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[slippinmickeys]

I've just rewatched Tooms and the fierce protection those two exert on each other is just *chef's kiss*! How are we supposed to believe they didn't get it on until season 7 when the adrenaline and the tension are running higher than the stars?

God, what to make of this. I try to put my storytelling hat on when I think about this, but I can't make heads or tails of it. It's not how I would have done it, but then, they didn't set out to make show that turned into a romance. That was somehow, gloriously, deliciously inevitable. You'd have to be a genius to showrun that. (I'm not saying CC wasn't a genius, but that wasn't what he had set out to do.)

Squeeze, Ice, Tooms, good lord, the tension! The trust! And all of it so EARLY! Scully held a man at gunpoint to rescue Mulder in EPISODE TWO.

When Scully was taken, I think Melissa saw it all for what it is and what it ended up being (they are each the love of each other's lives). She all but said as much to Mulder, but he was so angry and lost at the time, I think it just made him angrier. In fact, I think he was so angry at her trying to tell him something important that he didn't even really hear her words. He did do ask she asked, though. I wonder if Melissa had lived, if and when she would have said something in a similar vein to Scully. As for 7 years? I can believe it. These two repressed idiots? Who knows. I don't really buy into the Season of Secret Sex (not saying I won't breathlessly read a fanfiction of SOSS). If the writers say it took seven years, then it took seven years.

But my god, can you image the RELEASE? Seven years of shaking a Coke can and that bottle is going to BLOW.

[slippinmickeys]

I asked Twitter to give me some drabble prompts as well, and boy did they:

They’d been on the road for hours and the tank was running low, having burned extra fuel passing a convoy of Army trucks through the Ozarks. They rattled off the highway and through a gravely intersection, the haze of Missouri’s farms clinging to the car in a fine layer of dust, and Mulder opted for the Kum & Go instead of the Mobile station merely for the pleasure of needling Scully with innuendo.

The storefront of the station was bright and bustling, its windows peddling cigarettes and Route 66 tchotch, and his partner stretched languidly before slamming her door and heading inside. The handle of the gas pump was gummy and the prices were insane, but it was worth filling the tank if only to watch the sway of Scully’s hips as she walked away from the car.

A ratty old coupe pulled up next to him and four college-aged boys unfolded out of it, one tipping the last dregs of a can of Mountain Dew into his yaw. They were probably hungover but they were still brimming with energy, youth, their skin sun-kissed and pliant. They could put anything in their bodies and it would turn into thin, ropey muscle. Just looking at them made Mulder’s knees ache. He watched them over the roof of their rented Ford.

The driver of the coupe loped off toward the cashier window with a handful of crumpled bills and loose change, and the three other boys, left to their own teenaged devices, started scrumming on the asphalt, kicking at one another joyfully, laughing too loud and getting in other car’s way. A sharp honk from a Honda cowed them back to their own vehicle, but spurred them into defiance, and they shouted obscenities at the older driver as they leaned back against their car.

A flash of spun gold caught the edge of his vision, and he turned to see Scully making her way back to him, her hair bright as corona in the sharp slant of the sun. Her beauty was not lost on the boys next to him, who quieted upon her approach, their eyes fixed on her like statues, her heels snapping crisply on the tarry blacktop.

Scully seemed not to notice their gaze, or if she did, she gave no sign of it, though her eyes flicked to Mulder’s as she neared the side of the Taurus. As she reached for the door handle, the air was pierced with a single sharp wolf whistle. Mulder felt his dander rise like mercury but he said nothing, and the boys leaning against the coupe watched Scully in curious regard, waiting for a reaction.

His partner did nothing but pause casually in the doorway of the Taurus and carefully unbutton her suit coat, shrugging it off her shoulders as one of the boys hissed something too quiet for Mulder to hear. She folded the jacket and turned to deposit it in the car’s rear seat, turning to reveal to the teens behind her the steely black grip of her Glock, the leather of its holster a dull matte in the rays of the sun.

Mulder heard one of the boys mutter a quiet “oh shit,” and he rehung the gas pump handle as Scully slid into the car with a small smile, the boys behind her doing the same, clamoring against each other in their haste.

Mulder got in the car himself and secured his seatbelt before turning to his partner.

“You enjoy that?” he asked.

“Immensely,” she said, not meeting his eyes, but grinning toward the dash.

Mulder chuffed a laugh and ground the ignition, unable to contain a smile.

“Atta girl,” he said.

[slippinmickeys]

Belated Birthday wishes and a Prompt: Valley of the Sun

More about Mulder and crews actual dig site, discoveries there and more on the birth of their child. The excavation is the babies sand box.

1. They came back from the dig late, in high spirits, knees covered in grime. Everyone else was already in the mess, finishing up the last of their dinner. Scully had saved each of them a plate.

“You’re annoyingly pert,” Frohike said from beside her, handing one of the plates up to Byers, who accepted it with a smile.

“Yep,” said Langly.

“You’re annoyingly cagey, too,” said a grad student to a few approving chuckles.

“That’s because,” Mulder said, sitting down next to Scully with his own plate. “We found a jawbone today.”

The entire mess went quiet.

“Human?” asked Jennica, one of the new students that Scully liked best.

“Yes,” said Byers around a mouthful of bread.

“You’re kidding,” Scully finally said.

“Nope,” Mulder said. “Think we may have at least a partial skeleton.”

“We found pottery shards, too,” said Langly smugly.

Scully looked at Mulder in wonder.

“Show me,” she said.

2. Scully stood above the dig, waiting for Mulder to give her a hand down into the squared off pit. She was feeling pendulous lately, heavy. Their cot was hurting her hips. Still, she refused to leave the site.

“The local tribes give birth in the jungle all the time,” she would say. “I can do it, too.”

Mulder didn’t love it, but he respected her decision.

“Come on,” he said now, reaching up a hand.

She grasped it gratefully and let him hold her elbow, leading her along the walking path to the area where three different grad students were on their knees in the dirt.

“Just there,” he said quietly, and one of the students leaned back so that Scully could get a better look.

“I‘ll be damned,” she said, leaning onto her knees and squinting, trying to get a better look at the jawbone. “How old?”

“A thousand at least. Probably two.”

“Amazing.”

Mulder hummed an agreement.

“The teeth are intact,” she noticed.

“Yep,” Mulder said. “I’m hoping we can pull a genome.”

The walkie on Mulder’s hip blipped and he stepped away to talk to base camp.

Scully looked over the dig while he talked in a low voice and waved to Langly who was using the dry screen under a portable tent.

When Mulder came back, he squeezed Scully’s arm affectionately.

“Your surprise is almost here,” he said.

“My surprise?” Scully asked.

3. They stood on the riverbank and watched a couple of capuchins swinging away into the trees as the sound of an approaching motor slowly grew louder from downriver.

“You know I hate surprises,” Scully said nervously, keeping her eyes on the river bend for a first glance of the approaching boat.

“You’re going to like this one,” Mulder said with confidence.

Scully turned to give him an annoyed look.

“Ah,” he said, not taking his eyes off the river, and Scully turned to follow his gaze.

The boat was finally in view, being piloted by Martim as opposed to one of the local river men. There was a figure in the back of the boat that Scully couldn’t yet make out.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“Your midwife,” Mulder finally said, looking down at her with a smile.

“My-”

She cut herself off as the figure in the back of the boat finally came into focus.

“MISSY!” she shouted, as undignified a shout as the rainforest had ever heard. Her sister, beaming, waved at her from the stern of the little vessel.

4. “Breathe,” Melissa said, rubbing the small of Scully’s back. “Ten more seconds. You’re almost through this one.”

Her stomach was a tight knot of the purest pain. How did women survive this, she wondered, and then want to do it again?

Another few seconds and the pain eased and Scully exhaled, relaxing back into the cot.

“Did you bring the drugs?” She panted in her sister’s direction, her head rolling toward Melissa on the pillow. “I want the drugs.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that, little sister,” Missy said.

“It’s never too late for drugs,” said a voice from the tent flap.

Scully glanced up at Frohike, who stood there, hovering.

Melissa turned to him, giving him a serious look.

“Is he close?” she asked the little man in a quiet voice.

Frohike nodded.

“Get him here now,” Melissa said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“He’s just washing up,” Frohike said, then disappeared from the tent flap.

Mulder came through a minute later, toweling his hair dry.

“Heard you were trying to do this without me,” he said with a smile, tossing the towel to the floor and kneeling down next to the bed to take Scully’s hand.

“I didn’t think it would happen this fast,” Scully said, and could feel another contraction coming on, the pain so intense she let out a howl.

“I did,” Missy said under her breath.

Scully was too caught up in the grip of agony to give her any grief for it.

“I’m here now,” was all Mulder said, and took the washcloth from the dish next to the cot to wipe gently at Scully’s brow.

The contraction eased and Mulder turned to Melissa.

“How we doing?” Mulder asked.

Missy looked at her watch again and gave him a grim smile.

All of the sudden, the most intense urge to push overwhelmed Scully, a feeling as inevitable as gravity. She couldn’t have fought it if she tried.

“I’m feeling really pushy,” she said.

Missy immediately moved to the end of the cot.

“I’m going to check you,” her sister said. A moment later she looked up from in between Scully’s legs. “We’re at 10,” she said excitedly. “This is it.”

Thirty minutes later, all sounds of the rainforest went quiet, and a wet, warm, squalling newborn was placed on Scully’s bare chest. Her arms went around it, and she felt a burst of euphoria at the dump of oxytocin into her bloodstream. Oh, she thought. I want to do it again.

Mulder looked at them both with awe, tears in his eyes.

“Well?” said Melissa, who flitted her eyes up to Mulder briefly before turning her attention back toward Scully.

“We have a son,” Mulder said, breathlessly.

5. Scully emerged from the jungle path and out to the wide cleared area of the dig.

Mulder hailed her from twenty yards away, dismissing the group of students that had been clustered around him.

She met him halfway and he leaned in for a kiss.

“Where’s the boy wonder?” she asked, and Mulder turned to look over at a lower section of the dig where Frohike was hunched. The little man looked up and waved.

“Frohike’s in the dirt?” Scully asked, surprised.

“You’ll see,” Mulder grinned.

They made their way over to the lower pit, stepping around stacks of buckets and small canvas bags of tools.

“You guys finding anything?” Mulder asked as they leaned over to look in.

At the bottom of the small squared off pit sat Frohike, across from a two-year-old William, who was earnestly attacking something in the dirt with a two-inch brush.

“Bit of pottery, I think,” Frohike said proudly. “Kid’s a natural.”

Scully rubbed her stomach and smiled up at the boy’s father.

She hadn’t told him yet. Maybe she would tonight.

[slippinmickeys]

This is for @medicatedmaniac who asked for a Ficlet set in the Proof of Life Universe: “Proof of Life my beloved - maybe the leadup to the Pulitzer prize being awarded? Maybe the night of and their in their hotel room getting ready to go to the ceremony? Or they get a letter about being nominated in the mail and maybe have mixed feelings on the nomination?”

1. She gets caught as she stands on the threshold of the hotel room, déjà vu suddenly overlaying her vision like a slide into a projector. The window is in the same place. The desk. The carpet is the same, though cleaner. If she closed her eyes she would hear a spat of gunfire. She does not close her eyes.

“Scully?” says Mulder from behind her with a gentle hand on her upper back.

She has stayed in hotel rooms since being held hostage in Africa, but this one…this one has a layout so similar to the one in which she was held that her amygdala takes over her higher functions. For a moment. One moment. Then she swallows and forces herself to breathe again. Forces herself to calm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mulder whispers. He has come up more closely behind her, is looking over her shoulder into the room.

He is the only other person in the world who would get it, and does.

In a moment, the bags he was holding hit the floor and he brushes past her, marches into the room with purpose, directly to the desk, where he picks up the telephone receiver.

“I’m getting us a different room,” he says.

Scully swallows thickly and finally does close her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. She does not hear gunfire. They are an ocean away from that place.

“Wait,” she says, then moves into the room herself. Stands in the center and takes a slow turn. Mulder, still standing at the desk, still holding the phone receiver in his hand, watches her.

She turns to him calmly, and, she thinks, with dignity.

“Before you call,” she says, “take my picture.”

“Take your-”

“Take my picture,” she says. “In front of the window.”

Mulder slowly lowers the phone. Glances at her. Glances at the window. She doesn’t have to explain what she means. He understands immediately.

“A journey of a thousand days,” he husks.

Scully nods. “The light,” she goes on, “is perfect.”

2. Africa again, but far east of the jungle mountains and lowlands besieged by war, they are now in the shadows of Kilimanjaro, the savannah stretching before them as paper unfurls from a scroll.

Scully is here for six months, the resident doctor in a rural hospital built and supplied by a Canadian charity. She treats diseases long dead in the First World west, urges the women to collect water from the new well six miles away rather than the river that is only two.

She has a local guide and contact who works for the charity, a lanky Maasai man who goes by the Christian name of James. He wears ropes of delicate and colorful beads and a lion's tooth on a cord around his neck. Under his red tunic he wears a white Hanes wifebeater and sandals made of old tires. He is missing a tooth on the side of his smile, which he is also always wearing.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he says in his friendly accent when she emerges from the clinic door to see if there is anyone waiting for treatment.

“Jambo!” Scully says at a volume and enthusiasm which makes her uncomfortable. She would rather a quiet hello and nod, but the culture she is living in necessitates jovial greetings at all times.

James is leaning against a post just beyond clinic porch and holding a spear which means he was likely out in the bush.

“Have you seen Mulder?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. “He got a call. He asked me to come and get you.”

At this, Scully raises her eyes. Cell phone reception is spotty here at best. She hasn’t bothered to carry her phone with her in weeks. Mulder always has his out in the field, but the clinic is in a dead zone and there’s really no point.

James pulls his own cell phone out of a pouch that’s looped around his waist. He presses a button and hands it to her.

“Scully?” says a tinny voice punctuated by static. She puts the phone to her ear.

“Mulder?”

“Scully,” Mulder says. “Call Benjamin and Savato, tell them we have to leave early.” He explains his statement in a rush and Scully is dumbfounded when she silently hands the phone back to James.

He nods at her and steps back respectfully. When she’s halfway through the door of the clinic, she comes back to herself and spins around.

“James!” She calls out. “How does your phone work here?”

James smiles widely, showing the gap in his mouth.

“Magic,” he says.

3. The day is sullen; gray and without cheer. Outside the window, the rain comes down in a defenestrating assault.

In the bright doorway of the bathroom — they have a top floor suite — Mulder stands, struggling with the knot of a bow tie.

“Monkey suit,” he says, a little whiny.

Scully smiles and walks up to him, the silk sheath dress she’s wearing whispering as she moves. She’s not wearing heels yet and has to tilt her head back to look up at him.

“It’s only for an evening,” she says, reaching up and taking over the knotting. “And if the big mucks at Columbia hear you complaining, they might take back your award.”

Mulder lifts his chin to give her more room to work. After a moment she feels his warm hands settle on her waist.

“There,” she says, straightening his bow tie. His hands stay where they are.

“Does it feel weird?” He asks her quietly. “To be here? For this?”

She pulls a stray hair — hers — from his white sleeve.

“A little,” she says.

4. “…for fairly obvious reasons, the areas of arts of scholarly arenas live close to my heart and lived experience. Over these two decades, so much has changed in our world. And we all know those changes have had huge impacts on journalism, the arts and scholarship. But three things have remained true. One, is that we value these roles of journalism, the arts and scholarship, and that has remained central to a good life. Personally, socially and politically. The second is that good and talented people continue to join these professions. And the third is that the Pulitzer Prizes annually provide the world with the occasion like tonight, to honor and celebrate these critically important areas of human endeavor, and the people who perform at the highest levels in them…”

The speaker continues to drone on. Scully pushes the remainder of her short rib around on her plate. Mulder has barely touched his fish.

The picture of Scully standing in the window of room 1055 at the Hilton has been projected on a giant screen behind the podium for the last several minutes, and Scully can feel the eyes of the gathered assemblage flitting to her on a near constant basis.

They’re probably thinking of her trauma, of her experience, and they have most certainly read the stories that were breathlessly published about her and Mulder. Most of them have seen up close and personal the ravages of war and upheaval. There are several journalists she knows here, acquaintances she left behind when she resigned from CNN. Most of them approached before the ceremony and politely inquired about her, her health, what she was up to now. Many with a sad, pitying look on their faces.

She sets down her fork and turns the wedding ring around in circles on her finger. She doesn’t feel pity when she looks at that picture. The look on that woman’s face displays nothing but courage, and the eye behind the camera nothing but love.

When Mulder heads up to the stage a moment later to be handed the certificate he won, the applause that spreads through the room is thunderous. His eyes never once leave hers.

5. The lobby of the auditorium is thick with people and humidity, joyous voices rising up over the static of tires sloshing over rainy streets just beyond the front doors. They’ve been back in the States for a week, but Scully still isn’t used to the crowds. The noise.

From behind her, Mulder touches the bare skin of her shoulder. He’s just returned from the coat check and holds up the red wool coat she’d had to buy at Nordstrom two days before. She puts her arms through the silken sleeves.

All around them winners and colleagues and friends are making plans to go out and celebrate their accomplishments. One man in a charcoal suit has a bottle of Veuve in his hand that he swiped off of one of the tables. Several people have invited them to join them.

Mulder tips his head to whisper in her ear.

“We can slip out right now when no one’s looking,” he says.

She doesn’t even wait to answer, using her small stature to slip in between several people and out into the cold damp.

They’ve been provided a town car and driver for the evening, but it’s too hard to find him in the chaos outside the auditorium, so they hail a cab instead. Once they’re on their way back to their hotel, Mulder pulls the certificate out from under his coat where it was sheltered from the rain and looks at it.

“I’m starving,” he says to the piece of paper.

“You barely ate,” Scully points out.

“I was nervous,” he explains.

Scully takes the certificate gently from his hands and looks at it. The gold foil. The calligraphy.

“If we call in a room service order now, it should be to our room by the time we get out of the shower,” she says.

“God I love you,” Mulder says reverently.

They gorge themsevles on cheeseburgers and truffle fries, and, on a whim, a bottle of champagne (Mumm’s rather than Veuve, as, Mulder points out, he isn’t about to spend his prize money on booze) as they sit around in fluffy white robes with HBO on mute on the big TV in the corner.

On the desktop, under their room key, sits the Pulitzer certificate.

“That’s as much yours as it is mine,” Mulder finally says to her, nodding towards it.

“Yes,” she agrees, and sets a half full glass of bubbles on the bedside table. She reaches for the terry cloth tie of his robe.

Later, it’s all soft sighs on soft sheets and Mulder fills her with himself until they become each other.

[slippinmickeys]

Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness //The X-Files, 1x17

[slippinmickeys]

Happy Birthday to one of my favorite writers!! I hope it was a good one. If you’re still doing drabbles my one word prompt to you is “funfetti” because that is synonymous with birthday imo 🥳

Thank you so much!

Between them, William sleeps fitfully, his scrawny colt-like leg poking out of the covers and twitching into Scully’s ankle. He is almost as tall as she is. Mulder had moved a nightlight into the bedroom when the boy had come in at 2 am, complaining of a sore throat. In the weak light, Scully can see a sheen of fever-sweat over his brow. It’s almost time for Ibuprofen.

He’d shown no tell-tale signs of impending illness earlier in the day, was full of the boundless energy of 9, and had spent the morning holed up with Mulder in the garage tinkering with the old lawnmower. He’d asked for a triple-decker PB&J for lunch and then begged Scully to help him make funfetti cupcakes even though he still had grease under his fingernails. He’d somehow convinced Mulder to let him eat four. If anything she’d have guessed an upset stomach, but here they are with what is likely strep.

From William’s other side Mulder sighs in his sleep, shifting on the narrow bit of mattress not taken over by his son. A moment later, Scully hears the same gentle sigh from William. Then it’s a sniff, then a cough, and then a feeble “Mom?”

“Shh, it’s okay.” She reaches out to feel his forehead, then the soft, taut skin of his back. The fever is still there, but low grade. “It’s time for Ibuprofen,” she says softly, unable to keep herself from sliding her hand up his back to finger the ducktail of hair at the base of his skull.

“Okay,” the boy says. He’s old enough to take pills but still prefers the cherry stuff.

“I’ll get it,” Mulder rumbles, and slides out of bed, coming back a minute later holding the little cup. He clicks on his bedside light then throws a tee shirt over the top of it when Will squints uncomfortably at the brightness.

In the hazy, muted light, the boy sits up and throws back the medicine.

“I have Little League tomorrow.”

Scully glances at the clock. 5:45. He has Little League today.

“I’ll call your coach,” she says, already cataloging the other things she needs to do: schedule an appointment with the pediatrician, call the school, see if Barr can take her 9:00 am autopsy.

“But we’re playing the Blue Jays,” the boy whines. “They need my bat.” His last word is cut off by a short burst of coughing.

“It’s still spring ball, bud,” Mulder says gently. “You guys aren’t going to miss the playoffs if you miss one game.”

“They'll lose without me,” he says sullenly.

The boy is probably right, but arguing the statistical probability of a win or loss of the Farr’s Corner U-10 Tigers without William Mulder’s bat is not something she’s willing to get into before 6:00 am.

“You need to try to get some more sleep,” she says.

The boy settles back into the pillows unhappily.

Mulder turns off the light and pulls on the tee shirt that was covering it and Scully thinks about the bulb-warmed fabric sliding over his skin.

He comes around to her side of the bed and squeezes her elbow with a smile and then shuffles down the dusty hallway toward the kitchen.

Beside her, William turns over and sighs into her arm, his body going gradually limp with sleep. The clock beside her flicks another minute higher, then another.

She smells the warm tang of coffee and the boy beside her shifts and the sky turns the barest pink and the Earth spins, spins, spins.

[slippinmickeys]

Okay, loving playing In the Valley of the Sun today. Would welcome any more prompts in that Universe!

Would play in the Proof of Life universe too!

[slippinmickeys]

Happy Birthday-- and hope it's been a good one!

Can't wait to read your words later~. :DDDD

Aw, thank you!! 🥹🥹

[slippinmickeys]

happy birthday! drabble prompt in re: the amazon scientist/archaeologist au for you if you want: scully finding out she's won the nobel prize

(I just love that fic so much, no pressure!)

Quick and dirty, no beta.

Above the canopy of the jungle, the sky was the same liquidy pink as a bottle of rosé. The heat was easing with the setting of the sun, but Mulder still mopped the sweat off his brow with an already soiled handkerchief. 

Byers met him at the trailhead with a bottle of water that was opaque with condensation. 

“Hey,” Mulder said, accepting it gratefully. “I miss anything while I was at the site?” 

Byers shook his head and fell in step beside him as they entered the perimeter of the camp. 

“Not really,” he said. “Frohike had some luck unscrambling the data on the last sweep, but it didn’t show anything.” 

“I’d like to take a look anyway,” Mulder said.

“I figured,” Byers replied. “We’ve got it loaded on the ThinkPad.” 

The calls of the night animals were beginning, a gradual swell of sound. Mulder bade Byers farewell, ducking under the flap to his tent for a quick towel bath and a change of clothes.

He was surprised to find Scully inside, leaning over the small table they had shoved into the corner of the tent. 

“Hey,” he said, feeling a smile blossom on his face with the greeting. “I thought you and Miguel wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Weren’t you overnighting in section three?”

Scully answered him but continued whatever she was doing at the table. “The locals reported a jaguar sighting there three nights ago. Decided to play it safe.”

Drawn to her by some unknowable force, Mulder sidled up to her and pressed into her from behind. She straightened and he bent to sniff her neck, mumbling into the warm skin there. “Good. I like when you play it safe.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, reaching up to wrap an arm around his neck from behind. The soft animal of her body pressed into his and he felt a flare of wanting. 

He was about to take things further when there was a call from outside the tent. 

“Mulder?” came Langly’s voice. 

With regret, Mulder took a step back from Scully and affirmed his presence. The canvas flap came up a moment later letting in the last of the day’s dim light. Langly’s eyes flitted between the two of them. 

“We’ve got a sat call,” he said, with some gravity. 

The camp had a satellite phone in case of emergencies. They rarely used it, and never – not once in the three years of the project – had they ever gotten an incoming call on it. 

Mulder was about to step forward when Langly licked his lips. 

“It’s for Dr. Scully,” he said. 

Mulder immediately met his lover’s eyes and she rushed out of the tent to the area of the mess where the sat phone lived. He was right on her heels. She was probably thinking the same thing he was: something had happened to her mother. To another family member. Someone was likely dead. 

She tore into the mess almost at a run and grabbed the chunky phone out of Frohike’s hands, who took a step back and swung his eyes to Mulder, mouthing something Mulder couldn’t make out. 

Mulder ignored him, his gaze intent on Scully who mumbled something into the receiver, swallowing thickly. 

Mulder could hear talking on the other end of the phone, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Scully’s forehead crinkled into a confused chevron and then she grabbed the table that housed a majority of the computer equipment, suddenly swaying on her feet. 

“Get her a chair!” Mulder shouted, but Langly, who’d come in behind them, was already pushing a camp chair up to Scully, who lowered herself into it shakily. 

“Okay,” she finally said. “Thank you.” And her hand holding the receiver dropped into her lap, the greenish light on its small screen flicking off. 

Mulder stepped forward and lowered himself until he was kneeling in front of her. 

“Scully?” he said. She had a dissociated look about her that scared him. He put his warm hand on her knee. “Honey?” he said. 

At this, she finally looked up. 

“I–” she started, still dazed. “I just won the Nobel Prize.”

[slippinmickeys]

All I want for my birthday is to read good fic and maybe do some Drabble-ish writing. Send prompts?

[slippinmickeys]

Twelve opening sentences to twelve different fics

Thanks to @slippinmickeys for the tag! This was really fun and I wholeheartedly encourage everyone to give it a go!

***

1. Dana Scully rejects tasseography, astrology, tarot cards, chiromancy, augury, crystallography, spirit boards, runecasting, scrying, and all other methods of prognosticative divination.

- The Parting Glass (FTF)

2. He sits on the porch next to a little propane heater, gazing out at the Winter Hexagon as it slowly rolls above the horizon.

- Albedo (Cozy at the Unremarkable House)

3. She recites The Raven to herself on the drive in, lists all the state capitals in alphabetical order, and goes through the periodic table.

- In The Gale (IWTB)

4. “I got each flavor of the high-protein kind,” Scully says, gesturing at the cans stacked on her coffee table.

The Ineluctable Tendencies Of Tumbling Toast (Queequeg)

5. Their cars are conspicuous in the nearly empty parking lot, which magnifies the free-floating uncertainty.

Dichotomous (s11e09)

6. Lauren Atwater sits on the edge of the front stoop, drinking coffee out of a worn plastic travel mug she bought a year ago from a Dunkin' Donuts in Abilene

A Dim Capacity For Wings (On the run)

7. That Phoebe Green brought this to her attention is somehow the most rankling thing about it, Scully thinks.

Anthemoessa (Scully - Bedelia - Stella - Clone Club)

8. Sunday morning is pancake morning, and William charges into his parents’ room just shy of 7 am.

Dryad (AU casefile)

9. They’ve been going through the storage room for hours, marveling at the sheer volume of items her mother had held onto.

Madeleine (s10e04)

10. The bodies are small, the heaviest weighing in at forty-seven pounds.

Hic Jacet (Emily)

11. There are ghosts afoot in London, stirred by the excesses of humanity in the face of their own dull eternity.

White Winter Hymnal (post Bad Blood)

12. She finds Mulder behind the house, drowsing in one of the hammocks they’d strung between the ancient oaks that tower above their patch of the planet.

Rags of Light (IWTB)

[slippinmickeys]

Twelve opening sentences to twelve different fics.

“It was an inauspicious start to the mission, he had to admit.”

-The Mesas of Deuteronilus Mensae

“It is a cannon fodder neighborhood, Scully thinks, the kind you only get out of the hard way.”

-The Snallygaster

“Dana Scully was, foremost, a believer.”

-Out of the Little Grove

“Without the churn of industry raising global temperatures, the earth slid back into the Holocene”

-North of Zero

“Stonehenge had called to him with its mythical bent, the ringing of its igneous bluestones a clanging tomentum to the spiritual hole inside of him.”

-The River Avon

“It was only after the major-domo announced her that Lady Dana Scully gave any thought to the state of her dress.”

-The Countess/The Regency Files

“He’d never had her picture up on his desk, didn’t even have one in his wallet.”

-Of the Eight Winds

“Margaret Scully remembered the day her youngest daughter had come into the world, affronted and wailing, with her father’s nose and his bright red hair.”

-Extraordinary

“They were never going to make it to Shinesburg.”

-Storm Front

“The worst thing about it was the screaming.”

-Three Part Harmony

“When she’s shoved into the hotel room, it is on a scorching dump of adrenaline; dry-throat, sphincter-clenching, pure terror.”

-Proof of Life

““You can’t tell anyone I gave this to you,” she said, and he had a sudden almost-psychic sexual flash of his cock splitting the soft autumn fur at her center.”

-The Post

Tagging…whoever wants to do it! @aloysiavirgata @monikafilefan @admiralty-xfd idk

[slippinmickeys]

ASK ME ANYTHING, SHE SAYS

Olay, DO MORE FISHER KING 💁🏼‍♀️

He marries her on the Vineyard in October. She didn’t want to be a June bride. She didn’t want to sweat and have her hair frizz and her fine vellum skin be lumpy with mosquito bites. She wanted to be cool and auburn and lovely, and it’s why he married her at all.

***

He gazed at her like a siren on a rock, like she was the last thing he’d see before it went pitch-black. She wore silk the color of Labor Day whitecaps and her veil was summer-storm mist. He loved her the way we love fire; primal and aching and fiercely hominid. He burned for her because it is a pleasure to burn.

***

He could not have cared less about the wedding but hoped she would. She hadn’t, though she’d looked at the obnoxious ring with a certain grudging respect. “It’s carbon arranged in the most boring way possible,” she observed, letting all (nearly) three carats catch the light. “”And it’s gorgeous. I love it.”

Her sapphire eyes, her garnet hair. And he’d given her a diamond, so clear and bland.

She didn’t love it, not really, and he knew it. Knew she loved it because his mother thought Catholics were simpletons and, more importantly, staff. His mother was Jewish by blood and WASP by raising. His mother preferred natural fibers. His mother excelled at tennis.

It was a family piece. It was The Done Thing, even on her plebeian Catholic finger, slim and pale and lovely as a moonbeam. His mother flinched but never balked. She was properly brought up, and her son had made a decision. She was a lady and so was Dana’s mother, in her sweetly aspiring way.

Their mothers wept and he beamed down at her like a demigod; like the Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed With The Sun.

***

He worshipped her properly later, before the applewood fire. He tossed his lot in with hers and he felt like some duke’s second son, unbound by obligation.

“Fox,” she moaned, and he loved that too. They were virgins again that night. They brushed one another like purple fruits, ripe to bursting on the vine.

***

He was appalled by how he wanted to put a baby in her, by how “wife” changed everything he thought he understood about himself.

The ring, clear as the waters of the Euphrates by day, was opalescent and clouded beneath the moon.

“Christ,” he moaned into the hot vanilla silk of her throat. “Christ, fuck, Dana…”

The tulle of her rucked-up gown left scratches on her thighs, like the tongue of a cat, and neither of them ever noticed.

***

She was a doctor again in the morning, and he was a Special Agent, and the sun was pale as straw in the weakening light.

[slippinmickeys]

A Companion Unobtrusive is a fucking mouthful and weird, but I took it from a song, and I don’t know what else I’d name it…

Otherwise, I wish I’d swapped The Countess and The Earl with each other. It would make more sense.

But other than that, not really. I like my titles.

Do have a favorite title?

Any fic titles that you wish you could rename? I was curious about this today, and would love to hear other author’s thoughts.

There are a few that I slapped something generic on and I wish I had given more attention to, but overall I tend to be thoughtful about my titles because I’m weird and obsessive. What about you?

[slippinmickeys]

https://www.tumblr.com/slippinmickeys/739056460497141760 wait you met blue? 🥺🥺

I did! She came over, begged at my table, I talked to her, pet her on the head, David called her back over, and I sat and silently screamed for ten minutes until CC came and joined them and I silently screamed even louder. I remember discussion boards back in the day reposting my story and questioning it’s authenticity and it was the most Twitter thing to happen before there was Twitter. I texted @admiralty-xfd during the whole thing, and my mom called in the middle of it and I couldn’t say a word and she was very uok? I explained later and she was like “oh, neat” without much conviction. 🙃

[slippinmickeys]

What if Scully and Diana got Freaky Friday'd hahahaha

[slippinmickeys]

Wait! I was tagged by the wonderful @frogsmulder (I am the worst)

Twenty questions for fanfic writers

I was tagged by @agent-troi and @randomfoggytiger Thanks for the tag, guys!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

53

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

712,000 exactly, which is sort of creepy?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

The X-Files mainly, though a million years ago I wrote two fics for JAG, and technically, I have a His Dark Materials fic (but it's an XF crossover)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The Mesas of Deuteronilus Mensae

Prompt Drabble Collection

The Annapolis Grant

Three Part Harmony

A Companion Unobtrusive

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to! Comments are the only payment fanfic writers get, and it's an incredibly valuable and underrated currency. Fanfiction as a community is one of the most generous you'll find, and I'm incredibly proud to be a part of this particular one.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh man, probably La Comtesse de Saint-Germain.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

In this day and age I feel like we deal with enough shit, so I try to end most of my fics happily. I think A Gem-Like Flame probably has the most uplifting happy ending, but then, I'm a sports nerd.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I haven't yet.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Um, probably pretty vanilla het MSR. No shame.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I've only written one, but it turned out really well, I thought. It's an X-Files/His Dark Materials novella-length crossover that takes place in Lyra's world, pre-Lyra, called Out of the Little Grove.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Anyone who steals my fic is going to catch these hands.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, a couple of years ago someone asked if they could translate one of my fics to Russian. It's out there somewhere.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I jumped in and helped @monikafilefan get Five Years and a Lifetime over the line for a fic exchange a couple of years ago. A fun, collaborative experience, that was like 85% Monika. It's a great fic, check it out if you haven't!

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Mulder & Scully are my OTP. Always and forever.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I'd love to finish Madam Scully's Spiritual Services, Inc., it's an AU where Scully works for her sister's Psychic Boutique while prepping for med school. Scully ends up being actually psychic and she helps newly minted FBI agent Fox Mulder solve a series of murders. I have it almost completely plotted (except for the nitty-gritty hard stuff), but I don't think I'll ever get it done, sadly. It's just too big a story to tackle with where I am in my life. Though I never say never.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I'm decent at dialogue, have a pretty firm grasp on plotting, and, I hope characterization.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

My character work is probably my weak spot, which is why I have so much fun writing fanfic--the character work is already done, I just get to play around a world where everybody already knows the characters.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

When I do it, I hope like hell that I'm doing it right. I think it's necessary for some stories and you just hope you're properly respecting a language you don't speak.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

The X-Files, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and ninety eight.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

It's a toss up between Proof of Life, an AU where CNN conflict reporter Dana Scully is kidnapped and imprisoned with fellow kidnap victim and photojournalist Fox Mulder, and they, you know, fall in love. And North of Zero, a post-col novel where Mulder and Scully get William back and have to save the world. The one I totally pantsed (made up as I went along), and it came together like alchemy. I love that story. If you don't like AU, you'd like Proof of Life. If you don't like post-colonization stories, you'd like North of Zero. I don't always like everything I've written after I'm done writing it (a writer's life), but I'm incredibly proud of both of those fics.

Tagging @monikafilefan because she's already tagged, and anyone else who wants to do this!