Skinner's Office
He listened to the silence in his office; no, not total silence - he could hear the office sounds drifting in under the door; the computer, the copy machine, the low murmur of voices beyond his outer waiting room, the footsteps past his door, the soft burring of the phone on his secretary's desk. Just one demanding call after another. He demanded from those beneath him, and those above him demanded things of him in turn. The report on his desk demanded his attention now, and he didn't want to give it. He wanted to daydream, and knew it was not appropriate.
Of course, if it had been her report - Scully's - instead of the mediocre agent investigating some fraud or other, then he would give it his undivided attention. Drinking in every official word, knowing her own warm fingers had touched the keys to form the words. This, he knew, was inappropriate also.
Walter Skinner was haunted.
Haunted by memories he did not possess in reality; memories he could only fabricate in his mind.
Haunted by the soft flame of hair.
Haunted by a green velvet glance.
Haunted by a sight he had never seen - Dana Scully, sitting across from his desk in her official status, reporting, or answering questions.
Scully, in his fantasy finally able to see through his pseudo-professional demeanor to the smoldering man beneath the facade of Assistant Director.
Dana, who he would like to see get up from the chair and walk slowly to his desk, enticingly, leaning over so he could just reach right out and cup one breast, what he was sure was a perfect breast, in his hand; to stand up behind the desk and lean toward her, slowly, looking into her eyes, and kiss her, ever so gently, a prelude to ferocious things yet to come.
Haunted by unreal visions, supported by the familiar background of his days.
And his nights.
-----
Mulder's Office
He listened to the silence of Mulder's office through the closed door. No, not total silence - he could hear the soft click of fingers on a keyboard beyond the door.
But, whose fingers?
Well, he had an excuse - a report was overdue.
He hesitated, then knocked softly, opening the door and entering the basement office at Agent Mulder's behest.
Walter Skinner made the motions mechanically of reminding his errant agent about the tardy report. This one was strictly Mulder's responsibility. Too bad, Skinner would rather have called Scully about it.
Haunted, especially here.
Haunted by a lingering scent - not masculine, but hers surely. He would gladly stay there the rest of the day and night, just to inhale her. The thought flashed through his distracted brain that Mulder must go light on the cologne, just to make sure he could smell Scully all day. Skinner would
He mumbled something about Agent Scully having gone home - that was good -she shouldn't overdo things.
Haunted by the cancer sleeping in remission in her wondrous body.
He took his leave, closing the door and taking several steps away before he stopped in the deserted hallway. He leaned against the cool wall, breath quickening in his muscular chest. Familiar aching in his groin.
Haunted still - more visions.
Scully, coming out of the office, somewhat surprised and concerned to find him there, leaning, eyes closed.
Scully, expressing her worriment - touching his throat to feel pulse and temperature. He could will her hand to move from his neck to his face. Will her other hand to join it, holding his face, pulling his head down, down to hers, to find sweet lips at the end if the journey, warm, wet and yielding. Slowly intensifying, open-mouthed kisses, inciting his body to riot.
He pulled himself away from the wall and continued on.
-----
Garage
He listened to the total silence in the parking garage beneath the building. No, not total silence, he could hear the cool-down tick of an engine somewhere near where he stood. He could hear another car starting farther off in the dark, leaving, as he was.
It was dark, and he was haunted.
Haunted on the way to his car, passing the empty slot where he knew her car had been earlier today. Climbing into his own car, feeling at last alone and unobserved. Turning on the ignition, some song coming from the dashboard, reminding him of her. Of course, they all reminded him of her. Rock, rhythm, blues, country - it didn't matter - it was the primal beat beneath all the music. The primal beat he would use when he penetrated her, given the chance.
Haunted by music.
Haunted by the fact of her being here only an hour ago. Maybe less. So haunted that he thought if he got down on his hands and knees on the concrete and put his face on the floor he could probably sniff out her footprints. Track her. Trap her. Catch her.
It was dark, and he was alone and haunted. No one around, and he forcefully resisted the urge to touch himself. If she were here, he would will her to do it - will her to reach out and grasp his cock, not too tightly, just enough to drive him mad. He was already mad - haunted. Every minute, every second, every day.
He would will the wonderful hand to move up and down, teasingly over the head, all the way down, all the way back up.
His hands had found himself against his will, and he opened his eyes. Put the car in gear and drive, Walter, he told himself. Must go home.
-----
He listened to the total silence of his apartment - no, not total silence, the refrigerator was running, and he could almost imagine the traffic sounds from way below his balcony.
He shoved her from his mind and looked in the kitchen. Nothing appealed to him, he still had half an erection and he would have to do something about it or he would go crazy.
He turned on the shower and she was there again.
Haunted by her always.
Every minute, every second, every day.
He gave in and let the ghost in his head take him.
He let the shower run to steam up the bathroom, and went to his bedside.
He closed his eyes, and his big hands turned into her petite ones. They removed his suit coat, tossing it aimlessly on the bed. They loosened his tie, drawing it from around his neck sensually. It left the fingers to drop to the floor, forgotten. The hands opened the buttons on his starched white shirt slowly, the sound of the shower taunting him, somehow calling his attention to the fact that he was alone.
The shirt was on the floor now, also forgotten, and he could almost smell her.
Haunted.
The hands undid the belt buckle and fly, brushing an erection he hadn't even realized he had. The pants and shoes and socks were on the floor.
The hands slid his briefs down his strong legs to the floor, and he stepped out of them.
One of the hands grabbed the huge cock - not too tightly, firm velvet, as he had imagined so many times.
Haunted.
He wanted to take himself right there, right next to the bed, but he turned to the shower, forced himself to release the aching organ and step into the white heat of the shower spray.
He was soaping himself up, soaping himself up and down, pounding into her in his mind, kissing, teasing, licking. He could feel her hands clutching him to her, and he came explosively into the hot waterfall.
Scully.
Every minute, every second, every day.
End Part 1
Part 2