wip wednesday
tagged by @rewritetheending @onward--upward and @alyxmastershipper 💓💓💓
i haven’t reeeeally started writing anything other than planning this out broadly because it’s very plot heavy but got a little lost thinkin about the intimacy of shaving the other day so this is from x files au in some shitty shared motel room while they’re cryptid hunting or chasing aliens idk we’ll figure it out
When he emerges, hair towelled dry and in clean clothes, Eddie frowns at him.
“What?” he asks. “Promise I didn’t finish all the hot water.”
“No, you just look—” Eddie gestures at Buck’s face, “—scruffier than usual.”
“Oh,” Buck says, running a hand over his day-four stubble. “I forgot my razor.”
“Oh,” Eddie’s face clears, “just use mine.”
Buck swallows. “Um. Okay. Thanks.”
Eddie nods at him and goes back to squinting at his phone, so Buck about-faces and re-enters the bathroom.
It’s not a big deal, he tells himself as he foams up his face. It’s like—like sharing a hairbrush. Intimate, sure, not something you’d tend to do with people you don’t know well, but it’s not a big deal.
He wets the razor and brings it to his throat, heart hammering there so violently it feels like his Adam’s apple is trying to get out. If his hand doesn’t stop trembling he’s going to nick himself, and God, he is being absolutely fucking ridiculous.
Deep breath. The razor glides over the thin skin of his throat, muscle memory even as he stares at himself in the mirror. Doesn’t think about Eddie doing this every morning, using this very razor. Blade edge kissing his jaw the same way it kisses Eddie’s. Doesn’t think about Eddie doing this for him, hand holding his chin as he shaves Buck carefully, grip firm when he turns Buck’s face this way and that. Doesn’t think about Eddie kissing where the blade kissed him first.
Doesn’t think about any of that when he rinses the razor clean and slots it back into the travel mug, where Buck’s toothbrush rests against Eddie’s with such easy familiarity it’s about to spark a whole new crisis.
tagging @try-set-me-on-fire @jeeyuns @housewifebuck @anxieteandbiscuits @forthewolves @zahlibeth @athenagranted @buckactuallys @transboybuckley @icecreampotluck @diazblunt if you have anything to share today or later!
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So much to look forward to 🫠
But xfiles???
I’ve had so many small head canons building up, I’m so glad someone’s writing some!
It's one of those AU's that just pop up one day out of nowhere and then don't leave. I don't have the full scope of the fic yet, because I want to finish my rewatch of X-Files at some point, so it's been on the backburner for quite some time.
But it's got so much potential!
"So, you actually believe in this stuff?" Silver looks around the room, the files strewn over the desks. The single poster on the wall that reads “I want to believe.” The rest of the wall space is covered with newspaper clippings and maps with photos attached to them.
"Of course not. This is to cover my tracks and keep them off my back. There's something afoot here, and I'm going to figure out what it is."
"What would you say the chances are of it being the government?"
"About 80%."
"So you're still entertaining a 20% chance that its aliens? "
"Again, there's something going on. Did you not hear me the first time?"
Silver must not have wiped the skepticism from his face in time, because Flint turns his back and sighs.
"My husband disappeared."
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Oh hey, look at the X-Files Steddie AU no one asked for! Anyway...
Agent Munson wasn't known for being a team player.
He prided himself on driving everyone crazy. Not just his boss, not just his coworkers, not just his neighbors. Everyone. Maybe not his cat, Ozzy was a patient creature, but that was it. He hoped that in time, people would learn their lesson and he would be left alone on the X-Files, free to research his life's work. He was tired of being called "spooky", of being treated like a freak. Excuse him for having and actual reason to be here, for keeping his eyes and mind open.
But of course, someone had the bright idea to assign him yet another partner. Again. As if this one would be any different. And so Munson resigned himself to another round of the same old situation - the guy comes in, sees the weird shit he has in his office, realizes the X-Files is a dead-end job, gets mad at his completely reasonable theories, tries to impede his investigations and eventually gets pissed off and pushes enough to get assigned elsewhere (agent Hagan, oh how Eddie didn't miss that spotted mug of his), gets bitten and infected by a mutated creature from abandoned steelworks (agent Hargrove, a piece of shit until he wasn't, but then he was nearly dead and transferred, so that was a big question mark on the character development) or straight up dies by melting into two halves for their ignorance (agent Carver, Munson told him not to get too close to that acid-vomiting guy, he really did, but did that blonde asshole listen? Of course not, not since Chrissy...but that was another can of worms. A whole pot of worms). And then all those that didn't even last a week, Munson didn't really care to remember their names. This one was likely in the last group too.
And yet he wasn't. When Munson kicked open the door to his office, balancing a huge pile of printed out articles, he found himself facing a barrel of a gun - and behind it, a deceptively pretty mane of hair and even prettier amber eyes. Of course, Munson only found that out later, after agent Harrington calmed down and helped him pick up the scattered papers. "Seriously, man, ever heard of a doorknob? They're neat." And he had a sense of humor too...and was a bit of an asshole, which hey, relatable.
Munson just shook his head. "Do you think I get many visitors here, Harrington? Sorry I wasn't expecting company."
"Weren't you told I'd be coming?" His eyes traveled to a box of unopened internal letters and memos. "Hm. Guess that answers my question."
Munson shrugged and collected the remaining papers, shoving them on top of a very wobbly pile. He then collapsed into a chair that gave a very undignified squeak and observed Harrington with narrowed eyes. A handsome guy, almost pretty. Fabulous hair. Haunted eyes. Once again, relatable. "So what did you even do to get buried down here with me?" he asked, picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers. "Slept with someone's wife? Refused to rush an inconvenient investigation? Punched Hagan when he was being a racist pig?"
He was set on hating Harrington, maybe just disliking him before he inevitably left, but then he had the nerve to smirk and run that perfectly manicured hand through his hair. "If I did that every time, Hagan's face would look like a meat loaf in two business days."
Despite his best efforts, Munson snickered. "Doesn't it though?"
They shared a brief truce before Harrington straightened his back and adjusted his perfect tie. "Actually, I asked to be transferred here."
Munson dropped his pen. Well, he actually let it go mid-spin and it flew off to the pile of papers, disrupting its fragile balance. Harrington effortlessly reached over and stabilized it. "Excuse me. You fucking did what."
It wasn't a question because there was no reasonable answer, nothing that could make the situation make sense. "I asked. That's what people do when they want something."
"Cool. I was just checking." Munson's mind was racing now. This one would probably take longer than two weeks. Shit. "But...why?"
Harrington leaned against his desk, started reading through his articles without even wincing. Munson was pretty sure the top article was about a case of cannibalism, what the hell was this guy? "Heard you pissed off a cult."
Oh. That. Munson had almost forgotten, he interrupted a holy ceremony or something by reminding them that kidnapping and ritual sacrifice weren't protected by the constitution. "They weren't exactly difficult to piss off," he mentioned, still watching Harrington with suspicion. "So you volunteered to be my watchdog or something?"
For the first time, Harrington's full attention shifted to Munson and well, that was uncomfortable. The look had some unspoken weight to it and Harrington leaned forward, into Munson's personal space. "Whatever it takes. Watchdog, bodyguard, I don't care. I'll be honest with you, Munson. I don't really believe in supernatural stuff, but I sure believe in human evil. Cults like the one you disrupted? They're the worst. I'm not here because I want to find Bigfoot, communicate with spirits or whatever you do, but I've heard about the way you work. You look into anything and everything. You're so meticulous it's annoying. You get results, no matter what the guys above us say. And you get away with it. That's why I'm here."
Munson just stared at him and wanted to ask so many things. What the fuck was Harrington's history with cults? Why would he throw away his career for it? How did he maintain that majestic hairstyle even though their brief scuffle? So many questions on his mind, but Harrington was there, willing to work and maybe that was the best Munson would ever get.
He smirked at Harrington and slapped the pile of papers. "Works for me, big boy. Now let's get to it, I think I might have a few cases that you'll find interesting."
Harrington rolled his eyes, but returned the smirk. "Glad I passed the job interview, Munson. Show me."
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