I contrive to follow Mulder out of the meeting, so that, as we reach the door of Skinner's office, I can steal one last glance over my shoulder. He has already returned to his work, dark eyes cast down to the papers on his desk, mouth tightly closed, voice silenced again for now.
His voice makes my nipples ache, but it is always heard as business and not pleasure. As far as any kind of life is concerned, he is mostly silent, but his silence draws me. In stark contrast to my partner, who is able to ramble on endlessly about any given topic, Skinner seems to pull all the noise in around him and make it part of his inner stillness. Most of the time, I find his quiet restful, but occasionally I burn with the need to breach it. I want to make him gasp, want to make him moan, want to make him scream out my name as he comes.
His silence is consistent, heavy in me, deafening in my heart. I think I would give anything to hear his unofficial voice. I think I would even sell my soul.
As I move through my empty, silent evenings, I wonder what it would be like to hear his voice in my apartment, asking if I want a cup of tea, is there anything I want to watch on TV, commenting on our endless paperwork. I wonder what it would sound like ordering me to strip.
Deep in the night, my hands stroke over my skin and I wonder how it would feel if they were his, if the weight of his hard, naked body crushed me into the sheets, if his firm-lipped mouth marked me as his own while hoarse whispers spoke of his desire.
I wonder shamelessly how his voice would sound in my ear as he comes, or if he would moan his pleasure into my welcoming mouth, a different kind of speaking.
But these thoughts are not appropriate, and although I can lay awake with need in my bed at night and imagine him speaking to me that way, in the light of day I realize it is not probable. I believe he is unapproachable.
Even if I believed otherwise, I am not sure I could act, trapped as I am by silence of my own. Such silence was necessary for me at first, as I learned to command what respect I could from my partner and from others as a member of the X-Files. As time passed, anger and grief reinforced it, for who, after all, could listen and understand? It was better by far to walk alone, shielding myself as best I might. Now, if I wanted to speak, I do not know whether I could form words. Silence is not golden.
The End
Part 3