TITLE: Air Supply/She Never Heard Me Call

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: mikdok@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.

SUMMARY: Ooops, he did it again.

ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20^th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's Notes: Here we go again, and this time's for the guy who gave me the music.

If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

She Never Heard Me Call

by Mik

It's been an interesting wedding. Maggie Scully's religiously tidy house is awash in laughing friends, smug cousins, and disbelieving aunties who never thought Scully would wed anything more than her career. There are too many candles, too many flowers and some of the uncles have had too many drinks. There's something about the whole arrangement that seems too well coordinated for a thrown together at the last minute wedding. It looks as if it had been planned, purchased and packed in a box years ago, kept in the closet in the hall, labeled IN CASE OF WEDDING.

The groom looks like he just stepped off the prow of the Love Boat, navy blue and dozens of gold buttons and other shiny things. He looks admirable...for a captain. Scully looks...I know the word radiant is trite, but she really does. I've always seen her as cute in a sort of buttoned down, take no prisoners sort of way. Seeing her now, in lace and curls and giggles...well, that just isn't my Scully.

Of course, she isn't my Scully. I was standing right there as she made those soft assertions to love, honor and cooperate with Captain America, or whatever the hell his name is. And the fact that he's blonde, blue-eyed and built like a Greek god isn't lost on this pea green psychologist. God, Scully...couldn't you find someone even more perfect? Even less like me? Still, he seems like a likable sort and he certainly has brought a sparkle to those wise blue eyes that I could only dream about.

It was a shock to see her walk in this morning, out of nowhere. I thought it was over. I didn't think I could still feel that rush that went to my heart and balls. And for a moment, when I realized that she was getting married, I felt as if both had been cut off with a dull knife and a sharp glance. For a moment, I hung in mid-air, a moment away from collapse and bleeding to hopelessness. But then I realized it didn't hurt so bad. Then I realized it didn't hurt much at all. Then I realized, in a small way, I was relieved.

It wasn't until she left, after extracting promises that we would attend the big event, that I began to feel guilty for the relief. And then I was irritated. Maybe even angry. Why was she so damned happy without me? Who gave her that right? And since when did I become her best friend? There is nothing more fatal to a man's sense of desirability than female friendship. 'Let's be friends' is the death knell to sexual ego. And if I was her best friend, why did it take her a year to contact me? Why didn't she call me, tell me she was getting married, ask my opinion, my advice … my permission?

And yet, there was a very good reason I remained stoically silent when the priest asked the gathering to speak or forever hold its collective peace. He was sitting two rows back, rigid and stern, those hot eyes boring holes in my back. We haven't had a chance to speak since she left. We don't spend a lot of time alone in his office so I had only time to give his hand a squeeze and scoot. We took separate cars to Mrs. Scully's house and, apart from some polite conversation during the prenuptial festivities, we haven't spoken. Oh, I know what he's thinking, sitting back there. He thought the minute Scully landed in my time zone, I'd lose him like a bad loan, marriage or no marriage.

Hey, don't think that didn't cross my mind just a few short months ago. But give the guy credit, he somehow wormed his way into my heart and suddenly it was once again opened for business, with a big banner strung across it reading 'Under New Management'. And the only way I can explain it is to say that … he is. He is affectionate, he is funny and he is infinitely patient. A year into this topsy-turvy nursery rhyme and we have yet to perform THE act that would properly consummate our relationship. Yet he has never uttered a complaint, nor attempted to force the issue. It's hard not to fall for a guy like that. And he sleeps in sweats, drinks beer straight from the bottle, loves Thai food and pizza, and can give a killer backrub. Hell, I should be marrying HIM.

A little cheer has gone up during my ruminations and now Scully...or will she become Wilder?...turns to me with a smile that is unlike any Scully smile known in captivity and announces, "Well, Mulder, I did it."

"Yes, you did," I agree and no matter what anyone might think, my smile is genuine. "Congratulations...um...Wilder." I try the name out tentatively.

She reacts with surprise and then a smile. "Oh, don't, Mulder. Coming from you that sounds...well...alien."

A hand lands possessively on her arm. "Let's make a toast, Dana." Another pair of blue eyes meet mine, and behind a tight smile there is such depth of feeling that I can't help feeling a bit singed.

For a moment, I bristle. I've been warned off. As if I'd chase another man's wife! Then I realize it doesn't make one iota of difference. I turn and search the small crowd. He is working his way toward me with two champagne flutes in hand. I smile to myself. Here is a man who looks as natural with two delicate pieces of long stemmed crystal as he does with two longneck beers. One of the great things about my guy is that he never looks out of place. Except … perhaps, in my bed. Well, I look out of place in my bed.

I look toward the bride and her gilded groom. Would Scully look out of place in my bed? I close my eyes for just a moment to picture her there, lying back in the pillows, breathless and tousled, a glazed look of good loving in her eyes. No, not my Scully. My Scully had never been for more than embraces, tears and dreams. Yes, there is still a place empty in my heart where she left the door open as she left, but to actually touch her, take her … an involuntary shudder runs through me. In all my fantasies, I realize, I never get beyond the moment where I pull her into my arms and kiss her.

I open my eyes and see that he is kissing her. I look away, look for the one I've been kissing for a year. I have to say, when I got over the initial shock of being kissed by a man, by my boss, then I liked it. He's got a warm firm mouth. He can be very gentle, sometimes playful, but I always sense that somewhere under the wire rims burns an unbridled passion that would sweep me away if I ever gave him the slightest encouragement. Maybe, I think, it's time I encourage him.

And why haven't I? Stupidity? Fear? Ignorance? All of the above. Stupidity I can't do anything about. But fear and ignorance I've never tolerated, in myself or in others. Drawing one of those cliche deep breaths that signal monumental resolve, I meet his gaze and incline my head slightly to the right, indicating a door to Maggie Scully's garden. It is time for some monumental encouragement.

He follows me, silent. He is not going to offer comment or sympathy. He merely hands me a glass.

I take it and wander the perimeters of the small enclosure, listening to laughter and cheers from inside. The air is misty and tingles the skin but there is the smell of roses blooming around the cinder block walls. I feel slightly trapped by my decision, not that I believe it is wrong, but that it is the first time in my adult life that I didn't know what the next step should be, where the next word should come from.

I glance again around the garden. There are some weeds springing up here and there, and fruit hangs heavy on the miniature trees. I suppose Maggie doesn't feel much like gardening these days. The wall farthest from the door is a small shrine. I've seen it before. Scully once told me this was a very important place for her in her teens and young adulthood. A stone figure of that apocryphal figure, the Blessed Virgin, stands, arms outstretched, a look of permanent peace/woe etched in her extremely Anglo features. Before her is an altar of stone with room for candles for each of the Scullys, but now there is only one candle. And it looks as if it hasn't been used for some time. "You know," I murmur, in grim amusement, "Scully and I used to argue about her all the time." I flick a glance up at him as he stands beside me. "You'd think cold, practical DOCTOR Scully would know better than to believe in virgin birth." I reach out to flick a bit of lichen from the virgin's face.

He is quiet for a moment. Then he looks over his shoulder at the crowd inside. "Maybe if she had known how much you felt..."

I turn around, one hand thrust into a pocket, the other gripping none too gently a champagne glass. "I told her. I told her several times. She just never heard me."

He turns, and stands behind me. Not touching me, but the warmth of his body tells me he is there, behind me, going to catch me if I fall. "I'm sorry."

I shrug. "You know...I'm not." I sip champagne and watch the happy couple work the crowd. "Scully's...well...she's the perfect woman for me...but I'd never make her happy. And that wouldn't be fair, would it?"

He sighs. "That sounds like a lot of regret."

"Oh, it's not," I assure him and turn back to the statue. "Scully's the Blessed Virgin, in a way. Beautiful to think about, comforting to turn to, but not quite...real."

He surprises me by pulling out his old bulldog emblazoned lighter. "I believe in Mary, myself," he says quietly, lighting that solitary candle.

I reach for the lighter, study it. The emblem is worn, but still clearly the proud mascot of the Marines. It's comforting to hold it in my hand, knowing this has been with him since the days and nightmares of a seemingly pointless war, in a place where he lost and found his life. I tuck it into my breast pocket. "No atheists in foxholes, huh?"

He snickers at my unintentional pun. "Could a devout agnostic ever be happy with a dyed in the wool born again believer?"

"Who says I'm an agnostic?" I protest. "I believe there's..." I glance up and the mist dances on my face. "...something up there. I don't know if it's God, or Buddha or...or Ronald McDonald. But there's something."

He's still chuckling. eH"Aliens?"

"Hey." I shrug again. "Maybe God made aliens and all."

For a while we are silent, watching the candle gutter and spit in the misty air. My belief in something more defined than a mystical chemistry lab made me think that...maybe...I was in this time and place for a reason. That he was here for a reason. Scully was my dream...and maybe this guy was my life.

I sipped champagne. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Walt."

He was lost in the erratic flame. "Hmm?"

I emptied my glass in one gulp. "Will you marry me?"

- END -