mchalowitz

[mchalowitz]

It's 2024 I'm really going to need an OG artie stan where are they now

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part 9

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

part 1: melissa / part 2: dana / part 3: emily / part 4: scully / part 5: samantha (the interlude) / part 6: them / part 7: maggie / part 8: maggie, part 2 

part 9: maggie, part 3

read on ao3

@today-in-fic

----

A scenic walking trail and two pairs of thrift store hiking boots blossoms into their first mutual hobby. Scully sees the benefit of a daily exercise regimen. She still acknowledges the possibility she just appreciates his display of athleticism in cut-off running shorts.

Mulder breaks into a vigorous run with her on his back. She squeals his name, tightening her grip around his neck. A scraped-up knee may be an indication of her skill level; she encircles his waist with her uninjured leg. 

While Mulder unlocks the door, Scully rests her cheek between his shoulder blades, and allows him to deposit her on the kitchen counter. It is nothing more than a completely superficial surface scrape; it barely requires a bandage. He still gives it a thorough cleaning with cool water and flashes her small smiles of reassurance.  

He dusts his hands together, admiring his work. “My hero,” she praises him. She wraps her arms around his neck to meet his lips. She discovered within three days of their arrival that his earlier jest to defile this place was wholly serious. 

She cannot actually complain about his voraciousness. She endured the same unending dry spell he did. While quickly rectified upon reuniting, Scully nor Mulder could deny an ever-present fear of federal agents barging through the door. Not exactly an aid for soul-stirring romance. 

“I have things to do, Mulder,” she mumbles between kisses with her hands cupped over his jaw. He grumbles his disbelief that anything else could be so pressing. “We’re almost out of clean clothes...it takes forever to do everything by hand...” 

“You’ve been injured,” he purrs. He masterfully tongues a hypersensitive nerve underneath her ear; she melts into the cabinets. His mouth momentarily unoccupied, he continues, “Gotta kiss it. Make it better.” 

“Oh, is that so?” 

Her intention to play along becomes very clear. He nods at her dreamily and drops to a kneel at her feet. She forgets about her knee instantly. 

--

Scully values knowledge; even what she was never supposed to be privy to. She was always the first of her siblings to know, or care, when they would be moving. What she and Mulder are doing now is actually quite familiar to her. Their continued Washington arrangement reminds her of re-upping. 

A few weeks of highly secure recuperation becomes a little over two months. She knows nothing about the owner of the cabin. He possesses an apparent hospitality. If it’s a him, that is. 

Her reaction to an empty bed is slightly less volatile; her heart still skips a beat. Mulder is usually making her a morning cup of coffee or stretching for an early walk. Scully hears a distinct combination of typing and whispers that signal a covert appointment. He never includes her; they agree it is best for only one of them to be implicated in something legally grey. 

Mulder appears from nowhere. A suspicious, “Hi, honey,” interrupts a bite of buttered toast. Her eyebrows raise during a sip of coffee. 

“Hi,” she responds slowly. She sets her mug down; Mulder pulls out a chair to sit. She finds his fidgeting disconcerting. With obviousness, she states, “You’re being weird, Mulder.” 

“Listen...” he starts, still shifting uneasily. “Every few years, the feds start poking around in the interconnected groups. My contacts are being targeted with false DEA claims.” 

Scully attempts to dispel any thoughts that may send her into a deep, premature sense of despondency. Maybe there’s hope. Her “there’s no drug activity here” lacks confidence. Mulder’s ballpark figure gives them three days to relocate. 

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs. 

Their sense of normalcy was bound to implode eventually. She and Mulder were never meant to stay here. An inability to put down roots feels equally familiar and unfair. 

Mulder leans forward and outstretches his arm across the table, laying his hand over hers. The silence lasts for ages. 

--

All of their worldly goods are packed by the early evening. Scully attempts to categorize their possessions with careful organization; Mulder’s haphazard stuffing of items into their bags illustrates a race against the clock he refuses to fully acknowledge. She stills his hand with hers. 

“It’ll only be two weeks,” Mulder promises, returning from lost thoughts. Harder timelines come with their next destination in central California. He continues, “Then we can reevaluate.” 

She tries to camouflage the shattering of her fragile laxity at the possibility of a brush with a federal agency. Mulder’s concern lies with their relocation. He sees handling investigators as a non-issue. She reminds him, “We wouldn’t be able to come back here.” 

“Somewhere similar.”

Scully answers with a squeeze to his hand and a small smile; she cannot fully muster a verbal vote of confidence quite yet. She knows Mulder is trying. Their decision not to discuss the grey noticeably weighs on him. 

“We could use some sandwiches for the car,” she gently suggests. 

“Good thinkin’, Doc,” he agrees. 

--

She regrets volunteering to load the car while Mulder slaps together the remaining contents of the fridge between slices of bread. Scully can spot a government-issued sedan anywhere; it idles at the end of the driveway. 

She glances to the open screen door. She has no time to swap before a rumbling engine closes in. Young agents present their badges and assume she owns the property. 

“Oh, no, I wish,” Scully responds on a laugh; she prays her lips don’t tremble as she smiles warmly. “My husband rented through a travel agency. It’s our first little getaway since we had our son. I might have our travel agent’s phone number...”

“That won’t be necessary,” the second agent interrupts. “Thank you for your time.” 

Her unrelenting nightmares culminate in an exchange that barely lasts two minutes; the cognizance comes in all at once. She wants to throw a God-cursing tantrum, and when she opens her mouth to scream, her lungs will not allow it. 

Mulder materializes with car sandwiches and the last of their identifying items. Her hands shake violently as she slams the trunk. 

Despite its true inconsequentialism, Scully tells Mulder a tale of abject horror, and has unsure expectations for his reaction. He steps forward, and lifts his hands to hold her face, and uses his fingers to brush her hair behind her ears. He speaks with unfamiliar firmness, “It was all true, Scully.” 

Instantly dumbfounded by the lack of stress-induced incompetence and unhinged rage, Scully sees Mulder’s attempt to persuade her toward a grey half-truth. If she can convince herself to believe it, then it is true.  

She watches him through an upturned gaze and wonders what he had to believe to survive on his own. His protectiveness of her often blinds his outward actionability. He decides to make some calls. 

--

Somewhere near the border between Washington and Oregon, her state of excitement drops, and it knocks her out cold. Unconsciousness masks her ability to speculate on their final destination. She dreams of freedom.

Mulder is slurping the remnants of a gas station soda when she awakes; the straw looks mangled and cracked when he sets it in the cupholder. His head snaps toward her when she steals the cup, removing the lid and chugging the remaining liquid. 

“It’s not diet,” he informs her with a twinge of guilt. A burst of real sugar gives her an oddly good feeling on her dry throat and she shakes her with a lack of concern. She deduces his mood is completely removed from depriving her of aspartame. 

“What’s wrong?” Aside from everything, she thinks.

With a few beats of silence, he shifts out of gear in the parking lot of a little roadside diner. His hands flop into his lap. “I haven’t been telling you the truth,” he admits.

More often, Scully’s mind will catastrophize in a comparatively normal way. She briefly thinks he is cheating; which is completely improbable when they spend every moment together. Plus, it’s Mulder. 

Her mouth opens to respond, but he cuts her off with, “I think you just need to see,” and unbuckles his seatbelt. She follows him out of the car and eyes him skeptically as he holds the door for her. She feels his presence at her back; her eyes scan the room.

And in a far-corner booth, hands folded as if in prayer, is her mother. 

[mchalowitz]

sometimes i think i need to rejoin fandom culture because my niche interests are not landing in real life

[mchalowitz]

big life update for my followers that have been around since the glee days (and therefore my entire teaching career), i accepted a promotion to lead teacher at my job and it’s actually going well!!

[mchalowitz]

i’m trying to fix my sleep schedule before i go back to work in 2 weeks and on 24 hours of no sleep i’m ready to put every tiny ridiculous headcanon and half formed fic idea into one singular chapter of my wip

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part 8

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

part 1: melissa / part 2: dana / part 3: emily / part 4: scully / part 5: samantha (the interlude) / part 6: them / part 7: maggie

part 8: maggie, part 2

read on ao3

@today-in-fic

----

No more than two days in a motel is their first self-imposed rule to protect their identities. After 36 hours at the Leisure Inn, she spreads a map across the bedspread. 

Already clocking hundreds of miles trapezing across the Southwest, Scully is tired of the long stretches of desert. Mulder sits behind her, tracing his finger from their current location near Salt Lake City, and up toward the state of Washington. He stops a few inches short of Seattle. 

“That’s a little populated, don’t you think?”

When running from the law, an ideal location boasts less than five thousand people. Scully once found the unforthcoming communities of a small town infuriating. She now takes the silence of the populous as an advantage. 

“It wouldn’t be Seattle proper,” Mulder amends. “I have a contact in the area with a cabin. I’ve stayed there before.” 

An interconnected community of like-minded people, as Mulder would explain, have fed him information for years. He categorizes his contacts as creditable allies. Scully wonders where these people source their information to gain their expertise and resources. She heeds their abilities with caution. 

He attractively describes not-Seattle-proper by recounting his memories of a lake view, an impressively restored stone fireplace, and unequivocable privacy. It only takes an hour to map their route and pack their gear into the SUV. 

--

Mulder still isn’t over the unfairness of the reality of running from the law. After so many endless months of longing for her, he and Scully can finally be together, and he can list a thousand things he would run from just to be with her forever, but sometimes he dwells on what they should have. 

He reunited with Scully two months ago and neither of them have fully broached the events of the last year. It’s way too soon to wreck the elation he feels by confessing thoughts his mind hasn’t even fully accepted yet. Mulder can only attest to confronting the loneliness that almost killed them both in unspoken actions. Someday, maybe, he might be brave enough to chip away at the new hardness he sees she carries. 

He drives with one hand while clawing his face with the other. He’s never grown more than a five day beard. His face constantly itches. Scully attempts to convince him it looks rugged, like Sean Connery or Burt Reynolds, and it’s the biggest fucking lie she’s ever told him. It’s a patchy mess; an undeniably horrible disguise. 

Scully’s change in appearance is courtesy of drugstore boxed dye, a collection of large framed sunglasses, and as they criss-cross the southwest, the shortest of shorts. It’s a sight he’s grateful to witness.

Her nose buried in a crossword puzzle book, Mulder gets her attention with a gentle squeeze to her bare inner thigh. It’s starting to get dark after nearly four hundred miles of I-84 and probably best to stop for the night. 

“Any motels coming up?” 

Reaching under the seat, Scully pulls out a guidebook from the last gas station. She flips through the pages, cross referencing the map. 

“If you can last another hour, there’s a three star that sounds decent.”

“I can last as long as you want, baby,” he jokes. It earns him a giggle and a whack on the bicep with the book. 

They continue on. Scully watches the scenery through the window, having spent most of the ride focused on her puzzles, and they haven’t really talked all that much. He reaches for her now unoccupied hand to briefly bring her wrist to his lips. The next major junction leads them toward Portland. 

“My brother lives near here,” she casually comments with her eyes still focused on the passing highway.

“You didn’t tell me Bill was restationed.”

“Not Bill,” she corrects him. “Charlie.”

--

She still hums with uneasiness; even while asleep atop the floral duvet in their room at the Snooze Lodge Motel. It is unlikely worth its three star rating but wholly average for budget accommodations. 

Her pounding heart rouses her from sleep. No warm hand pulls her in tighter; no drowsy murmur of comfort brushes her ear. Scully panics. 

Usually, she finds Mulder writing at the desk only a few steps away, or in the bathroom, and has her nerves easily calmed. He is nowhere in the room. She assures herself she would have heard sirens or an altercation. It is still possible he is gone completely; he would go willingly to protect her. 

When Scully steps out into the surprisingly warm night air, her eyes land on movement in the pool below. A splash rises before his head breaks through the surface of the water. She pockets their room key and takes the steps quickly.

She sits on the hard concrete, submerging her legs in the water. Illuminated by only the underwater incandescents, Mulder rests his chin on her knee. She watches his soft hazel eyes; his overgrown beard scratches her palm when he nuzzles into her hand. 

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he admits without prompting to her unexpressed worry. She nods on a deep breath. 

She observes his graceful strokes; not unlike the thousands of laps he swam during the first years of their partnership while she gazed on. He begins to tire and floats on his back. 

She can thwart her endless concern for his safety during their untroubled moments. Her brainpower can refocus. Her letters must have arrived by now. Bill is likely furious. Scully pictures her mother’s shaking hands and heavy heart. 

In final, unsteady words, on a desert highway barely a month ago, she requested, “Watch out for my mom,” as she embraced her superior. A duty Skinner will undoubtedly fulfill. 

For those she calls family, Scully cares fiercely. A singular sign along Oregon highway reminds her that ferocity came with age. When she should have stood up, she retreated. Her youthful rebellion rarely applied to anyone’s benefit but her own. 

Mulder’s thumb smooths the crease between her eyebrows. Barely above a whisper, he simply says, “Tell me.” 

“I could’ve done a better job protecting my family,” Scully responds. She is being vague; purposefully making it difficult for him to articulate a follow up question. 

“It’s hard to face something you’ve tried to stop thinking about,” he finally tries. 

A motel parking lot is prime territory for a patrolman. The Snooze Lodge is no exception. Headlights nearly blind her. “We should go,” she insists to Mulder. 

Mulder pulls himself from the water. Keeping a keen eye on the cruiser, and their hands tightly linked, they watch until it disappears down the road. 

--

In the rosy of hue of morning, Scully listens to running water and last night’s baseball scores on talk radio. When she closes her eyes, she can imagine Hegel Place.

He emerges showered; she admires his casual nudity as he searches for clothes amongst their small collection of possessions. 

Reacquainting themselves physically fills the spaces between sleeping and a life on the lam. She considers neglecting their schedule to entice him into a second shower. 

“Mulder,” she murmurs lowly. 

However, when one of them wants to rebel, the other swoops in with rationality. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” he responds with eagerness. “We should hit the road soon.”

Her clothes for the day land at her feet. Mulder practically buzzes with high energy around the small room. “Mulder,” she finally repeats. When their eyes meet, she raises her eyebrow. 

Mulder rounds the bed to kneel at her side; no other hints are necessary. His lips meet hers in a deeply sweet morning kiss. 

Within the hour, Scully stares down another day of never-ending highway. 

--

He belongs to a truly skilled network of like-minded individuals; a group that aids each other in endeavors that fall outside mainstream channels and, arguably, in legal grey areas. While Scully sleeps, he receives the information he seeks in his covert, bi-weekly touch base and praises their group’s efficiency, and in due time, Mulder will repay the favor with his own expertise. 

Scully teases him with small bites from fast food breakfast sandwiches during the stop-and-go morning rush hour. She brushes crumbs off his face while he attempts to nip at her fingers. “You cleaned up your beard,” she remarks, tracing her fingertips along the even line of his jaw. 

“I hate this stupid thing,” he laments. His nails dig into his opposite cheek. Scully tries to soothe him with a series of I knows and Maybe once your hair gets longers but she doesn’t exactly sound hopeful. 

When they finally break through the barricade of morning commuters, he can sneak longer glances at Scully. Making a bold inference that their exchange at the pool brought some peace to her, Mulder watches as her arm extends out the window; her fingers surfing the resistance of the breeze. She smoothly mouths along with songs on the radio. 

She carefully tracks their route; their map blanketing her lap as she refers back to it often. Her head snaps up from its reclined position on the headrest when he takes a different exit than their planned itinerary. 

He counters her unspoken question with a playful smile. 

"Let’s embrace the adventure, shall we?”

--

His supposedly adventurous detour could not be more non-descript to Scully. Only a faded cross above the main entrance gives her any indication of their whereabouts. Mulder rarely goes out of his way to bring her closer to God. 

“I’m confused,” she finally admits. 

A pair of men materialize from a side door, pushing a cart of boxes that overfills the back of a tiny blue sedan. Vivid auburn hair catches her eye. Scully’s head snaps to the reckless lunatic in the driver’s seat. 

“He’s the pastor here,” Mulder confirms. 

The rigidity of theological devotion spawned an explosive splintering of their family; a life of faith seemed like the last thing Charlie would do. She wonders briefly if anyone knew about her brother’s career path. 

What appears to be a discussion of official church business ends with a brief kiss between the two men. A breathy “oh” from her partner divulges a carefully guarded excommunication nearly fifteen years prior. 

“Yeah,” she replies as her brother drives away.

Her father denounced her youngest sibling with an unforgettable, undoubtably cruel sternness. The Scullys would never all be in the same room again. 

She believes that final gathering illustrates the pull between motherhood and matrimony. A balancing act Scully has now walked herself. 

She and Mulder so actively, so knowingly disagree on many things, while following one another unquestionably. An inconceivable notion to her parents; to love each other and differ in values. Charlie suffered for it. 

A mother’s child is forever changed by acts of finality. She wonders if her final act will be forgiven. 

Mulder opens his door in a burst of sudden movement. Scully grips his arm, curling her fingers into his bicep. She is constantly ascertaining his every intention. He should be narrating his every move to her. 

“We’re going in,” he states. His tone suggests that should be obvious. She shakes her head in refusal when he outstretches his hand to her. 

Quick fabrications of an identity is one of their vitally important, well practiced skills. “My wife and I are new to the area,” she hears him explain, describing her as a former Catholic, and how funny, so is the pastor. As they continue to converse, Scully notices the prominent accent of her brother’s partner, and Mulder offers to carry boxes to the dumpster to extend the conversation. 

“He definitely thought I was homeless,” he claims when he finally returns. “And my wife is just a face drawn on a paper bag.” 

“Don’t count out that possibility,” she deadpans. 

Mulder actively ignores her comment, although she catches his amused smirk. A bright piece of orange paper enters her hands. He bounces tigerish eyes between the paper and her eyes. She begins to scan the words. 

Charlie relates a Psalm to the crushing and ever-evolving weight of loss from his sister’s murder. Scully takes a long moment to register her new lifestyle has completely altered her sense of time; another year without Melissa was not so much as a passing thought. She wants to cry. 

Scully remembers those words on her answering machine. Melissa was safe with people she knew in California. She briefly believed her sister was pregnant with Emily during those months. Melissa vanished to reconnect with their brother. 

“What was his name?”

“Alejandro.”

She slowly pieces together a theory aloud, as she has done with Mulder a thousand times before. “My sister used to write to me about a translator that traveled with her in Peru. I think that’s him.”

“You think she introduced them?” 

Scully nods; it seems like she should have something else to say. Or be more inclined to wait for her brother to return. She could comment on Melissa’s fearlessness to reject their parents’ prejudices and introduce Charlie to a life-altering love, exactly like she encouraged Scully’s own transformative love, but to say anything else would be a rightful admission of the cowardly self-centeredness of her youth. 

Instead, she only mumbles, “We should keep driving.” 

--

This seemingly cozy cabin was once a prison of complete seclusion and crippling loneliness for Mulder. A reminder he combats by scooping up his girl to carry her across the threshold. He plans to show the proper respect and erase every forlorn memory by absolutely defiling this place with her. With an appropriate amount of romance. Of course.

Her nose crinkles at him and she teasingly admonishes him with, “You are so gross,” as she begins to explore their temporary abode. 

“I’ve already picked where we’re gonna make out later,” he informs her with an added tap on the ass. Mulder retreats from her playful scowl, hands raised in surrender, to retrieve their belongings from the car. 

Mulder turns and slides a labyrinth of locks with duffle bags at his feet. It's the reality of this most picturesque hiding spot. A long string of numbers activates a powerful security system. He’ll probably tell Scully about the pack of wild turkeys that roam the backyard before he shows her the closet with feeds from outdoor cameras. 

While Scully reclines against a throw pillow with her eyes closed, Mulder assesses their food situation. His homelessness theory feels confirmed by the extra food pantry box that seemed to magically appear for him at the church. He’s still thankful, because it will be a few days before they can explore the nearby town, and the contents of the box is enough to get them through. 

Unpacking the final item, Mulder grins, and casually offers her a snack. She mumbles an affirmative response. It only requires a slice with a knife and a transfer to a plate but he enjoys burying the lead by slamming cupboards, running the sink, and starting the microwave. 

He presents the plate of white cake with strawberries and whip cream frosting, coming down to a kneel at her side, as he announces, “Dana-cake for my Dana-girl,” and smacks a loud kiss on her cheek. 

Mulder watches Scully hold the plate in both hands; her reaction starts with the sound of a whimper, and within seconds, she has broken into full sobs. 

--

Utterly unclear as to what he did wrong, listening to Scully sob for ten minutes seems like an eternity. Her favorite dessert is one of her simplest, most decadent of pleasures; a tearful breakdown was not a reaction he could have ever predicted. He only prepared to lose a finger or two trying to steal a bite. 

“Water,” he finally blurts out. “I’ll get you some water. Do you want some water, Scully?” With her unexplainable distress, Mulder reaches the point of useless panic to comfort her. He starts to stand, only to be pulled down by the hem of his shirt. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“In the food pantry box from the church,” Mulder answers in a rush; his shirt is still clutched in her fingers. “I thought you would be excited. It looks homemade.” 

With the plate held right between their noses to give him a micro view of the dessert, Scully’s voice shakes when she says, “They’re hearts.”

Mulder still has an oral history of Scully’s fondest memories from when she was sick with her cancer tucked away in the back of his mind. It seemed important for someone to have a mental record of the little things. She never told him she needed him to remember. But Dana-cake was a Scully family tale worth remembering with every detail. 

It was her childhood obsession; a summertime constant no matter where military life took them. Her mother grew the strawberries at home, hence why it required such extreme patience, and became so associated with the third Scully child that it was renamed for her. 

When Scully’s health reached a decline, Mulder made his first and only attempt at baking in his life from a handwritten index card. Scully stressed the dire importance of the heart shaped cut as she stepped in before he “ruined it.” Even the ones no one would see had to be hearts.

Because the love had to be on the outside and the inside. 

--

Her chest aches from heaving sobs; Scully senses the endlessness of running away. She has been given so many second chances at living and what she reclaimed threatens to fade away.

“What if we’re doing this forever, Mulder?”

Her throat stings. She should have accepted his offer for water. 

--

“Scully,” Mulder whispers quietly. A few snaps near her ear earns him no response. Her deep sleep emboldens him to pull the cord from the phone until he’s in the bedroom with the door shut. He dials and lets it ring. 

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Scully,” he says. “Hi.”

[mchalowitz]

i’m at the point in my summer break where i’ve regained enough of my sparkle to be inspired to write again

[mchalowitz]

to all my remaining glee followers im like seriously rewatching glee for the first time since the show ended and seeing it through an adult lens (and also as an educator) is wild

[mchalowitz]

please explain to me why so many gen z glee tiktokers think honesty is the best artie solo

[mchalowitz]

every school in my area is closed because of a blizzard but my job decided to have us come in then decide two hours later to send us home at noon when the snow was going to be at its worst then change their mind an hour later to “leave when we’re ready” please explain the logic

[mchalowitz]

i’ve written over 1400 words for the next part of my fic and after being so depressed i could barely string 2 words together that’s huge and i think by the time it’s finished it could easily be double that 

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part 7

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

part 1: melissa / part 2: dana / part 3: emily / part 4: scully / part 5: samantha (the interlude) / part 6: them

part 7: maggie

read on ao3

@today-in-fic

—-

Her oldest, her Billy, inherited many qualities from her late husband, but a less reserved nature. With a much quicker temper, and the vagueness of Dana’s letter, Maggie expected his phone call. 

She only listens. William referred to them as the oil and water of their brood; never any use in trying to mix them. Even when a mother is always trying to keep peace among her children. 

“She lets people ruin her life,” Bill very nearly froths. She worries for her son’s heart and an untimely demise akin to her husband’s if he doesn’t get his temper under control. “How can you sit here and be so indifferent while Dana allows that man to steal away her goddamn future yet again, Mother?” 

Maggie shakes a colander full of strawberries from her garden of their excess water over the sink with the phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. “Your father would roll in his grave if he heard you use the Lord’s name when you speak about your sister,” she scolds him. Bill only mumbles an excuse. She thinks he expects, eventually, he will get her to take a side, his side, as he always has. 

Billy is a strong, successful military man, with achievements and commendations, and still, he could never let his little sister win. As children, he stormed off during board games, and pushed her off her bike when she finished first in races, but Maggie wonders what he intends to win if Dana were to leave her life with Fox. 

“This isn’t like Melissa running off to California for six months,” he finally sighs.

She avoids the subject any further. 

Keep reading

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part 7

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

part 1: melissa / part 2: dana / part 3: emily / part 4: scully / part 5: samantha (the interlude) / part 6: them

part 7: maggie

read on ao3

@today-in-fic

----

Her oldest, her Billy, inherited many qualities from her late husband, but a less reserved nature. With a much quicker temper, and the vagueness of Dana’s letter, Maggie expected his phone call. 

She only listens. William referred to them as the oil and water of their brood; never any use in trying to mix them. Even when a mother is always trying to keep peace among her children. 

“She lets people ruin her life,” Bill very nearly froths. She worries for her son’s heart and an untimely demise akin to her husband’s if he doesn’t get his temper under control. “How can you sit here and be so indifferent while Dana allows that man to steal away her goddamn future yet again, Mother?” 

Maggie shakes a colander full of strawberries from her garden of their excess water over the sink with the phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. “Your father would roll in his grave if he heard you use the Lord’s name when you speak about your sister,” she scolds him. Bill only mumbles an excuse. She thinks he expects, eventually, he will get her to take a side, his side, as he always has. 

Billy is a strong, successful military man, with achievements and commendations, and still, he could never let his little sister win. As children, he stormed off during board games, and pushed her off her bike when she finished first in races, but Maggie wonders what he intends to win if Dana were to leave her life with Fox. 

“This isn’t like Melissa running off to California for six months,” he finally sighs.

She avoids the subject any further. 

--

“Strawberry Shortcake is Dana’s favorite,” Maggie recalls fondly to her guest with two slices cut from the dessert. “Every summer, she would talk about nothing else until I had one of these on the table. My youngest son started calling it Dana Cake.”

If Maggie had to guess, she would bet on Mr. Skinner being former military. Everyone she’s met from Dana’s work aren’t much for people skills, in her opinion, but she’s had hundreds of service members at her kitchen table, and Mr. Skinner seems no different from any of them. 

“It’s very good, thank you,” he responds, wiping his mouth with a napkin. She wonders if his quietness is a precursor for bad news; maybe it’s only a guilt he feels for his inability to protect her daughter the way he should’ve as her superior. Her husband always protected his officers. 

Maggie can’t blame Mr. Skinner entirely, or Fox, or the government. Dana always caused her own kind of difficulties; giving her and her husband just as much grief as their other children did. Dana rebelled against life on the base as a mid-teen, and even though she excelled at her studies regardless, it wasn’t until her residency that she appeared to finally mellow, until she threw it away and veered off.

“Dana left a few of her and Mulder’s personal items with me,” he informs her. Her stiff muscles relax in relief. He continues, “I think they would be better kept with you.” 

She watches from the porch as Mr. Skinner retrieves the box from the trunk of his car. As he passes the cardboard box from his arms to hers, she feels compelled to ask, “She wasn’t doing anything illegal, was she?” 

“I don’t believe so,” he replies. “Dana did what was right.” 

Maggie feels a heavy pause between them; an unspoken addendum. Neither of them know Dana the same way. But they can agree, it wasn’t much longer she could’ve lived without her other half. 

She sends him off with an extra slice of cake. He leaves her with his business card and the box of her daughter’s precious memories. 

--

Maggie is no stranger to the practice of patience. It was the unspoken duty of a military wife; keeping everything together while raising the children without asking for so much as a listening ear most of the time. With the experience so many years in her rearview, she chooses to reflect on his correspondence as coming along at the most crucial moments; when she needed her husband more than usual. 

She trusts in God’s timing above anything else, even if she doesn’t always agree with it. Dana promised she would write, but as the months wear on, it doesn’t seem as likely. She fears for her daughter’s safety, but if something was truly amiss, she thinks she would feel the same feeling of uneasiness that came with her husband and with Melissa.

Unmoved since the day Mr. Skinner delivered it, Dana and Fox’s belongings sit on the chair next to the front door. It’s a constant reminder of the absence of her daughter. Maggie wants to know what’s hidden away but she knows those memories aren’t meant for her. 

With months now passed, Maggie figures it’s best to finally move the box up to the guest room. She lifts it carefully, but as she turns toward the stairs, the bottom gives out, and it all scatters to the floor. She stares down, frozen in place, thankful that it appears anything breakable was spared with Dana’s secure wrapping. 

Some items are instantly recognizable; Scully family heirlooms passed down from the previous generations and trinkets from their children’s many childhood travels. She finds a new, stronger box, and begins cleaning up the mess. 

She folds a blanket into the bottom as a base layer; its intricate pattern nothing like Dana’s taste. Her doctor’s coat from her medical residency and one of William’s baby blankets make up the next layer. She stacks shoe boxes, carefully labelled containers, and an unopened model rocket kit. 

Maggie sits with Dana’s stack of photographs that show her dearest memories. Images of her travels with landmarks and long highways. Silly images in front of tourist destinations, and photos of her sleeping son, and through snapshots from happier times, she gets her confirmation that Fox was never just her daughter’s friend. 

Lost in thought, the ringing telephone brings her back to attention, and she pulls herself up from the phone. The caller ID shows an unfamiliar number. She answers anyway.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Scully,” a voice says. “Hi.”

[mchalowitz]

in a representation of my mental state i’ve been listening to glee music for the first time in probably years and my hot take is songs from season 2 and season 4 appear to have the most longevity as far as listenability for me

[mchalowitz]

probably like 2 months ago i saw this tiktok that truly made me have a revelation about my romantic/sex life and it’s been so extremely freeing for me BUT i'm also finding these really fascinating intricacies to it and honestly i love that for me

[mchalowitz]

ok i could go into my whole chronic pain story (i did type it out but deleted it) but do any of my followers have any experience with trigeminal neuralgia or glossopharyngeal neuralgia?

[mchalowitz]

liking a male character like…

insp.