From: "Fabulous Monster" Date: Fri, 14 Apr 2000 09:38:11 EDT Subject: NEW: A Small Woman Among Large Men (1 of 1) Source: xff TITLE: A Small Woman Among Large Men AUTHOR: FabulousMonster EMAIL ADDRESS: fabulousmonster@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters. They are the property of Ten-Thirteen, Chris Charter and Co. and FOX. DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer and Spooky Awards, yes. Anywhere else, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: Up to and including Season 7's "En Ami." RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR, Skinner POV SUMMARY: Skinner's attempt to provide some comfort to Scully after "En Ami." AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story started out as a major angst- fest between Mulder and Scully. However, the pieces didn't seem to fit, and I decided to take a different tack. Skinner's small but pivotal role in "En Ami" helped give me the focus I sought. Special thanks to my betas Hillary and Karen who always provide me with excellent comments and suggestions. Let me know if you agree or disagree with my approach! Feedback is always appreciated...hey, I live for it! XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A Small Woman Among Large Men The late Friday afternoon sun streamed gold through the blinds in my office, casting a checkerboard pattern across my desk. It was quiet: many agents and support personnel had left for the weekend. I had always appreciated this time of the week. It afforded me the opportunity to rid my desk of minor administrative duties without the disruptions of the telephone or meetings. Instead of my usual Friday afternoon routine, however, I found myself staring reflectively out the window. I watched the various government employees from the various government agencies go about their lives. They hurried to their cars, to the bus, to the subway, to the train... and I was struck in particular by the pace of the women. While the men sauntered to their weekend lives, the women strode purposefully to their second job of husband, house, 2.3 kids, dog, SUV... They moved efficiently in their pumps or running shoes, negotiating through the larger-bodied males who moved slowly like unwieldy leviathans in their way. There had always been a prejudice against women agents within the Bureau. It was blatant during Hoover's reign; now, in this age of political correctness, it ran as a snide undercurrent through the Executive Level. The usual fallacies abounded: women were not physically strong enough, they didn't have the emotional make up to handle the stress, they were tied down by family commitments... Sadly, as a Special-Agent-In-Charge and in my earlier days as an Assistant Director, I shared many of these same misconceptions. I was not a man prone to reflection, but I hadn't always been a good supervisor to the women under my command. Not then, and perhaps, not even now. My recent history with the two female agents I supervised was certainly suspect. Diana Fowley had been brilliant, insightful, and highly skilled as a FBI agent. She easily left her partner, Jeffrey Spender, floundering in her wake. But she was also flawed, given to trust when trust was not necessarily warranted. I had no question she believed her actions would ultimately lead to a greater good--much as I did when approached with the same offer as a younger man. But as she was drawn further into a web of deceit and lies, I'd done nothing. I hadn't warned her of the potential danger, paralyzed by my ongoing juggling act of double agent for the forces of light and darkness within the FBI. I lost one female agent under my command due to my inaction--I would not lose another. This most recent incident frightened me. Admittedly, I didn't know all the details; since Scully was officially on personal leave, no statements were taken, no reports filed. She had made herself unavailable to me since then, conveniently away from her desk or out of the office when I sought her out. Mulder was almost as uncommunicative. While he provided me with a terse summary of Scully's encounter with CGB Spender, he was not forthcoming on any details. My attempts to press for more information were greeted with a brusque, "Talk to Scully ... you seem to have each other's number." A soft rap on my open inner door interrupted my reverie. "Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you...I was going to leave this report with Kimberly, but she seems to be away from her desk." "It's 5:30, Agent, Kimberly has gone home." I saw her chagrined countenance before it was quickly replaced by her usual mask of professionalism. She hadn't expected Kimberly or I to be here. Leaving the report in the inbox was part of her continuing attempt to avoid contact with me. I wondered briefly why Mulder hadn't dropped off the report. My attention quickly focused on her again. She was already edging out the door. I had to act quickly, or my opportunity might be lost. "Sit down, Scully. We might as well review the report since you're here." She paused and I had the rare opportunity of seeing Scully indecisive. "Sir, I...Agent Mulder is not here right now. He should be part of this ..." "As I recall, Scully, this was an open-and-shut case. Surely, you can provide me with a brief review without Mulder." Open-and-shut was an understatement. It was a simple kidnapping case involving a fourteen-year old co-ed from Columbia, OH. When she was finally found ten days later in Kentucky, she claimed to have been abducted by aliens. Mulder took one look at the case file and bluntly informed me that it was not an X-File. Of course, he was right--I knew Scully's report would indicate that the only alien involved was the teenager's exchange-student boyfriend. I watched her eyes cloud with anger. Challenging her ability to do something without Mulder was a dirty trick, but I had to get her to stay. She sat down in her customary seat, studiously avoiding the chair normally occupied by Mulder, and directed a disapproving eyebrow my way. Normally, I stayed at my desk during one of these reviews, but today I paced behind her while I pretended to study the case file. I sensed Scully's discomfort, but it was the only way I could observe her secretly. I was immediately struck by her fatigue. She looked small and fragile sitting in the chair, and it occurred to me that I'd never thought of her that way before. I shook my head incredulously at the notion. It simply couldn't be: her diminutive physical carriage, the cancer, the attacks she has absorbed at the hands of hulking men...no, I never thought her fragile until this moment. The realization caused me to take a step back, as if my own large presence might somehow damage her. I allowed her to continue her case dissertation until I realized she was rapidly approaching the end. I moved to my chair and sat down. I asked her some inane questions, she responded accordingly, and we continued the boss/subordinate, Skinner/Scully tango that had defined our relationship for seven years. Except, now I was desperate to change the pace and slow the dance. Walter and Dana needed to talk. Walter and Dana had talked before. When I took ill last year, she was quietly surprised that I had designated her as my guardian in case of illness or death. I hadn't told her before then--revealing such an Achilles Heel was dangerous and could be exploited to both our detriments. But I admired her, and in my conceit thought I understood her: her strength, her almost-military bearing in the face of danger and her ferocious dedication to those who relied on her. A gentle declaration of mutual trust when I was dying led to a more formalized continuation of her stewardship once I recovered. It simply made sense. Scully and I shared something she had with no one else, even Mulder: technology was keeping us alive. We were human guinea pigs, pawns in a perverse war of medical one-upmanship. It was like living with an internal timebomb--and sometimes I thought I heard it ticking. We lived a paradox: overwhelming relief to be alive was tempered by a fear of the unknown technology that allowed us to exist. If my life was threatened again, I wanted someone who understood this dichotomy. Someone who would pin their ears back and show their canines and fight for me. When I was a young Marine in Vietnam, I shared a foxhole with anyone, happy for any type of protection and camaraderie. As I aged a year for every week I was in country, I became selfish: I only buddied with someone who had proven himself in a firefight, and took my welfare as seriously as I took his. I was equally selfish now, and Scully was my comrade-in-arms. Of course, I was not hers, and that's okay. She had Mulder...but where was he now? Scully gazed at me expectantly, and I realized she was waiting for me to dismiss her. I shuffled some papers noisily. "Mulder was right about this not being a X-File. I guess that's why he's not here right now." She looked at me with surprise--normally, I did not acknowledge Mulder's insight into cases. Rising to her feet, she smiled ruefully at me, and began to move towards the door. "That has nothing to do with it." Her hand was on the doorknob and I struggled to say something in response. Something that would give her comfort. Something that would allow Walter and Dana to talk. "Was it worth it?" I was silently aghast at the audacity of my question, and half expected her to continue out the door without so much as an acknowledgement. Instead, she froze as if pole-axed. Slowly, she turned to face me, eyes cast downward. I was relieved that she didn't pretend to know what I was asking. "You're the first person to ask me that question," she said quietly. Damn. So there was more to Mulder's absence than the case file. "What did Mulder tell you?" Her electric blue eyes locked onto mine. I shrugged, trying not to fan the flames of whatever happened between them. "He told me that CGB Spender offered you the cure for cancer." She laughed bitterly and the sound grated. She looked down again and moved her foot absently along the carpet, as if trying to erase a vision only she could see. Her hand was still on the doorknob. I leaned forward in my chair to catch her attention. "What really happened?" I asked gently. She straightened then and her unfocused eyes stared out my window. Her voice was flat and clinically detached as if dictating notes from an autopsy. "When I returned from Antarctica, I made a promise that I would dedicate myself to finding a cure for the virus that infected me." I saw her struggle for the words, as if she was articulating them to herself for the first time. "I felt energized. My life as a doctor always seemed to run parallel to my life as a FBI Agent. Now for the first time, the two seemed to converge, and I thought I understood my purpose." Her voice became softer and I had to strain to hear. "But instead of pursuing this work, I have allowed myself to be...distracted, and lose focus on what my true goal should be." I shifted uneasily in my chair. She was hitting too close to home. Did she hold me responsible? Mulder? No...if I knew Scully, she placed the blame directly on herself. There was a chair by the door and she sat down heavily. She still didn't look at me. "I've been struggling with this--and other feelings--for a while. I guess Spender's offer brought it to a head." Her eyes locked again with mine. "He didn't just offer me the cure for cancer. He offered me the cure for 'everything.'" A heavy silence fell between us. I took off my glasses and rubbed the bridge of my nose, desperately stalling as I processed this information. The cure for 'everything'? Cancer, Alzheimer's, birth defects, infertility...the virus? No wonder she was tired. Assuming the mantle of physician-savior for humanity weighed heavily on the shoulders. The late afternoon sun began to recede. Shadows fell across her and she seemed to fade into the growing gloom of the office. I needed to say something quickly before she disappeared altogether. "What does Mulder have to say about all this?" "Mulder has lots to say about all this..." again, her laugh was short and strained. So, they had talked. At least that's a good sign. The funny thing was, while I was concerned for Scully, I understood Mulder's anger. It had nothing to do with FBI policies and procedures, partner protocol, trust, or any of the other reasons I was sure he'd thrown at her. Instead, it was feral, primal. She was his. As a man, I'd been aware of his alpha-male possessiveness, and treaded carefully. I watched other agents approach her over the years, only to be snapped away by his caustic wit and physical don't-come-any-closer bearing. I didn't know if it was pheromones, hormones, or genomes, but the message was always clear. By insinuating himself into Scully's world and contacting her directly, Spender challenged this domination. What made it worse was that Mulder never had the opportunity to circle him stiff-legged, teeth bared and hair bristling to chase him away or fight him off. Scully took care of that, leaving Mulder to rail impotently against her actions. Of course, she couldn't understand. An alpha herself, I was sure she regarded her exclusion of Mulder as an act of protection. I saw this same protective fierceness when I came to Mulder's apartment after his mother died. She would have torn out my throat if I'd done anything to cause him further pain. The guilt and recrimination in the air was choking. How did you tell someone she was not responsible for you, for her partner, for mankind--especially when she might very well be? Then, as I looked at her, her eyes distant and her face slightly flushed, I saw another face from my past. Maybe it was her coloring, maybe it was the haunted look in her eyes, but suddenly I was an eighteen-year old private in Binh Son and I saw... Donny Watson. Donny was the corpsman assigned to my Company in Vietnam. Donny could be a moody son-of-a-bitch, but as a medic he was first-rate. He was also crazy. Repeatedly, he put himself at incredible risk to give aid to guys who were lying half-dead in the battlefield while bullets and assorted artillery whizzed overhead. One time, we were caught in an ambush along a high line of trees. We all dove for cover, and Donny and I managed to find some degree of protection behind the hollowed-out stump of an overturned tree. While our lieutenant called desperately for air support, we tried to offer some degree of resistance, but it was futile. We were outgunned, and a quarter of our platoon fell quickly in the glade that paralleled the trees. Donny was beside himself. Guys were calling for help, but we couldn't reach them. I was a good thirty pounds heavier than Donny was, but it took all my strength to hold onto his flak jacket and prevent him from rushing out into the chaos of the glade. "What happened?" Her voice startled me, and I realized I'd been speaking aloud. "Donny grabbed me and yelled into my face, 'Let me go, Walt!' When I wouldn't, he got this wild expression on his face. We wrestled, and he suddenly twisted and was free. I grabbed at him, but he was already gone." The memory was becoming painful. "He rushed into the glade and was able to pull four Marines to safety before he was cut down. Air support arrived soon after, but we weren't able to reach him for over an hour." I felt her eyes boring into me. "He was still alive when we got to him. He looked up at me, the blood running from both sides of his mouth, like some grotesque smile. 'Don't worry about it, Walt. I was just doing my job.'" I didn't really want to continue, but I saw her head nod slowly in agreement. "When we buried Donny, the chaplain told a story about something that had happened to him prior to joining our platoon. Donny's old platoon had been wiped out on Hill 362 near the Song Ngan Valley. Donny was the only survivor; he had 'risen like a phoenix out of the ashes' according to the chaplain. The chaplain said God spared Donny for a greater purpose: to save us..." I paused. Donny was the only survivor? Why was I just remembering that now? As I said before, I was not an insightful man, but a growing feeling of dread crept over me and instinctively, I looked over at Scully. She still sat in the chair, but her head was bowed. Absently, she ran her fingers behind her neck... ...and I found myself rubbing the area under my rib cage, and the realization of what was happening exploded into my brain. It was one thing to feel responsible for your fellow man. It was another to feel unworthy of your own existence. As the child of Baptist fundamentalists, I understood the notion of penance: 'Lord, I am not worthy.' Did Donny run into the glade because he couldn't reconcile his survival with the obliteration of his old platoon? 'Lord, I am not worthy.' Did Scully join Spender because she was alive while others died around her of the same disease? Because she hadn't pursued an antidote for the virus? I replayed Scully's actions over the last year--Alfred Fellig, Phillip Padgett, Africa, Donny Pfaster--and I saw a disquieting pattern of her willingness to place herself increasingly at risk. Self-flagellation as atonement. Catholic penitence. The Baptist in me empathized. The Assistant Director in me did not. I put my glasses back on and looked straight at her. This had to stop before she ran into a glade where there was no escape. "I don't want you to wind up like Donny." It was a simple statement, but it had the desired effect. I heard her breath catch. "He was very brave..." she said, her voice wavering. "I'm not sure it was all bravery." Somehow, I had to make her understand. Sacrificing herself was not an option. She paused, considering my words. "You're right, it wasn't all bravery...but maybe it was still enough." She smiled weakly, as if trying to reassure me of her intentions. I wasn't sure if she really understood, and I was frustrated that I didn't have the words to make her see. Quietly, I got up from my desk and moved closer to her. Earlier, I was afraid my physical presence might overwhelm her; now I hoped it would bring some measure of comfort and support. I leaned against the corner of my desk and she glanced back at me. Her face was streaked with unshed tears. I bent towards her. "You didn't answer my question earlier ...was it worth it?" "I wonder what Donny would say if you asked him that question now?" she mused softly. She was far away. She was standing in the glade with Donny. "Ask him yourself." She withdrew further into herself. An eternity passed and then she looked up at me, her mouth slightly agape, and I saw the dawning revelation in her eyes. "He doesn't regret saving those men, but..." she faltered, unable to continue. I finished the sentence. "He wishes he were still alive." "Yes." The silence, earlier omnipresent, now stretched between us like a fine gossamer thread. She leaned her head against the wall, eyes closed, and I felt privileged to see Scully at rest. When she opened them again, there was still fatigue, but the haunted look was gone. Slowly she rose and moved to the door. Taking her cue, I sat behind my desk. There was one more piece of unfinished business. "Agent," my voice sounding gruff to my ears, "there's someone who needs to talk to you. I suggest you make it a priority." I looked at her over my glasses. "Make him understand. He wants to." Slowly, she nodded her head and her tremulous smile thanked me in more ways than I could ever imagine. She was halfway out the door when I called after her. I needed to say it. She needed to hear it. "You are worthy." I was sure that she began to cry then, but she turned too quickly on her heel and out the door for me to see. I resumed my vigilance at the window, but I didn't see the stragglers leaving for their homes. Instead, I was back in the glade with Donny. He smiled at me. "Thanks, Donny." "Don't worry about it, Walt. I was just doing my job." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX AUTHOR'S NOTES PART 2: I took the liberty of assigning Skinner to Foxtrot Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment. This Company was part of Operation Union during the Spring of 1967. Operation Union included the battle for Binh Son and was part of an overall offensive for the Que Son Valley in South Vietnam. Before joining Foxtrot Company, Donny Watson was part of Company I, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. This Company endured terrible casualties in the Summer of 1966 as it tried to establish a radio base on Hill 362 near the DMZ as part of Operation Hastings. All Vietnam War information comes from the Marine Operations in Vietnam web site at http://www.vwam.com/vets/marinehistory.html. 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