Title: Mara Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com Rating: R to NC-17 for violence and disturbing imagery Category: SA - character exploration Spoilers: None Keywords: Sk/O; M/Sc/Sk friendship; established MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please! Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. Mara, however, is mine. But I'll be glad to share with Chris, and he doesn't even have to ask! I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Summary: While overseeing a murder investigation, Skinner meets a woman who changes his life completely. Mara Skinner stood unmoving, arms crossed over his broad chest, as he watched the agents work the crime scene. He sighed softly, exhausted. He'd been up all night, and hadn't slept well the night before. This was the seventh young woman killed in the past two years. Senselessly, painfully, and his people were still without a clue. And from the looks of this, there was no break in sight. He shook his head in frustration. The Director himself had called and asked him to come to Norfolk to oversee the investigation. His background in Violent Crimes, his reputation as persistent, diligent, thorough, methodical, and his units' traditional high solve rate, had all earmarked him as the right man to take over this clusterfuck of an investigation. He sighed again, trying to be fair. The Norfolk office was a small field office, and in reality, they were more accustomed to dealing with white collar crime than this type of down and dirty monstrosity. The SAIC was a good agent, and the team had been working hard, but the killer was extremely elusive. So far they had been unable to identify any kind of a trademark signature, any connection between the victims, any consistent detail that would let them identify the murderer and put an end to the madness. Mulder would be a godsend at this point, but he and Scully were on the other side of the country, and would be for the foreseeable future, investigating manure. He snorted. That shithead Kersch didn't have a clue what he had in those two. *AD Kersch,* Skinner sneered contemptuously, was so intent on getting his nose up the powers' collective asses, he couldn't recognize gifted investigators if his life depended on it. He sighed once more, then jumped slightly, as a soft alto said, "That's three sighs and a snort. Things must not be going well." Skinner turned and looked down at a woman who had appeared beside him. She was short, about Scully's height, and had long hair, a wild mane of curly, thick auburn she wore pulled back and up into a pony-tail from the crown of her head. An interesting look for a woman her age -- not all that much younger than himself. "Who are you?" he asked gruffly. "And how did you get into the crime scene?" "I know some of the agents," she said softly, her eyes on the ground. 'Agents,' he thought. 'She knows we're Bureau and not police.' "Who are you?" he asked again. "Who are *you?*" she responded. "Walter Skinner, Assistant Director for the Bureau. I've been asked to assume oversight for this investigation." "And what qualifies you to take over this investigation?" she asked quietly. "Twenty years in the Bureau, over half of them in Violent Crimes in one capacity or another. A high solve rate as an agent. A high solve rate in the units under me." Skinner inexplicably felt a need to explain himself to this woman. He knew he needed to get her to identify herself, but there was a softness, a vulnerability, about her that made him reluctant to push too hard. And if the local agents let her in ... "There aren't enough years in a hundred lives to qualify *anyone* to deal with this," she said sadly, waving at the blood-covered rug where the latest victim's body had lain. She looked up at him, an honest interest and concern in her open face. "How do you deal with this," she looked around again, "time and time again?" Her eyes were a deep green so filled with pain that he averted his gaze, choosing instead to look around the scene. "You don't. You just try to end it and move on." He lifted a hand and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a motion so automatic he was hardly aware he was doing it. She was watching him, and when he went to put his glasses back on, she reached out, touching his arm gently, halting his movement. He gazed down at her quizzically, but she only stared into his eyes for a long moment, then nodded and released him. He put his glasses back on, the world leaping back into focus, and asked once more, "Who are you?" "You've been up all night, haven't you?" she responded. At his nod, she continued, "And you haven't eaten either?" He nodded again. "Come with me," she said gently. "We'll get something to eat and I'll tell you who I am." She turned and walked away, and without conscious thought, he found himself following her. ****************************************** They walked in silence to a diner several blocks away. Walking with her, he found himself unconsciously putting his seldom used chivalric gestures into play. He walked on the outside, between her and the street. He held her arm when they stepped down a curb, opened the door, seated her first. The actions came naturally to him, but it had been years since he'd been with a woman for whom he felt he could do these little courtesies. And she accepted them all as the gestures of respect he intended. They took a small table, ordered quickly, then he asked, "Will you tell me who you are now?" He smiled to take some of the sting from his words. She laughed then, a musical sound that captivated him. They'd just left the scene of a brutal murder, and yet, she could laugh. Her humor infected him, and he laughed with her. "It's no great mystery, Assistant Director." She said his title, not exactly mockingly, but with a hint that she found it amusing he had chosen to identify himself in that way. "So, 'no great mystery lady,'" -- he was teasing her, or was he flirting? -- "who are you?" "Victim number one's mother." Shit! A victim's relative. What the hell was the matter with him? He should have known. He should have been more careful. He had assumed she was law enforcement, Norfolk City, or perhaps a psychologist contracted to work with the survivors or even with the investigators, but he hadn't figured her for a relative. She was laughing again, and he couldn't help but smile. "It's all right," she said reassuringly. "It's been over two years since my daughter was killed. I'm not the big threat to the investigation you're thinking I am." She smiled. "I've gotten to know some of the agents since the third murder, when the Bureau got involved. I just stop by every now and then. I assure you, I'm not a complete kook out to drive everyone nuts." She laughed again, a chuckle at the image of herself she painted. He was smiling now, relaxing as he prepared his coffee, black with two sugars. He lifted the cup and sipped, then asked, "Why were you there?" She shrugged. "I'd heard there was another one." She shook her head sadly. "And I'd heard they -- the Bureau, that is -- had brought in someone new to take over the investigation. I was curious." "Is your curiosity satisfied now?" he asked. My God, he was flirting again. What the hell was the matter with him? She smiled, a slow cat-like grin that traveled across her face and reached her deep green eyes. Her head was tilted at an angle as she studied him, and then said, "You're not exactly what I expected." "Really?" He didn't know what to make of that. "What did you expect?" She continued to study him, then reached out and hesitantly laid her hand on his bicep. "Someone more like an accountant, less like --" she shrugged again, and squeezed gently, "this." He looked at her hand, still resting on his arm, then took in the look of frank admiration on her face, and felt himself flush. As his face colored, she removed her hand, unselfconsciously, and smiled again at him. The server arrived with their meal at that point, and talk turned to the weather, their respective cities, baseball, anything but the murders. He felt himself relaxing as they talked, and a feeling of being separate from the case slipped over him. "And they built this beautiful new ballpark, right on the river. It's the nicest one in the Triple A leagues," she was saying. He nodded, not really hearing her, but letting her voice wash over him, bathe him in normality, and in a way, he felt refreshed. When she paused, he belatedly heard the inflection in her tone, and said, "I'd like that," not sure what she had proposed, but knowing he *would* like it, no matter what it was. "But it will have to be some other time." "I understand," she said, and he was amazed. He felt that perhaps, she *really* did understand, and wasn't just reciting the expected words. They finished eating, and the server came back with the check. She didn't argue with him when he scooped it up, merely thanking him for breakfast, and offering to take him some other time. He nodded as he fumbled with his wallet, then looked up to see her readying herself to go. He reached out and gently caught her wrist. "Your name. You never told me your name," he said, as she rose to leave. "Mara." She smiled at him. "That's unusual," he said, trying to make her stay, extend the contact. His fingers were on fire where he held her. What was the matter with him? Her smile turned sad as she looked at him. "It means 'bitter sorrow.'" ******************************************** They'd caught him at last. A phone call to the west coast. A fax to Mulder. More phone calls. Medical reports faxed to Scully. E-mail. An endless night of no sleep, answering questions, research, reviewing files. An intracontinental investigation done in the dead of night, anonymously, but it had yielded fruit. When Skinner had gone to the field office the next morning, he had a name. A two day long stake-out. Endless hours of monotony, interrupted only by mindless boredom. But again, patience and persistence was rewarded and the suspect had appeared. For those two days, Skinner had been outcast. Unable to explain how he identified his suspect, how he made the connections, he experienced some of the same ostracism that accompanied Mulder whenever he was forced to consult for VCS. Skinner had been there, all night, feeding Mulder the information he requested, gathering data, answering questions, and he didn't have a clue how the man had been able to say, "That one. Pick him up." But he'd said it, and they'd done it, and the suspect was in custody. In the process, however, the man had killed two agents. Two people who would never go home, never see their children grow up, never feel the rain on their face, or wake to the sun again. That alone would be enough to put this killer away, and he'd made sure the evidence had been promptly and properly gathered to make that happen. But then, during the interrogation, about two hours after his arrest, the man had confessed. Confessed to all the murders, starting with Mara's daughter. The murder of the two agents had served only to alienate him further from the locals. Initially awkward and uncomfortable because of his position and the reason he was there, they had grown increasingly aloof after he revealed a name for a suspect. Now, they were barely tolerant of his presence, shifting a portion of the blame for their friends' deaths to his shoulders, because they didn't understand, they didn't comprehend, and he couldn't explain. And now, after days of endless work, sleepless nights, and an ongoing embarrassed and uncomfortable formality from his coworkers, he found himself standing on the porch of a neat small house, dripping from the rain that fell steadily behind him, unsure of what to do next. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to let her know it was over, there would be no more deaths. But -- he looked at his watch -- it was after midnight. Not exactly prime time to be making house calls. He lifted his hand to ring the bell, then lowered it once more. His head drooped and his hand scrubbed at his forehead as he chewed his lip, undecided. He wanted to tell her, but, damn it, he wanted to *see* her too. He'd felt drawn to her in their too-short, shared meal. Comfortable with her. Accepted. And, oddly enough, he'd felt at peace. As if she carried a tranquillity with her that spread to encompass those around her. He'd seen her several times in the last few days. She'd be in the field office, talking with one of the agents when he came in for a morning meeting. Or standing outside, a worn reward flyer in her hand, as he raced from office to field. Each time he met her eyes, he was immediately pulled into them, engulfed in her spirit. He felt giddy, off balance, an altogether unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensation. He'd only be here a few more days, and he wanted to see her again. He looked at his watch again, then the door. Finally, deciding he was being ridiculous, he turned to leave. He'd call her in the morning, or send one of the local agents out to tell her. He was halfway down the four steps from porch to ground, when the door opened, and she called to him. "Assistant Director Skinner? Do you need something?" Even her voice was soothing, and he felt a tension seep from him. His shoulders slumped unwittingly, and he turned, forcing himself to stand erect again as he faced her. "Er, yes, I ..." He trailed off, his voice dying as he looked up at her. Her hair was loose tonight, tumbling wildly over her shoulders and down her back. She'd either still been up, or had dressed quickly when she saw him on the porch, for she wore a man's flannel shirt over a pair of dark leggings. Her feet were bare. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but there was something about her that called to him, and he found himself wanting to be ensnared. He shook himself and focused, looking up to see her crossing the small porch, taking his arm, and before he knew what was happening, she was leading him into her home. "Come, sit," she was saying, and he let himself be pushed into a comfortable overstuffed chair. She hurried down a hallway and returned to hand him a towel which he accepted gratefully. "Coffee?" He nodded and she stepped lightly away. He rubbed at the water on his head and face, wiped his glasses, and ran the towel over his chest and arms. Then he just sat, eyes closed, the weariness of the last few days overtaking him completely, letting himself drift in the warmth and comfort he felt here. When she returned with a mug of coffee, he realized he hadn't even spoken a complete sentence to her. He took the proffered cup, tasted it, then looked up, surprised. "It's the way I take it." She nodded. "But -- how?" "Breakfast the other morning." "Oh." He was embarrassed now. He couldn't even remember what she had eaten, let alone how she took her coffee. Did she pay attention to everyone like that? "Assistant Director," she said, then laughed as he looked up. "That's too much. Isn't there something else I could call you?" Her hair rippled as she spoke, each movement of her head sending tendrils to float about her face, and he watched, enchanted, as she brushed them carelessly away. "Walter," he said, swallowing hard. "You could call me Walter." He drew his eyes from her hair to her face and then colored as he realized what he had said. She cocked an eyebrow at him, then said, "All right, Walter. Then you must call me Mara." He nodded, then sipped his coffee again. "I came to tell you." Her face fell, all of the laughter and teasing chased away instantly, and he hurried to correct himself. "No, not that. I came to tell you it's over." "Over?" "Yes, over. We caught him. Tonight. We caught him, and he confessed. It's finally over." He watched as she shut her eyes tightly, then shuddered, her hands coming up to wipe unshed tears from her startling green eyes. She remained still for a moment longer, then dragged her hands down over her cheeks and folded them in her lap. She stared down at them, then, without lifting her eyes, said, "Thank you. Thank you for coming. Thank you for catching him. Thank you for coming to tell me." He nodded, then sipped his coffee. The silence stretched between them, but it was not uncomfortable. More like two old friends, each lost in their own thoughts, but conscious of the other's presence. His mind turned to the agents who had died that evening, and he removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes harshly. He was surprised when he felt a small hand take the steel rims from him, and he watched as she placed them on the table by his coffee. There was an ottoman before the chair, and she perched there, still holding his hand in her own. He looked down. His hand dwarfed hers. She was small, but her hands were tiny, more like a child's than a woman's, but looking at her there was no doubt she was a woman. He turned her hand, studying it, lifting it closer to his face as he traced the lines, touched the skin, sought out the story of her life that her hands could tell. Without thinking, he kissed her palm, then froze in disbelief when he realized what he had done. She pulled away gently, and the same hand reached out and brushed his cheek. "What happened?" she asked in a quiet voice. He shook his head. He didn't talk about it. He never had. It used to drive Sharon nuts that he wouldn't talk about things, but he knew, if he did, he would fall apart. And that could never be permitted. Not for the Assistant Director. And not for the man, Walter Skinner. She stood and circled around him, her hands going to his shoulders and beginning to knead the knots of tension there. He leaned back unconsciously, arching slightly beneath her touch, and closed his eyes again. "Two of my agents were killed," he heard himself say, and he jerked erect, looking around in surprise as if the voice had come from somewhere else. "And they blame you." How the hell did she know that? He nodded, and when she reached out and pulled him back into the chair, he let her. "That's not all." "No. I have an agent -- a friend -- he used to work for me but he's been moved to another department. He has a -- gift -- for figuring these kinds of things out." He sighed as her hands worked a particularly tense spot, and he felt the muscles relax. "He helped me. Hell, he did it all. But it's hard on him. It really tears him up." He stopped talking and looked up over his shoulder. "You feel bad for involving him." He nodded again, and her hands moved to his neck, stroking the corded muscles there. Her fingers played gently with the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck, and he found himself amazed at the familiarity he was allowing. "You're worried about him?" she questioned. "No, not really. He has someone -- his partner -- who understands. She'll get him through this. They work well together, take care of each other." Her hands stopped their soothing massage and she walked around to the side of the chair, sitting on its arm. He was staring at her, drowning in the depths of those marvelously green eyes, when she spoke. "And who understands Walter Skinner, Assistant Director for the FBI?" she asked. "Who takes care of him?" "I -- uh ..." His eyes skittered away, unable to take the naked compassion on her face. He was filled with a sudden longing to -- to what? He cleared his throat, awkward once more, and made to rise, but she pushed gently against his chest and he let her restrain him. She was staring at him still, her head tilted, waiting for his answer. He shifted in his seat, eyes downcast, then mumbled, "I'm all right." She rose and took two steps to stand before him, moving between his legs and taking his hand. "Somehow, you fail to convince me," she murmured. He was coming undone, his world was falling apart. What was she doing to him? He took a deep, shuddery breath, fighting for control, then looked up at her, expecting to see at best, pity, or at worst, disgust. But he saw neither. What he saw was understanding and acceptance, warmth and respect. And it completely undid the last vestiges of his control. He leaned forward, pressing his face into her belly, and wrapping his arms around her waist. He wasn't crying, but it was close. He leaned into her, letting go of the need to be strong, to be in charge, and accepting the warmth and comfort that flowed into him. She held him close, stroking his head and back, murmuring nonsense sounds into his ear. And slowly her touch turned from comforting to arousing. From soothing to sensual. The strokes on his back were slightly harder, slightly slower, her fingers lingering at the base of his neck. Her voice dropped slightly, the words still a murmur, but now throaty, with a touch of something else in them. His own hands began to wander up and down her back, along her sides, even going so far as to travel up under the oversized shirt she wore, his fingers electrified at the contact with her velvet skin. His breathing changed, grew uneven, and he cursed himself as a weak and impetuous fool. Any minute now, she would pull away, back away, send him away. 'For God's sake, Walter,' he chided himself, 'you hardly know the woman.' When she did pull away, he was ready, expecting it, and he let her go without pause. His head was still lowered and he stared at the floor as he waited for her to tell him to go. But instead, her hand came under his chin, lifting his face up, her eyes seeking his own. She pulled him to his feet and began to unbutton his shirt. "You're soaked," she whispered huskily, and he stood passive before her. The shirt was off, and she was working on his belt. He toed off his shoes, then took the belt off himself -- he wasn't so far gone that he didn't remember to take care of his weapon himself. She smiled when she saw him place the shirt on top of the gun, but made no comment. He turned to face her, realizing that they had hardly spoken and yet she was undressing him, and he was allowing it. She reached out and undid his pants, and they fell to his ankles where he stepped out of them. She pulled his T-shirt up, and he bent to allow her to tug it over his head. When he straightened, standing before her in only his briefs, he searched her face, looking for clues to what was happening. She was staring at him, drinking him in. Her eyes raked his body, a long, slow journey from the corded tendons in his calves and thighs, past the narrow hips to the washboard abs, and those glorious pecs, ending at his insecure and slightly confused brown eyes. She reached out to him, wrapping him in her arms, and he pulled her tight against him. Looking down, he again searched her face, wanting to be sure this was not a pity fuck. But he saw not only warmth and acceptance in her countenance, but desire as well. He opened her shirt and stroked her breasts, her nipples hardening beneath his touch. Falling to his knees again, he buried his head in her belly once more and whispered, "What are we doing?" She knelt with him, taking his face in her hands, forcing his eyes to meet her own, then kissed him. His mouth opened beneath hers, and he immediately felt drunk on the arousal her touch elicited from him. He was hard, and growing harder, and he wondered if he'd lost his mind. They broke for air, gasping, and he said again, "What are we doing?" Her tiny hands traveled over his chest, stroking, teasing, enticing, then dropped to below his waist. She cupped him gently and said, "We are affirming life, Mr. Assistant Director. Affirming it, and celebrating all that life may bring." *********************************************************** It had been a debacle. A killer without a conscience, four teenage girls, brutally raped and murdered. An agent killed. An arrest from which there would be no justice, and very little closure. The suspect covered under diplomatic immunity. No hope of prosecution. And he -- he slammed his fist down on the desk -- he had lost his temper in public and struck a reporter, a stunt worthy of Mulder. His little spectacle had made the papers, picture and all, and then been picked up on the wires, and he was facing disciplinary proceedings. Funny how since Mulder and Scully had been transferred to that asshole Kersch, he'd been doing more and more direct supervision over Violent Crimes, resulting in more and more direct involvement in this type of case. And apparently, if his actions of yesterday were any indication, he wasn't dealing with the stress very well at all. What was it she had said? Mara, -- he smiled as he thought of her -- she had asked him how he dealt with it all. And he -- supercilious prick that he could be -- had dismissed her question without thinking, commenting only that you deal with it and move on. Well, he was wrong. He'd been out of it for too long, the case in Norfolk his first real involvement in that kind of investigation in over ten years. When he had left field work, and Violent Crimes, for management and administration, he had thought that he would never forget what it was like. But he had. His comment to Mara had shown that. And now, a mere six weeks -- and three cases -- later, he was so tense, so on edge, he had decked a reporter who had dared to comment on police brutality in the apprehension of a diplomat's son who had callously and with willful disregard, raped and then killed four teenage girls. He'd turned on the man, offering a personal demonstration of police brutality, and when the man had made a smart remark, Skinner had decked him. He rubbed his fist -- it still hurt. And Lord knows the hearing would be unpleasant, but -- he smiled -- it had been worth it to knock the grin off that smug bastard's face. Mulder had even called and congratulated him this morning, but, of course, he had turned on the younger man, lecturing him on appropriate behavior and ethical conduct. He could still hear the laughter in Mulder's voice as he had agreed, and then added, "Yes, Sir, appropriate behavior is important, Sir. And I am quite sure that Mr. Gaillard of the Post is now much more aware of what is and is not appropriate behavior around you." Skinner smiled, and shook his head. The man was irrepressible. But the slight relief from the sense of doom and despair that the interaction with Mulder had brought him was quickly dissipating as he thought of the review panel he would have to appear before on Monday. Cassidy and Kersch would both be there; neither were great fans of his. And he had to face the facts -- he deserved to be disciplined. His conduct was totally unacceptable. His biggest concern at this point was figuring out what had happened that had caused him to be so on edge, to become so volatile and susceptible to the kind of baiting the reporter had engaged in. He sighed. Mara would know. She would know and she would tell him, and she would make it better. He allowed himself the luxury of reliving the night he had spent with her. One night, but it had assumed enormous significance for him. He had felt whole, complete, secure, and, yes, loved, for a too-brief moment in a small house in Norfolk, Virginia. He sighed and rose to his feet and began to pace. So why hadn't he seen her again? Or even called her? What must she think of him? He'd been afraid at first, and then unsure. And once he settled that he did want to see her, that he *could* see her, be with her, so much time had elapsed that he was too embarrassed to contact her again. Especially since he had departed in the middle of the night with no word, no note, no hint of his intentions. And yet, through each of the cases he had worked over the last six weeks, through each horror and evil he had confronted, he had turned to her in his mind for comfort and solace. And now, with his career potentially on the line, he turned to her once more. He walked to the window behind his desk and stood looking out over the city. He was lost in reverie, reliving an electric night of passion and shared intimacy, when the intercom buzzed. He shifted, suddenly aware of his erection, and moved awkwardly to the desk. "Yes?" "Sir, this is Security in the front lobby. There's a woman outside, asking to see you." He looked at his watch. It was after 7:00 p.m. on a Friday night. Who could possibly be looking for him at this hour? "Who is she? What does she want?" "She wants to know if you're here; if she can see you. She's very insistent, Sir. Says her name is Norris." Skinner was puzzled. He couldn't think of anyone by that name. But, he sighed again, he certainly didn't have plans that this would interfere with. Better to see her and find out what this was about than risk another public embarrassment. "Ask her if she's media." There was a pause, then the guard came back, "No, Sir, says she's not." "All right, then, bring her up." Very soon after, the elevator chimed and then there was a polite tap on his door. "Enter." The guard pushed the door open and said, "Ms. Norris, Sir." He nodded and she walked into the room. Skinner stood, stunned, his mouth hanging open, as she walked across the office to stand in front of him. "Close your mouth, Walter," she whispered, "you'll catch flies." There was a twinkle in her eyes, barely suppressed laughter in her voice, and he felt his worries begin to melt away. He shut his mouth, then looked at the guard. "It's all right, you can go. I'll see Ms. Norris out when she's ready to go." The guard nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. He stood staring at her for a long moment, unable to believe she was really here. Her hair was up again, the high pony-tail she seemed to favor, and she wore black slacks and a soft cotton sweater with a high neck. Not casual, but not overly professional. Perhaps what she wore to work? What did she do? He racked his brain but couldn't come up with an answer. Maybe it had never come up. She was waiting patiently for him, giving him time, letting him work through the range of emotions that were surging over him. And in her patience, in her presence, he was finding peace again. She seemed to carry it with her, and she shared selflessly. "What are you doing here?" Idiot! She's here! What the hell do you care why? And can't you at least say hello before you start demanding answers? And maybe you could mention how glad you are to see her? But she was smiling at him, almost as if she had heard his internal dialogue, and she pulled a folded paper from her purse, handing it to him. It was the article about him, including the picture of his fist connecting with the reporter's face. He flushed, then ducked his head. He shoved the paper back in her direction, muttering, "Yeah? So I'm an asshole. You drive up here to tell me that?" What the hell was the matter with him? He was going out of his way to alienate her, make her angry, push her away. What was going on here? But she merely took the paper, dropped it in his waste-basket and stood silently, waiting. Turning his back to her, he walked to the window. He was on overload, feeling one thing, saying another, thrilled to see her, terrified she'd leave, or that she'd stay. He was lost, bewildered, and so confused. Why the hell was she here? He was still staring out the window, half expecting that when he finally did turn, he would find that she had slipped out the door, leaving him as he had left her. Alone, in the dark, without explanation. And so, when a small, warm hand touched his back, he jumped, then turned to find her right before him, her hand sliding around from his back to rest on his chest, over his heart. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner," she said. "I didn't see the paper till this afternoon." "Why," he struggled to make the words come out without hostility, only partially succeeding, "are you here at all?" She laughed then, and wrapped her arms around him, snuggling into his chest, and without thinking he enfolded her in his arms, pulling her closer. He could feel the tension flowing out of his body as he relaxed into her embrace. "I could see you were hurting." She nodded toward the waste-basket, then shrugged. "So I came." He stepped back, holding her at arm's length, and said, "You came?" He could hear the confusion in his voice. She nodded and slipped back against his chest, her head resting against his heart, just under his chin. Her hands were stroking his back, and he felt as if he had come home. He rested there, enjoying her touch, then murmured, "I don't understand." She pulled back slightly, and looked up into his eyes. "You. Were. Hurting." She paused, then went on, "I. Came." She smiled up at him. "What's so hard about that?" He shook his head, then colored as he thought of how he'd slipped out of her bed, out of her house, out of her life, like a thief in the dead of night. He was ashamed of himself, and he stepped away from her, denying himself the comfort her touch imparted. He turned his back again, and moved further away, putting the desk between them. "You shouldn't have," he mumbled. "And why not?" she asked softly. "I -- left." "Yes." "I snuck out." "Yes, you did." "I didn't leave a note, didn't call." "That's true." "I -- I was, er, that is ..." His voice trailed away. Her casual acceptance of what he considered to be the unacceptable confused him. Why would she be so understanding? "You were scared." He shifted slightly, turned around and looked at her. He nodded. "You were confused." He nodded again. How could she know him so well? "Then you were embarrassed." He flushed again, hung his head, and then whispered, "Yes." "It's OK, Walter," she said. "I understand." She'd said it again. She understood. And once more, he found himself believing that she really did understand. That perhaps, she understood him better than he understood himself. He found himself relaxing again, and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up and take her home with him, to let her chase the demons and the darkness from his life, at least for a time. But his moralistic upbringing chided him. You were wrong. You treated her badly. You don't deserve her. Or any of the comfort she offers. He stiffened. "I was wrong." "You were confused. It's all right." She shrugged. "Why would you come after what I did?" She shrugged again. "Didn't you feel it, Walter?" she asked. She walked over to him, following when he backed away, and pressed herself against him. Her arms snaked around him again, and once more, he found himself responding. She held him until the tension had eased from his body, until she had chased the stiffness away. He settled some, relaxing into her embrace, resting his chin on her head. Finally, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She sighed contentedly then, and he felt he had done the most right thing in the world. She looked up at him, then stretched to kiss him, her lips lingering against his own. "Don't you feel it, Walter?" she asked again. "This is where I belong." ********************************************* He lay on his side, head propped up on his left hand, and he gazed down at her. She was curled on her side as well, spooned up against him. Her hair -- that glorious mane of tousled red -- lay in wild abandon all around her. He lifted his right hand and carefully began to gather the soft strands, pulling them together and brushing them from her face. How could she sleep with hair like that? Didn't she roll over on it in her sleep? Pull it? Get it stuck under her body? There was so much of it, and it went everywhere. He had a sudden vision of her straddling him as he lay on his back, her head swept back as she moaned into the air, her hair tickling and teasing his legs and scrotum behind her. He was shocked as he felt the beginnings of another erection and he looked at the clock. Two hours - incredible! His recovery time hadn't been that short in years. He leaned over and kissed her gently, content to enjoy the sensations she evoked, not wanting to disturb her. She turned at his kiss though, pushing him back onto his back, and snuggling up against his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. "You OK?" she mumbled sleepily. "Mmmm," he made a sound of contentment. "Better than OK. You?" She lifted her leg, laying it across his groin, then looked up, a pleased and surprised expression on her face. "Walter! I'm impressed. How old did you say you were?" She giggled then, and he found himself enchanted once more. He couldn't hide the male pride that tinged his voice when he said, "Forty-seven. I'm forty-seven." "Do you want ...?" She smiled as she let her words trail away. He looked down at her again. She'd worked all day, then made the four hour drive to DC. They'd talked for several hours at the office and by the time he'd gotten her back to his place, it was close to 11:00. She'd insisted on fixing a meal, telling him he needed to eat, and so did she. Then they'd spent several more hours in the pleasures of the flesh before falling asleep, exhausted. She had only slept a couple of hours and he knew she was tired. He shook his head. "No." He smiled. "In the morning. For now, I just want to be here with you." She looked up sharply at that, then asked, "Are you sure you're all right?" She pulled herself to a sitting position, crossing her legs so that one knee rested on top of his hip. He looked at her. How old had she said she was? Had it come up? He had to start paying better attention. She remembered everything. He was staring at her body, displayed unselfconsciously before him. "Mara?" "Yes, Walter?" He lifted his eyes to her face. "How old are you?" "Thirty-eight. Why?" He shrugged. "I wanted to know." He returned his gaze to her body, noting that her stomach bore stretch marks, her hips were well-padded, gravity had affected her breasts. All marks of her maturity, her life, part of what made her who she was. He reached out and touched a scar that marked her chest, a heavy line that started about an inch and a half above her right nipple and crossed to end in the valley between her breasts. "What's this?" She looked down, then smiled a sad, little smile. "A long story." She yawned then, and added, "Maybe another time?" "What time did you get up this morning?" He looked at the clock again. Oops - yesterday morning. But she knew what he meant. "Early. 5:30. Why?" "You're tired." "A little." She yawned again, then smiled sheepishly. "Sorry -- it's the hour, not the company." "Go to sleep." He pulled her back down to lay beside him, and was pleased when she didn't resist. "Can you sleep now, Walter?" she asked. "With you here, Mara, I think I can do anything." Oh God, I sound like such an idiot! What the hell is the matter with me? Has my brain gone on a permanent vacation? But she was laughing, her body shaking beside him, sending her hair flying, and he was soon laughing with her as it tickled his nose and chest. He gathered it all together once more, then asked, "How do you sleep with this?" "Does it bother you? I can put it up." "No." He fondled the heavy silk, then stroked her face. "I like it." "Good." She settled against him again. "I'm glad." He turned his head and kissed her again, stroking her bare back, his hands taking on a life of their own as they smoothed her skin and traced her curves. "Walter?" He could hear the sleep creeping back into her voice. "Hmmm?" "Be here in the morning?" He kissed her again. "I will. Promise." She sighed then, content, and nuzzled his chest. "Sleep, Walter," she mumbled. Her breathing was growing heavy as she drifted away. "I will," he repeated, "I promise." ************************************************************ He woke to an empty bed, and immediately groaned in despair. She'd left him, just as he'd left her the first time. He looked around for any sign that she was still there, but there was nothing. Her clothes no longer lay scattered on the floor, her purse was no longer on his dresser. He stretched out a hand to the empty space beside him. Even the sheets had lost their warmth from her presence. He shivered, suddenly cold himself, and felt the hot prick of tears gathering behind his closed eyes. Oh God, he was *not* going to cry. What the hell was the matter with him? He seemed to be asking that question a lot lately. He grabbed the pillow from her side of the bed. Her side of the bed, his mind echoed. He had already given her a side of the bed. He rolled onto his side, clutching the pillow to himself and burying his face in the linen. I will not cry, I will not cry, he chanted in his head. I deserve this. This is only fair, only fitting. I don't even know why she came here in the first place. She gave me a gift -- I will not cry. He pulled the pillow closer as he thought of his 'greeting' to her from last night. He could hear the anger and hostility that had been in his voice as he had demanded "Why are you here?" He pushed his face further into the pillow, his arms wrapped completely around it and he felt, rather than heard the sob that escaped him. Oh, God. I will not cry, I will not cry, he chanted even as the first tear slipped down his cheek. He was lost in self-recrimination, mourning what he had lost, what had never had a chance to really even be, when he felt it. Her hand. Her hand on his back. And there -- that was the bed shifting as she sat behind him. He was imagining things. She was gone, but he had always had a vivid imagination. He thought he felt her shift, settling herself against his back, her hand sliding over his side and down along his arm to hold the pillow with him. Another choked sob escaped, and he felt another tear slide down his face. What the hell was the matter with him? Forty-seven years old, Assistant Director for the FBI, former Marine. Why the hell was he on the verge of crying like a baby? Because she left. She left and nothing would ever be the same. In his mind her phantom hands stroked him, and he strangled another sob, refusing to give in and let it go. I will not cry, I will not cry, he continued to chant. This is only fair, only right. I did this to her. Why should she treat me any differently? He could hear her, there in his head, calling him softly. He ignored her -- how do you answer a figment of your own imagination? He began to murmur into the pillow, holding it in a steel vise, hiding his face, his words muffled by the wet fabric. "I'm sorry, Mara, I'm sorry. I wanted more. I wanted you. I wanted forever. I'm sorry. Oh God, I am so sorry." And he could hear her, her voice whispering in his ear, telling him it was all right, all was forgiven, there was nothing to forgive. That she wanted him too. Ah, imagination was a wonderful thing. She was begging him to turn around, to hold her, to talk to her, but he curled tighter into himself. This was just too painful. He couldn't bear for her to forgive him, he couldn't deal with her acceptance. Not even from this phantom his own wants and needs had created. What did she say? You're scaring me? He shuddered. He was so glad she wasn't really here. He would never want to scare her. He wanted only to be with her, to care for her, to protect her, and to pleasure her. He could feel two more tears make their way down his cheeks, and he was pulling the pillow closer when the bed shifted again, and the pillow was ripped from his grasp. He turned in confusion, his eyes unfocused and blurred by the tears, and -- she was there. Her hands were on his face, wiping the tears away, as she crooned soft sounds to him. Sounds of warmth and acceptance, of caring and understanding, of concern and, yes, of love. There were no real words, but the feelings were tangible, sliding over and around him, weaving a cocoon of acceptance that enfolded him, gathered him in, made him feel safe and secure. Somehow, she had slipped into the bed, her small body wrapped around his larger frame, his head now buried in her breasts as he continued to fight the tears that still slipped out, one by one. He moaned against her skin, an anguished sound of amazement and disbelief. "You're here." She cooed to him again, noises and sounds, and her hands were all over him, stroking, soothing, touching, making the connection real. And then the words: "I'm here." He heard that. He understood that. She was speaking to him and he could understand. "You're here," he repeated in a strangled voice. "Shh, of course I'm here." She was moving beside him, and the fear, the abandonment that had so devastated him before was rapidly being replaced with the need to be with her -- to join with her. To find a way to crawl into her soul where things were safe and sane, and he could be himself. Not the Assistant Director. Not the task force commander. Not the head of Violent Crimes. But Walter. Her Walter. Mara's Walter. He heard her repeat it, as if she had read his mind. "Shh," she was saying. "My Walter. Shhhh." She moved against him again, and her words, her touch, her tone overcame him, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to take her. His penis leapt to life, his erection hard between them, and she looked into his eyes, seeing the arousal, the desire, the sheer need in them. She rubbed her body against him again, then turned onto her back, and he rolled onto her, sheathing himself in her, feeling the warm tightness as she offered him this ultimate acceptance. He wasn't going to last long this time; his need was too great. He tried to hold himself still, to regain some control, but she moved beneath him, and he was gone. He stroked once, twice, three times, and it was over. He emptied himself into her, a sob escaping as he came, then collapsed onto her, wrapping his arms around her, crushing her to himself. He was still buried in her, his tears soaking her chest, her face, her hair, when he murmured, "I thought you left me." She pushed him away slightly, enough to take his face into her hands, to stare into his eyes, as she said, "I will never leave you, Walter, never. If there is any way I can prevent it, I will never leave." She pulled him down and kissed him, a long, lingering caress that made his penis twitch within her. "I belong with you." **************************************************************** He'd fallen asleep again. Exhaustion did that to you. But when he woke this time, she was nestled trustingly in his arms, her head resting on his bicep. He moved slightly, and felt the tell-tale pinpricks that told him his arm was asleep. He shrugged minutely. Didn't matter. She was here. For that moment, his joy was complete. He reached out and brushed her hair away from her face again, smiling as he thought he was already getting good at this. He could get used to this. It tickled, yes, but in a good way. And it was a constant reminder that she was here, with him, in his arms. If she still wanted to stay. He could feel himself grow hot, his face flushed as he thought of his earlier display. Aside from his weeping like an infant, his demonstration of sexual prowess hadn't earned him any points he was sure. He looked down at her again. The momentary joy he had felt upon awakening with her was already being eclipsed by his own self-doubts, his own insecurities, his own fears. Why would she even want to be here with him? He closed his eyes briefly, taking deep breaths to still the raging emotions that were just under the surface, threatening to emerge and overtake him again. When he felt he had regained at least partial control, he opened his eyes and looked down at her again. She was watching him, those emerald eyes wide and deep, drawing him in, her lips curled in a small half-smile. "You're doing it again," she whispered. He twitched. How did she know him so well? "Doing what?" he asked, his voice hoarse from still unshed tears. "Getting morose. Having doubts." She grinned up at him, and he found himself smiling back at her. "Next thing you know, you'll be trying to push me away again with your gruff Assistant Director act." His smile turned sheepish. Already, she knew him so well. "You'll just have to keep me in line then," he teased, and was rewarded when her smile widened and she burst into laughter. "You hardly look like someone *I* could keep in line!" She shifted, pulling herself up, her head resting on her hand as she now looked down at him. "I mean," one hand came out and stroked the arm that had been cradling her head, "look." She squeezed his arm slightly, "Hardly accountant material." Her hand continued its lazy journey, running slowly across his chest, tracing the hard muscles that lay beneath his skin, feeling the ridges in his abdomen. "Forty-seven," she said in a reverential tone. "Incredible!" He laughed then and rolled her over, tickling her and letting his own hands travel her softness, tripping lightly over her hills and valleys, around the curves that had brought him such delight. "*You,*" he whispered in her ear, after he had gently pinned her beneath him, "are incredible. And the only one who could keep me in line. The only one I'd want to." His lips made their way from her ear, along her jaw, and finally found her mouth. He kissed her, kissed her again, was kissing her, losing himself in her, drowning in her very presence, when he dimly heard a sound. He paused for a moment, then reached for her lips again, but she pushed him away, saying, "Walter, there's someone at your door." He looked up, dizzy, all the blood in his body was pooled beneath his waist, and his thinking was definitely impaired. "My door?" he repeated. She shoved at his chest, and he rolled away, laying back for a moment, trying to clear his mind. "Yes, your door. Your doorbell is ringing." She was laughing now, a full, throaty laugh, infectious, and he found himself joining her, even as he struggled to his feet. "My door," he repeated again. "Someone at my door." "Yes. Go to the door. I'm gonna grab a shower. Then I'll need something to wear." She was out of the bed, padding to the bathroom, and he was groaning as he reluctantly pulled on sweat pants and trotted down the stairs. He heard the shower start as he peered through the peephole. No one was there. Quickly retrieving his weapon, he opened the door cautiously, and viewed an empty hall. Holding the gun behind his back, he stepped out into the corridor and he looked to the left. Mulder and Scully were just turning to see what the noise behind them was. "I told you he was probably sleeping, Mulder," Scully said. Mulder shrugged, then headed back up the hall toward Skinner, his partner following. "Did we wake you, Sir?" he asked. "Er, no, that is, well, yes, um ..." His voice trailed away. "Do you need something, Agents?" When in doubt, fall back on tried and true methodology. Scully straightened and began to say, "No," but Mulder pushed past Skinner, into the condo, saying, "Yes, Sir, we need to speak with you." Skinner stared at Scully, but she gave a helpless little shrug, as if to ask, 'what do you want me to do about him?' and followed her partner into the condo. Skinner stood for a moment, then realized he was standing, barefoot and shirtless, weapon drawn, alone in his hallway while everyone else had gone inside. He was still not thinking too clearly. He came back in, pulling the door shut behind him, and walked into the living room. Scully stood awkwardly by the end table, but Mulder had plopped down on the couch, apparently intent on making himself at home. Skinner crossed quickly to the coat tree and replaced his weapon in the holster that hung there. Mulder nodded toward the stairs, asking with a smirk, "Are we keeping you from the shower, Sir?" Skinner flushed, then recovered quickly, saying, "What do you need to speak to me about?" From upstairs, the sound of running water ceased, and Skinner found himself somewhat amazed that there was a woman anywhere who could shower in under twenty minutes. His eyes were drawn to the stairs, and he was soon growing lost in thoughts of the petite woman who waited for him up there. He missed the look his two agents -- former agents -- exchanged as they recognized his distraction. "Mulder," Scully hissed, "I told you this was not a good idea." She turned to Skinner. "I'm sorry, Sir, we've intruded." Skinner mentally pulled himself back to the present, back to his living room and the two people who were watching him there. Scully looked embarrassed, uncomfortable, but Mulder looked as if he was enjoying himself immensely. His face wore a 'cat that ate the canary' look, and he was slouched back on the sofa as if he had no intention of moving. "No, Scully," his eyes drifted to the stairs again, "it's all right. You're here now." He pulled his gaze back to her. "You needed to speak to me?" Mulder had opened his mouth to speak, when a soft alto drifted down the stairs. "Walter? Don't you have *anything* smaller than an extra large?" it asked plaintively. "I'm swimming in this." Mulder burst out laughing, and even Scully smiled, while Skinner's face turned scarlet. He glared at his two agents and they quieted quickly, then he walked to the stairs. "Well, never mind," she was there now, standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at him. "It'll have to do. At least until you can get me back to my car at your office. I *did* have the forethought to bring a bag," she was walking down the stairs, bare feet soundless against the white carpet, "I just wasn't thinking about it when you decided we needed more privacy last night." She had reached the bottom now, and reached out for him. He looked at her. She was right -- she did look ridiculous in his oversized clothes. She had on a pair of sweat pants, twin to his own. He was sure she'd had to tie them to keep them up, and they were miles too long for her. She wore a Quantico T-shirt; God knows where she had unearthed that, and it, too, dwarfed her, the shoulder seams halfway down her arms. She'd pulled the hem up to her waist and done something to it -- knotted it? -- to make it stay. Her hair, that glorious hair, was piled up on top of her head, but damp tendrils had escaped and curled invitingly around her face and neck. He thought she looked enchanting. Despite the audience, despite the looks -- no, stares -- he knew they were getting, he couldn't help himself, and he reached for her as well, pulling her against himself, and burying his head in her hair. "Mara," he breathed. "Mara." "I'm here, Walter," she answered softly, then looking up, pulled away from him, saying, "You have company." He released her reluctantly, then reached out again and took her hand. He led her to the living area, then made the introductions. Mulder had scrambled to his feet, and stood next to Scully, as Skinner said, "Agent Dana Scully." Mara extended a hand, and Skinner noted that she was even smaller than Scully, by a couple of inches. No wonder his clothes dwarfed her. "You're the doctor, right?" Mara was saying. "Pathologist?" Scully nodded, then looked quickly at Skinner. "Walter says you're the best he's ever worked with, the best he's ever seen. He was so sorry when you and your partner were transferred." Mara smiled, and Scully was smiling back, a real smile, full and from the heart, something none of them got to see from her too often. Skinner was taken with how the look transformed Scully, and acknowledged that Mara's magic worked on everyone. Mulder was also staring at Scully, and Skinner knew he was drinking in this smile, cataloging it, and photographing it in his mind's eye, to hold onto forever. Then Mara stepped to Mulder, extending her hand again and said, "You must be Fox Mulder; the, and I quote, 'best damned investigator I've ever seen,' end quote." She reached out and took his hand, then leaned forward and pulled him down, swiftly kissing him on the cheek. "I have to thank you. I owe you so much." "Me?" Mulder squeaked, and Skinner wanted to laugh. He didn't think he'd ever seen Mulder so stunned. It was a rare person indeed, who could chase the words from Fox Mulder. "Yes, you." Mara turned to include Scully in her next statement. "Walter tells me it was your work, conducted from Oregon, that actually enabled them to catch my daughter's killer. I owe you both so much." She released Mulder's hand, then stepped back to stand by Skinner, and he put his arm around her without thinking. Mulder was watching their interaction, and he asked quietly, "Are you staying through the hearing?" He shot a solicitous look in Skinner's direction. "Yes, through the hearing, a bit longer if needed," Mara replied, noting the agent's concern. Through the hearing. Skinner was astonished. He'd felt sure she would be leaving Sunday. How did she know how much he needed her? He looked up, suddenly scowling at Mulder and Scully. He needed them to leave. He needed time to talk to Mara, to be with her. Even through Monday, while longer than he had dared hope, was not long enough. Forever would not be long enough. And they needed to make plans, make arrangements, reach some agreements. Mulder was taking Scully by the arm, leading her to the door, saying, "Scully, I told you we should have called first. See, he's fine. He'll be fine." Scully sputtered as Mulder reached the door and turned, "Sorry to have intruded, Sir. And it was nice to have met you, Ms. ?" "Norris. Mara Norris." "Ms. Norris." He nodded. "We'll look forward to seeing you again sometime." He turned and hustled his partner out the door, and as it closed behind him, Mara burst into laughter. "Oh, Walter," she cried, "did you see the look on her face? Priceless, just priceless! She is going to kill him!" She dissolved in laughter again, collapsing onto the couch Mulder had just vacated. Skinner found himself laughing with her, and then thinking, I have laughed more in the last 24 hours, than I have in the last 24 years. What does that say about me? He felt the quiet steal over him again, and then she was there, taking his hands and pulling him down beside her. "Oh, no, you don't," she said, and she snuggled up against him, still laughing softly, and before he knew what had happened he was once more laughing with her. ************************************************ They'd made the trip into the city to get her car. He'd insisted on taking the Metro, then walking the several blocks to the Hoover. He couldn't bear to spend any time away from her. The time they had was all too short as it was. And now she wore her own pants, but she'd kept his T-shirt on, and he found that he liked that. He felt proprietary, seeing her in his clothes, and he enjoyed the feeling. She was puttering in the kitchen, digging through his cabinets as she pulled together another meal. He'd offered to take her out, but she had said she didn't want to share him. He smiled now as he remembered. Said she wanted him all to herself. "You're smiling," she said from across the room, and he looked up to see her watching him, an amused smile on her own face. "You do that to me," he answered. "I think you may be a witch. And you've enchanted me." She laughed out loud then, and he found himself joining her. "You are so good for me," he sighed. "You make me laugh." "Laughter is good for the soul," she said, as she pulled an onion out of his crisper and tossed it to him. "And so are tears." Her tone was light, but there was an underlying seriousness to it. "Here," she held out a knife, "chop that up, will you?" He took the knife with one hand, and grabbed her wrist gently with the other. He pulled her to him, settling her in his lap and burying his head in her hair again. She held him for a long moment, then asked softly, "What is it?" "I need to see you," he whispered. "I'm here," she responded. "Not now." He paused, swallowing hard. "Next week. After Monday. What happens after Monday?" Her face turned sad and she kissed him tenderly. "After Monday, we see what we can work out." "Not good enough," he said harshly. "Not good enough at all. I can't work something out. I can't go back to the way it was. I *need* to be with you." "All right, Walter, all right," she said soothingly. "Let's see what we can work out." "Can you move to DC?" he asked. "I have money. I can support you." She chuckled, then looked seriously into his eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. He studied her for a long moment, then smiled sheepishly, "Guess not, huh?" She shook her head sadly. "I don't think that would be a good idea right now." "Why?" he asked plaintively. She lowered her head, the first time she had tried to avoid his eyes since he met her, and he scrunched up his face in concern. "Hey, what is it?" "Not now, OK? Please?" "Mara, tell me. I can't stand to think that I've upset you." He gently brought her head around, tilting it up so he could see her eyes. Her face was furrowed, her body tense. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, and asked again, "Not now, Walter. I can't do this now. Please?" And he could deny her nothing, so he said nothing more about it. "Can I come to Norfolk?" "Of course." The smile was back, the light in her green eyes as she looked at him. "Can I come Monday night?" "Won't you have to work on Tuesday?" she asked. "I'll commute." "Four hours?" She laughed, then shook her head in amusement. She thought he was joking, but he was deadly serious. He would commute four hours if it meant being able to see her every day. "Walter, you're being absurd. You can't commute from Norfolk to DC. Not every day." She shook her head again. "Weekends. We'll have weekends." He gripped her to himself. "Weekends are not enough." His voice broke and he stopped for a moment, forcing himself to get a semblance of control over his unruly emotions. "Mara, weekends aren't enough. I *need* to see you." She looked at him, taking in the essential necessity she saw in his face and sighed. "Richmond. I can meet you in Richmond a couple times a week." He thought quickly. Two hours for her, about the same for him. Richmond would work for the time being, until he persuaded her to move to DC. Or -- he had a sudden thought -- maybe he would be demoted in the hearing Monday, and he could request assignment to the Norfolk office. He couldn't believe he was actually getting excited about the possibility of being demoted. She'd already changed his priorities, changed his life, changed him. But it wouldn't necessarily have to be a demotion. Hell, he could just request a downgrade and insist on assignment to Norfolk. They were still short two agents. He winced as he thought what it would be like to try to work in that office, then looked into Mara's eyes again, and shrugged. It would be worth it to be with her. "What?" she asked. "What are you planning?" "I can transfer to Norfolk. I'll come to you." "Wouldn't that be a severe downgrade for you?" "Doesn't matter," he said, and kissed her again. "Walter, be serious. You've worked too hard to get where you are. You can't do that." She was sitting up in his lap, looking at him, then she leaned into him, and rested her head on his shoulder. "But it's a very sweet thought." "Not sweet," he mumbled, "selfish. Very selfish." His face was buried in her neck, "Mara, I *need* to be with you." Oh God, he was whining. Here we go again. What the hell was the matter with him? "Richmond, Walter. A few times a week. Hotels are gonna get expensive real fast. And we're not kids. We can be patient." "No. I don't think I can be patient. I'm too old to be patient anymore. I can get a place in Richmond, small, inexpensive, but it would be ours. Will you meet me in Richmond, Mara? I'll come every day, I promise. Will you meet me?" She looked into his eyes again, seeing the fear and insecurity, then nodded slowly. "All right, Walter, I'll come to Richmond." He sighed contentedly, then slid her off his lap and rose to chop the onion. "We'll find a place tomorrow," he said happily, but he missed the worried look she gave him. ************************************************ They'd driven down to Richmond on Sunday, apartment hunting, and found a small place. One bedroom, furnished, but he could afford it and it was in a decent part of the city. She'd seemed quiet, and he wondered if he'd pushed too hard, but when he'd signed the lease, and gotten the key and approval for immediate occupancy, she'd seemed pleased, and more than willing to join him in the bedroom. They'd done some shopping, stocking the refrigerator, but she would only let him buy a set of sheets and a couple towels. No other linens, or dishes, or pots and pans, claiming she had more than enough and would bring them up with her over the next weeks. The next weeks! His heart had soared to hear her making plans beyond the immediate. Over the next weeks. He fixated on her words. She would be coming. She would bring her things. He would see her. She would be there. He was grinning like a fool, totally infatuated. He pulled her back to the bedroom, taking things slow this time, trying to show her with his body what she meant to him. He'd been gentle, taking his time, stretching it out, trying to make it last. They had to go back to DC, but he felt like he'd found sanctuary here, and he didn't want to let it end. When they were finished, both of them sated and a little glassy-eyed, he'd tugged her from the nest of tangled sheets and they'd showered together. She'd pulled her hair up, piled on top of her head, and he'd been careful not to get it wet, though damp tendrils clung to her neck. And now she was sitting on the bed, naked, and she pulled it loose and it tumbled down around her shoulders, falling in wild abandon almost to her waist. She pulled a brush from her purse, and began to work the tangles out, methodically stroking through the thick mass. "Here," he stepped forward, hand extended, "let me." She tilted her head and looked up at him. "Are you sure? It's sort of a pain to work the snarls out." He nodded and took the brush from her hand, then moved to sit behind her on the bed. He lifted the brush and began to pull it through her curls. "Tell me if I hurt you." She turned, and he was astonished to see tears in her eyes. "I don't think you could ever hurt me." He clasped her to himself, holding her against his heart, and murmured, "I wouldn't, Mara, I would never hurt you." She snuggled against him a bit longer and he felt the hot sting of tears against his chest. What? What made her cry like this? He wanted to ask, but was afraid of the answer. Instead, he held her gently, and then, when she was settled, he sat her up and began once more to tease the snarls from her head. "I want to know," he said quietly. "Know what?" she asked. He continued to work the brush through her hair, and watched as it leapt to life, electric, and swirled about them. "About him. The one that hurt you. The one that makes you cry." She grew very still, and very silent, then she rose and turned to him, taking the brush. "No, you don't," she said. He reached out and touched the scar on her breast, then said, "Did he do this?" "Please leave it alone, Walter." He could hear the pleading in her voice, the approaching panic. "Please?" He looked at her. She was frightened, her breath coming in small little pants. He glanced at her chest, knowing her heart was racing, then he mentally kicked himself for bringing her to this. Dropping his gaze, he whispered, "I'm sorry." She heard only his regret that his question had upset her, but he knew he was offering inadequate apology for what his gender had done to her. She reached out and embraced him, pulling him close. "It's all right, Walter. There's time. We don't have to do it all right now." He rested his head against her breast, then turned and brushed the scar with his lips. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I know," she said sadly, and he suddenly had a vision of their first meeting. Breakfast in a small diner. His hand on her wrist, asking her name. His comment, unusual. And her response. 'It means bitter sorrow.' ****************************************** He came out of the hearing and was astonished to see Mulder and Scully waiting in the hall. "Don't you have work to do?" he asked gruffly, though he was pleased to see them. He began to walk down the hall and they joined him. "Nah," Mulder drawled. "I think the world is safe from fertilizer for the next few days. We can relax our vigilance." "What happened, Sir?" Scully asked. "What did they do to you?" "Written reprimand, stays in my record two years." He shrugged. "You don't seem too upset," Mulder commented. "I deserved it. I should never have let that man bait me that way." He stopped and turned to them, his face coloring slightly. "Look," he averted his gaze, uncomfortable, "I appreciate you coming. But ..." His voice trailed away. What could he say to them? That someone else was waiting for him? That he needed to get out of this building and find her? That she was leaving and he was more concerned with the next 6 hours until he could be with her again than he was any reprimand he could be given? "Where is she?" Mulder asked, and Scully smacked him gently on the arm. "Waiting for me by the Mall." Skinner looked up, relieved that they seemed to understand. "We'll tell Kim you stepped out for a few after the hearing," Scully offered. "You go." He nodded gratefully, already making his way to the elevator, his thoughts turned elsewhere. Mulder whistled softly as they watched him disappear. "Man, he's got it bad." Scully smacked him again. "I don't think it's bad at all," she murmured. "I think it's very, very good, and I think it's about time." ******************************************************************* The last twenty miles were pure hell. He was actually fidgeting as he drove. He grinned to himself as he thought of Kim's expression when he left his office at 5:00 on the dot. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left on time. He didn't know if he ever had. He sighed. The hearing had come at a good time. They could chalk up his new attitude toward keeping to business hours as fallout from his disciplinary proceeding. He grinned. It was great timing -- it would provide cover for a lot. Lord knows he'd seen it often enough. Someone screwed up, but just couldn't deal with being held accountable for their actions, and their attitude went out the window. Well, he was afraid his work ethic was seriously compromised -- but not for that reason. His reason stood about five feet tall, had red hair and green eyes, and was waiting for him in Richmond. He sighed as he looked at the cell phone next to him. Useless. She didn't have one, and he hadn't had a phone put in the apartment yet. With all the time she was going to spend on the road, between Richmond and Norfolk, he was going to have to get a cellular for her. He didn't want her out there with no way to call for help if something happened. He'd take care of it tomorrow. Finally, the apartment. He was there. He parked, looking around for her car. There, it was there. Which meant she was here. He hopped out of the car, grabbed his bag from the rear and walked quickly inside. He reached the door and paused. His key was out, but he didn't want to risk startling her. Instead, he reached out and knocked softly, suddenly shy and diffident. God, he'd pushed her so hard into this. What if she really didn't want to be here? What if she was just humoring him? Or worse -- he thought of the scar on her chest. What if she was afraid to tell him no? Oh God, what had he done? He was thinking of leaving again, giving her some space, more time, when the door opened, and she was there. She took in the stricken look on his face, shook her head ruefully, and tugged him in. Relieving him of the bag, she smiled up at him, and said, "I just can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" "What?" he asked, confused. "Alone," she repeated. "I leave you alone and you sink into the pit of despair." She kissed him softly, then asked, "What is it this time?" "You," he choked out. "I pushed this on you. Maybe you weren't ready. Maybe you didn't ..." "Shh," her fingers were on his lips. "Shhhh." She looked up at him. "I'm a big girl, Walter. It may have taken some time, but I don't do things I don't want to do." She stepped away from him, into the center of the room. "Not for you, not for him, not for anybody." It had slipped out, and he didn't even think she was aware of what she had said. But he heard it clearly -- not for him. What the hell had happened to her? She was still talking. "This is where I want to be." She waved her arms around the small room. "I must confess, I didn't expect it to happen so quickly," she gave a giddy little laugh and hugged herself, "but I'm glad it did." She moved back to him, her hands stroking his chest, then playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Let's see," she teased, "I could be home, alone, eating a frozen dinner with another night of television to look forward to, or," her eyes darkened and she licked her lips, her hand traveling down to caress him through his pants, "I could be here, with you, making ..." she paused, mischief clear in her face as she kissed him swiftly and then pulled away, "dinner." She giggled and dashed into the kitchen, and he let out a roar and followed her. "Oh no you don't," he growled, as he pulled her back into his arms. He kissed her hard, then held her tight against himself, his chin resting on her head. She was just the right height to fit against him. He sighed, contented. Once again, she had chased his demons away. "I'm so glad you're here," he whispered. "Oh, Walter, where else could I be?" ******************************************* They were curled up on the couch after dinner, her head resting against his chest, when he asked, "Where do you work?" He blushed, then added, "God, I feel so stupid that I have to ask." She smiled in understanding. "Civil Service," she said, "at the Navy Base. I work with computers." "Doing what?" "Data management. Analysis. Some training. Nothing exciting, I assure you," she laughed. He was thinking. Transfer? Could she find a comparable job in DC? Would it be pushing again to bring it up? He looked around. The apartment was all right - but not what he wanted for her. He wanted to give her everything. And he couldn't do that in a one bedroom furnished apartment, a two hour drive from either of them. He frowned, and she must have sensed his mood shift, because she tilted her head up and looked at him. "What now, Walter?" She laughed as she said it, then added, "How does my job do this to you?" "Do what?" He was confused again. She seemed to do that to him a lot. Her immediate insight, her intuition; it kept him guessing, off balance, but in a rather nice way. "Send you into one of your morose moments." He made an effort to smile, saying, "Me? Morose? How could you think such a thing?" She twisted out of his arms and turned around to look at him. She studied him for a moment, then said, "OK, you can slide on this one, but I'm calling you on the next one." She leaned in and kissed him and he was once more amazed. "How do you know me so well?" he murmured to her. She laughed again, and kissed him, then stood, pulling him up behind her. "Come on," she said. "Let's take a walk." He followed her to the door, grabbing their coats, and helping her on with hers, then shrugging into his own. They stepped into the hallway, and he pulled the door shut, pocketing the key. They walked out of the building and stood for a moment in the parking lot. "Where to?" he asked. "Remember that park we saw yesterday?" He nodded. "How far away do you think that is?" He thought for a minute, then said, "Mile and a half? Maybe two?" "You up for that?" He nodded again, then took her hand. When she began to head off to the left, he pulled her to a stop, and said, "I thought you wanted to go to the park?" She looked up at him, her turn to be confused. "It's not this way?" He laughed then, and said, "Ah, at last. You do have a flaw! I was beginning to think you were perfect!" She blushed and shook her head. "Don't be silly. No one's perfect -- certainly not me. And navigation is not my strong suit." He pulled her close for a moment, and whispered down to her, "Perfect enough for me." He stood there, holding her, then teased, "But I *do* think I'll drive if we go somewhere." She giggled and he smiled at her, then stepped back and took her hand again, saying, "Come on, let's go." They were walking at a good clip and had gone about a mile, when he said, "I thought you wanted to take a 'walk.' I didn't know we were going to be racing." She laughed and said, "I like to walk. I walk most every night at home." She paused, then looked up at him, "Well, in Norfolk. This is home now." He felt the grin that blossomed on his face. Home now. This was home now. Here. With him. Her home. Their home. Oh, God, he was going to be insufferable, he could tell. He had no idea there was this much happiness in the whole world, let alone just for him. But she was talking again, and he had missed it, so he asked, "What? I'm sorry -- I was lost in thought for a minute." "I said, what time do you have to be there?" "Where? Oh, work? Um, I used to go in early every day, but 8:00 is all right." She looked at him, appraising his body, and asked, "And when, and where, do you work out?" He smiled again - she knew him too well. "I used to work out at home, but I can use the gym at the Hoover. I just need to go in a bit earlier." She had her head cocked as she looked at him. "I think I'd like to watch you; that could be a most -- intriguing -- sight." She wiggled her eyebrows and he laughed. "I don't think so. I don't think I'd get much 'work' done if you were watching." She laughed with him. " 's all right. I don't think I'd get much 'watching' done anyway." They reached the park and he put his arm around her, leading her to a bench where they sat. "So, looks like I'll be leaving about 5:00. When do you need to go?" "I don't have to be there till 8:30. I'll leave between 6:00 and 6:30." "I want to get you a phone. I'm going to get you a phone." She was looking at him, surprised. "I don't want you on the road without a way of calling for help." "I'll be OK," she said, lowering her eyes. "Mara," he pulled her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Please, let me do this. I'll worry enough as it is. I already feel bad, asking you to make the drive every day. Let me do this. It'll help me not to worry so much." He kissed her gently, and saw the tears fill her eyes. "Hey, what is it?" She shook her head, then quickly wiped the tears away. "No sliding this time," he said. "What is it?" She looked up at him, smiled sadly, and then averted her eyes. "I'm ..." -- she took a deep breath -- "I'm not exactly used to having someone worrying over me." She sighed softly. "It's a nice feeling. Thank you." Thank you? She was thanking him? Didn't she have any idea what she had done for him? He mentally shook his head. That this simple gesture, a commonsense action really, would mean enough to bring her to tears -- he wasn't sure he wanted to know what had happened to her before. If he found out, he might have to kill someone. But no more. Whatever it was, no more. He pulled her close, then said, "I'll get it tomorrow at lunch; bring it down with me in the evening." They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, enjoying each other's presence, until she shifted awkwardly. "Walter," she began, "your job. It's a lot more important than mine. What you do ..." She trailed off, and he remained quiet as she sorted out her thoughts. "You do important work, Walter. I don't want to take you away from that." He snorted, then laughed cynically. "Sad to say, but I'm not sure you can. I'm afraid there will be times when I won't be able to come down. Times I'll still have to go in early or stay late. Times I'll have to travel." She was nodding. "I expected as much." He shook his head. "But I'm going to work really hard to minimize those times, Mara. Really hard." He leaned back against the bench. "I have something else I want to spend my time on now -- someone else. Hell, if I was a little bit older, I'd be looking into early retirement, I can assure you. I may just quit anyway." "Walter!" she gasped, "you can't!" "Yes, I think I could. I have money. I'm not rich, but I could probably work it out." His face took on a faraway expression as he began to calculate in his head if this was really an option, or if he was just dreaming. Hmmm, he would have to work it out on paper. "What?" He'd missed what she said again. He had to start paying better attention. She was always so attentive, and she deserved the same from him. "What you do is important, Walter. It's not like what I do. If I were to disappear tomorrow, no one would even notice." "I would," he interrupted her fiercely, and stood, pulling her up into a tight embrace. "I would! And don't even talk about it. I would search the world to find you; I would never give up. Mara, if you disappeared and I couldn't find you, I think I would die." He gripped her tightly to his chest, burying his face in her hair, "You don't know how much I need you." He tightened his hold and felt her arms come around him. "How much I need this. Don't disappear, Mara. Please, promise me. I couldn't bear it." "Shhh," she soothed him. "Walter, it was a figure of speech. I'm not planning on going anywhere, I assure you." She could feel his heart racing beneath her, and she stroked his back slowly, offering what comfort she could. When his breathing had evened out, and his heartbeat was back to normal, she took his hand and said, "Come. We need to head back. Five a.m. is going to come early for you." They walked along in silence for a while, then she said, "Walter?" "Hmmm?" "What I said back there. About your work being important?" "Yeah?" "It is, you know. What you do -- catching people that hurt other people. Making them stop. Getting justice for the victims, closure for the families. It's some of the most important work in the world." She stopped and looked up at him. "You can't quit, Walter. There aren't enough people who care like you do. You just can't quit." He shook his head. "I'm not all that important, Mara." "Don't sell yourself short. You're an Assistant Director. That's pretty high up. And Violent Crimes. That's important stuff, Walter. We need you." "We?" "We. Us. The little people. The masses. The ones who can't fight for ourselves. We need you to fight for us. Walter, you don't know how badly we need people like you. To make sure that the bad guys get caught." She chuckled. "You know - catch the bad guy, get the girl?" He looked at her then, and saw the earnestness beneath her veneer of humor. He nodded. "OK. I won't quit." She smiled, and he added, "Yet. But, Mara, I'm not young. Forty-seven, remember? I'm gonna want to retire and be with you. And I'm gonna want to do it sooner rather than later." "I know." She held his hand, her thumb making little circles in his palm. "I know. We'll work it out, Walter." They were almost back to the apartment now, and she waved her other hand, "See how much we've already worked out?" ****************************************************** Six weeks later "What the hell is the matter with you, Jenkins?" Skinner roared. "Do I have to tell you every little thing to do? I want *all* of it picked up and bagged. *Everything.* Is that clear enough?" The young agent nodded and scurried away to get some more evidence bags. Skinner pulled his phone again, was met with the same silence he'd gotten every other time, indicating a lack of carrier, and closed it with a bang. "Shit!" he muttered. "A bit hard on Jenkins, there, weren't you, Sir?" Mulder asked. "What?" Skinner looked up, startled, then looked around. Jenkins was nowhere to be seen. "I said, you were a bit hard on Jenkins." "If he'd bagged everything the first go round, we might be done here," Skinner growled. "I don't think so, Sir. We're not going to be done here for a while, and it isn't Jenkins' fault." Mulder was eyeing Skinner speculatively. "Now, what *is* the problem? What's got you so on edge? Besides the case, that is?" Skinner looked around, noting they were alone, then confessed, "I didn't expect to have to come out here. I didn't tell Mara. And the damn phone won't work because of the mountains. I can't get a message to her to tell her where I am." Mulder was nodding. "Scully's going down the mountain with the body. She can call for you." Skinner sighed. "Yeah. I guess that'll have to do." He looked around, saw Jenkins carefully bagging bottle caps, used condoms, a broken wine bottle, and said, "And I better go talk to Jenkins. Not his fault." "No, Sir, it's not." He patted the older man's arm. "And this case is enough to put anyone on edge." ************************************************** He opened the door quietly. 2:00 a.m. He was exhausted. But he wanted to see her. He slipped off his coat, toed off his shoes, and undressed. Three hours sleep. Shit, he'd skip working out tomorrow -- four hours. He could do that. It would be four hours with her. And he needed her after the crime scene today. He was still appalled at how he had treated young Jenkins. Inexcusable. He locked the door, then turned and padded silently to the bedroom. She was sleeping, her hair flowing out behind her, covering his side of the bed. He smiled as he began to gather it together, making room to slide beneath the sheets and join her. He had been right when he had said he could get used to this. Her hair still captivated him. So long, and thick, and silky. He didn't know how she managed not to smother in it. As he tugged at strands that covered his pillow, he felt her shift as she rolled over and looked up at him. "Dana called me," she mumbled sleepily. "I know. I'm sorry I couldn't call myself. My phone wouldn't work." " 's all right. I was surprised you called at all -- or had her call." She yawned, saying, "You know what I mean." Another glimpse into her past. They slipped out at unexpected moments. She was sitting up now, pulling herself beside him and he looked down and saw he was still holding her hair in his hands. He reached behind her and let it loose to fall against her back, then brushed a few wayward strands from her face. "I want to take you away." "Away?" "A trip. A vacation. Away." "Away." "Yes, I want to go away with you. I don't want to have to think about you driving two hours to see me. I don't want to have our work always in the background. And I especially don't want to have murderers interrupt us. I want some time alone with you. Away." "How much time?" "Forever?" She smiled. "How about two weeks? I can probably get a couple weeks off." He smiled. "Well, if I can't have forever, I'll take two weeks." "I never said you couldn't have forever." She smiled as she said it. "But not right now." His face was serious. "Not right now." "Walter," she reached for him, pulling him into her embrace. And he came willingly, bending to rest his head on her shoulder, to let her hold him and shelter him and work her healing magic. "We're in forever. This is forever. We're doing forever -- one day at a time." ********************************************************** It had taken another month to arrange their work schedules so they could both be off for two weeks. Skinner hadn't been this excited in years. Hell, he hadn't been this excited in his whole life. They were going to the beach house. His parents had owned a small house in Nags Head since before he was born, and they had always vacationed there. When his mom had died, some time back, he had inherited it. He paid the taxes, kept up the utilities, even had a phone there, though he hadn't used the place in years. But he was going to use it now. He had good memories of that house, and he wanted to make some more good memories with Mara. Two weeks. He sighed. Two weeks and the weekend before and the weekend after. Sixteen days away from everything. Starting tonight, as soon as he could get away. He glanced at the clock. 2:45 p.m. He still had about an hour's worth of paperwork, and that asshole Kersch wanted to meet with him. He was complaining about Mulder and Scully again. Wanted to make a formal complaint that they were not assigned to Violent Crimes, and he wanted Skinner to stop asking them for help. Skinner shook his head. He couldn't do this today. Not today. He picked up his phone. "Kim? Reschedule AD Kersch for when I get back off leave, please." He listened. "I know. I'm sorry. If it'll help, you can wait till I'm gone and then call the bast --, um, then call him." He could hear her chuckling as she gave her agreement, then wished him well on his trip. "Thanks. I owe you one." He hung up, and dug back into the paperwork on his desk. Fifty minutes later, he looked up. Done. He was free. He dropped the last 302 in his out-basket, and stood, stretching. He'd just call Mara and tell her he was on his way. He picked up the phone as he was putting on his coat, and dialed her work number. "May I speak to Ms. Norris?" That was odd. She usually answered her own phone when he called her at work. "I see. Thank you." He hung up, frowning. She hadn't come to work today. Maybe she took an extra day to get ready. He'd try her at home. "Hi - you've reached Mara." He smiled to hear her voice, then shook his head. She had to change that message. It made it entirely too easy for perverts to figure she was a woman alone. They'd drive down one weekend and he'd redo the recording for her. It would give him an excuse to see her house again. "Please leave a message and I'll get back to you soon." "Hey, this is Walter. I just wanted to tell you I was leaving now. Tried your office, but they told me you didn't come in today. I'm gonna try the cell next. If I miss you, I'll see you in Richmond this evening." He hung up again, and headed out, making his good-byes to Kim. As he reached the elevator, he was joined by Mulder and Scully. "It's all your fault," Mulder said dryly. "What?" Skinner was distracted, waiting to reach the ground level so he could get out of the elevator and try Mara again. "Kersch." "How is Kersch my fault?" Skinner asked absently, counting the floors in his head. Mulder and Scully exchanged amused glances. "He chewed us out because of the murder in the mountains last month." "Among other things," Scully added with a sideways glance at her partner. "Oh. That must be what he's talking about then. I'm afraid I blew him off this afternoon." They exited the elevator, and Skinner was dialing. "You blew him off?" "Uh, yeah." One ring. Two rings. Three rings. "Canceled our big meeting till I get back." Four rings. Five rings. Six. "The cellular customer you are trying to reach ..." Skinner slammed the phone shut. "Shit! Where is she?" "Who?" Scully asked. "Mara. She didn't go to work today. She's not at home. Her cell is turned off. I'm going to try the apartment." He dialed again, and Mulder and Scully stood looking at him. He was fidgeting as he waited for the connection, then they watched as his lips moved, silently counting, 'One. Two. Three. Four.' "Mara? Mara, it's Walter. If you're there, pick up. I'm worried." He waited a moment, then said, "I'm on my way. I hope to hell you are too and you just forgot to turn the cell on. See you soon." "I'm gonna call the landlord." He glanced at Mulder and Scully. "I'm probably overreacting, but I just need to know everything is all right." Mulder took a long look at Scully, then reached out and patted Skinner's arm. " 's OK. I know the feeling. Go ahead and call. We'll wait." Scully was nodding as well. "Mr. Scarpelli? Walter Skinner. Have you seen Mara?" He paused. "Her car is there? Would you mind going upstairs and checking on her." He swallowed hard. "I've been having some trouble reaching her." He waited as the man spoke again. "No sir, I'll hold on if you don't mind." The tension was palpable as the three waited. Scully unconsciously inched a little closer to Mulder, and he reached out and gently touched her arm. Skinner was positively vibrating, so tense he trembled where he stood. "Yes?" he said tightly. He was listening intently, and the trembling tripled and the blood drained from his face. "Sir?" Scully stepped forward, grabbing his arm. "Mulder, get him. I think he's going to faint." They half dragged, half carried him to a stone barricade in the parking garage, and pushed him down to sit on it. Mulder took the phone from Skinner's useless fingers. "Sir? Excuse me, this is Agent Fox Mulder, of the FBI. I work with Assistant Director Skinner. Could you repeat for me what you just told him?" Mulder listened intently, while Scully stood by Skinner, holding his head between his knees, telling him to breathe. "Thank you, Sir. Yes, call the police, but tell them the FBI is involved and they are not to touch anything. Have them call me if there's a problem." He rattled off his phone number, then hung up. He turned to look at Skinner. The AD's head wasn't between his knees anymore; rather, it was buried in his hands, and his shoulders shook slightly. Scully patted his back gently, then rose from her seat next to him, and walked to Mulder. "What?" she asked, the fear evident in her voice. "What happened?" "Not sure. Apartment was broken into, pretty torn up. No sign of Mara. But," he lowered his voice, "Skinner didn't hear this. He flaked after the break-in part. There's blood everywhere." ************************************************************************** "I have to get down there," Skinner said as he rose to his feet. He blinked and looked around, seeing Mulder and Scully talking a few feet away. "I want you both with me. Mulder, you're SAIC on this." He turned and began to head for his car. "Sir?" Scully called, but he ignored her and both agents trotted forward. She reached out and grabbed his arm when he continued to ignore her. "Sir?" Skinner shook her off, almost violently, and she stumbled, Mulder catching her and helping her get balanced. Then Mulder reached out, grabbed Skinner and whirled him around. "Scully wants to talk to you," he gritted out. "I don't have time for this," Skinner growled. "You have to take time," Scully ordered. "You want Mulder as SAIC? You have to make arrangements. We don't work for you anymore, remember?" "Shit!" Skinner stood silent for a moment, then stalked off rapidly, Mulder and Scully trailing. He got back in the elevator and rode to the top floor, then walked to the Director's office, his two agents still following. They hovered by the door as Skinner strode briskly toward Freeh's administrative assistant. "Theresa? I need to see him," Skinner began. "He's in a meeting, Mr. Skinner." "Pull him out. This is an emergency." The woman lifted the phone and spoke quietly, then replaced it saying, "He'll be right out." The door opened and Skinner stepped over to the man who emerged. "Louis, I need your help." "What is it, Walt? What's the emergency?" "My -- Mar --, that is, the woman --" Skinner's voice cracked and he couldn't continue. "Walter, calm down." The Director patted the taller man on the shoulder, lifting his eyes to see Scully and Mulder in the doorway. "Agents," he nodded in greeting. "Can you fill me in here?" Mulder stepped forward. "A woman, Mara Norris, is missing from the apartment she shares with the Assistant Director." "I see." Freeh turned back to Skinner. "What do you need?" "Mulder," Skinner said, "and Scully. I need the best we've got and they're it." Freeh turned back and looked at the two agents in question. "Agent Mulder is it? I've heard good things about your work in Violent Crimes, though you do have an -- interesting -- reputation." He extended his hand and Mulder shook it. "Thank you, Sir." "And Agent Scully. Your work is also excellent. Much to be commended." He shook her hand as well, then turned back to Skinner, who was standing forlornly by the desk, waiting for a decision. "Walt, I have AD Kersch in my office right now. Did you miss some meeting with him this afternoon?" "I didn't miss it. I moved it. I'm technically on leave right now, and I moved the meeting to when I return." Skinner shook his head, "Louis, this is not pertinent. I need to get going. Can I have them or not?" "AD Kersch is complaining that you've been *having* them without his permission since they were transferred to him several months ago." Skinner snorted in disgust. "Kersch has them investigating fertilizer. Keeping the world safe from manure. Pardon my frankness, but AD Kersch couldn't find his posterior with both hands and a mirror." The Director laughed at that, then said, "No love lost between you two." He paused, "Look, Walt, I've missed our racquetball games. You're always so direct." He straightened, then said, "I'll deal with Kersch. You want Mulder as SAIC? You've got him." "No," Mulder spoke up, and all heads turned. "Not me. Scully. Make Scully SAIC." "May I ask why?" the Director inquired. "That 'interesting' reputation of mine. We can't afford to let it impede this investigation. And besides, Scully's better with people and she's a better administrator as well. I don't have the patience for it." "That all right with you, Walt?" "Fine," Skinner said through gritted teeth. "I just need to get going now, Louis. And I'll see about that racquetball." "I'm canceling your leave, Walt. You're on this full-time, unless your judgement is impaired." Freeh turned and fixed Scully with a serious stare. "You are responsible for making that call, Agent Scully. If Assistant Director Skinner is unable to function, or in any way becomes a threat to himself, others, or the investigation, he is to be pulled off of it, and I want to be notified, understood?" He grabbed a card off the admin's desk, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to her. "My cell number. Call me if you need anything." "Yes, Sir," Scully replied. Skinner was at the door, turned, and said, "Thank you, Louis. I'll remember this." ********************************************** They were in the car now, Scully driving, Mulder beside her, Skinner in the back. Mulder had a notepad and was trying to get the AD to answer some questions. "When was the last time you saw her?" "This morning, when I left to drive up to DC. About 5:00." "Was that your normal time to leave?" Skinner looked up, his face stricken. "Shit. I established a routine. I always left at the same time. Oh, God, what have I done?" He turned and stared out the window, forehead pressed against the glass. "I don't think you've done anything, Sir," Scully commented. "Most people leave for work at the same time everyday." "When did she leave?" Skinner was quiet, and Mulder had to repeat the question. "Sir? When did Mara leave?" "Leave?" Skinner pulled his head wearily from the window, and looked toward Mulder. "Oh, she usually leaves between 6:00 and 6:30. I go in early to work out." "And she didn't go to work today?" "No." "Did she call in?" "I don't know, Mulder," Skinner snapped, "I didn't ask." "All right," the younger man said soothingly, "it's all right. We'll find out." Skinner nodded and turned back toward the window. Mulder looked at Scully, both of them thinking the same thing -- and hoping it hadn't occurred to Skinner yet. That apparently whatever had happened had happened *after* Skinner left. And at that hour of the morning, she was probably a deliberate target and not just a random victim. Which brought up all kinds of questions. "How long have you kept this apartment?" "Huh? Oh, almost three months." "Know the neighbors? People in the neighborhood? Markets, video store, take-out places, that sort of thing?" "Not really. We, uhm," Skinner flushed slightly, "we keep to ourselves pretty much." "Nobody who may have fixated on her? Targeted her for any reason?" "What?" Skinner turned and looked at Mulder again. "Why?" "Just standard questions, Sir. I need to get a feel for what may have happened." Skinner's eyes were glassy, and he stared dully at Mulder. "The man," he said. "What man?" "I don't know!" Skinner burst out. "She wouldn't talk about him. It just slipped out at odd times. Little comments, certain actions. She has a scar, here," he made a motion across his chest, "she wouldn't tell me about it, but I think he did it to her." "Ex-husband?" "I don't know! I -- we didn't talk about it. I didn't want to push." "Is Norris her maiden name or married name?" Skinner raised haunted eyes to Mulder, "I don't even know if she was married. I just don't know." He slumped again, turning his face away, and Scully reached out to pat Mulder's leg. "Let it rest a bit, Mulder," she said softly. "He's on overload." Mulder nodded and the rest of the trip was made in silence. ************************************************** Skinner was still staring passively out the back window when they reached the Richmond city limits. Scully tapped Mulder's leg again. "You have to tell him," she whispered. "Tell me what?" Skinner said from the rear seat in a tired, quiet voice. Mulder turned from the front, facing the older man. "There was blood found at the apartment, Sir." Skinner groaned, a mindless sound of pure anguish, and buried his head in his hands. "Oh God, what have I done?" he murmured. Scully and Mulder exchanged worried looks. "What have *you* done, Sir?" Mulder asked. "I dragged her down here, pushed her into this. I wanted to see her, to be with her. It was all I could think about. I made her vulnerable." He choked on a ragged sob, then added, "And then I went and left her, all so I could log an hour in the gym." His voice was filled with bitterness and self-loathing. "How much blood, Mulder? Is she still ...?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Alive. She was still alive. She had to be alive. He would know if she wasn't, wouldn't he? And she couldn't die, she wouldn't. She knew what it would do to him. He wouldn't be able to go on. It would be his own death warrant if she died. "We don't know how much blood, Sir," Mulder equivocated. "We'll find out soon." He consulted a map in his lap, checking addresses against his pad, then nodded toward a building up the block. "That's it, right?" Skinner looked up. Of course that was it. The parking lot was swarming with cops, and cop cars, and a forensic van. Agents from the Richmond office were there also; Skinner recognized the SAIC from the local office standing by the forensic van. Scully pulled up and parked on the street. As they exited the car, she stepped up to Skinner and placed her hand on his chest, forcing him to stop or run her over. He stopped, but reluctantly. "You are a witness, understand? You are the equivalent of family of the victim." Skinner winced. Victim. Mara was a victim. All he wanted to do was be with her, make her happy, give her the world. And instead, he'd made her a victim. Scully was still talking. " ... call the Director, I will, don't misunderstand me on this." He nodded, not sure what she had said, but determined to make her let him move past. She lowered her hand, but grasped his wrist as he started to walk away. "Mulder and I are here as friends as well," she said softly. "Let us help." He blinked, then looked down at the small woman who held him in place with her firm grip. Tears filled his eyes and his vision blurred, and he suddenly saw another small redhead, holding him, soothing him, murmuring to him. Oh, God, he had to find her! He nodded abruptly, then walked quickly past her, leaving the two agents to catch him as best they could. ********************************************** It was after midnight. The last of the lab techs had left, the apartment had been released, and Skinner refused to leave. Mulder and Scully wanted to take him to a motel, but he was immovable. "If she comes back, I need to be here. I don't want her to think I'm not here," he pleaded, and the two agents had reluctantly acquiesced. There had been blood *everywhere,* as the landlord indicated, but it hadn't been a lot. More what might have happened if someone was injured in a struggle, then moved about the apartment trying to escape their attacker. Skinner had actually been relieved to see the blood. Well, not relieved, but he was aware that there wasn't enough in the apartment to represent a life-threatening wound. He had wanted to start cleaning immediately after everyone left, but Scully had insisted he sit for a few minutes. He was currently on the couch, a new cream-colored sweater clutched in his hands. Mulder sat across from him, silently watching, as his fingers spasmodically clenched and unclenched within the soft wool. Scully came in from the kitchen, a small tray with three mugs on it in her hands. "Here," she said tiredly, as she held the tray out to Mulder. He took a cup, then watched as she walked to Skinner, only to see him shake his head. She glanced up at Mulder, saw him shake his head slightly, then placed the tray on the small table before the couch and took the other chair. "New?" Mulder asked conversationally. "What?" Skinner looked up, startled, then glanced down at the sweater in his lap. His fingers began to smooth the material, trying to work out the pulls he had made with his rough treatment. "I bought it for her." He looked up. "She gets cold. Her office is cold and she gets cold. But she can't seem to keep a sweater." "She lose 'em?" "You could say that." He shook his head slowly, then smiled. "She gives them away. Sees people on the street who look cold, takes her sweater off, and gives it to them. Hats and gloves, too, but it hasn't been cold enough for that. She's been buying them though, stocking up." He chuckled. "New meaning to 'shirt off your back,' wouldn't you say?" He returned his gaze to his lap, fingers now stroking the soft material. "This is the third one I've bought for her." "She must be wonderful," Mulder commented. "She is," he whispered softly to his lap. He closed his eyes a moment and shivered involuntarily. "Here," Scully leaned forward and held a cup out to Skinner. "Drink this." He eyed it warily. "What is it?" "Herbal tea, but it will help take the chill off." "Nothing will help." "Try," she pleaded. "You need to try." Skinner took the cup and sipped, already lost in thought again. Mulder stood, then stepped to Scully's chair and whispered, "I'm going to clean the bedroom and the bath, then maybe we can get him to sleep." She nodded, then rose and sat next to Skinner on the couch. "This has been a big change for you, hasn't it?" She nodded, her movement taking in the room. "Good change," Skinner mumbled. "We can tell." Skinner looked up. "Can you?" Scully smiled, that full-blown smile that they saw so rarely, and Skinner couldn't help but smile back slightly. "There," she said. "That's how we can tell. You smile now." "I have a reason to." His face fell, and a frown replaced the smile. "I had a reason to." "You will again," she said. "Mulder's the best, you know that. If anyone can find her, he can." She reached out and tentatively took his hand, surprised when he grabbed hers and clung to it. She leaned over and stroked his arm, watching as his breathing grew ragged and he struggled for control. "It'll work out, Sir," she murmured. "You gotta believe." *************************************************** They hadn't expected Skinner to agree to sleep, but when Mulder had emerged from the bedroom, nodding to let her know the rooms were clean, Scully had suggested it. She and Skinner were still sitting on the couch together, her hand still clutched in the older man's. Mulder walked back to his chair, eyes widening slightly as he saw the joined hands of his partner and his boss, then seated himself. "You can get a shower, then try to sleep," he said to Skinner. "We'll be able to go at it again in the morning, when everyone is fresh." Skinner had nodded, then slowly released Scully's hand. He rose a bit shakily, then walked back to the bedroom. They heard a drawer open, then a door, and then the shower went on. It didn't run long, and then there was the sound of linens rustling as Skinner settled in the bed. "Couch or chair?" Mulder asked. "Go to the motel, Mulder," Scully said. "I'll stay. You'll be miserable trying to sleep here." "I'm not going to sleep much, Scully. I've got too much going on in my head." He walked over and sat beside her on the couch, his hand reaching out to take hers. "Hey, should I be jealous?" She looked up at him, then rested her head against his shoulder. "It's so sad," she sighed. "He's finally got a chance at happiness, and this happens." She sighed again, then added, "We have to find her." Mulder pulled his hand from hers, draping his arm around her, holding her close. "We will. We will." *********************************************** Mulder roused suddenly. Someone was screaming. He looked down to see Scully, still in his arms where she had fallen asleep, waking as well. He blinked owlishly, trying desperately to orient himself, but Scully was pulling away from him, and racing down a short hall to a small bedroom. Skinner's place. That's where they were. Mara was missing. Skinner was screaming. He followed Scully, catching her before she walked into Skinner's flailing arms. "Let me," he whispered, "not that I've had all that much luck in restraining him myself." He walked to the bed, grabbed the struggling man's arms, and called to him, "You need to wake up, Sir! It's a dream!" Skinner stilled almost instantly, and Scully stepped forward, sitting next to him on the bed. The big man opened his eyes, looked up, and buried his face in her neck. "Mara!" he breathed. "I dreamed you were gone." He groaned, clutching Scully tightly. "Oh, God, I dreamed you were gone." Slowly, her arms wrapped around him, and she rocked him gently, murmuring soothingly into his ear. Over his shoulder, she and Mulder exchanged worried glances. Skinner's breathing was ragged, and Scully could feel his heart race where he was pressed against her. She stroked his back, still cooing to him, and felt him begin to relax. When he was almost totally loose within her arms, she nudged him back toward the pillows, helping him to lay down. "Are you better now, Sir?" she asked. Skinner's eyes flew open and his face burned, flushing even more deeply when he noticed Mulder in the room as well. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," he groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes as if hiding the sight of his agents would erase their presence. "Shhh," Scully said as she smoothed the covers over him. "It's all right." "I -- that was a -- that is, I thought you were her," he blurted out, face still burning. He was humiliated that his agents had seen him in this way. "You're stressed, Sir," Mulder said from the doorway. "It's understandable." Skinner shook his head, and Scully pulled his arm away from his eyes. "Listen to him, Sir. He's a psychologist," she said with a small smile. "He knows this stuff." Skinner 'hmmphed' at that. "No, really, I do," Mulder insisted from the door, nodding earnestly, and Skinner smiled slightly at his clowning. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "And embarrassed, I'd imagine," Scully added. She lay her hand against his cheek. He nodded, then averted his gaze, but she grabbed his chin and pulled his face around to look at her. "It's all right," she said softly. "You're not the Assistant Director right now. You're just a man who's hurting, and scared." She looked up to see Mulder, then returned her gaze to Skinner. "And we're not your agents right now, either. We're your friends. You're allowed to let down with your friends." He drew a shuddery breath, then nodded slowly. Scully rose to leave, and his hand snaked out, grabbing her lightly by the wrist. "Scully?" he said. She paused and half turned to look at him. "Yes?" "Thanks. You, too, Mulder," he called quietly to the door. "Sleep," Scully said, and then she did something that surprised them all. She leaned down and kissed the Assistant Director right on the top of his bald head. ************************************************************* "Where do you think you're going?" Scully sat up as the AD started to creep by. He was wearing shorts and a tank top, and had on sneakers. "To run," he whispered, trying to avoid waking Mulder, who had fallen asleep, head on his arms, at the small table in the dining area. "Is that wise?" she asked. He blinked and looked at her, uncomprehending. "I mean, are you up to that much strenuous activity right now?" "I need to *do* something," he murmured. "I'm going insane." Mulder lifted his head. "I'll come with you," he mumbled. "Let me change." He rose, grabbed his bag and headed to the bathroom. "I'm not sure I want company," Skinner said to Scully. "Then I won't talk," Mulder said as he emerged in his own running shorts and T-shirt. "What time is the morning meeting, Scully?" "9:00. I'd like to get there a little early though." "8:30?" She nodded. "All right." He checked his watch. 6:00 a.m. They had plenty of time. He opened the door, then beckoned to the AD. "C'mon, let's go." Scully watched as the two men left, then snuggled back into the blanket on the couch, determined to get another hour's sleep before they got back. Mulder and Skinner stood in the parking lot, stretching. "You have a route?" Mulder asked, and Skinner nodded. "How long?" "Six and a half. That OK?" This time it was Mulder who nodded and they set off at a steady jog. As they warmed up, they increased the pace, inching it up incrementally till they were running at about a 7 minute mile. They had turned left out of the parking lot, and Mulder could tell they were making a big circle, working their way around in a loop to end up back at the apartment. They'd gone about four miles, when a small park appeared before them. Skinner unconsciously began to slow, and Mulder slowed with him. As they drew nearer, Skinner slowed more, from a run to a trot, to a jog, until finally, he was walking. They were moving at a snail's pace now, Skinner's mind obviously faraway as he walked wearily to a bench to one side of the small playground area and sat. Mulder followed, standing far enough away to allow some measure of privacy, but close enough to talk if that was what the older man wanted. Skinner sat in silence for a while, then looked up. "I got her a phone." "You did?" Mulder was puzzled. "A cell phone. She didn't have one and I didn't want her driving I-64 without one. I was worried." He shrugged. "That was thoughtful." "Yeah. But wouldn't you think it was normal thoughtful?" "Normal thoughtful?" "Yeah. I mean, a woman you care about, four hours a day on the road -- and those murders from the early eighties still haven't been solved, you know -- you'd want her to have a phone." Mulder was lost. "Scully has a phone," he offered, trying to keep Skinner talking. "Yeah. You don't have to worry about that. But Mara didn't have a phone." "So you got her a phone." "Yeah. She was uncomfortable with the idea at first." He looked up at Mulder. "She has this scar ..." "You mentioned that in the car." "So I told her I wanted to get her a phone." "Normal thoughtful," Mulder repeated. "Yeah. That's what I thought. Normal. What you do for someone you care about." He sighed then dropped his head into his hands. "It made her cry." "The phone?" "The thought." "The thought made her cry." Mulder frowned, and Skinner looked up at his silence. "She said she wasn't used to having anyone worry about her, and it made her cry." He took a deep breath, then went on. "She thanked me." Taking off his glasses, he scrubbed at his face. "*She* thanked *me.*" He lifted bleary eyes to peer in Mulder's direction. "Do you know what she has done for me? And she thanked me because I got her a damn phone." Mulder was quiet. It did sound as if the woman had a history of neglect -- possibly abuse if there was a story to go with the scar Skinner had mentioned twice now. He needed to know if there was an ex-husband in the woodwork, perhaps still jealous, and not wanting to see his wife take up with another man. Mulder looked down at the AD. He sat hunched over, almost folded into himself, and he had the most forlorn expression on his face. Mulder was reminded of himself. How lost he had been when Scully was missing. How close to the edge he'd come. Skinner was walking that edge now, and it would be up to him and Scully to keep him from falling off it. With utmost compassion and understanding, he reached out and took the older man's wrist. "C'mon," he said gently. "We need to get back." He let his hand linger there for a moment longer, offering comfort and support, then pulled the AD to his feet. "It was just normal thoughtful," Skinner murmured as he rose. "But it was important to her." "You're important to her, Sir. You're what's most important." He nudged Skinner lightly, and they began the jog back to the apartment. ******************************************* Scully was up and dressed when they got back, and Mulder pushed Skinner toward the bathroom first. While the AD was showering, he told her, "I think there may be something to the idea that Mara was in an abusive relationship." "Skinner say something new?" "Yes and no. It was more how he said it than anything. Or how he related what Mara had said to him." "Well, this may help some," Scully said. "We got a print. I didn't want to say anything in front of him. The locals are picking him up now." Mulder's eyes were wide. "Who?" "Local hired muscle. I'm willing to bet he was the one who made the snatch, but I really don't think we're going to get much else from him." Mulder's face fell. "Oh. So we still don't know much." "Never can tell. Maybe our perp will tell all, and we'll have her back by noon." "We should be so lucky." Scully shook her head sadly. "No," she said, as she jerked her head toward the closed bathroom door, "he should be so lucky." ********************************************** "You are not going to be present for the interrogation, and that is final!" It was the fourth time Scully had said that to the AD, and each time he acted as if he had not heard her. He was standing with his back to her, in the observation room, facing the empty room on the other side of the window. "I need to be there. He'll tell me what we need to know, I promise. He'll talk for me." "That's what I'm afraid of." She reached out and grabbed his upper arm, yanking hard to pull him around to face her. "You will stay *in this room* or I will have you *escorted* off the property and put under guard at the apartment. Is that clear?" He glared at her for a moment, but when she didn't back down, he nodded reluctantly, then looked at Mulder. "*Don't* screw this up," he hissed warningly. Mulder took no offense, nodded gravely, and said, "No, Sir. This one is important and I won't screw up." He and Scully stepped out of the claustrophobic booth, and Mulder asked, "You gonna leave him in there alone?" "No. I've got Jenkins here, ready to go sit with him." Mulder rolled his eyes. "Why're you picking on Jenkins? The AD has him terrified enough as it is." "What? What happened?" Mulder shook his head. "Never mind. Just make sure you tell the kid he isn't being punished." Scully nodded and left to find Jenkins, and arrange for the suspect to be brought to the room. Mulder paced nervously; this was potentially the most important interrogation he would do in his career. He couldn't afford to screw up. He took deep breaths, forcing himself to relax. It wouldn't do to let the perp see how much this meant to them. He'd either clam up entirely, or start making demands there was no way to meet. Mulder had already decided this guy could have anything he wanted, up to and including a walk on any and all pending charges, as long as he could produce Mara. Jenkins appeared, moving slowly and with obvious trepidation, and Mulder patted him on the shoulder as he walked by. "The AD is upset -- I'm sure you know this is close to home for him. Try and understand, and don't take anything he may say too personally." Jenkins swallowed hard and nodded, then opened the door and went into the observation room, looking for all the world like a condemned man facing his executioner. Mulder laughed softly, then turned when he heard noises from down the hall. Their suspect had arrived. **************************************************** SLAM! Mulder's hand hit the table hard, and the suspect rocked back in his chair, suddenly wary. "We are *not* playing games here!" Mulder roared. "You had better come clean and do it now!" The suspect, one Franklin Capehart, aged 24, and penitentiary veteran of one sort or another for 12 of those years, was leaned back into his chair, not quite cowering, but not so cocky anymore either. He glanced over at Scully, standing silently in the corner, but she only stared back at him impassively. Shit! Why the fuck did this shit always happen to him? All he wanted to do was pick up a few extra bucks. Man offers him $300.00 to pick up a girl, he picks up the girl. Nobody tells him it's some big shit cop's girl and now he's in so deep, he may never see the sun again. He glanced back at the woman. No help there. She just stared at him like he was some bug, and she sure wasn't gonna do anything if that fucking asshole decided to hit him instead of the table next time. She'd just go conveniently blind and then tell him how sorry she was he 'fell' when she wasn't looking. Shit! He was so fucked! He looked up; the man was waiting, almost patient now, as if he knew what Franklin had been thinking. "All right, man! Shee-it -- you just stay away from me. I don't know nothin' anyways, but I tell ya how it went down." Mulder nodded. "Then tell," he said. "Man gives me $300.00 to pick up this girl -- take her to a place down by Shockoe Slip. I get the girl, take her to the man, he gives me the money. End of story." "What man?" Mulder asked. "Shit! I don't know. We wasn't exactly 'prop-ur-ly' introduced, ya know?" "Where did you take her?" "Down by the Slip. Empty warehouse on the river, down from the Slip." "Address." Mulder pushed a pad in front of Franklin and watched as the man struggled to write the address down. " 'n I go now?" he asked when he finished. "I think you know better than that, Franklin," Mulder replied. "You don't go anywhere till we find the woman, and even then your future freedom is pretty iffy." "I didn't do nothin'!" Capehart cried. "I just picked her up." Scully spoke for the first time. "The blood. Why was there blood in the apartment?" "Bitch hit me. Fucking bitch *hit* me." Capehart rubbed his jaw, as if remembering the punch. Mulder looked closer and, sure enough, there was a faint hint of a bruise along the man's jawline. "The blood?" Scully repeated. Franklin shrugged. "Bitch hits me -- I hit her. But this one ran. So I hit her again a couple times, I think her nose was bleedin', and then I got tired of screwing around. She was gettin' loud, ya know? So I got out my knife." He smiled, self-satisfied at whatever memory he was reliving. "That stopped her short. It was like someone unplugged her or something -- she just froze. So I walked over to her, and I cut her, a little ..." There was a muffled roar from behind the mirror and all three sets of eyes turned to the supposedly soundproof room. With an enormous 'CRACK,' the window shattered and a wooden chair flew into the room, followed immediately by the AD. Skinner landed smoothly, coming up from a crouch, his forward momentum carrying him over the table and into Capehart's chair. The chair toppled backward, taking the suspect and Skinner with it. The big man's hands circled the terrified man's neck, and Skinner began to bellow in the man's face - a mindless howl of anguish. "You son of a bitch! What the hell did you do to her?" Skinner was squeezing the man's throat, pounding his head against the back of the chair, against the concrete floor. "What did you do to her?" Mulder leapt on him, and Scully opened the door, calling for assistance. Several agents piled into the room, and somehow, they managed to pry Skinner loose from the nearly unconscious Capehart. With Mulder gripping the AD around his chest, and agents holding each arm, they dragged him out of the room. Scully walked over to stare down at Capehart, watching as he struggled for air. "I'm gonna sue," he croaked. "You can't do this to me." Scully snorted. "You should be saying thank you, you piece of shit. We could have let him kill you." She turned on her heel and stalked out. ************************************************ Shockoe Slip - home of haute couture shopping, boutiques of every shape and description offering every kind of ware imaginable. And the Bottom - restaurants and fine dining on the James River. And a bit further down, the warehouse district. Home to uncounted empty and derelict storage bays, abandoned shipping containers, and ramshackle buildings dating back to the turn of the century. Dirty, rat-infested, a haven for the sick, the poor, the addicted, it was a prime place for trading in lives. No one saw anything here. Mulder sighed in frustration. He hadn't expected more. Everyone he had been able to approach, who hadn't run when they saw him or one of the other agents or officers, had only been able to say they hadn't seen a thing. He thought back to his feelings of anger and frustration when Scully had disappeared up in Minnesota so long ago. What had he said then? "No one notices a pretty woman ..." How could these people not have seen Mara? This was not going to make things any easier for Skinner. He had been uncontrollable, oblivious to the presence of the other agents, hardly acknowledging Scully or himself. When, after twenty minutes, he hadn't calmed enough to be released, she'd opted to sedate him. He was presently sleeping on the couch in the Richmond SAIC's office, with Scully in attendance as she worked on tracking down information on Mara's background. Mulder had elected to lead the field sweep, but grudgingly admitted it had been a waste of time. He'd be better off getting back to the office and helping Scully with the research. He sighed again and pulled his radio. "This is Mulder. I'm heading back. Let's finish the canvas, but be out of here by dark, OK?" He waited for acknowledgment, then put the radio away and headed back to his car. ****************************************** "Can we take him back to the apartment?" Mulder asked. "I don't know, Mulder, he's pretty out of it," his partner responded, looking at her erstwhile 'patient' snoring on the couch. He dwarfed it, his legs hanging off the end and his torso broad enough to extend over the edge. "Wouldn't he be more comfortable in his own bed?" "Probably," she admitted, "but I really doped him up. I don't know if we can rouse him enough to move him." "Why'd you give him so much? You don't ever knock me out completely, even when I wish you would." Scully smiled at Mulder, then stepped over to stand next to him. "Well, don't take this wrong, partner, but you're not exactly built the same as the AD." She turned and gazed pointedly at the big man stretched out on the couch. "Ouch," Mulder winced. "Geez, Scully, you really know how to hurt a guy." She grinned at him, then let her hand slide slowly down his arm, from shoulder to wrist. "Don't worry Mulder, not everyone wants that," she nodded at Skinner, "though it is rather attractive." She looked up at him, mischief in her eyes, "You, however, have your own attractions." Mulder twisted his hand, catching Scully's in his own. He leaned down close to her and murmured, "So do you, SAIC Scully. So do you." He nuzzled her neck for a moment, then pulled back. "All right. Let's take him home. How 'bout you go get the car, and I'll get Sleeping Beauty here up?" Scully nodded and headed for the hall, while Mulder walked to the couch. He crouched before it, then gently nudged the sleeping AD. "C'mon, Sir, time to get up. Let's get you home." Skinner mumbled something inarticulate, opening one bleary eye, and Mulder grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. "C'mon, big guy," he murmured, "you'll be a lot more comfortable in your own bed." Mulder wrapped an arm around the AD's waist, holding his belt tightly, and pulled the other man's arm over his own shoulder. Geez, he thought in dismay, this guy is *big!* He prodded the AD, and was pleased to see him shuffle his feet a bit, making some forward progress. They reached the door, and Mulder stopped, propping Skinner up with one hand, reaching out to open the door with the other. He froze when he felt a warm nose nuzzle his hair, lips against his neck and a deep voice whispered, "Miss you, Mara." Mulder shook his head sadly, opened the door and continued nudging his charge down the hall. "Damn, Scully," he muttered under his breath, "what the hell did you give him?" *********************************************************** "What are we going to do with him now?" Mulder muttered as he pulled Skinner's shoes and socks off. He paused and wiped sweat from his forehead. Moving a man Skinner's size was hard work. Lifting the AD's legs, he swung them around to lie fully on the mattress. Scully had Skinner's tie off and was working on his shirt. "Not *we,* Mulder, dear," Scully said sweetly. "*You.*" "Me? Why me?" "Because I am SAIC, at your insistence, I might add." "Yeah, but Scully, I still need to be there. I need to know what's going on." "You know as well as I, that Skinner can't come back to the field office. We'll be lucky if that little display of his today isn't the end of his career." "Nobody's gonna report him for that, Scully. They understand what he's going through. Hell, I wanted to belt the bastard myself, the way he was talking. I'm halfway surprised Skinner lasted as long as he did." Mulder rubbed his chin, where he'd caught an elbow trying to pry his boss off their suspect. "Though I did expect him to come through the door, not the glass." Scully pulled Skinner's shirt off, then unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, but left them on. "There," she said, "that should do it." She pulled the sheet up over the still drugged man, then took Mulder's hand and tugged him out of the room. They walked quietly to the living room and plopped down on the couch. Scully kicked off her shoes, then lifted one foot into her lap. "Oooh, that feels good," she said softly as she squeezed her toes. "Here," Mulder reached out and pulled her foot into his lap, "let me do that." He began to rub her foot as he spoke. "So why does you being SAIC equate to me staying here with the big guy?" Mulder's thumb pressed into the ball of Scully's foot and she moaned contentedly. "God, you could do this full-time if you ever need to find a new line of work," she murmured, watching as his face lit up with a smile. "But Mulder, you know I have to be there. Remember? 'She's better with people and a better administrator.' Well, I have to go administrate." "So what do I do?" "What were you planning to do at the office tomorrow? What's the next line of investigation?" "Research. I want some people to recanvas the waterfront, and I want Capehart held in isolation. We can keep him, what -- 24 more hours? Without charging him?" Scully nodded and Mulder's thumb slid up to stroke her arch, his fingers pressing down on the top of her foot, and she wriggled her toes in pleasure. "Well, then we'll keep him for the time being, and I'll need a team for research. We need to track Mara's background. What Skinner can tell us isn't much, and we need to know everything about her." He sighed softly, a bit sad. "She isn't going to have much privacy left when we're done. I hope there isn't something really awful in her past. It would devastate him." Mulder finished the one foot and reached out for the other, and Scully obligingly shifted to give him access. She leaned back, resting her head on the arm of the sofa. "Can't you research from here?" "Well," Mulder chewed his lip for a moment, his hands growing temporarily still on Scully's foot, "I suppose. But do you think he" -- thumb pointing to bedroom -- "is going to be content to stay here and do research?" "I don't know what he's going to do." Scully heaved a sigh, and Mulder returned his attention to her foot. "I have never seen him like this. If you'd asked me if he could even *be* like this, I'd have laid money it would never happen." "I'm not surprised," Mulder said softly. Scully looked up. "What? You're not? Why?" Mulder dropped his head, eyes burning as he stared at his lap. "Because I've been there. I know what it's like for him. Not knowing. Being so helpless. Running in circles as fast as you can and getting nowhere. Knowing someone out there was laughing at you, enjoying your pain. And eaten up, consumed, with the feeling that the person you cared about more than anything in the world, more than life itself, that that person was suffering." He paused, taking a deep, shuddery breath, and a single tear crept down his face, "Knowing that person was suffering and you were the cause." Scully pulled her foot from his lap, and sat up. She moved to sit close beside Mulder and wrapped her arms around him. "It wasn't your fault, Mulder." He turned, somehow shifting his tall body till he could rest his head on her shoulder, and said, "You always say that." "And it's always true." "I missed you so much, Scully. I wanted to die." She pulled his head down further, till he was nestled in her lap, and her fingers ran soothingly through his thick hair. "I'm very glad you didn't. I mean, think of all the things we'd have missed." "Like?" Mulder fished. "Well, there's 'Superstars of the Super Bowls' to begin with." Mulder lay still for a long moment, letting her comfort him with her touch and presence, then he sat up, pulling her to himself. "Yeah, well, it would have been a shame to miss that." Scully tilted her head from where it was now cradled against his chest. "And this," she murmured, her lips seeking his as she captured him in a long, deep kiss, "we would have missed this." "Well," he mumbled into her mouth, loath to let her go, "I certainly wouldn't have wanted to miss this." And he kissed her again. ******************************************* Skinner had become the immovable object. Planted firmly on the couch, the man refused to eat, to sleep or to move. He did rise occasionally to use the bathroom, but that grew less frequent as he continued to take no sustenance. After two days, Mulder bodily dragged him to the bathroom and shoved him in the shower, clothes and all. He'd stripped himself and bathed -- well, Mulder assumed he'd bathed. There were some things he just wasn't going to do for his boss, no matter what. Mulder had had some second thoughts about leaving the older man alone with razors and cleaning compounds, but his faith had been rewarded when Skinner had emerged from the bathroom about twenty minutes later, dressed in the clean sweats Mulder had laid out for him. He'd even shaved. Mulder looked at him approvingly, then said, "You need to eat." "Not hungry," Skinner grunted, as he resumed his place on the couch. "Scully isn't going to put up with this much longer," Mulder said warningly. Skinner grunted. "Scully can run the investigation, but she can't run me." "She's concerned about you, Sir," Mulder said softly. "We both are." Skinner grunted again and refused to say more. Mulder made several more attempts to get Skinner to talk, but the man remained silent. Finally, defeated, Mulder rose and went back to the laptop and his research that had taken over the small table in the dining area. ****************************************** After two more days, Scully was ready to consider hospitalization. Skinner still sat on the couch, alternately staring stony eyed into space, or on the verge of tears, staring into his lap. He'd lost a good ten pounds and had huge bruised looking bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. "Mulder, does he talk to you at all during the day?" "Not much. But, Scully," he glanced over to where his boss was currently performing the lap stare, "I don't think the hospital is the answer. He has to work through this in his own way." They were speaking in hushed tones, standing by the table as Mulder showed Scully what little bit of new information he had found that day. Despite his discovery of her legal name change, Mara was extremely difficult to trace. Scully, on the other hand, had a stack of hospital records, Mara's hospital records, that the team had unearthed in a day of combing hospitals in Hampton Roads. She watched Mulder leaf through the records, his face screwing up in sympathy, or anger as he scanned the pages, and asked, "How did you handle it?" "I worked my butt off 18 hours a day, and stared at my gun all night." Scully reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm, her eyes filled with tears, "Oh, Mulder, even now, I had no idea how hard it was for you." He smiled sadly, lost in memory of that dark time, then looked down at the woman who had been returned to him, and swiftly clutched her to himself. From behind them, a throat cleared. They turned to find Skinner watching them, a slightly amused look on his face. "Excuse me, but I'm hungry. I'm gonna shower and then, could I get something to eat?" Scully walked over and stood in front of him, hands on hips. "What happened?" she demanded. Skinner shrugged. "I can't just sit here. Mara wouldn't like it. You have to let me back on the investigation." He turned pain filled eyes up at her. "You shower and eat, *and sleep,* and we'll talk about what role you can play in the investigation." Skinner nodded compliantly and rose to head to the bedroom for clean clothes, then the shower. "Is this normal, Mulder?" Scully asked. Mulder shrugged. "What's normal about any of this? Everybody copes in their own way. Maybe he just needed a few days of retreat and denial, and now he's ready to fight again." "I'm worried about him. This just doesn't feel right." Mulder shrugged again. "Everyone has to work it out in their own way." "Don't suicides frequently seem to get better right before they," she paused, "you know?" "Yeah, they do," Mulder agreed. "So we watch him real close for the next few days. If he really will sleep, as exhausted as he is, I think it will help a lot." "If he doesn't sleep tonight, I'm going to sedate him," Scully said, a determined look on her face. "I don't think I'll argue with you over that, Doc," Mulder replied. "I'll even hold him down while you do the deed. I wouldn't mind a good night's sleep for a change myself." He reached out and hugged her. "Especially if you were there." He kissed the top of her head, then asked, "So, what do you want for dinner? Pizza or Chinese?" Scully laughed lightly and gently smacked his arm. "Such a gourmet," she teased. "Maybe the AD wants real food?" "No such thing with me around," Mulder joked. "He'll just have to make do with the rest of us." ****************************************** Skinner ate most of two pieces of pizza, not much for his size, but better than Scully had hoped, considering his recent fast. He also drank plenty of fluids -- Scully kept his glass filled with juice and was pleased to see he drank frequently. When they had finished and cleared up, Skinner gave an embarrassed cough, then said diffidently, "Dana? I, uh, may need some help sleeping tonight." She nodded and said, "Shot or pill?" "Pill?" She nodded again, then went for her bag. She returned with two small pills and a glass of water. "Here, try this," she said as she held the pills out to him. Skinner took them obediently, popped them in his mouth, and drained the glass, handing it back to her. "You want to go to bed now?" she asked. "No," he shook his head. "I'd like you and Mulder to bring me up to date, if that's all right?" Scully and Mulder took seats in the chairs, leaving the couch to Skinner. They exchanged a quick glance and then Scully began. "The recanvas of the waterfront didn't yield anything new. Not surprising. We held Capehart as long as we could, without booking him, just in case anything came up and he wanted to bargain. But when time ran out, we charged him with kidnapping, and he's locked up." She glanced up at Skinner. "He hasn't said anything about bringing charges against you, Sir." Skinner waved that aside. "Not important. Have you found anything else on Mara?" Mulder spoke up. "I'm looking into the possibility of an angry ex-husband. Unfortunately, it is tedious and time-consuming. You said she'd lived in Norfolk for a long time, so I started there but came up empty. I spread out to the surrounding cities, Virginia Beach, Portsmouth, Chesapeake, Hampton, Newport News, and still got nothing. Nothing on a marriage that is. I found a death certificate." Skinner's eyes widened. "He's dead?" "Not him. The death certificate was for a child, a little boy. Died under mysterious circumstances when he was four. The police had suspicions, but nothing was proven." "Who was the father? Wasn't that on the certificate? Police report?" "Nope," Mulder said in frustration, "and don't ask me why. It makes no sense, unless ..." Mulder closed his eyes, thinking, then opened them and said, "Nah, I don't know." Scully was watching him closely. Something had occurred to him, something he didn't want to tell Skinner. She looked over at Skinner. He was fading, eyes drooping, even as he struggled to stay alert and listen to Mulder's report. He shifted on the couch, stretching out, and said, "Keep going, Mulder, I'm listening." "I'm still looking for marriage or divorce records, and Scully has people at the field office looking as well. We've split the independent cities in Hampton Roads so that we can cover them all. Until we get a name, or something else happens ..." He was interrupted by a gentle snore. Skinner had finally fallen asleep. Scully rose and pulled a blanket over him, then went back to take Mulder's hand. "All right, you, give. What did you think of when you were talking about the little boy's death?" "Ah, Scully," Mulder sighed, pulling her into a hug, "you know me so well." He walked her over to the table, then dug through some papers, emerging with the death certificate. "A cop, Scully. If a cop was involved, and it was questionable, they may have kept it quiet." He hummed to himself, excited now that there was a new avenue to pursue." "Good." Scully yawned. "Tomorrow, Mulder. We'll check it out tomorrow. Tonight," she glanced over at the man asleep on the couch, "tonight, I think we are going to check out Skinner's bed." "You think that's wise?" Mulder asked doubtfully. "I gave him some pretty powerful stuff. He needs to sleep and since he was willing, I took advantage. Besides, he's run down, exhausted, hasn't slept in days. He's *out,* Mulder." She tugged his hand, leading him toward the bedroom. "Now, come on. You could do with some sleep as well." Mulder pulled his gaze from Skinner's sleeping form, and focused on his partner. "Among other things, Agent Scully," he whispered seductively, "among other things." ************************************************* The pills were buried in the sofa cushions. Skinner gave Mulder and Scully two hours. He wanted to be sure they were asleep. He forced himself to remain still, breathe steadily, even shift slightly every now and then, doing his best to give every appearance of a man sound asleep. When his self-imposed deadline arrived, he rose quietly, padded to the laptop, and got started. Skinner shuffled through the papers on the desk, reading what Mulder had found. He read the hospital records first. Numerous visits to the ER. Broken bones, black eyes, bruised kidneys. Falls, car accidents, unknown causes. The wound to her breast had been blamed on a glass that shattered as she took it from the dishwasher. She seemed so strong. Why would she stay in a situation like that? He wiped his eyes, clearing the tears that blurred his vision. He couldn't understand it. He'd had the standard training that everyone in law enforcement received now -- that there were other things that caused a woman to stay. That sometimes they couldn't get out. That things weren't always as they seemed. And back then, even ten years ago, the laws were just beginning to change. Mandatory arrests in domestic dispute calls. Mandatory charges pressed. More shelters available. Mandatory reporting from the ER. Counseling. And the stalking laws. Perhaps those changes had finally made it possible for her to escape from hell. He sighed. He didn't have Mulder's memory, but he didn't need it to know that he would never forget the litany of abuse he had read on those pages. He sighed again, and moved on to the next sheets of paper, his eyebrows lifting as he read Mulder's scrawl. Norris wasn't Mara's name at all. She'd changed it in 1989. Mulder had the document. Skinner stared at it. Gordon. His name was Gordon. He looked back at the medical records. Sure enough, Mara Gordon. He'd missed that as he read the catalog of injuries. Mulder had known about the name for at least a day. Skinner growled, low in his throat. Mulder hadn't mentioned it in front of him at all. He dug back. The boy had died in 1981. At age four. That meant he was born in 1977. Skinner paused. She was just 17 then. And her daughter, the one who had been murdered. She had been -- how old? Twenty? That meant born in 1976. Mara was 16? He compared the dates of the two children's births. Nine months and eight days. Jesus Christ -- what kind of man was this Gordon? And Mara was just 16 when it all started. Was that why Mulder hadn't found a marriage certificate? He didn't go back far enough? Skinner looked. Sure enough, Mulder's search parameters started in 1978. Skinner reset the low date and started the search again. He waited, impatient, until the computer returned "not found." Skinner snorted in frustration, then glanced guiltily at the bedroom. The door was partially shut, as if they needed privacy, but still wanted to keep tabs on their charge -- him. He returned to the computer, staring at the screen saver. Where else? Where else could he look? Norfolk was a Navy town. He'd shipped out to Viet Nam from there. Maybe Gordon was Navy. Skinner started in the south. Other Navy towns. Mayport. Nothing. Charleston. He waited. Bingo! They were married in Charleston in 1976. She was 16 and her mother signed for her. And his name was Charles Martin Gordon. Skinner had him now. He knew what Mulder had thought of. The bastard was a cop. The great Blue Wall in action, protecting one of their own. Was that why Mara had remained in a bad situation? Because she had no one to turn to to help her get out? And she had been so young ... He clamped down on his temper, and began his search. City cops first, then the sheriff's departments. And he found him. It began to click. Skinner was flying through the databases, using his FBI clearances for access, he was tracking Mara's life. Gordon had been kicked off the force for brutality in 1988. Mara had gotten her divorce almost immediately thereafter. A year later she changed her name, but not her job, and she didn't move. So the name change wasn't to hide from him -- it must have been for other reasons. So where was Gordon now? Skinner was checking, searching, combing records, and finally he found him. The man was still relatively near Norfolk, though he'd moved numerous times in the past ten years. He was currently living in Yorktown. Skinner hit one more button, and an address appeared. He copied it down, then grabbed his keys, and he was gone. ******************************************** Mulder heard something. He shifted, moving restlessly as his subconscious tried to sort out the sounds he was hearing. In her sleep next to him, Scully 'whuffed,' a tiny expulsion of air that tickled his neck where she lay curled against him. He pried an eye open and looked down at her, then rolled onto his back, still holding her against him. He lay quietly for a moment, fully aware of the blessings he had, and determined to help Skinner to have this again as well. He lifted a wrist, and glanced at his watch. Almost 6:00. The sun had painted the sky dappled pinks and rose though it hadn't quite crossed the horizon yet. And Mulder knew he needed to get up and check on Skinner but he was loath to move. As he lay in that misty halfway state between sleep and wake, he dimly heard a car start, motor revving furiously, then peel out of the parking lot. 'Must be in a real hurry,' he thought idly, then jumped up, suddenly alert. His movement woke Scully and she sat up to find Mulder pulling on his pants, and heading for the hall. "What?" she called after him, "What happened?" From the living room she heard Mulder explode. "Son of a bitch!" he swore, and she was out of bed and dressing as well. She heard the door to the apartment open as she raced down the hall to the living room. No sign of Mulder. She looked around again. No sign of Skinner. "Son of a bitch!" she swore herself, and headed out the door behind her partner. He was standing in the parking lot, cursing up a blue streak as he looked at the empty spot where Skinner's car had been. ********************************************************** He parked across the street from the duplex where Gordon was living. He had to do this carefully. There was no room for error. He looked down at his hands; they were shaking where he gripped the wheel. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to patience. He looked at his watch -- 7:15. Hopefully the man would go to work soon. It was almost an hour later when a large man emerged from the duplex, dressed in a security guard's uniform. The last refuge of dishonored cops. He locked his door, then walked quickly to his car and drove off. Skinner pulled out behind him, following. He trailed Gordon to a department store, watched as he parked and then entered through an employee entrance. He waited almost thirty minutes, or an eternity, depending on how you count time, until he was sure the man wasn't going to come back out. Then he started his car and returned to the duplex. He parked several blocks over, then walked to the house, slipped into the backyard, and broke in. It didn't take long to determine Mara was not there, and there were no signs to indicate that she had been. Frustrated, Skinner snooped a bit more, turning up no useful information, then returned to the shopping center to sit his vigil outside the store. Gordon came out at 4:00 p.m. He walked straight to his car, got in and drove to a bar about 10 miles away. He shed the uniform shirt in the car, put on a sport shirt, and headed in. Skinner waited about 10 minutes, then followed. Inside it was dark, country music -- *old* country music -- played from a jukebox and several TVs, bolted to racks hanging from the ceiling, displayed a football game, hockey, and college basketball. This was not a social bar, but a place for serious drinking. Skinner took a seat at a table near the back, almost out of sight, but where he could still see Gordon seated at the bar. The man finished a beer as Skinner watched and another was automatically placed in front of him. Skinner sat quietly for another hour, watching as Gordon downed five more beers, then he got up and moved to the bar, taking the stool one over from his quarry. He signaled for a beer, his second, and drank in silence for a while, staring at the TV. Frederick sank a beautiful shot for North Carolina, from behind the free-throw line, and Skinner whistled saying, "Boy could make it big someday." "Yeah," Gordon replied. They chatted basketball for a few minutes while Skinner sized the man up. He was big, not quite as tall as Skinner himself, but close. And muscular, though the muscles had been overlaid with fat. Skinner estimated the man was in his early forties. Big enough and strong enough to have caused Mara plenty of pain in the time they were married. Twelve years and two children, one miscarriage that he knew of, a dozen moves, her son's death, and all the other injuries -- those in the records and those in her heart. He felt himself tense, and schooled himself to patience. He was only going to get one shot at this. "Hey, listen, you come here a lot?" he asked casually. "Fair amount, why?" "I'm looking for someone. Maybe you can help me?" Gordon's eyes narrowed, suddenly distrustful. "Who?" "Guy name of Gordon, Charles Gordon. You know him?" "Whadaya want him for?" "Information. I'm a private investigator. Name's Mike Hamner. With an 'n.' No comments, please." Gordon laughed. "Holy shit! Bet you hear about that." "You don't want to know." Skinner rolled his eyes dramatically. "So why'd you go into this business with a name like that?" Skinner frowned and let his eyes go hard. "What else is an ex-cop gonna do?" "You were a cop?" Gordon was looking at him with interest. "Was. Good one, too. Didn't take no shit off nobody. Till some bitch decided to ruin my life." He lifted his glass and took a long swallow. "Really? What happened?" "Oh, you know. First she wants it, then she doesn't, then she does, so I make up her mind for her. Next thing I know she's screaming rape, and so's I smacked her to make her shut up, and WHAM! *I'm* out of a job!" Skinner let a whine creep into his voice. "Fourteen years on the force and they listen to some God damn bitch over me." He shook his head, then glanced at Gordon. The man was shaking his head with him, commiserating. "Man, that sucks! Broads - you can't trust 'em an inch. Gotta keep 'em in line." "Yeah." Skinner paused, then drained his glass and signaled for another. "That's what I'm working on. This guy, the one who hired me, he's involved with this woman, used to be married to this guy Gordon. Wants me to find out what her background is. If she's gonna make trouble later, that kind of thing." Skinner paused again, his stomach churning as he spun his story. Gordon turned and stuck out his hand. "Me. I'm Charles Gordon. Chuck. And tell your guy to run for the hills. That bitch is bad news." Skinner spent another hour letting Gordon tell him the things he had done to Mara, an hour in hell, his penance for letting her get hurt, for making her vulnerable, for letting her be a victim again. Listening to the filth this man spewed, laughing with him, cajoling him to talk, finally determining that, while he had done many things to Mara, over many years, he was not responsible for her abduction. But at that point, Skinner didn't care. His devastation over Mara's absence; his frustration at his inability to find her; his anger over the pain she could be in; all fueled his rage at this man and the things that he had done to Mara. That rage rapidly overwhelmed any vestige of common sense Skinner may have had left and when Gordon rose, swaying on his feet, and turned to leave, Skinner reached out a hand and steadied him. "Whoa there, big fellow, you're a might unstable," he laughed, and though the laughter was forced, Gordon did not seem to notice. Gordon laughed as well, and before he knew it, he was in his own car, but being driven home by 'Mike Hamner, private eye.' They reached the man's house, and Skinner pulled him out of the car. He walked him around to the back, then when the man pulled his keys out, Skinner knocked them out of his hand. "Whadaya do that for?" Gordon whined. Skinner shrugged, an evil smile on his face. Gordon bent to retrieve the keys, and Skinner kicked them. "Hey!" the man complained. "Knock it off!" He tottered forward a few steps, and bent again, and this time Skinner shoved him and he fell, hard. "Is that what you did to her, asshole?" Skinner hissed. "Did you make her crawl?" Gordon rolled onto his back, looking up at Skinner through an alcohol induced fog, and asked, "What? What the hell are you talking about?" Skinner kicked him, and he let out a "whompf" then struggled for air, coughing. "Did you kick her?" Skinner's foot shot out again, then he leaned down and pulled the gasping man to his feet. Skinner waited while the man regained his breath, then he hit him, a direct blow to the chin, rocking him back on his heels. "Did you hit her? Like this?" Skinner's fist rocketed out again, connecting with Gordon's eye. "Did it excite you to make her bleed? To see her skin bruise and swell? Did you just like to see her with black eyes?" Gordon was backing away now, babbling furiously. "What the hell's the matter with you? Who are you? What do you want?" "It's not so much fun when you're on the receiving end, is it, *Chuckie?*" Skinner snarled, his fist striking out again. The man fell, then scuttled backwards till he hit fence, and pulled himself up. His nose and lip were bleeding, and his eye was already swelling. "What the fuck is the matter with you?" he cried. "Leave me alone! I didn't do nothin' to you." "Oh, but you did, *Chuck,* you did." Skinner advanced again, eyes glinting with a near madness, and both fists shot out in rapid motions. The belly and the face again, and the man was down once more. He was crawling away now, edging backwards, when Skinner kicked out, knocking him over, leaving him breathless once more. "You hurt someone I care about," Skinner gritted out through clenched teeth. "You hurt her bad." He pulled the man roughly to his feet again. The man blinked foolishly at him, sobering rapidly before the force of Skinner's anger. "Suzanne?" he asked. "You know Suzanne?" Skinner yowled and launched himself at the man, tackling him, then rolling onto him and pounding his face, his chest, his belly. "Suzanne? You fucking bastard!" He was roaring, now, "One was not enough? You had to move on? Other women? Other lives ruined? What the fuck are you?" Beneath him, Gordon's struggles were fading, and as Skinner gripped his throat in his hands, squeezing tightly, the man started to slip away into unconsciousness. Skinner pulled himself away, not ready to let the man off yet. When Gordon was breathing again, lying unmoving in the dirt, Skinner reached down and ripped the man's shirt open. He grabbed a beer bottle from the trash can, then broke it against the fence. Moving very slowly, he pressed the jagged edge into the man's chest, right where Mara's scar was. "Not Suzanne," he hissed again. "Do you know who we're talking about now?" Gordon was crying, making inarticulate sounds, snot mingling with the blood that still ran from his nose. "No," he pleaded, "no. Leave me alone. Leave me alone!" His voice was high, shrill, his fear evident, and as Skinner watched, the man's pants grew wet. He prodded the man roughly in the groin, using his toe to push him back along the ground. "Some big man, aren't you? That why you have to beat women? 'Cause you're such a big man?" Gordon was watching Skinner, tears streaming down his face, and he jumped as Skinner pushed the beer bottle down a little harder. A trickle of red began to flow down the man's chest. "No," he moaned, "No." His voice trailed off into indecipherable babble. Skinner pushed again, then inched the bottle to the left, leaving a line of red behind. "I asked you a question, asshole!" he snarled. "Do you know who we're talking about now?" Gordon looked up at him, eyes huge in the moonlight, and whimpered, "Mara. It was Mara." ********************************************* "Son of a bitch!" Mulder said it again, and Scully turned to look at him. "Enough, Mulder," she said calmly. "Let's stop cussing him, and start finding him." Mulder drew a deep breath, then nodded. "Yeah, but I'm not just cussing him, I'm cussing myself. I can't believe I let my guard down like that." He smacked himself on the forehead. "What the hell was I thinking?" "Just stop," Scully ordered. "Stop right there. You are not the only one responsible for this. As I recall, I was the one pulling you down the hall last night." "Yeah, but I'm the psychologist, I shoulda known he was liable to try something like this. Hell, Scully, you even pointed out his sudden re-emergence amongst the living was a bit odd." Mulder ran a hand through his hair, sending it into total disarray. "Yes, Mulder, yes I did," she answered calmly. "And as you pointed out, you are the psychologist." Mulder turned to look at her, eyes wide with shock. "What? You're agreeing with me? That it's my fault?" "No, I'm just restating the facts." She turned and began to pace. "You're the psychologist. We knew he was depressed. We suspected there was a problem when he suddenly seemed so much better. But ..." she paused, then turned to look at him. "I'm the *fucking* doctor, Mulder, *I'm* the one who drugged him. *I'm* the one who obviously screwed up the dosage. And *I'm* the one who insisted we head for the bedroom." She sighed. "There's more than enough guilt and blame to go around. But do we really want to play this game, or do we want to find him?" Mulder was nodding, listening to her, then he walked to the couch and began pulling up the cushions. He lifted a small pill and turned, "You didn't screw up, Scully. That SOB was planning this!" "Whatever, Mulder. We need to find him!" "Yeah, and when we do, it's *my* turn to chew a little butt for a change. I'm gonna look forward to telling Skinner off for rash behavior." He grinned, then swooped over and kissed Scully quickly before he plopped down at the computer. "Now, where the hell did he go?" It involved getting Byers to come down to Richmond -- Mulder just didn't have the hacking skills the Gunmen were known for -- but by 7:30 that evening, they had reconstructed Skinner's research of the night before, and finally had an address. In the car, driving to Yorktown, Mulder commented, "I wouldn't have thought to look at other Navy towns. It just wouldn't have occurred to me." "It should have occurred to me," Scully muttered. "Hell, I lived in Virginia Beach for three years when Dad was stationed at Dam Neck." She paused thoughtfully, "But I don't think I would have thought to look for 16 year old brides. Skinner is good." "Yeah, well, he obviously didn't make AD on his people skills," Mulder mumbled, and Scully laughed. "What do you think he's gonna do?" "I'd watch the guy. Make sure he left, and follow him so I'd know where to find him. Then I'd go back and search the house. If I didn't find you, I'd go back and find the guy. Try and get him to talk. If he didn't talk, I'd have to *help* him along." Scully smiled in the dark. She hadn't missed Mulder's slip of the tongue -- 'if I didn't find you.' Glimpses into Mulder's mind were rare - and this one was quite endearing. She sobered quickly though as a new thought crossed her mind. "Mulder, you know if the AD kills this guy, we can't help him." "Hell, I know, Scully, that's why we need to get there fast. We needed to be there this morning. I can't believe he knows his way around computers like that." He slammed his hand on the wheel. "Shit! I just never suspected Skinner was so versatile." "Yeah, the man is just full of surprises," Scully said dryly. They pulled up before a small duplex in a rather rundown neighborhood. One car in the drive -- not Skinner's. No lights in the house. "What do we do now?" Scully asked. "We better check it out, just in case." They exchanged worried looks and climbed from the car. Clearly, carried on the night air, they could hear the sound of a man moaning, "No, no ..." They both broke into a run, heading for the backyard of the duplex, opening the gate, and sliding to a halt. The AD had a man laid out in the dirt, a broken beer bottle pressed against his chest. As they watched, Skinner pressed on the bottle, "I asked you a question, asshole!" he snarled. "Do you know who we're talking about now?" The man on the ground, Gordon, looked up at him, eyes huge in the moonlight, and whimpered, "Mara. It was Mara." Skinner's muscles tensed, Scully could see the tendons bunched beneath his shirt. "NO!" she called sharply, and when he jerked around to look at her, she repeated, "No," in a softer tone. Skinner's eyes were glazed, beyond anger, beyond fear, beyond madness. Scully wasn't sure they would be able to reach him. Mulder whispered, "No names, don't use names," then launched himself at Skinner, wrestling him to the ground and pulling the bottle from his hand. If Skinner hadn't been weakened by his own self-imposed fast, his own course of sleep deprivation, the beating of Charles Gordon, Mulder didn't think he'd have had a chance against the bigger man. But Skinner was weakened, and when Mulder rolled him away from Gordon, he seemed to collapse into himself. Scully walked over to Gordon, made a cursory exam, and determined the man was breathing evenly, had a good, steady pulse, and no obvious life-threatening injuries. He was badly beaten, but he would probably live. A good thing for the AD, but perhaps not so good for some unsuspecting woman somewhere down the line. "Gordon's unconscious. We need to call 911 for him, and we need to take what we came for and get out of here." "You better look at the big guy. I think he may be unconscious as well." Skinner lay beneath Mulder, eyes closed, unmoving. "Get off him," Scully ordered. "Breathing's fast," she lifted Skinner's wrist, "pulse is racing." She pulled open an eye. "Pupils dilated. He's just coming off his adrenaline high." She made a quick exam, then looked at his hands. "Knuckles are a little scraped but that's about it as far as visible injuries. Let's get him up and out of here. He may not even realize what he's done." Skinner shivered then and mumbled, "Cold." "Shhh," Scully soothed, "I know. C'mon, let us help you and we'll get you to the car. You can warm up there." Suddenly, Skinner rolled to the side and began to retch, emptying himself of the beer he had consumed, trying to rid himself of the things he had heard. "Oh, God," he groaned, "the things he did." He shivered again. "The things he did." Scully shushed him again. "Not now. Don't think about it now." They pulled Skinner to his feet, then walked him out of the yard and back to the car. Scully got the emergency blanket from the trunk, tucking it around Skinner, and crawled in the back with him. When he swayed in his seat, she pulled him down, putting his head into her lap and gently rubbing his shoulders. "She's still gone, isn't she?" he asked mournfully. "I thought it was a bad dream, but she's still gone." ****************************************************************** Four months later "God, I'm tired," Mulder yawned as they walked from the airport terminal. "I'm so sick of farmers and pig shit, I don't know what to do!" Scully patted his arm. "You hang in there. It'll be over eventually. I'm still hopeful. Since Skinner came back, I know he's met with the Director a couple of times about us." Mulder nodded, "Yeah, but it's been three months. If they were going to do ..." He paused, then slipped his hand into his pocket, as his phone began to ring. "Mulder," he said, hitching his shoulder to keep his suit bag from sliding anymore. "Hold on a minute, Kim, calm down." Scully's eyes widened and she locked her attention on Mulder. "When?" Mulder listened. "Not at all? Shit! Uh, sorry, Kim." He turned to Scully. "Skinner never showed for work today. Kim's been covering but she doesn't know what to do now." Scully took the phone. "Kim? This is Dana. Can you still do his signature?" She was nodding. "Good. Then put him in for two weeks of leave, and route it straight to the Director. You take care of that, we'll find him. Thanks for calling us first, Kim. He'll be grateful, if he ever returns to his senses." She closed the phone and handed it back to Mulder. "Do I want to know how you know Kim can do Skinner's signature?" "Not really," she said absently. "Just remember to thank her when you get a new phone." They reached the car and she pushed the unlock button to open the doors. "Now, where the hell do you think he is?" "Let's check his place in Crystal City first, then we'll drive down to Richmond." "And then Norfolk, if we have to. Maybe he went to Mara's." ********************************************* Skinner unlocked the door, stepping into the beach house. He looked around. This was it. This was the place of good memories he wanted to share with Mara. But Mara was gone. Over four months. Seventeen weeks. One hundred and twenty-three days. Two thousand, nine hundred -- he looked at his watch -- sixty hours. Forever. It was all the same. There were only two states of existence now: with Mara, and nothingness. He was so tired of the nothingness. When nothing new had turned up after his little *incident* with Charles Gordon, the investigation had lost steam. Agents got pulled for other matters, police had enough murders, rapes, and assaults to keep them occupied. Only Mulder and Scully had been left. They had continued doggedly, both were nothing if not persistent. But even they had been unable to find anything. It was as if Mara had disappeared off the planet. Skinner stepped to the sliding glass door that looked out over the ocean at Nags Head. He opened it and walked out, gazing up at the night sky and wondering if there really was something to Mulder's crazy theories. It certainly didn't seem as if Mara could still be here. There would have been some trace, some clue, something. Wouldn't there? He sighed, then shivered in the cold night air. The beach was deserted this time of year. When he'd planned his trip with Mara, it was still warm enough during the day for walks on the beach, and grilling out. But now it was midwinter, and there was no one here in this resort town. Just the few locals, and himself. A lonely man in mourning. He shivered again, then went back into the house, closing the door. There was dust on everything, and the furniture wore shrouds of sheets. They would have pulled the sheets together. He walked to the couch and dragged the sheet off. "Mara, this couch was my grandmother's. My mom took an upholstery class, you know, like at a community college and she redid it. Took her months!" He laughed. "She had to sign up for the class three times to finish it, but, look," he rubbed the material, "didn't she do a good job? We were real proud of her, my dad and me, she worked hard on this." He moved to a rocker and pulled the shroud off it. "My mother rocked me in this when I was a baby. The leg broke, here," he bent to touch a strut that ran from seat to rocker, "and my dad made another one. See," he touched the strut again, then touched its counterpart on the other rocker, "it doesn't quite match. Dad did a good job, but he insisted we use it in the beach house, since it wasn't exactly the same." He smiled. "Mom thought it was great, but Dad was a perfectionist." He rose again, then sighed, "Oh, Mara, I wanted to share this with you. I wanted to make you part of this. I wanted to give you only the good times." He choked on a sob, then quickly stripped the rest of the linens and moved back to the bedrooms. ******************************************** "Mulder, what do you think you're doing?" Scully hissed, her eyes scanning the hallway as Mulder worked a credit card into the AD's door. "Shh, Scully, not to worry," he said, as the door opened with a slight click. "We just need to look around." "Mulder, I don't like this. This is a serious invasion of his privacy." "Did I ever tell you about the time Melissa invaded my privacy?" "Missy? My Melissa?" Mulder nodded, moving through the apartment, looking for the AD. "Yeah, your Missy." He opened a door and looked into an office. "You were back, but I was so angry. You wouldn't wake up." He was sorting through papers on the desk -- all work related. "Nothing they did seemed to help, and they were talking about your Living Will." He walked to the stairs, Scully trailing. "I know you had a difference of opinion with my mom over that." "Yeah, you could say that. Anyway, this man gave me information on who had done that to you, who took you. He wouldn't give me the ones behind it all, but he was going to give me the ones who actually took you. The hired help, I guess you could say. He said it was the best I was going to get, and I was willing to take anything at that point." He peered into the bedroom, then walked over to a small desk. "Two desks; work downstairs, personal up here," he commented. "And you call me obsessive." He began to rifle through the papers that lay there. "So I'm sitting in my apartment, in the dark, waiting for these guys to come to my apartment -- he'd set them up, my informant -- and there's a knock on the door. Scared the shit out of me." He looked up and grinned. "I go to the peephole, it's Melissa. She was the last person I wanted to see then, but I opened the door, thinking maybe something had happened with you. But no, she just wants to tell me how I haven't really been there for you; I'm not trying hard enough to reach you." He shook his head. "I did try, Scully, honest I did, but you were so ..." He turned to look at her and she saw the tears that hovered in his eyes. "Mulder," she said softly. He wiped his face roughly. "Yeah, well, anyway, I got to thinking, and so I came to the hospital and sat with you that night. I talked to you. I *tried* to reach you, but," -- he shrugged -- "nothing. You were just as gone when I left as you were when I arrived. I went back to my apartment, the place had been trashed. I missed my chance to get the ones that did that to you." He started to shrug again but it quickly turned into a shudder. "I let them go." He turned to her again, "Scully, I'm sorry," his voice broke and the tears fell, "I let them go." She came to him then, enfolding him in her arms, holding him as it washed over him again, the dark time, the bad time, the time of being alone. "It's all right, Mulder," she said, "I'm here. It's all right now." He clung to her for a long moment, then gathered himself together. He kissed her fiercely, seeming to draw renewed strength, renewed purpose from the contact. Breaking reluctantly from her embrace, he calmed somewhat, sniffing a bit, then ducking into the bathroom. When he came back out, he was almost back to normal. "So, anyway, you woke up, and everything was OK. All because Missy invaded my privacy." He went back to the desk, resumed looking at the papers. "Hey, Scully, did you know Skinner has a house in someplace called, get this, Nags Head, North Carolina?" "No, I didn't. Why?" " 'Cause I'm willing to bet that's where he is. Now I just need a map to figure out where it is." "I know where it is, Mulder." He turned, eyes wide with surprise. "You do? How?" "I told you I lived in Virginia Beach for three years. Nags Head is where the Virginia Beach locals go when they want to get away from the tourists." "Close to Norfolk?" "About an hour, if I remember correctly." "Let's go." "Mulder, don't you want to check the apartment first?" "Nah, I got a feeling about this." He pulled her close to him. "Scully, I know what he's feeling. I *understand.* And it's not good. I think we need to find him fast." *********************************************** Skinner had finished cleaning. The beach house was spotless. He didn't exactly understand why, he knew it was important. There had been many good times here, and he didn't want to leave a mess. He pulled out the few photos he had of Mara -- he'd framed them soon after she went missing -- and placed them on the mantle with the other family pictures that rested there. Here, she was laughing, the sun had set her hair on fire and it swirled around her face as the breeze lifted it. He'd caught that one as they hiked along the earthworks at Yorktown, a Saturday's outing for them last fall. And here, his finger touched her image reverently, she was cooking, a smudge of flour over her eye, and her hair pulled up in that funny pony-tail she wore so often. To keep it out of the way, she said. He didn't understand how it could be, but she swore long hair was easier to take care of in lots of ways than short. Just put it up and forget it for the day, she said. You don't have to keep brushing it and messing with it all the time. He shook his head. He didn't get it but it didn't matter. He loved her hair, and he was glad she wore it long. He sighed and looked at the last picture. She was asleep on the couch, a book in her lap and her glasses perched on the end of her nose. He'd been taken by her innocence, the trust she had in him, her -- he choked -- her vulnerability. After he'd taken the picture, he'd gone to her and slipped the book from her fingers, pulled the glasses from her nose, and lifted her into his arms. She stirred then, but he'd shushed her, and carried her back to the bedroom. When he laid her on the bed, she'd awoken, and though he tried to get her to go back to sleep, she'd tugged him into the bed with her, and they'd made love for what seemed like hours. Time stood still when he was with Mara. Now, there was entirely too much time, and no Mara. He touched the last picture once more, then trudged to the bedroom to get ready. ******************************************* They pulled up to the beach house, parking behind Skinner's Crown Vic. Scully led the way as they walked to the front door. "Should we knock," she asked, "or just use your credit card again?" "Ha, Ha," Mulder replied, trying the knob. The door opened easily. "How 'bout we just go on in?" Scully snorted then stepped into the darkened house. It had the air of long abandonment, but everything was spotless. The lingering smell of pine and lemon indicated the cleaning was very recent. "Hello?" Mulder called, "Anybody home?" He turned to Scully. "Check the loft -- I'll go down here." He indicated a short hallway leading to bedrooms. Scully was upstairs, looking down at the living room, when Mulder emerged. "He's here, well, not in the house, but his stuff is in the bedroom." He turned in a circle, surveying the room. "Where the hell could he have gone?" Scully came downstairs, then walked to the fireplace. She lifted a photo from the mantle and held it out wordlessly to Mulder. Mara. He walked over to her, taking the picture, then spotted the other two. He handled it reverently, finally replacing it in its appointed spot. "Did he go for a walk?" "Maybe. January's awfully cold for walking on the beach, though." "Maybe it fits his mood." Mulder looked at the pictures again. "I don't like it, Scully. This just has the feel of saying good-bye to it. Better button up, I suddenly feel a need to walk on the beach." She nodded and they walked to the sliding glass door, stepping out on the wood deck behind it, and making their way down a number of steps to a path of stones, leading to the water. They walked quickly, the cold was biting, and then climbed the dune line to reach the beach itself. Just visible, only head and shoulders still above the icy waters, was a man. Skinner. Moving steadily against the tide, deeper and deeper into the frigid ocean. "Oh, shit!" Mulder exclaimed. "Shoes on or off, Scully?" "Strip, Mulder, it'll be colder, but the weight won't wear you down. And move fast, I don't want to have to come after you both." Mulder's clothes were coming off and he was running into the water, high-stepping over the waves that rolled into the shore. The water *was* icy, beyond cold, and he could feel himself going numb. He shivered involuntarily, and forced himself to keep going. When he was waist deep, the figure of the AD slipped beneath the water and he tried to move faster, his eyes fastened on the last spot he had seen the man. He reached it and dove, hands flailing frantically as he searched for Skinner in the ocean's inky darkness. Nothing. He rose, gulped air again, and dove once more. It was his fourth dive when he finally felt it. Something solid connected with his foot, and he turned in the water, grabbing the AD and hauling him to the surface. He was unmoving in Mulder's grasp, not breathing. Mulder turned on his side, positioned Skinner, and began the swim back to shore. When the water was too shallow to swim any further, Scully was suddenly there, up to her waist in the cold Atlantic water, and they were carrying Skinner to the shore. "N-n-n-ot breathing," he said, through chattering teeth. "Put him down, Mulder, and get dressed. I won't have you go hypothermic on me as well." She knelt down and placed her cheek near Skinner's lips, looking for the rise of his chest as she listened for breath sounds and felt for any hint of air movement. The man was not breathing. She quickly placed two fingers against his neck, relieved to find a steady pulse. She began mouth-to-mouth immediately. Mulder was skinning out of his wet briefs, then pulling his dry clothes on. Once he was dressed, Scully ordered, "Here, Mulder, take over the respirations." Mulder complied and she leaned back to catch her own breath. Within two minutes, Skinner suddenly choked and began to spew water. "Roll him! Roll him!" Scully cried. "Don't let him choke on the water!" They rolled Skinner to his side, and Scully gently rubbed his back, soothing him as he continued to heave. He finished relieving himself of the water, and rolled back onto his back. "Noooo," he moaned. "Shoulda let me die." He closed his eyes and refused to speak again. Scully sat back on her haunches. "All right, Mulder, he's breathing. Let's get him in the house." Still shivering, Mulder nodded and lifted the AD's shoulders while Scully picked up his feet. They carried him back over the dunes and up the path to the house. Once inside, Scully insisted they lay him on the floor and strip him down, drying him quickly before carrying him to the bedroom. They slipped him, nude, beneath the sheets of the queen-size bed in the master bedroom, and Mulder commented, "He's gonna freak if he wakes up naked, Scully." "Then get him some sweats or something," she said absently, removing her own wet clothes. "Uh, Scully, what are you doing?" "Mulder," she stared at him, "his temperature is way down and it was you, I believe, who pointed out that the best way to conserve body heat was to crawl naked into a sleeping bag with another naked person." "Scully! He'll really freak if he wakes up to find you naked in the bed with him." "Gee, Mulder, thanks a lot," she said sarcastically. "That's not what I meant, and you know it." "It's OK, partner, he's not gonna wake up to find me naked; I'm putting on a sweatsuit. And besides, you're gonna join us." She smiled sweetly at him. "Me? C'mon, Scully, I fished him out of the ocean." "Yes, you did. And got quite chilled yourself, to say nothing of the fact that I know you are exhausted. So put something warm on and get in the bed." "The bags are in the car." "Then get them." Scully had her own wet clothes off and was climbing under the covers with the AD, as Mulder turned to go to the car. He returned quickly, pulling a sweatsuit from Scully's bag for her, and taking off his jeans and slipping into his own sweatsuit. He dropped the extra comforter he'd brought from the living room onto the bed, then helped Scully to dress Skinner in a warm fleece set. He crawled into the bed on the other side of the AD. "How come I have to lay next to Skinner instead of you?" "Oh, please, Mulder!" Scully said in exasperation. "You're cold, you're exhausted, and I want to keep an eye on you too. Just cuddle up." She rolled over, pressing herself against Skinner and reached out to Mulder on the other side. Rather slowly, he curled up against Skinner's back and took Scully's hand, their joined hands resting on the AD's side. "God! He's like ice!" "I know. But I think he'll be OK once he wakes up. You know we can't take him to a hospital. It would kill his career." "Yeah. And one of us has to stay on him 24/7 now. This wasn't just a suicidal gesture, this was an actual attempt -- and a nearly successful one at that." "You try to sleep, Mulder. I'll watch him. And once he's warm, you can head off to another bed." " 's OK, Scully," Mulder mumbled, as sleep began to creep up on him. "I was teasing. I don't mind." "I know, Mulder. But he really would freak if he wakes up in bed with *you!* He's bound to be upset enough to find me here." Mulder chuckled, then laid his head on the pillow. "I'm just gonna rest a few. All right? I'm right here if you need me." Within five minutes he was snoring gently as Scully lay awake, monitoring the two men in her life. About two hours later, Skinner began to moan and thrash about in his sleep. "Nooo," he cried, one arm lashing out at Mulder, who sat up blearily. Scully was already cooing to the AD, speaking softly as she tried to calm him. His eyes were tightly shut and he reached out to clasp Scully to himself. "Mara," he breathed, tears falling from his eyes, "Mara. Come back. Mara ..." Scully shifted him, pulling his head to her chest, and she lay, cradling the big man gently, still cooing, still talking softly, still rubbing his back. When he settled, and slipped back into a restless sleep, she looked at Mulder over his shoulder. "Maybe you should go," she suggested. "I think he's gonna be uncomfortable enough when he wakes up." Mulder nodded and crawled out of the bed, then walked around it to kneel by Scully. "You gonna be all right?" "Yeah. But he is seriously out of it, Mulder. We've got to make plans, and soon." Mulder nodded again, then kissed Scully and padded down the hall, in search of a new bed, and sleep. ******************************************** The next morning, Scully was awakened by a voice whispering, "Mara, you came back!" and there was such joy in it that it hurt to hear. "I thought you left me, but you came back." A warm nose nuzzled her breast, but apparently didn't find what was expected, for Skinner jerked away immediately, and sat up. He looked down at her, first in confusion, then in pain, and finally in anger. "You should have let me die!" He rose swiftly and stormed to the bathroom. She rose and quickly ran down the hall to the room where Mulder slept. She banged on the open door, calling, "Get up. He's up and he's not happy." Mulder nodded and began throwing on clothes. They went to the living room, and sat, waiting until the AD emerged from the bathroom. He came in and sank down on the couch, gently touching the material before folding his hands in his lap, his face resuming its stony impassivity. "Sir?" Scully began tentatively. He lifted his head, staring at her for a long moment, before he silently resumed his inspection of his lap. She looked at Mulder, and he shook his head. "Kitchen," he whispered, nodding his head in that direction. From the pass-through in the kitchen, they could see the AD on the sofa. Mulder began going through cupboards, looking for coffee but came up empty. "Definitely got to make a run to the store," he muttered. "Mulder, what are we going to do? We can't leave him alone, and the only reason we don't have to be at work today is because it's a travel day. We'll have the weekend, but we have to go back by Monday." He shrugged. "He has to work it out in his own way." "His *way* involved walking into the ocean in the middle of January, Mulder!" He dropped his head and shrugged again. "Mine involved sitting for hours at a time with my gun in my mouth." He shivered, then reached out and pulled Scully into a hug. He kissed her, then settled her against his chest, holding her tightly. Head tilted down, he murmured into her hair, "I'm not going to add to his pain. We'll find a way to give him whatever time he needs." He kissed her head again. "I don't know why I'm still alive. I just don't know." Scully sighed against him, and squeezed him tightly. "I don't know either, but I'm glad you are." They both turned to look at Skinner, sitting still and alone on the couch, head dropped and staring at nothing in his lap. In the morning light, just visible on his cheeks, was the glittering trail his tears had made. ******************************************* Six hours later, Scully had made a trip to the store, they had provisions for the weekend, and Mulder was making sandwiches in the kitchen. Scully was curled up in a chair, reading, and Skinner still sat unmoving on the couch. A cell phone chirped, and there was the usual scramble to determine if it was his or hers. His won, and he answered, "Mulder." His face took on a quizzical look. "No, Kim, it's all right. We should have called you yesterday, but things got a little hairy. Yeah, we found him, and yeah, he's OK -- sort of." Mulder shot a glance at the still form on the couch. "Why have you been trying to reach him?" He listened, then said, "We're on our way. We're a good five hour's away, but we'll go straight there. Thanks, Kim. Thank you. You don't realize this, but you may have saved his life." He flipped the phone shut and looked up, then walked to the couch and took Skinner's chin in his hand, pulling the man's eyes up to meet his own. Skinner tried to yank himself away, but Mulder's grip was firm. "Listen to me," he ordered. "A Jane Doe showed up at Georgetown Medical last night -- just showed up. Unconscious, superficial trauma, no ID." Skinner glared at Mulder. "So?" "So, she has long red hair, and a scar" -- he made the motion across his chest -- "here." ***************************************************************** "How long?" Skinner asked from the back seat. Scully turned around. He was out of his seat belt again, leaning forward. She smiled inwardly. It was like driving with an excited child. Only this "child" was six foot two and was just as worried as he was excited. "You can call again in about ten minutes," she said patiently. "And we'll be there in about," she looked at Mulder, and he completed her sentence, "two hours." Skinner had immediately called Georgetown after Mulder made his announcement. He'd insisted they change Mara from a Jane Doe and use her name. And he'd gotten a status on her. Semi-comatose, superficial face and limb trauma, no internal injuries. Other than the contusions on her face, no recognizable head trauma to account for her altered level of consciousness. She was unresponsive to verbal cues, but did respond to deep painful stimuli. He hadn't wanted to know how they had discovered that. After his third call, the hospital had limited him to one call an hour, and he was too jittery to keep track of the time, so he just asked Scully. He looked up to see her smiling at him, and he responded with a sheepish grin of his own. "Sorry. I'm driving you nuts, I know. I just can't stand -- not knowing." " 's all right," she said. "We understand. I know Mulder understands." She reached out and gently stroked her partner's arm, earning a quick smile before he returned his attention to the road. "With no more injuries than what she has, why is she unconscious?" he asked again. "There's no way to know yet. The doctors will brief you when we get there. I know it's hard, but you just have to wait." "I want you to look at her," Skinner said. "I will. You know that. But you know I can't practice -- I can't treat her." "No, but you can make sure they do what's right, what's best for her." His voice broke again as he added in a soft undertone, "What's best for us." He slid back in his seat, refastening the seat belt and leaning his head back against the top of the seat. "It's not over," Mulder said in a quiet voice, and Scully glanced sharply at him. "I know," Skinner replied. "I'm not unaware that a whole new level of problem has arisen. But," and his voice cracked again, "at least she's back and we can tackle the rest together." Mulder nodded, but muttered under his breath, "Don't be surprised if it doesn't feel like together." Only Scully heard his pain-filled admission, and she gently laid her hand on his leg, reminding him that they were together now. Skinner had his eyes closed in the back seat, lost in thought, when he suddenly spoke up. "I owe you two my life." "You've saved us a few times," Mulder replied. "Not the same. You risked your careers to save mine. And you kept me alive so that today can happen." He paused, then lowered his voice and added, "I'm not good at this, but, thank you." *************************************************** "So when will she wake up?" Skinner asked impatiently. "When will she be back to normal?" "Well, she is stuporous, so 'normal' is a matter of context." Skinner was getting frustrated. Why couldn't this man just answer the question? He gritted his teeth and started to speak, when Scully laid a hand on his arm. "I think what Dr. Irrizy is trying to explain, is that, at this time, there is no indication of brain damage." She turned to the dark-skinned man. "Is that correct, Doctor?" "Well, essentially, yes, Doctor Scully, but you know there are no guarantees." Skinner was nodding as he moved to take a seat by Mara's bed. He had already dismissed the others, focusing totally on the woman in the bed. She lay without moving, the gentle rise and fall of her chest the only clue she was still alive. "How would she have gotten these scrapes and bruises?" he asked, pointing to her face and arms. "They're consistent with her being shoved from a moving car in front of the hospital. I don't think there's anything more to it than that," Scully responded. She turned to the doctor again. "What else are you doing?" "A broad spectrum antibiotic, just in case. Nutrition and hydration. She is malnourished and dehydrated, so we need to correct that as quickly as possible." He looked over at the tiny woman in the bed, and the large man who cradled her hand so carefully, and added, "Time. We just need to give her time." He began to walk away, and Scully followed. "He seems very much in love with her," and Scully nodded. "Well, that may be the best thing. You know, these patients will often respond to familiar voices, to their loved ones, long before they would respond to you or me." "Do you have a problem with him staying with her?" The doctor looked back at the curtained alcove. "It's not usually allowed," he glanced down to see Scully narrowing her eyes at him, "but, considering his size, and the fact that he's a federal agent and I assume has access to weaponry," -- he grinned -- "I guess we can make an exception." Scully relaxed and nodded again. "I really don't think you would have been able to make him leave. My partner and I need to stay with him, but it doesn't need to be both of us, and we'll try to be as unobtrusive as possible." "Why does he need someone to stay with him?" "Well, the kidnapping is an open case, and the *Assistant Director* could potentially be at risk. We can't afford to take chances." Now the doctor was nodding. "Very well. I'll inform the staff." He turned and strode briskly away. She watched him for a minute then shifted her eyes to see Mulder strolling down the hall -- a cafeteria tray in each hand. "Hey, Scully," he called, "wanna give me a hand here?" She relieved him of a tray and they began to walk slowly back to Mara's cubicle. "I figured we better try and get him to eat while he's still on the 'she's back' high. If she doesn't wake soon, that high will fade fast." Scully touched his arm. "If she doesn't wake soon, I don't know what we'll do with him. We can't stay here everyday, and we can't even guarantee evenings. Kersch could put us on travel again at any time." "The Director? Could he do something?" She shook her head. "I don't know how we could approach him without letting on how -- unstable -- Skinner has been." "Must be hell to be that high up. When I was going nuts, everyone just took it in stride as part of how 'Spooky' Mulder was." She smiled at him, then teased, "When you *were* going nuts? Who says you ever stopped?" He leaned down then, and kissed her quickly, the tray balanced precariously at the end of a long arm. "You make me sane," he whispered, then straightened and added in a normal voice, "well, most of the time at least." ********************************************* Skinner looked across the bed to see Scully curled up in a recliner, sleeping. The hospital had been good enough to move two of the sleeping chairs into Mara's curtained area, though it took up considerable space in the already cramped alcove. He had napped briefly, but now he was watching Mara. She was still unmoving, but he had a feeling she knew he was there. He leaned forward, taking her hand, and said, "I'm here, Mara. I came. I missed you so much." His voice broke and he felt tears sting his eyes. "I looked for you, Mara, I kept looking. But you were gone. There was nothing. I tried and tried, for months, but there was just nothing." He laid his head on the bed, next to her arm, and let the tears flow. From across the bed, Scully opened her eyes briefly, then quickly closed them again, trying to give the AD at least a semblance of privacy. He lifted his head slightly, looking at her with tear-blurred vision. His hand began to gently rub her arm. "I missed you so much," he whispered. "I was so alone. And, Mara," he sniffed, and strangled a sob in his throat, "Mara, I can't be alone anymore. I don't know how to be alone. I *need* you." He was stroking her arm, his movement almost frantic, "I just can't go on alone, Mara. You have to wake up and come back to me. You just have to." He laid his head back on the bed, lifting her arm to lay it across his shoulders. He stayed there for a long time, tears still creeping from his eyes, his breathing ragged and harsh. He had finally begun to calm, more from exhaustion than any feeling of relief, when he felt it. A movement on his back. Her fingers had twitched. He sat up, taking her hand in his own, and called, "Scully! She moved." As he held her hand, he felt it again. Just the slightest movement, but her fingers had tightened against his. Scully was up and moving to his side of the bed. "What? Where?" she asked, and he pointed to Mara's hand, clasped gently in his own. "Her fingers. She moved her fingers. Twice now." He reached up with his other hand and traced her brow. "Mara, please. Again. Tell me you're here." There was no expression in her face, her eyes remained closed, and her chest still rose in an even up and down motion. But within his hand, once more, her fingers clasped his own. He looked up at Scully, and she was smiling. She'd seen it. She patted his back, then leaned down and gave him a hug. "It's a good sign, Sir, a very good sign." She straightened, and added, "Don't wear her out. She's probably using a lot of energy to let you know she's here. We have to give her some time to heal from whatever she's been through." She patted him again, and went back to her chair. ********************************************* Scully had persuaded Skinner to step away while the nurses gave Mara her bath. They had walked down to the visitor's waiting room, and Skinner had tried to sit patiently, but within 10 minutes he was unable to wait any longer. He looked up apologetically. "I need to see her." Scully nodded and they walked back to the curtained alcove that served as Mara's room. " ... really should just cut it off," a voice said. "She'll never get the snarls out." "NO!" Skinner roared, and pulled the curtain open. Two nurses were just finishing changing the linens on Mara's bed, and they looked up in surprise. "It's just a suggestion, Sir," one responded mildly. "We can't even wash her hair properly because of the tangles." "Then give me a brush," Skinner demanded. "I'll take care of it." One nurse looked at the other, then shrugged, and handed him a comb. "All we have here." One nurse gathered the dirty towels and gown, as the other took the basin, and they left. "I have a brush, Sir," Scully offered, and removed one from her purse, passing it to him. He took it absently, and was studying the bed, trying to determine the best way to work on Mara's hair, when Mulder joined them. "Time to go eat, Scully," he said lightly. "And I brought you breakfast," he said to Skinner. The AD turned to look at Mulder, nodded quickly, then turned back to the bed. Mulder looked quizzically at Scully. "Mara moved a bit last night," she explained. "A very good sign. She's just had her bath and now the AD wants to help her get her hair straight." "I can't figure out how to do it," Skinner growled. "Just get in the bed with her, sit her up against your chest, and brush it out," Mulder said. "Mulder, he can't get in the bed with her," Scully scolded. "It's against policy." "I did," Mulder said quietly. "They pretty much left me alone." His voice dropped again, and his eyes took on a faraway look, "Sometimes, it was the only way I could get a few minutes of sleep." Scully touched him gently. "I didn't know, Mulder. I'm still learning how hard it was for you." He shrugged. "You couldn't know." Skinner had the railing on the bed down, and was crawling into the bed. "I need some help here," he said. Mulder stepped over quickly, and gently lifted Mara to a sitting position, then, when Skinner was settled, back against the headboard, long legs stretched out on either side of Mara, Mulder gently laid her back against his chest. Skinner looked up. "Look, I appreciate your -- vigilance -- but, I really need to be alone for a while. Please?" Mulder and Scully exchanged a look, then Mulder nodded. "C'mon, Scully, I'll take you to breakfast." He glanced back at the AD, already working the brush through the ends of Mara's hair. "We'll be back pretty soon, OK?" Skinner nodded and they left. He held her hair gently in his hands, her head propped back against his shoulder. It was awkward, but God, it felt good to hold her again. His arm was snaked around her belly, holding her close to him, and his hands teased the tangles from her hair, working from the bottom up. "Well," he said, "guess I've got my work cut out for me, don't I?" His hands were moving as he spoke. "I've missed this. There are so many things I've missed, Mara, all of them things you've brought me to. I miss waking up with you in my arms. I miss watching you, still half asleep, as I dress for work. I miss walking with you, and talking to you, and being with you. I miss your hose in the shower, and my T-shirts disappearing into your drawers. I miss setting the table. I hardly ate while you were gone, so you know I didn't set the table. I've lost a lot of weight -- you'll be surprised at how I look. But I went to the apartment every night, Mara. I kept my promise. I was there. It's there, waiting for us." He gave a successful little 'whuff' as a particularly bad snarl broke apart and the brush moved freely. " 'Course you may not want to be there anymore. That's OK. We'll find another place. Whatever you want. Mara, I'm ready to move. I want to be near you all the time. Time is too precious to spend four hours a day driving." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Her hands rested on his legs, and he felt her fingers move against his pants. "You hear me!" he cried happily. "I knew you would. Please come back to me, Mara. I'm so lonely here without all of you." He hugged her again, and felt the answering pressure as her hands moved against him. He was almost finished with the first part now. One long hank of hair was tangle-free, and he moved his hands to her head to separate another section to work on. Beneath his fingers he felt her head turn slightly, as if she was seeking something. He shifted her in his arms, and looked down to see her startling green eyes staring up at him. Her mouth worked soundlessly, and he hurried to reassure her, "Shhh, it's all right." His hand was on the call button, and in a moment the room would be filled with medical people, but for now, he wanted her to himself. Just for a minute. "Shhh," he whispered again. "You came back. You're here." He leaned down and kissed her softly, his lips lingering gently against hers. Her eyes tracked his every movement, and when she saw the tears in his own, her hand spasmed against his leg. "Wal --" she breathed, " 'm here." The End -- for now! ;-)