TITLE: Thirty Years of Tears
AUTHOR: Kristen K2
SUMMARY: Skinner struggles with losing his sight.
A prequel to "To Sir, With Love".
KEYWORDS: Skinner, Kim, angst, discipline 
SPOILERS: All, up to Without. 
RATING: NC-17 for acts of discipline
ARCHIVE: anywhere, just let me know
DISCLAIMERS: These characters belong to Fox, and 1013. No 
copyright infringement is intended.
EMAIL ADDRESS FOR FEEDBACK: kristenk2@deslea.com
WEBSITE: 
http://lzl.dreamhost.com/ExtFamily/Kristen/KristenMain.html
DEDICATION: For Xanthe and Sergeeva, who both inspire and 
encourage me with their lyrical, poetic, and thoughtful 
Skinner stories. Thanks to Ursula and Deslea for beta. 

+++++

Is this a place I can rest my poor head 
To gather my thoughts in sweet silence 
Is this a place where the feelings aren't dead 
From an overexposure to violence 
And is this a place I can slowly face 
The only one I truly can know 

-"Thirty Years of Tears", John Hiatt

+++++


The heavy thump of rotor blades jolted him awake. 

He tried to open his eyes, but something foreign pressed 
against his lids, keeping them shut against his will. The 
pain of the futile effort pierced his skull, adding to the 
confused panic rolling his stomach. Lying vulnerably on his 
back, unable to move, in a helicopter, brought back stark 
memories of Nam. 

Through the miasma of physical agony and disjointed noises, 
one clear voice, familiar and gentle, stood apart. She must 
have been watching him for signs of consciousness, he later 
realized, for she bent toward his ear before he had the 
chance to speak. 

"Everything's okay, Sir," she declared, and the strength of 
her conviction soothed his jangled senses. "We're on our 
way back to DC. You're going to be fine." 

"Agent Scully..." he rasped. 

"She's in the Medivac behind us with Agent Landau. Both are 
going to be fine. She found Gibson Praise and he was 
unharmed," Kimberly continued, pre-empting his next 
question. "Agent Doggett has him safely hidden away." 

The harsh scrape of a radio transmission collided with the 
arguing male voices in the background of the enclosed 
space. Skinner couldn't hold back his moan when the gurney 
rattled under him, and he felt her soft breath leave his 
ear area to issue a sharp plea to the medics. After another 
minute, something metallic pinched his forearm. Soon after, 
the pain around his eyes receded, just a little. 

"Kimberly," he murmured so only she could hear, "I can't 
see." 

A small, warm hand slid into the cup of his palm. It was 
the first physical contact he'd had with another human 
being since he'd lifted Gibson into his arms in the desert, 
and he welcomed it. His fingers curled around hers, letting 
the pleasure of her touch soften the brittle edges of his 
battered soul and ease him back into unconsciousness. He 
had no idea how she'd gotten to Arizona in the dead of 
night, but the vast relief at her presence superceded his 
idle curiosity. He needed her here, and here she was. How 
it happened he didn't care. 

The last thing he felt before he went under again was her 
breath returning against his ear, and her whispers of 
encouragement were enough to make him believe. 

++++ 

He awoke into a silent dark. The wooziness from the drugs 
had abated, and pinpricks of pain surrounded his eyes. He 
kept himself still, getting his bearings. With what must be 
bandages around his eyes, he couldn't ascertain what time 
it was, but the warm spot on his chest felt like a ray of 
sunlight from a window. The harsh noises had disappeared, 
leaving a flat, dead air in their wake. Her comforting 
touch was gone from his hand, but amidst the hospital odors 
of antiseptic and floor wax, he could still smell her 
perfume. Floral and delicate. 

After another moment of assessment, he heard a nearly 
inaudible intake of breath. Close, right by his forearm. He 
reached across his body toward the sound, and his fingers 
brushed against a patch of warm skin, then into a soft mass 
of hair. 

She was there. Asleep in the chair by his hospital bed, her 
head resting on the mattress beside him. 

He immediately pulled his hand away, but after listening to 
her even breaths for another long minute, the temptation 
soon proved impossible to resist. His fingers wandered 
closer, lingering over the loose tendril at her temple. His 
mind's eye tried to sketch for him how she must look, 
sleeping peacefully beside him, the sunlight from the 
window behind her shoulder dancing across her coppery hair 
in brilliant streaks. He liked seeing her in the 
afternoons, when she would sit across from him at his desk, 
taking notes and nodding absently while her pen scratched 
across the pad. Sometimes he would lose his place in his 
thoughts, distracted by the way the light kissed the hollow 
of her throat. 

But sleeping? He couldn't imagine how her face must look at 
rest. Hers was such an expressive face, with kind, grave 
eyes that burrowed through his defenses and a smile that 
didn't come often enough anymore. Flipping through mental 
images of her like the pages of a photo album, it dawned on 
Skinner that he hadn't seen Kimberly look happy for a long 
time now. A year, maybe more. The last time had been just 
before he had been poisoned. Before Krycek had killed him, 
albeit temporarily, with the nanocytes.  

He prayed that his blindness was just as temporary, if only 
to be able to view her smile again. Only three of his 
senses - sight, smell, hearing - were permissible in their 
relationship, and the idea of being denied another was 
acutely painful. He already longed for the other two 
enough. 

There was a time, a lifetime ago it felt, that he thought 
that taste and touch might be allowed. It hadn't lasted 
that long, maybe a month or so, but the memory of that 
anticipation and hopefulness still buzzed pleasantly in his 
brain. So easy to recall the glances that lingered just a 
shade too long, the smiles that were just a bit wider than 
usual. Winter had recently faded into a warmer pre-spring 
air, and her outfits had lightened up accordingly. Gone 
were the bulkier jackets and sweaters, and Skinner got his 
first peek of the season at her graceful neck. He'd even 
taken up boxing to keep himself in shape; if he was 
planning on dating a younger woman - as he couldn't help 
but think about when he caught her curious gaze on his 
mouth - he wanted to make sure he was up for the challenge.  

Then the nanocytes had come, with Krycek dogging their 
heels, and the moment passed. Now he was stuck in a 
hospital bed again, blind, helpless, his career and his 
illusions in tatters. Of no use to anyone, and unable to 
protect her from the dangers that lay between them. He 
couldn't protect Mulder, or Gibson, or Scully, and he would 
have to deal with the consequences of his failures. But to 
lose Kimberly too...that would destroy him. 

No. He didn't want to think about that. Not now. 

His mind struggled to find a method of releasing his 
simmering emotions. The pain around his eyes was too 
haphazard and dull, not keening enough to provide the 
necessary outlet and focus that pain from punishment did. 
He knew, though, that it was too soon to expect her to 
offer. It had only been two days since she'd used the belt 
for Mulder, and in his current incapacitated state, she 
would never agree to another session. Nor could he ask; it 
wasn't in him to verbalize his needs. The first time had 
been difficult enough.  

So he would have to wait. In time, when he was physically 
healed and he had pushed his inappropriate feelings back 
underground, his absolution would be granted. Until then, 
he had to keep his thoughts and actions in check. Holding 
back what lay in his heart was something at which he was an 
expert; it shouldn't be that difficult to pull off again. 

But right now, with his hand in her hair and her breath on 
his skin, it already felt like suffocation.

He heard a sigh catch in her throat, a rustle of fabric 
next to his bed. She was waking up. He yanked his hand back 
to his side and listened to the sounds of her stretching 
and settling back into her chair. 

"Kimberly?" he said after a long silence. 

Her voice was gentle, a thread of exhaustion weaving 
throughout. "I'm here, Sir. Is there something you need?" 

You, he wanted to reply. But to admit that, especially now 
when such an admission would only put her in jeopardy, was 
not a mistake he was prepared to make. He'd already made 
too many in the last few days. 

"Is it day or night?" 

"It's afternoon. About two-thirty. How are you feeling?" 

"Better, thank you," he lied. 

"Would you like me to call the nurse?" 

Skinner debated. "Not yet," he admitted, the silky texture 
of her still fresh on his fingertips. He knew he should ask 
her for updates on his wounded agents, inquire into the 
status of the search for Mulder, but he wasn't ready. He 
didn't want to be the controlled, passionless AD yet. He 
wanted to continue being the man that she could fall asleep 
beside, the one who was allowed to love her in the quiet 
ceasefire, for just a little while longer. It didn't seem 
like all that much to want, did it?

The sun on his chest slowly lifted the burden pressing down 
on his heart. As he drifted off to sleep, the image of the 
rays of light dancing in her hair captured his imagination. 
The last things he felt were her hand tucking back into his 
outstretched palm, and the mattress giving way as she 
rested her head beside him again. 

For that one brief second, he pretended it was enough. 

+++++ 

During the first week of his return to DC, a dress parade 
of visitors streamed through his hospital room, unending in 
their marching cadence, and discouraging in their news. 

The doctors and otology specialists deemed it too soon to 
evaluate his chances for a full recovery. They were 
cautiously optimistic about the skin area around his eyes, 
informing him that "only time will tell" if the scarring 
was permanent. 

He chafed against the uncertain diagnosis, and handed over 
the reins of Mulder's investigation fully to Agent Doggett. 
Not that he had much choice in the matter; one visit from 
Kersh had made it clear that Skinner's only role in the 
search was to be as a bystander. "You're too close to both 
of them, Walt," had been the official reason, but Skinner 
wasn't foolish enough to believe the weak rationalization. 
Too much bad blood had passed between him and his new boss 
for him to swallow that load of bull. 

Doggett had sounded not nearly as surprised as Skinner 
anticipated when he gave his newest subordinate the news. 
Perhaps he'd had fair warning from Kersh; Skinner 
determined he would need to keep his eye on the 
relationship between the two men in the future. John 
Doggett came across as a straight shooter, but as Skinner 
had learned over the years, no one was ever as they 
appeared. He had Krycek to thank for that unforgettable 
lesson. Unfortunately, he couldn't 'thank' the man in 
person, Skinner rued grimly.

According to reports, the elusive fugitive had disappeared 
again after that last meeting in Skinner's office less than 
a week ago. Marita Covarrubias, from her office in the UN, 
could provide no information as to his whereabouts. Whether 
or not she was covering for Krycek was indiscernible over 
the phone, and Skinner was powerless to delve deeper. 

There were two bright spots to his first week of 
convalescence. The first was from Scully; she phoned him 
from her separate hospital room, and assured him that both 
she and the baby were in good health. By then, Kimberly had 
informed him of Scully's fight with the Bounty Hunter, 
which added another layer to his guilt. No one else, not 
even Kimberly, was aware of Scully's pregnancy, so Skinner 
kept his worry to himself. With a firm eye on the potential 
dangers, Skinner assigned Doggett as Scully's partner. He 
wasn't 100% convinced yet of where Doggett's loyalties lay, 
but the ex-NYPD cop's reputation was solid enough to ensure 
that, at the very least, he would watch Scully's back. As 
Skinner was out of commission for the near future, he 
needed to know someone was watching out for his remaining X 
Files agent. 

The other bright spot was Kimberly. Although eventually 
Skinner had shored up his defenses enough to persuade her 
to go home and rest that first day, she had returned the 
next morning without protest or wavering. Every day 
thereafter, from the first minute of visiting hours to the 
last, she was there, often convincing the staff to let her 
remain beyond then. His visitors dwindled down as that 
first week progressed, yet she continued to stay by his 
side. 

At first, Skinner was concerned that someone might think 
her constant appearance unusual, but after a few days, he 
stopped worrying about it. Part of what she was doing was 
acting as his eyes. She warmly greeted every visitor by 
name, which let him know who had entered the room without 
him looking disadvantaged or weak. Otherwise, much like in 
the office, she didn't speak up much, letting him conduct 
business without interruption. The only difference was that 
here she sat so much closer than she normally did, and her 
scent stayed in the air all day. Whether it was a doctor or 
a Section Chief or an agent in the room with them, Skinner 
was always aware of her. He liked that. In a sightless 
world where he was now groping for purchase, her steady 
presence anchored him.    

After that first week, it became apparent that his recovery 
was going to be longer than he had expected. Out of his own 
pocket he paid for a transfer to a private room equipped 
for VIPs. The sole reason he requested it was because it 
held comfortable chairs for visitors, and the only person 
visiting him by then was Kimberly. 

She tried to install a quasi-office in his new room, but 
the nurses wouldn't allow her to set up a laptop or bring 
in an extra phone, despite her cajoling. When that failed, 
she lugged files from the Hoover and read aloud to him the 
various memos and case files. She took dictation for his 
replies, and whenever Skinner had to be moved to a 
different room for more tests, she headed back to the 
office to type them up. She was always back in her chair 
when he returned from his tests. 

Before the end of the second week, Kersh put him on medical 
leave, and Skinner had to insist that she go back to work 
to assist in the re-assignment of his caseload to other 
ADs. Without any discussion, she made it a point to come to 
the hospital during her lunch hour and then again after 
work each day. Oddly enough, for the rest of his life, the 
pungent odor of a tuna fish sandwich would always bring 
back a wistful memory of that time with Kimberly. 

Lunches were pleasant, upbeat affairs. She would arrive 
just a few minutes after the twelve o'clock news began, 
full of work tales and interoffice gossip and amusing 
anecdotes. Skinner made sure that his lunch tray had 
arrived before she did, and the orderly who delivered it 
was very helpful in directing him where everything was on 
his plate, and informing him what it was. He never ordered 
soup, or complicated dishes. Getting the fork from the 
plate to his mouth, without the benefit of seeing where it 
was headed, was humiliating enough. 

Whether or not the effort to not dribble food on his chin 
was lost on Kimberly, he wasn't sure. He suspected that she 
deliberately didn't watch him eat, to give him a measure of 
privacy. There was no way her paper sack naturally made as 
much noise as it seemed to; the crinkling and the fussing 
she made over her own small meal sounded much more like an 
avoidance technique than real life. By their fourth shared 
lunch, his suspicions were confirmed. Twenty minutes to 
peel an orange was nothing but pure subterfuge. 

It was one of the kindest gestures anyone had ever bestowed 
on him. His afternoons, when he wasn't being poked and 
prodded by the doctors, consisted of listening to the 
television or radio. He flipped from new programs to talk 
shows to soaps, with nothing catching his interest. When he 
grew annoyed at his inactive status, he would recall the 
elongated ripping sound of the orange rind, and smile.

Despite the fear that his eyes would never heal, despite 
the worry that Mulder would never be found, despite the 
despair he felt at being forced into idleness, Skinner had 
to admit that that small kindness gave him hope. It was 
almost enough.

Almost.

+++++

By the fourth week, it wasn't even close to enough. Skinner 
was ready to tear the bandages off his head and call a cab 
to take him home. The hours between her visits were some of 
the slowest he'd ever endured, and not being able to tell 
the difference between night and day threw his sleeping 
pattern out of sync. He couldn't exercise, he couldn't read 
the newspaper, he couldn't even take a shower by himself. 
Mulder was still missing, and from Skinner's latest phone 
call with Doggett, he knew the investigation had lost 
momentum as each lead dried up. Skinner's helplessness 
rapidly shifted into irascibility, and he heard himself 
snapping at the medical staff more than once. 

He was sitting in a chair by the window one afternoon, 
assisted there by the same nameless, faceless orderly who 
had just given him a sponge bath and shaved his overgrown 
beard, when a muted knock rapped against his door. 

"Come in, Kimberly," he said, unable to keep the weariness 
out of his tone. Without hearing or seeing his visitor, he 
knew who it was. He only had one. 

"Sir? Have I come at a bad time?"

Skinner evened out his expression before answering; she 
hadn't done anything to merit being on the receiving end of 
his foul mood. 

"No, it's fine. Please come in." 

The familiar tapping of her heels across the linoleum 
brought a ghost of a smile to his lips. If he could 
recognize her stride from the passersby in the hallway, 
maybe some semblance of normalcy was returning. He used to 
play a game with himself, testing to see if, from his desk, 
he could separate Kimberly's walk out of a random group of 
people emerging from the elevator in the Hoover; it amused 
him that he usually could. 

She pushed another chair next to his at the window, and he 
listened as she made herself comfortable. 

"How was work?" he asked politely.

"Long. I have to admit, Sir, I'll be glad when you're able 
to come back." 

"Why long? Who were assigned to today?" He knew from her 
lunchtime stories that Kim was on a round-robin between ADs 
and Section Chiefs while he was out, assigned to whomever 
had an assistant out sick or needed information from one of 
his cases that wasn't found in the files. 

"Kersh," she said, adding a colorful oath under her breath. 
Her candor didn't surprise him. He'd known, of course, that 
her contempt for the new DD was as strong as his. And he'd 
learned early on that Kimberly had a temper that sprang to 
life when goaded long enough. After the Carinna Sayles 
incident, he'd overheard her hotly defending him in the 
coffee room. Her passionate outburst, at first, had shocked 
him, but under further observation, he came to understand 
that beneath her calm exterior dwelled a strong will and a 
fierce sense of loyalty. 

They were two very similar people in that respect. 
Romantics loved to insist that opposites attract, but in 
reality that never seemed to work out, in Skinner's 
opinion. It was like-minded couples who lasted the longest. 
Even in a working relationship - which was all that he and 
Kimberly shared, he reminded himself sadly - it was that 
balance which garnered the most success. Out of all the 
opposite partnerships he'd observed over the years, only 
Mulder and Scully had beaten the odds. 

Skinner shifted in his seat, not wanting his thoughts to 
head down that painful path. 

"I'm sorry to hear your day was bad, Kimberly. I want to 
get back to work, too. Just sitting around like this...it's 
frustrating," he confessed. 

She gave a small laugh. "I wondered how long it would take 
for you to admit you're bored." 

Skinner felt the edges of his mouth twitch upward. "Four 
days to feel it, seventeen to admit it. How long did you 
think I would hold out?" 

"My guess was maybe one more week, tops." 

A ripple of contained laughter ran through his chest. This 
was the downside to someone knowing you too well. On 
impulse, he reached his hand across to her chair, and 
brushed his fingertips against her forearm. 

"It's not because of the company," he said with subdued 
admiration. "I've appreciated your visits, very much." 

She didn't reply immediately, and Skinner worried that 
perhaps he'd crossed an uncrossable line. But when she 
finally spoke, from the clear note of happiness that rang 
in her voice, he realized that she had been smiling.

He would have given anything to been able to see it. 

"Thank you, Sir. It's been my pleasure." 

They sat that way for a long time, not talking, just 
enjoying the moment. The warming sensations of her smile 
and of the setting sun were unseen but still felt, and the 
tension began to ebb away from Skinner's heart. 

"Um, Sir, I, ah..." Kimberly hesitated when she began to 
stutter, leading him to wonder what on earth was causing 
her attack of nerves, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

A long minute passed before she answered. "I...I've been 
trying to think of things to do that would help relieve 
your boredom, and I'm drawing a blank. I was thinking maybe 
I could run down to the gift shop and see if they had 
something...like a deck of cards, or a crossword puzzle 
book, but..."

Skinner pieced together her dilemma. "But everything 
requires my being able to see," he finished for her, and 
heard her sigh in agreement. "It's okay, Kimberly, I don't 
mind you saying that I'm blind. That is the medical 
consensus, after all."

"It's not permanent," she said in a vehement tone.

"No, it's not," he answered, appreciating all over again 
her relentless support. Had even Sharon, as much as she had 
tried, ever been this encouraging and loyal? "But it's okay 
to discuss it. It's a fact of life right now for me. I 
won't take offense."

"Okay," she agreed, not sounding as if she agreed at all. 
Clearing her throat, she added, "I...ah, maybe I could read 
to you, if you like. I have a book with me, or I could 
still go down to the gift shop and see if they have 
something else more to your liking. Maybe there's a new Tom 
Clancy or Nelson DeMille down there--"

"What do you have with you?" He interrupted her rapid-fire 
flow as gently as possible. It was rare for Kimberly to get 
so flustered, but her nervousness held a sweet charm that 
disarmed him.

"Um...it's a murder mystery. Fer-de-Lance by Rex Stout. 
It's a little old-fashioned, but, ah...I like to re-read it 
sometimes." 

Skinner considered the offer. The truth was that he wasn't 
fond of crime novels; his job gave him more than enough 
insight into the horrors of a twisted human's mind. Stories 
of spies and counter-intelligence and grisly death sat too 
close to his everyday existence to hold any appeal. But he 
didn't want to reveal that to Kimberly. She was obviously 
trying to help him, and he didn't want to disappoint her. 

"I'm not familiar with Stout," he commented, keeping any 
bias out of his voice. "What's it about?"

"Oh, it's part of a series that started in the 1930s. Nero 
Wolfe is this genius recluse detective, and his assistant, 
Archie..." she paused, a slight giggle in her breath, "he's 
great. He's sarcastic and streetwise, and even though the 
plots are easy to solve, it's his narration that really 
pulls everything together."  

Skinner's mouth lifted in a brief smile. Her enthusiasm was 
hard to resist. "I'd like to hear you read it, if you don't 
mind."

"I don't mind at all, Sir," she said, the clear note of 
happiness echoing in her voice again. The springs in her 
chair creaked as she presumably leaned over and reached 
into her dropped bag. After another moment of rustling 
sounds, she cleared her throat and began to read. 

As twilight shifted into evening, Kimberly read to him, and 
for all the nights thereafter, she continued reading, at 
his insistence. When the first book was complete, she 
started a second, and then a third. For the last few weeks 
of his recovery, every evening was spent in the chairs by 
the window, listening to Kimberly.

In the beginning of their new routine, he made his request 
because it clearly made her happy to comply. But as the 
nights passed by, each quicker than the last, Skinner's 
empty daytime hours were filled with his musings over their 
time together. Soon his own desire to continue eclipsed 
hers.

It wasn't the stories themselves that fascinated him; it 
was their structure and order. Listening to Kimberly, he 
began to understand why this particular series appealed to 
her. It was a world where the rules were so clearly drawn 
and adhered to, where the bad guys were caught and justice 
was served by the last page, where chivalry and good 
manners held more importance than swagger and bluff. It was 
the same world he used to believe in, before Mulder had 
disappeared into the Oregon night. Listening to Kimberly, 
Skinner's strength and faith in that kind of world began to 
spark back to life. 

For the first time since his blinding, the realization that 
he would survive, that he would regain enough of his spirit 
and his equilibrium to make a difference again, began to 
coalesce into reality. This time, he vowed, it would be 
enough.  

++++


He hated his new glasses. Hated them. 

That wasn't supposed to be the emotion of the day today. 
His vision was back to its regular myopic standard, the 
scarring was nearly non-existent, and he was finally, 
finally going home. He should have been ready to do 
cartwheels out the door. Instead he was standing in his 
private bathroom, glowering at his image in the mirror.

He couldn't wear these; they made every wrinkle on his face 
stand out in bas-relief. Looking back at his reflection, 
Skinner felt every minute of his fifty-one years. These 
were glasses a grandfather wore. That *his* grandfather had 
worn, long ago. Worse, no matter which way Skinner turned 
his head, there was no refraction of light. Wearing these 
would invoke his greatest fear: strangers would be able to 
look at his eyes, and know his every thought. There 
wouldn't be any shield. No safety zone at all, and he 
couldn't stand the idea.

The next five minutes were spent rehearsing his speech and 
fiddling with his tie. Although she'd been a blur of bold 
hair and pale skin when his bandages were first removed, 
his hearing, now tuned to her frequency, had easily 
discerned her excitement when she had given him her gift. 
Letting her down would require careful wording.

When he was ready, he smoothed his expression to neutral, 
and made his way out of the bathroom. The words he'd worked 
out so diplomatically evaporated unsaid as he spotted her 
standing beside the window. The sunlight burnishing across 
the upper strands of her hair, capping her innocence with 
an almost unnecessary halo, was outshone only by the 
wattage of her smile. Her eyes scanned his face as he 
walked closer to her, the joy on her face reaching into the 
depths of her irises. 

It had been worth all the weeks of darkness if the final 
result was the lovely vision before him, he decided. The 
happiness and pride in her expression turned her natural 
prettiness into a rare, fragile beauty, and Skinner was 
loath to let that slip away. It didn't matter what he 
thought of his glasses; if they brought her this much 
pleasure, he'd wear them without complaint.

"Oh, Sir, you look...wonderful," she said, her voice laden 
with emotion. "Very handsome."     

Then she looked away, her cheeks flushing as if she'd said 
too much. In the space of two heartbeats, he realized she 
had. 
 
Theirs had always been a relationship more dependent on 
physical cues than verbal ones. A look across his desk, a 
shared smile, a furtive nod, even a tap on his belt buckle, 
replaced what neither felt comfortable in saying. By nature 
a taciturn man, he relished the moments in their 
relationship where language wasn't necessary. 

His blindness had compelled him to seek a new method of 
communicating with her. The small demonstrative gestures 
from the beginning of his convalescence had quickly 
disappeared; as much as he still wanted to be able to hold 
her hand, it simply wasn't permissible or smart. Anyone 
could walk through the door and see what he had spent years 
trying to hide. He couldn't take that risk.      

With all other avenues blocked, they were only able to 
connect through their voices. Listening to Kimberly all 
those evenings, her voice bringing the different characters 
to life with changes in her modulation and pitch, it had 
finally dawned on Skinner that he'd never really *heard* 
her before. He was amazed at how many emotions were held in 
her tones. When he replayed pieces of previous 
conversations against portions of her storytelling in his 
head late at night, he came to recognize that they had 
always been there. The pride and respect of her 'Archie' 
voice describing his boss, the camaraderie and affection 
when she spoke the parts of Archie's co-workers, the 
tightly reined-in annoyance in her 'Wolfe' reading - all of 
these feelings he'd heard in her voice before, in other 
contexts. He simply hadn't been listening hard enough. 

And just now, while she looked at him, his health restored 
and his dignity recovered, he had heard love in her simple 
words of praise. 

Love.

Kimberly loved him.

His hand was halfway to her cheek before he realized its 
destination. Just in time, he changed its course to instead 
push the wirerims against the bridge of his nose. With her 
gaze still pointed at the linoleum, she didn't seem to 
notice his clumsy move.

As badly as he ached to touch her, to fold her into his 
arms and tell her that he loved her too, he couldn't allow 
himself to do it. Women he touched, women he loved...they 
died on the battlefield where he fought his daily fight, 
and to put yet another innocent woman in jeopardy like that 
was unconscionable. He already wore the deaths of Sharon 
and Carinna Sayles as part of his hair shirt, and he 
couldn't bring himself to do the same to Kimberly. She was 
the only one who made him feel halfway normal, who made him 
feel secure and grounded in a world where all else was 
chaos. He needed her too much to risk losing her. 

"Kimberly," he said in the same honorific, meaningful tone 
she used for 'Sir', and waited until she looked back at him 
before proceeding. Since his new glasses were unable to 
conceal his expression, he was certain she would see what 
was too dangerous to admit aloud. 

"What you've done these last weeks...it's meant everything 
to me. Truthfully, I didn't think I would get through this, 
but, because of you, I did. And my glasses..." he paused to 
touch one frame briefly with his fingertips, the impersonal 
metal of the wirerim a poor substitute for her warmth, 
"will always remind me of your kindness."

She swallowed and nodded, her eyes dampening before she 
looked away again. It was the only signal she gave him that 
his implicit message had been received. 

++++

Fumbling with his keys at his doorway, Skinner felt as 
foolish, and as jittery, as a bridegroom about to cross the 
threshold. Visions of disarray on the other side of the 
door worried him, until he remembered that she had come 
here while he was in the hospital to retrieve some clothes 
and toiletries for him. Any mess he'd left here almost two 
months ago wasn't a secret. By now, he had very few secrets 
from her.

He let them into his condo, placing his bag at the bottom 
step of the stairwell while she closed the door behind 
them. A brief glance at his living room area revealed the 
glass-and-chrome coffee table buffed to a high gleam, not 
coated in dust as he had anticipated. 
 
"I had a cleaning service come by earlier this week," she 
said shyly. "I hope you don't mind."

He gave her a nod of thanks, inviting her further in with 
an awkward wave of his hand. A new vase of orchids sat in 
the middle of his dining room table, their delicate petals 
incongruous amid the austere, monastic atmosphere of his 
home. She, too, looked as out of place as the flowers. In 
seeing her here for the first time, a fist of remorse 
sucker-punched him in the gut. She was young and beautiful 
and trusting; he had no right to squander the life brimming 
inside her, just to serve his own selfish desires.

He turned to face her, and her gaze was steady on him. 
Studying him. He'd seen this particular look in her 
expression too many times. She was trying to gauge his 
needs. But what he needed he couldn't have, so he diverted 
his eyes before it was too late.

"Sir."

He heard the coded question in her tone, and for a brief 
moment, he considered saying no. If he were a stronger man, 
he would have sent her away. Thanked her for her time and 
effort, had her transferred to another department, and let 
her go on to find someone who could give her all the things 
he couldn't.

He wasn't strong enough to do that. 

She was his weakness, and his strength. Letting her go was 
tantamount to surrender. The inner reserves he'd been 
working so hard to re-build weren't close to full capacity 
yet, and Skinner doubted that they ever would be again. Too 
much had happened over the last few months, and more 
assaults were coming. His weeks of darkness had taught him 
that he had to rely on someone, and that someone was her. 

"Yes, Kimberly," he replied, watching as something akin to 
sadness flit across her expression.   

The familiar rituals of preparation guided them through the 
next few minutes. Wordlessly, they moved into the dining 
room, where she removed her coat while he waited for her 
signal to begin. He placed his new glasses next to the vase 
in the middle of the table, eager for the returned soft 
focus of his vision. Without sight, within the sweet 
silence that reigned between them, he wouldn't know any of 
her thoughts, nor she his. This was the only time he was 
grateful for some sensory deprivation around her.

This wasn't about power, or sexuality; Sharon had taught 
him long ago that this particular act was one of love, to 
be shared between partners. And while he didn't have the 
other kinds of intimacy with Kimberly he yearned for, in 
this area he came the closest. Here was the one moment in 
their relationship where he could show her that he saw her 
as an equal, that he trusted her with what he entrusted to 
no one else.

Yet there were still things that could not be said, 
boundaries that could not be crossed, and for that reason 
alone, he needed some kind of buffer. When his defenses 
collapsed and left him vulnerable in his needs, the 
artificial restrictions he had pre-arranged between them 
would prevent him from saying or doing too much. 

Especially now, with his new comprehension of her feelings 
for him. In some ways, this had been easier to do when he 
hadn't known. He'd never asked her why she had changed her 
mind and agreed to this, but now he wondered if her 
acceptance had been her first declaration of love. 

With no small amount of regret, he handed her the belt. 
Sharon used to use her bare hand before switching to a more 
powerful implement, but asking Kimberly to strike his 
exposed flesh with her own was inconceivable. For some 
strange reason, he feared that much intimacy might break 
his resolve.  

The tiny piece of his brain that wasn't absorbed by the 
ongoing ritual appreciated the irony of the situation. He 
was standing before her, every hair on his ass on display 
for her inspection, and he was terrified that if she 
touched him, skin on skin, he'd shatter. 

Yet shatter he did, the moment the leather first snapped in 
the air. The anticipated burn had only flickered into a 
dull heat when his eyes filled with tears. Too fast. 
Everything rushed to the surface of his soul too fast: the 
hurt, the regret, the need. He couldn't slow it down, and 
for the first time, he didn't want to. On the second 
stroke, it all tore out of him in a rush, and he heard 
himself begin to weep.      
 
He felt her hesitate, then the belt swung down again, and 
again, and he was lost in the haze of welcome pain. The 
memory of young Gibson, his frightened eyes as wide as his 
oversized glasses, flew into Skinner's mind, but the 
accompanying sensation in his gut was that of emptiness, 
not the bulky knot of guilt he had expected. 

"I'm sorry, Gibson," he choked out, but he still felt 
nothing, and the tears came faster.

As he knew from experience it would, the unrelenting pace 
of the belt didn't give him time for panic or wonderment. 
Each stripe blazing across his backside began to focus his 
tumbling thoughts into a roughly honed clarity. All of his 
deeply-repressed regrets and wants, now skimming against 
the forefront of his consciousness, were woven, one by one,  
into a single strand of awareness. 

He suddenly understood he wasn't crying for Gibson. 

He was crying because Gibson wasn't the sole reason behind 
this session. The boy was safe, and while Skinner knew that 
it wasn't due to his own actions, it wasn't that mistake 
which evoked his tears now. There were others he had let 
down, and in worse ways: Sharon, Mulder, Scully, Carinna 
Sayles, Jane Brody, Landau, even Melissa Scully. All bore 
the scars of his failures; many were dead because of him. 
Gibson had gotten off lucky, in as much as he was still 
alive. 

He was crying for all of them. He was crying for a much-
wanted baby, fatherless before the first trimester of its 
existence was complete. He was crying for his Nam buddies, 
their lives snuffed out before they reached adulthood. He 
was crying for John Doggett, on the precipice of a fight he 
wasn't ready to accept as his. 

Most of all, he was crying for Kimberly. For her generous 
heart he knew he would bruise with neglect. For her 
sleepless nights spent reaching for someone who was there 
only in spirit. For her sweet, unshakeable faith in a man 
who doubted his own place in the world.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Kimberly, I'm so sorry.

His body shivered and jerked from grief and culpability 
finally expressed, and after a time, he felt her go still 
beside him. He couldn't stop crying when it was over, even 
when the physical pain began to subside. The tears scored 
down his face, their path the same as where the scars from 
his blinding should have been. 

The cautious touch of her hand, coming to rest on top of 
his as softly as a butterfly on a blade of grass, brought 
forth a fresh batch of sorrow. A lesser man than he would 
have had the bravado to turn his palm over and accept her 
comfort. A better man would bundle her into his embrace and 
offer her the same. He did neither.

The fiery sensation worked its way inward, from the porous 
layer of his flesh to his aching heart, but his tears did 
nothing to cool the burn. Only her hand, motionless and so 
small against his, provided the salve he needed. At his 
lowest point, no matter what his sins of commission or 
omission, the quiet way she stood beside him said 
everything he needed to hear. She forgave him even for the 
things he couldn't forgive himself. 

And that, his heart convinced his brain, was enough.

When his control returned, he gave her the signal, and she 
complied, noiselessly moving away from the table. He wiped 
his face dry, then pulled back up his briefs and slacks 
without fanfare, his blurred gaze on the shining crown of 
her down-turned head. He didn't understand why she looked 
away; his shame came not from the nudity of his body, but 
from the nakedness of his soul. If she wondered about his 
feelings for her, one look at him right now would dispel 
any uncertainty. 

He lifted her face with his hands, intent on letting her in 
as far as he could. Inside the cradle of his fingers, she 
was bittersweet grace. Her features were clear under his 
tender scrutiny; her eyes, tear-bright and full of hope, 
captured his. Her lips parted, the movement somewhere 
between an invitation and a smile. Not for the first time, 
he wished he could meet her kiss with his own.

Instead, he pressed his lips onto the lone ridge of worry 
on her forehead, keeping them there until the wrinkle 
yielded to his caress. There was nothing chaste in his 
kiss, only love. He felt her tremble against his mouth, 
then the air by his waist fluttered as she lifted her arms 
toward him. The minimal tug on the sides of his shirt told 
him where her hands had landed. Her touch was so light, he 
couldn't feel it through the fabric. 

They stood there for a long beat, holding each other at 
arm's length. Caught between duty and decency, the 
compromise he chose for them was nearly unbearable. But 
until the battle was over - and Skinner couldn't even be 
certain that it ever would be over - this was the best he 
could do. 

"Thank you, Kimberly," was all he said, leaving off the 
last, most important part. 

Thank you, Kimberly, for taking care of me. Thank you for 
believing in me. Thank you for letting me love you. Thank 
you for loving me. Thank you, Kimberly, for forgiving me. 

He hoped she was listening hard enough. 

THE END