"O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!"

~ Wm. Shakespeare

Part 2: Act of Contrition
by J. Morningstar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scully was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes." He growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That worried him. She was changing her strategy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At length, she was able to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Skinner, for God's sakes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He told himself he didn't care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought was both exhilarating and alarming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face softened. "Mulder?"

"Oh yeah. Big time."

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

She nodded. Maybe. Someday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agent Scully."

"Yes, Sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He simply nodded in response. Words escaped him.

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

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

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

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

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

The man was CGB Spender.

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