Author: Daydreamer
Posted: December 28, 1998

Mara

Skinner stood unmoving, arms crossed over his broad chest, as he watched the agents work the crime scene. He sighed softly, exhausted. He'd been up all night, and hadn't slept well the night before. This was the seventh young woman killed in the past two years. Senselessly, painfully, and his people were still without a clue. And from the looks of this, there was no break in sight.

He shook his head in frustration. The Director himself had called and asked him to come to Norfolk to oversee the investigation. His background in Violent Crimes, his reputation as persistent, diligent, thorough, methodical, and his units' traditional high solve rate, had all earmarked him as the right man to take over this clusterfuck of an investigation.

He sighed again, trying to be fair. The Norfolk office was a small field office, and in reality, they were more accustomed to dealing with white collar crime than this type of down and dirty monstrosity. The SAIC was a good agent, and the team had been working hard, but the killer was extremely elusive. So far they had been unable to identify any kind of a trademark signature, any connection between the victims, any consistent detail that would let them identify the murderer and put an end to the madness.

Mulder would be a godsend at this point, but he and Scully were on the other side of the country, and would be for the foreseeable future, investigating manure. He snorted. That shithead Kersch didn't have a clue what he had in those two. AD Kersch, Skinner sneered contemptuously, was so intent on getting his nose up the powers' collective asses, he couldn't recognize gifted investigators if his life depended on it.

He sighed once more, then jumped slightly, as a soft alto said, “That's three sighs and a snort. Things must not be going well.”

Skinner turned and looked down at a woman who had appeared beside him. She was short, about Scully's height, and had long hair, a wild mane of curly, thick auburn she wore pulled back and up into a pony-tail from the crown of her head. An interesting look for a woman her age -- not all that much younger than himself.

“Who are you?” he asked gruffly. “And how did you get into the crime scene?”

“I know some of the agents,” she said softly, her eyes on the ground.

'Agents,' he thought. 'She knows we're Bureau and not police.'

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“Who are you?” she responded.

“Walter Skinner, Assistant Director for the Bureau. I've been asked to assume oversight for this investigation.”

“And what qualifies you to take over this investigation?” she asked quietly.

“Twenty years in the Bureau, over half of them in Violent Crimes in one capacity or another. A high solve rate as an agent. A high solve rate in the units under me.” Skinner inexplicably felt a need to explain himself to this woman. He knew he needed to get her to identify herself, but there was a softness, a vulnerability, about her that made him reluctant to push too hard. And if the local agents let her in ...

“There aren't enough years in a hundred lives to qualify anyone to deal with this,” she said sadly, waving at the blood-covered rug where the latest victim's body had lain. She looked up at him, an honest interest and concern in her open face. “How do you deal with this,” she looked around again, “time and time again?”

Her eyes were a deep green so filled with pain that he averted his gaze, choosing instead to look around the scene. “You don't. You just try to end it and move on.” He lifted a hand and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a motion so automatic he was hardly aware he was doing it.

She was watching him, and when he went to put his glasses back on, she reached out, touching his arm gently, halting his movement. He gazed down at her quizzically, but she only stared into his eyes for a long moment, then nodded and released him. He put his glasses back on, the world leaping back into focus, and asked once more, “Who are you?”

“You've been up all night, haven't you?” she responded. At his nod, she continued, “And you haven't eaten either?” He nodded again.

“Come with me,” she said gently. “We'll get something to eat and I'll tell you who I am.” She turned and walked away, and without conscious thought, he found himself following her.

They walked in silence to a diner several blocks away. Walking with her, he found himself unconsciously putting his seldom used chivalric gestures into play. He walked on the outside, between her and the street. He held her arm when they stepped down a curb, opened the door, seated her first. The actions came naturally to him, but it had been years since he'd been with a woman for whom he felt he could do these little courtesies. And she accepted them all as the gestures of respect he intended.

They took a small table, ordered quickly, then he asked, “Will you tell me who you are now?” He smiled to take some of the sting from his words.

She laughed then, a musical sound that captivated him. They'd just left the scene of a brutal murder, and yet, she could laugh. Her humor infected him, and he laughed with her.

“It's no great mystery, Assistant Director.” She said his title, not exactly mockingly, but with a hint that she found it amusing he had chosen to identify himself in that way.

“So, 'no great mystery lady,'“ -- he was teasing her, or was he flirting? -- “who are you?”

“Victim number one's mother.”

Shit! A victim's relative. What the hell was the matter with him? He should have known. He should have been more careful. He had assumed she was law enforcement, Norfolk City, or perhaps a psychologist contracted to work with the survivors or even with the investigators, but he hadn't figured her for a relative.

She was laughing again, and he couldn't help but smile. “It's all right,” she said reassuringly. “It's been over two years since my daughter was killed. I'm not the big threat to the investigation you're thinking I am.” She smiled. “I've gotten to know some of the agents since the third murder, when the Bureau got involved. I just stop by every now and then. I assure you, I'm not a complete kook out to drive everyone nuts.” She laughed again, a chuckle at the image of herself she painted.

He was smiling now, relaxing as he prepared his coffee, black with two sugars. He lifted the cup and sipped, then asked, “Why were you there?”

She shrugged. “I'd heard there was another one.” She shook her head sadly. “And I'd heard they -- the Bureau, that is -- had brought in someone new to take over the investigation. I was curious.”

“Is your curiosity satisfied now?” he asked. My God, he was flirting again. What the hell was the matter with him?

She smiled, a slow cat-like grin that traveled across her face and reached her deep green eyes. Her head was tilted at an angle as she studied him, and then said, “You're not exactly what I expected.”

“Really?” He didn't know what to make of that. “What did you expect?”

She continued to study him, then reached out and hesitantly laid her hand on his bicep. “Someone more like an accountant, less like --” she shrugged again, and squeezed gently, “this.”

He looked at her hand, still resting on his arm, then took in the look of frank admiration on her face, and felt himself flush. As his face colored, she removed her hand, unselfconsciously, and smiled again at him.

The server arrived with their meal at that point, and talk turned to the weather, their respective cities, baseball, anything but the murders. He felt himself relaxing as they talked, and a feeling of being separate from the case slipped over him.

“And they built this beautiful new ballpark, right on the river. It's the nicest one in the Triple A leagues,” she was saying.

He nodded, not really hearing her, but letting her voice wash over him, bathe him in normality, and in a way, he felt refreshed.

When she paused, he belatedly heard the inflection in her tone, and said, “I'd like that,” not sure what she had proposed, but knowing he would like it, no matter what it was. “But it will have to be some other time.”

“I understand,” she said, and he was amazed. He felt that perhaps, she really did understand, and wasn't just reciting the expected words.

They finished eating, and the server came back with the check. She didn't argue with him when he scooped it up, merely thanking him for breakfast, and offering to take him some other time. He nodded as he fumbled with his wallet, then looked up to see her readying herself to go.

He reached out and gently caught her wrist. “Your name. You never told me your name,” he said, as she rose to leave.

“Mara.” She smiled at him.

“That's unusual,” he said, trying to make her stay, extend the contact. His fingers were on fire where he held her. What was the matter with him?

Her smile turned sad as she looked at him. “It means 'bitter sorrow.'“

They'd caught him at last. A phone call to the west coast. A fax to Mulder. More phone calls. Medical reports faxed to Scully. E-mail. An endless night of no sleep, answering questions, research, reviewing files. An intracontinental investigation done in the dead of night, anonymously, but it had yielded fruit. When Skinner had gone to the field office the next morning, he had a name.

A two day long stake-out. Endless hours of monotony, interrupted only by mindless boredom. But again, patience and persistence was rewarded and the suspect had appeared.

For those two days, Skinner had been outcast. Unable to explain how he identified his suspect, how he made the connections, he experienced some of the same ostracism that accompanied Mulder whenever he was forced to consult for VCS. Skinner had been there, all night, feeding Mulder the information he requested, gathering data, answering questions, and he didn't have a clue how the man had been able to say, “That one. Pick him up.”

But he'd said it, and they'd done it, and the suspect was in custody. In the process, however, the man had killed two agents. Two people who would never go home, never see their children grow up, never feel the rain on their face, or wake to the sun again. That alone would be enough to put this killer away, and he'd made sure the evidence had been promptly and properly gathered to make that happen. But then, during the interrogation, about two hours after his arrest, the man had confessed. Confessed to all the murders, starting with Mara's daughter.

The murder of the two agents had served only to alienate him further from the locals. Initially awkward and uncomfortable because of his position and the reason he was there, they had grown increasingly aloof after he revealed a name for a suspect. Now, they were barely tolerant of his presence, shifting a portion of the blame for their friends' deaths to his shoulders, because they didn't understand, they didn't comprehend, and he couldn't explain.

And now, after days of endless work, sleepless nights, and an ongoing embarrassed and uncomfortable formality from his coworkers, he found himself standing on the porch of a neat small house, dripping from the rain that fell steadily behind him, unsure of what to do next.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to let her know it was over, there would be no more deaths. But -- he looked at his watch -- it was after midnight. Not exactly prime time to be making house calls. He lifted his hand to ring the bell, then lowered it once more. His head drooped and his hand scrubbed at his forehead as he chewed his lip, undecided.

He wanted to tell her, but, damn it, he wanted to see her too. He'd felt drawn to her in their too-short, shared meal. Comfortable with her. Accepted. And, oddly enough, he'd felt at peace. As if she carried a tranquility with her that spread to encompass those around her.

He'd seen her several times in the last few days. She'd be in the field office, talking with one of the agents when he came in for a morning meeting. Or standing outside, a worn reward flyer in her hand, as he raced from office to field. Each time he met her eyes, he was immediately pulled into them, engulfed in her spirit. He felt giddy, off balance, an altogether unfamiliar but not unpleasant sensation.

He'd only be here a few more days, and he wanted to see her again. He looked at his watch again, then the door. Finally, deciding he was being ridiculous, he turned to leave. He'd call her in the morning, or send one of the local agents out to tell her.

He was halfway down the four steps from porch to ground, when the door opened, and she called to him. “Assistant Director Skinner? Do you need something?”

Even her voice was soothing, and he felt a tension seep from him. His shoulders slumped unwittingly, and he turned, forcing himself to stand erect again as he faced her. “Er, yes, I ...” He trailed off, his voice dying as he looked up at her.

Her hair was loose tonight, tumbling wildly over her shoulders and down her back. She'd either still been up, or had dressed quickly when she saw him on the porch, for she wore a man's flannel shirt over a pair of dark leggings. Her feet were bare. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but there was something about her that called to him, and he found himself wanting to be ensnared.

He shook himself and focused, looking up to see her crossing the small porch, taking his arm, and before he knew what was happening, she was leading him into her home.

“Come, sit,” she was saying, and he let himself be pushed into a comfortable overstuffed chair. She hurried down a hallway and returned to hand him a towel which he accepted gratefully.

“Coffee?”

He nodded and she stepped lightly away.

He rubbed at the water on his head and face, wiped his glasses, and ran the towel over his chest and arms. Then he just sat, eyes closed, the weariness of the last few days overtaking him completely, letting himself drift in the warmth and comfort he felt here. When she returned with a mug of coffee, he realized he hadn't even spoken a complete sentence to her. He took the proffered cup, tasted it, then looked up, surprised.

“It's the way I take it.”

She nodded.

“But -- how?”

“Breakfast the other morning.”

“Oh.” He was embarrassed now. He couldn't even remember what she had eaten, let alone how she took her coffee. Did she pay attention to everyone like that?

“Assistant Director,” she said, then laughed as he looked up. “That's too much. Isn't there something else I could call you?” Her hair rippled as she spoke, each movement of her head sending tendrils to float about her face, and he watched, enchanted, as she brushed them carelessly away.

“Walter,” he said, swallowing hard. “You could call me Walter.” He drew his eyes from her hair to her face and then colored as he realized what he had said.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, then said, “All right, Walter. Then you must call me Mara.”

He nodded, then sipped his coffee again. “I came to tell you.”

Her face fell, all of the laughter and teasing chased away instantly, and he hurried to correct himself. “No, not that. I came to tell you it's over.”

“Over?”

“Yes, over. We caught him. Tonight. We caught him, and he confessed. It's finally over.”

He watched as she shut her eyes tightly, then shuddered, her hands coming up to wipe unshed tears from her startling green eyes. She remained still for a moment longer, then dragged her hands down over her cheeks and folded them in her lap. She stared down at them, then, without lifting her eyes, said, “Thank you. Thank you for coming. Thank you for catching him. Thank you for coming to tell me.”

He nodded, then sipped his coffee. The silence stretched between them, but it was not uncomfortable. More like two old friends, each lost in their own thoughts, but conscious of the other's presence. His mind turned to the agents who had died that evening, and he removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes harshly.

He was surprised when he felt a small hand take the steel rims from him, and he watched as she placed them on the table by his coffee.

There was an ottoman before the chair, and she perched there, still holding his hand in her own. He looked down. His hand dwarfed hers. She was small, but her hands were tiny, more like a child's than a woman's, but looking at her there was no doubt she was a woman. He turned her hand, studying it, lifting it closer to his face as he traced the lines, touched the skin, sought out the story of her life that her hands could tell. Without thinking, he kissed her palm, then froze in disbelief when he realized what he had done.

She pulled away gently, and the same hand reached out and brushed his cheek.

“What happened?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He shook his head. He didn't talk about it. He never had. It used to drive Sharon nuts that he wouldn't talk about things, but he knew, if he did, he would fall apart. And that could never be permitted. Not for the Assistant Director. And not for the man, Walter Skinner.

She stood and circled around him, her hands going to his shoulders and beginning to knead the knots of tension there. He leaned back unconsciously, arching slightly beneath her touch, and closed his eyes again.

“Two of my agents were killed,” he heard himself say, and he jerked erect, looking around in surprise as if the voice had come from somewhere else.

“And they blame you.”

How the hell did she know that? He nodded, and when she reached out and pulled him back into the chair, he let her.

“That's not all.”

“No. I have an agent -- a friend -- he used to work for me but he's been moved to another department. He has a -- gift -- for figuring these kinds of things out.” He sighed as her hands worked a particularly tense spot, and he felt the muscles relax. “He helped me. Hell, he did it all. But it's hard on him. It really tears him up.”

He stopped talking and looked up over his shoulder.

“You feel bad for involving him.”

He nodded again, and her hands moved to his neck, stroking the corded muscles there. Her fingers played gently with the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck, and he found himself amazed at the familiarity he was allowing.

“You're worried about him?” she questioned.

“No, not really. He has someone -- his partner -- who understands. She'll get him through this. They work well together, take care of each other.”

Her hands stopped their soothing massage and she walked around to the side of the chair, sitting on its arm. He was staring at her, drowning in the depths of those marvelously green eyes, when she spoke. “And who understands Walter Skinner, Assistant Director for the FBI?” she asked. “Who takes care of him?”

“I -- uh ...” His eyes skittered away, unable to take the naked compassion on her face. He was filled with a sudden longing to -- to what? He cleared his throat, awkward once more, and made to rise, but she pushed gently against his chest and he let her restrain him.

She was staring at him still, her head tilted, waiting for his answer. He shifted in his seat, eyes downcast, then mumbled, “I'm all right.”

She rose and took two steps to stand before him, moving between his legs and taking his hand. “Somehow, you fail to convince me,” she murmured.

He was coming undone, his world was falling apart. What was she doing to him? He took a deep, shuddery breath, fighting for control, then looked up at her, expecting to see at best, pity, or at worst, disgust. But he saw neither. What he saw was understanding and acceptance, warmth and respect. And it completely undid the last vestiges of his control. He leaned forward, pressing his face into her belly, and wrapping his arms around her waist.

He wasn't crying, but it was close. He leaned into her, letting go of the need to be strong, to be in charge, and accepting the warmth and comfort that flowed into him. She held him close, stroking his head and back, murmuring nonsense sounds into his ear. And slowly her touch turned from comforting to arousing. From soothing to sensual. The strokes on his back were slightly harder, slightly slower, her fingers lingering at the base of his neck. Her voice dropped slightly, the words still a murmur, but now throaty, with a touch of something else in them.

His own hands began to wander up and down her back, along her sides, even going so far as to travel up under the oversized shirt she wore, his fingers electrified at the contact with her velvet skin. His breathing changed, grew uneven, and he cursed himself as a weak and impetuous fool. Any minute now, she would pull away, back away, send him away.

'For God's sake, Walter,' he chided himself, 'you hardly know the woman.'

When she did pull away, he was ready, expecting it, and he let her go without pause. His head was still lowered and he stared at the floor as he waited for her to tell him to go. But instead, her hand came under his chin, lifting his face up, her eyes seeking his own.

She pulled him to his feet and began to unbutton his shirt. “You're soaked,” she whispered huskily, and he stood passive before her. The shirt was off, and she was working on his belt. He toed off his shoes, then took the belt off himself -- he wasn't so far gone that he didn't remember to take care of his weapon himself. She smiled when she saw him place the shirt on top of the gun, but made no comment.

He turned to face her, realizing that they had hardly spoken and yet she was undressing him, and he was allowing it. She reached out and undid his pants, and they fell to his ankles where he stepped out of them. She pulled his T-shirt up, and he bent to allow her to tug it over his head. When he straightened, standing before her in only his briefs, he searched her face, looking for clues to what was happening.

She was staring at him, drinking him in. Her eyes raked his body, a long, slow journey from the corded tendons in his calves and thighs, past the narrow hips to the washboard abs, and those glorious pecs, ending at his insecure and slightly confused brown eyes.

She reached out to him, wrapping him in her arms, and he pulled her tight against him. Looking down, he again searched her face, wanting to be sure this was not a pity fuck. But he saw not only warmth and acceptance in her countenance, but desire as well.

He opened her shirt and stroked her breasts, her nipples hardening beneath his touch. Falling to his knees again, he buried his head in her belly once more and whispered, “What are we doing?”

She knelt with him, taking his face in her hands, forcing his eyes to meet her own, then kissed him. His mouth opened beneath hers, and he immediately felt drunk on the arousal her touch elicited from him. He was hard, and growing harder, and he wondered if he'd lost his mind.

They broke for air, gasping, and he said again, “What are we doing?”

Her tiny hands traveled over his chest, stroking, teasing, enticing, then dropped to below his waist. She cupped him gently and said, “We are affirming life, Mr. Assistant Director. Affirming it, and celebrating all that life may bring.”

It had been a debacle. A killer without a conscience, four teenage girls, brutally raped and murdered. An agent killed. An arrest from which there would be no justice, and very little closure. The suspect covered under diplomatic immunity. No hope of prosecution.

And he -- he slammed his fist down on the desk -- he had lost his temper in public and struck a reporter, a stunt worthy of Mulder.

His little spectacle had made the papers, picture and all, and then been picked up on the wires, and he was facing disciplinary proceedings. Funny how since Mulder and Scully had been transferred to that asshole Kersch, he'd been doing more and more direct supervision over Violent Crimes, resulting in more and more direct involvement in this type of case. And apparently, if his actions of yesterday were any indication, he wasn't dealing with the stress very well at all.

What was it she had said? Mara, -- he smiled as he thought of her -- she had asked him how he dealt with it all. And he -- supercilious prick that he could be -- had dismissed her question without thinking, commenting only that you deal with it and move on. Well, he was wrong. He'd been out of it for too long, the case in Norfolk his first real involvement in that kind of investigation in over ten years. When he had left field work, and Violent Crimes, for management and administration, he had thought that he would never forget what it was like.

But he had. His comment to Mara had shown that. And now, a mere six weeks -- and three cases -- later, he was so tense, so on edge, he had decked a reporter who had dared to comment on police brutality in the apprehension of a diplomat's son who had callously and with willful disregard, raped and then killed four teenage girls. He'd turned on the man, offering a personal demonstration of police brutality, and when the man had made a smart remark, Skinner had decked him.

He rubbed his fist -- it still hurt. And Lord knows the hearing would be unpleasant, but -- he smiled -- it had been worth it to knock the grin off that smug bastard's face. Mulder had even called and congratulated him this morning, but, of course, he had turned on the younger man, lecturing him on appropriate behavior and ethical conduct. He could still hear the laughter in Mulder's voice as he had agreed, and then added, “Yes, Sir, appropriate behavior is important, Sir. And I am quite sure that Mr. Gaillard of the Post is now much more aware of what is and is not appropriate behavior around you.”

Skinner smiled, and shook his head. The man was irrepressible. But the slight relief from the sense of doom and despair that the interaction with Mulder had brought him was quickly dissipating as he thought of the review panel he would have to appear before on Monday. Cassidy and Kersch would both be there; neither were great fans of his. And he had to face the facts -- he deserved to be disciplined. His conduct was totally unacceptable. His biggest concern at this point was figuring out what had happened that had caused him to be so on edge, to become so volatile and susceptible to the kind of baiting the reporter had engaged in.

He sighed. Mara would know. She would know and she would tell him, and she would make it better. He allowed himself the luxury of reliving the night he had spent with her. One night, but it had assumed enormous significance for him. He had felt whole, complete, secure, and, yes, loved, for a too-brief moment in a small house in Norfolk, Virginia.

He sighed and rose to his feet and began to pace. So why hadn't he seen her again? Or even called her? What must she think of him? He'd been afraid at first, and then unsure. And once he settled that he did want to see her, that he could see her, be with her, so much time had elapsed that he was too embarrassed to contact her again. Especially since he had departed in the middle of the night with no word, no note, no hint of his intentions. And yet, through each of the cases he had worked over the last six weeks, through each horror and evil he had confronted, he had turned to her in his mind for comfort and solace.

And now, with his career potentially on the line, he turned to her once more. He walked to the window behind his desk and stood looking out over the city. He was lost in reverie, reliving an electric night of passion and shared intimacy, when the intercom buzzed. He shifted, suddenly aware of his erection, and moved awkwardly to the desk. “Yes?”

“Sir, this is Security in the front lobby. There's a woman outside, asking to see you.”

He looked at his watch. It was after 7:00 p.m. on a Friday night. Who could possibly be looking for him at this hour?

“Who is she? What does she want?”

“She wants to know if you're here; if she can see you. She's very insistent, Sir. Says her name is Norris.”

Skinner was puzzled. He couldn't think of anyone by that name. But, he sighed again, he certainly didn't have plans that this would interfere with. Better to see her and find out what this was about than risk another public embarrassment.

“Ask her if she's media.”

There was a pause, then the guard came back, “No, Sir, says she's not.”

“All right, then, bring her up.”

Very soon after, the elevator chimed and then there was a polite tap on his door.

“Enter.”

The guard pushed the door open and said, “Ms. Norris, Sir.”

He nodded and she walked into the room. Skinner stood, stunned, his mouth hanging open, as she walked across the office to stand in front of him.

“Close your mouth, Walter,” she whispered, “you'll catch flies.” There was a twinkle in her eyes, barely suppressed laughter in her voice, and he felt his worries begin to melt away.

He shut his mouth, then looked at the guard. “It's all right, you can go. I'll see Ms. Norris out when she's ready to go.”

The guard nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He stood staring at her for a long moment, unable to believe she was really here. Her hair was up again, the high pony-tail she seemed to favor, and she wore black slacks and a soft cotton sweater with a high neck. Not casual, but not overly professional. Perhaps what she wore to work? What did she do? He racked his brain but couldn't come up with an answer. Maybe it had never come up.

She was waiting patiently for him, giving him time, letting him work through the range of emotions that were surging over him. And in her patience, in her presence, he was finding peace again. She seemed to carry it with her, and she shared selflessly.

“What are you doing here?” Idiot! She's here! What the hell do you care why? And can't you at least say hello before you start demanding answers? And maybe you could mention how glad you are to see her?

But she was smiling at him, almost as if she had heard his internal dialogue, and she pulled a folded paper from her purse, handing it to him. It was the article about him, including the picture of his fist connecting with the reporter's face. He flushed, then ducked his head. He shoved the paper back in her direction, muttering, “Yeah? So I'm an asshole. You drive up here to tell me that?”

What the hell was the matter with him? He was going out of his way to alienate her, make her angry, push her away. What was going on here?

But she merely took the paper, dropped it in his waste-basket and stood silently, waiting.

Turning his back to her, he walked to the window. He was on overload, feeling one thing, saying another, thrilled to see her, terrified she'd leave, or that she'd stay. He was lost, bewildered, and so confused. Why the hell was she here?

He was still staring out the window, half expecting that when he finally did turn, he would find that she had slipped out the door, leaving him as he had left her. Alone, in the dark, without explanation.

And so, when a small, warm hand touched his back, he jumped, then turned to find her right before him, her hand sliding around from his back to rest on his chest, over his heart.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner,” she said. “I didn't see the paper till this afternoon.”

“Why,” he struggled to make the words come out without hostility, only partially succeeding, “are you here at all?”

She laughed then, and wrapped her arms around him, snuggling into his chest, and without thinking he enfolded her in his arms, pulling her closer. He could feel the tension flowing out of his body as he relaxed into her embrace.

“I could see you were hurting.” She nodded toward the waste-basket, then shrugged. “So I came.”

He stepped back, holding her at arm's length, and said, “You came?” He could hear the confusion in his voice.

She nodded and slipped back against his chest, her head resting against his heart, just under his chin. Her hands were stroking his back, and he felt as if he had come home. He rested there, enjoying her touch, then murmured, “I don't understand.”

She pulled back slightly, and looked up into his eyes. “You. Were. Hurting.” She paused, then went on, “I. Came.” She smiled up at him. “What's so hard about that?”

He shook his head, then colored as he thought of how he'd slipped out of her bed, out of her house, out of her life, like a thief in the dead of night. He was ashamed of himself, and he stepped away from her, denying himself the comfort her touch imparted.

He turned his back again, and moved further away, putting the desk between them. “You shouldn't have,” he mumbled.

“And why not?” she asked softly.

“I -- left.”

“Yes.”

“I snuck out.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I didn't leave a note, didn't call.”

“That's true.”

“I -- I was, er, that is ...” His voice trailed away. Her casual acceptance of what he considered to be the unacceptable confused him. Why would she be so understanding?

“You were scared.”

He shifted slightly, turned around and looked at her. He nodded.

“You were confused.”

He nodded again. How could she know him so well?

“Then you were embarrassed.”

He flushed again, hung his head, and then whispered, “Yes.”

“It's OK, Walter,” she said. “I understand.”

She'd said it again. She understood. And once more, he found himself believing that she really did understand. That perhaps, she understood him better than he understood himself. He found himself relaxing again, and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her up and take her home with him, to let her chase the demons and the darkness from his life, at least for a time.

But his moralistic upbringing chided him. You were wrong. You treated her badly. You don't deserve her. Or any of the comfort she offers.

He stiffened. “I was wrong.”

“You were confused. It's all right.” She shrugged.

“Why would you come after what I did?”

She shrugged again. “Didn't you feel it, Walter?” she asked.

She walked over to him, following when he backed away, and pressed herself against him. Her arms snaked around him again, and once more, he found himself responding. She held him until the tension had eased from his body, until she had chased the stiffness away. He settled some, relaxing into her embrace, resting his chin on her head. Finally, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

She sighed contentedly then, and he felt he had done the most right thing in the world. She looked up at him, then stretched to kiss him, her lips lingering against his own.

“Don't you feel it, Walter?” she asked again. “This is where I belong.”

He lay on his side, head propped up on his left hand, and he gazed down at her. She was curled on her side as well, spooned up against him. Her hair -- that glorious mane of tousled red -- lay in wild abandon all around her. He lifted his right hand and carefully began to gather the soft strands, pulling them together and brushing them from her face. How could she sleep with hair like that? Didn't she roll over on it in her sleep? Pull it? Get it stuck under her body? There was so much of it, and it went everywhere.

He had a sudden vision of her straddling him as he lay on his back, her head swept back as she moaned into the air, her hair tickling and teasing his legs and scrotum behind her. He was shocked as he felt the beginnings of another erection and he looked at the clock. Two hours - incredible! His recovery time hadn't been that short in years. He leaned over and kissed her gently, content to enjoy the sensations she evoked, not wanting to disturb her.

She turned at his kiss though, pushing him back onto his back, and snuggling up against his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. “You OK?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Mmmm,” he made a sound of contentment. “Better than OK. You?”

She lifted her leg, laying it across his groin, then looked up, a pleased and surprised expression on her face. “Walter! I'm impressed. How old did you say you were?” She giggled then, and he found himself enchanted once more.

He couldn't hide the male pride that tinged his voice when he said, “Forty-seven. I'm forty-seven.”

“Do you want ...?” She smiled as she let her words trail away.

He looked down at her again. She'd worked all day, then made the four hour drive to DC. They'd talked for several hours at the office and by the time he'd gotten her back to his place, it was close to 11:00. She'd insisted on fixing a meal, telling him he needed to eat, and so did she. Then they'd spent several more hours in the pleasures of the flesh before falling asleep, exhausted. She had only slept a couple of hours and he knew she was tired.

He shook his head. “No.” He smiled. “In the morning. For now, I just want to be here with you.”

She looked up sharply at that, then asked, “Are you sure you're all right?” She pulled herself to a sitting position, crossing her legs so that one knee rested on top of his hip.

He looked at her. How old had she said she was? Had it come up? He had to start paying better attention. She remembered everything.

He was staring at her body, displayed unselfconsciously before him. “Mara?”

“Yes, Walter?”

He lifted his eyes to her face. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight. Why?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to know.” He returned his gaze to her body, noting that her stomach bore stretch marks, her hips were well-padded, gravity had affected her breasts. All marks of her maturity, her life, part of what made her who she was.

He reached out and touched a scar that marked her chest, a heavy line that started about an inch and a half above her right nipple and crossed to end in the valley between her breasts.

“What's this?”

She looked down, then smiled a sad, little smile. “A long story.” She yawned then, and added, “Maybe another time?”

“What time did you get up this morning?” He looked at the clock again. Oops - yesterday morning. But she knew what he meant.

“Early. 5:30. Why?”

“You're tired.”

“A little.” She yawned again, then smiled sheepishly. “Sorry -- it's the hour, not the company.”

“Go to sleep.” He pulled her back down to lay beside him, and was pleased when she didn't resist.

“Can you sleep now, Walter?” she asked.

“With you here, Mara, I think I can do anything.” Oh God, I sound like such an idiot! What the hell is the matter with me? Has my brain gone on a permanent vacation?

But she was laughing, her body shaking beside him, sending her hair flying, and he was soon laughing with her as it tickled his nose and chest. He gathered it all together once more, then asked, “How do you sleep with this?”

“Does it bother you? I can put it up.”

“No.” He fondled the heavy silk, then stroked her face. “I like it.”

“Good.” She settled against him again. “I'm glad.”

He turned his head and kissed her again, stroking her bare back, his hands taking on a life of their own as they smoothed her skin and traced her curves.

“Walter?” He could hear the sleep creeping back into her voice.

“Hmmm?”

“Be here in the morning?”

He kissed her again. “I will. Promise.”

She sighed then, content, and nuzzled his chest. “Sleep, Walter,” she mumbled. Her breathing was growing heavy as she drifted away.

“I will,” he repeated, “I promise.”

He woke to an empty bed, and immediately groaned in despair. She'd left him, just as he'd left her the first time. He looked around for any sign that she was still there, but there was nothing. Her clothes no longer lay scattered on the floor, her purse was no longer on his dresser. He stretched out a hand to the empty space beside him. Even the sheets had lost their warmth from her presence.

He shivered, suddenly cold himself, and felt the hot prick of tears gathering behind his closed eyes. Oh God, he was not going to cry. What the hell was the matter with him? He seemed to be asking that question a lot lately. He grabbed the pillow from her side of the bed. Her side of the bed, his mind echoed. He had already given her a side of the bed. He rolled onto his side, clutching the pillow to himself and burying his face in the linen. I will not cry, I will not cry, he chanted in his head. I deserve this. This is only fair, only fitting. I don't even know why she came here in the first place. She gave me a gift -- I will not cry.

He pulled the pillow closer as he thought of his 'greeting' to her from last night. He could hear the anger and hostility that had been in his voice as he had demanded “Why are you here?” He pushed his face further into the pillow, his arms wrapped completely around it and he felt, rather than heard the sob that escaped him. Oh, God. I will not cry, I will not cry, he chanted even as the first tear slipped down his cheek.

He was lost in self-recrimination, mourning what he had lost, what had never had a chance to really even be, when he felt it. Her hand. Her hand on his back. And there -- that was the bed shifting as she sat behind him. He was imagining things. She was gone, but he had always had a vivid imagination. He thought he felt her shift, settling herself against his back, her hand sliding over his side and down along his arm to hold the pillow with him.

Another choked sob escaped, and he felt another tear slide down his face. What the hell was the matter with him? Forty-seven years old, Assistant Director for the FBI, former Marine. Why the hell was he on the verge of crying like a baby? Because she left. She left and nothing would ever be the same. In his mind her phantom hands stroked him, and he strangled another sob, refusing to give in and let it go. I will not cry, I will not cry, he continued to chant. This is only fair, only right. I did this to her. Why should she treat me any differently?

He could hear her, there in his head, calling him softly. He ignored her -- how do you answer a figment of your own imagination? He began to murmur into the pillow, holding it in a steel vise, hiding his face, his words muffled by the wet fabric.

“I'm sorry, Mara, I'm sorry. I wanted more. I wanted you. I wanted forever. I'm sorry. Oh God, I am so sorry.”

And he could hear her, her voice whispering in his ear, telling him it was all right, all was forgiven, there was nothing to forgive. That she wanted him too. Ah, imagination was a wonderful thing. She was begging him to turn around, to hold her, to talk to her, but he curled tighter into himself. This was just too painful. He couldn't bear for her to forgive him, he couldn't deal with her acceptance. Not even from this phantom his own wants and needs had created.

What did she say? You're scaring me? He shuddered. He was so glad she wasn't really here. He would never want to scare her. He wanted only to be with her, to care for her, to protect her, and to pleasure her.

He could feel two more tears make their way down his cheeks, and he was pulling the pillow closer when the bed shifted again, and the pillow was ripped from his grasp. He turned in confusion, his eyes unfocused and blurred by the tears, and -- she was there. Her hands were on his face, wiping the tears away, as she crooned soft sounds to him. Sounds of warmth and acceptance, of caring and understanding, of concern and, yes, of love. There were no real words, but the feelings were tangible, sliding over and around him, weaving a cocoon of acceptance that enfolded him, gathered him in, made him feel safe and secure.

Somehow, she had slipped into the bed, her small body wrapped around his larger frame, his head now buried in her breasts as he continued to fight the tears that still slipped out, one by one. He moaned against her skin, an anguished sound of amazement and disbelief. “You're here.”

She cooed to him again, noises and sounds, and her hands were all over him, stroking, soothing, touching, making the connection real. And then the words: “I'm here.”

He heard that. He understood that. She was speaking to him and he could understand. “You're here,” he repeated in a strangled voice.

“Shh, of course I'm here.”

She was moving beside him, and the fear, the abandonment that had so devastated him before was rapidly being replaced with the need to be with her -- to join with her. To find a way to crawl into her soul where things were safe and sane, and he could be himself. Not the Assistant Director. Not the task force commander. Not the head of Violent Crimes. But Walter. Her Walter. Mara's Walter.

He heard her repeat it, as if she had read his mind. “Shh,” she was saying. “My Walter. Shhhh.”

She moved against him again, and her words, her touch, her tone overcame him, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to take her. His penis leapt to life, his erection hard between them, and she looked into his eyes, seeing the arousal, the desire, the sheer need in them. She rubbed her body against him again, then turned onto her back, and he rolled onto her, sheathing himself in her, feeling the warm tightness as she offered him this ultimate acceptance.

He wasn't going to last long this time; his need was too great. He tried to hold himself still, to regain some control, but she moved beneath him, and he was gone. He stroked once, twice, three times, and it was over. He emptied himself into her, a sob escaping as he came, then collapsed onto her, wrapping his arms around her, crushing her to himself. He was still buried in her, his tears soaking her chest, her face, her hair, when he murmured, “I thought you left me.”

She pushed him away slightly, enough to take his face into her hands, to stare into his eyes, as she said, “I will never leave you, Walter, never. If there is any way I can prevent it, I will never leave.” She pulled him down and kissed him, a long, lingering caress that made his penis twitch within her. “I belong with you.”

He'd fallen asleep again. Exhaustion did that to you. But when he woke this time, she was nestled trustingly in his arms, her head resting on his bicep. He moved slightly, and felt the tell-tale pinpricks that told him his arm was asleep. He shrugged minutely. Didn't matter. She was here. For that moment, his joy was complete.

He reached out and brushed her hair away from her face again, smiling as he thought he was already getting good at this. He could get used to this. It tickled, yes, but in a good way. And it was a constant reminder that she was here, with him, in his arms.

If she still wanted to stay. He could feel himself grow hot, his face flushed as he thought of his earlier display. Aside from his weeping like an infant, his demonstration of sexual prowess hadn't earned him any points he was sure. He looked down at her again. The momentary joy he had felt upon awakening with her was already being eclipsed by his own self-doubts, his own insecurities, his own fears. Why would she even want to be here with him?

He closed his eyes briefly, taking deep breaths to still the raging emotions that were just under the surface, threatening to emerge and overtake him again. When he felt he had regained at least partial control, he opened his eyes and looked down at her again.

She was watching him, those emerald eyes wide and deep, drawing him in, her lips curled in a small half-smile. “You're doing it again,” she whispered.

He twitched. How did she know him so well? “Doing what?” he asked, his voice hoarse from still unshed tears.

“Getting morose. Having doubts.” She grinned up at him, and he found himself smiling back at her. “Next thing you know, you'll be trying to push me away again with your gruff Assistant Director act.”

His smile turned sheepish. Already, she knew him so well. “You'll just have to keep me in line then,” he teased, and was rewarded when her smile widened and she burst into laughter.

“You hardly look like someone I could keep in line!” She shifted, pulling herself up, her head resting on her hand as she now looked down at him. “I mean,” one hand came out and stroked the arm that had been cradling her head, “look.” She squeezed his arm slightly, “Hardly accountant material.” Her hand continued its lazy journey, running slowly across his chest, tracing the hard muscles that lay beneath his skin, feeling the ridges in his abdomen. “Forty-seven,” she said in a reverential tone. “Incredible!”

He laughed then and rolled her over, tickling her and letting his own hands travel her softness, tripping lightly over her hills and valleys, around the curves that had brought him such delight. “You,” he whispered in her ear, after he had gently pinned her beneath him, “are incredible. And the only one who could keep me in line. The only one I'd want to.”

His lips made their way from her ear, along her jaw, and finally found her mouth. He kissed her, kissed her again, was kissing her, losing himself in her, drowning in her very presence, when he dimly heard a sound. He paused for a moment, then reached for her lips again, but she pushed him away, saying, “Walter, there's someone at your door.”

He looked up, dizzy, all the blood in his body was pooled beneath his waist, and his thinking was definitely impaired. “My door?” he repeated.

She shoved at his chest, and he rolled away, laying back for a moment, trying to clear his mind.

“Yes, your door. Your doorbell is ringing.” She was laughing now, a full, throaty laugh, infectious, and he found himself joining her, even as he struggled to his feet.

“My door,” he repeated again. “Someone at my door.”

“Yes. Go to the door. I'm gonna grab a shower. Then I'll need something to wear.” She was out of the bed, padding to the bathroom, and he was groaning as he reluctantly pulled on sweat pants and trotted down the stairs.

He heard the shower start as he peered through the peephole. No one was there. Quickly retrieving his weapon, he opened the door cautiously, and viewed an empty hall. Holding the gun behind his back, he stepped out into the corridor and he looked to the left. Mulder and Scully were just turning to see what the noise behind them was.

“I told you he was probably sleeping, Mulder,” Scully said.

Mulder shrugged, then headed back up the hall toward Skinner, his partner following.

“Did we wake you, Sir?” he asked.

“Er, no, that is, well, yes, um ...” His voice trailed away. “Do you need something, Agents?” When in doubt, fall back on tried and true methodology.

Scully straightened and began to say, “No,” but Mulder pushed past Skinner, into the condo, saying, “Yes, Sir, we need to speak with you.”

Skinner stared at Scully, but she gave a helpless little shrug, as if to ask, 'what do you want me to do about him?' and followed her partner into the condo. Skinner stood for a moment, then realized he was standing, barefoot and shirtless, weapon drawn, alone in his hallway while everyone else had gone inside. He was still not thinking too clearly.

He came back in, pulling the door shut behind him, and walked into the living room. Scully stood awkwardly by the end table, but Mulder had plopped down on the couch, apparently intent on making himself at home. Skinner crossed quickly to the coat tree and replaced his weapon in the holster that hung there.

Mulder nodded toward the stairs, asking with a smirk, “Are we keeping you from the shower, Sir?”

Skinner flushed, then recovered quickly, saying, “What do you need to speak to me about?”

From upstairs, the sound of running water ceased, and Skinner found himself somewhat amazed that there was a woman anywhere who could shower in under twenty minutes. His eyes were drawn to the stairs, and he was soon growing lost in thoughts of the petite woman who waited for him up there. He missed the look his two agents -- former agents -- exchanged as they recognized his distraction.

“Mulder,” Scully hissed, “I told you this was not a good idea.” She turned to Skinner. “I'm sorry, Sir, we've intruded.”

Skinner mentally pulled himself back to the present, back to his living room and the two people who were watching him there. Scully looked embarrassed, uncomfortable, but Mulder looked as if he was enjoying himself immensely. His face wore a 'cat that ate the canary' look, and he was slouched back on the sofa as if he had no intention of moving.

“No, Scully,” his eyes drifted to the stairs again, “it's all right. You're here now.” He pulled his gaze back to her. “You needed to speak to me?”

Mulder had opened his mouth to speak, when a soft alto drifted down the stairs. “Walter? Don't you have anything smaller than an extra large?” it asked plaintively. “I'm swimming in this.”

Mulder burst out laughing, and even Scully smiled, while Skinner's face turned scarlet. He glared at his two agents and they quieted quickly, then he walked to the stairs.

“Well, never mind,” she was there now, standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at him. “It'll have to do. At least until you can get me back to my car at your office. I did have the forethought to bring a bag,” she was walking down the stairs, bare feet soundless against the white carpet, “I just wasn't thinking about it when you decided we needed more privacy last night.” She had reached the bottom now, and reached out for him.

He looked at her. She was right -- she did look ridiculous in his oversized clothes. She had on a pair of sweat pants, twin to his own. He was sure she'd had to tie them to keep them up, and they were miles too long for her. She wore a Quantico T-shirt; God knows where she had unearthed that, and it, too, dwarfed her, the shoulder seams halfway down her arms. She'd pulled the hem up to her waist and done something to it -- knotted it? -- to make it stay. Her hair, that glorious hair, was piled up on top of her head, but damp tendrils had escaped and curled invitingly around her face and neck. He thought she looked enchanting.

Despite the audience, despite the looks -- no, stares -- he knew they were getting, he couldn't help himself, and he reached for her as well, pulling her against himself, and burying his head in her hair. “Mara,” he breathed. “Mara.”

“I'm here, Walter,” she answered softly, then looking up, pulled away from him, saying, “You have company.”

He released her reluctantly, then reached out again and took her hand. He led her to the living area, then made the introductions. Mulder had scrambled to his feet, and stood next to Scully, as Skinner said, “Agent Dana Scully.”

Mara extended a hand, and Skinner noted that she was even smaller than Scully, by a couple of inches. No wonder his clothes dwarfed her.

“You're the doctor, right?” Mara was saying. “Pathologist?”

Scully nodded, then looked quickly at Skinner.

“Walter says you're the best he's ever worked with, the best he's ever seen. He was so sorry when you and your partner were transferred.” Mara smiled, and Scully was smiling back, a real smile, full and from the heart, something none of them got to see from her too often. Skinner was taken with how the look transformed Scully, and acknowledged that Mara's magic worked on everyone. Mulder was also staring at Scully, and Skinner knew he was drinking in this smile, cataloging it, and photographing it in his mind's eye, to hold onto forever.

Then Mara stepped to Mulder, extending her hand again and said, “You must be Fox Mulder; the, and I quote, 'best damned investigator I've ever seen,' end quote.” She reached out and took his hand, then leaned forward and pulled him down, swiftly kissing him on the cheek. “I have to thank you. I owe you so much.”

“Me?” Mulder squeaked, and Skinner wanted to laugh. He didn't think he'd ever seen Mulder so stunned. It was a rare person indeed, who could chase the words from Fox Mulder.

“Yes, you.” Mara turned to include Scully in her next statement. “Walter tells me it was your work, conducted from Oregon, that actually enabled them to catch my daughter's killer. I owe you both so much.”

She released Mulder's hand, then stepped back to stand by Skinner, and he put his arm around her without thinking.

Mulder was watching their interaction, and he asked quietly, “Are you staying through the hearing?” He shot a solicitous look in Skinner's direction.

“Yes, through the hearing, a bit longer if needed,” Mara replied, noting the agent's concern.

Through the hearing. Skinner was astonished. He'd felt sure she would be leaving Sunday. How did she know how much he needed her? He looked up, suddenly scowling at Mulder and Scully. He needed them to leave. He needed time to talk to Mara, to be with her. Even through Monday, while longer than he had dared hope, was not long enough. Forever would not be long enough. And they needed to make plans, make arrangements, reach some agreements.

Mulder was taking Scully by the arm, leading her to the door, saying, “Scully, I told you we should have called first. See, he's fine. He'll be fine.” Scully sputtered as Mulder reached the door and turned, “Sorry to have intruded, Sir. And it was nice to have met you, Ms. ?”

“Norris. Mara Norris.”

“Ms. Norris.” He nodded. “We'll look forward to seeing you again sometime.” He turned and hustled his partner out the door, and as it closed behind him, Mara burst into laughter.

“Oh, Walter,” she cried, “did you see the look on her face? Priceless, just priceless! She is going to kill him!” She dissolved in laughter again, collapsing onto the couch Mulder had just vacated.

Skinner found himself laughing with her, and then thinking, I have laughed more in the last 24 hours, than I have in the last 24 years. What does that say about me? He felt the quiet steal over him again, and then she was there, taking his hands and pulling him down beside her.

“Oh, no, you don't,” she said, and she snuggled up against him, still laughing softly, and before he knew what had happened he was once more laughing with her.

They'd made the trip into the city to get her car. He'd insisted on taking the Metro, then walking the several blocks to the Hoover. He couldn't bear to spend any time away from her. The time they had was all too short as it was.

And now she wore her own pants, but she'd kept his T-shirt on, and he found that he liked that. He felt proprietary, seeing her in his clothes, and he enjoyed the feeling. She was puttering in the kitchen, digging through his cabinets as she pulled together another meal. He'd offered to take her out, but she had said she didn't want to share him. He smiled now as he remembered. Said she wanted him all to herself.

“You're smiling,” she said from across the room, and he looked up to see her watching him, an amused smile on her own face.

“You do that to me,” he answered. “I think you may be a witch. And you've enchanted me.”

She laughed out loud then, and he found himself joining her.

“You are so good for me,” he sighed. “You make me laugh.”

“Laughter is good for the soul,” she said, as she pulled an onion out of his crisper and tossed it to him. “And so are tears.” Her tone was light, but there was an underlying seriousness to it. “Here,” she held out a knife, “chop that up, will you?”

He took the knife with one hand, and grabbed her wrist gently with the other. He pulled her to him, settling her in his lap and burying his head in her hair again. She held him for a long moment, then asked softly, “What is it?”

“I need to see you,” he whispered.

“I'm here,” she responded.

“Not now.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Next week. After Monday. What happens after Monday?”

Her face turned sad and she kissed him tenderly. “After Monday, we see what we can work out.”

“Not good enough,” he said harshly. “Not good enough at all. I can't work something out. I can't go back to the way it was. I need to be with you.”

“All right, Walter, all right,” she said soothingly. “Let's see what we can work out.”

“Can you move to DC?” he asked. “I have money. I can support you.”

She chuckled, then looked seriously into his eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips.

He studied her for a long moment, then smiled sheepishly, “Guess not, huh?”

She shook her head sadly. “I don't think that would be a good idea right now.”

“Why?” he asked plaintively.

She lowered her head, the first time she had tried to avoid his eyes since he met her, and he scrunched up his face in concern. “Hey, what is it?”

“Not now, OK? Please?”

“Mara, tell me. I can't stand to think that I've upset you.” He gently brought her head around, tilting it up so he could see her eyes.

Her face was furrowed, her body tense. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, and asked again, “Not now, Walter. I can't do this now. Please?”

And he could deny her nothing, so he said nothing more about it.

“Can I come to Norfolk?”

“Of course.” The smile was back, the light in her green eyes as she looked at him.

“Can I come Monday night?”

“Won't you have to work on Tuesday?” she asked.

“I'll commute.”

“Four hours?” She laughed, then shook her head in amusement. She thought he was joking, but he was deadly serious. He would commute four hours if it meant being able to see her every day.

“Walter, you're being absurd. You can't commute from Norfolk to DC. Not every day.” She shook her head again. “Weekends. We'll have weekends.”

He gripped her to himself. “Weekends are not enough.” His voice broke and he stopped for a moment, forcing himself to get a semblance of control over his unruly emotions. “Mara, weekends aren't enough. I need to see you.”

She looked at him, taking in the essential necessity she saw in his face and sighed. “Richmond. I can meet you in Richmond a couple times a week.”

He thought quickly. Two hours for her, about the same for him. Richmond would work for the time being, until he persuaded her to move to DC. Or -- he had a sudden thought -- maybe he would be demoted in the hearing Monday, and he could request assignment to the Norfolk office. He couldn't believe he was actually getting excited about the possibility of being demoted. She'd already changed his priorities, changed his life, changed him.

But it wouldn't necessarily have to be a demotion. Hell, he could just request a downgrade and insist on assignment to Norfolk. They were still short two agents. He winced as he thought what it would be like to try to work in that office, then looked into Mara's eyes again, and shrugged. It would be worth it to be with her.

“What?” she asked. “What are you planning?”

“I can transfer to Norfolk. I'll come to you.”

“Wouldn't that be a severe downgrade for you?”

“Doesn't matter,” he said, and kissed her again.

“Walter, be serious. You've worked too hard to get where you are. You can't do that.” She was sitting up in his lap, looking at him, then she leaned into him, and rested her head on his shoulder. “But it's a very sweet thought.”

“Not sweet,” he mumbled, “selfish. Very selfish.” His face was buried in her neck, “Mara, I need to be with you.” Oh God, he was whining. Here we go again. What the hell was the matter with him?

“Richmond, Walter. A few times a week. Hotels are gonna get expensive real fast. And we're not kids. We can be patient.”

“No. I don't think I can be patient. I'm too old to be patient anymore. I can get a place in Richmond, small, inexpensive, but it would be ours. Will you meet me in Richmond, Mara? I'll come every day, I promise. Will you meet me?”

She looked into his eyes again, seeing the fear and insecurity, then nodded slowly. “All right, Walter, I'll come to Richmond.”

He sighed contentedly, then slid her off his lap and rose to chop the onion. “We'll find a place tomorrow,” he said happily, but he missed the worried look she gave him.

They'd driven down to Richmond on Sunday, apartment hunting, and found a small place. One bedroom, furnished, but he could afford it and it was in a decent part of the city. She'd seemed quiet, and he wondered if he'd pushed too hard, but when he'd signed the lease, and gotten the key and approval for immediate occupancy, she'd seemed pleased, and more than willing to join him in the bedroom.

They'd done some shopping, stocking the refrigerator, but she would only let him buy a set of sheets and a couple towels. No other linens, or dishes, or pots and pans, claiming she had more than enough and would bring them up with her over the next weeks.

The next weeks! His heart had soared to hear her making plans beyond the immediate. Over the next weeks. He fixated on her words. She would be coming. She would bring her things. He would see her. She would be there. He was grinning like a fool, totally infatuated.

He pulled her back to the bedroom, taking things slow this time, trying to show her with his body what she meant to him. He'd been gentle, taking his time, stretching it out, trying to make it last. They had to go back to DC, but he felt like he'd found sanctuary here, and he didn't want to let it end.

When they were finished, both of them sated and a little glassy-eyed, he'd tugged her from the nest of tangled sheets and they'd showered together. She'd pulled her hair up, piled on top of her head, and he'd been careful not to get it wet, though damp tendrils clung to her neck. And now she was sitting on the bed, naked, and she pulled it loose and it tumbled down around her shoulders, falling in wild abandon almost to her waist. She pulled a brush from her purse, and began to work the tangles out, methodically stroking through the thick mass.

“Here,” he stepped forward, hand extended, “let me.”

She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Are you sure? It's sort of a pain to work the snarls out.”

He nodded and took the brush from her hand, then moved to sit behind her on the bed. He lifted the brush and began to pull it through her curls. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

She turned, and he was astonished to see tears in her eyes. “I don't think you could ever hurt me.”

He clasped her to himself, holding her against his heart, and murmured, “I wouldn't, Mara, I would never hurt you.”

She snuggled against him a bit longer and he felt the hot sting of tears against his chest. What? What made her cry like this? He wanted to ask, but was afraid of the answer. Instead, he held her gently, and then, when she was settled, he sat her up and began once more to tease the snarls from her head.

“I want to know,” he said quietly.

“Know what?” she asked.

He continued to work the brush through her hair, and watched as it leapt to life, electric, and swirled about them.

“About him. The one that hurt you. The one that makes you cry.”

She grew very still, and very silent, then she rose and turned to him, taking the brush. “No, you don't,” she said.

He reached out and touched the scar on her breast, then said, “Did he do this?”

“Please leave it alone, Walter.” He could hear the pleading in her voice, the approaching panic. “Please?”

He looked at her. She was frightened, her breath coming in small little pants. He glanced at her chest, knowing her heart was racing, then he mentally kicked himself for bringing her to this. Dropping his gaze, he whispered, “I'm sorry.”

She heard only his regret that his question had upset her, but he knew he was offering inadequate apology for what his gender had done to her.

She reached out and embraced him, pulling him close. “It's all right, Walter. There's time. We don't have to do it all right now.”

He rested his head against her breast, then turned and brushed the scar with his lips. “I'm sorry,” he said again.

“I know,” she said sadly, and he suddenly had a vision of their first meeting. Breakfast in a small diner. His hand on her wrist, asking her name. His comment, unusual. And her response.

'It means bitter sorrow.'

He came out of the hearing and was astonished to see Mulder and Scully waiting in the hall.

“Don't you have work to do?” he asked gruffly, though he was pleased to see them. He began to walk down the hall and they joined him.

“Nah,” Mulder drawled. “I think the world is safe from fertilizer for the next few days. We can relax our vigilance.”

“What happened, Sir?” Scully asked. “What did they do to you?”

“Written reprimand, stays in my record two years.” He shrugged.

“You don't seem too upset,” Mulder commented.

“I deserved it. I should never have let that man bait me that way.” He stopped and turned to them, his face coloring slightly. “Look,” he averted his gaze, uncomfortable, “I appreciate you coming. But ...” His voice trailed away. What could he say to them? That someone else was waiting for him? That he needed to get out of this building and find her? That she was leaving and he was more concerned with the next 6 hours until he could be with her again than he was any reprimand he could be given?

“Where is she?” Mulder asked, and Scully smacked him gently on the arm.

“Waiting for me by the Mall.” Skinner looked up, relieved that they seemed to understand.

“We'll tell Kim you stepped out for a few after the hearing,” Scully offered. “You go.”

He nodded gratefully, already making his way to the elevator, his thoughts turned elsewhere.

Mulder whistled softly as they watched him disappear. “Man, he's got it bad.”

Scully smacked him again. “I don't think it's bad at all,” she murmured. “I think it's very, very good, and I think it's about time.”

The last twenty miles were pure hell. He was actually fidgeting as he drove. He grinned to himself as he thought of Kim's expression when he left his office at 5:00 on the dot. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left on time. He didn't know if he ever had.

He sighed. The hearing had come at a good time. They could chalk up his new attitude toward keeping to business hours as fallout from his disciplinary proceeding. He grinned. It was great timing -- it would provide cover for a lot. Lord knows he'd seen it often enough. Someone screwed up, but just couldn't deal with being held accountable for their actions, and their attitude went out the window.

Well, he was afraid his work ethic was seriously compromised -- but not for that reason. His reason stood about five feet tall, had red hair and green eyes, and was waiting for him in Richmond. He sighed as he looked at the cell phone next to him. Useless. She didn't have one, and he hadn't had a phone put in the apartment yet. With all the time she was going to spend on the road, between Richmond and Norfolk, he was going to have to get a cellular for her. He didn't want her out there with no way to call for help if something happened. He'd take care of it tomorrow.

Finally, the apartment. He was there. He parked, looking around for her car. There, it was there. Which meant she was here. He hopped out of the car, grabbed his bag from the rear and walked quickly inside. He reached the door and paused. His key was out, but he didn't want to risk startling her. Instead, he reached out and knocked softly, suddenly shy and diffident.

God, he'd pushed her so hard into this. What if she really didn't want to be here? What if she was just humoring him? Or worse -- he thought of the scar on her chest. What if she was afraid to tell him no? Oh God, what had he done?

He was thinking of leaving again, giving her some space, more time, when the door opened, and she was there. She took in the stricken look on his face, shook her head ruefully, and tugged him in. Relieving him of the bag, she smiled up at him, and said, “I just can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Alone,” she repeated. “I leave you alone and you sink into the pit of despair.” She kissed him softly, then asked, “What is it this time?”

“You,” he choked out. “I pushed this on you. Maybe you weren't ready. Maybe you didn't ...”

“Shh,” her fingers were on his lips. “Shhhh.” She looked up at him. “I'm a big girl, Walter. It may have taken some time, but I don't do things I don't want to do.” She stepped away from him, into the center of the room. “Not for you, not for him, not for anybody.”

It had slipped out, and he didn't even think she was aware of what she had said. But he heard it clearly -- not for him. What the hell had happened to her?

She was still talking. “This is where I want to be.” She waved her arms around the small room. “I must confess, I didn't expect it to happen so quickly,” she gave a giddy little laugh and hugged herself, “but I'm glad it did.” She moved back to him, her hands stroking his chest, then playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Let's see,” she teased, “I could be home, alone, eating a frozen dinner with another night of television to look forward to, or,” her eyes darkened and she licked her lips, her hand traveling down to caress him through his pants, “I could be here, with you, making ...” she paused, mischief clear in her face as she kissed him swiftly and then pulled away, “dinner.”

She giggled and dashed into the kitchen, and he let out a roar and followed her. “Oh no you don't,” he growled, as he pulled her back into his arms. He kissed her hard, then held her tight against himself, his chin resting on her head. She was just the right height to fit against him. He sighed, contented. Once again, she had chased his demons away. “I'm so glad you're here,” he whispered.

“Oh, Walter, where else could I be?”

They were curled up on the couch after dinner, her head resting against his chest, when he asked, “Where do you work?” He blushed, then added, “God, I feel so stupid that I have to ask.”

She smiled in understanding. “Civil Service,” she said, “at the Navy Base. I work with computers.”

“Doing what?”

“Data management. Analysis. Some training. Nothing exciting, I assure you,” she laughed.

He was thinking. Transfer? Could she find a comparable job in DC? Would it be pushing again to bring it up? He looked around. The apartment was all right - but not what he wanted for her. He wanted to give her everything. And he couldn't do that in a one bedroom furnished apartment, a two hour drive from either of them.

He frowned, and she must have sensed his mood shift, because she tilted her head up and looked at him. “What now, Walter?” She laughed as she said it, then added, “How does my job do this to you?”

“Do what?” He was confused again. She seemed to do that to him a lot. Her immediate insight, her intuition; it kept him guessing, off balance, but in a rather nice way.

“Send you into one of your morose moments.”

He made an effort to smile, saying, “Me? Morose? How could you think such a thing?”

She twisted out of his arms and turned around to look at him. She studied him for a moment, then said, “OK, you can slide on this one, but I'm calling you on the next one.” She leaned in and kissed him and he was once more amazed.

“How do you know me so well?” he murmured to her.

She laughed again, and kissed him, then stood, pulling him up behind her. “Come on,” she said. “Let's take a walk.”

He followed her to the door, grabbing their coats, and helping her on with hers, then shrugging into his own. They stepped into the hallway, and he pulled the door shut, pocketing the key. They walked out of the building and stood for a moment in the parking lot. “Where to?” he asked.

“Remember that park we saw yesterday?”

He nodded.

“How far away do you think that is?”

He thought for a minute, then said, “Mile and a half? Maybe two?”

“You up for that?”

He nodded again, then took her hand. When she began to head off to the left, he pulled her to a stop, and said, “I thought you wanted to go to the park?”

She looked up at him, her turn to be confused. “It's not this way?”

He laughed then, and said, “Ah, at last. You do have a flaw! I was beginning to think you were perfect!”

She blushed and shook her head. “Don't be silly. No one's perfect -- certainly not me. And navigation is not my strong suit.”

He pulled her close for a moment, and whispered down to her, “Perfect enough for me.” He stood there, holding her, then teased, “But I do think I'll drive if we go somewhere.” She giggled and he smiled at her, then stepped back and took her hand again, saying, “Come on, let's go.”

They were walking at a good clip and had gone about a mile, when he said, “I thought you wanted to take a 'walk.' I didn't know we were going to be racing.”

She laughed and said, “I like to walk. I walk most every night at home.” She paused, then looked up at him, “Well, in Norfolk. This is home now.”

He felt the grin that blossomed on his face. Home now. This was home now. Here. With him. Her home. Their home. Oh, God, he was going to be insufferable, he could tell. He had no idea there was this much happiness in the whole world, let alone just for him. But she was talking again, and he had missed it, so he asked, “What? I'm sorry -- I was lost in thought for a minute.”

“I said, what time do you have to be there?”

“Where? Oh, work? Um, I used to go in early every day, but 8:00 is all right.”

She looked at him, appraising his body, and asked, “And when, and where, do you work out?”

He smiled again - she knew him too well. “I used to work out at home, but I can use the gym at the Hoover. I just need to go in a bit earlier.”

She had her head cocked as she looked at him. “I think I'd like to watch you; that could be a most -- intriguing -- sight.” She wiggled her eyebrows and he laughed.

“I don't think so. I don't think I'd get much 'work' done if you were watching.”

She laughed with him. “ 's all right. I don't think I'd get much 'watching' done anyway.”

They reached the park and he put his arm around her, leading her to a bench where they sat.

“So, looks like I'll be leaving about 5:00. When do you need to go?”

“I don't have to be there till 8:30. I'll leave between 6:00 and 6:30.”

“I want to get you a phone. I'm going to get you a phone.” She was looking at him, surprised. “I don't want you on the road without a way of calling for help.”

“I'll be OK,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“Mara,” he pulled her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “Please, let me do this. I'll worry enough as it is. I already feel bad, asking you to make the drive every day. Let me do this. It'll help me not to worry so much.” He kissed her gently, and saw the tears fill her eyes. “Hey, what is it?”

She shook her head, then quickly wiped the tears away.

“No sliding this time,” he said. “What is it?”

She looked up at him, smiled sadly, and then averted her eyes. “I'm ...” -- she took a deep breath -- “I'm not exactly used to having someone worrying over me.” She sighed softly. “It's a nice feeling. Thank you.”

Thank you? She was thanking him? Didn't she have any idea what she had done for him? He mentally shook his head. That this simple gesture, a commonsense action really, would mean enough to bring her to tears -- he wasn't sure he wanted to know what had happened to her before. If he found out, he might have to kill someone. But no more. Whatever it was, no more.

He pulled her close, then said, “I'll get it tomorrow at lunch; bring it down with me in the evening.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, enjoying each other's presence, until she shifted awkwardly. “Walter,” she began, “your job. It's a lot more important than mine. What you do ...” She trailed off, and he remained quiet as she sorted out her thoughts. “You do important work, Walter. I don't want to take you away from that.”

He snorted, then laughed cynically. “Sad to say, but I'm not sure you can. I'm afraid there will be times when I won't be able to come down. Times I'll still have to go in early or stay late. Times I'll have to travel.”

She was nodding. “I expected as much.”

He shook his head. “But I'm going to work really hard to minimize those times, Mara. Really hard.” He leaned back against the bench. “I have something else I want to spend my time on now -- someone else. Hell, if I was a little bit older, I'd be looking into early retirement, I can assure you. I may just quit anyway.”

“Walter!” she gasped, “you can't!”

“Yes, I think I could. I have money. I'm not rich, but I could probably work it out.” His face took on a faraway expression as he began to calculate in his head if this was really an option, or if he was just dreaming. Hmmm, he would have to work it out on paper.

“What?” He'd missed what she said again. He had to start paying better attention. She was always so attentive, and she deserved the same from him.

“What you do is important, Walter. It's not like what I do. If I were to disappear tomorrow, no one would even notice.”

“I would,” he interrupted her fiercely, and stood, pulling her up into a tight embrace. “I would! And don't even talk about it. I would search the world to find you; I would never give up. Mara, if you disappeared and I couldn't find you, I think I would die.” He gripped her tightly to his chest, burying his face in her hair, “You don't know how much I need you.” He tightened his hold and felt her arms come around him. “How much I need this. Don't disappear, Mara. Please, promise me. I couldn't bear it.”

“Shhh,” she soothed him. “Walter, it was a figure of speech. I'm not planning on going anywhere, I assure you.” She could feel his heart racing beneath her, and she stroked his back slowly, offering what comfort she could. When his breathing had evened out, and his heartbeat was back to normal, she took his hand and said, “Come. We need to head back. Five a.m. is going to come early for you.”

They walked along in silence for a while, then she said, “Walter?”

“Hmmm?”

“What I said back there. About your work being important?”

“Yeah?”

“It is, you know. What you do -- catching people that hurt other people. Making them stop. Getting justice for the victims, closure for the families. It's some of the most important work in the world.” She stopped and looked up at him. “You can't quit, Walter. There aren't enough people who care like you do. You just can't quit.”

He shook his head. “I'm not all that important, Mara.”

“Don't sell yourself short. You're an Assistant Director. That's pretty high up. And Violent Crimes. That's important stuff, Walter. We need you.”

“We?”

“We. Us. The little people. The masses. The ones who can't fight for ourselves. We need you to fight for us. Walter, you don't know how badly we need people like you. To make sure that the bad guys get caught.” She chuckled. “You know - catch the bad guy, get the girl?”

He looked at her then, and saw the earnestness beneath her veneer of humor. He nodded. “OK. I won't quit.” She smiled, and he added, “Yet. But, Mara, I'm not young. Forty-seven, remember? I'm gonna want to retire and be with you. And I'm gonna want to do it sooner rather than later.”

“I know.” She held his hand, her thumb making little circles in his palm. “I know. We'll work it out, Walter.” They were almost back to the apartment now, and she waved her other hand, “See how much we've already worked out?”

Six weeks later

“What the hell is the matter with you, Jenkins?” Skinner roared. “Do I have to tell you every little thing to do? I want all of it picked up and bagged. Everything. Is that clear enough?”

The young agent nodded and scurried away to get some more evidence bags. Skinner pulled his phone again, was met with the same silence he'd gotten every other time, indicating a lack of carrier, and closed it with a bang. “Shit!” he muttered.

“A bit hard on Jenkins, there, weren't you, Sir?” Mulder asked.

“What?” Skinner looked up, startled, then looked around. Jenkins was nowhere to be seen.

“I said, you were a bit hard on Jenkins.”

“If he'd bagged everything the first go round, we might be done here,” Skinner growled.

“I don't think so, Sir. We're not going to be done here for a while, and it isn't Jenkins' fault.” Mulder was eyeing Skinner speculatively. “Now, what is the problem? What's got you so on edge? Besides the case, that is?”

Skinner looked around, noting they were alone, then confessed, “I didn't expect to have to come out here. I didn't tell Mara. And the damn phone won't work because of the mountains. I can't get a message to her to tell her where I am.”

Mulder was nodding. “Scully's going down the mountain with the body. She can call for you.”

Skinner sighed. “Yeah. I guess that'll have to do.” He looked around, saw Jenkins carefully bagging bottle caps, used condoms, a broken wine bottle, and said, “And I better go talk to Jenkins. Not his fault.”

“No, Sir, it's not.” He patted the older man's arm. “And this case is enough to put anyone on edge.”

He opened the door quietly. 2:00 a.m. He was exhausted. But he wanted to see her. He slipped off his coat, toed off his shoes, and undressed. Three hours sleep. Shit, he'd skip working out tomorrow -- four hours. He could do that. It would be four hours with her. And he needed her after the crime scene today. He was still appalled at how he had treated young Jenkins. Inexcusable.

He locked the door, then turned and padded silently to the bedroom. She was sleeping, her hair flowing out behind her, covering his side of the bed. He smiled as he began to gather it together, making room to slide beneath the sheets and join her. He had been right when he had said he could get used to this. Her hair still captivated him. So long, and thick, and silky. He didn't know how she managed not to smother in it. As he tugged at strands that covered his pillow, he felt her shift as she rolled over and looked up at him.

“Dana called me,” she mumbled sleepily.

“I know. I'm sorry I couldn't call myself. My phone wouldn't work.”

“ 's all right. I was surprised you called at all -- or had her call.” She yawned, saying, “You know what I mean.”

Another glimpse into her past. They slipped out at unexpected moments.

She was sitting up now, pulling herself beside him and he looked down and saw he was still holding her hair in his hands. He reached behind her and let it loose to fall against her back, then brushed a few wayward strands from her face.

“I want to take you away.”

“Away?”

“A trip. A vacation. Away.”

“Away.”

“Yes, I want to go away with you. I don't want to have to think about you driving two hours to see me. I don't want to have our work always in the background. And I especially don't want to have murderers interrupt us. I want some time alone with you. Away.”

“How much time?”

“Forever?”

She smiled. “How about two weeks? I can probably get a couple weeks off.”

He smiled. “Well, if I can't have forever, I'll take two weeks.”

“I never said you couldn't have forever.” She smiled as she said it.

“But not right now.” His face was serious. “Not right now.”

“Walter,” she reached for him, pulling him into her embrace. And he came willingly, bending to rest his head on her shoulder, to let her hold him and shelter him and work her healing magic. “We're in forever. This is forever. We're doing forever -- one day at a time.”

It had taken another month to arrange their work schedules so they could both be off for two weeks. Skinner hadn't been this excited in years. Hell, he hadn't been this excited in his whole life.

They were going to the beach house. His parents had owned a small house in Nags Head since before he was born, and they had always vacationed there. When his mom had died, some time back, he had inherited it. He paid the taxes, kept up the utilities, even had a phone there, though he hadn't used the place in years. But he was going to use it now. He had good memories of that house, and he wanted to make some more good memories with Mara.

Two weeks. He sighed. Two weeks and the weekend before and the weekend after. Sixteen days away from everything. Starting tonight, as soon as he could get away. He glanced at the clock. 2:45 p.m. He still had about an hour's worth of paperwork, and that asshole Kersch wanted to meet with him. He was complaining about Mulder and Scully again. Wanted to make a formal complaint that they were not assigned to Violent Crimes, and he wanted Skinner to stop asking them for help. Skinner shook his head. He couldn't do this today. Not today.

He picked up his phone. “Kim? Reschedule AD Kersch for when I get back off leave, please.” He listened. “I know. I'm sorry. If it'll help, you can wait till I'm gone and then call the bast --, um, then call him.” He could hear her chuckling as she gave her agreement, then wished him well on his trip. “Thanks. I owe you one.” He hung up, and dug back into the paperwork on his desk.

Fifty minutes later, he looked up. Done. He was free. He dropped the last 302 in his out-basket, and stood, stretching. He'd just call Mara and tell her he was on his way. He picked up the phone as he was putting on his coat, and dialed her work number.

“May I speak to Ms. Norris?” That was odd. She usually answered her own phone when he called her at work. “I see. Thank you.” He hung up, frowning. She hadn't come to work today. Maybe she took an extra day to get ready. He'd try her at home.

“Hi - you've reached Mara.” He smiled to hear her voice, then shook his head. She had to change that message. It made it entirely too easy for perverts to figure she was a woman alone. They'd drive down one weekend and he'd redo the recording for her. It would give him an excuse to see her house again. “Please leave a message and I'll get back to you soon.”

“Hey, this is Walter. I just wanted to tell you I was leaving now. Tried your office, but they told me you didn't come in today. I'm gonna try the cell next. If I miss you, I'll see you in Richmond this evening.” He hung up again, and headed out, making his good-byes to Kim. As he reached the elevator, he was joined by Mulder and Scully.

“It's all your fault,” Mulder said dryly.

“What?” Skinner was distracted, waiting to reach the ground level so he could get out of the elevator and try Mara again.

“Kersch.”

“How is Kersch my fault?” Skinner asked absently, counting the floors in his head.

Mulder and Scully exchanged amused glances.

“He chewed us out because of the murder in the mountains last month.”

“Among other things,” Scully added with a sideways glance at her partner.

“Oh. That must be what he's talking about then. I'm afraid I blew him off this afternoon.” They exited the elevator, and Skinner was dialing.

“You blew him off?”

“Uh, yeah.” One ring. Two rings. Three rings. “Canceled our big meeting till I get back.” Four rings. Five rings. Six.

“The cellular customer you are trying to reach ...”

Skinner slammed the phone shut. “Shit! Where is she?”

“Who?” Scully asked.

“Mara. She didn't go to work today. She's not at home. Her cell is turned off. I'm going to try the apartment.”

He dialed again, and Mulder and Scully stood looking at him. He was fidgeting as he waited for the connection, then they watched as his lips moved, silently counting, 'One. Two. Three. Four.'

“Mara? Mara, it's Walter. If you're there, pick up. I'm worried.” He waited a moment, then said, “I'm on my way. I hope to hell you are too and you just forgot to turn the cell on. See you soon.”

“I'm gonna call the landlord.” He glanced at Mulder and Scully. “I'm probably overreacting, but I just need to know everything is all right.”

Mulder took a long look at Scully, then reached out and patted Skinner's arm. “ 's OK. I know the feeling. Go ahead and call. We'll wait.” Scully was nodding as well.

“Mr. Scarpelli? Walter Skinner. Have you seen Mara?” He paused. “Her car is there? Would you mind going upstairs and checking on her.” He swallowed hard. “I've been having some trouble reaching her.” He waited as the man spoke again. “No sir, I'll hold on if you don't mind.”

The tension was palpable as the three waited. Scully unconsciously inched a little closer to Mulder, and he reached out and gently touched her arm. Skinner was positively vibrating, so tense he trembled where he stood.

“Yes?” he said tightly. He was listening intently, and the trembling tripled and the blood drained from his face.

“Sir?” Scully stepped forward, grabbing his arm. “Mulder, get him. I think he's going to faint.” They half dragged, half carried him to a stone barricade in the parking garage, and pushed him down to sit on it. Mulder took the phone from Skinner's useless fingers.

“Sir? Excuse me, this is Agent Fox Mulder, of the FBI. I work with Assistant Director Skinner. Could you repeat for me what you just told him?”

Mulder listened intently, while Scully stood by Skinner, holding his head between his knees, telling him to breathe. “Thank you, Sir. Yes, call the police, but tell them the FBI is involved and they are not to touch anything. Have them call me if there's a problem.” He rattled off his phone number, then hung up.

He turned to look at Skinner. The AD's head wasn't between his knees anymore; rather, it was buried in his hands, and his shoulders shook slightly.

Scully patted his back gently, then rose from her seat next to him, and walked to Mulder.

“What?” she asked, the fear evident in her voice. “What happened?”

“Not sure. Apartment was broken into, pretty torn up. No sign of Mara. But,” he lowered his voice, “Skinner didn't hear this. He flaked after the break-in part. There's blood everywhere.”

“I have to get down there,” Skinner said as he rose to his feet. He blinked and looked around, seeing Mulder and Scully talking a few feet away. “I want you both with me. Mulder, you're SAIC on this.” He turned and began to head for his car.

“Sir?” Scully called, but he ignored her and both agents trotted forward. She reached out and grabbed his arm when he continued to ignore her. “Sir?”

Skinner shook her off, almost violently, and she stumbled, Mulder catching her and helping her get balanced. Then Mulder reached out, grabbed Skinner and whirled him around.

“Scully wants to talk to you,” he gritted out.

“I don't have time for this,” Skinner growled.

“You have to take time,” Scully ordered. “You want Mulder as SAIC? You have to make arrangements. We don't work for you anymore, remember?”

“Shit!” Skinner stood silent for a moment, then stalked off rapidly, Mulder and Scully trailing. He got back in the elevator and rode to the top floor, then walked to the Director's office, his two agents still following. They hovered by the door as Skinner strode briskly toward Freeh's administrative assistant.

“Theresa? I need to see him,” Skinner began.

“He's in a meeting, Mr. Skinner.”

“Pull him out. This is an emergency.”

The woman lifted the phone and spoke quietly, then replaced it saying, “He'll be right out.”

The door opened and Skinner stepped over to the man who emerged. “Louis, I need your help.”

“What is it, Walt? What's the emergency?”

“My -- Mar --, that is, the woman --” Skinner's voice cracked and he couldn't continue.

“Walter, calm down.” The Director patted the taller man on the shoulder, lifting his eyes to see Scully and Mulder in the doorway. “Agents,” he nodded in greeting. “Can you fill me in here?”

Mulder stepped forward. “A woman, Mara Norris, is missing from the apartment she shares with the Assistant Director.”

“I see.” Freeh turned back to Skinner. “What do you need?”

“Mulder,” Skinner said, “and Scully. I need the best we've got and they're it.”

Freeh turned back and looked at the two agents in question.

“Agent Mulder is it? I've heard good things about your work in Violent Crimes, though you do have an -- interesting -- reputation.” He extended his hand and Mulder shook it.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“And Agent Scully. Your work is also excellent. Much to be commended.” He shook her hand as well, then turned back to Skinner, who was standing forlornly by the desk, waiting for a decision.

“Walt, I have AD Kersch in my office right now. Did you miss some meeting with him this afternoon?”

“I didn't miss it. I moved it. I'm technically on leave right now, and I moved the meeting to when I return.” Skinner shook his head, “Louis, this is not pertinent. I need to get going. Can I have them or not?”

“AD Kersch is complaining that you've been having them without his permission since they were transferred to him several months ago.”

Skinner snorted in disgust. “Kersch has them investigating fertilizer. Keeping the world safe from manure. Pardon my frankness, but AD Kersch couldn't find his posterior with both hands and a mirror.”

The Director laughed at that, then said, “No love lost between you two.” He paused, “Look, Walt, I've missed our racquetball games. You're always so direct.” He straightened, then said, “I'll deal with Kersch. You want Mulder as SAIC? You've got him.”

“No,” Mulder spoke up, and all heads turned. “Not me. Scully. Make Scully SAIC.”

“May I ask why?” the Director inquired.

“That 'interesting' reputation of mine. We can't afford to let it impede this investigation. And besides, Scully's better with people and she's a better administrator as well. I don't have the patience for it.”

“That all right with you, Walt?”

“Fine,” Skinner said through gritted teeth. “I just need to get going now, Louis. And I'll see about that racquetball.”

“I'm canceling your leave, Walt. You're on this full-time, unless your judgment is impaired.” Freeh turned and fixed Scully with a serious stare. “You are responsible for making that call, Agent Scully. If Assistant Director Skinner is unable to function, or in any way becomes a threat to himself, others, or the investigation, he is to be pulled off of it, and I want to be notified, understood?” He grabbed a card off the admin's desk, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to her. “My cell number. Call me if you need anything.”

“Yes, Sir,” Scully replied.

Skinner was at the door, turned, and said, “Thank you, Louis. I'll remember this.”

They were in the car now, Scully driving, Mulder beside her, Skinner in the back. Mulder had a notepad and was trying to get the AD to answer some questions.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“This morning, when I left to drive up to DC. About 5:00.”

“Was that your normal time to leave?”

Skinner looked up, his face stricken. “Shit. I established a routine. I always left at the same time. Oh, God, what have I done?” He turned and stared out the window, forehead pressed against the glass.

“I don't think you've done anything, Sir,” Scully commented. “Most people leave for work at the same time everyday.”

“When did she leave?”

Skinner was quiet, and Mulder had to repeat the question. “Sir? When did Mara leave?”

“Leave?” Skinner pulled his head wearily from the window, and looked toward Mulder. “Oh, she usually leaves between 6:00 and 6:30. I go in early to work out.”

“And she didn't go to work today?”

“No.”

“Did she call in?”

“I don't know, Mulder,” Skinner snapped, “I didn't ask.”

“All right,” the younger man said soothingly, “it's all right. We'll find out.”

Skinner nodded and turned back toward the window.

Mulder looked at Scully, both of them thinking the same thing -- and hoping it hadn't occurred to Skinner yet. That apparently whatever had happened had happened after Skinner left. And at that hour of the morning, she was probably a deliberate target and not just a random victim. Which brought up all kinds of questions.

“How long have you kept this apartment?”

“Huh? Oh, almost three months.”

“Know the neighbors? People in the neighborhood? Markets, video store, take-out places, that sort of thing?”

“Not really. We, uhm,” Skinner flushed slightly, “we keep to ourselves pretty much.”

“Nobody who may have fixated on her? Targeted her for any reason?”

“What?” Skinner turned and looked at Mulder again. “Why?”

“Just standard questions, Sir. I need to get a feel for what may have happened.”

Skinner's eyes were glassy, and he stared dully at Mulder. “The man,” he said.

“What man?”

“I don't know!” Skinner burst out. “She wouldn't talk about him. It just slipped out at odd times. Little comments, certain actions. She has a scar, here,” he made a motion across his chest, “she wouldn't tell me about it, but I think he did it to her.”

“Ex-husband?”

“I don't know! I -- we didn't talk about it. I didn't want to push.”

“Is Norris her maiden name or married name?”

Skinner raised haunted eyes to Mulder, “I don't even know if she was married. I just don't know.” He slumped again, turning his face away, and Scully reached out to pat Mulder's leg.

“Let it rest a bit, Mulder,” she said softly. “He's on overload.”

Mulder nodded and the rest of the trip was made in silence.

Skinner was still staring passively out the back window when they reached the Richmond city limits. Scully tapped Mulder's leg again. “You have to tell him,” she whispered.

“Tell me what?” Skinner said from the rear seat in a tired, quiet voice.

Mulder turned from the front, facing the older man. “There was blood found at the apartment, Sir.”

Skinner groaned, a mindless sound of pure anguish, and buried his head in his hands. “Oh God, what have I done?” he murmured.

Scully and Mulder exchanged worried looks.

“What have you done, Sir?” Mulder asked.

“I dragged her down here, pushed her into this. I wanted to see her, to be with her. It was all I could think about. I made her vulnerable.” He choked on a ragged sob, then added, “And then I went and left her, all so I could log an hour in the gym.” His voice was filled with bitterness and self-loathing.

“How much blood, Mulder? Is she still ...?” He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Alive. She was still alive. She had to be alive. He would know if she wasn't, wouldn't he? And she couldn't die, she wouldn't. She knew what it would do to him. He wouldn't be able to go on. It would be his own death warrant if she died.

“We don't know how much blood, Sir,” Mulder equivocated. “We'll find out soon.” He consulted a map in his lap, checking addresses against his pad, then nodded toward a building up the block. “That's it, right?”

Skinner looked up. Of course that was it. The parking lot was swarming with cops, and cop cars, and a forensic van. Agents from the Richmond office were there also; Skinner recognized the SAIC from the local office standing by the forensic van.

Scully pulled up and parked on the street. As they exited the car, she stepped up to Skinner and placed her hand on his chest, forcing him to stop or run her over.

He stopped, but reluctantly.

“You are a witness, understand? You are the equivalent of family of the victim.”

Skinner winced. Victim. Mara was a victim. All he wanted to do was be with her, make her happy, give her the world. And instead, he'd made her a victim.

Scully was still talking. “ ... call the Director, I will, don't misunderstand me on this.”

He nodded, not sure what she had said, but determined to make her let him move past. She lowered her hand, but grasped his wrist as he started to walk away. “Mulder and I are here as friends as well,” she said softly. “Let us help.”

He blinked, then looked down at the small woman who held him in place with her firm grip. Tears filled his eyes and his vision blurred, and he suddenly saw another small redhead, holding him, soothing him, murmuring to him. Oh, God, he had to find her! He nodded abruptly, then walked quickly past her, leaving the two agents to catch him as best they could.

It was after midnight. The last of the lab techs had left, the apartment had been released, and Skinner refused to leave. Mulder and Scully wanted to take him to a motel, but he was immovable.

“If she comes back, I need to be here. I don't want her to think I'm not here,” he pleaded, and the two agents had reluctantly acquiesced.

There had been blood everywhere, as the landlord indicated, but it hadn't been a lot. More what might have happened if someone was injured in a struggle, then moved about the apartment trying to escape their attacker.

Skinner had actually been relieved to see the blood. Well, not relieved, but he was aware that there wasn't enough in the apartment to represent a life-threatening wound. He had wanted to start cleaning immediately after everyone left, but Scully had insisted he sit for a few minutes. He was currently on the couch, a new cream-colored sweater clutched in his hands. Mulder sat across from him, silently watching, as his fingers spasmodically clenched and unclenched within the soft wool.

Scully came in from the kitchen, a small tray with three mugs on it in her hands. “Here,” she said tiredly, as she held the tray out to Mulder. He took a cup, then watched as she walked to Skinner, only to see him shake his head. She glanced up at Mulder, saw him shake his head slightly, then placed the tray on the small table before the couch and took the other chair.

“New?” Mulder asked conversationally.

“What?” Skinner looked up, startled, then glanced down at the sweater in his lap. His fingers began to smooth the material, trying to work out the pulls he had made with his rough treatment. “I bought it for her.” He looked up. “She gets cold. Her office is cold and she gets cold. But she can't seem to keep a sweater.”

“She lose 'em?”

“You could say that.” He shook his head slowly, then smiled. “She gives them away. Sees people on the street who look cold, takes her sweater off, and gives it to them. Hats and gloves, too, but it hasn't been cold enough for that. She's been buying them though, stocking up.” He chuckled. “New meaning to 'shirt off your back,' wouldn't you say?” He returned his gaze to his lap, fingers now stroking the soft material. “This is the third one I've bought for her.”

“She must be wonderful,” Mulder commented.

“She is,” he whispered softly to his lap. He closed his eyes a moment and shivered involuntarily.

“Here,” Scully leaned forward and held a cup out to Skinner. “Drink this.”

He eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“Herbal tea, but it will help take the chill off.”

“Nothing will help.”

“Try,” she pleaded. “You need to try.”

Skinner took the cup and sipped, already lost in thought again.

Mulder stood, then stepped to Scully's chair and whispered, “I'm going to clean the bedroom and the bath, then maybe we can get him to sleep.”

She nodded, then rose and sat next to Skinner on the couch.

“This has been a big change for you, hasn't it?” She nodded, her movement taking in the room.

“Good change,” Skinner mumbled.

“We can tell.”

Skinner looked up. “Can you?”

Scully smiled, that full-blown smile that they saw so rarely, and Skinner couldn't help but smile back slightly.

“There,” she said. “That's how we can tell. You smile now.”

“I have a reason to.” His face fell, and a frown replaced the smile. “I had a reason to.”

“You will again,” she said. “Mulder's the best, you know that. If anyone can find her, he can.” She reached out and tentatively took his hand, surprised when he grabbed hers and clung to it. She leaned over and stroked his arm, watching as his breathing grew ragged and he struggled for control. “It'll work out, Sir,” she murmured. “You gotta believe.”

They hadn't expected Skinner to agree to sleep, but when Mulder had emerged from the bedroom, nodding to let her know the rooms were clean, Scully had suggested it. She and Skinner were still sitting on the couch together, her hand still clutched in the older man's.

Mulder walked back to his chair, eyes widening slightly as he saw the joined hands of his partner and his boss, then seated himself.

“You can get a shower, then try to sleep,” he said to Skinner. “We'll be able to go at it again in the morning, when everyone is fresh.”

Skinner had nodded, then slowly released Scully's hand. He rose a bit shakily, then walked back to the bedroom. They heard a drawer open, then a door, and then the shower went on. It didn't run long, and then there was the sound of linens rustling as Skinner settled in the bed.

“Couch or chair?” Mulder asked.

“Go to the motel, Mulder,” Scully said. “I'll stay. You'll be miserable trying to sleep here.”

“I'm not going to sleep much, Scully. I've got too much going on in my head.” He walked over and sat beside her on the couch, his hand reaching out to take hers. “Hey, should I be jealous?”

She looked up at him, then rested her head against his shoulder. “It's so sad,” she sighed. “He's finally got a chance at happiness, and this happens.” She sighed again, then added, “We have to find her.”

Mulder pulled his hand from hers, draping his arm around her, holding her close. “We will. We will.”

Mulder roused suddenly. Someone was screaming. He looked down to see Scully, still in his arms where she had fallen asleep, waking as well. He blinked owlishly, trying desperately to orient himself, but Scully was pulling away from him, and racing down a short hall to a small bedroom.

Skinner's place. That's where they were. Mara was missing. Skinner was screaming. He followed Scully, catching her before she walked into Skinner's flailing arms. “Let me,” he whispered, “not that I've had all that much luck in restraining him myself.”

He walked to the bed, grabbed the struggling man's arms, and called to him, “You need to wake up, Sir! It's a dream!”

Skinner stilled almost instantly, and Scully stepped forward, sitting next to him on the bed. The big man opened his eyes, looked up, and buried his face in her neck. “Mara!” he breathed. “I dreamed you were gone.” He groaned, clutching Scully tightly. “Oh, God, I dreamed you were gone.”

Slowly, her arms wrapped around him, and she rocked him gently, murmuring soothingly into his ear. Over his shoulder, she and Mulder exchanged worried glances.

Skinner's breathing was ragged, and Scully could feel his heart race where he was pressed against her. She stroked his back, still cooing to him, and felt him begin to relax. When he was almost totally loose within her arms, she nudged him back toward the pillows, helping him to lay down. “Are you better now, Sir?” she asked.

Skinner's eyes flew open and his face burned, flushing even more deeply when he noticed Mulder in the room as well. “Oh, God, I'm sorry,” he groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes as if hiding the sight of his agents would erase their presence.

“Shhh,” Scully said as she smoothed the covers over him. “It's all right.”

“I -- that was a -- that is, I thought you were her,” he blurted out, face still burning. He was humiliated that his agents had seen him in this way.

“You're stressed, Sir,” Mulder said from the doorway. “It's understandable.”

Skinner shook his head, and Scully pulled his arm away from his eyes. “Listen to him, Sir. He's a psychologist,” she said with a small smile. “He knows this stuff.”

Skinner 'hmmphed' at that.

“No, really, I do,” Mulder insisted from the door, nodding earnestly, and Skinner smiled slightly at his clowning.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

“And embarrassed, I'd imagine,” Scully added. She lay her hand against his cheek.

He nodded, then averted his gaze, but she grabbed his chin and pulled his face around to look at her. “It's all right,” she said softly. “You're not the Assistant Director right now. You're just a man who's hurting, and scared.” She looked up to see Mulder, then returned her gaze to Skinner. “And we're not your agents right now, either. We're your friends. You're allowed to let down with your friends.”

He drew a shuddery breath, then nodded slowly.

Scully rose to leave, and his hand snaked out, grabbing her lightly by the wrist. “Scully?” he said.

She paused and half turned to look at him. “Yes?”

“Thanks. You, too, Mulder,” he called quietly to the door.

“Sleep,” Scully said, and then she did something that surprised them all. She leaned down and kissed the Assistant Director right on the top of his bald head.