Chapter Text
It was 1996 and Walter Skinner had a headache.
This particular headache had been lingering around the corners of his mind since early last year. His doctor told him that it was nothing to worry about, but his gut said differently. It may not have been any kind of medicinal threat encroaching on him, but the headache was still very much a warning that things were amiss. His two most volatile, unpredictable agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were living proof.
He had been the assistant director at the FBI for five years now and had seen his fair share of stressful cases and unruly agents. Nothing produced the headache that Mulder and Scully always managed to evoke from him. Between them going off the book and poking their noses into unseemly places and the higher ups at the Bureau who pulled at his strings and constantly threatened not only his employment but his life, Skinner had not known a moment of peace since.
So much so that he had to fight tooth and nail against turning back to the substances that had once gotten him through the war. Such substances had no place in his life now, not after he had come so far. But a neat whisky in a grimy bar after a long day of work was one indulgence that he would never deny himself. It could always be worse, he reminded himself, recalling the powerful drugs that he used to inhale during his younger years.
But his work was beginning to take a toll. He had always prided himself on being able to maintain a work-life balance that kept his wife happy and his marriage intact. Occasionally, he even saw family and friends. But ever since the fiasco that is the X-Files now lead by Mulder and Scully came to be, he was spending more and more time at the office, keeping ridiculous hours, and opting to finish his nights at the bar rather than in bed with his wife. Sharon had noticed, as any good wife would, and had been prodding at him for a few years now. Every promise that Skinner made to her wound up falling flat and never coming to fruition.
After a while, Sharon stopped expecting anything, and Skinner stopped bothering to try. At home, they hardly spoke. Skinner came home after Sharon was already asleep in bed, and he left before she awoke. When attending family or work holiday events, they appeared arm-in-arm as any happily married couple should, but found themselves devoid of any conversation or spark that kept their marriage alive. Sharon was a beautiful woman, and her heart was warm and kind, which is what Skinner found himself falling for in the first place. But their marriage had grown stale over the years.
He knew that she was beautiful, but he did not find himself attracted to her. He knew that she was warm, but he did not find himself going to her for warmth. He knew that she was kind, but he did not crave the kindness that she could provide. No matter how self-destructive he knew it to be, Walter Skinner allowed his marriage to crumble to pieces right in front of him, and while Sharon was begging him to stand up and save their relationship, he felt nothing as it slipped through his fingers.
They had not had a meaningful conversation in years, they had not shared the warmth of one another's bodies in months, they had been living robotically merely existing in the same house for some time now. If Skinner desired conversation, he could find that easily anywhere. If he desired physical satisfaction that could only come from a willing woman, he knew that he would have no trouble seeking such a thing out either. He did not need a wife, nor did he need to condemn poor Sharon to a loveless marriage any longer. So he let her walk away, he signed the divorce papers, and he felt nothing.
The last straw had been when Sharon longed for a child. Walter had always put off having children in favour of his career, and Sharon seemed to understand that. But there was only so much that kept a bored housewife sane. She wanted a child or perhaps more than one, and Skinner still denied her. He did not want children, he felt as though he was already too old to raise a young child, not to mention the fact that he had a plethora of pseudo-children running around the Bureau. How could he step up and become a father of his own newborn child when he was too busy protecting agents like Mulder and Scully who were constantly getting themselves into trouble? It wouldn't be fair to any children that he had; he knew that he could not give them a good life.
So, Sharon had packed his bags, wished him the best of luck on his endeavours, and hired a lawyer. The last thing his estranged wife had said to him as he was leaving was, "Walter, you are a hard man to love," and then she sent him on his way. He knew he couldn't blame her. He knew he was indeed a very difficult person to get through to and that never once in his seventeen years of marriage had he actually opened up to his wife. He supposed he had taken her for granted and appreciated the fact that she would always be waiting for him at home with no questions and no expectations. No strings attached. He had forgotten that was not how marriage worked.
And tonight, just like so many nights before, Walter Skinner was at the bar with a headache.
This last week had been a rough one. Mulder's investigations had taken him and Scully down unsettling paths, the Cigarette Smoking Man was involved somehow, the agents insisted on risking their lives around every corner, he was attempting to adjust to the changes in the forensic laboratory that came with the arrival of a new head psychologist next week, and Skinner was saddled with mountains of paperwork and stress over it all. He had finally left the office tonight well after dark and was just waiting for his cell phone to ring and call him back to work.
Despite knowing that all signs pointed towards him having to head back to the office at some point tonight or at least meet with either Mulder or Scully somewhere under the table, Skinner ordered a second whisky. It wouldn't be the first time that he navigated work around alcohol in his system, and should tonight wind up to be a busy one as predicted, it would not be the last.
He had secured himself a booth at the back of the bar about a half hour ago and kept his head down as he observed familiar faces come and go. The Hangar Pub was a block away from the Bureau's headquarters, and it was Friday night. Many agents and other FBI employees took advantage of the close proximity of this particular bar, but they all seemed to be having more fun than him. Some were dancing, some were flirting up at the bar, some where playing pool, and he sat alone. Completely by choice. On the odd occasion when someone would recognize him and attempt to beckon him over, Skinner would always wave them away and opt for seclusion.
He had just shot back his second whisky and prayed for at least a bit of a buzz that might take this headache away when he saw her. Through the smoke and the dimmed lights and the crowded bustle of the bar, Walter Skinner laid eyes on the woman in red. At first, he only saw her from the side, and afar at that. She was a lean woman with legs that seemed endless. The red dress that she wore showed off those legs thanks to the delicious slit up the side, and it also did wonders for her chest thanks to a tight sweetheart neckline and a pair of thin straps. Her hair was jet black under the lights of the bar and falling down her back in a cascade of soft curls. She wore a lipstick on her lips that matched the colour of her dress, and Skinner only wished that he was close enough to get a better look at her.
Even if he was not one to take strangers home from bars - although it had happened before on a few occasions - Skinner would never not appreciate a beautiful woman for what she was. And this one was divine. He wondered what colour her eyes were, he wondered what kind of perfume she wore, he wondered what her voice sounded like, he wondered just how much damage she could do with those pointy stilettos on her feet.
The woman got what she needed from the bar and found herself a booth halfway across the room. Skinner tried not to stare, but how could any man help it? Hell, she even looked age-appropriate. Skinner was not above ogling younger women, but when it came to affairs of the heart, he was always more attracted to those his own age. He couldn't be sure, though. If she was anywhere near his age, she looked fantastic for it.
She sat down by herself with a red wine and faded away into a corner of her own, and Skinner let her disappear from him. He was not here to pick up women and he was not here to stare. He was here to achieve a whisky buzz, to do away with his constant headache, and to forget about work and his divorce and everything else in his life that were hanging by precarious threads.
And despite the fact that he could easily turn his head and still observe the beautiful woman in red, Skinner did not. He was not in the mood for flirtation, he was not in the mood for conversation, and he was not in the mood for distraction. So he ordered another whisky and successfully forgot that she was even there.
It was nearing on midnight when Walter Skinner paid his tab and stepped out into the cool night air. It was January, but not a frigid one. No snow on the ground, he couldn't even see his breath in the air. Being Friday, the streets were still alive with cars racing by and folks crawling from one bar to the next, and despite the fact that he knew he should have called a cab, Skinner fumbled around his suit pocket for his car keys. He was not drunk, he was hardly even tipsy. He had driven under worse conditions.
Once he felt his keys, he shoved his hands into his pockets and kept his back straight as he walked out onto the patio of the bar and paused at the railing momentarily. He was not ready to go back home to his cold, empty apartment. He was not ready to manually survive through another weekend of paperwork and alcohol and have Monday morning come far too soon. More than anything, he was not ready to have to aggressively fight his way through these busy streets just to make it home at a reasonable hour.
"You look like a man who could use a cigarette," a voice took him by surprise in the darkness, and Skinner raised a curious eyebrow.
Glancing to his left, there she was. The woman in red. She did indeed look even better up close, and she was leaning casually against the same railing, offering him a long white cigarette.
Skinner narrowed his eyes, wondering how she had managed to go unnoticed by him until now. At the very least, he thought he would have smelled the exquisite Chanel perfume radiating off of her and realized that he was not alone out here under the stars. Not that he could see any of them thanks to the damn light pollution.
A familiar frown found its way onto Skinner's face and he let out a sigh, looking back out onto the street. "I don't smoke," he grumbled.
The woman shrugged slightly. This man was a tall drink of water in her books, and he seemed troubled by something or at least concerned, but he did not present as very friendly. All night, men had been coming over to her in the bar and trying out various lines, buying her drinks, and she had waved them all away. She had not been there for romance, but instead merely a cheap glass of wine and a night away from her apartment. This particular man, though? She likely would have given him a second glance. However, he did not seem to look twice at her. It was no skin off her back.
"Neither do I," the mysterious woman said with a nonchalant shrug, and finally Skinner looked back over at her.
If he had more of his wits about him and if perhaps he had not had such a tiresome week, he might have straightened his shoulders and began to flirt with her. What was the harm in trying? He felt a strange sense of amusement and wonder blossom within him as he realized that she was being rather cheeky, and that she possessed a very sophisticated, graceful yet intriguing air about her.
Skinner did not give her much of a reaction, but pulled his hand out of his pocket, flipped open his Zippo lighter, and held it out to her so that she may lean over ever so slightly and light her cigarette. The woman appreciated this with a sparkle in her rather mischievous eyes. She had always found a certain element of romance in having a man light a cigarette for her without her having to ask. And this particular man seemed rather old-school in the realm of romance and sophistication.
He was not one of the young bucks in the bar trying their luck with all the girls, he was not spending his time at the pool table or playing darts, and he had not overindulged. Funnily enough, Skinner suddenly had the same thought about her. She was there alone, rather than with any group of friends looking for a good time. She had kept quietly to herself and nursed one single glass of wine. He realized that it almost felt as though he had found in her the only other true adult at the bar.
Her maturity was now not lost on him. Closer than before, he could see that she was likely in her late thirties or somewhere similar, and that she was certainly no child hanging around in a bar looking for a good time. Despite the way that she wore her dress, she almost looked professional, and Skinner concluded that it was the air that she carried about her. She must have been some kind of business woman or perhaps a lawyer. That was the impression that he got based on the way that she stood with her shoulders straight and her chin up.
As he watched her smoke half a cigarette out in the cold city air, Skinner realized the answer to a question that he had asked himself earlier. Her eyes were blue. Not just any blue, but of the electric sort. The kind of colour that once you saw, you wouldn't soon forget.
"Don't take offence to me saying so," the woman continued, and Skinner appreciated the richness in her voice and the unforgiving nature of her words. "But you don't seem like you belong in a place like this."
Now, Skinner found this to be rather facetiously comical. He gave a quick scoff and cast a glance her way, unashamedly looking her up and down. It was not done so in a flirtatious manner, but instead in almost a judgmental way. "Yeah," he scoffed breathily. "That makes two of us."
The woman surprised him by letting out a small laugh. She was not offended by his dissection of her, nor by his off-putting tone. She figured that if he truly wanted to be rid of her, he easily would have done it by now.
She flicked out her cigarette and tossed it into a nearby ashtray. She hadn't even been lying, she was not a smoker. She carried an emergency pack on her during stressful situations that she occasionally sought out, but she wasn't a big fan of the smoke and tar that caked her lungs. Once every few months, she always promised herself, and that would be it.
"I just didn't expect to see so many government officials in one bar," the woman continued to suggest in a manner that made Skinner feel as though she was attempting to gain a leg up on him with her inferences. Obviously, she was looking to either be proven wrong or right.
He fixed his posture and gave her a stony look. "What makes you think I’m government?" He asked rhetorically, sarcasm filling his rough voice.
The woman's lips began to tug upwards into a grin and she maintained an invasive eye contact with the tall man before her as the doors of the bar opened momentarily to both release a group of people out onto the street, and allow the sound of the Eagles to seep out of the building as a slow song played inside.
"Lucky guess," the woman continued, but in reality, she could not be sure if he was truly government or not.
Even then, what branch was lost on her. The truth of the matter was that she could not read this dark, handsome stranger for the life of her. They were merely sharing a moment together as two strangers beneath the city night sky and yet he felt the need to keep his cards held tightly to his chest. She noted this with a hint of respect and understanding, for she always strived to do the same.
"Alright," she took in a breath, caving to her curiosity. "What do you do, then?"
Skinner stared at the woman sidelong for a few moments before pressing his lips together in a thin line and shaking his head. His jaw was working itself in and out as he clenched his teeth. "I don't make a habit of discussing my work with strangers." By the end of his statement, he had turned his body to square hers, and was looking down his nose at her while maintaining a perfect posture.
The woman was in her tallest heels and she always made a point of keeping her back straight and her shoulders back. But this man still towered over her. So much so, that she watched him cast his eyes as downwards as they could possibly go in order to meet her eyes. For some reason, she found that incredibly attractive.
"A man of mystery," she responded to his enigmatic answering of her question, and was not surprised at all by the fact that this stranger did not wish to disclose his work. Of course, it only added to his intrigue. "I can't say I blame you," she said, sinking into her left hip as she placed a hand on the railing in order to lean against it while still facing the handsome stranger.
Skinner did not know what to make of this little minx who was either trying to make his acquaintance, or trying to rub him the wrong way. She certainly had a strange way of making conversation, and he did not enjoy the way that she seemed to be one step ahead of him, no matter how he responded to her. "You got a name?" He asked through narrowed eyes, and the woman still did not know what to make of his tone.
Based on the grimace on his face and the irritation in his voice, it seemed as though she was inconveniencing him and making him mad. But again, there was no reason for him to hang around if that were the case. Obviously, she had intrigued him, and he needed to see this through. She nearly smiled as he begrudgingly gave in and decided that he needed to know her name before they went any further.
She thought about giving him a fake name, she thought about remaining just as elusive as he insisted on being and refusing to give him a name at all, but something about this man had him drawing her name from her lips as if he was pulling it with his fingers. "Sarah," she said simply, her eyes darting in between his, desperately trying to read something from them.
The man took in a breath, and Sarah did not know what to expect from him as a response. "Sarah," he repeated slowly, her name rolling off his tongue like honey. She was not sure if he had leaned forward ever so slightly, or if he had merely warmed his tone, but either way, he felt closer. "Has anyone ever told you…" he continued slowly, and Sarah was still uncertain where he was going with this. His voice refused to give anything away, and though she saw something behind his brown eyes, she wasn't quite sure what it was. "That you have beautiful eyes?" He finished, much to her pleasant surprise.
This time, she could not fend off the grin that sprung to her red lips. Even if it was thin and small, still reserved and secretive, it was there, and it was stunning. Skinner had not been sure what to make of this beautiful little stranger. Of course, he had taken note of the red dress and fit body back in the bar, and he could easily admire her charms from up close and personal now, but he had not been in the mood for any of it. In fact, when she approached him and struck up a conversation, his knee-jerk reaction was to perceive it as an interruption and an inconvenience. Then, when she proved to be invasive and wily, he was forced to stick to his familiar defences. Then, one thing seemed to lead to another within his mind - or perhaps other parts of his body - and now she was merely a woman whom he hoped to render at his mercy.
"You're the first tonight," she responded, maintaining her wit despite the fact that she currently felt as though her knees threatened to reduce to the consistency of jelly. "How come you didn't say so earlier?" She pressed on, clearly referring to their time back in the bar and how they could have had a longer conversation if only he had approached her at the beginning of the night.
Skinner refused to let on. "Maybe if I'd seen you earlier I would have," he said, and his tone remained elusive and unreadable.
Sarah pulled her lips tighter together and Skinner watched as her eyes searching his own for something that he did not think she would ever find. "You saw me," she stated plainly, calling his bluff. She was absolutely right.
Knowing that he should have turned away from her and either allow her the statement or fight against it, Skinner ignored his head and listened only to his instincts, which had him take one single step closer to Sarah and lower his voice to a more intimate level. "It would be impossible not to see you," he said, and the soft ruggedness of his voice sent a chill up Sarah's back.
He leaned towards her and muffled his tone as if he was sharing a secret just for her. She supposed that in a way, he was. They currently shared nearly the entirety of the other's personal space. The tips of his shoes were a mere centimeter away from the points of her stilettos, and their bodies had naturally magnetized to one another as soon as Skinner had taken that single step closer to her. While they had yet to touch in any way, it was no doubt that they were both leaning in.
Sarah lowered her own voice in order to adapt to the proximity that they now shared, and she peered upwards at this tall stranger beneath fluttering eyelashes that did little to hide a pair of eyes clouded by sudden desire. He smelled nice. Like expensive cologne and a soap that had hints of pine and mint. He looked strong beneath his suit, even if he was rather hiding himself behind a long trench coat. His lips looked rather kissable and Sarah noticed then and there that they were coming her way. Well, she thought they were.
"Is that so?" She muttered in a ragged whisper, wishing that the man would just cut the bullshit and put his strong hands on her already. This close to another person, whispering sweet nothings, feeling the electricity sparking between them, she really would have liked to have felt a hand on her waistline already. But he remained stoic and unwavering.
Despite their stubbornness, there was no doubt that this moment translated into a romantic excursion of sorts. Their bodies were angled towards one another, their lips were inches away, both itching to get their hands on each other, and just as Skinner was about to throw caution to the wind and tangle his right hand up in the hair at the nape of this mystery woman's neck in order to draw her close enough to be kissed, his phone rang.
Even though he had been expecting it, he still wanted to rip that cell phone from his pocket and throw it harshly against the floor until its incessant ringing came to a quick halt. Instead, Skinner sucked his teeth once and tensed his jaw, resisting the urge to verbally curse the interruption. Sarah did not seem surprised that nothing had managed to transpire between them, and her face remained enigmatically mysterious as she watched the man straighten up away from her and fish around in his coat pocket.
She stepped backwards and leaned herself back against the railing, just as she had been when he first arrived outside. Sarah watched as a thousand tense expressions crossed her mystery man's face, and was not surprised to see the electricity fade and the moment die as soon as he got a grip on his cell phone.
"Yeah," he grumbled into the phone, evoking all sorts of inferences for Sarah to make as to who was on the other end and what sort of business they had with this man. "I'll be right there."
Skinner was about to turn and leave, but something kept his feet locked in position. The red dress. God, how he wished he did not have to leave that red dress. Sarah.
His expression had changed, for the desire and stifled lust was now vanishing in place of a tense stress, but he was not quite finished with this moment. "A word of advice?" Skinner glared towards the woman once more, and she caught another glimpse of the sparkling, almost mischievous look in his dark eyes. "Not everyone around here will be as kind as I am when approached by a stranger lurking in the shadows of a grimy bar in the middle of the night."
He had lowered his voice again, but not out of any sort of lust or desire. Instead, Sarah felt as though she was being reprimanded. Perhaps not exactly, but certainly warned. It sparked a thrilling sort of excitement within her.
Sarah arched a sharp eyebrow and cast him another unreadable look. "I've always been lucky," she purred, before turning back to the railing where she rested her chin in her hand and gazed out at the street, counting the cars that passed by her line of vision.
Skinner tried to put the interaction from his mind as he sobered up quickly and got into his car. Scully had requested his presence somewhere private, as Mulder had gotten himself into another one of his infamous situations that needed to be handled quickly and delicately. But the scent of Chanel never left him. The exquisite stuff must have somehow gotten onto his clothes tonight and he had never even touched the woman wearing it. That was just cruel and unfair.
He had fallen in love with the woman in red that night. Accidentally and without reason. Every man needs a muse.