Author: Daydreamer
Posted: December 28, 1998

Mara – Part 2

“Where do you think you're going?” Scully sat up as the AD started to creep by. He was wearing shorts and a tank top, and had on sneakers.

“To run,” he whispered, trying to avoid waking Mulder, who had fallen asleep, head on his arms, at the small table in the dining area.

“Is that wise?” she asked.

He blinked and looked at her, uncomprehending.

“I mean, are you up to that much strenuous activity right now?”

“I need to do something,” he murmured. “I'm going insane.”

Mulder lifted his head. “I'll come with you,” he mumbled. “Let me change.” He rose, grabbed his bag and headed to the bathroom.

“I'm not sure I want company,” Skinner said to Scully.

“Then I won't talk,” Mulder said as he emerged in his own running shorts and T-shirt. “What time is the morning meeting, Scully?”

“9:00. I'd like to get there a little early though.”

“8:30?”

She nodded.

“All right.” He checked his watch. 6:00 a.m. They had plenty of time. He opened the door, then beckoned to the AD. “C'mon, let's go.”

Scully watched as the two men left, then snuggled back into the blanket on the couch, determined to get another hour's sleep before they got back.

Mulder and Skinner stood in the parking lot, stretching. “You have a route?” Mulder asked, and Skinner nodded. “How long?”

“Six and a half. That OK?” This time it was Mulder who nodded and they set off at a steady jog. As they warmed up, they increased the pace, inching it up incrementally till they were running at about a 7 minute mile. They had turned left out of the parking lot, and Mulder could tell they were making a big circle, working their way around in a loop to end up back at the apartment.

They'd gone about four miles, when a small park appeared before them. Skinner unconsciously began to slow, and Mulder slowed with him. As they drew nearer, Skinner slowed more, from a run to a trot, to a jog, until finally, he was walking. They were moving at a snail's pace now, Skinner's mind obviously faraway as he walked wearily to a bench to one side of the small playground area and sat.

Mulder followed, standing far enough away to allow some measure of privacy, but close enough to talk if that was what the older man wanted. Skinner sat in silence for a while, then looked up. “I got her a phone.”

“You did?” Mulder was puzzled.

“A cell phone. She didn't have one and I didn't want her driving I-64 without one. I was worried.” He shrugged.

“That was thoughtful.”

“Yeah. But wouldn't you think it was normal thoughtful?”

“Normal thoughtful?”

“Yeah. I mean, a woman you care about, four hours a day on the road -- and those murders from the early eighties still haven't been solved, you know -- you'd want her to have a phone.”

Mulder was lost. “Scully has a phone,” he offered, trying to keep Skinner talking.

“Yeah. You don't have to worry about that. But Mara didn't have a phone.”

“So you got her a phone.”

“Yeah. She was uncomfortable with the idea at first.” He looked up at Mulder. “She has this scar ...”

“You mentioned that in the car.”

“So I told her I wanted to get her a phone.”

“Normal thoughtful,” Mulder repeated.

“Yeah. That's what I thought. Normal. What you do for someone you care about.” He sighed then dropped his head into his hands. “It made her cry.”

“The phone?”

“The thought.”

“The thought made her cry.”

Mulder frowned, and Skinner looked up at his silence.

“She said she wasn't used to having anyone worry about her, and it made her cry.” He took a deep breath, then went on. “She thanked me.” Taking off his glasses, he scrubbed at his face. “She thanked me.” He lifted bleary eyes to peer in Mulder's direction. “Do you know what she has done for me? And she thanked me because I got her a damn phone.”

Mulder was quiet. It did sound as if the woman had a history of neglect -- possibly abuse if there was a story to go with the scar Skinner had mentioned twice now. He needed to know if there was an ex-husband in the woodwork, perhaps still jealous, and not wanting to see his wife take up with another man.

Mulder looked down at the AD. He sat hunched over, almost folded into himself, and he had the most forlorn expression on his face. Mulder was reminded of himself. How lost he had been when Scully was missing. How close to the edge he'd come. Skinner was walking that edge now, and it would be up to him and Scully to keep him from falling off it.

With utmost compassion and understanding, he reached out and took the older man's wrist. “C'mon,” he said gently. “We need to get back.” He let his hand linger there for a moment longer, offering comfort and support, then pulled the AD to his feet.

“It was just normal thoughtful,” Skinner murmured as he rose. “But it was important to her.”

“You're important to her, Sir. You're what's most important.” He nudged Skinner lightly, and they began the jog back to the apartment.

Scully was up and dressed when they got back, and Mulder pushed Skinner toward the bathroom first. While the AD was showering, he told her, “I think there may be something to the idea that Mara was in an abusive relationship.”

“Skinner say something new?”

“Yes and no. It was more how he said it than anything. Or how he related what Mara had said to him.”

“Well, this may help some,” Scully said. “We got a print. I didn't want to say anything in front of him. The locals are picking him up now.”

Mulder's eyes were wide. “Who?”

“Local hired muscle. I'm willing to bet he was the one who made the snatch, but I really don't think we're going to get much else from him.”

Mulder's face fell. “Oh. So we still don't know much.”

“Never can tell. Maybe our perp will tell all, and we'll have her back by noon.”

“We should be so lucky.”

Scully shook her head sadly. “No,” she said, as she jerked her head toward the closed bathroom door, “he should be so lucky.”

“You are not going to be present for the interrogation, and that is final!” It was the fourth time Scully had said that to the AD, and each time he acted as if he had not heard her.

He was standing with his back to her, in the observation room, facing the empty room on the other side of the window. “I need to be there. He'll tell me what we need to know, I promise. He'll talk for me.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.” She reached out and grabbed his upper arm, yanking hard to pull him around to face her. “You will stay in this room or I will have you escorted off the property and put under guard at the apartment. Is that clear?”

He glared at her for a moment, but when she didn't back down, he nodded reluctantly, then looked at Mulder. “Don't screw this up,” he hissed warningly.

Mulder took no offense, nodded gravely, and said, “No, Sir. This one is important and I won't screw up.” He and Scully stepped out of the claustrophobic booth, and Mulder asked, “You gonna leave him in there alone?”

“No. I've got Jenkins here, ready to go sit with him.”

Mulder rolled his eyes. “Why're you picking on Jenkins? The AD has him terrified enough as it is.”

“What? What happened?”

Mulder shook his head. “Never mind. Just make sure you tell the kid he isn't being punished.”

Scully nodded and left to find Jenkins, and arrange for the suspect to be brought to the room. Mulder paced nervously; this was potentially the most important interrogation he would do in his career. He couldn't afford to screw up. He took deep breaths, forcing himself to relax. It wouldn't do to let the perp see how much this meant to them. He'd either clam up entirely, or start making demands there was no way to meet. Mulder had already decided this guy could have anything he wanted, up to and including a walk on any and all pending charges, as long as he could produce Mara.

Jenkins appeared, moving slowly and with obvious trepidation, and Mulder patted him on the shoulder as he walked by. “The AD is upset -- I'm sure you know this is close to home for him. Try and understand, and don't take anything he may say too personally.”

Jenkins swallowed hard and nodded, then opened the door and went into the observation room, looking for all the world like a condemned man facing his executioner. Mulder laughed softly, then turned when he heard noises from down the hall. Their suspect had arrived.

SLAM! Mulder's hand hit the table hard, and the suspect rocked back in his chair, suddenly wary. “We are not playing games here!” Mulder roared. “You had better come clean and do it now!”

The suspect, one Franklin Capehart, aged 24, and penitentiary veteran of one sort or another for 12 of those years, was leaned back into his chair, not quite cowering, but not so cocky anymore either. He glanced over at Scully, standing silently in the corner, but she only stared back at him impassively.

Shit! Why the fuck did this shit always happen to him? All he wanted to do was pick up a few extra bucks. Man offers him $300.00 to pick up a girl, he picks up the girl. Nobody tells him it's some big shit cop's girl and now he's in so deep, he may never see the sun again.

He glanced back at the woman. No help there. She just stared at him like he was some bug, and she sure wasn't gonna do anything if that fucking asshole decided to hit him instead of the table next time. She'd just go conveniently blind and then tell him how sorry she was he 'fell' when she wasn't looking.

Shit! He was so fucked!

He looked up; the man was waiting, almost patient now, as if he knew what Franklin had been thinking.

“All right, man! Shee-it -- you just stay away from me. I don't know nothin' anyways, but I tell ya how it went down.”

Mulder nodded. “Then tell,” he said.

“Man gives me $300.00 to pick up this girl -- take her to a place down by Shockoe Slip. I get the girl, take her to the man, he gives me the money. End of story.”

“What man?” Mulder asked.

“Shit! I don't know. We wasn't exactly 'prop-ur-ly' introduced, ya know?”

“Where did you take her?”

“Down by the Slip. Empty warehouse on the river, down from the Slip.”

“Address.” Mulder pushed a pad in front of Franklin and watched as the man struggled to write the address down.

“ 'n I go now?” he asked when he finished.

“I think you know better than that, Franklin,” Mulder replied. “You don't go anywhere till we find the woman, and even then your future freedom is pretty iffy.”

“I didn't do nothin'!” Capehart cried. “I just picked her up.”

Scully spoke for the first time. “The blood. Why was there blood in the apartment?”

“Bitch hit me. Fucking bitch hit me.” Capehart rubbed his jaw, as if remembering the punch. Mulder looked closer and, sure enough, there was a faint hint of a bruise along the man's jawline.

“The blood?” Scully repeated.

Franklin shrugged. “Bitch hits me -- I hit her. But this one ran. So I hit her again a couple times, I think her nose was bleedin', and then I got tired of screwing around. She was gettin' loud, ya know? So I got out my knife.” He smiled, self-satisfied at whatever memory he was reliving. “That stopped her short. It was like someone unplugged her or something -- she just froze. So I walked over to her, and I cut her, a little ...”

There was a muffled roar from behind the mirror and all three sets of eyes turned to the supposedly soundproof room. With an enormous 'CRACK,' the window shattered and a wooden chair flew into the room, followed immediately by the AD. Skinner landed smoothly, coming up from a crouch, his forward momentum carrying him over the table and into Capehart's chair. The chair toppled backward, taking the suspect and Skinner with it. The big man's hands circled the terrified man's neck, and Skinner began to bellow in the man's face - a mindless howl of anguish.

“You son of a bitch! What the hell did you do to her?” Skinner was squeezing the man's throat, pounding his head against the back of the chair, against the concrete floor. “What did you do to her?”

Mulder leapt on him, and Scully opened the door, calling for assistance. Several agents piled into the room, and somehow, they managed to pry Skinner loose from the nearly unconscious Capehart. With Mulder gripping the AD around his chest, and agents holding each arm, they dragged him out of the room.

Scully walked over to stare down at Capehart, watching as he struggled for air. “I'm gonna sue,” he croaked. “You can't do this to me.”

Scully snorted. “You should be saying thank you, you piece of shit. We could have let him kill you.” She turned on her heel and stalked out.

Shockoe Slip - home of haute couture shopping, boutiques of every shape and description offering every kind of ware imaginable. And the Bottom - restaurants and fine dining on the James River. And a bit further down, the warehouse district. Home to uncounted empty and derelict storage bays, abandoned shipping containers, and ramshackle buildings dating back to the turn of the century. Dirty, rat-infested, a haven for the sick, the poor, the addicted, it was a prime place for trading in lives. No one saw anything here.

Mulder sighed in frustration. He hadn't expected more. Everyone he had been able to approach, who hadn't run when they saw him or one of the other agents or officers, had only been able to say they hadn't seen a thing. He thought back to his feelings of anger and frustration when Scully had disappeared up in Minnesota so long ago. What had he said then? “No one notices a pretty woman ...” How could these people not have seen Mara?

This was not going to make things any easier for Skinner. He had been uncontrollable, oblivious to the presence of the other agents, hardly acknowledging Scully or himself. When, after twenty minutes, he hadn't calmed enough to be released, she'd opted to sedate him. He was presently sleeping on the couch in the Richmond SAIC's office, with Scully in attendance as she worked on tracking down information on Mara's background.

Mulder had elected to lead the field sweep, but grudgingly admitted it had been a waste of time. He'd be better off getting back to the office and helping Scully with the research. He sighed again and pulled his radio. “This is Mulder. I'm heading back. Let's finish the canvas, but be out of here by dark, OK?” He waited for acknowledgment, then put the radio away and headed back to his car.

“Can we take him back to the apartment?” Mulder asked.

“I don't know, Mulder, he's pretty out of it,” his partner responded, looking at her erstwhile 'patient' snoring on the couch. He dwarfed it, his legs hanging off the end and his torso broad enough to extend over the edge.

“Wouldn't he be more comfortable in his own bed?”

“Probably,” she admitted, “but I really doped him up. I don't know if we can rouse him enough to move him.”

“Why'd you give him so much? You don't ever knock me out completely, even when I wish you would.”

Scully smiled at Mulder, then stepped over to stand next to him. “Well, don't take this wrong, partner, but you're not exactly built the same as the AD.” She turned and gazed pointedly at the big man stretched out on the couch.

“Ouch,” Mulder winced. “Geez, Scully, you really know how to hurt a guy.”

She grinned at him, then let her hand slide slowly down his arm, from shoulder to wrist. “Don't worry Mulder, not everyone wants that,” she nodded at Skinner, “though it is rather attractive.” She looked up at him, mischief in her eyes, “You, however, have your own attractions.”

Mulder twisted his hand, catching Scully's in his own. He leaned down close to her and murmured, “So do you, SAIC Scully. So do you.” He nuzzled her neck for a moment, then pulled back.

“All right. Let's take him home. How 'bout you go get the car, and I'll get Sleeping Beauty here up?”

Scully nodded and headed for the hall, while Mulder walked to the couch. He crouched before it, then gently nudged the sleeping AD. “C'mon, Sir, time to get up. Let's get you home.”

Skinner mumbled something inarticulate, opening one bleary eye, and Mulder grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. “C'mon, big guy,” he murmured, “you'll be a lot more comfortable in your own bed.”

Mulder wrapped an arm around the AD's waist, holding his belt tightly, and pulled the other man's arm over his own shoulder. Geez, he thought in dismay, this guy is big! He prodded the AD, and was pleased to see him shuffle his feet a bit, making some forward progress. They reached the door, and Mulder stopped, propping Skinner up with one hand, reaching out to open the door with the other.

He froze when he felt a warm nose nuzzle his hair, lips against his neck and a deep voice whispered, “Miss you, Mara.”

Mulder shook his head sadly, opened the door and continued nudging his charge down the hall. “Damn, Scully,” he muttered under his breath, “what the hell did you give him?”

“What are we going to do with him now?” Mulder muttered as he pulled Skinner's shoes and socks off. He paused and wiped sweat from his forehead. Moving a man Skinner's size was hard work. Lifting the AD's legs, he swung them around to lie fully on the mattress.

Scully had Skinner's tie off and was working on his shirt. “Not we, Mulder, dear,” Scully said sweetly. “You.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because I am SAIC, at your insistence, I might add.”

“Yeah, but Scully, I still need to be there. I need to know what's going on.”

“You know as well as I, that Skinner can't come back to the field office. We'll be lucky if that little display of his today isn't the end of his career.”

“Nobody's gonna report him for that, Scully. They understand what he's going through. Hell, I wanted to belt the bastard myself, the way he was talking. I'm halfway surprised Skinner lasted as long as he did.” Mulder rubbed his chin, where he'd caught an elbow trying to pry his boss off their suspect. “Though I did expect him to come through the door, not the glass.”

Scully pulled Skinner's shirt off, then unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, but left them on. “There,” she said, “that should do it.” She pulled the sheet up over the still drugged man, then took Mulder's hand and tugged him out of the room.

They walked quietly to the living room and plopped down on the couch. Scully kicked off her shoes, then lifted one foot into her lap. “Oooh, that feels good,” she said softly as she squeezed her toes.

“Here,” Mulder reached out and pulled her foot into his lap, “let me do that.” He began to rub her foot as he spoke.

“So why does you being SAIC equate to me staying here with the big guy?” Mulder's thumb pressed into the ball of Scully's foot and she moaned contentedly.

“God, you could do this full-time if you ever need to find a new line of work,” she murmured, watching as his face lit up with a smile. “But Mulder, you know I have to be there. Remember? 'She's better with people and a better administrator.' Well, I have to go administrate.”

“So what do I do?”

“What were you planning to do at the office tomorrow? What's the next line of investigation?”

“Research. I want some people to recanvas the waterfront, and I want Capehart held in isolation. We can keep him, what -- 24 more hours? Without charging him?”

Scully nodded and Mulder's thumb slid up to stroke her arch, his fingers pressing down on the top of her foot, and she wriggled her toes in pleasure.

“Well, then we'll keep him for the time being, and I'll need a team for research. We need to track Mara's background. What Skinner can tell us isn't much, and we need to know everything about her.” He sighed softly, a bit sad. “She isn't going to have much privacy left when we're done. I hope there isn't something really awful in her past. It would devastate him.”

Mulder finished the one foot and reached out for the other, and Scully obligingly shifted to give him access. She leaned back, resting her head on the arm of the sofa.

“Can't you research from here?”

“Well,” Mulder chewed his lip for a moment, his hands growing temporarily still on Scully's foot, “I suppose. But do you think he” -- thumb pointing to bedroom -- “is going to be content to stay here and do research?”

“I don't know what he's going to do.” Scully heaved a sigh, and Mulder returned his attention to her foot. “I have never seen him like this. If you'd asked me if he could even be like this, I'd have laid money it would never happen.”

“I'm not surprised,” Mulder said softly.

Scully looked up. “What? You're not? Why?”

Mulder dropped his head, eyes burning as he stared at his lap. “Because I've been there. I know what it's like for him. Not knowing. Being so helpless. Running in circles as fast as you can and getting nowhere. Knowing someone out there was laughing at you, enjoying your pain. And eaten up, consumed, with the feeling that the person you cared about more than anything in the world, more than life itself, that that person was suffering.” He paused, taking a deep, shuddery breath, and a single tear crept down his face, “Knowing that person was suffering and you were the cause.”

Scully pulled her foot from his lap, and sat up. She moved to sit close beside Mulder and wrapped her arms around him. “It wasn't your fault, Mulder.”

He turned, somehow shifting his tall body till he could rest his head on her shoulder, and said, “You always say that.”

“And it's always true.”

“I missed you so much, Scully. I wanted to die.”

She pulled his head down further, till he was nestled in her lap, and her fingers ran soothingly through his thick hair. “I'm very glad you didn't. I mean, think of all the things we'd have missed.”

“Like?” Mulder fished.

“Well, there's 'Superstars of the Super Bowls' to begin with.”

Mulder lay still for a long moment, letting her comfort him with her touch and presence, then he sat up, pulling her to himself. “Yeah, well, it would have been a shame to miss that.”

Scully tilted her head from where it was now cradled against his chest. “And this,” she murmured, her lips seeking his as she captured him in a long, deep kiss, “we would have missed this.”

“Well,” he mumbled into her mouth, loath to let her go, “I certainly wouldn't have wanted to miss this.” And he kissed her again.

Skinner had become the immovable object. Planted firmly on the couch, the man refused to eat, to sleep or to move. He did rise occasionally to use the bathroom, but that grew less frequent as he continued to take no sustenance. After two days, Mulder bodily dragged him to the bathroom and shoved him in the shower, clothes and all.

He'd stripped himself and bathed -- well, Mulder assumed he'd bathed. There were some things he just wasn't going to do for his boss, no matter what. Mulder had had some second thoughts about leaving the older man alone with razors and cleaning compounds, but his faith had been rewarded when Skinner had emerged from the bathroom about twenty minutes later, dressed in the clean sweats Mulder had laid out for him. He'd even shaved.

Mulder looked at him approvingly, then said, “You need to eat.”

“Not hungry,” Skinner grunted, as he resumed his place on the couch.

“Scully isn't going to put up with this much longer,” Mulder said warningly.

Skinner grunted. “Scully can run the investigation, but she can't run me.”

“She's concerned about you, Sir,” Mulder said softly. “We both are.”

Skinner grunted again and refused to say more.

Mulder made several more attempts to get Skinner to talk, but the man remained silent. Finally, defeated, Mulder rose and went back to the laptop and his research that had taken over the small table in the dining area.

After two more days, Scully was ready to consider hospitalization. Skinner still sat on the couch, alternately staring stony eyed into space, or on the verge of tears, staring into his lap. He'd lost a good ten pounds and had huge bruised looking bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Mulder, does he talk to you at all during the day?”

“Not much. But, Scully,” he glanced over to where his boss was currently performing the lap stare, “I don't think the hospital is the answer. He has to work through this in his own way.”

They were speaking in hushed tones, standing by the table as Mulder showed Scully what little bit of new information he had found that day. Despite his discovery of her legal name change, Mara was extremely difficult to trace.

Scully, on the other hand, had a stack of hospital records, Mara's hospital records, that the team had unearthed in a day of combing hospitals in Hampton Roads. She watched Mulder leaf through the records, his face screwing up in sympathy, or anger as he scanned the pages, and asked, “How did you handle it?”

“I worked my butt off 18 hours a day, and stared at my gun all night.”

Scully reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm, her eyes filled with tears, “Oh, Mulder, even now, I had no idea how hard it was for you.”

He smiled sadly, lost in memory of that dark time, then looked down at the woman who had been returned to him, and swiftly clutched her to himself.

From behind them, a throat cleared.

They turned to find Skinner watching them, a slightly amused look on his face.

“Excuse me, but I'm hungry. I'm gonna shower and then, could I get something to eat?”

Scully walked over and stood in front of him, hands on hips. “What happened?” she demanded.

Skinner shrugged. “I can't just sit here. Mara wouldn't like it. You have to let me back on the investigation.” He turned pain filled eyes up at her.

“You shower and eat, and sleep, and we'll talk about what role you can play in the investigation.”

Skinner nodded compliantly and rose to head to the bedroom for clean clothes, then the shower.

“Is this normal, Mulder?” Scully asked.

Mulder shrugged. “What's normal about any of this? Everybody copes in their own way. Maybe he just needed a few days of retreat and denial, and now he's ready to fight again.”

“I'm worried about him. This just doesn't feel right.”

Mulder shrugged again. “Everyone has to work it out in their own way.”

“Don't suicides frequently seem to get better right before they,” she paused, “you know?”

“Yeah, they do,” Mulder agreed. “So we watch him real close for the next few days. If he really will sleep, as exhausted as he is, I think it will help a lot.”

“If he doesn't sleep tonight, I'm going to sedate him,” Scully said, a determined look on her face.

“I don't think I'll argue with you over that, Doc,” Mulder replied. “I'll even hold him down while you do the deed. I wouldn't mind a good night's sleep for a change myself.” He reached out and hugged her. “Especially if you were there.” He kissed the top of her head, then asked, “So, what do you want for dinner? Pizza or Chinese?”

Scully laughed lightly and gently smacked his arm. “Such a gourmet,” she teased. “Maybe the AD wants real food?”

“No such thing with me around,” Mulder joked. “He'll just have to make do with the rest of us.”

Skinner ate most of two pieces of pizza, not much for his size, but better than Scully had hoped, considering his recent fast. He also drank plenty of fluids -- Scully kept his glass filled with juice and was pleased to see he drank frequently.

When they had finished and cleared up, Skinner gave an embarrassed cough, then said diffidently, “Dana? I, uh, may need some help sleeping tonight.”

She nodded and said, “Shot or pill?”

“Pill?”

She nodded again, then went for her bag. She returned with two small pills and a glass of water. “Here, try this,” she said as she held the pills out to him.

Skinner took them obediently, popped them in his mouth, and drained the glass, handing it back to her.

“You want to go to bed now?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head. “I'd like you and Mulder to bring me up to date, if that's all right?”

Scully and Mulder took seats in the chairs, leaving the couch to Skinner. They exchanged a quick glance and then Scully began.

“The recanvas of the waterfront didn't yield anything new. Not surprising. We held Capehart as long as we could, without booking him, just in case anything came up and he wanted to bargain. But when time ran out, we charged him with kidnapping, and he's locked up.” She glanced up at Skinner. “He hasn't said anything about bringing charges against you, Sir.”

Skinner waved that aside. “Not important. Have you found anything else on Mara?”

Mulder spoke up. “I'm looking into the possibility of an angry ex-husband. Unfortunately, it is tedious and time-consuming. You said she'd lived in Norfolk for a long time, so I started there but came up empty. I spread out to the surrounding cities, Virginia Beach, Portsmouth, Chesapeake, Hampton, Newport News, and still got nothing. Nothing on a marriage that is. I found a death certificate.”

Skinner's eyes widened. “He's dead?”

“Not him. The death certificate was for a child, a little boy. Died under mysterious circumstances when he was four. The police had suspicions, but nothing was proven.”

“Who was the father? Wasn't that on the certificate? Police report?”

“Nope,” Mulder said in frustration, “and don't ask me why. It makes no sense, unless ...” Mulder closed his eyes, thinking, then opened them and said, “Nah, I don't know.”

Scully was watching him closely. Something had occurred to him, something he didn't want to tell Skinner. She looked over at Skinner. He was fading, eyes drooping, even as he struggled to stay alert and listen to Mulder's report.

He shifted on the couch, stretching out, and said, “Keep going, Mulder, I'm listening.”

“I'm still looking for marriage or divorce records, and Scully has people at the field office looking as well. We've split the independent cities in Hampton Roads so that we can cover them all. Until we get a name, or something else happens ...”

He was interrupted by a gentle snore. Skinner had finally fallen asleep. Scully rose and pulled a blanket over him, then went back to take Mulder's hand. “All right, you, give. What did you think of when you were talking about the little boy's death?”

“Ah, Scully,” Mulder sighed, pulling her into a hug, “you know me so well.” He walked her over to the table, then dug through some papers, emerging with the death certificate. “A cop, Scully. If a cop was involved, and it was questionable, they may have kept it quiet.” He hummed to himself, excited now that there was a new avenue to pursue.”

“Good.” Scully yawned. “Tomorrow, Mulder. We'll check it out tomorrow. Tonight,” she glanced over at the man asleep on the couch, “tonight, I think we are going to check out Skinner's bed.”

“You think that's wise?” Mulder asked doubtfully.

“I gave him some pretty powerful stuff. He needs to sleep and since he was willing, I took advantage. Besides, he's run down, exhausted, hasn't slept in days. He's out, Mulder.” She tugged his hand, leading him toward the bedroom. “Now, come on. You could do with some sleep as well.”

Mulder pulled his gaze from Skinner's sleeping form, and focused on his partner. “Among other things, Agent Scully,” he whispered seductively, “among other things.”

The pills were buried in the sofa cushions. Skinner gave Mulder and Scully two hours. He wanted to be sure they were asleep. He forced himself to remain still, breathe steadily, even shift slightly every now and then, doing his best to give every appearance of a man sound asleep.

When his self-imposed deadline arrived, he rose quietly, padded to the laptop, and got started. Skinner shuffled through the papers on the desk, reading what Mulder had found. He read the hospital records first. Numerous visits to the ER. Broken bones, black eyes, bruised kidneys. Falls, car accidents, unknown causes. The wound to her breast had been blamed on a glass that shattered as she took it from the dishwasher.

She seemed so strong. Why would she stay in a situation like that? He wiped his eyes, clearing the tears that blurred his vision. He couldn't understand it. He'd had the standard training that everyone in law enforcement received now -- that there were other things that caused a woman to stay. That sometimes they couldn't get out. That things weren't always as they seemed. And back then, even ten years ago, the laws were just beginning to change.

Mandatory arrests in domestic dispute calls. Mandatory charges pressed. More shelters available. Mandatory reporting from the ER. Counseling. And the stalking laws. Perhaps those changes had finally made it possible for her to escape from hell.

He sighed. He didn't have Mulder's memory, but he didn't need it to know that he would never forget the litany of abuse he had read on those pages. He sighed again, and moved on to the next sheets of paper, his eyebrows lifting as he read Mulder's scrawl. Norris wasn't Mara's name at all. She'd changed it in 1989. Mulder had the document.

Skinner stared at it. Gordon. His name was Gordon. He looked back at the medical records. Sure enough, Mara Gordon. He'd missed that as he read the catalog of injuries. Mulder had known about the name for at least a day. Skinner growled, low in his throat. Mulder hadn't mentioned it in front of him at all.

He dug back. The boy had died in 1981. At age four. That meant he was born in 1977. Skinner paused. She was just 17 then. And her daughter, the one who had been murdered. She had been -- how old? Twenty? That meant born in 1976. Mara was 16? He compared the dates of the two children's births. Nine months and eight days. Jesus Christ -- what kind of man was this Gordon?

And Mara was just 16 when it all started. Was that why Mulder hadn't found a marriage certificate? He didn't go back far enough?

Skinner looked. Sure enough, Mulder's search parameters started in 1978. Skinner reset the low date and started the search again. He waited, impatient, until the computer returned “not found.”

Skinner snorted in frustration, then glanced guiltily at the bedroom. The door was partially shut, as if they needed privacy, but still wanted to keep tabs on their charge -- him. He returned to the computer, staring at the screen saver.

Where else? Where else could he look? Norfolk was a Navy town. He'd shipped out to Viet Nam from there. Maybe Gordon was Navy. Skinner started in the south. Other Navy towns. Mayport. Nothing. Charleston. He waited. Bingo! They were married in Charleston in 1976. She was 16 and her mother signed for her. And his name was Charles Martin Gordon. Skinner had him now.

He knew what Mulder had thought of. The bastard was a cop. The great Blue Wall in action, protecting one of their own. Was that why Mara had remained in a bad situation? Because she had no one to turn to to help her get out? And she had been so young ...

He clamped down on his temper, and began his search. City cops first, then the sheriff's departments. And he found him. It began to click. Skinner was flying through the databases, using his FBI clearances for access, he was tracking Mara's life. Gordon had been kicked off the force for brutality in 1988. Mara had gotten her divorce almost immediately thereafter. A year later she changed her name, but not her job, and she didn't move. So the name change wasn't to hide from him -- it must have been for other reasons.

So where was Gordon now? Skinner was checking, searching, combing records, and finally he found him. The man was still relatively near Norfolk, though he'd moved numerous times in the past ten years. He was currently living in Yorktown. Skinner hit one more button, and an address appeared. He copied it down, then grabbed his keys, and he was gone.

Mulder heard something. He shifted, moving restlessly as his subconscious tried to sort out the sounds he was hearing. In her sleep next to him, Scully 'whuffed,' a tiny expulsion of air that tickled his neck where she lay curled against him.

He pried an eye open and looked down at her, then rolled onto his back, still holding her against him. He lay quietly for a moment, fully aware of the blessings he had, and determined to help Skinner to have this again as well. He lifted a wrist, and glanced at his watch. Almost 6:00. The sun had painted the sky dappled pinks and rose though it hadn't quite crossed the horizon yet. And Mulder knew he needed to get up and check on Skinner but he was loath to move.

As he lay in that misty halfway state between sleep and wake, he dimly heard a car start, motor revving furiously, then peel out of the parking lot. 'Must be in a real hurry,' he thought idly, then jumped up, suddenly alert.

His movement woke Scully and she sat up to find Mulder pulling on his pants, and heading for the hall.

“What?” she called after him, “What happened?”

From the living room she heard Mulder explode. “Son of a bitch!” he swore, and she was out of bed and dressing as well. She heard the door to the apartment open as she raced down the hall to the living room. No sign of Mulder. She looked around again. No sign of Skinner. “Son of a bitch!” she swore herself, and headed out the door behind her partner.

He was standing in the parking lot, cursing up a blue streak as he looked at the empty spot where Skinner's car had been.

He parked across the street from the duplex where Gordon was living. He had to do this carefully. There was no room for error. He looked down at his hands; they were shaking where he gripped the wheel. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to patience. He looked at his watch -- 7:15. Hopefully the man would go to work soon.

It was almost an hour later when a large man emerged from the duplex, dressed in a security guard's uniform. The last refuge of dishonored cops. He locked his door, then walked quickly to his car and drove off. Skinner pulled out behind him, following.

He trailed Gordon to a department store, watched as he parked and then entered through an employee entrance. He waited almost thirty minutes, or an eternity, depending on how you count time, until he was sure the man wasn't going to come back out. Then he started his car and returned to the duplex.

He parked several blocks over, then walked to the house, slipped into the backyard, and broke in. It didn't take long to determine Mara was not there, and there were no signs to indicate that she had been. Frustrated, Skinner snooped a bit more, turning up no useful information, then returned to the shopping center to sit his vigil outside the store.

Gordon came out at 4:00 p.m. He walked straight to his car, got in and drove to a bar about 10 miles away. He shed the uniform shirt in the car, put on a sport shirt, and headed in. Skinner waited about 10 minutes, then followed.

Inside it was dark, country music -- old country music -- played from a jukebox and several TVs, bolted to racks hanging from the ceiling, displayed a football game, hockey, and college basketball. This was not a social bar, but a place for serious drinking.

Skinner took a seat at a table near the back, almost out of sight, but where he could still see Gordon seated at the bar. The man finished a beer as Skinner watched and another was automatically placed in front of him. Skinner sat quietly for another hour, watching as Gordon downed five more beers, then he got up and moved to the bar, taking the stool one over from his quarry.

He signaled for a beer, his second, and drank in silence for a while, staring at the TV. Frederick sank a beautiful shot for North Carolina, from behind the free-throw line, and Skinner whistled saying, “Boy could make it big someday.”

“Yeah,” Gordon replied.

They chatted basketball for a few minutes while Skinner sized the man up. He was big, not quite as tall as Skinner himself, but close. And muscular, though the muscles had been overlaid with fat. Skinner estimated the man was in his early forties. Big enough and strong enough to have caused Mara plenty of pain in the time they were married.

Twelve years and two children, one miscarriage that he knew of, a dozen moves, her son's death, and all the other injuries -- those in the records and those in her heart. He felt himself tense, and schooled himself to patience. He was only going to get one shot at this.

“Hey, listen, you come here a lot?” he asked casually.

“Fair amount, why?”

“I'm looking for someone. Maybe you can help me?”

Gordon's eyes narrowed, suddenly distrustful. “Who?”

“Guy name of Gordon, Charles Gordon. You know him?”

“Whadaya want him for?”

“Information. I'm a private investigator. Name's Mike Hamner. With an 'n.' No comments, please.”

Gordon laughed. “Holy shit! Bet you hear about that.”

“You don't want to know.” Skinner rolled his eyes dramatically.

“So why'd you go into this business with a name like that?”

Skinner frowned and let his eyes go hard. “What else is an ex-cop gonna do?”

“You were a cop?” Gordon was looking at him with interest.

“Was. Good one, too. Didn't take no shit off nobody. Till some bitch decided to ruin my life.” He lifted his glass and took a long swallow.

“Really? What happened?”

“Oh, you know. First she wants it, then she doesn't, then she does, so I make up her mind for her. Next thing I know she's screaming rape, and so's I smacked her to make her shut up, and WHAM! I'm out of a job!” Skinner let a whine creep into his voice. “Fourteen years on the force and they listen to some God damn bitch over me.” He shook his head, then glanced at Gordon.

The man was shaking his head with him, commiserating. “Man, that sucks! Broads - you can't trust 'em an inch. Gotta keep 'em in line.”

“Yeah.” Skinner paused, then drained his glass and signaled for another. “That's what I'm working on. This guy, the one who hired me, he's involved with this woman, used to be married to this guy Gordon. Wants me to find out what her background is. If she's gonna make trouble later, that kind of thing.” Skinner paused again, his stomach churning as he spun his story.

Gordon turned and stuck out his hand. “Me. I'm Charles Gordon. Chuck. And tell your guy to run for the hills. That bitch is bad news.”

Skinner spent another hour letting Gordon tell him the things he had done to Mara, an hour in hell, his penance for letting her get hurt, for making her vulnerable, for letting her be a victim again. Listening to the filth this man spewed, laughing with him, cajoling him to talk, finally determining that, while he had done many things to Mara, over many years, he was not responsible for her abduction.

But at that point, Skinner didn't care. His devastation over Mara's absence; his frustration at his inability to find her; his anger over the pain she could be in; all fueled his rage at this man and the things that he had done to Mara. That rage rapidly overwhelmed any vestige of common sense Skinner may have had left and when Gordon rose, swaying on his feet, and turned to leave, Skinner reached out a hand and steadied him.

“Whoa there, big fellow, you're a might unstable,” he laughed, and though the laughter was forced, Gordon did not seem to notice.

Gordon laughed as well, and before he knew it, he was in his own car, but being driven home by 'Mike Hamner, private eye.' They reached the man's house, and Skinner pulled him out of the car. He walked him around to the back, then when the man pulled his keys out, Skinner knocked them out of his hand.

“Whadaya do that for?” Gordon whined.

Skinner shrugged, an evil smile on his face.

Gordon bent to retrieve the keys, and Skinner kicked them.

“Hey!” the man complained. “Knock it off!”

He tottered forward a few steps, and bent again, and this time Skinner shoved him and he fell, hard.

“Is that what you did to her, asshole?” Skinner hissed. “Did you make her crawl?”

Gordon rolled onto his back, looking up at Skinner through an alcohol induced fog, and asked, “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Skinner kicked him, and he let out a “whompf” then struggled for air, coughing. “Did you kick her?” Skinner's foot shot out again, then he leaned down and pulled the gasping man to his feet.

Skinner waited while the man regained his breath, then he hit him, a direct blow to the chin, rocking him back on his heels. “Did you hit her? Like this?” Skinner's fist rocketed out again, connecting with Gordon's eye. “Did it excite you to make her bleed? To see her skin bruise and swell? Did you just like to see her with black eyes?”

Gordon was backing away now, babbling furiously. “What the hell's the matter with you? Who are you? What do you want?”

“It's not so much fun when you're on the receiving end, is it, Chuckie?” Skinner snarled, his fist striking out again.

The man fell, then scuttled backwards till he hit fence, and pulled himself up. His nose and lip were bleeding, and his eye was already swelling. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” he cried. “Leave me alone! I didn't do nothin' to you.”

“Oh, but you did, Chuck, you did.” Skinner advanced again, eyes glinting with a near madness, and both fists shot out in rapid motions. The belly and the face again, and the man was down once more.

He was crawling away now, edging backwards, when Skinner kicked out, knocking him over, leaving him breathless once more.

“You hurt someone I care about,” Skinner gritted out through clenched teeth. “You hurt her bad.” He pulled the man roughly to his feet again.

The man blinked foolishly at him, sobering rapidly before the force of Skinner's anger. “Suzanne?” he asked. “You know Suzanne?”

Skinner yowled and launched himself at the man, tackling him, then rolling onto him and pounding his face, his chest, his belly. “Suzanne? You fucking bastard!” He was roaring, now, “One was not enough? You had to move on? Other women? Other lives ruined? What the fuck are you?”

Beneath him, Gordon's struggles were fading, and as Skinner gripped his throat in his hands, squeezing tightly, the man started to slip away into unconsciousness.

Skinner pulled himself away, not ready to let the man off yet. When Gordon was breathing again, lying unmoving in the dirt, Skinner reached down and ripped the man's shirt open. He grabbed a beer bottle from the trash can, then broke it against the fence. Moving very slowly, he pressed the jagged edge into the man's chest, right where Mara's scar was.

“Not Suzanne,” he hissed again. “Do you know who we're talking about now?”

Gordon was crying, making inarticulate sounds, snot mingling with the blood that still ran from his nose. “No,” he pleaded, “no. Leave me alone. Leave me alone!” His voice was high, shrill, his fear evident, and as Skinner watched, the man's pants grew wet.

He prodded the man roughly in the groin, using his toe to push him back along the ground. “Some big man, aren't you? That why you have to beat women? 'Cause you're such a big man?”

Gordon was watching Skinner, tears streaming down his face, and he jumped as Skinner pushed the beer bottle down a little harder. A trickle of red began to flow down the man's chest.

“No,” he moaned, “No.” His voice trailed off into indecipherable babble.

Skinner pushed again, then inched the bottle to the left, leaving a line of red behind. “I asked you a question, asshole!” he snarled. “Do you know who we're talking about now?”

Gordon looked up at him, eyes huge in the moonlight, and whimpered, “Mara. It was Mara.”

“Son of a bitch!” Mulder said it again, and Scully turned to look at him.

“Enough, Mulder,” she said calmly. “Let's stop cussing him, and start finding him.”

Mulder drew a deep breath, then nodded. “Yeah, but I'm not just cussing him, I'm cussing myself. I can't believe I let my guard down like that.” He smacked himself on the forehead. “What the hell was I thinking?”

“Just stop,” Scully ordered. “Stop right there. You are not the only one responsible for this. As I recall, I was the one pulling you down the hall last night.”

“Yeah, but I'm the psychologist, I shoulda known he was liable to try something like this. Hell, Scully, you even pointed out his sudden re-emergence amongst the living was a bit odd.” Mulder ran a hand through his hair, sending it into total disarray.

“Yes, Mulder, yes I did,” she answered calmly. “And as you pointed out, you are the psychologist.”

Mulder turned to look at her, eyes wide with shock. “What? You're agreeing with me? That it's my fault?”

“No, I'm just restating the facts.” She turned and began to pace. “You're the psychologist. We knew he was depressed. We suspected there was a problem when he suddenly seemed so much better. But ...” she paused, then turned to look at him. “I'm the fucking doctor, Mulder, I'm the one who drugged him. I'm the one who obviously screwed up the dosage. And I'm the one who insisted we head for the bedroom.” She sighed. “There's more than enough guilt and blame to go around. But do we really want to play this game, or do we want to find him?”

Mulder was nodding, listening to her, then he walked to the couch and began pulling up the cushions. He lifted a small pill and turned, “You didn't screw up, Scully. That SOB was planning this!”

“Whatever, Mulder. We need to find him!”

“Yeah, and when we do, it's my turn to chew a little butt for a change. I'm gonna look forward to telling Skinner off for rash behavior.” He grinned, then swooped over and kissed Scully quickly before he plopped down at the computer. “Now, where the hell did he go?”

It involved getting Byers to come down to Richmond -- Mulder just didn't have the hacking skills the Gunmen were known for -- but by 7:30 that evening, they had reconstructed Skinner's research of the night before, and finally had an address.

In the car, driving to Yorktown, Mulder commented, “I wouldn't have thought to look at other Navy towns. It just wouldn't have occurred to me.”

“It should have occurred to me,” Scully muttered. “Hell, I lived in Virginia Beach for three years when Dad was stationed at Dam Neck.” She paused thoughtfully, “But I don't think I would have thought to look for 16 year old brides. Skinner is good.”

“Yeah, well, he obviously didn't make AD on his people skills,” Mulder mumbled, and Scully laughed.

“What do you think he's gonna do?”

“I'd watch the guy. Make sure he left, and follow him so I'd know where to find him. Then I'd go back and search the house. If I didn't find you, I'd go back and find the guy. Try and get him to talk. If he didn't talk, I'd have to help him along.”

Scully smiled in the dark. She hadn't missed Mulder's slip of the tongue -- 'if I didn't find you.' Glimpses into Mulder's mind were rare - and this one was quite endearing. She sobered quickly though as a new thought crossed her mind. “Mulder, you know if the AD kills this guy, we can't help him.”

“Hell, I know, Scully, that's why we need to get there fast. We needed to be there this morning. I can't believe he knows his way around computers like that.” He slammed his hand on the wheel. “Shit! I just never suspected Skinner was so versatile.”

“Yeah, the man is just full of surprises,” Scully said dryly.

They pulled up before a small duplex in a rather rundown neighborhood. One car in the drive -- not Skinner's. No lights in the house. “What do we do now?” Scully asked.

“We better check it out, just in case.”

They exchanged worried looks and climbed from the car.

Clearly, carried on the night air, they could hear the sound of a man moaning, “No, no ...”

They both broke into a run, heading for the backyard of the duplex, opening the gate, and sliding to a halt. The AD had a man laid out in the dirt, a broken beer bottle pressed against his chest. As they watched, Skinner pressed on the bottle, “I asked you a question, asshole!” he snarled. “Do you know who we're talking about now?”

The man on the ground, Gordon, looked up at him, eyes huge in the moonlight, and whimpered, “Mara. It was Mara.”

Skinner's muscles tensed, Scully could see the tendons bunched beneath his shirt. “NO!” she called sharply, and when he jerked around to look at her, she repeated, “No,” in a softer tone.

Skinner's eyes were glazed, beyond anger, beyond fear, beyond madness. Scully wasn't sure they would be able to reach him.

Mulder whispered, “No names, don't use names,” then launched himself at Skinner, wrestling him to the ground and pulling the bottle from his hand. If Skinner hadn't been weakened by his own self-imposed fast, his own course of sleep deprivation, the beating of Charles Gordon, Mulder didn't think he'd have had a chance against the bigger man. But Skinner was weakened, and when Mulder rolled him away from Gordon, he seemed to collapse into himself.

Scully walked over to Gordon, made a cursory exam, and determined the man was breathing evenly, had a good, steady pulse, and no obvious life-threatening injuries. He was badly beaten, but he would probably live. A good thing for the AD, but perhaps not so good for some unsuspecting woman somewhere down the line.

“Gordon's unconscious. We need to call 911 for him, and we need to take what we came for and get out of here.”

“You better look at the big guy. I think he may be unconscious as well.”

Skinner lay beneath Mulder, eyes closed, unmoving.

“Get off him,” Scully ordered. “Breathing's fast,” she lifted Skinner's wrist, “pulse is racing.” She pulled open an eye. “Pupils dilated. He's just coming off his adrenaline high.” She made a quick exam, then looked at his hands. “Knuckles are a little scraped but that's about it as far as visible injuries. Let's get him up and out of here. He may not even realize what he's done.”

Skinner shivered then and mumbled, “Cold.”

“Shhh,” Scully soothed, “I know. C'mon, let us help you and we'll get you to the car. You can warm up there.”

Suddenly, Skinner rolled to the side and began to retch, emptying himself of the beer he had consumed, trying to rid himself of the things he had heard. “Oh, God,” he groaned, “the things he did.” He shivered again. “The things he did.”

Scully shushed him again. “Not now. Don't think about it now.”

They pulled Skinner to his feet, then walked him out of the yard and back to the car.

Scully got the emergency blanket from the trunk, tucking it around Skinner, and crawled in the back with him. When he swayed in his seat, she pulled him down, putting his head into her lap and gently rubbing his shoulders.

“She's still gone, isn't she?” he asked mournfully. “I thought it was a bad dream, but she's still gone.”

Four months later

“God, I'm tired,” Mulder yawned as they walked from the airport terminal. “I'm so sick of farmers and pig shit, I don't know what to do!”

Scully patted his arm. “You hang in there. It'll be over eventually. I'm still hopeful. Since Skinner came back, I know he's met with the Director a couple of times about us.”

Mulder nodded, “Yeah, but it's been three months. If they were going to do ...” He paused, then slipped his hand into his pocket, as his phone began to ring. “Mulder,” he said, hitching his shoulder to keep his suit bag from sliding anymore.

“Hold on a minute, Kim, calm down.”

Scully's eyes widened and she locked her attention on Mulder.

“When?” Mulder listened. “Not at all? Shit! Uh, sorry, Kim.” He turned to Scully. “Skinner never showed for work today. Kim's been covering but she doesn't know what to do now.”

Scully took the phone. “Kim? This is Dana. Can you still do his signature?” She was nodding. “Good. Then put him in for two weeks of leave, and route it straight to the Director. You take care of that, we'll find him. Thanks for calling us first, Kim. He'll be grateful, if he ever returns to his senses.” She closed the phone and handed it back to Mulder.

“Do I want to know how you know Kim can do Skinner's signature?”

“Not really,” she said absently. “Just remember to thank her when you get a new phone.” They reached the car and she pushed the unlock button to open the doors. “Now, where the hell do you think he is?”

“Let's check his place in Crystal City first, then we'll drive down to Richmond.”

“And then Norfolk, if we have to. Maybe he went to Mara's.”

Skinner unlocked the door, stepping into the beach house. He looked around. This was it. This was the place of good memories he wanted to share with Mara.

But Mara was gone. Over four months. Seventeen weeks. One hundred and twenty-three days. Two thousand, nine hundred -- he looked at his watch -- sixty hours. Forever. It was all the same. There were only two states of existence now: with Mara, and nothingness. He was so tired of the nothingness.

When nothing new had turned up after his little incident with Charles Gordon, the investigation had lost steam. Agents got pulled for other matters, police had enough murders, rapes, and assaults to keep them occupied. Only Mulder and Scully had been left. They had continued doggedly, both were nothing if not persistent. But even they had been unable to find anything. It was as if Mara had disappeared off the planet.

Skinner stepped to the sliding glass door that looked out over the ocean at Nags Head. He opened it and walked out, gazing up at the night sky and wondering if there really was something to Mulder's crazy theories. It certainly didn't seem as if Mara could still be here. There would have been some trace, some clue, something. Wouldn't there?

He sighed, then shivered in the cold night air. The beach was deserted this time of year. When he'd planned his trip with Mara, it was still warm enough during the day for walks on the beach, and grilling out. But now it was midwinter, and there was no one here in this resort town. Just the few locals, and himself.

A lonely man in mourning.

He shivered again, then went back into the house, closing the door. There was dust on everything, and the furniture wore shrouds of sheets. They would have pulled the sheets together. He walked to the couch and dragged the sheet off. “Mara, this couch was my grandmother's. My mom took an upholstery class, you know, like at a community college and she redid it. Took her months!” He laughed. “She had to sign up for the class three times to finish it, but, look,” he rubbed the material, “didn't she do a good job? We were real proud of her, my dad and me, she worked hard on this.”

He moved to a rocker and pulled the shroud off it. “My mother rocked me in this when I was a baby. The leg broke, here,” he bent to touch a strut that ran from seat to rocker, “and my dad made another one. See,” he touched the strut again, then touched its counterpart on the other rocker, “it doesn't quite match. Dad did a good job, but he insisted we use it in the beach house, since it wasn't exactly the same.” He smiled. “Mom thought it was great, but Dad was a perfectionist.”

He rose again, then sighed, “Oh, Mara, I wanted to share this with you. I wanted to make you part of this. I wanted to give you only the good times.” He choked on a sob, then quickly stripped the rest of the linens and moved back to the bedrooms.

“Mulder, what do you think you're doing?” Scully hissed, her eyes scanning the hallway as Mulder worked a credit card into the AD's door.

“Shh, Scully, not to worry,” he said, as the door opened with a slight click. “We just need to look around.”

“Mulder, I don't like this. This is a serious invasion of his privacy.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time Melissa invaded my privacy?”

“Missy? My Melissa?”

Mulder nodded, moving through the apartment, looking for the AD.

“Yeah, your Missy.” He opened a door and looked into an office. “You were back, but I was so angry. You wouldn't wake up.” He was sorting through papers on the desk -- all work related. “Nothing they did seemed to help, and they were talking about your Living Will.”

He walked to the stairs, Scully trailing. “I know you had a difference of opinion with my mom over that.”

“Yeah, you could say that. Anyway, this man gave me information on who had done that to you, who took you. He wouldn't give me the ones behind it all, but he was going to give me the ones who actually took you. The hired help, I guess you could say. He said it was the best I was going to get, and I was willing to take anything at that point.”

He peered into the bedroom, then walked over to a small desk. “Two desks; work downstairs, personal up here,” he commented. “And you call me obsessive.” He began to rifle through the papers that lay there.

“So I'm sitting in my apartment, in the dark, waiting for these guys to come to my apartment -- he'd set them up, my informant -- and there's a knock on the door. Scared the shit out of me.” He looked up and grinned.

“I go to the peephole, it's Melissa. She was the last person I wanted to see then, but I opened the door, thinking maybe something had happened with you. But no, she just wants to tell me how I haven't really been there for you; I'm not trying hard enough to reach you.” He shook his head. “I did try, Scully, honest I did, but you were so ...” He turned to look at her and she saw the tears that hovered in his eyes.

“Mulder,” she said softly.

He wiped his face roughly. “Yeah, well, anyway, I got to thinking, and so I came to the hospital and sat with you that night. I talked to you. I tried to reach you, but,” -- he shrugged -- “nothing. You were just as gone when I left as you were when I arrived. I went back to my apartment, the place had been trashed. I missed my chance to get the ones that did that to you.” He started to shrug again but it quickly turned into a shudder. “I let them go.”

He turned to her again, “Scully, I'm sorry,” his voice broke and the tears fell, “I let them go.”

She came to him then, enfolding him in her arms, holding him as it washed over him again, the dark time, the bad time, the time of being alone. “It's all right, Mulder,” she said, “I'm here. It's all right now.”

He clung to her for a long moment, then gathered himself together. He kissed her fiercely, seeming to draw renewed strength, renewed purpose from the contact. Breaking reluctantly from her embrace, he calmed somewhat, sniffing a bit, then ducking into the bathroom. When he came back out, he was almost back to normal. “So, anyway, you woke up, and everything was OK. All because Missy invaded my privacy.”

He went back to the desk, resumed looking at the papers. “Hey, Scully, did you know Skinner has a house in someplace called, get this, Nags Head, North Carolina?”

“No, I didn't. Why?”

“ 'Cause I'm willing to bet that's where he is. Now I just need a map to figure out where it is.”

“I know where it is, Mulder.”

He turned, eyes wide with surprise. “You do? How?”

“I told you I lived in Virginia Beach for three years. Nags Head is where the Virginia Beach locals go when they want to get away from the tourists.”

“Close to Norfolk?”

“About an hour, if I remember correctly.”

“Let's go.”

“Mulder, don't you want to check the apartment first?”

“Nah, I got a feeling about this.” He pulled her close to him. “Scully, I know what he's feeling. I understand. And it's not good. I think we need to find him fast.”

Skinner had finished cleaning. The beach house was spotless. He didn't exactly understand why, he knew it was important. There had been many good times here, and he didn't want to leave a mess. He pulled out the few photos he had of Mara -- he'd framed them soon after she went missing -- and placed them on the mantle with the other family pictures that rested there.

Here, she was laughing, the sun had set her hair on fire and it swirled around her face as the breeze lifted it. He'd caught that one as they hiked along the earthworks at Yorktown, a Saturday's outing for them last fall.

And here, his finger touched her image reverently, she was cooking, a smudge of flour over her eye, and her hair pulled up in that funny pony-tail she wore so often. To keep it out of the way, she said. He didn't understand how it could be, but she swore long hair was easier to take care of in lots of ways than short. Just put it up and forget it for the day, she said. You don't have to keep brushing it and messing with it all the time.

He shook his head. He didn't get it but it didn't matter. He loved her hair, and he was glad she wore it long.

He sighed and looked at the last picture. She was asleep on the couch, a book in her lap and her glasses perched on the end of her nose. He'd been taken by her innocence, the trust she had in him, her -- he choked -- her vulnerability. After he'd taken the picture, he'd gone to her and slipped the book from her fingers, pulled the glasses from her nose, and lifted her into his arms. She stirred then, but he'd shushed her, and carried her back to the bedroom.

When he laid her on the bed, she'd awoken, and though he tried to get her to go back to sleep, she'd tugged him into the bed with her, and they'd made love for what seemed like hours. Time stood still when he was with Mara. Now, there was entirely too much time, and no Mara.

He touched the last picture once more, then trudged to the bedroom to get ready.

They pulled up to the beach house, parking behind Skinner's Crown Vic. Scully led the way as they walked to the front door. “Should we knock,” she asked, “or just use your credit card again?”

“Ha, Ha,” Mulder replied, trying the knob. The door opened easily. “How 'bout we just go on in?”

Scully snorted then stepped into the darkened house. It had the air of long abandonment, but everything was spotless. The lingering smell of pine and lemon indicated the cleaning was very recent.

“Hello?” Mulder called, “Anybody home?” He turned to Scully. “Check the loft -- I'll go down here.” He indicated a short hallway leading to bedrooms.

Scully was upstairs, looking down at the living room, when Mulder emerged. “He's here, well, not in the house, but his stuff is in the bedroom.” He turned in a circle, surveying the room. “Where the hell could he have gone?”

Scully came downstairs, then walked to the fireplace. She lifted a photo from the mantle and held it out wordlessly to Mulder. Mara. He walked over to her, taking the picture, then spotted the other two. He handled it reverently, finally replacing it in its appointed spot.

“Did he go for a walk?”

“Maybe. January's awfully cold for walking on the beach, though.”

“Maybe it fits his mood.” Mulder looked at the pictures again. “I don't like it, Scully. This just has the feel of saying good-bye to it. Better button up, I suddenly feel a need to walk on the beach.”

She nodded and they walked to the sliding glass door, stepping out on the wood deck behind it, and making their way down a number of steps to a path of stones, leading to the water.

They walked quickly, the cold was biting, and then climbed the dune line to reach the beach itself.

Just visible, only head and shoulders still above the icy waters, was a man. Skinner. Moving steadily against the tide, deeper and deeper into the frigid ocean.

“Oh, shit!” Mulder exclaimed. “Shoes on or off, Scully?”

“Strip, Mulder, it'll be colder, but the weight won't wear you down. And move fast, I don't want to have to come after you both.”

Mulder's clothes were coming off and he was running into the water, high-stepping over the waves that rolled into the shore. The water was icy, beyond cold, and he could feel himself going numb. He shivered involuntarily, and forced himself to keep going.

When he was waist deep, the figure of the AD slipped beneath the water and he tried to move faster, his eyes fastened on the last spot he had seen the man.

He reached it and dove, hands flailing frantically as he searched for Skinner in the ocean's inky darkness. Nothing. He rose, gulped air again, and dove once more. It was his fourth dive when he finally felt it. Something solid connected with his foot, and he turned in the water, grabbing the AD and hauling him to the surface.

He was unmoving in Mulder's grasp, not breathing. Mulder turned on his side, positioned Skinner, and began the swim back to shore. When the water was too shallow to swim any further, Scully was suddenly there, up to her waist in the cold Atlantic water, and they were carrying Skinner to the shore.

“N-n-n-ot breathing,” he said, through chattering teeth.

“Put him down, Mulder, and get dressed. I won't have you go hypothermic on me as well.”

She knelt down and placed her cheek near Skinner's lips, looking for the rise of his chest as she listened for breath sounds and felt for any hint of air movement. The man was not breathing. She quickly placed two fingers against his neck, relieved to find a steady pulse. She began mouth-to-mouth immediately.

Mulder was skinning out of his wet briefs, then pulling his dry clothes on. Once he was dressed, Scully ordered, “Here, Mulder, take over the respirations.”

Mulder complied and she leaned back to catch her own breath. Within two minutes, Skinner suddenly choked and began to spew water.

“Roll him! Roll him!” Scully cried. “Don't let him choke on the water!”

They rolled Skinner to his side, and Scully gently rubbed his back, soothing him as he continued to heave.

He finished relieving himself of the water, and rolled back onto his back. “Noooo,” he moaned. “Shoulda let me die.” He closed his eyes and refused to speak again.

Scully sat back on her haunches. “All right, Mulder, he's breathing. Let's get him in the house.”

Still shivering, Mulder nodded and lifted the AD's shoulders while Scully picked up his feet. They carried him back over the dunes and up the path to the house.

Once inside, Scully insisted they lay him on the floor and strip him down, drying him quickly before carrying him to the bedroom. They slipped him, nude, beneath the sheets of the queen-size bed in the master bedroom, and Mulder commented, “He's gonna freak if he wakes up naked, Scully.”

“Then get him some sweats or something,” she said absently, removing her own wet clothes.

“Uh, Scully, what are you doing?”

“Mulder,” she stared at him, “his temperature is way down and it was you, I believe, who pointed out that the best way to conserve body heat was to crawl naked into a sleeping bag with another naked person.”

“Scully! He'll really freak if he wakes up to find you naked in the bed with him.”

“Gee, Mulder, thanks a lot,” she said sarcastically.

“That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

“It's OK, partner, he's not gonna wake up to find me naked; I'm putting on a sweatsuit. And besides, you're gonna join us.” She smiled sweetly at him.

“Me? C'mon, Scully, I fished him out of the ocean.”

“Yes, you did. And got quite chilled yourself, to say nothing of the fact that I know you are exhausted. So put something warm on and get in the bed.”

“The bags are in the car.”

“Then get them.” Scully had her own wet clothes off and was climbing under the covers with the AD, as Mulder turned to go to the car.

He returned quickly, pulling a sweatsuit from Scully's bag for her, and taking off his jeans and slipping into his own sweatsuit. He dropped the extra comforter he'd brought from the living room onto the bed, then helped Scully to dress Skinner in a warm fleece set.

He crawled into the bed on the other side of the AD. “How come I have to lay next to Skinner instead of you?”

“Oh, please, Mulder!” Scully said in exasperation. “You're cold, you're exhausted, and I want to keep an eye on you too. Just cuddle up.” She rolled over, pressing herself against Skinner and reached out to Mulder on the other side.

Rather slowly, he curled up against Skinner's back and took Scully's hand, their joined hands resting on the AD's side. “God! He's like ice!”

“I know. But I think he'll be OK once he wakes up. You know we can't take him to a hospital. It would kill his career.”

“Yeah. And one of us has to stay on him 24/7 now. This wasn't just a suicidal gesture, this was an actual attempt -- and a nearly successful one at that.”

“You try to sleep, Mulder. I'll watch him. And once he's warm, you can head off to another bed.”

“ 's OK, Scully,” Mulder mumbled, as sleep began to creep up on him. “I was teasing. I don't mind.”

“I know, Mulder. But he really would freak if he wakes up in bed with you! He's bound to be upset enough to find me here.”

Mulder chuckled, then laid his head on the pillow. “I'm just gonna rest a few. All right? I'm right here if you need me.” Within five minutes he was snoring gently as Scully lay awake, monitoring the two men in her life.

About two hours later, Skinner began to moan and thrash about in his sleep. “Nooo,” he cried, one arm lashing out at Mulder, who sat up blearily.

Scully was already cooing to the AD, speaking softly as she tried to calm him. His eyes were tightly shut and he reached out to clasp Scully to himself. “Mara,” he breathed, tears falling from his eyes, “Mara. Come back. Mara ...”

Scully shifted him, pulling his head to her chest, and she lay, cradling the big man gently, still cooing, still talking softly, still rubbing his back. When he settled, and slipped back into a restless sleep, she looked at Mulder over his shoulder.

“Maybe you should go,” she suggested. “I think he's gonna be uncomfortable enough when he wakes up.”

Mulder nodded and crawled out of the bed, then walked around it to kneel by Scully. “You gonna be all right?”

“Yeah. But he is seriously out of it, Mulder. We've got to make plans, and soon.”

Mulder nodded again, then kissed Scully and padded down the hall, in search of a new bed, and sleep.

The next morning, Scully was awakened by a voice whispering, “Mara, you came back!” and there was such joy in it that it hurt to hear. “I thought you left me, but you came back.” A warm nose nuzzled her breast, but apparently didn't find what was expected, for Skinner jerked away immediately, and sat up.

He looked down at her, first in confusion, then in pain, and finally in anger. “You should have let me die!” He rose swiftly and stormed to the bathroom.

She rose and quickly ran down the hall to the room where Mulder slept. She banged on the open door, calling, “Get up. He's up and he's not happy.”

Mulder nodded and began throwing on clothes. They went to the living room, and sat, waiting until the AD emerged from the bathroom. He came in and sank down on the couch, gently touching the material before folding his hands in his lap, his face resuming its stony impassivity.

“Sir?” Scully began tentatively.

He lifted his head, staring at her for a long moment, before he silently resumed his inspection of his lap.

She looked at Mulder, and he shook his head. “Kitchen,” he whispered, nodding his head in that direction.

From the pass-through in the kitchen, they could see the AD on the sofa. Mulder began going through cupboards, looking for coffee but came up empty. “Definitely got to make a run to the store,” he muttered.

“Mulder, what are we going to do? We can't leave him alone, and the only reason we don't have to be at work today is because it's a travel day. We'll have the weekend, but we have to go back by Monday.”

He shrugged. “He has to work it out in his own way.”

“His way involved walking into the ocean in the middle of January, Mulder!”

He dropped his head and shrugged again. “Mine involved sitting for hours at a time with my gun in my mouth.” He shivered, then reached out and pulled Scully into a hug. He kissed her, then settled her against his chest, holding her tightly. Head tilted down, he murmured into her hair, “I'm not going to add to his pain. We'll find a way to give him whatever time he needs.” He kissed her head again. “I don't know why I'm still alive. I just don't know.”

Scully sighed against him, and squeezed him tightly. “I don't know either, but I'm glad you are.”

They both turned to look at Skinner, sitting still and alone on the couch, head dropped and staring at nothing in his lap. In the morning light, just visible on his cheeks, was the glittering trail his tears had made.

Six hours later, Scully had made a trip to the store, they had provisions for the weekend, and Mulder was making sandwiches in the kitchen. Scully was curled up in a chair, reading, and Skinner still sat unmoving on the couch.

A cell phone chirped, and there was the usual scramble to determine if it was his or hers. His won, and he answered, “Mulder.”

His face took on a quizzical look. “No, Kim, it's all right. We should have called you yesterday, but things got a little hairy. Yeah, we found him, and yeah, he's OK -- sort of.” Mulder shot a glance at the still form on the couch.

“Why have you been trying to reach him?” He listened, then said, “We're on our way. We're a good five hour's away, but we'll go straight there. Thanks, Kim. Thank you. You don't realize this, but you may have saved his life.”

He flipped the phone shut and looked up, then walked to the couch and took Skinner's chin in his hand, pulling the man's eyes up to meet his own. Skinner tried to yank himself away, but Mulder's grip was firm.

“Listen to me,” he ordered. “A Jane Doe showed up at Georgetown Medical last night -- just showed up. Unconscious, superficial trauma, no ID.”

Skinner glared at Mulder. “So?”

“So, she has long red hair, and a scar” -- he made the motion across his chest -- “here.”

“How long?” Skinner asked from the back seat.

Scully turned around. He was out of his seat belt again, leaning forward. She smiled inwardly. It was like driving with an excited child. Only this “child” was six foot two and was just as worried as he was excited.

“You can call again in about ten minutes,” she said patiently. “And we'll be there in about,” she looked at Mulder, and he completed her sentence, “two hours.”

Skinner had immediately called Georgetown after Mulder made his announcement. He'd insisted they change Mara from a Jane Doe and use her name. And he'd gotten a status on her. Semi-comatose, superficial face and limb trauma, no internal injuries. Other than the contusions on her face, no recognizable head trauma to account for her altered level of consciousness. She was unresponsive to verbal cues, but did respond to deep painful stimuli. He hadn't wanted to know how they had discovered that.

After his third call, the hospital had limited him to one call an hour, and he was too jittery to keep track of the time, so he just asked Scully. He looked up to see her smiling at him, and he responded with a sheepish grin of his own. “Sorry. I'm driving you nuts, I know. I just can't stand -- not knowing.”

“ 's all right,” she said. “We understand. I know Mulder understands.” She reached out and gently stroked her partner's arm, earning a quick smile before he returned his attention to the road.

“With no more injuries than what she has, why is she unconscious?” he asked again.

“There's no way to know yet. The doctors will brief you when we get there. I know it's hard, but you just have to wait.”

“I want you to look at her,” Skinner said.

“I will. You know that. But you know I can't practice -- I can't treat her.”

“No, but you can make sure they do what's right, what's best for her.” His voice broke again as he added in a soft undertone, “What's best for us.” He slid back in his seat, refastening the seat belt and leaning his head back against the top of the seat.

“It's not over,” Mulder said in a quiet voice, and Scully glanced sharply at him.

“I know,” Skinner replied. “I'm not unaware that a whole new level of problem has arisen. But,” and his voice cracked again, “at least she's back and we can tackle the rest together.”

Mulder nodded, but muttered under his breath, “Don't be surprised if it doesn't feel like together.” Only Scully heard his pain-filled admission, and she gently laid her hand on his leg, reminding him that they were together now.

Skinner had his eyes closed in the back seat, lost in thought, when he suddenly spoke up. “I owe you two my life.”

“You've saved us a few times,” Mulder replied.

“Not the same. You risked your careers to save mine. And you kept me alive so that today can happen.” He paused, then lowered his voice and added, “I'm not good at this, but, thank you.”

“So when will she wake up?” Skinner asked impatiently. “When will she be back to normal?”

“Well, she is stuporous, so 'normal' is a matter of context.”

Skinner was getting frustrated. Why couldn't this man just answer the question? He gritted his teeth and started to speak, when Scully laid a hand on his arm.

“I think what Dr. Irrizy is trying to explain, is that, at this time, there is no indication of brain damage.” She turned to the dark-skinned man. “Is that correct, Doctor?”

“Well, essentially, yes, Doctor Scully, but you know there are no guarantees.”

Skinner was nodding as he moved to take a seat by Mara's bed. He had already dismissed the others, focusing totally on the woman in the bed. She lay without moving, the gentle rise and fall of her chest the only clue she was still alive.

“How would she have gotten these scrapes and bruises?” he asked, pointing to her face and arms.

“They're consistent with her being shoved from a moving car in front of the hospital. I don't think there's anything more to it than that,” Scully responded. She turned to the doctor again. “What else are you doing?”

“A broad spectrum antibiotic, just in case. Nutrition and hydration. She is malnourished and dehydrated, so we need to correct that as quickly as possible.” He looked over at the tiny woman in the bed, and the large man who cradled her hand so carefully, and added, “Time. We just need to give her time.”

He began to walk away, and Scully followed. “He seems very much in love with her,” and Scully nodded. “Well, that may be the best thing. You know, these patients will often respond to familiar voices, to their loved ones, long before they would respond to you or me.”

“Do you have a problem with him staying with her?”

The doctor looked back at the curtained alcove. “It's not usually allowed,” he glanced down to see Scully narrowing her eyes at him, “but, considering his size, and the fact that he's a federal agent and I assume has access to weaponry,” -- he grinned -- “I guess we can make an exception.”

Scully relaxed and nodded again. “I really don't think you would have been able to make him leave. My partner and I need to stay with him, but it doesn't need to be both of us, and we'll try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

“Why does he need someone to stay with him?”

“Well, the kidnapping is an open case, and the Assistant Director could potentially be at risk. We can't afford to take chances.”

Now the doctor was nodding. “Very well. I'll inform the staff.” He turned and strode briskly away.

She watched him for a minute then shifted her eyes to see Mulder strolling down the hall -- a cafeteria tray in each hand. “Hey, Scully,” he called, “wanna give me a hand here?”

She relieved him of a tray and they began to walk slowly back to Mara's cubicle. “I figured we better try and get him to eat while he's still on the 'she's back' high. If she doesn't wake soon, that high will fade fast.”

Scully touched his arm. “If she doesn't wake soon, I don't know what we'll do with him. We can't stay here everyday, and we can't even guarantee evenings. Kersch could put us on travel again at any time.”

“The Director? Could he do something?”

She shook her head. “I don't know how we could approach him without letting on how -- unstable -- Skinner has been.”

“Must be hell to be that high up. When I was going nuts, everyone just took it in stride as part of how 'Spooky' Mulder was.”

She smiled at him, then teased, “When you were going nuts? Who says you ever stopped?”

He leaned down then, and kissed her quickly, the tray balanced precariously at the end of a long arm. “You make me sane,” he whispered, then straightened and added in a normal voice, “well, most of the time at least.”

Skinner looked across the bed to see Scully curled up in a recliner, sleeping. The hospital had been good enough to move two of the sleeping chairs into Mara's curtained area, though it took up considerable space in the already cramped alcove. He had napped briefly, but now he was watching Mara. She was still unmoving, but he had a feeling she knew he was there.

He leaned forward, taking her hand, and said, “I'm here, Mara. I came. I missed you so much.” His voice broke and he felt tears sting his eyes. “I looked for you, Mara, I kept looking. But you were gone. There was nothing. I tried and tried, for months, but there was just nothing.” He laid his head on the bed, next to her arm, and let the tears flow.

From across the bed, Scully opened her eyes briefly, then quickly closed them again, trying to give the AD at least a semblance of privacy.

He lifted his head slightly, looking at her with tear-blurred vision. His hand began to gently rub her arm. “I missed you so much,” he whispered. “I was so alone. And, Mara,” he sniffed, and strangled a sob in his throat, “Mara, I can't be alone anymore. I don't know how to be alone. I need you.” He was stroking her arm, his movement almost frantic, “I just can't go on alone, Mara. You have to wake up and come back to me. You just have to.”

He laid his head back on the bed, lifting her arm to lay it across his shoulders. He stayed there for a long time, tears still creeping from his eyes, his breathing ragged and harsh. He had finally begun to calm, more from exhaustion than any feeling of relief, when he felt it. A movement on his back. Her fingers had twitched.

He sat up, taking her hand in his own, and called, “Scully! She moved.” As he held her hand, he felt it again. Just the slightest movement, but her fingers had tightened against his.

Scully was up and moving to his side of the bed. “What? Where?” she asked, and he pointed to Mara's hand, clasped gently in his own.

“Her fingers. She moved her fingers. Twice now.” He reached up with his other hand and traced her brow. “Mara, please. Again. Tell me you're here.” There was no expression in her face, her eyes remained closed, and her chest still rose in an even up and down motion. But within his hand, once more, her fingers clasped his own.

He looked up at Scully, and she was smiling. She'd seen it. She patted his back, then leaned down and gave him a hug. “It's a good sign, Sir, a very good sign.” She straightened, and added, “Don't wear her out. She's probably using a lot of energy to let you know she's here. We have to give her some time to heal from whatever she's been through.” She patted him again, and went back to her chair.

Scully had persuaded Skinner to step away while the nurses gave Mara her bath. They had walked down to the visitor's waiting room, and Skinner had tried to sit patiently, but within 10 minutes he was unable to wait any longer. He looked up apologetically. “I need to see her.”

Scully nodded and they walked back to the curtained alcove that served as Mara's room.

“ ... really should just cut it off,” a voice said. “She'll never get the snarls out.”

“NO!” Skinner roared, and pulled the curtain open.

Two nurses were just finishing changing the linens on Mara's bed, and they looked up in surprise. “It's just a suggestion, Sir,” one responded mildly. “We can't even wash her hair properly because of the tangles.”

“Then give me a brush,” Skinner demanded. “I'll take care of it.”

One nurse looked at the other, then shrugged, and handed him a comb. “All we have here.” One nurse gathered the dirty towels and gown, as the other took the basin, and they left.

“I have a brush, Sir,” Scully offered, and removed one from her purse, passing it to him.

He took it absently, and was studying the bed, trying to determine the best way to work on Mara's hair, when Mulder joined them.

“Time to go eat, Scully,” he said lightly. “And I brought you breakfast,” he said to Skinner.

The AD turned to look at Mulder, nodded quickly, then turned back to the bed.

Mulder looked quizzically at Scully.

“Mara moved a bit last night,” she explained. “A very good sign. She's just had her bath and now the AD wants to help her get her hair straight.”

“I can't figure out how to do it,” Skinner growled.

“Just get in the bed with her, sit her up against your chest, and brush it out,” Mulder said.

“Mulder, he can't get in the bed with her,” Scully scolded. “It's against policy.”

“I did,” Mulder said quietly. “They pretty much left me alone.” His voice dropped again, and his eyes took on a faraway look, “Sometimes, it was the only way I could get a few minutes of sleep.”

Scully touched him gently. “I didn't know, Mulder. I'm still learning how hard it was for you.”

He shrugged. “You couldn't know.”

Skinner had the railing on the bed down, and was crawling into the bed. “I need some help here,” he said.

Mulder stepped over quickly, and gently lifted Mara to a sitting position, then, when Skinner was settled, back against the headboard, long legs stretched out on either side of Mara, Mulder gently laid her back against his chest.

Skinner looked up. “Look, I appreciate your -- vigilance -- but, I really need to be alone for a while. Please?”

Mulder and Scully exchanged a look, then Mulder nodded. “C'mon, Scully, I'll take you to breakfast.” He glanced back at the AD, already working the brush through the ends of Mara's hair. “We'll be back pretty soon, OK?”

Skinner nodded and they left.

He held her hair gently in his hands, her head propped back against his shoulder. It was awkward, but God, it felt good to hold her again. His arm was snaked around her belly, holding her close to him, and his hands teased the tangles from her hair, working from the bottom up.

“Well,” he said, “guess I've got my work cut out for me, don't I?” His hands were moving as he spoke. “I've missed this. There are so many things I've missed, Mara, all of them things you've brought me to. I miss waking up with you in my arms. I miss watching you, still half asleep, as I dress for work. I miss walking with you, and talking to you, and being with you. I miss your hose in the shower, and my T-shirts disappearing into your drawers. I miss setting the table. I hardly ate while you were gone, so you know I didn't set the table. I've lost a lot of weight -- you'll be surprised at how I look. But I went to the apartment every night, Mara. I kept my promise. I was there. It's there, waiting for us.”

He gave a successful little 'whuff' as a particularly bad snarl broke apart and the brush moved freely. “ 'Course you may not want to be there anymore. That's OK. We'll find another place. Whatever you want. Mara, I'm ready to move. I want to be near you all the time. Time is too precious to spend four hours a day driving.”

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Her hands rested on his legs, and he felt her fingers move against his pants.

“You hear me!” he cried happily. “I knew you would. Please come back to me, Mara. I'm so lonely here without all of you.” He hugged her again, and felt the answering pressure as her hands moved against him.

He was almost finished with the first part now. One long hank of hair was tangle-free, and he moved his hands to her head to separate another section to work on. Beneath his fingers he felt her head turn slightly, as if she was seeking something.

He shifted her in his arms, and looked down to see her startling green eyes staring up at him. Her mouth worked soundlessly, and he hurried to reassure her, “Shhh, it's all right.” His hand was on the call button, and in a moment the room would be filled with medical people, but for now, he wanted her to himself. Just for a minute.

“Shhh,” he whispered again. “You came back. You're here.” He leaned down and kissed her softly, his lips lingering gently against hers. Her eyes tracked his every movement, and when she saw the tears in his own, her hand spasmed against his leg.

“Wal --” she breathed, “ 'm here.”