Date sent:        Sat, 25 Oct 1997 16:48:32 -0400 (EDT)
From:             Duffsan@aol.com
Subject:          Welcome to my Parlor (1/1)  NC-17, VA by Medina




TITLE: Welcome to my Parlor (1/1)  NC-17, VA by Medina
AUTHOR: Medina, written October 1997
E-MAIL ADDRESS: duffsan@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Please forward to ATXC.
Archive at Gossamer. Attach my name if archived elsewhere.
SPOILERS: Memento Mori
RATING: NC-17, VA
CONTENT WARNING: sexual content
LENGTH: 27 kb
SUMMARY:  Skinner has sex with unforeseen outcomes.


DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television 
program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris 
Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have 
been used without permission. No copyright infringement is 
intended.


AUTHOR'S THANKS: To MA and CS - who, bless their hearts 
with tiny gold crosses, spent part of their vacation editing the draft. 
The dynamic duo provided many excellent suggestions that 
improved this immensely. They continue to provide unflagging 
encouragement and it means more to me than they will ever know. 


AUTHORS NOTES: This is written as two parts and submitted as 
a single story. 


FEEDBACK: please send to duffsan@aol.com


*******************************************


Welcome to my Parlor - PART I
(1/1)  NC-17, VA by Medina




She has eyes the colour of glacial run off - a liquid blue that can 
kill you if you plunge in headlong and blind. She speaks as if she 
has just brushed her teeth with Vaseline although it could be the 
after effects of a once-broken jaw. The impediment is mildly 
distracting but when she speaks slowly and has no ulterior motive 
to what she says, the slight lisp can be almost ignored. She 
obviously takes care of herself and overall, her body is firm and 
well-proportioned. A less particular man might consider her 
attractive.


I had sex with her once. It was one time too many. 


Having previously spoken to each other by phone, we first met 
face-to-face in South Carolina against a backdrop of dying 
children. She and I were both seeking information - each from the 
other and on terms of complete suspicion. I did not trust her nor 
did I attempt it. She was too pushy, too interested in what I knew, 
and too bent on taking the offensive. Her awkward breathless way 
of talking gave me another clue. The exhibition of needless nerves 
alerted me to the possibility of hidden influences. Our meeting did 
not inspire confidence. It did, however, inspire curiosity.


The questions she had asked at the hospital were too pointed, too 
lacking in subtlety to be ignored and so once back in Washington, I 
decided to pursue her because I wanted to understand this new 
upstart entrant into the game. If she was going to be a player, it 
seemed in my best interest to understand how she thought and 
what motivated her.


Over the course of the next three months, we saw each other a 
least dozen times. With her living in New York and me in 
Washington, it took both determination and planning to build the 
relationship. The first time, I lured her out to dinner under the 
guise of having further information for her. The eagerness in her 
voice put me on notice that she was either inexperienced or naive 
or both. It was a warning to me; beware of those who do not yet 
understand the rules.


That first dinner was an innocuous beginning. She learned nothing 
she did not already know and I discovered she did not hide 
disappointment well. It took me two more dinners to adequately 
win her confidence so that she would discuss something, anything 
without her guard up. Once she relaxed enough to converse with 
me at leisure, I began to listen very closely. For me, it was never 
what she said but what she did not say that interested me. 


Dinner after dinner, we met and conversed and kept to topics of 
general interest and unimportant specifics. Without knowing it, she 
began revealing to me who she was. As I noted previously, she was 
less than I expected from a genuine player. In time, I categorized 
her as pawn and probably working for the Consortium. I selected 
Them as her likely sponsor because no one else made sense yet as I 
began to know her better, I was amazed that They could find her 
useful. 


For my part, I did have a purpose for her. I felt it might be possible 
to develop her into a useful conduit. I envisioned her being able to 
both export and import information to Them. Given time and the 
development of adequate trust, I believed this peon could be of 
value to me. While not able to control the game at first, the pawns 
can move about unnoticed and often be a deciding factor in the end 
game. I wanted to develop her as an ally, or at least a non-enemy. I 
have been playing this game long enough to consider myself a 
veteran. She never really had a chance.


For some time, I could not discern her specific role with Them and 
this puzzle kept me agreeable to more dinners once she had the 
nerve to ask. I was still trying to figure out how exactly she fit in 
when it occurred to me one evening that we had begun seeing each 
other. I even recall the exact moment it struck me. During a visit to 
New York, she had taken my hand in a restaurant and squeezed, 
then laughed softly at something I had said which was not intended 
to be amusing. She was flirting and trying too hard to be charming. 
Suddenly I realized that in her mind we were on a Date. I admit 
some surprise at the discovery because the converse did not hold 
true. I was quiet for a time trying to think back to how long she 
might have had this impression - not out of fear, but out of a need 
to understand her point of view.


I needed to know whether she had fallen for me, was using me or 
was setting me up. Without question, I needed to uncover the truth 
yet because I had hoped to develop an ally, I required a strategy 
that gave me a benign appearance. In this waiting game I took the 
one position that allowed me maximum flexibility. I played along. 
Yet all the while I was determined to discover what she was 
thinking and why.


That night as I drove her home, she invited me in and I did not 
refuse. There are worse places to be at midnight on a Friday. Alone 
in a hotel room is one of them. Healthy adult males, of which I am 
one, do not typically run from such invitations. I accepted, clearly 
knowing what to expect. It neither excited nor worried me. Under 
normal circumstances, I would never have pursued her and, now 
being invited into her home for an obvious reason struck me as 
darkly amusing. I wondered how many other opportunities I had 
missed over the years. In any event once having the cards dealt, I 
was content to let her play out the hand to her satisfaction. 
Moreover, I was curious to see how she would seduce me. 


The inside of her apartment was not what I expected. The parlor 
was decorated in the grand style, with soft honey-colored lighting 
and dark wood paneling. Expensive artwork in gilded frames hung 
over the fireplace and elsewhere. Fresh cut flowers filled the room 
with a trace of perfume. Overstuffed furniture was accented with 
pillows and thick brocade curtains shut out all the light and yet, 
despite all the carefully selected pieces to portray an image, I 
could hear sirens wail from the street below that cheapened the 
effect and made the place feel like a whorehouse. 


She took my coat and instructed me to find glasses and wine in the 
kitchen. I obeyed as she turned on soft music and disappeared 
down a hallway. Left with orders, I methodically opened cupboard 
after cupboard until I found the crystal. The contents; the bowls 
and dishes and boxes and spices were all neatly arranged. Nothing 
was out of place or haphazard. She lived as carefully as she spoke. 
I removed two goblets and set them on the counter. A small wine 
rack held a variety of bottles and I chose red over white; foreign 
over domestic. 


I cupped the two glasses in one hand, held the bottle with the other 
and turned to leave. Metamorphosed into white satin, she 
intercepted me at the door way. The v-neck lowered as she stepped 
forward, her bare feet padding on hardwood floor.


"Find everything?" The distance between us was closing and she 
needed to look up to speak to me.


I held up both hands in response. 


Her expression changed slightly as she put on a smile. Very 
deliberately, she stepped into me and drew her hands up the 
insides of my thighs, gently caressing me. I did not back away but 
wondered why she needed to hurry. Nonetheless, her touch had a 
reasonably immediate effect. 


"I've found everything, too." 


If this had been a movie, I would have laughed. Instead, I followed 
the script. "So I noticed."


She slid one hand into the small of my back and kept the other one 
encouraging me. Her persistent effort was well-rewarded. 


"Do you find me attractive?" She blinked and it was a splash of 
cold water on my face. I had long ago decided to proceed with the 
charade yet this seemed a warning; a reminder that I could still 
change my mind. I chose to continue because she aroused physical 
needs that I suddenly wanted to satisfy with a woman, not, as had 
become the norm, with my own hand. An opportunity presented 
itself. I took it. 


With the bottle of wine in one hand and the glasses in the other, I 
circled her as best I could, using my wrists to tightly tuck her into 
me. Bending down, I kissed her. Her mouth opened and she began 
coaxing me inside. It was enough just to tease her for a while but 
she grew persistent both with her mouth and her hands. Her tongue 
pushed into me filling me with soft warm sweetness and had a 
rhythm that matched stroke for stroke with the exploring hand at 
my groin. It split my mind in half. All at once, I wanted free from 
the shackles of the wine and glasses so I could peel open the white 
satin and have her submit to my will. 


In the end, I take full responsibility for my actions. I could have 
chosen self-gratification or even withstood a prolonged hard-on. I 
could have maintained the facade of trust I had build up without 
sleeping with her. Instead, I decided to have sex with her for no 
other reason except I wanted relief. In retrospect, I made the wrong 
decision. When the sex was over, I stayed long enough to avoid 
being branded as rude, then dressed and departed.






Two days later, Kimberly came in and held out a small brown 
envelope. 


"This just came for you."


Retreating and closing the door behind her, she did not wait for me 
to open it. My name was clearly typed on the outside of the sealed 
envelope. I wriggled my index finger into a space under the flap 
and tore it open. Inside, I found a single black and white 
photograph, expertly cropped and selected with utmost care. Of 
Marita and I. Naked. Engaging in foreplay. Both faces were clearly 
visible and there could be no mistaking who was in the picture. 
She was lying on her back, face slightly towards the camera. I was 
on my side, also facing the camera. My eyes were half closed and 
my mouth was open, tongue pushed out. It captured the few 
seconds before I descend on her right breast. Further down and 
displayed to advantage, my erect penis rested against her thigh. 
The photographer has not missed a single detail. Lighting, angle, 
position, action. All perfect. 


Fucking bitch.


I turned the picture over looking for instructions, a message, or a 
mark of some kind. There was nothing. I stared at it for a long 
moment. Why? What did this matter to anyone? My divorce was 
final. We were not breaking any laws. Apart from embarrassment, 
it could do me no real harm. So why did she do this?


Knowing she would be in Washington in days, I carried around the 
photograph for forty-eight hours. The three by five picture first 
burned a hole in my jacket and then one in my brain. Every 
moment I had alone, I stared unblinking and searching for some 
detail that would tell me why. Why take the picture? Why tell me 
about it? What possible end could it serve?


I ended my solitary musings with a single phone call. Without 
telling her why, I invited her to my office before lunch. She 
accepted and I had the distinct feeling she had been looking 
forward to hearing from me. It was the first inkling I had that she 
did not know about the photograph.


When she entered the office, I closed the door behind her and 
made sure she didn't sit down. I had debated how to broach the 
subject. Instant offensive was the only way I could catch her off 
guard and once started, the confrontation carried itself.


"What do you know about this?" I handed her the picture with no 
preamble. Her faced paled immediately. She was not a good 
enough actress to bluff. This was the first time she had ever seen it 
but I was not about to let her off the hook so easily.


"Where?" She blinked up at me. She swallowed. "Where did you 
get this?"


"You tell me." 


"You think I did this?"


I shrugged. "Who else? Do you take pictures of everyone you bring 
home? Blackmail? Planning a whore's retirement?"


She used the back of her hand. Across my mouth. It drew blood. 
Dabbing the red with the back of my hand, I tried to recall the last 
time a woman had slapped me. 


"You're a lying bitch." I snatched the picture from her and flicked 
it face down on my desk. "Get out." I spun her around and gave her 
a solid push - hard enough that her head snapped back and she 
stumbled. "Get out of my office. This won't work. Whatever you 
want. I'm not going to give it to you."






Two days later, Kimberly came in and held out another small 
brown envelope. Source unknown. Just like the first.


"This just came for you."


She left me without waiting for a thank you. This one also had my 
name was on it. AD Walter Skinner. Hoover Building. Washington 
DC. 


Inside, I found another black and white photograph. Perfectly 
reproduced and identical in every respect to the first. Except this 
time, the face was Scully's. 


This second photo was the one that counted. It was the punch line 
to the gag set up of the first. This picture could be sent anywhere; 
to Director Freeh or the press. It would ruin my career. And 
Scully's. 


On the other hand, They could just send it to Mulder and have us 
destroyed in private.






Welcome to My Parlor - Part II




Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty-seven 
years since my last confession. In the interim, I've been busy 
getting to know one of your fallen angels.


I have, in my possession, two photographs. One is a fake. I know it 
is a fake because in the picture I am making love to Scully and if 
that had really happened, it would be impossible for me to forget 
it. Every detail, every nuance would stay sharp and vivid in my 
memory until the moment of my death. The other photo is 
identical to the first except it portrays the truth. I have had sex, 
once, with Marita Covarrubias.


I don't have the negatives and don't know how the picture of Scully 
and me will be used in the game. For days, I have been debating 
whether or not to tell Scully, to show her this picture of the truth 
and this one of us that never happened; this one picture of us that 
could ruin our careers. 


How can I possibly do this? How can I show her this picture? She 
has enough to worry about with the cancer but for her sake I have 
to tell her. I will not have her blind-sided by a deviously 
orchestrated fiction. If she knows, then she will have time to 
prepare and the confrontation - with whomever They choose and in 
whatever form it will take - will not stun or surprise her. By then, 
she will have had time to get over the shock and create a defense. 
We both will. Until they play the card, we will have to wait 
knowing that in the world exists one more lie masquerading as a 
truth. 


I wonder what Mulder would say if he saw it. I wonder if he could 
believe the truth. Could he wait the time it would take to prove it? 
In matters concerning Scully he is easily wounded and, what is 
worse, he is impatient and once his mind is made up, will 
relentlessly hold to his beliefs. He would see this picture and 
believe the lie. I wonder if he would be satisfied to hate me or if he 
would be compelled to kill me. I wonder if he would ever forgive 
her.


I am loathe to show her this picture of us together. There is nothing 
of "her" or me that is left to the imagination. Our bodies are almost 
clinically displayed; two adults about to have sex. Textbook 
Masters and Johnson. All without my knowledge. All without hers. 
I feel as if I have taken advantage of her, forced myself on her 
against her will and raped her, when in truth, I haven't even 
touched her. And now I must confess to her what I have not done. 


It is past midnight and I am standing outside her apartment, hands 
tucked inside a leather bomber jacket. My chin tucks behind the 
upturned collar. The coat is a shell protecting my soul against the 
world and an even stronger one against the biting frosty air. I can 
see my breath as it comes out in long deep snorts. With me, I carry 
the evidence I am about to present and know exactly which order 
the photographs are in. I could reach in to my inside pocket and, 
without looking, pull out the right picture. Marita is facing the 
lining; Scully is next to my heart. 


I could walk away. I should walk away. I do walk away and begin 
yet another circuit of the streets that square off her building. 


These two pictures mean nothing. The first has no meaning. It is 
just a set-up for what follows. With enough analysis, the second 
could be proven a fiction. The only harm it could cause is the 
inconvenience, the charges of misconduct and suspension, the 
suspicion, rumor and hushed whispers of doubt. The ensuing 
months of effort and heartache to prove it is a lie. Yet in the end, 
how often has the mere introduction of doubt been enough to 
change the face of the game? How long will anyone wait for the 
truth to emerge? And what does anyone ever remember - the arrest 
under suspicion or the acquittal? 


This second photograph can shift the balance of power. If they are 
planning something, Scully needs to know. If she hates me or if her 
view of me diminishes, if she loses all respect for me it will not 
matter as long as she is prepared. That is not entirely true. Losing 
her respect will matter a great deal to me but having her 
forewarned matters more. I have no other means to protect her. 


I have circled the block twice and arrive yet again at her front 
entrance as a couple leave through slow-closing glass doors. This 
accident of timing gets me into the building without buzzing. The 
elevator is waiting and I go up to her floor and knock before I lose 
my nerve. 


She is surprised to see me but invites me in. As I pass her, I look at 
her face and see eyes ringed with redness. She has been crying 
recently and it has left her face slightly blotched and watery. In her 
hand, she holds a crumpled Kleenex. She has cancer and she is 
dying. Only in this solitary haven of hers will she ever 
acknowledge her burdens of helplessness and fear. Air is squeezed 
from my lungs as I realize I have interrupted her very private 
display of emotion. Sparing her a prolonged stare, I drop my gaze 
and notice she is in sweat pants and an old FBI tee-shirt. 
Bedclothes for the modern single woman.


Don't do this. Pick another time. You are being an asshole.


"Can I get you something?" Her voice strengthens towards the end 
of the sentence. The crying has been very recent. Perhaps 
interrupted. 


"No. Thank you." 


"Are you sure? Coffee? Tea?"


This conversation is inane. It is a facade of politeness; a delay 
before I announce my purpose. I pick something just to end it. 
"Water."


"Can I take your coat?"


"No. I'm not staying long." The coat contains the pictures and is 
also my suit of armor. I will use it to hide my reaction and to 
protect me from hers. I will not give it up for anything. She 
disappears and I take a seat on her couch, keeping close to the 
edge. I am unable to lean back. My stomach is tight. My jaw is 
clenched. Undoing the zipper of my coat, I reach in and finger the 
corners of the pictures. One. Two. Marita. Scully. In the kitchen, I 
hear her blow her nose and then the tap running. 


Returning, she hands me the glass and sits opposite me. Her hair is 
uncombed and held back with a clip. Loose strands fall unevenly 
around her face. 


I take the glass and immediately set it on the table. I am staring. 
"Are you OK?" I ask. 


Tears fill her eyes. Squeezing tightly the Kleenex, she exhales with 
a controlled breath. Blinking spreads the tears into her lashes but 
nothing escapes down her cheeks.


"I'm ... I'll be fine." Hiding behind an unsteady mask, she directs 
the conversation away from herself. "You're out late. Is there 
something wrong, Sir?"


"I ... have ..." I do not want to begin this and find myself unable to 
say the words. I am conscious of time and how closely measured 
the moments are between innocence and knowledge. One moment 
she will not know, the next she will. I have come to a point in time 
when things will change but I do not want them to. I want her 
respect for me to last. It is one of the few things I have left and 
once I show her these pictures, I know I will lose it.


"What is it?"


Without speaking, I reach into my pocket and bypass the first 
picture and take hold of the second, pinching it between my 
fingers. I pull it half out of my pocket before I hesitate.


Don't do this. 


Removing Marita's photo, I hand it to Scully for her inspection and 
find that I have stopped breathing. Watching the nuances of her 
face, I study every reaction she has, no matter how slight. There is 
not much to notice. She would make an excellent poker player. 


"Who is she?" She asks evenly, still staring at the photo. Not even 
the eyebrow has risen. 


"She works at the UN."


"Have you known her long?"


"Four months."


"I see." She hands the picture back to me, thinking there is only 
one. Our eyes meet. Her expression is calm, unfazed by the details. 
"You are consenting adults. I don't see what ..."


Using no words, I retrieve the second picture and hand it over to 
her. Her eyelids retract. The pupils constrict. The lips part slightly. 
This one shocks her. Maybe not such a good poker face after all. 
Granted it is a tough hand to play straight.


"Oh," she says in a breath as if she has taken a hard blow to the 
stomach.


"I'm sorry." I look into her blue eyes. They blink and wash me with 
the warmth of the Mediterranean. My apology is so fundamentally 
inadequate for the humiliation I have caused her. I cannot find 
words to tell her anything at all. There is so much to say and yet 
nothing to say. I am suddenly ashamed and feel the heat of a deep 
blush steadily cover my neck, face and ears. Averting my eyes, I 
focus on the untouched glass of water. 


"This is a fake." She draws my attention back to her, practicality 
taking over any emotional response she had, "That can be proven. I 
have contacts who can ... I'll arrange to give a deposition." She 
offers immediately. "I can be a witness that this is not us."


"You're missing the point. It won't matter if the truth can be proven 
if the lie is what is first believed. It would destroy us both."


"But ... why do this?"


"I don't know."


"You have no idea?"


"Yes. No. I ..." This pursuit of hers leaves me inarticulate. "It's not 
the point. You and I ... can't be ... seen like this." I cannot say the 
words. I do not even have a euphemism. 


She seemed preoccupied with the picture of us. Almost wistful, 
she picks it up and studies it carefully. She catches me noticing 
and sets it down but keeps it well within her view. She looks at the 
picture some more. I would prefer she did not, given my nude 
frontal pose but I do not take it from her. After a while, she gives 
me her attention. I have been expecting her horror, embarrassment, 
denial. She offers something very close to regret. As if she might 
have wanted this picture to be true. I recognize it because I have 
done the same. Of all the lies, this is the one I most want to be the 
truth.


"What should we do about this?"


"They have the negatives. They can make other copies. This may 
be just a warning. A distraction. A diversion. Something to pre-
occupy us. To take our attention away from what's important. Or 
it's an indication of what they can do."


She considers my explanation then adds one of her own, spoken in 
a hushed voice. "They want to destroy you." 


"Yes." It is all I can say. They want to suck the marrow from my 
bones and it will happen. Slowly. Once they are finished, there will 
be nothing left of me. It will not matter. I understand my purpose is 
to shield those who will endure after me. 


My one word answer affects her. We sit for a while, neither 
moving; neither speaking. It is enough just to exist in silence and 
share the ominous weight of the present with another who can 
understand without explanation. 


"Do you want me to burn the pictures?" She picks up the one of us 
again and cradles it in her hand. Her eyes flick to various points on 
the image and with her hand, traces the bottom edge back and 
forth and back again. I get the feeling that she might have wanted 
to keep it.


"Yes. Don't you?" 


"I'll get a candle and some matches."


When she returns, she abandons her position opposite and settles 
beside me. With ceremonial care, she unwraps a single white 
candle and sets it in a crystal holder. Using a long wooden taper, 
she ignites the sulfur into a flame. Resting flame against wick, she 
waits until the fire takes hold then puffs out the match and sits 
back.


We sit side by side, watching the candle burn. The flame flickers 
and wavers in a draft but burns constant. Once or twice it is nearly 
extinguished but persistently, it sustains itself and grows strong 
once more. She lights the first photograph and sets it in a heavy 
glass crucible. Several minutes pass and the first picture is 
virtually all ash before she lights the second. Delicately passing the 
corner through the flame, she lights the bottom left corner - the one 
farthest from our faces. 


Unexpectedly, she slowly reaches out and slips her hand around 
mine. Squeezing tightly, I acknowledge her without speaking. She 
inches close to me and quietly rests her cheek on my shoulder. We 
stare in silence as the fire consumes our image. The photograph 
curls and blackens and slowly rendered to ashes. We watch, 
knowing that this phoenix will rise again. It is only a question of 
when. 


FINIS