Standing on the terrace of his apartment, Skinner took a deep breath of the warm fragrant air. He could smell Spring, a distant promise of life emerging from what had seemed for so long like death. It was a good smell, and he inhaled it with his eyes closed, his face calm, relaxed. He had worked out earlier, swimming for an hour in the lukewarm pool, and afterwards played a game of handball with a young woman who he let beat him twice. She was a pretty girl, a college student named Jessica. After the game she had asked him out for a drink, and he had accepted. They had sat in the bar of the health club and nursed virgin Pina Coladas, and she had flirted with him and he had enjoyed it. But after some desultory sparring, they had gone their separate ways. Inside, behind the glass doors, his phone rang. He ignored it, letting the machine pick up the message, and took a sip of his drink. Straight Scotch, no ice. A good solid taste.

There was a certain satisfaction in knowing he could have Scully in bed again whenever he wanted. Well, that might not be entirely true. He did know the secrets of her body better than she did herself, and seduction would not be a problem. Well, that might not be entirely true, either. It would be a big problem for both of them. Whatever happened next, he could not be the one to initiate it. The ball was in Scully's court now, and although it was a game he was more than willing to let her win, he suspected she would choose not to play.

(All right, goddamn it, admit it; you're never going to get your hands on her again.) He was sorry now he'd let her go to Texas. He had forgotten how she hated to fly until Mulder called him and told him they were driving down from Dallas to Houston. He just hated the idea of her being afraid of anything he couldn't control. Would Mulder even think to hold her hand on the plane? Probably not. She had to be dying before Mulder would hold her hand.

All this time he had misinterpreted Mulder's behavior towards Scully as a kind of blindness. Now, because he felt much the same way himself, he realized why Mulder was so reluctant to gaze for long into her eyes, or to make the natural gestures of comfort and affection. It was only a small step from kissing her cheek to kissing her lips, and then the urge to make her open her mouth for more was too much for any mortal man to withstand. He knew all too well how slippery that slope was.

Damn that woman anyway. He was glad for his loose sweat pants, but really annoyed by the semi-erect state his thoughts had brought him to.

One minute his fantasies were brutal: he wanted to master her, to force her to her knees and make her suck his cock, to throw her on the bed and fuck her until she couldn't walk. But the next minute his thoughts turned to sticky sweet pap,to cuddling her like a puppy and rocking her to sleep in his arms. Women. Who the hell thought THEM up?

What worried him, a little, was the fact that he wasn't really that horny these days. He had never been much of one for casual sex, though from time to time a kind of savage hunger had driven him to prowl like a tomcat for nothing more than willing flesh. Not so much anymore. Hell, never anymore. When he was with Sharon he had never even considered cheating on her. A man made a vow, he kept it. End of story. But above and beyond that, Sharon had satisfied most of his needs most of the time. He hoped he had satisfied hers. There had been that long bad patch between them, but the threat of divorce had brought him to his knees. Thank God. If she'd died before he surrendered to her...

Scully was so different from Sharon. In some ways less mature, in others, wiser. Still, his feelings for her weren't that different than those he'd had for his wife, especially in the beginning. Hot for her all the time, almost to the point of obsession, but under the passion, something deep and abiding. In a world that he saw as increasingly polarized between good and evil, Scully seemed to shine like a light. And it made him a better man to be with her.

In theory. He was her boss. He would make her toe the line at work. How could sex not cross over into their professional relationship, corrupting her respect for his authority? How could their personal relationship not affect his judgment when he had to send her out on a case?

(You just screwed the girl, old son. Hardly a personal relationship. Once because she was too drugged to fight you, and heartbroken over another man. Once because, face it, you bullied her into it. And once, once, once...) He took another sip of the Scotch, feeling the silky warmth of it slide down his throat.

Once because she wanted to.

(Once because I taught our little Agent Scully, she of the fiery red hair and heavenly blue eyes, some of the finer points of her own sexuality, and those eyes looked right into mine with desire for ME. And it was MY name she called, and my body she craved.)

He lost his train of thought for awhile, dragged it back on track again. Think of something dull, deadly dull. Goodman and Vale. How could those two agents possibly spend so much on their routine assignments? They were so far over budget now he was considering disciplinary action. He had people to answer to just like they did, and yet when he confronted them with their outrageous expense accounts they sulked like children being denied a bigger allowance. They glared at him resentfully, just short of disrespect.

Damn short of it, he thought grimly. That's the problem with this job. You're nobody's friend. Nobody's friend, and nobody's lover. Between the time he had first gripped Scully's arms to pull her against him and the moment she climbed out of bed to head for the bathroom, he must have committed at least a dozen actionable offenses.

The phone rang again, but he only twitched his lips in annoyance.

How could he have forgotten that Scully was afraid of flying until Mulder had called him from Dallas to tell him they were taking a rental car down? Not to save money, certainly, though their travel budget and overall expenses were the lowest in the department, due at least in part to Mulder's absolute indifference to his surroundings.

An image came to his mind of Mulder and Scully riding together in a car for hours and hours. Did she drive? Or did she sleep in her seat the way she slept in bed, her palms folded under her cheek like a little girl saying a prayer? Did she lean against Mulder's shoulder so he could smell her hair and maybe slide his arm around her, maybe casually brush his hand against her...

(Walter, my man, knock this shit off. Mulder doesn't have the balls to jump Scully. You know it, he knows it, she knows it.)

(And yet God help me I envy every minute he's with her.)

He finished the Scotch in a quick gulp. He was sorry he'd sent her to Texas. Or allowed Mulder to drag her off there. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, anything to get some distance between them. He'd gladly approved Mulder's request to investigate a lead on some missing persons; it was an opportunity to make a diplomatic gesture to Senator Young, to show him the Bureau was deeply concerned, and he was personally sending two of his highest solve-rate agents to help.

But hell, it was all politics. People with power needed to keep their kids on leashes. If the girl didn't want to be found, she was probably not going to be found. He'd scanned the file, and it looked like a runaway to him. Still, it was a Potential Situation, because of the Senator's position in government, his public image. The Houston Police were probably just as capable as the field agents down there, and Young had no doubt hired a shitload of private detectives to search for his daughter night and day. So it was just a gesture, and Mulder had wanted to make it into an X-file, so what the hell. Truth be told, he didn't much like reading Mulder's requisitions too closely.

When the phone started ringing again, he cursed and went back into his apartment.

His caller ID reflected "Unknown Name, Unknown Number," usually the signal of the telemarketer.

But a moment after he barked "Skinner" into the receiver, his attitude changed.

He stood at attention, listening, frowning. Then he said, "Yes, sir, I understand," and hung up.

Well, this was an interesting turn. Apparently the Director owed Senator Young some sort of political favor. Skinner had just been commended for having the good sense to send his own people down to help search for the Senator's daughter. We want this one to have your personal attention, if you understand what I mean.

And warned that they had better find out what happened to her.

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