Title: Graphology
Author: LizardChyck
Date: January 17, 2000
Category: V, Post-ep
Spoilers: Orison
Disclaimer: Skinner, Scully and the X-Files belong to CC and Fox, not
me.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.
Feedback: Gratefully (and I hope graciously) accepted at
lizardchyck@yahoo.com
Summary: Graphology : the study of handwriting especially for the
purpose of character analysis.
Author's Notes: This vignette came about when my favorite muse,
JadedCat, suggested I write a scene describing Skinner's feelings after
Scully's actions in Orison. Many thanks to JadedCat, JourneyToX, and
Kest for the thoughtful suggestions.



Graphology
by LizardChyck


The signature on the bottom of the page doesn't look like mine.

I check again: the short, definitive stroke across the `t'; no point
over the `i'. All is in order, and still it's undefinably off, as if I'd
thought too much about each letter as I'd traced them onto the page.

As a boy of 13, bored in the back row of history class, I would practice
my signature, writing my name over and over on the rough lined paper of
my school notebook, searching out my identity with each newly shaped
letter. It's funny how something as simple as writing your name can
alter your conception of who you are in the world.

Right now, I wish I were somebody else.

Somebody who didn't have to attach his name to Mulder's latest
fabrication. Somebody who didn't know Scully well enough to be able to
count the blatant untruths just by noting where her eyes wandered as he
read sections of the report back to her.

I close the file and turn my attention back to the agent sitting across
from me - not that my attention ever truly left her. Always when Scully
is in the room, I feel it, like a fine electrical current just along the
surface of my skin.

"Your badge and your gun." I nod at the desk.

It isn't that I have any moral qualms about signing off on Scully's
story of self-defense. Donnie Pfucking Pfaster got what he deserved. I
only wish I'd been there to pull the trigger myself, saving Scully the
trouble.

I watch Scully wordlessly remove the clip from her weapon, setting both
gun and ammunition on the polished mahogany of my desk. She hesitates,
then reaches inside her breast pocket and retrieves her badge, adding it
to the pile. I hate my job.

"Scully, it's only for a short time, until Dr. Kosseff can sign off on
your report. Anytime an agent is involved in a fatal shooting like this,
there's always scrutiny. This is only an administrative suspension."

"I know, sir," she says, and her voice sounds flat and lifeless to my
ears.

Dana Scully has killed a man. Not shot him in the line of duty or in
self defense, no matter what the report says. She killed him outright.
And no matter how much Mulder and I and every other cop and agent on
this case believe that man deserved to die, Scully alone has to live
with herself.

"I'm sure it won't be more than a week or two. I'm completely satisfied
with Mulder's and your reports...."

I see her close her eyes and take a sharp breath, as if she's been
stung. And I realize then that she knows I see right through them, and
it's bad enough for her that she's lying and that Mulder is lying for
her, but now she thinks I'm lying, too. Only I'm not. I am completely
satisfied.

"Scully, you did what you had to do." I hear my voice rising in both
pitch and volume. I want to make her see; I want to help her through
this. "You defended yourself against a deranged monster. You had every
right."

The look in her eyes stops me cold faster than my sparring partner's
best right jab. And I see that I've betrayed her. My role is not her
confessor, here to give absolution. I am her conscience, and I've let
her get away with murder.

Welcome to the Ends Justify the Means Club, Scully. You're one of us
now. Here's the secret handshake. Care for a smoke?

When did I become the fucking membership coordinator?

"You're dismissed, Agent," I say, barely able to get the words out.

She moves woodenly to the door, never looking at me. I want to call her
back, rage at her, tell her how wrong she was, say whatever she needed
me to say in the first place. I stare at the pen in my hand.

As she shuts the door softly behind her, I watch the tip of my pen move
over the smooth, finely lined page of my calendar, shaping the signature
that has been mine since I was a young man. I transfer the pen to my
other hand, where it feels awkward and out of place. Gripping the
cylinder tightly, I can't quite shape the letters I know as mine.

And then slowly, randomly, I fill the page, searching for the man I am
this morning.

End
***

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