reason...Skinner...but my reasons are...fairly broad," he replies hefting my scrotum and rolling my balls between his long fingers.

I have just enough reason left to make one more statement.

"You also agreed that I'd be calling the shots."

David looks up, a teasing smile on his face and licks his lips again sending another bolt of raw desire right down to the balls he's so skillfully fingering. Oh yeah baby, I'm gonna show you who's calling the shots - right now.

"Yeah, I did," he whispers, letting go of my balls and placing both hands on my knees for a moment.

"Then suck me," I growl.

"Oh yeah," he purrs, reaching forward with both hands. He takes the base of my cock in one hand and bows his head. I feel his lips suck in the head of my cock.

I take his head in my hands.

"All of it," I order and without hesitation he works his mouth over the head, and then up my cock gradually. He takes me about halfway, working his lips against me as he moves.

I grunt in satisfaction and he tilts his eyes up at me, his mouth full. He smiles around my flesh.

I stroke his hair with as much affection as I can muster and then he pushes onward, sucking and then teasing my hardening dick with his tongue. I arch my hips off the bed slightly, forcing my cock to the back of his throat with both that movement and a convulsive pull of my hands. He takes all of me without batting his baby blues. God, talk about cocksucker. This kid's a pro. I tilt my head back and moan my appreciation as he works me up to complete hardness.

We establish a rhythm between my hips and his mouth fairly quickly. He begins to massage my balls with his other hand. I take my hands away from his head and stretch my arms back, bracing my upper body on the bed. I shut my eyes and let the images I usually conjure up come forth to flicker across the inside of my eyelids. Mulder. I fantasize that it's Mulder sucking my cock for all he's worth. I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning his name but it's worth it, even the cut that draws blood. It's of no consequence because the white hot sexual heat is building, and the trickle of blood is staunched before I even really taste it.

After several blissful minutes of my memory fueled ecstasy and David's talented mouth work, he lets go of my now fully erect cock with a wet sliding sound.

"Christ..." I grate out as he also lets go of my balls. He straightens up and massages my thighs.

"Good?" he asks hopefully.

"Great. Fuck, yeah it was good. That bluesman was crazy for letting you get away," I pant, striving to regain a little control.

David smiles but I think I spot a wistfulness in that twist of his lips. I touch his hands, stilling them on my legs.

"It was fantastic. The best. I didn't mean to...well that remark was uncalled for," I murmur, stroking both his hands.

"Well... I gotta tell you...and I'm not bullshitting you here, guy. There's no comparison to Dexter. You're hung like a horse, Skinner. And I find that...very inspiring," he smirks, his playfulness and good humor returning in a flash of renewed passion.

I bark a deep laugh, taking his hands in mine. I look down into his face and in that moment I'm struck with just how much like Mulder this man seems in some ways. He's got guts, an intelligent mind, a hedonistic streak a mile long and a smart-ass sense of humor to match. Thinking of him in these terms makes his metamorphosis into a Mulder surrogate in my mind complete. My arousal goes up another notch and now I want him so badly I can taste it, feel it with every drop of pre-cum that oozes out of my cock.

"You're a crazy asshole, David. You know that?"

"It's one of my many charms," he replies, stroking his index fingers over the palms of my hand.

"Is being a good fuck one of your many charms, David?" I ask him, my voice rough with need.

"As good as it gets, Skinner."

I grin at him, an almost feral look of predatory ownership on my face. He smiles in return and I release his hands.

"I'll hold you to that boast, boy. Strip. I'll get the supplies."

David rises from between my legs and moves back. He starts to undress and I leave his side and walk over to my shaving kit on the bathroom vanity. One of the items I picked up at the garage outside of Godwillin was a box of condoms. I have a tube of KY Jelly that I've had for a while. I use the KY to jerk off with, and there's more than enough left for tonight.

I take out a strip of condoms and tear off one of the packets. I take the packet and the lube and turn back towards the bed. David is standing there, gloriously naked, his long, lean body glowing from a slight sheen of sweat in the light from the night stand lamp. His cock is proudly erect, jutting out of the thatch of reddish blonde hair between his muscular thighs. For a fleeting second I almost see Mulder standing there before me. He really is magnificent. Young and in the prime of life. He watches me admiring his body and reaches down to fondle his genitals suggestively. I grin in appreciation.

"Like what you see?" he asks, a certain amount of pride in his voice.

"I'm glad I left my glasses on," I laugh and so does he. I reach up and remove my specs, carrying them over to the night stand. I set them down and David walks over to stand in front of me again. I toss the lube and the condom onto the bed and he moves in close, taking the hem of my T-shirt in his hands. I let him remove my T-shirt. He drops it on the floor and I take him around the waist, pulling him close for a second kiss.

As our mouths play over each other eagerly, our hands do as well, touching, stroking, our upper bodies, arousing us further. David moans as I rub his nipples, bringing them up to hard nubs. I smile into his lips. David moves his hands down a little and kneads my butt. I practically swallow his tongue in appreciation.

He's quite breathless when I release his mouth and start to suck on his neck aggressively. I'm going to leave a mark and I can tell he invites it. He arches towards my lips hard, grabbing the back of my head to shove me into his skin.

"God damn I like this," he groans stroking my naked scalp. "It feels just like your ass."

I lift my lips from his neck.

"Never had a bald man before?" I whisper hovering over his pulse point.

"No," he chuckles.

"That makes two of us," I grin licking the spot where I've broken the capillaries under his skin.

He laughs and it ends on a low moan as I move up and capture his mouth again.

I trail my hands down his back, through the slick sweat that runs there, wetting my fingers. I clutch at his ass, parting his cheeks, thrusting my index finger between them. He gasps when I find his anus, thrusts his hips into mine, grinding his cock against me as I work a finger up into him.

"Je-sus!" he moans loud as I thrust in slowly up to the base of my finger. He whines as I draw my finger out and then pump it back in.

I establish a rhythm that seems to please him. His cock humps against me, just missing mine but that's ok. This is for him. I want to get him off so he'll be as relaxed as hell when I give him the reaming I know I want to give him. He's bucking and rotating his hips forward into my thigh and back into my finger, impaling it deeper inside his ass. He grunts in pleasure, his eyes shut, head tilted back slightly. He gasps as I add a second finger. I let both fingers play in and out of his ass. As his hips speed up I reach forward, angling to find his prostate.

"Nnnooo!" He stutters, grabbing back spastically for my hand.

"What?"

"Don't wanna come yet," he gulps for air, pulling back to still his hips.

"I need you loose, or this is gonna hurt more than either of us want it too," I whisper in his ear.

"Fuck loose. This isn't the first time I've done this Skinner. I...just wait, ok? I wanna come with you in me, man. I wanna cum with that great, big, hard cock up my ass so I'll shoot like a rocket. And big guy...you're gonna love it."

"You're a smart-assed son of a bitch," I chuckle, removing my fingers from his rectum.

"Yeah, and you wanna find out just how smart my ass is, so let's get down to it," he replies, leaning forward quickly to lap his tongue up the side of my face. The combination of wet sliding skin over my beard stubble makes me grab his arms hard and moan low in my throat.

"Bed. On your stomach, ass in the air," I manage to grate out, letting go of his arms.

He walks over and climbs up on the bed. I follow him as he arranges himself, facing the headboard. He grabs a pillow and shoves it between his knees and under his cock. He shifts, straddling it comfortably and then he rubs himself against it sensuously, hissing a little.

"Oh man, that feels fine," he observes, lifting his ass up towards me.

I wipe my hand on the bedspread and then knee walk over behind him and shove myself close, rubbing my cock up between his butt cheeks.

"It's gonna feel more than fine in a minute," I reply, stroking his ass with my dick. He trembles and I withdraw a little with a gruff chuckle.

"I'm counting on it, old man," he teases, wiggling his ass against my groin.

"Old man? Boy...you've got one hell of a surprise in store," I chuckle again, picking up the condom and ripping the packet open. I flip out the rubber and roll it down over my length. I reach for the lube.

"Hey, Skinner..."

"Yeah, David?" I reply, squeezing out the lube into my hand and warming it up quickly.

"You got a first name? I like to know what name to scream when I cum...ohhhhh..." he ends on a moan as I work the lube and two fingers up his ass again.

"You're gonna forget your own name when I make you cum, boy...like I said - Skinner'll do," I growl.

There's only one man I let call me Walter in bed. And this fantasy doesn't go far enough to allow me to hear another voice go there.

"Have it your way...I'm not in a position to disagree," he laughs as I work my lube slick fingers in and out.

"Very true. And you don't care anyway, right?"

He nods, breathing hard as I add a third finger and start really giving it to him. He's rubbing his cock into the pillow below his hips, and bucking back, grabbing at my fingers with his tight ass muscles, trying to urge me to fuck him harder and deeper.

"Christ, that's good," he grunts, twisting his head to the side to watch me. I thrust all three fingers in deep and he arches up, barely able to stand it any longer.

"Oh God...I want...I want your cock...come on, get it in," he hisses.

I withdraw my fingers, wipe them on the bedspread and reach for the lube. I squirt it into my hands, warm it up quickly again and slick myself up. I wipe my hands one more time and then take my cock in hand. He pushes his ass into me as I move up to his anus. I hold his hip with my other hand.

"Ready?"

"Hell, yes."

"Ok, breathe deep when..."

"I know the drill," he pants, wanting me desperately now. He's trying to keep himself just below the threshold of no return and he's been doing it for long enough that now he wants to get off in the worst way. Yeah, well, I'll see he gets off. I'm gonna ram his cock right through that pillow so he can come hard.

"Oh you're gonna know the drill all right," I whisper, breaching the opening into his body. I stick just the head of my cock in and then take both his hips with my hands. I begin a slow, steady thrust forward. He raises up a little on his forearms and pants in time with my progress up his rectum.

"Uhhh, damn," he grates out.

"I can stop," I whisper as he grits his teeth a little.

"Hell nnnooo. It's...it's just a little more than I've had before. But don't stop. Christ...you asshole, don't stop," he lets out in a rush.

"I could make a comment about assholes right now..."

"Now who's the smart-assed bastard?"

"Let me stop and think about that for a second..." I begin to tease him.

"Shut up and fuck will ya?" he groans, almost choking on his laughter.

In answer I move forward, pressing just a bit harder until I feel the head of my cock breach the ring of muscle inside. After that it's smooth sailing. I'm in up to my nuts and resting against his trembling ass muscles with a sharp exhalation of breath.

"Oh yeah...oh man. I can feel every inch of that thing," he whispers. I bend forward and kiss the back of his neck.

"You're nice and tight baby. Tight and so hot," I whisper in his ear.

"Fuck me hard, old man," he urges and I'm only too happy to oblige.

I straighten up and let both my mind and my body go on autopilot. In a matter of seconds I put myself in my old bedroom in the Villa Towers. Tonight is the first night Mulder and I ever made love this way. The first night he let me, trusted me to enter him, possess him and in return I gave him my soul...forever. I tenderly stroke David's back, imagining it's Mulder below me, writhing under my touch and then I take both his hips again and pull back.

"Oh God," I whisper as I thrust forward hard.

"Ffffuck!" David cries out and then we're moving, ramming into each other as I lose control completely.

I roar my pleasure and just pump my hips like hell, throwing David forward against the pillow with every rapid jerk. He answers in kind, slapping back against my balls, rolling his hips a little on the downstroke. We're both moaning with the effort. Sweat flies off us both. We're going to be sore in the morning and neither of us gives a shit.

"Do it," David pants with each thrust of my cock until he can't speak any longer.

I just make some inarticulate animal-like sound in my throat. It seems like we go at it forever and I want it to last. I want to stay poised just short of orgasm because the sensation is exquisite - almost painful. I want to suspend myself just this short of oblivion because when I cross over the passing will be so intense it will be almost like I died and went to heaven.

So I keep it up, alternating slow, deep thrusts with faster, harder ones, because I want to and I can. I've learned to hold back for a very long time. My years on the road have kept me in good shape. I have a lot of stamina. So, I'm more than capable of taking the term "old man" and fucking it up David's ass right to his tonsils - for as long as I want. And I can tell by the way he's moaning and twisting under me he's more than happy I can.

Finally I can feel his leg muscles start to twitch and then tremble. His ass muscles follow and then I can feel the back of his balls pull up tight against me. He's going to go off. I grunt as he starts to arch up, seeking my cock in really deep. I pull back and thrust forward. On the way in I stroke his prostate and that's all she wrote.

"Gaaaahd!" he cries out jerking violently against me. His hips rub rapidly over the pillow, and then spastically. His cum shoots forward and I see it on the bed. He's shooting so hard some of it comes out ahead of his forearms.

I grip his hips more firmly as his inner muscles clamp down tight. Oh God it's good. So...so tight. I grunt loud.

"Christ!" I cry out, pulling back and thrusting forward hard. As David rides out the last of his orgasm, gasping, shaking and sweating beneath me, I take it on home, going for broke with short, sharp stabs of my hips.

"Damn that's sweet. Come on baby, you're close. Get off, come on. You're good, so good," David encourages me, rocking back as I pound into him.

I hardly know where I am now. I've gone...someplace else. My mind is telling me I'm home all right. I'm home, I'm home and this is Mulder, my lover, this is so good, so warm, so wonderfully warm...so...it's the best...the very best...he's the only...he's the best...the only one...I...there's love...I love...I love... him...I...

"I love you!" I shout, throwing myself forward once more into the bright, blinding white light of ecstasy.

"Oh man..." I hear someone's hushed, awed voice utter as I convulse, my hips jerking against...against Mulder's ass. I climax with a hoarse, raw shout, my neck muscles so strained I can barely get the sound out, but I do. I throw my head back, sweat flying from my brow. I open my mouth and cry out.

"FOX! Oh God!" I howl, my cum exploding in spurting release as my lover collapses under my frantic thrusts.

xXx

When I come back to myself I'm lying draped over David's back and I know it's not Mulder and I'm filled with a sudden, terrible sense of loss and shame.

"Skinner...hey, man," David coughs, struggling for breath.

I just lie there, lost in my memories, my heart starting to ache. Sweat and errant tears mix with the perspiration on my face.

"Hey, you still with me, big man?" he asks, worry in his voice.

I nod a little and he feels it on his back. He wriggles around under me.

"Pull out, man...I...you're a little heavy here, guy," David struggles under me. I still hardly hear him. I'm dazed, half fuck blind and in truth, I just want to wallow in my memories for a few seconds longer before I have to face reality.

"Skinner..." David prompts again. Then he starts to really move under me and I come crashing back to the here and now.

"Hang on," I mumble, gripping the condom around the base of my cock. I hold it closed tight and pull back carefully. My flaccid dick comes out with a wet sound. I sit up and pull the condom off, tie the top and drop it over the bedside. Then I flop down onto my back, panting hard.

David pries himself off the pillow, rolls over and sits up. He slides off the bed and goes into the bathroom. He comes out with a couple of washcloths and a towel off the rack. He soaks the washcloths with water from the jug on the vanity. He returns to the bed with the washcloths and the towel. He slides in next to me and starts to clean me off. I just lie there and let him do it. I'm almost paralyzed with a mixture of exhaustion and growing depression. David is so gentle as he tends to me. It's making the back of my throat clog with tears.

He dries me off and then goes about cleaning himself up. When he's done, he checks the washcloth for blood. I glance over and wince a little when I spot the signs that I was too rough tonight.

"I'm sorry," I mumble as he drops both cloths and the towel over the side to join the condom.

"S'ok," he answers quietly. "It wasn't much and it's on the outside anyway. It was more than worth it," he smiles down at me.

"I have some Bacitracin in my kit," I nod over at the vanity. I've learned through experience that my partners need it more often than not. I can't smile at him. The best I can manage is to keep my face neutral.

"Thanks," he replies, getting off the bed to go to the vanity. He turns on the light over the sink and fishes through my shaving kit. I watch him as he finds the tube of ointment and then medicates the small tear on his anus. At least it was clearly visible.

"David...I really am sorry," I whisper.

David puts the Bacitracin away and shuts the light off. He comes back to the bed, levering up next to me again. He lies down and props himself up on an elbow. He strokes into my chest hair.

"For what? I don't have any complaints," he replies.

"For..." I begin.

But I can't get it out. I just choke on the words, making a tiny strangling sound. I can't tell him I'm sorry for calling him another man's name when I came. For yelling 'I love you' for God's sake when he has to know I never meant I loved him. I can't tell him I'm sorry because I'm not really. I wanted it to be Mulder. I thought it was him. David can plainly see my distress although I try to banish it from my face as quickly as possible.

"Skinner...it's ok. I...I understand," he replies, touching my lips with a finger.

I turn my head away and his finger slips from my lips.

"It's all right," he murmurs again.

I can't look at him. In a sudden rush of embarrassment and self-disgust I don't even want him near me. I want David to leave. I want this to end so that I can just crawl up in a ball and let sleep claim my exhausted body. Feelings of overwhelming sexual languor mix with the pain twisting my guts. I'm half amazed to find the feelings acting as a sophomoric as I turn my body away from the young man seeking to comfort me.

"You can never understand," I whisper.

He rubs my bicep a little.

"I'd like to try. I...I know you didn't mean you loved me. And I know...you must have loved him very much."

Oh Jesus. Why...why does he have to be so kind? I wish he'd hate me now. Hate me because I'm rebuffing him. Hate me so it'll be more easy for me to reject him further.

"David...I...I can't talk about it. Can you...can you just leave?" I reply, my voice hushed and tense with unshed tears.

"Leave?" I can hear the tones of surprise and hurt, defeat mixed with understanding in his voice. "Yeah, if that's what you really want."

"It's what I really want," I reply still not looking at him.

"Ok. But, Skinner, seriously...you were...this was great. I...I'd like to see you again. And if you need to talk you know where you can find me, so..."

"David?"

"Yeah?"

"Just go...please," I husk.

He doesn't reply but gently rubs my bicep one more time before he shifts away and gets off the bed. I pull my knees up, curling into myself as I sense rather than see him move about the room collecting his clothes. He dresses quickly, and then I hear him retrieve the bottle of Jack Daniel's from the table. Yeah. Better take the booze baby. I might end up drinking it for breakfast.

"Ok...uh...I'm outta here. I'll turn the lock on the knob but you'd better get the dead bolt. Skinner, you hear me?"

I nod from my tightly curled up ball and I hear him sigh a little behind me.

"Night," he mumbles.

I don't respond. I hear him open the door, lock it as promised and then he shuts it behind him. Tears leak from underneath my eyelids as I press them tight, willing sleep to claim my restless mind and empty soul.

xXx

August 5, 2005, Skinner's motel room, Godwillin, New Mexico

Some time later a thump on the wall in back of my bed wakes me from my fitful slumber. I roll over onto my back and blink, coming awake instantly. The dim room light causes me to blink my eyes rapidly to adjust them. I quickly check my surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary in here. I glance over at the night stand and pick up my watch. It's 2 AM. Another thump hits the wall. Fuck. What the hell, I think, anger driving away the depression that still fills me.

I put my watch on and listen. It's silent again. I decide I'd better get up and lock the dead bolt after all. If something's going down next door I don't want it spilling over here. I listen again for a few seconds, hear nothing further, and head back over to the bed.

I lie down on my back and stretch out, rubbing at a cramp in my leg. I shouldn't have spent so much time curled up like a fucking infant. I shake my head in disgust. I'm wide awake too and I let that fact fuel my piss poor mood. Getting surly will actually help me to pull out of my depression, so I stoke it up and smile as I rub at my leg harder.

Then I hear it, low voices coming through the wall behind me. Oh brother. That room had been vacant earlier. I know Kurtz said he had a full house, but when I came back from dinner my neighbor's room had been dark and silent. It was quiet over there the whole time David and I were together. Evidently the guest next door had chosen to return home.

A man's voice is raised in anger. "You cunt. I told you to stop that and shut up," he orders. His head must be close to the headboard because I can hear him clearly. He's got an East Coast, Northern twang to his voice, and I can hear him grunt hard. The bed creaks and then I hear a sharp thwack of flesh hitting flesh.

A second voice murmurs something but I can't quite hear what the owner of the voice is saying.

"Bitch!" the first voice snarls, and then it's silent again.

Oh wonderful. So, now I have to lie here and listen to some couple having a 'domestic dispute'? Charming. I lie back flat with a sigh and steel myself to wait for things to escalate. They usually do. I really don't want to have to go over there and mediate. But if some guy's going to beat up a woman next door you can bet your bottom dollar I'm not going to sit idly by while he does it.

I can hear the man's voice droning on for a few minutes, low and deadly serious but I can't make out the words. There's no reply from the other voice during his diatribe. Finally I do make out a question from the lecturer.

"Do you understand me, slut?"

The other party must indicate understanding without voicing it because the guy replies, "Good."

I wait a few more minutes, listening for any further sound of blows but it's as quiet as a grave next door. Show's over I think. I debate whether to intervene one last time. My former training urges me to do so. My years on the road tell me to let sleeping dogs lie as long as they lie quietly. Finally my body makes my decision for me. I feel myself drifting off to sleep.

xXx

The next sound I hear is breaking glass. There's a quick bleating cry of fear, and a voice raised in anger grates out again.

"Hold still."

There's a scuffle and then I sit bolt upright as someone snarls next door.

"Get back over here, you slut!"

It's the asshole from earlier. He must be on or near the bed because once again I can hear him quite clearly. The other person, the woman, in the room seems to be moving around. She mumbles something and then I hear the guy again.

"Come here, bitch," the man blurts in anger.

A whining voice keens, "Fuck you."

"What did you say?" the second voice growls in warning.

I can't hear the reply but it's obvious the other man does. The bed creaks violently. There's a harsh slap of hand meeting flesh again.

"NO!" the second voice cries out, high and loud with anger and fear. Then there's more slapping and the sound of someone being knocked to the floor.

Ok, that does it I think. Like I said - I'm not going to sit here and let some man beat up a woman. I get up off the bed, grab my glasses, jock, and jeans and pull them all on. I don't take time to put on shirt or boots because I can hear the action picking up next door. It sounds like the guy is using his fists and feet now. This is serious. He could be beating her to death.

I walk to the closet and open it, pulling my Smith and Wesson from my shoulder holster. Stuffing it down the front of my pants, I cross the room to the door and open it. I step out on the porch and just as I'm walking to the door of room number 19, I see Kurtz coming towards me from the opposite end of the motel.

I meet him in front of room 19 and he pulls up short.

"What the fuck's going on?" he yawns slightly. "The guy in 18 came by on his way over to the Inferno for a nightcap and said the people in 19 were raising hell."

"Yeah, a while ago they were arguing and now he's beating the shit out of her," I reply in a low voice.

"Beating 'her'? What the hell?" he replies keeping his voice low also.

I look at Kurtz's confused face and ask the obvious question.

"Didn't you know he had a woman in there with him?"

"Well yeah...if you can call her that. Look, this guy checked in just short of a month ago. He's a bounty hunter. You know the type - clone hunter I mean. He hunts them down and picks them up for the reward money. He's not much to look at really - about my height, mousy brown hair, big scar up here on his forehead, but he's a wiry, mean SOB and..."

"So this woman's a clone he picked up?" I interrupt wanting him to get to the point. I can hear the guy swearing and roaming around the room now. He's working himself up to deliver more punishment to whoever he has in there.

"I assume so. Christ the guy 'must' be nuts to be beating a clone," Kurtz shakes his head, scratching at his nuts.

"They don't all bleed poison," I remind him.

Towards the end, before the grays had their grand airlift of the merchandise, i.e. most of the world's population, there were some advances in clone research on their part. Several decanting facilities started releasing clones that didn't have the poisonous blood flowing in their veins. Some rumors had them bleeding red and only a DNA test could differentiate clone from non-clone since they were all tagged with a genetic marker. But the only ones I've seen still bled green - it just wasn't toxic to human beings when they did.

Kurtz shrugs but nods conceding my point.

"So I take it this guy checked in and then left for some reason?" I ask.

"Right. He left about 2 weeks ago but since he paid a month in advance, the room was his and I didn't book it. He said he was going down to Georgia to scout around. When he came back tonight I just caught a glimpse of the woman he had with him. Long brown hair, tall...not bad looking from what I could see. I took her for the clone he's hauling in."

"Why bring her all the way back here for God's sake?" I ask. "He could have offloaded her down in Georgia just as well."

"Because clones are going for top dollar in Nogales that's why. He can get whatever he wants for her there. Georgia's - hell the whole East Coast's prices have bottomed out. He must have gotten pissed at her for some reason the crazy son of a bitch," Kurtz answers, a mixture of resignation and disgust in his voice.

"Yeah, well...no one deserves that kind of treatment," I snarl, tilting my head towards the door. We both hear the guy curse roundly and deliver another blow. Then he resumes his aimless angry pacing.

Kurtz looks at me and I can see the outrage in his face too. My respect for the motel manager goes up a notch.

"Agreed. So..."

"So, we stop him," I reply, setting my shoulders in determination

"I take it this means you're going to accept my earlier offer to act as muscle around here," Kurtz gives me a terse little smile.

I smile grimly back.

"Oh yeah," I reply, reaching for my weapon.

Kurtz nods but frowns.

"Shit...I left my piece back in my room. I must be getting slow in my 'old age'," he curses shaking his head.

I pull my gun out of my waistband and hold it even with my neck level, barrel up...for the moment.

"Well...I'm hoping this guy is more bark then bite," I reply.

Kurtz touches my arm.

"Skinner...uh...just watch it. This guy's armed and he's also about one click short of being a zoner."

"Oh great...so he's mindfucked then?"

"Yeah, he told me he doesn't remember much from the before times. The scar on his head is one big mutherfucker so I think something major scrambled his brains. He remembers his name and a few isolated things...but for the most part he's just an ornery bastard with a mission - find clones, bag 'em and turn them in. He thinks it's his righteous duty for some reason and..."

"Ok, Kurtz. I get the picture," I murmur, shaking my head in resignation.

The guy's a zoner? Now that could mean trouble. Zoners - short for Twilight Zoners. People who were left behind and couldn't handle whatever happened to them during the great removal. I know they suffer from post traumatic stress syndrome of a particularly virulent variety. 'There but for the grace of God' I've told myself more than once. I got lucky and my mind stayed relatively intact. Oh sure, I have gaps. But I remember the important stuff. The stuff that's important to me anyway. There are quite a number of zoners. You see them sitting, catatonic, in doorways, or shambling on the street of your average new town. Sometimes they're ranting, and on occasion they can be dangerously violent.

If this guy's a zoner he may be a real headache. Being in the zone would be one explanation for why he's in there beating the shit out of that woman. But if he's going to put up a fight - maybe we should tread a little cautiously.

"All right, look. If he's a zoner we don't want to risk making him get even more violent. He may kill whoever he has in there. Even clones have some rights."

"No shit. If they can prove the DNA donor is still Earthside they can apply for citizenship in a new town. Godwillin lets 'em apply anyway."

"Right. Not that I've heard of that happening very often, Godwillin notwithstanding," I reply with rancor at the obvious unfairness of that law.

Most of the DNA donors are in use on some other fucking planet - and the laws aren't consistent between new towns at all. I still find it totally moronic that anyone believes the official line that clones would be helpful in repopulating the Earth in some grand future plan. Yeah right. One look at my first clone slave labor camp and I know what some new town "officials" are buying them up to do. Hard, dangerous labor - make no mistake about it.

Kurtz nods, "So you want me to knock...do the manager bit?"

"Yeah. But, go easy. See if you can get him to open the door."

"And if I can't..."

"Then I'll break it down," I reply, flipping the safety off my gun.

Kurtz raises an eyebrow but doesn't make any immediate comment. He shouldn't. The CC of blood I gave him on check-in will more than pay for any damage I do to this door.

"I did bring my pass key," he mumbles finally.

"Fine," I nod towards the door.

Kurtz steps forward but to one side of the door next to the locks. I step to the other side. He knocks on the wood.

"Hey...uh...buddy. This is the manager. Is...is anything wrong?"

He winces a little at the wheedling tone in his voice and the fact that his words are really underestimating the situation.

Inside the room we hear the guy stop moving around.

"Leave me alone, Kurtz," he answers, low and dangerously.

Kurtz glances at me and I incline my head, mouthing the words 'Try again'. I motion for him to stay well back of the door however.

Kurtz shrugs and shifts back a bit. He leans as close as he dares to deliver his second salvo.

"We've had some complaints...Jeff. You...I'd like you to open the door and let us in so we can make sure everything's all right in there," he suggests, keeping his voice friendly, calm and neutral.

We can hear the man inside chuckle derisively before he speaks again.

"Everything's just...fine, Kurtz. And...it's Mr. Spender to you, asshole."

Every hair on my neck stands on end and my blood runs cold at his response.

Spender? I...shit - I know that name. A firestorm of memory floods my senses. I remember almost instantly. I remember.....

Cigarette smoke...someone telling me...was it Mulder talking? Maybe Mulder informing me 'we discovered his real name, Walter...or at least his main alias...Spender'. No, that's not quite right. It wasn't Jeff Spender it was...it was...who was Jeff Spender? Wait. I remember...shot...Spender was shot by...the other man. Spender was...he was Agent Jeffrey Spender. God damn it. The man in this room worked for me? But he was...I thought he was dead. Christ on a crutch. Well apparently I was wrong. Maybe his father...oh yeah, I remember his dear old dad. He's one of the important memories I haven't truly forgotten although I push him back so deep it's sometimes equal to the same thing. That cigarette smoking son of a bitch. If I hadn't shot him to death during that raid we made on the last Mothership leaving Earth I'd still be looking over my shoulder for him.

In a flash of returning memory it comes back to me. Jeffrey Spender! The name ignites in my mind and sends a conflagration to every nerve in my body causing me to shake for a moment. Kurtz doesn't notice the wave of trembling that overtakes my whole body and I struggle to master it in a hurry.

Agent Jeffrey Spender. My God!

"Get the door open," I gasp out at Kurtz.

"What?"

"I said, get the fucking door open," I hiss.

Kurtz gives me a questioning look but reaches into his pocket for the pass key.

"I take it you know this guy?" he asks, glancing again into my face.

"Yeah, maybe. Look, let me go in first. Just open the door, step back...and stay down."

"What the hell are you going to do? I said he's armed. I saw a 9 MM piece on his belt when he checked in."

"I'll stay low. Look, I can take a bullet and not have to worry about it, you can't...unless you decided to play Russian Roulette with that CC of my blood."

"No...no I can't afford to take a bullet," he answers a little embarrassed and still skeptical

"Well then?"

"Well...I mean...not worry about it? How can you say that? What if he hits you in the head? Even if he goes for a body shot, I know it'll hurt like hell. Let me go back and get my gun."

"I can take a bullet," I repeat sternly.

Shit. I haven't taken one in the head myself but I saw a nanotech take one there once. It took her a week but she was as good as new after the repair work was done. So maybe they can regenerate tissue. Or re-route the brain's circuitry or whatever. I haven't got a friggin' idea. Questions like that are one reason I'm looking for Krycek. Whatever. All I know right now is a woman is getting beaten in this room and I'm willing to risk taking a bullet.

Inside the room we can hear Spender yelling at his companion.

"See! See what you did? Now I have to deal with them too, you stupid slut," he sputters.

Kurtz's jaw tenses further and he brandishes the keys.

"Never mind. I'll stay down. Just try not to take the whole fucking clip, Ironman."

I give him a grim twitch of my lips and tighten my grip on my Smith and Wesson.

"On the three count," Kurtz whispers, sticking the key in the knob lock. He unlocks it smoothly. Spender is still frothing in there so I figure he doesn't hear either the knob and then the dead bolt tumbler as it releases. The locks open. Kurtz grabs the door handle and begins to count.

"One."

"Remember, stay low."

He nods, "Two."

I ready myself.

"Three."

Kurtz swings the door open and I crouch low. The shot that rings out is loud in my ears. The first bullet burns air directly over my head. The second bullet grazes my left shoulder and I grunt once with the impact. It does hurt like a son of a bitch but I'm running on adrenaline so I can ignore it for the moment. Even as I have the thought that it hurts, I can feel the tell-tale tingling that tells me the nanocytes are going to work.

I don't have time to look to see if Kurtz took my advice seriously. I don't have time to return fire and I really don't want to kill Spender or risk hitting the woman. All I have time to do is roll out of the way as the man in the room sprays 9 MM vengeance in my direction.

Bam. Bam. Bam. The gun's report assails my ears. The acrid smell of cordite makes my nostrils itch. I've dropped and rolled next to the table that's in the room, tipping it over for cover. Spender continues to fire in rage, emptying the clip wildly.

When I hear him fumbling to reload I yell out without thinking.

"Federal Agent! I'm armed and I will fire! Throw down your weapon and put your hands in the air!"

There's dead silence in the room. I hear Kurtz rush forward. Fuck. I had a bad feeling he wouldn't wait. He barrels in but stops dead.

"Skinner, take a look at this..." his voice trails off. I raise up from behind the table and take in the view before me. I flip the safety back on and slip my weapon into my waistband once again.

It is indeed Jeffery Spender standing before us in the light from the vanity. He's six years older, a little gray is mixed in with his short, curly brown hair. There is an old white scar that starts on his forehead just over his right eye and disappears up into his hair. He's dressed in his briefs and nothing else. The room is in disarray, the bedding from the bed ripped off and shoved in a heap onto the floor, a lamp broken, the pieces scattered near the clothes closet. Spender is standing amidst the wreckage - just standing and staring, his gun hanging loose at his side. The clip is jammed halfway into the grip.

"I don't think Jeff's with us right now," Kurtz whispers as a string of drool oozes out of Spender's mouth and slides down his chin.

"Where's the woman?" I whisper.

Kurtz gestures with his head over towards the bed and then walks slowly up to Spender. He removes the gun from the bounty hunter's hand and shoves the clip home. Then he slips the 9 MM into the top of his jeans.

xXx

He notices that I got hit.

"Fuck. Your shoulder," he winces.

I glance at the spot on my shoulder. It's barely oozing blood.

"Come here," I gesture to him. He walks over and peers at the wound.

"Shit, I've never seen..." his voice trails off.

I know he can see the wound actually knitting from the inside out. In a very short time my skin will be clear and smooth again just like I was never nailed with lead. The process hurts but I've learned over the years to ignore most of the pain.

"Now you have," I reply, heading back towards where he indicated the woman was lying. Kurtz keeps a cautious eye on Spender.

I move forward so that I get a clear view of the side of the bed closest to the wall bordering the vanity area. There, lying on her side with her back to me and curled up in a fetal ball is Spender's victim. The woman is tall, I can tell that even though she's curled tightly round her middle. Kurtz was right about the hair. It really is a gorgeous brown, and long. It hangs a little below her shoulders. It's tangled now from the beating. She's wearing a red dress, one of those spaghetti strap affairs. One of the straps is torn and hanging down her back. My eyes are drawn down her back and down along her arms to her wrists. Shit...they're bound with the wire from the broken lamp. My eyes are next drawn to the bottom of her dress. The fabric is all torn to hell. There's semen staining what's left of the hem. Christ.

"Kurtz, do you have a doctor in Godwillin?" I ask quietly, moving to the woman's side. I glance up at the bed as I start to kneel down. There's a pair of handcuffs attached to each bedpost. A sick feeling twists my stomach. He cuffed her to the bed and raped her? It certainly looks like that's the case. I can feel my jaw clench.

"Two. I can call the sheriff from the CB I have in my office. They can contact either Dr. Singh or Dr. Laub."

"Call him. This woman needs medical attention."

"What do I do about Spender?"

I look up into Spender's staring eyes and blank face, then I glance around. I spot the keys to the cuffs on the dresser top.

"Get those keys and unlock the cuffs on the headboard..." I begin.

"Crap," Kurtz swears, noticing the cuffs for the first time.

"Yeah," I agree in disgust.

"You want me to cuff him?" Kurtz asks as he moves to the dresser to grab the keys.

"Wrists and ankles. You can prop the fucker up in a corner and I don't think he'll care. I'll keep an eye on him. I want to see to this woman."

Kurtz nods, his face set in a grim expression.

As I bend to examine the woman Kurtz picks the keys up and goes to unlock the cuffs from the bed. When he retrieves both he moves back over to where Spender is still standing oblivious to what's transpiring.

"Skinner?" He asks me.

I look up from my crouching position next to the silent woman.

"What?"

"Uh...Federal Agent?" he asks quietly, taking Spender's wrists in one hand. He glances over at me as he snaps the cuffs on Spender.

I catch his eyes for a moment and he stares at me curious, but not wary.

"FBI," I answer quietly, "I...I'll buy you a drink later and tell you about it," I add.

Kurtz nods business-like, "You looked like a pro. I figured...you know...ex-army special forces...or something..." he mumbles as he takes Spender and leads him over to the dresser.

He eases him down into a sitting position against the wall and then he cuffs his naked ankles together. Spender just sits there and continues to stare. I can't help but think that my yelling 'Federal Agent' sent him into some kind of fugue state. He's maybe lost in his memories - or lost in trying to remember. I don't know how long it'll last but I have to be thankful he's gone for now. I hope he comes back later however. I have a raft of questions I'd like to ask him.

As Kurtz is settling Spender and preparing to leave to call the authorities, I shift onto my knees next to the woman. I can see her breathing so I know she's not dead.

"Ma'am?" I venture. My old Bureau training comes into play and I start to treat her like any other victim of a violent, heinous crime. "It's ok. I won't hurt you. He won't hurt you again. We're sending for a doctor. Can you talk? Ma'am?"

I touch her shoulder and she moans low in her throat. When I touch her a second time she jerks away.

Kurtz calls from the door.

"Skinner, I'm going to call the sheriff."

"Hurry," I shoot back at him and he exits the room at a dead run.

"It's ok. Let me...let me help you," I whisper. I reach forward and brush the hair away from the side of her face a little. There's a huge ugly red welt growing there. It's going to be a hell of a bruise. Her neck is pale along with her face and hair. It's damp with sweat. I look closely in the light from the vanity and there's...something...something about her profile. I feel a fluttering in my guts and my voice shakes a little as I speak again.

"Ma'am, where else did he...are you...how injured are you? Where does it hurt?" I'm starting to...to think...she looks...familiar.

The woman groans and then rolls over slightly so that I can get a much better view of her face and my breath stops in my chest.

I'm struck almost as blank as Jeffery Spender as the person in front of me struggles to answer my question through bruised and bloody lips.

"It's not, ma'am, baldy...and it hurts all over," the decidedly masculine voice replies.

Jesus...Jesus wept.

I'm staring into the bloody and swollen face of Fox Mulder. I can hardly get air in and out of my lungs. I'm in shock for a moment, and I rock back flat to sit down on my ass.

"God..." I whisper, taking in his intelligent but pain-filled hazel eyes. He licks some blood from his lips and my eyes are drawn to it instantly. It's red. Red blood. He can't be a clone then, can he? If he is a clone...were the rumors true? But how...what...what's happened here?"

He stares at me, his hazel eyes drilling a hole right through my head.

"Mulder?" I ask tentatively.

He blinks several times and then raises an eyebrow.

"Do you know me?" he asks, trying to sit up.

Oh Christ he doesn't remember me...or never knew me or...he's...he...my mind whirls and I know my face is going white. I can feel the blood draining out of it.

"Hey...buddy. You ok? You...you look worse than I feel. Do...do you know me?" he hisses, and then he moans in pain.

"Where does it hurt?" I ask instantly, reverting back to professional rescuer. I shove every emotion that's assailing me back behind the wall of my resolve so that I can function to help this man. I mean God, if this really is Mulder and not some kind of cruel twist in biotech clone engineering..."

"My lower back. He fucking kicked me in the kidneys," Mulder answers. "Can you untie me? My wrists hurt like hell."

"Yeah, hang on," I answer, getting back up on my knees. I carefully untie the electrical cord, dropping it to the floor, and then draw his arms gently forward. He shifts uncomfortably and starts to shake a little as I massage his bruised wrists to renew the circulation. His eyes are pinned to my forearms, zeroing in on the tattoo, for a brief second and then he looks up at me. I look in his eyes and see the fear there, although he's trying to hide it.

"It's all right, really. I won't hurt you," I murmur as I rub his forearms a little.

He nods, shutting his eyes. When he opens them tiny tears escape from the corners and roll down his cheeks.

"He...he tried to...to rape me," he whispers. "I...can you let go, please...I can't take it right now...being touched I mean," he asks quietly, trying to maintain as much dignity as he can muster.

"I know, I'm sorry," I sympathize. My anger is boiling just below the surface. If Spender does come around I hope he's in custody before he does. I'm not sure I could restrain myself from hurting him very badly right now. Even if this isn't really my Mulder, no one deserves this kind of treatment. No one.

"He...at gunpoint...he had me put on this dress before we got here. Then later the cuffs and..." his voice faltering as I release his hands.

"You don't have to tell me. Save it for the sheriff. It'll be hard enough to tell it then," I reply kindly, moving back to allow him to sit up and stretch.

"Don't move around too much," I suggest.

"I think...I don't think he did much damage..." he sighs, wincing.

"Nevertheless...if he kicked you hard enough you could have internal bleeding. I think you should try to take it easy."

He stops moving for a moment and then he looks down.

"Damn," he curses glancing between his legs at the semen stains on the dress's hem. "Christ," he shakes his head in disgust and self-consciousness.

"Lie still, all right?" I reply. "The sheriff and doctor will be here soon."

It's all I can think to say in the face of his discomfort and embarrassment.

He eyes me speculatively. I can see something move across his face. A questioning look in his eyes. I wait, hoping...hoping that he'll tell me he remembers me.

"Will you stay here after they show up?" he asks plaintively.

He's looking at me with raw, confused need. It's as though he's forming an idea we have a connection. It's evident however, that he's not sure and he's totally bewildered by his feelings. But he wants me here with him and that idea makes my heart fill with hope and my own need. Oh God...please let this be Mulder. I don't care if he doesn't remember me at all. We can work on it. I just...I just want it to be him.

"Sure. I...I can do that."

A look of gratefulness washes over his face. He brings a hand up to wipe at his bloody mouth. A look of annoyance and disgust replaces the grateful expression.

"I'd like to get a cold cloth for you to clean up with too but I can't do it, unfortunately," I begin to explain.

I know the doctor will treat Mulder for his injuries but I'm also assuming he may want to take samples to build a better case against Spender. Since Mulder is bleeding red, it's possible he's not a clone. Rumor has it once again that in cases like this it's expedient to just assume he's human and has legal rights under the law. Shit, there'd be less paperwork.

So, Mulder's assault will be investigated as thoroughly as possible. Spender is the suspect in that assault. If they have the equipment on hand here, the doctor will want to examine any and all trace evidence to be found for proof of Spender's guilt. So, Mulder will have to lie there with Spender's semen dampening his frock until the doctor can collect some of it for testing.

Mulder's brow creases for a second then he nods and whispers, "Evidence." His face takes on a sudden dreamy quality of almost memory and then it clears again. "We have to preserve the forensic evidence," he states matter-of-factly.

"Right. The doctor is going to want to examine you," I reply, watching him carefully.

It doesn't occur to him that he shouldn't know either one of us would understand that frame of reference. He just stated it as if we'd both understand what he was saying in context. The idea gives me renewed hope that this may indeed be the genuine Fox Mulder. Some hope...but still...I can't really be sure at all.

He's totally unchanged from the Mulder I remember, I'm also beginning to realize. Even with the heavy bruise and blood I can tell he's still the same. It's a disturbing discovery. He doesn't look a day over 38 or 39 years old. He should look - well he should look closer to Spender's appearance maybe. Some gray in his hair. A few more wrinkles. But no, he's still youthful looking. I don't see a tattoo on his forearm with the NT designation. So, I have no ready explanation. I file this new, confusing and potentially saddening thought away for future reference.

Mulder gulps down some saliva.

"Could you at least get me a glass of water?"

"Yeah," I answer, nodding. I get up and go to the vanity to obtain one of the plastic cups there. I fill it up from the water jug. As I'm bringing it back over, Mulder is struggling to get up.

"Hey, hey..." I admonish him, moving quickly to his side. I balance the cup as best I can and take his shoulders, letting him lean against me. I ease him down on the bed so he's sitting on the edge.

"Sorry, I...I just couldn't stand it down there any longer," he frowns, accepting the water glass from me. He drinks a little and hands it back. I place it on the night stand. He pulls his long brown hair back from his face and arranges it behind his neck. He frowns a little as he touches it. It's as if he doesn't care for the length or it seems unfamiliar to him.

"You want to lean back?" I ask him watching the graceful movements of his hands with a lump in my throat.

"Yes, please," he replies, giving me a grateful look. I help him ease himself back and then I retrieve a pillow from the heap of bedding on the floor. I place the pillow under his back as he sags against the headboard.

"Thanks...uh...I'm sorry...yes, my name's Mulder. Fox Mulder...at least I think that's my name. It'll do as well as anything right now. The...the blank slate over there called me Mulder at first. Before we left Georgia. I have to take his word for it, I guess. Uh...and you are?" he asks, trying to shove away his pain, discomfiture and shock with what appears to be genuine curiosity about me.

"Skinner," I answer slowly, watching his face.

I want to ask him about Georgia and what he means by 'called him Mulder at first' but I also don't want to press him. Despite his attempts to carry on a normal conversation, his voice is shaking and his hands shake on and off as well. For now just answering him will be enough. "Walter Skinner," I add continuing to watch his expression.

There's no recognition to my name. None at all. I stifle my sorrow and sit on the end of the bed.

"Do you know me?" he asks again.

I look down at my hands for a second and decide to at least be truthful. It would be a disservice not to be under the circumstances.

"You...look like someone I knew...yes. I take it you don't remember..."

"I don't remember...I...not since...since..."

He's really laboring to break through his shock and the haze of whatever is blocking him from his memories. It's starting to upset him and I don't want that to happen.

"It's all right. Look...don't worry about it. We...we can talk about it later. There'll be plenty of time. Right now you need to rest. Conserve your strength."

I can tell he's burning to both recall his own identity and place me. He really wants to know what I have to say but he's too strung out to pursue it. He nods his head and swallows hard before he speaks again.

"Well...thanks Skinner. I guess...I guess I owe you my life. And hey, sorry about the...the baldy remark. That was hardly the way to greet my rescuer," he replies giving me a bit of a lopsided grin. The grin is definitely Mulder. Mulder would have made some other wisecrack about my being follically challenged perhaps, but the grin is trying gamely to be pure Mulder for sure. I find myself letting my lips twitch into a returning grin.

"You're welcome again and...no problem. I can hardly take offense over the obvious," I reply, running my hand over my naked scalp. Mulder coughs a chuckle and just as he's about to say something else, Kurtz comes back into the room.

He takes one look at the figure on the bed and then he looks at me, amazement written over his entire face. I can tell it's not just because the person he thought was a woman is really a man in drag, with long brown hair, and a bloody and bruised face. I can see he realizes the man is the guy from the photograph I showed him. He starts to speak and I shake my head 'no' in warning.

He swallows hard and when he does speak it's to give information only.

"I finally got hold of the sheriff. He's coming right away and bringing Doctor Singh. Laub's delivering a kid."

"Good. Uh...Mr. Kurtz, this is Mr. Fox Mulder." I make introductions. I might as well call him Mulder. He doesn't remember his identity but if he isn't Mulder than he's a Mulder clone and...well with the way he looks I can't bring myself to call him anything else.

"Sam Kurtz. Sorry we couldn't meet under better circumstances," Kurtz answers, a little embarrassed himself. He shuffles his feet and then mumbles, glancing back at Spender, "I'll check on his highness."

"Thank you Mr. Kurtz," Mulder replies in a low voice.

"Don't mention it," Kurtz nods briskly and turns to make sure Spender doesn't have any spark of awareness in his watery eyes.

xXx

Mulder is lying flat with his eyes closed, seemingly asleep, when Sheriff Garrity, his two deputies and the doctor arrive. Kurtz moved Spender out onto the porch so that Mulder wouldn't have to look at him anymore. We all gather out there to talk business. The two deputies remove Spender's ankle cuffs, and hustle him off to a jail cell back at the sheriff's office. He's still silent and staring but he's easily led, putting one foot in front of the other mechanically as they walk him over to the late model Ford they're using as their cruiser. The sheriff's driving a pick-up truck and the doctor came in a beat up VW. All the transportation is parked over by the motel office.

Out on the porch I give a quick rundown of what happened when we broke into the room. I give the sheriff my name and that I'm staying next door in room 20. I give him Spender's full name and Mulder's name too. Neither one is familiar to the sheriff. He asks Kurtz if my description of the events is accurate and Kurtz concurs.

I debate for a couple of breaths whether to tell the sheriff the man in the hotel room is a dead ringer for someone I knew in the before times. Close on the heels of that internal debate comes the second in which I ask myself if I should tell him I knew Spender. I can tell Kurtz is curious as to why I didn't make a big deal about either matter. One reason I didn't draw attention to the issue was because of Mulder's condition. There was no use in upsetting him further. The other reason was my natural reticence to have anyone knowing my personal business beyond allowing them to say yes or no when I show them the photos I carry in my wallet.

But, old habits die hard. You can't take the Bureau out of the AD I guess. I decide to at least tell the sheriff Mulder may be someone I knew...a good friend. Everyone either knows someone who's looking for family or friends from the before times or is looking for someone themselves. I don't tell either Kurtz or the sheriff he was my lover. It's none of their fucking business. I don't bother to tell the sheriff I was an Assistant Director of the FBI either. Even though he can plainly see Mulder's FBI ID badge in the photo, and can infer he's Bureau. I no longer have proof I worked for the FBI at all really. No, I lost that photographic proof on the road years ago. I never bothered going back to DC again to find more. There just didn't seem any point.

If I can't prove my former job I can't explain Spender being Agent Spender either. So, that thought is filed away as irrelevant as well. So, I show him the photo of Mulder and the one of Krycek too. I explain Krycek's another 'friend' I'm trying to find. He doesn't recognize him.

Kurtz seems to catch on at what I'm doing in regards to how much I wish to reveal. I watch his face during my recitation of the facts and see that awareness there. Being ex-resistance he's used to keeping his own counsel. I already had the idea he was at least willing to listen to my story because he did recognize I'd had combat or law enforcement experience of some kind. So, later, he'll get the full explanation. The sheriff will care less and with no proof of my past life I can't blame him.

xXx

He nods and says he'll take a look at Mulder, and that beyond the photo he's never seen him before either. Kurtz interjects that the guy in the room is either the guy in the picture or his twin brother. Of course I add he could be a clone even if he is bleeding red - if you believe the rumors. No one can be sure what the grays bioteched before they left here - and what they left behind in the way of bioengineered experiments. There are other, even more bizarre rumors then just clones bleeding red. So, who or what this man could be is still open to question. The sheriff thanks me for the information and adds, as I expected he would, that if Mulder's bleeding red in Godwillin that says he's human and he'll be treated accordingly.

Dr. Singh has been listening intently, silent until I stop talking with the sheriff. Then he offers his terse, business-like and to the point opinion. He doesn't care if the man's a clone, or genuine. If he needs medical attention he'll get it. It seems, Dr. Singh is from the old school where medicine doesn't discriminate. It's refreshing to see. I've run into too many instances where doctors demanded to see your money before they treated a patient. Sad but true.

Kurtz takes his leave to go back and mind the office. He thanks me for helping and says he's going to hold me to that drink later. I shake his hand. The guy's ok. He's the closest I've had to a potential drinking buddy...a potential friend...for a long time. Hell...that makes two drinking buddies I've met here...two...my mind stops on that thought as an image of David comes instantly into my head. I frown with guilt as the sheriff and doctor say their goodbyes to Kurtz.

The sheriff, Dr. Singh and I then go into Spender's room. Mulder is still lying flat, but when he hears us enter, he jerks his head over to look at us.

"Mr. Mulder, I'm Sheriff Dan Garrity," the sheriff begins his introductions, "this is Doctor John Singh."

Mulder struggles to sit up.

"No, no, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Singh admonishes him, his gray head bobbing, "you do not want to be getting up now. We don't know how badly you are injured. Lay flat. I will examine you."

Mulder gets a stricken look on his face, his eyes roving around the room, taking in the sheriff, the doctor, me, the broken lamp, discarded electrical cord, and last the hem of his dress again. My heart fills with sympathy for him. He's scared and I can tell he doesn't want to spend another minute in this hell-hole.

"Can't we take him into my room?" I suggest.

Mulder's eyes meet mine and I look away towards the sheriff. I can barely stand to see the naked look of gratitude in Mulder's hazel eyes.

"That's not a bad idea," the sheriff replies with tact. "I can check out this room and you all can be more comfortable."

Mulder swallows hard, relief washing over his features.

"He should not be walking," Dr. Singh warns, bringing his bag up and setting it on the edge of the bed.

"I can carry him," I insist.

Singh and the sheriff raise an eyebrow, both of them staring at the bruise on my shoulder - all that's left of the wound and it's fading around the edges. I sigh and hold up my forearm.

"I can carry him," I repeat gruffly.

"Ah yes. So I see," the Indian doctor replies, staring more closely at my shoulder, "Very well, take him over and I will follow you."

Mulder watches me as I approach the bed.

"I won't hurt you," I murmur.

He nods his head, letting it fall, back against the pillows. I reach down to him, gathering him up in my arms, and then lift him very carefully.

"Lean into me," I whisper.

He complies and I start to carry him across the room towards the door. He weighs just about the same as I remember. I remember the time I carried him across the threshold of our vacation bungalow in Tahiti. It was done on a dare. You know - the groom carrying the bride over the threshold. I smile a little at the memory of Mulder returning the dare by trying to lift me.

I get him over to my room without any trouble and Dr. Singh comes bustling in after me, medical bag in hand, and shuts the door behind him. He surveys the bed which is still in the state it was in when I left it - the bedspread rumpled and sticky with cum. I studiously ignore his briefly raised eyebrow. He darts to the bed and pulls the bedspread down to unveil the clean sheets beneath. I deposit Mulder on the bed gently and then pull the pillows behind him so he can prop himself up again.

I leave his side and turn some more lights on - the overhead and the vanity light. The doctor stands at the side of the bed. I notice the pile of wet washcloths and towels as well as the used condom lying on the floor. I quickly scoop them up and spirit them away, laying the towels on the vanity and tossing the condom into the trash can underneath it.

Dr. Singh sits down on the edge of the bed next to Mulder and places his medical bag on the night stand. He has to move the lamp a little to make it fit. I lean against the vanity and cross my arms. Singh catches my eye.

"You are staying, Mr. Skinner?"

"He's staying," Mulder hastens to answer for me.

I incline my head towards Mulder nodding to signify my agreement and Singh shrugs.

"As you wish," he replies turning to Mulder.

"Now I understand from Mr. Skinner that you were beaten. I also understand that Mr. Spender attempted to rape you," he begins without preamble. Christ. The man has no bedside manner whatsoever. But his directness seems to calm Mulder somewhat. He had begun shaking again while I was carrying him but now he seems to be focusing hard and the trembling is lessening.

"Yes...that's correct. He...I was cuffed to the bed and asleep. I woke up with him masturbating over me and...I only stopped him from going further by complaining that I had to go to the can...uh, I mean bathroom. He uh...finished himself off, unlocked the cuffs and let me up."

"You tried to get away from him," I state.

"Yeah..." he lets his voice trail off, "but he caught me again and tied my wrists with the electrical chord. After that he started to beat the shit out of me."

Singh shakes his head in disgust before he continues.

"My apologies, Mr. Mulder. I am very sorry you have been abused so badly. I will do my best to treat you. But treat you is all I can do. Unfortunately, although I can plainly see evidence of what you have told me here on this dress I do not have the facilities to DNA test samples of any bodily fluids. Therefore we will have to consider this semen as circumstantial evidence. But, it is evidence, nonetheless and I will preserve it. But I do apologize for our primitive forensic methods," Singh declares.

I snort in disgust. So much for my earlier idea about preserving the tell-tales.

Singh gives me a peeved look and continues.

"Now...I will have to ask you to allow me to examine you to assess the extent of your injuries," he glances at me. "I will need you to strip in order for me to do so."

"I can leave," I volunteer immediately seeing the look of momentary panic on Mulder's face.

"No...please...uh...don't go. I...I'd like you to stay," Mulder whispers, reining in his dismay. He looks so vulnerable. I can tell from the tone of his voice that he's trying to reason out why he wants me to stay even as he's asking it. Why beyond the obvious reason that he's still disturbed by the near rape and beating and is uncomfortable being examined by a stranger. This realization gives me further hope that this could be the real Fox Mulder.

"All right, I'll...I'll just go over and sit down at the table while the doctor completes his exam," I reply. I can go over there and out of his space just far enough to give him a modicum of privacy. I can always look out the window or something if I know he's getting too uncomfortable.

"Thank you," he replies as he starts to sit up to take off the stained and torn red dress.

"Let me help you," the doctor offers moving closer.

Between the two of them they get the dress off and Mulder is quickly lying naked on the bed. He didn't have any underwear on beneath the dress. Singh puts the dress in a large plastic bag he takes out of his medical bag. Then he pulls the sheet up over Mulder's legs and lap for the moment, allowing him some modesty as well as warmth. Despite his apparent ability to remain talkative Mulder's still bordering on shock and he needs to keep warm in the room's AC.

Singh takes out a stethoscope and a pen light. He begins his exam by taking Mulder's vitals. He clucks over him like a mother hen, putting Mulder further at ease with his gentleness and his attention to detail. Everything seems to be in order vital sign wise. The Indian then shines the light into Mulder's eyes to check for concussion.

"Good pupil response. Do you have a headache?"

"Just my face...not my whole head. He...he didn't kick me in the head."

"Ah, so. I think no concussion. That's very good. Now...we look at the rest here," Singh replies tossing the pen light back into his medical bag. He withdraws a pair of latex gloves and snaps them on. He pulls the sheet down, exposing Mulder's bruised body. He deftly begins his exam, proceeding as quickly as possible in deference to Mulder's discomfort.

I allow myself to look at Mulder's body, as clinically as possible, as Singh roams over him probing and cataloguing his injuries. He stops at one point to examine a patch of skin on his thigh that looks like a burn. He asks Mulder if he remembers being burned somehow and he shakes his head no. Singh shrugs and says the burn is healing well so it's not a problem. He continues on with the exam. I wince as he does so and finally have to look away because it's too painful to watch.

"Ow! Yeah, that hurts," Mulder exclaims as Singh presses on his kidney area.

"I suspect a bruised right kidney. Did he kick you any higher, say, in the ribs?"

"No, just in the stomach once and then the lower back once."

"You will be pissing blood nonetheless I'm afraid. I don't think we need to take an X-ray. I don't think there are any broken bones. The wrists will be fine. The face too - but you must apply ice. Mr. Kurtz has a cooler outside the main office - have him or Mr. Skinner make an ice-pack for you. Before I leave I will give you some antibiotics. I have some...we're low at the moment but I will give them to you. I don't want to risk kidney infection. I will also give you some Tylenol for pain. You must drink lots of water," Singh advises, removing the latex gloves and tossing them into the trash can. He reaches over and pulls the sheet and blanket back up over Mulder's loins.

Mulder nods carefully. His face looks like it hurts like hell.

"You can X-ray here?" I ask interested. X-ray? Hell, I'm wondering how he managed to get an X-ray.

"Yes, you would be in luck if an X-ray was in order. We just installed one at the end of last month. It came from Nogales on a barter of all things believe it or not. Incredible - but it is here. Maybe some day we will be able to barter for more much needed equipment and my forensic investigations will be more thorough," the doctor replies, giving me an arched eyebrow.

I fix him with a neutral look.

"Well solid forensic evidence or not, Doctor - I heard Spender arguing and striking Mr. Mulder. Mr. Kurtz and I both heard him hitting Mr. Mulder as well. Isn't...isn't our testimony that this man was beaten going to be enough to convict Spender? The rest of the evidence - Mr. Mulder's injuries are certainly testimony that something violent happened to him when he was in the proximity of Mr. Spender. I don't think the lack of DNA testing on the semen is going to matter much, do you?"

As Singh is about to answer me, there's a knock on the door. I look out through the curtain and see the sheriff. As I get up to let him in, Singh continues this time addressing Mulder.

"Mr. Mulder...I want you to rest. I mean it. No strenuous activity until you're at least no longer pissing blood. After that, you must still be cautious."

Mulder nods, looking towards the sheriff as I admit him to the room. Singh is taking two bottles of pills, a thermometer and some packaged alcohol wipes out of his medical bag. He places them on the night stand and then removes his stethoscope and places it in the bag.

The sheriff stands patiently and I stand next to him as Singh gets up off the bed with his medical bag in hand.

"Those are the antibiotics and Tylenol on the night stand," he advises indicting the bottles with one hand. "Mr. Mulder, I want you to take them 3 times a day - with water - not milk understand?"

"Yes," Mulder answers, speaking at last. His voice is filled with exhaustion now.

"I'm a little worried about your right kidney. He did kick you rather hard. If you start to experience additional pain, run a fever or urinate an excessive amount of blood I want to know about it. I left my spare thermometer so that you can monitor your temperature."

"I'll...I'll see that he does it and also I'll make sure he gets that ice-pack," I reply as Mulder nods as well.

"You're going to let him stay here?" the sheriff asks, interest mixed with concern in his voice.

Mulder looks from me to the sheriff. I nod.

"The motel is booked solid. I don't think he wants to go back to room 19. It's fine if he stays here until he's back on his feet again," I reply, looking to Mulder for confirmation.

"That ok with you, Mulder?" the sheriff asks, beating Mulder to the punch.

"I was just going to say, yes, I don't want to go back to the other room," he sighs, wincing a little and shifting his ass on the bed.

"Ah, good. When I want to examine you in 72 hours I will come back here to do it," Singh adds matter-of-factly.

"All right," the sheriff replies to both of them. He takes in Mulder's drooping eyelids.

Singh, moving towards the door, chuckles a little.

"I was going to suggest a sedative but it appears that will not be necessary," he observes, walking past the sheriff.

"So...you preserve the dress?" he asks as Singh stops to look up at the taller man.

"Yes. It's stained with semen. Mr. Mulder says the semen is from Mr. Spender. Mr. Mulder was obviously beaten."

"Yeah, I can see that. We're going to hold Spender. If he comes around we'll try to hold a trial. If he doesn't come around...I guess we'll just be holding him until we figure out what to do with him," the sheriff shrugs.

"Dr. Laub has the psychological background. You could have him examine him," Singh suggests.

"Yeah, I will. Ok, doc. Thanks," the sheriff nods and Singh takes his leave of us, shutting the door behind him.

The sheriff turns to Mulder and me, running his hand through his graying black hair.

"Mr. Mulder...pardon me for saying it but you look like shit warmed over," he muses trying to add some homespun levity to the grim situation.

Mulder picks up on the attempt.

"A very appropriate observation, Sheriff Garrity," he replies, his small grin ending in a weak yawn.

"I can also see you're about done in."

"I'm beat," Mulder deadpans.

I bark a laugh and the sheriff tries hard to suppress his laughter.

"Yeah, well...I'm thinking I can just as well come back later for your statement. It's..." he glances at his wristwatch. "It's 4 fucking AM anyway. Man, we can all use some sleep."

"I'll second that idea," I add, yawning myself now.

"So...I'll tell you what. You all get some rest and I'll be back around say, 1 PM to get your version of events. How's that sound?" Garrity asks.

"I think it sounds like a humane plan to me," Mulder replies, shifting to get more comfortable.

"All right then...uh, Mr. Skinner, Mr. Mulder...I'll be seeing you later," he finishes, turning towards the door. Mulder falls back and looks like he's fallen asleep immediately as I follow the sheriff back out onto the porch and shut the motel room door. When Garrity turns to talk again the folksy demeanor is gone and he's all business.

"Mr. Skinner if he says anything significant before I return I want to know about it, understand?"

I nod.

"A man's life hangs in the balance."

"Spender?"

"Yes. If we determine that he's a stone crazy zoner prone to violent outbursts and we can't do anything else with him there's only one recourse in Godwillin. He's deemed a detriment to society and treated accordingly."

"And that means?" I ask, pretty much knowing the answer.

"I put a bullet in his head," the sheriff replies, sighing.

"And if he never comes around in order for you to find out he's a...detriment to society?"

"Well...do you think we should wait until he wakes up anyway, under the circumstances?" the sheriff asks raising an eyebrow and gesturing back into the room.

"Good point," I growl.

Now I'm torn. I'm torn between realizing Spender may be a very real danger to Mulder as well as others and wanting to help him. Frontier justice is swift and sometimes unfair. There often isn't due process of law in these new towns. I've learned over the years to swallow the protests of my conscience in these matters and bow to the status quo. It always bothers me however. It always will.

Despite circumstances now, including my anger and disgust at what he's done, Spender still deserves some consideration. He was a very conflicted man when I knew him. A very confused man who was put in a bad position by a master of obfuscation and subterfuge. The father of lies would be an apt description for Spender Sr. But Agent Jeffrey Spender did the right thing in the end and I admired him for it. I think deep down he was a decent man. That man may still be in him somewhere. I feel I owe him at least the benefit of trying to find out if we can help him to regain his humanity. Whether we can drag him back from the Twilight Zone.

Looking at the sheriff however I can't think of a way to ask if I can talk to Spender later. There's no reason for me to ask permission to do it. Besides wanting to help him, I've still got a lot of questions I want to ask him as well. I'll have to give some thought to coming up with an excuse to interview Spender. But for now it can wait at least until the sheriff returns to talk to Mulder.

"Glad we're in agreement then," the sheriff replies, walking off the porch.

"Later," I answer, watching him walk off towards his pick-up.

"Later," he calls as he passes by a beat up Jeep Cherokee parked in the motel's dirt parking lot.

I turn and re-enter room 20.

xXx

Once back in the room I turn off the overhead light and decide my first order of business is to get some ice to make Mulder an ice-pack for his face. He should also take some antibiotics and Tylenol. It looks like he's asleep however. Well, I could go get the ice and wake him so he can take the meds when I come back. I'm surprised he's out. I would have thought the pain in his face would keep him awake.

I cross the room quietly and take the water jug from the vanity. I turn off the vanity light as well, leaving only the night stand light illuminating the room. I take a couple of seconds to admire Mulder's profile in the soft light. Even with his badly bruised face he's incredibly attractive. Christ. I look away. Getting aroused right now is a really bad idea. I pick up the water jug and set it aside. The basin underneath will serve to carry the ice back in. As I'm crossing back towards the door, basin in hand, Mulder's voice interrupts my progress.

"I'm not asleep," he murmurs, "but thanks for trying to be quiet and shutting off most of the lights."

-END OF PART 8 - Go on to Part II - Parts 9 to 16