"A River in Egypt"
Anna Renick

Story Rating: Maybe PG-13 for language....
Category: SK/D, UST, Skinner POV
Spoilers: Season Eight
Archive: I'd be honored.  Just let me know where.
Disclaimers: "The X-Files" may be owned by Fox
Television, Ten Thirteen Productions, Inc. and Chris
Carter, but Skinner and Doggett belong to Mitch Pileggi
and Robert Patrick. No infringement intended.   
Summary: Skinner has some issues.  
Feedback: Yes, please.  Send to limecityprod@aol.com
Author's Notes: Thanks as always to Lorri for beta work
above and beyond.  And to Mark Twain - for the title.


Skinner's Office
J. Edgar Hoover Building
9:15 p.m.

I'm standing here in the dark staring out at red
taillights and monuments to the past and wondering what
the hell is going on. I prefer to think that I didn't
have a choice as to the why.  But I need to believe
that choices still remain to be made.  And I intend to
make them.  Do what I've always done when confronted
with emotions I have neither the time nor the
inclination to acknowledge.  Ignore them until they go
away.  Except this time, I have a feeling that's not
going to be enough.

This should have never happened.  Wouldn't have
happened if I hadn't screwed things up in Oregon.  Oh,
sure, I've listened to every other person in this damn
building tell me that it wasn't my fault.  But there
were just two people in those woods that night, folks. 
One came home and one didn't. You make the call. 

So, Mulder goes missing and Scully gets a new partner. 
Only I'm not going to be the one to tell her that's
what he is.  I'll leave that up to our newest deputy
director.  And I was going to tell the whole world what
I saw.  That's right, Scully, this time Skinner's going
to step up to the plate and deliver.  Except guess
what?   I didn't.  How many times does that make it
that I've let them down? Just call me Saint Peter. 
On second thought, you can drop the "Saint".  Sure she
gave me an out.  She says I can help them more if I
continue to play the part of the non-believer.  But who
am I really helping here?  Mulder's still missing and
let's face it, I'm not exactly in the loop these day.  

Instead, I stood back and let Kersch assign this
outsider, this Agent Doggett, to lead the search for
Mulder, to bring him back home to all of those that
love him.  And suddenly Mulder's been gone three months
and officially we still have no clue where the hell he
is.  Instead, we fumble around, follow procedure to the
letter, and point fingers everywhere but to the heavens
where the real villains hide.  God, we can't even find
one of our own these days.  

And yet there are times, even in the middle of this
hopeless farce, when I feel more challenged, more alive
than I have in years.  Maybe it's those damn blue eyes. 
I mean, it wouldn't be the first time I fell for eyes
that color. Except these are bluer.  And in them I see
something I never see in her eyes.  At least not when
she looks at me.  But there are times when I sense
something in that moment just before I look away.  Or
I think I do.  Maybe it's just what I want to see. More
likely what I'm afraid to see.  

I tell myself I must be wrong. Part of me, a very large
part of me, hopes to God I am wrong.  But there's a
part that doesn't.  Like I said before, I have no idea
what the hell is going on.  


O'Malley's Bar
One Week Before
8:25 p.m.

"Sir?"  Even in that one little word, his accent
bounces back and forth from somewhere deep in the land
of cotton to the streets of New York.  

Shit.  Doesn't anyone at the FBI have a life?   I look
up.  Well, at least he's found the time to change into
jeans while yours truly is still wearing the worsted
wool armor of the fifth floor.

"Agent Doggett."  I acknowledge him in my best hardass
A.D voice.  You may be leading the task force to find
the man I lost, buddy, but I'm still your superior.

"Mind if I join you?"

I do mind, thank you very much, but what am I gonna
say?  I shrug and he slides into the booth across from
me and my little pile of shredded napkins.  Everybody
needs a hobby, right? 

He signals the waitress and orders a Heineken.  Guess
he plans on staying awhile.  I consider ordering
another scotch, but something tells me I need to hold
onto what wits I have left.

We sit there in silence until the waitress returns with
his beer and confirms that two scotches is enough for
me tonight.  As she walks away, he takes a drink and
looks at me over the top of the bottle. "I gotta couple
of questions, sir.  If you don't mind."

I wonder if he realizes he sounds like Columbo.  But
what the hell, might as well see where he's going with
this. It's not like I've got a hot date.

"Such as?"

"Such as what's really going on here?  I mean aside
from all that alien crap.  I get the distinct
impression that maybe we're not looking in the right
direction. That maybe somebody doesn't exactly want us
to look in the right direction."

Interesting.  One month on the X-Files and he already
starting to get the big picture.  Maybe he's not just
Kersch's boy after all.  "What are you implying,
agent?" 

"I mean, I realize Mulder's not exactly the most
popular guy in the Bureau.  Hell, half of the place
thinks he's a nut case...."

I am so sick of this shit.  I lean forward and growl, 
"Let's get one thing straight, Agent Doggett.  Mulder
is not a nut case. Understand?"

Not intimidated, he leans across the table and meets my
stare.  "Never said he was, sir. But you can't ignore
the fact that this isn't the first time he's gone
missing."   The scent of beer and soap and something
that reminds me of summers on my grandfather's farm
lingers in the air between us.

I close my eyes with a sigh and let my head drop back
against the booth.  I don't need this.  "Does this all
tie into your 'maybe you didn't really know your
partner, Scully' theory?  'Cause if it does, I can tell
you that's just plain bullshit.  Mulder would not just
go off without telling Scully what his plans were.  Not
this way."

"I've read the files, sir.  He's done it before."  He
takes another swig from his beer and leans back.
"That's all I'm saying."  

I can feel him watching me very carefully.  Suddenly I
am very tired.  Of a lot of things.  Lying being the
least of them.

"Maybe in the past, but not this time.  Not now."  

A flicker of understanding crosses his face, and for a
moment, I'm afraid I've said too much.

He nods. "Hey, you're probably right.  Like I said, I
just had some questions.  For the record, sir, I don't
see how you could've done anything different that 
night. The way I see it, none of this is your fault.
Have a good night."  He stands up, blends into the
crowd, and is gone.

His bottle of Heineken sits half empty next to my pile
of shredded napkins.  In the background, Mick Jagger is
whining about getting no satisfaction.  Someone in the
booth behind me lights a Camel and I catch that first
whiff of burning paper and tobacco.  A guy at the bar
hits on a girl perched on the stool next to him.  I
close my eyes and for a moment, it's a different bar, a
different time.  I'm eighteen and on the other side of
the world.  But now I know how the story ends.   And I
realize I'm as alone tonight as I was then.


Skinner's Apartment.
Later that same night.

It's one of those dreams where you know you're dreaming
because you keep trying to wake up, but you can't.  At
least this one's familiar territory.  We're in the
jungle.  It's night and the damn bugs are so loud you
couldn't sleep even if you tried.  Except when I look
around, everyone but me is asleep.  They don't know
what's coming.  That tomorrow we'll all be dead.  But I
know it. I'm sitting there in the dark hugging my rifle
and I want to warn them, to scream that we need to go
back.  That the VC know we're coming.  But I don't do
anything.  I know that if I make a sound it will all go
to hell and no matter what I do we're all going to die
anyway.  Just a group of guys from a bunch of little
towns and big cities on the other side of the world who
are gonna die in this rotten jungle because the French
had to screw around in this corner of the world long
before any of us were even born.  Even though I know
how this will end, how it always ends, I pray that this
time will be different.  That this time I will wake
everyone in time and tomorrow we'll be back in camp
sharing a beer and listening to Hendrix.  

Suddenly there's a hand on my shoulder and I freeze.  A
voice I recognize but can't place whispers,  "The way I
see it, none of this is your fault."  And then the
jungle explodes and bullets are flying past me from
every direction. I see the bodies of my buddies twist
and jerk as they're hit.  I look down and see blood
staining my jacket. I realize my rifle has fallen from
my hands, but the only thing I feel is the strength of
the arms encircling me as the world dissolves in chaos. 

And in one of the moments that is only supposed to
happen in dreams, I'm above the clearing, looking down
as the VC move into view.  I see myself in the middle
of it all, my upper body cradled in the arms of a man,
his dark head bent over me as one hand presses against
the gaping hole in my gut while the other strokes my
face the way a mother might soothe a restless child.
And then, as if he knows I'm there, he tilts his face
defiantly toward the sky and I know he can see me
because I can feel his blue eyes looking straight into
my soul. 

I wake with a start, my eyes blinking in the darkness. 
My breathing is ragged, my chest covered in sweat, my
legs tangled in the sheets.  Those are familiar.  There
are nights that I close my eyes and I get shot all over
again.  That I expect; that I can handle.  What I
cannot handle is seeing myself lying in the arms of
John Doggett.  

I kick my legs free and stagger to the bathroom. 
Flipping the switch, I turn the tap on and splash
cold water against my face, relishing the icy sting as
it drives away the last vestiges of sleep.  I grab
blindly for a towel and rub the white cotton against my
face, wiping away the water but not the feeling of his
skin on mine.  

Shit.  Just a dream.  Get a hold of yourself.  It was
just a dream.  

Squinting at the clock next to the sink, I can just
make out the time - 4:58 a.m.  I'm exhausted, but I
have no desire to get back in bed. I reach over and
turn on the shower.  Forty-five minutes later, I'm out
the door and headed to the office.  It's only as I
glance in the rear view mirror while backing the Blazer
out of my parking space that I realize I've managed to
leave the apartment without once looking in the mirror. 
  
 

The End.