"How Far?" by Marie Endres joemimi@prodigy.net Classification: Sk/Sc; Skinner Angst/POV Rating: PG Spoilers: "Within", "Without", "Roadrunners" Summary: How far does one go while offering comfort to a friend? Disclaimer: Skinner and Scully are not mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. "How Far?" She comes to me. She arrives as surely as the two days of the week that begin with "T". She said she does it because they agreed to release me early from the hospital if and only if I would have regular medical attention. I know the real reason, however. My wounds from the most bizarre attack of my life are healing and they have healed rather quickly. While I am not at full running speed yet, I know that there is a light ahead. Hopefully, it is not the proverbial freight train. I believe that is why she is so faithful in her visits. She's checking, keeping tabs, making sure that one more person doesn't disappear from her life without her consent. I think it would take Hell's minions to tear me away now. I have seen too much to run away in denial. The first couple of days in my recovery I spent in a no man's land of continual darkness. I know now why those who torture use solitary confinement to break the will of POW's. It works. The utter blackness, the loneliness, the lack of stimulation will cause a man to face too many demons he never wanted to see. He will agree to anything to halt the relentless parade of images in his mind's eye. I did not have the privilege of resignation. My thoughts were my constant, only companion. They were the thoughts of one primed for madness- regret, desire, guilt- the great destroyers of the soul. Yet the time passed. The first night after I was released from the hospital, she arrived to make sure that I had everything that I needed to be an obedient and recovering patient. Upon surveying my kitchen cabinets, she must have discovered my lack of stock-piled sustenance. She exited the small galley kitchen with the phrase, "I'm going to the grocery store," tossed back over her shoulder as she left the apartment. Within an hour, she returned, two bags in hand that she would only relinquish to me after much haggling. After an almost argument about who was in worse shape, we laughed out loud after she brought the discussion to a halt by stating, "It's like the blind leading the blind." To laugh, to see, is a gift that one often takes for granted until it is taken from him. We have never been ones to revel in belly laughs, but the most mere of chuckles had been absent from our lives for weeks. It felt good to feel levity. Like a child who felt guilty for receiving a donated gift, yet who was unable to conceal his enthusiasm, I quickly began to remove the contents of the bags that Scully had brought to my home. Fresh produce, a few boxes of pasta, some marinara sauce, milk, bread, and two boxes of Earl Gray tea, one regular and one decaf. I must have spent a millisecond too long staring at the two boxes while trying to figure out the necessity for both of them: "I have to have * something * to drink when I come over here," she offered in explanation. I couldn't help but smile and nod. Neither could she. And so we've continued the past two weeks, each Tuesday and Thursday. She checks my eyes and blood pressure, makes sure I'm applying the prescribed salve day and night. She finishes and I make the tea; we sit at my table and discuss what's been going on at work in my absence. We talk of any leads our three comrades have unearthed, and sometimes we just sit. It is peaceful, it is calm, it even sometimes approaches "normal": a man, a woman, talking over life at the end of a day. As much as I detested the idea of being "looked after" at the beginning, that's as much as I've come to enjoy the hours that are spent around what used to be a solitary place where I ate and drank alone. I almost fear that I'm enjoying it too much. My reverie is interrupted by the anticipated knock. My steps, still measured, once again bring me to the door and I open it. She manages a half smile as she crosses into my apartment. I sense something is wrong. I realize that I feel a vague sadness that the ease and peace of her past visits have been disturbed. "Is something wrong?" I blurt out as she walks past me on her way to the living room where she normally conducts her "exam". "No, sir, nothing in particular," she says without raising her head from her search through her bag. As I walk nearer to her, I can't help but reach out my hand to touch her shoulder. She seems so fragile tonight, so daunted by the weight of her circumstances, so beset by some new threat. As she turns to face me, however, I snatch back my hand before it makes contact with her. "Why don't you sit and we can get started?" she says in her best bedside manner voice. I comply with her request, even though my mind tells me to press further, to seek out the cause of the latest assault on her peace. I stay quiet. "Looks much better, Sir," she states without emotion. "I think you should be able to return to work next week. Of course, you'll need to see your opthamologist, but I don't see anything that would concern him. Looks like you're well on your way to a full recovery." This last bit of information is stated while she packs up her things. I rise to make my way to the kitchen. "Sir, I really can't stay tonight. I need to get home to. . .um. . .take care of some things." I stop and turn to face her. "Are you sure?" I ask, trying not to reveal my disappointment. "I really do need to get home," she says in reply as she walks to where her coat was left, her head lowered. "I have an early day to, uh, 'morrow." I was not always a man who lived alone. I spent a fair number of years married and one thing I became a master at was detecting tears, even when an attempt was being made to hide them. Tonight, concealment seemed to be a top priority "Agent Scully, would you mind telling me what's wrong?" I say with as much controlled concern as I can muster. "Do you really want to know? I mean really? Because what I'm feeling right now isn't pretty," she replies, her voice beginning to rise with emotion. I'm temporarily struck dumb by her sudden change in temperament. Yet, I'm desperate to find out what has so disturbed her. I place my hands on my hips to ground us both for whatever may be disclosed in the next couple of minutes. "Go ahead," I say. "No, I really should be going," she says in a almost manic way as she hurries to the door. I stride toward her with more speed than I knew I was capable of. "Scully, no. Stay, stay and talk to me," I say with way too much pleading in my voice. Just as her hand is reaching toward the door handle, she wheels around to face me. "You know what's wrong, Sir? I'm tired. I'm so tired. No matter how much sleep I get, I never feel rested. I'm sick every morning, my clothes are starting to not fit right, I have a new partner whom I have no use for, and I just found out that there's a new lead I should follow up on in some God forsaken part of Utah. And you know what, I, I, . . ." Her confession is cut short by the tears that spill from her eyes. I catch sight of them just before she lowers her head in shame. "What? You what? Please tell me," I say in a hushed tone, afraid of what I'm asking her to do. She picks her head up and looking me straight in the eye blurts out, "I don't even think I'm going to go." There, she said it. Any person who was a casual observer of the woman before me, would have placed the blame for her current wave of bad feeling on any one of the items on her list of woes. I, however, know her. I feel like I know her somehow more deeply now that we have faced a similar horror of loss. She's afraid of her lack, her need to protect herself in light of more disappointment. Others would look on this as self preservation. She sees it as weakness. Even though vulnerability is the biggest foe she faces right now, I long for her to feel as though she can be the very embodiment of that "sin" with me, here, right now. I can't help myself; I gather her into my arms. She is a woman who needs no man to protect her. I will not even try to be that for her. I want to co-journey with her; I want to be the one she turns to when hope seems lost, to carry her burden along side of her. God forgive me, I want to be more than just her superior. She practically collapses in my arms; leaning into me, her tears flow easily. She speaks in halting words, between choked cries: "I feel like I just can't... Not one more dead- end. . . I don't know if I can do this. . .I want to know-" Before she can finish, her sobs overtake her. My hand reaches up to press her head to my chest, my chin resting atop her hair. "Shh, shh," I attempt to soothe her. She continues to cry, more softly now. As if I am once more outside of my body, I watch myself. I see "me" holding this beautiful young woman in my arms, a woman so full of life, so determined to go on in the face of loss in every possible area of her life. I want to replace that loss with something tangible, something real. I lower my lips to the crown of her head, I place a tentative, trembling kiss there. She stills. Another kiss on her forehead, and her eyes close. My hands now reach up to cup her face, to hold her up to me. I kiss each tear that remains on her delicate, soft cheeks, the salt and moisture a balm to my aching lips. She sighs. I realize I am shaking as I press my lips tremulously on hers. My own tears have spilled forth from their walled dam; they join, mix and fall together with her own. It is the only way we will ever be joined and I know that. I let my hands fall away from her countenance. I back away few steps. "I'm very sorry, Agent Scully. That was wrong of me," I attempt to speak without emotion, but my halting, whispered speech betrays me. She once more lowers her head and begins to shake it slowly back and forth. "No, I'm sorry, Sir. I shouldn't keep subjecting you-" I interrupt her, "No, it's OK. I overstepped my boundaries." I'm startled by her rueful chuckle. "Sir, the boundaries were blurred a long time ago," she says through her remaining tears as she reaches up her hand to timidly touch my forearm. I purse my lips together while I look up with a lot of interest at my ceiling. I'm brought back to the moment by her determined voice: "I think I'm going to follow up on that lead out in Utah. There's even a case in the area that could serve as a good, um, excuse for me going out there alone without Doggett." I know the real reason she uses the word, "alone." I'll only admit my woundedness to myself. Outwardly, I manage a resolute, "Yes, I think that's a good idea." I open the door for her to exit. She reminds me to call my opthamologist in the morning. I assure her that I will, and then she is gone. I lean against the door after I close it, hoping to close my hemorrhaging pride along with it. I begin to mock myself, second guess myself. How I should have responded versus what I wanted to happen. How I could have helped her more versus my desire to care for her. I went too far, but as she reminded me recently, going beyond far may be the answer to all of our questions. END Feedback: I'm doing the best I can with what has been given to us. Let me know if you agree. joemimi@prodigy.net Thank you's as always to Georgia, whose help continues to sustain me.