TITLE: About Sharon

NAME: frogdoggie

E-MAIL: frogdoggie@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17. M/SC/SK friendship. M/SC UST. M/SK. Skinner angst. This story contains some slash i.e. m/m sexual contact, but nothing graphic. But if that kind of thing bothers you at all - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.

SUMMARY: What happened to Sharon Skinner? Mulder finds out. Missing a part of this story or just want to read more of my fic? Then surf here: https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

FEEDBACK - YES PLEASE, AND THANK YOU SIR, CAN I HAVE ANOTHER? Comments, suggestions and healthy debate are always welcome. Flames? They only serve to warm my body and mind.

ARCHIVE: Sure. Anywhere - as long as my name and e-mail addy stay on it.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Everything up to Pine Bluff Variant in Season 5, but most notably Avatar, and maybe a hint of Zero Sum.

KEYWORDS: story romance angst slash Skinner Mulder Scully NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use.

Author's note: This story was inspired by an "I Want to Believe" list challenge. The challenge was to "plug a plot hole" and I chose as my plot hole what happened to Skinner's wife, Sharon, since her fate was never made clear on the show. Once again, thanks to my fellow Believers for the inspiration.

More author's notes at the end.

About Sharon

by frogdoggie

"Sir?"

"Yes, Agent Mulder?"

"I have aspirin if you'd like some."

"Aspirin?"

"Yes...uh..."

"Oh...no...it's not a headache. I'm just tired. Thank you, however."

I watch Skinner place his glasses back down on the bridge of his nose. He's done that thing where he rubs between his eyes several times in the last hour. I bet the stubborn bastard has a headache and just won't own up to it. I had a headache...but I admitted it and took some aspirin. I wonder why the hell he'd put up with that pain in his skull without seeking some relief. I know he's an ex-Marine...but being the type who inhaled I wouldn't think he'd be adverse to a couple of aspirin.

But maybe he likes the pain because it keeps him in touch with what came down here in Baltimore. Maybe it reminds him he's still got it...that FBI field agent 'mojo', I mean. He's still 'the man' when he gets out from behind the desk. Or maybe it reminds him of what we were here to stop in the home of the Orioles...and how he did help stop it. It's hard to say. Skinner's becoming less opaque, but he's far from crystal clear enough to completely figure out what makes him tick. There are still a lot of unanswered questions about Skinner, even if I can infer he was pleased on one level to be out in the field in Baltimore.

Baltimore. I have very mixed feelings about the city given my past experiences here. I wouldn't go as far as to say it's a love/hate relationship...no...it's not that black and white. My emotions about Baltimore are trapped more in shades of smoky gray. But right now regardless of what I think about the city, I'll just be glad to get out of it again. And why do I want to leave in such a hurry you ask?

Well picture this...Baltimore's first serial murder case in years. Some enterprising sociopath decides to murder people using the seven deadly sins as a leitmotif. The local PD contacts the FBI and Skinner has NCAVC dispatch a team from the Investigative Support Unit to assist. Oh, and you guessed it...he assigns yours truly as well because the case bears a resemblance to one I worked on when I was still profiling for ISU. And to make the picture complete, Skinner also assigns Scully to lend her forensic expertise to the mix, and he ends up having to go into the field as well when there's some...difficulty between the locals and the 'hired help' from DC.

Every case has an aftermath, an end. A point at which all the evidence is in, the stakeout is done, the UNSUB is caught and in custody. A point where the press is dealt with and the good guys can call it a day and say "job well done"...except for the paperwork of course. In fact every case has a beginning, a middle and an end...rather like life in general actually.

This case in Baltimore was no different. There was a beginning, a middle and an end all right. The beginning hadn't been very smooth, the middle had been a bitch, and the end...well...the end turned out to be a real piece of work. The grand finale of the case consisted of one cop with a dead wife, her head presented to him in a box...and one dead UNSUB, courtesy of the widower. Not a pretty signature on the picture.

I watch Skinner's hand as it moves over the yellow legal pad. The AD's doing his paperwork. I know from observation his precise printing is being written across the page, probably describing in minute detail what that woman's head looked like in the box. I know that's probably true because I noted the appearance of her head in my report...and Skinner is, if anything, better at case reports than I am.

You know, I asked him why he was writing in longhand when he could use a laptop. He made a joke then about being a closet-Luddite. Yeah, it got a laugh out of me too. Kimberly Cook probably transcribes his legal pad lines of neatly printed descriptions of mayhem. Me...I hunt and peck on this laptop and later I know Scully will shake her head and raise her eyebrow at my efforts anyway.

The hotel suite that acted as our command center is quiet now except for the smooth slide of Skinner's pen on paper and the click, click, click of my fingers on the laptop keys as I go back to typing. This is the true aftermath of the case...this almost silence. The other agents are gone, even Scully. The few straggling reporters who came up here sniffing out some extra quotes for their late editions or broadcasts have departed as well. All that's left is Skinner and me, a bunch of empty pizza boxes, paper plates, Styrofoam coffee cups, empty soda cans...and overflowing ashtrays.

Skinner clears his throat and I look up, my hands cease their movement on the laptop keys. My eyebrows raise in anticipation.

"Are those Scully's autopsy findings?" he asks, tilting his chin toward a diskette that lies on the table next to my laptop.

Scully completed her report last night and left it with me on diskette. She asked for and received permission to visit her mother here in Baltimore. I'm glad she took the time off...she was entitled to it and she needed it. This case was hard on everyone and participating in the autopsies had been a task I certainly didn't envy her.

"Yes," I reply.

"Would you mind bringing them up on your screen so I can check on something?"

"No...not at all."

Skinner nods and raises his muscular bulk from the chair at the larger table across the room where he's been seated. I can tell by the way he's moving that he's both tired and stiff. He went down hard chasing the UNSUB right after we got here...before the guy finally met his end at the hands of his last victim's husband. I know he's probably embarrassed he slipped on some garbage in that alley, so we won't talk about that incident, or how the aspirin could help the pain in his back as well as his head. But hey, I fell too...I just landed better...so I guess I should give him a break on that particular point.

I slip the diskette into the laptop and access Scully's report. By the time Skinner's walked across the room, I'm getting up so that he can sit down and read from the screen.

"No, s'ok," he remarks, gesturing for me to sit. He comes to stand next to me as I lower my ass back down onto the Holiday Inn's tasteful, floral print cushion on my chair.

The AD tilts my laptop over a bit so he can stand at my side and see the screen. He reads for a few moments and I can smell his spicy cologne, feel the heat radiating off his body. I remember that aroma and the body heat from the time he restrained me outside his office. His cologne filled my senses that day. His arms felt like hot bands of iron. I blink, shaking the thought off as he taps a key to page down in the report.

"Thank you," he says after another few seconds.

"Sure thing," I reply and he moves away from me.

Before he can reach his seat across the room, the trill of a cell phone ringing breaks the silence. Reflexively I reach for my coat where it hangs over the back of my chair, even though I know the sound is too far away to be my cell in my pocket.

Skinner takes four strides to where his coat is draped over the Holiday Inn chair back and fishes in the right side pocket. He comes up with his cell phone and the loud beeping ceases as he thumbs a button on the face and puts the phone to his ear. I can see the look of resignation on his face. He's probably resigned to the possibility he's not going to finish that paperwork quite yet.

"Skinner." His name's a bark in answer.

I almost turn back to my laptop when the expression on his face draws my attention again. Well, I shouldn't say expression...I should really say lack of expression. His face has dropped into that blank slate appearance he uses when he doesn't want to be read...that premiere poker face agents under him dread because it usually covers something they'd really rather not know is going to jump up and bite them in the ass.

Skinner just listens, the cell phone clamped to his ear, his fingers whitening a little where he grips it hard for a few moments.

"Yes," he says. "Yes...all right. I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank...thank you for calling."

When he hangs up the cell he stands there, mute, staring at it. Now what, I think. My brow furrows in worry.

"Is everything all right, sir?" He doesn't answer and I feel a cold chill run up my spine. Jesus...I hope it's not about Scully. "Sir...what was the call about?"

Skinner turns away from me and quietly slips his cell phone back in his coat pocket.

"The call was about Sharon," he replies before he turns around.

I can see him drawing himself up, working past his fatigue and body aches to stand tall and straight. When he turns back around I know something is seriously wrong because his jaw is so tight you can imagine him grinding his teeth to pulp inside his mouth.

"Sharon as in Sharon, your ex-wife?" I carefully ask.

"Sharon as in my wife, Agent Mulder. She's dying," he replies, his voice a gruff rasp.

To be honest it takes a second for his words to register. Then I'm ashamed that I didn't know...that I took no notice or that I hadn't bothered to inquire about his wife....in years for crying out loud.

And Skinner's a perceptive man. He wasn't promoted to AD because he was a slacker in the investigative department. He looks at my face and knows what I'm thinking. The dismissive gesture which comes with his next clipped sentences is an added attempt to absolve me of my guilt.

"It's all right. I didn't think her situation was something that concerned either you or Agent Scully. It wasn't...wasn't something I wanted to burden you with."

"Situation?" I ask, my confusion clear in my voice. I'm thinking...burden? How many burdens does this guy carry that he never reveals? "I'm sorry sir, I thought...after the accident that..."

"We went through with the divorce?" he asks, taking a moment to stand and talk to me face to face.

"Well...yes."

He scrubs his hand over his mouth and shifts, throwing his weight onto one hip for a moment.

"No...we...uh...we never got to the divorce. We...I don't know...we just never got around to going to court," he replies, not quite focusing on me. His eyes are staring off over my right shoulder somewhere.

"Then what happened?" I ask in a soft voice.

His eyes refocus on mine and I can clearly see the pain written in their brown depths. The matter-of-factness of his next words goes right to my gut.

"There was a blood clot evidently...a leftover from her car accident injuries that no one ever found. She had a stroke about three months after she got out of the hospital."

"Jesus," I breathe out.

He straightens then and pivots, heading for the chair where his coat is hanging. He's all business now, the efficient AD in charge. I know his sudden reliance on guts and glory is to cover-up that pain I saw spiking up sharp and cutting in his eyes.

"Mulder...I need to get out there. She's...she's in a convalescent home, Greenbriar, just outside Baltimore. Sharon was from Baltimore so I had her transferred there. She has...or rather had...one remaining aunt and I wanted her to be close to what was left of her family," he says as he pulls his tie tight around his throat. His coat comes off the chair and gets shrugged on.

Damn. She's been in a home since 1996? For God's sake...why didn't I bother to pay some attention, I think. But Skinner's actions drive the thoughts of self-recrimination out of my mind as I watch him head for the coat closet near the door.

"Hey...you're not going alone?" I ask, rising. The least I can do after being an uninvolved, uninterested prick is to go with the guy. I wouldn't want him to wrap the bu-car around a tree if his mind wanders from the slick, rain-coated Interstate out there. Besides, no one should have to face what he's driving into alone...not even a hardened FBI AD who also happens to be a steel balled ex-Marine.

He hesitates and turns to study my face. I know he's debating whether to ask me to accompany him. I bet he's pondering how much I'd consider his asking me to accompany him a weakness, a blot on his reputation as a hard-ass, tough AD. How it'll further disrupt our superior/subordinate dynamic. Yeah, well we're kind of beyond that idea I think given what's gone on in the past between us. I think he'll reject that concern and center instead on whether he can trust me not to make a pain in the neck, horse's ass out of myself. Oh yeah, Skinner and I have all sorts of trust issues...and rightfully so where we're both concerned given our past track record with each other. For a moment we stand face to face again, and then I can't take the silence as the gears in his head turn.

"Look...it's late and the roads suck. If you run the Crown Vic in a ditch it'll skew the expense report. Why don't you let me drive?" I finally ask, as nonchalantly as I can. It's a risk showing this amount of flippancy and appealing to his much vaunted budgetary mindfulness. It might really piss him off. But I get lucky and it doesn't. He actually gives me a ghost of a smile...just a trace, but I know I've gotten to the common sense in him.

"Yeah, good point. Besides...I would imagine you'd like a break from that report anyway," he retorts. Touche', Skinner. See...he knows something about me too.

I give him a quick smile and nod.

"Let me shut down the laptop and I'll be right with you."

xXx

Subdued light, the smell of disinfectant, hushed tones spoken in sympathy, support and respect, caregivers and visitors quietly passing to wherever their destinations take them. The hallmarks of a hospital.

I'm all too familiar with hospital atmosphere. All too used to actually being a patient in one, or too used to sitting outside a patient's room in one. I've sat like this for Scully...more than once...and my mother too for that matter. But never for Walter Skinner, for any reason...not even when he was shot.

Part of the drive to Greenbriar had been spent in silence. Mostly the part at the end of it. I figured Skinner wouldn't want to talk much then and besides, I had to concentrate on the road. I hadn't underestimated the conditions...the rain had made the roads treacherous.

A few words passed between us early on, though. Skinner's gruff thanks for my accompanying him. His confirmation that we'd be staying on one more day at the Holiday Inn to tie up loose ends with the locals...and a request to drive back to the hotel from Greenbriar if I wouldn't mind. I didn't mind of course. There was a little chitchat about the case. He went out of his way to say I'd done well. I appreciated that and told him so.

Eventually he made a few hesitant forays into more personal matters regarding Sharon. Sharon's family was non-existent for all intents and purposes. With the exception of one aunt who died in 1997, and a few distant relatives, her immediate family was gone. I read the implication in his words that he was all Sharon really had now.

I asked a question about her condition finally, and the word 'paralysis' was the gist of the answer. "She's aware, though. She can eat, drink...breathe...blink...and she can squeeze my hand," Skinner said. It was pneumonia that was killing her, he quietly informed me. Pneumonia, I thought...and I sensed his unspoken words as well...'And maybe she doesn't want to live any longer either.'

I've been sitting on this bench, my trench coat draped over one end of it, since we arrived at Greenbriar. Everyone was very kind to Skinner upon our arrival. After speaking with Sharon's doctor and the nurses attending her, he was ushered into her room across the hall. I was shown this bench and offered coffee as his "friend", even though Skinner introduced me as 'Agent Fox Mulder,' a colleague. I gather Skinner hasn't had anyone with him here before, much less a friend. I wonder if Skinner has any friends. I wonder...well, sure...I wonder if we could be friends...if we are friends in a strange, somewhat...dysfunctional way. Do I want to think we're friends? Yeah, maybe I do.

Friends after all wait to offer support while a man sits across the hall, holding his wife's hand as she struggles to breathe, on oxygen and hooked up to every machine I'm more than familiar with in that kind of situation. And friends ask friends to do that with them...even if they couch it in terms of driving to the hospital in order to save the FBI money. Friends are there for each other at times such as these.

So I sit and wait, and muse. I can watch Skinner, still in his black trench coat, murmur to Sharon, caress her hand, push her hair off her sweating forehead. If I really want to I can read his lips through the strip of glass that's set in the door across from me. Sometimes I look at him through the glass, but mostly I study the hallway in order to give Skinner and his wife some privacy.

Nurses cross in front of me, and glance inside the room as well. We're all biding our time, waiting for what may be the inevitable. I sip my coffee, and finally look down at the floor. My mind contemplates friendship and what's brought Skinner and me close to that point, despite questions, doubts, trials and tribulations.

"Mulder?"

My train of thought is interrupted by her gentle voice and I look up into Scully's eyes.

"Hey," I smile. "Have a seat, partner," I add, patting the bench next to me.

I called Scully. I thought she should know what was happening. But I'll admit the call was also partly because even as a psychologist I feel a bit adrift in dealing with Skinner in this situation. I'm still not sure how to approach him under these conditions. He's a stubborn SOB when it comes to taking help, after all. That idea plus the fact the circumstances are so close to the bone in regards to my mother's stroke, made me want Scully here for my own moral support, I guess.

And Scully, bless her, grounds me, like no one and nothing else can, really. Our relationship's been tense lately due to my disillusionment and her heartache and questioning of her faith. So much has happened to her...she's questioning everything...her role in the work...me...everything...and I can't really blame her. But despite it all, I know when push comes to shove, we'll be there for each other. She's here for me now...and for Skinner too...and I'm very glad to see her.

Scully gives me a sad smile, and removes her trench coat, placing it over mine on the end of the bench. She sits and pats my thigh briefly.

"I got a look at her chart," she says, placing her hands in her lap. She glances across the hall and into the room where Skinner sits next to Sharon's bedside. "I'm glad you called me, and I'm glad you drove him here."

"She's going to die?"

"I think so, Mulder," she sighs. "In this kind of long term stroke induced paralysis situation...well...her prognosis isn't good. I'm so sorry for Skinner," she adds, her voice full of sympathy.

"I feel like a jerk...I thought...hell...I thought they were divorced...that it was long over. I had no idea..."

Scully nods and looks into my profile as I stare across the hall.

"Well...neither did I, and for what it's worth, I feel terrible as well. But you know...he didn't wear his wedding ring any longer..." she comments, her voice trailing off. She probably realizes no rationalization is going to make our in-attentiveness any less egregious. Her words stop as her gaze follows mine.

I've wondered about the ring since Skinner told me they hadn't gone through with the divorce. I got my answer about it a half hour ago when I saw him murmur something to Sharon and then take her hand in his and place both their hands at her throat. She has a delicate gold chain around her neck. A chain with two rings on it. Skinner gave her hand a squeeze before he gently lifted his hand away and arranged hers more comfortably at her side.

The sound of a nurse's squeaking Dr. Scholl's draws our attention from the contemplation of divorce, Sharon Skinner's mortality and Walter Skinner's deathwatch at her bedside.

"Agent Mulder...Agent Scully," the petite Asian woman dressed in white says.

"Yes," we answer simultaneously, standing to greet her.

"Agent Scully...or perhaps I should say, Doctor Scully? I'm Rebecca Chan. Agent Mulder and I have already met but I just wanted to introduce myself to you since I was on rounds when you came in."

Scully smiles and extends her hand toward Nurse Chan, Sharon Skinner's primary nurse. I'd been introduced to her when we came in, of course.

"Agent Scully is fine. It's my pleasure," Scully whispers.

I nod and smile a little at the nurse and she smiles back at me as she drops Scully's hand.

"I just wanted to thank you, and Agent Mulder again for being here. This is hard enough for Assistant Director Skinner...and doing it alone wouldn't have been a pleasant situation...no matter how much he values his...privacy," Nurse Chan says, with an understanding tone in her voice.

Scully raises an eyebrow at her tone and her words. I give the Asian woman a quick smile of understanding in return.

"You sound as though you have a handle on the Assistant Director," I reply.

"That's part of my job, Agent Mulder. Understanding the family as well as those in my care. And I realize, AD Skinner is a very good man...a very courageous and caring one, in my humble opinion. But...I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear me say...I think he could use some friends right now...even if he doesn't want to admit he does."

Scully smiles a little in sympathetic understanding then too, and we glance at each other. I can see the same wheels turning in her mind. She's probably thinking, just as I am, that Skinner keeps it all so well hidden...he hides behind a facade of stoic toughness, and did so even with his wife in the past. But maybe he was finally, and here in this place at least, willing to let some of his true feelings show through. He felt he could reveal his more human...his more humane side more often.

I nod and Scully does too.

"I think we do realize that, Nurse Chan," Scully affirms.

"It's Rebecca, Agent Scully," she says, nodding. "And that's good. I think it'll be a comfort to Assistant Director Skinner."

"Anything we can do to help," I add sincerely.

She nods and smiles again.

"All right then. Now, besides saying thank you, I wanted to tell you there's plenty of coffee...help yourselves. There's also a private waiting room down the hall as well as a chapel if the bench gets uncomfortable. And if you need anything else, feel free to stop at the nurse's station."

We both give her our hushed thanks and she turns and heads back down the hallway.

Rebecca Chan is about halfway to the nurse's station and I have just enough time to check my watch and see it's a little past 8:30...when beeping alarms go off down the hallway and Scully grabs my arm.

"That's going to be a code blue," she informs me tensely.

"Shit," I hiss, and Scully's gone instantly, dashing toward the door to Sharon's room across the hall.

Nurse Chan turns and runs back down the hallway and close behind her, several other nurses and the doctor on call are rushing forward, a crash cart propelled ahead of them. I stand back. There's really nothing I can do. Scully...well Scully's a doctor and she has a right to be there...but me...here's where I know to mind my own business for once.

I've never felt more like a voyeur in those few moments while I stand back and watch through that vertical window in the door across the hall. I can see Skinner stand up, still clenching Sharon's hand, an expression of stunned amazement on his face. He's staring at the screen where Sharon's life is flat-lining before his eyes and then Scully's at Sharon's side. The code blue team blocks my view as they rush in, their controlled frenzy centered around the bed. The room's crowded with people, but once they're in there, I can still watch...it's as if I have to watch. As if all my previous ignorance of past events regarding Skinner and his wife are forcing me to watch these last moments of Sharon Skinner's life.

Once the Greenbriar staff goes into action, it takes Scully a moment to get Skinner's attention. He looks at her in mute confusion at first. She's saying something to him, taking his hand where it grips Sharon's hand and gently, beseeching him, pulling him away. He goes with her but shakes his head emphatically as she tries to guide him toward the door. They end up standing off to one side, where I can no longer see them as the doctors and nurses do their best to revive Skinner's wife.

Sharon is pronounced dead at 8:45. It takes the code blue team a few minutes to pack up and exit her room. Nurse Chan and Scully are still in there with Skinner and after a few moments hesitation, I head over to the room. I'm met by Rebecca Chan as she opens the door and steps out.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, taking my arm and giving it a small squeeze.

"I know you did everything you could," I reply automatically.

She nods.

"Thank you. When you're ready...there's some paperwork for Assistant Director Skinner," she adds apologetically. Her hand gesture up the hallway is limp and regretful as well.

God...there's always paperwork, I think. But I give her a patient smile and nod.

"Thank you. I'll...I'll remind him and give him a hand there, Rebecca."

She smiles, but I can see the moistness in her eyes. I reply with another reassuring smile of my own and then she's walking back up the hallway toward the nurse's station.

I breathe in and exhale slowly, turn and open the door to Sharon Skinner's room.

The first thing I observe is the huge window in the wall opposite the foot of her bed. I hadn't been able to see this through the glass in the door because the angle was wrong...but now I see it...the huge window...and all the plants and flowers on the windowsill. It's like an indoor garden in her room...and I know that even though it's November, when the sun shines through this window it must make for a very cheery effect.

But the room is anything but cheery now. Skinner is seated at Sharon's bedside again and doesn't even notice my entry into the room. Scully has her hand on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. When she sees me, she leaves his side and comes over to where I stand just inside the door.

"I was coming out," she whispers. "He wants a couple of minutes alone with her."

I nod, uncomfortable because I can't help but stare at Sharon and her pale, wasted face...and remember the vibrant, attractive woman I met years ago. They've placed her pale hands together on her chest...just as she'll lie in her casket...and Skinner has his hands placed over hers.

Scully takes my hand, thankfully distracting me, and I look down where her fingers entwine with mine. Her hand's pale too...but warm and I can feel her pulse at the base of her thumb. Her skin glows with life like fine, living alabaster. I get that warm tingling that I usually get when Scully touches me...that tingling that says arousal and love...and so much more. The tingling that tells me that one of these days I'm going to have to deal with those feelings. I only have to look at Scully as she averts her eyes to know we're both going to have to deal with them someday.

"Ok," I whisper, giving her hand a squeeze before I drop it and usher her out ahead of me.

We stand across the hall from Sharon's room again, our trench coats back on...and it's as if everyone who passes us in the hallway wants to give us our privacy as well. At least no one stops to talk to Scully and me and their quick glances suggest they think our close proximity and concerned expressions connote worry...or mourning. I don't mind that they think so. I need a few minutes myself to process what's transpired...and from the look on Scully's face as she stares across the hallway, she does as well.

After a moment she shifts closer and her elbow touches mine. I turn and look down at her.

"I don't think he should be alone," Scully says, her brow furrowing as she looks up at me.

"You don't have to stay..."

Her brow furrows further and I wince inwardly. I said the wrong thing.

"I don't mind staying." The annoyance in her voice is palpable. We have these miscommunications...these misinterpretations of intent so often nowadays. We both bristle so easily. "I was just going to suggest I could call my mother and tell her I was staying on longer."

My hand reaches out and touches her arm, my smile a peace offering.

"I know that...I just meant Skinner already asked me to take him back to the Holiday Inn. We'll be here one more day to tie up loose ends so I'm staying on anyway," I reply gently. "You don't have to take more time away from your mom."

Scully studies my face and her expression softens. I don't think either one of us can stay angry at the other for very long...even now. She makes a dismissive gesture.

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to sound curt...it's just that..." her head inclines toward Sharon's door. "It's always difficult when it's someone you know."

I nod and touch her shoulder briefly in support.

"No problem. I understand. You do whatever you think is best. I'd appreciate your company of course. I'm sure Skinner would too." I'm not sure about Skinner...but I'm sure about myself valuing her presence...always.

As I reply, the door across the hall opens and Skinner exits the room. For a split second I can see the fatigue and grief in his face and body posture. Then he draws himself up, assuming the AD mantle again. His back's ramrod straight like the good soldier he is...soldiering on at all costs. I sigh. I wish the guy would bend under the pressure a little. If he doesn't bend...I suspect he's gonna break.

"Sir..." Scully says, advancing towards him a little. Skinner focuses on her and his stride carries him to meet her before she reaches the other side of the hall. I follow Scully over and stand at her side.

"Agent Scully," he replies, his deep voice more steady than I could make mine under the circumstances. "Thank you again...I very much appreciate you being here."

"You're welcome, sir," Scully answers quietly, peering up into his face. There is a tightness in his jaw, I can see it now. He's struggling to maintain some formality but it's costing him. I know Scully sees the tension too because her brow is furrowing again.

"But there's no reason to keep you from your mother any longer," he announces, echoing my earlier conversation with her. His voice is gentle however. He's genuinely touched that she took time away from her family to be here for him. I clear my throat and the sound catches Skinner's attention. He looks at me.

"I'm very sorry, sir," I murmur.

He nods and I can see the sincere appreciation in his eyes when he answers me too. His shoulders slump just slightly and I see some of the tightness go out of his jaw.

"Thank you, Mulder." He drops the more formal Agent form of address without hesitation and then he extends his hand. I promptly extend mine and he gives it a firm shake.

Scully watches. There's a trace of a smile on her face. Skinner considers her for a second. When he releases my hand, he turns to her and shakes her hand as well.

"Once again, Scully...thanks."

"Yes, sir."

"Now...shove off," he urges, his voice a little more hoarse with emotion. A trace of a smile crosses his lips. "I don't want to make it an order."

"I'll leave you in Agent Mulder's hands then," she replies, averting her eyes a bit. "Take care, sir. Get some rest," she adds, letting her small hand slip out of his large one.

"I'll certainly take that under advisement," he replies, clearing his throat.

We stand there awkwardly for a few more seconds and then Scully shifts.

"Mulder..."

"I'll walk you out," I reply, sensing that she has something to say and it's for my ears only. I incline my chin towards Skinner.

"Excuse us a moment, sir."

He tilts his chin at me in understanding and I turn, ushering Scully ahead of me up the hallway.

I don't glance back but I can hear the muffled click of Skinner's Allen Edmund shoes as he goes back across the hall. The sound stops at approximately Sharon's room door. I can't see him but I know Skinner's taking a last look through that vertical glass pane in Sharon Skinner's door. Scully and I proceed down the hallway toward the main entrance, and I keep my stride short so that we can walk in tandem.

When we're out of earshot, Scully whispers to me.

"I guess you can tell he's wound tight."

"Oh yeah."

"And I take it you know what to do when he...unwinds."

"Listen if he wants to talk...otherwise, stay out of his way."

"That'd be my advice," she agrees, giving me a sidelong approving look.

"I *am* a psychologist," I pronounce, letting the smirk on my lips tell her I'm teasing her now.

"I wasn't double-checking. That was discussion of diagnosis from one doctor to another," she retorts, her amused expression showing she's picked up on my intent.

"Ah...well then...I'll consider it as such," I reply, smiling.

We reach the entrance and she turns to me.

"Seriously, Mulder...I know you'll be able to handle it. I just know it's going to be a rough night...one at the end of a string of rough nights."

I give her a grin. I can tell she's concerned for me. Yeah, it's been rough, it was difficult for all of us on the Baltimore case, including her. But her special regard for me makes me feel very supported and warm. My heart fills with tenderness for her.

"Thanks, Scully," I reply quietly. My fingers brush her shoulder, caressing it lightly before my hand drops. "The case was hard on all of us, including you. That's why I want you to go have some fun with your mom. I'll be ok. Things will work out with Skinner."

She gives me a shy smile and nods.

"All right, then. Call me if there's anything else either one of you need, though."

"I will...and the same goes for you."

"Ok...see you Tuesday."

"In the basement."

She gives me a last half-smile and then leaves my side. My eyes follow her red hair until she's out of sight.

xXx

I take my eyes off the road for a moment and check on Skinner where he sits riding shotgun next to me. I was hoping he'd rest...and I'm gratified to see he's actually asleep at last. His light snoring was what prompted me to give him the once over. His mouth's open a little and he appears almost boneless, his body slumped against the seat belt and the window.

It dawns on me that he looks years younger in sleep. His face is more vulnerable even with its rough hewn quality. After a second, I take my eyes away from his carved rock profile and turn my attention back to the road. It's still a little slippery out even though it's stopped raining so I need to concentrate on the strip of asphalt ahead.

Sharon's final paperwork didn't take long to complete, thankfully so we weren't long at Greenbriar after Scully left. Skinner placed a few phone calls by cell phone. Two calls to Sharon's distant relatives down South and one to a mortuary in Baltimore. I gather she's being buried in Baltimore, next to her aunt. I wonder if Skinner has a plot next to them? He didn't say and I didn't ask. The funeral's Thursday...no wake, rented casket...cremation. Sharon's last wishes conveyed by blinks and hand squeezes in answer to questions that Skinner tried to make as compassionate as possible.

Skinner jerks in his seat. I jump, startled at his sudden movement.

"Hmm?" he mumbles.

"I didn't say anything, sir. Go back to sleep."

"Oh. Sorry," he replies, his voice a croak, dry from both his open-mouthed snoring and the heated air in the car.

"I'll wake you when we get to the Holiday Inn."

He grunts in answer and settles back again.

When I get Skinner back to the Holiday Inn it's 10:30. I take him straight to the lounge and buy him a drink...with his total agreement at the suggestion. It probably isn't the smart thing to do...but it's the guy thing to do. Hell...I need a drink myself and he certainly looks like he could use one. We each have a couple of shots in silence. It's a case of just chug 'em down and have the bartender set 'em up again. After the third shot I figure it's time to go to bed and recommend we do so. That gets an assenting nod and a chin tilt towards the empty shot glasses.

"Thank you, Mulder," Skinner says. Not 'I needed that'...not...that much of an admission...he just gives a simple thanks and I accept it gracefully.

As we head up to the suite I think...ok, so far he seems to be doing all right. I don't know what will happen next. I guess in the back of my mind I'm not sure if I want the booze to make him forget and rest...or loosen his tongue so he'll vent. I told myself either one was a satisfactory alternative while we got ourselves pleasantly buzzed in the lounge. I guess I'm willing to go with either eventuality. I'm keeping to my own and Scully's caveat to let him take things at his own pace, I suppose.

Skinner unlocks the door to the suite, pushes it open...and it's pitch black inside. We shut the curtains before we left but in our haste we forgot to leave a light on.

He walks in cautiously and I can sense his alertness. Long days of dangerous dark places have made him wary, even of an empty hotel room in Baltimore. I can't say I feel any different to be honest. I reach over and flick on the light switch. The room is instantly awash in florescent brightness. Skinner blinks, and gives a terse self-deprecating shake of his head, realizing what his hesitation must have looked like. My understanding look seems to mollify him and his face is more composed after he studies mine.

"You gonna go to bed?" I ask, squeezing past him as he looks away and starts to shrug out of his trench coat.

It's a nonchalant comment, half a proposal, half a deflection of the white elephant of Sharon's death that lies on the table between us like the empty pizza boxes.

He saunters forward and drapes the coat carefully over a chair back. His suit coat follows it. I pull my trench coat and suit coat off and place both over a chair back as well.

"Not yet. But you go ahead," he answers, loosening his tie.

"What are you going to do?" I inquire, my hands working the knot of my tie as well.

"Clean up."

I think he means he's going to take a shower but instead he starts to gather up the pizza boxes. I stand there, somewhat in amazement and watch Walter Skinner tidying up the hotel suite we've been sharing like an efficient Holiday Inn housekeeper.

After a few minutes of his mechanical traipsing back and forth from one pile of refuse or another to various trashcans in the suite, I can't take it any longer.

"Where should I leave the tip?" I ask wryly, moving a step over to where my laptop still sits on the smaller table where I was working.

Skinner stops his circuit of the room, pausing at the wet bar, and stares at me. His hand, holding an ashtray full of cold cigarette butts and ashes, hovers in midair.

"What?"

"You're doing such a good job of cleaning the room I thought I should tip you instead of housekeeping in the morning," I reply, giving him a bemused smile.

For a split second, his eyes flash in anger. But then he looks away from me and runs his free hand down the back of his neck, shaking his head as he does so. His shoulders sag.

"Why don't you sit down, sir?" I advise quietly.

He still has the ashtray in his hand but in dead silence he puts it down carefully on the bar. Crossing over to the suite's couch, Skinner slowly sits down and I walk over and stand in front of him.

"You want another drink? There's still a few of those expensive little bottles in the fridge under the wet bar."

"Just a soda," he replies, clearing his throat a little. "There should be some equally expensive cans of Diet Coke down there too," he adds with a slight twitch of his lips. It's almost a smile and I acknowledge it with an uplifting of the corners of my mouth.

"Coming right up."

When I return with two cans of Diet Coke, Skinner's eased his back against the couch cushions, kicked his shoes off and removed his tie. He appears marginally more comfortable as he places his tie over the couch's armrest...at least physically. When he turns in my direction again I hand him the can of Coke.

"Thanks," he says.

"No problem."

I glance behind me and then step back until I reach the comfy easy chair across from the couch. The coffee table that was between the couch and the chair has been moved to the side of the room. It was shoved out of the way so that people could walk between, and in one case, sleep on the floor between during the murder investigation. I park my butt in the chair and take up my vigil in front of Skinner. The fizz of carbonation as we open the cans is the only sound in the room for several minutes.

Finally, just as I'm about to break my covenant with Scully and also commit one of the cardinal sins that no guy should commit with another guy by uttering the words 'Do you want to talk about it?'...Skinner takes his Coke can away from his mouth, sets it down on the floor...and speaks.

"I know you're waiting for me to unburden myself, Mulder," he says as he straightens back up. He captures my eyes, and I can feel him trying to read me. I shrug.

"And?"

"And I'm not sure that's going to happen."

Not sure? Well that's a little different than the remark I expected Skinner to make. I expected him to just say it wasn't going to happen. Positively wasn't...no way in hell. The AD's tight-lipped demeanor is a survival mechanism with him, after all. For better or worse he prefers to clam up to save himself having to deal with the emotional toll, amongst other reasons. Being uncommunicative is a great way to avoid admitting how opening up would make him feel. How it might reveal something...anything to me.

But...'I'm not sure', he said. Now that connotes enough indecision to make me break that cardinal sin...out of curiosity. I'm going to break it because I need to know the truth...which I'm astute enough to know is both my curse and my blessing. And wanting to know the truth may prove to be both in this situation.

"Sir...for what it's worth...I do have my doctorate in psychology, as I'm sure you know. Anything you say to me would come under doctor/patient confidentiality."

He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"Mulder...the only patients you've 'counseled' have been serial killers."

The rejoinder almost elicits a laugh. I do suppress a smile.

"Ok...so my 'couch side' manner's a little rusty. But that doesn't mean I still can't lend an ear."

He sighs and lowers his eyebrow. Reaching down again, he picks up his Diet Coke can and examines it idly, lost in thought. For a moment I think he's going to dismiss me...let me down easy by telling me he's tired after all. He'll stalk off to his bedroom in the suite, close the door...and lie awake all night mourning his dead wife and the fact that he can't fucking share himself if it was a matter of life...or death.

"You know...Sharon hated Coke," he says. "I didn't know it until after the accident and she told me. All those years...and I had no idea she didn't like Coke," he adds. I sit, breathing carefully for a few seconds in amazed silence. I don't want to break the spell of Skinner's unburdening.

Skinner looks up over the Diet Coke can at me and then I have to speak.

"So what did she prefer, Pepsi?" I ask, taking a sip from my can. Keep it light, Mulder, I tell myself. No pressure.

"Dr. Pepper, actually," Skinner answers, his voice gruff.

He tips the can of Diet Coke up and downs the rest of the soda in it in one gulp. I flinch when he lowers the can and in one swift flex of his fingers, crushes the aluminum receptacle flat against his palm. The clank when it hits the trash can over by the wet bar breaks the new silence that reigns between us. I almost say 'three points' but think better of it.

"Want another?" I ask instead.

He shakes his head.

I quietly finish my soda and place the can on the end table next to the chair.

I wait, flexing my fingers a little. I just have an inkling Skinner's going to say more.

One minute he's looking out the window at the night lighted Baltimore skyline, such as it is, and in the next, he turns his head slowly back in my direction.

"Could you turn off the overhead light and turn on a lamp?" he rumbles. "I think...I think I'd like it a little less bright in here."

"Sure."

I rise to comply and as I'm switching on the lamp he resumes his side of the conversation.

"I would imagine you're wondering why Sharon and I never divorced," he says. I switch on the lamp.

"I assume you were trying for a reconciliation," I reply cautiously. I haven't the foggiest idea why they didn't divorce. The only thing I know is from what I saw of their relationship during the Carina Sayles case I would have thought they were headed to divorce court at that point for sure.

"I think we were just dancing around the truth," he replies, half musing as he speaks.

I stride over to the overhead light switch and flip it off, walking quickly back to my chair and the table with the lamp that's now burning. Skinner's face is cast in shadow, which I'm sure was his intent. He probably feels he can talk easier this way. I re-seat myself and face him again.

"Dancing around what...whether you were still in love or not?"

"Maybe that was part of it," he whispers, his spectacled eyes shining out at me in reflected lamp light. "But you know what's ironic...maybe pathetic even when it comes right down to it?"

I answer honestly, my voice subdued as well.

"No, sir."

"It's ironic that whether we wanted to discuss our relationship or set a court date, neither one of us could manage to clear our busy schedules to do either one."

Well, if I wanted to hear Skinner divulge some bitter secrets...I asked for it. This is as bare as I've ever seen him lay himself. It has to be the booze I think as he looks back out the window into the night. I gaze into his pensive profile and exhale softly, composing myself.

"You want that other drink now?" I whisper.

"Yeah, Mulder...I think I would," he replies, swiveling his head around again.

I start to rise and he holds his hand up.

"Sit down. I'll get it. You want one too?"

I nod.

"Whiskey?"

I nod again. He nods in return, gets up, and leaves my field of vision.

I can see my reflection in the window in back of the couch. I look like a hound dog before 'Billy Bob's' boot kicks his doggie ass off the porch...all wrinkled, worried forehead furrows. Why am I so worried here? What's making me so nervous now about having Skinner open up to me? I'm the one plying him with the liquor that's probably bringing this on. Am I afraid to hear what he'll have to say? In this case do I really want to hear the truth? Am I afraid what it'll make me think about him...about this man that I might just now consider a friend and ally? I don't have much time to consider the questions one way or the other because Skinner returns, two glasses in hand.

"J&B," he comments as he extends a glass-laden hand.

"Ah," I reply, reaching out and taking the glass from him. "Thanks."

Another curt nod and he leaves my side. My eyes track him as instead of going back to the couch he saunters over to the expanse of windows that stretches across one entire wall of the suite. He stands with his back to me, sipping his drink and studying the city of the Orioles as he speaks.

"I thought of Sharon when I saw that woman's head in the box. I couldn't help it. I thought...looking into her dead eyes...why couldn't it just be over for Sharon. Lying there in that bed was no kind of life for her, Mulder. She thought that way too, it's why she didn't fight the pneumonia at the end."

"I understand," I murmur. "I...I felt that way about my mother when she had her stroke. If she was going to be that way permanently I just wished...well I thought the same thing." I take a sip of my whiskey to drown out that memory.

He nods, imperceptibly, a small acknowledgment that he heard me.

"I was never sure I loved Sharon. If I want to be brutally honest with myself I could say she loved me and I was incapable of returning that love. She...she managed to ask me for my ring back you know? It took me two days to find out she wanted my ring put on the chain with hers because she just wanted to see them together...to remind her of what...I don't know...of what she thought we had for a little while I guess."

"I wondered why you never wore your ring, sir," I reply softly.

He nods again and takes a sip of whiskey.

"But she was my best friend, Mulder," he continues after swallowing. "I respected her and loved her in a way for that if nothing else. I hated everything I put her through. Hated myself for putting her through it. And I regret the fact she ended up that way more than I can ever say."

A vision of Scully lying in more than one hospital bed jumps into my mind unbidden and I realize I more than understand what he's saying now.

"I...I felt that way when Scully was abducted and when she had cancer," I mumble. I finish the whiskey in one gulp to crush those memories back as well.

I'm not sure he heard what I said that time but he speaks again.

"I should have loved her, Mulder. I should have been going through more than just the motions. I should...Christ, Mulder, I should be grieving a hell of a lot more than this," he whispers, tilting the glass up and taking another swig out of it.

I clear my throat.

"I think you are mourning. I didn't see any lack of grief at Greenbriar...or now either," I reply trying to reassure him. It's obvious he's consumed with guilt for not being a true husband to Sharon. For thinking even now he isn't doing enough for her. "You can't let the fact that you had a...a difficult marriage make you think your feelings now aren't strong enough. And I don't think I have to tell you...what happened to Sharon wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" he asks, still keeping his back to me.

I put my whiskey down on the end table and slowly rise. I hate talking to someone when they're turned away from me. I realize Skinner's doing it to add enough impersonality to the situation to talk to me but seeing a person's face is something I need to do to...damn...I almost said profile them. Well, in essence isn't that what I'm doing with Skinner right now? I'm certainly trying to get a complete picture of him...as a confidant and yes, as a friend in order to help him through the aftermath of his wife's death.

So, I walk cautiously around the couch and come to stand next to him at the window. I stand and face the skyline as well, staring out. I'll give him his illusion of privacy by not staring directly at him...but I can see his reflection in the glass. I can see his tight lips and the furrow of his brow over the silvered ovals of his lenses.

"No. It wasn't your fault. You can't feel it was your fault, sir," I reply seriously.

"Mulder...that's the problem...don't you understand? Sometimes...sometimes I question if I can feel it at all," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Just once I'd like to know if what Sharon used to say was true at all...if it was true when she'd say I was comfortably numb." His head turns in my direction and I meet his eyes. He clenches his glass of whiskey tight in his fist. "I just want to...know..." he lets his voice trail off.

"But sir," I reply softly. "Everything you've said in the last few minutes testifies to the fact you feel grief. All of it says you're in pain."

He studies my face and his lips twist into an ironic half-smile.

"I'm not talking about pain, Mulder. I'm not even talking about grief or guilt. I'm talking about love," he replies, staring into my eyes. "I wonder if I can ever feel love...for anyone."

I don't know why I touch him then. I have no idea what possesses me to reach out and rub his free arm. What makes me run my hand up to touch his face and caress his stubbled jaw. For a moment I consider...oh yeah, if he wants to feel something, he's going to feel anger right now. He's going to grow irate and then he's going to pitch me through this fucking plate glass window. The last thing I'll see as I sail out of the top floor of the Holiday Inn is the reflection of my startled 'hound dog' face and the Baltimore skyline tilting up in Skinner's spectacles.

But we weren't talking about just any feeling, or even anger, guilt or pain. We were talking about love...maybe the reason I touched him was the spark of something resembling love I saw in his eyes.

It doesn't surprise me when he takes my hand in his and kisses the palm. I don't move when he slides his hand up and cups my face. I don't hesitate to move in when he draws my mouth to his. His kiss is gentle and for some reason that doesn't surprise me either. His heat, the soft, dry heat of his lips takes my breath away. The scent of him, the mixture of Old Spice, natural male musk and something else...fear, I think...surrounds me, makes my pulse quicken and my hackles rise. Fight or flight I think, then I decide...neither. Instead, I savor the kiss and let it arouse me. I feel my cock stir between my sweating thighs. But it seems almost as soon as the kiss starts, Skinner's lips leave mine.

We stare at each other, his eyes roam over my face.

"Do you know now?" I finally manage to whisper.

The sad smile that greets my question tells me all I need to know. He steps back slightly and his hand leaves my face. Skinner tips his glass up and downs the last of the whiskey in it. I watch the muscular column of his neck as his throat works to swallow the liquor in one convulsive draught.

When the glass is lowered he finally answers my question...with a non-answer.

"Go to bed, Mulder," he says, a more ironic smile playing about his lips. "I'll see you in the morning," he adds, turning on his heel. He leaves me standing with the Baltimore skyline to witness my half-gaping mouth and quick breathing.

I watch the hair on the back of his balding head and I want to dash forward, grab his arm, and shout a couple of dozen questions...the least of which is...'What the fuck?'... into his face. But of course...I remain rooted to the spot.

My mind is trying to wrap itself around what just happened here at the same time it's trying to deal with my throbbing half-mast erection. Under the circumstances I think I'm beyond the act of multi-tasking it would take my mind to deal with both.

So, as I watch Skinner saunter away I gape at his ramrod straight back and broad, well-muscled shoulders. I tell myself I'm not looking at his well-developed ass where it flexes in his dress slacks even though my eyes can't help but stray there.

Skinner hesitates a moment outside his bedroom door and I yank my eyes up from below his waist. I consider that he's stopping to divest himself of his empty glass, and I guess he is stopping partly for that reason. But then he turns toward me and looks down at the hand that just deposited the glass on the low table next to his bedroom door.

"You know, Mulder...I didn't come up through the ranks as a profiler for ISU...but I didn't get to be AD because I was unobservant," he rumbles, picking his words carefully as he studies his fingers. I breathe out cautiously and he looks up to pin my eyes. "I'm going to give you a piece of advice, Agent..." he adds, the use of my title clearly re-establishing the superior/subordinate dynamic of our relationship.

"Yes, sir?" I query, following his lead in an attempt to regain my own equilibrium. In an attempt to let him know I'm aware he's restoring the balance as well.

"I'm going to suggest that you show Dana Scully you love her even if neither one of you can come right out and say it. Take the lead, Mulder. Give her an idea how you feel. Don't put yourself in a position of thinking you don't know. Don't put her in that position either," Skinner replies quietly. "Don't let yourselves go comfortably numb."

I nod, dumbfounded and for once in my life I'm totally incapable of even formulating a pithy retort. Uttering any smartass remark even if I could come up with one is out of the question anyway. He gives me a curt nod then, and turns to his bedroom door. I remain silent as he opens it, walks inside and shuts the door behind him.

He didn't have to say anything like "This never happened, Agent Mulder." The definitive finality of that shutting door and its blank wooden face in front of me drives that fact home better than any absolving words of denial ever could.

I run a shaking hand over my brow and then back through my hair. My fingers come away damp. Thankfully my erection is rapidly wilting as I force my feet to turn me around toward the bedroom door across the suite.

"Shit." It's finally all I can say as I stalk across the room with steps I struggle to make more confident than I really feel.

My mind's in gear now as I take myself to bed. It's more than in gear...it's racing like a Nascar entry. I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep at this rate. My brain's insisting on mulling over the endless questions I would have liked to ask Skinner but I know I never will. I ponder the mystery that's Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner and the bonds of friendship that stretch between us. I marvel on the nature of love and then I think of Scully and the truth, the absolute correctness, behind Skinner's words of advice.

And lastly as I reach the bedroom door I meditate on courage. The courage it took for Skinner to do what he did tonight...and the courage it will take me to do what I know I should do for Scully...and for myself.

I hope I have as much courage as Skinner. If I was a praying man, I'd pray that I do.

xXx

More author's notes:

Besides this being an entry in the 'plug the plot hole' challenge, it was also an exercise in seeing whether I could write UST between Mulder and Skinner without having it lead to a sexual experience between them. I hope I succeeded in doing that in the story. Also...did you spot the references to the movie "Seven", starring Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Gwyneth Paltrow and Kevin Spacey? Extra bonus points if you did.

-THE END-