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