Title: Walter and Mariel: 6. Coda, Al Fine
Author: Mary Mastrangelo
Series: Walter and Mariel
Rated: PG-13 for adult-situation talk between spouses
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction featuring characters created by Chris Carter and owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Television. Used without permission and without intention to infringe copyright. No money is being made by the use of these characters.
Dr. Mariel Fraser-Skinner, as well as any other characters and situations not already established on the television series "The X-Files," are my creation and may not be used without my written permission.

Summary: This story is a transitional piece that takes place immediately after the events in "Walter and Mariel V: Contrappunto," and as such is set in an alternate universe in which Walter and Mariel Skinner are happily married. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated!

She'd pulled the chair right up against the hospital bed and she was comfortable now, her head on the mattress beside her husband's hip, her cheek resting upon the back of his hand as it lay outstretched on the salmon-colored bedspread. Against the crown of her head, Laurel felt the rhythmic pressure-pause-release each time his abdomen moved to a breath, and she cherished each small touch, each inhalation and exhalation that bespoke the life within his still, sleeping body. His hand felt dry and cool against her warm, dewy-moist cheek but that didn't bother her. Joe had always had cold hands. She smiled, lips curving upon his knuckles, as she remembered how they used to joke about different ways to warm his hands before he touched her so she wouldn't jump a foot. Right now, Joe's cold hands were proof positive for Laurel that her husband was going to be all right.

A bright fan of light fell across the foot of the hospital bed, and Laurel raised her head. The young man who'd been sitting at the other side of the bed was already on his feet, his weapon drawn, and moving between the bed and the opening door. A man's voice said softly, "Matthews," and as the speaker entered the room, Laurel made out a middle-aged man of medium height with thinning, brownish-blond hair.

At sight of his boss, Matthews relaxed and reholstered the weapon. "Yes, sir," the young agent acknowledged. "Everything's all right here."

"Good." Grant Sanders pushed the door shut behind him, shutting off the light from the hall, and moved into the room. He touched Laurel's shoulder lightly, and the cinnamon-eyed woman smiled in response. "Has your husband waked up yet, Mrs. Byers?" Sanders asked. "I mean, enough to talk?"

"No." Laurel's soft voice was warm and relaxed, and Sanders grinned in the dusk-dark room. He understood that the pertinent facts for Laurel Byers were that her husband was alive and that they were together. Everything else for her was superfluous. Then Laurel's voice grew puzzled. "But he did mutter something about his clothes about an hour ago. I mean, I have all the clothes that they found him in." She gestured toward the head of the bed, where a duffel bag rested atop the bedside stand. "Agent Matthews told me that I should give them all to you for forensics."

Reaching into a pocket of his windbreaker, the S.A.I.C. brought out a pair of latex gloves. Pulling them on with a couple of practiced snaps, Sanders reached over toward the bag. "May I?" he asked, and at Laurel's nod he lifted the bag onto the mattress beside the sleeping man's feet. "Did you look over his things, Mrs. Byers?"

"Yes," she replied, and Sanders could hear the frown developing in her voice. "Jeans, shorts, a pullover, sox and tennis shoes. And his wallet and keys. Everything's there, all packed in those plastic bags." Sanders wondered about that. As far as he was aware, besides Joe, only he, himself, and Joe's contact at Kitt Peak knew about the sapphire crystal. --- And the guy who'd apparently followed Joe over half of southern Arizona --- Sanders thought --- whatever the hell has happened to *him*. --- It was as though the man in the Byers's surveillance camera photo, the man who'd left young Patrolman Morris for dead in the desert and Joe bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to the chest, had dropped off the face of the earth.

That Joe actually had not bled to death out in that cotton field was due entirely to the grace of God, Sanders knew. He'd never read anything quite so strange, and yet so oddly fitting, as the paramedics' report of what, exactly, they'd found bandaging the informant's wound. Setting aside his ruminations for the time being, Sanders unsnapped the duffel bag and drew out the clothing piece by piece. Each piece was packed in plastic and labeled, and Sanders paused, turning a bag slowly in his hands. He didn't want to break the plastic seals here in the hospital room to search for the crystal, and not simply because of any questions that might arise later about the integrity of the evidence chain. For one thing, Sanders didn't know if Joe had told his wife about the object or not, and additionally, the S.A.I.C. didn't want to involve Matthews any more deeply in this business if that eventuality could be avoided. "You can have the clothes if you want." The basso voice -- slow, strained and yet filled with sarcastic humor -- drew everyone's gaze to the bed, and Laurel sat up straight, clutching at Joe's hand. "Blood and bullet holes spoil the cut," the informant finished dryly, and his mouth twitched in a wry grin beneath the goatee.

Sanders himself grinned openly. "Sorry, shirt's not my color." He pushed the wrapped clothing back into the duffel bag. "Damn glad to see you back with us, Joe."

"Yeah... well, me, too." --- If only my chest didn't feel like it was full of lighted matches. --- Joe thought, and turned his head a little. He tugged Laurel close to him, deliberately tickling her cheek with his beard. "You smell good, Laurel," he went on, giving her earlobe a little kiss. "Don't go anyplace, now."

"No," Laurel whispered, swiping away quick tears. "You're still stuck with me." Then she laughed, combing her fingers through the goatee and tugging his hair playfully. "But I notice that you waited until *after* I hassled with the hospital over the insurance before you decided to become coherent again."

"You know me and my good timing, honey," Joe smiled. Then he raised his head to look Grant Sanders squarely in the eye.

Sanders nodded, reading the look as easily as if Joe had a sign pasted on his forehead detailing his wishes. "Matthews," the S.A.I.C. said, "take Mrs. Byers down for a cup of coffee, please. We won't be long, here."

Laurel kissed Joe's forehead and stood up, then left the room at Matthews's side. When the two men were alone in the room, Sanders reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a device that looked like a small radio. Activating it, Sanders set the machine down on the bedside stand and smiled. "I figured that if you woke up while I was here, you'd appreciate the white noise."

"Yeah, well... I'm done with it now." Joe fumbled around for the bed controls and raised the head of the bed a little before pointing to the duffel bag. "In there... no... no... Yeah, that one," Joe finished, nodding when Sanders lifted out one of the plastic sacks.

Sanders lifted his eyebrows. "Your shorts?"

The informant reached for the bag, slitting it with a fingernail, and pulled out the underwear. "Of course," Joe said with a touch of his remembered cool arrogance. "I only wear these under my jeans," he continued, easing apart a tiny, plastic zip-closured pouch set into the side of the shorts just below the elastic waistband. "Even if I'm patted down, anything in here would just feel like a seam in the denim.... Ah, here," he remarked in quiet satisfaction, and withdrew the sapphire crystal from its hiding place. Holding it out toward the other man, Joe said, "Take the damn thing, will you? Bury it back out in the desert or something."

Sanders took the object. It felt cool and smooth to his fingertips, and looked the same to him as when he'd first seen it -- what? two days ago? "Did your contact at Kitt Peak -- you know, the person I'm not supposed to know about -- find out anything about this thing?"

"No. But you probably should know her now; I'll give you her name later." Joe closed his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice was low and tired. "I figure that nearly getting killed twice in a few days is enough. I don't know what that thing is, and right now I don't care. We're leaving as soon as I can get out of here."

Understanding exactly, the S.A.I.C. nodded. "That's your privilege, Joe. We can see to that officially or unofficially. Just keep me posted so I'll know you guys are o.k." Sanders took a moment to repackage the underwear before continuing. "One thing: we haven't located your assailant yet, and until we do you'll have to keep those eyes-in-the-back-of-your-head right where they are."

Joe blinked himself more awake, willing himself not to drift off yet. "I plan on it, Sanders. Right now I want to sleep, and I want Laurel."

Grant Sanders smiled outright. "Sure. The rest will keep." *The rest*, he thought, would include the report from the hazardous materials team that had cleared away the toxic waste from the irrigation ditch. The mess had been downstream, as it were, from the culvert and might have been washed there from the main canal. On the other hand, arguably the toxic substance could have had something to do with Joe's assailant's disappearance, given that the early analysis of the material had discovered a fragmentary, and previously completely unknown, amino acid chain. What *that* analysis might mean was anybody's guess right now, and in the meantime the search for the man who had attempted to murder two people was continuing.

Taking advantage of the privacy afforded by the locked stall, Laurel leaned against the wall, squeezing her eyelids shut in a vain attempt to keep the salt wetness from cascading down her cheeks. --- Oh, what the hell --- she thought --- nobody will hear me if I bawl out loud.... --- So she did, and eventually cried herself out.

Straightening tiredly at last, she pulled a tissue from the pocket of her slacks and blotted at her face. Then she tucked her blouse into the pants and left the stall. She ran cool water into a sink and washed her hot face thoroughly, scrubbing away every hint of her tears. --- You will get a grip --- she instructed herself sternly, staring at her pale face in the mirror. --- Joe's alive, he's going to be fine... that's the important thing. Everything else will work out. --- Laurel opened her purse, pulling out a compact and lipstick. After a moment she was ready to leave the still-empty restroom and rejoin Agent Matthews, who, she reasoned, was probably leaning against the wall outside the door right this minute wondering why in heck women took so long in the bathroom. The thought brought a tremulous smile to her face, and she reckoned that she was ready to face the walk to her husband's room.

Agent Sanders was standing in the corridor, and as Laurel and Matthews approached, the senior agent caught the younger man's eye and nodded toward the door of Joe's room. After Matthews went in, Sanders said, "I'll be in touch with you and your husband, Mrs. Byers. In the meantime, I'll arrange for an officer to be outside this door at all times."

"Thank you," Mrs. Byers said softly. "We can never thank you properly for what everyone has done for us, though."

"No need to even try," Sanders smiled. "We take care of our own." He opened the room door for Laurel before continuing, "Someone will relieve Matthews in a couple of hours. He'll know the man, so you don't have to worry about that part. You and Joe take care of yourselves, and I'll talk to you both later."

After Sanders had taken his leave, Laurel sat up on the bed beside her husband and gathered his hand to rest in her lap. "Um, Agent Matthews," she said hesitantly, "would you mind sitting outside for just a little while? I, um, want some time alone with Joe."

Matthews nodded, and picked up his chair to take it and himself outside to the hallway. "All right, Mrs. Byers. Twenty minutes do you?"

She nodded, and waited until she heard the door close before leaning down to gently kiss her husband's cheek. He opened his eyes at her touch, and raised his left hand to curl his fingers through her hair. "I'm awake," he murmured, and tightened his fingers just enough to draw her head around so he could kiss her warm mouth. She responded fervently until they both had to come up for air.

"Hey, easy, girl," Joe teased. "I don't think any more will be good for me in my condition." Then he managed a wide grin. "Speaking of 'conditions', how's my little mommy doing?"

--- No... I can't cry now, I... I just can't. --- Laurel swallowed several times, blinking hard. "Joe, I... I mean... you have to know but it's not a good time, but..." Realizing that he was staring at her, Laurel breathed as deeply as she could and continued in a calmer voice. "Joe, just now, in the ladies' room, I saw that my panties were stained and by the time I'd finished going I... I had to get a pad from the dispenser." Although she was trying her best, a little sob choked off the rest of the painful recital.

Joe was an adult, and as mature as he could be, he figured, but the sudden realization of what Laurel meant opened a hole inside his heart. "You mean that your period started up again? It was... just several days late?"

"Yes, I... I guess the stress and the worry about you and everything just made me late." Laurel grabbed a tissue from the bedside dispenser and wiped her wet cheeks. "Joe... I'm sorry. I really thought that... that our other bedrooms were going to start getting filled up."

Not caring what the doctors might say, Joe Byers tugged his wife down onto the bed and she cuddled to his side, careful of his bandages and I.V. lines. "I'm not sorry, Laurel," he said quietly, his lips against her temple. "At least, not about believing that you were pregnant. Thinking about you and the kid helped me through things."

"Really?" Laurel murmured, gently rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

"Yeah. And since I'm still here, we can start working on it some more."

"Lots more, Joe... I want a houseful," Laurel smiled, her tears beginning to dry.

"Well, let's wait on the number until I get myself another job," Joe smiled, stroking Laurel's back as she lay beside him. "I don't know what they pay informants in Idaho. Or Wyoming."

"Idaho? Wyoming? What...?"

"We'll talk about that later," Joe smiled, and managed to shift his body just enough to reach her without stretching. "Right now, I want some more kisses."

Laurel giggled, beginning to feel better about everything. "Joe, you've got tubes going into your arm, bandages all over your chest, your doctor will shoot you himself if he finds me here on your bed, and Agent Matthews is coming back in the room any minute now."

"So why are you wasting time talking?" Joe inquired reasonably enough. "Lean over just a little more... there, just right."

Outside in the corridor, Agent Matthews pushed the door open an inch or two before entering and glanced into the room. Smiling then, he decided to wait a while before taking his watchdog duties back inside.

Grant Sanders sat in his car, turning the sapphire crystal slowly in his fingers. This thing, whatever it was, was best out of Joe's life now, the S.A.I.C. decided. When the informant was released from the hospital, Sanders would find out whatever else Joe knew about the crystal. From that point, however, the senior agent was unsure of what might have to be done.

Sanders didn't take Joe's suggestion that he bury the thing in the desert seriously, but he'd seen more than enough to convince him that there was an extreme amount of danger involved for whoever was in possession of the item. He looked down at it now, studying its soft glow in the strengthening dawn light, then turned it over to absently trace the crimsom whorls with a fingertip. The tracings pulsed gently to his touch, and he lifted his tingling finger with a start of surprise.

One thing was certain, Sanders decided instantly: he wasn't going to keep this thing on his person or in his home. He'd think of a place to keep it safe, and in the meantime, his old friend in D.C. was due another call from him. Maybe together, they could work something out....

Lifting the canvas flap, Mariel Skinner looked out of the tent toward the mall. Glare from the artificial lighting arranged around the portable stage made it difficult to see individual persons, but Mariel could tell that the mall was still crowded. Earlier in the afternoon, the temperature and humidity had peaked to an uncomfortable 93 degrees and 86 percent, respectively. Even though the hot, sticky weather hadn't eased much with the gathering dusk, the discomfort hadn't deterred the people who were congregated for the end-of-Summer concert.

And did they congregate! Judging from the talk she'd overheard earlier, most of the performers had a time getting here. Despite the fact that parking places had been reserved across the mall for the musicians and guest conductors --- *Look, Mom! I'm a guest conductor!* --- when they'd arrived Walter had had to flash his I.D. more than once to get them through the gathering crowd. She grinned to herself at the memory: her husband in full intimidation mode was as irresistible as a force of nature.

When she and Walter had reached the concert site shortly thereafter, people still had been arranging themselves in those loosely-cohesive groups typical of attendees at outdoor concerts. Adults had been lounging on blankets and under brightly-colored beach umbrellas that had been set up in the civilian equivalent of claiming a beachhead. Children solved the problem of the heat by gleefully assaulting one another with water balloons, then ducking behind startled parents for cover when soaked siblings retaliated with bazooka-sized water guns. A young man in cut-off jeans sent a frisbee sailing over the heads of a group of picnickers while his cross-bred Shepherd galloped to intercept the missile. The animal leaped high for the catch, and the feat was greeted with a combination of scattered applause and irate shouts of "throw that thing somewhere else, buddy!" or words to that effect. Portable CD-players seemed to be in competition, with an ear-numbing cacophony of rap music, heavy metal and the occasional country-western tune. Mariel chuckled, remembering her hope that people would at least turn off their players once the official concert got underway.

Letting the flap fall back into place, Mariel smiled at a familiar touch and turned to face the beloved owner of the hand that rested on her shoulder. Walter looked so wonderful today, she thought. His charcoal-grey suit coat over a snowy-soft shirt and tie and matching grey trousers accented his big frame with understated elegance. --- Of course --- she thought affectionately --- he'd look great in paint-spattered dungarees, for that matter. --- "Checking to see whether anyone has bolted for the exits yet, honey?" Walter asked, the touch of a smile teasing his lips.

"Nope. I figure that if they've lasted until intermission, they'll stick it out," she replied with a wide grin, and turned a little to lean back against him. He put his arms around her waist to both support and embrace her, and she felt his cheek upon her temple as she settled back against his breast, trusting his strength. The tent was crowded and noisy as the musicians socialized and retuned their instruments, and Mariel was glad to have this moment to rest. She thought that the first half of the concert had gone well. The audience had been pretty attentive, but of course the decorum expected in a concert hall would have been impossible to maintain here. Let's see... after the intermission Dr. Pemburton would conduct, and then a woman, whom Mariel didn't know personally, from a small private college in Virginia would take the helm.

She felt Walter's breath touch her skin with warmth and he spoke quietly, interrupting her thoughts. "Honey, you're sure you feel all right now?"

She instinctively cuddled closer to him. "I'm o.k. A little nervous, I guess." In fact, Mariel wasn't 'o.k.', but she didn't want to admit it. More to the point perhaps, she *couldn't* admit it right now, and closed her eyes against the queasiness as another badly-timed nausea attack roiled her senses. She knew that once the concert started again after intermission, she'd be too busy and involved to have time to concentrate on the "morning sickness" that for her was manifesting itself daily with frequent bouts of nausea. But right now, warm and damp with sweat on this humid evening, she couldn't ignore the feelings.

"Walt, do you have the crackers?" she murmured.

"Right here, honey," he replied, reaching into a trouser pocket. "Do you want to sit down?"

"No." Mariel accepted the crackers and nibbled on one slowly. "Just hold me like you're doing. It'll go away in a minute."

--- And if it doesn't go away, you'll never admit it --- Walter thought with mingled affection and exasperation. He looked up then as someone pushed open the side tent flap, and met the smiling gaze of a blue-eyed woman dressed in a crimson and cream pant suit outfit. The woman winked at him as she entered the tent, and he smiled back.

"The nice man straightening the chairs on the stage told me that they'd blink the lights in a couple of minutes," the woman remarked, her voice a pleasant contralto. "Leo is holding our places, so, Walter, you'd better..." The woman broke off and sighed, pointing to the crackers in Mariel's hand. "You know, sweetie," she continued, "I had the nausea just like that when I was carrying you. Stress always made it worse."

Mariel smiled despite the nausea. "Mom, not *that* again. Didn't you tell Walt that story last night?"

"Family history, dear," the older woman said, and snatched a stray concert program from a stack by the tent flap, fanning herself vigorously with the folded paper. "If yours is a girl, she'll probably go through the same thing."

Walter found himself smiling despite the discomfort of the lingering heat and the stuffy atmosphere of the crowded tent.The first time he'd met Mariel's mother, in that month before the wedding, Walter Skinner had recognized immediately from whom his wife had inherited her statuesque good looks. Nora Fraser-McLaughlin stood nearly as tall as her daughter, and at the age of 58 was only beginning to show a touch of heaviness around her hips and thighs. Her posture would put a drill instructor to shame, and she had an unwavering gaze that, should she choose to employ it at full wattage, could rival Walter's own "office" stare.

"Oh, great," Mariel muttered with laughter in her voice. "What a legacy to pass on." After a moment she glanced across to the front of the tent and straightened, stepping out of Walter's arms. "Oops, there go the lights. Mom, you better get outside before Dad gives your place to one of those bathing beauties out there."

Nora hugged her daughter firmly. Pulling back a little, the older woman smoothed Mariel's hair back from her cheeks and studied her face carefully. "Now, sweetheart, you're sure you're still all right? This isn't getting to be too much for you..."

"...'in your condition?' " Mariel finished the sentence with a fond but exasperated smile. "Mom, don't hover. I'm fine. Now go find Dad. Walt will be along in a minute."

"O.K. You're the lady who's pregnant." Nora waved to Walter on her way out of the tent. "I'll shoo the bathing beauties away for you, Walter," she called, and ducked through the flap.

Mariel sighed and shook her head. "I love my mother to pieces, Walt," she confessed, "but she *hovers* when I don't feel well and it drives me crazy." "At least she's still around to drive you crazy," Walter said quietly, and bent to kiss Mariel gently. His lips were soft and warm and she relaxed, letting the gathering tension slip away. "You're right," she murmured at last, "but you really should scoot now."

After Walter had gone and the musicians took their places on the stage, Maestro Slatkin stepped out to give a short introduction to the second half of the concert. During the brief pause while Dr. Pemburton took his place at the podium, Mariel carried a folding chair over to the edge of the portable wings that separated the assembly tent from the stage proper. She knew that, sitting there, she'd be invisible to the audience but would herself be able to see the orchestra clearly. Every conductor had a unique style, a certain "way" of doing things, and Mariel was prepared to watch and learn. She wasn't such a musical snob as to imagine that she had nothing more to discover about her craft.

When it was almost time for her to take the stage, Mariel tiptoed back inside the tent to pick up her valise. She didn't need the written score, since she always memorized the music that she was to conduct, but liked to bring the conductor's score to the podium "just in case." Pulling the folder from her valise, Mariel automatically flipped it open to retrieve her baton. It wasn't there. Frowning, Mariel looked quickly through the entire score. No, not there. Had she left the baton at home? No... she remembered putting it in her valise as she always did. Then where was it? Had it fallen onto the floor when she lifted the score out? She reached into the valise one more time, and her searching fingers closed over something soft. Carrying the bag closer to the stage where the light was better, Mariel pulled out a dark blue velvet drawstring bag. There was a small card attached to the string, and she saw that her name was printed on it, in Walter's handwriting.

--- What on earth? --- she thought, opening the bag. Inside was a baton. It was the same size as her old baton, but *this* one was crafted of honey-tinged oak polished to a glistening sheen, with a pearlized tip and a handgrip inlaid with pearl. Mariel stifled a gasp of surprise, automatically grasping the baton to find that it fitted her palm perfectly. She swung it in an experimental arc, and discovered that it was beautifully balanced, the pearlized tip bright enough for a musician to catch the beat immediately when he looked up toward the podium.

--- Walt... did you give me this? --- Blinking against the sudden wetness pooling in her eyes, Mariel raised the baton to examine it more closely. A warm gleam caught her eye, and she turned the baton slightly. Embossed in gold upon the oak were tiny, but completely readable letters forming an inscription of the day's date and the words: "To Dr. Mariel Fraser
(Also known as ' Mrs. S.') This is just the beginning, dearest love and sweetest friend. Your 'Mr. S.' "

Mariel kissed the inscription, wishing that her Mr. S. could feel that touch of her lips. But it was all right... later tonight he could feel all the kisses that he wanted.

In the Audience
A Few Minutes Later

Walter Skinner loved to watch his wife conduct. The movements of her arms were graceful and precise and her tall body pliant with the rhythm of the music. Although he regretted his lack of musical knowledge, he recognized once again that Mariel had a special gift. She was not intimidated at all by this world-class orchestra, and gathered them all up under her wing as naturally as she gathered up her students, inspiring them with her own love and enjoyment of the moment. In keeping with the concert theme of music from award-winning movies and television shows, Mariel was leading the National Philharmonic in a suite from "Victory at Sea" by Richard Rogers. As he listened, carried along himself by the sweep of it, Skinner wondered how many men in the audience had sailed under the Southern Cross, had manned the decks against the silent, creeping menace of the submarines, had waded ashore onto the fortified beaches seeing their companions fall on either side yet pushing onward nonetheless. And when that generation of men was gone, who would remember the effort, the courage and commitment that had led at last to the victory for freedom?

Then it was over, the last thrilling chords dying away, and Skinner stood up to applaud, not caring whether anybody else did the same or not. It seemed, though, that everyone was of the same mind, for when Mariel turned to acknowledge the applause the entire audience was on its feet. For one warm moment amidst the clapping and whistles, she caught Walter's eye. Man and wife shared a look and a smile of accepting love, and Mariel raised the pearl-tipped baton to rest it momentarily upon her breast. And then, just before she turned to gesture the orchestra to its feet to share in the applause, Mariel gave her husband a tiny wink.

As it happened, someone else noticed the expression on Mariel Skinner's face. Even though this man knew that the look had not been for him -- and never could be for him -- he tucked the memory of that look away to a place from which he might be able to recall it again when he had need of warmth and solace. If he deserved even the memory of such warmth.... The man turned away from the stage and moved off into the darkness. --- It's where I belong, after all --- he thought, and longed for the burning heat of a cigarette to give his body some semblance, some mocking counterfeit of a warmth that was not his to know.... The End -- For Now....