TITLE: Time Well Spent
AUTHOR: Flynn
DATE: July 13, 2001
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.dom
DISTRIBUTION: No to Ephemeral or Goss; I'll do them myself.
ARCHING: I never say no. Just let me know where it goes.
Please keep author and headers attached.
FEEDBACK: Is it SO much to ask? Remember, I'm a Gemini.
You can't go wrong with me.
RATING: R for harsh language.
SPOILERS: Existence, DeadAlive, Per Manum,
tiny for Requiem.
TIMEFRAME: Takes place after Existence, but not by much.
KEYWORDS: Doggett
DISCLAIMER: Carter gets all credit. I'm just a
frustrated novelist.

SUMMARY: "I'm gonna listen at half-opened doors,
in public restrooms and the cafeteria and on the
fu***** street and anywhere else I hear people
talk about her. About *them.*"

Thanks again, Christine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time Well Spent
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You never know what you're going to hear in the men's room.

There was a time when I didn't listen. I really
didn't care what men talked about when they were
in the can, just so long as it didn't have anything
to do with me. Usually it's inconsequential anyway,
what they have to say - what sports are going to be
on the tube this weekend, how Junior's doing in
Little League, which cases are going smoothly and
which ones are tying the department up in knots.
Little stuff.

There was probably also a time when I might have
had something to add to these impromptu discussions
of life. I mean, my son was in Little League. I went
to his games. I waved banners and bought hotdogs,
I yelled and cheered, rejoiced or consoled as the
situation warranted, just like everyone else. I was
even on a team myself, in a manner of speaking. I
was a part of a whole, and that whole did some good
work. I helped find answers, hard answers to hard
questions. The whereabouts of a man whose homemade
bomb had killed a half-dozen people in a New York
park. The murderer of a woman butchered by a modern-day
monster and left out like so much garbage, for reasons
 I will never begin to understand. The snot-nosed punk
who shot a college co-ed simply because he didn't like
the way she looked at him. Cases like those are hard,
sure. First the NYPD and then the FBI - the work is
just plain hard.

There was a time when I didn't listen to what men
said in the can. I just didn't care. That time has
passed. I'm not sure what changed, exactly, or when
that change took place. Maybe it came when an old
comrade, someone trusted if not exactly embraced in
open friendship, turned his back on everything I'd
accepted as gospel, selling out friends and colleagues
and maybe even his own damn soul, again for reasons
I cannot fathom. Maybe it has something more to do
with my partner being put in danger because someone
I thought - no, someone I *knew* I could trust -
used the power of his position and sold her out
to .... what? I don't even know. I just know what
they would have done to her. What they did to Mulder.
Or worse, what they did to Duffy Haskell.

So I listen now. Boy, do I ever. The sounds of
footsteps outside my office. The faint click of
what is probably just the window shade moving in
a breeze but might conceivably be the cocking
hammer of a gun getting all set to blow my head
off. I listen to whispers. I listen to what people
say, especially when they don't know I'm there.

You can hear a lot of shit when you take the time.

It's the usual stuff, for the most part - divisions
being audited, the promotions, the firings. Who said
what about so-and-so, and what the fallout might
be when it gets around. Then there's the personal
stuff: who's doing whom, where it's going down
and how often, and how many people know about it.
Skinner and his assistant, for instance. They've
been hot topics for as long as I've been around.
How about Freeh himself and the cute blond from
Justice? Oh yeah, and then there's that thing that
went on for a while between Scully and me, at least
until Mulder came back from the dead.

Of course, I only hear about that sort of thing
when people don't realize it's me sitting in the next stall.

It's not terribly surprising, when you stop to
think about it. Scully's rich fodder. Attractive
women usually are. I remember hearing about her
and Spooky Mulder when I was a rookie here in DC;
how close they were, and how they went at it hammer
and tongs every chance they got, whether they were
on a case or not. No one ever had the goods on them,
not as far as I could ever determine; but while the
rumors were never substantiated, they couldn't really
be disproved, either. The two of them never took any
pains to settle the matter once and for all - I mean,
there was never any outward display of any sort - but
at the same time, her unswerving devotion to such an
A-1 crackpot didn't do her any favors in the
credibility department. And then he disappeared and
she fell into the roll of grieving widow - well,
that all but sealed it. I guess the only thing kept
people from counting up the months until she'd start
showing was what she'd said, openly and angrily, to
Shorty in Accounting; how the work she'd suffered
and bled for had left her unable to have kids.

I'd heard the rumors about those two, and I have
to admit, I bought into them. When something comes
down from your SAC, even if it's just over coffee
in the morning, it's more than rumor. It's taken as
simple fact. That's why I used the approach with her
that I did. Not that it got me much more than a
faceful of water. Not exactly the reaction I'd been
looking for. Even after Kersh dumped me in the basement
with her, I couldn't get a clear read on what those two
had been to each other. The files themselves revealed
only that they worked cases from different angles, and
that they were both good officers. She wasn't there to
decorate the office. She wasn't his company yes-man.
She worked for her answers just as hard as he did, if
not harder.

It wasn't until I heard the gossip involving yours truly
that I concluded the scuttlebutt about them had probably
been crap from the start. Close? Seven years together -
of course they were close. I didn't need to hear it from
anyone to know, the woman's heart was broken. You don't
have to be doing the deed with someone to love them, to
need them more than the air you breathe. That something
physical had eventually transpired between them was
almost incidental. I mean, think about it. You work
that closely with someone for so long, you go through
so much bullshit with them and for them and because of
them .... pretty soon there's only one person in the
world capable of understanding what life is like for
you on a daily basis. That can lead to some pretty
powerful feelings. Sometimes those feelings get
expressed in physical ways. I don't know exactly when
it happened, and to tell the truth, I don't care.
I just know the gossip that had them doing the wild
thing all those years was just plain wrong.

Mulder. I've scratched my head raw over that one. I
don't understand how he came back the way he did. I'm
not the scientist my partner is, but I don't think even
*she's* gotten to the point where she could really explain
what happened. I mean, he was dead, right? There isn't a lot
of gray when it comes to that sort of thing. Either your
alive or you're not. Mulder was not, and hadn't been for
quite some time when we found him. She dressed him in a
nice suit and tie, wept as his coffin was lowered into the
frozen ground, and then went home and found reasons not to
put a bullet through her head. The best of reasons, as it
turned out, and one that made his surprising return all
the more poignant.

If anyone around here thought the matter would be
settled when he came back to work, they'd be in
for a rude awakening. Talk went on even worse than
before. How he'd literally risen from his grave.
A regular Lazarus. Don't bother trying to kill
Mulder because he won't stay dead. Very funny.
And then there's the whole baby thing. One story
held he was the father, while another gave credit
to some character that used to haunt the Hoover
in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Or it was someone
else altogether, someone she'd turned to after
her partner's disappearance. Hey, women get lonely
too, right? Stuff like that happened all the time.

I listened to what people had to say, but I figured
didn't nobody have a clue about the real story.
Besides knowing the woman in question, I have eyes.
Sure, things weren't as smooth between the two of
them as maybe they'd once been, but I figured time
would take care of that. I was right, too. By the
time she took her maternity leave, they were friends
again. Not that they included me in their little
off-hour chats, and God forbid Dana Scully should
ever come out and tell *me* just how she feels
on a given subject .... but I've been there. What
I mean is, I've been an expectant parent. I know
the signs. The way they looked at each other. His
phonecalls to her here at the office, sometimes
seven or eight in a day. The way he'd be there to
answer the phone the times I happened to call her
at home. I doubt they were doing anything physical,
not with what she'd suffered through just to get to
that point in her pregnancy - but it would happen.
I was pretty confident about that.

Still the gossip swirls around them. Just because
Mulder doesn't work for the Bureau anymore don't
mean the idiots around here've found better things
to talk about.

I hear whispers in the halls. In the cafeteria.
In the elevator. I heard them as soon as I walked
in the front door this morning. I listen, but I
don't have time for bullshit today. I have to get
to the conference room on the fourth floor -
Skinner's quarterly meeting with division chiefs.
As acting head of the X-files, my presence is pretty
much required. Scully's leave isn't formally over for
another two weeks, but I know she feels pretty strongly
about being there, too. I want to spend a few minutes
with her before the meeting, going over the cases I have
pending before we present them to the AD. First things
first though - my back teeth are floating. Maybe that
fourth cup was a little over the top, I tell myself as
I duck into the second floor men's room.

The men's room. That's right. Gossip Grand Central.

At first I have the place all to myself. Suits me just
fine. I'm just washing my hands, though, when the door
opens and two suits walk by. They're talking, exchanging
 comments about the travails of being parents or something,
as they shoulder up to the bank of urinals. I doubt they
 even see me. I'm just about to head back out when I see
one of my shoelaces is loose. Wouldn't do to trip on my
own feet here in these hallowed halls, would it? I step
away from the door, mindful to keep my back to the wall
and my eye on the room, and crouch down to set that little
detail right.

"Speaking of children, you heard about that thing with
Mulder, right?"

Here we go again. I recognize the voice. Lentz, from
Kersh's former stomping grounds. Seemed benign enough
whenever I've had to deal with him. Yeah, I remind
myself with a snort, and so did Agent Cole, right up
to the night he tried to tear your throat out. What
was it Scully told me once? Trust no one? That's some
damn good advice.

"I heard the great I-am fired his ass a couple months
ago." That voice I can't place. High and kind of soft.
I envision the face that goes along with it. Chubby.
Pasty. Little button nose. Doesn't mention anything
but the termination. Means he only knows Mulder by
reputation. Probably a newbie, maybe some fresh recruit
in the Domestics ranks. Learn fast, baby.

Lentz gives a derisive snort. "About damn time, if you
ask me. He was supposed to be on my detail in Albuquerque,
you know. Stood us up so he could run off and play secret
agent out on some damn oil rig in the Pacific. Kersh loved
delivering the bad news, let me tell you. NO ONE blows off
 the Man and gets away with it."

Agent Babyface tsks serenely. "From what I hear, rules
just don't apply to the guy. And fired or not, I heard
he's been right here in this building, hanging around
with that blimp of a partner of his. Jeez, that boy must
like 'em large, that's all I have to say."

It's difficult, but I don't let myself react.
They're cretins, I tell myself. They don't know
 her. They don't deserve to know her. For an instant
I consider saying something to that effect. Maybe
just point out the small fact that she happened
to be nine fucking months pregnant at the time.
No, what would that accomplish? After all, why
would they listen to anything *I* had to say?
I'm Spooky's successor. It's not like I have a
snowball's chance of changing what anyone thinks
of the man.

Shoes safely retied, I slowly push myself straight.
Meeting in fifteen, I note absently. Just enough time
to get to the office. Get back to what really matters.
But I can't leave yet. I have to know what these
assholes are saying about my partner.

One of the urinals flushes, but not even that can
drown Lentz' voice. He's making references to certain
aspects of female anatomy, no doubt as they apply to
Scully. Jesus, what a dickhead. "Not huge, mind you.
A nice handful. And that ass - gorgeous! I'm telling
you, kid. Ice Queen or not, new brat notwithstanding,
she is a babe. Dr. De-lish. And she's God-damned smart.
I don't care what the pool says, there's no way she'd
waste her time boinking that loser. No, I'm thinking
she's got a little something going on ...." A dramatic
pause, and I can just imagine those eyebrows twitching.
".... upstairs, if you get my drift."

Agent Babyface snorts a little at that. "Who, Skinner?
You're full of shit. Talk about raising the dead. Or in
this case, fucking it."

A second flush. I glance around. Shit, I'm about
fifteen seconds away from being as conspicuous
as a nun in a chorus line. Time for a quick exit.
I take a long step back.

"Put up or shut up, my friend." Agent Babyface again.
I can't help it, I find myself hesitating. Again.
I got time, I tell myself. They're still yacking,
and I'm close enough to the door, I can be through
it in a heartbeat. "Twenty bucks says they've been
 going at it every chance they get, old Spooky and
the missus, probably right there on that desk of his.
And that Ice Queen thing is bullshit. I got it on good
authority, that red hair ain't no lie. The woman knows
her stuff."

A harsh laugh. "Who came up with that? Colton? Kevin,
Tom Colton is a sorry-ass whiner with a career on a
fast-track to Tulsa. He lost to Spooky once years ago
and he's *still* looking to get even. 'Sides, Scully
would sooner blow *me* than touch someone like that
s.o.b. Forget him. I'm willing to bet Mulder's been
choking the chicken so long, he couldn't get it up
for a piece of kitty even if it was offered to him.
You can only stretch a slinky so far before the
spring's shot, you know?"

Okay, that's a little graphic. I realize I'm actually
feeling ill. Not from the words or images - God help me,
I'm no innocent here - but the thought that two people
I respect and one I truly admire had to work in an
environment so blatantly hostile .... Jesus, it's
no wonder they never meshed well with other divisions.
Or that they realized the only true ally they had was
each other.

"So how're we gonna settle this?" Lentz asks truculently.
I can't see them from where I am, but I can imagine him
standing there, all five-foot-six of him, with his sagging
jowls and infamous comb-over, legs planted firm and those
stubby arms folded over his paunch. It's been a while since
Jack Lentz made it over the wall on the obstacle course at
Quantico, clearly.

I hear the rustle of bills. "See this? Show of faith. I
overheard Skinner's *real* do -"

"Kim?"

"Whatever. Skinny redhead with the small tits. She told
him Scully's on her way in for that meeting you bigwigs
have upstairs with ol' Curly. And Jack, I've yet to see
a new mommy who isn't just aching to whip out the
Polaroids. My Jackson says the kid'll have a nose the
size of New Jersey."

"And mine says the rugrat'll bear more than a passing
resemblance to the good lady's superior." The word
'lady' is definitely sneered.

"You're on, my friend."

The door opens behind me and someone brushes past
me and heads to the line of stalls. Perfect opportunity -
- I lunge for it and practically throw myself back into
the hallway outside. There I pace slowly away, trying
 with only limited success to wrestle my temper under
control. Deep breaths, John. Let it go. They're idiots.
They don't know them. They don't know her.

I'm straightening my tie and running a hand over my
face when the door to the can opens again, and Beavis
and Butthead are spat out into the hallway a few paces
away.

I should be commended for my self-control.

Lentz sees me at once, and his smile disappears with
amazing speed. "John!" It comes out forcefully, betraying
his guilt in blaring tones. I wonder what bullshit they
came up with that I didn't happen to catch, and if their
sophomoric allusions to Mulder's virility had extended
at all to my own.

I draw myself up and give him a blank look. I'm not
the tallest guy in the Bureau, God knows, but I can
kick the shit out of this fat bastard standing on
one leg. "Jack," I say coolly. Agent Babyface, who
really does have the face of a baby, starts to
extend a hand towards me. I ignore him and just
stare at Lentz, who's wilting faster than a daisy
in high summer. Yeah, I want so badly to say, you
might win some damn washroom bet, but it doesn't
make you right. Not by a long damned stretch. I'm
gonna remember this.

And Jack evidently sees it in my expression, because
he quickly falls back a step. I can see he's sweating.
A fat hand paddles at his forehead before he turns on his
heel. "Uh .... see you around, John."

I let him get a few paces in. "Hey, Jack!" He spins
around again, and in his expression I see a pasty-faced
teenager caught doing a peeping-Tom in the girls' locker
room. He doesn't buy my smile, either. Good. He knows
I know. I hold one finger aloft, indicating the
conference room above us. "I'll see you at the meeting."

Lentz's throat jerks rapidly as he swallows. "Uh .... sure
thing, John. I'll just ...." With a feeble gesture over his
shoulder, he turns and bolts. Agent Babyface stares at me
for a few seconds before he finally turns to follow, but
Lentz never looks back

Oh yeah, I'm going to remember this. I'm going to
remember a fat damned federal troll trying to win
a buck at the expense of a colleague's reputation.
Someone who just happens to have more guts than he
ever thought possible.

I'm gonna watch this guy. I'm gonna watch him sweat
during the meeting and when it's a fading memory. And
I'm gonna listen at half-opened doors, in public
restrooms and the cafeteria and on the fucking street
and anywhere else I hear people talk about her. About
*them.* I'm gonna keep my ears tuned and my mouth shut,
and I'm gonna learn just who the enemy is.

I'm going to remember who my friends are.

~~~~~~