TITLE : Ingressus

AUTHOR: truthygirl

EMAIL: truthygirl@aol.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17 Sk/Sc. This story contains explicit het sex and lots of earthy language. If you are offended by either, perhaps you should look elsewhere. If you are under 18, STOP NOW! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

SUMMARY: "Every relationship has a story." Thus begins the summary of In Limine, frogdoggie’s version of Skinner and Scully’s story, written from Skinner’s POV. It turns out that this relationship had more than one story. Since I’m a huge fan of frogdoggie’s fic, I read all of his stories and would never hope to improve on any of them. But I kept wondering what Scully’s POV would be and Jay very generously encouraged me to explore that concept. And here it is. If you haven’t read In Limine you might want to do that first. You can find it at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop

FEEDBACK: But of course!

ARCHIVE: Ask first, please, so I can come and visit.

SPOILERS: Would include the entire series up to Season 7, En Ami. Specific references to En Ami, Tooms, Erlenmeyer Flask, Blessing Way, Paper Clip, Piper Maru, Redux, Triangle, SR 819, Biogenesis, and Millenium; more or less in that order.

DISCLAIMER: FOX owns ‘em. I play with ‘em. Nobody pays me.

COMPLETED: November, 2000.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Dedicated to Jay, without whom this story wouldn’t have been written. Many thanks to Walt for reading, commenting and providing the title and of course to my awesome beta-women, Montana and XWoman. See, Judi, it did get done!

I was behind the wheel as we traveled God knows where. He intoned, "You're drawn to powerful men but you fear their power. You keep your guard up, a wall around your heart. How else do you explain that fearless devotion to a man obsessed and, yet, a life alone? You'd die for Mulder but you won't allow yourself love him." I shuddered inwardly at the inadvertent depth of perception in the man beside me.

Drawn to powerful men? Yes, one in particular. Fear his power? Never! Kept my guard up, a wall around my heart? For far too long, but thankfully no more. Fearless devotion to a man obsessed? That’s Mulder all right. And you’re damned right I’d die for him. But not allow myself to love him? If "fearless devotion" and willingness to die for my partner aren’t love, I’d like to know what is, you black-lunged bastard!

If only you knew -- no, thank God you don’t know -- the man I wouldn’t "allow" myself to love for too long isn’t Mulder. It’s a stiff-necked Assistant Director with a starched shirt and a bullying attitude. He’s the man who made me hot the first time he confronted me across his wide desk while your cigarette smoke roiled around us. But if you think I’ll trust you with this information or anything else, think again. I’ll never disclose the secrets of my heart to you.

At the time I deflected him with mock innocence and a sarcastic reply: "Wow! I'm learning a whole other side to you. You're not just a cold-blooded killer, you're a pop psychologist as well."

But now I sit in a fine restaurant in "his" dress and look across a table into his troubled eyes. I hear his poignant "I’m a lonely man, Dana," and think of Skinner…and myself. I’d lived a life alone. We both had for far too long until that day when he filled the doorway of Mulder’s office with a strange expression on his face and a file folder in his hand. Spender excuses himself (probably for a smoke) and I sit in quiet reflection, remembering how it began…

I sit in Skinner’s office. I find my sexual attraction to a man in an obviously adversarial role wryly amusing but not surprising. The fact that this man is my superior isn’t lost on me, either. Let’s face it, there was Daniel in med school and Jack at the academy and each involvement was disastrous. This man sits enveloped by the same murky cloud from the same creepy bastard who shadowed my encounters with Blevins. Still, I appreciate his broad shoulders and military bearing. I am not intimidated by the sneer on his face or the open sarcasm in his voice. Quite the contrary: I feel a strange flicker of excitement. It’s the same energy generated in the verbal sparring that generally characterizes my working relationship with Mulder. However, my gut measures this as far more intense and far more dangerous. This is my boss. His intention is to shut down the X-Files by his insistence on "conventional" investigation procedures. He opposes Mulder. He is my enemy. I am secretly astonished at the pulse pound of my arousal when he growls, "I require increased frequency of reports."

Shut us down he did. Despite all of my best efforts the call came from Mulder late one night that the order had been given and it had come directly from Skinner. In spite of my rage at the unfairness of it all and the impulse to stomp into his office and punch his lights out at the next available opportunity, I confess a tinge of disappointment. My reassignment would mean no more contact with this infuriating, hardass AD…no more ironic, condescending half-smiles and mocking rejoinders --"you wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you, Agent Scully?" -- God! The "truth" was that although I mistrusted him deeply and wanted desperately to hate him for being one of "them" I couldn’t.

I collected "evidence" over the next few years to "prove" his complicity with whatever Powers That Be, which were bent on suppressing the truth at any cost. Still, there were sufficient examples of his concern (caring? about me?) to breach my carefully guarded heart. My only defenses seemed to be angry accusations (with and without guns drawn) or rationalizations (he’s doing this "for Mulder" or out of a sense of "duty" or "guilt"). None of these defenses served me in my dreams, however. He came to me there, strong and tender, possessing me body and soul.

When Skinner was shot I knew with absolute certainty that my feelings toward this man were not mere lust. Passion sears, but only genuine love could tear my heart at the thought of losing the man. I also knew that nothing would ever come of it. Even if he did love me (a concept I entertained only in my fantasies) his sense of order and duty would never permit him to declare it. As much as I loved him and wanted him my pride would never allow me to pursue him in the face of such gruff denial.

It seemed the more I came to love him the more angrily and antagonistically I behaved toward him. The more I wanted to respect him and see him as a man of honor, the more perplexed and exasperated I became by his inconstancy and distance. I packaged these feelings tightly and jammed them into a hidden corner of my mind. I chose to believe he was "dirty" and aligned with those who had given me cancer. When events proved me wrong I was chagrined, but determined to keep my distance.

I faltered once on an elevator in the Hoover Building. I forgot myself and kissed him full on the mouth. The opening of the elevator doors interrupted my moment of passion. Just as well. A breath more and I would have forsaken pride and propriety and flung myself upon him, regardless of the consequences.

My emotions threatened to break free and flood forth again when the nanocytes all but claimed his life. I watched his agony in horror during his hospitalization and it was an unexpected gift when he opened himself up and shared so deeply. I was dumbfounded by his abrupt about-face during the debriefing after his return to work.

After that I should not have been so blindsided when he seemed to side with Diana Fowley against me while my partner was screaming helplessly in a padded cell. I should have seen it coming. I left myself open to be incredibly hurt and utterly betrayed. Later I came to see that he had been painfully compromised. My heart bled for him, but false pride like the proud flesh of an old injury kept me from reaching out to comfort him, from telling him that I understood his struggle, from assuring him that I could longer condemn him.

The possibility that his pain and angst had anything directly to do with me never occurred to me. I never considered it. Even when I watched him bending over a body in the morgue last New Year’s Eve, seemingly afraid to remove the sheet and view the face. Even when he turned to me with a fleeting look of relief and…gratitude? Even when he stepped forward to touch my neck, to check my injuries as he asked for my report, the possibility of an effect on him didn’t occur to me. I didn’t imagine that this brief physical contact, skin to skin, however appropriate, had the kind of effect on him that it did on me.

I knew that the quaver in my voice as I gave my narrative came not from the unbelievable events of this investigation, but from my effort to control the passion he had re-ignited in me. I tried to rationalize. It’s that I’m still running on adrenaline from my brush with one of the "undead". No wonder I’m not thinking clearly and running out of emotional control. I comforted myself with the possibility that if the world didn’t end at the stroke of midnight that I could spend another night alone with Fantasy!Skinner. Since I would never experience the Real Thing, the Fantasy would have to do. The thought prevented me from indulging my "elevator fantasy" in a very public place.

Thank God, the world didn’t end. I spent New Year’s Day reflecting on the past and the future. Mulder and I had come full circle with our kiss at the stroke of midnight. We’d begun as adversaries, but over the years we had been colleagues, allies, partners, soulmates, and lovers (briefly). While the sex was good, we found it took away from our relationship rather than added to it. Mulder never shared his "theory" of why this was true; I never shared my reason either. How could I tell Mulder that when he entered me, I closed my eyes and it was another man’s face that I saw alight with love and passion? We mutually agreed to give up the sex and to try to salvage what we could of our partnership. It took a long time for Mulder and I to fight our way back (sometimes literally) to the level of trust and regard we had enjoyed earlier. "The kiss" wasn’t earth shattering or passionate. It was sweet because it wordlessly acknowledged that it really was going to be okay between us. It was with grateful relief that I walked out of the hospital arm in arm with one man I had come to love deeply. But I couldn’t deny the sense of grief and loss that the other man I had come to love and respect was not the one with whom I was sharing this special moment.

Mulder uncharacteristically had agreed to take a couple of days off after the New Year. His injury precluded any fieldwork and I worked alone in the downstairs office. I appreciated the time alone to continue my reflection and soul searching without distraction. It was as though one part of my life was complete and it was time to "move on", but to what—and how?

I had briefly considered asking for reassignment to Quantico, but with Mulder and I working well together again it didn’t seem reasonable. Although a move would remove me from Skinner’s direct supervision (and perhaps remove a roadblock to a possible relationship?), one thing was clear. No matter how superficial the contact, I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him, of no longer hearing his voice or smelling his scent when he was near me. I even toyed with the possibility that Skinner was waiting for me to make the first move as a proof that he had earned my trust as well as my love. As ridiculous a strategy as it first appeared, the more I entertained the concept the more plausible it seemed. Dana Scully, you are going to lose control and make a fool of yourself anyway. Time enough afterward to request a transfer to remove yourself from the scene of your humiliation.

My conjecture was interrupted as a shadow entered the office. I turned and gasped at a vision of Walter Skinner in the doorway illuminated from behind by the brightness from the hallway. His hand was extended toward me as if beckoning me to cross this threshold of my life with him. Outrageous imagination! No, there was something in his hand. It was a file folder and this was business. I swallowed my disappointment and managed a "Sir?"

"Agent Scully …I had a few questions about your report. Do you have a moment?"

Of course. Business as usual. My throat hurt suddenly. Tears rimmed my eyes and I fought to restrain them. "Uh, yes, sir. Come in, sit down...please." I gestured, almost blindly, as I indicated a nearby chair. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him but my internal compass "felt" the magnet of his motion from the door to the chair. His exuded confidence, his strength and authority may yet be my undoing.

He placed the folder open on the desk in front of me. It was my report, but another sheet of FBI letterhead had been added. I pushed my glasses up my nose and recognized the strong handwriting of the AD. He was saying, "I need you to clarify a few points, Scully. A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer should suffice." Code for "we are under surveillance." Curiosity overcame turmoil and I read:

//Scully,

I need to talk to you. Would you meet me later? It's important and it's not something we can discuss here in the Hoover. Do you know the location of Garibaldi's Italian restaurant? It's located near your neighborhood. If not...I can write directions to it here. Could we meet there at 8 PM for dinner? The table will be in my name...and dinner will be on me.

Walter S. Skinner//

Sudden tachycardia. There was no way that this meant what I hoped it meant. Is he asking me out? On a date? Doubtful. Calm down, Dana. No need to make a fool of yourself. Again. On tape. Best to be sure. I summoned the courage to gaze deeply into his eyes as I prayed for the desires of my heart. Then I picked up a pen and tried to control my trembling as I wrote onto the note:

/"A 'yes' or 'no' should work. However...would you want me to query Mulder about the matter as well? Is this about Mulder? Should Mulder be hearing this?"/

"No. I won’t need Agent Mulder’s…confirmation," was his gruff reply. This isn’t business! Angel choirs echoed in my head and my heart felt about to burst, but my beloved appeared to be maintaining his ubiquitous surly exterior. I could only hope my voice was matter-of-fact when I replied "Alright…"

Then if I can draw your attention to…" as I pointed to the various items and affirmed the time and place, the reality of this rendezvous. We exchanged the usual niceties and he left me, but my insides were already fluttering between joy and panic.

Don’t ask me what I did or how I occupied my time until I came to myself, realizing that it was time to leave for the restaurant. I was too keyed up to drive and it had started to snow, so I decided to call a cab. With any luck I wouldn’t have to worry about a ride home. Now there’s an assumption! No, don’t get your hopes up. Control yourself. Listen to what he has to say. Try not to make a fool of yourself.

My agitation when Mulder was lost in the Bermuda Triangle was nothing to my jittery wait for the cab and the torturous ride to Garibaldi’s. My foot hit the pavement and money was tossed at the cabbie before the hack had fully stopped in front of the restaurant. It was already eight. Will Skinner wait? Has he recovered his senses and decided against this?

When I came through the door he was standing, larger than life, at a table in the back. Suddenly nothing mattered because we were alone together. No matter what happened I would have this evening with him to remember. Down girl! This could still be business. Let him lead, Dana! I told myself as he holds my chair and suggests we "eat first and talk later."

And breathe! OK, I can do this.

"Yes…. that would be fine."

Wine?

"None tonight, thank you."

Dear God, if anything does happen tonight I want to be clearheaded enough to remember it! There I go again, getting way ahead of myself. Skinner must be as scared as I am. I know that he’s more skilled in the art of conversation than this, no matter how gruff and surly he might choose to be in the office. The weather. Atrocious. His health. Fine. My mother. Fine. Everything is fucking "fine". I am sitting on the ragged edge of disaster waiting for my life to begin or end, but everything is "just fine!"

The meal lurched clumsily into coffee—no dessert, thanks and--

One minute there’s a blockage the size of Hoover Dam, the next he opened up the spill gates and just began talking in that low, intense rumble. The deluge of words and the power of his expressiveness calmed and excited me simultaneously. It was almost as though he was explaining investigative strategy on a case, outlining the reasons he’d asked me here this evening, but he was expressing his admiration for me, his regret for his betrayal of Mulder and myself. Dear God! This isn’t his way of telling me that he’s reassigning me, is it? If you’re kissing me off, Skinner, cut to the goddamned chase! But he begged my forgiveness and told me that he couldn’t go on with me scorning and distrusting him. What?! I can’t focus here. Those inner vocalists are warming up again. Skinner’s passionate declaration cut through the din…because he loves me. He went on but the damned angel choir was cranked to full volume and I was having another one of those "elevator moments." With every fiber of my being I wanted to fling myself upon him and fuck him senseless right on the table in front of God and everybody. Earth to Dana, you’re in a public restaurant! Get a grip! I managed to pull myself together enough to whisper,

"Take me home...please."

He didn’t seem to "catch on" very quickly so I had to invent some lame excuse to transport us to a place where I could safely have my wicked way with him. How can a man with two graduate degrees and a senior position in a huge government agency be so "dim" in his awareness that I am wildly and passionately in love with him? Could I possibly have misunderstood him? I decided not to take chances. In the car I carefully withdrew until we pulled up in front of my apartment building. Only a little longer now…how to get him from the car into my apartment? Oh. Yes.

"Would you like to come in for some coffee? I think...I think we should talk further." I finally got up the nerve to look at him in the dimness. He was looking at me intently. Suddenly we were both a little breathless. Can you see that "talk" and "coffee" have absolutely nothing to do with this invitation? Ah, perhaps the message is getting through. He nodded and croaked something that sounded like, "Yes, coffee would be fine." I noted with amused relief that he had some difficulty negotiating out from under the steering wheel when got out of the car. Now that’s a good sign!

He locked the car and escorted me politely to front door. I shut and locked the door behind us and politely took his coat, hanging it next to mine. I ventured a glance and was again caught up again in the blinding intensity of his eyes. Suddenly I knew that he knew - coffee and conversation would come later, much later. That kiss in the elevator ignited a spark that had been smoldering ever since. I saw the reflected flames of my passion leaping in Skinner’s eyes and a voice inside me screamed, "NOW"!

I fling myself upon him with all the force of my pent-up desire. His arms come around me in a fierce embrace as if he is afraid I’ll somehow retreat or disappear. That’s not likely. I am beyond thinking, beyond caring, beyond fear. I am living my "what if those elevator doors hadn’t opened" fantasy and it would seem that Walter Skinner’s fantasy life has been as vivid as mine has. The unreal becomes real in kisses and touch as we squeeze, clutch, explore, caress and inflame one another with moans and whimpers and gasps. When I grind shamelessly against him I discover to my delight that his cock is as hard and unyielding as the broad bands of his arms. Muscles honed by pumping iron now clutch me tightly to his beautiful broad chest. His glorious ass, which draws appreciative stares around the Hoover, now flexes appreciatively under my questing hands.

With one mind we tear off our suit coats. This requires a brief separation and he is as desperate to be inside of me as I am to receive him so we rip away clothing from the waist down as we slide down the wall onto the floor. My hand caresses his cock and I marvel at its sculpted beauty. He fumbles for, finds and opens a condom with one hand and drives me mad with his other hand on my breast. Ah, finally the condom is in place. I am desperate for him but he captures my eyes and whispers,

"Scully?"

Time stops. This is no fantasy. This is no frenzied fuck to relieve sexual tension, no one-night stand. This is the man who was meant for me; the one I’ve been searching for in all the wrong places, a man with whom I deserve to share my love and the rest of my life. As he whispers my name and asks permission with his eyes, I know that he returns my feelings and shares my belief that we belong together.

I whisper, "yes!" and he pulls me into a luxurious slide down the full length of his magnificent cock, filling me, fulfilling me. "Sometimes you must come full circle to find the truth" tiptoes through my consciousness and I savor the rapture of this moment even as I glimpse the bliss reflected in the face of my beloved. I am snugly seated in the lap of my love and eager to begin our "first dance."

At first we are like awkward kids thrusting clumsily in the back seat of daddy’s car, but we find our rhythm. He is thrusting into me long and slow and deep and there are no words. I marvel at the harmony of our movements and the counterpoint of flesh against flesh, gasps and moans and sighs. Poetry is soon lost, however, in the intensity of our mutual need. We fuck one another mindlessly, driving one another toward orgasm.

He marks me with his mouth and I realize that in my sexual frenzy I have raked his arms with my nails. Even through his shirt I’ve dug sufficiently to draw blood and leave scratches. We pound against one another. I’m also aware that this man is holding back his climax, waiting for me to come first. Now he shifts slightly and with two expert strokes of my G-spot sends me into the abyss, my scream cut short in the intensity of my orgasm. As I reel over the edge, I hear his ecstatic shout before we collapse into one another, spent.

We never got around to coffee. The "further discussion" took place cuddled together in my bed. We lay naked before one another, in body and soul. I needed Skinner to know and understand what had taken place between Mulder and me. I needed his forgiveness for my mistrust and my pride. I wanted him to know how very long I had wanted him and how deeply I had come to respect him. I confessed my "elevator fantasy". We shared soft laughter and healing tears and words and caresses to convey forgiveness and understanding before we drifted off to sleep cradled in one another’s arms.

Now it’s as if we’ve always been together even though a part of me sees it as a dream that may yet vanish. Skinner (and I still call him that or "sir" unless we’re intimate) really is the man of my dreams, although he can also be an incredible pain in the ass. Some of the sparks flying between us have nothing erotic about them! We try to follow "protocol" at the Bureau but we don’t go to great lengths to hide our relationship, either. Amazingly, as impossible as it was with Mulder to be intimate without damaging our partnership, with Skinner it hasn’t been nearly as difficult as I feared. The truth is that I have never had an intimate relationship. I’ve experienced the most mind blowing, incredible sex of my life in the arms of Walter Skinner (once actually in an elevator!), but the intimacy we share lives and grows during those moments when we take the risk to expose our greatest fears, our secret shames, our fragile dreams. I am learning to trust this man with places in my heart that I have hidden from everyone, including myself. I am a strong willed, independent woman and I have always made my way in the world and will continue to do so. But for the first time I’m ready to share my life with a man whose power I do not fear or revere, a man who wants me as an equal partner…

The sound of footsteps behind me brings me back to my surroundings and as the waiter steps forward I glance at my watch, wondering briefly where Spender and the mysterious "Cobra" might be. The waiter removes a plate and I see the folded paper. I open it and read, "Calico Cove, first light of day." I ponder Spender’s murmured, "It’s the holiest of grails…the cure for all human disease." As bizarre as the past seven years of my life have been, this revelation stretches the limits of imagination. It would mean a cure not only for Spender’s illness but for Skinner’s nanocytes as well. Suddenly I realize that it has never been Skinner’s power that I’ve been drawn to as much as his love. I come to this point in my journey without regret for the losses I have suffered. I am only mindful of how much I have to live for, the man who awaits my return and the brightness of our future together.