#this is hands down two of their best looks from s7 so far

[hausofzamo]

*Prolonged buzzing sound effect*

#i love it when they <3 #this is hands down two of their best looks from s7 so far #drag #drag queen #drag race #gif #lgbtq #rupauls drag race #rpdr #rpdredit #rpdr s7 #rupauls drag race season 7 #trixie mattel #katya #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #unhhhh

[oddnry-silent]

•Should have stayed back.

>Y/N saw Carl standing while he watched Enid at the wall. Y/N heard the coversation as he followed both of them to the hilltop, regretting it after.

Carl Grimes x Male Reader

S7 EP 5

Pronouns : He/Him

Full Angst!

TW! Language, Mention of knife!

Color text:

Carl Y/N Enid Daryl Aaron Eugene

Y/N came out of Olivia's garage as he got his knife returned after he practiced throwing it to the tree and it almost hit Rosita. He thanked Olivia and headed back to his house, not until he saw his best friend Carl following Enid.

Out of curiosity, Y/N decided to follow the two.

He was about to show up to the two but he hid to the bush nearby as Carl started talking.

"Enid?" Carl asked the girl who is filling the holes with metal sticks to climb on. "I need to see Maggie." Enid stopped climbing.

"You're walking to the hilltop?" Carl said as he stare at the girl. "It's far." He added as Enid started climbing up. "I'll be fine."

"Maybe." Carl looked up. "I'll be fine." Enid shouted, "I have better aim than you."

Carl looked down, and Enid exhaled deeply. "I didn't mean that way." She looked at Carl again. "I'm not saving you anymore." Carl looked up.

Enid sighed as she filled up the next hole with the metal stick, "That's what happened in the armory?" Enid climbed up, "You saved me?"

"Yeah." Carl said as he looked up to Enid. "You made it back in one piece, you're still here." Enid said, "I'm not talking about that." Carl looked down as Enid did the same.

"I'm sorry you had to see it." Carl shook his head, "I'm not." Enid looked to the wall and climbed up to the other side as Carl walked away.

Y/N hid further more to the bush as Carl walked past him, going to the cars. Y/N followed him silently as Carl walked to the driver's seat.

He opened the door as Y/N lowered his head as he waited for Carl to go inside. Carl closed the door as he started the engine and at the same time, Y/N opened the trunk and hid himself inside and closed it quietly.

The car started moving as Y/N sat there, following Carl out of curiosity.

The car halted, "You know how to drive?" It was Eugene. "Just testing, I'll drive out for a while." Carl said. The conversation ended as the gates opened and the car moved.

Minutes later, the car sped up and it bumped something, Y/N thought that it's an walker. He bounced a bit from the action and he heard a walker groaning.

The car moved back as it bumped to something hard. Y/N embraced the force as he hit his head to the trunk. He moved back and saw blood coming inside the gap.

"What are you doing here?" Y/N heard a familiar voice, it is Enid. "Felt like a drive." Carl said as the door opened and footsteps fade away.

Y/N opened the trunk and heard a thump, it was the walker earlier.

He got up and saw the two in a good distance, it was perfect for Y/N as he followed he two to the main road.

He kept himself low to he trees while following the two. His swift moves helped him follow them to where they're going.

The two walked at both sides of the road, keeping a good awkward distance from each other.

"Not sorry you saw it?"

"Yeah, I watched it. Both times. I didn't look away."

"Why?"

"Because, when it was happening, I knew that I needed to remember it. So when I had the chance to kill him, I wouldn't have a choice."

"I think I'd kill him too." "It's messed up but, that's how it is."

"You do things for the ones you love. Loved."

"It's not for them." "Sorry I locked you in the armory."

"I didn't need to see it." "We don't even know if she's okay."

"We'll get there."

They walked but Enid got a way ahead from Carl. Carl found something beside the road and went to it. Y/n stopped moving as he watched Carl.

Carl opened the bag and saw rollerskates. "Enid. Stop."

They both wore it as they rode to the road together.

Enid grabbed Carl's hand as he about to slip off.

"Are you okay?" Enid looked at Carl, "Yeah."

Carl held Enid's hand tightly as they rode to the hilltop.

Y/N was staring at there, in shock.

A tear went down to his face as he saw what happened.

Break.

They both arrived at the hilltop as they both saw the Saviors at the entrance. Y/N kept a good distance where he can see the two clearly.

He listened to the conversation as he saw Enid leaned to Carl, inches away from his face.

Break.

"It wouldn't matter." "It would for me,"

Carl leaned in to rest his forehead to Enid's. Carl kissed her forehead and locked his eyes to hers, and he leaned in for a kiss.

BREAK.

As Y/N's heart shattered into pieces just by looking at his crush kissing a girl. He covered his mouth as he let tears flow.

He don't know what to do at the situation that he stepped back and broke a twig.

Carl and Enid looked at the direction where the sound was as they saw Y/N crying with covering his mouth. Their eyes widened as Y/N laughed.

"Should have stayed back." He said as he lowered his hand, revealing a smile while his tears flowed down. Y/N looked straight onto Carl's eyes as he closed his eyes and laughed not too loud.

"I'm an fucking asshole for loving you, Carl Grimes." Y/N said as he stepped back as he looked away and start walking back home.

Carl didn't know what to do as he saw his best friend left, and knowing just now that he had an crush on him.

Carl ran to Y/N and he caught his arm, Carl made Y/N look at him in the eyes.

"Y/N, it's just an mis-" "It's fucking clear, Carl. Not a some bullshit misunderstanding." Y/N's e/c tired eyes with tears still flowing from it down to his cheeks.

"I liked you since the day we met, Carl. But this? All of this is clear for me, you indirectly rejected me even though I found myself confessing to you later but then I discovered all of this."

Carl looked at Y/N in shock, his eye widened at the sudden words. Y/N shook off Carl's hand as he started running away.

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Another day with Y/N surviving in this apocalyptic world. He walked down to an unknown road with the gloomy clouds above him, and saw 2 walkers coming to his way.

"Assholes, I'm fucking tired and both of you showed up in the wrong timing." Y/N got his combat knife and waited for the walkers to come at him.

The one stumbled to him and before it bite him, Y/N stabbed it at the head as the other one stumbled Y/N and the corpse to the ground.

He struggled killing the other one while the corpse is heavy. The walker was about to bite him but it stopped when an arrow got the walker in the head.

Y/N sighed as he dropped his hands to the ground and closed his eyes shut.

"Hey kid." Y/N heard a raspy voice coming from the left. He was tired and don't have enough strength to move away the walkers above him because of no food and water in days, maybe weeks.

An figure showed up in front of Y/N, pulling out the two corpses. He held out a hand for Y/N and he tiredly accepted it. He looked at the guy with greasy long hair, wearing a black long-sleeved with a vest on top.

"How many walkers have you killed?" The man asked, "Can't count." Y/N said tiredly looking the both men.

"How many people have you killed?" The man asked again as he rested his crossbow at his shoulder, "4." Y/N said coldly.

"Why?" The man with the crossbow looked at the other man who asked Y/N. "They turned in front of me." Y/N looked down to the ground.

"You can join us at the camp, kid. I'm Daryl, this is Aaron." The long haired man introduced himself as Daryl and the other man, Aaron.

Y/N hesitantly nodded as he follow both men to their camp called Alexandria. We arrived at the gate and someone with a sherrif hat opened it, it was a boy around my age.

"Uh, this is Carl Grimes. The son of our leader ere'." Daryl pointed out at Carl as Carl smiled at Y/N and waved.

"Y/N, Y/N L/N." Y/N said as all of them smiled. Daryl gently pushed Y/N to Carl causing Y/N bumped into the boy.

"Carl, yer' show em' around, I'll talk to Rick." Daryl said as he walked away to somewhere.

Y/N stood himself up from Carl as he looked at him. "So, where should we start?" Carl said as they both laughed.

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"Fucking asshole, Y/N." Y/N told himself as he was sitting at the porch of Daryl and Carol's home. He throwed down the rock to the road as he sighed.

Daryl was caught by the saviors and Carol escaped away from Alexandria. Y/N has no one to talk to. He stood up and got inside the house and went straight into his room.

He jumped himself on his bed and got the comic book at the nightstand. Something peaked through the page Y/N is reading, he opened the book to that page and a paper dropped down with a picture behind it.

The paper is folded with a note "To Carl." At the front. Y/N laughed as he opened the paper.

"Hey Carl Grimes.

I know it's the apocalypse but I just wanted to say that I liked you- no, I love you since that day we've met. I never thought I'll met someone at my age and I'm really happy when we roam around Alexandria and talk random shit together. My heart beats fast when I saw you even from a distance. You're very nice and funny to everyone and you take the supply runs seriously and protecting me while we find some thing and I thank you for that. I really felt safe around you and when I hear your voice, it really calms me down and some shit flying around my stomach. I really love you Carl, I really do.

From, Y/N."

Y/N laughed while tears started rolling down through his face as it stained the note. He set the note aside and behind it was his picture with Carl.

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"Y/N! I found a camera!" Carl came running to Y/N while Y/N searching things that's useful for the camp. "Let's take a picture!" Carl excitedly pulled Y/N close to him, boh of them smiling as the camera clicks.

The both of them smiled as the film came out. Carl took it and shook it a little and the picture came out.

"Look at us, Y/N!" Carl laughed as he looked at the picture with admiration. Y/N took the picture and saw both their faces close to each other, causing his face turn red.

"I'll keep this, dibs." Y/N laughed as Carl did the same. "Not fair."

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Y/N let his tears flow as he remembered the memory he'll never forget, but what's the use of it now?

He put back the things as he closed the book and throwed it to the nightstand. He cuddled up to his pillow and cried more.

"Should have stayed back."

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First one-shot!

Thank you for reading!

#twd #the walking dead #carl x male reader #carl x reader #carl grimes #oddnry silent

[amplifyme]

I'm on the "keep the miracle pregnancy" side-- but C'MON CC. You had all of S7 to lead up to his finale, admitted the whole crew/actors knew it was leading up to Requiem's twist, had Amor Fati spaceship (and possibly En Ami chip), so much time and build up you could have done aaaaaand no. You literally threw up your hands, gave us a post-humous IVF timeline that can't fit in S7, gave no explanation for Scully's pregnancy and had everyone dancing around it. 1/2

The best moments of S8 were Doggett and Skinner friend bits and MSR (of course)-- and the MSR was only as good as it got because DD had his micro-expressions and most of Empedocles was add-libbed (even in the scripts it said something along the lines of "they'll know what to do here" or "they do something in this scene.") I HATE Essence/Existence. If I feel all soft and snuggly, I'll cue up Essence's monologue, some of Mulder/Doggett, the babyshower, and SKIP to the last 5 min of Existence. 2/2

The polite person in me wants to say "sorry for the rant" but the petty side of me says "direct all annoyance at CC, he started this." And that's another thing! CC has every right to torpedo his own series; and I'm pretty hands off and will just say "that's not canon", dust my hands off, and move on. But to then turn and point the finger at fans, who were invested (and continue to be in part) in his work and blame them? Wild. ANyWaY, thanks for letting me rant~.  ;DDD 3/2

Hey, I’m always up for a good rant myself! 🤣

I’ll support your support for a miracle pregnancy, even though just the thought of it makes me break out out in hives. I’m a believer in live and let live, and the idea that there is no right or wrong way to be a fan. Having said all that...

To put it bluntly, Chris Carter shit the bed when it came to pretty much anything post-Je Souhaite. There are certain moments in what came after that I enjoy, but I can only do that if I’m able to view them as AU, something completely separate from the series I came to know and love. And it’s not just that I object to the mangled storylines and characterizations, or the blatant retconning he had to do to untangle the mess he himself created. It’s that’s so much (IMHO) of what I loved about the series and these remarkable characters wasn’t there anymore. Everything was dumbed down and simplified and painfully pedestrian. I didn’t recognize anyone anymore. Frankly, I didn’t care to.

You’re correct that CC had every right to torpedo his own series. But here’s the thing: you’ll never convince me that he will ever consider the notion that he’s the one responsible for its steep decline. I think he still believes that everything he touches is golden and he makes no mistakes. Now most of us, if we’re self-aware enough, learn from our mistakes and alter our behavior going forward to integrate those lessons learned and at least try to do better the next time. Instead of doing that, CC gave us IWTB and the My Struggle episodes in the revival. Not just one or two, but four of them, each more badly written and nonsensical than the last. And he still thinks they’re masterpieces of film making and writing. But I guess if you’ve been fed a steady diet of ego-stroking and consume only positive press over a few decades, it becomes difficult to pull your head out of your ass and take a good look around.

As an aside, I took on the challenge, this new year, to finally watch S9, none of which I’ve seen - with the exception of The Truth. I made it as far as Mulder taking a shower in his black boxers and Scully’s, “He’s gone. He’s just gone,” explanation before I bowed out. I can’t do it. I just can’t. More power to everyone out there who enjoys what came after S7. I wish I could see what y’all do, but I can’t. Neither my eyes or my heart are up for the task. 

#ask and answer #xfiles #amp rants #love the great kahuna for giving us mulder and scully #but will never forgive him for what he did to them #they deserved so much better

[m-aster-of-spinjitzu]

the hues of an empty sky

Missing memories, or having two of them for one moment - not quite the same, but if there's one thing Jay's leant over the last few weeks, it's that literally nothing makes sense anymore.

Or, some Skybound aftermath, Zane actually expressing emotions about his memory switch being turned off for all those years, and what was supposed to be a 'they tell everyone about the erased timeline' fic, but it turned into a 'two characters who barely interact on screen talk at like one am in the morning, and don't actually tell the other what exactly they're alluding to the whole time' fic that I wrote at like one am- 

Also yeah, I realized too late that they split up to look for Wu after s7, we’re just gonna pretend that they waited a few days or something, idk anymore tbh, lol.

(I also didn't have time to edit - so please tell me where the typos are? 😂💛)

Word count: 4539

Prompt: crying, from @ninjago-bingo 's warm board.

Trigger warnings: the main character has a panic attack, and squeezes their fingernails into their hands once or twice but I think that's it.

*facepalms* also, guys, i’m so stupid - i literally just realized that this freaking CHANGES TENSE HALFWAY OHMYGOSH I-  i don’t think it’s super noticeable, but ugh, apologies to anyone who actually thought my writing was good lol-

---

It's cold.

Bitterly, freezing cold.

The biting chill of the air is a bit strange for this time of year, but, heck, that's nowhere near the craziest thing that's ever happened to him - not by a long shot.

He sighs, squinting at the stars dotted liberally against the black canvas of the sky.

Cole had once joked that one of them might be the remains of their golden weapons, after they'd hurled the burning mass into the sky - in another alternate timeline; one that only existed in the memories of a certain few.

Gosh - that seemed like such a long time ago.

Wouldn't it be nice to go back to that time, when he'd still thought that their powers were the coolest thing ever - instead of despising them for all the responsibility and sacrifice that came with them? When one of his biggest worries was whether the girl he had a crush on liked him back - not wondering if his friends would survive the night?

"I did not expect to find you awake at this hour, Jay."

Reflexivity, he jumps back, his mind twisting his friend's gentle voice into the- the djin's triumphant, accented one.

You're supposed to be a ninja. What good are you if your friends can still sneak up on you?

"Geez, warn a guy before you sneak up on him! I almost fell off the Bounty!"

"My apologies. I was... surprised to find you awake at this hour," Zane answers. "What are you doing?" "Couldn't sleep. It's too cold," he confesses, not entirely a lie. Ninjago wasn't 'that' far from the Sea of Sand, but he'd grown up in a much warmer area - unfortunately resulting in his practically nonexistent tolerance to the cold. That never failed to stop Kai from teasing him about it, though. He doesn't mention the pressing weight on his chest, almost tangible - or how it constantly makes him feel. Like he's being dragged through the darkness of an empty sky, spikes of fear making everything so freaking terrifying- "You?"

"I have been analyzing my memories of Pixal, in the hope that it may lead me to her whereabouts. However, all my efforts have proved... unsuccessful," Zane answers wearily, shifting his gaze to the sky.

Oh- oh. They'd all be so caught up in the chaos of the last few weeks - hey, it's not like any of them had asked the universe to permanently be out to get them! - that they'd forgotten Pixal was still offline.

"Hey, I'm sure that she's still there somewhere," he says, earnestly. "After all - she wouldn't be your girlfriend if she didn't pull a vanishing act every now and again, eh?"

The question is punctuated with a laugh, but he doesn't say that he's a little worried about her too. They hadn't talked much, but-

I can't see one of my best friends find out that his girlfriend is dead, a quiet voice at the back of his mind points out. Well - been there, done that, wouldn't recommend, he thinks bitterly. Emotional breakdowns and frequent nightmares apply. Anxiety attacks are half off, too!

It's quiet for a few minutes, neither of them seeing a need to break the silence. The wind blows softly through the sails above them; gray wisps of cloud revealing a pale sliver of moonlight that paints the sky in its glow.

It should be a peaceful night: beautiful, calm, no one trying to kill them or destroy their city - for a change.

His hands won't stop shaking.

It should be a peaceful night, but, as usual, the world is too freaking unfair for that-

He hasn't even slept for a full night in weeks! Well, not since- since-

Don't think about it! That's only going to make it worse, duh-

"Are you alright, Jay?"

"Yeah- I- I'm good, thanks," he says quickly, ignoring the way his breathing keeps speeding up. FSM, not this-

Not for the first time, the world suddenly becomes too loud - too much. Every little thing, from trying to breathe properly or even walk- feels insurmountable, because, gosh, oh gosh, it's going to come crashing down if he even moves-

The memory starts off the same as it always does.

Rubble strewn over the temple grounds, his friends literally reduced to nothing more than statues. A shot that hit the mark perfectly, but perfectly shattered his world in the process.

A poison-splattered dress, a terrifying realization.

Her well-aimed joke, but one that never fails to sting every time. Gosh, why hadn't they just allowed her to join their team in the first place? Maybe they could've prevented this- this- whole situation, if they hadn't been so freaking egotistical-

And, again, he's overwhelmed by the sheer sense of helplessness, all his power and training and skills completely useless to one of the people he cared most about. FSM, if only I hadn't used my first w-request so carelessly! If only I'd been able to escape- or, or if only I'd been able to assemble the team faster! If only-

Despite being in what must've been unimaginable pain, she offers a strained smile - a sweet gesture that, ironically, feels like she's poisoning him, because- because FSM, this is all so wrong, it wasn't supposed to end like this-

He watches with horror as her eyes dull and she stills in his arms.

She's gone, FSM, she's gone and it's all my fault-

"Jay?" a voice asks, concern evident in their tone. Distantly, he registers that he's having a breakdown in front of one of his best friends - one of the things he'd been trying really hard to avoid.

Dang it.

"I-" he tries to say, but, great, he's breathing too fast to even get the stupid words out.

"Breathe in for four seconds," Zane says, softly.

Four seconds? Time has no meaning right now, narrowed down to, like - falling down a chasm, terrified of what's at the bottom, except the fear's all around, this- this... foreboding thing of his mind that keeps yelling that he needs to run, or fight, but he can't, can't-

Right. Four seconds.

You're okay, you're fine, no one's trying to hurt you or your friends. She's not dead.

But what if- what if they're being dragged out of this ship right now? What if it was all a dream, and she's dead anyway, because all of us were too stupid to come up with another plan, and none of us could even do anything when she-

After a little while, when he could breathe a little easier, and the fear didn't feel like it was slamming into him from every possible direction, he slowly opened his eyes. Shakily, he wiped a tear from his face - as if that would wipe away all the weeks that had, theoretically, never even freaking happened.

The sky comes back into focus - pinpricks of light against pitch black. 

How was he going to come up with some sorta explanation without... well, explaining everything?

Great.

My nerves are frayed, and I have to lie to a walking lie detector - what could possibly go wrong?

"Are you alright?" Zane asks, his brows creased in concern.

"Heh heh, yeah. Probably just too many video games," he replies quickly, laughter a bit strained.

"You were muttering to yourself," his friend replies quietly. Ugh, trust the way-too-observant-nindroid to call him out on the remains of his facade. "If you do not mind me asking, what was 'all your fault'? I am sure that it was probably a misunderstanding."

You're the one who misunderstands everything, he thinks wearily, ignoring the part of him that yearns to tell someone else about... well, everything that's happened because of that stupid teapot. He's not one to keep secrets by nature, and it's been taking a bigger toll of him than he'd thought it would. Is this how Nya felt when she was still the Samurai? "It's- it's nothing, probably just nonsense."

"Are you sure? You seem... quite worried about something."

Dang it, were his hands still shaking? He presses his fingernails into his palms, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

He's talking to one of his best friends, FSM. Weren't friends able to tell each other anything?

"Do you think it's easier to forget? Better?"

He didn't even realize he'd asked a question until Zane's eyes widened in surprise.

A forest coated in snow, ice crystals dangling from the tree branches above their heads. Plenty of screaming - way too much, he reflects, couldn't they have been a bit nicer? It must've been pretty jarring to learn that you weren't human, or that your father had erased years of your life from your mind - in that weird underground treehouse. Those crazy tree monsters - and the realization that they all had much more power than they'd thought.

"N- nevermind," he stutters, fleetingly thinking of kicking the deck. "That's way too personal, you don't have to answer it-"

"I do not mind," Zane says, a bit sadly.

Oh.

Heck, his friend was way too nice.

They gaze up at the stars for a few minutes, not really seeing them - one drowning under the weight of too many secrets, the other, too many memories.

It's quiet - too quiet.

Ugh, he thinks, sighing, that sounds like something a low-budget horror movie would start with, cringey sound effects to match.

But the silence is a painful reminder of the days he'd spent tossing and turning in a cramped cell - nothing but his worries and the bruises on his leg from that stupid ball and chain keeping him awake.

He's been trying hard - maybe too hard - to avoid being alone, avoid being in a situation where they've gotta be quiet ever since then, because, dang it, his memories always seem to fill the silence, and they're always far more terrifying than they should be-

It's easier, in a way, to be mocked for his stupid jokes than it is to relive a single moment from those nightmarish few weeks.

Almost reflexively, he grasps for something to fill the quiet.

"Heh, this is a bit awkward. It's okay if you wanna leave-"

"I do not mind," Zane echoes, walking a bit closer. "It is not as if I need to sleep. But... I do not quite know what to think of your question."

There comes the answer - or a semblance of one at least, and it's the last thing he'd been expecting.

"You don't know?" he blurts out before he can even think of trying to filter the thought. Way to treat your friend who's been nothing but kind to you, Jay. "But you're- you're a nindroid! You know everything-"

"Pixal," his friend mutters softly, sighing, and the hurt, the fear, laced through the word makes something in his heart practically twist. He knows all too well what it feels like to be in that situation - even if, technically, it had never happened.

Then- "I wish that were true. But I suppose that my emotions make certain situations much more complicated than... than they need to be. Thus I cannot give my perspective on this - or, at least, without sounding quite conflicted."

"You know that you're allowed to be conflicted, right? Even the coolest Nindroids don't know everything."

"...Yes, I suppose so."

Jay frowns at the almost subconscious hesitation, eyebrows creasing in concern.

"Seriously," he starts earnestly. They're both leaning on one of the railings just above the deck now. "Just 'cause you're a nindroid doesn't mean that you've gotta chase some kind of perfection that doesn't even exist."

He doesn't miss how Zane's eyes widen in shock, their bright blue hue glowing a little brighter - and heck, if that doesn't hurt even more than the earlier realization.

"Besides - it's not like none of us haven't made mistakes before. Hate to go all Wu on ya, but they help us learn or some stupid thing like that. Even if the mistake is trying not to make 'em, you know?"

"Thank you," Zane replies, a tired smile on his face. "Even the most advanced tech is susceptible to error, I suppose."

They've all made lots of mistakes, heaven forbid if one of them is still agonizing over messing up over the crazy situations the universe constantly put them in. It's not like they were told they'd have to face more ancient evil armies than they could count, were they?

Maybe it's time to stop focusing on events that never even happened, and pay more attention to your friends. What's the point of being part of this team if you're always scared or selfish?

"Shut up," he mumbles, rubbing his temples. What's the point of fighting if your own brain is gonna fight you whenever it gets a chance? A few seconds later, he schools his face back into his default anxious grin. "Great, cause I- I- could use your advice on something." "Alright," comes the quiet reply, his friend seemingly lost in thought.

"What if you wanted to tell someone something, but you couldn't?"

His breathing starts to speed up again, but he grips the deck until his fingers are practically bruised, stark white against his tanned skin. Not this time-

"Is this what you were referring to earlier? An event that you blamed yourself for?" Zane asks, eyes flitting between the floor and the sky.

Dang it, way too observant as usual. He masks his surprise with a laugh, but the conversation definitely isn't going as planned and, oh gosh oh gosh, what if-

No, there's no way that any of them would even believe that. Besides - no one can remember stuff that they've forgotten, especially if magic's at play.

"Yeah, kinda," and he's surprised by how steady his voice sounds. It's not easy to even think about that- event, talking about it is a whole different thing. A much more difficult thing, but also - a bit, a little bit, easier. "I-" "Apologies for interrupting," his friend interjects. "I suppose that I have not been entirely honest with you." What?

"A few days ago, I discovered a number of deleted memory files buried deep within my code."

Just like that, his whole world tilts out from underneath him.

It takes every ounce of his strength to keep himself from falling into the abyss again.

Wait, what?

Has he really known for all this time? It's been weeks! Surely he would've said something? It can't be, it never even-

The rational part of his mind points out that he can remember every day of those few weeks. Well, he was the one to make the wish - magical logic is kinda stupid, but maybe that's why he had to remember it or something?

Well then, a small voice interjects, why was Nya cursed to remember everything too?

Of course, even the stupid magical logic doesn't even make sense to the one who caused this whole mess in the first place.

"They were almost entirely corrupted - scrambled in a way that I am not familiar with. However, I did realize that certain files bore dates that have not even occurred yet. I dismissed it as a problem with my code, however..."

Breathe, calm down, it's not like he was able to process them or anything-

We agreed that no one was supposed to know! What if they end up blaming us for keeping it a secret this long, or, or-

"I mean, they could've been-" he starts, but the way in which he's nervously twisting his fingers is a pretty clear indication that he's lying, dang it.

"So when you mentioned that you were unable to tell someone something - did you mean that it was because they had quite literally forgotten about it?"

Great. Fantastic. Of course the literal robot has pieced it together by now-

He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, hoping that if he ignores the problem, maybe it'll go away.

Okay, fine, maybe he's trying to figure out a way to fix this whole mess. Doesn't mean that he's any closer to coming up with a solution, though.

"Er, yeah," he whispers, shoulders slumped, eyes still firmly shut. Because gosh, he doesn't want to - can't, can't - see the realization dawn that, yeah, he's lied to people he's known for years and years, even though they've all seen way too many times that secrets bring nothing but trouble-

"Well, then - I would say that you don't have to tell them," Zane replies, surprisingly... earnestly? That, or he's either too freaked out to understand the tone properly. Could be either.

He opens his eyes, hesitantly.

And it comes as a bit of a shock to find nothing but concern reflected in his friend's.

The almost persistent weight on his chest feels a little lighter now, like the sky isn't as quite so empty.

Well, it still kinda is. But that doesn't hold as much weight as he'd thought it did - not if one of his friends is willing to look past that; past the heaviness of holding up all those memories with nothing his single star, flickering in and out of the darkness, to try and light the unforgiving darkness of the sky.

"Why?" Jay asks, so quietly he can barely hear it himself. "Don't I owe it to them? Do you?"

"No. Definitely not," comes the reply, so full of conviction that he almost stumbles back. Why-

"My father..."

Oh- oh.

"thought it was better to spare me the pain of mourning him than for me to know who I was," Zane confesses, hesitantly. "Not that I disagree, necessarily. I just..."

He trails off, clutching the railing so hard that the wood almost snaps beneath his titanium fingers.

It takes Jay a little while to realize why - why exactly his friend, who has access to a wealth of knowledge and information, is grasping for an answer. Because- because, well, even if someone does something in your best interests - sometimes the choice isn't always up to them. Or maybe it is, but it was... difficult, to say the least, to let go of the fact that his parents had never told him the truth sooner. Not that he blames them, necessarily - it's not like they knew that his father would pass on before he'd even get the chance to meet him - but... it's confusing, and difficult, not to know why you were left at a junkyard as soon as you were born. Maybe if he'd known that sooner, he could've asked the one person who might've had answers - although it's not like hoping for the past to change will actually change it.

They don't even know that you know, a small voice at the back of his mind points out, and suddenly everything makes a lot more sense-

"You wanted a choice," he breathes, eyes widening. A choice - like one that he'd never been given, one that he stills struggles not to hold against two people who've always had his best interests at heart. Even if they did have the right to withhold that one thing, after all they've done for him - the 'what if's' still echo in his mind far more often than he'd like. "There's nothing wrong with that, even if it feels that way. I kinda get where you're coming from, dude, and it's... super confusing, but I'd be pretty mad if my memories were tampered with like that."

So would anyone, he realizes, heart sinking. Oh, great. Not helping-

"I- I suppose so?" Zane answers, but it sounds more like a question than a reply. "However, in the same vein, it would be unwise for you to give away your choice whilst you still have one." "But don't I owe it to everyone? You just said it, it's horrible to alter people's memories and I- I-" "Did we forget... whatever it was for a good reason? "I- I mean, I guess, but..." "Then you do not owe it to us to relive something that we do not even remember." The words should be a relief - and they kinda are. But some part of him really does want to explain the crazy alternate timeline, and everything that happened in it. It's just... really, really freaking difficult.

"What if- what if I wanted to, though?" Jay asks hysterically, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied sort of way. "And I still couldn't? I just, I-"

He cuts himself off with a bout of forced laughter.

Zane takes a moment to reply, the bright blue light in his eyes flickering - a small tell that he was thinking so deeply, his processors were literally sparking up a bit.

"You queried earlier if it was easier, or better, to forget. And while all situations are different, I suppose it is... well, subjective. What do you think?" Zane asks, softly.

Derailing the conversation a bit, but his friend's obviously smart enough to be leading up to something.

Sure, he'll go along with it.

"I mean, there are some things I'd rather forget, you know? I guess we all know what that feels like," Jay replies, the statement with oddly sad air to it. They're still kids, after all, and it gets a bit exhausting pretending that their superhero lives were all fun and games - when they'd just given him enough grey hair to last then lifetimes, and enough nightmares to keep him from ever getting the normal amount of sleep his mum always prattled on about.

Sleep, heh heh. Practically a foreign concept, now.

"And I know that stuff that happens, like shapes us or something - and Master Wu would probably go off on a whole ramble about why we learn from our mistakes or whatever," he laughs nervously, resisting the urge to just fall headfirst onto the deck of the stupid ship instead of continuing the conversation," and how 'our scars only make us stronger', crap like that, but I just-"

"I'm just really... tired of this," he confesses warily, shoulders slumped. "W- I remember so many horrible things, and I-" he breaks off, laughing bitterly. His voice takes on a sort of brittle quality, way too high pitched, "and I can't even talk about them, dude. If that's not the most pathetic thing ever, I dunno what is."

"It does not-"

"Don't say it," Jay mutters, rubbing his temples. "I know, I know, my feelings aren't pathetic, they're always valid, whatever, spare me the lecture-"

"That is not what I was going to say," Zane replies gently. "It just seems that you have answered your own question."

"Gee, which one?"

"I do not know how much helpful assistance I can provide in this situation, but it is understandable to wish certain events had never occurred. However, seeing as we cannot change the past, it seems unwise to dwell on said events if you can avoid it."

Jay stiffens, clamping a shaky hand over his mouth. Something seems to press down even harder on his chest, a heavy sort of weight that causes his breathing to speed up again. Don't say it don't say it there's no reason to warn them this time-

"If you would like to tell any of us about something, of course you are welcome to. It does not to be the whole story, after all. Just make sure that it is the decision you choose, not one you choose because of what you think how it will affect others," Zane finishes quietly, ducking his head as if he's embarrassed.

The stars are still white-hot, burning away some million miles above them.

"Thanks," he says, and puts his hand softly on Zane's shoulder. "I mean, I know - that all makes sense, I guess. It's just- I-"

"You want to?"

"Yeah," Jay starts, sighing, "I do. It's just- it's not just my choice. And I'm pretty much dying already right now, so, as fantastic as making it all worse sounds, hard pass."

Oops, maybe he shouldn't have said that last bit. They'd agreed not to tell anyone about it - even this conversation was cutting it way too close. It wasn't impossible for them to put everything together - they were a pretty smart group, after all, even without their resident inventor and engineer - and Jay didn't really know what he'd think if they did. Fearful? Relieved? Angry?

"That does... not sound great? Dying certainly does not seem-"

"It's called sarcasm, Zane."

"Oh- yes. My memory now accesses the fact that people often speak in that manner. It does seem a bit counterproductive, though. Why not just say what you mean?"

"Shut it, you have no clue how integral to my life it is," Jay replies with a halfhearted grin.

A few seconds later, he remembers something his friend had mentioned earlier, and the grin disappears.

"You know that you can talk to us if you're not happy, right?" he asks, earnestly. Sure, it's not like he could always do that, considering, well, a stupid djin and even stupider magic, but it's not like he needs to. It's- well- he'll be okay, probably. Maybe. Kinda.

Zane's eyes blink on and off again, blue fading in and out. "I... I suppose that I was not quite aware of that."

Okay, they've screwed up way too many times, but this... this is pretty bad. Dang it, how long does it take for them to throw self-preservation instincts at their friend before he freaking- picks them up or something?

"However, will it not hurt those who have experienced the same unfortunate events?"

Dude, not the best question to ask someone wondering the exact same thing-

"It's been... uh, nice, kind of, talking to you. So- I don't think so, and I'm pretty sure someone would say so if it did. Besides, don't we talk about our adventures all the time? It'd probably be better if we... uh, well- heh heh, nothing."

"If we talked about the less than positive elements of them? Perhaps, but I still-"

Maybe it's the fact Zane has always tried to be there for him, or maybe he's too sleep deprived to care anymore, but this is a way too familiar situation and-

Well, not ignoring the issue would be a start.

"Sorry to interrupt, but we're family, Zane. We care about each other. And, gosh, that means that we care about you too. Memories are stupid and annoying sometimes, but we have to make good ones too, right? To block out the bad ones a bit, I guess? Kinda, at least."

They both look away from the stars now, grappling for something else to say.

In the end, they leave it be with a hug and a fondly exasperated warning about sleeping, if you happen to need it.

After all, they're family. They don't have to be perfect, or tell each other everything - even if it does take them a long time to realize that, and an even longer time remembering it.

---

The next time Jay startles awake from a nightmare, the sky is still empty - painfully so, like an ache that simmers beneath the surface even when it's not able to be seen.

The hue, though, is a little lighter.

Just a little - the all-encompassing darkness of it is now a navy sort of blue, his star shining a little bit brighter.

It's still not sunrise, not even close - but he'll take it. AN: the ‘sky’ mentioned at the start and end is a stupid metaphor that i somehow ended up liking too much to trash, it’s ‘empty’ because he hasn’t told anyone about the timeline, and Nya’s not included because they never had a chance to tell each other everything significant or even talked about it or processed it on screen. so yeah! if you read this,,, not great thing, can i send you a hug or good vibes or smth? tyy🥺

#ninjago #jay walker #zane julien #skybound #ninjago fic #not the best thing i've written #actually it's not great- #but i spent too long on it to not post it so if you actually read to here i simunltaneously wanna send you good vibes & apologize profusely- #the ending is super rushed but im too tired to try and write a better one yay:/ #also dang it- sorry this fits the prompt so badly i- #i didn't realize till after oops #ninbingo #ninjago jay #ninjago zane #ninjago masters of spinjitzu

[kittydemon9000]

SO MERLOPIAN KAI PART 2 ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

So, with Kalmaar, he ofc immediately goes to his parents about his feeling, slightly placing his revenge on hold. They are...dubious about it, but Maya raises the point of how there has never been a human/merlopian hybrid before, and from what Ray has told them about having two EM parents it’s possible for Kai to have some water abilities himself, which could be what gave Kalmaar his feeling. So, they agree to look into it.

Moving on..... Uh. Kai doesn’t have a fun time in S6, as briefly as he’s there. You see, Nahdakahn knows exactly what buttons to press and is able to get Kai into a panicked state where he, on the verge of a panic attack and mental breakdown, just says “I wish that I could just be normal! I wish I could just go home! I wish I could be with dad and mom and father and Kal and Bentho and Nya!!!”

The “normal” comment comes from how they weren’t able to completely hide Kai’s heritage since yeah, there were other people on the boat who saw him. That and he also tried a lot less to keep it hidden. And because some humans are assholes, he has to deal with that.

So ofc, Nahdakahn interprets it in the worst ways and as two wishes. Kai is now a full human yes….but was also sent to where the fish fam currently were……which just so happened to be at the bottom of the ocean.

So yeah, double trauma for both groups. Kai got to experience what drowning felt like, and his fam was essentially forced to watch him die since there was nothing they could do. They were too far under to take him to the surface and too far from the palace to take him there.

But dw, it gets even worse.

You see, the whole reason Nahdakahn is being this malicious about Kai’s wishes is because he learned that Kai was the reason the Preeminent was destroyed, thereby destroying Djinjago.

Nahdakahn is then able to do a “oh? Is this not what you wanted? I thought you wished to be normal.” Which ofc sounds really bad since it’s in front of his family. “But, I understand. You grow tired of the stares in the street, how they whisper behind you back about what you are. Not human, not merlopian, not normal. Just a freak masquerading as one of them.”

This ofc supremely pisses off the fam. Like, weapons drawn ready to commit murder.

But then Nahdakahn stop them with a “ah ah ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. After all, I am the only way your son has a chance at living. So go ahead. Make a wish.”

Trimaar ends up being the one to do it, and is smart enough to know this uh will twist it in anyway he can so says. “I wish for Kai to be sent safely to the surface without harm done upon him.”

Blah blah blah, your wish is yours to keep, Trimaar realizing “wait there’s a lot that could be interpreted” but too late BAM now Kai’s kinda stuck on the Misfortune’s Keep.

And he....generally has a pretty bad time. Think Jay but this time it’s personal.

However, Kai’s appearance had Trimaar get the Merlopian army and start heading to the surface. The remaining ninja have a brief moment of “are you kidding me two enemies at once” before learning that this is Kai’s lost family and they’re here to help.

So now the ninja have a whole ass fish army to help them, plus a very protective, very angry fish family.

But for the rest of canon, the only difference is that when they’re leaving Tiger Widow Island, Nya gets snatched along with Jay(who was taken because he hadn’t used his wish yet) and they aren’t stuck on the island, and then later that Kai gets sucked into the sword when the ninja launch their rescue mission.

But yeah, it gets all Un-Happened by Jay’s wish(which at seeing Kai physically hurt and being emotionally torn apart at his baby sister dying, wished that none of this ever happened and that Nahdakahn was never found), only like canon Nya and Jay still remember what happens.

Nya is now firmly on team Kai Is Alive and tells her parents everything about what happened and the wish Jay made, and more importantly where Kai is.

Unfortunately, they need to take some time and prepare. Trimaar and Maya have been doing their best over the years to open the populace possibly making bonds with the humans, but now it’s finally happening. They can’t just go up there out of no where, since from what Nya has told them 1) most humans don’t even know they exist and 2) in the past few years they have been subject of many attacks, mostly from non-humans, so they need to make sure the humans understand they don’t mean any harm.

So DotD happens, then the beginnings of S7 :)

Right out, Kai never liked the museum curator. Up to that point he’d only ever caught fleeting glimpse of him but something about him Kai just despised. As a result, he also visited the museum as scarcely as possible, and thus didn’t notice a very interesting painting containing a two very strange figures.

When he learns his name was Dr.Saunders.....things don’t go well.

It happened when Kai brought the helmet with his dad’s symbol on it. As much as he disliked the curator, he was the most likely to be able to recognize what kind of helmet it was.

Then in his anger he gets himself captured.

He’s taken to a special cell lined with vengestone and has guards around the clock, and Krux takes extra care to make sure Kai doesn’t know where Ray is.

ofc it’s around this time that the Merlopians arrive and express their wishes for a possible alliance between their two races. Unfortunately they showed up at literally the worst time, and double unfortunately the people in charge of diplomacy decide to bring some of the ninja in as an extra precaution because of the villains have been running around.

So the people who join the meeting are Lloyd and Jay from the ninja(they would’ve brought Kai but he hasn’t returned from his missions yet and isn’t answering their calls) as well as some police officers and from the Merlopians is the whole royal family plus a few guards.

Both Jay and Nya have a silent moment of staring at each other since “I know and I’m not sure you know but I think you know but I don’t want to say anything since you might not”

And just as they’re about to start, The Time Twins attack. Because why the hell not.

They’re actually able to hold them off for a while, but unfortunately there are too many Vermillion. Then Kalmaar whips out his Water Powers which causes him to get kidnapped since they need both Fire and Water masters for the blade.

While they’re recovering, Lloyd then gets a panicked call from Zane saying that he checked the museum footage and Kai has been captured. The gets overheard by the royal family, and then Lloyd asks why they looked so upset at which they learn(sans Jay since wish) that Kai is royalty. The eldest son actually, and thus first in line for the throne, as well as being presumed dead for the past five years.

So basically Krux has kidnapped the King and Queen’s husband, the crown prince, and the second in line prince(if anyone knows a more fancy term for this please let me know)

Maya, Trimaar, Nya and Benthomaar are not happy. Not with the Ninjagian people, no they’re fine, but they’re bout ready to murder Krux, and they don’t even know about Ray yet.

So they offer any help they can.

Zap back to how Kai and Kalmaar are doing.

Kalmaar is….kind feral tbh. Like, he’s biting, clawing, trying to strangle them with his tentacles, and before they got vengestone cuffs on him was trying very hard to drown anyone.

Ofc, this does little to the Vermillion and soon Kalmaar finds himself in the cell right next to Kai’s. He’s overjoyed to see his brother again, albeit upset that this is why.

They both reluctantly come to the conclusion that there isn’t much they can do at the moment, and there are many Vermillion guards right outside their cells, so they decide to start catching up.

And for pretty much the rest of the season canon is pretty much the same, just shuffle around the characters a bit and add a protective Fish Fam. 

Though their little trip back in time is quite sight for the Past EMs, especially because of how Kalmaar is using his powers, which leaves Kai mostly stuck in his Fish Form. This time they don’t even bother trying to explain, just give instructions on how to defeat the Vermillion and jumping into the battle. 

And I mean just imagine that from the EMs perspective. An enemy you thought you defeated just returned with a giant metal creature and an army of snake things that don’t look like any kind of Serpentine they’d ever seen. Then a shark person and squid person??? show up and not only do they know how to fight the snake things but they also seem to be Elemental Masters???? Despite the fact Ray is very much alive and they didn’t even know there was a Water EM. Then the two not only summon dragons but they also fuse their dragons into an even bigger one with two heads.

And then all of them disappear into the sky without a trace.

W i l d

But yeah, after that it calms down quite a bit. Kai spends the time skip before S8 reconnecting with his family and his dad, and through some tech courtesy of Borg they're able to bring Ray with them :D

And Kai actually goes to meet the Jade Royal Family since y’know. He’s the crown prince. He’s kinda important and legitimately forgot about it. Luckily Kalmaar is able to help coach Kai through it, but is also a bit smug about how he finally has something to teach to his older brother. Kai was actually the one who suggested asking the ninja for help protecting the mask.....but we know how that inevitably ends.

Bentho, Kal and Nya were actually on the ship for this particular adventure, and then Nya and Bentho were dragged along when they got sent to the First Realm. Bentho, despite being the youngest sibling and to the surprise of literally everyone, was actually really good with kids and spent the most time with Little Wu, right behind Cole.

But yeah S9......Nya and Bentho have a really bad time in the First Realm beause of the heat, but at least they don’t get captured. Kai on the other hand....

Yeah at some point he gets accidentally splashed with water and well.....it definitely doesn’t help with the Oni accusations. The Dragon Hunters decide to burn him along with the Wind Dragon, which moves up their Build Our Own Dragon time table.

After they escape Faith is actually pretty chill about the whole fish thing, but she does ask a lot of questions. 

And then S10..... kinda the same. They end up dropping off as many people as they can with the Merlopians since the smoke can’t reach them.

I might make a Part 3 for the rest of the seasons, but yeah. this is where we’re at.

#merlopian royalty au #info dump #ninjago #kai #kai smith #kalmaar #prince kalmaar #trimaar #king trimaar #krux

[whirlybirbs]

✧   —   SHIFTING TIDES.

summary: as the crimson dawn grows, you become a spearhead within the organization. a tie in with my other fic of emancipation and trust, set a year after — around s7. 

pairing: maul x ex-servant!reader

a/n: it’s been a minute since i’ve written, so here’s some casual dialogue work with maul since his latest appearance in tcw has my knees quaking. it’s soft. if you’re confused, give of emancipation and trust a read to catch up on these two’s relationship. 

“Oh, do forgive me then, Prime Minister —”

The room drops ten degrees in temperature before it falls so stiffly silent that Maul is sure a pin could drop half-way across the Sundari Royal Palace and everyone in the room would be able to hear it...

Had it not been for the rather pointed tone you’d taken up when verbally undressing a certain Prime Minister Almec — robbing him of his pride and assumptions right then and there with your words alone.

“— If I’m not overly fond of a clan who kept me enslaved for eight years of my life.”

Maul, posed on the stiff-backed loveseat, plucks at a stray string from his tunic pants — he flicks it as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward. His mask betrays him. He seems uninterested; however, pride is the feeling that fills his lungs and makes his words float a bit softer through the parlor’s air. 

Pride in you.

You’ve become a wicked little thing; smart, beautiful, cunning... All things that were there before but... Given the chance to grow? 

You've blossomed into quite the Syran plant.

“Almec.”

The Prime Minister in question is left to tear his dumbfounded look from you and your regal posture in the far corner of the room. You’re pouring Coruscanti brandy into a glass for yourself. Maul can feel the anger rolling off the politician —being upstaged by you, no doubt, has put a sour taste in the greying man’s mouth.

It’s entertaining.

“Yes, Mandalore.”

“I believe it best for you to leave us.”

There’s almost a snarl upon Almec’s lips. Almost. But, then you turn, sip your brandy, and bore a hole into the man’s skull with your fed-up glare. Adorable, really, if Maul may say so.

“Right,” a short bow is spared towards Maul. Almec’s voice is wound tight, “Do consider the... finer points to this argument, will you, Maul?”

“I said,” Maul sharpens his tone now, shooting down Almec’s clear attempts to undermine your advice and discredit your view with a wave of his hand, “To leave us.”

If you weren’t so irritated, maybe you’d laugh.

The doors to the parlor slam shut as the politician skirts from the room in a flash of embroidered petticoats. 

You move then, finally given the space to move about the small room. You cross the plush carpet and step down from the raised area that is home to a small bar and another set of couches. The curtains are drawn, making the room look smaller thanks to the cast of the warm lights running along the underside of the shelves around the room. They bear trophies of war — relics of Mandalore’s past.

Your fingers find the lock keypad on the gilded door handle. 

Ice cubes tinker as you turn around and eye Maul.

He’s leaned back, legs spread wide, as he worries his bottom lip with his index finger. 

When you speak, your tone is icy.

“It’s all a show, you know.”

A crimson brow ridge quirks. His eyes follow after, ghosting along your face as you move to settle in the loveseat across from him. You plop down and ditch the heels you’d worn to dinner before pulling your legs up to your chest. Your thin, satin dress swims around the cushions as you muss a hand along your scalp and sigh.

“It irritates you,” he mumbles. The sound is smooth and low, “Why?”

Your brows raise. You fuss your lip and play with the glass in your hand.

“I thought it was obvious. They think they can get the upper hand — destablizing and reorganizing. It’s insulting. Especially coming from The Hutts.”

“Insulting to you?”

You scoff at the idea. “No. It irritates me to think they believe they can get away with it.”

“Ah. So it’s pride, then.”

You make a face. His gilded eyes narrow for a dash of a moment.

“Pride in me?” Maul rumbles as his words gain a new color of amusement, “Perhaps you believe I cannot be bested? Is that why you attempt to fight my battles for me, sweet one?”

“I don’t want you to be bested,” you correct lightly with the sort of sternness he’s come to appreciate, fingers ghosting the patterning stitched into the arm of the loveseat as you watch him carefully.

“For your own sake?”

You blow a raspberry at the thought. You answer honestly. Maul can tell. You don’t lie to him — even the small things. He’d know. You may or may not know that, but it doesn’t matter. The trust between you both runs deep. Uncompromised.

"Never for my own sake. I care about you. I only ever want to see you succeed.”

His eyes fall; scrutiny lost.

Maul makes a sound that you’ve come to understand as contemplative. A small hum, one that only hangs in the air for a moment or two while he parses the information given — and now, he parses the way you’re feeling.

You can feel the gentle prodding through the force. You shoot him a look.

“Do you trust me?” it’s nearly joking. You swat at the imaginary hands probing the air around your head. 

“Always,” Maul mumbles, “But there’s something else bothering you.”

“Almec, to start.”

That earns a laugh. Dry and short. 

The two of you sit there for a moment, eyes falling along the other. It’s Maul — finally, after a minute of silence — who pulls himself upwards and crosses the space of the parlor to find himself by your side. His weight shifts the loveseat as he sits and you turn to eye the Zabrak’s pointed frown.

You reach and ghost your fingers along his jaw.

His hand falls to the bare curve of your knee.

It’s a tender moment, overshadowed by the increasing difficulties the Crimson Dawn is beginning to face. These next few weeks will not be easy. If the whispers at dinner were any indication...

“You believe The Hutts are going to attempt to gain additional territory in the capital as a distraction, then. Correct?”

You hum, thumb running along his cheek. “Jabba is not stupid, despite his looks. The Desilijic Clan are masterful. They’ve done this before. It’s how they’ve stayed in power for so long. They do not want to owe anything to the Crimson Dawn.”

You trace the thick, inky black lines alone his jaw. 

The Mandalore exhales as he thinks. 

“But,” you say softly, turning his face so you can see his eyes, “Perhaps I am simply worrying over nothing.”

“Don’t discredit your intuition,” Maul offers gently, “You have an uncanny sense of these things.”

“As do you,” you chide, “But the point is, unlike Almec, I don’t get off on pretending I know more than I truly do.”

A scoff. The Zabrak shakes his head. You grin.

It’s now, after a day’s worth of politics and a long dinner with the heads of the Clans that you can see the exhaustion settling into his face. The Sith usually holds a cunning amount of vigor, but... recently, with nearly a year of power established, things have begun to grow unsteady. Clans getting restless. Powers shifting around. 

You sigh. 

“There’s something else.”

He’s watching you. 

You sweep your thumb over his cheek as you speak. Tender. Loving.

“Yes. You haven’t been sleeping.”

The idea that you’re worried about something as small as that is almost laughable to Maul. Almost. If it wasn’t so true... Perhaps, three months ago, the Sith would have chided you for twaddling over something so trivial. But, in recent weeks, he’d hardly been able to keep himself still for more than an hour’s time. Meditation and sleep have been nearly impossible and... 

Here he is, leaning into your touch and grumbling out a low apology.

“Have I been keeping you up?”

The answer is yes — though you don’t see the need in saying it. He knows, already, but he knows that’s not the reason you’ve brought it up. It’s worry, again, that does it. Just as worry had brought your pointed words with Almec to ahead.

You stay quiet. Maul frowns. This time, it’s his turn to shift and watch you with care. His gaze, usually cold, softens considerably. 

“I have, haven’t I.”

You offer a light laugh and press a gentle touch to the ridge of his horn on his temple. “That isn’t why I brought it up.”

He gives a huff. “I know.”

You tilt your head, hair falling along your back and shoulders as you do. The corners of his mouth pull downwards, accentuating the ever-present malice etched into his features from years of hatred fueling his survival instinct. 

Now, with you... Things are different. 

“Perhaps,” you croon with innuendo, lifting his face, “I just need to be tiring you out more.”

He’s smirking when you kiss him; his hands wind around your waist tightly, thumbs crawling up the curves of your ribs. The warmth of his hands nearly burns a hole through your dress — and with your chest to his, you’re left to admire the way the Zabrak melts against you. 

“...You already do enough for me.”

A quiet confession. His nose brushes yours. Maul speaks slowly and quietly, hands falling along your jaw to cradle your face. 

“I am proud of you, sweet one,” he mumbles, dashing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’ve grown.”

The compliments sit neatly in the homes of your heart. Warm and lovely. Especially so coming from the Zabrak before you.

“I love you.”

You don’t mind that you always say it first. 

“And I, you.”

#maul #maul imagine #tcw imagine #darth maul imagine #star wars imagine #of emancipation and trust #maul x reader #darth maul x you #maul x you #darth maul x reader #wow i wrote something?????? #amazing

[backtothestart02]

Don’t Give Up On Me - 1/? | westallen fanfiction

A/N: Idk what this is. It was gonna be the next Muse chap with just a couple paragraphs of angst, but I managed to change it into nearly 2k of angst and I can’t bring myself to write the happy ending tonight, so it’s turned into a two-shot that I’ll hopefully finish later this week. Enjoy. Bring tissues.

...

Synopsis: Early S7 - Barry and Iris deal with the after effects of the Mirrorverse on Iris.

...

Chapter 1 -

It was a dark, dreary day in Central City.

Iris sat in a light sweater, jeans, and fuzzy socks by the window, her long hair cascading down her back, her forehead pressed to the chilled glass, and didn’t say a word. She’d been silent all morning, sipping her dark roast and forcing small smiles towards Barry whenever he approached her.

It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate him being near. Hell, she’d been without his presence for months, and it nearly killed her. Just being able to feel him nearby was a relief and soothing to her worn-down senses. But she was so lost in herself, still recovering from all that had happened, that on days like today with crime at a low and both she and Barry off work because of the weekend, she really let herself accept what had happened to her and how far she still had to go.

It had been three weeks since she escaped the mirror verse and together with Barry and team Flash defeated Eva McCulloch once and for all. It had given her a high at the time, and frankly she’d just been glad to be alive and sane and reunited with the people that she loved, especially Barry.

But as time passed she started to face the reality of all that she’d lost, the fact that her doppleganger had been able to convince everyone for so long that she was the real Iris. On the surface she didn’t blame anyone. Mirror Iris was a very good actress, because in a lot of ways she was her. She had the same memories, knowledge, emotions… But she wasn’t alive. She wasn’t human. She wasn’t Iris. And for months Iris had been screaming into the void, the ever-present mirror that occasionally let her see her family and friends, that they see the truth. And how could they not see it?

Especially Barry. Barry knew her so well…

Later she’d come to learn that he had suspected Mirror Iris right from the start. She had cooked better, spoken in a foreign language fluently, and hit some guy over the head with a glass bottle, a boundary Iris herself probably wouldn’t have crossed, even undercover. She’d spoken the truth about how she felt about Barry always putting her in a corner when it was time to fight the bad guys, but Iris would’ve never started an argument just for the sake of it. She wouldn’t have made her husband think they were growing apart or that he wasn’t proud of her. She wouldn’t have stormed off.

In the following weeks, she wouldn’t have shut down around him if he didn’t give her what she wanted. When he reassured her that he trusted her, she wouldn’t have merely smiled and thanked him and walked away. She wouldn’t have spent the night away from him while he merely sat reading in the dark. She wouldn’t have told him that it was for the best that the speed force was dead, and he’d lose his speed indefinitely. She knew how big a part of his identity being the Flash was. If he wanted to walk away from it, that was one thing. But to encourage it when he didn’t? She would have never done that.

The revelation that Mirror Iris had slept with her husband, both literally and sexually, hadn’t hit Iris hard at first, but in time it did. How could Barry not tell? In their most intimate moments, how was he not aware that it wasn’t really her?

But when she learned that at the same moment she had declared her undying love for him with her hand pressed to the mirror of another universe, so had he? She forgot all of that. How could she blame him, especially when he realized it was her after she did the most heinous thing? Mirror Iris had tried to fracture their marriage.

How dare she.

Iris would never. And Barry knew that. He knew it.

Everything started to align after that. In the end, Iris had saved herself, shocking everyone and slapping Barry with a burden of guilt unintentionally. Because she’d nearly gone mad, and he hadn’t connected the dots soon enough, and he should’ve been able to rescue her. He was her husband, the Flash. She might not be a damsel in distress, but she needed his help, and he failed her.

Her ever-constant need to be near him, to touch him, to make love to him helped ease his guilt. She was just so glad to be back and to be with him. She forgave him, she said. She loved him, she said. She never wanted to lose him again.

But that was the first week.

It had been two weeks since then, and Barry could feel them growing apart. Iris didn’t say it, but he wondered if she was starting to blame him for not figuring out she was gone sooner. They hadn’t made love in a week, and the last time they had, it had been the result of a fight. He had started it. He’d wanted to push her into admitting she hadn’t really forgiven him.

She hit him with the blow he hadn’t been expecting, even though his argument implied he should have.

“I have forgiven you,” she’d said, tears fresh in her eyes. “But forgiving and forgetting are two different things.”

And he’d felt so empty, he didn’t know what to do. Tears started to stream down his cheeks at the reality that she would never forget how he’d been with someone that wasn’t her, even if he’d been unaware of it at the time.

She approached him then and laid her hand over his heart.

“I blame her, not you. She manipulated you. She made you think I wasn’t your home.” Her voice cracked.

“Then why did you need to forgive me?” he asked sadly.

She kissed him, unwilling to answer his question, not really knowing how to. She walked backwards till she fell back on the bed and eagerly stripped him of his clothing, as he did hers. They made love that night with the intensity of a lightning storm. And in the morning, they were okay again; except they weren’t really. And Barry didn’t know how to fix it.

But he didn’t bring up the subject again. He didn’t want to fight. So instead he walked around her as if on eggshells. He did whatever he could to make her happy. But they didn’t make love since that night, and they rarely kissed, except for a peck here and there when leaving for work or arriving home. Barry still dropped off love letters at her work during her lunch hour, but she didn’t acknowledge them when she got home anymore like she used to. He wondered if there was any use writing them at all. For all he knew she was throwing them away.

His carefully written, poured from his soul love letters to his beautiful wife might be in the trash. And that worried him most of all.

“Want a refill?” he asked, now, in the present, forcing himself out of his morbid thoughts. Because the day itself looked morbid, and Iris looked sad, and all he could think of was to give her more dark roast, because hell, he knew she at least wouldn’t turn down that.

“Hmm?” she asked, turning away from the window to see him holding the coffee pot before her. “Oh.”

Her brows furrowed, then she looked down into her half-empty cup.

“No, I still have some.”

“Is it cold though?” he asked, before he could get down on himself.

She took a sip.

“Mm…lukewarm.” She wrinkled her nose and held out her mug, and he filled it up to the brim. “Thanks, babe,” she said and took a sip before settling in at the window again.

He nodded once, too afraid he’d say something he’d regret if he opened his mouth again, and returned the pot to its holder in the kitchen. He stood there for a while again, watching his wife. She didn’t seem to notice, and she noticed even less when he went upstairs to change and then sped out of the loft to take a run in the rain.

He needed to get away, to figure things out, to put his relationship, his wife, back together again. As fate would have it though, he was unable to come up with anything any more than the previous times he’d gone out for a run for this exact reason.

Realizing staying out any longer wouldn’t do any good, he sped and stopped abruptly once inside.

Iris wasn’t sitting by the window anymore. In fact, she was coming down the stairs when she stopped suddenly, spotting his sad-looking self standing in front of the door.

“Oh, my God, Barry, you’re dripping! Let me-”

She rushed to get some towels and help him dry off.

“I figured you’d left, but I didn’t realize it was to run in the rain. Of all the stupid-”

He tensed, and she stopped herself. She met his eyes and searched them with concern.

“Barry… Are you okay?”

And he hated himself. Because she’d been about to lash out, but she held back because she knew it would hurt him. He wished she’d just hurt him. This dancing around each other thing they were doing was only making things worse. He wished she’d just acknowledge it. If she couldn’t get over what he and Mirror Iris did, the least she could do was be upfront about it.

He didn’t answer, so she pressed forward as if she had.

“Why don’t you go take a shower?” she suggested softly. “I’ll order some take-out and we can watch a movie after.”

‘You’ll touch me?’ he almost said but held back. That would start a fight. He didn’t want to fight, but he didn’t know how to act anymore.

So, he just nodded and said, “Okay.”

Iris forced another smile and headed into the living room to retrieve her cell phone and make the call. Barry sped up the stairs, lightning crackling behind him, so she wouldn’t see him dragging his feet the way he wanted to.

Then he entered the bathroom, undressed and turned on the shower. The hot water should’ve been soothing, a relief to him after the cold rain that had nearly drowned him as he ran outside. But it only made him want to scream, want to yell, want to shout. He wanted to bang on the walls because how in the hell did he pull them out of this emptiness.

The evening would be fake, put on as a means of not fighting and because both of them were tired.

As it turned out, when Barry finished with his shower and dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, he came downstairs to the sight of Iris sleeping on the couch. He lifted her up and carried her to bed. When the delivery man came, Barry paid him and stuck the food in the fridge. He wasn’t feeling real hungry anyway.

...

*Will post on AO3 and FFnet when beta’d.

#westallen #fanfiction #westallen fanfiction #backtothestart02 fanfiction #don't give up on me #chapter 1

[canarhys]

kyr’yc

read on ao3.

kyr'yc [KEER-eesh]: last

(or: rex calls cody one last time. tcw s7 spoilers.)

Rex knows it’s stupid.

The orders always start from the top. It starts from the commanders, works its way down through the captains and sergeants, til the specialists and rookies get their share of the words. The orders hit the commanders first. That’s how it works whenever their superior officers brief the entire GAR on a matter. It was inevitable that a commander would have received the order by now, and it was inevitable that such a commander would have taken care of their orders now. Good soldiers follow orders, Tup had said. It starts from the top, works its way down, till all the soldiers are following the order. They’re good soldiers. Rex knows that by heart.

But he can’t stop himself from pulling out his comlink and accessing the private channel they shared. There’s something tugging at his heart, a dwindling hope that maybe he didn’t get the order, that he had been off yelling at his general’s recklessness or taking care of the shinies up in the medbay of Utapau. He could be safe, could have killed Grievous by now and that was all, relaxing somewhere with homebrewed tea in hand and watching the stars shift above. He had to be fine. Despite the nagging voice in his head, Rex would not give up hope.

He was his brother. He knows he’s stronger than that.

Rex scans the room, making sure he is in total privacy. He and Ahsoka had escaped from the star destroyer a few hours before, running away from the hundreds upon hundreds of troopers bearing Ahsoka’s marks and wielding weapons issued by Rex, blasting at them. Droids. They were emotionless, direct and goalless. Droids. Now Rex was a hut’uun, hiding away in a starship barely big enough to fit a squadron, knowing that his hands were stained with the blood of the brothers he had expressed love for just hours before.

( He couldn’t even afford being surprised when Ahsoka was forced to deflect a blaster shot into Jesse’s chest. He couldn’t. Yet he could feel the blaster wound in his chest, scorching and hollow. )

Once he is sure that he is alone with no trace of Ahsoka outside, he brings up his comlink and taps a few buttons, heart beating faster and faster. More so than when he and Ahsoka had been running from his vode. He knows what he’s doing could compromise them, knows that if he did this it would mean certain death for the both of them, but Rex has grown used to not following orders. It’s what General Skywalker would have wanted for him. He was always a wily one like that.

The comlink comes to life. He places it on a nearby table and maximizes the image, and steps back to allow the figure on the other side to manifest. When he does, Rex sobs. His body is frozen when he looks at his ori’vod — ivory armor of plastoid dirtied to the point of brown, the knicks and dents in his shin and calf plates from the utilization of his own legs during combat, the large blaster rifle that hung comfortably from his belt that the older always joked to be his storage supply for di’kutla jetiise. The sunset painted on his belly, the antenna that jutted from his shoulder guard proud and lean, the visor that jutted from above his peepers that shielded the rays of the sun and made for a good bludgeoning tool ( to the commander, at least ). Even with the helmet, Rex recognizes him immediately, and he shoves down the tears that already begin to gather in his tear ducts. He takes in a shuddering breath and keeps himself composed. Even while wearing the armor that he had taken from one of the troopers before him and Ahsoka left to hide his identity, it seemed as if the older had already scrutinized him.

“This is Commander Cody,” the voice of the figure in the holo says with nearly the same bluntness that Rex often attributed to him, no-nonsense and grounded that could even the strongest of Jedi Masters shift on the balls of their feet. “Who is contacting me?”

Rex searches for a name to say, taking far too long in finding an answer that he’s sure Cody would have already gauged him out if he weren’t with an inhibitor chip. “Uh, Clone Trooper Sunbeam, sir.”

“Sunbeam?” Cody repeats, his voice even harsher now. The same scrutinizing tone that he held whenever he snuffed out a lie that Rex tried his best to conceal. “What’s your designation, trooper?”

That had been the red flag, because Rex knew damn well that Cody would never ask for a trooper’s designation. He was far too independent, far too stubborn and caring to ever ask for the meaningless string of numbers. People who called him or any trooper nearby their designation received a fierce strike from the commander. Cody practically dies every time a rookie answers his question of their name with their designation. “They have names, Rex,” Cody grunted as he fixed up his tea once, his rage concealed beneath a neutral and grumbling exterior. “Not numbers, names.”

Rex takes a few moments to answer. Too stunned to speak. That couldn’t mean anything, that couldn’t.

“Well?” Cody questions him.

“CT-6775,” Rex answers after a few moments. He’d cringe at himself, but right now the fear that he’s already lost his best friend is much stronger than his bad lying.

The commander, however, seems to believe him — the second red flag, because Cody’s skepticism and stubbornness was in abundance — and he nods to him in thought. “Alright, Sun. You are a part of the 332nd Company of the 501st Legion, I presume? Were you successful?”

Rex forgets to breathe. “Su… successful in what, Commander?”

“Order 66 — protocol for the instance when the Jedi are traitors to the Republic and must be executed upon the command of Lord Sidious. Ahsoka Tano was with you, I am correct? Were you successful in her execution?”

Rex’s heart falls. The realization — the realization that all of this was real, that everyone really was gone — sets in him like a cloak of shadow. Suddenly, he’s numb, so numb that it burns and freezes him simultaneously, so numb that he already feels his strength sap away instantaneously. The tears fall, cascade beneath his helmet that unlike him was so young, so clean and undirtied unlike his former armor or his own soul. The tears drip down his face the same way they had done when he was fighting back the chips and delve between the blacks wrapped around his neck because he’s lost him. He’s lost.

“… Yes, Commander,” he answers in a monotone. “Ahsoka Tano has been captured and killed. Darth Maul has also been apprehended and executed.”

“Good,” Commander Cody mutters with a nod. He does not even seem phased. Not aggrieved by the death of the former Padawan who he had shown so much love for, who he had let rest her little montrals on his lap after the Second Battle of Geonosis, who he had yelled at the generals for when she was banished from the Jedi Order. He does not even seem exuberant about the death of Darth Maul, who had caused his general pain beyond imagine, who had killed so many innocents and has eluded their capture innumerous times. “So, why are you calling me?”

Rex doesn’t even bother trying to find an answer to his question. His heart has been torn into two. This… this wasn’t Cody. Cody teases him endlessly, Cody doesn’t take excuses, Cody doesn’t pass from one topic to the next unless it concerns himself. Cody’s not what this husk is — emotionless, brief, and still. Rex wishes he were Force-sensitive just to know that Cody is still screaming in there, still kicking inside and forcing his way through the embrace of the chip. But he isn’t. And now he has to deal with the knowledge that he will never know.

“Just… uh… wanted to brief you on our progress, sir,” Rex answers when he collects a little of himself. “I’ll leave now, I’ve bothered you enough.”

“Alright then,” Cody answers bluntly. Then there’s a pause as Rex goes to reach for the comlink on the desk, then Cody holds his hand out to stop him. It’s so close to Rex’s own. “Wait.”

Rex pauses. “Yes, sir?”

Cody doesn’t speak. It’s like he’s frozen in time, but the comlink had too much of a strong connection to stutter in its hologram. Cody doesn’t move. Though his face is obscured beneath the helmet, Rex had a feeling there was something happening under there. Something bad. Then Cody gathers himself and stands to an upright position.

“Where is your commander?” Cody asks. “Commander Rex?”

Rex stares at him for some time. The way that Cody had phrased that question… it didn’t sound like the chip was talking. It sounded like something else entirely. Rex battles with himself. He could reveal himself, compromise his and Ahsoka’s safety, show his face to show the commander that he was still alive and somewhere out in hyperspace. He could gain the satisfaction of his brother, seeing him face-to-face, letting him know he would be alright whilst practically committing suicide. And Rex almost believes it to be worth it. He wants to know that Cody still cares for him, that even though his ori’vod may have already shot down General Kenobi that he wouldn’t try to shoot Rex point-blank. 

But he can’t. He can’t. He isn’t strong enough. He’s a hut’uun.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rex tells him. He wills his voice not to shatter. “He died during the skirmish. Tano got the better of him.”

For a few moments, the room is drenched in silence. Neither Cody nor Rex moved, eyes trained with one another though shielded by black visors glinting in the light. Then Rex sees something, something liquid fall from beneath the rim of Cody’s helmet. Soaks beneath his blacks or over his chestplate, falls down as his throat bobs with a silent sob. Tears. Cody… Cody was crying. 

He’s still in there. He’s still in there.

Then, Cody’s voice speaks out. Still monotone. “Thank you, Sunbeam. You may disconnect now.”

Rex nods. He reaches over and shuts off the communicator. Cody’s form dissipates. Rex is alone again.

For a few moments, Rex stands there like a ghost, lost in a ship that he does not remember the name of, trapped with a young girl who he can barely look in the eyes. Grieving the death of his best friend. He doesn’t know what to do.

Silently, he walks over to the comlink. Take it up in his hands, mulling over the metal of the piece of metal. A few minutes later it’s tossed from the ship to the streaks of hyperspace and destroyed upon impact.

Rex returns to the room. Locks the door. Slumps down on the durasteel. Shatters.

#i'm... fine. #if they don't show cody one last time i am going to sue lucasfilm. #star wars #sw #tcw #the clone wars #commander cody #captain rex #writing #ao3 #tcw s7 spoilers #fic: kyr’yc

[spneveryseason]

My Stuff Part 2

Fics

Short fics

I cursed the gloom that set upon us, but I know that I love you so…: the things that were sacrificed.

Favorite: it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be

Family Business: it doesn’t come naturally to him

Walk of Shame: it doesn’t always go well

Banquet: happiness comes from the smallest places

Hellscape: so, this is what it looks like

Fragile: what’s it like to feel strong?

Dress-Up: it’s scary season!

Carry On: what now?

Leader: becoming a leader, in two steps

Grip: A quiet moment in the summer of 2008

The Interview: Lilith is looking for the perfect demon to enact their vessel plan, but it’s proving more difficult than she anticipated.

Ten Whole Years: Bela isn’t taking this lying down

The Trap (poem)

A Conversation with God: exactly what you think it is

Medium fics

Tender Me a Fool: the fight for a name. Girl!Sam

In: Sam's done the hard part. He's come out. What happens next?

Like a Punch: “Can you show me?” Jack asks. Sam pauses, hand hovering over the pencil on the table. “What?” “The pencil,” Jack says, pointing towards it. “You said you were like me, right? So can you show me how you would move it?”

Let Nothing You Dismay: Jack wants to do Christmas. Sam, Dean, and Cas try their best to give him one

He Has His Father’s Eyes: Sam's losing time. He doesn't know why.

Forty Two: Dean turns forty two. He never thought he’d make it this far.

The Prophet: Sam and Dean meet Chuck, a failed writer.

The Translator: Kevin’s words have never been his own.

Heroes: Another day, another town, another hunt.

I Could Persuade No One: Sam can tell the future. Nobody believes him.

Return: Sam’s powers come back.

Thirty Eight: Sam turns thirty eight alone. That is, until Jody calls asking for his help...

Long fics

Doom Days: Fifteen years later, the hunting trips across small-town America have turned into an epic battle against the forces of Heaven and Hell, and now, against God Himself. Long-held assumptions are challenged, friendships are tested, and the tale of the Winchester brothers is concluded. We’re in the endgame, now. S15 AU

The Specialest Children: They might have all made it out alive, but it isn't over yet. And now, the Apocalypse is coming.

Meta

Speculation

Sam and Death’s Book

On a Possible s15 Ending (I was spot on btw)

Potential Endings

Character Analysis

Sam, Dean, and Being Wrong

Sam and Gadreel as Parallels

Sam Vs Dean: season 15

Sam’s Name Meaning

Sam and Mercy

Lucifer, Michael, and Chuck

Dean Parentification

Sam Broke the Cycle

Why Does Sam Have Just One Kid?

Sam and Anger

That Line in S7

Sam at Stanford

Why Law?

S2 and John

Cas, Dean, and Love

Sam is Mary

Sastiel Eras

Dean and Autonomy

Soulless Sam and the Car

Why did Cas Pull Sam Out of Hell?

S1 vs s15 Dean and Sam

Meg as a Villain

Sam in the Great Escapist

Sam in 8x23

Sam Vs Sam: a When The Levee Breaks Close Reading

On Sam’s Mindscapes

Jack in the Box

Worldbuilding Analysis

What if Mary Never Died

Why did Chuck Lose?

Spn and Horror

Things That Still Haunt Me

Humanity and Fate in Supernatural

The Mark of Cain

Medieval AU

Mob AU

College AU

Jess Lives AU

Megstiel Hospital AU

Arab/Muslim American AU

S13 and Onwards Rewrite

TFW and becoming God

Sam’s Powers: a Primer

Season 9 from Sam’s POV

Shouldn’t Dean have had Powers too?

Five Eps I would Replace

What If Dean Didn’t Go With Sam in S6?

Their Names in Arabic

S2 and Monsterhood

Edits

Images

Sam & Compassion

Dean and Jack = John and Sam

2x21 vs 11x17

Web Weaving

I Breathe Freedom

Sam & God

If I Should Die: Emily Dickinson

“Vienna” + the Finale

The Iliad

Salome

Circe

St. Faustina

Joan of Arc

Anyone Else - Shortly

Bop to the Top

Hail Mary - Skating Polly

Narutonatural

Metamorphosis - Sylvia Plath

The Return of the Prodigal Son

Roaring Twenties

Quizzes

What Dropped Supernatural Plotline Are You?

#speaks

[aloysiavirgata]

Petrichor

Title: Petrichor

Rating: Explicit

Summary: He could tell her that her prefrontal cortex was the revelation to the thief on the cross.

Spoilers: Early S7

Author’s Notes:This is a casefile inspired by many things. The Season 7 timeline is a mess, I don’t know what else to say about that.

Early November in the temperate mountain valleys of southern Appalachia. The ground is carpet-soft with plush moss, and the hidden pools are still riotous with life. Ree needed only a pullover that morning, her doll Cordelia peering out of an old tote-bag stuffed with scraps of bread and feed corn. Her mother sent a lunch for her too, tucked in with her books and binoculars and a thermos of hot chocolate.

Ree in faded jeans and a lavender sweater picking her way over rocks and pine needles and fallen leaves, watching for the birds she can name and trying to mimic their calls. She points them out to Cordelia, who stares solemnly with blue-glass eyes. There are foxes, but they hide still. Ree dreams of befriending them. She can lure some of the deer within twenty feet now, and wishes she were Fern Arable, from Charlotte’s Web.

She takes a right instead of her customary left, wanting to test her new binoculars from a different vantage point. She skips over tree roots and rocks like a mountain goat, scarcely needing to look at the ground to keep her footing. The path curves sharply for a hundred feet before Ree finds herself at the edge of a wide pond, dense with duckweed. It is bordered with stands of ancient pine, with mossy boulders and half-sunken logs furred with algae. The silence is deep, but not frightening. It feels holy, like church. Godlight filters through the evergreens, the color of new peas. Somewhere, not far, falling water.

“Ohhhh,” Ree whispers to Cordelia. The beauty makes her chest hurt a little. She fumbles in the bag for her binoculars, laying Cordelia on a rock. Bread crusts and pencil ends spill from a loose seam. A rattle of deer corn on the stone.

Binoculars in place, Ree spots a heron across the pond, squirrels peeping from between the gold and red leaves of elm and sugarberry. She recognizes a deer she’s seen many times before, with a wide white blaze down her nose. Sudden movement catches her eye - a slim figure with long hair moving among the trees. Ree adjusts her lenses but cannot focus properly; the figure is blurred, always moving among the evergreen boughs.

The heron again. Squirrels. The deer now much closer. Then a pale ankle, a woman’s laugh.

“Helloooooooo,” Ree calls, braver than she feels. “I’m just lookin’ at birds and stuff! I’ll go if you want.”

Silence. 

She chews her lip, uncertain. The woods don’t belong to anybody on paper, but there are chancy folk out here with their own laws. “Cordelia?” she whispers. “What do we do?”

Cordelia offers no opinion. Ree grabs a handful of corn and climbs onto a flat boulder. Just beside it is a little patch of grass, and she hopes the doe will come into it. 

The laugh again and this time it’s much closer, just to her left. Were those fingers at her neck? Ree turns to look but tunnel vision sets in, the binoculars slapping hard against her chest when she drops them. The strap twists at her throat and she gasps, her hands springing open in surprise. She slips on the fallen corn and goes down hard on her spine against the rock. 

The deer steps into the glade, her unusual face cautious but curious. She knows Ree will not make sudden movements like the others do.

Ree, dazed, watched the deer nibble the corn with her velvet lips. She tries to sit up, but it’s like her brain will not connect to her body. Her feet seem very far away. 

Something pulls her hair and she manages a thin cry of pain. She’s freezing suddenly, the world glassy and distorted. Ree opens her mouth to call for help but she can’t; the greenness of the glade is in her throat now, and behind her eyes and inside her blood. The laugh again, so pretty, and then long arms are wrapped around her and Ree thanks Baby Jesus for saving her but oh!

Such teeth.

***

A quick glance in the rearview confirms once more that his hair’s pretty well grown back from the surprise birthday neurosurgery, and at thirty-eight such victories cannot be taken for granted. He tries to peer around the tight curve along the mountain road, but can make out only shadows. The bag of sunflower seeds ran dry twenty minutes ago, but he’s got a couple more in the trunk.

Beside him comes a rustle of paper. Scully’s printed out directions from MapQuest, checking off turns like a shopping list. “Still another three miles before the access road,” she says, not looking up from her trim navy-blue lap. She takes a sip of coffee.

Mulder coughs, says nothing. Things aren’t strained exactly, it’s not that. It’s more a liminal space. Everything’s fine, he tells himself. Everything’s fine.

He  checks his hair again.

***

The town is shabby but proud; the roads are clean and there are no cars propped up on the trimmed lawns. On this block a hardware store, a stone church, a fire station, and a bakery. Despite the Fannie Flagg charm, Mulder expects the local homeowners are dying for a Wal-Mart and a McDonald’s. There’s a billboard advertising a newly opened Cracker Barrel, which must count as progress to some.

The Ross home is a small, weatherbeaten clapboard in a stretch of small, weatherbeaten clapboards. Many of the houses have elaborate neo-classical porticoes taller than the actual roof. At the Rosses’, the mailbox is shaped like a dog, with a moveable tail instead of a flag. There are purple balloons hanging limply from its neck. Mulder noses the Crown Vic up the cracked asphalt of the driveway, engaging the parking brake before turning the engine off. 

Scully gathers their files, straightens the picture of Rhiannon Ross paperclipped to the manila envelope. Her little face is joyful in the school photograph. She wears a sweater with purple hearts and has sun-bronzed skin. Her big hazel eyes are laughing, framed by golden braids. 

“You ready?” he asks Scully.

She sighs. “Are we ever, with kids?” 

“Nope.” Mulder straightens his tie. So strange to do these little rituals again, to convey authority and professionalism through a strip of ornamental fabric. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Scully asks him again, fussing with a Post-It. “You know I still don’t think you should have been cleared for this, Mulder. You’re scarcely three weeks past severe trauma, and you haven’t even been back to the office.” She looks up, concern furrowing her brow.

He could tell her that when the gyre widened and spun out, it was she who held the center for him. He could tell her that the cool silver stream of her unvoiced voice stemmed the hellish tide of thoughts and premonition that threatened to drown his sentient mind. He could tell her that her prefrontal cortex was the revelation to the thief on the cross. 

Instead he crunches on a peppermint LifeSaver, washing it down with the rest of his cold coffee. “I get in the most trouble when I’m left to my own devices. You should be glad for a federally mandated excuse to keep an eye on me.”

She smiles at that. “Fair enough.”

They leave the stale air of the car for the fresh autumn breezes of northeast Alabama, the air so crisp it tastes like spring water. Mulder, a devout New Englander, is wary of the South, but cannot deny this to be a beautiful patch of it.

He puts his jacket on as Scully clips several paces ahead of him, bandbox fresh as always. He joins her on the little porch, and the front door opens before they have a chance to knock. Before them is a lanky blonde woman in worn jeans and a striped blouse. The shadows around her eyes look like bruises, lips papery and dry. For 26 years, these mothers have always been his mother, their homes his house in Chilmark.

“Y’all the FBI people?” she asks. Despite her stretchy vowels, brittle tension suffuses her voice. 

“Yes ma’am,” Scully says. They display their badges for her perusal.

The woman nods, then ushers them in. She gestures to a floral couch, taking the chintz armchair across from it. Mulder settles at one end of the couch while Scully, less leggy,  perches at the edge of the other. She is a slim smudge in the pastel room.

“I’m Iona Ross,” their host begins, rubbing a chewed thumbnail across raw knuckles. “I’m Ree’s mama.” 

Behind her, on the wall, are family photographs. Ree has three older brothers. The largest photograph shows the four children arranged on a park bench, smiling in white shirts and blue jeans. Ree is missing her two front teeth.

A man enters the room, rawboned, with the same wheat colored hair as his wife. He’s got on a gray sweater beneath Carhartt overalls and carries a coffee tray. He has big hands with ropy tendons standing out, and it's clear he’s not used to playing host. His face is haggard.

“This is my husband Wyatt,” Iona says, as he puts the tray on the small table between her and the couch.

Mulder looks at the pristine coffee cups and saucers. He guesses this is their wedding china, only brought out for “best.” That it will be carefully placed back into a breakfront after hand-washing.

Wyatt sits in a blue La-Z-Boy, relieved to be finished with his task. “They told us y’all were the best ones to find Ree,” he says in a choppy voice. He reaches out to grip his wife’s hand. 

Mulder, as he always does, longs for this to be true. “I can promise you there is no one at the FBI who will work harder for you,” he says.

Scully smiles sadly in his peripheral vision. “We have the police report, Mr. and Mrs. Ross. But it’s always better if you can walk us through the events yourself.”

“Iona and Wyatt, please,” Wyatt says. “Anyhow, it was Sunday morning and Ree had just got new binoculars for her birthday on Saturday. She, uh, she’s nine now. Real smart little thing, likes nature and all, really likes birds.” His voice breaks. He scrubs at his face with his hands.

Iona takes over, voice raw but steady. “Well, she packed up her little bag with some bird food you know, and her binoculars and some nature books and all. Her doll Cordelia of course, and I made a lunch. She’ll go out for hours in the woods. And whatever, uh, happened it was before she ate ‘cause all the food was there.”

Mulder glances at his notes, just to look at something other than Iona’s desperate face. “The police report says her doll and her bag were found by a pond with the lunch still inside, but her binoculars were missing. The items were found Monday morning by a search party. That’s correct?”

“Yes sir,” Iona replies. “And there was algae all over Cordelia and the bag and the food, even though it was still wrapped up. It was even in the hot chocolate in the thermos.” She looks eagerly from Mulder to Scully. “Y’all think that means something, the algae being on closed-up food? I never heard of it. Maybe it’s like a, whaddya call it, an MO.”

“Unusual details are always good details,” Scully says in her gentle way. “Unusual facts can certainly help narrow things down, Mis- Iona.” She leans forward now, palms splayed over her sharp knees. “I know this next question is painful, but I do need to ask. It says that the pond was searched and that neither Ree nor any of her clothing have been found. But, from the photographs, it seems like there’s a bit of debris in the pond. Logs and large rocks, mostly, and lots of algae and duckweed. Is there any chance that Ree would have gone into it on her own?”

Wyatt gets to his feet. “She ain’t stupid,” he snaps, pacing. “She didn’t do nothing wrong, and despite what you may think, we’re not backwoods morons too ignorant to raise children.” His pain seeps a dark aura into the air, ink through clear water. “Our other three are still fine, you notice. Police report say that?”

“We don’t doubt you at all, sir,” Mulder says. “No one is trying to blame Ree or your family for her disappearance. Agent Scully and I just have to review all lines of questioning to make sure the police have done everything they can thus far. We want to make sure we’re starting from a helpful place as we take over the investigation.”

Wyatt leans against the wall, looking hollow. “Jenny Greenteeth,” he mutters.

Iona, with shaking hands, pours four cups of coffee. “Wyatt,” she hisses. “Not now.”

“Jenny Greenteeth?” Scully repeats, writing it down. “Is that som-”

“It’s an old story,” Mulder says, surprised. “A nursery bogey.”

He is met by three blank stares.

“A nursery bogey is a story created by adults with the specific goal of making children avoid certain behaviors, or to encourage generally good behavior,” Mulder says. He is intrigued by Wyatt invoking the name. “The Namahage of Japan, the Scottish bodach, Russia’s Baba Yaga - all of these legends are about mythical beings who will in some way harm misbehaving children. Sometimes they get specific. Jenny Greenteeth, like the kappa and bunyip, is said to snatch children who venture to close to dangerous water.”

Wyatt is staring at him. “How’d you know all that?”

Mulder spreads his hands in a vague gesture. “These kinds of stories have always interested me.” He feels it best not to elaborate.

“He’s an internationally recognized expert,” Scully chimes in, rather generously. “Can you tell us why you mentioned this particular legend?”

“Don’t mind him,” Iona says, passing around the coffee. “We’re just both about to fall to pieces.”

Wyatt scowls. “I’m telling you,” he says stubbornly. “It’s her.”

Mulder adds cream to his coffee and takes a sip. It’s worlds better than the gas station dregs he just finished. “I know the story of Jenny Greenteeth comes from the north of England and from Scotland. This area has a big Scots-Irish influence, doesn’t it?”

“Yessir. There’s a big Scottish festival hereabouts, and both our families are Scottish from way back. Ree’s named after my Granny Rhiannon. You think that means something?” Iona’s voice is strained, hungry for any morsel.

Mulder shakes his head. “No, not necessarily. Probably not, and I apologize for getting off topic. Wyatt, tell me more about this, uh, theory you’ve got.” He finishes the coffee in a long gulp.

Wyatt rubs his face. “Well, listen. I know how it sounds to me, and I reckon it sounds even crazier to y’all. But growing up around here, every kid knows about the little pools in these hollers. Real deep ponds will spring up practically overnight, I guess ‘cause the ground is weak from all the mining. In the spring you get these real fast streams from the snow runoff. So kids run wild through the woods but they know to be careful. All the meemaws tell ‘em if they aren’t careful, Jenny Greenteeth’ll grab ‘em at the water. She’s got, you know, long black hair and real long arms and green teeth.” He shrugs, a bit sheepish.

“And you think this, uh, this creature took Rhiannon?” Scully asks, managing to sound both compassionate and deadpan at the same time.

Iona and Wyatt exchange a glance.

“Well, there’s a bit more than that,” Iona says, turning her mug in her hands. “Over the summer a woman moved in out in the woods. She, uh, took over some old hunter’s shack not real far from where Ree went missing. Her name’s Tallulah Church. She’s real tall and skinny, probably at least six feet, and I’ll be damned but she’s got green teeth.”

“Green teeth,” Mulder repeats, intrigued. He glances at Scully, who’s scribbling.

“Pale green like jade,” Wyatt says, warming up to his subject. “The kids are all scared of her, call her Jenny Greenteeth ‘cause they know the story. They say the dogs won’t go around there even.”

“A few hunting dogs have gone missing up that way,” Iona adds, her reluctance clearly fading. “Tallulah comes into town every month or so in her station wagon, gets some supplies, then rattles back up into the mountains. She seems okay I guess, just never really talks to nobody.”

“She gives every kid around here the evil eye,” Wyatt asserts, returning to his recliner. “She’s bad news. There’s things going on with her.”

Iona shoots him a hard look. “I’m sure the FBI isn’t interested in a bunch of mountain superstition.”

Scully pipes up. “When you say there are things going on with her, is there anything specific you can point to? Anything stand out in your memory?” 

A glance between Wyatt and Iona. “Just gives me a bad feeling,” Wyatt says. “You ever meet people like that?”

Mulder is curious as to what they won’t tell him, but decides not to create conflict just yet. These things always out themselves, but for now it’s clear he’s learned all he can. 

He exchanges a quick nod with Scully, who has already closed her notebook. “Wyatt, Iona, we’re going to do our best to find out what happened to Ree. It sounds like talking to Tallulah Church may be a good start. If she lives nearby she may have seen something or someone involved in the disappearance.” 

Wyatt snorts. “The police already talked to her. Doesn’t know a thing, they say. Search parties are still out though, and we’re heading out again when we’re done here.”

Scully gets to her feet, and Mulder follows. “Thank you for talking to us,” Scully says. “We’ll review all of this information and be in touch as we can. We’ll let you get back to the search.”

The Rosses rise, hands are shaken. Iona runs her fingers through her hair before crossing her arms tightly back across her chest. “Please bring her home,” she says. “Even - even if…” She trails off, weeping.

Wyatt draws her close, and Mulder and Scully slip past them, barely noticed.

***

It’s just past six by the time they get to their motel, but the sky is black. The parking lot gravel smatters against the fenders as Mulder parks in front of the little office. He gets out to contemplate a luggage cart when Scully emerges. She promptly turns her ankle on the uneven ground, but Mulder manages to grab her by the upper arm before she falls.

“You okay?”

She stares up at him, her breath quick. 

Scully glances at his hand and he remembers to let go. She looks away, tests her footing on the gravel. “I’m good,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Scully fine, or regular fine?”

She smooths her jacket. “How’s your cranium?”

Mulder goes to the office at that, and retrieves their room keys from the drowsy clerk. A part of him hopes the reservation got messed up, that there’s only one room. But both are available, a queen en suite for each. They’re on the first floor around back, next door neighbors, the clerk says. Mulder swipes the bureau plastic and heads back out to Scully, who has found safer footing on the sidewalk.

He passes her the key. “You want to get some dinner? I saw a Cracker Barrel back yonder.” He drawls for her amusement.

“Sure. I want to take a shower first though. Give you a call when I’m done?”

“Okay.” 

“Okay.”

He wants to kiss her but won’t. He wants to suggest a joint shower to conserve water, but won’t. Her eyes do a quick scan of his face, perhaps reading these thoughts. It would only be fair if she could, really.

Scully grabs her bag and heads to her room. He waits until her door clicks shut before heading to his own.

***

Mulder thought of Jenny Greenteeth in the shower, of skeletal arms grasping at him through the drain. It made the tops of his feet tingle, and he hurried out to towel off. 

From what he’s read, Rhiannon Ross seems like a steady, responsible child, unlikely to go haring off through dangerous parts of the woods, or testing the limits of a slippery embankment. And the algae troubles him, the presence of it on her belongings. 

Mulder dresses in jeans and a t-shirt, pulling a parka on for warmth. He forgot his hair gel, and his head looks a bit like a startled sea creature. Scully doubtless has something in her portable salon.

She meets him in front of the car, Scully-casual in grey slacks and a black sweater. Her hiking boots put her shoulders about level with his ribs, and he is reminded that the love of his life is built on a songbird’s frame. Mulder recalls the fine velveteen skin at her inner thigh, like the breast of a chickadee.

“Nice hair,” she says. 

“Thanks, I’m trying to channel Lyle Lovett.” He strums an invisible guitar.

She slouches against the rough brick of the building, backlit by neon. At her feet are bunches of plastic flowers jammed into the white quartz around the ragged boxwood hedge. “So. Cracker Barrel, huh?” 

“Sure, I figured we could sit in the rockers and talk about the old days. Those kids with their jazz and soda pop, am I right? Spit some chaw, vote Republican. Besides, it seems to be either that or a dubious establishment called A-1 Panda Kitchen. The diner closes at 7.”

Scully wrinkles her nose. “Cracker Barrel it is.”

***

There’s a MISSING! flier of Ree on the table, dog-eared and slipped into a plastic page protector. It’s sporting the same school photo from their dossiers. Mulder pushes it gently aside, feeling like he should apologize.

Scully frowns at the menu, taps at it with an immaculate fingernail. “I don’t see how anyone eats here regularly and lives long enough to reminisce about the old days in a rocker. Even the salad has fried chicken in it.”

He remembers when she would cheerfully put away a plate of ribs, but now she cares about fiber and antioxidants along with her tailoring. And her stupid bee pollen crap. “Aw, Scully, you’re citified. Surely you’ve got some kin in these parts. Hardy mountain folk descended from fleeing Irish potato farmers. You can hand le these vittles, little lady. It ain’t possum.” He considers the chicken-fried steak with interest. It comes with gravy.

“Stop talking like you’re on Hee-Haw.” She looks thoughtful. “I suppose there probably are distant cousins out this way, but none that I know of.”

He blows a straw wrapper past her shapely nose, which she ignores with practiced dignity.

“Pork tenderloin, that seems all right.” Scully closes her menu with an air of resignation. She does not like being fussy with her ordering.

The waitress comes by and he commits to the fried steak over Scully’s clear distaste. 

“Re-myelinating,” he assures her, handing over the menu.

“That’s not-”

“Shhh.”

They amuse themselves with several rounds of a little peg game, and Mulder decides to purchase one before they leave. 

“Mom was pretty calm there, don’t you think?” Mulder drums his fingers on the table. He doesn’t really suspect the parents, but the sad fact is that they’re most often the perpetrators. It at least bears discussing.

Scully shrugs. “Police don’t seem too concerned. Growing up in a house with four kids, I remember my mom keeping her cool in completely insane situations. Charlie had a compound fracture once, when my dad was away. His femur was poking out the front of his thigh, he was in shock, and mom just handled it like a skinned knee until the ambulance came.” She shakes her head, remembering.

“Must be a dominant trait.”

She squeezes lemon into her water, then picks out an errant seed. “Hardy mountain folk. So there’s no body in the pond, she probably wouldn’t have wandered off without her food and doll, and there’s no ransom demand or strange footprints at the site. So where the hell did she go, Mulder? Where’s Ree?”

“I think she was in the water at some point.”

Scully narrows her eyes, suspicious. She twirls a peg between her fingers. “At some point? Not terminally?”

“You know I hate to speculate, Scully,” he says, in tones of wounded innocence.

She snorts. “At last we come to Jenny Greenteeth.”

“It was Wyatt’s idea,” he reminds her, chewing his straw. He is excited by a new monster to mash with Scully.

“Sure, blame the other kid,” she says, with a kind of weary amusement.

“I’m withholding judgement until we talk to this Tallulah Church tomorrow. I’m interested in those teeth.” 

“It’s always teeth with you,” she says. She captures two pegs, then looks up at him. She is well pleased with herself, smirky and bright-eyed.

He doesn’t want to say anything. He wants to find Ree, dead or alive, and go home. But he feels pretty sure he can’t do that until unburdened. Holman Hart’s repressed emotions may have controlled the weather, but Mulder knows his own can control the fate of this case. He brushes his fingers against her palm. “Scully.”

Her expression tightens, but she doesn’t respond.

“We have to talk this out.” He is concerned with where it may lead, but this particular truth is in her. He no longer doubts her feelings at this juncture, only her willingness to do anything more with them.

Scully sighs. She toys with a sugar packet. It amuses and aggravates him that she can pore over dead infants and handcuff mutants to her bathtub with little discomfiture, but talk about emotions and she squirms like a kid in church. 

“I don’t think there’s much to talk out, really,” she says, terse.

She wouldn’t, of course she wouldn’t, and there are times he could wring her swan-like throat. 

“Well, humor me then,” he says, with exaggerated patience. “Because you woke up in my bed two weeks ago wearing nothing but smudged makeup, and we’ve been avoiding any real mention of that. And now that I’m properly back to work, I’d kind of like to know what the hell we’re doing.”

She looks around, like anyone’s listening to two weary Feds on a Wednesday night. “I really don’t see any reason to have this conversation right now, Mulder.” 

The waitress delivers their food and, sensing tension, scurries away.

In the past few weeks he’s thought back to that hellish summer when a bee had saved Scully from addressing the fact that she’d clearly been willing to jump his bones before skipping town. Well, anaphylaxis wasn’t going to rescue her this time. “Why are you being like this?” he asks, as though she’s ever different.

She leans forward, piqued. “Like what? Not wanting to talk about my… my… personal life in the middle of an Alabama Cracker Barrel while looking for a missing child?” 

Her personal life, Jesus fucking Christ. “You’ve been avoiding me other than some medical check-ins since you left that morning, so I’m trying to figure out what happens now. Come on, Scully. It’s not like I left those underwear on the desk for you before we headed out here.”

She blushes, bless her, and talks to make him shut up. “I can tell you that I don’t regret what happened.” Scully applies herself to the tenderloin with an intensity usually reserved for the mysteriously deceased. 

Mulder knows it’s the best he’s likely to get from her at the moment, that he’s pushing her to give him something he can’t even define. But he remembers with longing the intricate ocean of her thoughts, the fractal beauty of them as they wove into his own. He was still bathing in the quantum entanglement of her when she’d checked his pupils that evening, when he’d kissed her in the certainty that she’d drop both her little flashlight and her guard.

Scully had kissed him back like a mermaid with a half-drowned sailor.

He looks at her again, knows that he sees only the surface of her now. “Scully, I’m not asking you to go steady.”

She laughs a little at that, looks up at him with wary interest. “So what do you want, then?”

It’s a damned good question. He has general ideas of lying in bed with her while she declaims on the marvels of the quadrupole ion trap. He would like to map her freckles, like a star chart.

“For now I’m just glad to know you don’t regret it,” he hedges.

She searches the ceiling for inspiration before returning her cool gaze to him. “It was absurd of me to act like nothing happened, to treat you like any other patient since you weren’t back at work. It was easy to ignore what we… what happened. I’m sorry, Mulder.” 

She still can’t say it, he notices. But it’s something. “Your other patients are dead, Scully. So I’m a special case no matter how you look at it.”

There is warmth in her eyes. “You really are,” she says.

***

Scully’s got their peg game in a Cracker Barrel bag on her lap. Mulder had wanted to stockpile cheese blocks and sausages against future car trips, but she had put her foot firmly down. “Do you think we’ll find her, Mulder? Her remains, probably, but still. It would be something for the family.”

He shrugs. It’s hard to separate hopes from expectations sometimes, especially in their line. “I really don’t know. We need to get a better look at the area she went missing, and I’m pretty curious about this Tallulah woman.”

“Children can have green teeth if their mothers took tetracycline during late pregnancy,” she tells him. “It crosses the placenta and binds to the calcium in the fetus’s developing teeth.”

He grins at her. “Only one alternate explanation? You’re slowing down in your old age, Scully.”

Scully bares her little fangs. “Neonatal hyperbilirubinemia.”

“Attagirl.”

***

He parks around back this time, right in front of their dreary rooms. “I figure we’ll head out around 9 or so tomorrow,” he says. “Let the air warm up a bit before we hit the woods.”

Scully nods, yawning. “Pond first, or Tallulah?”

He considers this. “I think it’s best if we have the lay of the land when we talk to her.”

“Okay.”

Mulder turns the car off, but they stay in their seats with the inertia of food and time difference and mental exhaustion. Even the lost children they manage to bring home are haunted afterwards. It’s hard to imagine a good outcome here. 

Scully unbuckles her seatbelt, turns to him with sleepy eyes. She yawns again, then reaches out to muss his hair. “Come by in the morning,” she says. “I’ll help you out.”

She goes to her room then, the bag dangling from her fingertips. She doesn’t look back at him before she shuts the door.

***

He stretches out on the bedspread, mulling over her words at dinner, and annoyed at himself for the distraction from Ree Ross. What could he have expected from this, though? Scully’s not Diana. Scully wouldn’t flaunt their shared bed to other agents, wouldn’t drape herself over his desk while reading grimoires and classified documents. Christ, he could marry her and she’d probably think a wedding band was unprofessional at work, his uptight darling.

It’s strange for Diana to be dead. He’d stopped trusting her in the final hours of her life, but he didn’t want her dead. She was a rare and capable creature, however dangerous. She was solitary and sleek and fast.

He recalls the choices he’d made what she glided back into his life, her ruthless intellect and legs as long as a midwinter night. He recalls Scully’s face when he swore Diana was playing a long game, all for a nobler cause.

He recalls the dusky labyrinth of her mind and what he saw at the center of it; a beast slouching towards Bethlehem to be born.

***

Diana slips through his dreams again, but not in bridal white, not with the round belly of Taweret. She is dead, but not the dead of his other visions. She is weeks dead, greying and skeletal. He can see patches of bone through her ragged dress but her eyes, her eyes are vivid and whole and the color of cabochon emeralds. They are luminescent in the nightmare forest of his dream, beckoning him. It is a leafless forest, bleak, with bony-armed trees looming over him. 

He finds her in a blackwater creek, standing in the middle of it as the water surges past her calves. She smiles at him with too many teeth. “Hello, Fox,” she says. She bats her lashes. “I apologize for my appearance, but they didn’t embalm.”

“Do you need help?” he asks her, casting about for a long branch.

She shakes her head, hair still lush and glossy. The water rises up her legs.

“Is this real? I mean, are you a ghost or is this all in my head?”

The water whips around her thighs. “What’s real?” she asks. “Perception is reality. If you believe it to be true, it’s true enough for government work.” Diana laughs at her own joke.

A white deer walks up to him, with softly furred antlers like fresh snow. It looks at him with black-irised eyes, wet and bottomless voids. There may be constellations in them. Mulder reaches out to stroke its muzzle as Diana looks on. The deer opens its mouth and dried corn comes pouring out.

The water swallows Diana then, before receding fully. She lies on the bank as he remembers her, whole and striking. Her dead eyes are their usual smoky blue, her dress no longer decomposed. 

He wakes up when the ground swallows her.

***

Morning, bright and chilly in the mountains with light of a purity that never touches DC. He remembers a dream with Diana, with water and deer and a general sense of Jungian dystopia. It’s nice to see his subconscious branching out from its usual reruns of family fare.

Wary of fungal spores embedded in the matted carpet, he steps into his untied dress shoes and clomps to the bathroom wearing nothing else but his boxers. He brushes his teeth in the tiny sink, then wets his unruly hair. 

There’s a knock at the door and he groans. “Just a minute!” he yells around the toothbrush. He hopes it’s someone with the extra towels he asked for.

Mulder clomps back towards the door and, lacking a peephole, he pops it open a fraction to accept his linens. Instead of the housekeeper he’d been expecting, he finds Scully kitted out for a hike, brandishing a canister of mousse.

Cold air sweeps in with her laugh.

“Good morning to you too,” he grouses, ushering her in. He secures the chain when he closes the door.

“Nice outfit,” she says brightly. “What’s with the shoes? Is this a formal hike? I wasn’t sure because you’re not wearing pants, but…”

He scowls, sitting on the bed. “You’re mighty chipper. I’m trying to avoid athlete’s foot, if you must know, and I couldn’t find my socks.”

Scully rummages through his bag for a pair of thick socks, which she tosses to him. She gestures at the bed. “May I?”

“Not if you’re going to be mean.” He kicks the shoes off and tugs the socks on.

Scully sits beside him, shaking the can of mousse. “Thought I could do your hair before we prank call some boys. French braid?”

Mulder stands to pull his jeans up, and the weight shift makes her bounce a little on the mattress. “Let me have that mousse.”

She gestures for his hand, then sprays a lilac-scented pouf into his cupped palm. 

“Thanks,” he says, and scrunches it into his hair. He styles himself before the dresser mirror while she watches, amused.

“You left before my beauty regimen last time,” he remarks.

In the mirror, Scully shakes her head but doesn’t seem bothered. “I made some calls this morning about Tallulah Church. There’s no phone or plumbing up there, but the sheriff’s office said she’s usually right around her home. And the motel clerk drew me a map of how to get to the pond from the access road, then how to get to Tallulah’s.” She waves several crumpled papers.

He pulls a t-shirt over his head, then a fleece. “Aren’t you a busy little bee? Looks like someone’s getting her cartography badge this week.” Mulder returns to the bed to put his boots on.

“I’ve got evidence vials too,” she says, producing them from her pockets. “We’re going to find out what happened to Ree.” Her eyes are big and solemn.

Scully masquerades her tenderheartedness as honor, but Mulder didn’t need a God Module to know why she took that terrible dog in years ago. The depth of cold Dr. Scully’s compassion would shock their colleagues, and he likes this secret knowledge about her. Even Skinner, who reveres her only just below the Constitution, underestimates the fierceness of her empathy. 

“What?” Scully asks.

Mulder cups her splendid jaw, thumb at her sphenoid bone. He kisses the space between her eyebrows, and she makes a small noise.

“We have to go,” she breathes, and is outside before he can stand.

***

Not a word about it in the car, just miles of silence broken only by Scully giving directions. The drive ends in a flat patch of dirt by the forest’s edge, a scrubby path poking out from the ferns and overhang.

“Our little forays into the forest never end well,” she observes. “But at least tick season is winding down. After you, Mulder.”

He pushes into the woods, holding branches back so Scully doesn’t get smacked in the head. “Been a while, though. We’re tougher now. We’re hardened woodspersons.”

“And I have a lighter,” she adds.

He grins. “Show off. Hey, how far is it?”

Scully consults her map. “Well, we’re coming at it from a different angle than Ree would have probably taken, but this is the most direct. Looks like maybe a hundred yards up ahead before it opens into a clearing.”

The path unfolds as she said, and suddenly a storybook pond is before him. Squirrels frisk in the branches and birds call to each other across the glen. The surface of the water is velvety with duckweed, like a perfectly clipped baseball field. Shafts of sunlight illuminate red and white mushrooms at the bases of oaks, the feathers of golden-green ferns. He sniffs the air, lush and tannic.

“Oh, wow,” Scully says, coming up behind him. “Mulder, this is unreal. It’s like a Waterhouse painting.”

They pick their way down to the edge of the pond, startling several fat bullfrogs and a garter snake. “Imagine being a kid here, Scully.”

She shakes her head, admiring. “It’s a Wonderland. I’d be out here all the time too.” Scully crosses her arms, staring upwards with a rapturous expression. “From what her dad said, Ree’s a lot like I was as a kid. I didn’t have my own binoculars though. Had to steal Bill’s.”

“Fuck Bill,” he says cheerfully. “You deserved them.”

They circle the perimeter, looking for...what? He never quite knows. The pond makes gentle rippling sounds as the local fauna heads for deeper water under his scrutiny.

Scully pauses at a section of churned-up dirt. She squats for a better view, pokes delicately at the earth. “They made a mess of this, Jesus. At least they had enough sense to band their shoes.” In the dirt, distinct tracks marked with horizontal rubber band lines around the soles distinguish the CSI team’s prints.

Mulder crouches bedside her, spots something golden half-buried in the soft ground. “Tweezers, Scully?”

She passes them over and from the ground he plucks a kernel of deer corn, half coated in dried algae. “Mulder, look. There are more of them, maybe twenty, all pushed in or smashed on this rock. And most of them have algae on them.” She frowns. “The footprints on the ground over it, they’re not marked and they’re too small for an adult.”

Sure enough, there’s a mess of kid-sized sneaker tracks all over where the greenish corn is, muddy smears on the rocks adjacent. They’re algae-covered as well, and too far from the water for such a coating. He stares, thinking.

Scully, meanwhile, is labeling tiny evidence jars in pencil, filling them with samples of algae and earth and corn. She finds the cap of a glittery marker. “Who processed this crime scene? Ray Charles?” She seals it up, tags it. 

“No kidding. Hey, look. There’s a gap between those two big boulders over there. If you wanted to watch someone and hide, it would be a good spot. You think they searched it?”

She snorts with derision. 

“Me too. I’m gonna go take a look. You stay here. Sit on that rock there, it’ll put you at about Ree’s height.”

Scully passes him a few vials and a pencil, settles on the rock. “I think this is where she left Cordelia, based on the photos, though they were mostly closeup. I don’t remember any good overviews.” Some algae remains on the rock, and Scully looks sad.

Mulder jogs around the pond as best he can, but the bracken is heavy and he has to climb over a few logs. Is it really so crazy to think Ree tripped and fell out here, slipped quietly into the pond and snagged on a submerged rock or branch? Lots of little nibbling things in the water; it happens.

His mind returns to the algae. But if Ree went in, how did it come out? Who stepped all over that deer corn?

He’s between the boulders now, with a clear view of Scully across the way. He walks a little grid by the boulder, looking for bits of trace evidence. Snagged hair, footprints, forgotten belongings, anxiously chewed nails. But there is nothing. Either he misjudged the hiding spot, or the perpetrator has been very mindful of Locard’s Exchange Principle

.

“SCULLY!” he calls, setting off flurries of birds.

“MULDER?” She scans the area where he’s hidden.

“CAN YOU SEE ME?”

“NO!”

He climbs up one of the rocks, waves to her. She waves back from her perch. From atop the boulder, he scans the ground below. There aren’t any footprints but, squinting, he can see trails of dried algae along the edge of the ferns, where the rocky area begins.

He calls Scully over, and she moves through the forest as lightly as the squirrels. He points at his finding when she arrives. “That’s weird, right?”

She scoops some up in a vial, the holds it to the light. “Maybe she was playing at the edge, got her hands dirty, went to wipe them, and slipped.”

Mulder shakes his head. “That doesn’t explain the algae on the unopened food, Scully.”

“It could have been simple contamination. Her parents say she’s out here all the time. If she uses the same thermos and bag, brings the same books and toys, it’s not exactly far fetched to think some of it remained from last time and grew in the sun. Busy mom with four kids, how thoroughly is she going to scrub everything down for a kid who’s always outside? Algae are extremely tenacious, and it was out here in the sun for about 26 hours.”

He gazes at the duckweed, lets his vision swim until everything is a green blur. “Maybe,” he says. “But I want to talk to Tallulah.”

“Greenteeth was my delight,” Scully sings, appallingly off-key. “Greenteeth was my heart of gold.”

“You’re a riot,” he says dryly. Delightedly.

“Exposure to copper or nickel,” Scully says, clambering over a log. “Septic cholestasis.”

He might marry her after all.

***

Tallulah’s little shack looks old as the mountains, with log walls and a shake roof. There’s a tiny porch tacked on the front, and a wall of firewood being gnawed by two spotted goats. They stare at Mulder with their rectangular-pupiled eyes.

He reaches out to pet them and startles when they bleat loudly at his overture. They scamper off behind the house.

Scully pokes the toe of her boot into a plastic bucket, rights it. “Her car seems to be here,” she observes, indicating a battered old Volvo wagon. 

“A European car, no wonder everyone here hates her.”

Scully smirks.

They walk up to the house, Mulder withdrawing his identification. It generally gets a snappier reaction the further West and South it travels, but Mulder is also wary of a demented libertarian streak that runs through the country at odd intervals. Seams of it appear throughout Appalachia, and federal agents of various stripes have been fired on by feistier residents.

Scully, thankfully, is a quick draw and a dead shot.

They don’t get the chance to knock before a woman who must be Tallulah Church stands before them on the other side of the screen door. She’s close to Mulder’s height, thin to the point of emaciation, and pale enough to make Scully look freshly tanned. She has beautiful black hair to her waist, and eyes the color of ferns. They seem too bright in her gaunt, colorless face. She’s dressed in a Huck Finn ensemble of castoff men’s work clothing. On her hands are faded canvas gardening gloves.

Mulder shows her his badge and introduces them. Scully wordlessly displays her own identification.

Tallulah grins widely, her teeth perfect and straight and pearly green. “Well come on in,” she says, turning back into the house. Her feet clomp loudly in their heavy boots.

Mulder glances at Scully, who still seems taken aback by this gawky apparition. He holds the door open and they follow Tallulah into the house. 

The little shack creaks with every step, and smells of woodsmoke and earth and herbs. The interior walls are the same weathered gray as the outside. The whole thing is just one room, with a bed in one corner and a kitchen consisting of a fireplace, a dry sink, and a table with several mismatched chairs. Tallulah is occupying a black metal one, and her impossibly long, thin limbs make Mulder think of Jack Skellington. He can’t tell if she’s twenty or fifty.

“Sit down, please,” she says. “The table’s not much but I reckon it would be weird to offer you the bed.” She smiles again. Her voice is as drawling as everyone else in town, but there’s something different about it, something strangely polished and almost British. 

They take their seats. “Miss Church,” Scully begins.

“Tallulah, please.”

“Tallulah. Agent Mulder and I are investigating the disappearance of Rhiannon Ross. She went missing on Sunday morning. Given that you live not far from the area where her belongings were found, we wanted to ask you some questions.” Scully opens her file folder, pen poised like a hovering dragonfly.

Tallulah levels her remarkable eyes with Scully’s. “No ma’am. I know who Ree is, it’s a small town and she’s out here a lot, but I didn’t see her that day. Real nice little girl though. She feeds the deer sometimes.”

Mulder perks up. “Yeah? We saw some deer corn out where she went missing. Did you see her feeding them that morning?”

Tallulah sighs. “No, I’m sorry. As I’ve told the police, I didn’t see a bit of her on Sunday. Which is sort of odd itself, because she’d always be out on a day like that. Too shy to come up to the house, but she liked to watch the goats. They’re not even mine, but I leave them food and water, so we’re friends now.”

Behind her, on the dry sink, Mulder notices green smears of moss or mildew. Or algae. 

“I know you’ve spoken to Sherriff McLeod already,” Scully continues. “So we appreciate your patience.”

“It’s a terrible thing for a child to go missing,” Tallulah says, shaking her head. “I wish I did have something to tell, but I just don’t. I’ve seen the search parties around - I guess they searched the pond.”

“You say you knew who Ree was because it’s a small town, but I got the sense you didn’t mingle much with the good townsfolk,” Mulder observes.

Tallulah chuckles at this. “No sir, not much, which suits them and me just fine.” She lifts her hands to eye level and wiggles her bony gloved fingers. “They think I’m spooky.”

Mulder smiles in spite of himself. “I know a little bit about that. So tell me, Tallulah, you from around here?”

She shakes her head. “Not from anywhere, really, but I was raised outside Savannah in a rich ladies’ orphanage. That’s why I sound like Dixie Carter.”

“An orphanage?” Scully repeats.

“Yes ma’am. I was left at the Baptist Ladies’ Home when I was a day or so old. Nothing with me but a plastic laundry basket and a gingham tablecloth. They said I was a frightful looking little thing.” She smiles ruefully, showing them her green teeth again.

Scully, true to form, tackles that bull head on. “Tallulah, I’m also a doctor, and I’m compelled to ask about your teeth. Do you know why they’re green?”

An expansive shrug. “Oh, the doctors that saw us there had all kinds of ideas of what was wrong with me, but I never got anything official. Marfan Syndrome, that was one.” She snorts. “‘Course, the other kids heard Martian and with the green teeth they decided I was an alien.”

“There’s a genetic test for it now,” Scully says. “You could find out for sure.”

Tallulah chuckles again. “Thanks, Doc, but it doesn’t matter much. I feel just fine. Always have, and I don’t plan to have any kids. I’m twenty-six and haven’t had anything worse than a cold.”

Mulder watches the Doc jot this down and he returns to the subject at hand. “So you moved here over the summer. Where’d you live before this?”

“Oh, gosh, just lots of tiny towns like this one. I find these empty little cabins, you know, and stay for a while. Then I move on when I get restless.”

“The Rosses said you come into town every so often to get supplies and gas. May I ask where you get the money for that?” Scully looks up to ask this.

Tallulah looks sly. “I don’t know that I want to discuss that with the FBI,” she says.

Mulder exchanges a glance with his fellow narc, who nods imperceptibly to any eye but his own. “We’re just here to find Rhiannon,” he reassures Tallulah. “Not do the DEA’s job for them. Neither Agent Scully nor I wish to fill out extra paperwork.”

Tallulah considers this, glancing between them. “Well,” she says at last. “I reckon you could say I’m real good with plants; I can coax anything to grow. And in boring little towns there’s, uh, a lot of people who like plants.”

Scully looks unimpressed by this attempt at euphemism. “Plants,” she repeats.

Tallulah shrugs. “I’ve said as much as I’m going to on that subject without a lawyer. But anyhow, what’s that got to do with Ree?”

“Just trying to get to know a bit about you,” Mulder says. “Sometimes we find witnesses have seen things they don’t even realize they’ve seen, and talking generally can help.”

“I know everything I’ve seen,” Tallulah asserts. “You live out here like this, you don’t miss much. It’s not like I have a lot to distract me.”

“What were you doing last Sunday morning, then?” Mulder asks.

She shrugs. “Woke up, ate, got dressed. Went over to the pump for some water.” She gestures at some distant point through the back wall. “Then I went looking for some mushrooms and things to eat. Eggs. Lots of greens out there.”

Scully narrows her eyes. “Ree was in the woods that morning too. You’re certain you didn’t see or hear anything?”

Tallulah scoffs. “The woods are pretty big. Might as well say we were both in Alabama.”

“Wyatt and Iona are under the impression that you don’t like children,” Scully says. “Have there been any particular incidents that would make them feel that way? Any encounters with Ree? It must have been irritating to have her running all over the edge of your property.”

“No, she’s all right and besides, it’s hardly my property. Scared of me like the rest of them, but all right. I like the way she is with animals, real gentle and all. Got a kind heart, that girl, and I wish more were like her. But here’s the plain facts. My mama didn’t want me, none of the parents who came to the Home wanted me, the other kids thought I was an alien, and I learned to just keep mostly to myself because I can take a hint. I go walking outside a lot, do some fishing in the little ponds and all, and that’s how I know who Ree is. You know the kids call me Jenny Greenteeth.”

“We’d heard that, yes,” Mulder says, feeling uncomfortably sorry for Tallulah. He knows empathizing with suspects is his weakness, and that it drives Scully up the wall.

“It’s not the first time, won't be the last. But I know Ree’s daddy thinks I hurt Ree. He’s pretty disapproving of my...plant business and I think he half believes that stupid old fairy tale.” She rolls her eyes.

“I saw you had a whole lot of firewood,” Mulder says, shifting gears. “You staying here all winter?” 

“I never know, but I’d like to. Doubt I will though, with this, uh, situation.” She picks at her gloves. “People can start to get unkind.”

Mulder gestures to the dry sink. “Seems kind of damp. Looks like you have some mold or something growing over there.”

The three of them follow his finger with their eyes, where bright green streaks the wall and sink. Mulder sees that there is far more than he originally noticed, spread over much of the wall all the way to the bed.

“Oh, yeah, these places always are,” Tallulah says. “You can always find these old cabins if you look a little, but it’s hard to keep them snug. Part of why I move so much. They just sort of collapse around you.”

Mulder glances at Scully, and they agree in a blink. 

“Well, I wouldn’t move any time soon, Tallulah,” Scully says in her Bad Cop way. “And I’d take a break from business until the situation - as you called it - is sorted out.”

Tallulah looks uncomfortable, but nods. “Yes ma’am.”

“Thanks for your time,” Mulder says. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

They rise from their rickety chairs and head out the front door. On his way past the bed, Mulder opens an evidence vial and scrapes it along the wall to gather a film of algae. If Tallulah notices, she doesn’t remark.

The sun feels over-bright after the dim cabin and, squinting, they pick their way carefully back to where they parked. One of the goats is on the hood of their rental.

Mulder is delighted by this, if only because he can write “GOAT ATTACK” on the return form. He hopes it will find its way across Kersh’s desk and make him chug Mylanta straight from the bottle.

Scully, far more vexed, begins throwing fallen pine cones at it. 

“Nice arm,” Mulder says. “Try bringing your knee up next time.”

She glares at him, exasperated. “Where’s a chupacabra when you need one?”

***

They’re back at the Cracker Barrel, playing Pegs, with Ree’s flier propped up against the napkin dispenser. Scully is picking at an anemic salmon fillet, and eyeing Mulder’s chicken fried steak with disdain.

“You know you want a bite,” he says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes and gravy. 

She looks irked. “I didn’t have time for a run this afternoon because I was on the phone with the eponymous Baptist Ladies.”

“I wasn’t going for leisure,” he says with an air of wounded dignity. “Talked to a lot of people while I was out and about. The crotchety old ladies on their porches love me, I’ll have you know. I’m charming, for a Yankee.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “They just thought you looked good in your running shorts.” She pauses, then looks mortified.

“Oh yeah? How about you; you think I look good in them?” She’s so easy to torment sometimes and besides, he’d kind of like to know.

“Your vanity needs no help from me,” she says primly. “So what did you hear?”

“Nothing official, of course, but there are rumors that the oldest Ross siblings, the twin boys, were getting weed from Tallulah, so Wyatt has it in for her.”

“Plants,” Scully corrects. “Geraniums, probably.”

“Doubtless. Some people think Ree stumbled onto Tallulah’s crop and Tallulah killed her, but given the fact that the geranium sales are an open secret, it’s pretty unlikely.”

“Plus I doubt Ree would know it if she saw it,” Scully adds. 

“She might if her brothers are dope hounds with the reefer madness, Scully. Mary Jane. Grass. Wacky tobaccy. It’s ruining good Christian families.” He shakes his head somberly. “Ganja.”

“Devil’s lettuce,” Scully adds and, for whatever reason, this undoes them both and they dissolve into laughter.

This earns them startled glances from nearby patrons who seem to generally disapprove of their dark clothing and clandestine ways.

It feels incredible to laugh. Less than a month ago his head had been cracked open like an oyster while Scully and Diana played Spy vs. Spy. And here he was now in this awful little town, safely away from all major conspiracies, having had carnal knowledge of the enigmatic Dr. Scully, and he had just won at Pegs.

And Scully thinks he looked sexy in his shorts.

She is glaring at the peg board when he asks about her phone calls. “So what’d you learn, other than a tuna casserole recipe and how to tease your hair?”

“Weird stuff, your favorite.”

“Lay it on me, mama.”

Scully settles back in the booth. Delivering information is her comfort zone. “Well, Tallulah’s basic facts were right enough. She was left on the front steps of the Home in a white laundry basket. By the look of the umbilical stump, she wasn’t a hospital delivery. No one was ever able to identify her parents. But about a week before she appeared, a baby girl went missing from the Home. There were no signs of a break-in, and the baby never turned up. Everyone just assumed her parents had taken her back and the whole thing was swept under the rug.”

Some quick math, and Mulder realizes this wasn’t long before Samantha went missing. He frowns, and Scully’s expression makes it clear that she’s done the same calculation.

“It was April,” she offers gently. “In the South.”

“Go on.” 

“The woman I spoke to said Tallulah did have lots of problems with other kids, but not just for her appearance. She did get teased for the teeth, but apparently she was an aggressive kid. Biting, pulling long hair. They went to the Y once a week for swimming lessons, and Tallulah would drag kids under the water under the guise of playing. She was banned from the pool eventually.”

“Jesus,” Mulder says. “Someone needed more time with Mr. Rogers.”

“Oh, is that how they addressed abandonment issues at Oxford, Dr. Mulder?” Scully asks, archly.

He grins. “Hey, the NHS budget isn’t unlimited. So how’d she end up here?”

“Well, apparently when a kid turns 18 they give them some money and set them up with a job in the community, which isn’t a bad situation. But Tallulah took off at 15, said she was sick of handouts. The Baptist Ladies put the word out, but Tallulah was good at hiding and was 19 before anyone found her. And only then by sheer accident - a former employee bumped into her in Macon, Georgia.”

“Were they able to tell you about her movements at all in the intervening decade? Places she’s lived?”

Scully shakes her head. “No, and there’s no records on her at all. No arrests for anything as minor as vagrancy or trespassing, much less dealing. Her fingerprints aren’t in the system. She’s like a ghost. I was going to call the sheriff’s office to ask about the weed, but I thought better of it. I don’t want to walk into anything unprepared.”

He sighs. “I’d like to look at missing child cases in the past ten years, ones where the kid went missing around freshwater. We’ll narrow it to prepubescent girls.”

She nods. “I’ll see what Danny can scrounge on ViCAP. The Baptist Home is supposed to be faxing Tallulah’s medical records, thin as they are, and I want to see what I can pull out. Oh, and here’s another thing. Marjorie - that’s the woman I spoke with - Marjorie said Tallulah was always going out at night to wander in the woods. Her bed and storage cabinet were always covered with green stains and - get this - what appeared to be gold dust. Her hair was wet and had algae in it, like she’d been swimming in a pond or lake. No matter what they did, she’d manage to get out. Eventually they gave up because she kept returning and it seemed to keep her violence down.” 

Mulder considers this. He’s had an idea since yesterday that he’s been hesitant to voice, but what the hell? “I was thinking about her gloves when we visited this morning.”

Scully raises a non-committal eyebrow.

“Hear me out. All of Ree’s stuff was covered with algae, right? And there was algae where it shouldn’t be at the crime scene and all over Tallulah’s wall. She said she’s good with plants too, right? What if algae grows when she touches things? What if that’s why she was wearing gloves when we came by?”

Scully puts her fork down. “She’s an algae witch?”

He sighs. “I’m saying it’s maybe a...like a manifestation of something else. It’s something she can’t control.”

“Let me guess. You think the missing baby was taken by Tallulah’s unearthly mother and that Tallulah is actually a changeling left in her place. She’s from a race of some kind of evil water fairies, and has stolen Rhiannon Ross as her mother stole the other child twenty-six years ago.”

A slow smile spreads across Mulder’s face. “Scully, are you trying to get me back in bed?”

She reddens, rolls her eyes. “Textbooks could be written about your deviance.”

“Oh, no doubt. But details aside, you have to admit there are some weird details there.”

“All our cases have weird details. But the algae is notable. I’d like to take some samples from Tallulah’s cabin and compare it to the algae on Ree’s belongings. I’ll have to see what equipment the sheriff's office has. We’ll need to send some out for DNA testing to be sure, but I could at least do some microscopic analysis. It could place her at the scene.”

Mulder passes her the little vial he’d collected that morning. It’s fuller than he remembered.

“Sneak,” Scully says, approvingly, sipping at her Diet Coke.

“I know you like bad boys. Apropos of which, why do you think the sheriff has left Tallulah alone about this weed thing? I mean, this doesn’t seem like a hip and swinging town, does it?”

“I was wondering that too. And Wyatt never mentioned it either. I’m also wondering why, if we go with your hypothesis, Tallulah would steal a grade schooler rather than a baby. And Mulder, that cabin was one room. There’s nowhere she could have stashed a child. What’s more, shouldn’t some changeling child should have shown up by now? I mean, by your logic.”

Mulder wipes his plate with a roll. “I admit there are complex facets involved here,” he allows. He has ideas percolating, but they need more time to steep. “But whatever the reasons she may have had, there’s no one else who even seems remotely likely. No dubious strangers in town, no evidence of any kind at the crime scene. No one I talked to today indicated there were any grudges with the Rosses.”

Scully curls back into the corner of their booth, looking modish with her dark clothes and sleek hair. “I hate this,” she says. “Autopsies are so clear. Manner and mechanism. You just read the body and it tells a story. Sometimes it’s a challenge, but it’s always there. Missing persons are nightmarish, especially children.”

Mulder, as he is prone to do, thinks of Addie Sparks. “Missing still has hope, I guess.”

She looks chagrined. “I didn’t think, Mulder. I’m sorry.”

He hates that his missing sister has consumed her life too. Hell, Melissa was murdered and Scully’s moved on in a relatively healthy fashion. “No, don’t be. I just mean that there’s cruelty there, in that hope. Schroedinger’s crime, you know. That last heart of Roche’s is the end of someone’s hope, only they’ll never know.”

She reaches across the table to take his hand in hers. “The sense that an answer exists but isn’t knowable is a miserable feeling,” she says. “Especially if it’s an answer that could redefine one’s status quo if only it were revealed.”

He’s pretty sure she’s not talking about the case now, and traces her fingers with his thumb. “So you wanna kill this thing, then? Perform a post-mortem, write it up, and move on?” He doesn’t want this, but at least he’d know.

Scully draws infinite circles on his wrist with her nail, and gooseflesh rises over his body. “Hope doesn’t have to be painful,” she murmurs to the table. She looks up at him with her summer sky eyes in the fading autumn light.

Mulder’s heart squeezes hard, then expands. “It’s kept me going for a long time, even when it is,” he tells her. 

She nods, lets go of him. “The motto of my first  profession is hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. But I tend to forget the maxim that should drive the second one.”

He has a flashback to scanning the plasma-vivid mind behind that perfect face. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Dum spiro spero,” she says.

“While I breathe, I hope.” He smiles.

They get the check and go to the car.

***

The drive holds the easy silence of a pizza hangover, the kind when they’re wiped out on Scully’s couch with half-eaten slices and paperwork on the coffee table and floor.

Scully has her feet propped up on the dash and her seat reclined. She has a manila folder on her face, her eyes closed.

He thinks, as he sometimes does of late, about what a shit he was to her after Philadelphia. He’s never asked if she knew then that she was dying, but he’s always suspected she must have. 

All he’d known at the time was that she’d blown him off for a good-looking psychopath, let the man brand her like cattle, then poured her herself into his bed. He’d hated Jerse for the bruises on her face and body and psyche, but the man was under guard and therefore beyond his rage. He siphoned some of it onto Scully instead, for daring to need more than him and for seeking it. He wanted it to be about the desk because he could have given her the fucking desk. He could have easily fixed that without having to fix anything else between them. He could have kept going in a straight line instead of trying to make a map.

He thought of her in Jerse’s arms, in Jerse’s bed. Beaten by Jerse’s fists. He imagined the needle biting into the flawless canvas of her back and leaving that turning serpent there. He noticed that it went in a circle and at the time, he’d let that be about him too.

Later, when he understood that she was even more ephemeral than he feared, fits of self-pity left him wondering why she went for Jerse instead of him. Surely she knew he was available for emotionally destructive sex if that’s what she craved before dying. 

But it turned out that sleeping with her had been like losing his virginity all over again. In twenty years or so, if they were still alive, he might find the balls to tell her that.

***

Scully yawns when he parks the car, batting the folder off her face. “I was awake,” she insists.

“Very convincing,” he assures her. 

She swats his arm, straightens her seat. “I’m wondering if she was dealing elsewhere, maybe giving a kickback to LLE. Someone gets wind, she gets kicked out of town and moves along to another friendly hamlet. You know how these networks run.”

“Local law enforcement,” Mulder sighs. “The eternal bane of my existence. It would certainly explain a few things.”

“And if the Ross twins really are buying, you can see why Wyatt wouldn’t mention it to us. He can throw her under the bus without dragging his kids in too.”

Mulder rubs his eyes. “But how does it all come together? I mean let’s say Tallulah slides into these little towns, she deals to make ends meet. Pays some kickbacks. But why risk it on a serious crime like kidnaping or murder? This is the South, Scully. They do not fuck around, and kidnaping’s federal.”

She shakes her head, still frustrated. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for Danny, I guess. I’ll leave him a message when I get back to my room. The internet connection out here is a nightmare, so maybe he can dig it up while I’m at the lab.”

Scully unbuckles her seatbelt, but makes no move to leave the car. She plays with the edge of the folder. “I know you said you weren’t looking to go steady, but now that I’ve put out I was hoping I could get your varsity jacket.” 

He feels some of the tightness leave his neck at her willingness to play. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a pretty sweet jacket. That’s more than a one-nighter. Maybe if you swing by in a cheerleader outfit I’d think about it.”

She looks up, smiling one of her rare smiles that show her teeth. “I think my mom still has my high school uniform in mothballs somewhere.”

He tosses his phone onto her lap. “Call. Now.”

Scully laughs her throaty, chuckly laugh. “Good night, Mulder,” she says, opening her door. “See you tomorrow.” She passes his phone back and slips into the dark.

He grins all the way to his room.

***

Diana comes to him again that night. He finds her at the edge of a meadow on a large rock, a vivid rainbow overhead. She wears a floor length evening gown of shimmering gold fabric, and her flesh is whole. She pats the rock, inviting him to sit.

“Hello, Fox.” 

He scowls, sitting. “As a manifestation of my subconscious, you could have the decency not to call me Fox.”

She laughs. “As an alleged manifestation of your subconscious, maybe you just want to be acknowledged as a fox by a desirable woman. How is Agent Scully this evening?”

“Spare me. Nice dress, Diana.”

She stands up and twirls. The gown flares out from her graceful waist into a narrow bell. Her feet are bare. “It is, isn’t it? It’s cloth of gold. Very Eleanor of Aquitaine, I think.”

“Is it heavy?”

Diana sits back down. “Oh, yes. Terribly heavy. And costly.”

He rubs it between his fingers. The fabric is stiff and itchy, like tweed. “Well, nothing’s too expensive when you’re dead, I guess.”

“Not expensive. Costly,” she corrects.

He furrows his brow. “Okay. What’s the difference?”

She shrugs. “It’s just that the cheapest way to pay is usually money. Some things cost much more than money. Surely you know that by now. But there’s no need to be dour, Fox. It’s beautiful out, and look at the rainbow.” 

He does. “Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me,” he sings softly. Even in his dreams his voice is terrible.

Diana gets to her feet again, spinning in the grass. She starts to twirl faster, her hair whipping out around her. Her skin greys again, her face turning cadaverous, and little crawling things flying from her into the grass.

Mulder scuttles back from her on the rock, repulsed but captivated as she becomes a formless blur. 

Then she stops, stares at him from her cavernous eye sockets. Her bony chest is panting.

“Diana?” he breathes. 

She steps towards him and flickers back to her earlier smooth-skinned appearance.

Step.

Flicker.

Step.

Flicker.

He is transfixed.

“Is it real, or is it Memorex?” she muses.

Step.

Flicker.

He wakes up gasping before she can touch him.

***

He’d hoped this kind of shit would end with his neurosurgery, but apparently his subconscious is tenacious. Unless it’s not his subconscious, in which case he needs to get some tips from Scully, who sees an awful lot of ghosts for someone who doesn’t believe in them.

Yawning, he gets the in-room pot gurgling and clunking with whatever factory sweepings pass for coffee in the sticks. The room fills with an aroma reminiscent of burning tires.

A knock at the door distracts him and he opens it to find Scully holding two styrofoam cups steaming from their plastic lids. “Went for a quick run,” she says, stepping under his arm into the room.

He shuts the door.

“Mulder, prop that door open. It smells like wet asphalt in here.” She sets the cups down and turns the coffee pot off with a look of contempt.

“Ah, Scully,” he says, sipping from the cup marked M.

“You can take the car today,” she says. “Someone from the sheriff’s office is giving me a lift to the lab in Huntsville. It’s about an hour each way, so I doubt I’ll be back before dark. What are your plans?”

“I want to talk to Tallulah again,” he says. 

“Watch out for those goats,” she warns darkly. “I think the little one cost us the deposit.”

“I’ll bring pine cones.”

Scully frowns, steps closer to him. “Mulder, you don’t look so good. Are you feeling alright? Maybe you should have them bring her into the station for questioning instead.”

He waves her off. “Bed’s not great,” he says. “I’m just tossing and turning some, but the coffee should perk me up.” He takes a large gulp. “Mmmm, perky.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re a liar, but if I try to actually examine you you’re just going to be cranky or perverted. At least make sure your phone’s charged so you can call me if you keel over or something.”

He pouts, preemptively deprived of the opportunity for a predictable playing doctor joke. Damn her. “You suck the fun out of everything,” he informs her, sitting on the bed.

She walks over to him, standing between his knees. She puts her empty coffee cup on the night stand, then grips his t-shirt with both hands.

He swallows.

“As your physician, I ask that you try not to die in a stupid and avoidable fashion,” Scully says. Her mouth is inches away. She shakes his shirt for good measure before leaving.

He goes to the shower and stays there for some time.

***

Mulder stops off at the farm store where Scully obtained the coffee. He selects a raspberry danish, then adds a loaf of fresh bread and some local milk in a quaint glass bottle. 

“Five dollar deposit on the bottle,” the clerk informs him. Fahv dahlah dipawsit.

“What’s it made of, crystal?” he grouses, swiping his card.

“You that FBI guy?” the clerk asks suspiciously. “It’s pasteurized, it’s perfectly legal milk.You can test it.” 

“It seems fine,” Mulder assures her. He’d had no idea that there was a black market in milk. He takes his bag and makes for the door.

“It’s not homogenized though,” she calls after him. 

Mulder takes his unhomogenized, perfectly legal milk up into the mountains.

***

Tallulah’s chopping wood when he pulls up. She has on the same Carhartt overalls Wyatt did, and thick leather gloves this time. There are splinters and sawdust in her long braid. She’s not a bit beautiful, but has an appealing serenity.

“Hey,” Mulder says to the goats, who have come to sniff him. He scratches the big one behind the ears. The little one makes for the car.

Tallulah straightens up, wipes her wrist across her brow. “Mornin’, Agent Mulder. Where’s your partner?”

“She’s the science half of this outfit,” Mulder says. “She’s peering at things through microscopes and running them through unpronounceable equipment.”

“Like that algae you scraped off my wall?” Tallulah sounds amused.

“That would be one of the things, yes.”

She frowns thoughtfully. “You sure that doesn’t violate the Fourth Amendment?”

“California v. Greenwood says I can search your trash,” Mulder informs her. “Besides, you invited us in.”

“Like vampires,” Tallulah observes, and adds the split wood to her growing pile.

Mulder holds out the bag containing the bread and milk. He ate the danish on the way up. “Here,” he says.

She takes his offering and peers in. “What’s this?”

“Call it a belated housewarming gift,” he says. 

Tallulah looks at him for a long moment. “You know, some of the old mountain women believe it’s wise to leave a little offering of such homey treats to the Good Folk. Oh, they go to church of a Sunday and preach the gospel just fine, but come Saturday night, there’s little biscuits and butter at the forest’s edge, wrapped all in leaves.”

“I heard something about that,” Mulder says. “I guess it’s like wearing suspenders and a belt.”

She wipes down her hatchet with a faded bandanna, then puts it in a little storage bin next to the house. “Funny what people believe, isn’t it?”

“Funny.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her, even when the little goat jumps on the hood of his car.

Tallulah opens the milk and takes a deep gulp of it from the bottle. “That’s very good,” she says. “Now your partner would roll her lovely eyes at such a thing as you’ve brought, but she’ll kneel for wafers and wine.”

Mulder doesn’t ask how Tallulah knows this. “There’s a five dollar deposit on the bottle,” he says. “All yours, since you’re out of business at the moment.”

She smiles greenly at him. “Come in, Agent Mulder.”

He follows her up the steps and into the cabin, looking at her round-bellied stove, the faded patchwork quilt on the narrow brass bed. Mulder sees the appeal of this simplicity, a pared down life to strip away all foolish distraction. He recognizes his own romanticization of it, a rich boy with summer homes and an Oxford education wanting to play at Saint Jerome. He also considers that the Unabomber went to Harvard and lived this way too. Minimalism may not be inherently enlightening. 

Tallulah is sprawled in a chair, her steel-toed boots kicked off. Mulder sits at the table across from her, bread and milk between them. A ham and a cleaver are out as well.

“You hungry?” Tallulah asks. “That ham is from Sam Oakley out by the grain elevator. Just delicious.”

Mulder shakes his head. “Can she come back?” he asks, without preamble.

“Agent Scully? Any time she likes, though I’d ask for more of that milk if she does. I’ll pay you the deposit.”

Mulder senses a shift in her demeanor. She’s not the friendly, country orphan any longer. There’s mischief rising in her, something tart and maybe wicked. Her posture is languid rather than awkward now.

“You know what I mean, Tallulah.”

She works on loosening her braid. It’s hard in the thick gloves. “You mean Ree. You still think I know something about that.”

Mulder realizes that she is enjoying herself, remembers that the fay are supposed to love riddles and wordplay. “Well, we can talk about something else. I heard the Ross twins are customers of yours.”

She laughs. “The thing I absolutely love best about people is that they make rules to stop themselves doing everything they long for, then do it anyway while pointing their lying fingers at the next fellow for the same. I don’t really need the money, but I do think it’s funny to watch these fine upstanding people condemn me with one hand and pay me with the other. It’s pleasurable money to spend, and it passes the time.”

Mulder’s anarchic soul cannot deny the schadenfreude. “I notice you used third person instead of first.”

“I don’t make those kinds of rules. I just sell the devil’s lettuce to all comers without judgement. I do like to watch them chase themselves in circles, but I’m not a hypocrite.”

Devil’s lettuce. His neck prickles. “No? What are you then?”

She smiles, and her mouth has too many teeth in it. They seem very thin now. “I’m the apple in the Garden,” she says. “This realm has made nothing but trouble for my folk, and I like to pay back mischief as I can.” 

Tallulah slowly takes her gloves off and balls her hands into fists. She opens them and pieces of gold ore are in them. Closes her fists, opens her fists. She pours the gold onto the table and the pieces are streaked with algae.

He stares, awed. Shaken.

Tallulah holds his gaze. “Do you want some of it, Agent Mulder? Everyone else does, and it only costs a little. Can you offer me a most beloved child? The ring finger of each hand? All the memories of your sister?”

“Where’s Ree?” he chokes out.

Tallulah continues as if he hasn’t spoken. “Maybe there’s something else you want? A love spell?” She winks a green eye. “But you don’t really need it. She wants this as much as you, Mulder. When you kissed her she felt only relief and lust in equal measure. My god, she rode you like it was the Kentucky Derby, skirt around her waist and her breasts tight to your chest.”

Tallulah reaches up to stroke his cheek and he jerks his head away, appalled.

“How do you know all of these things?” His voice is scarcely a whisper and his stomach is lurching.

“A little ghostie tells me,” she says, and mimes an hourglass woman in the air. “Don’t think she realizes she does it though.”

Fingers trembling, Mulder retrieves three iron nails from his pocket. He’d pried them out of the floor at the motel, and now he brandishes them, hoping. Dum spiro spero.

Tallulah looks at them and hisses. “Cold iron!” she shrieks. “It binds my magic!” 

Then she snatches them from his hand and eats them, laughing.

He is too shocked to be frightened.

“Don’t feel bad,” Tallulah says, consolingly. “You’re not the first. Listen, you’ve looked through lots of one-way mirrors, right? Interrogating?”

He nods, not yet trusting himself to speak.

“Okay, well, imagine stacks of it. If you were standing on a tower of it, shiny side down, you could see to the bottom.”

Nods again.

“Attaboy. Now, if you were under that tower, looking up, you couldn’t see through up to the top. Hell, you wouldn’t even know there was a tower. One layer or a hundred would look the same. All you’d see was your own reality reflected back.”

Something is starting to coalesce in his brain. “You… your people are looking, uh, through to us, but we can’t perceive you.”

“Oh, looking down is much more accurate,” Tallulah assures him. “Like how you know ants exist and find them interesting, but they have no understanding that you exist because they’re tiny and stupid.” She looks smug and takes another drink of milk.

“Why are you telling me this?” He hates her, but he still wants her to talk.

She reaches across the table, caresses his hands with gentle fingers before he pulls them back. “Because no one will ever believe you and so it amuses me for you to know,” she says sweetly. “You can see up through the worlds  piecemeal, I think. Bits of the whole, like the Louvre through a keyhole. Your partner will say this was a hallucination brought on by recent brain trauma. Your superiors will laugh at you - at least aliens are masculine and slightly scientifically respectable. But fairies? Oh, dear.”

For a fraction of a fraction of a second, she wears Diana’s skeletal face.

Mulder feels hot bile rise in his throat, but forces it down. “Where’s Ree?” 

“The sheriffs in these silly towns never even remember our bargains, of course. They harass for my little game with the ganja, but then no one can recall why I’ve been picked up, and they apologize and I go. Some like babies, to start fresh, but not me. I like to know what I’m getting. I only take one a year, and they’re good ones. Sweet girls who love the woods and water. I was nineteen before I could make the gold come, so that’s only seven. You’ve seen worse then seven. Remember Roche, Mulder?” She changes her face to remind him.

The bile does come then, and he vomits on her floor.

“Rude,” she says mildly, and water pours from her fingers to wash it away and out the front door.

He fights nausea and dizziness. “Give them back. Give me Ree, Tallulah. Just let me take Ree home.” His hair is soaked with sweat and he’s terrified it will be Goldstein all over again. He pulls his gun anyway. Can she turn it on him like Pusher? Scully will be very angry with him if so.

Tallulah is unconcerned. “I don’t hurt them, you goose. I take them up through the looking-glass, so to speak. It’s beautiful there. It’s safe for them. They deserve better than to live with the people who look the other way for thirty pieces of gold. A bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, really. Or is it a Catch-22? I’m not much of a reader.”

“Ree,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. He puts his finger on the trigger.

Tallulah grabs the cleaver and chops her hand off. There’s no blood. “Shoot me,” she giggles, and he passes out.

***

It’s still light out when he awakens in his car, just past two-thirty by the dashboard clock. There’s a glass of sweet tea and a slab of pound cake on the console. Feel better, reads a note in a fine copperplate. Sorry for the shock. Had to run an errand, but you should eat and drink before you drive or you might crash. Don’t worry - there’s nothing wrong with it. But no need to die in a stupid and avoidable fashion. Thanks again for the gift. I might return the favor.

Mulder eats and drinks. He figures if her food is poisoned or enchanted, he’ll be spared explaining to the Rosses that their daughter was kidnapped through an interdimensional portal as a sacrifice to the greed of public officials and the amusement of a wicked fairy.

The cheapest way to pay is money.

The snack is revitalizing and he sits until he feels his blood sugar level out. He wonders if Tallulah would have killed him if he’d met her empty-handed. He wonders if Ree is really alive somewhere, or if it’s just a game.

A headache has begun pulsing deep in his temple, like the throbbing brain of IT on Camazotz. Mulder fumbles his sunglasses out of the glove box.

He puts them on, filtering out the worst of the light. He breathes through his nose, massages his temples like Scully used to do when her tumor became rowdy. He begins to relax, the nausea and pain subsiding. His eyes slide closed as he digests the morning’s events.

“I’m sorry,” Diana says, her hand on his thigh.

He sits bolt upright and she’s next to him, her long legs cramped in the Scully-configured seat. 

“I’m not asleep,” he insists to both of them, looking wildly around. Tallulah’s house, the mountain, the forest - none of it has the surreality of a dream.

Diana strokes his cheek gently with her cool grey fingers. “I’m going now,” she says. “I thought I was helping, making it up to you after a last betrayal. But it turns out…” she shakes her head.

“Diana, wait. Are we here or am I sleeping? Do you know where Ree is?” He hears his own panic and fights it. “Diana, just help me find her. Don’t leave yet.”

She presses her lips to his temple, murmuring. 

“Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;”

Agent Diana Fowley fades away then, into the quiet peace of nothingness.

Mulder never feels himself waken, never feels a shift in consciousness. She’s simply vanished and he’s alone to finish the rhyme.

“Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?”

***

His drive back has a frenzied, febrile quality with saturated colors and echoing sounds. He is sweat-soaked and shivering when he gets back to the motel.

Mulder kicks his boots off and crawls into the bed. He draws the covers up under under his chin and falls away into the dark.

***

He wakes to her light fingers smoothing hair from his forehead. The sky outside is dark and starry, but it’s not even seven.

Mulder blinks, confused. “Scully?”

She’s sitting at the edge of the bed, in her dark trousers and a grey top. Her face is serious. “Mulder, I’ve been trying to wake you for an hour. You were burning up, but the fever seems to have broken. Did something happen?”

Everything. “No. I think you were right. I just came back to work too soon.” He gives her what he hopes is an appealing look.

Scully smells a rat but doesn’t push. She presses her fingers to his wrist. “I want you on antibiotics. I’ll call the pharmacy in the morning. They closed at five.”

He nods. “What did you find on the algae?”

She strokes his hair again and he feels like purring. “Nothing much. There were a few different strains at the pond but only one in her house. And a common one at that. It’s no good for linkage, I’m afraid, though I had them run a couple other tests. Nothing in the medical records they sent either - she’s as healthy as she says.”

“Well, did you get anything from Danny on disappearances?” 

She stops petting him to get up and retrieve a piece of folded paper from her jacket pocket. “I found a dozen that look possible, and six that match the details of this case pretty closely.”

He pats the blanket. “Come back and show me some more of that famous bedside manner.”

She snorts, but returns to her perch. “Here, look. I highlighted the six that look best. Called them too, and gave Tallulah’s name and description to LLE. None of them recognized the name or description.”

Of course, Mulder thinks. Of fucking course. “Betcha we’d get a different answer if we asked people who live there.”

Scully frowns. “What does that mean? You really think police departments from 6 towns are all embroiled in an elaborate web to protect a very low level weed dealer? Mulder, come on. I know you love a nice sexy conspiracy, but I think the best answer is that there’s some kind of drifter active in the area. I say we turn the whole thing over to NCMEC and go home. You look awful and there’s nothing else we can do here.”

He presses his hands to his face. Fuck, fuck. He looks back at Scully.  “I mean this lovingly, but please do not say anything condescending until I finish my undoubtedly insane rambling, okay?”

She narrows her eyes. “I should have let you sleep.”

Mulder props himself up against the pillows. He’s still chilly. “Okay, so there’s this concept of something called the Teind. It’s um…shit.” He stares at the bathroom door for a moment.

“Mulder, when you’re hesitant to share a theory, it gives me grave concern.” She scoots higher on the bed, crosses her legs. “But go on. The Teind.”

“So the idea is that there are other worlds - other simultaneous realms - that are layered over this one. Like a multiverse, okay? Like Schrödinger. You love Schrödinger, right? And Brian Greene?”

She purses her lips.

Mulder barrels ahead. “Okay, so. So one of these realms is what is sometimes called Faerie, or Elfhame. And our world, the so-called Christian realm, is constantly encroaching on theirs. Every seven years the Lords of Elfhame must pay a tribute to the Lords of Hell. This tribute ensures that the Christian realm with not destroy Elfhame and that the Lords of Hell will keep the Christian realm in check. I think that’s what these seven girls are - I think they’re tributes, or possible tributes. Maybe there’s a big pool created, I don’t know.”

Scully says nothing and it makes him nervous.

“Scully?”

She flops back beside him on the bed, gazing at the ceiling. “It’s a prettier story than drowning or murder or sex trafficking,” she says. “I mean sure, it’s essentially a complex pagan mafia real estate kidnaping scam, but it’s still better.”

He pulls the blankets up to his chin.

Scully turns, props herself up on her side to look at him. “What in the hell did Tallulah say to you, Mulder? Because I have to say, this is pretty far down the garden path even for you.”

He wonders if it’s even worth it. “She was able to conjure objects, Scully. Gold in her bare hands.” He has enough sense not to mention the cleaver.

Scully scoffs. “My dad could pull a quarter out of my ear.”

“She said that LLE knew she was taking these girls and she gave them gold for looking away. That the weed thing was just for her amusement, stirring the pot. So to speak.” He grins at his own unintentional joke. 

Scully scoots closer. “Mulder, what am I going to do with you? Don’t you think it’s much more likely that this woman is part of a larger drug and prostitution ring, tasked with procuring children for those up the chain? I believe there could be payoffs - small town cops are overworked and underpaid. But payments to the Lords of Hell? Realms? If she did show you gold, she was probably trying buy your silence as well but didn’t realize you’re too incorruptible to even notice, you stupid noble idiot.”

He feels oddly pleased by this assessment. “Well, can we at least agree that she probably is involved?”

Scully runs her finger down the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

“And that whatever the source of funds, there are payoffs happening?”

She traces his eyes, his brows, his lashes. “Yes.”

“And that 1977’s Elvis in Concert is grievously underrated in terms of both quality and significance?”

She strokes the corner of his mouth. “Absolutely.”

If he does have a brain infection, he couldn’t care less if it means dying in bed like this. “Get under the covers,” he demands. 

She sits up. “I’m afraid not.”

“No, Scully, we were doing great while you kept saying yes to everything I said. Let’s try again and get back in the groove - can we agree that Kate Capshaw in Temple of Doom was a tremendous step down from Karen Allen in Raiders?”

She smiles. “Not even negotiable. But really, I’ve got a fax coming in up at the office and you need to rest. If we get stuck here because you end up with some exotic encephalitis, so help me god.”

He takes her hand as she gets up. “So you’re really ready to hand this off?”

Scully sighs, squeezing his fingers. “Look, the fax I’m waiting on is from Danny. I asked for a ViCAP cross reference on any unsolved sexual assaults or attempted abductions that dovetail with those missing girls. If nothing else, I think there’s a real case there that needs to be put together. It was a good call, Mulder.”

“If I go to sleep like a good boy, will you let me have one more chance with Tallulah?” He bats his lashes at her.

“One More Chance With Tallulah sounds like a Barry Manilow song. I’ll tell you what - I’ll check on you later and if you still haven’t got a fever I’ll allow it.”

He crosses his heart and lets her go.

***

He dreams a memory. 

Two weeks past, and he’s sprawled on his couch while Scully afflicts him with acts of medical science. She’s administering neurological tests, bruising him halfway to gangrene with a pressure cuff, and siphoning off enough blood to keep her bucktoothed sheriff happy.

“Scully,” he laments. “Your healing will be the death of me.” 

“Don’t be such a baby,” she says, with her usual bedside warmth. “You’re a week past a very serious brain trauma, and you refused to stay in the hospital because you’re an idiot. So you’ll put up with me and you’ll like it.”

He does like it. Looping into her mind with that fungus had been nothing like this. Her heart is an open wound that she constantly stitches back together to make it through another day. The amount of fight in her is enormous, and she channels into a broken and thankless world. 

She loves him, and what surprises him is that it isn’t the inevitable pair-bonding of proximity and isolation. Scully thinks about that sticky June day in the hallway too. Finishes the thought, sometimes, pinned to the wall like a butterfly with his fingers in her hair.

Pretty hot, Scully.

She’s bent over him with her tiny flashlight to check his pupils and his tracking, a corner of her lower lip tucked behind her front teeth. She leans forward, her brow furrowed at some minute anomaly. He stares at the arabesque of her collarbones, the two lines that circle her white throat. 

“Mulder, keep your eyes up,” she says in doctorly annoyance.

He does, and he doubts it takes psychic ability to read what’s onhis face

She runs her tongue over her top lip, and it’s like a circuit closes.

His hands are at the back of her neck, her waist, pulling her towards him as he sits up. He kisses her like should have ages ago, reckless and open-mouthed and decisive.

Scully drops the flashlight and kneels next to him on the sofa. She sips at his mouth with her cool little tongue, slides her fingers through his hair. She stops short  at the bandage and pulls away. “Mulder,” she says, ashamed, and moves to get up.

He grabs her upper arm, far harder than he means to. She gasps, and not at all unhappily. He had not seen this in her directly, but he had suspected.

“Let me go,” she whispers. “I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re not well.”

She’s close enough for him to see her hard nipples through the silk, her dilated pupils. He keeps his eyes on hers while uncurling his fingers from her bicep. 

She swallows.

He reaches out to undo the minuscule pearl buttons on her blouse. He’s always loved the high drama of women’s clothing, like a puzzle box.

Scully says his name again.

“Go,” he tells her, as her shirt falls open. He slips his hands under the fabric to plane her back and waist. He’d touched her here in Antarctica, but not like this. He tongues the tight stretch of her navel, breathes in the hot scent of the skin beneath her bra. It’s astringent with her tea-tree soap, sharp with her sweat.

She’s on her knees still, her fingers back at his stubbled jaw, his earlobes. She’s dipping her head to kiss his hair while she makes little animal noises.

“Go,” he repeats, and she doesn’t.

He unhooks her bra, a simple white satin affair, and she lets go of him long enough to pull it off with her shirt. 

It is with difficulty that Mulder sits back to look at her. Her belly is flat and taut, her breasts full above them. They are lightly veined with the blue of her eyes, her nipples the color of late raspberries. Around them is the fine, crepey skin of her areolae, puckered tight. Her head is tipped forward, glorious flame of hair falling around her fine Roman face, full lips parted.

He’s hard to the point of pain.

Scully watches him watch her, reaches behind her back to unfasten her skirt. She laughs.

“What?” 

“It’s stuck, Mulder. The zipper’s stuck.” She tugs more forcefully, her breasts shifting as she moves.

He half assumes this is the ghost of Ahab at work, denying the FBI the last vestige of his daughter. Mulder pulls at the zipper too, but it doesn’t budge.

Scully reaches under the hem of her skirt and works her stockings and underwear down. She tosses them away like snakeskin. 

His cocks twitches in his jeans with seven years of potential energy. No pretending he hasn’t wanted her since she stripped down to her good-girl cotton panties in a panic, but it’s so much more now.

Pulls his shirt off, then tugs her onto his lap. She’s infertile and knows his medical records better than he does, but he asks anyway. “Condom?”

She shakes her head, runs her light hands over his chest. He could come from this alone, the weight of her bare ass on his lap and the sensory overload of breasts and hands and scent.

He groans when she sucks at the tender skin below his ear. “Scully, I’m pushing forty and I think it’s only fair to warn you that-“

She’s opened the fly of his jeans. Mulder raises his hips, Scully still on his lap, to work them down with his boxers. The cool air on his cock is torment.

Time slows, drips like honey, then stalls entirely. Scully’s eyes are wide, focused, as she moves herself over and around him. Her head rolls to the side, then forward. She sighs something blasphemous from flushed lips.

Mulder bites his tongue until it bleeds to ensure he’ll last longer than the average teenager. Perhaps her next thesis can be on the frictionless surface of her own body, the impossibly slick heat of it. He wants to taste her too, but that would require not being inside her and god help him, he hasn’t got the willpower for that right now.

Scully’s head is against his neck, panting humid nonsense into his ear while her breasts are flattened to his chest. He holds her at the hips, letting the sinuous flexion of her spine have its way with them both.

He’s embarrassingly close to ending this, and clenches his nails into his palm. Scully bites at his neck, his earlobe, and there’s no resolve left. He groans something mindless as he clutches her body, shudders and twitches as she squirms around him. Mulder holds her tight to his hips, grinding up into her with the kind of surging napalm pleasure he’d forgotten was possible. Her little bare feet squeeze his thighs, and the universe condenses to her hundred and ten pounds of exquisite physiology. His head falls to her chest and he slips out of her with a groan.

He could sleep for days, but instead reaches between them under her skirt to find her clitoris. She so wet his finger slips at first. Scully squeaks, a little chirp, and finds a rhythm with him that pleases her. 

She arches her back away from him, her hips forward, and he is awed anew. Her hair tumbles between her shoulder blades, her breasts bouncing softly as he strokes her. 

He says her name, sotto voce, and slips two fingers inside her. He shifts his thumb to her clitoris, presses his fingers to the ridged tissue of her g-spot. He writes his name there a dozen times.

She whimpers, and he leans forward to draw the hot little bud of her nipple into his mouth. He sucks at it, grazes it with his teeth. Scully comes with a gasp and falls against him, shuddering. She licks his neck, mouth on his ear and his lips. 

He envelops her with his arms and draws the Navajo blanket around her narrow shoulders. He holds her, listening to her heart and lungs as they slow to normal. He smooths her tumbled hair.

She runs her fingers along his bandage again. “Are you okay?” 

He has literally never felt better in his life. He feels like a lord of creation, like Adam striding through the Garden of Eden to survey his dominion. “I’m fine,” he says, in her snippy voice.

She laughs, burrowing closer. “You have a bed, don’t you?”

Mulder slips an arm under her legs and another behind her neck. He lifts her as he gets to his feet, carrying her like a bride. She’s such a central force in his life, the mass around which he orbits, that it is odd for her to be so light. 

He kicks his bedroom door open and lays her out face-down on the comforter. “Let’s work on that skirt,” he says.

Somehow he’d forgotten about the tattoo. The burning red mouth that marked the beginning of their darkest times together, that portal to her lonely trip north. He pushes aside the memory of what he’d said, the photographic evidence that came home with her. There be dragons, the old maps say.

He kisses it and she flinches. He prays it isn’t shame. Or fear.

With careful maneuvering, he breaches the zipper and tugs the skirt away. She rolls to her back again, her body spilled across his dark blankets like a shaft of  errant starlight. He is pleased to note she has eschewed the recent fashion for shaving oneself utterly bare. 

He gets to his knees, pulls her to the edge of the mattress by her hard little ankles. She starts to speak, but he cannot hear once her thighs are tight against his ears. 

In the morning, she will disappear with the dew.

***

Her cool palm on his cheek wakes him and it takes an unhappy second for the dream to snap away. He’s uncomfortably hard and rolls onto his side for some relief. It’s eight by the bedside clock.

“Hey,” she says, sitting down. “You okay?” 

He clenches his left thigh until there’s pain, and it helps. She looks tired, he notices. Drawn and weary from too much bad coffee and too little proper sleep and feeding. He ought to make her take a vacation where she gets wrapped in seaweed and fed organic mangoes by beautiful castrati.  

But for now, they’ll have to manage on motel moisturizer and takeout. “Do I smell pizza?” 

“Indeed. Just wanted to see if the fever was gone first.” She squints at him. “You look a hell of a lot better. Did you take something? I might be able to hold off on the antibiotics; I know what they do to your stomach.”

He stretches. “Well, just in case, thanks for checking my forehead instead of going rectal,” he says. “Sometimes you have a slight sadistic side.”

“When was your last prostate exam?” she asks sweetly.

Mulder sits up. “I didn’t know that was your scene, but I’m open-minded. Let’s go.” He peels the covers back, feeling like he needs a long run to revive himself from the day. He hates being idle for so long, and his clothes feel stale.

Scully realizes she’s overplayed her hand and wrinkles her nose. “Let’s preserve the magic on that for now. You okay to get up, or should I bring the pizza here?”  

He’s not freezing anymore, and his head isn’t throbbing. “I’ll get up,” he says. “I’m starting to 

feel like one of those consumptive Victorian heroines.”

“Mmmm,” she says. “Maybe I should leech you and give you some cocaine for that.” Scully goes to the little table where the pizza box is sitting. She opens the lid, and hot greasy air wafts out.

Mulder gets up and walks over, scuffing his socks along the drab oatmeal carpet. He zaps her with his finger and she scowls.

“Ugh, go back to bed.”

He can’t help himself when she’s his favorite toy and part of his brain will always be an arrested 12 year old idiot. He flips the chair around to straddle it, resting his elbows across the back. “What’s that, mushroom and pepper?”

“And pepperoni on half for you.” Scully disdains the greasier meats herself, but will treat him on occasion.

Mulder realizes he’s starving and rolls a piece up like a burrito, demolishing it in four bites before Scully’s done blotting the grease off of her own.

“I’m not performing the Heimlich maneuver if you choke on that,” she says, delicately peeling off two slices of pepperoni that have contaminated her mushrooms. She holds them out to him.

Mulder snaps them out of her fingers like a trained seal. He rolls another slice up, gesturing with it. “So I’m cleared to go nose about more tomorrow, right?”

She tweaks his nose with her oily fingertips. “You’re certainly equipped for it.”

“Right for the gut. We can’t all look like we were carved from marble, I’m afraid. You’ll have to deal with my hideous deformity as nature presents it, Roxanne.” He eats half his pizza, then wipes his face.

Scully finishes her slice. “Did she really show you gold this morning, Mulder?”

He nods, swallows. “Yep. And you said that woman you talked to told she’d show up after nights out streaked with algae and gold dust. Maybe she was, I don’t know, developing her powers. You said she was missing for a few years.” 

She considers this. “I think indicates that she herself was being abused or exploited in some way from a young age, Mulder. I mean, if you can access it, unmarked gold is a nearly untraceable currency and good in any market. They start giving her little cuts, get her dealing in her teens to build trust and rapport with kids. It’s a trafficker’s dream.”  

He hates that she’s not wrong, and it’s got nothing to with defending his theory. He’s got a reputation as a bleeding heart in many corners, but would happily support supplying child predators as involuntary organ donors. Punching Roche had been a career highlight. 

“You have to concede that the linkage between fairies and gold goes way back.” Diana’s rainbow suddenly makes sense to him, and he feels stupid. “I mean, leprechauns, of course. And Rumplestiltskin - who wanted a baby in exchange for gold, I might point out. The original story of Cinderella features bewitched golden shoes instead of glass. Jack climbs the beanstalk for a golden harp and a golden harp and golden coins; there are dozens.”

She rolls her eyes. “Mulder, for heaven’s sake. These stories are all about wish fulfillment. And gold was the ultimate wish, it’s a universal currency. Of course if people are going to create stories about strange, powerful beings with the ability to fulfil desires, those desires will be about financial freedom. I’d say those tales represent far more about human longing than fairy powers.”

“I saw her do it,” he says, but doesn’t press the issue. “You hear from Danny?”

“Yeah, nothing. It’s like whomever took the girls vanished along with them. No reported drifters, no unfamiliar cars, no uptick in petty thefts or break-ins.”

Mulder jabs at the table with a finger. “It’s not a drifter, Scully. We agreed on that.”

“Right, but if it’s Tallulah, then these girls have to go somewhere. She has to be meeting someone, she can’t just - I don’t know - keep them in her little cabins like a stray dog indefinitely, then drive out of town in her Volvo.”

“Well, on that point I cannot argue. I’m going to talk to her tomorrow, see if there’s anything else she wants to unburden. We need to touch base with the Rosses too, I guess.” He eats her discarded crust.

“I can stop by while you’re charming precious metals out of Elfhame.” She’s looking up at him through her sooty end-of-day lashes, the tip of a pizza slice between her teeth.

His stomach flips. Leave it to Scully to arouse him at the weirdest possible times. “Scully, why’d you leave?” he asks, because he wants to know and because she let him put a chip in her neck, and because she smells like tea tree oil and jasmine, and because he made her drink sardine juice to save her life, and because she shot him once, and because she saved him after having his skull drilled into twice, and because she tastes like saltwater taffy and the sea.

She frowns. “Well, you had a fever, and I wanted to-”

“That morning,” he clarifies. “Why’d you go?”

She sighs. “I suppose I knew this was coming,” she says. “Of course you couldn’t possibly be a gentleman and mind your business about it.”

He’s stung until he sees the smile in her eyes. “I’m only a gentleman in the parlor,” he says. “This is most definitely a bedroom.”

Scully leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. “It’s what I did after Dallas, don’t you remember? It’s what I did to Jack Willis, it’s what I tried to do in Philadelphia that time. My journal to you, when I had cancer, it was just a long Dear John letter, Mulder. When I was in med school, there was this man…” she trails off, staring at the cheap tile ceiling.

Mulder tries to process this. “I think you’re being a little hard on yourself, Scully. You weren’t running after Dallas - they transferred you.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s not what you said at the time. You said I was quitting. You said you would too, if I left.”

He winces inwardly at the memory of what he’d said. “Well yeah, but I was trying to guilt you into staying, so you have to cut me some slack.” 

She laughs, throws a wadded-up napkin at him. “Is that all you were trying to do, Mulder? I remember something else, in the moment.”

He doesn’t tell her that he knows exactly how well she remembers. “You’re incredibly good looking,” he says, with an air of confession. “Sue me.”

She smiles, looking down at her hands. “Mulder, I left the way I did the other morning because I didn’t know how else to leave. I didn’t know what it meant, and I still don’t. Was I… were we supposed to eat breakfast in bed and clean our guns together?”

There’s something bitter in her voice that he sets aside for later. He reaches across the table to take her hands. “Scully, why does it have to be anything? We could have had some coffee, tracked down your underwear together. They’re still in my sock drawer, incidentally.”

She blushes and punches his arm for that.

He laughs. “But seriously. What good does it do to worry in advance about how things will go wrong? I mean, look at me. I’m a total fucking disaster by many metrics, but I get by. I wing it most of the time, sure, but I manage.”

Scully laughs, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Truly a ringing endorsement. But I don’t know what you expect me to say, Mulder. I was a physicist before I was a doctor, you know. So I guess I just leave before entropy can fully take over.”

“I know,” he says. “But you can’t fail at this. There’s no checklist. There’s no test to pass or form to fill out.”

She makes a noise of frustration. “Mulder, do you not understand that that’s exactly the part that’s impossible for me to handle? That I can’t ever know, empirically, if I’m doing all the things that...that...I’m supposed to?”

He stares at her in confusion. “That you’re supposed to? I don’t even know what that means. There’s no supposed to. You just do.” He says this with the confidence of a man whose six-month marriage hadn’t fallen apart, of a man who hadn’t had a one-night stand with a blood fetishist, or an extended disaster with a British sociopath. 

Scully shakes her head. “I make lists and five year plans.”

He refrains from asking her how well that’s panned  out. “Take your shirt off,” he says.

She freezes, startled. “Mulder, we’re on a case, I don’t-”

“Trust me,” he says, knowing she considers it the most dangerous phrase in his lexicon. “You’re stressed. You’re exhausted. I was going to rub your back.”

She smirks. “I think my mom fell for that and got pregnant with Charlie.”

“Indian Guide’s honor,” he says. “I’ll get the lotion from the bathroom.”

Scully eyes him suspiciously, but goes to the bed and smooths the blankets out.

He retrieves the little bottle of lotion and reads it. Scully will have to settle for “Alabaster Gardenia,” this evening. It occurs to him that Padgett would have referred to her as an alabaster gardenia and he rolls his eyes. 

When he emerges, Scully is facedown on the bed, head on the pillow. Her smooth back is bare to the waist of her trousers, where the serpent lives, and her sock feet small and dark. Her shirt and bra are folded neatly on the night table, as though he is an actual masseuse.

Mulder straddles her hips, kneeling, and pours the lotion into his hands to warm it. Close up, he sees red marks from her bra straps on her shoulders and decides to start there.

“Wouldn’t this have been a nice morning?” he asks, working the lotion into her skin. “I could have done this for you. And with better lotion - you know I’m knowledgeable on the subject.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles into the pillow. 

He feels deep, hard knots in her back and attacks them with his thumbs, following the muscles down the sides of her spine. He’s not sure it’s effective, but then Scully groans happily into the bedding.

He’s pleased, working back up to the delicate muscles of her neck and base of her ears. “Is this good?”

“Don’t stop.”

He refrains from innuendo, wanting to prove to her that this is about so much more than sex. He kneads the folded wings of her shoulder blades, her handspan waist. There is lotion on her trousers and in her hair, but he doesn’t think she’ll mind.

She’s dozy and pliant now, breathing slowly. He’ll pet her to sleep like this every night if it suits her, like a little feral cat.

“Mulder?”

“Hmmm?” He traces the tattoo again, trying to bond with it and love it because it’s part of her. The work is admittedly beautiful.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you when I left. I don’t know how to be easy with things like you are.” She turns on her side, an arm draped across her breasts.

“Well, one of us has to have a plan,” he says airily. “Poor Walter’s always been afraid of me corrupting you. I never felt like he was angry, you know? Just disappointed. My god, this would kill him.” He thinks Poor Walter might be more than a touch in love with her too, but keeps this to himself.

She turns fully onto her back now and, to his dismay, works herself under the sheets. “Well, Kersh just thinks you’re mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

“Put it on my tombstone.”

“Of course you’d take that as a compliment. Lord Byron was really awful, but at least we got Ada Lovelace out of him. Mulder, why are you pulling clothes out?”

He hunts for his favorite t-shirt amid the wreckage of his suitcase. “I’m going for a run. I’ll be up all night otherwise.”

Scully frowns disapprovingly. “You really shouldn’t after today, Mulder. Can you make it a casual jog, at least?”

“Brisk trot. Leisurely gallop.”

“It’s AMA,” she warns him, but doesn’t argue further.

Mulder changes quickly while she drowses, limbering himself against the night table where her clothing sits. He opens the door, and the night air is invigorating.

“Hey Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t promise you anything, but I want to try to...you know. This.”

“Okay,” he says, and hopes she’s too sleepy to hear the thickness in his voice.

***

She’s out cold when he gets back, occasional little Scully-snores in the silence. He rinses in the shower, making excessive noise to alert her to his presence.

Mulder dries off and wraps himself in the undersized motel towel, putting his shoes back on against the dubious carpet. He walks over to Scully and strokes her hair.

“Mmmfff,” she says, bleary-eyed. “Am I still here?”

He holds out her shirt. “You’ll want this before you head next door,” he says.

She blinks. “Okay.” Then she promptly falls back asleep.

Mulder is not one to beg. He pulls his boxers on, toes the shoes off, and climbs in next to her. He is delighted to find that she has kicked her socks and trousers off, now clad only in her little grey bikinis.

He strokes the violin curves of her, from her shoulder down the sweep of her waist to her thighs. She sighs in her sleep.

He knows Scully would explain that he’s evolutionarily primed to be attracted to her full breasts and rounded hips. She’d tell him about how pelvic girdle width is an advantageous adaptation for such a melon-headed species.

He’d counter with the Golden Ratio. Sometimes beauty is its own justification.

Mulder snuggles in next to her. If he dreams that night he doesn’t remember. And if she wakes, she doesn’t leave.

***

His alarm goes off at six. Scully is an immovable lump next to him under the bedding, her exposed hair the only sign that she isn’t a heap of pillows or an extra blanket. He strokes the fine vellum of her belly until she stirs. “Time to get up,” he murmurs.

She pokes her head above the comforter and looks at him, confused. “What time is it? Did I spend the night?”

He smoothes her hair back from her brow. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Scully sits up, holding the sheet to her chest with one hand. “Where are my clothes?” She feels around under the blankets with evident agitation. 

Mulder points at the night table. “I put your shirt and bra there, but I don’t know about the pants and socks. You lost those while I was running, but I can give you a hand.”

She puts a hand to her forehead and looks tense. “This is what I was afraid of, Mulder. This… this chaos.”

He rubs her thigh and doesn’t laugh at her idea of chaos. Scully may sometimes think of him as a giant untrained Weimaraner who is either destroying her life or nosing her crotch, but he’s also got a DPhil from Oxford and occasionally he picks up on social cues. He moves the blankets around, keeping her covered, and eventually finds her belongings wadded up between the pillows.

“Here,” he says gently, and hands them to her. 

She nods, biting her lip. “I need to go.”

“Okay,” he says, and doesn’t touch her. “I’m going to get in the shower. Come back over when you’re ready?”

Here smile is lukewarm, but present. “I’ll bring some coffee.”

Mulder tosses her the keys. “Get me one of those raspberry danishes too, if you don’t mind.”

He turns his back to give her privacy, then heads into the bathroom. He must have missed it yesterday, but sees that Scully’s left her little can of mousse on the sink for him. When they get home, he’s going to buy some of those velvet hangers she likes, to keep in his closet. He thinks of Ree, holding out dried corn for her deer. 

They’ve spent so long in the dark together it’s daunting to walk into the light.

***

Mulder takes a scalding shower, burning sweat and dead skin directly from the pores. He scours himself like a penitent until the heat becomes nauseating. When he steps out onto the little rug, the air feels nearly Arctic, and it perks him up. He feels purified of something nameless.

Scully’s lilac mousse in his hair, and he’s back in a suit for seeing Tallulah today. He thinks it’s best to remind her that he has a badge and a gun. He tries not to think about her hand, for once hoping he had experienced a hallucination.

He sits on the bed to tie his shoes when Scully comes back in, carrying a paper bag. She’s got on last night’s clothes still, her hair tucked behind her ears.

“They were out of raspberry, but I got you blueberry. Me too, actually. They looked good.” She holds out the bag, fragrant with coffee.

“Keep the change,” he says, taking the bag from her with happy anticipation.

“You should be doing stand-up, really.” She joins him on the bed.

Mulder passes her food to her, wishing he could make a breakfast-in-bed quip without sounding desperate. “So what’s your game plan today, then?” he asks around a mouthful of pastry.

She licks blueberry filling off her thumb. “Back to the lab, then I’ll see after that. We grew some of the algae samples at different temperatures to see if that could explain it being in Ree’s thermos in particular.” She blinks. “Oh! That reminds me! The lady at the store said to tell you not to forget about your bottle deposit.” 

“Thanks,” he says, hoping it doesn’t incite further questioning.

But no such luck with his inquisitive inamorata. “What bottle deposit?” she asks, puzzled.

He shifts, rolls his steaming cup between his palms. “Brought some groceries up with me to Tallulah’s yesterday. I figured it might grease the wheels a little.”

“Hmmm,” Scully says, and sips her coffee. “Well, it does sound like she had a lot to tell you. Anyway, I’ll be in Huntsville for the morning at least if you need me. Then I figured I’d - we’d, depending on your schedule - touch base with the Rosses, see if the search teams have found anything that hasn’t made its way to us.”

“Sounds good.” He brushes crumbs off his lap onto the floor, and supposes the mice will find them sumptuous.

Scully finishes her danish, clearly pondering something.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he offers.

Scully scoffs. “I’ll add it to my tip. I was just thinking; I did a little research while you were asleep yesterday. Apparently the term name Jenny Greenteeth applies not only to the creature in the legend, but has been generalized in some areas as a name for duckweed. In can make a pond surface look like inviting moss to walk on, like we saw down at the pond where Ree disappeared. Why not just...I don’t know. Why not just warn your kids about drowning instead of making up a - what did you call them?”

“Nursery bogey,” he replies. “The prevalent theory is that most kids will overestimate their abilities against natural dangers. They believe they can swim across a pond, or navigate through a forest, or climb a very tall tree. But if the supernatural is introduced, children are less likely to believe they can overcome the danger. So the deterrent is more effective.”

She shudders. “What a grim way to parent. Though I suppose it’s all just a variant on ‘don’t do that or you’ll die.’ And not so different from the Tooth Fairy or Santa, I guess.” Scully drinks her coffee, musing.

He considers this. He always found Santa creepy in a Panopticon way. “But Santa doesn’t provide a specific deterrent from naughtiness, only a reward for good.”

She sets her cup on the night table, presses her hands between her knees. “Well, there’s Krampus.”

Mulder loves the deranged chaotic energy of Krampus. “Krampus is good.”

“When I was taking German we were, you know, learning all the cultural bits of Germany. And Krampus is a companion of Saint Nicholas, which I thought was just terrible. Saint Nick gets all the credit for presents and just has Krampus do his dirty work.” She shakes her head at the treachery of Bavarian Santa.

He grins. “Santa’s that shitty friend who makes him carry out all the bullying so he can keep his hands clean and be teacher’s pet.”

“Ugh, I always hated that kid,” Scully says. She drinks her coffee, looking dark.

Mulder is joyful. Talking with her like this is the brightest spot in any day and he doesn’t want it to end. But there’s still a lost girl to find. “Well,” he says, slapping his thighs, “we’d best be off.”

She nods, serious again. “Depending on how the lab results look, we might be able to bring Tallulah in for questioning.”

He doubts it will do a particle of good, but they all need something to cling to. “Keep me posted.”

Scully reaches over to pat his hair. Heat radiates from her, and the warm cotton smell of her skin. Her coffee-and-danish breath is sweet in his mouth. “You can keep that mousse,” she says.

Mulder clears his throat. “I’m going to,” he assures her. “So much hold, but not sticky or stiff.”

She kisses him, close-mouthed, and flicks his ear before leaving.

***

The car shimmies up the unpaved road, rattling spent sunflower seeds in the empty Quik Mart cup. He grips the wheel against the uneven drive, against his anxiety over facing Tallulah again. Scully had come undone with Pfaster, her hard varnish becoming brittle and crumbling in the cold. Mulder fears Tallulah may leave him similarly disarmed.

He pulls up the last stretch of road to the meadow below the cabin, and stares in confusion. Instead of the weathered shack is a tangle of kudzu, ivy, strangler fig, and splintered planks. Mulder parks and slowly gets out of the car. He pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead, picking his way up the path in gripless leather-bottomed dress shoes.

He crouches in the waist high grass, looking for...he’s not sure what. The floor of the cabin is utterly destroyed, existing only as a series of foot-long splinters. Large sections of the walls are collapsed inwards, algae-covered and snarled in woody vines. Tallulah’s few possessions, including her bed and kitchen furniture are gone. The big goat wanders over to chew on a section of the door. 

Mulder stands again, circles the wreckage with his hands on his hips. “Son of a bitch,” he says, kicking at it. He puts his sunglasses back on and stares into the woods.

Typical, absolutely fucking typical. He wants somewhere to put his anger, somewhere righteous and useful, but there is nothing. He longs for the congested grittiness if DC, where he can yell at corrupt officials or aggressive drivers or at least a noisome pigeon. But here there is nothing except unspoiled beauty as far as the eye can see. 

Looking back at the wreckage, he sees something glinting in the bright morning sun. He tugs at a swath of thorny vines hanging over the remains of the porch, and the milk bottle rolls out from beneath the greenery.

Mulder picks it up and sees a slip of paper inside. It slides out when he inverts the bottle. I guess we’re even, it reads, in a familiar hand.

He looks at the paper for a long time then, carefully, sets the bottle back on the ground. He begins running towards the tree line.

“Ree!” he calls. “RHIANNON!”

 Birdsong and silence.

He shouts her name again and again, receiving no reply. Mulder stops to take in his surroundings, never once doubting his interpretation of the note. “REE!”  he yells once more, and has only his echo for a reply.

He paces at the edge of the wood, looking, but there is nothing. Then, a hundred yards or so off, he sees a rock, like the one beneath Diana’s rainbow. He races towards it, loosening his tie. 

She’s still when he gets to her, a small bundle wrapped in a quilt that Mulder recognizes instantly from Tallulah’s bed. He crouches beside the girl. Twigs and leaves are snarled in her cornsilk hair, and her face is hollow and dirty.

Mulder reaches out to touch her cheek. “Hey,” he whispers. “Rhiannon?”

She stirs slightly, then opens her eyes. They’re far greener than they looked in her school picture. He tells himself it’s the light

“Mama,” Rhiannon says. She reaches out a thin, filthy hand.

Mulder gathers her up in his arms, head tucked against his neck. She weighs next to nothing, and he wants to run but is afraid of internal injuries or losing his footing. He moves as quickly as he dares back to the car.

Ree whimpers softly the whole time, her dry little fingers clutching at his collar. She calls for her mother and father.

He comes to the ruined shack and wants to show it to the child, to ask her a hundred questions, but he passes it in silence and arrives at the car. Still holding Ree’s little body close, he opens the back door. She begins to cry and clutch at him when he tries to lay her down.

“Please,” she begs, he can feel his heart break anew  when he pries her away, sobbing, onto the seat. Ree curls into the fetal position under the tattered quilt, mumbling to herself. 

He’d have laid rubber if there were any road to lay it on when he peels off towards town. Steering with his knee, he fumbles for his phone to call Scully, but there’s no service. He swears, flooring the gas.

A thin, awful, wail from Ree and he thinks of Emily dying by inches, dragging Scully down with her to the grave again. Emily’s burning body in his arms, staring mutely at him with her mother’s eyes.

He squeals onto the main road, eliciting a chorus of angry horns, when he realizes he has no idea where a hospital is. Scully’s off in Huntsville and he isn’t qualified for anything beyond CPR.

Mulder remembers the fire station from when they first arrived, and runs several red lights to get to it. Someone throws a rock at the car, but it bounces away.

Ree wails again, sitting up to scrabble at the window. Mulder glances at her in the rear view as he swerves onto MacNeill Street. She is thinner than he realized, and very pale. He didn’t think to check her gums and wonders if she’s in shock.

He calls back a flurry of reassuring nonsense to her, but she seems not to hear him. “I’m with the FBI,” he repeats. “You’re safe, Ree.”

She claws at the glass, whimpering.

Mulder finally sees the fire station up ahead on the left. He swerves across oncoming traffic and pulls halfway into the engine bay, narrowly missing four guys cooking hotdogs on a flimsy portable grill. They rise, yelling and waving their arms.

He’s waving his badge when he gets out, shouting Ree’s name over their indignant bellowing. 

“What the fuck do y-“

He opens the back door, catches Ree before she hits the ground. That’s all the conversation they need. The EMTs are yelling to one another, getting Ree in the ambulance, telling Mulder he’s a goddamn hero but he’d better get his fucking car out of the fucking way.

He backs out along the curb as the sirens scream. The ambulance howls past him, lights flashing, and disappears from view.

Mulder sits in his car for a moment, feeling strangely deflated. Then he gets his phone to call the sheriff with the good news.

***

Scully calls him from the hospital. She met the ambulance and the family there, figuring it was the easiest way to get the details for their report. Mulder is sprawled across the sagging expanse of his motel bed, propped up on one elbow. He is playing solitaire on his laptop as Scully fills him in.

“So anyway, she’d dehydrated and malnourished and had some bad bruises and scrapes, but nothing serious, which is impressive. They’re keeping her overnight at least for observation, but she seems fine, Mulder.”

He drags a queen of hearts across the screen. “Mmm. So is she talking yet?”

“Not much,” Scully says. “She’s still pretty freaked out. From the few things she has said, it sounds like she followed a deer into the woods and got lost. That’s why she didn’t have any of her things.” 

In the background are the beeps and echoes of hospital noises. Mulder finds them strangely soothing. “Okay, so where’d her clothes go? Where’d she get that quilt?”

A frustrated noise from Scully. “Mulder, they’re doing their best to get her story, but she’s very traumatized right now; you should know that. Maybe she found the cabin all collapsed and dragged the blanket out. Maybe it’s a different blanket entirely - this one was pretty beaten up. There’s no sign of sexual or other physical trauma, that’s the main thing.”

He knows it’s the main thing, but still. Still. “Scully, you listed a bunch of conditions that would make your teeth green. Anything that does it to the eyes?”

“Mulder,” she says warningly. “Why?”

 He rolls onto his back, abandoning the  game. “When I found her, I noticed that -”

“No,” Scully says. “Absolutely not.” Her voice is hard.

Mulder closes his eyes. “Is it real, or is it Memorex?” he asks.

“Don’t you dare,” Scully says, her voice a hiss. “Mulder, go for a run or take a shower or make use of the lotion or whatever it is you need to get this out of your system, but I know what you’re thinking and I absolutely forbid you to say a solitary word on the subject.”

He can envision her pacing furiously, black and white and red against the soft hospital neutrals. He imagines holy rage on her Botticelli face. “I won’t say anything,” he promises her.

“Good,” she replies, mollified. “The family wants to thank you in person, if you’re game to head over. I’m hanging out for about another half hour to look at some test results.”

He really, really isn’t game to head over, because he’s afraid he will fail to keep his mouth shut. “Tell them I was recently diagnosed with cranial rectal inversion, and I’m afraid of exposing them to a flare-up,” he says.

“Hilarious. I’ll tell them you turned your ankle during your daring rescue and you’ve got it up on ice.”

Mulder knows the fib is for the family’s sake rather than his, but he’s still grateful. “How many Hail Marys is that lie gonna cost, Dana Katherine?”

“I got a special dispensation from the Holy See for matters involving you,” she says. “It’s like EZ Pass. I go into the confessional, show my badge, and the priest just tells me not to worry about it.”

He’s grinning. “Yeah? You think the Pope’ll write a note to Kersh for me?”

“Even the Holy Father has no oversight over Alvin Kersh. Mulder, I’ve got to run, but I’ll be back at the motel within two hours. Call around for a flight, would you? I really don’t want to spend another night at the motel. Everything feels sticky.”

He turns to his side and pulls his laptop over. “I’m on it,” he tells her. 

She hangs up

“True enough for government work,” he says to no one.

***

Mulder goes for the run she suggested. His feet pound mindlessly against the pavement, past tidy lawns and mom-and-pop stores. He remembers the Samantha clones, the hive of identical girls who were in the world but not of it, and how he wanted to save just one of them. Scully would tell him that good works alone are not enough for salvation, that grace is required first. She might make a Catholic of him after all - he could use a little grace.

He glances through the window of the farm store and resists the urge to stop in. Past the church (CHRISTMAS BAZAAR BOOTHS STILL OPEN!) and two giggly teen girls. He’s coming up on the fire station when a hand claps him on the shoulder. He whirls around, reaches for the gun he didn’t bring.

“Whoa, hey, sorry,” says the guy who told him to move his fucking car earlier that day. “Just wanted to say thanks again.” The man’s about his age, more heavily muscled, and sporting a scruffy beard. His shirt reads VOLUNTEER FIREFIGHTER across the front.

Mulder holds his hands up in apology. “All good. I’m glad she’s home.”

“Owen Cylburn,” the man says, holding out a hand. 

Mulder shakes it. “Mulder,” he says. “Agent Scully’s still at the hospital.”

Owen hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. “Yeah, I heard she was a doctor. Real nice of her to look in on our girl.”

“You family?”

“Naw, but I live a few houses down and she plays with my son Simon sometimes. It’s a small town, you know? Anyway, I heard she’s doing fine.” Owen looks like there’s more he wants to say.

“Anything else on your mind, Mr. Cylburn?” Mulder asks.

He looks sheepish. “Oh, uh. Well, I guess I heard some talk, you know, about whatsername up in that old shack? You don’t really think she was involved, do you? I mean, I checked in on her a couple times and all, made sure the stove was safe. She seems nice. Just sort of strange.”

Mulder considers this for a moment. “Even if she were, clearing her house of fire hazards doesn’t mean you were aiding and abetting, you know. You do anything else while you were up there?”

Owen’s face darkens. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m a happily marr-”

“Not what I meant. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Owen says, looking confused. “No, just the stove.”

Mulder tries again. “What I’m asking is, well, I heard some rumors too. That Tallulah was selling a little weed to supplement her income. Now listen, I’m not looking to hassle anybody. I’m a legalize it man myself, just trying to see if people were heading up there with any frequency to, uh, go shopping. And if they might have seen anything while they were there.”

“Ohhhh,” is the reply. “No, not my thing but I think I’m in the minority. I reckon she could blackmail half the upstanding members of the town if she wanted to, one way or another. Them or their spouses or their kids.” He shrugs. “It’s a dry town, so…”

Mulder nods. “I get it. Like I said, just trying to see if anyone might have been around, might have seen anything. But not trying to make a federal case of it.”

“Mighty decent of you. But anyhow, all’s well that ends well, I guess. My sister’s a nurse up at the hospital, she says Ree looks pretty good, all things considered.”

“Yeah, that’s what my partner said too. She’s a real pretty little girl, isn’t she? Golden hair, and those big green eyes.”

Owen frowns. “All the Rosses have that hair, but I don’t think she has green eyes.”

“My mistake,” Mulder says. “Anyhow, you have a good one.” 

He jogs off, thinking.

***

Scully’s getting out of a patrol car when he returns. There’s a German Shepherd in the back seat, muzzle against the grating.

“This is K9 Officer Jangles,” Scully says, introducing Mulder to the dog. “She’s new.”

Officer Jangles sticks her head out of the open rear window. Her tail is wagging and her ridiculous ears are tilted against one another.

“Brought Jangles up to see Ree,” says the cop. “She’s my niece. Ree, I mean. My brother’s girl.” He has the blonde hair of his clan.

“How is she?”

“Pretty good,” Officer Ross says. “Starting to talk a little more.”

Mulder is genuinely glad to hear this and says so. “It’ll be nice to have your green-eyed lassie home, I’m sure.”

Scully kicks him hard in the shin with her deadly shoes. “Officer Ross, thanks for the lift. Agent Mulder and I have a lot of paperwork to take care of, so I hope you’ll excuse us.”

The officer nods. “I can’t thank you enough, none of us ever could. Can we call your boss for like, uh, a commendation or something?”

Scully smiles. “That’s very kind, sir, but we’re really just doing our job.”

“Alvin Kersh,” Mulder calls, as Scully hauls him into her room. “Extension 44-”

The door slams shut.

***

She punches him in the arm. “What is wrong with you?” she demands. 

Mulder sits on her bed, which is identical to his. Her room smells nicer though, distinctly Scully-ish. “I’m sorry,” he says. He genuinely wishes he were different.

Scully sighs, rubbing her temples. She sits next to him. “I am covered in dog hair, I have listened to hours of conservative talk radio, and now you are in direct violation of the one thing I asked you not to do.” She leans over to sniff him. “And you smell like a stable.”

“I’m trying to keep my ass shapely,” he says. “I want to look sexy in my running shorts for you.”

She punches him again. “Go...go take a shower. I’ll call around for flights. Maybe we can get out of here tonight.”

“Done,” he says. “There aren’t any until tomorrow evening.”

Scully groans. “Please don’t tell me that. I need to get out of here. The water smells like pencil shavings, did you notice? Go shower though.”

Mulder turns and takes her hands. “I know that I am sweaty and disgusting but I think you’re going to want to hear me out before I go shower.”

“It better be good, Mulder, because you’re competing with Jangles right now.”

“So there’s a hotel near the airport with a day spa. It’s not exactly the Four Seasons, but the website looked pretty good. I thought we’d let Alvin spring for another night here, and we’ll luxuriate in Dead Sea mud.”

She laughs, crossing her arms. “Mulder, you can’t be serious.”

“I'm extremely serious. My treat. You know my policy on my father’s money.”

Scully rolls her eyes, mimes a little hand puppet with a talking mouth. “My paychecks are for living expenses, my inheritance is for my side projects.” She does a credible impression of his monotone.

“I’m glad at least some of what I say stuck with you. Seriously though, Scully. Let me do something nice for you.”

She considers this. “Mulder, your ‘side projects’ generally refer to subverting the government in some way or another. Are you trying to get me in bed again just to lob a stone in the eye of the government?” 

“Yes,” he says. “You are my ultimate middle finger to The Man. That is literally my only motivation here. Come on, Scully. You once told Congress to go fuck itself - surely you’ve got room in your arsenal for a moisturizing salt scrub and Swedish massage.”

“We’re like Bonnie and Clyde,” she says, and bumps her shoulder against his. She’s right about the dog fur, he notes.

“Whaddya say?” he asks. It feels silly to have his heart in his throat over this, to worry that she’ll turn him down like a long-shot prom date. “Two empty hotel rooms in Hooterville on the federal dime while we sneak off to live it up on room service. You know you want to, Bonnie.”

Scully drops her chin for a second, then looks up at him, resigned. “What the hell, Clyde.”

He kisses her hair. “Attagirl. I’ll have you fully corrupted in no time. Soon you’ll be stealing office supplies and blowing off mandatory training seminars of your own volition”

She shakes her head, grinning. “Is this where you remind me that a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step?”

He shakes his head. “No, this is where I point out that a journey of a thousand miles is pretty intimidating, so maybe starting with smaller day spa trips is more manageable. Hell, Scully. Even The Pretenders broke it into two five-hundred-mile walks.”

“Go take a shower,” she says.

***

When he comes out of the bathroom she’s sitting in his room with her luggage, looking like a waif at a train station.

“Jesus,” he says, flustered. “Glad I still had a few clean towels.” He rifles through his bag, looking for underwear. He wasn’t expecting an audience.

Scully looks politely away as he tugs them on. “I changed out of that be-dogged suit and figured I’d just pack up and we’d head out when you were ready. I already turned in my key.”

He notices now that she’s in a pair of leggings and a black sweater. Somehow she still looks chic. “You’re in quite a hurry to leave this charming hamlet,” he observes. “Or is it just the lure of the forbidden?”

“Mmmm, maybe both. Mostly it’s the lure of the sauna.”

“Fair.” He sniffs his jeans and, dismayed, pulls them on anyway. Fuck it, he’s a rich man. He’ll take them both shopping. Scully is an indulgence he’ll happily spend his father’s ill-gotten gains on. He’s long suspected some distant connection between his parents’ money and her chip; it would be poetic justice to spoil her.

She curls onto her side in the middle of the bed, watching him dress. “Mulder.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

When she’s ready, he knows. When she’s ready. Mulder ties his shoes, then retrieves her mousse from the bathroom. He styles his hair in the mirror above the dresser, waiting.

“Mulder.”

“Hmm?”

“When I was a kid, my Aunt Olive would tell us stories about this farm she grew up on outside Killarney. She lived with her grandparents, pretty staunch Catholics you know, but they believed in a lot of the old stories too.”

He’s listening attentively now, but she has a tendency to be skittish when discussing the intangible. He pulls a pair of tweezers out and plucks at imaginary stray hairs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. After milking, Aunt Olive knew to leave a bowl of milk out for the Tuatha de Dannan. And a slice of bread from the new loaves.” She pauses, thinking. “I mean, I don’t know that they actually believed it, but you know how these things are.”

“Belt and suspenders,” he says.

She chuckles. “Something like that, yeah. Anyway, Mulder, I was thinking about that milk bottle. And then I started thinking about my Aunt Olive’s stories. And I wondered if maybe you bought Tallulah some new milk and fresh bread.”

Mulder puts the tweezers down. He joins her on the bed, sitting in the curve made by her body. He pets her side, her shiny hair, and savors the sheer pleasure of touching her. “It wasn’t super new,” he says. “It was pasteurized.”

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully says. She rubs his thigh.

He stretches out onto the bed, facing her. She has aged with obscene grace. Distilled more than aged, really, he thinks. Refined to a more essential Scully-ness. “Sometimes all that people need is to be seen,” he says. “I figured even if she’s just some weird transient hillbilly who sells weed and tells horrifying lies, she might appreciate a snack.” 

Scully smiles and scoots closer to him. She strokes the bridge of his nose. “Fox Mulder, you big softie.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Should I take that as a personal indictment?”

“You’re a riot.”

He strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I don’t know, when I was a kid I read To Kill A Mockingbird for school, and the part where Atticus said you had to walk around in someone’s skin to know them really resonated with me. I guess I wish I had been extended that courtesy.” 

Scully smiles. “Mmm, I used to think about how I would have made Boo Radley come out.”

Mulder laughs, imagining a tiny, serious Scully laying artful traps. “Like Bugs Bunny?”

She laughs too. “Something like that, yeah. I guess I just connected with the idea of the unknown being concretely knowable if only the right methodology were applied.”

“Nerd,” he says.

“Always. You would have snuck into the house and said, ‘Hello, Mr. Radley. I’m Fox Mulder.’ No tricks for you.” 

He probably would have, at that. “Yeah, but then comes my usual trouble. No evidence, no witnesses.”

She kisses him softly, bumping his nose with hers. “Maybe I need to walk around in your skin more. You say you got to walk around in my head.”

“I didn’t peek anywhere untoward,” he says, and wraps his arms around her.

She regards him seriously. “I trust you. But I do wonder what you saw. I’m not an angel, Mulder.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be.” He runs his thumb over her lips, and she nips at it. “You’re incandescent, Scully. Like a lighthouse at the edge of a vast, nighttime sea.”

She looks pleased and shy. “Well,” is all she says. “Well.” She tucks her head beneath his chin.

He holds her there, in this bland little room in the heart of nowhere. Her body is warm and compact and trusting, her fingers soft on his neck. She doesn’t always believe in his ideas, he knows, but she believes in him, and it’s more than enough.

Eventually he rouses her, the promise of more luxurious accommodations his only motivator for breaking this gentle peace. They gather their belongings and head to the car. The sky is purple and orange around them and ahead, an infinite sea of stars. He drives west, towards the setting sun. Scully takes his hand and smiles; a flame in the dark.

#xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #season 7 #casefile #My fic

[snowbellewells]

A Birthday Gift for @itsfabianadocarmo

So I have been LOVING @itsfabianadocarmo​‘s CSR Aesthetic Picsets, and especially the ones telling the story of an alternate S7 in Hyperion Heights, but where Emma was also present as a waitress named Eva Cygnet.  Then, as @itsfabianadocarmo​ and I began to chat on here more, I learned we share the exact same date of birth! (What are the odds?!?) So, my birthday twin, I began plotting a little surprise for you. I hope you’ll like it. It’s just a little one shot to go along with your first picset in that series (which I have hopefully attached so those who haven’t seen it can do so HERE).  I hope you’ll enjoy this - and maybe, if I get a few more WIPs finished, more will accompany this one!

Anyway, I hope you have the very best birthday!! I’ve so enjoyed getting to know you!! :)

“Marmalade and Tea”

by: @snowbellewells​

“What about this place, Tilly?” Rogers questioned his jittery passenger with a sidelong glance as he eased his classic Chevelle into a parking space along the sidewalk. “Looks cozy, hmm?”

Though making a valiant effort to remain patient and upbeat, the vagabond sprite he’d taken into his home and his affections had already shot down every dining establishment in a two block radius and he had begun to fear none would suffice and they’d run out of options. Not for the first time, the worry struck him that he was ill-equipped for the needs and wishes of a young lass such as Tilly. But she was so lost, so vulnerable - scrappy and resourceful as she might first appear - that he hadn’t been able to leave her fending for herself. She tugged at his emotions more than he could understand. All he knew in that moment was that he was far too hungry to get by on the toast and marmalade Tilly usually wanted for supper.

His young companion cocked her head to the side, staring out the passenger window to study the kitschy little diner her detective had indicated. She bit her lip in concentration, and Rogers held his breath, hoping this one might be a winner, until finally she bobbed her tawny head, light-brown waves of her hair rustling as she did so. “Yep! Let’s check it out!”

Without further hesitation or doubt, Tilly flung her door open and hopped out onto the sidewalk excitedly. Shaking his head at the quick change in disposition, Rogers found himself hurrying after her as she practically skipped up the walk toward the diner’s entrance, humming cheerily to herself. For all her deliberation of moments ago, once Tilly made up her mind, he had to admit she threw herself into any given course of action with gusto and commitment.

Catching up to Tilly at the door, Rogers playfully bowed to her with a crooked grin and raised eyebrow, “After you, milady,” he teased in his lilting voice, as he held the door open for her to pass.

To his delight, she giggled, just as he had hoped, her face lighting up with glee at the simple moment of playfulness. Lifting her chin regally, she preceded him into the diner with a haughty toss of her hair, “Why thank you, good sir,” she returned.

As she spoke, her shorter form brushed past him in the entry, and Rogers felt a current of recognition run through him - freezing him in place. It was as if he had spoken those very words, heard her exact response, lived the entire moment before. He blinked, trying to shake his head clear of such impossible nonsense. Not only had he only known Tilly for a few months, but before that he had been utterly alone, no one in his life to joke around with - or even to enjoy a pleasant lunch with as he and Tilly were doing now. He had to be mistaken, and yet…

He glanced to the young runaway, now living in his spare room and filling it to the brim with her colorful, splashy paintings and sketches as well as the trinkets and treasures she picked up on her daily rambles while he was at work. She too appeared startled, wide-eyed as though she were trying to process something which had flashed across her mind’s eye before vanishing again.

For a second, superimposed upon his vision of Tilly before him, he saw a younger version of her, dressed in a pretty dress and pinafore, a much younger iteration of her face gazing up at him in adoration. It was all he could do to hold onto his breath. What was happening to him?

Afraid to share what he had seen, knowing Tilly’s grip on reality could already sometimes be fragile, Rogers tried to push the strange near-reminiscence and the image aside, gesturing toward the counter in question to see if TIlly would prefer a seat there in the tall stools rather than a booth. She too seemed to shake a dazed expression from her face, and nodded, hopping onto the nearest seat quickly. He noticed her agitation though as she softly drummed her fingers on the countertop and swiveled in her seat. 

Rogers wondered briefly if he should ask her what was wrong or let her pretend. Should he find out if she had seen something odd as well, and if so, what? He hated to disturb the equilibrium she had recently found; dreaded upsetting her or encouraging flights from reality. So he bit his tongue with effort and held back his questions. Instead, he asked what she had been working on in her latest art piece, and Tilly launched into a detailed and enthusiastic description of the enchanted setting of some Wonderland in a book she’d read.

Just as he was drawing in a breath of relief and feeling normalcy return, their waitress arrived before them. “Hello, welcome to Ruby Red’s! What can I start you off with today?” The voice was welcoming and pleasant, but lower and less gratingly perky than often assaulted one’s ears in such small, cutesy restaurants. The detective had hardly even picked up his menu, much less perused his choices, and he flushed, embarrassed to the very roots of his dark hair, scruffy cheeks pinking and even the tips of his subtly pointed ears taking on the hue. Tilly noticed, and elbowed him with a snicker, causing Rogers to fumble with the laminated sheet of their offerings and bring up his stiff, gloved hand as well to keep from dropping the menu. He’d been too busy pondering over his strange reverie and observing his younger companion’s disquiet, but she seemed to have thrown that aside and resumed her jovial nature once more, so he attempted to do the same. 

“Ah, hello Lass,” he offered awkwardly, reaching up to scratch behind his ear uncertainly and wishing for at least the hundredth time that he were a bit more suave and self-assured. “Sorry about that, haven’t quite made up my mind yet.” Looking to offer her an apologetic smile, Rogers nearly swallowed his own tongue at the sight before him.

Their waitress was stunning. Surely the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. She was dressed simply in a sleeveless chambray button-down top and khaki skirt that came to mid-thigh toped with short red apron. Yet, even with her bright fall of blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and dark, plastic-framed glasses on her nose, she was dazzling to his senses.

“That’s quite alright,” she assured with an easy smile. “Maybe just your drink orders while you decide?”

“Right you are, Miss…” he paused, stumbling over his words and inherent politeness when he realized he didn’t know her last name. “Ah... Eva?” he finished sheepishly as his eyes found the small plastic nametag she wore.

Not seeming in the least put off by his nerves or fumbling manner - in fact, if Tilly, who was watching the exchange with a deviously pleased grin and avid interest, were any sort of judge, their pretty waitress seemed decidedly charmed. Nodding, the woman hurried to answer him. “Yep, Eva, that’s right. Eva Cygnet.” She reached out to shake his hand only to find that he hesitated to offer his, leading her eyes to fall on the prosthetic she had failed to notice. Rogers’ eyes fell to the countertop, lips pressed together in a firm line, but his head shot back up in surprise when she laid her hand atop his gloved replacement appendage, kindly adding, and holding his gaze until it was clear she meant her words and that the false hand didn’t bother her at all. “Glad you decided to visit us today, Mr. …?”

“Rogers,” the detective spoke up, confidence growing in his voice as he marveled at the woman’s simple kindness and understanding. “Joel Rogers, Hyperion Heights detective.” His cheeks flushed again, not sure why he’d added that part, but holding her gaze all the same.

Tilly, however, was now completely won over. Seeing the change that had come over her friend and benefactor in the short exchange with this Eva Cygnet, and just how amazed he seemed by her mere presence, Tilly was practically beaming. With a bounce of enthusiasm, she chirped, “Best on the force, that’s him!”

Ms. Cygnet chuckled easily, flattering laughlines crinkling the corners of eyes that might have seemed a bit tired when she first reached their seats, but now appeared friendly and amused. “Good to know,” she said seriously, turning her attention to Tilly then. “If we have any trouble here, I’ll know just who to call.”

Tilly nodded smartly, reaching out to shake Eva Cygnet’s hand readily and then adding, “And you don’t have to wait on my order, either. Could I just have toast with butter and orange marmalade and a glass of milk?”

Eva’s head tilted as if uncertain, and possibly even trying to decide if the younger woman was playing some sort of trick on her.  She scrunched her nose in a thoughtful way that made Rogers want to reach out and tap the tip of it with his finger, an urge he barely managed to wrestle down. Finally, the waitress seemed to make up her mind, and with a shrug, jotted Tilly’s order on her pad. “If you’re sure that’s all you want, you can certainly have it. Our bread is baked fresh right here in our kitchen every day - and Granny makes the preserves herself as well - best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Granny?” Tilly repeated curiously as she looked at their server.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Eva offered. “Mrs Lucas, the owner. Most of us have worked here forever, so it’s almost like family, and that’s what we all call her. She told me her name was Granny when she hired me.” Shaking her head, she leaned in closer to Tilly in a conspiratorial whisper. “We just finally got her to take a two week vacation for the first time in years. She went to Colorado to see her granddaughter and her husband and great-grandkids. He’s some sort of woodsman, forestry officer, something like that, and they live in a national park basically. Granny’s been thinking about it for ages, and Ruby - this place is named after her - keeps begging her to, saying she and Pete would love to have her stay with them. And so she finally did it!”

Tilly’s eyes were shining, looking as thrilled with the happy story as if she too knew the people Eva spoke of so fondly. “Wow,” she commented. “That sounds amazing.”

“Yup,” Eva confirmed, with a bob of her head, “but look at me gabbing on when you’d probably like your food sometime today!”

She turned to Joel then, a patient look on her face and pen poised to take down his order as well. He would never have assumed it had anything to do with him (it did) but she looked flushed and more than a bit apologetic, and he wanted to tell her that he would listen to her stories all day. She could read them the entire menu word-for-word, and he would welcome it if that was what it took to keep her near.

“What would you recommend?” he questioned instead, brow furrowing in consternation as he almost added “Love” at the end of his request.

Eva grinned, offering her pick without hesitation. “This may sound crazy. I’ve been told more than once I’ve got the palate of a 10-year-old, but I’d have the grilled cheese club. The bread’s all crisp and buttery and there’s this secret sauce and bacon in the cheese. It’s just melty, perfect goodness.”

Winking at her, badly, both eyes seeming to close as if unable to work independently, Rogers took her at her word. “Sold! That does sound delicious, maybe with a side of - “

“Onion rings?”

“Yes, exactly! Brilliant, Lass.”

“You have good taste,” Eva Cygnet offered sagely. “I’ll always pick onion rings over fries myself. And to drink?”

“Iced tea, please,” he concluded, handing his menu to her as Tilly did the same.

When she had taken off to place the order, assuring them it wouldn’t be long, Tilly nudged him repeatedly, looking all-too-excited. “Was that flirting?!?” she half-whispered, half-squealed in a tone that felt entirely too noticeable to Rogers’ ears. “Ohmygoodness! Adorable! I’ve never seen you like that, Detective!” More nudging and giggling followed, even after Eva returned with their food, until Joel honestly wanted to slide under the counter and out of sight. However, the food was as delicious as promised, and he found himself happy in a way he hadn’t been in some time - despite any lingering embarrassment.

Tilly seemed to feel the same satisfaction, even asking Eva when she returned with the bill and to hear what they thought of the food, if they sold the marmalade by the jar.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Eva laughed good naturedly as she rang them up. “Though I’ve been telling Granny she should.” She paused for a second as Joel offered her a twenty and her fingers deftly made change. “You’ll just have to come back often to have more.”

Her words were spoken to Tilly, but her glance darted over to take in the handsome dark-haired detective as well, hopeful as they studied his face quickly before flickering away again. 

“That we will,” Tilly affirmed, her look bouncing back and forth between her friend and the waitress mischievously. “Don’t you worry.”

“Aye,” Rogers added with his own crooked smile, reaching out to take his receipt. “I’ve no doubt we’ll be returning often.”

His words cut off abruptly when he and Eva’s fingers touched. The thin cash register paper crumpled as their fingertips met, and his calloused fingers brushed her soft palm. Pictures flashed behind his eyes - of her golden hair cascading loose from her ponytail and his hand tangling in it, of her in a pale pink dress and his favorite leather jacket draped over her shoulders, the two of them sitting by the water somewhere passing a flask of rum back and forth, her fingers clutching at his collar desperately while she hauled him to her for a kiss, surrounded by green leaves and sticky humid air. It was all the more shocking for his having so recently experienced something so similar with Tilly, but if possible this with Eva Cygnet was even more intense. There was no way to deny what he saw - or the way it made him feel.

Eva said nothing, but was similarly arrested by pictures in her own mind: this man before her running his tongue along his lower lip as he flirts with her shamelessly, opening an old-fashioned spyglass with his mouth and then offering it to her as well, brushing her hair back over her shoulder with a hook at the end of his arm in place of the prosthetic, him standing with her by some sort of well, holding out a ring on a necklace chain.

Both of detective and waitress stumbled backward with similarly stunned gasps for air. Their hands fell to their sides, Rogers’ flexing unconsciously as if he had been shocked, and the receipt falling forgotten to the floor between them.

Neither were able to speak, until another customer behind them cleared his throat impatiently, and Tilly linked her arm through the detective’s, propelling him toward the door. “Thanks! We’ll see you soon.”

Eva moved to ring up the next tab, but her fingertips danced over her lips briefly, as if feeling the tingle of a kiss that didn’t happen. “Good,” she thought to herself. She could only hope those words were true.

Tagging just a few others who might enjoy (or have seen enjoying the aesthetic inspiration!) : @kmomof4​ @searchingwardrobes​ @jennjenn615​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @tiganasummertree​

#csr ff #cs alt s7 headcanon fic #csr oneshot #birthday fic gift #for @itsfabianadocarmo

[spaceflower07]

Hetalia Phone headcanons

Alfred's phone: Most would think he would go for the newest iphone there is but they are wrong. Alfred's phone is a black iPhone X.The reason why this is because they have a bunch of cool superhero cases for that type of model and Alfred refuses to change it. Even if he broke his phone he would still get the exact same model. Alfred has many, many, many superhero cases for his phone, but his most used one is a Captain America case. Ivan's phone: He's not very picky about phones. If he can call, text, and play Tetris it's okay in his book. He used to have a Samsung flip phone. However Alfred refused to be seen with him if he had a flip phone (Samsung at that!) so Alfred dragged him down to the Apple store. Ivan didn't want to go, but there actually were a lot of good phones there, and he ended up buying an iPhone XR (By Alfred's recommendation). At first his case is just pitch black with a photo of him and Alfred slipped into it, but then he found a sunflower designed case and he never looked back. The photo is still in there of course, Alfred thinks it's adorable. Francis: He is by far the pickiest out of everyone else. He'll only buy from the top company of phones, which is Apple. He picked iPhone 11 cause he thought it looked the most beautiful. Arthur thought that was a bogus way of choosing a phone. Arthur doesn't like his phone very much because of the lack of actual buttons and he finds it very confusing. Francis taught him how to use it but he still thought it was stupid anyway. He has a rose designed case, it actually looks very aesthetic pleasing. Arthur: Arthur refuses to have a phone that doesn't have a physical button. It's complicated for him and sometimes he forgets how to even operate the phone without a button. At first he had a Galaxy s7 but Francis was so horrified and disgusted by the design that he dragged Arthur to go phone-shopping. Arthur was frustrated because every other phone company either didn't have phones with buttons or the design did have buttons but it was ugly. Only one company made good looking phones with buttons and that was Apple. Arthur was even more frustrated because Apple is an American brand and he didn't want to buy from an American brand. But after he laid eyes on a rose gold 7 iPhone he completely changed his mind.  Yao: He has one of those cheap knock-off brand phones that work just as good as the original. His phone is a fake Samsung s8, and people, especially Yung Soo tell him to get an actual none-knock off phone because it's not like he's poor. He can afford an actual phone, he's the second richest nation. But Yao refuses and says that his phone works just as well as the original and he doesn't need a real one. Because he's cheap and stingy and doesn't want to waste his money on a real phone when we can save his money buying a fake phone that works just as well. He has a cute panda case. Matthew: Used to have a Nokia flip phone, but Alfred felt embarrassed for him and took it upon himself to buy his twin brother an actual phone ("I refuse to be seen with you while you're holding that pathetic phone. Imagine the ridicule, Mattie, THE RIDICULE.") so now they have matching iPhone X phones. Matthew's case is pitch black though, he's not very big on cases and doesn't think buying a flashy one will do anything.  Ludwig: Another person who is yet again dragged into buying a modern phone. He had a flip phone just like Matthew. Gilbert and Feliciano were mortified that Ludwig had such a phone, especially during the 21st century cause that's just embarrassing. They bought him a Nokia 7 plus since it has to survive all of Ludwig's hardcore workouts. Once again his case is pitch black since he's not big on designs and thinks they're unnecessary. Feliciano: Has an LG v10 because he's clumsy and constantly falls and he needs a durable phone that can survive anything (liquid, concrete, etc.). Feliciano once had a regular Huawei 10 which Kiku gave him but he broke it in less than 4 hours. The phone also has a good camera and Feliciano loves taking pictures.

Kiku: Samsung Note cause the pen comes in handy. Yao dislikes it because his child just spent hundreds on a real phone when he could've bought a fake one instead. Mei and Leon aren't happy either because Yao makes them have fake OPPO phones but Kiku has a real phone? Not fair. Gilbert: Nokia 7 Plus as well. Gilbert also has the same hardcore workout as Ludwig, and does much more like parachuting, rock climbing, cliff diving, etc. so Gilbert's phone really has to be durable and be able survive anything or else Gilbert would have to constantly get a new phone every few months. His case is the Prussian flag, but he had to get it customized because they don't make Prussian merchandise anymore. Roderich: At first, had no phone. He didn't think it was necessary since he had an eagle to send messages already. Gilbert told him that wasn't how awesome people do things these days.  He was even more mortified to find out that Hubert, his and Roderich's 8 year old son, HUBERT, did not have a phone, he dragged them both down to the nearest phone store and got them both Samsung Note 10 phones since he knows the two of them love to have something like a pen or a paintbrush or a baton (for conducting) in their hand so he bought them the phone that had the pen. Roderich was against it but Hubert seemed to love it and was mesmerized by how the pen could operate the phone instead of a finger. Roderich gave in and bought the phone anyway. He said he wouldn't use it as much, but he was mistaken because Gilbert couldn't tear Roderich's eyes away from his phone for weeks. Roderich had to go to rehab. Lovino: Samsung Galaxy S21 Ultra. He had refined tastes and high standards, and this phone meets it all. It's gorgeous, it's useful, it's practical, hell, this phone is like his best friend. He's just as obsessed with it as Roderich in which Gilbert said "Why am I always attracted to phone obsessed people"

#hws hetalia #hws #hetalia headcanons

[gi-maeve-rose]

Dark Matters

Chapter 2: An Old Friend

“Man, I fucking hate Elf Town,” Daryl complained from the passenger seat of the police car.

Nick huffed a sigh, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m aware. You say that every time we drive through.”

“Because I hate it every time!” Daryl groaned in distain as he watched the expensively dressed elves go by. “Those Magic feds couldn’t come out to the station? It’s not like they ain’t been there before. They know where it is.”

“You read the email, Ward,” Jakoby reminded, glancing at his partner. “If they were to come out too close around the time of the Wand incident, people are gonna start suspecting things.”

“It’s been two years, man. And isn’t it suspicious that two LAPD officers, the ones who were involved with the Wand incident, are going to Magic Task Force HQ?”

Nick said nothing. He understood Daryl’s apprehension. After their traumaticing encounter with the Inferni, and the revelation that Daryl is a Bright, all he wanted was for things to go back to normal. or as close to normal as possible. No one knew about Daryl being a Bright except Nick and the two MTF agents, Kandomere and Montehugh. Not even his family knew.

“I can’t deal with this shit again, Nick,” Ward continued. “We almost died last time. You did die.”

Nick grunted. He hated being reminded. The scar was reminder enough. “The sooner this is taken care of, the sooner we can go back to our normal lives.” He pondered for a moment. “Well, normal-ish.”

Daryl scoffed, and the rest of the ride was silent. Whatever it was the agents needed from them, he knew it was Magic related. And it was going to take a while.

Although having gather as much information as possible for the moment, Kandomere paced his office once more with more files in hand. Perhaps he missed something. Another, a different, elf involved, maybe not an elf at all? He was desperate for it to be someone else, anyone besides-

The landline on his desk buzzed and he stopped pacing to answer.

“Agent, the LAPD officers are here,” a woman informed.

“Thank you, send them in.” He quickly shut the files away in his desk and sat in his chair as Jakoby and Ward entered.

“Thank you for coming out on such short notice,” he started as they sat. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called for you in the first place.”

“something Magic related?” Daryl asked. He already knew the answer, yet he still so foolishly hoped otherwise.

Kandomere sighed. “The Wand was stolen.” Daryl and Nick stared in disbelief, so he opened his laptop to the security footage so they could see for themselves.

“Fuck...” Ward muttered, running a hand over his face. Kandomere nodded somberly as he shut the laptop. “So, what? You want us to go looking for it?”

“Of course not,” Kandomere reassured. “You two got lucky retrieving it from Leilah, and you only got accidentally roped into that one. You’ll get yourselves killed if I send you out purposely after these people.”

“Then what?”

Nick kicked his partner’s foot and shot him a warning look. Now was not the time to get an attitude. Daryl glared at Nick and rolled his eyes with a scoff.

Kandomere, although annoyed, kept his composure. “I need your assistance.” He handed them a background check sheet. “I have reason to believe this elven woman might be affiliated with the two in the footage.”

Nick handed Daryl the sheet. “Do you want us to bring her in for questioning?” he asked.

Kandomere shook his head as he stood from his desk, grabbing his car keys. “We’re going to go to her. We’ll take my car.” Anxiety hit him like a freight train the moment those words left his lips.

Daryl and Nick followed after him. “So we’re your muscle?” Daryl asked with an eyebrow raised. Kandomere said nothing and continued walking, earning a cocky grin from Ward. “Hear that, Nick? Big, bad Magic fed needs some bodyguards.”

“My partner, Montehugh is busy with gathering more information,” Kandomere spoke sternly, clearly annoyed. “And I need you because she’s a Bright. If she were to try any funny shit, I figured having another Bright may be useful.”

Daryl’s smug smile turned into a scowl at the reminder. He looked over to Nick who only shrugged in response. Daryl shook his head in displeasure as they reached Kandomere’s sleek, black 2020 Audi S7.

The trio found themselves driving through East LA. It was more diverse with humans, orcs, centaurs, and many other creatures of the like. It’s also an area you’d least likely find an elf passing through, let alone living.

Daryl stared out the backseat window in confusion. “Some shit really must’ve gone down with her if she’s living out here.” He looked at Kandomere, who kept his eyes on the road ahead. Daryl’s worry was confirmed. “What happened?”

“That’s not pertinent to this, Officer Ward,” Kandomere answered firmly. “We’re to go in, get the information we need, and get out.” All the while praying that he could keep it at that.

Daryl and Nick didn’t buy into it. There was a history between him and this woman, but they knew better than to pry.

After another short while of silent driving, they arrived at their destination. They pulled into an apartment complex parking lot, taking an open space in front. Two orc children and one human child played in the grass, their parents socializing with each other on the patio. The orc father was the first to notice the car, very out of place in this part of the city. He stood from his seat and approached the three men as they exited the car.

“Good afternoon,” Nick greeted, feeling it was best that he took over for now. “This is Agent Kandomere, with the Magic Task Force. This is Officer Wa-”

“Officers Ward and Jakoby, with LAPD,” the orc resident finished.  Yeah, I’ve heard about you guys. Especially you.” He held his hand out to Nick. “The name’s Markus.”

Nick smiled and shook his hand. Daryl and Kandomere gave each other a relieved glance. Perhaps this would go over easier than expected.

“So what can we do for you? You guys look like you’re far from home.” Markus asked.

Kandomere felt the question was more directed toward him, seeing that he was an elf and all. But he didn’t pay it any mind. “We’re looking Ynshael Cortez. Goes by ‘Shae’?”

Markus nodded with a chuckle. “Ah, I should’ve guessed. She sticks out like a sore thumb around here.” He turned toward the entrance and pointed them in the right direction. “Through that door, up the first flight of stairs, door on the right.”

Kandomere nodded in thanks before heading toward the door. 

“She’s not in trouble, is she?” Markus called after.

The three men stopped and turned back to face Markus. “Do you have relations with her?” Daryl asked.

Markus shrugged. “Her and I don’t talk much, but she’s good friends with my wife and she nannies the kids in the area. The kids definitely seem to love her.”

A moment of relief washed over Kandomere. Shae hadn’t been up to no good after all these years. Or so it seemed. Sadly, he still couldn’t rule he rout just based on a good word.

Kandomere nodded again. “Thank you.” He continued to the door, this time faster. Was it the anticipation to see her, or did he just want to get this over with? It had been over a decade since they’ve spoken, let alone seen each other. How much had she changed? Would she even remember him? The things they’d been through together? If she did, would she even want to see him? They hadn’t exactly left off on good terms...

Before he knew it, the three of them stood just outside her door. Kandomere pushed aside the bothersome thoughts. This was business. But though it was such, he found himself paralyzed.

“Agent Kandomere?” Nick tried. Kandomere didn’t move. Daryl huffed in annoyance and knocked on the door himself, the sound shaking Kandomere from his stupor. 

The first thing they heard was a large dog barking, then a woman’s voice. “Titan, hush! I fucking swear, I never wanted to fight a dog before, but you’re testing my limits, dude.” The clicking of the locks coming undone could be heard from the other side. The door opened. “I love you, but seriously. Can I he-” She stopped the moment her icy blue eyes, smudged with eyeliner, caught Kandomere’s.

Kandomere felt a lump in his throat. It really was her. Wavy black to blond hair falling over her prominent collarbone, a grey, ripped up Metallica crop top hung loosely on her torso, falling off her shoulder. A pair of black spandex shorts hugged her full hips.

She was exactly the same, except... Different. She now sported multiple piercing on her ears, a piercing on one side of her button nose, and one decorating the center of her bottom lip, drawing attention to their plumpness. And so many tattoos... Yes, it was her, exactly the same, yet different.

Kandomere cleared he lump in his throat and pushed away years of suppressed feelings (and the rather new suppressed feeling in his trousers). “Hello, Shae,” he managed to speak as professionally as possible.

“No...” A knowing sharp-toothed grin grew on her face. “...way.” She propped her elbow on the doorway above he rhead and placed a hand on her hip. “Kandomere? Is that really you?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Art by: @morphinetunee

Taglist (open):

@morphituu​ @faeylinn​ @nheireii

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~

I do not post to any other website! Please do not repost my chapters to any other website unless I give you my written permission!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Bright or any of the characters except for my OCs!

#bright #bright 2017 #bright movie #bright netflix #kandomere #daryl ward #nick jakoby #lapd #magic task force #magic feds #mtf #magic #wand #the dark lord #elves #orcs #fairies #magic creatures #fanfiction #action #fluff #smut

[wakanda-flocka-flame-blog]

The 15x08 episode Preview is the Reason I’m Drunk.

Firstly, I must mention that the episode that airs tonight was written by Bucklemming and directed by Speight, so... get ready for pain and cheap jokes. :)

Alright here’s where we’re starting out. The kitchen.

This scene being shot in the kitchen is so important. This kitchen is regarded as the emotional hub of the Winchester family. It’s been a common place of gathering for the boys and their closest of kin. It served as Castiel’s happy place when he was being used by Lucifer in season 11 episode 18 “Hell’s Angel”. This kitchen was where they mourned the passing of their son, celebrated his return, and fought about how to handle his downfall -- which led to the “break up” between Dean and Castiel. 

Even though the kitchen is just one of many rooms in the bunker, the conversations that happen in this room are usually about the boys’ relationship with each other, the people they love, and the struggles they have with their emotional bonds. From Sam telling Dean he would have let him die if Dean had been the one to undergo the Trials in season 9 episode 13 “The Purge” to Jack asking Castiel why he can’t tell Dean and Sam about Cas’s Empty deal in season 14 episode 8 “Byzantium”. Unlike the strategy-bound plot points they tackle in their war room, the sickeningly violent threats in their dungeon, and the deafeningly long silences in their respective bedrooms, the kitchen is for family. 

The kitchen is the room in the bunker in which Castiel feels the most comfortable. In there, he is pictured seated lethargically or leaning on a table or wall whereas in any other room in the SPN!verse, he stands or sits stiffly at attention for the most part. I

It is also the place where Dean feeds his family. Dean is known to see food as a type of love language; he cooks and eats emotionally. He has been known to consistently prepare meals for and feed Cas who has slowly stopped reminding Dean that angels don’t eat. Like at the end of “Byzantium” when Dean, Sam, Jack, and Cas all shared a burger and a beer after Jack’s rebirth. 

Now, that that’s out of the way, let’s jump into the meat and potatoes of this meta study on the 15x08 midseason finale preview scene.

We open with Castiel sitting on his usual side of the kitchen table brooding, pensive, and alone. Immediately after, Dean appears by the door, peeking in before walking tentatively into the kitchen.

Something intense just happened between Castiel and Michael!Adam.

Cas glances up and they lock eyes for a second. The only time they give each other eye contact for the duration of the scene. Dean immediately heads to the fridge for a beer and opens it. He grabs this beer for show. He doesn’t seem to take a sip from it.

Note: This scene has running for 14 seconds in complete silence. Not even music. Just footsteps and breathing and Dean opening the fridge and popping a beer, so clearly that’s what the show is trying to get us to focus on. ITS QUIET. It’s tense. It’s strange. It sticks out to you as uncomfortable. This is on purpose.

Dean leans in the frame as though he’s standing at the table where he usually sits. The angle is staged in a way where they are both in the shot, but cannot be in focus at the same time.

For most of s15 a table has been between them whenever they were in a scene alone. There is intentional space here. They’re usually standing so close, a Bible couldn’t get through them. Dean has openly told Castiel to back up. This is weird for them, and it speaks volumes. They’re not as close as they used to be.

Dean says the first line, “Maybe you went too far.”

We can safely assume Dean is talking about what just happened with Cas and Michael!Adam, but there’s another strong layer to consider here.

Cas broke it off five episodes ago in season 15 episode 3 “The Rupture”. After that episode, Cas hopped in his car, stopped answering calls, and basically disappeared. He made himself unreachable. 

Hmm. Speaking of going too far...

If anyone has “gone too far” in Dean’s mind, it’s Cas. Remember, y’all, Dean is the type of man to blow up Cas’s phone if he can’t find him. And, if he’s missing Castiel so much so often that he’s doing that, anywhere that isn’t right beside him is too damn far away. I don’t know what went on in the scene with Michael!Adam yet because this is just the preview scene we were given. 

This episode airs tonight. 

Cas does not look at him and eventually grumbles out, “………maybe.”

Cas noticed how loaded Dean’s opening line was. It had a double meaning for them. The only reason they are in the bunker together is because of Michael!Adam, Sam’s wound, and… well, because the plot demands it. They’re refusing to talk about why they’re so upset with each other, and that communication issue is manifesting through one long, continuous, never-ending fight. In past seasons, things get icy when Dean and Cas fight. They’re known to ignore each other, stare coldly in silence, bicker about how hurt they are, talk to each other through their family (Sam and Jack), and throw in a diss whenever they can slide it smoothly into the conversation. All that stuff your Grandma and Grandpa do at the Thanksgiving table after their 60 year anniversary. So, Cas clearly knows what Dean was getting at when he suggests Cas went too far. Because they’re fighting. And they’ve fought off and on for eleven years. Dean stabbed him the second he met him, this behavior is nothing new.  

So, when Dean accuses Castiel, the angel answers, “Maybe.” instead of “you’re right”, which means there’s a fundamental disagreement here. They disagree when it comes to the episode’s textual issue of dealing with Michael!Adam and the subtextual issue of these two refusing to confess something to each other.

All in all, Castiel doesn’t think that he went too far in either situation, especially when it comes to Dean. Dean treated Castiel like a verbal punching bag, so he left and he did some stuff that Dean didn’t like, yeah, but he didn’t go too far. Not from Cas’s perspective. And, so Castiel’s answer to both questions is a passive aggressive “maybe”. Oof.

Dean speaks again, refusing to meet Cas’s eye, “I mean he’s been on lock down for quite a while, you know? Maybe you just, uh…………….. went too fast.”

Being locked in Chuck’s narrative has been like a trap for Dean. This narrative is something he can’t seem to get out of, much like a prison. Not knowing what’s scripted and what isn’t is getting to him. Freedom and free will is the paramount of Dean’s moral compass. But, in this situation, he doesn’t know how to be free, so he’s going through an existential crisis. And when he lashed out, it came from that locked up mentality being forced to do whatever someone else wants for the rest of his life, confined into a box, fighting the same fight over and over again. Dean can’t even trust his own friends, because they’re in this trap too and may be used to hurt him, which they have been before. 

(i.e. Castiel being used by Heaven to hurt/betray him in s4, Castiel being used by Crowley to hurt/betray him in s6, Castiel being used by the Leviathan to hurt/betray him in s7, Castiel being used by Naomi to hurt/betray him in s8, Castiel being used by Metatron to hurt/betray him in s9, Castiel being used by Rowena to hurt/betray him in s10, Castiel being used by Lucifer to hurt/betray him in s11, Castiel being used by fetus!Jack to hurt/betray him in s12...... they need the best counseling money can buy.)

So, when Dean says that he’s been locked up for a while and Castiel went too fast, he means he needed Castiel to stay --  to put up with his attitude for just a little while longer, but Cas...

He went.

Too fast.

After hitting Cas with cruel words in the face of what seemed to be endless, brutal rounds of family tragedy after family tragedy, Cas peaced out. He’s done being treated this way. He wanted to leave, so he left. And when he left….

He left before Dean could figure out the right words to say to make him stay. He left before Dean could take it all back. He left before Dean could fix it.

He went.

Too fast.

That being said, what makes Castiel "Cas” is that he confidently writes his own stories. Dean was who he decided to follow while he lived this chapter of his own angelic life, but if Cas wants to stop following Dean, he can and he will. With barely a moment’s notice. Just like he did with Heaven. Castiel is his own singular being. He is self-sufficient, independent, and strong as a ox. Castiel is a creature of the sky, he can fly far away and it will feel natural to him. But because he is his own man, he will do so when he chooses. Chuck’s involvement in their lives bothers Cas, but not in a way that prohibits him from living his life and being himself.

That is not the case for Dean.

There is another long pause. Cas is waiting for Dean to keep talking. Castiel’s silence is loud, but not striking. Dean looks down at himself like he said too much. In a way he did. He starts again, “What’s he doing now?”

“No idea. He was very distraught.” Cas answers with curt and measured statements, hands folded on the table, hair... flawless.

Cas knows what it means to be imprisoned and trapped. He knows what it means to feel pain. But what he doesn’t understand is why Dean internalizes his pain, lets it boil into toxic emotions of self-hatred, and uses it as an excuse to hurt others -- even as an excuse to hurt Cas. Why Dean would do that… Cas has “no idea.” 

He knows how he wants to be treated by Dean and he now refuses to accept any less. Thing is... Cas hasn’t told Dean how he wants to be treated. He just takes it and frowns. That doesn’t in any way mean he deserves to put up with Dean’s sourpuss attitude, but he is also expecting Dean to read his mind. They’re both at fault for the rift between them.

Dean presses the task at hand, wanting to cut through their fighting and solve the problem, “Yeah, but what exactly did he say?”

Cas, not getting the memo (which is very on brand for him), replies with words Dean has said to him unapologetically, “Leave. Get out. I want you dead.”

Cas looks like he’s about to cry.

There’s a long pause where Dean takes in his answer, knowing Cas is shoving his words back in his face. Dean nods and looks even further away from Castiel. 

Somehow, this can also translate to the dramatic scene that will soon happen between Michael!Adam and Castiel. 

It is important to note that Michael!Adam was the archangel who ran Heaven alongside Chuck for most of existence. He was every angel’s boss, including Castiel’s. There is no doubt that everything in Castiel’s life happened because Michael gave an order, and “Cas of the past” did it without question. Fast forward to 2008, Michael gives the order to rescue his true vessel and Cas fucking falls in love with it. Then, Cas rejects Heaven, teams up with his true vessel to fight him, and tricks him into The Cage for a very. long. time. Mind you, this happened after millions of years of basically being the most powerful being in creation with no enemies that could possibly be a threat. 

I bet Michael hates Cas, and if those two were in a room together, he’d see Cas as a traitor against his own kind -- against him. Without Castiel, he wouldn’t have been locked away. Whatever words Michael!Adam had for Cas couldn’t have been kind. And when Cas said this, he was telling Dean that nothing Michael!Adam said to him cut worse than what Dean had said to him over the last few weeks.

Then, Castiel adds, “We didn’t bond.”

When Cas said the word “bond”, Dean Broke Down. It’s all over his face, his eyes go glassy, he looks up with an emotional blush. He’s clutching that beer like a lifeline. The words hanging here are:

               We [Michael!Adam and I] didn’t bond. But, Dean, you and I did.

The thing about Michael and Adam is that they’re both Dean mirrors. They’re both final results of the two paths that Chuck’s script offered Dean, and they’re both not AT ALL who he is.

In every known universe, Michael is shown as this war hungry, super strong, ultimately immortal sociopath with unfettered power and no regard for humankind or monsters. If the supernatural world and Chuck had gotten their way, Dean would have literally become Michael. A villian. Dean does not consider himself a villian. 

Adam on the other hand is a Dean mirror in a universe where John has little to no influence on his life. Adam is “pure!Dean without John and Sam”, raised by Mary as Mary wanted to be (not a hunter, living an apple pie life). Untouched by the supernatural, Adam’s happiest memories are of his prom and playing at the park with his mom. He liked sports, he dated girls, he planned for college and a career in his future. His life is what Dean missed out on when he was raised by John. Yet, what happened to Adam at the end of his life would have happened to Dean if he wasn’t trained and ready to fight the supernatural (which happened when he was raised by John). If the mortal world and Chuck had gotten another variation of his way, he would have ended up killed and possessed without the proper tools to defend himself from a tragic fate. A victim. Dean does not consider himself a victim.

Neither Michael nor Adam are versions of Dean that Cas could have bonded with, and these are the versions of Dean that Chuck kept pressing into his narrative throughout his life. 

So when Cas said “We [Michael!Adam and I] didn’t bond” he was telling Dean that he always came back to him because he likes Dean for who he is, not for the narrative Chuck forces on his life. He doesn’t follow Dean because he’s the Righteous Man or because he’s Mary Winchester’s son. He follows Dean because they bonded. They have a connection, they’ve fought for each other, they know each other, they have history, they’ve coparented, and it is unlikely anything can break that bond between them.

He doesn’t understand Dean’s self hatred and cruel words which is why he left. Cas has come to a point where he knows Dean is a lil butthead sometimes, but because Dean and Cas are who they are, that connection between them is still there. Their bond hasn’t been severed, and it likely never will be. And a bond like that means that they love each other and will make it through this. But, Dean better not get it TWISTED. Their bond may not be broken, but it’s been beat down and slapped around. He needs to say sorry. Give a hug. Talk it out. Be a grown up.

Dean felt that pain Castiel felt when he heard his words repeated back to him. 

He knows he hasn’t apologized. And everyone (Cas, Sam, Eileen, even the viewers) are waiting for an apology and Dean’s not doing it.

Why is Dean not apologizing?

Why won’t Dean say sorry for the things he said to Cas? Why can’t he find the words? Why is this so hard for him? What is he afraid he’ll accidentally say?

Dean doesn’t respond, so Cas sighs and asks where Sam is.

Relieved to have a break from being confronted with his previous actions, Dean struggles out his next line, but his voice wavers like he’s trying to sound casual even though he’s definitely about to cry. Sam has always been an easy topic for Dean to talk about, and while Cas isn’t done fighting, he still wants to be able talk to Dean while they’re together.

Dean says, “Eileen hit a snag on a case. So… he won’t be gone long.”

LET’S TALK ABOUT KITCHENS TWICE MORE AND WE’RE DONE I PROMISE LOL

Kitchen Point #1: Eileen and Sam are quickly becoming a package deal. Just last episode, they were cooking and flirting and smiling after a long night of having fun together. And, here, we see Dean and Castiel having the complete opposite of a good time in the exact same space. There is a notable mirror between the scenes of “Eileen and Sam in the kitchen” while Dean goes off to let them build up their bond, and “Dean and Cas in the kitchen” while Sam let's them repair their bond.

Kitchen Point #2: The kitchen shakes in a way reminiscent of when their son Jack escaped from the Malak box in season 14 episode 19 “Jack in The Box”. Then the first time kitchen shook, it was the final catalyst to break their family. Mary had just recently been killed, Jack was soulless, Dean and Sam went behind Castiel’s back to lock Jack in the Malak box, and Jack was soon to run away and get murdered. The end result of the previous shaken kitchen was Jack’s murder, Chuck’s reveal, and Dean and Castiel’s split.

Now the kitchen shakes again.

Cas looks at Dean for a second time as the scene closes and gets up pointing out the culprit as he says Michael’s name.

We don’t know if Dean looks back.

We get a harrowing shot of Michael!Adam.

The screen fades to black.

I can’t believe there was so much to read from that one small lil tiny preview scene. Safe to say I’m strapped in for the episode. Bring it on.

Just gotta say, I’ve loved all y’all work for a while :) I wanna be a meta-writer too and finally got to do one :) I will be doing more throughout the final season :) your meta work gives me life :) so glad you are writing too :) 

@amwritingmeta @drsilverfish @naruhearts @mittensmorgul @bluestar86 @tinkdw @legendary-destiel @elizabethrobertajones @dotthings @dimples-of-discontent​

#supernatural meta #destiel meta #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #season 15 #spn 15x08 #our father who aren't in heaven #spn promo #supernatural promo #meta #season 15 speculation #my meta #spn meta #season 15 meta #kitchens

[scullyfemme]

Tasting More Than Wine

From the prompt sent in to @baronessblixen: M&S going to Napa Valley for a case, eventually they visit the wineries, get drunk and make out like there’s no tomorrow

I hope you like this!

s7 | 2k words | Mature | Tagging @today-in-fic | Read it on Ao3

---

In hindsight, they probably should have expected this from a case involving a winery.

“Oh, please stay for the wine tasting!” Mrs. Lancaster clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture that didn’t quite fit her upper-crust style and demeanor. “It’s the least we could do after you saved our crops. Free of charge!”

Mulder and Scully both stumbled over their words as they tried to refuse the offer.

“Oh, that’s-”

“We just-”

“We have our-”

“Our flight.”

Mrs. Lancaster simpered. “Why, that’s not until tomorrow!” She moved between the two and hooked each of their arms in one of hers, surprisingly strong as she led them into the ornate building. Inside, a crowd of other upper-class strangers were mingling before the tasting.

“Mrs. Lancaster, we couldn’t-”

“Oh, what the FBI doesn’t know won’t hurt them!” She winked before slipping back through the doors and closing them, virtually locking the two in with some of California’s most affluent.

It was one of the top wineries in the region with very “exclusive” tours and tastings. And by exclusive, they mean expensive. So much so that it was nearly only millionaires who could afford to attend in their crisp linen shirts and thousand-dollar sundresses. Which meant that Mulder and Scully — in their department-store business wear — stuck out like sore thumbs.

Everyone in the room seemed to give them a once-over at the same time. All drew the same conclusion that whoever these two were, they were not worth their highly valuable time. But the tasting soon started, which gave them something to do.

Mulder and Scully, as usual, stood apart from the crowd. They hung near each other and made no attempts to try conversing with the people who likewise were not interested in conversing with them.

Mulder looked around at the women in the room, who reminded him of his childhood summers at the Vineyard. The older women resembled his mother’s DAR friends in their pristine dresses and perfect, sparkling jewelry. The younger women — who were few and far between — made him think of the privileged, prissy rich girls from his boarding school and Oxford days. Ignoring the five S’s of wine tasting, he downed his next sample like a shot. Scully noticed.

Scully, meanwhile, observed the men in the room. Unlike Mulder, she hadn’t had much childhood experience with rich people. But she’d rubbed elbows — well, more like jabbed elbows — with a fair few in med school. The older men who used their status as esteemed doctors to try and take advantage of her, who didn’t care one lick about a patient’s well-being as long as they got their paycheck. The younger men who slept in class while their fathers paid for their grades, then would shamelessly hit on her as if she wanted anything to do with them. She downed her next sample like a shot. Mulder noticed.

Half an hour later, the two were on the verge of tipsy when one exceedingly brave soul decided to debase himself by speaking to them.

“So, are you two…” The younger man eyed them both up and down in assessment. “Businessmen?”

“Uh, FBI agents, actually,” Mulder said while Scully bristled at the fact that the man’s eyes had lingered on her chest for far too long.

“Ah.” They could both see the man’s mind failing to connect the dots between FBI agents and super-expensive wine tasting. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.” He left without waiting to see if they would.

“Must have been hoping to close a deal,” Mulder muttered.

Scully rolled her eyes. “If it weren’t for the alcohol, I’d say this is the worst thanks we’ve ever gotten for a case.”

He chuckled. “Then what would you say is the worst thanks we’ve ever gotten?”

She thought for a moment. “That time we were drugged and the whole town left.”

“I wouldn’t call that a thanks.”

“Well, it was still a pretty shitty end to a case.”

His eyebrows shot up at her curse. Her tongue must have been loosened by the alcohol.

“I’d say chasing a bug man through the California vineyards is pretty shitty,” he countered.

“Mulder, it wasn’t a bug man. It was a swarm of bugs.”

“No, I told you, Scully, it dissolved into a swarm after I shot the bug man.”

“Mulder, that doesn’t make any sense. How could one giant bug — or bug ‘man,’ as you put it — just dissipate into thousands of smaller bugs? Just because you shot it?”

“Wh- It left after that, didn’t it? And what about those fish that, uh, that school together to form one big fish?”

“They don’t actually form one big fish, they just look like one big fish in order to scare away predators.”

“Okay, well what if these bugs did the same thing? Or used to do the same thing, but now actually forming one big bug was the next step in the evolutionary chain?”

“That’s not how evolution works. And where does the ‘man’ part come in? You specifically said it was a bug man, Mulder.”

An older woman wearing a pearl necklace shot Scully a horrified look as she walked by, overhearing the conversation. Scully resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her just to show her what she thought of this upper-class decorum.

“So you’re saying you’d rather believe it was...what? A plague of locusts? In Napa Valley?” Mulder asked.

“I never said it was a plague of locusts, Mulder. But infestations happen all the time. I still don’t even know why we were called out for this case in the first place instead of an exterminator.”

“Well, apparently if you own the best winery in the Valley, you can have the whole of the FBI at your beck and call.” Mulder’s tone was dry as he sipped his wine.

“Here, take mine.” Scully offered out her glass.

“You don’t like it?”

“Smells like vinegar.”

He had to agree, but at this point alcohol was alcohol. He knocked it back and put her glass down nearby, not noticing how she eyed him.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The man who was leading the tasting spoke gently but still managed to gather everyone’s attention. “If you’ll gather ‘round, our next bottle is quite the specialty.”

Mulder went to follow the crowd, but was stopped by Scully pinching his jacket sleeve to hold him back. He looked down at her curiously, and she tilted her head as she turned away, indicating for him to follow her. He obliged, watching with raised eyebrows as she checked to make sure no one was looking before swiping an open bottle of wine and ducking out the side door. Stomach twisting with giddiness at her behavior, he quickly followed.

The side door led to the large processing area of the winery, which was thankfully empty at this time of day. Their quick steps slowed to a leisurely stroll as they got farther from the door, both feeling fueled by adrenaline as if they’d escaped some monster as opposed to rich people who couldn’t care less that they were gone.

“I hope you didn’t grab the bad wine,” he joked, sticking his hands in his pockets as they moved through the warehouse-like space.

Scully sniffed the open bottle before taking a large swig, making a loud pop sound as she pulled it away from her mouth and offered it to him. “S’alright.”

He tried to ignore how his heart skipped a beat as he watched her drink, clearing his throat before taking the bottle. “Where are we going?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I just figured you were getting as tired of being around those people as I was.”

He nodded thoughtfully, taking a swig from the bottle. As he handed it off, he noticed her eyeing him with an unfamiliar expression. He thought he knew all of Scully’s looks, but this one was different. It was a cross between intrigue and...desire? No, that couldn’t be right.

But the way she averted her gaze, her cheeks flushed, made him wonder if maybe that was the right guess.

They rounded a turn and found themselves in a surprisingly secluded corner with a machine that could easily function as a bench for the two of them to sit on. Scully sat casually with her legs apart — the way she often did while in pants — and drank from the bottle.

They sat quietly for a while, passing the bottle between them. It was a companionable silence, both mulling over their separate issues with the people at the wine tasting. At one point, mind slightly numbed by the wine, he spoke up.

“We should probably stop drinking if we want to be able to drive back to the motel.”

With a look of defiance, Scully swiped the bottle from him and took a large gulp, holding eye contact the entire time. Mulder shifted in his seat, wanting to look away but feeling trapped in her gaze. She pulled the bottle away with another pop and continued staring him down. The room felt hot — nearly suffocating — and he wondered if she could hear how irregular his breathing was.

She arched a brow. “Only one of us needs to drive.”

He dropped his jaw in mock offense, grateful for the opportunity to play off how turned on he was. “So you’re just gonna keep drinking without me?”

“Mulder, this is thousand-dollar wine. It shouldn’t go to waste.” She smirked. “No matter how bad it is.”

He huffed a laugh and stole the bottle back, watching her raise her eyebrows in question as he took a sip. Eager to remark, he pulled the bottle away too quickly, a drop of wine rolling down the neck. He quickly caught it with his tongue on instinct, used to doing so with his beer bottles. What he wasn’t used to was Scully’s expression, which had rapidly switched from curiosity to something drastically different. He stared back at her, thinking how his desire was mirrored in her expression, as he slowly lowered the bottle to rest beside him.

In the blink of an eye, they both leaned in, lips crashing together with the urgency of two people who wanted each other more than they cared to admit. Her nails dug into his shoulder as his hand gripped her hair. They’d kissed before — minor ones, like the one at New Year’s. But this was messy and hungry, nothing at all like their previous encounters. She was straddling him before he’d even realized she moved, her hands grasping at any part of his torso she could reach. His hands moved in a similar way, both of them desperate to touch each other — to feel each other — as much as they could.

Scully moved from his lips to his jaw, then down his neck with fervor. He let out a sigh that was almost a moan. He swore he felt her grin against his pulse before grinding down on what was now a prominent erection. His moan wasn’t stifled this time as he tugged her back up by the hair and captured her lips with his again. Her hands wandered down to palm him through his pants, eliciting another moan before she started working at his button and zipper. Was she—?

The loud sound of a door slamming shut on the other side of the large warehouse interrupted them, making it so he wouldn’t find out what she was about to do. They both froze, then jolted apart for fear of whoever was here finding them like this. They righted themselves as quietly as they could, then ducked down in hopes of staying undetected by the intruder. Mulder didn’t dare look over at her as they both tried to calm their heavy breathing that was caused by multiple types of adrenaline.

Heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor, never coming near them as their owner briskly walked from one door to another. The second door clanked shut just as loudly.

They stayed stock-still, listening for any hints that there was anyone else in the room. After a few moments, they both let out equal sighs of relief. Mulder looked over at his partner, who was eyeing him with what he could clearly identify as lust. But there was reservation there, too. Maybe due to almost being caught. Maybe due to the fact that they’d almost just fucked for the first time in a winery. After seven years, it was far from how either of them had probably imagined their first time.

“We should-”

“Yeah.”

They stood up straight, fixing their hair and clothes even further. Scully glanced up at him, then mimed wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb, a sheepish expression on her face. Mulder took the hint and ungracefully wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He eyed the lipstick that came off with a small smile.

They started heading for the nearest exit but Scully stumbled a bit, grabbing his arm for support as she steadied herself. She kept a hold of his arm as they continued walking.

“Jeez, Scully, how much wine did you have?” He teased.

She didn’t respond, instead turning her head away from him so he couldn’t see her expression. Maybe it wasn't the wine.

“I think we should get back to the motel.” Her tone was casual, but her grip on his arm was suggestive of something else.

He swallowed thickly. There was no way he could drive their rental in this state of inebriation and arousal. And Scully was definitely in a similar — if not worse — way.

“Maybe we should call a cab.”

She smirked. “Maybe Mrs. Lancaster would be oh-so-grateful enough to lend us a limo.”

#kai.fic #xf fic #msr fic #time to post this when no one is online ;P

[whirlybirbs]

                                                  (   gif by @barissoffee​     )

      ---   STARJOCKEY & CO.   ;   1 of ?

summary: the bad batch gets a pilot.  pairing: twi’lek!reader x hunter word count: 2.1 a/n: i love the bitter enemies to friends trope, i love twi’leks, i love racer characters, and i love smashing them all together. hunter is a babe and i love the boys. will contain spoilers for s7 of tcw. set loosely before s7.

Cody wonders, as himself and the four soldiers behind him amble towards the GAR’s main hangar bay on Coruscant, if this is a fool’s errand.

But -- Clone Force 99 isn’t like all the other squadron’s in the Grand Army of the Republic. They were special ops. Independent, reporting to no one but themselves. Arguably the best of the best, and...

They needed a pilot.

Cody had raked through the file and rank trying to find someone suitable to run details with the Bad Batch, but... he kept coming back to you. 

That’s saying something, really, because good civvie pilots rarely stuck around -- more often than not, they came in the form of racers caught on the upper levels of Coruscant who were offered two choices: serve out your sentence, or fly a few transport missions under the GAR for compensation and waived time in general population. 

A win-win for some.

The truth was pilots were few and far between with the height of the Outer Rim Sieges in swing -- the GAR’s AirCorp was busy running dogfights rather than transport details. The piloting courses were the longest inscription time of all, aside from Commando-bas training. So, somewhere along the line this business model was cooked up.

Serve the cause and drop the charge.

You were no different from all the others... at first. 

You’d been bagged by Fox sometime last year while being crowned the winning racer in a tourney on the 34th level. Fox’s boys clocked you coming over the line well over the legal speed limit -- and then, you proceeded to lead them on a chase through the entire Financial District that ended with a wreck that left your ride in a ball of fire and Lt. Dive in the medbay for two days. 

When you were bagged you took the latter of the deals offered. One week later, you’d flown Cody himself and five other 212th boys through the thick of Felucia’s frontline on a medical supply run. When the Sep’s spotted the LAAT/i and began laying down cover fire, you’d somehow managed to get the ship outta the drop zone without a single scathe. 

And then it happened again. And again, and again. You were good. You’d managed to land an LAAT/i with only one working engine on Ithor, flown steady through a sandstorm on Jakku, and deployed an entire battalion’s worth of reinforcements to Umbara in the short time you’d flown for the GAR. Under your wings, not a single casualty.

You flew Cody on six runs total, to various Outer Rim siege points, before your charges were waived. 

But, you stuck around. 

Lucky for Cody. 

In all honesty, it was better work than what you were used to -- racing was just a hobby. In reality, it was smuggling paid that bills. And it did enough, sure, but it was dangerous work. Especially if the supplier doesn’t disclose you’re hauling a Class-45B controlled toxin and a canister ruptures mid-flight. Or, if the Nexu kittens decide to orchestrate a coordinated prison break from their crates half-way to the trade markets on Zygerria. 

You still had scars from that one. 

The GAR paid civilians well enough. You could afford a decent apartment on the 56th level of the Senate District; a quick zip to the Garrison. You’d even gotten a wiped record on the third month of running supplies. 

You hadn’t seen Commander Fox’s face when he’d handed over the datapad explaining the details, but you could tell the head of Capital Security was not pleased. Not surprising. But, you’d waltzed outta that office with your head held high. 

This gig was a new start.

You liked Clone Marshall Commander Cody. 

He was -- by far -- your favorite of the upper-ranks to work with. He was kind, but beneath the exterior of leader there was a bit of an attitude. It all made sense when you’d met the General Jedi he served under. Two sides of the same coin. Cody laughed when you’d explained that you got it now. 

It was reassuring to know Cody liked you, too. Trusted you, even.

You suppose if that wasn’t the case, then you wouldn’t be here now. 

... Getting a squadron assignment.

"Cody, this ship is a nightmare.”

The first time the Bad Batch ever lays eyes on you, you’re swaggering off of the jet-black ship’s landing ramp with gloved hands on your hips. The look on your face is one of playful anger, directed directly at the Grand Marshall Commander who barks a laugh at the jest. 

“Is it now?”

“I hate this!”

From around the back of the ship, it’s the voice of a FA-4 pilot droid that cries out the indignant exclamation -- you grin, watching as the droid in question wheels out from the underbelly and waves it’s skinny little arms. It’s got a bundle of chewed through wiring in it’s hands.

“I could kill you, Commander,” the droid whines, female-coded voice emerging from it’s vocalizer. The matte black body of the droid is littered in neon graffiti -- on it’s faceplate, a lopsided smiley face is painted in hot pink. It’s wheels kick up with a wwwwiiiirrrrrr as it skirts around the trooper in question, “We’ll be lucky is this ship flies.”

“Calm down, Deemi,” you wave off the droid, D-M1, as she rounds the nose of the ship to discard the useless wiring from the landing gear, “It’ll fly.”

“Says you!”

You roll your eyes, scoffing at the flustered droid as you approach Cody. 

“Is it really that bad?” he asks lowly, suddenly concerned.

“It’s certainly not great,” you mumble, looking back over your shoulder. You swipe at your forehead. Your red-tinted goggles sit around your throat, “... How’d you get this ship again?”

“Repo,” Cody says curtly, “Smugglers. Maybe you knew ‘em.”

"Ha, ha.”

Hunter is skeptical. 

He’s heard enough about you from Cody, but -- the Twi’lek before him looks less like a street racing criminal hotshot and more like a holo-star. Your skin, peachy and dappled, paints you softer than he imagined. He’d expected someone... taller. Scarred. Rough.

A man, maybe.

Not a pretty little Twi’lek.

“This the pilot you’ve been talkin’ about, then, Commander? Or is it the droid?”

Both you and Cody turn around, then, and you notice that four visored eyes are glued on you. The one in the front, tall and broad with half a skull painted on his helmet, is the one that spoke. Low and rough. Different from all the voices you’d come to know in the hangar. 

Bitter. Condescending. Cold.

And just like that, you settle on the fact you don’t like him.

You watch his visor move down your figure, then; your lekku curl, swatting despite the fact they’re pinned back by the black headpiece strapped tightly across your crest. 

Tech, from behind Crosshair, can read the gesture of obscenity with ease. He has to hide a laugh into his fist.

Your cross your arms across your chest and lean, cocking a hip. You mimic the gesture, dragging your eyes up his long legs and battered, jet-black armor. He’s built different from Cody. More compact. A bit taller.

“Eyes are up here, boc’ara,” the Ryl sounds foreign, more like a hiss than anything, and when Cody sees the flash of your incisors, he knows to step up. 

“Er, boys, meet your new pilot,” Cody says your name, eyes bounding between you and the Leader of the Bad Batch, “Zip, this is --”

“Zip?” the soldier scoff, arms crossed over his chest plate.

Cody pinches his brow. Is he gonna have to explain the nickname?

“It’s --”

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Zip,” suddenly offers a small trooper, squeezing around the leader of the squad. His eyes are big and brown behind goggles -- but kind, nonetheless, “My name is Tech.”

Suddenly, a hand is in your personal space. You can’t help but quirk a smile. You shake his hand easily, watching as the smaller trooper lights up at the friendly exchange.

“I’d enjoy speaking Ryl with you, sometime.”

“Yeah?” you ask, realizing that he must have caught the insult earlier.

“Ka,” the trooper chirps in Ryl, eyes squinting happily, “I am not very good -- and I enjoy the language. Sounds pretty.”

“Arni,” you grin, thanking him as you nod, “I’d like that, Tech.”

With a amicable smile, the trooper weaves around you and moves towards the ship.

“Th’ big one is Wrecker,” Cody says, then, gesturing to the biggest one in the back who offers a wave -- he moves forward, clapping the leader on the back as he does. You hear a light oof emerge from his vocalizer. 

“Ignore Mister Moody,” the man bellows, “Welcome to the Bad Batch, girly!”

You watch as the towering man moves to follow Tech, most likely to inspect the ship. You turn to Cody, raise a brow, and cock your head. “... Bad Batch?” 

“We ain’t like the others,” comes a fourth voice, raspy and coarse. This trooper is similar in size to the leader, with a charcoal colored helmet. The sniper rifle on his shoulder gives away his position in the squad, “An’ you ain’t a reg.”

You’re not entirely sure what that means, and you can’t tell if this one is trying to size you up or not. 

So, you offer a hand, unwavering from your spot. He shakes it after a moment of consideration. 

“Crosshair.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Is it?”

“Maybe,” you measure, “Haven’t decided yet.”

That earns a laugh from the sniper -- and Crosshair swats at Cody’s arm. 

“I like her.”

“Yeah, well, what did I say?”

“You said she was good,” comes the last voice -- the leader, who has yet to move from his spot. He’s rooted there, with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed beneath his helmet, “Real good.”

“Zip, this is Hunter,” Cody says slowly, “Sergeant of Clone Force 99.”

“Sergeant? With an attitude like that?”

Cody chokes on his words. 

Hunter rolls his eyes, pushing off his pose and moving towards the ship. He changes the subject quickly. “The droid says it won’t fly.”

“The droid,” comes an aggravated voice, “has a name!”

D-M1 proceeds to bonk straight into Hunter’s leg, then, spurring a laugh out yourself and the other members of the Bad Batch. You cover your mouth, shaking your head slightly. 

“My designation is D-M1,” she barks, “Don’t be ungrateful.”

Cody smirks. 

You push past the Sergeant, shrugging. “You heard the droid.”

Hunter’s eye twitches. 

Cody offers an apologetic look to the Sergeant as he enters the Havoc Marauder, following your lead. With a sigh, Hunter follows. The inside of the ship is in decent enough shape, and Tech pokes around the navicomputer as you throw yourself into the pilot’s seat. That droid whirs by Hunter again, bonking his leg on the way by, and moves to your side. 

“The biggest issue is the transmission,” you say, “And the fact the navi-coordinates are, like, half a klik off. That will be a problem come the jump to hyperspace.”

“How long ‘til it’s fixed?”

“Give me a day.”

Hunter leans in the cockpit doorway. “We don’t have a day.”

“Then find another ship and find another pilot,” you spit past Cody, swiveling to toss the insult his way, “Not my problem.”

“We can push the op back a day,” Cody cuts in, settling his between you both, “Do what you can, Zip. Tomorrow -- 0600 -- I want you up on deck. We’re gonna cover op in the debrief.”

“Oh, yeah, forget the droid --”

You snicker. 

Cody rolls his eyes. “Deemi, you can come, too.”

“Thank you.”

“You boys are dismissed,” Cody calls out, “You heard the time?”

“0600,” Crosshair nods, waving off the Commander, “Got it.”

“Try not to screw our ride in the mean time, yea?” Hunter shoots your way, “Baca’ra.”

The insult he tries to land in Ryl misses by a long shot. You snort at the mispronunciation. 

Behind him, Tech corrects the leader. 

“It’s boc’ara.”

“Whatever.”

When the entirety of the Bad Batch exits the ship, you give Cody a look. You swivel in the pilot’s chair, arms across your chest. You cross your leg, ignoring the grease smears along the neon green flight suit. You drum your fingers on your arm. 

Finally, when you hear their voices receed, you make a face. “Th’ hell was that?” 

“I should have warned you,” Cody groans, “They’re... different.”

“What’s with the...?” you gesture to your face, referencing Tech’s glasses.

Cody pinches his nose again. “The Bad Batch are... genetically different. Clones, but... with desirable mutations. They’re a shadow ops team and -- and you’re the only civilian pilot I know that can handle them and their assignments.”

“There’s nothing desirable about Hunter --”

“He’s a little rough around the edges. He’ll warm up,” Cody promises, “He will. He always does.”

You plan on holding Cody to it. 

Cody wonders, as he wanders back to the barracks through GAR’s main hangar bay alone, if this really is a fool’s errand.

#hunter x reader #bad batch x reader #star wars imagine #clone trooper hunter x reader #hunter imagine #bad batch imagine #tcw imagine #HEHHEHEHE #starjockey & co