Knowing Author: Gatorgurl Rating: PG Category: Story D/Sc Spoilers: None. Set in Season 8. Archive: SHODDS, OBSDS, XFMU okay. All others please ask. Disclaimer: Umm, still don't belong to me, still strictly the property of FOX and Chris Carter. Feedback: Please at gatorgurl94@yahoo.com Author's notes: Thanks go out to Lisa S. and Ri for their beta, comments, and time. I consider her, her muted glances and stilted smiles. I consider her abbreviated commentary, her terse remarks. I am a man lost, reading the map without a key, knowing I will never find my way. Scully stands stiffly beside the slide projector. She is waiting for my protest, knowing I doubt her theory. Today, I am not much for fighting, knowing it won't do any good. I can see she has decided our course of action and for once I am satisfied to simply follow along. My wife would often ask me, perched at the edge of the bed as she handed me my clothes, if I didn't find it ironic that I have spent most of my adult life living out of a suitcase. I think she found it humorous, knowing how much I hate to travel. I snap my bag shut and set it by the door. The town and hotel are like any other. Truth is they all started to look the same years ago. Scully walks ahead of me, key dangling from the tips of her fingers. She walks with purpose, her spine ramrod, arms at her side; she marches like a soldier. I lag behind, purposely leaving space between us, not that we aren't miles apart anyway. No adjoining rooms tonight. I am thankful. I have grown to dread having her so close, knowing that on the other side of one flimsy, ill-constructed wall, she is dressing and undressing, sleeping unsoundly beneath scratchy sheets. I glance habitually to the nightstand where the clock should be, but there is none. For an instant I am free. It seems my entire life has been ruled by dictates of time. Barbara told me once that I should live a little. This as I hustled her into the truck, winter break, her senior year in college, complaining about her tardiness and total disrespect for scheduling. "I bet you couldn't spend just ONE day without that watch," she'd said. Though she tried to sound playful, I could hear the irritation simmering below the surface. "Don't you ever just want to be free?" She shouted back to me as I shoved her trunk onto the flatbed of my truck. I scrambled into the driver's side, cold biting into my dress shoes. A car comes to life in the parking lot; I pluck my wristwatch off the nightstand: midnight. I told her then and to my surprise it still applies. Freedom is fine, but I like being anchored. It is night; I know that much, though I can't say whether it is more night than day or day than night. I open the door, without considering who or what might be on the other side. "Agent Scully?" She seems startled; as if it were the first time she's actually seen me. She clears her throat, averting her eyes. She is fully dressed, wearing the same clothes she had been all day. Suddenly, I realize how naked I am, dressed in only boxers. "I couldn't sleep." She tells me flatly, scrutinizing the door jam as she speaks. "I wondered if you might have some tea with me." Then adds quickly. "But I can see you are already in bed." "I don't like tea," I spit out as she starts to go. "But I'd love a cup of coffee." She nods her head; I step aside and let her in. She rubs the side of her cup with her thumb thoughtlessly, her gaze focused on her reflection in the window. "Thanks for coming with me." She tells the window then turns to me. "I appreciate it." "Not a problem." I take a long drink. She tilts her cup, watching the tea swirl inside it. Despite the fact we were already late, Barbara insisted we stop. She needed to go the bathroom and she really wanted a cup of coffee. Half an hour later I stopped at a roadside restaurant for her. She ran in while I sat in the car waiting. "Are you sure you don't want some coffee?" "I don't drink coffee." I snapped. "You don't drink coffee?" She had asked incredulously. She shook her head and laughed. "You really are something, John." I tugged at my jacket uncomfortably, glancing at my watch. The waitress asks if we'd like anything to eat as she refills my coffee and pours Scully more hot water. We decline. She struts off to a newly occupied table. "I'm sorry; I'm not very good company tonight." I nod, wishing I had the courage to let her know I understand. I'm just a warm body and she didn't want to be alone. She leans into the overstuffed booth and stares out the window into the parking lot. We walk across the crowded truck stop parking lot back to the hotel. It is 3:45 am. A small gust of wind corrals us, but is of no comfort. It is too warm; the humidity rests on us like a heavy blanket. I just want to get inside. As we reach the parking space outside her door, she glances up into the night sky. "I used to see promise there," she says then begins to fish for her hotel key. She rummages loudly through her purse; I stop her, slip my hand into her pocket and pluck out her key. "What do you see there now?" I ask handing it to her. "Nothing." She takes the keys from my open palm, the tips of her manicured nails scrapping my skin. "Thank you." I nod a welcome. "Do you want to come in?" She asks as she fumbles with the door. I consider her request, both surprised and suspicious of the invitation. "I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping." She says, sensing my trepidation. "I would feel better having someone here with me." She mumbles to the door. I don't want to make an issue of it, knowing how difficult the admission must have been to make. She slips inside; I follow. Her room is a carbon copy of my own, except she has a clock on the nightstand between the two queen beds. I stand in the middle of the room nervously, wondering what she expects, asking myself what I am doing here. She crosses the room to the bathroom. She stands in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob. "I do appreciate this, Agent Doggett." She closes the door quietly, leaving me standing in the middle of her room without a clue or thought as to what she is expecting to find once she emerges. I stand stupidly in the middle of the room for sometime before taking a seat on the far bed. Suddenly, I wish I had taken the time to put my suit back on. I feel at a disadvantage, without my armor so to speak, in just jeans and a t-shirt. I glance at my wristwatch, fatigue nipping at my heels - 4:00 in the morning. I rub my face hard with my hands and try to shake off my drowsiness. I grab the pillows off the bed, prop them up and recline back. I resolve to relax, watch a little television; certain that it will help keep me awake. The television crackles to life, loud and intrusive. I mash the mute button as Opie skips ahead of Andy, plucking a stone off the ground and tossing it into the creek. "Agent Doggett?" Her hands are cold. I scoot away from her instinctively not realizing it is she until she leans in closer and asks if I'm all right. She smells like cheap shampoo and industrial soap. "Yeah, I'm fine." I tell her, clicking the television off. I sit up, clearing my throat. She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have asked you in." She pulls her wet hair back into a loose ponytail, retreating to her side of the room. Her plain pajamas ride up slightly as she lifts her arms, exposing a sliver of pale skin. "Why did you?" I ask, sitting up. She sits down on the bed, pulling her feet up underneath her. She regards me, seriously considering my question. "I haven't slept in eight years." She pulls her knees up to her chest. She is suddenly ten years younger. She mulls over what she has just said, her gaze fixed somewhere past me, then edits her previous statement by adding, "I haven't slept soundly in eight years. At first, it was the nightmares then the paranoia, but lately I think it is the uncertainty that keeps me awake at night." She shakes her head softly. "I feel as if I have been sleepwalking." I wait for her to elaborate. She still hasn't answered my question, not really. She smiles sadly. "I want to rest, Agent Doggett, and I can't." The truck died on the Vermont border, near some little town with no name and only one repair shop which was, as the sign so casually informed us, closed. "So much for best-laid plans," Barbara smiled, hooking her arm into mine. I hadn't known her well enough to not be angry at her flippancy. "I don't know what the hell you think is so goddamn funny." I snapped, yanking my arm away. She stood stunned as I stomped down the road to the nearest phone. "Your problem is you don't know what to let go and what to hold on to!" She shouted after me. Even then she knew me better than I knew myself. "I suppose I thought having you here might help." She snorts a weak little laugh. "It's a bit pathetic now that I've said it out loud." "No, not really." She smiles at me, no regret, or fear, or sadness tainting it. I think it's the first time I've seen that version of her smile. I immediately begin to wonder how I will make her smile that way again. I move off the bed and sit down beside her. "I spent two years after my divorce sleeping on the couch with the television on for company. I just couldn't get used to her not being there. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, confused. Like maybe she was in the bathroom or down the hall in my son's room." Grief claws at my throat. I swallow hard, a vain effort to clear it away. She rests her hand on my forearm. We sit in silence; seconds lapsing into long, painful minutes until she finally breaks the silence. "We have to be up in three hours. We should get some sleep." She pauses then whispers. " I'm sorry." Sorry about what? My son? My divorce? Asking me in here? She gives my arm a soft squeeze. "Don't be." I stand to go. "You're right. It's late. I'll let you get some sleep. Thanks for the coffee." I start for the door, feeling like an interloper and a fool. "Agent Doggett?" I turn to face her. "I have two brothers. Did you know that?" "Ah, yeah, I read it in your file." I'm immediately struck by the realization that almost everything I know about her I learned in a case file. She eases her legs down, crossing them Indian style. "My brothers and I had this thing, a contest, a race to see who could swim out the furthest and still make it back to shore. Missy would never swim with us. She thought it was pointless. The boys would always have more physical strength than us. She never understood that it was never as much a test of our physical strength as it was of our will to win. No matter how far behind I was, I never stopped swimming. I knew eventually I'd win." She pauses, cocking her head slightly to the side. She tamps down a crooked smile then looks back up at me. "You're almost to the shore, Agent Doggett. Don't give up now." The alarm rings as promised at seven-thirty. Its shrill cry slices through the fog of sleep, plucking me out of a dream I don't quite understand. I slam my open palm on the clock and shove it hard off the nightstand. I lie in bed, eyes closed, listening to her soft snoring. I don't worry about the clock. I finally understand. I finally know what it is like to be grounded but still free.