From: JourneyToX Date: 6 Sep 1998 19:04:40 GMT Subject: *NEW*: "The Summer Man" by JourneyToX THE SUMMER MAN by JourneyToX@aol.com A Writing Exercise Invented by The Sick and Wrong Mind of Liz Ann Cato and Foolishly Agreed to and Written by JourneyToX@aol.com. Summary: An island, some memories, animals, margaritas, stars and Skinner. A completely non-X-Files related Skinner/Other short story. Rating: Oh give it a hard "R". Stop giggling that I said 'hard'. Archive: Please ask me where. Feedback: I crave it. JourneyToX@aol.com. Read the Author's Notes, below, first, OK? THIS IS MY FIRST POSTING TO ATXC, but not my first fanfic. I'd like to hear what you have to say, ATXC. Don't let me down! Disclaimer: Oh for God's sake. Skinner belongs to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. And Mitch Pileggi. And me, only me, in my dreams. This is a dream, right? ************************************************************************** ******** Author's Notes: My friend Liz Ann Cato and I have been working to try to get me unblocked for writing the rest of my fanfic "Purple". It's at Red V's delicious SIS Skinnerotica site. Little did I know what Liz Ann had in mind to stretch my creativity. The challenge: Skinner, a woman, a certain food product (snort!), a spatula and 1000 words (I cheated here.) I intended it just to be fun, absurd, words on paper. It turned into this. I enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy it. Liz Ann: you're a great friend and support. And a deviant! Love ya! ************************************************************************** ********************* THE SUMMER MAN by JourneytoX@aol.com On the Island, there are people who live here year round, like I do. And there are the Summer People. His family has always been Summer People. His parents came here every summer, renting the cottage half a mile from ours. We played together in the summer as children, although you couldn't really say that, since his sister and I are eight years younger, and the boys hardly wanted sissy girls tagging along. All our parents are gone now, and the children scattered to the winds. But his sister still comes to the Island every summer, formerly with her husband, but now only with her children and her tight, tired, brittle smile, and her plans for chic parties, and, sometimes, for a week, her brother. I was 10 the summer he did not return to the Island. He was 18 and in Vietnam. Three years later, I was 13 and did not understand the 21-year-old man who came back wearing his harder face and a body full of scars. I was 16 and still thought of myself as a tomboy, a kid, when he was 24 and beginning to grow into the control and presence that are his naturally. I was 18 when I began to want to harness that power, break that control. I was just beginning to know my own power of being a woman, and I thought it would be fun to use it on Walter Skinner. The skies that had scorched above us all day as we had sailed had dimmed to darkness as we nursed cold beers and fresh sunburns. A freshening breeze promising rain did nothing to chill the heat between us. The fire we built on the beach was cool compared to our bodies. On the blanket, we were a mad tangle of limbs and lips and tongues, shedding clothes, panting, throbbing and moaning. I was quaking with desire and suddenly it became far too much for me, frightening me in its intensity. I gasped for him to wait, to stop, and pulled myself away. He looked down at me with astonishment and confusion, then got up and walked away for many minutes. When he returned, his eyes were full of anger and contempt and a little pity. He put out the fire, ignored my sniffling half-assed excuses, and simply said, "Let's go." We never spoke of that night, ever. It hung between us like fog. That autumn he married Sharon and I went to college. Over the years, we have seen each other at half a hundred parties on the Island, and even watched our respective former spouses flirt more than a little bit with each other. And everything between us is cool in a warm way, polite in an angry way, shadowed by firelight flickering over a stupid, stupid eighteen year old girl. --------- Charlie rolled over on the hearth rug and startled a low growl in his throat that rapidly crescendoed into a full-fledged barking frenzy. "Shut up!" I said, trying to get back to my train of thought as I worked at my desk. Charlie continued, the black fur on the back of his neck standing on end, making a deafening din considering that I had tunes cranked too. Then I heard a man yelling outside. "Rachel!" Followed now by a pounding on my door. "Shit!" I said, throwing down my pen in disgust, turning off the stereo, and trying to hold Charlie's collar as he scampered for the door. I threw the door open and Walter Skinner stood some distance back from it. And stank. The odor of him was overpowering and nauseating and before he could say a word, I slammed the door back in his face. "Christ, Walter, what the hell happened?" I gasped, through the door. Charlie was frantic. "I was walking in the woods and found a skunk, that's what happened!" he yelled, coughing at his own foul stench. "And exactly why would you come here?" "I can't go back to my place - Martha's got some party tonight and there are caterers and I can't go in there reeking of goddamn skunk!" A smile started on my lips and a giggle was born deep in my belly, imagining a rank, pissed-off Walter Skinner walking in on Martha's oh-so-perfect party preparations, stinking up trays of canapes. I stifled the urge to scream laughing insanely and had to content myself with a rueful snort. Charlie was trying to break the door down and howling, and hopefully Walter didn't hear the snort. "Rachel, you've got to help me out here," he said, a little plea in his voice. "Just stay away from the door and the windows, I'll be with you in a second!" I grabbed Charlie and dragged him into a spare bedroom, where he quieted down somewhat. I stopped by the bathroom to gather towels and a bar of Lever 2000 and a bottle of Neutrogena shampoo. Back in the living room, I yelled through the door "Go around back." I had the hose attached to the tap and running full force by the time he came around back. His face was a portrait of total frustration, humiliation, and anger, and it was frankly hard to look at. I hung the end of the hose over a tree limb, making a shower of sorts, pointed to the bathroom supplies, and said "Knock yourself out." "You want me to shower in your back yard?" he asked, indignantly. I rolled my eyes at him. Evidently he thought the FBI had outlawed attacks inflicted by small, frightened animals on large, surly Assistant Directors. Right, Walter. Welcome to the real world. "You're not coming in my house like that, Walter. Take it or leave it," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "*Shit!*" he said, glaring at me. "Shit smells better than you, Skinner. God, just bathe already!" I said, turning on my heel. "When you're done, put on a towel and put your clothes in the washer. In the kitchen. Rinse them first." Walter Skinner can curse extremely creatively, and certainly outdid himself at that moment, but finally went to stand underneath the hose and let clean water wash over him. I went back to work, trying not to think of him. Trying and failing. Let me be damned for it, but about thirty minutes later, I couldn't stand it any more and went to look out the window at Walter Skinner. He was still under the hose. His clothes dripped from another limb. He took a large mouthful of water, rinsed and spat. He grabbed the greatly diminished bar of soap and made lather in his hands and scrubbed at every inch of his tanned body: his strong neck, his broad shoulders, his powerful chest adorned with dark hair and pink nipples, his underarms, his firm stomach, his, oh God, his beautiful, massive genitals, his solid behind, his strong legs, his big feet. Oh let me be damned and go to hell, because I could already feel the flames at that moment, licking at my searing center. I tried to drown the fire with wetness. It didn't work. I was in hell. He was the devil and I had just the place for him in this little hell of mine. A legion of angels couldn't save me. I didn't want to be. Oh yeah, you'll never make a saint of me. He took in a deep breath and grimaced, then stepped out of the water, grabbed a towel and knotted it around his waist. He turned toward the kitchen, definitely my cue to get out of the window and act like I was working. And stop trembling. "It's not working!" he called, at the back porch. "What?" "The soap doesn't take it off," he said. "That old thing about *tomato juice* can't be real, can it?" "Try some stronger soap," I suggested. "Pine-Sol! Tide! Comet! Something's got to work besides tomato juice." He padded, dripping into my kitchen, rummaged under the sink, and scowled. He put the bottle of Lemon Pine-Sol up to his face, free of his glasses, and read "`For sensitive skin, use gloves.' I have, I do believe, *some* sensitive skin." He slammed the Pine-Sol down in disgust, and opened the refrigerator. I was beginning to notice that he did, indeed, have a slightly deodorized but definitely serious reek of skunk still about him. "Out of here!" I said. "You're on your own, now." I stood to shoo him out of the kitchen. He ignored me and reached for the Bloody Mary mix in the refrigerator and returned outside, letting the screen door slam. I watched as he cautiously poured the cocktail mix over one arm and scrubbed it in, rinsed, and sniffed. "The tomato juice works, Rachel," he called. "Bring me everything tomato you've got." My turn to cuss a blue streak. I gathered three bottles of Bloody Mary mix, three cans of Contadina tomato paste, and carried them out to him, where he stood, pissed off and gorgeous and stinky, in his towel. "A can opener?" he requested. I returned with the can opener, and, for good measure, a spatula. I didn't leave. He stared a hole in me. I stayed. He glowered. I smiled. He scowled. I chuckled. He glared. I began to feel my knees grow weak with the effort of not laughing and not offering to rub tomato paste all over him and lick it off. I turned. He snorted. I went back to my study and stood in the doorway, lightly banging my head against the door jamb, saying "Be cool, be cool" to myself until I felt as cool as Jules from Pulp Fiction. Cool like dry ice. Cool enough to burn. -------- Some time later, wearing one of my good towels stained quite red with tomato juice, he entered my kitchen, clean at last, and in better spirits. He held his still-reeking clothes at arms length and slammed them into the washer and closed the lid. "Hang on, I think I've got something for that," I said, getting up from where I was not really reading a book. I got a jar of Newman's Own Spaghetti Sauce and dumped it in with his shorts, polo shirt and shorts, added a healthy dose of Tide, and turned the machine on for a long cycle. I heard this sound rip out of him as he stood behind me and I turned to be treated to his face bursting out in a wonderful, screwy, long-pent-up smile. He began to laugh, to roar, to guffaw from deep in his tanned belly and clutch the kitchen cabinets to stand up. I was already bent double with hysterical laughter, gasping, grabbing at my sides, tears running down my face and nose running. Some minutes later, when sanity prevailed again, he said, gasping, "Thank you." "You're welcome," I said, wiping my nose on a dishtowel. "Do you have something I might wear while my clothes wash?" "I might have some old sweats of David's; let me look. Grab a beer," I said, gesturing to the refrigerator. I returned with tattered grey sweatpants and an enormous t-shirt I used for sleeping, to find him consuming a Samuel Adams with pleasure. He took the clothes and retreated to the back of the house as I grabbed my own beer. Oh, that indescribably good first, cold sip of beer as it hits the back of your throat and cools you down. Oh I needed cooling. "Let Charlie out!" I called to him. A gleeful scrabbling of paws and a happy whining sound soon followed. So. I found myself sitting in my living room, drinking beer with Walter Skinner, while the hot water from the washing machine mixed with Newman's Own made a smell like a baking lasagna in the kitchen, with my dog looking up at him with adoring puppy dog eyes, slobbering on his knee as Walter rubbed his big black Labrador head. "Charlie, come here, quit being a pest," I called him, snapping my fingers. "He's OK," Skinner said, drinking beer. "He shouldn't drool on you," I said. Hell, neither should I. "He's not bothering me," he said. I laughed. "All our dogs have always loved you," I said. I didn't know why I said it. "Do you have a dog?" "No," he said, a little wistfully. "I work long hours and travel a fair bit." "That's a shame." "I like my work. God knows, it's my life, I ought to. But it is a shame I can't have a dog. Maybe someday." I nodded and drank beer. "Charlie's been hinting at continuing the Proud Hoffman Dog tradition around here. Doesn't your sister have a female black lab?" "Yeah. My niece named her Guinevere. Which really doesn't fit a black Lab at all, if you ask me." I laughed. It certainly didn't. "Charlie and Guinevere. Doesn't go together." He chuckled. "He could just call her "Gwen."" "He could just say `Oh baby' and avoid the issue of her name altogether." Jesus Christamundo, why are we talking about dog sex? And why is this turning me on? Call Dr. Ruth, Dr. Freud and Dr. Laura! Drink more beer, Rachel. Shut your mouth before you say something stupid. Stupider. "So, what's up with Martha's party tonight?" I asked, changing the subject. "Oh, one of her usual productions. Pretty food. Pretty drinks. Pretty people. You're coming, aren't you?" "Yeah, I'd planned on doing so. I think I'm going to eat dinner first, though." "Wish I could. I missed lunch and I never can really fill up on her idea of party fare." "Well, it's very good food, but there's only so much you can eat of pate and hors d'oeuvres made of sun-dried tomatoes . . . " We start laughing together at the word `tomatoes.' Smiling, not realizing I was saying it, I said "Why don't you stay for dinner? I'm making fajitas and margaritas. I bet I have more than enough for two." He smiled again and said "That sounds great." Charlie thumped his tail and sighed happily. Me too, Charlie. Me too. --------- So. The day starts with a skunk and has now wound up with me pouring Cuervo Gold into a recently opened and emptied can of limeade and emptying that into the blender. What with Walter Skinner watching me do this, and his large, capable hands slicing onions under running water in the sink, I think I've entered a new dimension of existence. The Walter Zone. Where everything is so easy, yet so wound up, at the same time. Where he talks, with some detail, about his work, and where he listens, with interest, about mine. Where he laughs at my jokes and where I am, with every single shift of my body, reminded of some erogenous zone that is pulsing his name. He reaches around me for a bowl from the open shelves above my head and I'm suddenly terrified someone could slip and fall from the gush between my legs. Quick, ice in the blender. Cool. Be cool. Charlie is banished from the room when we eat, because he is, in fact, a shameless beggar and makes buckets of drool around people food. Dinner was delicious and satisfying. Oh women's lib be damned, it is a pleasure to watch a man you care about enjoy food you have made for him. Same for a man making food for a woman he cares about. *Cares about?* Shit, where did that come from? Long, long drink of margarita. He gets up to fill my glass from the blender's pitcher, and replenish his own. I guess he's thirsty too. Salt and spice in the food? That must be it. At dinner's end, he retrieves his clothes from the laundry and we're astounded that they aren't red. No, there they are, not wearing rouge, just khaki shorts, black Polo shirt, and unmentionables. Oh I'll mention them. Briefs. Lucky, lucky little pair of BVDs. I'm jealous of a scrap of cotton. "Where are your shoes?" I asked. "Outside. I think they can't be saved," he said. "I'll walk home barefoot, along the beach. "I wish I could see Martha's face when you tell her where you've been this afternoon," I said. "I'll wait until you're there at the party to make my explanation," he promised. "I'll see you there then," I said. He walked to the door and Charlie followed him close at his heels. "I'm going to report you to the FBI for dog-napping, Walter," I laugh. "I'm not doing a thing," he protested. "Do you remember Jesse? She was Charlie's grandmother. She used to follow you around too, back when . . . " Oh God. I had said it. I went back There. In 20 years of seeing Walter Skinner during the summers, I had never, by any word or hint, gone back to that time. He looked at me, his brown eyes unreadable behind his glasses, his only signal to me a slight pursing of his mouth, an infinitessimal lift of his eyebrows. "She was a good dog." I nodded, wanting to take the fireplace poker and bash my own brains out with it. He sighed, wet his lips as if trying to say something, then seemed to tighten up and simply said, "See you later." ---------- I wandered about Martha's porch, bathed, dressed, groomed, scented, terrified. A cold drink was in my hand, and I was making some sort of conversation with some sort of person. He could have been speaking Urdu for all I knew, and I hoped my `mmm-hmms' and "I sees' meant something to him, because they meant absolutely nothing to me. Martha had had a small laugh at Walter's tale of skunk and Mr. T Bloody Mary Mix, but not much of one. Not long after, she had taken a stunning blonde woman by the shoulder, advising us about how she was an aide to Alan Greenspan, and steered her toward Walter. Frumpy old Rachel, childhood friend from down the road, wasn't quite the company she had in mind for her big, big brother, BMOC in Washington. Martha had really grown into a snot the last few years, I reminded myself. Actually, I didn't look like a frump. Black dress, rather bare, black shawl threaded in my elbows, black heeled sandals, stunning earrings. Eat my dust, Blondie. He had changed into fresh khakis, polo shirt and a navy blazer. Didn't fool me a bit. All that scrumptious skin of his under acres of proper clothing. I bet he looked like heaven at the office, in dark suits and starched shirts. How do the women at the Bureau get any work done? Our eyes met the first time shortly after I entered. I got the impression he had been looking for me, but that could be vanity or delusion. The second time, he pointedly looked past Blondie to me and his lips curled up. The third time, as Blondie lit a cigarette, he took a step back from her, caught my gaze, then rolled his eyes just the smallest bit. Blondie, duh, evidently didn't notice, and talked on. The evening was warm, and at some point, he shed his blazer. Blondie eventually caught the hint and I met Walter by the bar. Our hands reached for the bowl of salty nibbles at the same time, and touched. "Two margaritas, please" he requested from the barman. He turned back to me and smiled. "You look nice," he said. I was stunned at the tiny bit of hesitation or shyness in his voice. How is it possible that this man could be a bit uncertain of himself? Him? Walter "Tough as Nails" Skinner? With me? Rachel, whose pigtails he used to pull, whose dolls he flushed down the toilet? I flushed a bit and looked down. "All in black." I said. "Like Charlie." "Not a bit like Charlie," he said, his eyes twinkling. I'm 38. I'm divorced. I'm a writer. I'm flirting with Walter Skinner, an Assistant Director of the FBI. I'm insane. I'm turned on. I might be drunk. I'm certainly in hell. Let me burn. ----------------------------- The party wound down and I prolonged conversations with people from the Island just to stay. It had been several minutes since I had seen Walter. Finally, I couldn't take any more, and made my goodbye `mwah-mwah' cheek kiss with Martha. He was three steps behind me and stopped me with his voice. "I'll walk you home," he said. I opened my mouth to say something like it was only half a mile down the beach, no need, but, words wouldn't come out. He put his hand on the small of my back and followed me down the steps, waiting as I pulled my heels off, then removing his own deck shoes and rolling up his pants cuffs. From the eyes in the back of my head, I could feel his sister frown at the sight of us leaving, him leading the way now. "Your sister is . . . " He snorted. We walked on in silence. The breeze from the water was warm and wet, and the stars were glowing brightly, conspiratorially winking at me. It wasn't until several minutes later that I realized we weren't headed back to my house, but rather in the opposite direction. I didn't care. The moonpath on the water reached to us, followed our progress along the beach. I wanted to step on it and walk across water, dancing with him. My shawl had slipped from my right elbow, nearer him, and he stopped, bent, and tucked it back up into the crook of my arm. Without saying a word. Time and water and breeze and starlight flowed around us as we walked and walked. I shifted my shoes to my left hand, took the shawl and let it hang by my left arm, and slipped my hand into his. He squeezed it warmly. We walked on. Finally, he slowed, and stopped. A little cove, nothing but the sound of wind and surf. Yes, I remembered the place exactly. Look there. There they are. Twenty years ago. Entangled, then ripped apart. Frightened. Angry. Shamed. Resentful. A girl who didn't know what she was doing, who played a game without knowing she did. A man with the decency not to call her a tease. Look here. Here we are. Twenty years later. Adults. Professionals. Both having made our respective tries at marriage, both having come so far. Scarred. Scared. With all that has happened in our lives, how can this one memory, this one place, this one moment, still matter so much? I know it matters to me. It must to him, too. He stood, looking at me, saying nothing aloud. I could hear my heart beating. I could hear his thoughts. Proud man that he is, he cannot, will not ask. Guarded man that he is, he knows that not all the possible answers could be good ones. Passionate man that he is, he burns for the question, the answer, the truth, the resolution to everything left undone. I took a deep breath and simply said, "I was a virgin. It was so intense. I was scared. I was such a fool. I know you wouldn't have hurt me." He nodded, seemingly unable to say anything. My hand was still in his and he squeezed it. "I'm sorry," I said, not able to say any more. He nodded again. Then took his hand and cupped my jaw in his palm. Everything that has been quivering within me all day changes. The pure heat of desire I have felt all day since spying on him while he washed departs me with a shudder. Something much more terrifying is in its place. It is no less hot. I'm confused. Wasn't I making quips with him today about washing with Pine- Sol? Wasn't I making jokes with him about Monica Lewinsky's dress at the FBI? Weren't we talking about my dog? Weren't we sharing some amusement at his sister's expense? When did it become about the things we wanted so long ago? When did younger selves sneak into our skin? When did he pull me closer? Just now? When did this fine, pure, sweet, secret thing steal over us, shutting up our mouths to anything except long withheld explanations, long needed absolution? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that I'm on the verge of tears. It doesn't matter what happened before. What's happening now is he's leaning down toward me, waiting for a signal, letting me know I must assent, in some way. I do. I don't know what I do, but it's enough. He kisses me, and, oh God, it's tender and sweet and it's hungry and burns. I drink him in. I breathe him in. Freshness of lime and hint of tequila. Soap. A memory of cologne. And something else. Richer. Stronger. Tomato, I think. ------------------------- The End. One line stolen from Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. "Saint of Me". So, sue me. Feedback is craved by JourneyToX@aol.com. Thanks!