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ebaeschnbliah · 6 years

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Last week I read another one of @sagestreet 's wonderful metas. Darth Vader ('Sherlock') In my comment I refered to the Klingons and the Cowboys in black hats, who are also mentioned in that scene in TFP. If 'Darth Vader' is of meaning (which I'm convinced of) then the Klingons and the Cowboys with the black hats are most likely of meaning too. This thought wouldn't leave my head. Until I remembered having already seen a Klingon wearing a black hat .... Lieutenant Commander Worf from the starship Enterprise. I rewatched the episode where this occurs and now I'm a bit blown away.

Some keywords ...

Klingons - black hats - fathers and sons - the android who desires to feel emotions - positronic brain malfunction - empath in the role of the mysterious stranger - the Wild West - a son in prison - a son abducted - crossdressing - inside a created story - suddenly it's not a game anymore - character shifting - reluctantly wearing a hat to play a role - no, no, no, this is too easy - Spot the cat ....

Favourite Quote: Data when asked about Geordi's slowly growíng beard:

"As is the case with many natural growth processes, it is difficult to envision the end product based on an intermediate stage."

In case you are interested, feel free to engage in Star Trek TNG, Season 6, Episode 8:

A Fistful of Datas

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About Lieutenant Commander Data

Data is an android - a machine - who desires nothing more than to become human one day and to experience emotions. Data is also a great admirer of Sherlock Holmes. Especially of his ability to solve mysteries by careful examination of the available evidence. He loves to quote Holmes (x x) and he played that character on the holodeck (x) However, Sherlock Holmes doesn't feature in this episode .... but maybe the episode features in Sherlock BBC. Unless, of course, it's just coincidence ...

A sheduled appointment is postponed for two days. Many members of the Enterprise are taking advantage of the delay to pursue their own projects.

La Forge and Data get the permission to experiment on a new interface between Data’s positronic brain and the ship’s computer. This would allow Data to act as an emergency backup in the event of a ship-wide systems failure. Soon it turns out that this experiment causes some computer problems. Parts of the ship’s computer get altered and are replaced by Data’s personal programming. Systems affected by the malfunction are the library, the replicator selection and the recreational programming ... the holodeck. Nothing critical, it would seem.

As a result ….

a piece of Mozart changes to Dvorak’s The Slavonic Dances, because Data had been analysing the collected works of Czech composer Antonin Dvorak.

a theatre play is replaced by Data’s poem 'Ode to Spot’, dedicated to his cat.

the replicators on some decks are producing nothing but the cat food Data had been formulating for Spot. (X)

an interaction between Data’s personal programming and the programming of the holodeck occurs. It replaces parts of Data’s memory structures with the files that are currently activated. Files related to the nineteenth century American West. Suddenly Data's behaviour changes and he starts talking like someone out of that time, using terms like ... 'Howdy, Commander' ... 'You got it, partner' ... 'Vamoose, you little varmint' ... 'Commander. You just sit tight. We'll have this all fixed up in time for supper'

About Lieutenant Commander Worf and his son Alexander

The relationship between father and son is a difficult one. Alexander was raised by his mother K'Ehleyr, a half-human half-klingon embassador of the Klingon Empire. Worf, an orphan himself and raised by humans on Earth, didn’t know for years about the existance of his son. Soon after K'Ehleyr revealed the truth to Worf she got killed. Worf acknowleded his son but sent him away to Earth to be raised by his own former foster parents. Some time later Alexander is brought back to the Enterprise. Worf learns that there are difficulies, problems with adjusting, that his adoptive parents feel too old for the challenge to deal once again wth a Klingon child … in short, Alexander needs his father. At first Worf doesn’t feel ready nor competent enough to deal with the new situation. He decides to send Alexander away again. This time to a Klingon school. Then he reconsiders the decision and both - father and son - agree to face their relationship problems together. This is why - one day - Alexander programmes an adventurous play on the holodeck which he can take on together with his father …. who is not very enthusiastic about it.

Deadwood. Nineteenth century Earth. The Ancient West

WORF: What is our function here? ALEXANDER: You’re the Sheriff and I’m the deputy. WORF: So, we are in law enforcement. ALEXANDER: Right.

And so the programme starts like many Western stories …. a little town under a glaring sun ... a sheriff and his deputy are walking slowly down a deserted main street.

The sound of a gunshot from the saloon ... a man on the piano ... poker players ... a mysterious stranger ... some bad guys who aren’t really a match for sheriff Worf. Alexander doesn't like it.

ALEXANDER: No, no, no. Computer, freeze programme. WORF: What is wrong? ALEXANDER: That was too easy. It has to be harder to beat the bad guys. Otherwise, it’s no fun. Computer, increase programme difficulty to level four. Go back to where my father and I first walked into the saloon. Come on, Father.

Alexander and Worf leave the saloon and the programme starts once more. This time the bad guys are clearly more dangerous and not as easy to subdue. The owner of the saloon is a woman called Annie.

Unexpected for Worf - not for Alexander - they receive help from a woman with a gun. She is DeannaTroi, who serves as ship’s councelor aboard the Enterprise. As a half-Betazoid, Deanna Troi is capable of extra-sensory empathy. Alexander asked her to join them because Counsellor Troi loves Western stories.

TROI: My father used to read me stories from the Ancient West when I was a little girl. I must admit, I always wanted to play the part of the mysterious stranger.

Eli Hollander, the bad guy, gets arrested. Sheriff Worf, deputy Alexander and Durango, the mysterious stranger, lock him up in the prison cell. As it turns out, Eli Hollander has a dad as well.

ELI: Frankly, I don’t think I’ll be around here that long. Not after my old man hears about this. WORF: What old man are you referring to? ELI: My pa. When he breaks me out of this tin can, the gravedigger’ll be working overtime.

At this point things start getting out of hand because of the experiment Data and La Forge are cónducteding. Deputy Alexander goes missing.

In the saloon sheriff Worf meets Frank Hollander, Eli’s dad, and learns that the man has abducted his deputy. Most alarming is the fact that Frank Hollander looks like Commander Data.

DATA-FRANK: I ain’t in the mood for games, Sheriff.

And indeed, this isn’t a game anymore. The holodeck safeguards are out of order. Worf gets shot in the arm and is actually injured. They are in trouble and it gets worse. When Worf comes back to the prison, Eli Hollander has also transformed into Data.

Desperately but without success they try to end the programme. There is only one hope.

TROI: We have to remember, even though the holodeck safeguards may be off, this is still a programme. If we can just get to the end of this story the way it was designed to play out, the programme will automatically terminate.

And so they play along as best they can. Data-Frank Hollander visits his son Data-Eli in prison to comfort him and to propose an exchange with the abducted deputy Alexander.

DATA-FRANK: You sit tight, boy. I’ll have you home in time for supper. (to Sheriff Worf) I’m going to give you one more opportunity, Sheriff, to avoid a ugly situation. Release my boy. WORF: I have reconsidered your offer. I will release your son in exchange for my deputy. DATA-FRANK: I thought you might have a change of heart. Meet me in two hours. You be in front of the saloon. I’ll be in front of the livery station. Strangers ain’t invited.

Two fathers and two sons meet under the glaring sunshine in the middle of a deserted main street.

Deanna Troi’s warning words turn out to be true … that villains in Western stories can’t ever be trusted.

TROI: They’re not concerned with honour, Worf. This is the Ancient West. There’s a gunfighter out there who has the speed and accuracy of an android. And in two hours, he’s going to try to kill you.

Data-Frank Hollander doesn’t come alone to reclaim his son. Another two outlaws are lurking near the street … behind a door, on top of a roof … waiting to interfere. And both of them have turned into Data’s as well.

Then the gunfight is over. As mentioned by Deanna Troi, the computer programme should automatically end now. Surprisingly, it doesn’t. It seems the story isn’t quite over yet.

To Worf’s utter shock and surprise, Annie, the lady who owns the saloon, approaches him. She hugs and kisses the sheriff enthusiastically …. and she too looks now like Data ….

DATA-ANNIE: Sheriff! You’re as handy with a shooting iron as you are with a woman’s heart. WORF: (panic-stricken) Computer, end programme! Computer! Now!

After that strange adventure Alexander heavily doubts that his father will ever again engage with him in a similar play on the holodeck. Turns out … he is mistaken …

WORF: The town of Deadwood may face danger once again. If they do, they will need a sheriff and a deputy.

And back in the main room ..... in front of the mirror .... :)))

.... while the Enterprise flys off into the sunset of an alien star ....

Some intersting background information

The director of this episode is Patrick Stewart.

The episode title is an homage to the Clint Eastwood film A Fistful of Dollars.

The original title was The Good, the Bad and the Klingon, a paraphrase of the title of Leone's The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

The plot is a homage to Rio Bravo.

In an interview Stewart mentions that for this episode he watched the movie Shane for inspiration regarding westerns. A scene from Shane was taken by Stewart and copied as the one where Alexander looks out of the bottom of the saloon doors.

I leave you to your own deductions.

Source of script (X) Wikipedia (X) Memory-Alpha (X)

Mai, 2018

@gosherlocked @sagestreet @raggedyblue @possiblyimbiassed @sarahthecoat @221bloodnun @loveismyrevolution @sherlockshadow

#a fistful of datas #star trek #tng #klingons #black hats #the final problem

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recalcitrantlycaffeinated · 8 years

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Thank you for telling us that you are going tobe engaged! Since you said we can ask you about it what are some interesting things and/ or details about your fiance you want to tell us.

Future fiance…wow y’all that word exploded my entire person into butterflies. It’s weird to think about how quickly that next stage of my life is coming up.

“Interesting Things about my Significant Human / Future Fiance”, a Long List

His ability to make long, drawn-out, intellectual, measured decisions continues to baffle me. I try to make intelligent decisions, but I have no patience for any real decision that lasts more than, say, ten minutes, and that’s being generous. My research phase is very long – I can look at a hundred different options if I’m shopping on Amazon – but deciding if I actually like each individual thing I look at or not happens in the blink of an eye. I can look at a house and say “no” or “yes” within five minutes, and I don’t change my mind. I just know. He does not know. He gives everything the benefit of the doubt and spends hours and hours and days making every “important” decision (note this also includes things like “what wash rag do i buy” or “what comforter will be best”). He decided he was going to buy a case for an old phone-ish device he’s letting me borrow, and he asked, after much deliberation, “what would you like it to look like? what color do you want it to be?” and I replied, “Look at me…look deep into my eyes…just buy the cheapest color.” This means if I was in charge of finding and buying an engagement ring for myself it would happen approximately an hour, maybe three after I started seriously looking. This means he has been gathering information and looking around for weeks at least, and claims to be about 30% of the way there. It’s mystifying and adorable. It’s going to make actually making huge decisions together hard. I’m going to have to calm down a lot.

If some kind of weird time warp thing happened and I got to go back in time and teach him when he was in Catholic school, I would have hated him. Every story he has ever told me is funny and something I can appreciate as an adult, but as a teacher/principal…he was both a nuisance and a teacher’s pet and that would have given me a headache.

He actually has a real (!) marketable (!) profession (!) but his first job was as a bagger at a grocery store and I think he loved that job more than any other job he will ever have.

He is very Italian and very excited about eating all manner of diverse foods. This is clearly the way to his heart. It’s definitely his love language. I don’t know why that isn’t one of the options. I’m not sure how he decided we should date before we started cooking together.

He’s also below average height but is basically a giant in comparison to me. When I bring him into the school, I ask him to do “tall person things” for me like changing clocks. It confuses everyone because there are definitely middle schoolers who are taller than he is.

One time I made a list of 200+ things I loved about him and thought I was being clever by hiding it inside of an old budget file, but it was actually my current budget file from the last however many years and since I was writing over it in a different file format the whole thing got corrupted and I almost lost my entire budget because I’m a sentimental list-maker.

He’s the one who asked me to watch some of the X-Files with him when he did his rewatch, because he thinks Mulder is The Best, and instead I watched the whole thing because I am a Compulsive Completist and he continues to feel guilty for not realizing I would do something like that.

One of the first interactions we ever had was he rolled down a window in my car and it got stuck there and I had to pay over a thousand dollars to have it fixed and I told him he owed me a life debt. He apparently took this very seriously.

There are a lot of other things, but those were just the ones that came to mind today!

#recalcitrant inbox answers #i am bad at open-ended questions y'all #i worry that that isn't what you wanted to know #i just have random thoughts and i vomit them out everywhere #if i have failed to provide interesting normal facts i am sorry #i am sure there are lots of great stories or facts i just...am the worst

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ghostbustermelanieking · 5 years

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phantom weights chapter three

one, two

season 11, post my struggle iv. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: In the wake of their second encounter, Mulder, Scully, and Jackson reconnect (both by accident and on purpose).

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The days were entirely too empty.

Scully hadn't gone without a job so long in years. Even when they were on the run, she worked as a waitress or cashier whenever they stayed in one place for long enough. She'd always been driven a little crazy by not working, ever since she was in her twenties; she thought that she and Mulder had similarly restless souls. Now, they had no jobs, nothing to do besides sit around the house all day.

Scully was fairly sure that she could get her job at the hospital back (or at a new hospital), provided that no one found out about the things she had leaked on the Internet. But Mulder had convinced her to wait until a few months after the baby was born, and considering it was a high risk pregnancy anyways, Scully couldn't argue much with that. She needed the rest. They'd already more or less determined that Mulder could just stay home with the baby once it came along—they’d talked about a teaching position at Quantico, but they weren't sure that the FBI had any goodwill left for the two of them. And besides that, he seemed to be okay with the idea of staying home. “I'm getting old, Scully,” he joked at one point. “I'll be a stay-at-home dad, take care of the kid. Maybe I can even get some writing done.” (He used to talk about writing, years ago, but he'd never gotten around to it. The idea of him taking up writing again made her incredibly happy.)

It wasn't really the lack of jobs that was the issue. It was the emptiness of the days, all the space to think about where their son was. If he was okay, if he was hurt or getting into trouble, if they'd ever talk to him again. It was enough to drive her crazy.

She tried not to linger on it. She told herself that knowing he was in Richmond was better than knowing nothing. She told herself they couldn't push, or he'd pull away. She told herself that she would have to just wait. And Mulder was saying the same things.

It was nearly agonizing, but they found little ways to fill the day. They read a lot. They found movies to watch or TV shows to binge. They lay in bed half the day, or made slow, lazy love in the middle of the afternoon. Mulder had off-kilter ideas for novels or short stories that he scribbled down on scraps of paper. He painted the baby's room while she advised on color from the hallway, not wanting to be affected by the fumes. They did every single thing they'd ever wanted to do, and things they'd never known they wanted to do. They tried, as best they could, to keep their mind occupied. Sometimes they succeeded. Sometimes they didn't.

They talked about the baby a lot, whenever they could. They speculated on gender sometimes; Mulder thought it was a girl. When she asked how he was so sure, he would just smile and shrug. “I just know,” he said mysteriously. He had name suggestions; she made a couple of her own.

He was in love with the baby already. He slept curled at her back, his hand often straying down to cover her belly. He'd talk to the baby sometimes, tell her stories or read to her from whatever book they were halfway through with. (It ended up being some book of accounts on the Loch Ness Monster, or a book on scientific theories or medical discoveries.) He loved fixing up the baby's room, even though the whole thing seemed a little premature. He was doing all the things he didn't get to do the last time, and she loved it. It was overwhelming as it was scary, the fact that they were doing this again, and she couldn't believe she was experiencing with him. She'd missed him so much with William, missed all the things he'd never gotten to do. She burst into tears at one point, unable to hold back the rush of grateful emotions.

The first time the baby kicked, they were both on the couch reading, Scully growing tired enough that the words were starting to swim around on the page, and she was about to suggest they go upstairs to bed when she felt a strange fluttering in her abdomen. She dismissed it as indigestion at first, until it happened again. And again. And that was when she realized what was happening, when she remembered this feeling from years ago.

Excitement suddenly sprung loose, in the pit of her belly, and she let the book fall to the couch, pressing her hand to the spot. She felt a little phantom foot push back against her palm. She smiled, unable to help it; that was their child in there. Their baby. Despite her guilt over what happened the last time she had a child, despite her fear that she would lose this baby, despite her regret that it had happened this late in life, she couldn't help but love this child tremendously. Couldn't help but be excited, just a little excited.

And Mulder. Mulder was here this time. She was alone the first time William kicked. The first time William kicked had been the night before Mulder’s funeral. She'd been crumpled in the corner of the couch, trying to think of what she could do next (how she was going to keep on without him), and then she felt it, the little flutter inside of her. She'd dismissed it at first until she felt it again and again. She ended up crying, almost as hard as the night she found Mulder dead, her hand pressed to her stomach as if she could tether herself to the baby, make him feel her presence. That was the first time in a long time that she hadn't felt alone. The last time this happened, Mulder was dead, and now he was here, he was with her, and the combination of grief and gratefulness bubbling up inside her made her want to cry.

“Mulder,” she said softly, hand still over the baby.

“Mmm.” He was still absorbed in his book, some new release about Bigfoot theories that he'd probably read to the baby at some point.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and nudged his shoulder. “Mulder, you have to feel this,” she said.

He looked up from his book, startled, his eyes immediately shifting to her abdomen. “Feel… is it… is the baby kicking?”

She nodded, with a little smile, and his eyes lit up. He reached out to touch her stomach, hand landing on the wrong spot, and she reached out to guide it to the right one. She could feel the baby kicking at his hand, and she really did want to cry now. The smile spreading across his face meant everything in the world to her.

“Oh my god,” he said softly. He leaned down and kissed the round swell, stroked the spot. She laughed a little, unable to help it. He laughed too, both hands there now. “She's kicking so much,” he said with awe. “Are they supposed to kick this much?”

Scully sifted her fingers through her hair, loving the feeling of his hands on her stomach. Years ago, she'd craved his presence madly, and now he was just unquestionably there. “It's perfectly normal,” she said, her voice warm with affection. “Although you might be disappointed when she turns out to love soccer instead of basketball or baseball.”

“I can learn to love soccer,” Mulder said, kissing the spot again. “Hi, baby,” he whispered, and she felt the flutter of movement again. “How you doing in there?” The baby kicked again in answer.

Scully grinned a little, rubbed her hand over her stomach. Mulder wrapped his arms tight around her waist, cheek against her belly. “I love you,” he murmured, and Scully stroked the top of his head again.

“Which one of us are you talking to?” she asked, amused.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark. “Both of you,” he said. “I love you both so much.”

She seized a handful of his t-shirt and pulled him up until they were nose to nose. Kissed him sweetly. “C’mon,” she said, pushing hair off of his forehead. “Let's go to bed.”

“I think I'm right, you know,” he said, getting up off the couch and extending a hand to help her up.

She took it. “About whether or not it's a girl?” she asked as he pulled her to her feet.

“Mm-hmm.” He smiled peacefully, wrapping an arm around her waist. “And you're coming around, too. You called her she, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're delirious, Mulder,” she said, elbowing him in the side. “We're both exhausted. Let's go to bed, okay?”

“Skeptic,” he said happily, starting towards the stairs. “You did call her she.”

“Only because you did.”

“Sure.” He kissed the top of her head. “I'm working harder on convincing you on something, every single day. Someday, it's going to happen, and you're going to tell me I was right."

“Okay, Mulder,” she said patiently. “Okay.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek.

He rubbed a hand over her side, the two of them stilled on the bottom step, and whispered, “I hope she looks just like you.”

---

A couple of days later, they had a doctor's appointment. They went together, Mulder sticking to Scully's side the entire time, holding her hand. Scully's heart gave a little flutter of relief when the doctor reassured her that everything looked good, the same way it did every time. It was incredibly reassuring to hear.

They got home in the early afternoon, a nap already sounding appealing to Scully. She let Daggoo out in the backyard, dropping her keys on the counter and filling a glass with water as Mulder slipped back into his office, saying something about doing some research. She leaned absently against the fridge; it was early May, and already hot as hell. She put a wayward hand to her stomach and thought about the long, hot months ahead.

Mulder's voice emitted suddenly from his office. “Hey, Scully?” he called gingerly, as if he was concerned about her reaction to whatever he wanted to show her. “C'mere for a second, would you?”

She went, her brow automatically furrowing with worry, wondering why his voice sounded so strained. But he didn't look upset when she entered the office. He was standing over the answering machine, connected to the landline he'd never taken out, despite the both of them having cell phones. He turned to her and gestured her over. “Someone,” he said quietly, “sent us a message today.”

He jabbed at the button with one finger, and the machine clicked. The sound of their son's voice filled the room. “Uh, hi. This is Scully and Mulder's phone, right? This is, uh, Jackson. Jackson Van de Kamp.”

Scully made a little gasping sound, a hand over her mouth. Mulder was leaned a little closer to the machine, as if he wanted to be near the sound. The message kept playing. “I wanted to call, and, uh, let you know I was okay,” Jackson continued. “So you'd know… Oh, and I got a job. Two jobs, actually. Burger King night shifts and a day shift at a warehouse.” He laughed like he was nervous. “Um, anyways. I guess I missed you, but I hope you get this message. Hope you guys are doing okay.” He cleared his throat, the machine crackling. “Uh, bye.”

The machine beeped loudly, jarring Scully. She'd felt a little lost in the sound of her son's voice. She turned to Mulder, her nose stinging as if she was about to cry. “He called us,” she said thickly. She'd tried to be optimistic after everything, but part of her had thought that after buying the apartment, they would never see Jackson again.

“He did,” Mulder whispered, and he turned to wrap his arms around her.

She rested her chin on his shoulder, looking at the answering machine and trying not to cry. “He's okay,” she said muffedly, pressing her lips to his chest. “He wanted us to know he's okay.”

Mulder nodded, his hand cradling the back of her head, rocking her a bit, back and forth. She sniffled, wiping her eyes, and held him tight. He had called. He had called, and surely that meant he would call again. They didn't have him back, but they hadn't lost him either, and they had the potential to see him again. The possibility of it was more than enough.

She squeezed Mulder tight and let go, reaching out to press the button on the answering machine again. To hear their son's voice again.

---

Life was going remarkably okay for Jackson, considering that a few months ago, he had thought he'd be dead any day now.

His jobs kind of sucked, but it was nice to have something to focus on. And he needed the money. He'd made a couple of friends in both places; they were the type who knew where you could get weed and booze, which was helpful. Half the free nights he had, he spent with them, but he spent the rest at his home, sleeping on the couch more often than the bed and watching the Roku he'd bought with the money Mulder had given him. (He didn't need cable, but he obviously needed WiFi.) He relied on takeout a lot at first, but he was pretty sick of fast food after months on the road. So he went grocery shopping, pushing a cart around Food Lion and feeling like a parody of an adult. He could remember grocery shopping with his mom as a kid, looking at all the brand names and begging his mom to buy him the unhealthiest stuff imaginable. Whining that he was bored when she took too long to pick out fruit. Balancing on the end of the cart while his mom pushed until she asked him to please get down. He was tempted to do what he used to when his mom would let him push the cart, which was take one foot off the ground and propel the cart forward with the other, but he figured he looked suspicious enough without bringing that much attention to himself, acting like a dumb little kid. Sometimes he'd change the way others saw his face just for the fun of it.

He called Mulder and Scully exactly once, feeling a little bit of obligation. He knew they didn't want to push him away, so he probably could've gotten away with not calling. But he also knew that Scully kind of expected him not to ever talk to them again, and that made him want to call them just to prove that he wasn't a total ass. So he did it almost out of smugness. (And, if he was telling the truth, a little bit out of curiosity.) But at the same time, a strong part of him didn't want to do it, was scared to do it. The same way he had felt right before talking to them the first time. It took forever to get up the courage to dial the phone (a cell phone, also bought with Mulder's money), and once he finally did, he was relieved when they didn't answer. He left a message, and knew it was going to their landline—he could've called their cells, but there was a greater chance they'd answer, and he honestly didn't want to pick which one to call.

That should've been the end of it. He called, and left a message. It wouldn't be an issue unless they called back. But Jackson couldn't stop thinking about it. The message over the answering machine was old—he’d known that as soon as he heard it—and the sound of the voice on the other end was strange. It'd been her voice, saying, This is Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Leave us a message, and we'll get back to you. But it was an old message. Her voice sounded different. But he knew they'd been living separately at one point—that was why he had this furniture… So why did they have a joint message that was at least five years old? And why had it never been changed?

It shouldn't have bothered him that much, but he couldn't let it go. It was niggling stubbornly at the back of his mind. As was some other things he'd truthfully been thinking about since last December, since the first time he saw them. He hadn't known much about Ginger (or his birth father) previous to that. In those couple days, he'd figured out a few things. They were in the FBI. They'd named him William. (They'd never stopped thinking about him. They'd loved him.) But there was a lot he still didn't know, a lot he was curious about. He hated to admit it, but he was. He was curious.

He got off of work past midnight that night, and went home to his couch, unable to sleep. He tried texting Sarah (who no doubt was asleep, and didn't always text him back anyways), tried flipping on the TV, but his mind kept wandering. He was restless, and so he picked up his phone and googled Mulder and Scully, halfway expecting nothing to pop up.

The first thing that did was a movie with a suspiciously low score on Rotten Tomatoes. It was called The Lazarus Bowl, and the cover featured actors dressed up like FBI agents, the woman wearing a red bob. Jackson snorted loudly, biting back chuckles, and made a mental note to check that out later. He switched to the News section, and was surprised to see several articles pop up. Some organ-harvesting cult, some witch in Connecticut. Some more cases that made him raise his eyebrows in interest. He should've known they investigated weird shit, considering they got called in on his case, but he never knew it was such overtly weird stuff. He found an entire archive of cases, going back to the 90’s, that they apparently solved. The X-Files. Scrolling through all these cases, Jackson wondered how the hell he'd never seen this part of their lives before.

He stayed up for nearly three hours, reading about cases that sounded vaguely interesting, before he realized what he was doing. He blushed instinctively, his face hot, and closed out of the tab immediately. He couldn't be doing things like this. He couldn't be. It went against every single silent promise he'd made to his parents. The promises he absolutely could not break. He couldn't want to know about them because it was a betrayal to his entire childhood.

He halfway expected Mulder and Scully to call back after the message—Hey, we're so sorry we missed you, please talk to us!—but they didn't. He didn't hear from them for the next few days.

---

Jackson's seventeenth birthday was on a Sunday that year. He had the day off from work, incredibly, and he'd been looking forward to it at first, but now he hated the idea. He couldn't stand the idea of all that empty space, all the time to think about everyone who wasn't there. None of his new friends knew his birthday, so he didn't hear from any of them. Sarah was planning to stay up in Richmond an extra day that she'd spend with him, but he got a text from her that Saturday night saying she was sorry but she couldn't stay, that her parents were way too suspicious already. He told her it was fine. He couldn't let himself wallow. He felt pathetic even being sad about it; he was seventeen years old, and he still got mopey about his birthday like a little kid. He told himself that it didn't matter, it didn't fucking matter.

His mom and dad had given him a great birthday, every single birthday, no matter how much of an ass he was being. Thrown him a party, every year. They'd get him a cake and they'd eat it for breakfast, sometimes in his bed. This year, Jackson bought a cake at the store, but he couldn't find the brand they liked, and the replacement didn't taste nearly as good. Eating cake on the couch alone while watching Netflix wasn't exactly the same of years and years of cake with his parents, and he suddenly found it hard not to cry. He wiped his eyes, pushing his plate away. He felt very small. He realized he couldn't remember the last time he thanked his parents on his birthday, and he was suddenly disgusted by himself. He lay down on his couch, his cheek against the cushion, curled into a ball.

They'd done the cake thing every year for as long as he could remember. There was even a picture of him on his first birthday, smeared with chocolate in his brand new high chair. He'd been adopted at about nine months old, so his parents had spent every birthday with him except for the very, very first one. The one where he was born. The one he'd always been the most curious about his whole life.

Jackson winced, shutting his eyes and rolling over so he was lying facedown. He was thinking about Mulder and Scully now, if only inadvertently. Wondering what that first birthday was like. Wondering how they would've celebrated, if they would've celebrated, if he'd never been given up for adoption. He didn't want to think about it, but now that he was, he couldn't stop. He hated himself for it. He missed his parents so much.

He thought, more than once, about calling and seeing of any of his friends were available. But every time he almost reached for the phone, he chickened out. He still felt insecure around them, he barely knew them. He wanted to be with the people he loved, but he didn't know if he had any of those left. So he lay on the couch, eating cake and pizza and watching Netflix. It wasn't the worst birthday he'd ever had, all things considered—he had been bitten in the eye by a tarantula on his sixth birthday, and spent months in the hospital getting experimented on afterwards—but it sure as hell wasn't one of the best.

Towards the end of the day, Jackson was stretched out across the couch lazily, thinking about ordering some Chinese, when his phone rang. He scooped it up, halfway hoping to see Sarah's name, but that wasn't what was there. Instead, he saw an unfamiliar number that he recognized immediately. It was Mulder or Scully, on one of their cell phones. He knew it as soon as he touched the phone.

He could've declined the call, but he didn't want to. He was astonished to discover that, sitting there holding the phone: he didn't want to decline. He hadn't talked to anyone all day.

He answered the phone quickly, without thinking. "Hello?"

He heard Mulder's voice on the other end, overeager and cheerful and nervous. "Hey, Jackson! It's, uh, it's good to talk to you, buddy."

"It's, uh, it's Dana and Mulder," Scully added, and he could suddenly see them on the other end of the phone, crowded around it to talk to him. He wasn't picturing it; he could see it.

"Oh, yeah, I know," Jackson said, flushing red. He wondered if he should start calling her Dana instead of Scully. (Or Ginger. He thought of her like that absently, without even thinking about it too hard; it was what he'd done for sixteen years before he knew her name.) "Hi."

"Hi," Scully said, her voice soft.

Mulder cleared his throat, and added, "We, uh, we just wanted to call and wish you a happy birthday." He said it almost apologetically, like he needed to justify their calling.

"You know when my birthday is?" Jackson said, without thinking. He grimaced as soon as he said it, because it sounded dumb to his own ears, but it had felt like a valid question. They'd given him up; they'd never celebrated a birthday with him. Maybe they'd forgotten it. Maybe they didn't care.

But no, they hadn't forgotten. Of course they hadn't. He should've known that, remembering everything they'd said to him since the first time they met. The way they always acted around him, it should've been obvious they wouldn't forget. He felt embarrassed for even asking.

"Oh," Scully said in the softest voice, "sweetie, of course. Of course we do."

"Seventeen, that's a big year," Mulder added. "You can get into R-rated movies."

Jackson laughed automatically. "I can get into those anyway, you know," he said. "I can make myself look like anybody else, remember?"

Mulder laughed, too. "I guess so," he said. "But now you can do it without worrying you'll be found out."

"Yeah, guess so," Jackson said. He was smiling a little without noticing it. It was incredibly relieving to hear another person's voice, wishing him a happy birthday.

"We got your message," Scully added. "A couple weeks back. Thank you for calling."

"Oh, yeah." He caught himself smiling, and instantly felt ashamed. His head hung forward loosely. He chewed at the inside of his cheek. "You're welcome," he said quietly. He was looking at the cake on the coffee table and thinking that he wished his parents were here. His mom, who always sung Happy Birthday in a tone-deaf voice, and his dad, who would always have noisemakers and a party hat on even at six a.m. And then he was thinking about Mulder and Scully (or Dana), and how they would have celebrated his birthday.

He didn't want to think about it, but of course, you always think of the things you don't want to think about. He was wondering about his birthday, and then he thought about the first one. An image flashed through his mind, uncontrollably, of a younger Ginger screaming with the pain of labor, splitting cries, an infant being placed in her arms. Him, that was him.

Jackson shook his head hard to rid himself of the images, gritting his teeth. Mulder was asking him something, and he had to concentrate hard to hear him. "—how your jobs were going?" he was saying.

"Uh, yeah, yeah," said Jackson in a rush. "They're good, they're good. People can be real asses sometimes, but you know." He buried his face in his free hand, his eyes squeezed shut. He was seeing Ginger again, lying on the shell of a brass bed with him cradled in her arms, whispering to him; flashes of her and Mulder on what seemed like a helicopter, Ginger still holding the baby (him) and Mulder holding her, his arms around her and his palm cupping the baby's head… Was that what they were thinking of?

Mulder was saying something about working in fast food, and he was holding the phone too tight. He screwed his eyes shut tighter and thought furiously of his fourth birthday, of his mom holding him and his stuffed bear, bouncing him on her lap while the family sang Happy Birthday. He hoped they could see it. He was thinking, This is what you missed out on. He was overwhelmed by the memories they were showing him. If you were so happy when I was born, he wanted to ask, then why the hell did you give me up? Why could you not spend one single birthday with me?

"I-I should probably go," he said suddenly, and he realized he couldn't remember the last thing either of them had said. He wondered if they'd seen the memory, heard what he was thinking. He flushed red, feeling like an ass. They remembered his birthday, and they'd called him, and they'd cried the day he was born, but they'd given him up, and this was the first birthday they were here for, and they weren't even physically here.

But they probably wouldn't be here even if they wanted to be. Because they thought he didn't want them to be. He bit his lip hard.

"Oh," Scully said, and he could hear the hitch in her voice that alluded to what he'd tried to show them. She had seen it. "Okay. Well, it's good to talk to you."

"Happy birthday," Mulder added.

"Thank you," Jackson mumbled. He felt like such an ass. He missed his parents. "Thank you for calling," he blurted in a rush, and hung up the phone quickly. He dropped it on the coffee table like it was a live, red-hot thing.

Another thing fucked up, he thought to himself. More people to drive away. More things to ruin. He clearly didn't know how the hell to handle anything. Couldn't stay away from his birth parents like he promised himself he would, couldn't be around them without hurting them. Maybe, he thought to himself, this was a signal to stop trying. He should just fucking forget it.

He called in an order of Chinese takeout. He ate another piece of cake. He dug some beer he stashed out of the fridge and started drinking.

Later that night, he was mostly drunk and mostly asleep, sprawled out on the bed in the bedroom for one of the first time since he moved in. He turned over with effort in bed, pressing his face into the mattress, and that was when he felt the prickly feeling on the back of his neck. The feeling of another mind melding with his. She was trying to show him something.

It was a hospital room, considerably nicer than whatever place he had seen before. He was there, wrapped up in a blanket with a little blue beanie on his head. His eyes were blue instead of brown, and he had absolutely no hair. And she was cradling him in her arms, just lying there with her eyes half closed and humming a little under her breath. Rocking him back and forth, so slightly you could barely even tell.

The emotion in the scene hit him like a freight train, an immense amount of it. He quivered slightly on the mattress with the weight of it; he wouldn't say what emotion it was, wouldn't acknowledge it, but he could feel its power.

He heard her voice, the voice he always wished he could hear as a kid. I'm so sorry for everything, Jackson, she told him. But I wanted you to know… seventeen years ago, the day you were born, was one of the best days of my life.

---

The days grew longer and hotter cyclically. They were still working on fixing up the bedrooms. The guest rooms, they had always called them; there was one that Maggie used to stay in when she visited, and another that Bill and Tara had slept in exactly once, on a pullout couch. They'd moved the couch down to Mulder's office, intending for that guest room to be the baby's room. Mulder had painted the room a muted green that reminded Scully a bit of the sea the month before. They'd ordered a crib that Mulder set up when it arrived, as well as a bookshelf and a changing table. Stuffed animals. A blanket that Tara had sent.

Scully pointed out that they were still several months out from her due date, considering it was only June, but Mulder told her it was better to be prepared earlier than later. (She agreed with that sentiment to a point, but she was still worried, just a little bit, that she wouldn't make it to term. She tried to put those fears at bay, reassured herself that everything was going well, that she and the baby were both healthy, but the fears still lingered at the back of her mind. She was terrified that something would go wrong. But she tried to focus on the hope that it wouldn't. Every time she felt the baby move, it was a reassurance.)

They worked on the other room too. It didn't need much, considering it already had a bed and they had no real idea what Jackson would want, but she wanted to put in some effort to personalize it. They bought a little TV to put into the room, as well as some books. Some DVDs. They didn't know what he might like, so they guessed, feeling guilty nearly every time they guessed. They wanted to have it ready for him.

They hadn't talked to their son since the night of his birthday. He called, several times, and left a message when they were out, which made Scully suspect that he was trying to call when they weren't home. He always called the landline, never their cells, and the messages were almost always the same. Wanted to let you I'm okay. Hope you're doing okay. It seemed so calibrated, so planned, that Scully was legitimately beginning to think that they might never talk to him personally again. She appreciated Jackson checking in with them, appreciated the amount of caring put into that—she had halfway expected him to never call at all—but she couldn't shake her sense of hurt that he was trying so desperately to avoid them. She wouldn't push the subject, but she wished desperately, at times, for a moment with her son.

Her wish came true, in a way, one day when Mulder drove into the city for a talk someone was giving. "Research," he called it, "for that novel I'll get around to writing someday." He'd invited her to come along, and offered to stay back when she opted out, but she reassured him that she would be fine. She'd lay around the house, relax, enjoy the quiet. He kissed her goodbye at the door, hugging her tight and told her to call him if she needed anything. She promised she would.

She spent the morning taking Daggoo for a walk around the property. He was eager, jumping at her legs, running for long stretches when she let him off the leash. When they returned, she went into Mulder's office and lay down on the pull out couch with her book. Secretly, she loved to be in Mulder's office when she was alone; it was a nice room to sit in, surrounded by his books and papers and pictures tacked up among newspaper clippings. (He'd cleaned it up a bit since she moved out and back in, but it still reflected the hectic nature of Mulder's office. It still felt like his own place.) There were pictures of the two of them, pictures of Samantha and of himself and Samantha with his mother, a picture of William as a baby, and the picture Mulder had taken from Jackson's room, the one where he was playing baseball. She felt right at home.

Scully was engrossed deep into her book when the phone rang, sitting on the desk. She jolted in place, startled, before she realized it was just the landline. And then something clicked together in her head: nobody called the landline anymore, besides Jackson. Besides Jackson.

Scully dropped the book and got to her feet as quickly as she could. She rushed to the desk and picked up the phone, saying, "Hello?" in a rush.

She was breathless until she heard her son's voice on the other end, his deep, serious voice. "Hi, Dana," he said. From the sound of his voice, he'd known that she was going to pick up.

Scully smiled unconsciously. The baby kicked furiously as she sunk wearily into Mulder's desk chair. "Hi, Jackson," she said. "It's so good to hear from you."

"Uh, it's good to hear from you, too," he said on the other end. He was nervous; she could hear the hitch in his voice. She could remember the conversation they'd had on his birthday, the tension there. "How, um, how are you doing?"

"I'm good," she said, leaning back a bit in the chair. "Uh, your fa—Mulder is at a lecture in DC, so I'm just lying around the house."

"Oh. That's cool," he offered. "You enjoying all the quiet?"

"As best I can," she replied, amused. "What about you? How are you doing?" In any other situation, she might've loathed the trite pleasantries, but she was so happy to be talking to her son in any form that she'd take this. Turning the desk chair a bit, her eyes fell on the picture of William as a baby, and she had to bite back the influx of tears. She honestly wasn't sure if they were happy or sad tears.

There was a bit of a pause before Jackson said, "I'm okay." He cleared his throat. "I, uh, have the day off work, and I've been killing time by watching TV."

Scully was still looking at the picture. She remembered the day she had taken it, the day that William crawled for the first time. He'd giggled with delight that first time, grabbing at her carpet and anything else he could reach with his little hands, grabbed his bunny and mouthed at its worn ears. She still had that bunny, upstairs somewhere in a box; she'd slept with it on and off for the first year since she gave him up. She wondered if Jackson could see what she was thinking about.

She blurted suddenly, without thinking about it, "Let me take you to lunch."

Jackson was silent on the other end, pausing with an air of surprise. "Lunch?" he repeated, with an astounded air.

"Yeah," said Scully, feeling impulsive. She suddenly thought of Mulder, wondering if he would mind, but she didn't want to take it back. She wanted to see her son. "I'll drive up, meet you wherever you want. Your choice. What do you think?"

"Oh, uh…" She could feel his hesitance on the other end, practically see his sheepish shrug. "Okay. Sure," he said. "That might be… fun."

Excitement rose in her stomach, rolling with the movements of the baby. She sniffled, trying her hardest not to cry audibly on the line. "Okay. Great," she said softly. "I… I'm looking forward to it. Just text me where you wanna go, and I'll meet you there."

---

She called Mulder as soon as she could, on her way out to the car with her purse hanging off of one shoulder and her keys looped around her fingers. She leaned against the car as she talked to him, the heat of the car biting through the fabric of her shirt, her heart pounding. She was apologetic and guilty—the last thing she wanted was to leave Mulder out of this process, especially after everything he had missed out on—but he reassured her immediately. "Don't be ridiculous, Scully," he said gently when she tried to apologize. "You deserve this. You deserve time with your son, alone. You don't need to apologize to me."

"I don't want to take away opportunities for you to see him," she whispered, clutching the phone too hard.

"You're not taking anything away," Mulder said gently. "Go have a good time, honey. Drive carefully."

So she went, her guilt melting away into nervousness the closer she got to the city. Mulder's support had reassured her greatly, but she was still apprehensive about spending time with Jackson. Especially considering that she'd been the one to suggest it. He had agreed to it, but how much of it had been out of a sense of obligation? But he'd called when she was at home, and he didn't seem surprised when she picked up, which meant he'd probably called intentionally while she was home, which meant he probably wanted to talk to her. Or maybe it meant nothing of the sort. She turned the subject over and over in her mind until it felt old and tough and she wanted to forget it. She told herself that he could've made up some excuse if he didn't want to come.

At the restaurant in Richmond, she sat in the car, jumpy with nervous energy. She couldn't tell if he was there yet, and she didn't want to go in, for fear that he wouldn't show. But she didn't want to leave either. She stayed in the car, jittery, her knee bouncing and the baby moving restlessly, until a car pulled into the parking lot and she gave a little sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging. She knew immediately that it was him, even before she saw the make and model of the car.

Once he had parked, she got out of the car and crossed the parking lot to meet him. He seemed to see her as he climbed out of his own car, shielding his eyes with his hands, and he lifted one hand in a wave. She could see the exact moment he noticed her pregnancy; he squinted, as if he hadn't seen right, and then his eyes widened with astonishment. She touched her stomach self-consciously, suddenly embarrassed. She'd been afraid for weeks, months, that Jackson would be hurt when he found out about the baby. If he'd think she was trying to replace him. She couldn't get a read on him, couldn't tell what he was thinking. He smiled at her when she approached, although it was a tight smile, and shrugged. "Hi, Dana," he said quietly.

"Hi, Jackson. Thank you for meeting me," she said. She realized she still had her hand on her stomach, and removed it immediately. "Do you want to go in?"

---

Inside the restaurant, Jackson ordered a tremendous amount of food. A couple of appetizers, a large entree, dessert. Scully honestly didn't know if it was out of typical teenage boy hunger or so he would have leftovers to take home, but she was starving herself. They ate horrible, greasy food that she normally would have rejected, but that she made an exception for. She'd been having strange cravings lately, and Mulder indulged her with an affectionate and devoted amusement.

It was a struggle to find things to talk about, at first. But then halfway through their order of chili cheese fries, Jackson set down his glass and said solemnly, "So I googled you guys."

Scully burst out laughing. She couldn't help it. It was exactly what she would've expected out of Mulder's son. She laughed so hard her stomach hurt, and when she could finally breathe again, she wiped her eyes with the corner of her napkin and said, "I'm afraid to ask what came up."

Jackson, who'd looked a little concerned up until this point, seemed to relax with relief. He said, "Yeah, um, what the hell is up with that Lazarus Bowl movie? Is that some sort of coincidence?"

So Scully told him the story, of Skinner's friend whose name she couldn't remember, and Sister Spooky and the Lazarus Bowl, and teaching Tea Leoni to run in high heels. That gave way to several more stories, mostly prompted by questions Jackson had about files he had found online, since Skinner had archived the entirety of the X-Files. (Scully wasn't sure whether to be upset with him or thank him, but this encounter pointed to the latter.) Telling stories about her and Mulder's heyday was extraordinarily easy, as long as she avoided the harder periods of time in her life, the deaths and the illnesses and the danger and the injuries. But there were plenty of good stories as well.

They talked for longer than she ever expected, Jackson asking questions about the X-Files and Scully answering as best she could. She felt guilty all over again that Mulder wasn't with them; he would've loved this. ("You'll have to hear Mulder's side of things someday," she told him more than once. "I'm sure his version is different than mine.")

They talked for so long, through lunch and past dessert, that they somehow got off on the subject of her family. She was telling a story about a prank that she and Charlie had played once, and she was talking about how Bill was involved when Jackson sat up straighter, interested. "Your brother's name was Bill?" he asked. "Like, as in William?"

"Oh." She was caught off guard. Miraculously, she'd gotten semi-used to thinking of her son as Jackson, and hadn't expected him to bring up his birth name. "Yes," she said, fiddling with her napkin. "He was named after my father."

"Seriously?" Jackson laughed, a crow of disbelief. "So… I'm guessing you named me William after them, right?"

"Yes," she said again. "And after Mulder's father. He was named William, too."

Jackson laughed incredulously again, yanking his fingers through his hair. "What the fuck? You both had fathers named William? And also a brother?"

"We thought it was appropriate, considering," said Scully with a small smile.

"Goddamn." Jackson rested his forehead in his palm, shaking his head with a sheepish grin. "That's so weird. That means I was named after three different grandfathers."

Scully blinked. In the moment, she'd completely forgotten that Jackson had another family. "Your adop—your parents named you after a grandfather?" she asked, clumsily skating over her mistake (adoptive parents) and hoping he didn't notice.

From the slight flinch, she guessed that he had. "Yeah," he said. "Jackson Harwell Van de Kamp, but everybody called him Jack. Which is why, uh, nobody calls me Jack." He rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. It was a Mulder gesture all the way, and the sight of it made Scully's chest hurt. "He died while I was a kid."

"Oh," said Scully, thinking of her own father, the grandfathers who Jackson would never meet. If she understood anything, she understood losing someone. "I'm so sorry."

Jackson shrugged, his face hardening a little. After a silent moment, he motioned to Scully's stomach. "So who are you gonna name the, uh, the kid after?" he said in a stilted voice.

"Oh." Self-conscious, Scully looked away. "I don't think we're going to name the baby after anyone in particular," she said. "Although we've been discussing some ideas…"

"Right." Jackson's knee bumped against the table leg. "I didn't, uh," he said with a nervous laugh, "I didn't know you and Mulder wanted kids."

Her face grew hot, hurt rising in her throat thickly. "I've wanted kids for a very long time," she blurted, before she could think about it. It might not have been the best thing to say, all things considered, but she needed him to know. "Mulder and I… we both did. We both wanted kids."

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. She could tell what Jackson was thinking even without the connection they sometimes had: Then why did you give me up? "Oh," he said.

Scully looked away again, down at the table where someone had written their name in jagged pen marks. The baby kicked again, a little foot, and she put her hand over the spot. "This one was a surprise," she said quietly. "We… we didn't plan for it. But we're happy about it."

Jackson cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said stiffly. "Kids are cool."

"They are." Scully stared at the pen marks at the table, at her neatly folded napkin. She suddenly wished, desperately, that Mulder was here with her, to ground her.

Jackson cleared his throat again, started to say some sort of pleasantry, but she cut him off. "I never wanted to give you up," she said, feeling like it might've been the wrong thing to say again, but not willing to not say it. "I-I didn't think I had any other choice. I thought you were in danger, and that sending you away was the only way to protect you, and it would be selfish to do otherwise. But I hated every minute of it. I hated myself. And I—" Her voice broke a little. "I have missed you every single day since."

Jackson blinked, as if he didn't know what to say. Scully cleared her throat, dragged a fingertip underneath her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I just… wanted you to know."

Jackson sighed, his head falling forward into his hands. "Thank you," he mumbled. He got to his feet, not meeting her eyes. "Thank you for lunch, Dana… I've got to go. Say hi to Mulder for me, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

He was already walking away; he looked over his shoulder and called, "See you later." And then he was gone.

Scully had folded her hands on the table at some point during their discussion. She looked down at them now and noticed the quiver of her fingers. Everything had been going so well.

She tried to tell herself that his response hadn't been the worse one in the world. That he hopefully knew now how much she'd regretted losing him, if he believed her. But it felt like little comfort. She knew that this wouldn't be easy, but she hadn't expected it to be so hard.

She sat there, her hands shaking, until the waitress brought the check. She paid the bill and left, pulling out her phone to call Mulder on the way out to the car.

---

Jackson couldn't believe it. Even back in his apartment, he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe he'd agreed to go to lunch. Couldn't believe that he'd actually had a good time. Couldn't believe the things he said at the end, couldn't believe her response. Couldn't believe that he hadn't known about the baby already. She was clearly months and months along; how had he not seen it?

The really fucked up part was how much he had always wanted a little brother or sister. For years and years. His parents had tried to adopt a couple times—once when he was three, and once again when he was eight—but it had always fallen through. He'd always wished it'd worked out, though; he'd always wanted to be an older brother.

#anyways this is gonna be too long #xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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faejilly · 8 years

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@joomju replied to your post “there’s a fic I started three years ago that I recently came back to...”

@janiemcpants replied to your post “@bloomingcnidarians tagged me to list songs that remind me of my OCs ...”

I'm in looooooove with Erana's selections.

AH THANK YOU! Her’s were the hardest, like ... I already had Adelaide and Theia (and some idea for Ella) it’s why I decided to go with the theme, but then I got to Erana and had no clue and decided I SOMEHOW HAVE NO NINA SIMONE LET’S FIX THAT. Glad it worked. :D

@jadesabre301 replied to your post “there’s a fic I started three years ago that I recently came back to...”

I've been thinking about my almost-three-years-old-now fic and how I should start working on it again. Writing progress is such an impossible thing to quantify unless you're, like, doing it professionally with deadlines and shit. And discipline has never been my strong suit, and I even have a brain that's generally not trying to screw me over. And it's not like you haven't had a TON of stuff going on, even without the brain stuff!

And it's hard (at least for me) to sit down and write when I feel like I'm behind on a million other things that are "more important" because this is "just for fun." OTOH, I would suck at being a professional writer, because deadlines. (mental health is not "just for fun" creating is important for mental health /beats back the naysayers /and also maybe the laundry that cries to be folded) <3

ugh don’t remind me of the laundry that needs to be folded

also like? yes, life and writing are weird and what are priorities and I try to sit down to write a lot and then don’t and then haven’t done anything else either which is, you know, not ideal? (And I haven’t had that much going on, thankfully, it just sounds like it because the Brain Stuff makes it weirder and any small thing becomes gigantically catastrophic pretty easily. and yet I wonder why Thing 2 is revved up so often? Poor widget. Life is fraught.)

anyways. I have lost my train of thought.

#writing is the worst hobby (via @pearwaldorf)

@shadoedseptmbr replied to your post “there’s a fic I started three years ago that I recently came back to...”

*bounces* yay!

YAAAY! <3

@probablylostrightnow replied to your post “There’s this post going around Asking what the first show you broke...”

Didn't watch much TV as a kid, so I didn't have a traumatic breakup until college (probably the first series I LOVED that went completely off the rails was The X-Files).

oh gosh, The X-Files. You know, I adored that show, never missed an episode back when that required some scheduling effort because Reruns Were Not Reliable ... and yet as soon as it moved to Sundays I failed to follow it. Which was before the Shark Jumping, so I still have fond, if vague, memories of those first few years.

I’m afraid to rewatch it at this point. The off the rails was very dramatic, from what everyone else has said.

@servantofclio replied to your post “@teaandinanity replied to your post: There’s this...”

aaghhh, the Darkangel series, I legit threw one of those books across the room when The Thing happened.

I don’t even remember The Thing in any detail, I just remember The Rage. (I think I just about threw my book too. There was definitely a lot of stomping and yelling.)

@argei replied to your post “There’s this post going around Asking what the first show you broke...”

OMG PEARL OF THE SOUL OF THE WORLD BROKE ME FOR LIFE. like, formative tragic romances

Good broken? Bad broken? Context is unclear here. ;)

@forgefaerie replied to your post “@teaandinanity replied to your post: There’s this...”

ROFL, I would imagine Moffat is an asshat. for me, it was one of those shows I lost interest in before I could get mad at it :P

That happens too. You watch a few, think a cautious yay? then realize NO. It would be a lot less traumatic if it was clearer sooner when they were going to be asshats, or when they didn’t actually have a plan.

#joomju #jilly replies #janiemcpants #jadesabre301 #shadoedseptmbr #probablylostrightnow #servantofclio #argei #forgefaerie

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batmagines · 8 years

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Resurrection

Resurrection Relationship: Jason Todd X reader, Joker X Daughter! Reader Warnings: Abuse, character death, abandonment, Angst , Joker being an asshole, it’s just kinda sad y’all. Torture, Jason’s death. A/N: So here’s what I’ve been working on lately (And why I’ve been a little MIA)This will basically go along with the storyline of Under the Red Hood and I have had this idea on and off in my head for almost two years now and I just rewatched under the red hood and I have the plot a little more set in stone so here we go! PS: THIS WILL BE A SERIES ~~~ You were tied to a chair. Jason was lying on the floor. Your father was beating him senseless. It wasn’t like that beforehand, you and your father used to be close. But then, the day he wanted you to be his sidekick came along, and then? Things fell apart. - “Y/N Shoot the boy!” Your father cackled as you shakily held a gun in your hand, pointing it at Robin “I can’t!” You wanted to cry. “I don’t want this life! I don’t wanna be like you!” Everyone had froze at your words. You couldn’t even believe that they came out of your mouth. But the words that came out of his mouth next shocked you even more. “You’re not my daughter.” He snapped taking the gun out of your hand and that’s when the dam holding in your tears broke. You sobbed and collapsed to your knees as the Batman took down your father, put him in the batmobile and walk back over to you. You pulled out the rest of your weapons and gave them to him. The mighty duo kneeled in front of you. “Just take me to Arkham, he’ll escape without me.” You say quietly. “And then, he won’t come for me. He wouldn’t go back there unless you forced him.” Batman knew how easily it could be that this whole thing was an act, but when he looked into your eyes, he knew you weren’t acting, Because he too knew what it was like to lose your parents, and although yours weren’t dead, your relationship was. “No.” He stated gruffly and Robin helped you up. You looked at him and he gave you a small smile as tears continued to run down your face. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to take care of you.” Robin said reassuringly. You nodded your head, the green hair you had associated with your father falling in front of your face. “Thank you,” You said giving the Boy Wonder a hug. Robin was tense at first but he still hugged you back. “Robin take her back to the cave.” Batman said before getting into the car and taking off. “I’ll handle Joker.” “Why yes sir.” Robin said in a deep voice imitating his mentor. You let out a laugh, and snot came dribbling out of your nose. “Ew, sorry that’s disgusting.” You say with a light laugh wiping your nose on your sleeve. “Don’t worry about it.” He says laughing also. “Thanks for not shooting me by the way. That would’ve been a great way to start my first day on the job.” “Uh, you’re welcome.” You say as he leads you to his bike. He gets on and looks at you waiting for you to get on also. You do so slowly and wrap your hands around the boy’s waist. Robin drives and soon enough you enter the cave and he stops the bike allowing you to get off first. “Holy Cow!” “Yeah it’s a pretty cool place,” Robin says placing his hands on his hips, admiring the area. “Not the cave silly! The computer!” You say running over to the large device. “I haven't seen one in ages thanks to Joker.” “Oh, how come?” Robin asks analyzing you as you run your fingers over the keyboard. “He wanted me to work in the field. ‘No more techy stuff! Gotham needs a new Genius Villain terrorizing them!’ I hated every moment of it. I’m better at hacking into webcams, or crypted files! Not killing innocent people for a damn laugh.” You said the last part quietly. “He always hated that about me. The fact that I’d rather spend my time on the computer for him rather than in the field so Gotham knew who I was disgusted him. He never even asked me what I wanted.” “I’m sure Batman will figure out something. He won’t let the Joker force you to do anything any more.” He said coming up behind you. You started typing away at the computer hacking into your father’s network. “What are you doing?” Robin asked worried. “Hacking into Joker’s security camera’s.” You said setting up the video feed on the side console. “And here is some important files concerning his next few attacks.” “Wow, how’d you learn to do all this stuff?” He wondered aloud. “I never went outside, so I had a lot of free time to learn.” You told him honestly. “Now hopefully, you’ll be one step ahead when it comes to locking him up.” You said before muttering the last part, “And maybe one day he’ll be locked up where he can never escape.” “I’ll make it my job to lock him up for good for you Y/N.” Robin said reassuringly. “Thanks Robin.” You gave him a small half-smile. “You can call him Jason.” The Batman’s gruff voice echoed throughout the cave as he stepped out into the light. “And you can call me Bruce Wayne, I believe your computer skills will be a great asset if you’d want to join our team, I’d even provide everything you’d need to live here with us.” “Really?” You asked tears brimming your eyes. “I wouldn’t have to go out in the field would I?’’ “Only if you wanted to.” He said removing his cowl. You gave him a big smile before hugging the man. “Thank you.” - “Please stop!” You had managed to get the gag out of your mouth and now you were pleading with your father begging him to stop hurting your lover. The insane man continued to ignore you and tried to get your hands free of the their restraints. “He’s had enough! Hurt me instead.” “Now that looked like it really hurt, should we give her a try?” He asked tauntingly Jason just shook his head and he got hit once more. “That looked like it hurt a little more. So let’s try to clear this up okay pumpkin?” He gave Jason a sickening grin. “What hurts more? A? Or B?” With each question he hit Jason once more with the crowbar. “Forehand? Or Backhand?’’ The ropes holding your wrists fell to the floor and you got to work on releasing the rest of your body. Jason was twitching on the floor, breathing heavily and lying in a pool of his own blood as your father let out a loud cackle. You watched as Jason turned over slightly and said something incoherent and then your father dropped down to mock him. Jason spit the blood in his mouth onto the sick man’s ghostly white skin, only to have his head slammed into the floor. “Now that was rude.” Your ‘father’ said wiping the blood off of his face with a hanky. “At least the first boy blunder had some manners.’’ Jason rolled over and gave your father a shit-eating grin. “I suppose I’m going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps. Nah I’m just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar.” At that moment you had managed to escape your restraints and as Joker held up the crowbar you grabbed it attempting to take it away from him. He placed his foot on Jason’s back and shoved you backwards at the same time causing you to fall next to him. “I’m sorry.” You cried looking at your lover as he closed his eyes in pain. Suddenly the Joker left and walked to the door. “Okay kiddos, I’ve gotta go. It’s been fun though right?” The devil himself says exiting the building and fixing his tie. He turns back and looks at Jason and you laying on the floor. “Well maybe a bit more fun for me than you since you’re being awful quite. Anyways, be good kids finish your homework and be in bed by nine. And Hey! Please tell the big man I said hello.” He let’s out a cackle and slams the door shut leaving you and Jason alone. “Jay I’m so sorry this is all my fault.” You say crying. Jason opens his eyes and rolls over allowing him to bring his cuffed hands in front of him. “Calm down doll. It’s okay. I’m Okay.” He tries to reassure you but he can barely walk on his own. “No you’re not Jason!” You say catching him before he falls down. “You should’ve let him hurt me.” “No don’t you dare say that Y/N, he’s caused you enough damage.” Jason says as the two of you struggle towards the door. Jason falls to the ground and you quickly help him up and put most of his weight onto you. When the two of you made it to the door Jason jiggled the handle only to find out it was locked. You set Jason down gently onto the floor before trying your best to open the door, then you heard the quiet but ear-piercing beep that was going to bring your death. You slid down next to Jason. “I’m sorry Jason.” You whisper as the clock counts down and you fall into his arms. “Don’t be doll,” He says holding you close. “I love you.” “I love you too.” You say before spending your last moments kissing the love of your life. Then, the old warehouse you were in blows up and you die being held by Jason Peter Todd.

#jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd imagines #jason todd x reader #red hood imagine #red hood imagines #red hood x reader #red hood #dc imagine #batmagines

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dreamingofscully · 4 years

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4x24. “Gethsemane” - X-Files Rewatch

Since this episode and Redux & Redux II are intimately intertwined I'll be doing my season 4 summary after those episodes, so it will be more like a season 4/cancer arc summary.

Ah, the teaser. The Mulder-is-dead trope is almost as unbelievable as Scully-as-betrayer, so... I don't think fans were too worried during original run. Especially with the "Believe the Lie" tagline. There is always that 2% thought that they'd do it though.

Scully family. You know, I don't even hate Bill. Fanfic fixes everything. (In this case, its the post-s8 "AU" fic "Hurricane Season" by beduini and rah. He's still a jerk in that one but... well, just read it.)

Scully's being treated for her cancer. She still looks luminous. Her pretty sweater. ❤️

Poor Scully. No one remembers her birthday. EXCEPT HER MOM of course.

I love seeing carefree, laughing Scully. We definitely didn't see enough of it. 😥

"I have strength" - Scully to Father McCue (Mulder ❤️ )

Mulder's hand on her back at the Smithsonian.

Scully has no opinion. Proving the existence of alien life isn't her "last dying wish". WHY DID YOU USE THOSE WORDS. STAHHHP. Mulder's flippant about it because that's what he does. He's disappointed in her reaction, not knowing that she's not going because she's getting sicker.

She didn't tell him her cancer's metastasized. She never had the strength to tell him for a few reasons:

even though Mulder pushed to be included in Elegy, perhaps the news she got was only recently.

after what Mulder went through in Demons, she might not have thought him strong enough to get the news about her health. He was vulnerable in his recovery from the treatment.

Scully regrets not letting him in, not letting him be a comfort to her. But now she kinda views it as being too late. 😥 Scully did tell her mother though, and that's what prompted her to invite Father McCue to dinner.

Kritchgau knocking Scully around. FUCK THAT GUY. SRSLY.

"It doesn’t mean I’m not responsible to what's important to me." - Scully Bill asks: "To what? To Who? This guy Mulder?" (Scully's silence speaks volumes!) "Well, where is he Dana? Where is he through all this?"

Scully feels bad because she knows that its HER fault that Mulder's not there. If she tells Bill the reason Mulder's not there, though, he'd probably still think it was Mulder's fault, that maybe he wouldn't be there anyways. I definitely believe that Mulder would be there, though, if he had the knowledge. And that is perhaps another reason why she didn't tell him just now. It wasn't a good time - she didn't want to hold him back from something he's wanted for so long.

Even though she wants him to go and get his proof, she may have been trying to dissuade him from leaving anyway - when she asked him if he believes what does proof matter? Maybe if he agreed with her, & wouldn't go, she could tell him about her illness with a (clearer) conscience.

Scully has blood all over her shirt. Nosebleed? 😥

Scully tells Mulder what convinced her was that they gave her the disease to make him believe. Why Scully Why. Feels like an inordinately harsh thing to say, knowing that Mulder would take that to heart, that it would consume him that it was HIS fault she has cancer. But perhaps she needs to tell him to get him to believe this guy. I think the only reason she said this is because it would make Mulder’s suicide seem more plausible. (Writer: Chris Carter.)

Also - Kritschgau KNOWS Scully has cancer but he knocked her down the stairs anyways? FUCK THAT GUY TWICE.

Scully is desperate to keep their deception a secret, to give Mulder the time he needs, so she pulls out all the stops and delivers quite the performance (although we don't 'know' it at the time). What a shit cliffhanger to leave us on BTW.

#xfiles #x-files #x-files rewatch #x files rewatch #msr #msrheadcanon #mulder and scully #fox mulder #dana scully #season 4 #cancer arc

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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years

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praescitum chapter nine

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

casefile, season 10, season 11. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

note: happy halloween! i actually started posting this story when i did to post this chapter on halloween, since it’s probably the most festive. but since i didn’t get as far in the story as i wanted to by this point, i’m going to kind of slow down my posting a little bit by waiting until i finish a later chapter to post the next one. i’m hoping to still be able to post at least one chapter a week, but idk if i’ll be able to keep up with that lol. those are the hopes!

warning for discussion of death in a (false!) historical context. i included fake historical people/historical battles in a real historical war.

---

nine.

october, 2016

If there's anything that Mulder and Scully are not used to, it's having a third presence on their stake outs. Back in the day, if they were staking out with someone else, said someone probably wasn't very happy about being stuck on a stakeout with them. (They've both heard plenty of “third wheel” gossip over the years, right along with the gossip about them being together long before they actually were.) Luckily, Scully notes, this time, they have what seems like a perfectly nice woman as their company. As much as she relishes the chance to have time alone with Mulder and inexplicably get paid for that time, it's better to share the time with someone who doesn't hate them. And Joy Seers seems like halfway decent company.

She gets takeout for everyone, fighting streets abuzz with Halloween traffic, cars and costumed pedestrians alike. She stops at a gas station and grabs a couple bags of M&M's as an added bonus for Mulder—in honor of the holiday, and because she's guessing they'll be here a while without much paranormal activity to entertain them. (She's still convinced that Ryan Caruthers, and maybe a few friends, are behind the whole thing. It makes much more sense than a diabolical ghost tormenting the entire town.)

Scully picks her way back to the school through streets crowded with pint-sized monsters, ghouls, and pop culture characters. Houses festooned in cobwebs and streamers and plastic skeletons. Kids in costumes holding onto their parent’s hands. At a stoplight near the school, she notices a kid on a bus bench. A familiar-looking kid with an Orioles cap pulled over his face.

She finds Mulder and Joy Seers in the classroom: Mulder setting desks and chairs upright, Joy propping a video camera up on the righted bookshelf. The room has been swept, most of the debris cleared; it looks like an empty skeleton of a room, bare walls and bare floors. “I brought food,” Scully says, sitting the plastic bags of containers on a desk.

“Thanks, Scully.” Mulder grins at her briefly overtop of a graffitied desk. She can tell he's enjoying this. He's probably been waiting for a case like this to fall on Halloween for a while. (“How do we always end up staking out haunted places on holidays, Scully?” he joked earlier, and she rolled her eyes, pointed out that this particular place is not haunted, absolutely not. Not the inn, not the school, not the town. She knows he's remembering their conversation last night, and she's hoping he won't bring it up. She feels silly just thinking about it.)

“Were the roads too bad?” Joy asks politely, squinting as she adjusts the angle of the camera. “I know they can be a little crazy on Halloween, especially in the fancier neighborhoods.”

“Not too bad,” says Scully, sitting at the desk. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Nothing yet,” Mulder says, sitting down at the desk beside Scully and smirking a little at her. She smirks right back.

“I was relying on our security system to prove whether or not there's any paranormal involvement, but it shorted out today,” says Joy with a touch of irony in her voice, climbing down from the chair and smoothing messy curls absently. “Convenient, huh? Principal thinks someone messed with it to cover up the crime, but we couldn't prove it; it just seems like a system malfunction. And he couldn't get anyone in here to fix it. So I'm setting up a camera in here since this has been the primary location of the activity. I'm hoping to catch some proof as to what this is, if anything happens.”

“That seems smart,” Scully offers. “Although it's strange that the security cameras would mess directly after a break-in.”

“It is,” Joy says, crossing her arms, “but the fact is that it was still working last night. Since my window lock was fixed, anyone who broke in would've had to use the halls. And the cameras showed nothing.”

“Someone could've been planning another break-in for tonight,” Scully comments.

“That's true.” Joy shrugs. “But everyone I talk to says it's just an issue with the computer system. We have the shittiest system, I swear. Anyways, we have this camera to catch anything strange that happens, paranormal or B&E's alike.”

Scully looks at Mulder, who shrugs. It does seem convenient to her—too convenient, especially considering Ryan's technical reputation—but she decides to let it go. She says, “Do we have any sort of plan past the camera?”

Mulder shrugs again. “Not really. I think we're just planning to… sit here.” He smirks at her a little, teasing her as he unwrapping the plastic silverware. “You are familiar with the method of a stakeout, aren't you, Scully?”

“Very much so,” she says dryly, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue.

Joy joins them in the clusters of desks, taking her food gratefully and thanking Scully. “I'm hoping that we'll be able to get something out of tonight,” she says, screwing the cap off of a water bottle. “I really am. Ryan's a good kid, and I hate that everyone's been putting the blame on him.”

“You really don't think there’s any possibility Ryan is behind this?” Scully asks, picking at her salad.

Joy shakes her head. “I never have. Aside from the fact that it seems improbable that a kid—albeit a pretty smart kid, but still—could pull this off, Ryan's always seemed like a good kid to me. I'm not close to Annie Caruthers, but she's always spoken highly of him whenever we see each other… And besides that, he's a model student. Aside from a bad attitude, I haven't seen any signs of delinquency from him. I almost can't believe he really set that fire.”

Scully bites her lower lip in consideration. “I think I saw Ryan outside on my way in,” she says carefully. “The intersection a block over.”

“Really?” Mulder asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

Scully nods. “I think,” she says, somewhat uncertainly. “He wears the Orioles cap, right?”

Joy taps her fingers on the desktop absently. “Probably just a coincidence,” she offers.

“It's a small town,” says Mulder helpfully. Scully pokes at a leaf of lettuce silently.

Mulder clears his throat awkwardly. “Have you ever considered that this… activity might be the result of possession of some sort? Some mixture of Ryan Caruthers and the ghost?”

Scully swallows back the urge to scoff.

“You think Ryan's possessed?” Joy asks, almost incredulously. “By the Specter?”

He shrugs. “Possession can sometimes give humans a power they wouldn't normally have. I've seen it before. That would explain how Ryan was able to get in and out of the school without being detected, how he would be able to move those heavy desks.”

Joy Seers looks uncertain, skeptical. “I suppose that could be the case, but I doubt it,” she says. “I've never heard of any possessions in the history of the legend. And I still just don't think Ryan's involved. Besides his prior history with the ghost, of course.”

Scully hmms in response quietly, sticking the fork in her mouth. She hasn't known what to make of this case since they got it a year ago, and she certainly doesn't know what to make of it now. Mulder shrugs, surprisingly nonplussed, as if he doesn't know what to make of this either.

“I guess we just wait now,” Joy says, and it's almost a question, a clarification. “Wait to see what happens next.”

They nod, nearly in unison.

Their forks scrape at the Styrofoam containers in the new quiet. The setting doesn't seem to align with the stunning silence all around them, the echoey hallways and dim classroom. As a child, Scully used to get scared in big empty buildings, especially in the huge church they used to attend in San Diego, all the looming, empty halls and the almost eerie paintings of Christ. She's gotten past that now, of course, but the oddness of being in an empty school has nearly brought it back. Right now, in all this empty and quiet space, with the small sounds in the hall as the sun sinks below the horizon, she can almost understand why people might think this school—even this town—is haunted.

---

It's getting dark now, the familiar October chill in the air. Ryan clenches his chattering teeth, beginning to regret not wearing the skeleton costume from last year. It's dorky as hell, but it's warm, he sweated buckets at last year's party. And it helps with appearances. He's just wearing a hoodie and jeans right now, no costume of any kind.

He got some candy earlier, even with the disapproving looks (either because he's too old to trick-or-treat, or because he set a fire), and so he unwraps a mini Snickers bar now and takes a bite. He's thinking about turning around and going to the party he told Annie he was going to. He should probably go to the damn party. He still has friends somehow, despite everything, and this is not the right way to spend Halloween. It might be spooky, but honestly, Ryan got tired of the horror movie bullshit at about six or seven. (He hates scary movies, scary stories, any of that stuff that makes him think about the empty eyes of the parents he'll never know and ghostly light on his bedroom walls.) He's nearly convinced, gets his bag up off of the bench and is about to walk away when his fingers brush over an envelope sticking out of the top. The letter from his Uncle Jared.

He swallows, sits down so hard his legs hurt. Shakes his head hard until he's good and resigned. He has to do this. He doesn't have a choice.

He rummages in his bag until he finds the stick-on tattoos and the bottle of water. Follows the directions as he applies them to the back of his hands.

---

Scully will admit, once again, that she's really, really not used to sharing stakeouts with other people; some of her favorite memories of working with Mulder are when they were alone on a stakeout. But they've been sitting in the school for several hours, and she has to say, it's a lot better than she expected. Aside from their opinions on ghosts, it turns out that she and Joy Seers have a lot in common. They discuss their college degrees—biology and pre-med are vastly different, but they took similar grueling science classes and can exchange stories about hellish professors—and Joy asks about the cross around Scully's neck, the one similar to her own. “Oh,” says Scully in surprise, reaching down to touch the cross, and the ring that hangs beside it. (Thank God she didn't ask about that; that'd be a fairly awkward conversation for all of them. Mulder doesn't wear his ring that she knows of, which she has no idea how to take, but at least it fields the Oh, are you two married? questions. A little.) “Oh, my mother gave my sister and myself these necklaces the Christmas I was fifteen. I've worn it ever since.”

She leaves out the occasions where she'd given it to her daughter and it was the only part of her They left behind, and when Mulder had worn it through both of their abductions. (She put the ring on the chain beside her cross when she stopped wearing it because it felt stunningly appropriate, that it lie beside something that had meant so much to both of them over the years. Sometimes she felt like she could feel Mulder in her cross as much as she could in the ring.)

Joy smiles a genuine smile. “Oh, that's wonderful,” she says. “Mine was a family heirloom. It was my grandmother's.”

Scully smiles back, a little easier than she might've a few months ago. It's getting easier to remember her mother, and concentrating on the happier memories does help. “It's beautiful,” she offers.

“Thank you—so is yours.”

Mulder stays politely quiet through most of these interactions, but he speaks up sometime in the fourth hour of their vigil. “Ms. Seers—” he starts.

“Call me Joy, please,” Joy says immediately.

“Joy,” Mulder says. “I remember when we met yesterday, you said something about there being more than one way to interpret the Willoughby Specter story.”

“Oh, right.” Joy throws out an absent grin. “That famous touchy spot. Especially around here.”

“I sense that people don't agree with you?” Scully asks, thinking of Robbie O'Connell's and the sheriff's claims that the ghost is angelic. Ryan Caruthers's claims that the ghost is anything but. The disdain she's seen in response to that skepticism. Personally, she can't really tell why the demeanor of the ghost matters, one way or another.

“I don't know if they do or don't. I haven't made any particular claims about the skepticism.” The other woman shrugs. “My husband is a historian, though,” she adds. “He's done some research into the subject, and we've discussed it before. The origins of this ghost aren't quite as black and white as everyone would like to believe.”

Mulder's interest is piqued—more than piqued, Scully can tell. “Would you mind sharing?” he asks.

Joy shakes her head. “The fame of the ghost just so happens to be intertwined with the origin of this town,” she says. “The name Willoughby comes from a Revolutionary War leader, General Samuel Willoughby. He's hailed as a hero, especially around here, considering he led his soldiers to victory in a battle right around this area. The legend got started when Willoughby published a book of his journals and letters during the war. In the journal entry dated the night before the battle, he speaks of seeing a 'specter’ who brought about feelings of foreboding and dread. This convinced him that he was doomed to die on the battlefield the next day, and his soldiers doomed to lose. So he changed his plans.”

“He survived the battle,” Scully says knowingly—she knows how these legends always go. “And he led his men to victory, and people attributed that victory to the Specter. Which is where the legend originates."

Joy nods. “But what most people don't acknowledge is how costly that victory was,” she says. “Over half of Willoughby's soldiers lost their lives, including his brother. As well as several civilians who unfortunately lived in the area and got caught up in the battle. And that's not to mention the British casualties. Personally, that's not my definition of angelic, especially considering the death of his brother.”

Mulder chuckles briefly, rubbing thoughtfully at his mouth. “It's not exactly mine, either.”

“People see what they want to see,” says Joy. “Someone comes to warn them of something bad coming, people want to think they have good intentions. That there's some way to be prepared.”

Scully hardens her face until it is stony, trying not to show her cards. Spreads her fingers out flat on the table and tries to think of anything but that night before her mother died. Mulder is nodding in agreement, and she's glad that he's distracted by this story, that he won't notice and start asking questions again. “So you don't think the ghost has… good intentions?” he asks Joy.

“Does a ghost have intentions?” Joy laughs. (Along the same line Scully has thought on in this case.) “But no, I don't. Personally, my husband and I have discussed it before, and we think that the ghost is demonic.”

“Demonic?” asks Mulder.

“Yeah. My husband has studied a lot of local history, and he found a court record corresponding to a diary entry from the judge in the early settlement that more or less became Willoughby. It speaks of a man who was convicted of the murder of his wife. He was scheduled to hang, but he disappeared from his prison cell the night before, despite two guards being posted outside. The man had been fairly wealthy and prosperous, and he had a fair amount of money stored away in his house, where they'd also found many signs of what they considered witchcraft and devil worship. All the more reason to execute him, they'd said. But after he disappeared, so did the money.” Joy takes a sip of her water bottle. “They found him two months later, dead in the mountains with no clear cause. All of his money on him. A lantern burning beside his body despite the snowstorm raging around him.”

Scully raises her eyebrows in a halfway interested response—it’s an interesting story, even if it sounds false. Mulder says, “And you think that's the Specter?”

“A ghost has to come from somewhere, right? It makes sense to me, especially that lantern detail. The details about his escape and discovery, as well as the trial records, lead me to believe this man had made a deal with the devil, for lack of a better term. And this is more or less his due he has to pay: bringing bad luck to the inhabitants of Willoughby.”

Mulder hmms under his breath. “That's a great theory,” he says. “And it makes a lot of sense, at least in my mind. It would be consistent with Ryan Caruthers's claims.”

“There’s discussion of 'the local devil worshipper’ in local folklore, but it's not as widespread. And since it took place a full century before, no one in the town ever connected the story with the Specter. But I've always thought it made a lot of sense,” says Joy. “And with everything that's happened here at this school, I've got to say, it makes even more sense to me now.”

“What do you think, Scully?” Mulder asks, and his hand is suddenly on her arm. He's noticed how silent she's been.

Scully grits her teeth and shakes off the thoughts of her mother and her cross and that fucking hallucination or dream or whatever she had before her mother passed away. Forces a smile. “I suppose it could be plausible…” she says, “... if ghosts were real.”

Mulder scoffs jokingly. “I can understand your skepticism, Agent Scully,” Joy says kindly. “Even i—”

They're cut off by the sound of distant crashes, somewhere in the building.

Scully's eyes dart to Mulder. “Did you…”

“Yeah,” he says, already standing. “Joy, do you have any idea…”

“I'm really not sure,” she says. “Maybe the cafeteria?”

More crashes, louder this time. “Split up, clear the halls?” Mulder asks, and Scully nods.

“Joy, you stay here, okay?” she says, standing and reaching for her gun, just in case. “Keep an eye out, call us if you need help.”

Thankfully, Joy doesn't argue; she just nods. “Do you really think you need that?” she asks, gesturing to the gun with her chin.

“Hopefully, no,” Scully says. “But it's a good precaution. In case whoever—or whatever—is destroying your classroom is dangerous.”

---

Mulder and Scully split up outside of Joy Seers's classroom; she goes through the west wing, and he goes through the east. The school is stunningly dark, the halls admittedly eerie, and Mulder is inadvertently reminded of the case years ago that he can barely remember the details of outside of the fact that a satanist PTA tried to kill him and Scully in a high school gym shower. He shudders involuntarily; that doesn't seem like a good line of thought after discussing a ghostly devil worshipper.

He's most of the way down the hall when he hears it: the creaking of a door hinge behind him. He whirls around to see the door of an English classroom hanging open in the circle of his flashlight.

Immediately, he sweeps his flashlight up and down the hallway, but it's completely empty.

Mulder swallows roughly, ignoring the chill spreading over him. He starts to turn back around when the door slams closed hard. He jumps, his hand flying to his holster automatically. Still nothing there; no signs of life, or things notably not alive.

“Hello?” he calls out, sweeping his flashlight up and down the hallway, feeling equal parts silly and determined. He's about to make some plea for the ghost to show itself when he hears another slamming sound, almost smaller than the last one. And then another, and another. The lockers lining the hallways are opening and closing, their slams cacophonous and engulfing. Mulder scans the hallway in frantic confusion, looking for any signs of the Specter, not sure if he really wants to see it or not, considering its legacy. But he still finds nothing, invisible hands moving the lockers as they slam, the cabinets shaking and rattling in place as if affected by an earthquake. Fascinated, Mulder stares, not wanting to look away, wanting to call Scully to get in here and see this. But before he can do anything, his flashlight flickers once, twice, and dies in his palm.

The lockers’ motion fades out as Mulder's breathing grows more erratic, maybe even fearful. The hallway seems darker without the flashlight, pitch black. He smacks the flashlight against his palm in an effort to get it working again, to no avail. “Shit,” he mutters, dropping the flashlight to his side and rubbing at his temples with his free hand.

And then from behind, he hears the scritching sound of a lit match. Golden firelight, small but unquestionably the brightest thing in the room, comes to life behind him, reflected on the metal lockers.

His heart in his stomach, Mulder whirls. He sees it almost immediately, it's unmistakable. He can't make out a face, but he doesn’t have to. It matches every description he's ever heard.

The Specter stands at the end of the hall, lantern held up like some kind of lamplighter.

Mulder's breathing is shallow, erratic; where the hell is Scully when stuff like this happens? He's dying to take a picture, but he knows that will likely only cause problems.

Instead, he draws closer, flashlight dead and useless in his hand, heart thudding against his ribs. The Specter doesn't move. He seems to be surveying Mulder, sizing him up, but somehow, Mulder can't allow himself to worry about that. He goes closer and closer, carefully, as if trying to calm a stray dog. “I know what you are,” he calls. “I know what it is you do.”

The Specter seems unaffected by this. He stands still, his face shadowed, his lantern flickering.

“Do you speak?” Mulder asks, thinking of the ghosts in that haunted house that one Christmas Eve. (If that was real; he and Scully have disagreed about it forever.) “What do you want?”

The ghost remains silent. Mulder's shoes creak on the tile floor as he steps closer, his palms sweaty around the flashlight. The Specter seems to be regarding him, considering.

When Mulder is about three feet away, the ghost's mouth contorts, dipping into a frown. Disapproval. A sudden fear plunges through Mulder's chest, nervousness—what does disapproval mean?—as he remembers Joy Seers's theory that the ghost is demonic. He is about to ask, again, what the Specter wants, when the lantern flickers out.

In a completely impulsive move, Mulder stumbles forward, absurdly swiping at the space where the Specter is. He feels nothing, and he doesn't know if it has disappeared or is still there. Breathing hard, he stands awkwardly in place, his hand curled around the useless flashlight.

And then he hears a pained yelp, down the hall the way he came from.

---

Scully is in the ninth grade wing when she hears it again: the crashing sounds down the hall to the right of her. She follows the sound, flashlight held out in front of her and gun held down by her side. There's a sound almost like banging, a clattery sound like something being dragged over the floor. Scully comes face to face with the double cafeteria doors, where the sound is louder, and pushes it open with a loud clang.

There's a startled shout, and then the smack of a body hitting the floor. Rounding the table blocking the body from view, Scully shouts, “Freeze, FBI!” completely on instinct.

“Shit!” The kid—Ryan Caruthers, Scully notes with an emotion somewhere between satisfaction and disappointed—scrambles to his feet, his ankle caught in a cafeteria chair. His face turns up towards Scully, full of regret and panic as he curses quietly under his breath: “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Scully puts away her gun with a sigh—somehow, she doubts she needs it. “Ryan?” she says, somewhat sternly. “Ryan Caruthers?”

“I had no idea you'd be here,” Ryan says miserably, untangling himself from the chair.

“So you wouldn't have come if you'd known?” Scully asks. He doesn't answer, just rubs at his face with the heel of his hand. “No one's ever been here when you've done this before, right?” she prods.

“I haven't done this before,” Ryan snaps, glaring at her. “I know what you think of me—believe me, I know what everyone thinks of me—but I swear to shit, this is the first time.”

“How did you get in?” Scully asks, still firm. “The window in Mrs. Seers's room is fixed.” She remembers in a split second, as Ryan answers, that the window was fixed before the destruction of the classroom the night before, and mentally curses.

“I jimmied open another window,” Ryan says, sounding disgusted. “The windows in here are shit, the locks are awful… And I'm telling you, I've never done this before.”

“Then why did you come here tonight, Ryan?” Scully fixes the kid with the sternest look she can muster up. “Knowing that people believed you had broken in before?”

Ryan's face turns red, and he ducks his head. His hand shoots through the air as he reaches down to untangle himself from the chair, and Scully sees the same cross tattoo on the back that she remembers from last year. “I… was worried about what was going to happen,” he nearly mumbles. “Because of the ghost. I thought something bad might happen to someone, and I wanted to come here and try to stop it.”

Scully's stern demeanor falls, just a little. She doesn't know why, but it does. She asks gently (not too gently, of course—only a bit more gently), “How did you think you could stop it, Ryan? What did you think was going to happen?”

“Does it matter?” Ryan snaps venomously. “Aren't you going to arrest me now? Agent Sully, or whatever your name is?”

“It's Scully,” she says automatically, and is ready to say more, when she hears a distinctly female shout from somewhere in the building. Joy, she thinks immediately, and mentally curses herself and Mulder for leaving a civilian alone in a potential crime scene. Even if she doesn't believe in the ghost.

Ryan jumps at the sound, startled. “What was that?”

Hoping briefly that Mulder will get there sooner, that Mulder is okay, Scully says, “You know what, Ryan? I should take you in, but this is all very juvenile, and Mrs. Seers has vouched for you multiple times. So I'm going to look the other way.”

The kid looks stunned. Beyond stunned. He says, “Are you serious? Why are you doing this?”

She doesn't know why, she really doesn't. Outside of the face that is stuck at the back of her brain, along with pain and death and visions of the end of the world. Her son out there, somewhere, and she shouldn't let it affect her work, but… She says, “Look, I need to go. If you're still back here when I come back, I'm taking you in. If I ever catch you doing something like this again, my first call will be to Sheriff O'Connell. Do you understand?”

His face white, Ryan nods. Unwilling to wait any longer—unwilling to linger or analyze why the hell she did that, she really can't believe it—Scully turns and heads the other way, back to Joy Seers's classroom.

Inside, she finds all the fluorescent lights flipped on, Joy sitting in a chair heaving air like she is going to run out and Mulder crouched on the floor. Scully runs straight to her side. “Are you okay?” she asks, kneeling to examine the prominent red line on Joy's neck. “I'm a doctor, I can help you.”

Joy waves her off absently. “I'm okay, I'm okay,” she says, her voice only a little rough. “My necklace… it was being tugged, by I don't know what. It was choking me, and then it just broke.”

Mulder stands, the broken silver chain in the palm of his hand. “I saw it,” he says, and his voice is filled with some panicked emotion that Scully can't quite place. “It was being pulled by an invisible force, Scully, she was choking and it was just held up in the air. By nothing. And then it just snapped.”

Joy takes the necklace, muttering, “Damn,” under her breath. She rubs at her forehead, her eyes, in a tired sort of way. “I'm okay,” she reassures Scully again. “Scared me more than anything. I guess I have my proof now that the Specter is hostile.”

She laughs briefly, but Mulder doesn't, and Scully doesn't know how to ask why. She stands up a little reluctantly—she’d have preferred to check Joy a little more, but she really does seem fine, she's waving her off insistently—and dusts her palms off on her pant legs. “Deep breaths,” she says gently. “Try to stay calm.”

Joy clears her throat a few times, rubbing her neck with her empty hand. “So did you find anything, Agent Scully?” she asks raspily. “I heard more sounds in the cafeteria.”

Mulder looks at her curiously, but Scully doesn't know how to tell them what she saw, much less explain what could've convinced her to let Ryan go. She lies, “I think some furniture may have fallen over. I didn't see anything.”

---

They leave the school after that. There doesn't seem to be much point in staying. They have the video in the classroom, and therefore proof. Joy seems spooked by the whole encounter, seems to have lost interest in all of it—she thanks them profusely in the parking lot, but says that she doesn't see any need for them to stay if they don't want to. “I guess I can call you if anything else happens,” she says, “but I don't know if there's anything else you can do. And I'm sure you have more important work to get back to.”

Mulder doesn't bother telling her that they probably don't—he’s almost sure that Scully shares Joy's opinion, that the lack of an actual crime here doesn't justify their position. They shake Joy's hand and get in their car to head back to the hotel.

They're both quiet on the drive. Mulder can't get past what happened in the hallway, his encounter with the Specter. At the time, he'd mostly been fascinated, caught up in the excitement of seeing an actual ghost, but now, all he can think of is the other part of the legend. The part that promises that something bad will happen if you see the Specter. He drives back to the hotel with a precise carefulness that Scully doesn't seem to notice—she seems as lost in her own thoughts as him, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. He keeps sneaking glances at her, as if something is going to steal her away, because by his count, the only two people besides him who could be affected by the Willoughby Specter and his bad omens are Scully and William. He doesn't relax until they get back to the hotel, and even then, it is a cautious relaxation. He's extraordinarily glad that they are sharing a room.

He waits until they get up to the room to say it. He nearly blurts it out—he says, “Scully, I saw it,” and it feels like an exhale.

Scully, in the act of peeling her coat off, freezes. He can see the muscles of her back, can tell how tense she has suddenly gotten. “What?” she says.

“The Specter,” he says. “I saw the Specter, Scully, in the halls. It disappeared just before something pulled at Joy's necklace.”

Scully isn't looking at him. She drapes her coat over the back of the chair, her knuckles nearly white as she clutches it. “It's not that I… don't trust what you saw, Mulder,” she says carefully, her nails scuffing the side of the jacket. “But… are you sure that's what you saw? That it couldn't have been some kind of… projection?”

Twenty-odd years ago, this skepticism would've driven him mad. Now, he pretty much expects it. But it feels like there's something different here, some unusual emotion. The familiar stubbornness, and then something else layered under it. Almost fear. He wonders if it is because of the legend, the implication that something bad will happen to him. He swallows, reaches out and brushes a slow hand over the small of her back as if trying to offer comfort. “I really think it was,” he says. “It couldn't have been a projection, it was too… It couldn't have been.” She's still not looking at him. He flattens his palm against her back, rubs a circle with his thumb. “I don't know what that means, Scully,” he says softly. “Whether or not it's…”

“It probably means nothing, Mulder,” Scully says immediately. She finally turns towards him, and her expression is guarded, but she reaches out and squeezes his arm. “It'll be fine,” she says softly, firmly. Leans forward and kisses his cheek. “I'm going to take a shower, okay?” When she draws back, she won't meet his eyes. He watches her go into the bathroom, until the door closes behind her.

He showers next, tries to shed the thought of more misfortune, but he can’t quite shake the thought of it. After everything they've been through, he can't imagine going through more, even if it is a bit inevitable at this point. He doesn't know if he could bear it. Especially if whatever misfortune the Specter brings involves losing his wife or son. (He is praying it's something trivial, like a flat tire, or someone breaking into his house.)

When he exits the bedroom, Scully is lying in bed on her side, facing the wall. He climbs in behind her, touches her shoulder gently and briefly before settling in. He's ready to fall asleep and try and forget the whole thing, give Scully her space, but she rolls over first, rolls towards him until they're facing each other. “Ryan was in the school,” she says. “In the cafeteria. All that crashing around was probably just from him breaking in.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “Seriously? What happened, did he get away?”

“No.” She bites her lower lip, looking away from him. “Sort of. I… I decided to give him a warning.”

His expression shifts to confusion. “A warning?”

“Yes.” She is almost squirming, avoiding his eyes. “I… I don't know why. It just all seems so silly, the whole thing. And he insisted that this was the first time he had broken in. But I told him if I ever caught him doing that again, I'd call the police without hesitation.” She rubs at her forehead with embarrassment, her voice full of shame. “The security system was out, though. We hopefully don't have to worry about it ever getting back to Skinner.”

“Do you believe him?” Mulder asks, astonished and trying like hell not to show it. He's more surprised than angry, it doesn't really matter to him, but he can tell how foolish Scully feels and he hardly wants to make that worse. “That it was his first time?”

Scully rubs her forehead again, presses her palm over her eyes. “I honestly don't know, Mulder. I really do think that he's involved in this… it makes the most sense. I don't know how or why, but I hope he gets his act together. I… I hope that I've made this better instead of worse.”

“I definitely think Ryan has something to do with this,” says Mulder quietly, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder, “but I don't think it's the same way that you think so. I think he's a… catalyst of sorts. I think he has a connection to this ghost, and I can't put my finger on it. But I think Joy Seers was right. I think there's more to the legend than people take at face value. And I don't think that Ryan was responsible for what was happening in that school.”

Scully yawns, burrowing down into the covers. “Whether there is or there isn't, it doesn't really matter, does it?” she mumbles, sounding like she wants to drop the subject. “We're going home in the morning. I just hope that no one finds out what happened.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, quietly, and reaches over to turn out the light. They settle in next to each other in the dark, their arms pressed together, hands side by side. Mulder swallows, bumping his finger against hers absently. The adrenaline of the night hasn't completely left him, the implications of his encounter in the hall, and he's grateful that she is close by. As if that can prevent everything bad from happening.

“Do you think I made the wrong decision?” Scully asks softly, and that shame is still in her voice. “To let Ryan go instead of taking him in?”

“No, I don't,” he tells her honestly, covering her hand gently with his. “I think that isn't nearly the worst thing we've gotten away with on the job.” She chuckles at that, and he grins. “I don't see why anyone ever has to know about it,” he adds. “The cameras are out, and I'm not planning to tell anyone. And I'm sure Ryan will keep it to himself. You may have given that kid another chance that he'll take.”

“Mmm,” Scully says, and he can tell by her voice that she is tired. “It feels so convenient, the cameras. Especially considering how much I asked about them earlier. Mulder, I bet Ryan either knew about the system being down or took it down himself, if this really was the first time he'd broken in.”

“Hmm,” he says softly. “Maybe.”

“I guess I just didn't think he was dangerous,” she whispers. “I feel so foolish. I feel like I haven't done my duty as an FBI agent. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“You don't have to know,” he says, and he intertwines his fingers with hers. “You don't.”

She makes a small sound that indicated she disagrees with him, but she doesn't argue. Their elbows bump together companionably. Her palm is cool under his. They fall into quiet again, hands clasped together under the sheets.

Mulder matches his breathing to hers, calm, and he is nearly asleep when he hears a low whistling sound, akin to a moan. The shutters of the windows rattle.

A sudden panic shoots through him at the noise. “Scully, did you hear that?” he whispers.

“It's the wind,” she says, her voice sleepy but hard. “Just the wind, Mulder.”

The wind howls against the glass again and Mulder shivers, crawling closer to Scully. “You sure?” he asks, and she nods, almost growly in her delivery. Scully does not fuck around when she is tired, and he senses she's already in a bad mood from the Ryan Caruthers thing.

But the sound is too human, too eerie, and Mulder can't ignore it. He never thought he'd be this much in regret because of a supernatural encounter, but this is the kind of thing that is too hard to let go. He's as embarrassed as Scully about tonight—embarrassed about how badly he wanted to see the ghost, and embarrassed (and fearful) of the repercussions it will bring.

He drops a light, impulsive kiss on Scully's hair before curling up closer to her than before. He doesn't particularly want to leave Scully anytime soon, not if he can help it. Not with the wind howling like that and with the eerie figure of the Specter hovering at the back of his mind. It's silly, but considering how their last run-in with ghosts went, he doesn't think he's overreacting. He holds her hand tight and lays close to her, and she doesn't protest, and he thinks that is what gives him the courage to say what he says.

He says, nose against her hair, hand on her waist: “Scully, do you want to come back to the house with me tomorrow?”

She says nothing; the only sign of surprise is the slight lilt in her breathing. He adds quickly, “Just… to look over that tip I got last week. The one about the river creature?”

“Oh?” Scully asks, and her voice is very nearly coy. “It doesn't have anything to do with what happened tonight?”

He rubs his nose into her hair; he is moving entirely on impulse now. “If it did,” he says softly, “would it change your answer?”

She's quiet. He can hear every breath. It goes on for so long that he begins to consider pulling away, but she hasn't let go of his hand yet.

Finally, she says, “I hope you're ready. I've been thinking of lots of rebuttals for your river creature theories.”

He laughs, a little nervously, a little relievedly. She squeezes his hand once before letting go. She shifts a little in bed, turning over on her side, but she doesn't move away. His chest is against her back, his arm against her hip, and she doesn't move away.

The wind wails and the shutters rattle, and he thinks that the heat must be broken because he's freezing, but they're together, and she's warm. She is so warm, and she's here, and he loves her. He presses his cheek briefly to the back of her head before settling in to go to sleep.

---

Joy leaves the broken necklace on her desk. It's so dark out, she'd probably just lose it, and she couldn't do anything with it tonight, anyway. She feels nearly naked without it around her neck, but she feels equally relieved at the absence. Her breaths are still ragged, her neck still stinging, her heart still pounding. She can't quiet leave the fright of the moment, sweat slicking her palms, a shivery feeling up her spine. She just wants to get home and fall asleep for a few hours before she'll have to wake up and go back into school. She realizes that tonight hasn't exactly made any progress in the way of getting this ghost out of her classroom, and her temples throb. Tonight seemed like an ending, but she doesn't see why it would be. The ghost is likely still there.

She rubs at her eyes with exhaustion, texts her husband to let him know she'll be home soon and starts her car.

The streets are dark, orange and black streamers hanging limply from street lamps and candy wrappers littering the streets. Joy yawns, making a left turn. Driving in the dark has always given her the creeps. She likes to think it's the product of moving to the country after growing up in the city: no lights, no noises, just endless black and silence. She turns on her brights, just because no one else is on the road, and hums absently to herself, drumming her fingers on the dashboard.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, the radio springs to life. It's playing Monster Mash, and Joy never thought a goofy song like that would bring as much terror as this one does, because her hands were nowhere near the dial.

Spooked, frantic, Joy tries to reach out with her right hand and turn it off, but she can't move. Her hands are frozen, her wrists achey and her fingers spasming around the wheel in her attempts to move, but it's to no avail. She can't reach over and turn off the radio.

Her eyes yank from side to side frantically, the only part of her body she seems to be able to move. And then her foot moves without her meaning to. She presses down harder on the gas, increasing her speed far past the limit.

Joy tries to thrash, tries to break her hands free from the wheel or her foot from the gas, but she still finds herself frozen, helpless. She can't decrease the pressure. The bouncy sound of Monster Mash continues, too loud, echoing in her eardrums. She whimpers, just a little, as she shoots past 70 in a 35 zone. At least there are no other cars in front of her.

Her eyes jerk again, almost painfully, and land on the rearview mirror. There's no one on the road behind her, but there is a shape in the back seat. A hulking, humanoid shape that seems to be watching her.

Joy's breath catches in her throat, unable to take her eyes away, unable to look away. She is helpless. She can't make out the face of whoever, or whatever, is in the backseat, but she thinks it may be smiling. Smiling maliciously.

The next thing she knows, the shape seems to be lunging at her. Her hand suddenly moves, not of their own accord, swerving the wheel hard to the right.

The next thing she knows, everything is going black.

---

November 1, 2016

Willoughby Daily Press; Willoughby, Virginia

SEVERE CAR CRASH ON PINE TREE ROAD LAST NIGHT

Last night, a car swerved off Pine Tree Road and flipped in the adjacent field. The accident was estimated to take place a few minutes before midnight.

The car belongs to a Mrs. Joy Seers, who was reportedly driving the car when it crashed. Mrs. Seers reportedly obtained major injuries, and was transported to Willoughby General Hospital from the scene. No one else was harmed in the wreck.

Seers's husband was contacted, but declined to comment on his wife's condition. According to a source who requested to stay anonymous, Mrs. Seers is in a coma at Willoughby General, and it is unknown when she is expected to wake up.

The Willoughby Police Department declined to comment on the accident. It is assumed that no foul play was involved, although this is unconfirmed.

#xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years

Text

ashes and dust (part one of three)

s8: deadalive and three words. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: The days following Mulder’s resurrection.

note: this fic came largely as a result of wanting to understand mulder and scully in this part of mulder’s abduction arc/wanting to resolve all that onscreen tension. turns out that three words is awkward and hard, and this is way longer than i ever would’ve expected.

this fic contains several references to auld acquaintance and sort-of references to encephalon (encephalon is not canon compliant whereas AA is, but i like to think parts of encephalon are rooted in canon). it is not necessary to have read either of those fics to read this one. i borrowed several scenarios and dialogue exchanges from other s8 fics i’ve done (because i liked them) and altered them according to the story. any resemblance to other late s8 fics is not intentional, and is probably due to the fact that three words fix it fics are one of my favorite kind. i tried to make this one my own, but if there is any resemblance to existing fics, i do apologize.

warning for discussions of death and mulder’s trauma.

---

Mulder is alive, and the idea is absolutely dizzying to Scully. Incredible and impossible. She prayed for a miracle and somehow received two.

She still can't believe she has him back. It’s taken her nearly eight years to believe in the impossible, and it’s still easy to revert to old habits. She believed for Mulder when it seemed vital, when it was imperative that if he couldn’t be there that someone else be there to fit his role, to take his place (at least in terms of the Files), but she didn’t believe when it was really, truly vital, when it was life or death. She never imagined him coming back from the dead, always thought it was impossible. If she ever imagined them raising the baby together, she imagined a reality where he never left and her life didn’t crumble to dust.

Six months without him and it still feels as if she has lost a vital organ, like she can't quite breathe. She still feels short of breath even now, sitting here beside him. She can hear the beeps of the heart monitor, his chest rising up and down. It feels unreal that he is here, alive, breathing. She felt his heart beat under her cheek earlier as her tears fell onto his hospital gown, she knows it is real. But she almost can't believe it, still. She reaches up and takes his hand, being careful of the wires taped to the back. His fingers are warm. She rubs her thumb over his last two fingers as she watches him breathe. And then his hand moves under hers.

She gasps a little in astonishment, drawing as close as she can get to him without leaving the chair. His head is moving against the pillow as he starts to awaken. Tears are welling in her eyes. He's here, he's really here. “Mulder,” she whispers gently.

He opens his eyes slowly, licks his lips and turns his head to look at her.

Her fingers tighten around his in a desperate sort of way. “Hi,” she whispers tremulously.

Confusion flickers over his face, and he answers in a voice dull from disuse, “Who are you?”

Shock ripples through her in waves; she struggles to keep from sobbing full-on as a tear trickles down her face. Not this, not after all they've been through. This just feels like another cruel way of losing him. She's about to say something—whether it's a prayer, a plea, she doesn't know—when he smiles, just a little, showing his bluff.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, tearful laughter in her voice. She'd hate him for that, except she's too relieved, she never thought he'd prank her again. She never thought she'd even hear his voice again. “Don't do that to me.”

He's looking at her in the way he has a thousand times, in the way she’d though he never would again: like she is everything in the world, the only thing that matters. She'd missed him more than he can put into words. If only she could have saved him sooner, if only he hadn't been put through… “Do you know…?” she whispers, because at this point, she thinks it would be a blessing not to. She used to hate being unable to remember hers, but she's seen the abductees, the things she was unable to save him from. “Do you have any idea what you've been through?”

“Only what I see in your face,” he says.

She squeezes his hand, reaches up with her free hand and strokes the hair away from his face. She can't stop touching him, doesn't think she'll ever be able to. He's looking up at her and he mouths something. Something that looks like, I love you.

Her stomach twists; the corners of her mouth lift up in a smile. She can't remember the last time she's heard him say that. November of 1998, she thinks, maybe. And she knows she's never said it to him. It was one of her biggest regrets, after she lost him. She blinks back more tears, leans down to bury her face in his shoulder. She rests her cheek flat against it, adjusting herself for comfort and squeezing his hand again. She never wants to move, if she can help it.

Mulder's chin brushes the top of her head as he turns his head towards her, whispers, “Anybody miss me?” She laughs waterily, turns her head to kiss his shoulder before pressing her cheek to his chest again. Everything feels so still; she can hear his heart beating.

Across the room, the door opens. Scully looks up, expecting to see the nurse, and finds Agent Doggett instead. He stands there awkwardly, mouth hanging open like he wants to ask a question. She says nothing, only looks at him and hopes he'll understand. He seems to; he turns and retreats back into the hall, closing the door behind him. Scully lowers her head again. Mulder's nose brushes over her hair; her hands balled into fists on his chest, she closes her eyes and listens to him breathe.

---

Mulder dozes in and out of consciousness, his mind foggy. It's impossible to ground himself to one moment. He's having faint memories of pain, tight spaces and pitch-black and blades cutting into his chest; he presses his lips together hard to keep from crying out. Scully the day he left for Oregon, when he'd kissed her in the doorway, her eyes puffy and red and her trying like hell to hide it. She's wearing her cross, the one she'd given him before he left, and he has no idea how she'd gotten it, but that doesn't matter. She's here. She's here and showing no signs of leaving. When he wakes for the second time, he finds her still leaning against him, sitting in the chair with her cheek against his shoulder. He brushes his lips over the top of her head and she shivers, burrowing against him, her breath hot through the gown. “Your back is going to be killing you in the morning,” he mumbles, reaching up to brush her side with a tentative hand.

She shakes her head without looking up at him. “Not going home,” she says stubbornly, in a tone he's rarely heard from her: vulnerability. Oh, Scully.

“I don't want you to be uncomfortable,” he says, even though he doesn't want her to leave. He doesn't. He reaches for her arm and rubs a hand up and down it.

Scully lifts her head a little, her eyes red and puffy like she has been crying. “Do you think you could move over a little?” she asks softly, brushing her fingers through his hair again. “Is there room?”

It takes effort, but he does move, sliding to the other side. The corners of Scully's mouth lifts, just a little, and she stands to climb in behind him. And that's when he sees it: the curve of her belly under her sweater.

Anything he wanted to say catches in his throat, freezes there. She is pregnant. He has no idea how long he's been gone, how the hell is she pregnant? He thought it was impossible. He always thought they'd try again someday, but he never thought this would happen. That he'd wake up with her this far along and no idea how.

Scully doesn't seem to notice, doesn't make any effort to explain. She crawls in beside him, curled up against him; there is no space for her to do otherwise. She presses her face into his neck, right below his chin where his pulse beats against her forehead, and breathes shudderingly into his skin.

“Scully?” he whispers, heart thudding. This can't be real, he isn't here. He's on the ship and they've found a new way to torture him: by showing him his partner as a mother, the thing they'd so badly wanted last December. It's impossible. It's impossible.

He feels a strange fluttering against his side, where the round of Scully's abdomen presses into his side. The baby is kicking. Scully makes a startled sound against his throat and holds him tight, arms wrapped hard around his ribcage. “Scully?” he whispers again, pressing his mouth into her hair. Is this real? he wants to ask. How did this happen? Is it mine?

“I love you,” she murmurs, voice cracking. She's never said it before.

A tear trickles down the side of Mulder's face. His throat is sore; he feels numb, foggy. He has dim memories of a coffin, tight with no space to move. He thinks he can remember Scully crying. It's too much, he lets his eyes slip closed, his head falls back against the pillow. Scully is asleep, curled against him; he can hear the ease of her breathing. He presses his cheek to the top of her head. The baby kicks again and he shivers. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

---

He's back on the ship, pinned in place as they slice into him. He cries out with pain, shrinks away from the blades, pushes at the blankets they've wrapped him in. He's hurt, he's buried, he can't breathe. He calls out for Scully out of pure habit, a useless attempt at comfort on the ship after she'd come so close to finding him. He had heard her calling for him in the desert, and he'd called back, but she hadn't heard. He thought she was here, but he's alone, he can't feel her beside him, he knew it wasn't real. He knew that seeing her again was too good to be true.

And suddenly she's beside him again, her face white with concern as nurses crowd behind her. “Mulder,” she whispers, stroking his forehead. “It's okay, Mulder, you're safe. I'm here.”

Someone injects something into his IV, and he clenches his teeth hard. “Scully?” he rasps, trying to get control of his breathing. He can feel his heart pounding. “Where am I?”

“You're in the hospital.” She takes his hand and grips it in both of hers. “You're safe, it's okay.”

He swallows dryly as the drug enters his system. “That-that was real last night?”

Scully nods. Her eyes are red and puffy. He looks down a little and sees her baby bump. He swallows again. That was real, too.

“Take it easy, Mr. Mulder,” says the nurse, who seems to be checking his vitals. “You're safe. We're going to examine you later, but right now, you should just try to relax. Get some more sleep.”

He doesn't want to go back to sleep—sleep is too dangerous, sleep has no ability to ground him, remind him that he is safe and back on Earth—but his eyes are already lolling, tired from the sedative they must've given him. Scully kisses his knuckles, sitting beside him in the chair.

“The chair… it's too hard for you,” Mulder mumbles. If she's pregnant (pregnant, Jesus, he'd never thought…), than she shouldn't be sitting in hard plastic chairs beside his hospital bed. She should be at home. He doesn't think that there's a father of the baby, someone for her to go home to—he has no way of knowing for sure, of course, but he doesn't think Scully would jump into bed with someone else right away—but whether it's just her or not, she should go home. The baby needs rest. “You should go home,” he says sleepily. “Your baby needs rest.”

Scully's mouth opens a little, maybe in shock, maybe like she intends to say something. Her hand brushes over her stomach. “I'm not going anywhere,” she says firmly.

“What about… what about your baby?” His eyes are only half open.

“The baby will be okay.” Her voice is soft, affectionate in a way he's only ever heard her use with Emily or scared children on cases. A mother's voice, he thinks, and flinches.

He wants to ask her how this happened, if she decided to try the IVF again, if there's a father. How long he's been gone. But sleep is overtaking him. He closes his eyes and tries not to dwell on it. He's too tired.

“Mulder,” Scully says in that same.soft voice, like she wants to tell him something. But he's falling asleep, he's already gone and he can't remember anything after that.

---

Mulder sleeps on and off as he slowly regains strength. Scully sits beside the bed. Daylight comes and Skinner is dropping in to visit, Doggett is poking his head in. The baby shifts inside his watery world, and she rubs her hand over the spot where he's kicking. I'm here, she thinks. She wants to tell the baby that his dad is here, too, but Mulder’s detachment makes her hesitate.

She doesn't know what to say to Mulder about the baby. That first night he woke up, he seemed shocked. She hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even thought of it, but she thinks he might've known based on the surprise on his face when he stood up. And last night, he'd told her to go home for the baby. Or her baby, he'd said. Did he say that because he was concerned about the baby, or because he didn't want her there? Her baby, he'd said. Hers. Not theirs. Hers.

She'd wanted to tell Mulder about the baby. She'd daydreamed about it when she first found out, before she knew he was gone, thought about Mulder coming back from Oregon and her greeting him with this wonderful news, miraculous news, until the Gunmen came to her room with sorrowful looks on their faces… Later, she'd thought she could tell him after she found him. Some degree of good news to surprise him with when he came back safely. Their miracle. She hadn't known how he would react half the time—and besides that, it got harder and harder to think about the longer he was gone and became impossible to imagine after she buried him—but she always imagined that she would be the one who got to tell him. Never imagined a scenario in which she was so visibly pregnant that Mulder knew just by looking at her.

He'd wanted to be a father when she asked him to do the IVF with her; she'd been nervous about his level of involvement, but he'd wholeheartedly thrown himself into the process, comforted her after it didn't take, offered to try again or adopt with her. He'd wanted to be a parent with her. She wants to know what's changed. She keeps hearing his voice saying Your baby, and she wants to know if he ever really wanted this. If he just said yes because he thought it would make her happy, or if he wanted it once but doesn't anymore. If he's as willing as he was back then.

It doesn't matter, she tells herself. All that matters is that he is here. Mulder is breathing raspily beside her and it is miraculous. She sniffles, reaches up and touches the side of his face. It feels different, his skin smooth and not decomposed (she bites her lips to hold back a shudder). He still has scars along his cheek, but he's starting to look more alive. Scully thumbs a tear from her eyes, shifts in the chair and watches him sleep with one hand in his and the other on her stomach.

When Mulder wakes up, later, he seems subdued. Better, in good health, but subdued. He speaks in few words, looks vaguely off into the distance. She tries to goad him into conversation, but he doesn't seem very interested. She doesn't even know what they'd talk about, anyway. The baby? His missing time? The X-Files? That's probably the safest topic and the one he'd be the most interested in, but she isn't ready to talk about Doggett yet. It still feels wrong, having another partner. Like she's betrayed him. They end up sitting in silence. But she keeps on holding his hand. He's here, she tells herself again. He's here, he's here.

They take him in for testing later and he is able to walk on his own. He really does seem to have a lot of his strength back. When the doctor mentions checking the state of Mulder’s brain, his face whitens a little as he looks over at Scully in fear. She clenches her jaw and doesn't break eye contact. She still hasn't completely forgiven him for keeping that from her. “You… you know?” he asks quietly, and she nods. He gulps, looking down at the ground. “I'm sorry.”

She swallows back any anger she has. She'd barely let herself think about this before, the fact that he was dying and never told her, because she was so focused on finding him. And now that she has him back, she doesn't want to ruin it with a fight. “It doesn't matter,” she says. “It's over now.”

Mulder looks down a little at her stomach before looking her in the eye again. “I guess it is,” he says softly, and she's not sure if he just means the disease. And she isn't sure if it is actually over. He could still be sick. He could still be dying. When Mulder leaves with the doctors, she goes to the chapel and spares a quick prayer for Mulder, for the baby, for herself.

Skinner visits when Mulder comes back, relief visible on his face. From leaving Mulder in Oregon to pulling Mulder off life support, Scully can imagine that he must be feeling a tremendous amount of guilt. Mulder seems somewhat subdued. Skinner apologizes awkwardly and Mulder just as awkwardly accepts it, and Scully stares down at her hands on her knees, unsure of what to do. Skinner is not normally the sentimental type; she's gotten used to it, his caring demeanor, after six months of crying all over him, but she supposes Mulder hasn't. She's a little relieved when he leaves.

“Was there any news?” she asks, almost as soon as the door has closed. “With your scans?”

Mulder works his jaw back and forth, looking straight ahead instead of at her. “Results tomorrow,” he says softly. Scully nods, thumbing the corner of her eye and praying she doesn't cry again.

“Scully, I…” He's speaking uncertainly, and when she looks up, he's looking at her. The scars on his cheeks are glaring, an expression not unlike fear on his face. “I found out after you… you went on the road trip with the smoker,” he says quietly. “I… I didn't know how to tell you. I know it's no excuse, but I didn't… I didn't want to try and make you forgive me by dumping that kind of news on you, and then… I kept chickening out. I didn't want to upset you.”

Scully swallows back the anger in her chest, her fear. She wants to scream at him, tell him how hard it was to lose him. That he has no idea. That he owes her the truth, at least, and he was the first person she told when she was dying, how dare he, how fucking dare he. “It doesn't matter,” she says too firmly, and now she's the one to look away. “All that matters now is that you're back.”

She can feel him watching her carefully, maybe a little sadly. Tears well up in her eyes unexpectedly; she curses these pregnancy hormones and struggles to her feet, muttering, “I'll be right back,” and making a beeline for the bathroom. She doesn't want to cry in front of him again. There's no Kleenex in the cramped room, so she muffles her sobs with the scratchy toilet paper. He could still be dying. She could lose him all over again.

---

Scully doesn't go home; when she exits the bathroom with red eyes, his chest stings as if someone has sucker-punched him there, and he tries to tell her to go to a hotel and get some rest because it's too hard seeing her like this. And that's when she tells him that she doesn't even have a hotel, and she doesn't want to drive an hour back home when she's this tired. She doesn't leave, but she also doesn't get back into the bed with him. She asks the nurse to bring her a cot. Mulder can't be too surprised, considering the fact that she knows about the brain disease and is pregnant with a baby that is likely not his, but it stings just as much as seeing her this sad.

No matter what, though, it helps to hear her breathing beside him in the dark. Being alone only increases it, the fear building inside of him. If he closes his eyes, he sees the ship. He sees the coffin he can barely remember and he can't breathe. He lies flat on his back, eyes open, and listens to Scully breathe.

---

In the morning, Mulder feels well enough to get out of bed and go to the bathroom on his own, without any help getting up or walking. When he exits the room, he finds Scully sitting up on the cot, her hand protectively over her stomach. “You must be feeling better,” she says, the corner of her mouth turning up just a bit. Just a little. She sounds extraordinarily relieved.

Instead of the bed that he's entirely too tired of, he opts for the hard plastic chair. “I'd say so,” he offers. “Considering everything.”

Scully climbs off of the cot, smoothing her rumpled hair. “I'm going to go find your doctor,” she says briskly. “Maybe I could get you home by lunchtime.”

Mulder looks at the overly clean tiles below his feet. “That'd be nice,” he mumbles. “But, uh. You might have some trouble getting me out of here in this.” He plucks at the thin hospital gown he's been wearing.

Scully unsnaps the top of her bag. “Actually, I brought some of your clothes with me,” she says, and he looks up in surprise. She pulls out a stack of his folded clothes. “I… I was trying to be optimistic,” she adds softly when she sees him looking.

“I still… I still have clothes?” he asks cautiously. He supposes that he expected Scully to keep some things, but an entire outfit? He's been buried for three months. Had she made a K-Mart run on her way to Annapolis?

“I kept your apartment,” says Scully. “I don't know why, I just… But everything of yours is still in it. It's still waiting for you.”

He chews at his lower lip, staring at her with some surprise. He can't believe she'd do this, keep his apartment through three months of him being buried. Scully, who is meticulous and not at all frivolous. Scully, who couldn't possibly have believed that he would come back, kept his apartment for three months while he was dead. His stomach twists with the weight of her confession. He thinks it'd be nice to go home, but he also doesn't want to go anywhere without her.

Scully leaves to find the doctor and Mulder stays in the chair, makes no move towards the stack of clothes in the corner. Maybe he should've tried to go with her; he hates to be alone. His memories rush in like running water, invading the corners of his skull with a piercing sharpness. The ship, the pain. He touches his cheek gingerly, the place where they pinned him, the scars on his chest, but that only grounds him further in the flashbacks. He stares numbly at the wall until he hears Scully behind him, saying, “Mulder, you okay?”

He turns to look at her and finds her standing in the doorway with the doctor. “Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet and turning to face them. “For a guy who was, uh… in a coffin not too long ago I think I'm doing pretty damn good.” He begins to cross the room, away from Scully and the doctor, because they both are staring at him in a worried, expectant kind of way and it makes him squirm. He adds, “I don't quite have my legs under me… yet.”

Scully says from behind him, “Well, you might want to consider sitting down when you hear what we have to tell you.”

This would be the result of his scans. “Uh-oh.” He spares a quick hope that he isn't still dying, that they won't have to go through all this bullshit again, as he turns and sits down.

“No, it's, uh… it's good news. It's… it's miraculous news,” Scully offers, smiling just a little bit as she looks back at the doctor for his part of this song-and-dance.

The doctor begins speaking, but Mulder is barely listening. The same shit he's heard before, about how incredible this all is, how they can't believe it. Spare me, he thinks bitterly. He's watching Scully, and he finds that she's watching him, too.

She speaks next, confirming what he had hoped. “Whatever neurological disorder you were suffering from, it's no longer detectable. After a course of transfusions and antivirals it has rid your body of the virus that was invading it. The scars on your face on your hands, on your feet, on your chest, they-they seem to be repairing themselves.” He touches his scars a little as she speaks, not sure whether to be relieved or frightened that they are disappearing. If they're gone, is it supposed to be like it never happened? He's faced the impossible before, but he'd never wanted to be the impossible.

“Mulder, you are in perfect health,” Scully finishes. Her relief is hidden underneath her professional tone, but he can hear it. He knows it. He heard her crying in the bathroom last night.

“Wow,” he says dumbly, unsure of what else to say. He's relieved, of course, but it's hard to process among everything else. He's not dying, but he knows what it's like to be dead. To be buried. He’ll live, but at what cost? How much do they really know about what's happened to him and why? What is his future with Scully, now that she's a mother?

She's smiling a little at him, like she can't believe it and is overwhelmingly happy because of it. It hurts a little; he can still hear her muffled sobs from the night before.

“How do you feel, Agent Mulder?” asks the doctor.

“Like Austin Powers,” he cracks dryly.

Scully laughs quietly, briefly, but her heart isn't any more into it than his is. They're on dangerous ground, treading lightly, trying not to hurt each other, and he knows he's doing a shit job of it. And besides all of that, he can't find one single thing funny about any of this.

#this fic has been the bane of my existence for the past week glad i can finally say goodbye!!#anyways this arc makes my head hurt #xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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ghostbustermelanieking · 7 years

Text

locking out the ghosts chapter nine (of nine)

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

s5 fic: part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

this chapter is shorter than all the other chapters, mostly because it’s kind of an epilogue. the good news is: this is the lightest this story has ever been! definitely not a heavy chapter.

After leaving the Bureau, Mulder goes home with Scully. It’s not a discussed thing, not planned; it just happens. His car is still in long-term parking at the airport, and so he simply rides home with Scully. He offers to take a cab when they get back to the apartment, fingers caught in the key ring, and she wrinkles her brow, says, "Don't be ridiculous, Mulder, come on up." And so he comes.

---

He's given a week-long suspension. Paid, incredibly enough—Scully suspects Skinner feels bad about everything that's happened. She doesn't take any days off; after Emily and her vacation days in January, she doesn't have any days left. She wishes she could, but she can’t. She goes into work and Mulder calls her from his apartment or her apartment or the Gunmen's loft to pester her about cases. He does his own thing during the day—anything to distract himself—but he always reappears at her apartment in the evenings, parking himself permanently on her couch. (He's been sleeping on the couch ever since they got back from Chicago; they haven't discussed it, and she doesn't know how to bring it up. She's fine with it this way, though. Fine with letting the knot they've formed unravel itself, slowly. She knows how he feels and he knows how she feels. All they can do now is wait, and she doesn't mind at all: she waited for four years.)

Mulder sleeps on her couch for four straight nights after their return from Chicago. On the fifth night, Scully gets home from work and finds the apartment empty, stacks of scribbled-on paper strewn across her coffee table. Lips pursed in amusement and annoyance (if it is possible for those emotions to be in conjecture), she sweeps them aside to one corner and goes into the kitchen to fix some dinner. Mulder has been late a few nights, not necessarily home when she got home, so she's not worried.

She's still not worried when she's worked her way through dinner and settled down to read in the living room. A little wistful, maybe, at the idea that Mulder has chosen to go home, but not worried. She goes to bed at ten, telling herself that he had to go home at some point. She falls asleep and wakes up an hour or two to the sound of Mulder staggering through the apartment. Her heart stutters, her first thought being: Burglar, and her second thought being: Oh, God, Mulder's hurt. Her third thought, as she stumbles to her bedroom door, surveys her living room and sees Mulder offering her a sheepish, apologetic smile from his position standing on the rug: He came back.

"Sorry, Scully," he's saying, shedding his leather jacket over the arm of her chair. His catastrophic untidiness would normally annoy her, but she's half asleep and finds it incredibly endearing. "I, uh, the Gunmen had a lead on the New Spartans, they thought... I think it was bullshit, but, um, I got caught up in things there, and then my phone was dead... I should've called or something, or just gone home, I woke you up..."

She's already shaking her head, smiling a little. "Mulder, it's fine."

He freezes a little in the motion of pulling at a shoe—though whether he's trying to take it off or put it back on, Scully can't tell. "Seriously?" he asks, a little incredulous.

She shrugs a little. "Well, I'd rather you called next time, I suppose... but you don't have to apologize for coming back, Mulder. You've been staying here for nearly a week, remember?"

"Right." He chews at his lower lip, yanks his right shoe off. "Sorry I woke you, Scully, go on back to sleep, I can get the stuff for the couch bed..."

The coming into her living room and clomping around like an elephant straddles the line between annoying and endearing, but his nervousness, in the moment, is just annoyingly endearing. She stifles a smile by pressing her lips together, says, "You don't have to sleep out here, Mulder."

His socked foot slides across the hardwood floor as he pulls off his left shoe. He looks up at her uncertainty. "Unless you want to," she clarifies, feeling awkward. Even after

"I, uh." He sheds the shoe, getting to his feet to face her. "I wasn't sure if you wanted me to. Sleep out here, or um, in there."

"Of course I..." She stops, hands sliding over the silk of her pajama top. Nothing is a definite with them anymore. She starts again: "I want to take things as slowly as they need to go, but if you're ready... if we're ready... um."

"I didn't think you were," says Mulder, rubbing the back of his neck. The bandages on his finger flash white through the air. "The night after the New Spartans... you stayed with me, but you were gone the next morning before I woke up... like in Dallas... and I dunno, that made me wonder if you, uh. If you regretted…”

"What I said the night before," she finishes, the reason for the awkwardness after those two nights dawning on her. She laughs a little in bitter realization. "Oh my god, Mulder," she mutters, rubbing her forehead. "We're both terrible at this, aren't we."

Mulder is shifting back and forth on his feet, making the floorboards creak horribly. "What... do you mean?" he asks slowly.

"I didn't regret what I told you that night," Scully says. "Of course I didn't, Mulder... I know that with everything that's happened, it might not have been the best time to bring it up. But I wanted you to know that I felt the same way." He's still looking at her with a question in his eyes, so she plunges on: "Mulder, the only reason I bolted that morning was because it had... just dawned on me that you almost died because I showed up at your apartment. Skinner told me to stay away or risk blowing your cover, and I didn't listen, and blow your cover is exactly what I did. And I felt... awful, Mulder, for putting you through that... if anything had happened to you..."

He's already shaking his head. "I thought you left because you weren't ready... because you were angry at me, for putting you in danger by telling you, because if Bremer heard it then he could go after you because you knew..."

She laughs—not because it is particularly funny, but because it is slightly ridiculous. For all their assuming, they've built a facade that couldn't be further from the truth. Karen Kosseff was right when she said they need to communicate. "God," she repeats, shaking her head as well, "we're really terrible at this, Mulder."

"Absolutely fucking shitty," he says, and then he's closing the distance between them, cupping her face in his hands and leaning down and covering her mouth with his. She responds with an enthusiasm that makes him seem to go weak at the knees; he scoops her up, hand cupping the back of her head, and whirls towards her bedroom. ---

In the morning, Mulder scrambles the last two eggs in Scully's refrigerator while Scully spreads light cream cheese over a bagel. (He raises his eyes at her, and she slugs him in the shoulder.) She pulls the newspaper across the table and flips it open to the crossword. Behind her, Mulder switches off the burners. Scully tries her pen against the side of the paper. No ink. She shakes it a little, scribbles again with a renewed fervor. Still nothing.

"22 down should be 'Iambic'," Mulder says smugly, hovering over her shoulder.

She throws the inkless pen at him. "If you're going to offer unnecessary hints, than the least you can do is get me a new pen."

"Unnecessary, huh?" He's already halfway to her desk in the living room. I seem to remember plenty of times when you tried to get answers out of me without telling me you were trying to get answers out of me." Her desk drawer squeaks on the background.

She scoffs. "I never have."

He doesn't speak for a moment. She looks up from her newspaper. "Mulder?"

He's standing at her desk, his back to her, with something in his hands. He turns to her, and she sees the little white square with her daughter's face on the front. She swallows, surprise hitting her like a gut punch. "I, uh. I didn't know you had this,” he says.

Scully nods, a little numbly. "Yeah," she mumbles.

His hands fumble with trying to put the picture back into the drawer. "I'm sorry, Scully, I didn't mean to..."

"No, it's..." She waves her hand in dismissal. "It's fine. Really. I've been..." An unsteady breath. She pushes her face back into its neutral stance. "I've been working on putting that behind me."

Several Karen Kosseff sessions, and it's gotten easier to think about Emily, to talk about Emily. Several Sundays at church, and she can admit that Emily is in a better place. But it still hurts. Every single time, it hurts. She doesn’t know if it will ever stop hurting.

He crosses the room and kneels beside her, hand covering her knee. "I know..." he starts uncertainly. "I know I wasn't the most supportive with Emily. I was worried that if you adopted her, they'd come after you." She looks down at his hand on her knee. "That was wrong of me," he says. "I'm sorry."

She swallows back the lump in her throat, starts, "I know..."

"I would've been there for you two." His fingers tightening over her knee. She lifts her eyes to meet his. "You and Emily. If you had adopted her... I would've been there as much as you'd wanted me. Done anything for either of you. I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt that."

Tears burn at the back of her eyes. Scully sniffles a little, seizes his hand and squeezes it. "Thank you," she whispers.

She pulls at his hand until he's crouching in front of her, level with her, and wraps her arms around his shoulders. He holds her to him with a certain gentleness. She wipes her eyes, leans the side of her head against his and says, "I just wish I could've gotten to know her. I wish I could've been her mom."

"I know." She can't see his face but his voice is as soft as his hand on her hair, the motion of his stroking fingers. "I do, too."

---

She has to go to work shortly after, when the tears have stopped and the ache in her stomach has faded. Mulder gets up off the ground with her, walks her to the door like they're some bizarre reversal of a couple from the fifties. He must get the same impression, because he leans down and kisses her briskly on the mouth, says, "Catch a monster for me today, honey." Clearly trying to lighten the mood.

"Ha ha," she replies dryly, but she’s smiling a little when she says it. "I'll see you tonight, Mulder."

His grin is huge, makes her want to stay home. "See you tonight."

Sometime after lunch, he calls her from his apartment. She knows it is going to be fucking ridiculous and a total waste of time as soon as he says, "Hey, Scully, so I was watching this documentary on the Loch Ness Monster, and I think there's some substance to this..." and it's exactly what she needs. She lets him talk, tapping the tip of her pen against her teeth and smiling behind her hand.

---

Mulder has to go back to his apartment to check on the fish over the weekend. Scully goes with him, in the car he’d eventually retrieved from long-term parking. They spend the weekend on his couch, playing cards or old, cheesy board games across the cushions, watching bad B-movies, Scully usually wrapped in a blanket or two because she manages to be cold even in May. Friday night, they fall asleep sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, feet touching in the middle, Scully having stolen both blankets. On Saturday, they sleep closer together. It is a challenge not to fall off, but they make it work.

They don't talk about their relationship. But then again, they've never been very good at that.

On Sunday night, Scully has to go back to her apartment. "I need clothes for work tomorrow," she tells him, and Mulder doesn’t argue. He does, however, suggest they get dinner first.

She scoffs a little. “What, like a date?”

“Sure, like a date.” He nudges her shoulder. “You deserve to go somewhere nice, Scully.”

She laughs, shrugging a little. “I dunno if we’re very ‘somewhere nice’ people, Mulder.”

He shrugs back. “Who cares.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, so he nudges her again. “C’mon, Scully. Even if you don’t want to go to dinner, at least let me drop you off at home. You shouldn’t have to take a cab all the way to Georgetown.”

Scully smiles in spite of herself. “Dinner sounds good,” she says. “It’ll give us a chance to talk.”

“Talk?” he asks. No malice in his tone. No overeagerness, either; just a question. Asking for clarification.

“Yes,” Scully says. “About… things. Us. Anything.”

Mulder smiles. “Sounds good. You pick.” He touches her shoulder briefly before standing and heading towards the door.

Scully watches him go, getting to her feet and reaching for her bag. She's reminded of the fact that she's a little in love with him. That she doesn’t want to lose him. That it’s starting to look like she won’t have to. Like things are finally starting to work out.

Mulder slides the key in the lock, turning it to the right. “You ready, Scully?” he says over his shoulder.

She knows it's just a clarifying question, but it sounds too much like the question she's been asking herself again and again the past few months. She smiles, getting to her feet and going to join him. She grabs his free hand, pulls it to her mouth and kisses his callused fingers before squeezing it and lowering it between them. She doesn't let go. “Yeah,” she says. “I'm ready.”

i’d call this fic a labor of love, and i’d mostly be right, but as much as it is a labor of love, it’s also a labor of anything but. i thought this fic would be about 20k and that it’d be done in mid-november. i now find that idea absolutely hilarious. this fic is mostly the reason i won’t finish my rewatch before season 11′s premeire. this fic took over my life for the past month and a half, and likely would’ve been finished a lot sooner if not for the hell of finals season. it’s a relief to be done with.. and that being said, this was also incredibly fun to write.

- the origin of this fic was soft yellow, a ficlet i wrote in response to a prompt in the spring. the origin of that was a headcanon i came up with sometime last year: scully was ready to begin a relationship with mulder as early as season 5 (based off of redux ii and detour), and the reason they didn’t was because of scully’s devastation at losing emily, which became “what if they did begin a brief relationship in early season 5, and scully ended it after emily to give herself time to process things?” soft yellow was never intended to have a sequel, because i more or less assumed things went normally from there on out as the show portrays them and scully and mulder reunited in season 7, but people asked for a sequel. and almost six months later, i gave it to them. sorry!

- the headcanon that sprouted this story/the story itself are more or less intended to be interpreted as canon compliant, but also as a “what if this had happened” rather than a “this definitely happened”. i think this could’ve happened (and fit into my idea that there’s no way that chaste millennium kiss is their first), but i don’t necessarily think it did? if that makes any sense? i’ll leave it up to interpretation

- anyone watching my blog over the past couple months has likely noticed my countless rants on how weird season 5 is. and it really, really is. whereas season 6 has the tension between mulder and scully present in most episodes, season 2 has something of a fallout of scully’s abduction (through literally bringing it up or an interpretation of m&s’s actions) in most episodes, season 4 has the cancer arc, etc etc, season 5 has none of that. it’s a constant shifting of weird tension between m&s/mulder kind of being useless or an asshole and them being fine and bantering as normal. i don’t know if this was intentional or not, but there remains little to no trace of the emily arc in s5 (outside of all souls) and mulder is kind of all over the place. i tried to make the canon of season 5 (strong in its standalones, crazy when you put it all together and try to make it coherent) make sense all together, and also in the context of a recent breakup. it was hard as shit. i hope i’ve managed to do that.

- i tried to put in as much from the episodes as possible, but there are four episodes i kind of wrote around: schizogeny, chinga, bad blood, and mind’s eye. most of the reason i did this is for lack of emotional significance. schizogeny is just terrible, so i didn’t see any point in going in depth. mind’s eye is excellent, but that mostly is due to lili taylor. (there isn’t even any conflict! scully doesn’t believe mulder, as usual, but then the evidence shows that he’s right about marty glenn being innocent, and she’s literally like, “ok. cool. hey, mulder, you were right.” nothing to dramatize.) chinga had a similar lack of emotional significance, outside of mulder flirting with/annoying the shit out of scully, so i skimmed over that one. bad blood i saw more potential with, but, as excellent as the episode is, it’s like 70% unreliable narration! i can see why there’s barely any freaking fic about it. it was daunting as hell to write the fandom’s most beloved episode. daunting as hell.

- another reason that this season was hard to write as fresh out of a breakup was the fact that mulder and scully are presented with around four potential love interests! (this number is kind of arbitrary; sheriff hartwell and jack bonsaint are more overt, while marty glenn is mostly subtext and esther/invisigoth is mostly headcanon--but c’mon, she and scully had a ton of chemistry.) i tried to make the stuff make as much sense as possible: jack bonsaint was largely one-sided, there was a largely muted attraction between scully and esther that could’ve led somewhere if they weren’t both extremely hung up on their boyfriends, sheriff hartwell was a small crush that got over-exaggerated by mulder and scully both in their petty retelling of the events in chaney, texas, and mulder’s potential attraction to marty is mostly a thing noticed by scully that goes nowhere because of where the episode leaves them. (another reason season 5 is weird: scully and mulder get little to no romance, and then they get a ton right on top of each other? it’s a conspiracy to give me a headache.)

- this fic also had a root in my irritation at my rewatch of the emily arc and its seeming pointlessness (a rant of which can be found here). i wanted to give scully space to grieve, and i wanted to confront how that loss would affect her. that’s a big part of why i wrote this fic.

- that being said, this is kind of the yang to the yin of my emily au, part of which runs parallel to season 5 (the unspeakable fear of things). if looking for something lighter, ufot deals with a lot of the same events in this fic through the lens of scully as a single mom, awkwardly navigating her relationship with mulder.

- lotg was almost a very different fic; i couldn’t decide between this premise and an AU where the emily arc never happened, which would explore the rest of season 5 from a lighter perspective where scully is trying to figure out how to make a move on mulder. i eventually settled on this one, and never looked back. this fic was very much uncharted waters--because we’ve never seen a breakup for these characters outside of s10, where they’re in a very different place than s5--which made it both very fun and very scary to write. i kind of like how it turned out.

- this fic holds the record as the third longest thing i’ve ever written, and the fastest i’ve ever done it. i started lotg on november 3 and finished december 20. i’m very proud of how fast i managed to write it. i hope it has been enjoyable.

#its finally fucking done and im so happy #xf rewatch.#xf fanfic #i wrote this

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