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Title: You Are Not Alone Summary: Scully and Skinner share a pre-natal moment. Author's Note: Huge steaming piles of thanks to Shoshana, Fabulous Monster, and TBishop, who graciously beta read my stuff, usually without too much complaining and always with great insight. God help me. I'm turning into a vignette writer. All my fanfic (X-Files, Hawaii Five-0, and Star Trek) can be found at http://www.geocities.com/keleka3 This is sort of songfic and sort of not. (You can get the complete lyrics on my website.) I needed a break from the casefile I'm working on. And it helped satiate this sudden appetite I seem to have for Walter Skinner. (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.) Damn it to hell! I slam shut the drawer to Mulder's desk. I'm craving sunflower seeds and there's not a one to be found anywhere in this office. But that's not why I'm cursing. And it's not why I'm crying. Damn it to hell! The doctor in me knows this is perfectly normal. Pregnant women have emotions that are all over the map. But this is ME, dammit. Me! I'm crying over a stupid Michael Jackson song playing on the radio. The damned King of Weird has reduced me to a blubbering pool of tears. That settles it. Only classical music stations on the radio from now on. I've heard this stupid song a million times. Who hasn't? Every radio station in America played it at least thirty times a day a few years ago. But now it has meaning to me and the flood gates are open. 'Another day has gone, I'm still all alone. How could this be? You're not here with me. You never said goodbye, someone tell me why, Did you have to go, and leave my world so cold?' Dammit! I reach for the radio and flip it off before the next verse has me blubbering like a teeny bopper. It doesn't help much with my immediate problem though, and finally I surrender to the flood of hormones and lower my head to the desk, sobbing. 'snick.' I hear the door to the office open and my body tenses. Someone has come in and try as I might, I can't force the sobs to stop. "Agent Scully?" Crap. It's Skinner. Damn him anyway for being so considerate and saving me the trip up to his office. Why couldn't he have been a typical clueless male and just summon me to his office? I try to pull myself together and fail miserably. "Dana?" I hear him take several steps closer. I know that I'd better put a sock in it if I'm to have any hope of avoiding him rushing to my side and trying to console me in his stiff, Marine way. 'Cowboy up, Scully,' as Mulder would say. I suck in a deep breath and pull myself upright. When I raise my eyes to meet his I can feel my resolve beginning to crumble again but I mentally slap myself and regain some control. He looks relieved that I've stopped sobbing, though I'm sure the tears flooding down my cheeks are keeping him off balance. "Dana, what's wrong?" he asks softly. That's all it takes. I have to lower my head to the desk again and surrender to the inevitability of it. There's a flurry of motion now and I hear him step beside me. He opens Mulder's rolodex and spins it around a few times before settling on a card. I hear him lift the phone and dial. "This is Skinner," he says in his usual command voice. I can only imagine who he's calling. Kimberly? My therapist? My mother? "I need you to come get Agent Scully and take her home." I try to lift my head to protest but before I can blurt out an objection his hand lands gently on my shoulder and I lose my resolve. It's probably for the best. The last thing he needs is a Special Agent who can't control her emotions. Apparently whoever is on the other end of the call asks no questions. Skinner hangs up the phone and pushes the rolodex away. He sits on the corner of the desk and looks down at me patiently. "Want to tell me what's wrong?" I raise my head and look at him through tear-filled eyes. He's been so wonderful these past months. Helping me assemble baby furniture. Keeping me company when I feel low. Running interference whenever the accountants try to cut off Mulder's salary. It's no wonder half the Hoover Building thinks it's Skinner who knocked me up. But I can't tell him this. I can't tell him that my hormones are so out of control that a single song can reduce me to big puddle of estrogen-goo. I have no doubt he'd demand my badge and my weapon and send me home on maternity leave. He waits patiently for me to answer. When I don't, he nods understandingly. He thinks he knows the answer. He thinks I'm crying because I miss Mulder, and Lord knows, I DO miss Mulder. I miss Mulder every minute of every day, and if that's all it took to make me cry, I'd have handed him my badge and weapon weeks ago. He suggests I get my things together, so I do. We don't speak while I gather together a few files--those with the best leads on Mulder and one that is an honest-to-God X-File, a 'monster-of-the-week' case that I've got two agents working on. One of them is open-minded though she lacks creativity; the other, God help him, is just like I was eight years ago. It's a wonder they ever close a case. I finish gathering my things and my curiosity gets the best of me. I begin to ask Skinner who he called when there is a light knock on the door and it opens. Frohike! I look at Skinner and he nods. I should have known these two ex-Marines would bond. Semper Fi, guys. They confer for a moment in low tones before Frohike puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me out the building to his van. His touch reminds me of Mulder's and I feel the tears well again. I quickly put on my sunglasses to save me from further scrutiny. Damn it to hell! Frohike won't leave. Says Skinner told him to stay with me until he could get here after work. I've been trapped in my bedroom for four hours. It's not that I don't like Frohike, but all I want right now is to be alone. He's camped out on my sofa watching God knows what on my TV. Every now and then he makes a phone call and I can hear him filling in Byers and Langly on my 'condition.' Dammit. By the time I go back to work tomorrow, the whole world is going to know that the 'Ice Queen' had an emotional breakdown. I wonder who will win the office pool. I haven't had anything to eat since a bagel at 6:00 a.m. and if it were up to me I'd go hungry until the Frohike/Skinner vigil ends. But I'm eating for two now, and as one might imagine, this child has just as voracious an appetite as its father. If I don't get something to eat soon, they really will have something to worry about. Swallowing my pride, I leave my bedroom and head for the kitchen. In the living room I see that Frohike is on the sofa, dozing; the remote control is clasped tightly in his dangling hand. What is it about men and remote controls? As I pass, he awakens and looks at me sheepishly. "Guess I dozed off there for a minute," he says. "How are you feeling, Scully?" "Better," I say. It's the truth, of course. Now that the tears have stopped, I feel fine. I just hope I don't hear that damned song again any time soon. "I'm going to fix something to eat. Do you want anything?" He glances at his watch, shaking his head. "Skinner ought to be here soon. It's pizza night and Langly's buying so I need to preserve my appetite." I smile at the thought, remembering that Tuesday night is indeed pizza night. Unless we were out of town on a case, Mulder always joined the boys for pizza night. Even I did, sometimes. I'm putting together a salad with some sliced turkey breast when there's a knock at the door. Frohike says he'll get it so I stay in the kitchen to put the finishing touches on my salad. I hear Skinner's voice. He's conferring in low tones with Frohike. I put the salad in the refrigerator and go to the living room. "I see the night watch is here," I say with just a touch of annoyance in my voice. "I really don't need around-the-clock sentries you know." Frohike says his goodbyes and I am face-to-face with my boss. I'm still embarassed about my crying jag this morning. I'm hoping he'll just drop it. "I picked up some Chinese on my way over," he says. "I hope you haven't had dinner yet." Well, I haven't, and I DO like Chinese. The salad will keep. "I'll set the table," I say. A few minutes later we're sitting at my dining table with at least a dozen little white boxes spread out around us. Eating Chinese with Skinner isn't the same as eating Chinese with Mulder. For one thing, Skinner uses chop sticks, a talent he says he picked up in Vietnam. Mulder almost put his eye out trying to use chop sticks once. For another thing, I don't feel at liberty to snatch pieces of food off his plate. Eating Chinese with Mulder was like a contest to see who could steal the most food from the other. Skinner is generous and willing to share, but he expects me to take what I want out of the little white boxes, not off his plate. It's not nearly as much fun that way. When I've had enough I push my plate away and watch him as he finishes up the last of the Colonel Tso's chicken. He looks at me with those intense eyes of his and I feel a nervous tingle go up my spine. Skinner only looks at me like that when he's about to chew me out over something. "I really don't need a babysitter tonight, sir," I say quickly, hoping to divert him from whatever serious matter he is about to raise. He pushes his empty plate away and watches me with a curious expression. It's brown on blue as our eyes lock. I won't look away for fear I'll look weak. He won't look away because .... well, because he never does. It's the patented 'skinner stare' and there is no escape from it short of total capitulation. "I have a problem, Agent Scully," he says finally, conceding a tie in our occular skirmish. "I need your professional opinion." This takes me by surprise and I feel a little guilty for being so obstinate. "Of course, sir," I say. He pushes his chair back but doesn't take his eyes off mine. "I have an Agent who insists on investigating a case she's too close to. Too emotionally close." Oh Jesus. I should have seen this coming. I accept defeat in this second skirmish and lower my eyes to my lap. "She suffered a serious loss recently," he continues. "She's pregnant and the baby's father isn't available to support her emotionally. She has a limited circle of friends and family to turn to." I feel a tightness in my chest as I listen to his litany of accusations. "Sir, I--" "I'm not finished yet, Agent Scully," he says. There's not much kindness in his voice. He's asked for my professional opinion and he is not going to make this easy for me. "This agent is working fourteen hour days and I'd guess from the shadows under her eyes that she's not sleeping well. Her health has been problematic in recent years. She nearly died in a coma five years ago; from cancer two years later; and from a gun-shot wound to the stomach just last year." I don't want to listen to anymore of this. He's turning my own professionalism and pragmatism against me. He doesn't fight fair. Dammit, he fights just like Mulder. I need some distance so I can think and refute his arguments. I push back my chair and start to rise but he is too fast. His hand reaches for mine and holds me in place. "This afternoon, I went to her office and found her sobbing uncontrollably. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I had to send her home. I'm not sure what I should do, Agent Scully. What do you recommend?" I take a deep breath, trying to gather my strength. We sit in silence for several minutes and for the first time in my life I truly understand the phrase, "the silence is deafening.' "It was a song," I whisper finally, my eyes still averted. I can almost feel his bewilderment. "Explain," he says after a moment. I look up now. I want him to see that I'm not crying; that I am not the over-emotional wreck he saw this afternoon. "I was crying over a song, sir." "I still don't understand, Agent Scully." "You've never had children, have you, sir?" I know as soon as I ask that I shouldn't have. His eyes darken with pain and, I think, with regret. "No. I haven't." "My body is a battleground of hormones right now. I can control it most of the time, but... but sometimes I can't. A song on the radio made me cry this morning. That's what you walked in on. I don't like to cry, especially in front of my boss. Having you see me like that just made it worse and I couldn't stop." "What was the song?" I look at him, surprised by his question. His eyes are softer now. "'You are not alone,'" I say, meekly. "By Michael Jackson." He nods, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "That was popular when...." He looks away briefly but then returns his eyes to mine. "When Sharon died." He knows the song. Then I realize the deeper meaning of what he's said. He understands. Really understands. He's been there himself. "I'm still waiting for your opinion about my problem, Agent Scully." He's not going to let me off the hook is he? I guess I don't blame him. He's looking out for me the way Mulder would. I wonder whether he's doing it for me or for Mulder. I guess there's really no difference. "Well, sir," I begin, thinking fast and speaking slowly. "I would order this Agent to limit her time at work to say, eight hours a day, and not to take work home." "Make it four days a week, with Wednesdays and weekends off, and I'll let you come back to work, Scully," he says firmly. I know this is not negotiable. "Deal, sir," I say. "But promise me one thing?" "Anything." "If I start crying over Barry Manilow songs,...shoot me." *end* Final note: If you're a fan of either of the two singers mentioned in this story, please don't flame me! I actually like them both. I even have ferrets named after the King of Weird and his first wife. If you're one of the half dozen people left on earth who has not heard this song, I can send you the MP3 file. Just ask!
Visit my collection of X-Files, Star Trek, and Hawaii Five-0 fanfiction at http://www.geocities.com/keleka3/ where you will also find a recommendations page.
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