From: Keleka Date: Tue, 4 Jul 2000 17:04:12 -0700 (PDT) Subject: xfc: "Crossing the Rubicon" by Keleka (post ep for "Piper Maru" & "Apocrypha") Source: xfc Crossing the Rubicon By Keleka Email: keleka3@yahoo.com Distribution: Gossamer, Spookys, Xemplary, etc. Rating: PG Spoiler Warning: Post ep for "Piper Maru" & "Apocrypha." PREQUEL to my story, "Only the Brave Know How to Forgive." Classification: VR Keywords: Skinner/Scully angst, Skinner/Scully romance, Skinner POV Summary: Skinner risks it all for Scully. Archive: Sure! Please tell me where so I can visit. Disclaimer: Get real! If I owned this cash cow, do you really think I'd be living in Mississippi? Feedback: It's welcome in my house! Author's Note: Profound thanks to a great pair of betas, Fabulous Monster and Shoshana, who set aside their MSR convictions and help me dabble in SSR from time to time. Please see additional notes at end of story. All my fanfic (X-Files, Hawaii Five-0, and Star Trek) can be found at http://www.geocities.com/keleka3 Crossing the Rubicon by Keleka Last week, when I awoke in the recovery room, I overheard the nurses talking about my body. Most men would be pleased to hear a gaggle of young women discussing their physiques, and I was too until I realized they were talking about 'The Scars.' Yes, I have so many scars on my body that I now think of them as a living entity. 'The Scars.' Over a dozen faded-but-still-visible bullet wound scars, courtesy of the Viet Cong. I've had these scars for nearly three-fifths of my life and I've become accustomed to them. I forget that other people find them fascinating. Repulsive, maybe, but fascinating nevertheless. "Why would anyone want to be a cop," one of the nurses said. "Why would anyone STAY a cop after being shot so many times?" asked another. I cleared my throat and they turned, startled. They looked at me a little sheepishly, wondering how much I had heard. "Vietnam," I said, hoarsely. "The scars are from Vietnam." Just those few words sapped my limited energy and I slipped back into unconsciousness. Sometime later I woke again and my surgeon declared me fit to move to a room. This time I stayed awake long enough to remember why I was in the hospital. I had gone to lunch at my usual place. Nothing fancy; just a little 'mom-and-pop' place a few blocks off the beaten track. Almost no one from the Hoover Building goes there, which is probably why I like it. I had just taken my usual table when some psycho came in. He shot me when I tried to stop him from hassling the waitress over the out-of-order pay phone. But he wasn't really a psycho and he didn't really give a shit about the pay phone. He was there to kill me, and he knew exactly how to pull my strings to make it look like just another random killing in our nation's violent capital. My chivalry almost got me killed. Fortunately for me, his aim was off and he didn't stick around to finish the job. I lived to tell Agent Scully I'd seen the man before. He was with Krycek the night they beat the crap out of me and stole the digital tape Mulder had almost gotten killed over. Scully hovered over my gurney protectively while we waited for the elevator to take me to a room. Her hand held mine all the way to my room and, before I lost consciousness again, I heard her issuing orders for security, and asking my surgeon very pointed questions about my prognosis. Every man should have an Agent Scully to look after him. That was ten days ago. I went back to work today, against my doctor's advice. Fuck him. What does he know about what I do? He probably thinks I chase criminals all day. It figures that the very first time I am shot in nearly twenty-five years with the Bureau, I'm not even really on duty. I was at lunch. And besides, I seldom chase criminals anymore. I push paper. I could do that with ten bullets in my little intestine. Everyone was surprised to see me back at work so fast, even if I did have to use a cane to keep me from teetering forward when I walked. Something about taking a bullet in the gut makes a man want to double over, I guess. By early afternoon, I had managed to clear about half the crap off my desk. That's when the call came about Luis Cardinale. Cardinale had been found dead in his cell. They made it look like suicide, but it had 'Consortium' written all over it. This wasn't the kind of news I thought should be delivered over the phone, so I hobbled down to the basement to see Scully. She wasn't there. After a brief heart-to-heart with Mulder, I left the message with him to deliver to his partner. I'm ashamed of myself for using Mulder as a go-between. Scully deserved to hear the news directly from me that Cardinale would never stand trial for her sister's murder. After all, I am her superior officer and Cardinale was her case. That was this afternoon. I left work soon after and came home. After a brief nap, I busied myself in the kitchen putting together a lasagna. I just popped it in the oven a few minutes ago. I've just gotten comfortable with a good book when there's a soft knock on my apartment door. I look through the peephole. It's Scully. For a moment I consider pretending I'm not home; but that would be cowardly, and besides, where else would I be? It's not like I have a life outside of work anymore. When I pull open the door, she looks at me coyly. Coy is not a look I'm used to seeing on Dana Scully. I've never known her to be shy or embarrassed about anything. "Agent Scully," I say, leaning against the door and immediately putting on the 'big, tough Assistant Director' act I'm known for. I've always suspected that she knows it's just an act where she's involved. "Sir." She looks at her feet for a moment before returning my gaze. Damn. She's been crying. Her eyes are puffy and red. Mulder has definitely delivered the message. Did she cry in front of him, or did she suck it in and save it until she was alone? Dana Scully would have made a hell of a Marine. "I hope you don't mind, sir," she says finally. "Kimberly gave me your address." "Is something wrong, Agent Scully?" I kick myself mentally. I've never known what to do when Scully is hurting. She's always been far too proud to accept comfort, at least from me. She hesitates and I think she's about to turn tail and leave when her face takes on a new resolve. "May I come in, sir?" "Of course," I say, moving my arm from the door and stepping aside to let her in. "Let me take your coat." She shrugs off her black overcoat--what is it with her and Mulder and black overcoats?--and I drape it over a nearby chair. Scully stands for a moment, taking in my apartment. "Just move in, sir?" she asks, noticing all the still-taped Avis boxes. "A few months ago. I haven't had time to finish unpacking yet." "That's understandable," she says softly as though considering what kind of a man could live for months with three-quarters of his belongings still packed. One who practically lives at his office, that's what kind. An awkward silence descends upon us. After a few moments, I begin to feel a little woozy and move to return to the sofa. "Oh!" she says, realizing suddenly that I probably shouldn't be on my feet for too long. "Let me help you, sir." She takes my arm gently and helps me cross to the sofa. I pick up my book and resume my seat on one end of the sofa. "Have a seat, Agent," I say, indicating the easy chair catty-cornered to the sofa. Needless to say, I'm surprised when she takes a seat in the center of the sofa, next--but not close--to me. She folds her hands in her lap, ever prim and proper. Her eyes fix on her hands for several moments and I begin to feel the awkwardness of the occasion. I settle back against the cushions and wait for her to make up her mind. She came here for some reason, but her indecision is apparent. I try to give her all the time she needs, but my own discomfort finally spurs me to break the silence. "Is something wrong?" I ask. She takes a deep breath and finally raises her eyes to meet mine. Even through the tears that threaten to spill, her eyes are a penetrating blue. I feel them cut right through any pretense I might offer. "Sir, I wanted to thank you for everything you did." I've had this conversation already today, with Mulder. I know there's no sense telling her that I was just doing my job. She won't buy it anymore than Mulder did. Both my wunderkind know they're special to me; they both know this despite my harsh countenance when they screw up. Especially Mulder. I suppose I do that so no one else will think I favor them. Mulder and Scully. Mr. and Mrs. Spooky. The two damned best agents I've ever had working under me. "You came all the way over here to thank me, Agent Scully? A phone call would have sufficed." She smiles softly. She sees through me with crystal clarity. If only I could read her as well as she reads me. "There is no such thing as justice," she says evenly, looking squarely at me. Now we're getting to the heart of the matter. Scully is having a crisis of confidence. I can imagine what's been going through her mind these last few weeks. If there is no justice, why bother? I give her the only answer I can. "For though usurpers sway the rule a while, Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs." The look on her face tells me she has never thought of me as a Shakespeare kind of guy. "What you're trying to say--?" she asks, tentatively. "What I'm trying to say, Agent Scully, is that justice will be done. Some day. I have to believe that or...." My voice trails off as I try to find the words. "I have to believe that, period." She nods, understanding, yet her eyes betray her skepticism. I reach for her, resting my palm against her cheek. I wait until she meets my eyes. "Justice for Luis Cardinale and the men he worked for would not have brought back your sister, Dana," I say softly. She blinks back tears and I am treated to a rare glimpse of Dana Scully, the woman. She seldom lets down her guard and almost never in my presence. Seeing her like this--vulnerable and hurting--touches my heart and brings out my masculine instinct to protect her. She is so small. So fragile. God help me if she ever knew I thought of her that way, even if just for a moment. I resist the urge to pull her to me and wrap myself around her. It is presumptuous of me to think that I could protect her. Hell. Just last week, she saved me from certain death at the hands of Luis Cardinale. It is presumptuous, yet it is my natural instinct, as a man, and as her superior officer. My palm still rests against her cheek. Her skin is silky smooth, just like I've always imagined. I slide my thumb gently across her trembling lower lip and lose myself in her eyes. She leans into my hand, her eyes drifting closed. I feel her warm breath on my arm. She sighs. "Sir...," she says softly. Her voice jolts me back to my senses and I pull my hand away. Jesus. What was I thinking? "I'm...I'm sorry, Scully. I...That was... inappropriate...of me." She pulls herself a little closer to me on the sofa and reaches for my hand. The hand that rested against her cheek a moment ago is now cradled in her hands. "It's all right. Really." She hesitates, though I sense there is something more she wants to say. Again, I wait for her while my heart races. Finally she speaks. "When the Director's office called to tell me you'd been shot...." "Scully...," I say, my inflection clearly warning her not to go there. "When the Director's office called to tell me you'd been shot," she repeats more firmly, "my first thought wasn't about finding your assailant or checking on your medical progress. My first thought was that I might never see you again." This conversation is making me uncomfortable. Not because I don't appreciate her concern for me, but because if I'm not careful, it could blow up in my face. I sense she's testing the waters, waiting to see how I will react. If her gentle approach results in a stern rebuke, she will back off, I'm certain. But what if I respond in kind? Where might this conversation lead? Am I willing to risk finding out? I know I should respond professionally. 'Thank you for your concern, Agent Scully. Now if you don't mind, I was planning to get some reading done tonight.' That's how I *should* respond. The silence has stretched out to an eternity. I'm sure she has deduced the nature of my internal conflict. A slight smile comes to her lips, but the silence continues as she waits for me to catch up with her. Her fingers gently stroke my palm and I feel an undeniable tingle race through me. "I think--" "Don't think." She pulls a little closer and then settles back against the cushions, my hand still cradled in her lap. We sit silently, side-by-side for several minutes. She waits. There's a line, clearly drawn by the Bureau, which I have never crossed: "Thou shall not consort with your subordinates." To do so--and be discovered--would end my career faster than a bullet to the heart. There's also the old adage about office romances. I don't need to complicate my life anymore than it already is. When I think about all the recalcitrant things I've done in my life--in Vietnam, for the Consortium--I realize that getting involved with a subordinate is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Still, it's a line I've never crossed and never thought I would. Looking at Scully as she sits so invitingly close, her eyes still swollen from the tears she has shed over this latest injustice, I recognize my Rubicon. If I cross it, there is no going back. Indecision has never been a problem for me. They taught me in the Marine Corps that any decision is better than no decision. That philosophy has stood me in good stead over the decades. My instincts are good, thank God, and I have an innate political sense, so usually my visceral decisions are good ones. On the other hand, when it comes to making personal commitments, I'm a card-carrying fence-sitter. With the Consortium--once I truly understood the sinister nature of its agenda--I've done everything I can to straddle the fence. I do what I must to keep them from ruining me, but I've never done anything that could hurt the people I'm responsible for. Their work, yes. But not them personally. "Sir?" Scully's voice draws me back from my thoughts. She's watching me intently, a curious look in her eyes. I know what she wants. I know what I want. And I know she sees that desire in me as surely as if I'd spoken it aloud. All right. I'll take a few steps in the direction my heart wants me to go. But, unlike Julius Caesar, I'll not burn the bridge behind me. "Would you like to stay for dinner, Dana? Homemade lasagna. It should be ready in about forty-five minutes." There. I'm firmly straddling the fence now. I've opened the door to more, but I haven't promised everything. She smiles, surprise glittering in her eyes. "You cook?" The idea of me in an apron seems to amuse her. "I'll have you know I'm a hell of a good cook. Pizza and Chinese take-out just aren't my style." She smiles at my allusion to her partner's plebian palate. "A definite perk," she says under her breath. "What are you reading?" She reaches for the book I'm holding and turns it so she can see the cover. "'The Thin Red Line.'" She tilts her head and looks at me questioningly. "The line between the sane and the mad," she says softly. It surprises me that she knows the book. It's an exploration of male identity; a tale of men at war. A guy's novel. I've read it before and now I think about what made me choose it tonight. "Lately I've found myself thinking about Vietnam," I say. I can't meet her eyes. This is not something I talk about much. "Thinking about Vietnam?" "Yes." "Just thinking?" Her question surprises me. I would have expected such insight from Mulder, but I had no idea she could be so intuitive. I search her eyes for a clue. "Thinking," I say, finally. "And having nightmares." She moves closer to me and I put my arm around her. Looking into her concerned eyes, I think that I could get used to this. She's waiting again, I can tell. She's letting me move at my own unsteady pace. Without even thinking about what I'm doing, I lower my head and press my lips to hers. It's a chaste kiss. A gentle kiss. It won't win any awards and it isn't destined to go down in history. But it *is* our first kiss and I know--even if there is never an encore-- I will never forget it. I pull back after a moment and look to see if she has any regrets. "That was nice," she says as she lays her hand against my chest. I'm surprised her fingers aren't vibrating from my heart pounding beneath her hand. She rests her head against my shoulder. "Tell me about Vietnam, Walter. Tell me about the nightmares." I feel a wave of relief spread over me. Relief that I don't have to face my fears alone anymore. *end* Notes: 1) I don't know whether Caesar burned the bridge behind him or not, but I think he did. 2) My little dalliance with Skinner and Scully has turned into a trilogy. There will be another story soon that will 'bridge the gap' between "Crossing the Rubicon" and "Only the Brave Know How to Forgive." ===== __________Visit my collection of X-Files, Star Trek, and Hawaii Five-0 fanfiction at http://www.geocities.com/keleka3/ where you will also find a recommendations page.