Skinner collapsed on his bed with a groan. The ride from the airport had been a bitch. Scully, enclosed in the car beside him, only a few inches away, moving around inside her clothes; so close he could have easily reached out a hand and touched her, had never once made full eye contact, never said anything except in response to a question. And now she was going to be sleeping in a big double bed only a wall away.

How did Mulder stand it? Going on the road with her, knowing she was so close, but not able to go to her. Or had he tried it, and been shot down? No. No, Skinner had seen the way Mulder looked at Scully when she wasn't looking. Seen the yearning, the ache; hell, he felt it himself. And felt it more acutely, he decided, because he actually had the memory of her skin against his, still had the taste of her in his mouth. But what did Scully ache for? Lying on those cool sheets, her cheek on the pillow, hip tucked into the too soft mattress, forming the long delicious curve down to her bare feet...

(Don't go there, old son. Don't even think about it.)

Scully loved Mulder. Mulder loved Scully. But there was not the slightest suspicion in his mind that they were lovers. Mulder had too much to lose if he made a move and got rejected, and Scully had rejection written large in her facial expressions, the way she held her body. Why? Who the hell knew why people were so self-protective? It was obvious that Mulder would be on her in a minute if he thought he had a chance. But it was just as obvious that Scully wasn't giving chances away.

As always, Skinner's thoughts drifted back to Sharon. How many nights had he come home late, to slide in quietly beside her, moving gingerly until he had his arm around her, hoping she would not stir, but always pleased when she did, and kissed him sleepily, and returned his embrace. That was in the sweet years of their marriage, before the things he'd seen and done had made him pull back from her, fearful of contaminating her with his poisonous knowledge.

Now Sharon was as much of his past as Viet Nam, something to try not to think about too often. He had survived Nam, survived his wife's death. He would survive Dana Scully. She had simply awakened an old tenderness in him, a hunger better off satisfied elsewhere. Something in her had called to something in him, and for one intense moment when they joined it had been perfect. But he had stolen that moment from her, and it would be a cold day in July before he forgave himself for that.

He sat on the edge of the bed, then stood up restlessly. This would not do. He would have to act like a man, accept his losses, and move on. Put Scully out of his head.

There was a soft knock at the door. Looking at it, Skinner had the eerie sensation that he was looking right through it, to see Scully standing there. When he opened it, she stepped back and did that defensive thing, folding her arms across her breasts.

"We were just going to get something to eat. You want to come?" He was aware of Mulder, hulking down the hall somewhere, hands thrust in the pockets of his trenchcoat.

"No, thank you, Agent Scully. I'll get something later."

"Uh...we need the keys to the car."

He fished them from his pocket and gave them to her wordlessly. When she was gone, he lay back on the bed. He did not want to eat with her. He did not want to talk to her. And most of all, he did not want to dream of her.

Nightcrawler Bar and Grill 11PM

The waitress was a tall blonde with weary eyes but a sweet smile. "Hit you again on that Scotch, sweetie?"

Skinner nodded, and she took his glass to refill it. When she returned, he sipped the drink and looked around the bar. He had considered buying a bottle, but the thought of sitting in his motel room knocking back a pint of whiskey by himself was a little too pathetic. And with Scully close by, he needed all his self control. So he had gone out in search of something to eat, a little noise and bustle, and the bar had provided a respite.

He was thinking of the last woman who picked him up in a bar, who he thought was some office girl, but turned out to be a whore, and a dead whore at that, when he woke up and found her the next morning in his bed. One of the worst things about that was having Scully know about it. Not to mention Sharon. He had been at such a distance from Sharon then, fists shut tight against all tender touch, although the need in him was a howling void all the time. He had been afraid that the slightest crack in his armor would lead to a complete collapse; one whimper would become a scream.

Bitter irony, that now when one night of passion had awakened his dormant heart, and fear of loving was diminished, Sharon was dead and Scully was locked up in armor of her own.

Skinner tossed back his drink and laid his money on the bar. As he was getting up, he bumped into a dark haired girl, almost knocking her down. His hand shot out to steady her, and she dropped her purse. They both bent to retrieve it at the same time; he let her collect it, and backed off. There was something about the look she gave him, an apologetic smile mixed with fear, that made him hesitate before walking away.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry." She glanced briefly into his eyes, speaking mostly into his tie. Upright, she was tall, maybe five eight, though with spike heels she could almost challenge his six foot two and a half. But something about the way she held herself bespoke fear, or at least uncertainty. "Sorry," she muttered again, and moved on.

Skinner put his coat on as the waitress came up to him to offer change from the twenty he'd left. He shook his head, and she rewarded him with a real smile, even sweeter than the customer-smile, which was worth the tip.

Outside, the streets were deserted. There were only a dozen or so cars in the parking lot, more on the curb. The dark haired girl was standing with her purse clenched in both hands, looking up and down the street. She was thin, and the long jet black hair that hung halfway down her back was striking. Though pretty enough, in a pale, big-eyed way, she couldn't have been more than twenty five years old. Something in her posture struck him again; she was a puppy waiting to be kicked.

When Skinner spoke softly behind her, she jumped.

"Excuse me," he said. "Are you all right?"

She stepped away from him nervously. "I'm okay," she said. "Really." He took out his identification with a long practiced flip, and she peered at it from a distance. It was too dark in the parking lot to see it from where she stood, but the gesture seemed to have a reassuring effect on her.

"FBI," she said, faintly.

"It's almost midnight, and this isn't the safest place for a young woman to be alone."

"I was— I had a fight with my boyfriend," she said. "I thought he'd be here. He usually comes here when he wants to get drunk." She gave a little self-conscious laugh. "He can be kind of mean. I guess I'm lucky I didn't find him."

Skinner felt a great weariness for all the young women in the world who for whatever reason let themselves be victimized by love. He said, "Do you live around here? I could walk you home, if you like."

"I have my car."

Skinner locked himself into position. "I'll wait here until you're safely away."

She flashed him a toothy smile in the dim light, but it was less sincere than the waitress's had been. She disappeared into the shadows, her heels scrunching in the gravel, and a moment later he heard a car door shut. He turned away, but he had only gone two steps when he heard the unmistakable grinding sound of a low battery.

He stood for a moment contemplating his next move. She could just go inside and call a tow truck. He had a cell phone, but he had left it in his room. The smart thing to do was just walk away and forget it. Back to the motel room, back to the blue eyes and red hair and set jaw, the mouth that had crushed so easily under his—

He heard the car door open, and looked across the roofs of the cars between them and saw the dark haired girl standing there, shoulders shaking as she began to cry.

White Horse Motor Inn 12:30pm

"Where the hell is he?" Scully asked, putting the phone down in her room.

Mulder, lying on her bed, said, "Maybe he met someone."

She gave him the Look and he grinned. "Hey, it could happen."

"He'd still answer his phone."

For a moment, Mulder's features grew serious. "Do you think he's in trouble, really?"

Scully shrugged. Her instincts concerning Skinner were not to be trusted. She sat on the bed beside Mulder and patted his leg. "Get your shoes off the bed."

"Mm. Sorry." Instead of getting up, he toed off his loafers, which fell with loud thumps to the carpet. Scully looked down at his supine form. He put his hands behind his head on the pillow and gave her his sweetest smile.

"Why is it my bed always seems so much more attractive to you than your own?" she asked.

He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "You figure it out."

"It's late, Mulder. We're going to need some sleep if we're going to go out at dawn digging up graves."

"What do you mean ‘we?' You don't think Skinner is going to let you come with us, do you?"

Scully looked surprised. "What?"

"You watch and see if he doesn't order you to wait here for us. He's like that. Me, I think you're a swell grave digger. But Skinner's old school. He's going to want to go on a recon mission, and then when it looks safe, we'll come back for you."

Scully snorted. "Bullshit."

He regarded her fondly. "I wouldn't take that attitude if I were you, Scully. He's been in a kick ass mood since we started on this trip. I wouldn't push any of his buttons."

She looked at him for a long moment. Mulder sat up on his elbows, eyes changing from green to hazel. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Her reply was a little too quick. "Nothing. Really."

"Has he been ragging on you? Because if he has, it isn't personal. I think he's scared, Scully. Not for himself, but for us. That's just how his concern comes out."

"It's not that." She tightened her lips, gave a rueful shrug. "It's just that...when we thought you were dead, he...Well, he and I..."

He touched her hand. "Don't think about it, Scully. I'm fine. That's all that matters."

Instead of pulling away, as he expected, she turned her hand in his and gripped it gently. "No, Mulder. That's not what I mean."

"Well, what do you mean?"

Scully squeezed his hand briefly and then withdrew hers. Mulder studied her face thoughtfully. She was looking down at the bedspread, picking at a loose thread. "I thought I'd lost you," she said. "I didn't think...well, I was so out of it..."

She got up and walked across the room, arms folded. Mulder swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. She looked at him so miserably he got up and went to her.

"Scully," he said softly. "If you're scared, it's okay. I'm scared, too. These are big players. But nothing's going to happen to us."

"Mulder..."

"Shh." He put his arms around her, and she slipped her arms around his waist. They held each other for a few minutes, rocking slightly. Mulder rubbed his face against her hair and kissed the top of her head. Scully sighed, comforted, although if she could have seen the look on his face, she might have not felt quite so comfortable in his embrace.

After a few minutes he drew back to look down at her. She smiled up at him, but then lowered her face again, and he let her go.

"I'm going to bed," he said. He sat back on her mattress and collected his shoes.

A knock on the door made them both look up. Scully opened it at once. Skinner was in the hallway. A pretty young dark haired girl was standing beside him. For a long moment, everyone stared at everyone else. Skinner looked at Mulder sitting on Scully's rumpled bed, putting his shoes on. Scully looked at the dark haired girl. The dark haired girl looked at Mulder. Mulder calmly finished sliding into his loafers and got up, wearing a little shit-eating grin.

Skinner said, "I need the keys to the car."

"They're in my room. I was just going there," Mulder said. He gave Scully an I-told-you-so look and she rolled her eyes and leaned against the door jamb. Skinner was looking down at her, and when her gaze rose to his, she couldn't quite conceal the little jump of nerves his look incited. He turned away abruptly and followed Mulder down the hall, the girl in tow. He was telling Mulder that they needed to jump start the girl's car.

Jump her bones is more like it, Scully thought, and Mulder shot her a look over his shoulder so full of amusement she knew he had been reading her mind again.

She closed the door and leaned against it, suddenly remembering Skinner in the dark, feeling his hands on her--so big, but his touch had been so gentle--feeling his weight carefully suspended above her, the way he had nuzzled his mouth along the underside of her jaw up to her ear, and pressed her down on the mattress.

She sighed deeply and thought, Read this, Mulder.

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