At Your Feet, His Emblems Fall (1/2)

Author:  M. Sebasky

Email:  msebasky@yahoo.com

Rating:  R 

Archive permissions: Yes, Gossamer, Ephemeral,
Spookies.  All others, please ask. 

Spoilers:  TINH

Category:  Post EP, Frohike POV, Angst. Scully,
Doggett and Skinner are here, too.  

Feedback:  is always appreciated. 
msebasky@yahoo.com

Link:  http://geocities.com/msebasky/atyourfeet.html

Disclaimer:  I don't own these characters.  Chris
Carter and 1013 do.  If I did, they'd be treated
better. 

Thanks and notes at end.  

For Cofax.  Here's the idea you lent me. Thanks. 

_______________

At Your Feet His Emblems Fall

by M. Sebasky

_______________


Live long enough and you learn that bad shit happens. 

I said exactly that to Skinner the other morning. 
"Bad shit happens," I said.  

The guy just blinked and pushed his eggs around with
the corner of his toast.  I didn't expect to hear 
"Frohike, you're a fuckin' genius", but any sort of
acknowledgement would be civil.  After all, it *was*
8:30 in the morning.  

I took a pull of weak diner coffee and wished again
that I was drinking some of my special brew at home. 
I'd offered to cook for us at 11:00 a.m. or better
yet, 4 p.m. but no-ho-ho, none of this could be easy. 
Skinner didn't want home cookin'.  In fact, he refused
to meet at our place at all, mumbling something about
wanting this to be between him and me; he didn't want
the other guys around while we were talking
arrangements.  

I knew damn well it didn't matter if Byers or Langly
heard about eulogies and caskets and crap like that. 
The truth was Langly could make Skinner crazy in about
two seconds and that's the real reason why I got
dragged out of bed at 8:00 a.m. to drink bad coffee
and eat grease.  

Skinner's eggs had been pushed around so much they
were a gooey mess.  He gave them another shove and the
bread flaked off, mixing in with the runny-side up
yolk.  It was starting to make me sick.  If I weren't
so determined to do this right, I would have never
agreed to meet him at all.

Yeah, yeah, I know.  Everybody's having a hard time
with the whole Montana scene, even Mr. Ex-Marine
across the table.  But hell, I didn't have to go to
Montana and see what these people saw, this still
wasn't easy.  And I double-dog dare anyone to talk
talk about interment options before 9 a.m. and not
sound like a callous asshole. 

A growl from the other side of the table threatened to
wake me the rest of the way up.  

"Shit happens?  Is that your official viewpoint, Mr.
Frohike?"

I didn't say anything. When I'm half asleep, I've
learned to let sarcasm slide and take another slug of
coffee. If you live with Langly you've got no other
choice.

But where Skinner was concerned, not speaking when
spoken to was gasoline on the fire.  From the way he
snapped at me,it was clear he takes that whole
Assistant Director power-trip way too seriously. 

"Mr. Frohike, I used to have a bumper sticker on my
car that said that exact thing.  I drove around town
telling everyone I knew that 'shit happened.'  In
fact, I used to find the whole idea funny."  Skinner
gave his eggs a savage scramble. "Of course, that's
before I knew what it really meant.  Now, I don't
think it's so funny.  And it's certainly not an answer
to what happened out there.  Not an answer at all."  

I have to admit, I make it standard practice to get
cautious quick when I hear that sort of rabid tone
from a guy as big as Skinner.  However, in this kind
of situation, retreat wasn't an option so I settled on
platitude 957.  

"Well, from where I'm sitting, there was nothing you
could have done."

He laughed at that.  "No, Mr. Frohike. You can be
assured there were other choices.  I just made all the
wrong ones."

I don't like to aid and abet self-flagellation, but if
Skinner wanted to talk, I'd grant his wish.  I'd have
barked like a dog if I thought it would get me out of
there faster.  

"Look, you went in there to get Mulder and you got
him.  You made the call and it went down like it went
down and there's nothing you can do about it now.  You
of all people should know that.  You served in 'Nam." 
 

That's right, I said the Big Bad N-word. Skinner's
eyes shot daggers at me from over the top of his
glasses. I glared at him right back. "Besides, what
miracle could you have done to save him?  He was
already dead.  When people are dead, they're dead. 
The only guy that's ever been able to change that was
Jesus.  And he sure the hell wasn't in Montana that
night."

Skinner's jaw set like rock.  It made him look like he
belonged on Mt. Rushmore.  "Agent Scully believes
there was something--"

"Agent Scully? She's a smart lady, but--"

Skinner jerked back like I'd hit him. "But what?" he
barked.   

Heads turned our way. I managed to keep my cool and
dump another four packets of sugar into the coffee mug
at the same time.  

And Byers says I can't multi-task.  

"Agent Scully isn't..." I was going to really have to
watch myself here.  "She isn't the best person to
listen to where this is concerned."

It was a lame answer and Skinner jumped on it. 
Immediately, he pulled that cool professional look,
that erudite son-of-a-bitch look he's used in the past
when dealing with us Gunmen.  We all hate it but I
really, really hate it.  

"Frohike, Agent Scully has a better understanding--"

I'd had enough.  My coffee cup hit the table hard
enough to make a splash. "Agent Scully wanted to save
him, more than you did.  She's probably holding on to
anything because she wants him back so bad." 

"Agent Scully--"

I was pissed off now. "Scully loved him more than any
of us.  She would believe anything if she thought it
would bring Mulder back. If I were you, I wouldn't put
a lot of stock in what Agent Scully thinks right now. 
After all she's been through, she's probably half out
of her mind."

Just like the rest of us.
 
Skinner glared down at his plate and then over at me. 
>From the look in his eyes, I thought he was going to
do to me what he'd done to his eggs. 

Then, out of the blue, the tough-guy act dropped and
his face crumpled like a paper napkin.  He looked back
down but not so fast that I didn't see tears.  "I
promised her," he growled.  "I promised her we'd find
him."

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't made a plan of
action for being stuck at a table with a crying
Skinner. I looked everywhere but at him.  "Well, you
did find him.  You brought him home. That's got to
mean something." 

"I shouldn't have called the raid. We should have gone
in quietly."

I pulled at my collar.  From the way I was sweating,
you'd think the temperature had gone up fifty degrees
in the last minute. "You brought him home," I said
again.  

"There's more to it.  I had a responsibility to her. 
I made a promise."  He fixed me with a hard look.
"She's...well, she's..."

I didn't look away.  "You mean the..." I made some
weak gesture with my hand over my stomach. 

He nodded, probably relieved he didn't have to say it.
 Here's a fact: guys don't like to talk about women
things.  We don't even like to say the terminology out
loud. 

Skinner had said something, but I hadn't caught it. 
He asked again, louder this time.  "When did you find
out?"

"The day she asked me to handle everything. Speaking
of which, I need to know what the Bureau wants to do. 
It's why you drug me out of bed, right?"

Skinner nodded.  "Yeah.  I guess we should talk about
it."

I pulled a pen out of my pocket and got a fresh napkin
out of the dispenser to write on. "Okay, then.  Tell
me what they're paying for, tell me what's covered and
what's not and let's get this over with and get out of
here."

Skinner pulled off his glasses.  "I'm sorry.  Give me
a minute."  He put a hand over his eyes.  "It's hard."

Like I didn't know that?  I almost snapped then.  I
almost said, "Tell me about how hard it is, Walter
Skinner.  You pick out and buy your friend's casket
and then tell me how hard it is."

But I didn't say anything, just got the information I
needed and then got the hell out of Dodge. You say
that kind of thing and it will just keep you there
longer. 

These days, I'm a busy man.   

________________________


The last time Mulder died, I got drunk.  Really,
really drunk.  I ended up over at Scully's place
thinking I was some sort of tragic hero when in the
hung-over light of reality, I was just tragic.  It's a
miracle she ever spoke to me again.  

The point is, I've had my drunken cry over Mulder. I
did my mourning the first time around and even though
I inflicted myself on her, Dana Scully was there for
me.

This time, I owe her. 

It's no secret that I'm crazy about the woman.  At
first, it was because she was: A) smart and B) a total
babe.  In fact, she is still A) smart and B) a total
babe.  That hasn't changed a bit.

But, there's more to it now.  Over the years I've come
to find out there's more to her than just those
initial impressions.  Mulder always said that she's
like a fine combination of steel and china and that
where Agent Scully was concerned, a guy could never be
sure whether she was going to break or turn around and
break you.  

I didn't expect the call the day she got back.  By
then, we'd got wind of how things went down.  I knew
she'd call at some point, but it was right away,
pretty much the moment she got off the plane with the
body. 

The next surprise came when she invited me over. I
asked if Byers should tag along but she said no. This
was between her and me.  

She sat on the sofa with a steel rod for a spine. I
was sitting across from her in a way-overstuffed
chair.  I felt wrong to be lounging in the thing. It
felt like I was in church or court or something.   

She hadn't said much since inviting me in.  We'd sat
down and it was like she'd forgotten I was there. 
After about ten of the longest minutes of my life, I
couldn't take it anymore.  I had to say something, 
so, I stated the obvious, feeling like a moron the
entire time.  

"You look tired, Agent Scully."

I tell you, I can shoot, but I can't score. I might as
well have told her "shit happens" because she gave me
a "who let you in" look from a million miles away.  

"I am."  Then out of the blue, she went on.  "They
want to do an autopsy."

I sat up in the chair as quick as the cushions would
let me.  "You're not going to--"

"No. That wouldn't be wise."

I sank back feeling like mounds of cushion and fabric
were eating me alive.  "Good."

She looked at me like I was from Mars, although
considering the situation, maybe that's not such a
great analogy. "I'm not stupid, Frohike.  Or crazy."

I tried to sit up straighter.  It was like fighting
quicksand. She must have seen I was struggling because
she patted the sofa.  "Come over here, Frohike.  I'd
like to ask you something."

I lurched out of the chair like a shorter version of
Frankenstein's monster and sat next to her.  That's
when she told me that she wanted me to handle it all:
the funeral, the memorial service, all the details
that the dead require and the living never forget. 
She didn't want her last memories of Mulder to be the
business of death. She said that she didn't trust
anyone else but me to do it because she knew that I
really was Mulder's friend. She told me she knew I'd
do a good job. She told me she knew I would take good
care of him. 

That's when I almost cried. 

We sat there on the couch and I said all the things
she needed to hear. I told her I'd handle things and
keep her informed, if that's what she wanted. I told
her if she needed anything, to let me know. I told her
that I wouldn't let her down. She nodded at each
platitude and we sat there and said the right things
to each other without saying anything important at
all. It was like we were reading off scripts, even
when she told me about the baby.  

I kept waiting for her to say something else. To say
something that sounded real.  

But she didn't. At least, not on that day. 

___________________

Death is a pain in the ass. 
 
It's a lot of work, getting a funeral ready, even a
small one like Mulder's. By now, it was no mystery why
Scully had asked me to handle things. It's a drag
deciding about concrete-lined vaults and coffin
options and it's depressing as hell planning a funeral
for a guy with no living family and very few friends. 


I made the decision to bag a memorial service.  All
the major people in Mulder's life didn't total ten and
if all of them didn't show up, that kind of thing
would be positively grim.  In this case, a simple
graveside service in Carolina seemed to be the best
choice. 

I was calling around, making arrangements, minding my
own business, when the whole thing went bizarre.  

It started with a phone call from Doggett, which was
odd enough on its own.  He told me he wanted to let me
know that Mulder had already bought his own headstone.
It was down at FBI headquarters.  Did I want to pick
it up?

Hell NO I didn't want to pick it up. Like I'd ever
step foot into the Hoover building. I was surprised I
even had to explain this with to Doggett. I figured
he'd give me sort sort of shit when I asked if he'd
ship the thing directly to the cemetery in North
Carolina but he said he was glad to oblige. 

Then, things got really strange. He asked me if I
would to meet him for a beer. 

There's something about John Doggett that should be
too much cop for me, but here's the skinny:  for some
weird reason, I like the guy.  Maybe it's that
straight shooter vibe he gives off.  He's the sort
that could sell you swamp land in Florida and as
you're sinking up to your ass in alligators you'd
still think, "What an honest guy."

I agreed to meet him. Langly wanted me to wear the
usual wire, but I said no.  Reckless?  Definitely. 
But wearing a wire to meet John Doggett didn't feel
right. 

I chose the bar. I don't get out much but when I do, I
go to this dive near the Watergate.  As bars go, it's
a conspiratists' wet dream; a little hole in the wall
that empties out after seven at night except for
hard-core Hill alcoholics who are too drunk to
remember what anyone says and actors from the Kennedy
Center who wouldn't care anyway.  The drinks are
strong and the bartender casts a blind eye to who
comes in and who says what.  Who could ask for
anything more?

Doggett was already there when I walked in, drinking
some American brewed piss-water which reaffirmed he
really was my kind of guy. After ordering a piss-water
of my own, we moved to a graffiti-scarred booth in the
back. I lifted my beer to take a pull but Doggett
stopped me by raising his bottle. "A toast, I think."

The bottle stopped on route to my lips. Sure. What the
hell?

Doggett looks a guy right in the eyes. It feels like
he can read your mind.  

"To Mulder," he said.

Damn straight, to Mulder. I raised my glass to his and
the beer slid down smooth.  

To Mulder. I should have thought of it myself.  

It was then his loss really hit me, sort of like a
runaway locomotive, too hard and out of control. I set
down the bottle like it had poison in it. One drink
was enough. I knew if I had another pull, I'd end up
just like before; blind drunk and crazy with grief.  

Doggett was still staring a hole in me. "So, Melvin. 
How're you doin'?"

It took me a second before I could answer. "Call me
Frohike."

"Frohike. Scully. Mulder." Doggett shook his head.
"Well, when in Rome." He took another swig of beer.
"So, Frohike. You didn't answer my question.  How're
you doin'?"

For some reason, it didn't occur to me to lie. "Not so
good, Agent Doggett."

"Yeah. Me, too."

My ears pricked at that. "Yeah?"

Doggett nodded.  "It's a shame, Frohike. It's a real
fuckin' shame."

I looked over at him and it may sound weird, when he
said that, I knew I could finish the beer, maybe even
have another, and not get drunk this time. It's one
thing to drink by yourself when you're grieving, but
it's another thing entirely when you're not alone,
when another man is across the table from you, going
through the same shit you are.  When that's the case,
you can hold each other up and it's an honorable
thing. 

Doggett took another pull from the bottle. "You're
probably wondering why I asked you to meet me." 

"The thought had crossed my mind."

He leaned back against the scarred wood. "There are a
couple of reasons.  First off, I heard you were
handling the funeral arrangements.  I had to do that a
few years back.  It's a thankless job.  Really hard."

I shrugged, but he was right. It was.  

"The thing is, nobody ever thinks about what has to be
done to put someone you've cared about, a friend or--"
He took a pull from the bottle.  "A loved one in the
ground.  There's finality in all those phone calls and
arrangements.  Real finality and for the people who
have to do it, it can be a really hard thing."

He raised a hand so the bartender could see it and
ordered two more for us.  "Anyway, I thought maybe you
could use a beer."

"Thanks.  What's the other reason?"

Doggett snickered.  "I like you, Frohike.  You cut
right through it."  

I tipped my bottle his way.  Damn right, I do.  

He tipped his back and ran a hand over his mouth.
"Well, I've been thinking about it and I know if what
happened to Mulder happened to me, I'd want my friends
to go out and raise a beer to me.  A man's memory
deserves that."

I was born a smart ass; I'll die a smart ass.   I
looked around.  "Friends, huh?  Then shouldn't Skinner
be here?"

Doggett didn't joke back.  "Lately--" He took another
drink.  "There's been a couple of things recently,
things I've picked up on that others might not notice.
 Things with Agent Scully--" 

"Scully?"  My inner pitbull reared it's ugly head. 

He raised a hand.  "Hey, it's just a feeling I have
but let's just say that whereas I'm sure Skinner
respected Mulder, I'm not so sure Skinner was what you
would call Mulder's friend."

I didn't say anything.  I knew Mulder had questioned
Skinner's loyalties in the past. I also knew that
Skinner cared about Mulder, but I could see Doggett's
point.  They weren't exactly bosom buddies by any
stretch of the imagination.   

Doggett was staring hard at me.  "What do you think,
Frohike?  You think Mulder would've wanted him here?"

I stared hard back.  Then, I picked my beer up again. 
"To Mulder."

"To Mulder," John Doggett echoed. 

The bottles clinked and that sound was the only good
thing I'd heard since the terrible call where Scully
told me Mulder was dead. 

I knew I liked John Doggett for a reason.

________________


After I left the bar that night, I remembered I still
needed to get a suit.   The body was supposed to be
shipped down to North Carolina the next day and part
of the deal is you're supposed to send the clothes you
want "your loved one to spend his or her eternal rest
in."  I had explained to the funeral coordinator down
there, some over-polite heavy-accented idiot named
Duane, that we were basically just dumping the beloved
directly in the casket into the hole, no viewing.  

It didn't matter.  Duane had called that morning to
let me know that appropriate clothing would need to be
sent with "the deceased" or there could be "a
situation."  He wanted to "facilitate the process" and
I needed to "work with him."  I told him that the best
way he could facilitate me was by shoving his rules
and regulations up his ass.  At that point, Duane
turned tough and told me no suit, no service. 
Literally.

You gotta love the South.  You can't buy beer on
Sundays and apparently, you can't be buried naked. 
Look away, Dixie Land. 

Since I was a train ride from Georgetown, I hopped the
Metro and went over to Mulder's place.  I'm long past
needing keys to get into places, so I jimmied the lock
in about ten seconds and went in to the darkened
apartment thinking I'd be out of there in about the
same. 

Just an observation:  the sound of a SIG Sauer hammer
being pulled back in the dark is enough to make a
grown man piss himself.   

A female voice came at me, cold and hard.  "Freeze
where you are."

I tried not to blither. "Agent Scully?"  Please God,
let it be Agent Scully.  

A light snapped on and the six beers in me made me
stumble backwards a step. My eyes squinched shut.  

"Frohike? What are you doing here?"  

I pried my eyes open.  Scully was sitting up on
Mulder's blanket-covered sofa, gun in hand, still
raised.  Since I'm really not cool with guns being
leveled at me I managed to say, "Uh, could you put
that thing down?"  

She blinked hard.  "Oh. Sorry." The gun lowered and 
Scully stood up, flannel pajamas looking like she'd
had them made by Omar the Tent Maker. God, the woman
was thin.   

"What are you doing here?" she asked again.

No "good to see you," no "sorry I scared the shit out
of you," just the question, "what are you doing?" 
Understandable, I guess, but still.  

I shrugged it off. "I need a suit."  

"What?"  She looked about four, standing there in
those big pajamas, rubbing her eyes. 

"A suit."  

"For the funeral?"

Finally, we were on the same page, here.  "Yeah.  I
was in this part of town and--"

It's like she didn't hear me.  "Mulder's suits won't
fit you," she mumbled, gazing around the apartment
like she was looking for something.

Okay, we were *not* on the same page at all and
fuckidy fuck fuck Mrs. Frohike's little boy Melvin was
going to have to lay this out. I took a deep breath
and hoped I sounded gentle.  "The suit's not for me."

"What?" 

"I said the suit's not for me."

"Who's it--"

That's when she got it. 

Let me tell you:  bad shit can leave a mark on you and
that's exactly what happened.  I saw her face change. 
I swear to God, when she understood what I meant,
lines that weren't there before just showed up and
didn't leave. I hated that I was the one that had to
put them there.  I really hated it. 

I started to move towards her, I thought she would
fall over or something, but she held up a hand.  

"Oh," she said.  Nothing else.  Just "oh".  

Suddenly, I felt like ten pounds of shit in a
five-pound bag.  I shouldn't have come over here and
disturbed her.  I should have just waited until
morning.  

I could feel my face turning red, so I blurted
something like "I just need to get this and I'll get
out of your way. I didn't know you were here or--"

"No," she said in this far-away voice. "No, you
couldn't know."  She walked past me and put her hand
on my wrist as she went.  Her palm was ice-cold. "Stay
here.  I'll get you one."
 
She moved past me like the ghosts Mulder and she used
to chase and disappeared into the bedroom.  I stood in
the half-dark living room, feeling completely
helpless, waiting for this incredible woman to come
back out and hand me a suit so I could leave her alone
to sleep or not in her dead partner's apartment. 

Suddenly, I was angry. I mean, homicidal angry, the
way you can get when someone cuts you off in traffic.
I stood there, looking at Mulder's stuff, watching his
fucking fish get to live because they hadn't gone off
and done some dumbass thing like get abducted.  I
looked at his books, safe on their shelves, at his
couch, probably still warm with the body heat of the
woman who loved him. The guy could have had a hell of
a life and he had to go and ruin it all by dying.
Goddamn it.  It wasn't fair.  It wasn't fair for her. 
It wasn't fair for Skinner.  It wasn't even fair for
Doggett and he didn't even know him.  

And it wasn't fair for me.  I loved Fox Mulder and the
son of a bitch had to go and die on me again.

It wasn't fucking fair.  

It took a while, but even though I was able to get
myself back under control, I still felt like I was too
close to falling in to some kind of emotional pit.  I
knew I was going to need to get out of there pretty
quick.  I'd get home, I'd blow off some steam, kill
Langly a couple of times in Tekken and life would seem
a little more under control.  I'd just get the suit
and--

The suit.  Scully still wasn't back with the suit. 

"Agent Scully?"  

No answer.

I peered in to the dark bedroom but there was no one
in sight.  I crept in, moving like I used to navigate
through minefields where you expect the explosion with
every step.  I said her name again, whispered it this
time, like if I said it to loud I'd bring back the
dead.  

"Scully?"  

I heard a noise from the corner of the room.  She was
in the closet, standing in front of Mulder's greatest
indulgence:  a row of dark, expensive suits.  I used
to make fun of him for spending so much on the things,
but I have to admit, the guy always looked like a
million bucks.  

I turned on the overhead. The blaze of light made me
squint.  When my vision came back, I saw Scully was
holding on to a jacket's sleeve, still hanging on its
hanger, like she was trying to hold an invisible hand.
  

"I could have saved him," she said, staring down at
the empty hole at the end of the arm.  "I could have
saved him, Frohike."

Tears were running down her face and her nose was
dripping. "Jeremiah Smith was there. He was saving
abductees. He told me he was trying to save Mulder
when we came in.  He asked me to protect him and do
you know what I did?"  A clear drop fell from her nose
onto the dark fabric in her hand.  "I left him behind
and while I was away, they took him.  I knew Jeremiah
Smith needed my help.  He could have healed Mulder. 
And I left him behind."  

The world seemed to slip sideways and I remembered a
conversation Mulder and I had one late night when he
had stopped by, sleepless and bored.  I had the flu at
the time and had collapsed in bed after what felt like
my fiftieth trip to the can that night alone. Byers
had made some joke about me needed a faith-healer as
antibiotics would curdle in my bloodstream and Mulder
had offered to go find Jeremiah Johnson.  "He'd
sweeten you up, Frohike." Mulder had joked.   "One
touch from him and you'd be Rebecca of Sunnybrook
farm."  

All kidding aside, he'd told us about the guy, how he
really believed in Smith's ability to heal people from
serious pain and disease. "He's the real thing, a
modern-day miracle," Mulder had said, staring off into
the distance.  "I mean, think about it. Jesus was able
to raise the dead.  It makes sense that eventually,
someone else would figure it out, too."

"Frohike?"  

Scully was staring at me, waiting for me to say
something wise or comforting. Instead, I opened my
mouth and inserted my foot. 

"Sorry. I was thinking about Mulder."

It was an asshole thing to say and I started to fall
all over myself apologizing, but she actually smiled.
"I understand," she whispered, looking at the suits. 
"I do that all the time."

She looked down at the sleeve in her hand. "Frohike, I
need to ask you another favor."

"Anything."

"I need to ask you to tell me the truth."

>From the look on her face, I knew where this was
going.  At that moment, if I had been given a choice
between putting bamboo splints under my fingernails
and going through what was coming up, I'd probably
have gone with the bamboo. 

Instead I just said, "Always," and then promised
myself I'd mean it.

Scully took a deep breath. "Skinner says it wasn't my
fault. He keeps telling me not to blame myself. He
says there's nothing anybody could have done to save
Mulder."  

Her eyes were sad. "Did Mulder tell you about Jeremiah
Smith?  About what he could do?"

I nodded. 

"Do you believe what he told you?"

This time I thought before I spoke.  "I know Mulder
believed it.  You do, don't you?"

Scully nodded. "Yes. I saw things..."  She was crying
again. "I saw things I can no longer deny.  Jeremiah
Smith was a healer.  He was the real thing."

Never mind what I said to Skinner about Agent Scully's
perspective. I looked her straight in the eyes and I
knew she was telling the truth.  

"Then I believe it, too."

She reached out and took my hand.  "I know you loved
Mulder."

I felt my own eyes sting.  "Yeah."

"I know you were his friend."

"Yeah. I was."

She clutched my hand so hard, her fingernails dug into
my skin.  "Then tell me the truth. Tell me I didn't
make a mistake by leaving Jeremiah Smith behind.  Tell
me I did the right thing.  I need to know once and for
all. Be straight with me, Frohike.  No one else will."

I remember hearing my father say that sometimes, being
a man means doing things you don't want to do. 
Sometimes, being someone's friend means telling them
things they don't want to hear.  I looked at the woman
across from me.  I looked around at my friend's
closet, at all those clothes that would never be worn
again.  I knew the only thing that was worthy of the
man who owned them was to tell her the truth.

So, I did.

"You know I can't.  If Jeremiah Smith was the real
thing, like you believe, then there's a chance--" I
looked down at her hand holding on to mine and my
throat felt thick.  "There was a chance that he might
have been able to save him."

Scully was crying and nodding.  "I know," she said
over and over again.

I put my other hand around hers. "I'm sorry, Scully. 
I wish I could tell you different.  I wish I could
tell you--"

And then we were both crying, and she was telling me
it was all right she knew it all along, she just
needed to hear it and I was telling her how sorry I
was and how much it hurt to say that to her but I knew
she trusted me and I didn't want to let her down and
then we both were saying how much we missed him and
wanted him back. 

And there, in Mulder's closet, surrounded by his
things, we held on to one another. And for the first
time since this all went down, we both cried. 

For him.  

For us. 

______________________

Finis
______________________

I wanted to get this out before the Gunmen go solo
tonight, so here it is.  

MUCH thanks to the betas of Marasmus, T Avery, K.
Keil.  A special thanks to S.E. Parsons for making me
go back and rewrite the whole thing.  You were dead-on
right.

This was my variation on an idea shared with me for
inspiration by Cofax.  She's writing her version. 
Stalk her for it.  

Like it?  Hate it?  Let's talk:  msebasky@yahoo.com