#just like...that one semblance of mulder that she still has in her life and that she holds onto- in this baby

[carefulfears]

top 5 (or 10 if you have em) scully taking care of mulder moments <3

she said IF i have 10 😭😭😭

1/ sein und zeit

i fear i have talked about this television scene more times than anyone has ever talked about a television scene....like. one, two, three, four, i was even foolishly invited onto a podcast to talk about it more...

my tags here:

she gets down on the Ground. there's something so primal about it. there's such a lack of pretense and sense of desperation about it. the way he hits the table. we so Rarely see him lash out like that. but it's just too much to Bear. like everything in him is just Breaking the only thing that he's even remotely been able to hold onto amidst all of the unbearable loss and trauma in his life has failed. he's fumbling around for anything that might make it better. that audries fic describing him in this moment as an 'addict out of a fix' with 'newborn anger.' “this is the world? this is it?” it's the way that he spends this whole ep cooking up some elaborate mythology about missing children and how they can be found and then the last shot of the episode is that wide shot of all of the children's graves. sometimes he's just wrong. the world is so much fucking darker and uglier sometimes than the way he sees it. and that's what is crashing down around him in this moment. and she's sitting in the wreckage holding him tight.

this is such brave, brave love. i keep thinking about CSM in the following episode, standing in scully's apartment, warning her. "allow him his ignorance, it's what gives him hope."

she doesn't know what will happen to him, to her, to them, when she breaks down the only method of coping that he has. his mother lost her bedrock too, and she didn't survive. from the moment scully enters, you can watch it break her. she does it anyway. she gets down on the ground, and she cries, and she holds him. god, it all just would've been so different, if there'd been just 1 person, 27 years ago.

(thinking about mulder reaching up to hold scully when missy died, and these tags asking: did anyone hold him, when it was his sister?)

i love the show's message on grief (and trauma), in that this is all that is necessary for "closure." there is no "Truth," (and there really isn't any closure, there's no "beyond" the sea). but it matters that someone knows. it matters that someone bears witness. it matters that someone tells you the truth, even when it fucking breaks their heart. sits in the destruction with you.

the exhaustion in her voice the next morning, when she tells skinner, "it's been a hard night for him." she's still wearing her work clothes from the day before. she was up all night. she's tired, and she's scared, and she's sad. it's been a hard 7 years. it's been a hard 27 years.

it makes me tear up every time i see it, the way she blocks him in the doorway. she's not moving. this is just so scully. it's not even starbuck, it's just so scully. she would keep him in that apartment where she could cover him and control what touches him forever, if she could. (she can't, so you're not taking him anywhere without her. the way she looks her boss in the eye and tells him he better book her a flight too. brave love.)

2/ demons

god, this one just makes me sad. this might be the one that makes me saddest. she's dying. she doesn't have it in her, anymore. i talked about this in my newsletter (and i wrote a fic about it once) but this is like...the only time where she never calls him out on what he's doing. she never yells. she never rolls her eyes. she never gets frustrated with him. she doesn't have it in her. she's dying. he will be alone. she won't be here the next time. what can she even do about it?

i always think about this post:

and you know she is thinking about how if she hadn’t been there he would’ve died. and how the next time he does something like this, she won’t have enough life left in her to keep them both alive. she might not even have enough left for herself. and she’ll give whatever she does have left to him, but it won’t be enough to save either of them. she’ll die cold and pale and he’ll burn himself out. and what can she do but hold him? who will he have when she’s gone? what will he do to himself? who will he call?

and these tags:

this is so cautious and tender and apologetic. sorry for all the pain he feels constantly. and sorry that nothing can ease it. and sorry that she is dying and leaving him like this.

she started writing to him as soon as she was diagnosed, begging. begging forgiveness, begging courage, begging grace. begging for him to not feel there was anything more he could've done, to not become the next cause he is lost in. for him to keep going, as she needs to know he's "out there."

but she's seen him hold a gun to himself too many times, and she knows he's coming down with her. and it's such a loss? this is a person she gave up everything, including her life, to follow, because she believed in him and what he wanted to do in the world that much. but things are different now. he won't survive this. he won't be "out there" saving the world.

what can she do? go to rhode island at 5am, wrap him up. stay quiet, stay still, but scream and thrash at anyone who's careless with him. sink down next to him, cover him, hold him. "maybe we need every answer in the world to survive a single question: how long do we have each other?" (x)

(also, her memento mori journal, in general. she sat in that hospital alone, for days, knowing she was going to die. and she wrote letter, after letter, after letter, to him. so that he would have something. so that he wouldn’t be left alone with nothing, again.)

3/ the end

"as mulder appears. the look on his face is of a man who's seeing, smelling, and tasting the loss of everything he has worked for. it's the look of utter defeat. angle on scully at the door. she sees only mulder right now...she moves to him now. putting her arms around him, holding on to keep him from breaking. off this, we fade out. the end." (script)

i think so often about the script notes of this scene. the description of mulder, as absorbed in destruction. everything that he's worked for, literally reduced to (cigarette) ash. scully only focused on him.

in the final angle of the season, you can really see how she's standing in front of him. her fingers clutching him. but when she first grabs him, it's so tentative. it almost feels like she's trying to see if he's still there, if he exists, if his work doesn't.

this is...the whole thing! there's a reason why this was "the end." the final image of this iteration of the series, before everything changes. this is what it is all about. it's mulder walking headfirst into the devastation of the world. drenched in loss. seeing it. smelling it. tasting it. surrounded by it. and it's scully knowing what he'll find even as he's still moving (this script note, from the hallway: "reverse on scully. returning the look. knowing what mulder is going to find. and what it will mean.")

following behind. eyes on him, while he takes in the ash. just holding on for dear life; trying to keep him close, whole.

(also, i love the moment before the fire, at his apartment, after diana was shot. the way scully tells skinner that he can reach her at mulder's if he needs her, because that's where she'll be. he doesn't even have a bed, or anywhere for her to stay!! she's not leaving him.)

4/ paper hearts

oh, starbuck. we are really in it now.

paper hearts is an ahab and starbuck episode, yes. but mostly it's about grief. mostly it's about harsh awakenings. mostly it's about confrontation with fear, scully's included.

one of the most haunting moments of the series, to me, is when they speak to the father of the 14th victim, twenty-one years after his daughter went missing. and through tears, the father says, "i used to think...that missing was worse than dead, because...you never knew what happened. now that i know, i'm glad my wife's not here. she got luckier."

in that moment, as mulder looks over at the photos on the mantle, missing is not worse than dead. it is not worse than knowing. and later that day, in his first scene, roche calls it exactly as it is: "i understand you take this very personally, mulder."

i've written about this scene in the hallway so many times, because it's truly the crux of this episode (my favorite episode).

from my newsletter:

There’s something so viscerally deep about this episode that’s hard to put into words, but to me, it is most palpable in the moment in the hallway when Mulder asks Scully if she believes that his sister was abducted by aliens. And you can see in his face that he knows the answer, and he’s challenging her to come out and say it. You can see in Scully’s that she would rather admit to anything else.

he's challenging her. he's taking their entire dynamic, and throwing it in her face. not to be cruel. not to disrupt. but just to say...so what now? isn't this what you believe?

i don't think that they've ever been so fragile, as in this hallway, honestly. they rarely threaten to break it all down. their entire lives are built on him walking up to tragedy and saying: it was aliens. it was XYZ. and her following behind saying: no. it was a killer, it was a man.

what does that mean? what is she really saying?

this episode is hard on scully. mulder has never been more haunted. there has never been a bigger reminder of what they are actually doing. they are not just chasing little green men, having adventures, studying sewer worms. they are trying to make sense of something that will never make sense. they are trying to find a "truth" that they do not want to know. they are living their lives in mourning, in bereavement, in remembrance, of a missing little girl, and scully is terrified that they'll find her. that it will be exactly like roche threatens. that missing is not worse than dead.

and there is no one else. there is no one else that even knows how haunted he is. how stuck he is, in that childhood bedroom, like he said all those years ago. how deeply sad it is.

it's all of the little things. it's the "you did good work, mulder" in the beginning. it's the way she asks if he's okay to go tell the 14th victim's family. it's way she exclaims "oh my god" when roche says that he just wants to see mulder's face, when he finds samantha's body. one of the few times that we ever see scully lose control, but she just stands up and screams, opens the door and wordlessly waits for mulder to get up and get out of there.

it's the way that she hears "help me, scully" and digs in the dirt, with her bare hands.

(you can tell in his eyes here that he's been crying, and it really gets to me. there's so much that we don't see.)

in the end, they're back in the basement. nothing left but one scrap of tattered fabric, one more lost failure. it's over. she just comes down to check on him.

the progression of scully's face in this last scene is just unbelievably gut-wrenching to me. her smile, when she tells him to get some sleep, and he laughs. the way it disappears when he holds her, and can't see her anymore. with his mother, flashing that smile and hugging her was all that it took to convince her not to worry. when he repeats the same actions with scully, she looks like she could break.

this post:

Episodes like this make me think how alone - not just lonely, but truly alone - Mulder was before her. Nobody lost sleep over him falling apart under the fist of decades old trauma. Nobody grappled with him, let him wrestle his grief against them, and still stayed. Nobody visited him in the hospital, flew to Alaska, lied for him, stayed by his bed for days straight without an extra change of clothes. Nobody else knew he was suffering or wanted to, knew it more than he knew. That end of Paper hearts where she tells him to get some sleep, he laughs at the ridiculousness of it, but also out of incredulity at having someone to wish for better on his behalf. The heartbroken look on her face as he’s laughing into her waist seems to be her coming to the same realisation; “Who looked after you before? How long did you feel like this on your own?”

she is heartbroken. there is so much grief, in being starbuck. there's grief in being needed. there's grief in following ghosts. there's grief in loving someone who is so encased in pain, in loss. he will not go home and get some sleep. a well-placed joke, that smile, a hug, does not convince her that he's okay. he hurts so much, for so long, and he has one person who knows it. and all they do is keep moving: closer and closer to that breaking point that she is so afraid of, and they can't stop.

5/ redux ii

remember when dana scully lied on her death bed and looked up at mulder as he told her that he was not willing to jeopardize skinner to save himself, and she replied, "well, then, you have to lay it on me."

the way he smiles and shakes his head, chokes out "i can't...i can't do that." through tears...they are so kind to each other. all that she has left in the world is her reputation, and she says: take it. take it all. take everything.

she cries when he won't do it.

6/ herrenvolk

okay, i wanna get into some slightly lighter ones, so y'all remember when she nearly fully knocked skinner into the wall, because mulder came in with a (checks notes) scratch on his face?

this is just so scully.

she is so panicked. she just wants to slow him down, to stand between him and the world for even one moment longer.

these tags:

she's almost begging him not to go in. the extent of her worry is heartbreaking. she loves him. it frightens her to know what awaits him.

one of the biggest conflicts of scully's character is that she just cannot stop him, she cannot shield him, she cannot protect him. the way she leans up here, and pulls him to her shoulder. covers him with a blanket. this is what she can do.

there is so much grief in being starbuck!! in loving someone who walks blindly into a world that you do not trust. in following someone into the worst night of their life: over, over, over. years, years, years. in being first mate, holding the responsibility on your shoulders of having to steer in a safe direction, only having one to choose from.

(i also think it's really special, all of the little moments where she checks in. in the previous episode, in the hospital hallway, the way she says "are you okay?" so softly.

in paper clip, when she makes him stop, and says "no, wait, hold on a second...i don't think you've had time to process everything that you've been through."

remnants of the girl who told him she'll cover for him and he should just go get a beer, take some time for himself, after jersey. who suggested he talk to someone, when jerry lamana died. she's always wanted so much for him, but she understands more now. there's still room to pause, for a moment, before he carries on.)

7/ anasazi

ladies, would you shoot your man with a gun, to keep him from endangering himself, while he was being laced with LSD, and then drag him across the country singlehandedly, while he was unconscious, despite him being twice your size? and this, too, is taking care.

the way she says, "i was certain they would have killed you, mulder." and the fear in her voice, his hand on her knee. (she is so young. she really doesn't know what to do, not as often as she seems like she does). the way he says, "thank you. thank you for taking care of me." they are so kind to each other. it'll break your fucking heart.

(i remember asking y'all a few weeks ago, if mulder and scully ever say "i'm sorry," if they ever apologize to each other. and we came up with a couple of times. i'll tell you what, though: not as often as they say "thank you.")

8/ fire

girlbosses when they singlehandedly solve serial murders, to get their best friend's shitty ex away from them!!! okay, i put this one on here because we were talking about it yesterday, but scully really does handle the entire situation with phoebe so perfectly, and that's hard to do, when you're dealing with friends and abusers.

trish, i loved this part of your post yesterday:

scully gives him the space to talk about it, never says too much but she says enough. her phrasing is SO important. she repeats what he just told her in a way that frames it as wrong.

she's a little rabid, lol. we can see it on her face when she's alone, or when mulder's not looking. but around him (around phoebe too) she's calm. she listens, she addresses what he tells her as bad, without pressing. when he tells her that she's off the case, that he doesn't want to expose her to what phoebe is doing, she asks one time: are you sure you don't want help?

he says yes, and she does it anyway. she catches that fucking murderer so that this woman can go home. just, like, an inspiration to us all.

trish's tweet:

really, truly, genuinely. scully solving the case in fire was the absolute best course of action she could have taken. get that woman out of here, an ocean away from mulder. (give him freedom, let him heal, teach him what real love feels like)

(her eyes locked in on him here, phoebe behind her. the way that when phoebe leaves the room, scully says, "you alright?" instantly.)

meeting phoebe just a few months into their partnership made her so fucking crazy like...i make fun of her for being sick in the head in regards to everyone he meets (men and women alike) and never wanting anyone around him other than her but like, my god, can you blame her!!! he's such a gentle person and people are so cruel and it makes her eyes bug out of her head.

yeah, i really don't have much else to say here, you guys. she solved a murder herself, a case that she wasn't even supposed to be working, so that his old gf would go away and stop being mean to him. she doesn't play!!

(also! while we're on the subject of abusive exes, honorable mention to scully cornering diana into an empty room and telling her to "just think" about who mulder is, who he was when she met him, compared to where he is now. "and then try and stand there in front of me. look me in the eye. and tell me mulder wouldn't bust his ass trying to save you.")

9/ deadalive

oh, you guys remember that time she raised him from the dead, right?

scully at 8 months pregnant, sitting in that hospital chair, holding his hand, for days. knowing he can’t feel it, knowing that there’s nothing that says he’ll ever wake up. that it’s impossible. that there is no science…yeah. she just sits there and holds his hand.

i love the moment when she finds out, and she comes barreling through that hallway. she hits skinner first, and starts yelling, “i want to see him. no, i need to see him,” slams her fists into his chest.

then she moves onto doggett. repeats, “i need to see him” through tears. and the way doggett says… “i know. but i wish you wouldn’t.”

she’s loved. they want to protect her, protect her image of mulder as she knew him. but they also both know she will fucking plow them down.

i always think of this fic and feel so ill:

“I pulled you six feet out of the ground,” she whispers, dangerously low. “Because I couldn’t live without you. I gave birth to your child.”

she fed his fish while he was in a casket. she planned a funeral and decorated a nursery alone, at the same time. she ran herself ragged all over the country, trying to keep his work going. she raised him from the dead.

(i also feel that i can throw in here, as related, the time that she busted him out of prison and then abandoned everything in her entire life including her career, her family, and everything she owns, to go on the run from the law and live secretly in seedy motels for years to be with him.)

10/ fight the future

there are too many contenders for my last spot, so i’m gonna keep it simple, and go with the most special movie moment. (of all movies).

from my newsletter:

“Mulder watches the spaceship as it flies overhead, his face glows with a heart-melting grin of childlike wonder and awe.”(x)

That’s exactly what it feels like to me, it’s an innocence and excitement that was so present in season one, that was all over him when he told Scully to come look in the second episode, but that’s rare to see in the later seasons. It’s rare to see at this point in their story, after all that’s happened. They are stranded in Antarctica, both of them injured, both of them freezing in the cold, and they are holding each other and gazing up at the sky. What a perfect thing in their big momentous feature, to bring it all back to what it started with.

there’s such a reverent sentimentality to it, in the simplicity. she had stopped breathing, a few minutes earlier. but when he passes out, she pulls herself up, and grabs onto him. keeps him alive, keeps them both alive, just by holding him close. that’s really the heart of it.

(also, i find it so moving that this film is the only time in the franchise that scully considers leaving, not working with him anymore, and it’s because she thinks she’s not good for him. that she’s holding him back. she never considers him as anything other than wanted, something worth believing in.)

some honorable mentions to: little green men, which i’ve written about here. (especially her secret-signaling him to their secret meet-up place, just to ask if he’s okay). the erlenmeyer flask, which i’ve talked about here. (she literally stops him in the street to tell him that she should have listened to him, and she’s sorry, because she should have trusted his instincts. that means so much, you guys). her telling colton she hopes he falls on his ass after he was making rude comments about mulder in squeeze, screaming at a serial killer that she’ll gas him into hell herself and no one will stop her, if mulder isn’t okay, in beyond the sea….she has threatened and shouted at and smacked around so many people for fucking with him, and this too is care!! (anger meaning you’re worth being angry over, etc etc)

how desperately she became frantic to find their son, after 17 years resigned to never ever looking for him, never ever endangering him that way…because she became convinced that it’s the only thing that would help mulder.

and how important samantha is to her. it matters. it matters, that sam is remembered. that someone else in the world knows. someone knows that they played baseball in the summers, that they fought over the television, that he’s looked for her in every room he’s ever been in. someone else cares about her; not as a white whale, not as a photo on a desk, as a little girl who broke her collarbone because she played on swings too hard. scully listened to her journal, and cried. listened to how much she suffered. how much she just wanted to see her big brother. (scully kept a journal like that, too, once. underwent those same tests. almost died at the hands of those same men. wrote her testimony to that same person.) it’s taking care of mulder, to love samantha. and she does.

#i got really really tired by the end but it is what it is #i want y'all to know #that i almost put 'trust no 1' on here #the way that she yells at doggett that she wants to see mulder 'SO BAD' #but in the end: writes to him that she just wants him to be okay even if she can't see him or hear from him #or even if he can't read what she sends him #and the way that she looks over at william in the stroller and puts her hand on his face #just like...that one semblance of mulder that she still has in her life and that she holds onto- in this baby #and he's growing up without his dad and she NEVER wanted that. #and mulder is writing to her that he just wants to come home to her and to will. #and how her voice shakes and she screams when she talks about how badly she just needs to see him. she feels so alone. #and there are only so many solar system onesies and star mobiles and lullabies from the florida woods that she can give #but ultimately she just wants him to be safe and alive and that's what she tells him and that's what she fights for with everyone else #but it's just so fucking unbearably sad and i couldnt do it after the first few i put on here ksjdfk #i would also say!! that her leaving him post-iwtb and their break-up was in a way taking care of him #getting the fuck out of that house. trying to save herself from that trap of grief. #then coming back when it was less haunted and he was healthier and it was able to be their home again #refusing to suffocate there just because he was. salvaging SOMETHING for him to come back to- and ALWAYS being available for that. #asks #sein und zeit #demons #the end #paper hearts #redux ii #herrenvolk #anasazi #fire #deadalive #ftf

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part Two, Chapter 1

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“What if we could stop, pause to take stock of each precious moment before it passes? Might we then see the endless forks in the road that have shaped a life? And, seeing those choices, choose another path?”

January 1997

She wakes to the feeling of his chest pressing against her back, a hand on her belly finding its way just under the hem of her pajama bottoms. She stiffens reflexively, and then wills herself to relax.

“Hey,” he whispers hotly into her ear, gaging whether she’s awake. She could feign sleep, but if she does that too often he starts to pick up on it. That is a conversation she’d rather not have again.

“Mmm,” is all she gives in response. He presses his erection into her ass and she grimaces, glad that she’s facing away from him so he can’t see.

“You fell asleep on me last night,” he says as his hand moves lower, now slipping below the hem of her panties, “Happy New Year.”

She glances at the clock; it’s 5:45. She has to leave the apartment by 7 to get to work on time so maybe this is an ideal situation; it will have to be quick. She hates herself for thinking this way, but since what happened with Mulder, she can’t seem to enjoy sex anymore. It’s perfunctory, an obligation. Somewhere in her subconscious she knows that it’s guilt that prevents her from being truly intimate with Ethan, but she only allows herself to see it as temporary, a hormonal change that won’t last. These things happen, she knows. Sex drives wax and wane. Maybe she should switch her birth control.

“Sorry,” she replies, gently pushing back against him, granting permission. Maybe they can stay like this, spooning; it’s easier when she doesn’t have to look at him, to fake enjoyment and connection. When he pushes her pajama bottoms down to her knees and enters her from behind, she sighs in relief and lets it happen, her mind elsewhere.

She tries not to think about it. About a lot of things, really. About how unfulfilling her marriage to Ethan is. About whether she can do this for the rest of her life, or if things will get better. About Mulder. She has the hardest time not thinking about him.

He hasn’t tried to contact her. Each day she arrives at work and checks her email, holding out a secret hope that there will be a message from him, but there never is. Every time one of her colleagues pops in to ask her a question, she hopes that maybe there is someone there to see her, and maybe it’s him. It never is.

She fakes her orgasm flawlessly, a skill she never hoped to acquire, and then showers for work, washing away the evidence of...what? Bad sex? A loveless marriage? Except the sex isn’t bad and the marriage isn’t loveless. Something is missing, but she can’t quite say what.

Or maybe she can’t quite admit who.

She skips breakfast, kissing Ethan chastely on the lips before she heads out the door. She looks away so she doesn’t have to see the pain in his eyes, the recognition that the woman he married isn’t the one he fell in love with anymore.

The fact that she seems to bring so much pain to the men who love her is something she cannot forgive herself for.

———

Priscilla is alternately licking his cheek and biting his nose and he pushes her away gently, checking the time. His alarm didn’t go off and he’s half an hour behind schedule.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, sitting up abruptly and sending her to the floor. She lands on her feet and scurries off, alarmed by his brusqueness.

He peels off his pajama pants and turns on the shower, rushing to the kitchen to feed Priscilla and start the coffee so it will be ready when he gets out. When he realizes he’s out of filters, he abandons the effort and decides to be late for work so he can pick up coffee on the way in.

He stands under the spray of the shower and tries not to think about her. Everywhere he looks, he is reminded of the short time they spent together. His couch, where they bonded over the X files. His bed, where he touched and tasted her. His dining room, where he kissed her for the first and then last time. His doorway, where she broke his heart.

Sighing with defeat, he takes his cock in his hand and lets himself remember, chasing that brief moment of release. The thought that he may never feel about another person the way he feels about Scully makes him sick, as though his life ended before it even began. Will he still be pining away for her when he’s in his seventies? Will he marry someone else, just so he can have some semblance of a normal life, but always wish it could have been her?

Every day since the moment she walked out of his apartment he’s thought about emailing her. He has an entire folder of drafts that he’s typed up but never sent. Some of them are old-timey love letters full of flowery descriptions of the taste of her lips and the color of her hair. Some are Jane Eyre quotes and song lyrics. Some are angry, accusing her of denial and an absurd obsession with commitment. They tell her that she broke his heart, ruined his life. He’s glad he never sent those ones.

He lets out a strangled cry as he comes, doing his best to aim for the drain so he won’t have to scrub the floor of the shower again. He imagines how she felt when she was coming around his fingers, and on his tongue. He wonders if it was as good as it seemed like it was, and whether Ethan is as good at going down on her as he is.

Was. As good as he was, because it only happened once and it won’t happen again.

He dresses for work, pausing to apologize to Priscilla for being rough with her and thank her for waking him up. She is, and will be for the foreseeable future, the only woman in his life, after all. Not that he doesn’t have options; between the Gunmen and other agents at the bureau someone is trying to set him up with their lovely single friend at least weekly. He tried to go out with a couple of them but it felt unfair. Although single, he’s not available. He leaves the apartment with an empty stomach, already late for his division briefing.

Even if she won’t accept it, his heart belongs only to Scully. He’s afraid it always will.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files #x files fanfic #alternate universe

[scullydubois]

Only the Light Ch. 17

17/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, occasional fluff | currently: Nisei adjacent | T | 5.7k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic <3

Scully meets the Mufon women, who clue her into their shared fate; Mulder accompanies Scully to the OB-GYN after her car breaks down; A mysterious voicemail appears on Scully's machine.

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

The murder of Mulder’s father--and attempted murders of the agents themselves--went the way of many X-Files, becoming another everlasting thorn in their sides. Skinner wasn’t happy with them, but he pitied them, so it was a two-week paper pusher assignment and then they were back at it. Lightning strikes, allusions to immortality from a mortal man, too many prisons and too much death; the calendar advanced, time marched on, and they saw it all but it couldn’t touch them. Wouldn’t, more like. Emotionally stunted, that’s what they are. Holding onto too much pain to process any.

And then comes Mulder’s $29.95 tape and its path to Allentown; a Japanese diplomat, a dead man, and a list of Mufon members wait in its wake. All of which lead Scully to Betsy Hagopian’s doorstep.

These women--whom she has never seen before, nor could not pick from any crowd--know her. They swear. She is one of them, they say, as if that’s supposed to snap everything into perspective. As if the semblance of belonging somewhere will make her spill her guts. But no; she wants to be nothing but herself, and sometimes not even that.

Then there are dozens of cars outside and women surround her, speaking of a place she didn’t know she knew until they said it. A blank slate flashes in her mind; an echo from some past life. She doesn’t believe in reincarnation, so how can that be?

Then the women--these strange women--speak of men & mysterious tests, and a drill sears Scully’s brain, and she’s coming apart, and is this annihilation or healing?

These images--she can hardly call them memories--expand until she’s living inside them. She is doubled, the victim and the spectator. She sees herself on a medical table, a tube spiraling from her belly button. It’s nonsensical, there’s no procedure of the sort. And then, before her unblinking eyes, her stomach grows. Inflated like a balloon. Her warped form...it looks pregnant, and her old fear comes back as a bitter taste in her mouth. Surely this is something seen in a dream, impossible to be reflected in any reality.

The rattle of metal pulls her back to the present. Every woman standing before her holds a capsule containing a microchip, barely perceptible to the eye. Marked...they have been marked. She has too, they say. They have all the scar, and it’s already been established that she is one of them.

Scully’s swept up by the crowd and taken to Betsy Hagopian at Allentown Medical Center. She’s unsure at this point whether she’s investigating the murder case or some vastly larger conspiracy. Or if those are even distinguishable.

She watches as the nurse slides Betsy into the MRI machine, wonders how Betsy feels about them being there as she disappears from view. Scully once thought of making oncology her specialty, back when she was bright-eyed and believed she could save the world. That path would have been paved with pain, sure, but there would be victory, and above all, hope. Her current job fails to put her in such close contact with miracles.

We’re all dying because of what they do to us, Penny Northern says. And how ironic it is, Scully thinks. She and Mulder want the truth--the proof--of some atrocity greater than themselves, and they may have it...once she’s packed into a coffin. How’s that saying go? Be careful what you wish for…

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

The scar at the base of her neck had never stood out to Scully. She can’t see it, and her hair covers it anyway. She had felt it in the shower once, shortly after her return, but she wrote it off as a bug bite. No one had ever commented on it until Penny Northern and the Mufon women; not Missy, not Mulder, not her mother…

Missy had noticed it during one of their face-mask nights in the weeks after the return, but she chose not to say anything, figuring it wasn’t worth adding to her sister’s worry. If she had seen it again recently--known that it hadn’t gone away--she would have said something.

Mulder...well, he never noticed it, and holy shit, he would have given anything for a situation where he could have. Scully never wears her hair up, he’ll blame it on that though it's fruitless. Really, it’s on him. He has a mental map of the places he’s touched her--and the places he won’t. Her neck is on neither one. He hasn’t gotten there yet.

Margaret Scully never saw it, and frankly, she would have thought it was something inappropriate to mention and wished her daughter had worn a turtleneck that day. What else can be said about that?

Thus, as autumn breaks over Washington, the agents crowd into a Bureau lab with Pendrell (or Agent Nerd, as Mulder prefers to call him) to address the intruder put into Scully’s body. Scully’s calm, cool, and collected, but Mulder winces as Pendrell’s tweezers pierce her skin. He’s never had the guts (nor the patience) for the medical profession.

“Yep, I’ve got something,” Pendrell remarks, dropping it into a petri dish. Mulder inches closer to get a good look at the object, and sure enough, it’s a microchip. He’s met with the urge to pocket it and run so that his partner would never have to see it.

Instead, Pendrell presents the dish to Scully. “It looks like a computer chip to me,” he tells her. “Something manufactured.”

Scully squeezes the object between her thumb and forefinger. She looks to Mulder. “This must be what made the metal detector go off in Santa Fe.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, I remember.” The handsy men at airport security still make his blood boil.

As Scully’s eyes meet Pendrell’s, he feels like he’s staring directly into a spotlight. And he’s not used to having the spotlight on him. “So it’s man-made, you believe?” she asks, as in need of an answer from him as she ever will be.

He blushes. “Well, I don’t know of manufacturing plants on any other planet, but it does look pretty technologically advanced.” He takes the dish over to a microscope and peers through. “I can’t say I’ve seen something of this complexity before.”

Pendrell moves aside so Scully can take a look. She’s not accustomed to using this sort of magnification for anything other than microbes, but the intricacy of the wiring speaks for itself. Loops upon loops upon loops of electric current, all contained in a space smaller than a pea.

She looks up. “It’s like it was storing something…” The idea of her thoughts being catalogued by some malevolent stranger is too terrifying to voice. Both men’s mind’s land on it without any prompting.

Mulder lays a hand on the small of her back and steers her away from the microscope. “We’ll get this all taken care of, okay?” he murmurs. “Pendrell will pinpoint the manufacturer, then we can track them down and help Betsy Hagopian and all those women.” He intentionally leaves out mention of Scully herself. She hates being helpless, he won’t frame her as such.

“Okay,” she squeaks out, and Mulder feels her shiver beneath her buttoned blazer.

Having received his command from Agent Mulder, Pendrell watches him usher Agent Scully out of the lab with complete control over the situation. It’s as if Agent Mulder knows what he’s doing, comforting Agent Scully with such composure. And right in front of Pendrell, too! Pendrell kicks himself for...well, being himself.

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

At ten to four, Scully grabs her purse and unclips her key ring as quietly as possible. Mulder’s in the midst of typing up a report about the Japanese diplomat who sold him the $29.95 tape, and she’d hate to ruin his flow. How alarmed Skinner would be if a Fox Mulder field report didn’t read like a Whitman poem! He’d probably assume the bounty hunter got to his agent.

She straightens her blazer and swings the purse over her shoulder. No need for a coat yet, her usual work attire combats the mid-October chill just fine. As she edges toward the door, the guilt of leaving Mulder without a goodbye stops her in her tracks. He knows about her appointment--knows she has to leave early--but still...it feels wrong to walk out without a word.

Hand against the doorframe, Scully tosses her hair over her shoulder. Her partner types at his desk with the ferocity of a teenage boy playing a video game. He even looks like one, with those wiry glasses. She can’t help but smile...these are the ordinary moments she will miss one day.

Setting her lips in a line, she pipes up--”I’ve gotta go, Mulder. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’s instantly snapped from his trance. “Whoa whoa whoa.” He lays his glasses beside the computer, rubs the red mark on his nose. “Let me walk you down.”

“That’s not necessary,” Scully assures, one kitten heel out the door. “I can navigate the parking garage on my own.”

Mulder pops up from his chair, rounds his desk. “Well, the parking garage, yeah. But haven’t you heard that the Hoover Building is unaccustomed to beautiful women roaming its halls? Who knows what might happen if I send you up there by yourself.”

Scully gives him the unamused smirk he’s fishing for, tries to ignore the way his sleeves cuff over his elbow. “I only have to go through the lobby. I think I can hold any admirers off for those twenty steps.”

“You’re right, I should have faith in you.” He ruffles a hand through his hair. “At least let me escort you to the elevator.”

“If you must.” Scully turns sideways.

He slides past her, winking as he does. It’s infuriating, really, how smooth he can be when he wants to.

Scully follows him down the hallway, wondering if she’s finally grown into the giddy teenager her mother feared she would be. He hits the up button for her, then clasps his hands together--the only time he’s ever been the epitome of patience.

“I hate to pull you away from your next masterpiece for Skinner,” Scully teases, trying to break his gentlemanly bit.

“Oh, an artist knows no timetable,” he responds, barely taking his eyes off the elevator door. He taps his foot...they always joke that the FBI takes an elevator tax out of their paychecks for making it go all the way to the basement.

Scully looks at the floor. A moment ago, she felt like the object of Mulder’s affections. Now, she’s shut out again.

At the sound of the doors gliding open, she steps in. No need to wait for passengers to disembark; nobody comes down here. She hits the first floor button, offers Mulder a weak smile. “See you--”

He sticks his hand out as the doors begin to close and ducks into the space, taking his place beside her. She should have known...his goofy grin confirms that he’s been planning this all along. They begin their brief ascent to the next floor.

“You know, I’m having deja vu, but I’m gonna say this anyway,” Scully starts. “You’re crazy, Mulder.”

“And I’m sure I’ve said this before Scully, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again--thank you,” he replies.

Scully rolls her eyes, but god, this is much more fun than being alone. The elevator banks on the landing, and she looks to her partner as the doors open onto the lobby. “Did you lose your faith in me, or did you never have it in the first place?” she asks, taking extra long strides to keep up with him as they make their way toward the parking garage.

“What, about the whole holding off your admirers thing?”

Scully nods.

“I figured back-up wouldn’t hurt.” He slips his hands in his pockets, giving himself an air of pretension. As Scully watches him, she gets the notion that it’s all carefully calculated. It makes her feel both powerful and annoyed. She is the damsel, and he is framing himself as prince charming, though she is not in distress.

They make it to the parking garage and take another elevator up to Scully’s level. “Skinner’s gonna want that report before you leave tonight, you know,” Scully tells him, surprised that he has followed this far.

“I’ll burn the midnight oil if I have to,” he replies casually. And she can’t argue with that, cause she knows he will.

While he looks for her car, she takes a long glance at his face. He spies her sedan, and they set off in that direction.

“You don’t have to baby me,” she reminds him, almost apologetic. “I made it through med school and Quantico. If anyone is capable of--”

“It’s not about whether you’re capable, Scully. You are. But you should never have had to go through all that in the first place. It’s not fair, what you’ve dealt with.”

“Life’s not--”

“--fair. Yeah, I know, that’s why I don’t believe in God,” Mulder deadpans.

Scully gives him the infamous look. He shrugs. “It’s the truth!”

They make it to her car, and Scully lays a hand on the driver’s door. “Alright, Mulder. It looks like we’ve both learned something about each other. Very productive conversation.”

“Good thing I came all the way down here, huh.” He flashes a smile that would disarm a scorpion. Scully feels it in her core. She tightens her grip on the door, pulling it open.

“Bye, Mulder,” she prods, sliding into the driver’s seat.

He salutes her. “Bye-bye.”

He stays at the front of her parking spot as she cranks--or rather, tries to crank--her car. The engine gurgles at her in protest. One twist, two twists, three twists, nothing. She pulls the key out of the ignition and opens the door.

“It won’t start...battery’s dead, I think.”

Mulder leans against her door. “Let me try.”

Scully shuffles herself into the passenger’s seat and he settles in, finding himself squished against the steering wheel with her seat settings. He laughs and jams the key into place. The engine won’t give under his hand either.

He rests his elbow on the console and stares at his partner. Her eyes darken. “I don’t have jumper cables, do you?”

“I’m not a jumper cable man, no,” he mutters.

Scully knocks her head against the back of her seat, covers her face with her hands. “My appointment’s at 4:30. I got the latest one of the day…”

“Okay, okay, no problem.” Mulder taps her shoulder. “I’ll take you.”

She uncovers her face. “But what about the report…?”

“You really think Skinner’s gonna be surprised by another late report?”

She bites her lip. “Fine, fine. It’s off 6th Street, I’ll tell you how to get there.”

“And we can pick up jumper cables on the way back,” Mulder adds.

“Perfect.”

They hop out of the car and head for Mulder’s. Scully watches him out of the corner of her eye--he’s striding along, completely unbothered by this inconvenience. She is struck with the notion that he is a better person than her in some crucial ways.

“Do you have your keys?” she pipes up, always bringing reality into the picture.

He taps his pocket. “Right here.”

“You’re saving my ass, Mulder--thank you.”

“I was the ass hero of Oxford. I’m glad to be of service.”

Scully shakes her head, her smile eclipsing a laugh.  “Please don’t ever tell me the story behind that, ” she giggles.

“Your loss.”

And as she looks over at him in the dingy parking garage, she knows that this is exactly where she’s meant to be.

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

He wasn’t planning to go in with her--he expected that she’d make a fuss about it if he asked, and it wasn’t his business anyway. He’s surprised, then, when he pulls into a spot at the clinic and she raises an eyebrow when he doesn't turn the engine off.

“Are you coming?” she asks, one leg sticking out of the car.

“Y-you want me to go with you?” he stutters.

Scully shrinks back. “Were you planning on going back to the office? I’m not sure how long the appointment will take, but I hate to make you drive all over the place.”

“No, I was just gonna chill in here. I thought you wouldn’t want me…”

“Oh.” Scully’s out of the car now, her purse swung over her shoulder. “Well, it’s just an ultrasound, so you can come if you want. I bet you’ve never been to an OB-GYN before…”

Mulder shakes his head. “Never had the pleasure. You know I’m all for new experiences, though.”

“Come on, then.” She slams the door closed and starts walking toward the building, playing hard to get in her own little way.

Mulder cuts the engine, locks up the car, and jogs after her. Not a usual occurrence, but he likes the role-reversal.

“So is there anything I should know,” he pants as he catches up with her, “before I walk in? Is there some kind of universal girl code that governs these places?”

“The only naked women you’re about to see are in anatomical diagrams, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“Oh, so it’s not a communal kinda thing?”

“Jesus, Mulder. That’s a male fantasy if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Hey, men have urinals and locker rooms, it’s only fair that women have some arena for comparison too,” he attests.

Continuing the role-reversal, Scully holds the door for him. “Clearly, we have different priorities,” she says as he strides through. He chuckles at her as he enters, feeling no insecurity about standing out. He’s not the lone man in the waiting room, but he is the only one without a visibly pregnant wife.

He looks around while Scully checks in. The room, he feels, is misleadingly similar to any other doctor’s office. Daytime housewife fodder on TV, issues of magazines that are barely from this decade, and posters preaching about the flu shot...some unsuspecting man might walk in here because he stubbed his toe and walk out with images in his brain that’ll haunt him for the rest of his life.

He takes a seat at the far edge of the room, Scully joining him a moment later with a clipboard.

He points at the entry to the back--“I feel like they should have a sign on that door that says ‘beware: health class flashbacks ahead. And not the good ones.’”

“If you’re a woman, it’s no flashback,” she tells him, focused on filling out the forms. “It’s just what you deal with everyday.”

“Okay, but imagine men had to go to a place like this, and you had to go back there.”

She looks up. “Mulder, you know I do autopsies on dead bodies, right?” Then, with a smirk--”Besides, I’ve never known you to be squeamish about naked women.”

“Right, but this is like...I’m used to looking at the completed painting, and now I’m seeing the paint-by-number. Not so pretty.”

“Maybe you should go sit in the car…” Scully says with a hint of a tease.  

“I digress.” He glances absentmindedly at what she’s writing, then looks away.

Scully notices and meets his eye. “You know what I’m here for, right?”

Without intending to, he read it off her paper. “Follicle ultrasound?”

“Yes, but do you know why? ”

Mulder holds his mouth open like he’ll catch an answer that way. “Uh…” he starts, classic caught-off guard college student.

Scully jots the last marks on her forms. “To check my egg reserve and see if anything’s changed since the last time. To see if there’s any possibility of me having a biological child, essentially.”

“Huh,” Mulder hums dumbly. Way to make an asshole of himself, cracking jokes at a time like this. He wishes it were socially acceptable to walk around with tape over your mouth.

“I’m sorry, Scully. I didn’t realize the situation was so dire.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

It’s funny she says that, because at that exact moment Mulder is thinking about how it is his fault, and where’s the nearest bridge? He realizes then, too, that maybe she wants him there so she’s not alone for whatever the results say, and boy, this is more than he bargained for when he offered to drive her.

He turns to her, his glance far shyer than usual. “So this is the follow-up to your first ultrasound?”

Scully nods. “It’s been almost a year.”

“But you…” he tries to arrange the words in as courteous a manner as possible. “Are you still premenopausal?”

Scully crosses one leg over the other. She’s pleasantly surprised that he cares about this. “No, I’m on birth control to regulate my cycles. But that doesn’t matter if I don’t have enough eggs left for potential fertilization. Fertility and menstruation are not necessarily linked.”

“But there’s an upside to that, right? Aren’t there health risks with early menopause?”

“Yep.”

Mulder’s not sure whether she’s answering his first question or his second one. He lets it be, and good thing, because a nurse calls Scully’s name moments later. He follows her into the back like an eager to please puppy, playing it cool until the nurse pipes up.

“Mr. & Mrs. Scully, how are you?”

“Not married ,” Scully clarifies, amused.

“Oh,” the nurse takes a stray glance at her clipboard. “I’m sorry.” She gestures toward Mulder. “You are…?”

“Fox Mulder. I’m her partner.”

“Oh, okay. I see. Gender-neutral language, very inclusive.”

“He’s my FBI partner,” Scully grumbles, giving Mulder a punch in the bicep for his purposeful vagueness. “I work at the Bureau.”

“Ah. Makes sense.” The nurse waves them into an exam room then closes the door behind herself. As she reads over Scully’s chart, Mulder’s presence makes less and less sense to her, and she addresses her patient with pitched confusion in her voice.

“So you are here for a follow-up antral follicle count...?”

“Yes ma’am.”

The nurse reads from the chart. “Your first one was roughly eleven months ago and indicated low fertility. Five follicles were counted.”

Scully nods.

“But since then, you’ve started hormonal birth control and now have stable menstrual cycles, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” The nurse makes note of this, then looks to Scully. “If you could come with me for a moment, we’re gonna get your weight, and then Dr. Zapolsky will be right in for the ultrasound.”

Alone in the strange room, Mulder’s met with fascination, not fear. He’s never seen an exam chair with stirrups in real life, and it makes him chuckle, reminiscent of birth scenes in slapstick comedies. On the counter is a 3D model of the uterus, which is pretty cool if he’s being honest. Remove the labels and it’s a modern art piece...and he means that with all due respect. His reproductive system would not make a nice decoration, that’s for sure.

He’s reading a poster about each trimester of pregnancy when Scully and the nurse come back in. Did you know that babies can be frightened by loud noises while they’re still in the womb? he wants to ask, but Scully knows everything, so she probably already knows that.

Scully settles into the exam chair as best she can. She locks eyes with Mulder, and he winks at her--again. It puts a genuine smile on her face, which has never happened in this room. The nurse exits quietly, but they are still there, and so is the smile.

They don’t speak at first. Silence is good when it’s comfortable, they have learned, and it’s always comfortable for them. Until Mulder begins to worry that Scully’s head might be spinning with dark thoughts, and he can’t have that. He thumbs toward the poster. “Did you know that loud noises can frighten babies through the womb?”

Scully’s gaze falls upon him, warm and light. “I’ve always thought that was just an old wife’s tale. I never saw it demonstrated during my obstetrics rotation.”

“Well, it’s on the poster. It’s gotta be true,” he wisecracks.

The door opens, and the majestic Dr. Zapolsky saunters in.

“Let’s ask Dr. Zapolsky,” Scully suggests.

“What’s that?” The doctor rolls the ultrasound machine to the center of the room.

“We were wondering if it’s true that babies in the womb can spook at loud noises,” Scully explains.

“It’s on the poster,” Mulder adds.

“Oh! Yes! But not until around 28 weeks.” Dr. Zapolsky sits down on her stool. “You never saw that during your rotations?”

Scully shakes her head.

“It presents as a kick, and as long as the exposure to the noise is not continuous, it’s harmless.”

“Good to know...I guess,” Scully finishes, wondering why Mulder fixated on that of all things.

Dr. Zapolsky scoots toward her patient. “How are you doing, Dana?”

Scully musters a smile. “I’m okay. Much better than I was last year at this time.”

“And who is your guest…?” she asks, swerving toward Mulder.

“Mulder, my partner at the Bureau. My car went dead, so he had to drive me.”

“Ah! Hello Mulder.”

Mulder nods. “Nice to meet you.”

“I see you’ve gained some weight since your last visit,” Dr. Zapolsky tells Scully. “That’s a good thing--fueling your body allows it to put energy toward ovarian function.”

Scully tries to accept this as a compliment, though she’s been conditioned not to view it as one.

The doctor continues. “And you’re doing well on your birth control? Any problems with it?”

“Nope, everything’s working out.”

“Wonderful.” Zapolsky clasps her hands together. “Looks like we’re all set for the ultrasound. Go ahead and lie back.”

Scully does so.

“I’ll need you to pull your waistband and underwear down. Let me get you a sheet for cover.” She slides over to the cabinets and pulls out a disposable blue blanket, which she drapes over Scully’s bent knees.

Mulder turns his head away as Scully shimmies off her skirt of choice--black, pencil, from the clearance rack at J. Crew, per usual.  Not that he’d be able to see anything since she already has cover, but he’s not risking any disrespect. Scully’s not paying attention to him, and it’s a testament to the trust they have developed.

Dr. Zapolsky grabs the ultrasound wand and takes it under the sheet, using the image on the monitor to guide it into place. “Everything feel alright?” she asks Scully, who nods.

The three occupants focus intently on the screen; two of them have a clear sense of what they’re looking for, and one has no idea. A few circles appear on the monitor, narrowly standing out from the background.

“There they are, right?” Scully inquires with tension in her voice.

Dr. Zapolsky nods. “Those are your follicles. What do you notice?”

Scully’s eyes search the screen. “There’s not many.”

“I’m afraid not. Six. One more than last time, but not the improvement you would need.” Dr. Zapolsky frowns. “Two low antral follicle counts qualifies you for a diagnosis of primary ovarian insufficiency. There’s no clear treatment plan, it simply functions as a label for your condition.”

Scully sits with this numbness as her doctor removes the ultrasound wand and cleans up. She wants to look at Mulder, read his face, but he’s over her shoulder and she can’t bend that way just yet. She takes a breath and pulls her skirt back on.

“So there’s no hope, then?” Her voice shakes. “Of carrying a child with one of my own eggs?”

The doctor finishes washing her hands and turns back toward her patient. “There’s a five to ten percent conception rate for women with POI. If you’re dead-set on it, IVF using an egg donor is your best option. Personally, I don’t recommend it at those odds. It’s very expensive and can take quite a physical toll.” She pats her patient’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Dana.”

With tears threatening to break her composure, Scully cranes her neck toward Mulder. He’s her escape hatch, but he’s not doing much better. His hands are squeezed into fists, his eyes dark. “I’m sorry, Scully,” he murmurs. “You don’t deserve this.”

And even if he’s right it doesn’t make any difference, because this is what she’s gotten, and this is what she must deal with. Gravity’s full brunt bears down on her body and spirit, and she wonders once again if God intends her for heaven or for hell.

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

The sun is sinking below the horizon by the time Scully sets her keys on her front table. If she wasn’t exhausted before, she is after buying jumper cables and using Mulder’s car to start hers. She hears clanging pots and pans and can only hope it’s her sister home from the lunch shift.

Forcing her tired body into the kitchen, Scully finds Melissa at the stove. The smell of marinara sauce wafts through the air.

Missy looks away from the boiling pasta she’s stirring. “Hello jellybean!” Neither one of them knows where the new nickname came from, but neither one is against it either.

“Hey Missy,” Scully says as she plops into a dining chair. She slides off her heels and stretches her toes.

“How was your day?”

“Alright,” Scully sighs. “Paperwork and then my ultrasound appointment, but my battery died so Mulder had to take me.”

“Oh my goodness!” Missy turns the heat down on the stove and strides over to her sister. “I forgot that was today...how was it?”

Scully looks up through her lashes. “Not good, Missy.”

“No?” Missy slides into the adjacent chair. “Were your counts still low?”

Scully nods, picks a piece of lint off her skirt. “Too low. Doc says I have primary ovarian insufficiency. Basically, it’s highly unlikely I’ll be able to have a child with my own egg.”

“God…” Missy sandwiches one of her sister’s hands between both of hers. “I’m so sorry. That’s not what you wanted to hear, I know.”

Across the way, the boiling water sings a siren song, and Missy reluctantly makes her way back toward it. “You’ll have to accept my condolences in the form of food cause I’m too far into this to stop now.”

“Oh, I will.” She’d be having a salad or...well, probably nothing, if Missy wasn’t here. Scully leans back, examines the ceiling, then rubs her eyes. “Did you know that babies can spook at loud noises through the womb? At 28 weeks, at least.”

“No, I didn’t,” Missy answers with gusto, happy to distract her sister.

“Mulder read it on some poster, and I didn’t think it was true, but it turns out it is,” Scully rambles.

“Mulder read it...?” Missy echoes. “He went in with you?”

“Uh-huh.” Scully’s immune to the usual implications of her sister’s curiosity. She’s had too much of a day to argue that Mulder isn’t as integral a part of her life as he is. “It was nice...I was happy not to be alone.”

“I’m sure,” Missy says, pouring the ravioli into a colander. “Mulder’s a good guy.”

“Mm-hm.” Scully chews the inside of her cheek. She can’t discern whether she’s failing to repress a feeling or experiencing one anew, but it’s in that ballpark.

Having put the pasta in a serving bowl, Missy spoons sauce over it like she’s auditioning for a cooking show. “There was an interesting voicemail on the machine when I got in,” she begins.

“Yeah? A telemarketer? Scammer?”

“I don’t think so. It’s odd, but it sounds quite urgent.”

Missy hits a button on the answering machine. A gruff voice fills the room. “Hello, this is Agent Feniston from the California Bureau of Investigation looking for a Ms. Scully. I am contacting you on behalf of the California Department of Social Services foster care system. Please get back to me as soon as possible at 619-555-1334. Thank you.”

It does sound legitimate, Scully can’t argue with that. She raises an eyebrow at her sister. “You were in California for a while, weren’t you?”

Missy pops a ravioli into her mouth, wipes some wandering sauce off her lip. “The Bay area, mostly,” she says between bites. “The 619 area code is--”

“San Diego. I remember, that’s what our number started with when we lived by the shipyard.”

Missy nods. “I know I’m considered the free spirit in this family, but no child of mine is running wild in California. Let’s clear that up right now,” she chuckles.

“I mean, we don’t have any details,” Scully says. “They probably just need you to testify whether some friend of yours is stable enough to resume custody of their child.”

“Does that sound like something that would warrant a call from the Bureau of Investigation? ” Missy challenges, scooping a hefty portion of pasta into a bowl and handing it to her sister.

Scully takes it and grabs a fork. “If they couldn’t find any other way to contact you.”

Missy stops, looks at her sister with a pointed glare.

“What?” Scully shrugs.

“Darling,” Missy continues, “no one I knew in California has this number, nor any way to determine that I’m living with you.”

Scully lifts the fork to her mouth, freezing before it makes it there. “You think the call is for me?”

“I think it’s a possibility,” she says, taking a seat across from her sister.

Scully scoffs. “I haven’t been to California in ages. There was a case in Marin County, but it’s been two years now.”

“That’s funny,” Missy muses. “I was living there then.”

“Can we stay on topic, please?” Scully tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m not fond of having a random call from the California foster system on my answering machine.”

“Then call Agent Feniston back, and it won’t be random anymore.” Missy gets up, glances at the clock, and grabs the phone off its receiver. “It’s only 3:30 in Californiaaaaa,” she sing-songs, dangling it in front of her sister.

Scully pouts, but lets the weight of the phone rest in her hand. “Can you play the voicemail again? I need the number…”

Feniston addresses them for a second time, and Scully taps the keypad in concert with his directions: 619-555-1334.

#hello i am very excited for what's to come <3 #anyone who has stuck with this is now my best friend #thank you and MWAH #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #the x-files #txf #txf fic #fox mulder #dana scully #melissa scully #mine

[fragilevixenfic]

Angst/fluff prompt #42 “You’re always on my mind.”

Tagging @monikafilefan @agntstarbuck223 @reasonandfaithinharmony @karinanic @ficphiles @leiascully @scullyitsme @alllthings-x @allthingsxfiles @kyouryokusenshi @serahsanguine @rationalcashew for the love love love…

Angst/FluffPrompt from @minuete-blog

Title: AdInfinitum

Category: Angst/UST/RST/MSR/Post“The Sixth Extinction II: Amor Fati”

Prompt: 42.“You’re always on my mind.”

Summary: (Post “SixthExtinction II: Amor Fati”) I hate taking too long and this one not only gotaway from me but slapped me upside the head a few times…I hope that it isn’tlost in translation as a result.

What would havehappened if Mulder would have asked Scully to come back when she walked awayoutside his door? Would fate knock a little early? “Ad Infinitum” is Latin for“to infinity” or “forevermore” – Eternal Recurrence is the Nietzsche’s conceptthat with the infinite time and a finite number of events, events will recuragain and again infinitely (over and over), in recurrence.

If loving you

Kills me tonight…

Then I was ready

For death the

Moment you

Said hello…

-R.M.Drake

 “And you are mine…”

               Affirmation leaned towardconfirmation as confusion laced with buried sadness finally met the kind andcaring hand of comfort as Scully’s lips met the space below the white, meshbandaging against Mulder’s forehead. They were so much more than words oractions as her fingers lingered against his skin, leaving traces of her muted lipbalm on him like she had marked him, silently and invisibly in spite of howeasy it would’ve been to make it painfully obvious to the rest of the world.Breaths collided as she replaced his Yankees cap softly on the top of his head,inviting a tender smile from his lips as their eyes met once more. Mulder felther strength blooming beneath a shroud of resistance as his eyes closed, sweetlycontemplating her, regarding her thumbs as they passed across his mouth. Helistened to her exhale and the taps of her heels as she started to walk away.

               Not this time, Scully, I need you to come back to me.

              Mulder’smind was still agonizing over the dreams, the sequences of events that had beenplaying out in his brain for days while she searched for the answers in adesperate attempt to save him.

               “Hey, Scully,” Mulder called outto her as she was nearly to the elevator and watched her come to a stuttered,half-startled stop that sent a chill down the back of his neck.

Hehadn’t looked over at her as the slow, methodical spinning in her heels had himfeeling every little beat of his own heart all the way into his ears as hetilted his head in her direction.

               Scully’s tears along the curveof her nose were fresh as she feverishly wiped them and sniffed hard, botheyebrows lifting as she made eye contact from the end of the hall. “Are youokay?”

               “You can blame being late on methis time,” Mulder gestured to the doorway with his hand and his head, bitingdown on the corner of his lip as he realized how that must’ve sounded leavinghis mouth at a time like this. “I’ll be fine but I think I just want to sit, inthe quiet, with you for a while?”

               Scully’s heels against the floorcoming back to him had a rhythm all of their own that made him swallow hard ashe followed her petite stature from her toes to her eyes, inhaling a necessarybreath as he realized that she had caught him looking. She moved past him inthe doorway, eyes lingering up at him a little longer than necessary as herfingertips brushed against his. They hadn’t intended on making it awkward butit was, in fact, becoming just that as she moved into the unusually brightspace of Mulder’s apartment, her back to the door. The gentle clicking of the latchsliding into place had Scully’s head on a swivel, turning only to meet thealready waiting gaze of the man with something buried in those hazel eyes.

               It wasn’t as though there wasn’ta fair amount waiting deep within her own, in all fairness; she was just doinga better job of hiding it than he was.

               “You have that look in youreyes, Mulder,” Scully had to break the eye contact and the silence as shecrossed the room first, seeking comfort in the blanket that already had beenbathed in his scent as she slid down on the couch and pulled it onto her lap. “Iknow you and sitting here in silence isn’t your strong suit, especially whenyou keep staring at me the way that you are.”

               Mulder hadn’t quite found theurge to move just yet but was content just in taking in the sight of her, surprisedat just how much he needed her to be there, wanted her to stay. “I’m justtaking a lot of comfort in seeing your mouth actually move when I can hear yourwords.”

               “I don’t understand,” Scullyfurrowed her brow, looking up at him as he swayed near the door, his hat stillon, the bandage peeking out beneath. “You’re not making any sense, Mulder.”

               “It sounded better when I wasthinking it,” Mulder was reticent to move but he bridged the gap and sat down,staring at the pattern on the blanket across her lap, wincing as he removed hiscap. “I spent too long only being able to hear every word in my head, butcouldn’t see mouths moving, mine refused to move. Trapped in my ownbody…trapped upstairs. That’s not a place I really wanted to be stuck foreternity, Scully.”

               “I know you’re trying to befunny to lighten the mood but I don’t know if I can fully describe to you howlost I was when I was searching for answers,” Scully folded her hands in herlap, gathering a section of the blanket simply out of nervousness as she staredat the colors as they moved. “Watching you on the monitor when you were losinggrip with reality…hearing my name come out of your mouth like that and thenseeing you take a turn for the worse. I don’t like being helpless when itconcerns you.”

               “You were never really helpless,Scully, I hope you know that now,” Mulder let his fingers graze the top of herhand, drawing her attention fully as he cleared his throat. “I heard your voiceabove everyone else’s and I didn’t really know what it meant until I saw you inthat endless loop of a dream when everyone fed me nothing but things that I’vealways thought I —the only one that didn’t lie to me.”

               “Mulder,” Scully closed her eyesand felt the raw, brutal stirring in her soul as she sucked another deep breathin before making eye contact with him again. “I had started to face a realitythat you might be gone for good this time and that thought alone of just howclose I came to that fact has kept me awake at night since I found you.”

               “You can’t get rid of me thateasily, Scully,” Mulder had a wisecrack hiding up his sleeve in spite of knowingjust how poor the timing might’ve been as she buried her face in her palms andleaned against her elbows.

               “You know that’s not funny,” Scullysighed into her hands and pushed her elbows onto her knees, breathing deeplyagainst the space where wrist met palm. “I felt the strength and passion youexude when you run blindly into the darkness to discover answers—all of it tobring you back from what was taking you away from me. There was a time in mylife when I wouldn’t have even fathomed doing that for anyone but I’d do it foryou, without hesitation.”

               “I felt every bit of it,Scully,” Mulder didn’t like not being able to see her eyes and know exactlywhere she stood emotionally but he kept going without fully knowing the reachof his words. “You have always been the one to be admired when it came to the conviction,whether it was in science or in family, or in the longshot of God…but Iexperienced the reaches of your faith the moment I could hear your thoughtswhile you weren’t even speaking.”

               Scully turned her head, lookingat him through the gaps in her fingers, her eyebrows elevated as she exhaledaudibly. “I certainly hope you couldn’t hear every thought…not all of them hadthe best of intentions for the people who alleged that they were searching forthe best way to treat you.”

               “I don’t know that I’ve ever takenthat much of a look at my own life from the outside like I did when I couldhear you like that,” Mulder fidgeted and slid to a standing position, leaningagainst the edge of his desk, blocking the light from nearly blinding Scully.“I wouldn’t have guessed that I was held in that high regard by anyone in mylife.”

               “It must say a lot about me thatit took you nearly dying for you to find out how I feel—and even knowing thatyou really weren’t supposed to know at all,” Scully swallowed hard and brushedthe hair out of her face as she looked up at him, her cheeks flushed.

“Tofind out what exactly, Scully?” Mulder saw the pain in her eyes mingling withanother emotion that he hadn’t seen gracing her face in such a long time.

“You’rereally going to make me say it out loud just so you can hear it,” Scully’svoice went soft as she looked down at the floor, fixating at the pattern in thewood, gathering the last of her gumption. “You’re always on my mind.”

“Wasthat really so difficult?” Mulder pressed his fingers along the finished top ofhis desk and felt the coolness against his skin as he glanced at her while shemelted against the back of the couch, crossing her legs as though she were nervous.“Or were you just going to go on pretending like today was just another day…onelike any other?”

“I’vegotten really good at pretending not to be consumed by you, Mulder,” Scullyknew she was dead but the image of Diana looming over them had bloomed into aplague of locusts, a cloud ready to devour what remained of her already achingheart. “I knew where I stood and it always felt like it was behind you, neverbeside you…not like she was.”

Thewords stung like a firm slap to the face but not because of any basis in truthas he nearly bit a hole through his bottom lip and stiffened his jaw, gatheringhis bearings. Scully wiped an errant tear, shook her head and stood, searchedhis face for any semblance of movement but only witnessed the flaring of his nostrilsas he closed his eyes. Mulder didn’t know how to tiptoe around the subject buthe also felt more on the topic than his lips were currently willing to divulgeas the woman with the open heart began to stare at him in disbelief. Two stepsforward, four steps back, dance around each other and pretend. It was amutually shared thought for an unspoken fear that lingered in the air of whatwould exist if the ‘what if’ became ‘just be’. This was their version of ‘adinfinitum’ even if they hadn’t meant it to be.

“Ithink you should rest today, Mulder, I need to get going, I’ve got things todo,” Scully wanted to forget the entire exchange and flee as she took anotherstep toward the door while Mulder sucked a breath into his lungs.

“Scully,don’t let this day be any other day,” Mulder had already spent more than enoughtime taming his demons as he felt the bitter, salty sting of tears along hiswaterline. “If you walk out on me now, it’s just another day.”

Scullyturned around and fought the urge to scream at him as she planted her feet andsqueezed a fist to pull back the tears. “Give me one good reason not to just goback to putting on my happy face and play make-believe every day.”

“Thereisn’t a day where you aren’t the first and last person that I think about,Scully,” Mulder had been holding it in as he met her in the archway separatingthe dining area from his living room, his eyes glassed over from the readiedtears as he folded his hands over hers. “I know you think you have to compareyourself but there’s a reason I reached for you—there’s a reason it was alwaysyour name I shouted for. It’s always been you.”

Scullypressed her lips together and blinked another stray tear into fruition, thepath of which led along the curve of her cheek as she looked up at him. “How areyou standing here making it seem like it’s so easy?”

“Itisn’t easy, Scully, and it isn’t supposed to be,” Mulder wiped the tear beforeit met the edge of her jaw, allowing his fingers to linger against her cheek,caressing that spot until her eyes softened. “I don’t want to continue walkinginto every room each day wondering if today is the day you’re putting on a maskin front of me. Full disclosure.”

Mulderhad seen that look on her face once before and had to journey to the end of theearth to get her back but that wasn’t going to be their fate this time as heslipped his fingers along the curve of her collar until he met skin. It was asimple, halfway moronic level reassurance but Mulder didn’t care, not thistime. Scully held her breath and stared at the buttons of his shirt as theypeeked out along the sides of his tie that still hung untied along his chest,watching him as his chest moved with every breath. Scully had been waiting foranother moment like this as she wrapped her arms around him, lacing her fingerstogether at the middle of his back until the distance had fully eclipsed. Itwas comforting and once out of reach as Mulder gathered her in an embrace untilhe felt every last muscle melt against his frame, into his care.

Untilhe could hear the soft, melodic sigh leave her lips and reverberate against hischest.

“Wheredo we go from here, Mulder?” Scully’s question could’ve been taken in amultitude of ways as Mulder’s lips rested against the top of her head and hisfingers gathered along the back of her head.

Mulderknew that his painkiller would be wearing off soon but he didn’t care as hetook the smallest of steps back, tilted her chin and let his mouth find hersfor the briefest of moments, almost like an introduction before letting ananswer out. “There’s this really amazing diner that serves breakfast all daylong—that sounds like a really good start to me.”

Scullygazed up at him and reached for the end of his tie, pulling it free from hiscollar in a soft, fluid motion with her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.“Put your hat on, then…you don’t need your tie to go to breakfast.”

#MSR #msr fanfic #fanfic #angst/fluff prompt #writing #mulder and scully #the x files #the x files fanfic

[poeticsandaliens]

Old Classics

Pairing: MSR

Rating: Explicit. Porn

Timeline: Season 11, in between episodes but before Plus One

Summary: Part 3 of the Attractions of Youth smut collection that was intended to only be one fic. Oops. This one is for @kateyes224​, who posted about “Can’t Fight This Feeling” coming on the radio while Mulder and Scully are on some dusty, two-lane highway, and how they might combat the ensuing awkwardness. I can’t decide whether to thank you or blame you. I got carried away on emotional wings, and this turned out way longer than I expected. Prepare for the feels.

Attractions of Youth  Part 1 and Part 2

Tagging @today-in-fic​.

She always thought of Idaho as a flyover state. A endless expanse of hay bails and silver-bearded men wearing flannel, more cows than people and more deer than cows. The perfect ambience for a UFO abduction.

Their destination is somewhere on a horizon that vanished with the Idaho sun. It blazed like a tangerine in the rearview mirror, then cast them into darkness between the Sawtooth mountains and the fields of Asphodel.

Now, they’re half way to dawn.

Scully drives through starlight with her brights on, the silence thickening as time goes on. They’re two hours out of the mountains, rolling past rotted fences and trading places in the driver’s seat to catch some semblance of a good night’s sleep. When Mulder drives, Scully dozes off, but now that she’s at the wheel, Mulder stares out his window as if he’s expecting Sasquatch to leap in front of their car. Twenty-five years and he still has trouble sleeping on the road.

She yawns loudly and drums her fingers on the wheel. She used to be able to drive all night, hundreds of miles down foggy interstates running solely on coffee. She’s older now; by midnight, exhaustion seeps into her bones, and her eyelids begin to sag.

“Do you want me to drive?” Mulder mumbles from the passenger seat.

“No, I’ll be fine. Maybe we should put on the radio, though,” she admits. She presses a button on the speakers that she thinks might (possibly) be a power button.

“Doesn’t this car have a phone-cord or something?” asks Mulder when the speaker scratches to life, white noise intermixed with the occasional piano note.

“Probably, but I can’t find it.” Even if she could, she doubts he’d be too thrilled to listen to her collection of NPR podcasts, and Mulder’s taste in music isn’t especially appealing on late night drives.

So she flicks through the radio channels until she finds something tolerable. “Knock Three Times” reverberates inappropriately through the shadows. The pitch of fake trumpets fills the car, and Mulder chuckles quietly.

“This was one of those songs you loved until you hated,” he informs her with a smile. He runs his hand over his salt and pepper stubble and looks up at her with eyes like little planets, lit warmly from a million miles away.

Scully snorts. “I feel like they played this song at my high school homecoming.” It’s bad, but it’s the fun kind of bad. Finally distant enough to be nostalgic, reminders of high school make her sigh rather than cringe.

As the unforgettable chorus fades into silence, a radio host with a coarser voice than CGB Spender hacks gutterally into the microphone. Folks, this is channel 91.5, Old Classics. We’ll be right back after these brief advertisements.

“Old Classics,” she repeats aloud. That’s what they are—old, sure, but they’re still kicking. And maybe, she hopes, they’re en route to a comeback.

Mulder sits up and stretches as much as he can in the Taurus’s passenger seat. He is all rumples and loose limbs after six hours in the car. “Sounds about right,” he concedes with a grunt.

The Honda ad dies out, and a cheerful keyboard riff startles her back to reality. It’s the electric-disco kind of riff, and the song is on the tip of her tongue, ringing like the soundtrack of a too-emotional porno. It’s only as the lyrics ring out, and the Taurus starts to feel thick and stuffy, that she recognizes it:

I can’t fight this feeling anymoooooooore, the stereo belts like a punch in the gut. Scully stiffens, gripping the wheel for dear life, and sneaks a glance at Mulder in her peripheral. He looks as uncomfortable as she feels, squirming in his seat and staring resolutely out the window.

It’s time to bring this ship into the shoooooooore.

Shit, she’s not prepared for this. She is reminded, completely out of left field (maybe not completely if she’s being honest), of the first time they had sex. They took a sledgehammer to six years of sexual tension in a car not unlike this one. A rental car, putting its way through fields of juniper. They topped off the encounter with even better sex in their shittiest motel to date.

“Do you remember—” she stops herself, but it’s too late. The words are out of her mouth. “Do you remember that Mexican restaurant, the one in Scipio Utah where I ordered a margarita, and then we…” she can’t finish. Fucked in the backseat because they just couldn’t stand it anymore, because it was a hundred and two degrees, and they were in their thirties and still had the stamina for wild, shirt-ripping sex.

“Eduardo’s,” says Mulder, sitting up straight again.

“What?”

“Eduardo’s Authentic Mexican Drive-in. That’s where we stopped to eat. There was a petting zoo next door. What a day, am I right Scully?” he jokes awkwardly. “I guess we just couldn’t fight that feeling.”

She pretend-laughs to cut the tension. Inside, she’s all butterflies and wooden limbs. She’s not sure what it says about their relationship that Mulder remembers the name of Eduardo’s. She’s not sure what it says that she’s forgotten. She remembers that margarita, though—an alien green concoction of ice chips and cheap cocktail mix, and she definitely remembers the way Mulder’s eyes grazed her entire body as he sipped it with a plastic straw.

The radio croons again. I can’t fight this feeling anymore….

She ignores the heat between her legs and the blush creeping up her cheeks. She ignores the way Mulder’s stare bores into the side of her head, waiting for her to say something.

“We were so young back then,” she sighs. It’s a cop-out line, but that doesn’t make it untrue. They’re aging with the car radio—loud and relevant, but only in the middle of clusterfuck nowhere. They dance expertly in the cobwebby corners of life, where people still don’t have cell service. Where fairy tales thrive, and landline gossip births monsters, and the basement is an appropriate place to make love.

She watches Mulder’s lips twitch. When was the last time they had sex? It must have been six years ago, that awkward limbo after she’d left him but was still listed as his attending physician. She checked his physical health, cried in the master bathroom at the sight of him, then polished off his wine and let him fuck her on the decrepit couch he’d owned since 1994. The one stained with his cum and her beer and their son’s spit-up.

They fucked like orgasms were a currency, and somehow it was rough and underwhelming at the same time. They panted into the musty air, not daring to speak each other’s name. They came silently, and when the transaction was finished she left just the same, tearing half-dressed out of their—his—driveway. It felt like a one-night stand in undergrad, the thought of it more enticing than the execution. She found him a new physician by the end of that week.

“Scully?”

“What?” Scully snips, and her features soften when he recoils like hurt puppy. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m just stressed.” The exhausted drag of her own voice alarms her. She sighs again. That damned song is still playing, relentlessly goading them with their youth.

“In the old days car trips relaxed you.”

“In the good old days, Mulder, I didn’t tell you how much I hated night driving. In the good old days you probably wouldn’t have asked.”

“In the good old days, we would have pulled over here,” Mulder murmurs under his breath.

In the good old days, her hips wouldn’t have ached after sex; she was wetter and softer more pliable. Still, she taps her finger on the wheel. Still, she squeezes her thighs together and feels her sex tingle. Still, she wants him. Not like six years ago, just trying to pound out the pain. No, she wants him with the wrinkles he has aquired in her absence and the back-aches they’ll undoubtedly suffer in the morning. She’s not seeking in him the ghost of Mulder in 1998, but loving the flesh-and-blood Mulder of 2018. Falling in love with him, all over again.

I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for.

“Do you want to have sex?” If not now, when? The universe grants these moments sparingly. They wasted one already, thanks to a goddamn bee, and it was another year before they talked about it like honest adults.

Mulder’s eyebrows shoot up, and he eyes her skeptically. Speedwagon wails obnoxiously; he adjusts his tie and tries to discern if she’s just messing with him. “Aren’t we a little old for that?”

“Yes,” she says simply. She licks her lips, lets her voice go husky. “But Mulder…” she croons. It rolls off her tongue in a lilt she hasn’t used since they called themselves ‘platonic.’ Back when they fucked with words, and she could get him hard just by saying his name because she didn’t dare go further than that.

The ensuing silence might be suspenseful, were it not for the building chorus of can’t fight this feelin’ anymore that she’s afraid to turn off. Once the song ends, she’ll have to fill the quiet and acknowledge how badly she needs him. Not just here, now, but tomorrow in the hotel room and at home when the case is finished and over and over until they die.

“I’ll pull over,” she whispers before he can respond. She stops in a dirt pullout, basking in the utter darkness as her headlights go out. She turns off the car, and that stupid song cuts off before it can hit the final note. When it’s quiet— “I mean it, Mulder.”

“The last time we—”

“This isn’t like that time,” Scully interrupts. “I’m not talking about a one night stand. I’m saying, let’s have sex in the car and then… go from there.”

She can see the hurt in his eyes as he recalls their lackluster final tryst in the unremarkable house, and tries not to be offended. It hurt her too, fishing around the living room carpet for her underwear and then leaving him again. It was the only time she ever regretted sleeping with him, and it took her months of hindsight to realize the damage it had done to them both.

“I hope you know how much I love you, Scully.” His voice cracks.

She gazes at him with earnest owl’s eyes, skillfully fighting the urge to cry. “I’m working on it.”

Mulder reaches over to turn off the car. His hand skims hers, fingers interlacing. “Are you sure, Scully?” he asks, stroking her palm with this callused thumb. “We’re not exactly the young handsome spitfires we were the first time.”

Scully leans over until her forehead rests against his, twisted awkwardly against her seatbelt. Inhaling the smell of chocolate on his breath, she says solemnly, “that’s the point.”

When he kisses her, it’s sweet and ponderous, a weirdly new sensation. His lips stand out like a refurbished antique. They are Mulder and Scully, but they’ve replaced every skin cell since the last time they kissed like this; they have rearranged their atoms into new molds. She likes it.

She pushes the lever on the passenger seat and chuckles as it slides backward, leaving them an open space in the front. She crawls recklessly over the emergency break to kneel over him, still fighting to keep his lips on hers and his tongue on her teeth. She cups his cheek, lets her fingers drift across the old scar on his temple where she once stitched him up in her kitchen. She moves to kiss the smile lines around his cheeks, the wrinkles in his forehead, studying the his skin like it’s a well-worn paperback. Gone with the Wind or Pride and Prejudice, or some other intersection of the tender and the passionate.

That’s the real difference, she thinks as Mulder lifts her t-shirt and unclasps her bra. Before, they flickered between frantic fucking and fragile lovemaking. Sticky and transgressive, or moving together like their bed was made of fine China. Now is something in between.

Mulder’s lips expertly trace the peak of her nipple, and she arches her back against him. She lets him brush feather-light over her breasts with well-trained hands, cupping them like holy water and memorizing the face that 2018, fifty-four and fighting Scully makes when she loses herself in arousal.

She adjusts her position on Mulder’s lap and bumps his nose out of the way to kiss him again. He grunts as she kneels on either side of his legs, his erection grazing the crotch of her slacks. Just to tease, she grinds against him fully clothed, and he groans into her lips. He reaches for his belt buckle, but she stops him.

“Not yet,” she whispers. “It’s not about that, not yet.”

It is her way of demanding, make love to me Mulder, rather than fuck me, because she’s not ready to say it outright, not just yet. She didn’t just stop the car to slice their sexual tension and have a quick, desperate romp in the back. She could’ve waited hours for him, and they could have fucked on clean hotel sheets after a bottle of Merlot. But it’s not about that.

Mulder’s lips linger on her, marking her breast scarlet and moving on to her collarbone. She rests her head on his shoulder, hiding the pleasure on her face and giving him access to the soft skin of her neck. Mulder leaves hickeys as spectacular as Scully did in high school, when the concept of making out was groundbreaking.

He holds her tenderly; even his cock— restricted in slacks, grinding against her, is subdued, languid. They cannot move as frantically as they did when they were young. They won’t even move to the back seat; she’ll make love to him here. She has planned this already, if she’s being honest.

She pulls a lever on the seat. The back and headrest slowly lower, until the Taurus’s passenger seat offers them ample space. Mulder lays back on it, tie undone, shirt untucked. Pants tight. His erection strains against the zipper.

Scully fumbles to remove her slacks, curled up between Mulder’s outstretched legs as she struggles with the black, pinstriped beast. Her boots are strewn God knows where, and the pants are sticking to her thigh like latex, and wasn’t she wearing a skirt last time? She mentally applauds 1999 Dana Scully for having the foresight to wear a pencil skirt that fateful day in the desert.

Finally stripping off her pants, she tugs open Mulder’s fly with trembling fingers and draws him out, sliding her hand along the length of him and savoring the groan that escapes his lips. She strokes him slowly, doesn’t spring any surprises. It’s the softest handjob she’s ever given, but she doesn’t expect him to come before the main event.

“Scully,” he murmurs, “You need to stop soon…. if you want me…. to last.”

She releases him with a wry smirk. “Fair enough.”

Then Mulder’s mouth is on hers again, searching her lips for 1999. But Dana Scully doesn’t taste like cigarettes and strawberry chapstick anymore; she tastes like Green tea and spearmint gum. And if Mulder once tasted like black coffee with Altoids, now he tastes like coffee with too much sugar. He has softened; she has hardened. Scully doesn’t mind the change, but it takes Mulder a few seconds to adjust to the woman he’s kissing now, whose cotton-smooth skin has weathered elegantly. Whose once-cheeky profile has turned stern and dangerous.

The way Mulder looks at her when he pulls away… she feels the years. But if the sexuality of her youth has vanished, in its place has grown something brazen, mature. She finagles her way out of the soft scarlet thing between Mulder and her pussy. There’s smoke in his eyes, and her body bares itself before him like hot steel. Sure, they’re not humping raggedly in the backseat, but she’ll ride him slow and heavy and press her forehead to his when he comes in her, and what it lacks in vigor it makes up for in devotion.

She kneels over him, hovering on the tip of his cock, gripping fistfuls of his shirt to keep from quivering. For a second, he picks at his buttons and tries to rid himself of the only article of clothing not rumpled about the car, but she gently guides his hand back to her hip. It sits on the sharp knob of her pelvic bone, his other hand curled around her neck. He laces his fingers through her ruffled hair. She takes him inside her with frustrating patience. In their years apart, she forgot the feeling of him moving within her, the unique sensation of Fox Mulder. It floods back to her now, as she hits bottom with the smack of her ass against his thighs and her thighs against his hips.

“Mulderrrrr…” she keens, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and using his shoulders to push herself up. She raises her hips and rocks, before allowing him to thrust fully into her once more. He moans, and she can feel his chest rumble like the purr of a lion. The more she moves, the stickier they become, melding together and peeling apart. Two clay creatures, carved from the same mold and animated vibrantly.

As he falls into their rhythm, leisurely thrusting in and out of her, she reacquaints herself  with his body. Her tongue dips between his pectorals and up to the hollow of his clavicle. She sucks the tender skin and winds her fingers into his hair. A cry escapes her as he presses against her clit, and a wave of sensation courses through her. She runs appreciative hands down his abdominals, dances down them like a piano exercise and drags two fingers down his V to feel it bow and flex with every thrust of his hips.

As she picks up the pace, she disentangles herself from his body and reaches between them to press against her clit. Her partner is all pent-up sexual frustration, and he won’t last. She can already feel Mulder’s arms tighten around her. His fists clench and dig into the muscles rippling along her spine. She lets out a high-pitched whimper when Mulder follows her lead and cups her hand in his own. He traces quick circles over her clit with his thumb, and she can see the grin on his face as her breaths turn to shallow pants. His fingers are relentless, his rhythm constant. She mewls a yearning, erotic thing, a sound her vocal chords haven’t been able to form in decades. Her knees bore lasting dents in the Taurus’s seat.

Mulder shudders beneath her weight with a husky moan, his shoulders falling against the backrest. To his credit, he pumps her with this hands while his cock stills and she continues to tighten around him. He drags across her swollen labia, pulses her clit for a few seconds until she seizes. He coaxes every second of sensation out of her, rocking his hips to side to side to keep the friction going. She opens her lips, tosses her head back like a wolf to the full moon and breathes. And breathes, and breathes, in rapturous little gasps. Her chest heaves, fresh freckles and crucifix bared before Mulder’s awestruck eyes. She bites her lip so hard she can taste blood.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs into her hair, “that’s my Scully. Fuck, you’re so beautiful when you come, Scully.” He says her name like he can’t believe it’s on his tongue.

Finally, she settles. She doesn’t climb off of him, not just yet. He plays with the cross around her neck and then her loose hair and then her nipple. He entertains them both while they catch their breath. She observes him, expectant, until he’s ready to talk.

“That was really something, Scully.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah. I missed you more than I care to admit.”

His eyebrows shoot up. That’s her patented look, excuse him. “Big Spooky or Little Spooky?”

She giggles. It’s been too long since she’s done that, too. “Both of you.” Little Spooky isn’t all that little, but Mulder’s ego certainly doesn’t need her to reaffirm how well endowed he is.

“In all seriousness though, Scully, I missed you too. I missed this, but most of all I missed having you by my side.”

It’s ‘by my side’ that almost makes her cry. He wants her next to him, not hanging back in a morgue or ditched on a whim for some half-baked lead. She would march to the Underworld with Fox Mulder if the alternative was to sit by the ferry and wait for his return.

“You have me now,” she promises softly, brushing a strand of her own hair off his cheeks. “Do I have you?”

“I can’t remember a time you didn’t.” He offers her a radiant smile. Scully welcomes it.

She kisses him chastely and extracts herself from his lap, back into the driver’s seat. Mulder passes her her button-up, panties, and a scratchy blanket he snatched from the backseat. She finagles the underwear over her legs and buttons up her shirt. She wraps herself in the blanket as Mulder dresses.

“All these years,” he muses, zipping up his fly, “and we finally have a song.”

“Mulder, “Can’t Fight this Feeling” is not our song.”

“It is,” he insists. “This song inspired a romantic escapade.”

“Maybe it did, but Speedwagon is eighties rock. It’s metallic and objectively bad.” She rolls her eyes and steps on the gas. The car roars to life, the radio once again blasting static. They’ll have to pull into the next rest stop, so Scully can pee. Theoretically, she could wait until sunrise, the comforting privacy of their hotel room. She’d waited that long before. But she shouldn’t have to.

“Scully… where do we go from here?”

She asked him that once, in a post-coital haze, curled up in a dingy Utah motel. It’s possible she has something to prove when she makes love to him for the time in years on the side of the road. Like the first time, it’s a fresh start. It’s not the same as when they were young; they can’t stomach shit margaritas or bear the desert heat. We’ll figure it out, he promised back then. It’s what they always do at a crossroads, after their foundations quake and their lives shift irreversibly.

She watches him lazily, tries for nonchalant but can’t choke back the emotion. “We’re figuring it out.”

Mulder accepts this answer. Laying his head against the windowsill, he sleepily hums “Can’t Fight this Feeling” under his breath. Scully drives. She drives until the pitch darkness of Idaho swallows them and drives until it spits them back up.

#the x-files #txf fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully #msr fanfic #msr smut #genre: pwp #txf season 11 #todayinfic

[agentelmo]

So I was re-watching the MSR scenes from I Want To Believe this afternoon (you know, as you do) and something clicked in my head about why Scully might have left Mulder.

In IWTB, Scully has transitioned away from her FBI life, away from the X-Files and into something else she can feel satisfied and fulfilled with - being a doctor again.  

Mulder, on the other hand, has not.  He fills his days compiling newspaper clippings, and launching sharpened pencils at the ceiling.  The joke shippers made about how Mulder is completely lost without Scully, and can’t function without their partnership was an amusing aside in Chinga, but now it’s not so funny.  Being lost, unable to properly function or feel fully alive has become his life.

While she can find purpose in their new quieter lives, he’s completely isolated from the world - cut off from his passion for investigation and discovery.  He’s living a half life.  A half life with Scully, but a half life all the same.  

In the beginning of IWTB, an interesting transition happens.  Scully begins being very eager to get Mulder involved in the case, she worries about his isolation and the clear effect it’s having on him - I think she sees this as a chance for him to reconnect with the outside world; to do something other than sit cooped up at home.  He’s initially uninterested claiming to be “happy as a clam”, but Scully does have a point - he seems to have even stopped taking care of himself, as evidenced by the shaggy beard and unkempt hair.  

But once Mulder is out there on the job, Scully starts to see a change in him and almost immediately I think she begins to worry - begins to regret bringing him onto the case because she’s seeing something in him she hasn’t seen for a long time.  It scares her because the darkness that seems to light a fire under Mulder is the very same darkness that has taken so much away from her - has taken the one thing she wanted most, and is referenced exactly once in the entire film.  

William.

Maybe at any other time things might have happened differently and Scully would have chased the darkness alongside Mulder, but in that present moment she was in crisis - being reminded of William and the sacrifice she made, and now again having to face giving up on another boy she cares about and she can’t accept it.  It’s throwing her into deep emotional turmoil.  

Scenes throughout S10 makes it much clearer that Scully often thinks she made a mistake by giving William away, and that she hates herself for it. 

So in IWTB, I wonder if what drives her to fight for Christian is because she doesn’t want to give up on him like she believes she gave up on William - driven by guilt, and that guilt I think it what makes her seek Father Joe out later, hysterically demanding to know what he meant by this phrase “don’t give up”. This “darkness” she talks about - the darkness she doesn’t want in her home is the same darkness that took her son away from her; the same darkness that forced her to make a terrible choice and live with the emptiness William’s absence left behind.  She’s built some semblance of a life with Mulder and she’s terrified of letting the darkness swallow that up too and take Mulder along with it.   This is why I think she has convinced herself she doesn’t want to go back to that life - why she asks Mulder to drop the investigation, stop chasing the darkness and “put it in a book”.  It’s why she’s done chasing monsters in the dark; because sometimes monsters bare their fangs at you, and then take everything you hold dear - everything she held dear.

So of course Scully is scared when she sees Mulder is eager, maybe more eager than she anticipated to believe in Father Joe and throw himself back into this work.  When she’s reminded of the old days, she is disturbed and tries to push it away.  But when he is reminded of the old days he is nostalgic for how they used to be - their dynamic, their teamwork.

This builds throughout the film - Mulder trying to draw her back in and her resisting to the point where Scully feels she has to take a step back, she doesn’t want to be drawn into their old lives together and she acknowledges to Mulder that she had feared that one day something like this might happen.

I think what she fears is that the only thing that can make Mulder truly come to life and feel whole again is to live in pursuit of this darkness.  Mulder all but spells it out for her too.  That this is who he is, and what she’s asking of him is to give up being who he is.

She sees how he’s not just okay with the darkness, but that he actually thrives in it.  He’s been reignited and it scares her to have to face that.  She had clearly harboured this fear that one day he would want to go back to that old life - after everything she’s lost this is a desire she does not share.

By the end of the film Scully seems broken.  I think she feels she’s lost him when she goes to tell him about Father Joe’s death - she sees that he’s been awakened; he’s rediscovered his passion for the pursuit of truth and all the dangers it brings - dangers like the one that robbed them both of their son.  She doesn’t want that life anymore, and seemingly he does, so leaving him is the only solution she can think of.  “I don’t know what else to do.”

But Mulder, ah Mulder... “Don’t give up”, he tells her.  This scene always confused me - I was never really sure what they were talking about specifically.  Don’t give up on Christian?  Don’t give up on their relationship?  Both?  Even as we observe every word, every look and every touch they seem to still have a secret language that we can’t penetrate - they’re having a discussion that only they fully understand.

I mean, it could also be terrible writing and I’m overly romanticising it, but shhh.

I always interpreted it as Mulder asking Scully not to give up on him.  Because that fits more with the overall narrative of the film, right?  Scully feeling like she’s losing Mulder and thinking she has to let him go to save herself from this darkness she fears, but also to let him go be who he needs to be.  But he says no, don’t give up on me, on us... I’m willing to leave all of this behind and be with you, just the two of us.  Let’s leave it all behind, I’ll gladly throw it all away to be with you.

Everything she wanted from him, he gives her in that moment and that brings her back to life; gives her courage.  Her doubts erased, she goes ahead with Christian’s surgery.  This is what these two together can do for each other - it’s beautiful, but also heartbreaking.  Even with this level of love and self-sacrifice, why didn’t it work out?

How did we go from there, to the beginning of S10 where they are no longer together?  Well, this is where my theory about it comes in.  I think that despite Mulder’s best intentions to give up that life and just be with Scully, it probably didn’t last... because ultimately, this is who Mulder is.  

In IWTB what I see is Mulder’s internal contradictions.  In the heat of the search, Mulder isn’t willing to give up; he’s stubborn to a fault and he will sacrifice seemingly almost anything (even his relationship with Scully) to do what he thinks he must do. 

This is in no small part due to the loss of his sister, Samantha.  Scully picks up on this very quickly - she knows him so well at this point; knows that his determination and obsession to save others - particularly women - is borne out of a long standing and deeply scarred need to save his sister.  

But in hindsight, when he’s able to take a step back from the rush of his obsession, he can see the consequences more clearly and chooses to give up this part of himself; give up who he has always been; who he was before he met her - everything he knows.  He chooses to give that up to be with Scully.  

That’s love, right there.  Can we please take a moment to appreciate how much he loves her?  *sigh*

On the face of it, this seems like a wonderfully romantic gesture - and it is.  But in reality this was always going to be doomed, because while Scully has something else to fulfil her - Mulder still doesn’t.  That problem was never resolved.  I don’t blame Scully for this, but I do think, when you really look at it for what it is, the life they were living was never going to last.  Mulder can’t give up who he is, even if he wanted to, and he really did want to.  But I think Scully’s lying to herself if she believes Mulder can truly let go of that life and be happy.

And that’s why I think they broke up.  Scully coming to realise that Mulder has to be who he is.  Sveta says in My Struggle I that Mulder was depressed, and that’s what killed their relationship.  I think what happened was that Scully made a sacrifice... she knew that being with her was killing him, that he would never choose to go back because that would also mean having to let her go - and he can’t do that.  So I think she made the choice for him.

Even though he loves Scully, I imagine giving up that part of himself was what was making him depressed and I think he would quite possibly destroy himself if it was what kept her by his side.  But Scully could no longer bear to watch him do it to himself anymore.

My head canon on this now is that Scully left Mulder not because she’d had enough of his mopey depressed self, but because she wanted to save him - to set him free of her, allow him to be who he once was, because she couldn’t be with him if he was going to go down that path once again - it was just too painful for her.

Now when I started thinking about their breakup in this way, I wanted to tear my own heart out Milagro-style.

But wait, there’s more!

Because what did S10 show us again and again about how Scully truly feels when she’s out there with Mulder, pursuing the truth - working on the X-Files?  They’re both so alive again - so much more than either of them were in IWTB where they were together but leading unhappy lives.  They really did seem sad in IWTB - even in romantic moments, it felt permeated by this oddly melancholy atmosphere... but S10 Mulder and Scully are very different - particularly Scully.

Not to mention this very interesting conversation with Tad O’Malley.

O’Malley: Do you miss it at all; the X-Files? Scully: As a scientist it was probably some of the most intense and challenging work I’ve ever done.  I’ve never felt so alive. O’Malley: You mean, working with Mulder. Scully: Possibly one of the most intense and challenging relationships I may ever have... and quite honestly, the most impossible.

I think the reason there were references to Scully enjoying the X-Files and her truly feeling alive when working with Mulder, was a way to communicate to the audience that Scully had - for a time - forgotten that.  Working with Mulder again made her realise that she loved this life just as much as he did.   Seeing him again; truly seeing him as he was - this stubborn, driven, passionate man with his beautiful mind that she fell in love with - I want to believe (eyyyy!) will make her realise they can be together and that they don’t have to destroy each other to do it.

That’s how they find their way back to each other, at least I hope it is.  I think finding William again will play a part in that too - Scully being able to forgive herself, free herself from this guilt she carries and allow herself to live again.  

Of course, this is all resting on whether or not they actually do find William in S11, that he is their son and that Mulder and Scully do rekindle their romantic relationship.  Because despite what Chris Carter says, I don’t trust the man as far as I can throw his sorry noromo ass.

#I hope I'm not talking out of my arse #I think way too much about these things #Like where has my weekend gone? #drowning in the MSR #xfiles #x files #msr #mulder and scully #essay/rant #dana scully #fox mulder #i want to believe #william scully #angst angst and more freakin angst

[mldrgrl]

Not Again: Part 2

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG13 Summary: See Part 1

Part 2: Returned Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Chapter 4, Day 4:

Scully can’t sleep.  For one thing, she’s uncomfortable, but for another, she can’t turn her mind off.  She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s worried about Mulder.  She doesn’t like the thought of him in the middle of the ocean on an oil rig with a partner she’s not sure she can trust to watch his back.

Two o’clock rolls around and she hasn’t been able to keep her eyes closed more than a minute or two, so she gets up and logs into her work email to get a head start on things that might be waiting for her.  There’s an email from Mulder in there, time-stamped at 6:43 p.m.

Scully -

If you get bored tomorrow and need something less mindless to do, I thought you might want to take a look at the photos of the body that washed up in Texas.  Does it look like death from explosion to you?  This has black oil written all over it, Scully, I can feel it.

They’re sending the body to Quantico sometime tonight.  Maybe you can make a call and get the autopsy report.

Good luck either way.  I wish I could be with you.

-Mulder

She opens up a series of attached photos and scrolls through them.  She can’t tell from the photos alone what may have caused the angry, red lesions covering the body.  Her ID still works for the Quantico database, so she checks the log to see when the body arrived and when the autopsy will be performed, and by who.  Her suspicions are raised when the file indicates that the body is not to be autopsied, but transported to Mexico first thing in the morning.  The serial number for the cold storage locker is at the top of the intake sheet and she memorizes it before she shuts down her computer.

Without stopping to talk herself out of it, she gets dressed and heads to Quantico.  It’s not even three in the morning when she flashes her ID to the night guard and makes her way down to the morgue and scrubs in.

*****

It’s seven a.m. when she calls Skinner, only after trying to reach Mulder for an hour.  She doesn’t think she can speak freely over the phone, so she asks him to meet her at Quantico as soon as possible.  Twenty minutes later, and clearly annoyed, he comes through the door.

“Close the door,” she says to him.  “Lock it.”

“What’s going on?” he asks, doing as she says.  “What are you even doing here, Scully?  You’re due to report to SA-”

“I realize that, Sir, but Mulder emailed me photos of the body of the man killed on the oil rig last night, and I couldn’t let it go.”

“Let what go?”

“His belief that the black oil had something to do with this.”  She gestures to the body on the table next to her and Skinner grimaces.  “Now, I can’t reach Mulder, and I don’t know who to talk to about this.”

“About what?”

“What I found in the autopsy.”

“How did you even get access to the body, it’s my understanding the situation has become political and this man was supposed to be sent back to Mexico untouched.”

She ignores Skinner, takes up a pair of long tweezers and walks around to the top of the table.  “I found it by accident in the third ventricle of his brain,” she says, inserting the tweezers into the area in question.  

As soon as Scully puts slight pressure into the area, black liquid oozes out of the brain and pools at the back of the head.  Skinner looks alarmed and tries to pull her away from the body, but she lifts her elbow out of his grip.

“No,” she says.  “It’s okay.  It’s alright.”

“What do you mean?  I was under the impression that this stuff could literally jump into a man's body.”

“It can, and I've seen that happen, but that’s the thing.  This man was clearly infected by the alien virus.  It entered his system and it was massing in the pineal gland, but now it's dead.”

“I don’t understand.  What killed it?”

“Well intuitively, you would say the same thing that killed him, which would be exposure to high levels of radiation.  Yet it makes no sense because the virus itself has radioactive properties.”

“Then we need to get in touch with Mulder and Doggett.  They need to know what they’re dealing with.”

“Actually I was hoping you could convince Kersh to order a controlled evacuation of that rig as soon as possible.”

“I can’t go to Kersh with this.  It’s not evidence you can even explain or that he’ll understand.”

“If the virus gets loose, Mulder’s life is in danger.  Everyone on that rig is in danger.”

“We don't know that for sure.  There are nearly two dozen men on that rig and not one other case.  Why?”

Scully shakes her head and has to swallow the lump in her throat that comes on quickly.  Damn these pregnancy hormones.  “I don’t know,” she whispers.  If she can’t convince Skinner that Mulder is in danger, there’s no way she’ll convince Kersh.

*****

Against Skinner’s orders, Scully does not report to SAC Connors.  Instead, she heads to the basement and into the back room to hook up Mulder’s radio transmitter.  She tries to reach the oil rig all morning.  A blister blooms on the side of her finger from depressing the button on the microphone continuously, but she doesn’t give up.  Finally, something like a voice cuts through the static.

“This is Orpheus,” a faint voice replies to her signal.  “Go ahead.”

“Orpheus, I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” she says.  “This is Special Agent Dana Scully.  I need to speak with one of the agents you have on board, either Mulder or Doggett.”

“I can take your message, Agent Scully.”

“No, I need to speak with Mulder or Doggett directly.”

“Agent Doggett’s fishing, Agent Scully,” a different, instantly recognizable voice answers.  “You’ll have to settle for me.”

“This isn’t a joke, Mulder.”

“You found something, didn’t you?  Is it the virus?”

“Yes, I did.  And it’s dead.”

“Dead?  What killed it?”

“Possibly radiation.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I know,” she says, holding a hand to her head in frustration.  “I know, and this could be an isolated event, but that he's infected at all means that everybody out there could be at risk.  And that includes you and Agent Doggett.”

“We’ve got to quarantine the rig.”

“No,” she says, emphatically.  “Mulder, you have got to get off the rig.  Agent Doggett can give the order.  We can quarantine you and the crew when you get back.”

“Scully, if these men are infected the last place we want to be is onshore where they can infect other people.  You're sitting on the answer right there, Scully.   It’s in the body.  You need to find out for sure what killed it.”

“What if I can’t?”

There’s a beat of silence and Scully thinks the transmission may have gone dead.  “Tell the kid I went down swinging,” Mulder finally says.

“Mulder?”

There’s no answer.  Scully throws the microphone down and puts her head in her hands.

*****

Biting the bullet, Scully goes to Kersh herself, bringing him her autopsy report and photos of the body.  She breezes past his secretary and knocks on the door before she lets herself in.  Kersh looks surprised to see her.  It’s the most emotion she’s ever seen him display.

“Sir, I’m sorry to come unannounced,” she says.  “I wouldn’t be here unless it was an emergency.”

“What kind of an emergency crops up in wiretapping?” he asks, disdain in his voice.

“This is my autopsy report on Simon de la Cruz.”  She places a file on his desk and then steps back.

The disdain in Kersh’s voice turns to full on anger.  “Who authorized you to conduct an autopsy on this man?”

“No one, Sir.”

“Agent Scully, this is an insubordinate stunt the likes of which I would expect from Agent Mulder.”

“I don’t have time for reprimands, I need you to look at this report and I need you to order an immediate evacuation of the oil rig that Agents Mulder and Doggett are on.”

Kersh flips open the file with thinly veiled disgust.  “What am I looking at?”

“This man was exposed to a virus.”

“And?”

“And the entire crew of that ship may be infected as we speak.”

“You want me to order a multi-billion dollar company to shut down their operations because you suspect their crew might have a virus.”

“This isn’t a suspicion.  This is-”

She’s cut off by the ringing of Kersh’s phone, which he promptly answers.  He stares at her with contempt as he listens to the caller.  She turns to give him the semblance of privacy as he mmhms and I sees his way through the call.  Eventually, he hangs up, and Scully faces him again.

“I see I’m not the first one you went to to plead your case.”

“Sir?”

“That was the president of Galpex-Orpheus expressing his dismay that AD Skinner ordered an evacuation of his rig when I expressly assured him his business would not be affected by the investigation.”

“How could you even promise such a thing?  Especially when the company could have very well been negligent.  Who exactly do you work for?”

“As of now, Agent Scully, you are suspended until further notice.”

“Sir, if you just-”

“Effective immediately, Agent Scully.  Turn your badge over to AD Skinner on your way out of the building.”

Trembling with rage, Scully turns and exits Kersh’s office.  She has to fight the urge to slam the door on her way out.  On the elevator down to Skinner’s office, she curses the man for being such a hard-headed bastard.

She feels rather defeated as Skinner ushers her through his door and she places her badge on his desk.  He looks perplexed.

“I’ve been ordered to turn in my badge,” she says, holding her head high, but feeling like she’s on the verge of tears.

“You went to Kersh?”

“I felt I had no choice.”

“I want you to explain something to me.”  Skinner hands her an open folder.  “I had Agent Navarro copy me on the blood tests you ordered on de la Cruz.”

Scully browses the report Skinner hands her and then stops to read more carefully.  She knits her brow and studies the first page, and then the next.

“This indicates that his T-cell count is impossibly high,” she says.  “To put it in layman’s terms, it would mean he’s a virus-fighting machine.”

“What would explain that?”

She thinks for a moment.  “Well,” she says.  There are isolated cultures, in northern Italy for one, where people are immune to certain diseases.  Heart disease in that case, through a genetic mutation.”

“So this man had what?  A kind of genetic immunity to the alien virus?”

“His employment records listed him as mixed Mexican ancestry, when in fact he is Waicha Indian. The Waicha are an indigenous Mexican culture that has a rare undiluted gene pool.  Maybe these genes may have an innate immunity to infection.”

“Alright, he’s immune.  But, he died from being burned.”

She shakes her head, forming an explanation.  “No, not burned,” she murmurs, shaking her head and thinking out loud.  “Irradiated.  Because the virus had no effect on him.  The crew members who were affected by the virus couldn't control him, so they killed him, by irradiating him.”

“So why not kill Mulder?  Or Agent Doggett?  Why kill only this man?”

“All I can think is that he must have been a threat.  Possibly because of something he knew.”

“Even if we did know, and were able to give word to them, would it be something that would put Mulder and Agent Doggett in danger as well?”

“I don’t know.”

Under the pretense of escorting Scully to retrieve her things, Skinner walks her down to the basement and she turns the transmitter back on.  Both of them attempt to contact the oil rig in separate shifts.  She paces while he sends out the signal.  Agent Doggett is the one to respond this time.

“AD Skinner?”

“Agent Doggett?”

“What is that noise?” Scully asks, moving around Skinner to listen more closely to the speaker.  “It sounded like banging.”

“Agent Doggett?” Skinner asks again.

“Yeah, right here,” he shouts.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“What is that noise?”

“Banging.”

Scully takes the microphone from Skinner.  “Agent Doggett, I think I know what killed de la Cruz.”

“Right now we got bigger problems.  We’re gonna need a chopper.”

“Tell him there’s a chopper on the way,” Skinner says.

“There’s a chopper on the way,” she tells Agent Doggett.

“Agent Scully, listen.  There are three men on board here that are not infected.  Me, Mulder and a man named Diego Garza who may be mentally unstable.  Could be why he tried to wreck this radio room, just like his friend Simon de la Cruz.  He may resist rescue attempt because he believes there are men in flying saucers who are coming to get him.  Agent Scully, do you-”

The transmission begins to break up on their end and Scully tries to answer Doggett back, but the feed goes completely silent.  Skinner flips off the radio and she slumps against the table for a few moments.

“I guess I better walk out now before Kersh has me thrown out,” she says.

“I’ll deal with Kersh.  Go home and try not to think about it.  I’ll have Mulder call you when they land.”

“Do you think they’ll make it?”

“Of course.”

She nods, but she can tell Skinner isn’t too sure.  She picks up the attache she dropped off in the office when she came in and heads out, with her boss behind her.

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed wiretapping anyway,” Skinner says.

“Probably not,” she returns.  “But, I needed something to take my mind off the fact that I have no idea where I’ve been for six months, no idea how this baby came to be, and no idea what I’m going to do.”

Skinner looks mildly shocked and puts a hand on her back.  “Would you like to speak with Karen Kosseff about this?”

“I don’t think therapy’s going to help this time.”

They ride the elevator together in awkward silence until the doors open to the parking garage.  She can tell Skinner wants to say more to her, but she walks out and doesn’t look back.

*****

Her cell phone rings just a few minutes after she walks through her door.  She can barely hear him, but it’s Mulder.

“Are you alright?” she asks, holding a hand over her ear to try to hear him better.

“Doggett and I are the only survivors,” he answers.

“I’m sorry, are you saying everyone on that rig is dead?”

“Blown to smithereens.”

Scully sucks in a breath.  She has no idea what that means in terms of containing the virus.  It isn’t good news.

“Where are they quarantining you?” she asks.

“They’re not.”

“Mulder…”

“Doggett and I are fine.  You can check me out yourself when I get back.”

“I will.”

“Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Stay vigilant, Mulder.  Be aware of any signs of-“

“I know the drill, Scully.  Lo-uh...I’ll see you later.”

There’s a click on Mulder’s end and then silence.  Scully hangs up the phone with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.  The baby kicks and she rubs her hand over her belly.  She’s no less worried now, having spoken to Mulder, than she was before.  She needs to see him and look into his eyes herself to make sure he’s okay.

Suddenly, she feels a small jab of pain in her side and she sucks in a breath and presses her hand to her ribs.  Some flash of a memory comes to her in the moment, but it lacks specificity.  She only remembers being annoyed with Mulder for wanting her to explore crop circles with him on a Saturday.

The baby shifts within her.  The pain lasted only a second and doesn’t come back.

*****

Scully is abruptly pulled from sleep by a noise she registers as knocking only after jerking awake and flailing an arm out for the phone on her nightstand and realizing she’s on her couch and her phone didn’t ring.  She struggles to get up and pushes the hair out of her face as she makes her way to the door.  Before she even checks the peephole, she suspects Mulder is on the other side.  He looks relieved when she opens it for him.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he says in lieu of a greeting.  “I just wanted to check to make sure everything was okay.”

“Yeah, I...I guess I fell asleep.  What time is it?”

“Not even ten.”

“Come in.  You’re back already?”

“Landed about an hour ago.”

She can tell she startles him when she grabs his face and holds his head steady as she looks in his eyes.  He looks nothing but concerned.  No black clouds in the whites of his eyes, just a little bloodshot which tells her he’s tired.  She releases him and finally feels the relief she’d wanted when she spoke with him earlier.

“Am I clear?” he asks.

“All clear.”

“Skinner told me what happened.  I’m sorry, Scully.  I didn’t mean for you to-”

“I know you didn’t.  It’s okay.”  Even as the words leave her mouth, she feels her shoulders begin to shake and she drops her head.  Once again, she’s unable to keep her motions in check and she knows it must be an aspect of the pregnancy because she can usually keep her frustration under control a lot better.

“Oh, Scully.”  

Mulder puts his arms around her and she lets her head fall against his chest.  There have only been a handful of times she’s allowed him to hold her like this, times of distress and heartache.  It’s always been comforting, but never more so than now.  She feels the urge to cling to him and release her pent up fear into his chest.  It’s like she’s realizing for the first time how strong he is and how weak she is.

“It’s not okay,” she whispers.  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now.”

“You need time to adjust.”

“I can’t sit at home all day alone, I’ll go insane.”

Mulder moves one hand in a broad circle over her back and then he reaches up to push her hair over her ear.  She closes her eyes and sighs.  If she could stay like this for awhile, maybe she could absorb some of his strength.

“There’s something else you should know,” he says.

“What?”

“Kersh has been sanctioned and his office is under investigation.”

Scully gasps a little and pulls back to look at Mulder’s face.  “What?”

“Your suspension has been removed from your record, but Skinner doesn’t think it’s a very good idea for you to come back just yet.”

“Did Skinner file a complaint against him?”

“Yes, but he’s not the only one.  Kersh was suspected of accepting bribes in other matters and has been under surveillance for some time.  You might have to testify to what you heard in his office today.”

“When can I come back?”

Mulder pulls her back into a hug.  “Give it a week at least.”  

“What am I going to do with a week?”

“What if we went away?”

“Away?”

“Yeah, like a vacation.  What if I took you somewhere?”

“Where?”

“How about some place tropical?”

“Are you just saying that because you have a hot tip on the whereabouts of the Fiji mermaid?”

Mulder pulls back and chuckles.  He puts his hands on her face and swipes at her tears with his thumbs.  “You see,” he says.  “You’re still the skeptical Scully I know and love.”

Her heart jumps in her chest a little.  It hits her that part of the reason she hasn’t felt much like herself is that she definitely feels different around Mulder.  Not a bad kind of different, just different.  Like she needs something from him, but she doesn’t know what that is.

“Running away never solved anything,” she says.

“It’s not running, it’s just a vacation.”

“I’ll think about it.”  She pauses and studies his face for a moment.  “Mulder, in the months I can’t remember, did you ever ask me to go look at crop circles with you?”

“You turned me down cold.”  He cocks his head and purses his lips.  “Are you...did you remember something?”

“Being annoyed with you.”

“That certainly narrows it down.”  He smiles at her and she closes her eyes for a moment.

“Did you go without me?”

“To find the crop circles?”  He sighs when she nods her head.  “Yeah, but I came up empty handed.  You on the other hand, had an epiphany.”

“What?”

“Apparently you and God had a little tet-e-tet in a buddhist temple.”

“Clearly I was pulling your leg.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“I was just as surprised as you are.  Listen, I’ve got tomorrow off.  Think about where you want to go and call me.  Skinner will be thrilled he doesn’t have to force time off on me this year.”

“What about Agent Doggett?”

“He’s a big boy.  I’ll promise to send him a postcard.”  

Mulder brushes his thumbs over her cheeks again and smiles.  His eyes move over her face and there’s a fleeting look of sadness there when he lets go of her.  She walks him to the door.

“Night, Scully.”

*****

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #season 8 au #msr

[numinousmysteries]

Unforgiven

Also on AO3. There may be more of this to come. 

His anger comes in waves. There are days when he can't even look at her, when he knows all he'll see is the person who gave his son away, not the woman he loves. On these days he slinks into his office, closes the door, and prays she doesn't knock. He searches databases for children who are missing or dead that fit the description of their son. There is relief when he finds nothing but also, and he hates himself fir this, disappointment that he isn't able to prove she made a mistake, that she couldn't keep him safe. It would destroy her. It would destroy both of them.

There are also days when he just wants to hold her and bury himself in her warmth. They are the lone survivors of their personal tragedy and he needs to be with her because she is the only one who understands the searing pain that grips him to his core. He knows she feels it too. And he hopes that if they hold each other close enough and feel their pain deeply enough they can, by sheer power of will, force the universe to protect their child. He has never wanted to believe in something more.

Scully does not wallow. After her father died, she needed to dive back into work. When she was diagnosed with cancer, she valiantly trudged along to cases with him and he learned to ignore her fading complexion and nosebleeds. So while he shouldn't be surprised that she's buried herself in her work at the hospital, it still feels like a betrayal. Saving the children of strangers may be her way of doing penance, but he wants to shake her and scream that she wasn't able to save the only child who truly matters.

For the short few months between seeing his sister's spirit in California and his abduction, he had finally felt free. He didn't save his sister but he knew that, despite the horrors she endured in her too-short life, she was finally at peace. For too many years he had restrained himself from letting Scully know how he felt about her because as much as he wished--and suspected--she felt the same way, enjoying their relationship would've only made him feel guilty for distracting himself from his quest. But when she crawled into his bed after admitting that she believed all her choices in life had led to that very moment, he had let her in. And when she asked him to be the father of her child, he saw it as a chance to redeem himself. He would give their child all the love that his parents could not give him and Samantha.

But he couldn't. He was a coward for leaving Scully and William alone because of the vague threat that hovered over him. He was no better than his own father who also tore his family apart out of fear. And Scully, the one person he thought he could trust to be stronger than him, succumbed to this fear as well and let the shadowy men who had haunted him his whole life take away his last chance at redemption.

*

They try to live a semblance of a life but they both know they are tip-toeing on the edge of a bottomless canyon, one gust of wind away from descending into the abyss. After his name is cleared and he's no longer a fugitive, she hopes things will change, hopes that he'll emerge from his dark office and once again become the man she fell in love with. He takes her to an island and they spend a week as if time has stopped, as if in those frozen moments their son is somewhere warm and safe and the only thing they have to do is relish in each other's bodies and the reliable pleasures they've learned to give each other over the years. But time cannot stop. On the flight back home she sees him gazing out the tiny oval window and she knows nothing has changed.

Over the months after they return she begs him to consider teaching, writing a book, or consulting for the Bureau. She even suggests going back to profiling because she imagines even reaching into the depths of someone else's darkness may be better for him than drowning in his own. He humors her and says he'll look into it but nothing ever happens. Instead he descends deeper into his pain and farther away from her. She writes him prescriptions for antidepressants but finds the pill bottles untouched after months. She starts taking them herself but there is no simple shift in brain chemistry that can restore what they've lost.

He was supposed to save the world. She didn't fully believe his claim that the world as they knew it was set to end on December 21, 2012, but she knew that if it were true he'd be the one to stop it. Instead, he sheepishly emerges from his study on that cold winter night and wordlessly lights a fire in the fireplace of their living room. It's been years since either of them had touched the fireplace. They enjoyed the warmth it brought to their drafty old home the first few years after they moved in, but as Mulder withdrew further she saw no need to treat herself to the indulgence. But on their potentially last night on earth he ignites a pile of logs and curls up behind her on the sofa and they watch it burn in silence. She closes her eyes and hopes that he's right, that nuclear fallout or extraterrestrial attacks will wipe them off the face of the planet and she won't have to live another day feeling the ache of her guilt. She imagines When she wakes up the sun is rising, the fire is out, and he is gone.

Her decision to leave is years in the making and she isn't surprised when he doesn't try to fight her. He is holed up in his study so much of the time that she isn't sure when he even noticed her bags were packed and her toiletries were gone from the bathroom. He does come out and help her load her car with the handful of suitcases and boxes that comprise her only worldly possessions. Before she drives away he presses his palm against the driver's side window. She wants to return the gesture and let him know they are still and will always be connected through an unbreakable thread of love and hate and shared history but she can't. She shakes her head and shifts the car into drive. It takes all of her strength to not glance out the rear view mirror.

#the x files #x-files fanfic #xf fanfic

[allyinthekeyofx]

Affirmation 1/4

Series of post eps starting with Orison that are my take on the path to ‘All Things’

Post episode ORISON

I stare into the mirror, my reflection vaguely distorted by the lingering condensation on the glass, the usually sharp, well-defined lines of my face turned bleary, non-descript.

The shower has done nothing to ease either my aching body or my aching heart, and even though my skin is suffused with a rosy glow from the heat, I am still cold, shivering like a day old infant ripped from its mother’s comforting embrace.

The woman who stares back at me is not the woman I know. She has changed irrevocably, never to be the same again, sullied, cheapened by a single act of vengeance.

Today, I killed a man in cold blood; took away his life almost on a whim. I watched him squirm, saw the fear in his face as he realized what I was about to do. And I revelled in the power I had over him, rejoiced as I applied pressure to the trigger, the sound of my partner’s voice coming at me from far outside myself as I watched the bullet tear in to Donnie Pfaster’s flesh.

And just for a second it had felt so right so just.

But the feeling was fleeting, quickly replaced by a spreading numbness as Mulder reached me and gently loosened the gun from my grasp.

I couldn’t speak, could barely stand to look him in the eye as it slowly dawned on me that he had seen everything. He had seen his stoic by-the-book partner lose control in a way I had vowed never to do.

And yet he hadn’t flinched; he had simply taken control as he always did, speaking soft words of reassurance as he helped me through the next few hours.

I had packed a bag under his ever watchful eye, knowing I had to leave the apartment to allow the forensics team to do their work but at the same time not wanting to go; knowing that when I returned, things would never be the same again.

I wanted to stay, to roll up my sleeves and scrub every inch of that monster from my home, from my soul.

Mulder had wanted to take me back to his place, to allow him to take care of me, to make amends for not being there for me - for allowing Pfaster to get to me once again. He didn’t say as much of course, but his expressive hazel eyes eloquently begged me to please let him do this.

Of course I refused him.

Directed him instead to drop me at the nearest Motel. He opened his mouth just once to argue, but something in my face caused him to abruptly shut it again as he nodded sadly, knowing that nothing he said would change my mind. And all the while my heart was screaming out to just let him take me away, away to the only place I might find some semblance of peace. Wanting so much to step in to his strong embrace and let him soothe away the tears that prickled at my eyelids like a thousand needles.

Instead, I had simply turned away from him like I always did. Feeling my walls go up as surely as if I had been armed, not with a gun, but with bricks and mortar, filling in the cracks as they appeared.

I had felt my resolve weaken as he had stood beside me watching me trying to make my shaking hands co-operate sufficiently to unlock the door leading in to the tiny cinder block motel room that was to be my home for the next few days.

Finally, he had put one warm hand gently on the nape of my neck, whilst the other had taken the key from me and deftly succeeded where I had failed.

"You shouldn’t be alone right now."

He had spoken the words with such gentleness, a final attempt to break through my walls, and I had so nearly crumbled, wanting nothing more than to cling to him and never let him go, to breath in the scent of him that so often invaded my dreams.

"I’m fine Mulder."

Of course I was. Wasn’t I always? Seven years of sharing everything with this man except my emotions. How many times had I said those words to him? How many times had I lied?

Just like I had lied then.

He had dropped his hand away, leaving me feeling bereft once more. The connection between us broken, shattered in to a million pieces by the utterance of three little words, just as I had known it would.

And of course he had left.

Just as I had wanted him to.

Because once again, I had pushed him away.

How many more times would he allow me to do that before he stopped caring?

Right now, I don’t have the strength, either physical or emotional to question it. I stand here, shivering, rapidly cooling water beading my skin and wonder instead just what the hell I’m doing.

Why am I like this? Why can’t I for once admit that I need him?

The face of the woman I used to know, crumples before me, her eyes filling with unshed tears as she slowly traces a finger along the misty glass of the mirror, lingering on the livid purple bruise just above her cheekbone. Another bruise to add to the multitudes already etched on to her heart.

So many injuries over the years, but the physical challenges are the easy ones, easily healed, easily forgotten.

The real pain comes from inside.

Seeing the first tear finally escape its confines, I angrily swipe at my image with the palm of my hand, obliterating the delicate patterns forged by the steam filling the small room, and turn away from all that I see.

Out of sight out of mind

If only that were true.

The light in the bedroom is muted, curtains tightly drawn against the outside world. A small, inadequate desk light throws out a weak glow that only really brightens the area immediately around it.

But that’s fine.

My head hurts - stress induced, the doctor inside me supplies helpfully - and I am afraid that to turn on more lights will make the pounding inside my skull intensify to a point I will be forced to acknowledge it fully.

For now, it is simply another cross to bear.

I deserve it. Call it penance.

I have no idea what the time is right now. Time stopped for me when I pulled that trigger. But I am tired and to crawl under the covers and go to sleep has an undeniable appeal.

But I fight the urge for a short while. Even turn on the TV, try to lose myself in the trials and tribulations of the characters who live their lives within that little square box, and for a scant few minutes I actually succeed. I stop thinking.

And then the scene before me changes.

Stupid really, the interior of a church fills the screen.

Candles burning.

Candles

Oh God.

I make it to the bathroom just in time before I lose the last remnants of my hastily consumed dinner down the sink, trying to control my breathing as I retch and retch, soon bringing up nothing but acrid tasting bile, and then nothing at all.

But still my hands grip the slick porcelain as my body is wracked with painful spasms, no longer in my control, I feel the tears streaming down my face as I wait for it to subside.

I’d forgotten just how much throwing up really hurts and I feel something below my rib cage tear through the strain.

I haven’t thrown up like this since I was first diagnosed with cancer, but somehow this is worse. Back then, the nausea was something to be tolerated; a direct result of the drugs being pumped in to me to prolong my life.

But this?

This is as a result of something evil.

And the knowledge I have brought it on myself makes it a thousand times more painful.

Finally, the spasms are replaced by the sound of gasping as I try to breathe and cry at the same time. My freshly washed hair hangs around my face, the honeysuckle scent mingling with the acrid stench below me and I straighten up abruptly.

The sudden shift makes my now pounding head spin, and my legs cease to be co-operative, buckling suddenly to deposit me in an ungainly heap on the cold tile beneath me.

I don’t try to move. Pressing my uninjured cheek against the floor I revel in the delicious coldness that replaces the heat in my body.

I close my eyes, and mercifully see no images behind them as I am dragged away from conscious thought.

XXXX

"Scully?"

I hear his voice from far away, unsure as to whether I am imagining it.

I’ve imagined him so many times in my dreams, always disappointed when I open my eyes to find myself alone and I refuse to acknowledge that this time is any different.

"Scully wake up. You’re freezing."

Freezing? I’m not cold. A little uncomfortable sure. This damn bed is as hard as stone and about as giving to my tired muscles.

And then I remember, I am not in a bed.

Normal people sleep in beds. I sleep on bathroom floors in low budget motel rooms.

The realization is enough to force my eyes open, blinking them rapidly as I focus on the figure above me. He is silhouetted by the harsh glare of the fluorescent strip light, but shadowed or not, I would recognize that profile anywhere.

He shouldn’t be here.

Go ‘way Mulder. I’m trying to sleep.

"Scully, wake up......I have something to show you."

I try to ignore him and fail miserably as usual. Mulder is impossible to ignore, I learned that early on in our partnership.

The last vestiges of sleep fall away as I shake my head irritably and drag myself up in to a sitting position, a frown furrowing my brow as I realize he isn’t beside me anymore.

Mulder?

"In here Scully. You won’t believe it."

His voice sounds weird, strained, like he is forcing the words out, and suddenly, my senses are on full alert as I command myself to stand. My muscles ache from a combination of fatigue and from forcing them to stay confined in the small space I had chosen for sleep.

I obediently follow his voice in to the bedroom to find him standing in the corner beside the TV that still played happily to itself, oblivious to the fact that no one was there to watch.

What is it Mulder? What do you want? I’m tired and.......

The words die in my throat as he grins at me.

Mulder never grins, at least not like this.

I must be tired, because the expression on his face seems.....

Evil

I almost laugh out loud at the word that popped unbidden in to my mind.

Evil? Mulder doesn’t have an evil bone in his body.

But something is wrong. Very wrong...and suddenly my heart stops. I actually feel it cease it’s steady rhythm in my chest and for long seconds I feel like it’s never going to start up again.

Because the man facing me isn’t my partner.

I take a step backwards, colliding hard with the bathroom door I can’t remember closing behind me, frantically feeling along the wood for the handle, Instinctively needing to put something solid between us. My terror intensifies as I realize that my fumbling is in vain. My fingers trail along the surface. A surface hard and cold and bare.

This has to be a nightmare.

He isn’t really here,

I have to wake up.

I squeeze my eyes shut and start to count.

1

2

3

"Open your eyes Dana. Look at me. Look at what you did to me."

4

5

"DANA"

6

Oh God.......I feel him close to me. I can smell him.

I cry out as fingers curl around my arm, bruising the tender flesh beneath and I can’t deny it any longer. Despite what my rational scientists mind is telling me, the pain is real.

This is real

I open my eyes, my vision blurry from the pain still being inflicted from his steel grip and I find myself looking deep in to his eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

He holds up his free hand, palm outwards and it glistens wetly in the light of the single lamp I left illuminated.

And then I realize that it is covered in blood. His blood. Blood I spilled.

I shake my head from side to side, denying even now what in my heart I know to be true.

No .I killed you. This isn’t real....

He seems to find this vaguely amusing, and just for a moment, the sound of his laughter assails my senses, replaced almost immediately with the feel of his free hand enveloping my face, his fingers pressing cruelly in to the bruised flesh beneath. Worse though, is the cloying stench of his blood, smeared now on to my own skin. It attacks every part of me, and I feel my stomach somersault, the bile rising once again to burn my throat.

He has come to kill me. To finish what he started, and I am powerless to prevent him.

And then, abruptly, he releases me and steps away.

"I have a gift for you, Girly girl. Something to remember me by when I’m gone."

I stand there stupidly, unsure as to how to react. There is no threat in his voice now, and inexplicably, this only frightens me more.

I flinch as he once more raises his hand, holding my breath as I wait for the inevitable, an inevitable that never comes as I realize he is pointing toward the bed.

A box sits upon it, roughly the size and shape of an old fashioned hat box, tied up with wide velvet ribbon.

And I have never been more sure of anything in my life than I am at this moment. I do not want or need to see the contents of that box.

"Aren’t you going to open it? I went to such trouble on your behalf to get you something you really wanted."

I shake my head numbly. I am crying now. I’m not sure when I started. I don’t think I really care anymore.

He shrugs nonchalantly and heads past me, making for the bed.

I know what he is going to do, and once more I clamp my eyes shut.

I hear a rustling sound. Tissue paper I think, maybe plastic. I can’t be sure.

"Surprise!"

He is close to me again, the knowledge of this is enough for me to almost give in to reflex and open my eyes again.

Dontlookdontlookdontlookdontlookdontlookdontlookdontlookdontlookdontlook

The reflex is stronger than the mantra I am chanting, though and against my will my eyes snap open.

Like a manifestation of my worst nightmare, my partner’s once beautiful hazel eyes stare back at me, fixed in a startled look of horror, rolled back up in to his head that has been roughly severed at the neck.

His thick, dark hair has been cut jaggedly in places, reminding me suddenly of that ridiculous buzz cut he adopted after our incarceration in Antarctica.

*Joining the army, Mulder?*

**Why? Does the thought of me in fatigues turn you on Scully?**

And then I start to scream.

XXXX

I am still screaming when someone grips my shoulders.

No Please, no more, I can’t take anymore

"Scully...sssssshhhhhhhhh it’s ok."

and still I scream, the sound terrifying in its sheer volume. I can’t stop. It’s like something inside of me has snapped, finally succumbed to the pressure that has been building for so long.

The hands are pulling me in to sitting position, clawing at the thin material of my oversize T-shirt in an effort to manipulate my body. Still gripped by the nightmare I resist with all the strength and determination my lithe body allows me, lashing out blindly, feeling one of my fingernails connect with soft, pliable skin.

"Jesus Scully.......wake up."

Mulder?

"SCULLY STOP!"

The naked fear in his voice is enough to make me do just that, and slowly, painfully slowly, I become aware of where I am. The scream dies in my throat, only to be replaced with a drawn out cry, so anguished in its delivery that for a second I have no idea of its origin.

And suddenly, out of the darkness, he is there, in front of me, on his knees, arms straight out before him, gripping my shoulders.

I wonder suddenly if he is really there at all, whether he will suddenly dissolve before me in to the form of Donnie Pfaster, whether this is just another cruel trick of my tortured mind.

Then I allow myself to really look at him and I know for sure that this is real.

"Muh.........muh........muh"

My lips refuse to co-operate, but as always he understands my need and for once I allow him to gather me to him, clinging on to him as though for life itself. I feel his hands on my back, in my hair, hear his whispered words of assurance as I finally let go and weep on his strong shoulder.

And all the while he rocks me gently, giving me what I need.

I have no idea how long we remain there. My only conscious thought is that he is with me. I don’t question the hows or the whys. They will come later.

I cry like I’ve never cried before, purging my battered body of its inner demons, until all that is left are dry, wracking sobs that make my chest ache.

And still he holds me.

Seemingly unwilling to let me go for a second, until finally his soft voice reaches me once more.

"C’mon Scully. Let’s get you out of here. You’re ice cold."

His words trigger a wave of trembling in me as I become conscious for the first time of just how cold the floor beneath me really is.

"Can you stand?"

I nod shakily against his shoulder, but my confidence is misplaced. Mulder helps me to my feet, relaxing his grip slightly as we both reach a standing position, and without him to prop me up, my knees once more begin to buckle. Before I can fall though he wraps one arm around my waist and another under my knees, hoisting me easily in to his arms as though I weigh no more than a feather. Suddenly conscious that I am clad in nothing more substantial than thin cotton I squirm in his arms, embarrassment flooding my features with hot colour.

Blushing. The curse of the red head.

Stupid really. Mulder has seen me buck naked before now. I know that, but this is different somehow. More intimate

"Mulder....there’s no need....I’m Fi........"

"Don’t Scully. Please."

I realize that I have said the wrong thing and I feel him tense as he waits for me to argue.

But not this time. This time I won’t push him away, and he nods, satisfied as I drop my head to rest on his shoulder.

I am still shivering despite the warmth I am stealing from him, and it comes as no surprise when he heads for the Queen size bed, still holding me whilst somehow managing to pull back the sheets and blankets covering it.

Instead of depositing me under them though, he sits carefully on the edge of the mattress, sliding his arm out from under my legs so that I end up perched on his knee, my body curled foetal position against him and then I feel his hand on my hair again, his fingers ever so softly teasing out the tangled strands. Hair I never bothered to comb after my shower.

"Want to tell me what’s going on with you Scully?"

He slips the question in casually, without warning, carefully working on my hair at the same time, as though that is taking up his entire attention, and his enquiry in to my precarious state of mind is a mere trifle to pass the time whilst he frees the strands from the tangles that bind them together.

I feel him pause momentarily in his ministrations though, as without warning, another shudder courses through my body. I feel the goose bumps rise up on my exposed skin as I remember the cold grey eyes of Pfaster as he came at me.

Inhuman eyes; windows to a soul that did not belong on this earth. I will never forget those eyes if I live to be a hundred years old.

My throat closes up on me once again, and, not trusting myself to speak, I simply shake my head, praying that he won’t push the issue.

Later Mulder I promise with my mind.

Maybe he hears me, I don’t know, but he falls silent once more.

And I lay my head more firmly against his chest, breathing in the scent of him, a combination of the light cologne he wears and his own unique male muskiness.

The scent of Mulder.

For the first time all day, I begin to feel something akin to peace as I listen to the steady beat of his heart directly beneath my ear.

That, coupled with the gentle stroking of his fingers in my hair, along my arm, is lulling me to sleep. My eyelids grow heavy, and I don’t even attempt to fight it as exhaustion washes over me.

I should feel awkward, lying as I am in my partners comforting embrace, and maybe in different circumstances I would.

But I need this. I need him to be here. And I know that in allowing him to heal me, I am in a sense also healing him.

And then, I finally fall in to dreamless sleep.

XXXX

My first conscious thought on awakening is that Mulder's arms are no longer around me. And despite my best intentions I feel bereft, incomplete somehow.

He is still in the room though, of that I am certain.

I feel his presence, feel him watching me; watching over me.

Right on cue, I hear his voice from across the room

"Hey, look who’s awake."

Blinking sleepily, I automatically follow the sound of his voice and my gaze settles on my partner, stretched out on a chair far too small to comfortably accommodate his lanky frame.

I realize immediately why he has chosen it, and not it’s larger, more comfortable counterpart.

From his vantage point, he is able to keep an eye on me while I sleep whilst still following the football game that is playing out on the small screen TV beside him.

The other chair would have given him a clear view of the TV but not much else.

I stare fuzzily at the game, trying to determine the players by their colours before dismissing the notion as being irrelevant.

"You’ve been out for hours. How are you feeling?"

I simply shrug non-comittally in response, because the truth is, at this precise moment in time, I don’t really know.

"What time is it?"

"Late. You should eat something."

I feel my eyebrows raise, almost against my will.

Aahhhhhhhhh Typical Mulder. I know how his mind works at times like this.

Scully sleep, Scully eat, Scully talk.

He doesn’t usually deviate much from his game plan.

Unfortunately for him though, I have a much more pressing need.

Wrinkling my nose like a kindergartener I drop my gaze to the crumpled T-shirt I am wearing. I can still smell the fear that drenched me earlier, manifested now in unpleasantly dried in sweat.

"I need a shower"

Mulder crosses one leg languidly across the other, hazel eyes twinkling suddenly at me from across the room.

"Need me in there to help at all Scully?"

I almost laugh at this typical Mulder quip, but the truth is, that there is nothing I would like more than to reach out my hand to him and lead him in to the small room with me.

It’s a fantasy I have played out in my mind a thousand times.

But a fantasy is unfortunately all it is.

"I think I can manage just fine by myself thanks." I assure him as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, heading for the bathroom. Mulders voice follows me inside.

"Hey.....if you change your mind............"

My third shower of the day is wonderful. After washing and shampooing, I simply lean against the tile, the jets of hot water turned up high drumming against my neck and shoulders as effective as any massage I have ever had and slowly, slowly, I feel the tensions of the day disappearing from me.

This evening in my apartment, the nightmare that found me lying in a crumpled heap on this very floor, all now seem so very long ago.

And while I know I will have to deal with them at some point, for now I can place them at the back of my mind.

Harder to forget though, is the memory of Mulder cradling me in his arms after I collapsed against him, and despite the hot water, I shiver as I remember how it felt to be held so close to him, feeling his hands on me, his warm breath tickling my cheek as he gave whispered assurances that everything was okay. That I was okay.

I close my eyes against the visions inside my head.

To think like this is dangerous.

Forbidden.

And yet, I acknowledge, even if only to myself, that I love him, am in love with him.

I have been for as long as I can remember.

I can’t imagine a time in my life when I haven’t loved him.

He feels the same way. I know that just as I know that the sun will rise to greet another dawn tomorrow. I see it in the way he looks at me, feel it in his touch, hear it in his voice.

But at the same time, we both know that to succumb to that knowledge would only spell disaster for both of us.

Mulder and I have chosen to walk a dangerous path, and while we walk that path holding tightly to one another, we know that ours is a love that can never be.

Our choices were made so long ago, our paths forged by unseen hands, and we are destined to walk those paths for the rest of our lives.

Nothing else matters.

Nothing.

We do not have the luxury of living normal lives.

I realized that early on in our partnership.

Despite this realization though, I feel the tears that rush to my eyes as I once more mourn for all that can never be, and angrily I swipe them away.

These are dangerous thoughts to be having right now. My emotions are still raw. Too close to the surface, and I am afraid that I might betray myself.

Clamping down on myself, I turn the faucet to off with a quick savage flick of my wrist and step out of the cubicle, reaching out blindly through the steam as I search for the Motel towel.

And then I freeze as realization hits me.

Shit.

I neglected to bring a change of clothes in to the bathroom with me, and my favourite blue flannel pyjamas are still sat atop the bed where I threw them earlier. To retrieve them I will have to step out of this room, with only a woefully inadequate low budget motel towel covering me as I negotiate my partner to reach them.

I don’t normally display such modesty around a man, who, let’s face it, has dragged me half naked through the frozen wastes of Antarctica.

But that was different. For one thing I was half unconscious throughout the experience.

And then there was the shower incident, kindly provided by Diana Fowley, because the wall separating us offered no protection since my partner could see right over it.

But he didn’t see anything right?

Yeah right I believe that in my dreams.

The bathroom is not heated, and I am beginning to shiver as the steam around me rapidly disappears, replaced instead with the cool air from the air con unit set high upon the wall.

And my subconscious makes the decision for me as I reach for the door handle.

After all, it’s not like I’m naked or anything.

The minute I step out the door, I realize my fears have been for nothing. Mulder has abandoned his position by the TV and is now stretched out atop the bed.

Asleep

And even though I know it is foolhardy, I allow myself a minute or two to indulge in one of my favourite pastimes.

I love to watch my partner sleep.

In sleep his handsome face relaxes, taking on an almost boyish naivety that I simply don’t get the pleasure of seeing during the course of our normal lives together. No conspiracies, no betrayals, no hurt. Just Mulder.

How he should look

In many ways, he has been cheated out of so much, and while he is without a doubt, the most handsome man I have ever seen, every line on his skin has been etched from blood and tears and pain.

It’s a pain he carries round with him every day of his life.

A pain I stopped trying to heal a long time ago.

A few strands of his dark brown hair have fallen over his forehead and I can’t resist gently brushing them away, settling them once more where they belong, my fingertips trailing the length of his face..

I have no idea what possesses me to do what I do next.

Holding my breath, I bend over my slumbering partner, closing my eyes tightly as my lips make just the gentlest contact with his smooth, warm skin. Careful not to wake him I remain there, savouring the moment.

I’ve kissed him like this before of course, but those times have always been in response to a need to comfort, to reassure.

This kiss is a stolen kiss.

A kiss just for me.

Allowing me to say all the things to him I need to.

Sentiments I keep locked away inside myself that I would give anything for him to hear.

I am also aware of the risk I am taking by even doing this, and reluctantly I pull away, opening my eyes and feeling them widen in the horrified realization the Mulder is staring straight back at me.

He’s awake. He’s been awake the whole time.

"Trying to turn me in to a frog Scully?"

I don’t answer him, feeling the burning humiliation flooding my cheeks as one hand instinctively grips the edge of my towel tightly. I feel like I am about to disintegrate before him, the sound of my increased heartbeat reverberating in my ears.

All I can think about is my need to escape, and I take one stumbling step backwards.

In response, Mulder sits up and curls his long fingers around the wrist of my free hand. His grip is loose and if I wanted to I could easily shake him off.

But I don’t. Because he opens his mouth to speak, pleading at me with his eyes.

“Don’t."

The word is whispered, barely intelligible, and something in my heart shatters as I hear the painful yearning in his tone, and I can’t, can’t walk away from him; at least not like this.

Instead, I allow him to pull me back toward him, easing me down until I am seated, barely an inch away from him on the bed. I shiver as he releases his hold on me, sliding his hand up my arm and tracing a finger the length of my collar bone.

The sensation is electric and I feel a line of goose bumps break out to follow in his wake and I know, that I have to stop this now, while I still can.

"Mu......"

He realizes my intention, and the words die on my lips as he presses the errant finger against them, and I am suddenly struck by the realization that I don’t want him to stop, that this is exactly what I need right now.

I finally turn my head, locking my eyes with his and I realize that we can’t lie to each other any longer.

Almost against my will I inch closer to him, dipping my head until I am right there in front of him, and I do what I have wanted to do for so long.

The kiss is innocent, chaste almost, not unlike the night not so long ago when, at the stroke of midnight, Mulder allowed his barriers to come down.

My hands snake up to cup his face, deepening the kiss, moistening his beautiful lower lip with my tongue before gently pulling it in to my mouth, and I am lost in the feeling of him and he groans as I open my mouth, allowing him entry and I feel his tongue slide in to greet mine, breath mingled as we explore what has up until now been forbidden fruit.

He tastes just like I always imagined him to; a delicious combination of citrus and peppermint. I know this taste as though it is a part of me, and I can’t get enough of him.

I run my tongue along the hard ridges of his teeth, the velvet softness of his cheeks and tremble as he slowly draws his lips from mine and gently nibbles a path down my neck.

My hands are in his hair, teasing, burrowing, holding on to him as though he might, at any moment, disappear as he has done so many times in my dreams.

The reality of it though hits me like a bullet as his hands go around my back, loosening the excuse for a towel I still wear, so it falls forward, leaving my back exposed.

He seems content to languidly explore every inch of me, but I need more, so much more than he is giving me right now.

Closing my eyes, I reach around and grasp his wrist, sliding his hand along my ribcage, settling it atop my  breast and his eyes widen as the towel slips even further, exposing me.

"Oh God Scully......."

And he suddenly backs away, pulling my hand with him and bringing it to his lips where he kisses it gently, settling his hazel eyes on me which at that moment are a confusion of arousal, sorrow and concern.

“We can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.....”

His voice is barely audible, but the softness, the respect in his tone is lost on me as each word slams in to me just as though he has raised his palm and delivered each one with a stinging slap to my face.

Because he doesn’t want me; because whatever drove him to instigate this has somehow passed and I am suddenly mortified that I even allowed it to get this far, that I allowed him to go so far; I killed a man tonight. Took away his life in cold blood and instead of getting down on my bended fucking knees and asking forgiveness, I am allowing my partner, my best friend, to put his hands all over me and even worse, I am allowing myself to enjoy it.

No wonder Mulder can’t bring himself to keep touching me; I am unworthy of him, perhaps unworthy of anyone and right now I am shaking with a combination of shame, regret and a burning humiliation that causes me to stumble backwards even as I snatch my hands from him and clutch the towel against myself.

“Scully....”

“I think you need to leave Mulder.”

I can’t look at him now and I turn before he can witness the tears that begin streaming down my face, snatching up my earlier forgotten pyjamas as I escape to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me before I collapse to the floor for the second time that evening, wishing that I could just sink through it and never have to face him again. Because I know him and I know he won’t leave me like this; that he will wait all night if necessary for me to exit this room, to affirm that I am okay, that we are okay and while a part of me wishes he wouldn’t, the part of me that is terrified to be alone right now is praying that I am right, that he will stay.

 I can’t say for sure how long I remain there in a crumpled, sobbing mess, but slowly I am faced with the realisation that the floor is no less unforgiving than it was earlier and I feel myself begin to shiver against the harsh cold of the tile. It’s enough to bring me slowly to my feet, gritting my teeth against the sudden wave of dizziness that thankfully passes fairly quickly, allowing me to dress myself in the soft flannel warmth of the pyjamas. And then I clean my teeth, fighting back the tears once more as I replace the taste of Mulder with the far more benign taste of spearmint. It’s enough to almost make me unravel once again, but I slam a lid down on my emotions, refusing to let him see me break down once more.

I am unsurprised to see him still there when I finally open the door. In fact he hasn’t moved an inch other than the fact his head is now bowed, eyes on the floor, defeat and uncertainty radiating off him.

“I’m okay.” I manage, my voice sounding weak and brittle and far away somehow. “I’m sorry Mulder...I shouldn’t ha....”

But I don’t get a chance to finish before he is on his feet, reaching me in just a few short strides before he pulls me roughly against his chest, encircling me with his strong arms, holding me there, denying me an escape.

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare apologise Scully.”

His words are sharp, harsh almost, but the way he drops his lips to the crown of my head belies his tone. And then, slowly he slides the palms of his hands up my back, across my shoulders and tracks them upwards until he is cradling my face, forcing me to finally meet his eyes.

“Because I’m not sorry” he continues, his eyes intense, dark green and gold as he holds my gaze in his. “But we can’t make this about what happened today in your apartment. We can’t make this about him.”

And deep down I know he is right. That absolution can never come at the expense of what we share, of what we can be, that if tonight, we had answered the need that has burned inside us both for so long, the memory would forever be tainted by the evil that had sought to destroy me; a man intent on capturing me, of raping me, of killing me and then carrying out his last sick, twisted defilement of me before leaving me for my partner to find.

The realisation brings a wave of fresh trembling that even with Mulder right beside me I just can’t seem to still and I bury my face in his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist even as he pulls me tighter against him, letting me ride it out, holding on to me just as he always does.

“Please don’t leave....please stay with me....”

I am appalled at how fragile I feel, ashamed of my vulnerability, wanting to be strong but not knowing how and I am terrified that he will refuse, that he will simply drop another kiss on my forehead and then he will be gone, leaving me to face this alone, penance for all the times I have pushed him away.

But of course he does none of those things. He just holds me even tighter, his muffled voice slicing a path right through my desperate fear.

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.”

And even though it’s anything but okay,, right at that moment I know that it will come......eventually.

End of part one

#Affirmation #my fic #msr #orison #season of secret sex

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Fourteenth Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

First … Second … Third … Fourth … Fifth … Fifth Christmas, Part 2 … Sixth … Seventh … Eighth … Ninth … Tenth … Eleventh … Twelfth … Thirteenth … Fourteenth … Fifteenth … Sixteenth … Seventeenth … Eighteenth … Nineteenth … Twentieth … Twenty-first … Twenty-second … Twenty-third

———————–

Only Mulder would suggest the Phillipines for a Christmas holiday when Scully was thinking, at most, maybe, maybe Hawaii, to escape the darkness. They’d pulled down a fair amount of money consulting on the FBI case and the pair of them decided a vacation was in order. Scully off-handedly suggested Hawaii, Mulder tossed two plane tickets to the other side of the world on the bed one night.

She hadn’t argued and now, at this very moment, they were shaded by palm frond umbrellas with their feet in the Pacific Ocean roasting their ever-loving asses off while everyone else they knew in the world was buried under two feet of snow.

Clinking glasses with Mulder, “pretty sure I’m never going home. I wonder how to resign from the hospital without having to actually move more than a quarter inch from this spot?”

“Just don’t go back. Eventually they’ll realize you aren’t just taking a really, really long lunch.”

With a grin, she took a deep pull on her straw, rattling both ice cubes and tiny umbrellas, the alcohol sliding smoothly down her throat, “a few more of these and I may just forget I ever had a job in the first place.”

“Drink up.”

As they lay there, nothing but ocean ahead of them, Mulder unconsciously rolled his ankle several times before Scully reached her fingers over, touching his wrist, “do you still feel it there sometimes?”

“Like fucking ghost shackles. Right now, one ankle actually feels heavier than the other and I tell myself I’m an idiot but still, I gotta lift it up just to make sure.”

Crawling her hand up to hold his, “well, you’ll never get it back now. You are free and clear and as far from any of it and them as you could possibly be.”

His mind wouldn’t let it go but he swallowed his anxiety and gave her a smile, “better knock on some wood there, Scully.”

“Never took you for superstitious.” Her eyes danced in his direction, “unless you’ve been throwing salt over your shoulders for years in secret.”

“I always sweep up when I’m done.” Taking her drink and setting it on the table on his other side, he then stood, beckoning towards the waves, “come on, I want to go see if I still remember how to body surf.”

About to let him go so she could keep relaxing in the sun, she saw the hope in his eyes and immediately bounced up beside him, “right behind you.”

He stared at her fully from head to toe and back up, eyes dragging clothes off, imaginary tongue tracing her soon to be showing tan lines, his hands toying with the smooth skin of her breasts …

If he didn’t get in the water right now, he was going to have an issue.

&&&&&&&&&&&

On their row boat, the one that came with their little over-the-water hut, Mulder had packed a lunch, several blankets and plenty of sunscreen. The rowing had been a damn chore but seeing her lounging across from him, sun hat low, turquoise bikini turning his brain to mush, he couldn’t think of a better way to spend the rest of his life.

They’d been buzzed by a helicopter with National Geographic emblazoned on the side, taking what Scully assumed to be program footage but Mulder, swallowing hard, waved but wondered if maybe the camera was meant for them, following them, tracing their whereabouts, tracking them to the ends of the Earth.

Scully chased that thought to the back of his mind, however, when she undid the front string of her bikini and let it fall to her sides, full breasts bared for him and him alone. Immediately abandoning the oars, he threw a blanket on the bottom of the boat and proceeded to remove the bottom half of her suit with his teeth.

He then used his tongue to get her to yell his name for absolutely no one in the world to hear but him in possibly the most erotically charged thing they’d ever done. He then dropped his own suit, sliding into her as the boat drifted across the crystal-clear seas with no destination in mind.

&&&&&&

That night, however, lying naked under the gauze canopy surrounding their bed, he woke, terrified, a nightmare the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in years clenching his throat, squeezing his heart and lungs to twisted wreckages. Scully looked justifiably terrified as well, gripping his fists inches from her face and chest, stopping him moments before he apparently would have beaten the living hell out of her.

When Mulder could finally comprehend where he was and remember how to get oxygen to his brain, he pulled away from her, sliding across the smooth, wooden floor until he came in contact with the rounded wall, sliding down it to rest on his back end in a crouch. Catching her breath, she moved to get out of bed as well, follow him, hold him but he held up his hand, “don’t.”

“Mulder?”

“Just … don’t. Not yet.”

Reaching over to the chair, she pulled on a tank top and a pair of Mulder’s basketball shorts, cinching them up tight around her waist before she sat down on the floor, leaning on the bed, a respectable distance from her shattering partner, knowing he would call her when he was ready.

It took awhile but eventually, he managed to meet her eye. All it took was that half-second connection for her to scoot across the floor, sliding in between his lifted knees, dragging a beach towel with her to settle over his shoulders before moving to hug him. He accepted her touch, gathering her up, her warm flesh against his chilled skin, fear making him colder than he should be for the climate. Scully, feeling the sheen of cold sweat, coaxed him to stand, pulling him to the bed to lie down. He burrowed into her, hiding his head in her breasts.

“Mulder? Mulder, hon, please, tell me what you were dreaming?”

She so rarely pulled out the ‘hon’ that it caught his ear and he released his strangle hold on her waist, “did I hurt you?”

Pulling his head up slightly, she kissed his damp hair, hand combing behind his ear, “no. I’m fine. I promise.”

“They were coming for us. That damn helicopter was spying for them and they found us and they came in here and were trying to take you and …” shutting his eyes and pressing his ear to her heart, “they’re not taking you from me again.”

“Of course, they aren’t. There isn’t anyone who really wants us anymore. We don’t have to hide. We can go on vacation, get jobs, go to the store.” Taking his face in her hands so she could look at him, “when we get back, so help me God, we are going to the grocery store, then we’re going to go to an actual bookstore, then, to go totally wild, we’re going to eat at Mickey’s Diner and not just stop for the takeout.”

Having finally gotten some semblance of his faculties back, Mulder met her eyes, wishing it were all true and hanging on her words as if they were golden hooks of truth hung from heaven itself. Scully recognized that look and slipped from his grasp for a moment, shedding her meager clothing to press against him fully, she continued her ministrations to his splintered psyche, her fingers running over him, kneading a muscle here, ringing a collarbone there until he came back to her all at once with a Mulderesque quip, “but I don’t actually miss the grocery shopping.”

With a relieved groan, she snaked limbs and torso over him, the warm ocean breeze floating through their room, chasing away the last vestiges of chill from his skin, “what happened?”

Having thought he was long past hiding his dreams from her, he hesitated, “I already told you.”

“No, I mean, was it really a simply helicopter that brought on your first nightmare in years or has this been happening and it’s the first time I’ve been around for it?”

Mulder settled his lips against her forehead, “first nightmare but I’ve … I’ve been … ever since … I’ve been … wondering about things for a couple of months … maybe the last year?”

“Wondering what?”

“If maybe things aren’t as finished as you think.”

Her body shivered despite the climate as this idea bored itself quickly into her soul, “why do you think that? Has something happened you didn’t tell me?”

“No, no … I … I think I’ve just been in that house too long. Maybe I need to do the grocery shopping after all.” Hugging her to him as he felt another quaver pass up her spine, “I’m okay. Just … it was just that stupid black helicopter … hovering there.” Fingers playing up her bared ribs, “I’ll go hunt down the supermarket as soon as we get home and dinner at Mickey’s sounds great.”

“I know you know I know you’re full of shit, right?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Should I stop questioning you for now?”

No anger hiding behind his words, “yes, please. I just want to see how much of your skin I can taste before you demand a good, hard fuck off the side of the bed.”

Despite her misgivings and concerns, his blunt proposition told her that he was swimming his way slowly back to being Mulder and the wet rush at his whispered ‘taste’ melted her into primal compliance.

&&&&&&&&&&

The next morning, she woke late, sprawled from one end of the bed to the other, foot dangling, bare ass warm from the hint of sun passing through the gently flapping curtains. Lifting her head to look around, she noticed not only was she alone but there was a mysterious, wrapped package on the nightstand. For a brief, terrifying moment, she fleetingly wondered in this could possibly be some kind of package bomb, explosive container, alien virus.

Well, fuck.

Shaking her head, she realized the thing was wrapped in plain brown paper and had Mulder’s handwriting all over it. Rolling to her back, she immediately forgot any kind of dark thoughts, “Mulder?”

His voice carried from downstairs, “up in a second.” Patiently waiting in that way she’d learned with him by their second case, she smiled when he walked into the room stark naked, carrying a tray with fruit, bread, cheese and water, “Merry Christmas!”

Sitting up, she let the sheets fall where they may, giving Mulder a view he drooled over a little but kept his cool, walking just a little faster to the bed to kiss her good morning, “Merry Christmas, Mulder!”

Settling tray and himself, he then handed her her box, “happy 14th Christmas.”

First popping several grapes in her mouth, she removed the paper, revealing a box which, when opened, revealed another box, which, in succession, revealed a third box and finally a well-packed, stained-glass, heavy and beautiful cross, complete with starburst sunrays in the most brilliant of reds-orange hues. Holding it up, catching that stray beam of sun that had warmed her earlier, the ornament glowed, “God. Mulder. It’s … beyond beautiful but I don’t have a word for that right now so it’s …” mesmerized, she trailed for a second before, “I found my word … it’s radiant.”

Mulder beamed himself a little here, reaching out to spin it gently, “I had them pack it like I’d be shipping it home. That’s why there were so many boxes but I thought it might be fun to have to work a little for it.”

Poking him in the shin with her toe, “make me work for my Christmas gifts. That’s just mean.”

“But you still love me.”

“Yeah … I know.”

Watching it a few more seconds, she then lay it gently on the pillow, rolling off the bed to amble to her suitcase, digging then retrieving her own gift. Handing it over, “I bought yours with me.”

Always giddy for a gift, he tore into it, finding an ornament replicating the United States. Squinting towards it, he then looked at her, “are all these dots what I think they are?”

“Yes. It matches, as best I could anyways, the map we made years ago in your apartment. That’s everyplace we’ve been together, both on cases and vacations and even while we were running. I had to update it from the one on your wall a little, given we had another 10 years of travel after.” From his smile, he didn’t mind that she’d included their ‘on the lam’ destinations, “I thought it’d be a good reminder that I’d follow you anywhere, anytime.”

Crushing her in a sudden hug, he apologized quietly again for the previous night, then kissed her, tasting grapes and cheese on her tongue, “and I’d follow you.”

#msr #the boat #the helicopter #the ocean #christmas series #my writing #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic

[scullydubois]

one-shot: does a scully pee in the woods?

read on ao3 |  msr flirting and fluff | 1.6k | rated t | s6, pre-Field Trip

tagging @today-in-fic

While driving to North Carolina, Scully has to resort to some dubious tactics to convince Mulder to stop so she can use the bathroom. Unfortunately, she doesn't specify where he should stop...

---------

He promised they would stop once they made it out of Virginia. What Scully didn’t realize is that Virginia is five hours worth of highway, and despite his assurance that he is “driving as fast as he can” and his natural tendency to cruise as much over the speed limit as they can go without getting pulled over, they have still not made it out of the state.

“The next exit, Mulder, please,” she begs, squirming in her seat. She is not used to driving this long. Usually they hop on a flight--with a bathroom, thank you very much--and then head just a few miles out to their destination. But of course, the FBI is cutting their budget, and according to Skinner, the only way they could take this case is if they agreed to make the six and a half hour trip to North Carolina by car. Which hadn’t sounded that bad to either of them. I mean, the open road, the radio, and each other for six hours? What could be wrong with that? Then again, they hadn’t stopped to consider how early they would have to leave DC to make their lunchtime meeting, nor the exponential decline in their ability to tolerate one another with each increasing hour.

Mulder drums the steering wheel in time with the beat of the classic rock song playing. “I’m telling you, we’re almost to the state line. If you’ve made it this far, you can make it another twenty minutes.”

“Are you willing to test that theory?” Scully prods, an eyebrow elevating itself. “Because I know you are a man of many theories, but I really don’t think this is one you want to mess with.”

“Oh, I do.” He flashes a quick smile at her, as if to confirm that, yes, he is amused by her suffering, if she hadn’t noticed.

“ Mulder…” she whines, not even bothering to construct a coherent argument. It’s time to play the card she never plays, the one that will catch his attention and show him that she is serious about this. She hates to stoop this low, but at this point, it’s either play the card or pee her pants.

“Mulder,” she makes her voice sound languid and far out, “has anyone ever told you that you bear a great resemblance to Cary Grant in his young and handsome days?”

He is rather unphased by this. Too unphased for Scully’s liking. “No, and I really don’t, do I?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She lets her voice flutter through the confines of the car. “Dreamy, boyish, yet somehow retaining your masculinity. It’s astonishing, really.”

She sneaks a glance at him. He’s stopped tapping along to the song. He turns the radio down to listen to her like a dog’s ears pricking toward their owner’s voice.

She looks through the windshield, continues her reverie. “He looks like such a gentleman, but I can’t imagine that he’s a gentleman in…” She trails off suggestively, waiting for Mulder to raise some objection.

When she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, he is already looking at her. “What?” she offers innocently. “Do you have proof otherwise?” It’s always a contest of right or wrong for them.

“No, but I might have proof of aliens. Bounty Hunter, I know that’s you, what have you done with the real Scully?”

She considers what would happen if the Bounty Hunter had disguised himself as her and was driving alone with Mulder in the middle of a five lane highway with dozens of other cars. “You know, you’d be screwed right now if it were.”

“Yeah, I get that feeling.”

She wets her lips, navigates the next sentence with precision. “But since it’s not, you can get screwed instead.”

Mulder almost swerves into a jeep in the next lane. “Jesus, Scully!”

“I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable…?”

He focuses on the road. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Gee, I wonder what’s that like.” She looks at him with a devilish closed-mouth grin.

Mulder registers this and looks away just as he cracks his own smile. Silly, misbehaving, rebellious Scully has a power over him that would be comparable to religion, if he had one.

“So what I’m hearing is, you want to forsake your opportunity to make it the whole way through Virginia without stopping just so that you’ll actually have some semblance of comfort?” He checks to see if she’s smiling and is happy when she is.

“Something like that, yeah,” she says, imitating his reply from earlier by donning a outlandishly deep voice.

He coughs to hold back a laugh. “Well, the lady’s wish is my command, though I must warn you that the next exit’s not for another seven miles.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, we just passed a sign.”

“Mulder, I don’t know what kind of bladder you think I have, but I’ve drank two cups of coffee since the drive started and one before I left my apartment. I would classify this as an emergency.”

“I’ll pull over, then.” He switches lanes, turns on the emergency lights, and presses the brake slightly as he pulls onto the shoulder, all before she can protest.

“This is humiliating, Mulder,” she laments as he unlocks his door, pulls it open.

“While we’re at it, I’ll go too. Save us a stop in North Carolina.”

He’s way too excited about this, she thinks. She unclicks her seatbelt and climbs out of the car like a child dragged to church by their parents.

They proceed toward the woods at the edge of the highway. Mulder leads the way, a subtle spring in his step about getting to return to nature, so to speak, and to embarrass Scully while doing it.

As they hit the dividing line between grass and trees, Mulder looks back at this partner.

“Have you ever peed in the woods, Scully?” he asks with a smirk. “I’m assuming that’s what’s happening here, since you mentioned the coffee.” Scully winces at the rather disgusting image his implication puts in her mind.

She puts on a scholarly, serious tone as they head deeper into the trees. “You know, Mulder--and I’m glad we’re clearing this up-- I have peed in the woods actually. I seem to remember we were stuck in the woods overnight just last year. In Florida, was it? And contrary to what you may believe, I actually did relieve myself during that period of time. Thanks for asking.”

“Wow, you learn something new everyday,” Mulder jokes.

“Exactly.” Scully can’t help but laugh. What a funny little situation this is. They have shared so many instances when the stakes were much higher, life-threatening even, and this is what feels so grueling.

The vehicle noise having quieted significantly, Mulder gauges that they’re far enough from the roadway now. He stakes out a pine tree and steps up to it.

“Don’t look, Scully!” he teases, as if she needed the reminder, as if he really cared.

As he stands there, pants unzipped and all, he can’t help but wonder how many years this tree stood here before some human just decided to come over and do their business on it. That has to suck, huh? You’re just going about your usual tree life--swaying in the wind, rooting deep into the Earth, maybe providing a home for some critters--and then this creature that’s like, fifty times smaller than you comes over and pulls their pants down. What the hell?

A few yards away, Scully hunts for a place that might preserve an ounce of her dignity. Not that she has any left at this point, but it’s a nice idea. There’s some bushes not far off, or she could take a cue from Mulder and squat against a tree. This process is so much more complicated for a woman--you have to get down low, check the ground around you, not hit your shoes…

She chooses a spot behind a bush and crouches down. She hears Mulder zipping his fly, wonders if he’ll be able to see her when he turns around. She can’t see him, so theoretically he shouldn’t be able to see her,  but he’s so much taller that she’s never sure. Then again, she’s not as objected to being seen by him as she expected herself to be. Still, she waits for him to say something.

“Scully, please tell me this wasn’t just some elaborate plot to abandon me in the woods.”

“I’m over here, Mulder,” she reassures. “But don’t come over.”

“Why, what are you doing?” He laughs at his own joke.

“Very funny,” she says, trying to cover the sound of her faculties. This feeling of release is so desperately needed that it’s almost orgasmic. She finishes, then rezips her pants while staying as crouched as possible. Sated, she stands up, pops into Mulder’s view. She tightens her belt as she walks over to him.

She sighs. “I’m glad that’s over.” Mulder smiles. She’s been through far worse, in far more unpleasant conditions, and this is what bothers her. A complex being, his Scully is. They retrace their steps toward the highway.

“You do know that toilets weren’t invented until like, the Renaissance, right?” he teases.

“Sure, but they weren’t just squatting in the woods!”

He pulls the car keys from his pocket. “I guess we’ve solved another X-file…”

Scully gives him the look she’s been giving him for six years.

“...does a Scully pee in the woods?”

She bites her lip, obscures her smile. That’s her Mulder.

#of all the things for me to write 1.5k on... #txf fic #txf fanfic #the x-files #x files #fox mulder #dana scully #msr #mine

[scully-loves-ruthie]

Dark Days In The Unremarkable House pt. 10

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3

Part 4   Part 5   Part 6

Part 7   Part 8   Part 9

   Your mother is staring at you like she wants to grab hold of you, shake you like a rag doll until you listen to what she’s telling you. 

   “You’re going to do what you want Dana, you always have.  But I think you’re making a mistake.”  She grabs her purse and heads for the door, not even acknowledging what her words are doing to you.

    “Where are you going?”

     “To take Fox home, just like I’ve done every other time we’ve had coffee.”

      “No Mom I’ll take him.”  you’re on your feet heading towards  the car so quickly you almost don’t have time to notice the look of satisfaction on your mother’s face.

   Mulder is leaning against your mothers car, shoulders slumped, eyes looking glassy.

   “Come on Mulder I’m taking you home.”

    He looks at you with desperation and disgust, “Home.  That’s funny.”

    “Please just get in the car Mulder.”

    For the first twenty minutes you ride in silence.  The air so thick and wrought with emotion you have to unroll the window, afraid you might suffocate from it’s weight.  You can see the heartbreak rolling off of him in quick staccato waves.  His fingers twitching, restless, dumbfounded by what to do now that you’ve denied them the sanctuary of your body.

    You have to be the one to speak first.  He ripped out his heart and handed it to you, knowing it could only beat when nestled next to yours.  You just sat there, silently holding it as it’s pulse slowed watching as it shriveled and died.  Yes you have to be the one to speak first.  You have to find just the right words to start his heart beating again.

   “You’re wrong Mulder.”

   “You’re gonna have to be more specific Scully because that statement could encompass a whole myriad of things.”

    “When you said you weren’t everything to me, you were wrong.  You are everything to me Mulder.  You are.”

    As you begin to make your way down the long driveway you can’t help but glance at Mulder who has remained silent since your declaration.  You put the car in park but don’t shut off the engine.  Once upon a time you could read his thoughts so easily, a direct line between you both.  How desperately you wish for that right now.

    His hand is on your forearm, as the other turns the car off, taking the keys from the ignition.  “Come inside.”

    Wordlessly you follow Mulder into the house.  Just as you’ve shut the door he spins you around, pinning you against it.  He kisses you slow and deep, one hand on your neck the other wrapped in your hair.  You feel his body pressed against yours, every inch of him on every inch of you.  He stops the kiss slowly, so slowly, barley pulling his mouth away from yours.

    “Why’d you leave me Scully?”

     “Mulder...”

     “I know things had gotten bad, but this is us Scully.  We never walk away.”

    You can feel the tears pulsing in the corner of your eyes.  Why did you leave?  Why did you think you EVER really could?

      “I kept telling myself that if you would just finally let me go, I’d be able to move on.  Have some semblance of a normal life.  I kept letting myself blame you for things that were as much my doing as yours.  Hoping that if I pushed you away enough, you’d have no choice but to let me go.  Let me suffer on my own, to not keep suffocating you with regret and resentment.”

     “If that’s what you want Scully, what you really want, then it’s yours.  I’ll let you go.  Go find happiness.  A normal life, whatever it is you feel is missing.  I don’t want to hold you back anymore.”

     “I don’t know what I want Mulder.  I just know that all these things that are broken inside me, all these thick callouses and scars around my heart, all the darkness trying to claw it’s way inside my brain, it all seems so insurmountable; until I’m with you.  Maybe I just needed to know we are still worth fighting for.  That you’re worth fighting for.  That I am worth fighting for.  Because it’s suppose to be us Mulder, it’s always supposed to be us.  Even when we’re all wrong, as long as we’re together, we’re all right.”

#xfiles fanfic

[scullydubois]

Only the Light: Ch. 8

8/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, some fluff | currently: s2, ep 12, Aubrey | T (for now?) | 2.3k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic

Scully deals with the trauma of her nightmare when she and Mulder meet BJ in the park; a migraine leads Scully to breakdown to her sister.

[this is an especially angsty part...TW for mild implication of rape]

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

The rest of their breakfast passes without fanfare. After their conversation about love languages, neither feels like diving into particularly deep topics. Mulder spends their meal providing commentary on the songs other customers picked off the jukebox, turning Scully into a captive audience who occasionally nods, chuckles, or otherwise utters a phrase of approval. It’s not that they’re bored of each other, but that they feel they should preserve their energy for the taxing conversations sure to come along with the case. The electricity between them lingers in the air, waiting for a match to spark it. When the waitress asks if they want to split the bill, Mulder gallantly insists that he will take care of it, then pulls out the Bureau credit card with a wink his partner’s way. To Scully, his wink feels like a lighter flaring into flame. A brief moment of blaze, there and then gone again. One day, she swears to herself, one day she will let him ignite her heart. 

Back in the car, they buckle up and reacclimate themselves with 1994. The local country music station hums in the background, too low to make out any lyrics. It’s just a few stoplights to the park, not even long enough to get through an entire song.

They find BJ at a picnic table nestled among Aubrey’s fall colors. She notices them first, waves them over. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Mulder says as he and Scully take a seat across from the detective.

Scully is struck by reality’s intrusion on the version of BJ she met in her nightmare. BJ is not heavily pregnant; she does not even show. She’s not covered in blood either, but looking polished in a pantsuit. Yet the sight of her conjures up vivid images from the dream, ones that Scully hoped would stay hidden in her psyche forever. The resolute darkness of Duane Barry’s eyes, like his soul had been sucked out of him. The way droplets of blood splattered when he pulled BJ by the collar. And the image of her own body, how it had been desecrated and she hadn’t felt a thing. She felt nothing.

“How are you, BJ?” she asks, her voice stiffer than intended.

BJ rests her hands on the wooden table. “I’m okay.” Then-- “I’ve made some decisions.”

Scully nods, not wanting to pry. The three of them sit with the silence. Sometimes this is all you can do. Her courage gathered, BJ looks to Mulder. 

“I don’t know if Agent Scully told you, but I’m pregnant. It’s Tilman’s. It’s made things...complicated.”

“I’m sure,” Mulder replies, not particularly moved by this announcement. 

“I don’t think it will impact the case in any way, but I wanted to be open with you. Staying quiet about it was only making the situation tougher.”

“Well, thanks for sharing.”

Scully shoots Mulder a look, as if to chastise his blase attitude toward BJ’s courage. He doesn’t see it, which makes her feel oddly guilty, like she had talked about him behind his back. 

Across the park, a little girl plays with her dog. They run through a pile of leaves together, and she takes a tumble. 

“Ow!” the girl exclaims loud enough to be heard throughout the park. BJ stands up, her gaze snapping toward the sound. Scully turns, fighting the urge to join BJ. The girl’s mother bends to check the girl for injury and seeing that she’s okay, sets her on her feet. BJ exhales, joins the agents back at the table.

“The mothering instinct,” BJ monologues. “I've been feeling it a lot lately. I used to hate it when my mother hovered over me. I swore I'd never be like her.”

Scully’s throat tightens. She felt the gravitational pull too. I mean, she’s always liked kids, but she’s not sure she would be a good mother and so she’s tried not to think much about it. Certainly her situation is unfavorable for motherhood. What kind of life would it be for a kid to have their mother gone all the time? She knows what it’s like to tuck herself into bed without a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story...to feel like an afterthought in a parent’s life. It made her push herself harder, trying to shed the inadequacy her father must have seen in her. And still she fell short. Is it all in her head, this fledgling maternal instinct? Or is it a sign of changing brain chemistry?

“I think we all feel that way at some point or another,” Mulder says. For a moment, Scully thinks he’s read her mind. She’s about to ask him whether there’s such thing as a paternal instinct when BJ continues on--

“My father was a cop. A good cop. That's all I ever wanted to be. He'd say what we're doing here is nonsense. That you can't solve a crime from a dream.”

Scully is somewhat relieved to know that she’s not alone in failing to measure up to a father’s expectations. This is not the point of the conversation, but this is what her mind latches on to. Her own father felt that the X-Files was a waste of time,, and she could never put into words why the work was so fulfilling to her. It’s not medicine; the results aren’t as obvious. Yet she can’t help but feel like she and Mulder are tuning into a rarely heard frequency, listening to its message, and passing it on. Little by little that will change the world, won’t it?

“Well, I've often felt that dreams are answers to questions we haven't yet figured out how to ask,” Mulder offers, rising to meet the gravity of the moment. Scully wonders what question her nightmare was answering. She shudders at the thought.

---------

Her skull feels like it’s being cut in half with a chainsaw, there is no other way to put it. She’s lying stretched out on her motel bed, a washcloth over her eyes, praying the pain away. Migraines aren’t a common occurrence for her, but she recalls all the times her mother would turn off the television, pull the curtains, and lay flush in her recliner in an attempt to ward off the pain. As little as she was, Scully would pull a step stool over to grab a glass from the cabinet, then fill it with water and bring it to her mother like a dog itching for a treat. She’d get a ‘thank you’ from her mom’s quiet, steady voice and sometimes a pat on the head, but nothing she could subsist on. She always wished for a little more to fill the deficit in herself. Now she understood. Pain chips away at your capacity for love.

What had started as a dull roar now felt more like the scream of a banshee. It came on suddenly around 4 while she and Mulder were reviewing the evidence of the 1942 murders. Their day had been pretty slow, one of paperwork and manila folders and bureaucracy. Not a lot of progress on the case. It’s as if her brain weren’t working hard enough, and so decided to punish her by making work impossible. She let on nothing of her plight until the way back to the motel when she leaned her head against the window and Mulder asked if she was okay. She responded nonchalantly, saying it was just a headache, and he in his savior complex offered to stop for Aspirin, but she insisted she had some in her suitcase. She did--a bottle with only two left--and she took them both. So far they’ve done nothing to combat the pain. 

It occurs to her that her ardent desire to avoid coming off as a damsel in distress doesn’t exactly mesh with Mulder’s tendency to be the hero. What is she to make of that? Nothing, not in her current state of mind.

She lies there, wonders if it’s reached a late enough hour to change into her pajamas. She can’t deal with the monotony of the shower tonight, not even if Mulder’s on the other side. She turns, glances at the digital alarm clock. 8:09pm. Certainly that’s appropriate pajama time, right? She can never be sure that Mulder won’t come knocking on her door with a new interpretation of the evidence for her to shoot down or a theory somehow more outlandish than his original. She likes that they keep each other on their toes, but tonight that’s not where she wants to be.

Her head berates her for sitting up. She figures that if that’s wishful thinking, changing clothes will be too, so she lays right back down. She has gotten very used to ending up back where she started.

Seeing as modern medicine is failing her, she decides to try meditation. Missy swears by it, but Scully doesn’t see the benefit of willingly turning off your brain. She can hear her sister now: “It’s not about turning off your brain, it’s about transcending your thoughts and being present with the world.” Since when am I not present with the world, she always wants to reply. She can’t afford not to be present with the world.

But the older sister always has some semblance of sway over the younger one, so Scully closes her eyes and listens to the nothingness of the room around her. Well, it’s not exactly nothing, but nearly so. The mini-fridge, which she doesn’t dare touch even if the bill isn’t her responsibility, hums like it has something to prove. The remaining leaves on the trees in the parking lot rustle with the wind. In the adjacent room, Mulder’s TV is on. She can hear the droning chitter-chatter of sports commentators. Baseball, probably. That’s played in the fall, right?

She slips out of active listening and into mindless musing on her lack of sports expertise. Her father was never a sports junkie himself, but her brothers were. She was often made the referee of their wrestling matches or t-ball games, having been deemed more impartial than Melissa. And yet her understanding of plays and pitches and batting averages never progressed from there. She could name all 206 bones in the body in alphabetical order, but she couldn’t tell you what 3rd down meant. Usually she doesn’t care, but at the moment, this is making her indescribably sad.

Overcome by her isolation, she grabs the phone off hook, dials her own number. Melissa picks up right before it stops ringing.

“Hello?”

“Missy…” she doesn’t know it’s going to happen until she opens her mouth and tears fling themselves down her face.

“Dana, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you safe?” Missy’s voice is concerned but controlled, like a 911 operator. 

“I-I’m okay,” Scully manages, in probably the least convincing delivery ever.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the motel. Mulder and I are safe, we’re okay,” she stammers. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Melissa says with utter calm. 

“My head is pounding, Missy, and I know mom used to get migraines, but I’ve never felt anything like this before--” Her voice catches, a sob slips out. “And I’m scared, Missy. Something’s wrong with me.”

“It sounds like you need medical attention, honey.” Melissa always knows when to slip in a term of endearment. “Can Mulder take you to the hospital?”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” She squeezes her eyes shut, sees stars. She hopes Mulder can’t hear her crying. The embarrassment of hurting is almost worse than the hurt itself. She pulls the bed sheet over her head like some over-dramatic teenager. She wouldn’t be able to look Mulder in the eye if he heard this next part. 

She sniffles. “I’m six days late, and I’m never late, and I can’t be pregnant unless…” She wonders what would happen if she just stopped the sentence there and never spoke of it again. Could she do that? Would Melissa mind? 

She lets the bottom drop out from under her. “...unless they did something to me.” The words are barely audible, she hates to have them on her tongue. Worse still, she’s not even the subject in her own sentence. She’s the object, of course. 

She hears Missy take what she’s deemed “a cleansing breath.” Then--”Can you come home? Tonight, tomorrow morning?”

“I...What would I tell Mulder?” Her tears have stopped flowing, but her brokenness still lives in her voice. 

“Anything. That I locked myself out of the apartment, that it’s mom’s birthday, maybe the truth. That man will listen to whatever you say. He’s not gonna stop you.”

“Well, I have to tell the FBI something.” 

“Say you have a family emergency. Or that you’re experiencing trauma from work-related events. You don’t owe them anything, Dana.”

Scully knows this, but could never operate as if she actually believed it. The FBI is her job, her duty, her choice. How can she be up in arms about something she wished upon herself? 

She takes as deep a breath as the pain in her head will allow. “I’ll fly out tomorrow morning.”

“Call me with the deets before you take off. I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay.” Scully feels a rush of safety, of being held & supported. “Thank you,” she breathes. Missy has saved her from herself.

“You’re welcome. And Dana…?”

“Yes?”

“We’re gonna figure this out. Whatever it is, we’re gonna figure it out.”

Scully flutters her eyelids shut, feels the temptation of tears at the back of them. “I know...Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Missy echoes. “Get some rest, and try not to worry. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Scully wonders what gene her sister has that gives her such a distinct ability to say the right thing every time. She wishes she hadn't missed that boat. How much easier would life be? 

She notices that Missy has refused to hang up first. “Goodnight, Missy,” she says into the phone.

“Goodnight, Dana. Sleep well.” Her words are a balm to the soul. 

Scully puts the phone back on the hook, feeling like Missy just put hope back in her vocabulary. Hope or belief? Which is stronger?

#the stakes...they are getting higher #the x-files #txf fic #missy & scully fic #only the light fic #mine #fox mulder #dana scully #melissa scully

[allyinthekeyofx]

Love is a quiet voice 4/4

CHAPTER ONE HERE

CHAPTER TWO HERE

CHAPTER THREE HERE

(Happy Birthday @science-mulder :D )

CHAPTER FOUR

It takes a while for Scully to stop crying and all the time she keeps her head burrowed in my chest, hiding herself from me, refusing to show me her tears and although I know that I could force her to confront this part of her that, for reasons only she knows, she is just so ashamed of, I respect her far too much to force her. The fact she trusts me enough to allow herself to shed tears in my presence is frankly, all the validation I need right now. 

And so I just let her do what she needs to do, feeling the warmth of her as she shudders in my arms, her small hands clenched in to fists against my chest, not bothering to hold on to me because she knows that I’m holding her tightly enough for both of us.

I don’t really know how long we stay in that same position or how long she cries, my only focus is on her and on letting her ride this out because I suspect it’s been a long time coming, this release that is so very much needed and it’s strange but I think it’s a release I also need. I’ve been tiptoeing around her for far too long, afraid to say the wrong thing, to do the wrong thing, allowing us to keep a distance between us that neither one of us knew how to adequately bridge; the Cancer living inside of her defining every aspect of our relationship even as it drove us apart. And so I just hold her, whispering soft words of reassurance in to her hair, platitudes that we have both used so many times to comfort and give affirmation to each other.

How long I have loved this woman I don’t know; it wasn’t something that happened on any conscious level, wasn’t ever something I either wanted or expected to happen but I do vividly remember one morning at work I just looked across at her and suddenly couldn’t imagine life without her. That without me noticing, she had silently and completely woven herself in to the threads of my fractured life and made me more complete than I ever hoped I would be. To be faced with losing her now is unthinkable which is probably why it’s been so easy to deny to myself and to her that her fight is real and maybe we both know now that it’s a fight she can’t hope to continue battling alone, sinking deeper and deeper in to herself until there is just nothing left. I can’t let that happen to her; can’t let it happen to us.

Her cries have stilled now although she still rests her head against my shirt, a shirt that is now damp against my skin, soaked through by the cleansing tears she has shed and slowly, gradually, she is coming back to me. I feel it in the subtle movements, as she uncurls her fingers and flattens them against my chest, allowing her to centre once again before she finally levers herself away from me, lifting her eyes to meet mine; eyes that are still bloodshot and puffy from crying for so long but to me, those eyes have never looked so beautiful because for the first time in months she isn’t hiding anything from me and even though I see pain reflected back at me, a pain that lives inside both of us, I can also see a semblance of peace and even though I know she is hurting, she allows just a ghost of a smile which lifts her expression and lightens my soul in equal measure.

“Hey”

And I smile back, sliding my palms to cup her face, feeling the sharp contour of her jaw beneath my fingers as I gently smooth the residual tears from her skin, dropping a kiss to her forehead, right above the spot where her cancer resides, because maybe, just maybe, if I kiss her enough right there I will somehow excise it from her and she won’t leave me.

“Hey back...... You okay?”

I half expect her to answer automatically, to go right to that verbal fall- back that started all this in the first place and I’m not sure how I will react if she does. But for once, just for once she doesn’t hide from me. Instead she shifts slightly to the side and leans against me again, closing her eyes as her response floats from her on the back of a sigh.

“I’m tired.”

For some reason the honesty of her words tighten my chest and just for a second I am completely transfixed by the sight of her lashes, their delicate colour rich against her pale skin as she lays herself bare to me for probably the very first time in our complicated relationship, because at least for today, she trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms, trusts me enough to take care of her while she sleeps; it is a truly humbling moment, one that elates me even as it steals my breath and momentarily stills my heart and as she sleeps against me, she relaxes fully for the first time, not even awakening when the first tear slides down my face and settles in her hair.

XXXX

EPILOGUE

It’s another beautiful day and across the office, in her usual spot, Scully is bathed in the golden summer sunlight that filters through the skylight, a million glittering dust motes dancing and swirling around her and today, she looks whole once more.

By the time we both awoke yesterday, the shadows had lengthened and the whole apartment was consumed by that peculiar half-light that signifies that daylight is fading. If Native American folklore is to be believed, it’s considered the most mysterious time of day, a time where we hover between this world and the next, a time when anything is possible and where magic is real. And as I lay there, with Scully spooned against my back, our bodies fitting together like pieces of a jigsaw that, in some unfathomable way, were meant to always find each other through the darkness, I truly felt a sense of wonderment. Because even if I don’t always understand exactly my purpose in this life, I realise perhaps for the first time that I am destined to love her. For a day or a week or a month or years that turn in to a lifetime, we are meant to be together and by the feel of her fingers entwined with mine, holding on to me even in sleep, I know she feels it too; that through all the pain and the fear and the heartache, if we can only learn to listen to each other, to hear each other even when our voices are quiet, somehow we will be okay.

We talked last night. Really talked and I think in a small way we began to heal each other, to make amends for things past that simmered and burned within both of us, the harsh words, the unthinking words, the words we should have said but hadn’t, all finally being acknowledged and then discarded. We talked of our hopes and our fears and at times we both cried at the bitter injustice of it all; but amidst the fear we also found laughter again and the laughter somehow chased the tears away.

In the soft light of Scully’s apartment we connected again, discovered that really, we had been there the whole time that we just had to open our eyes enough to find each other; two lost souls who belong together, just like it’s meant to be; just like it’s always been.

And suddenly she is looking at me, watching me watching her and she smiles that soft smile at me that speaks a thousand words just for me, words I had forgotten how to hear; expressions of love, spoken in a voice so quiet that they are easily missed and just as easily crushed, because just for a moment her eyes are so full of sorrow that I forget to breathe, before just as quickly, her expression lifts again and she chases away the shadows.

“You okay Scully?”

And I know, I know before she even speaks, what her response will be

“I’m fine.”

But today that’s okay. Because just for today, right at this moment, I know it’s the truth.

End

#my fic #love is a quiet voice #cancer arc #angst

[allyinthekeyofx]

Love is a quiet voice 2/4

CHAPTER ONE - HERE

CHAPTER TWO

It doesn’t take me long to close up the office for the day, it’s a skill born from years of practise, when having to rush away suddenly in pursuit of God knows what, necessitated a rapid mental checklist that I could run through in my sleep. It’s only mid afternoon but I already know I won’t be coming back today because whether Scully wants it or not, whatever arguments or rapier sharp glances she throws my way, just for once I refuse to let her be alone.

Tomorrow she can retreat back as far as she likes behind those damn walls. But today, just for today, she’s mine. I need to at least attempt to re-connect with her because I know that somewhere along the way, the fear and the hurt and the uncertainty has driven a giant wedge between us and right now, we are about as separate as we’ve ever been. And I’m not stupid, I’m a profiler for Gods sake and although I try not project that ability too much on her, there are times when I just can’t help it; just as I can’t help turning it inwards on myself. Someone once told me that I think too much and with hindsight they were probably right because all the thinking in the world doesn’t adequately translate in to action and these last few months I’ve probably thought a hell of a lot more than I’ve actually done.

The fact that it’s unknown territory isn’t an excuse any more and the time for cowardly procrastination is long gone. Because I’ve tried to give her space, tried to give her opportunity to let me know what she needs, how I can be there for her just as we always have been in the past. But there’s been nothing, or at least nothing but tiny snippets on her terms that catch me by surprise and just add to my confusion and ineffectiveness; where instead of picking up on her verbal cues I have just allowed my frustration of this whole situation to cloud my every judgement and response.

Just a few days ago I stood and dismissed her attempts to open up to me, to share her fears as we wrapped up the whole Harold Spueller mess, listened to her forcing out the admission that she had seen something only afforded to the dying, eyes downcast, shimmering with unshed tears that she always tries so hard to keep private. And did I offer her comfort? Did I even attempt to allay her fears or answer that burning need within me to just grab her right there and then and crush her against me so that she might gain the release she needed?

Did I fuck.

I just stood there, so angry that she could even stand there before me and admit to sharing a vision of the dead in the same way as one who was himself dying, that my denial kicked in full force and I just dismissed her. Maybe if I’d had some warning I could have processed it but she had spent the last few weeks assuring me she was fine – always fucking fine – even when blood was pouring from her nose or her pupils were dilating from the sheer agonising misery she felt when in the grip of a headache whilst she waited for the pills she would try to furtively slip in to her mouth when she thought I was looking elsewhere. to finally kick in. And so that one moment where her walls had crumbled before me, when she finally admitted that in fact, she wasn’t fine at all, I just didn’t know what to do with it other than to throw it right back at her with meaningless, baseless accusations; making it all about me as usual because it was just so much less painful than acknowledging the meaning behind her words.

And as she walked away from me that night, I knew that finally, she had reconciled herself to the fact that actually, it was far less painful to just say nothing; to carry on going it alone.

I’m not proud of myself. In fact that night I think I sank about as low as I was going to go and even though I vowed to make amends to her the next day, when it came right down to it, I didn’t. We just pretended it hadn’t happened; in the same way we always do when we think it’s something that might actually elicit some semblance of actual emotional affirmation towards one another, emotion we have become adept over the years at locking tightly within ourselves. Never to be spoken of or acknowledged for fear of the repercussions that might come crashing down upon us; as though any potential backlash could ever be any worse than what we have now.

Because since leaving the office, Scully hasn’t said one fucking word to me, hasn’t looked in my direction other than to briefly and curtly shake her head when I asked her if she wanted to stop for anything on the way home; if she needed anything. But of course she’s Dana Scully and she never needs anything right? I know she is angry with me, just as I know she is even angrier at herself over the brief moments of weakness she allowed me to elicit from her back at the office; in fact I truly believe, as I glance across at her profile, rigid and uncompromising as she stares fixedly through the windscreen at the traffic ahead of us, that right now she probably hates me.

Well that’s fine. Because deep down, if I’m completely honest with myself, there’s just a tiny part of me that hates her too; hates the fact that after everything we’ve been through she doesn’t trust me enough to let me in. The flipside to that of course is the fact that I love this woman with every cell in my body and the thought of losing her – when I allow myself to think of it of course – absolutely fucking paralysis me on levels I didn’t think were even possible. It steals my breath, numbs my body and chips away at my soul. Because she is a part of me now, and like oxygen I need her to survive; how will I even carry on when she’s not here? 

Losses have been a prominent feature in my life but I realised a long time ago that compared to losing her, they have been relatively easy to bear. Because she has somehow become entwined within me; a light to guide me home through the darkest days when I feel like everything is hopeless, and I just can’t lose her, most especially while she is actually still right here with me.

Right now though, as I gently coast the car to a halt in front of the building my partner calls home, you could quite literally cut the atmosphere with a knife. Because sick or not, weakened or not, there isn’t a woman on this planet who can project just how pissed off she is without even needing to open her mouth as she can and even though I know it’s a response born of fear, it doesn’t make it any easier to take. Nor does the fact that she cranks it up a notch as, instead of killing the engine I glance over my shoulder, put it in to reverse and park in one of the empty spaces; it’s an action that elicits a tired sigh from her that doesn’t quite fit with her carefully maintained annoyance.

“I think I can make it from here Mulder...”

Of course I ignore her; because I’m just so sick of this shit.

Instead I exit the car and when she makes no move to follow me, I simply turn and start heading for the wide double doors that lead to her apartment; a course of action which, as I knew it would, immediately causes her to wrench the car door open and follow me. I slow my pace just enough to allow her to catch up with me but I don’t stop until I reach the pristine white door that I have stood in front of a thousand times since I have known her and on a couple of memorable occasions, kicked my way right through it to get to her. I’m fully prepared to do exactly the same today, albeit without the actual splintering wood part of the deal; I don’t wait for an invitation. I have my key already out and still ignoring her, I fit it in to the lock, giving it a savage twist and pushing the door inwards. I allow her to enter first; my only concession so far of the afternoon, before following right behind and as expected she attempts to face me down, her blue eyes flashing as she crosses her arms over her breasts, an action that couldn’t block me out any more effectively that if she started stacking bricks and mortar right there on the polished hardwood floor between us.

“I don’t remember inviting you in Mulder”

“You didn’t” I respond, throwing my keys on to the small table that resides just to the left of the doorframe and watching as they slide across the smooth surface, teetering on the edge but not quite falling. The parallel between those keys and our relationship at this moment doesn’t escape me.

“Well, I think I’d like to be alone so if you don’t mind...”

I don’t let her finish though and I know I’m probably overstepping the mark with her by several feet. But I just don’t care anymore; I don’t care how pissed off she gets with me because we have reached such an impasse that if we don’t at least attempt to get past it, we may as well just give the hell up on each other; and I’m not ready to do that.

So I step towards her and rest my hand on her shoulder, gently stroking my way down her upper arm before allowing my hand to fall away, trying desperately to let her know that it’s okay; even if she thinks it isn’t.

Because I do mind. I mind more than she could ever know.

continued chapter 3

#love is a quiet voice #my fic #cancer arc