Title : Glimpse : One weekend in June Author : Praetorian Archive : Sure, fine, whatever.. Just tell me. Spoilers : None at all Rating : NC-17 Category : SK/other, other angst. Summary : Skinner's got to have some kind of life! Because, at this point, Mr. Fox 'Porno-Man' Mulder has been laid more in the past 8 years than Skinner has. He's gotta get some, or go postal.. That's it. Feedback : the_praetorian@hotmail.com Disclaimer : All X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Fox, and 1013 productions. I just make them do bizarre things. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I stroll along the edge of the lake, my eyes cast downward. The crisp scent of pine wraps around me like a gentle cloak; stirring up old memories. This cabin has been in my family for years; I spent all my summers here and got my first kiss right out there on that old floating dock when I was thirteen. Cuts, scrapes, skinned knees, and sunburns too numerous to count flood my mind in a wave of nostalgia. When you really stop and think about it, some of the worst pains of my life revolve around this place. Oh, yes, and don't forget *him*. I wonder why I keep coming back here. My dog, Jigger, runs up and down the lake stopping at times to wait for me, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in a big ol' doggy grin. He loves it here. He can just run loose and enjoy being a dog. I stare out at the water; no whisper of wind stirs its glass-like surface. I bet I could get ten skips on a good, flat rock. I hear a distant sound, and smile softly to myself. The rumble is unmistakable, because nothing else on earth sounds quite like a Harley-Davidson. I turn toward the driveway, just in time to see it pull up. There he is. He shuts off the bike, and I can't take my eyes off his ass, clad in tight faded denim, as he swings off the bike. He leans forward slightly, and slides off the helmet. He turns around then, and sees me and he smiles. It's a gentle smile, but not necessarily a happy one. We're both old hands at this by now, and it ain't about happiness boys and girls, it's all about need. Need, and understanding. We start walking toward each other without a word spoken between us. Somewhere along the way, we begin to run. His legs are longer than mine, and he moves fast for a man damn near fifty. He scoops me up in an embrace that threatens to crush me; and that I never want to end. His lips find mine and his tongue invades my mouth. My head spins; it's an effect that no man has ever caused in me before, or since, and I return the kiss with all the urgency and fierceness that he's pouring into me. We break apart a minute later, chuckling at Jigger who jumps excitedly around us, barking his own welcome to his old friend. "Damn dog," Walter mutters, dropping a soft kiss on the end of my nose, "Where did you get that mutt anyway?" I laugh as my feet touch the ground, sliding down the length of his body in the process, "You bought him for me three years ago, remember?" He tilts his head and gazes up at the sky for a moment, "Yeah, I think I do remember that." I swat him playfully on the arm, and ask if there is anything he needs me to carry into the house. He shakes his head, no, and follows me to the cabin. I push open the heavy front door, Jigger bounds by, heading for his food bowl in the kitchen. I hear the soft thump of Walter's bag hitting the floor. His big hands slide around my waist, trailing fire and gooseflesh in their wake, and I know what's ahead. His teeth nip at the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and the slightly rough sensation of his five o' clock shadow makes me shiver. And he knows it. He feels it. His right hand works the button of my jeans, and his left glides up my back to tug my shirt collar away. His chin and cheeks rub across the newly exposed skin. He's tormenting me, and he knows it. And I suddenly remember why I keep coming back here to meet him. Because he's so damn good at it. His right hand slips inside my jeans, and cups my wet mound with a soft sigh that comes from both of us. I grind my hips back against him, feeling the familiar shape and size of his erection. He growls roughly, and moves me forward a few steps, before pushing me over the back of the couch. My jeans and the plain cotton panties I wear are yanked down my legs as he kneels behind me. "Don't move," it's not a statement, or even a request, it's an order. One I'd never dream of disobeying. He sits down on the floor, and turns around sliding his face up between my thighs. The first flick of his tongue almost burns me, and I gasp. The second makes my knees tremble and I grip the back of the couch for support, knowing that he could go on like this for hours. But in minutes he has me right on the brink, biting the backs of my knuckles to keep from moaning too loudly. But he's learned a few tricks over the years, and with a little more pressure; a little faster pace, I'm done in. I come, screaming his name, and shaking like the proverbial leaf on a tree. When I can straighten up, I see him, his face still wet from my juices, and wearing a self-satisfied smirk. His jeans are bunched around his thighs, and his cock is in his hand; making long, slow strokes from tip to base. He knows exactly what that does to me. "Can you actually use that thing, Marine, or, are you just going to play with it?" I ask, stepping back away from him. It's just the right bait to bring him up off the floor in a hurry. I'm trying to run -with my pants still around my ankles- and making too easy a target, because he's on me in a flash. He grabs me around my waist, and we both topple backward into an overstuffed chair. We grapple for a moment, and both my hands end up trapped by one of his. "Carin, I believe you're getting sassy in your old age," he chuckles softly against my hair. "What do you mean 'getting'?" I ask, squirming to get free, like I really don't want this. He raises me up with one arm around my waist, and I feel the smooth tip of his cock sliding along my pussy. "Oh, that's right. You've been sassy all this time, and I just keep re-noticing it," he says casually, but the underlying gruffness to his voice is a giveaway to his desire. I squirm harder, not so much to get free, but to antagonize him. And it's working because he's swearing under his breath now. He releases my hands and grabs my waist, shoving me down on his cock in one motion. "Oh, God!" I groan, half in pleasure, half in outright pain, and we both sit absolutely still for a moment. His fingers massage the back of my neck, and he begins to slowly arch and move underneath me. The pain has faded and pure pleasure takes up the slack as I begin to rock my hips in counterpoint to him. I reach down between his thighs, and let the tips of my nails graze along the tight skin of his balls. He arches higher and sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth. I know which buttons to push too. "Don't!" He snaps at me. I do it again, slower this time. "Goddamn it Carin!" He bucks hard, almost throwing me off his lap and I laugh softly. "Can't stand to lose control, can you?" I purr to him, repeating the motion a third time. He groans, a deep, rusty, rumble in his chest and I look over my shoulder at his face. His eyes are squinched closed, and sweat has broken out across his brow. "Can't stand to lose control, and you hate to be in control *all* the time, am I right, Walter?" I punctuate the question by giving his nuts a firm, but gentle squeeze, and he comes with a roar that threatens to shake down the walls of the cabin. I flex my muscles on him, tightening, and releasing, till he rides out the wave of his orgasm. He pulls me back against his chest, and we both relax, satiated for the moment. It *is* all about need and understanding. And we understand exactly what the other one needs. I sit in a chair on the deck; hot cup of coffee in my hand and watch the sun raise it's face above the mountains to cast its glow upon the lake. My knees are drawn up against my chest, more to protect my heart from the coming pain, than against the unseasonably cool air. I prop my chin on my kneecap, and think about the man who sleeps so soundly in the bedroom. For maybe the millionth time, I wish that things were different. If I were... If he was... If we... If, If, If... Our lives are cast into a mold very early on, and we seldom realize that some of the decisions we make are the wrong ones, until it's much too late. But whose to say that anything would have worked out differently? What we are, and are not, has been shaped a long time ago. Walter Skinner and I have been playing this game for four years. We both have needs and wants that no one else seems to understand. The need to have your buttons pushed, to be challenged, to be matched. Needs that we can only fill with each other. And it all started right here, in this house. It was the first and only summer I ever put it up for rent. As fate would have it, guess who my tenant turned out to be. From the first moment, we were like month and flame. But I'm still not sure who played which role. I think I'm the one who gets burned. We sat on the living room floor last night, naked as usual, and drank beer; talking like a couple of old college friends who had a lot of catching up to do. And I suppose that is a good way to describe us. Old friends... Who just happen to fuck like minks once or twice a year. We don't, however, talk about work. Ever. I know he works for the FBI, and he knows I work for the Richmond PD, but that's it. What we talk about most are dreams. Like that Harley he rides. I can tell you with certainty that I'm partially responsible for it. Oh sure, he'd wanted one for years, and he could afford it, but he just wouldn't go buy one. And one night, much like last night, we were drinking and talking, and he said.. "Do you ever get the urge to do something crazy, Carin?" "What? *This* doesn't qualify?" His face lit up with a sheepish smile. That's one thing about Walt. He's got a smile that can fill a room, but he's got a cold side too, I've seen it once. "I mean like.. Buying a motorcycle and riding 'cross country. That kind of crazy." "I don't think that's crazy, hon. I think that's more of a throwback to nomadic times. Either that, or a mid-life crisis, you tell me." At that point he bounced a white seedless grape off my forehead and I laughed. "I'm serious, sometimes I want to buy a nice Harley and just ride like hell. Get away from everything. Be someone else for a while." "So what's stopping you?" I kept my tone low, but edged it with a challenge. "Life," he snorted, "My entire life is keeping me from it." "And my bullshit detector just went hay-wire," I countered, sitting up and pulling another beer from the cooler. "Excuse me?" "You heard me. It's bullshit. Go sing it to someone who'll dance to that crap, baby, because I won't." I watched his jaw start to tense up, and winked at him. He is *really* not used to people disagreeing with him. Much less calling him out on the carpet. "Either you want to, or you don't want to. Which is it?" "I want to, but I can't..." "Can't never could, you fucking coward." I know I'm harsh, but hey, that's just the way I am. But it also worked. The next time I saw him he was on that bike, and the man was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Well, you know what they say about men and boys... The only difference is the size of their feet and the price of their toys. He had to take me for a ride on it. By the end of that little trip I knew why women on the backs of Harley's smiled so broadly when you pass them on the highway. It's a giant rolling vibrator! The whisper of his bare feet against the smooth planks of the deck break me out of my reverie, and I smile as he leans down to hug me, and steal my coffee cup. "You know there's a whole pot in the kitchen," I gripe, as he empties mine and hands it back to me. "Good, would you fix me a cup when you go to refill yours?" I stretch my legs and get up slowly from my chair. "Cheap bastard," I mutter as I walk by him. "Smart-ass little bitch," he turns and grins. I bring his coffee and mine back to the deck and resume my seat. The sun is well above the mountains now and the inevitable is coming. I feel its cold fingers slip in and curl around my heart. He feels it too. He stretches out one arm and rubs the backs of his knuckles along cheek. I smile at him, hiding the loss I already feel. After a moment he stands up and sets his coffee cup on the railing, and takes mine to place beside it. He holds out his empty hand to me, and I rise to follow him. He leads me to the bedroom and cradles my face in his hands as he kisses me. This is the antithesis of last night. It's slow, sweet and achingly tender. His lips are soft and gentle against my own, and it's every bit as stirring to my blood as the passion that we unleash on each other at first glance. My hands run across his chest, feeling the crisp, light hair that covers it, and I trial just my fingertips down his ribcage to the band of his cut-off shorts. I feel the muscles of his stomach jump at my feather light touch and I smile beneath his kiss. I love knowing that I have that effect on him. His eyes lock with mine, brown to blue, and the intensity between us drowns out the world. This is the only time we actually make love, on the last day of our weekend. This is our goodbye. Afterward we shower and dress, he packs his things and I walk him out to his bike. I walk out with him and he kisses me one last time. We learned a long time ago that words have the power to destroy a moment, so we both remain silent. I watch him drive away and then go back to the house to pack up my own things. It's time to go back to my plain, quiet life. As I lock up the house and start down the drive I have no idea how drastically my quiet life has just changed.