"My tongue will tell the anger of my heart; Or else my
heart, concealing it, will break." 
~ Wm. Shakespeare



Part 1: Penance 
by J. Morningstar 

She checked her beaded, black evening bag one last time before allowing the
heavy, hotel room door to close behind her. Cash, room key, lipstick, and
tissues. Everything was in order. In exactly the manner that everyone had come
to expect from her. Meticulous. Thorough. 

As she waited for the elevator, she scrutinized her reflection in the hallway
mirror. She had spent more time than usual getting ready, and was mostly
pleased with the results. The black dress, which was deceivingly plain and
unpromising on the hanger, looked as she hoped it would once she slipped it
on. Her makeup, more dramatic than her daytime look, highlighted her eyes
and mouth. But it was her hair that both entranced and disturbed her most. She
was learning not to cringe at the sight of its shining auburn color. 

//"You're the one that got away. You're all I think about."// 

Gone was the sleek and chic coif she usually sported. She had treated herself to
a session at the ridiculously expensive salon off the hotel lobby, charging it to
her room, and the result enchanted her; frothy, auburn curls that fell in tousled
elegance about her face and shoulders. Even the stylist seemed surprised by the
results, and, caught up in the spirit, suggested a manicure.

//"Who does your nails, girly girl?"// 

She suppressed a shudder and politely declined. Her hands were fine.

Back in her room, she looked longingly at the deep tub. It had been so long
since she indulged a nice, long, soul-restoring soak.

//"I'm going to run you a bath."// 

She told herself that there wasn't enough time for a bath; that a quick, efficient
shower was all she needed. 

//"Now, be good and don't cause me any problems."//

She was learning to live with that voice. That pasty, benign voice that hid so
much evil - that voice that could find and exploit even the smallest impulse
towards evil in others. But soon, very soon, the voice would no longer echo in
her head. Already it was fading. She would tell the story again and again, until
she had was nothing left to say. Until the voice spoke no more. 

She focused again on her reflection in the mirror. Everything looked right, but
she was not content. In fact, she was no longer surprised that it was easier for
her to ignore the flesh-crawling revulsion that the memory of Donnie Pfaster's
voice caused, then it was to dismiss aching wound of guilt and regret that had
settled somewhere under her heart. 

For weeks now, she woke each morning in a haze of oppressive misery. Even
before her waking intellect recalled the nature of her sin, her unconscious mind
recognized that there was something was terribly wrong in the world, wrong in
a deep and abiding way. Her mouth twisted as she acknowledged that the
mirror did not show the weight she carried -- that appalling weight of guilt
and regret that hung like an albatross about her slender shoulders. Only a
mirror to her soul would reflect that part of her, and she knew in whose eyes
she could find that looking glass. She cringed to know those eyes would be
there tonight, that *he* would be there tonight, accusing her, haunting her and
disturbing her peace of mind. 

She closed her eyes and shivered as she remembered the incident a month
earlier. It had been that shrieking, irrational outburst that finally led her to seek
real help. 

She had been swimming in a well-concealed fog since evil, in the form of
Donnie Pfaster, had broken into her home, shattering forever her sense of
security, her illusion of safety. But even that trauma was not responsible for
lingering wounds to her psyche - wounds that turned her into a stranger.

Beyond the awful feeling of being defiled, the appalling feeling of helplessness,
was something worse, much worse. It was the tortuous knowledge that Pfaster
had awoke in her a monster as capable of evil as Pfaster himself. 

She had killed. In cold blood. 

Between them, she and Mulder could have subdued Pfaster and taken him into
custody. But reason had fled and left in its wake a tiny devil sitting on her
shoulder, stabbing her with white-hot pincers, screaming in her ear, "Kill him.
Shoot him. Destroy him." The pounding headache that came on nearly dropped
her with it's ferocity. Mulder's voice was indistinct, as though she were
listening from under water. But the voice in her head was explicit:

"Kill him. Shoot him. Destroy him." 

And she did. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Where had it come from, that voice, telling her to kill? And the headaches, pain
like she had never experienced before? Not even Mulder knew about them. She
thought if she kept them to herself, she could find a way to control them. She
has always counted on the strength and stamina of her body, the logical
reasoning of her intellect, and the constancy of her evenly-regulated emotions.
But these headaches stole her own faith in herself. They left her feeling
out-of-control, like a ship ripped from its moorings, with an impulse to
shrewish pettiness she could barely control. 

She remembered the first time she exploded at Mulder. He stared at her as
though she were some psychological anomaly. "Are you alright Scully?"
Concern and bemusement evident in his voice.

"I'm fine" she snapped, ready to drop the matter. But her head ached, and with
it rose an impulse to hurt, to have someone else feel the pain she was suffering.
So she turned on him. "How typical of you to try to turn this into some kind of
pathology." She sneered, "You and your psycho-babble profiling. You act like
an inconsiderate ass, and instead of owing up to it, you find a way to blame it
on a deviance in someone else."

"Look Scully," Mulder tried to placate her, "We can find another motel." 

But Scully was not ready to be appeased. "No Mulder, I'm not moving. I want
to unpack, get something to eat, the go to bed. But next time I'm picking the
hotel."

"Yeah, sure, whatever." he mumbled, then stepped back at her frosty glare.

"I'm going for a run." she announced just before she slammed the door
between their rooms shut.

If he wondered at her inconsistently he wisely kept it to himself. He leaned
against the closed door and raised his voice. "You hungry?" A pause. "Maybe
your blood sugar is low." Another pause. "I'm thinking of ordering a pizza." 

In her own room, Scully leaned against the closed door, staring at her
reflection in the dresser mirror. The woman who stared back at her was
wild-eyed and bewildered - overrun with unspoken questions. What was wrong
with her? Where had that come from? She was shaking. She quickly stripped
and pulled on her workout cloths. Slamming the door behind her, she ran
into the night, ran until her lungs hurt and her legs ached. Back in her room,
she stood for long moments under the shower, until she sobbed in fear and
frustration. She found Mulder and apologized in a low voice, her eyes
downcast. 

"No problem Scully, I always thought you were a little too passive." He
wiggled his eyebrows at her and smirked, "It's kind of nice to see some spirit in
a red-haired Betty like you." 

She smiled in return, but they both knew her heart wasn't in it. And they both
pretended that nothing was wrong. As she wandered back to her room, leaving
the connecting door ajar, she wondered if he too was recalling what she said
that night after she calmly drilled a hole through Donnie Pfaster's chest.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

//"He was evil, Mulder. I'm sure about that, without a doubt. But there's one
thing that I'm not sure of." she whispered. 

He crouched down in front of her, and stroked the cold hands that lay passively
on her lap. "What's that?" he asked gently.

She swallowed convulsively, unable to meet his eyes. "Who was at work in
me? Or what... what made me...what made me pull the trigger."

"You mean if it was God?" Mulder asked.

"I mean... what if it wasn't?"//

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She went over that conversation again, as she had a dozen times before. 

At first, her greatest fear was the tumor. Had it come back? Had it
metastasized? Had it invaded some section of gray matter than regulated mood
and emotions? But the scans showed nothing, and her oncologist referred her
to a neurologist, who ran test after test, but found no physiological reason for
her headaches or her uneven temper. 

The neurologist referred her to a psychiatrist. 

That's when the soul-numbing fear overtook her rational calmness. What if the
malevolence that surfaced in her the moment before she shot Donnie Pfaster
through the chest was not a one-time thing? What if it took up permanent
residence and became as much as part of her as her red hair, her skepticism,
and her dispassionate intellect? 

Wasn't that what her mother feared when she joined the FBI? That she would
become stained with the filth of those she sought to bring to justice? That some
part of the evil and hatred would seep into her own soul, like a pure lung that
turns black and tar-plagued from years of exposure to second-hand smoke.

Had she become what she had fought for so long?

She was Catholic. She knew of good and evil. Of deadly sins. Of damnation.
The fear of cancer faded to nothing in the face of this new terror. 

It was enough to drive her, in desperation, to see a priest. 

She had driven across the beltway to find him. She was unknown to him and
this was important, because the anonymity of the confessional would not be
enough. She needed to work this out face-to-face. 

He was compassionate and kind. One of the modern priests who sought to find
a place for Catholics in today's world. He was also forgiving. Maybe too
forgiving. Because in the end, she left without the solace she hoped to find. 

She kept the psychiatric referral in a zippered pocket, deep inside her purse.
She was determined to find her own way back from the dark precipice. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After the incident with Mulder, she became a student of this new aspect of her
psyche. She carefully monitored and charted her moods, her breathing, her
heart rate. She learned the warning signs of an impending explosion, and
developed a long list of reasons for a sudden need to be "somewhere else",
whether it was on the road with Mulder, with her family, or at a briefing with
Skinner and a dozen other Agents. She found a closet down the hall from her
basement office where she could close the door and scream into a pillow she
smuggled in for just such a purpose. Sometimes she got in her car with an
excuse of getting lunch or coffee, then drove around until she was all cried out.
And at the gym she had taken up boxing and worked out strenuously on a
punching bag.

She hoped she had learned to control this cruel and spiteful "Dana," and truly
believed she had until that night in Skinner's office. Dear God. She still blushed
with shame and mortification when she recalled the things she had said. 

She had lost a hundred thousand moments in her life, slipping away from her
consciousness as though they never existed. But until the day she died, she
would not forget the look in his eyes after she turned on him that night, nor
would she forget the nightmarish misery of the month since. When she had
finally halted, her tirade finished, her chest heaving, surfacing in the strange
calm that always followed one of the outbursts, she watched in growing horror
as he finally made sense of her near-hysterical ravings, her outlandish
accusations. The emotions flew across his face, first incredulousness, then hurt,
followed by fury, white-hot; strong enough to burn. And in her shame, she
welcomed the searing heat that would cauterize her guilty wounds. But that
too was denied her. Because the fury seeped away. She watched with an
aching sense of loss as he carefully shuttered his expression and turned from
her as though nothing happened, as though nothing was different. 

Part of her was surprised at his reaction. Had any other agent done the same,
Skinner would have packed them off for a psych consult. It's what she would
have done. But Skinner, Skinner seemed to take her attack personally. This
troubled her, but she shied away from probing too deeply into his reaction. 

She told herself that Skinner's reaction was of no consequence. It was her
actions that needed to be examined. The Catholic schoolgirl in her knew she
carried more than her fair share of guilt. That came with the territory. At the
same time, she knew that in this case, her regret was justified, and not just the
result of an *overactive* conscience. As a devout Catholic, she knew what she
must do to atone and find redemption, and she both dreaded and welcomed it.
Skinner deserved to why she turned on him, at least to the extent she
understood it herself. 

Then she remembered the look on his face. For a moment she considered
skipping the party. She could don her comfortable pajamas, and order a large,
lovely room service meal, charging it all to the room. It was, after all, on
Mulder's credit card. 

Mulder. Poor Mulder, springing for this business suite was his way of
making-up for her earlier complaints. Didn't he get it wasn't the endless parade
of fleabag motels? 

She felt bad at first, until she learned that he was ditching her again, only telling
her after he was at the airport and ready to board his flight to Wisconsin.
Something about cow mutilations and a dead priest. Any guilt she felt towards
Mulder faded away after his phone call. A quick check at the front desk
determined that his credit card was taking care of the room plus incidentals.
She planned to make sure that their was nothing "incidental" about the charges
she racked up on her room account. That should teach him a lesson for leaving
her without an escort tonight, not to mention ditching her again. 

As much as she wanted to cower in shame in this lavish suite, she knew tonight
presented her an opportunity that would not come again anytime soon. What
had Orison said? "You have faith... have had faith. You hear Him calling you
but you're unsure what to do." 

"Oh yes, I know what to do." she thought to herself. She had tried, a dozen
times, to apologize, to explain. But Skinner was unrelenting in his
determination to never, ever discuss the incident. So she would go there and
face him, and make him acknowledge her presence, force him to listen.
She knew him; she knew the world in which he lived. She counted on the fact
that he would always conform to certain rules of behavior. In such a public
arena, he could not ignore her, hide from her, or find an excuse not to see her.
And she would be implacable. He would not want to make a scene, or draw
undue attention. He would be a captive audience. She would confront him
and force him into the role of listener; confessor. 

She needed this. He needed this. The working relationship they once shared
demanded it. 

But there was more to it than that. Beyond her need to regain some level of
self-respect, she had to find a way to make amends, to regain the regard and
veneration in which she was once held. It grieved her to know such a man
thought so poorly of her, particularly since he once held her in great esteem.
She never realized how much his good opinion mattered to her, until it was
withdrawn. 

The memory of his regard gave her pause. She had always known that
Skinner's conduct with her was slightly different than his manner the other
agents in his command. She had always assumed it was due to her involvement
with Mulder and the X-Files that accounted for his special behavior. For the
hundredth time, she wondered how she could have missed it? Had she been so
enthralled with her partner, that she failed to realize what this strong and quiet
man thought of her? That her actions justified his anger and contempt only
deepened her desolation.

The elevator finally arrived, and she stepped in. She perused the control pane
and absently pushing the button to the mezzanine level; her mind was
elsewhere.

She would have this out tonight with Skinner. And then, life could return to as
it was before. She would again know the power of his direct gaze, feel his
respect, bask in his infrequent approbation. They would once again share a
silent and secret smile as Mulder spouted off some insane theory. She would
again be rewarded with the betraying tightening of his jaw, as he held back a
smile whenever she quipped a sardonic comment to Mulder Once again he
would greet her as they passed in the maze of hallways, wishing her good
morning, nodding only briefly, but for those few seconds, he would look at her.
Not through her -- as though she meant as little to him as the countless parade
of agents that swarmed through the Hoover Building.

She paused at the edge of the ballroom. Her gaze flitting over the dozens of
people in attendance, there was only one person here she cared to see. 

She would look into the fierce eyes that accused her of treachery and worse,
the deep brown eyes that had become the mirror to her soul. She would try to
explain, and then ask for forgiveness. He would assign her penance, and grant
her absolution. 

And life would be as it was before.

********************************************
Part 2: Act of Contrition 
by J. Morningstar

"O, that deceit should dwell 
In such a gorgeous palace!" 
~ Wm. Shakespeare


He sat at a table along the edge of the room; his back to the wall. A lifetime
habit created after two years in Vietnam. From this vantage point, he could
observe each point of entry. 

He did not have to circulate; currying favors. He was an AD now. Men and
women came to him to pay their respects. He allowed it, not because he
wanted it, but because it was necessary. His ego didn't require stroking from
obsequious sycophants. He knew his worth. In part, it was this
dazzling self-confidence that assisted his rise to the executive echelon of the
FBI. His canny understanding of organization politics also went a long way
toward securing his current position. This show tonight was part of the game
he played as Assistant Director, something at which he could excel when
necessary. 

He mentally ticked off all the agents under his command. Only four had not
shown themselves here tonight. Wheeler and Johansson were on an
out-of-town assignment - they had a legitimate excuse. But as far as he knew,
the other two had no justification for not making an appearance. His jaw
tightened as he thought of them; then he willed himself to relax. Their
unwillingness to play the game would not reflect badly on him. If they decided
not to attend, that was their problem, not his. 

He almost believed these lies he told himself. He refused to acknowledge that
evening a month ago. He hated and resented the hurt and anger he felt; so he
pretended it never happened.

He glanced at his watch. He had done his duty. It was time to leave.

He was draining the last drop of bourbon when a curious energy sizzled about
the room. The skin at the back of his neck twitched. 

She was here. He knew she was near the same way he knew a storm was
imminent when the air crackled with energy and was redolent with sulfur and
ozone. 

Scully was here.

Growing up in Texas, he had an uncle whose aching joints signaled an
approaching weather front. Skinner's mouth twisted as he reflected that he also
possessed the gift, but instead of meteorological phenomena, Skinner's internal
radar screamed whenever Scully was near. And instead of stiff joints and
painful muscles, he found it hard to breath, hard to think. 

For all their fabled closeness, Skinner *knew* that Mulder did not experience
the same exquisite sensitivity to Scully's presence that he did. 

Not that he faulted Mulder. Scully was cagy; she kept vast provinces of her
essence concealed, projecting an image of calm remoteness and solitary
existence. But he knew her better. Her physical being was surrounded by an
aura of incandescent energy that registered outside the visible spectrum of
those less perceptive. He knew he was one of the few to comprehend the
whole of her being. The rest of them were like dumb beasts - they knew it was
more comfortable to bask in the sun, but neither knew, nor cared to know of
the volatile chemistry behind the warmth and light. 

Scully didn't emit anything as puny as sparks. Her energy streams were solar
flares that blinded and bewildered him. 

How many times had he found himself studying her mouth; the way she formed
words - the color, shape, and movement of her lips. How many times had he
been caught unaware, slowly surfacing as she sat there, expectantly, waiting
for an answer, while he blinked at her owlishly, desperately trying to formulate
a rational response?

He was frankly bewildered by his reaction to Scully. She wasn't conventionally
pretty. In fact, when they first met, he seldom looked at her except to wonder
how long she could possibly last as Spooky Mulder's partner.

But as time went by, she grew on him. How else could he explain it - the fact
that he now found her incessantly watch-able? The immaculate and classic
prettiness of someone like Marita Covarrubias became cloying; even insipid
over time. But Scully's elegant, distinct visage grew more fascinating and
appealing with each encounter.

He picked up the glass he had been nursing, and casually glanced towards the
main ballroom foyer, knowing she must have just arrived.

His breath caught, then released in a long, drawn-out hiss. 

She was there, an angel in black. Her hair was a corona of curling flames that
licked about her face. She stood, sans Mulder, just inside the doorway,
carefully assessing the room. 

She was looking for someone, of that he was sure. Her partner, obviously. 

As she turned his way, and his gaze narrowed. She started when she saw him,
her expression panicked, her gaze skittering away. 

The emotions flowing through him were mixed. He told himself that her
trepidation was good, that it meant she wouldn't try to force a confrontation
tonight. But he couldn't deny that their changed relationship troubled him.

He signaled the waiter for one more bourbon and leaned back, trying to relax. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Sir. Do you mind if I join you?"

Suddenly, Scully was there, standing before him. Where the hell had she come
from? He wasn't ready for this.

"Yes." He growled.

"Thank you sir." she replied, gracefully seating herself in the chair directly
opposite. 

His mouth twisted. "I think you misunderstand me, Agent Scully. When I said
'yes', I meant 'yes, I do mind if you join me. Not, 'pull up a chair and make
yourself at home." 

She smiled carefully, then looked down. "Actually Sir, I am aware of exactly
what you meant." 

He saw the smile, and it made him want to shake her. He cocked one brow at
her, incredulous. "Yet you choose to ignore my wishes?" 

"In this case, since your wishes fail to coincide with my own, I feel I must
disregard them." She pulled a deep breath. "I'm sorry." Her voice was smooth,
controlled. What happened to the passion she blasted him with a month ago?
Tonight, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. 

She was watching him carefully, he couldn't fail to notice. What was she up to
now? "Fine then." he snapped as he made to rise, "I'll leave."

Her outstretched hand stayed him. She looked dismayed. "Please Sir. You
don't want to do that."

"Really?" He laughed without humor. "Why not?"

Now she looked really distressed. As though he were forcing her to do
something against her will.

"Because Sir. I really need to speak with you, I have something important that
I have to say. And if you try to leave before I finish, I'll..." she swallowed, her
throat working, "I'll have to make a scene." 

He snorted, unimpressed with her bravado. After all, this was Scully, not her
flaky partner. Scully didn't make scenes, she avoided them. But a small voice in
his head mocked, "but she can do it Skinner - she can make one hell of a scene.
Remember the fit she threw in your office?" He chose not to listen to the small,
mocking whisper.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair; arms folded across his chest, and stared her
down. "Scully, you aren't any more capable of making a scene than I am." A
pause. "So let's stop this ridiculous conversation now. I'm tired, and I want to
go home."

She shrugged philosophically, as if to say, "Alright then, suit yourself. It's your
funeral." 

That worried him. She was changing her strategy. 

When she spoke, her voice was even. "I imagine that Mulder was thinking the
exact same thing." 

Against his better judgment, he was curious. "OK," he thought, "I'll bite." His
raised eyebrow silently asked her to continue. 

She had been looking down at her drink, swirling her index finger around the
rim of the glass. In response to his silence, lifted her face to look at him
carefully. Satisfied that she had his attention, she continued. 

"I imagine that Mulder was thinking exactly the same thing." She repeated.
"Just before I shot him." 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Blood and suppressed laughter. That is what she was tasting. God, if she ever
needed a drink in her life, she needed one now. 

The look on Skinner's face when she recalled for him the time she shot Mulder
was priceless. It was a challenge, trying not to laugh. His eyes had bugged out
in a manner that made her think of a frog that had tried for a fly and
unwittingly swallowed a bumblebee by mistake. She bowed her head, biting her
lip and drawing blood, and dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands.
Nothing like a little old fashioned self-inflicted pain to squelch illicit laughter.
After all, she was here to do penance, not laugh at the man. 

At length, she was able to continue.

"You remember, don't you Sir? The time I was forced to shoot Mulder." She
asked.

"Forced to shoot him?" If anything, his eyes grew larger.

"Mulder left me with no choice." She paused, her look searching. "I'm feeling
much the same way right now." 

"Like you need to shoot someone?" Skinner's voice sounded strangled. 

'No." She exclaimed. "No!" Good lord, she was making a mess of this. "What
I'm trying to say Sir, is that I regret having to back you into a corner like this. I
really do. But, I feel so strongly that this...break, yes, this break between us
must be repaired, that I feel compelled to take drastic measures."

"Scully, there's no need..." 

"Please Sir," she interrupted. "There is *every* need." She closed her eyes. All
thought of humor faded. "The things I said that night in your office. I don't
expect you to forgive me. What I did, what I said, it was beyond forgiveness." 

"Then why are we here Agent Scully? What's the point in continuing this
conversation?"

"Because Sir, it's my hope that what you can't forgive, you may find, that in
time, you will be able to forget. When you fully understand the extenuating
circumstances." Her voice was pleading, and she blinked several times, trying
to clear her vision. "Please Sir. I need to..." She stuttered, then stopped at his
look of cold fury.

She looked into his hard, flat eyes, and in that moment, she lost hope of ever
making things right. 

Blood and suppressed tears. That's what she was tasting. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Skinner was furious. What the hell was she trying to do? Drive him to
retaliation? Here, in front of the whole bureau? 

"Scully, stop right there. This isn't about you lying to protect agent Mulder, or
hedging the truth in some report to make it palatable. This is about you,
expressing, in no uncertain terms, just what you think of me. There are no
"extenuating circumstances" as you call them." His voice was measured and
even, but Scully saw the steel in his gaze. 

"Please Sir," she began, but Skinner was warming to the subject and would not
be thwarted. 

I don't think I've ever heard my character slandered quiet as thoroughly." 

"Sir, you've got to believe that I didn't mean..."

"Scully, don't try to tell me you didn't know what you were saying. There was
enough truth in your accusations, mixed with a healthy dose of venom, to
make me realize that you knew, and meant, exactly what you said."

"Sir, please." She was trying to stop him, but he ignored her. 

"You called me a whoremonger, Scully. Seventeen years of marriage, and I
was faithful every damn one of them until that night. That one night, when I
knew my marriage was essentially over. I thought it had been clearly
established that I was unaware the woman was a prostitute. And yet, you
continue to think of me as the worst degenerate since...Christ, I don't even
know. Is there anyone Scully, that you think less of than me?"

"Skinner, for God's sakes."

"I don't think God has anything to do with this, do you Agent Scully?" His
steady glare challenged her to argue. She could not hold his gaze. 

"Let's see, where were we? Oh yes, after you thoroughly attacked my morals,
then what? That's when you accused of trying to destroy you, Mulder, *and*
the X-files. Let me ask you Scully, how many times do I need to risk my job?
How many beating do I have to suffer? How many bullets do I need to take
before I prove myself to you Scully? I mean, do you have a number in
mind? A threshold I have to reach? Cause it would be nice of if you shared it
with me. I'd really like to know if I have a realistic shot of gaining your trust,
of if I should just give up?" 

"But hell Scully, that stuff was nothing compared to your coupe de grace. You
really know how to twist the blade, don't you? The only thing I haven't been
able to figure out is how you found out about it. Who told you Scully?"

"Told me what Sir? I don't know what you're referring to?" her voice was
barely a whisper.

"You know Scully. When you called me a baby-killer. You were disparaging
my service to this country, as I recall, when you called me a baby-killer. So my
question is, how did you find out? About the boy I killed?"

"Oh god. I didn't, I had no idea. I would have never..."

He snorted again. "So I'm to believe it was just a lucky guess? Okay Scully. If
you want to play dumb, I'll be happy to fill you in on all the gory details. He
was nine, maybe ten years old. The kid I offed in Vietnam. You see, that was
the monstrosity of Vietnam - you never really knew who was the enemy, and
who was the ally. So we had to behave as though the kid was a walking
bobby-trap. We had to stop him. We *tried* to stop him. But he didn't listen,
he just kept coming. So I shot him Scully, blew his head clean off." He heard
her whimper, but ignored it. "After his head was gone, his body kept walking,
three, maybe four more steps. Like a fucking chicken on my uncle's farm." 

"Guess what Scully. He *was* bobby-trapped. He was wired with enough
explosive to flatten the entire compound. But you know what? That little piece
of information doesn't stop the dreams. A headless boy runs through my
nightmares Agent Scully. I guess it come with the territory when you're a
baby-killer."

He stopped finally. He was suddenly exhausted; tired of having to prove
himself to this woman. It didn't matter now anyway. None of the sacrifices he'd
made for her or Mulder could possible mitigate her opinion of him now that
she had learned this last bit of intelligence.

He told himself he didn't care.

As the fog of rage faded, he became aware of Scully. Her head was bowed; her
shoulders were twitching. His anger flared again. He wanted to hurt the way he
had been hurt.

"Damn it Scully. Don't you dare cry." His voice was low and furious. She
flinched. "Do you here me Agent? You told me you wouldn't make a scene if I
stayed."

In a trembling voice she responded. "Yes, Sir."

He signaled the waiter and asked for two whiskey's. "Drink this." he
commanded.

He knew she hated the stuff, but she drank it anyway. Had he scared the fight
out of her?

That sat in silence for long moments. He studied her intently, aware of her
attempt to pull the remnants of her shattered composure about her. 

Finally he spoke. "Alright Agent Scully. If you have nothing more you *have*
to tell me, then I'd have to say that were are finished." There was a finality in
his tone that she could not fail to recognize. 

He waited a moment longer, searching her down-turned face for some clue of
her emotional state. He shrugged then. What had he expected? That his brutal
honesty would affect some sea change in her attitude towards him? 

It was as he was pushing his chair back that he heard her voice, low and
tentative, and he froze. 

He waited for more, and when she remained quiet, he prodded her to continue.
"Did you say something Agent Scully?"

She cleared her throat, then lifted her gaze, not to his, but to some point
beyond his shoulder. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Blood and tears. She hated whiskey, but it cleared the taste of blood and tears
from her mouth. 

"I've had nightmares too." She choked out.

She bit her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. The gulf she maintained
around her emotions helped her preserve control in this male-dominated
profession. Yet here she was, contemplating sharing things with Skinner that
not even Mulder knew. 

Originally, she had planned to tell Skinner as little as possible. Only as much as
was needed to convince him of her regret. But his words, his confession had
stripped her raw, and in doing so, had left himself vulnerable. 

Professionally, he had never made her feel inferior. She was always felt part of
his team. But this, this was a totally different facet of their relationship. A facet
that was rarely acknowledged. A line had been crossed. And she felt, for the
first time, that at this level also, she and Skinner might be equals. 

The thought was both exhilarating and alarming.

There was no doubt that the clock was ticking on her last chance to make
things right between the two of them, to regain the camaraderie they once had
shared. But that thought became secondary to the idea that the barriers she had
so painstakingly erected, which he so easily decimated, were as meaningless as
the dust beneath her feet. 

She looked directly at him now. "I've had nightmares too." He voice grew
stronger. "Since Pfaster. I've had nightmares almost every night since Pfaster."

"Shit Scully." She watched as he rubbed his eyes. What ever he may have been
expecting, this was clearly not it. 

She spoke quickly, firmly. Afraid if she paused, she wouldn't have the grit to
begin again. "I check the locks on my windows and door, over and over. It's
become...a compulsion. Even when I can clearly visualize a memory of myself
locking the door, setting the deadbolt, I still have to get up and check it again.
Just to be sure."

"Oh Scully. Christ." He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. "What else?" he
asked, his voice gruff.

"When I'm at home at night, alone, I sometimes think I hear the bath faucet
running. I tell myself that it can't be on, because I don't take baths anymore,
only showers. But I can't rest until I know for sure. It doesn't matter how loud
or soft I have the television or the stereo, I still hear that damned bath tub
filling."

"And his voice, his awful, grubby voice. It's not that I really hear his voice,"
she explained carefully, "It's not like he's there, talking to me. It's that I hear
the things he said to me, over and over again. If I snag my nylons, I hear him
asking, 'Who does your nails girly-girl?' And I shudder. I never know what will
bring the voice back, because it could be anything; something totally unrelated.
And then..."

She stopped, staring again at some unseen point beyond his shoulder. 

"Scully? What? What happens then?" Skinner's voice was hoarse. 

"And then," she shrugged, "I lose it. I don't know how else to describe it. I
just...lose control. My chest gets tight, and my breathing - it's as if I can't draw
enough oxygen into my lungs. And then, then the headache comes. They're the
worst. Sharp, pounding headaches that tear me apart." She looked up, looking
for confirmation. "Have you ever banged your head on the sharp edge of a
cabinet door?" He nodded. "Right at that moment, right when the pain first
hits, you just want to hit something. And you swear, curse like a sailor."

"Yes." he whispered. "I've done that."

"That's what the headaches are like, except, instead of lasting a few moments,
the anger hangs on. Sometimes for hours. Until I find someway to purge it."

"Christ Scully, why didn't you come to me with this?" She could see the regret
etched painfully in the harsh lines of his face. 

She rubbed her forehead with the heal of her hand. "I thought I could handle it
on my own. For the most part I was able to find ways to diffuse the situation
before it could get out of control." She smiled ironically. "Would it help to
know that you're not the only one to feel the sharp side of my tongue?" 

His face softened. "Mulder?"

"Oh yeah. Big time." 

He did smile then. "That's a story I think I'd like to hear." 

She nodded. Maybe. Someday. 

She drew a deep breath before continuing. "I really was doing fine Sir,
until...until that night in your office. You said something; I can't even
remember exactly what. It was something about having to clean up after
Mulder and I. Again. And that's when I heard his voice, telling me he was
going to run me a bath. I remember sitting there in your office, gripping the
arms of the chair, wishing Mulder was there to pull me away, before the
headache started. But he wasn't there, and the next thing I knew, I was
screaming at you like a shrew. Saying things that..." She stopped, swallowing
several times.

"Sir, you have to believe me when I tell you I have no idea where that vitriol
came from. It wasn't anything I believed, or ever thought. It was as almost
if...God, I know this sounds like such a cop out, but it was almost as if I was
no longer in control of myself. As if I were watching myself scream at you,
horrified and repulsed by what I was saying, but unable to do anything to stop.
I..."

"Scully, you understand, don't you, that you have the classic symptoms of
post-traumatic stress disorder?"

"Yes. Yes I do. I started treatment - group de-briefing therapy. At first, I
thought the tumor had come back - that it had metastasized into my brain. I
had a dozen tests, but there seemed to be no physical explanation for what was
happening to me."

"Then, then I thought that maybe I had become the evil I sought to fight. What
if, when I shot Donnie Pfaster, what if I had become as corrupt, as base as
Pfaster himself. That scared me. To death. I even went to a Priest. Maybe I
was hoping for an exorcism."

"It wasn't until the day after the incident in your office, that I broke down and
went to a psychiatrist." She anticipated his question. "No, no one from the
bureau. A friend from medical school." 

Although he used words sparingly, Walter Skinner was seldom dumbstruck.
But at this moment, he struggled to find the words to continue this
conversation.

What he really craved, was time alone. He felt a desperate need to run,
pounding the pavement until his head cleared. He was a man who carefully
regulated his emotions. He disdained histrionics. Yet tonight, he felt that he
experienced the greatest range of emotions he'd allowed himself since his time
in Vietnam. How had this evening gotten so out of hand?

The truth was, he knew. He knew this whole mess happened solely because he
allowed his emotions to rule his actions. When Scully blew up at him, he
should have acted like a supervisor and gotten to the bottom of her irrational
outburst. Instead, he acted like an ass. 

He wondered why he took her tirade so personally. Christ, Mulder once took a
swing at him and it hardly registered. He shook his head, pulling back from
examining too closely the possible reasons why he reacted so strongly to
Scully's attack. 

He forced himself to again focus on the woman seated opposite; later, there
would be time enough to process his reasoning and motivations. 

He leaned toward her. "The treatment, Agent Scully. Is it helping?"

"Yes Sir. I think it is." She gifted him then, with her rare, sweet smile.
"Actually Sir, I'm sure it's working." 

When the corners of her mouth lifted, his breath caught, and he had to remind
himself to exhale. God, he missed that smile. 

Suddenly, he found himself blessing Scully for stubbornly forcing this
confrontation. Had it been left to his initiative, he might had ended his days
without ever again experiencing the grace and solace of her gentle regard. 

He cast about for witty or insightful that would once again trigger that
expression of serene contentment. But his mind kept tripping over the need to
apologize for his less-than-professional conduct. 

"Agent Scully."

"Yes, Sir?"

"As your supervisor, I should have ensured that you obtained proper treatment
and support. You are an agent under my command, and I failed miserably in
my duty to you." 

"Oh please. Don't. I can't bear to have you take responsibility for any of this. I
*knew* what would happen as soon as I head Pfaster's voice in my head. I
should have found a reason, any reason, to excuse myself. It would have been
far better to have you angry at me for walking out in the middle of a briefing,
than to..." 

"Scully, I *understand.* Better than anyone, I understand what happened. I
need you to know that from my perspective, what happened - what was said -
well, none of it is *beyond* forgiveness. As far as I'm concerned, the incident
is over and should be forgotten. You need to forgive yourself and put it behind
you. That's the only way we can move forward."

As he spoke, he watched her intently, and was touched and humbled to see the
sheen of tears glisten in her eyes. He looked down at his empty glasses,
twisting it between his hands. 

"Oh," The word slipped from her softly. "I came here tonight hoping to find
some way to make it up to you. To repair at least a little of the damage I
caused." She shook her head, bemused. "I don't know what to say. This is so
much more than I let myself hope for." 

She leaned forward, slipping a small, white fingers over and around his hands.
"I'm awed by your generosity, Sir. Thank you."

He gripped her hand, amazed at how delicate and refined it appeared next to
his. "You're welcome, Agent Scully." 

He watched her lashes flutter shut, and heard her sigh. She squeezed his hands
gently before slowly pulling away. "I need to go." she whispered, then smiled
wryly. "I've taken enough of your time. Good night, Sir."

He simply nodded in response. Words escaped him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As he watched Scully walk away, Skinner experienced the nagging sensation
that something was unfinished between them. That there was something else he
needed to say, and something more he needed to hear. For long moments, he
stared at the door she had disappeared through, then found himself on his feet,
striding after her. 

He paused in the corridor, searching the long hallway for some sign of her
bright hair. A movement in the hallway to his right caught his eye, and some
instinct held him back. He peered carefully around the corner, a tight feeling of
apprehension growing in his chest. 

What the hell? There stood Scully, talking with someone hidden behind the
foliage a potted tree. Then he noticed that she held something in her hand, and
watched, frowning, as she handed to whoever it was concealed in the shadows.
She spun away, and walked decisively towards the main corridor. Skinner
pulled back, sure she would turn and find him plastered against the wall. But
when she turned, it was not back to the ballroom, but towards the main lobby. 

He watched, surprised, as Scully stopped at the elevator bank and pressed the
call button, instead of leaving the hotel. Surely she wouldn't have a room here?
Her apartment was less than 45 minutes away. 

He stifled the impulse to follow her, waiting instead to catch a glimpse of
Scully's unknown companion. At that moment, the shadow moved into the
light, and Skinner felt his world fall apart as he recognized the man with whom
Scully spoke. Ignoring the signs posted all around, the man struck a match,
pulling deeply on a forbidden cigarette. From his hiding place, Skinner could
hear the man chuckle as he tossed the used match, unconcerned, on the
carpeted floor.

The man was CGB Spender.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Part 3: Act of Hope
by J. Morningstar 


"I do desire we may be better strangers." 
        ~ Wm. Shakespeare


She sat quietly in the dark stillness, gazing out at the nighttime Washington
skyscape. A faint light from the half-closed bathroom door and the comforting
hum of the room fan were the only stimuli she allowed. She needed a quiet
place to regroup after the emotional cacophony of the past hour. 

In the past, she would have indulged in a long, comforting bath. Sometimes,
she would slip beneath the surface of the scented water, and allow the eerie
stillness of the underwater world to seduce her unquiet mind.

//"Girly-girl. I'm going to run you a bath."// 

It was a solemn oath she promised herself that first weekend in therapy; *He*
would not win. She would reclaim the guilty pleasure that allowed her to both
find, and lose herself in the same moment.

Not tonight; not yet. But soon. 

The voice was fading. 

Instead, she would enjoy the tranquil splendor of the city lights and craft a
framework to move her one step further toward recovery. 

//"You're the one that got away."// 

"I will get away." It was a promise she whispered into the quiet of the room. "I
will."

She sighed and kicked off her shoes, curling up in the soft embrace of the
armchair. She wound the beads of her rosary between her fingers, and took
comfort in its familiar weight. 

She worried at her lower lip as she ran her fingertips over the beads. As
pleased as she was by new understanding between she and Skinner, she
couldn't escape the undeniable feeling that something wasn't quite right. 

She recalled the time when, as an undergraduate student, she had turned in the
same paper for two different classes. Her roommates told her it was common
practice; that the instructors expected it. But she never got beyond the feeling
that she had been dishonest. At times, it still nagged at her. Even all these years
later, she still felt as though she had gotten away with something. 

And it wasn't a feeling of triumph. It was a feeling of guilt. 

Was this was what was bothering her? The feeling that she had "gotten away"
with something tonight. That Skinner had capitulated too easily? That she
hadn't done appropriate penance? 

A memory teased. What had the Priest in Silver Spring told her about penance? 

//"Through this sacrament, He restores wholeness where there was division, he
communicates light where darkness reigned, and he gives a hope and joy which
the world could never give."//

She felt a strange and poignant yearning for something more; something just
beyond the reach of her consciousness. A need to mend all divisions, to restore
hope. To find joy.

Skinner. Walter Sergei Skinner. What did he have to do with this? Why did he
command such a dominant place in her thoughts? 

Why did her yearning for reconciliation with herself and with her faith so often
conjure thoughts of him? Was he the answer to a question she hadn't yet
learned to ask? Was he...?

The ringing of the phone startled her, and she jumped, dropping her rosary
beads. "Damn!" She fumbled in the dark for her phone, and barked into the
mouthpiece, "Scully."

"Scully, it's me, Mulder." 

"Mulder, where are you?"

"Hey, Scully - what's black and white and red all over?"

"Mulder..." 

"Come on Scully, work with me." 

"Alright, Mulder. I give up. What's black and white and red all over?"

"Well, in this zip code it's either a mutilated Holstein or the local priest who
ex-sanguinated under a statute of St Michael."

"Mulder, I'm no authority on this, but sometimes I think you're going straight
to hell."

"Seriously Scully, I need you to get out here right away."

"No way Mulder, I'm not doing any more bovine autopsies for you. One was
enough."

"Not for the cow Scully, for the Priest. A Father Raiford Munz."

"Mulder, you just told me the man bleed to death. I'm assuming he was either
shot or stabbed."

"His throat was slashed, Scully."

"Well, it seems the cause of death will be fairly easy to determine. Why can't
the local medical examiner do the autopsy?"

"It's not the cause of death I'm interested in, but what *caused* his death."

"Huh? You mean who slit his throat?"

"No Scully, I mean what slit his throat." Mulder cleared his throat. "Look
Scully, I've got you booked on an 8:45 out of National Airport. I'll pick you up
in Madison and we can have lunch while I fill you in on the particulars."

"Mulder, you can't be serious. Mulder?" 

"I need your help on this Scully."

She sighed. "Alright Mulder. I'll see you tomorrow. Mulder? Are you there?"

"Yeah. I'm still here Scully. I'm just relieved and kind of surprised that you
didn't go postal on me." 

"Very funny."

"Well, you know, you've been PMSing a lot lately."

"Keep it up Mulder, and I'll hurt you like that La Femme Nikita Video
Goddess."

"Geez Scully, you know how sensitive I am about getting my ass kicked by a
woman. Twist it a little harder why don't ya?"

She smiled. "Mulder? What's the credit limit on your Visa?" 

"Why would you ask me that?"

"No reason. I'll see you tomorrow Mulder. Mulder? You're cutting out. Where
are you?"

"Scully? Sorry, I must be between towers. Are you there?"

"Yeah." She paused. "One more thing. Does the phrase " Operation Rex 84"
mean anything to you?"

"Jesus, Scully! How did you hear about that? Scully? Can you hear me? Damn.
Listen, we'll talk tomorrow, Okay? And Scully? If you can still hear me...you
don't really think I'm going to hell, do you?"

"Mulder?" Damn. The line was dead. 

As she set the phone back on the bedside table, a huge yawn caught her
unaware. She turned and studied her ghostly reflection in the mirror.
"Something cold to drink, then off to bed, I think."

She grabbed a handful of change and her room key, and padded in stocking
feet to the vending machines.

She was unaware that someone was stalking her. She didn't hear his footfalls,
muffled by the hallway carpet, as he followed small form back to the suite. She
didn't notice him slip into her room while the heavy door slowly swung shut
behind her. She was emotionally drained and physically exhausted. So there in
her darkened room, she never knew an intruder was near until the moment a
hand slid over her mouth, and she found herself brutally slammed against a
hard, masculine body. 

//"Now, be good girly-girl. Don't cause me any problems."//

* * * * * * * * * *
Part 4: Act of Faith
by J. Morningstar

"Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear."

"The insane root 
That takes the reason prisoner. " 
~ Wm. Shakespeare

 
Terror paralyzed her for one long moment; Pfaster's words echoing in her
head. 

//"Now, be good girly-girl. Don't cause me any problems."//

Fury took over then, and she was battling for her life. She fought fiercely --
without discipline, and was rewarded with a grunt when her elbow connected
with solid abdomen and a hiss when her teeth broke flesh. She tasted the
intruder's warm, metallic blood on her lips and was fiercely triumphant. 

"Damn it Scully!" 

Scully froze. That voice! Its tone was surly and irritated.

It was also very familiar. 

Suddenly she was pushed away, freed from the imprisoning arms. She spun
around, eyes wide, stunned at the identity of her assailant. 

"Skinner? Are you insane? What the hell is going on?"

"That's what I'm here to find out." He snapped, grimacing as he cradled one
hand against his chest. 

Fear had sent adrenaline shooting through her blood stream. It was a struggle
to calm her labored breathing. The short hallway was unlit, she peered warily
the darkness, trying to discern his expression. A muscle in his jaw twitched,
and his eyes were hard and flat. He was furious. The thought both frightened
and intrigued her. She fought the urge to step away while she stared at up
at his towering figure, trying to divine some method to his apparent madness. 

Twenty minutes ago they parted on amicable terms. What happened? 

For a long moment studied him gingerly, then relaxed slightly. "Sir, I think
maybe you've had a little too much to drink." It was the only thing that made
sense. 

His short laugh was without humor. "I'm not drunk, Scully." He rasped quietly.
"But I'm beginning to wish I was." His gaze pinned her, and shuddered. She'd
seen that expression once before, when he stared down the barrel of gun he
had aimed at her heart. 

This time she gave in to the impulse towards safety and quickly she stepped
back, moving further into room. She was relieved that he didn't follow her,
preferring, it seemed, to stay in the shadows of the vestibule. "Why don't you
tell me what this is all about?" She invited, then winced as she realized how
patient and cajoling she sounded, hoping her condescending tone didn't incite
his anger further. 

"I want to know what you two have planned for me, and how long you've been
scheming together," he said.

"Who?" She shook her head as if to clear it, then winced as the movement
launched a shooting pain through the top of her head. 

"Spender, Scully. CGB Spender." He paused. "I saw you together, in the
hallway off the ballroom. You can stop pretending you don't know what I'm
talking about."

She jerked. "Spender? That's what this is all about? You think I'm working
with Spender?"

"You know, I don't even care what's going to happen. Hell, I've been a dead
man for too long to care about that now." He stepped forward, grabbing her
shoulders. "I just want to know why." His voice broke. "Why Scully? And why
with him?" She continued to look at him, uncomprehending. "I thought we had
reached an accord." He continued. "An understanding."

"Yes." she whispered, shaken by the intensity of his voice. "We did. We did
reach an understanding." She reached out to lay a tentative hand on his
forearm. "I just...I don't know what you're talking about."

But he ignored her protestations. "After everything that bastard's put you
through, after all he's done to Mulder, why would you do this? Unless..." His
voice trailed off and she watched as realization dawned across his face. "Unless
he's blackmailing you." 

She saw his shoulders sag and sensed the relief that pulsed through him. Sharp
pains throbbed through her head and muddled her thought processes as she
struggled to keep pace with his quicksilver thinking. 

Skinner, she saw, was unaware of her turmoil. He closed his eyes, and for one
brief moment, touched his forehead to hers. "Christ Scully. I can't believe I
ever thought..." He pulled back and searched her face, willing her to believe his
sincerity. "I'm sorry I doubted you."

Suddenly he stepped away and she jumped at his curse. 

"That son of a bitch." He snarled. "Damn him!" She saw him lift his fist, and
thought for a moment he might put it through the wall. She watched,
fascinated, as he mastered his fury towards Spender. 

When he turned back and approached her, she flinched, but settled at his gentle
tone. 

"You must be going through hell." he said, then once again grasped her
shoulders. "Listen to me. Whatever hold he has over you, whatever it is he's
blackmailing you with, we can defeat it together. You're not alone in this." He
shook her gently, his words urgent. "But Dana, you have to tell me everything.
I can't help you if you hold something back." 

Helplessly she looked up into his intense face. "I don't know what you're
talking about."

He continued, his voice low, urgent. "I saw you give him something. What was
it?" 

"I didn't give him anything, I...Oh God." She halted, suddenly recalling the
matchbook Spender had dropped. She exhaled, her breath one long hiss,
dropping her gaze. "Sir, I can explain. I..." She gasped, seeing blood his shirt,
then searching and finding the injury on his left hand.

"Oh God. I can't believe I bit you." Her voice was laced with remorse, as she
reached for his hand, startled when he pulled away and cradled it to his chest. 

"Don't worry about it." he said shortly. "It's nothing more than I deserve."

"Regardless, we need to take care of it." She stared at him expectantly and he
stared back. "Now." She insisted. He looked at her without speaking for
several long moments, then finally relented, allowing her to guide him into the
bathroom. 

As she held his hand under a stream of lukewarm water, her mind desperately
scrambled to make sense of what was happening. She tried to reconcile the
man she had left in the ballroom with the man who had manhandled her
moments ago, and who now stood, quiet and contrite as she washed his blood
and her saliva from his injured hand. 

In all the months she felt her sanity slipping away as Pfaster's voice ate at her
piece of mind, she never felt as fragmented and unbalanced as she did at this
moment. She expected eccentric behavior from Mulder. But Skinner? Skinner
was rational; orderly. 

Early on in their acquaintance, she had neatly filed Skinner into a carefully
prescribed box, and he seldom strayed out of its parameters. His unholy fury
and cold rejection a month ago was one of the more notable exceptions - a
highly unusual aberration. Most of the time Skinner could be depended on to
act in a consistent and steady manner. After days on a case, living in the
world-according-to-Mulder, Scully knew she could always find solace in
returning to the comfort of Skinner's logical, reasonable intellect. He was her
touchstone, a calm and welcome port when the sea of Mulder's conspiracies
and monsters became too stormy. 

If it was true that she kept Mulder honest, then it was also true that Skinner
kept her grounded.

In the months since Pfaster's attack, she discovered that the dependable
patterns of her own mind could be warped and corrupted. She learned that she
could be haunted by sounds that did not exist. She realized that she could
obsess over running water and deadbolts, or on a handful of phrases mouthed
by a twisted killer. She found that she could too easily lose control of her
carefully fostered composure. 

And now, suddenly, Skinner was no longer predictable. Or was just that she
had blinded herself from seeing him as anything other than a flat,
two-dimensional character. Had she been arrogant or naive in trying to
categorize a man she instinctively knew was more complicated than the
public persona he showed to the world? 

She sighed and turned off the faucet, careful to keep her gaze fixed on his
hand. She knew he was watching her, and the weight of his stare was heavy.
She felt it smothering her. 

She studiously avoided his scrutiny as she gently patted his hand dry. "It
doesn't look too bad, but the skin is broken. We should put some antibiotic
ointment on it. Come." She led him by the wrist to the sitting area and pushed
him down on the couch. He was amazingly docile, but she refused to dwell on
the idiosyncrasies of his manner. 

She on the edge of the coffee table facing him. Their knees touched. She lifted
his hand and placed it palm up on her lap and was amazed to discover how it's
warmth and weight soothed her ragged nerves. Some of the tension in her
spine released and she relaxed slightly as she concentrated on dressing
Skinner's wounded hand. 

"Tell me the rest of it Scully." The husky timbre of his voice sent a shiver down
her spine, and she looked up to find hunched towards her, his face inches from
her own. At this distance, she saw that his eyes were the color of deep, brown
chocolate. She wondered how she ever thought them flat and expressionless. 

"Scully?" 

His voice startled her. She realized that she'd been staring into his eyes and
ducked her head, abashed. She stilled her hands for a moment to concentrate
on her narrative. 

"As I was leaving the ballroom, someone called my name. Had I known who it
was, I would have kept walking. But he was hidden in the shadows. As you
already know, it was Spender. He asked if I knew where Mulder was. He
reached for a cigarette, then pulled out some matches, which he dropped on
the floor." She paused for emphasis. "That's what I picked up and what you
saw me hand to him."

"But Spender doesn't use matches, he uses a lighter."

"That's just it. There was something written on the matchbook cover.
Something I was meant to see."

He was cautious, but couldn't contain the curiosity her remark piqued. "What?"

"'Rex 84.'" She started at his hiss. "You know what it means?" 

He didn't answer, and she could almost hear the wheels turning as he struggled
to put the pieces together.

"Where is Mulder?" he asked finally.

"Mulder's in Wisconsin. Investigating the murder of a priest. He called tonight,
not long ago. He wants me to fly out tomorrow." She paused, hesitating. "I
asked him if 'Operation Rex 84' meant anything to him."

"Of course it meant something to him. That's the kind of conspiracy stuff that
makes Mulder salivate. What did he say?"

"Not a lot, actually. The phone cut out. But it was clear that he was surprised
and concerned that I mentioned it." 

If Skinner wanted to remain tight-lipped about Rex 84, Dana would not
pressure him. She had won round one when she bullied him into letting her
care for his hand. He could have this one. 

Scully returned her attention to the task at hand. She carefully spread ointment
over the puncture wounds. She then covered the area with a gauze
two-by-two, securing the edges with silk tape. As she inspected her handiwork
she murmured, "Human saliva is more dangerous than a canine bite, you know.
When was your last tetanus shot?" 

When he remained silent, she looked at him finally, and recoiled from the
intensity of his regard. The quality of his gaze reminded her of something,
something just out of reach. She frowned, uncomfortable beneath his heavy
stare. 

She searched for something to lighten the atmosphere. "Why do you think
Spender is planning something against you? Is something going on? Something
new?"

Skinner began to respond, but Scully winced suddenly, and held up a hand to
stay his words. "You know what, I don't want to know. Not just now." She
closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples. "I can't take one more thing tonight." 

She heard him swear softly. Suddenly he was nudging her chin and tipping her
face up so he could study it. "What it is, Scully? Headache?" 

"Just a slight one. Look, can we talk about this more tomorrow?" Waves of
sharp pain echoed through her skull and down her neck. She knew what was
coming; how the pain would make her lose control, bring her to her knees. She
didn't want anyone to see her like this. Especially him.

She had to get Skinner out of here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a mistake. A stupid, foolish mistake. Had any of his agents perpetrated
such an imprudent lapse in judgment, he would have made it his personal
mission to boot them from the Bureau. 

A rational man - a sane man - would have knocked on the door, waited to be
invited in, and then politely but relentlessly ask his questions. 

Skinner was no longer sure that sane and rational were categories in which he
belonged. 

He told himself he needed to surprise her - that knocking on the door and
allowing her to view him through the peephole would give her too much time
to prepare. He told himself he wanted to read the look on her face the instant
he confronted her.

And she made it easy for him, allowing the slow, heavy door to lumber shut
instead latching it firmly behind her. He had the space of one heartbeat to make
up his mind, to choose his approach. 

He never intended to harm her, just immobilize her so he could question her on
his terms - basic academy-taught skills. So when he grasped her from behind,
he had expected a clear, by-the-book response to the physical threat. Instead,
she fought like an undisciplined hellion. 

She bit him. 

The feeling of her lips and teeth on his skin still lingered. 

He shook his head, trying to banish that wayward thought. 

The red hair all but hid her face from his view. He nudged her chin up,
focusing on her intently, dismayed to note the redness about her eyes and the
knot between her brows. That she was in great pain was clear, but he sensed
something more. Her chest moved rapidly and her respirations were shallow
pants. She has twisted her fingers together and held them carefully on her lap,
but the whitened knuckles and the periodic twitching of her arms betrayed the
state of her nerves. 

Her voice was barely audible, as if forming words was in itself, painful and
exhausting. "Please go away, Sir. I just need some time alone." 

He ignored her request, and as he continued to observe her, he allowed his
focus to blur. He considered the aura of energy which he always perceived
about her, and experienced a sudden and inexplicable vision of darkness and
helpless agony. 

A few years ago, he would have laughed at such a fanciful notion, but no
longer. Six years of supervising the X-Files had exposed him to phenomena
that could not be explained through conventional thinking. He felt a
connectedness with this woman, whether he could explain it or not. He
sometimes thought he sensed her presence in the building, even when she was
somewhere in the depths of the basement and he was several floors above.
When she and Mulder were in the field on a case, the air in the building seemed
stale and stuffy, and he would feel his senses dull and his mind soften. 

"Scully, I'm not going to leave you like this. Come on now." he cajoled. "I
want you to take something for your headache. Have you got anything with
you?"

He watched her close her eyes and draw a deep breath. "Please go. I can take
care of this myself."  Her voice was as fragile as spun glass, and he feared that
she would splinter apart at any moment.

"I'll leave as soon as I'm convinced that you're going to be alright." He saw her
worry at her lower lip with small white teeth and knew she was considering his
words. 

"In my purse." She finally said and moved as if to rise.

"No, you stay, I'll get it." He found it the beaded black evening bag she had
carried in the ballroom and held it up. "This one?" At her negative response, he
looked further and found a larger leather bag. He returned to her side and
placed it gently on her lap. 

He watched her careful movements as she pulled a plastic case the size of a
cigarette package from the purse. 

"An injection?" he questioned.

She nodded and he noticed her gaze drop to her lap and the frown she directed
at her stocking clad thighs. He was instantly aware of her dilemma. "I can give
you the shot Scully." 

She looked at him quickly, then winced as the sudden movement caused
further pain.

"Come on, I'll give it in your arm. It will hurt less than giving it to yourself in
your thigh." 

She frowned at him suspiciously. "How do you know so much about this?" 

He smiled ruefully. "I have migraines. I know all about these injection kits."

Scully was surprised, and in too much pain to hide it politely. "You, Sir? That
seems so..." She trailed off, flushing as she realized what she was about to say.

"Seems so what? Human?" He chuckled then, noticing her embarrassment. "It's
Okay Scully. I happen to think it's good if my agents don't see me as a mere
mortal."

"Little danger of that happening." She commented without thinking. 

He barked with laughter, then quieted when he saw her wince. "Sorry." But
she smiled, her embarrassment fading. She seemed pleased to share a joke with
him and he grinned widely in return.

As he watched her, his smile faded. He leaned forward then, and gave into the
urge he'd been fighting for months, since the first time he observed one smooth
lank of hair fall across her face. He reached out and with a tentative hand,
tucked it behind her ear. He was surprised to find it so soft. He threaded his
fingers along her temple again and once more combed them back through
her hair. Her lashes dropped and her whole body seemed to sag. He held his
hand there, cupped behind her ear. She opened her eyes and found him
watching her. He saw her lips part and their gazes locked. He swallowed,
suddenly finding it too warm in the room. "Come on, let's get this
taken care of." He stood up and shed his jacket, then knelt beside her and
carefully palpated the flesh of her upper arm. "Well Doctor, does this spot look
good to you?" He was surprised to find her watching his hands intently. She
blinked at him owlishly. "What? Umm, yes, that looks...perfect." 

He carefully wiped the area clean with an alcohol-soaked pad, then pressed the
cartridge against her arm, causing the needle to slip beneath her skin and inject
the medicine. He was careful to hold it there for a full five count, ensuring that
the syringe emptied completely. 

"What's in this?" he asked.

"Demerol." 

"Strong stuff." 

She nodded and breathed deeply, leaning back into the couch, waiting for the
medicine to perform it's magic. But his unblinking stare unnerved her. She
looked up at him, willing him to leave. 

"Thank you." she said at length. "I'll be alright now." 

At his lack of response, her voice was more forceful. "Really, you can go
now."

"Not yet. Not until I'm sure you'll be alright." He held up a hand to stay her
protest. "I will get my way on this Scully. You might as well give up and save
your energy for another battle." He beckoned her near. "Come on. Let me help
sooth the last of the pain away." 

"What? How?" She blinked suspiciously, pulling away.

"It's OK, I have headaches too. I know all about this stuff."

"Really?" She responded dryly. "More than a doctor?"

He chuckled as he pulled her to his chest and lifted a hand to stroke her aching
head. But the position was awkward. With a deft move, he slipped her onto his
lap and cradled her head against his shoulder. Again he lifted a hand and gently
stroked from the top of her head the base of her neck, massaging the tense and
knotted muscles. 

"Oh" she said softly as he repeated the caress again, sliding his hands through
her silky hair. Again he gently stroked her and finally felt her begin to relax. 

"See." He rumbled. "I know what works." For a brief moment, he felt her smile
against his neck, and he murmured approvingly. "That's it, just relax." He
continued the rhythmic stroking, holding her close to his heart, combing his
fingers through her hair. "That's it Dana, relax. Let the medicine do its job. I'll
keep you safe."

He felt her stiffen slightly, and murmur, "Sometimes I think nothing can keep
me safe. Not really."

"I'll keep you safe." He insisted fiercely and pulled her closer. 

She looked up at him then. "Who will keep me safe from you?"

He flinched, then looked away, his hand stilled on her neck. 

She was instantly contrite, and gently pulled his face back to her. I'm sorry. I
don't know why I said that. I don't mean it. I really don't." He looked at her
intently, then whispered. "Don't worry about it. We seem to bring out the
worst in each other lately."

She looked down, toying with a button on his shirt. She struggled to find
something to say to make it right again, to unlive the last few moments. He
shifted her in his lap, and that is when she felt it. The hard length of his arousal
pressing against her thigh. She looked up into his eyes and in one instant, all
the hints and signals she had missed or ignored crystallized into one clear
reality.

This man wanted her.

* * * * * * * * * * 

Part 5:  Indulgences


"She is a woman, therefore may be wooed; 
        She is a woman, therefore may be won."
                  - William Shakespeare 




"Oh." she whispered again. 

The pathos of his eyes skewered her, piercing her breast with a raw shaft of
sensation.  How had she ever imagined his eyes to be hard and flat?  Here, up
close, they were deep, dark pools of concealed thoughts and hidden passions,
and she greedily wanted to explore their secrets. She found herself slipping into
their depths, and was buffeted on every side by emotions she could scarcely
name. 

She watched as his eyes widened and his lips parted, and knew that he saw in
her a need that echoed his own.  Her response was immediate - a shiver of
longing that skittered along her spine and settled damply between her legs.  

Twisting against him, she cupped his face and pulled him close.  Her eyes
slipped shut, and her head tipped to receive his kiss.  In that moment, just
before their lips met, she felt a frisson of sensation slide down her body,
fluttering across her skin.  And then he was kissing her, his lips seeking and
searching; learning the secrets of her mouth.  

He held her carefully, his kisses long and deliciously slow, one kiss moving
sweetly into the next.  Her muscles melted, and she drifted into a sultry
lethargy, lost in a haze of pleasure.  

Everything else fell away; Mulder, the X-Files, Donnie Pfaster and the demons
that held her captive.  She didn't know where she began and where he ended. 
All that existed was the shape of his mouth, the heat of his body, and the
pleasure he could offer.

In one brief, moment, she realized that she loved the way he kissed her.  "He
kisses," she thought, "As though I were his beloved."   

She whimpered softly into his mouth and let reason drift away.  He groaned
deeply in response, his hold tightening, and the quality of his kisses changed. 
He was impatient and hungry, his lips sliding across her jaw, tracing the length
of her neck, exploring the whorl of her ear.  A large hand stroked her back,
then slid up her side to find her breast, his thumb stroking across her nipple,
making her gasp.  She followed his lead perfectly, her torpor falling away,
hunger taking its place. 

He whispered harsh words of encouragement as she twisted until she sat
astride him, rubbing her breasts against his chest, grinding against his erection. 
She kissed every part of him she could reach, fumbling with the buttons of his
shirt.   Burying her face in his neck, she learned his taste and texture with her
lips and tongue. Her earring scratched along his neck and she heard his
muffled curse.  She turned instantly to bathe the scratch with her tongue, but
instead found herself turned and lifted, suddenly alone on the couch, Skinner
towering over her.

She looked up at him, bewildered by his sudden rejection.  "What?  What's
wrong?"  

Skinner would neither answer her, nor look her way. Instead, he found his
jacket and pulled it on, then glanced about the room, methodically, as though
ensuring that no trace of his presence would be left behind. 

His lack of response troubled her.  She stood carefully and approached him.
"You're leaving?"  

"Yes." he responded curtly, his gaze fixed at some point near her feet.  

"Why?"  

The look in his eyes as he finally lifted his gaze made her ache.  "To keep us
both from making a big mistake." He rasped.

Scully was stunned.  If he left now, Scully knew that it would be as though this
evening had never happened.  Skinner  would rebuild the professional distance
between them.  When they met again on Monday it would be as Special Agent
Scully and Assistant Director Skinner.  They would greet each other politely,
courteously.  Their interest in one another would not stray beyond the case at
hand. 

His eyes would be flat and hard; her expression would be smooth and remote.

He would be unapproachable; she would be unreachable. 

In the space of one evening, they had crossed seasons of time to get to this
place.  A place where they could touch and kiss and groan their pleasure aloud. 
A place where they could speak frankly and leave behind the protocol and
decorum of the Bureau.  And if she did nothing, in a few short moments he
would be gone, and the magic of this night would disappear with him. 

Loneliness is a choice.  

She'd said that to someone once.  She believed it then - she believed it now.  

So in the half light of the room, with the taste of him still on her lips, and
whisper of his harsh, erotic words still echoing in her ear, Dana Katherine
Scully made a choice.  

She looked up to find that he'd been watching her.   She thought he might just
be waiting for the same thing that she wanted. 

She stood and moved to stand before him.  "I don't think this is a mistake.  In
fact, I think the biggest mistake would be in turning our back on this."   She
gestured to him, and the space between and around them.

Jaw tightening, he spoke carefully. "There is no 'this.'"

Scully tipped her head to one side and gazed up at him, a small smile playing
about her mouth. "Don't fib." 

Two dark eyebrows came together as he scowled at the agent.  "Are you
calling me a liar?"  

Red lips curved into an outright grin as she teased in a breathless voice, "So
what if I am?  What are *you* going to do about it?"  

He smoothed his face into a neutral mask, but not before Scully read the
surprise and reluctant humor in his expression.  It flickered there for just an
instant, but it was enough to convince her to continue. 

Arms crossed over his chest, Skinner was implacable.  "You're stoned, Agent
Scully."

Mirroring his gesture, she retorted. "What's your point, AD Skinner?"

"My point is, you don't know what you're doing."

Scully made an impatient sound.  "Look, I might be a little mellow from the
drugs, but I haven't lost my reason.  I know what I want."  Her gaze traveled
down the length of his body. "I also know what you want." 

He closed his eyes briefly, and she saw his lips moving.  Then he turned to
leave, and she moved quickly, slipping by him. At the door, she spun round to
face him head on. 

"Scully, get out of my way."  

"Is this your way of keeping me safe?"  

He blinked, surprised at her insight. "Yes." 

"I thought you respected me."

"I do."

"But not enough to allow me to make my own decisions."

"Fine, Scully.  Maybe the Demerol hasn't impaired your judgment.  But there's
more going on here." 

She let her raised eyebrows speak for her.  

He looked down, his lips twisted.  "Look Scully, you wouldn't be the first
person to look for alternative ways to get through a difficult time."  He
shrugged philosophically.  "Some drink, some use drugs, and some..."  He
trailed off.  

"And 'some' what?" She asked.  Then her brows lowered as his meaning
became clear. "Sex? Is that what you think this is about?  That I'm using you to
what? Anesthetize myself?"

"Look Scully, there's no way you'll convince me that what just happened was
about you and me."  He sighed and closed his eyes, his expression anguished.
His voice was rough when he continued.  "And I don't want you to hate me in
the morning."

"I won't.  I won't hate you in the morning." she whispered.

"You're right.  Because nothing is going to happen between us."

"Something already has happened between us.  Leaving now won't change
that." 

"Damn it!" He slapped his hands on either side of her head, and leaned down
menacingly.  "Stop arguing with me Agent Scully, and get the hell out of my
way."

"No."  Her voice was quiet, but firm.

"No?"  He was incredulous.

She spoke rapidly, knowing that his patience was running out. "This isn't about
trying to hide from Donnie Pfaster or post traumatic stress, or anything else. 
This is about you. And me."  

She saw from the expression on his face that he had closed down.  She reached
up to cup his cheek, speaking earnestly.  "Have you had so much joy in your
life that you can turn your back on this possibility?"  

She swallowed and looked away, drawing several steadying breaths deep into
her lungs.  He made an impatient movement, as though he were ready to throw
her away from the door.  She looked up at him then, into those deep brown
eyes, and remembered the want and the fire in them just moments ago.  She
realized then that she knew what to do.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached for one of his hands, and pulled it
slowly down the curves of her body to rest palm down on the front of her
thigh.  His eyes widened in surprise.  He began to speak, but she stopped him
with a quick negative shake of her head.

She slipped her fingers over and between his, linking them together, then
squeezed his hand, silently asking for his indulgence.  He relaxed slightly, his
gaze steady and intense.  He leaned over her, one hand still propped against the
door, his tall frame curved over her.  She inhaled deeply, trying to still the
tremor in her hands, and found herself downing in his heat and his scent -
part aftershave, part soap, something else that was pure Skinner and entirely
erotic.  

She swallowed convulsively, and grasped the hem of her dress between their
twined fingers, and tugged gently on their joined hands. Slowly, steadily, she
led his clever fingers in a dance along her thigh.  He gasped when he
discovered the bare flesh above her thigh-high stockings, and the sound sent a
rush of liquid warmth to settle between her legs.   Now he was helping her,
allowing her to led, but clearly impatient to discover where she was taking
them.  With unwavering purpose, she pulled their joined hands higher and
higher, until finally, she pressed his palm flat against the bared skin of her
abdomen.

Never taking her gaze off his face, she licked her lips.  When she spoke, her
voice was a husky whisper.  "What if I can convince you that..." She tipped her
head to their joined hands. "That this is just about you and me?  That I want
you. That I've wanted you for a long, long time?"  She shook her head, her
eyes almost sad.  "Don't you know that if I wanted to self-medicate with sex,
I could have chosen from a half-dozen men, including Mulder, weeks ago?"

Skinner's lips parted at her words, his breath coming in short, harsh pants. 

Continuing to hold his gaze, she pushed his hand downward.  Reaching the top
of her panties, she slipped their fingers under the delicate lace edging.  Her
blood was roaring in her ears, and her lungs worked as though she'd run a
dozen flights of stairs.  His face seemed expressionless, but his eyes glowed
hot.  She led their joined hands downward, the tips of his fingers tickling her
flesh.  She felt the shudder that racked his body when their fingers encountered
the tangle of her feminine curls.  She pushed his hand further, until it rested at
the crest of her mound, then untangled her own fingers and stroked them
slowly up his arm.  
                         
He laid one forearm flat on the door above her head and leaned into her small
frame, his breath short, desperate pants.  "Don't stop now." he muttered
hoarsely.  

She arched against his hand, and whispered.  "You touch me.  Please."  

With that, he slid one long finger though her curls, parting her lips.  He
groaned, his whole body sagging as he felt how damp she was.  He buried his
face into her shoulder, his lips gnawing on the soft skin of her neck.  He
stroked the tip of his finger across her clitoris, and absorbed her shudder. 
"What do you want?" He whispered roughly.  "Tell me what you want." 

She arched against him and grabbed his hand, pushing it up further between her
legs. "Put your fingers in me." she begged.  "I want you to touch me."

And he did, pushing a thick finger inside her and she was tight and hot and
soaking wet. He inhaled the scent of her arousal and was intoxicated by it. He
slid a second finger inside her, then pulled back, and pushed inside her again
and again, creating a rhythm that had her writhing against his hand and
groaning for more.  "Harder. Do it harder."  
          
Her hands were on his belt, pulling at his zipper.  He pulled away, but before
she could protest, he lifted her against him and growled approvingly when she
wrapped her arms around his neck and hooked her ankles behind his back,
rubbing against his erection. He placed a sweet, lingering kiss against her
swollen lips, and then rained a dozen tiny nibbles across her jaw.  He pulled
back to look at her, and gifted her with a smile she had never seen before.  A
thoroughly rakish and masculine smile.  With his dark pirate eyes she was
reminded inexplicably of a swaggering buccaneer.  She sagged against him,
thanking her patron saint that he seemed to have saved that smile just for her.

It had never been like this before.  This burning need which rose higher and
higher.  She forgot to be self-conscious, and became pure feeling.  Response to
his stimulus.  For a moment, she wondered if this big, gentle man had spun her
up in some kind of enchantment.  Mulder, her friend, her partner -- was as
necessary to her as air.  But she never needed him like this. 

It both scared the hell out of her and set her flying.

Then Skinner was laying her gently on the bed, following her down with his
body, and she quivered, luxuriating in that first, exquisite instant, when the
body of a new lover stretched out over her own.  She was lost in the feeling of
this wonderful man pressing onto her, covering her, comforting and arousing
her in the same instant.  

"Am I too heavy for you?" he rasped.

"No. No. You feel just right." and she wrapped her arms around his neck and
pulled him down for a kiss.   

He kissed her over and over, slanting his mouth against hers, exploring her
teeth and the warm cavern of her mouth with this tongue.  He slid a leg
between hers, rubbing his erection against her. One hand reached up to knead
her breasts, the other tangled in her hair.  He felt a tingling in his balls and
pulled back; he didn't want to rush their first time.

He propped himself on his elbows and studied her face, bemused and amazed
that the woman who lay beneath him, was flushed and fevered because of him,
was damp with arousal for him. She reached for him, and he pulled back,
jumping to his feet.  "Too many clothes." he muttered.

Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he took off his wire rims and tossed them
carelessly on the night stand.  He toed off his shoes, loosened his tie, then
shucked his suit coat.  Next, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, a white shirt that
outlined his splendid chest, broad shoulders, and tapered waist.  

Watching him, she realized he was stripping for her.  Years ago, another lover
had tried to do the same, but left in a huff when she snickered at him. 
Laughing was the last thing on her mind now.  Just breathing seemed to be a
challenge.  Could he possibly know how much he effected her?  How
astonishingly sexy he was?  She decided to show him, pulling the hem of her
dress above her waist, she slipped a hand into her panties and stroked herself. 
Was delighted when his eyes darkened and he sped up his movements, tearing
at his buttons. He pulled off his T-shirt with one hand, and reached for his belt,
growling low in his throat. "Show me, Dana, show me how you like to be
touched."

She whimpered and yanked at her panties, pushing them off her legs.  "Leave
the heels on." he begged, and she did.  She turned slightly on the bed, so the V
between her legs was clearly visible.  She leaned back on one elbow, spreading
her legs wide, and slipped her other hand down to stroke herself.  Skinner was
treated to a canvas of contrasts - the dark stockings rising halfway up her
thighs against the creamy skin above.  The black of her skirt, snagged about
her pale belly, the dark auburn curls, damp with her arousal, guarding pink lips,
swollen and ripe.  Red-tipped fingers sliding in and out of her body.  He could
smell her.  "Fuck." he growled, and pulled at the rest of his clothes, hopping
out of his pants and shorts, one leg at a time, yanking at his socks, till he was
finally, gloriously naked before her.  His cock erect and proud, weeping
pre-cum and twitching with hunger.

Her mouth opened in a perfect "O" and her eyelids fell to half-mast, as she
took in the sight of his naked body and the perfect shape of his cock. It was
beautiful, and she wanted to worship it with her hands, mouth, and throat.  
She reached for him, but he pounced first, flipping her over to her stomach,
and pulling on the zipper of her dress.  "Too many clothes, Dana, too many
fucking clothes." he muttered.  He nipped his way down her spine and she
writhed under him.  "Like that?  Like to have your back stroked and played
with?"  In response, she groaned at him, wiggling her ass against his groin.  He
unhooked her bra, then pulled her up, slipping it's straps, along with her
dress, down her supine figure.  Lifted her hips to pull the garments along
further, finally pulling them off her legs, till she lay beneath him, face down,
naked except her stockings and heels.  

He went to work then, finding every hot point on her neck, back, and finally,
her bottom, with his fingers, lips and tongue.  She could only moan and twist
on the bed, telling him without words when he found a particularly responsive
spot.  Finally, he moved to lean over her, his lips finding her ear, tonguing its
sensitive whorls, whispering encouragement and praise.  He reached between 
her legs, and pushed a finger into her weeping cunt.  She cried out and thrust
back at him. 

"You want this?" he asked.  

"Yes, yes, yes." she breathed. 

But he pulled away; he had other plans for her.  He traced the dampened finger
up the cleft of her ass, pausing over the tiny opening there.  "What about this
Dana?" He circled the knot of muscle there, teasing her. "Would you let me
fuck you here?" She started, and he reassured her. "Not tonight. But soon?
You're so tiny and I'm so big.  I wouldn't want to hurt you.  I'd never want to
hurt you." He kissed her neck, teasing the tiny hole with his blunt finger. "We'd
take our time.  I'd get you ready, playing with you a little more each time,
making you want it, till you're ready to take me." 


She felt a bolt of heat wash over her, leaving her dizzy with longing.  The
forbidden images Skinner's husky voice conjured up left her crazy with
yearning, yearning that he should do anything he wanted to her, and it might
just be enough to satisfy the ache between her legs. "Please," she whimpered.

"Please what?  Touch you there?"  His voice lowered. "Take you there?" 

"Yes, yes." she begged.

"Has anyone ever..." 

She cut him off.  "No, never before." She groaned, pushing back at him. "I
never wanted to before."

He shoved the finger back into her cunt, growling his approval.  Then he set
about rediscovering all the secret places that made her squirm with desire while
he played with her ass with his dampened finger.  His mouth latched onto the
place where her nape joined her shoulder, making her shudder and moan while
he marked her, his finger circling her tiny nether hole.  With his powerful thigh,
he pushed one of her legs up, pulling the cleft of her ass open to his
exploration.  With just the tip of his finger, he pushed gently at her hole, then
stroked north, then slid his finger back over the muscle, pushing again, gently,
but insistently, feeling it bloom minutely beneath his finger. Over and over, he
stroked, paused, then dipped, each time feeling the knot of muscle warm
and open a little more. 

He realized he was humping her thigh, on the verge of coming. He pulled her
back over, till she lay prone and open beneath him.  "I can't wait any longer. 
Don't make me wait." he begged.  

She pulled him down, finding his lips with her own, opening her mouth and
wrapping her legs around his hips.  His cock found her opening and he pushed
inside, feeling her rippling warmth, he pushed until he was fully embedded,
then pulled his mouth away from hers.  He held himself above her, propped on
his forearms, gulping air and fighting for control.  Finally, he began to move,
slowly, steadily.  Stroking in and out, watching her face, lifting her hips,
finding the angle that would give her the most stimulation.  Watching her face
contort in a grimace of pleasure as he stroked just right, finding the rhythm and
the friction to take her over the edge.  "Yes, yes, yes." she breathed.  "Just like
that...don't stop, don't stop."  He began to push harder, his strokes losing their
control as he felt his balls draw up and tighten.  He suddenly rolled them, so
she was on top.  "You do it," he said. "Do it the way you need it." and let her
set the pace before pushing up, following her lead.  He reached behind her,
touching where their bodies joined, wetting his finger.  She lunged harder
against him, and he knew she was getting close. He pushed his finger against
her tiny hole, pushed till he breached her opening, embedding his finger to the
first joint, watched her face as her eyes sprang open, then closed as her climax
overtook her.  Felt her muscles clamp down on his finger and his cock, milking
him rhythmically as he shouted with his own orgasm, spurting into her again
and again. 

She fell against him, trembling, and he kissed her wherever he could reach,
reeling from the most intense sex he'd ever experienced.   They lay like that for
long moments, catching their breath, perspiration cooling on their skin.  He
pulled gently out of her, rolled them over so they were side by side, and pulled
the bedspread up and over them.  He peered down at her face, and realized
she'd already fallen asleep.  Chuckled at the idea that he'd fucked her
unconscious, and lay awake for an hour watching her sleep.  

********************

Halfway across the country, in a windowless basement room, the man sat
reviewing the letters that the convict, Donnie Pfaster had sent him. The man
had become intrigued by Pfaster's obsessions.  Spent hours thinking about
them.  Until Pfaster's obsessions became his own.  Until the one who got away
from Pfaster, the one Pfaster could not stop thinking about, became the 
one thing he could not stop thinking about.  And now, she had killed him,
killed Pfaster.  There would be no more letters about her.  No new details to
ponder over, to dream about.  How could she do this to him?  She would pay
for this impudence.  And pay soon.  

The trap had been set and baited.  All he had to do was wait.