#The X-Files

[mementomori047]

[sixhours]

Remnants

Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.

Rated: PG Length: 1k

Notes: Post-episode for Per Manum

Originally posted on AO3 1/6/2016

~*~

The apartment is shrouded in gray when she returns, the last of her hopes printed on an appointment summary in her coat pocket. Upon seeing her face, he wishes he’d thought to turn on a light, so she wouldn’t have to come home to more darkness, his slumbering form on the couch not enough to fill this newfound emptiness.

“It didn’t take, did it?”

Disappointment shines in her eyes. Forehead to forehead, he waits until her breathing is calm to offer something more substantial than a promise, but the warmth of her skin under his fingers disarms him, gives him pause.

His hands cradle her face as their lips touch for only the second time, her arms wind around his neck like an anchor, pulling him down into her sorrowful sea.

~*~

Dr. Parenti’s delivery was kind, but she felt the news like a gunshot. It’s worse than Emily, this intangible loss. Failure hasn’t washed away the image of a young girl with auburn hair and almond eyes, or a boy with a shy, quirked smile.

She loves them, the ghosts of her unborn children and all they represented: The intimacy of family life, ringing laughter and a mantle lined with photographs.

A child’s cry cutting through the night, hushed lullabies and the love-drunk smell of a downy newborn head.

Saturday morning cartoons followed by pancakes and bacon, spilled milk and syrup-sticky fingers.

The stillness of reality plays a harsh contrast to her imagination as she listens to the silence of what could have been.

~*~

He wants to punch a hole through her pristine apartment wall. He wants to hunt down the faceless men who did this to her and kill them with his bare hands, until he’s bloody and sore and near death himself. He wants to run, to put miles and years between them, until his bad luck can’t touch her any more.

Sometimes he wishes he’d never followed when she tried to resign from the Bureau, that he wasn’t so chickenshit as to ask her to stay after paying the price for her loyalty several times over.

He’d signed away his rights, but the thing that makes his face burn and his stomach clench with shame, is that he’d wanted this for himself as much as her. Selfish bastard, he thinks. Still a chickenshit.

So he steels himself, grits his teeth and holds her until she pulls away. He takes her hand, leads her to the couch, offers to make tea.

He’ll stay, because he doesn’t have the courage to let her go.

He’ll stay, because he doesn't have the right to mourn what was never his to lose.

~*~

Mulder is opening cupboards, running water. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, he washes the dishes and waits for the kettle, then swipes at his forehead, leaving a trail of suds across one cheek. The sight brings an unexpected smile to her lips.

Her heart sinks with the enormity of her grief and the weight of too many unspoken words. Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.

~*~

He settles on the opposite end of the couch, letting the mug warm his hands. She stares into hers for a few minutes before taking a slow sip, closing her eyes. When she opens them, she’s looking at him with an expression he’s seen only once before in real life, and too many times to count in recent fantasy.

“I love you.”

He blinks. His mouth must hang open, because she’s smiling at him now, a sad, tired smile.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she murmurs, hiding what’s left of her pride in her cup.

~*~

“What would you have done?” she asks. If it had worked, she doesn’t have to say.

“I’d have asked you on a date.”

She pauses to steady her cup on the coffee table, the tea sloshing in her startled hands. “A date?”

“You know—nice clothes, awkward conversation, an expensive wine list, at one of those places that mixes the salad dressing while you watch.”

“Really.”

“Really,” he returns, ducking his head.

“You’d ask your newly impregnated, platonic friend and colleague on an honest-to-goodness date.”

His smile is embarrassed enough to be convincing. “Yeah. I, uh…I thought…if I could give you…give you that…”

He stops, frowns. Her throat is tight when she finally breaks the silence. “Give me what?”

The tea goes cold before he can answer.

~*~

He wakes with a sore neck and Scully’s nose pressed into his hip, a throw tangled around her shoulders. The Late Late Show plays in the background, casting muted shadows on the walls.

She stirs when he stretches, blinking up at him from beneath sleep-addled lashes, as if seeing him for the first time. He wonders if this is what it’s like to hold a newborn; heart filled to bursting with terrifying awe.

“Mulder?”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, stroking the hair from her temple. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Mmph,” she says, her breath warming his abdomen through his t-shirt. “S’OK. I should get up, anyway.”

He nods in agreement, drawing his thumb gently along the plane of her cheek, but neither of them move for a long time.

~*~

She emerges from the bathroom just as he’s finished washing the mugs. Bare feet peek out from oversized silk pajamas, and she surprises herself, wrapping her arms around his waist before she can lose her nerve.

“I’ll stay, if you want,” he murmurs, and she loves him for offering so she doesn’t have to ask.

She loves him for so many reasons. Someday she’ll count the ways, line them up, and tuck them away; programmed, categorized, and easily referenced.

“I’d like that,” she says instead, words muffled by the thrum of his heart.

~*~

She fits perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way he always imagined she would. He times his breathing to the rise and fall of her chest and whispers a blessing into her hair.

“I wanted more for you, Scully.”

Her arms tighten around him, but she doesn't answer.

He holds what little hope is shared between them, and prays that it's enough.

~*~

cc @today-in-fic

[sentientsky]

Even when the world was falling apart, you were my constant... my touchstone.

artwork inspired by this incredibly beautiful msr fic from actualchangeling on ao3 (go read it!!!!)

[heronroseeros]

my favorite thing about the x-files is that i never really know what is happening. even when we see meetings of all the old-ass white men and they explain exactly what is happening, I don't know.

the characters say stuff all the time and sometimes things happen, then no complete conclusion is every truly reached.

the whole show is an unreliable narrator. and it is such a unique flavor. so tasty.

[slippinmickeys]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen Mulder?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

“Mulder?”

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

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

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

James smiles widely, showing the gap in his mouth.

“Magic,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mulder tips his head to whisper in her ear.

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

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

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

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

“You barely ate,” Scully points out.

“I was nervous,” he explains.

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

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

“God I love you,” Mulder says reverently.

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

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

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

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

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

[cosmonautroger]

The X-Files

[gaycrouton]

“If The X-Files was a 90s anime.”

credit: MabooCraboo on imgur

[trashy-greyjoy]

sometimes, it's not so much about the romance as it is about the devotion. the adoration.

[sci-fi-gifs]

THE X-FILES 1.03 'Squeeze'

[cristinaricci]

THE X-FILES ↳ 2.24 | Our Town

[mementomori047]

[sixhours]

Meteor

She remembers the space he’d carved around himself, and the moment she realized the distance was too great to cross.

Rating: PG Word count: 1k

Notes: X-Files revival era fic.

Originally posted at ao3 01/19/2016

~*~

She makes her way up the long drive, the old farmhouse looming like a specter from her past. There are no lights in the windows, just a cold, hulking shadow against a darkening sky; an apt metaphor if she thinks about it too much, which she won’t.

“Where are you, Mulder?” Scully whispers to herself. His car is parked next to the porch. It’s evening, too early for sleep.

The air is damp as she leaves the warmth of the car, carrying a folder of papers. Spring has turned the ground to mud beneath her feet, and she, in her most expensive pair of heels, frowns. Her good boots are at the bottom of a box at the back of her closet along with the rest of the things she never unpacked.

The porch creaks in the same places, the screen door still protests on its hinge. She knocks once before trying the handle, finding it open.

“Mulder?”

The house is dusty and silent. She curses under her breath, gooseflesh rising along the back of her neck, wishing she had her holster. Three months on the job after so long away and she’s still not used to carrying.

She’s debating whether to check upstairs or leave the file on the kitchen table when a voice calls her name from outside.

“Scully?”

She steps onto the porch, squinting into the darkness. “Mulder? Is that you?”

“I’m out back,” he calls. “Watch your step.”

She turns on her phone’s flashlight and makes her way to the back yard. A shadow sits on the frame of the old pickup they haven’t used in years.

“I’d have left the porch light on if I’d known you were coming,” it says.

She points the phone in that direction, eliciting a wince from her partner as the beam hits his eyes.

“Ow, Scully.”

“Sorry,” she mutters, shutting off the light. “What are you doing out here, Mulder?”

There’s the distinct sound of liquid sloshing, the kiss of a bottle at his lips.

“Just sittin’ and thinkin’.”

“In the dark? It’s chilly,” she says, rubbing her shoulders for emphasis.

His face resolves as her eyes slowly adjust. He’s sitting on the tailgate, legs dangling off the end, a beer nestled between his thighs.

“I thought you’d be working.”

“Guy can’t take a break once in a while?”

She smirks. “Who are you and what have you done with my partner?”

“Hah-hah, funny. Have a seat, Scully.”

She does after a pause, easing herself onto the tailgate to join him.

“This’ll warm you up,” he says, offering her a beer.

“How many of these have you had?” she asks, accepting the bottle with a raised eyebrow.

“Just the one, doc. Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not that kind of party.”

The cap twists off; the taste of malt fizzes on her tongue, goes down smooth.

“I take it you’re here for business and not pleasure,” he says, nodding to the folder in her lap.

“Mm. It’s the autopsy results for Lisa Baylor. Scrapings from her fingernails revealed traces of skin; they’re processing the DNA and I asked the lab to run it through NICS. We’ll have the full results in the morning, but I thought you’d want to get an early start.”

“You ever heard of email, Scully?”

“You mean the thing that keeps you tethered to your computer at all hours? Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” she mutters.

He offers a wry smile. “You didn’t have to drive all the way out here for that.”

“Maybe I wanted to talk about the case in person.”

His voice grows soft. “You don’t need an excuse to visit, you know. You always have a place here.”

“I wasn’t looking for an excuse.”

“Checking up on me, huh?”

“Mulder,” she sighs. “Don’t start.”

A cricket chirps in the grass at their feet, filling the stillness that hovers like a black mist. She remembers the space he’d carved around himself, and the moment she realized the distance was too great to cross.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says finally, nudging her shoulder in apology. “Been a rough year. Sometimes I forget we’re on the same side now.”

“I’ve always been on your side, Mulder,” she murmurs, feeling their history like a lead weight in her chest. “I’ve only ever wanted what was best for you.”

“I know,” he nods, then holds out his bottle. “Truce?”

“Truce,” she agrees, letting the glass clink softly. For a moment, the silence is comfortable, familiar, and she closes her eyes.

When she opens them, she’s looking at his profile in the dusky light. With his beard shaved and his hair trimmed, she can almost see the man she met twenty odd years ago. Without thinking, she reaches out to touch his cheek, the stubble rough against her fingers.

He looks over, bemused, and she pulls her hand away, still feeling the ghost of his skin against her palm.

“You clean up good, G-man,” she says.

He chuckles, his gaze turned upward. “Hey, it’s starting.”

He points to the sky and her eyes follow, trying to see what he sees. A pinprick of light flicks across the sky, followed by another, and then another; the beginnings of a meteor shower.

Mulder reaches behind them and pulls out two rolled sleeping bags, settling back against one in the bed of the truck. She doesn’t ask why he brought two instead of one, for the same reason she knows the extra beer in her hand was never intended for him.

She pulls the rolled blanket behind her and lies back to watch the show. Her eyes flit from one corner of the heavens to the other as more of the blue-white streaks make their way across the night, and she marvels at how the stars can still stun her with their beauty, how the universe in all its endless mystery can be so breathtaking, even after bringing such grief.

His voice is rich and vulnerable, spoken to the open air. “It wasn’t all bad, was it, Scully?”

She doesn’t have to think. Her response is as immediate and as involuntary as a heartbeat. “No…it wasn’t.”

She finds his hand without trying and listens to the sound of their mingled breathing as the sky falls around them.

cc @today-in-fic

[sentientsky]

June Gehringer

welcome back to another episode of “@actual-changeling, what the fuck have u done to my mind”

[country-feedback]

i feel like this guy would do numbers on tumblr

[the-swift-tricker]

the best part of each x-files episode is waiting for the end to see who's gonna do the sign off report cause when it's scully it's usually something like "once again, despite my partner's opinion to the contrary, i cannot confidently say that there is any scientific basis to the theory that alien ghost blood was responsible for the disappearance of the crack in the liberty bell" meanwhile if it's mulder we get gems like "are we alone in the universe? what does it truly mean to be alone? did bigfoot fuck the speaker of the house? as always i am left with more questions than answers and don't know who to trust and i think scully changed her shampoo and..."

[alexa-crowe]

Fox Mulder Flirting Tactics 101 (tweet)