SquidgeWorld Archive

Recovery

Skinner was big. He'd been blessed with a large frame, with both width and height, and he'd made a point to add breadth to it. He worked out. He had since he was a kid. He liked the sense of control it gave him, knowing that his actions, his work, his sweat and his discipline were what put the muscles on and kept them there. Anorexics starved themselves for control, self-mutilators cut themselves for the same reason; for Skinner, all it took was a long, sweaty session with weights and he got the same lift, the same sensation that in a world of terrible uncertainties, one thing was certain -- he had control of his body.

He'd spent his fair share of time in gyms and training facilities. He'd been the trainee and the trainer. His size had frequently gotten him tagged as the example, the one the instructor chose to demonstrate on. He'd learned early on that when he was being the example, it was best to let the instructor win. That meant he'd learned how to fall, and he'd spent a lot of time doing just that.

As trainer, he'd worked with soldiers in the Army and with recruits to the FBI. He'd been big enough and strong enough that he'd been called on to show others what he knew. And it had caught his interest. It was easy to take someone down when you were the biggest, baddest son of a bitch around. It was another thing entirely to take someone down when you were small and lightweight and your size had the potential to be an all round disadvantage. It had made him interested in learning how to teach the small ones to take someone like him down. How to make the women, and some of the small men, more confident in their own abilities. And it had helped him as well, showing him that his size wasn't always going to be to his advantage and could, in fact, be used against him.

He'd had a lot of students over the years, some official, some not. Some had just been friends who'd asked for help. Like the sister of a friend of his from his Army days. She'd been attacked, beaten badly, and robbed, in the parking lot of a mall. It had made her afraid to leave her house, and after several months, his friend had called and asked Skinner for help. "Teach her to protect herself," he'd begged. "I can't do it -- I can't hurt her." And Skinner had agreed to meet the woman. Agreed to teach her. Agreed to help.

She was scared, and he started off slowly. She was a gentle woman, not used to violent physical contact, and the surprising intimacy that always accompanied it. Violence, rage, anger, all grew from contempt, and the transition to the physical expression of contempt rattled the scared ones, so he started with the basics: how the bad guys were going to come at you, how to block, how to sacrifice a bone here or there to save your life, why mercy was for monks, not real people. Just the mechanics at first. Later, he'd done his best to give her some feel for the attacker's rage, a simulated stream of venom to dull the shock of the real thing if it ever came again.

He'd had cocky ones, too. The ones who were as big as he was, or bigger. The ones who didn't realize that they had anything to learn or that their size could be a disadvantage. He always made sure to put the cocky ones down immediately, and not just once. Three times -- it always took three times to put them in their place. Once could be luck, and they'd scoff and call it a sucker punch, something to be laughed over and dismissed as entertainment. The second time, they tended to blame their fall on stress -- the shock of having been thrown the first time, and not having been prepared. In a group, it was after the second fall that someone would always call for a breather. "Let him catch his breath, then we'll see what you've really got." But the third time, well, the third time was the charm. Knock 'em down three times and the point was made. There were no more questions, no more comments, and everyone straightened up and paid attention after that.

There was a third group as well and it was these that he most enjoyed working with. They were dispassionate, businesslike, determined. They worked as if the practice was for real. They were the ones who knew that when the time came, they would be glad they had paid attention so they wouldn't have to think and be creative while dancing with a fellow human whose basic choice was to get away or go to jail, or, God forbid, kill or be killed. The last group wanted to be prepared for someone who, like a thief who thinks nothing of destroying a sixty thousand dollar car for a three hundred dollar radio, would as soon kill a cop as face a jaywalking charge.

And the woman he had on the mat right now was about as determined as any he'd ever seen.

She had dripped sweat for over an hour, taking everything Skinner could dream up and coming back for more, learning with each fall and rarely making the same mistake twice. He was out of the instructor biz and this was not a standard lesson. This was different. He'd initiated these little training sessions, but now, Scully came to him three or four times a week, each time more determined, more focused. It had been going on for months now. There was a stalking restlessness here, a veiled intent as to good or evil, very probably somewhere in the moral DMZ where most such driven undertakings usually reside. It was beginning to worry him.

Skinner reached out and jabbed, then feinted and tossed Scully across the floor, wincing at the thumping sound as spine met mat. He waited a second, then asked, "Are you gonna talk about it?"

Scully reached up, brushed a sweat-plastered strand of red hair out of her face, gulped some air and stared back at him, looking puzzled and surprised. "Why?"

He was still a minute then he shrugged. "All that anger -- thought you might want to put some of it into words."

Still breathing heavily, Scully shifted position and rolled upright, trying to mask her labored gasps. "I'm getting it, aren't I?"

Skinner nodded. He was covered in sweat; she'd worked him hard today and that hadn't been the case when they'd started three months ago. She had made remarkable progress. He knew that she knew it, too, but he didn't want her overconfident, and she wasn't talking. "Does it help?"

It was Scully's turn to shrug as she pulled herself to her feet. "I'm stronger. I don't flinch every time I'm around a man. That's progress, right?" She glanced at the clock on the gym wall. "I gotta go to work now."

He watched her leave, wondering if he was doing her any good, wondering if any of it was connecting.

Over the next weeks, she cranked up the intensity, and it became less clear to him who was giving whom a workout. He couldn't do anything to distract her, to spoil her concentration, and he wondered how quickly she could turn it on when she needed it. This was practice; she knew he was coming after her. It wasn't real.

That day, they worked for over an hour. Finally, tired and worn, Scully got to her feet after a fall and paused for a moment, hands on hips to catch her breath.

"You made me sweat today," Skinner said, voice bland as he studied her.

She flashed him a quick grin. "Maybe I like to see you sweat." She turned to go, paused again to pull in air, and felt Skinner's hand on her shoulder. "Dana?"

His voice was deep, husky, tinged with something she'd never heard before. His other hand slid around her waist. She started to say "Wait," but his grip was tightening, pulling her toward him. She twisted to face him; his hands went to her buttocks. His eyes were completely neutral. She could find no hint of the man she'd known for years, and who had been her savior, her teacher, her sparring partner over the past few months. And God, he was strong. She put her hands on his shoulders and tried to push him away, but it was like pushing a tree.

"Easy, baby, easy ..." he breathed, his tone contrasting with the increased pressure he was exerting, and now she was starting to panic, and her squirming became frantic. She managed to turn away from him again but it was like a Chinese finger puzzle; the harder she twisted, the tighter his grip.

She realized she was in serious trouble. The gym was empty. It was her fault -- she'd wanted it that way. He was big, so much bigger than her, and strong -- so strong. The world started to take on a sharp-edged aspect; she noted how their feet made indentations in the mat. She felt a heat between her temples and sensed a sob welling up in her chest, and then she was pounding ineffectively at his knuckles.

Then suddenly his hands were off her, and he spun her around violently to face him. His eyes bored into her own, and he was mad. Angry. Furious. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he raged, and her heart sank because she heard the declaration of a debt owed and it was not what she had expected from Skinner. She had come to care for him, greatly, over the past few months. She was grateful for his time, his energy, his willingness to take the aches and pains and bruises she inflicted. He'd respected her, her need for privacy, her need to feel in control. And he knew about Mulder. But now ...

She jumped as he spoke again. "Four months we've been at this, Scully, and the first real sign of trouble and you can't move? What the hell's going on here?"

She stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Don't tell me all this is because you like wearing sweat suits. What's the good of it all if you go to pieces when the real thing happens? Are we wasting our time here?" He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then added in a broken voice, "And did you really think I... I ...?" He shoved her away as he took his hands off her shoulders, and she staggered, not as much from the push as from the chagrin she felt. She realized how much his approval meant to her, and there had to be a way to save this situation.

"That was all to teach me a lesson?"

"No," he shot at her with a sarcastic snort. "It's because you've got a great ass."

Her eyes grew large and she tried to keep the crinkles from forming, but it was impossible and it was only a question of who cracked first. Soon they were both on the mat, laughing helplessly. They ended up sitting against the wall, very close together, wiping away a few remaining tears.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Always take it seriously," he said, meeting her eyes and holding them.

She nodded again, then leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. She rose, heading for the locker room, and Skinner suspected something was different now -- she was different.

She came at him in the hallway and he knew, with one look, that this was it. Final exam time. He hadn't expected it to be so -- public. Mulder was with her and there were half a dozen agents and secretaries nearby. She touched Mulder, signaling him to wait, then moved forward forcefully toward Skinner.

"I'm ready," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Here?" he asked, and she nodded. "Are you sure?"

She nodded again.

He shook his head, then put his hand out in the traditional Stop sign, palm forward toward Scully's chest. Without warning Scully stepped into his hand, so it lay flat against her sternum. She slapped both her hands over his hand, pinning it in place, just above and between her breasts. Any hopes Skinner might have had of taking this to a more private venue were forever dashed when Scully leaned sharply forward, bending his wrist backward and forcing him immediately to his knees. A twist of his arm inward, bringing his head sideways to the floor, and she shoved hard.

One.

His unceremonious position on the hallway floor was causing loud rumblings, and he growled at everyone to get back. A quick glance up and he almost laughed at the shock on Mulder's face before he rose, slowly, deliberately, careful not to stagger or in any other way betray surprise or shock. It took him only a minute to decide that in this case, chivalry equaled the potential for humiliation, and he rushed at Scully, holding back his injured left wrist and leading with his right.

He shoved her hard with his outstretched right hand, wondering how she was going to avoid being pinned helplessly to the wall. He needn't have worried. Scully flicked his right hand aside, spinning at the same time so that her back was to him. She stretched her right hand out in front of her. Skinner had a split second to abort, then Scully pulled her arm back like a catapult launcher on an aircraft carrier, her precisely aimed elbow slamming into his solar plexus. This action deprived him of the ability to breathe, an ability that he usually took for granted. Maybe he'd taught her too well. He considered this as he hit the floor once again.

Two.

He weighed the situation. He could take her down now. If he came at her hard, controlled, disciplined, she wouldn't stand a chance. But, in the real world, if she were fighting for her life, after two shots like that, her attacker wasn't going to be hard, controlled, or disciplined. He was going to be pissed. Skinner suppressed a smile, pulled himself to his feet and rushed straight at her. He was only mildly impressed by the fact that she let him come right into her. Even better, she dropped backward obligingly, even grabbing his collar to make sure he fell on top of her. Her right foot was planted squarely in his belly. As they neared the ground, Skinner was momentarily weightless, and therefore purchaseless, whereas Scully had all of Mother Earth behind her for traction. She took advantage of this imbalance by pushing her foot up and back with all her might, while still holding on to Skinner's collar. The laws of physics kicked in right on time and Skinner's rolling forward momentum was translated neatly into the parabolic arc being traced by Scully's foot.

That foot, being connected to Scully, stayed with her. Skinner, on the other hand, being connected to his belly, went with it, and did so until the wall behind Scully made further travel infeasible. His space intersected the wall's when his head and feet were inverted, and he slid to the floor, his hands scrambling frantically to break his fall with themselves rather than his head.

Three!

Holy Mary, Mother of God!

She'd done it!

"Hot daaaaammmmnnnnn!" thundered from somewhere behind them, and Skinner watched fuzzily -- he'd lost his glasses somewhere in his flight -- as Mulder swooped forward in unbridled glee. "That was beeee -- yoooo -- ti -- ful!" Mulder caught Scully up in his arms, spinning her around and around until she begged to be put down. The other agents and secretaries were watching with bemused smiles on their faces, aware that something momentous had occurred, but not really sure what it was.

Skinner watched woozily from the floor, trying to decide if it was better to get up or just stay where he was for a while. The decision was taken from him when a small hand appeared in front of his face, offering his glasses. He took them, put them on, then took the hand that still hovered and allowed Scully to pull him to his feet. She gave him ten seconds to catch his balance, then leapt into his arms. He staggered back, laughing as he caught her, and wished he wasn't so dizzy so he could turn her around a bit himself.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she chanted. "I did it!"

His smile grew and he set her down gently, waiting for her to quiet. "Yes, you did," he said, his voice low and serious.

"I took you down," she said. "Not once, not twice, but three times." Her eyes were big as she looked up at him. "I did it."

He nodded soberly, then smiled again. "Feeling pretty pleased with yourself, aren't you?"

She grinned, and Skinner decided that a grin on Dana Scully was a nice thing to see. Then she grew serious. "I'm feeling -- safe. Strong. Secure. Like I can take care of myself."

"You always could," Skinner said.

She nodded. "I used to think so. Now," she smiled, "I know."

He pushed her gently toward Mulder. "Go on, get out of here. Go celebrate. You brought down the boss."

She stepped away, then looked back. "You're okay, aren't you?"

He nodded, not moving as the hallway cleared. Agents and secretaries went back to their offices. Mulder and Scully stepped into the elevator and disappeared. Skinner aimed for the bathroom, wincing at the limp from his bruised and battered leg, doubtless sporting a great contusion where it had impacted the wall. He wondered idly what eating dinner would be like, and brushing his teeth, and would he awaken in the night to some stabbing pain that set in only after the surprise had worn off.

He shook his head, realizing none of it mattered. Not the bruises. Not the bumps. Not the aches, the pains, the limp or the blood. None of it mattered because Scully had her confidence back.

It had all been worth it.