Title: Think On These Things
Author: Rev. Anna
Category: SA
Rating: G
Keywords: Skinner/Sharon, Character death
Spoilers: The Truth, Jump the Shark, Requiem, 
minor for The Field Where I Died, Bad Blood, 
Avatar Disclaimer: Sharon and Walter Skinner, 
John Doggett, Samantha Mulder and Margaret 
Scully belong to 1013 productions. 

Summary: "Finally, brethren, whatsoever things 
are true, whatsoever things are honest, 
whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things 
are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, 
whatsoever things are of good report; if there 
be any virtue, and if there be any praise, 
think on these things." Philippians 4:8 

Author's note: This is my response to the 
fourth X-OK challenge with special thanks to 
The Netherlands Inspectorate Guidelines on the 
Delivery of the Dead.

   ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Unable to sleep, Walter Skinner quietly 
crawled out of bed and tiptoed over to little 
Sharon's crib. He gazed with love and pride 
on his "new" baby. Not that he ever had an 
"old" baby, but just thinking the phrase "new 
baby" melted some of the chill of remembered 
events frostbitten in his heart and head. A 
silver shaft of moonlight lit up the baby's 
crib. Its tapered beam rested on the child 
like a gentle illuminated hand.

He watched her little cheeks puff in and out 
as her lips sucked noiselessly but furiously 
on her pacifier. It bobbed up and down in 
time to her little head rolling left then 
right. She shimmied on her back not unlike 
those hula dolls you see in the back of 
people's cars, her little fists spasming open 
and shut. Little whimpers shot through the 
air like arrows, penetrating his chest and 
striking him dead center in his heart. 

He leaned over and pressed his hand gently on 
her chest, giving it several reassuring pats. 
The act seemed to soothe her and the wriggling 
stopped. Surely she couldn't be having 
nightmares at five months? She just couldnít 
be. She hadn't seen what he had seen, lost 
what he had lost.

He pulled off his glasses, unable to fight 
back the tears he had kept at bay for a week 
now. Fingers that had expertly worked through 
piles of reports and requests now pushed 
ineffectively against his eyelids to stop the 
salty water trying to stream down his face.

Today was the one year anniversary of finding 
them. 

He remembered coming back to DC and finding a 
discarded eyeglass case of Scully's with her 
initials on it. He opened it but of course it 
was empty. For a brief moment their absence 
let him pretend her glasses were perched on 
her face down in the basement at Hoover with 
the reflected light of a computer screen 
bouncing off the lenses. But he knew that 
wasn't true. Scully wasn't there. Never 
would be again. 

He pulled back little Sharon's blanket and 
lifted the baby into his arms, hugging her to 
him. He buried his nose in her little body, 
inhaling her baby smells, reveling in the 
warmth and softness of her tiny body, glorying 
in the sound of her sighs and gurgles. She 
was the embodiment of the scripture at the end 
of Frohike's Last Will and Testament:

I, Melvin Frohike, a resident of Washington 
D.C. and disgruntled citizen of these United 
States, being of sound mind and disposing 
memory, do hereby make, publish and declare 
this instrument to be my last will and 
testament, hereby revoking any and all wills 
and codicils by me at any time heretofore 
made.

Having nothing of my own to leave anyone in 
remembrance of my brief sojourn here on this 
earth, I do nevertheless bequeath to all who 
may remember me when in need of encouragement, 
the following advice:

"Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are 
true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever 
things are just, whatsoever things are pure, 
whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever 
things are of good report; if there be any 
virtue, and if there be any praise, think on 
these things."

A wise man wrote those words to a group of 
anti-establishment Jewish Christians in 
Philippi. Hopefully it heartened them. 
Hopefully it will hearten you too.

The strange little document had made no impact 
on Skinner when he first found it after 
arranging for the Gunman's burial in 
Arlington. But after finding Mulder and 
Scully, Skinner remembered the scripture. He 
bought a bible and looked it up. Recited it 
word for word every time he looked at his 
wife. True, honest, just, pure, lovely. 

Yes lovely. As was their baby. 

A line from an old Stevie Wonder song flitted 
across his brain as he laid Little Sharon back 
down: "Isn't she lovely made from love?"

Definitely lovely as well as a virtuous 
praiseworthy thing of good report. 

As he stood up something in the crib caught 
his eye. He put his glasses back on and held 
it up in the moonlight. An orange.

"What on earth?"

"I think it's her daddy substitute."

Skinner turned at the sound of his wife's 
gentle whisper. She stood in the doorway, a 
solid shadow beckoning to him from across the 
room, framed in the doorway as the hallway 
light shone through her negligee.

"Rhesus monkeys have a cloth momma and she has 
her orange."

Skinner knew what Sharon was saying would make 
sense eventually but right now his brain had 
no use for words. Another doorway had opened 
in his mind and he no longer saw his wife. He 
saw Samantha Mulder accompanied by John 
Doggett entering the X-Files office a few 
months after they found Mulder and Scully 
dead.

Samantha Ann Mulder. Alive. Curious. Full 
of questions about her brother. Looking at 
everything in the X-Files office. Gazing upon 
what had been his desk. Sitting where he used 
to sit. 

"He came to me in dreams for almost thirty 
years," she said, slowly smoothing her fingers 
over the I Want To Believe poster. "Just some 
playful boy in my dreams, pulling my braids, 
making me angry, making me laugh. I didn't 
know who he was or even if he was. Two years 
ago I started work with a hypnotherapist and 
the walls I had built around my memories 
slowly began to peel away one by one -- like 
the layers of an onion -- until I remembered 
it all."

A bittersweet smile graced her lips.

"I've been searching for them all ever since: 
my mom, my dad, Jeffrey, Fox. I've journeyed 
from one home to another, one gravesite to 
another, finding nothing but abandonment and 
death. I had hoped to find life here."

She pulled a pair of eyeglasses from her 
pocket. Skinner could see light hair 
scratches on their lenses. Silent witnesses 
to years of shirt pocket abuse.

"These were in that box of his things you 
showed me," she said to John without looking 
at him. "On top of my picture."

She clutched Mulder's glasses to her chest and 
cried silent tears for the brother she finally 
remembered and the man she would never know. 

Skinner closed his eyes and to shake the 
memory of that sad young woman from his mind 
only to be carried back to another, more 
painful memory. To the anonymous phone call 
and its ominous message directing him and John 
Doggett to a cemetery in Holland. 

A circus of police, groundskeepers and 
reporters greeted them as they approached the 
crypt. John had gone in ahead of him with an 
assistant from the American consulate while 
Skinner remained outside with the nervous 
cemetery director.

"We have no idea how they even got in there. 
This is the crypt of a very distinguished 
family," the man said, wringing his hands if 
he were washing them with invisible soap. 
"We're only used to finding dead bodies in our 
crypts -- I don't mean there are ever live 
bodies in our crypts except for our workers of 
course and mourners. I mean we're only used 
to finding the dead bodies that belong in our 
crypts in our crypts. Oh Jesus, Mary and 
Joseph I don't know what I mean. I don't know 
what I mean."

Skinner placed a strong hand on the man's 
shoulder and gave him a firm shake. He winced 
under Skinner's iron tight grip and continued 
speaking. 

"We take great pains to be in compliance with 
the Delivery of the Dead Decree. Embalming 
conflicts with our basic premises for burial, 
so we calculate the burial vault clearance 
very carefully. If we don't, good 
decomposition is inhibited. There has to be 
at least thirty centimeters of space between 
bodies that are stacked. Of course with these 
bodies, just laying there -- no protection -- 
joined as they were -- well there was no way 
for air to circulate sufficiently between them 
so adipocere formed and kept their bodies from 
becoming fully skeletized." He shuddered. 
"Although I guess in a way, it¹s a good thing. 
Made it somewhat easier for the police to 
identify them."

'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up' chanted in 
Skinner's mind as he tuned the man out. He 
didn't need or want a textbook recitation of 
what he had stayed out here to avoid. John 
knew instinctively Skinner couldn't go into 
that crypt and had gone inside without 
breaking stride. The consular attache entered 
close behind him. 

The truth was in there but Skinner didn't want 
to see it. He didn't want the grave to have 
the victory over the memory of Mulder giving 
him that sly come hither look while calling 
him a big bald beautiful man. He didn't want 
the sting of death to numb him to the bonding 
he and Scully shared over losing Mulder and 
the news of her pregnancy. He couldn't let 
his last memory of these two people to be one 
of badly skeletized corpses. Not these two 
very special, extraordinary people whom he had 
come to know, admire and love. He just 
wanted to remember the two of them in his 
office, nailing him uncomfortably to his chair 
in those early days when he couldn't openly be 
the ally he had always wanted to be. Or 
arguing their opposing takes on Melissa 
Riedal-Ephesian. Or even trying to look more 
innocent than the other as they explained away 
Texas vampires. 

It wasn't long before John came back out, 
silent, breathing deeply. His blue eyes shone 
wetly in the sunshine, blinking rapidly to 
make the transition from darkness to light. 
Years of police work enabled him to keep it 
together even though the sheen in his eyes 
showed it wasn't easy. The attache next to 
him had no such experience and promptly 
dropped to his knees, dry heaving.

Skinner steeled himself through the 
arrangements of the next few days. Mrs. 
Scully asked if it were possible for their 
remains to be cremated and brought back to the 
states. He said he didn't know but he would 
find out and move heaven, earth and any snot 
nosed official stupid enough to get in his 
way. 

The only thing that kept him sane was knowing 
Sharon was waiting for him back in DC, still 
giving him a reason to wake up in the morning.

Then just as he thought he had regained his 
equilibrium, he was sucker punched with the 
living breathing presence of Samantha Mulder -
- it was too much. Everything had become  too 
much. 

'Let it go,' Skinner thought, willing himself 
back into the present. 'Let it all go.'

He suddenly shivered as if he were caught in a 
gust of wind. The air in his daughter's room 
felt heavy, charged with something he couldn't 
define. Was it a barometric change in the 
room or an emotional one in his heart?

He opened his eyes as a clap of thunder broke 
into his thoughts and rain pelted the windows 
mercilessly, relentlessly. He hurried over 
and shut them then quickly looked to the baby. 
She was mewing like a little kitten. An 
anxious crease furrowed her little brow. Her 
little hand moved restlessly back and forth as 
if searching for something. 

Sharon came quietly beside him and rolled the 
orange up against the baby's cheek. The 
little girl's fingers made contact with the 
rough peel. She sighed, content once again 
and slept on, undisturbed as the rain 
assaulted the house. 

Sharon's arm came around his waist and she 
leaned her head against him.

"It's an orange I was going to eat while she 
slept at lunchtime. I placed it in the crib 
without thinking when I reached over for her 
bottle. When I turned back to her, she had 
her face up against it. I tried to take it 
away but she became irritable. When I rolled 
it back, she was calm again. I think its 
roundness reminds her of you."

Skinner let her smile wash over his face like 
a warm washcloth. He dipped his head and 
leaned into the sweet caress of her hand 
moving lovingly along his bald pate. 

He held her face in his hands and stroked his 
thumbs across her cheeks. He scanned her 
features, memorizing every line and pore to 
banish the feel of Margaret Scully's anguished 
hug goodbye after he presented her with their 
ashes, to dispel the sight of Samantha Mulder 
crying in the X-Files office, to rinse away 
the taste of awful truth: Mulder and Scully 
were really truly gone. 

Tears filled his throat and hopelessness his 
thoughts. Then scripture whispered in his 
mind,

"Ö whatsoever things are true, whatsoever 
things are honest, whatsoever things are just, 
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things 
are lovely, whatsoever things are of good 
report; if there be any virtue, and if there 
be any praise, think on these things."

The hunger for something pure and true 
squeezed his heart. He took Sharon in his 
arms and kissed her hard. She responded 
spontaneously, whole-heartedly, only too glad 
to give him the relief she knew what he was 
aching for. Her mouth opened to his, 
willingly bearing the brunt and urgency of his 
embrace.

He pulled her tightly against him, laving her 
face with salty kisses, only easing up enough 
to give her room to breathe again. 

"Come to bed now, Walter." 

With these simple words, she called him 
softly, siren-like to rest. He could feel her 
pulling him gently from the crib. Her present 
presence was far more powerful than the pull 
of these awful anniversary memories. He 
closed his eyes and let her lead him onto 
their bed, under the covers, into her arms.

He laid his head on her chest and found her 
right breast, a warm comforting pillow. He 
felt her remove his glasses and plant a kiss 
on each eyelid. He sighed and fell asleep 
thinking on things true, honest, just, and 
pure, lovely, of good report, virtuous, and 
worthy of praise.

He fell asleep thinking on Mulder and Scully.

End