Title: Walter and Mariel: 1. Da Capo
Author: Mary Mastrangelo
Series: Walter and Mariel
Rated: PG-13 or R, depending on sensitivity
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner & Co. belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Used without permission and without intention to infringe copyright. All characters and background not already established on the show are my own. Dr. Mariel Fraser is my character and may not be used without permission.

Summary: A series of near-fatal 'accidents' enmesh Skinner and the woman he has come to love in a web of terror that ends with a final confrontation with the agent of a conspiracy.

This is my second "take" on Bureau AD Walter Skinner's life. The first "take" was introduced in "Sidesaddle." If Chris Carter gives him another life before I finish posting this story, then enjoy it as a piece of alternate universe fiction.

My "bedroom" scenes are not particularly anatomical, and deal with love rather than sex as recreation. I'll mark each part as posted for ratings purposes.

A Washington, D.C. suburb, early evening

Sometimes this was the only part of the day that made sense to him.

"Daddy, are you eating at the stove again?"

He smiled into Sally's big grey eyes and smoothed the child's chestnut curls with a free hand. "Sure," he replied, scooping up spaghetti. "Why not?"

" 'Cause we're over there." She pointed across the kitchen to the table, where her little sister was busy stacking and unstacking the cups.

"I think that's a 'gotcha,' honey." Handing the child's plate down to her, Mariel grinned at her husband.

"I think you're right," he agreed, letting Sally tug him along by the hem of his sweater.

Walter Skinner figured that dinnertime in his home was no more hectic than in any household with three small children and two working parents. Work. He still had a briefcase-full to go through, and Mariel had a rehearsal tonight.

"Just sectionals," she'd told him earlier, "so it shouldn't be long. The woodwinds really need the practice."

He looked over at her now. She had the baby in her lap, and was leaning over slightly to unhook the flap of the nursing bra. When the baby was settled and busy, she sighed, closing her eyes. He wondered if she had any idea of how beautiful she was at these times, her face soft and relaxed, enjoying the moment of peace.

After dinner, Mariel left for rehearsal, so he took the baby on his way upstairs, settling the boy onto his broad chest and shooing the girls ahead of him. Let's see...baby into crib, Sally and Elizabeth into the playroom, himself down the hall to the waiting briefcase. She'd asked him to wait on the girls' baths since it was relaxing for her to see to them. He still didn't see how wrestling with a wet three-year-old could possibly be relaxing.

Later that evening he sat on the sofa in the family room, bending over the open files spread out on the coffee table. He looked up just in time to blink at the sight of a small, bare bottom pelting past the door, followed a second later by an adult-size bottom, this one regretfully not bare. A spurt of laughter burst out from down the hall, then a high-pitched "Gotcha, Mommy!" brought a smile from him.

He stood up, sauntered into the hall in time to see five-year-old Sally attempting to bounce on her mother's abdomen. He quickly caught the child up, wrapping her in the towel again.

"Not on Mommy's tummy, hon," he admonished, handing over the child as Mariel climbed back to her feet.

"One down," she said, "and one to go."

He smiled after them and went back to finish his work. Later he listened to prayers, turned off lights, and hoped everyone was settled.

Mariel was asleep when he finally closed the master-bedroom door behind him. When he slid under the covers a little later, though, she smiled at him. Then she leaned over to kiss his eyes closed, her mahogany hair tickling a little as it fell across his cheeks.

He gave a little tug, and she landed very naturally atop his big frame, her legs companionably astride his waist as she lay. As if she was born to be there, he thought, as perhaps she had been.

Smiling up at her, he asked, "Is it the right time?"

"Time for what, honey?" She kissed his eyes again. "Dinner's done; dishes washed; kids in their rooms, at least, if not asleep; take-home work done; rehearsal finished. What's left to do?"

"I'll let you think about it for a minute," he replied.

"O.K." She rubbed gently against him, her silky gown cool on his bare torso. In a few moments he felt the tips of her breasts harden to blend with his own response, and she sighed.

"You wouldn't do that if the time wasn't right," he murmured, enjoying her touch.

"It's right," she whispered, sighing again when she felt his hand stroking down her hips, guiding her.

"Are you sure?" he inquired, more to tease her than because he doubted anything.

She stopped the delicious movements and laughed. "Walt, we've been practicing NFP for seven years. We have three nice kids spaced just about how we wanted them. My basal temperature is fine, my other body signs are fine. Yes, I'm sure."

"Just checking," he smiled again and pulled her face down to his for a hard, deep kiss.

She answered the kiss, smoothing her palms slowly down his waist. After a while he rolled her over easily and let his hands move gently, intimately over her body. Her eager response aroused both passion and tenderness in him.

One with her at last, he set himself to pleasing her as much as she wanted. Her soft little moan close to his ear, her warm breath and warm body and the sweet, warm depths of her excited him at last beyond restraint.

"Oh, yes," she whispered, "Walt, yes...please...Oh...!"

Her final cry of delight sent him completely over the edge. She moved with him easily, sobbing softly in her throat as the delirious release surged through him, bringing her with him once more. He was unaware of calling her name, and buried his face in her silky hair.

Delightfully spent, she whispered after a while, "Am I worth waiting for, Mr. S?"

Just as pleasurably exhausted as she, he chuckled, "You always were, Mrs. S."

They were almost asleep when a frightened little cry startled them both. "It's the baby, Walt," she said.

He swung his legs off the bed, picking his robe up from the floor. "I'll go, honey."

"Bring him in if he's hungry." She watched him leave the room. They both knew that, if it hadn't been for him, neither she nor the baby -- born in the backseat of a stakeout car after she'd taken a bullet in the abdomen -- would be here now. Sighing, she fell asleep, her heart as satisfied as her body.

It took a gentle touch and soft caresses on the baby's tousled hair to soothe him back to sleep. Watching him, thinking of all the children and the woman with whom he had just shared so much and so deeply, he remembered the start of it all, and smiled. Begin Flashback: Evening and Night, near Quantico

The clouds had settled in after threatening since mid-morning, making the day darker than the hour warranted. For all that, it was after six and the parking lot lights were on when Walt Skinner reached his car.

He stowed his armload of files and papers, packing them behind the spare tire so they wouldn't be spread all over the trunk when he got home. Straightening, he glanced up before closing the trunk lid and smiled a little at the sudden cool touch of drizzle on his lips. As long as the rain didn't get too heavy, he could roll the windows down on the way back.

The road in from Quantico was essentially deserted. Maybe darkness and the impending rain was keeping people indoors. The road narrowed and began to wind as the woods thickened. Skinner eased off the gas. He knew that the most dangerous time was shortly after the rain started, when the oil and gas on the road began to slick across the surface before washing away. Another, sharper curve was ahead, and he touched the brake briefly before the turn.

He was into the curve at the point where centrifugal force exerted its strongest pull when the sound hammered at him through the still-open windows: loud and sharp, the off-side front tire literally blew apart.

Skinner had no time to think, only to react as the car swung into a sliding spin, skidding across the far lane. When he realized that he couldn't keep the car on the road, he dropped a quick touch down to verify that his seat harness was fastened, and touched the brake again.

The left-side wheels dropped off the road into the ditch bordering the tree line. Mud, dead tree limbs, and a disintegrating truck tire fountained up, rattling and thudding back across the hood and roof as the car plowed ahead for another hundred feet.

Skinner was belted in, but the gear in the front seat was not. He had barely a second to turn his head before the flat end of his briefcase, impelled by the car's speed and sudden dip, collided with the side of his face, jamming the metal-framed glasses painfully into his skin. Stunned, he was unaware of when the car stopped at last.

He fought to stay conscious, knowing he couldn't lose control now. Gradually the sharp agony faded enough for him to be able to focus on the situation rather than just the pain.

The car was stopped, tipped about five feet out of the horizontal. Mud and debris coated the windshield and light rain dripped in through the open passenger window. Thankfully, he smelled no gas fumes, but that didn't mean the fuel lines weren't ruptured.

Breathing deeply, if shakily, a few times, he looked left, but the driver's door was jammed against the ditch's bank. The only way out was to crawl up the seat to the passenger door.

After patting himself down to verify that nothing was wrong besides an incredible headache, Skinner unhooked the harness, reaching over slightly as he did so to feel that his weapon was still holstered. He felt briefly around, then, for the cell phone, but gave it up after a minute. Goodness knew where it had gone, and he was impelled by the feeling that he had to get out of this car.

It was a clumsy business to maneuver his big frame uphill in the confined area of the front seat, but he managed with a few bumps and scrapes. Realizing that there was no way he would fit through the window, he braced as firmly as he could against the dashboard and seatback, and shouldered the door open. The door was surprisingly heavy and akward to push up against gravity and the angle involved, but he succeeded. When he was sure it wouldn't fall back onto his head, he hauled himself out, grip sliding some on the wet door frame.

Given the size of the ditch and the car's angle, it was only a long step down to the road. He landed lightly and shivered under a spurt of cold rain as the shower deepened. Of course, he thought, now that I'm out in it.

Sliding in shoes not made for negotiating muddy ditches, Skinner worked around to the shattered tire. Annoyed and still in pain, he leaned on the front bumper, kicking away some of the crud that had plowed up. As far as he could tell in the rain and slop, the sidewall was blown away.

Blown...He filed that thought and straightened up. Sticking cold hands into his coat pockets, he considered his situation. There was nothing vital in the car; the stuff in the trunk was safe enough. He could head toward Woodbridge -- there were a couple of turnoffs leading toward the public woods where he thought he'd seen lights earlier. If nobody would let him in -- for which he wouldn't blame them -- maybe someone would make a call for him.

It wouldn't be easy walking in the rain and now-total darkness, but he'd lived through worse. Maybe I should take another survival course refresher, he thought, walking away from the car. He was out in the field again in more ways than one.

Night, Near Quantico

Mariel Fraser set her tea on the kitchen table before sitting down herself. At least she'd found everything she needed. That was one reason she disliked housesitting: sometimes nothing was in the places she would have put them, and she hated going through other people's cabinets looking for utensils. She pulled the manuscript paper and open orchestra score back in front of her place and started work again.

She tended to lose track of time and place when she was working on a musical score, so she started more strongly than she might at the knocking sound. Standing up quickly, she slid the .45 out of its holster and slowly approached the kitchen door.

Out in the hall she could hear the heavy rain more clearly. The knock came again. Who on earth...? Well, at least with a brother in the Marines and an uncle in police work, she knew how to handle the weapon she now carried. -- I just hope it's not the paper boy collecting. -- she thought. Standing to one side, she flipped on the porch light.

"Who is it?"

The answering voice was muffled by the door, but clear enough to make out. "My name is Skinner, ma'am. FBI."

That wasn't even a new trick, she thought. Deciding she'd leave the man out in the rain while she called the police, she hesitated suddenly, thinking. This didn't seem likely but, then again, how many FBI men named Skinner could there be?

"Say again," she ordered.

Out on the porch in the rain, wet, tired, his cheek probably swollen and his headache even worse, Skinner still couldn't fault her hesitation. In her place, he probably wouldn't have believed himself.

"Skinner, ma'am." He glanced down, grinned a little. "If my I.D. could fit under the door I'd push it through."

Inside, Mariel lowered the gun and reached for the lock, keeping her shoulder to the door just in case. It had to be him; the voice was just the same. Trusting her musician's ear, she unfastened the deadbolt and eased the door back.

She was right. "Come in. Walter Skinner, right?"

He obeyed, puzzled, and stood dripping. "Right, but..." Focusing through glasses wet and misted by the warmth, he smiled suddenly. "Miss Fraser, for goodness sake. I didn't know you lived out here."

"I don't," she replied, gesturing for him to take off the wet coat. "I'm housesitting for my stepfather's niece's cousin-by-marriage." When he blinked at that one she smiled. "Never mind. And it's Dr. Fraser now -- I passed my orals last month."

"Congratulations. Look, can I use the phone?"

"Sure. I'll get you something hot to drink while you do that. You look like somebody dragged you out of the reservoir."

"I feel like it," he said wryly, then pointed to the .45 still in her right hand. "One, do you know how to use that? Two, do you have a license for it?"

"Yes and ditto, Mr. Skinner." She pointed toward the hall phone, then stared as he turned fully to the light. "There's a bruise the size of South Dakota on your cheek. What happened?"

He glanced back coolly. "Later, please, Dr. Fraser."

"Right."

He almost smiled, and watched her go for a moment before picking up the phone. He'd forgotten how tall she was. He'd met Dr. Fraser almost two years ago, and hadn't seen her since. However, he remembered it as clearly as if a video was playing in his mind....

..He'd been doing what he privately called "the duty," escorting a visiting official who's name he couldn't remember on his interminable rounds. The man was a patron of his local community college system, and announced that he wanted to see a concert put on by one of such colleges in the D.C. area. He had just the one picked out.

Skinner had groaned inwardly at the thought of spending an evening listening to a youthful orchestra struggle with some esoteric concert work, but he went on with his duty anyway. It had proved to be an orchestral and choral work. After sitting through the, to him, endless tuning-up ritual, he'd thought he was ready for anything until the conductor walked out on the stage.

The conductor was a woman. She was tall, with shoulder-length mahogany-colored hair, and wore a long, simply-cut black dress with low-heeled shoes. Although he was sitting too far back to see her face clearly, Skinner could feel her presence like a static charge. The musicians obviously felt it too, for they instantly became an ensemble.

The work was Mozart's "Requiem Mass," done in Latin. Skinner had vague childhood memories of the music from President Kennedy's televised funeral services. Not much of a musician himself, he still recognized that tonight the work was performed very well.

Afterward he'd gone backstage still doing his duty, but looking forward to it now. Within handshaking range, Mariel Fraser proved to be a handsome, big-boned woman with an easy, upright carriage and clear grey eyes that came just above the level of his mouth. She radiated authority and sheer love of her work.

A week later he'd received two concert tickets in his mail at work, and responded with a light-hearted note offering to fix any parking tickets she might have. That had won him a laughing phone call and a standing offer of lunch or dinner sometime when they were both free. What with one thing and another, dinner had never happened, and that had been the end of it, although he still received an occasional concert ticket with short, pleasant notes signed "M. Fraser."

One of life's nice little chance encounters....

..Until now.

Darn, he's a big man, Mariel thought, putting the water back on to boil. She'd forgotten that, or, at least, forgotten how that had made her feel. A large-framed person herself, she wasn't used to looking up to meet a man's eyes, and it felt good.

She heard him come into the kitchen. "Want instant coffee or hot tea?" she asked.

"The coffee's fine. Strong, please."

She waved him to a seat and brought over the coffee. He drank almost the whole mug at once. Tired, wet and bruised as he was, he was still a man to be reckoned with, she thought.

"Not o.k., huh?" she ventured.

"Not o.k." Skinner got up, poured himself more hot water. "Nobody can come out until tomorrow morning."

"I know better than to ask an FBI agent what happened," she said.

Concentrating on scooping coffee, Skinner remarked, "Assistant Director."

"Were you that when we met?"

"No. Not quite."

"You don't trumpet yourself, Assistant Director Skinner."

He looked up from his next sip. "It wasn't my evening then; it was yours," he said, wondering why he felt so at east talking with her. Warmer now, he leaned back against the counter to consider things.

"If you need a start, there are jumper cables in the...well, I'm not into trucks so I don't know the make. A utility vehicle thing."

Despite the wet and aches he chuckled softly. "Your stepfather's niece's et cetera's truck?"

She nodded.

"Sorry, my car's half in a ditch a couple miles away. Needs more than a jump."

"Thank goodness all you got was a big bruise." She got up to turn off the gas under the water.

"From a flying briefcase," he said dryly, catching a faint spicy floral scent as she walked past him.

"The truck has a winch on the front, too," she said as if she'd been thinking and hadn't heard him.

"That might do it," he considered. "I'd have to test it out."

"You drive, I'll hook the wires." At his look, she smiled. "Look, I've restrung a 'cello. I think I can hook up a winch cable."

"Fair enough. But I can't ask you to help."

"You're not. I said that I'd do it."

"All right."

The rain still hadn't eased by the time Skinner braked the utility vehicle thing near the tail of his wrecked car. Beside him, Mariel wiped the condensation off her side of the windshield to stare out. As far as she was concerned, the headlights only made the rain show up better.

Rain, darkness, the woods hunkering down to brace both sides of the narrow road, and the half-upended car reminded her of a scene from a bad "B" movie.

"Ready?" Skinner glanced over.

She fumbled a flashlight out of the glovebox. "O.K."

Though he'd borrowed rain gear, his regular clothes underneath were sticking damply, unpleasantly to his body, and he could feel himself shivering a little. Ignoring the discomfort, he called back, "Just a minute."

He wanted to check the tire that had blown. The sound it made had imprinted on his mind and it wasn't right. "O.K." Together they unwound the winch cable; Skinner ducked and hooked the end on the rear axle.

"Think there'll be enough purchase to pull it out?" Mariel pushed her hands into the opposite sleeves. She was shivering, too, now.

Skinner looked at her in the harsh headlight glare. "I don't know. I don't think we should fool around here long, though." He looked into the ditch. "Take some of those dead branches and stick them behind that tire. It may help the traction."

"Yes, Assistant Director, sir."

The chuckle in her voice brought his head around again. "Sorry. If you'd do that, I'll get the other side."

Ready at last, they climbed back into the truck. Backing in low gear with the winch engaged, the truck slid a little before traction caught.

In a minute, Mariel said, "I think it moved."

In a few more minutes both were sure. Skinner's government-issue sedan hulked slowly up onto the road again, looking rather like a self-animated thing from that bad "B" movie.

Skinner opened the door and slid from the driver's seat. "Stay here."

Now that the car's front end was clear, he wanted to check that tire. Crouching down, he used Mariel's flashlight and his own fingertips to explore the gash. No, not a gash; an explosive point where something had penetrated the sidewall.

The same hammering, explosive noise that he remembered suddenly blasted the night open. He shoved the light in a pocket and spun, bracing on the wheel well. About 20 feet behind him, the truck shuddered, collapsing abruptly by the rear. Another explosion, and a bitten-off scream.

God, he thought, had Mariel taken that one? The shots had come from the woods across the road, behind the truck and to his left. He moved in a low dash back to the still-open driver's door. Panting, frightened breaths from inside the cab told him Mariel was still with him, anyway, sprawled across the seat with her head under the wheel. He grabbed her arms as the windshield shattered over them to another shot, and pulled her out toward him.

She didn't have a chance to get her feet under her and he was prepared to take her weight. The slippery road threw off his balance and they stumbled into the ditch, the impact plowing up mud and slop again. Mariel barely had time to shield her face before she slid belly-down into the mess. The stuff smelled like soiled hamster litter and she choked at it.

Skinner ended up beside her but didn't sprawl flat. He was partway to his knees when Mariel twisted around, gasping out loud, "What the hell..."

Since he didn't have a hand free at the moment, he leaned over quickly and stifled her words with his mouth instead. She sucked in a startled breath and he whispered sharply, "Be quiet."

Pulled back to reality, she shut up. Face barely an inch from hers, he listened. Nothing but the rain pounding onto metal cars and hard road and their own shivering bodies. If he couldn't hear, he couldn't be heard, either.

Skinner pushed Mariel around. Mouth against her ear, now, he whispered, "That way, low, in the ditch. Go!"

She went, scrambling on hands and knees a moment before managing a half-crouching scurry. He was not far behind. The truck and car bodies would shield them for a few more yards.

His main concern right now was getting her out of there. His only weapon was his service-issue one. The weapon that had taken out the truck tires fired a heavy, large-calibre, probably steel-encased slug. What it would do to a human body would be even uglier than what it'd done to the tires. They didn't need any hero-nonsense here.

Some yards beyond the car the ditch curved right to follow the road. The land sloped down to the left and the ditch wall crumbled down into a small ravine. Skinner touched her arm, pointed that way. She nodded and scrambled into the ravine.

A few more yards brought them under the trees. They kept moving, pushing past low branches, stepping carefully over roots and debris, following the ravine. Finally, he laid a hand on her shoulder, halting her.

"O.K. Let's breathe a minute."

She sank back against the ravine wall, hands braced on knees. "I think I'm going to throw up."

"If it'll help, go ahead," he replied matter-of-factly. Looking back the way they'd come, Skinner searched with eyes and ears.

He heard her take a few shaky breaths from behind him before she said, "No...I'm o.k." Then, still trembling, "Whas that a carjacking we just lived through?"

"Maybe." But he puzzled over it, frowning. Some nut hiding in the woods shooting randomly at cars? That was no prank with a BB-gun, though. When they got to a phone he'd arrange for an area search after daylight.

Mariel looked at him, not that she could see much in the dark except the nearby loom of his big body. Still shaking from reaction, she said, "You are not a fun date, Assistant Director Skinner."

He actually laughed, not loudly but with genuine amusement. "Sorry. I'll do better next time." Supporting her elbow a moment while she straightened, he gestured ahead. "This way."

Skinner knew the area around Quantico pretty well, but was uncertain exactly how far they'd come. While he was calculating silently, Mariel asked, "What time is it?"

He held up a hand in a "wait a minute" gesture, then worked back wet sleeves to see the luminous dial. "Just past midnight."

"Great." After a few more minutes' walking, she went on, "I guess there's no ladies' room around, either."

From the slightly shaky sound in her voice, he realized she was trying to ease her embarrassment over a genuine need by making a somewhat lame joke. "No. But there are plenty of trees," he said, again matter-of-fact. "I'll be right here."

She was back shortly. "Ready."

The ravine began leveling out. To the right, a large cutting scooped under some tree roots, leaving an opening in the bank. He bent to look, found a little cleared area behind the piled-up branches that were partially shielding the opening from view.

"Wait here," he ordered. "And keep listening."

Inside he played the flash around, noticing first that its beam was fading, and second that the little partial cave was empty. Of wildlife, at least. A sweep of detritus against the far wall marked where storm waters pooled. But it was out of the rain now and almost invisible from the outside.

Mariel was shivering by the enrance when he unbent again outside. "We'll stay here," he said. "Watch your head."

She followed him, ducking roots, and coughed. The place smelled of mold and dead rats. Barely seven feet across and even less high, it would be hard to turn around without bumping each other.

"Wonderful," she muttered. "I've never slept in a piano box before."

Skinner turned to face her. "Look, we're both tired, my head feels as if there's a jackhammer inside, and we couldn't get anywhere better before daylight anyway."

She looked back at him, feeling a distinct shiver that had nothing to do with the chill and wet. She had the awful feeling that he'd been just putting up with her nervous remarks, biting his tongue because it was necessary. He was almost overpowering in this confined space: broad-shouldered, deep-chested, voice and eyes alike intense and dark.

--- Good grief, Mari --- she scolded herself. --- Say it slowly, girl: this is the Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation you're dealing with here, not some pizza delivery clerk. ---

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to kick some junk away from the wall and sat down slowly, leaning his head back. "We need to save this light," he said, flicking the flash off.

Left in the dark in more ways than one, Mariel stood uncertainly for a moment.

"Come here," he said quietly. "Take one step."

She did.

"Now one more."

She did again, bumping her leg against something firm.

"That's my knee," he said. "Walk around it and sit down, please."

She walked around it and sat down, fingertips on the wall to guide her. Then she started a little. She'd expected him to scoot over, but realized that he hadn't moved when she felt his upraised knee bracing her back. She was sitting between his legs, resting against his knee and his hard-muscled inner thigh. She shivered a little, thinking incongruously that she'd have to tell her cousin about this -- in very general terms -- so she could include the scene in one of her ridiculous romance novels.

Something rustled behind her. Skinner said, "Reach behind your left shoulder, please."

She did, and her fingers touched a raincoat.

He went on, "If you pull it over a little we can share it."

"I don't think I should be sitting here," she ventured.

"Do you want to be cold all night?" He helped her tuck the raincoat around both of them, then drew her head down to his shoulder. She was stiff, shivery, and had to fight against a fit of tension-fueled giggles. As if aware of her emotions, he tightened his arm briefly, then relaxed when she stilled to some deep breaths.

"Look," he said quietly, "we have to rest, and I don't bite unless the lady is willing."

That brought a shaky laugh, and she nodded. "O.K., Assistant Director, sir."

At that moment, Walt Skinner realized that, given another time and another place, he would have asked her what part of his statement she was saying "o.k." to.

"Don't lean your cheek on anyting," she counseled then, breaking his thoughts, "or you'll go through the roof."

"I'm not sleeping in any case, but you're right." His cheek was swollen badly, he knew, and he probably looked like hell because of it. He certainly felt like hell. He thought clinically that the cheekbone was probably broken.

Keeping eyes and ears alert, he said, "I'm sorry that I raised my voice earlier. Typical male, I suppose," he continued self-deprecatingly. "I'm hurting, so I strike out. You've actually done very well tonight for an untrained person. You could have lost it back at the truck, you know."

"I guess."

"It's no guess, Doctor Fraser."

Sitting so close, he could feel when her muscles began to relax and her breathing slow. When he thought she was almost asleep, she whispered, "You'll have pins and needles in the morning."

"Maybe not. You're not sitting on anything."

Even if he'd wanted to sleep, he knew he couldn't. His pain and the need for wakeful attention kept his senses alert. Her slow breaths against his throat warmed his skin, calming him a little.

If the attacker had been a carjacker, he thought, he was probably glad they got away. Not having to deal with troublesome witnesses made a stripping job easier. And maybe the person was happy not to face a murder charge, too. But he, himself, was in a pure speculation mode now, he knew, and was troubled by the fact that the rain would probably erase footprints and tire tracks. There might not be much evidence to find in the morning in any case.

The rain eased some within an hour and he figured that it would probably stop by dawn. At least he was warm now, and realized that he felt comfortable sitting there, feeling the gentle pressure of her breasts rising and falling against him as she slept.

Dawn brought the distant sound of helicopters, and strengthening light that penetrated the roots and branches over the cave until he could see. Shaking Mariel gently awake, he stood up carefully -- no, no pins and needles -- and drew her with him.

"Time to go?" she murmured, still groggy.

"Yes." Then he pushed her back against the wall, drawing his gun in almost the same motion. She heard the sounds, too, and froze, realizing that he was sheltering her with his own body.

Voices outside, static crackles and sucking sounds of shoes pulling through mud as people walked down the ravine. Listening with half-focused eyes, Skinner relaxed his guard a little.

"I think it's o.k." he whispered. "Let's check it out."

Knowing that he would order her to stay if he had any doubts, Mariel followed him. He stopped while they were still sheltered by the roots and bent to see better. Gesturing her along, he moved out into full view. Skinner smiled inwardly. He would have made book that Fox Mulder would be the AIC of this little search.

"You should be glad I'm not gunning for you, Mulder," he announced dryly.

Even the AD had to admit that the younger man covered his surprise well. Mulder made his way over, breath a cloud of mist, and glanced from Skinner to the woman behind him.

"With all due respect, sir, you look like hell. What happened?" Mulder gestured to Agent MacDonald, who holstered her weapon and briskly took charge of Skinner's companion. Mariel let herself be led away at a brief nod from him. He had his own business to deal with now, she knew, and shouldn't be distracted.

The AD told Mulder briefly about the night before. Mulder nodded when he finished. "When we found your car, I left some people there to go over the woods. Sir, the department'll probably take that vehicle out of your salary. There wasn't much left of it."

"What about the truck?"

Mulder's puzzled look plainly said, "what truck?" Great. Mariel's step-father's et cetera's truck was gone, too. The attackers had probably thrown his Ford's parts in there before...But, wait. It was hardly likely that the strippers carried around spare truck tires. Filing that with his other questions, he said, "Never mind that a minute." Coordinating times in his mind, he went on, "When did you get out here?"

"About 0445. When you didn't show up for that stakeout briefing and didn't check in, I called out some people to check the Quantico road."

Didn't check in....Feeling a slow hardening inside him, he said, "When you give me the search report, I also want the incoming communication logs from noon yesterday to midnight."

"Yes, sir." Mulder started to turn, the pointed to his cheek. "And, sir..."

"I'll have it checked out. And Mulder, if there's anything in those woods I want it found."

Skinner turned around, saw MacDonald, and Mariel sitting on a pile of dead branches. As he approached, MacDonald lifted the thermos she'd conjured up. "Coffee?"

"Thank you."

Handing over the filled lid, MacDonald patted her own cheek. "Who won the fight, sir?"

He didn't take offense at the slightly teasing tone. MacDonald had been a field agent since he was in high school, and she knew when to push a little. So he replied, "A briefcase, Mac."

Mariel watched the exchange, smiling to herself. But the inward smile faded when he turned to her. Steam from the coffee and the mist of his breath hazed his face, but didn't mask his now hard, cool eyes.

--- Something's wrong --- she thought. --- Something he didn't know before. ---

"Dr. Fraser, Agent MacDonald will see that you get home. Please tell her where you can be contacted for questions later."

Mariel stood up, still stiff from cold and cramped muscles, and took a step toward him. Looking up a little, she felt that she knew his face now, and his eyes. He looked back at her, knowing that his cheek must be a swollen kaleidoscope of colors, and wishing for a second that it was not.

"Mr. Skinner," she said, "even after I answer questions later, I probably won't find out anything more about this, will I?"

"The chances are that you won't, Mariel," he replied.

She knew that he'd deliberately used her first name, and she breathed in slowly. "I can live with that, considering you helped me live through last night." She put out her hand forthrightly. "Thank you."

He returned the handshake, felt her cool skin warm to his clasp. To say, "You're welcome," sounded inane, but he said it anyway.

She smiled and turned to follow MacDonald back through the woods. After they were out of sight, Skinner let himself feel the aches and the exhaustion and knew he couldn't ignore his needs any longer....

FBI Headquarters
somewhat later

Special Agent Dana Scully glanced over the report as she walked beside her partner down the hallway. Most agents mastered the technique of reading while still avoiding other hallway traffic, and Scully was an expert. Mulder usually bumped a few shoulders when he tried it.

Very straightforward, she thought. List of objects found during search, list by time and location of relevant state trooper reports; statement of witness Dr. M. Fraser..."It looks complete to me, Mulder," she said. "I don't know why you wanted me to check it."

"Did you get to the last paragraph?" he inquired.

She looked down again, read it and sighed. "Look, Mulder, I don't think Skinner will appreciate it if you tell him that his car was run off the road by a phantom gunman."

"Come on, Scully," he chided. "You know that stories of ghostly riflemen go back at least to the Revolutionary War."

"No, I don't know that." They were outside the AD's office now, and Scully tucked the folder neatly under Mulder's arm. "And I'm sure that he doesn't need to know it, either," she finished, gesturing toward the door.

"Scully..."

"Forget it, Mulder. I have a simulation to run, remember?" Smothering a wicked little grin, Scully gave him a push forward and walked on.

Well, Mulder thought, pushing the door open, at least if his supervisor wasn't more tolerant of his views by now, he occasionally seemed willing to listen a little longer before dressing him down. Inside the anteroom, Skinner's secretary looked up from the phone at Mulder, wordlessly shook her head and pointed to a chair. Hmmm...She'd been his boss's secretary since before The Flood, and Mulder knew that she was a pretty good telegrapher of the man's mood. If the signs now were right, he'd be in trouble before he even walked in.

Eventually it was time, and inside the main office Mulder noticed two things. One thing was that Skinner looked better than the last time they'd talked: the facial swelling was down and the rainbow colors had faded to normal bruise hues. The other thing was that the AD's usually stern, poker-faced "office" expression had taken a step further: he looked flat-out angry.

"Give me the folder and sit down," Skinner ordered with no polite preamble.

Mulder obeyed wordlessly, and waited. Skinner read through everything, taking his time, occasionally glancing back as if cross-referencing in his mind. Then he sat back into the chair, carefully removed his glasses and set them beside the folder. Mulder couldn't tell from his expression if the man was momentarily resting his eyes or if he was considering whether Mulder's conclusions had finally passed beyond idiocy.

"I didn't think there would be anything to find," he said at last, quietly.

"The hard rain took care of prints, sir. And the shooter was meticulous about physical evidence, as you just read."

"No shell casings, fibres, powder residue, nothing." The big man looked unseeingly at his desk, then replaced his glasses and raised cool eyes to meet Mulder's gaze. "A set of lucky breaks, perhaps. That won't continue."

"No, but that 'luck' seemed to apply in the state police reports I cited."

True enough, Skinner thought. Over the past month, a series of random shootings had been investigated by the state with just as meager results. But most of those reports had involved just the sounds of weapons fire, or the occasional starred window.

"Mulder, you know that witness reports involving sudden and unexpected violent incidents are often inexact. It's hard to place locations and directions of fire at those times, especially after dark. Maybe the officers were searching the wrong places."

Mulder said nothing. He knew the older man's meticulous honesty would apply the same doubts to his own testimony. The difference was that Skinner was a trained law-enforcement official; the other witnesses were not.

"The next break will probably come when the truck or the stripped parts show up," Mulder thought out loud.

"In the meantime," Skinner said dryly, "given the amount of actual evidence, your...conclusion makes as much sense as any other."

Mulder wondered if that was part of the reason Skinner looked so angry. No evidence, no real leads, uncertain of the next step because of this, the man was left with nothing but questions. Skinner despised such situations, Mulder knew. So he was a little surprised when Skinner went on in a quiet voice.

"So it would become, if not exactly an X-File, at least one of those unexplained cases that clutter the books. Except for this." Skinner pushed back to open the middle drawer and withdraw two sheets of paper. Passing them across the desk, he told Mulder, "Read."

Mulder read. The papers were standard computer printouts -- the telephone log he'd given the AD earlier, he saw. Person calling, time called, person/department contacted...He read both pages, then looked up. "I see nothing strange here, sir."

"On the face of it, no. But, you see," Skinner continued, pointing to one section of the log, "I called in between 2100 and 2200 on this date. The date of my...accident."

Mulder took another look. "But the record of that call isn't here."

"That's right." The coldness wasn't aimed at him, but the chill still was palpable to the younger man. "You told me you sent people out looking when I didn't check in. I did do that, from Dr. Fraser's place."

"Can she corroborate that?"

"She can verify that I made a call, but not to whom."

"So unless there's some way to prove the log was tampered with..." Mulder looked straight at Skinner, letting it hang a second.

Skinner supplied the rest, coolly. "There's no way to prove that someone left me out to dry."

Mulder's mouth quirked in a small grin. "Looks like you're on somebody's naughty list, sir." Then Mulder couldn't believe he'd said that, and for a second, neither did Skinner. Then the big man relaxed back with a laugh of genuine amusement.

"I wouldn't be surprised at any list I'm on by this time, Mulder," he chuckled. "Especially after heading up your section."

Serious again, Mulder asked, "Do you want me to check out this log?"

Skinner started to reply, then paused as the desk intercom sounded. "Sir, Dr. Fraser on one."

"I'll take it." Skinner gestured to Mulder to wait. "Yes, Dr. Fraser....Thank you, I am better....There's nothing I can say about it now. It was unfortunate....Yes....That's right....As far as I know, that would be fine....Take care, then. Goodbye."

Mulder hated listening to half a telephone conversation, even though his imagination filled in the blanks interestingly. And was it his imagination again, or did his boss look more relaxed as he replaced the phone, the rough edges more smoothed over? Hmmm, maybe he'd have a little something extra to tell Scully about this meeting.

"Shall I check out the log?" Mulder repeated.

"No. For now, just be aware of it. I want to see what may develop."

From his office window, the man could see people entering and leaving the building. Sometimes the rhythm of the human parade helped him order his thoughts, made it easier to progress from A to B to C.

He regreted that the woman had gotten involved, but that was life. Unexpected occurrences that forced other changes. From the description he'd gotten, she reminded him of someone. Tall and strong...Lorene.

He hadn't thought of her in over 20 years. Strange how the human mind worked: a chance word, a random thought could bring back a memory filed and forgotten long ago. He filed it back again, and turned from the window.. A Community College, later

Skinner stood in the back of the auditorium, pulling off his coat. A typical small college auditorium, he thought: ugly hard plastic chairs bolted to rails, walls painted a vague sandy cream color, a barely-adequate stage.

The musicians now setting up on that stage animated the place. They scraped chairs along, dumped down instrument cases, rustled out their music scores, whispered and laughed. Soon they started tuning up, and he resigned himself to the racket.

Shifting to get comfortable in the just-too-narrow chair, he waited. Soon the conductor came out from the wings, and he watched her. She doesn't walk, he thought, she flows....

One thing he'd decided over the past days was that he didn't intend to let two more years go by before seeing Mariel Fraser again. That's why he was here tonight, although she wasn't expecting him until after rehearsal.

He sat quietly through what was apparently an orchestra part rehearsal for an instrumental/choral work. The kids were good, he realized. Either that, or this woman was inspiring them to their best work. Skinner inclined more toward the latter explanation: she radiated joy and fun and sheer discipline. It would be impossible to remain apathetic under her direction.

When everyone began packing up afterward, Skinner walked to the stage and up the side steps. Mariel, still at the podium, looked up at the movement and smiled. Her lips formed a "hi," and he smiled back, crossing the stage.

Good grief, she thought, I look like heck. Her blouse always pulled out of her skirt during rehearsal, her hair got mussed and she usually sweated under the lights.

He was beside the podium now and reached up to help her step down. He noticed that she looked uncertain of the gesture and thought that perhaps she wasn't used to men offering her assistance. The more fools they, he decided as her warm hand accepted his.

"Just like a man," she smiled, making quick repairs. "Arriving before I'm ready."

"Can I help out here, move chairs or something?"

"No. I've got them trained," she chuckled, smiling at the young people as she packed her satchel. Then she looked up and grinned. "Um," she told him softly, "don't look now, Assistant Director, sir, but you're being checked out."

"Excuse me?" Startled, himself, he looked around in time to catch a couple of pretty violinists too obviously looking elsewhere. "Oh."

"Mr. Skinner," she teased, "you can't tell me that you don't know that women look at you."

The man actually blushed a little at that, she realized, charmed. Not that she blamed the girls, of course. She herself had thought that Walter Skinner was an attractive man from day one, when he'd introduced himself after that concert two years ago.

"Your bruise is almost gone," she said then, softly. "I'm glad it doesn't hurt you anymore."

"It doesn't, thank you. Ready?"

"Yes." Mariel herded out the stragglers, turned out lights and locked the doors. "Are you hungry? There's a coffee shop near here where I eat after rehearsal sometimes."

"I could use some dinner, yes," he acknowledged.

They walked a few blocks to a small, home-style cafe and found a booth. After ordering, Mariel nerved herself for the question. "Mr. Skinner, I asked you to meet me so I could make sure that you're o.k., and also..." She broke off, looked across the table into the dark eyes that seemed to be waiting for her gaze to touch them. "And also to ask if there's anything you can tell me."

"There really isn't. And, please, my name is Walter. It hardly makes sense to call me 'Mr. Skinner' when we've already spent the night together."

She stared, keeping enough wits to lean back as the waitress placed the chicken plate and steak on the table. Then she caught the sparkle, the tiny smile playing with his lips. -- He's teasing me -- she thought. When was the last time a nice man had done that? Too long ago, she knew.

She fell into the mood easily. "And I bet you had one hell of a time explaining that night to your wife."

He didn't tease any more. "You would be right if I was married."

She could feel her cheeks warming and she took a sip of water. "I wasn't angling for that, Walt," she said, voice low.

"I know you weren't. Let me tell you something. If I were married I wouldn't be here now. The Bureau is hard enough on marriages without a man deliberately going into temptation."

That floored her. So many expressions dancing across her features, he saw. How long would it take him to learn them all? When he spoke again he was professional, matter-of-fact. "Mariel," he continued, "I'm sincerely sorry that you became involved in that incident. It might have ended very differently for both of us. The fact is, we have nothing to go on right now."

"No hard evidence," she said, recovering herself.

"That's right," he concurred. "If we turn up something that you should know, of course I'll tell you. For now, it's a waiting game."

"From what my uncle says, that's the hardest part of police work: waiting."

For the rest of the meal, at his insistence they talked about her work. During the conversation, she discovered how easily she could talk to him. It helped that he was a physically big man: Mariel had often felt selfconscious and awkward because of her height and big-boned frame, but when she was with him that didn't seem to matter.

After dinner, they walked back to the campus. Near his parking spot, he said, "I'll drive you to your car if you'd like."

"Please."

When she was settled in his car, he closed the door and went around to the driver's side. After he got in, she remarked, "This looks a lot like the other car."

"It's a clone," he replied dryly. "Government issue, you see."

"Are you going to have to reimburse Uncle Sam for the wrecked one?"

He laughed. "Not if I can help it."

"My car's over this way," she smiled. He wasn't a stiff man at all, she thought. Dignified and self-confident, yes; sure of his abilities, true. Probably patient with honest mistakes, but fools beware. She came out of her reverie. "There. The blue Chevvy."

While she gathered purse and satchel, he parked and went around to open her door. Car keys in hand, she stepped out and found herself scant inches from him as he stood by the door. Close enough to smell a faint, spicy aftershave and see the textured weave in his tie.

"Thank you for...well, for telling me what you could," she said, raising her eyes and wondering why he didn't move.

"You're welcome." He didn't move because he didn't want to move. She'd been closer than this, he reminded himself -- hell, how much closer could she get than when she'd slept literally in his arms in that cave -- but fear and imminent danger had tinged every breath and heartbeat then. Now, he tilted her chin up with a fingertip and said, "Mariel, think back to that night in the cave and then tell me: Is the lady willing?"

She realized that she didn't have to think back at all. "Yes," she whispered, standing very still as his lips pressed down upon hers. Slow, warm, not forcing or demanding more than what she wanted to give, the kiss was over too soon.

"Good night," he said, moving aside so she could get to her car door. "I'm going to call you, so be prepared."

"For what?" she laughed, shaky inside.

"We'll think about it," he smiled....

FBI Headquarters
later

Settling his reading glasses into place, Mulder went over the printout. This one listed every auto parts store and junkyard in D.C. and Virginia, and here, too, the results were negative. Something felt wrong about this whole business, and Mulder trusted his instincts.

If the attack on Skinner had been a simple carjack and strip operation, the parts should have surfaced by now. They meant quick money, maybe to support a drug habit or a high-flying lifestyle, maybe to keep a woman on the side. Whatever. It was highly unlikely the parts would be simply stockpiled somewhere. Of course, the parts could be in Mexico by now, which meant a further check.

He looked up as Scully came in, licking her fingers delicately.

"O-o-h, can I have some?" Mulder greeted her, removing the glasses.

She smiled a little. "Too late. All gone." A final tiny lick, and she sat at her terminal.

"At least you got more satisfaciton in the last few minutes than I have." Briefly he recounted his findings.

Scully said slowly, "Mulder, I agree that something feels wrong about the case, and I don't think it's phantom gunmen, either. The other random shooting reports have stopped, haven't they?"

"Yeah." He thought that through. "A camouflage, a cover, something made to look like one of a string of similar incidents..."

"And the cover of nuisance shootings is no longer necessary?" Sometimes they didn't need to finish sentences with each other.

Mulder shook his head. "It was no nuisance shooting that took out Skinner's car."

"No. Heavy calibre. But what did it accomplish?" Scully thought a moment. "Mulder...you know that Skinner has put himself at risk more than once for us. What if someone's decided that it's payback time?"

A Washington, D.C. suburb
mid-morning

Mariel tucked her hair behind her ears and secured it with tiny gold barrettes, the smooth sweep brushing her neck now as she moved. She wore a soft blue t-shirt and slim-lined pants. Hooking the hip-pack around her waist, she answered the door.

Walt Skinner stood easily on the porch, smiling a little. He wore jeans and a loose sweater that still couldn't hide his shoulders and deep chest. In his casual clothes, he looked very much at home and at ease in his tall, strong body. She realized that the sight and the thought did nothing for her peace of mind.

"Good morning," he greeted her pleasantly.

"Hi. Come in while I get the bike pack."

Seeing him this morning in those clothes made her wonder if she'd done enough during her own life to maintain her physical fitness. She knew that Walt was in his middle 40's, still hard-muscled, belly still flat and firm. She herself didn't exercise just for its own sake, but liked to walk and bicycle and, when she had the time, really enjoyed aerobic dance classes. She knew she was fit, anyway, even if she was a bit more rounded than "society" considered right for beauty.

When she came back with the pack he was glancing through the book she'd left on the coffee table. --- Oh, great, --- she thought. --- Now he thinks I read that stuff. --- He smiled at her and set the book down.

"That's my cousin's latest novel," she said, a bit embarrassed. "She calls them her 'bodice-rippers.' "

He chuckled. "I guessed as much from the cover." He glanced down again. "Your cousin's name is...Caresse le Fontaine?"

The florid name sounded so funny coming from him that she giggled. "Awful, isn't it? She told me she thought of it one evening after a few too many drinks. If you're ready, I am." Near Anacostia, somewhat later

She'd never been to the new bicycle/skate path near Anacostia before. It paralleled the river, leading past the park. Halfway along, Skinner slowed down to pull off to the edge. He stood straddling the bike and stretched.

Stopping beside him, she didn't even try to fight a grin. "What's up? Bottom gone to sleep?"

"What possible interest could the state of my 'bottom' be to you, Dr. F.?" he grinned back. She'd been raised with brothers, all right, he thought, to throw out a question like that.

"It happens to me all the time. Want to walk a while?"

At the next curve they pushed the bikes down the bank a little to sit by the river. She passed him a water bottle from the pack and pulled out apple slices.

"Want some?"

"You go ahead," he said. "I'm just thirsty."

This was their first 'date' in a sense, since the rehearsal evening, although they'd spoken on the phone several times. But he didn't think of it as a date, but as a sharing of his time and part of his life with a woman he thought more highly of every day.

He looked over at her now, unselfconsciously eating apples while she gazed across the river. When she was finished she stretched and lay back against the bank. Wondering if the movement was a little invitation, he put the water bottle away and leaned back on an elbow beside her.

No, probably not an invitation, because she looked startled for a second. Then she answered his smile and closed her eyes.

"Don't go to sleep," he warned.

"I won't. Just resting."

The movement of her breast to her breathing called up memories for him of the night in the cave. He rested his hand lightly on her abdomen, watching it move up and down as she breathed.

"What are you doing?" he murmured.

"Taking your pulse."

She laughed. "You won't find a pulse there."

"How about here?" he smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. He felt her stiffen slightly, so he drew back a little to stroke her hair. She slowly relaxed under the rhythmic caresses and he whispered, "Put your arms around me. Please..."

She did, a little shyly, her palms warm on his shoulders. "That's right," he murmured, and bent to kiss her again, to trace the outline of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, letting it stroke gently across her lips. Offering...asking...

Mariel yielded her mouth at last and he lowered his weight gently against her body. The kiss deepened, burning sweetly through his loneliness, through her sometimes aching feeling that she might never share a decent man's love. Was it really time now, at her age, after living alone and chaste for so many years?

Their first kiss had seemed too short; this one seemed never to end, drawing each deeper and closer to the other. Finally, Mariel gasped, "Walt...I have to breathe."

"Always a good idea," he agreed, breathless himself.

After a quiet moment, he asked slyly, "Do you think we should be taking notes for your cousin?"

She laughed out loud, sitting up quickly. "You're an idiot," she managed, still laughing as he stood and reached down for her. On her feet beside him again, she found she couldn't look up. "But I..."

"You what, honey?"

--- What did he say? --- "I like you anyway," she finished, somehow breathless again.

"That's a start," he smiled. "I think we should head back. Park area, near the river, shortly after

... Ignoring frisbee-chasing dogs, skaters and kiteflyers, the man sat cross-legged on the grass, meticulously adjusting the telescope. This should give him a fine view, he decided, across the sweep of lawn to the river's edge where the bicycle path entered the parking area.

All he had to do now was wait....

Skinner felt the tug before the jerk. What the hell? Now when was the last time he'd caught his pant leg in a bicycle chain? he thought disgustedly. When he stopped, Mariel pulled ahead of him and started to brake. The world suddenly lurched into slow motion as the front tire of her bike blew apart, collapsing down onto its rim. The sudden jerking stop catapulted her over the handlebars. She landed hard on her left arm, rolled over into the grass and lay still.

Skinner didn't know when normal-speed life returned and he didn't care. Tearing the heavy jeans fabric with one pull, he dumped the bike and ran across the path.

"Don't move," he snapped, holding her down while his eyes raked the area. But nothing seemed amiss: barbeque parties, joggers, the usual Saturday-outing people, some already starting to crowd around.

"I got a cell phone," a rollerblader volunteered. "Call 911?"

"Do it," Skinner ordered. "Paramedics."

"I don't need that," Mariel protested even as she groaned, trying to cradle her wrist.

"Yes, you do," Skinner rejoined, voice as stern as his hands were gentle. Jaw muscles pulling tight, he looked around at the gawkers. "Unless any of you saw something suspicious about this accident," he grated, "go on about your business."

..The man disassembled the telescope, carefully packing each piece in its styrofoam nest. He closed the case, stood up with it and walked to the parking lot, ignoring the ambulance just pulling in.

It was good enough, he decided....

The paramedics had Mariel sign a release when she refused transport. Skinner stood near, stiff and angry but unwilling to quarrel with her now.

"Let's go, please," she said.

Before he could speak, the rollerblader with the phone glided over. "Hey, want I should help with the bikes?"

"Thank you," Skinner said shortly.

Eventually the bikes were strapped onto the carrier. Skinner touched the broken tire, frowning. Still hovering, Rollerblader said diffidently, "Hey, I didn't want to upset your friend but, you know, I was right behind you guys and I saw something like a light." He subsided under Skinner's hard stare, then said, "Well, you said if anyone saw something funny, you know. It was red, kind of, like in a light show."

"Would you be willing to make a statement about what you saw?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. You're a cop, huh?"

"No, FBI." At the man's sideways look, Skinner smiled coldly. "Is that a problem?"

"No, hell, no. I don't like pretty ladies getting hurt."

Skinner's expression chilled the man as he said, "Neither do I." Mariel's townhouse, later

She was exhausted, in pain, and near tears from the shock of it. She sat at her kitchen table now, embarrassed that he was fixing a light meal, but grateful, too. He'd already helped her in and put away the bike. Walter wasn't officious, and he didn't hover, but he got things done.

"Look," he said, dishing up the soup, "please promise me that you'll see your own doctor tomorrow."

"I will. I'm not stupid, Walt. I just wanted to get out of there."

Soup, warm rolls and sliced fruit looked just right to her. She waited until he'd served himself, then ate slowly. When he sat down beside her, she felt his knee press hers. Realizing that the touch wasn't an advance -- there was little room under the table for their two pairs of long legs -- she sat quietly. --- That feels nice --- she thought --- comfy and right. ---

After dinner, he said, "Anything else you need done before I go? Clean the bathroom, throw in a wash?"

His eyes were teasing, she saw, and shook her head. "No, let the maid do that. Seriously, if I need help I'll call my niece. She's studying sports injury therapy so I'll be a case study."

Setting plates into the sink, Walt Skinner realized that the accident had put a lot of things into crystal clarity for him. But he knew that he had to take it slow.

"Mariel," he began, back to her, "I realize that you're not that comfortable with me being here right now..."

She had to stop this. Standing quickly, she went to him, resting her temporary cast on the sink counter. He looked around and, careful of her injured arm, laced his fingers with hers. His big hand covered hers completely.

Swallowing hard, she said, "Walt, you're wrong about me not being comfortable with you. It's just that, ever since I went away to college, I've lived alone, accomplishing things by myself. I'm not used to having a man around to do things for me."

"Fair enough, honey, as long as it's not me you object to."

"Heavens, no," she chuckled. "It's not every woman who has the FBI's assistant director make dinner for her."

"You should see how I fold clothes."

So they parted with a laugh, a kiss, and a promise that she would call him after she returned from the hospital after Mass the next day. But once in the car, Skinner didn't even try to moderate his anger and apprehension. Coincidence was coincidence, but it was damned unlikely that two accidents would happen to the same two people in such a short period of time. When he was sure he could speak without rage freezing his voice, he called in to arrange for someone to stakeout Mariel's townhouse. In the meantime, he'd interview Rollerblader and arrange for the damaged bike tire to be analyzed.

As for the danger to himself, hell, he figured, he was a grown man. He'd known exactly what he was getting into when he joined the Bureau. He'd been shot at his share of times, endured endless stakeouts that sometimes ended in violence, learned what it meant to constantly watch his partner's back and his own.

He looked again at Mariel's door before starting the car. It was different now. Something good was beginning for him, and he wanted it, wanted everything that would come with it. --- God --- the thought was half a prayer --- I've lived without it for so long, I can't let it be ruined now. --- FBI Headquarters, two days later

Monday morning was a bureaucrat's nightmare. Not that Skinner considered himself much of one, but that didn't make the morning any better. Telephone tag, misplaced messages, meetings shuffled and rescheduled, agents out sick, court dates cancelled...Thank goodness his secretary was unflappable.

His only bright spot was remembering Mariel's message. Her wrist was broken, but in a clean hairline fracture that should heal with no complications. He'd see her again in a couple of days.

His secretary put herself halfway in the door. "Sir, Agent Scully is outside. She wants to see you a moment."

"That's about all the time I have. Send her in."

When Scully was seated, she said, "Sir, I'm sorry to say that our results are still negative on your case."

"I assumed as much." He sat behind his desk, unwilling to tower over his agent right now. The intimidation factor was hardly necessary, and wouldn't work on Scully anyway. "You didn't need to come up to tell me that."

"I know. Agent Mulder and I think the incident may be an attempt at some kind of harassment or intimidation."

"To remind me that I'm mortal, to keep me in line?" He leaned forward, elbows on desk. "That factor did occur to me, Miss Scully." Scully didn't miss the unspoken irony that if he hadn't involved himself with the X-Files the incident might not have occurred.

"In fact," he went on, "there's another aspect I want to brief you and Agent Mulder on. I can see both of you at 2:30 today."

She nodded confirmation, and left the office. Unknown location, later

The more he heard about the woman, the less he liked the idea of her involvement. A weakness in him, no doubt, that this young man would ruthlessly exploit if he knew of it. And if he, himself, allowed it.

"Look," the lithe, dark-haired man said, "it's better this way. I couldn't hang around, and this way there'll be another time."

Maybe so, he thought, pulling out a cigarette. Once more probably would make the meaning clear. Some of it was regrettable, though.. A Washington, D.C. suburb, evening

Supper was over, dishes were washed and the evening was quiet. He'd laid a fire in the fireplace before they ate, and the living room was pleasantly warm now. Mariel sat across from him on the couch, left arm braced on a pillow, another pillow behind her back. She was working on a score.

He'd felt like an idiot bringing his briefcase in from the car, but she laughed. "I've got work, too. Clarinet parts don't transcribe themselves." That was over an hour ago, and now, watching the firelight glint in her wine-dark hair, Walt Skinner knew that he wanted to think of things besides work.

He put his papers away and went to sit on the floor next to her, where the fire could toast his back. He leaned his shoulder comfortably into the pillow that braced her up. She smiled over quickly, deeply aware of his large, strong body now so close, the warm hand resting lightly on her upraised knee.

"How's it coming?" he asked, close enough for her to feel the breath of his words on her cheek.

"O.K."

This time she felt his lips on her cheek. "Want to stop a while?"

--- Please don't make me look like an idiot --- she thought distractedly. --- Lack of experience doesn't mean I don't know what's going on. And I feel it, too, Walt. That's what's so scary. ---

"Maybe for a while," she whispered.

Walter took the score, the manuscript papers and the pen, setting them on the floor. "There. Less crowded now." The hand on her knee slid to her left arm, raising it gently. "Does this hurt any more?" he asked softly, kissing her wrist above the cast and giving a nibble to her inner elbow.

"No," she whispered again. "Not any more." She felt ridiculous. Why couldn't she talk properly? Maybe it was this man, and what he was doing to her heart.

Mariel Fraser had wanted to marry, wanted to love a good man and make a home and a family with him. But life hadn't worked out like that for her, and she usually didn't mind that it hadn't. She enjoyed her work, knew she was using her God-given talents to their fullest and would never give up teaching music. She had a number of men and women friends -- her musical circle was extensive -- and a large, if sometimes pleasantly weird, family. She'd always lived alone and didn't believe in casual sexual relationships.

--- The original deadbeat --- she thought, wryly, remembering some painful teasing:**The original holier than thou...so what are you saving it for, sugar...

She blinked hard. The worst teasing had happened years ago, she reminded herself. --- You will not tear up now. Walt will think you're a child. ---

"Hey, are you in there?" Walter said, breaking her thoughts as he turned her face gently toward him.

"Yes." She could smell the cottony fabric of his shirt, the scent of his warm skin and a hint of the spicy aftershave he always wore. She looked up into dark eyes, studied his strong-boned face, firm lips and jawline just beginning to darken.

"Good," he smiled. "I don't want to be here all by myself."

He was so tired of fighting his emotions, of denying himself the taste of her satiny mouth and the heat of her body pressing against his. He found her lips now, felt them part beneath his, and gathered her close.

Her own response startled her. She returned his kisses eagerly, stroking the back of his neck with easy strength. His right hand slipped down the line of her waist and hips and back again, slowly. After a long, delicious time, she felt his hand slide upward to her shoulder, and he touched the top button of her lacy blouse.

Mouth barely an inch from hers, he murmured, "May I, honey?"

She swallowed hard, realizing as if for the first time what was really happening. This strong, decent, honorable man wanted to make love to her. And she wanted this sharing, this expression of what she now knew was filling her own heart.

"Walt...yes, please."

He undid the buttons with a feather's touch, folded the fabric back from her neck and shoulders. She was wearing a lacy pink camisole under the blouse, and he smiled. "That's nice, honey," he said, tracing feather-light kisses along the garment's softly-curving neckline and up the sweep of her throat. He found her lips again and his hands continued the slow caresses, gradually moving down to the soft curves of her breasts.

Even through her clothes, his touch was like liquid fire pouring along her nerves, igniting them. --- This can't be happening --- she thought in the far background of her mind. --- I can't just give myself away like this. ---

He discovered that he enjoyed watching her face, seeing her softly parted lips and her bright yet half-lidded eyes, knowing that his kisses and his touch were giving her pleasure. He also knew that the words forming in his mind were true, and always would be.

He said the words then, the sound of his voice barely a whisper against her mouth. "I love you, Mariel...sweetheart..."

She gasped a little, arching her back up against his palms. "Walt...dear God..."

"Yes," he half-chuckled between kisses, mouth moving eagerly down her throat. "God heard me say that I love you. I guess He's the best witness I could have."

She felt warm tears wetting her cheeks and reached out her right arm to embrace his shoulders. "I...I love you, too, Walt. I..."

"Sh-h-h, honey. Just be with me, always." At last his mouth found her breasts, kissed the tender, softly swollen tips deeply through the lace and satin. Again and again, until she whimpered softly, almost lost in the surging waves of joy.

Dear God, he loved doing this for her, using his strong body to love her and please her. --- I wish I could spend the rest of my life like this --- he thought --- feeling your joy, giving you of myself. ---

--- I...I can't. Dear Lord...it's too much, and I'm frightened ---. Mariel slid her hand to his breast, pushed him a little. "Walt, please...stop."

He did, breath uneven. Then he rested his forehead on hers and took a long, slow breath. "All right, honey. I know it can be scary when things go too fast."

They rested in each other's arms, breathing gradually steadying. The fire was just embers now, warm and glowing. --- Like the way I feel --- he thought. --- The fire is still there, but banked now, to give light and warmth. ---

Walter buttoned her blouse gently, finishing with a little kiss. "I'd better go," he smiled.

She was almost afraid to speak. "When will I see you again? I mean, you didn't get anything tonight..."

He stared, then laughed out loud. "Damn it, Mariel! I'm not 17 anymore. I love you. We have a lot to talk about, and I plan to be around for a hell of a long time."

FBI Headquarters, later

Mulder didn't want to admit that no lead played out or that he was figuratively staring at a chessboard with no notion of what move to make.

"Do you want your french fries?"

He looked up into Scully's clear blue eyes, smiled a little in spite of his funk as her slender fingers angled toward the food.

"Greasy junk's bad for you."

"That's all right," she said, snagging a fry. "I've been known to like things that aren't good for me."

"You? Right." He knew she was trying to lift his mood, and felt vaguely churlish that he didn't want to respond. They were practically alone in the Bureau cafeteria, Scully having dragged him down after official lunch hours to eat something. "Look, Scully, every time I run through this, I get the same nothing. No reports of stolen parts surfacing, no physical evidence at the scene...and it's not possible to leave no evidence."

Scully said, "Unless the shooter knows what we look for and how we go about it. He'd be careful then."

He considered that. "Right. And the phone log I showed you: remember I said we started looking for Skinner after he missed the stakeout meeting and didn't check in?"

Scully nodded. "Didn't he arrange that meeting before he left Quantico? I think he said it was 5:30 p.m."

Mulder had it then. "Nobody here knew about the stakeout meeting -- he said he called the agents at home. So, whoever doctored up the phone log wouldn't know about the meeting. He'd figure that if he erased Skinner's call to the garage, no one here would know he might need help. I bet it wasn't even the regular operator on duty that night."

"That's easy to check."

Mulder's hand reached for the fries and bumped Scully's hand. They both jumped. The plate was empty.

"I didn't know food helped you think, Scully," he said.

"It must have helped you," she smiled.

"It's Cancerman and his crowd, isn't it?"

"I seems to be."

"I tend to agree," a deep, cool voice said from the next table. Scully and Mulder swung in their seats to find Skinner sitting there, facing them.

"Good move, sir," Scully approved. "We didn't hear you."

"I know. Write up your logic chain and conclusions for me, by tomorrow."

When Skinner paused to reach into his breast pocket, Mulder groaned inwardly. Great, another all-nighter. But best to get it done after all, even if they had no proofs to give the boss. The big man leaned over then and handed Mulder two tickets.

"Maybe you or Miss Scully would like to use these, Mulder," he said, sitting back again. "My friend is conducting Vivaldi's 'Gloria' this Sunday."

"Thank you, sir," Scully smiled.

Mulder read the ticket. Yes: 'M.E. Fraser, conducting' "I see she goes by initials," he remarked.

"Sometimes professionally, yes."

Scully looked at her supervisor with well-disguised amazement. He seemed proud and, if she wasn't badly mistaken, happy. Well, now...

"I hope to make it, sir," Mulder said, and looked at Scully after the older man excused himself and left.

"I wonder if he's seeing Dr. Fraser," Mulder said.

Scully met his eyes. "If he is, I'm glad. He needs someone."

"You're a matchmaker, Scully," Mulder grinned.

Not really, she thought. Just an interested...well, she couldn't say 'friend,' really, since Skinner was their supervisor and they were hardly buddies. An interested workmate. That was better.

"We'd better get to that report."

A Community College
Sunday afternoon

He stood at the back of the auditorium, sometimes moving aside for people taking seats. It would have suited him better to have less of a crowd here, but they had to work with circumstances as they existed, not as he wanted them to be.

Musicians were setting up on the stage, and he glanced at his watch. His compatriot should be in place by now. He, himself, regretted not being able to tell the boy about the additional modifications made to the 'scope, but he had his orders, after all.

He wished he hadn't seen the woman in the parking lot when he came in. The accidental glimpse opened the unwanted memories again: Lorene had walked like that, easily, confidently, sure of her life and, she thought, of her place in his.

Damned regrettable. He'd be glad when this was over.

Mulder found Scully saving a seat for him ten rows back from the stage. He climbed over several pairs of knees and sat beside her.

"Don't you look nice," he greeted with a tiny wink, taking in her cream-colored suit and turquoise blouse.

"Thank you, and I will still poke you when you start snoring."

"Scully, I won't fall asleep," he protested. "It's too early."

She studied the program. "Looks like a combination senior recital and concert," she said. "Vocal arias, intermission, then the 'Gloria.' "

"I can't wait," he muttered.

"Mulder, you didn't have to come," she pointed out.

"I don't know. When Skinner gave us the tickets it seemed like a command performance to me."

Scully smiled, said softly, "He's proud of his friend, Mulder. DIdn't you see that in his face?"

"I'm not a girl, Scully. I don't study men's faces that closely." He took the program to read it. "I just hope they don't need us tonight."

Backstage, Skinner stood to one side, taking in the pre-concert bustle. Young men in tuxedos and young women in long black dresses pressed by him carrying instrument cases and music folders toward the stage. Mariel moved among them, encouraging, guiding, making sure of last-minute details.

She looked so lovely, he thought: pink-tinged cheeks, clear grey eyes, rich mahogany-colored hair sweeping down to her creamy-skinned shoulders, rounded, upright breasts sweetly accentuated by the silky, sweetheart-necked black gown. Just looking at her sent tingles along his nerves. Yet, it made him feel shy, somehow, to remember how he'd kissed her lovely breasts that night, and how she'd trusted herself to his embrace. --- When you give yourself to me at last --- he thought warmly --- I'll make certain I never disappoint you. ---

Mariel looked over at Walter. She had a few minutes, so she angled in his direction. Warmed by his smile, she drew him aside into an empty practice room. He closed the door and stood with his back against it.

He gently drew her close, unwilling to muss her hair and dress but wanting to feel her nearness. She rested her left arm on his chest, and he felt the light cast cool through his shirt.

"Break a leg, honey," he smiled down. "Or is that just for actors?"

She laughed softly against his neck. "I'm not sure. Thanks anyway. I'm just sorry I have this blasted cast on still -- makes it hard to conduct properly."

"I guess it would, but you'll do fine." He lifted her face. "Ever been to Ireland, honey? Your eyes are like the sea mist."

She laughed shakily, then fell into the mood. "Quit the flattery, Walt. You'll turn my head," she finished, teasingly arch.

"You've already turned mine. I love you."

She looked up. For the first time, she said to a loved man, "Please kiss me. And don't worry about the lipstick."

He laughed softly. "If you say so."

For a moment, she was willingly lost in the kiss. --- I wish I'd found you years ago --- she thought. --- I've missed so much, missed being able to give you so much. --- "Time to go, Walt," she said at last with a little tremble.

"I'll be backstage," he said, opening the door for them to leave the room. "And you look wonderful."

After the stagehands shoved the concert grand out of the way so the harpsichordist could see properly, the concertmaster signaled for the final tuning. The four soloists took their seats, and Mariel entered the stage.

After a short overture piece, the soprano soloist stood to Mariel's left. From the program, Skinner saw that each solo part was from the same work: Handel's "Messiah."

He was glad he'd chosen to sit back in the wings. From here he could see Mariel perfectly, and watched with interest. If the soloist took liberties with the tempo, she seemed to anticipate it. A smile, a nod toward a musician, even a flash of her eyes toward a section guided them all. Her control was absolute, yet apparently effortless. --- This is her life --- he thought. --- She'd be unhappy without all this. ---

Intermission backstage was a mad flurry, and Skinner took care to stay out of the way. Mariel hugged the soloists -- they had been excellent, for young students -- and shepherded the chorus on its way to the risers on stage.

While she waited for the intermission to finish, Scully looked up as Mulder made his way over the legs again to his place. Once seated, though, he twisted around, scanning the faces behind him.

His tense body alerted Scully. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure. Coming out of the men's room I thought I saw our old friend Cancerman. But it was just a glimpse, and I didn't find him in the lobby."

"If it was him..."

"maybe the boss is in for another little shot across the bow." Unfinished sentences again. Mulder pulled out the cell phone. "Skinner carrying his phone?"

"I don't know," Scully snapped, quickly checking her weapon to the consternation of the man in the next seat. "I wasn't there when he got dressed."

Applause greeting the conductor masked any answer Mulder might have made. Mulder shoved the phone back after six rings. "No luck. I'm going backstage, let him know what we think."

"I'll go to the back, keep an eye out."

This time they left the aisle to annoyed murmurs from other concert-goers. Scully wishes for a moment that they could enjoy the music in peace. While Mulder hurried to the side exit, Scully moved up the aisle, looking up almost automatically to scan the low balcony seats. Not many people; a man raising binoculars to his eyes. --- The stage isn't that far away --- she thought --- Don't you have opera glasses? ---

Mulder found the AD sitting in the wings. The man looked up with a frown, then rose when Mulder gestured him over. It took only a moment to pass the news, or supposition, and a moment more to hear the terse response. Mulder nodded and left quickly.

Damn this, Skinner thought savagely. If Mulder was right, it passed the bounds of credibility that Cancerman would be here because he loved Baroque music. He looked quickly at his watch: the 'Gloria' would be over in about 12 minutes. After that, things would move quickly. Unless he and his two best agents were basing their conclusions on what they wanted to be true: it was so easy to blame the enigmatic, shadowy smoker for things that had no other apparent explanation.

..Take my time. Sure. Pick the right moment. Nobody has to die, you know.

He scanned the orchestra and chorus, and especially the conductor, playfully adjusting the focus in and out. Damn fine backside she had. He grinned in the dim light. Would fit just right under his hands, he decided. Yeah, as if.

He joined the applause at the end, paying no attention to the ritual of bows and the orchestra standing up to receive applause. He had to move now, to a better location....

Mulder rejoined Scully, who shook her head. "Nothing. I don't think he's here, Mulder."

He didn't think so now, either, but his instincts refused to quiet down. Taking Scully's arm so they wouldn't be separated as the audience filed out, he said, "I'm going to make sure they get out safely."

"I'm with you." Neither agent had to define who 'they' were.

In the auditorium, Skinner joined Mariel on the stage -- a move that drew some looks from the orchestra as they packed up -- and took her left hand.

"Let's go."

"I have to collect all this first, Walt," she said, looking at him quizzically as she put her baton back on the stand. "You know that."

His eyes darkened and he tightened his hand briefly. "Mariel, now."

..From his position pressed almost behind the exit door, he decided that if they stayed a minute longer it would be just right. He flicked the focus for the charge and counted down in his mind....

Scully mounted the side stage steps ahead of Mulder and froze between one tread and the next. A red flicker, just for a second by the wall...

..A building hum, almost inaudible, then hurting her musician's ear. Skinner followed her eyes as she searched for the source of the pain, and he saw it.

"Get down," he shouted, pulling Mariel with him and pushing down whichever other heads he could reach. The sudden chaos suited the moment as the beam struck the grand piano, boring into the soundboard, disintegrating it. Freed from their attachments and releasing a string tension of over 50 tons, the piano wires tore the weakened instrument apart, launching pieces across the stage.

And above the yells and the racket of metal stands and chairs crashing, a single agonized scream hung coldly, then sheared off.

Mulder raised his head slowly from the back of Scully's neck. Silence now, then groans and curses from around them. "You o.k., Scully?" he asked, levering himself off her body.

"Yeah. Next time, before you tackle, warn me."

"Skinner did."

And was he all right? People were getting up now, shoving chairs, instruments and piano pieces off themselves. Some people looked injured; about everyone was dazed and disbelieving. Mulder found Skinner near the podium, helping his friend to sit up.

"You o.k., sir?"

"Fine. Mulder, get down there and see what's left." He gestured with his head toward the far door.

Admittedly, there wasn't much left. Scully helped Mulder cordon off the body with folding chairs before she bent over it briefly. A male, mid-thirties probably, dark brown hair, maybe six feet tall...and a wound she hoped never to see again on a human being.

Mulder studied the shattered glass and metal pieces strewn around the man's feet. "What's left of the laser, I guess," he remarked when Scully stood up.

She looked around. Police and paramedics had arrived, she saw, so she and Mulder could concentrate on their own jobs.

"Remind me never to accept tickets from Skinner again."

"That was lame, Mulder."

"Sorry."

A Washington, D.C. Hospital, evening
A Washington, D.C. suburb
later that night

Mariel decided that Walt Skinner in a cold rage could have intimidated Josef Stalin. Skinner stood beside her now in the emergency room as she signed release forms. He was not touching her, but she knew his body would be hard and tight as he kept his temper in check. The only saving grace at the moment was that she knew he wasn't angry at her.

It was fully dark when they came out, Mariel walking slowly while leaning on his left elbow. He angled her to his double-parked car and helped her inside.

"Won't you get a ticket?" she tried to joke.

"Sometimes I have some privileges," he replied tersely, shutting the door.

She had to lean forward so her bandaged back wouldn't press into the seat. She was glad that no one on the stage had been badly hurt -- cuts and bruises mostly. Walt had insisted on the ER trip for her, to be sure that the laceration hadn't sheared into her muscles. She knew she'd been lucky: a couple of inches higher and the flailing wire might have sliced through her neck. --- Done in by a G-string --- she thought shakily and giggled a little. The pain medicine must be kicking in, she figured. She wasn't usually so ditzy.

"I've asked Agent MacDonald to come over tonight," Skinner announced later as he unlocked the door of Mariel's townhouse. "And please don't argue with me about it."

"I'm not arguing," she said, moving to give him room to close the door. When he reached for the light switch, she took his hand instead and tugged him toward her, whispering, "Please..." He circled her waist with his left arm and drew her firmly against him, all the while hoping that his reaction to this hard, tightly-molded hug wasn't too apparent.

--- I don't need that now --- he thought, angry now with himself even while his hands were slow and tender on her. --- I've got to think, not just react and feel. ---

"Mariel, listen to me. MacDonald will be here soon and we have to get this straight."

Suddenly afraid, she moved back against his arm. "Get what straight?"

"Honey, look," he said, leading her into the living room. "You know I can't tell you any details, but I've been made a target here. You're in the crossfire because you've been with me those times." God, three times now? he thought.

He helped her sit on the sofa, kneeling in front of her as he tucked a sofa pillow behind the small of her back. "I'll contact you as soon as I can, but I won't see you again for a while," he continued, holding her gaze firmly. "In the meantime, you'll be safe, I think, since you won't be around me." Before she could answer, he cradled the back of her neck in one big hand, and leaned forward until his mouth barely brushed hers. Slow and deliberate, the moth's-wing touch of his lips tantalizing them both, he said against her lips, "I fell in love too late in my life to risk losing you."

"I love you, too," she whispered, and gave a tiny whimper as his mouth molded hers hard, deeply. For a moment, they soothed each other with kisses, easing some of the sweet ache within them.

Then he stood up as the doorbell rang, and smiled down at her softly-flushed face. "God bless, honey. And don't worry about me. I've been in this position before," he finished dryly, and went to let Agent MacDonald in.

MacDonald took in everything, from Mariel's flushed face to Skinner's brisk manner, and grinned. "Good work, sir," she approved.

"Can it, Mac," he growled, and left.

MacDonald canned it, but couldn't stop grinning. Unknown location, that night

He was glad that no one had died. Not that he would be believed, but he really didn't enjoy seeing people die. It was simply necessary sometimes, and it wasn't necessary now.

Of course, the boy had died, but that was his own fault. He should have known he was expendable, and so could have planned the right maneuvers to save himself. He was stupid and had paid for that.

What was important was that Lorene...that is to say, the woman survived. The memory again. He'd have to control his thoughts better. FBI Headquarters, later

On Wednesday morning, he walked into a nightmare.

Before that day, the upbeat and positive reports from MacDonald had been offset by Mulder's pessimism. Not without cause: even the Gunmen couldn't make anything of the metal and glass shards recovered from the dead man. The optical properties in the shattered lenses were standard for smaller binoculars. Whatever special cutting or shaping was used to focus the laser had been destroyed.

The dead man himself essentially had never existed. No prints on file, no mug shots, no description anywhere -- another big nothing, as Mulder put it.

Skinner had finished reading the reports over a half-congealed plate of eggs and something resembling toast in the Bureau cafeteria. Disgusted with both the food and the continual dead-ends, he pushed the papers back into the folder, disposed of the tray and left to work out some frustration by taking the stairs to his office.

When he opened the main office door, his secretary looked up from her desk to catch his eye. Her face a deadpan mask, she looked deliberately from his face to the inner office and back again. He got it the first time, and nodded slightly.

Someone was inside whom he may not want to see.

"Hold my calls and appointments," he told her quietly, and entered his private office.

'May not want to see' was an extreme understatement. The grey-suited man standing by the window was the last person he wanted to see, or, indeed, expected to see right now.

Walt Skinner hadn't lost his temper in years. He knew how to use its rough edge to press home a point, or to darken and color his presence or his speech when necessary. But now he had to clench his jaw against a surge of cold rage that threatened to rip out in words he hadn't used since Vietnam. --- No...he wants that, wants me to lose control. ---

He would never give this man that satisfaction.

Instead of shouting, he dumped the file on his desk and said, "What do you want?"

The man turned from the window, exhaling smoke. "Nothing in particular."

"Then get out. I'm too busy to discuss 'nothing.' "

"Interesting, isn't it, how often a man in the middle makes enemies?"

Skinner tightened up inside. So, it was going to be a fencing match. "It depends on what he does...or doesn't do."

The other drew in more smoke, held it in a long time. "Or, perhaps, on what he withholds."

Was that what this was? Payback somehow for what Albert Hosteen knew? Skinner had blocked this man's way to Mulder, Scully and the X-Files, so now he himself was the proper target?

Somehow, that supposition didn't entirely fit. Something else was going on also, now.

"Then again," the smoker continued, seeming almost amused, "maybe it sometimes depends on the man himself."

"In that case," Skinner said, closing to within a foot of the other, "it comes with the territory. If he's a big boy, and knows the game."

The older man nodded, either confirmation or approval, and stubbed out his smoke. "As long as he gets the point."

"Oh, I do." Skinner's deadly cold voice, combined with the sudden grammatical change to the first person, drew the other's attention despite himself. "As long as you get this." The man was at least a dozen years his senior, probably more, but Skinner felt no compunction about pushing him slowly toward the wall, pinning him there a moment with his hard forearm on the other's chest.

"Remember this," Skinner finished in a voice that would freeze molten steel. "The woman isn't in the game and doesn't even know the rules. If anything ever happens to her, no matter who or what is responsible, I'll kill you."

For a single frozen moment, the man was looking at himself: younger, passionate, angry, fiercely prepared to do anything to stop something that, in his own case, was far too late to change. There had been no justice for Lorene, no real closure to her death. Perhaps in some way, he could find that for her now.

The smoker looked evenly, coolly, into Skinner's dark, frozen eyes. "I understand. The game and the rules have to apply, don't they?"

Skinner lowered his arm, staring back for several seconds. "Yes," he said, just as coolly, "they do."

Deliberately slow, the man took out another cigarette. --- Strange how this could work out, seeing in another man the life he himself might have lived. --- "I have arrangements to make," he said aloud, walking to the main door.

After he left, Skinner returned to his desk, sitting down slowly. In some way he didn't consciously understand, he knew that it was over. At least, the danger to the woman he loved was done with. He had no illusions about his own future safety. But, then, that was a part of the game, after all. He buzzed his secretary. "Tell Agents Mulder and Scully to see me in my office, please." The three of them had arrangements to make, as well. A Washington, D.C. suburb, later

Agent MacDonald smiled as she gathered up her jacket and slipped her wallet into a pocket. She was glad to be going home to her own bed -- presuming her husband still remembered her after this week-long watchdog duty -- and glad, too, to see her boss's face so...'relaxed' wasn't the word. Could the word possibly be 'happy?'

"Dr. Fraser is getting dressed, sir," MacDonald announced before she closed the door.

"You told her I was coming?"

"Of course. I would have wanted a little advance notice so I could pretty up, too."

"Get going, Mac, before your husband sues you for desertion." Skinner shook his head ruefully. He'd have to be more firm with both of them. Mac was a doll, but sometimes her old acquaintance status complicated things a bit.

He took off his coat, set his bundles on the coffee table next to yet another of Mademoiselle le Fontaine's books -- Mariel's cousin must turn them out like breathing -- he thought, then looked up when he heard her voice.

"Agent MacDonald, could you give me a hand?"

Smiling, he followed the voice down the hall. She was in the bedroom, smoothing a slim-lined dress down over her hips. He stopped in the doorway, wishing his heart rate would slow down a bit.

"Will I do instead, honey?"

Mariel gasped in surprise, looked up and colored slightly. "Walt...is everything all right? Are you all right?"

"Yes to both." He chuckled. "And I was hoping for a hug, at least."

"Sure...but my dress is unzipped. With this cast and the bandages I can't bend my arm enough to get it."

"You don't have to get dressed on my account."

Mariel bit her lip, feeling the deep warmth pouring through her at the sound of those words, and the double meaning they carried. "Walt," she whispered, "you can come on in."

He did, and gathered her up for the long-desired hug. From the fierce strength of her arms around his shoulders, he realized she'd wanted it just as much as he did. Well, time to see if she felt the same about a kiss.

After a few delicious moments, he murmured, "Are you sure you want me to zip you up?"

"You...you'd better, darling." Her voice was husky.

He grasped the zipper, moved it up slowly, slide by slide, stroking her back with the other hand as he did so. He could feel her body trembling and slowed his touch even more, bringing his mouth to her throat to tease the soft hollow there.

Twisting a little in his arms, she gasped, "Walt...I can't think. Please stop."

"O.K. We have to talk, anyway."

They went into the living room, sat together on the sofa. Tucking her against his shoulder, he told her what he could about the outcome of "their" case, deliberately keeping some things back.

She must have heard between the lines, because she asked, "Walt, did you make some deal you can't live with?"

"No." That ws honest enough. "I can live with it, if you can."

Mariel looked up without raising her head from his breast. "Does it matter whether I can live with it?"

"Yes. Since I want you to be a part of my life."

Silence. Her heart was beating hard tnough to give her a headache. --- Dear God, what am I going to do now? ---

"I thought I already was a part of your life."

Walter shifted her gently but firmly to face him. "You are," he said, holding her gaze tenderly. "But I hoped we could make it more official."

"Oh?" she murmured, eyes wide and soft.

He smiled. "As I understand it, the usual way to do that is to get married."

She sat back away from him on the couch, her gaze never leaving his. Almost unable to believe that love might at last be hers for the acceptance, she said, "You're saying that you want to marry me?"

"That's what it sounded like to me." He took her hands in both of his, stroking the palms with gentle thumbs. "I won't ask you to give up your work or your friends, or anything else about your life that's important to you." He swallowed against a dry throat, suddenly afraid, and uncertain about exposing her to the sometimes rough edges of his life and work.

But she already knew how rough it could get, he reminded himself. And she was still here, sitting inches from him, eyes and face softening to his words and touch --- I want you with me --- he thought --- in my bed, at the breakfast table, your music scores piled on the desk beside my files and folders, our lives blending where they can to give us the strength to face whatever we must. ---

Mariel leaned over to rub her cheek against his. Close to his ear she said softly, "Walt, that's why I think it'll work for us. We're each doing what we love...No, really," she laughed at his muttered disclaimer. "I don't think you'd be happy out of the Bureau. We're not dependent on each other for who we are."

Careful of her still-healing back, Walter lifted her bodily into his lap, tucking her head down onto his shoulder. "So you're saying that you want to marry me?" he repeated her own words softly.

"That's what it sounded like to me," she quoted him back, and shivered happily when she felt his warm, slightly rough-surfaced tongue stroke her earlobe. From there, his mouth wandered slowly over her face and throat, kissing and sometimes licking the soft, sensitive spots.

Warm and flushed, she yielded her throat and shoulders to him. This man affected her in ways that she'd never experienced before, and, truthfully, never thought she could experience. Part of her wanted more and more, but another part realized it wasn't time yet for complete surrender.

When she had some breath back, she said almost inaudibly, "Walt, I want you to know first that..." This was hard, she felt, suddenly embarrassed. "that I've never slept with a man before."

He smiled down at this beloved woman cradled in his lap. "Sure you have. You slept with me in the cave, remember?"

She smiled. "I know, but I mean sexually." She breathed deeply a couple of times and finished, "I'm ready now if you want to say it."

Puzzled, Walter lifted her chin a bit, lightly stroking the line of her jaw. "Say what?"

"The virgin jokes."

He blinked, stared a moment. "Mariel, I love you. Why should I burden you with such damned adolescent nonsense as virgin jokes?"

She turned her face into his throat, smelling the warm skin, aware of stinging tears pooling in her eyes. He went on, cheek resting on her hair, "Chastity was a lifestyle choice you had every right to make, honey. But things will be different now. Right," he teased with a grin.

She nodded, feeling her own teasing spark starting to glow.

"So," he continued, "when the time comes, I'll just take extra special care of you." Raising her gently to face him again, he finished, "O.K?"

"O.K." Mariel laughed, warm now, and happy. "Very much O.K."

A Washington, D.C. Church
a month later

He hadn't been invited to the wedding, but that didn't matter. He sat in his car outside the church watching people drift out. Not a large wedding, then; quiet and private.

Ah, there they were. He watched the big, strongly-built man in a tuxedo and the tall, mahogany-haired woman in satiny white exit the church with a group of friends. He recognized them all.

A short auburn-haired woman in blue stood near the bride while her tall, dark-haired companion shook the groom's hand. He watched the couple duck confetti, heading for a waiting limousine. Then he couldn't see them anymore, and the other people left for their cars to follow the limousine.

He sat alone in silence for a long time before he started the car and drove away. The End --- For Now...

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