TITLE: A Small Woman Among Large Men (2/2) 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: Skinner POV, Scully angst, MSR 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! XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A Small Woman Among Large Men (2/2) "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." Part 2/2 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 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. Please visit Laine's Crystalship: http://members.xoom.com/Crystal_Ship Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy.