Title:  Ecchymosis
Author: Philiater
Category: Scully/Skinner, Doggett/Reyes, MSR implied, Angst
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers:  Everything up to Sunshine Days, season 9.
Feedback:  philiater1@yahoo.com.  All is appreciated, but
MSR flamers please torment someone else. I'm a lost cause.

Ecchymosis (ek-i-mo´sis)--A purplish patch caused by
extravasation of blood into the skin, differing from
petechiae only in size (larger than 3 mm diameter). Similar
to a bruise.                                               
  (Stedman's Medical Dictionary)
 
Keleka+beta=enormous help


Ecchymosis

I have a razor thin streak of a self-destructive rebel in
me.  I've always known about it, always known it lurked
just below the surface of my pristine exterior.  All good
girls have them, must have them for balance; light and
dark, good and evil, prophecy and despair.

I don't indulge in it.  Just knowing it's there is enough
for me.  Knowing I could act on it if I truly wanted to; if
I wanted to lose myself in a haze of alcohol, sex, or
stupidity.

The closest I came to real indulgence was the tattoo. 
It's in a spot no one can see if I have clothes on.  And I
always seem to have my clothes on.

A respected medical journal actually published a study
that proved individuals with tattoos engage in risky
behavior: gang members, motorcycle enthusiasts, Frat boys,
and military personnel.  And maybe one small FBI
pathologist.

All of life is cyclic.  Circles within circles within
larger circles. Even clocks mark out our lives in endless
revolutions of their faces. My tattoo is a circle.  The
ouroboros.

 I felt now, almost five years later that the 'tattoo'
cycle had come around again, or at least the feelings that
drove me to do it.

I felt the urge before, but very carefully ignored it,
because there are other truths at work in our lives.  
People cross my autopsy table who led perfect lives; no
alcohol, drugs or smoking.  They ate tofu burgers, jogged
regularly, and recycled to save the planet.  They did
everything right, but had the misfortune to be run over by
the garbage truck while trying to retrieve their morning
paper. 

 And then there were others who did everything you're not
supposed to do and more.  They smoked like chimneys, ate
greasy food, and slept with people they wouldn't speak to
on the street.  They died of old age in bed, found after
being gnawed on by the family dog. But they are the
exceptions.

I belong to the former group of people.  The night I
decided to decorate my skin I picked the one man in the
world with a demonically possessed tattoo.  It whispered to
him to do unspeakable things.  I became a target of those
whispers, and an x-file myself.  After that most of my self-
destructiveness centered on Mulder and his quest for the
truth.  I can't remember the last time I did something
strictly for myself that did not involve him, the X-files,
or the FBI.  

As I sat in my apartment, I felt a profound sense of
loneliness.  Mulder was in hiding, William was gone, and
Doggett had formed a close bond with his new partner,
Monica.  They reminded me of Mulder and me when we first
started out.  They bicker with good natured tolerance and I
sense more is going on than they are willing to admit even
to themselves. They make me feel old.

So what do I do now?  Get another tattoo?  Pick someone up
in a bar?  No, I don't think so. Rebellion is called for. 
A safe bit of self-destruction, if such a thing exists.

An idea forms in my head and I begin to plan.  For a week
I think about this plan, write it down on paper, and
calculate the risk-versus-benefit ratio of it. Finally I
decide to just do it.  Planning takes all the joy and
spontaneity out of it.  I need joy.  I need spontaneity.

I tell Quantico I am finally taking a vacation, pack my
bags, and leave on a clear, sunny day.  Here's to coming
full circle.


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

The train leaves ahead of schedule, and a tiny surge of
excitement fills me. The decision to see America by rail
hardly seems risky or original, but each day it will take
me a little further from Washington.  A little further from
the utterly strange life I lead and the odd assortment of
people I associate with.

I can pretend to be normal.  I can tell my traveling
companions that my name is Gracie, a secretary from
Portage, Indiana.  I can tell them I've saved a long time
for this vacation and that my Aunt Ida is waiting for me in
Modesto, California. And they will believe it. The irony
that most people try to escape normalcy while I crave it
was not lost on me.  It only solidifies my belief that I
hadn't known what 'normal' was for a very long time.

I think of medical school and a story I'd nearly forgotten.


"We're never going to be normal Dana."

That's what my best friend in medical school said to me. 
It became my mantra, a curse, a blessing, a destiny.

Her name was Erin, and she was the prettiest girl in the
class.  She was also the smartest, vying with Andy Emmett
for the number one position.  She was every thing I always
wanted to be and more.  Every guy was in love with her, but
she was already engaged to an architect in California. 
There seemed to be nothing she couldn't do and do better
than anyone else. Including me.

Towards the end of school, we were studying in our room
for finals and were too tired to do much of anything.  She
was quizzing me on infectious agents and came across
Salmonella. Fatigue and sleep deprivation had finally taken
their toll.

"Who are they?"

We giggled helplessly at the tired old joke.  When it
seemed that we had finally gotten control of ourselves, a
fresh round of laughter would seize us, and we finally gave
up for the night.

"Do you ever just want to be normal?"  I asked her when we
lay spent on our beds.

"Normal?  We're never going to be normal."

I frowned.  "Why not?"

She fixed me with a look I'd come to know as the 'you-
better-listen-because-I'm-only-going-to say-this-once.' 

"Because we're what scare people the most:  We're smart,
good looking, and not afraid to show it.  That causes women
to be jealous and men to be afraid and they both tend to
hate you for it."

I'd felt some of that before, at the university.  I lost a
lot of so-called friends and potential dates because of it.
But I couldn't change who I was any more than I could
change the natural color of my hair.  I was what I was.

"Have you ever had the urge to just chuck all this and get
married?  You know, settle down with a litter of kids, go
to PTA meetings and send your husband off to work?" I asked
her with some wistful reluctance.

"All the time!"  She laughed and I was very surprised to
hear her say it.  "But you know we'd never truly be happy
that way."  

"I know.  It doesn't keep me from wishing for it from time
to time though." I wonder how many other women have the
same urge.  I had no idea how restrictive my life would
become.  Still is.  So I stay on the train and feel excited.

I have finally given myself a chance to do something
entirely on my own. No Mulder, FBI or family to tell me
what to do.  True independence. And I can do whatever I
like whenever I like without their censure.

I should have known it was a pipe dream.

On the second night the train derails and crashes near a
rural town in Illinois.

Everyone was fast asleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of
the wheels as they clacked along the smooth rails.  No sign
of danger preceded the accident.  The night was clear
without a hint of bad weather.  Our rapid progress was
expected to continue unabated, and we were due to arrive in
Chicago before the morning rush hour.

I wake to the sound of screaming and the coach's metal
hull being crushed like a beer can. I'm tossed head over
heels in the dark as everyone and everything in my
compartment slides down a dirt embankment. When I finally
came to a stop, I lie on my back staring up at the stars.

I hurt everywhere.  My body refuses to cooperate when I
struggle to sit up.  I can't seem to coordinate my limbs,
and finally give up trying.  The voices of people calling
for help float across the enormous corn field the crumpled
remains of the train have come to rest in.  I realize I'd
been thrown further from the main train than I everyone
else. I am alone. My mind tries to process the idea that we
have crashed, but I can't think clearly as I sink into
shock.

Everything is a blur after that.  Scattered sounds of
shouting, sirens and voices invade my semi-conscious mind. 
The sound of people stomping through the cornstalks came
closer and then further away. I am too weak to call out for
help myself, and a tiny shard of fear that I won't be found
pierces my mind. All the while I can see the cold
flickering of starlight above me.  The crazy thought that
you can't see this many stars in the city flits across my
mind.  I make a furtive wish when I se the sparkling tail
of a shooting star.

Please let someone find me.  I don't want to die.

I think of Mulder, Doggett, Reyes, Skinner, and William. 
Don't think of William I keep telling myself, but I can't
seem to stop. Trying to stay awake is tiring so I finally
give in and allow total blackness to envelop me.


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

I wake up on a hard ER gurney in a beige hallway
somewhere.  The slow drip of an IV line is the first thing
I see.  They don't use IVs on dead people, so I must be
alive. When I struggle into a sitting position, every
muscle screams in protest.  A sharp pain suddenly shoots
across my back causing me to cry out.

Looking around I see other injured people on carts,
chairs, and even the floor.  Some are dead, their shrouded
forms motionless under bloodstained sheets.  I've
apparently been triaged into an area of the 'non-critical,'
which means those with injuries that were not immediately
life threatening or those who were dead.
 
I look around for a doctor or nurse to ask what was going
on and if I could help.  My eyes meet the haunted ones of a
small child.  She can't have been more than three years
old.  The woman who holds her rocks back and forth in a
monotonous journey to insanity. I could be the woman, but I
feel like the child.

When it becomes apparent no one is going to come anytime
soon, I lie back down.  I doze fitfully off and on,
dreaming of alien bounty hunters and desert sand storms.
Mulder appears before me trying to say something, but the
wind carries his voice away.  Chasing the apparition, I
sink into the sand and the wind covers me over. Fearing
suffocation, I claw at the dry grains to no avail.  I try
to scream as sand fills my eyes, ears and mouth.  Suddenly
I hear the sound of a large dog barking nearby.  Why is a
dog here in the desert?

Coming awake I realize it is a man's voice barking.  There
is something vaguely familiar about the voice, and
unsettling in its intensity.  And then my slowed thought
processes finally kick in and a single word is emblazoned
on my mind.  Skinner.

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

Skinner has come for me.  Will he be angry that I had run
away?  Since I began teaching at Quantico, I have seen very
little of him. The severing of our relationship with the X-
files was nearly complete.  Doggett and Reyes brought me
back in a few times, and Skinner not at all.  

I miss him.  In spite of his renewed surly demeanor around
me, I really miss him.  I even miss sitting across from him
with Mulder while he berated us about---anything. Now a
familiar knot of fear is forming when I hear his voice.  Is
his anger directed at me or someone else?

A cool hand touches my face.  I look into the worried eyes
of my former boss and manage a bruised smile.

"Hello, sir"

"Hello, Scully" he says gently. "Has a doctor even seen
you yet?"

"I…I don't remember whether one did or not."

The corners of his mouth turn down into a paper-thin line.
"We'll just see about that."

He turns abruptly away and strides down the hall with his
black trench coat billowing out behind him; the rage of an
avenging angel.  I almost feel sorry for the doctor.

A few minutes later, true to his word, Skinner produces a
doctor.  I sit up with Skinner's help and look into a pair
of ancient blue eyes.  His wild white hair framed a face
deeply patterned with wrinkles, and I don't think I've ever
seen anyone so old still in practice.

He held out a gnarled hand to shake mine.  "Hello young
lady.  Your husband here tells me you're in need of some
medical assistance."

Young lady?  HUSBAND?  I shoot Skinner a look, but he is
carefully studying a speck on the floor.  I turn back to
the doctor.  I think he looks in more need of medical
assistance than I did.

"My name is Dr. Wagner. I'm retired, but they called me
out to help.  Such a terrible shame."  He holds his gnarled
hand out and I take it gently, afraid I will crush him if I
shake it too hard.  His grasp is surprisingly strong. 

I smile and he begins a slow examination.  He seems to
find all the places that hurt the most and I yelp in pain
more than once.  Skinner's frown deepens when he hears me,
but he doesn't interfere.  Dr. Wagner seems oblivious to
any intimidation Skinner is trying to convey.

Finally finishing, he says, "Mr. Skinner, may I speak to
you a moment?"

This time Skinner shoots me the look and I watch them walk
down the hall. You wanted to be my husband I think; now you
have to pay the piper.  Evidently Dr. Wagner is from the
old school of thinking that the husband needs to take care
of the wife. I can almost hear him say that I shouldn't
have to worry my pretty little head about it.

I watch as he makes his points to Skinner.  Dr. Wagner is
quite animated.  He shakes his finger reproachfully and
then starts writing on a chart. Handing the paper to
Skinner he punches each point with his finger. A long
series of exchanges ensues where Wagner talks and Skinner
nods his head furiously in agreement. Finally Skinner signs
the chart and Dr. Wagner shakes his hand, and hands a copy
along with a business card.  Skinner watches the elderly
doctor shuffle back to the main ER room to lend assistance.

Skinner strides back down the hall frowning deeply at the
paper in his hands. He looks at me sheepishly.

"Well, what are your instructions?"  I ask with suppressed
humor.

He hands me the sheet of paper as an explanation.  Dr.
Wagner had put down that I have numerous contusions,
abrasions, and crush-like injuries.  Skinner is to make
sure I take analgesics, drink plenty of water, and that my
urine output does not drop.  I am in danger of developing
rhabdomyolysis and my kidneys are in jeopardy of shutting
down from it. I know what this means, but Skinner was
obviously lost.

The instructions go on to say he will discharge me only if
I stayed at his nephew's motel in town so he can drop by to
do a house call on me.  Otherwise, I will have to stay in
the cramped hall until I can be transferred to another
hospital for observation.

When I am finished I look up at Skinner's stricken face. 
He is trapped and knew it.  I almost feel sorry for him. 
The prospect of staying in the hallway for a number of days
holds no appeal for me and I think Skinner is far less
excited by the prospect as well.

"What do you want to do?" I ask quietly.

"He's calling his nephew now."

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



The motel is of the Motel 6 variety.  Clean, small, and
scarce on amenities.  Dr. Wagner's nephew is a pleasant man
and a chatterbox.  

"My uncle Henry said to make sure you got a room, and to
forget about the press and police outside.  You got the
last one.  I could have booked these rooms ten times over
and for twice as much.  It's a pity what happened.  This
town will never be the same."

Skinner remains silent through the litany, nodding in
agreement to hurry the man along.  I lean into his arm as
exhaustion threatens again.  He puts an arm around me and I
lean more fully into his side.

"I think my wife is tired," Skinner says with neutrality.

The motel proprietor shoves a guest book at Skinner.  "All
you have to do is sign in."

Skinner frowns so deeply I think his face will crack.  He
looks at me and I grin like an idiot.

"Just sign us in, honey, so we can go to bed."  I must
admit I am rather enjoying this. When Mulder and I
pretended to be married I was the target of endless sexual
innuendos.  I wonder how Skinner would react to such
treatment.

He writes 'Mr. and Mrs. W. Skinner.'  He grabs the key and
we walk out to the car.  

"I don't have a change of clothes with me.  My suitcase is
still with the train."

Skinner becomes thoughtful.  "It's too late to buy
anythingcg .  I have an extra t-shirt you can wear to…uh
sleep in."

There is still the problem of clean underwear.  I've been
in my present clothing for 24 hours. There is nothing to be
done.  

The room is very small and contains one very small bed. 
Skinner and I avoid looking at one other.  He has a small
suitcase in his hand that he placed on the luggage holder.

"I need to take a bath" I say quietly. I want to soak away
the dirt and despair, not just shower it away.

Skinner makes a noise of consent and busied himself
unpacking.

Once inside the bathroom, I strip everything off.  I throw
my ruined pajamas in the corner and fill the porcelain sink
with hot water and motel shampoo.  I put my panties in the
sink and draw myself the hottest bath I could stand.  I
sink gratefully but painfully in to the water and scrub
every inch of my flesh and hair.  The water turns an ugly
brown so I drained it and refilled the tub. While it is
filling, I brush my teeth with a washcloth and toothpaste I
found in a drawer.

I hang my panties over a small fan in the bathroom to dry.
I should feel guilty for using so much water and time.  I'm
sure Skinner is hot and dirty too, but I need a good soak
to loosen my bruised muscles.

I must have dozed off because there is a persistent
knocking on the door.

"Scully?"  Skinner's voice sounds worried through the door.

"Sorry.  I'll be right out."  The water is tepid now. 
Quickly exiting the tub, I grab my underwear to put on and
wrapped a towel around me.  As small as I am, the white
motel towels are smaller.  I wonder how a man like Skinner
can get these tiny, rough towels around his muscular
middle.  I shake my head to clear it.  That is decidedly
dangerous territory.

Cautiously I open the door a crack and peer out.  Skinner
is no where in sight.  Ever the gentleman, he must have
left the room to give me some privacy.  An over-sized man's
t-shirt is neatly folded on the bed for me.  

I let the towel drop and pick up the t-shirt.  That is
when I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror.  Bruises
cover at least half my body.  My back is especially
affected with a purple patch extending from one shoulder to
the other.

I spend too much time looking at the bruises because I
hear a key rattle in the lock.  The t-shirt is half-way on
when Skinner opens the door.

He emits a startled "Oh" before shutting the door and
turning his back.  I know he got a good look at my breasts
before I managed to cover them.  Even though I had my back
turned, I forgot about the dresser mirror. For a split
second I saw his expression reflected. When I turn to tell
him it was ok, I see how red the back of his neck and ears
are.  

"Um, you can turn around now, sir."  He complies, but
won't meet my eyes. "Would you like to take a shower now?" 
My attempt to ignore the embarrassing situation we are now
in seems to have no effect on him.  He mumbles something
unintelligible and disappears into the bathroom.  After a
minute I hear water running in the shower.

I open drawers looking for a hair dryer when I remember
Skinner wouldn't have one.  A drawer with toiletries
catches my eye.  Deodorant, tooth paste, razor, and
aftershave.  The contents are generic and sparse, but a
sudden feeling of invading Skinner's privacy weaves its way
into my thoughts.  There is something so intimate about
viewing the contents of that drawer; it makes him seem a
little more human. Even ordinary.

I sit heavily on the bed.  I'd taken it for granted when
he came for me.   He'd done it so many times before, and at
a high cost to himself, both professionally and personally.
He isn't my boss anymore so there is no reason beyond
simple caring that brought him here.

I feel a sudden sadness for him.  As lonely as I've felt
this year, I still have my family and the possibility of
Mulder's return. Since Sharon's death, I don't think he had
anyone but Mulder and me.  A combination of stress,
fatigue, and my wandering thoughts causes me to tear up.  

I'd hated my life, but there were people on that train who
would take it willingly.    People that did not have the
second chance I now have.  I bury my face in my hands and
cry.  I cry for myself, for Mulder, for William, and for
Skinner. I cry for what I've lost, and what I could have
lost.

I don't hear the bathroom door open, or Skinner's voice
calling my name.  I dimly feel his weight ease onto the
bed.  He puts his arms around me and pulls me close.  I
bury my face in his chest; his skin is warm with baby soft,
fine hair that brushes against my cheek.

He lets me cry and vent all my anger, anguish, and pain
against his solid flesh.  I tell him of my sorrow over
losing Mulder and William, the people on the train, and
waiting to die in the starlit cornfield.

"I was so alone."  I mourn against him.

"No. As long as I live you'll never be alone."   He says
it with such quiet dignity and firmness I believe every
word.

I lean back to search his eyes.  "As long as I'm alive
you're not alone either."  I touch his face and it seems to
crack into a thousand pieces.

"Scully…"  He rasps my name; so much emotion buried in
that one word.

The next thing I know, I'm kissing him.  I feel a deep
hunger I can't describe.  After knowing him for almost nine
years, and feeling an attraction never acted on, it should
feel strange to do so now.  But it doesn't.

I don't want to think about it.  And I remember the desire
that brought me to this place: to have joy, to have
spontaneity. I am determined to have it now.

His mouth is so soft, the edges so smooth I feel lost. 
His tongue touches mine to forge his first intimate
invasion of me. I scramble into his lap, our mouths still
connected; afraid he will stop.

I feel his hands, the skin roughened by time and wear,
slide up my arms.  He seems to hesitate.  

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispers softly.

I take his hands and place them over my breasts. He takes
in a startled breath.  I smile.

"They're the only part of my body not bruised." 

Very gently he caresses me through the cotton shirt.  Even
this soft touch causes the nipples to tighten.

"Too gentle.  Too gentle."   I whisper between kisses.  

In answer, he pulls my shirt up and suckles me tenderly. 
Pure pleasure shoots up my spine and I can feel myself
getting wet when I look down to watch him do it. This
large, tough-as-nails man is treating me with breathtaking
sweetness. The tanned skin of his head is smooth beneath my
hands as I caress him. I arch my back in response to what
his mouth is doing, but cry out, feeling pain in my
traumatized muscles. 

Skinner stops abruptly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, No.  Just forgot I was sore."  He acts like he put
the bruises there himself.

"Do you want to stop?"

"No."  I do not want to stop.  "We'll just take it easy."

"Then let me do the work," he says softly.  

I smile with gratitude.  Helping me had always seemed to
give him a sense of purpose in life.  And he will do this
for me now.  I am deeply touched by his chivalry.

He lays me gently on my back and removes the t shirt and
panties.  Silently, I thank my mother for ingraining me
with the habit of always having clean underwear.  He stands
back as if admiring his handy work.

"You are so beautiful, Scully."  His voice holds a deep
reverence that is embarrassing.

I watch him strip, pulling his blue pajama bottoms and
briefs off in one smooth motion.  He lies beside me and
leans over to kiss me.  Slowly he builds the momentum again
with progressively deeper kisses then moves down my neck to
my breasts.  

"Soft, so soft," he murmurs against my skin.  

He moves lower still, brushing his lips along my belly and
sides.  He nudges my legs apart and I hold my breath when
his tongue invades me.

The sensation causes me to slide up, once again
stimulating the pain receptors of my back.

"Don't stop," I panted, before he could ask, but his next
question was a far more practical one.

"How do you want to do this Scully?"

I hadn't thought of position.  I run the various ones I
know through my mind. Only one seems to hold the prospect
of inducing the least amount of pain. 

"I think, ---on my hands and knees."

He nods in understanding, and helps me to turn over.  This
isn't exactly the way I wanted to make love with Skinner
for the first time, but I know he'll stop altogether if he
causes me any pain.

He strokes my back to help me relax into his touch.  He
makes soothing noises as he traces the irregular patterns
of the bruising on my shoulders down to the small of my
lower back. Tongue and mouth follow the traces.

Very gently, he raises me up on my knees, and strokes
slowly between my legs.  The wetness already there is met
by more as I am warmed by his hand.  My small whimpers of
pleasure increase in frequency and intensity.

He leans close, kisses my shoulder, and whispers in my
ear.  "Are you ready now?"

"YES," I answer immediately.

I feel him move behind me, his thighs against mine, and I
brace myself for the first thrust. Skinner surprises me
again by entering me slowly; pushing by small degrees until
he is all the way in.  I put a hand back to still his
movements.  There is something unbearably pleasurable about
that first penetration.  I want to savor the moment; save
the sensation to imprint it on my memory. I exhale a long
breath filled with the sound of satisfaction.

"Ummmmmmmmmm."

Skinner makes a strangled sound in response, and I know he
is desperate to move.  I take my hand away and sink down on
my chest; give up control to him.

He places his hands on my hips and thrusts slowly.

"All right?" 

All I can do is nod furiously, as he increases the speed.

I forget all about where I am, who I am, or how I got
here.  I only know there is Skinner, myself, and this
moment.  He moves a hand forward and brushes my clit in
time with his movements.  That is all it takes to send me
over the edge into an orgasm that makes me forget all about
any pain I could have possibly felt.

Skinner joins me a few thrusts later, roaring with
delight.  The entire motel has to have heard him.  I don't
care.

I collapse forward and he follows me down, covers my body
with his.  The sweat on his torso slicks along my back. 
For a several heartbeats neither one of us can move; our
breathing sounds harsh in the small room.

Skinner turns over at last, taking me with him.  I curl
into his side and fell asleep within seconds. I know now
that my solitary existence was over.    

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

I feel a persistent pounding vibrate through my body I am
determined to ignore.  It finally stops and I bury myself
further into the warm body next to me.  I dimly register
that it is Skinner next to me, his belly even with my nose.
I have a habit of winding up far under the covers curled
into a ball during sleep.  It drove my mother crazy when I
was a child because she was sure I would smother some day.
Often the only evidence that someone was in the bed was a
lump in the rumpled bedding.

Skinner shifts at the sound too, but settles himself back
against me.  Half awake, I plant soft kisses on his belly,
and move lower as I go. He groans half asleep himself. 
Just as I am 'getting to the good part' I hear the door
open. 

Simultaneous "Sirs" and "Agent Scullys?" echo in the room.
Agents Reyes and Doggett are suddenly invading the room.

I freeze in place, my mouth still touching Skinner's
navel, wondering what to do next.

"We heard about the train accident Agent Scully was
involved in and came out as soon as we could.  We met Dr.
Wagner at the hospital and he said 'Mrs. Skinner' was doing
just fine."  There is more than a trace of humor in Agent
Doggett's voice when he speaks.

Agent Reyes chimes in.  "Yes.  Dr. Wagner said Mr. and
Mrs. Skinner were staying at his nephew's motel.  He very
generously offered to allow us to accompany him on his
house call to 'Mrs. Skinner."  Blatant amusement now.

Dr. Wagner's frail, innocent voice now drifts to me.
"Where is Mrs. Skinner?"

"Yes. Where IS Mrs. Skinner, sir?" Doggett is enjoying
this far too much.  I hear Skinner clear his throat
noisily.  

"May I ask just why you felt it necessary to barge in here
without knocking first?"  Skinner is trying to bully his
way past the embarrassing situation.

"We did.  There was no answer, so we got the manager to
open up for us."  Reyes is so cheerful now.

I dimly remember the pounding a few minutes ago and decide
it hadn't been my head, but the door.

"Oh."  Skinner is at a loss for words.

Dr. Wagner is persistent in his quest.  "Is Mrs. Skinner
out?"

I have a decision to make.  I can keep hiding like a
coward and hope Skinner can get them out of the room.  Or I
can be brave, pull the covers back, and reveal myself to
them.  I choose cowardice.

I feel Skinner shift uncomfortably in the bed and he
nudges me pointedly with his knee.  In answer I licked his
abdomen.  He quivers and makes a strangled noise that he
tries to hide by changing it into a cough.

"Mr. Skinner?"

I decide poor Skinner has had enough and pulled the covers
down.  "Mrs. Skinner is right here and doing just fine."

The looks on John's and Monica's faces are priceless.  A
mixture of surprise, plain horror, and mirth play out in
rapid succession.

Dr. Wagner, oblivious to shock in the room shuffles
forward.  "Ah, good.  May I exam you now Mrs. Skinner?"
 
Skinner and I are buck naked under the sheets.  I shoot
him a wide-eyed look.

Very calmly, but firmly he speaks to our captive audience.
"If you will all kindly step out of our room for a few
moments, I believe we can oblige Dr Wagner."

His face is hard, and angry.  I wonder if I, too, am a
recipient of that anger.

"NOW."  This time his voice booms inside the tiny room and
all three scramble out the door. He casts his eyes toward
me and I burst out laughing.

"You could've given Dr. Wagner a heart attack and then
what would we do?"

"More of this, Mrs. Skinner."  He starts kissing me and I
forget all about trains, ancient doctors, and prying
agents.  

I am going to be just fine.

End