By Melynda Jensen
melyndajensen@juno.com
 

Date: Mon, 11 Jan 1999 11:04:27 -0700

Please send any feedback to melyndajensen@juno.com

Rating: NC17

Category: S, A

Keywords: Skinner/Scully

Summary: The remains of a soldier missing in action since the Vietnam
conflict have been found - and Skinner recruits Scully to determine if
the body is definitely that of his closest friend and comrade.

Spoilers:  All pre-movie

Standard disclaimer: Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, they're yours,
not mine.   I'm just borrowing them for a little while.

Dedicated with love and admiration and awe to Red Valerian, without
whose encouragement I wouldn't even have written my first Skinner story,
much less tried a story like this.  For you, Red.  Hope you like it.
 

Soldier and Friend
by Melynda Jensen

"Agent Scully, I'd like a word with you," AD Skinner said as he put away
her and Agent Mulder's report.

The two agents traded quick looks--

*??*
*Busted!*
*Shut up, Mulder.*

--and Mulder left as Scully reseated herself.  When the door closed
behind Mulder, Skinner folded his hands and
asked without preamble, "Agent Scully, are you familiar with
mitochondrial DNA testing?"

Clearly puzzled, she nevertheless answered, "Yes, sir.  mt-DNA tests are
used to determine the identity of human remains.  It's become the
standard in the field of identification because of its incredibly high
accuracy rate."

"Have you performed this test before?"

"Twice."

"How qualified would you consider yourself to judge someone else's
determination of identity using this test?"

"I'd consider myself highly competent, sir."

Skinner fell silent, thinking briefly about what he was about to ask,
not sure how pure his motives were.  That he'd been rocked by an
unexpected phone call that morning, he couldn't deny.  That he'd tried
to think logically about his options, he wasn't as certain.  The last
person he wanted to ask for help was Agent Scully, she'd been pushing
herself hard enough as it was.  But she was one of the few people he
knew who could do what he needed to have done.  And, although he knew he
was rationalizing, if she accepted it would be the perfect excuse for
her to take some time off, maybe even a short, well-deserved vacation.

Scully shifted in her chair, and finally prodded, "Sir, may I ask why--"

"I received a phone call today from a Mr. James Kilcrease," he said
abruptly.  "He received word from the Department of Defense's MIA/POW
Office that the remains of his son, Corporal James Kilcrease, Jr., were
recovered from a crash site in Vietnam and are now being held at the
Army's Central Identification Laboratory."

She intuited what he didn't say.  "You and James Kilcrease, Jr. were
friends."

He nodded and continued, "There have been several instances where the
CIL has made mistaken determinations of identity.  Mr. Kilcrease is
unable to follow up on the positive identification of his son's remains,
and he asked for my help.  I'd like to assure Mr. Kilcrease that the
remains are indeed those of his son."   He drew a breath.  "I have
a...personal favor to ask of you, Agent Scully.  Please feel free to
decline if you wish."

Even with his face shadowed by the light from the window behind him,
Scully saw that he was clearly uncomfortable asking her for her help.
She knew that he never would have said anything--would have gone to the
lab and come back with no one the wiser, he was that private a
person--except that this was so important to him.  And that made her
want to accept.

She had been trying to find a way, ever since he'd come to her hospital
room after her cancer had gone into remission, to tell him that she knew
Mulder had been right to trust him, that she knew how badly she'd
misjudged him.  There'd been no words then; she couldn't manage any for
the lump in her throat, and then the moment to say what she could only
say right then was gone.  They'd gone back to work, where people didn't
talk about feelings, about gratitude.  But here was a way to make up to
him for her mistrust, her suspicions, to prove that he'd been right to
fight for her and Mulder, right to care enough about them to put his
career, his life, on the line for them.

"You'd like me to verify the mt-DNA test on those remains, sir?"

"I don't trust the CIL," he said frankly.  "I do trust you, Agent
Scully."

She straightened.  "I appreciate your confidence in me, sir.  I can do
the testing as soon as possible."

"I can get you on a direct military flight tonight, if you think you
could be ready by then."

"Certainly."  Not sure if she'd have to pack for an overnight or not,
she asked,  "The CIL is located--?"

"In Hawaii."  He added, as if in afterthought, "At Agent Mulder's
request, I scheduled a week's down time before your next assignment to
catch up on paperwork before Internal Audit starts in on our division."

Both he and Scully knew that her paperwork was already in order.

"I've...never been to Hawaii," she said slowly.
 
After he'd maneuvered her into requesting leave time and had signed the
proper forms, Skinner pushed away from his desk, arose and paced to the
conference table, folding his arms across his chest and staring down at
the polished wood.

"James Kilcrease, line one," his secretary had said over the intercom
that morning, and it still amazed him that after all this time hope
could rise in his heart like a small bird at that name.  Years should
have inured him to it, taught him indifference, or at least how to move
on.  But they never had.

He took the call and said, "Dad.  Hi."

James Kilcrease, Sr.  More his father than his own father was, in the
strange way that kindred souls found each other sometimes.  They
exchanged pleasantries, found out how each other was, and then,
"Walter,  I'm sorry to call you at work, but I've had some news about
Jimmy." And hope, although it struggled in Skinner's heart, started then
to die.

 ***

Scully checked her watch and added six hours.  Skinner would still be
awake.  "May I use your phone?" she asked the lab technician on duty,
and when she nodded Scully dialed his number.

He picked up on the second ring.  "Hello."
 
"Sir, it's Ag--Dr. Scully," she corrected herself, remembering that,
although her FBI credentials had gotten her in, she was here in a
personal capacity.  "I've just finished verifying the results of the
original mt-DNA test.  With 99% accuracy, I can state that the remains
tested were those of Corporal James Kilcrease, Jr."

A brief silence on his end.  Then, his voice edged with something she
couldn't quite define, he said, "I can accept that number.  Thank you,
Dr. Scully."

"You're welcome, sir."  She hesitated ending the conversation there.
"Is there anything else I can do for you here?"

"No.  I appreciate all your help, very much.  I'll see you in a week."

He hung up, and Scully slowly did the same on her end.  She wasn't sure
why, but she felt like she could have said something more to him,
although she didn't know what.

The young officer who had been assigned to escort her while she was at
the Lab, and had done a wonderfully discrete job of shadowing her every
move, saw her out to her car.  "Is there anyone who should be informed
that I'm done here?" she asked him as they walked down the hall.
 
"I can take care of that, ma'am," he answered, holding a door open for
her politely.
 
Out of curiosity, she asked as she walked past him, "What happens to the
remains now?"
 
"Each set of remains will be sealed and placed in its own aluminum box
and flown tonight to Travis Air Force Base in California, where they'll
be presented to each family tomorrow with a full honor guard in
attendance."
 
She nodded.  "It's only fitting, after so long," she said, more to
herself than him.

But he heard her, and answered, "It still doesn't seem like enough,
ma'am."
 
Later, Scully sat on the hotel terrace for dinner, watching the sunset
over the ocean as she picked at her food.  She knew she should be
reveling in the colors and sounds and smells of nature around her, but
her mind kept returning to the image of a flag-draped box with only a
few yellowed teeth and bits of bone inside.

She crumpled her napkin in frustration.  The young officer had been
right--it *wasn't* enough.  There'd been seven other sets of remains
besides those of Corporal Kilcrease at the lab, and out of professional
courtesy she'd verified the mt-DNA tests on them as well.  Eight people
whom their families hadn't known whether to mourn or hope for.  How did
you deal with finality after all these years?  What could commemorate
that kind of loss?  What could possibly be enough now?

Was there anything she could do?

She went back to her room, thoughtful.  And as she rummaged through her
suitcase for the things she needed to get ready for bed, she realized
she hadn't packed her sandals, or sunblock, or even her swimsuit.

So.  Even back in D.C., she'd subconsciously known what she was going to
do.

She called the lab. "This is Dr. Dana Scully from the FBI.   How can I
find out if there's room for one more on the flight to Travis tonight?"

***

"Please precede us, Dr. Scully."

She nodded to the captain and moved stiffly to the exit.  She'd managed
a few hours of sleep on the flight despite the cramped quarters in the
cockpit and hoped she didn't look too rumpled now.   It was gray and
windy outside, and she buttoned her coat before she stepped out, pausing
briefly on the top step to get her bearings.

Seven clusters of people on the tarmac, huddled together against the
cold.  Over a hundred airmen and veterans ranged behind them.  And one
tall man in Marines dress blues at attention and alone.

As soon as she saw him she realized that she'd made a horrible mistake
in coming, hadn't thought it through, shouldn't be here now.  She'd
never seen Skinner in uniform, and knew that it was something she hadn't
been meant to see.  She'd thought she had come for two good reasons, to
honor the dead as the last person who had examined their remains, and
for Skinner's sake, the man she owed so much.  But she didn't belong
here at all.
 
Scully made her way slowly down the stairs, trying not to feel
self-conscious as she walked deliberately towards Walter Skinner.  The
Assistant Director.  The soldier.  The man she didn't really know at
all.

She considered simply standing beside him and not meeting his eyes, but
knew she had to face him, had to apologize somehow for intruding on what
should have been separate from her life and the person he chose to show
her every day.  She stopped in front of him and threw her head back as
the wind lashed her hair around her face.

He looked down at her from an impossible height, his eyes unreadable
behind his glasses.

"Sir--"

She half-expected a reprimand from him, and knew she deserved it.
Instead, he surprised her by saying, "Thank you for bringing them home,
Dr. Scully."

She nodded in acknowledgment, her cheeks flushing red in gratitude
despite the cold, and fell in beside him.

As a bugler's Taps faded into the breeze, she felt Skinner snap a salute
beside her.  She held herself straight and still, head high, face
betraying no emotion, as she'd learned to at her share of military
funerals, as eight boxes, each carried by four Navy seamen, were
solemnly walked across the wind-whipped tarmac to waiting hearses.

The groups of mourners followed slowly on foot to the base mortuary, and
Skinner said, finally breaking the silence between him and Scully, "I
didn't expect to see you."

"I didn't know I was coming, not until the last minute," she answered,
not looking at him.  "I--didn't want Corporal Kilcrease to be alone."

He nodded, and said again, "Thank you."  The edge was back in his voice,
the one she'd heard on the phone.  She thought she knew what it was now,
and kept her eyes resolutely ahead--she didn't need to know what he
looked like when he grieved.

He didn't ask her to wait outside, so she stood silently by as he made
arrangements for Corporal Kilcrease's remains to be buried at Arlington
National Cemetery.  Around them she could hear an occasional soft sob,
the strange silences that descended in the middle of sentences, a
heaviness of time and memory and patient hope at an end.   But Skinner
was emotionless, efficient, as if performing a business transaction, and
Scully wondered if her presence was shoring up his granite facade, or
making it impossible for it to come down.

When he finally picked up the folded flag that had draped the box of
Corporal Kilcrease's remains and turned to go, his eyes met hers for a
long moment.  She saw a weight in his eyes, the heaviness that she'd
sensed from everyone else, plain and undisguised even though not a
muscle in his face betrayed him.

Unaware of what he was projecting, he saw in her eyes what he'd felt as
she'd stood beside him--acceptance.  He knew beyond a doubt that she was
there to give him whatever support she could, and for the briefest
moment he wanted nothing more than to receive that gift from her.  But
instead his hand went to her shoulder, resting there briefly before he
guided her out of the building.

He knew that she always finished what she started, which was why he
hadn't been completely surprised to see her step off the plane.  But in
the harsh sunlight breaking through the clouds overhead he saw that her
face was wan now, too pale, and if the day was taking its toll on him,
how much more was it taking from her?

He said as they reached his car, "I'm driving over to see Mr.
Kilcrease.  Is there anywhere I can take you, Dr. Scully?"

She looked at him, her hands in her coat pockets and her shoulders
squared, and said simply,  "Wherever you're going, sir."

***

Skinner took off his hat and tucked it under his arm before he entered
the room at the nursing home.  Scully followed a few steps behind.
James Kilcrease, Sr. was sitting in an armchair staring out the window,
but he turned as they came in.  He was thin, with sunken cheeks and
prominent age spots on his face, his yellowing white hair combed
straight back from a high forehead, his eyes a watery gray.  A smile of
recognition transformed him, though, making his eyes bright and
revealing deep laugh lines around those eyes and his generous mouth.

"Walter."  His voice was soft, but there was genuine affection in it as
he held out his hand.   "How are you?"

Skinner took the frail hand, held it firmly between his own.  "Fine.
It's good to see you, Dad."

Scully stopped where she was, surprised at how close Skinner's
relationship was to this man.  More parts of his life she hadn't even
suspected before.  But Skinner gestured her forward.  "I'd like you to
meet Dr. Dana Scully, she's the one who determined the positive
identification of Jimmy's remains."

She stepped closer, took the hand he offered.  "I'm very pleased to meet
you, Mr. Kilcrease," she said.

"The pleasure is mine, Dr. Scully," he answered.  "Thank you for helping
Walter, and me.  It means so much."

"You're welcome."  The words felt so inadequate as she said them.  She
added awkwardly,  "I'm...sorry for your loss, Mr. Kilcrease."

His gaze left hers briefly as he nodded.  "It was so long ago," he said,
his voice low, "so long ago."  He looked back at her.   "But I'm glad
Jimmy's back, finally.  All these years..."  His eyes grew distant.  "At
least I can set my mind at some kind of ease now."

She nodded, and moved away from the two men, tried to leave them a
little space to themselves by examining the framed pictures on the
dresser.   A wedding photo, candid family shots--a picture of a young
man in uniform with dark blond hair, the same eyes and mouth as Mr.
Kilcrease but with a crooked nose, saluting for the camera.  She
lingered over it, trying to reconcile the remains she'd handled with the
human being they'd belonged to.  Jimmy Kilcrease.  Beloved son and
friend.

And then she saw a faded photo of Jimmy in his teens--nose straight
now--with a dark-haired boy his own age, arms around each other's necks
and clutching a football between them, grinning fiercely.  The dark
eyes, the strong chin--the other boy was Walter Skinner.

There was too much here that was none of her business, that she had no
right seeing or knowing.  She turned back around, wanting to leave, and
caught sight of a face she never could have imagined on Skinner.  Here,
with no need to scrutinize, the tightness around his eyes was gone; with
no anger to keep in check, the tense jaw was relaxed; there was none of
the wariness or suspicion she had thought characterized him, not here.
Not in this place where she didn't belong.

She went back to Skinner's side, and he bent slightly so she could say
in an undertone, "I'm going to go check with his supervising physician,
see how everything's going."

Skinner watched her leave, and then turned back to Mr. Kilcrease.  The
older man was looking absently at the far wall, and there was silence in
the room.  Finally he said, his voice small, "It hurts, Walter."  He
exhaled unsteadily.  "No man should ever outlive his son.  No man."

Skinner handed the other man the folded flag and crouched down by the
chair, looking into the pained gray eyes.  Mr. Kilcrease took Skinner's
hand, placed it on the triangle of blue cloth and white stars, and
covered it with his own.  "I look at you and see Jimmy, too," he said.
"See everything he could have become.  You were both so..."  He took a
deep breath, pulled himself back from memory with an effort,
concentrated on the face in front of him.  "Do you know, Walter," he
said slowly, squeezing his hand for emphasis, "how very proud I am of
you?"

He nodded.  "I know."  He looked down at their joined hands, and said
what was on both their minds.  "I know, Dad.  I miss Jimmy, too."

Freed by Skinner's words to reminisce with the one man who'd known Jimmy
as he had, he said, "I still remember when Jimmy first brought you by.
Your family had just moved in down the street, we took--oh, Dorothy had
made some sort of casserole or something, we met your folks, but you
were nowhere to be found.  Dorothy and I went back home and a little
while later you and Jimmy were at the front door and he was yelling,
'Look what I got!' like you were some stray dog he'd found and wanted to
keep."  He chuckled.  "You were so thin, and half a head shorter than
Jimmy, I wasn't even sure you were the same age."  He pretended to look
at Skinner critically.  "You've filled out a little since then."

"Since second grade?  I hope so!"

Mr. Kilcrease's smile widened, as Skinner had intended.  "Do you
remember--"  The older man started to laugh.  "Do you remember that day
you and Jimmy became 'blood brothers'?"  Skinner nodded, strangely
silent, and Mr. Kilcrease, not noticing, went on, "I walked into the
kitchen and there was blood all over your shirts and I thought you'd
been in a fight, Dorothy was bandaging your thumbs because you'd both
slit them and pressed them together with some mumbo-jumbo or other
pledging undying loyalty--"

"'Only each other, till the end,'" Skinner said, his voice low and his
eyes unfocused.

"That's right!" he exclaimed.  "That's right.  And then there was no
separating you two, you did everything together, you even..."

These memories were safe, the ones they both shared, and if it made Mr.
Kilcrease happy to relive them, it did no harm to Skinner, either.   And
the two men kept the emptiness back a little longer.

Scully looked in the doorway at them a while later, saw that they were
still talking and found her way to the chapel.  When the doors closed
behind her she took what felt like her first breath in hours.  It was
blessedly quiet.  Empty.  And, even devoid of any religious symbolism,
comfortingly familiar.  She sat down and rested folded hands on the back
of the pew in front of her.

It was easy enough to trace the path that had brought her here, but she
couldn't understand how wanting to do a favor had turned into feeling
like an intruder on a life not hers to understand.  She didn't even want
to sort through the glimpses she'd gotten of Skinner beyond the
boundaries of the man she knew as her Assistant Director.  She didn't
need uncertainties, conjectures, she needed to *know* something, to be
certain without a doubt of even just one thing--

James Kilcrease, Jr. was dead.  She'd proved that herself.

And she leaned her forehead on her hands, suddenly reminded of Mulder
and his sister Samantha.  Although Skinner and Mr. Kilcrease had
undoubtedly hoped Jimmy was still alive, they had also known there was
an equal possibility that he was dead.  As far as she knew, Mulder had
never, for one moment, entertained the notion that Samantha could be
dead.  What would ever happen if there was proof that she was indeed
dead?  All his searching, his obsession, his belief, for nothing?

She felt like crying, but was too tired to muster the energy.  "Oh,
God," she sighed.  She felt weighted with certainty, with finality.  And
the sigh turned into a prayer. "Oh, God..."

Long moments passed, but her mind refused to clear.  And then she heard
the doors open behind her and she felt the strain in her shoulders and
arms as she straightened, resting her hands in her lap and closing her
eyes, trying one last time to center herself before she checked on Mr.
Kilcrease and Skinner again.  She took a deep breath and turned to exit
the pew when she saw who was sitting across the aisle--Skinner, with his
head bowed.

She didn't know whether to go or stay, and indecision froze her in place
until he looked up, first straight ahead, and then turning to her.  "Dr.
Scully," he said, his voice muted in the chapel.  "What did Mr.
Kilcrease's doctor say?"  She answered in the same hushed tone, assuring
him that Mr. Kilcrease was doing well.
 
He nodded, grateful, and then said, "Mr. Kilcrease can't come to
Arlington for the burial next week, so he wanted to have a short
memorial service here, and he'd be pleased if you were present."

"Of course I'll stay," she answered.

The nursing home's chaplain came in, and gestured that they should move
forward.  Skinner and Scully arose and went to the front pew, Skinner
leading the way and Scully slipping in next to him.  A nurse wheeled Mr.
Kilcrease into the chapel, the flag Skinner had given him and the
picture of Jimmy in uniform on his lap.  The nurse handed the flag and
picture to the chaplain, then parked Mr. Kilcrease in the aisle next to
Scully and took a seat in the pew behind them.

Scully glanced at Mr. Kilcrease's unsteady hands resting in his lap, and
found herself thinking of her own father's funeral.  Startled, she
looked up at the chaplain, who began to speak.  As it became clear that
he knew no more about Jimmy Kilcrease than she did, her gaze dropped,
and she found herself looking at Skinner's hands, which were holding his
hat.  Large, capable hands, calm and still.

Too still, she realized.

She remembered going to the funeral of Captain Timothy Barendrick, a man
who'd served with her father and had visited the family so regularly
they'd called him "Uncle Rick."  And although at all previous funerals
Captain Scully had stood with his family, stoic and silent, this time
he'd stepped forward and walked to the graveside.  She'd watched him,
stunned, as he'd stood over the coffin, facing the mourners, unable to
let the moment pass without commemorating what Rick had meant to him.
In a strong, clear voice he'd recited Tennyson's "Break, break, break"
and then, when he'd finished, bowed his head and said softly, "Goodbye,
old friend."  And in that moment, despite his rigid posture and steady
voice, for the first time she knew that she was seeing her father
grieve, and knew what it was to ache so deeply for someone else you
thought your heart would burst.

And as she heard the chaplain murmur the 23rd Psalm now, and sat next to
a too-still Skinner, she felt the ache again, for a man who, because she
was present--one person who knew him and would see him again after this
was over--couldn't, *wouldn't* let down his guard, show a single break
in his control.  The stillness was only on the surface, she knew; she
could feel the tension like a live thing all around him.  Had she come
all this way for this?  To make it impossible for him to mourn for his
friend?  What more could she do to wrong the man she'd so desperately
wanted to repay?

Made impulsive by anger at herself and her own half-acknowledged grief,
when the chaplain paused she stood.  He looked at her, startled, but
gestured for her to speak.  And as she stared at the white stars of the
flag resting on the podium, at the picture of Jimmy Kilcrease so many
years gone, the poem that had been etched on her brain ever since she'd
heard it from her father so long ago came tumbling out of her:

"Break, break, break
     On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
     The thoughts that arise in me.

"O, well for the fisherman's boy,
     That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
     That he sings in his boat on the bay!

"And the stately ships go on
     To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
     And the sound of a voice that is still!

"Break, break, break
     At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
     Will never come back to me."

Scully moved a hand as if to touch the picture.  "I'm so sorry,
Corporal," she breathed.  "You died much too young."
As she said it, sorrow in the abstract with blinding swiftness became
grief so deep she felt it as physical pain.

Her sister Melissa had died too young.

Then Skinner was standing beside her, holding her hand tight before
everything came apart.  She gulped air, closing her eyes briefly against
memory, as she heard Skinner say, his voice low,

"'Only each other, till the end.'  Goodbye, Jimmy."

She heard what was in his voice and squeezed his hand.  Mr. Kilcrease
had reached for her other hand, and she could feel the tremor of his
sobs in his faltering grip.  "Goodbye," she whispered to Jimmy, to
Missy.
 

[end 1/3]

From: Melynda Jensen <melyndajensen@juno.com>
New: "Soldier and Friend" Skinner/Scully NC17 2/3

***

Skinner saw Mr. Kilcrease back to his room, and Scully made the phone
calls that ensured she would be on the plane that had brought her to
Travis, which was returning to Hawaii in the morning.  She needed time
before she returned to the Bureau, to Mulder with a new sadness in her
heart at the thought of Samantha, to stern and implacable Skinner behind
his desk with the disjointed images she had of him now.

She met Skinner in the dining hall.  His appetite had deserted him, and
there was a lump in Scully's throat that wouldn't go away, but neither
had had any food for hours and they forced themselves to eat before they
left.  Yes, he could drive her to Travis before his own flight to
Washington.  No, it shouldn't be a problem to find a motel with two
vacancies between here and the airfield.  They drove until they found a
motel, checked in, got their luggage out of the trunk, walked to their
rooms, and stood in front of their doors awkwardly.

There were no words for what had happened in the chapel, for either of
them.  At the very moment Scully had needed someone, anyone, to give her
strength, to keep her from falling headlong into a chasm of grief and
guilt she was still slowly crossing, it had been Skinner who had given
it.  And when Skinner hadn't been sure if he could hold his emotions in
check one moment longer, Scully had made the gesture that showed how
intensely she felt what was happening, how deeply she understood what he
was going through.  She had given him the strength, had freed him, to
say goodbye.

"Good night, Dr. Scully," he said finally.

She nodded.  "Good night, sir."

He watched her go inside, and then went into his own room.  Mechanically
he set his suitcase down near the door, placed his hat on the shelf in
the closet and removed an envelope from his jacket pocket before he hung
it up.  He looked around, noting the locks on the door, where the smoke
detector was, the absence of a table and chair.  He placed the envelope
carefully on the pillow, put his gun and badge on the nightstand and sat
down on the edge of the bed, letting his lightly-clasped hands dangle
between his knees as he stared at the floor.

That he was exhausted, he didn't need anyone to tell him.  It seemed
like years since he'd gotten the call from Mr. Kilcrease at work, and
about that long since he'd been able to sleep.  He wanted a drink, but
he couldn't run away this time, couldn't blindly act as he sometimes
did.  Somehow, it mattered that if he went anywhere, Scully was right
next door and would know--

Scully.  Guiltily, he remembered that, after all, he'd sent her to have
a vacation.

Worrying about her and Mulder had become second nature to him, and yet
in some ways Scully was the last person he needed to worry about.  Time
and again she'd faced danger, even faced her own death, and she'd proved
that she was pure steel.

It took its toll, though.  He knew that first hand, and if anyone had to
see the moment when the tiniest rent in that steel ever showed itself,
it had to be him.  Not Mulder; he knew what Mulder needed from Scully as
well as she did.  But Skinner had no illusions about what it meant to
feel control slipping away.  He'd tried to protect her with the trip to
Hawaii, but now that she was here, he had to be the one with her because
he understood, and he felt that somehow she knew that.

It didn't occur to him that that understanding could go both ways.

She'd offered to go all the way to the CIL as a favor to him, and then
on her own come to meet him at Travis, proof to him that they were
starting to come to an understanding, that the uneasy trust Mulder had
simply offered him, he had finally earned from her.  Her trust meant a
lot to him.  But he had no right to ask her for anything else.

Abruptly he turned and emptied the envelope, looking again at the things
Mr. Kilcrease had kept of Jimmy's and thought he might like to have.

Like Jimmy's penknife, its bone handle yellowing with age.  The great
equalizer, he remembered, cutting candy bars and everything else in half
that their pooled allowances could only afford one of.   It had pried
reluctant insects out of the mud, carved pumpkins and--in a misguided
attempt at creativity--bars of soap, carefully cut out pictures from
*National Geographic*, stood in for screwdriver and hammer when they
knocked together one invention or another, torn up old t-shirts into
rags so they could polish their bikes...  Skinner opened it and ran the
blade along the pad of his thumb.  It needed sharpening, he thought
absently, and then realized what he was doing and glanced quickly at his
thumb, as if a wound long healed could simply reappear.  He clicked the
blade closed again and laid it aside.

A white name badge had fallen out of the envelope onto its face.
Skinner turned it over and read, "My name is SCORCHY.  May I help you?"
From a summer at the bakery, when Jimmy had proved less than adept at
frying donuts and had earned the nickname from their shift manager,
who'd put him in charge of busing tables instead.  Jimmy had somehow
turned the name badge, as he did most everything, to his own advantage,
making up improbable stories about "Scorchy" that delighted the regulars
and set the girls from school giggling.  He'd always end by pointing in
the back and saying, "You think *that's* something?  You know what they
say about my buddy Walter...!"  And more than half the time he had no
idea why he got the huge grins he did when people poked their heads in
the back and waved on their way out of the bakery.  Skinner spelled the
name on the badge with a forefinger, almost smiling.  God, that
summer--!

That summer was a long, long time ago.  Skinner picked up a puzzle
piece, from one of the map puzzles Mr. Kilcrease had bought for Jimmy in
an attempt to "make learning fun."  The two boys had put them together
over and over while recovering from chicken pox (when they weren't
memorizing WWII fighter planes until they could tell each one just from
its silhouette), not really paying attention to what they were doing,
until they'd discovered the night before a big geography test when
they'd been prepared to study all night, popcorn popped and kool-aid
ready, that they already knew where everything was.  The popcorn bowl
had been upended in their relief, leading to a food fight that Mrs.
Kilcrease had sworn looked like a blizzard across the Dakotas when she'd
walked in on them.  Skinner traced the edges of the state of
Mississippi, capital: Jackson, state bird: mockingbird, state flower:
magnolia, principal crop: cotton.  And set it down, as if the pillow on
his bed had been a map of the United States, between Louisiana,
Arkansas, Tennessee, and Alabama.

The book of matches puzzled him; he slowly turned it over and over,
trying to put together with the name and the drawing of an ivied trellis
a memory of a restaurant on that street, but couldn't.  He finally
opened the cover and to his surprise saw the names "Walter," "Sarah,"
"James," and  "Christina" written in four different hands.  How could he
have forgotten Jimmy's cousin, little Sarah Guidry from down the street,
and her moon-eyed crush on him?  Her attention caught by no one her age,
both he and Jimmy had known she would ask him to go to her first high
school dance with her.  That part, accepting with a good grace, had been
easy.  Jimmy's had been the harder one, and typical of him, to befriend
Sarah's too-shy best friend, Christina, so that she'd have someone to
ask to the dance, too.  He and Jimmy had stood in the living room at
Sarah's house, huge corsages in hand, and watched as the two girls in
all the trembling glamour of their first pairs of high heels and
dangling earrings made their way downstairs.

Jimmy had cracked, "Jeez, Sarah, you cleaned up halfway pretty!" and in
reflex she'd slugged him, and what could have been an uncomfortable
evening conducted with the immense dignity only a fourteen year old
could summon turned instead into laughter and gentle teasing and dinner
at the new Italian restaurant, where four matchbooks had made the rounds
of the table so they could all sign their names and have a souvenir of
the night.  And later he'd hauled a classmate with wandering hands off a
shocked Christina, and Jimmy, charging back from the refreshments table,
had floored that too-enterprising young man with a right cross before
the chaperons stepped in...

God almighty.  Even here, in the middle of nowhere in a motel Skinner
had never stayed at before, there were too many ghosts.  He closed his
burning eyes.

***

Scully undressed and got in the shower, hoping the water would relax
her.  She made it as hot as she could stand, but she still had to wrap
her arms around herself, feeling chilled, tense, almost sick as the
water beat down on her.  Shivering, she gave up and toweled off, then
changed into her pajamas and robe.  She went back to the room and found
something to wear the next day and hung it carefully in the closet,
tucked her dirty clothes into the bottom corner of her suitcase, found
her toothbrush and floss.  Her eyes burned and she couldn't swallow the
lump in her throat away, and still she couldn't cry.

Skinner had accepted her presence, her need for closure to what she'd
started.  But instead of closure it had all spiraled out of control.
Meeting Mr. Kilcrease, seeing what Jimmy meant to him and Skinner,
everything reminded her of people she'd loved and lost, her father and
her sister both taken too soon from her, without a chance to--no words
to--

Her arm suddenly whipped out, clearing the top of the dresser in a
destructive clatter.  "I wish I could *cry*!" she ground out through
clenched teeth.

She shouldn't have been surprised to hear a knock at the door.  She
smoothed her hair back from her face as she went to open it.

Skinner had his gun drawn, but he immediately dropped it to his side.
He peered into the room.  "I thought I heard something."

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you.  I didn't mean to."

His gaze went to her.  "Are you all right?"

She felt the full force of concern behind the simple question, and
wondered if lying would do any good.   "I will be.  Eventually."

He seemed to relax at her honesty.  "You need to get some sleep."

"I know."  She turned away and picked up the brochure rack from the
floor.  "I just feel restless."

"So throwing stationery around helps?"

She looked at him.  Humor was always so unexpected from him that despite
the lump in her throat, she managed a harsh laugh.  "If you can't sleep
either, come in," she offered on a sudden impulse.  "We can keep each
other company for a while, if you like."

To her surprise, he went to close the door to his room, and then came
back.  She gestured for him to take the head of the bed, and she perched
at the foot.  She ventured a question, hoping that it was innocent
enough for him to answer, and for her to feel more like herself.

"I saw the pictures in Mr. Kilcrease's room."  He nodded.  "Did *you*
break Jimmy's nose?"

Startled by the question, he gave a sudden snort of laughter.  "No, that
wasn't me.  Although with some of the fights we had...  That was a
hockey puck that got away."

"You played football together, too?"

He nodded again, his gaze suddenly abstract.  "We did just about
everything together."

She leaned forward and asked carefully, hoping she wasn't prying, "What
was it like, being Jimmy's friend?"

He frowned as he considered her question.  After all, she'd never known
Jimmy; she deserved that much.  "What was it like," he repeated.   "It
was like...being one step behind total disaster every second of every
day.  Jimmy was the ringleader, equal parts good will and absolute
disregard for physical safety.  I was the cautious one, always trying to
head trouble off at the pass."  He quirked an eyebrow.  "It usually
didn't work."

A tiny smile curved the corners of Scully's mouth as she imagined two
young boys wreaking havoc on a long-suffering neighborhood.  Seeing her
expression and wanting it to remain, Skinner told her what he and Mr.
Kilcrease had reminisced about earlier that day, things it didn't hurt
to tell.

Caution needed a spur to action, a way out of sameness and safety, just
as a ringleader needed brakes, someone who could take an idea and figure
out how to make it reality, and Jimmy and Walter had grown up two sides
of a coin.  As they'd gotten older, they'd discovered elements of each
other in themselves -- Jimmy adding method and thoughtfulness to his
headlong plunge through life, Walter an ability to take the lead under
adversity to his pragmatism and reserve.

And Scully sensed something that had drawn the two boys to each other in
the first place as Skinner talked--probably never articulated to each
other, certainly not now to her: Jimmy and Walter had shared a strong
sense of what was right in the world, and the ardent desire to act on
it.   Through Skinner's stories she saw the beginnings of the man who
joined the Marines on his eighteenth birthday.  Who kept the line for
his field agents who couldn't (or wouldn't) keep it themselves.  Who had
tried so hard to shield his wife from what his work had become (because
no matter how disillusioned he grew, he would never give up) that his
shelter for her turned into a wall she couldn't breach and he'd lost
her.  Who had gambled everything that meant anything to him for her and
Mulder.  She felt a familiar ache building inside her as she looked at
him, at his expression changing as he remembered more and more.

Skinner finally took a deep breath, bewildered at where memory had left
him.  Then he said slowly, as if trying to make sense of it all, "All
these years I've felt Jimmy...in the back of my mind, and I thought that
meant that somewhere he was still alive--if I could remember him like
that, then he couldn't be dead.  And no matter what, no matter how bad
things got, I was never alone, Jimmy was there.  Even when Sharon and I
separated, I thought Jimmy was with me."  His Adam's apple worked
briefly before he said, "It turns out, I was alone all the time."  In a
lower voice, "And I don't know how to be alone like this."

*Neither do I*, she thought as she looked at him.  The emptiness she'd
been living with since she'd lost Missy was brand-new to him, and she
gave him the only thing she had.  "You're not alone," she whispered
fiercely.  "I'm here." And suddenly her vision blurred, and with a small
sob she realized that she was finally crying.  But despite the relief,
she realized who she was crying in front of, and what the hell would he
think of her, weak enough to--

Through her tears she saw him move towards her, and suddenly found
herself in his crushing embrace.  She felt something tightly wound
inside her give way as he rocked her in his strong arms, and in that
moment realized how much she'd needed solace.  She threw her arms around
him and held tight; he needed this at least as much as she did.  "You're
not alone," she insisted over and over against the front of his
shoulder, "I'm here."

He pressed his cheek against her damp hair, his tangled emotions somehow
finding relief as he and Scully held each other.  She was safe with him;
he'd never betray this moment to anyone.  At the same time, even as her
tears soaked his shirt her words were a consolation to him, a truth she
wouldn't let him ignore.  No, he wasn't alone.

And neither was she.

Skinner continued to rock her back and forth until she'd calmed.  She
rubbed her face against his shirt to dry it and looked up at him from
the circle of his arms, her eyes red and swollen, her mouth unsteady and
her cheeks splotchy with crying.  She hid nothing from him, and her
trust in him was a precious, fragile thing that made her all the
stronger in his eyes.  And he couldn't think of a moment when she'd
looked more beautiful.

There was almost nothing of the Assistant Director about Skinner; his
face was still the face she'd seen in Mr. Kilcrease's room but there was
something compelling about it now.   She suddenly saw Mr. Kilcrease in
Skinner, something not only kind, but a gentleness that life had taught
him not to reveal.  Her hand went to his face, fingers tracing the new
contours revealed by grief and compassion--and came away wet.  Scully's
eyes widened with surprise, and he caught her hand in his to forestall
anything she might say.  A nod of her head comprehended everything: her
acceptance and sadness, her understanding and silence.   She wouldn't
ask, and she wouldn't betray this moment, either.

He carefully moved away, his stern voice contrasting with his troubled
expression as he said, "It's late.  We've...been through a lot.  I
should leave."

The voice of reason.  He was always the voice of reason, and he was
always right.  But it *was* late, and they *had* been through a lot, and
that was exactly why--

"Please, don't be noble," she begged.  "Stay with me tonight.
When...when  Melissa died, I stayed in her empty room all night and
Mulder stayed with me.  And it meant so much just to have him there, to
be able to hold him if I needed to.  Don't be alone tonight.  You don't
have to be."

Her hands went to his arms as if to hold him there.  "Please."  So blunt
it didn't seem in the least selfish, she said simply, her blue eyes
refusing to let him go, "I need you.  And you need me."

He met her gaze squarely, hearing a plea for nothing more than human
companionship.  If she could admit her need to comfort him, to be
comforted, why couldn't he do the same?

She sniffled and turned away, not wanting to push any harder, and pulled
off her bathrobe and draped it across the corner of the bed.  As she
turned down the covers and slipped between the sheets with her back to
him, she heard his shoes come off, his clothes folded and placed on the
table, his glasses and gun set on the nightstand.  He turned out the
lamp and a sliver of moonlight came through a break in the curtains as
she felt the weight of him as he got into bed on the other side.

Between them they had enough self-control for at least three people;
they both knew that nothing would happen unless they wanted it to.  All
that either of them wanted was comfort, and they wouldn't use sex to get
it.  And neither needed a lover more than they needed a friend.

Skinner moved closer to her, his front to her back, and instead of
tensing as she'd expected to, Scully felt herself relax instead, utterly
and completely.  She could never relax like that with Mulder; she was
always too aware that, Mulder being who he was, she had to be
responsible for the both of them.  But she knew, with deep down surety,
that she didn't need to worry about Skinner, that here, and now, she was
safe where she was.  She pulled his arm around her and laced her fingers
through his.

He tucked her head beneath his chin and squeezed her hand.  It felt like
the most natural thing in the world, to hold Scully close and feel the
warm weight of her snuggled against him.  How long had it been since
he'd held Sharon like that?  How long since he'd taken simple trust for
granted?

He would have tried to puzzle it out but, filled with a quiet peace that
hadn't been his for years, he was soon asleep.
 

[end 2/3]

From: Melynda Jensen <melyndajensen@juno.com>
New: "Soldier and Friend" Skinner/Scully NC17 3/3

***

The clock radio, set by the previous guest to go off at 3:30 a.m.,
suddenly gave them Aretha Franklin loud and clear:

"...think!  (Think!  Think!) Let your mind go, let yourself be free!
Let's go back, let's go back, let's go way on way back when..."

Scully sat bolt upright at the sudden assault of sound, and gasped for
breath as she tried to remember where she was.  Skinner, whose first
instinct was to go for his gun, regained his presence of mind first and
fumbled with the radio until it was silent again.  He exhaled heavily
and rolled onto his back.  Scully looked down at him, her mind only now
starting to clear, and as their gazes met, adrenaline still running high
and pulses beating fast, they both burst into laughter, tried to stifle
it, and then gave in, laughing helplessly for no better reason than it
felt like blessed relief to laugh.

"Oh, my God," she managed finally, leaning her head against her knees
and hiccuping in wonder.   "I don't think I've ever heard you laugh
before!"

"You haven't," he admitted, wiping his eyes weakly.  "Didn't think I
could, did you?"

"No, I never--I mean--"  Another giggle escaped her.  "I'm sorry...!"
She turned her head to look at him.  "This is so *stupid*!" she
exclaimed.  "I don't even know what's so funny about Aretha Franklin--!"

Scully was blurry to Skinner's eyes, and in the dark even more so, and
something about the shadow she made, what she said, stopped the breath
in his lungs as he remembered another place, and another time
altogether.

Scully suddenly sobered at the expression on Skinner's face.  "What is
it?" she asked.

"Just...remembering something...the song..."

She slipped back down beside him and touched his arm.  "I'm here," she
said, her voice soft.  She felt his stillness under her hand, and
waited.

Finally, not looking at her, he said slowly, "We'd just come from
somewhere near Phu Bai, narrowly missed an encounter with the Viet Cong,
and were going to one of Bob Hope's road shows."  He shrugged minutely.
"There'd been a rumor that Aretha Franklin was going to be there and we
were all pretty excited, she and Jimi Hendrix were our soundtrack to the
war, pretty much.   When word reached us that it was Lola Falana, Miss
America and some rock and roll band no one had ever heard of, and no
Aretha, it was enough to turn my men almost mutinous, they were looking
at the stage and me as if a well placed shot, or grenade, would take
care of everything.

"I thought it was the end of my fledgling military career right there, I
was too new at being an authority figure to think that I could change a
group of men back into a fighting unit that trusted me not to get their
asses killed, that I could bring them back from something like this.
They kept muttering, 'Man, they said Aretha was gonna be here!' and the
tone was getting angrier and angrier.  And then--I don't know how to
describe it, but in that moment, I acquired The Stare, and The Voice."

Scully heard the capital letters, and knew exactly what he was talking
about.  And so did every other agent at the Bureau.

"When I looked at them, they went silent.  And then I told them what
sons of bitches they were if they didn't look at Miss America and like
it, because *she* was what we were fighting for.  Something like that, I
don't remember the rest."  He snorted.  "I'd never cowed a bunch of men
before, but let me tell you, it felt damned good."

He fell silent, and Scully thought he was reveling in that moment of
power and absolute authority, until he went on in a very different
voice, "And then I turned around and, in that whole sea of soldiers,
hundreds, thousands of us, I saw Jimmy Kilcrease not thirty feet from
me.  We...made it over to each other, pounded each other on the back,
traded news of where we'd been, what action we'd seen, swore over the
same generals--all the stuff that doesn't matter, looking back on it.
He showed me a letter he'd gotten from his father, read part of it to
me.  And then the show was starting, and we went back to sit with our
units."

He paused, and then went on deliberately, "It was the last time I saw
him.  I wish I'd known that then, I would have paid more attention, said
something--  But I had no premonition, not like they say you do.  I
think back, and I remember thinking he was getting sunburned, losing
some weight, and that was all.  I was so sure we'd see each other again,
that we'd have time later to catch up with each other, but it was pure
chance we'd seen each other that day at all.

"Strange, isn't it, that after I find out Jimmy's really dead, it'd be
that song on the radio like that."

She knew he wasn't looking for sympathy or pity, and hoped she was
saying the right thing in the right way.  "I never would have guessed
your guardian angel was Aretha Franklin."

He looked up at her, one eyebrow on the rise, and then his mouth
softened into a small smile.  "I never thought about it that way."  And
he remembered another woman, with tears in her dark eyes, begging him,
"Walter, please, let me in!"  But, he realized, there'd never been a
distance between him and Jimmy, never a need to ask to know something.
Just--acceptance, and when the time came it would all come tumbling
out.  Just as it had with Scully.  She already knew the worst of it, was
in the thick of it with him, knew what his life had become because hers
had been transformed in the same way.  He didn't need to protect her
from anything.  She was already right by his side.

Scully also considered the person beside her, and remembered someone
else.  Yes, Mulder had been with her after Missy died.  But she'd
discovered that even in grief, she was stronger than he was. He'd needed
comfort and absolution even more than she did, and she'd held him and
given it to him.  The most she could ever expect from Mulder was that
they'd be able to keep each other from falling but they'd always teeter
on this side of the abyss.  She couldn't rest, ever, with Mulder.  But
Skinner was different.   When she'd started to fall, he'd caught her and
not demanded anything in return.  He was strong enough to offer himself
without need or condition.  And that had bolstered her own strength, her
desire to be for him what he was for her.  Acceptance of her as she was,
weaknesses as well as strengths.  A place where, even for a little
while, she could let down her guard.

She felt no tension in his arm still under her hand, and she suddenly
realized that all the pieces she'd seen of him earlier that day and
hadn't understood were coming together.  He was little boy and grown
man, son and AD, soldier and friend, stern and principled and deeply
caring and fiercely private--and yet, even while he was grieving, he
could still reach out to her and, shared, the grief in her heart was no
longer a burden.

 She touched his face as she had when it had been wet with tears and
looked at him, really looked at him.  He regarded her intently, her face
close enough to him that he could see in her eyes a thankfulness and
dawning wonder, heard it in her voice as she said softly,

"Walter."  The man before her, whole and entire.  She knew she was only
beginning to understand him, but it was what she wanted to do, for
herself and for him, without any thought of what she owed him or what
she might get from him in return for the effort.

To draw any closer would mean they could no longer look at each other,
and it almost seemed less intimate to kiss than to break their gaze.
Tentatively, almost shyly, they leaned towards each other.   "Dana," he
breathed, and he felt her smile before they kissed.

Her eyes looked liquid, reflecting the moonlight from the window.  She
traced the strong line of his shoulders through his undershirt and then
they were undressing each other slowly, exploring what they gradually
revealed, his fingertips trailing along her delicate collarbone, hers
lightly brushing the dark hair on his well-muscled chest.  He drew her
close and kissed her.  She stiffened only briefly as their bare skin
touched, then her arms wrapped tight around him to press him as close as
possible to her.

Their kisses gradually lengthened and their hands and mouths became more
bold.  He caressed her back and sides with slow, sensuous strokes, his
mouth describing a hot, wet trail along her ear, tonguing its inner
curve, sucking gently on her lobe, and she arched against him in
response.  A moan escaped her as he caressed her throat and shoulders
with his mouth.  Then he explored first one breast and then the other,
concentrating on each with his lips and tongue as if it was the only
thing that existed for him. Her trembling hands ran over his head,
through his hair, urging him on, finally moving on top of him.

She raised herself up on her arms, trying to balance herself above him.
He lifted his face, letting her dangling breasts caress his cheeks and
forehead, then he reached out his tongue to capture one of her nipples.
He finally managed to sip one into his mouth as his hand cupped her
other breast, teasing the nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Not wanting to let her go, he sat up and took her with him, balancing
her astride his hips, caressing the curve of her back and pressing her
to him as he hungrily played with her breasts.   She rocked back and
forth in his lap, rubbing herself against his hardened penis. One of his
hands reached between her legs.

"Oh--god--" she gasped, rising against him, almost not able to stand the
sensations as his mouth and hand found instantly the tender spots that
made her hands tingle unbearably, her pulse race, made her eyes close
tight with a pleasure so intense it almost felt like pain. She reached
down to help him enter her, missed as she sat down and groaned, grinding
against him. "--please--!" she begged, trying again, then felt the tip
of his penis pressing against her vagina and she pushed back until he
was filling her.

She arched suddenly, his fingers bringing her to a climax. Her vagina
spasmed around his still-hard penis and she took his face in her hands
and kissed him hard, her tongue darting in his mouth with the rhythm of
her orgasm. She started moving her hips in the same rhythm, squeezing
and releasing him. His hands on her waist helped her rise and fall as
his hips moved beneath her, matching her beat for beat.  Her body no
longer under her control as she felt her second orgasm build, she
clenched her hands on his upper arms desperately, her thighs trembling
as the rest of her tensed.

 "Walter--" she gasped.  His breath caught as she squeezed the length of
his penis inside her.  "...so good--!" she moaned, kneading his
shoulders as she started to rock back and forth in his lap.  They moved
together, her hands sliding over his shoulders and down his back as she
rose and fell against him.

His hips moved under her, but soon all of his consciousness narrowed to
pure sensation, the taste of her sweaty skin, the sound of her soft
panting cries, the smell of her full arousal, the feel of--the feel--

She was sobbing, and he realized how close he was to his own release as
he felt hers. He kissed the hollow at the base of her neck and she
curled tight against him just as suddenly as she'd arched away from him
in orgasm. He pressed longing kisses against the curve of her throat as
he grasped her hips and moved her rapidly up and down the length of his
penis and he heard her cry out with another orgasm as he came.

She collapsed against him, breathless, trembling. He eased them both
back until they were lying side by side. Their noses touched, and then
their foreheads as she relaxed even more against him, trying to catch
her breath.  He held her in his arms, stroking his hand slowly up and
down her back until her breathing finally evened.   When he moved away
slightly to look at her, not sure what he would see in her expression,
he saw no regret at all.

He traced the contours of that lovely face with his fingertips.  When
she closed her eyes, the better to feel, he stroked her eyelids and
lashes with a feather touch.  Her cheek was feverish under her hand, and
then against his lips.  He tilted her head down slightly and his mouth
traveled to her temple, her forehead, briefly visited her nose before
her mouth found his and her hands went to his face, holding him there.
Her tongue described sensuous patterns inside his mouth as his hands
caressed the lean muscles and silken skin of her back.  Then she
murmured anxiously between kisses, "Do you want to make love again?"

"Do you?" he asked.

"Mm-hm. But--could *you* do all the work this time?"

 He smiled a small smile. "If you insist."

"Please," she whispered.

Her legs parted for him as he positioned himself above her and then he
slowly entered her. Her head dropped back against the pillow, baring her
throat as she sighed at the feel of him inside her. He bent and kissed
her neck tenderly, then raised his head as she opened her eyes and
looked at him. He stroked in and out of her with deliberate care, only
their breathing interrupting the liquid sound of their lovemaking.

They continued that way, slowly, almost leisurely, feeling everything
until the sensations built in intensity.  "Yes," she whispered, moving
against him again, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. "Yes, Walter,
yes--!"

"Dana..."

He kissed her mouth open, taking her cries into him as she came, wanting
to keep everything she could give safe inside him as he came, too.

Their kisses gradually grew soft and tender, and in the middle of a
lingering kiss, she simply fell asleep, her mouth easing away from his
and her head growing heavy against his shoulder.

He arranged the fallen bedding around them as she wriggled closer to him
in her sleep, her arm curving around his waist as her body relaxed
comfortably into his.

"Walter," she sighed.

"I'm here, Dana."

She smiled in her sleep and said contentedly, "Mmm."

He held her, and closed his eyes.

***

Skinner went back to his own room to shower and change, and they drove
to Travis AFB, stopping for coffee at a roadside diner on the way.
Conversation between them was random and brief, more said with their
eyes, their shy, lingering gazes, than any words.

As Scully got ready to walk across the tarmac, she turned and looked up
at him.

She couldn't bring herself to say anything out loud, but she asked him a
question from her heart, from an empty place he had filled too briefly
and that she couldn't stand to feel again, not yet.

His answer wasn't rejection, but there was sadness there, behind the
warmth of his dark eyes.  What happened in the night had no connection
to the light of day.  She knew that.  She didn't want to let go of what
they'd shared, but she had to be grateful for what had been.  She
nodded, and turned away.

He watched her walk, small and alone, to the waiting transport, and
suddenly thought of Jimmy, of another goodbye that hadn't been a
goodbye.  Always tomorrow, always all the time in the world...

Only when the transport had taken off did Skinner get back in his car
and drive away.

***

Determined to make a fresh start and enjoy herself if it killed her,
Scully hit the hotel boutique.  She couldn't find a sundress that didn't
need altering so she settled for an aloha shirt and matching shorts, a
pair of Keds, a swimsuit, and a large straw hat to shield her face from
the sun.  She got the directions from the concierge to a beach where, he
confided to her, sea turtles were sometimes known to congregate,
slathered on sunblock, grabbed a hotel towel and was on her way.

After an afternoon chasing the surf, finding shells, climbing rocks,
exploring caves and watching the clouds float by, she returned,
exhilarated and oddly at peace, to the hotel.

"So did you find the sea turtles?" the concierge asked her.

"No, but I hope to tomorrow."

As she walked towards the elevator, she heard a voice behind her.
"Maybe I can help you find them."

A voice that made her heart stop.  She turned.

Walter Skinner stood in the lobby behind her.   In his business suit he
looked incongruous framed by the potted palms and koi-filled fountain,
and then she realized that she looked like an idiot in her floppy straw
hat and too-loud clothes and muddy shoes, that despite her precautions
she was freckled all over--but he was still walking towards her.

Not wanting to hope, she blurted out, "What brings you here?"

He closed the distance between them, and she saw the answer before he
said, "You," and bent to kiss her.

The End
 
 
 

Inspired by Kevin Fagan's article in the San Francisco Chronicle,
"Belated Taps for MIAs," which I wouldn't even have noticed if it
weren't for Manik's "Shocking Blue" stories, which reminded me (in
wonderfully written scenes) that Skinner's Vietnam experience is part of
who he is.