MELANCHOLY IN COMMON TIME by Blackwood entreamis@yahoo.com RATING: PG13 CATEGORY: Vignette, Angst, AU SPOILERS: Tunguska, Terma, Requiem, TINH ARCHIVE: With intact header and a note to me. SUMMARY: Whatever he is to Scully, almost lover or father figure, he's not Mulder and never will be. This text inspired by Sophia Jirafe's story "Letter, April 2000" found at: http://www.dreamwater.com/mcaact/Fanfic/letter.txt DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately, not mine; but not altogether CC's either. CNN is a registered trademark. No infringement intended. As for the music cited, I pay homage to Carole King and her rendition of "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" Nice underscore, if you like that sort of thing. *~*~*~* Wednesday night and he's tired from his after-hours workout at the gym. He always feels better after he's danced around the ring a bit and worked up a sweat. It helps him shake off the negativity that pervades his thoughts these days. Fatigue settles in Walter Skinner's bones with every step closer to his door. The key rattles in the lock and he enters his apartment with customary caution, flicking the wall switch that turns on the lamp beside the sofa. Tossing his keys onto the dining room table, he proceeds with a quick assessment of the room. Nothing is amiss and he sets his Bally briefcase in front of the wall unit. Striped silk is soon undone and his worsted suit jacket folded lengthwise over the back of a low-slung lounge chair. It's unlike him to be messy and off his ordered routine, but he's spent. It'll wait. Grabbing the universal remote, he sinks into the overstuffed sofa while releasing the top two buttons of his shirt. He activates the stereo receiver, scanning the airwaves until the mellow sounds of a classic rock station give pause. The familiar folk-rock of another time and place remind him of Sharon and the early years of their now-defunct marriage. Sometimes, he can still pretend to himself that she's only gone out shopping or waits for him upstairs until he crawls into bed to make love with her in the darkness. Picking up the book of military history he's been reading for the last few weeks, he stretches his length along the sofa, careful to keep his shoes off the fabric -- another remnant of life lived with another's wishes in mind. A few pages of Napoleonic battle strategy and he soon is fast asleep... He stands in the middle of an enormous field under a blazing sun. The grass is high and green all around him while pink morning sky spans above. He listens with intent for the voices of his agents as they precede him on patrol: Marshall, Beaufort, Mulder, DelFiore. The jungle heat is stifling and his back is already dark with sweat. Hearing gunfire, he moves to draw his weapon. His hand clasps an empty holster and all at once, he hears the shouts of dying men and the terrible shriek of a woman. An angry drone buzzes in his ears and as he looks up, he sees a distant dark swarm cresting the horizon. He stands rooted watching its approach, mesmerized by the way it suddenly morphs into black helicopters, their buzz signaling either rescue or death. He doesn't know which and he pants with fear and dread and anger as he churns through the tall grass trying to reach his agents, his foot soldiers, his responsibilities. Shouldering through the last stand of reeds, he stumbles into a makeshift clearing. The stench of blood is acrid, copper-fresh in his nostrils. The trampled grass is stained beneath bodies that lay scattered, face down, at irregular intervals. Skinner hears the hiss of breath coming harsh and fast through his teeth. Every commander knows that at some point he may have to order his soldiers to march to their deaths but he's never gotten accustomed to the necessity of it. The buzzing intensifies until it's a dull roar in his ears, while the thwacking pulse of the choppers sends shivers down his arms. Then... His eyes snap open and he's awake. He sits upright on the nubby sofa, coughing several times to clear his throat. The doorbell buzzes again and he rises with a cleansing breath, running a hand over the smooth scalp at the top of his head. Taking a quick look through the peephole, his eyes widen at the sight of his visitor. He inhales a deep breath and swings open the door. She's leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway; auburn head tilted back, eyes closed. "Scully?" he calls with a jerk of his head and a squint of his eyes. Her chest rises and falls with a soft sigh as her head drops forward and she opens her eyes, stealing his breath. Her fair complexion betrays her. She's been crying -- probably in the car on the way over, alone. He could ask the reason for her tears, but she'd only deny her distress. She enters his neat apartment and he appraises her figure as she walks to the center of the room, taking note of the line of her back as it curves into her waist beneath the smooth dark fabric of her suit jacket, recalling the way Mulder used to touch her just *there,* staking his claim. She doesn't turn to face him, but as he watches the heave of her shoulders, he aches for her. Something deep inside of him yearns to comfort her, to place his arms around her, shielding her from whatever harm might threaten her from without or inner turmoil claim her from within. Is this what Mulder felt every day? God help him. For years, Skinner watched Scully put her personal life on hold to follow the whims of the erratic man who worked beside her as her partner. Her devotion to Mulder was no surprise. There never had been any middle ground when it came to the man; then or now in the year since his death. Reverence or ridicule, reactions to Mulder were always intense. Skinner respected Mulder, admired his integrity and his vision. Over time, he'd learned not to dismiss the agent's apocalyptic prophecies outright and in the end, came to embrace the truth that really *was* out there. He'd witnessed it first hand. The predicted invasion and subsequent colonization had yet to materialize. Mulder's death had forced major players, including Krycek, into hiding although Skinner doesn't understand why. The subtle intricacies of the consortium and the Project elude him, as always. Perhaps the invaders were already among them, carrying out their plans while mankind slept on in blessed ignorance. All he knows is that when Mulder's battered body was returned, they'd interred him in the earth, eulogized his memory and moved on with their lives. What else was there to do? It was then that she first started dropping by. Always on Wednesdays. Always in the evening. Never announced. They would talk -- about the Bureau, about her work at Quantico, about her child. Never about Mulder or the X-Files. Never the past. He figured she'd say something when she was ready. And he could wait, as long as it gave him an opportunity to keep an eye on her and the boy. "Something to drink?" he asks and she nods. Skinner moves into the galley kitchen, pulling a bottle of wine out of the fridge. He rummages through a drawer full of kitchen junk, seeking the corkscrew he knows he owns but can never find when he needs it. "Do you have something stronger?" Scully inquires in a quiet voice and he stops his searching to look at her across the breakfast bar. Her blue eyes are unwavering and her mouth is set in a serious line. He conceals his surprise well, he thinks, then opens a cabinet door near his legs. "Bourbon or scotch?" he asks as he inventories the contents. "Bourbon, straight up." He nods and as he pours the liquor into heavy square-bottomed glasses, she approaches. Picking up the glass, she stares at the amber liquid swirling in a mini-vortex. Lost in her thoughts, he waits. She's still dressed for work and the Quantico badge clipped to her blazer delineates her status as 'D. Scully, M.D., Pathology' in bold block letters. The Academy was a refuge that offered safe haven from the ghosts that haunted the Hoover and especially, the basement office still occupied by John Doggett. That Doggett continued to pursue the odd cases left Skinner puzzled, although he was glad to see someone take an interest in maintaining Mulder's work, however long it lasted. Skinner watches as Scully downs a large swallow of alcohol, forcing herself to take a second before returning the glass to the counter between them. She pivots away, walking back into the living area in silence. The memory of another night rises in his mind... Mulder had disappeared into the Russian tundra and Scully was poised on the brink of professional ruin, prepared to receive whatever censure the Senate sub-committee deemed appropriate for a recalcitrant federal agent who refused to answer their direct inquiries while daring to speak her mind. They'd argued in the afternoon, so he was startled when she appeared on his doorstep later that evening. "Is he worth it?" he'd asked as they sat at his dining room table, coffee growing cold between them. Fierce blue eyes snapped to his and she stood with abruptness, knocking over her chair as she moved back from the table. He was out of his own chair at once, helping her upright the piece while she apologized for her rudeness and headed for the door, her irritation evident. He followed, grabbing her by the sleeve of her coat and turning her with some force. "Scully--" She stopped in her tracks and turned. "I want to protect you, but I can't when you continue to defy orders." The recovery of her cool facade was rapid and complete. "I don't need your protection." His voice was calm when he informed her, "But you do. More than you know. More than you ever want to know." His eyes burned into hers while her words echoed along the corridors of youth and memory. 'I don't need your protection.' It was the battle cry of the righteous and for a fleeting moment, he could hear Sharon saying the same thing to him the night they got engaged, the night before he left for a three-year tour of duty as an officer and a gentleman in the Marines. Sharon hung a blue fabric star in her dorm window, then risked her scholarship at Penn State to march in protest against the shootings at Kent State. All the while, he led an intelligence unit stationed near CuChi on the D'Nang River. They were mismatched from the start, but their correspondence was filled with cloaked arguments, unmitigated passion and absolute devotion. Ironic. They weathered the raging tempests of idealistic youth, but not the simpler storms of civilian life. He wondered that they'd stayed married as long as they did. And now before him stood another woman of conviction, of ethics, of integrity; and he found his blood stirred more than was appropriate for their relative positions in the grand scheme of things. Scully's mouth was pursed and he gathered his courage before saying, "There are *some* people in the Bureau who would risk their careers, their lives -- anything for the truth." "Mulder," she stated with a lift of her chin. His nod was imperceptible. "Yes, Mulder. And I admire him for that, even if I don't agree with his methods. But," he added and his voice dropped. "Some of us do it for more selfish reasons." He wondered if his cryptic answer was understood, if she got the way the pressure of his hand on her arm increased as he took a slow step closer. Surprise was in her eyes, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she lifted her face to his, accepting his lips on hers. Perhaps she was as curious as he about just this. Perhaps it was a whim. No, this was Scully and the realization that she must have at least imagined this scenario sent fire coursing through his veins. It was simple, their kiss, and he wanted more. But all at once she drew away and he knew he'd crossed a line. "I'm sorry," they said simultaneously stepping back from one another, arousal and chagrin charging the air between them. "Is it because of him?" he asked in spite of himself. "I should go," she replied. He stared at the door long after she was gone, wondering about her non-answer. He understood the following day when he heard Mulder's name fervent on her lips and, in plain sight of a packed courtroom, watched her momentary lapse of decorum as she was enfolded in the arms of the headstrong agent returned from God-knows-where like the conquering hero... They never mentioned that night again. The memory of that errant kiss dissolves in his mind, along with the images of what might have been. Setting the tumbler onto the counter, he approaches Scully from behind. Large, gentle hands press upon her upper arms as he turns her around. He takes in the titian hair, full mouth and perilously blue eyes. The intensity in her look is sacred and unsettling. "What is it?" he asks. She looks down to rummage in the left pocket of her blazer. She's let her hair grow and it falls across her face as she pulls out what looks like a plain sheet of typing paper folded small and compact. He yearns to touch the silken strands. She unfolds the page as if revealing a precious treasure. She doesn't look at him when she says, "John Byers gave this to me this afternoon." Her voice is the sound of cracked glass. Skinner inhales, refusing to release it until she adds, "It's from Mulder." They stare at the dark scrawl that covers most of the page. "He wrote it when he realized he was dying -- just before..." A shuddered sigh grips her and she struggles for composure. Skinner feels his throat constrict and ponders what message Mulder might have left behind -- a cautionary missive to stay the course or something more personal. He craves and fears to know. He won't ask. Scully stares at the page and then refolds it, tucking it away for safekeeping once more. Removing her hand, she presses it against the dark spring wool of the pocket. Only then does she lift her bright eyes. "Hold me?" she breathes. A cold shiver runs up Skinner's arms even as heat courses through his groin. God, yes. How could he say no? Minimal pressure brings her to him. Small against him, the crown of her head doesn't even reach his chin, so he leans forward to inhale the sweetness of her hair as she responds to his arms going about her, wrapping her own about his waist as she buries her face into his chest. Music from the radio wafts through the silence between them. The tune is familiar and he recalls an up-tempo version, but this rendition is quieter. Piano chords gently rock with an acoustic guitar underscoring the words of the singer, a woman who clearly understands sorrow from the sound of her voice. ...Tonight you're mine completely... For several long moments they stand together, unmoving in the soft light of the living room, the strains of a loving lament caressing the air around them. Then, with the tiniest of movements, she presses into him and back. At first, he thinks she's unbalanced in his hold so he opens the space between them, easing his embrace. He expects her to pull away. Instead, she turns her head so that her cheek rests against his heart and again he feels the soft push-pull of her body against him. He follows, knowing he'll regret allowing himself this weakness, but helpless to resist just the same. ...Is this a lasting treasure or just a moment's pleasure?... She turns her head and presses her forehead against him. He feels her sigh and without seeing her face, he knows she is crying. His chest constricts and he's torn with indecision. Acknowledge it and provide compassion or ignore it and allow her privacy? Clearly, he is not the man she dances with in her mind. That man was lost to her, to them, nearly two years ago. Doggett had proven himself a man of his word, locating Mulder as he promised; but it was a Phyrrhic victory. Their search led only to heartache and grief and the shell of a man tortured to death. Bile rises at the back of his throat. 'I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm sorry' reverberates in his mind, a mantra of supplication to both of them - Mulder and Scully. He will never let himself off the hook. Never. Not when a simple note can still evoke such sorrow. Even now, they are inseparable. She cannot stray from loving Mulder any more than the earth can stray from its orbit around the sun. Skinner is a pale substitute, a dim artificial light source that replaces what she wants, but doesn't have. ...I'd like to know that your love is love I can be sure of... She's changed, this Scully. Not broken, but bendable. Motherhood has done this to her -- made her softer, less stoic. She's reclaimed her life; the life she nearly left behind when the knowledge that Mulder was truly gone sank in; the life to which she returned when her and Mulder's son was born, proof positive of their deepest friendship. Their love. The song fades and the DJ's croon drones on about utter trivia. They stop moving and Scully releases him, stepping back two paces. She looks up at him and he notes her eyes have softened and she appears to him almost as she did the day he first met her so long ago. He wishes he knew what to say. Scully holds herself in stiff repose, awkwardness rising between them. She pulls a set of keys from her pocket and stares at them lying in her open palm. Skinner's never noticed before, but he wonders what meaning the tarnished momento of some Apollo mission has for her. She sways a bit and glances at the door. "Stay," he says, noting her indecision. "I'll cook for us." "You don't have to take care of me." He thinks, 'let me.' He asks, "How can I help?" She pauses before replying, "You already have." "Scully--" he begins, but she shakes her head to stop him. She gives him a sad smile, her grief held at bay behind her gaze. She turns to go. "Dana--" he says again, stepping in and laying a hand on her arm just as he did once before. "Stay." She lifts her eyes to his and he can tell she's remembering the moment they shared right here such a long time ago. Want and dread keep him poised on the balls of his feet, a body suspended in time and space. Her expression eases, but still he waits for a surer sign. The moment is past before it begins. She's straightforward when she says in a low voice, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything about this to anyone." "Of course," he reassures, confused and angry with himself for not acting and hurt that she'd think he'd mention her visit to anyone. Unless she was talking about the letter. He doesn't want to embarrass them both by asking. He drops his hand and she walks to the entryway. She hesitates when her hand touches the doorknob and a scrap of hope rises unbidden. Perhaps she's reconsidered. "Thank you, Walter," she murmurs and is gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He pours himself another bourbon and carries it into the living room. Picking up the remote once again, he thumbs off the music and flicks on the television. CNN's logo lights the screen. The ten o'clock headlines are just beginning. He settles into the black leather lounger and half-listens to the tragedies of the world at large while he ponders the ones within. Whatever he is to Scully, almost lover or father figure, he's not Mulder and never will be. In truth, he is more like Scully; wrapped in a shroud of melancholy memories, insulated from further pain and loss. The thought sours in his mouth and he washes it down with mashed grain. Angst grips him, then eases. He's lived with emotional pain most of his life and he's survived. At least she considered him her friend. It is enough. It will have to be. END May 2001