Penance and Absolution

TITLE: Penance and Absolution

AUTHOR: Donna Hartnett
 
EMAIL: IDanaKScullyI@aol.com
 
RATING: R to NC-17 depending on your sensibilities

SUMMARY: Hmm...I dunno...Skinner/Scully angstfest. The burly one deals 
with his guilt over losing Mulder in Oregon. Character death, and 
even though I expanded on it, CC started it, so it shouldn't count!

KEYWORD: MSR, SSR Angst

ARCHIVE: I'd be thrilled if anyone wanted it. Thrilled and confused, 
but thrilled, nonetheless.

SPOILERS: Requiem, This is Not Happening, and anything else with 
references to Mulder's abduction, just to be on the safe side.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: There is no mention of Scully's pregnancy in this 
piece on purpose. I have issues with that li'l wrinkle in the X-Files 
universe because almost everything Scully did in relation to her 
pregnancy or the baby was out of character, IMHO. Oh...and I suppose 
I should apologize to any Catholics in advance. I have the highest 
respect for the beliefs of others, it just seemed to work.

FEEDBACK: Please...pretty please...I'm beggin' ya! This is the first 
time I've tried anything like this, so lemme know if it works.

DISCLAIMER: 'Tain't mine, but I have a birthday coming up, CC&co.... 
::hint hint:: And if you don't want to buy me a present, the least 
you could do is not sue me for writing something I'm not even 
getting paid for...umkay?


Penance and Absolution

He was doing heavy penance. Not that pansy-ass, "Bless me father for 
I have sinned," crap her church subscribed to, but that, "wake up 
every day, go to work, see the pain you've caused in those amazing 
blue eyes, go home at night and wallow in guilt until you fall into 
demon haunted nightmares, just to wake up the next day and do it all 
over again," kind of penance. The kind of penance you could never be 
absolved of, no matter how many times she said, "Sir, please don't 
blame yourself," or "you did everything you could, Sir," or worst of 
all, "It wasn't your fault, Sir."

Sir? No. Sir was a title of respect; respect he didn't deserve; respect 
that sliced into his soul, adding another heaping helping of guilt onto 
his already bent broad shoulders.

Her partner, her lover, had been taken because he...the ever popular, 
"Sir"...had screwed up. Period. End of discussion. Game over. World 
without end, amen.

In a supreme act of faith and trust, she had asked him to take her 
place at the side of the man she loved and that man had vanished. 
Into thin air. Without a trace. Gone with the wind. Up in smoke.

And when he had gone to confess his sin to her, instead of the hoped 
for curse or punishment, she had offered mercy and understanding.

And he was left to search out his own personal hell and fill it with 
imps and fire and torment.

And so rather than jogging five miles a day, he ran. Ten. Rather than 
sleeping four hours a night, he slept two. Or one. Rather than 
working ten hours a day, he worked fifteen. Or twenty, always 
searching.

And every chance he got, he went in search of her, to see first-hand 
the sorrow in her sapphire eyes. To constantly remind himself that he 
alone was responsible for putting that pain in those eyes.

And when she cried, he held her. Never allowing himself to feel 
pleasure at the feel of her delicate form in his strong arms, strong 
arms that had failed miserably.

And when her tears wet his shirt and soaked through to the flesh of 
his chest, they ate through into his heart like acid. He reveled in 
the agony of it. 

After all, what was penance without suffering?

And when he found himself unable to fully crush the surge of 
enjoyment her presence brought him, he ran faster and farther. 
He slept less, or not at all. He worked harder and longer, still 
searching; always searching.

And it wasn't enough; could never be enough.

And when she came to him in the clear, starry night, speaking of 
souls eternal, he calmed her fears and thrilled as her tears seared 
him once more.

And it was then he began to suspect there might be no salvation. Some 
unknowable source, deep within him screamed out that the man was 
dead. He would never be able to reunite the man he loved like a 
brother and the woman he loved beyond all reason, and that would be 
his damnation.

And then it happened. They found him. Scarred. Cold. Lifeless. Dead.

And he followed her as she ran for the creature with the power to 
save them all, but too late. The being was gone; taken away in a 
blaze of light.

And when she screamed out her denial and rage and agony, it sent 
shards of glass into his mind and heart and soul. Glass that even 
her caustic tears could not wash away.

And when she came to him that night, crying and shaking and, in her 
grief and loneliness, begged him to fill her, he could not refuse 
her. He surged into her again and again until she cried out a dead 
man's name in her release.

And when she came to him the next night and he could not send her 
away, he knew even Dante's hell held no circle vile enough for his 
transgressions.

And again and again in the weeks and months that followed she arrived 
at his door with the same request. And he could never refuse her.

And the first time his own name passed her lips in passion, he cried 
and begged her to go, but she could, and did, refuse him.

And he pleaded with her to say away, but again, she refused him, 
asking him to hold her, touch her, heal her.

And somewhere along the way, she began to heal him too.

And when he realized what was happening he cried and tried to push 
her away, and still she refused him.

And then it happened. Salvation. Absolution. Forgiveness. 

On the anniversary of the death of the man they had both loved, she 
redeemed him. With four words.

I.

Love.

You.

Walter.

~~~~~~~~~~
End.