THE LONE WOLF AND THE WHITE KNIGHT

By Sergeeva [22.6k, 31st Oct. 1999]

Note: this was inspired by a wonderful idea of Xanthe's for a Hallowe'en story. Long live that woman - her plots are the best! Thanks also to the great gals of Requited, who set this idea in motion, as it were. It's not beta'd, and was rushed off in an afternoon, so apologies for any wayward typos, general silliness etc.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder was at his wit's end. He stared at his inbox screen as if an explanation would suddenly appear, but the mysterious message was as cryptic as ever:

>>> Lone wolves can only run so long... BE THERE! >>>

It was the sixth message he'd had in the past hour, all direct to his private email address, not his Bureau one, all from senders who couldn't possibly have access to email. All from people Mulder knew to be dead. It had taken him a little while to identify all the names, but eventually he could place each as someone he was certain was no longer in the land of the living. That in itself had been enough to intrigue him, but the content of the messages had got increasingly urgent in tone, and the sense of panic had finally gotten to Mulder.

He hadn't disregarded the fact that it was October 31^st, of course. Hallowe'en. He'd been prepared to find that the first couple of messages were just Frohike and co. playing a joke on him. Or even someone at the Bureau... get ol' Spooky to race off in pursuit of yet another other-worldly show 'n' tell, oh yeah, that's be a huge laugh in the bullpen on Monday morning. However, something about the terseness of the messages conveyed a real chill, and when Mulder had contacted Byers to tell him to drop the "voice from beyond" act, he hadn't been all that surprised to receive vehement denials of any involvement from all three Gunmen. In fact, Langly had been deeply insulted at the idea that they couldn't have come up with something better than a few emails.

So Mulder had shifted tack, enlisting his three friends to investigate the origin of the emails. None had a visible return address, but the expertise of the guys had failed to prove even if all the messages came from the same source. Frohike was embarrassed that they hadn't been able to help. He warned Mulder off from walking into what was probably a trap. Mulder shrugged that off, saying he had more sense than that. Frohike had made a choking sound and hung up.

All this left Mulder exactly nowhere. It came down to whether he was prepared to trust the messages and turn out on a dank, cold night, maybe just to make a fool of himself, or whether he laughed the whole thing off as a feeble joke and stayed where he was, in the warm with a plethora of cartons from The Mandarin Palace calling fragrantly to him from the coffee table. He read the messages again:

>>> Your friend is in danger. >>>

>>> Remember who your friends are. >>>

>>> Lives will change tonight, one way or another. >>>

>>> What are you waiting for? I thought you wanted to believe? >>>

>>> You're needed. Hollathan's. >>>

Hollathan's was an old abandoned theater which Mulder only knew about because it had been the scene of a drug bust a few months ago. Was something new going down there tonight? What "friend"? I don't have that many, Mulder mused to himself. The Gunmen had eliminated themsleves, Scully was spending the weekend with an old college friend and he'd spoken to her on the phone earlier that evening. She was deeply engrossed in hearing all about her hostess' troublesome love-life and the only danger she was in was of losing track of all the Toms, Dicks and Harrys that had made Carole's life a misery for the past year. Mulder searched his brain for anyone else who could possibly count as a friend... people he said hi to while out jogging, a couple of guys he met up with to shoot hoops once in a while, Beverley on the HotDreams chat line - oh and Delia too, and maybe Boris... He'd gotten to know the girl at the pizza delivery place pretty well lately (at least she remembered his aversion to pepperoni now), the motherly lady at the dry cleaners who always checked his pockets for him... These were the people he talked to most and not one of them could be called a true friend. He glared into the depths of his Char Sui pork, going over and over the messages in his mind. Something was nagging at him, just out of reach, something about the wording of one of those messages...

The bit about "I thought you wanted to believe" suggested someone who knew him, knew his work... Knew his office... Mulder suddenly pictured that poster on his wall in the basement. He saw Skinner standing in front of it, leafing through a file... Skinner! Maybe the messages were from him, but why would he...? Suddenly Mulder knew what had been nagging at him. That second message - he could hear Skinner saying "You don't want to forget who your friends are". It was Skinner who was in danger. He was the "friend", the "lone wolf". How could he have forgotten Skinner when he was making his pitifully small list of friends? His boss had stood by him so many times, even when he wasn't actually his boss any longer. Skinner had taken chances on Mulder's theories, had defended his right to investigate cases, had protected his tenuous position within the Bureau on numerous occasions. From a quiet word of support in a hostile budget meeting, to more covert instances of support in closed-door committees, to dangerous political game-playing that Mulder knew nothing about and didn't want to. He'd made Skinner's professional life very difficult over the years, yet the man had never used that against him. Yes, he'd hauled Skinner's nuts out of the fire a couple of times too, but the AD had had it in his power to put an end to Mulder's reckless exploits or even end his career and he hadn't done either. He was as good a friend as Mulder had.

Sure in his own mind now, Mulder wasted no more time. He flung on coat and shoes, grabbed his car keys and took the stairs down to the street two at a time, too frantic to wait for the elevator. The drive was a nightmare. The neighborhood was full of children in an assortment of Hallowe'en costumes, criss-crossing the roads on their trick or treat trail. Mulder had to drive with frustrating caution until he was clear of the residential streets and then he drove like a man possessed, his head full of thoughts of Skinner and the rising fear that he might be too late to prevent something really bad happening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The shabby district where the old theater was located was quiet. One in three street lamps was out and the maze of narrow alleys with their boarded up stores and decrepit apartments wasn't easy to negotiate in the dark. Every passing minute stretched Mulder's anxiety closer to snapping point. He felt a surge of anger building inside - anger at the shadowy world of conspiracy and secrets that had taken over both his and Skinner's lives. Anger that they had both lost people close to them because of this. Anger that a straight arrow like Skinner had been forced to compromise his integrity just to survive... Rules and regulations meant little to Mulder himself, but somewhere inside him he admired Skinner for still having a code of honour, a notion of a line he wouldn't cross, an abiding decency that governed his actions... And anger that a man like Skinner could be killed because he had chosen the "wrong" side.

Mulder was in no doubt that whatever trap had been set for Skinner tonight, it was connected to Mulder's own quest, to the X-Files, to the deepest secrets of all. He gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles and took the last corner into the street where the theater was. The building loomed dark and forbidding. The entrance with its ticket booth was boarded up now, and layers of peeling posters draped dismally from the billboards on either side. Something clattered in the alley alongside the building and a cat's yowl echoed away into the shadows. Mulder drew his weapon and kept his back to the wet brick wall as he edged forward. Under the lamp at the end of the alley, four large men had Skinner backed up against the chainlink fence. Mulder could see the glint of at least two knives, and one side of Skinner's face was streaked with blood. His right arm hung uselessly at his side and he had his coat wrapped around his other fist and was fending off the vicious swipes of his attackers' knives with only the inadequate protection of those few layers of wool.

Mulder took in the situation in a glance, his brain frantically processing risk factors and rejecting moves as fast as he came up with them. Skinner couldn't hold them all at bay much longer without a weapon and he was losing blood all the time. Like a tiger cornered by hunters he was going to go down fighting. How much longer before one of these thugs decided to end the game with a bullet? Deliberately, Mulder stepped forward until he was under the wash of light from the nearest lamp. If any of the bad guys were to turn around now, Mulder would be a perfect target, but so far the only person facing his way was Skinner and he just prayed that his boss would see him and be able to distract the men long enough for Mulder to do something. He stood very still, making no movement to draw the eyes of the enemy. Skinner was gasping now, losing energy, his head swinging from side to side as he tried to summon up his last reserves of strength. Horrified, Mulder realised that Skinner wasn't wearing his glasses. His dark eyes looked unfocussed and full of pain. What chance was there he would even see Mulder, let alone recognise him?

Mulder calculated his chances of being able to get all of the thugs before one of them shot him and Walter both. There was virtually no chance, but there was also no choice - he had to try.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered and took aim.

Suddenly, he saw Skinner straighten to his full height and square his shoulders. Skinner looked truly formidable, blood-soaked shirt vivid in the pool of light. His eyes were steady and he was looking right at Mulder. The men paused as their prey opened his mouth to speak.

"Enough." At the first quietly-spoken word, Mulder winged one of the knife-wielding thugs in the shoulder and immediately dived out of the light into the shadows. He felt icy water soak into the knees of his pants as he crouched, catching his breath and sighting for his next shot. The chainlink fence rattled and Mulder saw Skinner slump. With a roar, he surged forward, his second shot hitting one man in the leg, his third winging another. The fourth man dropped his knife with a stream of curses and legged it back up the alley after his wounded accomplices. Mulder let them go. They were Consortium trash, faceless thugs for hire. His attention was all on the fallen man by the fence.

He fell on his knees in the filth and blood, rolling the wounded man onto his lap with shaking hands. Skinner was conscious and trying to speak. He gazed up at Mulder, eyes narrowed against the pain.

"I'm too old for this stuff." His voice was husky, hardly more than a whisper. There was so much blood everywhere that Mulder couldn't tell how bad Skinner's injuries were. He could feel the tremors of shock in the strong body in his arms, and see the colour draining from cheek and throat between the smears of red. "Not dead just yet," croaked Skinner again, before his eyes closed.

"You'd better not be..." Mulder bent over his unconscious boss and on an impulse, touched his lips to the pale brow.

Getting the big man into his car was quite a marathon. He was 6ft 2 of solid bone and muscle and slippery with blood and rainwater to boot. Mulder finally got the limp body onto the back seat of his Taurus and moved the long legs so that he could perch on the seat next to his boss and inspect his injuries at last. There was a nasty graze along one temple, which accounted for the blood on his face and probably for the merciful oblivion too. He peeled back the sodden shirt and found a long slice across the taut abdomen, shallow but messy. When he got the shirt off completely, he found a puncture wound in the right bicep too, but so far as his tentative explorations went, no injuries below the belt. He bound up the wounds as best he could with strips from a T-shirt he found in his gym bag, and covered the still-comatose man with his coat, damp as it was. Climbing back into the driver's seat he considered the options.

Skinner's injuries were treatable. He should probably be checked out for concussion with that scalp wound, but right now, Mulder had the feeling that a hospital wasn't the safest place to take him. Too many busy, distracted people, too easy for someone to slip in and finish the job. It was too easy for Mulder to silence all the by-the-book arguments his rational side supplied too. No cops, no reports, no official Bureau involvement until he had found out exactly why Skinner had walked into that trap alone. It was the safest course. He was thinking of Skinner's safety. There was also the little matter of his desperate need to keep Skinner close and personally ensure his safety from now on. He didn't want to examine that need too closely just yet, but he had felt something awaken inside him tonight that wouldn't be satisfied with handing Skinner over to anyone else's care.

As he drove back to Hegel Place, Mulder's head was a torment of emotions. He was still very angry. Angry at the mindless violence that had threatened his boss' life, but also angry at Skinner too - for going off without backup, pulling that lone wolf shit. He probably thought he was protecting someone, Mulder fumed, until the unfairness of that accusation hit him. How many times had he rushed off all gung ho to meet some unknown informant, imagining that he was protecting Scully by not telling her. Telling himself that he was protecting Skinner by not putting him in the impossible position of knowing his agent was breaking the rules again... For the first time, Mulder really understood the hurt of being kept in the dark. He understood how much he had come to depend on his boss being there for him, helping him.

He glanced back at the figure on the rear seat. Skinner stirred a little and groaned softly. Mulder suddenly realised something else: that final email message had meant more than he'd realised at the time. "You're needed" - simple words but so important to Mulder. All his life he'd been a trouble to those around him, no-one expected him to be sensible enough to be helpful, they expected him to rush off at a tangent, use his eccentrically-wired brain to solve the puzzle, retreat back into his own "spooky" world and let them see to the practicalities. And that's exactly what he did. Even Scully, bless her, didn't seem to think of him as useful in any practical way. Tonight he'd been needed, was still needed. He still felt anxious and stressed and uncertain, but being needed gave him strength too. Skinner needed him now, and he was determined not to let him down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bedroom looked tidier than it had since - well, maybe ever. The piles of clothes and books and journals that usually covered the bed itself were hung in closets and neatly piled in the living room. The bed was made up with clean, new sheets, unearthed from a drawer, still with Scully's teasing note attached. The apartment was warm and quiet and the two figures in the wide bed made a picture of peace. Mulder, dressed in shorts and T-shirt was propped up against the headboard, smiling tenderly down at the other occupant of the bed. Walter Skinner, bare-chested and sporting several impressive bandages and dressings, was fast asleep, his head pillowed on Mulder's stomach. Every few seconds, Mulder's long fingers would slide over the sleeping man's bare neck and up to ruffle the band of fine short hair around the back of his head. Or trace the line of Skinner's cheekbone and the curl of his ear. His other hand was entwined with Skinner's broad, strong fingers.

Needing to use the bathroom, Mulder gently eased himself off the bed, settling Skinner's head onto a pillow. He scooped up the coffee mugs and soup bowls from the nightstand and padded off. A few minutes later he was back, standing in the doorway looking at the man in his bed. He'd cleaned Skinner up and ascertained that his wounds were not life threatening. Skinner had roused himself enough to drink some soup and tell Mulder the brief details of why he had gone alone to such a dangerous rendezvous. Mulder knew there was more to it than the promise of information relating to a case, as Skinner had said, but he knew he couldn't push the man yet. Mulder also knew, and knew it ever more certainly with every minute he spent touching the other man, that he thought of Skinner as far more than a friend.

He wanted to know this man every way there was. He wanted to make up to him for all the mistrust and lies, he wanted to be close to Skinner so he could keep him safe, because suddenly having this man in the world was the most wonderful thing he knew, having this man in his life mattered more than almost anything. He was in love, amazing as that seemed, and he had been falling in love for six years. He'd just been blind to it until tonight. He walked closer to the bed and reached out a hand to touch Skinner's bare shoulder. Before he made contact Skinner roused and grinned wryly at him.

"I'm afraid I'm a very dull house-guest. No scintillating conversation, no office gossip to pass on, no energy to take himself home and leave you in peace..."

Mulder knelt by the side of the bed and looked gravely into Skinner's eyes.

"I don't want gossip or witty repartee, and I certainly don't want you to leave." He leaned closer, laying his hand over Skinner's. "I just want the truth of what you were doing out there tonight." His fingers tightened around Skinner's, the older man looked at him with that solemn intense gaze that went straight to Mulder's heart and groin. "Walter... can I call you that?" Skinner bit his lip and nodded. "Walter... I found out tonight that I care about you more than... hell, this is so hard!... I found out that my feelings... oh shit, I think I love you, and I can't bear to think that you'd do anything stupid just to protect me, but I know you and that damn noble, self-sacrificing nature of yours, and I want you to tell me that's not what was going on out there in that alley tonight..." Mulder fell silent and dropped his eyes to their linked hands, thinking to draw away and spare Skinner any further embarrassment. A firm grasp held him there.

"I can't tell you that, Mulder." Mulder opened his mouth ready to insist on some explanation, but Skinner's low voice interrupted him: "I can't tell you that because I was trying to protect you and it was stupid and I almost got you killed." Skinner gingerly hoisted himself up onto one elbow, wincing as the dressing across his stomach pulled a little. Mulder instantly reached to help, wrapping his arms around the wide shoulders and settling the other man against the piled up pillows. Skinner took his hand again and put such seriousness into his gaze that Mulder swallowed in apprehension.

"I had an offer of information that would help make a sound case against one of our enemies. They wanted you to collect it, but I argued that my position was more protection for them than that of a lowly Special Agent. I told them that any deal would have to come through me anyway. They weren't happy but they had no choice. You were still in Ohio finishing up the Marrington case and I was glad of it. I suspected it might be a trap, but thought rather I was caught in it than you."

"Walter! Why did anyone have to be caught in it? Why didn't you go through channels? Take some backup? God, if you'd been killed..."

"Listen to yourself, Mulder - channels, backup? The way you always do it, of course? I couldn't take the chance that it wasn't genuine, and risk giving away vital leverage to those who would like to see you and I both brought down. Ack, Mulder..." Skinner closed his eyes wearily, "... I didn't do this on a whim you know. I weighed the risks and reckoned they were worth my life if that's what it took. I left a sealed envelope for Kimberly with all the details of my meeting and all the evidence I have so far. To be opened in the event of..."

His words were stolen by Mulder's lips on his. Softly stroking until he opened to them. They kissed for a long time, Mulder reaching onto the bed to hold Walter close. Eventually, they pulled apart, eyes bright.

"I owe you an apology, Walter." At the quirked eyebrow, Mulder continued. "All those times I went haring off... now I know how you felt."

"Not quite, Mulder. I knew I loved you. Every time you disappeared it was a nightmare. I would have done anything to take the risk on myself, to keep you safe. I would do the same again as I did tonight."

"Oh god, we're never going to end this argument, are we? We'll either kill each other with over-protectiveness, or kill ourselves with noble stupidity. Why don't we retire and just fuck each other silly for the rest of our lives instead?" Skinner gave a snort of laughter and Mulder blushed. "I can't believe I just said that! Not that it's not a great idea, but there is something you can tell me about tonight before we get to the fun stuff... how did you know it was me, without your glasses?"

Skinner lifted a hand and ran it down Mulder's cheek and jaw. "I don't honestly know, but just for a second, my focus sharpened and there you were in that circle of light, as clear and bright as you are now. I actually wondered if I'd died and gone to heaven." He looked a bit sheepish and Mulder dipped his head to kiss him again. "So how did you know to be there, my white knight?" Skinner asked.

"Ah, now that was the oddest thing... It seems we have some 'guardian angels' of our own, Walter. Let's just say that I was reminded about a friend I had."

"A friend?"

"Well, more than a friend, if you'll let me..."

"Let you...? Since when could I stop you doing anything you'd set your heart on, Mulder?"

"Glad to see you realise it, Walter, now com'ere..."

THE END