By Daydreamer
Daydream59@aol.com
 

Spoilers: Avatar
Rating: PG
Keywords: Skinnerfic; M/Sc/Sk friendship
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, 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 they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den,
http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden

Summary: Skinner talks with his wife one last time.
 

Things Unsaid
 
The call came in the middle of the night. I've been
expecting it for several days now, had told the hospital
to call day or night, no matter what. I'd told the
switchboard, as well as Kimberly, that if they called,
they were to be put through right away. But still, the
call came in the middle of the night. It's odd how these
calls so often do come in the middle of the night.

So, I'm dressing now - something comfortable. Jeans and
a sweatshirt. And yet, I still feel compelled to strap on
my holster, check my weapon, before I walk out the door.
It's compulsory; I wouldn't feel dressed without it. When
we first got married, Sharon would watch with respect,
almost awe, as I put on the trappings of authority. Then
came the stage where she watched me with humor, like it
was amusing that I placed so much faith in a small, cold
piece of steel. But then, later, in the bad times, she
would watch through narrowed eyes, almost as if she
hated the gun. As if it were to blame for the distance
between us. As if it were the reason we no longer talked.

And in a way it was, I suppose. The gun and the badge
represented what had become of my life. There was so
little room left for her in it. It had come as no surprise
when she'd asked me to move out. The surprise had been
that it hurt so badly and that everything that had followed
had been so painful. There were still so many things left
unsaid.

I grab my wallet, ID, and keys and head for the door,
checking my watch. A mere five minutes since the call,
and already I'm worried I'll be too late. Words dash
through my head.

Failing fast ...

Not going to last much longer ...

Organs shutting down ...

On some level, I'm sure I can relate these words to
the facts they represent, but right now, I'm operating
on a different level. And the only thing I know is that
the woman who was a constant in my life for over
seventeen years, will soon go to place where I can't
follow.

And all the remorse in the world, all the regret, the
sorrow, even tears can't change what is to come.

I climb into the car, my vision suddenly blurry, and
swipe angrily at my eyes. I don't have time for this.
All I want now, is to be there, to be with her, when
it's finally over.

The drive to the hospital is short. There's no traffic,
even in DC, in the middle of the night like this. I find
parking without a problem and walk into the emergency
room - the only access to the rest of the hospital at
this ungodly hour. The place is packed. Mothers sit
with crying or sleeping children. Older people wait
patiently, some coughing, some with eyes closed, some
talking quietly to whoever brought them here. A triage
nurse sits in a small room to one side, and a guard
stands by the door that allows entrance to the inner
sanctum. I walk over quickly and identify myself, my
ID wallet coming out and flipping open almost by itself.
hat move is so practiced, so sure, and I smile wryly as
I think of how it first impressed, then amused, and
finally annoyed my wife.

I'm waved through and I move quickly, almost without thinking,
and find myself at the nurse's station on Sharon's ward.
Amelia, the woman who's been on duty most nights since Sharon
was brought here, looks up and smiles sadly at me. I walk over
and ask, hesitantly, because I'm afraid of the answer, "Is
she ...?"

Amelia nods. "he's alive, but just barely. It won't be long."
She nods again and waves me toward the room.

I take two steps, then stop and turn back. "I want to hold
her." It comes out more as an order than the request I'd
meant to tender, but Amelia doesn't take offense.

"Dr. Harding removed all the equipment right after I called
you." She waits, but I still don't move. I've heard the words,
but I can't quite discern the meaning. She lowers her voice,
nods encouragingly and adds, "You can hold her." There's a
pause, while her words sink in, then she says, "Go on, now.
Time is short."

I walk slowly toward the room, knowing that I'm going to be
saying good-bye to my wife, the woman I once thought I
couldn't live without. I'm not sure I can do it. I couldn't
sign the papers, couldn't let her go then. I don't think I
can let her go now.

I stop, standing motionless outside the door, my hand on
the handle.

"Go *in,* Mr. Skinner," Amelia commands. "Just ring the
buzzer when you need me."

I nod without turning around, and, good soldier that I am,
follow the order I've been given. I go in.

Sharon lies there, small and still in the hospital bed. I
can't escape the fact that I'm the one who put her here.
Somehow, this is all my fault. I take a couple more steps
and am standing by the bed. I reach out, taking her hand
with my left, stroking her hair with my right. She doesn't
move. Her breathing is ragged and sounds labored, but the
hospital people, the doctors and nurses, have assured me
she's not in pain. They've assured me she's not even
really *here* anymore. Brain dead, or so they say.

I stand until I begin to sway. I haven't been sleeping.
Work -- all the events surrounding this case -- have
occupied my days. Sharon has occupied my nights. Even
on the nights I didn't stay at the hospital, nights like
this one, I still couldn't sleep. All I could do was relive
the past, and mourn what I had so foolishly thrown away.
I shake my head, almost amused by my own dramatics. I'm
definitely running on empty.

I hook one leg back and pull the chair forward, never
letting go of my wife's hand. When the chair is close
enough, I sit, still watching Sharon as if force of will
could bring her back to me.

I think I may have begun to doze because I'm jerked away
by a squeeze of my hand. My eyes spring open and I look down,
shocked, to see my wife staring up at me. My free hand begins
to reach for the buzzer, but she stops me with a soft word.

"No.

"Sharon?"

She smiles and speaks a little hesitantly, "Walter? Are you
all right?"

My tongue has gone numb and my brain seems to have lost the a
bility to function. I make a sound, something between a snort
and moan, and my head falls forward onto the bed. "Sharon," I
whimper, clinging to her hand.

How is this possible? I feel her hand stroke my head, then my
cheek, before she tugs at my chin, forcing me to look at her.
I'm confused. "Am I -- dreaming?"

She shakes her head. "I have to go soon, Walter. I just have
a little time to talk to you. We have to talk about this."

How many times has she said that to me? 'We have to talk about
this.' And all I've ever done is push her away. My vision blurs
again, but I blink rapidly, not wanting to miss a second of
seeing her. I want to be able to look at her forever.

"Walter, hush," she whispers, pulling herself up and leaning
toward me. "It's okay."

And suddenly, I'm enfolding her in my arms, pulling her
against my chest. A harsh, choked sound of pain leaves my
mouth as her arms come around me, returning the embrace.
She's speaking. I feel her lips moving against my shoulder,
but I can't process what she's saying. I'm too busy holding
onto the lifeline that fate suddenly seems to have thrown me.

Her mouth stops moving. She stills in my arms. Before I know
it, I'm speaking, chanting the same words over and over again,
as I gently rock her, cradled against my chest. "I'm sorry,
Sharon. I'm so sorry."

She lies quietly against me, and I am suddenly overcome with
fear that she's gone. I pull back, holding her at arms length,
but she only smiles at me and shakes her head slowly. She pats
the bed, saying, "Here, Walter. Sit next to me."

I can't help but glance at the door, then I cast aside any
inhibitions I might have still harbored and climb in the bed
bedside my wife. She curls against me in a move reminiscent
of our early years, when we still slept entwined with each
other. When I felt as if the mere proximity of her body could
close out the world and provide me with a haven, safe from
the monsters I saw every day. My arms tighten convulsively.

In response, she laughs quietly, and speaks again. This time
I understand her words. "Lightly, Walter. I'm not going
anywhere -- yet."

I let out a little breath of a laugh, fighting the panic
that word evokes. Yet. She's trying to make this as easy
for me as she can. I pull back carefully, but I don't let
her go. "I don't want to hurt you," I say, looking into
eyes I never thought I'd see again. "I didn't want to hurt
you." My voice lowers even more, reduced to the merest
whisper. "I've never wanted to hurt you."

Her smile is sad, and her voice matches the softness of
mine when she replies, "I know." Her hand touches my face,
resting lightly against my cheek. "I've always known."

My chest feels tight and I'm not sure I can breathe. "Stay
with me, Sharon," I beg. "I don't think I can make it
without you."

"We have this time," she promises. "I can stay with you
for now, but that's all." Her voice is sad, and that
sadness actually seems to lift some of my own grief. I'm
happy that she is sad to be leaving me. "I have to go on,"
she explains. "I don't belong here anymore."

"This never should have happened." The words are bitten
off, angry coals that drip white-hot heat at the unfairness
of it all.

"Not like this, Walter," she pleads quietly. "Don't make
our last time be like this - angry. Not like this."

For the first time, I notice how she shivers. "You're
cold," I pronounce, wondering if there is anything I can
do about it.

She shrugs. "It's all right. "*I'm* all right." Her voice
strengthens a bit, takes on a note of demand. "You have to
remember that, Walter. I'm all right."

I shake my head. I can't accept that. I can't accept any of
this. I'm not even sure what *this* is. I thrust those
thoughts from my mind and pull her closer, trying futilely
to warm her with my own body heat. I drop her hand, the
hand I've never stopped holding, and pull her closer to my
side, arm reaching across her chest, resting over her heart.
I pause a moment, content to feel her snuggle up against me,
then realize ... "Your heart, Sharon, you're heart isn't
beating."

She shakes her head sadly, so sadly that I can feel the
emotion rolling off her. She sits up, not quite pulling
out of my embrace and turns so she can look at me. "I'm
dead, Walter," she says simply, and my heart -- it breaks.
Not the metaphorical, seemingly romantic and melodramatic
heartbreaking, but a real, physical pain. My heart seizes
up, seems to freeze and then I can feel it shatter in my
chest, each piece falling inside me, ripping my insides
like shards of glass, tearing me apart from the inside
out, until I think I must be as dead as she is. No one
can be in this much pain and still be alive.

"You can't be," I say simply, reduced to the barest of
words. "I can't *be,* if you're dead."

"It's okay, Walter," she comforts. "And as hard as it
may seem right now, you'll *be* okay later, too." She
smiles and gives a half-shrug, an expression and a
gesture I am so familiar with. I've seen her do the
same thing hundreds and hundreds of time. It is her
way of saying, 'I can't really explain it, but it happened,
and I'm not too worried, so don't you be worried, either.'
It was a movement that she used with the mundane things
like burned dinners and overflowing garbage cans that
didn't make it to the street on garbage day. It was also
a movement she used that both explained and forgave
forgotten dates and long hours at work. It could be
used for anything and nothing, and now, she was using
it to tell me this whole surreal situation was somehow,
*okay.*

"I have to tell you," I interrupt, lifting a hand to
silence her. "Let me say it. I have to at least know
that I tried. The least you can do is let me say it."

She studies me for a moment, then nods. I can see the
tears forming in her own eyes. She may be cold, she
may even be dead, but she can still cry. I swallow hard
and speak the words that were never more true for me,
words that had always been so hard to say that now came
so easily to my lips. "I love you, Sharon."

She smiles. "I love you, too, Walter. I always have."

It always seemed infinitely easy for her to say the
words. And not only could she say them, she showed me
every day of our life together the truth behind them.
I was just too blind to see. She had always made sacrifices
for me. My wife did what many women these days won't do --
she sacrificed her career for mine. She followed me around
the country through different assignments, different cities,
always willing to start over herself in order to let me
get ahead. Or at least, I thought it was getting ahead
at the time.

"I'm sorry, Sharon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I said things
to you that are inexcusable. I shut you out, isolated myself,
forced you into a life of loneliness. You should hate me."
I can't keep the wonder out of my voice. "And yet, you're
here to comfort me, to help me, to be with me."

"You are the person you are, Walter. I knew that when I
married you."

"You're dead because of me. They killed you, to get to me.
It was all because of me."

She shrugs again, and I remember that particular gesture
could also be quite infuriating. "Sharon," I say again,
"don't you get it? It was my *fault.*"

"You don't know that, Walter."

"But I believe it."

She closes her eyes for a moment, then seems to take a
deep breath. Another paradox for later consideration. No
heartbeat, but she breathes. Maybe this is all one giant
hallucination.

"And I believe you have always done everything you could to p
rotect me. It was me who decided to leave you, remember? In
all the years we were together, nothing like this ever happened
until I left your protection. So, whose fault is it, really?
Mine? Yours?" She shook her head. "This is fate. It's what is
meant to be at this time, in this place." She leans forward
and kisses me. Her lips are soft, but cold. "I'm scared for
you. I always have been. All those times I prodded you to talk
to me, to open up, it wasn't prurient interest in your cases.
It was concern for you. You've always had to do everything
yourself. But I know you, Walter. And whether you admit it
or not, you're not an island to yourself. I won't be here
come the morning. I just hope that this will help you go on.
You have to go on."

"How can I? How can I without you?"

"Don't you dare throw away everything you've worked for,
Walter Skinner." Her voice is soft, but threatening. "You
know who you are. You know what you have to do."

"I don't ... I can't ..." My voice breaks and I can't go on.

"People depend on you, Walter. You know that something odd,
something with potentially cataclysmic results is going on at
the FBI. You know you can make a difference in the outcome.
You have to go on. You can't let your grief get in the way.
I'm here to help you through that. Here and now." She uses
her hands as emphasis. "You can say everything you need to
say, everything you want to say. Most people don't get that
chance, Walter. Don't throw it away. You have to get up
tomorrow and be who you are meant to be."

"I don't know if I can do that, Sharon," I admit.

"You have to, Walter."

"There won't be anyone..." I let my voice trail as I try to
find the words. "I used you to keep it all away. It was
unfair to you, but it was how I kept my control. The things I
saw, the people ... I won't have that anymore."

"You never used me, Walter," she says quietly. "I always
wished you would. I always wanted to be there for you."

I shake my head, desperate to make her understand. "There
are three kinds of cop, Sharon," I try to explain. "Some,
they have a great home life, they seem to be able to balance
it. Maybe they can talk to their wife or husband about what
they've seen. Maybe they can take comfort in knowing that
they help keep the horrors from touching their family.
They're the minority. I was never a talker -- I could
never bear the thought that the things I saw would touch
you in any way."

She nods gravely, her eyes filled, and lays her hand on
my arm.

I swallow and go on. "Another group, a larger group, they
live the job. They go through husbands or wives the way
most people ride a roller coaster. It's exciting at first,
lots of anticipation, then the rush at the end of the climb.
They forget the rush means you're going downhill, and soon
the rush, and the ride, are over. All that's left is the
job, until they decide to take the ride again. And me?
I'm not a rider." I shake my head.

Her hand leaves my arm and reaches up to cup my cheek. I
stare into her eyes, almost getting lost there until I begin
to wonder how they can be so warm, so alive, when her touch
is like ice. It jerks me back to the present, and a full
awareness of how little time I have left.

"Then there are the ones who can't bring it home, but can't
live without a home to go to. Most of them end up divorced,
and then they end up dead, because they have to have that
little piece of normalcy in order to make it all worthwhile.
Without it, they lose their focus, lose their edge."

"You have friends, Walter. They'll help you. You don't have
to be alone." She laughs a little, and shakes her head.
"They may be able to help you more than I ever did. At
least you'll be able to talk to ..."

"They aren't you, Sharon," I interrupt sternly. "*You* are
the one I need in my life. Selfish as that may be, you're my
focus, the better part of myself." I pause, then touch my
still aching chest. "You're my heart." I shake my head.
"No one else could take your place."

She touches my arm, soothing my agitation. Looking down into
her eyes, I can see myself reflected there. And before she
opens her mouth to speak, I know I've lost.

"Walter, we can't interfere with destiny. You've heard me
say it a thousand times, after all the death I've seen
working in the emergency room. The day we were born, we
began our journey toward death. She smiles so warmly, I
can't help but grin back. "No matter what, no matter if
you'd been with me, or if you'd locked me up in a cell,
the car would have hit me, the brain damage would have
occurred. I would've died today."

"No." I'm refusing to believe that. She's dead because of
my failure, because of my lack of vision. Because I let
it follow me home."

"Damn it, Walter!" Sharon exclaims. "Stop this guilt trip!
You can't change the course of life, you can't alter what's
been planned by a power beyond us all. You can't change
what's already happened. All you can do is learn and grow
from your experiences, and *be* what you are meant to be.
Do the work you are supposed to do."

My head falls and I wrestle to find the right words. "So
you want me to go on being a hard-assed, stubborn old fool?"
My mind struggles to understand and accept what she's just
told me.

She chuckles, and I look up to meet her eyes. "Maybe a
little less stubborn, okay, Walter? Maybe just a little less?"

Sighing, I reach out for her hand. Our fingers lace and
for a moment I stare down at the web we've woven. "Selfish,"
I murmur.

"What do you mean?"

I don't meet his eyes when I rub my free hand self-consciously
against the grain of her blanket. "I'm hard-assed, stubborn
and selfish," I say, shaking my head slightly. "I'm sitting
here, grieving for -- for -- *my* loss and you -- you're
dead."

Another tear rolls out of the corner of my eye.

"Not selfish, love," she murmurs. "Just human. Don't give
up your right to be sad, to scream and to grieve when you
feel like it, even if you can only do it in private. Nobody
will expect you to jump back to your old self tomorrow."

Tomorrow.

When she's really gone.

I shudder at the thought.

"I love you," I blurt out, my vision again obscured by a
curtain of tears.

A bird chirps and I glance at the window without thinking.
Dawn is near. As is the end -- and a new beginning for me.
It's almost time to say our final goodbye.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, and my heart shatters
again at the familiar words that I used to shove away so
callously. I think, for the first time, I understand the
intent behind them. Unable to speak, I shrug.

"We'll see each other again," she reassures and slowly
shifts, pulling away from me.

"Please ..." Stay. Don't leave me. I love you. The words all
choke in my throat.

The early bird chirps again, an incongruously cheerful
sound, and I think of a thousand possible ways to end
its song.

"It's time," Sharon sighs. She pulls away more,
disentangling her hand from mine.

"Wait!" The panicked word is ripped from my mouth and
my fingers grasp hers tightly.  "What ...where are you
going? I mean ... how...?" Unable to finish the sentence,
my eyes meet hers for a moment before I drop them, shamed.
"What do I do now?"

"I'm not in pain, Walter," she says softly. "In fact, I
feel -- almost a sense of anticipation. Like something
wonderful is about to happen." She smiles, slightly
embarrassed, and I pull her close again

She lets me hold her for a moment, then gently pries
my hand from hers. "You'd better let me go." She's pulling
away again, explaining. "I don't want you to have to touch
me -- feel me -- after ..."

"No," I say softly, as something that feels like not quite
understanding, but may be the beginnings of acceptance
shifts through my soul.

"No?" she questions, puzzlement evident on her face, as
she gives in to my touch.

"You shouldn't be alone," I say, my voice cracking.
"Nobody should have to be alone -- now."

She reaches out, almost desperate, and hugs me in a fierce,
bone-crushing embrace. I bury my face in her neck, tendrils
of her hair tickling my cheeks. I can feel her hands reach
around my waist and clutch the back of my shirt. I tremble.

"I'm scared," she whispers softly against my chest, the
vibrations of her voice reverberating through my body.

"I know," I whisper back, stroking her hair. My eyes are
not just filled, the tears are creeping down my face. I am
inordinately grateful that not only has she comforted me,
she is reaching out to me, allowing *me* to comfort her.
"I'm scared, too," I whisper into her ear. "But I'm here.
You're not alone."

Pulling back a little, she looks up at me, tears mingling
with the smile she flashes. "The greatest gift ..." she murmurs.

"What?"

"You told me you were scared."

In a feather-light touch, our lips meet, a gentle brush
that encompasses years of life. Merging deeper, I can taste
her -- a taste that had grown unfamiliar in these later
years, but that awakened my remembrance in a flash. Salty
tears steal into the kiss, and then she gasps. Her eyes are
wide -- first with fear, then amazement, and finally awe.

"I love you, Sharon," I whisper, watching as the light fades
from her eyes. Watching helplessly as she travels on to a
place I can't follow. I wish it could have been different.
I wish ...

"Sir?"

A hand is on my shoulder and I open my eyes, blinking in
confusion. The room is filled with light and Scully stands
beside the bed. I look around, my eyes finally coming to
rest on the form beside me.

"She's gone, Sir," Scully says quietly.

I nod, then pull myself up and stand, swaying slightly.
A strong hand catches my elbow, steadying me, and I blink
again to see Mulder's worried face in front of me. I start
to pull back, but a familiar voice echoes in my head, 'You
don't have to be alone.'

Scully touches my arm, and I let myself be supported, standing
there between them.

"Are you all right, Sir?" Mulder asks.

My eyes dart to the bed, to the still form of my wife that
lies there, and I shake my head.

"No," I say quietly, pulling myself away from my agents and
stepping toward the door. "I'm not all right." I reach the door,
turn the handle, pull it slightly toward me, then look back
at the bed, imagining a smile on that well-loved face. "But
I will be."
 

End