Title:  The Proposal
Author: Agent L
Classification: V
Rating: G 
Spoilers: Requiem (sorry folks, I can't seem to stop!) 
Distribution: Archive anywhere, but keep my name and e-mail 
attached please! 
Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, 
and Fox: I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or even 
chocolate would be expected or accepted for this. 
Summary: Sometimes the sidekick has to play the hero.
Author Notes: I know, yet ANOTHER post-Requiem -- but this one 
is from a slightly different POV that I'd never worked with 
before.
Feedback: Yes, please! LHoward388@aol.com. 


I've never thought of myself as a marrying man. Most women don't 
think of me that way either. 

I blame my parents, who bestowed on me the name "Melvin." Not 
that isn't a perfectly good name, and has, in fact, been in our 
family for generations -- like bad eyesight and premature 
baldness -- but just try to find a hero in one of those women's 
romance novels named Melvin. Melvins are sidekicks, villains, 
comic relief. Heroes have names like Rhett or Diego... or Fox.

We've all been a little shell-shocked over the past few weeks, 
trying to adjust to Mulder's absence. At least with death there 
are details to take your mind off things, wakes to attend, 
toasts to make. But when a person just disappears, there's only 
waiting. And wondering. Of course we've doubled our usual scans 
and alerted our operatives across the country, but there's been 
no trace of Mulder, nor of the others in the group that vanished 
that night in Bellefleur. Traces of radioactivity, some typical 
burning associated with UFOs was discovered in the woods, but 
there's no conclusive proof.

Which is, in itself, all we need to know what happened out 
there. 

It's amazing, the hole someone can leave in your life. At least 
twice a day one of us will say, "We gotta tell Mulder about 
this..." When the phone rings at 2 a.m., I half-expect to hear 
him on the other end saying he's got a craving for cheese 
steaks.

At least the three of us have each other, as pathetic as it is 
to see three grown men sitting around crying in their beer. To 
paraphrase that great philosopher Billy Joel, we're sharing a 
drink we call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone. 
We'll be okay. We've got each other. 

Scully is the one I'm worried about. Not that she doesn't have 
friends and family around, but none of them really knew Mulder, 
not like we did. Not like *she* did.  They'll nod politely and 
offer the usual condolences and then shake their heads as they 
walk out to their cars. What a shame about Mrs. Spooky. Knocked 
up and abandoned by her crazy partner. Now I'm the first one to 
admit that Mulder could -- can -- be a real jerk sometimes, but 
he would never turn his back on a friend. And Scully was much 
more than just a friend.

So what's a sidekick to do, but to go ahead and rescue the 
damsel in distress? Even if this particular damsel can curse 
like a sailor and carries a gun.

So I put on my best suit, buy a dozen roses and head for her 
apartment. 

It takes her a while to answer my knock and when she opens the 
door I see her eyes are swollen, her nose is red, her cheeks 
blotchy. She's wearing one of Mulder's old shirts, the sleeves 
hanging well past her fingertips, the hem to her knees, and gray 
sweat pants. 

She looks beautiful.
                        
But as I realize I have interrupted an intensely private moment, 
and start to stutter an apology, backing down the hallway, she 
reaches out and touches my sleeve, giving me a tired smile.

"Would you like to come in, Frohike?"

I nod and follow her as she turns and walks into the apartment. 
We go into the kitchen, where there's already a mug of tea on 
the table. She asks if I'd like anything to eat or drink. The 
perfect hostess.

The perfect woman. 

Mulder was like the older brother I never had - the star jock, 
the Homecoming king who let me hang around with him, made me 
feel like one of the cool kids. I looked up to him -- literally, 
at six feet tall -- and I never envied his good looks, 
intelligence, perfect hair...But God forgive me, I envy him 
right now for having this woman's heart.

She slides a mug across the table and pours coffee in response 
to my request. Then she carefully dips the bag a few times in 
her usual precise manner, and sets it on a nearby saucer. I 
watch as she does this, secretly admiring her small hands, the 
economical movements. I forget how beautiful she is sometimes -- 
that shining red hair...those wide blue eyes. The full lips. 
We're so close that I can see the delicate tracing of veins at 
her temples. She sighs softly and looks up.

"Any news?" she asks, obviously not expecting to hear anything. 
I've watched her grow less and less hopeful, more withdrawn each 
day. 

"Uh, no. Sorry." The expression in her eyes breaks my heart. I 
clear my throat and sit up a little straighter. "We're on top of 
it, though. We'll hear something soon." 

She closes her eyes briefly, then looks at me. "Thank you." Her 
lower lip trembles slightly and I start to get scared that she's 
about to cry. Mulder would have a handkerchief in his pocket, of 
course. I've got lint and old receipts. But just as I'm checking 
the room for the nearest exit, she touches one of the rose 
petals and a soft smile returns.

"They're for you," I say needlessly, rushing to fill the awkward 
silence. "Uh...How are you feeling?"

She takes a sip of tea and considers the question. Scully never 
does anything without thinking it through. "I'm fine," she says 
finally. "Everything seems to be normal..." She gives a little 
laugh, as if there's something funny about that. "The doctors 
say I should be able to carry to full term."

I release the breath I didn't know I was holding. She's probably 
not telling me everything, but that's okay for now. Sometimes 
it's good to hear just what you want to hear, whether it's the 
truth or not.

*All right, Frohike. Enough stalling. Make your move.* 

I can almost hear Mulder's voice, see him grinning over in the 
corner in one of his perfectly tailored Armani suits.

"Scully, I..."

Those blue eyes meet mine and my voice cracks like a fourteen 
year old's. "I - You...That is, there comes a time..."

Mulder chuckles in my head. *Smooth, Frohike. Very smooth.* 

Scully is looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and 
amusement. If nothing else, I've provided some comic relief for 
a while, like a good sidekick should. Maybe if I try the 
traditional pose...

I get up and walk over to Scully, kneeling down in front of her. 
The amusement fades to confusion, then her brow furrows. 
"Frohike, what -"

"Agent -- I mean, Scully -- er...Dana...? Will you marry me?"

Scully's mouth falls open. I've actually surprised the 
unflappable Agent Scully. After seven years with Mulder, she 
probably thought she'd seen everything. 

She starts to speak, then hesitates, her glance going once more 
to the roses, then back to me. Tears well up in her eyes and she 
blinks, hard. 

"Frohike. That is one of the sweetest...I mean, I'm so 
flattered. You and the guys have been wonderful over these last 
few weeks." She stands up and walks over to the window, rubbing 
her hands up and down her arms as if chilled, and stares out at 
the darkness. 

Looking for him. 

Waiting for him. 

I suppose I knew her answer even before I asked the question.

She turns back to me. "Frohike, I'm honored, truly I am. But I - 
" She shrugs. "I can't give up on him yet." Her hand drifts 
across her lower abdomen in an unconscious gesture of 
protection. "He wouldn't give up on me."

A lump rises in my throat as I remember the times he paced our 
office, demanding the impossible, not just from us, but from 
himself. He slogged through pain and exhaustion, persisted past 
the point of reason, sacrificed his pride, crossed continents -- 
all for her. 

She will do no less for him. 

I suddenly feel foolish and naive, like a schoolboy with a crush 
on his teacher. Some women would be embarrassed, uncomfortable. 
Some women would laugh at me. But not Scully. She moves forward 
and puts her hand on my cheek in a gesture of comfort.  Her 
fingers, cool and steady, drift down to my chin as she holds my 
gaze. There's no ridicule, no anger -- only affection in those 
clear blue eyes.

"Thank you...Melvin," she says softly, then presses a gentle 
kiss to my lips.

*Thanks, Frohike.*

The End