Title: The Times They Are A-Changin'

Author: J.D. Rush

Series: Big Things; follows 'The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of'

Rating: PG for language

Pairing: Frohike/Scully

Summary: Scully's world is changing. Perhaps it's time she change, too.

Author's Note: Okay, these three stories compromise my first story-arc. (Hey, if CC can do it, so can I!

In this first story, I borrowed an incident from the season 9 episode, "Lord of the Flies" for this segment. It wasn't my intention, but Kylara convinced me it would be fun to include it. However, since this is still an AU, I'm altering when it happened to fit my stories. Hope this doesn't offend any canon purists. (Then again, if you were a canon purist, you probably wouldn't be reading this series!)

Special Thanks: And, speaking of Kylara, I wanted to thank her once more for her patience, help, and great beta-skills. The series wouldn't be the same without her.

THE TIMES THEY ARE A-CHANGIN'

Friday, January 11, 2002

DANA:

"You're late," came the accusatory remark from the kitchen area.

I dropped my briefcase on the sofa and started to remove my coat. Didn't know what time it was, but I knew Frohike was right--it WAS late. I locked up my gun in the wall vault that he had finally gotten around to building for me and made my way to the kitchen. "Yeah, I know. Sorry," I supplicated. 

"I was worried," he told me, hands planted firmly on his hips.

"I know. I'm sorry," I repeated. "I should have called."

"I've been slaving over a hot stove," he huffed, dramatically. "Dinner's ruined."

I had to keep from rolling my eyes. "Mel, I hate to tell you this, but you sound like a bad 50's sitcom."

"Just call me June Cleaver," he said, drolly.

Stepping forward, I ran a hand across his stubbly cheek. "At least June used to shave for Ward occasionally," I quipped.

"Hey, so I have sensitive skin," he protested. "YOU try dealing with razor rash every day!"

I couldn't help but laugh. Frohike was the only man I knew who could grow a 5 o'clock shadow WHILE he was shaving. I brushed him off with a wave of my hand, "Excuses, excuses."

He started puttering around the kitchen, pulling pans and bowls out of the fridge when he mentioned, off-handedly, "Oh, by the way, you had a call today. From a Dr. Bronzino?"

That gave me a start. "Dr. Bron. . .you mean, Rocky?"

Mel turned slowly to look at me, his right eyebrow quirked high over his wire-rim glasses. "Rocky? You know a man named Rocky?"

"Yeah, the entomologist I told you about. He helped us out on a case a couple of weeks ago."

"You didn't tell me his name was 'Rocky'," he accused.

"You didn't ask," I shot back.

"So. . .what's going on with you and Dr. Rocky that he'd be calling you at your home, hmmmm?" he queried, as he began scooping food onto a plate, which he then put in the microwave. "And does it have anything to do with you coming home so late?"

"Frohike, are you jealous?" I teased.

"Me? Jealous of a guy named 'Rock-head'?" he bristled. "Never."

I had to laugh. "I've never seen this side of you before, Frohike. You're awfully cute when you're jealous."

"Cute?" he scoffed. "I've been a lot of things in my life, honey, but 'cute' ain't one of them."

"Don't be so sure. So, did he leave a message?"

"Yes," he answered, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "He wanted to compliment you on your CPR skills."

Shit. The creep WOULD mention that. "Oh, well, um. . .he was unconscious when we found him and. . .he needed help and since I AM a doctor. . ."

"I think this is grounds for divorce in most states," he announced, throwing down the towel in a symbolic gesture. 

"I'm sorry, Mel. Next time we stumble upon a lifeless bug expert, I'll let Monica handle the CPR," I promised.

"That's more like it," he announced proudly, playful smirk on his face. At that moment, the microwave beeped. He removed the plate of homemade meatloaf and mashed potatoes and placed it on the table along with a bottle of ketchup. "Now, sit down. I think dinner might still be edible." 

"Really, Mel, I'm not hungry," I protested. It was far too late to eat something so heavy--it'd go straight to my hips. But I had to admit the food looked and smelled delicious. My tummy rumbled softly since all I had grabbed around suppertime was a cup of yogurt.

Grasping onto my shoulders, he pushed me down into the chair. "Sit." He then handed me a fork. "Eat."

"Yes sir!" I mock-saluted as he went back to puttering, this time fixing us each a cup of coffee. I said a quick silent grace and was pouring some ketchup on my plate as he came back to the table. He placed a mug in front of me, then took a seat across from mine. For the first time, I noticed how tired and drawn he looked. "Frohike, you look like hell," I informed him.

"Thanks, Dana, you certainly know how to make a guy feel good," he groused.

"I just meant that you look as exhausted as I feel. Everything okay?"

"Yeah--just Master William had a second tooth break through this morning, and he's been insufferable all day."

"Ohhh, poor baby," I tsked, both for my son and my husband. I remembered William's first tooth--it had been a rough few days. "He seems to be sleeping well now, though."

"Hope so. It took me nearly an hour to put him down. Finally gave him some brandy--put him right out."

I dropped my fork I was so startled. "FROHIKE! You didn't!"

"Calm down, Dana," he tried to soothe. "I just rubbed a little into his gums. Nothing more. It's an old folk remedy."

"Frohike, I will NOT have you giving my son any liquor!" I exploded. "Don't you know that even a tiny amount of alcohol can be toxic to a child? And there's always the possibility that if the gums are broken it could cause an infection. Not to mention the fact that repeated exposure to liquor can give him a taste for it! I think that nine months is a little young to be turning him into an alcoholic, don't you agree?"

He seemed to contemplate that for a moment, then replied, sullenly, "You're right. I shouldn't have given *your son* any liquor. I'm sorry." 

The emphasis on the phrase 'your son' stopped me in mid tirade. Had I really just said that? I exhaled slowly, calming myself, then said quietly but resolutely, "OUR son, Mel. OUR son." 

We sat there in silence for a moment or two, letting the tension in the air defuse. I was just about to pick up my fork and start in again on my meal when Mel reached across the table, and took my hand in his. "I didn't mean any harm, Dana," he apologized. "I'd never do anything to hurt Billy, you know that. I was just trying to do good, that's all."

I dared to look up at him, and gave a weak little smile. "I know you were, Mel, and I'm sorry about yelling at you like that. I truly didn't mean it. Please just excuse me--it was a really bad day."

He took a sip of his coffee and asked, softly, "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly," I muttered.

"Oh. Okay." I hated the pain in his voice. Hated myself for putting it there. We sat in silence--him drinking his coffee, me picking at my food. It was an awkward, uneasy silence, unlike our usual cozy camaraderie. I had the feeling he thought I was still mad at him.

With the unease reaching the point of unbearable, I released a deep breath and sighed, "Skinner called me into his office."

Perhaps surprised that I was talking to him again, he hesitated for a moment before reacting. "That doesn't sound good."

"It wasn't. I'm off the X-Files--permanently."

He indignantly slammed down his mug with such force that some of its contents spilled over the rim. "They can't do that!"

Snatching up a few napkins, I began to wipe up the mess on the table. "They can, and they did. Starting Monday, I'll be in a new department with a new partner. At least I'll still be reporting to Skinner, so it could've been worse."

"But that's not fair! The X-Files belong to you," he said, emphatically.

Standing up, I walked over to the trashcan and threw out the soggy napkins. "Not any more. They belong to Doggett and Reyes. We knew it was just a matter of time, Frohike." 

"Does this have anything to do with the ribbing we gave Walt at the New Year's party?"

I took my seat again at the table. "Mel, Skinner isn't that petty. He had nothing to do with the decision, I'm sure of that." I sipped at my coffee before I continued, "The Bureau has always thought the X-Files were a waste of money and man-hours. The last thing they'd do is assign three agents to them. I'm just the odd man out."

"Why you?" he demanded. "Why not John or Monica?"

Good question--WHY me? "Well, according to Skinner, I'm being given a 'chance to shine'. Everyone knows the X-Files are the joke of the Bureau, and he said that this was an opportunity to make a break from them, and the stigma of my association with them. Apparently, the Powers That Be want to see what I can do and what I'm made of."

"More likely Kersh was just cleaning house," he grumbled.

"You think Kersh had something to do with this?" I asked tentatively. 

"C'mon, Dana," he sighed. "Kersh has had it in for the X-Files since he got control of that department. He managed to finally get rid of Mulder, and since you were his partner, he probably wanted you out of there before you could 'contaminate' Doggett and Reyes."

"Contaminate?" I repeated, taken aback.

"Yeah. You know, going around, planting all of Mulder's strange ideas in their heads. Not to mention tipping them off to any plots or conspiracies."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Now that sounds like the paranoid Frohike I married. Mulder would be proud of you for that one."

It got quiet for a few moments, but the uneasiness was gone. "So, how do you feel about the transfer?" he asked, softly, breaking the silence.

"How do you THINK I feel?" I retorted.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. You don't seem morally outraged like I'd expect you to be."

Sadly, he was right. There was no anger, just a feeling of loss, an emptiness. But as I had felt that way since Mulder left, I seriously doubted it had anything to do with the job. "I'm not. Maybe that's the problem."

"How so?" he asked, curiously.

<Did I dare say it? It was scary enough to think it, but to actually SAY it?> With no way to stop them, the words tumbled out. "The truth, Mel? I'm actually more relieved than anything else."

"And that's a problem because. . .?" he prompted.

I dipped a piece of meatloaf in some ketchup and popped it in my mouth, deciding best how to phrase what I was feeling. "I feel like I'm letting Mulder down. He entrusted that office to me. I was supposed to carry on his work. And I barely put up a fight when Skinner yanked me off of them."

"Maybe because deep down you know it's time to move on," he postulated.

"I don't know about that, Mel. I don't know much about anything anymore. Sometimes I feel like I'm just spinning my wheels at work. And I'm sure that no matter how good this new partner is--well, he won't be Mulder."

"Could be a *she*," he injected.

I added a bit more ketchup to my plate. "Yeah, could be. But either way, it just wouldn't be the same. Not as challenging, or interesting or. . ."

"Weird," he supplied.

"Definitely weird," I agreed.

He drained the rest of his coffee before he commented, matter-of-factly, "You do have other options, you know."

I swallowed a bite of mashed potatoes. "Like what? Petition Kersh to put me back on the X-Files? That's not likely to happen. Especially if your 'contamination theory' is right."

"No, nothing like that. I mean, you could do something else, something outside the F.B.I."

<Was he suggesting what I THINK he was suggesting?> "Do you mean-- resign from the Bureau?" <And did I just hear a hitch in my voice?>

"Hey, it's an option. You DO have a medical degree. Maybe you could do something different with it."

Those words. I had heard them before, in a slightly different way, but the meaning was the same. "You know, Mulder was always telling me to go off and be a doctor."

"Maybe he had the right idea."

"I don't know, Frohike," I sighed, pushing my food around my plate. "I'm not sure practicing medicine is something I ever really wanted to do. I think that if the drive--the calling--was in me, it would've exhibited itself by now. Besides, their hours and schedules are even screwier than mine."

He stood up and refilled both of our mugs; I thanked him with a smile and a quick nod. "Okay. So you don't go into practice. What else can you do with all your training?"

I pondered that for a moment while I took another bite of meatloaf. "Well, I could always teach. I did that at Quantico when I was first recruited and I had really liked it."

"And the hours are bound to be saner," he supplied. "No more 9:00 p.m. dinners."

"Plus I could spend more time with William. And you."

"Which wouldn't suck," he said, in his inimitable style.

"Of course the pay would be less," I pointed out.  "A lot less."

"Then we'll get by on love," he joked.

"In your dreams," I shot back. Taking another bite of potatoes, I contemplated the plan, and found myself warming up to it. "You know, Mel--that idea doesn't sound so bad."

"But. . .?" he asked, his eyes studying me, all knowing and concerned. "There's always a but."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I guess I feel like I'm letting Mulder down. I mean, the X-Files were his life, and when he left, he handed me the torch. How can I just walk away?"

"You're leaving them in good hands, Dana," he assured me. "John and Monica will carry on the work--they won't let the F.B.I. shut down the X-Files again. They may not be as driven as you and Mulder, but they are just as dedicated to finding the truth. You know that."

"I know. It's just Mulder. . ."

"Dana, the X-Files were Mulder's obsession, HIS quest. It was never yours. You MADE it your quest to please him. You've given so much of yourself over the years. . .maybe it's time to give TO yourself for a change."

I sat there a few more minutes, enjoying my meal, and thinking. Maybe it WAS time for a change. Mulder had moved on with his life. . .why couldn't I do the same? Krycek was gone. Cancerman was gone. The Consortium, as far as we knew, had been destroyed--what else was there to do? Everyone needs a reality check once in a while, and perhaps it was time for mine. 

Decision made. Over the weekend I'd call some of my old friends at Quantico and ask them to keep an eye out for any teaching positions--just in case things didn't work out with my new partner. "How did you get so smart, Frohike?" I marveled.

"Hanging around you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some stuff to do for the paper. . ." He stood up and placed his dirty cup in the sink. He stayed there for a moment, head bowed, before he contritely whispered, "Dana--I'm really sorry about Billy. I promise it won't happen again."

"I know," I reassured him. "You're doing a great job, Mel. You really are a wonderful dad."

He turned, giving me such a sad little smile that I felt my heart flip. He was trying so hard to do everything right, and I never took the time to tell him how much I appreciated all he did. Well, that was going to change. As he passed my chair on the way out of the kitchen, I grabbed his hand. He turned back, looking at me in surprise. "Dana. . .?"

"Mel--I. . .I don't know if I've said it but I want you to know that you mean so much to me. To have someone to come home to, and talk to, someone who cooks for me and spoils me like you do. I guess I never realized how lonely I was until I wasn't lonely anymore." I shook my head ruefully, "I'm probably not making much sense. It was a long day. But I just wanted to say thank you for all you've done for me. You're a special man, Frohike, and a very special friend."

He reached out with his free hand and tenderly cupped my face. "Aw, honey," he sighed, "*I* should be thanking *you*. For giving me a family that any man would envy." With that, he leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. We looked each other in the eye for a beat, then two, before he glanced away, obviously ill at ease with the sudden sappy turn the conversation had taken. "I, ah, I REALLY have to work on that article," he finally said, with a self-depreciating smile. "I made chocolate pudding if you want some for dessert. And I'll see you in the morning, okay?" A final kiss on the top of my head, and he was gone.

I finished off my meal--how lucky I was to have found a man who could cook!--then got up and washed what was left of the dishes. Once that was done, I cut up some of the leftover meatloaf and made us sandwiches for lunch. As I put all the food back in the fridge, I happened to notice the little cups of pudding. Oh, what the hell? I had already blown the diet anyway. A few spoonfuls of pudding wouldn't do much more damage. Grabbing a cup, I sat back down at the kitchen table with a medical journal I had been meaning to get to, leaving Mel the quiet of the living room to do his work.

Not sure how time could fly so fast, but the next time I looked at the clock, it was nearing midnight. As I passed through the parlor on my way to my bedroom, I noticed Mel curled up in one of the lounge chairs, fast asleep. Poor guy--William must've been quite a handful. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I powered down his Notebook, making sure to save anything he had been working on first. Closing the laptop, I put it on the table beside his chair. Next, I gingerly removed his glasses, placing them on top of his computer. Noting the slight chill in the air, I took the blanket from the foot of the couch, shook it out, and covered my sleeping friend. "Goodnight, June," I whispered, playfully, and kissed him on his cheek. His bristly cheek. My June REALLY needed a shave. 

With a silent chuckle, I headed off for bed myself.

THE END