True Love!
It was a dark and stormy night. Scully
was walking down yet another cold, endless FBI hallway, having
just completed yet *another* session cuddling and tranquilizing
the ever-bumptious Mulder. She was very tired, still not fully
recovered from her harrowing stint as a space alien lab rat, feeling
alone and unappreciated, wondering whom she had to blow to get
out of this crummy job.
Fate must have heard her plaintive and emotional cries, and intervened
as, just then, A.D. Walter Skinner appeared from around a corner,
walking towards her, flushed and glowing, having just finished
a work-out, bench pressing Clydesdales. He too had been contemplating
the shallow trajectory of his life, alone, misunderstood, accused
of repellent deeds by the only woman he had ever wanted to shtup
into idiocy. Whenever he had watched her bend over to pick up
Mulder's gun, which happened a lot, he almost went off like Vesuvius,
but averted his eyes, a gentleman to his hot, smoldering core.
Skinner too was pondering the inevitable change his existence
must endure, as, in just a few short and abrupt moments, his life
had turned on it's axis, like a weary lap-dancer called to the
phone. He had prepared himself for Scully's death, had prepared
to grieve silently, stoically, without tears, his unrequited and
consuming love offered up to the relentless and indifferent gods
of duty.
In contemplation of these coming empty years, he had constructed
a shrine to his beloved, wedged in a closet between the water
heater and his Kevlar jock straps. Daily he would fall to his
knees in this blissful private sanctuary, exalting the desperate
and devouring ecstasy that he would never know, flown from his
grasp like a well-greased sparerib. His glance would linger in
homage on her glorious face, pictures he had taken of her through
peepholes in the ladies john. He would swell with desire as he
gently fingered the underwear copped when she had fainted. He
would bury his nose in the pom-pommed sweatsocks stolen from her
laundry bag.
This was his temple, an expression of his groaning inner self,
his own little piece of wack-off heaven. Destined to be a shell
of a man, now and forever, he was nevertheless grateful that he
could still get the monster up, the only reason for living left
to him, and not really all that bad when you think about it.
But now, standing in the harsh, if otherworldly, glare of the
antiseptic hallway, he stared trout-mouthed at his only wish,
standing before him, upright yet timid, supple, voluptuous, and
in tangible vivacity, realizing he was now presented with the
untimely inconvenience of being forced to declare himself or give
her up forever, as she would certainly notice her declining stock
of personally autographed J. Edgar Hoover garter belts.
For Scully, saddened, despondent, trying to maintain a presence
and identity, caught in the asexual and often exacting world of
crime fighting with its numbing days and loveless nights, having
her enormous forensic capabilities often overlooked by her well-meaning
but callow partner who was a walking bull's-eye, had a loony and
catastrophic personal life, along with table manners that would
embarrass a ravenous hyena, was hoping for nothing more than a
nice lust-lunk of her own who could hoist the timber and ream
the rabbit. Picking up out-of-town boys at the local 7-Eleven
for the price of a grape Slurpy was no longer satisfying to her,
nor did it fill her heart with that consuming fire of passion
inflamed, frenzied abandon, nor excite her desire for smutty,
yet suave conversation on a level above that of Beavis' without
the charm.
Long ago Scully realized that she had achieved all her girlish
goals, had everything she wanted, including the awesome esteem
of co-workers who would drop trou and hump the carpet wherever
she walked. More than once she had watched as stalwart and crusty
agents had offered encouragement and praise by blubbering out
urgent pledges to drag their manhood over forty miles of broken
glass if she would only allow them to lap her shins. Yes, it was
a good life, but she wanted more, deserved more, longed for more,
and if only she could find it, then her life of acclaim and achievement
would mean more to her than a fly-blown liver even Tooms would
reject. If only this lightening-infested storm could illuminate
for her the answer to all these vague cravings that drove her
to fondle automatic weapons and blow squirrels off power lines.
Through this haze of rumination, Scully realized that something
was blocking her path, something large, hulking, like a side of
beef and smelling like a musk ox in rut. She restrained her ususal
initial impulse to crush its larynx with a rifle butt, and just
in time, too, because it was only that big somnulent lug Skinner,
her erstwhile boss who interminably huffed about 'orders' while
bustling her out of his office so he could get back to 'Baywatch'
reruns.
Then, as recognition dawned, she was swept with overwhelming guilt
for falsely accusing him of horrendous crimes, everything from
overthrowing the world order to groping Holsteins and worse. It
made her feel small, ashamed, to have misjudged this man who,
in retrospect, had only wanted to help her, spare her, save her
from all harm, place his career and reputation, maybe even his
life, on the line, do anything necessary short of sniffing her
car seat to make her feel cherished and needed. Oh, what a fool
she had been!
In contrition she decided not to evade the issue, not to leave
things unsaid, but to face his infamous wrath and take her punishment,
preferably in a black cupless corset with stick-on tassels. Summoning
every iota of bravery and courage that remained of her shriveled
ego, she slowly raised her head, clenched her delicate jaw, and
stared squarely into the eyes of her current and justified nemesis,
hoping for mercy, if not exemption from temporary duty as a moving
target at the Bureau's firing range. What she saw was so unexpected,
so sudden, that her heart thrust around her rib cage like a meaty
cue ball.
The crashing of continents, the explosion of galaxies was as nothing
compared to the combustible look as their eyes locked, and the
body heat suddenly released would have quenched suns going nova.
Instantaneoulsy Skinner knew he loved beyond all reason, and Scully
envisioned her most avid fantasies fulfilled. With palpable apprehension,
Skinner waited for Scully to speak, to accept or reject him, to
soar with him in mutual rapture, or condemn him to the gutter,
trolling forever in dumpsters for scraps of leftovers from her
lunch.
"Ah....ah...", said Scully, her throat spasms giving
her normally forthright voice an Elmer Fudd quality that Skinner
could not help but find as endearing as an empty clip after a
headline bust.
"Ah...Assistant Director....Skinner?" she blurted.
Skinner was transported, enchanted at the way she formed her lips
around his name, a promising beginning.
"Oh, Scully," he replied huskily, his voice quiety but
deep, full, and euphoric, like a chain saw through cattle. "Call
me Walter?"
"Walter", she said, wrapping her lips around the syllables
with a pursed and pouting seriousness that turned Skinner's spine
to cabbage and sounded to Scully like a bubbling oil seep. "Call
me Dana", she said silkily, hardly able to fathom her own
dawning desire, congealing and obvious like fish yoghurt.
"Day. Nuh.", said Skinner, the name dropping from his
mouth like a candied ball bearing, hundred proof testosterone
leaking from his ears.
Now that they were on a first name basis, things moved very quickly,
yet they were frightened and hesitated to proceed, for fear of
damaging this new and fragile but robust union like Bambi mangled
in a rush hour pile up.
"Oh Dana," whispered Skinner, "It's been hard,
so hard....."
"I know, Walter," she gushed, like an overflowing blender.
"That's why I never stood up when you jiggled into my office,
but remained rooted behind my desk," he confessed sadly,
as if revealing a revolting secret urge to twist the heads of
parakeets while-
"Oh!" interjected Scully, "I knew, yes, deep down
I rejoiced when I heard it vibrating against your desk."
Gently, like butterfly wings, she wiped the drool from his chin.
Skinner did not need an anvil to drop on his head (again) to see
this as a declaration of Scully's feelings for him. But, was it
love or guilt? He was so afraid of her rejection, her belittling
of his shameless appetite to contort her into a love pretzel.
Slowly, flushing, he tenderly took her porcelain hand in his and
clasped it to his surging iron chest, breaking bones.
"You are my flame-haired goddess", he sniveled, "My
cream-skinned angel, my blimp-boobed-"
"Oh," she squealed like a bat, "You are my hairy
Adonis, my throbbing master, my buffed oaken totem, my virile
and engorged colossus, my polished bald-"
"You like bald?" interrupted Skinner, as incredulous
as a five year old boy discovering his parents coupling on the
wet bar.
"Oh, yes," she said, "No need to carry a make-up
mirror."
Skinner, now seeing the ardor in her unfocused eyes, bugged out
like blue-dotted golf balls, abandoned all caution and joyfully
lunged like a rock slide, tottering Scully back on her stiletto
heels, her translucent butt cheeks flexing in honeyed agitation,
blinded by his forehead glare.
In viorous arousal, Skinner pressed her to his thundering, rugged
thighs. "I love you, Dana!" he bellowed, over and over,
his throat clogged by a mucal flood.
"Mmf ngmf bfmmn," replies Scully with muffled gasp,
her love button flashing 'launch', fingernails shredding his sweatpants
and raking his bulging burnished calves.
With cosmic gratitude Skinner lifts his darling by her soaking
armpits, adeptly stripping her down to camisole and shoulder holster,
while Scully, shaking with insistent need, removes his stiffened
BVDs until he stands revealed like a panting diesel at full throttle,
a dense mass of pulsating muscle, from his carrier deck shoulders
to his tapering and thrusting out-of-control jack hammer hips,
wearing nothing but his socks and ammunition belt.
"Oh, my Dana," he weeps, "I'd work myself into
a coronary for you, I'd do deep leg squats with this building
on my back for you, I'd give myself a hernia for you. If elephants
were sitting on my testicles, I'd be strong for you."
"Walter, my manly sex bisquit," said Scully, gazing
into his eyes, his glasses fogged like poached eggs, "I've
been a fool. It should have been obvious, the way you would stroll
past my apartment building in the middle of the night and casually
peep in my windows while wearing night vision goggles. Forgive
me!"
"No need, my sump flower," he crooned, his face now
swollen and purplish from Scully's love bites.
"I've been so dense," she cried, "So cruel. I should
have heard the blood roaring through your heroic heart."
"That was the cafeteria chili," he replied, "But
I have long yearned for your pure, shining soul."
"Not so pure," said Scully.
"Ok, slightly tarnished soul," he observed dismissively,
his nose hairs flailing in suppressed extremity, blowing her tresses
about like a tornado.
"Oh, my wanton flesh pie! My crotch cake!" he murmured.
"Oh, my savage puppy, my tumescent lust slug!" she wailed.
Before we leave these two love-besotted and coltish civil servants
in the privacy of a public hallway, their galloping libidos anticipating
orgiastic bliss forever, unencumbered by whining and vacuous special
agents demanding hugs and simpering for affection, we overhear
on last exchange -
"Walter," pleads Scully, "One thing you must do."
"Anything, my pork quarry," he pledges.
"Promise me you'll send Mulder to Kurdistan."