Title: Timing Author: Gatorgurl Email: gatorgurl94@yahoo.com Category: D/S Rating: PG Spoilers: None that I can think of. Story set in early season 8 Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me, they're strictly the property of Chris Carter and the folks at FOX. Feedback: Please. Author's note: I have to thank Rachel A. for her time, her encouragement and her beta. Thanks! She leans back, her hand slipping off the desk onto her belly. She stares past the desk lamp into nothing, her hooded eyes vague and dreamy. Her hand rests absentmindedly on her stomach. She tips her head back and sighs. Some weeks ago she approached me, wanting to know if I thought badly of her. "I've heard the rumors," she said, her petite frame towering over my desk. She stood rigidly before me, her belly bulging beneath her jacket, waiting for, I don't know, judgment. I shook my head. "It's none of my business," I said, pretended to return to my laptop. She nodded, straightened her jacket, tight but still wearable. "Good," she had said, "I shouldn't have to state the obvious." Then she proceeded to do so. "What goes on in this office stays in this office," and walked away. I think about that moment often. About what it must be like for her living under a microscope. The paternity of your child turned into the subject of gossip; the loss of your partner turned into the butt of an alien abduction joke. In light of her circumstance, her secretiveness, the way she is protective of her emotions doesn't surprise me. That she shows me little about who she truly is doesn't offend me. I accept it; I understand where it comes from. I never prod her to reveal any more than what she offers me. I know her remoteness isn't snobbery; it is self-defense. She's so self-reliant. So determined to be strong, to need nothing, no one. She seems consumed by her need for control, her need to keep going, to make it right. Trying to find a way in amongst all that has turned out to be much more difficult than I thought it would be. I still don't know how to convince her that I am her partner in this. This is a partnership like no other in my professional career. Most days, I struggle between wanting her to trust me, need me and wanting not to care either way. There are days when I think I understand what it is she stirs in me. There are others that I don't have the slightest idea what the hell I'm doing here with her. Days I wonder how her search has become mine. I've never felt the need to prove myself to anyone. Why now, do I want her to believe? In me? In our partnership? With any job, no matter how exciting, there is down time. There is paperwork; there is bureaucracy. I'm amazed how much of my time I spend filing out forms and completing paperwork. Time wrapped in silence, counted down by the tapping of keys on a keyboard. The silence is heavy, almost palpable, broken only occasionally by an exasperated sigh or quick question. I don't know what it was like for them, sharing this office where she didn't even have a desk, but it could never have been as silent and full of tension as it is now. Ours is a world of half spoken and misunderstood intentions on both our parts. Though I believe I've been clear about how I feel, about my assignment, about her, there is mistrust. I try not to take it personally, but it's hard not to. How can a woman let you hold her, cry in your arms one day, then question your integrity the next? She asked me today, in a pained, uncomfortable way, if she could ask a favor of me. I was, aside from shocked, flattered that she would ask anything of me outside the scope of our relationship as partners. Flattered to think she might consider me a friend. Though the favor itself meant nothing, her asking meant everything. I think I'm making progress, breaking down walls between us, but I'm just not sure. I think she understands I'm here to help. Committed to doing my job, to finding him. Still I have lingering doubts. It's something about the way she looks at me, the skepticism I see stamped in her eyes. The way she is always searching for that invisible enemy, checking out shadows. Looking for holes in my story, not realizing I am an open book. It's late and I am exhausted. Hungry. I push back from my desk and stretch. She doesn't notice, absorbed by whatever is on the screen of her laptop. "Agent Scully." She acknowledges me with a quick glance, as if to say 'I'm listening' then returns to the screen. "It's late." I tell her and she gives me another curt glance. "How about we call it a night? Maybe stop and get something to eat." The words just spill out. I don't even realize what I've said until I see the black cloud cross her face. "I really," she pauses, searching for an excuse. "Well, it is actually pretty late," I say, rescuing her from the awkward moment. "Maybe another time." She mutters. It is clear she doesn't mean it. "Sure, another time." I don't think I sound bitter or angry, but she must have registered my displeasure. As I reach for the door, she stops me. "Maybe just a little something." I don't smile, though I want to. I nod and wait by the door for her to gather her things. As I wait, I don't think about why she's accepted my invitation. I don't care. I'm perfectly willing to have her dictate the terms of our friendship. Anyway, part me already knows: this is only a salve for her loneliness. We don't actually eat; we stop and get coffee instead, a decaf something or other for her, regular coffee for me. I get a bagel; she gets biscotti. We sit at the counter on stools that are incredibly uncomfortable and pretend we have something to talk about other than work. After some lapses and sputters, the conversation actually manages to fall into rhythm. I realize in talking to her, as tidbits of her personal life slip into the conversation, just how little we have in common. The disparity obvious not just in our choice of coffee, but also in the way we've lived our lives. I wasn't exactly sleeping, but am startled nevertheless by the lonely cry of my telephone. It rings once, twice; I glance at the clock on my nightstand, debate whether to answer. I know the drill, a call this late is never good. I ponder whether I am actually up for whatever challenge awaits me at the other end of the line. The phone rings a third, fourth time. I finally pick it up. "Hello." Pregnant pause. Finally, "Agent Doggett." I sit up, flick on a light. "Agent Scully." Silence. "Are you all right, Agent Scully?" "I thought," she sounds nervous or ashamed, I'm not sure which. "I thought I saw someone..." "Outside your apartment?" She swallows hard. I can almost see her shaking her head, chastising herself. "I'm sorry Agent Doggett. I shouldn't have called you..." I cut her off, don't give her time to pull back the line she's tossed me. "I'll be right there." I'm sure I hear a protest as I hang up the phone. "You shouldn't have bothered," she says as she lets me into her place. "It's paranoia or nerves. Really, Agent Doggett, you don't have to do that." She says as I search her apartment. I stop, push back the blinds and glance out the window. "Who did you think you saw?" She pauses. Her cheeks flush, even her ears look red. "No one. I'm just tired. I really shouldn't have called. I'm sorry." She stands by the door. I wonder if she's inviting me to leave. "Do you think they'll be back tonight?" She looks up at me then looks away. "No." She clutches the lapels of her robe. I hadn't noticed her state of undress when I came in. Now I am acutely aware of her and the idea of what might be beneath the terry robe. She takes a deep breath, her chest heaving. I realize I have to get out. "I should go then." I move to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Agent Scully." I say stepping into the hallway. I start to go. "Wait," she calls, her hand landing on my forearm. "Don't." She brushes the hair out of her glistening eyes, looks up at the ceiling. She closes her eyes, tips her head to the side. "I'm just so tired." She soughs. That first night, I slept on the couch. I don't sleep there now. She crawls into bed; her oversized satin pajamas glimmer in the pale lamp light. She pulls the sheets to her chin, her eyes closing almost immediately. I slip into bed beside her. The agreement is we sleep in the same bed, but don't sleep together. It's a comfort thing. I'm not offended. I understand. I've often sought comfort in the arms of strangers. Theirs are the easiest to let go of once their services are no longer required. I lay on my back, watching the shadows swirl across her ceiling. I should sleep. Can't. Always, lying beside her, there is a persistent tug, not guilt, but some kind of discomfort, of uneasiness. As if I've intruded, trespassed into a world that is not mine to be a part of. I feel like an interloper, despite having been invited. I never feel like I am alone with her. Part of her is always somewhere else, lost to me, reserved for him. He's gone, but in a lot of ways, he's standing right here. "I'm cold," she says, her back to me. I dutifully close the gap between us and hold her. Not too close though, she doesn't like that. Too close leaves the scene smelling like something more than comfort. She can't handle that. I drape my arm around her, my hand traveling instinctively to her abdomen. I convince myself that there is something more between us: our own kind of intimacy, despite her reservations, despite her standoffishness. I press the round of her belly. She scoots away from me, my hand sliding onto her hip. Or maybe that's just what I need to believe. The lie I tell myself, so I can keep doing this. I stare at the dark form of her dresser drawer, absentmindedly caressing her growing belly. For me it's not an awkward thing to do. I slip easily into the role; hunter-gatherer, protector. And why not, it's a role I spent a good part of my adult life playing. I lean away from her. That's not who I am now, though. Is it? I close my eyes, wonder about her baby, and try hard not to think about my own. I depart before she wakes. That's what she likes. I would prefer to linger. Breathe life into the mundane details of morning with her, but that's not what this is. It's hard for me. She doesn't know how goddamn hard, to watch her growing, to listen to her recount her feelings as she heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time, to hear about ultrasounds and shopping for baby clothes and miracles. I didn't realize how it would affect me. I thought I'd worked past that. Yet, in those rare moments of joy she shares me, I feel myself angering. Not at her, but at my station. I never understood until I was a parent that people live in two very separate worlds: those with children and those without. Having children changes everything: your priorities, your lifestyle, even your friends. You go into that world and don't ever go back unless you are like me. I lost not just my child; I lost friends, the support system I'd built a life on. I don't blame them. They tried; it's hard to keep friendships alive when the thread that bound you together has been ripped away. Like them, I know eventually, I'll lose her too. Of course, I don't share any of this with her. Why would I? I get the feeling she doesn't really want to know. I don't dwell on it. I swallow it; ignore the pain. What's the point? It's not going to bring my son back. It's not going to make her stay. I watch her entranced with the video of her ultrasound and wonder if she can even fathom what loving this child will cost her. If she knows the difference between the losses you suffer and overcome and the losses that haunt you, scar you. The losses that are too difficult to ever fully face. The losses coated in denial, just the memory of them like dying over and over again. I watch her scrutinize the video until the final frame. When it's through, she turns to me. "Everything is going to be fine." I stare into her worried eyes and realize she knows all too well. She talks about him a lot. She evokes his name routinely, not just when discussing cases, but often enough to make me think about why she does it so often. Maybe I shouldn't even have to wonder. Maybe the answer is obvious. He's woven into her life. He is part of her. "I really wonder about him sometimes," she laughs, taking a sip of her water. I smile back, though I'm not at all sure what she finds so damn wondrous. I gather up the dishes, retreat to the kitchen. She follows close behind with the glasses. I dump everything into the sink. She moves around me, depositing the glasses neatly atop my eschew pile. She gasps, holds her small round belly. Tears well up in her eyes; spill over one at a time. "You all right?" I ask. She nods, her smile effervescent. "The baby moved," she whispers. I lean against the sink awkwardly not knowing what to do. I know there is some else she'd rather be sharing this moment with. Eventually, she takes my hand and places it on her belly. I hold it there, but the baby doesn't move. It's waiting for the real thing, just like its Mother. Lying in bed beside her, his ghost lying between us, I wonder what is true about their relationship and what is just gossip. I think about finding her, curled up in his bed, his t-shirt tucked against her face. Wonder what it was about him that captured her trust, her friendship, and her love. I turn onto my side. Pretend to sleep. "Doggett." Her hands on my bare shoulder. Strong. Warm. Her touch electric. I stir from unsound sleep. "It's late," she says. I prop myself up on one elbow, glance at the alarm clock. I sit; run my hands through my hair. "Yeah, it is." I reply. "You should go." Her words are crisp, firm. She waits for me to move, to react. She seems nervous, as if she is expecting someone. I sit up slowly, still trying to gather my thoughts. I sit on the edge of the bed, hands in my hair, trying to avert the headache I feel building at my temples. She is distant tonight. Not interested in conversation, not interested in field reports, and I don't blame her. I talk enough for both us, though it's hard, a role I'm certainly not accustomed to. She glances at me with beseeching eyes. There is something she wants to say, but wishes she didn't have to. I see it in the fading light of her eyes. Though I should unburden her, I don't. I want to hear her say it. I wait, watching her inspect her hands. After a long silence, she sighs, her belly bobbing slightly and turns her face away, her flat expression the death knell of our "agreement." I stand on the steps of her brownstone, not knowing whether to feel slighted or relieved. Mostly, I feel irritated. Irritated with her, with myself, knowing I have let this go on too long. Knowing I should have never allowed things to get to this point. Never allowed myself to care for her, to imagine I could be something more to her than a poor substitute. I don't know when the standards I live by stopped applying to me. It's cold outside, but I don't feel it. I've got my resentment to keep me warm. Home doesn't feel exactly as it should. Though I know why, I can't admit it. I toss my jacket on the couch, drop my tie on the kitchen counter, and snap free the button of my collar. I yank the refrigerator door open. Old milk, sour orange juice, questionable leftovers stare back at me; I slam the door shut and grab the phone. I feel stupid ordering pizza. As if it were a habit that should have disappeared along with my youth. A habit that should have disappeared along with having a family, no other excuse for a man my age to be ordering pizza. For a second, I think I hear Luke complaining about the pepperoni. The pizza arrives with the half hour as promised. I drop it on the coffee table, watch TV while I eat. My house is quiet, only the canned laughter of old reruns and my old friend Jack Daniels to keep me warm. I eat, but it doesn't satisfy my hunger. Doesn't fill me up, doesn't provide nourishment. Eating seems pointless. Like so many other things lately, it is more an act of function than need. Later, when the phone rings, I don't answer. The machine clicks into life. I hear my own voice; somehow I don't sound the way I should, the way I sound to myself. I wonder if anyone else thinks the same thing. "Agent Doggett?" She sounds exhausted, even maybe a bit frightened. There is a long pause. She sighs and hangs up. I fall asleep on the couch again, a bachelor's habit. I never fell asleep on the couch when I was married. My neck creaks as I straighten up. Getting old, John. I rub my neck and stretch, listening to my bones pop and crack according to the Weather Channel it is nearly two am. I watch television with the sound off. Somewhere in the room a clock chimes three. Four hours, if I go to sleep right now, I can get four hours. Time is important to me, now that I have so much of it. Often, when I'm alone in the office, I watch the clock in a way I never did before. Before, there was no clock, only work. I lie on the couch and listen to the time tick away. My throat burns with regret for all the time I let slip by me. She's resigned herself to maternity clothes, though not enough to venture outside her standard suits. She leafs through the receipts of our last case. Her face carved into a scowl. "Are you certain this is everything?" She asks for the third time. I nod without looking up. "Agent Doggett," she snaps impatiently. I pull myself away from my blank computer screen. "What is it, Agent Scully?" Calmly, though calm is the last thing I feel. She taps her pencil against the desktop. "What the hell is your problem?" She snaps then shakes her head, sadly. "I thought we had an agreement." I play stupid, since stupid is what she must think I am. "I don't know what you mean." "Doggett." Her expression warns me not to push, not to demand what she can't give. I don't care. I push anyway. "Why can't you call me John?" She stares at the receipts at her desk. "I knew this was a mistake." She whispers. "I can't say I disagree, Agent Scully." I scoot my chair back, hooking my jacket as I go. She doesn't come after me. I don't expect her to. I know. I've behaved badly, childishly even, yet I can't force myself to go back. I don't like the jealous feelings she inspires. I feel myself being dragged down into her past, feel myself being lost in her. I promised myself I wouldn't lose myself that way again. The elevator doors ding open; it is mercifully empty. I stab the 'close door' button. Damn it, what does she expect from me? There is no competing with a memory. I can't compete with history. Why the hell should I have to? I won't share her even with a ghost. The doors slide open; I step into the parking garage. My wife used to tell me I was a hard man to love. I never understood what she meant. I never figured out whether she meant it was difficult to love me or too difficult to try not to. It was her delivery that kept the meaning vague. The way she'd shake her head and laugh whenever she said it always made me believe it was something good. I slip into traffic. I miss her. I miss the idea of her. Maybe that's what Scully misses about him-the what if, the maybe, seven years is a long time to hold your breath. I'm tired and already in a bad mood when she comes in. "Agent Doggett." She nods. "Agent Scully." I reply, nodding my own greeting. "You look tired." She tells me as she slips behind her desk. "Didn't sleep well." "I'm sorry to hear that." She says slowly, easing her laptop out onto the desk. I glance up at her. "You all right, Agent Scully?" "I'm fine." She states flatly, though it's obvious she is not. She sets about her morning routine. "Agent Scully." She glances up from her desk. "What is it?" Her question hangs between us. Yeah, Scully, what is it? What is it about you? What is about you that makes me want to cross this room and take you home? To make you forget him? To make you mine? To raise your child as if it were my own? What is it about you, Agent Scully that makes me feel incapable of doing any of those things? "Agent Doggett?" "I'm sorry, Agent Scully." I'm sorry, I can't do this. I want to be more than convenient. I want to hold on to you and never let you go. Want to watch your baby grow and have the chance to know him. Want to see my reflection in your eyes, just me, no one else. I know what I want. I don't do things half assed. Loving you is no exception. She tilts her head, tosses me a curious look. I don't know what to say. Or maybe I just can't say what I know. So, I say the only thing that seems both appropriate and true. "I guess it's all about timing, Dana." She nods then whispers wistfully. "I guess so, John." My name sounds so right on her lips, it hurts. I return to my paperwork. Eventually, I feel her gaze fall away from me.