Greetings!
Welcome to the 4th and final story in my series of clichés, awkward conversations, and uncomfortable truths. Once again, this fic came about primarily because I got tired of reading stories where Skinner or Scully or Random Person knew that Mulder was being treated unfairly and hated it, but never said anything because . . . well, actually, the reason was rarely if ever provided. And that grated on my nerves, because keeping quiet about an issue means there is a zero chance the issue will be resolved, while also putting more and more blame and pressure on the victim.
I'll be honest: when I started writing this, I was fully expecting it to go in a completely different direction, so when the denouement arrived, it shocked the hell out of me. In a good way, mind, but still. I've spent the last two months poking at my plot, making absolutely sure this is really what it wants to do.
And it is. So: I hope you find this fic as satisfying as I was when it told me in no uncertain terms that it was done, finished, and happy with itself, so I needed to happy for it.
Massive thanks also need to go out to lawand_disorder for beta reading this one. Poor Lapsed_Scholar is currently suffering from some medical issues, so she wasn't able to beta for me. But la_d did a stellar job and if you haven't checked out her stuff, you should. It's awesome.
So . . . that's it, I think. I hope you enjoy 'Only Do Nothing' - but either way, please let me know. I really, honestly, LOVE hearing from you guys, because that's one of the ways I get plot and story ideas. It's also a fun way to enjoy healthy debates, which is always the highlight of my day. So drop me a line if you're even a little inclined; it and you are much appreciated.
On with the story!
Only Do Nothing
Evil is like a shadow. It has no real substance of its own, it is simply a lack of light. You cannot cause a shadow to disappear by trying to fight it, stamp on it, by railing against it, or any other form of emotional or physical resistance. In order to cause a shadow to disappear, you must shine light on it.
For evil to flourish, a good man need only do nothing.
Assistant Director Walter Skinner was not a man who was easily frightened, nor was he one for deep reflections, and he rarely looked back, meaning he had very few regrets. Not only was that not in his basic personality, but one did not survive a war like Vietnam and return home with an abundance of soft emotions, especially after what he had endured. So it only stood to reason that he was not a man who was easily embarrassed, either.
But 'not easily' did not mean 'never' and he was experiencing that emotion for the third time in less than a year — for the same reason, and for the same people.
It went without saying that he was not pleased about this. But even his growing irritation, both with himself and with the Hot Springs SAC, wasn't enough to make him actually open his mouth and tell the jackass to shut the hell up.
Instead, Skinner stood in impotent anger at his own failings, staring sightlessly at the growing crowd of agents, all of whom were restless and edgy. They had been chasing this sick bastard for several months and his elusiveness had — no, Walter, don't sugarcoat it. Their inability to catch him, or even slow him down, had worked every agent on the hunt into a righteous fury, thought it was heavily underpinned by guilt. Mulder had gotten them much further along in the three days he'd been on the case, but they still didn't know who they were chasing, or even where to look next. That was enough to set them all on edge, knowing they had a deadline but little hope of beating it, but right now, the only one who would really do anything was Mulder, which was pushing that tension to dangerous levels.
And that was something Skinner couldn't do anything to ease, because that would push him too close to the dangerous territory of invoking — or defending — Mulder's 'spookiness'.
Which was why, despite his faith in his agent, he found himself listening with shame and disgust as yet another person, one who didn't know a damn thing about Fox Mulder other the bad rumors that he already wanted to believe, spouted off about "how relieved he was that Mulder wasn't going on about little green men, but he hadn't solved the case yet and was this really the best profiler the Bureau had to offer?"
Thankfully, Mulder wasn't there; he'd seen — well, Skinner wasn't sure what he'd seen, actually, but it didn't matter. Something had sparked a connection in that incredible mind and he'd plunged down the rabbit hole after it, dragging Scully to the morgue with him to join the search. It was telling that he clearly hadn't considered taking any of the other agents with him, a fact that anno—well, actually, 'frustrated' was more accurate, an interesting number of them and relieved most of the rest.
"—rly crazy, Skinner, and I really wish he'd go ahead and get the UFO theory over with so we can finally get back to work and find this prick," SAC Ronnie Herman whined, fixing Skinner with a wide-eyed look of earnest entreaty that did nothing to hide his resentment of the fact that he had been supplanted in the chain of command.
And not just by Skinner.
Despite holding the title of Special Agent instead of Assistant Director or SAC, Mulder was THE lead agent on this case and was making no bones about it. He wasn't being an ass, somewhat to Skinner's surprise, but he wasn't shy, either. He simply did what needed to be done and if any of the agents under his temporary command objected without cause or mouthed off, they got two very scathing sentences as a first reprimand (which was remarkably effective). Any further insults or arguments just for the sake of arguing earned an official written reprimand, and if they were foolish enough to push Mulder again — or Scully, for that matter; Skinner had realized an hour into the Santa Fe case that she needed the same discretionary power as her partner when it came to discipline — then he would remove them from the team without a second of hesitation. The latter had only happened once so far, but the number of written reprimands had both amused and infuriated Louis Freeh.
Especially since a good 65% of them had Scully's signature, not Mulder's.
And probably 90% of those she issued were on her partner's behalf.
Memory of Freeh's response to Mulder's epic rebuke of Alvin Kersh some months back still had the power to make Skinner smile, even though it made him squirm at the same time, because every single issue Mulder had cited as reasons for refusing the consult were transgressions that most of the SACs, ADs, and DDs he'd worked with and/or under had committed, either in person or by their silent acceptance of their agents' behavior.
And Walter Skinner could not exclude himself from that list. The fact that he often went out of his way to help the X-Files team did not mitigate his failures, and hearing them spelled out so plainly had made shame rise so hard and fast that he still didn't know how he'd kept from throwing up.
Listening to Mulder's factual description of the blatant disrespect he endured so much — too much — of the time had caused him to vow right then and there that he would do better for his agents, starting immediately.
And he thought he had.
His personal presence had only been required once prior to this case, albeit four days in, and while he'd gotten an unprecedented number of bitchy phone calls on Mulder's first two VCS consults after he and the Director had come to an understanding, it had taken him less than a day to realize that not one of them was legitimate. When he filtered out the extraneous and remarkably creative adverbs and adjectives, never mind the heavy-handed praise for himself, every complaint about Mulder had boiled down to "he won't let me disrespect him or bully him or refuse to do my job because I don't like the assignment he gave me".
Every. Single. One.
And Scully had, of course, backed her partner up. It hadn't actually been necessary, at least not for Skinner, but to his and Scully's shared annoyance, it had been for the other SACs. Even after seeing Mulder in action, they refused to accept that the skilled, brilliant man who profiled and read people with every breath he took really was that skilled, that brilliant — and that he had more than earned the position of SAC, temporary as it was (by his own choice, though there was a growing number of people advocating for his permanent promotion). But in spite of Scully's reputation as both The Ice Queen and Mrs. Spooky, she still commanded respect that they refused to give Mulder — while somehow thinking she would be okay with them badmouthing her partner. Consequently, Skinner had also been startled at the number of those same people who thought she was 'wasted down in that basement', considering their own agreement of her character.
It turned out to be a sentiment that she was sick and tired of hearing, and she had finally lost her own temper during the serial pedophile case in Bakersfield, where Mulder had broken several records in profiling, with Scully doing the same on the Forensics side. And if the rumors could be believed, a small cult (fan club? Information was scarce and no one would confirm the existence of monthly dues) had sprung up as a result of that case, because 'Spooky's' genius had been on full display in every possible respect and not even the most hateful agent could dismiss it as luck.
It hadn't stopped her from trying, mind, but she'd been sneered down by literally everyone who'd heard her snotty comment.
The catalyst for Scully's irritation (and Mulder's aroused, amused pride) had been the SAC. Like everyone else, at least at first, he'd bitched and moaned about Spooky being given his job for the duration of the case, and had also made what seemed to be the required comment about Mulder's penchant for attributing everything to little green men — even though he hadn't made so much as single allusion to paranormal causes. Hell, he'd had a profile narrowed down to a very specific pool of men before he'd gotten off the plane. But there was apparently a script that field office SACs had to follow when it came to Mulder, and far be it from John Jeremiah Johnson to break that pattern.
He hadn't known that Scully was standing a few feet away, waiting patiently for a break in the conversation so she could report to Skinner, and her reaction to his next statement had been . . . forceful. Decisive.
Oh, hell, Skinner, be honest: not only had it put the fear of God into everyone who'd heard her, but Johnson's dick had been neatly and cleanly severed on the spot, and so had his balls. The man had been a eunuch until probably a week after the case was solved and the X-Files team had returned home.
Because Johnson, after sneering at Mulder's open-mindedness, had straight-up said that Scully was wasted in that basement, and he simply did not understand why Skinner allowed it. Or Scully, for that matter. Spooky couldn't possibly be that good a fuck and even if he were, surely she'd rather leave his bed to investigate actual cases like Johnson's office worked instead of running around chasing little green men and what would it take for Skinner to transfer her to his team.
Skinner hadn't had time to blink before the verbal castration occurred.
"Please explain exactly how I'm being 'wasted in that basement', former SAC Johnson," she said coldly. Watching the man go fishbelly white had been hilarious, truly, though Skinner wasn't nearly dumb enough to say so. Like hell he wanted Dana Scully's attention right then.
"Uhh . . ." was Johnson's only response, and it and he were treated to a contemptuous sniff.
"Exactly," she snapped, eyes blazing with scorn as she stared him down from six inches below his chin. "Because I can assure you, former SAC Johnson, that had I been assigned anywhere but 'that basement', the very skills you're lusting after wouldn't exist. There isn't an agent in the Bureau other than Agent Mulder who would have provided me the opportunity to hone my medical and forensics skills while also acquiring the abilities and experience of a field agent. Do you know how I know that?" she demanded, leaning forward maybe an inch.
Johnson swallowed so hard his Adam's apple heaved into his mouth and he stumbled back three steps. His eyes were wide, stunned, and terrified, and Skinner wouldn't be surprised to find out he'd wet himself.
"I know this as a fact because every single request for assistance I get is for my forensics background," she stated with an icy condescension that made her boss's throat hurt. "Out of the 100 or so cases I've worked without Agent Mulder, I can count on one hand the number of times I've gone as a field agent instead of an ME, either to the crime scene or witness questioning, because standard field agents and SACs don't understand that I am equally skilled at both and refuse to listen when I try to explain. In my seven years as a field agent, AD Skinner and Agent Mulder are two of fewer than eight people in the Bureau who've recognized that. And I thank God for it, because if I'd been unfortunate enough to be assigned to you, I wouldn't have any of those talents you think I'm wasting."
She paused there and gave Johnson a blistering sneer that made Skinner's testicles shrivel up from sheer proximity and he didn't feel an ounce of sympathy for the man. This was clearly a sore point for Scully and one that she'd kept to herself for far too long.
And since she wasn't actually being disrespectful, at least not in the strictest sense of the word, Johnson couldn't even try to reprimand her. She was right and, judging by the complete silence surrounding them, everyone present knew it.
"Well said, Agent Scully," Mulder said rather jovially from the door, breaking the standoff and startling everyone but his partner.
He made no effort to disguise his amusement, but it faded in the wake of his obvious pride and his grin deepened to the smile reserved only for her as she came to his side, head cocked and eyebrow raised expectantly. "We need to go back to the second crime scene," he told her as they turned to the door, moving as one. He didn't bother to acknowledge anyone else and neither of them even looked back at Skinner as his hand fell to its place on her back and she started looking over the papers he was holding while he explained what he was looking for, their voices fading as they left a stunned, mute, shamed room full of hardened FBI agents in their wake.
Johnson finally picked his jaw up from the floor, his dick having vanished, and turned his shocked gaze to Skinner, who shrugged. The man had deserved every word of that — and frankly, he'd gotten off lightly.
"There's a reason people call them when they get stuck," was his only observation, and the other man nodded dumbly. Thankfully for everyone concerned, he let it go and began to treat Mulder and Scully with the polite, deferential, wary respect one accorded to a cobra. He valued their (or at least Scully's) abilities, but was unwilling to risk getting bitten again for saying the wrong thing, and the pair took no offense at this; actually, their AD strongly suspected they found it amusing, but like hell he was going to ask. Scully had needed to demonstrate her support of her partner a few times before that particular moment and he always had her back, but after that little set-to, every single agent assigned to the taskforce had been as good as gold, giving neither Mulder nor Scully any trouble or pushback, and the case had been solved two days later.
It had taken an irritating amount of time, and several official actions, for word to spread that yes, Mulder was serious about respect, but he was just as adamant at giving it as receiving it. He did not tolerate any kind of bullying or harassment and he didn't give a damn about rank, tenure, or ego. As far as he was concerned, no one was indispensable and if you couldn't respect your fellow agents, why would anyone think you'd respect the victims?
Naturally, this had earned him both enemies and allies, but the line was much more sharply defined now. People who, in the past, would have done nothing more than sneer at him now aggressively targeted him and the ones who would have shrugged in lukewarm sympathy when they heard 'oh, no, it's Spooky again' now formed active lines of defense around him.
The SACs were both better and worse, but for the same reason. And Ronnie Herman, the loudmouth still droning in Skinner's ear, was one of the worst 'worse'. He had taken it as a personal affront that Mulder was made the SAC of the case, completely disregarding the fact that his team had gotten nowhere, literally, in nearly five months, but after three days under Mulder's leadership, they'd discovered two strong leads and the man himself had already gotten half of a working profile completed. Once he'd been given the genuine opportunity he should have had all along, Mulder was becoming a hell of a leader. It was amazing to watch and Skinner was nearly bursting with pride in his agent.
But as he listened to Herman moan about how Mulder had just gotten lucky with that last clue, Walter Skinner despised himself. He could hear, as clear as day, Mulder say that exact thing in the process of telling Kersh to shove it.
And yet, here he stood, not saying a word in his agent's defense, or even to shut the moron up.
The worst part was that he knew exactly why. Every cell in his body was urging him to step up, step forward, and be a fucking man, but he could not do it.
Because somewhere along the way, he'd fallen into the same trap as so many others: he didn't want to speak up because if he did, either to agree with Mulder or to defend him, it would automatically subject him to the same ridicule. And Skinner just flat didn't want to deal with it. It wasn't like anyone could blame him for that, including Mulder. Except . . . Fox Mulder was hardly the only person on the planet to think that intelligent alien life existed. Stephen Hawking, anyone? Hell, he wasn't even the only person at the Bureau to believe it, but the others weren't ostracized and humiliated and bullied.
Of course, a lot of that had to do with Bill Patterson, damn the man, and Kersh had definitely conducted his own smear campaign. And that cigarette-smoking bastard had his hands — hands, hell. His whole fucking body was in that pie. So there was no doubt whatsoever that Mulder had been set up to fail for a very long time.
On the other hand, the man was his own worst enemy sometimes. In the last three days, Skinner had seen how good a leader Mulder was, and was beginning to realize just how many gifts and skills he possessed. And watching him profile was a thing of awe. Terrifying, yes. But still incredible.
The problem was that Mulder didn't have an in-between mode. He was leading or he was profiling, and in cases like this, his profiling was . . . extreme and very, very intense. And it was something that none of the other agents could relate to, not even the profilers. So they looked at him with envy and suspicion and fear, because they didn't understand and he couldn't explain — even though his methods worked. Which, naturally, only made it worse.
But Skinner finally understood why Mulder had demanded Scully's presence at any and all such cases.
He also understood why she had not only accepted his condition, but demanded it herself.
And after seeing not just Mulder's state of mind with Scully keeping him tethered to the here-and-now, but also the speed in which he made progress, he at last knew with bone-chilling certainty why Patterson had so deliberately and maliciously set out to ruin his onetime heir apparent. Patterson was highly skilled at putting data together to form a profile, but only after it had been gathered by others. Despite his assertions, he had always been one part of a whole, rather than an entity unto himself. That was how most profiles were built, of course, and the reason profilers worked in teams, with each agent's contribution acknowledged; Patterson first worked on those teams, and was then quickly promoted to lead them, but when someone finally took a closer look, it was revealed that much of his success had resulted from stealing other people's work.
Mulder, though . . . he could be, he was,an entire profiling team. More, he was everything Patterson had claimed to be, and after he officially joined VCS, he had quickly — worse, inadvertently — begun to reveal the man as a fraud. Patterson lacked Mulder's intuitive grasp on obscure or inconsequential details that so often led him to a clue or the suspect, he was mediocre at best in connecting those clues, and he had almost no talent at delving into a suspect's mind, especially not the deep, and rare, way Mulder and Frank Black could — but he was very, very good at politics and people management. He was so good at it that even the agents who knew he'd screwed them over by claiming their work and results as his had supported him until he'd fallen over the edge of sanity. Even then, that support hadn't waned nearly as much as Skinner would have thought.
And while his fall couldn't be hidden, those in VCS who had sponsored and supported Patterson before his and their house of cards began to topple had successfully gone to a lot of effort to conceal their folly — and their guilt. Since Mulder wasn't around to defend himself, they also took the opportunity to smear his name and reputation even more by casting the blame on him, ensuring that no one outside a very select few would know or discover the real truth about Patterson and their own culpability in both furthering the myth and softening the inevitable scandal.
Hence, why even someone as intelligent and skeptical as Dana Scully had believed the lie.
In hindsight, it was easy to see why and how Patterson had, with the blessing of his benefactors, turned the X-Files from a respite for Mulder, something to let him rest and recover from the horrors of the cases his abilities warranted, to an object of ridicule. Once that was accomplished, it had taken little extra effort to turn Mulder into an object of ridicule as well. And Mulder, who could be oblivious to the damnedest things at times, hadn't had a clue until after it was all said and done. They had kept him tied in knots that last year, to the point that he really thought his decision to leave VCS for the basement had been his voluntary choice, but Skinner knew better. Despite everything, though, he would never tell Mulder the truth, because the knowledge of just how deep that betrayal had been, how coldly calculating, would cause irreparable damage that would serve no ultimate purpose.
"—n't understand why Tollson forced me to let Spooky come here," Herman groused, temporarily breaking Skinner's musings, and he couldn't quite contain his flinch, because this bitchy statement brought Kersh to mind. More specifically, it brought that phone call and his near-identical — and just as hateful — statement with it.
Skinner really couldn't guess one way or the other if Mulder had ever truly understood Kersh's motivations. He himself hadn't gotten it until Freeh had started digging in to Mulder's accus—no, be honest with yourself, Skinner, they weren't accusations. They were blatant statements of fact. To be truthful, the man's hateful attitude toward Mulder had been set long before that disastrous, ridiculous, gas-lighting OPR meeting where Scully and Mulder had been demoted and moved from Skinner to Kersh, and it had puzzled everyone. It was an accepted fact that Mulder quickly pissed people off after meeting them, but such virulent hatred before was odd. But when Freeh started looking into the man and asking questions, the floodgates opened and multiple, very different types of agents had come forward to testify about Kersh' attitude, his favoritism, and his habit of rewarding spying, snitching, and ass-kissing instead of effort (which was largely how he had risen in the ranks, it seemed).
From there, the reason became rather blindingly obvious.
Kersh envied Mulder for being what he never could: a prodigy. His whole life, Alvin Kersh had wanted to be special. He didn't care what that specialty was, or in what field. All he wanted was to be the best at something. Unfortunately, like 97% of the population, he was good at a few things but outstanding at none of them. He was not and never would be The Man That People Called When Something Happened. And he envied that kind of gift, he coveted it, so deeply that the lack of it had utterly corrupted his drive to succeed.
But the reason he despised Mulder, absolutely loathed him, was because Mulder had what Kersh was so desperate for . . . and had willingly walked away from it. He could have reached the pinnacle of greatness but instead had thrown it away — and scoffed at it afterwards. To add insult to injury, people still called him for help, because despite the fact that he eschewed his gift (curse), he was still the best and there was no denying that fact, scorn and derision toward the man himself notwithstanding.
So, since Kersh could never be what Mulder was, and Mulder would never allow Kersh to live that desire vicariously through him, Kersh's envy, his jealousy, his personal feelings of inadequacy, had all darkened into a dangerous, seething hatred as the man tried to destroy what he so badly wanted, but would never, ever have.
His treatment of Scully was harder to define, but Skinner had finally narrowed it down to something akin to 'rescuing an abused wife'. Completely and totally stupid, yes, but just as completely and totally in character. Kersh had little sympathy but a great deal of pity for those who 'couldn't' do what he thought they should and, thus, he would 'help' that person if possible. Of course, his version of help was almost always the exact opposite; Scully wasn't the only one who had had . . . uh, problems . . . with his heavy-handed attempts at rescue, though she was one of the worst. To this day, Skinner couldn't figure out how (or why) Scully had stopped Mulder from destroying Kersh, and he still didn't know why Peyton Ritter lived (of course, he'd never walk unaided again. But he was alive, which was . . . more than anyone had expected. Especially Ritter.).
But the hysterical part? Kersh had honestly, truly been surprised that Scully hadn't been thrilled at his offer to 'save her career'. He'd genuinely believed that she wanted out of the X-Files and away from Mulder, but lacked the gumption to speak up (when he said that during Ritter's hearing in a failed attempt to justify his indefensible actions, the entire room had turned en masse to give the man the same incredulous look — but no one said a single word. It hadn't been necessary. Of course, that only served to further humiliate Kersh and Skinner reflected that it was a good thing Freeh had waited until after the pair had been given back the X-Files to hold the DD's hearing)
Then, further proving both his complete and total inability to read people and his irrational desire to punish Mulder, Kersh had actually tried to keep the man away from his partner while she was in the hospital. Even Robin Bergman, his immediate supervisor, had been stunned by that and Bergman hated everyone. He was the army son of a WWII general and his mentality on injury was such that he was hard-pressed to grant two days' leave for a family funeral. But to the collective shock of everyone who knew him, after he'd been accurately informed as to what had happened and why, he'd approved the leave request Skinner had filed on Mulder's behalf with no dithering or even a smart remark. Kersh had been enraged at being overridden and, to no one's surprise, had gone even more out of his way to make Mulder's life miserable once Scully was healthy enough for him to come back to work.
And the dynamic, rebellious, uncomfortably insightful pair had been forced to suffer under that smothering malice for nearly a year.
Oh, for — Skinner really hated it when he was stupider than God intended him to be. Of course Mulder knew. But since he couldn't make Kersh the Bureau's 'Golden Boy' in his place (and wouldn't even if it were in his power) and he had enough self-preservation, not to mention the deterrent that was Dana Scully, to refuse to let Kersh claim his talents as spoils of war, Mulder had been trapped for months in a hell that even the greenest of rookies didn't generally have to endure for more than about six weeks, due to one man's petty spite and a room of people who cared only about their own secrets and self-interests. The Bureau joked about it without realizing the horrifying truth, but it really was a miracle that Mulder had survived his stint under Kersh with his sanity intact.
Disgusted anew with himself for not fighting more at that damned hearing, and for not trying harder to mitigate Kersh's jealous, ego-scorned punishments — which were a huge part of the reason so many people still thought it was okay to treat Mulder like dirt — Skinner pulled his attention back to the present. His mental attempt to justify his lack of a spine in telling Herman to stuff it was failing miserably, making his entire body burn with shame and a dark anger he refused to direct at Mulder. It wasn't his agent's fault that Skinner couldn't handle this particular truth about himself.
"Hey! Hey, come quick! He's got something!" a male voice suddenly called, slicing through the many overlapping conversations in the room. Silence fell while confused glances darted every which way, as the crowd tried to figure out who had spoken. "In the conference room, people! Now!"
The rush of agents charging the door looked like that scene from Blazing Saddles and Skinner wasn't ashamed to admit he was leading the charge. This bastard was shaping up to be another BTK killer, albeit with the addition of farm animals, and he was escalating fast. He'd already noted the understandable tension in the agents, and their friction and frustration built exponentially with every hour that passed. So hearing that Mulder had found something? Well, of course they all acted like a boy's baseball team set loose in a Golden Corral.
Watching the entire taskforce screech to halt even as they piled into the room was a lot more amusing than it should have been, especially when they were met not by Mulder, but rather with a wide-eyed expression of astonishment from Alfred Paulsen, who was standing at the far wall next to the map covered in Mulder's surprisingly neat handwriting.
"Wh—" he began, only to be cut off by a young profiler maybe four months out of the Academy. His name was . . . was . . . oh, what was it? Danson? No, he'd just tripped over a chair trying to stop and taken down the man next to him in the process. Darnell? No, wrong office. Drake? Dunning?
"Paulsen's solved it, Sirs," he said to Skinner and Herman, who had managed to get ahead of the throng and were standing safely at a table. The agent in question, an almost-handsome man around Mulder's age, coughed and gave him an incredulous look before snapping, "What the hell, du Lac?"
Du Lac, that was it. Tristan du Lac.
Grey eyes hardened and the young agent said, "Hey, you've been mouthing off about Mulder since he got here, complaining that he's just a lucky guesser because he can't possibly be right all the time and telling everyone that the last lead he found won't pan out because we all missed it, so he's just making it up. But the only way you could possibly know that is if you have the answers. Which means you've solved the case and know who this fucker is and how to find him. So go on. Tell us."
Dead silence fell a second time, and not just at the horrified look on Paulsen's face. It was because the rookie agent had spoken the absolute truth — and Skinner's shame threatened to choke him again. He knew instantly what was happening and why, and he admired du Lac even as he hated him for having the courage to do what Skinner himself did not: stand up and speak out against an injustice.
And he was right. Skinner had heard Paulsen griping more than once about Mulder's leaps of logic and his ability to put completely disparate clues together into a pattern. But he'd never said anything directly to Mulder or Scully, and given their lack of response, he hadn't mouthed off in hearing distance, either — which meant he was aware of Mulder's zero-tolerance policy about disrespect. Still, his grumblings had been mild, as these things go, and Skinner refused to turn the field office into a kindergarten class. Mulder and Scully knew there would be bitching and moaning, same as Skinner (and they had done their fair share as well, albeit in the privacy of the car or their motel rooms), so as long as it was kept to a minimum, none of the DC trio had an issue with it.
Skinner hadn't counted on the local agents. That also shamed him, because he hadn't once considered that they might be tired of listening to the petty jealousy, too. And at least one of them had no compunctions whatsoever about putting a stop to it.
Finally.
Because the universe had a sick, twisted sense of humor sometimes, of course Mulder wasn't there. He and Scully were still at the morgue. According to the phone call the amazed (and vaguely horrified) head ME had placed not an hour ago, Scully was performing some arcane ritual on the corpse (the goat, not the boy) involving salt and a book of Grimm's Fairytales, in the original German, while Mulder moved the body's limbs to various positions as requested, took her verbal notes, occasionally provided obscure bits of knowledge, and asked her 'fucking strange questions'. Had it been anyone but the X-Files pair, Skinner would have dismissed it as the ME being drunk, drugged, and hungover.
But since it was Mulder and Scully, he had no trouble whatsoever believing the man's account of things. What's more, he wouldn't be remotely surprised when they arrived back at HQ, armed with at least one solid solution and maybe the killer's identity, with the goat's tongue providing the defining clue.
While his mind wandered, Paulsen had bristled like a porcupine and was trying to bully the younger agent into standing down. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't good at it. And that was odd, really; most experienced profilers Skinner had seen possessed the uncanny (and unnerving) ability to intimidate. Mulder was a master of it, and Bill Patterson had been the Pope. Alfred Paulsen? Was a wuss, it seemed.
Watching that arrogant peacock get backed into a wall without the four-month old agent taking a single step in his direction was extremely satisfying, even if it made shame burn Skinner's mouth again. But he welcomed the acidic, bitter taste, because he knew he deserved it, and something, someone, would have to force his hand, since he couldn't bring himself to speak up on his own.
"—t the hell is wrong with you?! This is just wasting time because you're jealous," Paulsen was whining, trying and failing to sound authoritative. Du Lac merely shrugged, his eyes as warm and welcoming as mercury.
"Jealous of what? Your complete inability to add 3+3 without a calculator and Herman telling you you're right? The fact that you can't put two clues side by side and find any correlation, even with evidence directly tying them together? Or maybe how you consistently fail at identifying motivation, making it harder to locate suspects?" the young agent drawled in reply, looking and sounding so laconic that Paulsen turned purple.
"You just want to be Mulder!" the apparently-displaced profiler flung back, a few of his flunkies — well, no, they weren't his flunkies, the man didn't have the ability to acquire flunkies, but . . . agents who were jealous/resentful/envious/whatever of Mulder. Those agents were nodding in agreement with the man's blathering, and that was what irritated Dana Scully so much (Skinner had learned this very quickly). They would never be Mulder, or have his abilities, and that was fine. No one realistically expected them to. But they refused to put in the extra effort or time to really delve into his techniques and reasoning in order to become the best them they could be. A lot of Mulder's profiles were required reading and training for learning the job, but very few people were willing to go any further. And that also would have been fine, really, except those same people took it one step too far and denigrated Mulder for the very thing they refused to do.
Mulder shrugged it off, because he was a profiler and knew the intricacies of that minefield. But Scully? Oh, she hated that attitude with a passion. And the second Mulder had finally demanded and been given the respect he deserved, she had gleefully unleashed her feelings about their attitude and behavior.
Like he'd said, Skinner and Freeh had both been equally appalled and amused by the warpath she'd marched on her partner's behalf.
(and if Skinner found himself frequently turned on by this, well . . . hell, yes. He was a breathing, thinking, heterosexual man)
"Why the hell would I want to be Mulder?" du Lac asked, sounding genuinely surprised — surprised, not contemptuous — and earned equally surprised looks from the entire room. He ignored them all, keeping his gaze locked on Paulsen, and shook his head, pity etched across his face. "That man has been cursed with the kind of profiling ability that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Because it doesn't just suck you down into the sick, demented black hole of the most depraved minds, something that we unfortunately need so we can hunt the bastards, but . . . they can't turn it off. You and I, Paulsen? We can clock out at six, head to the diner, and notice the woman who finalized her divorce yesterday. Profilers like Mulder? They not only know when the divorce happened, they can see why and how and probably how it could have been avoided. They can see how many kids, pets, house, income, parents, school, hobbies, secret vices . . . they can't turn it off. They can't stop, Paulsen. They become hermits because it's the only way to stay sane. And morons like you mock them, sneer at them, call them liars, because you can't stand that they do it as easily as breathing while you can't find your ass with both hands, a map, and a flashlight."
Next to the stunned Paulsen, his perpetual shadow, a walking tank named Hardman, started to speak, face twisted with anger, but du Lac didn't even slow down. "And it's because of your attitude that we so often get stuck in these messes. You think profilers like Mulder want to crawl around in that kind of depravity just to be mocked and accused of being a glory hound or derided as a lucky guesser? Or, if you're Mulder, a fellow psychopath? Do you really think that's their idea of fun? Well, actually, you probably do, since it's the only way you know how to talk to or about people. When you aren't kissing their ass because they can do something for you," he sneered, his body language screaming his contempt, and several people flinched. The guilt and shame that appeared on too many faces made Skinner's teeth itch, because he was finally starting to understand just how deeply entrenched that hateful, holier-than-thou attitude was in VCS — and it wasn't remotely due or limited to Mulder, though he did tend to get the brunt of it by virtue of his highly vocal detractors on top of his equally high-profile pursuit of his beliefs via the X-Files.
Skinner mentally sighed, realizing that he was going to sit down with Freeh and as many of the ADs and DDs that he could trust, because that attitude needed to be stopped, and quickly. It wasn't just for the sake of the agents like Mulder, who were unfairly harassed and bullied, but also because it was dangerous. As du Lac had just said, not only did the really gifted profilers burn out fast, too fast, but they tended to eschew taking outside consults because of the shitty attitudes and behavior from the agents they were there to help, and Skinner found that he really couldn't blame them. Not after getting an uncomfortably close-up look at how bad things were for Mulder.
Oblivious to the minor epiphany that had just taken place, du Lac kept going, firmly and unrepentantly shining a stark white light on the ugly truth that too many people had ignored and hidden in the shadows for far too long.
"Well, whatever, Alfie. It's your life. But I want to find this sick bastard before he skins another teenager alive, and Fox Mulder is the only way that's going to happen. The man is brilliant, he's gifted, and he is a hell of a good investigator, despite your best efforts to convince us otherwise. So I'm drawing the line: unless you solve this case, you will sit down, staple your mouth shut, and do whatever the hell Mulder tells you to do — and if he wants you to hula dance on the roof wearing a coconut bikini, then you better find a ladder, because Wilson keeps the bikini in his file cabinet for those monthly trips with his wife."
He stopped there for a minute, green as grass but still perceptive enough to allow the small wave of laughter to break some of the tension. But once it faded away, he leaned forward and braced both hands on the table, his expression implacable and his gaze frigid.
"I mean it, Paulsen. Like Mulder, hate him, want to fuck him, can't pick him out of a lineup, whatever. I don't care. Nobody does. But keep your trap shut unless and until you actually have something constructive to add, because right now, you are a detriment to solving this case and if this fucker gets one more victim because you refuse to be a productive member of society, never mind an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I will arrest you on charges of aiding and abetting the killer we're chasing."
A third silence fell, this one so shocked that a feather would have shattered it.
But it worked. Alfred Paulsen looked exactly like he'd just been gut-punched by a two-ton gorilla wearing brass knuckles, and so did his not-flunkies . . . but the rest of the room was nodding. And then Herman's ASAC, Chris Hopkins, stepped forward, blond hair gleaming dully in the bad lighting, and turned in a slow circle, meeting the eyes of every person there. Including his SAC, who, like Skinner, was not spared that contemptuous gaze, despite the fact that Hopkins was on the short list for promotion. He ended up where he started, glaring at Paulsen, but he said nothing for maybe a full minute, heightening the tension in the room until it was unbearable. Skinner was not immune to this.
And his shame threatened to drown him.
"I will sign that paperwork," Hopkins said quietly. But his voice was brimming with disgust and his shoulders were rigid with anger. "And I will personally deliver it and you to the Hoover building if that's what it takes. Agent du Lac is absolutely right: we are special agents of the FBI. Our job is to find criminals and stop them, not enable them by throwing tantrums because someone plays ball better than you do. But I will give everyone here one chance: if there is anyone in this room who cannot or will not conduct themselves as a grown adult and a federal agent, leave now. Walk out that door and there will be no repercussions, so long as you don't say a single word about this case."
He tilted his chin in challenge and waited, allowing people three minutes to make their decision. At the end of that time, when nobody left despite a great deal of awkward shuffling and uncomfortable non-conversations, he nodded and said, "Good. This will not happen again, and for anyone who still might be confused, allow me to clarify: Special Agent Mulder is running this investigation. So you — we — will go where he sends us, look for what he asks of us, and provide him with any— and everything he needs to catch this son of a bitch. The time for questions and concerns has passed, people. So if I hear any more whining or moaning or complaining or griping or anything other than, "Yes, Agent Mulder!" from any of you, your ass is out. Off the case, out the door, an official reprimand on file, and maybe more, depending on how stupid you've been up to that point."
He paused there and took a deep breath . . . and went paper white.
His stunned expression pulled Skinner from his reverie and he turned, following Hopkins' gaze . . . and saw Mulder standing in the door, looking like he'd just been hit by a deer, or maybe an alien. Scully was in front of him, looking supremely satisfied.
And . . . well. That said it all, didn't it? Skinner had had his back, at least from a distance, and Freeh had kept his word, and Scully was his partner, but this might be the first time Mulder had ever seen, or even experienced, his fellow agents, his peers, standing up for and defending him. Sadly, the sight had clearly stunned him. But Scully simply took it as his due. Their due. It was interesting to watch them swap certain personality traits depending on the situation, Skinner absently mused, seeing her eyes fill with gratitude and then pride as she nodded to the other agent.
"Thank you, Agent Hopkins," she said, breaking the hold he had on the room and drawing everyone's attention to her. "And thank you for calling this meeting; you've just saved us a great deal of time. Agent Mulder?"
As always, his partner got his attention when nothing else could and Mulder nodded briskly, absorbing his shock with enviable efficiency. He moved to the front of the room, handing out folders to various team leaders as he went while Scully passed one to Skinner on her way by. She didn't look at him, which hurt, but he didn't hold it against her. He couldn't. He'd just let a brand-new agent do his job, one so green you still see the graduation date stamped on his hand. But the fear that had been holding Skinner back for so long had finally been exposed for the idiocy that it was, and he knew that going forward, he would be much better able to have his agents' backs.
Still, as he watched Scully carefully remove what he would bet a million dollars was a fucking goat's tongue from an evidence bag, Skinner had to step out of the room for a minute and laugh. And if it came close to hysteria, well, could anyone really blame him? He'd called it, fair and square. Only Fox Mulder and Dana Scully could do this, and to be truthful, he was absurdly grateful that particular skillset was limited to them. It was patently obvious the world couldn't handle another pair like them.
But they were Skinner's to guide and protect, and right there, in the dirty hallway of the Hot Springs, Arkansas field office, Walter Skinner swore a blood oath that he would guide and protect them until death, if that's what it took to keep them safe.
Because without them, the world was doomed. It was a secret that the three of them shared (well, and possibly that cigarette-smoking bastard, but Skinner also vowed to shorten his lifespan down to months) and that was good. It was the way things had to be. But he would be their friend and their protector and their jailer and their parent and whatever else they needed, for as long as they needed it.
When they had saved the world, he would clap them both on the back.
And buy them a beer.
~~~
fin