Title: Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 07/13
Author: Daydreamer
Author e-mail: Daydream59@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and disturbing imagery
Category: SAR - character exploration 
Spoilers: None
Keywords: Sk/O - M/Sc/Sk friendship; est 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.  I will make no profit 
from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am 
exceedingly poor and have nothing material they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought 
to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire!
Daydreamer's Den: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113

Summary: Mara and Skinner start a life together but her abusive
ex-husband is unwilling to leave them in peace.


"Any society that needs disclaimers has too many lawyers."
Erik Pepke

"Fan fiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage
done in a system where contemporary myths are owned
by corporations instead of owned by the folk."
Henry Jenkins, director of media studies at MIT: Author of 
"Textual Poachers: Media Fans and Participatory Culture"



Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 07/13

It was after midnight when Skinner got home.  He came
in quietly, unlocking  then relocking the door and quickly 
resetting the alarm.  As he moved further into the condo, 
heading wearily for the stairs, he stopped at the sight of 
the figures on the couch.  Scully was stretched out asleep 
across its length, her head cradled in Mulder's lap and 
the old afghan his grandmother had made was tucked 
around her.  Mulder was sprawled, head back, long legs 
splayed before him, one arm curled around Scully, the 
other dangling loose at his side.  As Skinner stared, a 
soft snore escaped the open mouth, and then one sleepy 
hazel eye open, followed by the other.  He nodded in 
the man's direction, but the eyes only watched him 
reproachfully.  At least he said nothing, confining his 
comments to the look of indictment, and Skinner was 
eternally grateful not to have to get into things with 
Mulder at this hour.  He nodded again, somewhat 
abashed, then when the eyes closed, he turned and 
went up the stairs.

When he walked into the bedroom, the first thing he 
saw was Mara.  She was curled on the edge of the bed,
as far away from his side as she could get, the covers
clutched protectively around her.  It was obvious she'd
been crying; the tear streaks were still visible on her
cheek.  He shook his head, berating himself for putting
her through this, for his inaction in the face of the 
assault and his inability to keep her safe.  Toeing off
his shoes, he dropped his trousers then removed shirt
and tie.  For the first time in long months, he pulled a
pair of little used pajamas from the drawer and put them
on.  Then, following her example, he crawled into the 
bed, staying far to the edge and turning his back to the
cold, empty space behind him.

He longed to take her in his arms, to hold her and comfort
her and brush away her tears. To cry in her arms, sharing 
the grief, mourning their loss, and waiting for the healing 
to begin -- a healing Mara had brought him before, to a 
wound he didn't know he carried.  To be consumed in the 
burning flames of rage and sorrow, and yet, somehow, to 
find hope amongst the ashes.  

But that comfort was denied him.  Until the man Gordon 
was caught, until this atrocity had been righted, there 
was no comfort Walter Skinner would allow himself,
not in this world, or the next.  He gave a deep, gut-wrenching
sigh, and shifted the pillow beneath his head.  It felt
wrong.  He'd slept on his back with Mara's head on his
chest, or on his side, wrapped around her for so long, he
couldn't get settled in this unfamiliar position.  He forced
himself to lay still, refusing to give in to the urge to 
shift and stretch, and the even stronger urge to roll over
and pull the woman next to him into his arms.  

And eventually, he settled into an uneasy sleep.

********************************************

She heard him come in.  He was being carefully quiet,
extraordinarily still as he moved through the room's
darkness.  She lay unmoving, keeping her breathing
slow and even and her eyes closed.  He paused at
the doorway, and she could feel his gaze upon her.
He lingered there for a long moment, then moved into
the room, and she heard his shoes come off, then the 
metal 'ting' of his belt, unbuckling, the 'zzzzz' of the 
zipper coming down, and the rustle of cloth as the trousers
were removed.  There was additional rustling which she
assumed was the shirt and tie, and she held her breath,
waiting to feel him slide in behind her, to feel the heat 
of his body against her own.  

She was cold -- so very and intensely cold.  Since he'd 
left this afternoon, she'd been cold, and no amount of 
added blankets or adjustments to the thermostat would 
chase the chill away.  Only he could do that.  She waited
to hear his voice in her ear, soft words of comfort and
love whispered intimately against the curve of her cheek.
She waited to feel hot breath against her neck, warmth
that would flow out and finally begin to thaw the chill
that threatened to overwhelm her.  She waited to feel the 
softly furred chest press against her, the strong arm 
that would slide across her waist and pull her tight to 
him.  The gentle hand that would stroke her skin, soothing 
the pains and easing the tension, and perhaps, lingering at 
the weight of her breast.  

But what she heard was a drawer opening, and the sound of
clothes rustling again as Walter put on pajamas that he 
never wore.  She felt the cold expanse of the empty bed
behind her reach out and grip her more fiercely as he 
climbed beneath the covers, but stayed far away, never
turning toward her.  She felt the chill slide down her back
and over her waist, settling into her belly and sending
icy tendrils up to clutch her heart and choke her 
throat.  She felt his tension and his stiffness and his
distance, and under it all, she felt his rage and his pain
and his helplessness.  But already, the gap between them
had widened and reaching for Walter, something that had
been as natural as breathing a week before, was something
so foreign, so unknown, that it was beyond her abilities.

She lay quietly, still listening, and heard his breathing 
shift as he finally drifted off into an unsettled sleep.

And then, and only then, did she give in to the tears
that overwhelmed her.

***********************************************

Skinner woke as the first pale fingers of false dawn reached
out and touched the window glass.  He woke to a tickle in his
nose and hair in his mouth and a cascade of soft auburn 
curls spilling over his chest.  He woke to the scent of clean
sheets and soap, roses and shampoo in his nostrils and
the sound of a soft purr of contentment humming in his
ears.  He woke to a sleepy warmth and boneless weight
draped across his body, her breathing vibrating against
his chest. 

He woke to betrayal.

Somehow, in the night, his subconscious had betrayed him
and he had moved to the middle of the bed, seeking out and
meeting Mara there in an action so natural, so completely
right, it had gone unnoticed.  She lay against him, her head
pillowed in the hollow of his good shoulder, her arm tight
across his belly.  His own good arm -- the one not strapped 
to his chest -- was wrapped around her, holding her close
and his fingers stroked her velvet skin wherever they could
reach.  One leg lay soft and heavy across his thigh, the toes
of her foot tickling the hairs on his calf.  

He sighed softly, then tilted his head and kissed the top of
hers.  "Oh, Mara," he murmured, "I'm so sorry."

He allowed himself a few more minutes of holding her, of
being with her, of being subsumed into her oneness, being
part of the peace and beauty and love and acceptance that
was Mara.  He allowed himself because he realized now, 
with his body's betrayal, he would not be able to be with 
her at all until this terrible thing was put to rest.  He
gently untangled himself, treasuring the touch and the
feel of her beneath his hands, then slid to the side and
rose.  As his weight shifted and then left the bed, she
reached out and said groggily, "Walter?"

"Shhh," he answered.  "Go back to sleep.  It's too early."

"I had a horrible dream," she mumbled, and his heart
shattered.  He could feel the individual splinters within
his chest fading away to nothingness and in its place a
core of pure white rage formed.  It was hot and pulsing
and it threatened to consume him.  His vision blurred and
the blood in his veins raced, pounding, pounding, and
he staggered from the blow of her words.  

His mouth worked wordlessly, and then he managed to
croak, "It won't happen again."  He watched her for a 
moment -- her eyes were still closed loosely, one hand
curled beneath her chin and that mass of curls tumbled
wildly about her.  Somehow, he knew he needed to 
memorize this image, to hold it forever, as if it might
never occur again.  "I'm going to fix it -- it will never
happen again."

He could just make out the half-nod she gave, and then
she was fully asleep again.  He dressed in silence, took
one last, long look at the woman on the bed, and then,
he was gone.

******************************************

He headed for the office, but before he was ten minutes
into his commute, he'd turned the car around and was
on the beltway, heading for 95 and points south.  Almost
four hours later, he was standing in the York County
Sheriff's Department, waiting to talk to the deputies
who had conducted the search of Gordon's house and
were still in the process of interviewing neighbors and
co-workers.  He was gone an hour later.  In an awkward
and tense encounter, he'd bluffed and bullied until he'd
been shown the files, and had secured copies.  The
young deputy nominally in charge of the investigation
had been somewhat in awe of the Assistant Director,
but not so much so that he didn't question Skinner's
involvement in a case in which he was a witness.  Skinner
had merely stared at the young man until he had averted
his gaze and scurried off to make the copies.

Papers in hand, he got in the car, and this time drove to
Norfolk.  Mara's house was here.  Her friends.  Her life
had been here until he had come along.  She'd been
happy.  She'd been comfortable.  And apparently, she'd
been safe.  Before him.  Before he got involved.  Before
she disappeared for months in what had to be a move
directed at him.  Before she gave up her life and home
and moved 200 miles away to a place where she knew
no one but him.  To a new job, a new house, a new
community.  He didn't even have a yard at the condo,
and he knew she loved to putter in her garden.  But he
hadn't thought of any of that when he insisted she come
to be with him.  All he knew was that he wanted her.

And he'd thought she'd be safe.  He'd never imagined this
man Gordon would seek her out and exact revenge for the
beating he had administered during that dark time of Mara's
absence.  He'd never thought -- his mind paused, stopped
in mid-thought and he suddenly realized that was what was
wrong.  He'd never thought.  Not beyond his own wants
and desires.  Not beyond his own needs.  Not beyond
what was good and right for him and made him happy.

He'd simply never thought.  

It was a concept that stunned him, even as he realized
its fundamental truth.  But it was also something he
could fix.  He would think.  He would use everything
he possessed to find this man and make sure *nothing*
like this every happened again.  Not to Mara, and not
to anyone else.

He spent the day in Hampton Roads, talking to officers
who had been making inquiries, reviewing case files, 
securing copies of the transcripts.  He made his own
list of leads and set out to track them down; he conducted
his own interviews; he did his own investigation.  He 
spent the day retracing steps that had already been taken,
talking to anyone who had known Gordon or Mara. 

And when it was too late to ring anymore doorbells, make 
anymore phone calls, and he was too tired to be effective, 
he got back in the car, but he didn't head for DC.  He 
headed for the coast, seeking out the ocean in some 
strange need even he had no understanding of.  He 
drove the strip aimlessly, from the south end to Fort 
Story, being stopped twice under the "cruising" laws 
of Virginia Beach, and flashing his Bureau ID both 
times.   He passed a little bar, a hole-in-the-wall spot, 
far enough away from the tourists and close enough to
the post that it shouldn't be overrun with the kinds 
of people he wanted to avoid. 

He parked, wandered in, and proceeded to have dinner with
Jack Daniels.  When it was close to eleven, he reluctantly pulled
his cell phone and called Mara.  Despite his best attempts, 
there was slur in his voice as he told Mara where he was and 
that he wouldn't be coming home that night.  He could hear the
pain and disappointment in her voice, but she made no protest,
only cautioning him about driving in his condition, telling him
to be careful, and wishing him good luck.  Her last words,
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Walter," haunted him
as he stumbled out the door at closing and ambled up the strip
till he found a motel with a vacancy.

The all-night desk clerk greeted him with a distasteful look -- a
look he figured was all too warranted.  And despite the rage 
that simmered in him constantly, he managed to wait patiently
and respond politely, and fill out all the forms and sign the
credit card slip in the appropriate block.  And he managed
to do it without pulling his gun and shooting the boy, despite
his grating supercilious manner.  But he persevered and got
a room key, made his way to the elevator and rode up to his 
floor, then found his room.  Once inside, he collapsed on 
the bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.  

In the morning, he found a shopping center, bought clean
clothes, then changed, and was out in the field by ten, working
on his own investigation, tracking Gordon down.  He spent a 
week in southeastern Virginia, and this became the pattern 
of his days.  Chasing down leads, interviewing people, and
grilling the various law enforcement officials involved in the
manhunt for Gordon during the day filled the daylight hours
and some of the night as well.  Then it was off to a bar, or
better yet, a bottle in his room, and he would drink and run 
from the pain.  He could never escape it, but there were 
moments, split-seconds, where his mind went blank and
his body was numb and for that tiny fraction of an instant, 
he hung suspended above it, caught by a gossamer thread
that would break at the slightest sound or movement, even
drawing breath, and send him crashing into the abyss that
waited, spinning out of control, plunging deeper and deeper
into a darkness he felt he would never leave. 

So the pain was an almost constant companion, and the 
loneliness haunted him and he missed Mara with a fervor
that threatened to break his will and send him crawling back
to DC, but still he stayed -- days filled with purposeful
work and fruitless searching and nights of endless longing 
and sorrow.  He would call Mara, when he remembered
and when he thought he could bear the sound of her patient,
resigned voice, and tell her once again he wouldn't be home,
and then he would stumble back to the hotel or stagger
to the bed, and fall, exhausted into restless and fitful sleep.

On the sixth day, after vomiting into the commode -- a 
morning ritual by now -- he realized he couldn't go on 
indefinitely like this.  He'd pulled himself to his feet
and stared, bleary-eyed, at his reflection in the mirror.  
He looked old.  His cheeks were sallow and his eyes
were red, and there were lines that seemed to have 
appeared out of nowhere.  He'd run his credit card up, 
his health down, and had managed to alienate just about
everyone who he'd come in contact with.  And he had
nothing to show for it -- not the first solid lead.  

He would have to go home.  He had to go back to work.
Everything he valued was in the condo in DC--- Mara was
everything.  He'd let her down again -- his best efforts had
yielded nothing.  But there was one thing he could do,
one way he wouldn't let her down.  If he couldn't be there
for her, if he couldn't take care of her, and protect her, and
keep her safe, if he couldn't make things right, well, then, 
at least he could make sure she was provided for.  And to 
do that, he needed to go back to DC and go back to work.

***********************************************

It was late in the morning when Mara stirred again.
The sun beat through the glass and was almost obscenely
cheerful in its brilliance and warmth.  She was cold and 
sore, with a sour taste in her mouth and a sickness in her 
stomach and a pounding in her head.  She had that 
vaguely disoriented feeling that comes sometimes upon
waking, and she thought she remembered a bad dream 
and Walter telling her it was all right.  And then full 
awareness hit her, and she realized it wasn't a dream 
and it wasn't all right, and Walter was, once again, gone.

She stumbled out of bed, moving stiffly to the bathroom,
and turned the shower on hot.  She climbed in and stood
under the spray until she could stand no more and the 
water began to lose its heat and then she stepped out and
wrapped herself in Walter's huge terry cloth robe.  She
wandered aimlessly into the bedroom, feeling lost and
alone, and opened drawers then closed them without
taking out clothing or getting dressed.  She moved to the
stairs and padded silently down, noticing the light blinking
on the answering machine.

It was not a message from Walter, as she had hoped, but
rather, was from Scully.  She and Mulder had been sent out
of town on a new investigation, and would be gone most of 
the week, but they would be in touch.  She left her cell
phone number and Mulder's and concluded with, "Call
us, anytime, either of you, if you need something."
There was a postcript for Walter, informing him that 
the Director had approved leave for him for as long as he
needed.  

Mara almost smiled then.  Walter must have left without
listening to the message.  He would have gone to work.
She could reach him there.  She lifted the phone and punched
in his private number, the one that rang directly through to
his desk, but it was answered by Kim.

"Assistant Director Skinner's office.  May I help you?"

"Kim?  This is Mara.  Is Walter still there, or has he already
left to come back home?"

"Left?  Isn't he there?  He's supposed to be on leave."

"Oh."  Mara was embarrassed.  What else was there to
say?  "I'm sorry," she stammered.  "He's probably stepped
out to the store.  I'm sure he'll be back any minute."  She
paused, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her
throat.  "Thanks anyway."

"Mara?" Kim interjected quickly.  "I'm so sorry about
what happened.  All of us are.  Call me if I can do anything
or if you need anything."

Mara swallowed again, managed a strangled, "Thank you," 
and quickly hung up the phone.  The sense of disorientation
was back.  It was like being caught in a time warp.  All
she could think of were the times she had called the station
when Charlie was supposed to be on shift, only to find he
wasn't working.  All the times she had naively believed 
his pretty lies until she finally stopped calling because it
was just easier not to know.  It was overwhelming, this
sense of loss that consumed her.  Charlie had taken everything
from her once before, and now it looked as if he would
do it again.  

She climbed back up the stairs, trying desperately to 
find a flicker of hope, a tiny bit of reassurance from
somewhere within, but she was bereft, empty.  There
was nothing.  She lay back down on the bed, and within
seconds was asleep.  

It was after eleven when the phone rang, and she looked
wearily at the clock realizing she'd slept twelve hours 
through.  With a sinking heart, she knew it would be Walter.
Only he would call her at this hour.  And he would only 
call if he wasn't coming back.  She answered the phone,
recoiling at the slurred words that he spoke.  She could 
almost smell the alcohol.  He'd been drinking, and for some
time.  It was no surprise when he told her he wasn't coming
home.  Somehow, it was fitting.  Why would he want to
come home to her?  She was damaged.  She'd been so 
all along, but he had been too blind to see.  Now the 
blinders were off, and the truth was out, and he wanted
no part of her.  She kept her voice carefully neutral as
she cautioned him not to drive, and then wished him good
luck on his current investigation.  

But when she hung up the phone, it overwhelmed her, and
she ran for the bathroom, and knelt, stomach heaving, 
her body trying to purge itself physically of the sickness
she felt.  She knelt there, clinging to the porcelain as if 
it was all that kept her from spinning wildly right off the
planet.  Somewhere in there, she realized she was crying,
and the air was filled with a weird, otherworldly keening.
Tears flowed until there were no more tears, and she cried
until her throat was raw, and she heaved until she brought 
up blood, and then she collapsed against the cool tiles of
the bathroom floor.  And it was there that she stayed, 
sprawled on the bathroom floor, and sleep at last overtook 
her.

End part 07/13

Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 08/13

She'd been up and down for days.  It was too much to 
even think about going into work.  The sense of being 
alone was almost overwhelming.  She was weak and
disoriented and thinking was hard.  But there really
wasn't a lot to think about.  The thinking was done.
Charlie had come back and stolen Walter's child, and
now the baby was gone, the future was gone, Walter 
was gone.  She was damaged beyond repair, and the
brokenness of her life had spilled over to damage Walter
as well.  No wonder he had run as far and as fast as
he could.  No, there was no more thinking to be done.

Now all that was left was the feeling.  There was a pain
deep in her soul that never ceased.  The bruises were
fading, the lacerations healed.  The bleeding from the
loss of the baby had stopped.  Her belly was flat again,
all traces of new life erased.  Walter was a wise man;
he'd taken a good look at her and headed for the hills, 
putting distance between himself and the horror she'd
introduced into his life.  He'd called every day -- either
speaking directly to her, or, when she was too tired to
lift the phone, leaving messages on the machine that
were fraught with his own pain and slurred from the 
alcohol he was using to try and drown it.

She was so cold.  She hadn't been warm since Walter
left.  The room was cold, the bed was cold, her soul
was cold.  Nothing seemed to bring her warmth.  She
shivered under the blankets piled on the bed and 
huddled in a ball trying to warm herself.  Not even 
Walter's old sweatshirt helped.  On the third day --
or was it the fourth? -- she'd dug it out of his drawer
and pulled it on over her head, hoping it might help
chase away the cold that threatened to freeze her
soul forever.  

That was the day she'd woken on the bathroom
floor.  She'd spent at least two nights there, maybe
three, but the days had all run together and she
couldn't seem to sort them out.  How long had 
Walter been gone?  How many times had he called?

She glanced at the clock on the side of the bed.  12:45
blinked at her in flashing red.  Another glance, this
time at the windows, reminded her that it was day.
But what day?  Her mouth was dry and her skin was
clammy.  She was freezing one moment, burning up
the next.  She couldn't remember when she'd eaten 
last, or even when she'd had a drink.  The last time 
she'd filled the bathroom tumbler with water and tried
to swallow it, her stomach had heaved and she'd spent
another timeless period lost on the cool, cool tiles 
of the bathroom floor.  It was amazing how comfortable
those little bath mats could be when you had no energy
to move.

She sighed and pushed herself up and then out of bed.
She stumbled as she rose, and shuffled forward to fall
heavily against the dresser by the door.  A quick look 
in the mirror and she pulled back, horrified.  When had
she lost so much weight?  Her skin hung from her bones
like gauze on a skeleton.  No soft layer of padding 
could be seen anywhere.  Her cheeks were sunken hollows;
her eyes great bruised circles of frozen jade.  She 
stared emptily at her reflection, one hand coming up
in disbelief to touch the hair that hung limp and lifeless
around her face.  There was nothing bright or vivid or
unique about the person staring back at her from the
reflection.  When had she lost the part of herself that
made her who she was?

She shook her head.  She hadn't lost it.  Charlie had
stolen it again.  And this time, she just didn't have
the strength, the energy, the stamina, the willpower 
to fight to get it back.  Maybe if Walter ...

She killed that thought before it could be born.  
Just as Charlie had killed their baby.  It wasn't 
Walter's fault.  Of course he would run.  Of course
he would want to be as far away from her as possible.
Of course he would need to separate himself from her
and the ruin that followed her life.

She shivered again.  Cold, cold, it was so cold.  There
wasn't enough heat or light in the world to beat back 
this winter of her soul.  And she was so thirsty.  Why 
couldn't she keep the water down?  She turned and 
stumbled her way back to the bathroom.  Turned on 
the tap and lifted the water glass.  Filled it and drank.  
Coughed, sputtered, and heaved.  The glass fell from 
her hand, shattering in the sink as she turned to lean 
over the toilet.  There was nothing in her stomach 
to come up, but though her mind knew that, her 
body didn't and she heaved and heaved until she 
was exhausted.  

She rose, shaky, unsteady, and turned to the sink.  
Her bruised face stared back at her and she realized
Charlie had beaten her again.  Somehow, she was
still in hell.  There had been a dream.  A dream of
a man who was kind and loving and cared for her.
A man who was patient and understanding and never,
ever lifted his hand against her.  She shivered 
under the sweatshirt she wore, her bare feet freezing
on the cold bathroom floor.  But it had only been
a dream.

The glass was just waiting for her to clean up.  
Charlie wouldn't like a mess like this, and he would
be coming home soon.  When he came back, he would 
want things clean.  Her head hurt, a pounding behind
her eyes, and her joints ached with a bone-weariness.
Charlie was insistent that things had to be clean.  
She had to clean up the mess.  She reached out with
shaking hands and lifted the biggest pieces of the glass,
dropping them into the wastebasket.  But her grip
faltered on one of the larger shards and she fumbled
with both hands, trying to hold onto it.  Somehow, the
glass and her wrist connected and then she was bleeding.
It was red, bright, bright red, and she realized that 
she hadn't been able to see the colors in the room before.
Everything seemed muted gray.  

Everything but the red.

She stared at it, mesmerized.  It was not only red.  It
was warm.  She could feel the warmth as it flowed over
her hands.  She brought her other hand over, covering
it with the bright red warmth, luxuriating in the heat.

She watched the red for a long, long time, then 
trembled, and shook her head.  The world was suddenly 
very gray.  No longer muted, but charcoal gray, sliding 
through the spectrum into black.  

Someone was calling her name.  It was the voice from 
her dream.  The big man.  The safe man.  The man that
loved her.  He had come back.

Her eyes were closed, but she needed to see him.  She 
could feel strong arms closing about her.  She was being
lifted, carried, and set down, oh, so gently, on the big
bed.  The voice was calling her, crying for her, and
she wanted to answer, but she was so tired, so weak.
Soon, it would all be over.  Soon she would be beyond
Charlie's reach forever.

But before she left, she wanted to see this dream man
one more time.  She wanted to look up into eyes she
knew would be warm and loving, to gaze on lips that
had only spoken endearments to her.  To feel the heat
of his love enter her soul and warm her, as only he 
could.  She wanted to call him by his name, this dream
man. If only she could remember ...

She opened her eyes to see him hovering, worry lines
creasing his features.  There was someone else there as
well, a woman, and she was wrapping something around
the injured wrist.  She glanced at her, then at the tall
man who paced in the background, but her gaze was 
drawn back to the man with the warm, brown eyes.  

He was crying, calling her name, and she wanted to
console him, to tell him it was all right.  This was her
dream; she wanted it to be all right for this man.  
She would make it all right, if she could just call 
him by name.  Charlie had taken everything, everything,
from her, but not this dream, not this man.  He was
here, crying for her, cleansing her with his tears and 
she just wanted to let him know she understood.

She understood his pain.

She understood his fear.

She understood his confusion.

She understood his disappointment.

She understood why he had to leave.

She understood it all.  She knew what Charlie was like.
He didn't -- this dream man.  He didn't understand that
Charlie was like a tsunami, the water raging uncontrolled,
destroying everything in its path.  And she was caught
up in his wake, dragged along the road of destruction.

There was a hand on her face, huge and strong, the
strength noticeable even through the gentle touch.
He dream man.  Cupping her cheek, caressing her 
face, calling her name.  

She needed to tell him, needed to let him know.

She summoned up strength she didn't know she had,
from somewhere deep inside, and opened her mouth.

"Shhh, Walter," she whispered.  "It's all right."

***********************************************

He'd driven straight home.  The hell with the office.  He
should be on compassionate leave anyway.  He'd been
a complete ass; he needed to see Mara.

How could he have left her like that?  What kind of a
man was he anyway?  For a moment, the shame was 
overwhelming, and he almost gave in to the temptation
to run again.  But he forced himself to keep going. 
Not that it took all that much forcing.  When he 
ignored the shame, disregarded his own ineffectiveness
and uselessness, overlooked the pathetic weakness
that had allowed this man Gordon to waltz into their
lives and murder their child, well, then he actually
*wanted* to go home.  The need to see Mara, to 
hold her, touch her, be with her, was almost too
much to bear.  He *was* weak.  Weak and shameless,
slinking back to her, expecting, hoping, she would take
him back, after he had run out on her in her -- in 
*their* -- darkest hour.  

He was pathetic.

He was also so much in love, needing her so much,
wanting to be with her, he couldn't imagine his life
if she turned him away.  

Oh, he'd understand her reasons.  He'd respect her
decision.  And he sure as hell wouldn't blame her.

But ...

He had to hope she could find it in her heart to forgive
him, because he didn't think he could live if she
didn't.

And if Mara was in his life, he *wanted* to live.

He pulled into the drive to the condo, stopped at the
keypad to punch in his access code.  A quick toot of
the horn behind him caused him to look up and see
Mulder and Scully in the car behind him.  He pressed
another key, this one to hold the gate for a second
car, then drove ahead.  

When he parked and climbed out of the car, they were
walking across the garage from the visitor spaces on 
the far side.  

"You look like shit, Sir," Mulder said in greeting.  "Is
everything OK?"

Skinner just shook his head.

"Mara?" Scully asked.  "Is she OK?"

"You would know better than I," Skinner responded.
"I'm surprised you two are even speaking to me."

"What do you mean, we would know better?"  Mulder
glanced at Scully then took Skinner's arm and started 
him moving toward the elevator.  "Why would we know?"

The car was waiting, doors open, and they entered and
punched in Skinner's floor.  There was a soft 'whoosh'
as the doors closed and car began to move.

"You've been here.  You're the ones who've sat with 
her through all this."  He stared down at his hands, 
each one squeezing the other in turn. 

Mulder grabbed Skinner, whirled him around, and
swore in a low voice.  "Are you telling us you haven't
been here?"

Skinner was confused.  Of course he hadn't been there.
Didn't they know?  They were the ones who'd been taking
care of Mara.  Scully said they would.  They'd check on
her, she'd said.  What had happened?  He stared stupidly
at the man in front of him, then asked, "Haven't you
been here?"  

"We were sent out of town, Sir," Scully said, ice in 
her voice.  "Where have you been?"

Out of town?  They'd been out of town?  Mara had been
*alone* these past six days?  Skinner closed his eyes 
and a moan escaped him.  "I -- I went -- I had to ..."

"You son of a bitch!" Mulder grabbed him by the shirt 
and threw him into the wall.  His skull slammed against
the metal of the car and his head seemed to explode
and he welcomed the pain. 

"You left her alone? How the hell could you leave her 
alone at a time like this?"  Mulder was furious, and he
had lifted one hand, drawing back as if to hit the older
man, when Scully reached out and stopped him with
a touch.  

"He's hurting enough, Mulder."

"Damn right, he is.  He should be."  Mulder held the
older man pressed against the wall, his rage a
palpable thing.

"Deal with 'why' later."  Scully was the voice of
reason, though her tone was still chilled.  "Right now, 
we need to see about Mara."

"Son of a bitch," Mulder repeated.  He dropped his 
arm, then released the grip he had on Skinner's shirt.  
"If that woman forgives you this, I'm putting her up 
for sainthood," he muttered, turning his back on the 
stricken AD.

"I didn't know you two weren't here," Skinner said
plaintively.  "I didn't know ..."

They were at his door now, and he had his key out,
opening it, checking the alarm.

"Mara?"

There was no answer.  

The downstairs was spotless.  It looked as if no one 
had been there the whole time he'd been gone.  Where 
was she?

Scully checked the kitchen and Mulder the laundry
room under the stairs, while he bounded up the stairs,
still calling, "Mara!"

The guest room was undisturbed, the guest bath empty.
He entered their bedroom and noted the mussed and 
unkempt sheets, the open closet, open drawers, but no
sign of Mara.

"Mara?  Mara, honey, where are you?"

He moved to the bathroom, then froze as a wave of 
de ja vue crashed over him.  Mara was laying on the
floor, bleeding, and for a moment the image of her
after the attack superimposed itself over her, and
he thought Gordon had come back.  Then the image
resolved itself, and it was just Mara, with blood
on her hands and arms, looking pale and bruised
and oh, so thin.

He scooped her up, ignoring the pain in his shoulder,
murmuring, "Mara ..." even as he moved to the bed 
and laid her gently on the sheets.  "Scully!" he 
bellowed.  "Up here!  She's bleeding!"

The words were barely out of his mouth before he 
heard the pounding of feet on the stairs, heavy steps
belonging to Mulder and Scully's lighter ones.  

He was crying now, the tears falling shamelessly onto
the woman on the bed as he pleaded with her.   "Mara,
please ...  Mara ..."

Rough hands shoved him, moving him out of the way,
and he wasted no time arguing.  Instead he circled the 
bed, crawling across its wide expanse to lift her head
and place it in his lap.

" ... cut her wrist."

Oh God!  He'd left her and she'd tried to kill herself!
What had he done?

Scully was still talking.  "Not deep.  Get me something to
wrap it with till we get her to the hospital."

"Mara ..."  He couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop saying
her name.  The tears fell shamelessly and he didn't care
who saw them.  "Mara ..."

Mulder was moving in the bathroom, bringing things
to Scully.  "... not deliberate."

Oh, thank God!  It's wasn't deliberate.  She *hadn't*
tried to kill herself.  He looked down at the skeletal 
woman he held in his arms.  Just tried to starve herself
to death.

"... broken glass in the wastebasket.  I think she was
cleaning up."

Scully did something, said something.  He was only
catching bits and pieces of it all.

"... dehydrated."

Dehydrated?  Oh, so thin.  What had he done to her?
"Oh, Mara, I'm so sorry..."  The words slipped out of 
his mouth of their own accord, his lips giving voice to 
his heart.

"... fever."

She was sick?  How could she have gotten sick?  He'd 
only been gone a week.  "Please, Mara.  Please, speak
to me."

" ... hospital.  Run some tests."

"I love you, Mara," Skinner breathed.  "I love you."

There was a hand on his shoulder now, gentle but 
determined.  "Get up, Walter," Mulder said.  "We need
to get her to the hospital."

He released her reluctantly, then slipped to the floor 
and around the bed again.  "Mara, honey, please.
We're taking you to the hospital.  Mara, can you 
hear me?"

"We need to go, Walter," Scully said, infinite 
compassion in her voice now.  

"Mara, please.  I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry." He cupped 
her cheek gently, and caressed her face as he spoke.
"Mara?"

Walter Skinner hadn't been a believer in many, many
years.  But there, on a bloody bed, in the midst of his 
shame and humiliation, when nothing mattered but 
the life of the woman before him, then, a miracle 
occurred.

She opened her eyes, looked up at him with love, and
whispered, "Shhh, Walter.  It's all right."

End part 08/13

Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 09/13


"Walter?"  

Her voice was quiet and he could hear how weak 
she was from the slight quaver as she spoke.  He 
was on his feet and moving to the bed before the
last syllable ended.

"Hmmm?"  Her eyes were open, startling green so
clear and vivid, but buried in huge bruised circles.
He reached out with one hand, tentatively, and brushed
a mass of curls away from her cheek, letting his hand
linger when she smiled up at him.

"We need to talk about what happened."  Her hand rose
slowly, and when the IV tube tangled in the blanket, he
dropped his own to help her.  Gently freeing the tubing,
he then took her hand, cradling it in his own huge paw.
She was still smiling at him, a look filled with such
love and understanding it shamed him.  Of its own
accord, his thumb rubbed lightly at the tape around 
the needle's insertion point, and he dropped his head, 
unable to meet her gaze any longer.

"I understand how you feel, Walter," she went on.  
"One thing I do understand is the need to get away
from the destruction Charlie causes."  She coughed
lightly, and struggled to sit upright, leaning into him
when he reached out to help her.  He was still avoiding
her gaze, unable to face her, but she rested her face
against his chest anyway, and her nearness warmed
places in him he hadn't realized had gone cold.  "I
understand why you had to go, why you had to get
away.  I brought this monster into your life.  I let him
do this to you, to your child.  Oh, Walter!"  She paused
and swallowed hard, then lowered her voice to whisper,
"I'm so sorry..."

He looked up sharply, shocked at her words, and saw
her drop her own head, a single tear sliding slowly
down her cheek.  He pulled her into him, wrapping 
his arms tightly about her, and shaking his head in 
disbelief.  She didn't understand *anything* about 
what had happened, why he had run.  

"Mara, you're wrong," he murmured into her hair.  
"You've got it all wrong."  He pressed his lips to 
the crown of her head, holding her, willing her to 
listen.  It had never occurred to him that she might 
feel culpable, that she might try and assume the
responsibility for what happened.  "*None* of this
is your fault." He lifted his head and pushed her away
slightly, holding her at arm's length so he could
look her in the eyes.  "Do you hear me?  This is *not*
your responsibility."

Her eyes were infinitely sad and she shook her head
marginally.  "No, Walter, you've got it wrong.  It's
*all* my fault."  She broke from his grasp, collapsing
slowly back onto the bed, then turning away from 
him.  "I should never have done this to you.  We'd 
reached one of those unspoken agreements, Charlie
and I. I lived my life, he lived his.  We left each other
alone.  It was a tenuous balance at best, but it worked.
I should never have brought you into it, never have
exposed you like I did."  She rolled back to look up
at him, tears filling her eyes as she gazed upon him.
"I won't expose you again.  I can't see you hurting
like this.  I'm so sorry, Walter -- for everything."

The air raced from his lungs and his stomach lurched.
He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut and 
he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak.  His eyes filled
and he reached out blindly, groping across the blanket 
till he connected with her hand once more.  He clutched
at her, pulling her back up and into his arms, holding 
her to him even as he clung to her.  "No!" he whispered
fiercely.  "Mara, no!"  He kissed her head, then cradled
her in silence, his brain gone numb and panic rapidly
overtaking him.  She was sending him away, rejecting
him, and he didn't think he could stand it.

"Please, Mara, don't say that.  You can't be sorry for
everything."  He struggled to pull himself together, to
be strong, to think of the right words.  "You can't be 
sorry," he repeated.  "There's sorrow, yes.  I'll mourn
the loss of our sweet Katherine all the days of my life."
He paused, gripping her more tightly and she wrapped
her arms around him, returning his embrace.  He realized
then what he had missed during his misguided days 
in Virginia.

This.  

Being with her.

Holding her.

Mourning together.

Supporting each other.    

Comforting each other.  

Being together.

Her head rested against his chest and he stroked
the silky curls, his hand gentle, his touch meant
to soothe.  He could feel her relaxing against him,
feel the way her body molded to his and he remembered
how well they fit together.  His body reacted then,
a slow arousal, not pressing, not demanding, but
a reminder of the joy of intimacy with this woman.
It had always amazed him how human beings were
driven to reaffirm life in the face of loss.

"She's gone because of me," Mara whispered, her
voice small and sad.

"Mara, you didn't do this.  *Gordon* did this.  
Charles Gordon.  Not you."  He shifted on the narrow
bed, moving slowly till he leaned against the headboard
and she lay with her head pillowed in the hollow of
his shoulder.  One hand stroked her back, the other
cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping at the tears that
spilled from her eyes.  Across his chest he could see
her hand moving, her fingers tracing meaningless
patterns across the cotton.  "Gordon should get all 
the blame, but if you have to place blame elsewhere, 
place it squarely on my head."  His body stiffened 
in anger, anger at Charles Gordon, but anger at 
himself as well, and he had to force himself to relax.  
"*I'm* the one that went after the man to begin with.  
*I'm* the one who broke your fragile balance."  

He closed his eyes against the pain of his admission, 
waiting for her to see the truth of his statement, 
waiting for her to realize *he* was the one responsible
for that bastard entering their life and stealing their 
child away.

"No, Walter, no!"  She lifted her head to gaze at him.
"I won't let you do that to yourself.  You're the one
who's suffered loss here, you're the one who's been
injured."  She reached up and pulled his head down,
kissing him on the lips.  "It's not your fault, Walter."

She stroked his face, her thumb tracing the outline 
of his jaw and he leaned hungrily into her touch.  It
was so easy to surrender to her goodness, let her tears
wash away the guilt and her touch soothe the pain, but
that wasn't fair, was it?  He gave himself a minute 
more to bask in her comfort, then pulled away slightly.

"You've been hurt here, too, Mara.  I won't let you 
fall into the role of martyr.  You do it too well, even
if you don't realize it's what you're doing.  From the
time you met Gordon, that man used and abused you,
and it has to stop."

"Walter, you have to let it go!"  There was panic in her
voice, her eyes were wide and fear stared out at him.
"He's perfectly capable of killing you."

Skinner smiled down at her.  "Despite my poor showing
the night he attacked you ..."

"Attacked *us,*" she interrupted.

"Attacked us," he conceded, "I am fairly capable of
protecting myself."  He pulled her closer and wrapped
both arms around her.  "And you."  He swallowed
hard, blinking as his eyes filled.  "I was wrong to 
leave like I did.  I put you at risk.  I abandoned you."

He buried his head against her, gulping raggedly for 
air.  She was small in his arms, thin and drained,
her skin dry and papery.  Words were beyond him
now, he was lost in a roiling sea of emotion, rocking
dizzily back and forth and Mara was the anchor that
kept him from slipping his moorings completely.  He
peppered her head with tiny kisses, swearing to himself
that nothing -- *nothing* -- was ever going to hurt
this woman again.

"We abandoned each other, Walter," she said in
a sad, tired voice.  "But you're here now, and so am
I."  She lifted his head, then gently removed the
glasses from his face and kissed him lightly on each
eyelid.  "Let's not make that mistake again."  She 
kissed him once more, then laid her head upon his 
chest, content that things were right between them.  
Within minutes, she was sleeping soundly, a warm, 
soft weight in his arms.

He, however, remained awake. 

He'd been wrong to leave Mara, that much was sure.
But he hadn't been wrong in his conviction that Charles
Gordon had to be found. 

And Walter Skinner was going to see to it that he was.

***********************************

"Mmmm, ice cream sounds nice."  Mara smiled up at Walter
from her hospital bed.  "Just vanilla, please."

"Vanilla it is."  He stood and made a sweeping bow,
then added, "You'll stay till I get back?" to Mulder 
and Scully.

Mulder turned his head away.  After a quick look at him,
then a nod from Mara, Scully answered, "I think I'll keep
you company."

"Just make sure he comes back this time," Mulder 
mumbled under his breath.

Skinner flinched, but gamely kept his smile in place
as he headed out the door.  When he and Scully were
gone, Mara spoke softly.  "Let it go, Fox," she said.  
"He had no way of knowing."

"He should never have left you alone," Mulder muttered
stubbornly.

"Like you never left Dana?"  Mara stared at Mulder,
her green eyes blazing.  "Can you honestly tell me
you never made a choice that left Dana vulnerable?
Have your choices, your need to pursue an objective,
never put her in harm's way?"

"I -- uh, I...  Damn it! That's different!"  Mulder
was pacing now, one hand running agitatedly through
his hair.  He glanced at the door Scully had passed
through and flushed.  "Scully and I are partners;
she's bound to be vulnerable just by carrying out her
duties.  She's capable, strong."

"Oh, really?"  Mara lifted one eyebrow.  "And I'm
not as capable as Dana?  Not as strong?  Are you sure
that's what you wanted to say?"

"No!  Uh, of course not!  That's not what I meant!"
He walked to the window and stood staring out, then 
turned to face the woman in the bed.  "I mean, well ..."
He crossed his arms, almost angrily, and pursed his 
lips.  "It's just different."

"How?"  Mara tilted her head, pinning the man in 
place with her eyes.  "Tell me how it's different."

"It's her job.  She's going to be at risk.  It's my job,
too.  She has to deal with me being at risk as well."

"But she tries to protect you when she can, right?"

He nodded.

"And you try to be there for her as well.  True?"

He nodded again, not liking the way this discussion 
was going.  It had the feel of a cross-examination 
in which the lawyer was about to catch him in an
inconsistency.

"But sometimes, in the course of performing your
duties, you have to make decisions that result in
Dana being hurt?"

He looked at her quizzically, shaking his head.  "I
would never knowingly send her somewhere where
she would get hurt."

"Knowingly.  That's the key, isn't it, Fox?"  Mara
was smiling now, as if she'd already made her point
and he *really* didn't like where this was headed.
"But it sometimes happens -- unknowingly, doesn't
it?"  She sat back, waiting for him to answer.

He started to shake his head, but then he had a sudden
vision of Scully, kneeling in a field, her head caught
in a metal vise as a masked man raised an ax, ready
to cleave head from neck.  Chaco, Arkansas.  He'd been
the one to tell her to go to that woman's house.  It
had been his decision that had landed her in that
predicament.  And God only knew what would have
happened if he hadn't seen the bonfire and stopped
to investigate ...

His gut twisted and he suddenly felt sick.  The thought
of Scully -- the ax...  It had been too close.  He 
glanced at Mara and saw her watching him with care
and compassion and he nodded, unable to speak.  

"Tell me," Mara said.

Mulder's gorge rose, the memory washing over him like 
a flood, buffeting him cruelly, drowning him with its
intensity.  "I can't," he whispered.

She nodded again.  "It wasn't the only time, was it?"

He closed his eyes as he was bombarded by visions of
Scully in danger, Scully at risk, Scully getting hurt.
Not all of them were as a result of his direction, but
he knew that *any* time she was at risk was at least
partially his fault.  She could be a pathologist
somewhere, with a nice, safe office, cutting up dead
bodies with no risk of retribution.  But she'd signed
on with him now, and he knew it was at least in part,
her allegiance to him that kept her on the X-Files.
And that meant, at least in part, it was his fault when
she was hurt.

He shook his head again, thinking of Donnie Pfaster.
He'd been trying to do the right thing, letting her set
her own limits.  But he'd seen her discomfort, known
she was having difficulty with the case.  And still, he'd
let her continue on.  He'd ignored all the signs she'd 
laid out for him, telling himself she was a big girl 
and she could make her own decisions.  But it had
really been nothing more than emotional abandonment
on his part.  He knew she was trying to prove 
something -- something to him or something to herself --
it didn't matter which.  He'd ignored it, blinded by 
his own desire to catch the killer.

He opened his eyes and stared across at Mara.

He'd ignored it, just like Skinner had.  

Ignorance.

Blindness.

Emotional abandonment.

His eyes slammed shut again, tears filling them
as the sight of Scully on the floor, Pfaster looming
over her, danced before him.  She'd come to him
then, fallen into his arms, even cried.  That alone
should have told him how badly he'd misjudged
her actions, and his own.

But he'd gone blithely on.

There were other times as well.  When she'd gone to
get the car while he stayed in the store, and Gerald
Schnauz took her away.  When he'd finally found the
trailer, an eternity later, he could still feel the
frustration, the helplessness, that had engulfed him 
as he beat futilely on the door.  It had been close --
too close -- when he finally got through.  And Scully
had been scared, but she'd held herself together.  
Things had been all right.

Still.

Another few seconds ...

He shuddered and lifted one hand to scrub at his face.

Another vision captured him, small and dark, a circle
against smooth white.  A snake, on Scully's back.  The
tattoo.  

He shuddered again.

Emotional abandonment. 

He'd ignored all the signs she'd given him, consumed 
with his own all-mighty quest and she'd, she'd ...

Well, he still wasn't sure what she'd done.  They didn't
talk about it.  But she'd nearly ended up in a furnace
trying to separate herself from him.  Trying to be her
own person.  If he'd affirmed who she was a bit more ...
Given her more of a say in what cases they took ...
Been more vocal about the contributions she brought
to their assignment ...  Maybe, if he'd just listened a
bit more closely, heard what she was saying beneath
the proper words she used ...

He'd wanted to kill the guy.  Was ready to.  And 
he would have killed either of them, Pfaster or
Schnauz, if they'd hurt her.  And he had killed the 
man with the ax.  The town's sheriff.  

No wonder Skinner was so obsessed.  No wonder he
was on a blood hunt.

He looked at Mara with a new respect.  She'd understood
the man well before he had.  

And she apparently understood Fox Mulder better than
he did himself.

"Do you see, Fox?"  Mara looked up at him, her eyes 
wide and pleading.  "Do you understand?  It's not
something he can control.  Not something he can stop.
It's bred into him, just like it's bred into you."  
She smiled sadly, as if accepting an unpleasant fact
of life.  "If someone did ..."  She stopped, stammering
as she searched for words, then waved her arm vaguely
in an all-encompassing gesture.  

"Someone did."  Mulder's words were harsh, bitten off
from deep in his emotions.  "Someone took her from me,
held her for three months.  Stole her children -- our
children -- gave her cancer.  God only knows what else
they did.  And I will *never* stop looking for the
bastards that did it."

He moved to the bed and sat next to it, taking her hand
gently, then dropping his head to place a kiss on her
palm.  "I've been unfair to him."

"Yes, you have."  She patted his head, then pulled it
up so she could look into his eyes.  "But for people he
cares about, he's very forgiving."

He smiled then and gave a half-laugh.  "I guess so.  
He hasn't had me shot yet."

They were both still laughing when the door opened
and Skinner and Scully returned.

End part 09/13

Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 10/13

The door closed behind them and Scully trailed Skinner
to the elevator.  They joined a single, white-coated
woman who rode down a floor and exited.  When the
doors closed and they were alone, Skinner tilted his
head speculatively, looked down at Scully, and said,
"Are you my escort?  To make sure I come back?"
He was trying to be angry, but it came out as hurt.

"Not really."  She shrugged.  "I'm here more to see
if you're still going after Gordon."

Skinner's mouth dropped in surprise.  When the doors
'whooshed' open once more, it took him a few seconds 
to get his legs moving and to follow Scully out of the 
car.  He swallowed hard to wet his suddenly dry mouth
and then lengthened his stride slightly to catch up to
her.  He caught her at the door, opened it for her, and
his hand dropped to press lightly against her back as
he ushered her through.  "That was direct," he said as
they headed for the parking lot.

"I usually am," she answered.  "And it seems a valid 
question."  They reached her car and he waited while 
she pressed a button to unlock the doors.  Once they 
were both in and the car was moving, she cast a quick
glance his way and asked, "Are you?"

Skinner sighed.  "You don't understand.  You didn't 
*see* what he did to her ..."

"Didn't see?  What the hell are you talking about?"  The
light turned red and Scully stopped, taking advantage of
the brief halt to turn in the seat and look at Skinner.  
Her face was reddening as anger made her flush.  "How
dare you?" she spat at him.  "I was there.  I helped 
hold her together long enough to get to the hospital.  
I held her hand and wiped the blood away.  I stood 
in the operating room and watched as they stitched 
and stitched and stitched and slowly put her back 
together.  I held her and rocked her and cried with 
her those first days in the hospital, when you were
too self-absorbed to reach out to her!"

She drew a ragged breath, her chest heaving with
exertion, and glared at the man across from her.  
The silence in the car seemed to echo after the torrent
of emotion Scully had unleashed.  They stared at one
another, and Skinner wondered if Gordon had destroyed
everything in his life.  Not just their child and Mara 
and him, but all his other relationships as well.  If
there was anyone he wanted acceptance and respect from, 
besides Mara, it was this woman and her partner.
They'd seen so much, been through so much with him.
He couldn't bear the thought that they would turn
away from him now.

A car horn beeped from behind them, startling them
both, and Scully shifted in the seat and pulled forward.
They rode in silence to the store, but when she made
to get out of the car, he reached out tentatively and 
stopped her.  "Scully.  I -- uh, I didn't mean it like
that."  He dropped his eyes, staring at his hand where
it still touched her wrist.  "I'm sorry."

It was her turn to sigh now and she moved her other
hand to cover his.  "I know, Walter, and I don't mean
to seem harsh.  But --"  She paused and drew a deep
breath.  "You're not the only person hurting.  This
has affected a lot of people, you know."  She smiled
sadly.  "Mulder has nightmares ..."

He stared at her hand, unable to speak for the moment.
She waited patiently and at length he cleared his 
throat and said, "I know you've been affected.  You 
and Mulder both.  And I don't mean to -- didn't mean
to make it seem --"  His voice broke and he stopped, 
then cleared his throat again.  "I didn't mean to
sound like I wasn't aware of your presence."  He pulled
his hand back, then pinched the bridge of his nose, 
using the movement as an excuse to wipe the corners
of his eyes as well.  "You were there, but -- *you*
*weren't*  *there* when it was happening.  You 
didn't watch helplessly -- uselessly -- as that man
nearly killed her -- and did kill our baby."  

He shuddered as the vision of Mara appeared before
his eyes.  He watched her slip from his arms on the
balcony.  Heard himself call out to her.  Saw her
face Gordon, then watched as the blows began to
fall.  He could hear himself again, screaming, crying,
pleading and felt the overwhelming sense of total
helplessness overtake him again.  He squeezed 
his eyes tightly, felt a drop of saltwater slip down
one cheek, and shook his head violently, trying to
chase the vision away.  

He heard his name dimly, as from a distance, and
he felt a touch on his arm.  He forced his eyes open
and found Scully staring at him in concern.

"Are you all right, Sir?" she asked, and he noticed
she called him 'sir,' not Walter.  And then he noticed
that he had noticed and found himself thinking how 
odd it was what things stood out to you in times of 
stress.  It was the small, picayune things that seemed
to scream for attention, forcing the larger issues to 
the side.  

He shook his head again, struggling for his voice.  
"I'm not.  Mara's not."  He stared into her worried
blue eyes, holding them with his own.  "None of
us will be all right for a long time."  He drew a 
breath, reaching for composure.  "Finding Gordon
will be one step toward healing."  He stared at her
a moment longer, then reached out, taking hold of
her arm and gripping it tightly.  "You have to 
understand, Scully, you *have* to understand.  This
man is a monster.  He has to be stopped.  Not just 
for Mara.  Not just for me."  He leaned in close to
her and spoke intensely.  "He's hurt other people
and he'll go on doing it."  

She watched him quietly, then closed her eyes a moment
and finally, nodded slowly.  She looked at him then,
and asked, "Do you like your job?"

He blinked in surprise at the implied non sequitur.
"My job?  What?"  He leaned back in the seat and
stared out the window, pondering the question.  
"What does my job have to do with anything?
And why are you asking?"  This last was voiced
with a sideways look at the woman in the driver's
seat.

"Assistant Director," she mused.  "That's fairly high
up there.  You're an important person."

"Not really."  He shrugged and watched as a blue
pickup turned into the lot.  "No important people in
government service."

"You've got what?  Three sections that report to
you?"

"Four, including the X-Files."  He narrowed his eyes
and looked at her.  "Scully, what does this have to 
do with the topic at hand?"

She went on as if she hadn't heard him.  "Me and 
Mulder -- that's two.  There's sixteen in Missing 
Persons, right?"

He nodded absently, trying to figure out where she 
was headed.

"And another twenty-four in Violent Crimes?"

"Twenty-six," he corrected automatically.

"And?" she prompted.

"And twelve in Local Liaison.  Plus clerical, research,
and lab."  He nodded as he spoke, watching her closely.
"Now, what's your point?

"Just this: Missing Persons works on finding people 
all the time.  It's their job.  Violent Crimes works on
finding people who don't want to be found.  It's what
they do.  Liaison works on making *other* people find
missing people and people who don't want to be found."
She smiled. "I'd say with 54 agents and clerical and 
research and lab, you've got a lot of resources at your
disposal to find this man without running after him
yourself."

"He's not a man -- he's a monster."

"Then you've got me and Mulder.  We find monsters.
*That's* our job.  It's what we do.  Everyone who works 
for you -- all of us -- are looking for Gordon.  What 
happened to Mara, to you, affected all of us.  We're 
*going* to find him." She reached out and touched 
him, her voice dropping until he had to strain to 
hear her.  "Please ...  Let us do our jobs."

He was silent for a long minute, and she watched him
work through it all, eyes closed behind the wire rims.
At last, he looked up, met her gaze, and nodded 
shortly.  "I want to be kept informed."

"Of course."  

He stared at her, then took her hand and squeezed
gently.  "Thank you."

She smiled again, then nodded.   "C'mon," she said, 
"let's get the ice cream and get back."

****************************************

"Oh my, it feels good to be home!"  Mara sank
gratefully onto the couch and kicked her shoes off, 
then looked up at the big man standing over her.
"Come, Walter, sit down."

Skinner smiled down at her, but his eyes strayed to
the door and the alarm panel next to it.  He'd
disengaged it when he brought Mara in and walked
with her to the sofa.  Now, he was itching to go 
back to the entry and turn it on.

"Go," she said softly.  "Get it set, then come sit
with me."

He moved swiftly to the door and punched a code,
then hit a switch, watching in satisfaction as a small,
red light began to blink.  He watched it flash, allowing
himself to feel somewhat secure -- it was, after all, 
the best system he could find, and it had been vetted
by Mulder's strange friends -- for the time being.

If only he'd installed the system sooner.

If only he'd not assumed it was Mulder and Scully that
night.

If only he hadn't asked Mara to get the door.

If only ...

He shook himself, forcing the thought away.  There
was no time for self-recrimination.  He had to get
beyond that and live in the here and now, grateful
for every moment of every day that Mara was with him.

"Walter?"  

Her voice drifted out to him from the living room and 
he turned away from the mesmerizing red light.

"On my way."  He checked the system one last time,
scooped up the mail from the hall table, then moved 
back to the living room, scanning the envelopes as he
went.  "One for you here -- from work."  He passed it
over and asked, "Do you want something?  Coffee, tea,
a coke?"

"Hmmmm.  Wonder if I still have a job?"  She opened the
envelope, then looked up.  "Tea, please.  That would 
be lovely."

He went to the kitchen and busied himself.  Water in
the kettle.  Turn the stove on.  Put the kettle on the
burner.  Dig through the cabinets for the orange spice
tea she likes.  Anything to keep from thinking about
that night and the baby and the attack and the lack of
progress, lack of information on Gordon.  He pushed 
through the boxes and cans in the cupboard, shoving
things out of the way as he searched for the box of
tea bags.  Nothing.  Where the hell was it?  He dug
again, shoving and pushing with more vigor, finding
himself growing unbearably angry at the missing box. 
Everything was missing.  Every-fucking-thing!  He 
shoved again and a can fell out, making a loud crack 
as it hit the counter then rolled to the floor.

"Walter?"  Her voice carried over the pounding in his
ears, the concern evident.

He took a deep breath.  "I'm fine, Mara.  Just dropped
a can."  Both hands were gripping the counter, knuckles
white, as he fought for control.  He needed to get this
rage under control.  He had to get this rage under 
control.  He swallowed hard, then drew another deep
breath just as the kettle began to whistle.  "Tea's
almost done."  And so was he.  He looked down at 
his hands, forced them to release the counter, then
knelt carefully and picked up the fallen can.  Another
look in the cabinet, calmer, more carefully, revealed 
the box of tea right where it was supposed to be.  He
replaced the can, pulled out the box and began to fix
a tray.  

"Well, it looks like I still have a job."  She chuckled
softly and was smiling as he walked in with the tray.
"Seems someone took the time to fill out all those
forms the Department of the Navy needs to authorize
Family Medical Leave."  Her eyes were twinkling as
she asked, "Wonder who that was?"

He couldn't help smiling back, even as he answered
honestly, "Not me.  Possibly Scully."  He paused a 
moment then added, "But probably Kim.  She looks out
for me like that."

"She's wonderful," Mara agreed.  "You're lucky to 
have her."  She read over the letter in her hand again,
then nodded.  "I'll have to think of something to do
for her to say thank you."  She dropped the paper on
the end table, then lifted her mug and sipped.  "Ahhh ...
Perfect, as usual."

Skinner sat beside her, pulled her sideways on the
couch, her feet in his lap, and tugged her shoes off.
He sipped from his own mug, then set it back on the 
coffee table and began to rub her feet.  

Mara leaned back, wriggled her toes and arched her 
back, and gave an almost feline purr of contentment.
"Oh, Walter ...  This is too good.  Keep this up and
I might just marry you."  The words were out of her
mouth before she realized what she was saying, and
as realization hit her, she jerked upright, staring at
Walter with open-mouth.

"Do you mean that, Mara?" he whispered, his eyes
fixed on her face.

She dropped her eyes and put her feet on the floor,
sliding over to sit beside him.  His arm extended, 
making a place for her at his side, and she slipped
in comfortably, leaning against his chest.  "The 
night it happened ..."  She shuddered and he drew
her closer but wasn't content.  He shifted but still 
was not comfortable and finally pulled her into his 
lap.  When she was settled, he sighed softly, content.

"That night," she began again, "I was going to tell
you."  She plucked absently at a shirt button, her
fingers twisting it first one way, then the other.

"Tell me what?"  His hands ran over her body, her
back and legs and then down her arms.  He could feel
bone everywhere they traveled.  Her ribs were right
beneath the skin, her spine pressed against him.  She
was *so* thin now.  No more softness; there was no
feeling of solidness about her now.  She was so light,
so fragile, almost ephemeral, as if she would blow away
in a wind, or fall apart at a touch.

"That I would."  She paused, then looked up.  "That I
wanted to.  That I said yes."

"You said yes?"  He knew that should have meaning but
it was as if some part of his brain had heard it, 
registered it, and then shut down.  He felt confused 
and exhilarated all at the same time.

"Yes," she repeated, looking at him with puzzlement.
When he didn't speak again, she asked, "Walter?  Did
you hear me?"

A slow smile spread across his face as the meaning of
her words connected, sorted themselves out, and began
to make sense somewhere in his head.  She said yes.
The smile grew until his cheeks began to ache and he
looked into her eyes, drowning in vivid green.  Yes,
she said yes.  Yes!

She was staring at him in expectation and he realized
she'd asked him something.  What was it?  Oh, yes.
Had he heard her.  Had he heard her?  Hoo boy, had
her heard her!  He grinned at her, then leaned down 
and gently captured her lips with his own.  "Oh, yeah.
I heard you," he whispered, reaching out to kiss her 
again, long and lingering, but still soft.  

"You said yes."

****************************************

He looked at the clock again.  Ten fifteen.  At least
six more hours before he could get out of here.  The
papers were still piled on his desk.  Three neat stacks
sorted by priority.  He'd been amused at Kim's
handwritten note that topped each pile.  

You MUST finish these before you go home!

You can work on these over the week.

You can probably get away with giving these back to
me to file.  They're all boring memos. 

A smiley face had accompanied the last note and he'd
smiled at all of them.  

But he hadn't been able to focus and get started.  He
kept looking at the phone, wanting to call and check
in with Mara.  Or looking at the clock, wanting to 
just go home.  He was worried, fretful, and he didn't 
want to be here.

"Here."

The voice was soft, but surprisingly clear and it 
startled him.  He looked up to find Kim holding a
coffee mug out at him, steam rising from its contents.

He reached out and took it, sipped, and said, "Thanks.
You didn't have to do this."

"I know," she said with a twinkle, "but you looked 
like you needed it."  She glanced at the papers on 
his desk.  "No luck?"

He shook his head and put the mug down, then scooped
up pile three and handed it to her.  "Just file these, 
like you said.  If anyone says something that I don't
follow, I'll just claim I didn't see the memo."  He 
sighed and grabbed his mug up again, holding it in
both hands.  "It all seems so -- petty -- compared to 
what I really should be doing."

"Nothing on, on -- that man -- yet?"  He could hear the
disgust dripping from her tone.

"No.  Nothing."  He slammed a fist down on the desk
watching as coffee sloshed over onto the blotter.  
"Damn!  I'm sorry."  

Kim clucked sympathetically and went out to her office.  
He could see her drop the pile of papers on her desk, 
then pull some paper towels from a drawer.  She came
back in, dabbed at the coffee on his desk, and said,
"You'll get him.  We already decided that."

"We?"  He nodded his thanks at her clean up job then
grabbed the cup up again.

"Tom and I.  We talked about it.  You'll get him -- we
just can't agree on what you should do to him."

Skinner almost laughed at that.  "I know what *I'd*
like to do to him.  What have you two decided?"

"Well ..."  Kim leaned against the desk and spoke
in a conspiratorial whisper.  "Tom thinks you should
just shoot him."

Skinner nodded grimly, thinking Kim's husband had
the right idea.

"But," she continued, "I reminded him that you were
a law enforcement official.  You can't just go around
shooting people.  At least not shooting to *kill.*"  
She smiled then, a predatory grin that took Skinner 
aback.  "I figured you should *use* the legal system."

Skinner cocked his head, silently asking her to go on.

"I think you should castrate him -- you know, shoot low.
Then, when his trial is over and he's in prison for the 
rest of his life, I think it would be, uh, *fitting* if 
the door to the cells on his block were left open at 
night."  Her smile changed then, becoming a caricature
of sweetness and innocence.  "Don't you think so?"

It made him laugh.  He tried to contain it -- he *never*
laughed at work, but she'd gotten to him.  Maybe there
was some validity to the concept of therapy if it gave
him the chance to vent his feelings and even laugh 
like this.  

"You're tough," he said, smiling up at her.  "I did
apologize for spilling the coffee, didn't I?"

She laughed, then looked over her shoulder out to
her desk.  He followed her gaze until he, too, was
looking at the picture of a laughing little girl, head
thrown back, hair caught in the wind.  She stared
at it, then swallowed hard and turned to look at
him.

"You have to find him, Sir.  I think of Emma
growing up, meeting someone like him, and my
blood boils.  You *have* to find him!"

He stared at the little girl in the gold frame, then
saw Mara's image slide over it and his own blood
began to boil.

"Oh, I'm going to find him, Kim."  He looked down at
his hands, fists again, and felt the color seep into his
cheeks.  "I will definitely find that SOB.  Don't worry 
about that."

End part 10/13
 
Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 11/13

"Walter," she said again as they walked to the Metro. 
"I really don't need a daily escort.  I'm at the 
Pentagon now -- what could happen there?"

He looked at her for a long moment, choosing his
words carefully.  "Mara, *I* need to do this," he said
at last.  "Can you just humor me a little longer?
Please?"

She studied him carefully, noted the care lines in 
his face, the worry creases in his brow, then smiled
and nodded.  "For a bit longer then," she acquiesced,
"but it has to stop sometime.  *I* can't live like this."

"It's not forever, I promise.  Just -- until."  The 
unsaid words hung between them as he took her arm 
and walked with her onto the platform to wait for 
the train.  From Crystal City to the Pentagon was 
just a short ride and the trains ran frequently at
rush hour so they didn't have long to wait.  Once
into the car, Mara found a single seat and Skinner
stood over her.  

He held an overhead rod and glared at everyone who
dared to look at them and Mara found herself chuckling.

"What?" he asked, his mien softening as he gazed 
down at her.  

"You," she said, still chuckling.   "You don't even
realize you do it, do you?"

"Do what?"  The car stopped and a man getting off 
jostled him and Skinner's glare was back as he followed
the man with his eyes.

"That.  That look.  You glare at everyone as if they
were a criminal."  She laughed again, then reached up
and tugged on his tie, forcing him to bend a little 
closer.  "See that woman over there?"  She pointed
discreetly and he glanced to the other side of the
train to see a middle-aged woman sitting very still,
very erect, her handbag clutched in her lap.  When 
Skinner caught her eye, she immediately dropped her
gaze, staring almost in fear at her lap.  "You glared
at her when she got on and she hasn't relaxed yet."
She smacked him gently on the arm.  "You terrify
people with that look."

He snorted and pulled himself erect.  "You read too 
much into things, Mara."

"No, I don't," she insisted.  "That man there, and 
the one behind him as well, they're both avoiding you.
And I bet, if they get off before we do, they use the 
front doors so they don't have to pass you."

The train stopped then and both men and the woman
Mara had pointed to moved to the front of the car to
exit.  She burst out laughing.  "You owe me, Mister," 
she said as he sheepishly dropped his gaze and stopped
the almost second nature constant surveillance of the
other occupants.

He leaned down again, reaching out with one hand to
sweep her hair behind her ear as he whispered, 
"Anything.  Everything.  Whatever you want."

She blushed at his words and ducked her head for a 
moment before looking up at him with wide eyes,
dark with emotion.  "Maybe I can collect tonight?"

He had started to answer when the car stopped and
a garbled voice announced, "Pentagon."

"Our stop," he said instead, straightening as he 
helped her from the seat and they left the train.

He walked her through the long halls of the Pentagon
until they reached her office, then stopped, his hand
lingering at her waist.  "I'll be back for you this
evening.  I've got a four-thirty meeting so I may be
a bit later than usual.  You'll wait for me?"

"For you, I'd wait forever.  But for escort service?"  
She shook her head.  "Walter, this has to stop." 

"Will you just promise me you'll wait for me today?
We can talk about the rest of it tonight, OK?"  When
she hesitated, he added, "Please?"

At last she nodded agreement.  "I'll wait for you, but
tonight, Walter, we talk."

*****************************************

"All right, Jackson, thank you."  Skinner looked at
his watch and closed the pad before him.  "I guess
that covers our official case updates."  He folded his
hands in front of him and looked at each of the five
people around the table.  Each of his direct reports
was present: Jackson from Local Liaison, Roth from 
Violent Crimes, Strickland from Missing Persons, 
and Mulder and Scully.  "Does anyone have any 
other information they'd like to share with me?"

"We've got a lead on another ex-girlfriend," Jackson
said.  "Her name came up in one of the re-interviews.
The locals in Virginia Beach are following up."

Skinner nodded.  

"I've got two people on a bar in Fredericksburg that 
he used to frequent when he lived there.  He didn't 
live there long, but apparently he was a regular."
Strickland pushed her hair back as she spoke and
nodded at Skinner.  "I know waiting is hard, Sir,
but we're gonna find him."

"Roth?"  Skinner turned his attention to the head of
VCU.  "What do you have?"

"We're talking to some of the people he put away 
while he was a cop.  Trying to see if he might be 
looking for contacts to do his dirty work."

Mulder snorted in disgust, and all eyes turned toward
him.

"You have a problem with that, Agent Mulder?" Roth
asked, glaring at the former wunderkind of his 
department.

Mulder dropped his head and was silent as Skinner
skewered Roth with a glance then spoke.  "Mulder?
Can you help us out here?"

"He won't look for someone else to do his dirty work,
Sir," Mulder said.  "He, uh ... well, he just won't."
He shook his head and cast a quick glance at Scully, 
questioning the wisdom of continuing this with 
Skinner in the room.  She shrugged slightly and 
nodded.  "He, uh, Gordon, likes it too much.  He 
won't want to give that experience up."

Skinner winced at Mulder's words and Scully reached 
out and gently touched his arm for a brief moment.  The
AD removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, then cleaned
the glasses on his tie.  At last he put them back on, 
then looked up and around the table. 

"That may be so, Mulder," he said quietly, "but it 
won't hurt to follow up every lead possible."  He 
looked at Roth.  "See what comes up, but keep Mulder's
comments in mind.  Don't waste time if you're not
getting anywhere."  He rose to his feet and stood,
both hands on the table as he leaned forward.  "We
need to find this bastard, and soon.  Is that clear?"

Heads nodded around the room and Skinner took the
time to meet each person's eyes, driving home his
point.  "Soon," he repeated.  "It has to be soon."

Another glance at his watch and he was moving toward
the door.  "Same time next week, ladies and gents.  
Unless you have something sooner."

And then he was gone and off to the Metro to catch
the train to the Pentagon.

****************************************

"So they finally found something?"  Scully looked at
Mulder over the brim of her latte.  Byers, Frohike,
and Langly had been working almost non-stop since
the attack, using their trademark unorthodox methods
to try and break something free that would give the
investigation a boost.  And now, it appeared their
efforts had yielded fruit.

"Yeah.  Another woman."  Mulder shook his head
angrily.  "This man leaves broken women in his wake
the way a drunk leaves broken beer bottles."  He 
rolled his shoulders tiredly, then threw his head 
back in a vain attempt to loosen tight muscles.  
"Suzanne Degaraff.  She's Suzanne Littman now.  She
lived with Gordon for three years, then seemed to 
have disappeared.  The guys weren't sure if she'd
run and been very thorough about covering her tracks,
or if he might have actually killed her, and been 
very thorough about covering his own tracks."

"But she ran, right?"

"Yeah.  Erased her life, changed her name, moved,
the whole shebang.  Very effective from what Byers
said."  He ran a hand through his hair, then nodded
at the computer monitor.  

"So how did they find her if she was so thorough?"
Scully moved to stand beside her partner and read
the material scrolling by on the screen.

Mulder cocked his head as he looked at her, eyes
twinkling and said, "You don't *really* want to know
now, do you?"

She smiled despite herself and swallowed a chuckle.
"No, I guess I don't.  It's enough we found her."  She
finished reading the email from the Gunmen, nodding
as she made mental notes.  "So, what next, Sherlock?"

"I want to go talk to her.  See if anything unusual has
happened."  Mulder screwed up his face in disgust and
gave a shudder.  "Gordon's twisted.  I'm not sure how
his mind works.  I think -- well, I think he had reached
some sort of unspoken agreement with Mara.  From what
the other women say, he's not completely out of their
lives either.  They've all reported seeing him since
their breakups.  Sometimes he'll come and speak to 
them, but more often, they just see him watching them
from a distance.  Melanie was terrified the last time
I spoke to her.  She was sure she'd seen him and 
was afraid he'd 'disapprove' of her talking to me."
Mulder shook his head sadly.  "Suzanne seems to be 
the only one who completely made the jump to freedom 
and a new relationship."

Scully sipped her latte.  "I try and try and try to 
understand how these women think, but it is just
beyond me."  She smiled at her partner.  "I know
that sounds terribly judgmental, but I really can't
comprehend what goes on in their minds."

"Melanie seems to have come from a background where
the way Gordon treated her was accepted, even expected.
I didn't talk to Theresa and I haven't talked to Suzanne
yet, but in Mara's case, there was the added factor that
she was so very young when she got mixed up with this
man."

"I know.  Sixteen.  God, I can't remember what I was
doing at sixteen, but it certainly didn't involve
marriage and children!  I'm amazed at the woman
she's become."

"She's overcome tremendous odds, that's for certain.
There's an incredible strength to her and yet, she's 
still -- I don't know -- soft?  Is that the word?"  
Scully nodded and he continued.  "I mean, we tend to
think of strong as being hard, but Mara's isn't hard.
She's still open and vulnerable and willing to take
chances.  You don't see that too often."

"It's what caught our boss.  He's not the same since
he met her."

"No, he's not.  And I like the changes.  I seem to spend
less time on the carpet with him now that he *is* our
boss again."  Mulder rolled his shoulders again and
began to move around the room.  "But on the carpet 
with the big guy is still preferable to the time we 
spent with Kersch.  God, that was hell."

"I know."  Scully went and stood beside him, one 
hand resting on his arm as they shared a complete
lack of mourning for the time spent under AD Kersch.
"But now we're back with Skinner, and he needs us,
so, what are you gonna to do?  You gonna tell him
you found Suzanne?"

"Not yet.  I want to talk to her first, see what's been
happening with her."  He took her arm and pulled 
her around until he could wrap his arms around her.
"The beating, the loss of the baby, his idiocy in 
running off after the funeral -- those were bad enough.
But this waiting and not finding anything -- it's 
gonna either kill him, or he'll run again."

"He won't be able to let it go, will he?"

Mulder frowned and shook his head.  "No, he won't.
And it will eat at him more and more and more until
it finally destroys him."  He tightened his arms around
Scully, dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, then
rested his chin there.  "It works at me, Scully, what
they did to you.  It's still there, in the background, 
yes, but always there.  It's still a lot of what drives
me to stay with the X-Files, y' know?"

"I know, Mulder," she said softly.  "You and he are 
a lot alike.  Neither one of you lets go very easily."
She tilted her head up to look into his gray-green
eyes.  "It's one of your strengths, but it can also 
be your downfall if you're not careful."

He nodded soberly then said, "One things for certain,
I'm not going to let go of you."

***************************************

"Don't you think it's a little late in the day to be
making housecalls, Mulder?"

He shrugged and looked at his watch.  Seven o'clock.
"She works, Scully," he said as he climbed out of
the car.  "At least she should be home."

The house was awash in light.  A floodlight lit the 
driveway and two spots shone onto the porch and
front windows.  No one was going to sneak up to 
this house in the dark.

"Ms. Littman?"  Mulder stood on the porch, his badge
in hand.

"Yes?"

"I'm Fox Mulder and this is my partner, Dana Scully.  
We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"The FBI?  Why?  Is something wrong?  Is Neil OK?"

"Your husband, Neil Littman?"  Mulder glanced at
Scully before answering.  "As far as I know, he's fine."

"Thank God!"  The woman actually sagged before them,
clinging to the door jamb for support.  

"Is there a reason he wouldn't be OK?"

Suzanne Littman had her eyes closed as she clung to
the door, but as they watched she opened them, then
straightened until she stood erect.  Her eyes scanned
the street behind them, first up then down until
finally she was satisfied.  "No, of course not.  No
reason."  Her voice quavered a bit and Mulder and
Scully exchanged another glance.

"Mrs. Littman," Scully began, "your former name was
Suzanne Degaraff.  Is that correct?"

"Oh, my God," the woman breathed, one hand covering
her mouth.  "How did you find me?"

"It's a long story, ma'am.  Can we come in?"  Mulder
nodded at the living room behind her and shifted his
feet on the porch.

"Oh, God.  Oh, God.  Oh, God.  What am I going to do?
It's starting all over again."

"Can we come in and talk about it, please?"  Mulder 
took a step forward, took the woman's arm, and gently
led her back into the house.  He walked with her to 
a comfortable-looking couch and sat beside her.  "Can
you tell me what's starting all over again?"

"It's Charlie, right?  Something he did, or someone
he hurt.  That's why the FBI tracked me down."

"Yes, it is," Scully said softly.  "Can you help us?"

"I thought I saw him the other day - just watching
from a distance, like he used to do after we split
and before I made the big move."  She shuddered
slightly.  "What did he do?"  Suzanne's eyes were 
closed and one hand gripped the arm of the sofa.  
"Who did he hurt?"

"One of the Assistant Directors of the FBI."  Scully
spoke as she sat on a chair across from her partner
and the woman.

She nodded.  "So that's why you're involved.  But
what did he *do?*"

"This man, our supervisor, is involved with a woman
who was married to Gordon."

"Mara," she whispered.

Mulder looked up in surprise.  "How did you know that?"

"She's the one he was most obsessed with."  She opened
her eyes and looked at them, then ran a hand through
her hair.  "God, I don't know why I ever got involved
with that bastard."  The shock seemed to be leaving her,
replaced with anger.  She rose and paced to the window.
"She helped me.  She tried to help Melanie and Theresa,
too, but they ..."  She turned to look at them again, her
hands held out in a gesture of helplessness or
hopelessness.  "They just weren't strong enough.  If
it wasn't Charlie, it was some man just like him."

"And you were?  Strong enough, that is?"  Mulder stayed 
where he was, hoping the woman would feel secure 
enough to continue talking.

"I wasn't at first.  Mara helped me."  Suzanne turned
and looked out the window again.  "Did he kill her?"

"No."

"I'm glad."  She was silent for a long while, but when
she turned again, she had gathered her composure.  
"Come out to the kitchen," she said.  "I'll make coffee.
I think you'll want to hear what I have to say, and I 
want to know what happened to Mara."

******************************************

"Skinner."  His voice was gruff as he answered the cell
phone.  Mara had told him to work on sounding more
'civilized,' as she put it, but it hadn't sunk in yet.
And besides, he was doing his usual pacing in the
living room as he waited for her.  They'd been 
commuting separately for almost a month now, and
there had been no problems, but he still worried 
himself nearly sick each day until she walked through
the door and he saw she was all right.

There was the sound of a ragged breath being drawn
coming through the phone and he narrowed his eyes
as he tried to figure what was happening.  "Hello?"
he tried again.

"Walter?"

Her voice was shaky and he could tell by her breathing
she was crying or had been recently.  "Mara!  What 
is it?"

"I'm all right, Walter," she said in a still shaky voice.
"I'm back in the building, back at my desk."

"What happened?  What's going on?  Are you really
all right?"

He could hear the sigh through the phone, the quaver
still in her voice when she spoke again.  "Can you 
come get me, Walter?"

"Of course."  He was already out the door, halfway
to the car.  "I'm on my way."  He slipped into the
car and slammed it into gear, the wheels squealing as
he headed for 395.  "You sure you're all right?"

"Yes."  He could hear her take a deep breath and 
her voice was losing that scared quality that had so
frightened him.  "I'm in the building.  I told the 
guard where I am."

"The guard?"  He glanced at the speedometer as he
got onto the interstate.  He was already doing seventy
and wishing he had a light and siren, praying a cop
would try and stop him.  "What happened, Mara?"

"Oh, Walter!"  The quaver was back and he could hear
her begin to cry again.  "Walter, he was here.  Waiting
for me in the parking garage.  Charlie was here!"

His foot hit the floor as he punched the accelerator.
"Call the guard to come stay with you, Mara.  Now.
I'm on my way."

End part 11/13

Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 12/13

"And she's really all right?"  Suzanne lifted a hand
to her mouth and nibbled on a fingernail.  "I mean, 
emotionally and all?"

"She's hurting.  They both are.  It was a terrible
attack and they did lose their child."  Mulder was
vaguely uncomfortable discussing the AD's life with
this woman he hardly knew, but it seemed only fair
considering the details of her own experience with
Charles Gordon.

"God, what a bastard!  What was I thinking?"  She
lifted both hands and rubbed her eyes roughly.  "Three
years.  Three whole years of my life."  She snorted
in disgust.  "What an idiot I was!"

Scully glanced at Mulder, even more uncomfortable
than he was, and then said, "Why don't I go out to
the car and call this in?  Update some of the others
on this new information?"

Mulder frowned quizzically in her direction, but 
nodded and she excused herself and slipped out.  

"She really wanted to get away, didn't she?"  Suzanne
was staring at him now, watching from across the table.

"It's not that, not really ..." he started.

"Yes, it is.  She's strong.  I bet she's always been 
strong.  No one gives her any trouble and if they
did, she'd probably take out her gun and shoot them."

Mulder nodded and rubbed absently at the scar on his
shoulder.

"She doesn't understand me, does she?  Can't understand
why an intelligent, attractive woman would stay with a
bastard like Charlie?"

He shrugged noncommittally.  "This isn't about Scully."

Suzanne sighed.  "I know.  And I'm probably being
unfair to her.  It's just ... well, I've seen that look 
in other women's eyes, heard that tone in their voice.
The one that says 'what do you mean, you had your
reasons?  There are no reasons.'  It can be a hard
sound to hear."

"Scully's tough, yes, and she may not understand, 
but she doesn't cast blame.  On Gordon, yes, but 
not on you.  And certainly not on Mara."  He smiled
at the woman and was rewarded with a slight relaxing
of her stiff shoulders and finally, a small smile of
her own.  "Now, while she's making the updates,
can we go back over it one more time?  I want to make
sure we've covered everything."

*****************************************

Mara was asleep.  She'd been sitting with the guard 
in his office, rigid with fear, when he came racing
in.  Her face was blotchy and her eyes were red, sure
signs she'd cried more than a few tears.  And when 
she looked up and saw him, her eyes had filled again.
He'd gone to her and pulled her from her seat, enfolding
her in his arms and holding her as close to him as
possible.  And she had cried.  Not loudly or with
great histrionics, but steadily and profusely and he
got the feeling it was as if the world were ending.  
It had taken some time to calm her, letting her cry
herself out, the fear and shock rearing itself several 
times anew when he thought she was done.  He had
waited patiently, trying to find the right words to 
soothe and reassure her, but she had only clung to 
him, not speaking, just crying her steady tears onto
the fabric of his shirt.  

When at last she was exhausted, and could cry no more,
he'd thanked the guard profusely, arranged to have
a copy of the video surveillance tape of the garage 
made immediately, and then had led Mara out of 
the small office and back toward the garage.

"I don't think I can go out there, Walter," she said,
hanging back when they reached the elevator.   

"Shhh, Mara, it's OK.  I'm here and nothing is going
to happen."

She pulled away and took several steps back.  "I can't
believe I'm behaving like this," she said, looking down
in embarrassment.  "But I really don't think I can go
out there right now."  She lifted her eyes and met
his.  "I'm sorry, Walter, truly I am."

"It's all right.  C'mon."  He put his arm around her 
and headed back to the guard.  "I'm going to get the
car and pull up out there."  He gestured toward the
front of the building, then spoke to the man.  "Can 
you walk out with her in a few minutes?"

"Yes, Sir."  The man practically saluted as he spoke.
"I'm so sorry this happened, Mr. Skinner.  Believe me,
we'll be checking to see how this man got into the 
garage."

Skinner nodded absently.  "So will we," he muttered.
Then, turning to Mara, he kissed her quickly and 
said, "I'll be right back.  You'll be OK with ..."  A 
quick glance at the guard's name tag and he went on, 
"... Stanton, here, until I get back."

She nodded mutely, misery etched across her face, and
he raced out the door, practically running to the 
garage and flying to the car, then speeding to the 
front of the building.  

There was no drop-off point directly at the door closest
to where Mara waited, but he could see the guard's 
office from where he parked in an open lot, and 
Stanton and Mara met him halfway up the walk.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and thanked the
man again, then accepted the tape he was handed.

"I pulled it myself, copied it as soon as you left the
first time.  Good luck, Sir."  

There'd been silence in the car on the way home, 
Mara pleading she was too exhausted to talk about
any of it.  And when they'd gotten home, she had
begun to cry again.  He'd helped her off with her
clothes, pulled a large, warm nightshirt on over 
her head, then tucked her into bed.  She'd wanted
him to stay, so he'd lain down with her for a while,
cradling her against himself, and held her as she
cried again.  Somewhere in between the tears she
shed and the soft noises of comfort he made, she
drifted off into an uneasy sleep. 

He'd extricated himself from the tangle of her limbs
and was now watching the surveillance tape on the
TV in their bedroom.  He sat on the end of the bed,
one hand able to reach back and touch Mara when
she began to move about, still making the same soft
sounds of reassurance that had lulled her to sleep.  
But his mind was focused on the tape.  He had his
laptop set up, and he'd dialed into the Hoover's data
base.  As each car came into view on the tape, he 
typed in the license number and then waited while
the system ran a complete search.  

It was the end of the day, time to go home, and cars
moved out of the garage steadily.  But, on the 
sixty-seventh lookup he finally got a hit.  

Of sorts.

The car he'd just input had come back as stolen.  

He grinned, a feral and fearful baring of his teeth,
and started to shut the system down.  But his years
of experience forced him to finish the tape.  He was
interrupted once when the doorbell chimed softly and
he slipped down the stairs to let in the agent he'd 
sent for.

"Just stay with her," he said as he got ready to 
leave.  "She should sleep all night, but make sure
she's all right.  And don't let anyone but me in.
Got that?"

"Yes, Sir."  

The agent was still young enough to be impressed 
at being assigned to an Assistant Director, but old 
enough to have enough experience to be trusted.  
Skinner grunted an acknowledgment and headed
for the door.

"What do I tell her if she wakes up, Sir?  What if
she wants to know where you are?"

"Tell her I went to find Gordon and put an end to 
this once and for all." 

***********************************

Mulder declined another cup of coffee as he checked
his notes.  They had covered everything he could 
think of -- twice -- and still Scully wasn't back.  He
wanted to give her time if she needed it, but -- he
checked his watch again -- this was ridiculous.

"Ms Littman, Suzanne," he began, pushing the chair
back from the table, "we really appreciate you taking 
this time with us.  And being so forthright about 
your experiences.  I know it hasn't been easy."

She shrugged and rose too, leading the way to the 
front door that Scully had gone out of earlier.  He 
stood on the porch a moment, looking around.  She
wasn't in the car, where he had expected to see her.
She wasn't by the car.  She wasn't on the porch, or
in the yard, or near the street.  She wasn't anywhere
to be seen.

He frowned and turned back to Suzanne.  "Could 
she have slipped back into the house when we were
talking?"

The woman shook her head.  "I could see the door from 
where I was sitting, and besides," she pushed the door
with one hand and it squeaked loudly, "we'd have heard
her."

Mulder lifted a hand and rubbed his head.  "Where the
hell did she go?" he muttered.

"Call her and ask."  Suzanne nodded at the cell phone
in his hand.

"Right."  He flipped it open and dialed, waiting for 
her to answer.

"Listen to me, you prick," a male voice answered.  "I
didn't do anything when that big-ass bastard beat the
shit out of me.  All I did was get back for what he did
to me.  We were fuckin' even.  But he won't leave me
alone.  You won't leave me alone.  None of you will
fuckin' leave me alone!  You're stealing my fuckin'
life!" 

There was a silence that stretched as Mulder's mouth
went dry and his heart seemed to stop beating.

"Well," Gordon continued, "if you want to steal my
fuckin' life, maybe I'll steal one of yours."

******************************************

The threads had come together for Skinner.  The 
address on the stolen car had been familiar.  He'd
dug through the pages of notes on the case and found
they had interviewed a former acquaintance of Gordon's
who lived on the same street.  The man and his wife
had been in the process of moving and claimed they
hadn't seen Gordon in years.  

But their house was empty now.

And the car came from three doors down.

As tempting as it was to go charging in there by 
himself, he'd seen the folly of that direction.  He
wanted the man caught, put away forever.  Well,
to be honest, he wanted the man dead.  But he was
willing to settle for making sure he never walked
the streets a free man.  And he would never live
with himself, never forgive himself, if he went in
as Lone Wolf McQuaid and then blew the collar.

So he'd been prudent, called it in, and even now, city
cops and FBI agents should be converging toward the
house.  Converging silently, so as not to warn the
man before they arrived.  But no one was to move 
until he got there, unless Gordon forced their hand.
And at the rate he was moving, he might be first on
the scene after all.

The cell phone rang, it's shrill chirp shaking him
from his thoughts, and he answered.  "Skinner."

"He's got Scully!"  Mulder was breathless, the panic
evident in his voice.  

"What?  What the hell are you talking about, Mulder?
"Who's got Scully?"

"Gordon.  Gordon's got her."

An ice cold chill crawled across Skinner's body.  
"What do you mean -- he's got her?"

"Got her!  Got her!  He's got her!  Took her, kidnapped,
abducted, seized, spirited away!  The fucker was here, 
he took her, and now she's gone!  Vanished, disappeared!"

"All right, Mulder, all right."  Skinner took a corner 
too fast and dropped the phone.  He got the car under
control and picked the phone back up.  "Mulder?  You
still there?"

"What are we going to do?"  Skinner could hear the
desperation in the man's voice.

"Where are you?"

"Suzanne Littman's."

He rattled off the address as Skinner stopped for a
light.  He glanced at a map on the seat beside him, 
then said, "All right.  I think I've tracked him down.
He went for Mara again at the Pentagon -- in the
parking garage -- and I got a plate on a stolen car.
Belongs to a guy who lives down the road from 
one of Gordon's acquaintances.  Guy moved and
the house is empty."  Skinner quickly gave the
directions to the house, got a promise Mulder wouldn't
try and go in alone if he got there first, and closed
the phone.  He set the phone on the seat, then 
noted the speedometer.  There was nothing in 
the world that would keep Mulder out of that house
if he got there first.  Anymore than he was actually
going to be able to wait for the backup he'd requested.

He pressed on the accelerator and watched as the 
needle moved into the red.

************************************

Skinner had just gotten out of his car when Mulder
pulled up.  The house was in the middle of the block
and Skinner had arranged for everyone to meet at
the corner street, out of sight of the house.  

"Where is everyone?" the younger man asked.  His
face was pale and pinched and his eyes were red.  
Skinner wondered idly if he looked as bad.  Probably.

"On their way."

"I'm not waiting."  Mulder folded his arms over his
chest as if he expected an argument.  His bottom lip
stuck out stubbornly and he glared at the AD.

"I'm not asking you to."  Skinner popped the lid
to his trunk and pulled out a vest.  "Where's yours?"

Mulder stared at him for a moment, then grinned
and retrieved his own vest.   "What are we going to 
do?"

"Cut through the back yards and see if we can't get
a feel for who's in the house and what's going on."

"Is the car there?"

"No.  Amazingly, it's in the driveway of the owner."
An unmarked car pulled up and Skinner took a moment
to brief the agent, waving off his tentatively voiced 
objection to their unsanctioned actions.  He ordered
the man to stay at the rendezvous point, and keep the
others, Bureau and locals alike, there.  Then he 
turned on his flashlight, and aimed it at the ground 
before him.  "Let's go."

They made their way down the block, creeping through
the dark night with only a small circle of illumination
before them.  They reached the vacant house and worked
their way up to the windows.  

"Go left," Skinner whispered.  "I'll go right.  DO NOT
go in alone.  Come back here and tell me what you see."

Mulder nodded and started to head off, but Skinner 
grabbed his arm.  "Mulder -- DO NOT go in.  I want
this guy as much as you do, and I'm concerned about
Scully, but I'll be damned if this fucker is going to
hurt another person who is important to me.  You
hear me?"

Mulder drew a deep breath.  "All right, all right," he
agreed reluctantly.  "I'll come back."

The younger man headed off and Skinner watched him
for a moment, then turned and began circling the house
in the other direction.  He stayed close to the house,
raising his head just enough to peer through the 
windows into dark, empty rooms.   He moved slowly 
around the corner to the side of the house and then
stopped.  One window had drawn shades and around
the edges of the shades, a faint crack of light peeped
out. 

He waited a bit more, listening intently, but heard 
nothing from inside the house.  At last, he turned 
around and went back to meet Mulder at their start
point.

"Nothing," the man said in disgust as he crept up.

" 's OK, I think I've got something."  He told Mulder
about the lighted room.

"So -- what do we do now?"  Mulder shifted from foot
to foot, his anxiety building.

Skinner held up one finger, then pulled his radio and
spoke quietly.  "I want people in position in the
neighboring yards and across the streets.  Watch and
wait only," he ordered the small group that waited up
the street.  "Mulder and I are going into the house.  
Wait for our signal."

He looked up to find Mulder still shifting nervously,
his eyes wide as he forced himself to wait for Skinner
to finish.  

"Let's get in there and finish this," he said as he 
rose and led the way to the back door.  They had
reached the small porch and Mulder was working
on the lock when the silence was broken by a woman's
shout.

"Son of a bitch!"

The cry echoed in the evening air and was followed
sharply by a man's guttural scream, then what sounded
like a chair or something similar shattering and a body
falling heavily to the floor.

"Move in, move in," Skinner screamed into the radio,
as Mulder hit the door with his shoulder and it opened 
before him.

"Scully!  Scully!"  He was racing through the kitchen,
down the hall, Skinner on his heels, the flashlight
bouncing crazily up and down as he tried to illuminate 
Mulder's path.

They went through the bedroom door as they had the
back door, wood splintering loudly and the frame 
twisting at the impact.  

Scully stood staring down at Gordon, who was curled
in a ball on the floor, his hands clutching his groin.
Her hands were tied together and a cloth that had 
covered either her eyes or her mouth hung about her
neck.  Her chest was heaving from exertion and she
glared down at the man on the floor.

"You *really* picked the wrong woman this time, you
stupid shit," she spat.  "Bad, bad move."

A broad grin crossed Skinner's face and he could see
the same expression on Mulder's.  The younger man
moved to his partner and began to untie the cords that
bound her.  He could hear them murmuring reassurances
to one another.  

He studied the man on the floor.  Gordon was still 
curled protectively around himself, tears and snot
mingling as he choked and snorted around the pain
Scully's blow had caused.  He stepped over to the
man and loomed over him, staring down.  "Not 
such a big man when someone fights back, are you,
Charlie?"  Somehow, the rage that had simmered
inside him for so long was slowly dissipating as he 
stared down at the miserable form on the floor.

One foot kicked out and he toed the man, not too
gently, and said, "Get used to that position, too,
Charlie-boy.  I suspect you're going to have to be
protecting yourself quite a bit where you're going.
Ex-cops are *so* popular in prison."

Behind him, he could hear cops and agents in the
house and several had come through the broken door
to stand and stare at the man on the floor.  "Somebody
get him cuffed and out of here before I change my 
mind and shoot him after all."

He turned to walk over to his agents, to make sure
Scully was OK, -- to make sure Mulder was OK, for
that matter -- and to congratulate her on her well-placed
blow.  And to thank them both for ending the walking
nightmare that had become his life.

He had one hand extended to grab Mulder's arm when
he was hit from behind in a sudden explosion of fury
that rose from the floor.

End part 12/13

Mara: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow 13/13

The blow caught him from behind and he stumbled 
forward a few steps before he turned with a roar, both
arms swinging.  He connected with Gordon's chin
even as the man hammered into his own stomach.

Agents were moving forward and he roared again, "NO!!"
as he caught the other man's left cheek and watched 
his head rock back.  Mulder was moving in and Skinner
was screaming, "No, no, no!  This is mine!"  He could
just see out of the corner of his eye that his agent was
nodding and both arms were extended holding people
back.  Even Scully had moved out of the way and was 
forcing the other officials back against the room's 
wall or out into the hall.

Gordon kicked out with his foot, catching the AD just
below his knee and his leg buckled.  He countered by
lunging forward, grabbing the man around his waist
and dragging him down with him.  Skinner nailed the
man in the chest, just below the rib cage and he heard
something give a satisfying 'crack,' as he drew his 
fist back for another blow.  

The scene was pure chaos.  Agents and cops were
screaming, some encouraging Skinner, others yelling
that this had to stop.  Sirens screamed as more cars
arrived and more cops shoved their way into the house.
Mulder held one man back by force alone as he bellowed, 
"Leave 'em alone!   Leave 'em alone!"

Someone else yelled, "Damn it!  It's illegal!  Make 
him stop!"

"Stand back, officer!  This is none of your concern."
That was Scully's voice and he gave thanks again she
was on his side.  "You have a problem with this, you're
free to go!"

Gordon was enraged beyond fear, even beyond pain,
and he swore at Skinner as he pummeled Skinner's
back and sides.  He worked a leg up and managed to
pry the older man off him, then as they both leapt to
their feet, he landed a solid one on Skinner's cheek.
The frames to his glasses buckled as they flew off his
face and the world suddenly blurred.  Fuzzy and
indistinct, he could still see the man before him,
dancing on the balls of his feet as he prepared to
launch another attack.

Skinner acted first, catching the man in the face
first, then the belly, then the face again.  Blood 
poured from Gordon's nose, and Skinner could
feel a warm wetness on his own face and he knew
he'd been cut as well.  Gordon tried the kick again,
but Skinner was expecting it and he grabbed the
man's leg, gave a mighty heave upward, and grunted
in satisfaction as Gordon toppled over.

The man rolled and as he came up again, something
glinted silver in the room's light, and there was a 
sudden flash of pain as a knife slashed brazenly 
against his belly, just below the vest.  Skinner 
held his ground, bending at the waist to force his
abdomen back and make a harder target to hit.  
He raised a fist, aimed at Gordon's head, but the 
knife flashed again and then there was blood 
dripping from his arm.  He let out a howl of 
pain, but carried through on the blow anyway, 
connecting solidly with Gordon's jaw once more. 

This time the man went down and stayed down.

Skinner stood over him, chest heaving, cradling
the injured arm against the wound on his belly.
Blood dripped steadily down his shirt, over his
pants, and began to form a small puddle on the 
floor by Gordon.  Skinner's nostrils flared as he
sucked in great draughts of air, lungs expanding to
capacity, heart racing.  He hovered there, just
waiting for the man to move, silently daring him
to rise again, but the man stayed still.

The screams and cries from the other officers and
agents died down until all that could be heard was
Skinner's ragged breathing and the steady blare
of the sirens from the street.  

Scully had holstered her weapon and moved to stand
before him, her own face already showing a darkening
bruise where Gordon had hit her as well.  

"Here," she said as she tugged at his arm, "let me 
see it."  She took the injured arm in both her hands,
then looked over her shoulder at Mulder.  "Clear that
hall, will ya, and get medical in here.  He's gonna
need stitches at least."  A quick glance at the man
on the floor and her face wrinkled in disgust.  "And
someone, please, get that carcass out of here!"

Mulder moved immediately, hustling people down the 
hall, talking briefly to the senior local cop to get 
the paramedics in, and generally taking charge of 
the scene.  Two men moved forward, both agents,
and one kicked Gordon's knife away.

Skinner watched impassively as Scully prodded the
edges of the wound, then released him.  "It's deep.
You'll need several layers of stitches, and they may
have to do surgery, but," she announced. "you'll live."

"You better check him, Scully," Mulder said, pointing
with his thumb at the unmoving form on the floor.

She nodded and stepped forward just as one of the
agents leaned over to roll the man onto his belly so 
his hands could be cuffed behind him.  As Gordon 
rolled, he shifted suddenly, curled into a ball and 
then came up again, a second knife in his hand.  
One hand shot out, he grabbed Scully by the hair
and pulled her to his chest, knife to her throat.

In a split second, there were six guns trained on him.

"Forget it, Gordon," Skinner snarled.  "You'll never 
walk away from this."

"You might be surprised," the man replied.  He pressed
the knife to Scully's throat until a thin line of red 
was visible.  "No one wants to see a *woman* get 
hurt, now do they?"

"Drop it," Mulder ordered.  "Let her go."

"I don't think so, *Agent,* Gordon sneered derisively.
"I seem to be holding the cards, don't I?"

"Not.  Really," Scully said as she went limp in the 
man's grasp, then drove an elbow back into the cracked
rib.

Gordon whuffed and released her.  She dropped and 
rolled away, and immediately six weapons opened
fire.  The man's body jerked like a badly-managed
marionette as slug after slug pummeled him.  Skinner
emptied his clip and Mulder did too, and still the man
stood.  When the firing stopped, Gordon stared stupidly
forward, shock etched on his bloated features, and then,
almost gracefully, collapsed onto the floor.

And this time, he did not come up again.

*****************************************

"I can't believe he's really dead."  Mara was fussing
over Skinner, who lay stretched out on the couch.
The knife wound to his stomach had been fairly 
superficial, but the gash on his arm had bitten
deep, cutting through tendon and muscle and he'd 
had to have surgery to repair it.  Now he was home
recovering, taking some much needed leave time that
didn't involve grief or crisis.  Although it did involve
suspension as IA looked into Gordon's 'death by
cop.'  He shrugged almost imperceptibly as he
contemplated it, not bothered a bit.

They were spending a quiet evening alone, the first
since everything had happened.  He'd spent time
in the hospital, then there had been questions to
answer, and people had stopped by.  The house seemed
to have developed a revolving door in the last week,
as if everyone were afraid to leave them alone.  But
tonight, at last, there was quiet.  

She'd turned on the gas logs in the fireplace and the
room was lit by a soft, rosy glow.  A lamp on the 
far table provided the additional light to keep the
room cozy without being grim.  He'd stripped down
to just his sweatpants and Mara was already in her
nightgown -- an old button-down shirt of his with
frayed cuffs that hadn't found its way to the trash
yet.  Her bare feet made a soft padding sound as she
puttered around him.  She straightened the afghan 
that covered him to his chest, then fiddled with the 
pillows under his head.

"Will you stop fussing and sit down?" he asked with
a smile.  "You're making me nervous."

"In a minute," she said as she bustled into the kitchen,
returning in a few minutes with two coffee mugs.  She
passed his over, then sat on the coffee table facing him
as she sipped from her own.  "I just can't believe he's
really dead.  I can't believe it's over and I'm really
free!"  A smile burst across her lips, lighting up her
face, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.  "I know I
shouldn't feel this way.  I mean, the man *is* dead,
but ..."  She giggled again.  "I just can't help it!  I
feel like this huge burden I didn't even know I was
carrying has been lifted from me!"

Skinner laughed too, delighted to see her happiness.
"I can't say that I'm all that sorry the bastard didn't
stay down," he admitted with a smile of his own.  

She reached out and touched his arm gently.  "I'm 
so sorry he did this to you." 

"Shhh," he said, hushing her with a finger to her 
lips.  "It'll heal.  And I can't say I mind the time 
off either, especially when I have you for company."

She smiled again, but some of the joy was missing
as she said, "I feel so guilty for bringing him into
your life.  For letting him loose on you."  Her eyes
filled and she dropped her head even as her hand
reached out to pluck aimlessly at the edge of the 
afghan.  "I just ..."

"Stop," he said firmly.  "There'll be no more of that."
He shifted on the couch, turning to his side, then 
pulled her over to sit beside him.  "C'mere," he
whispered as he tugged at her, until she finally 
stretched out beside him, spooning against his 
chest.  

"I've thought about a lot of things, Mara," he said
quietly.  "In a way, we never would have met if it
hadn't been for him."

"What?"  She twisted her head up and around until
she could see his face.  "How can you say that, Walter?"

"In a way, we met because of your daughter's murder.
Without him, all those years ago, she would never have
been born.  It's a long, sad chain that led here, Mara,
but here we are."  He nudged her neck with his nose
and she dropped her head again, resting it on his good
arm.  The sling lay heavy on her waist, solid and
comforting, as he hoped he was.  

"He stole so much from you.  From us."  Her voice
was soft, sad.

"More from you."  He kissed her on the nape of her 
neck, burrowing into the thick curls to reach it.  
Wisps of auburn seemed to reach up and tangle in
his glasses, so he took them off, then buried his
head in her hair again.  "You lost so much, you
suffered so much at the hands of that monster.  Mara,
I don't ever want you to suffer again.  No more bitter
sorrow for my Mara."  He rested his lips against her 
neck and pulled his good hand up to stroke her arm, 
then her side.  "Never again," he murmured as his 
hand dropped to rub her belly, then brush against 
her breast.

She smiled at his touch, then turned until she faced 
him, one leg stretched out against his own, the other 
worming its way between his and rising high up his 
thigh.  Her hand stroked his face, then ran lightly 
over his chest.  "Walter," she admonished gently, "are
you sure you're up to this?"

The hand in the sling moved and directed her hand
lower.

"I'm up," he said with a grin, delighted when she
blushed and giggled at the same time.

"So I see," she teased, as her fingers circled him
through the sweatpants.

She rose swiftly and dragged the shirt up over her
head, revealing herself to him in the fire's soft 
light.  His breathing deepened as he looked at
her, and he could feel himself grow harder.  She'd
finally begun to put on some weight and it was no
longer like looking at a skeleton.  Rather, she was
softly padded and rounded in all the right places,
and he couldn't control his body's reaction.  One
hand plucked awkwardly at the waistband of his 
sweats, but she reached out and helped him, sliding
them down and off when he obligingly lifted his
hips.  

He lay on his back now, fully exposed to her eyes,
and she took a long moment to study him and the 
frank admiration in her eyes continued to amaze him.  
He could feel her gaze travel over his body until, 
finally, green met brown and he found himself 
drowning in her presence.  She reached out and 
touched him and he gave a wordless moan, pulling 
her to himself.  

With a deep-throated sigh, she mounted him and
he thrust upward into her accepting warmth.  He 
could hear the stereo in the background, something 
soft, and the logs made a hissing sound as flames 
danced about them.

He closed his eyes then, and sound and sight faded
before the music and dance of Mara.  It was an age-old
melody, the steps well-known to them both, but it 
played like something new, and every movement was
a new harmony in their union.  

When at last she pulled herself up, body rigid beneath
his fingers, her back arched in ecstasy, and gave a 
long, low moan, he granted himself release, thrusting
upward, upward, upward, climbing to new heights
as they soared together, lost in each others touch.

When he could see and hear again, when the blood 
had stopped roaring in his ears, and the exploding 
lights of his climax had faded, he looked up to see
tears falling from her face.  He touched her cheek
gently, capturing a drop on his finger.  "Why?" he
asked softly.

"Pain and pleasure," she said simply.  "Loss and
sadness, but happiness and hope as well."  Her hand
cupped his cheek as she leaned down to kiss him,
her long hair spilling across his chest.  "I never
expected this."

He rubbed his cheek into her touch then turned his
head to kiss her palm.  "Pain in the past, pleasure
in the present, joy in the future."

"You've given me so much, Walter."  He shifted the
sling and she lay upon his chest.  "I still keep 
thinking it must be a dream."

"No dream, Mara.  This is real.  This is now.  This
is forever."

"There's a sadness in things now, though, isn't there,
Walter?  A wistful, what if quality."

"Shared history, Mara.  We have a history now.  We've
shared experiences.  We made a child and buried a child.
We've been to hell and lived to tell the tale.  The 
sadness is behind us."  He kissed her head again, his
hand making long strokes on the soft skin of her back.

"The future is before us, bitter sweet that it may be."

"As long as we're together, I'll take whatever comes
our way."

Her head tilted and her lips sought his.  "Together,
Walter," she murmured as she kissed him.

"Forever, Mara," he murmured back.

End