Title: Things Unsaid
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-mail:  Daydream59@aol.com
Spoilers: Avatar
Rating: PG 
Keywords: Skinnerfic; M/Sc/Sk friendship 
Archive: Yes, please.
Feedback: Yes! Please! 

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by 
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. 
They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, 
Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit 
from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor 
and have nothing material they can profit from. 

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den,  
http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden

Summary: Skinner talks with his wife one last time.


Things Unsaid
 
The call came in the middle of the night. I've been 
expecting it for several days now, had told the hospital 
to call day or night, no matter what. I'd told the 
switchboard, as well as Kimberly, that if they called, 
they were to be put through right away. But still, the 
call came in the middle of the night. It's odd how these 
calls so often do come in the middle of the night.

So, I'm dressing now - something comfortable. Jeans and 
a sweatshirt. And yet, I still feel compelled to strap on 
my holster, check my weapon, before I walk out the door. 
It's compulsory; I wouldn't feel dressed without it. When 
we first got married, Sharon would watch with respect, 
almost awe, as I put on the trappings of authority. Then 
came the stage where she watched me with humor, like it 
was amusing that I placed so much faith in a small, cold 
piece of steel. But then, later, in the bad times, she 
would watch through narrowed eyes, almost as if she 
hated the gun. As if it were to blame for the distance 
between us. As if it were the reason we no longer talked.

And in a way it was, I suppose. The gun and the badge 
represented what had become of my life. There was so 
little room left for her in it. It had come as no surprise 
when she'd asked me to move out. The surprise had been 
that it hurt so badly and that everything that had followed 
had been so painful. There were still so many things left 
unsaid.

I grab my wallet, ID, and keys and head for the door, 
checking my watch. A mere five minutes since the call, 
and already I'm worried I'll be too late. Words dash 
through my head.

Failing fast ...

Not going to last much longer ...

Organs shutting down ...

On some level, I'm sure I can relate these words to 
the facts they represent, but right now, I'm operating 
on a different level. And the only thing I know is that 
the woman who was a constant in my life for over 
seventeen years, will soon go to place where I can't 
follow.

And all the remorse in the world, all the regret, the 
sorrow, even tears can't change what is to come.

I climb into the car, my vision suddenly blurry, and 
swipe angrily at my eyes. I don't have time for this. 
All I want now, is to be there, to be with her, when 
it's finally over.

The drive to the hospital is short. There's no traffic, 
even in DC, in the middle of the night like this. I find 
parking without a problem and walk into the emergency 
room - the only access to the rest of the hospital at 
this ungodly hour. The place is packed. Mothers sit 
with crying or sleeping children. Older people wait 
patiently, some coughing, some with eyes closed, some 
talking quietly to whoever brought them here. A triage 
nurse sits in a small room to one side, and a guard 
stands by the door that allows entrance to the inner 
sanctum. I walk over quickly and identify myself, my 
ID wallet coming out and flipping open almost by itself. 
hat move is so practiced, so sure, and I smile wryly as 
I think of how it first impressed, then amused, and 
finally annoyed my wife.

I'm waved through and I move quickly, almost without thinking, 
and find myself at the nurse's station on Sharon's ward. 
Amelia, the woman who's been on duty most nights since Sharon 
was brought here, looks up and smiles sadly at me. I walk over 
and ask, hesitantly, because I'm afraid of the answer, "Is 
she ...?"

Amelia nods. "he's alive, but just barely. It won't be long." 
She nods again and waves me toward the room. 

I take two steps, then stop and turn back. "I want to hold 
her." It comes out more as an order than the request I'd 
meant to tender, but Amelia doesn't take offense. 

"Dr. Harding removed all the equipment right after I called 
you." She waits, but I still don't move. I've heard the words, 
but I can't quite discern the meaning. She lowers her voice, 
nods encouragingly and adds, "You can hold her." There's a 
pause, while her words sink in, then she says, "Go on, now. 
Time is short."

I walk slowly toward the room, knowing that I'm going to be 
saying good-bye to my wife, the woman I once thought I 
couldn't live without. I'm not sure I can do it. I couldn't 
sign the papers, couldn't let her go then. I don't think I 
can let her go now. 

I stop, standing motionless outside the door, my hand on 
the handle.

"Go *in,* Mr. Skinner," Amelia commands. "Just ring the 
buzzer when you need me."

I nod without turning around, and, good soldier that I am, 
follow the order I've been given. I go in.

Sharon lies there, small and still in the hospital bed. I 
can't escape the fact that I'm the one who put her here. 
Somehow, this is all my fault. I take a couple more steps 
and am standing by the bed. I reach out, taking her hand
with my left, stroking her hair with my right. She doesn't 
move. Her breathing is ragged and sounds labored, but the 
hospital people, the doctors and nurses, have assured me 
she's not in pain. They've assured me she's not even 
really *here* anymore. Brain dead, or so they say.

I stand until I begin to sway. I haven't been sleeping. 
Work -- all the events surrounding this case -- have 
occupied my days. Sharon has occupied my nights. Even 
on the nights I didn't stay at the hospital, nights like 
this one, I still couldn't sleep. All I could do was relive 
the past, and mourn what I had so foolishly thrown away. 
I shake my head, almost amused by my own dramatics. I'm 
definitely running on empty.

I hook one leg back and pull the chair forward, never 
letting go of my wife's hand. When the chair is close 
enough, I sit, still watching Sharon as if force of will 
could bring her back to me. 

I think I may have begun to doze because I'm jerked away 
by a squeeze of my hand. My eyes spring open and I look down, 
shocked, to see my wife staring up at me. My free hand begins 
to reach for the buzzer, but she stops me with a soft word.

"No.

"Sharon?"

She smiles and speaks a little hesitantly, "Walter? Are you 
all right?"

My tongue has gone numb and my brain seems to have lost the a
bility to function. I make a sound, something between a snort 
and moan, and my head falls forward onto the bed. "Sharon," I 
whimper, clinging to her hand.

How is this possible? I feel her hand stroke my head, then my 
cheek, before she tugs at my chin, forcing me to look at her. 
I'm confused. "Am I -- dreaming?"

She shakes her head. "I have to go soon, Walter. I just have 
a little time to talk to you. We have to talk about this." 

How many times has she said that to me? 'We have to talk about 
this.' And all I've ever done is push her away. My vision blurs 
again, but I blink rapidly, not wanting to miss a second of 
seeing her. I want to be able to look at her forever. 

"Walter, hush," she whispers, pulling herself up and leaning 
toward me. "It's okay." 

And suddenly, I'm enfolding her in my arms, pulling her 
against my chest. A harsh, choked sound of pain leaves my 
mouth as her arms come around me, returning the embrace. 
She's speaking. I feel her lips moving against my shoulder, 
but I can't process what she's saying. I'm too busy holding 
onto the lifeline that fate suddenly seems to have thrown me. 

Her mouth stops moving. She stills in my arms. Before I know 
it, I'm speaking, chanting the same words over and over again, 
as I gently rock her, cradled against my chest. "I'm sorry, 
Sharon. I'm so sorry."

She lies quietly against me, and I am suddenly overcome with 
fear that she's gone. I pull back, holding her at arms length, 
but she only smiles at me and shakes her head slowly. She pats 
the bed, saying, "Here, Walter. Sit next to me."

I can't help but glance at the door, then I cast aside any 
inhibitions I might have still harbored and climb in the bed 
bedside my wife. She curls against me in a move reminiscent 
of our early years, when we still slept entwined with each 
other. When I felt as if the mere proximity of her body could 
close out the world and provide me with a haven, safe from 
the monsters I saw every day. My arms tighten convulsively.

In response, she laughs quietly, and speaks again. This time 
I understand her words. "Lightly, Walter. I'm not going 
anywhere -- yet." 

I let out a little breath of a laugh, fighting the panic 
that word evokes. Yet. She's trying to make this as easy 
for me as she can. I pull back carefully, but I don't let 
her go. "I don't want to hurt you," I say, looking into 
eyes I never thought I'd see again. "I didn't want to hurt 
you." My voice lowers even more, reduced to the merest 
whisper. "I've never wanted to hurt you."

Her smile is sad, and her voice matches the softness of 
mine when she replies, "I know." Her hand touches my face, 
resting lightly against my cheek. "I've always known."

My chest feels tight and I'm not sure I can breathe. "Stay 
with me, Sharon," I beg. "I don't think I can make it 
without you."

"We have this time," she promises. "I can stay with you 
for now, but that's all." Her voice is sad, and that 
sadness actually seems to lift some of my own grief. I'm 
happy that she is sad to be leaving me. "I have to go on," 
she explains. "I don't belong here anymore." 

"This never should have happened." The words are bitten 
off, angry coals that drip white-hot heat at the unfairness 
of it all. 

"Not like this, Walter," she pleads quietly. "Don't make 
our last time be like this - angry. Not like this."

For the first time, I notice how she shivers. "You're 
cold," I pronounce, wondering if there is anything I can 
do about it. 

She shrugs. "It's all right. "*I'm* all right." Her voice 
strengthens a bit, takes on a note of demand. "You have to 
remember that, Walter. I'm all right." 

I shake my head. I can't accept that. I can't accept any of 
this. I'm not even sure what *this* is. I thrust those 
thoughts from my mind and pull her closer, trying futilely 
to warm her with my own body heat. I drop her hand, the 
hand I've never stopped holding, and pull her closer to my 
side, arm reaching across her chest, resting over her heart. 
I pause a moment, content to feel her snuggle up against me, 
then realize ... "Your heart, Sharon, you're heart isn't 
beating."

She shakes her head sadly, so sadly that I can feel the 
emotion rolling off her. She sits up, not quite pulling 
out of my embrace and turns so she can look at me. "I'm 
dead, Walter," she says simply, and my heart -- it breaks. 
Not the metaphorical, seemingly romantic and melodramatic 
heartbreaking, but a real, physical pain. My heart seizes 
up, seems to freeze and then I can feel it shatter in my 
chest, each piece falling inside me, ripping my insides 
like shards of glass, tearing me apart from the inside 
out, until I think I must be as dead as she is. No one 
can be in this much pain and still be alive.

"You can't be," I say simply, reduced to the barest of 
words. "I can't *be,* if you're dead."

"It's okay, Walter," she comforts. "And as hard as it 
may seem right now, you'll *be* okay later, too." She 
smiles and gives a half-shrug, an expression and a 
gesture I am so familiar with. I've seen her do the 
same thing hundreds and hundreds of time. It is her 
way of saying, 'I can't really explain it, but it happened, 
and I'm not too worried, so don't you be worried, either.' 
It was a movement that she used with the mundane things 
like burned dinners and overflowing garbage cans that 
didn't make it to the street on garbage day. It was also 
a movement she used that both explained and forgave 
forgotten dates and long hours at work. It could be 
used for anything and nothing, and now, she was using 
it to tell me this whole surreal situation was somehow, 
*okay.* 

"I have to tell you," I interrupt, lifting a hand to 
silence her. "Let me say it. I have to at least know 
that I tried. The least you can do is let me say it."

She studies me for a moment, then nods. I can see the 
tears forming in her own eyes. She may be cold, she 
may even be dead, but she can still cry. I swallow hard 
and speak the words that were never more true for me, 
words that had always been so hard to say that now came 
so easily to my lips. "I love you, Sharon."

She smiles. "I love you, too, Walter. I always have." 

It always seemed infinitely easy for her to say the 
words. And not only could she say them, she showed me 
every day of our life together the truth behind them. 
I was just too blind to see. She had always made sacrifices 
for me. My wife did what many women these days won't do -- 
she sacrificed her career for mine. She followed me around 
the country through different assignments, different cities, 
always willing to start over herself in order to let me 
get ahead. Or at least, I thought it was getting ahead 
at the time.

"I'm sorry, Sharon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I said things 
to you that are inexcusable. I shut you out, isolated myself, 
forced you into a life of loneliness. You should hate me." 
I can't keep the wonder out of my voice. "And yet, you're 
here to comfort me, to help me, to be with me." 

"You are the person you are, Walter. I knew that when I 
married you."

"You're dead because of me. They killed you, to get to me. 
It was all because of me."

She shrugs again, and I remember that particular gesture 
could also be quite infuriating. "Sharon," I say again, 
"don't you get it? It was my *fault.*"

"You don't know that, Walter."

"But I believe it."

She closes her eyes for a moment, then seems to take a 
deep breath. Another paradox for later consideration. No 
heartbeat, but she breathes. Maybe this is all one giant 
hallucination. 

"And I believe you have always done everything you could to p
rotect me. It was me who decided to leave you, remember? In 
all the years we were together, nothing like this ever happened 
until I left your protection. So, whose fault is it, really? 
Mine? Yours?" She shook her head. "This is fate. It's what is 
meant to be at this time, in this place." She leans forward 
and kisses me. Her lips are soft, but cold. "I'm scared for 
you. I always have been. All those times I prodded you to talk 
to me, to open up, it wasn't prurient interest in your cases. 
It was concern for you. You've always had to do everything 
yourself. But I know you, Walter. And whether you admit it 
or not, you're not an island to yourself. I won't be here 
come the morning. I just hope that this will help you go on. 
You have to go on."

"How can I? How can I without you?"

"Don't you dare throw away everything you've worked for, 
Walter Skinner." Her voice is soft, but threatening. "You 
know who you are. You know what you have to do."

"I don't ... I can't ..." My voice breaks and I can't go on. 

"People depend on you, Walter. You know that something odd, 
something with potentially cataclysmic results is going on at 
the FBI. You know you can make a difference in the outcome. 
You have to go on. You can't let your grief get in the way. 
I'm here to help you through that. Here and now." She uses 
her hands as emphasis. "You can say everything you need to 
say, everything you want to say. Most people don't get that 
chance, Walter. Don't throw it away. You have to get up 
tomorrow and be who you are meant to be."

"I don't know if I can do that, Sharon," I admit. 

"You have to, Walter."

"There won't be anyone..." I let my voice trail as I try to 
find the words. "I used you to keep it all away. It was 
unfair to you, but it was how I kept my control. The things I 
saw, the people ... I won't have that anymore."

"You never used me, Walter," she says quietly. "I always 
wished you would. I always wanted to be there for you."

I shake my head, desperate to make her understand. "There 
are three kinds of cop, Sharon," I try to explain. "Some, 
they have a great home life, they seem to be able to balance 
it. Maybe they can talk to their wife or husband about what 
they've seen. Maybe they can take comfort in knowing that 
they help keep the horrors from touching their family. 
They're the minority. I was never a talker -- I could 
never bear the thought that the things I saw would touch 
you in any way."

She nods gravely, her eyes filled, and lays her hand on 
my arm.

I swallow and go on. "Another group, a larger group, they 
live the job. They go through husbands or wives the way 
most people ride a roller coaster. It's exciting at first, 
lots of anticipation, then the rush at the end of the climb. 
They forget the rush means you're going downhill, and soon 
the rush, and the ride, are over. All that's left is the 
job, until they decide to take the ride again. And me? 
I'm not a rider." I shake my head.

Her hand leaves my arm and reaches up to cup my cheek. I 
stare into her eyes, almost getting lost there until I begin 
to wonder how they can be so warm, so alive, when her touch 
is like ice. It jerks me back to the present, and a full 
awareness of how little time I have left. 

"Then there are the ones who can't bring it home, but can't 
live without a home to go to. Most of them end up divorced, 
and then they end up dead, because they have to have that 
little piece of normalcy in order to make it all worthwhile. 
Without it, they lose their focus, lose their edge."

"You have friends, Walter. They'll help you. You don't have 
to be alone." She laughs a little, and shakes her head. 
"They may be able to help you more than I ever did. At 
least you'll be able to talk to ..." 

"They aren't you, Sharon," I interrupt sternly. "*You* are 
the one I need in my life. Selfish as that may be, you're my 
focus, the better part of myself." I pause, then touch my 
still aching chest. "You're my heart." I shake my head. 
"No one else could take your place."

She touches my arm, soothing my agitation. Looking down into 
her eyes, I can see myself reflected there. And before she 
opens her mouth to speak, I know I've lost. 

"Walter, we can't interfere with destiny. You've heard me 
say it a thousand times, after all the death I've seen 
working in the emergency room. The day we were born, we 
began our journey toward death. She smiles so warmly, I 
can't help but grin back. "No matter what, no matter if 
you'd been with me, or if you'd locked me up in a cell, 
the car would have hit me, the brain damage would have 
occurred. I would've died today."

"No." I'm refusing to believe that. She's dead because of 
my failure, because of my lack of vision. Because I let 
it follow me home."

"Damn it, Walter!" Sharon exclaims. "Stop this guilt trip! 
You can't change the course of life, you can't alter what's 
been planned by a power beyond us all. You can't change 
what's already happened. All you can do is learn and grow 
from your experiences, and *be* what you are meant to be. 
Do the work you are supposed to do."

My head falls and I wrestle to find the right words. "So 
you want me to go on being a hard-assed, stubborn old fool?" 
My mind struggles to understand and accept what she's just 
told me. 

She chuckles, and I look up to meet her eyes. "Maybe a 
little less stubborn, okay, Walter? Maybe just a little less?"

Sighing, I reach out for her hand. Our fingers lace and 
for a moment I stare down at the web we've woven. "Selfish," 
I murmur. 

"What do you mean?"

I don't meet his eyes when I rub my free hand self-consciously 
against the grain of her blanket. "I'm hard-assed, stubborn 
and selfish," I say, shaking my head slightly. "I'm sitting 
here, grieving for -- for -- *my* loss and you -- you're 
dead."

Another tear rolls out of the corner of my eye. 

"Not selfish, love," she murmurs. "Just human. Don't give 
up your right to be sad, to scream and to grieve when you 
feel like it, even if you can only do it in private. Nobody 
will expect you to jump back to your old self tomorrow."

Tomorrow. 

When she's really gone.

I shudder at the thought.

"I love you," I blurt out, my vision again obscured by a 
curtain of tears. 

A bird chirps and I glance at the window without thinking. 
Dawn is near. As is the end -- and a new beginning for me. 
It's almost time to say our final goodbye. 

"What are you thinking?" she asks, and my heart shatters 
again at the familiar words that I used to shove away so 
callously. I think, for the first time, I understand the 
intent behind them. Unable to speak, I shrug. 

"We'll see each other again," she reassures and slowly 
shifts, pulling away from me. 

"Please ..." Stay. Don't leave me. I love you. The words all 
choke in my throat.

The early bird chirps again, an incongruously cheerful 
sound, and I think of a thousand possible ways to end 
its song.

"It's time," Sharon sighs. She pulls away more, 
disentangling her hand from mine. 

"Wait!" The panicked word is ripped from my mouth and 
my fingers grasp hers tightly.  "What ...where are you 
going? I mean ... how...?" Unable to finish the sentence, 
my eyes meet hers for a moment before I drop them, shamed. 
"What do I do now?"

"I'm not in pain, Walter," she says softly. "In fact, I 
feel -- almost a sense of anticipation. Like something 
wonderful is about to happen." She smiles, slightly 
embarrassed, and I pull her close again

She lets me hold her for a moment, then gently pries 
my hand from hers. "You'd better let me go." She's pulling 
away again, explaining. "I don't want you to have to touch 
me -- feel me -- after ..."

"No," I say softly, as something that feels like not quite 
understanding, but may be the beginnings of acceptance 
shifts through my soul.

"No?" she questions, puzzlement evident on her face, as 
she gives in to my touch. 

"You shouldn't be alone," I say, my voice cracking. 
"Nobody should have to be alone -- now."

She reaches out, almost desperate, and hugs me in a fierce, 
bone-crushing embrace. I bury my face in her neck, tendrils 
of her hair tickling my cheeks. I can feel her hands reach 
around my waist and clutch the back of my shirt. I tremble. 

"I'm scared," she whispers softly against my chest, the 
vibrations of her voice reverberating through my body. 

"I know," I whisper back, stroking her hair. My eyes are 
not just filled, the tears are creeping down my face. I am 
inordinately grateful that not only has she comforted me, 
she is reaching out to me, allowing *me* to comfort her. 
"I'm scared, too," I whisper into her ear. "But I'm here. 
You're not alone."

Pulling back a little, she looks up at me, tears mingling 
with the smile she flashes. "The greatest gift ..." she murmurs. 

"What?"

"You told me you were scared."

In a feather-light touch, our lips meet, a gentle brush 
that encompasses years of life. Merging deeper, I can taste 
her -- a taste that had grown unfamiliar in these later 
years, but that awakened my remembrance in a flash. Salty 
tears steal into the kiss, and then she gasps. Her eyes are 
wide -- first with fear, then amazement, and finally awe. 

"I love you, Sharon," I whisper, watching as the light fades 
from her eyes. Watching helplessly as she travels on to a 
place I can't follow. I wish it could have been different. 
I wish ...

"Sir?"

A hand is on my shoulder and I open my eyes, blinking in 
confusion. The room is filled with light and Scully stands 
beside the bed. I look around, my eyes finally coming to 
rest on the form beside me.

"She's gone, Sir," Scully says quietly.

I nod, then pull myself up and stand, swaying slightly. 
A strong hand catches my elbow, steadying me, and I blink 
again to see Mulder's worried face in front of me. I start 
to pull back, but a familiar voice echoes in my head, 'You 
don't have to be alone.'

Scully touches my arm, and I let myself be supported, standing 
there between them.

"Are you all right, Sir?" Mulder asks.

My eyes dart to the bed, to the still form of my wife that 
lies there, and I shake my head.

"No," I say quietly, pulling myself away from my agents and 
stepping toward the door. "I'm not all right." I reach the door, 
turn the handle, pull it slightly toward me, then look back 
at the bed, imagining a smile on that well-loved face. "But 
I will be."


End