Title:  The Proper Stranger
Author:  Philiater
Category:  Scully/Skinner, AU
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: philiater1@(nospam)yahoo.com.  (Obviously, leave
out the "(nospam)" part.  My stories can be found at
www.geocities.com/philiater1      
Disclaimer:  These people do not belong to me except in the dark
recesses of my mind.  They belong to CC who does not deserve to have
these toys if he does not know how to treat them properly.

Note:  I'm breaking *canon* wide open here.  I'm going to ask you to
believe *one* thing that in the context of the show could not happen.
If this bothers you at all, then I suggest you skip it: it will
frustrate you no end. If you're capable of suspension of disbelief,
then you might just enjoy it.

****And now for a small rant.  As much as I love her, if I see one
more rerun where Scully rushes in and says "I can help, I'm a
doctor," I think I will scream.  She is a pathologist and would not
know what to do with a live body if it bit her. Trust me about this.
I do it for a living.***

Thanks once again to my wonderful beta Keleka who keeps me in the
proper tense.

*****************************************************

The Proper Stranger
by Philiater


His back is to me, white shirt nearly blinding me in the noon day
sun, dust motes falling gently downward in a shaft of light.  I wait
patiently for him to end the sudden silence that has knifed between
us. I didn't intend to tell him like this.  I didn't intend to tell
him at all.

He asked me to stay behind after a department meeting.  I hadn't
been paying much attention, and he noticed. Of course he noticed.  He
waited until everyone filed out and placed his hand on my elbow.  He
applied a gentle pressure, steering me to the seat in front of his
desk.

He sat imperiously on the opposite side; jaw set, eyes harsh.  He
was so far away; I might as well have been in Alaska. He straightened
a stack of files on his desk, letting me stew.  Without looking up
he, he asked a question.

"Is there something you need to tell me?"

So much meaning behind those words.  I answered him without thought.

"I'm pregnant."

He looked at me with startled eyes.  I watched a parade of emotions
cross his face, surprise, fear, anger, and something akin to hope. 
He stood and turned his back, looking out the window as he is now,
assimilating this information. 

"Sharon's only been dead for two months."

Yes, Skinner, I know that.  Melissa's been dead for eight.

I use an interrogator's trick of remaining silent, hoping more will
spill out of him to fill the awkward silence.  But Skinner is an
interrogator too and isn't fooled.  His silence is heavier than mine.

"What are you going to do, Scully?"

He still hasn't turned around, still hasn't made eye contact with
me.  His question is interesting.  Viewed in one light he could be
trying to be a gentleman; not presuming himself into anything.  By
letting me decide, he is allowing me to have all the power.  Viewed
in a different light, he is taking the coward's way out; by giving me
the power he is removing his emotional obligation.

If I were generous I would let him off the hook, but I don't feel
particularly generous right now.  I let silence answer for me.  

You're going to have to do better than that.

When he doesn't say anything, I stand to leave.  I don't have the
energy to play this game now.  He doesn't try to stop me and I feel a
stab of disappointment.  I thought chivalry might bend his rigid
spine, but I was wrong.  When I reach my car, I cry as if Melissa has
died all over again.

*****************************

I decide to pack a bag and drive to the beach house.  The need to be
away is strong, and I also want to be alone.  I can't face my mother
or Mulder right now. Their need to know all about me is nearly as
strong as Skinner's desire not to.  Running away is not a solution,
but I hope I can use the time to think and come to terms with what
I've allowed to happen.

The drive is soothing; the constant hum of the car's tires on flat
pavement creates a white noise to drown out the voices of doubt in my
head.  I try not to see Skinner's back turned against me both
literally and figuratively. A sudden image flashes in my mind:
Skinner's sweat-slicked shoulders under my hands as he lies between
my legs.

I shake my head in frustration.  It does no good to go back over
that night, even though I find myself doing it again and again.

He came to my apartment the night he buried Sharon.  She had
lingered in a coma for a month before dying.  I know he had gone to
the hospital every night to sit by her bed; showing an unwavering
faithfulness that he could not when she was awake.  He was eaten up
with guilt, and it showed.

I felt guilty too.  His persistent loyalty to me had put him in the
hospital, and those same dark forces had been at work to destroy the
remaining tatters of his life.  I think he must have held onto the
hope that she would recover and they could tear up the divorce papers
together.  It was a bitter pill to swallow when she didn't.

Mulder and I attended the funeral.  There were far more people there
than I expected. A riot of flowers adorned the casket and spilled out
into the sanctuary. I wondered how many would come if Skinner had
died.  I wondered how many would if it had been me.

He sat alone near the front of the church during the service.  I
wanted to go to him; offer more than trite words of sympathy.  But I
knew it would be unwelcome, so I stayed rooted to the pew. I was a
coward in the face of his grief.

The pounding on my door that night sounded like someone was trying
to break it down. With gun drawn, I asked who it was through the
thick wood.  His unmistakable voice rumbled on the other side.

"It's Skinner."

I let him in with a mixture of alarm and trepidation.  Why would he
come unannounced at one in the morning?  I immediately thought it was
bad news; my mother was sick, Mulder was in trouble.  Middle-of-the-
night visits could never be good.

He looked disheveled and carried a weariness on his face that tugged
at my heart. The black suit he'd worn to the funeral was rumpled
under his coat.

"What's wrong, sir?"

"My wife's dead."

Was he drunk?  He smelled faintly of scotch, but not excessively so.
Why was he here?

"Yes, I know that, sir."

He brushed past me without invitation, and went to the kitchen.  I
heard him open cabinets and drawers with quick impatience. Had he run
out of liquor and come here for more?  When I entered the kitchen, he
was peering under the kitchen sink.

"What are you looking for?"

He stayed in a crouched position and turned his head slowly to look
at me.  His expression was one of a profound sadness so intense, my
eyes filled with tears.  I felt my heart catch in my throat to see
him in so much pain.  I went to him without thought and put my arms
around him. He laid his head against my chest and gripped me tightly
against him.  His muscular body shook with the effort of damming up
so many emotions.

"It's all right," I murmured softly. "You don't have to hold back."

I stroked the smooth skin of his head and the soft hair at the nape
of his neck.  I found myself rocking him slowly while his heart tore
apart beneath my hands.  Tears dampened the front of my flannel
pajamas and I eased the trench coat and suit jacket off his sweaty
body. The wire rim glasses soon followed.  His sorrow echoed my own
and I thought of Missy. 

I don't know how long we stayed like that; holding each other in
mutual grief.  His knees had to be killing him.  When he calmed a
little, I spoke softly to him.

"Why don't we go lie down?"  I was terrified he would bolt away from
me then, the spell broken by my words.  But I felt him nod.

I led him down the hall to my bedroom, his hand in mine.  He
followed docilely and silently, a big lion tamed by having the thorn
removed from his paw.

The mattress sagged under his weight when he sat. I removed his
shoes and dress shirt, leaving his slacks and undershirt on. I slid
his legs up on the bed, and sat with my back against the headboard. 
He crawled forward and buried his face in my lap.  It was an intimate
position necessitated by grief, his need to stay in physical touch
with me had seemed all-consuming.

After a short time he fell asleep, but it eluded me. I continued to
stroke his head, neck, and shoulders, loosening the tightness in his
bunched muscles. I'd comforted him before, and perhaps that's why
he'd come to me. When he was shot I'd held his hand in mine, trying
to convey a sense of concern for him.  I'd been so angry at him
earlier, and my last words to him had been heated and hurtful.  But
he'd placed his thumb over my knuckles, showing forgiveness and trust
with one finger.

And he'd shown more trust when he'd allowed me to see this long-
hidden part of himself.  Every time I tried to extricate myself, he'd
clutch me reflexively in sleep as if I'd fly away forever. I finally
gave up and dozed fitfully while sitting up.

******************************


My slumber had been dreamless that night, and in the darkness I'd
managed to lie down with Skinner's body covering mine. The heady
smell of him surrounded me, wakened me before I even opened my eyes. 
A damp tickle was making its way around to my ear, and my sleep-
fogged brain thought he was kissing my neck.

A weak light filtered through the curtains and I heard the sound of
rain pattering against the windowpane.  When I looked down, Skinner
was lying partially on top of me, his head under my chin.  With a
slight surprise, I realized he was indeed kissing me, and making his
way down my past my collar bone.

I should have been alarmed by this intimate contact, but the soft
warmth of his lips and tongue felt so good against my skin.  He
nuzzled my pink flannel shirt open, seeking the supple curve of my
breast.  I kissed the top of his head, and stroked him in imitation
of the previous night.  When he latched onto a nipple, I clutched a
handful of his cotton shirt, pulling it upward by reflex.  I ran my
hands over his bare back and found his skin to be fine and smooth to
the touch.

There was so much pleasure in this quiet seduction.  I'd known love-
making that was fast and intense, and I'd known the sweetness that
comes with real love.  This was something altogether new: a kind of
tender desperation born of mutual need.  We knew each other, and yet
we knew nothing of the other's private life.  I didn't care in the
least.

I pulled him upward to my face.  After all this touching, we'd yet
to kiss on the mouth.  He hesitated only briefly before understanding
what I wanted. The kiss was as gentle and sweet as I'd hope it would
be.  We took our time with this phase and I realized how much I
wanted him.  Warm wetness pooled between my legs in anticipation.

It occurred to me how liquid sex could be: saliva, semen, sweat, and
lubrication.  They all carried a chemical signal to make language
unnecessary.  We were operating on a primitive level, awash in a
confusion of chemical mediators combining to create an over-powering
need.

He divested me of my clothing, as I did with his.  He gazed at me
without shame, a look of longing mixed with lust evident on his face.
I felt the same way, and it was a far superior sensation to that of
grief.

We began a slow and sensual exploration of one another; touching
with reverence and grace.  Skinner's lips traveled everywhere his
hands had, bringing to life nerve endings that had long lain dormant.
For my part, I tried to do the opposite; soothing his jangled nerves
and bringing calm to his emotional turmoil.  It was give and take
designed to bring us both to a mutual and satisfying ending.

When he entered me, I cried out with the pure joy of discovery. I
had never felt so emotionally complete before. Skinner was
considerate of my pleasure, forestalling his own for mine.  When I
came, it was with a blinding satisfaction and bittersweet bliss. 
Skinner followed afterward and I heard him make a sound that I'd
never heard him make.  He laughed.

I held him close to my heart, clutching him to me this time.  He
rose up to touch my smiling face and spoke his first words to me
since entering the apartment the night before.

"You're crying."  He showed me his wet fingers as proof.

I was speechless, shaking my head in mute confusion.  I'd forgotten
one more liquid associated with sex.

***************************

He was gone when I woke.

I really shouldn't have been surprised. I had, in fact, expected it.
But I couldn't stop the pang of disappointment I felt when I saw the
empty sheets next to me. We'd created an artificial environment that
was destined to wither in the bright sun of reality.  I selfishly
wanted it to last just a little longer.

When I finally got out of bed, I found a scrap of paper just inside
the bedroom door.  The word 'sorry' was clearly written in Skinner's
thin scrawl.  I found more torn slips in the trashcan, as if he'd
tried to write a note before leaving and gave up.  I perversely
fished the paper out and found the beginnings of at least three notes.

The first began: 'Scully, I'm sorry'-and then nothing else. I felt a
stab of pain.  Did he mean he was sorry we'd slept together? The
second one said: 'Scully I am not sorry this happened but I'-and
trailed off. No, he wasn't sorry it happened, BUT.  The third simply
said 'You're so beautiful.' It was as if he'd given up trying to
articulate anything about what he felt, and simply written what he
thought he saw at that moment.  

With obstinate determination, I taped the notes back together and
put them in a drawer.  I wanted there to be physical evidence that
he'd been there, and that I hadn't dreamed it.  Of course, that was
well before I realized I was pregnant.  A baby would be physical
proof enough of what we'd done.

In the cold light of day there were other considerations as well. 
He'd slept with a prostitute only a month before.  He'd used a condom
at the time, but that didn't negate the danger of a sexually
transmitted disease. We had not used one.  We hadn't used anything at
all.  At the time I foolishly believed an STD was the worst thing
that could come of our encounter.  Denial is a powerful amnestic. 

************************************************

On Monday, I returned to the office with my heart pounding, and
startling at every phone call.  I felt jittery and on edge, like I
was waiting for some terrible natural disaster to occur.  It was a
stark contrast to how I'd been feeling just two days before. The day
passed without incident except Mulder noticed my unease and felt the
need to comment on it.

"Why are you so jumpy today, Scully?"

"I'm not jumpy, Mulder," I snapped.

"I think you just proved my point.  Anything you want to talk about?"

"No."

"Are you sure?   You know I'm a good listener and-"

"I'm sure, Mulder."  I cut him off before he could go off on a
diatribe about what a good listener he was. I loved him, but he would
severely try my patience if I had to hear a speech about the fine art
of listening.

I didn't see Skinner that day or the next.  I had begun to think
that he'd just disappeared, swallowed up in the bowels of the Hoover.
At home I'd pulled out the pieces of paper and tried to see what he'd
been trying to tell me.  In the end I knew there was nothing else to
find.  Skinner was an articulate man except when it came to deep
emotion.  He probably had no idea what to say and had simply given up
trying.

He called for a meeting with Mulder and me on that Friday.  Nearly a
week had gone by without a word from him.  By the time we entered his
office, I was deeply angry.

I refused to meet his eyes when I sat down.  I felt him glance at me
several times while he and Mulder discussed the possibilities of a
new case.  The tension between us felt like a living thing--
breathing, pulsating with a terrible life.

When we were finished, I expected him to call me back and speak to
me alone, but he didn't.  I was frankly disappointed, but I really
hadn't given him much choice.  While it was true he hadn't contacted
me that week, nothing had prevented me from contacting him either. 
We both had made colossal mistakes and I feared the damage was
irreparable.

*******************************


The case we were sent on involved a band of coyote worshipping
'brethren' who may have been responsible for some cow mutilations in
Texas.  Mulder, of course, thought aliens were somehow tied into the
mythology of the cult.  He was of the opinion that they were being
driven to do these things at the aliens behest, while I thought they
were just terribly misguided fools.

In the end, we couldn't prove or disprove a thing, and I was almost
trampled to death by some the terrified 'victims.' I landed in the
hospital for what seemed like the umpteenth time for two days. 
Mulder visited and chattered away with mind-boggling persistence in
his belief of alien involvement.  On the second day, a small bouquet
of pink rosebuds arrived to join the mountain of other flowers
already there. The local ranchers were grateful that we'd managed to
'bust up' the cult, and were 'awful sorry' that the little lady had
gotten hurt.  There was no note or card of any kind with the tiny
buds.  Mulder flatly refused to admit he'd sent them.  They were
wonderfully charming, and a small corner of my heart desperately
wanted to believe it had been Skinner who sent them.

We returned to Washington and the debriefing was routine enough.  I
made sure to make eye contact with Skinner, and he was professional
in his treatment of me.  A kind of wary truce seemed to settle
between us, and I knew everything would eventually go back to normal.
Well, as normal as my life with these men could be.

I should have known I would have to pay for I'd done.

***********************************************

I woke three days ago with a gut-wrenching nausea. Barely making it
to the bathroom, I vomited bile and continued to wretch helplessly
afterward. Resting my weary head on the cold porcelain floor, I came
to the conclusion I'd been carefully avoiding.

I was pregnant.  There was no other explanation.  I'd missed one
period and was still waiting for the second to begin.  I'd skipped
before, and hadn't thought much about it.  But there were little
signs long before that.  My breasts were tender, and my moods had
been shifting violently.  I'd told myself it was the Texas debacle
and subsequent hospitalization, but I knew better.

When I felt I could stand without triggering more queasiness, I
reached into the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a home pregnancy
test. I'd purchased it a month ago and shoved it to the back, telling
myself it would be unnecessary. It was now quite necessary.

I followed the directions like a good little doctor, and saw the
plus sign turn positive the moment my urine touched the pad.  I
wanted to deny it, throw the test away as defective and purchase
another.  My rational mind screamed at my stupidity and berated me
for acting so rashly.  I wanted to tell it to shut up, that no matter
how Skinner had acted afterward, I wasn't sorry.  I should have been
more careful.  I should have stopped him. I should have--.

Stop.  What was done was done.  I had to deal with the here and now.
I threw the test away and called my doctor.

The blood pregnancy test was positive, as I'd expected.  I had an
HIV test and the other standard tests run as a precaution.  It was a
little early for an ultrasound, but Dr. Parker was a friend and told
me she'd take a look. Just visible on the grainy screen was a tiny
round ring.  A radiologist would later call it a fetal pole, but to
me it was a baby.  My baby.  And Skinner's.  

The technologist printed out a picture and handed it to me with a
smile.

"Here you go Mrs. Scully-- picture of your baby."

I clutched the Polaroid and left before I started to cry.

************************************

The beach house had belonged to my grandmother, and my fondest
memories of childhood were spent here. Swimming, building sand
castles, and sailing had filled the long hours of summer.

A stiff wind is blowing as I drive up.  Stepping from the car, I
inhale the clean air and pull my coat closer around me. It is still
early in the season, so the beach is deserted as I stroll along it.  

"Help me to know what to do, grandma," I murmur aloud.  The cold
wind is my only answer.

Tonight, I pull out the notes and baby picture.  I hold them in my
hands as anchors against the storm of emotions I am feeling.  I know
I am looking for answers in all the wrong places.  I need to start at
the beginning.  Tomorrow I'll drive home and confront Skinner again. 
I'll make him listen.  I'll make him understand what I've been
feeling for the past two months.  And he'll have to tell me how he
feels too.  This baby needs me to be strong, to stop running away. 
This baby needs Skinner.

I fall asleep on the sofa next to the fireplace. I dream about the
night Skinner came to my apartment and thundered on the door.  He was
pounding so loudly, I could feel a vibration in my body.

Suddenly I wake and realize someone is pounding at the door.  It
couldn't be---.

"Who is it?"

"You know who it is."  His voice is furious.

I open the door and he blows in with the wind.  His face is black
with rage.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What am I doing?  Of all the arrogant, opinionated males I have met-"

He cuts me off by grabbing me and kissing me breathless. That's
Skinner.  Why use subtlety when brute force will do?

After the kiss he crushes me up against him.

"I looked for you everywhere.  No one knew where you'd gone, not
even Mulder.  I thought you might have gone and--" His voice falters,
thick with emotion.

"How did you find me?"

"I have friends in high places."

"My mother."

"Yes."

"She doesn't know."

He pulls back and cups my face with his enormous hands.  A thumb
gently traces the dark circles that have formed under my eyes. I feel
helpless under his scrutiny and the wall that has blocked up my
frayed emotions tumbles before him.

"Where have you been Skinner?"  My voice is a whisper; I can barely
speak through the tears.

"Lost without you.  I'm so sorry, Scully."  

He is still a vast mystery to me, but I do know he is apologizing
for more than just today. I think we're back to that same vulnerable
place we were with each other two months ago. There's so much I want
to say, so much I want to do.  I decide to show him instead.

I disengage myself from him and hold up the picture and notes still
clutched in my hand.  He takes them from me to study them.

"You kept these?"

"Yes.  They were all I had of you."

He looks at the ultrasound.  A dawning wonder plays across his face.

"I think you have a little more of me than that now."

"Are you sorry?"  I feel an aching tug in my heart.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

He kisses me again for an answer.  This kiss is sweet and gentle,
and he simply holds me for a long time afterward.

"I'm no good at this Scully, but I'm willing to try if you'll let me
in."

"You're already there."

Standing with him I can see all the stumbling blocks in front of us.
We have so much to do, so much to overcome.  But somehow I know
everything will be all right.

I remember something I heard long ago.

'There is a moment--a long moment--when everything is risked with
the proper stranger.'


End