Dry Bones
by Joyce
April 2001

Disclaimer: Everyone here belongs to 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I'm merely borrowing hem for a moment.

Spoiler Warning -- This story takes place between "Dead/Alive" and "Three Words."

Feedback -- mab49@earthlink.net

This is the fifth story in this series. Reading the others might be useful in understanding some of the background and references, but isn't necessary. The basic premise is that Frohike and Skinner knew each other in Vietnam and have remained friends. The Wall refers to the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C.

"Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost." Ezekiel 37:11

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Mulder is dead.

"Mulder’s dead." It doesn’t sound any better when I say it out loud. No matter how many times I repeat the words, I can't accept that they're true. The very idea is obscene.

It's been fifteen days since the funeral when I watched them bury Mulder and his insatiable drive to learn the truth hidden behind the lies our government tells us. I didn't want to go. I guess I thought I could deny Mulder’s death if I didn’t see his coffin. Byers insisted; said we owed it to Mulder to pay him our last respects. Byers can be damned conventional at times, but this time he was right. We needed to honor the one man who wouldn't be shut up, put down, or put off. As they lowered Mulder into the ground, I stiffened to attention and mentally saluted another fallen comrade. I kept waiting for the solitary bugle to sound taps, but I guess no one figured Mulder rated a soldier's farewell. Instead, he was laid to rest to the sound of Skinner's teeth grinding and Langly's discordant humming of "Won’t Get Fooled Again."

The walls are starting to close in again. Ever since we got the news that Mulder was dead, I can't stay indoors at night. Our underground lair suffocates me. With Mulder gone, we're little more than annoying gnats buzzing around the government's ear. Byers is more driven than ever, but I sense he's become hollow inside. He won't admit to wanting vengeance, but I can see the need to do something in his eyes. He writes. We print, but nothing changes. Nothing kills the pain.

"Later, guys," I holler as I scurry out the front door. Langly ironically salutes me with a half-empty beer bottle as he looks up from his latest hacking job. Byers absently raises one hand as he concentrates on putting the final edits on "The Lone Gunmen" before we publish. I should stay and help, but I have to get outside before I start seeing the ghosts of men who died over thirty years ago. I'm not really afraid of them. It’s a more recent ghost who might join the party asking me questions I have no answers to..

D.C. is a weird place at night. There are pockets of darkness so complete, I can imagine myself back in the jungles of 'Nam. Then there are lighted areas I wouldn't go into without a full rifle company at my back. Standing outside our warehouse home, I consider my options. It's early enough I could hit a few bars and try to disappear into an alcoholic haze, but I've tried that and it doesn't work. It just makes the nightmares more vivid.

There’s a cold mist fogging everything up. If I was drunk, I might be able to convince myself that the earth is mourning Mulder's death, but I really doubt if it fucking cares. What's one more body to absorb? It's cold because it's winter and Mulder's death barely made three lines in the obituary columns.

I decide to just start wandering, figuring I’ll end up someplace. Besides, walking helps me think. I have six months of painful memories I’ve been trying to repress and I think it’s time I cleared some of them out. The most vivid is the memory of seeing Walter Skinner standing in a warm fall rain before the Wall three days after Mulder disappeared. He never saw me. I still retain some skills from 'Nam; one of them is the ability to blend into my surroundings when I don't want to be seen. Grief isn't always something to be shared. He lost Mulder, the man he’d promised to protect. I’ll never be able to convince him that there was nothing he could have done. I had enough to do to convince Langly and Byers that we hadn't killed Mulder by giving him the information he asked for. Part of me says we did, part of me says that this was an elaborate set-up by that bastard Krycek, but part of me says that Mulder was heading to this point in time from the moment we subverted him ten years ago.

Stumbling up a curb, I realize that I'm standing in front of the FBI building. I bet a lot of people in there are relieved that Mulder's dead. If you count a man's worth by the number of enemies he had, then Mulder was one very worthy motherfucker.

I used to think that if anything happened to Mulder that Agent Scully would be there to take up his cause. I remember thinking that Mulder was one very lucky stiff. Now I wish I'd never met her.

Turning my back on Mulder’s home away from home, I make my way towards the river. I wish I could forget Agent Scully and the lies we were forced to tell. When Byers first told me that she'd been given the X-Files, I cheered. At last, I thought, we were going to kick some major butt because a certain redhead was gonna go on the warpath.

I refused to believe Byers when he told me that she'd taken a new partner. It had to be a set-up. Langly scrutinized Agent John Doggett so thoroughly I think he probably knows him better than his own mother does. Byers dredged up everything he could find on Kersh and it was a bundle. Associate Director Kersh is an ambitious SOB who is either working with the Consortium or else is a combination of the worst aspects of McCarthy and Hoover and is using the FBI as his ladder to control. My bet is on the Consortium with a hefty dose of McCarthyism tossed in for camouflage. I don't know if Kersh was dirty before Mulder disappeared, but he is now.

Langly is sure Doggett's dirty, but he can't find anything to back up his suspicions. It’s driving him nuts. I’m not so sure. Skinner doesn't talk much about him, but I sensed that he wanted to trust him, wanted to believe that someone cared enough to find Mulder. Someone should have. We should have, but no one was listening. Truth be told, I guess we just fucking dropped the ball because we kept waiting for Agent Scully to start a rumble.

Before Mulder was gone more than a week, Kersh had Skinner suffocating in yards of rules and regulations. I think Kersh made some subtle blackmail threats concerning Mulder, perhaps even Agent Scully. I read the early reports on Mulder's disappearance and it was plain to see Kersh was laying the foundation for a smear campaign. Then the rumors of Mulder's malfeasance faded abruptly. I have to wonder if Skinner caved in to protect what was left of Mulder's memory, and perhaps to protect his chance to resume his work if he ever returned. Skinner's a damned fool, but I understand his need to do penance. He lost a man under his direct command and I doubt if he'll ever forgive himself. Bending over to grab my ankles for Kersh isn’t the atonement I’d choose, but there are things about Skinner I’ve never understood.

I'm worried about Skinner.  I can't begin to imagine what it's like living with a time bomb living inside you, just waiting for an inscrutable SOB to flip the switch.  Skinner's a lot saner than I'd be, but I wonder if he isn't fucking tired of having to calculate each move with the certain knowledge that if he makes the wrong one, someone will be there to encourage him to follow the "right" path.

Four times in the last three months, I’ve steered Skinner home when he was too drunk to walk a straight line. A couple of our buddies in the bar across from the Wall asked me what the problem was and did they need to help? It was tempting since I know the kind of help they meant. Would a casual hint that the world would be a better place without a certain Associate Director really add that much to the bill I’ve already run up? Watching the sanctimonious SOB standing there at Mulder's funeral, staring coldly down as they buried a better man than he could ever hope to be almost swung the balance.

I want to dislike Agent Doggett. For one thing, he's too damn clean. I was jealous at first. How dare he move into Mulder's office as if he owned it and claim Agent Scully as his partner? That's Mulder's office. I kept waiting for Agent Scully's call telling us to investigate him, to find some way to get him out of her hair so she could break loose and start hunting for Mulder. For six weeks we never left the phone unmanned. After six weeks, I gave up hoping. Langly thinks she's been drugged. Byers is opting for the maternal instinct route. I'm beginning to think she never really believed in Mulder or us.

When she finally did call us it was to help Agent Doggett with a case. She didn’t even mention Mulder -- just "would you help Agent Doggett, he's a good man." I agreed; if nothing else, it gave us access to Mulder's office and I really wanted to do some prowling.

I've had several worst moments of my life, but I think the hardest one in the last ten years was walking through that door and not seeing Mulder's nameplate on his desk. Langly tore the place apart before he pulled open the desk drawer and stood staring in total disbelief at the nameplate. I felt sick myself, but the walls have ears. Right then I decided that whoever had taken Mulder, aliens or our own government, was going to pay. I wanted to take the nameplate home, but Byers sadly shook his head. He was right, damn it, but I couldn't believe that Agent Scully just took over Mulder's office, moved Doggett in, and then removed Mulder's name from sight. Frustrated, and in the mood for some minor vandalism, I went over to the I Want To Believe poster and scribbled in very tiny letters on the rim of the space ship -- "some of us do."

I wonder what Agent Scully told Agent Doggett about us. Were we just crazy friends of Mulder, geeks she could trust to dig up odd sorts of information for her? I guess that's all we were in the end -- just a part of Mulder's off-beat world. Doggett looked real uneasy to see us in the X-Files office, much less the FBI building. We made sure that we were particularly nerdy just for him. It never occurred to him that we could hear him coming down the hall or that we had arranged a little performance for him. Langly clearly over-acted his role as jester, but I could see the sick, angry look in his eyes as we played our parts for this stranger. We didn't need words or an elaborate plan. Byers looked at me, I looked at Langly and we decided to give Doggett exactly what he expected to see. Let him think that we were conspiracy nuts who didn't give a damn about a friend. Byers was stiff as a board, but got the job done. I even managed to choke out an approval for Doggett. Remembering how I held my breath through the entire interview in case he blew it, I think I need to steer Byers in the direction of some amateur theatrical groups if we're going to keep this up.

We all got stinking drunk when it was over. Byers just kept getting stiffer and stiffer until he finally fell over. Langly puked for a solid hour. Either he can't hold his liquor or he was trying to spew out the memory about joking that we deserved credit for solving most of Mulder's cases.

We must have done something right because Scully kept in touch. Not for the important shit, like making any attempt to find Mulder, but for minor stuff on cases that would have made Mulder cringe.

I'll give Agent Doggett this much, he’s trying to understand why the X-Files even existed. From everything I could tell, Scully didn't even attempt to explain aliens, our government’s little venture into human experimentation, or any of the mysteries Mulder gave his life for. Doggett was just an average cop put in a job that made no sense to him. He did seem concerned, although way too much of a straight-line thinker to even be allowed near the X-Files. Mulder might have made something of him. Mulder would have made one of those officers we grunts would have followed into Hell, but couldn't tell you why we would.

Walking across the deserted Mall with its array of mausoleums to history, I wondered what kind of memorial Mulder would want? He certainly deserves a better one than that travesty of a funeral he got.

Agent Scully’s rush to bury Mulder in that ridiculously inappropriate ceremony was just one more inexplicable act in her already bizarre behavior. There were no autopsy demands, no medical fight to pull a miracle out of a hat. Not even an investigation worthy of being called an investigation. She hurried Mulder into the ground as if she couldn’t bury his memory fast enough. She didn’t even take the time to ask me if a conventional burial was what Mulder wanted. If Mulder does come back to haunt me, I’ll know why. He made it pretty clear what he wanted – a clean cremation and someone to scatter his ashes over Area 51. He even made a joke about it – said that he was going to get in there one way or the other. I wonder if it’s too late to do a little funky grave robbing?

The smell of the river tells me that my walkabout is reaching its destination. I never told Mulder that I used to come out here sometimes and watch him sitting on his bench staring out at the lights of the Jefferson Memorial. There were times I didn’t want him to feel so totally alone. Mulder and I were buddies. If the damn dates weren't wrong, I'd swear he was "Flowers" Alverson come back. Maybe Mulder's the younger brother I never had or maybe he's just the friend I conned into fighting a dirty little war. I don't know, but I know that losing him hurts like hell. I don't know what he saw in me, but he trusted me. Who knows? Maybe somewhere back a few lifetimes we were buddies and he remembered. I never told him how much I admired him. He'd have been embarrassed so I hid it behind crude jokes. I want to believe that he understood.

His bench feels warm, or maybe it's my over-active imagination. I'm sober, damn it, so it can't be the Scotch playing with my imagination. I'd like to think that if Mulder was a ghost that he'd have the sense to haunt us, his friends, rather than sit out here in the cold. A passing cop gives me a close look, but doesn't shoo me away. Mulder once told me that he knew the names of every cop who patrolled the benches along the Potomac. I wonder if any of them miss him, or is he just one less potential problem they have to worry about?

Staring out over the lights dancing in the water, I finally relax the cold iron chains around my emotions. The pain of losing Mulder is too great for tears, or maybe I cried out a lifetime worth of tears in 'Nam. I can't cry. I can't mourn. And there's no fucking way I can avenge him. I'm tired of losing friends to wars that have no rules.

Damn you, Mulder, of all the times to start cooperating with the people who run this place.

I guess I expected him to give Death the one finger salute and tell him to go bother someone else; he was too busy to die. I don't want to think about what he must have gone through to finally break his stubborn will to live. I really don't want to think about the fact that he died alone.

Restlessly I get up and start walking. This isn't the place I want to be. This is Mulder's place, not mine. It's a long jaunt to the Wall, but a familiar one. The Wall is a black mass in the darkness. There are times when the sun and clouds are just right that the lights transforms the Wall into a mirror reflecting back the images of the men who come to pay homage to the names carved there. The names disappear into the cold rock leaving only the shadows of living men splayed across the surface. Tonight it swallows light as it hides in the cold misting rain.

It's quiet here. Sitting here with my back against the Wall, letting the coldness of earth and rock seep into my bones, I try to feel alive. Mulder understood despair, but I doubt if he'd appreciate getting company this soon wherever he ended up. I'm not the suicidal type, so he doesn't have to worry about me showing up any sooner than I have to. I'm not so sure about Skinner. Something is eating away at him, something he won't talk about except in blurred drunken references.

The sound of footsteps marching up the walkway break into my reverie. Looking up I see Skinner standing there, staring over my head at the names hidden in shadow. He looks like the ghost of the boy he’d been who'd died there thirty years ago. I see despair flicker in his eyes before he drops down to sit beside me.

"Sorry, no Scotch this time," I apologize, remembering the last time he found me here, drunk to the gills, and shared a bottle of hooch with me when my Scotch ran dry.

"And no hooch. I guess we're going to have to do this sober," he replies, making an attempt at humor. I appreciate the effort it took, but shake my head to forestall any hearty, buck-up boy speeches. If he ever gets to the point where he believes them, then he can come run them past me. I might even listen.

Neither of us says anything for awhile. A guard passes by with a sketchy nod. I think I recognize him. I wonder what he thinks about the people who end up here in the deep watches of the night. Maybe he figures none of us is entirely sane and really doesn't want to know.

"It might have been me, he once told me," Skinner says abruptly, breaking the silence. I have a pretty good idea which "he" Skinner is talking about, but the meaning of the quote escapes me.

With a sad smile, Skinner straightens up. "Mulder wasn't one for picking his fights and never understand why I did. He believed so hard in the truth nothing else mattered to him. I want to believe that he found that truth, that it wasn't all for nothing."

"Mulder once said that an old Navajo shaman told him that nothing dies as long as someone is alive to remember it," I say, much to my amazement. That was not what I'd planned to say, which was a profane reassurance. I resist the urge to glance around me suspiciously. The Wall makes me fucking nervous sometimes. If I listen hard enough, I can hear whispers as if the Wall itself is speaking to me. When profound words come out of my mouth, I start to worry.

"Albert was a wise man. I keep waiting for Mulder to show up and tell me to get off my ass and back into the fight." Skinner sounds tired, almost resigned to the fact that the fight is over. I've never heard him this defeatist before and it unnerves me. Marines don't give up.

"He's been dead before," I say helplessly, revealing how desperately I’m clutching to an impossible hope. It's insane, but Mulder has come back before. Hell, Skinner came back from the dead. With luck, Mulder might piss off enough people out there to make them want to send him back.

"But not buried," Skinner replies brusquely reminding me that this time Mulder isn’t going to miraculously escape. "I won't believe that all Mulder lived for was a mistake," he adds in a soft voice that barely hides the tears.

The despair in Skinner's voice startles me out of my own funk. Who's been telling him that Mulder was a failure? It never occurred to me that Mulder was a failure, or that all of his passionate belief was for nothing. The idea that anyone would call Mulder a failure is outrageous. I've almost forgotten what anger feels like. Pushing away from the Wall, I nurture that anger until I feel warm again.

"Only if we forget," I say stubbornly. Langly, Byers, and I may not be much, but damn it, we're not going to let Mulder's fight drop. There have to be others out there who care and I intend to find them. I think Skinner is one, but I'm going to have to find a way through that self-flagellating shell he's built around himself.

"I never thought I'd see the day when a Marine just sat down and waited to die," I say with a condescending snarl while edging carefully out of arm's reach just in case there's more fight in him than I expect. Skinner's head snaps up, but I haven't pushed him far enough. The despair is still in control. "If the Marines aren't going to fight, then stand aside while the regular Army does the dirty work. I've got two civilians willing to help me -- that should be enough for a start," I brag with enough bravado to sound like I know what I'm doing. I wish the hell I did. I don't have a fucking plan; I'm making this up on the fly.

Skinner growls, but I think I've got his attention. He's glaring at me, half aware of what I'm doing, but unable to resist rising to the bait. I suspect he wants an excuse to blow up. If I'm not careful, I'm going to end up in a lot of pain, but I figure Mulder's cause is worth a few bruises. I don't think Skinner would actually hurt me … I hope.

"Let's see, a retrograde hippie and a computer geek, along with yours truly -- that should about equal a Marine who's given up."

Skinner storms upward and I scoot backwards on my ass. I always did have a talent for going too far.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you are a damned annoying person?" Skinner asks through clenched teeth. I nod, trying to gauge whether I can throw myself out of the way if he decides to try to beat me into a pulp.

"You're a fool. I'm a fool for even listening to you, but you're right. Agent Scully's given up, and I can't figure out where Doggett stands. If I can't buy that Mulder was a failure, then I can't sit by and let everything he believed in go to hell."

I watch Skinner stare out at the lights of D.C. and hold my breath. I've heard trumpets here once before and I think I'm hearing them again.

"Scully's out of it -- she has a child to protect and I won't risk her in this kind of crazy war," Skinner announces harshly as if expecting I'll disagree. I don't. Scully is now an uncertain element and the odds are already against us. "I'll work on Doggett. There may be others, but I'm going to have to be careful. Kersh is just looking for an excuse to shut down the X-Files. If Doggett holds steady, then we have a chance."

"Then it's time we did some funky poaching," I tell him, smiling for the first time when I remember Mulder and his headstrong passion. Skinner looks puzzled. "Just a phrase Mulder used when he got us up off our asses to help him get into trouble."

Skinner smiles and I sense that the despair is losing its grip. "I'll be in touch. Don't believe everything you hear unless you hear it from me." There’s a renewed vigor in his voice with just a hint of bayonet steel. Skinner barely waits for my nod before he's moving away, disappearing into the rain. I think he has the harder role, out there with everyone's eyes on him. Me, I'll take the low road and see if I can't undermine a few well-laid plans.

This is 'Nam all over again. Nightmarish patrols in tangled jungles against an enemy we can't see. I absolutely hate this, but at least this time I get to choose the battleground.  Maybe, when the time's right, I'll invite a few of the boys from the bar to join in.

The End
 

Feedback welcomed at mab49@earthlink.net

 

Author's Notes: A big thank-you to Rhi who now only kept me tuned in to Frohike's voice, but also herded wandering punctuation marks into order.  Also, as you've probably realized by now, I don't do character warnings.  This is my look at what might have been going on behind the scenes -- you know, that good stuff that we're never allowed to see happening on screen that would actually make sense of the twisted characterizations we've seen this season.

 

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