#Mulder Shifts from Prizing Scully to Wanting Her to Prize Him

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder's Love Story, S1 (Part 2): Mulder Shifts from Prizing Scully to Wanting Her to Prize Him

My meta thoughts below~

Space, Fallen Angel, and Eve were more focused on case solving than relationship building; but Fire is drenched with characterization. Mulder gets caught up in Phoebe's games, despite warning himself and Scully against them; and ends up relying on his partner's friendship (possessiveness born from protection, not jealousy-- discussed briefly here) to see him through the emotional upheaval. By the end of this episode, Mulder's delighted (as is Scully) when any attachments he'd still harbored for his ex are gone so that he and his pal Watson can continue to chum along unperturbed.

Beyond the Sea exposes how deeply Scully has gotten under Mulder's skin-- using Dana twice, following her around closely, and trying to get into her head (without trespassing) to understand Scully's swift shifts and all-encompassing grief. He also begins to employ the advance-retreat method with regards to pushing Scully's limited beliefs: accepting where his partner will or won't, can or can't believe as long as she doesn't abandon him in his pursuit Truth. Beyond the Sea also serves as THE shift in their dynamic: Mulder goes from hands-on to emotions engaged fully on Scully. This pattern continues full force the rest of the season-- though it isn't a symptom of love (yet), just deep appreciation.

Gender Bender and Lazarus are key in two aspects: Mulder's tenderness remains and amplifies; and his professional jealousy shifts from valuing Scully above all others to wanting her to value him above all others (getting irrationally peeved when she trusts a random man so quickly in the first episode and grin-and-bearing-it while she reminisces about her ex in the second.) The "Dana" from Beyond the Sea lingers, too; but Mulder tucks it away again when Scully doesn't respond more than to her usual moniker. And Mulder continues his advance-retreat, respecting and meeting Scully where her limitations are (he will soon use this in their budding romantic relationship for the next four years, except he advances to joke but retreats when the moment turns serious.)

Young at Heart serves as an excellent post-episode to Squeeze (Scully being the focused target of the antagonist in her own home) and an excellent foundation for the episode Pusher (Mulder struggling with his instinct to shoot-- in this case to call the shot; with Modell to not do so-- and he and Scully watching over their hospitalized criminal together.) It's also another reminder of how little Mulder talks about himself or his past: other than the bare essentials, Scully knows no one-- his past partners, his past work partners, his mentors, his past cases, even his family (whereas Scully keeps Mulder informed about her whereabouts-- i.e. The Jersey Devil trips, the beginning of Roland, A Christmas Carol, Chinga, etc.) Mulder also shows how much he trusts and deeply cares for his partner, convinced she could pull off the setup, keep her wits about her while getting shot, and be capable enough to enable him to recapture the MOTW.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[starbuck09256]

Furball

Season 3 

What if Mulder ended up not hating Queequeg Tagging @today-in-fic 

He won’t admit it at least not in front of her, but as the night rolls on he finds himself scratching behind the ears of her annoying little furball. He never had a dog as a kid. Something he always wanted, a big black lab to chase around the yard, or maybe a collie who could follow him on a bike. Now with cases and hospital stays keeping him from even having anything edible in his fridge he finds that the time escapes the dreams he had as a boy. Sure he wanted a yard with a dog and a cool job. Most days his job is pretty cool, and if the day should be full of paperwork and stale coffee it does have a cool redhead that laughs at his jokes and always smells nice. Queequeg smells nice too, as he rolls on his back so Mulder can rub his belly while Scully finishes typing up her last few sentences of her report. His original disdain for the little fluff ball was mostly about his eating habits, people not being the most ideal food group. Now though the dog is fed regular old dog food and a few treats. Queequeg has also stopped barking at him when he comes over, Mulder thinks it might just be because he smuggled him in some real ham but likes to think the dog is warming up to him. Scully finally finishes the report and sits next to Mulder on her small blue striped couch. Queequeg is almost taking up an entire cushion laying sideways on his back, paws in the air snoring. Mulder rubs his belly back and forth, a file sits perched on his lap as Scully squeezes in on the other side. She would rather sit practically on top of Mulder than move her precious pup, and a large part of him is happy to oblige. He lets his arm wrap around the back of the couch to give her a little more room. She takes the extra space and cuddles closer to him. Tapping on a picture as her brows knit in confusion. He smiles softly looking at the grainy photo that seems to capture a man dancing in thin air. 

“He snores pretty loud” She mutters as a yawn escapes her lips. 

“Looks like he has the right idea.” Mulder mutters yawning as well. 

The flight being delayed and the terrible weather had them hunkered down to finish up the reports at her house before two blissful days off. He thinks about driving up the vineyard tomorrow, his apartment is being fumigated and part of him wants to check out some mysterious lights up in the sky. Scully snuggles in a little closer her warm breath on top of his t-shirt as she leans on his shoulder. 

“Hey sleepyhead,” he says, letting his arms wrap around her to stroke her arm up and down. 

She mumbles a bit and he doesn’t even bother to decipher it. He looks at her as his hand rubs his eyes, her soft smile, the dog's loud snores, the rain and ice beating on her windows that lulls his head to rest against hers. The smell of her shampoo and the warmth of her tiny dog on the other side of him cause him to smile as sleep captures them both. 

He wakes hours later with a bad crimp in his shoulder, a warm Scully wrapped in his arms, her dog asleep in the small space left on his chest. He can’t help but grin the pain being worth it. He rubs queequeg's fur and the dog seems to sense that a bed would be a better choice and hops down, wagging his tail and dancing around to go to the soft big bed in the other room. Mulder shifts and picks Scully up. She is tiny and fierce but waking her is almost impossible. He would rather deal with a well rested Scully then one that he jolted awake in the middle of the night. Queequeg happily leads the way as Mulder carries his prize through the hallway. He turns off a light or two. Pulls back the covers and slides Scully in as queequeg hops to the other side. He moves the covers up to protect her from the chill but she grabs his arm, he turns to her, a shy smile hoping that she will forgive him moving her for her own good. 

“Didn’t you say your apartment was ..” she gestures into the air as another yawn takes over. He nods, whispers as he leans down and gives her a soft kiss on the cheek. 

“It’s fine, I can check into the Marriot.” He feels her tug on him as her head moves back and forth on the pillow. 

“No Mulder the weather and you are already tired just come to bed there is plenty of room.”

 She moves back almost squishing the furball as he moves from his precious pillow. Queequeg's small eyes narrowed at him, and he is now sure if it wasn’t for the ham and hour long belly rub this dog would be barking his head off until Mulder was chased from her apartment. But Mulder did bring him ham and belly rubs and sneaks him better treats than the redheaded lady. So he moves over easily let’s the big man slide next to his human friend. In the morning when Mulder and Scully are snuggled together sharing one small pillow he will still have half the bed, which is secretly what both his human friends wanted anyway. 

Mulder ends up spending the entire next day with Scully and queequeg walking through some local parks and gardens. When Scully takes his hand and links their fingers together he forgets about the lights he wanted to check out. As the day runs down the twinkling lights come on they are still walking arm and arm and when he finally gets enough courage to kiss her, queequeg doesn’t make a peep. 

The next morning as he brews them coffee and makes her pancakes, he slips the dog some bacon. Scully swats at Mulder but the dog just wags his tail happily. Mulders arm snakes around her, pulling her to his lips in a certainly not chaste kiss. She tastes like syrup and her hands find their way under his shirt. He can’t help but lift her on the counter as he tosses another piece of bacon to the dog before having his fingers cup her face and deepening their kisses. 

He never makes it to Massachusetts; he spends the whole weekend walking a dog and being an everyday person. It’s not nearly as boring as he thought it would be. When he goes home late Sunday night he has to kiss her at least 3 more times before she is forced to shut the door in his face. 

On Monday when she comes in with a smile and her face already blushing he can’t help but grin and bite his lip to keep it cool. They work just like before only now she touches him more, her fingers lingering on his skin. On Friday night when he brings a nice bottle of red and a pack of dog treats, queequeg jumps up on him the second he is barely through the door. He barks happily and Mulder leans down to get a face full of slobbery kisses. 

Scully comes in drying her hands on a dish towel looking bemused. “More fumencation?” her eyebrow raised. “Well, I umm just wanted to bring over a nice bottle of wine as a thank you for you know putting up with me last weekend.” He looks down, they kept things mostly professional this week. It’s like a silent agreement that this was private and not to be known at the Bureau. She reaches out for the wine, as he opens up the dog treats for queequeg. Giving him a big one and rubbing his little head. She looks over the bottle and looks at him, chuckles as he sits on the couch with an eager queequeg already in his lap rolling onto his back for a belly rub. 

“You won’t be able to move for the rest of the night you know?” she says from the kitchen, grabbing some wine glasses. He looks up at her rubbing queequeg's belly in circles. 

“I’m kind of ok with that, if you are.” His eyes find hers asking the question, can I stay? Or was it all just a one time thing. 

She smiles that big adorable scully smile hands him his glass, he grabs her wrist to tug her down beside him. She comes with a plop and as he is kissing her before he even tastes the wine.

[danadeservesadrink]

Wine and Whiskey

Read on AO3 here

Chapter 1: Mulder’s POV

Scully arrives at his apartment with a bottle of wine on a Friday night and Mulder can't refuse. There's something so tempting about drinking wine from the bottle.

We’re just going to pretend that I didn’t wait almost a year to publish the second chapter for this fic. Reposting the first chapter here because I gave her a good fix-up. Tagging @today-in-fic

He had never been more mesmerized in his life than by Dana Scully drinking wine from the bottle.

She had shown up at his apartment holding it, bashfully admitting that she didn’t want to drink alone on a Friday night, practically entrapping him with a bat of her eyelashes. Of course he let her in.

It was rare that she let her guard down like this, but you wouldn’t catch him complaining. He ushered her in with a hand on her lower back and she made herself comfortable on his couch, flipping through the channels until she landed on a rerun of some history documentary. Her energy was palpable, nervous and confident and radiating. She gazed up at him with something just short of confidence and requested a corkscrew. Who was he to deny her.

Dana Scully sat on his couch in her maroon sweater and blue jeans on a Friday night at 9:06 pm and uncorked a bottle of white wine and he had never been more in love. Correction, he was more in love with her at 9:07 when she took a swig straight from the bottle. She drank and then let out a deep sigh, filled with all of the troubles of a not-so-9-to-5 FBI agent. He sat down opposite of her on the couch, matching her cross-legged position, and stared at her, mesmerized. She must have noticed, as she flushed and chuckled to herself, likely at the genuine absurdity of the situation.

“I’ve had a very long day,” she whispered defensively. He didn’t mind. She deserved to unwind. She passed him the bottle with a raised eyebrow and he almost denied.Thinking about how her lips and his would be touching the same lip of a bottle made him feel like a school boy analyzing the physics of cooties. He almost offered to go get them glasses, but she pushed the bottle towards him with an insistent smirk and he realized he was being ridiculous. He accepted, although still subtly trying to turn the bottle in a feeble attempt to avoid drinking from the same location she had, and he drank.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater. The wine was sweet, its flavor lingering on his lips.

“Bill’s an ass” She said, rolling her eyes. She reached out a hand for the bottle back, and he passed it over. She brought the bottle to her lips again with no rotations, clearly unconcerned with the dynamics of indirect kissing.

“Yea he is. What’d he do this time”. His previous attempt to forget how perfect she looked as she drank was a failure. Because Dana Scully was on his couch drinking wine from the bottle. He doesn't think any sane person could ever forget that.

“Called me up today to tell me how disappointed he was with me. How I’m a failure to our family and how I’m putting myself in danger for absolutely no reason” She laughed at this, and so did he, reveling in the ridiculousness of their day jobs. He shifted closer on the couch and she must have felt his concern because she clarified. “He heard about the case”.

Of course. Scully took down a murderer, a serial killer at that, with her own two hands, fighting through a warehouse of traps to get to him, to catch the bad guy. She shot him with his own gun but not before he sliced a nasty gash into her side with a pocket knife. All while he’d been knocked out on the cold cement in a pile of his own vomit. She followed his profile, found the warehouse, and took the bastard down and he was so god damn proud of her.  Bill didn’t see it but he sure as hell could.

“Bill’s an idiot” He said so sincerely it made her look up from staring into the wine.

“Yea. Yea he is” She whispered. She took another drink, and he was moving closer to her on the already small couch, like a moth to the light.

She’s so pretty. The way the TV fluorescence bounced off of her cheek, the way her hair was tied up but the short pieces in the front whisped around her face in perfect little curls. It took all of his strength not to reach over and brush one away from her eye when she tilted her head back to take another drink from the bottle. Her neck was perfect porcelain, he dreamed of running his lips over the smooth skin she exposed. When she finishes, he forces himself to look at the TV screen instead of the little drop of white wine remaining on her lip.

She looks down at the bottle, then up at him through her lashes. She was coy, vulnerable, he knew this step, whatever it was, was big. Scully had shown up to his apartment before, but it was usually due to work. Showing up with wine and personal feeling was teetering on the edge of something more than partnership. His eyes flick down to the bottle and she offers it to him. Their fingertips brush and he shudders. He sees her watching him drink.

They are rudely interrupted by the shrill ringtone of her cell phone.

She pulls it out of her pocket with a sigh, and he smirks.

“Hi Mom.” He hears the muted voice of Maggie Scully on the other end of the phone. She’s probably calling to apologize for her son’s behavior, and he’s pissed that she’s forced into that position.

“Well he was acting like a bastard!” Scully exclaimed, frustrated, and Mulder couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Scully shot him a glare, and he quickly pressed his lips together in silent surrender. She seems to be listening intently, so he shakes the wine bottle in her direction, forcing her to wave him off with an eye roll. As she mumbles “mmhmm” and “uh huh” he becomes bolder, eventually leaning over and trying to press the wine bottle to her lips. She pushed him back with a smirk, but reached for the bottle and took a drink before her next answer. It was his turn to smirk.

“I’m over at Mulder’s place” He grinned at her and tried to scoot in closer to hear Maggie’s response. She pushed him back again, this time with a softer smile.

“Work stuff” she said, avoiding eye contact with him. The irony of her statement was not lost, and he tried to repress the laugh that bubbled up within him. He caught her blushing.

“I’ll let him know. Bye Mom” She quickly hung up the phone and proceeded to drink a good 6 swigs before handing the bottle back to him, shameless. He hadn’t realized it was almost empty.

The concept of Dana Scully, the Catholic raised and pant-suit wearing professional, drinking wine at a man’s apartment at night while on the phone with her equally proper mother made him chuckle. He wonders if this is the first time she’s done this.

“What did your mom want to tell me?” he asked with a grin. She blushed again. He couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or if the wine was getting to her. Maybe both.

“She just wanted to say hi” she glanced at the bottle in his hands, avoiding his eyes. He let the little white lie slip past them as a gift to a friend. “You gonna finish that?”

He shook his head. He was worried that any more and he would start acting in ways that would make Maggie Scully very disappointed.

Scully pouted at his response, but leaned even closer to him, grabbed the bottle, and downed the rest of it, tilting her head all the way back to allow the last drops to trickle from the bottom of the bottle into her throat. Something about her throat made him want to mark it with his teeth. Jesus, the effect she had on him was insane.

She finished, and returned to gazing in his eyes with an impish smirk. He must have still been staring because she burst into a fit of giggles. Despite all the Irish blood in her, Scully was still a small  woman who had just drank nearly a full bottle of wine.

“Scully are you drunk?” He teased. She burst into another fit of giggles as she shook her head, still smiling like the cat that ate the canary. He loved the sound of her laugh. He never wanted it to stop. He would personally fight every demon in this world so that she never had to stop smiling at him like she was right now.

She felt loose, unrestrained, and so did he. They were so comfortable with each other in the strangest of ways, and this wine laden journey was just another layer. Intimacy for them often came in small touches and promises of protection, least of all through physical affection. But tonight, all bets were off, as Dana Scully, goddess in blue jeans, used his shoulder to push herself off his couch and waltzed into his kitchen, swaying her hips like the little vixen she was.

“Where you going?” He called after her, but the only reply was the sound of a cabinet being opened and the melodious giggle he had come to adore.

She was reaching for the top shelf when he walked in the kitchen behind her. Her prize was obvious. Striding up behind her he placed one hand on her hip and reached with the other for the half full bottle of whiskey her outstretched fingers were wiggling towards.

He almost dropped it when he felt her step back into him. He flexed the hand still fixed to her hip as he felt a shiver run through him. As quickly as she came, however, she was gone, instead turning around to grab at the bottle he was holding. He reacted quicker, sober reflexes triumphing over hers, pulling it back and raising an eyebrow in response to her pouty lips. Drunk Scully was a dangerous creature, a tempting siren who could bend any man to her will. All he wanted was to please her.

“And why should I give you some of my emergency whiskey?”, he teased.

“Because I’ve had a terrible day, and now I’m out of wine”. She had to know what she was doing to him. Looking him straight in the eye, pushing her lip out even further. He rolled his eyes, laughing again under his breath.

“What’s the magic word”

And oh Dana you know how to make a man give you anything. There is no magic word, only Scully tilting her head back, closing her eyes, and opening her mouth, tongue stuck out and waiting. The vision was enthralling.

She peeked an eye open when she heard him toss the cap on the counter, but closed it again with a giggle when she realized he had caught her. He shook his head, exhaling softly. With reverence, he gave her what she wished.  

The whiskey hit her tongue with a burn of ice and fire, and he watched as it slid down into her mouth, filling her up until he stopped pouring, and she swallowed. He had never wished to be a liquid before. She coughed before smiling up at him, eyes sparkling even though the closest light was now the television.

“Your turn” She smirked and took the bottle from his hands.

“I don’t think you can reach” he countered, but she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled down.

He would never deny her.

He got down on his knees on his kitchen floor, and it was only right that Scully should be the altar he prayed to. Still smirking, he first closed his eyes as she had, then stuck out his tongue to await the drink of his goddess. She poured sloppily, the hand of a distracted woman, and he had to swallow before she was finished, causing her to spill some on his lips and chin.

He opened his eyes to see her giggle, mumble an apology, and lean over him. He barely registered what was happening before he felt her tongue, that perfect tongue, lap up a stray drop off of his cheek. He gasped, sharply. She pulled back, only a few inches, still leaning over him. He gazed up into her eyes and saw his arousal mirrored in them.

“It’s your emergency whiskey, I didn’t want to waste it.” She smirked her perfect lips as she whispered. Her breath smelled like sweet wine and sharp whiskey. It was intoxicating. He closed his eyes as he felt her finger raise his chin to the heavens. She licked again, this one on his jawline, and he moaned. He felt her laughter in puffs of air on his cheek.

“Scully…” he whispers, a halfhearted attempt to salvage a professional partnership he knew had been tossed out of the window the second she walked in tonight.

She ran a finger over his lips to silence him and he thought he might black out.

All he wants is her. His body shakes with the thought.

She brings both hands to cup his cheeks, whiskey bottle long forgotten, and presses her lips to his.

The feeling is that of resurrection. It’s an electric shock coursing through his body, lighting every nerve he has on fire, his thoughts only attuned to her, her, her. He remembers he has hands, and uses them to pull her closer, cupping the back of her neck with ferocity. She opens her mouth and he tastes her tongue. The taste of salvation and moscato.

He breaks the kiss only to rise up to his full height before he descends upon her, grabbing her gently by the waist, still mindful of her injury, but equally desperate. She tangles a hand into his hair and pulls him into her. He could get lost in her mouth, following the flow of the whiskey before him, lips then tongue, fire and ice. She moaned into his mouth and he tightened his grip on her. His mouth traced the path his eyes had followed earlier. Off the curve of her lips, down to her jawline, where he licked and sucked and did everything in his power to remember the taste of her skin. She whimpered when he reached her pulse point, taking the fist in his hair and desperately pressing him against it. He nipped at her flesh, and then kissed it better.

“Fuck” she drew out, shaking, and it made him wild. He sucked harder, knowing full well the dark purple bruise it was going to leave. Both of them couldn’t give a shit. When he finished, he kissed his way up to her ear.

“Mine” he growled, and she shuddered in his arms. He carefully tugged on her earlobe with his teeth as he felt her nod against him.  

“Yours” she whispered back. It was all the permission he needed.

He carefully traced his fingers up her sides, dragging the fabric of her top along with it. Her chest was heaving, their breaths mixing together in a cocktail of arousal and alcohol. He felt the bandage covering the wound from the warehouse and a pang of guilt passed over him. She sees it in his eyes and uses her own hands to push his higher, past the evidence of their last foul memory. He reached up to the bottom of her breasts and with a shock realized that her sweater had been hiding a secret.

“Were you planning…” he dotted her collarbone with marks from his lips, sucking softly along each delicate curve “... on telling me…” another kiss “...that you weren't wearing a bra?” kiss , kiss , kiss .

“I was more hoping that … ah shit...you would find out for yourself”

He had to be dreaming. Any minute he would wake up in his bed horny and alone like every Saturday. But then she kissed him again and he figured that if this was a dream he hoped he was fucking comatose because he never wanted to wake up. He traced his hands over the underside of her breasts again and felt her body shake at his caress. Quickly he pushed the sweater up and over her head, careful to not disturb her bandage, her arms raising to help. And then she was topless in his kitchen on a Friday night and he was going to study her like she was a sculptor and she was his Venus. He would memorize every curve of her perfect body with his hands over and over and over.

“Well?”

He had been staring. How could you not when Dana fucking Scully was blushing and breathless in your arms. But there would be time for starting later. He turned his mind to devouring her.

He palmed her breast and kneaded, watching in awe as her head fell backward and a sigh escaped her lips. He asked for permission through a silent question tossed up at her and she nodded a desperate nod. His lips continued their trail downward, licking and sucking on the hills and valleys of her chest until he came to her nipple, where he paused to circle it with his tongue. At the same time he flicked her right nipple he took the left one into her mouth. Her head shot forward, the hand in his hair pulled him forward into her, and she let out the most guttural moan of “ Mulder ”. His name had never sounded more perfect than when it came out of her mouth. He spent some time there, licking and sucking, pulling with his teeth then soothing with his tongue, just trying to get her to make different sounds. Curses flew from her mouth with ease and he was reminded of the rebellious streak in her. The deviant Dana Scully that cursed and drank and fucked. He loved this side of her. He’s drunk off of her and whiskey and wine and he can only think that he needed more. His brain is buzzing and he’s sure he didn’t have that much wine but maybe it's just the smell of her skin that's so intoxicating.

“Mulder I need you”

He looked up to meet her eyes and saw her staring back at him, breathless and hungry.

“Now.”

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

(Full Version, A-Z)

author: @storybycorey

rating: R

word count: approx. 8000

summary: The ABC’s, as told by Fox Mulder.

For those of you looking only for part Z, just scroll a bit more than halfway down!  (or take a read back through the whole thing- there are references back to the first 25 letters in the final installment!)

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for XFiles

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z is for Zipper

He’s awoken by the sound of her skirt zipper, the dip of the mattress as she sits on the bed.

“Scully?” He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but the stillness in the air and a new moon slanting through the blinds suggest hours.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I tried not to wake you...” He’s never heard her voice in his bedroom this late at night. It’s softer than he’d imagined. Younger. “It’s late.  I’m not sure I should drive.  Do you mind if I—” 

“Sure, yeah.” He props up on an elbow. “Do you want me to…” He motions toward the living room, still half-asleep but awake enough not to assume anything he shouldn’t. Hotel room sleepovers (which they’ve partaken in) are in a different category than apartment room sleepovers (which they haven’t), and he knows this.

“I don’t mind,” she answers in silhouette, slipping off her skirt, “…not if you don’t.”  She’s stolen her way beneath the sheets before he has the presence of mind to offer her something to wear. 

“Of course not.”  He can’t think of anything he’d mind less than Scully lying beside him in his bed, near enough he can smell this morning’s perfume still on her skin.

She settles, and is so close, her breaths tickle his bare shoulder. Once, twice, three times.  He shudders. 

They’re quiet.  He listens to her nighttime sounds—the swish of her hair against the pillow, the cadence of her breaths, the occasional wet slide of her tongue across her lips. He wishes he had his little recorder on the nightstand. He’d make a mixtape, label it Sounds of Scully and play it every night for the rest of his life.  

He longs to touch her.  A hand, a foot, even just the tip of a finger. 

They lie there long enough and silently enough he thinks she may have fallen asleep, but then she shifts. Or he shifts. Or maybe they both shift, but out of nowhere her still sweater-clad back spoons perfectly against his chest.

A quiet gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t readjust. Neither of them breathes.

“Is this… okay?” he asks finally.

“Yeah, it’s…” The heel of her foot brushes his shin. “It’s nice.” 

Quiet again. His arm finds a place to rest wrapped around her waist.  His thighs nudge her bottom.  Her skirt is off, and possibly her nylons, too, but he thinks instead about her hair tickling his nose, her sweater against his belly.  He doesn’t think of other things—won’t let himself.

It’s nice was an understatement though. It’s so much more than nice.  He’s needed this, wanted this, for such a long time.  Even if this is all it is—the two of them spooned together in his bed until morning.

She snuggles a bit closer, slips a small, cold foot between his legs. He thinks about her pale pink toenails, he thinks about Dulcinea, he thinks about being number sixteen on a list he’s sure he was never meant to read.  He adds to his mixtape the sound of her hum when his thumb brushes the rose-petal skin of her arm.

“Foxtrot,” she murmurs sleepily.

“Hmmm?” He nudges the back of her head with his nose.

“Nothing,” she chuckles, “Just a passing thought...”

“Can’t have passing thoughts without sharing.  Bedroom rules.”  It’s strange how natural this feels, bantering with her in his bedroom, pretending this sort of thing happens often enough that rules have been made.

“Oh, in that case, maybe I’ll…” She makes to leave, pushing away covers and beginning to pull from his arms.

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, tugging her back, wasting no time in snuggling her in even closer, wrapping himself around her like a question mark, which seems almost comically apropos on a night like this. She giggles, just barely, but it’s perfection, the sound of Scully giggling in his bed late at night.

“No, it was just…,” she continues, turned serious again.  “My father was obsessed with the military phonetic alphabet—Alpha, Bravo, etcetera...  He named my brother Charlie.  It just occurred to me that if your father had been the same, maybe you’d be Foxtrot instead of Fox.”

He chuckles. “Guess I should count myself lucky then.  Would’ve been a lot to live up to in the ballroom classes my mother made me take…”  She hums in amusement, and the vibration travels all the way through to his chest.  “Sounds like you’re a bit lucky, too.  Unless I’m mistaken, it was Dana, not Delta, who snuck into my bed tonight...”

“Hmm,” she ponders, “Maybe Delta's not as brave as Dana is....” He sometimes thinks nobody’s as brave as Dana Scully is, least of all himself. “Frankly,” she adds, “I always fancied Juliet anyway.”

“Juliet—I like it.”  He pictures her out on a balcony, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, lover’s name tumbling from her lips.  “You’d need a Romeo…”  He doubts Wherefore art thou, Mulder is quite what Shakespeare had in mind.  

“Who says I haven’t got one?” she flirts.  Her hand rests just inches from his own, and he twines their fingers together, curls them against her abdomen. He sometimes wonders how his heart can possibly contain the amount of love he feels for her. People die of broken hearts; do they ever die of ones so full, they’re overflowing?  

“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair, “What’s got you thinking about all this at…,” he tilts back his head to squint at the clock, “…one o’clock AM?” Her body is warm and impossibly perfect against him.

“I guess…,” she says, a contemplative tone to her voice, “I don’t know. These last few days have been a lot.  I’ve been forced to consider things I haven’t thought about in years. My past, the way things used to be... What I used to assume my future looked like.”

“How’d it look?” They’re both nearing that point these days, where their paths can’t just keep continuing in the same straight line. They’re nearing a fork, he can feel it.  Question is, will they both continue in the same direction?

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, “I was surrounded by Navy men, Navy wives, Navy families.  We were taught call letters before learning our ABC’s.  I always felt that sort of life was expected of me, too.” His air conditioner kicks on, fills the room with a gentle whirr.  She burrows even closer. “It’s just funny how far we stray from what’s expected…”

“No more call letters, huh?” His lips catch on her hair as he talks.  It’s wonderful.

“No, I guess not…To be honest, I sort of miss them.  Things were simpler then.  There were right choices and wrong choices, or at least it seemed that way.”

He realizes as they lie there that this moment is the fork in his path.  That though the line between right and wrong choices may be blurred these days, there’s one choice he’s never once questioned.  Dana Scully is the rightest choice he’s ever made.  With her mouth full of questions and her head full of answers, her ever-arched eyebrow and her ever-open heart—she’s been his choice, his only choice, from the very beginning.  

Scully is the Juliet to his Romeo—hell, she’s the Delta to his Foxtrot.    

“Scully,” he murmurs, heart beating bravely in his chest, “Have I ever told you about the Fox Mulder alphabet?”

“Hmm, let me guess...” There’s humor in her voice, that wry Scully humor he adores. “A is for Alien, B is for Bounty Hunter, C is for….  Am I close?” Christ, but he loves this woman.

He pokes her gently in admonishment, answers, “Good try, smartypants, but no… No, you’re actually not close at all.”

“Tell me then, Mulder.” She pulls their hands up to rest beneath her cheek. “Tell me about your alphabet.”  

And so he does. He takes a deep breath and he does.

He begins at the beginning. A is for Apple.

He tells her how watching her eat an apple once made him ache for her, how he can’t bite into a Red Delicious, or a Fuji, or even a Grannysmith anymore without thinking about her lips.

It scares him, being this honest, but there’s something in the air tonight, something in her mood, in the way she slipped off her skirt and climbed into his bed after falling asleep on his couch.

She’s quiet while he speaks, still—eerily so. Her breaths fall quickly against his hand. He’s sure he can feel her heart beating, or maybe that’s just his own, pounding much too dramatically within his chest. There’s a lump in his throat as he finishes, the No that’s terrified him for close to seven years dangling above like an anvil from some misguided Loony Tunes short.  

He waits.  And he waits.  And is about to apologize for assumptions he shouldn’t have made when—

“More,” she breathes.

Not no.  More.

He burrows his nose in her hair, presses a kiss of relief to her ear.

He gives her more, he gives her everything—he pours his entire heart out into silly little stories about a basketball game, about candlelight illuminating the skin of her back. The words spill out more quickly than he intends them to, but the dam has been breached; he cannot stop it.

She’s quiet through the basketball game, quiet again through the candles. Her little body doesn’t move. He understands. He knows it’s a lot to take in—the flood-like musings of Fox Mulder’s mind.  Her ears are all he asks of her tonight.

By the time he’s reached D though, she gives him more than her ears. “D is for Dana,” he begins softly. And instead of more silence, she whispers his name.  

By E, there are tears at her cheek. He wonders for an instant whether that long-ago jewelry store could possibly still be open, whether she’d wait for him here while he makes a quick trip.  

By F, she’s pressing barely-there kisses to his knuckles. Friends don’t do that, he’s sure.  Their relationship may be uncertain, but friends don’t press kisses to knuckles, they don’t lie in beds at one in the morning, tell stories in hushed whispers with backs pressed to chests.

By G, she’s murmuring my God against his palm, Mulder against each of his fingertips. His basement globe spins and it spins. Never could it have predicted an adventure like this.

H… I… J... Her toes slide along his shins, they follow the curves of his arches. Her long-lost jacket hangs nestled in his closet not ten feet away.

K... “New Year’s Eve, Scully… That kiss…”  He tells her she’s all he could want from this millennium, or the next, or even the next (that’s illogical, Mulder, he expects her to say).  She doesn’t though. She doesn’t say that.  Instead, she turns in his arms, raises big, wet eyes up to his.

“Keep going…,” she urges him on when he pauses, “Please, Mulder, keep going.” Her fingers tremble as they move across his chest.

And so he keeps going. L... (“Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully,” he breathes)… M… N… With each new letter, her touches grow surer—small, gentle hands find his ribs, his shoulders, the wildly-beating pulse at his neck.  By O, those same hands are in his hair, they’re cradling his cheekbones, they’re fingering the soft, curved shells of his ears.

P... “That plum,” he whispers, “…the juice…your thumb...” Her thumb (the same one he sucked into his mouth so many months ago) skims over his stubbled chin, makes its tentative way to his lips. His tongue steals out for a taste, and she sucks in a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. She drags her hand away before he can swallow her whole.

Q... (“Dulcinayyy-uhhh,” he sings quietly)… R… The heat of her breath hits his neck, hovers beneath his jawline until he can barely speak. “Don’t stop,” she whispers when he falters.  Her mouth slides against his throat and he groans.

S… T...  By U, he can’t keep from touching her.  A hand tangles finally in her hair, the other slips beneath her sweater and molds to the warmth of her back. She whimpers, her body arching sharply against him.  Umpteen is the number of times this very scenario has played itself out in his dreams.

By V, his lips are at her temple, “V is for Volume” spoken directly against her skin. She turns the dial all the way to the left, sighs so softly he almost misses it.

W and X fall between kisses, his lips on her eyelids, at her jaw, wrapped around the lobes of her ears. Barely-there whimpers slip from the back of her throat, and he reaches for that imaginary recorder, adds them to his mixtape as well.  Her legs tangle with his and he pulls her even closer.

“Y is for Yawn,” he murmurs against her hairline, “Tonight, out there, while we sat on the couch…”

“I’m not…,” her voice is low and husky, so close to his ear that he shivers, “…m’not yawning now, Mulder…”

He shifts, rests his forehead against her own.  Hot, ragged breaths collect on the pillow between them.  He can hardly believe a few hours ago, they were out on his couch drinking tea, a few years ago, they were meeting in the basement for the very first time.

“What about…,” she breathes, the tip of her nose nudging his, “What about Z?”  Their hands roam freely now, sensuous and slow.  She angles her pelvis against his, presses softly.

“Z…,” he barely gets out, “…is for Zipper.” She’s trembling against him, and it’s the sexiest thing in the world.  “The zipper from your skirt that woke me half an hour ago, the zipper that—”

She swallows the rest of his words with a kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, body melting against his.

Her lips, her tongue, the flutter of her fingers at his cheek… He forgets about candles, about earrings, about Rick Channing and Don Quixote and even about the wristwatch lying just across the room on the dresser.  He forgets about everything in the world except Scully and her mouth, about the way she kisses him with her whole damn body, with hands in his hair and toes flexed at his shins and hips arched so divinely against his, he worries he’ll faint.

As her sweater slides over her head, he marvels at the way everything has fallen into place, how a crisp, juicy apple led to a basketball game, how sleepy, sexy yawns led to the undoing of zippers, how all of it combined led to them being here, now, discovering each other for the very first time.

Their lovemaking is slow, achingly so.  It’s the Standard English Alphabet, the Military Phonetic Alphabet, and the Fox Mulder Alphabet combined—whimpers and sighs and Romeo and Juliet and ice cream and globes and… Amazingly, in the end, it all makes perfect, wonderful sense.

As they move together, the beginnings of a new alphabet emerge in his head—A for the arc of her hips as they rise; B for her short, quickened breaths; C for her cries, for her moans, for her whines; D for the softest derriere he’s ever held in his palms; E for her elbows, laid either side of his ears; F for fuck, for oh holy fuck, Scully, sweetheart, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…

“It’s crazy really, isn’t it?” he murmurs afterwards, Scully tucked beneath his arm, her leg slung sweetly over his sweat-damp thigh.

“Hmm?”  Her fingers play at his lips, trace over and around and between.  

“That it took us seven years…,” he mumbles around a pinky, “…when in the end, it really was as easy as learning our ABC’s.”

She hums, presses a kiss to his chest right above a nipple. “You could have had me all the way back at C if you’d wanted to, Mulder...”

He smiles, pulling her impossibly closer.  Her breasts are soft against his chest and her chin rests at his shoulder, and for a moment, all is right in their windmill-riddled, impossible dream of a world.  

“I think Z was perfect,” he says, kissing the disheveled part of her hair, “Absolutely perfect.”

[leiascully]

Fic:  Lost Time

3000 words | pg | msr | no content warnings unless you hate foot massages  |  minor spoilers for various episodes | set in unspecified season 7

This is an expanded version of the story I wrote for the second Fic is Medicine prompt at @xfficchallenges.  Thanks to @mashnotesofthemythopoeic for the encouragement.  

There are times she wishes she could go back to Oregon, back to twenty-four-year-old Dana Scully with her hands braced on her hips like punctuation, her ponytail curling against the back of her neck in humid wisps.  Time is a universal invariant.  She would shake herself until her smug little teeth rattled like improbable dice.  Not in this zip code or any other, little agent.  

Time passes differently in airports.  Most of all it reminds her of the giant plastic funnel in the mall with its bold sign proclaiming THE COIN VORTEX in unbalanced serifs.  She and Charlie would run to roll pennies down its calibrated ramps.  Seconds skirl past as she sits by the luggage retrieval, chasing each other around and around the flue of her mind with leisurely gravity before dropping inexorably into some undiscovered well in her soul.  It's like she can feel the chink of each one as it impacts, individual moments sliding across the accumulated heap.  Clink.  Clink.  Clink.  In the background, the poorly maintained conveyor belt heaves and creaks under the weight of other people's luggage.  

She sits next to her tidy little bag and watches families haul past suitcases crammed with Disney merchandise and beach souvenirs.  The nametag from the conference at which she was speaking is still in her jacket pocket.  She pulls it out and gnaws at the tip of her finger with the alligator teeth of the clip.  

Mulder is late.  

She's not going to call him.  Clink.  Clink.  The seconds mound up inside her.  Clink.  Clink.  Clink.  When she shifts in the hard plastic chair, they scatter and rattle against her hipbones.  She feels heavier inside the longer she waits.  She had never plumbed the depths of herself before this job.  She has more strength and more capacity to tolerate the mysteries of the universe than she imagined, but her patience is not infinite.  Time still weighs on her.  

After half an hour, her hand slips into her other jacket pocket for her phone.  All unbidden, it presses the single digit that she has programmed in as a shorthand for his number.  For him.  Mulder is 1.  Tall.  Stooped to reach her.  No sense of balance.  Not prime but primal.  Her phone burrs in her ear.  The call goes to voicemail.  She hangs up.  She has her dignity.  

She sent him the information.  She left a printout on his desk, added the event to his calendar.  "Pick up Scully."  Mulder is always looking up.  It seems he ought to have seen her plane land.  

After forty-five minutes, she calls him again.  Same number.  Same blurred tone.  Same dead end.  She hangs up again.

After an hour, she stands up slowly, shifting the aggregate heft of the time inside her, and walks to the Metro station.  She'll have to call a cab, but a body in motion is happier than a body at rest, at least when that body is hers: the uncomfortable truths one learns after years in the Rube Goldberg machine of the X-Files.  She feeds bills into the machine and lets the machine print a paper ticket for her.  She has a permanent plastic card, but it's too much to think of fumbling in her wallet.  She wedges her bag under her knees and stares out the window at nothing.

She should be angry.  Mulder, for the some round significant numberth time, has ditched her.  There is no carriage for the lady.  Another sign of his unearthliness, his untethering from the petty concerns of the earthbound.  He drove her to the airport, cracking sunflower seeds between his bicuspids and weaving a narrative out of fifty different mystic threads like a taller Rumplestiltskin.  He promised to pick her up.  Instead the train rocks and rattles underneath her as it carries her through the underworld, the pressed sediment layers of history bored open for the convenience of the throngs.  Everything in DC is just short of well-maintained, including the government.  Even the Library of Congress, even the files she's meticulously relabeled: the sheer volume of history around her obfuscates its truths.  She navigates the city not by the stars, but by the clean lovely classic lines of monuments to men who owned people.  She plunges through the earth on rails laid over bones.  They are all habituated to walking through ghosts.  

She lets the motion of the car lull her and picks apart her own thoughts, slicing into her mind and propping its metaphorical ribs open.  The lack of ire at her perpetual abandonment is surprising, like a clean tox screen on a suspected addict, but she has to interpret the results she gets rather than those she expects.  What she is instead is wistful.  She wanted to see him.  She wanted him to come for her, to sweep her up in the swirl of his coat and stake her out her in view of the traveling public.  I am claimed.  

The warped and flickering reflection in the plastic window shows her lips parted in surprise.  She doesn't often indulge in thinking this way, imagining the public affirmation of Mulder's usually clandestine attentiveness.  Now, tucked into the third or fourth hard plastic seat of the day, all she wants is to be in his car, tipping her head obliquely on the headrest to trace his profile with her eyes.  

He's waiting at her apartment building when she climbs out of the cab she took from the closest Metro station.  He takes her suitcase from the cabbie, all solicitous grace.  Boyfriendly.  She suppresses the flutter of her heart.  Twenty cc's of common sense into the cardiac muscle.  Grey clouds jostle overhead, as frisky and balky as calves at a gate, peering at her.  She has emerged from the gentle oblivion of travel: overhead, underground, removed from the world.  She inhales the humid freshness of the breeze and lets it press the last traces of stale recirculated air from her lungs.

"How was the trip?" he asks.  The wheels on her bag press lines into the damp leaves on the sidewalk.  It's rained while she was in limbo, and the season has turned almost imperceptibly, shaking the boughs as it passes.  Stray drops patter down from the trees.  

"It was fine," she tells him.

"I'm sure they valued your expertise," he says, looking up at the gravid clouds as she punches in the code for her front door, as if he doesn't know it.

"They asked a lot of questions," she tells him as they step inside the building.

"Well, you've trained for that," he says with a wink.  

"I missed you," she says.

His grin is bright, conspiratorial, infectious.  "I missed you too.  Sorry I wasn't at the airport.  Skinner wanted something."

It is an apologetic non-apology.  Neither Schrodinger or Heisenberg could make much of it, unable to verify either the sincerity or the veracity of his excuse.  Still, she forgives him.  He is confessed.  He is absolved.  The rain will wash them both clean.  As she unlocks her front door, she can hear the dappling wet begin again.  The light in her apartment shifts as the clouds swell and drop.  Despite everything - the blood soaked into the pad beneath the carpet, the scratches in the paint on the vents from Tooms' incursion, the fragments of glass in the mulch underneath her window - the space is cozy, lightly scented with sage and lemon.  She has learned to claw back her things from the clutches of trauma: candles, her overstuffed couch, her bathtub, her partner.  Her life.  Her heart.

"Come in," she says, a foregone conclusion, but one that holds more promise now.  Time is not a universal invariant.  She can pull taut her tidy little stitches, all the moments she's saved over the years not being in love with him, and turn them into something lovely.  She can spend with profligate decadence from the hoard of moments that's dragged at her all day.  She turns as she pulls the key from her lock and he's watching her.  Out of season, something blooms inside her.

"All right," he murmurs, his voice scraping lightly against some prehistoric susceptibility still programmed into her medulla oblongata.  Respiration, circulation, her need for Mulder: all autonomic functions, beyond her conscious control.  She steps into the apartment and out of her shoes with a sigh, bracing one hand against the armoire.  Mulder presses in behind her, a one-man crowd still towing her suitcase.

She makes tea.  That's what she does when it rains.  Scale rattles in the bottom of the kettle as she fills it from the faucet.  She should clean it soon, replace the herbal scent of her candles with the bite of vinegar steaming through her kitchen, but she's weary, prizing comfort over scoured perfection.  She can hear Mulder hanging his jacket by the armoire and setting her bag by her bedroom door.  Funny how willing he is to cross all her metaphorical thresholds, but when it comes to the physical, he has cotillion manners.  He's been sprawled insensible in her bed, white gauze against his warm golden skin stopping up a wound she gave him and tended to, but still he nudges her suitcase until it rests delicately against her door and saunters back to her.

"Tea?" he asks.  She nods and reaches into the cupboard for a number of boxes.  

"Peppermint," she says, tasting the crispness of the consonants on her tongue.  "Oolong.  Jasmine.  Earl Grey."   She brandishes each one at him and sets them on the counter.  

"Peppermint," he says decisively.  "Although, technically, Scully, a blend that doesn't include the cured leaves of the Camellia sinensis bush is a tisane."

"We aren't all Oxford-educated psychologists," she says.  

"Celestial Seasonings is a cult," he tells her, sprawling into one of her kitchen chairs.  Mulder can sit straight as a ramrod and still sprawl somehow, but this is louche, possessive, his arm slung over the back of her Windsor chair.  He sits in her chair like he might invite her to sit on his lap.  She wonders if it's intentional.  Mulder doesn't always understand his effect on people.  Mulder doesn't always understand his effect on her, specifically, despite the overclocked interrogative processes of his mind.  

"Care to elaborate?"  She presses the knob in, turns it until it clicks and the flame ignites.  She half-listens as Mulder rambles on, dropping citations to esoteric publications, mentioning names she won't remember until some other fact tugs at the twanging filaments of her schema.  Working on the X-Files has given her a mind like a spiderweb: every idea filters through her, snagging against the relevant threads until she can apprehend it and sip it dry.  Meanwhile Mulder, neither noiseless nor patient, spins his yarns and weaves them around her until she's swaddled in his narratives, transfixed.

Scully leans against the counter.  She's sat too long today.  The longer she stands, the more she feels the leaden weight of waiting soften, melting down her legs and slowing her feet.  It feels as if she is reclaiming those moments; every task takes three times as long to do, borrowed back from her store of lonely minutes.  Rain lashes the window and drums on the roof.  The gravelly racket from the kettle is a fitting soundtrack to Mulder's tales of conspiracy and herbs.  He looks at her, expectant.  

"It makes sense," she says.  "No well-balanced person could concoct Raspberry Zinger."

"A delicious conspiracy," he intones solemnly, gazing at her with those bosky eyes.

The kettle whines.  It gives her an excuse to look away from him.  Surely immediate domestic concerns like water boiling override the temptation to let herself be captured in the fairy rings of his irises.  The kettle insists, the sound rising to a squeal as she snaps off the flame and pours the water into two cups.  The tea bags bob just beneath the surface, leaking ochre.  She nudges one toward Mulder, who rises from the chair and leans over her, a breath too close for professionalism, to retrieve it.  She cants her body to escape his orbit and retires to the couch.  Mulder joins her, lounging at the other end, the weight of him as palpable as the ballast of time she's slowly shedding.  

Scully laces her cool fingers around the hot mug.  Ever since Antarctica, she's relished the heat despite the way it stings.  Her baths are too hot, leaving her rosy with her hair in ringlets.  Her coffee scalds her tongue.  Mulder winces and sets his mug on her coffee table, then casually pulls her feet into his lap and kneads his knuckles along her arches as if it's something he does every day.  His fingers are warmer than usual as he presses into the complicated countertension of tendons and fascia, residual heat from the tea.  

"Mulder," she starts to say, but all that comes out is the em in a soft sound of pleasure.

"I know this doesn't make up for ditching you, Scully," he says, "but I promise this time it wasn't my fault.  Skinner trapped me in his office with some rookie who needed help with a profile.  I told him that I had to go, but he reminded me that my continued employment with the federal government depends to some extent on fulfilling his whims."

"Did you tell him you were leaving to pick me up?" she asks.  

"For some reason, that didn't compel him," Mulder says, digging into a tender spot until she gasps a little.  "I did catch him picking up his car keys.  Maybe he wanted to be the one rubbing your feet."

"I thought the massage was an act of contrition," she says.  

"If that were the traditional apology for ditching someone, I would have been kneeling at your feet years ago," he tells her.  "Maybe I should have been."

"Then why are you rubbing my feet?" she asks.

He shrugs and imprints circles around the bone of her ankle with the soft pad of his thumb.  "Indulging myself."

The afternoon drags past like wet silk, brushing over her skin instead of piling up inside her in a hoard of compounded disinterest.  Scully sips at her tea, or her tisane, or whatever the hell it is, relishing the contradictory fresh heat of it as Mulder smoothes the fatigue out of her feet.  The mesh of her pantyhose makes webs between her toes.  She is become a suburban cryptid, a soccer mom type with a secret.  Mulder purses his lips and blows into the interstices to make her shiver.  

"Indulgence isn't your usual modus operandi," she says at last, drowsy and refreshed.  

"Mm?"  He looks up at her.  "What are my regular symptoms, Doctor Scully?"

"Flagellation," she says idly.  "A guilt complex that verges on narcissistic.  Melancholy."

"Maybe I need my humors balanced," he quips.

"I can dig up some leeches if you're feeling bilious," she says.  

"All the more reason to do my penance," he says.  "Prostrating myself before you.  A thousand Hail Scullys and a few hours of foot rubs are a small price to pay for my mortal soul."  He ducks his head in contrition.  Dark stubble ruffles down his neck.  She wants to chafe her fingertips against it, or the soft skin of her cheek.  He's due for an appointment with the clippers.

"It's going to take more than a few hours of foot rubs to avoid the leeches," she corrects him.  

"Exact your toll," he says.  "Five minutes for every minute you've spent waiting for me sound fair?"

She snorts.  "You're negotiating yourself into a lifetime of indentured servitude at that rate."  

"There are worse fates," he says lightly.

"There are better proposals," she parries.  

"Are you asking me to marry you, Scully?"  His voice is low, the cadence of his words deliberately provocative.

"Of course not," she counters.  "I can't depend on you to pick me up from the airport, much less meet me at the altar and be with me for better or for worse."  

"At least we've already gone through sickness and health," he says, releasing her feet for long enough to rap on the veneer of her table and then resettling himself.  "But you have a point."  He strokes the tops of her ankles down to her toes, his long fingers grazing delicately along the slope of her foot.  "We'll have to settle for a lifelong bond less sanctioned by the priests of the world."

Outside it's still raining.  They are cordoned off from the rest of the world by grey and damp in a moment that will be dissolved, resolved, absolved.  Après ça, le déluge, and their confessions will evaporate like holy water, returning to some abstract plane.  Scully sets down her mug.  

"Is that all?" she asks casually.

"An eternity of contrition," he says.  "And my best attempts at punctuality.  Although between you and me, I think Skinner did it on purpose."

"Are you saying he's trying to come between us?"  She hums as he resumes his ministrations.

"He's been trying to come between us for years," Mulder claims.

"The true conspiracy," she says.  "The question is, which one of us is he after?"

"A conundrum for the ages," Mulder murmurs.  

Scully rests her head against the couch cushions, her eyes drifting over Mulder's face as he devotes himself to kneading her calves.  His downcast lashes smudge his cheekbones.  He is cast half in shadow by the rainlight, a moody portrait of devotion.  She lets herself be weary, lets herself be cherished, lets time slip past without marking it.  Some moments are eternity.  She will find all the minutes she has lost, someday, in this infinitely variable universe.  

[greekowl87]

Fic: Over Breakfast

A/N: The idea was conceived during @frangipanidownunder ‘s @just-fic-already character workshop last week. It has been rewritten twice and it's close to what I intended but not really. I don't know if it is any good but I had fun writing it so I hope you enjoy. I tried to catch the typos. Hopefully, I got most of them. Oh and this is pure season 7 MSR fluff.

Tagging @today-in-fic

Scully hated layovers especially when it could mean she could in her bed a few minutes longer or not having to deal with Beltway traffic out to Dulles. and the fact that they hadn't even left the capital. At least the company was good this morning. As she sat in the C Gate bar and restaurant with Mulder next to her, they shared a breakfast sandwich between them and coffee. He flipped The Washington Post looking for the sports section.

"Aha!" He plucked the prized section from the rest of the pile. "I've missed the game last night and I want to see how the game ended."

"Was last night's view disappointing?"

She felt Mulder take her hand and squeeze it tenderly. "If your reactions were any indication for both of us then I consider it a night well spent. And I might pat myself on the back."

"Don't break your arm doing it."

The intimacy was a new thing for them. Ever since the new year, Scully was not quite what sure what to do with herself. It had only been a month since the mysterious alien artifact and when everything between them changed. Not that she was complaining. Not only did she experience a reawakening of her sexual life (more like a rebirth) but the shift between them grew more intimate like an old married couple.

"Haha, Scully. Do you want the entertainment section?"

"Sure," she answered and pilfered through the pile of newspaper. "Do you know how domestic this feels?"

"It feels just right." He flicked the paper trying to straighten the section. "Well, I lied. It's better."

"I would kiss you if we weren't in public," she said softly, opening the entertainment section. "But you know. Rules."

"I would take you back into one of those booths and be quick and fast, no matter who is here," he countered calmly as he turned the page in the newspaper.

"Maybe if we hit O'Hara on the way back," she murmured. She flicked open the entertainment section as Mulder fished for his half of their shared breakfast. Her eyes scanned the basics...new museum openings, soft news stories, reviews but something else caught her eye. "'Is He Worth It? A Quiz for Dating,'" she read out loud.

Mulder's eyes darted towards her. "What?"

"It's like one of those dating quizzes but..." She skimmed the article. "It's a bunch of suggested questions for first dates." She flicked another page looking for horoscopes to see if tonight she might be lucky. "It's silly."

"I could go on about it with psychology, Scully. Let's do it."

"Why, Mulder?"

"We aren't going anywhere. Come on."

She smiled and flipped the page back while rolling her eyes. "Okay. First question." She scanned over the beginning and settled on one of the middle questions. "What is your favorite scent?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer it."

"Sunflower seeds and you."

"You're being vague."

"I'm being safe. Your turn."

"When you cook us dinner and us."

"Us as in..."

"Keep your dirty mind clean," she scolded.

He chuckled and for good measure squeezed her ass. Scully felt her cheeks flush red and warmth rush to her core. "I would slap you if I could."

"You won't. Next question."

She licked her lips as Mulder turned the page in the sports section. "Times a wasting, Scully."

"Dogs or cats?"

"It doesn't actually say that."

She titled her newspaper section towards him and nodded encouragingly. "It does."

"Fine," he conceded after reading the blurb. "Dogs."

"Cats."

"Cats, Scully?"

"After Queequeg." She shrugged. "They're more independent and less likely to be eaten by alligators." He laughed out loud, almost spilling his coffee as Scully hid her grin behind her newspaper. "Besides, you remind of a cat as often as we end up sleeping on top of each other."

"I wouldn't have it any other way. Next question, Scully."

"What did you do to get grounded for the first time?"

He pursed his lips in thought."Playing a prank on Sam when I was seven."

"What was the prank?"

"Doesn't matter. Your turn."

She licked her lips letting him slide. "Getting caught smoking by the nuns for the first time as a freshman."

"You smoked?"

"I had a rebellious phase, Mulder. I wanted to be more than the science geek and try and be one of the popular kids. I wasn't an athlete. Following in Missy's shadow was hard. I didn't have my first boyfriend until my senior year with Marcus when I..." She blushed. "Well, we can trade the inevitable losing our virginity stories another time."

"I won't ask."

"But yes, I had a little rebellious streak and occasionally listened to music, excuse me, the devil's music that the nuns frowned upon."

He chuckled, turned his head, and rested his cheek on a propped up arm. "I think we would have been best friends in high school, Scully."

"But we wouldn't have what we have now."

"Mind-blowing sex?"

She hit his arm playfully. "Quiet!" She lowered her voice. "Yes and everything else."

"It's not like anyone knows us here, Scully. Next question."

"Fine. Reading in the bath or reading in the bathroom?"

Mulder looked like he was seriously contemplating the question, artfully stroking his chin as he churned over different thoughts. Scully laughed at his absurdity. "Neither. Couch unless you're sharing the bath with me, Scully."

"Shut up, Mulder. Tub, obviously. You know I love my baths."

"This little first date questionnaire is giving me nothing but ideas. Screw getting to know your date. This should be...dating ideas or something."

"Obviously you need more coffee because that makes no sense. Next question. Who would you invite to a dinner party? You get five guests."

"Two problems with that: who throws dinner parties and do we even know five people?" Mulder began to count one finger at a time. "Let me think now. The gunmen, you, Skinner..."

"What the hell, Mulder? How come I am not the first one that comes to your mind? In that case, Bill---"

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. My mother, Father McCue..."

"Fine. Just you. Us. We can get dinner and forget the party."

"You need to take me a dinner soon by the way. A real dinner and not the habitual sharing of the meals that we typically do. Next question. Walk on the beach or walk in the forest?"

"Forest," Mulder answered with hesitation.

"Oh hell no. It's a simple trip to the forest my ass, Mulder. Beach."

"Why the beach?"

"I like the ocean."

"Okay, for you, the beach. Just this once. Mark it under future date or weekend getaways to do with Scully."

"I would like that very much, particularly the weekend getaway. You know we're only a couple of hours from the coast in D.C."

"Dually noted." He tapped his head. "Next question."

"First gig and last movie?" Her face contorted with confusion as she squinted at the paper to make sure did not misread the print. "What is that supposed to mean? Never mind. We're skipping that question. Okay. Worst lie you ever told?"

Mulder folded the sports section and glanced down to their shared breakfast as his half of the sandwich and then back to her. "During your little rebellion period. I wasn't staring at you. Or should I say spying." His eyebrows waggled suggestively. "In the shower."

Her brow furrowed in thought trying to understand what he was referencing to. She remembered that after her little rebellion with the tattoo her and Mulder had been forced to share a motel room with a bathroom that lacked a door for some reason. "What the f...Mulder! I had sex with Jerse the and you were off being a peeping Tom trying to get back at me."

"What?"

Scully flashed him a sly smile. "Gotcha." Mulder frowned with disproval while his partner continued to smirk. "You know I didn't have sex with him. Or Padgett. I'll let you get me back later. Okay, okay. My worst lie though? When I ruined Ahab's dress whites with my mother's red nail polish one time and blamed it on Bill and he had it coming."

"You little hellion."

"Moving on, Mulder. What do you dream about?"

Mulder grew quiet as he let his thoughts wander as he recalled the almost fatal brain surgery months ago. "Simple things. You. Sunflower seeds. You. Baseball. A happy ending."

Scully grew warm. "Remember that night in the office when we first...after our little baseball date? You scored a home run."

"Yes." Mulder smiled in fondness. "Very much so."

"Well, aside from our good times, I had a nightmare once Skinner interrupted us because he wanted to watch us like a sporting match. Who's gonna come in first?" Despite her blushing, Scully was grinning from ear to ear.

"Ugh. Don't make me picture that. That's horrible, Scully."

"Good thing I can finish multiple times."

"It's a good thing I see to you first."

She patted his shoulder fondly. "You're a true gentleman, Mulder. Now, moving on. What song do you want to be played at your funeral?"

Mulder grew quiet as he remembered the time he had to pick out headstones with her mother and grimaced. It was something he did not want to experience again or even think of. "Not fair, Scully. You're immortal, remember?"

Scully looked down at the newspaper and folded it closed. He watched the blues of her eyes change from mirth to seriousness. "I had to plan your funeral once or twice, Mulder, don't forget that. Even if it wasn't real. The mushroom made it feel like it and I don't think it is something I could go through with again.

He took a deep breath and squeezed her hand again. "And I had to go picking out headstones with your mother."

She took a deep breath. "It's something I don't want to think about."

Mulder licked his lips thoughtfully. "Let's do this. Why don't we pick one song that we can both agree on? What about that one song? It was written by the Foo Fighters. I heard it not too long ago. What was it?" He snapped his fingers trying to recall the title. "Walking After You."

She smiled. "I would like that and I think that would be perfect." Uncharacteristically, she gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek in public. "Next time you stay the weekend, we read the Sunday paper over breakfast."

"I could go along with that," he agreed with a boyish grin. "And we should definitely do this more often."

[mckinnonkate]

adagio

ummmmmmmm i dont really have an explanation for this other than im SOFT and i WANT A BABY so since im a Childless Lesbian the next best thing is to talk about mulder and scully’s im chillin tho

In their new routine, sleeping past 6 a.m. is a luxury.

Gone are the days when they could lounge around in bed until 9 or 10 on a Saturday, wrapping themselves in layers of blankets in the winter and only each other in the summer. For the last six months, they’ve given up on trying to spend the first few hours of daybreak alone, hiding from the world with him between her legs or nestled inside her body. Morning sex doesn’t have quite the same appeal with a baby squalling down the hall.

Which, Scully notes, said baby seems to be doing right on time this morning, as she pries open her eyes and notes with short-lived optimism that at least today she managed to make it to 6:15. She rolls over, away from the alarm clock that seems to mock her from its place on her nightstand, only to see Mulder awake as well. He meets her eyes with a look of resignation so pronounced she wonders if he could somehow sense this morning’s intrusion before it happened. She sighs in defeat, and the corner of his mouth quirks into a smile.

“Our daughter doesn’t quite grasp the concept of rest and relaxation,” he jokes, rubbing a hand over his face. She groans and shakes her head, slipping her eyes shut.

“Nope. No child of mine would ever balk at the thought of sleep. She is your daughter.”

“She’s my daughter when she wakes us up, she’s my daughter when she won’t stop eating, when exactly is our kid yours?”

“When she wins a Nobel prize in a few years,” she deadpans. He snorts, then throws the comforter back in a move to get out of bed. She cracks an eye open and lifts her head from the pillow, regarding him with palpable gratitude.

“You sure?” she mumbles, relief already evident in the question. He groans as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stumbles to the door.

“Yeah. I got her. Sleep a little longer.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. As he slips out of the room, she lets her eyes fall shut once more, burrowing as deep as she can into the mattress and wrapping her side of the comforter more tightly around her body. She hears the baby’s cries wane and eventually stop altogether, her brain having decided that she’s going to hover in that half-awake limbo before falling back to sleep, and imagines Mulder ambling back to her. Her assumption is confirmed moments later when she feels the bed dip and his body slide next to her once more.

Suddenly, she jumps when a small, wet hand falls with a splat on her cheek, then taps incessantly on her mouth, her nose, her chin, begging for a reaction. She shakes with laughter and obliges, letting her eyes pop open. She’s greeted with the sight of her daughter, standing inches from her face, giggling and drooling and flashing a smile that’s all gums and way too brilliant for this early in the morning. Behind her, Mulder holds a hand to her back for support with his left hand, the right propping up his head on his pillow.

“Someone just really wanted to see you,” he supplies, watching with an awestruck look on his face as she takes the baby’s hand in her own and kisses it before letting her grab onto her fingers. The baby, satisfied at her mother’s reaction, plops down next to her, shifting onto her side once Scully has lowered her flat against the bed. He wonders, for a moment, if this is a dream he just hasn’t woken up from yet. “I think we have a little time before she gets hungry.”

Sensing that she’s the current topic of conversation, the baby squeals and rolls onto her back, kicking her legs and flailing her tiny fists. She’s still laughing, though, seeming to be content with being the center of attention, and the sound squeezes Mulder and Scully’s hearts so intensely they’re sure every nerve ending in their bodies must be constricting. It hasn’t gotten old.

Attempting to lull her back to sleep, Scully reaches a hand over and places it gently on the baby’s stomach, alternating between softly patting and slowly rubbing from sternum to bellybutton and back. This settles the baby a bit, but her wide, blue eyes still look expectantly up at her mother and father, as if wondering why the fun had to stop. Mulder gives in first, as he usually does (because when you give your daughter a name that means “father’s joy,” what else can you expect?), and starts tickling up and down the baby’s side. The giggling starts again, and her little body squirms and shakes under his touch. Unable to resist, and finally letting go of any hope she had of keeping the baby calm enough to get some more sleep, Scully joins in, her fingertips following a similar pattern to Mulder’s on the opposite side of the baby’s torso.

As she writhes on the bed between them, the baby’s laughs bubble up and become contagious, and before long the family is huddled together in a pile of pure, carefree glee. Eventually, Mulder and Scully slow their attack on their daughter’s body and move to her limbs, making feather light strokes against the bottoms of her feet. They look impossibly small against her parents’ hands, and it once again strikes Mulder how incredible it is that Scully grew this whole person inside of her. When their daughter came into the world six months ago, he sat in the hospital sure he’d never love anything or anybody as much as he loved the solid bundle resting against Scully’s chest. It’s still true – he just didn’t anticipate how quickly that love would grow.

Craning her neck forward for better access, Scully starts peppering the baby’s face with kisses, barely touching her silky skin. She kisses her daughter’s forehead, above each eyebrow, her nose, each cheek, and finally ends on her chin. By the time she’s reached the last spot, the baby’s eyes are struggling to stay open.

“Looks like we might get a little more shut-eye after all,” Mulder observes, as the baby turns into Scully’s chest and grips her shirt. He brings his hand to the back of her head, chasing away any tension from her over-stimulated mind. With the baby soothed, their own contentment soon follows, and the three of them simply exist in bliss together. Mulder and Scully watch the rise and fall of their daughter’s teeny body, and wait until it’s clear she’s asleep once more before meeting each other’s eyes. The smile hasn’t left Scully’s face.

“Good morning, huh?” she offers, wrapping an arm around the sleeping form next to her and pulling the child closer. Mulder scoots closer still to her on the bed, careful not to disturb the cherub-like entity between them, and sets his hand on her hip, drawing circles with his thumb.

“Good morning indeed. We make beautiful babies, you know that?” Scully’s tight-lipped smile stretches wider across her face – the answer to his question he didn’t really need but doesn’t mind getting in return.

They share soft smiles and unspoken words of love before returning their gazes back to their daughter, satisfied with staying in this moment as long as the peace will allow them.

[jessahmewren]

Fair Game

Written for @thexmasfileschallenge. Also tagging @today-in-fic Day 2: Wreath

-0-0-0-

It was late fall, and as the season suggests everything in nature seemed subject to gravity’s pull. Leaves, as they rattled along sidewalks, and the temperature, rarely reaching the fifties at midday but flirting with freezing every night of the week were an apt testimony. It seemed as though winter would blow through D.C. before autumn had even made itself at home. Almost on cue, a sharp wind cut a whiplash path through the National Mall, causing Scully to retreat even deeper into her overcoat. The noonday sun was bright, but by the time its light had filtered through the overhanging trees its warmth was long spent. She closed her eyes, listening to the rustling leaves, and waited.

-0-0-0-

She was beautiful. This was hardly a realization to him, but as Mulder made his way over to her, he couldn’t resist stopping beside a tree, partially hidden, to drink her in. Her hair was wavy now. The subtle curl she’d so carefully subdued for so many years was more prone to show itself these days, especially on windy days like this one, and the shoulder-length tendrils hung languidly against her tailored plum coat, quivering lightly in the breeze. Those titian tresses matched a few leaves that, even at so late in the season, still colored the walking trails that skirted the perimeter of the National Mall.  The sun shone through them, shifting and coupling against her ivory skin in a dozen silhouettes as she sat there, an Impressionist painting of shadow and light. That park bench and the woman on it made him so glad he hadn’t taken this road or that road whenever it had presented itself and ended anywhere but right where he stood. “Have you taken to sleeping on park benches now?” He settled next to her, smiling wryly over the high collar of his black pea coat. She started slightly, eying him with feigned annoyance. As recompense, he proffered a large Starbucks, and she smiled. “Caramel Macchiato?” He nodded. “With extra whipped cream,” he added with some satisfaction. Scully’s sweet tooth was just one of the many little things he loved about her, and he encouraged her to indulge whenever possible. She sipped it appreciatively as he held his own black coffee. They sat in companionable silence as joggers and parents with strollers circled them like hungry sharks. After a few more sips she made a half-turn on the bench to face him. “You’re late. It’s nearly one.” She had a bit of whipped topping on her lip, and Mulder couldn’t suppress a laugh. Scully looked at him, perplexed. “What?” He kissed her, expertly dealing with the little bit of sweet, and she softened into his kiss before lightly pushing him away. “Mulder,” she drawled quietly. Scully’s discomfort with PDA was another little quirk of hers that he found absolutely adorable, and he relished testing the limits of her tolerance at every opportunity. “Mmm.” He hummed contentedly and licked his lips.  “You taste so good, Scully.” “If you wanted some you could’ve asked,” she intoned huffily, and set her coffee down on the bench beside her. His eyes twinkled. “Oh really,” he said with a wicked grin. It was her turn to laugh. She kissed him then, PDA aversion be damned, and snaked her hands around his middle, under his coat. She rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent, relishing in the warmth and familiarity of his body against hers. “Are you sure no one will see us here?”

He sighed, feeling the comfortable yet still-new feeling of the weight of her body against his.  “No,” he said quietly.  “But we shouldn’t have to hide, Scully.”  She tightened her hands on him under his coat, a wordless reply. “But I know we have to…at least for now,” he finished quietly.  

She exhaled against him. “So where are we going?” He smiled into her hair. “To the fair,” he said matter-of-factly. Scully withdrew, her brow furrowed. “The fair? As in Carnies and corn dogs, Mulder?” Mulder nodded calmly, his lips pressed together. “That would be the one.” -0-0-0- Mulder gripped the gun firmly as he squinted down the barrel. His shoulders were relaxed and, as he had done a thousand times at Quantico, Mulder sighted his target with cool precision. With an intake of breath, he depressed the trigger, hitting the bull’s eye square in the center. Again. “And, we have another winner,” the carnival worker behind the counter said loudly if not a little flat, clearly bored and annoyed by one hotshot dominating his racket. Make that two. “I’ll take that one there.” Mulder pointed to a gaudy Christmas wreath with a Santa hat on top. Scully eyed it humorously. The man took the wreath down and handed it to Mulder.  At Mulder’s feet, a litter of stuffed bears, dogs, dragons, a massive Sponge Bob and one huge inflatable hammer lay scattered on the ground. Mulder put his face through the wreath and looked at Scully.  “Look Scully, battery operated.” With a flip of a switch the seemingly plain green wreath opened what appeared to be eyes and a mouth and began to sing Jingle Bells.  He laughed in delight. “The office door is going to be so festive.” 

“Jesus Mulder,” Scully said, rolling her eyes.  “Now hand me that rifle.”  

Mulder put his toy away, finding it hard to decide what he found more arousing: Scully, as she bent suggestively over the counter, her lithe body fitted perfectly under the belted coat and dark jeans, or the way she held that gun. She was an excellent marksman, and although her current weapon was a harmless pellet gun (with a bent sight), she held it with all the deft accuracy and dead seriousness of an assault rifle in the field. The hard concentration etched on her face did nothing to chisel away the loveliness there; in fact, it was sexy as hell. She brushed non-existent dirt from her hands, looking smug. “That’s eighteen. We’re tied.” She smiled triumphantly before choosing another of her own prizes from the booth’s rapidly dwindling stock. When she’d made her choice, instead of paying for his turn, Mulder grabbed her around the waist, burying his face in her hair. “Why don’t we call it a draw,” he whispered huskily in her ear, but she only smiled. “Not on your life.” -0-0-0- It was near evening, and the sun was setting over the Ferris wheel, tents and assorted other monstrosities of carnival life with apropos beauty for Virginia in late fall. If the foliage in the city caused one to look twice, the trees here stopped you dead in your tracks–a myriad of gold, scarlet, and transitional greens in natural abandon against an orange sky. They sat in a diner across the road. Most of the day’s fair dwellers were dispersing now and the evening crowd was coming in, a river of headlights flowing to and from the fairgrounds like so many migrating lightning bugs. Scully picked at her burger and fries, quiet and somewhat pensive. “So why did we come here Mulder? It’s our day off, true…I mean it’s beautiful, but it took us hours to get here just to play some silly games.” At first she thought she’d offended him, but his face, unreadable by most people, told her that he was only listening. “I mean, I’ve had a wonderful time, but—“ “I love you Scully.”

She gaped at him. In the months they’d been together–actually been together as in having acknowledged their feelings for one another and explored a relationship–neither of them had ever said the “L” word, and she had never noticed its absence. It seemed, to her at least, that she and Mulder had transcended its need, that saying it after all of these years meant no more or less than saying the sky is blue. And here he was saying it. “When I was five, my grandmother took me out to the country, to a fair kind of like this one. I’d never seen anything like it. The sights, the sounds, all the different people.” He looked away, lost in an untouchable memory. “It was amazing. And that’s how you make me feel every day.” He looked down at the table. “I just wanted to show you.” She looked at him blankly, dumbstruck and profoundly touched all at the same time. “You do show me Mulder.” Her voice was barely a whisper, almost as if she was unsure of to whom she was speaking, and her heart was in her throat. “You show me all the time, in so many ways.” She stretched her hand across the table, entwining her fingers with his. “C’mon,” she smiled at him. “How about a rematch?” -0-0-0- “Uh, this was not exactly what I had in mind when you said ‘rematch.’” Mulder looked at the little armada of ducks, yellow, pink and blue ones bobbing along in a tranquil cul-de-sac, and creased his brow. Scully nudged him playfully. “Come on, Mulder, what are you afraid of? Just pick one.” But maybe that was what was so daunting. This was a task he couldn’t control, not with skill, training, or brute force. It was an outcome left simply to chance. He set his jaw and fished one from the stream. The woman behind the counter turned the little duck over, where a black number “1” was boldly emblazoned on its underside. “Here you go,” she said brusquely. He looked at the little sticker she pressed into his palm with some modicum of defeat. It had a dolphin on it and said “you’re a star.” But he felt like a failure. Scully suppressed a giggle at the dejected look on Mulder’s face and paid for another turn. “Here, let me try.” Scully closed her eyes and swirled her hand dramatically over the ducks like a magician at a kid’s birthday party. With some fanfare, she plucked one from the water and handed it to the woman. “Three,” the woman declared, but with the same lack of enthusiasm with which she’d announced Mulder’s lowly “1.” Scully set her mouth, her eyes searching the rows of prizes for just the right thing. Finally, she made her decision and handed it to Mulder. He looked down at the little stuffed dog, no bigger than his hand, and at the little heart it held in its mouth. It said “I love you.” Mulder looked at Scully and they both smiled.

-0-0-0-

[gilliansanderson]

If Ever There Is Tomorrow; Chapter 1

An AU in which Mulder and Scully meet three times over the course of their lives; told in a series of vignettes.

Tagging @today-in-fic and fulfilling my @fictober promise. I also wanted to dedicate this one to all the lovely, talented people who helped me out during the @fic-files write-in, because without their support and feedback I probably would not have had the courage to put this out there.

1. As Time Goes By

Spring, 1993

The end of the 20th century is only the beginning. Change hits the nineties at a breakneck speed; Hair is getting bigger, technology is getting smaller, colors are getting brighter while the climate begins to suffer, but in the midst of a new era, some old skeletons are about to be unearthed. The third time they meet is the least bloody, yet opens more wounds. It comes, like the times before, suddenly and without warning.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Mulder had been given plenty of warning when Skinner had informed him he was being assigned a partner; A scientist who was to, no doubt, disprove his work and report back to the kind of men he was fighting. To keep him in line and keep him from going overboard. This hadn’t come as a surprise, he always knew the closer he got to the truth, the more curveballs they would throw his way. What made him almost fall out of his chair was the name, Dana Scully.

A name he couldn’t claim had never crossed his mind.

Dana Scully haunted him like an intrusive thought or the vague memory of a strange fever dream. She reminded him of a time he would much rather forget, yet the feeling lingered; the possibility that maybe one day, their paths might cross again. When he’d heard that she’d enlisted he found himself needlessly frequenting Quantico in the hope and the dread of catching a flash of ginger hair. Her thesis was printed and dog-eared the moment it was published; because challenging one of the greatest minds the world has ever known was something so quintessentially Dana Scully, and he was ever the masochist.

His hopes were not high; he didn’t expect her to accept this assignment, and he certainly didn’t suppose she would darken his basement door that very same day, but suddenly, here she is, smiling down on him from the high road.

“Agent Mulder,” she says quietly, with an air of disbelief, “I’ve been assigned to work with you,”

They shake hands like strangers, his fingers burn at her touch; the sensation lingers even after her hand falls away. She had always run as warm as her complexion, His summer girl had become fall. Her hair is darker, neatly tamed. She teeters precariously on heels that give her precious extra inches, that demand he looks her in the eye. Her ill-fitting tweed suit hangs awkwardly on her slender frame; the whole ensemble reminds him of a child playing make-believe. Hidden is her rebellious heart under sensible attire and a polite smile; the heart he knows he broke, and one he refuses to break again.

So he puts down his slides and puts up his guard.

“Isn’t it nice to be so highly regarded? So who’d you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?”

For a moment she’s stunned, then the next she recovers, “Actually, I’m looking forward to working with you,” she tells him.

He responds with a bitter smile, “Oh really? I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me.”

A fire sparks behind her eyes, she looks as if she was about to retort before he cuts her off. “I’m surprised you didn’t object to your placement, Scully, what with our tempestuous history,”

She hesitates, he hates that she hesitates, hates that he makes her hesitate. “I can’t say I wasn’t caught off guard,” she admits, “Though I knew it was a possibility we would run into each other when I started working at the Bureau…”

“Yes, this is interesting happenstance isn’t it, Doctor?” She tenses, Mulder stands and brushes past her in order to miss her patented Scully glare.

“If you’re suggesting that you played any part in any decision concerning my career…”

“I’m not suggesting anything, I just always supposed you’d be headed towards a Nobel prize by now, yet here you are wasting your talents in the basement with me,”

Scully blinks and tilts her pointed chin, “You think I’m wasting my talents here, Mulder?”

“It’s just that in most of my work, the laws of physics rarely seem to apply,” he shrugs and hits the lights. In the unearthly glow of his projector, Scully looks like a ghost.

He shows her the dead kids, barely older than they had been, once upon a time. He tells her his theories, she rebukes them with a smirk, slowly the ice begins to thaw and a familiar feeling begins to take root.

Then she leaves, and the basement feels darker and emptier than it ever had before. So Scully was back in his life and maybe, plausibly, this time she would stay. Mulder locks the office door behind him that evening and whistles the whole way home.

Fall, 1978

September in Connecticut, 1978 is record-breaking. The air as thick and hot as soup, her stiff collared shirt clings to her skin and dampens at the base of her neck. She wipes away the sweat beading on her forehead with the end of her ugly striped green tie and ignores the disapproving look her mother gives her.

Dana had always marvelled at how the air was always different in every new place they landed, she secretly ranked them from the icy unforgiving winds of the Scottish moors to the serene and exotic air of Japan. Greenwich so far was not doing too well on this list, however, it looked like she was going to have to get used to it. She had long since gotten used to the routine of neatly packing up her life in matching suitcases and burying a lunchbox in the backyard.

Melissa left a trail of broken hearts behind them like push pins in a map. Her sister had always been better at making friends, she claimed it had something to do with her aura, Dana wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, only that hers was probably broken. Usually, by the time she had started warming to people, her father would sit the four of them on the couch and tell them it was time to start saying goodbyes, so Dana eventually stopped trying to find people to say goodbye to.

She had her friends, they were called Mom, Ahab, Missy and Charlie. Sometimes Bill, when he wasn’t being a pain in the A Double-S. They were all she really needed. When she was very young, she even had an imaginary friend called Lucy, who took the form of a red squirrel. Lucy would curl up behind her hair and whispered secrets in her ear. Dana liked the fact that nobody else could see her, that she was hers and hers alone.

Sometimes she would pen a letter to the boy who had forgotten her, only to burn it in the bathtub with her mother’s lighter.

But still, her Mom always tried. She heard her arguing sometimes with her father that it wasn’t good for them, that kids needed stability. It looked like this year she had finally won the war and a house was bought, not rented.

She shifts uncomfortably as her bare thighs stick to the Principals rigid leather seats. The Principal in question was a tall British woman with large teeth, a sensible mousey bob and a collection of motivational animal posters. Dana catches the eye of a mournful kitten hanging from a curtain, encouraging her to Hang In There! and somehow feels even less optimistic.

“Now Diana, a little birdy told me that you’re especially talented at Science is that right, dear?” She smiles in a condescending way that makes Scully bristle. Bill snickers to her right, Missy kicks him in the shin on her behalf.

“It’s Dana, Ms Paterson,” Her mother corrects her patiently.

“Oh, my apologies, Dana.”

Dana represses the urge to roll her eyes, instead, begins to fiddle with the brand new chain around her neck. Naturally she was the last of the three to be enrolled, but unfortunately for her, also the one the school was most interested in.

“As I was saying, it seems you are just the model student, and if you don’t mind the extra work, we might be able to sign you up to the tutoring scheme, we have a nice young man who is in need of a little extra help in physics,”

Maggie nods encouragingly at her, clearly ecstatic at the prospect of her troubled young daughter making a friend. Dana tries feebly to muster her mothers’ enthusiasm,

“Sure, Miss, sounds… neat,”

“Wonderful,” she croons, “I hope you don’t mind, but I already took the pleasure of asking Fox to come by the office, so you could get to know each other,”

Dana’s hand stilled at the base of her throat, she felt her mother stiffen beside her, and her siblings’ squabbles fall silent. No. It couldn’t be that uncommon a name. “Fox?” she falters.

“Yes, quite an odd name isn’t it? He’s truly lovely boy, very very bright, unfortunately, he had to be held back a year…” Ms Paterson yammers on, but Dana had long since stopped hearing her words, as a minute later he appeared.

He was taller and lanky, the skin on his cheeks textured and he was in dire need of a haircut, but he was undoubtedly the same wide-eyed boy who had been her first real friend. And with wide eyes, he stares at her from the doorway, as if he couldn’t believe them himself.

“Scully?”

Framed by a halo of light from the hall, the image of him becomes blurred by the tears which spring to her eyes. Her chair falls backwards with a heavy thud as shoots to her feet. She mutters an apology to the baffled headmistress before she hurries from the room.

“Scully,” Mulder pleads, catching her hand as she darts past and clutches it tight. Electricity floods her veins. She looks into those familiar hazel eyes and pauses only a moment before she pulls her hand away and runs.

Summer, 1969

The summer of ‘69 is worthy of its song. Rock and Roll is at its peak, a man walks on the moon, and somewhere in New England, a lonely little boy meets a lonely little girl.

With a startled wail and a resounding thump, she falls out of a tree into his yard and into his life.

The day until that moment had been dull and unremarkable. Having escaped captivity and found refuge in his favourite spot, under a tall oak tree overlooking the tranquil sea; Fox William Mulder, seven and three quarters, jumps with a start and stares at the heap of limbs and hand me downs, as it groans then starts to giggle.

“Are you okay?” he asks, as his initial shock subsides.

“Yeah, yeah,” it says, “I’m fine,”

Dana Katherine Scully, six and a half, sits up to brush off the worst of the debris but lets out a sharp gasp as a lightning bolt of pain shoots through her wrist. However, being the tough cookie she was having grown up playing rough with William Scully Jr, the sprain was not enough to make her cry.

“You don’t look okay, you’re bleeding,” Mulder observes. She touches a hand to her mouth which sure enough, comes away red. Between them on the crisply trimmed grass lies a pearly white tooth. The ruffled girl picks it up and studies it curiously, tonguing the fresh gap in her gums, then tucks it into the pocket of her overalls.

“I guess you’re gonna see the tooth fairy,” he lisps, gesturing to his own missing front teeth. Her freckles dance as she wrinkles her nose.

“The tooth fairy isn’t real,” she replies, spitting scarlet on the ground and wiping her mouth on her arm, staining her skin like war paint.

“Is too, and so is Santa Claus,”

He offers a hand to help her to her feet, which she takes with a bloody, gap-toothed grin. This girl was brand new, he knew every fresh face in this small seaside town, and not one of them had ever smiled at him like that before. She’s all skinned elbows and scabby knees. She looks like she was spat out by the sun, with a fiery rat’s nest of auburn hair and a mischievous gleam in her bright blue eyes. He feels like Isaac Newton, hit on the head with the discovery of the century.

“You’re not from around here are you?” he asks.

She shakes her head, “No, we just moved here this week. My Dad’s gone to sea, I was trying to see his boat from up there when I slipped,” She replies, gesturing to the web of twisted branches above their heads.

“He’s a pirate?” he jokes; she quirks a little brow.

“No. He’s a Captain,”

“Captain Hook?”

Fox Mulder is still at the age where girls are kind of gross, but the sincerity with which this pretty tomboy laughs makes his ears turn red regardless. She was like a breath of fresh air after spending the whole day trapped inside a stuffy room, which incidentally he had.

“Fox,” he blurts at her, suddenly losing his cool.

“What did you call me?” she replies hotly, her un-injured hand flying self-consciously to her mussed red hair.

“No! my name is – “

“Fox!” They jump at the booming disembodied voice calling from the house a few meters away, “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Crap,” he mutters. Scully can’t help but flinch at the use of the word which would have cost her her dessert. “I’m supposed to be grounded, I think I’d better go,”

She tries not to be disappointed, but finds herself reluctant to say goodbye to this curious boy with a strange sense of humor, who believes in myths and fairy tales; but he makes no move to leave, equally unwilling to say goodbye to the girl who dresses like a boy and smells like the sea, who climbs trees and doesn’t cry when she falls. They eye each other hesitantly until finally, she breaks the silence.

“Your name is Fox?” she asks.

He makes a face, “Yeah, but I hate it. I like my last name better. It’s Mulder,”

“Mulder,” she tries it on her tongue and decides she likes the taste. She straightens her back and offers her hand like she’s seen adults do a thousand times before. “Ok. Nice to meet you, Mulder, my name’s Dana, but I guess you can call me Scully,”

“Scully,” he beams and takes her tiny, dirty hand in his. They shake in childish ignorance to how their stars had just aligned.

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder and Scully's Love Story: Season 1

A place to put all my analyses on MSR's gradual changes in Season 1.

Scully's Love Story, S1: Attraction to Friendship to Fierce Loyalty to Love

Mulder's Love Story, S1 (Part 1): Instant Camaraderie to Easy Friendship to Unbreakable Trust

Mulder's Love Story, S1 (Part 2): Mulder Shifts from Prizing Scully to Wanting Her to Prize Him

Mulder's Love Story, S1 (Part 3): From "You'll Have to Trust Me" to "A Change Is Coming for You and Me" 

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[starbuck09256]

The Bed You’ve Made Part 3

Part 1 https://starbuck09256.tumblr.com/post/183232727829/the-bed-youve-made

Part 2 https://starbuck09256.tumblr.com/post/183599512139/the-bed-youve-made-part-2

He studies his face in the mirror. The last 3 days taking a toll on him. Diana stayed over twice, she hasn't done that in years. Scullys’ kiss is still burned on his lips somehow laying claim to him. It's so unconventional. Today is the ultrasound. The gods blessed him by having Scully consult at Quantico the last two days. Diana comes behind him, her eyes matching his in the mirror. She found a contact in Nevada for him. One who can get him information on how the military has been using alien technology on fighter jets. She got lucky had Spender go consult on some demon baby case without her so her and Mulder could fly there together. Another strategic move by Diana, another question on what the end game is.

“are you going to make the flight?” Diana’s voice pulls him out of a trance as she reaches around him to grab her earrings off the sink. How weird it is to see her stuff scattered again amongst his. He promised Scully he would be there for the appointment, already being pulled in another direction of getting evidence that he could use to get the X-Files back. “I booked myself on the red-eye, just in case Kersh gets the idea to track your movements you'll have plausible deniability.” He says it calmly as he cleans his razor and starts to shave. Diana watches him for moment. Diana knows him, knows his half truths and avoiding gaze but not like Scully knows him, Scully would have noticed him withdrawing the last few days, muddling through the nights with less vigor. Does he really want to continue this thing with Diana? Is it finally time to let all this rest? Forget his life work and settle for anything Scully could give him? What would Diana think or do? Has Diana even noticed?  Maybe Diana doesn't care like Scully does.

Diana reaches out touching his arm, “I don't want you to lose focus Fox, we want the same things, we need proof, you are so close, it might be time to limit other distractions.”

Mind reading is apparently Diana’s new skill set. Interesting to know  she does actually care. What’s her goal with this? Maybe it is separate him from Scully, maybe she doesn’t like him having a new woman in his life? That’s a little conceited even for him. Jealousy isn’t an emotion he ever considered for Diana, she has always been calm, exceptionally perceptive of her place and worth. His eyes bore into hers and he turns. 

“Are you asking me to make a choice?” anger seeps through his words. She doesn't know the hell that Scully has been through. Doesn't know what it was like to watch her almost die because of some personal cause of his. Doesn’t know that she might be surprised at his final choice if it ever comes to that, god he hopes it doesn’t.  Her head moves quickly shaking back and forth with a sort of conviction and assurance. There is the Diana he knows, the surefooted one who wouldn’t pretend to be even concerned for a second about his loyalties. He’s changed but maybe not that much. He still feels like the same selfish dick, now he has more options and he plans on playing whatever games he needs to get what he wants. 

 “I'm asking you to think about the timing, think about what you've spend every waking moment focused on for the last 20 years and to not let pretty things distract you from the big prize. I don't need to ask you to choose Fox, we both know that your choice is the files. It always has been, it's why you and I had to separate in the first place, to find those answers apart…” she pauses Diana always so good at choosing her words wisely. 

“Please realize that I value your relationship with Agent Scully. She has kept you alive, but we are finally here when everything is finally coming to fruition, I question the timing of some miraculous conception.”

 He goes on the defense because Scully would never betray him never use something as terrible as a child to lock him out of his life’s work. Diana may have misjudged him, he knows where Scully’s loyalties are knows how she has gone to the end of the world for him, just as he has done for her. Could Diana be this naive to think that she wasn’t replaceable? Hubris might come to eat at her soul. But what if this is part of her game, part of  a larger picture, to make him question everyone's loyalty and do something reckless. It has been his standard mo for years. Not sure how to play this into avoiding a confrontation he would like to push off, while he gathers more intel. Diana knows the jump first Fox, the man who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else, she doesn’t know that he learned Scully is the smartest of them all and the purest. That Scullys relentless questions and contradictions have changed him made him step back before he leaps that she has become the voice that resonates in his head through the day. 

“You think that Scully is a spy, and now she is using this pregnancy against me to shift my focus?” 

Diana shakes her head but not in the vehelmly way he thinks she would. What’s the move here Diana, the little spy card? The insecure partner? The jilted lover? What is this piece suppose to do with this play and how are we all lining up into the perfect places you have set forth?

“I don't think Agent Scully is a spy, I don't think she has any inclination to limit you in your search, but Fox these men, they see her as your weakness.” She breathes out slowly.

She loved him, truly when VCU fucked him up, when Patterson made him believe humanity was something in books Diana brought him back. He felt that love, craved it, thought he nutured it into existence for a small amount of time, she made him feel worthy of love for the first time since he was 12. They planned a life together, plan to get answers to prove to the public all that the government knew, expose the world to the fantastic. Europe was to open new avenues that were limited in The X-Files, new outlets of truth seekers, more threads to chase. But she never came back and he just let her float away just like Sam.  

“Maybe she is your weakness…” her voice is still smooth like honey, pulling him out of the times long ago when she muttered to him in the dark. “I don't know. I don't ask because I don't want to know if I've really lost you.” her voice catches and he feels a sense of shame for thinking the worst of her. 

He doesn’t have proof, he has suspicions. Scully doesn’t trust her, but Scully is so much less trusting than him.  She continues with almost a sob as she pulls her composure together, 

“But you said yourself the odds were almost impossible, the fact that you took them to a specialist right away. You know the literature, that these women, women like Agent Scully and myself can't have children.” She finishes her statement biting her lip and turning away. 

He blinks slowly letting her words wash over him in a haze, women like Scully.. Like herself? What the hell does that mean? How does she know about the eggs he found, he never told her. Never mentioned it to anyone, not even the gunmen.  

“What do you mean women like Agent Scully and yourself?” he asks he grips her shoulders bringing her eyes back to his

“in Europe Fox I.. I got to close… I was missing for 4 months..I have a chip too.”

She looks at him. He steps back. How many people have been hurt because of this, What did they do to Diana all those years ago? What are they still doing? How does Diana know these things about Scully? The tests what does that mean for him and Scully now? What does it say about him, he is still willing to look for Sam after 20 years but wasn’t willing to look for his wife for more than 2 months?  How well did Scully vet this doctor of hers, what if this is a hybrid and the truth is in Scully?

“You never.. We had been fighting and I just assumed you… “ his voice trails off. Did Diana mean to leave him? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe this was part of a ruse to get him to stay on a different course, stay in Washington, find answers where there weren’t any. All while another woman that he loved was tortured and taken, and he sat ideally by looking for solace and ghosts in the wind.

Or maybe it’s another part of her mind game,Is this part of her game? Did she fake this? How incredibly ruthless is she? He’s tried to never underestimate Diana or women in general. They are always far more cunning than men. That chip, what does Diana know about it? More than they do most likely? Diana doesn’t appreciate being messed with, and she will cut you out and bleed you dry before she gives you any sense of satisfaction. He wonders what she has uncovered, what she knows. The stakes just got a whole lot higher. Years ago the horrible things he said to her when he thought she had abandoned him. The anger and rage and her on the other end silent. He’s lost in thoughts when her voice breaks through sad and hurt but not malicious. Fuck.

“Fox it is what it is, I know we both have said and done things to each other and maybe it was right that we ended it, I know that I wasn’t in the best space when I came back, I know that this child with Agent Scully isn’t going away and that you have moved on, but I just caution you, These men are evil and we both know they are more than capable of heinous things,  just get lots of photos today have them checked out even by those freaky resourceful friends of yours, please. I don't want this to be another way in which you are used. I wish you the best, you know that.”

She leans up kissing him as she turns to leave.

“I'll have a room key for you at the desk when you arrive tonight. Good luck.”

With that she is gone and he is left staring at the sink watching the water escape like the promises they made all those years ago.

Tagging the folks who asked :)

@scully-eats-sushi @contrivedcoincidences6 @knuffelkontje @tngbabe@danaedaniels @itsclaucueva @sandymans-world @lappina@postmodernpromartheus @missmelimelis0900 @foxystarbucks @skinny-gillian @gwensghosts @wendyi111 @peacenik0 @monaiargancoconutsoy@marinafrenzy @improlificinsarcasm @today-in-fic

[danadeservesadrink]

Wine and Whiskey

Scully arrives at his apartment with a bottle of wine on a Friday night and Mulder can't refuse. There's something so tempting about drinking wine from the bottle. 

Word Count: 2578

Rated: M

Taggong @today-in-fic, @itotallygazeatscully, and @agent-starbuck

Chapter 1/2

AO3 link is here

He had never been more mesmerized in his life than by Dana Scully drinking wine from the bottle. She had shown up at his apartment holding it, bashfully admitting that she didn’t want to drink alone on a Friday night. Of course he let her in. 

It was rare that she let her guard down like this. He ushered her in with a hand on her lower back and she made herself comfortable on his couch, flipping through the channels until she landed on a rerun of some history documentary. She gazed up at him and requested a corkscrew. Who was he to deny her. 

Dana Scully sat on his couch in her maroon sweater and blue jeans on a Friday night at 9:06 pm and uncorked a bottle of white wine and he had never been more in love. Correction, he was more in love with her at 9:07 when she took a swig straight from the bottle. He sat opposite of her on the couch, matching her cross-legged position, and gazed at her. She must have noticed, as she giggled and flushed. He wished she would do that more often. 

“I’ve had a very long day,” she whispered. He didn’t mind. She deserved to unwind. She passed him the bottle with a raised eyebrow and he smiled and took a sip. 

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater. The wine was sweet. He tried not to remember the way her lips looked as she took a sip from the same spot he had. 

“Bill’s an ass” She said, rolling her eyes. She reached out a hand for the bottle back. He would never deny it to her.

“Yea he is. What’d he do this time”. His previous attempt to forget how perfect she looked as she drank was a failure. Because Dana Scully was on his couch drinking wine from the bottle. He doesn't think any sane person could ever forget that. 

“Called me up today to tell me how disappointed he was with me. How I’m a failure to our family and how I’m putting myself in danger for absolutely no reason” She laughed at this, and so did he. He shifted closer on the couch. “He heard about the case”. Of course. Scully had to save his stupid ass again, almost getting shot by their suspect as she dragged him out of a warehouse. 

“Bill’s an idiot” He said so sincerely it made her look up from staring into the wine. 

“Yea. Yea he is” She whispered. She took another drink, unconsciously moving closer to him on the already small couch. 

She’s so pretty. The way the TV fluorescents bounced off of her cheek, the way her hair was tied up but the short pieces in the front wisped around her face in perfect little curls. It took all of his strength not to reach over and brush one away from her eye when she tilted her head back to take another drink from the bottle. Her neck was perfect porcelain, he dreamed of running his lips over the smooth skin she exposed. When she finishes, his only thought is of replacing the remaining drops of wine on her lips with his own. 

She looks down at the bottle, then up at him through her lashes. She was coy, vulnerable. She wouldn’t do this usually, but something about her brother cursing her partner for putting her life in danger just made her want to run to him more.

He graciously takes the bottle from her as she passes it to him, their fingertips connecting, electricity evident in even the slightest of contact. He sips, and notices her watching. 

Her phone rings and they are rudely interrupted.

She pulls it out of her pocket with a sigh, and he smirks. 

“Hi mom.” He hears the muted voice of Maggie Scully on the other end of the phone. She’s probably calling to apologize for her son’s behavior. 

“Well he was acting like a bastard!” Scully exclaimed, frustrated, and Mulder couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Scully shot him a glare, and he quickly pressed his lips together in silent surrender, instead choosing to tease her by leaning over and trying to press the wine bottle to her lips. She pushed him back, but reached for the bottle and took a drink before her next answer. 

“I’m over at Mulder’s place” He grinned at her and tried to scoot in closer to hear Maggie’s response. She pushed him back again, this time with a small smile. 

“Work stuff” she said, avoiding eye contact with him. This forced another laugh from him and she slapped his shoulder. 

“I’ll let him know, Bye mom” She quickly hung up the phone and proceeded to drink a good 6 swigs before handing the bottle back to him. He didn’t realize it was almost empty. 

The concept of Dana Scully, the Catholic raised and pant-suit wearing professional, drinking wine at a man’s apartment at night while on the phone with her equally proper mother made him chuckle. He wonders if this is the first time she’s done this. 

“What did your mom want to tell me” he asked with a grin. She blushed. He couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or if the wine was getting to her. Maybe both. 

“She just wanted to say hi” she glanced at the bottle in his hands. “You gonna finish that?” He shook his head. He was worried that any more and he would start acting in ways that would make Maggie Scully very disappointed. Scully pouted at his response, but leaned even closer to him, grabbed the bottle, and downed the rest of it, tilting her head all the way back to allow the last drops to trickle from the bottom of the bottle into her throat. Something about her throat made him want to mark it with his teeth. 

She finished, and returned to gazing in his eyes with an impish smirk. He must have still been staring because she burst into a fit of giggles. She was definitely feeling a little buzzed. 

“Scully are you drunk?” He teased. She burst into another fit of giggles as she shook her head, still smiling like the cat that ate the canary. He loved the sound of her laugh. He never wanted it to stop. He would personally fight every demon in this world so that she never had to stop smiling at him like she was right now. 

She felt loose, unrestrained, and so did he. They were so comfortable with each other in the strangest of ways. Intimacy came in small touches and promises of protection, least of all through physical affection. But tonight, all bets were off, as Dana Scully, goddess in blue jeans, used his shoulder to push herself off his couch and waltzed into his kitchen, swaying her hips like the little vixen she was. 

“Where you going?” He called after her, but the only reply was the sound of a cabinet being opened and the melodious giggle he had come to adore. 

She was reaching for the top shelf when he walked in the kitchen behind her. Her prize was obvious. Walking up behind her he placed one hand on her hip and reached with the other for the half full bottle of whiskey. 

He almost dropped it when he felt her step back into him. He flexed the hand still fixed to her hip as he felt a shiver run through him. As quickly as she came, she was gone, instead turning around to grab at the bottle he was holding. He reacted quicker, pulling it back, raising an eyebrow in response to her pouted lips. Drunk Scully was a dangerous creature. All he wanted was to please her. 

“And why should I give you some of my emergency whiskey?” He teased. 

“Because I’ve had a terrible day, and now I’m out of wine”. She had to know what she was doing to him. Looking him straight in the eye, pushing her lip out even further. He rolled his eyes, laughing again under his breath. 

“What’s the magic word”

And oh Dana you know how to make a man give you anything. There is no magic word, only Scully tilting her head back, closing her eyes, and opening her mouth, tongue stuck out and waiting. The vision was enthralling. 

She peeked an eye open when she heard him toss the cap on the counter, but closed it again with a giggle when she realized he had caught her. He shook his head, exhaling softly. With a reverence, he gave her what she wished.  

The whiskey hit her tongue with a burn of ice and fire, and he watched as it slid down into her mouth, filling her up until he stopped pouring, and she swallowed. He had never wished to be a liquid before. She coughed before smiling up at him, eyes sparkling even though the closest light was now the television. 

“Your turn” She smirked and took the bottle from his hands. 

“I don’t think you can reach” he countered, but she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled down. 

He would never deny her.

He got down on his knees on his kitchen floor, and it was only right that Scully should be the altar he prayed to. Still smirking, he first closed his eyes as she had, then stuck out his tongue to await the drink of his goddess. She poured sloppily, the hand of a distracted woman, and he had to swallow before she was finished, causing her to spill some on his lips and chin. 

He opened his eyes to see her giggle, mumble an apology, and lean over him. He barely registered what was happening before he felt her tongue, that perfect tongue, lap up a stray drop off of his cheek. He gasped, sharply. She pulled back, only a few inches, still leaning over him. He gazed up into her eyes and saw his arousal mirrored in them. 

“It’s your emergency whiskey, I didn’t want to waste it.” She smirked her perfect lips as she whispered. Her breath smelled like sweet wine and sharp whiskey. It was intoxicating. He closed his eyes as he felt her finger raise his chin to the heavens. She licked again, this one on his jawline, and he moaned. He felt her laughter in puffs of air on his cheek. 

She ran a finger over his lips and he thinks he might black out. 

All he wants is her. His body shakes with the thought. 

She brings both hands to cup his cheeks, whiskey bottle long forgotten, and presses her lips to his. 

The feeling is that of resurrection. It’s an electric shock coursing through his body, lighting every nerve he has on fire, his thoughts only attuned to her, her, her. He remembers he has hands, and uses them to pull her closer, cupping the back of her neck with ferocity. She opens her mouth and he tastes her tongue. The taste of salvation. 

He breaks the kiss only to rise up to his full height before he descends upon her, grabbing her by the waist, pulling her closer, desperately gripping her clothes. She tangles a hand into his hair and pulls him into her. He could get lost in her mouth, following the flow of the whiskey before him, lips then tongue, fire and ice. She moaned into his mouth and he tightened his grip on her. His mouth traced the path his eyes had followed earlier. Off the curve of her lips, down to her jawline, where he licked and sucked and did everything in his power to remember the taste of her skin. She whimpered when he reached her pulse point, taking the fist in his hair and desperately pressing him against it. He nipped at her flesh, and then kissed it better. 

“Fuck” she drew out, shaking, and it made him wild. He sucked harder, knowing full well the dark purple bruise it was going to leave. Both of them couldn’t give a shit. When he finished, he kissed his way up to her ear. 

“Mine” he growled, and she shuddered in his arms. He carefully tugged on her earlobe with his teeth as he felt her nod against him.  

“Yours” she whispered back. It was all the permission he needed. 

He carefully traced his fingers up her sides, dragging the fabric of her top along with it. Her chest was heaving, their breaths mixing together in a cocktail of arousal and alcohol. He reached up to the bottom of her breasts and with a shock realized that her sweater had been hiding a secret. 

“Were you planning…” he dotted her collarbone with marks from his lips, sucking softly along each delicate curve “... on telling me…” another kiss “...that you weren't wearing a bra?” kiss, kiss, kiss. 

“I was more hoping that something like… ah… this would happen… fuck… and you would find out for yourself” 

He had to be dreaming. Any minute he would wake up in his bed horny and alone like every Saturday. But then she kissed him again and he figured that if this was a dream he hoped he was fucking comatose because he never wanted to wake up. He traced his hands over the underside of her breasts and felt her body shake at his caress. Quickly he pushed the sweater up and over hear head, her arms raising to help. And then she was topless in his kitchen on a Friday night and he was going to study her like she was a sculptor and she was his Venus. He would memorize every curve of her perfect body with his hands over and over and over. 

“Well?” 

He had been staring. How could you not when Dana fucking Scully was blushing and breathless in your arms. But there would be time for staring later. He turned his mind to devouring her. 

He palmed her breast and kneaded, watching in awe as her head fell backward and a sigh escaped her lips. His lips continued their trail downward, licking and sucking on the hills and valleys of her chest until he came to her nipple, where he paused to circle it with his tongue. At the same time he flicked her right nipple he took the left one into her mouth. Her head shot forward, the hand in his hair pulled him into her, and she let out the most guttural moan of “Mulder”. His name had never sounded more perfect than when it came out of her mouth. He spent some time there, licking and sucking, pulling with his teeth then soothing with his tongue, just trying to get her to make different sounds. Curses flew from her mouth with ease and he was reminded of the rebellious streak in her. The deviant Dana Scully that cursed and drank and fucked. He loved this side of her. He’s drunk off of her and whiskey and wine and he can only think that he needed more. His brain is buzzing and he’s sure he didn’t have that much wine but maybe it's just the smell of her skin that's so intoxicating.

“Mulder I need you” 

He looks up to meet her eyes and saw her staring back at him, breathless and hungry. 

“Now.” 

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

Finale posted tomorrow!  

We’ve made it from A-Y, and I know some of you have been waiting for the whole thing to be posted before reading, so thought I’d gather it all together in anticipation of the finale tomorrow at 7 PM!

Each of the letters up to this point have been approx. 200 words, but Z is close to 2700 words, so I promise it will be a satisfying end to our alphabet!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet, Letters A-Y

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 4612

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for X-Files

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z posted tomorrow night (9/25) at 7PM EST!

[leiascully]

Fic:  Baseball Metaphors (14/15?)

Part One  |  Part Two  |  Part Three |  Part Four |  Part Five |  Part Six |  Part Seven |  Part Eight |  Part Nine  |   Part Ten  |  Part Eleven  |  Part Twelve | Part Thirteen

NSFW.   Enjoy.  (For the non-baseball types, a grand slam is when the bases are loaded, meaning there’s a runner on every one, and the batter hits a home run, so four people score.  (this is not a fourgy fic))

They almost make love in the bathtub (he wants to think that they almost fuck, but it's all too tender for that, after their confessions).  The water bears up both their bodies so that they exist in a state of half-weightless grace, her hips cantilevered over his, his arms pressing her closer.  The only gravity is their two hearts pulling together.  The water on their skin seals every gap between them.  Her mouth hovers over his, wavering back and forth in a holding pattern.  They've kissed once already.  If they kiss again, it will be the end of something precious.  Something new and glorious will rise from the ashes of what was, but that doesn't mean that they won't, for a moment, mourn what they're losing.  

Her breath puffs against his lips and washes softly over his face, evenly at first and then faster.  The tide is rising inside them both, love and lust welling up from a place so deep they've both sublimated it for years.  Secret compartments under the floorboards of their souls.  Smuggler's habits ingrained so deep they've hypnotised themselves into forgetting the cargo they carried.  Once they crack the seal, there'll be no going back.  And there's treasure inside, oh yes, treasure beyond reckoning.  All the same, that life will be over, and oh, they have loved it and fought for it and framed out a space for themselves that was no one else's.  

The yearning swells inside him until he can't bear it.  Scully makes a quiet desperate noise and her mouth descends over his.  They go up in flames, a phoenix formed from two hearts.  He's half-surprised that the bathwater doesn't simmer around them.  Their hands slide over each other, remapping familiar territory in this new context.  This time, she isn't concerned with where he hurts.  He isn't searching for evidence of wrongdoing.  They're reevaluating each other's bodies as sites of worship, consecrating their former scars with pleasure.  She molds him anew out of the clay of his flesh, her deft little hands shaping him into a finer version of himself.  And all the while, their mouths move over and over each other, lips and teeth and tongues in delicious juxtaposition.  

"We have to get out," he whispers against the corner of her mouth.  "If we do this here, there will be water everywhere and I didn't see a Slippery When Wet sign anywhere, so there's nothing to protect us."

"Wouldn't that be the way it happened?" she murmurs back.  

"Finally, finally, the rapture comes," he says as she raises her head, "and one of us breaks a leg slipping on your tile or the landlord starts complaining about the flood or Jesus himself shows up to scold us."

"Is that what the rapture is?" she asks, wedging her way out of the tub like an intrepid climber.   She reaches for a towel and starts to dry herself.  

"I have to confess I don't know much about Jesus," he tells her, sitting up.  His erection juts out of the water like a submarine breaching.  Scully reaches into the tub and pulls the plug from the drain, letting her fingers trail over his body as she straightens up.  The water gurgles away, leaving him covered in stray clots of suds.  He splashes the dregs over himself until he's reasonably soap-free and levers himself up with both arms.  Scully hands him a towel.  He rubs himself down.  She watches him appreciatively.  He reaches over her to hang the towel, not quite pinning her between his body and the wall, watching her eyes for any trace of reluctance.  She just blinks approvingly at him; blue means go.

"I thought I'd carry you over the threshold," he says with studied casualness.  Scully deserves to be swept off her feet, but her fight instinct is well-honed at this point.  

"I'm afraid to tell you we're not in a fit state to leave the house," she says.

"Your bedroom has a threshold," he says.  "I thought I'd train up to the front door."

"How unexpectedly wise," she says, hooking an elbow around his neck.  

"I have my moments," he says, bending to slip his arms under her knees and her back, lifting from the legs as he hefts her.  He likes the solidness of her in his embrace, the way he has to lean against her counterweight to maintain the equilibrium between them.  She cuddles close against his chest and opens the door so he can step through it.

"That's teamwork," he says against her temple.  She laughs that low bubbly Scully chuckle that feels like he's winning a prize every time he coaxes it out of her.  He carries her the few steps to her bedroom and lays her carefully on the bed.  She drags him down for a kiss with the arm that's still around his neck.  He surrenders to her gravity and drops over her, catching himself on his elbows and knees.  Her arm flails out at the bedside table until her fingers catch the drawer handle.  He digs for the condom himself this time and sits back on his haunches to deal with it.

"I like that you're prepared for any eventuality," he says, ripping the foil open carefully.

"I was thinking of you when I bought them," she says, and his cock twitches in his fist as he rolls the latex down.  His heart thumps too.  

"Oh?" he says.

She licks her lips.  "Maybe not as vividly as you would have liked, but I entertained the notion."

"Did you," he says, amused.  

"Mm," she says.  

"Semper paratus," he quips.  "I always imagined you as a diligent Girl Scout, Scully."

"Mulder, that's the Coast Guard motto," she says.  

"There's a joke about harbors in there somewhere," he says, lying on his side next to her so that he can stroke her from breastbone to belly and beyond.

"Please don't try to find it," she says, her hands wandering over him.  "There are, ah, better ways you could use your time."

"Better ways to spend my time than trying to come up with pier-based puns while you're naked in bed next to me?"  He scoffs.  "I believe in extreme possibilities, Scully, but that's a bridge too far."

She groans, and it isn't because he found the right spot.  "Mulder, shhh," she says, and tugs at him until he rolls onto her.  He eases into the cradle of her hips, holding himself over her.  

"I love you," he says, unable to help himself.

"I love you," she says, smiling at him.

"That wasn't...I wasn't trying to talk you into anything," he says.

"Mulder," she says patiently, "we've got the rest of our lives to deal with your misdirected guilt, but right now, I need you to stop talking and start devoting your considerable intelligence and whatever else to rendering both of us absolutely speechless."

"I can do that," he promises.  

She puts a finger to his lips.  He kisses it and then sucks the tip into his mouth.

"Better," she says.  

He braces himself on his knees and one hand and uses the other to stroke his slow way down her body, lingering over her breasts until she's gasping, her back arching so that her cunt rubs against his thigh.  He strokes the underside of her breasts, weighs them in his hand, palms her nipples and then pinches them for the change in sensation.  They're everything he envisioned and more.  She moans, a soft appreciative sound that rises in pitch as he squeezes her breasts.  He slides down her body to nuzzle at them, lipping her nipples into his mouth where he can tease them with his tongue.  His other hand slips lower, caressing her ribs and her belly, easing between her legs.  He cups her mound in his palm, his fingers barely rubbing over the coarse curls.  Just enough pressure for her to want more, just enough friction to send need zinging through her body.  Her fingers clutch into the muscles of his thigh and his shoulder.

"I'm not going to say this often," she gasps, "but I think we can skip the foreplay tonight."

"What," he teases, "almost four years was enough for you?"

"Maybe I should hold out for five," she suggests, but her fingers are already curling around his cock.  "I wouldn't want you to think I was easy."

"Nothing about you is easy," he tells her fondly.

"You might be surprised," she says, and guides him down to her entrance.  She uses the latex-clad head of his cock to spread her own slickness over her folds.  He groans.  

"I love you," he says fervently, from the bottom of his heart and the bottom of his balls.

"Are you going to say that every time?"

"Probably," he admits.  He's bitten it back enough for a lifetime.

She smiles.  "I can live with that," she says.  Her eyes gleam.  

"Now?" he asks, trembling a little with the tension of not plunging into her.

"Please," she says, and guides him in.  He sinks into her and her hips shift to accommodate him.  She sighs like she's just eaten the best meal of her life.  Pure satisfaction.  It lights up the pleasure center of his brain and whatever feels victory.  Eight million years out of Africa and some part of him is still wild, all grunts and appetite, ready to abandon himself to base instinct at the first sight of her bare skin.  He gathers up whatever parts of himself are still Homo sapiens sapiens and breathes out evenly.  Her eyes are dreamy.  Her hands drag up and down his back.  

"Mulder," she says, and just the way her lips part around his name is so warm and wondrous and full of love that he almost cries.  Jesus, he's in deep, and not just inside her.

He starts to move, just gently, thrusting slowly into her and pulling slowly back out again.  They're both still damp from the bath, still so warm he's already sweating a little.  The scent of lavender mingles with the musky perfume of sex.  She's tight around him and everything about her is a miracle.  It's hard to keep an even, steady rhythm as he moves; he's always been a zealot when he comes to her, frenzied in his devotion.  She feels infinite.  He could spend a lifetime exploring her.  Every little ripple of her muscles startles him.  He can feel himself shivering.  He doesn't want to come too fast.  He wants this to last.  They might have had sex already, but he can feel in his bones that this is the time that counts.  This time, the first time after they've pledged themselves to each other, after they've revealed the transparent truths of their parallel pining.  It was just fun before, and gratitude, and stress relief.  This is the first fuck of forever.

He slows and bends to kiss her, long lingering kisses that leave them both breathless.  It isn't the mechanics - he could breathe - but he forgets, when her lips are against his, anything but the sweet jolt of loving desire that overrides even his autonomic nervous system.  She licks into his mouth, her tongue thrusting into counterpoint to his hips.  They kiss like they've got until the end of time.

When he can't take it anymore, he pulls out of her, letting his lips pave a trail down her body to her cunt.  She tastes like sex and latex, but he teases her clit with his tongue until every exhale is a gasp or a moan.  She murmurs his name, stroking his hair, and he reaches up to catch her hand.  She puts both their hands on her breasts.  He strokes her and lets his tongue swirl in lazy circles, easing her away from the edge.  

"You're a goddamn tease, Fox Mulder," she sighs.  

He raises his head and grins up at her from between her thighs.  "Just making sure I touch all the bases," he says.

"Head home," she says.  "I want to come with you inside me."

"Holy fuck," he says.  She isn't pulling any punches anymore.  She smirks.

"Please," she says, and it's more of a taunt than a request.  He scrambles up, overeager but too goddamn in need of her to care about his cool exterior.  They both reach to guide him back into her; they both groan when he slides home.  

"Kiss me," she says, and he does.  She licks the taste of herself from his lips and pulls his bottom lip into her mouth, pinning it delicately between her teeth.  He thrusts into her, letting the rocking of her hips set the pace.  It's faster than before.  There's an urgency in her; he can feel it in the thrum of her pulse.  

"I wanted this for so long," she whispers.  "I want to remember every second of this."  She gasps.  "It's a hell of a moment to have déjà vu."

He laughs, startling himself.  Of course it would be Scully who'd have visions of their future in her dreams, a sixth sense about the sex they'd eventually have.  It feels a little bit like that to him too.  His brain stutters trying to reconcile fantasy with reality, but she exceeds his expectations, just like always.

"There will be so much of this to remember," he promises.  

She cups his face with both hands.  "Mulder."

"I'm here," he says, thrusting into her like punctuation.  He's losing control again.  The velvet heat of her cunt is too much for him.  Everything's going blurry around the edges, including his sense of self.  He's melting into her, she's melting into him, and the laws of physics are bending as the space between them compresses to nothing and they're just two irresistible forces striking sparks on each other's soft places.  

"Will you touch yourself?" he manages to ask, and she wedges her fingers between the harsh ridges of their pelvises without even a wince.  He lifts to give her space as she rubs in quick up and down bursts.  God, he's close, but he'll be damned if she doesn't come first.  He slows down again and she groans and hooks her leg over his hips, drawing him closer.

"Faster," she says, and he obeys, bucking into the slickness of her, harder than before to compensate for his reduced range of movement in the embrace of her thighs.  She moans her affirmation and he shivers and barely manages to hold on as pleasure shocks through him.  He tries not to look at her, but at the same time, he can't look away: she's flushed and wide-eyed under him, lips parted, rosy nipples firm under his fingers.  She's hard for him and hot for him and wet for him and fuck, he wants to make her see stars, so dazzled that for the rest of her life there will be faint afterimages when she blinks, glow-in-the-dark constellations he's stuck to her memories.

"Yes," she says, and he moves even faster, helpless as she draws tighter around him, her thighs shaking as her heel digs into his hamstring.  She's still touching her clit, her fingers flicking between them, and he can feel when the shiver starts deep inside her, spreading through her body.  She tenses and trembles and arches and he thrusts deeper inside her, spreading her open until their hips lock together.  There's a moment when she goes absolutely still, keening in her throat, and then she cries out and comes apart in his arms and he wants to experience every second with her but he can't help toppling over the edge.  The thought of Dana Scully's orgasm was always enough to make him come in his fantasies.  The feel of Dana Scully's orgasm is impossible to withstand or resist.  But it's appropriate: they're seeing stars together.

He collapses against her, barely holding himself up.  His ears are ringing with the singing of his blood as it rushes through his veins.  After a moment, she twists her fingers through his hair and pulls him close for a kiss, rocking her hips against his.

"Again?" he asks.

"Mm," she says, and he's not as hard as he was, but that seems to be enough for her.  She grinds up against him, panting, and fuck, he wishes he had her refractory period, because watching her get herself off on him is incredible.  It only takes a minute or two before she's moaning under him and he feels the quick flutter of her cunt.  He rolls off her, holding the condom, because the spirit is willing, but the flesh is deflating fast, all the blood having rushed to his head.

"Ah, fuck," he says, sprawled out on her bed.  "Thank you, Evan, for unwittingly enabling all of this."

"Ethan?" she corrects, smirking.

"Ethan," he says.  "Sorry, Scully, my brain is melted."

"Don't apologize to me," she says. "I might send him a thank you card myself."

Mulder laughs.  "What will you write in it?"

"'Thanks for the best sex of my life'," she says.  "And there will be an asterisk that says, '*with Fox Mulder'."

"That might be a little much," he says.  "Anyway, doesn't an invitation to the wedding kind of say that?"

"He's not coming to the wedding," she says with a yawn.  "I'll give you an October wedding and a haunted honeymoon, but we're eloping."

"I like it," he says.  "You and me and whatever required number of witnesses."

"We can have a reception when we get back," she says. "They can come to that.  But not the wedding."

"We've never needed anyone else," he says.

"No," she says softly.  "We haven't."  She reaches for his hand and squeezes it.  He squeezes back and then rolls over, heading to the bathroom to clean himself up.  He disposes of the condom in the trash and washes his hands.  When he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sees a satisfied man, relaxed and happy.  He grins at his expression and finishes his glass of water, abandoned earlier on the side of the sink.  He'll bring Scully a fresh glass.  Maybe he'll touch the cool glass to her belly, just to watch her experience the sensation.  They've got a whole life ahead of them of enjoying each other.  Finally he'll get to indulge himself and her.  Instead of the Holy Spirit, they've left room between them the last few years for the specter of propriety and the nightmares that have escaped their flimsy manila prisons.

He thinks they'll sleep better now.

"It's a grand slam, son," he says to himself, and whistles on his way to the kitchen.

[frangipanidownunder]

The Shape of Shadows: fic

A/N This is basically a re-write of season two, assuming that M&S start a romantic relationship after they are separated as work partners. This part is NSFW. Tagging @today-in-fic  

Need to catch up? Read the previous installments: Part One

Part Two

The knock on the door was so Scully. Strong but contained. It was three thirty in the morning. He must have fallen asleep briefly, his skin crawling with gooseflesh and sleep-heat. His throat was dry, his nostrils thick. His hair must be sticking out at all angles. He stumbled to the door and she was past him before he could pull his tee-shirt down.

              “What’s going on, Mulder?” There was that light note of concern in her voice, the one that made her sound like a young girl. “You were mumbling. I thought…”

              He sniffed the inside of a mug that lurked behind his empty cookie jar and spooned coffee granules into it. “I’ve spent my life mumbling, Scully. Nobody wants to hear the ramblings of Spooky Mulder. When…when I was fourteen, I met a girl at the beach and she started to hang around me. I spent that summer whispering to rock pools and murmuring to jelly fish. She probably never heard me in full voice until the time I stood on broken glass on the boardwalk and screamed.”

              That raised a smile from her and she took the coffee to the living room and sat on the couch. She looked like a lost masterpiece in a thrift shop. He rubbed the back of his neck and bent to pick up the pile of papers and files from the coffee table. There was no room on his desk. She smiled as he looked around, exposed.

              “It’s okay, Mulder. I don’t come here and expect Feng Shui. Put them back.”

              He shuffled them into a neater pile and sank onto the couch next to her. “So what do you expect when you come here?”

              There was a thread on the sleeve of her jacket. She picked at it. He should have offered to take it. He should still offer. Before he could process what he was doing, his hand was on her forearm, covering her fingers. Her laugh was gentle, somewhat surprised.

              “Nothing, Mulder,” she said, looking straight at him. “I don’t expect anything. I just…I guess I miss having you around. I miss the teamwork, the camaraderie. We had something, didn’t we?”

              Something. They definitely had something. His hand rested on her arm while he tried to find a witty comeback. “The spook and the spy. Sounds like a bad movie.”

              This time her laugh was straight up genuine. It was delightful. His smile came quickly and easily. He’d missed it too. Not just the teamwork and the camaraderie. But the something. This laugh, this Scully. This was something.

              “Who would you choose to play us in this bad movie, Mulder?”

              The coffee tasted good, better than it had in a while. He sat back, reluctantly removing his hand. “Who’s the most handsome box office star at the moment?”

              “Tom Cruise,” she said.

              “Too short.”

              “Arnie?”

              He crooked his arms up and pulled a theatrically sad face. “Too buff.”

“Hugh Grant?”

“Too English.”

Giggling, she reached for her mug. “You must have picked up the accent, Mulder. Surely Phoebe wouldn’t have let her Yank boyfriend show her up too often.”

Despite the fizz of anger in his guts at the mention of that name, he let it slide. “What about you, Scully?”

“How many short red-heads are there in Hollywood?”

“Molly Ringwald? Nicole Kidman?”

“Not short.”

“Not red?” He turned his upper body towards her, felt himself shift closer. This Scully was different to the one in the office, the one who was so determined to prove herself, the one who listened, challenged and saved him. He’d rarely seen her so relaxed, so happy. She put her mug on the table. He did the same.

“Why did you come, Scully?”

The thread on her sleeve became her focus again. “Honestly, Mulder,” she said eventually, lifting her gaze to him. “I just felt I had to come. Compelled to see you in some strange way. It’s not even about our work, the files. It’s more than that. I can’t articulate it. I just felt it was something I had to do. None of this makes sense, but it’s how I feel. A lot of things haven’t made sense, since I met you, but I’m getting more used to it.”

Their knees touched. There was a spark under his skin. The thin fabric of his pyjama pants was nowhere near strong enough to stop it. “Do you like it, though?”

Her nod was barely perceptible but he took it as a sign to move closer still, his knee slipping between hers. Her exhalation was loaded with hope and he laid his hand flat on her thigh. There was a moment then, when neither of them breathed but his mind was running through the million questions and finding only one answer. The way she took his hand and lifted it up, pressing it against the bones of her chest assured him she was thinking the same.

“I like it,” she said, and something inside him exploded. He dipped his head, pressing his mouth to hers. There was no pull-back, no stiffening, no pushing him away. Their hands still entwined, she moved into him, opening her lips, encouraging him with her small sighs, her shift towards him. He reciprocated and they slid down so he was lying under her. Her body atop his was like being ensconced in a warm and pliable blanket. Moulded to him, it flexed and folded and draped.

He didn’t remember who initiated the disrobing, but it became frenetic within seconds. And then she was under him. There was no going back, there was only the now. Now was heat, shirts and underwear flying, leather against skin, breasts, tongues, legs, toes, sighs and groans. Now was kissing and tracing, guessing and fumbling, embarrassed laughing, glorious nakedness, hot, wet anticipation.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said, inching into her. She squirmed a little, spreading her knees to allow him his prize. “I just wanted you to know, Scully.”

She kissed him silent and he dared to move then, to discover. Her face tucked against his, her breasts pressed against his chest, her heels on his ass, they learned their way, their rhythm. He wasn’t sure if she’d climaxed but she whispered for him to let go. He tried to hold off but the pressure of her heat, her touch, her encouragement was too much. He shuddered and spilled into her.

“Scully,” he said, his voice gravelled with exertion and pleasure. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”

Her fingers massaged the back of his neck. “It’s okay, Mulder. S’not that easy for me. Not for the first few times anyway. It’s fine. I’m good.”

Her centre was slick and as he slid out, he brushed a finger up, circling her clit. “Let me,” he whispered. “Let me learn what you like.” She pressed her lips to his shoulder and he continued, tracing the alphabet and listening for her cues. When he curled a finger inside her, finding that rough patch, she moaned into his skin. He felt her buck up and he pulled back just so he could watch her face. She held her breath, arms tight around his shoulders, heels digging into the seat, hair falling back over the arm of the couch. His thumb swirled and he dipped to take a nipple in his mouth. She sighed and loosened in his grip. Working faster, he moved his finger in and out until she lifted her head up and gasped.

“Oh, Mulder. Oh, yes.”

Her skin flushed pink from her face to her breasts as she came down. He dotted her face with small kisses. “Thank you, Scully.”

“I think I know why I’ve never been able to put our relationship into words, Mulder.”

He chuckled. “Are you saying we’re indescribable?”

“I’m saying I think we’re something, Mulder.”

He kissed her again. “We sure are something.”

Later, when she slept in his arms he noticed the shadow in the corner, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

[lepus-arcticus]

15.

Scully feels the pull deep in her blood, the way monarchs know to return to the oyamels. The water. She must get back to the water. It feels more honest, somehow, to mourn her daughter by the ocean, to wash her grief in the ancient, embryonic broth of the Atlantic. She's always felt that this is where the real God lives; in the unbroken horizon, in the foam of the tide, in the salt and the sky. She has a crumble of coffin sand in her jacket pocket, a crunchy sprig of baby's breath. Her cell phone is locked in the trunk. She meant to walk into the surf, to cast these relics of her daughter's stolen soul over the water, back to the seat of her ancestors, back with Ahab. But she's got the stink of Fox Mulder on her now, and trouble sniffs her out. It's not her own Melissa, and it’s not her own child, but she saves them all the same. On her last night, she wades into the sea under a blackout sky, the brackish heart of her father crashing against her ribs. Wind lifts her hair around her face, God’s playful fingers, or maybe Melissa’s. The water is ice cold, rough and clarifying, and Scully decides that after these Mulder years are over, these years of mutants and highways and dire, consuming love, she’ll be a doctor after all. She can’t give life. But she can preserve it. 

Back in Washington, her lover is ravenous. 

Underneath him on the island of her bed, Scully is loose-limbed, weak with devotion. Mulder is enormous above her, golden and vivid, barely restrained. He scrapes his nails lightly down the back of her arms, over her sensitive stomach, sending voltaic tremors through her body. His thick cock pitching into her, his tongue dominating her mouth, him, him, him, crowding into her with every thrust. Being with him is like experiencing possession, her body a vessel for his body, her soul a vessel for his soul. A sweet and dangerous surrender. She knows she is marked forever by this love, owned, and it’s gorgeous and humiliating, illicit, transcendental. He rips his mouth down to the straining tendon of her neck, biting her in his greed, reaching down to grip the back of her thigh and press her knee to her shoulder. He groans at the new angle, her name on his lips. Scully cries out in pleasure, in hopeless submission, and palms the big, shifting muscles of his back. “I never got an answer,” he says, voice gravelly on her skin. Dazed, Scully searches her mind for his meaning. Mulder slows and lifts that haunted head to hers, forehead to forehead, the burning focus of his gaze sending her into fresh rapture. He brings his hand up, brushes a thread of damp hair from her cheek. She pants nervously. “Marry me,” he says, pulling back, grinding in slow, nudging her cervix, heavy balls hot against her ass. Ice floods her veins. Mulder pauses, sensing it, and kisses her lightly, smoothing his boxy, curvesome lips onto hers. She forgets to kiss him back. “Wait,” he says, and shifts out of her, off of her, reaching for his trousers on the floor. He returns, settling back beside her with something wedged onto the tip of his thumb. A demure braid of little diamonds, set in tarnished rose gold. It looks old, cherished. “Mulder-” she warns, propping herself up on an elbow, but he interrupts. “No, listen-” his face is the face he wears at a crime scene. He reaches for one of her hands, clasps it hard. “I know this isn't the life you imagined for yourself. I - I - I know how much you've sacrificed. But I need you here with me. And I want to try to give you whatever... degree of normalcy I can.” “Muld-” He looks down at the ring, twists it around his thumbnail. “You'll probably have to have it resized, it was my great-grandmother's, and uh, we can live here, or at my place, or we could get a townhouse in the city-” His voice is low and unfocused. Cold fear in her chest. “No.” “...Scully?” “No. I… marriage isn’t some sort of... consolation prize.” He fidgets uncomfortably, reaches to place the ring on her bedside table. It lands with a hollow click. His smile is tragic, abashed. “I… uh. Pictured that going differently.” “Mulder, I... I appreciate the gesture. I do.” She sits up, placing a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look at her. She searches his face, the abrupt jag of his nose, those sad eyes, and realizes he’s never told her that he loves her. She falls asleep in his arms. When she wakes up, he's gone, his side of the bed deserted, the sheets cool. The ring is still on her bedside table, and it glints with the byzantine light of the sunrise.    (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14)