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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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Chapter 6: Ring of Fire

Comments are as yummy as a Mulder and Scully cuddle!

https://archiveofourown.org/.../66617185/chapters/172493866

The interior of the Ford Taurus felt like a confessional booth, quiet save for the hum of the engine, but charged with a silent language that had become their native tongue. Mulder, behind the wheel, wore a grin so wide it threatened to split his face, his eyes crinkling with undisguised triumph.

“Shut up, Mulder,” Scully deadpanned, without even looking at him, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery.

He blinked, turning to her, his expression a masterpiece of feigned innocence. “Scully? I haven’t said a word. My lips have been sealed, my thoughts pure as the driven snow.” His grin, however, remained plastered firmly in place, broadcasting his smug satisfaction louder than any words could.

She finally turned, her brow arched, a silent challenge in her eyes. “Right. Don’t think I didn’t notice the look you gave Dr. Potts, as if you’d just claimed the last piece of pie.”

Mulder chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the quiet space. “Just a healthy dose of professional satisfaction, Scully. Nothing more. You were simply magnificent back there, truly. Your defense of the extraordinary, your steadfast belief in my… theories. It warmed the cockles of my heart.” He leaned back, utterly at ease, the picture of contentment.

Scully sighed, a mix of exasperation and something softer she refused to name. She knew, deep down, that his triumph was less about the case and more about the subtle, unspoken battle he’d won against Potts for her attention. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Instead, she pivoted, forcing the conversation back to the professional.

“Alright, Mulder,” she began, pulling out a small notebook. “Let’s discuss your ‘temporal distortion’ theory. You mentioned atmospheric readings correlated with the disappearance times. What kind of readings are we talking about? And how reliable is this data?”

Mulder, surprisingly, followed her lead without further prompting, his tone immediately shifting to one of intense focus. “Low-frequency, electromagnetic pulses, Scully. Subtle, easily dismissed, but consistent with each reported incident of missing time. It’s like a ripple in the fabric of space-time, localized, possibly caused by whatever energy source is creating the ‘blinding shimmer’ the eyewitnesses described.” He pulled out a worn printout from the dashboard, a complex graph filled with peaks and valleys. “I’ve cross-referenced this with NOAA data, satellite imagery, even local ham radio reports. There’s a pattern, Scully. A faint, almost imperceptible one, but it’s there.”

Scully took the printout, her professional curiosity kicking in, overriding her lingering irritation. Her fingers traced the subtle anomalies on the graph. “And your hypothesis is that these energy fluctuations aren’t just causing the electrical disturbances, but are actively affecting human perception of time, or even creating localized pockets of… displacement?”

“Precisely,” Mulder affirmed, his voice alight with the thrill of the chase. “It’s why these individuals are found hours later, disoriented, with no memory. Their brains are trying to reconcile a reality that defies conventional understanding.”

They drove for another twenty minutes, dissecting the theory, throwing out counter-arguments and potential avenues of inquiry. Their minds clicked together effortlessly, two halves of a whole, each challenging and complementing the other. It was a familiar, comforting rhythm, a sanctuary from the unspoken tension that still simmered beneath their carefully constructed professional masks.

Their destination was a quiet, tree-lined suburban street, far removed from the coastal bustle. The house was unremarkable, a modest ranch-style home with neatly trimmed hedges. When Clara Simms, the woman who had reported missing time, opened the door, her eyes darted nervously from side to side, her grip on the doorknob white-knuckled.

“Agents Mulder and Scully,” she whispered, her voice reedy with fear. She was a woman in her late forties, her hair a wispy gray, her eyes wide and haunted. “You’ve come. I knew you would.”

“Ms. Simms,” Mulder said gently, his voice soft, reassuring. “We’re here to help. Can we come in?”

Clara hesitated, her eyes scanning the street as if expecting an unseen threat. “I… I can’t talk here. Not with them watching.” Her voice dropped to an almost inaudible murmur. “They’re everywhere. They listen.”

Mulder’s gaze softened with understanding. He had seen this kind of paranoia before, the crushing weight of an invisible burden. He knew that arguing with her would only make her retreat further. “Where would you feel safe, Ms. Simms?” he asked, his voice even, devoid of judgment.

Scully, however, shifted her weight, a subtle skepticism etched on her face. Her scientific mind bristled at the clear signs of delusion, already forming a differential diagnosis. Paranoid ideation, possibly stress-induced, or even a pre-existing condition exacerbated by the trauma of her missing time. Her eyes met Mulder’s, a silent question passing between them: Are we really indulging this?

Clara’s eyes darted around her living room, then fixed on a narrow hallway leading to what appeared to be a utility area. “The… the closet,” she whispered, her voice laced with desperate urgency. “The broom closet. They can’t hear us there. It’s too… small.”

Mulder glanced at Scully, a hint of appeal in his eyes. Scully sighed, a quiet admission of defeat. The woman’s distress was undeniable, and if this was the only way to get her to speak, they would try.

Clara turned and scuttled down the hallway, beckoning them with a frantic hand. They followed, their footsteps muffled on the carpet. She pointed to a narrow door, barely wider than her shoulders. It was indeed a broom closet, the faint scent of lemon polish and dust motes hanging in the air. It could barely fit one person comfortably, let alone three.

Before they could even fathom how to properly angle themselves into the cramped space, a sudden, jarring crash echoed from the front of the house, like a heavy object falling. Clara gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

“They’re here!” she shrieked, a primal fear in her voice. Without another thought, she shoved Mulder and Scully forcefully into the tiny closet. They stumbled, propelled by her desperate strength, landing in a heap against the back wall. Clara slammed the door shut, plunging them into near-total darkness, then her muffled footsteps retreated, presumably to deal with the disturbance.

Mulder and Scully were pressed together, impossibly close. There was no space between them, not an inch of air. Her back was flush against his chest, his arms pinning her to the wall, their legs tangled in the desperate lunge. The thin cotton of their shirts, the soft fabric of their pants—it was all that separated skin from skin, yet it felt like too much space, a chasm separating bodies that yearned to connect. The faint glow from the crack under the door was the only light.

“Mulder,” Scully whispered, her voice strained, barely audible in the suffocating closeness. “That woman is clearly experiencing significant psychological distress. While her fear is palpable, her narrative, particularly the ‘them’ and ‘listening’ elements, appears largely delusional. I doubt it bears any direct scientific correlation to her episode of missing time.”

His breath ghosted over her ear, warm and ragged. “Do you really want to take that risk, Scully?” he whispered back, his voice a low thrum against her spine. He shifted infinitesimally, turning his head so he was looking down into the vast, luminous sea of her eyes, a cosmic expanse he always felt on the cusp of drowning in, drawn inevitably into their depths.

She sighed, a tiny sound of defeat, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her back, the heat of his body radiating through her clothes. The absurdity of their situation, crammed into a broom closet by a terrified woman, warred with the potent intimacy of their proximity.

“Potts thinks you are out of your goddamn mind,” Scully said, her voice a little louder than a whisper now, a desperate attempt to inject normalcy, to break the suffocating tension. The words were meant to create distance, but their effect was precisely the opposite.

His face was so close, she could feel the hot whisper of his breath on her cheek, the feral heat of his aftershave, and the clean, intoxicating scent of something uniquely wild—a complex alchemy that was, to her, the essence of “Mulderesqe.” It was a scent that both grounded and disoriented her, a powerful, primal signature.

“Oh, is that what he thinks?” Mulder whispered back, his voice thick, his lips so close to her ear, she could feel the slightest vibration of his words. He leaned closer still, his body subtly shifting, the pressure against her increasing, a silent invitation.

Scully felt herself nearly hypnotized by him, her rational mind slowly dissolving under the intense, intoxicating pressure of his presence. “Actually, he thinks… he thinks….” Her mind screamed, He is emotionally unavailable! He is a blaring alarm bell warning passengers to deboard the ship before it sinks! Get out! But the warning was a distant echo, drowned out by the thunder of her own heart.

“What does he think, Scully?” Mulder prompted, his voice a low, urgent murmur, his breath warm against her lips now, their mouths almost touching.

“He… he… thinks you’re in love with me….” she confessed, the words escaping her without any conscious thought, a raw, undeniable truth she hadn’t meant to utter aloud.

He was so close now, in the near darkness, she could see the faint glint of his teeth as he bit his lip, a tiny, nervous gesture she knew so well. He nodded slowly, his eyes locked on hers, a world of unspoken longing in their depths. “What do you think?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.

She was beyond thinking. Thinking had left the building right about the time they were shoved into this closet together. She didn’t know who was leaning—her or him—but suddenly, thrillingly, his hands were on her face, bracing her, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw, as if to keep her there, as if she were capable of going anywhere else at this moment. A sudden thought, a question, pierced through the sensual haze: When did he become the center of the universe?

But the thought was abruptly, jarringly, interrupted. The closet door swung open, revealing Clara Simms, a sheepish expression on her face. “False alarm,” she announced, her voice surprisingly normal, the earlier terror gone. “Just the neighbor’s cat knocking over a planter.”

Mulder and Scully jumped apart, their movements frantic and uncoordinated, like two magnetic poles suddenly reversed, repelling each other with surprising force.

Later, in the Ford Taurus, the windows down, the humid air offering little relief, a different kind of tension permeated the space. They were leaving Clara’s house, the interview having yielded frustratingly little beyond her initial paranoid claims.

“So, Scully,” Mulder began, his voice flat, clearly trying to reignite the professional distance. “Your assessment. Anything beyond ‘delusional’ that might aid my… unconventional theory?”

Scully sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Mulder, her account was entirely consistent with paranoid schizophrenia. The ‘blinding shimmer’ and missing time were likely confabulations, or perhaps, at most, a disoriented interpretation of a mundane event.” She paused, glancing at him. “There was no concrete data, Mulder. No atmospheric readings, no physical evidence of a temporal distortion. Just her deeply held, if unsubstantiated, beliefs.”

“But the urgency, Scully,” Mulder pressed, his eyes fixed on the road, but his tone hinting at the deeper, unspoken frustration. “Her absolute conviction. She truly believes what happened to her. And the previous victims also reported disconnections from reality, even if they couldn’t articulate it in such… vivid terms.”

“Conviction doesn’t equal causation, Mulder,” Scully countered, her voice firm. “We need tangible evidence. Measurable phenomena. Not the ramblings of a woman who believes her cat knocking over a planter is part of a grand conspiracy.”

“Clara, Scully. Her name is Clara,” Mulder corrected softly, a subtle undercurrent of something that sounded like empathy in his tone. “And sometimes, Scully, the greatest truths are found in the places where no one else dares to look, where the conventional mind sees only madness.”

Scully simply shook her head, a silent acknowledgment of their fundamental difference, their opposing lenses on the world. They were discussing the case, analyzing the facts, debating the merits of Mulder’s theory—a safe harbor for their tumultuous emotions. Anything to avoid discussing the small, dark closet, the suffocating closeness, the raw, undeniable current that had surged between them, and the words that had hung, trembling, in the air.

Mulder, however, could not escape it. His mind drifted, replaying the scene. He’d been turned on countless times in his life, let’s face it, his proclivity for the esoteric and the frankly explicit meant his imagination was always fertile ground for arousal. But this, this proximity to Scully, was something entirely different. She was like no one else on the planet, a little unicorn—magical, rare, and utterly captivating.

When he first met her, he’d been too excited, too grateful, to have a partner, a friend in her. She was too important to him immediately to risk romance, to muddy the waters of their crucial intellectual and professional bond. He never let his mind wander to other possibilities, so focused was he on the mission, on finding the truth.

But that changed. It changed when they were separated, when the X-Files were shut down, when the space between them widened not by choice, but by cruel circumstance. And then, it changed irrevocably, when she was abducted. He’d walked around a shell of a man, his soul having left his body, desperate to search for her, to be with her. The only thing that tethered him to this world, to sanity, was the small gold cross she had worn, now hanging around his own neck. He would never have stopped searching for her, just as he had never stopped searching for Samantha.

And yet, Scully was never a proxy for Samantha. As much as he loved and missed his sister, he had chosen Scully’s life instead of his sister’s on that bridge, a choice that had burned itself into his very being. He had been living with this quiet, profound love for her for years, a deep undercurrent beneath their professional facade. He knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that he could do it for a lifetime, waiting, wanting, loving, even from the carefully guarded distance he believed he had to maintain.

But this profound, undeniable love anchored him, even as he navigated the most turbulent currents. She was his fixed point, his true north in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet. And no matter how intensely he burned, no matter how much he threatened to consume, he would always, always, find his way back to her. She was his equilibrium. His home.

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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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"neat trick, huh?"

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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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Sedimentary Rocks and Moonlight (Chapter 2)

Find it: a03 / Fandom: The X-Files / Rating: E

Tagging: @today-in-fic

Snippet: “I don’t have ghost-hunting plans,” he insisted.

“Really? Because Langly’s little reveal on the beach earlier suggests otherwise.”

“He shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why?” she urged, lowering her voice. “Because you wanted to keep the truth from me?”

“Scully, that’s not—”

“That’s really why you asked me to come, right? So, you wouldn’t have to wait for me to drive up if you made some big discovery. I’d already be here with a scalpel and a smile.” She brushed by, almost knocking him off his feet. The fridge door rattled as she whipped it open.

“Scully?”

She removed a fruity-looking wine cooler and set it on the counter with a shatter-worthy clunk.

“Scully?”

She yanked open a drawer, then another, before finding a bottle opener. The cap popped off easily, and she tossed it toward the sink. It was careless. It was messy. It was so unlike her.

“Dana?”

She whipped around, the snap of her eyebrow answering his question: What the fuck do you want?

He rushed forward, hands landing on either side of the countertop to pin her in place. “That’s not why I asked you here.”

What It's About: When Byers’ new girlfriend invites Scully, Mulder, and the Gunmen to her lakeside house, Frohike encourages Mulder to tell his partner how he feels after six years of pining. But what was supposed to be a work-free trip gets upended when the group makes a gruesome discovery by the beach. And suddenly, Mulder’s fantasies of romance are met with new challenges.

What to Expect: Vacation, Pining, Slow Burn, Hot Tub, First Kiss, Making Out, First Time, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Sexual Tensions, Angst and Fluff, Angst with Happy Ending, Case Fic... kind of

*New updates daily!

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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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must be an X file…

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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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Morning walk before the sun kills us again today

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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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Chapter 5: Ignimbrite

Comments are a forehead kiss guys! A ten second long forehead kiss.

The quiet hum of the hotel room did little to soothe Scully’s restless mind as the morning light, pale and unforgiving, seeped through the curtains. Her hand automatically reached for the toothbrush, but her thoughts were already miles away, replaying the chaotic ballet of the previous night. The memory of Mulder’s body, heavy and warm over hers, still hummed in her veins, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of the bathroom mirror. His breath on her cheek, the unexpected weight of him, the raw awareness that had flared between them, it all pressed in on her, leaving her breathless even now.

Then there was Danny Potts. His words, delivered with such a gentle certainty, echoed in her head: "That man is in love with you. I ought to know, I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve." The declaration had stunned her, not just for its content, but for its effortless insight into something she had rigorously, stubbornly, refused to acknowledge.

No. It’s not going to happen. It’s never going to happen, she told herself, her reflection staring back, a mask of fierce denial. She gripped her hair, flipping it aggressively, the sudden movement a physical manifestation of her emotional turmoil. She couldn’t take this limbo anymore, this agonizing space between them where everything was felt but nothing was spoken. Yes, she loved him. A truth so profound, so woven into the fabric of her being, it felt like she had always, always had this connection with him. He was the other half of her, the perfect complement to her logic, the wild counterpart to her reason.

The love of her life.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, was straightforward with them. Her dominant left hemisphere, the part of her brain that craved order and predictability, screamed for logic and reason. They would never get along. They already spent way too much time together, their lives intertwined in every conceivable way. If they dared to cross that line, to delve into something more, they would bicker. They would argue. They would eventually, inevitably, end up hating each other. The thought was a cold, hard stone in her stomach, heavy enough to outweigh the burgeoning hope in her heart.

A soft, insistent knock on the adjoining room door jolted her from her turbulent thoughts. She walked over, pulling it open. Mulder stood there, dressed in a crisp gray Armani suit, looking impossibly sharp, better than any human being had a right to at this ungodly hour.

“Ready to go?” he asked, his voice low, a velvet murmur that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. His eyes, deep and searching, held hers for a moment too long, a silent question passing between them. Scully sighed, a sound caught between resignation and something akin to quiet acceptance. She offered him a half smile, a silent admission of defeat, and nodded.

__________________________________

The hum of the rental car was the only sound breaking the silence between them. Mulder gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, but his mind was entirely on the woman beside him. One of his favorite things on earth was making Scully laugh; even a mere giggle was a massive win. To hear the genuine, unburdened sound of her laughter was, for him, as a burst of celestial fire, piercing the gloom of his soul, a brief, intoxicating draught of nectar from the gods themselves. Honestly, he thought to himself if this is what being in love does to a person, I think I'll stick to global conspiracies. Much less dramatic.

So he launched into niche questions, delving into the philosophical absurdities he knew sometimes caught her off guard. “Scully,” he began, “if a tree falls in the forest and an alien is there to observe it, but the alien’s perception is based on vibrational frequencies rather than sound waves, does the tree still make a ‘thud’?”

Nada. Not even a flicker of amusement.

He switched to jokes, then puns, each one falling flat in the charged silence. Nothing was working. Her profile remained impassive, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery. He sighed, deflating slightly. There was only one way to break this impenetrable silence.

“Scully,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “I’m sorry. About last night.”

That did it. Her head whipped around so fast her hair momentarily obscured her face, her eyes wide with surprise, a sudden vulnerability in their depths. “Apologize for what, Mulder?”

He scrambled, his mind racing. This was a high stakes question. If he got it wrong, she’d freeze him out, perhaps for weeks. Was there more than one thing he should be apologizing for? He did a quick, frantic inventory of his misdeeds.

“I’m sorry for my obnoxious behavior to Puppy,” he blurted out, then quickly corrected, “I mean, Potts.”

Scully shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement that sent her hair swaying across her face like a curtain. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, gone before he could be sure it was real. She turned her attention to the hospital entrance now visible in the distance.

“Alright, Mulder. About these four incidents, and Potts’s neurological findings…” she began, her voice all business, pulling him back to the familiar ground of the case.

It worked! A wave of relief washed over him, so potent he nearly sagged.

When Mulder cut the engine, she turned to him, her hand reaching out to grasp his. Her touch was firm, serious, yet a spark of warmth ignited where their skin met. “Potts…” she started, her gaze intense, a silent warning in her eyes.

Mulder quickly cut her off, a reassuring smile on his face, determined to smooth things over. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.” He squeezed her hand, a silent promise.

Scully squeezed his hand in return, her half smile deepening into something more genuine, a hint of the playful teasing he cherished. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes twinkling as she held his gaze, a quiet challenge in their depths, “but you need to be on my best behavior.”

He grinned, a genuine, easy smile that reached his eyes, feeling a lightness he hadn’t realized he’d lost. “Deal,” he confirmed, squeezing her hand in return, the fleeting intimacy a secret language between them.

__________________________________

They stepped off the elevator into the hushed quiet of Dr. Potts’s office suite, the early morning light filtering softly through the blinds. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floors as they searched for him. As they rounded the corner into the main consultation area, Scully stopped.

Her eyes widened, taking in the sight before them: a large, gleaming table laden with an extravagant spread of breakfast delights. There were baskets overflowing with every imaginable bakery item—flaky croissants, glistening danishes, muffins studded with berries. Platters held perfectly sliced fruit, alongside bowls of yogurt and granola. A gleaming coffee urn steamed invitingly next to an array of exotic smoothie options, vibrant colors promising a burst of flavor.

Potts emerged from an inner office, a professional smile already in place, but it brightened considerably when he saw Scully. He gestured grandly to the table, his eyes twinkling. “Dana! Agent Mulder.” He moved towards them, a confident ease in his stride.

Scully, still staring at the culinary abundance, raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Potts,” she began, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Are you expecting guests? Royalty?”

Potts chuckled, a warm, resonant sound. He paused beside the table, sweeping an arm over the feast, his gaze fixed solely on Scully. “In a manner of speaking, it’s for you, Dana,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, intimate and earnest. “I thought you might be hungry. And I want to treat you right, because I truly hope you’ll come again.”

Both Mulder and Scully were taken aback, each for their own complicated reasons. Scully felt a strange, almost overwhelming sensation. It had been a long, solitary time since anyone had made such a grand, openly romantic gesture for her. A soft, unexpected warmth bloomed in her chest, quickly followed by a familiar flicker of unease.

Mulder, on the other hand, was hit hard with a visceral pang of jealousy so sharp it stole his breath. He saw the genuine care in Potts’s eyes, the unmasked adoration, and it ignited a fierce, protective instinct he usually kept buried deep. But he had promised Scully he would be on his best behavior—or rather, her best behavior. He drew a deep breath, forcing a placid expression onto his face.

He stepped forward, his voice remarkably even, a thin veneer over simmering frustration. “Well, Dr. Potts, this is… quite the spread. Agent Scully and I were just discussing the metabolic benefits of complex carbohydrates and sustained glucose release for optimal cognitive function. This array certainly provides ample caloric density and a diverse macronutrient profile, essential for maintaining peak investigative stamina.” He even managed a polite nod toward a towering stack of pancakes, a masterclass in forced civility.

Now it was Potts’s turn to be taken aback. He blinked, clearly thrown by Mulder’s sudden, overly formal, and surprisingly scientific assessment of his breakfast offering. The usual Mulder would have scoffed, perhaps made a crack. But Potts was sharp; he saw right through the forced decorum, the thinly veiled possessiveness in Mulder's unusual politeness. A slow, knowing smile spread across Potts’s face. Oh, this was going to be fun. He was going to have a lot of fun testing Mulder today, breaking him today.

Scully, perhaps to diffuse the sudden, heavy silence, reached out and plucked a glistening chocolate danish from a basket. She took a large bite, the pastry flaking deliciously around her lips. Both men were openly staring at her now, one with a subtle admiration that bordered on reverence, the other with a silent, desperate plea in his eyes that she recognized all too well. Scully swallowed quickly, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, acutely aware of the unresolved tension.

She cleared her throat, pulling herself back to the reason they were there. “Right,” she said, wiping a crumb from her lip. “Dr. Potts, you mentioned more data on the neurological symptoms. Where should we begin?”

__________________________________

Five hours later, Mulder was dying a slow, agonizing death by a thousand paper cuts of charm. The relentless hum of the hospital room, coupled with Potts’s unwavering focus on Scully, had become a special kind of torture. It had been like this all day: Potts constantly vying for Scully’s attention, the unending stream of flattery, the way he leaned in, nodding so attentively at everything she said, as if her every utterance was a revelation etched in stone. Mulder had finally had it. He was ready to pull out a white flag and wave it.

He pushed back from the table, not even bothering to interrupt their ongoing, intense discussion of patient vitals. He simply tuned them out completely, the droning rhythm of Potts’s voice and Scully’s methodical questions fading into a meaningless buzz. He reached for the stack of patient files, ignoring the conversation that continued to flow over his head. He skimmed, then read, then re read, looking for anything, any pattern, any anomaly that might pull him from this purgatory. His eyes darted across dates, times, fragmented symptoms, geographic coordinates.

Then, a flicker. Not a pattern, not yet. More of a resonance, a faint echo of something he’d encountered before, buried deep in the archives of his mind. A subtle correlation between the missing time incidents and localized, low frequency atmospheric disturbances, readings that would typically be dismissed as background noise. It was a long shot, a wild theory, but it sparked a familiar thrill, a sense of purpose that cut through his earlier frustration.

“Scully,” Mulder interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through Potts’s detailed medical explanation of a patient's aphasia. He pushed a file across the table. “These atmospheric readings, correlated with the disappearance times. They’re too consistent to be coincidental. What if the ‘shimmer’ isn’t just some optical anomaly, but a localized temporal distortion, possibly a byproduct of an unknown energy source?”

Potts scoffed, a dismissive sound, his face already contorted in objection. “Agent Mulder, that’s highly speculative and entirely without scientific precedent here. We’re dealing with neurological trauma, not science fiction.”

Scully turned to Mulder, then back to Potts, her expression one of quiet determination. “Perhaps, Dr. Potts, but on the X Files, we have found that many cases go beyond what can be conventionally imagined. That is no reason to dismiss the extraordinary.” She paused, her eyes meeting Mulder’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. A shared history, a shared understanding etched in their very bones. “In fact,” she continued, her voice steady, “on our very first case together, Mulder and I experienced a loss of time. Nine minutes.” In her mind, she replayed that bewildering moment, how in the terrifying void of lost time, they had paradoxically found each other, truly found each other.

Mulder and Potts both looked at her, stunned, for wildly different reasons. Potts’s jaw hung slightly ajar, his disbelief evident. He saw her as utterly irrational, bordering on delusion, his scientific mind unable to reconcile her words. Mulder, however, was struck by a different kind of shock. He was stunned, not by the revelation itself, but by her willingness to admit it, here, now, to Potts, and most importantly, to herself. It was a concession, a raw, undeniable truth she rarely spoke aloud. Potts recovered, a harsh scoff escaping him in a mix of defense and frustration. “Agent Scully, with all due respect, that sounds like pure conjecture! We have patients with real, measurable symptoms, not… nine minutes of lost time!”

Mulder started to interject, a sharp retort forming on his tongue, but he knew Scully well enough to let her handle this on her own. He watched, a quiet pride swelling in his chest, as she stood her ground.

Scully’s gaze was firm, unwavering as she looked at Potts. “Dr. Potts, Agent Mulder and I are going now. We need to follow up on Mulder’s lead.” She stood, moving with a decisive grace that brooked no argument, and walked towards the office door.

Mulder leaned in towards Potts, a sly, fox like smile playing on his lips. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with a victory that had two distinct meanings. “That’s my girl.”

Scully turned just outside the doorway, her voice clear, pulling Mulder back into their orbit, back to where he belonged. “Are you coming?”

Mulder straightened, his smile widening as he met Scully’s gaze, then turned proudly back to Potts, a quiet challenge in his tone that left no room for doubt. “I am right behind you.” And he was, always, because she always had his back too.

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sandymans-world · 2 days ago

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how to say "I love you" in x-files [193/?] ⤷ 4.01 — “Herrenvolk”

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sandymans-world · 3 days ago

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sandymans-world · 3 days ago

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thinking of mulder as a criminal profiler and of scully as a forensic pathologist – he explains the ways of the living and she explains one's cause of death – and them sticking by each other through life-and-death situations ... they're quite literally the perfect match.

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sandymans-world · 3 days ago

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Chapter 5: Ignimbrite

Comments are a forehead kiss guys! A ten second long forehead kiss.

The love of her life.

__________________________________

Nada. Not even a flicker of amusement.

“Scully,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “I’m sorry. About last night.”

That did it. Her head whipped around so fast her hair momentarily obscured her face, her eyes wide with surprise, a sudden vulnerability in their depths. “Apologize for what, Mulder?”

“I’m sorry for my obnoxious behavior to Puppy,” he blurted out, then quickly corrected, “I mean, Potts.”

“Alright, Mulder. About these four incidents, and Potts’s neurological findings…” she began, her voice all business, pulling him back to the familiar ground of the case.

It worked! A wave of relief washed over him, so potent he nearly sagged.

Mulder quickly cut her off, a reassuring smile on his face, determined to smooth things over. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.” He squeezed her hand, a silent promise.

__________________________________

Scully, still staring at the culinary abundance, raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Potts,” she began, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Are you expecting guests? Royalty?”

__________________________________

Scully turned just outside the doorway, her voice clear, pulling Mulder back into their orbit, back to where he belonged. “Are you coming?”

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sandymans-world · 3 days ago

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how to say "I love you" in x-files [176/?] ⤷ 3.14 — “Grotesque”

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sandymans-world · 3 days ago

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Oh, so happy at Fox's decision

Familiar (32/?)

Fox dozed in short, miserable fits.

The pain in his leg dulled only slightly after the shift. What had once been searing had become a pounding throb of agony that pulsed in his ankle and behind his eyes and stole the clarity from his thoughts. His fox body was lighter, more agile, but no less broken.

The forest was still, hushed in the amber light of late morning.

He lay curled near the base of an ash tree, head on his paws, body drawn tight against the ache. The familiars watched him—raven from above, viper from below, moth from the Overseer’s shoulder—but none of them spoke.

And the Overseer simply waited.

Fox drifted. In and out. Pain made it hard to hold on to anything for long. Once or twice he dreamed—fragments of memory, voices he couldn’t place.

Then, without warning, something lit beneath his ribs.

It was like a spark catching dry tinder—sharp, bright, and alive.

He jerked upright with a startled yelp, his hind leg spasming as if struck. Heat surged through his body, not fire exactly, but force—an insistent pull, a current that threaded through every nerve, every tendon.

He panted, eyes wide. The sensation rolled through him in waves.

Healing.

Real healing. From somewhere else. From her.

He didn’t know how he knew. But he did. Just as surely as he knew the shape of her voice, the slope of her cheek, the steadiness of her hand in his.

Her magic. Dana’s.

It flowed into him like a tether snapping taut—an invisible cord that strung them together across distance and pain and time. It was not gentle, but it was sure. It shivered through his bones and tugged at the fracture in his leg. He whimpered once, curling tighter, breath coming hard and fast.

The moth stirred, wings trembling. The raven ruffled her feathers.

The Overseer rose slowly to his feet.

The pain flared again—but it flared with purpose. No longer raw or aimless. It was healing pain, the kind that meant something was working. Something was fighting for him.

Fox’s head dropped. He panted hard, tongue lolling. His claws dug into the earth, grounding him against the surge. It passed slowly—like a storm swirling in place—but when it did, the trembling in his limbs eased. The swelling in his leg began to recede. His breaths no longer shuddered.

The Overseer said nothing.

But he watched.

And Fox, feeling the last of the pain fade from his bones, lifted his head to meet the older man's gaze.

The pain wasn’t gone. But it had changed. Less a wound now, more an ache. A pang.

He shifted his weight experimentally. The leg still smarted, but no longer screamed. Something in it held steady—mended. Weak, but whole.

He straightened, just slightly. Eyes still locked on the Overseer.

“She reached you. Even from this distance.” The man’s voice was low, impressed.

The Overseer stepped closer, one hand brushing the staff, the other at his side. His expression was unreadable.

“She’s found some power, your witch.”

Fox dipped his head. More than the relief that he felt in his ankle, more than the release of pain and fear, he was immensely proud of her. He wanted to throw his arms around her, twirl her through the air. Celebrate the moment.

Not that he could. Not like this.

Instead, he looked up, holding his breath. The forest held its breath, too.

He shifted slightly, testing the leg again, but his eyes didn’t leave the Overseer. It would hold. The magic had done what it could.

The man stepped closer. His gaze dropped, and for the first time, he seemed to take notice of the smooth stone tied at Fox’s throat. The Overseer’s eyes lingered on it, unreadable.

“You carry something.”

Fox blinked. His head dipped slightly, and the stone tied around his neck shifted against his fur.

The Overseer didn’t reach for it. His eyes merely narrowed.

“That was not meant for you,” he said mildly, not choosing to elaborate.

Then he straightened.

“You have a decision to make.”

Fox looked up sharply.

The Overseer met his gaze—and suddenly, something shifted. A thread tugged between them, silent but sure, and he heard the older man in his mind.

“Do you wish to be reunited with your witch?”

The Overseer asked it as if it were a choice, not a soul-deep imperative.

“I do,” he answered.

The Overseer nodded, unsurprised.

“I told you that I’m a familiar, like you. But freed.”“You did, but I don’t understand how that—” “There are many of us, Fox” he explained. “Familiars who have slipped their bonds. Some by force. Some by consent. Some—” his eyes softened, “by grief.”

Fox stayed silent.

“I find them,” the Overseer continued, “and I ask them what they want. Do they wish to live in service to magic? Do they wish to continue their path? Many enjoy the power that comes from their bond. Many choose the life they lead. But some,” he turned and looked briefly at his companions, “believe service without consent is corruption.”

He stepped closer.

“If you wish to be parted from her, I can do it. I can break the tether.”

Fox flinched. “You’re offering me freedom.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I do not.”

“Even if you’re bewitched?”

Something inside him stilled. Rough acknowledgement.

Of course he was bewitched.

That strange, inevitable pull. The way the sun ruled his form. The ache at dawn and dusk. No man—no creature—shifted like that unless something had been done to him.

But that wasn’t what the Overseer meant. Not entirely.

“Am I bewitched?” he asked.

“I think you know.”

“I think you know more.”

“I do.”

“But you won’t tell me.”

The Overseer nodded. “There’s a time for telling. But it’s not now.”

Fox’s thoughts twisted. The thought that he was tied to her against his will was a thought he’d had to contend with from the moment he saw her standing on the stoop of her cottage, when her blood called to him. Unnaturally.

“Did Dana bewitch me?”

He didn’t think she could have. Not Dana. Too earnest. Too raw. Too just-barely-coming-into-power. It would take more than intent to cast the kind of binding that gripped his soul. And she wasn’t that kind of person. Had wanted nothing to do with him when he first told her who he was. What she was.

“I think you know,” said the Overseer.

And he did.

“My service to her is an act of magic.” It wasn’t a question.

The Overseer looked at him. “Yes.”

The dream he kept having, bound tightly, someone chanting a spell that split him open, a woman screaming No…

Confusion warred with certitude. The bond…the urge to serve, to protect, to guide—those feelings that had been with him from the moment he first saw her—perhaps those were artificial. Or had been.

But what he felt for her now was more than that.

Wasn’t it?

“Do you wish to be free of her?” The Overseer asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Free?

The word struck something deep.

He wanted freedom from the prison of not knowing his past. From the curse that clawed at his insides each dawn and dusk. But not from her. Never from her.

More than forced duty, more than forced bond, more than the magic he now knew pulsed between them—

He wanted her.

To be at her side. To touch her skin. To hold her until they blurred at the edges. Until they were not fox and witch, not servant and master—but something else. Something whole.

If this passion was an enchantment, so be it. She had not cursed him. She was all that was good. All that was light

“I do not,” he said, ears forward.

The Overseer exhaled, something between relief and resignation.

“Then let us go find her,” he said.

Fox pushed himself to his feet, bones stiff but no longer broken. He gave a full-body shake, fur rippling, and lifted his head.

There would be time, later, to ask the questions that burned through him. To untangle the spellwork, the bond, the transformation that ruled his form and tied his fate to hers.

But not now.

Now, only one thing mattered.

Getting back to her.

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