Another week passes, and Scully and Skinner are falling into a routine: wake up, take a dip in the pool, pick fruit and fish. After this long on such a diet, they both long for something more substantial, and their weight loss is becoming more pronounced. During their daily explorations through the jungle, they see signs of larger game: herds of goats and wild boar run freely over the island, and the sky is full of the cries of seagulls and albatross. It wouldn't do to waste their one clip of ammo on hunting, especially when it would be so easy to miss. It's not like they can buy more when they run out. They take turns carrying it during their treks through the jungle, in case it was needed for self-defense.
The challenge of cobbling together a makeshift record-player, and other such projects, kept their days from becoming too monotonous. After finally getting together the right combination of weights and pulleys to spin the platform (a sheet of bark covered in the plane's carpet), they're both somewhat pleasantly surprised to find that they now have "Abba's Greatest Hits". It seemed fitting, it was something they could listen to (or dance to, when the mood struck), but both agreed that it was pretty likely to have been thrown overboard by an irate cruise ship passenger. Figuring one man's junk is another man's treasure, and regardless of either of their personal taste in music, they're both grateful to have something to break the perpetual silence of their solitary existence.
"Good thing I saw this on 'Mister Wizard' when I was a kid. You know, I barely hear the skips and pops anymore," Scully remarks one day as she stops tidying up the house to start it up, pausing to watch the intricate system they'd devised to avoid perpetual cranking. Now they only have to adjust the weights like a cuckoo clock every few tracks. It takes a minute to get up enough speed
"That's vinyl, it's priceless," Skinner agrees. "Not exactly what I would've picked, but it's not bad." He puts the needle down and after a few scratchy starts it seems to catch
"My mom had a lot of their records when we were younger. I remember Missy and I would put it on and dance around the house. Even better, my mom never threw away any of her old bridesmaid dresses, so sometimes we'd…" Scully trails off with a sigh. 'Dancing Queen' starts up with a piano flair, "This is the one, this was our favorite." Looking guiltily up at Skinner, a little embarrassed by her childhood memories, she tries to wave it aside. "It's nothing."
"That's got to be the cutest story I've ever heard," Skinner replies, imagining how the scene must've played out: Scully and her sister in gaudy taffeta bridesmaid dresses, frolicking around to equally gaudy disco music. "I'll never get tired of hearing about you."
This brings a smirk to Scully's face, as she hangs up her clothes by the fireplace to dry. Neither of them had been what they used to call fully dressed since they crashed. After enduring the heat for a short while, moaning at how expensive his clothes had been, Skinner finally makes himself cut his pants off at the knee. Scully, on the other hand, chose to keep her clothes intact, but is more often than not seen in nothing but her underwear and maybe her blouse. She may slip into her jacket and skirt when it's raining, but she mainly uses the remainder of her outfit to carry things.
One inconvenience that Scully faces is dealing with 'female problems'. The first time it happened, she woke up with a look of disgusted realization, bemoaning the fact that she hadn't come prepared for it. Skinner found her sitting in a patch of stained sand, in obvious discomfort but not saying a word. There's not much to do but wait it out. Determined not to be caught unawares next month, Scully is sure to find a solution before then.
Another project Scully had started both for practicality and to pass the time was to construct a weaving loom. The finished product is a little larger than a shoebox, about two feet long and a foot wide, a basic hollow frame with combs of spiny fish bones on either end. It's strung with hemp thread that they take turns spinning a little every day. Using this new gadget, Scully has been making a screen canopy for their bed to keep the bugs out. While Skinner had scoffed at the suggested necessity of such a thing, Scully pointed out that their choices are a) either make a canopy or individual screens for the windows and door; and b) scrap the whole thing and enjoy the malaria. This changed his mind pretty quickly. They already have close to a yard of loosely woven fabric. As it was with making the walls to the house, Scully finds a strange measure of satisfaction in performing this task.
Skinner looks into her lap and sure enough, she's working at it again. "How did you know how to do that? Any Amish in your family?" He adorns a stout branch with a sharp rock, his first attempt to make a spear. If he could get close enough to thrust it into a boar or a goat, they could have food enough to last for days.
Rolling her eyes with a slight scowl, Scully shakes her head, "No, but I had something like this when I was little, a bead loom. I'd make friendship bracelets with it, necklaces, that kind of thing. I'd sell them at school sometimes, even entered some in the fair. Got a blue ribbon when I was 12. That was a good day.
"If we could figure out how to dye it, we could make clothes or something."
Scully stops for a moment, flexing her stiff fingers, "I don't know if I'm up to something that intricate. I've never made clothes before."
"Really? Little miss blue-ribbon never learned to sew?"
Giving him a friendly swat, she turns back to her loom, "I made an apron once and a vest in Home Ec. Both looked terrible. Besides, can you imagine how long it would take to make enough fabric for something like that?"
"Well, I wasn't exactly envisioning a 3-piece suit, you know. And I'm willing to help out."
"I don't think we'd want to wear this stuff anyway," Scully remarks, feeling the coarse material between her fingers, "it would be awfully itchy, like burlap. Besides, we don't wear clothes anymore anyway. It would be too heavy. It's hard enough beating the heat as it is." She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand, brushing her sweaty hair out of her face.
Skinner watches her weave for another minute; she's looking a bit pinker than usual. While he had already become tanned from the sun, with her fair complexion she only freckled and burned, leaving her more vulnerable to the sun than he is. He goes to the sink and fills a coconut shell with water for her. He'd scraped off the brown hair from the outsides of several shells, not only would it make great kindling for the fireplace, it made a smoother cup to drink from. Scully gratefully accepts it, pouring some over her head after taking a sip. They'd been on their island for several weeks now, both of them remain hopeful that they will eventually build up a tolerance for the heat. All they can do is drink plenty of water, take regular swims, and stay indoors when the sun is overhead. Luckily, neither of them has gotten seriously ill with heat stroke yet, but they carefully plan any strenuous activity for cooler, rainy days when they can afford it.
As her fingers glide over her loom, coaxing form and function onto discord, Skinner never gets tired of watching her. She nudges her glasses up as they slide down her sweaty face, rubbing her eyes in attempt to focus better. After she does this a few times, he wordlessly takes her glasses away from her and holds them in the sink to clean them. Figuring his could use a polish as well he throws his in with hers. Drying both sets on Scully's blouse that's hung by the fire, he hands one pair back to her. She slips them on and within a few seconds shuts her eyes to avoid a dizzying headache. She whips them off and looks up to see Skinner's similar reaction. Trading with her, he mutters "Sorry, must've gotten them mixed up." Scully takes hers back and blows them off, slips them back on and goes back to business.
XXX
It's amazing how easily the days started to blend together. If it hadn't been for the tiny calendar in Scully's checkbook, they would have lost track of the days altogether. By crossing out each day that they've been there, guessing in some places, they are able to make a close approximation to when it is.
"It's June already," Scully sighs, Xing out May 31 that night. The dim light of their fireplace flickers warmly on the walls and ceiling of their house, casting shadows on their screened-in bed. Despite both of their attraction and affection for each other, they still haven't done anything to drastically change their relationship. They sleep cuddled up together every night, they're not shy about touching each other throughout the day, they may occasionally kiss, but in the back of her mind, Scully is still afraid that intimacy would inevitably lead to abandonment. It's an unconscious decision, but Skinner follows her lead, content to take things slow.
She turns to face him with a strangely contemplative smirk on her face, as though just looking at him amuses her.
"What?"
She shakes her head dismissively. "Nothing," she murmurs, cuddling in close to him.
Skinner runs his fingers through her hair, watching the firelight play golden against the red. Time and again during their exile, he is struck by the idea of how incredibly lucky he is. To have survived the storm that brought them here, to have landed on an island so fruitful and lush, to have the opportunity to lie in bed with Dana Scully in his arms every night. For years now he'd contented himself to gaze at her from a safe distance, certain that she would never return his feelings. That she would be just as attracted to him is nothing short of miraculous. He's not vain enough to rush her into admitting feelings for him; if she has grown to love him, it's not something he wants to pester her about. When she feels like coming out and saying it, she will. Both of them are nearly asleep; just before he drifts off, Skinner thinks to himself, when he'd first met Scully, she had a reputation of being hard as nails and cold as ice. To think that this is the woman those words had described, he's certain that whoever had labeled her thusly obviously didn't know her very well. No better than the people who had called her partner 'Spooky'. Spooky and the Ice Queen, he thinks with a mental laugh, sounds like a cheap B movie. Of course, considering what most of their reports read like…
Scully's thoughts before falling asleep are less complicated, but no less significant. The thought that always brings a smile to her face is the seemingly ludicrous couple that she and Skinner made. She feels him playing with her hair, a usual fascination of his which she enjoys as much as he does. Whenever she stops and thinks about it, how happy she's been, with Walter Skinner of all people…I never would've seen this coming. I never thought he'd be the one, never in a million years. Once in a while, though, life can hand out some nice surprises. What a nice surprise.
She feels his hands slide over her body, pulling her into the curve of his own. She responds with a soft pleasurable moan, wishing she wasn't such a coward.
The next morning, Scully arises early, grabbing one of the spears that Skinner had just finished perfecting. She tests the hand-chipped spearhead with her thumb with an approving look as she draws blood. Hoping it would offer some camouflage, she slips into her navy blue skirt and jacket, tucking her gun and their knife into her waistband for backup. Making her way into the jungle, she steps carefully, silently. Despite their relatively brief stay on the island, they've both learned a lot about the jungle, how to survive, most of all how to avoid becoming prey. Scully hefts the spear in her hand, hoping that today she may graduate up to predator. After a good hour of creeping through the undergrowth, Skinner spots her from above as he gathers bananas on a hill. He still leaves the tall trees to Scully, but he's been known to tackle the more stunted varieties, as long as he stays near the ground. Avidly watching her progress, and determined not to startle her and alert any possible targets, he follows silently behind her.
A few minutes pass, she happens to glance back and narrowly stops herself from gasping aloud when she sees him nearly at her heels. Instead, she flashes him an annoyed look, visually scolding him for scaring her, and gestures for him to get further back.
Soon, they both hear hooves trotting along just ahead, more than one set by the sound of it. Making an unnecessary gesture for silence, Scully holds her breath and steps out into the clearing. Two grown wild boar are drinking at a stream. When one has had its fill, it starts to make its way deeper into the jungle, leaving its companion behind. Spotting her opportunity, Scully jumps out, brandishing her spear. Too late does she realize that this was a bad idea; the boar sees her, and charges in a fit of rage. Skinner had retreated several yards behind her, and Scully remains frozen to the spot, unable to take refuge in the trees. Knowing that those curved tusks could gore her to death before she could blink, Scully instinctively lowers her spear and charges towards her quarry. Fueled by adrenaline, she's immune to fear, and her spear finds its mark in the boar's eye. Punctuating her hit with a wild scream, she pulls out her gun and shoots the beast in the head, just to make sure.
Panting heavily, she yanks her spear out from the boar's head, and stands there in a growing pool of blood. "I did it," she whispers, unable to believe that it was over so quickly. "Walter!" She turns around to call for him again when he's right behind her!
Having heard the scream and the gunshot, he assumed the very worst, but is relieved when he finds his fellow castaway in a primal state of jubilation. "Wow, look at the size of that one!" He looks from Scully to the boar, and back again. Then he sees the 12 inches of bloodied spear lying on the ground. "God, you must've run him through straight to his brain! Wow, that's amazing!" Putting his arm around Scully's shoulders, he raises the question: "Now what?"
Scully is way ahead of him, casting aside her jacket and kneeling down next to the carcass, removing their knife from her skirt. Pausing for a moment to gather herself, she speaks in an evenly-measured voice, as though reading from a script.
"Subject is a wild boar, approximately 150-200 pounds, possibly two years of age. Cause of death: brain trauma. I will begin with a Y-incision for internal examination…"
Skinner watches, finding it fitting that she would treat the dressing of a carcass as an autopsy. She removes the internal organs with no trace of squeamishness, having done this sort of thing about a hundred times before. In medical school, the similarities in human and porcine anatomies were brought up several times in lecture as well as labs, leaving Scully with a semi-familiar landscape in which to work. What strikes Skinner as unusual is how cool-headed she is, elbow-deep in pig guts. She rinses the organs out, picking off yellowish bits and other undesirable parts until they're clean.
"Banana leaves," she orders, barely giving Skinner a glance. He obeys, fetching her a bundle of them. She wraps the liver, heart and kidneys in the leaves, and, strangely enough, fills the stomach with the animal's blood before it all pours out onto the ground. With a look of cool intrigue, she unravels the intestines, cleans them out, and packs them in leaves as well.
"Now, to get it all back to the house," she mutters, washing her hands in the stream, wiping them dry on her skirt. Deftly packing the organs back into the empty cavity she takes the hind legs and begins the task of dragging it. Skinner springs into action then and helps. After dragging it a few feet, Skinner consents to lift and carry it some of the way. Life on the island has toughened both of them up, the days spent swimming and climbing have toned up their arms and legs, enabling them to move such a sizeable creature without killing themselves. After they get it in the door, Scully drops her half of it on the floor with a satisfied whoop.
"Woo! How about that? Look at this! Huh?"
"You're incredible," Skinner says, looking about ready to burst with pride for her. Scully grins back, laughing with unbridled excitement. "You're…you're a hunter."
"I am, aren't I?"
Skinner kneels down next to the animal's head, takes his favorite hammer stone from a shelf and knocks out one of the tusks. Winding it thickly with thread, he ties it in a secure knot and ties it into another wide loop, which he drapes around Scully's neck. They both look unnaturally solemn at this impromptu ceremony, recognizing the weight of the occasion. Skinner isn't done; crouching back to the boar, he dips his fingers in its blood and smears this across Scully's forehead. "You're a hunter now," he repeats.
Together, they fabricate the boar. Skinner had spent some time trying to make crude hand tools with the stones from the waterfall. They seemed sturdy, and held a good edge, so it was with these hand-axes that they cut the legs and head away from the torso, this time relying on Skinner's knowledge of such things. Scully may have been in her comfort zone when it came to dealing with internal organs, but she'd never come close to butchering an animal before in her life. Using the joints as guides, they separate it into manageable cuts.
"We can eat some of it fresh and smoke the rest. This should last us for a long time!" Skinner exclaims, pleased by their sudden windfall.
"I saved the blood to make black pudding, a kind of sausage my grandma used to make." When Skinner gives her a rather appalled look at this, she huffs: "We're Irish."
"Ah," he nods, refraining from further comment.
That night they feast on roast pork, seasoned with sea salt and peppery hibiscus blossoms. Rounding out their meal is a mixture of mashed breadfruit and bananas, shaped into patties and cooked in the drippings. This is the first meal they've had on the island that they've felt truly civilized.