By Daydreamer
Daydream59@aol.com
 

Rating: R
Category: V
Spoilers: Pre-Avatar
Keywords: Skinnerfic
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes!  Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by
Chris Carter, 1013 Production, Fox Television Network, etc.
They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny,
Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi.  I will make no profit
from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am
poor and have nothing material from which they can profit.

Comments: This is a companion piece to my story "Things
Unsaid."  That story is a post-Avatar story.  It got me
to thinking that I wanted to see what actually happened
pre-Avatar.  This is my take.

Summary: What led to Skinner's separation from his wife?
Why did she file for divorce?
 

Things Remembered

She doesn't open the mail anymore.  That's as revealing a
sign as any of the changes that have come over her.  She
used to be so careful about things like that.  Opening
the mail as soon as it arrived, paying the bills when they
came due, never missing a mortgage payment.   Now the
envelopes sit on the small table inside our front door,
the pile growing a little bit more every afternoon.
I asked if I needed to be concerned, if she needed me to
do something about them, but she just flicked through the
pile and said, "There's nothing important, just bills
and statements."

There was a time, not so long ago, those statements would
have been filed away the day they arrived, placed in an
accordion folder on the desk to be paid five days before
they were due.  It was one of the many things I loved
and admired about her.  From the day we married, she
was willing to assume those responsibilities for the
mundane necessities in life, leaving me free to concentrate
on work.  I've never had to worry about these things before,
but now, despite her assurances that there's nothing
important in the pile, I can't help but wonder.

I wore a frayed tie the other day and she didn't even
notice.  She used to worry that my appearance reflected
upon her and she would no more have let me go out in a
frayed tie than she would have forgotten my shirts at
the cleaners.  But she's done both in a week, and I'm
feeling lost.  She never even noticed.

What's happened to her?

I think she's in love.

We cruised along for so long, almost on autopilot,
and I never listened to her when she told me she was
unhappy.  Well, perhaps I *listened,* but I didn't
*hear.*

I've never been much for talking about the emotional
*stuff* in life, never even really been much for
admitting it, but -- I love her so much, more now than
I ever did, and I think it may be too late.

I'm not the one she's in love with anymore.

She's more confident, more assertive than I've seen
her in years.  The loss of that confidence happened so
slowly, so gradually, I never even saw it.  I didn't
realize how my seeming indifference damaged her self-
esteem.  I didn't know how my unwillingness to express
myself hurt her perceptions of herself as a wife, a
partner, a lover.

But her self-esteem is on the rise now.  If nothing else,
her underwear tells me this.  I never connected her
reduced sex drive with something I was or wasn't doing.
After all, she's getting older; I'm getting older.  I
just thought things tapered off after a while.  Now,
though, she's worn sexy underwear two of the last three
days, silks and satins in black and red.  She's obviously
feeling sexy for someone, but it isn't me.

I know I shouldn't begrudge her this, shouldn't resent
that she's suddenly happy, especially after I have
neglected her for all these years, but I do.  I begrudge,
and I resent, and I flat out *hate* that I am not the
reason she's feeling better than she has in a long time.
 
And I don't know what to do about it.

I don't know how to tell her how I feel.

And what I feel is jealousy, pure and simple.  Insane,
obsessive jealousy.  Why this?  Why now?  Why couldn't I
have seen this coming?  Why couldn't I have done more to
prevent it?  Jealousy is such a selfish emotion.  Why,
of all the emotions I could be feeling, I could be working
on expressing, why does it have to be jealousy that takes
the forefront?  It's really just another name for self-pity.
I can rationalize this all I like, try to convince myself
that this schism that has developed between us is not
my fault.  I can even try to convince myself that I don't
really care.  After all, I stay busy with my work, putting
in seventy and eighty hour weeks, so I hardly see Sharon.
How can I miss someone I hardly see?  How can I resent the
new path her life is taking?

I love her so much, but I feel like such a failure.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she dresses for
work in her new underwear, and I know that I'm not the one
who made her want to dress like that.  The woman I love,
whose sadness has gone almost unnoticed by me for so long,
is finding a measure of happiness.  She's found something
in someone else that I couldn't give her, and it's making
her happy.

Who am I to deny her that?

I try to be mature, to be understanding, to recognize
that this situation is largely of my own making, but
I'm still jealous.  I never knew that jealousy was a
physical pain, cold and twisting just beneath my rib
cage.  It sharpens when I least expect it, when I see
her check her appearance in the mirror, hear her laugh
for no reason, smell the perfume she sprays gently into
the air before sweeping through it.  I watch her dress
and my breath catches as I see her breasts, breasts I
have held and touched and kissed for so many years and
that I still find beautiful.  As she covers them, it
hits me like a physical blow that when she next uncovers
them, it will, perhaps, be for him.

For him to touch.

For him to feel.

For him to excite.

The thought saddens me beyond bearing.

Just when I think I'm making progress on doing the mature
and sensible thing, when I think I'm able to hold onto
this understanding and accepting persona, a thought like
that reaches out and slams me in the chest and I can't
breathe.

I love her so much, and I still have so much for which I
am thankful.  She treats me so well.  I know she cares
for me, worries about me, and even still loves me in a way.
She is the best, most decent person I have ever known.
I am shamed that I have neglected her the way I have, that
I have shut her out and refused to see what she needs,
refused to acknowledge that a good relationship requires
give and take by both parties.  Still, it must say something
good about me that she remains with me, that she still
cares.

That she hasn't sought to leave me, or, God forbid, divorce
me.

And we still sleep together.  Snuggled close for physical
and emotional warmth, arms and legs entwined.  She doesn't
know how much I need that.  She doesn't know that when the
horrors that I see at work begin to consume me, it is her
presence that make things all right again.  She doesn't know
how much I depend on her to keep me safe and comfort me
with nothing more than her presence in our bed.

I've never been able to tell her.

And somehow, I think that could be all she ever really
wanted.

For me to tell her that I need her.

She no longer wants sex from me but she still wants to
sleep with me.  She has someone else but still she
welcomes me into her bed.  I must have done something
right to deserve this loyalty.

I think, perhaps, I'm comfortable to her.  I am the
known and familiar and, while she explores this new
relationship, in whatever way she does, I am the safe
place she can come back to.  She knows I will always
be here.

She sleeps soundly in my arms.

Me?

I don't sleep well at all.

I don't know why I am suddenly so aware of my attraction
to her.  I don't know why my libido is suddenly more
active than it's been in a while.  I lie beside her in
the bed, and, over and over in the dark, I explore her
body in my mind.  After all these years, I know her so
well, I can see her as clearly as if I were looking at
her in the light of day.
 
I see the place where the curve of her shoulder becomes
the curve of her breast.  I know the hollow in the small
of her back -- it's where I used to rest my head when
she slept on her stomach.  I can feel the tautness of
her calf muscle when she tenses her leg.

All these places were mine once and I can't believe how
much their loss hurts me.  Sometimes I find myself
reaching for her as she sleeps.  I touch her gently and
still feel that it's wrong.  It is no longer my right.
And yet, I cup her breast in my hand, slowly rolling
the nipple between my thumb and forefinger.  At first, I
feel a thrill when it hardens at my touch.  Then, I am
destroyed when I realize her reaction is physical,
involuntary, and that it's no longer for me.

I wrap myself against her, pulling her tight to my chest
and I am rewarded with her unconscious and practiced
movements as she shifts to lie more tightly against me.
Even in sleep, she tries to meet my needs as she has for
so long.  With her as my shield, I try to let go and
fall into the sweet release of sleep.

I love her so much, but her love is shifting to someone
else.

I could never leave her.  She will have to be the one
to make that move.  And even then, I don't know if I
could let her go.  I think, maybe, if she was insistent
enough, I might let her go.  But only because I see what
this new happiness has done for her.  I'll stay here as
long as she'll let me.

As long as she wants me.

I can't help but regret that my thoughtlessness and
selfishness left her open to these new feelings.  She
felt these things for me once, and I wish I could make
her feel that way.

Last night, I came home early.  I'd been overseeing a case
involving a serial killer.  It was -- brutal -- and I'd
gone to the crime scene, then come home.  She wanted to
know how my day was, and I snapped at her.

We fought, and it was brutal as well.

But when I headed for the bedroom, I heard her sigh, and
it wasn't long before she joined me.

Even now, she knows what I need.

She came to bed with me and we spooned together.  I wrapped
my arm around her and pulled her close, and for a moment
I was able to forget it all.

Killers.

Victims.

Families.

I was even able to forget that she was pulling away from
me, setting off in a new direction that didn't include me.

I pulled her tight, whispering, "I love you," my mouth
pressed against the back of her neck.

"I love you, too," she responded, her bottom pressing
against me, her hand holding mine to her belly.

It took me a minute to realize that I was crying, and
I think she was, too.

End