Chapter 11

Broyles stood up at the sound of a commotion outside his office. He looked out to see his receptionist standing, arguing with an older man.

"Mr. Broyles is engaged. You will have to make an appointment."

"I don't care if he's married and on a honeymoon. I'm going to talk to whoever's in charge here now!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's simply not possible."

The man spotted Broyles in the door and pushed past the receptionist. "Mr. Broyles, we need to talk."

He held his hand up to the receptionist. "No need to call security, Quincy. Mr. Skinner is right; we need to talk. Though I do wish he'd called ahead."

Quincy drew her hand back from the emergency button she'd been reaching for.

"I didn't think you'd recognize me," Walter Skinner said, somewhat subdued.

"I rarely forget a face. Come inside, Assistant Director."

"It's just 'Walter' now," he said. "I've been retired for years."

"I realize that. You're a hard man to track down these days. I recently tried to get in touch with you only to find out your last known whereabouts was a fishing cabin in the Yukon."

"What can I say? I like the quiet, and I feel like I've earned it. But when I'm in the States I like to check up on my old friend Fox Mulder. I'm sure you can imagine my concern when I found the bed he's been lying comatose in for the past fifteen years empty. It took some digging, but I found out he was transfered to the care of a doctor who works for you, one Walter Bishop. I'm sure you understand why I'd find that a little suspicious. Agent Mulder deserves the best possible care after his years of service to the FBI."

"I agree. And I assure you, he's getting it. Have a seat, Mr. Skinner." Broyles sat down in his chair. He indicated the chair across from him.

Skinner took it. "Let's cut to the chase: where is Mulder?"

"Before I answer that question I need to give you a bit of background. You've been retired for ten years, and there have been developments you're out of the loop on."

"The only times I was ever in the loop, that loop was a noose around my neck."

"I know that feeling," Broyles said with a smile. "The kinds of cases Agents Mulder and Scully used to handle in their X-Files investigations have either been discontinued as unproductive—FBI involvement in UFO investigations, for example—or supplanted by a newly created department called Fringe Division. Fringe Division's specific activities are classified, but I can tell you their purview is cases involving the cutting edge of science: genetic engineering, quantum physics, radical neuroscience. Walter Bishop took Agent Mulder on as a patient because he believed using some of the fringe techniques they had encountered in their investigations—processes far beyond what the FDA would condone—he might be able to effect an improvement in Agent Mulder's condition."

"What kind of processes?"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that. And is that really what you want to know?"

Skinner looked at him pensively for a moment before answering. "No. What I want to know is if you think there's any chance it might work."

Broyles regarded the man who was in many ways his predecessor for a long, searching pause before concluding it was genuine hope in his eyes.

"Not only do I think it could work," he said, "I know it does. Because it has. I spoke to Fox Mulder just yesterday."

Skinner stared at him in shock. "You spoke to him?"

"Yes."

"Did he respond?"

"He said he would give my offer of a place on the Fringe Division team some consideration. I hope he accepts, but considering what he's been through I wouldn't blame him for choosing retirement."

Skinner couldn't speak. His eyes flicked around Broyles' face, searching for any sign of deception.

"As I said," Broyles commented, "the procedure that repaired some of the damage to his brain is far from being approved. It is risky, and some of the specific risks it entails aren't well understood. But if his case becomes widely known, people will be clamoring for it. Dr. Bishop is, as far as we know, the only person in the world with the knowledge set to perform it. I hope you understand our difficulty here."

"I'm used to keeping secrets. Can I talk to him?"

"Yes, I can arrange that."

Even though he knew to expect him after a call from Broyles, when Mulder opened the door of the Boston townhouse the FBI was putting him up in to see Skinner standing there, looking a few years older but otherwise unchanged, he didn't know what to say.

After several long seconds, Skinner said, "You're looking better than the last time I saw you. Except for the hair."

Mulder laughed, and ran a hand over his head. His hair, which had been shaved for brain surgery, was just beginning to grow back, but didn't cover the lines of scabs.

"I still have more hair than you," he joked back.

Skinner chuckled. "It's...unbelievable. I hoped medical advances might someday help you, but I didn't imagine…" He shook his head. "It's good to see you like this."

"I heard you visited me in the hospital. That means a lot to me."

"It was the least I could do." It seemed to be all he could think to say.

They sat down in the living room, and both were silent for a minute. It was disorienting for Mulder to be talking to someone he'd seen in the life he'd created for himself during his years in a coma. It was hard seperating out memories of the real Walter Skinner from the dream.

"I'm sorry," Skinner said out of the blue of the silence.

"For what?"

"I couldn't find what happened to Agent Scully. I directed the investigation for years. You'd been shot, she was gone. That's all we had to go on, and basically all we still have. I understand that you've provided the additional information that you were shot and she was abducted by a man posing as an ambulance driver after she had a reaction to a bee sting. Cancer Man and the people he worked with used bees in their experiments. I only saw him once after it happened. He knew I would suspect him. He said he didn't have anything to do with your shooting, and he had no idea what happened to Scully, but he said it in that damn...blasé way he had. I never saw him again. I think he knew I was ready to kill him. He even suggested she shot you. There were several people on the official investigation who believed that. Some of your neighbors in your apartment building reported hearing what sounded like an argument. They assumed it was a lovers' quarrel."

"But you knew Scully better than that."

"Of course I did. But I had my own suspicions on who was behind it, and I never expected the official investigation to turn up much. I'm sorry I couldn't find out anything through unofficial channels. I tried."

"I know," Mulder said. "Do you think she's dead?"

Skinner sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed his forehead. "I never gave up hope, but added to your new infirmation… I don't know what to tell you. I believe that if Scully had been able to contact me, she would have found a way, if only to find out about you."

Mulder nodded. He bit his lip, fighting back tears. It took him a long moment to recover his composure. "So, you know all about what I've been up to the past fifteen years. What about you? I hear you're retired?"

"Yeah. After your shooting, and 9/11, I just...couldn't deal with the job anymore. I was too old for it. I reached the end of my rope. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. That's great. You got married?"

Skinner glanced at his wedding band and a bright smile broke through his wrinkled face. "Yeah. Her name's Christine. She's South African, a retired accountant. I met her on a tour in Mexico."

"That's great. Congratulations."

"Thanks. We've been married four years now. I've honestly never been happier."

"I'm happy for you," Mulder said sincerely.

"I used to think my life would be over at retirement, but it was more like a fresh start. I heard you've been offered a position with Broyles' team. Do you think you'll take it?"

Mulder shook his head vaguely. "I don't know. I don't know if I can do that work again without Scully, but I don't know what else to do. My work, my...calling, to investigate the paranormal, is all I've ever had."

"And is that still what you want? Is finding whatever truth might be out there still the most important thing to you?"

Mulder thought about it. What felt like the most important thing was finding Scully, finding out what happened to her. But he knew what probably happened: someone working for or with Cancer Man killed her, and tried to kill him, to keep them from finding the truth. Finding that truth and exposing it was the best chance he had for any kind of justice for her, and working with Fringe Division seemed like his best chance at that.

"Just think about it," Skinner suggested. "The world doesn't end if you decide to retire."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Mulder, I'm sure this is a hard time for you. Is there anything you need? Anything I can help you with?"

He thought about it. "I don't think so. Right now, I'm adjusting. Just talking to you is great."

"Here. Here's my card. It's got my phone number and email. If you need anything, contact me. I'll be out of touch for two weeks starting on Thursday. Chris and I are going camping in New Zealand. I'll come see you again when I get back. We'll talk more. I'll show you some pictures of places I've been and fish I've caught. It's great to see you."

"Thanks for coming." They shook hands warmly.

A minute after Skinner left, there was a knock on Mulder's door. He looked out the peephole.

Skinner was back.

"I almost forgot," he said when Mulder opened the door. "A couple of years ago, when your doctors gave up hope that you'd wake up, they gave me a box of your personal effects, since by that point I was the only one left to visit you. I've never opened it." He handed Mulder a medium-sized cardboard box, taped shut.

"Thanks."

Skinner nodded. "I'll be in touch."

When he left again, Mulder opened the box. There wasn't much in it. The socks he'd been wearing the night he was shot (probably the only item of clothing that hadn't been considered possible evidence in his shooting). His wallet, with a handful of tens and twenties and a stack of expired cards. There was also a small plastic bag with a necklace inside it. A delicate gold necklace.

His heart beat faster as he opened the bag and poured the necklace into his palm. It was unmistakeable: the simple gold cross he'd seen so many times, that he'd seen around Scully's neck so many times.

And there, tangled around the clasp, was a single strand of short red hair.

This was Scully's necklace.

What did it mean that he had it?