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kateyes224 · 7 years

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Independence Day

A/N: Fourth of July fluff and nonsense, inspired by some anons I’ve gotten recently about whether Mulder is capable of giving Scully a meaningful gift. Timeline: Post-IWTB, Pre-Revival

Mulder knocks on her door and goes to straighten his tie before he remembers he’s not wearing one. Hasn’t worn one in years. He tries not to fidget, suspecting she may be eyeing him through her peephole, but he ends up shifting back and forth on his feet the longer it takes her to answer the door.

He triple-guesses his outfit for the eighteenth time that night, and berates himself for it, feeling ridiculous for feeling ridiculous.

He hears her soft, even footfalls as she approaches the door, then a long moment of silence. She is peeping.

When she opens the door, her apartment seems to exhale at the exact same moment he does.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Scully.” Scully in her angular new suits and jewel-toned scrubs seems a completely separate being from this creature. This woman’s hair is pulled up and away from her face and off her neck. She’s wearing a sky-colored sweater that deepens the blue of her eyes to a dark violet in the low light, and jeans that he knows for a fact have been worn in from years of washing in hard water. He’d washed them a few dozen times himself. She’s hardly wearing a stitch of makeup.

Fuck losing nine minutes. For a moment, he thinks he might have lost a quarter of a century. “You look good.”

She knows. Blushes anyway.

“Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”

“Ladies always love a man in a polo.”

He keeps his eyes trained on hers, deliberately not looking over her shoulder. I need a space of my own, Mulder, she’d said, a little over a year ago now. He’d hated her for it then but he’d respected it just the same. He still hates it, and he still respects it. He doesn’t want to taint it by seeing it without her say-so.

“Would you like to come in for a minute?” A polite and completely insincere invitation. She hadn’t even wanted him to pick her up tonight, he reminds himself.

“Nope, I think we can just go. Otherwise we’ll be late.”

She looks cautious, but grabs her purse and her jacket from the table by the front door. “Late? I thought we were just going to grab dinner?”

Mulder waits while she turns to close the door. Her old housekey for their country home jangles on her keyring next to the one she uses to lock up.

He doesn’t have a key for her new place.

“We are going to grab dinner. But I have a surprise later tonight and we’ve got to get a move on or else we’ll miss it.”

She makes a show of slowing and sighs audibly, predictably skeptical and apparently willing to play her old part for old time’s sake.

He walks her out to the pickup truck and circles to her side, opening it for her and handing her in. She chuckles. “Mulder, you’ve never been this solicitous. What have you got planned? Not another haunted house, I hope.”

Closing her door, he smiles down at her through the half-closed window. “You know I only save those for Christmas, Scully.”

He drives them back out of town the same way he came, threading his way from interstate to highway to two-lane country road before stopping to pick up dinner. She smiles when he pulls in front of her favorite barbecue joint and hops out of the truck to pay for a couple of messy brisket sandwiches dripping in tangy sauce and wrapped in foil and white styrofoam containers of coleslaw and baked beans. Two thick slices of cornbread are immediately set upon by Scully when he returns to the truck, and he laughs and slaps her hands away.

The sound of her giggle bouncing around the cab of the truck before it’s snatched out the window and into the night air nearly wipes the smirk right off of his face. He’d been almost sure he’d never be able to make her laugh again.

Another twenty miles past the house he’s still trying to think of as his and not theirs and he pulls off the main road and into a dirt lot that is already filled with cars. They’re a few hundred yards from where the local high school campus sprawls out in the dark. Mulder grabs a blanket from the bed of the truck and ties the handles of the plastic bag of food into bunny ears. At her questioning look, he nods in the direction of the football field glowing under floodlights in the distance. Smells and sounds from booths selling all manner of deep-fried food, kettle corn, and funnel cake waft towards them in the heavy July air.

A dunk tank, a pony ride, and a small petting zoo are set up in the home team’s end zone. An emu is being walked around on a leash, to the delight and horror of many small children. And just beyond that, a wooden stage and dance floor. A band of morose young teens is going about the serious business of setting up their equipment, plugging guitars into amplifiers and strumming chords that twang offkey.

The lead singer and DJ, a girl with a shock of a bright turquoise pixie cut, stands in front of the speakers and clicks around on her laptop in the meantime. The dance floor is almost full with couples swaying back and forth to an unpredictable mix of R&B and country. Children of all ages dart in between them in an endless game of tag.

“Mulder, what are we doing here?”

Mulder keeps walking just beyond the stage where other families have set up their own circles of chairs and picnic blankets. He makes a show of unfurling the Navajo blanket on the ground, smooths the wrinkles before setting the plastic bag of food in the center. “Just make yourself comfortable. You want anything to drink? Some funnel cake? We have about twenty minutes before the show.”

Scully crosses her arms and stares up at him. “Mulder,” she repeats, “what are we doing here?” She sounds, for all intents and purposes, like she’s just surveyed a crime scene and found it conspicuously lacking in what he’d once half-ironically referred to as a distinct paranormal bouquet.

“What, you don’t trust me?” Mulder asks, blinking down at her, and he nearly chokes on the question like a popcorn kernel has lodged itself in the back of his throat when he remembers that no, she probably doesn’t. Not anymore. Mulder shakes his head when it takes her a second too long to answer. “Don’t worry, Doc. Have a seat, I’ll go grab us a drink.”

Scully purses her lips at him and glances over her shoulder as the band strikes up a rousing, if overly-metal, rendition of Yankee Doodle. “Hurry back,” she murmurs, then bends to sit cross-legged on the blanket and starts untying the plastic bag.

Mulder hustles off, taking a wide berth around a game of cornhole to where a keg and a cash booth have been set up. He pays $10 for two light beers in red Solo cups and turns, almost knocking over a man and his wife in their late 30s.

“Mr. Scully?” the young man asks, hesitant.

Mulder sputters, trying to hide it by taking a sip of his beer.

“Uhhhh, no, I’m Fox Mulder. Dr. Scully is my…” Shit. This was always the hard part. “...my partner.” It’s never not been true. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Fearon?”

The young man nods and glances at his wife, who smiles up uncertainly at Mulder. They both turn. Behind them sits a boy in a wheelchair. “And this is Christian.”

Christian is pale, with huge, almond-shaped blue eyes and a tangle of messy brown hair. He’s got a crocheted afghan tucked around his legs and a beanie on his head despite the humid July heat, but two rosy spots color his cheeks, belying a fragile bloom of health.

Mulder smiles down at him, bends to look into the boy’s eyes. “Hi, Christian. My name is Mulder. I’m a friend of Dr. Scully’s. She’s been wondering about you.”

Christian’s eyes crinkle, a grin lighting up his face. “I’ve been wondering about her, too.”

Mulder leads the way back over to where Scully is sitting on their blanket, the Fearons following slowly but surely behind him. Just as he calls out to Scully and she turns, the lights around the makeshift fairground all dim simultaneously, leading to whoops and hollers and lascivious catcalls. In the dark, Mulder settles in on the blanket next to Scully and hands her a beer.

“Mulder, who was with-”

“Shhhh, Scully,” Mulder whispers, just as the band gets going with Ray Charles’ version of America the Beautiful. The drummer starts military cadence on the drums and the teen girl with the turquoise hair starts belting out the first verse in a honeyed alto.

Oh beautiful, for heroes proved, In liberating strife, Who more than self, our country loved, And mercy more than life

Just as the chorus gets going, the first pops and whistles of fireworks start echoing from a couple of hundred yards down the way. The crowd draws in a collective gasp as blue and green and red and white sparks erupt overhead.

Scully’s eyes are trained on the sky for a long moment before she turns back to Mulder. The wide smile on her face lights over him just as the next round of fireworks explode in a shimmer and a pop of noise. But her eyes slip past him and catch sight of the profile of the young boy who was trailing in Mulder’s wake. Christian’s hands are planted firmly over his ears, transfixed by the showers of color blazing overhead.

“Christian?” Mulder sees her mouth silently before looking up at him, confused.

Mulder bends close to her ear, loud enough that she can hear over the gunshot blast of the next round of fireworks.

“Last week, you got a voicemail at the house from his new treating physician, a Dr. Rajkumar. She thought you’d want to know...he’s been doing well enough as result of your treatment plan that his parents were going to take him to see the fireworks this year.”

Scully can’t seem to tear her gaze away from the boy’s face. His eyes, saucer-wide, haven’t left the sky, and his smile can’t get any bigger.

Mulder watches Scully watching Christian for the next ten minutes, as the fireworks and the band get louder and more intense. When the final crescendo and the finale culminate above them, she looks up at Mulder, whispers her thanks, and wraps an arm around his waist.

As she settles into a spot that feels more comfortable than it should for going without the weight and shape of her for so long, he hopes she feels free, if only for tonight.

#my writing #i have no idea what this is #sappy and ridiculous nonsense #but i've always hated that we never found out what happened to christian #so i gave scully some closure #thanks to mulder #anyway

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lilydalexf · 2 years

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👽 X-Files “My Struggle IV” Fic Recs

Here are some good fics involving the episode "My Struggle IV" (the season 11 finale). This list is for @leiascully and her anon, who asked. Enjoy! Diner Talks by Living_Underground (@freckleslikestars) Scully and Mulder spend the year or so after series eleven getting to know a kid working in a diner they visit regularly. Family Heirloom by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) Set post-MSIV: Scully goes looking in the attic of the unremarkable house for the doll Mulder gave her in "Empedocles" for their new baby. housekeeping by audries The porch lights are on. That’s the first thing he notices. [Only 2 of 4 parts are completed, but there's not a huge cliffhanger] In Loving Hands by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) One day Jackson just shows up at their house. In the Morning Hour by aster_risk (@poeticsandaliens) His voice peppers her mind with questions, the ordinary and the extraordinary. With them come snapshots of his daily life that Scully treasures like precious postcards. If you can move things with your mind, Will asks her, is that called telepathy or telekinesis? How do I wash a coffee stain from a white t-shirt? Can I put this burrito in the microwave with the wrapper on? Slowly, strangely, Mulder and Scully re-connect with their son. It's A Brand New Day by @storybycorey Post MSIV. They sleep wrapped in each other’s arms, no space between, his hand warm and heavy on her belly, anchoring her each fitful time she wakes. Jackson Van de Kamp's Not-so-Final Repose by cecily_sass (@cecilysass) A dream café. A dead old man at a table. A message for Jackson Van de Kamp. Mystery, unconventional MSR, and family feels. It’s the post-revival Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose sequel you never knew you wanted! Learning How to Bend by @blackcoffeeandteardrops Post MS4. Mulder, Scully, & William come to terms with their new reality. Meg by Apostrophic (@mappingthexfiles) He had lived with grief long enough to learn you did not ignore happiness whenever it came. Two scenes, one before and one after a tiny someone makes three. Post-season 11. I’m coining the tag “no angst, just love.” Miracle by @poeticsandaliens Six times Dana Scully called Will a miracle and what that word really means. Morning Sickness by @sixhours "My Struggle IV" post-ep Of Monsters and Men, and a Woman part 1, part 2 by @snickerl I think I smell smoke. / Wine smells better than smoke. proelium and pervicacia by skuls (@ghostbustermelanieking) Post finale: Mulder and Scully connect with their son in an unconventional way. / Scully's pregnancy post season 11. [skuls also wrote a related fic, currently unfinished and unlikely to be finished: phantom weights] Unexepected and Certain Expectations by @mldrgrl Pre-episode Scully POV for My Struggle IV / A sequel to Unexpected and an epilogue for My Struggle IV Unlimited Future by @greekowl87 I tried to write a postep as soon as the credits roll to try and bring some semblance of peace or closure to the fandom. Mulder and Scully try to make sense of everything. Untitled by @lolcat76 Prompt request: a wish to fix the end of MSIV. Untitled by @purrykat First time making love after the 2nd baby. Extra special if Mulder makes it special and shows Scully that she’s still beautiful after having a baby.

#fic rec #roundup #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #my struggle iv

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xfmaweezy · 2 years

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Un Autre Baiser

(Click here to read/subscribe on AO3)

by kishamaweezy

MSR | rated T | words 444

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“We will find him. I have to.”

The words she spoke to Skinner still echo in her mind, but the tattoo of her heart thumps only one sound: Mulder. She remembers their whirlwind trip to France only weeks ago. After his mother, after getting closure, after the smoking man and a blank disc, after all the things but only one choice, they boarded an overnight flight to Paris.

She remembers how for three days they ate and danced and held hands in public. How they talked, really talked, rediscovering each other and redefining their partnership.

How on their last day they took a tour of the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

How Scully quoted Oscar Wilde at his grave, “a kiss may ruin a human life,” as she and Mulder took in the sight of the monument covered in lip prints. How Mulder asked if she was going to add her own lips, and how she wrinkled her nose and shook her head no at the prospect of putting her mouth where so many others had put theirs.

How Mulder quoted The Doors to her at Jim Morrison’s grave. “Another flashing chance at bliss. Another kiss, another kiss." And how she then kissed him big and sloppy. Twice.

How the tomb of Victor Noir was marked with a well endowed life size bronze statue, lying supine. How a myth had proclaimed a promise of fertility. How they laughed at the shiny spots on the statue, where superstition had resulted in the patina being buffed away from the man’s crotch and mouth.

How their laughter faded and their hands reached for one another as they gazed upon the statue with all the seriousness of a small child tightly clutching her only coin, her only wish, before tossing it into a fountain.

How no words were spoken when Scully kissed the statue where many other mouths had been before, nor when she reached out to rub the prominent copper bulge. How she always kept him guessing.

How Mulder attempted some levity as he also stroked the smooth surface of the worn mound, the humor only barely covering their desperation and secret hope.

Now she wonders how this new life has come to be. Is it like the remission from her cancer? Is it a miracle? Science? Or is it the willful power of love that cured her? That gave her this baby?

In the dark, fueled by memories and love and the strength of belief, she furiously swipes away her tears, her resolve gathering as she moves her hand to her flat belly. She needs Mulder. She NEEDS to see him.

They will find him. She has to.

tagging @today-in-fic

#x files #fox mulder #dana scully #msr #x files fanfic

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sisterspooky1013 · 2 years

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Un Autre Baiser by Kishamaweezy

444 words | Rated G | Read it here on AO3

“We will find him. I have to.”

The words she spoke to Skinner still echo in her mind, but the tattoo of her heart thumps only one sound: Mulder. She remembers their whirlwind trip to France only weeks ago. After his mother, after getting closure, after the smoking man and a blank disk, after all the things but only one choice, they boarded an overnight flight to Paris.

She remembers how for three days they ate and danced and held hands in public. How they talked, really talked, rediscovering each other and redefining their partnership.

How on their last day they took a tour of the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

How Mulder quoted The Doors to her at Jim Morrison’s grave. “Another flashing chance at bliss. Another kiss, another kiss." And how she then kissed him big and sloppy. Twice.

How no words were spoken when Scully kissed the statue where many other mouths had been before, nor when she reached out to rub the prominent copper bulge. How she always kept him guessing.

How Mulder attempted some levity as he also stroked the smooth surface of the worn mound, the humor only barely covering their desperation and secret hope.

Now she wonders how this new life has come to be. Is it like the remission from her cancer? Is it a miracle? Science? Or is it the willful power of love that cured her? That gave her this baby?

They will find him. She has to.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #scully #x files #drabbles #x files fanfic

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maxineswritingcenter · 3 years

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Bray Road - Fox Mulder x nonbinary!reader part 7

TW: Remains

It was so interesting how different things can change how you feel. On (Y/N)’s cheek they could feel the soft cotton their dad’s blue sweater he liked to wear. They remembered laying their head on his shoulder after they fell asleep in the car on a long trip. On their right, their fingertips brushed an objected that made them remember their mother’s wedding ring. They remembered fiddling with it as a small child, moving it from side to side on their mother’s finger because it was too big for her slender digits. They smiled to themself, surrounded by familiar feelings and senses.

But...how?

(Y/N)’’s blood ran cold as they opened their eyes and was met with the skeletal face of their father. Looking to their left, they saw their fingers playing with their mother’s wedding ring on her skeletal hand. (Y/N) screamed, scrambling across the dirt floor to move away from the remains of their parents. Both of their clothes were in tatters, covered in blood, bugs and rats crawling through the skeletons. Roots of trees rooted them to the dirt walls Their bones were brown, their hair was straw like and white.

“I thought you would like to see them.” Winterfield came from the shadows, much less hairy than he had been earlier that night, “Give you the closure you deserve. Twenty-five years of waiting to find them.” He walked towards them with his arms behind his back, he wore black sweatpants but was bare everywhere else. Their eyes were brought to their arm, a cotton swab was tapped to their arm, tell-tale signs of an injection. (Y/N) glared at him.

“What did you do to me?!”

“I gave you what you needed!” He came closer, “I gave you the ability to become stronger, faster, healthier. To be perfect.”

“I don’t want to be a monster!”

He chuckled at their words, “A monster. That is exactly what I said to my maker. I was only fourteen when I was turned. I was a weak, frail child, sickly. I was dying and my family brought us to our lake house for one last vacation. And that’s when he found me and made me what I am. He made me strong again, so strong that I killed him myself after my bloodlust started attracting the locals and he called me dangerous. I realized after that that I needed no one, so I killed my family. But I became lonely, I wanted to share this gift that been given to me. I decided that I would make more, taking children like you and make them strong, for them to realize their true potential. It took years of trial and error, but finally I perfected the transformation. By introducing canine DNA into their systems, they were more likely to take to the gift.” He kneeled down in front of them, “You were my vision. A sickly child that could be healed by the transformation. But your parents took you away. I had to get rid of them, you understand.” He stood again, “They would not let you get better.” He grabbed a hold of their arm and tugged them into standing, “Just one bite. And you’ll be like me.” He looked up and they followed his gaze above, a lattice work of roots on the roof of the cave, revealing the moon near its peak. He looked back down, bringing their arm closer to his mouth where sharp teeth.

“Wait!” They said, causing him to pause with his mouth open.

“You want this to be perfect, don’t you? You should wait until the moon is as its highest.” (Y/N) rambled.

“You’re right.” He smiled, dropped their arm, “I should also prepare what you’ll have as your first kill. But then again, once the thirst starts, it won’t end well for your partner. I am so glad you finally understand. And soon, we will see the world through the same eyes.” He made his way back into the shadows.

(Y/N) bought Mulder time, but would it be enough?

After getting back out of the woods, Mulder led the Elkhorn sheriff’s department back to Winterfield’s home, the idea being that he would take her back to the cellar where the other body was found. But maybe... that wasn’t the case. He made an abrupt right turn onto Stuart Drive.

“Where the hell are you goin’, agent?” The sheriff’s voice crackled in over the walkie talkie they had given him.

“Bray road has been this guy’s feeding ground, I think he’s taken (Y/N) there to turn them. Once they becomes a beast, they’ll associate the road with food, he’s starting the cycle over with (Y/N).”

“Bray road goes out for miles, how are we going to find them?” He asked.

Mulder thought a moment, “We spread out in a fifty mile radius around the site of the most recent killings. I think that he took Jason there before dumping him back on the road since he was the only one left alive.”

When they made it to the area, the officers surrounded Mulder as they looked over a map.

“We start here and branch out. Please use your weapons with the silver bullets, your regular rounds will not work. We are looking at a monster, not a man. He is to be treated as an on-site shot. He is extremely dangerous and will kill you. Agent (Y/L/N) is top priority. Go out in pairs and keep your flashlights on when it gets dark.” He sent the officers on their way. The sheriff came up to him, cocking his shotgun.

“Lead the way, Agent Mulder.”

After a while into their search of the woods, the sheriff spoke up.

“So, do you think he’s already... bit, Agent (Y/L/N)?” Mulder had put off thinking of this, not wanting imagine them turning into a monster. Thinking about it though, (Y/L/N) was smart. Smart enough to get him on a case with them when he would only work with Scully or alone. (Y/N) believed in the truth and fought for the justice that their family deserved. He looked up at the sky, seeing the moon was getting closer to its apex.

“(Y/L/N) is smart, I’m sure they bought us some time.” He said, then tripped over a root in the ground. The sheriff caught him by the shoulder and steadied him.

“Whoa, there, Agent. Gotta watch out for those roots. These trees have root systems that go out for miles, they can make some pretty big sink holes too.” He said. Mulder looked down at the thick tree root that caught his shoe and an idea popped into his head.

“Are there any large sinkholes in this area?” Mulder asked.

“I do believe, about a mile or so that’a’way.” The sheriff motioned to the west.

“I got a hunch.” Mulder said, the both of them making their way towards the sinkhole.

When they made it to the sink hole, they found a large gaping hole in the Earth, there were deep grooves around the rim that seemed to be created in a clawing motion.

“I think this is where he’s been hiding,” The sheriff was down on one knee, looking at the foot prints in the soft dirt, “Looks like he’s left here recently, but he could be back at any second. You go down there and get Agent (Y/L/N), I’ll keep watch.” He stood. Mulder nodded, carefully scaling down the wall on the sink hole using roots and natural footholds in the dirt. He go the bottom, and flashed his light down to reveal a tunnel. If (Y/L/N) was any where, here was probably a good place to search.

He made his way until he saw light again, a voice caused him to pause.

(Y/N) was sat against the wall of the cave, watching the moon move across the sky. Winterfield would be back any minute and they would turn into a monster just like him. Tears burned in their eyes as they looked back at their parents. One of their father’s arms had been ripped away and half of their mother’s face gone.

“I’m sorry.” They said, biting their lip to try and stop crying, “I promised you I would never come back here. But I had to find you. I had to find the truth.” They hiccupped and laughed sadly, “I guess I did it though. The mystery is solved. But I’m going to be a monster just like him.”

“(Y/L/N)?” They stood up quickly at the voice, fearing that Winterfield was back. But to their overwhelming joy, Fox Mulder appeared in the moon light.

“Mulder.” (Y/N) breathed out, running to greet him at the tunnel mouth, wrapping their arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. After the excitement subsided, they realized they were hugging their superior and that really wasn’t appropriate-

Mulder pulled them closer, hugging them around their waist. They were quite sure he could feel their heart pounding. He created space between the two, placing his hand on their cheek. His green eyes were filled with happiness and his sly smile graced his face.

“You found me.” They whispered, leaning into his touch.

He nodded, “Yeah, us spooky people gotta stick together.” He looked over, seeing the skeletons in the corner.

“Is that...?”

They pulled away, and looked at them, “Yeah, that’s mom and dad.”

“I promise. We’re going to give them the proper funeral.” He said.

“I’m afraid, Agent Mulder.” Both the agents frozen at the growling voice that came from the shadows of the tunnel, “The only funeral will be yours.”

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Read the final part here!

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are appreciated!

We’re coming up on the ending, what’s gonna happen?!

Bray Road taglist:

@theres-a-dog-outside-omg

@nyotamalfoy

@bi-andready-tocry

#fox mulder x reader #xfiles fic #maxineswritingcenter

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volahre · 3 years

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babe for the weekend - chapter 4

When an old friend from high school invites her to her wedding and she brings Mulder along as her plus one, Scully reflects on her life, her place in the world, how much she has changed and what she really wants.

I originally started this to explore the topic of growing up, aging and feeling like you are missing out within the character of Dana Scully, but it has become so much more than that - but read for yourself!

chapter four

Between the vineyards lay a small cottage with a large meadow which Dorothy and Robert had chosen to be the location for their celebration. The ceremony had gone smoothly, a teenage girl who turned out to be not only Robert’s niece but also a piano virtuoso contributed to the celebratory atmosphere with pieces by Handel and Bach.

“Champagne, juice, or mixed?”, one of the waitresses asked Scully once she had gotten up from her chair and straightened her dress. Smiling, she thanked the waitress and took one of the champagne glasses while waiting for Mulder to follow her. “To the newlyweds?” she asked once they stood facing each other. “And to love”, Mulder answered, looking straight into her eyes with an expression she could not quite read. It was new, something she had only seen appearing on his face recently.

“And how do you know Dorothy and Robert?”, an old familiar voice appeared behind Scully as she was waiting for the buffet. She turned around and saw Marcus speaking to Mulder. Great. She took a deep breath. “He’s with me”, she said and put on a smile, looking at the face of the man she once, though much younger, more inexperienced, and certainly more naïve had called the love of her life.

“Oh, Dana!” Marcus laughed. “It’s good to see you”.

She kept on the smile. “It’s good to see you too.” This really was strange, to say the least. What was she even supposed to say? Gesturing behind Marcus, she cleared her throat. “Have you…come here with anybody?”

“Oh yeah,” he replied, a particular glow appeared on his face. “Wife and two kids, they’re waiting at our table. I can introduce you later if you want”.

She nodded. “I’m sure we’ll find each other again.”

“But tell me about your company, Dana”, Marcus said before looking at Mulder. “Marcus Watson”

Mulder took Marcus’ extended hand. “Fox Mulder. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Fox”, Marcus said. “I see you guys are not married yet?”

“No!”, Scully said, way too abruptly. Trying to conceal it with a laugh, she continued, ignoring the look Mulder gave her. “No, we’re not married.”

“I see”, Marcus smiled. “Where did you guys meet, if I may ask?”

“Oh, we met- “, Mulder started, but Scully interrupted him. “We work together at the FBI”.

“The FBI?”, Marcus appeared a little startled. “Last time I checked, I heard you went off to med school.”

Scully let out a small sigh. “I did, but I ended up in forensic science. But he,” she gestured at Mulder, “has a degree in psychology. Didn’t you do that too, Marcus? How’s it going with that?”

“Well, it’s going amazing, if you ask me! Got myself a practice set up and together with a few colleagues we’re focusing on dysfunctional families. But you, FBI, huh?”, Marcus looked at Mulder, who shrugged with one hand in his pocket.

“Well, I just hope I can help people find closure. And some minds are hard to get into, frankly. And sometimes it’s not even the minds as much as something greater than what could be limited to just one person.”

Scully looked at Mulder, surprised he had not brought up the specifics of what they did. “Mulder and I, we work together on a division called the X-Files.”, she said. “Cases that have been deemed unsolvable.”

“And you solve them?”, Marcus asked.

“Well, I’d like to think so”, Scully said, looking at the floor.

“Often times it’s about perspective,” Mulder said. “Some might appear unsolvable if you look at them from a traditional standpoint, but I like to think that if you go a little outside the box and look at them with an open mind you might actually find out the truth.”

“Ah, I get you, buddy”, Marcus said. “I have to deal with some real monsters as well, if you know what I mean!”, he laughed.

Scully frowned as Mulder laughed, though appearing highly uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose that’s different…”

“Come on, Mulder.”, she said, pulling him by his arm. “Buffet’s ready.”

They were seated across from each other at the end of a table full of people she didn’t know, which didn’t bother her much as she hoped it would spare her of more awkward conversations.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think he would be like this”, Scully said later as they were eating their dessert.

“Hey it’s fine, Scully”, he said, grinning. “Sometimes your adolescent crushes grow up to become real monsters”.

She chuckled at his attempt to imitate Marcus. “Shut up, Mulder.”

“No”, he said, causing her to throw a confusing grin at him.

“You’ve got pudding on your face, wait”, he grabbed his napkin, and before she could say anything, he leaned over the table and carefully cleaned up the edge of her mouth. Remembering that she had to breathe, she took in a sharp inhale and felt a blush appearing on her face again. In the spot where his fingers had almost touched her, so close to her mouth, she felt a slight tingle.

“Thank you”, she said, hoping he would not question her blushing after him touching her. He had been invading her personal space for years and she had gotten away with barely blushing at most. So why was this happening now?

“I need to get some air”, she said quietly after finishing her dessert and got up, grabbing her purse.

“You okay?”, Mulder had gotten up almost as fast, his eyes filled with concern as they found hers.

“Yeah, I just need to get away from all the people for a bit”, she said, quickly looking away.

Her heels clicked on the asphalt as she walked down the little street that had led them to the location. After about two minutes, she found a bench with a view overlooking the hills. If she stayed for a few hours, she might be able to watch the sun go down from here, judging by the way it stood now.

Taking a deep breath, she took off her shoes and relaxed her back against the wood. The whole idea seemed like a mistake. Coming here after years of barely keeping in contact and therefore not knowing how to talk to anybody, bringing Mulder and putting him in an even more awkward situation than hers, it was like she had wanted to please people but had ended up just being selfish. Selfish, Dana. Her entire life, her entire career she had tried not to be selfish, always acted in the favour of others. But now her feelings, her fear had gotten in the way. Selfish.

She worried about Mulder. What was she even going to tell him? Sorry I’m behaving so weirdly; I just saw a guy I had a crush on almost 20 years ago and it made me realize that – but what had it made her realize? She had not come to any conclusion as to why the situation had felt so incredibly awkward, not just because of Marcus, but because of the combination of Marcus and Mulder. Apart from….no, definitely not. And this was certainly the worst place to consider the matters of her own heart. This was a celebration of love, but not hers.

Love. She recalled that moment in the hospital a few months earlier, when they were working in interior terrorism and Mulder had gone on a reckless spree diving right into the Atlantic Ocean, ending up drugged and exhausted. He had told her he loved her then, and she had brushed it off as a side effect of the drugs. But later, on her way home, she had recalled the moment with a particular sting in her stomach.

“Here you are”.

She looked up and saw the man in question standing there, his eyes – what colour were they now? – glistening in the light of the warm Californian sun.

“Oh hey”, she said quietly.

“The seat next to you taken?”, he said in his usual sarcastic tone but she couldn’t help noticing that there was also an obvious softness to his voice.

She chuckled. “Sit down if you want to,” she said, taking her purse so he had the space to sit.

“You wanna talk?”, he asked once he had sat down, putting his arm across the backrest behind her.

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s just all so much…so much more than I expected. All the old feelings that never really went anywhere, so much left unresolved, washed out by years of growing apart.”

He nodded, that unreadable expression on his face again. “I’m sorry if this is too personal, but do you still like him?”

“No!”, she said just as quickly as she had earlier, almost as if she was speaking out of reflex. She despised herself. “No”, she said again, with a slight smile. “I think we really have grown into two completely different people with completely different lives. Plus, he seems happily married and has kids”, she sighed, realizing that this was another aspect in which she could never be quite like those people.

“Hey, shhh, it’s alright,” Mulder said, his hand gently rubbing her shoulder in small motions. As if her brain didn’t already feel like it had melted all sense of rational thought away, the electric signals he was sending through her body with his touch was doing the rest. Slowly, she leaned into his embrace and looked up at him. “I’m so sorry, Mulder.”

“For what?”, he said quietly. His arm had followed her and was now gently stroking her upper arm.

“For making you go through this crap”, she laughed. “You don’t know anybody, which arguably puts you in an even more awkward situation than me, and now I’m running away, and it just feels like I am making this whole thing about myself.”

“Now I’m gonna have to stop you right there, Scully,” he said, “you are not making this about yourself. In fact, I don’t think that many people even noticed you leaving. And even if they did, they probably think you just got a phone call or something. And hey,” he continued after a little pause, “I really don’t mind being here with you. Trust me. I’d rather do this with you than have you go through this on your own.”

“Mulder” she said and shook her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I hope I can take this as a compliment?”, he said, and she could feel him smile against her hair.

“Anyways, what I wanted to say…” he continued, “Weddings don’t have to be perfect, Scully, and it’s okay if you need some air sometimes. But as I was leaving, they were setting up the dancefloor, so I thought I’d let you know.”

She sat up and smiled at him. “Thank you.”

#babe for the weekend #my fics #my prose #my writing #mulder and scully #msr #msr fanfic #the x files #the x files fanfic #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillian anderson #david duchovny

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scullydubois · 3 years

Text

Only the Light Ch. 14

As the new year beckons Scully to put her life back together, she and Mulder share a Valentine's 'anti-date' on the Hoover Building rooftop.

TW for brief discussion of disordered eating.

--------------

The new year struck Scully with a particular melancholy. 1994 was, to put it plainly, one of the worst--if not the worst--year of her life. Even without her disappearance, it would earn that title. Her father’s untimely passing and the brief but brutal closure of the X-Files wrenched the few good things left from her fingers. Factor in the four weeks in late summer that she has no memory nor knowledge of, and you’ll understand why Scully has taken to calling it her year on the dark side of the moon.

Of course, the aftershocks of her abduction are still felt every day. Flipping the calendar does nothing to remedy that. At her last appointment, Dr. Zapolsky noticed that Scully’s weight had decreased rather sharply from previous visits and made the point that “rapid weight loss can stop ovulation,” which Scully interpreted as kicking her while she was down. That’s not exactly fair, after all. Technically, her period stopped well before she decided to restrict herself.

It’s odd how it happened. Her weight was fine before her abduction; slender but within the healthy range for her height. Even when she was returned, it had only dropped a couple pounds, as if they fed her...as if they cared. She found that hard to believe. In the months afterward, she sought a physical representation of her mental anguish, and since she and food were never on the best terms to begin with, the choice was simple.

The other day, she had to punch an extra hole in all her belts to hold them steady on her hips. She knows the consequences of this; she’ll live them and accept it.

There has been some beneficial progress. Dr. Zapolsky started Scully on low-dose birth control around Thanksgiving, hoping that it would balance her hormones and regulate her periods. It has, in fact, brought back her cycle, something that Scully did not expect. She gave Melissa her leftover tampons in October. Now Melissa buys enough for the two of them and insists that Scully doesn’t owe her a dime. Scully is too grateful for this to speak about it.

Her downward spiral reached a snag when she realized that smoking would make her birth control ineffective, shortly after her and Mulder’s Christmas Eve smoke break. She ditched the cigarettes, mad at herself for taking a month to read the disclaimer (she’s a doctor for god’s sake, she should know better!), yet glad to have an out. Smoking was a habit she exercised because she could. It won’t hurt her anytime soon, and millions of others do it, so where’s the harm? That was her thinking. As soon as she had a reason to stop, she did, and it felt a bit like jumping from a runaway train just before it skids off the tracks.

So she is better, and she is worse. Which really means she is the same as she was. That is the conclusion she carries into 1995’s frosts and thaws.

There is one thing she is certain of, something that she hadn’t given much thought to until the one year anniversary of her father’s death. She needs her faith back. She’s always practiced in a cyclical pattern, her devoutness orbiting in and out like the moon around the Earth. Sometimes closer and brighter, sometimes farther away, sometimes nowhere to be found.

She has to believe it will come back; it always does. She was made in God’s image, and her father’s. This is both a blessing and a curse.

But no one can be God, and she can’t be her father either. His faith never wavered. If hers was the moon--fickle and subject to doubt--his was the sun, steady and warming everything around it. This was a quality she was envious of, and then guilty in her blasphemy. She has never managed to feel completely content inside the bounds of piety like he could. She’s constantly shaking the devil off her back, then repenting for it, then wondering if it were all worth it. What if...what if...what if...she isn’t fully persuaded in her beliefs, and she knows that this is the worst sin of all. Like Mulder though, she wants to believe, and shouldn’t that count for something?

Imperfection is allowed. Understood, even. Doubt is not as permissible. “He who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind,” the Bible says. Sometimes Scully takes that to mean she should walk into the ocean. Then she realizes that would be blasphemous too.

Some people believe without trying. Her father was one of those. Mulder too, in a different way. She used to think that she was too. Now she’s not so sure. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” How many times has she read that line? Has she ever lived up to it? She’s seen and still not believed. Certainly that means she’s going to Hell.

Or is she already there?...She wonders that sometimes. Maybe she didn’t make it back from the other side. Maybe the devil just wanted her to believe that she had, and so he’d constructed some kind of diorama of Scully’s life that would go wrong bit by bit, boiling her like a gradually heated bathtub. No resting in peace for the unbeliever.

She can’t imagine a worse punishment than all the potentially good things in her life getting dismantled beyond her control. She’d rather never experience them at all than know their joy then watch them fall apart. Missy would kill her if she heard this, but you can’t please everybody.

It is at this point that Scully embarks on her chosen method of religious self-flagellation: going through the Ten Commandments and determining whether she’s violated them. Count up your sins and God won’t have to; practically the tagline of the Catholic faith.

She thinks she does okay with the first few. She has no idols, she honors her mother and father, and Mulder knows not to call her on Sunday mornings. Of course, the part about not taking the Lord’s name in vain can be tricky, but she’s working on it.

Number five is where it gets dicey. Thou shalt not kill. She imagines that she wouldn’t, not on purpose, but the circumstances of her job worry her. God makes no exceptions for self-defense. And what if she were ever to be a true doctor? If she couldn’t save a patient, does that mean she killed them?

Her father was in the Navy. He never killed anyone.

Number six...well, she doesn’t mention that often. Few people know about Daniel. Missy is one. Scully harbors a genuine shame regarding that time in her life, not so much because of Daniel, but because she was complicit in hurting his wife and daughter. It was a young, foolish mistake that she never wants to make again.

She feels pretty good about number seven. The only thing she has ever stolen is one of Charlie’s matchbox cars when they were kids. She was uninterested in Missy’s hand-me-down Barbies and Raggedy Ann dolls. The boys’ toys were much cooler. She trusted the Lord enough to know that He wouldn’t hold something she did when she was seven against her. Besides, she gave it back when Charlie figured out it was missing. She just wishes he had let her play with him after that.

Number eight: thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. She considers honesty one of her best qualities. She sure hopes God does too. She’s not the most open person, but that’s different from lying…

Nine is a lost cause, considering six had been broken. This was her least favorite part of her family’s religion: the power it had to cause her shame about her own body, her own desires. She had her first crisis of faith over this at age 14. Missy comforted her with something she has never forgotten: “The original sin was the serpent’s deception, not Eve’s desire. Even God pins it on the woman.” She knew her sister could only say that because she didn’t truly believe and wasn’t trying to, but it had stuck with Scully through many moments when she needed it.

And finally, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. She supposes she did this with the matchbox cars when she was seven, but in literal terms that’s about it. Metaphorically, she does this all the time and struggles with why she feels so inadequate. Her sister’s confidence, Mulder’s tenacity, her father’s faith...The ideal Dana Scully would have all of these. The real one is a work in progress.

--------------------

So it goes that she finds herself prepping a case in the office on Valentine’s Day. Mulder’s scheduled to fly to Florida the next morning to investigate attacks in a community of circus performers. He’s convinced it’s the Fiji Mermaid, she’s convinced he needs to get his head checked; the usual. This is one comfort Scully can always rely on. No matter how utterly twisted her life gets, she will always think Mulder is crazy, and he will always go along with it.

The occasion of the day goes unmentioned until what Mulder lovingly refers to as “closing time,” which is not a specific time but rather the point that he finally gives up for the day, usually hastened by his partner’s prodding. Scully has learned the signs of his dwindling tenacity by now. She glances at the clock as he pulls his glasses off his head and tosses a sunflower seed in the wastebasket, pleasantly surprised that it reads only 5:15. He catches her checking, his eyes--amber today--meeting hers.

His lips curl in amusement. “You got a date or something?”

“No,” she blinks, feeling like a child caught taking a cookie from the jar. Her cheeks grow hot, threatening to make a scene. “I figured you did, since you’re finishing up so early.”

Mulder straightens his stack of papers, clinking them against the desk obnoxiously. “Think again, buckaroo.”

He’s taken to calling her that lately. Neither one of them is sure why, it just popped into his mind one day and stuck. It makes her feel like a heroine in some 70s Western shoot-out flick who wrangles all the bad guys and locks’em in the county jail. She’s thankful that someone can see her for what she could be rather than what she is. It helps her see that too.

He stuffs his papers in a manila folder, then rises from behind the desk and stoops toward the backpack he prefers to a briefcase. (She called him a kindergartener once because of it and he remarked that he’d ‘rather be a kindergartener than an adult.’ She couldn’t argue with that.) “Valentine’s Day isn’t really observed under the Fox Mulder calendar,” he says, unzipping the bag and putting the folder in. “Halloween and Thanksgiving, those are my holy days.”

“You worship at the shrine of the food pyramid,” Scully smirks.

“Yes indeed. Wait--” Scully’s gaze flicks to him, genuinely concerned. He dissolves her uncertainty with a boyish grin. “--does the food pyramid include candy?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s not deeply felt. She misses these flat-lining comedic routines of his, usually at their best when they’re putzing through some tumble-weed town where the bathroom stalls at the gas station don’t lock. He loves being the funniest person in a ten-mile radius, and that’s not a satisfaction he can have in DC. She wonders if he tells these lame jokes to strangers now, or if they were just for her.

“Speaking of food,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair, “you wanna grab dinner?”

Scully’s forehead creases. “Like, in a restaurant?”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna be that forward, but I guess we could take it to yours or mine...”

Scully laughs lightly, wrapping her arms around herself, fingers caressing her bony elbows. “We’ve already covered what day it is,” she demures. “Everyone having dinner is going to be on a date.”

“You’re right...the restaurant probably won’t let us in unless we make out in front of the hostess,” he deadpans.

“Not to mention that we don’t have any reservations…”

“Well, making out might remedy that, depending on the hostess.”

She gives him her ‘last straw’ look--crossed arms, arched eyebrow, stinging glare--and he raises his hands in surrender. “I’ll stick to slipping a twenty, then.”

Scully uncrosses her arms and slinks toward her purse rather languishly. “No restaurants, Mulder. It’s too much trouble on a holiday.”

“I sure hope you didn’t mistake my suggestion as an invitation to Mulder’s Downhome Country Kitchen, cause that place is not Michelin star rated.”

“I’m well aware. I’ve seen the menu.”

“Is Chateau de Scully open tonight?” he asks with an eyebrow raise that his partner couldn’t have missed if she tried--and she did.

“Well, the chef is celebrating Valentine’s Day with her girlfriend in Oregon, so you’d be waiting awhile for your meal.”

“There’s no back-up chef? I don’t know, someone who may need to feed herself while the chef is away?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t serve the public.”

“Ouch.”

He plucks their respective coats off the rack, folding his own over his arm and throwing his partner’s over her shoulders. She jumps just the tiniest bit--she probably thinks he didn’t notice, so he’ll pretend he didn’t--then slips her arms in the sleeves and pulls it on properly.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, avoiding eye contact.

After he’s put his own jacket on, he hoists up his backpack, fielding off his partner’s near swerve into laughter. She’s barely maintaining a straight face, and even if it’s at his expense, he loves it because unadulterated joy is something she deserves so much.

“You know what, I’ve got just the solution,” he says as he strolls out the doorway, flipping the light switch as he goes, leaving Scully scrambling in the dark.

“Hey!”

He hears her petulant voice, followed quickly by the laugh he was looking for. When she turns to him after locking the office door, her eyes are still shining from the momentary euphoria. He is so happy to know her.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place is the Smithsonian of vending machines.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And I know a door to the rooftop that never gets locked.” He flashes her a sly look, his intentions pure despite himself.

“It’s 40 degrees outside,” she counters before he can even voice his proposal.

“Sure, but we can make some fresh coffee, and there’s gotta be blankets in that storage closet of ours.” Ours. Very few things are theirs. She wishes he would say it again.

As much as her instinct is to protest, she can’t quite muster the resolve to. I mean, it checks all the boxes. It’s not a restaurant, she’d only have to eat a snack from the vending machine, and she wouldn’t have to spend Valentine’s night alone, which is a sneaky sadness that had been pressing at the back of her mind.

“Fine,” she bluffs, as if it were a great inconvenience to her. She enjoys the cat-and-mouse game, what can she say? “You find the blankets, I’ll get the coffee.”

Mulder smiles, his lips edging over his teeth in an aesthetically pleasing way that makes Scully feel like he missed his calling as a male model. Of course, this smile isn’t posed. The constant in his life is his partner’s unpredictability. Everyone thinks she’s a stone-cold skeptic, but he knows she’s an uncertain believer, and there’s no one harder to pin down than that. Her yes to his Valentine plans may as well be an admission that Bigfoot exists.

“Let’s meet by the sixth floor stairwell, okay?” he prompts, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Flashes of Christmas Eve sabotage her thoughts--her mother’s kitchen, her untidy tipsiness, Mulder just trying to iron things out. He’d touched her, and she’d lashed out at him. Reaction formation, that was the term for the defense mechanism she’d used. He knew it, probably studied it extensively. Concealing an impulse by acting out its opposite.

Instead of mentioning this, she looks him in the eyes and says, “Okay, I’ll use the coffee machine on the sixth floor then,” as if his touch hadn’t brought forth both memory and desire.

“Great. See you there.” He pulls finger guns, and she thinks that maybe this is already her best Valentine’s Day yet.

----------------------

Five stories of stairs is a long way to go with two hot mugs of coffee. Scully had hoped there would be some styrofoam cups--something she could put a lid on--but the Bureau is stingy, so she had to go all the way back to the basement, grab their coffee mugs, take the elevator back to the sixth floor, brew some dark roast (to Mulder’s probable discontent), then hope that by some miracle, they could make it to the roof.

Ever the idealist, Mulder takes the challenge in stride. Though his arms are already bundled with some comforters he found tucked away in storage (he shudders to think how old they must be), he takes the handle of his mug, squeezing the blankets snug against his chest.

“Are you sure about this?” his partner asks with her usual uneven tone. “What if we get all the way up there and the door is locked?”

“We knock and get the snipers to open the door for us,” he answers matter-of-factly.

Scully’s eyebrows shoot up. “Snipers?”

“Oh yeah, did I forget to mention? There’s a longstanding rumor about snipers on the roof that I’d like to get to the bottom of.”

His demeanor is just loose enough to make Scully question whether he is in fact kidding. A conversational casualness permeates all of his sensational soliloquies because to him, the phenomena he’s discussing should be regarded as a fact of the world. If he ever launched into an indifferent lecture on the subject, she’d know he was bluffing.

Having never heard the rumor herself, she decides this is simply a figment of his overactive imagination. She’ll play along. “Well, if it’s anything like the talk of you being spooky, then it doesn’t look good for us…” she teases, her own smirk eliciting an identical one from her partner.

Masking his impatience by embodying the role of the gentleman, Mulder uses his free hand to prop open the stairwell door, ushering his partner through. The landing of each story has one stray light bulb, there for show more than anything. Most of them are either flickering or burned out, the agents discover as they inch their way up, one slowly taken step at a time. Step, pause for the coffee to settle, hope it doesn’t breach its container, step: that’s the process they adopt for approximately 100 steps in the cold Hoover stairwell. There are many ways to show love; Mulder bets that you wouldn’t find this in any lame self-help book.

“Do you think Romeo would have done this for Juliet?” he muses.

“Depends on what he was expecting once they made it to the top,” Scully quips, the edges of her lips turning up slightly.

Mulder nods, perpetually amused by her (too) infrequent jaunts into suggestive territory. “My man really got ahead of himself with the whole ‘dying for her’ schtick.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Mulder eyes her. “Actually, I think it was you who was going to die for me.”

“Not for you, because of you.” Her statement is neither packed with malice nor free of blame. “There’s a difference.”

She may as well have shot him at point blank range; then at least she could see the bleeding. She didn’t mean to be so blunt, but he gave her the perfect setup. Mulder cauterizes his own wound, disguising his pain as a joke. “Damn, I was finally moving past that!”

“At least one of us was,” she says, her voice fluttering, and he knows she’s just teasing, but god, what if she’s cauterizing her own hidden wounds?

They reach the door labelled ‘roof,’ and Mulder can’t decipher what happens first, him putting his hand on the door handle or her placing a chilly hand on his cheek. Playing it back in his head later on he won’t even be able to figure it out-- it cut time loose from its axes in such a way.

“Are you okay, Scully?” He’s not sure why this is the first question out of his mouth, but it is.

“I need a hand warmer,” she murmurs. “The coffee’s already cooling off.”

All the while, Mulder is acutely aware that her hand’s still on his cheek and she’s got him propped against the door, and what does she want him to do with that information?

Her thumb grazes his mole, and it becomes clear to him that there are two ways this scenario could go, and if she doesn’t want the second one it’s imperative that she stop rubbing rhythmic circles into his skin.

He clears his throat. “Do you want to...do you want me to check for snipers?” Her touch continues, uninterrupted.

“Is the door unlocked?” Her voice sounds airy and far away. She probably didn’t even hear his question.

He pushes on the handle, confirming their freedom. “Yes ma’am,” he answers, fear of a sort edging him into total politeness. He is twelve tiptoeing through the too empty halls of his house, again.

“Let’s have a picnic,” she says, still light and airy, as if that weren’t the plan the entire time. Then, she breaks into sudden laughter, pulling her hand away from Mulder’s cheek in her fit. “We forgot the food!”

She is back to normal now, his steadfast Scully with a side of joy.

Half of him mourning for the otherworldly Scully and the moment that could have been, he laughs too. “There may have been some lapses in planning.”

“We can make do, can’t we?” There’s a glimmer in her eyes that suggests the moment is not as far gone as he believed.

“Cold coffee sounds like an enduring Valentine’s tradition,” he affirms.

They choose not to dwell on words like “enduring” and “tradition,” entering the chill of the Hoover Building rooftop on Valentine’s night.

------------------

They’re not that far above the city really--the Hoover’s no NYC skyscraper--but their heads are in the clouds, that’s for sure. It’s not the typical dinner date complete with melted candles and overpriced dessert and overly attentive waiters, but as it turns out, they would both hate that. After all, this is not a date, it’s a casual hangout between two coworkers who don’t have dates on Valentine’s Day. If anything, it’s an anti-date. That’s what they tell themselves.

February’s unrelenting chill swirls around them, catching Scully’s hair in playful tantrums and turning the two of them into life-size paperweights atop the blankets. More sensible people may call the night a bust, but not the Prince of Halloweentown and his esteemed guest. This unconventional adventure is exactly what they bargained for.

Scully looks to Mulder, who’s holding his coffee like it’s a beer. She smiles. That is so him.

She exhales, and her breath spells itself out on the air. She tilts her face to the sky, as if the sun might suddenly rise and bask her in its heat. Mulder notices and fixes his attention there too, happy to have an excuse to look skyward. It’s his outlet, like hers is the sea her father dedicated his life to. His preferred escape method is to fly away; hers is to drift off.

He forces himself back into the moment, here, with her, and the expanse of the sky. “I once spent fifty bucks on one of those ‘name a star’ certificates, and I can’t even see it because of the goddamn light pollution.”

“I think that’s really more about the gesture than anything else,” Scully replies, trying to soothe him as if this were actually a pressing problem. “Unless you bought it for yourself...?”

Mulder chuckles. “No, no. It was for an old girlfriend.”

Scully raises her eyebrows in amusement. “Did you name it after her?”

“No, we named it the Rhine star.”

A puzzled look passes between them. It gives him a twinge of joy that his partner is not the encyclopedia she seems to be.

“After Joseph Banks Rhine, the founder of parapsychology,” he clarifies. “We were both fascinated by the field.”

“Oh.” She turns her face back toward the sky with the feeling of a kid who missed the winning word of the spelling bee. There are times when she is grateful she does not know everything, and times when she is not. Somehow, this is both.

“I’ve thought about buying another one and naming it after Samantha,” Mulder continues, “but it feels too much like a grave marker.”

“I’d consider it a lovely tribute,” Scully counters, used to doing so. “But I’m thirty and I own my own gravestone, so take that with a grain of salt.”

It’s true--once Dana was returned, her mother couldn’t bear to look at the gravestone she’d had engraved in memory of her missing daughter, so she gave it to Mulder, who saw no logical place for it to go except the woman whose name it bore. Margaret hadn’t wanted her to know that it existed, that they’d gotten so far as considering her gone. While it brought Mulder no joy to present it to his partner, it served as a reminder of the miracle her survival was, and in such bleak times, they had both needed that.

“It doesn’t scare me--the thought of dying,” Scully says to the stars. Mulder wonders if she meant for him to hear it. He wishes he hadn’t, but he’s met with the realization that she is trying to start a conversation when her eyes look into his.

He doesn’t know where to go with this, so he toes the line between deep and sarcastic. “I thought Catholics were all about that heaven and hell stuff.”

“Yes, but…” where is the line between truth and blasphemy, she wonders? Settling herself, she starts over. “I’ve lived both on Earth, so what have I got to fear?” She turns her glance to the blanket, as if shrinking out of the Lord’s sight. “Besides, sometimes I think I’m already there.”

“Heaven?”

“No, Hell.”

He should have known. He grips the edge of his blanket, wondering why his parents had prioritized the sex talk but never explained what to do in a situation like this. He has a psychology degree, sure, but he’s as much a psychologist as she’s a physicist.

“There are periods of life, I think, where everyone feels like that,” he says in the most earnest voice he can conjure. “It’s just that nobody ever talks about it.”

“Did you feel like that with Samantha?”

Leave it to Scully to turn a personal conversation back on him.

He bites his lip. “Yeah, yeah, I did. Still do, if I think about it too long.”

“How did you...move past it?” The lights of nearby buildings reflect off her blue eyes, galaxies to his black holes. He’d give anything to sluice the pain right from her heart.

He’ll rely on his words instead, despite knowing there are depths they cannot touch. “I, uh, I didn’t really move past it, I just moved. Kept moving, I guess. I found a place where I could make progress out of my pain. Here--the X-Files.”

Scully swallows hard, knocking back tears. "That’s the issue. I feel stuck. Just completely unable to go forward. There’s a current in my brain that keeps pushing me backward.”

Mulder lets out a deep breath, trying to take both their pain with it. “Have you considered seeing a therapist?” he asks delicately. “It sounds like you may have PTSD.”

“Over what?” she practically snaps. “I don’t remember a thing.”

“That doesn’t mean you have no memories. Regression hypnosis could help recover repressed or unconscious memories, so you could understand exactly what’s bothering you.”

“You think I haven’t heard this spiel from Melissa?”

“I bet Melissa doesn’t have first-hand experience with it.”

“No, she doesn’t,” she murmurs in the tone of an apology. She knew that he had it, she had listened to the tapes. How could she let it slip her mind? It is uncouth of her to look down on his chosen method of healing.

Mulder isn’t bothered. He continues, “It helped me. Both in recalling the details of the experience, and in having a recorded recollection of it. It helped me feel less...insane.”

“Mmm.” If he were just a bit closer, she’d reach out and touch his hand.

“If anything, I wish I did it earlier.”

Scully’s understanding of him sharpens, like an ophthalmologist flipping the lens, making her vision clearer. Her gaze probes him, mutual souls recognizing mutual pain.

“Hey.” He uses his extended wingspan to touch her shoulder with the care an older sibling would show holding their baby brother for the first time. She turns her head, their faces mere inches away from each other. His eyes are a dopey brown, his breath scented with coffee.

“Yes?” she says with a coquettish flitting of her eyelashes.

“You should come back out on the road. I could use someone to shoot down all my wild whims.”

She can’t help but smile, though she keeps her mouth closed. “Tired of telling jokes to strangers who don’t laugh, are you?”

He smirks. “Well, yeah, that too.” He leans back a bit, putting enough distance between them to keep the sparks in check. “Of course, if you’re not ready, there’s no pressure. I just think you could use the change of scenery and--you know--companionship.”

She nods, looks out into the night. He’s got the pulse of her problems and the salve that could soothe them. “You’re right.” How often does he get to hear those beautiful words come out of her mouth? “I need to get out of my cocoon, and I think I’m okay enough to do that now.”

“Yeah?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, something like hope.

She laughs--catharsis manifest--and it’s like a sheen of light coming through a crack in her jagged surface. “Yeah, Mulder. I’ll make the arrangements with Skinner.”

He pumps his fists in the air. “Hallelujah!”

She hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her. Any stray thoughts she had of him being lonely she chalked up to her own delusions.

“Florida is probably a lost cause,” she notes, “but after that…”

He nods, pats her shoulder. “After that.”

To have her back meant something like freedom. The X-Files had never been anything without her. He had never been anything without her.

#oh to share a morbid conversation with your partner on a rooftop on valentines day #i struggled with this part but im quite happy with how it came out <3 #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #the x-files #txf #txf fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully #mine #thank you as always for reading and supporting

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b0oker18 · 3 years

Text

On the anniversary of ‘My Struggle IV’ I have many thoughts:

I became a fan of The X Files in 2008 when I saw ‘I want to believe’ on DVD. When I watched it I fell in love with Mulder and Scully and the strange universe that they lived in. Long story short over the next few months I watched every episode, then I watched them again and then again (and then again). Not only did I fall in love with M and S but I fell in love with the Mythology, the MOTW, and the themes of science and religion. I’m such a big fan I even (sort of) defend seasons 8 and 9 (I am very much aware of all the problems with both seasons ok lol).

I was so enthralled with this journey that these two lovely people had together! And you know what? I was somewhat happy to leave them and never see them again after ‘I want to believe’ While we didn’t get all the answers like colonization, William, etc. I was ok with that! I even had my own elaborate head canon of what happened after ‘I want to believe’. Basically it involved Gibson getting into contact with M and S to tell them that the colonists had left Earth because William was normal now (so colonization would never happen) and it also involved Mulder writing a series of memoirs that gave him a renewed sense of purpose in life, but maybe I’ll get into it another time cuz it’s a lot lol.

Anyway, one day in 2015 (I think) season 10 was officially announced and I was very happy! I thought finally we were getting closure! Then the Mulder and Scully breakup rumors came out and I knew we were in trouble, but I still wanted to give it a chance. Then Chris Carter called the “revival” series a “reimagining” and again I thought we were in trouble, but I still wanted to give it a chance.

I remember the night ‘My Struggle I’ aired. The Files fandom was SO excited and so was I. I remember loving it! Sure the entire mythology was flushed down the toilet and sure Mulder and Scully were broken up and none of things made any sense, but we got 5 more episodes! The mythology will go somewhere and Mulder and Scully will get back together. None of things happened and I felt horrible! Season 10 is the worst season of The X Files in my opinion. But I didn’t think the show would come back and somehow it was easy for me to ignore and I did for a while.

A year or so later Season 11 was announced and again the hype got to me! Finally we will get the answers to the shows original mythology and finally Mulder and Scully will get back together (noticing a theme here). Then ‘My Struggle III’ aired and it sucked! Haha. But then ‘This’ aired and OMG Dana Scully and Fox Mulder are back together as a romantic couple again! Hooray!!!! 🥳🥳🥳🎉Nope! they weren’t. 😞But that’s ok cuz next week Mulder and Scully will have sex, twice! Then the episode aired and while the episode was somewhat entertaining, it had what I feel is the single worst Mulder and Scully scene in the history of the show. Im sorry but that bed scene was horrendous! It was like two high schoolers talking about if they would still love each other after graduating. These two characters have WAY to much personal history to have any conversation even remotely like that. But they had sex twice and you know HYYYYPPPEEE ZOMGS they did it.... twice!! 😱😱😱.

‘Ghoulie’ was good but William is like a shape shifting monster now or something??? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ But dear god the acting of Gillian Anderson was TOP notch! So you know MORE HYYYPPPE!!!

‘Nothing Lasts Forever’ was kinda boring but that ending!!!! They are back together!!!! They are talking about their regrets and letting them go!!!!! YAY!!!! HYYYYPPPEEE level over 9000!! But that shit should’ve happened WAY sooner. And is as fans deserve to know what Scully whispered.

Then we get to ‘My Stuggle IV’. We got car chases! We got Mulder shooting like 20 people! We got Scully doing.... stuff! We got Chris Carter doubling down on William not being the true son of Mulder! But who cares SCULLY IS PREGGOOOSSSSS!!!😱😱😱😱. Greatest series finale EVERRRRR.!!! I got the Mulder and Scully happy ending I have always wanted y’all! Ty Chris Carter!!! 🥳🥳🎉🎉🥳

Yeah, I thought that way for months. Then I walked away from the show for a year or so and I honestly didn’t think much of it! Then the “revival” came back into my conscience. My “revival” HHYYPPEE brain had left me. I started objectively thinking about the revival. Literally nothing made any sense. Mulder and Scully are back in the FBI in there 50’s? With no training? As Mulder is clinically depressed?? Mulder just believes some random person that alien colonization is all bull shit and it was all evil white dudes? This man has been lied to his entire life yet he just believes? That ain’t my Mulder. Where was all that character development from the original series? It certainly wasn’t in Chris Carter’s show bible (I think only a few people will understand that joke lol).

I don’t want to make this post much longer so what I’m trying to get at is the revival as a whole was noting more than a soft reboot. That REALLY bothered me for months when I came back to this show. It’s so goddamn disrespectful to the original fandom. There are still so many fans that care about the original mythology and Mulder and Scully, we wanted to see both progress into new and interesting ways. Instead it’s all burnt down to the ground. Sure Mulder and Scully are cute in the revival series, but what’s it really worth when they aren’t truly together. I get the show needs angst, but at what cost? Breaking them up is the easy way out. That shit hurt me. Same with the mythology, Carter just deletes all of it so he can tell a story that would connect to a new audience. Instead it pissed off just about everyone.

I’ll never, ever begrudge any fan for loving the revival. Actually I’m a little envious, but now that I look at it objectively I just can not reconcile the new Mulder and Scully we got and the new mythology that were being told. So for me the “true” X Files ended after ‘I want to Believe’. Mulder is writing his books, finding his new purpose in life. Scully is still working as a doctor helping children get better. Colonization will never happen and William will have a happy life with his loving adoptive parents. Sure maybe the rest of Mulder and Scullys life may be rather dull. But in my heart of hearts it’s what I believed they longed for, it’s what I longed for after I first saw ‘I Want to Believe’. So I’ll give it to them, they deserve it. I’ll love this show forever. 💜

#the x files #msr #mulder and scully #dana scully #fox mulder #mulder #scully #the x files season 10 #the x files season 11 #my stuggle iv #thanks for reading #I need to learn how to edit #I think this may be the last time I talk ever talk about the revival at length like this #writing this down has made me feel pretty damn good #I love this show forever

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agathabridgerton · 3 years

Text

amare et discordia

AO3

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: F/M

Fandom: The X-Files

Relationship: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully

Characters: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully

Additional Tags: Season/Series 08, Episode: s08e17 Empedocles, Marriage Proposal, Therapy, mulder goes to the therapist and then actually talks to scully!, Domestic Fox Mulder/Dana Scully, they’re very soft, Developing Relationship, Pregnancy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Missing Scene(s)

Summary:

“I went to my therapist,” he started, wringing his hands together. Scully frowned and set down her tea to grab his hand, smoothing her thumb over the back of it. “I told her how...off I’ve been feeling since I came back. I told her a lot of things. She told me that the only way I can get closure is to talk to you.”

“I’m listening.” Scully smoothed some of his hair over in a show of comfort and support, and Mulder lifted her hand up to his lips, ever grateful for her patience.

He feels...strangely empty. By all rights, Mulder should feel elated—he’s alive, he’s healthy, Scully’s alive, and she’s pregnant. But therein lies the problem. “I just—I feel like I don’t fit into her life anymore. I agreed to be the father of her child but now I don’t even know who the father of her child is. And—and I think I feel some sort of guilt? For not being by her side when she needed me.”

Mulder took a breath, and his therapist took the opportunity to speak. “Well, the fact that you can identify what you feel is extremely good. The first step in solving a problem is identifying it, as the saying goes.” She looked down at her notes, flipping to a previous session’s page. “You’ve told me that you’ve always felt this pressure to fill Samantha’s shoes in addition to your own, and from what I’m hearing, this guilt you’re feeling might be aided by your feeling of failure towards your parents.”

He looked up and leaned back on the couch, feeling so much at once. “That makes sense.” Mulder sighed. “I want to be a part of Dana’s life, no matter how she came to conceive that child. I just don’t know how to do that.” He laughed dryly. “A few years ago, we were going to this FBI seminar in Florida on communication, and I told her that we didn’t need it because we already understood each other. I feel like we don’t understand each other anymore, though. We used to mesh together so well, but now...now we’re out of sync. I just want things to go back to the way they used to be.”

Mulder reached for the tissues on the coffee table and blew his nose, using another to soak up his tears.

Mulder’s therapist leaned forward. “My advice is this: talk to Dana. Good communication is the foundation of any strong, lasting relationship. The only way to find closure is to tell her how you feel.” Mulder nodded, rubbing his face with his hands. “And one last thing, Fox: going through the stages of grief is completely normal after what you’ve been through. You lost six months of your life and came back to see how much you’ve missed. Give yourself time. I’d like to see you again in two weeks.”

“Alright.”

Mulder formed a plan and executed it—sort of: he bought Scully a ring, consulting her mother for her ring size and blessing; he wrapped the box and put a bow on it, giving himself time to take in what he was doing; he went over to Scully’s apartment and gave it to her before they had to leave for her Lamaze class. Of course, everything went to shit. According to Scully, she had a partial abruption, but she and the baby were alright. It was a weight off of Mulder’s shoulders, so he allowed himself to relax and embrace the moment. I’m going to be a father.

He formed a new plan: go to Scully’s apartment; give her the ring, still inside the wrapped box; talk out his feelings; reacquaint himself with her. Mulder was a tried and true atheist, but in the elevator to her apartment, he indulged in a brief plea to God for his plan B to go through without a hitch. He stood in front of the door and took a deep breath before knocking three times.

“Who is it?” came Scully’s muffled voice.

“Elvis,” Mulder replied, unlocking the door with his key and shutting it quietly behind him. “Hi. I ordered pizza, with your favorite toppings.”

“Oh, no...” she pouted, walking over to him with a mug of tea in hand. “I just ate.” She gave him a pitying laugh.

“More for me, then!” He stepped to her side and leaned down to press a kiss to Scully’s head before sitting down on the couch. The gift was right where he left it, unopened. “Come on. I want to talk to you.” Mulder patted the couch next to him, looking over at her.

“What about?” Scully took a sip of her tea and sat to his left, wiggling until she was comfortable.

“I’m listening.” Scully smoothed some of his hair over in a show of comfort and support, and Mulder lifted her hand up to his lips, ever grateful for her patience.

“I...I told her that I want to be a part of your life, no matter what—no matter how your child was conceived.”

“Oh, Mulder...” Her eyes became watery and Mulder plowed on, knowing that he had to get it all out.

“I told her that I feel guilty because I wasn’t there when you found out you were pregnant, nor when you had to go through most of this pregnancy by yourself. I told her that we used to be so in-sync, so complementary to each other, but that since I’ve been back, our relationship has been off-kilter. She said it’s normal to go through the stages of grief, since I lost about six months of my life. And I know it’s inevitable that, after what we’ve both been through, we’re not going to be...” He paused, searching for the right words. “...that our relationship’s not going to be the same as it was before. I want—” Mulder’s voice broke and tears flooded his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks. “—I want things to go back to how they used to be. I want to go back to when we met so I can do things right and protect you as I swore to myself I would. This isn’t the life you or I imagined and I don’t know how to make it good, Dana. I don’t know how to protect you or your child. I don’t know how to be there for you two when I can’t be here for myself.”

“Fox...” Scully murmured, pulling him close until he was lying across the couch, his head nestled between her breasts and abdomen. “Some—um—” She sniffled and wiped her eyes with one hand, her other smoothing his hair in a calming motion. It had been so long since someone held him. “Somehow, when we were together, I ovulated, and we—we created a child. Our child. Our son, Mulder.” Scully took a deep breath before continuing. “What matters is that you’re here now. Life never goes according to plan; the best we can do is work with what we’ve got. And what we’ve got is each other. We’ve got friends and family and knowledge.”

Mulder closed his eyes and brought one hand to Scully’s abdomen, stroking her skin underneath her silk pajama top with infinite delicacy. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“No, but you’ve shown me for years. I’ve always known, Fox. I’ve always known.”

“Well,” he started, sitting up with a small smile on his face, “I love you to infinity and beyond.” Mulder pressed a kiss to her lips as she laughed into it, reciprocating.

“Quoting Toy Story, are we?” Scully teased with a grin, and it looked to Mulder like she was an angel.

“It’s the truth, though. Toy Story just stole my line. I loved you to infinity and beyond before ’95, Scully.” He smiled as someone knocked on the door, which he got up to answer. “That’ll be the pizza guy. Looks like I’ll have to be the bearer of bad news.”

“Shut up, Mulder,” she laughed, and he paid for the pizza, setting it on the coffee table.

“Do you want the leftovers?” he asked, and then laughed, shaking his head. “That’s a stupid question. I’m here more often than not, anyways. If it’s gone tomorrow, though, I’ll know it was you.” Mulder pressed a kiss to Scully’s stomach, reveling in the feeling that things were starting to fall into place for him. “Do you have names picked out?”

“Maybe...” she responded, taking a sip of her tea with an expression on her face that reminded him starkly of when she took him for breakfast after he’d been detained investigating the Jersey Devil, all the way back in ’93.

“Scully...”

“Mulder...” He took a bite of his pizza and chewed, giving her puppy eyes. “No! It’s a surprise. Besides, you already know the sex, which you can’t tell anyone, because that’s also supposed to be a surprise.”

“Alright, alright,” Mulder relented, finishing off his slice in record time.

“Why do you practically inhale your food? Don’t you like to take your time? It’s not even healthy to just shove it all down.”

“You’re just jealous that you have a small mouth and take too long to eat.”

Scully fake-gasped and brought her hand to her heart. “I do not!”

“Mmmmmm, I don’t know about that. With all the salads you eat, you just haven’t had practice. When we went out for ribs on a case once, it took you much longer than me to finish yours off, and you spilled sauce on your face that I had to wipe off.” Mulder shoveled another slice into his mouth as Scully laughed, sitting back against the couch.

“I wish I was hungry. You haven’t really seen how fast I eat now, and that pizza looks good...”

“I’m sure it won’t be that long until you’re hungry again. What did you eat before I came over?”

“A sandwich,” Scully replied, hands coming to rest on her stomach. “It was just a snack.”

“You’re adorable. Oh, did you forget about my gift?” Mulder wiped the grease off his fingers and face before reaching for it, where it rested on the table behind the couch.

“Of course I didn’t forget, Fox. I was waiting for you so I could open it.” She gave him a smile and proceeded to open it, taking the bow he’d stuck on top and placing it on top of her stomach. When the wrapping paper was carefully peeled away and Scully was finally allowed to open the box, no interruptions this time around, she gasped. “Mulder... How do you know my ring size?”

“I asked your mother. She, um, she gave me her blessing and said she’d help plan... If that’s what you want, of course. I know with everything going on, it might be a lot, and we’ve never been much of a normal couple...” Mulder gave her a nervous smile, wishing he had some sunflower seeds to pop in his mouth to distract himself.

“Oh, Mulder... Yes, my answer is yes!” She grinned at him and put the ring on her finger. It was about the same color as her cross necklace and shaped to look like it was several different lengths of metal in a never-ending circle. Scully cupped his face with her hands and kissed him, tears in her eyes. “I love you so much. So much.”

“I love you, too. You and our son.”

#the x files #fanfiction #txf fic #txf fanfic #msr #dana scully #fox mulder #mulder and scully #x files #txf #mine #late s8 fic

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mldrgrl · 5 years

Text

How Many Tropes Can One Story Hold?

by: mldrgrl Rated:PG Paring: Mulder and Scully Summary: You want one bedfic? You want snowed in? You want sick!fic? You want drunken confessions? You want a plot twist? You got it.

He thought he could stay ahead of the storm. At least, that’s what he told his partner when they set out on the drive from Pittsfield to home. What should take five hours, tops, had verged on six and they weren’t even halfway there. Unforeseen road closures and detours had set them back and the winter storm swiftly swooped in to cause chaos on the highways.

Scully had fallen asleep almost out of the gate. She’d been quiet that morning at the police station, yawning frequently and stretching her neck muscles. Mulder assumed she hadn’t slept well, but didn’t ask.

Visibility had gotten steadily worse throughout the drive. Snow was falling so rapidly the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up and the wind wasn’t helping. Mulder knew he had to stop, but he’d promised Scully he’d have her home for the weekend.

“Where are we?” she murmured, stretching and blinking out of slumber. He glanced over in time to see her wince and run her hand down the front of her throat.

“Not far from Culpeper,” he answered. “It’s been...a challenging drive.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Her voice was raspy. She rubbed her brow.

He shrugged. “Not much you could do about it.” He paused as the steering wheel pulled to the left under his hands and took his foot off the accelerator to avoid fishtailing. “Uh, I think it might be a good idea to find a motel for the night though.”

“You probably should’ve stopped ages ago.”

“I really thought I could get you home.”

She nodded and then winced again and gripped her neck with one hand. He couldn’t take his focus off the road, but he gave her a few concerned glances.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“My throat hurts,” she stated. “Glands are swollen. I was lethargic this morning, muscles aching.” She put the back of her hand up to her forehead and then turned it down and pressed it to her cheek. “I believe I have a fever.”

Mulder risked taking one hand off the steering wheel to reach over and put the flat of his hand against Scully’s forehead. Her eyes closed and she made a soft humming noise. He took his hand back.

“Next place I see, I’ll stop,” he said.

Ten minutes later, approaching white-out conditions, Mulder was able to turn the car off the highway towards a red neon arrow that flashed like a beacon of salvation. The short road was treacherous and dark, but he managed to follow the grooves of snowed-over tire tracks and creep along to a small, clapboard house. He parked alongside a row of pine trees, frosty branches trembling in the wind.

“Is it a bed and breakfast?” Scully asked.

“Stay in here and keep warm,” Mulder said, pulling his gloves on. “I’ll find out what the situation is.”

He took a moment to brace himself, and then he pushed the door open and stepped out of the car. Immediately, he was pelted in the face with snow, but the wind was so fierce it felt like sand. He hunched his shoulders and turned the collar of his jacket up as he hustled towards the stairs of a wraparound porch. His loafers were useless and within a few steps, his feet were cold and wet. He stomped the snow away at the door and knocked just below a brass plate that read MANAGER. While he waited for an answer, he tucked his hands under his armpits and hugged his arms against his sides.

The door swung open and a stout, grey-haired lady clamped her hand on Mulder’s forearm and tugged him forward. He stumbled across the threshold and the door slammed shut behind him. The room was small and dimly lit, just a square closed-off space with a countertop and barely enough room to fit two people.

“What in tarnation are you doing out on a night like this?” the lady asked. She stared up at him with her thick, white eyebrows furrowed.

“Hoping for a vacancy,” he answered. “Are you the motel or did we miss it?”

“You found us. Lucky for you, got one cabin left.”

“Cabin?”

“Six of them around back. Can’t see ‘em on account of the trees and the snow.”

“Okay, well we’ll take it.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and my partner.”

The woman squinted at him and crossed her arms. “You all married?”

“Well, we work together.”

“Cuz I don’t rent out to unwed couples. It ain’t decent or respectable.”

“And we are also married,” he quickly said.

“Alright then.” The woman finally stepped away from Mulder and walked back behind the counter. She placed a guestbook on the countertop and slid it towards Mulder. “Sign there, I’ll get you a key. It’ll be $40 for the night, cash or check. I don’t take no American Express.”

“Um.” Mulder took the glove off his right hand and dipped into his breast pocket for his wallet. Luckily, he had cash on him, which he pulled out and slid across the counter.

“You want a receipt?”

“Sure.” He already knew there’d be no way he could expense a single cabin to their last case, but he’d take the receipt as a memento for the unusual place and occasion. He signed the guest book Mr. & Mrs. Mulder, almost chuckling to himself at the strangeness of it.

“That’s for you.” The woman gave Mulder a handwritten receipt and a key on a brown plastic holder shaped like a diamond with the number 4 etched into it. “Pull the car on up a bit and make a left past the lamppost. Number four.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a pull-out couch or rollaway bed available, is there?”

“Why would you need that?”

“Well we’re technically on the job right now and fraternization is...frowned upon.”

“Don’t got one.”

“Okay, no problem. Um, one last question. Is there a...drug store or diner nearby?”

“You mad as a hatter or what?”

“Well, Sc...my wife is feeling a little under the weather. I just wanted to...since I can’t get her home tonight, I thought I’d at least try to find something to make her more comfortable.”

“Aw, you’re a good fella. I tell you what, you all get yourself settled in and I’ll be around in ten minutes to bring you some soup.”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble…”

“Not at all, not at all. Go on then.”

“Thank you…I don’t know your name.”

“Myrtle.”

��Thank you, Myrtle.”

Bracing himself again, Mulder headed back to the car, keeping his head ducked down against the wind. He was shivering by the time he made it back to the car and welcomed the blast of heat when he got in. His feet were thoroughly soaked, as was the bottom of his pants.

“You want the good news or the bad news?” he asked Scully.

“No room at the inn?”

“One room. One cabin, actually. Whatever that entails.”

“Oh.”

“If that’s not okay, we can try to-”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“I don’t know. Oh, uh...if anyone asks, we’re married.”

Scully’s left eyebrow inched up into a pointed arc. “Is that the bad news?”

“That was the good news, actually. Myrtle is running a respectable operation and doesn’t rent to the unwed.”

“Seriously? Mulder, that’s archaic, not to mention blatant discrimination. You need to go back and tell her-”

“That we’re not married and to please refund my $40 and we’ll just be on our merry way out into the blizzard?”

Scully put a hand up in surrender and closed her eyes. “Alright,” she said, and reached up to her throat. “Just please don’t tell me you told her we were Rob and Laura Petrie.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mulder,” he answered, finally starting the car. “Personally, I know you’d probably keep your name if we were married. I was just trying to get a room key in hand with as little explanation as possible.”

“You think I’d keep my name?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it, to be honest.”

“Huh.”

Mulder pulled the car forward slowly, searching for the lamppost he was supposed to turn at. He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the glow of the light and sure enough, a row of cabins appeared in silhouette straight ahead, all miniature clapboard versions of the house in front. Number four was the only one without a snow-covered lump of a vehicle in front. He pulled up to it carefully and parked as close as he could manage.

“Key,” he said, passing the room key over to Scully. “I’ll grab the bags.”

“As much as I want to get inside, I’m not looking forward to what it’ll take to get there.”

“Count of three?”

“Three,” she answered, opening her door.

Mulder got out of the car and ran to the trunk. He grabbed his duffel bag and Scully’s rolling suitcase and squinted against the wind harsh wind blowing snow into his face as he lugged both to the door. She’d left it cracked for him and he pushed inside, dropping the bags at his feet before kicking it closed.

The cabin was just a small room with a queen-sized bed and faux wood paneling. There was no TV, but there was a squat bookcase against one wall stuffed with an assortment of books, puzzles, and games. Next to that was a wardrobe. Beneath the window was a round table and two folding chairs. Opposite the bed was a stone hearth with a wood burning stove and a basket of wood next to it.

“Think that works?” Mulder asked, nodding to the stove.

“I hope so. I’m not sure that thermostat over there is working.”

“I’ll take a look at it. Which side do you want?”

“Oh. Um. Left?”

“Great.”

They both stood staring at the bed for a few moments. Mulder put his hand down onto the quilted comforter and pressed into the corner of the bed. Thankfully, it was not a boxspring mattress.

“Do you need the bathroom?” Scully asked. “I’d like to...shower, I think.”

“No, go ahead. Uh, Myrtle said she’d be by with some soup soon.”

“She what?”

“I told her my wife was feeling under the weather. She offered.”

“Oh.”

“You want me to take the opportunity to come clean about our marital status?”

“Sure,” she answered, pulling her suitcase across the floor with her to the bathroom. “But, you’ll be the one that has to sleep in the car when she kicks us out.”

As soon as Scully shut herself in the bathroom, Mulder tossed his duffel onto the bed and rifled through it for new socks and a pair of sweats. He needed to get out of his wet shoes and pants as soon as possible. He didn’t even bother to remove his overcoat before toeing off his loafers and peeling his socks off. His feet felt like blocks of ice they were so cold and his toes were red. He’d just unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants when the door to the bathroom opened and Scully popped her head around the corner.

“Mulder do you think...oh uh…sorry, sorry...” Her head disappeared just as quickly as it had popped out.

The only real embarrassment Mulder felt was not that Scully had caught him undressing, but that he looked rather ridiculous in his overcoat, dress shirt, and boxer shorts with his pants around his ankles. He chuckled to himself and sat down to put on fresh socks and sweatpants. After he traded his dress shirt for a tee and sweatshirt, and draped his overcoat, wet pants and socks over the chair under the window, he went and tapped on the bathroom door. He could hear the water running.

“DId you need something?” he asked.

“No, it’s...nevermind.”

“You sure?”

The door opened a crack and Scully eyeballed Mulder through the thin gap of space. “Do you have an extra sweatshirt I can borrow?”

“Just this one,” he answered, plucking the sweatshirt at his chest.

“Okay, nevermind.”

“Wait.” He put his hand on the door to stop her from closing it completely and then he reached back to the collar of his shirt to pull it off.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I’ve got a thermal I can wear. You take it.”

The door opened a little wider and Scully reached out for the sweatshirt. She was wrapped in a towel, clutching it closed at her chest. “Thank you,” she said, and then her arm quickly retreated back into the sanctum of the bathroom and the door snicked softly shut. With a smile, Mulder went back to his duffel bag and found his thermal shirt.

He was inspecting the wood burning stove when there was a knock on the door. Myrtle bustled in carrying a cardboard box which she placed on the round table. She wore a heavy, fur coat and a pink shower cap over her hair.

“That green thermos there is chicken soup,” she said. “The red is some special tea.”

“Candles?” Mulder asked, inspecting the contents of the box. There were four candles and candlesticks tucked down .

“Power’s likely to go out if the storm gets any worse. You need help with that stove?” Before waiting for an answer, she pushed past Mulder and set about to filling and lighting the stove while he stood by.

“Thank you for this,” he said, gesturing to the stove and then the box.

“You need anything you come knock,” she answered, clapping wood dust from her hands and then she poked Mulder in the chest with her finger. “Don’t you go haring off in this nastiness just ‘cause the little Missus makes a sneeze. You look like the type that just might do such foolishness. You’re no good to anyone if you’re getting up to foolishness.”

Mulder put his hands up in surrender and suppressed a grin. “I won’t.”

“Good. Extra blankets are in the wardrobe. You all just stay put and have a restful evenin’.”

“We will, thank you.”

The heat from the stove warmed the cabin surprisingly quickly. Without a TV, Mulder didn’t have much to do, so he inspected the bookcase and found a book of Virginia ghost stories to read to pass the time. When Scully finally emerged from the bathroom, in flannel pants and his sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders, he was propped up against the headboard on the right side of the bed, engrossed in a tale of the haunted Elbow Road and didn’t look up right away.

“What’re you reading?” she asked.

He looked up and plucked at his bottom lip to hide his smile. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up, cheeks rosy from the shower, and her hair was pulled into a short pony-tail, even though it wasn’t quite long enough to hold.

“Ghost stories,” he answered and her face scrunched a little. “There’s soup and tea in that box over there. You should get to it while it’s hot.”

“Looks like there’s enough for two, if you’d like to join me.”

Mulder folded the page down in the book he was reading and got off the bed. Scully had the lid of the red thermos off and was pouring soup into the cap. The sleeves of her borrowed sweatshirt kept slipping over her wrists.

“You feeling any better?” he asked.

“The steam from the shower helped,” she answered, sliding the thermos across the table towards Mulder. “But, not really.”

“Here.” He caught her hand before she picked up the cap of soup and rolled the cuffs of the sweatshirt up for her.

“Thanks.”

“What’re the candles for?” Scully asked, opening up the sleeve of crackers.

“Myrtle says the power is unreliable.”

Scully sighed and then blew across the top of her soup. She looked around the small room for a few moments and then turned her gaze to Mulder. “No TV?” she asked.

“Nope. There’s Yahtzee. Or Parcheesi.”

She yawned and rolled her head back and forth. “Or, taking a Tylenol PM and going to bed.”

“Or that.”

“It’s good soup.”

Mulder took a swig of the soup from the thermos and nodded in agreement. They sipped quietly together, taking turns stealing crackers from the open sleeve until they were nearly gone. He’d finished the soup in the thermos, but Scully still had some left when she’d pushed it away.

While Scully cleaned up the makeshift dinner, Mulder peeked outside for any signs the storm might be letting up. It was still coming down swift and steady.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to Scully.

“For what?”

“I promised I’d have you home.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but…”

“Don’t worry about it.” She smiled up at him for a moment and touched his arm. And then her smiled faded and she dropped her eyes.

“Scully?”

“I’m just glad we’re off the road.”

There was something unsaid that hung in the air, but Mulder didn’t know what it was. He rubbed the back of his head and watched her walk away to poke through her toiletries bag. It prompted him into retrieving his own from his duffel to prepare for bed.

“This is tea?” Scully asked, sniffing at the green thermos while holding two white pills cupped in her hand.

“Special tea, according to Myrtle.”

She sniffed it again and then popped the pills in her mouth and took a drink. She cocked her head a little and took another sip and then coughed. “I uh...I think this might be...spiked.”

“Drugged?” Mulder immediately dropped his toiletry bag on the bed and went over to Scully.

“No. I think there’s rum in this.”

He put his hand over Scully’s and pulled the thermos up towards his nose to give it a sniff. He could smell lemon in the steam that filtered up and tickled his nose. Risking flu germs, he took his own sip and sure enough, the warmth that spread through his chest wasn’t just hot tea.

“Myrtle’s special tea is hot toddy,” he said.

“And I just washed down a sleeping pill with alcohol.”

“Good thing you’re not operating heavy machinery any time soon.”

“It is rather soothing though.” She shrugged a little and then took another sip before closing the thermos back up.

“I’m gonna hit the shower.”

“And I’m gonna lay down.”

“Keep my side warm for me? Just kidding.” He winked at her and then retrieved his toiletries bag.

Mulder was in the shower for no more than five minutes when the power went out. The lights flickered as he was soaping his chest and then blinked out. Before the water could turn cold, he hastily finished up and had to blindly towel dry and then feel his way to the door.

The room was dark when he poked his head out of the door with the fire from the stove providing only a dim glow. He could make out the shape of Scully under the quilt on the bed, but it was too shadowed to tell if she was facing him or away. With his towel secured around his waist and tucked in place at his hip, he scurried across the floor to grab a candle from the box.

“Mulder?” Scully asked, propping up on her elbow.

“Power’s out,” he answered, holding fast to his towel while lifting the candlestick in the air.

“Oh.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” she answered through a yawn and lay back down. “Yet.”

“Go back to half asleep.”

Mulder had to get the matchbook that was by the stove to light his candle. He got the flame started and then walked slowly with it across the room so that it wouldn’t blow out. He could see Scully watching him with a drowsy gaze, but she closed her eyes as soon as he caught her. Back in the bathroom, he got back into his pajamas and brushed his teeth.

Quietly, he went back into the main room and added a log to the stove. He took his candle with him to bed and grabbed the book he’d abandoned earlier. With no bedside table to leave the candlestick on he had to hold it with one hand to continue reading. Soon, the low light made him drowsy and he finally had to blow the candle out and lean over to place it on the floor.

Making great efforts to be quiet and non-obtrusive, he eased himself down and took great pains not to shift more than he had to or pull at the quilt. Beside him, Scully breathed deep and even. The longer he lay still, the more her presence so close seemed to quell his usual nighttime restlessness. Instead of feeling the need to toss and turn and adjust his pillow and kick at the blankets, he found it was easy to just listen to her, feel her nearby, and just be still and silent. Even the storm, which he knew was raging outside, seemed peaceful.

He was jostled awake sometime later by Scully, nudging at him like she was searching for something. The room was dark and cold, the fire mere embers. He turned to sit up, but she made a noise of protest and clutched at his shirt.

“It’s cold,” she murmured, her voice slurred and sleepy. “You’re warm.”

“Let me get the fire started again.”

Reluctantly, she let go of his shirt and he hopped out of bed, cupping his hands to his mouth to blow into them. He bent down to find the candlestick and then shivered and stumbled his way to the table. He found the matches, lit the candle, and made his way to the dying fire. He grabbed a few logs, fed them into the stove, and used a gold poker to stoke the embers.

When he was sure the logs were well-positioned, he shuffled towards the wardrobe to grab the extra blanket. It was soft and heavy and he kicked himself for not thinking of pulling it out before they went to bed. He had to put the candle back on the table to be able to drape it over the bed. Scully pulled it up further and adjusted it to her liking.

After blowing out the candle again and before getting back into bed, Mulder took a look out the window.

“I think the storm’s stopped,” he whispered, sliding into the sheets and the heavy warmth the extra blanket brought.

Scully hummed. She cuddled up against his side and put her head on his chest before he’d even settled. He covered her hand at his chest and made sure the quilt covered the both of them.

“Don’t want you to get sick,” she mumbled, even as she burrowed closer.

“We’ve shared our share of colds. All part and parcel of a partnership.”

She made a gravelly noise in the back of her throat that he couldn’t interpret. He shifted to find a more comfortable position and was able to bring his arm around her. The fire began to spark and crackle as it picked up again. The heat slowly ate away at the chill.

“This is nice,” she mumbled. “You smell nice.”

“I do?”

“Mm. Always.”

He smiled up at the dark ceiling and rubbed her arm. She shifted and her leg moved up over his thigh. His heart skipped a beat. She squeezed him softly like she was hugging a teddy bear, and then she sighed.

“This is nice,” she said again.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“I knew it would be.”

He chuckled lightly. “Something you’ve thought about, Scully? Getting caught up in a snowstorm? Snuggling for warmth?”

“Mmhm. Definitely.” She sighed again and nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder.

He went still and his smile faded. He’d thought she might be joking in the placating way she sometimes did when he said something outlandish. But, it sounded truthful, like she was just sleepy and relaxed enough to be unabashedly honest.

“Really?” he asked, his voice growing deeper and serious.

“Mm.”

He would admit, it was something he’d been thinking a lot about too, metaphorically. He’d been questioning the possibilities of another life for himself; a life that was more than just a quest for the truth. He’d come to realize that the more effort he put into taking time outside of work, the happier he felt. And part of that happiness, he could attribute to his partner. He was happier, always, when he was with her. When he’d kissed her on New Year’s Eve a few weeks ago, he’d been testing the waters to see if she might reciprocate a fraction of what he felt for her. She’d seemed open to something more when she’d smiled at him, but he’d chickened out at the last second and instead of asking if she could see the potential for something more, he’d clammed up, and neither of them had mentioned it since.

But, maybe, just maybe, she did see the potential. He’d like to think it was more than just sleepy, medicated ramblings.

“Scully?” he whispered.

She didn’t respond. She was asleep again, warm and slack against his side. He petted her hand a few times and then craned his neck to kiss the top of her head.

The next time he woke, the fire had died down again and Scully was still asleep against him. Morning light filtered in through the closed drapes at the window. As much as Mulder wanted to get up and see what conditions were outside, he didn’t want to disturb the warmth and serenity he’d found in that bed. It had to end sometime though. At least he’d been able to soak up the contentment he was feeling for the next ten minutes before she stretched and stirred.

Quite suddenly, Scully pushed herself up from Mulder’s chest, her eyes wide with shock. Her hair was mussed, sticking to her cheek on one side and bunched wildly on the other. He chuckled and reached up to brush the hair away from her face and tuck it back over her ear.

“Morning,” he said. Though he was able to keep his voice steady and a cool appearance, deep down he was worried she’d retreat into her shell if she was feeling too embarrassed and awkward.

“Um…” She shook her head and blinked rapidly. “I, um…”

“How are you feeling?”

“Uh. Better? Better, thanks.”

“Good. Sleep well?” He grinned and couldn’t help but tease her just a little.

Her cheeks darkened and she struggled with the blankets to sit up. “Sorry if…”

“You can use me as a pillow anytime, Scully.”

She looked back at him and then lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Should we see what the damage is outside?”

“I’d almost forgotten about it.”

Mulder pushed the covers away and got out of bed. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either. He rubbed his arms on his way to the window and then pulled a corner of the drapes back to get a glimpse of the outside world.

“Wow,” he said.

“What?” Scully got out of bed and padded over to him. He pulled one side of the drapes open so she could see. The sky was blue and the sun was shining. Melting snow dripped from the trees and the car was clear. Except for the slush that covered the ground, it was almost like there’d never been a storm.

“Guess we can head out anytime,” he said. “You want to stop for breakfast on the way?”

“You buying?”

“I think I gave all my cash to Myrtle for the room. Spot me?” He held his hand out to her and she gave it a soft slap.

“I call dibs in the bathroom.”

“Go ahead.”

While Scully got ready for the day, Mulder cleaned up the cabin a little. He folded the extra blanket and put it back in the wardrobe. He put the two thermoses and candles back in the box to take to Myrtle and he folded his dry pants and socks into his duffel. He was just about ready to get dressed for the day himself when Scully finished in the bathroom and they switched places. She had on a pair of dark pants and a blue sweater, what he came to realize over the years was her version of casual weekend attire.

In the bathroom, Mulder ran a hand over his face and decided he could get away with not shaving for the morning. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and ran a wet comb through his hair to tame his bedhead a little. He changed into jeans, a t-shirt and a v-neck and was done. When he came out, the sweatshirt he’d loaned to Scully the night before was neatly folded and placed on top of his duffel bag on the bed.

“Hey,” he said, dropping his pjs onto the bed and taking up the sweatshirt. He brought it around to where Scully was packing up her suitcase and held it out to her. “Keep it. For emergencies.”

Hesitantly, she reached out and then took the sweatshirt from him. She held it between both hands and looked up at him and nodded once. He smiled and turned back to pack his bag. He caught her surreptitiously bringing the collar of the sweatshirt to her nose and breathing deep before she packed it away. Aha, he thought. It’s the aftershave. He almost went back to the bathroom to slap some on, but he thought that might be a little too obvious.

“I want to bring that box back to Myrtle before we go,” he said. “Thank her for last night.”

“I’ll go with you. I’d like to meet her.”

When they went outside, one of the first things Mulder noticed was that all the cars were gone and the other cabins seemed abandoned. He didn’t say anything as they carefully trudged across the slushy path from the cabins to the main house, but he found it unusual. Perhaps, he thought, they were all stranded travelers who’d just happened to get up and out earlier than he and Scully did.

Scully knocked on the door since Mulder had his arms full of the box. No one answered. She knocked again and then tried the handle, but it was locked.

“You think everything’s alright?” Scully asked.

“She seemed like she might be the type to get up and plow the roads herself if no one else did.”

“Okay.”

They trudged back to the cabin and left the box and the key on the table. At the last minute, Mulder grabbed the book of ghost stories he’d been reading to keep for another time. When they got in the car, Scully raised her brow at Mulder when he went to put it in the glove compartment and she took it out of his hands.

“You’re stealing a book?” she asked.

“Did you see how many books were on that shelf? No one will miss it.”

Scully snorted softly and thumbed through it while Mulder drove slowly through the slush and tree-lined road back to the highway. Fortunately, the plows and the sanders had been by overnight and the roads were clear. They hadn’t driven for more than ten miles before Scully suddenly started fiddling with the book like she was about to tear the pages out.

“What’re you doing?” Mulder asked.

“Mulder, did you...how far into this book did you get?”

“Wherever the page was folded. The Lightfoot mansion haunting, I think.”

“And you didn’t read past that?”

“No, why?”

“There’s a chapter in here...let me read it. ‘Though poltergeists and spirits with unfinished business seem to dominate in the realm of ghost stories, it should be noted that not all apparitions are in anguish or malevolent. In some cases, like that of Myrtle the Friendly Ghost, most people walk away never having realized something was amiss or that they’d met a ghost at all.’”

“Myrtle the Friendly Ghost?”

“The full title of the chapter is Myrtle the Friendly Ghost Will Change Your Life. ‘‘No one knows who the benevolent woman was in life, but those that meet her in death recall a gregarious, middle-aged lady with grey hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. Somewhere off US-15 outside of Brandy Station, Myrtle has been welcoming lost travelers to her cabin-in-the-woods since the early 1940’s.’”

“Are you making this up?”

“‘Though no one knows for sure who the friendly innkeeper was in life, if you find yourself on the deserted highway on a cold, dark night, you just might find out who she is in the afterlife.’”

Mulder slowed the car as they rolled into Brandy Station and stopped next to a red brick building before a railroad crossing. “Let me see this.”

Scully passed him the book and he found the place she’d left off and continued. “‘Out of gas? Took a wrong turn out of Culpeper? Need shelter from a storm? Suddenly, shelter appears out of nowhere and Myrtle is there to welcome you. Descriptions have varied over the years, but those who’ve encountered Miss Myrtle have agreed that they’d gotten themselves into a roadside pickle and if it weren’t for the older lady, they don’t know how they’d have fared.’”

“That’s rather vague,” Scully said.

“‘For half a century, tales have been told of the of this generous woman and her charming cabins in the woods. The most significant detail of note is that every stranded traveler that’s shared their story have emphatically referred to the experience as life-changing in some way.”

“Life-changing?”

“We have to go back.”

“Mulder…”

“Here,” he gave Scully the book back and put the car back into drive to make a u-turn. “Ten, fifteen minutes tops, Scully. We have a chance to interview a ghost.”

“Mulder, that’s ridiculous.”

“All we need to do is just get back to the cabin and look for evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it.”

Scully tipped her head back to look up at the ceiling and sighed.

“Whatever we find or don’t find,” he said, “I’ll buy you one of everything on the menu when we stop for breakfast.”

“Except I’ll be the one paying.”

Mulder peered anxiously out his window they longer they drove, but all he could see was trees. He knew they’d gone to far when he hit a sign directing him to an intersecting highway and he had to make another u-turn. They came down the highway again, slower this time, but he couldn’t locate the turnout they’d come from not more than half an hour before.

“It’s gone,” he said. “Scully, there’s not even a road here.”

“There has to be. We just missed it.”

“How can we find a turnout in a blizzard, but miss one on a clear, sunny day?”

“I don’t know, but we obviously made that turn last night.”

“Unless…”

“Don’t say it,” she protested, holding her hand up to him like a stop sign. “Don’t even think it.”

“Scully, we met Myrtle the Friendly Ghost!”

“First of all, you were the only one that even talked to her. Second of all, this is just some silly story in a book.”

“Well, that story had to come from somewhere.”

“Mulder, a ghost didn’t put us up in a cabin overnight. A ghost didn’t bring us soup and crackers and a hot toddy. A ghost didn’t give us candles.”

“That ghost also took my money.”

“And how has that changed your life?”

Mulder pulled the car over and put it in park. He got out, leaving his door open, and as he crossed the front of the car, Scully opened her door and stepped out too. The alarm signaling the keys were in the ignition pinged loudly behind her.

“What’re you?” she said, and he stifled the rest of her question with a kiss.

This one wasn’t like New Year’s. He pressed her against the rear passenger door, snaked one arm around her hips and buried his free hand in her hair and kissed her like it might be the last time he’d ever kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and whimpered softly.

When they broke apart, Scully took hold of the lapels of his jacket and he moved both hands to her face. She blinked up at him, rubbing her lips together.

“It was the best night of my life,” he said. “And not because I met Myrtle the Friendly Ghost.”

She cleared her throat a little and swallowed. “Allegedly.”

He grinned at her and gave her another peck on the lips before he stepped back. She let go of his jacket and softly patted his chest.

“I met Myrtle the Friendly Ghost,” he said.

Scully rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should’ve gotten her autograph”

“Wait a minute.” He perked up a little and reached into his breast pocket for his wallet. He flipped it open and pulled the billfold open. “Look at that,” he said, pulling out two crisp $20 bills instead of the handwritten receipt he’d expected to find.

She stared at the money for a few moments and then she plucked it out of his hand, folded it, and put it in her pocket. He cocked his head at her and she slid back into the car. “You’re buying breakfast,” she said.

“Think of all the money we’d save if we could stay in a ghost hotel every time we’re out of town.”

“Run that one by Skinner,” she answered, pulling her door shut.

He chuckled and stowed his wallet before shoving his hands in his pockets and headed back to his door. He started humming the theme to Casper the Friendly Ghost, and then singing softly. “Myrtle the friendly ghost, the most life-changingest ghost there ever was.”

The End

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #humor #fluff #msr #onebed #snowed in #all the tropes are belong to us

260 notes · View notes

sigritandtheelves · 5 years

Note

I know you just poste but... PLEASE MORE!!! (whenever you can, this not ment for pressuring you, this is to let you know i love simple and can't stop reading it)

💗

Simple

Chapter 8

Other Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven

M | 3.3k wds | pre-XF AU | MSR, Melissa/Samantha

A/N: There’s some uncustomary angst here, but nothing too heavy. The good news is, it feels like the story has an actual emotional arc now. 😂

_+_

Wednesday - Stanford

He didn’t call her on Monday, after her terrible day, or on Tuesday, when she really hoped he would. On Wednesday morning before her flight, she tried his apartment, but got only his machine. She left him a message.

“Hi, it’s me. I guess you’re not back yet from your case. My flight gets in in at 7:30 tonight, and they’re putting me up in a hotel downtown, the, um… Hotel Harrington. I guess it’s just around the corner from the Hoover building. Anyway, I hope the case is going well, and, ah… I’ll talk to you soon.”

She hung up and tried not to be disappointed. She reminded herself that he was busy, that he was saving people’s lives, that he could even be in a dangerous situation for all she knew. Dana would not be the jealous type: not of his job and not of his partner. She would do some reading on the plane and she would wear her good suit tomorrow, and she would make a strong impression at the FBI, even if Fox couldn’t be there. So she ignored the mild ache in her heart, the sense that everything was somehow turning sour. She wasn’t even sure why she worried. Because she couldn’t reach him? Because recruitment by the FBI seemed too good to be true? She didn’t believe in signs and omens. She wasn’t Melissa.

Dana double checked her light switches and plugs and gave her single, sickly plant a final splash of water. Suitcase in hand, Dana locked up and went down to meet her cab.

—

Friday - Baltimore

Melissa Scully returned home later than she’d wanted. There had been a difficult case involving a drug-addicted mother and disputed custody: a grandmother trying to keep two sweet-faced children fed and looked-after. As she hung her coat and scarf, pushing down the static of her hair and stepping out of her shoes, she noticed something different in the feel of the house. Its air seemed thicker, and not just with the warm smell of dinner. Then, voices from the kitchen: a visitor.

“Sam?”

The voices quieted and Sam called out, “I’m here.”

There were two familiar bags beside the stairs, but she was still surprised to see Dana perched on a stool, slump-shouldered and tired-eyed. “Hi Missy,” she said.

Melissa felt her mouth drop open. “Dana? Oh my god, are you okay? What are you doing here?”

Dana tried to smile, but her lips trembled, and Missy quickly enveloped her sister in a hug. Dana melted bonelessly into the embrace and breathed in deep. So much fear, she sensed. And an angry wad of shame, balling itself up inside of her. Something must have happened.

Over Dana’s head, Melissa looked to Samantha. What is it? she mouthed, but Sam just made a face that said, I don’t know.

“Day,” she said again. “What’s up?”

Dana shook her head, red hair turning to fuzz against Melissa’s shoulder, words muffled into her sweater. “I took the train from DC. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have changed the ticket, but I thought he’d be there.”

“Who, Fox?”

A nod.

Missy looked again to Samantha, who shrugged and then waved her hands at the sisters, shooing them out of the kitchen to talk in private. Melissa tugged on her sister’s arm. “Come on,” she said. “Couch.”

Dana refused to cry while the whole story came out: Daniel (a name she hadn’t known before this) first spying on them during Fox’s surprise visit, and then confronting her with threats and accusations; her recruitment by the FBI; her fear about their father’s reaction; and finally Fox, promising to be here, or at least to call, but then leaving on a case and not returning her messages for days.

“I know it’s not his fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have changed the ticket without talking to him, but I would have hated to not change it and have wasted the opportunity for time together.”

“You mean your plane ticket?”

“Yeah,” Dana said. “I’m flying back Sunday.” She looked up at Melissa, eyes wide and blue and sorry. “Can I stay here until then? I don’t want to have to explain to mom and dad.”

Melissa sighed and drooped an arm around her little sister. “Of course,” she said. “But you know you’ll have to tell them soon, right? I mean, did the recruitment go well?”

Dana nodded. “It did. It’s actually really exciting. Scary, but in a good way.”

A little squeeze around the shoulders. “Then let’s be excited. Let’s have a beer and some dinner and I’ll read your cards and then we can watch sad movies, hmm? A cry always helps. You can sleep ’til noon tomorrow.”

Dana laughed and nodded and they went back to the kitchen where Sam was hanging up the phone, a little too quickly.

“Who was that?” Melissa asked, eyes narrowed with a skepticism all the Scullys could do.

“No one,” she said, again too quickly, and began handing them plates piled with vegetables and rice and tofu.

—

Saturday - Alexandria

It was a short flight, but it had been a long week, when Fox Mulder finally unlocked the door to his apartment and dropped his bags on the floor at just after nine in the morning. He’d returned with more questions than answers, and a dead suspect, but the case was by all outward appearances (and filed paperwork), closed. Most of the answers he wanted would require military information, but all inquiries in that direction had been shut down right quick. Fox wiped a hand over his face and went to start a pot of coffee: the dinky cup on the plane had done little to relieve his week-long headache. Good work it may have been, but the non-answers at the end of walking in circles didn’t leave him with much sense of closure. The worst was that Diana had set up long hours of stake-outs throughout the first half of the week, and by the time he’d gotten to a phone with his calling card, he got no answer at Dana’s apartment. He’d missed her before she left, and he didn’t know where she was staying to call her once she got here.

While the coffee pot dripped, he went to his answering machine where the number 6 was flashing at him in anxiety-inducing red. First was a call from his landlord, reminding him about some work on the smoke detectors. Then one from Dana, letting him know about her flight and her hotel—he grabbed a pen and paper to take down the name, but then realized it was Saturday and that he’d probably already missed her. “Shit,” he said. Then her voice came back in a second message from early yesterday morning:

“Hi again. I’m sorry to bug you. Just an update: I’m touring Quantico and the labs this morning and then I was supposed to have an afternoon flight home, but…” There was a brief pause, and her voice was a bit cooler when it returned. “I’ll be checked out of the hotel in a few minutes. I’m sorry I missed you.” And then a quick click and the message was over. But what? He thought. “Goddamnit,” he murmured. He had fucked this one up good. She’d been here, just minutes away from where he now stood, and then at the same airport he’d flown into less than an hour ago. But they’d missed each other like ships in the night.

Two more messages played, first a hang-up, and then an automated call offering new long-distance pricing. He took a deep breath and started to do the math on when he could reasonably make a call to California, when his sister’s voice emerged from the machine in its final message:

“Fox, you dope. Your girl is here and she looks pretty fucking sad. What did you do? She flies home late Sunday morning. Don’t be an idiot,” and then the click of the receiver as Sam hung up in a hurry.

A smile spread out over his face as his heartbeat caught up to his mind’s realization. He hadn’t missed her. She’d just gone to Baltimore (and not told him). He could be there before noon. Fox barely waited for the machine to stop dripping before he sloshed some coffee into a travel mug, grabbed his keys, and ignored his still-packed bags on his way out the door. He thought maybe he could still salvage this mess of a week.

—

Saturday traffic in February wasn’t bad, but he may have committed a few minor misdemeanors on his way. He pulled up in front of his sister’s house at 11:48, swallowing the last of his now-lukewarm coffee. He thought for a moment, popped a mint into his mouth, then hurried for the front door. He was going to scoop Dana up, take her back to his place (six hours of travel today be damned) and make love to her until they both fell asleep from exhaustion. When they woke, he would feed her (preferably by hand, preferably naked) and listen to every single minute of her life over the past week.

“Oh hey,” Samantha said as she opened the door, looking smug. “Got my message?”

“I did,” he said. “Is she here?”

Sam stepped back to let him enter. “Mmhmm. Couch.” He was already walking toward the living room, but Samantha caught his arm before he could plow past her. Her eyes were brown and serious. “She’s had a week, Fox. Be gentle, okay?”

He frowned at that, a little confused. “Okay,” he said, wondering if the recruitment hadn’t gone well, if some jackass had said something to her. God knew there were enough sexist pricks at the FBI.

In the living room, Dana was curled around a throw pillow on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, freckled and beautiful and still in pajamas. Fox stood awkwardly a moment in the doorway before she caught sight of him and her eyes went wide.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, pushing herself up to sit.

He smiled, letting the warmth of her proximity wash over him. “Hey you.”

“You came back. I thought… How’d you know I was here?”

He pulled off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. “Sam left me a message. Mind if I sit?”

She shook her head and shifted to make room. He lowered himself beside her and hooked his index finger over her pinky, gave it a little tug. Something seemed off, he noticed. She seemed… hesitant, a little less excited than he’d hoped. He thought of Sam’s warning: be gentle.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment of her fiddling with his fingers with her left hand: rubbing them, staring down as if she were nervous.

“For what?”

He tugged again at her hand, trying to get her to look at him. “For missing your calls.”

Dana shrugged and moved her eyes to the coffee table, to the remains of her breakfast cereal and a worn paperback. “You were working, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have… anyway, it doesn’t matter. How was your case?”

“Frustrating. Too long. Hey.” With that, she finally looked at him, and he could swear she looked afraid. Fox raised his hand to her cheek and was relieved when she leaned into it. “Tell me about you.” He leaned in and touched his nose to hers. She smiled, just a little twitch of her lips, and it warmed his hopes. He braved a kiss, and she responded with a gentle pressure of her own lips. There she was. “Hello,” he said with another little kiss. “I missed you,” he murmured, and he let his fingers toy at the hem of her top. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Hi,” she said. “I missed you, too. And it’s okay.”

“Were you sufficiently wooed by the FBI?”

Dana smiled again. “I think so. I toured the Hoover Building first. Very impressive. Many important men in suits.”

“Hmm, yes.”

“And then the labs at Quantico.”

“And?”

“Amazing.”

“They let you slice up any dead bodies?”

Dana sighed, in mock regret. “Unfortunately no. I brought my own scalpel and everything, but I guess they want me to go through training first.”

Fox laughed and tugged her into his arms. She fell heavily against his chest with an “oomph” and a little laugh. He squeezed her tight, relieved at the warmth of her, here and solid and his. “And you will, you think? Go through training?”

She leaned her head back to look at him, and though she smiled, there was some distant and foggy look in her eyes. “Yeah,” she said.

—

The sight of him in the doorway should have overwhelmed her with joy, as it had three weeks ago when she’d found him waiting for her. But it was as if the earth had undergone a tectonic shift, or a tilt in its axis, that changed their orientations toward one another. Or hers toward him. She wasn’t sure. The feel of his palm on her cheek still set beating the small wings of her heart, but it was with anxiety now, as well as excitement. His lips on hers still felt exactly, perfectly right. And yet, she was afraid. Seeing FBI Headquarters, imagining herself there, stiff-backed and strong under the daily onslaught of authoritative men and their rigid expectations, was a thing difficult enough. Imagining him there, too, as one of those wielders of authority, who could sway the opinion of those who judged her… He could touch her in a hallway out of only affection and accidentally ruin her.

(Are you fucking him to get a place there?)

Daniel’s voice was a poison in her memory that she tried to shove away. But her recruitment by the FBI changed them, she realized. It gave Fox a kind of power over her she hadn’t considered at first, even if he would never use it. She would be, once again, sleeping with a colleague, and that recent burn still stung. Now, as she rested her head against his chest and felt his arms around her back, she wondered once again if she’d been too hasty with her affection. Take a step back, Dana. Armor yourself.

They both said goodbye to Melissa and Sam. She thanked them for the cozy room and dinner, and let Fox bring her back to his apartment. She was quiet on the ride, listening to him unravel the details of his case. She tried her best to offer words that didn’t want to come.

When they pulled up at his apartment building, Dana felt the tingle of nerves again, all the way into her fingers. She tried to carry her own bags, but he waved her away from the trunk. She bit her lip, surprised by her own irritation. This small gesture, meant with affection, now felt weighted down with assumptions and misguided chivalry. Inside, he juggled the bags and his keys to unlock the door. His apartment was much larger than hers, but a bit dim, even with the lights on. Well-decorated, though. Her lips twitched up at the sight of his fish tank. Fox nearly tripped over his own bags on the way in, then carried them all, waddling awkwardly, into his bedroom. When he came back, he stopped and stood before her, watching her watch him there in his foyer, still in her coat.

“I won’t bite,” he said after a moment, a little sheepish. “Mi casa, and all of that.”

She tried to smile, and tugged off her coat, hung it on the coat rack.

“Dana,” he said while she fiddled with the pockets and straightened the fabric. Slowly, she turned, and the worry on his face hurt her heart. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay. Sam said you had a week. Will you tell me?”

Dana closed her eyes and breathed. Telling him would mean explaining the situation with Daniel, the whole situation. And what would he think of her then? Fox stepped closer, and his fingers brushed her elbow.

No, she thought. She wouldn’t break in front of him. She wouldn’t cry and tell him about her mean ex and beg his comfort and let herself be held, she who had stupidly thought he might rush back to see her. He couldn’t want this much complication, not so soon, and she suddenly couldn’t imagine letting herself seem so weak in front of him. So she swallowed and put what she hoped was a smile on her face. “Work stuff was stressful, that’s all. Because I had to take the three days off.” She tucked hair behind her ear and tried that smile again, but she could see that he didn’t quite buy it. It wasn’t a lie, she thought, not exactly—the trip had set off some trouble… which had unfolded at work. “And I’m not great at flying,” she added. “Cross-country trips stress me out a bit.”

Fox nodded, lower lip tucked between his teeth. “Okay,” he said, and ushered her into his living room with his hand on her back. His fish tank burbled and his couch was green. She sat down on it and looked out over his desk through the window. “Should I order us some lunch? I don’t have much here.”

“Okay,” she said, not looking back from the window. “That sounds good.”

So they ate in unfamiliar awkwardness, their noodles and egg-drop soup and chicken, and Dana felt she had maybe ruined everything. Here was this man who seemed to genuinely like who she was, not who she might be or who he wanted her to be, and she would either ruin it all with her neediness or push him away with her coldness. Dana swallowed a lump of baby corn that felt like a brick in her esophagus, knowing suddenly that she had done wrong. She had loved too much too soon at a time when she was too unsettled. Now, she was sure, they would suffer for it.

They spent the afternoon watching TV, and she clung to him wide-eyed, face against the warm cotton of his shirt, while he kissed her head and she convinced herself this might be the last time they shared this kind of quiet comfort. He hummed pleasantly against her scalp while she fought back tears he never saw. They took a walk to a small park down the street, and she twined her fingers around his like they were a lifeline, like they could save her from ruining this.

Shouts echoed on the playground until clouds purpled the sky. Children on skateboards and bikes wheeled home to their dinners, and soon she and Fox turned back, too. When it grew late, they swallowed leftovers and she curled into his bed in the dark. His fingers found her. His words poured into her ear: Dana, you feel so good, while skimmed his heavy palms over her body and she pressed her flesh to his. He slipped her panties down, and god she wanted him to, more than anything. She was glad of the dark that hid the depth of her love and sadness: the crease in her forehead, the wobble of her lips. She moaned into his clavicle, arched against his fingers, spread her legs and accepted him inside of her, all while thinking she could not keep him.

At the airport, she managed not to cry, and if he mistook the shine of her eyes for the sadness of temporary partings, she did not correct him. Again, she wanted to tell him she loved him, but hadn’t the courage. He palmed her cheek and kissed her lips in that way he had, like he was holding a secret. “Call me when you get in,” he whispered. And though she nodded (feeling ripped open, feeling hollowed out, feeling like she’d stepped on something beautiful in her clumsiness and broken it), she did not.

— end chapter eight —

Go to Chapter 9

#i have the world's worst post timing #anyway here's this #a thing i wrote #simple #chapter eight #melissa/samantha #au #msr

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mylittleredgirl · 5 years

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What are your favourite science fiction shows? (Besides Star Trek because I've already watched those!)

Okay I’ve thought about it and:

Space shows:

Babylon 5: WATCH THIS BEAUTIFUL POETIC SHIT i love it and sometimes it’s a bit terrible but if you just let go into it and decide that people do talk exactly like this in the future it’s so fucking good. Like upsettingly good. Somewhere along the way clunky dialogue gives way to in-universe shakespearean perfection that gives you the feeling that you’ve discovered a religion but you’re not 100% sure what it entails. At the end of season 4 pause and consider if you’d like to enjoy the feeling of completion and “yeah team good guys!!” you’re experiencing for a while before going on, because Season 5 reshuffles the cast of characters and muddies the waters in a way that never quite gets paid off. I never really got into Crusade but there was less of it to get into and because frankly I was still young and innocent in the ways of television and spent a few years heartbroken that I watched all the goddamn way to the end of Babylon 5 without the Talia Winters resolution i was waiting for. In the final accounting, I will always choose Deep Space Nine over Babylon 5 when asked to choose a favorite space-station-based epic war arc with religious symbolism, because B5 is right on the edge of how dystopic a future universe can be before I start to feel uncomfortable. most people call that edge “realistic”.

Stargate SG-1: UGHHH Stargate SG-1 is a fuckin GIFT because it’s a little “what if a sarcastic highly capable military dude from the late 1990s travels to outer space with his brilliant weirdo friends to do battle with villains that would have fit in really well in classic Star Trek” AND “what if almost every planet was kind of a stereotype of earth at a specific time and place like classic Star Trek” AND that delicious 1990s staple of regularly subtexted white people het and slash and femslash combinations where nobody ever just fucking FUCKS. Seasons 3 and 4 contain some of the best episodes for het unresolved sexual tension seen outside of The X-Files. Everyone should watch it but be prepared that if you go online and start talking about SG-1 or Stargate: Atlantis a generation of your fandom foremothers are gonna show up on your posts wailing about the Before Times like we lived through some kind of fandom ‘nam and can never trust again. 9/10 everyone should watch this even though “Stargate SG-1” is not a very good title for a TV show.

and Stargate: Atlantis: if Star Trek is my religion i worship on Sunday morning then Stargate: Atlantis is the one I dress in leather and take to bed on Saturday night because I have never I mean ever shipped anything as long or as hard as I have shipped motherfucking John Sheppard and Elizabeth Weir in this goddamn show. out of every crumb the TV show gave us the fanfic writers cooked up a goddamn feast. not only have I never watched more than a handful of episodes in seasons 4 and 5 but I basically stopped watching new television entirely for almost a decade so, uh, proceed with caution after the midpoint of season 3 and I have like 285 favorite fanfics to show you.

Futurama …….. tbh i’ve never watched past the original seasons because i’d come to a place of internal closure and i fear change and it was inside the Stargate Atlantis hangover period discussed above, but that’s more psychology than anyone wanted to get into on this post. basically my ideal expression of humor can be found in “the farnsworth parabox” and whatever the episode is called with the neutral planet because that is some a+ loving sci fi trope mockery and i love every line of it.

That specific brand of earthbound sci-fi show where there are almost certainly aliens involved but our heroes never get to seek out new life and new civilizations:

The X-Files: what can i say about the x-files??? this is INDUSTRY STANDARD fucking shipping territory fucking NO ONE does unresolved sexual tension better and honestly the day i will know i have met The One it is because they will present me with a non-fat dairy-free toffuti cutie rice dreamsicle and say “i have done my research and understand your romantic needs and expectations.” this shit is so formative that i literally watched the episode “jose chung from outer space” so many times that i wrote it out and then memorized it as the most perfect work of fiction i had ever encountered.the television without pity recaps of seasons 8 and 9 (which tbh i unironically love and consider an internal spinoff come fight me) literally kept me alive in a very dark period of time. “very dark” is also how to describe 98% of the scenes in this series so while on the one hand there’s some horror-style gore there’s only like a 50/50 chance you’ll be able to see any of it. i reblogged all the shippy gifsets about the seasons 10 and 11 reboot and did not watch any of it and honestly i feel pretty ok about my life and my choices. if you are willing to read fic written in the first person and don’t mind that 1990s-esque think-of-the-children notion that scully’s a virgin you will literally never run out of fanfic.

Twin Peaks: this is my newest fandom love and I am loving the entire nonsensical ~aesthetic~ of it all so much that I can barely breathe. i don’t know what the fuck is going on. no one knows what the fuck is going on. i want to cross-stitch every frame on a pillow. twin peaks avoids being grimdark because it’s so stylized. the characters are all these perfectly odd creations and a handful of them are genuinely good people trying their best, but like it opens with the murder of an abused teenager and no one gets an unambiguously happy ending. watch this if you want to go along for a ride that will soak into your cells like pacific northwest mist dampening a flannel shirt and will leave you just a little bit stranger than you were before. in the back half of season two you’re safe to go make a sandwich whenever james, nadine, or dick tremayne show up on-screen.

Earthbound sci-fi shows that don’t involve aliens at all:

Jake 2.0: i’m literally never over the one season of this turn of the millennium sci fi geek fever dream where experimental government nanites give an IT helpdesk tech with a heart of gold the ability to control technology with his brain and the NSA kind of goes “… i guess?” and lets him live out the secret agent fantasy he is really not prepared for. you probably can’t find it anywhere. it’s a light-hearted found-family gem with more characters of color in positions of power than its network contemporaries, and the late-breaking discovery of four never-aired episodes include my favorite TV episode that was actually a fanfic (tied with the X-Files episode “Arcadia”). the most benevolent single act i have ever experienced in fandom was when someone burned the Lost Episodes to a cd-rom and sent them to me and now i can’t even remember who it was. i’m not saying that jake foley deserves a tumblr renaissance but 📢JAKE FOLEY DESERVES A TUMBLR RENAISSANCE.

#if you're not into the wall of text than just watch these things and then tag me in all the posts where you cry about them:#babylon 5 #stargate atlantis #stargate sg1 #the x files #twin peaks #jake 2.0 #chatter post #trainingforstarfleet

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starbuck09256 · 6 years

Text

Minty fresh

It's silly really, her touching his sink with a finger staring at the two toothbrushes in his holder. It's not a big deal, she stays here a lot between early morning flights, and the two of them constantly getting beaten up and damaged certain things get left. His sweater at her house. An extra pair of socks at his. But he's been collecting things she starts to notice things she likes that are now suddenly her. Her favorite shampoo a new pillow that he says is for her. It's soft with that new cooling gel so you don't have to flip it so much. He starts to stock the fridge with her preferences slowly letting her know he wants her here with him. He comes in behind her a grin on his face. He snakes his arm around her middle dropping a kiss on her bare shoulder. "Hi" soft and sweet. He reaches forward to grab his toothbrush . He taps hers and reaches for the tooth paste. "You got me a toothbrush" it's almost a statement. "I want you to feel like you can stay over if you want. No pressure Scully, just me making sure you know you're welcome here. I got the yogurt you like too." She bites her lip. He looks at her little concerned. "Is that ok?" She looks down staring at the toothpaste as it rests along the bristles. She takes a minute. He won't get her a desk but he will buy her a toothbrush her favorite yogurt. Welcome in his home his bed but at work he has a different outlook. "I never got a desk at work but here you want me to feel like I belong." He sighs looking at the small tootherbrush nestled in the holder. "I will fill out the request today if that will prove what you mean to me." "I'm not sure I know what I mean to you what this is where we go from here" it's not so much a question more of a statement sent out to the universe to define the undefinable to give her an answer to a question that is so beyond comprehension. He nods his hand gently rubbing her arm he takes a big breathe before his voice echoes in the bathroom all around her "you're everything I never knew I needed or wanted" he is looking down at her hand resting next to his on the small white porcelain. She looks at him. "I never knew I wanted a family until you, never knew that I could find closure without you, never wanted to pick out a toothbrush for my girlfriend so she would stay over instead of sneaking out in the middle of the night, that I wanted to buy one to leave at her place too. I never stopped looking up for answers until you were in front of me showing me all the ways someone can love someone else. Even if they show that love with a desk or a toothbrush or a new pillow. I know that I love being with you all the time. You're the one person I don't get sick of whose very presence is calming to me. Whose voice and touch are soothing and electrifying. You challenge me and it's exhilarating. I want so badly to wake up next to you. You made me want everything because you gave me the one thing that makes everything desirable. " she looks at him tears in her eyes with a question of what he means "you gave me your love scully your unwavering loyalty and now I want to give you anything that will show you I'm greatful even if I'm more than undeserving." She moves her hand over his squeezing his fingers gently. "So are you going to come over to my place with your extra toothbrush?" She asks. "Tonight, I'll bring some dinner too." "My favorite?" She grins. "Of course I'm still in the dog house for the desk." "I'll bring out the battleship" she whispers leaning up and kissing him with her freshly brushed teeth.

No beta I know there are prompts in my inbox and those are definitely in process.

@today-in-fic @baronessblixen @peacenik0

#fictober #mulder and scully #msr fanfic #msr #the x files #xf fanfic #my fic

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lokisgame · 6 years

Text

New Dawn

[part 1] [part 2]

(photo credit @mulders-boyish-enthousiasm [x] )

She walked down the isle from the restrooms and saw him stretched out in his seat, as much as economy class would allow. He slept, exhausted by the case no doubt. They managed to get some sleep last night but it seemed, for Mulder it wasn't enough. Drink in a plastic cup was a rare thing, he never drank, unless the case hit him hard. He didn't show it earlier, not when they slept in the car, nor when he came to her room and held her through the night. Before, she saw exhaustion and intuited the rest, this was hard evidence. Scully slipped into the third, vacant seat and lifted the armrest slowly.

Mulder stirred and glanced at her beneath sleep heavy eyelids. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." She said softly and he shook his head, dismissing it. "The case?" she gestured with the cup; he shrugged. Alcohol it did nothing to calm him, only made his doze fitful and gave him weird dreams. Besides, he had a new thing, two out of two, it worked like a charm. His right hand twitched, a turn of the wrist, and when his fingers opened she took it, stroking the back of it gently.

He couldn't stop thinking of the victims, their families on a long way to healing. He couldn't help them, catching the killer didn't bring their loved ones back, but at least they had some closure, some measure of justice. He saved one girl, out of seven. Having lost so many things in life, come so close to the truth just to have it snatched from his grasp, he was tired. Tired of the letdowns, tired of running around, yelling that sky was falling when no one was looking up, but most of all he was tired of facing it alone. No one but Scully, his only ally and hope. He was buried neck deep in debt of gratitude towards her. She stood by him, she fought battles with him, she saved him and she cared for him. He was one lucky SOB to have her walk through his door that day years ago and every day since. Despite loss and pain he caused her, she stood by him, his only constant, his touchstone. He owed her everything. Yet still, she wasn't his, he could lose her and go back to having nothing. That thought must have brought her to him. Like when she pulled him out of the spiral, or last night, when she let him hold her. He never slept so good in his life.

Scully watched him hold her hand, some train of thought that seemed dangerous to her. Mulder was prone to extreme blues, usually getting too invested in things that ended in nothing. But even with the case being a small victory and his profile saving lives, here he was, lost in the dark maze of his thoughts. It cost her nothing to pull at his hand with an encouraging smile. She folded one leg under herself and like that, Mulder read her intent. Pushing the armrest up and the bag to the floor, he laid down his head in her lap. The lights in the cabin dimmed and they managed to rearrange things so that he laid on his back across all three seats. Scully turned off the overhead spotlight and pulled the jacket over him, but he refused to let go, taking her hand and hiding it beneath the makeshift blanket with his. Feeling his each breath, warm hand covering hers over his heart, she found a faint pulse, an echo of her own perhaps. Mulder looked up at her, his expression instantly easier. She held his gaze as she smoothed the rest of the frown of his forehead, combing fingers through his hair, deliberately slow and tender. Closing his eyes, and giving in to her touch he said softly, "you're making an addict out of me." Taken by surprise she froze, but he leaned into her palm, pleading "don't stop." "How so?" she resumed her task. "You make me crave something I should not want." He explained, only half joking, but making her smile. "Which is?" she leaned her head on the seat, stifling a yawn of her own. "You," he felt the warmth weigh him down, "doing this, each night." "Oh, that," Scully sighed and closed her eyes. "How about what I want?" "What do you want, Scully?" her name came mumbled. She settled in, focusing on the path and the silky texture under her palm. "I want to sleep," she sighed, feeling him nod, "we'll talk when we land, 'kay?" Silence. A steady breath. The hum of engines and stale cabin air, none of it bothered them. They slept.

#post hijacking #msr fanfic #x files fanfic #new dawn #muldersboyishenthousiasm

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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years

Note

prompt: post-ghouli. william knows scully is his birth mom, but when/how does he figure out mulder is his birth dad? or does he already know?

hypnagogia

a/n: post ghouli, canon compliant, wrote largely to alleviate the strange influx of dad!mulder feelings i’ve recently been having.

He leaves Virginia and doesn’t look back. He's always wanted to travel. He lived in Wyoming for a while when he was a baby, but before that, he has no idea. (Something he could ask his birth mother if he hadn't had to hide from her.) But the rest of his life he's spent in that tiny town in Virginia, gone on the same vacations to a cabin in the mountains or a beach house on the coast. He's always wanted to see the country.

His mind is muddled in a way that cannot be cured by staring aimlessly at the interstate. He blasts music, consistently turning up the volume until people in other cars give him dirty looks. When his dad had bought him the car, he'd sat in the passenger seat with Jackson and lectured him for what felt like hours, and one of his stipulations had been that Jackson never turn the volume on the radio up past 30. “I don't want you distracted and not being able to hear other cars honking at you,” he'd said. Jackson is breaking this rule, and it makes his teeth clench. He can't think about his father, because that just leads to him thinking about his mother and the way that the three of them were loaded into body bags together and taken to the morgue like some bizarre family photo, mom and dad and baby in the middle. And thinking about that just makes him want to throw up. He can't think about the morgue, can't imagine his dead parents or his living birth mother, tears streaking down her face as she apologized to him. He can't think about it; it's absolutely dizzying. He drives, squinting at the sun on the horizon.

When he gets to a hotel, a cheap hotel he can pay for with cash, the kindly cashier asks him his name. He thinks without speaking, reverting back to lying completely still in a body bag as he projected. He uses the name that he thinks he must've had, once. “William,” he says. “My name is William.”

---

Scully keeps the broken snow globe from Jackson’s room and the strand of hair she cut to check his DNA against hers. Mulder pretends to keep nothing. He has spent this entire ordeal pretending he is strong, being there for Scully, pretending he isn't shattered inside. He keeps one picture that he doesn't tell her about: his son at seven or eight, smiling into the camera with a baseball bat in hand. This is for him. His son loves baseball; he's daydreamed about that more times than he can count. It seems unfair that he wasn't the one to teach William—Jackson—about baseball: the rules, how to throw, how to catch. It seems unfair that Scully is the one who got to talk to him.

He watches the surveillance tape alongside Scully over and over again, and he smiles every time. When Scully reaches down to take his hand, he squeezes it to communicate his delight for her. He's extraordinarily happy that she got to talk to their son, to know that he's okay after seeing him dead, to know that he wants to know her better. He's so glad to his son is okay, to hear the first words he's ever heard his son say on the grainy surveillance tape. But he can't help but be jealous, just a bit. That his son didn't try to contact him.

He knows it's selfish, incredibly so, and he can mostly forget about it in the frenzied days after, when Scully is at home with them and they take a few days off work. Watching the tape again and again, whispering excitedly with Scully over the covers about their son, their son who is alive and loves space and Malcolm X and yes, baseball and oh my god, Mulder, he looks just like you. Scully smiles tearily at him and squeezes his hand, and he just loves them both so much. Everything that happened after they lost William, all the nights he found Scully crying hysterically over her son, so worried, so scared that he wasn't okay and that he won't resent her and that she hadn't made him any safer by sending him away. And Mulder is not sure how much safer they made him, but he is alive, and Scully has seen that he is okay. She has spoken to her son for the first time since he was a baby, and she knows he is okay, and that is all that should matter. Mulder has seen the results of her guilt over the years, can still hear her tearful laments in the morgue, and he is so happy that she has some closure, even if it is small. He just. There is something inside him, a weight in his chest that prevents him from being fully happy. The only memories he has of his son, now, are the three days they spent together as an infant and finding him in his bedroom with a bullet wound in his head. The surveillance tape does not count; it is wonderful, but he was not there for that, and it is like the pictures Scully left in the attic when she moved out: something too good to be true, too far off to reach. Like it might shatter on impact if he touches it. He wishes that he'd had a chance to talk to Jackson, even if only briefly. He wishes he'd had a chance to tell his son how much he loves him. He wonders if Jackson knows that he is his father.

He copes. He wraps his arms around Scully when they crawl into bed together, buries his nose in her hair and thinks of their son, thinks of that last night that the three of them spent together, Scully's eyes red and her head heavy on his shoulder, William nestled against his chest and sucking on his fingers. He'd never wanted to let go. He holds onto Scully and thinks of the picture he has tucked into his bedside table drawer, between the pages of a book he never finished. His son likes baseball. His son.

He has to believe that they will see him again.

---

He is William Smith in West Virginia and William Johnson in Indiana. He realizes that his names are a little less conspicuous than intended by trying to make them more conspicuous, and anyway, he shouldn't keep using the same alias. He tells the next person who asks that his name is Frank, and it feels bizarre. He wants the comfort of the name his parents gave him, a shouted, “Jack!” down the halls of his school, or the disapproving way his mother said, “Jackson,” right before she laid into him. God, he would do anything to be lectured by her right now. He'd sit through ten lectures if only he could see her again. He swallows back tears and squints at the road ahead.

William is a name he associates with stiff, formal business men or kindly grandfathers. For some reason, whenever he hears the name William, he thinks of that one president who died after, like, only a month in office. He hears his birth mother call him William again in a hushed, tear-soaked voice. He knows it is his birth mother, because he's seen her a thousand times: in the flashes he gets sometimes, more often of his parents or friends or teachers, but sometimes her. And in that one vision in the heat of his seizure, the vision of the end of the world. And the visions he'd sent her after what had happened on the Chimera, hoping that she could help him understand why he was the way he was.

He knows that it is her, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. Didn't know how to react. Part of him wanted to run to her and demand answers to the questions that he'd had his entire life. The other part wanted to run the other way. His parents were dead because of him, because he decided to contact his birth mother; he couldn't betray them by talking to her, going with her. And even if it wasn't a betrayal of everything in his life, he couldn't put her in danger like that. He'd settled for the best he could do to settle his tossing emotion: talking to her in disguise and then immediately running the other way. He didn't know what to do. He thinks about contacting her again, just to let her know he's okay. He remembers his mother and stops. He swallows back the bitterness in his throat and tells the next person his name is Tom Jenkins.

He's wondered more than once about the man who was with his birth mother. He thinks he might look a little bit like the guy from his vision, the one he thinks is his father, the one his birth mother wanted to save so much. But he can't be sure. He doesn't know. His birth father remains a mystery, a foggy figure at the back of his mind with a deep voice, the light overhead haloing his head as he lifts him in the air, an uncertain memory that Jackson can't place. That is all he recognizes; there are much more solid things concerning his birth mother. But he has thought about him a lot. Tried to get a clear image in his head of him in the vision. He doesn't know if the man with his birth mother is his birth father—he can't be sure, he knows law enforcement have partners that aren't necessarily also life partners—but he thinks he might be. He'd engulfed his birth mother (Scully, Jackson thinks her name is) in his arms after she'd cried over him. Your father, she had said to him tearfully. I'm so sorry I didn't get a chance to know you, or you get a chance to know me, or your father.

Jackson doesn't know. He doesn't. He misses his life in Virginia, his friends and his parents and all of it. He spent all this time wanting to leave, and now he just wants to go home. He curls on his side and pictures his home. The morgue slides into his mind like a knife, his mind blurring into the overhead light of the morgue and the voices of his birth mother and her partner above him. It feels like a memory from when he was very, very young. Like something he barely remembers.

---

Scully has to go home. She needs to check on the house, she tells him apologetically, and she is running out of clothes. Mulder resists the urge to tell her she could just wash them, or finally move back in, instead kisses her softly on the forehead and tells her he'll miss her. She smiles and tells him that she'll be back soon.

After she leaves, he sits on the couch and watches TV, tries not to think about everything tangling together in his mind. The surveillance tape sits on top of his TV, dormant. He swallows and ignores it as long as he can.

He breaks eventually, of course. Scully's voice is not here to fill the quiet moments, and there is nothing to stop him from picturing his son dead. Of course he breaks. He creeps upstairs gingerly, slides the picture out of the book. There's his son. Smiling under the brim of a baseball cap.

Mulder brushes his thumb over the image of William's face and lets the tears fall freely.

---

Jackson sees it one night somewhere in Illinois. He's lying on his stomach facing the TV, watching lazily and thinking absently of the last time he saw this movie (which of course was with Bri, which brings back painful memories) when it flashes through his mind. The man from the morgue, from the hospital, from the end of the world holding a picture of him. He remembers that picture: Little League baseball, and his parents had been so proud, his mom coaxing him to pose with the baseball bat held aloft, grinning into the camera. The man (he thinks his name is Mulder) is holding the picture and crying. He knows this picture, he had to have taken it from his bedroom. The image is gone as quickly as it came, and Jackson gulps, rolling on his back and looking at the water stained ceiling. My birth father, he thinks, and it feels almost dangerous. That's my birth father. He thinks he might look like him.

He remembers running into Scully outside of the hospital, just a couple hours after her confession. He'd been hiding around the hospital, uncertain about whether or not to go to his birth mother for help, uncertain about what to do. He'd lingered between Bri and Sarah’s rooms for a few long minutes, weighing whether or not he should go in. He'd hid in a closet for almost an hour, pressing his forehead into his knees. He'd fallen asleep briefly, tried to manipulate dreams.

He'd finally decided to leave, pack a car in case he had to make a quick escape, wait to make sure Sarah and Bri would be okay and then disappear. In the hall on his way out of the hospital, he'd passed the man who he now knows is his birth father, pale and looking on the verge of tears, and he hadn't thought about it at the time because he'd been so focused on getting out, disguised as The Pickup Artist guy so that he didn't recognize him. He hadn't realized at the time.

Outside the hospital, he'd run smack into Scully, knocking a snow globe out of her hands and onto the ground. When he picked it up to hand it back, he'd recognized it: the one that he'd bought at that gas station an hour outside of town the first time he'd driven that far on his own. She'd taken it from his room. All he could do was apologize in the moment, remembering her tearful apology. It was his snow globe, but he somehow couldn't be mad at her. She'd felt such a connection to him, been so saddened by his apparent death that she'd taken something from his bedroom to hold onto him. And now he knew that his birth father had done the same thing.

He's talked to his birth mother, twice now. He's sent her dreams and visions and seen her in his head for years. But he has nothing of his birth father but the foggy memory of being lifted towards the light, the knowledge that he will die if the world ends and he doesn't get stem cells from Jackson. Another parent dead, and it will be his fault like his other parents, because he is the only one who can save him.

Jackson rolls back on his stomach, pressing his face into the blankets. He doesn't know what to do. He wishes he knew what to do.

He can't go back and find them. It's too soon, he's not ready for that. He'll head back at the first sign of the end of the world, but not now. Not yet. But he can't leave it like this between him and the birth father he's never met. He never even spoke to him, never got a chance to tell him what he told his birth mother. And Mulder is the one he will lose if he fails.

When he was asleep in the closet in the hospital, he'd sent a dream to Scully, trying to reassure her, show her that he was okay. He'd wanted to talk to her, had come up behind her while she was looking at the unbroken snow globe. She had turned to look at him as he prepared to speak, but then she'd woken up and he'd been ready to forget the entire thing. Until he ran into her outside of the hospital.

He can do the same thing. He can send Mulder a dream, and hope that he doesn't wake up before they have a chance to talk. It's the best he can do, for now.

Jackson rolls onto his side and shuts his eyes.

---

Mulder doesn't remember falling asleep. He just knows that when he opens his eyes, he is lying is a strange hotel room, shabby and cheap. The photo is on the bedside table. When Mulder tries to move, reach for the picture, roll over and scan his surroundings, he finds that he can't. He is trapped, immobile in the bed. His throat goes dry as he remembers: sleep paralysis. The dreams their son sent Scully.

He tries to move, but he is still frozen. He grunts in protest as he struggles. A dark figure appears over his shoulder, skinny and gangly. His breath catches in his throat. “William?” he whispers, helpless.

He isn't expecting him to speak, which is why the voice coming from over his shoulder is such a surprise. “You're him, aren't you?” Jackson says. “My birth father.”

Mulder finds himself able to move in that moment; he immediately turns over, eagerly. His son stands next to the bed, dressed in an oversized shirt and jacket that look like they're from Goodwill. He looks terrified, dark hair hanging in his face. “Jackson,” Mulder says, a bit stilted, as he sits up; he knows he is as nervous as his son. “I… yes. I'm your birth father.”

Jackson nods a little frantically, dark eyes huge in his face. “I thought you might be,” he says. “But I knew for sure when I saw you with the picture.” He motions to the picture on the bedside table.

Mulder swallows. “I… I've always loved baseball,” he says quietly. “I dunno, I just…”

“Yeah.” Jackson nods quickly, his hands fisted by his side. “I get it.”

Mulder swallows again. He doesn't know what to say. He wants to hug his son. He wants to beg him to come back. He says, “Are you okay?” Jackson nods. Mulder's eyes flick over the suitcase in the corner, the pile of personal belongings on the table. He tries, “Where are you?”

Jackson shakes his head. “Can't tell you. I just want you to know that… I dunno, I'm okay, I guess,” he says, shrugging. “I never got a chance to… talk to you. But you can't come looking for me. It's not safe.”

Mulder nods, as much as he hates it. This is his and Scully's son; he's not surprised that William is trying to distance himself. “I appreciate you contacting me,” he says, and his voice only falters a little, as if this isn't the only conversation he's ever had with his son. “We were worried about you.”

“I'm sorry I made you think I was dead,” Jackson blurts.

“It's okay,” Mulder replies too quickly. He holds up his hands, trying to calm him, and thinks helplessly of the first time he tried to soothe his son. Hey now, none of that. “It's okay,” he says. “You did it to keep yourself safe. I'm just glad you're okay. Scully feels the same way.”

Jackson looks away, down at the ground. Mulder feels the world narrow, the edge of the image fade. “I can't come back right now,” he mumbles. “But I'm going to come back someday. So I can save you. So I can get to know you better.”

Tears prick the edge of Mulder's vision. The dream is fading, he's starting to wake up. “Jackson,” he says, a plea, a thank-you.

“Tell…” Jackson trails off, gulping. “Tell Scully I said hi. Tell her I'll be okay.”

His son's face is fading. Mulder, he hears someone say, far away, but he tries to ignore it, tries to cling to his reality. “William,” he says, slipping up. He doesn't want to leave. Jackson begins to fade out. He means to say I love you, but what actually comes out is, “I'm so sorry.”

“Mulder?” Scully says from somewhere above him, and his eyes slip open. His son's voice still in his ears.

Scully is standing above him, her hair pulled back and an overnight bag in one hand. Her eyes aren't on him but on his hand, and he remembers that he fell asleep with the picture in hand. William's face, slightly crumpled, is just visible over the top of his fingers.

Scully sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for his hand. “You kept the picture,” she says softly, taking it from him. Her finger brushes over the glossy image.

Mulder smiles, sitting up on the bed. He takes her hand, crushing the picture between their palms. It's all they have for now, but it won't be forever. Jackson said he was coming back someday. “Scully,” he says, brushing loose strands of hair out of her face. She looks up at him tremulously, lower lip trembling. He brushes his fingers over her jaw, coming down to cup her cheek. “Jackson says hi,” he says.

#xf fanfic #s11 #i wrote this

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