Tra-La-La Triangle [X-Files]

Tra-La-La Triangle
by Jennifer-Oksana
Warning/Description: Lots of UST, Triangle spoilers but a bit written
pre-episode so if it doesn’t work, that’s why, but this is the result of
one too many mushy romantics grating against someone who never sleeps. Oh,
and if you get the reference in the title, points go to you.

So the upshot of it all is I kissed Skinner and he wasn’t expecting it. It
was fun. Points go to the uninhibited Dana Scully. Of course, I didn’t
realize I was capable of it. Me. Kissing the boss over nothing. Well,
everything. I hope the security cameras caught it and right now, Cliff the
night guy is telling the world Agent Scully went down on AD Skinner and
*she* used altoids.

On second thought, that would hurt the AD’s career. And it was basically
relief. I hope Cliff thinks I was just grateful. I mean, the Mulder/Scully
sex scandal stories have been around the building so many times I think
the stories have the clap. And they’re always so goddamn similar! Mulder
or I walk down the hall, either smiling, looking nice, or wearing a cowboy
hat. Agent Jane Smith sees us. Agent Jane rushes to see newer Agent Joan
Doe.

‘Guess who just got a quickie in the basement?’

Agent Joan Doe is clueless; her partner Mary Roe is not.

‘Again? That woman (or man) is a nymphomaniac!’

Agent Joan is confused. ‘Who?’

‘The X-Files agents, Mulder and Scully. The only people I know besides
President Clinton the taxpayer pays to screw on our time. Everyone knows
about it. Besides the fact it *shows* in their every move, there are
times– well, they obviously were, you know? Like that time in 95 when
they broke the elevator? And then there’s the whole ‘abduction’ thing in
1994.’

By the way, I really really hate this rumor. The basic story is, yes, I
was abducted by Duane Barry, but somehow I escaped the trunk, took off
somewhere and Mulder knew all about it. Why? This is the obscenely stupid
part. I was pregnant (so goes the story), it was his kid, and we didn’t
want to get busted. Anyway, Eileen Fletcher tells the best version of this
story. It goes like this:

‘All right. They’d made a deal, Scully’s Catholic so no abortion, right?
She’d plumped up like a doughnut, so she was about to take off for the
field for a few months to take care of it. Then Duane Barry got involved.
But Scully’s a trained FBI agent, I bet she knocked the shit out of him
when she got her chance, ran off, and called Mulder when she was halfway
to Mexico. You know he almost killed Barry. Wouldn’t you if the guy had
abducted your pregnant girlfriend? So Scully just takes off, boom, Mulder
sulks for three months. I don’t know how she got home in that condition–
all I can guess is that she had serious guilt about giving up the kid and
tried to off herself with some Mexican drugs. And when Mulder saw her like
that, he realized he’s wrecked without her, and boom, they make up.’

I guess the fact that I was thirty and not fifteen at the time made no
difference. But now Joan Doe can recognize Mulder/Scully afterglow. And
the more I think of my reported and fully fictional sex life, the more I
wished I’d asked someone– Skinner– over tonight. My poor abused vibrator
will find its way out of the drawer the minute I get myself home and
arranged. That poor thing. It was a thirtieth birthday present from my
favorite roommate in college, May. She packaged it with a note: “It won’t
ever prefer the game to you.”

May is perhaps the coolest woman alive. She’s thirty-six, bisexual,
independently wealthy, and reviewing food for _Town and Country_. Despite
the fact I ignore her and all my old friendships, she regularly sends me
gut-busting emails and says we’ll visit the next time she’s in town. Of
course we never do, but– hell, I kissed Skinner, why not dinner with May?
May would understand my fucked-up life. Maybe we could have a one-night
stand, one lesbian experience for my lifetime, broaden the ol’ horizons.
Of course, she’d probably encourage me to go for it with Mulder instead,
and that would be bad, bad, bad.

I’m skittish about Mulder. I know one day he’s going to kiss me when we’re
both in full possession of our wits. The experience will not stop with a
kiss. There’s no way in hell I will settle for a kiss. Uh-uh. No way. I
want the whole package, and I want to tear him open like a birthday
present. I want his lithe male form. I want his hands all over. I want
love and a hard cock–

Hoo boy. Kissing Skinner has really sent the doors of perception flying
open. This is surreal. I’m considering all these unsaid things so openly,
what I want and what makes sense. I don’t really want to sleep with
Mulder. There are too many issues.

For one, what if the sex is lousy?

This is not so trivial as you might think. Five years of anticipation has
raised expectations. Our first time would have to be so spectacular that
we will raise and sink the Titanic over again. Not gonna happen. I was
never very good at giving head, for instance. And now I’m seriously out of
practice. If the sex was merely good, or mediocre, there’d be
disappointment and resentment. It would give us no end of difficulties.

Maybe not. Maybe the sex will shatter glass. There’s more. I am not in any
mood to get married or move in together– no way. Mulder is a dirty slob.
He will trash my kitchen and drink all but like, a swallow of the milk,
and then put the carton back in the motherfucking refrigerator because
there’s milk left. He’d beg me to sleep naked. No. We are just too
middle-aged and self-absorbed to adjust. I would kick him out in a month.

It’s really a pity Mulder and I aren’t compatible. We love each other so
completely. I mean, he would die, kill, maim, and vote Republican for me
and vice versa. But love, even the divine, beautiful, strong love we
share, is not going to change the fact Mulder sings in the shower. Off
key. At the top of his lungs. Falsetto. Or the fact I occasionally dance
in my underwear in the living room to showtunes. Hey, you haven’t lived
until you’ve belted out Les Mis in only your black lace bra and garter
belt.

He’d die. I’d die. And we’re both so lousy at just being friends. I know
we have similar tastes on occasion, too. For example, we both like Monty
Python and Jaime Lee Curtis slasher flicks. If we could spend an evening
eating pizza, drinking wine, and watching Holy Grail, just talking, maybe
then I’d sleep with him. I mean, Eddie VanBlundht got that, and it’s still
only maybe.

Back to Skinner. Wow. He’s quite muscular. I found that out today. I bet
he can still do one-armed pushups. More importantly, he’s not a psycho
like Mulder or me. We could fool around without ending up in bed. We could
go to dinner and the theatre without the danger of breaking public decency
codes. My God, I can imagine the Mulder/Scully sexual experience. It would
be crazy. I want him bad. Must be that time of the moon. I’ll just have to
put Lil– the vibrator, I am not thinking of its ridiculous name even to
myself– to use. As for Skinner, I could date him. If I date. If I had
anything close to resembling a life. Even though it wouldn’t be the wild
Mulder experience.

So now that I’m home, it’s time to unwind. Off with all this business suit
bullshit, nylons were invented solely to make women crazy, my God. Ooh, I
have half a bottle of red wine in the fridge. Nice. And I have a copy of
_Interview with the Vampire_ in my VCR. Brad Pitt. Tom Cruise. Antonio
Banderas. Mmm-hmm. I settle down on the couch, with a big bowl of
chocolate pudding and the wine. No more thinking allowed. It’s relaxing
time.

And then the doorbell rings. I pull a blanket around me, sneak to the door
and open it. Of course, he’s standing there.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Could you come back?” I reply. “I’m sorry. Tonight just isn’t a good
night.”

“But I came over to see you.”

“Next time, call first.”

I close the door and lock it. So that was wrong. Oh well. I’ve done worse
things. And I have the night planned. Sometimes you just have to do what
you have to do.

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