TITLE:  Sacraments II: Abyss

AUTHOR:  EmGee 

RATING: R for adult themes (a lot) and sex (very little, 
and not the kind you'd expect)

CATEGORY:  SRA; M/Sc/Sk romance

SUMMARY:  Walter Skinner is laid low by PTSD, but begins to 
find his way to recovery with the love and support of 
Mulder and Scully.  

SPOILERS: Existence and, to be safe, other assorted Season 
8 happenings

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never will be.  Pity, that; I'd treat 
them better than TPTB. And I don't make a penny on them, 
either.

ARCHIVING: Sure, just let me know where.  I like to visit 
my babies.

FEEDBACK: mgtrek@juno.com.   All feedback is welcome and 
will receive a reply.

COMMENTS:  This sequel has been ten months in production.  
I did warn you all that grass grows faster than I write!  
For those who have been waiting for the juicy stuff that's 
implied by the pairing--sorry, you won't find it here.  
Maybe in "Sacraments III," if I ever write the damned 
thing.  If you have not yet read "Sacraments" you should 
probably do so before proceeding, as "Sacraments II" will 
not make much sense to you without it.  "Sacraments" is 
archived at Gossamer, DitB, IOHO, Lara's Favorites, 
Skinnerholics, WalterTorture, Full House Slash Archive, and 
probably some other places that I've forgotten to mention.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:  Threesomes, and particularly mixed-sex 
threesomes, are marginalized in many fandoms.  Happily, 
that's not the case in XF.  Thanks to everyone who wrote to 
me about "Sacraments," my first XF fic, and especially to 
Kristen (k2), JiM, Xanthe, Sergeeva, fran58, Jacqui, Jay, 
and Lara Means.  It's because of you that I had the 
courage, and desire, to write the sequel.  And to all my 
sibs at IWTB:  you are my pole star.  Thanks for being 
there.  This one's for you.


SACRAMENTS II:  ABYSS
by EmGee

I don't know what wakes me up.  For the first time in days-
-no, weeks--it isn't a nightmare.  My heart doesn't pound, 
my t-shirt isn't sweat-soaked, and I'm not trying to punch 
out the lights of an apparitional Alex Krycek.

The dream has been the same since that night.  I put a 
bullet in Krycek's brain, but in the altered reality of my 
dream he doesn't die.  He gets up and lunges at me, his 
expression as blank as Billy Miles's, his third red eye 
gaping at me from the center of his forehead.  That's when 
I wake up, swinging at someone who isn't there.

Sometimes I get to see previews before the feature film.  
'Alex and the Palm Pilot' is always entertaining, and so's 
the screaming agony in my chest and arm that comes along 
with it.  'Walter's Excellent Vietnam Adventure' is good 
for a few laughs, too.  Picturesque jungle foliage, heat, 
rot, slime, snakes, tripwire mines, napalm, VC snipers, and 
little boys draped with explosives.  Oh yeah, all the 
elements of a rip-roaring good time.

Christ, I'm sounding like Mulder now.

I lie in the unlit space, blinking at blurred shapes around 
me, wondering where I am.  Not in a bed, but on a sofa--my 
back is broadcasting that news.  Not my own leather sofa, 
but one covered in a smooth fabric smelling faintly of 
perfume.  Scully's perfume.  Oh.  Right.  Scully's sofa.  
Scully's apartment.

Mulder's even got me thinking of Dana as 'Scully,' just 
like he does.  How fucked up is that?

I remember falling asleep here, but my head was resting on 
Scully's lap, not this pillow under my cheek, and I was 
holding Mulder's hand, not the blanket that I've bunched up 
in one tight fist.  Now I'm alone, and any thoughts I'd 
entertained about a future with them seem like distant 
fantasies.

I've spent days trying to stay numb, but now, in this dim 
and quiet room, the despair overwhelms me.  Krycek is dead, 
and I killed him.  I should have kept him alive, if for no 
other reason than to wring all his dirty little secrets out 
of him.  The hollow pain of my failure, and my crime, is 
much worse than anything Krycek ever inflicted with his 
fucking nanocytes.

What was I thinking, letting Mulder talk me into coming 
here?  They don't need me.  They have each other, and their 
son.  All I can do is drag them down into the pit, this 
cold, dark abyss.

My mind tells me I should get up, put on my shoes and 
leave, but I can't muster the energy to move. 

I hear a door open and shut again, quietly, and the click 
of a lamp switch.  A soft light bathes the room.  Scully, 
William in her arms, moves into my field of vision and sits 
in the armchair opposite the sofa.  She fumbles with her 
blouse and puts William to her breast to nurse.  I close my 
eyes.  It seems too difficult to communicate; easier by far 
to pretend sleep.

I can hear, as from a distance, Scully murmuring gently to 
William as he suckles.  Motherhood has softened her.  Her 
voice is gentle, nothing like the crisply official tones of 
the office.  I listen for a while, and then the darkness 
descends and I sleep again.

Some unmeasured time later I feel a hand on my arm.  "Hey, 
sleepyhead."

I force my eyelids open, crawl far enough out of the pit to 
be able to answer.  "Hey yourself."

She's smiling.  "Thought you might want to wash up.  We'll 
have dinner soon."

I've slept the afternoon away and still feel like I could 
sleep for another week.  Food is the farthest thing from my 
mind.  "Not hungry," I say.  I realize how ungracious I 
must sound.  "Sorry.  I'm just really tired."  Getting the 
words out feels as hard as swimming through quicksand.  To 
do anything other than lie here seems like too much effort.

Now that I've got my eyes open, I'm afraid to close them.  
I'm drowning--and somewhere, deep inside, I'm in a panic.  
Suddenly this room doesn't seem like such a safe place.  I 
imagine Krycek lurking in the dark corner, Knowle Rohrer 
waiting for me in the coat closet.  "Where's Mulder?"

"Picking up groceries, and our dinner."  Her hand tightens 
on my arm, and I know that she can feel me trembling.  
"What's wrong, Walter?"

"I need to talk to Mulder."  I'm not so far gone that I 
can't hear the edge of desperation in my voice.

"Well, I'm here now.  Won't I do?"

"No."

She looks as startled, and as hurt, as if I'd slapped her.  
I try to explain.  "He's the psychologist."

I can't summon up the energy to say more.  At the same 
time, paradoxically, my heart is racing and I'm ready to 
jump out of my skin with anxiety.  I feel Scully's hand on 
my wrist, my pulse a triphammer under her fingers.  "Don't 
go anywhere.  I'll be right back," she says, and the 
easiest thing to do is to obey.

I hear a key in the door and then a bang.

// Incoming.  Get down.  Get down!  I throw myself down in 
the mud and rot of the jungle floor, curled up to make a 
smaller target, my arms over my head.  The horrible sound 
of shellfire stops, but now I hear voices.  They're coming.  
Oh god, my weapon, where's my weapon?  Must've dropped it 
when I hit the ground.  A grenade, then.  I reach to my 
belt.  Oh Jesus, no grenades; they're all gone.  I'm a dead 
man . . . //

The next thing I know, I've got scratchy carpet pressed 
against one cheek.  I'm lying on my side, curled into an 
awkward and uncomfortable position between the sofa and the 
coffee table.  One arm is curved around my head and my 
other hand is held in a firm grip.  I feel a touch on my 
forehead, and I make a sound and flinch away.

"It's okay, Walter.  It's just me," Scully says.

"Shit."  My tongue is sore.  I think I've bitten it.  
"Hurts."

"You caught the table on the way down.  Here, let's get you 
onto the sofa.  Mulder, can you help?"

"I can do it myself," I say irritably, and manage to seat 
myself with a minimum of further damage to the furnishings 
or my body.  In the process I discover that I've added 
another layer of bruises to one knee.  Between my bathroom 
tile and Scully's oak coffee table, my kneecaps may never 
be the same.

Then Scully's shining a light into my eyes.  "Follow my 
finger," she says, and I do.  I feel a tightness on my arm 
and look down at the blood pressure cuff.  "Your pulse and 
respiration are fast, and your blood pressure is a little 
high."

"I'm all right."  I glance at Mulder.  He nods at me and 
gives me a look of sympathetic understanding, but he 
doesn't say anything.  I don't have enough energy to be 
embarrassed at the scene I've caused.  Instead, I'm full of 
a weary resignation to the inevitability of it all.

"People who are all right don't fling themselves on the 
floor when they hear a noise."  Scully's like a terrier 
with a rat.  Long association with Mulder has only 
increased her natural persistence.

"What was that noise, anyway?" I ask, hoping to deflect her 
inquiries.  She's winding up into her 'I want a full 
explanation' mode, and I don't have the inclination nor the 
energy to get into this discussion now.

"I tripped on the entry mat and fell against the door, 
slammed it against the wall.  Dropped a bag of groceries in 
the process," Mulder answers.  "We can kiss a dozen eggs 
goodbye.  Saved our dinner, though."

Scully raises her head, listening.  I can hear a faint 
wailing coming from another room. 

"Go ahead and take care of William.  Walter and I have 
things under control here."

She's looking at me.  I nod and try to get my breathing 
under control.  "I'm okay, Dana.  Thanks for your help."  

She looks back to Mulder, and then she visibly relaxes and 
stands up.  "Just call if you need me."

Oh, I do need you, Dana.  I need you.  But you have a new 
baby to think of.  I don't want to drag you down.

###

Scully and I understand each other so well that she doesn't 
have to say a word; her message comes through loud and 
clear.  // Take care of him. //  I watch as she goes to the 
guest room--Will's room now--closing the door behind her.  
Then I turn my attention to the man beside me.

"I hurt her feelings," he says before I can speak.

"How?"

"You weren't here," he answers, slowly, as if every word is 
an effort.  He tilts his head back against the sofa and 
closes his eyes.

"Why would that hurt Scully's feelings?"

"I wouldn't talk to her."

That definitely qualifies as one of the things guaranteed 
to piss Scully off.  "Snubbing Scully's witty repartee is 
not the way to get on her good side, Walter."

My little joke falls flat.  He doesn't smile, not even a 
little.  "I was shaking.  She wanted me to tell herwhat was 
wrong."

"Another nightmare?"

"No.  But I was--"  He stops and I can see the muscles 
dancing in his jaw, and the shame on his face.  "It was too 
hard, to try to explain it to her."

"Ah."  I'm beginning to understand.  Walter and I have 
already been over some of this ground.  I can see how he 
wouldn't have the emotional wherewithal just now to start 
all over again with Scully.  "It's okay, Walter.  I 
understand, and I'm sure she does too."  Actually, she 
probably doesn't, but I'll explain it to her later.  "What 
happened just now, when I came home?  Was it a flashback?"

"Uh huh."

"Krycek?"

"Vietnam."

Jesus.  The poor guy doesn't have enough recent history to 
cope with, he's being slammed by events more than a quarter 
century old.  When I put my hand over his, he turns his 
head toward me and opens his eyes.  

Walter's not a naturally demonstrative person.  He keeps 
his emotions under tight wraps most of the time.  I've seen 
him deliver the most scathing reprimand in a completely 
neutral tone of voice and with no expression on his face.  
Hell, I've been on the receiving end of a few reprimands 
like that.  I suppose that after the episode in the park 
earlier today, when he cried in my arms, I shouldn't be 
surprised by anything, but still, I'm jolted by the fear I 
see in his eyes.  It startles me so much that I look away.

"I can't go on like this."

The despair in his voice claws at me.  "I know how bad 
things seem now, Walter.  I know you must be scared."  I 
glance back at him.  He's closed his eyes again, but I see 
that look of shame pass over his face once more.  "What 
you're dealing with isn't a sign of weakness, or lack of 
will.  You've been under crushing stress for months, and 
your brain chemistry is messed up.  It's nothing to be 
ashamed of.  You're ill.  You do understand that, don't 
you?"

He's completely silent, and  I can practically see him 
withdrawing, which is not a good sign.  I'd be more 
encouraged, actually, if he were crying, but he seems 
beyond tears.

"You're ill, Walter," I repeat, "but you're not alone.  
Scully and I are here with you.  Let us help you." 

Nothing happens for a long moment.  Then I feel his hand 
turn, oh so slowly, until we're palm to palm, and when he 
curls his fingers around mine I let out a breath that I 
didn't realize I'd been holding.  "Okay," he whispers, and 
leans against me.

I swallow hard to try to get rid of the lump in my throat 
and pull him in close.  "It's okay, big guy.  Just hold 
on."  I'm speaking metaphorically but he takes the 
instruction literally and squeezes my hand tighter.  I 
squeeze back, and now I'm the one who's scared.  I've 
offered him help but I don't know how to get it to him.  
'Trust no one' is still my motto.  Scully could prescribe 
drugs, but she's no psychiatrist, and psychopharmacology's 
a tricky field.  Besides, what with caring for a new baby 
and getting her own strength back, she has enough to deal 
with as it is.  I'll need to talk to her but I don't want 
to lay the whole burden of this situation at her feet.

Shit, I think as I wrap my free arm tight around Walter and 
feel him relax slowly into a boneless exhaustion.  Shit, 
shit, shit.  What do we do now?

###

We manage to get Walter to eat a little and then put him to 
bed, where he falls asleep almost as soon as he lays down 
his head.

Now Mulder's standing in the middle of the living room in a 
state of manic persuasiveness, trying to convince me that 
things aren't as bad as we both know they are.  I hate it 
when he tries to protect me.  

Before Walter arrived yesterday, the last time I'd seen him 
was the day that Monica and I drove to Democrat Hot 
Springs--the day before William's birth.  Then, he was his 
usual cool and competent self.  Yesterday he looked tired 
and stressed, but that was a far cry from this shattered 
man.  No, not shattered--unraveled.  I'm not sure how to 
cope with this Walter Skinner.  He's never seemed so 
helpless.

"He's got PTSD, Scully.  He had a flashback.  It's not so 
uncommon."

"PTSD is just one piece of it.  Surely you can see that, 
Mulder.  He's clearly depressed.  He has all the symptoms 
of a full-blown clinical depression, with anxiety.  But I 
don't understand how it got so bad, so fast.  He was 
functioning fine just last week."  

Mulder can tell that I'm not buying his "this is no big 
deal" act and stops trying to sugarcoat the bitter truth.  
He sits down beside me and takes my hand, rubbing over the 
back of it with his thumb, and stares at the bedroom door 
as if he can see through it to Walter beyond.  "I think 
he's been holding on by a thread, maybe for a long time, 
Scully.  Now he knows he doesn't have to."

"You mean, we'll catch him when he falls."

"No."  His mouth twists for a moment, as if he's in pain.  
"He's already fallen.  We couldn't stop it.  But we gave 
him a soft landing, a safe place.  And now we can help him 
put the pieces back together."

"He needs a therapist and medication.  I wonder if he 
should be in a hospital."

"If he's committed, voluntarily or otherwise, he can kiss 
his career goodbye."

"I'm more concerned that he doesn't kiss his life goodbye, 
Mulder.  What if he's suicidal?"  I'm not worried that 
Walter will do anything to harm others, but I'm terrified 
that he might try to harm himself.

"I don't think he has the strength to kill himself right 
now.  The most dangerous time for depressives is when they 
start to feel better and can mobilize the energy to carry 
out the act."

"I know that's true in most cases, but he has access to a 
gun.  How much energy does it take to pull a trigger?"

"He doesn't have access.  I have his gun, and I'm not 
giving it back."

"Which means he can't go back to work.  Not unarmed."

"Armed or unarmed, he's not fit for work.  Assuming they 
don't indict him instead of calling him back."

"He's not going to be indicted."

"Is that wishful thinking, or have you heard something?"

"I called Kim while you were out.  There's no official 
notice yet, but the grapevine says he'll be called back to 
active status at the first of the month."  Walter's 
administrative assistant is a marvel.  Sometimes I think 
she's better plugged in to the inner workings of the Bureau 
than Walter is, and she has an uncanny ability to sort out 
grapevine fact from fiction.  

"That's great news.  Still, he's going to have to get 
treatment."

"Well, they'll make him see Karen Kosseff before he 
returns, because of the shoot."

Mulder stands up again and begins to pace.  "He can't see 
her.  He can't tell her anything."  Mulder has looked the 
most horrific things in the eye without flinching, with no 
sign of fear, but he's frightened now.  He worries so 
little about personal danger and so much when the people he 
cares about are threatened.  "They'll commit him for sure."

I can feel the corners of my mouth turn up, even though 
there's nothing remotely funny in the situation and despite 
Mulder's alarm.  "You've been saying some of the same 
things for years, Mulder, and they haven't locked you up 
yet."  

He stops pacing and looks at me.  "You've got a short 
memory, Scully," he says, and a terrifying image suddenly 
surges over me--an image of Mulder lying in a bed, 
restrained and unable to communicate, his brain burning 
itself out in a firestorm of activity. 

"This is different, and you know it."  My voice is too 
loud, too shrill.  I hope I haven't disturbed Walter.  
"This is different," I say again, more softly this time.

"Sure it is.  It's worse.  Walter's no lowly agent with a 
reputation for eccentricity that makes diving for cover at 
a loud noise seem like just some new twist on an old 
flakiness.  He's an Assistant Director, two steps from the 
top. He manages the whole fucking Criminal Investigative 
Division.  He has a reputation as a levelheaded guy, but if 
he starts talking to Kosseff about what he knows, what he's 
seen, they'll have him locked away and pharmaceutically 
straitjacketed before the ink is dry on her report."

"He can seek private treatment if he chooses to.  It won't 
seem so unusual.  Most people go outside the Bureau for 
longer-term therapy.  I'm sure Karen will certify medical 
leave."

"But his file will show a medical leave for psychiatric 
care.  It'll sink him, Scully.  Even if he's not forced 
out, they'll shunt him off to some backwater as soon as 
they have the chance.  Can you see Walter being happy to 
run the Administrative Services division?  Or Finance?" 

"No.  He'd be miserable."  I know Mulder's right.  People 
at Walter's level, particularly those in positions as 
sensitive as his, aren't allowed any weakness and 
especially not a weakness of the mental variety.  "So if 
not medical leave, what?"

"I don't know.  Maybe an unpaid leave of absence.  I can't 
see Kersh approving it, but--"

"Not leave," I interrupt, an idea beginning to form.  
"Vacation."

"Vacation?  Scully, it could be months before he's ready to 
return to work."

"Vacation, Mulder.  When was the last time Walter took a 
vacation?"

He's taken aback.  "I don't know.  Uh, there was that week 
he went to Paris--four years ago, wasn't it?  I think he's 
been to Aruba . . ."

"He's worked for the Bureau for nearly twenty years.  He 
earns five weeks of vacation a year, and he hardly ever 
takes any of it.  It wouldn't surprise me if he has a 
year's worth saved up.  He'll still need approval to take 
such a big chunk all at once, but if he can, it'll keep any 
medical concerns off his record."  I stifle a yawn, 
suddenly feeling tired.  "I'm going to feed William and go 
to bed.  Tomorrow we need to help Walter find a 
psychiatrist."

"Walter's in your bed, and it's not big enough for all of 
us.  Do you want me to sleep in Will's room?"

"It's our bed, Mulder, but you're right, it's not big 
enough.  That's the other thing we need to do soon--shop 
for a king-size.  I'll sleep with Will since I'll need to 
get up for him anyway.  You sleep with Walter, okay?"

"I was just getting used to sleeping with you."

"Now you can get used to him."  I stand up and put my arms 
around his waist, leaning my head on his chest.  "And if he 
wakes up in the middle of the night, if he's--upset--I 
think you can be more help to him than I could."

Mulder wraps one long arm around me and brushes my hair 
away from my face with his other hand.  "He told me he hurt 
your feelings."

"He did," I admit.  "It felt like he was rejecting me."

"He didn't have the energy to try and explain himself.  And 
also, I think he didn't want to burden you."

"I know.  I'm okay with it, Mulder."

"You sure?"

I tilt up my head and meet his eyes, looking down at me 
with concern.  "Yes, I'm sure," I say, and watch his 
expression lighten.

"Good," he says, and as he bends down I stretch up and my 
lips meet his.

###

Walter's asleep, on the far side of the bed, lying on his 
side and his back to the door.  As I strip down to my usual 
sleepwear, shorts and t-shirt, I think back to the similar 
scene last night in Walter's apartment.  

I lie down next to him and try to sleep, but I can't seem 
to shut off my brain.  I think a lot about Walter's stress 
disorder and depression.  Scully's idea for him to take 
vacation time is a good one, and I hope it works out.  
Maybe Kersh will enjoy having Walter out of the picture for 
a few months.

I have no doubt that Walter will recover eventually, but 
I'm also realistic about the recovery process.  I worry 
about what that time will be like for all of us and whether 
our relationship can survive it, whether Walter will want 
to continue it--or maybe I should say 'start it,' since 
from a sexual perspective at least we've hardly started 
anything--once he's well.

Eventually I get around to reflecting that I'm now, 
practically speaking, in a menage a trois or a polyamorous 
relationship or triangle or whatever the hell you want to 
call it.  Two partners anyway, which under normal 
circumstances ought to double my chances of getting lucky.  
And despite my vast good fortune, I'm still having to take 
care of my urges with my own right hand (or occasionally 
the left, for variety).  This seems both monstrously unfair 
and appropriately karmic, and more than a little awkward 
when the most recent object of one's affections is asleep 
in the same bed less than a foot away.

I could go jerk off in the shower, but Walter's nearness 
and the faint smell of his sweat and his aftershave are 
powerfully erotic influences, so I proceed to liberate 
myself from my shorts and beat myself into satiety, half of 
me wishing that Walter would wake up and help out and the 
other half wincing over how embarrassing it would be if he 
did.  

When I'm finished I take a shower and pull on clean sweat 
pants and a t-shirt.  I'm still wired and I know the only 
thing that might relax me enough to sleep is to make some 
progress toward helping Walter get treatment.  I grope 
around on the nightstand for my cell phone and take it to 
the living room to make a call.

The line is answered halfway through the first ring.  "Lone 
Gunmen."

Good, I've got the right one.  "Hey, Frohike, it's me.  
Turn off the tape."

I hear a click.  "It's off, man.  Normal people are 
sleeping at this hour, you know."

"Well, that explains why we're both up."

He snorts, the Frohike equivalent of a laugh.  "Hey, what's 
going on?  How's the kid?"

"He doesn't do much right now except eat, sleep, and make 
dirty diapers, but he's fine.  Healthy."

"That's good, man.  And Scully?"

"She's tired, but other than that she's fine too.  And now 
that we've got the small talk out of the way, can we get 
down to business?"

"I didn't think this was a social call.  What do you need 
us to do?"

"Just you, Frohike.  I don't want Langly or Byers 
involved."  I'll try to preserve as much of Walter's 
privacy as I can.

"No problem, Mulder, as long as it's something I can manage 
on my own."

"You shouldn't have any trouble with this.  I need some 
research, and I need it fast.  I want you to look for a 
psychiatrist with experience in treating post-traumatic 
stress disorder and depression.  Preferably someone who's 
worked with vets.  Someone competent and discreet and 
absolutely trustworthy."

There's a long pause during which I can practically hear 
the wheels going round and round in Frohike's head.  
"Skinman?"

"Yeah."

Another pause.  "How's he doing?"

"Not good."

"I'll get right on it.  You keeping an eye on him?"

"Better believe it."

"Okay.  I'll call you tomorrow--later today, I mean--and 
let you know what I've found."

"Thanks, Mel."

"No problem, Mulder.  Anything at all for the big man."  
You'd think that a guy like Frohike wouldn't have any use 
for a man like Walter, but Frohike's always had a lot of 
respect for him.

I hang up, finally feeling like I've finally done something 
useful, and go back to bed.  It takes me no time at all to 
drift off.

When I wake up I see, through the open curtains, light just 
beginning to brighten the night sky.  Walter is still 
asleep, peacefully it seems, spooned up against my back 
with one arm draped over my hip.  Sometime during the night 
Scully has joined us.  She's squeezed herself up against 
me, her back to my front, just on the edge of the too-small 
mattress.  I lift my head and look at her face.  Even in 
sleep she looks tired, and even in sleep she looks happy.

I smile, kiss Scully's hair, pull Walter's arm closer 
around me, lay my head back on the pillow, and sleep once 
more.