Author: Daydreamer
Posted: February 9, 1999

Mara II: Bitter Sweet, Bitter Sorrow – Part 2

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

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

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

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

And eventually, he settled into an uneasy sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He woke to betrayal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'd simply never thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything but the red.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She understood his pain.

She understood his fear.

She understood his confusion.

She understood his disappointment.

She understood why he had to leave.

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

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

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

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

“Shhh, Walter,” she whispered. “It's all right.”

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

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

He was pathetic.

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

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

But ...

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

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

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

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

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

Skinner just shook his head.

“Mara?” Scully asked. “Is she OK?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He's hurting enough, Mulder.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mara?”

There was no answer.

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

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

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

“Mara? Mara, honey, where are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“ ... cut her wrist.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... dehydrated.”

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

“... fever.”

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

“ ... hospital. Run some tests.”

“I love you, Mara,” Skinner breathed. “I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Walter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This.

Being with her.

Holding her.

Mourning together.

Supporting each other.

Comforting each other.

Being together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Attacked us,” she interrupted.

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

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

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

He, however, remained awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But she tries to protect you when she can, right?”

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me,” Mara said.

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

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

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

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

He opened his eyes and stared across at Mara.

He'd ignored it, just like Skinner had.

Ignorance.

Blindness.

Emotional abandonment.

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

But he'd gone blithely on.

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

Still.

Another few seconds ...

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

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

He shuddered again.

Emotional abandonment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skinner sighed. “You don't understand. You didn't see what he did to her ...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And another twenty-four in Violent Crimes?”

“Twenty-six,” he corrected automatically.

“And?” she prompted.

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

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

“He's not a man -- he's a monster.”

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only he'd installed the system sooner.

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

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

If only ...

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

“Walter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said yes.”

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

You MUST finish these before you go home!

You can work on these over the week.

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skinner nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But she ran, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

“The FBI? Why? Is something wrong? Is Neil OK?”

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

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

“Is there a reason he wouldn't be OK?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mara,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“Walter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's not that, not really ...” he started.

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

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

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

He shrugged noncommittally. “This isn't about Scully.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of sorts.

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

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

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

“Yes, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But their house was empty now.

And the car came from three doors down.

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

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

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

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

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

“Gordon. Gordon's got her.”

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

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

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

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

“Where are you?”

“Suzanne Littman's.”

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

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

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

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

“On their way.”

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

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

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

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

“Is the car there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Son of a bitch!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time the man went down and stayed down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drop it,” Mulder ordered. “Let her go.”

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

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

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

And this time, he did not come up again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No dream, Mara. This is real. This is now. This is forever.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Forever, Mara,” he murmured back.