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i'll always have a soft spot for post-requiem fics written in the summer of 2000 when we truly had no idea how things were going to play out after that absolute mic drop of an episode. writers came up with some wild and wonderful scenarios (lots of which were waaaay better than what actually happened.)
One of my faves is Promises to Keep by Prufrock's Love (which is NOT a straightforward MSR story by any stretch of the imagination and is probably not everyone's cup of tea but it is certainly mine).
For something fluffier there's My Favorite Word by Mish (and the sequel, My Favorite Day.)
And there are hundreds more of them on Gossamer here: http://fluky.gossamer.org/html/postep-07x22-1.html
any other favorites from this crazy time? bonus points if they involve mulder wearing scully's cross when he was abducted. never before had the glisten of a zipper sent a fandom so ablaze.
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cecilysass · 7 months
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XF Fanfic Writers Who Went On To Professional Writing Careers
Clearly these are just the folks I know.
Johanna Schaffhaussen (@syntax6) - She wrote fanfic as Syntax6 and is now a crime novelist. Check out her fanfic (very, very good casefiles). Check out her novels.
Claudia Gray (@claudiagray) - I don’t hear XF fandom bringing her name up as much, but I heard her talk once and even mention her background in fanfic. She wrote XF fic as Amy Vincent and now does paranormal YA romance / Star Wars novels as Claudia Gray. (Side note: CC said in a podcast interview last year that an author who had written Star Wars novels approached him with an idea for an XF novel, and he liked it and approved it. I really hoped it might be her, but I never heard more.) Check out her fanfic. Check out her Wikipedia page. Check out her novels.
Laura Bontrager (@writingwell) - I mentioned her recently because @randomfoggytiger is such a fan! She wrote XF fanfic as RocketMan, and she's gone on to write romance / mystery novels. Check out her fanfic. Check out her novels.
Sonny Whitelaw - She wrote as Spider and became an ecothriller / speculative fiction author. She apparently also teaches classes at the New Zealand Writers' College. Check out her fanfic. Check out her Wikipedia page. Check out her novels.
Y'all, I bet there are more. There are probably anonymous authors we'll never know. But add to the list if you know some. Including yourself, obviously.
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lilydalexf · 4 months
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hi! do you know of any fics where mulder or scully (i think this fits either of them well) ask the other "can i kiss you?" ? its my favourite fic "trope" but i think ive only found one xf fic that does it and i cant even remember it, please help!
Thank you for this ask! I have (many) older asks I maybe should've answered first, but it was very fun compiling this rec list of fics where one of Mulder and Scully asks the other "Can I kiss you?" Enjoy! Anamorphosis by Megan Reilly Assigned to find a horrifying serial murderer, Agent Scully discovers things about herself and her past that she never suspected. City of Light by Bonetree On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them apart. (Part of the Goshen universe) Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton Some feeling defy the confines of time. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by Jenna Tooms Scully comes to Mulder with a wound only he can heal. general conundrums by @intrepidment Nonsense fluff. Impulse by Suzanne Schramm Mulder and Scully investigate some strange doings in a little town where people seem to have no control over their actions. Let's Bee Together by @baronessblixen Set during IWTB: Scully comes home from the hospital to find a bored and restless Mulder has picked up an interesting new hobby: apiculture. Little Notes by aRcaDIaNFall$ Mulder and Scully are bored in a meeting and start passing notes... The Mad Physicist & The Lab Rat by littlemisfit5290 (@alittlemissfit) "Who said I was even going to the party?” “I said you are if you plan on knowing whether I dressed up as a sexy alien or that beast woman.” MSR, pre IWTB, Halloween fluff. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) For the first time ever, the FBI is doing a secret Santa exchange. But what do you do when you're not paired with the only person you can imagine exchanging gifts with? You do everything in your power to rig the game. Nuptiae Sub Rosa by SisterSpooky1013 and XFMaweezy (@sisterspooky1013 and @xfmaweezy) A series of canon-compliant missing scenes showing that some dynamics of Mulder and Scully’s relationship may have changed much earlier than previously thought. radiant by kittenscully (@kittenscully) Under normal circumstances, her vulnerability would shock him. But things are different now, the shift tectonic and undeniable. He owes her the same trust that she’s showing him. Saying the Words by Karen Rasch Mulder and Scully finally confront their feelings for the first time. (Part of the Words series) Tender Intent by A.I. Irving When Scully returns to work after recovering from her illness, Mulder discovers that she isn't quite the changed woman she claims to be. Untitled by @baronessblixen “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” / “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?” Untitled by @broadcastnews1987 a “what if one breath never happened au.” Untitled by @msrafterdark scully puts the moves on mulder post-millennium. What Happens In Vegas (Sometimes Finds Its Way Into Official Documents) by tiredmoonlight (@myshipsintheharbor) When some interesting news about the marital status of two agents finds its way to back to the FBI, questions are raised, the main one being that the agents don't actually remember getting married. While You Were Sleeping by Skinfull Mulder falls for an intoxicating red head he spots in the park, then saves her life but not before she is injured and put into a coma, then he meets her sister! Den den dehhhhhh! Seraphim by chekcough (@chekcough) After Mulder returns from the dead, Scully tries to pick up the pieces. AU, with Mulder/Scully relationship pre-established after FTF. Implied character suicide.
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oohnotvery · 18 days
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Edges of the Night (Chapter 1) *new fic*
Like all my other works, this is also posted on AO3 (I'm the_eternal_optimist).
Scully’s moving on autopilot tonight. Pack up briefcase. Slip into jacket. Turn off lights. Lock office door. Move through silent halls. Wave goodbye to the security guard manning the entrance. Walk one hundred steps to the car. Unlock door. Shuffle inside. Seatbelt. Engine on. Lights.
It’s been a while since she’s felt this tired after work. With her days normally so quiet and undemanding, she usually leaves the office looking forward to the night to come—dinner with Alan, or maybe her downstairs neighbor Andrea. A glass of wine. Sometimes a movie, maybe the next JAMA article. In bed by nine, or if Alan is staying over, ten. Ten-thirty if things get rowdy. Usually, she plans this all out in the car ride home. It’s not a long drive to her apartment from work, but lately she’s been taking the scenic route home, the one that goes by the ocean. She likes to roll down the windows and drink in the salty sea air. It frizzes her hair but does wonders for her mood. For the first few months she lived here, it seemed the ocean was the only thing that soothed her fury, her hurt, her brokenness.  
Tonight, though, she decides on the shortest, quickest route home. All she can think about is whether she’s going to eat or take a bath first. It’s been ages since she’s had a day full of meetings and she’s forgotten how draining it can be listening to someone droning on and on and on and on about budgets. She can’t remember if Alan said he was staying over tonight. Although she enjoys his company, she desperately needs some alone time. There’s a headache building from hours spent staring at spreadsheets, and wouldn’t it be nice to be snuggled under the sheets by eight o’clock?
But then again, maybe he’s already there and maybe he’s made dinner. Last week, he made something particularly delicious in the crockpot. In this aspect, he’s more than proven his worth. On second thought, it might be quite nice if there’s a pot roast waiting when she breezes in through the door. Although it’s just February, spring has arrived early on the California coast and the weather might even be warm enough to eat outside on the balcony.
She stops at a red light and glances at her reflection in the rearview mirror. A street lamp illuminates her long red hair and bright blue eyes and she carefully traces a thumb along her lower lip, removing a smudge of lipstick. If Alan indeed is at her place, she should probably consider powdering her nose before she goes inside. Of course, he’s seen her in various stages of composed and not-so-composed, but it’s a nice gesture to make an effort.
The light shifts to green and she turns left onto her road. This part of the street curves up a slight hill enveloped by thick eucalyptus trees, their shaky branches interrupted by the occasional palm and sweet-smelling jacaranda. She hasn’t lived here long enough to see the jacarandas in full bloom, but childhood recollections of their lavender blossoms fill out her memories of San Diego summers. She’s glad to have something beautiful to look forward to this year.
Her car climbs the steep hill, its headlights illuminating the dark road. Her apartment is just a mile from the crest of the hill, and as she approaches it, she glances in her rearview one more time to study her appearance. Satisfied, her eyes flit back to the road, just in time to see a car whip out from a side street several feet in front of her, traveling the opposite direction. Before she can react, it pulls into her lane, coming towards her at full speed, its headlights glaring brightly in her windshield. Shouting in surprise, she yanks at the steering wheel and pulls her car across the road, missing a direct collision by mere inches. She slams on the brakes and her car hits the guardrail with a smash, but it’s not hard enough to deploy the airbags. Her mind, all-too-familiar with trauma, reacts instantly, quickly starting to piece together what just happened. Car accident. No injuries. Drunk driver? College student? Those dumbass frat boys who live in the apartment above hers?
But then she hears it, a sound she hasn’t heard in months. Gunshots. With a shriek, she dives across the front of the car just as a bullet hits her back window, cracking the glass.
Another bullet zings into her rear bumper and she covers her head protectively. In an instant, her thoughts turn from frat boys to murderers. This was no accident. This was intentional. Unarmed—because she has no need to carry a weapon these days—she knows she needs to get out of here fast. She’s about to force the car into reverse when she hears another sound: the scream and squeal of a violent crash, metal grinding against metal. She grits her teeth and braces for impact, but seconds go by and she doesn’t feel anything. Her car doesn’t move. And then everything around her falls eerily quiet.
She counts slowly to ten, then glances up and tries to peer through the back window, but with the shattered glass, she can’t make sense of anything behind her. Very slowly, she cracks her door open and peers outside. Ten feet away, the other car has slammed into the guardrail too, but the driver’s side of the vehicle looks completely crushed. Her pursuer must have hit the railing at a ferocious rate of speed.
She stares at the wreckage for just a moment, trying to memorize details of the other car—beige Ford Taurus, nondescript—when its passenger door opens. She gasps—someone survived.
A man sticks his head out of the door and begins to violently throw up onto the pavement. She knows she needs to move, needs to get away from this person who is likely armed, needs to get to safety and call 911. But there is something unnervingly familiar about this man, with his long legs and lean torso and dark hair. He coughs and spits and gags and retches for another half a minute, and even from this distance, she sees the sheen of blood matted in his hair. Her doctor’s eyes make the quick calculation—head injury. Likely concussion. Possibly from hitting head on dashboard.  
She’s about to withdraw into her vehicle and make her getaway when the man lifts his head. His eyes climb to meet hers across the distance and her heart stutters to a stop.
Mulder.
It’s Mulder.
After all this time, impossibly, unbelievably, incredibly, it’s Mulder.
All rational thought, all anger, all hurt, all pain escapes her brain. She clicks off her seatbelt and climbs out of her car to run to him. Her heels clack loudly on the pavement as she approaches the vehicle. He’s staggering unsteadily to his feet and without a second thought, she jumps to catch him, avoiding the pile of sickness at their feet. They haven’t touched in nine months, and yet he sags into her with the relief and trust that only years of familiarity can bring. She briefly notes that his hands are zip-tied together. Bracing one hand on his chest and another on his shoulder, she supports him, then leans down into the car to glance at the driver. The sight is grisly—a smashed, bloody head against the driver’s window; his crushed body against the door. Most certainly dead. She wrinkles her nose and draws her eyes up to Mulder’s face. He stares down at her hazily.
“You okay?” he manages to ask, his eyebrows bent in pain.
She nods shakily. “I’m okay. Let’s get you to the car.”
She helps him into the passenger seat and leans over him to buckle him in, ignoring the way her stomach clenches as her torso presses briefly against his own. Before she clambers back into her side, she quickly assesses the damage to her car. All she notes is a dented-up fender and a cracked windshield; she considers herself very lucky.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she announces quietly as she shifts the car into reverse.
Mulder shakes his head just like she knew he would. “We need to drive, Scully.”
Scully.
She swallows past a wave of emotions. No one has called her that in months.
“No,” she says firmly, maneuvering her car around the other vehicle. “You need immediate medical attention.”
He leans over and with bound hands, grips her wrist, clamping on so tightly that she yelps. She glances over at him and immediately recognizes the emotion flitting across his eyes—fear. Crippling, devastating fear.
“Please,” he begs. “Just drive.”
And then his hands release hers to fumble clumsily around in his pants pocket. After a moment, he pushes something into her palm. She slows the car to a crawl and glances down at her hand. In it, there’s a piece of paper and a key. She unfurls the paper and sees the scrawl of an address.
An address in Montrose, Colorado. Montrose, Colorado? She’s never even heard of that place.
“You want me to drive here?” she asks in disbelief.
He nods, then winces. He lifts his hands to touch his forehead and seems surprised when his fingertips come away bloody.
“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs under her breath, and reaches over to wipe a trickle of blood off his eyebrow. He meets her eyes and she regards him tightly, then drops the paper and key into a cupholder.  
For five minutes, she doesn’t ask questions, she just drives. She drives past her apartment and notes offhandedly that Alan’s dark green truck is in the lot. A wash of worry and guilt flushes over her and she shoves the feelings away. She won’t be coming home tonight; that much is clear.
Beside her, Mulder has started falling in and out of consciousness. She pulls her bottom lip through her teeth anxiously and considers her options. She hasn’t made up her mind yet if she’s going to drive him to Colorado. She’s exhausted from a long day, wound tight from the accident, emotionally shaken from their encounter, and Mulder himself is in no physical condition to endure a long drive.
But whatever happens next, triage comes first. She needs to find a place where she can properly assess his injuries. His eyes have closed but she senses him breathing. Every few minutes, she places her palm to his forehead and cheek to assure herself that he is still alive. From her angle, she doesn’t see any more obvious injuries other than his bleeding head, but she needs to stop as soon as she can.
Despite her worries, her exhaustion, and her emotions, she feels herself starting to sink into a calm, collected mental space—FBI mode. She is reminded that she once used to be a field agent—and a pretty damn good one at that. In this headspace, she drives to a familiar spot, a park that overlooks the ocean. There’s a deserted campground at its edge and a playground that’s usually full of children. At this time of night, however, the parking lot is deserted. Under the cover of a leafy tree, she throws the car into park.
Mulder’s eyes crack open.
“We have to keep moving,” he mumbles.
She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door, throwing him a warning look. “We’re not going anywhere until I’ve looked at your head.”
A very slight smile ticks up on his lips, but he makes no reply.
In her trunk, she pulls out the sturdy black bag that she hasn’t had a chance to use since moving to San Diego. When she slides back into the car, she flips on the overhead lights and starts pulling tools out of her kit—gauze, ointment, sterilizing pads, alcohol. Mulder grumbles something about the light being too bright and she shushes him.
“Come here,” she mutters, tapping at his bound wrists. He holds them up to her and with a pair of surgical scissors, she cuts the plastic of the zip ties. They fall away and Mulder rotates his hands gratefully. Red, raw marks stain his wrists and she frowns. Whoever tied him up was intent on inflicting pain.
She dabs some antibiotic cream onto his wrists and then motions for him to lower his head. Scooting up in her seat, she carefully begins to move her hands through his thick hair, which is matted with blood.
“Oh, Mulder,” she murmurs when she finds the source of the injury. “I really need to wash this.”
He glances up at her. They are close, her hands buried in his hair, her body leaning over the console. Their noses are just inches apart and for a second, she can’t breathe. The last time they touched was so uncharacteristically violent that it has played in her mind on repeat for months. For weeks after she moved to San Diego, any time she closed her eyes, she saw the scene in her head—his hands shoving her away, her palm smacking at his arms. To touch him now with the careful gentleness that used to embody their relationship feels abnormal, bizarre.
“We have to keep driving,” he reminds her.
“Are you going to tell me why?” she asks, and he nods, then winces. “That hurts?”
He mutters a yes.
“What else hurts?”
He closes his eyes. “My head is throbbing. It feels like I’m going to redecorate the inside of your car at any moment.”  
“Concussion,” she says as she reaches into her bag to pull out more supplies. It is difficult in these circumstances to properly clean the blood out of his hair and expose the wound. There is a nasty red gash at his hairline. “This really needs stitches,” she laments, praying she has some butterfly tape with her.
She does, and after cleaning, sterilizing, and protecting the wound as best she can, she seals it with tape, wondering if she should just try to stitch him up here in the car. But his breathing is labored and his eyes have shut tight, and she doesn’t know if he could withstand the pain right now. She touches his shoulder gently. His eyes blink open.
She doesn’t want to drive across the country in the middle of the night, especially with an injured, semi-conscious Mulder. She desperately wants to admit him to a nearby hospital, but she remembers the way he looked when he begged her to drive. Afraid. Something is very, very wrong. Why and how and under what circumstances he ended up here in San Diego—outside her apartment, in a potential assassin’s car—is beyond her.
“Please,” he asks, breaking her thoughts. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think it was important.”
She shuts her eyes briefly, contemplating his insane request. There is so much tugging her back to reality—Alan, her job, her tiredness, Mulder’s injuries. All of those things are screaming at her to stay here, just stay here.
But Mulder is sitting here in the flesh, after all this time. This is the first request he has made of her in nine months. This is their first communication after a rift that she assumed couldn’t be repaired in a hundred lifetimes. And despite the way they left things, it is impossible to ignore the way a familiar sort of comfort washes over her in his presence. His scent alone seems to bring her heart rate back to normal. The feeling of his skin under her fingertips grounds her to the moment. The warmth of his grey-green eyes soothes the pain in her chest. An otherworldly sort of communication is taking place between their bodies. If he is asking this of her, under these circumstances, she knows it is serious. They have lost a lot in these nine months of separation, but one thing remains. One thing will always remain.
“I’ll drive,” she finally concedes, “because I trust you.” Palpable relief and something else, something stronger, wash over his face. To her astonishment, he grabs her hands in his and brings them to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Her heart starts to pound even as her brain demands she ignore the way his touch provokes her to sentimentality, nostalgia, tenderness.
“Thank you,” he breathes, catching her eye meaningfully. His fingertips slide across her hand and when they catch on the sparkly ring on her left hand, he freezes in shock. Her cheeks blaze hotly, similarly astonished by his discovery. He was never supposed to know about her personal life. She tugs her hands away and he stares at her like a kicked puppy.
Don’t look at me like that. You forced me out, she thinks angrily. The memory of their last encounter slices through her brain, instantly souring her tender thoughts.
He drops her gaze and falls back against his seat, his eyes closing once more.
“I’ll wake you every hour,” she promises after a moment, her hands tingling with a long-forgotten ache. In the Before Times, she would have reached out and brushed his cheek or maybe patted his thigh, reassuring him of her presence, her trustworthiness, her care. But instead, she just flips off the overhead lights, buckles her seat belt, and pulls out onto the darkened road.
And then she drives.
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soft-thrills · 3 months
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XF Fic: Mean
Rating: Smut. Smut smut smut.
Summary: “I think I’d also like it once in a while if you were a little… mean,” Scully says.
Content warnings: dirty talk, name-calling, toeing the edge of degradation, but all in good kinky fun
Smut after the cut. Hope your holidays are happy, friends! Ubeta’ed. I intended to sit down and write something with some redeeming value to society but alas, I could not get this out of my mind, so instead: shameless smut.
They’d had a conversation about a month ago in which he’d asked her if there was anything she wanted that he wasn’t doing.
“I want you to keep your travel receipts in chronological order,” she’d wryly replied.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he’d said, and the hint of an edge in his voice got right to the core of the thing that she wanted that he wasn’t doing.
And so she’d told him, after a half glass of wine too many.
“Well, I like it when you’re a little rough, which I think you’ve kind of figured out. But I think I’d also like it once in a while if you were a little… mean.”
He grinned. “Mean how?”
“I don’t know, just… you know, don’t hurt my feelings, but maybe you could tease, or kind of, talk dirtier. Jesus, this is so embarrassing, forget I ever mentioned it, ok?”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Although I get the sense that maybe that’s what you’re after.”
His ability to see right through her was kind of embarrassing in and of itself, and she knew she was blushing.
They’d had sex then — and he hadn’t been mean, not at all. Instead he’d devoured her, praising her for sharing something she felt shy about, telling her there was nothing she could ask for that would make him think less of her or upset him — not him, a man who’d spent years frequenting porno theaters and calling phone sex lines.
For weeks, the conversation lurked in the back of her mind. She’d almost convinced herself he’d forgotten, except Fox Mulder is not a man who forgets these kinds of things.
And so she finds herself beneath him as he holds both her slender wrists in one of his big hands, pinned above her head. He looms large over her.
“I didn’t forget our conversation last month, you know,” he says, taking her left nipple between his fingers and pinching until she gasps. “You remember it, don’t you?”
She nods, at a loss for words.
“Good. If you don’t like anything I do or say, Scully, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll stop, okay?”
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, okay. I understand.”
“Good girl,” he praises her. “Although I think we both know that’s probably not what you want me to call you. I think you want to be a bad girl.”
She arches her pelvis up toward him, silently asking him to touch her there, to slide inside her.
“Already getting to you, huh? You weren’t kidding, Scully. I haven’t even touched your pussy yet and look how desperate you are.”
Mean.
“Oh my god, Mulder, please,” she whimpers. “Please touch me.”
He smirks at her. “All right, but only so I can judge how much my words are getting to you.”
His fingers trail down her body and he dips his index finger between her lips, dragging back and forth a moment before pushing inside her. She arches up into his touch and spreads her legs wider, as best she can beneath him.
“You like spreading your legs for me, don’t you?”
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. She can’t believe he’s talking to her like this, she can’t believe she asked him to. But she’s more turned on than she’s ever been in her life.
“I can feel how much you like it, Scully. You’re so wet for me. Such a dirty girl.”
Suddenly, his finger is gone from her pussy, and a second later, she feels his wet fingers grip her chin.
“Open your eyes and look at me when I talk to you, Scully.”
Her eyes fly open. There’s something about him talking to her like this while still using her last name that makes it feel even dirtier, which she suspects he realizes.
He kisses her, deeply, a reward, a reassurance. He can talk to her like this and still love her. And he can certainly still want her — she can feel his erection against her belly.
“Please, fuck me,” she says. “I want you.”
That grin again. “I know you do. But I’m not done playing around with you. That’s what I’m going to do: play with you like the toy that you are.”
His fingers find her pussy again, and then her clit, a few quick circles. She feels like she could shatter at any moment.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt you this wet, baby. I’m so glad you told me how to treat you. Now I know what you need. And I’m having a lot of fun putting you in your proper place.”
He takes his fingers away from her clit.
“No,” she moans, screwing her eyes closed again. “Don’t stop.”
His wet fingers on her face again but this time, a soft tap on her cheek, the barest suggestion of a slap, sending her eyes back open in shock.
He laughs a little. “I told you to keep your eyes open. If I have to tell you again I’m not going to let you come.”
Mean. She whimpers and nods. Unable to close her eyes, she instead gives voice to the terrible, wonderful feelings warring inside her - the hint of humiliation and the arousal fueling one another.
“Why do I like it so much when you treat me like this?” she asks.
Straddling her, he brings his hands to her breasts and pinches each nipple. He looks bemused, like she is a problem to be solved, and then looks back down at her tits.
“Well, I could tell you it’s because kinky sex is subversive, a way to play with the gender roles we push back against in everyday life. I could tell you lots of people like things in bed they wouldn’t like outside it and there’s nothing wrong with that. I could tell you it’s because you trust me and know that I love you and respect you and we’re just playing around.”
His hands move to her sides, and he drops down to his elbows, briefly kissing down her sternum between her breasts.
Then he looks up at her face, making eye contact.
“But we both know that’s not why you like it,” he says. “You like it because you’re a dirty little slut.”
And then suddenly, his cock is pushing inside her, and his finger is on her clit, and she comes harder than she ever has in her life.
“Well that didn’t take much,” he teases her, and it only extends her pleasure. “So easy.”
His cockiness aside, it doesn’t take much for him to come, either — she’s still thrashing around with the aftershocks when he comes inside her after a few more hard strokes, moaning into the crook of her neck.
When she comes to her senses, he’s rolled off of her and is looking at her with the sweetest smile.
“Wow,” she says, still catching her breath, blushing as she thinks about what he said to her.
“Good wow? Or you never want to talk to me again wow?” he asks.
“Good wow. Thank you for giving that to me. I wouldn’t have been able to let go like that without anyone else,” she says, rolling over and curling into him.
He cuddles her protectively, hands stroking up and down her back, through her hair, wherever he can reach with comforting little touches.
“You did so well,” he says, and while she doesn’t really feel like she did anything, the praise warms her. “But sometimes things like that can hit you after you come down from endorphin rush. If it starts to feel bad, promise me you’ll let me know.”
“I will,” she says.
They lounge a while and it does, indeed, start nagging at her a little.
“You’ll still be able to look me in the eye at work after that, right? It won’t change —”
“Scully, nothing could ever change how I feel about you. I love you more than anything. I respect you more than anyone. I’m honored you’d share your desires with me and I’d never betray that.”
“I know,” she sighs. “I guess it’s just good to hear it.”
It occurs to her he hasn’t said anything about whether he enjoyed himself.
“Did you like it?” she asks gently. “Because I don’t want to ask anything of you that you don’t —”
“You couldn’t tell if I liked it?” he jokes. “It was so hot, Scully. Seeing you melt like that.”
She smiles, and then feels his hot breath on her ear.
“I’ll treat you like a dirty slut anytime you like,” he promises.
She laughs. “Thank you,” she says, and she means it.
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darkesttimelinestuff · 5 months
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"That's all? Easy."
On day 22 of Fictober Mulder and Pendrell are having a drink when they spot Scully with another man. Hopefully it's a little fun and a little silly.
Prompt #29 - "That's all? Easy."
Find my other mediocre, mostly MSR fic here.
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Pendrell slammed his glass down in frustration.
“Don’t take it so hard, buddy,” Mulder said. 
“Oh, sure. Easy for you to say,” Pendrell grumbled. 
Mulder was taken aback. “What does that mean?”
The scientist shot him an incredulous look. “You’re kidding. Mulder, you’re tall, traditionally handsome, mysterious,” he replied, eyeing Mulder and taking a long drink from his glass. “Women love that.”
Mulder chuckled and gave him a wry smile. “It doesn’t get you as far as you’d think, my friend,” he said, slapping Penrell on the back.
“Oh, come on.” Pendrell, tipsy and loose, rolled his eyes. “Women love a brooding man. Just look at Angel.” Off Mulder’s puzzled look, he added, “From Buffy.”
Mulder nodded, not quite understanding. He didn’t want to argue with his friend, who was clearly heartbroken at the coincidence of seeing Scully drinking with another man. It’s not what Mulder had expected to see either when he invited Pendrell out for drinks. Now they were commiserating their unspoken affection for a certain redhead.
“Besides, once Scully told me that ‘smart is sexy.’ She likes a brainy man,” Mulder replied, and hoped his friend would leave it at that.
They sat for a long moment, sipping their whiskeys. 
“Yeah?” asked Pendrell.
Mulder nodded.
“Who is that guy, anyway?” Pendrell wondered. 
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him at the F.B.I. Maybe an old friend from Quantico,” Mulder offered. 
“Boyfriend?”
“Maybe,” Mulder agreed. “Or date.”
They continued to watch Scully and her mystery man as they drank. They watched the man pay the bill. They watched him get up and put on his coat. They watched him give Scully a friendly peck on the cheek. And then, they watched him walk out of the bar, while Scully remained. 
“Maybe not a boyfriend or date!” Pendrell said, excitedly. 
“I guess not. Unless it didn’t go well,” suggested Mulder.
“As odd as it sounds, I would feel bad if that were the case.” 
“Same,” Mulder agreed.
“You should go ask her out for a drink,” Pendrell said with determination.
“What?” Mulder asked. 
“You think I don’t see the way you look at her, Mulder? Takes one to know one. You need to go over there and ask her to have a drink with you. And when you’re done, you ask her out for another drink this weekend.”
“That’s all? Easy,” Mulder scoffed, and leaned back in his seat. 
“Your loss, Mulder. Because one of these days… One of these days…
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heatherwentwest · 1 year
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TXF Recs: My Favorite Newer Mulder/Scully Fics 🛸
The X-Files canon may be complete (for now), but the fandom has kept right on evolving and creating beautifully original stories that center Mulder and Scully’s emotional journey. Much as I’ll always adore the 13 classic Mulder/Scully fics I first recommended, I am also thrilled to regularly discover new favorites from the many talented writers continuing the agents’ story. Allow me to introduce a few that have won my heart in the past few years…
Includes must-read stories by @cecilysass, @sisterspooky1013, @leiascully, @silhouetteofacedar, @dreamingofscully & more, plus links to entertaining book club discussions on @audiofanficpod!
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mulderwearingglasses · 11 months
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Scully would be a guilty pleasure Candy Crush fanatic.
It started when her therapist recommend a mindless phone game to help distract herself on planes when she was getting anxious over turbulence, and then she realized a mindless phone game was good for other sorts of anxieties, too. The kinds about bright lights she can’t quite remember and cramped trunks she can’t quite forget.
She plays it lazily while Mulder watches basketball as they eat pizza together, and he teases her for being like the old folks who lose their retirement money to the silly but addictive game.
One night, her eyes are getting heavy as she’s playing and she dozes off. Mulder doesn’t realize until the phone slides out of her hand. He smiles and swipes the hair from her face, pulls the covers up over her.
He takes her phone and rolls his eyes when he sees she was playing that stupid game.
“What’s it all about, anyway?” He wonders. He picks up where she left off and soon the basketball game is long over, and Mulder is still occupied crushing candy. He plays late into the night, the bright colors of the phone screen illuminating his face in the darkening hotel room.
The next day, when the pair get to the airport and have some time to kill at their gate, Scully pulls up her game and is surprised to see she’s skipped several dozen levels from the last time she’s played.
She turns to Mulder who is sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.
“Let’s get you your own account, OK?” Scully says, swallowing an I-told-you-so and taking his phone to get him set up on his own game.
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audiofanficpod · 4 months
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The Personal Cost by @phillippadgettwrites
Read by Annie
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Please leave the author a comment if you enjoyed their story 😘
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sisterspooky1013 · 9 months
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What Desire Will Make Foolish People Do, 1/3
Rated X | Read it here on AO3
His best guess is that the guy is an ex-boyfriend. They aren’t too far from Stanford; she could have called ahead and set something up. He doesn’t think she’d pick a guy up at a bar—not that he’d judge her if she did. It just seems unlikely that she’d risk it after what happened last time. 
  Maybe it’s that hippie guy she told him about. The one who had greasy dreadlocks and played guitar. Or maybe it’s one of her former classmates, some guy who’s a brain surgeon at Cedar Sinai or fixes kids’ cleft palates for free out of the goodness of his heart. Someone smart and accomplished. Someone worthy of her time. 
  Scully laughs, high and girlish, and Mulder clenches his fists. His fingernails dig into the meat of his palms and it hurts. The physical pain helps distract from the mental anguish, so he digs them in deeper.
  She’s been on the phone a lot since he told her about their travel plans a few days ago. At first he was worried that she was talking to her doctor, and his lingering fears about her cancer returning kept him awake all night devising new plans to save her life for good. But then he caught a wide, toothy smile on her mouth during one of those calls when she didn’t realize he was watching her, and his stomach dropped out. The good news is, she isn’t dying. The bad news is, her brush with death seems to have inspired her to live her life more fully—with someone else. 
He knows he holds no claim to her, but that hadn’t prevented him from feeling like shit when she turned down his offer to eat dinner together and disappeared into her room the second they wrapped up their fieldwork for the day. He should have gone down to the local bar to drown his sorrows, but, being a glutton for punishment, he stuck around to catch a glimpse of the competition (Tall. Blond. Completely average looking). He watched them get into the guy’s Lexus and drive off, and when they returned a couple hours later he shamelessly peeked through the curtains to see whether she’d kiss him goodnight. The kiss itself was a punch to the gut, but then after several minutes of hushed conversation she invited the guy in, and now Mulder is lying splayed out on his bed listening through paper thin walls as Scully slowly wades into a sexual encounter with someone who probably makes twice as much money as he does and has half as many idiosyncrasies.     
  He knows Scully doesn’t care about stuff like that. She’s not shallow. But it’s more comfortable for him to imagine that she’s chasing rich doctor dick than to confront the fact that she’d rather get her rocks off with some nobody from her past than give him the time of day. He doesn’t blame her—he knows he’s no prize—but still. He’s always kind of thought there was something between them. Something that meant they wouldn’t see other people, even if they weren’t seeing each other. At least that’s how he felt, and the realization that it wasn’t reciprocal hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to process. 
  He hears a low, deep moan from the other side of the wall, and something angry and wounded wells up in him. It’s one thing to hear her feeling good, but knowing that she’s pleasuring another man feels like such a betrayal that tears prick at his eyes. He wants to be angry with her for allowing him to hear this, but he went to great lengths to make her think he’d gone out so he could spy on her, including moving the rental car, turning off all the lights in his room, and ignoring her knock at his door shortly before her “date” arrived. He just wanted to see what the guy looked like, but he’s getting a whole lot more than he bargained for. He hears the snap of her bedside lamp switching off and he gets to his feet, not really allowing himself to think about what he’s doing. 
  He pounds on her door with the side of his fist, his heart blasting in his ears and his jaw clenched. It takes entirely too long for her to answer, though he can hear muffled whispers through the chipped wood and sees a flash of light through the peephole. When she opens the door it’s only wide enough for him to see her face, which is flushed beneath her mussed hair. Her lips are parted and swollen, and she seems out of breath. She looks unkempt and beautiful, and he feels equally relieved and devastated. It’s only after staring at her for a handful of seconds that he realizes he’s going to need to offer some explanation for his abrupt arrival outside her door. 
  “What is it?” she asks, her eyes flashing over her shoulder and giving her away.
  He almost tells her that it’s her mother, but he doesn’t want to make her worry, and honesty is definitely not the best policy in this particular circumstance. 
  “There’s another body,” he blurts out, and her shoulders sink. “Sheriff just called me.”
  “Okay,” she says with a defeated sigh. “Give me ten minutes.” 
  He pulls the car around and watches her door as he waits for her. He doesn’t see the mystery man, but the lights in her room are still on when she emerges thirteen minutes later and closes the door behind her. He wonders if the guy will wait for her to come back. Lord knows he would. 
  “Where is it?” she asks as she slides into the passenger seat, smelling like toothpaste and hairspray. 
  He looks at her while she buckles her seatbelt and pulls down the visor to check her makeup in the mirror. She’s wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt with her suit jacket thrown on over top, and he wonders how far they got before he interrupted them. In his experience, the woman’s shirt is always the first to go, and he has an image of her topless against the ugly motel bedspread, her nipple perched between the mystery man’s lips. His cock stirs and he blinks the thought away, disturbed by his own bodily response. As he’s interrogating how he could possibly get turned on by thinking about her with another man, he realizes that she’s staring at him, waiting for an answer. 
  “By the river,” he says, putting the car in reverse and backing away from their rooms and the scene of Scully’s almost-indiscretion. 
  She doesn’t ask any other questions, and he certainly doesn’t offer additional information seeing as how he doesn’t have any to give. He’s not even sure if there’s a river in this area. He just drives, mentally mapping how far they are from their point of origin so he doesn’t get lost. The longer they drive, the more panicked he becomes about how to get himself out of this situation. He doesn’t want to take her back to the motel, but he also doesn’t have a body to show her. To his own shame, he makes a Hail Mary plea to the universe that there’s another murder just so he has a reason to keep her in the field. 
  “Mulder,” she says after a time. 
  Her tone carries the hint of a question, but there’s an undercurrent of accusation that only he could possibly detect. He swallows and decides to accept his fate. This situation probably can’t get any better, but it can definitely get worse. 
  “Yeah?” he rasps through a tight throat.
  “Where are we going?”
  The question has a singsong quality that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It’s how she talks to him when she’s preparing to hand him his own ass. He pulls off on the side of the road and kills the engine, then stares straight ahead through the bug-smeared windshield as she bores a hole in the side of his face with her eyes. 
  “Are we lost?” she asks derisively, like he’s a stupid child. 
  “No, we’re just a couple miles off the main drag,” he answers flatly. 
  “So where’s the river?”
  “Not sure if there is one.”
  A pause. 
  “And the body?”
  “Not sure if there’s one of those, either.”
  He can’t bring himself to look at her, but he doesn’t really need to. He can feel the shifting energy in the car as she works through confusion, suspicion, realization, and then something else that he can’t quite read. The windows are slowly fogging over and he realizes just how sufficiently he’s trapped himself. There’s no obvious way forward. 
  “Why did you knock on my door, Mulder?” she asks. She sounds afraid of what the answer is. 
  “I’m sorry, Scully,” he tells her, dropping his head to stare at his own lap. “I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
  “Take what?” There’s so much trepidation in her voice that he starts to feel guilty instead of worried about what she’s going to do to him. 
  “Hearing you—” he starts, then stops. “That guy. I just…I couldn’t.”
  The silence is so thick he starts to become lightheaded. He can’t look at her, can’t allow the image of whatever face she’s making right now to be imprinted on his brain. He hears her breathing pick up into quick, heavy breaths that could mean tears or rage, and he waits to find out what happens. To him. To her. To them. Probably, the option of there ever being a “them” is now off the table. 
  “You were listening to me?” she finally asks him, removing any doubt about how she is receiving this information. She’s furious. 
  “Not intentionally,” he defends himself, glancing at her only long enough for his testicles to self-protectively retreat into his body. “The walls are thin.”
  “You weren’t there, Mulder. The car was gone, the lights were off. Did you—did you hear me knock on your door?” 
  “I think it’s best that I don’t answer that,” he says contritely, and she sucks in a huge breath. 
  “What the fuck , Mulder?!” she yells, making him jump. Scully rarely swears, and she’s never sworn at him before. “I am genuinely asking, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”
  He does look over at her then. He can’t believe that she’s talking to him this way. Not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because Scully is always careful with her words. He needs some visual feedback to understand what she’s feeling. Her eyes are wide, nostrils flaring, jaw set. But there are also tears pooling along her lash line, and her bottom lip is trembling. 
  “If I knew the answer to that I would have saved my parents a lot of money on therapy bills,” he quips, inexplicably returning her anger. “It’s not like you were exceedingly discreet, Scully, taking your little secret phone calls all week and then ditching me for the evening. I could have come back at any time, only to walk into my room and be greeted by you getting railed by some Silicon Valley hotshot who hopefully doesn’t give you chlamydia, or worse.”
  Her jaw begins to drop partway through his diatribe, and by the end it’s gaping open in utter disbelief. He immediately wishes he could take it back. He’s not even sure why he’s getting angry at her when he knows he’s the one in the wrong. She collects herself, blinking away tears and regaining composure. He thinks she’s going to ask him to take her back to the motel, but she doesn’t. 
  “I suppose you can’t get sexually transmitted infections from 1-900 numbers, can you, Marty ?” she spits at him, and a flare of shame joins up with his anger. Anger is all he’ll allow himself to feel. The rest hurts too much. 
  “Yeah, well, pathetic as it may be, I find it a bit more noble to get my jollies from a stranger on the phone than sticking it in anyone who happens to be in the same city as me at any given time,” he shoots back. “I mean honestly, Scully, would I have to be the last man on earth? It’s hard not to take it a bit personally.”
  Once again, there is immediate regret. He hadn’t meant to say it, though he’s certainly had the thought many times. He feels her staring at him, but she doesn’t say anything right away. 
  “Let me just make sure I have all the facts straight here,” she says, too-levelly. It feels like a trap. “You knew that I was having someone over, so you tricked me into thinking you weren’t at the motel in order to spy on me, and then you became so enraged when you realized that I intended to have sex with that person that you practically beat my door down and lied to me to get me away from him because…you think I should be having sex with you ?”
  All of what she said is absolutely true, but hearing it laid out in that way makes him sound like a really awful person. At some point he’ll have no choice but to explore the possibility that he is, in fact, exactly that. 
  “I do not think you should be having sex with me,” he corrects her. “I’m simply drawing attention to the fact that you seem inclined to have sex with anyone but me.”
  She laughs and he looks over at her, surprised. Her smile is somewhat crazed, certainly not happy. He suddenly wonders if she might hit him. 
  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she says quite loudly with that same maniacal smile on her face. “Is this a joke? Are you actually sitting here, in this car, right now, telling me that I would have sex with anyone but you?”
  He takes the question to be rhetorical, but when he doesn’t answer she juts her chin out and raises her eyebrows at him. 
  “Is that not accurate?” he asks instead of answering. 
  “Is that not accurate?” she repeats under her breath, turning her face toward the foggy window briefly. “You know what’s accurate, Mulder? I have invited you to spend time with me outside of work on numerous occasions, and you always say no. It’s also accurate that I have been almost embarrassingly flirtatious with you to no effect. It would also be accurate to point out that I practically threw myself at you when we ditched that damn conference so you could go play in the woods, and you ditched me too.” She pauses, and her anger dampens to something closer to frustration. “I would say what’s accurate is that I have done all but directly asked you if you have any interest in…things being different between us, and you have ignored or declined every single advance. That is accurate, Mulder. So forgive me if I find it just a bit hard to understand why you’re acting like I broke your heart and handed you the pieces because I got tired of waiting for you to look up from your case files and decided to live my life. One that I nearly lost, if you recall.”
  He blinks at her, trying to assimilate the information she just unloaded into his mental schema for his and Scully’s relationship. Embarrassingly flirtatious? Threw herself at him? He has no idea what she’s referring to. 
  “Scully—” he tries, but she cuts him off. 
  “Take me back to the motel, Mulder,” she says curtly, turning to face the windshield and crossing her arms over her chest. “Whatever you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve already heard more than enough.”
  He starts the engine and drives until he finds his way back into town. He doesn’t speak, and neither does she. 
Tagging @today-in-fic
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numinousmysteries · 2 days
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fic well is running a little dry. anyone want to send some prompts my way? can't make any promises in terms of quality and/or timeliness of my responses but i'm open to anything!
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cecilysass · 1 month
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Milagro Fic Recommendations
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These are good for any time of year, of course, not just February 14. But here are my favorite fics related to the season 6 episode Milagro, a long time favorite. (And @sisterspooky1013's favorite episode of all time: happy VD, girl!) I’ve been reading and sifting through these for some time, and I have tried to include some from all eras: newer AO3 fics, some written right after the ep aired, etc. But I'm sure I've missed some, so hit me with your own faves, please.
Because of Milagro's ending, this entire genre of fic tends to be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst (which is fiiiiine by me), but that’s not all that’s here. Many of these are smutty, but not all.
Adagio - Terma99 A meditative, peaceful take on the aftermath of Milagro by a veteran author that includes both agents realizing something they had learned. Lovely.
Alma - 6hoursgirl (@sixhours) A lovely hurt/comfort Milagro piece. This one is Mulder POV, which is a little less common for post-Milagro, I think, and I like this characterization of Mulder as desperately wanting to help Scully, desperately wanting to protect her, but also a tiny bit scared of the intimacy and relationship he feels they’re on the cusp of. He’s so good-hearted and also a little dysfunctional here, and I love it.
Bated Breath - dreamingofscully (@dreamingofscully) This one has an original take on Scully's experience; it leaves Scully with clarity and new direction in her relationship with Mulder. DreamingofScully tends to write a more confident, in-charge Scully in the MSR than some do, and I appreciate it.
Beyond the Strokes of a Typewriter - storybycorey (@storybycorey) When Scully is stricken and ashamed that it’s been so long since anyone has seen her as a woman as Padgett did, Mulder is pushed to revelations. Mulder 3rd person POV. Very good smut build up. And nobody does a gorgeous feelings reveal from Mulder like storeybycorey, man.
I Believe - Diana Battis There are a lot of lovely, heartfelt hurt/comfort fics about the aftermath of Milagro (for obvious reasons), but this one is especially well done. Viewed from Scully’s third person point of view, it focuses on Mulder’s capacity for tenderness and guilt. Plus some smut.
Don’t Look Up - ArtemisX5 After Padgett's hallway revelation, Scully is horrified that she has no secrets left. But you know, Mulder is much slower on the draw than she gives him credit for. There is also such moving hurt/comfort in this.
Intimacies with Strangers -mldrgrl (@mldrgrl) This mid- and post- Milagro piece has Mulder and Scully simmering in tension and then boiling over. Their relationship is complex and painfully entangled, and I love how it plays out. There is also excellent Scully characterization. This one helps me to get more fully why she might have been drawn to Padgett initially, something I struggle with in the episode.
La Madrugada - h0ldthiscat A carefully told tale of RST that takes both characters seriously and is sincerely moving. Excellent.
Lacuna - Aloysia_Virgata (@aloysiavirgata) This is a longer work, not really a classic post ep per se. But I love this moody, angsty casefile set right after Milagro. This Scully has not come to terms with her emotions, is thoroughly freaked by how she reacted to Padgett, and hasn't even entirely worked out how she feels about Mulder. There is Scully/other here, but the ship is steering home. The end of this is so moving, but cw: dark themes in the casefile, extreme violence against children, traumatized agents.
Still Life - Seek_Its_Opposite (@seek-its-opposite) Ah, this is such a thoughtful and exquisitely written Scully character piece — and it contains some truly beautiful insights about Mulder, too. It suggests the heartbreaking idea that Mulder’s way of showing Scully respect (giving her distance) is continually hurting her. So tragic (and consistent with canon, e.g. Never Again.) One memorable line: “Every one of their fights is about how to care for one another, every last one.”
Alma Gemela - matchingfabric (@matchingfabric) After the events of Milagro, Scully (and Mulder) get accustomed to platonically sharing a bed for comfort. This is a slightly different take on post-Milagro. Exceptionally, irresistibly sweet. Oh, and smutty.
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What did I miss? Tell me. And yes, I'm working on my own short Milagro fic that will be coming soon-ish.
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aloysiavirgata · 1 month
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Tiny AU where they just have a normal baby 🥹
They name her Rosalind Elizabeth, after Franklin and Blackwell. She has a thatch of dark hair like the pelt of a mink. She has the kyanite eyes of a storm witch.
*
“They look like a nice Stilton,” Mulder observes, Scully’s breasts blue-veined over skin so plump and creamy even her baggiest sweatshirts have a seductive air.
She wrinkles her nose. “You’ve been out of the game for too long,” she says. “That’s hardly complimentary. Mold, honestly.”
“I’m a fun-guy,” he says, and Rosalind turns her head to hiccup with disdain.
*
Skinner holds the baby with surprising ease. “Eleven nieces and nephews,” he tells Mulder, who surveys his daughter for any sign of distress.
“This baby is especially discerning,” Mulder says. “She is highly refined.”
Skinner pokes Rosalind’s fat little frog belly.
She gurgles with appreciation, reaches for Uncle Walter’s tie.
“You can tell the difference can’t you, sweetheart,” Skinner asks warmly.
Mulder scowls as Rosalind coos in reply.
*
“Fuck,” Scully hisses at her tiny daughter. “Sweet merciful Christ, we’re weaning her.”
Rosalind drools past four razor-sharp teeth, onto her mother’s bare, bitten nipple. Then she wails in disappointment, in deprivation.
Mulder pops a pacifier into her perfect rosebud mouth, watches her impossibly long lashes flutter against her cheeks like butterflies on Calimyrna figs.
The baby hums a little, settles. Sleeps.
Mulder nuzzles against the salt-caramel sweetness of her mother’s neck, his palm soothing the bleeding breast. “Sheriff Hartwell,” he murmurs into her pale throat. “I want a paternity test.”
*
“No,” Rosalind says sweetly to Uncle Byers. She pats his beard with fat starfish hands. “No.”
Frohike hoots. “Well, if that isn’t her mother’s daughter!”
Byers looks mournfully at his copy of the Junior Cryptids board book. “Rosie,” he says. “S is for Sasquatch.”
Rosalind beams back with a gummy smile. “Monkey,” she burbles.
*
Mulder holds her hand as she steps delicately across the grass.
Rosalind looks up at him, her hot chocolate hair a tumble of silken ringlets.
“Bye bye,” she says.
She releases his finger, staggers drunkenly towards her mother on the other side of the blanket.
“Daddy,” Rosalind observes. “Ma.”
She walks like Bambi on ice, like a coltish girl in her first high heels.
Mulder’s sinuses burn, his eyes are hot and wet as the deep-ocean thermal vents, where the most improbable life begins.
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lilydalexf · 1 month
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Hello, I'm looking for a fic that I stumbled onto a long time ago. I don't remember too much about it, but Mulder and Scully investigate the disappearance of a college student, a young woman. The first chapter is the young woman late at night in her dorm. Supernatural things happen and there are urban legends concerning the college. The writing is really descriptive and beautiful.
You might be looking for Diametrically Opposed by mountainphile. It's a good long fic posted in 2004-2005 that has in its first chapter a girl in her supposedly haunted college dorm. The fic's summary: Mulder and Scully investigate the mysterious disappearance of a college student in Ohio. Circumstances demand that they work from divergent ends of the spectrum, unearthing old wounds while opening new doors to the truth.
That fic is a sequel to Seeds of Synchronicity, which is also an excellent long fic. Its summary: Six years after the events of “Aubrey,” Scully and Mulder revisit the Missouri town to confront old demons and lay new ones to rest.
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oohnotvery · 1 month
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Throwing Good After Bad (Chapter 21)
(Happy birthday, Dana Scully <3)
Scully
Scully wakes up tangled in stiffly-starched hospital bedsheets. Beside her, Mulder sleeps so peacefully that she presses her ear to his chest just to assure herself of his heartbeat. She rests there for a few long minutes, head against his heart, quietly contemplating the things that brought them to this moment and wondering how the next few hours, days, and weeks will play out.  
She is just starting to rise off Mulder’s chest when a noise at the door makes her jump. A.D. Skinner raises his hands in surrender, his mouth twisting awkwardly as he enters the room and shuts the door behind him. Scully sucks in a deep breath, surprised at how fast her heart is racing.  
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, her underused voice cracking. “You startled me.”
Her boss’s eyes flicker briefly over the two of them and then down to where her hand rests on Mulder’s chest. He clears his throat, mildly uncomfortable with their entanglement, and Scully flushes under the scrutiny.
“How’s he doing?” he asks with a nod towards Mulder.
She swallows against the dryness in her throat, suddenly acutely aware of her thirst. “Better,” she says with an experienced glance at the monitors beeping around them.
A hint of a smile rises to Skinner’s face. “I heard the story. It’s pretty amazing he survived.”  
Emotion bubbles up in her throat and she finds herself momentarily unable to speak. She manages a short nod. Skinner takes a step closer, his fingers finding the railing of the hospital bed. He grips it tightly, his knuckles turning white. His eyes rise to meet hers and she sees that they are clouded with concern.
“It’s amazing you both survived,” he says after a moment.  
Memories start to roll in.
She can’t decide if she’s hallucinating. Could that be . . .? Is that really A.D. Skinner, out here on this twisted wild hellhole of an island?
Her legs shake with exertion as she climbs over a fallen tree and tries to get his attention. It’s not yet clear if he sees her.
“Sir!” she shouts feebly, because even in the jungle, she will insist on honorifics. “Sir!”
Skinner’s bald head turns and a fierce set of eyes pins her in place. Vietnam-trained, he doesn’t even seem to register the shock at seeing Special Agent Dana Scully dead on her feet, wearing only a bra and pants, trekking wildly through an untamed maze of trees. Instead, he breaks out into a run, shoving brush out of the way like he’s slicing through butter.
He reaches her in seconds, his strong, calloused hands gripping her arms and keeping her upright.
“Dana, are you okay?” he’s asking her, but she’s gesturing behind her, pointing towards the hidden beach where Mulder lies half-dead.
Her body trembles fiercely as she mutters directions to him, as she clings to his shirt and begs him to get Mulder to safety. Her legs seem to have realized that she has reached some semblance of safety, because they start to give out. Skinner wraps his arms around her more fully as she collapses to the ground.
“Find him,” she begs, just before her vision goes black. The last thing she feels are muscular arms encircling her body and lifting her into a sturdy, supportive chest.
In the hospital, Scully licks her lips apprehensively. “Sir,” she begins, her eyes flitting down to the blanket, “thank you for finding me out there. Thank you for getting us to safety.”
She chances a glance up at him and sees an uncharacteristic warmth spread across his face. He nods sharply, his eyes telling her everything she needs to know. I’d do anything for you, Dana. Maybe what Mulder said was true, she muses with pinking cheeks. Maybe Walter Skinner does have a bit of a crush.
Mulder stirs, his eyes blinking open, and Scully instantly places a palm against his stubble-roughened cheek. “Mulder?” she murmurs, and he smiles into her hand. “Mulder, Skinner is here.”
“Skinman saves the day,” her partner croaks as he comes to full consciousness, and Scully is reminded of the fact that no matter how much she loves this man, she will sometimes want to slap him too.
“Agents,” Skinner announces, his face morphing into solemnity, “when you’re up for it, you’ll join us downstairs, Room 208. We’ve commandeered a conference room here in the hospital.”
Scully frowns. “Is A.D. Kersh here?”
Skinner hesitates, his mouth pulling into a frown. He shakes his head and stuffs his hands into his pockets, giving them a long, knowing look. “We have things to discuss, agents.”
**
Dressed in borrowed blue scrubs, they walk to Room 208, Scully still fuming over Mulder’s refusal to use a wheelchair.
“You almost died,” she mutters testily as they trek down the hallway.  
He flashes her a cocky grin. “You can baby me all you want later, Scully,” he assures her. “Just let me have this one final moment of dignity before we get the ass-kicking of our lives.”
After Skinner left, they both agreed that things on the home front were likely not good. Although everyone—everyone but Kersh, they agreed—would consider it a victory that they survived their ordeal, the Bureau was undoubtedly furious with them for going rogue during the investigation.
They reach the door to Room 208 and Scully turns to look at Mulder. He glances down at her warily, all his earlier joking vanished. An unspoken agreement shifts between their gazes—it’s us against the world.
Scully pushes the door open.
Immediately, she takes stock of the room, unsurprised to see Skinner, Lydia, and Grace—who was airlifted with her—sitting around the table. What shocks her, however, is Joe, whom she hasn’t seen in days. She senses Mulder’s surprise too, feeling him seize up beside her.
Joe rises from his seat at the table and takes a few steps forward, giving Scully time to assess him. He looks not only uninjured but also healthy. Whereas everyone else appears worn, weathered, and emotionally drained, Joe looks vibrant, his complexion glowing, his eyes bright. How this man, whose cowardice almost cost Mulder his life, could show his face around here, is beyond Scully’s comprehension.
Instinctually, she glances up at Mulder, whose expression has become unreadable.
Joe stops a few feet in front of them and his mouth falls open. Words of apology scatter out of him, but Scully isn’t listening. She’s watching Mulder. His face has shifted into a slight smile—warm, friendly, almost serene. He covers the gap between him and Joe and extends his hand to the man, who hesitates slightly before reaching out and shaking. Joe looks instantly relieved.
Mulder claps his left hand over Joe’s shoulder and Scully frowns, suddenly uneasy about Mulder’s uncharacteristic forgiveness. Has he experienced some sort of memory loss?
But then his expression changes, his eyes narrowing, his mouth curling into a grimace. He draws back his right hand and lobs a blow, sucker punching the life out of Joe, sending the man stumbling backwards. Wasting no time, Mulder advances quickly, fists flying at Joe’s head and torso, catching him in the groin for good measure.
“You spineless, heartless, cowardly son-of-a-bitch!” Mulder shouts, pounding his fist over and over into Joe’s face. Blood starts pouring out of the man’s nose and soaking through his shirt.
Skinner jumps forward, yanking Mulder away so forcefully that they both fall to the floor in a tangled heap. Scully rushes forward but Skinner reaches Mulder first, dragging him by the front of his scrubs to toss him violently into the nearest chair. Scully shoots her boss a sharp, disapproving look.
“Watch it!” she yells, her eyes warning Skinner not to make another move on her convalescent partner.
Ignoring her, Skinner stabs a stern finger at Mulder, his face red with rage.
“Sit down and shut up, both of you!” he barks.
Mulder looks like a wild beast about to pounce and Scully goes to sit beside him, placing a hand on his knee. He glances at her irately.
“I know,” she says, nodding supportively. “I know.”
No one bothers to give Joe a hand, and he eventually finds his way back to his chair, pressing the hem of his shirt to his bleeding nose.
“That man betrayed us,” Mulder spits furiously, and Scully squeezes his leg in warning. “He has no right to be here—”
“Mulder—” Scully cautions.
“I said shut the hell up,” Skinner growls, yanking off his glasses and furiously cleaning them on his shirt. “One more word out of you, Mulder, and I’ll make personally sure that you’re not released from this hospital for another month!”
The fear of confinement is enough to make Mulder’s mouth snap shut, but Scully can feel the energy thrumming off him. The room falls silent with anticipation. Skinner finishes cleaning his glasses and then takes a deep breath.
“We have a lot to talk about,” he begins quietly. “First and foremost, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, you should know that Joe and Lydia are not FBI agents.”
“What?” Scully breathes, her eyes flickering towards the table where they sit. Lydia meets her gaze briefly and her cheeks darken. At her side, Mulder tenses.
Skinner nods solemnly. “They’re not even American. They’re Canadian citizens. As you read in your briefing, the island you were on is disputed U.S.-Canadian territory, so this mission was a joint effort between the two nations. Lydia and Joe were sent to us as your Canadian counterparts, but they aren’t trained in the same skills you two acquired at Quantico.” He pauses. “They’re not field agents; they’re desk workers. Both highly trained in research, data analysis, auditing, ethics, and . . . internal investigations.” His voice peters out.
Scully stands before she even knows what she’s doing. “Desk workers?” she asks in disbelief. “You sent the two of us out into the field partnered with desk workers? Two untrained, wholly unprepared desk workers?” Her voice quivers with shock and she takes a step forward, pointing a trembling finger at Skinner’s chest. “Do you know how dangerous that decision is? How costly it ended up being for us? Desk worker Joe chickened out on us at a crucial moment, and Mulder nearly died for it!”
She feels Mulder’s palm warm the small of her back. “Scully’s right,” he says, but she shakes him off.
“We both almost died! For an entire day, I had to live with the thought that my partner was dead!” Her voice breaks. “How could you, Skinner? How could you authorize something like that?”
Skinner rips off his glasses again and rubs at his eyes harshly. He motions for them to sit down again but Scully doesn’t move. “There’s more to it than that, agents,” he finally says, his voice no longer angry, but fatigued.
“Tell me.”
But before Skinner can speak, Lydia stands. “Joe already told you all this when we were being held in the lodge, but we were deliberately sent to spy on you,” she admits quietly, meek as a mouse. Scully whips around, eyes pinballing between Joe and Lydia. Lydia looks like she’s about to throw up. “We didn’t know much about the two of you when we were assigned to this detail. But then we read your files and learned you had a history of . . . disobedience.”
Scully’s cheeks flame with rage.
Skinner places a hand on her arm and she smacks it away. “Agent Scully,” he says, his eyes meeting hers plaintively, “Dana.”
She meets his gaze distrustfully.
He shakes his head. “I didn’t know. Not until yesterday morning did I know the extent of this assignment. Kersh is the one who suggested the assignment, who vetted the Canadian candidates, and who suggested mixing up the marriages.”
“Why?” Mulder asks, although it’s becoming remarkably clear where this is going.
Skinner shoots them a meaningful look. “I’m just speculating here, but I think he wanted to see just how far you two would go to . . . misbehave. To disobey direct orders.” Skinner sighs. “I believe this was a setup. Not intended, of course, to go as far as it did. I don’t think Kersh ever dreamed you’d be placed in any actual danger. The entire existence of a cult—especially a blood-lusting one like the Black Sands turned out to be—was highly speculative in the first place. The fact that you got so entangled in this mess is really a mystery.”
Mulder slams his fist against Scully’s empty chair. “We almost died out there!” he reminds Skinner.
Scully is about to speak when Lydia steps forward. “Dana,” she pleads, “I’m so, so sorry. We never knew it would go this far. Our directive was to catalogue your behaviors and indiscretions. We never believed—nor dreamed—that we’d be faced with an actual threat.” She steals a glance at Joe, whose nose appears to have stopped bleeding. “I can’t speak for him, and I—I don’t agree with his actions. But I am truly, truly sorry.”
As she speaks, Scully slowly begins to realize that the woman was never intended to be backup or protection or even help. She was merely sent to collect data. The fact that she went as far as she did to save their lives . . . Scully swallows and turns away. Maybe Lydia deserves more credit than she’s been inclined to give.
Grace’s soft voice rises above the mix, surprising Scully, who’d almost forgotten she was in the room. “Lydia was really brave,” she adds. “I helped her and Joe get out of their bonds while you two were in the bath.” She glares at Joe contemptuously. “Joe ran off immediately. I—I can’t speak to his actions at all after that point. But Lydia was the one who insisted on following you all down to the beach. She had the idea to get the kayaks.” Grace pauses, then meets Scully’s eyes. “And I know it’s just killing her, what she did to Mulder.”
Scully breaks their eye contact, emotion clawing up her throat. She retreats to her chair, where Mulder throws an arm over her shoulder protectively. She rubs furiously at her temples as a headache begins to set in.
“And what’s your involvement, Grace?” Mulder asks. “Are you not a member of the Black Sands?”
Grace shakes her head. “No, I am, actually.” She looks nervous. “I—I wanted to help you all once I found out Evan’s plan.”
Scully regards her coolly. “And why didn’t you help the dozens of others who have been sacrificed before on your island?”
Grace fixes her with a dark look. “I told you when we met that my brothers left the island for the mainland. That was a lie. My brothers were sacrificed as teenagers, one right after the other. They were some of the youngest members of our community to volunteer their lives. Because that’s what we were taught from a young age—that volunteering for the sacrifice was our highest calling. But after they died, I stopped believing. And I started doing everything I could to convince others to stop believing too.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “You two were the first sacrifices I’ve ever had the chance to truly save.”
Scully feels a wash of shame pour over her as she hears Grace’s confession. “Thank you,” she eventually says. She meets Grace’s eyes, then Lydia’s. “Thank you both.”
**
It’s been half an hour since they retreated back to Mulder’s hospital bed, but Scully is still angry. Skinner sits at the end of the bed, his face creased with concern.
“Kersh is being investigated for this,” he assures them.
They both nod, but Kersh’s betrayal still hangs thickly in the air. Skinner clears his throat, glancing up at the ceiling nervously.
“But,” he says with a sigh, and Scully feels the room grow tense, “that wasn’t before he made some pretty serious allegations against you two.” When he refuses to meet her gaze, Scully knows what allegations Kersh must have made. Associations flit through her mind. Inappropriate sexual conduct between partners. Official reprimand. OPR hearing. Suspension. Termination.
“I did what I could to silence any speculation as to the nature of your . . . relationship,” Skinner says. “But that’s about as much as I can do for now.”
Mulder shifts as Scully drops her gaze to the blanket. “Exactly how much damage control did you do, sir? I may not have much of a reputation to protect, but Agent Scully . . .” His voice peters out.
Skinner shrugs. “I can’t say how much of this has reached the water cooler, honestly. There’s not much I can do about that.” He glances over at both of them, his gaze turning serious. “As for whatever it is between you two, I’d try to keep it as discreet as possible.”
Scully groans into her hands and Skinner rises to leave. Only when she hears the door snick shut does she open her eyes and turn to Mulder. He’s regarding her with just a hint of mirth.
“Jesus Christ, Mulder,” she moans, “everyone thinks we’re sleeping together.”  
He laughs, patting her knee in consolation. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s the first time people have thought that about us.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. To hell with what they think.”
They fall silent, Scully mulling over the mess that they’ll be returning to upon their arrival in D.C.
“Hey, Scully,” Mulder prods. She looks up, finding him staring at her with open curiosity. “I’m starting to put the pieces together. Grace said something to you, didn’t she?”
She frowns, crinkling her nose. “When?”
“I saw you two talking in the lodge, the night they kidnapped us.”
Her eyebrows rise as she remembers—Grace’s first kindness of many. Oh. Oh. A slight smile rises to her lips as she makes the connection.
“She warned me not to drink the tea.”
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soft-thrills · 1 year
Text
XF Fic: The Wager
Rated Teen
Scully faces the failure of her IVF cycle -- and faces where things are headed with Mulder.
tw: infertility and ivf. more in notes below the cut!
a/n: Anyone who has gone through IVF knows the arc in the show is a total mess. This is my attempt to make a little sense of it. I've sought to describe that process and the emotions it can bring sensitively, as someone going through it myself. But turn back if you're not in a place to read about failed transfers right now. <3
*
Autumn, 1999.
*
Her fertility clinic does embryo transfers on Thursdays, and the blood tests for pregnancy the following Friday.
Mulder offers to come with her to the transfer, offers to wait in the waiting room for her if that’s more comfortable than having him in the room, considering the whole legs-spread-in-stirrups situation.
“No, it’s all right, I can go alone,” she says. “It won’t take long, and it’s a pretty straightforward procedure.”
He nods.
It isn’t really fair. Half the embryo is his, after all, but she’s not sure she can bring herself to sit beside him in the waiting room, with a bunch of normal couples, not knowing how to define what they even are to one another. Partners. Friends. Partners and friends who share their gametes with one another, but only in a petrie dish.
Scully tries to be inconspicuous as she looks around the waiting room, and sees the faces of women who are terrified and sad and hopeful, just like her. They all trade sympathetic looks, but the truth is it’s impossible to find people who can totally understand. They’re all here for infertility, like she is, but Scully didn’t do the egg retrieval portion of IVF like all the other women in the waiting room. There was no injection of stimulating hormones and careful monitoring by a doctor; there was just months of missing time while whatever dark forces that abducted her harvested all of her ova, stealing her future.
This embryo transfer is her only hope.
The truth is frozen eggs don’t hold up that well under the best of circumstances, and her situation — her partner stealing her frozen eggs from a shadowy facility and not fucking mentioning it to her for several years — is less than ideal.
Fifteen eggs fertilized. But just two made it to blastocyst. They were frozen and biopsied, and only one was euploid — that is, it had the right number of chromosomes. A chance to grow inside her. Her last shot. Her only chance.
In the procedure room, naked from the waist down under a hospital gown, she scoots to the edge of a tiny table and lifts her legs into stirrups. She is a doctor and not ashamed of her body — even as it has failed her — but she can’t help thinking the whole thing is so undignified. One more humiliation courtesy the men who took her all those years ago, who have never paid for it.
She wishes she had let Mulder come with her, stirrups and all. She stares at the ceiling and waits for it to be over.
*
Lots of women take an at-home pregnancy test in between, but Scully doesn’t. She dutifully injects herself with progesterone in alternating ass cheeks each evening, takes an estrogen pill three times a day, a prenatal each morning, and waits.
But she doesn’t take a test. Might as well only be let down once, when the doctor delivers the news. The truth is she wants to hold on to the hope for as long as she can — for those eight days, there is the possibility she is pregnant, something that has not been true for her for so long.
She’s hopeful. The odds are in her favor: a euploid embryo transfer has a sixty percent chance of resulting in a live birth. She has to be hopeful, what else is there to be?
Friday comes and she feels like she is going to crawl out of her skin.
She goes to work and finds Mulder is there, waiting for her, with a croissant and a cup of tea.
Mulder.
Mulder, the man whose sperm met with her egg before they’ve even kissed. The man she is terribly, awfully, unrelentingly in love with. She could find the words to ask him to scramble their DNA, but she cannot bring herself to tell him something as simple as that: I love you.
“Good morning, Scully,” he says. He knows today is the day, but he doesn’t mention it, and she is eternally grateful. “I figure we can knock out those expense reports Skinner wants done, and then cut out early.”
She smiles at him and accepts the cup of tea from his outstretched hand.
“Sounds good. I have to go to the doctor at four,” she says, like it’s a routine visit and not an appointment to find out their future.
He nods, and once again she cannot bring herself to invite him to go with her.
“Will you come over? This evening, I mean,” she says. “Come over. We can order dinner.”
Again, he nods.
“I’ll be there waiting for you when you get home,” he says. He looks at her in that unnerving way he has. “I’ll always be there, Scully. No matter what.”
She nods tightly. She wants to believe.
*
The news is not good.
She holds it together in the office with her doctor. She walks out into the parking lot, gets into her car, and just sits there, in the quiet. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t pray. She doesn’t curse God. She doesn’t call anyone because there’s no one to tell. No one knows she’s even tried. No one but —
Mulder.
Her stomach twists. Somehow, telling him feels like the worst part. She doesn’t even know if he’s ever really wanted to be a parent, but she’d put the option on the table, and now, the option was gone.
With her, anyway.
The truth is, Mulder could be a father, with someone else. The thought fills her with a level of dread she’s never felt before, a bottomless kind of dread she has no right to feel. They are not married. They’ve never even properly kissed. But they’d been prepared to — what, coparent as cordial colleagues? The truth is she has no fucking clue what they were doing anymore. It feels like they are moving toward the inevitable, but they’re both blinking. Both afraid to call the other’s bluff.
A few hours ago her life had held such promise, such possibility. And now, it is gone.
She sits there, alone, silent, in the parking lot until the sun goes down.
How is she going to tell him?
*
In the end, she doesn’t have to. He can tell. He can always tell.
She opens the door to find him lightly dozing on her couch.
“Scully? I must have dozed off. I was waiting for you to get back,” he says.
He can read it on her face.
“It didn’t take, did it?”
“I guess it was too much to hope for,” she says.
He opens his arms to embrace her, and she lets him. And that’s when the tears finally come, too much and all at once, ugly crying into his chest.
She says aloud the thing she’s only ever admitted to herself: “It was my last chance.”
He squeezes her, kisses her forehead. God how she wishes he’d do more, how she feels ashamed for even having the thought, for having the need, for wanting more than this man has given her already.
“Never give up on a miracle,” he says.
She kisses his cheek, his neck. She lets him hold her and she cries until there’s nothing left.
Later, he draws her a bath and lets her soak while he orders them dinner. He goads her to eat a little something, at least. He pours them each a glass of wine, and cuddles up beside her on the couch, because what the fuck else is there to do at this point anyway.
She is surprised by her own capacity for disappointment. Of course it didn’t work. Nothing ever works.
“Sometimes it feels like nothing good is ever going to happen to me again,” she says, embarrassed at how maudlin and miserable she sounds as soon as the words come out of her mouth.
He looks at her not with pity, but with promise.
“There are plenty of good things in your future, Scully,” he assures her.
He kisses her then — not like before, not her forehead, but her mouth. Quick, chaste, but not exactly friendly.
What the fuck are they? What are they going to be?
“What is this, Mulder? What are we doing?” she finally asks.
“I’m not sure. But I don’t think we should make any big moves tonight,” he whispers.
She nods, on the brink of tears again.
“Would you stay with me? Tonight? We don’t have to—”
“Of course,” he says. “Of course I’ll stay.”
*
She wakes in the morning alone, but to the sound of her front door opening.
“Hello?” she calls out.
“It’s me,” he replies. “I got us breakfast.”
He’d slept in the bed with her, holding her. They’d kissed again, a little longer, but nothing more. She knows he doesn’t want to take advantage when she’s vulnerable. But the truth is she’s not sure she’ll ever be whole again.
He ambles into her bedroom with a to-go cup and a paper bag. This time it’s coffee, not tea. She’s not pregnant, no need to deny herself caffeine. She takes it appreciatively.
“I got us bagels. Real cream cheese,” he says. “None of that tofutti bullshit.”
She rolls her eyes as if she were in their office and not in her bed in her pajamas.
He grins. “There she is,” he says, running a thumb across her cheek.
She feels herself blush.
“What do you want to do today, Scully?”
It’s Saturday, she remembers. She has nowhere to be and she supposes he doesn’t either.
He fills the silence: “We could catch a movie, or if you’ve got stuff to do I could get out of your hair…”
“No,” she says. “No, I’d like to spend the day together.”
He smiles. “Me too. If you’re not up to doing anything, we can just hang out here. Eat takeout in bed all day,” he waggles his eyebrows.
She smiles, and then the realization hits her all at once.
“I want to do something stupid,” she says.
He laughs, and she realizes she’s taken her profiler partner by surprise.
“Ok,” he says. “Well, I’m an expert on doing something stupid. But what kind of stupid? Breaking into a government facility stupid or watching Dumb and Dumber stupid?”
She grins.
“I want to do something frivolous. Something fun. I want to get out of here, away from here. Away from everything.”
He looks, suddenly, like a man with an idea.
“Do you mind a bit of a drive?” he asks.
“No, I don’t mind. That would be nice, actually.”
“You’re a Springsteen fan, right, Scully?”
She nods. “Sure,” she says.
“Well, put your makeup on and fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City.”
*
They listen to Springsteen on the way, actually. Well, part of the way -- a bit of a drive was maybe an understatement, and they’re working their way through a good chunk of Mulder’s CD collection. Springsteen. The Traveling Wilbury’s. Elvis. Prince. They debate which is the best Beatles album, then, which is the best Beatle.
After a few hours they hit the New Jersey Pinelands, and in the distance Atlantic City’s skyline, in all its gaudy glory, sparkles into view.
“You know, it’s kind of ironic, Scully,” Mulder says. “Last time we were in Atlantic City was to chase down the Jersey Devil. And if I recall correctly, *you* had a date.”
She nearly blushes.
“That is correct.”
“And now, here we are again, on our first date,” he smirks.
“Is that what this is, Mulder? A date?” She arches an eyebrow, but she’s teasing, smiling.
“I think so. There’s just something about casinos, after all. Don’t know whether it’s day or night. Free drinks. Fancy restaurants. The thrill of risk and reward.”
She glances in the rearview mirror at the two overnight bags on the backseat, an unspoken decision they’d each made that this would be an overnight jaunt.
“Well, I suppose you can’t win if you don’t wager on something,” she says.
He takes her hand into his on the center console.
*
Scully wanted frivolous, and the Tropicana is frivolous.
A Havana-themed casino towering over the boardwalk and the Atlantic ocean, complete with an attached shopping complex with fake palm trees and blue sky and fluffy clouds painted on the ceiling.
It’s early in the afternoon when they arrive. The casino floor smells like cigarettes, and the chimes of slot machines bounce off the windowless walls as women in stretch pants and men in football jerseys lose their paychecks. Later, the women will don high heels and the men will begrudgingly wear a collared shirt to go to a steakhouse and then pay a twenty dollar cover to dance.
And she wants to be part of it. She wants to sit next to Mulder at a five dollar blackjack table and laugh at his stupid jokes while the dealer rolls her eyes. So she does.
But even when she’s being reckless, she’s still Scully.
She puts one hundred dollars cash on the table and tells Mulder: “This is my limit. I’m not doing the gambler’s fallacy thing. If I lose it, I lost it, and I’m not putting more down.”
But she doesn’t have to make that decision anyway, because by the time they leave the table, they’ve had two free drinks and she’s up three hundred bucks.
“See, Scully,” Mulder says as she squirrels the black poker chips into her purse. “I told ya there were good things in your future.”
* They go out for happy hour to a Cuban place in the attached mall with the fake sky, and order beers and a platter of potato croquettes and empanadas and other fried things that aren’t very good for you but taste delicious.
She feels warm, comfortable, happy, which just twenty-four hours ago seemed impossible to her. Frivolous had been a good idea. Atlantic City had, against all odds, been a good idea.
Scully can feel the dopey grin on her own face as they banter and eat and sip, which is part of why his question is so shocking.
“Do you hate me?” he asks her, lifting his beer bottle to his lips but still watching her intently.
“What? No,” she says, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, because it is. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t tell you — about the ova. Even after you got better, I kept it from you. I don’t know why I did that, but I think it may be the worst thing I’ve ever done, to anyone, and I did it to you, which makes it so much worse,” he says, in a rush, like it was weighing on him for a long time and he just had to let it out.
Part of her is annoyed — annoyed that he’s harshing the buzz she has from the booze and gambling winnings and the possibility simmering between them, annoyed she has to tend to his feelings when she’s the one he’d wronged, when she’s the one who had to spend the last two weeks doping her body with artificial hormones, when she’s the one who can’t have a kid of her own.
And maybe it’s that annoyance that spurs her to be bold in her response. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the big hair and bright lights of a New Jersey casino.
“Mulder, I don’t hate you,” she says. “I’m not happy that things happened this way. But I don’t hate you. I love you.”
There, now she’s done it, too: said it all in a rush, spilled out what has been churning in her guts, said the big heavy thing that can’t be unsaid.
His eyes are wide — he was not expecting this.
“I, I love you, too, Scully,” he says.
He’s told her that before. But she needs to make sure he understands what she’s really saying.
“Mulder, I don’t just love you. I’m in love with you. I probably should’ve told you that before I asked you to make a kid with me. But that ship has sailed, and it’s still true: I’m in love with you.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Because I’m in love with you, too, Scully. I think I have been for a pretty long time,” he says.
She grins. She laughs.
“We’re so fucking stupid, Mulder,” she says. “Wasting all this time denying ourselves. For what? Propriety? The rules we don’t care about anyway?”
“I was afraid,” Mulder admits. “I was afraid that I’d fuck up what we already had. Sometimes it felt like we could never -- like if we did it, the world would end.”
“Everybody thinks the world’s gonna end in a couple months anyway,” she says, draining her beer. “Might as well have fun.”
“So this is the Scully that stole her mom’s cigarettes and hits up seedy tattoo parlors,” he raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, and gambles in low-rent casinos with rebellious men who carry guns,” she says. “Men -- well, one man -- she’d really like to take her upstairs to their room right about now.”
Mulder calls the bartender and asks for two shots of top shelf tequila. She watches his tongue lick up salt from finger, watches his neck as he swallows, watches his lips as they pucker around the lime.
They walk out of the bar hand-in-hand, and when they kiss for the first time -- beneath a painted-on sky, next to a fake palm tree -- he tastes salty and sharp, like the sea.
And in that moment, Dana Scully is absolutely sure that something good is about to happen to her.
*
a/n 2: I'd love your feedback. I'm on my third round of IVF myself without success so far -- hoping for positive news next week, actually! So please be kind and sensitive. I hope I've done justice to anyone else going through this.
My intention was for this to end in some fun Atlantic City smut, but it just didn't get there. Zero promises, but I'm not ruling out following up with a little first-time fic of what happens when they get upstairs.
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