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nachosncheezies · 3 months

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the x files season 7 ficlet, 500 words, angst

I’m bad at titles. I guess this falls under “If Mulder’s brain disease was real, why did he hide it from Scully?”

Note: I don’t really have an opinion about Mulder’s Brain Disease as a plot point; treat this as canon-adjacent or canon-divergent as it suits you.

It is hopeless, the doctors say, hopeless, his contacts agree, and he tries and tries to find his own solution - he will not give up - but hopeless is all he finds. They've seen so much, survived so much, he has put her through so much, and coming to the other side of all things to this place that is theirs is so new. No one ever said life was fair.

He remembers what it was to watch her dying. The helplessness, the anger, the desperation as a placeholder for soul-rending despair yet to come. He doesn't want that for her. He doesn't want her scouring journals, sleeping in labs, crying in the shower where she thinks he cannot hear.

She'll be furious when she finds out, he knows; she'll be furious and hurt and might never forgive him. But if this is all they have, he wants to make it count. Whether she suffers a long, drawn out goodbye over the space of months or whether she's furious for the space of weeks or days, he wants her to have something to look back on. He wants to leave her with good memories, happy memories. Something more than bitter regret for how long they took in getting here.

And so he tells her not to worry. To read her journals, work on her manuscripts. Dine with her mother. I'll check it out, he says, and I’ll call you if it's worth our time. And he does. Week after week, he does. He picks cases that are interesting, mysterious. Things that will tease at their shared curiosity and challenge their shared intellect. Things that will let them laugh, and explore, and have fun in that easy way they've so rarely experienced since their first year, since he and Deep Throat drew her into the Syndicate's crosshairs and loss became the third constant companion in their partnership.

He takes her to Huntington Beach, to Smith Mountain Lake, the Shedd Aquarium, a side trip to Nashville and some truly outstanding chicken. He finds reasons to take her west, and if he accidentally drives a little too far south down I-5 while she's napping and lands them in spitting distance of San Diego, well, it'd be a shame to waste the serendipity of an unexpected lunch with her sister-in-law and nephew. He can always finish the paperwork and meet her after.

He kisses her under the same stars in a dozen different states and watches her bloom, no longer the green and puppyfat kid from Quantico but once again graced with her easy smiles and goofy laugh. He takes a picture or two for Maggie, so that when it's all over and he breaks her daughter's heart, she'll know he did his best, that it wasn't all a waste, that for a while, he made their girl happy.

She'll be furious when she finds out, and he feels terribly guilty, but guilt is not a new companion, and her smile could rival the sun.

#x files #the x files #txf s7 #x files fanfic #xf fanfic #x files fanfiction #txf fanfic #nachos writes

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shmaptainwrites · 9 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐗-𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 —

Dana Scully x Fox Mulder

A World Without You [AO3]

- Mulder visits Scully while she’s in the hospital going through chemo

As a Hello [AO3]

- One of the many ways in which Mulder and Scully have said I love you

If it Wasn’t Obvious [AO3]

- Mulder Says I love you under the sheets

Grounders [AO3]

- Scully says I love you over a cup of coffee

My Idiot [AO3]

- Mulder says I love you as a scream

Crumbling [AO3]

- Scully says I love you as an apology

Fox Mulder

[TBD]

#the x-files #x files #x files fanfiction #msr #msr fanfic #x files fanfic #mulder x scully #dana scully x fox mulder #fox mulder x dana scully #fox mulder #dana scully #fox mulder x reader #fox mulder fanfiction #fox mulder fanfic #dana scully fanfiction #dana scully fanfic

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xfilesfanficexchange · 8 months

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Welcome to the Perfect Other Exchange!

Today we celebrate the Perfect Other Exchange which will feature stories written in the season 8 and 9 timeframe!

Check out the Ao3 Collection here and make sure to give the authors some love!

#XFPerfectOther2023

#XFPerfectOther2023 #x files fanfic #x files fanfiction #mulder #scully #msr #season 8 #season 9 #the x files #x files

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all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth · 5 months

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All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Season Three Master Post

We’ve come to the conclusion of a momentous season! From some of the most iconic episodes to some of the most beloved characters, season three was full of intense chapters!

Check out this thread to see all the characters we got to meet!

3x01 | The Blessing Way - The Well-Manicured Man (@fridaysat9

They were all living on the precipice of the end of the human race, but they were only concerned with jobs, school assignments, and playdates.

Life, as it should be.

3x02 | Paper Clip - Victor Klemper (@monikafilefan)

The offspring of a rebel syndicate member unearthing truths Victor has spent decades trying to bury beneath buttercups and begonias has marked him for certain death.

3x03 | D.P.O. - Darin Peter Oswald (@gaycrouton)

His friend was scared of him, and it made Darin feel powerful.

3x04 | Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose - Clyde Bruckman (@fridaysat9)

A funny thing happens when you see your own death. At first you try to make sense of it– what could it mean, why the tears, why her? Then you try to change it.

3x05 | The List - Dr. Juan Ullrich (@monikafilefan)

Juan fidgets with an evidence bag, trying not to blatantly stare at the agents holding an entire conversation with their eyes while systematically categorizing every sway of their bodies, every touch of her hands.

3x06 | 2Shy - Lauren MacKalvey (@gaycrouton)

2SHY > You have no idea how beautiful I think you are. I must confess… I feel inextricably drawn to you. I can’t stop thinking about what you said the other day… You don’t deserve to feel lonely, Lauren.

3x07 | The Walk - Leonard 'Rappo' Trimble (@admiralty-xfd)

Every night, he walks again. And every morning he wakes in the same bed with the same phantom pain. Every day he wishes he’d just died; that explosion that didn’t quite kill him cost him his life, anyway.

3x08 | Oubliette - Lucy Householder (@monikafilefan)

She has to go. It’s all so clear now. She has to go back. Through the woods, through the house — into the dark. Maybe she was never meant to leave it at all.

3x09 | Nisei - Penny Northern (@gaycrouton)

It was the strength of these women that got her through those experiences, and it was the strength of these women that would help her embark on this dark path they were all destined to walk.

3x10 | 731 - First Elder (The Well-Fed Man) (@admiralty-xfd)

The one thing that can be manipulated more effectively than any other is her fear of the unknown… of what happened to her last year.

3x11 | Revelations - Owen Lee Jarvis (@fridaysat9)

He gave of himself, abandoning what little life he’d had, to honor God’s words and do as he had been called.

3x12 | War of the Coprohages - Dr. Bambi Berenbaum (@gaycrouton)

Bambi felt a flush spread across her chest as his hypothesis brought a smile to her face. Hearing that he hadn’t been merely indulging her earlier was a refreshing change of pace.

3x13 | Syzygy - Detective Angela White (@admiralty-xfd)

Detective White stops as Agent Scully finally glances over at her, somewhat defensively. And then she gets it. Everything about the way she’s been treated since the agents arrived makes perfect sense.

3x14 | Grotesque - Agent Bill Patterson (@fridaysat9)

Patterson figured that Mulder might have a theory about a potential copycat killer, but no; he’d been researching gargoyles and goblins. Monsters recorded in dusty old tomes pulled from the library shelves.

3x15 | Piper Maru - Kimberly (@monikafilefan)

Kimberly Cook is good at her secretarial job. So when the man she’s been working closely with for two years is troubled, she refuses to let him file the feeling away like some confidential case in his cabinet.

3x16 | Apocrypha - Luis Cardinal (@admiralty-xfd)

The Scully woman is not simply angry, she’s unhinged. And there’s a small part of him that understands; it’s the part of him that, prior to working for the Smoker, had never been asked to shoot an innocent woman before.

3x17 | Pusher - Agent Frank Burst (@fridaysat9)

Frank doesn’t care if he has to tell him his mother’s maiden name and his favorite breakfast cereal if it means getting his location.

3x18 | Teso Dos Bichos - Officer (@monikafilefan)

He doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.

3x19 | Hell Money - Hsin Shuyang (@gaycrouton)

The gods might not be listening, but the devil was waiting for him down the street, ready to play a game with all the men whose American dreams had turned into nightmares.

3x20 | Jose Chung's From Outer Space - Detective Manners (@fridaysat9)

That's a bleepin' dead alien body, if I ever bleepin' saw one.

3x21 | Avatar - Carina Sayles (@monikafilefan)

She can tell he doesn’t do this. Doesn’t drink alone in a bar, letting a stranger slowly seduce him.

3x22 | Quagmire - Queequeg (@gaycrouton)

Queequeg was loved.

3x23 | Wetwired - 'Doctor' Stroman (@admiralty-xfd)

Another town, another test, another shitty motel room… but always the same boss.

3x24 | Talitha Cumi - Teena Mulder (@monikafilefan)

If only Bill had known back then that the untrustworthy person he was referring to would sleep with his wife and father his son.

Stay tuned for more perspectives coming in Season Four!

1 | 2 | 3

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singeart · 7 days

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20 Writer Questions

Thank you @mytardisisparked for tagging me!

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

An astounding 20! I never thought I'd write this many haha

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

79,836

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mostly Star Trek Voyager and The X Files! I always thought about writing for Once Upon A Time but never felt a strong enough calling- I'm pretty happy with how Captain Swan played out ;)

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

+ A Flower for Everytime I Think of You (chlonath from Miraculous Ladybug, I miss how popular this ship was ;-; I feel like I can't find anything new for it on here)

(the rest are from Voyager~)

+ Two Shorten the Road

+ Suspension

+ Compote

+ Gold Rush

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yeah for the most part! Especially if people point out a certain part they liked I live for that!!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I am a happy ending girlie, all the angst happens in the middle of my fics lol. That being said, I think For That Which Ails You could be considered a little angsty at the end because Scully is still terminally ill, nothing has actually changed, and Mulder wasn't there when she woke up. There's a bit of melancholy to it!

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Probably Compote! Fluffy throughout and then they share a laugh and a Moment tm at the end of it

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Thankfully no!

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Writing kisses is hard enough lmao. I also just don't want to

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

No I've never even thought about doing that! Voyager x X Files would be so fun though

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge, though yeah AI has probably scanned some of my works

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nay

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not, technically, but brainstorming with the bestie and mutuals is always great for inspiration!!

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I can't choose, Janeway x Chakotay and Mulder x Scully are both profound to meee

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Well...I had this idea for a Admiral Janeway centered fic but I don't think it's going to happen. Also a couple of AU ideas for J/C but eh they don't feel original enough u_u

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue babey, I think!! And the little meaningful exchanges that come with? I also think I can write subtle funny stuff pretty well though maybe it's only noticeable to me haha

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Describing a scene, I never do I am relying on the reader's imagination LOL

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Never had a reason to, not that I'm fluent in anything else :/

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Miraculous Ladybug ^_^

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I think it's still Kathryn Janeway, PI because I loove the idea of her playing detective and writing from Chakotay's pov was a nice challenge for me, but Hastilude is coming in at a close second... I really enjoyed coming up with a case that Mulder and Scully had to solve and figuring out how all the pieces fit together, plus I got to put them in silly little outfits, what's not to like?

Tagging: the user reading this!! seriously I want to know :3c

#not art #umm hehe you can always send me asks about my fics i am dyin to know if people pick up on the symbolism and such #idk how to tag this uhh self promo time? yall mind if i uhh #x files fanfiction #janeway x chakotay #chlonath

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darwin-xf · 8 months

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Vox Mulder: Fired & Wired:

archiveofourown.org/works/14457993…

Approaching 40,000 hits. Tysm for reading & liking my story. For yr friendship, your own work, & for a rambling deep conversation spanning 25 years.

A playlist I compiled as I wrote VMFW 5yrs ago:

#xfiles #the x files #fox mulder #dana scully #msr #msr fanfic #mulder x scully #x files fanfiction #txf #x files #scully x mulder #Spotify

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xfiles-vibes · 7 months

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The first two chapters of my very first X Files fic went live a couple days ago, and I really appreciate everyone who’s taken the time to check them out!

For those who might be interested, here’s the link. Happy reading, and don’t forget to leave a comment if you liked what you saw!

#the x files #fox mulder #dana scully #samantha mulder #x files fanfiction #the lone gunmen #richard langly #John Fitzgerald byers #Melvin frohike #mulder x scully #fanfiction #todayinfic

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cecilysass · 1 year

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Still Feeling My Father Ascend (1/4)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter One

Memory: 1984

Mulder is packing his suitcase to return to Oxford after a summer spent split awkwardly between his parents’ homes when his father unexpectedly comes into the bedroom. He watches his son fold his shirts and smokes a cigarette. Mulder waits.

After a minute his father clears his throat. “I should have talked to you more about girls,” he says. “It’s probably too late now, but I hope you’re smart about it.”

Mulder doesn’t look up from his suitcase, tucking socks methodically in between folded shirts. His father takes an audible drag.

“It’s easy to make mistakes,” his father continues. “Don’t get attached too soon. You’re a… well, you’re kind of an idealistic kid. Soft. Don’t marry the first girl you fall in love with.”

By this point in his life, Mulder has already been in love. He might have gone on to marry her, had she been willing. Had she not broken his heart. His father knows nothing of this, of course. Mulder continues to pack without responding.

“You’re old enough to understand that I made some mistakes in my own life,” his father says. “A man makes a bad choice, and he’s stuck. He’s not … satisfied. For years. I don’t want the same for you.”

A deep well of anger pits in Mulder’s stomach, thinking of his silent and broken mother, but still he doesn't speak.

“I guess what I’m trying to say, Fox, is that there’s no point in trying to be a good man,” his father continues. “That’s a waste of your efforts. There’s no such thing as a good man. The more you try to be good, you only get trapped, compromised. The best thing to do is try … to avoid entanglements.”

Mulder lets out a very slow and silent sigh. Avoid entanglements. He isn’t surprised this is his father’s dating advice, but it depresses him nonetheless.

“Anyway. I know you probably have your own ideas about things. You’re not a kid anymore. But that’s my two cents.”

At last Mulder looks up. He realizes he’s been clenching his jaw. “Okay,” he says tightly. “Thanks, Dad.”

Nodding, his father sucks on the cigarette, regards him for a moment, and leaves.

Mulder looks down into the suitcase and notices his body is trembling. With anger, with fright, with unexpressed need. He can barely calm down enough to continue packing, but he does somehow.

The absolute last thing he’d ever intended to do was follow his father’s advice. But later, he realizes that somehow he did anyway.

January 1994

The forecast is predicting at least a foot of snow, possibly more: a record-busting winter storm for metro D.C., the local news breathlessly proclaims. Scully dutifully checks in with her recently widowed mother, but both Bill and Melissa are still staying there, so it’s decided there’s really no need for her to drive over.

“Jesus, she’s not still working, is she? Tell her to go home before the roads get bad,” Bill grumbles audibly in the background of the phone conversation. He probably thinks it’s now his role to needle her about her job, she realizes. He’s presumed that the mantle has fallen on him.

“You’ll be careful, Dana, won’t you?” Her mother’s grief has been manifesting as anxiety, as though the sheer unpredictability of the world has rattled her to the core. “Don’t drive if you don’t have to.”

“I won’t, Mom. I’m already home, actually.”

“Will your partner check in with you? That’s what partners do, right?”

“Probably,” says Scully. She doesn’t say that Mulder is still recovering from his gunshot wound—that in fact she’s considering whether she should check in on him. This would mean she’ll probably end up driving in the snow.

“Oh good,” her mother says. “That’s good.” An odd little pause. “I’d like to meet him, you know. Your partner.” Scully, who has been putting up dishes in her kitchen cabinet, freezes in place, plate midair. “Your father would have, too. He understood the importance of a good shipmate.” Her mother’s voice has begun to unravel a little. “Anyway, you should invite him for dinner sometime.”

“Oh,” Scully says, beginning to move again, putting the plate away. “That would be… maybe I will.”

It’s unimaginable, Mulder making conversation with her mother. The idea unsettles her.

“Tell Dana to call and update you this weekend so you don’t worry,” comes Melissa’s firm voice in the background.

“I will,” Scully promises her mother. “I’ll call tomorrow and let you know how I’m faring in the snow.”

“Just stay inside,” her mother says again. “Nothing risky, Dana. Warm and cozy.”

&&&

The first flakes of snow descend lazily over Alexandria. Mulder watches in a sullen huff through his blinds, wishing he were at work, wishing he were with the Gunmen in their filthy paranoid frat house. Wishing that he were anywhere else, really, anywhere besides alone in this apartment.

He hooks the blinds with his finger and bends them down, trying to lean over to evaluate traffic on the street below. This movement unexpectedly hurts. He winces and places a hand on his leg, where the bandage still covers the consequence of his failure to heed Boggs’ warning.

Years ago, when Mulder first wrote the profile on Boggs, he was a different man. An overgrown boy, really: eager to be noticed for his intellect, eager to be praised by people in authority. Fine work, Agent Mulder. You’re going places.

That people-pleasing iteration of Mulder is so long gone that he can’t really remember what it felt like to be inside his head. He wonders what his go-getter younger self would think, knowing that his much-lauded Boggs profile was wrong.

No. Not wrong, maybe, but incomplete. It was a snapshot of Boggs before his first brush with death, before something otherworldly touched him, leaving him marked with psychic ability and a strange new empathy.

The profile described him well as a deeply evil human being, but he was more than that. He was an X-file. Which Mulder, of all people, missed.

And Scully didn’t. Scully didn’t. She believed, at least a little.

He is discovering that his new partner is a deceptively complex text, a holy book with no easy exegesis. During this case, Mulder misread every line. She had moved around him pale and stricken, still tender with grief, lips resolute. Eyes somehow seeing what they normally did not. Never saying exactly what was in her heart or in her mind. She was completely opaque to him.

The flakes whirl and puff, growing in intensity.

His experimental side prompts him to wriggle his fingers through the blinds to touch the glass of the window. It’s so cold it stings his fingertips. He winces and immediately shoves his hands under his armpits to warm them.

Right now, with the storm bearing down, he probably should be less introspective and more actively worried about his physical well-being. He doesn’t have a ton of food in the apartment, which is a fairly significant problem. He’s still not up for going out on long grocery sojourns through the snow. If takeout can’t make it to him, he’s in trouble.

Idly he walks to the fish tank and picks up the canister of fish food to read over the ingredients. Squid meal. Earthworms. Probably shouldn’t share a meal with the mollies.

Maybe I should order twenty orders of General Tso’s chicken right now, he considers. It’d probably make it here before the full impact of the blizzard, and I could live off that for a week. He wonders how long it’s actually safe to eat leftover Chinese food, if you keep it in the fridge.

His thought process is interrupted by a knock on his front door. He suspects it’s the building super, reminding them to leave the faucets dripping tonight.

Instead, it’s his partner: all business, lightly dusted with snow.

“Mulder,” she says briskly. She has powdery flakes spangling her hair, the mulberry-colored knit hat on top of her head, the surface of her coat. “Let me in. I’m freezing.”

“Sure,” he says in surprise. “Hey.”

She’s carrying four large brown paper bags, full of food. Instinctively he moves to help her carry them, but she nudges him away with her hip. “You’re not supposed to lift anything,” she reminds him. “The stitches.”

He takes a quick peek into an open bag. She’s brought him groceries. He stands amazed as she edges past him, making her way towards his kitchen.

It isn’t the first time in the months of their partnership that Scully has seemed to read his mind, responding to his cue without him having to ask, but he is still utterly bewildered by it. He is, apparently, not a difficult text for her.

“How did you know I needed food?” He calls after her into the kitchen.

“You did, didn’t you?” She is busy putting food away in his fridge. “Mulder, what is this in this jar? Pickles? How old are these?”

“Probably best to throw them out,” he says diplomatically.

“From careful observation, I have my suspicions that you never cook,” she says, putting some cheese in the fridge. “Forgive me if that’s off base. Based on that assumption I bought you some jarred spaghetti sauce and pasta, sandwich fixings, eggs. Are you capable of making eggs?”

“Of course,” Mulder says, affronted. “I can cook. I just don’t. And I’m recovering from surgery, Scully.”

“I bought some fruit and vegetables, but also”—she pushes a crackling bag of potato chips into his hands—“I know how you enjoy the snacks. And your damn sunflower seeds, obviously.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Really—thank you.”

She is moving around so quickly he can’t make eye contact. He wonders how she feels, how she is holding up. He doesn’t want to offend her by asking.

She begins piling non-perishable items on his kitchen counter. “If we get as much snow as they say, I won’t be able to stop by for a few days, so don’t forget to pay attention to how your wound looks. Change the dressing. Walk around the apartment regularly to avoid blood clots. If you have a fever, call 911.”

“Yes, Doc,” he says. “Are you going to stay and have some”—he picks up a cardboard box from the pile of groceries and examines it—“hot cocoa with me?”

She smiles, slowing her pace at last and folding her arms over her chest. “I’d love to, but no. I need to beat the storm home. I promised my mom I’d stay safe.”

“You should go now then,” Mulder urges. “It’s already starting to come down pretty hard, and the traffic will be terrible.”

“You’re right,” she says. “Okay. Don’t do anything unwise. I’ll check in tomorrow.”

She leans forward to embrace him, briefly, and he has the ridiculous notion she is about to kiss his cheek. “Take care,” she says brusquely.

Of course she doesn’t kiss his cheek. It’s Scully—who is probably taking extra care of him because work is her coping mechanism for grief—not some new woman he’s dating. The category confusion makes him feel a little ashamed, like he has been caught thinking something perverted.

She rushes out of the apartment, her dark coat trailing behind her. Once the door closes, Mulder notes the twinge of disappointment he feels. He’s simply attached to her. Something he wouldn’t have ever been able to predict when she first showed up. He’d actually doubted his ability to make new friends at all, and now here she is, anticipating he wouldn’t have food.

He walks over to look out the window behind his desk again. He’s surprised to see that the snow is coming down much harder now, and the wind has started to gust.

Visibility is poor. The temperature is dropping. Deep freeze tonight.

&&&

Thirty-five minutes later, Mulder is on his couch wolfing down a warm bowl of pasta and watching the local weather coverage when there is an alarming pounding at his door. The door frame seems to shake with the force.

He rises cautiously to look out the peephole and frowns. His partner, again.

He unlocks the door quickly. This time, she’s got no mere dusting of snow: she is crusted over with great slabs, veins of snow and ice creeping over her hat and coat and jeans and sneakers. Her face is wind-bitten; she is shivering violently.

“Scully.” He hurries her inside. “What the hell? What happened to you?”

“Car battery,” she says, her voice tight. “Dead a few blocks from here. I had to abandon the car and walk back.”

“You’re never supposed to leave your car,” Mulder scolds her, taking off her coat and knocking snow off her. “It’s the safest place to be in a blizzard. You should have called for help. Anything can happen to you out in the open snow.”

Her facial expression suggests this isn’t the right time for a lecture on winter weather safety from a native New Englander. “I need to warm up,” she replies, her teeth chattering.

“All right, of course,” he says more gently. “Go get out of these clothes and get in the shower. I’ll try to find you something else to wear.”

“I can’t stay here tonight,” she says, her tone approaching a whine, her words still clipped short with the shivering. “I’m supposed to be at home. I bought all these groceries. I have a good book. I’m supposed to call my mom tomorrow and tell her I’ve been careful.”

“Scully, it’s going to be okay,” he says reassuringly. “It could be much worse. I’ve got a sleeping bag somewhere around here. I’ll sleep there, and you can have the couch.”

“The couch,” she repeats, as if stunned.

“It’ll be a sleepover. We’ll tell ghost stories and do each other’s hair.”

“So pretty much like work,” she says, nodding, between her chattering teeth, “except with hair care.” She turns to walk towards his bathroom.

“Oh, hey, listen, if there are any magazines in there,” Mulder calls out, “they aren’t mine. Just don’t pay any attention to them.”

“You better have a bottle of wine, Mulder,” comes Scully’s voice.

#x files #x files fanfiction #xfiles fanfic #beyond the sea

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642stories · 1 year

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Story #50 "The Enigmatic Dr. Scully"

Read it on AO3

She threw him off with her comment about the Bach’s Brandenburg concertos, making him wonder ever since. How could she pick up on a few tunes so effortlessly? They heard them almost in passing. Eerie. Was she holding back on him? Of course, she was. They had been working together for a few months only, still two strangers to each other. It was more like – what else was she holding back on him?

The first time he saw her listening to it she was elbow-deep in a dead body. Literally. Armed with a thin blade of a scalper, Scully was hunched over a male corpse, stretched out on the autopsy table in front of her, scrutinizing its stomach contents.

“Scully?” She paid him zero attention.

Anecdotally as it sounded, Mulder found it almost unbearably painful to stay at the morgue once the autopsy was in full swing. Despite being a trained FBI agent and a profiler no less, having worked alongside all kinds of cadavers – men and women, young and old, often mutilated beyond recognition, witnessing the process of the body dissection was something he could barely handle. As easy and enjoyable – he dared to think – it was for Dana Scully, as daunting it was for him, her partner.

Encased in blue scrubs, Scully worked with meticulous precision to unravel the mystery of unexpected death and then present a detailed account of what had happened to the victim, the validity of her findings unquestionable. Undoubtedly, if the data was in the report from under her hand, it immediately gained the status of unassailable truth. One mystery was solved - Dana Scully excelled in her field of work.

The irony of their characters wasn’t lost on Mulder – in the dim confines of their office, he was the one who’d be self-absorbed, his partner being a poster child for objectivity and teamwork. Whether it was about ideas he lacked, an errand to run, or just an encouraging comment, she was always there to lend him a hand. She seemed to be a master of how to multitask but not spread herself thin at the same time.

Yet, in “la casa de la muerte”, Scully’s self-absorption used to torpedo everything, outshining Mulder’s most egotistical escapades. Hands operating with small economical movements, eyes flicking back and forth, feet stomping quietly to the rhythm of the music playing quietly in the background. In the grand scheme of things, Dana Scully was a conductor of her own little orchestra, where, under her careful guidance, the body produced a clear sound in any of the existing nine octaves. She could make it sing in soprano or alto, mezzo-soprano or bass. She could adjust its volume from the highest to the cacophony of quiet whimpers. She could create an entirely new concerto herself.

“Whatever floats your boat, Scully,” Mulder thought and never said a word. They didn’t call her an enigmatic doctor Scully for nothing.

Dicing and slicing Scully seemed to be oblivious to the world around her, fully invested in the task at hand, everything becoming one big blur. But every once in a while, her stare would shift, and then her peripheral vision would catch Mulder’s pensive gaze and her face would light up.

Sliding the bloody latex off her hands, Scully reached out to the desk behind and turned off a portable radio.

“Metamorphosis,” he murmured in wonder, his voice the mellifluous sound of the piano echoing around the autopsy bay.

“You know it?”

She was studying him, eyes sparkling with delight.

“I spent a better half of my life in Martha’s Vineyard. Ballroom dancing, etiquette training, classical music lessons, the whole nine yards.”

That was probably the most personal piece of information Mulder shared with her after that night in Bellefleur, and inside Dana Scully was thrilled – indeed, there was so much she had yet to learn about him. Apparently, Mulder wasn’t the only one picking up on clues left all around like breadcrumbs. His partner was as eager to crack a code of Fox Mulder, as he himself with Dana Scully.

“So have you found anything, doc?”

She nodded, a flicker of a smile on her face, and motioned to the body, its chest still open.

“Take a gander, Mulder, but please don’t get sick on me.”

***

It was almost a year later when he heard it again.

Whether it was urgency, boredom, or longing – he wasn’t totally sure himself – Mulder felt compelled to see his partner. Feigning the necessity to go over some of their recent case files on a Friday night, somehow having no doubt she’d still be awake, he called Scully, his suspicions of her sleep habits confirmed. Her casual invitation to come over elated him and simultaneously turned him into a nervous wreck. On one hand he could count the number of times he visited her place for no reason at all.

The first time he had a chance to peek at what was Dana Scully’s abode was during their third case together when he had saved her from Eugene Tooms. He’d helped her clean the mess in the bathroom and had stayed all night through waiting for the locksmith to turn up and fix the door.

They had drunk coffee and eaten pastrami sandwiches in her kitchen and it had been there he’d gathered another little piece to solve the puzzle of Dana Scully. Her fridge had been a stark contrast to his own – full of all kinds of fresh foods. In her kitchen cabinets he had seen nice matching china, so unlike the panoply of chipped old mugs in his own kitchen, which to him where like people coming from all walks of life.

And then there had been photos on the mantel shelf, books on a few bookshelves, and a collection of CDs where Mulder had spotted the Brandenburg concertos and some other fascinating records. Dana Scully had a penchant for classical music.

They had lit a fire in the fireplace and drunk some more coffee, and it had felt like removing another roadblock on the way to building a true partnership. A true friendship.

On his way to Georgetown, Mulder swung by their favorite pizza place and grabbed their all-time choice – topped with mushrooms and peppers on one side for her, and pepperoni and onions on the other for him. The key she gave him at the very beginning of their partnership in case of emergency was burning the side pocket of his coat, and Mulder suddenly felt the flash of possessiveness at the thought of any other men, who could be having it and exercising the prerogative to unlock her door at all hours. As if Scully felt it herself, she gave him the green light to use it, explaining that his phone call had caught her halfway to the shower.

With a pizza box and a pile of documents in one hand, Mulder fished the key out of his pocket and let himself in.

Surprisingly loud chords, like a roll of thunder, greeted him. A melodic passage, raging like an oncoming ague, raucous and jaunty simultaneously, bounced off the walls. Unrestrained under the skillful fingers of a pianist, the music went rogue. There was something about the piano music, the way it sounded - velveteen and taut at once, notes lapping like waves on the shore. He remembered a black giant of the grand piano in Royal Albert Hall - Steinway’s edition with its duet bench, a four-legged upholstered soldier guarding its master. Mulder listened in rapture.

Barefoot, Scully padded across the living room and stood behind his back, and Mulder caught himself thinking that he had been aware of her presence even before she uttered a word - the remnants of her body lotion, sweet and subtle, enveloping the receptors in his nasal passages and the live nerves of his soul.

“Part four.”

She was clad in her typical set of silk pajamas and a matching robe over it, with two glasses of red wine in her hands, offering Mulder one of them. A little smile traveled across his face.

Another day, another Dana Scully, another mystery solved. He had a feeling like that mystery would never be solved completely, and that’s what he loved the most. For him, she had already turned from the enigmatic doctor Scully to his enigmatic Scully.

“I like how Glass takes things to a whole other level here.”

They listened.

***

A few more weeks passed. And some more. A particularly gruesome case landed on their desk leaving them both burnt out and raw. Whatever tactic in catching the perpetrator had been chosen, it proved ineffective, giving Skinner no other option but to ask for Mulder and Scully to step in. In the span of a few days, the situation went from zero to full speed damaging everything and everyone in its way. Eventually, they managed to crack the case and solicit a confession, but with all the victims she had to conduct autopsies on, Scully still felt as if they failed.

She was trying to find comfort in the fact that they had saved some other people - there could have been more women killed, more children orphaned, more husbands widowed. But whenever she attempted to reason with herself, it hit a wall.

Unable to find an outlet to vent out her frustration, she swung between extremes, giving Mulder the silent treatment one day, and snapping over every little thing the other. Of course he tried to offer his sympathy – a more seasoned agent, much more familiar with the field work, he knew how to handle such stuff, but Scully didn’t seem to understand how to dial down her rage. She went spare, and neither she nor her partner had a clue how to take that weight off her shoulders.

That day after work she went to the bar. The voice of the murderer kept playing on a loop in her head, tight and bouncy, like the belly of the last woman he killed - his 8-month pregnant wife. It dripped with the same green acid that was bubbling in her glass burning her larynx and her heart. It left the emptiness so monumental, that it rumbled, echoed, and vibrated all at once, but offered no peace.

“Sorry, I’m a little bummed,” she said somewhat guiltily the next day when the tension between them seemed to reach its peak again.

“That’s a good thing that I’ve grown so fond of you,” Mulder smiled and bumped her side lightly, too self-conscious to put his arm around her shoulders and tug her closer in a friendly hug, but still having a desperate need to touch her.

“Sometimes it comes down upon me. This after-case sadness. I didn’t know that before, but I guess I do now. It will pass. Give it time.”

“Should we tackle it somehow together?”

“What do you mean?” She arched a brow at him.

“I got a little something for you.” Mulder moved towards his desk and pulled out the first drawer. When his hand dove from under the desk, she saw it holding two tickets. Taking a step forward, she narrowed her eyes to read the fine print.

Washington Symphony Orchestra. Symphony #1. Low by Philip Glass.

A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

“Sorry, Metamorphosis isn’t on the schedule this season.”

Scully reached out to take the tickets. There were two of them.

“You could take your mom,” Mulder added hastily, not wanting her to jump to any conclusions. He wasn’t trying to ask her out, was he?

“I could.”

“Or maybe your sister.”

“Melissa will be thrilled.”

“Doll up and all.”

Scully kept nodding, her smile getting wider with each comment.

“Get that life once in a while, you always talk about, you know.”

She still wasn’t looking at him, but it was clear by the look on her face that she enjoyed the gift, even if she hadn’t expected Mulder to give her something like that. To give her anything. Not in a million years.

“And then get back to you crackpot, albeit brilliant, partner.”

Shutting the drawer, Mulder fell into a chair, opened the first folder his hand found on the blotter, and pretended to read it.

“Mulder?”

“Mmm?”

“Come with me.”

Philip Glass wrote his Metamorphosis in 1988, and the Symphony #1 Low in 1992.

A friend of mine, who read the story, said, “To me, personally, it sounded like Metamorphosis #4, smooth and dynamic, with its own points of climax and release.” And I couldn’t have said it better.

#xf fanfic #x files fanfiction #fanfiction exchange #x-files babyfic exchange #creative writing

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gillians-leoni · 2 years

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new timl chapter <3

comments are always appreciated!

@today-in-fic

#the x files #dana scully #fox mulder #my fic #the x files fanfic #the x files fic #the x files modern au #x files fanfiction

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nachosncheezies · 17 days

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the x files season 8 ficlet, 500 words, angst (with a happy ending)

A counterpart to my other piece which pondered the question, "If the brain disease was real, why might Mulder have hidden it?" - here's an exercise on the opposite side of the coin: "If the brain disease was a fabrication, how might Scully have dealt with it?"

Note: I often treat The Brain Disease as something that was real because I love the angst of it, but I can read canon either way. On this opposite side of things, I considered attempting a who and how for the fabrication of the alleged disease, but doing that adequately felt like it would take more plotting than I wanted to try to smash into a 500-word exercise, and 500 words was my aim. As with the other, take this as a riff on canon or a divergence as it suits you.

There were rumors, a man claims, and it’s a trick. Less than a trick - a joke, and they the butts of their own poor wit, because seven years on and they still underestimate the depth of commitment, of integrity, and yes, of love that makes their quintessential Mulder-Scullyness. This man is either one of them, or he is a rube and too covetous of the solve to see it. The water to his face is less satisfying than it would be to spit in the smoking man's eye, or a punch to his serpent-poet face, but it scratches at something similar.

He’s dying: it must be a joke; a lie. The medical records - alleged - they could garner a laugh. The headstone, though. The stone has given her pause. She has stood beside it before. She reads every page.

How far would he go? She thinks of his mother; of his father and hers, of her sister. She thinks of Samantha. A faceless body on his floor. A hole in his head, six more in a wall. A gulag, a railcar. A hangar. For a moment, improbably, she thinks of Diana.

She refutes the what-ifs. Doesn't hear them in the thin morning light, in the empty space at her back, the cold porcelain echoes of her own body doubled over and retching. She doesn’t feel those embers of anger, the sting of betrayal. She doesn’t fight, because fighting implies a problem, and their problems are in their past. She will not regain him to lose him again.

She is not vulnerable. She would have known.

Los Angeles, Chicago, the perfectly unremarkable highways of oh-so-many states: she was called to these places, but not to a neurologist's. She will not succumb.

He’s been thoughtful, evaluating cases for their worthiness before whisking her away from her monographs, her mother, her quiet creature comforts. They have found their balance. There is no bargaining to be done. Denial is not denial if it is true.

They have each learned to be themselves. They are each other, too.

She stands by that stone again, and he was the last.

He was not the last.

She is the mother, enigmatic; modern-day Mary with toes dipped in a blood-boiled sea and her hand on a metal bible. She is the collateral; she was relatively happy. She has paid attention to the signs, and they have said a lot, a lot, a lot. She is Starbuck, she is a medical doctor, she is Scully, so-named. She is not vulnerable.

Then a call from a hospital, We're trying to reach Dana Scully; we have you listed as an emergency contact.

She is vulnerable. She is.

His abdomen moves as with breath; his skin dry but warm. She lays her head down. Her ear lands on his chest, and Holy Saint Anthony, gentlest of Saints. There is a heartbeat; Who are you? A lie, a lie, his beautiful mind is untouched, and the gratitude of my heart will ever be Yours.

#x files #the x files #txf s8 #x files fanfic #xf fanfic #x files fanfiction #txf fanfic #nachos writes #excising the practice demon to move on to other things

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