Making Amends by Jori

Mulder and Scully deal with Skinner's discovery of their true relationship. NC-17

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

Somewhere near the Atlantic coastline in Georgia
September 16, 1999
10:33 p.m.

"Mulder?"

"What!?" I snap at her. I don't need to be reminded one more time about how late we are going to be getting back for the first half of our 'curfew' meetings. We are already in a deep load of shit and now this. The local car rental agency wants all their vehicles in by midnight. No one will fly us out on a puddle jumper to the nearest metropolitan airport. There are no flights even if we could get there. There isn't a single way out of this rathole someone decided to slap a name on and call a town.

"The airport should be open by tomorrow afternoon and flights will resume then. Saturday at the latest. Why don't we just wait it out?" Scully asks, placing her hand on my arm, trying to calm me down. She runs hot and cold lately. One moment she cares tremendously about the events of the last few weeks. Other times, she doesn't seem bothered by them at all, as if she has been released from the burden of living a secret life.

The rat-tat-tat of light rain on the old tin roof of the train station can barely foreshadow what is coming this way. This shower doesn't even have anything to do with the storm that is brewing out there. And this is what I've been reduced to. Trying to get a train out of this damn town before the storm hits, just so we can get our asses chewed out by Skinner. Again. It is almost preferable to spending another night here.

Since his Labor Day weekend 'discovery,' Skinner has arranged for us to be in early Friday and Monday morning meetings. Just to make sure we are spending our weekends where we are supposed to be spending them. I'm beginning to sense that he doesn't give a shit what we do with our time on Saturday and Sunday, but we had better not be spending our weekends together somewhere else and calling it work. So far we have missed every meeting and I had no intention of missing this one. I usually don't care about rocking the boat, but I have the good sense to know when we have rocked it far enough for the water to start lapping in.

"We have our 7 a.m. meeting with Skinner that we can't miss and this . . . this so-called case is just pissing me off. If we check in late on Friday and we are going to be in deeper shit than we already are. He's going to think we are purposely ignoring this unwritten arrangement. That is what I would believe, too," I say, as I ring the bell impatiently.

A middle-aged man comes out of the back room, looking startled that someone would be ringing the bell in his train station at this time of night. He finishes wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt before he approaches us.

"Are there any trains going anywhere near the D.C. area leaving tonight?" I ask even before he can get to the window.

"Sir, in case you haven't noticed, there's a storm . . ." he starts to say in some sort of southern drawl. He swirls his index finger around in the air, indicating what the meteorologists have been predicting is going to descend upon this area in the next day or so.

"I realize that, but there must be a train coming through here. This area won't be under a warning until tomorrow," I say, imploring. He doesn't seem to care.

"Even on the best of days, we aren't the hot spot of the south," he says with a laugh as he adjusts his glasses on his nose.

"No? I would have never guessed that. But this is a train station. Why else would it be here if someone didn't leave? And there is an arrival gate. Someone must come to this town by train," I say, trying to figure out the point of this building or this person standing here talking to me if trains don't come through.

"Nobody ever gets off in this town," the man says to me, his voice growing serious. Scully raises an eyebrow and turns away from him, trying to contain a slight smile. Suddenly he starts to laugh again. "That's a joke, sir. Seems the Missus got it."

"She's not . . . she isn't . . . never mind. Are there any trains out of here?" I ask one more time.

"No, sir. Last train left twenty minutes ago and all departures and arrivals have been postponed until further notice. You know, the storm and all . . ." he says, his finger whirling through the air one more time.

"Thank you," I say as I turn and walk out of the train station. I can hear Scully following behind me with her short, staccato steps. I know what she is going to say. Sometimes I swear I can read her mind.

"Mulder, we should have gone to DC . . ." she starts to say.

". . . as soon as we heard about the hurricane? Go ahead. Say it one more time," I tell her as I get in the rental car that has to be back in about an hour. I can't believe we missed the train by twenty minutes. And I thought the month of August was shit. September is definitely running in first place now. August can't even fucking compare.

"Even though Skinner assigned this case to us, Mulder, we should have gotten out of here when we still could. We would be under a lot less pressure right now if we had," she says, buckling herself in and facing away from me. She is watching the droplets of rain roll down the passenger side window, the next one faster than the last as the rain picks up intensity.

"For some reason, I don't think Skinner is ready to deal with this . . . situation just yet," I say, starting the car and turning up the radio. "This is all he can think of doing right now. Keep tabs on us the best he knows how. Make sure we spend the night in two separate rooms."

The conditions are the same as the last time I turned on the radio. This part of the country is expected to get pounded by the storm, but not a direct hit. I can't see any reason why a damn train can't go out if it isn't a direct hit. Or why we can't keep this car for another day. We aren't that far from D.C., but without transportation, we might as well be on the moon.

"I didn't know we are just a *situation,*" Scully says, crossing her arms tight across her chest like usual.

"We aren't. To each other, we are more than just a situation. But to the bureau and to Skinner, I'm sure we are one hell of a situation. Always have been," I say as I pull out on to the deserted street. The proverbial calm before the storm has wrapped its arms around this town and isn't letting go until it hands it over to the eye of the storm itself.

"Let's just call him. He'll understand what is going on. It isn't like we *made* this hurricane to get out of tomorrow's meeting. He isn't going to find us spending the weekend holed up in some B&B on the Atlantic seaboard," Scully says, still looking out the window. "No one can make a hurricane."

Without looking at me, she places her hand on my thigh and keeps it there. After Skinner found out, it was almost as if we were set free. There is nothing left to lose at this point. Not much can be said about her hand resting on my leg after they found 'trace' amounts of semen and what was it? Mild abrasions around her vaginal area? Or was it mild bruising? I can't remember. The words just raced past me as Skinner was saying them and my mind couldn't catch them fast enough.

"You want to call him?" I ask her.

"I always have to call. This time, it is your turn," she say, patting my leg before pulling her hand away.

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

It isn't bad enough that one hurricane brought about this whole ordeal, but now another one is making it worse. If the last one hadn't ruined my seaside vacation plans, we would have never been in North Dakota banging away to the Kama Sutra. No crazy Reverend Mitchell. No DNA sampling. No Skinner standing there, sighing in disappointment.

Hell, most people have always assumed Scully and I started screwing each other sometime during our first case. Why else would she stay with crazy 'Spooky' Mulder down in that hovel of an office? I have no clue why Skinner wouldn't think like the rest of them. Maybe he just trusted us. Or thought we had too many other things to be doing besides each other.

"Yes, sir," I say, trying to talk louder than the static and failing miserably. I'm in a booth next to the motel, shoving dimes into this antiquated phone. Our cell phones took a nose-dive earlier today. Something must have blown away already. "They are saying that this should blow through this area by tomorrow afternoon and we will be on the first plane out of here if I have to fly it myself. Yes, sir. Seven a.m. on Monday. We will be there."

I hang up the phone and lean against the plexiglass wall of the booth. I look over to Scully's door. There is no way she is letting me in there when we are on 'assignment.' Shit. So much for the good old days. Back to seeing each other outside of work only on the weekends. It could be worse. She could have ended it over this. But we are in this together more than ever. She knows that as well as I do.

She steps out of her door and looks for me, as if she knows I have just finished my phone call. Scully glances my way before stepping back in to her room. She leaves the door open. That is as much of an invitation as I'm ever going to get. She won't ask me directly. Not right now. That would be crossing some line we have already crossed months ago. But if it makes her feel better for a few days, then I will live with it.

I pick up the wet paper bag containing the only supplies I could scrape up at this hour in town and run through the rain towards her room.

"This is the best I could do," I say, as I duck out of the rain. Scully is already back sitting with her legs crossed on the bed, her face illuminated only by the monitor on her laptop. No one knows when the power will be back on. Yet her lap top just keeps right on going. She must have a lifetime supply of batteries for that thing.

I put the brown paper bag on the corner of her bed and shake rainwater off my hair and clothes. Scully looks up at me after getting hit by the spray, and she does not look pleased. I can see that her glasses are covered in little dots of water.

"What are you? A dog?" she asks, as she tries to dry her glasses on the edge of a dingy pillowcase.

"Yeah. Apparently a retriever," I say as I start to empty out the bag. Most of the items were purchased per her request. Some are 'surprises' that the store was trying to get rid of because of the lack of power.

"Golden or Labrador?" she asks, placing her wire-rimmed frames on her nose and looking down at her computer.

"Hmm?" I ask, only half paying attention to her. I'm reading the nutritional content information on a bag of sunflower seeds. You would think I'd have it memorized by now. But it now merely offers a distraction from the conversation I know is coming soon.

"What type of retriever are you? Golden or Lab?" she asks again. I don't think she really cares if I answer or not. And it still isn't the conversation in question.

"Chesapeake Bay, actually," I finally answer and she looks at me sharply.

"That is so you, Mulder. You just couldn't go with a choice I gave you but you had to dig into that vast warehouse of trivial knowledge known as your brain and come up with Chesapeake Bay Retriever," she says, and I have no idea why this would irritate her. So I know something about dogs. Most of it I learned on Karin's website . . . oooh . . . so that is the heart of the matter. 'Dog Lady,' as Scully so graciously refers to her, strikes again.

Scully resumes pounding on her keyboard and I start humming 'Hound Dog.' Yes, just to piss her off. I get hit in the back with a floppy disk as I turn to go toward the bathroom, so it must be working.

I return to find her frantically trying to find another computer battery. Oh no. The mighty Thinkpad is about to run out of time. Now she might have to talk to me. She might have to face me and the Skinner issue. I flop on the other bed in the room and prop myself up on one elbow. I watch her make her final save and close it down, as she bitches about the lack of power and the continual rain and maybe even the fact that the Orioles lost their last game. I might have just been imagining that.

But instead of having to face the facts about no power equaling no work, she grabs my leather notebook from the corner of the bed I am on and flips it open, searching for some clean paper and a pen.

"Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing?" I ask, as she rifles through my notes.

"I have got to get my thoughts down while I still have some light to work with," she says, as she tosses several partially completed travel vouchers for our trip to North Dakota my way. "Here, you can do some work, too."

Instead of complying to her wishes, I reach for the bag of stuff that I just brought in a few minutes ago. I toss a package of D cell batteries her way so she can put them in her flashlight. Then I pull out one of my other purchases. Five little votive cups with stubby candles to go in them. I haphazardly set them up in a shape of a lopsided pentagram on the night stand and light them with the matches I grabbed from Hank's Corner Mini Mart. Why in the hell Hank would have votive cups and candles is beyond me. Maybe they never have power here. Maybe Hank is one hell of a romantic.

"I'm a C, not D," she says, tossing the batteries to the side.

"No kidding," I say.

"The batteries, Mulder. I needed C cells," she says.

"C cells C shells by the C shore," I say for no known reason and she tosses the batteries back to me.

"Don't you have your own room?" she asks.

"Yes, but you are the one who opened your door . . ."

"I was only letting in some fresh air . . ." she lies. I know she saw me at the phone booth. I know she wants me here even if she shouldn't want it. Something keeps the two of us together no matter how crappy it gets.

"Besides, we only have five candles. If I left, one of us would get more candles than the other," I say, as I shake out the match after lighting the last candle.

Scully looks as if she is tempted to break one of the candles in half if it means she can get rid of me. Instead, she just sighs and goes back to ransacking my notes in her quest for paper.

"So, if we actually make one of these meetings, what are we going to tell him?" I finally ask. We have discussed this a few times, but never came to a consensus of how we were going to answer certain questions. Scully finally puts aside the paperwork, takes off her glasses and sighs.

"Mulder, I can't determine that without knowing the questions ahead of time," she says, but she doesn't go back to work.

"Should we tell him it was a one time thing? We got carried away with the subject matter of the case and one night just went at it?" I ask. I focus on the candles, wondering what we are going to do once they burn out. Sit in the dark. What's new.

She looks at me sharply before answering me with a question. "You think he would believe that?"

"I don't . . ."

"Is that what you want to do? Apologize, lie and say that it will never happen again?" she asks.

"Is it going to? Happen again?" I ask. That is the one subject that hasn't been broached at all. Although I am assuming that this will not be the end, I never know with Scully.

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she puts her glasses back on her face and starts digging through papers again. All I can do is stare at her face even though she is ignoring me. Or trying to.

"Scully?" I ask, still waiting for her to answer my question. "Is it? Going to?"

She closes her eyes behind those glasses of hers and sighs.

"Yes."

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

"We are horrible," Scully says, laughing. I place another spork-full of cherry ice cream in her mouth and she licks it off, teasing me with that tongue of hers.

"Why are we horrible?" I ask.

"Because we aren't supposed to be doing the things we do. Not now while we are working. Yet here we are, one more time, doing it," she says. She takes a sip of wine. It is a god awful combination, this ice cream and a white wine so cheap it doesn't even have a variety name on it besides 'White.' But it was the only thing on the shelves left to drink. And they were unloading the ice cream on to anybody who would take it before it melted on the shelves.

"We aren't doing it yet," I say, as I lean in to kiss her. The kiss starts out as cold as the ice cream, but heats up fast. As hot as those five flames burning on the table.

"And we shouldn't be doing it. Not while we are on company time," she says, licking her lips. I want to do that for her. I want to draw a slow, sticky line of cherry ice cream from one end of her body to the other and lick every trace of it off of her.

"Technically, we aren't on company time right now. We wrapped up the case this morning. Right now, we are just suffering a rain delay," I say, as I scoop out another bite for her to eat, making sure to stab a semi-frozen cherry with the prongs on the spork. She takes it into her mouth, bites it slowly and swirls it around before pulling me towards her. She deposits the half-eaten cherry into my mouth easily, and I swallow it.

"I'll call Skinner and tell him that -- 'We wrapped up the case so we are going to make hot, lascivious monkey love to each other on the motel bed the FBI is paying for.' I'm sure as long as we arrange for all our orgasms to be off the clock, he shouldn't mind," she says, laughing. She takes her thumb, licks it and wipes some ice cream from my face. Then she takes another sip of wine.

"Scully! How much wine have you had?" I ask.

"Not enough to deal with all the crap we've been through," she says with a sigh. She rolls over on to her back and throws her arms out to the side. "Not enough to deal with being discovered half naked in a cement bunker by your boss only to have him find out a few days later . . ."

"I remember what he found out. You don't have to reminisce about it just yet," I say. I put the ice cream down in the middle of the candles. It looks like some strange offering to the dairy gods. I lie down next to her and wrap my arms around her.

"You know the worst part about it? What I feel so incredibly guilty about?" Scully asks. "I don't feel guilty for nearly getting another charge piled on the good reverend's list of indictments. I don't feel guilty for the fact that we were doing it on 'company time' even though, technically, it wasn't company time. No, I feel guilty that all I could think of while Skinner was telling me he could get me someone else to talk to, telling me what he and the D.A. wanted me to do . . . was how fucking great the sex was. Oh my God. Just thinking of it makes me quiver."

"Scully! How much wine have you had?" I ask for the second time in the span of two minutes.

"Why? Am I not supposed to discuss how good it was?" she asks.

"A second ago it was great," I say, noticing she changed her adjectives.

"It was so fucking great," she says softly, her eyes closed as if she is trying to remember every detail.

"Scully!" How . . ."

"Only three glasses. Or four," she answers without hearing my question. "I don't think it is the wine. I think it's the ice cream."

She covers her eyes with an arm and sighs deeply.

"Tired?" I ask. She and I were barely out of the hospital when we were sent out on this case. She has looked exhausted all week.

"Not really," she answers.

I begin to unbutton her shirt. Scully is still wearing her suit. Well, most of it. I see that I splattered some ice cream on this white blouse of hers. She must have a closet-full of these. A new one marches out to the front lines as soon as the last one goes to its death. I open her shirt and unhook her bra, thankful that today is 'front closure' day. It is always a crap shoot with her. I think she does it to confuse me.

She still doesn't move. Her arm still remains slung lazily over her eyes. I find the side closure to her pants with ease and wiggle them down over hips, taking all her undergarments with them. She is almost entirely exposed to me. I am the only one who gets to see this. Me and a few FBI agents storming a cold cellar. But they didn't get to see what lies behind this. They just saw her form lying there on the cold cement. She isn't cold right now. Not yet, anyway . . .

Scully sighs and parts her legs by bending one knee out slightly. Well, they certainly didn't get to see *this.*

I pick the container of melted ice cream off of the night stand, dip my finger in it and start at her neck, going as slowly as this softening dessert will allow. Her back arches from the chill as I pass over her nipples, making sure to cover each one with a trail of gooey cream. Then I scoop up some more cream and head further down, circling her navel and then going down, down, down. She opens up further as my fingers move down the inside of her thigh, and then behind her crooked knee. Finally, I end up drawing an ice cream heart on her left foot, right above her toes.

"Now, time for dessert," I say, as my tongue finds the spot on her neck where the trail begins. She tastes not only like cherries and cream, but she also of the taste that can only be Scully. I have grown accustomed to that flavor, for it is my favorite. I never want to run out of it.

She moans as I suck the quickly vanishing ice cream off of her nipples, making sure I get every last lick. Then I make my way to her abdomen. Her navel is more like a dessert bowl right now. She giggles at the sensation and pushes my head down further with the hand not covering her eyes.

Oh, I know what you like, Scully. You don't have to push me there. As my tongue touches the inside of her thigh, her back arches even more, but I'm not ready for that yet. I still have some more cream to finish before I get to the 'real' dessert. I'm saving the maraschino cherry off of my sundae until the very end this time.

She giggles some more as I reach her foot. All those years I never knew she was ticklish. And now I can find each and every spot with ease.

"Oh, Mulder. Please . . ." she says.

"Please what?" I ask, teasing her.

"Just getting to the damn point already! You are making me crazy!" she say, as she draws me towards her, parting her legs just a little more. My tongue makes contact and she lets out a moan that makes it sound like I've been denying her this for years.

I pull her to the edge of the bed, hooking her legs over my shoulders while I kneel on the floor before her. Damn oral fixation of mine. Sometimes I enjoy this better than sex. Sometimes. But not always. I think I just enjoy making her happy.

I feel her cross her legs behind my head, pulling me in deeper and deeper. She's not as sweet and sugary as cherry ice cream, but oh so much better. My tongue delves in further, and she tosses her head from side to side on her pillow. She has yet to move her arm.

"Oh, yes. That is good," she says, and I back up for second.

"Good? Not great?" I ask.

"Give me another minute and it will be great," she say and I get back to the business at hand. As my tongue works her clit as quickly as I can, my fingers explore inside her folds, pushing in deeper and deeper. I want her to feel this 'off the clock' orgasm from head to toe. And I know just how to do it to her.

"Oh . . . yes. This is going to be . . . great," she says, as I find the right spot to send her body into uncontrolled spasms. I keep up the contact until she squirms, begging for me to release her. Finally, her arm moves from over her eyes, and she reaches for me, pulling me off the floor and on top of her. Scully's mouth seeks mine and she licks my lips tentatively, tasting herself and cherry ice cream combined. Her body begins to still below mine, as we both ride this orgasm out together. Or as together as two people possibly can.

"Was it good for you?" I ask and she laughs.

"Yeah, but now it is your turn," she says, giving me a push until now I'm flat on my back. She straddles me and yanks my t-shirt off over my head. Then her fingers go to my fly, slowly unzipping it and releasing the hard-on they've been containing for awhile now. She pulls off the rest of my clothes, leaving me exposed before her. Only her.

"So beautiful," she says, her fingers moving across my hips and onto my stomach. The wine is making her say things she has never said before. She is usually so quiet and reserved. Then again, the last couple of times we made love she has been different. "How do you feel about 'hot?'

I follow the path of her eyes to see that she is looking at the candles. They have melted into clear wax now, the wicks struggling to keep their heads above the liquid. And they are hot.

"I don't know how I feel about hot, Scully. How did you feel about cold?" I ask, my mind racing over what she is going to do next.

It is almost too perfect. Cold for Scully. Hot for me. Isn't that how most people view us? She is so reserved, thinking it all out. So cold. I'm always flying off the handle, running off before thinking it through. So hot.

She picks up one of the votives from the night stand and blows out the flame that was fighting for its life. She swirls it around for a second, letting it cool just a bit. I can't imagine that she is out to torture me. She doesn't seem the type. Phoebe, yes. She was certainly the type. But Scully?

I watch as one tiny snake of melted wax slithers over the edge if the cup and lands on my abdomen, splattering out from the center. It hardens in seconds on my skin.

The pain, if it can even be called pain, lasts only a brief second. Of course it is nothing as compared to a gunshot wound, but it is a strange sensation. Then she does it one more time. One more droplet of hot wax hits my stomach.

"Okay, enough hot, Scully," I tell her. Actually, the fact that she is grinding away right above my cock is more torturous than any amount of wax could be.

In her attempt to set the votive cup back on the table, she spills it. The one tips over all the others. The liquid wax extinguishes the flames, but then spreads everywhere. It flows to the carpet and on to the bedding.

"Shit. Do you think the FBI will pay to get that cleaned?" Scully asks, leaning over, trying to look at the mess in the dark.

"I'll try to get it through on my next expense report," I say, as I pull her up on top of me again. She moves just right and I sink into her. She is nearly as hot as that wax. And this burn is so much better.

"How about getting the bedspread cleaned?" she mumbles as she rocks on top of me, grinding just like she did when were experimenting with the Kama Sutra.

"I wonder how many times the FBI has been charged for that already?" I say. She rotates her hips and although this just started, I know I can't maintain it for long. No trying it out in five different positions tonight. Just this one will be enough.

She bounces and grinds, and although it is completely dark in here, I know she is watching me closely. Waiting for something. Finally, I can't contain it anymore and just as I come, she moves off of me. It goes all over my abdomen, mixing with the dried wax.

"Avoiding those trace amounts this time, Scully?" I ask, as she traces a finger through the mess, drawing something on my stomach.

"Oh, it is too late for that," she say, sounding like the professional Scully I know and love.

"Hot and cold," I say to her.

"Right and wrong," she says.

"Are you feeling guilty?" I ask, not knowing why she would.

"Not now . . . well, not over anything but the mess on the carpet. I'm sure by Monday, I will be feeling guilty, though," she says.

"I promise. No more doing it on company time, Scully," I say, as I pull her into my arms.

"Now we will just have to feel guilty about one more lie," she says with a laugh.

"You know, I'm beginning to think the guilt is worth it," I say as I kiss her. Oh yes. There is nothing they can do to make me stop this. Nothing.

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

FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
7:20 a.m.

"He'll be right with you, agents," Skinner's secretary says. She smiles at both of us as we take our seats on the couch. She must know something. Does she always smile like that?

Of course, when he had to cancel that DNA test, I'm sure some had their suspicions as to why that was done. But Kimberly? The secretary? If she knows, then everyone in this whole building knows. Even the two of us showing up at different times in different cars can't cover up the rumors.

"Mulder, stop that," Scully says, as she sets her hand over mine to control my fidgeting.

"I'm sorry," I say as I brush her hand away. I feel like I'm back waiting to see the principal after getting caught making out with Suzy Barnhoff underneath the bleachers in fifth grade. Only Scully and I weren't just making out.

She leans over close to me to whisper something in my ear. "You look like the cat that just ate the canary," she says. She brushes imaginary lint off of her suit pants.

"Is that what you are now, Scully? A canary?" I say, teasing her.

"Stop that," she says again, leaning back to her side of the couch.

The intercom buzzes and we are told that we can go in now.

"Thank you for being so prompt," Skinner says, looking at his watch. We are actually 20 minutes late to our Monday morning meeting, but he seems distracted.

"I would like to apologize for our delay in returning to D.C., sir. We had every intention of attending the meeting scheduled for Friday morning," Scully says as she takes her seat, sounding ever so professional.

"That is okay, Agent Scully. The important thing here is the case was solved in an expedient fashion and you made it safely through the inclement weather," Skinner says. He looks down at his desk and begins to shuffle through papers. Scully and I just look at each other, expecting far more than this.

"Sir, there are other issues we would like to apologize . . ." Scully begins to say, but he cuts her off.

"Don't let it effect your work again" Skinner says bluntly. He doesn't even look at us.

"I don't believe that it has effected our work so far," I say. I have to go with the assumption that he knows it is more than a one time thing. He knows us better than that. He knows Scully better than that.

"I don't believe that is so, Agent Mulder," Skinner says, as he finally settles on several pieces of paper and piles them up.

"How is that, sir?" Scully asks, her voice faltering. She has always been so concerned about *us* not effecting our work performance. She and I both believed we could keep our these two very different aspects of our life separate to a certain degree.

"Reverend Mitchell says he selected the two of you based on your behavior. He selected you specifically because, as he said, 'It is written all over them that they are lovers.' Because of your relationship, you were abducted and were to be murdered, yet this relationship isn't effecting your work?" he asks, finally looking at us. His eyes travel from my face to hers before darting away.

"Reverend Mitchell? You are basing your assumptions on his words?" I ask. "We have been . . . together since December. How many times has it effected our work in the past?"

"That is being investigated presently. Agents, you know as well as I do that there are no written rules against this. But I don't want to be running around the country rescuing your asses when someone uses your so called 'relationship' against you. Do I make myself clear?" Skinner asks. "If something of this magnitude happens again, splitting the two of you up might be an option."

There is something else hidden behind his words. I can't quite pinpoint it. Like he wouldn't give a shit what we did, except someone is making him care. Someone else wants to use this and they are doing it through him. Something in the way he barely focuses on us.

"We will not let it happen again, sir," Scully says quietly. I want to ask her what won't we let happen again. I don't know what is more important right at this second. This job or this relationship. This job is the only leverage I have in finding the truth. But who in the hell cares about the truth if I'm left alone?

"And I don't want to see anymore of these come across my desk, either," Skinner says, as he slides a bill over to me. Carpet cleaning. Professional cleaning of bed linens. Wax removal. Goddamn screwy melted wax.

"You won't," I say. I look over to Scully, but she doesn't look back at me. Her hands are folded neatly on her lap, as if she is praying. I know she said otherwise the other night, but I'm afraid that this is going to be the end of this. What more can happen now that could drive us apart? The only thing I can think of is if Diana shows up again. That would be the end. I would never end it willingly.

"That will be all, agents," Skinner says, dismissing us without another glance.

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

"Now what?" I ask Scully. She and I are sitting in my car, hiding out in the parking garage.

"Well, I don't think we should do it in the office anymore," she says, smiling slightly.

"We never did it in the office," I say, looking around the garage. This has never effected our job performance. Never. She still fights everything I say, I still present ideas she finds off the wall.

"I know. I just don't think we can continue the way we have been. We have to be more professional when we are on a case. No more sneaking from motel room to motel room . . ." Scully starts to say, but something catches my eye.

"Talking about sneaking, what in the hell do you think he is doing?" I ask, pointing at Skinner making his way across the parking garage.

"I don't know. What is that he has in his hands?" Scully asks as she sits up to take a closer look.

"A video tape, I think. What in the hell?" I say, as I watch him climb into a black sedan that drives off. We both sink back into our seats as the car goes by.

"And we are the ones who are supposed to be feeling guilty? He had guilt written all over his face. I wonder who was in that car?" Scully says.

"Somehow, I know it has something to do with our little meeting," I say, trying to replay everything I said over in my mind. How much incriminating evidence was out there? How much did we say today that should have never been mentioned?

"What would he be doing . . ."

I get a sudden sense of dread, as if I can almost discern what Skinner is doing. It isn't good. Not good at all.

"Scully, I never thought I would ever be saying this to you, but I don't think we should see each other for a while," I say, not wanting to say it but not knowing what else to do. It is the only way I can squelch the dread rising through me. "Just a while."

I don't want this to be used by someone to get to us. I know just less than an hour ago I swore to myself that I would never be the one to end this, but something is wrong. We can't keep going on like this and giving them what they want. It has to stop for just a while. No longer than necessary. This isn't forever. But they will use this to get in between us. Use this to hurt us. Just like Reverend Mitchell, only they will make his get-up look like child's play.

"What?!" she exclaims, her eyes meeting mine. So full of questions.

But I have no answers for her yet.

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