Chris slinked into the side entrance of the Persian nightclub at the Omni Hotel downtown. Before the commencement of the evening's summit schedule, the group had decided to meet at the bar for cocktails. Sticky heat crept and bubbled up his neck from the constrictive collar of his black wool suit as he meandered through crowds of Washington's elite, all of them peeved at having to step aside to let him through. The overpriced tailored suites gave them away—politicians and lawyers and executives who made entire careers out of lies, proudly displaying beautiful trophy wives on their arms while the mistresses waited upstairs.

His breath shortened when he saw the group at a table in the corner, pretending to admire the panoramic view of the Potomac while they secretly discussed other matters. An impulse told him to leave, but he knew he would have to face it eventually—face him eventually. In another stall for time, Chris whirled on his heels in the opposite direction to get a martini from the bar. He'd barely finished speaking his order when someone slid into the stool beside him.

"You're late, Chris. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show. Some of the guys said you were still in Africa, or wherever the hell they sent you," Bill toyed with the cherry in his Manhattan while he spoke casually.

"I just got back today, actually," Chris replied cryptically, trying not to make it obvious that he was avoiding eye contact.

"Wow, serious jetlag. You must be having a tough time."

"Yes, I am. Hopefully I'll be back to a normal schedule in a day or two…So, how have you been?"

"Fine, I suppose. You know, the service time is nothing spectacular. I helped with logistics training, basics, and conditioning mostly, a couple of special ops, but nothing major. Glad to have it over with for another year. Aren't you up next time?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Listen," Bill said, lowering his voice and scooting his stool closer to Chris, "Did you have a chance to make it up to the Vineyard like we talked about?"

"I did but only briefly. Teena and I talked a bit over tea, and then I left immediately to begin my mission."

"Well? What did you talk about?"

"I did most of the talking. I fed her a story about you and I having important positions protecting national security, and I said that we can't talk about it, but that we have everyone's safety in mind. I mentioned that sometimes you are unable to tell her specifically where you're going but that she shouldn't worry. And that was about it."

"What did she say?"

"She said she felt better about everything. She'd just been worried about you, since she didn't know where you were or why you would lie."

"So she bought it?"

"She seemed to."

"Good. Thanks, Chris. I'm sure that'll help—her hearing it from someone else…I've missed her. I tried sending letters whenever I could, but she never responded. Maybe she didn't get them, who knows? Anyway, I haven't even had a chance to go home yet, so I'm pretty eager to finish these conferences. Do you think I might be able to get a red eye out tonight?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure what kind of business is on the floor. You'll have to ask Frank."

Bill glanced over his shoulder as the men began to rise from the table, leaving their empty glasses behind.

"Oh, it looks like they're finishing up. I'll catch you later, Chris. Thanks again."

"Sure."

--

"Darling, the pasta is absolutely delicious! What's in it?" Bill exclaimed from across the table.

He enjoyed formal dinners, even when it was just the two of them, so she had prepared a nice meal, brought out the fine china, lit two large candles in their crystal holders, and prepared the master seats at the dining room table for his homecoming.

"Salmon," she replied blandly, sipping on her glass of white wine.

"Why did we bother hiring Laney? You're a much better cook….Why aren't you eating, honey? You're just pushing noodles around your plate. Here I am gorging myself and you're just sitting there like a lady."

"I had a late lunch."

"It feels so good to be home! How about we do something fun this weekend? Let's go ice skating before the spring thaw."

"I think it's too warm for that."

"We'll drive up north, then. Come on, darling, liven up a little. Aren't you happy to have me home again?"

"Of course I'm happy," Teena said, placating him, "We'll go ice skating, if you want."

"Hopefully I'll get some free time soon, and we can start renovating the summer house to have it ready for guests by June. You're going to adore it when it's all finished. We picked the perfect location, I think. The land is beautiful, don't you agree?"

"Yes," she said, though it came out as more of a choke. He raised a brow at her, clearly expecting her to elaborate her opinion; but when she did not, he shrugged and continued, changing the subject.

"So, what projects have kept you busy while I've been away?"

"Nothing much, really. I've been reading and writing in my journal and looking after the garden. And I met some of the ladies in town, so occasionally I drove down for a luncheon or sewing circle. Things like that," she answered hastily.

"That sounds lovely. I'm glad to hear you've made some friends. We should organize a dinner party."

As he cleared his plate, the knot in Teena's stomach began to tighten. After dinner, he would lounge in the parlor for an hour or two to read the paper, maybe turn on the television before excusing himself upstairs to prepare for bed, and then he would slip into the sheets, nude. He would expect to make love tonight, which was understandable, but she desperately needed to avoid that somehow. Inevitably it would have to happen again, of course, but tonight was too soon. Betraying Bill had sadly been easier than she thought it would be, but she couldn't even think of betraying Chris. Not yet. With one hand, she pushed her full plate aside and slowly stood, pushing her chair back from the table.

"I am not feeling very well tonight. I'm sorry, but I think I must go to bed early."

"What's the matter, honey?"

"I'm just tired. I'll feel better tomorrow, I'm sure."

"Well, all right. I'll clean up the kitchen. Are you sure you don't want to sit up for awhile and watch T.V.?"

"I should sleep, Bill."

"Is there anything I can get for you?" he asked, looking dejected.

"No, thank you," she said as she left the room, "Good night."

"Good night. I love you."

--

After only a couple days' respite, he had finally departed again, and somehow she had managed to create enough errands to avoid him while he'd been home. Earlier that evening, she'd gone through all the motions of normalcy: driving him to the airport, kissing him goodbye, telling him to be safe and that she would miss him. He didn't seem to suspect anything, which had brought the ache of guilt into her conscience, making everything worse. It would be so much easier if he would just be rude or cruel, or even neglectful; however, he'd been nothing but sweet to her, always concerned, asking if she felt any better. He did love her; she knew.

"I don't love him," she spoke aloud to the quiet bedroom. It was the first time she'd said it—really admitted it to herself.

This wasn't right. Staying like this, in this marriage, wasn't fair to either of them. Maybe something would come out of the time she'd shared with Chris; he'd helped her see the truth and find the courage to want something more.

"If I don't do it now, I never will," she murmured to no one.

Her hands shook and her heart fluttered anxiously as she contemplated a plan. Pacing around the foot of the bed, she tried to talk it out rationally.

"I will take my clothes and go to a hotel. I'll leave a note and tell him not to stop me. I can file for divorce as early as next week."

She wouldn't allow herself to think of all the impossibilities, since the sheer logistics would surely cause her to change her mind. Where would she go? How could she make a living? How could she do this to Bill? But she reminded herself that it would be better in the end and that his happiness was not worth more than hers. Without further internal debate, she hauled two large suitcases down from the upstairs storage compartment and hastily opened them on the master bed. Running back and forth to her walk-in closet, she threw disorganized, heaping armfuls of clothing into the suitcases.

As she worked brusquely, a light sweat beaded her brow and the lights seemed to grow dimmer in the room. When she stopped, she didn't really stop; everything remained in constant slow-motion, gradually becoming darker around the edges. Her head became fuzzy—the images before her eyes spun lightly, making her body feel weightless. She stumbled forward, trying to move toward the bed so that she wouldn't injure herself when she fell, but her feet carried her into the washroom instead. Sinking to her knees, she gripped the side of the toilet bowl to steady herself. Not until after she'd heard the flush did she realize she'd been sick.

Just as suddenly as the episode grasped hold of her, it dissipated completely, leaving her drained and empty. After splashing water on her face, she stood frozen, studying her wild reflection peering back from the glass above the sink. Her eyes were red and puffy with tired, dark circles giving her a gaunt appearance. She studied her features intently and began to accept the truth—the truth that she couldn't leave, even if she wanted to. Now there was much more at stake. The episodes weren't disappearing, despite how she ignored them. She couldn't deny it any longer.

--

Chris glanced at his watch as he told the cabbie to head toward Greenwich Village. Not even two a.m. He'd paced his Brooklyn loft for what had felt like hours in a sleepless haze, engaging in various debates with his conscience. Taking a short trip to the trashy nightclub across the block to drink himself to sleep had been tempting, though he knew he couldn't do it every night. After all, he'd sworn that he would never be like his father. What it came down to was that he couldn't stand the thought of another man (that being his contemporary and every now and again, friend) with her. The knowledge that he would never wake up beside her, never share a walk down the beach with her, never read a book of dead poets to her, and never feel the brush of her skin against his ever again would not cease tormenting him. If Bill loved and respected her, or at least understood her, it would be different. Watching from afar would be painful, but it wouldn't be impossible. He would force himself to move on and that would be the end of it. She deserved so much more; she deserved to be happy, and Chris knew that he would do anything in his power to give her that.

Absently he forked over a sweaty wad of bills to the cabbie and told the man to keep the change, despite the fact that he likely didn't speak a word of English. The newly renovated brownstone stood before him quaintly, and Chris trudged up to the front stoop and pressed the buzzer. No immediate response seemed to be forthcoming, so he laid on the button until he heard a shuffling inside accompanied by a few grumblings of "Hold your horses, goddamn it!" and variations of the like. The door swung open to reveal a rather peeved, bed-headed Ronald wearing long underwear with a button-down pajama shirt and a moth-eaten, tattered robe that probably used to be green but was now sort of puce.

"This better be good, Spender," he said as he stood back to allow Chris to step inside.

"Oh come on, Ronald. Stop pretending I woke you."

"Well it's two in the morning, you certainly could've! Or I might have company over."

"When was the last time a woman was here?"

"That's beside the point. If I did have a girl over, you'd be inconveniencing me severely!"

"I'll keep that in mind for next time. Can I sit? Please?"

Out of feasible chastisements, Ronald sighed and gestured toward the rather barren front sitting room, which included two chairs and several boxes full of junk that apparently couldn't fit anywhere else.

"So is this me playing psychologist again?" Ronald asked as he eased himself into a chair.

"I suppose," Chris said, choosing to walk small circles in front of the window instead of sitting.

"You know there are real doctors for this kind of thing, right?"

"Ron, please."

"Okay, okay. What is it?"

"I'm having an affair."

"Really? So you're actually getting laid; that's a good thing. Maybe I'm the one who needs advice here"

"With Bill Mulder's wife," Chris added in a small voice.

For a moment, Ronald remained silent, glaring at Chris in disbelief.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? How could you do that to Bill? We're like family, brothers—we look after each other!" Ronald exclaimed, quickly rising to his feet.

"It just—it just happened, all right? I didn't want it. I didn't plan it."

"Are you still seeing her?"

"No. We agreed to never see each other again."

"Then what do you want me to tell you?"

"I don't know! I don't know what to do. I feel incredibly guilty for betraying Bill, and yet I can't stand the fact that I'm unable to be with her. I love her, Ronald. She's become everything to me, and now I can't see her again. I didn't choose this. I would give anything to stop feeling this way, but it's impossible."

Ronald retreated and crossed to the opposite side of the room, his arms folded solemnly. "You realize, also, what danger she is now in? A woman who is cherished by two members would provide excellent leverage in the conspiracy."

"I'm aware of that. No one else will ever know."

"What if she confesses to Bill? Did you think of that? He could choose to bring the issue to the floor, and you could be tried for treason for breaking the code. Not to mention, Teena would be punished for her part and likely used as human collateral."

"She won't tell Bill. It's over."

"Does she love you?"

"Yes."

"She'll never stay away from you then. For women, it's all about the romance and the fairytales. This is far from over."

"It is over. We agreed on it; we decided together."

"You'll have to make sure. If you really love her, if you care about her well-being, then you need to think of something that will keep her away and save your own ass in the process."

"I just don't know what to do, Ronald."

--

"Yes, I know this is a private line and I know it doesn't exist and I don't give a damn! I need to speak with Christopher Spender. You can tell him that it is an urgent matter and that it can't wait," Teena spat in exasperation. She'd been on the line for nearly fifteen minutes convincing some stupid bimbo secretary that she did, in fact, have the right number and that she was well aware of whom she was calling.

"Well," the woman said with great annoyance, "Unfortunately he is in a meeting at the moment and unable to speak with you."

"Do you know when this meeting will be finished?" Teena asked, close to tears from frustration.

"No ma'am, I'm sorry. I will let him know that you have tried to contact him."

"Is he at all interruptible? It's important that I talk to him tonight."

"One moment," the secretary muttered before the line clicked.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, she was relieved to hear his voice on the other end.

"Yes?" he answered tentatively.

"Chris! Oh thank God I finally caught you! I need to talk with you."

"Why?"

"No, not over the phone. Can you meet me tonight?"

"Where?"

"Bill plans to go to Washington after the meeting, and since he won't be home until late tomorrow, I can drive halfway to meet you. There is a motel called the Village Inn on the highway outside of Boston. I'll go now if you can meet me sometime later tonight."

"All right, sir. If that is convenient, I will set up the appointment at that time."

--

Teena leaned against the hood of her red '57 Chevy, parked in the darkness behind the inn. This exchange must be quick, she knew, because they couldn't risk being seen together. She wished they could get a room and have just one more night, but they could never have that much time again. Her pulse pumped forcefully in her temples and she was afraid that she might be sick from the butterflies in her stomach. She tried to breathe slowly through her nervous energy and reminded herself that it was only Chris and that he loved her. But she couldn't help but feel worried at how he might react. Her news wasn't good, but she hoped and prayed that at the very least, he would lend some sort of support and reassurance, providing a voice of reason.

She jumped as a car door slammed unexpectedly behind her and whirled around to see him approaching carefully in his typical dark trench coat and hat. Her heart began to slow as the familiar, comforting warmth of his presence flooded her chest and belly. She longed to throw her arms around him and never let go, to be part of him forever. When he stood before her, his eyes refused to meet hers and his expression was cold and unfamiliar. She frowned worriedly and spoke up when he would not.

"Chris, thank you for coming. I—"

"You can't just call me like that. The secretary could have recognized your voice. How could you be so naïve? We agreed never to see each other again. We talked about this—it's the best thing for both of us."

"I'm sorry," she said weakly, "You told me I could call you if something came up."

"An emergency, Teena. I said to only call in an emergency."

"I'm pregnant."

He took a step back, or wobbled rather, and she saw a flicker of shocked emotion pass over him before the odd, stony expression returned to blanket his visage. In place of a reply, he dug one hand into the pocket of his trench coat, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and his chrome lighter. With one hand cupped over the flame and turning his body against the breeze, he lit up leisurely. After he'd taken the first drag, he leaned against the side of the brick building, crossing one foot over the other. Teena gaped at him as she waited impatiently for some kind of acknowledgement. When his gaze finally drifted back to her, he offered an obviously forced response.

"Are you sure?" he asked evenly.

"Why do men always ask that? Yes, I'm sure, or I wouldn't be telling you," she said, anger covering her distress and worry.

"And you think it's mine?"

"I know it's yours. Bill wasn't there. The date matches exactly."

"You said this couldn't happen."

"Well, obviously I was wrong. Bill is evidently the one with the problem, not me. I didn't—I didn't lie to you, Chris. Please don't think that. I honestly believed I couldn't have children."

"What do you want me to do about it now?" he asked, blowing a puff of smoke in her direction.

Teena looked up in surprise at his retort, and then replied softly, "What do you think I should do?"

"To be honest, I don't much care what you do. It's your body, not mine. I'll pay if you want to get rid of it. Bill will never know." The hollow voice didn't belong to him, and his strange words stung bitterly.

"How can you do this? We conceived a baby out of love. It's me, it's mine. I'm keeping it." Finally she had to succumb to the growing lump in her throat and choked as the tears spilled out, her body wracked with sobs.

"What Teena? What do you expect from me?" he replied innocently, maintaining his distance.

Teena felt her typical hold of control slipping as she began to sink into hysterics. "I expect you to care! Show some emotion or concern…at least have an opinion!"

"Do you want me to sweep you off your feet and carry you into the sunset like some goddamn fairytale? That's a great idea. Let's get married and run away together. I hear Las Vegas has some excellent honeymoon suites. I hope you don't mind Elvis."

"Who are you? Chris, it's me! Please please don't do this to me please. I know this is an act. It isn't real. You wouldn't say these things to me. I know you Chris, like no one else remember? Look at me." She raised her palm to stroke his cheek tenderly and tried to find his gaze. "I know you love me."

She gasped as he jerked from her caress roughly, slapping her hand away. Having no idea what to do, she simply stood there, stunned and wounded beyond words. The intensity of her sobs made her head ache, and she grasped the side of the Chevy against a wave of dizziness. Chris reached his arm out quickly to help support her, but after she retained her balance, he hurriedly moved aside.

He paused, the soft orange glow from the cigarette flickering in his eyes. "Listen to me. I am not a father. I will never be a father. That is not who I am. I was not born on this filthy, hellish planet for the purpose of giving life to someone else."

"Then who are you?" she asked coldly.

"I create history so the future will be safe for all the arrogant sons of bitches that care for nothing more than simple pleasures in their own worthless lives…Who am I? I guess one day I'll become just another man without a name."

"Stop. Please stop." Teena whimpered as she buried her wet face in her hands. He grasped her wrist sharply, forcing her to look up.

"You want me to tell you what to do? Fine, I'll tell you what to do. Go home and fuck your husband. Wait a few weeks and then congratulate him that he's going to be a father. I'm sure he'll be thrilled with the "miracle". When the baby comes, just say it's early. Simple as that."

When he did not let go of her, Teena pressed her palms into his chest and shoved him as forcefully as she could.

"I can't believe I ever loved you!" she cried bitterly, tasting the salt of tears mixed with the sourness of bile. "The man I love wouldn't stand there, look into my eyes, and lie to me. What happened, Chris? From the beginning, we were honest with each other."

"You were expecting something more? It was fun for awhile, but maybe you should have been more careful. Good luck with family life," he replied sardonically.

He turned from her casually, stamping the cigarette out on the pavement, and smoothly strode toward his car without looking back.

"I don't believe you!" she hollered with her last thread of effort.

--

He tried not to see her as he started the ignition, because he needed the strength to leave. Following through was essential; she needed to believe it, though he had known she wouldn't. As he pulled away, he kept his head forward resolutely, but his eyes drifted to where she stood, frozen. A gentle rain had begun to fall lightly; and she stood under the illumination of a single streetlight in nothing but a blue checkered house dress, her loose curls falling down her back. Drops of rain streamed over her face, but she kept watching.

After he'd driven a significant distance, tears overcame him. He wept at the hopelessness of it all, of the hurt that would never heal, of the love he knew he was plagued to carry forever. She'd heard what she needed to hear—what he had no choice but to say, not because he wanted to hurt her, but because he loved her enough to sacrifice. When he felt dead and empty, he pulled over into an abandoned parking lot to bridge the time gap. Tonight he would drive to the Vineyard to make sure she arrived home safely, and he promised himself that it would be the last time. While he waited, he reached into his pocket for another cigarette.