#Mulder Loses Children While Scully Frees Them

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder Loses Children While Scully Frees Them

In S1, Mulder clings to the nightmares and recovered memories of his sister's abduction, warping his life around finding her again. Scully spends S1 mitigating his fervor, especially when he pushes other children beyond their limits to find the Truth (Ruby Morris in Conduit and Michelle Bishop in Born Again.)

(The EVE twins, D.P.O., and the Calusari child don't count because they were villains.)

In S3, Mulder loses Amy Jacobs briefly before Lucy Householder dies in her place, both incidences creating a heavy blow to his self-belief. Scully tries to reconcile him to that loss; and later protects and saves Kevin Kryder, reigniting her own version of faith.

In S4, Mulder vainly tries to cling to a clone of his sister; but listens to and is comforted by Scully's attempts to help him let go of this failure-- which later leads him to draw parallels between their shared present and their could-be future in Home: "I never saw you as a mother before."

Continuing on with S4's Samantha wounds, Mulder loses two more links to his sister: a possible lead with Roche and another fractured but faulty memory of the family secrets. The pieces of his shattered losses are, again, up to Scully to help gather put back together.

S5 Mulder loses Emily, which he believed (then) was the last chance for Scully-- and by extension, him-- to have a child; but Scully lets her die, seeing it as the only way she can protect her little girl.

Scully also frees Polly Turner from her cursed doll

before returning to her daughter's tragic arc in All Souls, where she finally releases Emily (and Paula), listening to her daughter and giving up that last tie to her girl.

Mulder, meanwhile, cannot accept the comfort of a peaceful visitation, waiting another two years before his star-dusted sister brings him her heavenly closure.

(Gibson Praise doesn't count, either, because both Mulder and Scully lose him and reunite with him in later seasons, null-and-voiding their interactions and failures.)

The IVF arc fits here somewhere, with Mulder losing another chance at a family (but unwilling to give up that hope, as usual) while Scully lets the dream go for her peace's sake.

In S6 Mulder loses the demon baby that Scully (and he) had inadvertently allowed to escape; and Scully protects Trevor from his psychotic (but adoring) father.

In S7, Mulder almost loses his inner child until Scully calls him back to himself, her efforts freeing him from the delusions of his fading mind. He fails to save brains-eating Rob and the speedster teens--

but is given a short but unburdening reprieve when meeting his own lost girl aglow in afterlife stardust.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long; and Mulder is swept along in the final heavy losses of S7: Chimera Ellen Adderley's baby, Theresa Hoese's baby, and his own baby-- all three taken from their children and locked up, perhaps permanently, far away.

S7 Scully, as mentioned, saves Mulder's inner child; and she's also busy reuniting Frank Black with his daughter, loosely helping Ritchie Lepone get well (through a corroborative effort), and saving Nan Wieder from a magic man bent on revenge. The last and most personal of these rescues is happenstance: coincidentally protecting her own child (from who knows what possibility) by staying in D.C.

S8 in redemption for them both: Mulder breaks his pattern by not losing another child-- despite almost losing their son by either his reckless actions (getting abducted, getting "killed", getting executed in the DOD, getting trapped with alien ooze on an oil rig, and almost getting shot by Alex Krycek) or his inane choices (sending the baby and Scully far away from his protection.) Scully has learned in Mulder's absence that some things cannot be given up or "freed", adapting her partner's ways into her own by filling his shoes. The decisions she made for Emily are vastly different than the ones she makes for her son (and her work and her partner.)

At the close of Existence, the family is whole: Mulder has, at last, justified his capabilities to himself (his fear at the FBI vs. his complete confidence back in Scully's apartment) and Scully has proven her own strength to herself in the face of possibly paralyzing loss, beating it back ("It's MINE") and triumphing with their miracle still in her arms.

She hands off William to her partner, proving her complete trust in him; Mulder holds William comfortably, loosely, at ease and unafraid of his family's future.

William is proof: of their love and their ability to overcome.

(...And, of course, S9 does not happen to eradicate their progress by repeating the pattern of Mulder losing another child and Scully letting another one go....

And of course, the Revival does NOT happen to double back and reinforce that pattern, again, with Mulder losing and Scully giving up the SAME child that was purged from their life twice in favor of their newer, younger model.

Because that would undermine the progress of the original arc, now wouldn't it?

And that would be a shame.)

#txf #meta #xf meta #x-files #xfiles #mine #the x files #Mulder Loses Children While Scully Frees Them #Mulder #Scully #S1 #S2 #S3 #S4 #S5 #S6 #S7 #S8 #S9 #S11 #William #Jackson van de Kamp

[sisterspooky1013]

Damsels, Chapter Ten: Last Day

By SisterSpooky1013 / Read previous chapters here

Rated E / Tagging @today-in-fic

Adult Content Immediately after the jump

He sits there stunned, his heart pounding in his cock, which is so hard it actually hurts. He looks to the open curtain Scully just disappeared through, considering the possibility that he just hallucinated all of that. Looking at his lap, he sees that the fly of his jeans is damp, lower than it would be were that his own precum seeping through. A new wave of desire overtakes him realizing that it’s her, her wetness on him. How wet would she have had to be for it to soak through her underwear and get on his pants? He runs his hands over his face, trying to locate reality.

“You about done in there?” the hulking man who’d been keeping watch over them asks. He wonders what Scully had said to him to make that possible. “Excuse me, would you please look the other way so I might dry hump my coworker in private?”

He stands, wondering if it will be more obvious if he tries to hide his erection rather than just pretend it’s not there. He goes with option B and scans the room for her as he makes his way to the main entrance, not surprised that she isn’t working the floor; she may need a minute after that herself. He’s intending to go out to his car, but changes course at the last moment and pushes his way into the men’s room instead. It’s surprisingly clean and unoccupied, so he steps into a stall and latches the door closed. He unzips quickly, freeing his turgid hard-on and beginning to stroke, one hand braced against the wall. It doesn’t take much; ten or twelve pumps and he’s spurting into the toilet, stifling his cries into his upper arm. He flushes and washes his hands, avoiding eye contact with the man who enters the stall he just finished defiling, then exits the club.

He sits in his car in the parking lot, inhaling sunflower seeds as his leg bounces nervously. He’s been watching the rear doors of the club for hours, waiting for her to get off work, but it’s after 3 am and he hasn’t seen her yet. As the last light in the club extinguishes, he slams his hands against the steering wheel in frustration. Against his better judgment, he checks into a motel.

*******************************************************

When she wakes it’s just after 9 am, which feels like a wonderfully normal time to be waking up. If not for her location, she might have been able to forget, for a moment, that she’s on a case. Might have been able to forget that she’s working as a stripper. Might have been able to forget that she kissed Mulder last night. And let him touch her breasts. And lick them. While she straddled him and practically fucked him through his pants. The resulting throb between her legs at the memory doesn’t allow her to forget. She lays there for a long while, wondering what will happen next. Will she return home after the case and act like nothing happened? Will Mulder insist that they talk about it? Maybe she can convince him that it wasn’t her. A Doppelganger. But if she does that, she’ll have to stop hoping that it will happen again. Who knows what they might do with unlimited time and privacy.

Rolling out of bed, she powers up the burner phone while she makes coffee and toast. She even indulges and butters it. Fuck it.

“Agent Wiley.”

“Hello, Agent Wiley, this is Agent Scully.”

“Good morning, Agent Scully, I’m glad you called.”

“Oh? Did you learn something from the files I found?” She sits at the small dining room table with her steaming mug.

“Maybe. Most of the information is so vague, we weren’t able to put names to any of the women who have already left the club, but we did get one possible hit on someone who’s still there. On the file listed as J.H.”

“The woman who’s hiding from her abusive husband? Who works in law enforcement?”

“Yes. There was a missing person’s report filed eight months ago by Officer Jacob Hall in Eerie, PA. His wife Jennifer and three year old daughter Aubrey weren’t home when he returned from his shift one random Wednesday. All of their personal effects were accounted for, including Jennifer’s purse and ID, but no sign of a struggle. It’s like they just vanished.”

“Lexie, the woman I thought may be J.H., said her real name was Leanne.”

“I’m sure it’s an alias. Can’t be too careful.”

“Do you have a description of her, identifying marks?”

“Yeah, one second,” Scully hears the flutter of shuffling papers, “uh, okay, five foot eight, medium build, dark brown hair, brown eyes. She has a tattoo of a phoenix on her chest.”

“That’s Lexie. I’m sure of it.”

“Okay. Well, we’ll have to discuss amongst the team here how to handle that considering the safety risk if we report it. What about Mila? Any sign of her?”

Scully shakes her head, though Agent Wiley can’t see her. “No, nothing. I don’t think she’s here anymore, if she ever was at all.”

“Shit. Well, go ahead and report for work tonight, see if you can dig up anything else. In the meantime, I’m going to report back to A.D. Kersh and see if we can get clearance to pull you out, maybe tomorrow.”

Scully sighs heavily with relief. “Thank you so much, Agent Wiley.”

One more day. She can make it through one more day. And then what?

She spends the afternoon cleaning the apartment, laundering the sheets and re-folding all the clothes in the drawers. She likes to leave places in better shape than when she found them. People too, she realizes. She wants the legacy she leaves to be a good one, whatever the situation. She hopes she leaves a good legacy at Damsels, as absurd as that sounds.

*******************************************************

Over his cup of shitty motel room coffee, he has an epiphany. Well, maybe not an epiphany so much as a realization.

He has to take a chance with Scully. He has to tell her how he feels. If he tells her and she doesn’t feel the same way, he might lose her. But if he doesn’t tell her, she’ll end up with someone else and he’ll lose her anyway. If he does nothing, he’s guaranteed to end up miserable and alone. He’s got nothing to lose.

He’s going to tell her. Tonight.

*******************************************************

Reporting for work that evening, she feels oddly nostalgic. She’s more than ready to go home and resume a job wherein her nipples are typically covered, but she feels a little sad about never seeing these people again. As she gets ready in the dancer’s room, she laughs a little harder at Tibet’s jokes. She smiles a little more warmly at Magenta’s sage advice. She feels greater empathy for Lexie, and desperately hopes that Agent Wiley will keep her and her daughter safe. Angel should be back tonight, but Scully hasn’t seen her. The thought that she may leave this assignment without ever having the chance to speak to Angel again makes her chest feel heavy with regret.

She goes out for her first stage set of the night and has a little more fun with it, knowing it may be one of the last. As she circulates the floor afterward, she’s a little more grateful for Denny’s careful watch and his protectiveness over her. She’s a little kinder to Mr. Keane in the VIP room as he laments never having had children. He seems a little more human to her, now.

Heading back to the dancer’s room for her break between sets, she thinks about how much she’s changed, and wonders if some of Desiree might make the journey home with her. Scully might like to keep her sense of playfulness, and her confidence. She might like to learn from Desi how to let go and just be in the moment. How to be with Mulder. She changes into a lavender bandeau top and matching bikini cut panties for her next, and maybe last, set, and is freshening her makeup when a familiar voice calls out from behind her.

“Hey, bitches!”

She smiles at herself in the mirror, feeling relieved, and spins around in her chair. As she turns to face the voice, her smile quickly fades and her mouth hangs open in shock.

Mila Chamberlain is standing in front of her.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files #x files fanfic #case file #case fic

[cultureisdarkbeer]

The Beginning - Chapter 3 

Three Meals and a Liberty Bell

Conduit/Jersey Devil/Shadows

Read Here

It had been two weeks since Ethan walked out.  Scully missed him, but she knew it was time.  It was nice to not have to answer to anyone, to concentrate only on herself.   She was going to take advantage of this time to decide what it was she wanted out of life.  When she left Daniel it was the hardest thing she had ever done.  This breakup was not the same. It had been on the verge of happening for a while now.  Scully felt smothered as she eventually always did in her relationships. Being emotionally close was not something Dana was comfortable with. Ethan was another victim in the wake of the great Dana Scully.  She knew that to leave headquarters would be a mistake.  Now she would focus on her career, on herself, and enjoy the alone time.  Especially the joy in having to answer to no one, having to explain herself to no one, and having the whole wonderful apartment all to herself.

Then she got to work.  As with every day, she started in Blevin’s office.  On the surface the powers that be made it seem all too innocent.  Their justification for their actions was simple.  Exorbitant expenditures, flimsy reasons for expense and case requests, all under the guise of concern for appropriations of federal funding.  If any resistance was given they would follow up with accusatory statements concerning Mulder’s obsession with looking for his sister.  Instead of a spy, she felt more like his defender.  At the time, she wasn’t sure why she had such an intense urge to protect him.  Did Mulder portray a certain bad boy image?  A rebel with a cause.  He was fearless of consequences, focused, and determined.  She couldn’t bear to think of being responsible to put out such a fire.  Were his pursuits truly unfounded?

[Post Conduit]

Mulder lifted his head and dried his eyes.  This was getting him nowhere.  He prayed one last time to the God that never spoke back.  A quiet bystander overseeing all.  He had prayed for the signs that would lead to his sister.  Was she out there alone and afraid?  Had she been abused?  Experimented on, part of some untold testing and torture?  He wanted to believe he could still find her and save her.  Pain emanating his heart and infuriating his mind.  “Please God help me.  Give me the strength and the wisdom to find my sister” He got up. Mulder didn’t have much faith in religions and with each passing day he was losing faith in the God that would allow such sinister plots to torture innocent children. Was free will really the culprit in all this? With the sign of the cross he left the church, picked up his cell phone and pressed the redial button.

*

Scully listened to Mulder’s Hypnotic Regression Therapy session cassette from the case file. Convincing herself she was doing it out of necessity to gain deeper knowledge into her partner and not from sheer nosiness sated her conscience. It squeezed at her heart hearing his voice so fragile and vulnerable speaking about her crying out his name and him being unable to help her.  He wanted so badly to believe he could find her. Even though she did not believe beings from another planet came to claim his sister, she felt empathy and knew she was abducted by someone just the same.  What a terribly traumatic experience for him to have to go through at such a young age.  She pictured him as a boy, watching helplessly as his sister was taken and it caused her to shudder and shed a tear as raw emotion enveloped her.  The cellphone rang startling her.  “Scully”

“Hey Scully, it’s me, Mulder.”

“Hey Mulder” She inserted the contents and quickly closed the file even though logically he had no way of seeing her.  She felt like somehow she was violating his privacy, his innermost demons, even though it was part of public record.

“It’s around dinner time and I really don’t feel like eating alone tonight.  Care to join me?”

She could hear the continued sorrow in his voice and she didn’t have the heart to turn him down.  She knew how badly this case had affected him and now she was able to begin to understand why.  The wounded expression when he relented, knowing how much he wanted to help that family.  How he saw himself in that boy.

“Sure Mulder, wherever you’d like.”

There they sat in another dimly lit restaurant at a corner table.  If someone didn’t know any better they would probably assume they were on a date.

“Mulder, I want to apologize to you.  Twice today I laid my hands on you and I shouldn’t have done that, it was inappropriate of me.”

Mulder frowned. He wanted to play innocent and ask what she meant, but her touch spoke to him.  It was soothing and warm.  Electrified and magnetic.  “No Scully, I should thank you.  Both times, when I was pulling those rocks off of that makeshift grave and when I was going after the boy in the hospital I was out of control.  You brought me back.  I need you to do that for me, that’s what friends do.”

He looked at her and his eyes sparkled, they reached out to her heart and she felt them hug her.  She closed her eyes to absorb it all and opened them with a warm smile that made Mulder stare down at his pasta to break away from the intimacy.

She asked him to share some stories of the good times he remembered with his sister.  As he expounded, an intense pained look came across his face.  It was the same look he had while he was opening up to her in the car.  She knew without him saying it that he had never spoke like this to anyone before.  She recalled his lips twitching and eyes trembling as he told her about closing his eyes as he walked into his bedroom in anticipation that he would open them and his sister would be there lying in the bed.  Her heart pained for him as she imagined him waking every day waiting for her return.  His love for her pure and innocent.  As he continued to speak she realized it wasn’t just about his sister, but having his family together again.  This tragic event eventually led to his parents splitting up and with it his childhood.  Scully wanted to reach out to him, comfort him in some way, but she had to remind herself that they were very much strangers.

[The Jersey Devil]

Scully wasn’t sure what to believe anymore with the uniqueness of the cases and Mulder.  She was beginning to think that was the point.  The fact that something could occur without explanation frightened her to the core.  In her world she needed structure and proof. None of which meant anything to an x-file case.  This week it was the Jersey Devil. Folklore becoming truth. Instead of enjoying the afternoon with her new found regular, dependable boyfriend, Scully found herself walking the halls of the Smithsonian with Mulder speaking to an ethnobiologist.  As they returned to the car, Mulder walked around to open the door for her. “Didn’t want to be a Neanderthal” he chimed, closed it and walked to his side of the car. As he got in he asked, “Do you like Chinese food?”

“I’ve been known to eat it from time to time.” She was hesitant not knowing where he was headed.

“I was thinking we could get some take-out and head over to my place.  I want to show you where I keep the rest of my files and there are some details I’d like you to know in case anything ever happens.”

With any other human being, one might interpret his invitation as one with sexual connotations.  Scully had learned that emotionally Mulder was still a twelve year old boy and had not progressed much since his sister’s abduction.  It was both frustrating and enduring simultaneously.  “Sounds like a plan.”

Scully followed Mulder into his apartment where he gave her the grand tour.  It hinted of old wood and leather.  His kitchen was small, but efficient and it was obvious he waited for the dishes to stockpile to a certain level before he deemed it necessary to clean them.  With the exception of living like a bum for the weekend in Atlantic City, Mulder’s grooming habits did not match his housekeeping.  Lucky for her since he liked to speak to her an inch from her face.  The more intense the conversation, the closer he would get.  His breath was either minty or had the fragrance of sunflower seeds.  The clean soapy smell of his skin was augmented by his cologne. Pleasant but not overpowering and complimented by his Mulderesque aroma.  He kept himself well groomed, although his five o’clock shadow was nothing to balk at.  As she continued to look around she noticed his desk which was cluttered with mail and files.  “You want dishes or should we eat from the containers?” He asked from the kitchen.

“I’m not above eating from a container.” Scully replied. Besides, she wasn’t completely confident in Mulder’s dish cleaning abilities.

Mulder returned with two forks and two glasses of iced tea.  Handing a fork to Scully he stated, “I didn’t peg you for a chopstick kinda woman.”

As they ate he turned on a football game and went into detail concerning how he was able to secure his connections in congress and how they in turn protected the x-files and provided legitimacy for them to stay open.  “Senator Matheson is my biggest proponent.  He has helped tremendously.”  As he spoke his intense gaze remained on Scully.  His passion on the subject was unquestionable.

Scully looked around and realized something was missing.  “Mulder, do you have a bathroom?”

“Yeah…it’s uh…right through my…uh, file room”

Scully got up and opened the door.  Pornographic magazines fell open at her feet.  She chuckled. “Good filing system Mulder.”

“There not mine I swear.  If they are it’s for investigative purposes only.”  She turned squinting her eyes at him, raised one eyebrow, then stepped over the pile and squeezed her way into the bathroom.  Scully was getting use to walking in on him at work with a magazine or something interesting on television.  Certainly HR would have a field day with him, but she didn’t mind.  He was always making some kind of excuse or trying to hide it, but she thought it was the most normal thing he did besides his fondness for sports.  If he would stop being so shy about it at some point down the road she may even consider watching one with him.  The thought made her teeth dig into her bottom lip. After all, she had needs too.  When she finished in the bathroom she decided to be nosy and have a look around.  What should have been the bedroom was covered from floor to ceiling with papers and newspaper clippings, files, filing cabinets, and magazines.  When she walked back out to the couch she noticed a pillow and blanket stuffed neatly in the corner.  “Mulder, can I ask you something personal?”

“No, of course not Scully.” He said with a grimace and slurped up his lomein.

“How do you…um…entertain without a bedroom?”

“Oh” He laughed. Then a real sullen expression came over his face and she was almost sorry she asked the question. “I usually don’t.  Woman don’t particularly gravitate towards you when you’re spooky.  Besides, I told you, finding my sister, this” He held up several x-files cases, “Is all that matters to me. My dedication doesn’t afford me the time for anything else.”

This was clearly a subject he didn’t want to discuss.  You could see his invisible wall erecting and he curled up around his Chinese container making his body appear to shrink. Of course, Scully pushed forward anyway, “You’re a good-looking guy Mulder.  I’m sure there are plenty of women out there who would be interested in you.”

He reached over and picked up the last dumpling.  “You’re not going to eat this are you?”  Scully shook her head and he popped it into his mouth.  “So Scully,” he asked chewing a mouthful of dumpling, “What was wrong with Mr. Right?  How come he didn’t pass muster for a second date?”

Scully picked up her fork and played with her food as she stared at it. “I don’t know.  I just got out of a relationship and the idea of starting another one with a ready-made family….I don’t know.  I told myself I would give myself time to focus on my career and that’s what I’m going to do.” She looked up at Mulder with her big blue eyes and smiled playfully. “Anyway, if I’m going to keep up with my partner I don’t have time for that kind of tomfoolery.” And with that she reached over and snagged one of his shrimp with a devious smile.

“No tomfoolery huh?”  He lifted an eyebrow laughing at the expression and stole a forkful of Kung Pao chicken from her container.  

“Hey!” she shrilled.

“I almost forgot.” Mulder got up still crunching a peanut and handed her a key.  “This is to my apartment.  In case I need to go on another extended leave.  I’ll need you to feed my fish.”

She took it graciously.  It made her happy that he trusted her enough with the keys to his place.  Little did she know his place was like Grand Central Station to anyone with an inkling and a hair pin.

[Post Shadows]

“Hey Scully, do you believe in an afterlife?”

“I’d settle for a life in this one.”

“Have you ever seen the Liberty Bell?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I’ve been to Philadelphia 100 times and I’ve never seen it.”

“You’re not missing much. It’s a big bell, with a big crack, and you have to wait in a long line.”

“I’d really like to go.”

“Why now?”

“I don’t know.  How late do you think they stay open?”

Closed at 5 P.M. read the sign to Independence National Historic Park.   “Well, I guess you’ll have to wait to see it some other time Mulder.”

“Maybe” The tires screeched as the car propelled forward into the park around the protruding arm of the entrance gate.  Securing a spot he set the car in park turning it off and removed his seatbelt.

Scully’s face held a soured expression, “Really Mulder?  Why is it that we can never go a day without breaking some law?”

Mulder smirked as he opened the door, “I’m just putting some life into your life.”

“Mulder, the park is closed and now we’re trespassing.  I’m sure there’s cameras and security everywhere.”

Motioning her towards him he ducked down besides the bushes.  He noted the security at the entrance and stood up puffing his chest out displaying his badge with a serious expression, his mouth in a line with eyebrows to match. He knocked at the glass door purposefully deepening his voice.  “Sir, FBI, we were informed there were some possible suspects in a crime that visited the area today and we would like to take a look around.  Make certain there was no sabotage or evidence of explosives left behind.”

The guard looked instantly shocked and worried.  Obviously he wasn’t use to any kind of excitement on the premises, especially at that hour.  Scully took out her badge and half-heartedly displayed it.

Mulder strolled down the hall with Scully in toe. Throughout the expansive, light-filled center, stood larger-than-life historic documents and graphic images depicting the facts and the myths surrounding the bell.  Inside the quiet alcoves, the two read on and watched some short films on replay as well as gawked at x-rays of the inner-workings and the bell’s crack.  Mulder’s hand slid into Scully’s and tugged her towards the grand hall. There stood the liberty bell in all its majesty.  The glass wall providing Independence Hall showcased in lights as the backdrop underneath the night’s sky.  Scully felt Mulder squeeze her hand and didn’t release it as he stared in awe.  She wondered what was traveling through his genius, but chose to stay in cozy silence. His index finger caressed her own lighting up her chest. When he let her hand go it twitched in protest.  He threw his arm around her squeezing her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Is this really such a bad life?”

She looked up at him and her mouth fell open, a warming sensation filling her heart. This was his response to her earlier statement. Wow, it was an incredibly romantic gesture even if it was meant only in friendship.  Which led her to pull away. The unbridled intimacy between them sending her off kilter. “Mulder, when I said I wanted a life, I wasn’t referring to one in a prison. We may be overstaying our welcome.”

As they left Mulder nodded to security which seemed indifferent to the whole situation and headed out for some dinner.

Scully looked across from her rebel with a cause partner as they bit into their cheese steaks.  "You never told me, what it was like to witness spectral phenomenon first hand.”

“It was everything I could have hoped for and more.  A little frightening.” Their eyes locked and they shared a smile.

“I’ll never get you to believe will I” Mulder looked almost sad.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say never Mulder, I only require you to substantiate your theories.”

“I think that ghost could have shook hands with you, danced around the room, and gave you his key to the pearly gates and you still would say it was only a figment of our imaginations.”

“Does that bother you Mulder?”

He sat silently for a moment in deep concentration. Carefully he spoke. “It can be slightly frustrating at times, but you add the validity to my work that I need.  You force me to justify my theories and conclusions with proof.  I can never argue with that. Plus, you respect my process and me.”

“I may not always agree with you Mulder, but I’ll always support you.”

As they drove off into the night headed back to D.C., Mulder set the dial to sports, his thoughts on spiritual unrest and its impact on society.  Looking over he found that his partner had drifted off to dreamland.  The comfortable, calmness in her face highlighted her youthful appearance.  She looked happy.  He hoped that he was partially responsible for that.  Knowing what was in store for them when they arrived in D.C., she would need her moment of peace to last as long as possible.

Continue Reading

@ms31x129 @today-in-fic @season4mulder @babygirlmulder1018 @muldermakesmehorny @kyouryokusenshi @wholeperson @enigmaticxxbee @kunataiporablog @baronessblixen

#rooted in friendship #xfiles #x files #xf fanart #xf fanfic #txf fanart #txf fanfic #txf

[scapegrace74-blog]

Prompt request.. Scully is the little mermaid and Mulder is the human looking for the mystical creatures. I have a feeling that you could make this work in your own beautiful, creative way. Aaaaand I feel Diana would make a great Ursula.

Thanks for the prompt, anon.  I’ve put off writing it because I have an unhealthy abhorrence of looking silly.  As part of my twelve step program to silly-self-acceptance, I’m going to write this thing.  Because I may in fact be the world’s most qualified candidate to take on an X-Files / Little Mermaid cross-over fic.

1.  It is an idyllic existence.  Protected from tempests in her father’s underwater redoubt, Caniad lives free of obligations, of risk, of questioning.  In short, free of everything that lends oxygen to the flame of life.  As surely as her form is part woman, part fish, she is divided between duty to her loved ones and a relentless thirst to explore.  Under the sun-stained firmament far above her head, she is certain something magical is awaiting to be known.

2. Prince William is a brilliant navigator, charting the oceans for his father the king.  He can read the stars and know his place on a map drafted only in his mind.  Rumour is that he was charmed by a sea-witch in his youth, and is forever doomed to love only the sea and her mysteries. The long voyages give him ample time to pursue his true passion: a compendium of mythical sea creatures.  At each foreign port, he seeks out stories of local legends and monsters, jotting them all down in folios of parchment that he stores in his quarters below deck.  In the liquid abyss far below his feet, he is certain something magical is awaiting to be known.

3.  The storm comes out of nowhere and tosses the ship like a bobbing cork.  Already nearby on a clandestine visit, Caniad breaks the surface just in time to witness a bolt of lightning cleave the wooden ship in two.   The galleon heaves to starboard and swiftly sinks.  Panicked, she swims nearer.  Something brushes against her tail.   She dives beneath the waves and finds a mortal, a heavy leather satchel pulling him to the bottom.  Dragging him back to land takes all her strength and courage.  Out here in the air, she feels awkward and exposed, but she cannot stop staring at this miraculous man.  His skin has a rough patina like the outside of a conch, and his eyes, when they flutter open, are the colours of sunlight peaking through a kelp bed.  The wind ruffles the wet papers he was willing to die rather than lose, and she cannot control her curiosity.  What she finds shocks her, and alarmed at her transgression, she flees into the safety of the deep.

4.  She would sell her soul to touch him again.  Something in their brief meeting releases the floodgates inside of her, and she is swept on a riptide of longing.  The shore is the only point at which their two worlds intersect, and so she haunts it, watching him from afar.  The sea-witch, potent and menacing, spies Caniad’s suffering and sees in it the chance to further taunt the prince.   She casts a spell on the mermaid, transforming her into a human in exchange for forgetting her past self.  The prince may have her, but she will never cease to yearn for her home.

5.  Prince William cannot help but fall in love with the foreign woman with the strange name.  Caniad.  He pronounces it as if it were poetry.  She is beautiful, but it is the current of melancholy that runs through her that captures his heart.  They marry on a fine spring day in a sailor’s chapel overlooking the sea.  Their subjects whisper that she is not of their world, and that is why there will be no children.  When she cannot sleep, she paces the cliffs and tries to understand why the ocean calls to her so.   He finds her there one night and keeps her company silently for a while.  Finally, he begins to speak.  “For as long as I can remember, I chased after murmurs and shadows, believing that what was beyond my reach must be most worthwhile.  But then you came along, and you saved me from myself.   I cannot know what sacrifice you have made to become the pivotal mystery of my life, but I hope that you feel, as I do, that it has been worthwhile.”

[contrivedcoincidences6]

The Invisible Cord- Chapter 5

November 2011

Somewhere in rural Virginia

***

“Mulder, this is ridiculous, you have no idea who these people are. For all, we know this could be a giant trap and a good one too because it’s working!” Scully exclaims, throwing her arms in the air to punctuate her irritation. I rub her arms and try to radiate calm.

“It wouldn’t hurt for us to respond and see what they have to say, Scully. We could call Skinner and bring along our own guns.”

I press a kiss on her furrowed brow and she sighs.

“The last time I saw Kurt Crawford –or his clones I guess–all of them wanted to help you. They considered you one of their mothers. They hated to see you in pain. Hell, they were the ones who gave me your ova, along with a lot of other critical information.” Scully’s arms snake around my waist and I pull her close, “I think we can trust Kurt.”

“How do we know that note was really from him?”

“We don’t. But there’s only one way to find out.”

Finally, she looks up at me and nods.

***

November 2011

Baltimore, Maryland

The house is as quiet as it’s ever been but for the occasional jingle of the cat playing with her toys. My life has just been standard and boring, at least until I got the message about my baby.

In 1994 I was married, pregnant, and happy. Within a year my baby was gone, I was left barren, and my husband and I were separated. He moved on and had a family, leaving me behind with my grief.

I’d always assumed that my baby had died while I was missing, but this message makes me believe otherwise. There were details about my abduction and pregnancy that were so personal. So I called Gary.

He’d got the same message but he refused to go. He didn’t deny that whoever it was sounded credible; he just was not interested in stirring up his life.

He’d moved on only a couple years after our divorce and I never remarried. I became a bit of a recluse even.

I spent my free time going to MUFON meetings and trying to find answers. I met other women who had similar experiences.

There were other women in the group who said they’d been pregnant when they were taken and were then left barren. Many of them found their lives falling apart afterward and all of us felt an indescribable bond.

When I found them they told me about the chip in the back of my neck and all of them had removed theirs. I went to the doctor to get it removed but as I sat in the waiting room something felt off and I left. In the end, I was glad I never removed it.

The first woman in our group was diagnosed not long after I joined and soon they all were sick. I lost all of my best friends within a year. By the end, we’d connected the dots between the removal of the chip and the cancer. There was no sure answer but I never got sick and I was the only one who never grew ill.

All of my friends died before we could figure out what happened to us. Since then I have stuck mostly to myself.

I don’t have anything to lose taking this meeting but I have everything to gain.

***

November 2011

The Freedom Inn

Washington D.C.

“Are you nervous?” I ask May as we wait.

She’s been too quiet and it’s unlike her. I’m never sure what to do in these situations, usually, she is the one comforting me.

Sensing that she lays her head on my shoulder. “Why do you think my father didn’t want to meet me?”

“I don’t know, May. Maybe he doesn’t believe them,” I shrug, wondering why my own parents have yet to respond.

“Or maybe he doesn’t want me.”

I consider this carefully and start to wonder if this is the case with my parents. A sick feeling broils in my stomach.

Why would they want me? I’m a freak. I hadn’t considered that my parents would not want me but it would make sense.

Turning I look at Kurt who’s sitting at the table.

“What did you tell our parents?”

His face is impassive as always.

“I told them I had information about their children. I didn’t go into detail.”

“But why have my parents not responded?” I ask, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

“Your parents are not trusting. They have been through quite a bit so it is justified. I would imagine they are trying to make sure it’s not some kind of trick.”

“What about my father?” May asks.

“Your mother and father separated not long after you were taken. He has another family. I would imagine he doesn’t want to delve into painful memories. He doesn’t know that you are alive. We might let him know later but for now it’s too dangerous to show our hand,” Kurt says with little emotion.

May looks at me and I rub her back. She acts like she doesn’t care but I know hearing that her father might not care about her.

“How will they know it’s us?” I finally ask.

“They will know.”

After a beat, Kurt turns to look at me, speaks again.

“Your parents have met you before, April.”

I frown at him, “What?”

The words sound like they’re coming from underwater and I sound surprisingly calm despite my racing heart.

“They knew you as Emily Sim.” He looks at me meaningfully for a moment but continues, “You’re adopted mother was murdered. By chance your biological mother found you. She hadn’t even known you existed until that point. She was trying to adopt you when the men controlling your fate faked your death. Back then they had not fully perfected the injections. Your blood was green and toxic. After a few years of study, they put you back into the normal world. I imagine they did something to your memory.”

Images begin to flash before my eyes and I press the heel of my hands to them, trying to protect myself from the pain.

My mother is lying in a bathtub. Her blood is all over the floor. My father is being arrested. A gold cross necklace is around my neck. I am watching cartoons in the hospital. The rest is faces I can’t make sense of and voices I barely recognize. I feel sick to my stomach.

“April?” May asks as I shake my head, look at her blankly.

“I…I think I remember them.”

#the invisible cord #txf fanfic #txf fanfiction #the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #clarices fic

[starbuck09256]

A picture in the sand

Episode Fic

Unruhe

Pictures in the Sand

Author: @starbuck09256

For: Kasey Slippin Mickeys

Rating: Teen (I did use the f word not sorry)

First a huge Shot Out to @gaycrouton for putting this goodie together. Girl you are fantastic. I can’t wait to read your fic and everyone else's! 

My prompt was Unruhe and that it should take place in Traverse City with another woman goes missing. I followed it mostly. I rewatched the episode about 9 times, which isn’t bad I like the ep anyway. Here is my angsty (as requested) interpretation.

Not gonna lie, I’m really terrible at procrastinating so this is very much not Beta’d I apologize for spelling and grammar errors. Just happy to barely make the deadline. 

6am Dana Scully's Apartment

She wheels her suitcase next to the end table. Not paying attention she swings it to far and the picture frame on top falls and shatters to the newly stained wood flooring. “Shit” Scully mutters before moving her suitcase to find all the shards of broken glass. She picks up the frame staring at a picture of her and Melissa at a family picnic at the beach from a few years ago. Melissa’s glowing smile staring back at her, she traces the pattern of Melissa’s dress remembering Melissa spinning them around in the sand, letting the tiny pebbles crush against their toes. Like they used to do in San Diego.  Melissa had been galavanting around the world and had just gotten back her smile to be with family, the lightest Dana had seen her in the last few years.  Scully thought it was just because Melissa had finally gone to all the places she talked about endlessly in the dark confines of their shared room. Scully sighs, she remembers that dress Melissa wore in a different context too, one where she is helping their mom pack it away in a donation bin. Melissa so much taller than Scully, it didn’t make sense for Scully to keep it in the back of her closet as a reminder of the women who embodied the bright color and flowy design. The picture inside the jagged frame not scratched and torn right on the side of Melissa dress. The irony isn’t lost as she sits there on the floor where Melissa bled out in between the wood slates a bullet meant for Scully, a life meant for Melissa. She can’t help feeling that the last two years have been so unfair, she is no closer to justice for her sister, no closer to finding the answers of where Duane Berry took her. Now as the nightmares have increased she thinks of the women in Allentown all dying slowly, she wonders if she is next in line. If this picture of her and her sister will find its home on her moms mantle along with catholic candles that flicker in and out of all the lives tragically cut short by senseless violence. Scully presses the picture into the front pouch of her suitcase. Vowing to find a new frame to hold the precious photo right when she gets back from their new case in Michigan. 

She’s only been to Michigan a couple of times. The only real fact about the state that she loved is no matter where you are you are within 7 miles of water. The water calls to her, always has, from years of watching her father navigate it’s depths to summers spent at camps with giant lakes that at night made you feel like you might as well be in the middle of the ocean.  She remembers briefly staying once and seeing the shores of the great lake as it extended out for miles. From her seat at the window she looks out to the expanse of trees and meadows the clouds just above the horizon. Mulder shifts against her. His head resting in her lap on his coat. It’s been a weird few months between bounty hunters and his moms stroke he is more restless than normal. The case brought to them because of the weird photo of a girl seemingly screaming into the camera. Mulder ever elusive with his information he likes to dangle clues and hints to her but never the full story. It use to be fun, this game they play him trying to get her to open her mind to the fantastic to make connections and leaps with scraps of information. Now though it just gets on her nerves. Why not just tell her the facts? Does he think she is so closed minded that she will refuse to go? She wants to refuse. Start standing up for herself more, part of her is tired of seeing these women taken, beaten, lives destroyed in the end does it even matter the how? Is the why so important? What about stopping it? Lately she feels like they are only there for the aftermath, taken to a point so far outside of plausible. She’s getting tired of being taken herself. He mumbles in his sleep and shifts closer to her. That’s the real problem she thinks, how close they are and yet not at all. While they spend endless hours together, eating, sleeping in crappy motel rooms, driving miles and miles of road and for what? to be put in danger constantly?

The larger part of her though finds it still so thrilling. The challenge the way his eyes light up when he gets a new case and they go back and forth it's why he dangles clues and hints. He loves seeing her mind work, and in truth she loves the challenge.  She looks at the photo again, the edging is distorted the colors blending together. She isn’t sure how you would capture an image like this, how the abductor took such a photo. She presses her finger down on the edge looking at the long lines on the side, a face to the far right what is that? A reflection? She wonders what the image is trying to say. She thinks of the photos of her and Melissa torn and stuffed into her roller bag under the seat. She thinks back to all the photos she has taken over the years the others that grace her mantel in tiny rows. Her brothers photo with his new wife how he blames her openly for Melissa's death. As if she didn't already blame herself. She thinks of those women in Allentown how they said they are all dying, the photos they showed her of others like them that have passed on. She has an appointment in 3 months for more scans. She joined the mufon group and has been getting emails of members passing away one by one. Leaving children and husbands behind. She would only leave behind sad plants and half finished articles for medical journals and Mulder. How would he do with a new partner, she thinks back to Jerry whom he just described as a colleague. Is that all she would be to him in the end? A colleague a good friend? There have been moments when she thought they would be more. Melissa certainly thought they would be. Melissa's’ constant insistence that Mulder was the compliment to Scully's stubborn soul. Scully wonders if this is going to be the end will he be her last? She's never missed having a lover. But lately she wishes her bed wasn't so lonely. Now as Melissa has pointed out she has in fact put everything and everyone on hold for this search of theirs, to find answers for him and now for her. In the past she has found men who are obsessed with things it seems. The latest one resting in her lap. She swallows hard, sleeping with Mulder would be a terrible idea, but if there weren't consequences because she would be gone in a few months? She tries to clear her conscience about it all, her recent scans were fine but the emails of more and more members with the same type of cancer in exactly the same spot are more than scaring her. Mulder is scared too, she now stops mentioning when another one has been laid to rest. She’s seen his fear shining into her eyes when she gets even a cold. Imagine what cancer from a lover would do to the man?  She would never do that to him. If the dedication he has for his annoyingly little sister is anything. The rabbit hole he would fall down if they were more and she was taken by the disease from her abduction would kill him. 

She thinks about her mother and father, how after his death the strong capable of anything Margaret Scully faltered. At first her mom said she could pretend for a few minutes in the morning that he was still at sea, that his smile would grace her eyes soon as he would sweep her into a deep hug that warmed her bones. Then she would remember, remember that time was short. Missy's death certainly didn't help. Losing a child is something that no parent should ever bare. She had asked Dana to give her antidepressants, and while it scared Scully to the core it renewed her mother's faith in God. That that was the only way she could keep going, knowing that her Ahab would be there waiting for a life eternal and her sweet daughter's spirit would be free. But Melissa's death had done the opposite for Scully, she has scene so much injustice so many things that make her doubt God's word that now she has become skeptical and even cynical  in so many ways. Mulder has seen it in her and while she wears her cross everyday part of it is just because it reminds her of Melissa. It reminds her to try and fight. She will fight till the bitter end. Even if that is sooner than she wants to believe. Mulder shifts slightly again and she moves the picture through her fingers. Tries to put that skepticalness to the side. Tries to think like Mulder would. Why would the killer leave it at the scene? How did he get it beforehand? Was he stalking her? She taps on the photo again and moves back to the case file, shifting just slightly careful to not disturb Mulder. 

She reads the report over and over until her eyes want to water at the dry dead air of the cabin. The sun is seeping through the light onto Mulders hair now, his features almost boyish in sleep. She is usually the one sleeping against him even if flying isn’t her favorite thing. She squirms in her seat a bit wishing secretly that Mulder would wake up so she can lay against his shoulder and catch a few minutes of sleep herself. She moves her hand, fingers brushing through his hair. She knows he doesn’t mind, though he still teases her a little when she does it in doctor mode. She sees his small smile and he starts to move. She gives him a soft smile back as he rubs his eyes looking at her with the translucent clouds shading the sun as it shines dimly on her hair. He reaches up and touches her cheek to sweep a stray strand off her face. “Your turn” it’s almost a whisper. She smiles gratefully as he moves and positions his jacket against his shoulder for her to rest against. She sighs as she snuggles into the warm fabric. Mulder pulls the shade down against the morning dawn as they continue to soar through the air. 

2 hours later

She wakes dimly to the voice of the captain letting them know they are starting their dissent into Grand Rapids. Traverse city looms another 2 hours away along the lake coast. It’s interesting the rules they have made through the years. They never discuss a case on a flight and so that time has been devoted to them reading books sometimes playing cards. Arguing over which mythical creature is the most likely to exist. Or more often than not it’s like this morning's flight snuggled against each other asleep. She hears Mulders soft snores against her head. The last few months she has been more worried about his sleeping habits especially after she told him what she found in Allentown. More often he comes in with dark circles and the extra coffee through the day has not gone unnoticed. She can’t complain though, because despite all of this he still is there in the morning to greet her, with a steaming cup to chase away her own night terrors. Places like planes offer a few moments of peace that the other one is safe, and that they are together. She tries not to analyze it too much. Tries to rationalize the fact that they have been through some truly horrible things and are bound to have some strong ptsd and codependency issues. She doesn’t want to love him that way. She likes them just being friends. She wants a bit more out of life, especially if there is less available to her, seeing all of these things over the years she is wondering what she is really fighting for anymore if not for Melissa maybe she would have already left. Is it to be flying off to save women from abductions? Is she trying to find validity in her choice to prove to herself that giving up medicine to become an FBI agent was really the best decision? Is she now leading herself down a path to have another Jack or even worse another Daniel? 

She knows that Mulder is in love with her. She knows that he has become just as dependent on her as she has on him. She doesn’t want that, she doesn’t want a world where the two of them can only exist with the other. She has become consumed by this quest of his and paid so dearly, and now here they are chasing a lead on a case they really have no business on. She knows that it’s about the picture. He sees something or knows something she doesn’t. She’ll have to wait for the drive into town to find out.

As they reach the drugstore she is lost in the sea that is the investigation, while she looks at expired film heating beneath it parts of the edging make sense, if the film is expired and the heat has distorted the edges. But the screaming that is odd, when she points these things out to Mulder he finally explains his theory. She sees a photo booth in the drugstore small and yet she wonders if the film has been tampered here too. Mulder must think something similar as he grabs her hand just as she finishes her questions to the owner.  “This film shouldn’t have the same distortion if my theory is correct.” he mutters pulling her into the small intimate photo booth. She sighs “Mulder,” she starts but he pulls her down and she is sitting right next to him and he’s smiling and pointing to the camera. She gives him the look, the one that shows she is not amused, but he wraps his arm around her leans forward to start the series of 5 photographs of them. He tries to do bunny ears and the camera catches her laughing at it. She sticks out her tongue in the next and so does he.  The third picture is just them stern and serious. The fourth a soft smile from both of them. The fifth begins to click and he makes a kissy face and her grin lights up the tiny booth. Its short lived and while she thinks the exercise is pointless the film proves to be unaffected. She waits for Mulder to throw the pictures away but he doesn’t he pulls out his wallet and tucks them in with a 20 dollar bill and 2 ones. She shakes her head, he asks the owner if they can take a few more photos with the same film. “I think the picture is the key to this Scully,” he leaves and she follows him out. 

They drive to the girls house, pictures on the fridge of a normal couple. Lost in moments together, traveling, and laughing. She wonders if they will find this girl alive, if these will be the last time she smiles. She thinks of moments when her and Mulder where sure that it was the end. She thinks of the pictures of them in his wallet. What a stranger would think. What she thinks of this closeness that has grown between them. 

He takes the camera “Watch out scully it’s loaded,” and he points it right at her but the picture that comes out is of the girl distorted again and she looks up at him confused. He starts to tell her more about his growing theory, how these pictures are the key  Psychic photography. She hates this, she hates looking at cases and having him come up with something so crazy she has to try and wrap her mind around it. She always gives him the benefit of the doubt listens to his theories, but sometimes she just wants a simple explanation. Maybe she is just burned out. It happens to everyone with all the things that have happened to them she hasn’t had a chance to take a break. She wants to talk about this more but as always he is already getting ready to leave. “He was here I think he stalked her.” As they step out into the bright sunshine her phone starts to ring, letting them know that Mary has been found wandering and disoriented.  

At the hospital Scully is faced with looking in the hollow eyes of the woman on the fridge, one that won’t be smiling again as pain and inevitable death beacon her near. The scans don’t lie, Mary is facing a very difficult road of recovery if that is even possible. As Scully stares at the scans as Mulder goes to grab them something resembling coffee she thinks of Betsy in Allentown, about those women with tumors at the same spot as Marys unfortunate lobotomy. Mulder has sense Scully's distance and luckily has chosen to back off, leaving her with the time she needs to figure things out. Scully is deep in thought when Mulder returns he sets down the coffee letting the steam rise up and wafted into her nose. It’s a beautiful smell coffee, seems the fine people of Traverse City understand its importance. Mulder touches her shoulder gently a sad smile across his lips as he stars at the scans once more. Just as the uniform officer comes in and tells them another woman has been taken. Anger boils through Scully, whomever this guy is he has no idea what he is doing and unless they find him soon she is afraid of another poor woman facing the same fate. Mulder throws the rental keys to her knowing that right now he needs time to look over the details from the officer, starting working up a profile right away. Precious time is ticking fast as she presses her foot down on the pedal. This is her strength driving fast and a little more reckless than Mulder ever has. It annoys him, how much she speeds and whips into places. It’s why he drives most of the time in reality. Because she got tired of hearing him complain about her going to fast, but time is of the essence.  They are following a patrol car the blue and red lights flash into the fading sun. As they race around the corner. Mulder finally looks up at her his voice catches in his throat. “Mary will never be the same will she?” Scully shakes her head in sadness. “We need to find this person, and fast” She nods and throws the car into park, throwing her seatbelt off dashing to the scene. They need a clue, a hint, and hopefully something more than a screaming girl in a fucking polariod.  

Just as they get there they realize that the rush wasn’t necessary, Scully needs to review the file as Mulder heads right inside to assist.  Another man dead another woman taken and nothing to go on. Mulder doesn’t find any cameras or film, in the car as he was thinking through the profile he wonders about the word Unruhe, a place? A thing? A person? It sounds like it’s a word. He asks one of the officers to use the computer quickly typing the word into a search box as he continues shuffling through 1040s and spreadsheets. Scully walks in the file in her hand, a killer like this she thinks might have been there might have been at the scene. As they argue again over the photograph she feels the frustration of the day, of the inevitable failure that might await them if they can’t find something quickly.  Mulder is ready to head back to Washington, to find the clues that have eluded them so that she can save the next victim. Both of them know that time is limited and Alice doesn’t have long, while she thinks him going back to Washington is a mistake, it’s really not that long of a flight and the bureau does have some fantastic resources. She sighs hangs her head and works her connection. It seems that for them, when they go their separate ways they form a complete picture in the end. 

 She watches as he races out leaving her the keys to the rental car as he hitches a ride back again. She works through the evening and well into the night in a small motel with a view of Grand Traverse Bay on Lake Michigan. She opens the window and listens to the water softly kissing the sand while the moonlight shines off the lakes black opals and into the darkness. Mulder calls her lets her know his planes has landed and he has been able to get a forensic photographer to help him first thing in the morning. She lets him know that Mary Lefont died and she fears that the same will be true for Alice if the construction owner has hired men off the books. Mulder sighs, “You caught that Scully, you found us a tangible lead as soon as I find something out with this photo I’ll call you it should help you refine it” She hums in response right now she is looking at a list of 300 people in the apartments next to the latest abduction. She sighs and says she is tired before hanging up. She knows that sleep will be hard fought tonight, it’s already almost 3am. She walks out of the hotel towards the Bay listens to the waves as they crash against the shore with a dullness. While the stars shine brightly out beyond the black depths of the lake she thinks of Mary, about those pictures of her smiling in those photos on the fridge. Her toes are in the rough sand from the lake, not like the sand that she and Melissa danced to in the photo. She wonders of Alice's family will have similar photos on their mantel of another woman taken in her 30s. She hopes that the station can pull up something on the construction workers, they need this lead. Regardless of the success Mulder thinks he will find she needs the tangible investigative skills of the mortal realm. She walks back to her room, letting the moonlight chase her form across the soft swirls of the water. She falling into a lifeless deep sleep while the dull ticking of Alice's life lingers in the background. 

In the morning after she wrestles Gerry to the ground. She thinks back about the pictures she has of Ahab of the two of them at her medical school graduation, her white coat and his proud smile. She wonders after all the terrible things that have happened to her would he still be so proud? Or would his smile have dimmed like that glossy paper it was printed on. Would her own eyes shine as brightly as they did that day ever again? Or had the 3 months she missed, the sister she mourned be evident through the lense. She knew the risks was aware of the horror she would face. Lately she feels as if she is facing a far more looming nightmare. Another birthday another lonely night with no prospects of changing. Mulder and her might be pushing that line in the sand between acceptable partnerly behavior but it’s a not a road she is ready to take, nor is she sure she wants too. She loves him, she knows this after so many dangerous situations, hours and days spent together how could she not. She thinks of the other pictures she knows he keeps in his wallet. The one of him and Sam, sometimes she thinks she still sees that young innocent kid staring back at her. His devilish grin when he shows her the fantastic. The way his face lights up just a little when she pulls out his favorite sunflower seeds when he was sure they were out. Does he see it in her? Does he see the young agent who was new to the field but prepared for the boys club? Does he see the same smile and young ambition she once was so consumed with that she let the rest of her life slip away? She’s getting older her birthday just passing and she thinks about the fact that now she is as old as Melissa was when she died. She thinks about the pictures they won’t take, about the people now missing from the Christmas dinners, the Sunday brunch, the nephews birthday parties. Her phone rings and it’s Mulder he booked the first flight back and is already on his way to the precinct. She wants to know where Alice Bryant is she wants them to win one for once. Mulder wants her to wait until they can interrogate Gerry together. They are so good together, she knows. The two of them play off each other so well with suspects. Mulder seems crazy and she seems scary and she loves it. She loves the power it gives her. She loves seeing justice and fear mingle together in the room. She hopes they are scared, hopes that the suspects feel even the small degree of fear that they cause their victims to feel. It is that feeling that has kept her with the FBI, she loves being the one to find the evidence and then confront the suspect with her findings. Mulder is in a way the perfect partner for her. He steps back lets her take the lead, knows that if anyone will find something tangible to hang a case on it’ll be her. 

Gerry gives them a location, and as they race to find her, she can’t help but be angry at Gerry seeing her as troubled. She isn’t troubled is she? Conflicted? Scared? Maybe. She doesn’t want to overthink a psychopaths words. She learned long ago from Mulders profiles how they use words and gestures to gain trust. Luther Lee Boggs being a prime example for them both. 

Scully races up the hill hoping and praying that they can find Alice alive, and hopefully not as damaged as Mary, but as she makes it to the top, Alices still form crushes her thoughts. She touches Alices’ cold skin, her cheeks. Watches as the CS tech starts to take photos of the scene. More photos, more death, and now another body. At least Gerry is in custody. At least they saved the future woman that he might have tortured and killed.  Mulder meets her at the car, her anger rolls off her in waves like the lake shore. Maybe tonight she will sit on the shore and cry, no one would be able to hear her sobs over the water. She wants to leave to go home and fix her broken frame try to not think of photos and sand and lives that could have been. She can’t drive and though she wanted to be in control she hands the keys to Mulder so they can drive back to their hotel and clean up. She needs to wash the failure she feels down the drain. It doesn’t work that way, Gerry shot the police officer that was processing him, they put out an APB but her mind can only race about possible new victims he already might be on his way to take. 

They look at the photo of the officer on the paperwork, Mulder is right the photos are probably the key. God who else did Gerry take a photo of? Who else is going to deal with a madman telling them they are troubled and killing them to fix it? 

Apparently the benefit of Traverse City being smaller than most major metropolitan areas is when you need to steal something you pick the same drugstore you stalked your victims. Gerry has assaulted the owner and taken more film. They walk through the drugstore one more time, she thinks of the apartment complexes on each side and tells Mulder as such as he once again puts money into the photo machine. She looks at him in curiosity, last time they went in this time he is letting it roll without them. HIs theory has developed and isn’t ready to share just yet, she knows he will explain in the car. She wants to get going, he tosses her the keys and she walks out into the bright sun. 

She doesn’t remember much she remembers her foot hurting from the injection remembers the struggle as she tries to get her gun. She wakes strapped to a chair with Gerry in the dark corner as her eyes try to adjust to the light. Her arms taped down roughly the large sheetrock tool on the shiny metal table. She wants to plead in a responsible way. Gerry knows that this is the end, she can’t let him think that she will be part of his prize. She doesn’t remember much of her German important phrases and it takes her a few moments to come up with what to say to him. Especially since conversational german was the only class she ever got a B in. Luckily the words are there, as if her mind knows to channel the knowledge buried so deep. Gerry gets up to grab the camera, she sees her chance if she can get the tray she can cut her restraints and take him out. She needs to stall, she needs Mulder to have time to find her. She wants to give him time, She asks Gerry about his own Howlers about the trouble with his father. She channels Mulder and knows what brothers will do for sisters. Her own brother would do for her and Melissa. Gerry pulls the tray away and takes the camera to take her picture once more. She struggles with thinking that the photos she took with Mulder in that small cramped little booth won’t be the last ones he sees of her. He will see her on the floor of the padded room in a weird distorted photo that will filter into his dreams for years to come. But luck is on her side and she is able to convince Gerry to take a photo of himself. The camera flash is almost blinding, she knows he is sick she just needs to show him that this has always been about him and not anyone else. The photos come out in a small series of flashes, they wait for the polarization to show the image. She feels vindicated when they show him dead, show him his fate. That justice is finally with her. She just hopes it doesn’t plan on taking her with him. Gerry flips through the photos over and over. Questioning the images, like Mulder did. What do they mean? She hopes they mean that her life will be hers again, that she will be able to see the waves and shore once more. But Gerry thinks it’s about time, that his time is ending and he must hurry. Fear runs through her body a surge of adrenaline as she tugs and struggles against the restraints. She thinks about the time she almost drowned, how it felt struggling in the water, wondering why something so beautiful and peaceful would try to take her life. How she would gasp and flail her arms in sheer panic, like now as she hears Mulder calling her name. God Mulder please please prove that picture true and he does. Thank god he does. She feels him release her final bonds reach out his hand to take hers. She feels the storm calming inside of her, like Mulder is a life preserve her around her waist pulling her up against the tide. She walks out of the dark trailer, walks past the paramedics straight to the lakeshore. She takes off her heels, the prick of the injection still stings but the sand and the wind and the waves cradle her in their embrace. She takes a deep breath, lets the air of the misty water fill her lungs up. She takes a moment to look down at her feet in the sand and as she looks up she almost swears she sees Melissa in the distance dancing on a distant shore. 

tagging @today-in-fic @gaycrouton @xfilesfanficexchange @improlificinsarcasm

#xfepisode2019 #mulder and scully #unruhe #s4 #fanfic #msr #angst #myfic #xfchallenge #so glad to be done #man I need a beer #this was a toughie #hope you like it Kasey!

[frangipanidownunder]

AU where Mulder and Scully are spies?

My five head canon response:

1

He sees the tiny camera eye protruding from the edge of her handbag before he sees the covered freckles on her classical face and the fear in her big blue eyes.

“Who did you tick off to get this detail, Scully?”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to working with you.” At least she sounds convincing, even if she looks so green she might be radioactive.

He watches her during their first case, taking her little notes, trying so hard to hide her clandestine photographing and secretive phone calls. The way she covets the thing up Billy Miles’ nose, pockets the mysterious dirt. The walls of motels are thin. He closes his eyes and listens to her movements. She’s light on her feet, precise with her movements – the way she closes the doors and drawers, the three-minute showers, apart from that longer one when he listened to her small moans only half-hidden by the rush of water. Then there’s the timing of the calls, always 10pm. On the dot. Checking in.

Paranoia and distrust are his real partners. Dana Scully is just a front.

2

He’s surprised during the second case that she rescues him. She’s got a fierce look in her eye, a determination that he’d seen develop in Bellefleur but that has grown exponentially. He almost wants to trust her but his brain is mush and he needs to keep his distance. In the dead of night, he surmises she only got him back because she needs the information he discovers. To work against him. To keep him from exposing them. But Deep Throat told him what he needed to hear. Dana Scully can carry on writing her reports and he’ll keep showing her that the puppet masters she’s dancing for are the true enemy.

When she tells him during the latest case about the strange bacteria that could be extraterrestrial he can’t help but feel it’s all a set-up. But then she tells him she’s sorry for never believing him, for taking science as absolute and there’s such an honesty in her face that he’s reeling. She saves him again. Then they’re forced apart. And he feels gratitude, not relief.

3

When she finds him in Arecibo he feels the shift like something seismic. It makes no sense that she’s spying on him any more. She’s put herself on the line too many times for it to be just a job for her. He wants to ask her, but he’s afraid. Afraid to find out who she really is and why he feels like he does. When she’s taken, he’s out of his mind with fear and doubt. When she’s returned he resolves never to lose her again.

They track on for a good long time, professional, but every so often one or other them opens up. He knows she still submits reports. But she hasn’t taken photos for a while. He wonders if she extracted herself or if she’s been ordered to take a step back.

When the videotapes cause a deep psychosis, he’s desperate. Desperate because she’s drowning in her own delusions. Desperate because she’s so close to a catastrophic breakdown that might put both of them at risk. When she accuses him of being one of the men who abducted her, his insides wrench. It’s Mrs Scully who finds a way in to her tormented mind. And he’ll be forever grateful for her gentleness, her love.

4

She’s going to die and he doesn’t know if it’s because of him or because of her bosses. It’s easier for him to believe he’s to blame for her cancer. It burns deeper, setting off a more exquisite sting of guilt than if she were to succumb to the unknown powers that control her. She thinks it’s Skinner. Maybe that’s who she’s been reporting to all along. Maybe she feels justified in flaming him now, a final fuck you before…

But she doesn’t die. He finds the miracle cure. But it comes at a price. He’s sold his soul to the devil. Again.

5

After Antarctica, he puts distance between them. He’s forced to with the return of Fowley. Scully closes off. He’s relieved for the most part, but he misses her. Misses the Scully she’d become, the Scully he imagined in those quiet 2am moments there might be a future with. When they play house, he suspects she’s reporting again. Her behaviour in Milagro leaves him angry but he nearly loses her once more and that shoot of something, something lighter and more hopeful than he’s ever known, grows again. She plays baseball with him and he knows she knows how to hit. But he enjoys her feigned ignorance. Lets the shoot sprout until it warms his chest.

When he starts hearing voices, her voice, it sends him mad. She’s so heartbreakingly earnest in her fight to free him from this hell, but like the blame and guilt he’s always craved, half of him wants to stay trapped in the burning fire.

When she finds him, she pleads with him to help her and in between her words he hears her thoughts. Charlie. Charlie. Why is she thinking about her brother? Her tear splashes on his skin. It cleanses his thoughts and for a weighted moment he sees with absolute clarity. He understands why she’s been doing it, who she’s been protecting, where her loyalties have always been. To her family. To her younger brother. He’s been her blindspot like Samantha has been his. He’s not sure if Charlie is still alive, but he stands with her help and he’s determined to find out.

He can’t let her leave so he follows her down the hallway and asks her to come back in. She’s frightened. Being vulnerable hurts her. He understands. It takes a long time but it all comes out. How Charlie was caught hacking computers when he was a teen and was lured into the shady world of government espionage. He came to her one day, frightened out of his mind, and she agreed to help him. She joined the FBI. She wrote reports. She tried to stop but they threatened Charlie every time. He understands, he says. He gets it.

And then he tells her. Tells her the truth, about his connections. It feels so good to let it all out. The tension leaves his body and he feels soft-limbed and loose. The more they talk, the more they see the patterns unfold, the similarities and it’s a blinding light of epiphany when they realise they’ve both been working for the same agency all these years. Her contact is Henry. His is Paige. They were the children of Illegals during the cold war. First generation Americans selling government secrets to the highest bidders.

Working out how to extract themselves goes well until they return to Bellefleur. As he is pulled into the light he knows it was a mistake to come back.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #five headcanons #mulder and scully as spies

[alabama-metal-man]

conciliate

rated: PG-13; spoilers from Existence to MSIV.

Some time ago, @scully-loves-ruthie sent me a 5 Headcanon prompt in which Mulder makes an imaginary scrapbook for William while he and Scully are on the run.

This was actually the basic plot of a story I’ve wanted to write for a long long time so I was thrilled to receive it. I took some liberties with it and it ended up being very long (the rest is under the cut). I had several versions of this idea worked up already and decided to go with this one for a variety of reasons. I sort of rushed through the ending because I just couldn’t stand trying to perfect it any more. I hope it’s all coherent and doesn’t drag too much. I tried placing themes throughout and I hope they’re not convoluted or lost in all the prose. Thank you so much for this lovely prompt and for inspiring me to finally put this story together. I hope you enjoy it.

---

1. From under the last three weeks’ issues of the New England Journal of Medicine, stacked neatly on her coffee table, the grey and white striped corner sitting askew catches his eye. He runs his thumb across the smooth edge, nudges the journals aside, pauses. Welcome Little One the tidy cursive embossing reads above a small, grainy black and white sonogram inlaid to the cover. His fingers graze the image, he touches the letters.

A gift from Tara, Scully soon informs him as she comes in from the kitchen. His hand snaps back to his side, the ghost of the book’s lettering burning into his fingertips. He tries not to dwell on the shift in her eyes, the nearly imperceptible drop at the corners of her mouth.

He feels loose, untethered. Like he’s drifting. Like he just doesn’t fit anywhere anymore. Too many false awakenings while he was gone left him trying to reconcile nightmare and dream, fantasy and reality. He wanted to come home, wanted it so badly, but didn’t know how. He still doesn’t know.

They sit awkwardly, the steam from two tea mugs and her 32-week-round belly and a galaxy between them. It’s quiet.

2. He remembers the book some weeks after. After he declared his family as his Truth then shunned them in the same breath. (“It’s the only way to keep you both safe,” he’d tried to convince her, tried harder to convince himself. “I’m going to end this,” he said, his tongue tripping over tentative promises he only hoped he could keep.) After he wiped the tears from her cheeks and slipped from their bed. After he held his sleeping son to his chest and listened to his soft snores, felt the warm puffs of breath against his skin. After he kissed them goodbye. After he packed a suitcase with some clothes, some files, and a Dreft-and-William scented blanket and slipped quietly and away into the dewy morning.

The New Mexico desert sweltered on, dry and desolate, the answers he sought swallowed into the void. Answers to a Truth he was sick of seeking.

He misses them. Misses them so deeply in his bones that he can hardly feel anything else. He’s heard stories about amputees who can still feel their severed limbs, still feel the pain there. Phantom limbs. At once gone but somehow still there. It feels like that.

And he wonders if Scully has added to the book. He wonders if she even will. He knows she’s worried about him, terrified for them, but he hopes that their son can still have a babyhood as normal as possible. Joyous, carefree, full of love. He remembers finding his own baby book as a kid, and Samantha’s half finished one, reading through them with a fascinated nostalgia for memories of his childhood he couldn’t even recall. The pages filled with firsts, milestones, hopes and dreams. He spends his time between Truths imagining.

A photo of William in a onesie covered in rockets and planets and little cartoon aliens— ‘like father, like son.’ A satin blue ribbon, once tied around a gift from Maggie, tied into a bow and taped in with care. ‘3 months and getting so big! 14 pounds, 27 inches!’ Another picture— William in his bassinet, his eyes wide and twinkling like the desert stars.

...

The days, weeks, months drag. He keeps searching, forcing back the urge to run, run back home. He’s less and less resistant every day. Some days, he almost does it. Almost says fuck it all, come what may we’ll fight the future together, whatever the hell that even means anymore. But something he can’t identify, something he’s come to hate so viscerally, holds him back. He doesn’t know what else to do so he keeps searching. Keeps dreaming of his Scully, their William. He fills the imaginary pages of the real baby book with firsts that he won’t be there for. The firsts he’s sure he’s already missed.

Baby’s First Smile! Baby’s First Tooth! Baby’s First Word: ‘“Mama?” Actually, “more.” He’s a hungry boy! Like father, like son, indeed.

It’s what keeps him going. They are his strength, the drumbeats of his heart, the very essence of his life. He thinks it’s the only thing that keeps him sane, this unrelenting hope of hopes that he’ll see them again. That he’ll save them. Save them all.

3. He’s in a military prison when his son turns one. Baby’s First Birthday! He holds onto a little glimmer of hope, the only light in this dark dark place. The Truth will prevail, the conspiracy will be revealed. It has to. And he’ll be able to leave it all behind, to do what he’s so desperately wished to for so long now. To be free. To go home.

Skinner is the one to tell him. And his hope is crushed.

His brain mocks and taunts him.

Baby’s First Kidnapping! Baby’s First Cult! Baby’s First (Second, And Third) Near Death Experience! Baby’s First Plane Ride! Baby’s New Parents!

She held him. Kissed him. Said she was afraid he wouldn’t forgive her. Oh, Scully… no…

He wishes she would slap him. Hit him. Scream and yell at him. Hate him. Call him a selfish bastard. But instead her own forgiveness is soft and aching and so so tender. He clings to it, to her.

The only truth he learned, the only one that matters now anyway, is that he’s a guilty man. He’s failed in every respect. He deserves the harshest punishment for his crimes. All that they’d lost, all that he’d taken... And he– cowardly son of a bitch that he is– can’t even tell her what it was for. It will crush her, he’s sure. He’s terrified that she’ll finally see how he failed so completely, understand that her greatest sacrifices were for nothing. He hopes for her sake, and dreads for his own, that she will finally leave him. He wishes the earth would open up and engulf him in the hellfire he surely deserves– wonders briefly if he should just help the hellfire along– but he also knows his loss will irreparably break her and he just can’t willfully cause her any more suffering. He’s caused her enough heartache, more than anyone should face in one lifetime, but she still stands so strong against it. Refuses to believe his complicity. He slew the albatross yet she, as always, wore it around her neck as her burden to bear, the vicious stench of rot and ruin lingering as a reminder of his defeat.

She just holds him and whispers hope into his ear. He tries to believe.

4. They run and run and run. Months slip easily into years, days and weeks blurring in a haze of asphalt, sweat, bleached cotton sheets, and the improbable loneliness of their shared sorrow.

He begs her, guilt and desperation and so much love forcing him to ask, for stories of their son and she gives them to him, her eyes glistening with aching reverence as she speaks.

The habit he formed in the desert, while changed some through the years, still lingers.

Their son is two. He laughs and kicks when his belly is tickled. He never lets go of his favorite blanket. He calls his parents mama and daddy.

He just turned three. He talks in full sentences. He has a dog, big dog, named Comet that he tries to ride like a horse. He always loses his shoes.

He’s four. He had his first trip to the zoo. He had lemon ice for the first time and screwed his eyes shut at the tartness. He pressed his face against the aquarium glass and let his breath fog over the lionfish. He likes the gorilla enclosure. The hyenas scare him.

They look for him everywhere, in each redheaded and brunette little boy. She asks him once, wrapped up in him on a cold winter night in their new old house, if he thinks they would really recognize him. He admits that he struggles sometimes, trying to imagine their son as he ages, his only real memories of a squirmy, fresh, days-old newborn.

But then he remembers Samantha at 14, so different from the eight year old he knew yet somehow exactly the same, and says yes. He can’t exactly explain how he knew then (and realizes with a small prick of shame that he never really told her before) but he tries; the flutter and twist in his gut, his lungs constricting, chest tightening, heart hammering, blood pounding in his ears, one streaming thought– it’s her it’s her it’s her it’s her. Pure instinct. A muscle memory of the heart, the soul. She nods against his chest, satisfied for now, and he pulls her closer.

…

He always tries to tell her how sorry he is. He tries to tell her with words, with little pleading kisses to her shoulder as he spoons up behind her in bed.  He tries and tries and tries but it never feels like it’s enough.

She assuages his guilt with gentle touches, soft moans, whispers of love and reassurance. (“He’s your son, too. You did what you could to protect him. To protect us.”) She tries, at least.

…

She studies, renews her license, and gets a job at a hospital, working pediatrics. He sees the joy it brings her, helping people, but beneath that he sees the hurt and longing. He wonders, somewhat absently, if she does it hoping one day to find their son admitted (for nothing dire, of course, perhaps just to set a broken arm or a routine tonsil removal). And then his mind wanders down a different path, old and overgrown and dark dark dark. Maybe she hopes to help these children the way she couldn’t with Emily.

He flashes to a life adjacent. Newborn William held in his big sister’s arms for the first time. Emily encouraging babytalk stories from her months old brother. Playing in parks. Climbing trees. Riding bikes. Barbecues. Birthdays. Christmases. Snow angels. Road trips. Pictures of them both unabashedly littering the house and their offices and wallets. He mentally shakes himself. That way, madness lies. He’s beginning to think madness lies everywhere.

…

The firsts keep coming, rushing in waves, trickling in droplets. They always hit him hard no matter what, these imaginings. The milestones and adventures he hopes his son is having.

First day of school. First little league practice. First time at the beach. First camping trip. First Big Kid Bicycle. He used to share the ideas with her and she used to smile, counter with a few ideas she’s had. But then he noticed how, as time continued on, she stopped smiling with the stories. How it offered less hope and more regret as the years went by.

Eventually, they talk about him less. And less. And less. Then they almost stop talking altogether.

5. She’s been gone for almost 6 months and he’s been gone much longer. The X-Files are re-opened and they’re suddenly thrust back into each other’s everyday. They don’t talk about the important things, just skirt around them, ducking behind file folders and cabinets and autopsy tables to avoid them. They’ve been free for nearly a decade but, he knows too well, old habits die hard and running has become their new normal.

But Maggie Scully’s death brings with it a clarity found only in the darkest of griefs.

Like her daughter, she had watched the weight of his guilt crush his spirit over the years. And, like her daughter, she had been unable to soothe him. But with her final breath, she tries again to ease his pain— always a mother, unwavering in her kindness, even as she stood at the precipice of beyond.

“My son’s name is William, too.”

They talk— really talk—  for the first time in what feels like years. Maybe it has been. And suddenly, the dam bursts, the floodgates open, the emotions rushing forth in a wave of honesty and relief, and they finally finally step out of hiding. He stops making hollow promises, trades them instead for purposeful action. He finds renewed meaning in his work, his beliefs, his life. They try again.

…

Maybe for the first time in his life, he truly doesn’t want to believe. He wanted so badly for none of it to be true, she wanted the same, and he tried so hard to keep her from spiraling. But they both knew. He felt it the minute he laid eyes on him, knew she felt it too.

The heart pounding, the chest tightening, the blood rushing. It’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him.

Their son is 17. He lived in a typical two-story suburban house. He had parents who loved him, wanted the best for him. He admired Malcolm X and liked drawing and dabbling in the dark web. He collected snowglobes.

Their son is 17, and he’s dead.

His blood boils, his heart crumples, at the image of their son with a bloody hole in his temple, their son in a body bag. The guilt creeps back, despite Scully’s years-long efforts. How can he not blame himself? How can he ever believe he holds any claim to William– Jackson, he constantly forces himself to remember– after everything? She’s the one who carried him, felt him, held him, soothed his cries, let him go. He just ran.

…

He tries not to focus on himself. Instead, does what he can for Scully. Does everything he can to find Jackson, to protect him. The next few days rush by in a blur of instinct, adrenaline, and raw emotion.

He’s safe. Or as safe as he can be right now.

Later, much later, Scully asks him to stay with her. And in the dark, as it has always been, she soothes his worries, kisses away his pain. She’s not free, but she’s somehow lighter. Stronger than ever. He takes her light, takes her love and her strength, and pushes away from the brood of guilt constantly at his heels. They hold each other, tears of respite soaking their skin.

…

They try to live again after everything is over. After their son dies twice and resurrects himself. After that cigarette sucking bastard is cold and rotting. After burying the last of their friends. After putting away their guns and badges for good this time. After their daughter is born.

Baby books aren’t common practice anymore, most precious memories being stored in the digital stratosphere, but they decide to make one anyway. A new beginning, a new chapter. The pages fill, one by one, with photos, memories, firsts.

On the plain grey cover is a photo. Their weeks old daughter, fingers peeking out of soft blankets, watching her brother in wide-eyed wonder as he smiles down at her.

#wow i'm so sorry this is so absurdly long #and i'm so sorry it took so long to write #i really loved this propmt so much #and i kinda used it as an excuse to write out an idea i've had for a long time #that's why it's so ridiculously long and wordy haha #but i hop eyou enjoy it #can you tell how hard i tried to tie it all together at the end? #my writing #i guess this counts as my first full length publishing on here too #huh #and if anyone wants to send me more 5 hc prompts #bc you somehow enjoyed this #and don't mind possibly waiting a while lol #please send them along

[ghostbustermelanieking]

pervicacia

Summary: Scully's pregnancy post season 11.

this is for the anon who wanted a canon pregnancy fic (who's messages i accidentally answered TWICE because i'm an idiot; i'm sorry, anon). this story runs parallel to proelium, since that's pretty much my post msiv canon, so there's less jackson in this since it's happening at the same time as the events of proelium. 

i tried to make this fic realistic in terms of what i think mulder and scully would be feeling about this pregnancy, but i also tried to make it happy, in a sense. my hope is it falls somewhere in between.

tw for mentions of pregnancy loss.

---

Normally, Scully would make a doctor's appointment for something like this. She doesn't trust store tests, a superstition that goes back to the IVF procedure, her fear of a false positive, false hope. But now false hope doesn't even seem like a factor, because she doesn't want this, it's impossible, they're both too old. You can't be given a miracle twice, and they've already had their miracle. Their son, who Scully desperately wants to come home. That's all she wants.

It seems so impossible that she could be pregnant, now, after all this time, but the symptoms all add up. She ignores them for two straight weeks, running water in the bathroom while she retches so that Mulder doesn't hear, trying to hid her fatigue and nausea, waving if off as allergies. Until she can't ignore it anymore. But she's too frightened to call the doctor. She should call the doctor, she's friends with most of them, for God's sake, but something in her physically stops her. She doesn't want Mulder to find out; she doesn't want anyone to find out, not yet. Not until she knows for sure. This feels like her weight to bear, her burden.

So she goes to the Walgreens a couple miles from the house and buys a box of pregnancy test. She takes five in the bathroom, locking herself in the largest stall and lining them up on top of the toilet paper holder. Two minutes, the box said, so she waits for two minutes, sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest and her face in her hands.

Everything could hinge on this, these five little pieces of plastic. She already knows they're going to keep it if she's pregnant. There is no option where they don't keep it. She can't give away another child. She can't lose another child, and that's what scares her more than anything, that if she is pregnant there's a higher risk of losing the baby. She couldn't bear that. It'd break her, break Mulder.

She hopes that she's not pregnant. It would be so much easier if she's not pregnant, if this is just a scare she never has to tell Mulder about.

But a small part of her wants to want this. When she thinks of Mulder with children, Mulder holding their son, Mulder being the father he'd never gotten to me. An age-old ache to be a mother that she hasn't felt since she lost William. (William, Jackson, their grown-up son who is still a child, who she prays will come home soon.) It will be so, so hard if it's true, at their age, with everything they've been through. She can't fool herself into thinking it's going to be easy, and the idea of it terrifies her, but a small part of her really does want this.

She tells herself she might be overthinking it. She tells herself it might not even be real, might not be happening.

The timer on her phone begins to go off. She turns it off with the flat of her thumb. Takes a deep breath and reaches for the first time. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees it, the little pink plus sign. The four more little pink plus signs.

Tears suddenly blur her vision; she rests her forehead against his knees again. She suddenly feels alone, incredibly alone; she should've told Mulder. She wants for him to be here more than anything right now. She's cold on this disgusting drug store bathroom floor, and she is pregnant. It should be impossible, but here she is.

She has absolutely no idea what to do next.

---

A few days after it's all over, after Scully's more or less confirmed that William is alive and after she's told him that she's pregnant, they go to the hospital to check in on Skinner, but also largely to confirm the pregnancy. They've both been in a sort of haze, a strange state of partial denial and partial acknowledgement. Scully slept a lot, the repaired snow globe she stole from Jackson's room cradled in her palm. Mulder slept a lot, too (although not as much), curled up beside her; he woke up one morning with his hand over Scully's stomach, shivered and rubbed his nose underneath her ear. He can't quite believe it, the idea that they could be parents again. That is why they are here, to find out if it's really happening; Scully insisted and Mulder is inclined to agree.

They do a blood test; Scully insists. Mulder sits beside her and holds her hand, squeezes her tangle of fingers. He kisses the back of her hand as the doctor leaves with the sample. “It's gonna be okay, Scully,” he mumbles, holding her hand against his cheek. “I promise, it's gonna be okay.”

Scully gives him a look full of affection, brushes her thumb over his mouth. “I love you,” she says softly, her gaze shifting to the ground. She presses her hand against his cheek, emits a brief, bitter laugh. “I don't know what the hell I'd do without you. If you were… gone again.”

He leans forward to press a slow kiss to her forehead. “I love you, too,” he whispers. “And I swear to God I'm not leaving you this time. No matter what happens.”

She leans forward and wraps her arms around his neck tightly. Kisses his cheek and quietly excuses herself.

She's gone for a lot longer than he'd expected, long enough that his apprehension over the possibility of being a father again (at fifty-seven, no less, Jesus) turns to worry for her. But just as he's preparing to go after her, she re-enters, her face somewhere between hard and apprehensive. She sits back on the exam table, and he reaches out and takes her hand again. She squeezes hard, almost painfully.

The doctor comes back a few moments later, a clinical look on her face. She opens her mouth to say something, but Scully is already rising to her feet and snatching the file away before she can speak. She flips open the file and scans the inside, and Mulder knows as soon as he sees the shift in her expression. She sits back down on the exam table with a thump, as if she'd had the rug pulled out from under her. “I'm pregnant,” she whispers.

Mulder's breath stutters at that, chest freezing, and he stands immediately and reaches for her, a hand on her shoulder, an attempt to anchor her. Scully's hands are quivering; she shoves the file back at the doctor like it's a dangerous thing.

“We’ll need an ultrasound to confirm it, but we're estimating that you're a couple months along,” the doctor says kindly, and Mulder remembers suddenly that she is Scully's friend, she's probably the best they could hope for in terms of a doctor to help them through this. (He hopes, he hopes that she is; he won't put Scully or his unborn child in danger, not again. [And then he catches himself and has to reconsider, because unborn child, Jesus Christ. They haven't done this in years, and he was gone for so many things with William that he wouldn't even know how.])

“Now, I know this is unexpected,” the doctor says carefully. “And there are risks associated with late-in-life pregnancies, such as…”

“I know the risks,” Scully snaps. “I don't want to speculate, I want to know for sure. We need to do an ultrasound, and we need to find out for sure if we're both okay.” Her voice is fierce, protective, and Mulder notices suddenly that her hand is pressed to her stomach. “I need to know before we can move forward.”

Mulder's hand tightens on her shoulder instinctively as he nods his agreement.

The doctor nods, her face full of sympathy. “I’ll get it ready,” she says, turning to head out of the room. She pauses, turning back around to face them. “Dana, I know you're scared. And you have a lot of different options getting forward. But for the record… you're perfectly healthy. You're strong. I think that if everything comes out all right on your tests, we could approach this with a… cautious optimism.”

Scully's hand is still over her stomach, fingers spread. “That's the hope,” she says in a hard voice. Weak, Mulder presses his cheek against her hair. He loves her so much that it nearly hurts, and he feels a new, fledgling love for the small life inside her. He prays that everything will be okay because he doesn't know what the hell he'll do otherwise.

As soon as the doctor is gone, Scully moves backwards on the table, lying back on the table, the way Mulder remembers from the ultrasound he'd gone along to back in 2001. She folds her shirt up and away from her abdomen before settling back down, pressing her hand back against her bare skin. She sniffles a little, reaching up with her free hand and wiping her eyes.

Mulder stands behind the table, near her head, and wraps an arm awkwardly around her. He presses a kiss to her head, reaches down to cover her hand with his over her abdomen. He wants to cry himself.

She scoots up and into him, still sniffling. “I don't know if I can do this again, Mulder,” she says softly. “How can we do this? It's too risky at our age, it's too risky for the baby… And how can we protect another child? How can we answer all the questions they'll have about their life, their parents, their brother…” She breaks off in the middle of that sentence, voice shaking.

Tears well in his eyes at the mention of Jackson, his son. He pushes back his new rush of emotion, rubs a faint circle on her abdomen with his thumb. “I know,” he says shakily, reaching down and placing his other hand there. “I know, Scully.”

Scully asks, with a touch of fear in her voice, “Do you think we can do this?”

Mulder swallows back his fear, his worry, and kisses her head, lingeringly. He nods, his nose against her scalp. If he's learned anything over the years, it's that the two of them can withstand a lot. They can do this; as much as it scares him, he really believes that.

The doctor returns shortly, begins the process of the ultrasound. They both watch the monitor. The doctor moves the wand over Scully's stomach. Mulder waits, breathless, until he hears the strange pulsing of the baby's heartbeat echoing through the room and has to hire back a gasp. He thinks it might be one of the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard.

Scully's eyes are screwed shut, her breathing tremulous. “Is it okay?” she whispers. “The baby?”

“I'll have to look over this some more,” says the doctor. “But everything looks fine.”

Scully lets out a little gasping breath. Mulder is watching the screen still, his eyes glued to it. “Scully?” he whispers, touching the side of her face gently. “Scully, where…” He can't see the baby on the screen.

Scully opens her eyes and points out a spot on the screen. “There,” she says. “Right there.” It sounds like she is crying.

---

“Do you want this?” he asks two nights later, in bed. He went out earlier to meet with Kersh, to more or less confirm that they are fired, and came home with three boxes of the caffeine-free tea that Scully loves (the kind he remembers her drinking when she was pregnant with William) and a stuffed cat he'd thought was cute. She'd burst into tears as soon as she saw it, and hadn't said much more about it beside, “Hormones,” as she waved off his attempts at comfort.

Now she rolls over and burrows into him, her head buried in his neck. “It's… it's not what I would've chosen for myself,” she admits muffedly. “Not now. Maybe years ago… but… I don't know, Mulder.” She kisses the hollow of his throat softly. “I… yes. I do. I can't not. Mulder, I can't lose another child.”

“I know,” he says, palming the back of her head. He can't lose another child, either. The thought is unimaginable. (He still has nightmares, sometimes, about his son's dead body, the gunshot that apparently didn't kill him. He feels like he can't believe Scully that William is alive, not until he sees it for himself—not because he doesn't trust Scully, doesn't trust their connection, but. Because she didn't see him falling into the water, didn't hear the gunshots.)

The truth is, as much as he already loves this child of his, their child, he is terrified of something like that happening to the baby someday. The fear that he can't protect anyone—not his wife, not his son, not his sister or his mother or his friends. Not this child. Nobody.

“Do you want this?” Scully asks carefully, tremulously. She pulls back to look him in the eye, her face shadowy in the dark bedroom. Her eyes are full of question, maybe even nervousness. She presses her hand to the side of his face in an anxious sort of way.

He leans down and presses his forehead to hers, pushing her hair back. “It scares me to death, Scully,” he says. “It really does.” He bumps their noses together, kisses her mouth gently. “But I do,” he says against her lips. “I do want this.”

“It might not happen,” Scully mumbles, moving back to tuck her head into his shoulder. Hiding her face. “There's a lot of risks associated with pregnancies at my age, Mulder. The chances of actually carrying to term…”

“I know. Honey, I know.” He kisses her cheek, the corner of her eye, slips a hand down to rest heavy over her stomach. “But it's going to be okay,” he says softly. “I promise you that it'll be okay, no matter what.”

Tears well in her eyes again, and she folds her arms around his neck. “You're here, Mulder,” she says roughly. “I can't believe that you're here this time.”

He hugs her back tightly, lifting her a little until she's curled in his lap. “I'm not going anywhere,” he murmurs into her hair. “I won't leave you again. Never again.”

They fall asleep at some point after that, wrapped up in quilts and in each other. Mulder doesn't remember falling asleep, but Scully is gone when he wakes up. When he goes downstairs, he finds her at the kitchen table, eating a bagel and drinking her tea. She smiles wobbily when she sees him.

On the fridge, she's tacked up the ultrasound picture with a magnet.

---

Morning sickness. Fatigue so bad that she drifted in and out of sleep for days. Mood swings that leave her eager and excited one minute, tense and angry the next, weepy and withdrawn the next. A strict diet in an attempt to remain healthy. Frequent doctor appointments. Mulder is there for it all.

Surprising to them both—but especially to Scully—everything seems to be fine. She's closely monitoring any symptoms, any possible issues, but any scares are rare to none; the baby's heartbeat remains strong and steady every time they have an ultrasound. Incredibly enough, this pregnancy seems to be easier than her first one with William, likely because she doesn't have the added stress of abductions and funerals and working in the field and multiple injuries. The symptoms are more painful, sure, considering her age, but the lack of physical activity and stress makes a real difference. Even the stress of not knowing where their son is, not knowing if he's alive, is relieved shortly after they find out she is pregnant. He shows up on their doorstep, asking for favors, and Scully doesn't care one bit, she's so relieved he's alive. He's not staying with them, but he's okay, and they know where he is now, and it's okay for now.

At eighteen weeks, she's started to visibly show, a small bump under her layers of Mulder’s sweatshirts. (It's already mid-spring, and Mulder is constantly teasing her about always being way too cold, unreasonably cold even when it's getting warm outside, and she just rolls her eyes.) They're both on the couch reading, Scully growing tired enough that the words have started to swim around on the page, and she's about to suggest they go upstairs to bed when she feels a strange fluttering in her abdomen. She dismisses it as indigestion at first, until it happens again. And again. And that's when she realizes, when she remembers this feeling from years ago.

Excitement suddenly springs loose, in the pit of her belly, and she lets the book fall to the couch, pressing her hand to the spot. She feels a little phantom foot push back against her palm. She smiles, unable to help it; that is their child in there. Despite her guilt over what happened the last time she had a child, despite her fear that she will lose this baby, despite her regret that it has happened this late in life, she can't help but love this child tremendously. Can't help but be excited, just a little excited.

And Mulder. Mulder is here this time.

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

“Mmm.” He's still absorbed in his book, some new release about Bigfoot theories.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes and nudges his shoulder. “Mulder, you have to feel this,” she says.

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

She nods, and his eyes light up. He reaches out to touch her stomach, hand landing on the wrong spot, and she reaches out to guide it to the right one. She can feel the baby kicking at his hand, and she really does want to cry now. The smile spreading across his face means everything in the world to her.

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

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

“I can learn to love soccer,” Mulder says, kissing the spot again. “Hi, baby,” he whispers, and she feels the flutter of movement again. “How you doing in there?” The baby kicks again in answer.

Scully grins a little, rubs her hand over her stomach. Mulder wraps his arms tight around her waist, cheek against her stomach. “I love you,” he says, and Scully strokes the top of his head again.

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

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

She seizes a handful of his t-shirt and pulls him up until they're nose to nose. Kisses him sweetly. “C’mon,” she says, pushing hair off of his forehead. “Let's go to bed.”

Mulder eases away from her as she climbs to her feet. “You said 'she’,” he says. “Earlier, about the baby.”

“I did?” Scully smooths the sweatshirt, picks up her book and closes it, setting on the coffee table. “It was a slip. Besides, I think you said 'she’ first, Mulder.”

He shrugs a little, setting his book down next to hers. “Maybe I did.” He grins a little. “Is she still moving around in there?”

“Still active. I can tell she inherited your insomnia.”

“Lucky you.” He wraps his arms around her from behind and squeezes her briefly, kisses the side of her neck. She leans into him for a moment before reaching down and taking his hand and tugging him towards the stairs, because she really is exhausted.

Later, when they go to the doctor for another check-up and are asked if they want to know the gender, they say yes. And they were right. It's a girl.

---

Jackson starts visiting them intermittently, staying with them for a night here or a weekend there. It's a shock, but a pleasant one, and Scully almost cries every time she goes around the corner and finds their son. She loves getting the chance to know him, after all this time, the chance to spend time with him. Her baby. She and Mulder are both treading lightly in an attempt not to scare him away, but she can tell that Mulder is just as relieved that he is here.

He hasn't actually brought up the baby, but Scully knows that he's noticed; she saw his face the first time he showed up, the surprise that he immediately scrambled to cover up. She's starting to think he'll never bring it up—which she'd be fine with, if only because she doesn't want to explain to the child she gave up about the child she is keeping, assuming everything goes okay. (She's explained why she gave him up, and she thinks that he understands, hopes that he knows how much she regrets it, but she still feel rushes of guilt whenever they're eating a meal with Jackson and she sees the ultrasound photos on the fridge. What kind of mother is she, putting the reality of her new baby in the face of the baby she gave away?) But the avoidance of the topic doesn't last forever.

They're eating breakfast one morning, just Scully and Jackson, since Mulder's driven into the city to visit Skinner. Scully's eating her toast, mentally calculating her plans for the rest of her meals, when Jackson speaks, says, “So. You're pregnant.”

Scully jumps a little, her toast falling back onto the plate. She reaches down absently and touches the swell of her stomach, replying, “Yes,” gingerly. She laughs a little, sheepishly, adding before she can think about it, “I’m surprised you didn’t already know.”

Jackson makes a surprised choking sound, and Scully is immediately berating herself for bringing that up. “What do you mean?”

She looks away with chagrin, the back of her neck turning red. “Oh, uh… I read your blog.” The baby kicks under her fingertips; Scully wonders absently if she can feel her embarrassment, her nervousness at interacting with Jackson.

There's a few long beats of silence before Jackson clarifies, “Can’t really control what I see and don’t see. Not an exact science.”

Scully wants to laugh at that. He almost sounds like Mulder. “Oh,” she says.  “Well, yes. I'm…” She falters, amends, “We’re having a baby, if all goes well.” Jackson looks a little uncomfortable, a little lost in his thoughts; she presses her hand harder against her stomach, feeling the baby kicking. She adds, “It was… a little unexpected, but… we’re trying to prepare for it the best we can,” because it's true.

“Are you excited?” Jackson asks, and the question throws her off because she knows what he is asking.

“Yes,” Scully says softly, hoping that Jackson knows what she really means. She rubs a circle across her stomach. “We are.”

Jackson looks back over at her, his expression unreadable. Scully lets her hand fall to her side, watching him guardedly. He's just looking at her, and then she feels the sudden push of his mind against hers. He's searching for something; she can't tell what it is, but then she senses a sudden other presence. A smaller, more innocent presence that pushes back. Jackson's trying to hear the baby.

It's such a wild thing, the idea of her children somehow telepathically communicating, and she's trying to process it when Jackson grins suddenly. Scully feels the fluttering of the baby's mind, the small innocence of it, before it withdraws.

“Boy or girl?” Jackson asks. “Or do you know?”

“Girl,” says Scully, smiling again as she brings her hand back to her stomach. And that is that.

Jackson remains an unpredictable presence in their household, and they never really know when he's going to show up, but whenever he's there, for however long he's there, he always asks about the baby at least one. He calls her the kid usually, brings it up in an offhand manner with a nonchalance Scully envies. One time, he says, “I always wanted a little sister when I was a kid,” and Scully can't avoid the surge of tears that follows that. She cries at everything now, and she hates it. At least Jackson is supportive; he wordlessly hands her tissues, sometimes even lets her hug him. Sometimes even hugs her first, looking for comfort that she is all too willing to give. (He's still haunted by the death of his parents, the way his old life seemed to crumble and decay, and she can tell that falling into a life with them is hard for him. They take it one day at a time.)

Somewhere around twenty-five or twenty-six weeks, Scully begins to have cramps. It's not severe, the doctor eventually confirms, and looking back on it, Scully realizes she should've known it wasn't severe. But her initial reaction is panic, of course, because she's already so on edge, so worried that she'll never get to meet her daughter… She tries to tell Mulder that it might not be serious when she wakes him up in the middle of the night, but her voice is so choked and panicked that Mulder immediately insists they go to the hospital. “Just to see if everything’s okay,” he says, and Scully immediately nods with relief; she has to know for sure.

They go downstairs together, and Scully sits on the couch while Mulder goes out to start the car. She slumps into the couch, shivering a little in the heat of the summer, presses a hand to her stomach and offers up a quick prayer.

“Dana?”

She opens her eyes and sees Jackson hovering at the edge of the room. “Is everything okay?”

“Jackson,” she says, biting back a wince as a cramp bites through her. “It's… I'm fine…” But she doesn't sound believable even to herself.

Jackson comes over carefully and sits beside her, a hand resting anxiously on his knee, pointed towards her like a peace offering. “What's wrong?” he asks carefully.

“Cramping,” Scully says with gritted teeth. She hates to ask, but she has to know, and she still remembers, vividly, the way she felt her children's minds meet, the way she could hear them. She hates to ask, but she meets his eyes, dark in the lampless living room, and says softly, “Do you think you could… Can you hear her?” Her voice breaks a little.

Jackson's brow furrows a little, like he's concentrating, like he's worried. And then something like understanding seems to pass over him. Relief. “I can hear her,” he says softly, relievedly. “I think… I really think she's okay.”

Scully believes him. She doesn't know why, but a part of her just… knows. The panic dulls; it doesn't fade completely, but when they tell her that it's nothing, that they're both fine, she can't help but feel like she already knew that, somewhere, deep down. Like somehow, she just knew, the way she just knew that Jackson was alive. She feels, somehow, more connected to her daughter than she ever has.

---

It's not always perfect, not by a long shot. It hits Mulder every now and then: he is at the age of retirement, and he's about to be a new parent—up every night when he is already tired, a jungle gym for a toddler when his back and knees already feel like they're constantly about to give out, having to pay for a college fund without actually having a job. And he knows it is ten times worse for Scully; she's the one who actually has to carry the baby. She's constantly in pain, constantly tired or nauseous or irritable or emotional. And she is terrified of something happening to her during childbirth, of something happening to the baby, of someone coming for the baby the way they can't for Jackson, and Mulder doesn't blame her. There has been so much tragedy and so many lost children between the two of them that it's understandable that they're spooked. They both have nightmares a lot; Scully is rabidly possessive of him at times, reminding him that the last time they had a child, she was pregnant and buried.

It helps that Jackson is there, still sporadically even after he's officially moved in, but still a semi-constant presence. It helps that he is supportive, offers up his opinion on baby names or toys, buys the baby a blanket with a pattern of stars on it. It helps.

But it's impossible not to express their fears, every now and then. Scully breaks off into tears sometimes, grows silent and worried and stiff with irritation. “How can we do this?” she says softly to Mulder one night, fear in her voice. “How the hell can we do this, Mulder? How the hell are we going to do this?”

He doesn't know. He never has an answer for her. But he knows that they will. Because they don't have a choice. Because they already have the nursery, all ready and painted (with Jackson's assistance). Because they've already got a list of name ideas that they always end up bickering over. Because Mulder sees the ultrasound photo every morning when he goes down into the kitchen and feels the same rush of affection every time. Because they love her, their unborn daughter, and they have no choice but to love her.

Because Scully will be an amazing mother. The way she was with Emily, the way she was and is with Jackson. (They're getting closer every day; Mulder keeps catching the two of them talking or arguing over some classic movie or reading books they've suggested to each other.) And, after everything, Mulder still wants to be a father.

It's not a second chance, because he doesn't want to call it that; it feels too dismissive of William. But it is something. It's their chance at a family. The four of them.

---

They have a C-section planned, an appointment made, everything plotted to a T. Everything is supposed to happen as scheduled. But Scully's water breaks two weeks early.

Scully's initial reaction is panic, of course. She rattles off the risks associated, the statistics of developmental issues or her lungs not being fully developed; she seizes his arm in a tight hold, knuckles turning white against his sleeve, and doesn't let go. “We can't do this yet, Mulder,” she grits out through clenched teeth as a contraction hits her. “Not yet, 's too soon, she's not ready. I can't do this.”

Mulder remains calm, somehow; he doesn't know how the hell he does, but he does. Jackson is gone, off doing whatever he does when he's gone, so he doesn't have to worry about him being stuck here, and there is no one else to call, so he just focuses in on Scully, gives her his jacket as he helps her out to the car, strokes her hair and murmurs comforting things, drives her to the hospital with improbably steady hands. He's going to hang on, and he's going to keep it together for them. His girls. He loves them so much that it hurts, and he can't even consider the idea that they won't both come home with him.

The hospital is a short drive, luckily, and so they get there within good time. Scully seizes his arm as soon as he comes around to get her out of the car, hand clenched tight, and doesn't let go. Not when they get into the hospital, not when she lowers herself into a wheelchair. Only briefly when she changes into a hospital gown and climbs into the hospital bed, and then she's grasping for him again. He takes her hand, doesn't complain when she squeezes so hard that the bones ache. He hates that he wasn't there before to let her crush his hand. “Don't leave us,” Scully hisses, and Mulder rubs his thumb over the top of her hand, kisses the back of it. “I won't,” he promises, pressing his cheek to the side of her head.

“It's too soon,” Scully says once again, bits it out through clenched teeth, and Mulder pulls away to look at her. Her face is white, her eyes full of pain and panic, and she still has a death grip on his hand. Her other hand is pressed to the swell of her stomach in a protective sort of way. She moans as the contraction hits her. “I can't do this, Mulder,” she hisses through it, tears welling in her eyes.

“It's okay,” Mulder whispers, his free hand on the side of her head. He has to believe that it'll be okay. He kisses the top of her head gently. “It's gonna be okay, Scully.”

“Not yet, I can't do this yet. It's too soon.” She shuts her eyes briefly, presses her hand harder against her stomach. “She's not ready, I can't do this, not until she's ready.”

“She's gonna be just fine,” Mulder promises. And in that moment, he really, really believes that. “You both are. You're both going to be fine.”

“You don't know that,” she whispers.

“I do.” He kisses her cheek, her nose, the side of her mouth. “I know it, Scully. I just know it. I can't explain it, but I do.”

She sniffles, letting her head fall heavily against his chest. “I love you,” she says. “I love you so much, Mulder. No matter what happens…”

“I love you, too,” he says, stroking her hair with the flat of his thumb. “It's gonna be okay, Scully.”

A contraction hits her like a wave and she cries out. He helps her breathe through it, holds her hand tightly and doesn't let go.

---

Their daughter is born in a heartbeat moment. A rush. It happens so fast that Scully feels as though she almost missed it.

She doesn't remember much from the moments after—fatigued and nearly unconscious from blood loss—but there is one thing she never forgets: the sound of her daughter's first healthy cry. The image of the tiny baby being held up before her. She holds onto it for as long as she lives.

---

Their daughter half-dozes, a small, warm being curled against his bare chest. Her nose is tiny, her hair as dark as her brother's and her eyes the bright blue of her mother, and Mulder loves her with everything in him.

Scully's been in recovery for hours as a result of blood loss; she hasn't seen the baby yet. He was genuinely torn between whether to stay with Scully or stay with the baby, but Scully, in an extraordinary amount of pain and worry, had mumbled firmly, “Go with her,” as she faded into unconsciousness. She was dim and groggy, but her eyes were filled with a fierce love, a stern commanding. And so Mulder went, his heart pounding, his eyes glued to the tiny baby in the nurse’s hands, grateful that he didn't have to leave this tiny being all alone even as he's reluctant to leave Scully. They let him cut the cord, they let him follow them as they checked the baby's vitals, the state of her lungs, as they put her in the nursery. He'd hovered outside the window, torn between going to sit with his wife and staying with their daughter, but Scully's words were enough to make him stay.

So he stays, paces outside the nursery window, locates his baby among the cluster of infants, presses his hand to the glass when no one is watching. The too-small bundle of his daughter, sleeping with a pink beanie on her head behind the window of a nursery. Somehow, he already misses her. And then the nurses had asked him to do skin-to-skin, in an attempt to keep her temperature up.

She's so small. She's too small. But her eyes are as blue as Scully's, and Mulder senses that she is strong. It runs in the family. She is fine and Scully, the doctor told him, will be fine with plenty of rest, although she's still unconscious. They're both fine, and Mulder would officially never like to leave either of them either again.

He holds their daughter against his chest, skin against skin, his hand cupping her small head. She yawns, a small sound, and he strokes her forehead with one finger, gently. He runs a finger down her arm, and she grabs onto the finger with her entire hand. Tears spring to his eyes, and he leans forward to press a light kiss to her forehead. “Hey, kiddo,” he whispers, so only she can hear. “Hey, baby. You made it. You're here.” She looks up at him with a touch of—he swears it—curiosity in her eyes, and he grins. “I'm your dad,” he says softly.

He holds his daughter until she falls asleep, until the nurses come to take her back to the nursery. And even then, he doesn't leave. He desperately wants to go check on Scully, but she told him to stay with the baby and he's not willing to leave. And so he waits, until a nurse comes to find him, tells him that his wife is awake and he can take the baby to meet her now.

---

Scully is sitting up in bed, propped up on several pillows, when they enter. “Mulder,” she blurts when she sees him, struggling to sit up straighter.

“Are you okay?” Mulder asks immediately, because leaving her was nearly impossible and he has to know. “How do you feel?”

“Fine, fine,” Scully says impatiently. “Is… is that…” She can't finish, words caught in her throat.

Mulder follows her line of sight to the infant in his arms, and he wants to cry. Here they are, they're all okay and they're all together, and none of them are going anywhere. “Scully,” he says, pushing past the blankets with one finger to brush the baby's face. “I want you to meet your daughter.”

“She's okay?” Scully's voice is rusty from disuse and she is too pale, but she is alive, okay, and her eyes are only for the baby curled in his arms. She reaches out unconsciously, desperately. “She's not… she's okay?”

“She's okay,” says Mulder, his voice unsteady. “She's just fine, honey. She's perfect.” He leans over the bed and kisses Scully on the forehead before lowering the baby into her arms.

Scully's eyes are wide and fearful as she looks down at her daughter, tentatively nudging the blanket away from her face as she cradles her close. The baby blinks up at her mother, eyes huge and blue; she uncurls her fingers and reaches up to touch Scully's hair. "She looks so small,” Scully whispers, stroking the baby's cheek with one finger, and promptly bursts into tears. “How did she get so small?”

“She takes after her mother,” Mulder says, a lump rising in his own throat. He’s going to cry too, goddamnit. Watching them together makes something swell up in his chest, makes him want to wrap his arms around them and never let go. He wishes that Jackson was here for this.

Scully looks up at him, her eyes wet and shining. “Shut up,” she murmurs tearfully, laughing a little, and motions to the bed with her chin. He sits beside her gingerly, and Scully leans back into him. He rests his chin on her shoulder, reaching down to touch the baby's tiny hand in her hair.

“She's so beautiful,” Scully says, her voice shaking with sobs. Mulder wraps his arms around her from behind, just under where she cradles the baby, and kisses the side of her neck gently. “I was so scared I would lose her, like…” Her voice breaks off, fades out into gaspy breaths. Mulder kisses her again, again, his arms tightening around her. She kisses the baby's little forehead gently; the baby fusses, just a little, and Scully makes soft soothing sounds through her tears. “Oh, honey, it's okay,” she whispers. “It's okay.”

Mulder lets Scully cry, wrapped up in his arms and cradling the baby. He leans forward, brushes his lips over the baby's furrowed forehead and cups her downy head in his palm. Scully tugs the blanket until it is covering them both, leans back half into the pillows and half into him. He keeps an arm wrapped around her, touches the baby's hand. “She really is beautiful,” he says.

“She's perfect,” Scully sniffles, echoing his earlier sentiment. “She's worth it. She's more than worth it. Mulder, I love her so much.” She runs a finger gently down the bridge of the baby's nose, and the baby yawns, nestling her face against Scully's hospital gown.

“I stayed with her,” Mulder says. “I didn't want to leave her alone,” he'd said later. “I didn't want to leave either of you alone. Scully, she's so small.”

“I think I was the one to point that one out first,” Scully says, tickling the bottom of the baby's foot lightly. She's smiling a little, contentedly. “You were right, you know.”

Mulder blinks in surprise, turning his head to face her. “What?”

“When you told me that we could do this. When you told me that everything was going to be okay.” The baby is nearly asleep now, her mouth sweetly slack, and Scully is looking at her, the shape of her face and the faint freckles across her nose.

“Scully,” says Mulder, his voice filled with amusement. “Did you just tell me I was right?”

“Yeah, why…” She looks up at him, and upon seeing his smirk, rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

“Two miracles in one day,” Mulder jokes. “Not a bad track record.”

Scully rolls her eyes again, punching him lightly on the shoulder. They settle back into their cocoon together, their eyes glued to the infant sleeping in her mother's arms.

“We're going to be okay, aren't we?” Scully asks suddenly, and Mulder knows she's referring to more than the baby. She's referring to the rest of their lives, the conspiracy that ruined much of it, and their son, and each other. To their whole family.

Mulder kisses the side of her head, thinking that it feels like he has never loved Dana Scully more than he does right now. “We are,” he says assuredly. “We're gonna be just fine.”

---

Scully can honestly say she doesn't remember the last time she was this at peace.

They're all sitting in the living room, she and Mulder and Jackson and the baby. A movie’s on TV, but she knows that neither she or Mulder are watching that. They're watching their children, together not for the first time (and hopefully not for the last), but the fact that it's not the first doesn't seem to diminish the marvel of it.

Jackson got home the day they brought the baby home, and he seemed almost frightened of the baby at first, but since then he's seemed to grown more at ease with it. He even loves her, Scully likes to think—he seems to love his sister. Two nights ago, she'd kept them all up half the night crying, and Jackson had seemed the most sane out of all of them (“Kids,” Mulder had growled irritably when they finally got to bed around two a.m.), started calling the baby Banshee in an affectionate sort of way. It's stuck, more or less, but the lack of a name is starting to make the nickname glaringly silly.

The fact that they still haven't come up with a name after a week and a half (and seven previous months of consideration) feels equally silly. But they just can't agree on anything. They'd agreed that they shouldn't name the baby after anyone, if only so she wouldn't have to carry that weight, and they haven't been able to agree on anything else. Mulder has a theory that they'll know the right name when they hear it. Scully has a feeling that the baby will be permanently known as Banshee if they don't come up with something soon.

“So still no name yet?” Jackson asks now, letting the baby tug at one finger.

It's like he read my mind, Scully thinks bemusedly, and then realizes he really might have. “No, not yet, unfortunately,” she says with a yawn.

Mulder rubs a hand over his chin, gets to his feet to take the baby from Jackson as he stands. “You have any ideas?” he asks, cradling the baby in the crook of one arm.

Jackson shrugs as he turns towards the kitchen. “Not really,” he says over his shoulder, going into the other room. They hear the fridge open. “I've always liked the name Lily,” he offers. The fridge closes.

Mulder raises his eyebrows at Scully, rocking the baby back and forth a little. “Lily?” Scully asks.

Jackson nods, reentering with a can of Coke in hand. “Yeah, when my, uh… when my parents were trying to adopt another baby, and they asked my opinion on names, I said Lily for a girl. I was like five or six, and there was a book I liked with that name in it, so I thought it'd be cool to have a sister with the same name.” He shrugs. “Just a suggestion.”

Scully meets Mulder's eyes over top of the baby's head—she’s fallen asleep on his shoulder, fingers stuck in her mouth. He has the same look that she does. “I like that,” she says.

Jackson raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”

“I do. It's cute.” Scully smiles a little. “What do you think, Mulder?”

“I like it, too.” He sways back and forth with the baby, offers Jackson a grin. “It's probably better than Banshee.”

Jackson snorts, popping the tab on his soda. “Banshee would be an awesome name,” he says, and Scully stifles a laugh. “But Lily's good,” he adds, tickling the bottom of the baby's foot before sitting back now. “If you guys like it.”

Scully meets Mulder's eyes again, questioningly, and he nods. “I think we do,” she says softly, and makes a mental note to have Mulder go and fill out the birth certificate tomorrow. They have a couple of middle name ideas that would go well with Lily.

Mulder is now murmuring to the baby, his hand large on her back. “Hey, Lily,” he says softly, and Jackson smirks a little. Scully smiles, too.

“I should probably put her down,” she says softly as she gets to her feet. She relishes the few hours of peace and quiet she'll have before the baby wakes them up crying. Mulder passes her Lily gently, miraculously managing not to wake her up, and Scully shuffles her against her shoulder, relishing the weight of her daughter. “Hi, sweetie,” she whispers, lips brushing over her head; Lily makes a small sound, but doesn't wake up.

“You should get some sleep,” Mulder says, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

“Sleep while I can,” Scully says with a grimace. “Goodnight, Jackson,” she adds, looking over at their son with his unkempt hair and equally unkempt clothes, who has already finished his soda. (He eats like a horse.) It still feels incredible that he's here.

Jackson smiles a little, and it means everything to her. “Night, Dana,” he says. “Night, Lily. See you in a few hours.”

“Easy for you to say,” says Mulder. “You don't have to get up for it.”

“I don't want complaints from either of you, seeing as how I'm the only one who really has to get up,” Scully says in a falsely sweet voice to the top of the baby's head.

Mulder shoots her an apologetic look, thumbs hair away from her face and says, “I can take the next shift. And the one after that.”

“Insomniac advantage,” says Scully, kissing him briskly. “Thank you.” Jackson politely ignores their displays of affection, and Lily sleeps on. Mulder leans down and kisses the top of the baby's head, and then Scully turns to take her upstairs.

She puts Lily down in the crib in their room, places a hand over her stomach. She can feel her breathing. She likes having her close, likes being able to be right there if anything happens. It's been a full week, and Mulder is still here, and they all still are together. She feels more at peace than she has in years, and she loves the three people in this house with her more than anything else.

In times where they are alone like this, Scully and her daughter, it's hard not to remember that first moment when she realized, sitting on the floor of a Walgreens bathroom. When she hadn't known what the hell she was going to do, but she knew she was going to keep the baby. And now it all seems to make sense, all of it. As difficult as it's been, as difficult as the next eighteen years are going to be, she's grateful for Lily. Grateful she's gotten the chance to know her, to raise her. She's worth it; just as she'd said in the hospital before, Lily is worth all of it.

“Night, Lily,” she says softly, kisses the tip of one finger and brushes it over Lily's forehead. She spares one last look for her slumbering baby. And then she climbs into bed to grab a few solid hours of sleep.

#xf fanfic #i wrote this

[kateyes224]

In My Silence

Author:  KatEyes224

Rating: R

Timeline:  Post-This, but before Plus One

A/N:  This story wouldn’t have seen the light of day were it not for a couple of very important people. Namely @mldrgrl, who didn’t ever let me give up on it, and @sunflowerseedsandscience and @mangokiwitropicalswirl who offer their unwavering support even when I don’t deserve it.

She loses him somewhere in the kitchen department, letting him disappear from her line of sight while she lingers, waylaid by a particularly handsome backsplash. Which they absolutely do not need, she reasons after three solid minutes of arguing with herself before finally moving on. But she’d been wanting to update the kitchen since they’d first bought the house; bullet-riddled drywall, she figures, is as good an excuse as any. And their ridiculously expensive homeowners’ policy is apparently finally going to pay off, so they may as well take advantage.

By the time Scully wanders over to the dining area to check out the table they’d picked out together online, she knows Mulder has probably given up on trying to find her. He stubbornly refuses to backtrack at IKEA, claiming it only gets him more turned around. And despite his alleged accrual of Indian Guides merit badges, the proof of which Scully has yet to see, he scoffs at conventional wilderness survival skills like staying put and waiting for help to come to him whenever he gets lost. They’d agreed in the car ahead of time to meet up at the cafe on the second floor if they got separated, so Scully starts heading that direction.

She immediately suspects ulterior motives. Mulder has once again managed to plan this outing to take place around lunchtime, and Scully assumes that his timing is calculated so that he can satiate his unaccountable love of Swedish meatballs.

Meandering through a maze of living room and bedroom furniture, Scully consciously quells the urge to quicken her pace when she finds herself walking past bunk beds and brightly colored children’s rooms, college corner desks and bins of extra-long twin bed sheets.

William would be looking at colleges this year, wouldn’t he? Studying for his SATs. Maybe courting college scouts for water polo or basketball or baseball. Or maybe he’d been an academic, in math league or on the debate team or winner of the science fair. Or maybe he’d been a thespian, or maybe he’d been a loner, or, or, or...

Next to a wall of framed mirrors, Scully closes her eyes against row upon row of her own fractured reflections and breathes deeply through her nose, trying to banish the onslaught of potential iterations of her son as quickly as they apparate. Fifteen years later and he is still every dark-haired, long-limbed boy she sees out of the corner of her eye until she dares to look twice.

William has never stopped being a residual image that appears, Turin-like, in every negative space in her meticulously constructed world. But Scully has learned to allow herself to feel the ebb and flow of both her guilt and her gratitude in these moments. Cognitive dissonance, if nothing else, at least drowns out all the other voices in her head; the ones that whisper about what she did to Mulder when she left him to wrestle with their ghosts all alone in their drafty old house, instead of what she did to William when she gave him away to a future without her, perilous and uncertain.

She cannot, however, stop herself from intentionally averting her gaze when she passes by the children’s play area just outside the IKEA cafe, where a very pregnant mother is loudly compromising with her young son for just five more minutes, and then it’s time to go. Scully squeezes her eyes shut as the woman cradles her swollen belly with one hand and digs the other into the small of her back.

Some reminders still hurt more than others.

She spots Mulder near the front of the line queued to order and is just to about to call out to him when another voice beats her to the punch.

“Mulder? Fox Mulder?”

Mulder turns to the source of the voice, a woman standing several people behind him in line, and Scully sees him quirk a smile of recognition that reaches all the way to his eyes.

She freezes, watching the interaction unfold from a distance with an almost clinically detached interest. Mulder’s social circle, she knows, has dwindled over the years to just a handful of people, mostly acquaintances. As she racks her brain to place this woman, Scully realizes with a pang of regret that she has comprised the bulk of that handful for the last decade or more. And, until recently, she had been doing her level best to leave Mulder behind.

She notices the woman’s blonde hair first, a lustrous mane that falls in golden waves around slender, tanned shoulders. Not a hint of gray, Scully discerns, biting her lip so hard it nearly bleeds. 

Mulder lets the few people between them go in front of him until he and the mystery woman are standing next to one another in line. He crosses his arms as they begin to converse, and Scully flushes hotly as she takes note of a typical Mulder maneuver when he dips his head and leans into her space so that he can hear her better. At one point, the woman turns into him to allow the person behind her to go ahead, and Scully catches a glimpse of her profile. A deep dimple appears in the woman’s cheek as she laughs at something Mulder says.

The two must reach a mutual decision to just order their food together because they finally approach the same register but pay separately. They then head over to a nearby table where a bored-looking blond boy of about six or seven in a baseball uniform is sitting.

Making her way closer, Scully takes in the woman’s tall, fit figure and makeup-free face. She has a wide, easy smile, which she unabashedly flashes up at Mulder as they continue talking.

As Scully nears, she begins to hear snippets of conversation.

“-eb’s little brother is already outgrowing the toddler bed, so we’re here looking at bunk beds. The boys are really excited about the idea of bunk beds, aren’t you, Caleb?”

Caleb smiles tightly and nods, obliging his mother, and throws his small fist into his baseball glove a few more times.

Mulder bends down, muscular arms resting lightly on his bent knees, looking up into the boy’s eyes. Someplace deep within Scully’s chest starts to ache, the twinge old and familiar. Mulder has always been wonderful with children, has always given due deference to their personhood no matter their age.

It was one of those things about him that Scully had always thought would have made him a wonderful father.

“What position do you play, Caleb?” she hears Mulder ask.

Caleb’s little boy voice is swallowed by the cacophony of knives and forks clinking against plastic plates and soda machines spitting ice into cups, and Scully finds herself leaning forward slightly as she continues towards their table, straining to hear.

“-na learn how to pitch.”

Mulder nods and glances up at the boy’s mother before meeting Caleb’s eyes again.

“You know, I pitched a couple of years. I used to be good at curveballs and changeups. But you’re gonna have to practice a lot if you want to be a pitcher. You think you can do that?”

Caleb nods down at Mulder, solemn.

The woman tugs gently at the bill of her son’s baseball cap. “I can’t keep him away from the baseball diamond. And if he’s not there he wants to be at the batting cages.”

Mulder’s smile widens. “I was the same way when I was his age.”

Scully sees the woman’s eyes sweep over her partner’s frame appreciatively. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Caleb stares at Mulder now with naked admiration. “Who’s your favorite pitcher? Mine’s Zach Britton.”

Mulder chuckles. “Britton’s pretty good. I’m a Yankees fan, myself. So I’m liking Severino these days.”

The boy wrinkles his nose. “Ewwww, the Yankees? Traitor.”

Mulder and the woman both laugh.

“Well, maybe one day…” his mother cocks her head, biting her lip as she glances between her son and Mulder, “Mulder here can show you how to throw a curveball, Caleb.”

Mulder chuffs as he rises, crossing his arms even more tightly across his broad chest as a blush creeping over his features. “I’d probably end up in the hospital if I tried to throw a curveball these days, Annie.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Annie says, reaching a tentative hand out and wrapping it around Mulder’s right bicep. “You look like you’re in pretty good shape to me.”

Scully, done observing, quickens her pace and plasters a smile on. “Mulder,” she says, still several feet away. “Here you are.”

Mulder startles, jerking his arm from Annie’s grasp. “Scully, hey. This is, uh, you remember, right? Annie. Anne. Anne Woodward. She was, uh, she was…”

A look of dawning comprehension flits its way over Annie’s face as she gauges Mulder’s stammering reaction with Scully’s sudden appearance. Annie glances down at Mulder’s left ring finger, then Scully’s, before she brings her eyes back up to Scully’s.

Subtle, Scully thinks. “No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” she says instead, smiling wider but barely unable to unclench her teeth. The woman is even more stunning up close. Glowing jade-green eyes and full lips. Gorgeous body.

Jesus.  

Scully holds her hand out. “I’m Dana-”

Annie reaches out to shake it firmly. “Agent Scully. I know. You probably don’t recognize me, but I was at Agent Mulder’s house last weekend. I’m an investigative technician with the Bureau. I was part of the team mobilized to collect evidence after the Purlieu incident last week.” She drops Scully’s hand. “Crazy stuff.”

Combing through her memory of the multitudinous faces and comings and goings of all the investigators that had torn their house apart for almost 48 hours, Scully thinks she might remember a blonde ponytail poking out of an FBI cap, gathering evidence. Scully had been in and out of their house herself during those few days, giving multiple statements to multiple agencies, appearing before a review panel.

“Right. Thanks for your help on that,” Scully says. “Agent Mulder’s house,” she emphasizes, “is quite literally a disaster, as you know, so I told him I’d help him pick out some replacement furniture. And I owe him a table.”

Mulder’s brow furrows. He starts to interject, but Scully shoots him a pointed glance. His mouth slams shut, but the confused crease in his forehead deepens.

Just then, Annie’s order number is called, then Mulder’s. Scully makes a show of looking at her watch, clearing her throat.

“Mulder, I’ll just go get the stuff from the warehouse and meet you at the car, okay? You can drop me off at my place on your way home.”

Scully turns and walks away before he has a chance to respond. She throws one last glance over her shoulder and swallows past the lump that rises in her throat as Annie beams up at Mulder. Scully nearly bumps right into the pregnant mother still arguing with her obstinate son as she stumbles towards the elevators.

xxx

As she waits for Mulder in the car, the silence humid and thick, Scully’s memory calls to mind an instance when she was quite young, perhaps ten or twelve years old, when her mother had driven her daughters to the coast after picking them up from school one afternoon. Maggie had stared out the windshield at the crashing surf until Melissa had finally asked what they were doing there. Maggie had blinked, glanced in the rearview mirror, and confessed to her daughters that she was jealous. She was jealous of the sea for the sway it held over her husband. 

As a girl, Scully had been stunned, and had said as much. She was surprised at her mother’s confessing such a thing, for wasn’t envy one of the seven deadly sins?

“Oh, Dana,” her mother had explained with a sad smile, as she’d turned her gaze away from her daughter and back to the green-blue curve of the horizon, “jealousy and envy are not the same thing. Envy is when you covet something of someone else’s that doesn’t belong to you. Jealousy is longing for what’s already yours.”

It’s taken years, but in the cabin of Mulder’s pickup, waiting for him to amble outof the store, Scully finally thinks she understands the distinction.

Apart from herself, Scully knows, Mulder has led such a loveless existence. But hasn’t she also done her best, even unwittingly, to ensure that his histrionic cycle of love and loss just keeps going, ad infinitum? Maybe Mulder has come to believe that a life with Scully is what he has earned, part of his unending doomed lot in life. To be loved by a woman who was not supposed to be able to bear him any children. To be loved by a woman who was destined to give him an impossible son only to give him away.

Scully is startled out of her reverie when Mulder opens the driver’s side door and slams it behind himself. He lets the silence stretch in the cab before speaking.

“What the fuck was that, Scully?”

“You tell me,” she answers, hating how petulant she sounds.

“Scully…” Mulder’s voice is low, dangerous. He twists the keys in the ignition with a jerk of his wrist and pulls out of the parking space. “Come on. You know me better than that.”

Scully doesn't respond. Does she know better? She and Mulder hadn’t really talked about where things were headed between them after the terrorist attack at the Ziggurat in Texas. She’d started staying over at the house with him more and more since her latest hospital stay, after her bout of unexplainable seizures. Remembering the surprisingly new heft of Mulder above her, the way he used their bed frame to leverage the angle of his thrusts, his head between her legs that very morning, she certainly knew where Mulder had been hoping things were heading.

But Scully had always doubted whether Mulder’s known what’s in his own best interests, especially when it came to her.

For her part, she hates herself for needing him as much as she does. He is her fatal flaw, her Achilles heel, the forbidden fruit that has been her undoing. You’d think she’d have learned her lesson by now, but here she is, twenty-five years later, still waging war with herself over him, holding him at arm’s length with one hand while drawing him closer with the other.

Mulder has pulled onto the highway before he starts talking again. There’s a plaintiveness in his voice that Scully can’t remember hearing in years, not since they first started working together. It burns, hearing him trying to convince her of something she knows shouldn’t be plausible, but probably is.

“Annie and I got to talking when she was at the house. She saw my bat and glove in the corner and asked if I was coaching Little League or something.”

Annie. 

Annie is tangible. Attainable. And obviously more than willing. She could probably still give Mulder another child, a little sister for her two boys.

Scully refuses to respond, allows the silence to unspool, become uncomfortable. Mulder struggles to fill the void, like he always does.

“I just, I told her I liked baseball, and we got to talking about Caleb, and how-”

“Mulder, I think this was a mistake.”

Mulder quiets. He stares at her profile. “Okay, fine. We’ll go to Pottery Barn.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Scully looks out the windshield. She can feel the phantom pressure of Mulder’s jaw clenching and unclenching.

“I think,” she begins, glancing at him and pressing on when Mulder closes his eyes, “I think we may be rushing back into this for the wrong reasons.”

“No, Scully.”

“No?” she asks, turning fully in her seat to look at him, incredulous. “No? When have we not been the worst possible option for one another?”

“Scully, where is this coming from?!” Mulder practically shouts at her. “Are you PMSing or something?”

“I’m perimenopausal, Mulder,” she retorts, “and maybe it’s time you started thinking about why we’re even together in the first place. And why we keep continuing to be together when it brings us nothing but heartache.”

Mulder lets another half a mile pass before he speaks again, and the gravel in his voice scrapes her heart raw.

“Are you really that unhappy with me?” he asks quietly, taking the turnoff towards her place.

“Are you really that happy when we’re together?” Scully asks. “Or are you just less miserable because you’re not all alone by yourself?”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Scully!” Mulder yells, slapping a hand against the steering wheel.

“Could you just stop being stubborn for a moment, Mulder,” Scully implores. “Just divorce yourself completely from the idea of you and me and think about it. Could you be happy with someone like Annie? Raising a family, having little boys to play catch with, someone to teach how to throw a curveball? A wife who actually stands a chance of getting pregnant again?”

Her heart feels like it’s withering in her chest, atrophied after so long without him and weary from trying so hard to hold on to what it was about him that made him so irreplaceable. But this is where she’s always failed where he has succeeded: Mulder has a knack for loving the memory of someone unconditionally, in spite of the many ways they’ve let him down.

He pulls up to the sterile, ridiculously overpriced townhouse that she’s insisted on maintaining since she moved out. It’s in a gentrified part of D.C., an industrial park that’s been modernized, and she knows Mulder hates it, even though he’s never said a thing about it. He slams on the brakes so hard that she winces when they screech. Mulder throws the car in park and stares out the windshield, refusing to look at her.  

“I know the difference between losing people and watching them leave, Scully.”

Scully stares at his profile. The strong line of his jaw has softened over the years, but it’s no less dear to her now than it was decades ago, shadowed by 5 o’clock stubble and the sherbet-colored light filtering in from the streetlamps half a block away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mulder,” she whispers, and she’s out of the passenger seat, slamming the door of the truck and turning the lock of her own place in less than thirty seconds without sparing a second glance behind her. 

He’s been watching her leave for years, she figures, as the automated front door beeps shut behind her. She leans into it, inviting the small measure of pain when she lets her skull thud against the hard wood. The sound of his truck idling lingers until he finally puts the car in reverse and crunches back down the driveway, giving her the space he knows she needs. 

One more night won’t kill them.

#my writing #in my silence #post-this #pre-plus one #because what the fuck actually happened between the two of them #for the two of them to have

[sinnhelmingrmoved]

is hel even in this one modern au server? no. do i have headcanons about her in a specific modern au because kleffy already established their muse as dating her ‘off-screen?’ oh baby don’t i.

it basically acts as an offshoot from her single dads/modern au mold: daughter of a once-divorced mother and a twice-divorced father, the youngest child and only daughter of luke and angrboda’s union. her father’s family has always been political, her mother is more of a free spirit. she has two older brothers, two younger half brothers, a much younger half sister... and a stepbrother to whom she is quite close.

was born with her condition and has always been fine with it among family and had great confidence in her community -- it’s strangers that put her off her game. her confidence was always far better as a child than as she grew up and started to put herself further into the world.

is finnish with some russian roots, and prefers to use her mother’s surname, rautametsänen. she does not blunt that name for anyone, nor does she show mercy to those who expect it for simplicity’s sake rather than out of a genuine inability to work the language.

her impressive pedigree was easily balanced by her academic successes -- straight as, full ride to university, top of her class. her school years were certainly a high point in her life, and she reveled in them. she particularly excelled at music and languages, being a polyglot whilst playing several instruments. she also picked up a knack for composing her own music, sometimes with accompanying lyrics, but is loath to perform publicly. she has an enduring love for sound and how it moves among people, either by instrument or voice.

had a small breakdown after high school graduation and spent a time losing the battle with agoraphobia which was dealt with via intensive therapy. while she still gets nervous in certain situations, she is better able to face the world.

has had far less time and perspective than her mainverse counterpart to accept her appearance as an adult, preferring not to be photographed and worrying obsessively over being introduced to new people. it is less a reflection of the goddess’ understanding that no matter how comfortable she is with herself others might be and more of a powerful fear of rejection and frightening others.

is norse pagan and particularly follows the examples of holy and mystical women of the past. fancied herself a witch as a child and has kept certain rites and traditions well into her adulthood.

no longer lives in europe, but stays in constant communication with her family and friends back home.

garmr is a leonberger who thinks he is a lapdog in this verse, though he remembers his size whenever his mama is being disrespected. signy is an iguana with albinism that lives free range within hel’s space and gets taken for walks as often as garmr does. helhest is currently boarded at a very posh stable where he is always one bad day or bad check away from being kicked out on his ill-tempered ass.

owns a super spacious penthouse that is the envy of many, but is considering giving it up to move into her bf’s house.

she got into podcasting and content production fairly young, running a small show with her best friend about local folklore and chasing evidence in a sort of mulder-and-scully relationship where hel was the true believer and her friend played the realist.

currently works for a small media company in the editing room, while occasionally dabbling in their podcasts. she’s made several friends through her work who she is comfortable around, and even allows them into her home from time to time.

speaking of relationships, she’s had a few fleeting romances with women that never lasted very long. her disorder narrowed the dating pool SIGNIFICANTLY when she was coming into her sexuality.

said bf is a streamer who also comes from a wealthy but complicated family and had a small breakdown while pursuing higher education. he’s also a model. and graduated high school at 14. no one fully understands how they got together, but he thinks she hung the moon and she is slowly learning to let him think that instead of shooting him down. they’ve been together exclusively for the last two years.

she only just met his family a few days ago and felt totally at home in the chaos of her boyfriend’s father, her boyfriend’s father’s partner, her boyfriend’s twin, her boyfriend’s two younger brothers, and her boyfriend’s father’s partner’s two children all packed into a mansion for the holiday hell. even her not celebrating christmas couldn’t keep her from taking the opportunity to meet them.

also she is absolutely a cryptid to her bf’s fanbase, sometimes recording him, sometimes being heard offscreen, sometimes appearing at a distance so she is indiscernible to the camera. people want to see her. even those fans who respect her bf’s edict that she prefers not to be photographed and wants her privacy can admit they are curious.

her hobbies include collecting books, supporting local artists, and travel.

#they can't get into my head [HEADCANON] #slaps this all in a text post since it won't leave me alone. #i want to reiterate i don't play her and she's not an active character in this server. this is wholly pointless. #i just. i had to. the skull goblin demanded it. #and kleffy made me post it.

[lepus-arcticus]

32.

A swarm of voices rippling through his frontal lobe, a polychromatic tangle of light and sound, indescribable, unendurable agony. The veil flutters, and behind it, Mulder sees secrets, histories, the future, the truth. Diana lighting the Smoking Man’s cigarette. Tunguska, Roswell, black oil, Thutmose gaping at the sky. Quonochontaug in June, a boy in the sand. Scully in Africa, transcribing the word of the gods into a coil notebook, a sun-flushed, freckled prophetess, breasts radiant with sweat.  Time folds, and she’s there, really there, leaning over his hospital bed, the marvels of her mind stripped and laid bare for him to see.  - He’s dreaming, he thinks...  A dream leftover from another time, when he was another man. A dream of forgetting, a dream of peace and absolution. A dream of healthy children, of a safe and smiling Samantha, of a simple, lukewarm love.  He grasps at the last threads of reality -- a son who died without a name, a daughter bleeding green, a child, hoped for, wished for, who would never come to be. A sister suspended in limbo, at once dead and alive, at once a girl and a woman. A life of horror and wonder, of stale coffee in paper cups. A love that devastates and elevates, a love that makes him whole.  A love that breaks through, and pulls him back from the brink. 

- Diana is dead, but the Diana he thought he knew died long ago. Her unassuming brilliance twisted, her heart corrupted, her spirit pared down. He’d broken into her head, seen the truth of her, and was ashamed.   She did love him once. In her own way. He knows that. She did believe that what she was doing was right, almost until the very end. And she gave her life in exchange for his. In his hallway, Scully crushes her lips to his forehead. And behind closed eyes, her warmth all around him, he can see their future.  Their impossible child, dusted with sand and tousled by the sea air, skeptical, pouty, imbued with the otherworld. Mulder doesn’t know how, or when. But after 26 years of searching, he knows a thing or two about not giving up on a miracle.  - “Hey,” she says, coaxing him out of a doze, stroking his cheek. He mumbles, blinks slowly, turns his head to lip lazily at her palm. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed near his hip, medikit at the ready. Stern and pretty, still pink from the sun. “I let myself in... let’s get those bandages changed, hm?” He heaves himself up, grumbling but compliant. “Mmm. What time is it?” “It’s almost eight. I came right from work. C’mere.”  There are still moments when he receives impressions of her inner life -- their little mind-melding adventure with the spores compounded by his recent brush with omniscience makes for one hell of a merger. He basks in the halo of her unspoken tenderness as she unwraps his head.  There’s a release of pressure, and she brushes her thumb along the edge of the shaved patch surrounding his latest battle scar. “I hate that they cut your hair so short,” she pouts, and he suppresses a retort about her own newly-cropped coif. Not that she was capable of looking anything short of seraphic.  “You hungry?” she asks, finishing up and repacking her kit. “I brought you a meatball sub from that place you like on Seventh. It’s in the fridge, I can --” “-- Mm, it’s okay. We’ll have it for breakfast.”  She pulls a face. “Your eating habits are truly horrific, Mulder. I don’t know why I enable you.” “Stay with me,” he says.  - He wakes with sudden awareness in the middle of the night, her small body curled against his, her arm flung across his ribs. She’s awake and peering up at him, her cheek on his chest, lapis eyes shadowy with adoration.  “Hey,” he whispers, smiling, running a hand over her back. “That’s not creepy at all.” She snuffles a small, self-conscious laugh, and he pulls her close, savouring the comforting smell of her hair, her heat, her skin. Overcome, he gathers her up and into a kiss. She sighs in approval, pushes the cold tip of her regal nose against his cheek, and lets him love her.  He opens his mouth slightly, draws back, lets his lips linger and brush sweetly over hers. The taste of her wet breath is poetry, liquor, and he chases it with his tongue. She cants her pelvis into his hip, luring blood into his cock. Moves to lick his neck. Her little teeth at his earlobe, then a small, purposeful kiss on his jaw, a breath of a whisper -- “We shouldn’t. You’re still recovering.”  “Scully,” he begs into her shoulder, rolling his stubble against her skin, letting his hands roam.  “Mulder,” she counters.  “Just wanna be close to you,” he mumbles, and she pulls back to gaze at him, her eyes half-lidded. He can see the cogs turning, and his dick twitches with interest.  “Well,” she says, after a moment of contemplation, “maybe there’s something I can do for you instead. If -- you can promise to relax. I don’t want you... overextending yourself.”  He nods stupidly, swallowing, clearing his throat. Jesus Christ. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I can do that.”  She unspools a trail of kisses down his bare torso, skimming her fingers over the swelling ridge tenting his thin pajama pants, sending chills over his entire body. Holy fucking hell. It’s not as though this is an unsung note in their sexual repertoire, but it’s certainly never been the main event.  “Didn’t think you were that kind of girl,” he grunts, threading fingers through her hair.  “Oh, have I not mentioned that I’m Catholic?” she deadpans.  Fuck, he adores her.  She settles in between his legs, propped up on her elbows, a living, breathing Waterhouse in a ratty, thieved Knicks tee. His cock throbs with anticipation, practically jumping up to meet her when she lowers her head to nuzzle it. The pure and unmistakable love in her eyes makes his chest contract.  She eases his waistband down and pets him gently, takes him in hand, holds him against the smooth plane of her cheek. Her hair is a mess, and she is unutterably gorgeous, beyond comprehension. He releases a quavering breath, thrusts helplessly against her cheekbone. “Relax,” she purrs, as if that were an option.  She kisses him fondly along the ledge of his corona, up to the peak of his head. Lays his stiff cock flat to his belly, stroking him, kneading his thigh, his hip, his oblique with her free hand. And then she settles lower, and his balls tighten against the animal of her breath. She weighs them in one hand, brings them to her mouth, places a demure kiss on each.  And then that hot, wet tongue emerges, and she licks him slow and rough from root to tip. A beam of fire shoots through his groin, and he gasps, his grip tightening in her hair.  He’s gonna fucking explode. He’s gonna fucking lose it before it even begins. She bites her bottom lip and nuzzles him again, holding him up against her face. “I need you to try to keep your heart rate down, Mulder. Just relax, okay?” She sounds amused, proud of herself, and he briefly weighs the logistics of hauling her up, flipping her over, and fucking her until she can’t walk. But then she swirls her tongue around him and takes him between those sublime lips, and any semblance of cognitive function is lost. She sucks him down, millimeter by millimeter, until he’s half-buried, nudging the back of her throat, and holy shit, the hot, tight cave of her mouth is the most exquisite softness he’s ever known, god, almost as sweet as that incredible pussy of hers, fuck -- He forces himself to take a deep breath, gazing down at her, and she looks both solemn and playful, delightfully slutty. He tucks her hair behind her ear as she moves back up his shaft, and it’s obscene, seeing her like this, almost struggling with him, her lips stretched around his cock. “Fuck, Scully,” he practically whimpers, and she sucks him down again, further this time, just as slow, turning his bones to mush. He clips into her mind for a brief moment, and is humbled anew when he finds her awash with devotion, infatuation, desire. Labouring eagerly to bring him pleasure. His woman. His love, who would encounter the key to all life on earth, and still only concern herself with saving his. She’s gearing up to something, he can tell. She slows, breathes through her nose, and then, all things holy, she slides the head of his cock into her throat. The base of his spine ignites, his brain short-circuits. She gags and sputters, but immediately regains composure and releases him with a slick pop, panting. “Guess I’m more out of practice than I thought I was.” “Scully,” he says faintly, “as much of an asshole as this is gonna make me out to be, there is nothing quite like having a brilliant, beautiful, completely badass woman choke on your dick.” She laughs and grips him hard at his base, takes him back into her mouth, and before long he’s spurting into her with a strangled cry while she hums in satisfaction, sucking it all down, swallowing, holy fuck, smiling up at him with naughty schoolgirl pride. “Shit...” he wheezes, as she crawls her way back up. “That was… fuck… that was mind-blowing. Extraterrestrial artefacts ain’t got nothing on D.K.S.” Scully wrinkles her nose in wry amusement, nips at his chin. Lets him taste himself, salty on her tongue, then settles back into his arms, wriggling pleasantly. He holds her close, tears pricking the back of his eyes in a flood of post-orgasmic dopamine. He’ll never jeopardize this again. This is what’s important. Diana had it all wrong. This is what’s worth fighting for.  He kisses the part in Scully’s hair, and they drift off to sleep, sharing dreams of the ocean, of a spacecraft made from sand. 

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

#we're back to msr! thanks for sitting thru my diana chapters #i promise there's fuckin' in this one #incrementum #txf fanfic #the x files #hey also thanks for all the incredibly generous comments on the last chapter #I know Diana's not popular but it means a lot that you guys took the time to read it!! #thanks as always to the wonderful defnotmeyo for her fantastic beta work!!

[andrethegiant3001]

You Owe Me a Fifty

Summary:  Will Darcy knows that one day his thing with Elizabeth Bennet is going to get him in trouble. He’s also not nearly strong enough to stop it. Modern AU in which Lizzie has to plan Jane’s wedding and Darcy just wants a dance (and maybe something more).

The first thing that Will Darcy notices about Elizabeth Bennet is that she seems remarkably skilled at convincing others to make horrible decisions.

Within the first hour of their acquaintance, she manages to convince Charlie, Will’s self-proclaimed best friend and Elizabeth’s sister’s new boyfriend, to order all his food while doing his best Sean Connery impression, challenges their waiter – who is a guy around their age and clearly unopposed to obliging a pretty girl’s silly requests – to make her one collective drink out of every non-alcoholic beverage on the menu, and tricks Darcy into believing that his drink was spiked by the same waiter she was flirting with moments earlier.

He doesn’t really care if she was flirting with him or not. He just thinks it’s relevant to the context of the story. That’s all, okay?

He calls her impulsive and irresponsible. She returns the favour by quite bluntly telling him that he’s prick with a stick up his arse. They argue throughout most of the evening, attracting the attention of just about every other person in the restaurant. The entire affair makes Jane and Charlie very uncomfortable. To say things get off to a rocky start would be a huge understatement.

And then, somewhere between the second and third hour of their insanely tense ‘get to know your best mate’s/sister’s significant other’ dinner, Elizabeth makes a quip about Darcy being a craptastic wanker, and instead of insulting her back like she expects him to, Darcy laughs because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more ridiculous insult. And then Elizabeth laughs. And suddenly, the atmosphere shifts and everything is entirely too friendly and not nearly as hostile as moments ago.

They spend the rest of the night talking to each other and basically ignoring Charlie and Jane, who stopped listening by the second hour of arguing anyway. Lizzie contests basically all his opinions, but it’s not because she dislikes him, it’s because she genuinely has reasons to disagree. He can barely think about how intriguing she’s become to him over the euphoria of having an actual conversation.

He’s pretty sure that he’s been severely deprived of them because of the amount of time he’s had to spend with Charlie’s sisters.

By the end of the night, Darcy and Lizzie are acting like they’ve known each other for years. They part ways after the meal and Darcy doesn’t know when he’ll see her again. He expects it to fade away, just like all the other acquaintanceships he’s made over the years.

And that’s probably what would have happened…if Lizzie was just about any other girl on the planet.

But she’s the Elizabeth Bennet, so things between them inevitably escalate.

It all starts with a snapchat he gets about a week later.

He hates Snapchat and told her as much during dinner, but she refused to listen and downloaded it on to his phone. He doesn’t know why he won’t just delete it.

(It’s not like he’s keeping it just in case Lizzie snapchats him. Cause that would be ridiculous.)

She asks him if he wants to come over because she’s had a bad day and Jane can’t hang out. Even though he has a pile of work the size of the Eiffel Tower, he says yes, because all of a sudden, he’s incapable of saying no to women he’s only spent five hours with.

He suspects that it’s not women in general, as much as it’s Lizzie Bennet that he is unable to say no to.

After that, it becomes a thing. Whenever one of them has a bad day, they call up the other. They cook and argue and watch dumb movies they find on Netflix (most of them with one-star ratings). They spend their free time together and Will will admit that spending time with her is always the highlight of his day.

Then all of a sudden, there’s a shift. Lizzie invites Darcy to a wedding as a date. Well, it’s kind of a date. They never call it a date, but that’s what it feels like. Lizzie makes a joke of it. She says that she needs him around at horrible events like these because he’s the only one that will make very loud, snarky comments with her. He goes along with it because she’s right. They’re both much too judgmental for their own good and it feels weirdly appropriate to do this with each other. So then that becomes a thing to; inviting each other to painful social events to stay entertained.

It never develops into something explicitly. They’re not acquaintances or friends. They’re just Lizzie and Darcy. Like Batman and Robin. Or Scully and Mulder if things between them hadn’t gotten so sexual.

He still thinks they should have stayed platonic, but he’s also a sap for a good love story. His feelings for ‘The X Files’ are pretty inconsistent.

(His feelings for Lizzie are pretty inconsistent too…)

He also quickly finds out that he was one hundred percent right when he observed that Lizzie was good at convincing people to make bad decisions.

He loses track of the number of mistakes he makes during the course of their strange thing, from the time when she dares him to make a sexual innuendo out of every sentence he says at a rather boring dinner party with Charlie’s sisters, to the time when she gets him well and truly smashed while on a lunch date at a fancy restaurant with his cousin, his cousin’s fiancé and his surly aunt. All his worst ideas seem to be planted into his mind by her.

Like that inception shit! She was the inceptor!

… He really shouldn’t reference movies he hasn’t seen.

And the bad decisions only intensify in number and degree when they start sleeping together. Will honestly isn’t sure how it starts.

Except he kind of (completely) knows how it starts and it’s kind of (completely) his fault.

They’re watching Die Hard on the day before Christmas Eve, when he starts complaining about the unrealistic qualities of the movie. Lizzie cuts him off with a rant about ‘movie superiority complex’ and how he should try shutting his brain off for two hours to enjoy at least one part of his fucking miserable life.

Okay, so he’ll come clean. Sometimes he complains about things just to get her to argue with him. He likes watching her as her voice takes on that passionate tone, her posture straightens, and her cheeks flush a little because she gets so worked up. But the best part is at the end, when she smirks at him because she thinks she’s won.

When she looks that sexy he’s pretty sure that he’s the only one winning.

She keeps going, oblivious to the fact that he isn’t really listening to her, but instead intently staring at her lips as she continues to spit rapid fire word vomit at him at a hundred miles per hour.

And then he does the thing. The stupid thing that is definitely going to get him in trouble somehow. The stupid thing that he’s spent such a long time convincing himself not to do. The stupid thing that will most likely destroy him and the small amount of willpower that he still possesses regarding Elizabeth Bennet.

He leans in and kisses her. Catches her completely unaware as he cuts off what he’s sure was a winning speech on the positive qualities of Die Hard.

It’s probably the worst decision he’s ever made, and Lizzie didn’t even make him do it.

But when she responds eagerly to his lips on hers and pulls him down with her when she falls back onto the couch, allowing him to settle himself between her legs and explore every curve and groove of her body, he can no longer remember why this is such a horrible idea when it feels so fucking good.

He pushes her shirt up, letting his mouth move lazily across the skin of her stomach and grins against her skin when she gasps unceremoniously as he gets closer and closer to the edge of her underwear.

Yup, this definitely means trouble.

That leads to a whole new category of inappropriate things she can convince him to do at the most inappropriate times.

And honestly, who is he to refuse her when she pushes him into the closet at Charlie’s house – or anywhere else she pleases– and kisses him until his head is spinning, before proceeding to do some other very inappropriate things to him and then slipping back out, acting as though nothing happened.

A year and six months after Jane and Charlie start dating, he asks her to marry him and she enthusiastically agrees, to Lizzie’s absolute horror. From what Darcy understands of the situation – which is very little – Lizzie now has to plan Jane’s wedding. He’s fairly certain that it has something to do with a bet or a deal they made when they were younger, but he honestly hasn’t the energy to comprehend such things.

He doesn’t have a clue why Lizzie would ever make any kind of deal involving weddings. She hated them with a passion.

After rigorous planning on Lizzie’s part, the big day finally arrives.

Darcy doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lizzie more stressed than in the hours leading up to the wedding. She’s practically pulling her hair out as she phones everyone in the city, confirming arrangements with everyone from the florist to the magician that’s coming in to entertain the children at the reception. He doesn’t really know what he should do, so he does what he does whenever he doubts his course of action. Nothing. He figures that it’s best to stay out of Lizzie’s way until she comes to find him.

And she does just that around an hour before the ceremony. He’s (reluctantly) making polite conversation with Caroline Bingley when she comes up to them, pulling him away with some unconvincing excuse of having to verify the meal plans that he’s sure she’s personally verified more than enough. Then, once they’re out of everyone’s sight, she pushes him into an empty room.

As soon as they’re in the room, she slots her lips to his and kisses him intensely, barely giving him any time to respond. He finally wraps his arms around her waist and opens his mouth when she runs her tongue over his bottom lip, deepening the kiss. His hands slide down her body and she grins against his lips when they grab her ass. She breaks the kiss, quickly moving to down to work on his jaw and neck.

“Lizzie?” He says in a strained voice.

“Yeah?” She says as she kisses her way down his body slowly, sucking whenever he moans quietly and slowly undoing the buttons of his dress shirt.

“Remember how we talked about finding appropriate times for this?” He barely makes the words come out as he feels her hot lips travelling down his chest and to the area right above his belt buckle.

“No, I don’t seem to recall,” she smiles up at him, and it takes all his strength not to just give in right then and there. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips are slightly red from when they were on his and her makeup is done to perfection. She looks absolutely stunning.

Goddamn, she is actually going to be the death of him. He is so screwed.

(Pun fully intended.)

“Well, Charlie and Jane’s wedding is definitely an inappropri-” he cuts off with a groan as she undoes his belt buckle and he feels her hot breath just above his briefs.

Instead of going down any farther (like he kind of wants her too) she stands up slowly, pushing him against the wall and bringing their lips as close as possible without touching.

“You were saying?” She whispers, then lets her gaze fall to his lips once again.

He’s the one to close the distance, bringing their lips together in a kiss that wakes up every part of his body and makes her moan into his mouth just a little too loudly.  

He convinces himself that this is her doing, her fault that he does irresponsible things. But he knows that’s wrong. He just can’t help himself.

The wedding is beautiful and all of Lizzie’s hard work as the maid of honour/wedding planner extraordinaire pays off. Her mother cries, her sisters shoot Jane jealous looks and her father lets a tear slip as he gives away his oldest daughter. Even the cold, unfeeling cockroach that is Caroline Bingley seems touched by the ceremony.

She’d probably feel differently if she knew who had organized it.

Everything looks perfect, down to the last flower petal, just how Jane likes things. The only downside is that Darcy can’t stop staring at Lizzie the whole fucking time.

She just looks so goddamn beautiful and she’s not even the one getting married.   

That thought just causes a whole series of completely inappropriate images to flash through his mind, all of them involving Lizzie wearing a wedding dress.  

He’s not sure how this happened. He knows that it all started as a casual fuck. They had been good friends, but not dependent on each other. They had both been opposed to a relationship, so everything had been good to go. Zero feelings involved.

Except, somewhere in between being her friend and her fuck buddy, Will realized what it meant for them to be both at the same time. It meant something more.

And it’s become something more. At least it has for him. Now, he wants to stay the night whenever they sleep together and then make her tea in the morning. He wants to be able to greet her with a hug in public that lasts just a little longer than it should and catch the smiles she sends him that are only for him.

That may be a problem. Elizabeth Bennet is not his type. Well, not in a relationship at least. He’s used to professionals, which sounds weird because a relationship is as personal as it gets, but the girls he usually dates are rigid, uptight and neatly reserved. They serve his public life. He is a corporate lawyer after all. He needs someone he can take to a professional event that won’t try to expose that he’s ticklish or something.

Elizabeth Bennet is a lot of things, but professional is not one of them. He’s not sure he could convince her to be boring for even one evening. He also doesn’t think he would want to. Lizzie is bright, mysterious and funny. The very opposite of boring.

And he honestly doesn’t think he could watch her turn into anything else, even for the sake of his career.

Despite these sane, rational reasons as to why he shouldn’t turn their current relationship into something more, he finds himself wanting to anyways. Sure, he has  fancies outside of his type before, but usually it’s purely physical. A quick shag once or twice and the feeling is gone, and he can move on to his next ‘professional girlfriend’. But he’s already with Lizzie in a purely physical sense and it’s still not enough.

Regarding Lizzie’s feeling for him, her emotions were always a mystery. He doesn’t know if she’s interested in something more, but he does know that he’s not willing to bruise his ego for a girlfriend.      

Or a fiancé. Or a wife…      

HOLD YOUR HORSES, DARCY! THAT’S GOING A LITTLE FAR!   

No, he’s fine with being her fuck buddy who’s in love with her on the side.      

Wait to make it sound pathetic.

His table at the reception is the strangest grouping of people he thinks he’s ever seen. Calling Jane and Charlie’s families incompatible would be an understatement. The Bennet sisters spend the entire time gossiping about high school drama, while Caroline looks downright scandalised to have so many low-level people sitting near her. Mrs. Bennet can’t seem to shut up, going on and on about how proud she is of Jane and how beautiful she looks and how handsome Charlie looks. Charlie’s parents, who have to listen to all of this, look ready to jump off a bridge. Mr. Bennet stays silent for most of the night, but Darcy occasionally catches him shooting smiles at Lizzie, his favourite daughter.

He can’t blame Mr. Bennet for picking favourites because she’s Darcy’s favourite Bennet sister too.

Despite the noise and chaos, he’s happy. Lizzie grips his hand under the table whenever her mom says anything particularly embarrassing and he runs the pad of his thumb over her knuckles in a fashion that he hopes is comforting. She spends the entire dinner whispering stupid jokes in his ear and daring him to do ridiculous things she knows he won’t follow through on. It’s a little exciting, knowing that they’re the only ones that know about them.

You know what would be even more exciting?

If everyone knew.

He spends the entire reception trying to spend some time with Lizzie. He can’t help it, he really just wants to pull her into his arms and drag her out on the dance floor. He hates dancing. He’s good at it because his mum put him through so many dancing classes when he was younger. He used to complain constantly about how it was a useless skill, but his mum would always respond with a secretive smile, claiming that she was sure it would come in handy someday.

And now at the age of twenty-six, he finally understands what she meant. He’s happy that he can bring a girl out on the dance floor and know exactly what he’s doing. He can’t imagine how mortifying it would be if he didn’t know how to dance at all. Unfortunately, this realization is quite useless when Lizzie is literally running around the entire place trying to make everything run smoothly.

He tries to catch her, but each time, without fail, she manages to smirk, say something flirty and then run away. He’s starting to wonder if he did something wrong and she’s doing it on purpose.

In the end he does get his dance though. It’s not until Jane and Charlie have left for their honeymoon.

Charlie and Jane were enchanted by the evening. Their words not his, although if he’s being honest, he’s pretty enchanted by it all too. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to be in Charlie’s position.

Or what it would be like to have Lizzie in Jane’s position.

Man, he really needs to just shoot himself at this point.

Once most of the party has cleared out, he finds himself cleaning up the reception room which is one of the ballrooms of a very nice hotel. He knows he doesn’t have to because the hotel workers who are actually getting paid will do it, but his mum always taught him to clean up after himself and he’s never quite been able to let that go.

He feels someone’s (Lizzie’s) hands encircle his waist and spins around to bring his lips to hers, lifting her up as she kisses him back. He can feel her smile widen against his lips.

This. This feeling is what he wants to feel all the fucking time.

He lowers her to the ground and and looks into her eyes which suddenly brighten.

“I have an idea,” she whispers excitedly.

“You do?” He teases, and she moves away from him and turns around, sticking her tongue out at him over her shoulder.

She moves over to the mixing table and plugs her phone into the aux cord. Her eyes skim over her phones as she looks for a song, then turns around as the first couple chords come out of the speakers and shoots him a dramatic look.

“Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band,” she sings loudly and clearly, closing her eyes and throwing her head back.

He laughs and she opens her eyes and smiles at him. She keeps singing and walking towards him as though she’s serenading him.

He loves it when she’s like this. At times like this, she manages to make him someone he’s not. Someone that doesn’t care what others think. He becomes interesting around her. Every moment with her is an adventure. She’s getting into the role and trying to pull him in too, and heaven knows he can’t refuse her. He starts singing every other line, like they’re having a conversation that was written by Elton John.

They keep singing the lines of the song back and forth as she gets closer and closer to him and when she’s finally close enough, he grabs her waist and pulls her into his chest, singing lowly as the music continues on.

He leads her around the room, using the skills he developed over the ten years he thought had been a waste, and enjoying the feeling of dancing for the first time in his life.

“This is a fantastic song to dance to Liz.”

“Really? It was either this or U Can’t Touch This,” she hums and he laughs softly.

“Must have been a pretty tough competition,” he kisses her collarbone, delighting in the way she reacts to his touch.

“It was, it took me all night to decide.”

“Oh, so that’s why you’ve been putting off this dance with me,” he tries to keep the relief out of his voice, but he’s pretty sure he fails.

“Yup,” she pops the p, “well that and the fact that if I danced with you, Lydia, Kitty and my mum would start planning another wedding before this one could even finish,” she rolls her eyes.

“And that would be bad,” he says it like a statement but he’s pretty sure he means it as a question.

Something flashes across Lizzie’s face. It’s a hint of fear or vulnerability. The same emotion that comes across anyone’s face when they’re questioning a relationship they don’t know how to define.

But then it’s gone and she’s smiling again.

“Trust me, you don’t want my mum or my sisters on our case,” Lizzie sighs and nestles her head against his chest, casting her eyes away from his as they rock back and forth lightly. It effectively shuts off the conversation and as much as he’d like to enjoy the feeling of Lizzie in his arms, he finds himself thinking about the flash in her eyes. That moment in which both of them could have dared to ask the question.

Would it really be so bad if people found out about them?

The song is about to end and for some reason, he knows he’s going to ask. He knows he’s going to ask the question because now it’s floating around between them. He’s not sure if the thing he feels right now is entirely new, so maybe it’s been hovering over them for a while now. The new part is that now they’ve acknowledged it.

As the last note fades out, Darcy squeezes her hip lightly so she’ll look up at him, “Lizzie, I think we should-” his voice catches in his throat because she’s staring at his lips. Her hands, which were previously hanging lightly around his neck, are now moving down his back, sending shivers down his spine.

She smirks, “You were saying?”

“I think we should-” he cuts off with a groan when she shifts one of her legs in between his and kisses her way up his jaw, nipping and licking whenever she feels like it.

“Lizzie,” he warns. He knows that it’ll just make her want to tease him more. She likes him like this, fighting hard to win against her, but not being able to.

He decides to take a different route, “I have to clean,” he’s a little embarrassed at how breathless he sounds.

She scoffs at his lame excuse, “How about you do that right after you take me up to your hotel room?”

He groans dramatically letting his head fall down on to her shoulder.

“Oh no, I’m Will Darcy and a sexy, intelligent, stable woman wants to have sex with me! What a tragedy!” Lizzie imitates, her voice going an octave lower in a hilarious attempt to sound more like him.

“Sexy and intelligent I can agree with,” he whispers into her ear, “but stable? Have you met yourself Lizzie?”

“Many times, and I can confirm that I am an absolute delight-” he cuts her off with a kiss which she quickly returns, taking it deeper before he can even realize that he initiated it.

“So your room?” She giggles between kisses.

“Yeah, okay.”

Goddamnit Darcy, when did you become such a pansy?

They keep it together in the lobby and down the halls of the first floor before finally breaking in the elevator when she melts into him and kisses him squarely on the mouth, swiping her tongue against his bottom lip. He grabs her arse so he can lift her up and press her against the wall of the small compartment.

He’s too busy snogging her senseless and feeling every inch of exposed skin he can to hear the elevator ding way earlier than it should. Or the elevator doors sliding open as him and Lizzie continue to make out, completely unaware of anyone watching.

He becomes very aware the second he hears a high pitched shriek. Lizzie pushes him away, looking absolutely mortified as she stares out the elevator doors. Darcy reluctantly turns around, only to be met by the incredulous looks of two identical sixteen year old girls.

Yes, Lydia and Kitty had caught them making out. And for the record, it was all Lizzie’s fault. If she hadn’t kissed him in the elevator, then none of this would have happened. He should’ve known that her mischievous ways would get them caught sooner than later

“I don’t know what you two think you just saw,” Lizzie starts, walking out of the elevator towards them, her eyes absolutely menacing, “but it was nothing. Got it?”

Ouch…

(Yes, he knows that she doesn’t mean that and just wants to get rid of them, but still… ouch.)

Darcy settles for standing in the door of the elevator to keep it open. He really doesn’t want to get involved.

One of them sniggers – he thinks it’s Kitty – and says, “That didn’t look like nothing. I’m proud of you Lizzie. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you had it in you.”.

Lizzie just stares at her, astonished. Will is sure that Lizzie’s about to tear them both down, but before she can say anything, Lydia steps in, “I believed in you Liz. Which reminds me,” she turns on Kitty, “you owe me a fifty.”

Kitty sighs while Lydia continues to grin wolfishly, apparently extremely proud of herself.

“I take it back, I’m not proud of you. I thought you had self control. Dignity. You were the sister that wasn’t supposed to throw herself at every hot guy that walked by,” Kitty shakes her head, but then she turns her head to Darcy and looks him up and down, “but I guess he isn’t just any hot guy,” she smirks at Lizzie.

“Did I just get checked out by a fucking sixteen year old?” It just slips out and Darcy realizes that he literally has no more control over any of his actions.

“Eighteen,” Kitty and Lydia snap at the same time.

“What a huge difference,” Lizzie says sarcastically, rolling her eyes at them.

“It is actually,” Lydia says matter-of-factly.

“We’re legal now,” Kitty throws in.

“Oh my god, that’s disgusting,” Lizzie groans.

Darcy can’t help it, he lets out a laugh. All three Bennet sisters turn to him.

“Do you find my pain funny?” Lizzie asks.

“No,” he says cautiously, “but you have to admit this is all pretty funny.” She doesn’t look amused so he keeps going, “I mean, we’re caught snogging by your sisters. Turns out they’ve been betting on us all along and, to top it all off, they start hitting on me. I mean, it’s kind of bloody hilarious.”

And then both Kitty and Lydia let out a laugh and suddenly he’s laughing along with them and now Lizzie’s the only one that looks put out by the situation. He lets go of the elevator door and walks over to her, taking her hand in his and pulling her towards him.

“Hey, it’ll be okay. Let’s just get rid of them and then we’ll talk,” he says to her. She sighs, but then nods her head reluctantly.

“Okay whatever,” she turns to her sisters, “I’ll cut you a deal. You keep your mouths shut about what you saw, and in exchange, I’ll pretend that I didn’t see you guys sneaking out of your room to get drunk and flirt with guys at the hotel bar,” Lizzie says casually.

Lydia and Kitty scowl at her, but then nod their heads.

“Okay deal,” both Lydia and Kitty stick their hands out and Lizzie shakes them. It all feels much too formal and drug deal-esque for a family agreement, but Will can’t really judge considering his own family.

Lizzie and Darcy stick around while Lydia and Kitty wait for the elevator. The doors are about to close when Lydia says, “A piece of advice, you guys should just go public already. Everyone’s waiting for it. Also, I have a lot of bets on you guys so the sooner it happens, the sooner I get my money,” and that’s when the doors close and all that’s left behind is Lizzie, Darcy and tension.

His three favourite things.

Neither of them know what to say. He feels her pain. He can’t even imagine the mortification and endless teasing that would be warranted if his sister had caught them, and he actually liked Georgie.

“So… your sisters know,” he says carefully.

“They’re not my sisters. They’re little devils,” she says bitterly and he laughs lightly.

“Hey,” he says, putting his finger under her chin and lifting her head up so he can meet her eyes, “We can just explain that we’re not serious. Or we can go back to being friends. Crisis averted.”

He hopes that he doesn’t sound as pathetic as he feels because he really does not want to go back to being friends. On the other hand, if that’s the only way he can be with Lizzie, he’s okay with that.

“Okay… so let’s call that plan B,” she says slowly, taking a deep breath, “but I think that plan A should be telling people about… us.”

“Us?” He asks blankly.

“Yeah,” she continues nervously, “and maybe instead of pretending that this is some casual thing, we could actually go on a date and be a real thing.”

“A real thing?”

“Yeah,” she smirks, “and maybe you could actually say something to reassure me. I’m really going out on a limb here Will.”

And in response to that, he just kisses her. He’s never been very good with his words, but he’s really good at other things. Lizzie slides her hands into his hair, playing with it and pulling him even closer as she lets his tongue search her mouth.

She pulls away and catches her breath, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

In response, he just pulls her in for another kiss.

So yeah, maybe Will makes bad decisions when he’s with Lizzie. But at least they’re making them together.

#pride and prejudice #pride and prejudice fanfiction #lizzie bennet #will darcy #william darcy #elizabeth bennet

[myassbrokethefall]

Since you're kinda jumping back into fic writing (THANK GOD WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE PLEASE NEVER STOP WRITING), I'll take 26 for the XF asks. Feel free to be as descriptive and detailed as possible, please and thank you. 😚

26. List some season 7 MSR headcanons

(Um, first of all, thank you, omg. *BLUSHES FURIOUSLY*)

Hmmmm, season 7, eh? 

You know, I gotta say something first, which is: Sometimes in the past when I’ve been asked about headcanons I feel kind of impatient about it, not with the person asking, but because sometimes the writing for me has been SO BAD that it just breaks down my ability to regard it as a real universe and think about what “happened” to Mulder and Scully and like, how to justify certain things (that are stupid). It feels like playing pretend with a toddler or something and saying “I’m sure when you flushed your toy horsie down the toilet it went in the river and floated to the North Pole to live with Santa Claus!” People will be like, what’s your headcanon about Mulder’s brain disease and I’m like, my headcanon is that Chris Carter is a dumbass who doesn’t know how to plan and nothing he writes makes any sense and I resent being the one who has to do the work of making sense of it. 

It’s interesting to me that at the moment, getting this ask, I’m NOT feeling like that. I think it’s Season 11, and it being…you know…good. (*cough* mostly) And Mulder and Scully feeling real to me again. I thought for a while it was because I just knew too much about how the sausage was made, and the actors and the writers and whatever else. And yet, two good episodes into this season, I am feeling it. Like they’re people and not just a bundle of lines and costumes that David and Gillian are good-sporting their way through. I mean, I know that’s still what it is, and is ALWAYS what it is…but the fairy magic that makes it come alive is finally working again, for the first time in a while for me. 

So, I don’t know if that’s it or not. But there was a long time where I didn’t feel much like writing stories about them, and now I kinda do again. So that’s cool. For me. :) 

OK, S7 headcanons. 

Basically the mood of S7 for me is A Good Place. (Not to be confused with *The* Good Place.) As in, M&S are in one. They had a lot of trials (uhh obviously) – Scully’s abduction, Scully’s cancer, Emily, losing the X-files, getting the X-files back, the Mulder’s brain trouble (the canon, onscreen brain trouble from B/6E/AF, not the later retconned fake brain trouble) + Fowley double whammy. In S7 they seem…happy, and lighter. Because (here comes the headcanon part) they’re falling in love. 

And REALISTICALLY, they’ve been in love since like, the third episode. But they’ve been shy about it. And now suddenly their fears and misgivings about it have basically just…evaporated. I don’t subscribe to the “season of secret sex” theory, but I do feel that by S7 it was pretty much a done deal. They knew they were going to be together. They knew the other one knew they were going to be together. They were just kinda waiting for the moment that it was gonna happen. And they spent all day every day together anyway, so like, what was the rush really? 

So my feeling about S7 is that they are totally in love, pretty sure that they both love each other and twitterpatedly happy about that, still A LITTLE BIT shy about the idea of actually making a move or doing something about it, but really not that concerned about the idea that it’s gonna happen eventually, so just enjoying making dopey happy eyes at each other and fending off interested housewives asking questions about their relationship status with secret smiles and “you know, TECHNICALLY not, but” and dreamily telling unrelated children that they like baseball too. 

Mulder finally pulls the trigger in Millennium, and then things start moving, but I adhere to the traditional view that it’s Scully in all things, after being confronted unexpectedly with a reminder of how her life might have been and being able to really look back on the last several years of it and who’s in it and let go of those last misgivings about her choices, who makes the decision to tiptoe into his bedroom (possibly while crunk on sex tea) and put that shit to rest, bro. *pours one out for Carla*

And the rest is history. For like, three more episodes. Then she gets knocked up and Mulder gets abducted. But that’s the next season. 

#season 7 #i don't like thinking about the ivf stuff because of the retconning #and it didn't amount to anything anyway so who cares? #but that could overlay all of this as well #maybe in one universe it happened and in one universe it didn't #*muldery eyebrow waggle* #kateyes224

[contrivedcoincidences6]

The Invisible Cord Ch. 7

You can find chapter 6 right here

November 2011 The Green Creek Motel Right outside of Washington D.C.

As I wait in the parking lot a sudden fear comes over me. I remember my abduction and begin to panic a bit. All the email said was that they had information on my children and gave me an address. It’s been an hour that I’ve been sitting here waiting and with every passing minute I grow tenser. After an eternity a car followed closely by an SUV enter the parking lot. I feel for my gun. Not long after my abduction I bought it and have kept it near ever since. A man exits the car and looks right at me and nods. I carefully get out of my car, holding my gun in my coat pocket. He looks in the window of the car and gives another nod. A door opens and a girl and boy get out. They look at me for some time. I know who they are on instinct. They are my babies. The ones who were stolen from me, thought to be dead. Here they are standing in front of me. It feels like I’m moving through molasses as I cross to them. They stand side by side and look at me. My daughter looks me right in the eyes with curiosity. In the girl's face I see myself as a teenager, her bright, wide, almond shaped eyes and narrow face take me back to a more innocent time. My boy’s eyes dart around and he shuffles his feet. He is the spitting image of his father and it breaks my heart for a moment. He has the thick eyebrows and high cheekbones that an eighteen year old me fell in love with. The one thing of mine he does have are my eyes. When they finally meet mine they are serious but tender. We just stand there looking at each other for the longest time. Finally I reach out and put a hand on each of their cheeks. I barely make contact before my girl throws herself into my arms and buries her face in my neck. I cradle the back of her head and cup my son’s cheek. The moment I do I’m overtaken my emotions of all kinds. Fear, sadness, joy, confusion, anxiety, almost anything you can name. Finally it all zeros in on love and he joins his sister in the hug. For the first time in sixteen years my life feels full.

We move into a suite room at the motel that made me wonder how big the regular rooms were. Eight people in the room made it a bit crowded but most of the group didn’t care or even seem to notice. I can’t stop looking at Emily- April. Since we saw her both Scully and I have been unable to stop from touching her. As soon as we are out of the car my hand is on her back and her hand was still held tightly in Scully’s own. It was as if she was tethering us to this world. Deep down I worried that if I let her out of my sight she’d be gone again. We stood in the packed room I have on hand on April’s shoulder and the other on Scully’s. April’s hair is redder than her mother’s, closer to what Scully’s hair had been like at the beginning of our partnerships, and she is taller than her too. My thoughts begin to wander down a sad path as I picture her as a little girl with a toothless smile. All the time we missed makes me angry and sad at the same time. The clones walk to the center of the room to face us. It still stings to see the clone of Samantha. I make eye contact with her and she quickly looks away. “There are currently dangerous people looking for you.” He gestures to the three teens, “We knew this would happen of course but now that you are all together you need to understand that you can’t go back to your normal lives. I can promise you that they are watching your homes right now and are just waiting for the opportunity to strike. They wouldn’t hurt the children but I can promise they would not hesitate to kill you.” He makes eye contact with each of the adults. I notice the boy, whose name I’ve learned is Brian, reach out and take April’s free hand. She intertwines her fingers with his and Scully and I share a look. “Who are these people?” May and Brian’s mother speaks up we have yet to be introduced but I can tell she’s been in as much pain as we have over the years. “A different group than the ones that originally took your children. Led by a woman named Diana Fowley.” My mouth falls open and Scully gasps, “It can’t be. She’s dead.” Kurt shook his head, “Her death was faked. For some time she was running but near the end of Spender’s life she came back and took over. It turns out the old man has always had a back up plan. Years ago he’d made clones of all of the members of the syndicate and of the men who worked for them. So Fowley took over these operations. At this time she has some of the clones out looking for you.” “Clones of who?” Scully asks with narrowed eyes. “CGB Spender, Krycek, Jeffery Spender, the entire syndicate. Along with some lesser hit men.” I meet Scully’s eyes and see the fear. She pulls April closer to her. “So what are we supposed to do now?” I ask somewhat irritated that we’d never been let in on this plan. “There are safe houses. We will move all of you to one of those and you will probably have to be moved a few times before you can settle down again.” “Will we be separated?” May asks in a small voice. Kurt and Samantha look at each other for a moment and there is silence that is broken by April. “We are not going anywhere without each other! You won’t separate us!” She said in a tone that left no room for argument. Both Brian and May nodded in agreement. “It will be more dangerous with all of you together.” “Doesn’t matter. We won’t be separated.” May said evenly. Kurt sighed and looked to his companion again, “I suppose we can make it work. But understand there is a higher chance of being caught.” I feel Scully stiffen and I squeeze her shoulder. We don’t know what their lives have been like. It pains me to think that they would have to be separated. We may be their parents but the truth of the matter is that for most of their lives they haven’t known us. This time Brian speaks and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard his voice, “We need to be together.” Both Kurt and Samantha nod. “Alright then. We have new cars out back. We need to move now.”

November 2011 Somewhere in New Jersey

My parents and May and Brian’s mom, who we learned was named Violet Bennett, took turns driving the SUV that held all of us. We follow behind Kurt and Samantha. I don’t pay much attention to where we were going but I know we are headed north. My father drives mostly as both mothers seem reluctant to leave our sides. He takes it in stride and seems to want to drive anyway. When he does move back with us he moves to the very back to sit next to me. I can’t hold back the barrage of questions, ones similar to the questions I had been asking my mother. He smiles and responds to all of them happily. When I noticed his how heavy his eyelids are getting I shut up to let him sleep. I begin to feel sleepy not long after and start to wad up my jacket to use as a pillow until a long forgotten memory comes to me of him holding me as a little girl. I remember feeling so sick but safe when he carried me to the car and again into the hospital. I look over at him and note the differences in his face. In my memories he is so young, almost boyish, now his face is lined and he looks tired. On instinct I rest my head on his shoulder. He shifts and puts his arm around me and I think of all the times in my life I tried to picture my father. He’s different than I imagined but so much better. As he seems to be falling back asleep I feel a soft kiss on my head and quickly fall asleep as well.

November 2011 Location unknown

I clench my fists in barely restrained anger as the clone of Jeffrey Spender tells me over the phone that he can’t find Mulder and Scully. “How?” I say through clenched teeth, “How could you possibly lose them?” “I don’t know. Scully left in the morning like she usually does. Around lunchtime Mulder took a taxi to take lunch with her. I followed them to the hospital. Mulder came out an hour later and went to the library. I waited outside there for hours and he never came out. Finally I called the hospital and asked for Scully and they said she had left for the day. When I went in he was gone. They must have known they were being followed. They didn’t leave any kind of trail.” He says flatly. I pinch the bridge of my nose, “There has to be leads of some kind. Get one of our people in the police department to track their cars..” “If they haven’t changed cars.” “Just do it!” I yelled into the phone and look up at the clone of a once great man. His jowls jiggle as he talks. His voice is arrogant as ever even as he stands before me, his superior. “Ma’am we have found information on who helped the children who escaped. We believe they are responsible for contacting Mulder and Scully also.” I looked at him waiting for more, “Well are you going to keep me waiting?” He held out a folder, which I opened to see a picture of the clones of Kurt Crawford and Samantha Mulder talking to the three teens. “Goddammit! How the hell did this happen? I thought all of these things were dead!” “We did too ma’am. I am not sure how any survived we are working on that as well. Would you like us to use some of our people in the FIB to get their pictures out there?” I nodded and flicked my hand to show him he’s dismissed while I stared at the picture wondering how it was possible. There was documentation of the clones being destroyed. Their production was watched over carefully and their numbers were always well documented. When they eradicated the clones, or when they tried to, the numbers matched up. The other clone members of the syndicate were sitting around the room waiting for orders. Their silence was eerie but I’d grown used to it. I slammed my hand on the desk in frustration and they all turned to look at me. “Will you idiots go make yourselves fucking useful?!” I growled at them, “Go through the old files and videos. Call our people on the inside. Do some actual intel! Just do something besides sit here uselessly!” They scattered like roaches while I massaged my forehead. There were so many unanswered questions. Besides the fact that the clones shouldn’t exist there also is the question of why they thought they could run. The way they have tied the three teens down for years has been through the monthly injections. They must have found a way around it and I know that I need to find out how. If I find out how the Kurt and Samantha clones got their hands on the formula I’ll hopefully be able to work backwards to find out who is on the inside. Eventually we would find them. With a plan like that there had to be a network of others working with them and all it takes is one weak link to break the chain.

#the invisible cord #txf fanfic #x files fanfic #msr #emily sim

[leiascully]

Fic:  An heni a vez e grass ar merc’hed 4/?

Taking a leap here.  WWII AU, PG-13, wartime trauma and injuries, mentions of Nazis.  French puns.  Names changed to reflect the time and place.  The Syndicate are Nazi-adjacent but working for a different new world order. Title is from a Breton proverb, but I just used the part that means “he who has the grace of women”.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

He got up the next morning and hobbled to the kitchen, where Marguerite fed him porridge.  "We nearly always have a few guests," she told him, "and the villagers like to come for lunch.  There is always work to do."  

He had been dimly aware that there were others in the inn, aside from the Scullys, who seemed to live in a small house built onto the main building behind the kitchen.  Monique lived in the inn, as far as he could tell; he heard her sometimes in the middle of the night, settling arguments or quieting concerns.  They were all busy from dawn to dusk and beyond.  He had not lightened that load, with his many needs and his helplessness.  

"I will help as much as I can," he said, and she nodded approvingly.  Maelice brought him potatoes and carrots to peel.  He stretched out his leg under the table and made a game of it, trying to get the longest curls of peel.  Émilie had come into the kitchen and she watched him solemnly.  Her hair was braided around her head.  He wondered if Dana had done it, with the same hands that had cut into his leg, or whether Marguerite or Maelice or Monique had sat the child down and brushed her hair smooth.  He had done the same with Sanne, years ago, before she'd learned to do it herself.  He still remembered the twists and turns of it, his fingers clumsy at first and then nimble as his mother patted his shoulder stiffly and thanked him a rusty voice, drifting through the room on her way to somewhere else, leaving the scent of smoke behind her.

He was tenant in a house full of women who had little use for him; he was grateful that they let him do some work, as much as he was fit for anymore.  He had a sense that Émilie knew it too, how little value he brought with him.  But he had grown up caring for Sanne, and he knew a thing or two about entertaining children.  He carved a face into one of the potatoes and handed it to her.  She looked at him and giggled and scampered into the other room to play.  

Maelice, crushing garlic with a knife, smiled at him.  "She'll adore you now."

"I have a sister," he said, and wondered if he ought to use the past tense, and then hated himself for the thought.  "We had to entertain ourselves."

"You've done well," she said.  "We don't have much time to play these days.  It's nice for her to have something of her own."

They worked in comfortable silence.  Mulder diced the potatoes and sliced the carrots.  Maelice gathered them all and rinsed them while the garlic sizzled in the pot with onions and a bit of lard.  When she tipped the vegetables in, they sizzled and sent up steam that made tendrils of hair curl around her forehead.  She brushed them back.

"Now what?" he asked.

She smiled.  "Now we wait.  It's the most important part of cooking."

She poured out glasses of cider for each of them.  He tasted it tentatively.  It wasn't as strong or as sweet as the chouchen.  It fizzed on his tongue, the flavor of autumn orchards and wet leaves.  He swallowed it and Maelice smiled again.  

"The cider of Bretagne is famous," she said.  "Another thing we fear to lose if your compatriots gain control of our land."

"They're not my compatriots," he told her.  

"Your uniform said otherwise," Maelice said.  "Or else I imagine the price of impersonating a German officer is death?"

"I am an officer," he said, "but I'm not German, and I'm certainly not a Nazi."

"Oh?" Maelice said, the lift of her eyebrow offering an opportunity to explain, but just then Dana walked into the kitchen.

"And which one of you created Monsieur Patatez?" she asked.  "Émilie will coddle it until it's a shriveled husk,  I swear."

Maelice pointed at Mulder, who held up his hands in surrender.  

Dana crooked her eyebrow up in unknowing imitation of her sister.  "I should have suspected."  She sat down next to him.  "Newly healed and already creating chaos among us."

Maelice laughed.  "We won't be divided by any man," she said.  

"No," Dana agreed.  "We won't."  She looked at Mulder, who pushed the potato peels into a heap.  "It might be best if you keep to the kitchen for a while.  The old men yesterday were asking questions."

"They are true Bretons," Maelice murmured, something unidentifiable in her voice.

"Hush," Dana said, but it didn't sound as if she disagreed.  "I told them you were a cousin of Monique's, sent here to recover from your wounds, but they won't accept that forever.  Better if it looks like we're putting you to work."

"A cousin of mine?" Monique asked, coming in from the yard with a bucket of milk in each hand.  "Well, at least we've both got dark hair."  She set the buckets on the counter.  "That's the cow's," she said, touching the right hand bucket.  "And that's the goats'."  

Dana dusted her hands on her skirt and stood up, offering Mulder a hand.  "Come on.  I'll teach you how to make chèvre."  

He followed her to the stove, where she taught him how to pour the goat milk into the pot and heat it not quite to the boil, how to add lemon, how to chop and add the herbs.  The steam curled the wisps of her hair just like Maelice's.  He looked at her through the slightly sour clouds of vapor and something inside him softened.  Her lips curled up at the edges, just slightly, and he softened again.  There was a family here, and he was in some way a part of it, however they held him at arm's length.  He understood.  He deserved to be no closer.  He was grateful for any in they gave him.  He hefted the pot and helped her strain the cheese through cloth.  Together they were making something better, even if it was just cheese out of milk.  

 The hot curds cooled in their hammock of cheesecloth.  Dana twisted the cloth until the whey ran out.  She added salt, herbs, and a little garlic, and then rewrapped it and set it between two stone cutting boards with a heavy pan on top to squeeze out the rest of the whey.  

"There," she said.  "That will be lovely on toast later."

It was such a peace-time thing to say.  He could only look at her for a moment, her face flushed and lovely from the steam.  The curve of her smile turned wry.  

"Even I can't fight every moment, Capitaine Reynard," she said.  "Thank you for the potato.  Émilie likes it very much."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maelice smile and Monique shake her head fondly.  

"You're welcome," he said.

They had goat cheese on toast with the stew for dinner, all of them sitting together at one of the tables in the kitchen.  It was, indeed, delicious.  Émilie held tightly to Monsieur Patatez with one hand as she pushed cheese into her mouth with the other.

"Say thank you for the potato, Émilie," Dana said, that same wry tone in her voice.

"Trugarez," Émilie said through a mouthful of toast, and then hopped down and ran off on her own mysterious errands.  

"You'll learn Breton trying to talk to her," Monique said.  

"As you should," Maelice said.  "Breton is a beautiful language, full of mysticism."

"Breton is a beautiful language which no one will use in a few decades," Dana said.

"I have an optimist and a skeptic," Marguerite said fondly to Mulder, "and an adopted daughter somewhere between."  She patted Monique's hand.  Monique squeezed Marguerite's hand.

"And what language will you share with us?" Monique asked.  "Your native language is certainly not French."

Mulder shook his head.  "It certainly isn't.  I can teach you Dutch in return for Breton."

"Dutch?"  Monique's gaze sharpened.

Dana got up from the table.  "Unravel his mysteries later, Monique," she said.  "It's getting late."

"Oh, I will," Monique said, and winked.  Marguerite laughed.  Dana rolled her eyes. 

He slept peacefully that night, and rose early.  Cooking and cleaning were worthier employments than war, even such work on the outskirts of war as he had been doing.

He worked in the kitchen every day, stirring stews, mixing batter for galettes, chopping and peeling whatever needed to be chopped and peeled.  He paced around the kitchen, back and forth.  His leg still ached, but he could feel himself getting stronger.  Dana watched him walk and pronounced him firmly in recovery.

"I'm afraid you'll always need the cane," she said.  "But keep up the walking and you will get stronger."

"I will," he said.  

"It shouldn't matter if you're seen now," she told him.  "The villagers found it easy enough to accept that Monique would have a cousin come here.  They are skeptical of the city, you see."

"What did you mean when you said the men in the dining room were true Bretons?" he asked.  

"Surely you know about the Breton nationalists," Dana said.

He shrugged.  "However ironic it may seem, I'm not very well-informed when it comes to politics.  Monique said a little, and you mentioned something the other day, but I imagined they were collaborators.  That doesn't seem exactly right."

She sighed.  "There are those who support an independent Bretagne, free from French rule.  They are willing to go so far as to collaborate, even independently of Vichy if they must, because they believe that the Germans will aid them if they support the Reich.  You are correct to say that they are not exactly collaborators.  They have their own ends, beyond just saving their skins.  They imagine a Bretagne free of French influence, whatever that might look like.  They have taken the triskèle as their symbol, and they have let the Germans dictate to them."  

"But the Germans have attacked Bretagne, haven't they?" he asked.

Her gaze made it clear she thought he wasn't much of a soldier, and privately, he agreed.  "There was the bombardment of Rennes in 1940.  There have been others.  That might have changed minds.  However, the Allies have not done much to hold onto this place, either with military or philosophical might."

He nodded.  "And you?  You aren't Breton?"

She lifted one shoulder.  "We are Breton, certainly.  This very inn used to bear the triskèle.  We value our heritage.  But we are French.  Les Gaulois were not limited to this peninsula.  We may be closer here to our Celtic roots and the holy places of our ancestors than the Provençals or the Bourguignons, but we don't believe that the price the Breton nationalists are willing to pay will buy the future they dream of, or redeem the past they have imagined."

"I see," he said.

"My family is passionate about the military," she said.  "I grew up understanding the importance of loyalty.  We sing La Marseillaise, we celebrate le Jour de la Bastille."  She moved to the stove to stir the stew.  "Every region has its own history.  To imagine that we are the only exceptional ones does a disservice to the rest of our countrymen.  If my father and my brothers can't trust the men beside them because they're from Aquitaine or Pas-de-Calais, what's the use?"

He thought of his father and his father's colleagues, a strange and shadowy collection of men from different origins, with their strange and shadowy goals, united by something other than homeland or patriotism.

"I understand," he said.

"We are beset from all sides," she said, and oddly, smiled.  

"You're happy about this?" he asked.

"My father would say that when we stand in opposition to those who would overpower us, we discover who we are," she said.  "Our strength hasn't failed us yet."

"If all the French are as strong as you, I have no doubt you will free yourselves from the Reich," he said.

"Shall we turn you out?" she teased.  

"Mercy," he pretended to beg, as if the pang in his heart weren't real.  

"Maelice and my mother have soft hearts," she told him.  "And Émilie would scream if I told her I was sending away the artist of Monsieur Patatez."  

"So I'm safe for now," he said.

"For now," she agreed.  "As long as there are potatoes."

"I'll make sure your garden thrives," he promised.

"It will be a long summer," she said.  "Your talents might be better suited to other pursuits."

"If I can't kneel to weed the garden, perhaps I can muck out the stables," he offered.  "That still serves to ensure there will be potatoes."

"Ah yes," she said.  "Assuredly you know all there is to know about manure."

"Yes," he said solemnly.  "I've spent my life up to my knees in it."

She laughed, and the bright merriment of the sound startled him.  "We shall all be grateful for your expertise, Monsieur Capitaine," she said.

"I live to serve," he promised.

#squaddigest #msr #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #wwii au #my fic #grass ar merc'hed