Title - 11:21 Saturday Night
Author - Red Valerian
E-Mail address - hg83@dial.pipex.com
Rating - NC17
Category - Multiple choice Erotica M/S, Sk/S, S/F, you get the idea.
Spoilers - scenes from one or two non-specific episodes alluded to -
as well as a passing reference to Redux, which I have yet to see
myself.
Keywords - All the lonely people, where do they all come from? And
what do they do when they're by themselves?
Summary - It's 11:21 on a Saturday Night (duh) and we are offered a
look at the private thoughts of Skinner, Mulder and Frohike while each
imagines what he'd like to be doing with the blessed one. Meanwhile,
who's peopling Scully's fantasy landscape? Ah....that would be
telling.
Disclaimer: OK. I admit it. Not a single one of these characters is
mine. I hereby apologise to 'you know who' and to Fox and 1013
productions for co-opting characters rightfully theirs. Mea culpa, mea
culpa, mea maxima culpa. But guys - I am making nothing from their use
and I'm gaining oh so much on so many levels. And as the bard says -
to err is human, to forgive divine.
I must also admit to copying, verbatim for the most part, an ad for
that very...um...interesting product, Astroglide lubricant. I know
that I didn't have permission, but hey - it's all free advertising,
right? And once again, I'm not profiting in any way shape or form
though the unauthorised use of this product name.
Quick reminder about feedback. I'll do almost anything to get some
(*feedback* that is) as you'll see when you get to the end.
And finally, a quick thankyou to Maria Centrale for the 'single moment
in time' idea. And hey Maria - where's the next bit of your delicioius
Skinner/other series? I'm in withdrawal.
11:21 Saturday Night
Red Valerian
Skinner lay stretched out on the black leather recliner chair in his
otherwise Spartan apartment. He looked like a specimen being readied
for dissection. The apartment was furnished with one of everything.
One chair. One side table. One lamp. One shelf unit. That was about
it. Everything was in black or chrome or glass - the whole set
against antiseptically white walls. Antiseptically *bare* white walls.
The room was about as appealing as a morgue in winter.
The AD himself was also a study in matte black and pristine white. His
long legs extended to the very end of the recliner's footrest. They
were encased in black jeans, but the feet were bare. A spotless white
T-shirt was his only other item of clothing. It gleamed in the dim
light of the room, stretched over his broad torso, leaving his arms
exposed to the chilly atmosphere. The fit was so tight that his
well-defined musculature was clearly visible - like an illustration
in an anatomy textbook.
One arm was crooked up behind his head, the hand cradling his scalp.
The 'deck-chair posture' and casual clothing seemed incongruous in
this inhospitable environment. In Skinner's other hand he held a
television remote control unit which he was jabbing in the direction
of the TV on the shelf unit. The images on the screen reflected back
onto the mirrored surface of his glasses.
Skinner clicked from one station to another impatiently - not really
registering what was on one channel before he moved onto the next one.
A discordant symphony of noise filled the room as he clicked around
the dial. CLICK. And a screaming evangelist begged him to "Renounce
Satan."CLICK. And Judy Garland sang 'Bang Bang Bang' CLICK. And a
paid infomercial audience screamed that they wanted "More Bob!"
CLICK....CLICK....CLICK...Clickclickclickclickkkkkkk....The faces and
voices flew by so quickly that they became a blur of colour, backed
with white noise. Letterman. Leno. Larry King. Brokaw. Siskel. Kathy
Lee.
Angrily, he clicked the television off and threw the remote down on
the floor. The sudden silence was unnerving. It left a ringing in his
ears and made the room seem 10 degrees colder. He involuntarily
shivered as his exposed skin grew a sea of goosebumps.
There was a frown on Skinner's face when finally and inevitably he
turned and looked at the side table next to his chair. He'd been
avoiding it most of the evening, but no longer. The spirit might be
willing, said his grim expression, but the flesh is weak. Too
fucking weak.
On the table was one empty glass and one unopened bottle of whisky.
Next to them was a tube of Astroglide lubricant still in its outer
box. Also unopened. He stared at all three for a few minutes. Then he
slowly reached out for the box containing the tube of Astroglide. He
opened it and took out the information leaflet he found inside. He
began to read it carefully.
The time on the blinking digital clock on his VCR clicked over to
11:21 exactly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Less than two miles away, Agent Dana Scully snuggled into her
down-filled easy chair covered in chintz fabric. The peach-coloured
room was almost uncomfortably hot. That was the trouble with open
fires, she reflected, as she glanced at the blazing hearth. They
looked good, but if the temperature suddenly rose too high, there was
no way to turn down the heat quickly. You just had to strip off or
open a window or two.
Scully had chosen the first option. She had stripped down to a pair of
tiny white panties and a white T-shirt. Now as she sat staring into
the blazing fire, she absently ran her hand over her breasts, until
the nipples gradually hardened. Then sighing almost in resignation,
she turned herself sideways in the chair, so that both legs hung over
one arm, crooked at the knee. Meanwhile, her neck and shoulders were
being comfortably cradled by the other arm. She crossed her legs at
the ankle, and continued to stare into the fire as she idly ran the
tips of her fingers over her tightening nipples, hardly seeming to
notice as the erectile tissue responded to her own touch.
Scully sighed again softly, and then closed her eyes to heighten the
tactile sensation of fingernails teasing cloth-covered flesh. The
half of her body facing the fire began to become almost uncomfortably
hot. Without looking she could tell that her right cheek was now
bright red. She left off toying with one breast, and lay her cool hand
against her cheek instead. As she expected, it felt hot and dry and
swollen. Running the same hand down her side and hip, she paused on
her upper thigh - letting the cold little fingers spread out onto
the hot, tight skin they found there.
She then squeezed hard once, enjoying the feel of thumbnail and
fingernails digging into flesh, before she lifted the hand suddenly
so that she could return to toying with her neglected breast again.
The cool spot on her thigh disappeared almost immediately as the full
force of the fire's heat slammed into it once more.
Half of Scully's body was now hot and dry and burning while the rest
of her was softening gently like warmed beeswax. She couldn't decide
what she felt more; pleasure or discomfort. They were as intertwined
as the threads on the hearth carpet.
She allowed her bottom to sink further into the seat cushion and then
did a quick mental inventory of her feelings at that precise moment.
Physically, she felt comfortable. That was indisputable. She was
enjoying the feel of textured linen on the bare skin at the back of
her knees. Enjoying the feel of her own delicate touch on her
sensitised flesh. Enjoying the heat and the warmth enveloping her
senses.
Emotionally, it was a very different story, however. She felt so
lonely. Achingly lonely. Not just lonely for companionship, but lonely
for someone else's touch. Someone else's voice. A particular someone.
She could almost imagine what his large hands would feel like on her
body. How his lips would feel on hers. She even thought she knew how
he'd smell. How he'd taste.
If he were to walk in here right now, she could imagine what would
happen. She'd get up off of the chair and lay down on the rug in front
of the fire. The she'd stare at him as he stood frozen in the doorway.
She'd say nothing, not wanting to break the spell, but her looks would
invite him to enter. Invite him to bury himself inside her welcoming
body.
And he would come over slowly at first, not daring to believe. And
then he'd grow more bold as he saw the look on her face and the love
in her eyes. Whispering a line from Under Milkwood, he'd gently lower
himself down onto her waiting body and bury his face in her hair.
"Lie down, lie easy - let me shipwreck in your thighs."
The words would roll off of his tongue and enter her soul, causing her
to shiver slightly. And then somehow their clothes would be gone, and
they would be revelling in the feel of flesh sliding over flesh. There
would be no hurry. No sense of urgency. They would explore each other
with fingertips and tongues, with kisses so tentative they were barely
felt. She'd sense herself softening and swelling, getting warm and wet
and slick for him. And then finally, at just the right time, he would
enter her slowly, so slowly that she'd have no time to tense, no time
to feel that fear of failure which had blighted the few sexual
relationships she'd had so far.
Instead as she felt the head of his penis gently prodding her where
she ached to be filled, she'd let herself open to him, become so so
wet for him, spread her legs as wide as she possibly could for him -
in a gesture far more welcoming than outstretched arms. And then he'd
gently backthrust and then slowly plunge forward. Backthrust and
slowly plunge forward. Backthrust and slowly plunge forward -
endlessly rocking his body into hers; each time going deeper into her
than the time before. The tangle of hair at the root of his cock would
gently tease her clitoris each time their bodies met. John Thomas
loving Lady Jane. And she'd feel his glorious cock angle upwards in
inside her, reaching for that perfect spot that no-one had ever
reached before; coming closer and closer with each long slow lunge.
And she would help him all she could by bringing her knees up to her
chest so that he could go deeper still - until she felt that he must
be arching up into her very soul.
He'd smile then, and deepen his long thrusts even more while not
increasing his speed. It would feel like slow-motion love, surreal
seduction. She would curb her desire to buck frantically against him -
to rush headlong towards the orgasm she craved. Instead she would slow
her movements even more to match his unhurried ones; clenching her
vaginal muscles around his girth as if she could squeeze her love into
him. And he'd throw back his head and laugh then. And looking down at
her he'd whisper that she was exquisite and he had always loved her.
Loved her from the first moment he saw her.
His arms would be braced on either side of her shoulders, elbows
locked, so that he could look down at her. Look down at *them* joined.
And as he stroked slowly in and out of her, she would look down too
and see the glorious evidence of his desire for her, glistening with
her juices - disappearing and reappearing inside her body.
When they both finally allowed the tempo to increase; when they both
finally gave in to the frantic need to bury themselves in each other
fiercely - almost painfully - then they'd finally climb that peak
together, and together come screaming down to earth again.
She could almost imagine these things. Almost feel them Almost but not
quite.
All this time Scully had continued to gently toy with her nipples. Now
suddenly her own touch was too delicate. Too tentative. She tried
pinching the nipples harder - twisting them almost in exasperation.
That helped a bit but it still wasn't enough. She had known it
wouldn't be. It never was.
Opening her eyes for a minute she caught sight of the antique
mantelpiece clock whose chased brass dial was gleaming in the
firelight. Even from the other side of the room, she could see that
the ornate black hands were pointing to 11:21.
She closed her eyes again, this time letting her hands rest idle on
her stomach. Oh God. Would this night never end? A tear trickled out
of the corner of one eye and ran down her reddened cheek. She didn't
even bother to wipe it away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Skinner read the leaflet which had been enclosed in the bottle of
Astroglide one more time. He knew that it was a delaying tactic, but
that didn't stop him reading it again - word for word.
"COMPARE THESE FEATURES WITH THOSE OF OTHER LUBRICANTS:
- Superior, long-lasting lubricating qualities.
- NO petroleum ingredients.
- COMPLETELY water-soluble.
- Does not dry out to leave a solid residue.
- Greaseless - Natural feeling.
- Inert - will not culture bacteria present.
- Non-systemic.
- pH of about 5.
- Safe: Lab-tested.
- Not a spermicide or contraceptive.
- Non-staining, clear, unscented
ASTROGLIDE is a new concept in personal lubrication.
It is made of thixotropic gelation agents, emollients, humectants,
purified (deionized) water, stabilizers, and a mild preservative
system designed to preclude reaction to the more sensitive areas of
the body.
The pH of the system is slightly acidic. ASTROGLIDE has excellent
lubricity resulting from the decreased viscosity of the gel, reducing
any sheer force.
ASTROGLIDE has a smooth, natural texture not available from other
lubricants, enhancing the comfort and ease of all intimate activities.
It is also compatible with latex and plastic items and ideal for
easing insertion. "
Skinner finished reading. There was now another truly grim smile on
his face as he picked out the key phrases from the leaflet. "Personal
lubrication", "sensitive areas of the body", "intimate activities".
Yeah. All that was well and good. But was it ideal for jerking
yourself off with? Would it make a clenched fist feel like a woman's
welcoming body? Like a specific woman's welcoming body? Like Scully's?
There was only one way to find out. He unsnapped and unzipped his
jeans, reaching in and exposing his burgeoning erection to the chill
air. If anything it shrivelled slightly, as if it didn't like the cold
room and wanted to run back into the warm. Skinner ignored the
shrinking flesh but again that look that was more grimace than smile
appeared on his face. He turned his eyes away and opened the tube of
Astroglide, squeezing a small amount of the colourless, odourless gel
onto his right hand. It felt as devoid of warmth as did everything
else in the room. The little pool of gel was as cold as his empty
life was at the present. As frigid as his death was likely to be. But
the lack of any alternative meant that it would have to do.
In the few seconds he'd been brooding, the gel in his hands had
already begun to warm up. Skinner closed his eyes and let his
imagination go to work. What would he like to do with Dana Katherine
Scully, that was the question? Or rather, what would she like to do
*to* him? That might be a more interesting question. In the past she'd
held a gun on him. Mistrusted him. Screamed at him. Accused him of
betrayal - of using her to preserve the Consortium lies. And at that
fateful meeting, to his intense grief, she had acted like she despised
and hated him. So what would she do if she could punish him with
impunity? If she could get her own back at last?
Suddenly Skinner wasn't in his icy living room, stretched out on his
leather recliner. He was on a stainless steel autopsy table in a
morgue. But he was very much alive, that was for sure. And Agent Dana
Scully was standing over him in her surgical whites. Bizarrely, they
were unbuttoned from neck to hem, and under them it was clear that she
was absolutely naked.
As was he.
Her hair hung around her face loosely and she smiled down at him,
rather enigmatically. Then she leant forward slowly, bringing her
face down to his.
He closed his eyes in anticipation as her breath kissed his cheek.
It was still 11:21pm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frohike sat at his computer staring fixedly at the screen as his
fingers flew over the keyboard. He was dimly aware that he had a hard
on which was just not going to go away. He'd been ignoring it for
several hours now, but it had reached gargantuan proportions. Shit.
He'd have to do something about it if he were going to get anything
accomplished.
It shouldn't take long. It never did. Without looking, he undid his
trousers, and quickly slipped both them and his boxers down around his
ankles. His freed erection bobbed upright, bumping into the underside
of the computer desk gently. Frohike didn't take any notice of it at
all.
Still with his eyes on the screen, he reached into a drawer at the
side of his desk and began to rummage inside with a frown of
concentration on his face. Eventually he found what he was looking for
and the frown lines eased.
It was a large pot of Vaseline petroleum jelly. Economy size. Tearing
his eyes off of the screen for a split second, he twisted off the lid
and scooped out a huge pile of the slimy goop. Then turning back to
the screen, he began to methodically coat his cock and balls with the
stuff. He brushed the excess off onto his shirt absent-mindedly. It
was already crusted with so much else, that a little more wouldn't
make much difference.
Then Frohike did the usual. As his right hand reached for his now
slick genitals, he imagined that a woman was crouched under his
computer desk. A woman whose only desire in the world centered around
giving Frohike pleasure. A woman who was willing to wait patiently
until called upon to give him the occasional quick blow job he needed.
She didn't want conversation and she certainly didn't want to be
pleasured herself. No - Fox Mulder's hot little partner liked nothing
so much as sucking Frohike's dick. She didn't want food and she didn't
want drink. The 10cc's of cum that he periodically produced was quite
enough to keep her going.
As Frohike's fist relentlessly jerked up and down his shaft, he
pictured Dana Scully's full lips pursed around his cock. Her eyes were
closed in bliss as she sucked and sucked and sucked. Within a few
seconds he exploded and coated the underside of the computer desk with
the latest accumulation of his semen. Then wiping his hands on his
shirt again, he lifted up slightly and yanked his trousers and
boxer-shorts back up. His eyes had never left the screen once. The
little time clock in the bottom corner of the screen still read 11:21
when he had finished - approximately 18 seconds after he had begun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back in his chill living room, Skinner almost grudgingly let his
fantasy continue to unfold. Dana Scully. The beautiful Doctor Dana
Scully. The woman he knew in reality to be gentle and loving, was in
his mind enjoying the torment she was putting him through. Was taking
an active pleasure in seeing him suffer so.
He closed his eyes and found himself on the morgue slab once more.
Suddenly he realised the Scully had withdrawn a few paces and was
laughing at him softly. He opened his eyes again and took stock of his
situation. Not good. Scully had apparently cuffed him to the autopsy
table quite thoroughly. One set of cuffs each fastened his ankles to
the rear legs of the table. Another single pair attached his dangling
left wrist to a front table leg. His right hand and arm were
completely free, however. Free to do whatever they wanted. And they
wanted to do something very much. Very much indeed.
For there was something else rather unusual about this scenario.
Skinner had a full blown erection which was now enormous and
throbbing. It curved over his flat stomach, a purpling arrow of need.
And Dana Scully was smiling down at it, clearly triumphant.
She spoke at last.
"Are you quite comfortable now, Sir?" Her tone was one of mock
deference and as she continued speaking she never allowed it to
register the slightest emotion. "I feel that you should know something
sir. It's just this. I can make you do anything I want you to do.
Anything. And I intend to do just that."
Rage filled Skinner, causing his jangling nerve ends to dance like
drops of cold water on a hot griddle.
"Like hell you will," he managed to hiss out between gritted teeth.
All the while he was staring at her swollen breasts, the pink nipples
shrivelled to tantalising points which he ached to suck.
"Oh....very macho, Sir. And of course you have to pretend that you're
still the boss. But we both know differently, don't we?"
As she asked the question, she leant down again, this time as if she
were going to touch her moist lips to his straining cock. He kept his
eyes open , and watched as she stopped just short of the head and
instead she blew gently on the glans, already gleaming with pre-cum.
Skinner involuntarily thrust upward towards her full lips, but she
pulled away with a laugh and stood looking down at him again, smiling
almost tenderly this time. Then she continued speaking.
"Look Sir, it's very simple. All I want you to do is what I know you
want to do anyway. What you'd certainly be doing already if I weren't
here. I just want you to jack yourself off. In front of me. Now."
She smiled that smug little smile at him again, before continuing.
"We both know that you're going to do it eventually, Sir. So why not
get it over with now?"
With that she let the lab coat slip off of her shoulders and drop down
to the floor, so that she stood in front of him completely naked. He
erection grew noticeably in size and almost unbidden his hand reached
towards it. Again, Scully laughed softly. Then staring straight into
his furious eyes, she cupped her breasts with her hands, lifting them
up and pushing them together to create impressive cleavage. With a
tremendous effort of will, Skinner gripped the side of the table with
his right hand. His knuckles went white with the pressure.
"I saw you looking at these, Sir," she whispered looking down at her
ripe breasts. "You want them, don't you? You want to suck them and
lick them and kiss them until you make me scream. Hell - you want to
fuck me senseless, and then afterwards you want to go to sleep with
your head buried between my breasts. Why not just admit it?"
Then she leant forward so that first one nipple and then the other
brushed against his resolutely closed lips. Skinner refused to give
her the satisfaction she craved. He clenched his jaw, and tired to
turn his head away, but there was no escape. She just laughed and
followed the movement of his head, continuing to brush her puckered
flesh against the harsh line of his lips.
In his cold living room, Skinner had begun to pant slightly. Against
his will he slowly reached his hand down towards his now demanding
erection. The Astroglide made his palm a slick haven; a place where he
could bury his desire for a few minutes at least. He was nearly
touching himself now - in his fantasy and in reality. The line between
the two was starting to blur. Then suddenly he froze. His hand hovered
over the his straining flesh for a breathless instant, and then he
clenched his fist and slammed it down on his rigid thigh instead. The
feel of the warm Astroglide on his fingers and palm was suddenly
unpleasant. Distasteful somehow.
His eyes shot open and he looked down at his fading erection and his
clenched fist as if both belonged to someone else. Some other
Assistant Director of the FBI who was obsessively in love with a
subordinate who cared nothing for him. His face registered a mixture
of shocked disbelief and something approaching despair.
The clock on the video still read 11:21.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fox Mulder was in the company of many like-minded people and they
were all sharing a group experience. However, it was not an experience
that he was particularly happy to be sharing with 128 strangers. All
of them men. Men who he didn't know. Men who he didn't *want* to know.
Men who all, like himself, had trenchcoats over their laps as they
gazed fixedly at the enormous screen in front of them.
On the screen a seemingly immeasurable number of bodies twined and
intertwined in endless sweaty combinations. The soprano female
voices cooed and oohed and squealed while the male baritones grunted
and growled and urged the women on to greater excess. Every female
orifice was filled with cock or finger or tongue in turn. The women
all seemed to find this incredibly satisfying and their moans and
groans were doubled and trebled at each new insertion. Their
vocabulary was limited. A few gasped monosyllables, and an occasional
foray into two syllable words seemed to suffice.
"God. Yes. Harder. Please. Faster. Deeper. Yes. GOD. Yes. Deeper.
Faster. Please. Harder. Yes. God."
There wasn't much variation.
The hunched over silhouettes in the theatre were islands of isolation,
each leaning towards the lighted screen like a heliotropic flower.
Their intense faces were lit by the reflected glare. Their eyes were
glazed, their mouths agape and their hands no-where to be seen.
Hiding under the folds of coats, they surreptitiously worked
themselves in time to the activity on display.
Mulder was among them, and yet not of them. He hadn't been able or
willing to suspend enough disbelief to get any enjoyment from the
scenes being played out in front of him. Alone in the theatre, he
watched unmoved, despite the increased pace of the action openly on
display on screen which was matched by the increased *covert* actions
of his fellow theatre-goers.
The gasped words blaring from the speakers gradually became louder
and more frantic. The vocabulary narrowed to two words - "Yes" and
"God". "Yes" and "God". "Yes" and "God". Then just "Yes". Repeated
constantly. Over and over and over. "Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes!"
Suddenly there was a huge multiple orgasm being experienced, not only
by the entire cast on the screen, but apparently by most of the
hunched silhouettes sitting in the audience. Mulder found himself
faintly disgusted by the whole thing, although he knew that he was on
shaky moral ground here. He was certainly no stranger to pornography,
and after all, no-one had made him come into the theatre. That had
been his own free choice.
It was *why* he'd come in that he should be worried about.
He knew exactly why, of course. He'd walked in off of the street
entirely because of a billboard he chanced to see outside of the
theatre. It showed a photograph of the well endowed 'actress'
starring in this very feature. He hadn't been able to help noticing
that she looked a little like Scully. If you squinted your eyes and
did a bit more of that willing suspension of disbelief stuff, anyway.
In the dim light, Mulder sat back in his seat deflated and filled with
self-loathing. He was just about to begin a litany of
self-flagellation when he was suddenly distracted by the florescent
hands of his watch. He saw that it was 11:21.
Time to go back to his empty apartment with its empty bed.
He sighed deeply. If only Scully were there waiting for him. He closed
his eyes and the rank smells filling the theatre faded away for an
instant. Instead he saw his partner appear in a kind of video montage
of quicksilver images. She was as clean and bright as the reflected
glint off of polished silver. As warm as a patch of sunlight on
velvet. In his mind's eye he saw Scully smiling tenderly down at him
and letting him sob his relief in her arms. Scully holding onto him in
a hospital corridor as if he were the only thing keeping death at bay.
Scully pointing a gun at him to save him from himself. Scully smiling
at him tenderly. Scully weeping for him. Scully laughing at him.
Scully. Always Scully. Forgiving him. Needing him. Fighting for him.
But Scully loving him? No. He feared never that. He could never
deserve that. He had cost her too much and he had too little to offer
her in return.
Mulder felt a lump form in his throat at the knowledge that he could
never have her. He opened his eyes again and found himself alone in
the empty theatre. The strong projector lights still lit the screen
but there was no longer a picture on it. The huge 'canvas' was an
enormous blank space in a pitch black universe.
Like my life, Mulder found himself thinking bitterly, as he rose to
leave the tawdry place. Just like my life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In his apartment Skinner suddenly sat upright and looked down at his
untouched erection in disgust. What was he trying to do anyway? Who
was he kidding? He jumped out of the chair without even bothering to
zip himself up, and went over to the sink to wash his hands. By then
his erection had dwindled enough to make tucking himself away
feasible. He proceeded to do so, then marched back into the living
room and picked up the tube of Astroglide. Almost viciously, he threw
it into a trash can by the side of the chair, and then stood glowering
at nothing in particular. His stance was tense - hands clenched into
fists - neck tendons standing out as if he were under great physical
strain. Which in a way, of course, they were. He proceeded to
interrogate himself mentally.
Where had the fantasy about Scully cuffing him to a morgue table come
from? Didn't it prove that he was a sick individual who didn't deserve
for his love to be requited? But even as he thought the words, he
began to defend himself against the charge.
Naturally he'd imagined Scully in her work environment - that was the
only way he ever saw her. Nothing surprising about that.
And the fact that she was naked?
That wasn't all that surprising either, considering how much he had
wanted her and for how long. He was amazed he didn't always picture
her stark naked. He was a man after all.
But what about the fact that he'd imagined her taunting him - trying
to force him to jerk himself off in front of her?
That one was a little harder - but again it was quite explicable if
you thought about it. Scully had been unintentionally driving him mad
- making him crazy ever since he'd known her. Of course it wasn't
deliberate on her part - he knew that. But still, the fact remained
that inadvertently Scully drove him to self-abuse almost every day,
while her professional demeanour kept him chained to his role as her
boss. Hence his fantasy - of her tying him down and forcing him to
pleasure himself while she stayed carefully out of his reach. It was
such a prefect example of casebook Freud that he almost laughed.
So - maybe he wasn't totally fucked up after all. Maybe.
Because he knew in his heart that what he really wanted to do to
Scully was to protect her. To scoop her into the powerful embrace of
his arms and never let her out. When she'd collapsed at that sham of
a meeting of the joint FBI panel, he'd almost given himself away. He'd
caught her just in time and couldn't resist cupping her face with his
hand. She'd endured so much. Been lied to so much. And she didn't
know who to trust. How could he blame her for not trusting him? He
sometimes doubted his own motives. But never where she was concerned.
He knew exactly how he felt about her and what motivated everything he
did where she was concerned. It was love. Pure and simple. And it was
about time he told her so, before another minute passed.
Skinner walked purposely over to the phone and dialled Scully's
number. Then he waited impatiently for the connection to be made.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As soon as he reached the sidewalk, Mulder came to a decision. He was
going to call her. Now. Not another second should be wasted. Even as
he thought the words, he took his cell phone out of his pocket, and
dialled the only number he knew by heart. Scully's.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At his computer, Frohike suddenly realised that he needed to speak to
Dana Scully. He'd promised to give her some input on an unsolved case
that she thought might be linked to the computer virus pandemic. No
time like the present. With a single click of a mouse, his automatic
dialler did its business.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scully still lay unmoving in her chair. The tear on her cheek had
still not been brushed away. She felt profoundly miserable. Profoundly
depressed. But she had decided one thing in the last few seconds. She
was tired of keeping her feelings hidden. Tired to death. And the very
next time she spoke to him, she was going to tell him the truth at
last. The *very* next time she spoke to him. She was absolutely
determined.
At that moment her phone began to ring. Scully started upright, and
stared at it almost warily. Then she walked over and watched as it
rang a few more times. Should she answer it? Who would ring at - she
looked over at the mantle clock again - at 11:21 at night?
Well - she could think of few people actually. But was it who she
wanted it to be?
Heart pounding, she reached out her hand and picked up the receiver.
Then slowly she put it to her ear and whispered her usual greeting -
but not in her usual tone.
"Scully here," she said. Her voice hopeful. Tender. Willing the
answering voice at the end of the line to be the one that she wanted
to hear. Willing it to be *him* so that she could confess her love now
- before she had time to think better of it.
And as the answering voice replied and began to pour out its love for
her in desperate tones, tears of joy began to course down Scully's
smiling face. At last she was finally able to interrupt his flow and
to begin answering with one of her own.
"Oh God," she whispered. "I've been thinking of you all night. I've
been thinking of you all of my life. Please come over here now.
Please. "
She hesitated over the next phrase, and then decided that it said
everything that she needed it to say.
"Please....." and she whispered his name clearly here....."please....I
want you to come *home* now."
At that moment the clock on the mantelpiece clicked over to 11:22.
-fin-
Hey - I hate 'Lady or Tiger' stories too, and I swore that I'd never
write one myself. But what can I say? "The best laid schemes o'mice an
men gang aft a-gley" and all that.
So - if you want to know whose name Scully did whisper, you're going
to have to write and ask me. This is my new way to get feedback. Yes,
I know it's blackmail, but every fanfic writer is already breaking so
many copyright laws, that committing another federal offence or two is
neither here nor there. So stop gnashing your teeth and get writing. I
told you that I was a desperate woman.
I TAKE IT BACK! DON'T WRITE TO ME - JUST GO TO THIS SITE WHERE THE
SOLUTION IS POSTED AND WHERE YOU'LL FIND OODLES OF SKINNEROTICA TOO!
http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/parade/hg83/skinner.htm