Sojourn
**************
Amanda Wilde (MaybeAmanda)
Feedback: maybe_a@rocketmail.com 
http://www.geocities.com/maybe_aa  
Feb 17/01

Rating: S for Squeaky.  

Category: VA -- Per Manum missing 
scene/vignette type thing.  Lots of angst.  
Equally shipper and noromo unfriendly.

Spoilers: Assumes knowledge through Per Manum 
(8ABX13)but nothing past that episode 

Disclaim THIS:  Chris Carter owns M&S; Fox owns 
The XFiles; I own this story. No infringement 
intended.

Archive: Sure. Thanks!

Thanks to: Amy for virtual coffee, support, 
beta, a title, and side trips to the ranch; 
Weyo, for - well, if she reads this (ha!) 
she'll see it.  Yeah, yeah, 3.9 - bite me, 
bitte shoen; Connie and Anna for spoiling 
me rotten. 

For: Euphrosyne, Ebonbird, Foxsong, and the 
rest of the Olympic Freestyle Beta Squad, 
spoiler-virgins all.  You guys have my 
admiration.  Of course, I've got the happy 
smirk.

Walnut: I'm sure you understand... 

**********

Summary:  Just tell her. 

**********

Park your car in front of the big duplex down 
the street, same as always.  Pull the key out 
of the ignition and set the parking brake.  
Reach for the door handle; think better of it.  

Grip the steering wheel instead; squeeze 
until your knuckles turn white.  Take a deep 
breath.  Take two.  Take a couple more.  See 
what works for you; you've got all night.

In, out.  Slow and steady wins the race.  

In, out. 

Try to imagine what in the hell you are going 
to say.  

Feel no surprise at all when your mind decides 
to go blank.  

In, out.

Tell yourself it's just like any other day, any 
other visit.  

It's just Scully; you're just going to see 
Scully.  

See if that helps.

When you feel steady - well, less unsteady, 
which is something - climb out of the car.  
Check the locks.  Glance at the tires.  Then
slam the door - it doesn't help, but damn! 
it sure feels good. 

Walk down the block to her building.  Not too 
quickly, because you don't want to look 
anxious. 

Because you aren't anxious.  Not really.

Climb the outside steps - one two three four 
five six seven - sidestep a bundle of 
newspapers awaiting Saturday morning delivery, 
and slip your key into the lock. 

Remember a time when you thought this key was 
a charm, a portent, a Very Good Sign.  A 
beginning, maybe; the first chapter of a story 
waiting for its breathtaking middle and 
thrilling conclusion? 

Maybe this is both. 

Jiggle the key, twist hard to the right, and 
pull sharply.  Brute force - that's the only 
way this thing will work. 

Maybe it's just a key, after all.  Maybe that's 
all it ever was.

Yank the key roughly from the lock; shove the 
thought roughly from your mind.  You couldn't 
have been that wrong.  

Things just. . .things just changed. 

Wonder what it would take to get your mind to 
go happily blank, again. 

Cross the foyer, push the call button.  These 
elevators are so slow, so old, and getting 
older by the second.  You know you could just 
take the stairs and get there a lot faster, a 
hell of a lot faster.  But fast, for once, 
isn't the issue.  

Check your semi-warped reflection in the 
elevator's semi-warped polished steel door.  
Squint self-consciously.  When you're still out 
of focus, narrow your eyes a little more.  No, 
there's no doubt; your hair DOES look stupid.  

Has it looked this way all day?  This 
afternoon, when the two of you were talking at 
the office -- no, honestly, when she was 
talking 
and you were gawking at her in wide-eyed-
working-on-slack-jawed disbelief -- was 
your hair sticking up all porcupine-stupid like 
this?  

Was there some possibility that she might have 
walked in prepared to give her well-considered, 
carefully-worded, sanitized-for-your-protection 
sales pitch, taken one good look at your 
stupid, stupid hair, and asked herself 'What in 
the hell was I thinking?'  Did she almost 
decide to talk about the weather, instead? 

Would it have been better if she had? 

Run your fingers through your hair one way.  
Now, the other.  No improvement.  Brush it 
forward, slightly.  Try back.  Oh, great, now 
you're - what's the word?  Primping?  Preening? 

What is this, a date? 

Push the button again and wonder if there's an 
opposite of 'date'.

Anti-date.  Non-date.  UnDate.  Etad.  If there 
isn't one, there really should be.  If there is 
one, well, this is it. 

Scowl.  

Realize, as the door slides open and your 
stupid-haired doppelganger disappears into the 
wall, that you've been scowling most of the 
day.  

Push the button for her floor and admit 
that's only half true; when you weren't 
scowling, you were thinking about names and 
trust funds and impossibly small baseball 
jerseys and grinning like an idiot.  

Like an idiot with stupid hair and what amounts 
to a hopeless crush.

Crush.  Oh, the irony isn't lost on you.  

Shove your hands in your pockets.  Rattle your 
keys.  Watch the numbers light up one by one.  
Rattle your keys again.  Yeah, that'll help.  

Christ, why did you drive all the way over here 
if you don't know what you're going to tell 
her? 

Tell her. . .tell her. . .tell her that you are 
flattered.  That's a good place to start.  You 
'are' flattered.  Truly, absolutely, totally, 
completely, revoltingly, pathetically, self-
loathingly flattered.  Really. 

Tell her it's not the sort of thing you get 
asked to do every day.  Any day, actually.  
This is a first.  Today is some kind of 
red-letter, circle-it-on-the-calendar, 
Hallmark-ought-to-make-a-card-for-this day.

Tell her no one's ever wanted your child 
before.  No one's ever WANTED to be pregnant 
courtesy of yours truly.  Tell her this is as 
close to someone wanting you - really wanting 
you - as you're probably ever going to get. 

Tell her you appreciate how hard it must have 
been for her, how hard it must be for her, to 
open herself to you like this.  Tell her you 
know what it feels like to paint concentric 
circles on your chest, hand someone you care 
for a b-i-i-i-i-g box of bullets, and ask them 
to take aim.

Then tell her what she already knows; that you 
couldn't intentionally hurt her if you tried.  

That's why she asked you, of course.  You're a 
sure thing, a done deal.  Signed, sealed, 
delivered - you're hers.

Hers. 

Right. 

Stab the button again. 

Tell her you're glad she has finally found a 
use for some part of you.  You had always 
secretly hoped it might be your heart, but, in 
a pinch, you'd have settled very happily for 
her wanting your body.  

As it turns out, all she wants is a thimbleful 
of haploid cells, but that's something, right?  
The way things are going, you'll be dead in a 
year anyway, so you should be grateful, right? 

You are grateful, right? 

In, out. 

Brush down your lapels and sleeves when the 
elevator finally reaches her floor.  Straighten 
your tie.  Wonder if your hair still looks 
stupid. 

Tell her you know how much she wants this.  
Tell her how much you want this, too, but. . . 

But, I'm sorry, Scully.  Not like this.  Never 
like this. 

Tell her no.  

Tell her thank you, but no.  Tell her you can, 
and frequently do, break your own heart; tell 
her you don't need her help for that.

You're incidental to her plans, anyway.  She'll 
get over it, or find someone else, or make a 
withdrawal from the Nobel Bank.  She'll get the 
baby she wants, the new life she craves, and 
you can spend whatever time you have left 
watching her grow some other man's child. 

Gee, doesn't that sound like fun? 

Tell her you just can't because you're. . .

Jesus, just tell her. 

Walk as quietly as you can down the hallway 
that's never seemed this long before.  When you 
finally reach your destination, raise your fist 
to knock.  

Pause; think about running away.  

Think about how happy she'd be if you just said 
'yes'.  Think of the shy smile and the happy 
tears, the way she sniffs and wipes her nose 
with the back of her hand when she is literally 
so happy she could cry.  Does cry.  

Think of how little she's really asking, and 
how much it could mean, how good it could be, 
for both of you.

Think that maybe, just maybe, for a minute or 
so, she'll love you almost as much as you love 
her.  

It could happen. 

Run your hand through your hair again. 

Maybe it already has.  Maybe she does.  Maybe 
that's why you're standing here with your 
stupid hair and jangled nerves and fist in the 
air and... 

Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  

Knock.  Listen to her footsteps come across the 
hardwood toward you. 

Tell yourself it's just like any other day, any 
other visit.  

It's just Scully; you're just going to see 
Scully.  

See if that helps.

**************
NOTE:  Geez, relax.  This is obviously set pre-
'all things.'  And we all know what happened in 
'all things.'  At least, I do. ::g:: 

Thanks for reading!
maybe_a@rocketmail.com