Hi-Ho Silver

Here's a tip to all you would-be assassins out there: a conscience is a very pesky thing. Try to avoid growing one at all costs. I was nearly successful at that, but somehow or another, I failed. My teachers in grade school were right. I'm a late bloomer.

I have no idea how it happened, either. Maybe it's just that as we got closer to the end of the battle and there was less and less to worry about, I got soft. Or maybe too many sleepless nights watching old black-and-white cowboy movies in dingy hotel rooms curdled my brain. Whatever the cause, I found myself recently rooting for the good guy. I wanted him to win the red-haired woman of his dreams, sling her into his saddle, and ride off into the sunset, happily ever after. Hi-ho Silver and all that crap.

Let me tell you, I'm not at all comfortable with that train of thought. For one, I truly dislike the good guy in the scenario I'm about to describe to you. He's been a royal pain in the ass since day one. Just oozes good guy qualities, too, enough to make me want to puke. Loyal, brave, determined, strong-willed, hard-bodied, compassionate, gentlemanly, devoted, intelligent, and on and on and on. I hate guys like that, men who will stick their neck out for their beliefs. All that heroism is irksome when it comes time to kill them.

Of course, women swoon in the vicinity of men like that. They swoon in front of me too, at least those who like to live life on the edge do. There's plenty of babes who go for the bad boys. Trust me on that score.

But that's off-tangent. I'm about to tell you a true story, whether you choose to believe me or not. And while he is the hero of the tale, in some ways, I am too, although calling myself a hero might be a bit of a stretch. Certainly he would disagree. In most cases, so would I. Regardless, I know that the events are true because I was there, and I was there solely because of her. I was there because I wanted to watch the only person remotely involved with the X Files that I ever gave a damn about -- besides myself, which goes without saying -- get married. Not as a guest, of course; she and I are not what you would call close. We had maybe only a half-dozen individual encounters over the years. But there's something about her that I've never been able to shake off, a sweet pureness that lies under those Bureau-correct outfits she wears.

She might be the only person who made me regret choosing the path in life that I walk.

I remember every moment of each of our encounters vividly. Late at night, when there's nothing decent on television, I take them out of my memory banks, and savor every detail. She was always polite to me, bordering on friendly, and we made a semi-regular habit of weekly cafeteria lunches, during my brief stint as Mulder's FBI partner. I debated taking her to bed, but rejected the idea pretty fast. I knew I'd get her in hot water with her superiors once my duplicity was uncovered, and besides, she wasn't interested in me, except in a lets-be-friends sense, which I tried not to show upset me. Even way back then, she only had eyes for the good guy, although she never came right out and said it. Plus at the time, he was married, and he, of course, is not the kind of man who commits adultery. Nor is she the type of woman who would ever get involved with a married man.

A divorced man is another story. I don't know how they got together, and I'm not sure I want to be privy to the details. I'm just grateful they never did it in his office. The cameras, you know. In my line of work, it's essential that you study your enemies carefully, that you understand their strengths and their weaknesses, so you can use them effectively against them. So, knowing him as I do, he probably had a hundred reasons why being with her was wrong: the wide age difference, their boss-subordinate roles at work, one failed marriage already under his belt, so forth and so on.

But really, how could he have said no? Just look at her, then try real hard to drag your eyes away. I'll bet you can't. She's as pretty as a sunset. Thick cinnamon-colored hair, bright eyes that dance when she smiles, and a body with more curves than the letter S. Did I mention she's as smart as a whip? Or that gorgeous melodic laugh she has?

Damn, lost my place in the story again. She has the power to do that, the power to throw your mind off-track and make you think of all sorts of inappropriate things. Like how she would feel under you in bed, crying out your name as she comes. Like how fucking sweet she must taste. And oh God, how those fat, succulent lips would feel on my...

Okay, deep breath. Focus. Get back to the story.

Like I was saying, I'm not sure when they first got together. I do know that before a year had passed after his divorce was finalized, they were an item. I know this because she was there the night he handcuffed me to his balcony.

He must have sequestered her upstairs after viewing Mulder and I through his peephole, because she wasn't on the main floor when he let us in. And I doubt she knew about the gut punch and the "think warm thoughts" crack. I'd like to think that if she did, she might have dumped him right then and there, but I'm too much of a realist to invest much time in that fantasy. Once Mulder had gone, he shot me one of his hard-ass AD stares through the sliding glass door, and left me to my own devices while he went upstairs to bed. I didn't know she was there yet. Probably warming up the sheets for him, the lucky fuck.

It wasn't until about two in the morning that I learned of her presence. In case anyone wondered, when your hand is chained to a railing, your ass is numb from sitting on cold cement, a heated room with a comfy-looking couch is only fifty feet away but you can only look at it through a unbreakable pane of glass, and all you've got on to protect you from the freezing wind blowing along a seventeenth- floor balcony is a silly-looking ball cap and a fucking leather jacket you can't even zip up because you've only got one hand un-manacled to do the zipping, well in a situation like that, "warm thoughts" do not promote a good night's rest. So I was wide awake when she padded her way downstairs. I think she was only getting a glass of water, and wasn't expecting any company on the lower level. She wore one of his thousands of white work shirts, which ended halfway down her thighs. Nothing else. I could see her pubic hair through the thin fabric when she got close to the sliding glass door, peering out to see me curled up in the corner. FYI, she's a real redhead.

Her eyes went wide when she saw me, then flickered back and forth from the stairs, then to me. Deciding what to do. Finally, she turned and walked into the kitchen. I considered hollering after her, but realized the noise would only wake him up, and that might get me in more trouble than I was already. My stomach still was a little tender from his earlier blow. After a few minutes, she came back up to the door with a snifter in her hand, full to the brim with a brown liquid. Treating me to a soft smile, she opened the door wide enough to hand me the glass.

"Drink this, Alex," she said. "It might warm you up some."

To this day, I have no idea why I didn't haul her out onto the balcony with me. Either to hold her hostage, or to fuck her brains out; both were decent alternatives. Also not sure why I took the brandy from her, and swallowed it down in three fast gulps, never even sniffing to check for poison. I swear to God, I did not do one damn thing except sit there, grinning at her like the fool I am. I only handed her back the empty glass and thanked her. And then forgot how to breathe, when she stepped out fully onto the balcony in front of me, and zipped up my jacket. Believe me, I was too busy staring at her taut nipples straining against the shirt from the cold to do, or even think, anything nefarious. With only another pair of smiles passing between us, I watched her leave me there, return briefly to the kitchen, then walk back upstairs, glass of water in hand. She never once looked back in my direction after she slid the glass door shut.

The liquor did warm me up, and even made me a little drowsy, thank the fucking Lord. It was the last time anyone, and I mean anyone, performed an act of kindness on my behalf. So in the morning, when he came downstairs, glowering at me and obviously trying to figure out how he was going to sneak her past me without my finding out she was there, I returned her generosity. Pretending to be asleep, I deliberately kept my eyes screwed shut until I heard his apartment door close.

Never used that information against him either. I could have, easily, but some lingering shred of decency, a tattered piece of my soul left floating aimlessly in my gut, prevented that. She's just the kind of women who inspires men to act better than they normally would, I guess.

Even Dudley Do-Right, I found out as I watched them on her wedding day, which is the focus of my story. It had to have killed him when she asked him to give her away to another man. To think she saw him as a father figure after they'd been lovers - the age gap made painfully clear. I know him better than he thinks. But obviously he must have taken the high road, because I saw him escort her out of the limo when it drove up to the church. I haven't attended a lot of weddings, but I do know that if you're the groom, you're already waiting up by the altar when the bride makes her entrance. It shocked me, when I saw them in that symbolic father-daughter stance, her hand in the crook of his elbow, him adjusting her veil and dropping a brief kiss on her forehead before entering the huge wooden doors of the vestibule. I hadn't even known they'd broken up.

I suppose, in hindsight, I should have. When I saw her last, sitting at her desk in the Hoover building a few months prior, she was wearing a diamond ring on her right ring finger, and she had one of those thick Modern Bride magazines on her blotter, with little Post-It notes sticking out along the edges to mark certain pages. If I'd given it a second of thought, I would have known she wouldn't have been there if she was marrying *him*. She'd have either transferred out of his jurisdiction, or have left the Bureau entirely if that had been the case. The FBI frowns very heavily on interoffice romance, and both of them are sticklers for those kind of rules. At the time, I was a little distracted, and I didn't pick up on the clues. Too blown away by the fact that she was getting married at all. Okay, too hurt. All my little half-baked fantasies about slinging her into my own saddle and riding off into the sunset were shot to hell and back. But I did a little research at the City Hall Bureau of Marriage Licenses, made a few phone calls to nearby Catholic churches, and that's how I ended up getting to the church on time.

In time to watch her sprint out of the church less than two minutes after they had marched in, with him chasing her down the street, his face stunned. When she blew past me sitting in the car with my mouth dropped open to the floor, a billowing flurry of white trailing behind her and copious tears running down her face, I couldn't react quick enough to stop her. But then, neither could he. She ran so fast, you'd think she was wearing sneakers under that frilly concoction of a dress. Once they were past me, I checked the door of the church, and was surprised again when no one came out, looking for them. Guess they were all still waiting for the two of them to start marching down the aisle. I could hear the organ music playing when I opened my car door. So I took advantage of the tiny window of opportunity given to me at that instant, and tailed them down the street.

After a couple of blocks, she turned a fast right into a small garden/park space area, and that's where he caught up with her, pulling her aside by the arm into a corner of shrubbery. By the time I got there, and found my own hiding place amidst the foliage, her hysterical sobs were dying down, and he was on the verge of catching his breath.

"I can't...I can't..." I heard her gasp.

Luckily, my secret location gave me ample ability to hear their conversation, and if I twisted my neck just right, I could see their faces between the fifty foot-thick scramble of leaves and branches between us. Not clearly, of course, and I had to choose which face I wanted to watch, since both weren't visible at the same time. But they stood pretty close together, and while she cried, her head was against his chest. Hope that tux was a rental, because the silk lapel was ruined from her overflow of tears. He didn't seem to mind.

"I can't marry him...God, what was I thinking?"

He murmured her name, stroking her face as he did. "It's okay," he soothed her. "You don't have to do anything you don't want."

Hmmm. Interesting. You'd think he'd have encouraged her to pull it together, and go back to the church. Not gently nudge her in the opposite direction. Maybe he wasn't over her as much as I assumed. Hell, *I'm* not over her yet, and I never had her to begin with.

"But...my family, his, oh God, poor M-...oh, no, what have I done?"

"Do you love him?" he asked, and I swear I heard his voice crack. It amazed me to hear the fear in his tone, but in retrospect it shouldn't have. Even big, tough, brave men are capable of having the most tender of hearts, and they break just as easy as the rest of ours do. Not that I have any experience in a broken heart, mind you. Late-night television just teaches you a lot about human frailties.

She sighed, and pulled her head up so she was looking directly into his eyes. "No." The word came out so quietly I almost missed it. "I...I still love you."

<Come on, you idiot. Do it,> I thought to myself. If I'd been in his shoes, she would have been in my car, in my bed, so fast it would have made her head spin.

He sighed her name again, and I saw as his hands dropped from her face. "We can't do this, baby. I'm so sorry, I just...can't."

A fresh batch of tears from the poor, sweet, confused bride. I wanted to yank the nanocytes device out of my pocket, and turn it on full-blast for hurting her like that.

"You can't?...you don't love me at all anymore, do you?" she asked between sobs. "Why...why did you ask me if I loved him, then? Why did you ask me that,...if you... don't...c-care about..." she stopped, dissolving into more tears and shivers.

I focused my attention on him, to get a read on what he wasn't saying. He's always been a man who speaks volumes with his face and his actions, more so than with his words. It's why we installed a videotape camera in his office, instead of a voice bug, like we did in Mulder and Scully's office. Those two prattle on endlessly. Skinner, you've got to watch.

His face twisted, and smoothed, and twisted again while he struggled to answer her. The muscles in his jaw had to be throbbing, he was giving them quite a workout. I could see his hands lift toward her, then hesitate, then fall back to his sides before they reached their destination. But it was clear that yes, he did still love her. He just wasn't sure if his admission would better or worsen the situation. It was quite a vicious battle that raged between his heart and his head, and it went on for a long time. Finally, he took a deep breath, and cradled her face in his large hands, dwarfing her with their size.

His voice was as soft as a spring rain, as different from his AD Skinner growl as night is from day. "I do love you still. And I care more about you than I will ever be able to express. But I can't be the man you want me to be. I can't be your husband."

'Why the fuck not' was on the tip of my tongue so fast I had to bite down on it to keep the words from flying out of my mouth. Instead, I focused on keeping my breathing as quiet as possible, not willing to give my presence away.

"You've said that before, Walter," she replied, her voice far less tremulous than it had been a few minutes previous. She was starting to sound a little angry, in fact. "I remember quite clearly the first time you said it. But it just doesn't make any sense. If you love me, and I love you, and I know you aren't against the institution of marriage as a whole, then why did you push me away?"

"Sweetheart--"

"No," she cut him off. "Answer me. When you told me the first time, I was too hurt to fight with you about it. And I tried really hard to accept your decision. I tried even harder to get over you. But I just ran out of a church on my *wedding* day because of you, pissing off every relative and friend I've ever had, destroying any possible relationship with a man who did not deserve to be hurt or humiliated like that, and I think I deserve an honest answer why the man who professes to love me won't build a future with me."

The girl's got spine, I'll give you that. One of the many things I admire about her.

"Is it because you don't want to get married again?" she prodded.

"No. I'd love to be able to marry you."

"Is it because you don't want a family?"

He hesitated, then I saw him shake his head no. "I do," he admitted.

They both fell silent, turning their heads toward the garden entrance when the sound of people walking by on the sidewalk, calling both their names, caught their attention. I definitely recognized Mulder's voice amongst the searchers. But neither of them gave away their hiding place, and I sure as hell didn't want to get busted for being there. How a six-two giant hulk of a man in a monkey suit, a flaming-haired woman in a blindingly white bridal gown, and a one-armed fugitive clad in a leather jacket managed to escape detection at that moment is one for the record books. Yet somehow we did. I like to think that it was a sign that all of this was supposed to happen. That it was meant to be.

When the voices died down, she continued her interrogation without a hitch in her stride. "Is it because you're worried about what people will say at the office?"

That earned her a wan smile. "I think you know I could give a damn what anyone thinks of me at work. I've burned far too many bridges to worry about my career at this stage anymore."

"Then what IS it?" she beseeched him, and I saw her hand lift to his face, gently brushing his cheek. Her voice was much softer when she spoke again. "Do you think you're too old for me, Walter?"

He'd been holding his posture very stiffly, but at her question and her caress, his shoulders sagged. Told you I knew the age gap bugged him. "You did ask me to give you away," he pointed out, his voice full of pain. "Like I was your father."

"Oh, honey...don't you know why I did that?"

A silent shake of his head.

Her hands were on either side of his face in a flash, and she squeezed his cheeks until he looked down at her. "I asked you because I wanted you to stop me from doing this. I wanted you to fight, to tell me I was crazy for marrying him on the rebound from you, that there was no way you would ever give me away to someone else. I didn't think you'd actually *agree* to it."

"Surprise," he murmured, smiling just a little, and she laughed.

"No kidding." Then she squeezed his face again. "Please, honey, just talk to me. Tell me why you keep insisting we can't have a future. I promise, if you tell me the truth and it makes sense, I'll drop the subject for good. But I need to know, before I run out of another church on another innocent man, because I want one last chance with you."

Another battle between his heart and his head raged for a long beat. I had no idea what was stopping him. Looking back, I almost wish his head had won the fight, because I didn't want to know the answer once I did.

"I can't marry you because *I* don't have a future," he said slowly, then picked up his pace as the words began to rush out of him, like water spilling over a broken dam. "How could I do that to you, to ask you to give up your job, your future, to marry me and have a family with me, if I can't be certain I'll be there to help you raise our children? How could I be so selfish and expect you to take that risk, knowing that...that my life expectancy is entirely dependent on the whims of a cold-blooded assassin? If I married you, and God knows I've considered it, Krycek would win, because I would do anything he asked in order to stay alive once you were my wife. And the stakes are too high to give him the leverage. We're so close to winning, you know we are, and that kind of advantage would only destroy all the work everyone has done on the X Files. The sacrifices everyone's made, the family members lost to the battle, all of it would be for nothing. I can't do it to you, I can't do it to me, and I can't do it to the work."

Guilt is not an emotion I allow in my psyche. I may not have known fully what I was getting myself into when I agreed to double-cross Mulder, but I've done what's been needed with a clear heart. I've made sacrifices, many of them, to do my job, and to me it's seemed like a even trade-off. My arm, my own family, my ability to have a normal life, in exchange for what I've done. I've lied, cheated, stolen, killed and I've been made to pay for it with my soul and my flesh. There seems to be a cosmic being that's keeping score. Whenever I do something bad, something bad always happens to me. Maybe not death or prison, except those short stints in the gulag and in Tunisia, but still, I've paid for my transgressions. So I've never felt guilty.

Until that moment. That's when I realized I did have a conscience after all, despite all evidence to the contrary. That is not a good thing to have in my line of work. Fucks you up in ways you would never imagine.

She was silent for a long time once he finished his explanation. While I grappled with my own emotions, trying to decide what the fuck I was supposed to do, she seemed to be doing the same thing. She made her decision much faster than me.

"I see you've given this a lot of thought. But you forgot one important detail," she said, and stepped a little closer. Now I could see both of their faces between the same parting of the leaves. She was smiling softly at him, and he was trying not to return the expression, his jaw muscles twitching as he fought to maintain his somber look.

"What's that?"

"You didn't ask me my opinion. If you had, I would have told you that being with you, even for a short while, is worth the risk." He whispered her name, but she put her fingers on his mouth to still his protests. "Do you remember the first time we made love, both of us pretending to be stupid drunk so we could do what we'd been denying for so long? I didn't think it would happen again, that in the morning you would come up with a wheelbarrow full of excuses why it was a bad idea to have a relationship with me. And I didn't care. I just knew that I loved you, and I wanted to be with you, even for just one night. Every morning I woke up in your arms after that first night felt like a gift. And every day since we've been apart has been torture. I miss you so much--"

"I miss you too," he croaked. "I hate seeing you in the office and knowing that I can't touch you. That you're off- limits again."

"I don't have to be," she replied, lifting her chin so their mouths were a breath apart. "I'm right here, Walter. And I'm not off-limits."

I probably should have looked away, given them a modicum of privacy, but you know, when you're already beating yourself up pretty badly, you might as well take your full punishment due. When I do self-flagellation, I do it right. So I watched them kiss, and forced myself to keep my eyes open during the entire scene.

Unlike Mulder, watching porn is not my thing. But this wasn't pornographic, this was...loving. Tender, and passionate, and, I hate to say it, romantic. Never would have guessed Walter Sergei Skinner had an ounce of romance in him, but I shouldn't have been surprised. Most good guys do, deep in their soul. And sadly enough, for all his flaws, he is a good man. Probably one of the best I've ever had the displeasure of knowing.

He held her face for a long moment, just drinking in the sight of her, then his mouth dipped and played over hers, kissing and nibbling, pressing a little more firmly before releasing again to drop a soft series of kisses against the edges of her mouth, murmuring his love for her with every touch. Then I saw her lips part, her tongue reach for his, and his reaction to the change in tempo was instantaneous. He pulled her against him at her waist, lifting her up so he could better reach her mouth. Her arms, already around his neck, tightened their hold, and I saw her slender fingers stroke his scalp as a soft moan came from somewhere between their joined lips. Who knows which one of them made the sound. Probably both.

After what seemed like an eternity, he gradually put her feet back on the ground. They were both panting when he pulled away. But she tugged his head back and kissed him again, hard, and this time I could tell it was definitely him that groaned. The noise came from so far deep in his chest it took a full minute to reach the outside air.

So tell me, gentle reader, what happened next? Knowing who I am, what I've done, what's at stake? Also knowing that the woman in his arms, who loves him beyond reason, is the same woman I've harbored a secret crush on for years?

I figure at this point in my tale, half of you are hissing and booing, yelling at your monitors because of course the "Rat-boy", as you tend to call me (yes, I've read your stories), doesn't have enough heart, enough humanity, to do the right thing. Many of you just rolled your eyes at that last sentence, harrumphing at the idea that I even know the meaning of the phrase "do the right thing".

What, you think we don't know about all of the fanfic websites devoted to us? Please. Well, maybe some of us don't, but I consider myself rather computer savvy, and I do spend an unhealthy amount of time alone. So I've cruised the information superhighway, and I've had a good couple of belly laughs at some of the scenarios you guys have conjured up. It's a little scary how close a few of you have gotten to the truth, too. I'm not going to name names, of course; some secrets still need to be kept under wraps. I will say, however, that being fucked up by the ass by Fox Mulder, or fucking him up the ass, is NOT a long-standing goal of mine. At least, not as literally as you guys seem to think. I like women. Always have, always will. Ask Marita, if you catch her on the message boards sometimes. I know she reads your stuff too. She's the one who told me where to find the best stories.

Anyways, so while half of you figure you know what I did, the other half probably has their hands pressed against their hearts, begging me to bring their favorite couple together at last. But not so fast, you die-hard romantics. Are you really sure you know who the players are in this scenario? I'll wait while you go back and reread the story again.

Are you ready to continue? Good. Now let's return to our regular broadcast already in progress.

By this point, the two star-crossed lovers were really going at it. Hands had joined in on the action on the other side of the foliage, and there was quite a bit of heavy panting occurring. I think they both had completely forgotten they were still in public, they were so wrapped up in each other. I have no idea how long it had been since the last time they'd made love, but based on the desperate grappling going on, I'd have to guess at least six or seven months, if not longer. Her veil was askew, although miraculously still attached to the back of her head, and his glasses appeared to be steamed up. A low hum was emitting from her throat as he ran his tongue and lips down it. So I needed to make my decision fast, before it did become an x-rated peep show. Again, I'm not like Mulder.

"Skinner."

I said his name loudly to get his attention as I slithered out of my hiding place to stand in front of them. She stood between the two of us, as his head popped up from the vicinity of her chest. In one graceful motion, as if he hadn't been about to make love to her against the rose trellis and was only waiting for someone to interrupt them, he stepped around her so she was behind him, and he shielded her from harm, namely me. Man, did he have those heroic gestures down to a science, or what?

His hand snaked back to the rear of his waistband, presumably going for his gun, but my hand emerged out of my jacket faster. I did have the element of surprise on my side, after all. And he was still a little out of breath, with a raging hard-on pressing against his fly.

"Take this," I offered, and he glanced down at my hand, his impotent anger pulsing the vein on the side of his temple, then he did a much slower, longer double-take. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation before him. While he did, I peeked around his shoulder to see a flushed face with eyes as big as saucers staring at me. I gave her the only honest facial expression I have, a broad smile which shows all my teeth, same damn one I gave her on his balcony years before, then focused my attention back to him.

"Consider it a wedding gift. For both of you," I continued, as I reached my hand out a little closer to his. Finally, he snatched the device from my hands and gave me a grim smile as he slid it into his pocket.

"I'm sure you've got another one somewhere," he growled, so I held my one hand up in supplication. Not a gesture I'm familiar with, but it seemed to be the right one to make.

"Whether you believe me or not, that's the only one in existence. Keep it in a safe place." I looked back at her, and her eyes were misty, the gratitude evident. "You make a beautiful bride, my dear. I hope the next wedding ends the way it's supposed to."

Her pretty melodic laugh ran up and down my spine. "I think it will. Thank you, Alex."

At her use of my first name, Skinner stiffened and took a step in my direction, but she gripped his inner elbow to stop him from following me as I walked away, leaving them alone to finish, or maybe 'to begin' is a better way to phrase it, in true privacy this time.

So now what do you think? Was this some wish-fulfillment fantasy, or did it really happen? Did I actually do it, or did I just crawl back down into the sewers with the rest of the rats, nanocytes device still in my pocket?

It took me a long time, and a lot of vodka, to accept the truth. Once I left the garden, got back to my car, and peeled off down the road, miraculously unseen by any of the remaining guests still milling about the church entrance with confused yet curious looks on their faces, I resisted checking my pocket to confirm it. It was like I was in a fugue state, unsure of the difference between reality and fantasy. It wasn't until I'd downed my third shot in less than twenty minutes that I worked up enough nerve to slide my hand into the leather crease on my right side.

Empty, except for a chewing gum wrapper, and my gun.

I ordered another drink, and lifted it in a silent toast to her, to them, to the only decent thing I've ever done in my life.

Have a happy life, Kimberly Cook, I thought, as the blessed liquor slid down my gullet.

Gotcha, didn't I?

I told you to re-read the story. But I wonder how many of you were still holding out for it to be Scully. As if. There is *no* way, no humanly possible way, for Scully to look at another man besides Mulder. And believe you me, that is not a relationship you want to get in the middle of. Both Skinner and I have the sense to steer clear of that tangled mess. And really, did you think Dana Scully would ever find it in her heart to give me brandy while I shivered in the cold on Skinner's balcony? To paraphrase that woman on that Survivor show, if I was lying in the middle of the road dying of thirst, Scully wouldn't give me a glass of water. But Kim?

Ah, Kimberly. She's easy to overlook, I suppose, but once she grabs your attention, she's got it completely. And she got both of ours. It's funny to me, in reading the various fanfics, how she never got most of yours. Watch the tapes again, and pay attention to the relationship between them next time. It's quiet, and it's subtle, but there's a definite connection between them. You'll probably never see the one between she and I, though. Most of it happened off- camera. There isn't a camera in the FBI cafeteria. I checked.

I heard they got married last month. Ran away and eloped. I'll have to start thinking of her as Kimberly Skinner now.

So now that she's ridden off into the sunset with him, it's time to tell the tale to one and all. Which is why I'm sitting in a different bar from the ending scene of my story, running a little spell-check before posting it on my website, (www.ihatemulder.com, if you'd like to check it out -- be warned, my grammar is atrocious) and contemplating a quickie with the woman openly staring at me from the other end of the room. I can tell from here, she's the kind who lusts after the bad boy. And she's quite a looker, I have to tell you. Love that red hair spilling over her shoulders. Maybe she's further proof of my cosmic scorekeeper theory. I did do something nice for a change, didn't I?

Hi ho Silver, away.