Author: Daydreamer
Posted: February 9, 1999

Mara II: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow

Skinner unlocked the door and opened it, then ushered Mara in, one arm around her waist. Her very thin waist. He walked with her to the couch, seated her, then returned to the front to lock up. When he came back to the living room, her spot on the couch was empty, but he could hear her puttering in the kitchen. He followed the sounds, then leaned easily in the doorway enjoying the sight of her as she rummaged in the cabinets, pulling down coffee and filters, then filling the pot to the coffee maker.

He'd missed her so much.

He moved across the room as she pressed the 'start' button on the machine, and wrapped his arms around her slender frame. He was rewarded with a contented sigh as she relaxed into his embrace, leaning back against him, angling her head so that he could nuzzle her neck.

“You should have let me do this,” he murmured, and she laughed softly.

“I'm not sick, Walter. I think I can handle making coffee.”

He chuckled as well. “I know. I worry. You haven't been out of the hospital that long, and you still tire so easily. C'mon, let's go sit down. I'll get the coffee when it's ready.”

She let him take her hand and tug her gently back out to the living room. “You can't keep me wrapped in cotton, Walter,” she admonished softly. “I'm going to have to go back home soon. I'm going to have to go back to work.” Her hand reached and traced the edge of his jaw, his skin still smooth from shaving before they went to dinner. It was one of the many thoughtful gestures he made that continued to endear him to her. “We both know I can't stay here forever.”

He sat down on the couch next to her and scowled as he said, “No. I know no such thing.”

She smiled at the fierce look of determination on his face. He was a man used to getting his way, but by persistence and persuasion, not by force. It was a nice change for her.

He pulled her into his arms. “Why?” he asked insistently. “Why can't you stay here? Why do you have to go?”

She laughed again, a high musical tinkle that floated on the air and captivated him. Everything about her amazed him. He'd laughed more since he'd known her than he had in his whole 48 years. She had a way of radiating happiness. Even in tense and difficult times, there was an inner joy that surrounded her, encompassed her, suffused her from within, and anyone within her orbit couldn't help but be affected by it.

“Stay here, Mara,” he pleaded, unconcerned with the note of desperation that crept into his voice. It had been an unending topic of conversation, debate, discussion, and downright begging on his part, since her release from the hospital several weeks ago.

He didn't think he could bear to have her so far away again. Four hours to her home in Norfolk; two hours to the apartment in Richmond. He'd kept it the whole time she'd been missing, the whole time she'd been in recovery. He'd kept the rent current, kept the utilities on, had even made a few trips down to clean and check on things. And now, what had seemed like an acceptable compromise six months ago, had become totally unacceptable in the face of her absence and his own overwhelming need to be with her.

“Mara, I need you here,” he said. He buried his head in her hair, arms wrapped tightly around here. “I need you here,” he repeated.

“Oh, Walter,” she sighed sadly. “I just can't stay. My house, my job. Everything's in Norfolk.”

“Not everything,” he mumbled huskily. “Not everything.”

She turned in his arms to face him, one hand coming up to gently cup his cheek. She gazed into his eyes. Eyes that were filled with love and longing. Eyes that smiled at her, eyes that called to her, eyes that wept for her. And somehow, at that moment, she knew. She was not going to be able to say 'no' to this man.

And she didn't want to.

She reached up and took his glasses off his face, resting them carefully on the table beside the sofa, then snuggled down in his embrace, her head pillowed on his broad chest, his arms holding her as carefully as if she were softest silk, or rarest porcelain. Her head came up and nuzzled beneath his neck, her tongue lapping gently at the pulse point in the hollow of his throat, then she gave a sigh of contentment. She had never been so treasured as she was in this man's arms.

They sat together quietly for some time, Walter occasionally bending his head to pepper her hair with feather-light kisses. She was drowsy. She'd been up all day, foregoing the afternoon nap that had become her wont during her recovery. And now, after dinner out and the emotional pull of the 'to stay, to go' question, she was tired. It was peaceful here in his arms. She was comfortable, safe, secure, and she knew she was loved.

He was right. There was no way they could go back to the way things had been. Their relationship had been so right, but it had developed so fast and she had insisted on slowing things down, insisted on keeping some distance, and she had done that by staying in Norfolk, keeping her house and her job, and commuting to the little apartment in Richmond. But now, they had both been forced to confront the ultimate transience of life. Her unexplained absence and its devastating consequences for Walter. That alone should have been enough to show there was no way she could go home and leave him alone again.

She paused in her rambling thoughts as Walter leaned over and kissed her again, this time on the cheek. It was so obvious to her from the way he held her so carefully but securely, from the tender touches and gentle kisses to the quiet confidences offered in the dark of night.

He needed her.

She snuggled in more tightly, feeling his answering movement as he shifted to be sure she was comfortable, to accommodate her small body against his larger frame. She turned her head inward toward his chest, breathing in a mixture of starch and cotton and aftershave, and something underneath that was distinctly Walter. It was a scent she would recognize anywhere now; one she knew as well as she knew herself. And it came to her then.

She needed him.

As much as he needed her, she needed him.

But it seemed so complicated to her right now. And she was so tired. There was so much that would have to be done. Arrangements that would have to be made. Her job. She loved Walter, and she knew he loved her, but her marriage to Charles had taught her hard lessons about the need for independence. She definitely needed her job. Maybe she could work out a transfer. And there was her house. It was the only material possession she had to show for her 39 years. She'd raised her daughter there; it was the only real home she'd ever known. Would she have to sell it to move up here with Walter?

She sighed in exhaustion as the thoughts began to circle through her tired mind, and Walter immediately leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “What? What is it?”

“Walter,” she said, “I want to stay. I want so very much to stay and be with you always.” She paused a moment, hoping against hope that she was making the right decision, and then she said, “I want to stay, and I am going to do just that.”

Within his chest his heart leapt and the joy in his soul was a tangible thing. He carefully scooped her up, settling her in his lap, cradling her within his arms, holding her close. “Oh, Mara,” he whispered, “I'm so glad.”

She shook her head, then leaned against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “There's so much I'm going to have to do,” she said, “and I'm so tired already. I've got to find a job; I've got to do something about the house.”

“Shhhhh,” he soothed, stroking her hair. “We have time now. And we'll do it together.”

She relaxed at his words, comfort for the moment, a promise for the future, then started to pull away but he wouldn't release her. “I'm tired, Walter. Am I ever going to stop being tired?”

“Shhhhh,” he soothed again. “I know.” He stood, lifting her in his arms and headed for the stairs. “One thing at a time, Mara,” he whispered. “We'll do it together, one thing at a time.”

Three months later

God, she was tired! She rolled over in bed, out of Walter's arms, and looked at the clock. Time for them to get up. It was getting harder and harder to move every morning. The exhaustion just seemed to have settled in her bones, tiredness hung over her like a heavy blanket, and she wondered again what had been done to her while she was away.

Walter twitched in his sleep, his fingers reaching out to search for her, and she felt an irrational sense of irritation. Everything seemed to irritate her lately and her temper was always on edge. She'd actually begun to wonder if she'd made a serious mistake, leaving her job, her friends, her home, to move up here with this man. But even as the doubts ran through her mind, his hand caught hers and he mumbled her name in his sleep, and she had to smile. No. This was not a mistake.

Her stomach cramped suddenly and she felt sick again. Another thing that seemed to be left over from her abduction. Between the tiredness and the almost daily nausea, she was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to feel like herself again. She didn't like this cranky person she had become either. Walter had been the soul of patience with her, kind, caring, solicitous. She found herself disliking herself more and more as she snapped at him for no reason, or flinched at his touch.

Her energy level was so low, it seemed all she could do was drag herself out of bed in the morning, push herself through the day at her new job, then drive home to fall asleep exhausted on the couch. Walter had been coming home early every day, making dinner while she slept. That had become the pattern of her life: struggle through the day, sleep on the couch, choke down a few bites of dinner so Walter would leave her alone, then stumble exhaustedly up to bed, only to do it all again the next day.

She couldn't remember the last time they had made love. The closest thing to physical intimacy had been the day last week her shower had run long. Walter had come into the bathroom to find her curled up in the corner of the shower, so tired she just didn't seem to be able to make herself move. He lifted her gently, bathed her with such tenderness, ignored his frustration with her and this mysterious malaise, and swallowed his own concern, keeping it firmly in check so as to not disturb her more.

But that evening, he'd insisted she make an appointment to go back and see the doctor. She reluctantly agreed; even in their short relationship, she'd learned when Walter would not take 'no' for an answer. She'd been putting it off -- stalling his queries with lies about work, and it had become yet another source of stress between the two of them. She knew -- she looked fondly over at the big man sleeping beside her -- he wasn't going to let her get away with it much longer.

She crawled out of the bed, stumbled to the bathroom, and turned on the shower to hide the sounds of the inevitable nausea that followed movement in the morning. Every day as she threw up more and more often, she could feel the flesh wasting from her already thin body. She'd never been thin before -- not fat, but never in the thin category either. It seemed she'd always carried a few extra pounds on her small frame. But she'd been thin, rail thin, when she'd come back from wherever she had been. And now, what little weight she carried seemed to be melting off her bones. She wondered again what exactly had been done to her while she'd been missing -- and if she was going to die from it.

She finished, flushed, then stood and rinsed her mouth. She checked the water temperature, shed her nightclothes, and climbed wearily beneath the spray. Even the gentle water of the shower seemed to beat at her sore muscles. She closed her eyes and braced herself against the wall, too tired to even run the washrag over her body. She counted out the required seven minutes, the minimum Walter let her get away with without asking what was wrong. She'd learned this fact through experimenting, facing his questions and concerned looks when she stayed in too briefly, and suffering exhaustedly through the longer showers until she hit the magic number that let him rest. She stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and decided Walter was right. This had gone on long enough. If it was something serious, something they missed when she was hospitalized, then she needed to know -- Walter needed to know. If this was serious, they needed time to prepare. Her last absence had been devastating to him. She still didn't think she knew all the details, despite her best efforts to pull them from Fox and Dana. But she was quite sure it had been worse for Walter than for her. She, after all, didn't remember what had happened.

She padded out into the bedroom to find him lying in the bed, watching her with loving but guarded and confused eyes. She smiled at him, realizing how much her emotional instability of late had put him on his guard, then walked over to lay down for a quick cuddle.

As she lay in his arms, safe and secure, she knew it would have to be today. This couldn't go on any longer. The last month had been worse than anything she could remember in her life. Much as she hated to take time off from a new job, she'd make arrangements at work, then go and see the doctor. And tonight she would talk to Walter.

Skinner opened the door and entered, taking his coat off and hanging it on the coat tree there. He tucked his briefcase by the entryway table, then headed on through to the living room, absently sorting through the mail as he went and making dinner plans at the same time. He glanced at the couch on his way to the kitchen, then stopped, stunned. Mara was curled up on the sofa, the ragged old afghan his grandmother had made him as a child pulled tight around her.

That she was asleep was not so unusual; lately all she seemed to want to do was sleep. But what was unusual, what caught his attention and surprised him into immobility, was that she was home before him. Technically, he was expected to be at the Bureau from eight to five, and unless he wasn't able to prevent it, he kept those hours now. He worried about Mara so much, he couldn't bring himself to leave in the morning till he saw her out the door, memories of the last time he left before her always in him mind. And unless something urgent, something pressing that could not be put off came up, he was in his coat and walking out the door at five each day. To compensate for his new commitment to regular work hours, something unheard of for someone in his position, he frequently brought work home now. And with Mara so tired all the time, sleeping so much, it wasn't a problem for him to fit in a few hours work after dinner as she dozed on the couch beside him.

Mara worked the same hours, but had a longer commute, so that he was able to indulge his obsession to leave with or after her, and be there upon her return. He knew that she wasn't thrilled with her new job, but she was intent on staying employed, maintaining her financial independence, if not her emotional and physical one. One of the things she'd sacrificed in the move to DC was a job that interested and challenged her. Her transfer had been out of the more technical data analysis work that she enjoyed and into more straight data entry, nothing that could be called intellectually stimulating by a long shot. He'd asked her several times if she minded the change, but she had told him she was so tired all the time, it was a relief not to have to think at work.

His diligence in keeping to prescribed hours meant that he was almost always home before her, and he'd taken over the task of making dinner each evening. His earlier arrival time gave him an opportunity to start dinner and be waiting for her when she came home. For her to be waiting for him, even asleep, was definitely unusual. Something was wrong. He felt the icy clutches of fear surround his heart as he put the mail on the table and walked quickly to the couch. He sat down carefully on the table before the sofa and took a few minutes to drink her in. She looked so tired, so drawn. She'd lost so much weight, she was barely skin and bones anymore. Her eyes were ringed with permanent black circles and her skin itself seemed dry and papery. An old person's skin. He sighed quietly as he reached out to stroke her arm gently.

He understood Mulder now -- understood the passion that drove the man. Understood the raw burning need to know what had happened to his sister and to Scully. He was consumed in the same way -- a killing fever that raged in him when he allowed it, and sometimes when he didn't. Times when he went to the gym to work out, and found himself pounding the bag until he was ready to pass out, or running the treadmill at full tilt until sweat dripped from his body and his feet stumbled in exhaustion. It was a feeling he would give anything to not understand.

He looked at her again. Gone was the softly padded woman he had held and cherished and made love to. She was almost skeletal now, continuing to lose weight despite his best efforts to tempt her to eat. She wouldn't admit it, but he'd heard throwing up on several mornings, heard the unmistakable sounds she tried to hide behind the running water of the shower. She was wasting away before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do. His helplessness overwhelmed him and he felt the hot prick of tears in his eyes. God damn the bastards that did this to her. To him. To them.

He reached out a hand and gently stroked her cheek. “Mara,” he whispered.

She turned slightly beneath his touch, eyelids fluttering.

“Mara,” he called again, “time to wake up.”

She stretched, catlike, beneath his touch, and opened those startling green eyes that so called to him. She raised her brows in brief surprise, then graced him with an open, loving smile. He smiled back, ridiculously pleased. It seemed it had been forever since he had seen her smile that way.

“Dinner ready?” she mumbled sleepily.

He chuckled softly, his hand brushing her hair back from her face and tucking wayward strands up into the bun she wore to work. “'Fraid not,” he said softly, the smile still on his lips. “I just got home myself.” She was pulling herself up to sit, and he reached out quickly to help, then slid in behind her so she was pillowed against his chest. “Anything special you'd like?” he asked, hoping to tempt her. “We could go out.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Walter. I know I've been awful lately, but I'm just too tired to think about going out.” She leaned into his embrace and her hand worked the button on his cuff loose until she could play with hairs on his forearm.

“I was surprised to see you here when I got in,” he said carefully. The recent past had shown that too many inquiries into her health only annoyed her. “Is everything all right?”

She laughed softly and said, “Well, that depends on your definition of 'all right.'“

He bent his head to look quizzically into her face.

“I mean,” she said, “I'm all right. I think things are all right. And I hope you're going to be all right.”

He shook his head, not following this bizarre conversation.

“Mara, what's going on?” he barked, sounding like the AD that he was.

She laughed at him again, and he realized what he done, smiled sheepishly, then lowered his voice, gentled his tone, and said, “You're scaring me here. What's going on?”

She turned in his arms and reached up to gently cup his cheek, then brush a kiss against his lips. “Don't be scared, Walter,” she said. “I really do think that everything's going to be OK.”

She twisted back and leaned against him, still weary, but ready to let him hold her, comfort her, support her. Today's doctor appointment had yielded results she had never in her wildest dream imagined. She'd spent the entire day in Walter's condo -- their home -- trying her best to sort out her feelings. And she had to admit, that the feeling that most alarmed her, most concerned her, was how Walter would take to her news. How would he feel? How would he react? What would he want? And most of all, how was she going to tell him?

He gently squeezed her arm, and she realized he'd been patiently waiting as she had been lost in her own thoughts. She cleared her throat and spoke. “I didn't go to work today.”

She could feel his body tense, then with admirable control he quietly asked, “Really? Why?”

“Well,” she responded, “I've been so tired lately.” She could feel him nodding, agreeing. “Cranky and irritable.” She could feel him nod again and she had to laugh at his slightly more vehement agreement to her last statement. “And,” she hesitated a moment, then plunged ahead. “I guess it's no surprise, but I've been feeling sick in the morning.”

“At night, too,” he added softly.

“At night, too,” she agreed. “I know you wanted me to go to the doctor, but I was so sick of being sick. I just didn't want to face it.” She stopped and snuggled back against him, feeling his heart race within his chest, knowing she was upsetting him, but unable to move any more quickly than she was.

“So did you go today?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yes, I did.”

There was a long silence. Every time she started to speak, her throat closed up, while behind her, each minute that passed caused the tension in her lover's body to ratchet up another notch.

He tensed again, and she felt she was leaning against stone, held in a rocky embrace. Tendons were corded on his arms where muscles strained, yet his grip on her was still gentle, still tender. “Walter?” she murmured. “Did you ever think about being a father? Did you ever want kids?”

He shook his head in exasperation. “Mara, what does this have to do with the doctor?”

“Please, Walter, just answer me,” she pleaded. “You know I had kids.”

He nodded. It was her daughter's murderer who had brought them together, a man he had caught with Mulder's help. And there had been another child ...

“Yes,” he whispered, “I know. Your daughter, and the little boy. He died when he was four.”

Now it was his turn to feel the tension in her body. She shook her head sadly. “He -- it was so wrong. My own son, and I couldn't protect him.”

“It wasn't your fault. Neither of them were your fault.”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. “I wonder.” She forced a smile then, and looked up to meet his eyes. “But you're right, of course.” She shifted from her false cheeriness to a speculative look. “We've never really talked about why I had children -- or why you didn't. I'm curious. Was it because you didn't want children?”

Walter shook his head. “It wasn't anything like that.” He paused, thinking. It had been a long time since he thought about these things; even longer since he talked about them. “At first, Sharon didn't want kids. She wanted to get her career off the ground. And then as she got settled in her work, and we were both getting older, we began to discuss it. But by then, things had already begun to -- change -- in our relationship. I was spending more and more time at work, more and more time in the field. It was dangerous.”

He paused a moment and she stroked his arm, reminding him she was there, reminding him he was loved.

“We talked about it then. Sharon's father was a cop -- killed in the line of duty when she was nine. She was understandably committed to the idea that no child of hers would have to grow up without a father. I guess I really did want kids though, because that was when I started to actively look for promotions, look for a way into management and out of the field.” He sighed, a soft, sad sound, and she hugged his arms around her more tightly. “I liked being a field agent. I liked the excitement and the unpredictability of it all. I couldn't see myself as a paper pusher, but I was willing to do it if it would make things better at home, if it meant we could start our family.

“I got my first SAC job a few years later, and then we started talking about kids again. We tried for a while, but nothing happened, and to be honest, I'm not sure Sharon was all that disappointed. Our relationship was deteriorating. I was home all the time now, working a desk job that didn't fulfill me. It made me edgy, rough, not too pleasant to be around. Things that we'd been able to ignore or avoid before with my periodic absences on field assignments, suddenly couldn't be ignored or were unavoidable.”

He bent forward again, kissed her temple, her long hair tickling his nose. He “chuffed” slightly, then wriggled his nose against her cheek. Eskimo kisses, though it was supposed to be nose to nose, this would have to do. She gave a delighted little laugh, and he laughed, too, pleased to have lightened the mood for a moment. But then she squeezed his arm, and he knew he needed to tell her the rest.

“She almost didn't come to DC with me, you know. It was a big struggle. She wanted to stay. Her job, her friends, she had things she was involved in. Things that I wasn't. She had her own life. I'm afraid I laid the guilt on a little heavily and she finally agreed to come. But things were never the same. She resented the move. I was angry that she was resentful. Things went downhill., and somehow, after we moved to DC, the subject of children never came up again.”

He shook his head, bringing himself out of his memories. “She asked for a divorce, I agreed, she was shot, I withdrew my agreement, and she died. She was forty-two.” His voice broke and he gripped her to himself. “I should never have made her come.”

“It wasn't your fault,” she whispered, repeating his words back to him.

“Wasn't it?” he asked almost rhetorically. He held her tightly for a moment more, then asked, “Mara? What is this all about? What did the doctor say?”

“Well, Walter,” she said slowly, “the doctor says you're going to be a father.”

The first premonition came in the depth of night. Awakened by some imperceptible movement, some soft, furtive sound, Skinner opened his eyes suddenly. He was lying on his back, holding his breath and straining to listen. Next to him, Mara lay sleeping, her breath slow and easy. She had turned away from him onto her side so the now he could only see her hair, stirring softly with each breath she took.

He closed his eyes again, focusing on the feeling. It was a crawling tightness at the back of his neck which told him he was still tense; but there was something else ...

He'd had the feeling before, but it was long ago, in another time, on another continent. It took awhile before he recognized it and still longer till he owned up to what it was. Once, long, long ago, on a plane with thirty other recruits and a couple of men going back, he'd spent at least an hour trying to prove to stubbornly unconvinceable, too old for their years, young men that there could be no possible validity to it, that it was a silly superstition without an ounce of empirical support. He'd wished he'd gotten those boys' names. He hadn't been in-country two days before he knew what a horse's ass he'd been.

And now, silly or not, there was no question that he felt he was being watched; he knew he was being watched. He could feel the very points in his neck where the eyes bored into him. As inconspicuously as he could, he turned slowly and surveyed the room around them Dark as it was, things stood out in the moonlight that shone through the blinds on the second story window. Nothing seemed out of place. His eyes raked over his chest of drawers, the dresser he'd given up for Mara, the chair in the corner, desk with computer against the wall. But nothing moved, nothing sounded except for Mara's breathing and the pounding of adrenaline-fueled blood in his own ears.

And still he knew -- somebody was there, in his house, his home, watching him, studying him, somebody stood silent in the shadows of the night, waiting to ... Waiting to what?

One hand slipped out of the bed, as unobtrusively as possible, and quietly opened the drawer on the bedside table. He removed his weapon and the clip and tucked them under the covers. He looked at the room for a long time, his eyes scanning nonstop but he saw nothing. He listened but heard nothing and after a while the feeling gradually passed. He slowly shook his head. It must have been a dream that had set him off, or some half-heard sound from the outside, or the mere fact that he was lying here in bed with his Mara, and they were going to have a baby. He yawned and looked around once more, then snuggled down, sleepy again, into the warm nest of blankets.

Mara's back was still toward him, and he watched as the quiet eddies of air from the ceiling fan softly set the auburn curls of her hair trembling. Feeling positively degenerate, but unable to resist the urge, he reached across the space between them and gently cupped the silky mass of hair. Strands of it, not heavy at all, but weightless and cool, fell over his hand, and he shivered as it brushed the backs of his fingers. He briefly considered waking her, thought better of it, and quietly pulled his hand back. When he put it under his cheek, he could smell her hair's fragrance, so familiar and dear to him already.

Mara moved, turned on her back, wrinkling her slightly rounded nose, and brushed at her hair. He saw her eyes slip halfway open. She took in the partially opened blinds and said, “The moon's so bright tonight.”

“Uh-huh”

“Paints the room in grays and silvers. Very stark.” She cast her eyes around the room again, then landed them on him. “Walter,” she began, “do you have the feeling someone's been here?”

“No,” he answered shortly.

“Liar,” she murmured, as her hand reached for him and found instead the barrel of his gun. “This is not the weapon I normally find when I reach for you,” she teased gently.

“It's all right, Mara.”

“I know. It's gone now. He's gone.”

“He?” Walter asked sharply. “How do you know it's a he?”

“I don't,” she answered simply. “It just felt like a he.”

“Look, this is absurd,” Skinner began. He unloaded the gun and stuck it back in the drawer as he spoke. “If someone had gotten in the house, the alarms would have gone off. The system is top of the line, practically unbreakable. There's no way anyone was here. And certainly no way we could feel it if there was.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mara said crisply, raising her hand in a mock salute. There was a long silence, then she spoke quietly. “But I still felt it.”

“Mara, this is ridiculous. Like I said before, there is --”

“I liked it when you touched my hair.”

“-- no way anyone could have gotten past ... Huh?”

“I liked your hand in my hair.”

“I ...” He was blushing, embarrassed to have been caught fondling his lover's hair when he thought she was asleep. “I'm sorry . I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Liar,” she repeated, this time in a soft and gentle tone. She stared at him without moving, then said, “Sometimes, it's just all so overwhelming, isn't it?” She lay on her side, still looking at him, her eyes enormous. A tear rolled down her cheek and he brushed it away with his thumb. Her face was warm and smooth, like velvet.

She raised her arm, beckoning him closer. He could barely hear her whisper, “It's been too long. Come to me.”

Forgetting his fleeting disquiet, abandoning his sense of unease, he leaned toward her. He could feel his heart hammering, feel his chest vibrate with the rapid-fire pounding, but he restrained himself and the kiss was chaste, and almost austere, a slow, tranquil touching of lips while their bodies held apart. He moved his head back and forth, so that their lips brushed softly. Her hand lay lightly on the nape of his neck; his fingers traced the line of her cheek. He pulled away gently, then gazed into her eyes, watching her desire build in their crystal green depths.

In another moment -- she with a small cry, he with more of a strangled roar -- they were in each other's arms in an embrace of furious intensity, hands raking over arms and backs and faces, mouths seeking lips, throats, eyelids, ears; kissing, nuzzling, licking, inhaling. Urgent and clumsy, they tore at each other's nightclothes. Skinner pulled her body almost roughly to his and then covered her with his own. It was over in seconds, and they rolled apart, gasping.

After a while she spoke in a tiny voice. “Oh, my. Was that wanton woman really me?”

Skinner took a deep, slow breath and let it out. “I'm so sorry. Talk about animal passions. I'm afraid I got carried away.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” She grinned up at him, then sighed contentedly. “Wasn't it terrific?”

She giggled and he thought: I have never felt this way about a woman before. I waited forty-eight years to know this feeling, and I love this woman more than life itself.

“Are you OK?” he asked, suddenly concerned that in his haste and single-mindedness, he might have hurt her.

They turned to each other and embraced, more gently this time.

“Mmm,” she said, nestling against his chest, “having your virility validated by impending fatherhood seems to be a good thing.” She ran her hand down his side to his knees, then slowly up his body and over his chest. “You know, Walter, for an old man, you,” she grinned mischievously at him, “are really built.”

“Thank you -- I think. You're quite well-preserved yourself, Mom.” With his face buried in her hair, he slowly stroked her smooth back from shoulder to waist and cupped her buttocks in both hands.

“Have I mentioned, Mara, that you feel marvelous? Solid and soft and sexy and female. I love you so.”

She lay without moving, purring quietly as his hands roved over her, caressing, rubbing, gently kneading. “Walter,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest, “this feels so lovely, but I'm falling asleep. I can't help it. Do you mind terribly much?”

“Shh, no. Go to sleep. Why should I mind?”

“Don't you want to despoil me again?”

“Despoil you?”

“Yes. Despoil.” She yawned mightily, then gave an embarrassed little titter.

“No. I don't even want to ravish you. Well, not much, anyway.”

Her hands worked down over the hair on his belly to the forest of wiry curls below. She gently grasped and held him. “What's this then?”

“A purely physical reflex, mindless and mundane.” It was his turned to chuckle in embarrassment. Amazing how a man's body could so betray him. He adopted a deep and pedantic voice and intoned, “Pay no attention to the little man beneath the covers.” He kissed her hair. “Really, Mara, I'm happy, content, believe me. Besides, I can always ravish you when you're asleep.”

“You're sure you don't mind me fading on you like this?” she said, barely awake, her cheek warm against his chest, her breasts pressed to his side.

“Shh, the cause is sufficient. Sleep.”

He shifted slightly to let her snuggle in more comfortably, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, her long, unruly hair floating about her face and flowing over them both. He lifted one of her breasts for the sheer pleasure of feeling its soft, warm weight as it came down on his ribs again. He drew a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of her hair, then brought one hand around to rest protectively on her waist, the other possessively on her thigh, and settled himself for sleep.

They woke later, the moon still casting its silvery glow through the dark night, and made love again, but slowly this time, laughing and whispering, and relearning each others' pleasure after their long abstinence. It was too much for Skinner, and as the delight washed over him, it seemed his heart would burst. Surely it couldn't contain the happiness he felt now, at this time, with this woman. And knowing that they, through this now-sacred act, had come together and created a new life, he was stirred with emotions he'd felt so rarely he was hard-pressed to recognize them. Love and devotion, commitment above all else, a fierce, almost primal protectiveness, and what seemed to be an unquenchable thirst, a never-ending hunger, an unending desire for this woman. When they were done, they slept again, only now it was Skinner who lay cradled in Mara's arms, his large body curled into her side, his face between her breasts.

Just before dawn, he woke once more, cramped and confined and concerned that his weight might be crushing Mara or the baby. He climbed out, shivered slightly in the draft of the slow-moving fan, then stood for a moment and surveyed the room again. He'd been sure there had been someone in the house. Mara had felt it, too. But he'd ignored it in the throes of his passions. He grabbed the gun again, intent on checking the house, but was halted when Mara spoke.

“Put some clothes on,” she mumbled thickly. “You look silly wearing just a gun.”

He slipped quickly into his shirt and jeans and made a fast circuit of the house. Nothing, but he was still convinced someone had been there. He was uncomfortable leaving Mara alone, so he went quickly back up the stairs, determined to enlist Mulder's strange friends in a covert sweep of the condo after he got Mara off to work.

He entered the bedroom and she reached out for him. He slid down onto the bed, still in his clothes, and Mara settled him against her. She waited until he was still, almost asleep, then gave him a pat on his behind, turned away onto her left side, and wriggled her own posterior into his lap so they were spooning in the bed

She reached around and patted him again, on the hip this time, and sighed. “This is heaven, Walter.”

“Oh, God, Mara, I love you.” He blinked in confusion. He did love her, but it wasn't his wont to be so verbal. Twice in one night. Is that what being a father did to you? Is that what really being in love did? You suddenly wanted to proclaim it from the rooftops.

She groped along his arm, found his right hand and moved it to her breast, gently molding his fingers around the yielding flesh. He almost whimpered in contentment and pulled her close to his chest, curling his larger frame protectively around her small, slight one.

She surprised him, when, after she seemed to be asleep, she lifted his hand, kissed the back of it, rubbed her cheek against it, and placed it again around her breast. “Why are you wearing clothes?” she asked sleepily.

“You told me to. Do you want me to take them off?”

“Yes.” But when he began to move, she clamped his arm down with her own, keeping his hand on her breast. “No. Too comfortable. Stay like this. Besides...”

“Besides what?”

“Besides, it feels rather decadent being naked next to a fully-dressed man. I feel like a kept woman.” She giggled softly and her breathing became slow and even.

“My kept woman,” he murmured possessively. “Mother of my child.” His hand stroked a small, tender circle over her smooth belly.

“Hmm?” she said from a million miles away. Then she mumbled something, too low for him to hear, sighed, worked her buttocks still more securely against him, and stilled in his arms.

Skinner lay there, perplexed. That he loved her, he was certain. Love like this came -- maybe -- once in a lifetime, and he had his now; an overflowing, never-to-be equaled once and now. The overhead fan turned lazily and a few strands of Mara's hair drifted over his face. He'd once said he could get used to this, and he had. He'd grown addicted to the tickle and tease of her long hair against his body in the night.

He moved his left arm slightly to ease the pressure of her body on it. Mara adjusted automatically, as if they'd been sleeping together for years. She caressed the hand on her breast, then gently kissed the air before her face, and murmured in a sleep-furred voice, “Walter...”

His throat tightened and hot tears sprang unexpectedly to his eyes. He took his hand from her breast and enwrapped her more fully in his arms, then bent his head forward so that his lips were in the downy wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. “I love you,” he whispered to the soft flesh there.

He could get used to this, too. It felt good to say it out loud, to say it now, to say it to Mara.

He tried it out again. “I love you,” he murmured, his mouth still against her. “I love you both,” he added as his hand stroked her warm belly. Then he snuggled closer to her warmth and fell asleep.

Skinner hovered outside the closed door, debating again and again with himself on why he had come. He knew it didn't make any sense. Before Mara, he had always dealt with things on his own. But she'd made him vulnerable, she'd broken through his steely reserve, and now he found he needed people. Not just Mara, though she was the most important, but other people as well. People like the man on the other side of the door, and his partner.

Still, this wasn't the time or place. He needed to talk, but this was totally inappropriate. He shook his head ruefully and turned to walk away, but that, of course, was when the door opened and large hazel eyes blinked confusedly at him.

“Sir?” Mulder asked. “Did you need to see me?”

“Uh, well, uh, uh, no, Agent Mulder, that's all right,” Skinner stammered.

“Then why did you come down here?”

“I, uh --” Skinner was thinking furiously; he felt like a fool. “I wanted to see how things were.” He recovered a bit of his composure and pulled himself up to his full height, puffing his chest out a bit in a blatant attempt to use physical size to intimidate the other man into not asking questions. “So, Agent Mulder. How are things?”

There was tiny quirk at the corner of Mulder's lips, but he suppressed it quickly and answered in a serious tone, “Things are fine, Sir. Thank you for taking time to come down and inquire.” Mulder's eyes twinkled as he stared straight-faced at the older man, and Skinner could feel himself flush. “Agent Scully had to assist at Quantico today, so I'm here by myself.” It was an offer of privacy, an invitation of sorts, but Skinner ignored it.

“I see,” the AD said, as if he hadn't been perfectly aware of this fact before he came down to the basement. “And will you be staying in the office today?”

Mulder nodded, still serious. “Yes, Sir, I think that is a very good possibility. I'm making a real effort not to take off on cases, no matter how intriguing, without my partner.” He smiled gently as he spoke, watching Skinner and almost amazed that he could see the man thinking.

The slight witticism went unnoticed by the older man, and Mulder took advantage of his momentary distraction into his own thoughts to reach out and gently take Skinner's arm.

“Come into the office, Sir.”

Skinner let himself be pulled through the door, and before he knew it, he was sitting in Mulder's chair, looking up at the younger man as he leaned languidly back against the desk, legs crossed, arms folded.

“So, what is it exactly you wanted to talk to me about?” Mulder asked. He gestured at the room, a broad, sweeping, all encompassing movement, and added, “The room is clean. Housekeeping was just here yesterday.” He smiled down at Skinner, and continued, “Is everything OK?”

Skinner looked up at the man, and suddenly things began to crystallize for him. Is everything OK? That was the question. If he could answer that question, then maybe he could get hold of the raging emotions that threatened to consume him. Is everything OK? That really was the question. But is was also the problem. He didn't have a clue as to whether everything was OK or not.

Mara's news of last night had overturned his small, mostly stable world. He was excited, he was thrilled, he was proud. But he was also worried, and concerned, and, if the truth be told, downright terrified. And the phone call he had made to Mara's doctor this morning had done nothing to ease those fears. Was everything OK? He looked up at Mulder, then spread his hands helplessly and said in a broken voice, “I don't know.”

Mulder immediately grew concerned. “What happened, Sir, what is it? Is it Mara?”

Skinner nodded gravely and said, “Yes. It's Mara.”

“Is she all right? Did something happen?”

“Yes.”

Mulder twitched in impatience, then took another look at the man who sat before him. The AD seemed shocked, stunned, as if he had learned something he couldn't process. Mulder gentled his voice and asked, “Well, which is it? Is she all right? Or did something happen?”

“She's been -- getting sick a lot, throwing up. She's tired all the time. I didn't know what to do. She's losing weight. She won't eat. When she does eat, she throws up.” Skinner lifted a hand and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We've been -- well, not exactly fighting,” he said to his lap, “but it's been a real stressor between us.” He lifted his head and peered blearily up at Mulder. “I wanted her to see a doctor. But she's so damned stubborn! Steadfastly refused to even consider it. Said she was sick of doctors and hospitals.

Mulder nodded knowingly, thinking of his own aversion to the health care profession.

“But I kept pushing,” Skinner was saying, “and finally, one day last week, I found her in the shower, curled up on the floor, too tired to even move. I insisted -- insisted -- that she see a doctor.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Mulder commented quietly.

Skinner smiled slightly. “I thought so. But she felt differently. She kept making excuses, putting it off. But she finally gave in. She went yesterday.” Skinner grew quiet, losing himself in thoughts of their talk and last night's love.

“And?” Mulder prompted.

“And she was home when I got there. She was asleep on the couch.” Skinner smiled again, seeing Mara curled up on the sofa, his grandmother's afghan pulled tight around her.

“And?” Mulder prompted again.

“Well, she told me she'd been. She told me what the doctor said.”

Mulder stared at the older man. “What did the doctor say?”

There was another long pause, even longer than before, then Skinner looked up, and for the first time in this whole strange conversation, there was a light in his eyes, and happiness in his face. He looked down for a moment, held his glasses to his tie, and carefully polished each lens, then replaced them on his face. He smiled again, a dreamy, faraway, 'I-can't-believe- this-is-happening' smile, and said, “She's pregnant, Mulder. I'm going to be a father.”

Mulder straightened, pulling himself erect and sticking out his hand. “Congratulations, Sir, that's wonderful!”

Skinner reached out and took Mulder's hand and the two men shook warmly, Skinner's grin growing bigger by the moment. “It's something I -- never expected,” he admitted somewhat bashfully, dropping his head to stare at his lap. “I -- I just never expected it.” He tilted his head and looked up at Mulder again. “It's not planned, you know.”

“Is there a problem?” Mulder asked.

“Not exactly a problem.” Skinner sighed, then rose, and began to pace in the tiny office. “No, not exactly a problem. Well,” Skinner stopped and stared at Mulder, “look, Mulder,” he said in exasperation, “I'm almost fifty. What do I have to offer a child at my age? What kind of father am I going to be?” He pursed his lips, then resumed his steady pacing.

“You're going to be a great father,” Mulder said without hesitation. “A fantastic father! You're in terrific shape. Your health is excellent. There's no reason you can't do everything you want with this child, including see him or her well into their adult years.”

Skinner was shaking his head. “I don't know. I'll be over seventy before he or she finishes college. It just doesn't seem like I have all that much to offer.”

“So that's what this is all about,” Mulder mumbled to himself.

“Excuse me?” Skinner turned and face his agent.

“You're feeling a little insecure.”

“I'm feeling a little scared,” Skinner responded. “And Mulder, Mara will be forty this year -- forty! I called her doctor today -- just to ask a few questions.” Skinner paused now, looking slightly embarrassed but concerned. “He said her age puts her very much at risk during this pregnancy. And as much as I would love to have a child of my own, a child of Mara's, I just can't -- I just can't agree to anything that is going to put her at risk.”

“And the doctor said this? Is that exactly what the doctor said, or could you possibly be reading more into it?” Mulder asked gently, thinking he would have to verify all this with Scully.

“He did point out that there is a higher risk of complications, higher risk of birth defects, higher risk of everything for women her age.”

“Any good news?”

Skinner smiled. “Yeah, some. It helps that she's had other children -- that this is not her first.”

“Have you talked to her about your concerns?”

“I don't think I can bring this up.”

“Why?”

“Because the only option to not having her at risk during this pregnancy is not having her pregnant. And she's made it abundantly clear to me how she feels about that.”

Mulder was nodding sagely. “So, it sounds to me, that with all your fears, all your concerns, all your worries, you're still going to be somebody's Daddy in about -- how long?”

Skinner looked up. “Six months.”

“Six months,” Mulder reiterated. “Sounds like a reason to celebrate to me. You and Mara up for going out to dinner with me and Scully tonight?”

Skinner shook his head regretfully. “No. Much as I would like to, I'm afraid she still sleeps all the time. It was one of the things the doctor said. The irritability, the tiredness, all of it is supposed to get better any time now. But right now, she comes home from work, falls asleep, I wake her to eat, then she's asleep again. She just stays exhausted. I tried to convince her to take a leave of absence for a while and stay home, but she wouldn't hear of it.” He was shaking his head again. “Stubborn woman.”

Mulder's mouth quirked again. “Stubborn woman. And you, of course, are the soul of reason -- patient and undemanding, a real laid-back kind of guy.”

Skinner chuckled. “All right, all right. I admit, I have my moments.”

“Moments?” Mulder laughed out right. “Stubborn mother. You for a father. Wonder what this kid is gonna turn out like ...”

The doorbell rang.

“Mara,” Skinner called from the bathroom where he stood before the mirror, razor in hand and face covered in shaving lather, “that's probably Mulder and Scully. Can you get the door?”

“I don't understand what it is about this last name fetish that you three have,” she scolded cheerfully as she headed for the stairs.

“It's an FBI thing,” he called teasingly.

“Oh, yeah. Right. I forgot.”

She hummed contentedly to herself as she stepped lightly down the stairs. Life was so good. Her appetite had slowly returned and she had finally begun to put some weight on. While she had been secretly pleased at her svelte look, the first time she had ever been truly thin in her life, she knew it bothered Walter, and as the weeks had gone on, she worried for the baby. But now, things were fine. She was growing plump, and they were going to have their night out with Mulder and Scully to celebrate the baby. And -- she planned to surprise Walter and tell him she would marry him. He'd asked her every day since they had found out about her pregnancy, but she had struggled with the decision. Her own experience with marriage had been less than stellar, and she had once vowed never to enter into the particular situation again. But she was torn between the baggage of her former life, and the values she held and wanted for her child. She wanted to give this child a stable and loving home, better than she had provided for her other two. And while marriage wasn't a prerequisite to that stability, it was still a societally expected convention.

But what had really made up her mind, what had been the deciding factor, was she had finally realized she couldn't imagine her life without Walter, and after that, the decision was no longer a struggle.

She stopped on the stairs for a moment, smiling, then looked down at herself. She had on her first maternity dress, the bulge of her belly just making itself known beneath the soft, silky material. It was jade green, matching her eyes and setting off her auburn curls, and she thought she looked quite nice. It was one of those complicated affairs, with buttons, and flaps, and extra fabric that could be expanded as you went through your pregnancy and still be worn afterwards as well. It had cost a fortune to her mind, but Walter had loved it and insisted. And it was practical; she would be able to wear it for years.

She listened to the sounds of water running from the upstairs bathroom -- a comforting reminder of Walter's presence. She didn't like to admit it, but it was comforting to know he was here, that he was with her. It continued to amaze her how quickly they had adjusted to living with one another. It was as if they'd been together all their lives. Cliche as it was, they fit together -- as if each had been crafted by a master smith, to mold into the other. Their connection seemed so real and so enduring, it was hard to remember that they'd known each other less than twelve months, and that she had been missing for four of those months. She frowned at the thought of her strange absence, the missing time still a hole in her memory, then smiled and shook off the momentary darkness as a muttered curse drifted down the stairs. Walter had nicked himself shaving.

The bell rang again, and she placed a hand over the small swelling of her abdomen, and rubbed a tiny circle. “Time to meet Uncle Fox and Aunt Dana,” she whispered as she stepped down the last few steps. She was chuckling at her own whimsy, wondering how Mulder would adapt to being “Uncle Fox,” as she threw open the door, a smile on her lips.

But the laughter died in her throat and she froze, immobilized by the wash of fear that crashed over her.

Charles Gordon, her ex-husband, was standing there.

“Mara, sweetie,” he said. “Miss me?”

Skinner turned off the water and patted his face with a towel. He tore a piece of toilet paper from the roll and stuck it over the tiny cut by his ear, holding it in place for a second. He was listening, one hand absently holding the paper to his cheek, his mind working to figure what it was that caught his attention. He tilted his head, listening still, then realized it was the silence that struck him as odd. With Mara greeting guests, it shouldn't be so quiet. With Mulder in the house, it certainly shouldn't be so silent.

He finished drying his face and splashed on aftershave, then threw a white T-shirt over his head and walked quickly to the stairs, still tugging it down over his chest as he moved. “Mara?” he called.

There was a silence, then, “I'm here, Walter,” she answered.

It was still too quiet, and Mara's voice sounded odd -- mechanical and jerky, laden with exhaustion and missing any trace of the exuberant woman who had bounded down the stairs mere minutes ago. What the hell had happened? Skinner moved more quickly down the stairs, a sudden bolt of fear lancing his gut. If this was one of Mulder's jokes, it was not funny and he wasn't going to be the slightest bit hesitant in telling the man so. He reached the bottom and stopped, staring into the living room. Mara was kneeling -- kneeling? -- by the couch, facing the stairs, her eyes wide and tear-filled, but seemingly empty, with a vivid red splotch on her cheek.

And she was so still. It was her stillness that shook him more than anything else. Mara was the most animated person he'd ever met. She had an inner peace about her, but her exterior was lively, active, vibrant. She was one of those people who never stopped moving. She talked with her hands, she shifted on her feet, she shook her head or nodded, and tossed her hair about. She was never still.

Except for now. She looked as if the life had drained from her and all that was left was a shell. What the hell had happened?

He moved across the floor to her, his hands reaching out, bending slightly to lift her up, and then there was an explosion in his head, and lights flashing in the sudden darkness that dropped before his eyes, and he was falling, falling, falling right on top of her and it was dark and fuzzy and everything hurt and he couldn't think what had happened but it was wrong, wrong, wrong and somehow he had made a terrible mistake and he wanted to speak and say something but the words wouldn't come except in his head, that place of dark and pain, and he thought, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” and then he could think no more.

He didn't hear the man's voice that said, “There now, that wasn't so hard,” in a self-satisfied tone.

He didn't hear the cry that Mara tried to suppress -- the “Please, please, please,” that went out to him, or the man, or some unnamed deity, and was unanswered by them all.

And he didn't hear the crash his bulk made as he toppled over onto Mara, knocking her to the floor, then sliding to her side.

He didn't hear any of it because he was already unconscious.

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! What follows is an extremely graphic description of a woman's beating by a man, with the result that she loses her baby. DO NOT proceed if this is going to disturb you! And if you do proceed and it does disturb you -- I don't want to hear about it. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

He came to with pounding in his head and wetness on his scalp. He could feel the blood still trickling down his back and knew he hadn't been out long. There was a slight breeze that blew and the sticky wet cooled even as he was acknowledging its presence. He tried to lift a hand to touch his head, and discovered that he was cuffed -- cuffed to his own balcony. Two sets of cuffs, one on each wrist, held him firmly in place. From far below, he could hear the muted sounds of cars on the road and somewhere up above, a bird chirped. He looked around, trying to shake off the disorientation the blow had caused and trying to figure out what was going on. The sliding glass door was open and he strained to see in, to see where Mara was.

He could see nothing, but he could hear. She was crying, no words, just tiny sniffles punctuated by the occasional louder sob. There was no time for self-recrimination -- lulled into a false sense of security in his own home, he'd suspected something was wrong and still blundered forward, and now Mara was paying for his stupidity.

“Mara!” he cried.

There was the sound of a slap, a hand striking tender flesh -- Skinner couldn't think of what else it could be -- and Mara cried out, then moaned.

“Mara!” he screamed this time, and yanked futilely against the forged metal of the cuffs, feeling it bite deep into his wrists. “Leave her alone!”

A man walked into his view and Skinner lunged again, recognizing him immediately. He was just as Skinner remembered him -- mid-forties, formerly fit, but with muscles going to fat now. His hair was greasy and his fingernails dirty, and it looked as if his clothes hadn't seen a washer in some time. Even from the balcony, and with the wind from his back, Skinner could smell a sour-stale odor, alcohol and old food, dirt and sweat, and it turned his stomach to think of this man's hands on Mara. Gordon extended a hand to his side and Mara stumbled into sight as well. Her dress was off -- she had on just her underwear, the slight swelling of her belly making a bulge above her panties. Her face was puffy and red and even at this distance he could see the mottled bruises that were forming there and on her arms and legs. There was a dark shadow on her hip as well, and she made an unconscious little sub-vocal mew as she stood there. Her eyes were empty, lifeless, and she stared at him almost without recognition.

“Tell him,” Gordon ordered.

She nodded obediently and walked out on the balcony. “Just be quiet, Walter,” she said tonelessly. “Stay out of it and it will all be over soon.”

Skinner moved as close to her as he could, fighting the restraints. She was still just out of his reach. He didn't know what he could do to protect her now, but he wanted her closer to him. If he could get her behind him, that man would have to kill him before he would touch her again. But he didn't know what to say, what to do that would diffuse this situation and bring her back to him.

“Mara,” he whispered softly, “please come here.”

She jumped at his soft words, and he saw a spark come briefly into her eyes, fading even before it was fully born. She cast a fearful look over her shoulder at Gordon, then when he nodded, she moved closer to Walter. He lifted his elbows, hands still held tightly to the balustrade, and then she was there, safe in the circle of his arms for the moment. She was stiff against his chest, unyielding, and he longed to be able to stroke her hair and back, and feel her relax into him. He shifted his body, turning his back to the man who still stood in his living room. It made him vulnerable, but he hoped it would give her a chance to break free from Gordon's control.

“Mara,” he whispered again, his face low and his lips at her ear. “Mara? Can you talk to me?”

She was still stiff, and he could see she was in pain, but she moved at his words, a silent shudder, and her hand came up briefly to touch his cheek. He looked down and saw that the spark was back in her eyes, and as he watched, she smiled up at him. Her finger moved gently over his smooth cheek and she murmured, “It's the little things, Walter, that mean so much. Like shaving in the evening ...”

“Mulder and Scully will be here any minute, Mara,” he said quietly. “It's going to be all right. He's not going to touch you again.”

She laughed then, a bitter, resigned sound. “It's not going to be all right, Walter. It's never going to be all right again. And he's going to do a lot more than touch me.” He could see her visibly pull away, withdrawing into whatever place she went to survive. “I have to go back to him now,” she said as she tried to move away from him.

“No!” His voice was loud now, and he tightened his arms around her, holding her in place.

“Don't do this, Walter,” she said, frowning as if she couldn't understand his reaction. “It just makes things worse. You don't fight him.” Her voice had lost all intonation again, and her eyes were empty holes in her wan and drawn face.

“I'm not letting you go,” he said firmly.

“You have to. He'll kill you if you don't,” she said in a matter of fact voice.

“Let her go, Skinner,” the man said.

Skinner ignored him. “Mara, we just need a few minutes,” he whispered, holding her close. “We have to stall him until Scully and Mulder get here.” He tightened his grip, then eased up immediately when he felt her wince. He turned his hands and gripped the balcony rail, watching the muscles cord in his arms as he fought for control. This bastard had hurt her, and then he had added to her pain.

She stood unmoving now, making no response to any further entreaty and Skinner could feel her grow cold within his embrace.

“Do you know why I'm here?” the man asked conversationally. “I was in the hospital after our last little encounter -- eight days.” He brushed at a crust of dried food that clung to his shirt. “You do remember our last get together, don't you, Mike?”

Skinner turned his head slowly, staring at the man, ice settling around his heart. Was that what this was all about? He'd thought it was just the man's sick obsession with Mara that had prompted this visit, but he should have known better. She had lived for years in the same area as this bastard and he'd left her alone. It was only after he had tracked the man down that he developed a renewed interest in his former wife.

“I. Will. Kill. You,” Skinner said through clenched teeth.

“Well, Mikey, you have a choice. You can let her go and I'll leave her alive, or -- “ here the man paused, enjoying his presumed triumph, “I can kill her while you watch.” He tilted his head, as if assessing Skinner, then added, “And then I will, of course, kill you.”

A veil of panic slid over Skinner's mind. What to do? How to stall? Could he protect Mara? Could he keep her safe in the face of this man's insanity? Where the hell were Mulder and Scully?

He inadvertently tightened his grip around the woman in his arms again, and she cried out softly, “Walter, you're hurting me!”

Shame washed over him and he released her immediately, bending to apologize, but she was gone, slipped from between his arms, and walking away from him, back to the monster who waited. He lunged after her, the cold steel cutting even deeper into his wrists.

With the saddest eyes he had ever seen, she turned and looked at him. “I can't -- I won't -- let him kill you.”

“How touching,” the man said as he reached out and grabbed her roughly.

And then the nightmare began.

It was fast and it was brutal and it was bloody. Gordon beat her repeatedly, his fists striking out to contact her face, her chest, her back, anywhere he could reach. She was bent almost double trying desperately to protect the life she carried, and Skinner watched in dumbfounded horror.

There was a sound, and it took him long minutes to realize it was his own voice, screaming in a wordless plea to the blue sky above. He felt a pain and looked down briefly -- his shoulder had dislocated from the force of his struggle to free himself. And none of it was important. All that mattered was the scene before him.

She was so quiet. That was what he couldn't understand. She didn't cry out, she didn't protest, she didn't resist. She just tried to make herself a small target, and she waited for it to be over. And through it all, he screamed and yelled and threatened, and pulled and jerked and yanked against the cuffs, and none of it mattered at all. His wrists were bleeding freely now, the metal having bitten deeply into his skin, but it didn't matter. His shoulder had separated, and he thought he might have broken the arm as well, but it didn't matter. Nothing he did made the nightmare stop. Nothing he did made it go away. It was as if he didn't exist. The man never looked his way; Mara ignored him completely. He was more helpless than he had ever been in his life.

Like rain on the rooftops; like the solemn tattoo of drums at the end of day; like the hammering of his heart beneath his ribs -- the beating continued.

Fury and terror and frustration and anguish -- the emotions battered him, washing over him in a tumultuous whirlpool that threatened to drag him under and drown him in their strength. His voice was growing hoarse and still he screamed, and still the blows rained down on her. He was losing his mind -- all sanity was being swallowed by the scene before him. And yet, somewhere, in some distant corner of his brain, with the last vestiges of uncrazed thought, he wondered that no one had come to investigate his screams.

“Stop it! It's me -- you want me! Leave her alone! I was the one!”

The man ceased for a moment, breathing heavily and released his hold on Mara, and she slipped to the floor. He looked at Skinner and shook his head. “No. This is more effective -- and more fun.” He looked down at Mara, lying still and unmoving on the white carpet. His foot lashed out, catching her under her ribs, and Skinner could hear her moan. The air was filled with the scent of copper, and as he watched the carpet began to turn red under Mara's body. She was unconscious now, and Skinner stared in horror as the crimson pool spread steadily outward from beneath her broken body.

Gordon stood there, gazing impassively at the woman on the floor. He watched her, ignoring Skinner's continued cries of rage and anguish. As Gordon grew still and silent, Skinner did as well. He watched the man without moving, his left shoulder hanging crookedly against his chest, blood dripping from the cuts on his wrists. It had lasted mere minutes, but it seemed forever. He could feel himself already weaken, from pain and fear and blood loss. Gordon's toe snaked out and nudged Mara, and Skinner moaned when she twitched at the contact. He toed her again, and this time she was still. He nodded, satisfied, then brushed absently at his clothing. Flecks of blood dotted his shirt and pants, and Mara's blood had flowed outward until the soles of Gordon's shoes were slick with it. He nodded again, then spoke.

“We're even now,” he said with another nod. He turned and walked to the door, each step leaving a scarlet mark against the white Berber carpet. Without a backward look, he walked out into the hall and disappeared, leaving the door gaping open.

Skinner stared after him dumbly, then turned back to stare at Mara. She was so still, he had to strain to see her chest move as she drew a tiny little breath. He dropped to his knees, arms stretched as far as his restraints would allow, body leaning forward to be as close to her as he could. He was wet -- everything was wet. There was blood on his head and back and wrists and arms and tears dripped down his face. His throat was raw and his head was pounding, each movement sent a frisson of agony from shoulder to arm, and the the cuts on his wrist had to have sliced through skin and muscle and nerve and tendon from the bone-deep pain that dogged him. But all of it paled in the face of the excruciating misery that lanced his belly and turned his stomach and caused his heart to ache.

As he watched, his stomach heaving with fear for Mara and self-loathing that he had brought this upon her, she moved. It was a small, sideways roll, and it left her facing him. Her face contorted and he could see a convulsion ripple across her bare belly. He stared, confused, and then the blood and the beating coalesced in his mind and he realized she was losing the baby.

An animal cry rose up out of him, and he began to scream anew, shrieks for help and pleas for anyone and prayers to all who might hear. He lunged forward again, ignoring the pain that ripped through his shoulder and arms and repeated his howl of atavistic rage, clawing at the balustrade, and raking his knees and toes across the concrete flooring.

There was a sound in the hall, and Mulder and Scully appeared in the door, popping around the corner in some almost parody of media-influenced cop behavior -- guns out, Weaver stance, eyes scanning the condo. Scully immediately saw the bloody footprints and followed them to Mara -- Mulder was making his way toward Skinner, cell phone in hand as he called for Agency backup and medical assistance.

“Shit, Mulder, she's miscarrying,” Skinner heard Scully swear. “I need towels, clothing, anything to try and stem the blood. Hurry.”

“He's a mess, too, Scully,” Mulder muttered even as he turned to race up the stairs, returning within the minute with an armful of linens.

“See if you can get him to be quiet,” Scully said, and it was only then that Skinner realized he was still howling.

Time was behaving strangely and minutes turned to hours even as they flew by. He had no control over the ragged sounds that escaped his lips, and Mulder seemed to know that, because he wasted no breath on words, just pushed him back, seeming to know it would take brute force to move him, and then the cuffs were off and he was moving and Mara was before him and he dropped beside her, the useless arm hanging loosely by his side. He was crooning wordlessly to her, his good hand stroking her deadly pale face, and then Scully had the blood-soaked panties off and there was another convulsion and he looked up to see his agents exchange a glance. Scully handed Mulder something very small, and he wrapped it in what Skinner recognized as one of his shirts. The cord still ran to Mara, and Skinner reached out, demanding the child, and after another quick look at Scully, Mulder passed it over.

Skinner lay the shirt and its tiny bundle on the stained carpet by Mara. Awkwardly, with one hand, he unwrapped the now-bloody cloth, and looked down at a minuscule, perfectly-formed baby girl. Her skin was translucent, and her eyes were closed, the lashes so fine and fair as to be non-existent. Tiny half-moon fingernails tipped each precious finger, and tufts of reddish-brown hair stood up in peaks on her smoothly rounded head.

So tiny.

So beautiful.

So perfect.

And so dead.

Skinner covered the child again, reached out and laid a hand on Mara's unconscious form, then he reared back his head and began an unearthly keen -- high, and tight, and without end, it went on and on until he could not breathe, and then, with a last gasp, he looked down once more, turned in panic as medics began pouring into the condo, and with nothing left to give, and no one to give it to, he felt a strong arm come around him, holding him up and he gave himself up to Mulder's keeping.

END GRAPHIC WARNING

“Something has to be done,” the surgeon said to Scully as they scrubbed together in the OR prep room.

She sighed. “I know, but I think we need to give him some time.”

“I understand your concern, Dr. Scully,” the man continued, “but you have to understand my position. Mr. Skinner is standing right outside my OR, with a dislocated shoulder he has refused treatment for, an aborted fetus wrapped in a bloody shirt and held in his good hand, and a very large gun stuck in his waistband. If he was anyone else ...” The man's voice trailed off.

“I do understand, Doctor, really I do. But at this point, none of us are exactly sure what transpired in his condo, beyond the fact that he was forcibly restrained while Mara was beaten. As a result of that beating, she lost their baby. Until he is able to talk to us, and give a few more details, we're all working in the dark here.”

“Nevertheless, this is a hospital -- not the FBI. Despite the fact that he is relatively calm, all things considered, he's covered in blood, and obviously in both mental and physical distress. And he's a big man. It presents a worrisome image. You have no idea how much trouble I had just getting the OR team to come past him. They were all afraid he was going to shoot them.”

“I know, I know, I understand,” Scully repeated. “But may I remind you, he hasn't accosted anyone. And other than refusing treatment -- which is his right -- and refusing to release the baby, he hasn't caused any trouble.”

The man's eyes widened and he turned to stare at her. “You don't call his rather forcible insistence that he be allowed in here 'trouble?'“

She sighed again. “All right. He did get a bit, shall we say, overwrought? But he didn't hurt anyone, and he did agree to let me come in in his place. He is authorized to carry the weapon, and he hasn't threatened anyone with it.”

The man's lifted his eyebrows again, lips pursed in a moue of disbelief and Scully hastily amended her statement.

“He hasn't made any overt threats. He just wanted to be with Mara. Once Mulder convinced him I would be a better choice to come in, he put it away immediately.” She straightened, pushing her hair back with a shoulder, as she placed the scrub brush back on the sink. “Anyway, he's been through a very traumatic time. I don't think allowing him this time to decompress is going to hurt anyone. Besides, my partner is staying with him. Mulder won't leave him, and he won't let anyone get hurt.”

The doctor nudged the faucets with an elbow, then turned to face Scully as she did the same.

“Despite this agreement that you observe, you know you're not supposed to be in here. I don't even want to think about the hospital regs we are violating.”

“I realize that.” The sigh she gave this time was more of frustration than anything. “Look, I really do understand your situation. But I have to tell you, someone was going to be in here with Mara. Allowing me to be that someone was by far the easiest way out of the situation. You could have had Skinner in here himself, and that would not have been good -- for anyone. I think we're pretty lucky Mulder convinced him to let me stand in his stead. At least I know enough to stay out of the way, and I can guarantee, I'm not going to faint on you.”

“I don't mean to appear callous or unfeeling, but that woman in there is in pretty bad shape, and I don't need a whole lot of distractions. And quite frankly, since she was brought in, there has been one distraction after another.”

Scully nodded once more, trying to placate the man.

“Well, he's out there. Let's just leave him out there. My partner will take care of him, and I promise to stay out of your way, and keep my mouth shut so you can operate, so to speak. Deal?” Without waiting for a response, she smiled sweetly at the man, then turned and led the way into the OR.

Skinner still stood unmoving outside the double doors that led back into the surgical suites. Mulder was some distance away, far enough away to give the older man a sense of privacy, but close enough to act quickly if it was called for. He could imagine the pain that Skinner must be feeling; God knows he'd been there often enough himself. It was not just the physical pain of the shoulder and those wicked wounds encircling the large man's powerful wrists, but the emotional turmoil of the loss of the baby and the threat to Mara's life -- having her so weakened by the beating she had taken and the blood she had lost in the miscarriage. Either one of those pains would have been enough to put the average man out completely -- either physical collapse or mental. But Skinner still stood in the same position he had assumed when they reached the hospital. And Mulder knew the physical pain and the mental anguish the AD was experiencing was nothing compared to the emotional beating the man was administering to himself for allowing it to happen. It was a road he had walked down many times himself and was intimately familiar with.

Mulder was slouched in a chair in the hall outside the OR waiting room. He'd dragged it into the hall after the confrontation over who was going to go into the OR. Skinner had been determined not to let Mara out of his sight, and for a brief moment as Mulder had negotiated that Scully go and Skinner stay, he had wondered if the older man was going to pull his weapon and use it to get his way. His good hand had still held the tiny baby's body, still wrapped in the bloody shirt, but the hand that hung almost useless from the dislocated shoulder had risen to stroke the handle of the gun where it bulged above the AD's belt. When Skinner had acquiesced, allowing Scully to enter in his place, Mulder had counted himself fortunate and beaten a hasty retreat to the waiting room, from whence his chair had come.

Now he sat quietly, watching the older man stand so deadly still, and he planned. Mulder noticed that Skinner's left hand was held tightly to his body, curled protectively in front of the gun. Back at the condo, Mulder had been mildly concerned when, as they were preparing to transport Mara, Skinner had grabbed his shoulder holster from a hook in the hall closet. He'd looked at it quizzically for a long moment, then pulled the gun and tossed the useless holster aside. When Mulder had mentioned that perhaps taking his weapon to the hospital was not such a good idea, the older man had merely stared at him for a long moment, then ignored the remark. And Mulder had let it go; after all, he'd had plenty of times when he felt the need to keep his gun on him as well.

Besides, Mulder had the distinct feeling that, at that moment, friend or foe, colleague or conspirator, if he had tried to disarm the big man, he'd have been shot where he stood. So Skinner was still armed, Skinner still carried the baby's body, and Skinner still stood guard outside the OR doors. And Mulder had three priorities -- get the gun, get the baby, and get Skinner to sit down and accept treatment. So far, Mara had been in surgery for over an hour and a half, and he'd made no progress on any of the three. Every attempt at conversation, every effort to relieve the man had been rebuffed coldly and completely. If Skinner would have at least argued with him, he might have stood a chance at persuasion. As it was, he was simply ignored, or at best, stared down and then ignored. His single attempt to physically force the man to sit down had been met with a single word, “Don't,” and it had been said with such icy insistence that Mulder had released Skinner before he even realized he had been given a command.

And so he sat, and fended off the hospital staff, and fielded the police inquiries, and tried to come up with a plan that would result in achieving his goals, keep anyone from getting hurt, and hopefully, at the end, have Skinner cared for and still employed. He sighed as he looked up. A young woman, a doctor from the ER, was heading his way for the third time. She'd been told to make an assessment on Skinner and get him treated but so far, Mulder had kept her away. She'd also been given the unenviable task of getting the baby away from Skinner. Mulder looked over at his friend again. It was odd -- he held the baby almost as if he had forgotten it was there, but each person, including himself, who had attempted to remove it, was met with the same stony stare and slight shake of the head.

The young doctor was beside him now, and he shifted his gaze to look up at her.

“No progress yet, Agent Mulder?” she asked quietly.

“I'm afraid not,” he responded politely.

“He can't keep the fetus forever. He's going to have to part with it. And his shoulder needs to be reseated.”

“I know. I'm working on both.” Mulder paused a moment, wishing it were Scully he were talking to. It was always so much easier to admit his inadequacies to her. “I'm still not sure what to say. Every time I try to talk to him, he looks thunderclouds my way, and I just felt it was best to back off.” What he didn't add was that until he got the gun away from Skinner, he really didn't want to push too hard. And it was beginning to look like it was going to take him and half the Bureau to relieve the AD of his weapon.

The woman waited a minute more to see if Mulder had anything else to say, then spoke. “Well. I'm going to go back down to the ER. I'll try to get back up here in an hour or so. If anything happens between now and when I get back up here, have me paged.” She looked over at Skinner for a long moment, then turned back to Mulder and said, “I'm really sorry that your friend had such a bad experience. But we've really got to get things under control around here. The hospital has gone along so far, because we tend to bend for Law Enforcement Officials, but this whole damned wing is like siege zone. Agents standing guard, no one allowed in without authorization. An injured, high-ranking LEO holding onto a dead baby. A woman beaten half to death under still unknown circumstances. If you don't get things under control, you know they're going to send someone in who will.”

Mulder nodded. He'd been expecting this half-veiled threat to come sooner. “I'll give it another shot. He'll probably talk to me now. I would imagine he just needed some time.”

The woman nodded, then turned and left, her shoes making a 'click-click' on the cold floor tiles as she made her way back down the hallway.

Mulder sat for a bit longer, staring at Skinner, trying to come up with the right words. What did you say in a situation like this? “I'm sorry your baby is dead?” “I'm sorry your lover was beaten?” “I'm sorry you had to watch it all?” There simply weren't words for this -- it was beyond comprehension and there was no precedent to follow, no preparation to be made. As Mulder slumped deeper into the chair, his eyes never leaving Skinner, the older man -- wavered -- before his eyes. Mulder blinked, thinking he must be seeing things. He sat up and stared at Skinner, and sure enough, there was a definite wobble, almost as if the man's knees were giving out and he caught himself before he fell.

Mulder remained quiet a bit longer, watching, and then it happened a third time. That was all he needed. He got up, dragged the chair up the hall, and stuck it right behind Skinner.

“Sit,” he ordered. “You're about to fall down. You're not going to be any use to Mara if you collapse.”

Skinner turned and glared at Mulder, and for a moment he thought the man was going to pull his weapon. But instead, he sighed, and then visibly deflated before Mulder's eyes. He sat, and sighed again, the saddest, most forlorn, most mournful sound that Mulder had ever heard. He sat down and he placed his tiny, blood-covered bundle in his lap, then looked up.

“Do you think she's OK?”

Mulder swallowed. Skinner wasn't on the verge of collapse -- the man had collapsed and he'd missed it. It had just taken a bit longer for the collapse to catch his body. Skinner voice was devoid of any rationality. It was hoarse and broken and it was like hearing raw emotion pour out of his lips. It was painful just to listen to.

“I'm sure Scully will let us know if there's a problem.”

Skinner nodded then returned his gaze to the tiny bundle in his lap. He unwrapped it awkwardly, with one hand, then laid that hand beside the still body. “I can't believe how perfect she is,” he whispered.

“She is perfect,” Mulder agreed. “She's beautiful. What are you going to name her?”

Skinner looked up, confused, as if the question had caught him off guard. “Name her?”

“Yes, name her. She was only here for a very short while... I mean, you've hardly said hello and it's time to say good-bye, but you want to have a name to call her.

“But we didn't -- we hadn't even really talked about names yet.”

Mulder nodded, pleased. Skinner was talking. He was interacting. And he hadn't flipped out when he mentioned saying good-bye to the baby. Perhaps things were looking up.

“Well, it was unexpected, and it was in a very sad situation, but she's here now, and she needs a name.”

Skinner stared thoughtfully down at the tiny baby. She was less than a foot long, and weighed no more than a pound, but every toe, every finger, every inch of that tiny, tiny body was perfectly and completely formed. He looked at his hand laying beside the infant, then said, “She's smaller than my hand.” One large, strong finger gently stroked the satiny skin, and the body shifted in his lap. He took the edge of the shirt and pulled, adjusting the little body to lay completely on his thigh. One corner of the shirt caught on the handle of the gun, and Mulder saw his opportunity.

“Here, Sir, let me get that out of your way.” He reached out, and much to his surprise, was allowed to take the weapon with no comment.

“I'm going to name her Katherine,” Skinner murmured in a dreamy voice. “My mother's name was Katherine. It means pure.” His voice caught and a tear rolled down his cheek. “This little one is pure. She's always been that way and she'll always be that way. Nothing on this earth will corrupt or sully her. She will be perfect forever.” He paused again, one finger gently touching the baby's forehead, then whispered, “Your name is Katherine.”

Mulder's chest tightened and he had to take a moment before he could speak. When he did, his voice was low and very soft. “Scully's middle name is Katherine.”

Skinner looked up then, meeting Mulder's gaze for the first time in hours, and as Mulder watched, reason appeared again, sliding fully into the sad, brown eyes. Skinner nodded, and something indefinable wrapped around the men, binding them together.

“Are you ready for me to take her now, Sir?”

Skinner nodded, then said in a soft tone, “I want her to wear white. A white dress.” He brushed the scrap of hair on the baby's head. “A white dress with a white bow in her hair.” He looked up at Mulder, tears running down his cheeks. “Can you find a white dress for my Katherine?”

Mulder nodded, fighting back his own tears. “A white dress. Yes, Sir.” He reached out, and Skinner slowly lifted the baby, kissed her on her tiny forehead, then gently passed her to Mulder. He took her carefully, cradling her gently against his chest, her body so small it was difficult to hold her securely.

“I'm going to have the ER doctor come do your shoulder now, and look at your wrists.”

Skinner nodded, too tired to protest. “As long as I don't have to leave.”

“No, Sir, you can stay here until Mara is out. Then, when she's settled in her room, you have to get some rest.”

“With her.”

“Of course. But you have to rest. You have to sleep, if you can.”

Skinner nodded and Mulder left, carrying his tiny burden.

He went to the nurses' station and had the ER doctor paged. Then he stood quietly, staring off into the distance. At length, a woman asked him if he was OK, and he touched the baby gently and said, “I was just wondering where I was going to get a white dress in this size.”

“Are you sure she should be doing this?” Skinner asked again as he and Scully waited for Mara.

“She needs the opportunity to see her and say good-bye, Walter,” Scully responded. “And her doctor said it was fine, as long as she doesn't overdo and tire herself out.”

“All right, then. After the funeral home, we take her straight home.” Skinner cleared his throat and looked away. “I worry. She's still so pale and drawn, and she sleeps so much.”

“That's normal,” Scully said reassuringly. “She's been through a lot, and she lost a lot of blood. It's going to take a while for her strength and color to come back. Her injuries weren't individually life-threatening, but all together ...” She turned and looked up at the big man standing beside her. “And speaking of injuries, how are you feeling?”

He shrugged with one shoulder, wincing slightly. “I'm all right,” he said gruffly.

She narrowed her eyes, studying him. “Are you taking your pain meds like you're supposed to be?”

Again, the non-committal shrug, and Scully frowned.

“Deliberately avoiding the pain meds so you can suffer does nothing for Mara, you know. If anything, it's going to add to her own pain. It's going make her worry.”

“I'm all right,” Skinner said through tight lips. “Mara has enough to worry about without fussing over me. I'm not going to give her cause to worry.” He looked sternly at Scully. “And neither are you. I'm functional, and I'm not in danger. Whether I take meds or not is none of your business. Understand?”

Scully sighed. Skinner had been growing increasingly intractable over the last few days. Intractable and erratic. He seemed fine one minute, then hostile the next, then on the verge of breakdown. She sighed again, then said, “Why do you insist on doing this to yourself?” For a long time, she didn't think he was going to respond, but then he shook himself, as if drawing back from a faraway place and spoke.

“I shouldn't have let it happen. She's hurt. She's in pain. She's lost another child. She has suffered so much -- and this time, this, this -- thing -- didn't have to happen. I'm trained; I could have prevented this. I should have prevented this.” He looked down at Scully. “And I'll be damned if I'll be floating on some drug-induced happy cloud if that bastard shows up again.”

Scully shook her head. There was no response she could make to this. It was a litany Skinner had repeated many times over the four days Mara had been hospitalized. She'd talked to him. Mulder had talked to him. They'd talked to him together. But the guilt was deep-seated, and showed no signs of fading. Guilt could be dealt with though; it was the underlying rage that worried Scully. Skinner always seemed ready to explode now -- as if it took everything he had to remain in control. She exhaled fast, through her nose, a soft little sound the signaled her frustration. Mulder would have to talk to him. Again.

Mara emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed now, and walked shakily back to the hospital bed. She sank down gratefully, then looked over at Scully and Skinner and smiled. “As much as I hate to admit it, I'm sorta glad they insist on the wheelchair to the front door thing.”

Skinner immediately moved to kneel before her. “Are you up to this? We don't have to do this today. It can wait. I don't want you to wear yourself out.”

She reached out and cupped his cheek, her thumb rubbing a small circle there. “It's all right, Walter,” she murmured. “I want to do this. I need to do this.” She paused a moment, smiling gently down at him. “I think we both need to do this.”

He dropped his gaze and tilted his head, leaning hungrily into the comfort of her hand. It was his weakness, that hunger. A weakness he could not afford, but one he wasn't yet able to control. He shifted slightly, nuzzling her palm, then gently kissed her there. “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,” he mumbled, his voice thick and choked.

Her hand moved, coming up under his chin and she forced him to look up and meet her eyes. “It wasn't your fault, Walter. None of it. There wasn't anything you could do.”

He shook his head, disbelieving, and she felt her heart falter. He wouldn't let her comfort him; he wouldn't accept her words. He wouldn't accept her words, but he would accept her touch, and she brought his head to rest in her lap, her fingers stroking his neck and the wisps of hair there. He sighed, and she was pleased. Perhaps, once they were alone, at home, they would be able to get beyond this after all. She reluctantly pulled back her hand, then looked up to smile a small smile at Scully.

Skinner lifted his head at the loss of her touch, then pulled back almost frantically, like a man on fire, and scrambled to his feet. It was his weakness -- that need for her touch. If he was going to do what he had to do, he would have to resist his own needs.

“Well,” Mara said, her face falling slightly as she watched Skinner pulling away -- physically and emotionally. “Are we ready?”

The drive to the funeral home was made in near silence. Scully drove, with Mara seated beside her and Skinner in the back. There was a distance springing up between the two that bothered Scully. She was sure it was Skinner's feeling that he'd let Mara down, that he was somehow responsible for what had happened. But she didn't know what to do. She didn't know if there was anything she could do. She suspected they were going to have to come to terms with it themselves. With both eyes focused on the road, she sighed quietly, unaware of the look Mara gave her.

'Lord knows,' she thought, 'I've fought Mulder's guilt demon enough to know it can't be beaten from the outside. Only Skinner can whip this one, and Mara will just have to wait until he does.'

And with her own experience with Mulder as a guide, she knew that it was a battle that would be fought over and over and over again, as Skinner's guilt would rise up relentlessly, demanding its piece of his soul.

They reached the funeral home and Scully parked, then hopped out of the car, waiting. Neither Mara nor Skinner moved. She thought perhaps they were talking, but a closer look revealed that both sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. She waited a bit longer, but when Skinner still didn't move, she walked around to the other side of the car and opened Mara's door.

“I can get you a wheelchair from inside,” she said.

Mara looked up, slightly embarrassed, then cast a quick look over her shoulder at Skinner, who still sat unmoving in the back seat. There was an air of detachment about him, and it seemed he was unaware of the conversation going on three feet in front of him. She turned back to Scully. “I think that might be best.”

Scully nodded, then opened Skinner's door as well, startling him to awareness. She stared pointedly at him, then nodded toward the front seat, but the man ignored her.

With yet another sigh, she spoke to Mara. “Wait here -- I'll be right back.”

She went in through the thick glass-fronted doors and found the director waiting. Mulder was already there, in the viewing room with the baby. The director quickly got the requested chair, then offered to fetch Mulder while she went back to the car. She thanked him and was soon back outside, helping Mara into the chair.

Mulder met them at the door, leaning over to kiss Mara quickly on the cheek. There was an awkward pause while he and Scully waited for Skinner to come in, but he never moved from his seat in the back of the car.

Finally, Mara looked up at the two of them and said, “One of you is going to have to go talk to him. I don't know what else to say.”

“You go, Scully,” Mulder murmured. “I think this may be a talk you've had with me a few times.”

She nodded then made her way back out to the car, climbing into the back seat to sit beside Skinner.

“You can't stay out here forever,” she said without preamble.

Skinner ignored her.

“And you can't ignore me forever, either. Mulder will tell you, I don't go away.”

Skinner gave a great sigh, then turned and stared out the window. “I knew something was wrong that night,” he said. “I could feel it. I was coming down the stairs, and it was like -- a tangible sensation, thick and palpable. Something was wrong, and I didn't do anything right. I should've gone back upstairs. I should've gotten my gun. I should've called for help. I should've been more aware --”

“Should've, should've, should've,” Scully cut him off. “There was no way you could have known something was wrong. Perhaps you had a feeling.” She paused a moment, trying to assess if she had his attention. He was still staring out the window, but he was still, tense, and she sensed he was listening avidly to her every word. “But feelings aren't always gospel. And I think you did exactly what anyone in your situation would have done. You grew concerned; you hurried down the stairs to find out what was happening.”

She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, tugging gently until he turned to look at her. “You are not responsible for this, Walter Skinner. Do you hear me? You are not responsible.”

He dropped his eyes and shook his head. “He can't get away with this, Dana. I can't let him. I can't live with myself if he gets away with this.”

“Walter, he's all over the net now. Every police and sheriff's department, state police across the country, and the best resources of the FBI are looking for him. He's not going to get away with this.” She rubbed his arm, a comforting pressure against muscles tense as steel cables. “But right now, right now, Walter, there's a woman in there who loves you very much. And she's about to say good-bye to her child -- your child. She needs you. And I think,” Scully cocked her head appraisingly as she studied Skinner, “I think you need her too. There is no place for this man in what's about to happen. You have to let him go for now, and go in there, and be there, be fully there, for Mara.”

Skinner was nodding as she spoke, his eyes filling with tears. He opened the door and climbed out of the car so quickly that Scully was startled. It took her a moment to find the handle and open the latch and clamber out after him. He was striding decisively into the funeral home by the time she caught him, and she grabbed his arm, pulling hard, and turning him to look at her.

“You need to let her be there for you, too. As much as she needs your comfort and your love, she needs to give back as well.” She paused, softening her voice. “Let her.”

“It's beautiful,” Mara said, staring down at the tiny casket that held the even tinier baby. It was obviously hand-crafted, a single piece of flawless cherry, lightly stained, then oiled and polished till it shone with a soft burnished glow. Tiny brass hinges and a simple clasp were its only adornments. She looked up in surprise, her eyes seeking out Mulder's. “Who?” she asked quietly.

“A friend,” he answered. “Several friends, actually.”

No one had been more surprised than he when, the second night after the attack, as he sat on Scully's sofa making lists of investigative lines to follow, the phone rang. It had been Byers. With the typical capacity for information gathering, it seemed the three men had been following Skinner's case since it first hit the police band. And with characteristic thoroughness, they were fully aware of all that had happened.

“I'll make a casket,” the bearded man had said. “The commercial ones are never small enough for a really preemie baby.”

Mulder had been shocked to silence. Not just at the fact that they knew what was going on, but at the thought of Byers -- in a wood shop -- with a saw. Taking his surprise as hesitation, Byers had hastened to add, “I'm pretty good with wood, Mulder. It'll be OK. I'll bring it to you at Scully's tomorrow.” And then he had hung up.

And sure enough, the next day, this beautifully made wooden box had arrived. The workmanship was exquisite, and Mulder had yet to determine if one of his friends was also skilled with a needle, for it was lined in the softest white satin, thickly padded and neatly covering the box's interior.

Mulder shook himself out of his memory, then smiled at Mara. “Very good friends,” he finished.

She nodded then turned back to stare into the box. “She's so beautiful.” One hand reached out to brush the tuft of downy fine hair that curled softly against the tiny head. “Look, Walter,” she said, “I think she would have had your coloring. Her hair is dark.”

Skinner nodded, unable to speak.

“You named her Katherine?”

He nodded again, then cleared his throat and said, “If that's OK with you. It was my mother's -- name.”

“It's lovely,” Mara said. “I once knew a Katherine. She was very kind to me at a difficult time in my life.” She looked up, smiling into Walter's eyes. “It's a wonderful name.” She reached out for him, and he forgot his vow to distance himself from her spell. He was hungry for her touch again, desperate for a connection with her, and he took her hand carefully in his own large one. She smiled with real pleasure, then turned and looked back at the baby.

“I want to hold her, please.”

Skinner looked up, at a loss, searching for help. Mulder and Scully sat in the back of the small viewing room, and his suddenly panicked eyes sought them out. Scully rose and came forward in time to hear Mara repeat, “Walter, I said I want to hold her.”

Scully waited a minute, but Skinner was frozen in place, unwilling or unable to move. She stepped forward and lifted the tiny bundle from the casket. “She's going to feel a little cold, Mara,” Scully warned.

Mara smiled knowingly. “I know.” Her head tilted slightly as she took in the woman before her. “I've done this before, you know. Here, give me the blanket first. I want to ...” Her voice trailed off.

Scully unwrapped the baby and passed over the small blanket. It was a lacy, crocheted square of purest white yarn, with scalloped edges. The yarn itself was soft, perfect for a baby's tender skin. But it was a scaled down blanket, much smaller than the standard size. It was obvious that it, too, had been specially made for this special baby. Scully handed the blanket to Mara, watching as she spread it on her lap. She then passed over the baby, seeing how gently Mara handled her as she placed her on the blanket.

The baby wore a dress, white dotted swiss, and it covered her tiny feet. Above the full, long skirt, the bodice was smocked with minute pink stitches, and the finest, most delicate lace that Mara had ever seen trimmed the neck and hem, and circled each miniature sleeve. She stared down at the small form in her lap for a long moment, then said, her voice thick with suppressed tears, “The dress, the blanket. These are hand-made. Who did this?”

Scully smiled and said, “My mother.”

Mara nodded, then reached up again and took Skinner's hand. “It's beautiful. It's just beautiful,” she said through her tears.

Scully touched the baby one last time, then gently laid her hand on Mara's arm before retreating to her seat beside Mulder.

“Do you want to hold her?” Mara asked Skinner, and he nodded -- a quick, jerky movement that did nothing to conceal his emotions. She hummed softly as she wrapped the baby in the blanket, then settled her into Skinner's good arm. He held her in silence while Mara watched, and blessed her with his tears, then passed her back to her mother.

Mara lifted the child to her breast, and began a shallow rocking motion, and in the silence of the small room, a melody could soon be heard. It was soft and gentle and slightly off-key, and the words were sometimes swallowed by the tears, but if you listened you could just make out, “Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird ...”

Mara sat, and rocked her child for the first and only time, and sang to her child, for the first and only time. She went through it twice, then the sound faded away, leaving an eerie silence. Then she lifted the baby and kissed each tiny hand, then pressed her lips against the so small forehead.

She passed the baby to Walter, and he, too, blessed her with a kiss, then placed her carefully in the beautiful wooden box. Mara reached out blindly then, groping for Skinner and he knelt beside the wheel chair, his head laying in her lap in a replica of the scene at the hospital.

When Mulder and Scully got up and left, half an hour later, they had not moved.

As they left the funeral home, Skinner surprised everyone by helping Mara into the car, and then announcing he would ride back to the condo with Mulder. Mara gave him a long, sad look and then nodded in acceptance. Scully assumed he wanted to be updated on the case and the man who had done this terrible thing to them, and didn't want Mara to have to suffer through it all again. The psychologist in Mulder assumed that Skinner just needed some time to come to grips with his emotions. The scene in the small viewing room of the chapel had affected them all. And while Mulder was somewhat surprised that the older man would choose him as his confidante, it was a role he was more than willing to assume.

However, the ride to the condo occurred in silence, despite his several attempts to start conversation. Each expression of condolence, each vague comment on the situation in general, each tentative offer of hope for the future, was met with a noncommittal grunt at best, and stony silence at worst.

But even more startling than Skinner's decision to ride in a separate vehicle from Mara was what he did next, once they reached the parking garage of the condo's building. Without even going in, he walked over, kissed Mara perfunctorily on the cheek, and then excused himself, claiming he needed to go to the office. He turned and headed directly to his car without another word.

Mulder and Scully watched in dumbstruck confusion, and Mara looked on in resignation as he got in his car, backed it out, and disappeared from sight without a backward glance.

“Everything's changed now,” Mara said as they walked slowly into the condo. “I can feel it.”

“You have to expect some kind of change,” Mulder said. “He's got a lot he's dealing with now. It can be a little overwhelming.” He dropped his head, stared at the ground, then said, “Believe me, I know.”

Scully reached out and stroked his arm, waiting until he recovered himself and looked up to meet her eyes. A spark of recognition passed between them as each acknowledged their own moments of change, and times of being overwhelmed.

Mulder turned back to Mara and said, “He'll find a way. It'll be all right. Like I said, he's just got to work some of this out on his own.”

Mara looked at him and said, “We'll see.”

They were at the condo door now, and she worked the locks, changing the subject as she did so. “Look, I'm gonna lay down and take a nap. You two don't have to stay with me.”

Scully interrupted her and said, “Of course we're going to stay. How long can he be gone? You don't need to be here by yourself.” She moved toward the kitchen, adding, “I'm just gonna go make some coffee while Mulder helps you get settled.”

Mara seemed suddenly distant, as she politely nodded her agreement and turned to slowly make her way up the stairs. She reached their base, then turned back around, surveying the apartment's interior, and said, “It looks the same. The way it did -- before. Did you clean it?”

Mulder nodded, then said, “Well, not exactly. I had it cleaned.”

That task too had fallen to him, in addition to informing the Director what had happened and arranging for leave for both Mara and Skinner, and then setting up the funeral for the baby and acquiring clothing and a casket for one so small. It had come to him, somewhere in the blur that was the past few days, in some stroke of genius that amazed even himself, to arrange for a professional service to come in and clean. Not only had there been breakage and destruction, dirt from overturned plants and glass from broken lamps and a table top, the carpet had been steeped in blood, and blood splattered the walls and furniture and drapes. On the balcony even, where Skinner had been restrained, his blood had dripped heavily from the deep wounds on his wrists and the more superficial abrasions his knees and feet had suffered against the concrete flooring. And once the investigators had come, grainy black fingerprint dust had covered most every surface, and while they had taken care not to be overly disruptive, there was no way a full-scale investigation could avoid leaving its mark.

Once the condo had been released, the cleaning crew had come in immediately. It was their hard labor that had restored the order and tranquility to the place, and, Mulder hoped, a sense of stability and security for Mara. They moved slowly up the stairs, and he paused at the door, and asked, “Will you be all right?”

“I'll be fine. I'm just going to change and get in the bed.” She nodded back the way they had come. From the stairwell, the familiar sounds of cupboards opening and closing drifted up, along with the scent of freshly brewing coffee. “You go on back down to Dana. I'd tell you to go home, but I suspect it would be wasted breath on my part. So go and spend some time with her. I'm going to take a long nap.” She paused a moment, then reached out, “Thank you, Fox, for being here. I truly do appreciate it.” She turned and the door closed.

Mulder waited, unable to leave yet, and after giving her a decent amount of time, he knocked softly on the door, then nudged it slightly open, and peered through the crack. She was tucked up in the big, king-sized bed, laying far to one side, close to the edge. She was curled into a tight ball, almost fetal, and her face was pale against the white pillow slip. She looked worn and drawn even in her sleep, tense, with no sign of the relaxation one would expect in slumber. Her body was stiff and she faced away from the empty expanse of bed behind her. Mulder watched her a moment and then gently shut the door and padded back down the hallway to the stairs.

He refused to consider the psychological meaning of the way she lay in the bed.

Skinner didn't need to go to the office. He didn't need to go anywhere. But he couldn't bear to stay there, knowing how he had failed Mara and their child. Until he could do something to make this situation right, he didn't know if he would be able to be there at all. To be with her.

He drove aimlessly for some time, then pointed the car toward the police precinct that served his building. He came in quietly, but with a rage that simmered just below the surface, and asked to speak to the detective in charge of his case. He waited with growing impatience, until finally, a man emerged from the back of the building.

He was about Skinner's age, not quite so tall, with graying hair and a comfortable pot belly. His face was unshaven, and his clothes were rumpled. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days, his eyes red and puffy. He walked up to Skinner and stuck out a hand.

“Mr. Skinner, sir, we met briefly at your apartment, the night of the assault, but I doubt if you remember. I'm Anthony Zerbelli. I'm real sorry about your loss.”

Skinner stared, stony-faced, at the hand until finally the detective drew it back, a slightly quizzical look on his face.

“Assistant Director Skinner,” the AD corrected. “And I don't want your apologies. I don't want your sympathy. I don't want anything from you except the man that did this. I want Charles Gordon.”

Zerbelli straightened and his own eyes grew hard. All signs of ease and familiarity disappeared from his demeanor. “Excuse me. Assistant. Director. We're doing everything we can to find him.”

“What exactly does that mean? I want to know specifically what you are doing.”

“We've issued a warrant for his arrest. His description and photo went out over the wires; all potential points of departure have been put on alert. State police in the surrounding area are on the look out. Local PDs in the Hampton Roads area are cooperating. His last known address was searched in Yorktown, but he moved out several weeks ago. No forwarding order. Friends and acquaintances are being interviewed, former employers are being talked to as well. His bank accounts are cleaned out and credit cards cancelled. It was obvious the man planned this, and he's gone to ground.”

“I don't care,” Skinner said. “I want him found. Dig him up, drag him out, hunt him down. I don't fucking care what it takes, just find that bastard!”

A touch of compassion reentered the detective's voice. “We're doing out best. Everyone's being very cooperative, sir. Virginia State Police, the locals down in all the Hampton Roads cities, they're all bending over backwards to find this guy. I even have two of your people here, working with us. The Director himself sent them over.”

“Who?” Skinner demanded.

“Agents Watson and Fredericks. They're overseeing the interstate aspects. Acting as liaison between our people up here in DC, and all the Virginians.”

“Fredericks is good. She's experienced. But Watson is too new. I'll get somebody else.” He paused a moment, then crossed his good arm over the one still secured to his chest. “I want copies of everything you've done, every call you've made, every fax you've sent, every email that has gone out, on my desk by five o'clock this afternoon. I want to be CCed on everything else that occurs. You have my cell phone, my home phone, and my office phone, as well as my fax and email. I want to be notified if anything breaks; I don't care what time of the day or night it is. I expect to be kept informed every step of the way. And I'll warn you right now -- if I don't like the way it's going, I'll federalize it in a minute, and I'll take it over myself.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the man said gently, “don't you think you might be just a little close to the situation to be trying to head the investigation?”

“Do not try and tell me what I can and cannot do.” Skinner spit the words at the man. “Do not make that mistake. This bastard is going to be found. And believe me, if you can't do it, I will!”

Skinner turned and stalked away, leaving Zerbelli shaking his head and thinking, 'Shit. This is going to be a fucking nightmare.'

“So,” Scully said in greeting, “when are you going to go get him?”

“Hmmm?” Mulder responded absently. He had come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and was currently intent on refamiliarizing himself with her scent and sound. “Get who?”

She tapped a small foot in impatience as she turned and looked up at him. “Get who? Get Skinner, of course! Do you know any other big, bald guy who's acting like a complete asshole and needs someone to fetch him home?”

He let her go, and she swiveled back to the counter, picking up two plates with sandwiches and handing them to Mulder. She grabbed the coffee and turned back to find Mulder still standing there, plates in hand and looking confused.

“Mulder?” she asked gently, softening the acerbic tone she had used just moments earlier, and reminding herself that just because she was frustrated with Skinner, there was no reason to take it out on Mulder. She looked at him, seeing him lost in that sad, lonely place he sometimes went, and her heart ached. She shifted both cups to one hand, then reached out and touched his arm. “Mulder,” she repeated, “the fact the Skinner is behaving like a jerk is no excuse for me to do so. I'm sorry.”

He blinked twice, rapidly, then looked down at her. “ 's OK, Scully. I was thinking the same thing. One of us has to track him down.” He turned and led the way out to the sofa, putting the plates on the coffee table. He lifted one and took a big bite, chewing contentedly as she joined him and then reached out to accept his coffee, washing the sandwich down with a huge gulp. He sighed, then said, “I'll go, if you think that's best.” He took another bite, then leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. “I'm just not sure it's going to do any good. He's got to come to grips with it himself.”

“But you have,” she said. “You've worked things out in your own way. Surely hearing that can only help.”

“Have I?” he mused. “I'm not so sure that I have worked things out. I still want to go charging off and find the ones that took Samantha, that hurt you and took our chance for a child away.” His hands tightened into clenched fists and his pupils dilated as his nostrils flared. His body was tense, coiled spring-tight, and Scully fancied she could feel him vibrating with barely contained fury. “It's a fever in my blood, a rage that never ceases.”

She sat quietly, stroking his arm, his leg, one hand laid gently against his taut abdomen, and slowly his breathing evened out, and his eyes returned to normal, and the tension seeped from his overstrung body. “How do you deal with this, Mulder?” she murmured. “I haven't seen you this way in years.” She shook her head sadly. “I didn't know it was still so hard.”

He smiled and reached out, pulling her into his embrace. “It's not hard, Scully, not most of the time. I just have new priorities now.” He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “You. Instead of pouring all my energy into chasing shadow men, I pour it into you. I want to pour it into you. I want to give and give and give to you, and in some small way, make up for all you've lost because of me.” He tightened his hold on her, and could feel her strong arms surrounding him, anchoring him to this moment, and reassuring him that his priorities were, indeed, in order. “It'll never be enough, Scully. There isn't anything I could give you that would be enough.”

“Oh, Mulder,” she whispered into his shirt, and he could feel the damp patch begin as her tears soaked into the cotton. “Don't you know yet -- you are enough. You are all I need.” She buried her head in his chest and the tears fell in earnest.

“Shhh,” he soothed, “don't cry. Please don't cry. I didn't mean to make you cry. Shhhhh...” He held her close, held her tight, and the coffee grew cold, and the bread grew hard, and his shirt grew even wetter. And he knew that she cried not just for him, but for all the things that had happened that day. For Skinner and Mara, and their poor, wee babe; for her own lost Emily, and the children that would never be; for Melissa, and her father, and all the other losses of her life, those taken to never be returned.

She cried until there were no more tears, and then she cried some more. And he murmured and whispered and cooed and soothed, until his throat grew raw and his voice grew thick, and still he crooned softly in her ear. She grew heavy in his arms, and one shoulder began to cramp even as his foot went to sleep. But he didn't move, he didn't shift, he didn't change position. He stroked her back and her hair, and the side of her face, and kissed her lightly where he could reach, and then, quietly, her breathing slowed, and her head drooped. One arm slipped from about his waist, and she drifted downward until she was asleep, her head in his lap, one hand curled beneath her chin, the other still clutching his pant leg. He brushed her hair back from her cheek, kissed her softly, then pulled a ragged old afghan from the back of Skinner's couch, and laid it carefully over her.

And then, he began to think of Skinner. And how to bring the man to his senses.