#but more than that it's a stretch to believe dana scully's thought patterns would even allow that by that point

[figureofdismay]

they thing is, carter's 'scully left mulder bc he got so depressed and mentally ill so she had to leave for His Own Good/For The Implementation Of Gratuitous Mulder Manpain' post canon character decision is that Scully simply wouldn't.

She would not leave him.

Not in a 'she loves him too much to leave him, isn't it romantic' way, though.

She Wouldn't leave him in a 'they're too enmeshed by then to even seriously contemplate it, he's been literally dead before and also on the run apart from her and she never considered them Over, and then they spent a good few years on the run together in the 00s in not even slightly cheery circumstances, and if, after 20 years of unconsciously warping themselves around each other's neuroses and serious trauma, she can lift her head up far enough from their personal morass of dependency and compensation to see that he's depressed it'd be a feat. She might, with this clarity of vision, at times consider leaving to 'shock' him out of it, but she Can't because he's her whole support system and his belief in her and his persistence is the bedrock of her continued functionality in the face of stupendous loss and confusion by like year 3 of knowing each other, and not having him or his vision of her to lean on was bad enough when there was literally no other choice. So. No, even in the midst of that through process, she probably wouldn't really go all the way through with it.

But it's equally likely that, just like in rocky eras of their earlier FBI days, she'd only be able to accurately see how much he was struggling very intermittently, and mainly just start subconsciously altering her behavior and frame of mind to accommodate him or meet him, while maybe having the instinct to try to aim them at some kind of goal or occupation (ie some kind of warning signal going in the back of her mind that says understimulated Mulder is unhappy, though probably not that bluntly coherent).

[danadeservesadrink]

Do You Believe in Fate Chapter 7

I’m Sorry, Is Fox There?

In which the M rating for this fic is justified. Read on AO3 here 

Tagging @today-in-fic 

“Dana Scully speaking”

“I’m sorry, is Fox there?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Special Agent Diana Fowley. I should be asking who you are, and why you’re answering my partner’s personal phone”

“What - shit ”

“Actually I don’t much care. Either way tell Fox that I need him in the office in 45 minutes.”

“He’s busy right now, why do you need him so urgently”

“Well Miss Scully, I’m unfortunately not permitted to share details of the Bureau’s affairs, even if Agent Mulder has, erm , flashed you his badge.”

“I’ll let him know you called”

“Thank you Miss Scully. Maybe one day you’ll be promoted to secretary.”

“Agent Fowley?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Dr. Scully”

Mulder was in fact not very busy. He was asleep. She, however, conveniently decided not to wake him.

She herself had awoken to the sound of the cell phone ringing, and out of habit reached over to the nightstand and answered. She was used to receiving calls at odd hours, as a doctor there were often emergencies, and she served her time in the ER. What she was not expecting was the cool haughty voice, on the other end, all “ Fox ” this and “ Fox ” that.

Secretary my ass. That bitch.

She laid in bed, staring at the familiar ceiling just thinking after she hung up the call. She should probably wake him. She wouldn’t want him to get in trouble. But she couldn’t help but let her mind wander as she adjusted to the morning glow of her surroundings.

It was strange, waking up in a room so familiar yet not. Coming home last night she had been so engulfed by Mulder’s flame, his lips, his tongue, his hands, all over her. She barely had a chance to acknowledge how when he backed her down the hallway, eyes shut and hands preoccupied, she had known exactly where to step so she did not trip over the raised entrance to the bedroom. Now Mulder’s hands were tucked under his sleeping figure, unable to dominate her thoughts.

She pulled the sheets closer to her chin and inhaled the strong scent of him, reminding her once again that everything here was his. It was cleansing in a way, having him wash away all the evidence of her time here with his presence, leaving only the memories in her own mind. She snuggled deeper into the covers, hoping maybe the overwhelming Mulder-ness of the room now would enter her brain like a magic eraser and wash clean all the terrible thoughts that rose with the sun. But as the window-pane pattern of the east-facing window crawled slowly across the floor she couldn’t stop herself. She wondered how long the police were in here, tearing the place apart at her mother's request. She wondered how long it took them to clean up the blood. Even with the full duvet wrapped around her she still felt herself shiver.

Mulder stirring next to her was a welcome distraction. She felt his bare foot come in contact with her shin as he stretched, and then the bed shifted as he rolled over, draping his arm over her torso, overlapping their shoulders to tuck his chin into the crook of her neck, placing a lazy kiss on whatever skin his lips could reach.

“Good morning” he whispered, his voice still gravelly from sleep, and she immediately felt heat rise to her cheeks. It was an incredible talent of his, to take up all possible space wherever he resided, especially if that space was her own mind. Thoughts of Agent Fowley and abductions vanished as she shifted underneath him, instead being replaced by the feeling of his weight on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, and then his lips on hers.

There were a few things she had learned about Fox Mulder as of yesterday evening, and one of them was that his oral fixation was quite strong. Simply put, Mulder was a kisser, and she certainly had no complaints. After she had practically dragged him back to his own apartment, a move she rarely pulled and was quite frankly mildly embarrassed by, she had expected the progression from kissing to undressing to sex to be fairly quick. But when he led her into his bedroom, she found that her clothes remained on far longer than even she would have liked. He kissed her long and hard, until her lips were red and tingling, and she was panting his name, desperate. He pulled at her lips with his teeth and then darted his tongue out to soothe them afterwards, kissing her just long enough to drive her mad.  

Fox Mulder was an excellent kisser, and she wanted nothing more than to wake to him every morning.

She was sure he had invented his own language, by the way he spoke to her through the simple act of pressing his lips to hers. The relaxed brush of his hand on her cheek said “ Good morning, Scully”, the gentle demand of his tongue parting her lips said “ Thank you for last night, Scully ”, and the firm grasp of his other hand on her ass said “ I would very much like to repeat the events of last night, Scully”.

Or maybe she was getting that last one from the hard length that was pressing quite insistently into her upper thigh.

Reluctantly, she broke away, chuckling softly as she watched his face scrunch into a pout.

“You got a call from your partner this morning” she explained, and his pout transitioned into an eye roll. He didn’t change positions, instead nuzzling into her neck. She tilted her head to allow him easier access.

“You answered my phone?” he whispered in between nibbles.

“Only because I thought it was mine. And it woke me up.” She laughed and she felt it vibrate against his lips.

“I’m sure Diana loved that” He was alternating between wet kisses and sharp bites and she found herself slowly losing interest in the conversation at hand.

“She said she wanted you in the office in 45 minutes” He pulled back and looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“And when did you receive this call, Scully?”

“15 minutes ago”

She raised an eyebrow back at him and took the opportunity to snake a hand between them, subtly grazing his erection. He let out his breath in a low whistle and propped himself up on his elbows over-top of her.

“She said that I may get promoted to secretary, but I guess I’m not very good at delivering messages”

They both chuckled, Mulder letting his head fall so his forehead rested on her sternum.

“And what did you say to that?”

“I told her I’m a doctor and hung up”

That earned her a full blown laugh, hearty and wholesome, and he once again let his weight press into her as he placed a kiss to the inside of her breast, left revealed by the wide neck of the shirt he had offered to her last night. She pressed up into his body, grinding into him until she heard him gasp.

Yeah, Agent Bitchy can wait.

He held her with such passion, gripping her waist in hands so large they almost wrapped around her completely. She could feel the pads of his fingers pressing into her bare skin, fingerprints of fire down her sides. He shifted in between her legs, still focusing his lips on the skin surrounding her breasts, and god the second time is always her favorite.

First times are kept in little lock boxes, stowed away as precious memories, pristine and perfect. First times are filled with promise and tenderness, things Mulder had an endless supply of. He laid her down easily on his bed last night and his eyes were all sorts of reassuring. She remembered them in the low light cast from the setting sun, staring up at her as his cheek pressed into her inner thigh, practically begging . First times were for asking and giving and, yes, Mulder was so good at giving.

But the second time. Second times were for taking.

Mulder is just as good at taking, and Scully was more than happy to give. She locked her hands in his, pressed him into her, and his lips worked under the soft fabric of the shirt, pushing it away to reveal her hardened nipple, which he graciously took into his mouth. She threw her head back in bliss, a gasp escaping her lips. She felt his tongue swirl around it as he sucked, teasing her sweetly. She scratched her nails against the back of his scalp as he carefully allowed his teeth to graze her.

“Shit” she swore, and the man had the nerve to laugh into her tits, still teasing her nipple with his tongue. One of his hands left her waist and moved to cup her other breast, his fingers brushing over her chest softly before her groped her with determination.

“Mulder ” she managed to gasp out, and he murmured an “mmhmm”  as he released her nipple from his mouth with a pop. She looked down her chest and met his eyes, and while of course there was still a reverence, a tenderness Mulder could never quite lose with her, the primary look he was giving her was that of pure hunger. Wild, instinctual hunger, a feeling she was quite sure he would be satisfying promptly.

“Fuck me. Now.”

Scully was quite good at taking, too.

He practically ripped off the panties she had slept in, discarding his own boxers before sliding his knees up between hers and spreading her wide. She needed to touch him, so she placed a hand to his chest and another one on his cock, feeling it hard and ready for her. She traced his length from base to tip with just her fingernails and his eyes rolled into his head. On the journey back down she wrapped her hand fully around him and he shuddered as she stroked him.

Not one to be outdone, he let his hand wander to play with her labia, softly tracing its outline before dipping in to brush against her clit, forcing her to stop all movement to let out a sharp moan.

“So wet for me baby… ” he mumbled, again leaning over, sucking her nipple back into his lips, his perfect lips. She whimpered and he took the opportunity to grasp his own cock and rub it along her slit, sending heat flying down to her very core. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you”  and oh God, yes, she wanted him.

She found herself babbling strings of “yes, please, yes, Mulder, shit, yes” until he finally pressed into her and filled her completely. He exhaled into her ear and remained sunken in her until she rolled her hips against him. He started a rhythm, pressing kisses to her neck, her ear, her cheek, her lips. Their pace increased and she kissed him for all she was worth while he fucked her.

Strings of words passed between them, curses and pleads and names alike. They traded promises as he smothered her in everything he was, all fire, hunger, and Mulder. She came with his name the only thought in her mind, like a big neon sign that took up permanent residency on the inside of her eyelids, and he cooed into her ear how good she was, how that's it baby cum for me. As her walls spasmed around him his resolve weakened until he was cumming hot inside of her and the sounds of sex that echoed of the walls into her ears were replaced by his breath in her neck as he laid on top of her, sated.    

She stayed in the bed as he headed into the bathroom and gathered his things. She watched him pull his slacks on, much to her dismay, followed shortly by a slightly wrinkled button-down and tie. He leaned over her and kissed her once more, and she felt practically dirty laying naked in his bed as he was fully dressed for work. She quickly pulled his tee-shirt back on.

“I’ll be back tonight. You still going to that hotel?” She smirked at his confidence.

“I dunno, the hotel has pretty good room service”

“Scully you’re killing me”

“I’m just sayin', a girl’s gotta eat”

“Whatever you want, it’s all yours” He made his move to get up, but she pulled him back down by his collar.

“And what if I want you?”

Kissing him never got old. It sent the same shiver down her spine, the same pounding in her chest, the same heat to her very center.

“Then you can have me.”

It took him another 15 minutes just to leave the apartment.  

[lepus-arcticus]

OMENS: CHAPTER SEVEN one | two | three | four | five | six trigger warnings apply

HALF-MOON DINER 4:00 PM

The Half-Moon Diner was a relic from the 60s, with cracked cream tile and flaking red leather stools lined up at the counter. Strains of tinny bluegrass harmonies scrolled forth from an old antenna radio behind the bar, filling the air with a lament about whatever happened down by the banks of the Ohio.

Even under the weak fluorescent lights, Hugh was a presence. In the grimy throng of farmers scarfing down gelatinous heaps of scrambled eggs and reheated strawberry pie, he appeared to Scully as a beacon, lit from the inside by the glow of tragedy. She sat across from him in a corner booth, her shoulder pressed up against the window. Sheets of rain melted her reflection into the glass, blurring a ghost of her into the dark sky outside.

She felt warm and sullen, cupping a chipped china mug of tar-black coffee between her palms. People stared at them, caught themselves, turned away, glanced back for more. The young, pretty waitress in her lemon-yellow uniform had been polishing the same plate for ten minutes, gawping at them from over the bar.

If Hugh noticed, he didn’t seem to care. He hunched over the table, the very picture of tortured, contained passion.

“Hugh,” Scully began, conscious of their audience. His hand, splayed on the Formica, was brown and dusted with sun-bleached hair.

“How’s this. I’ll tell you everything… anything you need to know, Dana,” he said quietly. “Anything that’ll help. Ask away. I’m yours.”

Scully looked up from the table and found him gazing intently at her. Under the beam of his spirited eyes, she found herself somewhat at a loss for words, for strategy. “Um. Well I suppose you can start by telling me about your wife. About your marriage.”

A sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “I guess that would be the place to start, now, eh?” He picked up his cup and sucked down a mouthful of coffee, appearing to gather his thoughts. “Em. Well. I bought the farm in ‘94. Met Anna the same year. Met her here, in fact. She was a waitress.” His voice faltered, and he looked over at the bar, as if he could still see her there. The girl cleaning dishes blanched, and seemed to remember something pressing to attend to in the kitchen. “Nineteen. Loveliest thing I’d ever set my eyes upon,” he continued. “Sweet as the sunrise.”

Scully blinked and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “And why Horizon? Why leave your home behind for such a faraway and isolated place?” She imagined the lack of anonymity, nowhere to run or hide, and suppressed a shiver of revulsion.

“You’ll think I’m a langer,” he offered, chuckling self-consciously and scrubbing his chin with his hand. “Ehm. I, eh, I guess I watched The Hangin’ Tree a few times too many. Staying in Ireland just wasn’t as… romantic of a concept as the call of the mythical Old West.”

Scully couldn’t help but smile a little. “If it’s any consolation, I think Gary Cooper had that effect on a lot of people.”

Hugh grinned at that, full-on, a disarming flash of brilliance that he swiftly pulled back into submission. “God, I love that bastard. Anna loved him, too. She, ehm, she grew up in that religious colony, without television, you know, so films were quite a thrill for her. The novelty, I suppose.”

She nodded, sipping her coffee. It was burned and bitter, and it coated the roof of her mouth.

“Now… now I know what you must be thinkin’, because everyone was thinkin’ it, but she and I really did have a lot in common, despite... the age difference. When you’re… when you’re not with your family, even if it’s by your own doing… well, there’s a loneliness there that I’m not sure can be described. It’s something you don’t understand until you’ve experienced it. I left a lot of people behind to come here. Not all of them were supportive of it. Of me.”

Scully thought of Bill in San Diego, of Charlie in Canada, of her father scattered in the sea, of her sister in the cold ground. “But Anna had Rhiannon, didn’t she?” She said. “And Marion, too. I’ve been given the impression that the three of them were quite close.”

At the mention of Marion’s name, Hugh clenched his jaw. “Ah. Well. Don’t let folks lead to you believe that it was all sunshine and rainbows up at Kicking Horse. That Rhiannon is a strange and fiery woman, and certainly no great admirer of mine. And Marion… well, if you happen to have sisters, I’m sure you can imagine how it could be. Especially when it became clear that Anna and I were of a mind to be married.”

Melissa at fourteen leapt to her mind, her eyes brown as pondwater and lined with crumbly black. Her scalp tingled with the memory of her hair in her sister’s fists. She didn’t even remember what the argument had been about. She pushed the image down, and continued. “And when did you begin your affair with Marion? After the wedding, or before?”

Hugh exhaled sharply and looked away, out the window, staring down the soaked smudge of his reflection. A fork of lightning darted down into the fields in the distance. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Did Marion tell you that?”

“In as many words,” Scully replied.

He turned his palms up in a gesture of helplessness, and then dropped them again. “I mean, what on earth could I ever say to defend myself? It was never supposed to go that far. Anna had these moods, and she’d been so distant, and Marion was always around, always had a listening ear to lend, that girl, and I⁠—we⁠—just got wrapped up in the… in the forbidden excitement of it all, I guess. The hiding. The secrets. The passion. But I ended it as soon as it begun. It was nothing more than a few weeks of foolishness.”

Scully looked him over, trying to gauge the honesty of his words. She found herself wishing for Mulder’s powers of insight. “When, Hugh?”

He swallowed. “This is going to look bad. But it was a few months ago. Shortly before… well, when the omens began. But you mustn’t think that… I mean, who could… I still loved Anna, I wanted to make it work, and Marion loved her as a sister; we didn’t want to hurt her, neither of us could ever…” He stared hard into her, releasing a shaking sigh. “You have to believe me. About this, about the signs…”

The shrill cry of Scully’s cell phone cut into the air. She dug it out of the rumple of her coat and shut it off.

“Dana… you don’t believe me about the omens.” It was a statement, not a question.

“My partner does,” she replied with a sigh. The bell over the front door of the diner tinkled.

Hugh nodded, chewing his bottom lip. “This town… Horizon… it’s a strange place. Was strange long before I put down my roots.” He was getting worked up, a tremor easing into his voice, his eyes beginning to glisten. “This is a fucking nightmare. Whatever is here killed my wife. Killed our child. Killed her goddamned horse. It’s not done. I’m next. I know it.”

“Hugh,” she said softly, and reached over to cover his hand with her own, just to soothe him, just to draw him back into calm, clear conversation. Marion’s words of warning leapt to her mind, but now that she’d heard the full story, she was less inclined to take her seriously. She remembered sneaking around with Daniel, how she felt as though she was helpless to resist him, too.

Hugh took a breath and closed his eyes, sliding his other hand over hers. His skin was rough and warm, and it sent a flush of sweetness through her.

“And just what’s goin’ on here?”

Scully turned to see the thick slab of Theo’s chest. Above them, his eyes were indignant, bright with suspicion. Behind him, a dozen faces turned to follow the drama. Scully ripped her hand away from Hugh’s.

“Sherriff Gladstone,” she said, arranging her face into a practiced professional scowl.

“Dana was just asking me a few questions, Theo,” Hugh said in a bristly tone, as she gathered her coat. This was ridiculous, she’d done nothing wrong. So why did she feel so exposed?

She stood and shouldered past Theo. “We’re all done here, Mr. Daly. Thank you for your candour. Theo, I’ll send you those autopsy notes once I go over them with my partner,” she said, wrapping herself in her overcoat, and without a goodbye to either of them, she marched out of the diner and into the cold downpour of rain.

KICKING HORSE B&B 6:23 PM

The bed was littered with crime scene photos.

Mulder squinted into the bright laptop screen at the rolltop desk in the dim of his room. The connection was crummy, and the going was agonizingly slow. There was little public information about Horizon, even less about the Bishops or the colony or even the reservation. Nothing about homicidal behaviour in crows, mythological or otherwise. He lingered around thoughts of ghosts, of signs, of family, of loss, trying to find a path.

He hoped there were records in town, old newspapers, anything that would help him discern a pattern. He had a few ideas, but he needed Scully's perspective, needed her to eliminate the mess of avenues he laid out for her until they came to an agreeable trail to follow. He needed her to disagree with him, to make him work for it, so that he could gauge the depth of conviction he carried about the hunches he was nursing.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, slamming the screen closed. Where the hell was she, anyway?

He was just about to reach for his cell to try her again when he heard footsteps on the stairs. At first, he thought it was Rhiannon, armed with either a peace offering or another scolding, but then he heard the door of the next room shut.

He stood, briefly stretching his arms behind his back, and followed the sound.

“Scully?” he asked, with a gentle knock.

There was no answer but the sound of her movements inside—a shuffling of clothing, a muffled sniff. He rapped his knuckle against the wood again. “Hey, Scully, you okay in there?” He placed a hand on the door, trying to sense her inside of the room.

It swung open abruptly.

Scully’s hair was wet with rain, and she’d changed into her robe. There were black smudges of mascara clinging to her eyelids, and she looked so small and vulnerable that he had a sudden, dire urge to scream at her.

“Where were you?” He asked tersely.

She walked over to her briefcase and flung it open on the bed, gathering loose papers and Polaroids and thrusting them towards him. “Here are your initial autopsy notes,” she said. “I'll transcribe the rest tonight.”

Mulder stared. She shook the papers a little when he didn't take them, then tossed them back to the bed.

“You can't just not answer your phone,” he pressed, lodging his hands on his hips. “We’re on a case.”

She turned to look at him, expression neutral, but she couldn't hide the redness at the tops of her ears, the stiffness in her shoulders. “And what about all the times you've ignored my calls, Mulder?”

Silence yawned between them, punctuated only by the slap of rain against the windowpane.

“... Scully, look⁠—” he continued, trying to diffuse the situation. “You're right. I'm sorry. I was just concerned, okay? You sounded upset earlier, and I just—I know that Daly makes you uncomfortable.”

She blew a huff of air from her nose, and turned away.

He forged ahead. “I, uh, had an interesting day.” He was expecting her to take the bait, but she remained quiet, clearly distracted. “I don't think Abel Stoesz is involved... he's a nasty piece of work, but I can't see it coming down to him. But Scully, Marion knows something. We need to talk to her. When she's cooled off a bit.”

She nodded.

“...Uh, any luck with Daly?”

Scully fidgeted with her fingers, twining them together and rubbing at her thumbnail. “Mulder,” she said, and the pit of his stomach dropped. “I don't want you hearing this from anyone but me.”

Taken aback, he waited, searching her face.

“After our initial interview, Hugh and I decided to continue our conversation in town.” She paused, bracing him with her eyes, daring him to say something. His lips were suddenly very dry, and he darted out his tongue to wet them.

“And?”

“Well, the fact is… to onlookers, we may have appeared a little… familiar. Our demeanor may have been construed as inappropriate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mulder, it was nothing.”

Something sour and vile filled his chest. “If it was nothing, why the little confessional here?”

“I was comforting him, that was all. I don’t want Theo putting ideas into your head.”

An itching heat prickled over him. Scully was slipping away from him, literally and figuratively, wasting away, fucking murderous psychopaths and getting inked in sleazy Russian tattoo parlours and getting all cozy with sketchy farmers while they were supposed to be conducting a goddamn investigation.

“Oh, like how you comforted Ed Jerse? What, you got a bucket list number you need to fill or something?”

She looked as though he’d slapped her. “What is your problem?” she asked through her teeth, her voice low and deadly as a viper.

“My problem is that your decision making skills have been severely compromised since your diagnosis, Scully. You can’t even keep a professional distance from a good looking suspect?”

“Hugh Daly is a victim, not a suspect.”

“Did you happen to conveniently forget about Marion’s warning? Scully, listen to me here, she knows something!”

“Marion is twenty two years old, Mulder, and highly emotional, and she and Hugh⁠—”

“Scully, I need you with me on this, not having tea parties with⁠— ”

“⁠—If you’re going to crucify me every time I show a shred of human decency to someone⁠—”

“⁠—Oh, come on! That’s not what you were doing, and you know it.”

She snatched up the papers again, and shoved them towards him. “Mulder, take the damn notes and get out. Just leave me alone.”

Alone. She always wanted to be alone. But only when it came to him.

He ripped the papers out of her hands, fixed her with one last searing gaze, and left.

1:33 AM

Darkness. True darkness, and then a swift, startling awareness unfurled through her body.

The inky miasma of the room pressed into her, trapping her, locking her down. She tried to move her hands, but found that she couldn’t. Things were strange, and wrong, and the only thing she was sure of was that she wasn’t supposed to be here. There was a tingling buzz in the back of her head, growing, getting louder, becoming more and more insistent… and then perfect, eerie quiet.

A presence.

There was a figure at the end of her bed. She couldn’t quite see it, couldn’t quite focus on it, but she felt it, as real as gravity, and it was singing, in a voice so thin that it sounded more like a thought passing through her mind.

I cannot get o’er…. and neither have… I wings to fly…

Her heart seized in terror. She knew that she was dreaming. She had to be. She struggled against the oppressive gauze of sleep, fighting for air, and then she was there, and it was real, and she was sucking breath into her lungs, chest heaving and chilled with sweat. As she struggled and failed to move her limbs, she realized she still felt someone, something, there with her, and became suddenly and painfully alert. She mentally located her gun on the nightstand. Feeling gradually bled back to her, and she carefully wiggled her fingers, staring at the ceiling, willing there to be nobody there when she looked.

She took a deep breath, counted the punches of her heartbeats, and glanced down. Nothing.

Of course there wasn’t, she reprimanded herself. She was just having another nightmare. The case was just wearing on her. Anna’s body, Mulder’s accusations. Hugh.

Her pulse began to settle. The rain had cleared, and as she glanced over to the window, she could see a freckled arc of stars through the glass. She took a few more steadying breaths, struggling to sit up, thrusting her hands through her sweat-damp hair. She tuned an ear to listen for Mulder’s snores, but there was no sound.

She wanted to get up, to go to him, to make things right between them. But her mind went blank when she thought of what that might entail. What it could lead to, here in the dark in the middle of nowhere.

Instead, she kicked off the fluffy summer comforter with still-shaky legs, and went over to the window. A gentle breath floated up from the radiator. It wasn’t too hot to lean against, so she did, luxuriating in the comforting flood of warmth through her pajamas.

Her reflection stared back at her from the window glass, and she reached out to trail her fingers along the surface. For months, she’d avoided the thin, tired, sombre woman in the mirror, that horrible, consumptive apparition of herself. She remembered last night’s dream, her own face poised above her, pale and waxy in death.

Soon, she thought. I’ll be dead soon.

She passed the word through her mind over and over again, like fingering a strand of prayer beads, one for each of the countless cadavers she’d cut open in the course of her work. Sometimes they’d just been part of her day, barely human, interesting arrangements of flesh on a slab, and she a 20th-century haruspex, reading entrails.

But it had to be that way. It wasn’t that she was unfeeling⁠—she just preferred to keep her own emotions locked away, muzzled and collared like dangerous, mythical animals. Despite the popular opinion of the grunts in the bullpen, she wasn’t cold. No, she burned too hot for comfort. Melissa had been the same, but she’d embraced that heat. Harnessed it, rode it into battle. Made it work for her. In this and in so many other ways, Melissa had been the stronger one of them, the one that knew how to listen to her heart, to her gut. The one that knew what bravery was.

Did she see the gun, the hand in the dark? Did time slow to a crawl? Did Missy know, did she suspect, even for a second, that she was going to die?

Scully hoped not. To be aware of your own mortality was strange, too strange for her to fully grasp. There were other lives she’d wanted to lead, other paths she might have taken. She wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to be a mother. None of that would ever happen⁠—this was it for her. And what was the legacy she would leave behind? A few files in Mulder’s cabinet labelled with Scully, D.? A family torn apart, both of her mother’s daughters dead in the name of her work? A trail of unavenged victims and half-solved cases that no court of law could begin to prosecute?

Grief and helplessness rose like water in her throat, drowning her from within. Was this really God’s plan for her? What good had she ever really done with this life? What would Missy think? What would her father have to say?

And Mulder… Oh, Mulder. There was just too much there to contemplate. She wondered if she would ever have the courage to even begin to tell him what he meant to her. She wondered if, even worse, he already knew.

She clipped the latch of the window and shoved it open, forcing her breath to slow and deepen before the tears spilled over.

Fresh air met her skin with a gentle kiss, a whisper of wind pushing its fingers through the wheat outside. The clean country air was thin and rejuvenating. She closed her eyes against it, inhaling, sending a filament of prayer to whoever would listen, a prayer of peace for Mulder, peace for her mother.

And then she heard it again. Warm breath in her ear.

Both shall row… my love and I...

A shock of fear electrified her, and she flung her shoulders around. And then she heard a heavy swoosh, like a baseball bat cutting through the air.

Blood rushed into her ears, and she felt a razor-sharp heat open the skin of her shoulder.

She staggered backwards, instinctively covering her face, the pain and surprise of it trapped in her chest, so that she couldn’t cry out. The bird screamed at her as it ripped, a shrill harpy caw filling the room. She tasted blood in her mouth, felt the creature’s beak scraping and tearing viciously at her back as she stumbled away⁠—

CRACK⁠—

The door nearly splintered with the force of Mulder’s kick, and then Scully did cry out, in the terror and rage of it all. She expected to hear a gunshot, but none came⁠—just the heaving thump of Mulder’s body on hers, tackling her, rolling on the floor so that he was above her, shielding her. Black wings beat around his face as he reached up and grabbed the comforter from the bed, lunging at the dark and screaming bird, trapping it against the floor with his body.

Scully whipped her eyes around the room⁠—the crow appeared to be alone in its attack. She scrambled up and slammed the window shut, shaking fingers working the latch closed. Mulder was hunched over the struggling, squawking, blanketed lump on the floor. He fumbled around it as she ran back to him, and with sure, angry hands, he gained purchase on what he’d been searching for.

He grasped and twisted, and there was a sick, muffled crack. Flinging the dead bundle away from himself, he knelt in front of Scully, who had fallen back against the footboard. He ghosted his fingers down her cheek, looking deeply into her eyes as she struggled to gain control of her breath. “Scully, you okay?” She touched his wrist, trying to speak, taking in the scratches on his face, the blood beading along a deep cut across the tendon of his neck. “Had to tackle you. Couldn’t get a clear shot, you okay? Did I hurt you?”

She was beginning to feel the hot, white pain of it, blood trickling down the back of her pajamas. “My back,” she said.

“Let me see.” He tugged at one of her shoulders, and she swiveled obediently, pulling at the neck of her shirt. “...Shit, Scully, you’re all torn up.”

“Go get Rhiannon,” she breathed, every moment becoming more and more cognizant of the pain. Mulder scrambled up to a crouch, grabbing his gun from the floor and placing it in her hands, cupping her face. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He grounded her with his battle-worn monotone, the planes of his face blue in the night.

Scully closed her eyes and nodded, willing her heart rate to go down. Blood streamed from her, plastering her pajamas to her back. She was dizzy, raw-nerved. She heard Mulder’s movements downstairs, his voice bellowing for Rhiannon, the creaking and slamming of doors, the rattling of cupboards in the kitchen. She breathed through her mouth, settling into the pain, eyeing the bulge under the blanket.

When Mulder entered the room again, he had a large white metal first aid kit under his arm and a serious look on his face.

“Where’s…?” Scully asked.

“She’s gone. Her truck is gone. The dog is gone. I found a field kit, but Scully, from what I can tell, you’re going to need professional medical attention. You’re bleeding. A lot. Rhiannon’s gone. The closest hospital is hours away. Talk me through this, here. What do we do?”

“Get me to the bathroom,” she rasped. He ducked out to toss the kit with a clang into the bathroom, and returned for her. She reached for him, and he gently helped her up. They staggered clumsily together across the hall, Mulder careful not to touch her ruined back, the eyes of the Bishop women on the wall following them.

Mulder flicked on the wall switch. The wan, metallic light flickered to life above them, the buzzing from it echoing off the bathroom walls. The bathroom was longer than it was wide, and housed a clawfoot bathtub, no shower, a tiny black square of window, and a kilim rug rough under her bare feet. The ceiling was slanted, and so low that Mulder had to stoop his head.

Scully caught sight of herself in the pockmarked mirror. She was pale, her hair wild, and dark splotches of blood were soaking through her robe. Mulder loomed above her, looking guilty. “Scully. What do I do? Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.”

“I need to get this shirt off.”

Mulder exhaled unsteadily as she peeled her robe off and tried to lift her tank. The fabric stuck painfully to her lacerated skin. “A little help here?” She managed to ask. Mulder visibly swallowed and helped her lift her shirt, averting his eyes politely as she brought the tattered, sticky fabric around to cover her bare chest.

The bathroom was cold against her skin and the heat of her blood. She glanced over her shoulder to survey the damage. Her naked back was lashed and streaked, and there was one deep, seeping cut that ran three or four inches from the inner curve of her shoulder blade to the base of her neck. Mulder’s face in the mirror was drawn as he surveyed the damage as well. The gash on his neck was bleeding into the collar of his shirt.

“Scully, fuck. Okay. it’s gonna be okay. What do I do? What do you need?”

“I can’t reach. These need to be cleaned. Water. Clean towel,” she managed, beginning to feel faint.

Mulder sprang into action, rooting around the squat wooden armoire for fresh towels. Scully slumped onto the fuzzy cover of the toilet seat, clutching her bloody shirt to her breasts. The rug was already spotted with her blood. She flashed on the photograph of Anna in the field, her intestines curled in the dirt.

Mulder, jaw set, rinsed the towels in warm water from the sink. He dropped to his knees in front of her⁠—“Here, can you turn a little?”⁠—and scraped the towel over her back.

She sucked air over her teeth. “Mulder, gentle...”

The towel was uncomfortably rough as he cleaned her, murmuring comforting nothings that would usually infuriate and humiliate her, were she not sick and scared and half-naked in a stranger’s bathroom.

“Scully…,” he said, “this one is bleeding pretty seriously. It looks bad.” Fuck.

“It… needs pressure. Clean towel. 15 minutes,” she breathed.

He discarded the wet, bloody towel and rummaged around for a clean one, pressing it into her back and shoulder with a comforting, firm hand. His other hand rested on her arm, caressing her almost unconsciously, sending tiny shivers up to her neck. The slanted walls of the bathroom seemed to crowd in on them, pressing them closer together.

After a few minutes, when the sharp edge of shock had worn down, Scully spoke, her voice shaking and tenuous. “It was a crow. Dammit, Mulder, it was a crow.” He nodded, chewing the inside of his lip.

“Good thing you weren’t out taking a midnight stroll in the wheat.”

“Don’t joke about that,” she said, haunted by Anna’s shredded face. He had the good sense to look vaguely ashamed.

“Scully… this can’t be a coincidence. What’s the common denominator here? Hugh Daly gets you alone, maybe shows a bit of interest in you, and bam, birdfeed.”

“Maybe there’s… maybe there’s a disease here. Maybe that’s why the animals are acting strange, attacking people. That might explain Hugh’s horse, not to mention the one on the highway… and, and Anna. And the crow that flew into my window tonight.”

“Then why haven’t we seen other animals affected? There are literally thousands of cows and horses in Horizon, don’t you think Rhiannon would have noticed something, would have mentioned something?”

“Well, she’s grieving, maybe she hasn’t thought to…”

“And where is she? What is she doing out in the middle of the night?”

“Maybe there was an emergency.”

“Well, these walls are pretty thin, and I didn’t hear a phone ring or anybody knock on the door, did you?”

They fell into another uneasy silence. Scully was weak with residual fear, the pulse of her blood hot on her back, the pain clarifying her thoughts. “Mulder…”

“Yeah?” He answered, his voice just above a whisper. He was so, so close, the scent of his skin all around her.

“Um... check if it’s... stopped bleeding.”

He peeled back the towel, gently stroking the skin next to the cut. “Oh, Scully,” he breathed.

“Do you see any white? Any muscle tissue, subcutaneous fat?”

“Ugh… um. Maybe.”

“Let me look…” she said, turning and placing a hand on his shoulder, using him for balance as she pushed herself up. His hands went to her elbow, to her hip, and he followed. She went to the mirror and turned her back to it, squinting at the cut. It wept fresh blood. “Mulder… I’m going to need stitches. I can’t reach to do them myself.” She looked over her shoulder and regarded him with as much sternness as she could muster. Comprehension and horror overtook his face.

“No. No, Scully. Wait for Rhiannon.”

“And what if she’s not back soon? Or ever? This needs to be closed up, ideally within the next six hours, and it’s a simple process. One you’re fully capable of performing with my instructions.”

“...Can’t we just wait?”

“Mulder,” she said, growing frustrated. “Buck up. I just want it over and done with.”

“Scully! No, Jesus, what if I⁠—?”

“Shut up and get that first aid kit. I need to see what’s in there.”

He blinked at her helplessly, then resigned himself and leaned over for the white tin, bringing it back and opening it. Luckily, it was well-stocked, something Rhiannon might bring with her on a call.

Scully rifled through the case one-handed, unearthing thread, a curved needle that resembled a fish hook, a roll of gauze, and a bottle of iodine.

“Should I.. do you need ice? I can go get ice,” Mulder ventured.

“That might be a good idea,” she conceded in a strained voice, the pain radiating hot and sharp across her back.

He blinked up at her, his eyebrows slanted in concern. “Okay. I’ll be right back. You stay here. You scream if anything happens. Loudly. And stay away from the window.” Scully nodded and watched him as he disappeared through the doorway, closing it swiftly behind him.

The moment he was gone, she sank back onto the toilet seat, and let loose one single, silent, wretched sob, clutching at her tattered shirt so hard that her nails bit into her palms through the fabric. She hated herself for it. For her weakness, her fear. Hated herself for needing him. Hated that he might be right.

She pulled herself together quickly, biting her tongue hard, blinking back tears. Minutes slurred onwards, and soon, Mulder’s voice sounded beyond the door. “Scully, it’s just me,” he warned, before rattling the door knob and letting himself back into the bathroom. He cradled a dusty bottle of Glenfiddich under his arm, and toted a few handfuls of ice tied into a kitchen cloth, already melting into his shirt.

“Thought this might help too,” he said, liberating the bottle from the crook of his elbow with his free hand and sloshing it around a little. She looked up at him as he unscrewed the cap and handed it to her.

Oh, Mulder.

She adjusted the arm that was holding her shirt to her chest, took the bottle from him, and pulled deeply. Liquid fire swished down into her chest, into her sinuses. As she drank, she met Mulder’s eyes, and found something in them that was suspiciously close to admiration.

“Alright, Anne Bonny,” he said, taking the bottle back and taking a short, scowling swig himself before screwing the cap back on and clanging it down next to the base column of the sink. He kneeled in front of her again, helped her turn around, and brought the dripping ice pack to her back. After the initial jolt of it, numbness swept through her slowly, both from the drink and the cloth. Rivulets of melt trickled down her back, sweetening the rhythmic throb of fading pain.

“I’m ready,” she said, once the bite of the ice had faded into a blunt gnaw.

Listening carefully to her instructions, Mulder washed his hands and clumsily sanitized the needle, threading it with some difficulty. He soaked a cotton pad in iodine, and guided it slowly over her skin in strokes so soft and careful that they could have been mistaken for a lover’s touch.

“Scully, I can’t do this,” he pleaded, when everything was prepared.

“Mulder,” she countered patiently. “You know how to sew, right?”

“I mean, I can do a button, but… this isn’t the Indian Guides.”

“Please… I trust you. Just do it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“I need this. I need your help.” She looked over her shoulder at him, and saw determination return to his face.

“God, Scully. Okay. You let me know if you need to… if you need a break, or if something feels wrong, or…”

“Make sure you catch enough of the flesh, okay? Pull it open a little. It’s a rotation, remember, not a stab. Just keep your hand steady.”

He sucked in a breath, and then she felt the first pinch of the needle invading her skin, the slow, tense curve of of it, then the tug of the thread as it slid through her, the tight pull as he knotted her skin back together.

“One down,” he murmured in concentration, and then he entered her again. She gasped quietly.

“Am I hurting you?” He asked with infinite tenderness. “Am I going too fast?”

“It’s fine, you’re… it’s fine,” she said.

“We can take a break if it’s too much. You’re the boss.” His hot palm swiped over her shoulder, and she glanced down at her knees.

“No, it’s… it’s not that.” She realized she didn’t know quite what it was. “You’re doing fine. Thank you, Mulder,” she added as an afterthought.

“S‘okay,” he said, and continued, but even more slowly, more gently than before. 

“I’m going to need antibiotics as soon as possible,” Scully said, more to herself than to him. “And the swelling⁠—did you see any Motrin in the tin?”

“No, but I’m sure Rhiannon has some kicking around,” he replied softly. “You sure that was a normal crow, though, Scully? I feel like an exorcism is more the order of the day than antibiotics.” He said this with flat humour in his voice, but she didn’t think it was very funny.

Six stitches, and then there was gauze and tape, and then it was done.

He swiped a warm, wet cloth over her back one more time, avoiding the dressed wound. His hand continued downwards, knuckles bumping over the ridge of her spine, and the pads of his fingers came to rest on her tattoo.

“I’ve only seen it in snapshots. The red is really…”

Scully pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and leaned forward, just a little, a silent invitation for a closer look. Mulder bent down further, tracing it with his fingers. She could feel his breath on her skin.

His voice was coarse and close. “It’s nice.” His fingers brushed in a spiral over the snake, sending chills up her spine, heat rising between her hips.

“Mulder⁠—”

His hand leapt off of her skin, as if the snake had bitten him. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay⁠—I just… let me look at you.” She swiveled, holding her shirt to her breasts with one arm and bringing her hand to his face with the other. He was far better off than she was, just a few scratches across his cheek framing his rocky nose. She tilted his chin in her hand, and examined the cut along his neck. It had stopped bleeding on its own, but left a trail of rusty red down into the scooped gray collar of his shirt.

Their eyes locked together and held, and a stroke of energy went through her, something undeniably foundational, something as deep as love. But then the light in his eyes shifted.

She felt a hot trickle of blood spill from her nose and pool between her lips. Self-consciously, she brought the back of her hand to her face to catch it, and turned away.

“Scully…” Mulder gently grasped her wrist and tugged her hand away, turning her face to his, tenderly dabbing the blood away with a clean corner of the towel.

“I’m fine, Mul⁠—”

“⁠—STOP that,” he seethed, suddenly intense, inches away from her face. “Stop it with that, Dana, you are not okay. I’m sick of this shit. Stop it. It’s me, for fuck’s sake. It’s me.”

She tongued the corner of her mouth, tasting blood, and felt the hot sting of tears forming behind her eyes again, the twist of humiliation and anger in her belly. Mulder sighed deeply, his shoulders heaving.

“You’ve got to trust me, Scully. You’ve got to let me in. I’m right here with you. You’re not… you’re not fighting this thing alone.”

Despite her efforts to keep it at bay, a tear welled, crested, and rolled down her cheek. Mulder seemed to hesitate momentarily, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against it, sweetly, lingering. He pulled back, and then, as if surprised by his own audacity, he launched himself up, his bum knee cracking. “I’m… uh, do you have anything to sleep in? I’m gonna…” He disappeared without finishing his sentence, and reappeared a moment later with a clean t-shirt, which he tossed in her direction before leaving again.

Scully closed her eyes, willing them to dry. She dabbed at the sticky blood that had transferred from the shirt to her chest, and careful of her injuries, she slid the shirt over her head. It was soft, smelling of Mulder and laundry soap.

“Scully?” Mulder appeared in the doorway again, wide-eyed, his voice urgent, gun in hand. “Scully⁠—the crow is gone.”

“What do you mean the crow is gone? I thought you killed it!”

“I did, but it’s gone.”

“How can that be possible?” She stood, bracing herself against the sink.

“I have a few ideas,” he said darkly. “But… I don’t want you in that room tonight. I think you should come to mine so I can keep watch.”

“Mulder, I’m⁠—”

“DON’T⁠—start with that again. I’m gonna get cleaned up, and you’re coming to my room.” Something about his tone of voice reminded her of her father, and she found herself unable to protest. She followed his orders, watching him strip his shirt off and dab at his chest with a wet cloth, and then following him to his room. It was a mirror of hers, with the same sloping roof. “Take the bed,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

He nodded towards the small armchair in the corner.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mulder. The bed is big enough for the both of us.”

He seemed to consider this, chewing his lip, hands on his hips. “Okay, but I’m taking the side closest to the window. Just in case.”

Scully curled into the cool sheets in the dark of the room, favouring her good side. The sleepy smell of him rose to meet her from the pillow, a scent that was dark with dreams. Mulder was pacing, checking the locks, peering out of the window, the floor creaking under his feet.

She watched him quietly as he slowed and then finally stopped.

“I, um. I think your room was Anna’s,” he sighed, leaning his forehead against the window glass.

“I think it was, too,” she said, and was grateful that he didn’t ask her to elaborate.

He turned, his long, lithe silhouette approaching the bed, the moonlight glancing off of the curve of his shoulder. Carefully, he crawled in beside her. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked contentedly on. Scully felt as shy as a teenage girl; she was careful not to touch him, but she yearned to all the same.

Mulder tentatively reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and rested his palm on her cheek, thumbing just below a scratch.

“Why is it always me?” she whispered, indulging in a fit of uncharacteristic self-pity.

He scooched towards her without a word, his knees knocking her shins, and kissed her sweetly between the eyes as he threaded his arm under her neck. She rested her cheek on his chest, sucking her tongue nervously, submerging herself in his heavy, warm aura. He nosed her hairline.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “We’ll figure this out. All of it. You’ll be fine.”

[frangipanidownunder]

Five times Mulder tried to propose to Scully 😍

1“So what was your final wish, anyway?” she asks.He looks at her for the longest time. Really sees her. And it’s like an implosion, sparks behind his eyes so bright, so powerful he can hear them fizzing. He takes a swig of beer. The movie plays in the background.“Mulder?” she asks, turning a quarter towards him. He takes her hand in his, holds it to his thigh. Her fingers beat a quiet tune in time to the music from the television.“I wished that you would marry me,” he says, finally. Her lips pop from the beer bottle and he loves that he’s taken her by surprise. It’s really something to know that you can make Dana Scully sit back, mouth open, eyes wide, speechless. It’s a lot. “You used your last wish on me?” She blinks and blinks.“You don’t need to give me an answer yet,” he says and they watch the rest of the movie.

2The suitcases are by the door. She’s holding William, palm pressed to his back, fingers tapping a rhythm. He’s suckling his thumb, eyes flickering under his lids. Mulder can’t imagine a more pure vision than the love of his life, the mother of his child, his son. It’s the perfect snapshot to imprint into his memory banks. “Just go,” she says, and her signature single tear spills. “No long goodbyes,” she says, croaking. Her forehead is cool, soft against his lips. William’s head is downy, perfect. She chokes out a sob and the baby startles. Her fingers pat faster, soothing him. “I love you, Scully. I love you both. I don’t…” “Go, Mulder. Please.” He draws them both into his embrace. So tight. So tight. There are no more words but these, he thinks. And it doesn’t matter the response. “I want to marry you, Scully. I want to be with you every day. I want that more than anything. When I get back, we’ll do it. We’ll get married, okay?”

3There’s a long stretch of blacktop, open fields either side, soft gold wheat for miles and miles. Out there, somewhere, is a life, he thinks. Out there people are living, crying, laughing, making love, fighting. Out there is normal. She’s driving, eyes fixed straight ahead. It’s been months of days like this. Driving through towns and past lakes and in the shadows of mountains, under rumbling grey clouds or bright blue skies. It’s been months of uncertainty. “Pull over,” he says. She taps her forefinger on the wheel, double quick. “Why?” “Just pull over.” “There’s nowhere to stop,” she grumbles but presses the brake and flicks on the blinker. It’s fitting, he thinks, that they’re having to dig something out of nothing. She turns to him, lips in full pout, ready to butt heads. He laughs a little. His combative partner, always prepared to argue, even before she knows what he’s going to say. It will never be any different. And he loves it, loves her. Will never stop loving her. Just like all the long stretches of blacktop they’ve traversed. It’s a journey. “Will you marry me, Scully?” She snuffs through her nose. Looks out of the drivers side window. At the wheat as it dances on the wind. He wants to climb inside that mind of hers and watch her thought processes. He already knows what she’s going to say. But it doesn’t matter. The engine turns over and they pull back onto the road, continuing the journey.

4The house is at the end of a long drive. He hears her leave. He hears her come back. All around are fields of nothing. Seclusion follows them. They’ve always been separate from the world. They thrive on the edges, in the shadows. Or they did. When he had purpose. Thriving, she’s thriving, he thinks. Working a new job, meeting new people, living. She’s trying to live for him too, the way she buys him new clothes, books weekend trips ‘to get him out of the house’, invites him to conference dinners. “I want you to meet my colleagues,” she’d say, always hopeful. “Next time,” he’d reply, always hopeful she wouldn’t ask again. But she did, she does. And now he’s in the car with her driving the long drive to the hotel where the dinner is being hosted. He’s in a suit. It feels stiff against his skin. He feels constricted. Like he can’t breathe regularly, like his heart isn’t pumping evenly. Scully looks so beautiful though, in a deep blue silky dress that swirls below her knees, her hair in some pleated twist at the back of her head, held with diamante pins. The room is too large, too noisy. There are smiles and questions and jokes and drinks. He finds a spot at the bar, loosens his tie, pulls on his collar. The whiskey warms his cheeks. “Mulder,” she says, tugging his arm. “The speeches, then dessert. Sit.” The man to his left is some bigwig at the hospital. He’s chatting about how he values Dana and admires Dana and can’t believe how lucky they were to get Dana. Dana, Dana, Dana. “How long have you been married?” he asks and Mulder laughs then. The man removes his glasses and waits for an answer. “Actually,” Mulder starts, “we’re living in sin. We haven’t actually…I mean, I’ve asked her but she…” He sips his drink and feels Scully behind him, twist in her seat. Feels her hand over his shoulder, pulling so that his collar digs into his Adam’s apple. “Mulder.” Her voice is warm like the whiskey. “Dana,” the man says, half-laughing. Only half. “Fox here is telling me you’re not married.” Her face sets. Her hand falls to her lap. There’s a hush around the table. He slides his hand into hers, brings it, clasped, to his lips. She’s shaking her head but only so he can see. They’ve travelled so long together and he knows this isn’t the right place, the right time; he knows what’s she’s going to say, but he asks anyway. The man claps. The others around the table do too. Scully stands up. Her chair crashes to the wooden floor.

5There’s nothing left. There is a dead boss, a missing son, a baby who shouldn’t be. It’s not how this was supposed to end. Not with the oily water slapping against the wall, not with the night clouds obscuring the moon, not with so much death. They’re standing in the frigid air, breaths meeting between them. But she might as well be sitting on his couch drinking beer, she might as well be telling him to go, she might as well be driving on a lonely road, she might as well be humiliated at a conference. He figures then there will never be a right time. Only wrong ones. Her body fits against his. She sniffs into his chest. “William is out there,” he says, because he knows. She does too. He wasn’t just an experiment. He was, is, their son. “We’ll find him.” “He doesn’t want to be found, Mulder.” “Not now, but one day he will.” She nods, rubbing her forehead against his chest. “Let’s go home.” She drives. She taps the steering wheel and he watches every movement, the way her nose dips when she sniffs, the way her tears glint in the street lights, the curl of her lips as she holds everything in that she wants to scream out. She is still everything. Everything. The house is at the end of the long drive, lonely under the dim stars that emerge every now and then. But it’s home. Their home. They shower together. She leans into him, crying still and he just holds her. She pulls his hand to her belly and he still can’t fathom it. It’s horrific, the idea of a new child in this world. Yet there’s something about it that fits. Fits the crazy pattern of their life. “I love you,” he whispers, pressing wet lips to her sodden hair. “I love you so much.” She says nothing. But he knows what she’s thinking. She’s thinking don’t, Mulder. Not now. But he will and he does. Later, wrapped in each other’s arms, in bed. “I’ve always loved you, Scully. You know that. And I’m still waiting for your answer.” “Why, Mulder? What difference would it make?” None, he supposes. But that’s not the point. “It’s not about making a difference, Scully.” The dawn chorus rises softly outside. “Then what is it about?” Her mouth is warm against his. He kisses her for the longest time. “It’s about staying the same.” “That doesn’t make any sense, Mulder.” He laughs gently. “I know.” “What if I say no?” “Nothing changes.” She wriggles closer to him. “And what if I say yes?” He thinks of the couch, the door, the road, the hotel. He thinks of Jackson. He thinks of Skinner. He thinks of the beginning and wonders what the end will be like. If they’re married. If they’re not, it doesn’t matter. Nothing changes. Nothing changes for them.It’s always just been about love.  

[the-lightless-star]

Resolute

(Just getting around to posting this for New Year’s Eve, hope you enjoy)

@today-in-fic 

Mulder stood on her doorstep, balancing his weight on his heels as he shivered involuntarily. Pressing his fist against the cold wood once more, it swung open. Blessed heat met his chilled skin as he took in the sight of one Dana Scully.

He was taking a big risk, showing up at her place a mere 12 hours after they'd returned from an exhausting case.

The day after Christmas found them pulled into Skinner's office, the warmth and rest of the holiday dashed by graphic photos and a disturbing case file. A middle-aged Virginia man had murdered his own daughter as she slept in her bed on Christmas morning. They’d been called in to the investigation because the man repeated upon arrest that he wouldn’t stand for her to be taken again. He gunned down his own child in order to protect her from what he claimed to be an attempted alien abduction.  

Mulder had been immediately drawn into the case that held so many similarities to the night Samantha had been taken. The man seemed genuine in his account of the multiple abductions, with explanations of time loss, bright lights, weightlessness, and inexplicable scarring.

Scully had been doubtful of his story, her logic tearing holes in Mulder's theories before they could leave his mouth. Her heart and mind had been frozen on the sight of the small girl with golden hair lying cold and lifeless on her autopsy table. Alien abduction or not, the man had confessed to killing his daughter, and Scully had fought to keep a grip on reality.

After 4 days of investigation, they were no closer to any type of truth than when they'd arrived. The abduction theory had been debunked, the young girl's body had shown signs of repeated abuse, and the man at the center of the investigation committed suicide in his cell not hours after they'd confronted him.

And it was here he found himself on New Year's Eve, staring at his partner's small form shivering in the doorway of her apartment.

Her eyes held no spark, no fight he usually sought to ground him. Her lips drawn in tight as she chewed them in uncertainty. Arms wrapped around her chest, she too shivered at the dropping temperature. The pale skin of her left shoulder peeked out from the stretched collar of her Stanford sweatshirt, softened and torn by years of use. Mulder chuckled silently as he caught sight of her bare feet, toes painted a merry red as they wiggled in her impatience.

He realized his gaze had lingered longer than intended as she cleared her throat nervously. He looked up to see a blush fill her cheeks, whether from the cold or his unabashed gaze, he couldn’t tell.

Soft strains of jazz filled the apartment behind Scully, causing him to second guess his decision to stop by.

“Catch you at a bad time?” he questioned, breaking the silence.

Scully pursed her lips, "If that's your way of asking if I'm busy, Mulder, I think you already know the answer to that question."

Mulder knew what would greet him behind the door. The lights in the apartment would be dimmed, save for a bright lamp on the table next to the sofa. A glass of wine, barely touched, would grace the coffee table next to a pile of paperwork she'd yet to complete. She was more dedicated to the mundane responsibilities of their job. It was she who bore the heaviest weight of closing a case.

Scully opened the door further without a word and let him in. Taking his coat and placing it over the armchair she tentatively questioned him, “I figured you’d be with the Gunman, Mulder," throwing him a smirk she continued, "sightings a little slow for MUFON tonight?"

Mulder gasped in mock offense, "What would give you that idea? Despite popular belief, I do have a life. I could have been on a date for all you know." he defended with less conviction than intended.

Scully smiled as she patronized him, "You must have really showed her a good time, seeing as it's barely 9 o'clock."

Padding to the kitchen she spoke over her shoulder, "Something to drink?"

"Yeah, thanks."

As Scully was pulling a beer from the fridge the phone began to ring, the shrill sound piercing the quiet of the apartment.

Mulder made to pick it up when Scully waved him off, "Just let the machine get it," she spoke, handing him the beer and moving to clear up the paperwork from the table.  

Hi. This is Dana Scully. Please leave a message after the tone.

Langley’s voice filled the room, “Hey Scully, we're getting some pretty wicked reports of anomalies in upstate Virginia right now. Just wanted to remind you the invitation still stands to hang out.”

Mulder's eyes grew wide as he watched Scully's face break into a smile as the message continued.

“Mulder left early, seemed pretty distracted, said he had a date or something.”

"Are you talking to Scully?" Frohike could be heard whispering in the background

 “Let us know,” Langley finished.

"Traitors," Mulder mumbled.

Settling on the carpeted floor between the couch and the sofa, Scully tucked her bare feet beneath her as she turned to Mulder in question.

"Alright, why are you really here?"

"Can't a coworker just visit his partner out of genuine concern after a difficult case?"

Scully's raised eyebrow communicated that he better try again.

"I thought you could use some help with the report for Skinner on Monday."

Her silence continued.

"Okay, okay. Even I didn't believe that one."

His playboy smile flashed as he tried one last time. "My cable's out and the New Year's Eve Twilight Zone marathon is on."

Scully rolled her eyes as she grabbed for her wine glass to take a long sip.

"I thought I could keep you company, and at the same time introduce you to quality classic television," he waggled his eyebrows in invitation.

"Come on Scully, you know you want to."

Scully conceded without much fight, "Fine. But you're buying the pizza this time."

Scully had just reached a stopping point on the report and stretched her arms above her head, her stiff joints popping after having been strained in one position.

She had moved to the couch beside Mulder after the pizza arrived and they had been sitting in companionable silence ever since. The occasional comment from Mulder on a particular part of the episode or the frequent question from Scully on details of their investigation ebbed and flowed as the evening continued.

After putting the paperwork away, she took her wine glass that had mysteriously refilled itself and closed her eyes as she greedily drank. Mulder's socked foot rubbed gently against her bare feet as he continued his journey into the Twilight Zone.

"Oh, Scully, The Parallel. You'll love this one."

The volume was turned up as the narration began,

"In the vernacular of space, this is T minus one hour. Sixty minutes before a human being named Major Robert Gaines is lifted off from the Mother Earth and rocketed into the sky, farther and longer than any man ahead of him. Call this one of the first faltering steps of man to sever the umbilical cord of gravity and stretch out a fingertip toward an unknown. Shortly, we'll join this astronaut named Gaines and embark on an adventure, because the environs overhead—the stars, the sky, the infinite space—are all part of a vast question mark known as the Twilight Zone."

The music faded out as Scully leaned her head back, stealing glances at Mulder as the brightness of the television danced in the darkened room. Her mind began to wander as the sounds of his breathing became the only thing she could hear.

A gentle tug at her hair and her eyes snapped open. Gentle eyes met hers as Mulder smiled softly.

"The night is young Scully, it's not even New Year's yet."

"Sorry, I was just thinking...must have nodded off."

Mulder turned his head away, graciously giving her room if she chose not to share.

Drawing her her feet to her chest, Scully turned toward Mulder, leaning her side against the back of the couch.

Mulder turned the television down, ready for what he assumed would be a serious conversation.

"Mulder, what are your thoughts on New Year's resolutions?"

His eyebrows knitted together in confusion at the seemingly innocent question.

"Professionally or personally?"

"Whichever you prefer," her sleepy voice replied.

Scratching at the stubble on his chin, Mulder began his explanation in earnest.

"Well, in ancient Roman myth, the god Janus was the god of gates and doors, beginnings and endings, represented with two faces, each turned in the opposite direction," Mulder spoke with his hands, emphasizing his point with each hand pointed away from the other.

"January 1st  was consecrated to Janus and it was customary to exchange kind words and wishes, even food, as a token of thanks. It was believed that the face of Janus always looked forward in anticipation of what was to come, while still looking to the past in remembrance of what had led up to that point."

He turned to see Scully's lip upturned in amusement as he continued.

"Now we find ourselves attempting to improve aspects of our lives, not in effort to appease a deity, but year after year engaging in self-initiated change because that's what we’re supposed to do. Which for 90% of the population will most certainly end in failure. We set unreasonable goals of diet, exercise, and financial security, then throw ourselves into patterns of over-indulgence and self-loathing when we fail to meet them."

Scully blew out a breath, as Mulder continued,

"And then you have this idea that these changes, these resolutions, have to occur on the very first day of the year. Our bad habits continue up to the minute before that day arrives, and then something is supposed to magically alter our subconscious. It's as if we believe that day holds some type of mystical property that when taken advantage of, will cause us to be instantaneously motivated."

Scully bit the corner of her lip as she nodded in response, "Is that your personal opinion, Mulder?"

"No. I think it can have its merit.”

Mulder inched his hand closer to her bare feet and tentatively rubbed his calloused fingers over her soft skin.

Scully shivered at the touch, the seemingly innocent action felt strangely intimate.

"Who doesn't want the proverbial chance to start over?" he asked, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin of her arch, "To wipe the slate clean and attempt to make possible what before seemed impossible."

"What about you?" he whispered curiously.

Scully laughed dejectedly, "I grew up in a home where perfection was the expectation, Mulder. Failure wasn't exactly an option, and if there was something Dad didn’t approve of, you didn't put off promptly adhering to his insistences. It was taken care of at that very moment, or in our case, hidden from him so he never knew the difference."

"I loved my father, Mulder, but with him there was this understanding of, "Do it right the first time, or don't do it at all." I think that's why I pushed myself so hard to make it through college, to make it in the FBI. I didn't have the luxury of a second chance, just a stern disapproval or stone silence.”

Mulder nodded silently at her response. Gently pulling at her feet until she stretched them out and placed them in his lap.

Without a word he began to rub each one, warming her cold skin as she closed her eyes in response.

"I remember the first anniversary after he passed away. I left my tree up again until New Year's, as if I half expected him to come through the door and chide me like he did the night he died."

After a few moments of silence, she laughed loudly, startling Mulder from his ministrations.

She smiled at him with tears of laughter in her eyes, "Oh Mulder, can you imagine his reaction had he known what I was doing in the FBI?"

"I think suffice it to say I wouldn't have had the Captain's approval," Mulder surmised.

Scully stared at her feet as she spoke quietly, "None of the best decisions of my life ever did."

If Mulder caught the meaning, he didn't bite.

Squeezing her foot, she opened her eyes to find a twinkle in his own.

"Alright, spill it, G-woman. Any resolutions?"

Scully pursed her lips, pretending to thoughtfully consider his question, "I was thinking something practical, like not bringing work home with me."

Mulder rolled his eyes, "First of all, that's a cop out. And second, if that's true, you have less than one hour to shove me and that paperwork out the door if you want to hold on to that one."

Silence met his chiding.

"Come on Scully, you're the one that brought it up."

Scully pulled her feet from his grasp, tucking them underneath her, "But Mulder, it’s like a birthday wish, you can't just go around blurting out things like that. It'll make it that much harder to keep."

Laughing incredulously, Mulder answered, "Oh, so it's up there with birthday wishes, huh? Must be something pretty serious if you don't want me to know."

"I was going to tell you mine, but if the success rate is contingent upon secrecy, I'll just keep it to myself," the laughter in his voice foiling his attempt at seriousness.

Scully just smiled back, unable to divulge what really lie behind her secrecy.

"But I will say this," he whispered intimately, "It's not even midnight and my resolution is right on track."

Both agents turned their attention away from each other to the television, mindlessly watching the screen as the marathon continued in an attempt to return to normalcy.

A chime sounded from Scully's hall clock, startling Mulder from his slumber, and causing him to start in confusion. Counting the gentle chimes, they stopped at 12, the distant sound of fireworks from outside the apartment echoing the sentiment.

He was surprised to find a weight pressing on his leg. Scully had stretched out on the couch, turning her face away from the brightness of the television, using his thigh as a pillow as her faint breaths blew against his stomach. Her hand had pushed past his t-shirt and was tucked between his lower back and the couch.

Mulder rest his hand against the back of her head, his fingers brushing through her messy auburn hair. A soft snore escaped her, and he smiled at the sound. Tracing the edges of her soft lips with his thumb, Mulder felt her press back against him with a soft pout. Dropping his hand from his exploration, he closed his eyes, feigning sleep, lest she discover his wanderings.

As the closing narration began on the final episode, Mulder could swear he felt her smile as she whispered against his shirt, "Happy New Year, Mulder."

“Major Robert Gaines, a latter-day voyager just returned from an adventure. Submitted to you without any recommendation as to belief or disbelief. You can accept or reject; you pays your money and you takes your choice. But credulous or incredulous, don't bother to ask anyone for proof that it could happen. The obligation is a reverse challenge: prove that it couldn't. This happens to be... the Twilight Zone.”

[allyinthekeyofx]

Blurring the lines 3/5

@whatfallsaway @therobbinsnest @xfile-cabinetx just for you! Sorry no ‘read more’ insert. I’m on my phone.

Chapter 3

“How did you know where to find me?”

Mulder shrugs lightly and grimaces as the movement pulls at his shoulder injury. I make a mental note to check it when we get back to my apartment, slightly ashamed that I haven’t been able to bring myself to even think to do so before now. Past experience tells me that Mulder is just stupid enough to ignore any warning signs that the injury isn’t healing as well as it should. But he quickly rearranges his features in the hope I haven’t noticed and takes a step away from me, gesturing towards the lake below with his good arm.

“I know you used to come to the lake when you had Can…..” he pauses and swallows and sadness abruptly overwhelms me that even after all these years he still has trouble with that word. “…..when you were sick. So I played a hunch and after a couple of false starts…..well, here you are.”

“Here I am.” I whisper, unable suddenly to meet his eyes because there is a part of me that is afraid of what I will see there or maybe more accurately, what he will see in me and I remember another time in another place where he searched for me before while the snow packed landscape stretched ahead of him in to infinity and his singular determination to bring me back pushed him to limits no one should ever have to endure.

We’ve never talked too much about it – some wounds are just too painful to keep re-opening – but I have always known with blinding certainty that he was prepared to give his own life in an attempt to save mine; that he accepted the odds without question as he quite literally travelled to the ends of the earth to find me and bring me back. That he wasn’t ready to give up on me then; that he isn’t prepared to give up on me now.

And I find myself feeling so ashamed suddenly of just how I have treated him these last few days. I have directed my own confusion, my own uncertainty and my own discomfiture squarely back at him when I essentially have no right or reason; because for years I have refused to allow him even a glimpse as to what actually lies behind the walls that over time have left me more damaged, more insular than I ever thought I could be and half of the emotions I keep locked away I don’t actually understand myself, so how in the hell am I supposed to expect him to?

As though to contradict me, as though he is literally reading my mind he touches my arm gently and without even looking up I can hear the smile in his words.

“Least this time you were easier to find huh?”

And he trails his fingertips downwards until his gloved hand envelops my own, instantly warming me through the thin fleece gloves I wear. I hadn’t realised just how cold my hands were until that moment; or of how the lighting had subtly changed around us, bleeding what colour there was from the landscape and casting everything in a peculiar luminosity that, after years of living through winters here I knew was a warning that a storm was gathering; a bad one if the weather warnings of this morning were to be believed. In fact, I could feel the temperature had dropped at least a few degrees since I had left my apartment and neither one of us, but Mulder especially, was dressed to get caught in a serious snowstorm.

“We should get back Scully. There’s a hell of a storm brewing.”

Reading my mind again Mulder? The thought makes me smile; the first genuine smile I think I have managed for days and I nod, waiting for him to release my hand from his. But instead he tightens his fingers around mine and pulls me in closer to him, our arms practically touching and despite the biting wind that has sprung up from nowhere, I don’t think I have ever felt warmer than I do right now.

XXXXXXX

By the time we reach the haven of my apartment, the sky above has darkened to an ominous shade of purple and wind is howling around the building. Unsurprisingly, we hardly saw a soul on our return and the few we did see were hurrying along, heads bowed against the biting wind with hands thrust in to coat pockets, intent on getting home in to the warm as quickly as they could and for me at least, the blast of warm air that hits me as we step over the threshold in to my apartment instantly banishes the chill that was starting to creep upon me. Mulder though is shivering like a rain soaked puppy and despite trying valiantly to hide the fact that he is freezing, the hollow sound of his teeth clacking together kind of gives him away. I’m not surprised he’s cold. His suit pants are soaked to the knees from the ankle deep snow and I’m in no doubt that his feet have benefitted from only scant protection afforded by the dress shoes he wore to work today. Hardly the correct attire to come searching for your errant partner through five inches of fresh snow; under normal circumstances I would be frustrated with him – angry even - but my fingers are still tingling pleasantly and frankly, I just don’t have the heart. My tone though, leaves no room for argument.

“Hot bath Mulder. Right now.” I gesture toward the bathroom “There’s fresh towels in there. I’ll fetch you some clothes.”

The fact he immediately acquiesces speaks volumes but I know he won’t be able to resist at least an attempt at a Mulder quip.

“Feel free to join me Scully. Plenty of room for two.”

And despite what happened between us, the kiss we finally shared, I know that this time he is just teasing me because he feels that a glib comment is expected of him and which does more to dispel the niggling fear that has been my constant for days than I think anything else could. Because this is normal, this is him and this is us.

“In your dreams Mulder…..and Mulder? Don’t get those stitches wet or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Promises, promises Scully”

I shake my head, knowing that he has to have the final word. The final word that has set a pattern during our long partnership and one which I usually concede because if I didn’t he would carry on with the verbal sparring all day long.

I’ve always known that he has a reputation for arrogance and it’s all too easy to see why but those who know him well – and I can count on one hand just who he has allowed that singular privilege – know that much of that perceived arrogance is simply Mulders way of protecting himself. Of projecting an unshakable self-belief that cushions him from the deluge of incredulous ridicule he has suffered over the years. Because despite the facade he tries to hide behind, I know it’s all pretence; because while he has become skilled at outwardly ignoring the constant jibes, immune to them he certainly isn’t and I sometimes find myself marvelling at the fact that he has managed to survive at all. And while it would take a thousand armies to drag it out of me, it’s the reason I could never leave him. Not now; not after everything we have shared. Because I have seen him fall too many times when he reaches breaking point; when the pressure becomes too much and his self respect is replaced with a self loathing that creeps up on him. An insidious darkness that would, if it were permitted, devour him from the inside out.

I decided a very long time ago that I could never let that happen; that whatever it took I would remain with him and even though it weighs heavily on me at times the sacrifice, if it can be described as such, is worth it to me. Because I love him; a love that transcends all boundaries and one which sometimes threatens to consume me with an intensity that scares me beyond rational thought when I consider just what my life would be without him by my side. So I tend not to dwell on it and right now I shake my head to dispel the thoughts before they overwhelm me, turning my attention to more mundane matters; switching effortlessly back to the Dana Scully that is practical and methodical and unruffled. My own way of surviving I think.

XXXXX

By the time Mulder emerges from the bathroom I have lit a fire in the small grate that is the focal point of my living room. He is wearing the t shirt and sweats that I had earlier removed from the drawer in my bedroom where they sat neatly folded alongside an almost identical set that he keeps here for situations just such as these and it hasn’t escaped me recently that somehow, along the way, other items of Mulders have joined them. A pressed suit, a dress shirt and tie which hang in my closet and which, assail my senses with the scent of him each time I open the door, a pair of faded jeans hanging beside them that he left here after spending the night on my sofa and which he never saw fit to claim, a small drawstring bag containing a razor, soap, shower gel and shampoo which I actually went out and purchased after he complained one day after showering here that it was a dent to his masculinity to have walk around all day stinking like a sidewalk florist display. His toothbrush is kept permanently on stand-by on my bathroom shelf, keeping my own company in the frosted tumbler that matches the soap dish. And when I really think about it, it probably seems a little odd to some that we keep such personal items to hand in each other’s homes; but to us it’s just how it is. The years have made us both comfortable enough with each other for it to be normal. Friday night movie nights have become a weekly tradition and only rarely do we bother driving home from whichever apartment we happen to find ourselves in and I’ve spent many nights sleeping peacefully on Mulders soft leather sofa where he has covered me gently with the old Navajo blanket before retreating to his own bed.

I’m conscious now though that he is lounging in the doorway that leads from the hall to the living room, just watching me as he watched me in the office earlier and I know that sooner or later we are going to have to talk; to bring this thing out in to the open – this thing that for reasons I still don’t understand, made me retreat from him in a way I haven’t in years.

But right now, I have more pressing matters to attend to.

“Come over here Mulder and let me take a look at your arm”.

The look on his face tells me instantly that I’m not going to like what I see and neither the redness around the ugly row of stitches that are holding the deep wound together nor the strangled hiss of pain he emits as I start to gently probe the wound with my fingertips particularly surprises me. Because while I couldn’t say that it’s raging with infection, it is certainly inflamed way more than it should be and I struggle to keep my tone neutral, knowing him well enough to know that accusation and judgement on my part will just seek to put him immediately on the defensive.

“When did you last take your antibiotics?”

He doesn’t answer but at least has the decency to look contrite. Because without him having to confirm it, we both know that he hasn’t bothered. And by the look of the wound, the 6 hourly anti inflammatories have also gone by the wayside.

I resist the urge to call him an idiot. Because he already knows he is and I have never been able to fathom just why he seems to put so little stock in his own well being; this man who will cross continents to keep me safe but who seemingly lacks the ability to take a pill that will keep him healthy.

I know the hospital prescribed him Augmentin due to the nature of his injury, an antibiotic often used to treat animal bites where the risk of infection is high and they had teamed it with a fairly effective painkiller which, if memory served me, was most likely Naproxin. It seemed like the logical choice under the circumstances and one which I myself would have prescribed. Unfortunately for him though, I didn’t have the same luxury of choice and the best I could come up with at short notice was Amoxicillin and Vicodin. He pulled a face at the Vicodin, a drug which I know from past experience makes him drowsy and occasionally nauseous but he had the good sense not to argue, taking them both without comment and resting back on the sofa, angling his body slightly so his uninjured shoulder takes the weight of him and I half expect him to close his eyes but he doesn’t. Instead he shifts position slightly and turns them on me, the colour dark and intense with the flickering flames of the fire reflecting within. And there is something in the way he looks at me that makes my heart begin to beat painfully inside my chest; respect, gratitude and an aching vulnerability that, if I really thought about it, would break me in two, a man of such complexity, of such intelligence and such compassion that he is sometimes unfathomable to me.

“You want to know why I kissed you?” his voice is soft, barely more than a whisper as he leans toward me, cupping my chin in his palm, his long fingers brushing my cheek and I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t find the words to answer him, so I just nod my head slightly, almost unconsciously inclining my head towards him as he moves closer, feeling his breath against my neck which makes me shiver despite the warmth he radiates.

“I kissed you because I was still with you. Because I don’t want to die regretting all the things I should have said to you…….because I don’t ever want to die with you not knowing and because you deserve so much more.”

And slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, he brings his lips to mine, teasing me, tasting me, claiming me finally as his, deepening the kiss as I slide my hands around his neck, even now carefully avoiding putting any pressure on his injury as I close my eyes, savouring this moment, knowing that I am falling, that finally I am falling and that this time, there will be no going back.

Continued Part four

[frangipanidownunder]

Four times Maggie Scully’s prayers were answered and one time they weren’t

Written for @xfficchallenges The Fic You’d Never Write challenge. I’ve pretty much covered comedy, drama, family, sick, smut, angst, casefile and au in my stories so it was tricky to think of a new angle. I couldn’t bring myself to write another pairing, so I settled on another POV: Maggie Scully.

 1 Lost and found

She watched Fox as he walked around the apartment. She knew Dana thought highly of him, had come to trust in him. But she had also spoken of his impetuosity, the disregard he displayed for his own safety, his unwavering belief in the hopeless, the inexplicable and the outlandish. Dana told her that oftentimes during a case he was driven to point of closing his mind to logic, order or direct command. And for that, today, now, Maggie Scully was grateful. He barked orders at the techs, he spoke with authority to whoever he was conversing with on his cellphone, he regarded each blood stain, each hair, each upended object in Dana’s apartment with a deep consideration that made her believe in the hopeless – that Dana would come home. Safe.

           ‘Mrs Scully – why don’t I get one of the officers to drive you home. You should try to get some sleep.’

           She shook her head and looked at the fern that draped over the top of the cupboard in Dana’s living room. Bright green, well-cared for. Full of life. ‘I wouldn’t sleep, but I do feel like I’m in the way here.’

           Fox nodded and offered her a half smile of sympathy. She saw a depth of understanding in his eyes. She saw how his losing Dana cut him – they had shared so much in just a year or so. She saw respect and fear too. But above all she saw tenacity.

           ‘I can drive you, if you prefer.’

           ‘I wouldn’t want to take you away from here.’

           He chuffed out a bitter laugh. ‘Perhaps I’m better off staying. There’s lots to be done still.’

‘I’ll be praying.’

He put his hand on hers. ‘I will find her. I’ll do everything I can to find her.’

           ‘I know,’ she said. And she did.

2 Doubt and Trust

Dana rushed past her, taking the stairs two at a time and slammed the door of her room. The rafters shook and Maggie looked out the window at the garden, marvelling at how well it had survived the cooler months. As she waited downstairs, she could hear Dana opening drawers and shutting them. She heard her crying out and talking to herself, wild words, incomprehensible ranting. Maggie waited until it fell silent. She learned early on as a parent, that the trouble was always to be found in the silence.

Dana had been an introspective child, the quietest. Missy was all drama and theatrics, Bill was full of his own self-importance and blustering righteousness, Charlie was a noisy terrier desperate to keep up with the older ones. But Dana was always observing. And when she did break down there was always a damned good reason. Maggie knew her daughter felt so deeply, tried so hard to work out how to live in harmony with a world full of pain and injustice that it sometimes became impossible to be the stoic one, to not be worn down.

And whatever had worn her down now was frightening in its ferocity. This had not been a slow chipping away; this had been a searing, burning explosion.

Maggie trod carefully, holding the banister, weighing up whether to call Fox first or wait for him to come. He would come. Of that, she was certain. She knocked, lightly at first, then with more force. She rattled the door against its lock.

           ‘Dana, honey. Let me in. Please.’

           Silence.

           ‘Dana, I want to help you, but you have to open the door.’

           Nothing.

           ‘I have the key, Dana. I’m going to open the door anyway. It will be much better if you open it yourself. I just want to see that you’re okay, that’s all.’

           When Dana pulled back the door, Maggie tried to contain her rising fear. She was still fully dressed but rumpled, her hair tangled, her eyes red-rimmed and wide with terror. She was wringing her fingers, pacing.

           ‘It’s all been a lie, mom. All of it.’

           ‘I’m sure that’s not true, Dana.’

           ‘It is,’ she said, wiping spittle from her chin. ‘I’ve been so stupid. So stupid. How could I not have seen it?’

           Maggie moved forward, holding her arms out towards Dana. ‘Why don’t you  come downstairs with me? I’ve made tea. You’ll feel better if you drink something, sit down.’ She brushed the sides of Dana’s arms, just a light touch, but one that sent her daughter skittling backwards as though her fingers were electrically charged.

           The rapping at the front door was the tipping point. Dana sunk to her knees, clutching her hands against her ears. When the knocking came again, louder, more insistent, Dana jolted upright and shoved Maggie out of the door. ‘Don’t answer it. It’s them. They can’t come in. If you answer it, they’ll kill me.’ She shut the door.

           The walk down the stairs was terrifying. The fear that Dana would hurt herself if she answered the door weighted against the fear that she would hurt herself if she didn’t. Before she even pulled it open, she knew it was Fox and that she wouldn’t be able to stop him. She recognised the look in his eyes. The depth of understanding. Respect and fear. And the tenacity.

           And the moment Dana collapsed in tears she saw the love too.

That night she prayed for her daughter. And she prayed for Fox. And she prayed they could move past this event to regain their mutual trust. The trust they needed more than her prayers.

3 Strength and Weakness

Dana’s skin was so pale and with her gaunt face, she looked haunted. Maggie knew she was stubbornly refusing to be as terrified as everyone else. Maggie sat in the chair most nights and read to her. She slept fitfully, twisting the sheets and mumbling about Mulder. Whatever had happened since he reappeared, Maggie felt sure that her daughter would rest easier if Fox spent a little more time with her. The chip that Fox had offered up as a cure was a mystery that Bill refused to give any credence to, but Maggie knew her daughter, and if Dana trusted Fox with her future, then the least she could do as her mother was to wait and read and hope.

           Dana stirred, turning her face to the window as her eyes fluttered open. She smiled at Maggie. Maggie squeezed her hand and offered her a cup of water. Dana hoisted herself up and sat against the starched pillows.

           “Has Mulder been in?”

           “He called by earlier, but didn’t stay. Can you manage something to eat? A little jello? Bill stopped by too. He says to say hi.”

           “I think he chooses to stop in when Mulder’s here so he can look like he cares more.”

           Maggie clucked. “I think that’s a little unkind, Dana.” She gave Dana a spoon and a bowl of orange jello.

           “It’s true. His presence here intimidates Mulder.”

           “Fox is a grown man. An FBI agent. He carries a gun. Your brother shouldn’t intimidate him.”

Dana swallowed a mouthful of jello and smiled. “Mulder’s vulnerable at the moment. He’s had his beliefs tested. He has had to re-examine his entire purpose, his quest for the truth, his job,” she paused and took another spoonful. “This illness. His passion is both his strength and his weakness. He’s been shattered by recent events.”

Dana lay her head back against the pillow.

“You can’t use all your strength worrying about Fox.”

“Who else will, mom?”

She was asleep within minutes. Mulder knocked gently and slid into the room, taking the seat on the other side of the bed. Maggie put the book on the side table and whispered to him that she was going to find a cup of tea. He stood up as she left, closing the door behind her. She waited a moment outside. Watched as he lifted the chair closer to Dana’s side. Placed his hand over Dana’s.

           Maggie stopped on her way to the canteen, visiting the quiet room. She contemplated the landscape on the wall, a forest scene with towering trees that stretched their leaf-laden limbs to a deep blue sky. She closed her eyes and gathered her strength, praying for Dana.

And for Fox.

4 Forward and Backward

It was sometimes difficult to understand just what the FBI wanted. They took so much and gave nothing back. All Maggie wanted for her daughter was peace, dignity. She’d buried Fox. She’d witnessed the miracle of his resurrection. They had a child only to be forced to give William away. And then the trial. Charges that carried the death penalty. The break out. And years of forced isolation. And now this.

           The driveway was long and rutted. The house always seemed like it had been stuck on the block with no care. And now it just looked disheveled and sorry as they drove away.

“I’m sorry you had to come get me, mom.”

“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on, Dana.”

           Her daughter leant her head against the window and didn’t speak for hours.

Those first few days, Fox left 86 messages on the answerphone. Dana switched off her cell. Maggie threw away sandwiches, crackers, fruit and a put servings of pot roast, meatloaf and lasagne back in the fridge. She boiled the kettle more times than she could count and listened to Dana sob herself to sleep.

           “I can’t go back.”

           These were the first words Dana spoke.

           “Why not?”

           “I hurt him more when I’m there.”

           Maggie shook her head. “I know you two. You need each other.”

           Tears streaked Dana’s face. “We did. We do. More than is healthy. We take steps forward and then we run backward. That’s been the pattern of our lives.”

           “You’ll find a way through. I’ll help you.”

           Dana sobbed, laying her head on her arms across the table. “Prayers can’t fix this, mom.”

           Maggie prayed anyway. And the FBI finally stopped taking.

5 Answers and Questions

The sounds came and went, along with the light. The sounds fell away. The light blinded her then receded. She took comfort in the feel of someone holding her hand but sometimes, when she woke up, her hands were folded across her abdomen and all she had left was the ghost of a touch.

It was dark. It was bright. It was silent. It was chaos. She was comforted. She was frightened.

She could hear his voice. Charlie. Love swelled in her heart, her veins. She couldn’t hear because love was pulsing through her, rushing in her ears and keeping her eyes pressed shut. She’d prayed for Charlie’s return to the fold, to her breast. He’d come home.

She willed her eyes to open. She saw Fox. And Dana.

“My son is named William too,” she said.

One last prayer. Just one.

[allyinthekeyofx]

Blurring the lines 3/5

Blurring the lines

AllyinthekeyofX

THREE

Mulder shrugs lightly and grimaces as the movement pulls at his shoulder injury. I make a mental note to check it when we get back to my apartment, slightly ashamed that I haven’t been able to bring myself to even think to do so before now. Past experience tells me that Mulder is just stupid enough to ignore any warning signs that the injury isn’t healing as well as it should. But he quickly rearranges his features in the hope I haven’t noticed and takes a step away from me, gesturing towards the lake below with his good arm.

“I know you used to come to the lake when you had Can.....” he pauses and swallows and sadness abruptly overwhelms me that even after all these years he still has trouble with that word. “.....when you were sick. So I played a hunch and after a couple of false starts.....well, here you are.”

“Here I am.” I whisper, unable suddenly to meet his eyes because there is a part of me that is afraid of what I will see there or maybe more accurately, what he will see in me and I remember another time in another place where he searched for me before while the snow packed landscape stretched ahead of him in to infinity and his singular determination to bring me back pushed him to limits no one should ever have to endure. We’ve never talked too much about it – some wounds are just too painful to keep re-opening – but I have always known with blinding certainty that he was prepared to give his own life in an attempt to save mine; that he accepted the odds without question as he quite literally travelled to the ends of the earth to find me and bring me back. That he wasn’t ready to give up on me then; that he isn’t prepared to give up on me now. And I find myself feeling so ashamed suddenly of just how I have treated him these last few days. I have directed my own confusion, my own uncertainty and my own discomfiture squarely back at him when I essentially have no right or reason; because for years I have refused to allow him even a glimpse as to what actually lies behind the walls that over time have left me more damaged, more insular than I ever thought I could be and half of the emotions I keep locked away I don’t actually understand myself, so how in the hell am I supposed to expect him to?

As though to contradict me, as though he is literally reading my mind he touches my arm gently and without even looking up I can hear the smile in his words.

“Least this time you were easier to find huh?”

And he trails his fingertips downwards until his gloved hand envelops my own, instantly warming me through the thin fleece gloves I wear. I hadn’t realised just how cold my hands were until that moment; or of how the lighting had subtly changed around us, bleeding what colour there was from the landscape and casting everything in a peculiar luminosity that, after years of living through winters here I knew was a warning that a storm was gathering; a bad one if the weather warnings of this morning were to be believed. In fact, I could feel the temperature had dropped at least a few degrees since I had left my apartment and neither one of us, but Mulder especially, was dressed to get caught in a serious snowstorm.

“We should get back Scully. There’s a hell of a storm brewing.”

Reading my mind again Mulder? The thought makes me smile; the first genuine smile I think I have managed for days and I nod, waiting for him to release my hand from his. But instead he tightens his fingers around mine and pulls me in closer to him, our arms practically touching and despite the biting wind that has sprung up from nowhere, I don’t think I have ever felt warmer than I do right now.

XXXXXXX

By the time we reach the haven of my apartment, the sky above has darkened to an ominous shade of purple and wind is howling around the building. Unsurprisingly, we hardly saw a soul on our return and the few we did see were hurrying along, heads bowed against the biting wind with hands thrust in to coat pockets, intent on getting home in to the warm as quickly as they could and for me at least, the blast of warm air that hits me as we step over the threshold in to my apartment instantly banishes the chill that was starting to creep upon me. Mulder though is shivering like a rain soaked puppy and despite trying valiantly to hide the fact that he is freezing, the hollow sound of his teeth clacking together kind of gives him away. I’m not surprised he’s cold. His suit pants are soaked to the knees from the ankle deep snow and I’m in no doubt that his feet have benefitted from only scant protection afforded by the dress shoes he wore to work today. Hardly the correct attire to come searching for your errant partner through five inches of fresh snow; under normal circumstances I would be frustrated with him – angry even - but my fingers are still tingling pleasantly and frankly, I just don’t have the heart. My tone though, leaves no room for argument.

“Hot bath Mulder. Right now.” I gesture toward the bathroom “There’s fresh towels in there. I’ll fetch you some clothes.”

The fact he immediately acquiesces speaks volumes but I know he won’t be able to resist at least an attempt at a Mulder quip.

“Feel free to join me Scully. Plenty of room for two.”

And despite what happened between us, the kiss we finally shared, I know that this time he is just teasing me because he feels that a glib comment is expected of him and which does more to dispel the niggling fear that has been my constant for days than I think anything else could. Because this is normal, this is him and this is us.

“In your dreams Mulder.....and Mulder? Don’t get those stitches wet or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Promises, promises Scully”

I shake my head, knowing that he has to have the final word. The final word that has set a pattern during our long partnership and one which I usually concede because if I didn’t he would carry on with the verbal sparring all day long.

I’ve always known that he has a reputation for arrogance and it’s all too easy to see why but those who know him well – and I can count on one hand just who he has allowed that singular privilege – know that much of that perceived arrogance is simply Mulders way of protecting himself. Of projecting an unshakable self-belief that cushions him from the deluge of incredulous ridicule he has suffered over the years. Because despite the facade he tries to hide behind, I know it’s all pretence; because while he has become skilled at outwardly ignoring the constant jibes, immune to them he certainly isn’t and I sometimes find myself marvelling at the fact that he has managed to survive at all. And while it would take a thousand armies to drag it out of me, it’s the reason I could never leave him. Not now; not after everything we have shared. Because I have seen him fall too many times when he reaches breaking point; when the pressure becomes too much and his self respect is replaced with a self loathing that creeps up on him. An insidious darkness that would, if it were permitted, devour him from the inside out.

I decided a very long time ago that I could never let that happen; that whatever it took I would remain with him and even though it weighs heavily on me at times the sacrifice, if it can be described as such, is worth it to me. Because I love him; a love that transcends all boundaries and one which sometimes threatens to consume me with an intensity that scares me beyond rational thought when I consider just what my life would be without him by my side. So I tend not to dwell on it and right now I shake my head to dispel the thoughts before they overwhelm me, turning my attention to more mundane matters; switching effortlessly back to the Dana Scully that is practical and methodical and unruffled. My own way of surviving I think.

XXXXX

By the time Mulder emerges from the bathroom I have lit a fire in the small grate that is the focal point of my living room. He is wearing the t shirt and sweats that I had earlier removed from the drawer in my bedroom where they sat neatly folded alongside an almost identical set that he keeps here for situations just such as these and it hasn’t escaped me recently that somehow, along the way, other items of Mulders have joined them. A pressed suit, a dress shirt and tie which hang in my closet and which, assail my senses with the scent of him each time I open the door, a pair of faded jeans hanging beside them that he left here after spending the night on my sofa and which he never saw fit to claim, a small drawstring bag containing a razor, soap, shower gel and shampoo which I actually went out and purchased after he complained one day after showering here that it was a dent to his masculinity to have walk around all day stinking like a sidewalk florist display. His toothbrush is kept permanently on stand-by on my bathroom shelf, keeping my own company in the frosted tumbler that matches the soap dish. And when I really think about it, it probably seems a little odd to some that we keep such personal items to hand in each other’s homes; but to us it’s just how it is. The years have made us both comfortable enough with each other for it to be normal. Friday night movie nights have become a weekly tradition and only rarely do we bother driving home from whichever apartment we happen to find ourselves in and I’ve spent many nights sleeping peacefully on Mulders soft leather sofa where he has covered me gently with the old Navajo blanket before retreating to his own bed.

I’m conscious now though that he is lounging in the doorway that leads from the hall to the living room, just watching me as he watched me in the office earlier and I know that sooner or later we are going to have to talk; to bring this thing out in to the open – this thing that for reasons I still don’t understand, made me retreat from him in a way I haven’t in years.

But right now, I have more pressing matters to attend to.

“Come over here Mulder and let me take a look at your arm”.

The look on his face tells me instantly that I’m not going to like what I see and neither the redness around the ugly row of stitches that are holding the deep wound together nor the strangled hiss of pain he emits as I start to gently probe the wound with my fingertips particularly surprises me. Because while I couldn’t say that it’s raging with infection, it is certainly inflamed way more than it should be and I struggle to keep my tone neutral, knowing him well enough to know that accusation and judgement on my part will just seek to put him immediately on the defensive.

“When did you last take your antibiotics?”

He doesn’t answer but at least has the decency to look contrite. Because without him having to confirm it, we both know that he hasn’t bothered. And by the look of the wound, the 6 hourly anti inflammatories have also gone by the wayside.

I resist the urge to call him an idiot. Because he already knows he is and I have never been able to fathom just why he seems to put so little stock in his own well being; this man who will cross continents to keep me safe but who seemingly lacks the ability to take a pill that will keep him healthy.

I know the hospital prescribed him Augmentin due to the nature of his injury, an antibiotic often used to treat animal bites where the risk of infection is high and they had teamed it with a fairly effective painkiller which, if memory served me, was most likely Naproxin. It seemed like the logical choice under the circumstances and one which I myself would have prescribed. Unfortunately for him though, I didn’t have the same luxury of choice and the best I could come up with at short notice was Amoxicillin and Vicodin. He pulled a face at the Vicodin, a drug which I know from past experience makes him drowsy and occasionally nauseous but he had the good sense not to argue, taking them both without comment and resting back on the sofa, angling his body slightly so his uninjured shoulder takes the weight of him and I half expect him to close his eyes but he doesn’t. Instead he shifts position slightly and turns them on me, the colour dark and intense with the flickering flames of the fire reflecting within. And there is something in the way he looks at me that makes my heart begin to beat painfully inside my chest; respect, gratitude and an aching vulnerability that, if I really thought about it, would break me in two, a man of such complexity, of such intelligence and such compassion that he is sometimes unfathomable to me.

“You want to know why I kissed you?” his voice is soft, barely more than a whisper as he leans toward me, cupping my chin in his palm, his long fingers brushing my cheek and I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t find the words to answer him, so I just nod my head slightly, almost unconsciously inclining my head towards him as he moves closer, feeling his breath against my neck which makes me shiver despite the warmth he radiates.

“I kissed you because I was still with you. Because I don’t want to die regretting all the things I should have said to you.......because I don’t ever want to die with you not knowing and because you deserve so much more than that.....maybe we both do.”

And slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, he brings his lips to mine, teasing me, tasting me, claiming me finally as his, deepening the kiss as I slide my hands around his neck, even now carefully avoiding putting any pressure on his injury as I close my eyes, savouring this moment, knowing that I am falling, that finally I am falling and that this time, there will be no going back.

Continued Part four