agent-starbuck

[agent-starbuck]

[agent-starbuck]

Wife, now, but yeah... Still applies after over 5 years :))

When my girlfriend kills a spider in the house for me...

I owe you everything. You owe me nothing.

[agent-starbuck]

The show Fraiser is ruthless damn

[agent-starbuck]

Idk the world sucks right now so here's a selfie cause I was feeling masc

[agent-starbuck]

She doesn't know the United States government (under which she lives) is (probably) collapsing.

[agent-starbuck]

Imagine throughout your life-- when something or someone made you feel bad about your body-- putting on a sweatshirt each and every time. This starts at a very young age.

At first, you don't really feel any different. Your movement isn't quite encumbered yet. You can still feel things through the fabric. It just feels... slightly uncomfortable but you can't understand why.

Then years pass, and sweatshirts keep being added, only-- at this point-- you're really struggling. People recognize you, but you seem off. You're so numb, you can't feel anything. You've been covered up to the point of just barely existing within this prison-of-a-body. The layers were added so slowly, you couldn't pinpoint what was happening. You feel swallowed up by the weight of everything dragging you down. People don't SEE YOU, not really. They see the million layers of fabric you kept putting on yourself to cover up the shame and embarrassment and guilt of existing in a body that's not quite yours. You look in the mirror and don't even recognize yourself anymore.

But then after a LOT of pain, tears, self-reflection, therapy, and a partner who kept supporting you throughout everything, you realize the problem... and you start peeling off the layers one by one.

And FINALLY... not only do you allow yourself to feel things again, but you look at your body, your FACE, in the mirror staring back at you and you suddenly recognize YOU... who you always knew you were inside. You never got the chance to properly meet that person because of all the other people in society, religion, your family... telling you that it's wrong, that you shouldn't exist like this because they put a label on you before you even had the chance to know you you were. And every time you THOUGHT you knew... people just made you want to cover yourself up with more layers.

That's what life has been like for me with gender dysphoria. Thankfully, I'm healing and-- with a handful of supportive people in my life-- I'll finally get to shape who *I* am now.

[agent-starbuck]

.

[agent-starbuck]

When I woke up, I just wanted to sleep through the rest of the day, but now things aren't so bad. At least I have a super amazing and caring partner, snow is on the way, and we have pets to keep us warm while we get high and game.

Sometimes, the dysphoria makes it difficult to see past the things I should be grateful for. And despite everything, I have a lot to be thankful about.

[agent-starbuck]

man i have GOT to do this thing. *doesnt do it*

[agent-starbuck]

[agent-starbuck]

imagine preparing a meal w your lover in the home y’all made into a sanctuary together and you’re chopping up some vegetables or stirring a pot and you feed them a carrot or gently spoon some soup in their mouth to check if it needs more salt.. ... . ... yea .love is real i promise

[agent-starbuck]

Pusher (3.17)

[agent-starbuck]

#195 for the prompt thing? X

195. “We’re going to have to jump.”

•••••

Scully closes her eyes and focuses on the rhythmic sound of her breathing– her heartbeat keeping time like a metronome, ticking away the seconds she’s been holed up in the corner of this god-forsaken dark and grungy warehouse.

It’s eerily quiet. The sound of the other agents have faded away into the background, and she knows she should seek them out. Knows that the first rule of any tactical operation is to never wander off alone. Especially, with a crazed serial killer on the loose. However, her legs feel cemented to the ground. The twenty extra pounds of body armor is making her feel claustrophobic, and she grips the hard steel of her gun, knuckles white, like it’s her sole lifeline– like it’s the only thing that might just get her out of this scenario in one piece.

Thoughts of ‘What am I doing here? I’m a medical doctor, for Christ’s sake. What have I gotten myself into?’ are repeated like a mantra inside her head.

She hears what is probably the creaking of old pipes nearby, but since her body is hyper aware of every little noise, her senses on high alert, she hastily points the barrel of her gun in the direction of the sound.

“Whoa there!” A surprised voice echoes off the walls.

“Fff-federal agent! I’m armed! Don’t move!” She curses her nerves for making her voice sound like a frightened child.

“I’m FBI! Don’t shoot!” he replies quickly.

Her vision finally focuses, through the bright beam of her flashlight, on the figure standing before her. A man wearing a white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves and a tactical vest walks slowly towards her, his hands raised in surrender, eyes squinting against the light shining in his face.

“I’m sorry,” she says, lowering her weapon. An unsteady breath fights to break free from her lungs. “I, uh, thought you were–”

“The Lonely Heart Slayer?” he interrupts, and reaches up to dispose of what looks like a sunflower seed shell caught between his front teeth.

“I guess you could say that.”

“I, uh, hate to break it to you, but that guy’s got about fifty pounds on me. Plus, I don’t really have a penchant for stalking single women online to bring them back to an abandoned warehouse so I can cut them into tiny pieces. Call me old fashioned, but that’s not usually a recipe for lasting relationships.”

His face is finally within view, and she can tell he’s smirking at her amusedly. He’s got masculine features: a strong jawline…  kind, sexy eyes… a plump lower lip that leads to a satisfying dip right above his chin. His hair is dark and slightly spiked. The man could easily be a J-Crew model, but he’s got a rough-around-the-edges, boyish-charm to him that should be completely contradictory, yet somehow works in his favor.

Noticing that she has been staring a little too long, she clears her throat, and adjusts the heavy weight of her vest digging painfully into her shoulders.

“You were on Delta team, right?” He’s practically towering over her now, intruding into her sacred personal space, but she doesn’t feel threatened. She feels strangely safe. In spite of her circumstances.

He cracks another sunflower seed between his teeth.

“I guess I, um, got separated. I stopped to get my bearings, and… well, I couldn’t find my way back to where they were.” She can’t meet his eyes, lest she be the subject of his derision– a laughingstock. She knows she’s got the word ‘rookie’ written all over her.

“Ah. Well, agent…” he pauses, draws out the last word, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s asking her for her name.

“Scully.”

“Agent Scully,” he nods his approval. “Where’s the fun if you can’t take a little detour now and then?”

Finally, her eyes glance upward, and she’s met with a mischievous smile.

“Fun?”

“Look, I know it’s not exactly FBI protocol, but going by the book doesn’t always get the bad guys. Why do you think I’ve decided to go solo?”

Great. She’s gotten herself involved with some hotshot renegade agent who’s probably more trouble than he’s worth. Her SAC is going to kill her. If she makes it out alive.

“Protocol exists for a reason Agent–”

“Mulder.”

“– Mulder.”

Why does that name sound so familiar?

“The FBI has developed these models over several decades as a failsafe to reduce both agency and civilian casualties. It’s why there have only been less than thirty agents who have perished in the line of duty since the Bureau’s inception nearly a century ag– what is so amusing?”

“Nothing…” he chuckles. “I’m pretty sure you just recited, word for word, a section of the Special Operations Training Manual. How many ops have you been on, anyway?”

“What does it matter to you?” This man was seriously starting to get on her last nerve. No way she was going to let him know this was her first. At least, on a grade A serial killer case.

“Look, Scully–”

“Agent Scully.”

“Okay. Agent Scully. I didn’t mean to offe–” he stops to glance over his shoulder apprehensively, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “Did you, uh… did you hear something?”

Goosebumps spread like wildfire over her sensitive flesh. Suddenly, the atmosphere around them takes on a sinister quality. Her eyes dart frantically across the room as she takes in her surroundings, searching for anything out of place.

“Agent Mulder?” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Did you close the door behind you when you came in?”

“No. Why?”

“Because… it’s closed now…”

His Adam Apple bobs as he swallows thickly, the taught muscles in his forearms ripple under his skin as he grasps his gun, and aims it in the direction of the door, a look of intense determination etched across his face.

“Federal agents! Make yourself known!”

They stand in silence. The air around them is unusually still. She swears she can hear the frantic beat of their hearts thump in unison as they wait on baited breath for the perpetrator to make an appearance.

“Cover me,” he finally whispers, nodding in the direction of the door.

She wills her feet to start moving as she watches Agent Mulder quietly make his way to the other side of the room. As if by instinct, she turns on her heels, and walks backwards, following carefully behind him– a maneuver she’s practiced hundreds of times at Quantico, though never under such dire circumstances as these. She’s not a trainee anymore.

Fighting to keep her focus straight ahead, she hears Agent Mulder finally turn the doorknob. The door squeaks as he opens it ever so slightly before she hears a loud commotion, and turns just in time to see him get knocked to the ground. Taken by surprise, she trips, but catches herself on a rusty oil barrel to her right. A shadowy figure darts past, and she glances down to see if Agent Mulder is okay, before taking off towards the suspect.

Adrenaline is coursing through every vein in her body now. Her legs carry her to a larger room with busted out skylights and rows of broken-down industrial machinery. It’s considerably colder in here. Puffs of visible air drift in time with her strangled breathing. She slows her stride, and methodically makes her way around to the other side of the machinery– hypervigilant as she takes in her new surroundings.

The hairs stand at attention on the back of her neck as if reaching out like a sixth sense, alerting her to the presence of any possible threats. Her index finger itches to curl itself around the trigger, and she struggles to keep it perpendicular against the slide of her gun. The last thing she needs is to be involved in an incident of friendly fire. Especially this early in her FBI career.

She rounds the corner and thinks she sees something move by a stack of boxes. The closer she gets, the more she recognizes it as a figment of her imagination. A trick of the light. Or lack thereof. Her brain manufacturing visual stimuli in the presence of stress.

“Scully,” Mulder whispers in the dark. She turns, surprised, to find Agent Mulder walking towards her, rubbing the back of his head.

“Shh, I think he’s in here. You okay?” Instinctively, she reaches out to brush her fingers through his hair to check for injury.

“Yeah. It’s been a while since someone got the drop on me.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Eh, I’ll be okay,” he brushes her hand away like a petulant child.

“You could have a concussion, Agent Mulder. Did you lose consciousness?”

“Why? You a medical doctor or something?” he scoffs as his unfocused eyes dart around the room. A sheen of sweat has coated the skin on his forehead, despite the cold.

“Yes.”

He stares at her, then, dumbfounded, before a sound brings them both back to reality.

“I see him! Scully!” Her heart picks up tempo as Mulder runs off into the darkness. “He’s over here!”

“Mulder– wait there’s a– there’s drop-off over there!” She dashes off, finally catching up to him and grabbing his forearm to keep him from falling over the edge.

“Mulder, Christ! You could’ve slipped and fallen into the trash compactor below!”

Even in the darkness, she notices a grin tug at the corner of his lips.

“What?!”

“You called me Mulder.”

“That’s your name…” she says flippantly as her breathing starts to slow to a normal rate.

“No, not Agent Mulder, just… Mulder,” he smiles, almost giddy. Yep. He is definitely delirious. “Twice, actually. Tired of keeping up with the pleasantries already? Scully?”

She rolls her eyes loudly. “Agent Scully.”

“Regardless, Scully, our suspect has made his way to the floor below. We’re gonna have to jump.”

“We’re gonna– we’re gonna have to what?!”

•••••

Sorry it took so long for me to get to this! I’ve been sitting on it forever, but decided to finally post it while I work on some bigger stories. Thanks for the prompt!

Tagging @today-in-fic

[agent-starbuck]

Doctor Who The Doctor, The Widow, and the Wardrobe | 2011

[agent-starbuck]

Actual footage from this documentary, I hope.

Nisei (3.9)

[agent-starbuck]

I'm just a charming, chaotic, and flirty bisexual dude whose madly in-love with his wife.

I'm just Gomez Addams.

[agent-starbuck]

Fox Mulder | Nisei