Chapter Text
Assistant Director Walter Skinner’s sports car was many things, but good in the snow it was not, the Cadillac sliding about like a bumper boat, trying to break free from his expertise. He hadn’t been expecting the conditions to deteriorate, Scully realized, and he was trying to hide it from her, eyes locked on the road, his arms flexing as he gripped the wheel. Each slide, Scully held her breath. Skinner was handling the car well, but he couldn’t protect her from the bumps and skids. Her heart leapt into her throat and she realized she was sweating. He’d have to forgive if she left little half-moon indentations in the leather of the armrest.
Accepting a ride from Skinner was unorthodox, highly, but Mulder had conveniently scheduled his leave to coincide with the team-building retreat.
“Trust falls feels like an OSHA complaint waiting to happen,” he’d said.
“Somehow I doubt workplace safety concerns are the reason you’re skipping this.”
“Aw. You and Skinner can have some quality bonding time. You won’t even know I’m gone.” He’d tweaked her nose.
Quality bonding time. This was probably not what Mulder had in mind.
Skinner’s knuckles were turning white from his grip on the wheel, stark against his tanned skin. Large hands. Sturdy. Not graceful, but beautiful in their own way. Scully realized she was staring, wondering, idly, in between thoughts of their impending death what his hands might look like undoing the buttons on one of her dress shirts, or across her bare thighs. He hadn’t noticed, his concentration on the road near complete. She shook her head. This was a deeply inappropriate line of thought, at a deeply inappropriate time, but her adrenaline was spiking. The only sounds were the wheels scraping along the ice, and Skinner’s small noises of irritation and frustration.
Skinner had stopped by their office earlier the week. Mulder, unfortunately, had still been there, and his reaction to Skinner’s gruff offer of transportation was one of barely-concealed glee.
“Stop it. He’s being considerate.”
“He was blushing, didn’t you see?” Mulder grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s got a-”
“Don’t,” she warned. “When does your vacation start again?”
She’d put it out of her head while she packed for the long weekend up at a resort and lodge in Pennsylvania. Mornings were set aside for networking and teambuilding, the afternoon and evening for skiing. She’d packed and repacked, used to packing quickly, getting down to a small suitcase and an overnight bag.
She was glad she’d packed light. Skinner’s car was…unexpected.
“I, ah…” he’d trailed off. “Let me help you with that.” Not much room in the two-seater sports car. Hell of a midlife crisis purchase, she thought. There was no other explanation. She’d expected some kind of sedan or SUV, something staid and dependable. Not this, a powerful-looking coupe. Navy, nearly black, and angular. Red would have been a step too far.
“Nice wheels,” she’d said, hefting her overnight bag onto her shoulder. He’d looked chagrined, or at least more than usual, reaching for her suitcase, grumbling in agreement.
And it was powerful, the engine rumbling like a tiger. Skinner deftly handled the car as they excited DC, zipping in and out of traffic. Conversation topics ran dry quicker than Scully had expected. Weather. What they were looking forward to. Opinions on types of winter sports. What Mulder was doing on his vacation. Scully desperately wanted to know more about the origins of the car, curiosity nagging like a toothache. Traffic cleared, and the car fell silent.
Then it began to snow, just a small nuisance at first, the flow of cars keeping the roads clear. Skinner asked Scully to check the directions. A map and some tidy notes tucked into the glovebox that confirmed they were indeed going the right way.
Scully looked over again, Skinner beginning to perspire as the weather worsened. Fewer and fewer cars were on the road with them. Soon, they were driving alone, the headlights of oncoming vehicles infrequent visitors. To occupy her thoughts better, Scully catalogued what she knew about Skinner. Military service in Vietnam, Married, once. Going through a divorce. Whatever the status, he’d stopped wearing his wedding band. No children. Otherwise, very little to go on, intentional, no doubt. Clearly defined boundaries, professional and personal, kept everyone safe. This car ride felt like a danger to that boundary.
Skinner swore under his breath. Conditions had deteriorated further, and the car was fishtailing, the tires losing, gaining, and losing traction. Scully gripped the armrest again, no doubts about Skinner’s abilities, but rather the limits of the car’s capabilities in inclement weather. They were still several miles from the lodge.
He swore again, the car hitting a large icy patch. For a moment, the little sports car regained control, both of them sighing in relief.
Then the car slid forward and to the left. Skinner braked slowly, but the momentum was too much, the vehicle skidding along the road, losing traction, sliding off, slowly, to the left, and into a small ditch with a crunch.
At least they had stopped moving.
- - - - -
He should have rented something more reliable. He couldn’t quite say why he hadn’t, guessing that Special Agent Dana Scully was not the kind of woman who would be impressed by a sports car. Her expression, in seeing it, had been one of curiosity and surprise. He deserved that. Thankfully, she hadn’t asked any questions.
If she had, he could have lied and told it was a loaner while his car was in the shop. Or an inheritance. Left on the doorstep like an orphan. But she hadn’t, so he didn’t need to confess that a week after the divorce was finalized, he’d withdrawn a large amount of cash from his long-term savings, taken the afternoon off work (taking a sick day, which in and of itself felt transgressive), and traded in for a sports car. Skinner had spent the rest of the day and the entire weekend driving outside of DC, finding long, empty backroads so he could gun the car, feeling his blood thrumming.
He hadn’t felt this alive in years, never before permitting himself such an indulgence. Not even when he’d gotten home from Nam, when many of the men he served with spent the remainder of their sparse resources on women and drugs.
Not Skinner. He’d been careful. Careful with his money, his career. Too careful in his marriage. He’d loved Sharon. He loved Sharon. The marriage had been a happy one, but in times of stress, he closed himself off, shut down, not willing to burden her with anything. He thought he was keeping her safe, and himself, from having to confront what he’d left overseas, and the dark parts that had followed him home. He’d sleepwalked his way through the last few years of his marriage, compartmentalizing and burying memories.
“Why don’t you let me in?” she’d pleaded in one of their last fights. The same old story. Always the promise to try better. But this last time, he’d shaken his head, finally knowing himself well enough to give her a better response. Too late he’d discovered he couldn’t ignore his history, still too early to know how to integrate his past with his present.
“I’m sorry, Sharon.”
A short nod.
“I am too.”
She moved out the following week. The divorce paperwork had hurt more than he’d expected it, a shock, if not a surprise.
And now, his one concession to frivolity meant he was stuck in the snow, with Scully. He deserved it.
The slide had been gentle in his perception, with time slowing down, the stop abrupt, his seatbelt catching and arresting any contact with the steering wheel. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Scully responded. “A little shaken up. You?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” This stupid car. Shame and anger roiled up in him, his pride shredded, Skinner grinding his teeth. He didn’t want to lose his temper in front of Scully. He didn’t want to scare her, although he’d seen her manage much tougher stuff than one angry boss. He stole a glance at her.
The hell with it. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and turned fully to her.
“You sure? Did you hit your head on anything? I really am sorry. This car, this retreat…” He waved his hand by way of explanation.
Scully shook her head, then tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Even in the dim illumination of the car’s interior dome light, it nearly glowed, a burnished ruddy shade. Her hair, framing her heart-shaped face like a cloud, startling eyes, and that mouth, the contours a heart shape as well, the top lip slightly larger than the bottom, especially at the edges. It gave her a serious, pouting, somewhat judgmental expression when she wasn’t smiling. When she smiled though, her face took on an impish quality, her eyes sparkling.
“I’m fine, sir, but I think we have bigger problems. Namely getting to the lodge.”
That “sir.” He was due that respect, the chain of command at the bureau clear and defined. Mulder relished in testing it, like a teen unsure of his place in the hierarchy. Scully too, the longer she’d been assigned to work with Mulder, less deferential than when she’d first come under his supervision, and yet she still had some respect for the structure they worked under. He knew she was a Navy brat, and he understood intimately the tension of the comfort of military rules and the desire to push them as far as one could. Strength-test them.
But that “sir.”
She could never know what it did to him.
“Is your cell working?” he asked. “I’m going to check the damage. I doubt I can get her back onto the road, but…”
“Of course, might I suggest-”
He was already up and out of the car. If he had to hear another “sir,” it was going to be a problem.
In the twilight, the snow nearly whited out everything. The flakes were the small, nearly dry kind, perfect for skiing, the snow banks looking pillowy soft. Even now, only a few minutes from their unceremonious exit, the snow was filling in the angry streaks marking the car’s departure from the roadway.
And it was cold. Skinner had chosen a sweater, jeans, and winter boots, his cold weather gear stored in the trunk. He took one wistful glance at the roadway. There was no way to get the coupe back up there.
Frustration and failure competed for attention. Sighing, he opened the trunk.
- - - - -
It was very pretty, she thought, looking out the window. Scully hadn’t been up in the mountains in years. The last time was with Jack, the memory bittersweet. Thinking of him made her jaw ache. Loving Jack was touching fire even knowing it would burn. And it did. He was the job, so dedicated that it began to bleed into their relationship, long nights together feeling like work. That intensity, which had been so intoxicating, became tiring. She would always be in his shadow, a place she was not content to stay. Her heart hurt regardless.
The driver’s door opened.
“Here.” Skinner’s hands were full of winter clothes. A hat and a sweater.
“Good news. Agent Fuller is already at the lodge, and he’s going to bring his vehicle down. We’re not far, but the roads are bad. He thinks it’ll be about an hour, maybe more.” She shrugged into the sweater, enormous on her, nearly a tent. If she stood, the hem would probably come down to her knees. “The lodge has a tow truck and they can collect the car later.”
Skinner groaned, sliding into the seat and closing the door.
“Worse and worse.”
“What?”
“It’s nothing. An hour? I’ll run the engine for a bit, but I’d prefer if we didn’t get carbon monoxide poisoning. Does Fuller know where we are?”
The engine roared to life as though insulted by being stuck in a ditch, the interior warming.
“I gave him a description based on the map.” The warmth was making her drowsy.
Skinner said nothing, frowning deeper. He’d pulled on the ski cap, red and blue striped, letting the car run for several minutes before turning it off. Scully snuggled deeper into the sweater, which smelled faintly of some kind of cologne or deodorant, different than what Mulder wore.
“So are you going to tell me about the car, or are we going to sit in silence for,” she checked her watch. “Another fifty minutes? Sir.”
Skinner looked up at the roof of the car, clearly debating her question, opening his mouth to answer, before shutting it, his jaw working the way it did when Mulder was goading him.
“Impulse purchase,” he said, his tone intending to put an end to the question, his voice clipped. When he was angry about something, she noticed that he kept his jaw nearly rigid, muffling his voice so that she often had to lean in a bit to hear him, nearly impossible to lip-read.
That I already gathered. She’d wait him out. They might freeze to death before she got an answer. So be it.
He cleared his throat, looking at her. Scully raised her brows and nodded encouragingly.
“After Sharon…I wanted something that was just for myself. Not ‘useful for work’ or a replacement for something worn out, or something for the both of us.” He paused, staring that the steering wheel. A red flush crept up his neck. “It’s mine. All mine.”
“Apologies for the presumption, but a sports car doesn’t seem very, er, ‘you.’ But I guess that’s the point, right?”
Skinner gave a small smile. “Nice to know I’m still capable of surprises.”
At that, Scully smiled as well. What other surprises hid behind those wire-framed glasses? Colorful boxes, or maybe a tattoo. Somewhere she hadn’t seen. Something across the thigh. Maybe a bald eagle with ‘semper fi’ underneath, wings fluttering when he flexed his quads. She shivered at the thought of seeing him shirtless, at least shirtless outside of moments of peril and injury. Maybe in a state of undress, his tie gone, shirt undone. He favored heavily starched dress shirts, with the classic, billowy sleeves, and unbuttoned, he probably resembled an unmade bed. And if he undid his cuffs and pushed them up, exposing his forearms, she could see if they were as tan as the rest of him. She thought about unbuttoning one of those dress shirts, if he’d let her, unwrapping him, reaching inside. Slipping her hands under the fabric and pushing the shirt off, his skin hot under her fingertips. Would he be shy, or would it be like unclipping a guard dog from its leash?
“Are you cold?” he asked. “I could run the engine again, but we’re getting buried. I can get out and clean the tailpipe.”
“No, don’t let the cold air in.” She pulled her hands into the sweater.
Skinner reached below his seat, sliding his chair back about six inches. He’d already had it positioned fairly far back to accommodate his large frame.
“Come here.” A command, but gentle.
Scully’s head snapped up. Surely, he couldn’t be serious.
“I’m-” her teeth began to chatter.
Skinner raised his brows. “You’re not fine. You’re getting cold. There’s enough room. I’m not-” he paused, considering his words, shaking his head slightly. “I would prefer if the agents under my care didn’t freeze to death on my watch.”
Scully sat still. He was right. Conserving body heat was the logical response to the threat of hypothermia, and neither of them had the proper gear to get to the lodge on their own.
“No. They’ll be here soon. And even if they’re not, this would be, it’s,” she struggled to articulate it. “The optics.” Of me sitting on your lap.
Skinner looked up at the roof of the car.
“Scully, let me worry about the optics, which would reflect badly on me, not you.”
“I disagree. You think I’d ever live down being the agent found sitting on her supervisor’s lap? It would reflect very badly on me-” Her teeth chattered again, unable to finish her sentence.
“I could order you.”
“And I could refuse.”
He grimaced. “Stop being so goddamned stubborn. Isn’t one symptom of hypothermia a lack of judgment?”
He had her there. And he was just a warm body. She could keep telling herself that. And she would. She needed to. She was so cold. Scully nodded, defeated, conceding to his offer. Just a warm body. Carefully, she climbed over the gearshift, trying hard not to accidentally elbow Skinner, settling down on his lap. Just a warm body.
Skinner wrapped both arms around her, carefully, like she was a skittish animal, before pulling her in closer, slowly. He was giving her time and opportunity to reconsider, she thought. She wasn’t going to voluntarily leave such warmth now that it had been offered. Sighing, she sank against him and his heat, her head against his chest. God, he truly was enormous.
“Before I forget,” he said, his voice sonorous. Scully felt it rumbling into her, making her shiver again. “What do you think of the car?”
- - - - -
Scully had tensed up the moment he’d made the suggestion, but at his question, she’d started to laugh. He felt her shoulders unhitch, her legs relax. Frankly, it was more comfortable for him that way, feeling less like he had an anxious cat on his lap.
“Am I impressed by your sweet ride?” She laughed. “If I was, I’m certainly not now.”
“Driver error,” he grumbled.
“Sure, it’s a nice car. I don’t know much about them. Airplanes and ships, yes. Cars?” She shrugged. “If it makes you happy, then I suppose I like it.”
Skinner felt that flush rising to his face again.
Scully turned in his lap so that she was facing away from him.
“But I’m probably being too familiar, sir. Wouldn’t want to speak out of turn.”
Skinner had to hold in a laugh.
“Ma’am, I’m not sure this is where we stand on ceremony, huddling together for warmth.” You’re in my lap, he added mentally, wishing for any kind of distraction from having Scully so close to him. He’d been doing times tables, but she’d turned, and the way her legs shifted against his…well, it was giving him ideas.
In another life, where they weren’t freezing, he could imagine someone bolder than him cupping her face and kissing her. In that life, she would have kissed him back, turned to face him so he could look at her and let him slide his hands under her sweater, her shirt, her underthings, along smooth, ivory skin, up to her brassiere. Or maybe in that life she wasn’t wearing one at all, waiting for his hands to make contact with her breasts, soft, punctuated by pert nipples. Pink? Brown? He’d be able to pull off her top so he could look. Look and kiss. He'd twist one, gently, enough to take her breath away before reaching down to her jeans-
“Are you happy?” she asked. “I know the bureau rewards those who make it their livelihood, but we’re more than just the job. Something that took me awhile to realize. Things have been…difficult for you, and Mulder and I can be, ah, hard to reign in sometimes.” She was probably smiling, given the tone of her voice. “He’s a bad influence. But, does this car make you happy? Sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir.”
“It does feel a little odd, well, given the circumstances.”
“Walter is fine.” He could feel her tense again at the suggestion. “I don’t know. I’ve been the job for so long, it’s hard to see myself as anything else but the job. It’s ruined friendships. My marriage, at least in part. But I’ve been working on it. I golf.”
“Of course you do.”
Skinner ignored that.
“I write a little. I’ve been working on something. I don’t know. Not very good at it.”
“Anything in particular?” Scully asked.
“My time in the Marines.” Scully didn’t need to know that it had been a suggestion from the couples’ counselor during the waning days of the marriage. It didn’t matter anyway. What he wrote, he didn’t want Sharon reading.
Scully yawned.
“Sorry sir, ah, Walter. Just tired. You’re very warm.”
Sharon had said the same thing, calling him her life-size thermal blanket. Back when they’d actually been companionable and sharing a bed. The temperature in the car, though, was dropping, and Scully was starting to shiver again.
“Who’d you call? Fuller?” he asked.
“Fuller. He’s bringing someone else”
Skinner suppressed a groan, but Scully clearly could feel him tense.
“What is it?” She shifted so she could look at him. “Walter.”
He shouldn’t have given her permission.
“Can’t stand Fuller. He’s competent, sure, but what a kiss-ass. Glad I’m not his direct supervisor anymore. I’m not supposed to play favorites but he was not one of mine. And he’s dull. So dull. Even his voice is irritating. I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”
Scully’s brows raised a fraction.
“Shouldn’t they be here by now?” he asked.
She shrugged again. They fell into silence, the air growing colder by the minute. He was about to voice his decision to go look for help when outside, he could hear a vehicle getting closer. Skinner reached forward, around Scully, to the headlights, hitting the flashers. Scully had heard to too, scrambling out of Skinner’s lap, elbowing him not once, but twice, knocking the wind out of him.
“Sorry, sir,” she mumbled, her face flushed.
“It’s ok,” he coughed out. “I’ll go flag them down.”
It was indeed Fuller, and another agent he knew by sight alone. Skinner was thankful for the aid, helping him with the luggage and with Scully, who was shivering madly, the two of them climbing into the back of a large SUV. The lodge, according to Fuller, had a tow truck who could collect the car when the storm cleared, apparently a common enough occurrence to invest in one. Fuller, for all his faults, made no snide comments about Skinner’s accident, though Skinner wasn’t sure he was smart enough to do so.
“And you’ll be there in time for the evening meal and networking!” Fuller said, smiling.
Hadn’t even been able to skip the rubber chicken dinner. Lucky him.
The remainder of the drive, which did not take too long, Skinner felt her absence. He wanted to wrap his arms around Scully, but she wouldn’t even meet his eye, fretting with her hands and tucking her hair back nervously. What a ludicrous idea. And worse, he’d made her uncomfortable.
The lodge itself, tucked halfway up the mountain, was going for a Bavarian look, a lot of dark wood with lighter trim around the doors and windows. Night skiing was underway, adding an unearthly glow to the mountain and trees behind the building. The driveway was unpaved, but salted, gravel crunching under his boots as he stepped out of the SUV.
Inside was bright and airy, the German hunting lodge aesthetic abandoned for soaring ceilings (which must have made the heating bills astronomical, Skinner reflected), delicate light fixtures, and plush, uniform carpeting. The whole building seemed to open up as he entered, as though it was bigger on the inside.
The Bavarian theme, unfortunately, extended to the rooms. Skinner and Scully’s rooms were next to each other, the last two available. Skinner’s was the larger corner unit. The dark wood and beams made the room feel heavy, almost claustrophobic. No adjoining door, thankfully. He set his bag down, walking the perimeter. Large living space, couch, TV, minibar. Balcony, gas fireplace, three-quarters bath, large master bedroom. King-sized mattress. Anything smaller and he felt like he was back in the marines, sleeping on some tiny cot. He unpacked, quickly, out of habit, his belongings hung in the closet. Everything except…
He’d have to go collect it. Make awkward small talk. But he’d get to see her again. Skinner turned and opened the door.
There, folded neatly on the floor, was his sweater. He looked over. Scully had hung the Do Not Disturb sign.