========================================================================== NOTICE: - Deslea's URL is now http://www.deslea.com or http://fiction.deslea.com. - Email address is now deslea@deslea.com. - May be archived by Scully/Skinner specialty archives only. This information supercedes all other information found in this file. ========================================================================== Offspring *R* 1/5 Deslea R. Judd drjudd@catholic.org drjudd@primus.com.au Copyright 1996 This piece was written in 1996 by the author for personal entertainment. It is copyright and may not be used or distributed (except for the purposes of private entertainment) without my written permission. Disclaimer This book is based on The X Files, a creation of Chris Carter owned by him, Twentieth Century Fox, and Ten-Thirteen Productions. Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, Bill Mulder, Mrs Mulder, Samantha Mulder and her clones, Maggie Scully, Melissa Scully, Captain Scully, Sharon Skinner, Kimberly Cooke, the Cigarette Smoking (Cancer) Man, the Well Manicured Man and his offsider, Frohike, Quiqueg, Gautier, Jean Gautier, Ellen, and Alex Krycek remain the intellectual property of those parties. Dr Karen Koettig, Agent Grbevski, Melissa Samantha Scully, Grace Skinner, Clone 1 (Cynthia), Clone 3 (Carolyn), Clone 4 (Catherine), Dr Sam Fieldman, Dr Paul Sturrock, Dr Marion Pieterse, Wendy Tomiris, Serena Ingleburn, Amarette, Dr Jillian Maitz, Hallie, and Emily Trent are mine and copyright. Timeframe/Spoilers: To Avatar (Season 3). Rating: R for low-key sex. Summary: When Scully and Skinner fall in love, their troubles have only just begun... Offspring (1/5) Deslea R. Judd drjudd@primus.com.au drjudd@catholic.org Copyright 1996 Prologue Assistant Director's Office Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, D.C. September 10, 1996 Assistant Director Walter Skinner rifled through the papers on his desk, trying vainly to muster some enthusiasm for his work. He hadn't slept well, plagued by an eerie sense of unease; and that unease had not been dispelled by a morning of administration. His glance fell on a framed photograph to one side of the desk. He picked it up, not so much out of sentimentality as an inability to concentrate on his work. Damn it, he felt like he was waiting for something. A bus...or a bomb. Shivering faintly, he looked thoughtfully at the picture in his hands. It was of a woman in her early twenties. She was playful and headstrong, with a shock of auburn hair and emerald green eyes. Her name was Grace, and she had been his wife two decades before, dying a cruel death of cancer less than a year after their youthful marriage. Their daughter, who would have been born only two months later, died with her. He never spoke of her, and perhaps those who ventured into this office sensed something of the tragedy, because not once in those decades had anyone commented on the picture he could sometimes hardly bear to look at but could never quite put away. In an effort to clear his unexpectedly swimming mind, he turned his thoughts to an agent who resembled Grace in a way that sometimes unsettled him. Special Agent Scully - although he called her Dana in his mind, a fact he would not have disclosed to anyone - was Grace's spitting image, but the resemblance stopped at appearance. Where Grace was playful, even wilful, Dana was strong and graceful and dignified. Dana was a scientist, a medical doctor recruited by the FBI after an impressive academic career, including the publication of her thesis, "Einstein's Twin Paradox: A New Interpretation", now a widely quoted source in scientific circles. The FBI's interest had been in her forensic expertise; but four years before, she had been assigned to partner renegade agent Fox Mulder in his work on the X Files, cases dealing in paranormal and unexplained phenomena, with the intention of debunking his work. Skinner, who had long been watching Mulder's work, one eye on the truth and the other on his own superiors who would like to see it concealed, had been fascinated by the interaction between Scully and Mulder. Dana, he knew, was a confirmed unbeliever, and for the most part this was unchanged - despite the fact that the growing body of evidence was compelling; despite even her own unexplained abduction two years ago. Yet she worked happily with Mulder, and seemed to hold him in high esteem. The two were firm friends. Skinner himself held both in the greatest respect. He had on more than one occasion broken his own rule and gotten involved in their cases, once making a deal which had saved both agents' lives. Another time, he had been shot for his efforts to keep open an investigation into an attempt on Dana's life, which had killed her sister, Melissa...his survival had eventually led to the murder of his second wife, Sharon. He had played it safe throughout his career, never ceasing to seek the truth, but never stepping far enough out of line to endanger himself. In the last three years, Mulder and Scully had unwittingly dragged him, mostly against his will, into a new commitment to the truth - one far more radical and dangerous than ever before. He had a sneaking suspicion that the two of them would one day be his downfall - but until that day, he was a changed man. He considered them friends, the three of them; but where Mulder was someone he respected and would put himself on the line for, Scully was someone for whom he had true affection, as well. His second marriage had lasted seventeen years before Sharon's murder just six months before. Skinner had been framed for her death, and Scully had suspected him. That had hurt. Mulder had believed in him and searched determinedly for the truth; Scully had feared his guilt (as he had himself) and been reserved in her efforts in the investigation, reluctant to prove it. It hadn't been until after he was cleared that Scully had healed the breach, staying with him after Sharon's funeral. She had been very kind to him that day. Sharon's photograph was missing from his desk; that wound was too fresh. His door burst open; the decorous, respectful knock which he had come to expect absent. He wasn't surprised to see that the culprit was Agent Mulder. Protocol was not the man's strong suit. But even Mulder's protocol was not normally quite this bad. His sleeves were rolled up and his collar, open. Appearance was not something which concerned Skinner particularly (although he was meticulous with his own); but it jarred with the atmosphere of the office. He suspected that whatever it was he had been waiting for all morning had come. "Something's wrong," he noted. It wasn't a question. Mulder nodded. "It's Scully. She's missing." Skinner turned half-away so that the other agent wouldn't see his expression, one of stunned fear. He prided himself on keeping a cool head - or at least seeming to do so. There was nothing more frightening for an agent than a frightened superior officer. And that was what he felt now: raw fear. He didn't puzzle on the source of his fear, but rather concentrated on making his expression the right blend of concern and professional interest. He turned back to Mulder. "Tell me." Mulder pulled up a chair without being asked. "Sir, I think it's aliens." "You would," Skinner said curtly. Aliens were Mulder's pet subject, and his explanation for all that was inexplicable in the world. His sister, Samantha, had mysteriously disappeared in Mulder's presence as a child. He maintained that aliens were responsible. Suddenly, Skinner felt ashamed. He knew he was indicting Mulder unfairly. He was something of an expert in the field, and had a certain amount of evidence supporting his beliefs. "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder. That wasn't fair. Tell me what you have." Mulder took out a notebook and scanned it. "She was seen walking last night at approximately 22:10 in the business area of Annapolis, maybe a half-hour's walk from her apartment. No- one seems sure of why she was walking. We found her car a short distance away, but it was fine. If anything was wrong, it isn't now. She passed a couple of late night shops, but no-one remembers much. Some kids who were skateboarding in the area reported seeing a bright light, and then she drops out of sight." Skinner nodded slowly. "Supposing you're right. Where do you think she is?" Mulder shrugged slightly. "The abductions Scully and I have investigated extensively all seem to suggest some government orchestration. Some would say that they are fabricated by the government from start to finish. I lean towards the view that they are genuine alien abductions, in co-operation with our government." He paused. "If that's the case, she could be anywhere. Abductees have recalled being on trains and disused railroads, in disused warehouses, in purpose-built facilities...anywhere. The only solid location I know of is the railroad she was on last time." Skinner was quiet for some time. Finally, he said thoughtfully, "Agent Mulder, I can't allow you to waste time on your hare-brained ideas. An agent is missing. You are to devote all resources to conventional follow-up: hospitals, arrests in the time following her disappearance, the usual." "But Sir, I-" "That's on the record." He paused. "Off the record, do whatever you have to do, call in any favour you must, follow up any lead you deem worthwhile. But find her, and find her quickly." Mulder's brow creased. Skinner had long turned a blind eye to his less orthodox methods, but never before had he condoned them in words - not even off the record. "Yes, Sir." "And this conversation never happened." A Bridge Unmapped U.S. Government Territory September 13, 1996 Mulder picked half-heartedly at his sunflower seeds. Scully had been missing for three days. He supposed he had slept about three hours in that time. The fear he had felt in the first few hours had given way progressively to depression, then despair. He always felt a little at a loose end when he worked on a case without her. He felt like he was straining to think of something or do some tedious task. Scully helped him to think - and helped him to stay at least halfway within the bounds of reason. He knew his predisposition was toward the unusual. More often than not, he believed, he was right - that was the nature of the X Files. But to be fair, often he wasn't - and more often still, the grains of truth were spread evenly between Scully and himself. Scully was his corrective - an essential one. Working without her was unsatisfactory at the best of times. Now, when the stakes were so high, he needed her badly. And of course had she been there, there would have been no need. Mulder was not a cautious personality. He rushed headlong on sheer instinct into situations other agents would avoid. Normally almost recklessly confident about his ability to resolve a given situation, the very fact that it was she he was fighting for made him feel uneasy and inadequate. He loved her dearly, and he feared for her greatly. As much as her refusal to accept the reality of so many of the things they investigated frustrated him, he loved working with her. She knew him so well, disagreed with him totally almost all of the time...and respected him absolutely. The feeling was mutual. But Mulder wasn't in love with Scully. It went far deeper than that. Not that he wasn't attracted to her - he was. But they'd been through so much together that the idea of romance with her seemed almost trite. To call them friends, too, seemed just as ridiculous, though he valued her more than anyone he'd ever known. The truth of the matter was that she was the other half of his soul. He was incomplete without her. In Dana Scully, Fox Mulder had found the humanity in himself that he'd thought he had lost the day that his sister disappeared. No experience either of them might have in their lives would not be filtered through the lens of the bond that they shared. He never tried to protect her - they weren't on those terms - but the times in which he had been faced with the possibility that she might not be there with him and for him had so shaken him that he had felt as though he must start his life all over again with nothing to hold on to. Faced once again with this appalling prospect, he felt all the things that he had built his life on slipping away. But beneath the depression, another emotion was simmering - one far stronger. It was rage. Once before, she had been abducted, and then he had nearly killed a man who held the key to her disappearance. He had a suspicion that if she weren't found soon, he might do the same again. He also feared that this time, if that became necessary, he would be too late: When she had been taken before, he had been told, "I like you. I like her, too. That is why she was returned to you." The fact that she had been taken again indicated that such liking was no longer expedient. His car door was yanked open. Mulder jumped, grabbing for his weapon, but put it away again. "Skinner!" he gasped, then, "Sir. What are you doing here?" Assistant Director Skinner seated himself in the passenger seat, eyeing Mulder in disapproval. "Woolgathering, Agent Mulder? I've been standing outside the car for the last five minutes. Very sloppy." Mulder offered no defense, and he went on a little more kindly, "Well, I've done my share these last few days, I suppose. No harm done. Just be careful." He paused. "How much sleep have you had? You look awful." "And you're a thing of beauty as always. Not enough," Mulder added, annoyed. Skinner, who could care less that Mulder was annoyed, said, "So I see. Are you going to tell me what you're doing here?" At the risk of stating the obvious, Mulder told him, "I'm staking the place out. How did you know I was here?" "You left a piece of paper with this location on your desk. Like I said, very sloppy. What brings you here?" "What brings you here?" Mulder demanded. "Surely you didn't come halfway across the country to check on my stakeout skills?" He suddenly caught himself. For crying out loud, Mulder, this is the A.D. you're talking to! "I'm sorry, Sir. I'm on a short fuse. This railroad - the one over the bank - is the one Agent Scully and I found earlier this year, where we think she was taken last time. I was beginning to think it was a dead end, but an hour ago I got a tip-off on a train headed this way. It should be here within the hour. If I'm right, Scully is on it." Skinner ignored Mulder's earlier outburst. He couldn't stand insubordination, but he also knew that Mulder was never subordinate to anyone - not really. It was infuriating, but with Mulder, that was the way things were. You could fight it, or you could accept it and move on. And in Mulder's case, insubordination was a strength, not a weakness. He nodded slowly. "Have you any reason - besides past experience - to think that Scully is on it?" Mulder considered Skinner for a moment, then said with vehemence, "Cancer Man is on it." "And where Cancer Man goes, trouble follows," Skinner said grimly. Cancer Man was not the name by which Skinner thought of the man - in fact, truth be told, he tried to avoid thinking of him as much as possible - but, he reflected, it was appropriate. In all his years in the Bureau, he had never once seen him without a cigarette in his hand. Mulder had coined the name, along with Black Lung, and a few other monikers. None of them were complimentary. Skinner himself knew little about him. He knew that he had power over the FBI, the CIA, and most other government intelligence agencies; and he had been advised by people superior to himself not to cross the man or disobey him. The consequences could be dangerous - a fact with which he was personally acquainted. However, the man's actual position was unknown to him, and not for lack of inquiry. Skinner suspected he was positioned within the military, but was unsure of how or where. What he did know was that he was deeply interested in the X Files and appeared to have some involvement with the government forces opposed to their investigation. On more than one occasion, attempts had been made on both Mulder's and Scully's lives on his orders, resulting in the deaths of Mulder's father, Bill, and Scully's sister, Melissa. Sharon's murder, too, lay at his door. Cancer Man, Skinner thought, was the contents of the X Files personified. "All right," he said at last. "Do you have a plan?" Mulder nodded. "Yes, Sir. Here's what I had in mind." It was a relatively simple plan (and calling it a plan, in view of its lack of detail, was to Skinner's mind rather generous). They would get on board. They would leave some rags on the tracks in the hope that the driver would mistake them for an animal or person and slow down, enabling them to get on safely. They would wait high up on the bank, however, until they were certain that the train would slow down. If it didn't, they would take the more risky course of jumping onto the roof of the train and clambering down to one of the doorways. Once inside, they would overpower anyone they had to in order to search the train, find Scully if she was on it, or ride the train to its destination if she wasn't in the hope that the destination would provide enlightenment. (Just how they would do that undetected if they had overpowered half the train, Mulder didn't volunteer. Skinner, annoyed, told him to arrange someone to trail the train on their behalf in case they had to make a quick exit. Mulder was put out at his impulsive determination being thwarted, but telephoned someone named Frohike to do so). Mulder was anxious to confront Cancer Man, if he were on board. Skinner baulked at this. It was an unnecessary risk. He just wanted to get Scully out of there, and he sure as hell didn't want Cancer Man knowing he'd been personally involved if it could be avoided. His own position had become increasingly tenuous since he had first defied the man two years previously, re-opening the X Files after the latter had had them shut. He knew that already there was certain information to which he was no longer privy. His job, he could take or leave, if it came to a crisis: the Marines would take him back in a second. But when Cancer Man was involved, the stakes were a lot higher than that. He had a gunshot scar on his stomach and a buried wife to prove it. So Skinner vetoed any attempts to get to Cancer Man. Mulder grudgingly agreed, but Skinner knew better than to trust that totally. If they didn't find Scully on board, Mulder would lose his cool (not that he had that much in the first place), and probably turn the train upside down to get to him. Who knew? Maybe he'd even kill the man - Scully's life was on the line, and Skinner knew that the friendship between those two was such that neither dismissal nor a murder charge would stop him. As much as the idea of removing Cancer Man appealed to Skinner (who in other circumstances would happily have done the deed himself), he and Mulder had to be kept apart at all costs. Frowning at the difficulties that that prospect alone might entail, Skinner settled down to wait. It was growing dark, and Mulder was cold. There was a gnawing feeling in his stomach. He could cope with Scully being gone when he was thinking, working. But now, waiting, he could feel a coiling, tightening sensation in the depths of him. Maybe conversation would kill the anxiety, although he doubted it. He turned to Skinner. "I'm glad you're here, Sir. You still haven't told me why you're here, though." It was a question. Skinner answered it. "I respect you both, and the risks that you take for the truth - risks I have not always been prepared to take." Mulder glanced at him suspiciously. He'd been missing himself, and Skinner had never come cross-country looking for him - not until Scully had called him, at any rate. Could he really be here simply out of respect? Mulder supposed he could, but then again, there was that grim determination of Skinner's expression. No, it wasn't respect, or protocol. "With respect, Sir, there's more to it than that." Skinner started, then suddenly grinned. Trust Mulder to cut through the bull. "Yes, there is," he admitted. "I like her. And she reminds me a lot of someone - someone I used to care for. Hardly a scientific reason for being interested in what happens to her, but there it is." "The woman in the photo on your desk?" Mulder hazarded. He had noticed the resemblance - had in fact thought nightmarishly that Skinner had assigned his mistress to keep tabs on him until he had surreptitiously inspected the photo and noticed its age. "Grace, my wife - before Sharon," he added by way of explanation. "She died." Mulder was embarrassed. "I'm sorry." "Ancient history, my friend." They lapsed into silence for a time, Mulder popping sunflower seeds. Skinner tried one and said they were revolting. "It's not the taste, it's the texture," Mulder laughed easily. "They're just different, that's all." "Whatever you say," Skinner muttered dubiously. He became aware of a rumbling behind them. Instantly at attention, he hissed, "Listen." Mulder opened his car door. "Showtime." Dana Scully's mind was swimming. She could see, hazily, but the circuits connecting what she saw with her mind were fuzzy. She had a vague idea of whiteness, and of faces in masks. Or was that a memory? Now that she thought about it, the others had scattered after hearing a heavy thudding on the roof of - was it a building? No, it was moving. She had a sense of deja vu. She knew this had happened before, and she knew, somewhere in her mind, where she was and what was happening. But she couldn't identify it. It was like groping in the dark. A ship? Truck? God, where was she? Where had she been last time? (Last time? Last time what?) Trailer? No, she was sure it wasn't a trailer, but that rang a bell somehow - I'm on a train. She heard a dull thud behind her, and a moan. Am I hurt? she thought a little incoherently. She didn't feel hurt. In fact, she didn't feel much of anything. There were voices calling her name. She tried to answer, but she couldn't coordinate herself well enough to form any words. She made some faint sound and stirred a little, but that was all. She registered two familiar voices (Mulder? Skinner? What were they doing in this crazy dream of hers?), then drifted off. Mulder said anxiously, "She's drowsing - probably drugged. Damn it, Skinner, how are we going to get her out like this?" Skinner leaned over the gurney, his mouth close to her ear. "We did this in Vietnam if we needed to make someone come to quickly - to get the wounded out of the line of fire." Scully felt the bite as a stabbing pain in her earlobe. "Ow!" she cried, sitting up abruptly. She felt woozy, but she was alert. She was conscious of a dampness spreading over the shoulder of her blouse. She touched it, looked at it, and grimaced. It was blood. Ears always bled badly, she could vaguely remember her old anatomy lecturer saying. She looked up. "What the hell did you do that for?" she demanded, her voice a little sluggish. Skinner wiped his mouth, leaving a pink stain on his cuff. "Sorry. We didn't know how to wake you." "Where am I?" Mulder glanced at Scully. "A train. The train. You were abducted three days ago. Can you walk?" "Three days?"" Scully asked, aghast. "I lost three days?" Mulder's voice was sharp. "Post-mortems later, Scully. We don't have time." "You don't remember anything?" Skinner asked, dragging her to her feet and pulling one of her arms around his shoulders as she slumped. Scully shook her head uneasily. "No. I don't." She tried to walk, but she just couldn't control her limbs well enough. "How do we get off?" Skinner shook his head, but Mulder said determinedly, "The same way we got on. We jump." Their alight from the train was not quite so straightforward as the boarding. Most of the people Mulder and Skinner had knocked out were still out; but one, apparently, had woken. They were confronted just metres from the door by a lone gunman. He took aim, seemingly at Scully. Skinner whirled sideways in an attempt to shield her, but was hampered by her weight. The gunman got in one good shot which passed straight through Skinner in the fleshy part of his arm before lodging in Scully's stomach. In the same second, Mulder shot him, as much out of outrage as instinct. "Is he dead?" Skinner asked. Mulder was grim. "I don't know and I don't care. He would have killed her. Let's go." Skinner frowned, looking at Scully, whose blouse now sported another bloodstain. "What kind of shape are you in?" Scully shook her head. "I can't feel much. I guess I'm pretty doped. But that won't last. Let's get out of here." Mulder dragged open the sliding door. They paused a moment, then jumped. Walter Skinner watched as his wounded arm was dressed. "Will it be okay?" he asked. The doctor looked up from her file. "Oh, yes. The round went through cleanly. I'd go easy on it for a while; but it will be fine. Watch for any suspicious pain that could indicate infection. But don't worry about it." He nodded, not really interested. He'd been shot several times in his career, all more badly than this. It was something to say, that was all. Scully, they had been told, would be fine. The wound was superficial, probably thanks to Skinner in taking the worst of the bullet's momentum. Miraculously for a stomach wound, no organs had been involved. She was sleeping off the remains of whatever drug she had been administered while he, Skinner, was tended to for his wound. Mulder was arranging their flight home, which they hoped would take place that night. It was only eight now. They could be home by eleven. He and Mulder were rather bruised for their jump from the moving train, but Scully, too drugged to tense up her body, had been completely unhurt. Except for being shot. They had been able to get no sense from her. She maintained that she remembered getting out of her car when it stalled and walking a little way. Then she went blank. Mulder said she might make a little more sense when she was straight, but Skinner doubted it. Now, all he wanted was to get as far away from that damned railroad as possible. As far as he could ascertain, they had not been pursued; and even the lone gunman at the door struck him as a bit of a token gesture. He had an uneasy feeling that they had gotten away because they had been allowed to do so. Which made him wonder if, in escaping, they weren't playing into Cancer Man's hands. But that was something he couldn't afford to consider right now. They had to get home. They had been through too much, all of them; and especially Scully. He wondered how well she would cope with her experience once she was lucid enough to appreciate what she had been through. Just as the nurse was finishing, a shadow formed against the curtain. "Sir, can I come in?" "Come in, Agent Mulder. Close the curtain," he added ironically. To his amusement, Mulder did just that. The nurse moved on. "We have a charter waiting. I thought that was best, given Scully's condition." Skinner nodded. "That's wise. Is she fit to travel?" Mulder nodded. "More or less. She's dressing now. She's conscious and more or less alert, but she's still a little disorientated. She wants to go home, though." "All right, then," Skinner replied, rolling down his sleeve and getting to his feet. "Let's go." Their return flight was uneventful. Scully appeared, subdued, her bloodied blouse replaced by a too-big business shirt which Skinner recognised as Mulder's. Mulder himself wore an old pullover. She walked a little awkwardly, and slept for most of the flight. Mulder, for his part, was pouring over his files, making excited little notes here and there. That man loves a crisis, Skinner grinned. It gets his adrenaline pumping. He felt as though he was watching someone do a crossword. Skinner, however, was content to sit and reflect. He stole a glance at the motionless figure to his right. It seemed to him for a moment that he was looking at Grace, and his eyes grew tender. Quite unexpectedly, he felt something well up from deep inside of him - something he hadn't felt since Sharon had died. It was deep and terrifyingly passionate love. Not given to fits of great emotion, Skinner blinked in stunned surprise, jarred from complacency. The moment passed. He shook himself. It wasn't Grace. It was Dana. And then, because Walter Skinner was an essentially truthful man, he admitted reluctantly to himself that that fact made not one iota of difference to his feelings. He was in love with Special Agent Dana Scully. 3170 West 53 Rd, #35 Annapolis, Maryland September 13, 1996 Skinner and Scully sat in companionable silence. They were in her apartment, and it was late; but she gave no hint that he should go. In fact, she seemed eager for him to stay. She had brushed aside Mulder's expression of concern when he had left, but now that she was faced with the prospect of being left alone, she seemed unwilling to let Skinner go. Skinner, for his part, was uncomfortable. Internal truth-telling was one thing, but he had a horrible feeling that if he stayed alone with her in her apartment for too much longer, he would in some way express what he had learned about himself. He didn't want to do that. He didn't want to love Dana. He was just too damned old to deal with that stuff. He liked being a bachelor. It was lonely, horribly lonely...but it was easy. And if he did tell her? Now, tonight? What then? She might reject him, and he didn't want to put her in that position after her ordeal. She was injured and vulnerable. To have to fend off anyone's unwanted attentions - least of all from her boss, for God's sake - could be the last straw. And what if she accepted him? He'd never know whether it was real or something which happened out of her own vulnerability - and in fact it would probably be the latter. No, he had to get the hell out of there. But first, he had to know that she was really all right. "Scully?" The silence broken, Scully jumped, dropping her mug. It was empty, but she started to stammer in dismay. "Oh, God, look what I've done. It'll stain, I know it'll stain-" "Scully." She didn't stop, but picked up the mug and put it on the coffee table with a clatter and brushed at the unblemished rug. Skinner called her name once more. She ignored him, continued to prattle nervously. He took her hands. "Scully!" Finally, suddenly, she was silent and still. She looked at him for a moment, then looked away, sheepish. "God, I don't know what's happening to me. For a moment there, I just - phew!" He frowned. "Dana, you're not okay, are you?" She bit her lip. Don't let her cry, I can't bear to see that right now. He cleared the unworthy thought from his mind. But Scully didn't cry. Instead, she said in a low, ragged voice, "I'm frightened, Walter." She had never called him by his name before, but he didn't seem to mind. "I've been shot at, I've been abducted twice, my sister died - and Mulder gets shot at every day of the damned week, for heaven's sake; they killed his father and poisoned his water. When I joined the Bureau, I knew danger from the criminals was part of the territory. But it's the government that's trying to hurt me - and for doing what I was hired to do! I just don't know who to trust anymore. I'm frightened. I can't give up on the X Files, but sometimes I get so afraid-" She stopped short. Skinner still held her hands, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. His face was averted, but she could see a shadow of distress in his features. "What is it?" He shook his head. "What is it?" she repeated, more firmly. "It doesn't matter, Scully. Why don't you take some time off? Recover? I don't mean just tomorrow. I mean real time. Time to regroup - you've been through so much -" he broke off, that look of distress there once more. Scully's look was contemptuous. Irritated, she pulled her hands away. "I want you to tell me what's wrong," she demanded, annoyed. Skinner looked away again. He thought that there was rather more truth in his eyes that he cared to reveal. But Scully, he realised, didn't care about these things. She was forthright and principled, and she wanted the truth more than she wanted to be protected or safe. After a moment, he met her gaze squarely. "All right. If you must know, I hate this every bit as much as you do. I hate it. Damn it, Scully, one of these days you're going to get yourself killed, and I don't want to be hurt when that happens!" His voice broke a little. "But it's a little too late for that, I'm afraid. I already care - rather more than I should." She didn't look shocked, or look away. She had more grit than that. "I see." "It doesn't matter, Scully," he said curtly. "You wanted the truth, and I gave it to you. That's all." He stopped. "I should go." He averted his gaze, stared straight ahead. "Do you want me to post guards outside for a few days?" "No. I don't." He started to rise from the sofa. Scully watched him, her emerald eyes clouding with compassion and warmth. Impulsively, she took his arm. "Walter?" He turned back to face her and reluctantly met her eyes. Scully was silent a moment, considering this man who she had come to care for - this man who she knew loved her. She made her decision with uncharacteristic disregard for the consequences. Tentatively, she said gently, "Don't go." Skinner felt his soundness of judgement leave him. He knew he should go. He also knew that he wouldn't, couldn't. They moved at the same instant, and he kissed her with a tenderness he hadn't known he possessed (although Sharon Skinner could have told him, had she been alive), touched her face and her neck and traced the curves of her body, his eyes holding hers. Still not entirely sure how she felt about all of this, Scully let him; and in dawning realisation she came to see that she did want him, after all. He kissed her again, this time more insistently, demandingly; and this time her lips sought his, matching him in passion and fervour. She felt his hands on her, one on her neck, the other on her hip, her thigh; she breathed out shakily, pressing her body against him. She wound her arms around him and leaned back, drawing him with her, wanting him closer. She ran her fingertips over the smooth skin of his neck and with deliberate precision unfastened his tie and the buttons of his shirt. There was pain in her wounded stomach, but she barely noticed it. As they slid down into the sofa, him carefully supporting her back, he felt her pushing his shirt back off his shoulders, suddenly tentative - almost shy. He was intrigued. She was normally so firm, so assertive. He'd never seen her so unsure. And yet, wasn't he unsure, too? Somehow the comfortable confidence of being with Sharon for so long had made him ever conscious of the awkwardness, the unfamiliarity of being with someone new. With hesitancy of his own, he touched her beneath Mulder's shirt until she led his hands to the lacy bra beneath. He felt the delicate curve of her breasts, their fiery heat. "I want to look at you, Dana," he breathed, taking the shirt up over her head and discarding it. She sat before him, suddenly vulnerable. She had never wondered about her attractiveness, never really cared, but suddenly she thought, Will he think I'm beautiful? What will he see? She was exquisite. She was very like Grace, but she was different, too. The translucent white skin which glowed against the pale blue lace, the perfectly defined lips of her beautiful small mouth, the sparkling emerald eyes which darkened to sapphire with desire...these were all her own. He gave a low sound of anticipation, and all at once their mouths found one another once more. Dana unclasped the bra, wanting to feel him ever closer, and it fell away. He breathed her scent around her neck, between her breasts, in her hair as he kissed her everywhere. His fingers found the warmth at the heart of her, and she made the tiniest sound. He was so utterly absorbed in her that he was hardly conscious of her lips brushing lightly over his neck and his shoulders, or her hands moving to his waist, then lower, and doing to him what he was doing to her. He touched her with the fascinated air of someone who has found something completely unique in the universe. In a way, he supposed, he had. He heard her breathe his name in sudden, exquisite pleasure. He wasn't sure who led who, but they made their way to Dana's bedroom. As they sank back onto her bed, her beneath him, her shock of copper hair brushing her bare shoulders, he gently touched the bandage over her stomach. "I don't want to hurt you," he said gently. "It'll be okay if we're careful," she reassured him softly. She touched his wounded arm with a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry you were hurt. I never did thank you." "Don't thank me like this, Dana. That's not what this is about." "I'm with you because I want to be." So saying, she reached up and silenced him with a kiss. There were no more words after that, only the sound of the rain and the gentle rustling of skin against skin and bodies rising to meet one another. In the dark, there was no Skinner and Scully, merely man and woman together in the dark dance of a love older than time. And when he entered her, became one with her, it was as though that was how it had always been. When it was over, he held her as she drifted off to sleep. He slept too, but he was restless; and he woke whenever she did. And she woke, often, with nightmares she couldn't remember. Walter used the time to reflect on the situation. He knew that this affair could not continue. And the thing that was so maddening about it all was that they could have made it work, they could have, if only it didn't matter. If only he didn't love her. He didn't pretend to know her mind. Perhaps, for her, it was love; more likely, it was the desperate abandon two survivors share. But he knew they could only ever be friends. But first, there was the night, the morning. They made love again in the gray light of the dawn, their bodies melding against one another, then laying still. Dana was the one who raised the issue of the future. "Walter?" He stirred. "Yes?" "This can't happen again." He bowed his head, unhappy but acquiescent. Perhaps misreading the gesture as denial, she went on, "You're a superior officer, and we're all under scrutiny already. This could be construed as a security risk. You could be open to disciplinary action." She touched his face tenderly, regret lighting on her own. "I don't want that." His hold on her tightened instinctively. "Dana, not now. Tonight's ours." She wouldn't let it go. "And after that?" Finally seeing that she had to have her answer, Walter said (and it pained him to say it), "Friends. Always." "Always," she agreed. They spoke of other things, consequential and inconsequential. Walter told her about Grace. They drowsed again, their embrace tight with the knowledge that it could not happen again; and finally, he left her, still sleeping, her touch and her taste and her scent already a bittersweet memory. Basement Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, D.C. October 4, 1996 Mulder looked up from his desk, then got to his feet. "Scully!" he exclaimed, pleased; and in an unusual show of affection he hurried over to her and kissed her cheek. "You're back at last." Scully smiled gently. "Dug up any aliens in my absence, Mulder?" she demanded, her voice suffused with warmth. "Just a few of your old boyfriends." His voice held no knowledge. It was a reference to an old joke, that was all. "You're welcome to them. What have we got happening?" Scully, in the end, had taken three weeks off work. The first two had been stress leave, which she personally felt no need of but which had been beneficial as she recovered from her gunshot wound, which had nagged at her for most of that time. Towards the end of that time, though, she had been taken terribly ill, throwing up and sleeping all the time, and had taken another week off. She had feared infection, but that appeared not to be the case. Truth be told, she was no better now; but she was anxious to return to work. She and Walter had seen each other several times since the night they had spent in one another's arms. Resolutely, they had kept to their decision to remain on platonic terms, but they had become very close. She knew that he loved her. She had quite deliberately formed no opinion on the matter in her own mind, but she suspected that, were she to examine her feelings closely, she would have to say that she loved him, too - at least on some level. But she felt no qualms about coming back to work under his supervision, no doubts about her own professionalism or his. Not that it was quite so simple as that. There was one, nagging worry creeping in on her; but she would leave it until the day after tomorrow before she would allow it to take hold. Shaking herself, she made herself listen to what Mulder was saying. He was reciting the current caseload, chapter and verse. There was nothing which particularly interested her. "Anything on my case?" she asked. Mulder was silent a moment, before admitting, "No. Dead ends everywhere. I'm sorry." "I'll live. Let's get to work." Basement Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, D.C. October 9, 1996 Mulder watched Scully out of the corner of his eye. She had been back for a week, and for the first two days of that she had been all enthusiasm, eager to settle back into work. But for the last three, she had been suddenly withdrawn and pensive. Neither medical trivia nor light-hearted banter had drawn her from her lifeless shell. Noting the circles under her eyes, he wondered if it had been such a good idea for her to return just now. But he had voiced that already, albeit tentatively. Scully had scoffed at him. "I'm fine, Mulder. I've got a virus, that's all." It was true, he supposed; she'd been running to the bathroom all week, and she had turned positively green at the sight of his lunch yesterday. Not that that surprised him; his greasy junk-food diet offended her to the depths of her scientific soul. Yet he was concerned. He couldn't put his finger on it, but damn it, he knew Scully and he knew when something wasn't right. Suddenly aware of his scrutiny, Scully looked up from her work. "What's the matter?" she frowned. Mulder pursed his lips. "I don't know, Scully. You won't tell me," he said pointedly, suddenly annoyed. "Oh, Mulder, don't start." She dropped her curly head back into her files. "Scully, I know you better than that. Something's wrong and it's affecting your work. As your friend, I want to know. As your partner, I have a right to know." She regarded him for a moment, then made a decision. It was bull, and they both knew it; her work was as good as ever. (And, she reflected wryly, he would never have pulled such a dirty guilt trip on her, except that he knew she wouldn't buy it). Nonetheless, she wanted him to know. She had felt very alone these last few days. "All right. Off the record." Mulder looked at her closely, suddenly noticing the dark circles under her eyes. Her skin was drawn tightly over her flawless features. There was tension in every line of her. Whatever it was, it was big. "You know better than that, Scully. Everything's off the record between us." Her face became wooden, deliberately expressionless. "I'm expecting." Mulder's eyes widened a little. He hadn't expected this. Scully was so - so straight. He wasn't so naive as to think she was a virgin, but he hadn't known she was seeing anyone. Though reserved, it wasn't like her to be secretive. And Scully wasn't into flings. With some self-control, he quelled the sarcasm that leaped to his mind. After all, this was Scully. His friend. He didn't want to be hurtful. He settled for a surprised whistle. "Are you okay?" "I'll live. And," she added, "so will the child." Mulder wasn't surprised. He knew she didn't believe in abortion, and had she not understood his querying look, he wouldn't have even asked. "Who's the lucky fellow?" He could have kicked himself, knowing even before her expression froze that he'd overstepped the mark. "No-one you know," she replied curtly. She got to her feet. "I'll be back." "Where are you going?" Scully bit her lip nervously. "To see Skinner." Assistant Director's Office Federal Bureau of Investigation Washington, D.C. October 9, 1996 "How did it happen?" "You want me to teach you biology?" Skinner gave her a withering look. "I mean, we took precautions." Scully shook her head. "Who knows? Breaks and leaks happen. We might not have noticed." An alarmed look flitted across her milky-white features. She said in a low voice, "Walter, I haven't been with anyone else in a long time. This child-" she almost choked on the word. Dear God, she was having a baby! "This child is yours." Skinner shook his head. He wasn't handling this very well. She'd misunderstood him. "I believe you, Dana. I do. I just - wondered." He rose and came around his desk. He sat down beside her. "What do you want to do?" Scully lifted her head. "I want the child, Walter. And even if I didn't, I don't believe in abortion." Her voice was not pleading or cajoling. It was one of dignity. He nodded in mute acceptance of her decision, knowing that even if he had wanted her to terminate (and he didn't; abortion was something he saw solely in terms of the daughter who had died with his wife) this was not a choice he would ever be able to influence. Dana's ethics, her will; these were stronger than his. "How are you doing? Really?" She shrugged her shoulders, a crooked little smile forming. "I'm okay. I wasn't, but I am now." She paused. "You?" she asked awkwardly. Skinner reflected for a moment. A screaming, irrational part of him was terrified for this woman who was carrying his child. It's Grace all over again. She'll die if she continues with this pregnancy, Walter, she'll die. Ruthlessly, he pushed the little voice down; for the rest of him, it was as though he had been given the chance to regain that which had been so cruelly stolen from him. "You know, quite to my own surprise, I'm okay, too, Dana. I'm - pleased." "You know, Walter, I don't expect anything from you. I'm prepared to raise this child alone. I just - wanted you to know." The quiet dignity in her voice made him ache. It seemed to him that her very dignity made her more alone than anyone should ever be. Skinner crouched beside her chair and put his arms around her. He drew her against him. "You're not alone, Dana. Not now, not ever." They stayed that way for a long time. To be continued...