Six Months
By Keleka
Email: keleka@keleka.net
Distribution: Gossamer, Spookys, Xemplary,
etc.
Rating: PG 
Spoiler Warning: Requiem, S.R. 819
Content Statement: msr
Classification: V,A
Keywords: Skinner 5 months after Requiem
Summary: The Big Guy hurts too.

Archive: Sure! Please tell me where so I can
visit.
Disclaimer: Get real!  If I owned this cash
cow, do you really think I'd be living in
Mississippi? 
Feedback:  It's certainly welcome in my
house!
Author's Note: Huge steaming piles of thanks
to Shoshana, who goes above and beyond the
call of duty every day; and to TBishop27 who
continues to encourage me, God help her.
All my fanfic (X-Files, Hawaii Five-0, and
Star Trek) can be found at
http://www.keleka.net/keleka/



Six Months
by Keleka

The pre-dawn sky is gray with rain clouds.  A
light drizzle falls but I am barely cognizant
of it.  I skim along the black road, my Nikes
pounding the wet pavement in a steady rhythm. 
My heart pounds as I push my physical limits.

For most of my adult life I've risen before
dawn and pounded my frustrations into cold
concrete streets.  Before dawn, the world
wasn't the horrifying place I knew it to be. 
The shades and shadows of pre-dawn were soft
and comforting; the city was quiet, ethereal. 
Before dawn, my problems--no matter how
large--seemed surmountable.  The pre-dawn
hour pumped me up and gave me courage.  It
mended the chinks in my psyche and by dawn I
was ready to face the world and kick ass.

Until six months ago.

Now, in the pre-dawn hour, I chase my own
personal demons.  I run as penance, pushing
myself to run too fast, too hard, and too
far.  The quiet streets no longer soothe my
soul; now they assault my sleep-deprived
brain with whispered reminders of my
failures.

Six months ago I failed her.

As I reach the steep hill that is the last
leg of my run, my legs buckle and I stumble
to the ground. Gulping for air, I push myself
upright and fight to finish the last mile.  I
know I should stop doing this to myself.  I'm
not a young man anymore.  I'm not a Marine
anymore.  I'm a desk jockey now.  I push
paper for a living.  I send younger men out
to fight my battles and sometimes they don't
come back.

She entrusted me with her most precious
possession, and I failed her.

Finally I reach the entrance to my building. 
I'm glad the doorman is not on duty at this
hour.  He doesn't need to see an Assistant
Director of the FBI drag himself home looking
like he's been beaten up by a gang of thugs. 
Once in the lobby, I continue my penance by
taking the stairs--not the elevator--dragging
my sorry self up nine floors.

The pain I feel can't hold a candle to the
pain I caused her.

My apartment isn't the comforting place it
used to be.  In the bathroom I stare at my
gaunt face in the mirror, barely recognizing
myself.  Finally, I collapse against the
shower wall, letting the near-scalding water
wash away the sweat and grime but leaving
behind the guilt.  I stumble from the shower
clean but not refreshed.

Time is getting short now.  I dress quickly
and in a few minutes I'm in my car heading
for Georgetown to pick her up.  Three weeks
ago her doctor told her not to drive anymore
and so now I take her to work each morning
and bring her home each evening.  It's not
much, but it's something.

Not nearly enough.

She is waiting at the curb in front of her
apartment building when I pull up.  Before I
can open my door to get out to help her, she
climbs in.  She pulls the seat belt around
her swollen belly and smiles at me.

"Good morning, Walter," she says.

"Good morning, Dana," I say, briefly making
eye contact.

I'm not sure when or how this slide into
first names came about.  At work, of course,
it's still "Sir" and "Agent Scully."  But out
of the office, using our first names has
become as natural as breathing.  We spend a
lot of time together outside the office now. 
I'm don't know whether she truly desires my
company or merely tolerates me because she
knows how much I need hers.   

She's chatty this morning.  She's accustomed
to my taciturn countenance and doesn't seem
to expect me to contribute much to the
conversation as we make our way through the
morning traffic.  She tells me about dinner
at her mother's last night and the crib they
bought for the baby.  She tells me the
personnel office is giving her grief about
Mulder's salary.  Without it, she can't
continue to keep his apartment for him or pay
his bills.  I promise to take care of it.

At the Hoover Building I park the car and we
walk silently to the garage elevator.   We
share the elevator with several agents and I
can feel their curiosity.  Kimberly has told
me of the gossip about who fathered Dana's
baby.  The Hoover Building is buzzing with
speculation about the sudden departure of
Agent Mulder and my obvious attentiveness to
Agent Scully.  As if.

Things would be better if an official
explanation for Mulder's disappearance had
been released.  Instead, the powers-that-be
have classified the information 'Top Secret'
and authorized more manpower and an unlimited
budget for the X-Files.  Now, finally, they
want the truth about alien colonization. 
Dana heads up the unit with ten agents at her
command.  Meanwhile, the gossip flies.

When the elevator door closes, she presses
the button for the fifth floor for me but not
the basement for herself.  I look at her,
puzzled, and she places her  hand on my
forearm by way of explanation.

"I need to talk to you," she says so softly I
can barely hear her.

We could have talked in the car.  It must be
something serious.  She wants my undivided
attention.

Kimberly hasn't arrived yet, so we slip into
my office unnoticed and shut the door.  I
hang my suit jacket over my desk chair while
Dana lowers herself into her accustomed chair
in front of my desk.  At seven-and-a-half
months pregnant she already has difficulty
with routine movements.  She looks up at me
sheepishly.

"A few more days and I'll need a fork lift to
get in and out of chairs."

I smile a little for her, knowing how happy
she is to be pregnant, and to have gotten
pregnant the 'natural way.'  When she told me
this, late one night at her apartment when I
couldn't make myself leave, I was surprised
to learn how recently their first coupling
had been.  Like everyone else in the Hoover
Building, I had thought them to be lovers
years ago.

I hesitate for a moment before taking the
other chair in front of my desk.  Mulder's
chair.  In many ways in her life, I've taken
Mulder's place.  Her brothers are far away
and there are no other men in her life.  She
seems to appreciate having a man handy to
help her, to listen to her, to escort her. 
And I am glad to be able to help, for in
helping her, I help myself.

I turn the chair to face her and sit on the
front few inches, leaning toward her, my
hands clasped between my open knees.

"What's on your mind, Dana?" I ask after a
moment.

Her eyes haven't left mine since she took her
seat and now I can feel them boring into me.

She says nothing for several moments,
continuing to study me with her steady blue
gaze.  I think she's searching for the right
words.  Finally she speaks, her words soft
and impassioned.

"I want you to tell me what's wrong, Walter."

Involuntarily, I draw in a sharp breath, but
my eyes do not leave hers.  Am I that
transparent?  I have tried so hard to conceal
my feelings from her.

"I...I don't know what you mean."

She reaches toward me, sliding her fingers
beneath my tie and gently grasping the front
edge of my dress shirt.  She pulls it forward
and back a few times, demonstrating its
looseness.

"Your shirts have always been snug," she
says.  "You've lost a lot of weight."

Have I?  

"You're not eating," she continues.  "And
from the circles under your eyes, I'd say
you're not sleeping either."

I don't know what to say.  She's right, I
haven't been eating or sleeping, but I hadn't
realized it till now.  
I drop my eyes and stammer.

"I...uh...."

"It's Mulder, isn't it?" she asks.

I continue to stare at my fists, trying to
find a way to respond.  After a moment, I
sense her push forward on her chair and lean
toward me.  A shock goes through my system as
she takes my hands in hers.

"Look at me, Walter," she says softly.

Slowly I lift my eyes till I meet hers.  It's
times like this, looking into those azure
pools, that I understand why Mulder would go
to the ends of the earth for this woman.  How
could any man not lose himself in those eyes?

"It wasn't your fault, Walter."

They say Marines don't cry.  I've believed
this ever since that day in 1968 when I stood
proudly on the parade grounds at Parris
Island and my Drill Instructor pinned the
anchor, globe, and eagle on my collar.  All
my life I've stood by stoically, tearlessly,
while my world crumbled around me.  I didn't
cry when I was nearly killed in Vietnam.  I
didn't cry when my mother died, or even when
my wife died.  Marines DO NOT cry.

But six months ago I learned differently. 
Marines DO cry.  They cry when their failures
bring pain to those they care deeply for. 
They cry with frustration when they are but
puppets in a grand battle that cannot be won. 
They cry when faced with the bright blue eyes
of Dana Scully.

I shed my first tears that day in her
hospital room, six months ago.  And now,
before I realize what's happening, tears well
up in my eyes and I'm powerless to stop them
from streaming down my face.  I don't want
her to see me like this, but my tears will
show her what I can't express.  It's too
painful for me to speak the words in her
presence.

"Oh, Walter," she says softly, gently
caressing my hands.  "I didn't know."

I say nothing, fearing a sob will come forth
rather than the words I need to speak.

She stands and steps toward me.  I start to
rise, but with a gentle pressure of her hand
on my shoulder she tells me to stay.  She
pulls me close and I rest my head against her
belly, against hers and Mulder's baby.

"I've had so much on my mind," she starts,
her voice cracking slightly, "so much on my
mind that I didn't see how much you were
hurting.  I...I'm so sorry, Walter."          
                

She comforts me while the tears fall. 
Eventually they stop and I pull back.  I
reach for her chair and pull it closer,
asking her to sit.

"I know it may sound silly, Dana," I begin,
fighting the constriction in my throat to get
the words out, "but over the years, I've come
to regard you and Mulder as my best friends." 
I laugh a short, derisive laugh.  "That
doesn't say much for my social life, does
it?"

She smiles at me, a bittersweet smile of
understanding.

"I know I haven't always done everything I
could to help you in your quest, but often
... often I didn't have a choice."

"I know," she says.  "Mulder told me."

Yes, of course Mulder would have told her
that Krycek had control of the nanobots in my
bloodstream.  For her own safety she would
need to know I was sometimes compromised.

"You trusted me enough to send me with him to
Oregon," I say, my voice barely above a
whisper.  "I've always wanted you to trust
me.  Then when you did, I let you down."  I
fight the tears which threaten to return.

"Walter, I'm at peace with what has
happened," she says softly, obviously
choosing her words carefully.  "I've come to
terms with the possibility that I may never
have Mulder back, but he will always be
here."  She places her hand over her heart. 
"And I will always have this great gift he
has given me. This child we created
together."

I watch her silently.  She lowers her eyes
for a moment, then raises them again to meet
mine.  There is no accusation in them, no
reproach.

"I don't blame you for what happened, Walter. 
It would have happened no matter who had gone
with him to Oregon.  It would have happened
even if I had gone with him.  There was
nothing you could have done.  It was his
destiny, just as he is mine."

I wipe my eyes and try to smile.  I feel
lighter somehow, as though a terrible weight
has been lifted from my shoulders.  She
stands and I slowly pull myself to my feet. 
She puts her arms around me and for a
moment we just stand there, clinging to each
other.  I marvel at how such a tiny woman can
be so much stronger than I will ever be.

"Walter, I want you to have dinner with me
tonight," she says after she breaks the
embrace.  While she speaks I let my hands
slide down her arms to her hands and then cup
them in my own.  "I want you to stay at my
apartment tonight.  You'll have to sleep on
the sofa, but I'm sure its comfortable. 
Mulder certainly slept on it often enough."

She's worried about me.  She thinks I'm
suicidal and she wants to keep an eye on me. 
I can't put such a burden on her.  She's
already carrying enough.

"I'm okay, Dana.  Really."

"I know you are," she says, smiling broadly. 
"I have an ulterior motive."

I look at her, puzzled.

"I think my mother's sweet on you," she says,
smiling mischievously.  "She's coming to
dinner tonight too.  I'm not beyond playing
matchmaker you know."

This makes me laugh, my first real laugh in
six months.  It feels good.  I tell her I'll
be there and watch as she leaves my office. 
I feel a new sense of determination wash over
me and I vow to myself that we WILL find
Mulder.  She deserves no less.


End