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slippinmickeys · 2 days ago

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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.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 5 days ago

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Familiar (31/?)

Dana sat cross-legged in the ruined farmstead, the book open in her lap. Morning light filtered over the tumbledown walls, turning the worn pages gold. Her breath clouded in the cool air. Though she had wrapped herself in her cloak, the chill still clung to her limbs.

She turned to the page again.

A Spell to Heal Your Familiar.

The letters shimmered faintly, as though they were carved from something living. Beneath them, the instructions were written clearly—ingredients, actions, incantation. Simple. Straightforward.

But it wasn’t, was it? She scanned the list of herbs, noting that they needed to be dried. She’d have to hope the apothecary in town carried them. Her gaze lingered on the final instructions: a drop of your blood. The spoken words.

She frowned. Do I say the words as I drop the blood in? Or after? The spellbook didn’t explain. It wasn’t a teacher—it didn’t offer guidance or reassurance. It simply showed her what could be done. The rest was up to her.

With a sigh, she closed the book and slid it into her satchel. She needed the herbs.

***

The apothecary shop sat at the edge of the village, tucked behind the tavern like an afterthought. Its faded sign swung on rusted hooks, creaking softly in a breeze that followed her through the door. The scent that wafted upon her was unmistakable—clove and thyme, sage and lavender, dried orange peel and bitter bark. The fragrance curled around her, so bright and sharp she wanted to sneeze.

Inside, the shop was narrow and dim, lit by a single high window and the glow of banked coals in the hearth. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with glass bottles and clay jars, paper-wrapped bundles, and little sachets tied with twine. Bundles of herbs hung from cords strung across the upper beams, their crisp, brittle leaves hanging silent and still. The air shimmered faintly with suspended dust motes and the scent of a dozen conflicting remedies.

Behind the worn wooden counter, an older man looked up from sorting dried roots into a brass scale. His face was lined but not unkind, framed by graying hair tied at the nape. His eyes, rheumy as a silty puddle, followed her as she stepped inside, as she rove her gaze over the wondrous space. She had never seen anything like it.

"Help you?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Dana had to pull her attention forward. She’d memorized the ingredients from the spell book, and spoke them aloud as if conjuring them from the air herself.

He listened, squinting at her careful list. "Unusual blend. Are you a healer?"

She hesitated. Her mouth went dry. "Something like that."

He looked up, intrigued. "You’re not from here."

"Just passing through."

"Mm. Most who pass through only want willow bark and bitters. You’ve got half a hedgewitch’s pantry here."

Dana gave a small, tight smile. "It’s for someone else. He’s—injured."

The man nodded slowly, eyes scanning her face with more interest than suspicion. "They’ll need to be dried, I take it?"

"Yes. And ground, if that’s possible. I don’t have a mortar and pestle."

"I can do that. Do you have a vessel for mixing?”

She hadn’t considered this. She hadn’t considered a lot.

He gave her a sympathetic look.

"There’s a woodcarver down the lane," he said. "You can get something from him."

She nodded and the man set to work. She watched him move through the rows of jars with methodical ease, selecting each herb, measuring and placing them into a shallow clay dish. When everything had been weighed and dried, he wrapped the components in waxed parchment and tied them with twine.

***

Dana found a bowl—a small thing, well-sanded and rubbed with tallow—at the woodworkers stall. It fit neatly into the palms of her hands. She paid for it, shoved it into her satchel next to the herbs and hurried back to the ruins of the old barn, looking behind her to see if she’d been followed. There wasn’t a soul wandering about.

The wind had picked up. She retrieved the bow and set it down with care, then unwrapped her parcels, and placed the spellbook beside them. They looked paltry sitting there on the weedy floor of the ruined barn. There was nothing magical about them. What sat before her was simple and homey. Dull. Ordinary.

How was she meant do this? she wondered. Did you need an altar? Were candles to be lit?

She imagined an old crone in a hovel with a dank mushroom cap for a roof, a steaming cauldron, a bubbling green mass. Noxious fumes, incantations in a foreign tongue.

She began to question what she was even doing. She felt foolish. Clumsy as a newborn fawn. She wasn’t a witch. She was an orphan, a goat’s milkmaid, a young woman with no family and no home.

The thick page of the open spell book fluttered in the breeze that swirled through the crumbling walls. The script on the page before her faded for a moment, reverting back to a hand drawn picture of nightshade.

She froze, her stomach dropping low in her belly. An image flashed before her eyes of Fox lying prone on a clump of cold earth, a wizened man with a staff in one hand, a raven perched on his shoulder. A black viper was wending its way toward Fox’s leg–the same leg he clutched, white-knuckled, in pain.

If she failed him, if she failed at this, she could lose him. The only person she had left in the world. The only person she—

She closed her eyes, swallowed, took a deep, steadying breath. When she opened them, the spell shimmered back on the page, though the ink looked as though it had faded.

It was time to begin. Before it was too late.

She took a handful of healing herbs—yarrow, comfrey, mallow root—and crushed them together with her fingers, murmuring what she knew of their uses. She remembered what Mildred taught her: what soothes pain, what knits bone. The spell at least made sense from an alchemical standpoint.

She scattered them in the bowl, raised her fingers to her nose and inhaled the sharp scent, letting the smell ground her. Then she pulled a strand of Fox’s hair–wiry and short–from the wool blanket he’d liberated from the monastery. Next, she pricked her fingertip with the tip of Bite’s blade and let a single drop of blood fall onto the crushed herbs.

Licking her lips, she read the incantation:

From root to vein, from sky to stone,By blood and bond, not flesh alone,Mend what’s torn, restore what’s true,My will, my heart—I give to you.

The first time, the herbs scattered on a gust of wind, the piece of Fox’s hair threatening to lift away as well. The words, whispered, tumbled out of her mouth in a litany, as if she were a nervous priest giving his first sermon, rattling it off without breath. She pricked her finger and added the drop of blood, but felt nothing.

And nothing was what happened.

She sighed, and tried again.

This time, her voice faltered midway through the incantation. Her thoughts wandered. Her finger stung from being pricked again.

A third time. Still no warmth. No shift. No sense that anything was reaching across the bond between her and Fox. Her frustration flared. Her eyes burned.

It won’t work if you don’t believe.

The words were not hers. Not even written in the book—yet she felt them, as though the book itself had whispered.

She stilled.

Fox. She thought of his face, drawn in pain. His body curled somewhere far away, fighting. She thought of the way he’d looked at her from across a fire, across a pillow, across the rushing river as it pulled him away. She thought of the way he fought to stay at her side. The way she knew—just knew—that he was still holding on.

Dana closed her eyes. She was almost out of the herbs she’d bought from the apothecary, her finger burned, reticent to yield more of her lifesblood. If she was going to succeed, if she was going to heal him, she had one last chance. And she needed to do it now.

She gathered the last of the herbs.

One last drop of blood. Heard Fox’s voice: “Some truths don’t need memory. They come through the blood.” Heat flared in her chest. The bowl was steady in her hands. She muttered the words—not just speaking them, but meaning them.

Her fingertips tingled and a flash of something zipped through her veins. Light—not from the sun, but from within—rose behind her eyes.

The spell took. A blazing zing across the bond, her power flowed from her and through to him, connecting them in a way that she could feel deep in her chest. She could feel it, knew it the way she knew her own heartbeat.

And somewhere far away, Fox would feel it too.

Dana sank back on her heels. The bowl before her was empty. The light within her had faded. But her magic had answered. However briefly.

She sat for a long moment, breath shallow, heart still racing. She felt as though she’d unlocked the door to Paradise and had been allowed a single moment to look through the crack before the door slammed shut.

She looked down.

Bite lay beside her, its steel catching the afternoon light. The rune etched into the blade still shimmered faintly—North.

Her fingers reached out, brushing the hilt. She turned the blade slowly in her hands, needing to feel the grounding presence of something solid.

But on the other side, something had changed.

Not carved. Not etched.

Unveiled.

A single word, drawn from the runes and rendered into meaning.

Look.

Dana exhaled slowly.

Not a direction. A command.

Look.

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slippinmickeys · 5 days ago

Text

Familiar (31/?)

She turned to the page again.

A Spell to Heal Your Familiar.

The letters shimmered faintly, as though they were carved from something living. Beneath them, the instructions were written clearly—ingredients, actions, incantation. Simple. Straightforward.

With a sigh, she closed the book and slid it into her satchel. She needed the herbs.

***

"Help you?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Dana had to pull her attention forward. She’d memorized the ingredients from the spell book, and spoke them aloud as if conjuring them from the air herself.

He listened, squinting at her careful list. "Unusual blend. Are you a healer?"

She hesitated. Her mouth went dry. "Something like that."

He looked up, intrigued. "You’re not from here."

"Just passing through."

"Mm. Most who pass through only want willow bark and bitters. You’ve got half a hedgewitch’s pantry here."

Dana gave a small, tight smile. "It’s for someone else. He’s—injured."

The man nodded slowly, eyes scanning her face with more interest than suspicion. "They’ll need to be dried, I take it?"

"Yes. And ground, if that’s possible. I don’t have a mortar and pestle."

"I can do that. Do you have a vessel for mixing?”

She hadn’t considered this. She hadn’t considered a lot.

He gave her a sympathetic look.

"There’s a woodcarver down the lane," he said. "You can get something from him."

***

How was she meant do this? she wondered. Did you need an altar? Were candles to be lit?

She imagined an old crone in a hovel with a dank mushroom cap for a roof, a steaming cauldron, a bubbling green mass. Noxious fumes, incantations in a foreign tongue.

She began to question what she was even doing. She felt foolish. Clumsy as a newborn fawn. She wasn’t a witch. She was an orphan, a goat’s milkmaid, a young woman with no family and no home.

If she failed him, if she failed at this, she could lose him. The only person she had left in the world. The only person she—

She closed her eyes, swallowed, took a deep, steadying breath. When she opened them, the spell shimmered back on the page, though the ink looked as though it had faded.

It was time to begin. Before it was too late.

Licking her lips, she read the incantation:

From root to vein, from sky to stone,By blood and bond, not flesh alone,Mend what’s torn, restore what’s true,My will, my heart—I give to you.

And nothing was what happened.

She sighed, and tried again.

This time, her voice faltered midway through the incantation. Her thoughts wandered. Her finger stung from being pricked again.

A third time. Still no warmth. No shift. No sense that anything was reaching across the bond between her and Fox. Her frustration flared. Her eyes burned.

It won’t work if you don’t believe.

The words were not hers. Not even written in the book—yet she felt them, as though the book itself had whispered.

She stilled.

She gathered the last of the herbs.

Her fingertips tingled and a flash of something zipped through her veins. Light—not from the sun, but from within—rose behind her eyes.

And somewhere far away, Fox would feel it too.

Dana sank back on her heels. The bowl before her was empty. The light within her had faded. But her magic had answered. However briefly.

She looked down.

Bite lay beside her, its steel catching the afternoon light. The rune etched into the blade still shimmered faintly—North.

Her fingers reached out, brushing the hilt. She turned the blade slowly in her hands, needing to feel the grounding presence of something solid.

But on the other side, something had changed.

Not carved. Not etched.

Unveiled.

A single word, drawn from the runes and rendered into meaning.

Look.

Dana exhaled slowly.

Not a direction. A command.

Look.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 5 days ago

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Omg NO WAY. I love this!! 😍😍😍

A Gem-Like Flame by @slippinmickeys is one of my fav xfiles aus so of course i had to draw the olympians!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/35817346

Though I do love the idea of mulder being a runner /sprinter... scully as a gymnist is so perfect

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slippinmickeys · 7 days ago

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Familiar (30/?)

Dana stayed beyond the village, though she had enough coin to afford a night under a roof. There was no proper inn, but she’d seen a tavern and an apothecary shop, along with a few lean market stalls, mostly selling root vegetables, cured meat, and the kind of rough-woven garments worn by farmers and tradesmen. She’d gone in—hood drawn, eyes low—and bought what she needed: food, another pair of leggings, a coil of twine, a bone needle and a length of strong thread.

But when the sun began to sink behind the hills, she turned her back on the road.

Something in her resisted the idea of sleeping among strangers.

A half-collapsed farmstead lay not far beyond the edge of the village. The barn had burned long ago, but three of its stone walls still stood, sturdy and tall, enclosing a patch of earth dry enough for sleep and hidden enough for a fire that couldn’t be seen. Dana tucked herself into a corner and let the heat of the flames leech the damp from her skin. Her body was still sore. Her eyelids dragged. She lay back, one hand resting on the hilt of Bite, and let herself drift.

She dreamed.

It wasn’t like the others—not full of light or fire or fragments of memory. This dream was quiet. Cold. And wrong.

Fox was hurt.

She couldn’t see where. Couldn’t see how. But the knowledge struck her like a stone. There was pain in it—his pain—and fear.

She woke with a gasp. The fire had burned low to coals, and morning was just beginning to gray the sky. Her breath fanned white in the air. The chill clung to her, but she barely noticed. Her pulse thundered.

She sat up slowly, hand still on her blade, and reached—not just with thought or worry, but with intent. Her eyes closed.

And she felt it.

Barely skimming his mind, like fingers brushing through the tops of wheat stalks. A soft ripple of sensation. Distant, but real. Fox was still alive. And he wasn’t alone.

She didn’t panic. Panic wouldn’t help him.

Instead, she drew a deeper breath and pressed gently against the thread between them, willing her thoughts to travel farther. To speak. But something resisted. The distance between them pulled like a tide, washing her attempts back before they could land.

He was too far away. Her magic wasn’t strong enough.

She opened her eyes and let the breath go, slow and steady.

She couldn’t reach him—not yet. And she couldn’t help him from here. But she could prepare. She could try to learn something that might.

Dana shifted toward her satchel, unbuckled the flap, and drew out the small book she kept wrapped in oilcloth. It was a practical thing, filled with hand-drawn plants and notes in an old, cramped script. She hadn’t studied it as closely as she’d meant to. But perhaps there was something in it that might help Fox when she finally found him. Something that could help him heal.

She turned the pages slowly. Yarrow. Comfrey. Willow bark. Familiar names, familiar uses. Poultices and teas. Remedies for pain and swelling.

What she needed was more than herbs. Something witch-born. A true spellbook. Were witches meant to write their own? How did they begin? If only she knew more about what she was and where she’d come from. If only she had someone to teach her.

She longed for a family. Longed as any orphan would. Old Mildred had loved her and done right by her, but she knew, deep down, that she’d come from other people–probably magical people, and oh, how she wanted to be among them.

She kept flipping. And then stopped.

There, nestled among the old drawings, was a page she didn’t remember.

At the top, in curling black script, were the words:

A Spell for the Bonded.

Her breath caught. She turned the page.

A Spell to Heal Your Familiar.

The letters shimmered faintly, ink curling and alive. She reached out and touched them. A quiet hum passed through her fingers.

Fox’s voice came back to her, soft and certain:

Sometimes magic comes from need.

She stared down at the page.

Could it be that simple?

She closed her eyes.

I need a horse, she thought. A full bag of coin. I need Fox beside me—now.

She opened her eyes.

No horse. No coin. No Fox.

But the spell remained, waiting.

***

Rough rope bit into his wrists.

His shoulders ached from how they were pulled behind him, bound tight. His knees pressed hard against stone—he must have been kneeling—but everything around him was too dark to see. His head throbbed. His ribs screamed. Someone had thrown him, hard, into a wall.

He remembered that part.

Then the chanting started.

Low. Rhythmic. Measured. Words that didn’t belong to any language he knew—but his bones knew them. His blood knew them. And whatever was inside him—whatever made him—knew enough to be afraid.

He growled, but the sound was choked.

The chanting grew louder. Sharper. The words were meant to tear. And they did.

He felt something slip. Like teeth loosening in a jaw, or the catch of a trap springing open inside his chest. The world tilted. Magic slammed into him, thick and cold, like oil poured into his lungs.

His thoughts scattered.

He thrashed, but the ropes held. He was gagged now—wasn’t he? Or maybe he just couldn’t make a sound. His mouth was open, but nothing came out.

Pain bloomed.

Pain in his leg. In his back. Behind his eyes.

Then—

A scream.

It rang out like thunder crashing through the dark. A woman’s voice.

"Nooooo!"

The chanting never faltered, but the spell stuttered until something cracked—inside the magic. It broke open like a sheet of ice beneath his feet, splintering into a thousand jagged shards. The world flashed white—

—then twisted—

—and went black.

Fox awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like sweat—his limbs still twitching as if the ropes were real, his skin buzzing from where the spell had torn through him.

Beside him, the Overseer sat bolt upright, hand gripping the gnarled wood of his staff, breath tight in his chest.

They didn’t speak.

For a moment, it was as if they had both emerged from the same darkness.

Then everything softened—just slightly. The dream ebbed away, leaving behind only pain. Fox’s ankle flared with it the moment he moved. It was definitely broken. Every shift sent fire lancing up his leg. He clenched his jaw against the sound that threatened to rise in his throat.

And then the light changed.

The first thread of sunlight cut across the forest floor. Cold gold. Pale fire.

Fox stilled.

It came over him like a tide.

His body lurched. It shrank and shifted, his bones cracking as fur bloomed across his skin like frost up a windowpane.

He let out a low, guttural noise—half snarl, half groan—and when it was done, he stood in the leaves on three legs, panting, trembling, his right hind leg hanging limp behind him.

The familiars drew closer in a hushed, watchful circle.

The Overseer stepped forward and knelt before him.

He studied Fox’s shape—ragged, off-balance, still fierce despite the injury.

Then he reached out and rested a hand lightly on Fox’s head, just behind the ears.

“Only your witch can heal you now.”

Fox looked up, eyes bright with pain and something deeper—something quietly resolute.

“You are bound to her,” the Overseer said. “And so is your fate.”

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 11 days ago

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I don’t trust them. I want to trust you.

#JFC

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slippinmickeys · 12 days ago

Text

Familiar (29/?)

The forest had quieted as morning neared. A low, clinging damp purled up from the nearby river, and the midnight sounds of the forest had given way to silence so complete it made Fox’s ears ring. His back was braced against a tree root, his leg stretched out before him, swelling beneath the torn hem of his leggings.

Pain dulled his senses, but not enough to ignore the presence of the others.

The raven was perched on a twisted branch just above his head. The viper coiled herself along a stretch of rock that jutted from the ground like a broken tooth. And the moth, small and flitting, had settled on Fox’s shoulder.

"My leg," he said finally, teeth gritted. "My ankle. I think it’s broken."

The Overseer’s brow creased and he looked down.

"Heal it," said the viper, as if it were as simple a matter as pulling on one’s cloak.

Fox just looked at the snake, puzzled.

"He doesn’t have his own magic?" asked the raven, voice clipped, curious.

"Odd," hissed the viper, winding her way toward Fox through the scattered duff.

"Perhaps he only has it in his true form—his animal form," the moth suggested, wings twitching.

"Why do you speak as if I’m not here?" Fox snapped.

"So he does have some magic after all," mused the raven. “If he can hear us.”

"Yes, yes, it’s all very curious," said the Overseer—aloud now, for Fox’s benefit, he assumed. "And I don’t think his animal form is his true one."

Fox shifted, trying not to wince as the pain flared up his leg. "It’s mine," he said. "Both are."

The raven cocked its head. "Strange. Usually, the soul settles."

"Or tears," murmured the viper.

The moth’s wings glimmered faintly in the moonlight. "Maybe it hasn’t decided yet."

Fox’s gaze flicked from one to the next. He wasn’t used to being the smallest presence in a space. Certainly not the most powerless. But he felt that now—keenly.

"What do they call you?" the moth asked from his shoulder.

"Fox," he said, feeling suddenly foolish.

"A fine name," said the moth. "It says who you are. I like that. You may call me Moth."

Fox gave a wary nod. The moth’s voice was small but steady—neither male nor female, like the creature itself, and entirely unfazed by the others. It fluttered to perch once more on the odd man’s hat, its delicate wings pulsing faintly in the gloom.

"What do I call you, if I’m not allowed to know your name?" Fox asked the man.

"It’s not allowing, exactly," the man said. "They call me the Overseer." He nodded toward the other familiars.

"To your face?"

The man laughed.

Fox didn’t laugh with him. The trees were too still. The clearing was too quiet. And the low ache in his ankle had become a searing throb that threatened to buckle his entire leg. The cold was seeping deeper into him, crawling inward from his soaked clothes and the ache in his bones. He was tired. He was hurt. And the way they all looked at him—as if he were something unfinished—made his skin crawl.

He wanted Dana.

The thought hit him hard, immediate and raw. Not just because he missed her. But because whatever power he had left—whatever spark remained—was bound up in her.

He needed to get to her. Before the Overseer changed his mind. Before this strange clearing swallowed him whole.

"Can you help or not?" he asked.

The Overseer turned his head slightly. "I can’t heal you," he said. "But I can carry you somewhere safe. Somewhere you can begin to remember."

Fox’s fingers curled into the dirt. "Remember?"

The man didn’t answer. The moth only fluttered its wings. The raven cawed softly. The viper slid back into the shadows.

And Fox, injured and cornered and furious, gave a single, bitter laugh.

"Of course," he muttered. "Riddles again."

The Overseer crouched beside him. "Not riddles," he said. "Truths. You’re just not ready to hear them yet."

Fox didn’t trust him. But he didn’t have much choice.

So when the man reached for him, Fox let him help him up.

The world swayed as he was lifted, and somewhere behind him, the raven gave a low, rattling croak.

"Let’s hope he’s who you think he is," she said.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 14 days ago

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slippinmickeys · 14 days ago

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Familiar (28/?)

The fire had burned down to ash.

Dana stirred beneath her damp cloak, every joint stiff, every limb heavy. Her side throbbed where she’d slammed into the rocks. She felt brittle, like if she moved too quickly she might shatter. Her breath fogged in the cold air, sharp and damp, and her skin prickled with the ache of the chill that hadn’t quite left her bones. But it was bearable. Survivable. The worst of the night had passed. For now.

The forest was quiet in the gray hush before dawn, and she thought about how Fox would still be in the form of a man. How if he'd been with her, he'd be wrapped around her now, warm and steady and safe.

Fog clung low to the roots and brambles, a slow-drifting ghost that swirled around her ankles. She sat up with a wince, lifting her shirt from where it hung on a branch, dry but stiff with the remains of river water. Her fingers were clumsy with cold, but she forced them to work, re-lacing her bodice with slow, deliberate care. The smell of smoke clung to everything.

Bite lay where she’d left it, the runes on its surface faintly glimmering in the pallid light.

North.

Her fingers traced the rune again. It still didn’t feel like letters—just harsh, jagged markings, etched deep into the steel. But her mind translated anyway. She didn’t understand how she knew. She just did. As if the blade itself was speaking to her.

She packed her things carefully, folding each item with shaking hands and tucking them back into her satchel. Every movement scraped at the soreness in her limbs. She felt hollowed out, like something had been poured out of her and replaced with silence. But deep beneath that quiet, something had settled. A grim, steady resolve.

She was going north. Whether she understood the path or not.

The sun rose pale and cold, casting a wan light through the trees. The world looked bleached and brittle. Dana tightened her cloak and kept walking, one hand always resting lightly on the hilt of her blade.

Hours passed. Her legs ached. Her stomach turned with hunger. She rationed a strip of dried meat and sipped from her water skin, willing herself to keep moving. Each step was an argument with her own body. But she walked on.

By midmorning, the woods began to thin. The trees grew farther apart, their limbs wind-stripped and bare. The ground beneath her boots turned from loamy forest floor to gravel. She slowed.

A road cut through the woods like a scar—straight, hard-packed, unmistakably man-made.

Dana crouched low near the edge, instincts thrumming.

The road meant people. Trade. Villages. Possibly danger.

In the first village she’d visited, she’d done nothing but sit down to eat—and that had nearly gotten her killed. One man’s bruised ego and a room full of silence had turned dangerous fast. Would another place be any different?

Still. She couldn’t hide in the woods forever.

The road stretched north. She needed food. Shelter. Answers.

She waited for a break in the wind and darted across, tucking herself back into the cover of trees on the other side. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She paused to catch her breath and checked her satchel.

Her vision blurred from exhaustion, and at first, she thought she’d imagined it.

A shimmer of silver-blue light danced along Bite’s edge—not the rune, but the steel itself.

Magic, she thought. Mine.

Her hand hovered above the blade. The air around it felt faintly warm, charged. When she touched it—just lightly—something stirred behind her eyes.

A flicker.

A clearing, flooded in moonlight.

The soft rustle of wings.

A breath on her neck.

She gasped and jerked her hand away. Her heart thundered in her chest. The vision gone, but not forgotten.

She looked up sharply. The sky above had dimmed—or maybe it was the trees. Or maybe it was just that feeling again. That sense of being watched.

She turned, hand on Bite’s hilt. Nothing moved. But the air felt aware.

Keep moving, she told herself.

She followed the road from a careful distance, the forest growing sparser as she walked. Not far off, a stream curved through the brush. She dropped to her knees beside it, cupped cold water into her mouth, and refilled her skin.

Her fingers trembled—not just from cold, but something more.

That flicker of power. That glimpse. The way the blade had responded.

Her magic was waking. It was odd to think it had always been inside of her, poised and waiting until she was ready to use it. At least that’s what Fox had said. But was she ready? She’d seen too much not to believe in the magic itself, but she wasn’t sure if she believed in herself. Not without Fox beside her.

To guide her. Protect her. Maybe even love her.

She shook the thought away.

By early afternoon, the woods gave way to low fields and hedge-lined paths. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of soil and woodsmoke.

Birds rustled in the brambles. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.

Dana crouched low behind a hedge as a farmer rolled past in a rickety cart. She didn’t move until he was long gone.

When she rose, her hand brushed the blade again.

North, the rune pulsed.

She squared her shoulders. Pushed on.

Then she saw it.

A shape slumped near the path’s edge.

Red fur, dark muzzle. Still.

She stopped walking.

A fox.

Dead.

Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment everything went still.

Then she looked more closely.

It wasn’t him, she had to tell herself. It was smaller than Fox, with a star-shaped patch of white on its chest. Still, the shock of seeing it—the shock of thinking for a moment that it had been him, set her insides to trembling viscera.

The fox had been caught in a noose-trap, the twisted cord biting deep into its leg. Someone had staked it along a rabbit path, the kind of simple trap meant to cull small game. But this fox wasn’t small enough—or lucky enough—to escape.

Dana dropped to her knees. Her breath stuttered. Her stomach turned.

She didn’t say a word.

Her hands shook as she dismantled the trap. Then she dug a shallow grave with a rock, her fingers scraped raw. When it was done, she laid the fox gently in the earth and covered it with soil. She found a crooked branch to mark it.

When she stood again, she could barely feel her legs. Not just fatigue.

Fear.

Something in her chest wouldn’t unclench.

She turned her back on the little grave.

And didn’t look back.

She just kept walking.

***

Far to the north, beyond the mountains and past the veil that marked the edge of their world, the Witch of Light sat with her eyes closed, listening.

The forest had brought her whispers.

A girl, flame-haired and stubborn, walking alone. A blade at her hip that carried the scent of old magic. Power spilling from her like water from a cracked cup—unsteady, untrained, leaking out of the young woman in a slow seep.

But there was no fox.

No soft tread beside the girl. No familiar keeping pace in the shadows. That gave the Witch pause—not because the bond was broken, but because it wasn’t. She could feel its thread, taut and true, still humming with shared purpose. And yet, the girl walked alone.

Still, she was coming. Northbound, determined.

The witch opened her eyes.

Her daughter was coming home.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 16 days ago

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Familiar (27/?)

The door creaked open under his hand, but only just. The wood had swelled from weather and neglect. Hinges groaned.The air inside was still, carrying the faint scent of old ash, dried herbs, and the quiet mustiness of a place left undisturbed.

The man stepped inside.

Dust motes stirred in the weak light that filtered through the shutters. The hearth was cold, choked with old ash and half-burned wood. A copper kettle sat at the edge of the stones, its spout blackened, the handle wrapped in fraying cloth. Cobwebs stitched the corners of the rafters.

He walked slowly through the cottage, cloak brushing against a rough-hewn table that bore the faint grooves of years of use—knife marks, candle wax, small burns. The kind of marks a life left behind.

There was a straw mattress in the corner, sunken and rumpled, its surface flattened by more than one occupant. A handmade quilt lay atop it, faded from sunlight, one edge trailing on the floor. Someone had stitched vines along the hem—clumsy, uneven, but patient work. A girl’s hand, maybe. Or an old woman’s.

The windowsill held a tin cup with the brittle remains of wildflowers long dead. Their stems had curled like claws. Dust lay thick across the glass, interrupted only by the delicate footprints of a small bird that must have flown in and out.

He reached out and touched the sill with one gloved finger. Then looked at the smear of grime left behind.

He wiped it off on the inside of his cloak with a faint expression of distaste.

The locals had told him how the old woman had died months ago. Quietly, they said, almost with relief. No one was quite sure how—some said it was her heart, others whispered about a snakebite, and one old woman claimed she'd simply wandered into the woods one night and never came back.

And the girl—her "daughter"—had vanished soon after. Packed up her things and left without a word.

“Not that we were surprised,” one of them had added, leaning too close, breath sour with ale. “Strange girl, that one. Always reading. Disappearing for hours. Came back with blood on her boots once, and no rabbit to show for it.”

Another—one of the baker’s sons, if he remembered right—had chuckled as if he didn’t quite believe his own words. “They said she was a witch. Accused her of it, even. Can you imagine? Dana.” And then, after a beat, almost thoughtfully: “Still. Would explain a few things.”

He had smiled with them. Smiled and nodded, even laughed, playing his part. Let them feel clever. Let them feel brave.

But behind the smile, something dark had curled beneath his ribs.

Fools. Every last one of them. They had probably run her out of town.

They would tear her down if they could—if they believed the rumors enough. If they had even the faintest taste of real fear.

But what they wanted—what they really wanted—was her power.

Power they could never earn.

Power they would never understand.

And yet they sneered and whispered and dreamt of being more than they were. These small, mud-stained creatures. These men and women who wouldn’t know a true spell if it scorched the roof off their thatched hovels.

He had walked away before he did something... memorable.

Still. The rumors had their uses. If the gossip had begun, that meant Dana’s magic had begun to show—just barely, just enough to unsettle people. She might be blooming after all, and the Witch of Light was either unaware… or too weak to act.

He stepped farther into the cottage, letting his hand drift lightly across the edge of the table. There was nothing active here. No wards. No defenses. Just the remnants of careful, ordinary living.

And under it all, something else. Something deeper. Faint, like an echo.

The girl.

Magic.

Not fully bloomed, but seeded. A potential half-stirred. She hadn’t come into it here, but she had been on the cusp of it. If he’d arrived sooner—just a month, a week, even a day—he might have crushed the spark before it caught flame.

Too late now.

He stepped back into the center of the room, turning a slow circle. The Witch of Light had hidden her daughter well. Clever, for a woman so often ruled by her own sentiment. She’d known what he would do if he found the child.

As he had tried once already.

But he’d failed.

And now his own blood was gone. A daughter. A son. Torn from him by that woman’s magic, her defiance, her belief in the prophecy—that foolish, fatal belief that the world would break not from his line, but hers.

She’d sacrificed his children to protect her own.

So be it.

Now her child would die.

The silence pressed close around him. The hearth didn’t so much as sigh. The wind didn’t touch the shutters. Even the dust seemed to hold its breath.

He turned toward the door.

There was nothing more to learn here.

The floor creaked under his boots as he stepped outside.

A young man stood half-concealed behind a hawthorn tree near the lane, one hand braced on the trunk. Watching. Not with the caution of a scout, but the skittish posture of someone trying to look braver than he felt.

The man’s black stallion snorted and stamped its feet, pawing at the earth with disdain.

“Go on then,” the man said dryly. “I can see you.”

The boy started, then straightened. Stepped out from behind the tree and into the clearing with squared shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

The man didn’t answer. Not immediately. He let the boy squirm under his gaze for a few heartbeats before arching a brow.

“Are you a relative of Old Mildred’s?” the boy asked.

The man almost smiled. Old Mildred. Was that what they’d called her? A common farmwoman with a common name. He still couldn’t decide if it was brilliant or disgraceful, that the Witch of Light had hidden her daughter with such a creature. The woman had possessed no gift, no spine, no particular wisdom. Just a small life. A good garden. And apparently, enough trust to be given a child.

“Yes,” he said, smooth as poured oil. “I’m looking for my niece. The young woman who lived here with Mildred.”

“Dana?”

“Mm,” he said. “Have you seen her?”

The boy hesitated. Swallowed. “She left.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t know where.”

“I didn’t ask,” the man murmured, the barest hint of amusement in his tone. “But thank you.”

The boy flushed. “Sorry. Just—”

“What’s your name, son?”

“…Alexander.”

“And how do you know Dana, Alexander?”

There was a pause. The man watched it with mild interest. A little too long, a little too stiff. His guess was correct: guilt for bullying the girl. Or longing. Maybe both.

“She was… my friend.”

The man gave a soft noise, part hum, part breath. “Of course.”

He looked back toward the empty house, as if considering it anew. Then turned to Alexander with a mild expression.

“Well,” he said, “your friend has come into some money. I’d very much like to find her. An inheritance, you see. Quite substantial. May make her the richest woman in the village.”

There it was—the flicker in the boy’s eyes. That greedy little spark.

“She can’t have gone far,” Alexander volunteered, suddenly eager to help.

“Is that right?” the man said softly.

Gods, but the boy was a gift.

“Do you think you could find her for me?”

Alexander hesitated. Looked over his shoulder, toward the road. There was likely a farm there. Hard work. Harder wages. Someone else growing fat on his effort.

“I’m sure you’re an important young man,” the stranger said, “and your work would miss you. And you’d miss your wages. But I’d pay you. Handsomely. And I imagine Dana would be… grateful. She might even pay you herself. Might even kiss you, when she hears the news.”

That landed. The boy flushed red to the ears.

“I can do that,” he said quickly.

“Very good.”

The man stepped closer and reached into the folds of his cloak. When he withdrew his hand, a stone sat on his palm—round, pale, and smooth as riverglass.

“My calling card, if you will,” the man said, holding it out. “You take it to any sheriff or constable in the northern territories, and they’ll know how to find me.”

The boy hesitated before taking it. His fingers closed around the stone slowly, almost reluctantly. But he didn’t speak.

“You find Dana. Give that to them. I’ll come. With your reward.”

A beat. Then:

“And perhaps… you’ll be waiting with a new wife, too. Eh?” He winked.

The boy flushed—neck, ears, face—turning the color of a ripe plum. The man could see the hunger curling into him now, layered over the greed. He knew what the boy had seen in Dana. Knew, too, that the girl had likely never looked at him twice.

But fools like this always thought they might get lucky in the end.

“Yes, sir!” Alexander said, clutching the stone tightly to his chest. He turned as if to go—then hesitated.

“Sir?” he asked, voice a little too casual. “If I’m to find her… I wonder if you might spare a few coins. For travel.”

The man tilted his head.

Alexander rushed on, swallowing hard. “I—I’m not a man of means. If I’m to go beyond the village, I’ll need coin. For food. For horses. Just… to get there faster.”

The Dark Mage stared at him for a long moment, long enough for the boy to squirm.

Then, with a faint sigh of exaggerated patience, he reached into his cloak once more and produced a small pouch.

“Of course,” he said, handing it over. “A token of my faith in you. Let’s hope it’s not misplaced.”

Alexander nodded quickly, the pouch vanishing into his coat like a magician’s prize. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

No. The man was quite sure he would.

But not before serving his purpose.

He watched Alexander jog off down the road, half-running already toward whatever fantasy he’d constructed in his head—one where Dana was grateful, forgiving, wealthy. One where she’d look at him the way he’d always wanted her to. One where she might, gods help her, even kiss him.

The man turned back to his stallion and swung into the saddle with a single smooth motion.

Let the boy chase the dream.

The Dark Mage had other means of finding her.

And when he did—there would be no inheritance. No kiss. No wife.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pipe, lighting it with a flare of magic. Smoke curled up around his head and drifted off on the breeze.

He would find the girl.

And end her.

And her line.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 17 days ago

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Familiar (26/?)

Pain dragged him back into the world.

It started low, pulsing behind his knee—then flared sharp and white through his entire leg the moment he tried to move. He hissed through his teeth, swallowing a sound that might have been a curse. Stars danced at the edges of his vision. He lay still, waiting for them to clear.

The night was cold. Damp. The ground beneath him sucked heat from his skin. He could hear the river nearby, its voice steady and unbothered, as if it hadn’t tried to kill them both hours earlier. Trees crowded in above him, branches black against a sky without stars.

His leg was wrecked.

He didn’t need to touch it to know. The swelling had already set in, tight and hot. His ankle might be broken—or worse.

He shifted, bracing on one elbow, and the pain stabbed so sharply he nearly blacked out.

The memory came rushing in.

He’d hit the water hard. One moment, Dana’s hand was in his—the next, the current had ripped them apart. Then the rock. Half-submerged, invisible until it wasn’t. He’d slammed into it sideways, his ankle twisting with a sickening crunch before the force of the river flipped him over.

He’d tried to scream but swallowed water instead.

The current had dragged him under, tossing him like driftwood. He barely remembered clawing himself free—just the taste of mud and leaves as he’d pulled himself onto the bank, shaking and breathless. One arm at a time. No direction. No strength.

Just the need to survive.

He must have passed out not long after.

Now he was here. Cold. Alone.

And Dana—

The thought landed hard, cracking through the fog in his mind. He sucked in a breath, looking around as if she might be there, just out of sight. But the trees were empty. No footsteps. No flicker of movement. No familiar voice.

He reached for her—quietly, instinctively.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

It felt like reaching into a void.

Panic started to rise. He fumbled for something to hold onto—anything—and his hand brushed the edge of his pocket. Heat pulsed there.

Fox drew it out carefully.

The smooth stone Dana had dropped behind the waterfall. He’d picked it up without thinking—because it felt important to her. Because it hummed like it had been waiting.

It was warm now. Not hot, but alive. A steady thrum, like something remembering.

He turned it over in his palm. It didn’t glow, not exactly. But it pulsed faintly with something old. Something he didn’t understand.

Whatever it was, it mattered to her.

Which meant it mattered to him.

He needed to keep it safe. But pockets didn’t carry through when he shifted. He’d tried that before—coins, tools, a letter once. All vanished in the change. The only thing that returned were his clothes, like the magic had claimed them as part of him.

He couldn’t shift now. Dusk had passed, and dawn was still hours away.

Fox untied the leather cord from the collar of his tunic and wrapped the stone carefully, binding it tight. Then he looped it around his neck and pulled it snug against his skin, pressed tight to his jugular notch.

If he wore it like a collar, the magic wouldn’t need to accept it to let it pass through. It would be around his neck as a human and remain there as a fox.

It was the only idea he had.

And now he needed to address some other important things. Like survival.

No fire. He had no tinder, and Dana carried the flint. Even if he could start one, he wasn’t sure it would be wise. Whoever had been tracking them before— they might still be near. The man on the hill. The raven.

Better to stay cold than get found.

He curled in on himself, arms pulled to his chest. The pain in his leg was a dull, grinding thing now. He let his eyes slip shut.

The cold was biting at the edges of his thoughts, dulling them. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat. The damp earth pressed into his side. He breathed as shallowly as he could, trying not to aggravate the pain.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under.

***

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep—minutes, an hour, more. Dawn was not far off. But the next thing he knew, something tickled his face.

He twitched, eyes fluttering open. A pale moth had landed on his cheek, its wings as still and delicate as pressed parchment.

He blinked at it, too dazed to move.

It lifted. Drifted upward on silent wings.

And behind it—just beyond the flicker of its passing—he saw the eyes.

A figure stood at the edge of the trees.

Not Dana.

Not anyone he knew.

Tall. Still. Dressed in strange layers that didn’t match the season or the terrain. A cloak with too many folds. An odd hat that twisted crookedly toward the sky. And beside him, perched on a low branch, the raven.

Fox didn’t move.

His fingers twitched once near the ground—instinct, muscle memory, a ghost of the blade he wasn’t holding.

The man tilted his head, studying him. His face was unreadable. Eyes like frozen iron. Ancient, but not in the way of age.

"You’ve lost your witch," the man said.

His voice wasn’t cruel.

It was worse than that.

It was calm.

Fox didn’t respond. Not immediately. Every instinct in him was coiled, screaming. His leg throbbed with pain, but his mind stayed sharp. He’d thought he was alone. He’d thought—

“You’re thinking I’m here to kill you,” the man went on, stepping closer. His boots made no sound on the damp earth. “Or to wring some information out of you. About the girl.”

Fox didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“Isn’t that what you’re thinking?” the man asked, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Say something.”

“…Are you?” Fox rasped, voice low. “Here to kill me?”

The man tilted his head again. He looked amused.

“If I were here to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

Fox’s fingers twitched again in the leaves.

“You’ve nothing on you,” the man added. “Not a blade. Not even your teeth.”

The raven cawed once, low and sharp, as if affirming the point.

Fox’s jaw clenched.

“You’ve lost your witch,” the man said again, softer this time. “You might think that makes you weak. Unprotected.”

Fox didn’t answer.

It wasn’t he who was unprotected. It was Dana. And that knowledge burned through him—hot, helpless, maddening. He had failed her. She was out there alone, and he wasn’t at her side to shield her from what came next.

He would tear the world apart to fix that.

The man’s smile widened, slow and knowing.

“Ah, you see? It doesn’t make you weak,” the man said. “It makes you dangerous.”

Fox’s jaw tightened. The cryptic talk was starting to grate. “Who are you?”

“You don’t recognize me?” the man asked.

Fox would have gotten up and left if he’d been able. “Say your name and be done with it.”

“I’ve been called many things,” the man said, tone light but laced with something colder. “Most people are afraid of me. Think me unnatural.”

That, at least, rang true. Everything about the man—the way he moved, the way he spoke—felt off-kilter. Like a creature imitating something human.

Fox eyed him warily. “Aren’t you?”

The man gave a quiet laugh, low and rasping. “We both are. But in opposite ways.”

He stepped forward.

“I am a man who used to be an animal. And you… you are an animal that used to be a man. And still are—though only when the earth has turned her back on the sun. Curious, don’t you think?”

Fox’s stomach knotted. The man knew more than he was letting on.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice low.

The man didn’t answer at first. He looked past Fox, toward the trees, as if something far away was calling to him—or remembering him.

After a long moment, he said, “I lost my witch too.”

Fox blinked. The shift caught him off guard.

“Only difference is… when I lost her, she set me free. Turned me into this.”

His eyes stayed on the trees, distant and lit with something like reverence.

“And now I watch for others like me. Like us.”

A familiar, then, Fox thought. Or something that had once been.

When the man turned back, his eyes were sharper. Focused.

“But you,” he said, “you’re different.”

Fox didn’t flinch. “You’ve been called many things… is one of them pedantic?”

That earned brittle, sharp-edged laughter.

“No,” the man said. “I’ve been called Abomination. Spirit. Devil. The Flayer. The Skinner.”

His voice dropped lower—more intimate.

“But no one knows my real name.”

He removed his hat. His scalp was pale, smooth, gleaming faintly in the dark.

Then he gestured—to the raven, the moth now perched on his shoulder, and the dark viper coiled around his wrist like a living bracelet.

“They’re familiars too. But freed.”

Fox stared, the words catching like thorns.

Finally, quieter now: “You’re not here to kill me?”

The man smiled.

“Son,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 18 days ago

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Familiar (25/?)

In the end, it was her satchel that saved her.

The strap had snagged on a crooked branch that jutted out over the river, jerking her to a sudden halt. The current had tried to claim her, tumbling her through rapids and rocks, but the leather caught fast and held. When she came to, Dana was half-submerged in a dark, eddying pool just off the main current, her body bobbing like some forgotten tethered offering sacrificed to the god of the river.

Everything hurt. Her ribs. Her arms. Her legs. Her head ached with the dull, pulsing throb of a deep bruise. Her wet clothes clung like a second skin—cold, sodden, and heavy. Each breath felt like dragging iron through her chest.

The sky above was pitch black, cloaked in moonless night. No stars peeked through the clouded canopy. The air had the sharp, wet bite of autumn, and the riverbank trees loomed like skeletal sentinels, their limbs creaking faintly in the wind. Judging by the depth of the dark, it had been an hour. Maybe two.

They had jumped right after sunset.

And the last glimpse she’d had of him—he’d still been fighting. His head above the surface, mouth open in a cry she couldn’t hear, one arm flung forward against the pull of the current. Reaching for her.

That image struck like a blow to the ribs—clear and terrible.

Her chest clenched. She sucked in a breath too fast and choked on it, coughing hard as her lungs seized. Her body lurched against the water, and her fingers scrabbled instinctively for the branch that tethered her, bark biting into her raw skin. she struggled for a moment to free herself, then gritting her teeth, she dragged herself inch by inch toward the bank. Her arms shook with the effort.

The mud tried to claim her. It slurped at her boots with each movement, cold and thick. She clawed forward on hands and knees, dragging the weight of her soaked satchel until she collapsed onto a patch of earth strewn with wet leaves.

She lay there for a moment, still and shaking, listening.

Then, low and rasping, she forced the name out of her throat.

“Fox!”

The sound cracked through the trees.

No answer. No rustle of movement. No shout. Just the wind curling through bare branches, the trickle and churn of water, and her own hammering pulse.

She clenched her jaw. Her gaze swept the woods.

No second call. If he could answer, he would have.

And if someone else was listening—she’d told them where to find her.

Dana staggered to her feet.

Everything ached—her knees throbbed, her shoulders burned, her boots squelched with each step—but she turned upstream and began to walk.

She needed to get back to the fork. Back to the place where the river had split and taken him from her.

That was the only direction that mattered now.

The woods were thick and the dark was absolute. Tree roots caught at her feet. Branches scraped her arms. She stumbled more than once, catching herself against trunks slick with moss.

But she kept going.

Even without light, without signs, without knowing how far she had drifted—she followed the current backward as best she could.

Because if she could find where they parted, maybe she could find him too.

The thought kept her upright. Moving.

But the cold was eating through her cloak, her skin, her bones. Each step grew heavier, her breath more ragged. She’d stopped shivering—never a good sign. Her limbs felt clumsy. Her pulse sluggish.

The path before her was nigh on impassable.

When her foot caught on a root and nearly sent her sprawling, she froze. Pressed a hand to the nearest tree for balance.

No more.

Not tonight.

She looked around, vision swimming in the dark, and spotted a slight rise in the ground—a hollow tucked between the roots of two leaning trees. It was enough. It had to be.

She slipped into it, crouching low. The earth here was only slightly drier, but sheltered. She dropped to her knees and began to gather kindling with stiff, clumsy fingers—dried leaves, brittle twigs, and whatever else she could scavenge from the bramble. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached. The flint almost slipped from her hands.

But she kept going.

Strike. Strike. Spark.

At last, a flicker caught. A tiny flame bloomed into life.

She coaxed it gently into a proper fire and collapsed beside it, fumbling to unwrap her cloak. Even wet, the wool would hold some heat. Her boots came off first. Then her tunic, clinging like ice to her skin. She wrung it out and draped it across a crooked branch. Her leggings followed. Then her underthings—just for a moment—long enough to squeeze them dry and spread them near the flames. She kept her cloak wrapped around her back, her face to the fire.

Slowly, painfully, the shivering began to ease.

Her satchel was at her feet. She pulled it toward herself and opened the flap with careful fingers.

The book was there—wrapped in oilcloth, tied with twine. She pulled it out and held it close for a moment. Just a small volume of common plants and their uses, bought in the first nameless village they passed through. She hadn’t known why she wanted it then. She still wasn’t sure.

But she was glad she had it.

She set it aside.

Inside the satchel, she also found a spare linen shirt, still damp—but not soaked. A strip of dried meat. A roll of bandages. A pouch of dried berries and a vial of salt. She had bought them in Highmere, barely thinking. Now they felt like lifelines.

She rifled through the rest—and froze.

The round stone was missing.

Her breath caught. She searched again, more frantically. It was nowhere to be found.

And then she remembered.

Fox had it.

Just before they had jumped into the falls, he had picked it up.

A knot rose in her throat. She shut her eyes and clutched the cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Of course he had it. Of course he’d carried it. That was what he did . Quietly. Constantly.

He kept her warm. Kept watch when she slept. She’d never had to think about things like fire. Or exposure. Or where her blade was, or whether someone was near.

Because he always was.

Because that was what they were. That’s what they’d become.

Her hand dropped instinctively to her belt.

Bite.

The blade had been on her when she fell. She unclasped the sheath and drew it all the out, inspecting the edge—still sharp, unmarred. She laid it across her knees and kept it close.

The fire cracked and spit.

She jumped.

It was ridiculous. But everything felt exposed. Her clothes were scattered across rocks and roots, steaming in the heat. She was alone in a pocket of light and warmth surrounded by miles of dark.

She missed him so badly it made her chest ache.

His steadiness. His silence. The way he watched her without needing to be asked.

And more than that—what had bloomed between them.

She thought of his hand in hers as they stood in the swirling mist behind the waterfall, seconds before they jumped. The look in his eyes. Not fear.

Faith.

She took a breath. Closed her eyes. And reached—not with panic. Not even with desperation. With focus.

Fox , she thought. If you can hear me—

No response. Not even a flicker of recognition in the air.

But after a moment… something in her stirred. Not a word. Not a pull. Just a whisper, low and wordless, somewhere in her chest.

He was alive.

She didn’t know it. But she felt it.

And that was enough.

She opened her eyes and looked down at the blade resting across her knees.

The runes on the blade and along the hilt shimmered faintly in the firelight—worn grooves, familiar shapes. But one of them—

Her breath caught.

Where there had always been a jagged, angular mark, she now saw a word. Plain as ink on parchment.

North.

It wasn’t a guess. It wasn’t a feeling. The letters were there. She could see them.

She reached out, slowly, and touched the word with her fingertip.

But she didn’t feel letters.

Not N. Not O. Not R.

Her skin traced the same rune she’d always known—the same harsh curve, the same etched line. The carving hadn’t changed at all.

Her pulse quickened. A chill prickled the back of her neck.

It wasn’t the blade that had shifted.

It was her.

The magic wasn’t just stirring anymore.

It had started to speak.

She wasn’t sure where Fox was. She had no map, no sign.

But she had a direction. The one they had been going since almost the beginning.

And if he was searching for her—he would go north too.

She stared into the fire a moment longer.

Then she curled tighter into her cloak, one hand on her blade, and whispered into the dark—

“Find me.”

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #familiar #wip

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slippinmickeys · 20 days ago

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Familiar (24/?)

The water hit them like a wall.

Cold. Unyielding. A roaring fist that punched the air from her lungs and stole every sense but motion. For a breathless second, Dana was nowhere and nothing—just pain, just chill, just the sheer impact of the waterfall driving her downward. Her scream was lost in the torrent.

Her hand. Where was his hand?

She kicked and twisted, her legs flailing against the pull of the river, but Fox’s fingers—warm only moments before—had slipped from hers like a thread torn loose. The current spun her sideways, a dizzying spiral of bubbles and weightlessness, her cloak wrapping around her legs like a snare.

She slammed into a submerged boulder and the shock of it ripped the breath from her again. Her boots scraped across stone. Something hard bruised her hip. She fought to surface, the satchel bouncing against her back like an anchor. Up. She had to get up.

A shimmer broke overhead—faint and shifting, like moonlight filtering through mist—and she surged toward it, arms burning, lungs aching. When she finally burst through, the air felt razor-sharp in her throat.

There—just ahead—a shape.

A dark head bobbing up from the water, slick hair plastered to a too-pale face. Arms thrashing. Fox.

Relief and panic warred inside her. She didn’t shout. She didn’t dare. Somewhere behind them—maybe far, maybe near—the man with the staff could still be tracking them. Listening. The waterfall had covered their escape, but not forever.

Instead, she lunged forward, teeth clenched, her strokes ragged. The water poured around her like a beast with a mind of its own. But she was gaining on him—reaching—

Their eyes connected. Their fingers brushed.

Then the current surged.

It tore them apart like parchment in the rain. A swell of whitewater cascaded between them, and Dana was flung sideways into a jagged outcrop. Pain radiated through her ribs. Her vision blurred. She choked and spat river from her mouth.

When she looked again, she was spinning backward, helpless as the river’s fury dragged her farther away. A rock-laced bend loomed ahead. She clawed toward the surface, gasping, and glimpsed him once more.

Fox’s face. Straining toward her. Mouth open. Desperate.

The river split—two wild branches veering off into the trees like the claws of some ancient beast.

He went left.

Dana kicked. Hard. Tried to follow. But the water caught her legs and dragged her right. Her whole body twisted against the current, trying to resist, trying to change course—but it was no use.

"No," she sputtered, powerless. Her limbs ached. Her body refused her commands.

She fought for him. For one more stroke. For one more reach of her hand.

But the river had other plans.

A jutting rock caught her shoulder, spinning her again. The world whirled. Cold and dark and white with foam.

Then—

A crack of pain.

Something slammed into the side of her head. Her vision exploded in stars and shadows. The river swallowed her whole.

She sank.

Her body drifted weightless. Numb. Her arms floated out beside her. Her legs refused to kick.

She could still feel the cold. The press of water. The echo of her name in her skull, even if no one had spoken it.

And then—

Nothing.

Only black.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar

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slippinmickeys · 20 days ago

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Fam, if you haven’t read Time Between the Stars by our own @sigritandtheelves , we’re breaking up. You don’t need to know A Wrinkle In Time to enjoy it! It’s a love letter to our favorite love story, and it works SO WELL it’s like AWIT and TXF were made to be merged.

Go. Go now. *cocks Well Manicured Man’s gun*

#fanfic #the x-files #msr #au #time between the stars #sigritandtheelves

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slippinmickeys · 20 days ago

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Familiar (23/?)

They were drenched. Dana’s clothes clung to her skin, her hair plastered to her cheeks as she leaned against the stone wall catching her breath. Fox sat a few feet away, fur matted and dripping, flanks rising and falling with each breath. His eyes were watchful, his ears twitching now and then at the roar of water pounding just beyond the cavern’s veil.

The sound was deafening, a steady roar that filled the space, vibrating through stone and bone. Mist clung to them, curling in pale tendrils like breath made visible. It wasn’t warm, it wasn’t comfort—but it was hidden, for now, from whoever it was that followed them.

Dana lowered herself to the wet stone floor and sat cross-legged, arms wrapped around her chest. Every inch of her ached from running, climbing, surviving. The cold had sunk into her bones, and she was trembling with it. But they were alive. For the moment.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t want to. Just let the silence stretch.

After a while, she noticed it—a faint warmth at her hip.

Her satchel.

She sat up straighter and unbuckled the flap. The warmth intensified, a slow pulse against her fingers. She reached in and pulled out the stone.

It was glowing again.

Green light flared softly from the etched surface, casting shifting shadows along the walls of the small cavern. The markings shimmered faintly, clearer now than ever before.

Dana turned toward Fox—and startled.

He was still there, still seated, but his golden eyes had gone pale. Not white. Not blind. Gray. Like smoke drifting over still water.

She gasped and dropped the stone. It hit the wet floor with a small splash and skittered away into the shadows.

"No—!" She scrambled after it, panic lancing through her. The glow was already dimming.

She groped blindly in the dark, palms scraping cold stone. Her breath came fast. The roar of the waterfall behind her was relentless, making it hard to think. Hard to breathe.

Then—she felt it.

Not the stone.

Fox.

"Dana?"

His voice.

She whipped around.

He was standing there in the shadows, his tunic soaked and clinging to him, chest heaving from exertion. Human again. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his jaw tight, a thin scrape bleeding at his temple. He looked like he’d been torn apart and put back together in a hurry.

“Fox!”

She ran to him without thinking. He caught her mid-step, arms locking around her in a hold so solid, so sudden, it knocked the breath from her lungs.

They stood there for a beat—just holding on.

He was shaking. So was she. Not from the cold, though that was part of it. From everything. From the running. From the fear.

And from something else.

She felt it in the way his hand slid to the back of her neck. In the way his breath caught when she curled her fingers into the soaked fabric of his tunic.

That morning, they’d kissed like the world had fallen away.

And then it had.

Now here they were again, breathless and clinging to each other in the dark, as if the river hadn’t torn them apart. As if the world might hold still for just one more moment.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. Water clung to his lashes. His lips were parted like he might speak. So were hers.

But nothing came.

Instead, she let her forehead rest against his collarbone, eyes closing against the ache of everything she didn’t know how to say.

Then, softly, she whispered, “The stone. With the etching. I dropped it. Help me find it?”

He nodded and released her gently. "We need to be quick."

The sound of the torrent was overwhelming now, a constant pressure against the world. They crouched low, feeling across the wet floor.

"I can’t see a damn thing," she muttered, hands slipping over slick stone.

"We need light," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the rush.

There was a faint amber glow behind the waterfall—the last rays of the setting sun—but it was fading fast.

Dana closed her eyes, trying to calm the panic rising in her chest. She focused on the stone. On the shape of it. On what it had felt like in her hand.

And then—something.

A prickling sensation. A pulse.

Fox’s thoughts brushed hers.

That—hold onto it!

Her eyes flew open.

In her palm, a tiny light sparked to life. Weak, flickering, but enough.

Fox gazed at the light, his eyes wide, his expression one of exhilaration.

"Your magic," he muttered.

But there was no time to dwell on this new power. Her eyes scanned the wet floor at their feet.

"There!" she pointed.

Fox lunged forward and scooped up the stone. As soon as he touched it, they both froze.

A sudden awareness pressed in around them. They weren’t alone.

Somewhere beyond the waterfall. Close.

The man. And his familiar.

The light in her palm winked out.

"What do we do?" she whispered.

Fox turned slowly toward the wall of water. His jaw was set.

"We jump," he said.

Dana stared at him. Her heart kicked. The roar outside wasn’t just sound—it was danger incarnate.

"Jump?"

"There’s a pool below," he said, urgency sharpening his voice. "Deep enough. I saw it earlier when I climbed the bank. It’s fast-moving, but it’s our only way out."

“What if we hit the rocks?”

“We won’t,” Fox said. “The pool’s wide. Deep. The current will carry us downriver, away from the raven, away from the man. It’s a risk—but it’s better than waiting.”

Waiting meant being trapped.

Being caught.

Dana’s eyes flicked to the waterfall, to the cold, relentless veil that separated them from whatever hunted on the other side.

She didn’t need to ask what came next. She already knew.

Fox held out his hand. “We go together. And we don’t let go.”

A low, grinding sound echoed faintly from the passage they came through. Something shifting. Something moving.

Dana’s breath caught and she took his hand.

"They’re close," Fox said, tense. "Maybe one turn away."

The pressure in the air thickened. Mist billowed into the cavern like breath exhaled by a monster. The dying daylight behind the falls dimmed.

She looked down at their joined hands. At the water veiling their escape. It felt mad. Desperate. But there was no time left for anything else.

"What if we drown?"

His grip tightened.

"Then we drown together."

She swallowed hard and nodded.

They stood, facing the wall of water. The roar was everywhere. The light was gone.

Another sound—closer now. A scrape of stone on stone.

Fox met her eyes. "Ready?"

"No."

He smiled faintly. "Me neither."

Together, they ran.

And jumped.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #familiar #bonus second chapter today (the last probably)

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