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aloysiavirgata · 4 years ago

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Henry Compilation

@perplexistan is an outstanding human who compiled all my little Henry ficlets into one document for me. So here it is, for your perusal. It all began with this:

Anonymous asked: Would scully consider remarrying if she wouldn't work it out with mulder in season 11? ;)

@kateyes224

As long as Mulder is around, I don’t know that she’d be willing to start from scratch. But that makes me very sad for Scully. If she and Mulder did decide that they couldn’t be together, I would want for her to find someone who loved and appreciated her and made her feel completed, even if that person wasn’t Mulder. I just think the ways that she and Mulder have been rent apart by this life mean that their torn edges fit together in a way that makes them as whole as they can possibly be.

AV:

She gets the younger two out the door in time for the bus, backpacks bouncing as they run down the block. Their sister had left well over an hour ago, driving herself to school for early lacrosse practice. Scully shuts the door once Alice and Simon join the cluster of children trooping along the sidewalk. Everyone knows there is safety in numbers.

The dog, a half-grown keeshond, trots over in response to the breakfast noises. “Here, Wicket,” Scully says. “It’ll make your coat shiny.” She scrapes leftover eggs into his dish before fitting the greasy plates into the dishwasher.

Footsteps on the stairs, and Scully smooths her hair back.

“Morning,” Henry says, grabbing a nectarine from the bowl. He wears only striped pajama pants. “Thanks for getting them out the door.”

“Mmm, not a problem. You almost never get to sleep in.” She smiles, tips her face up to his.

He kisses her, and Scully tastes toothpaste and Listerine. “You’re an angel,” Henry claims.

Not me, she thinks. But Joan is. Henry’s first wife, the mother of his children, the lover of keeshonds, the gardener of exotic bulbs, is dead and beyond reproach. Scully finds her harmless, though occasionally irritating. The children find her flawless.

Henry pours them each a cup of coffee, fixes hers exactly how she likes. Scully settles onto a bar stool to savor it.

“Good?” he asks.

“Perfect.”

Henry beams.

She watches her husband as he putters around the kitchen, dumping coffee grounds into the composter, putting frozen fruit into the Vitamix. His back is broad and muscular in the buttery morning light, his silver-flecked hair gleaming.

“You eat?” he asks, after his smoothie has been whirred to perfection.

“Eggs with the kids.”

“They love you,” he says happily, if not accurately. “Can you believe we’re coming up on a year, Dana?”

She cannot. The wedding had been small. Quiet. Family attended, some of their friends from work. Joan’s parents, uncomfortably.

Mulder had sent flowers for her, gifts for the children.

Scully takes another swallow of coffee. “Paper anniversary, Henry. Hot date at Barnes and Noble?”

He walks over, wraps his arms around her from behind. Scully leans into the heat of his chest, her head on his bicep. She sighs with contentment as he noses her hair.

“I was thinking plane tickets,” Henry murmurs, nuzzling her neck. “Paris. Rome. Somewhere decadent. Between work and the kids you’re running yourself absolutely ragged, Dana. Joan’s parents can take the younger two, and Vivian can stay home by herself if she wants.”

Paris. All she has seen of Paris is the airport, eating overpriced pain au chocolat while Mulder argued with the ticket agent in his lousy French. They barely made their flight.

“Paris,” Scully muses. “I could do Paris.”

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” Henry asks, purring in her ear.

She rolls her eyes. “So predictable.”

“I’m a tax attorney, Dana. I’m supposed to be predictable.”

She laughs a little. Predictable. Solid, predictable Henry with his beautiful children and his beautiful house and his beautiful wives. She has never heard him say a truly unkind thing about anyone. He is a charter Rotarian and a sucker for the wounded animals Simon brings home. He’s been unfailingly gracious to Mulder on the few occasions they’ve met. He’s a wonderful dancer.

“Predictable is good,” she assures him. Henry would never ditch her in strange motels or mix her up in a global conspiracy. Henry calls when he’s running late.

“You have time for a run before work?” he asks.

“I wish I did. I’ve got a consult with a family in about an hour.” Scully turns the bar stool, looking up at Henry’s green eyes. She takes his face in her hands, thumbing his jaw. “Paris sounds lovely. I’ll talk to Gwen about my schedule today.”

He kisses her palm. “You deserve Paris.”

Scully holds him close and doesn’t tell him how rarely anyone gets what they deserve.

***

From @mangokiwitropicalswirl

[I could NOT stop thinking about your short brilliant painful take on Scully’s marriage to Henry, and I woke up needing to write this. If you think it fits your vision of things in that universe, feel free to share!]

***

Note from AV: There are not WORDS to describe what a compliment this is, my goodness. <3 Thank you, @mangokiwitropicalswirl

***

On the morning Scully marries him, she takes a long look in the mirror as she smooths her hair and touches up her makeup. It goes without saying, without thinking, that she wishes her mother were here. Maggie would have cried to see her in the ivory dress, would have coddled the step-grandchildren, would have joined her elbows-deep in topsoil in his garden.

Everyone believes the day that you get married you’ll feel uniquely whole, blissfully free from uncertainties. Happy.

And she is. She catches her own gaze in the mirror and knows that she’s the only one who’d see the wistful mote of resignation in her eyes. But not a resignation of defeat, it’s one of understanding. She better understands at fifty now than she did at thirty that there are choices. Always choices.

Someone told her once that love flows through us like water, softening our edges the way water wears down sandstone, or even granite. It carves out space for itself inside of us, making us larger, widening the heart.

Mulder’s love had been a tumult, a raging river, a flood. It had opened her like a canyon, revealed a grandscape of dizzying heights and crevices inside her. It had split over into corners she herself had not explored. Together, their love had flowed and thrashed and roiled, until she was hollowed out like a deepend cavern, like a riverbank destroyed by sudden flood.

And then it had receded, slowly, like the bitter end of a geologic age.

The thin ribbon that still trickles through her even now was not enough to fill the newly-barren spaces. As years went on, the heart crumbled like loose rock, eroding like a monument to a long forgotten era.

Contrary to popular belief, love is not all you need. Sometimes you need therapy. And meds. And sometimes you need to let it go.

On the little card that came along with flowers there was just one word, “Always.– M”.

There were years she would have bristled at the word, hearing in it all the codependency and desperate possession that were the hallmarks of their bond. But she hears it now the way she knows he means it, with the openness of someone who will always be her friend. Before all of it, at the very heart of it, he had been her dearest friend.

When Henry came into her life, it crept up on her like the warm waters of a bending river. His love curled and soothed and nourished until she felt green and young.

In the mirror, she smiles the half-smile of a woman blessed to find there’s more of her to give. And more to know. She dabs perfume on each wrist and behind her ears, between the shadowed valley of her breasts. Beneath them in the hollow of her chest, she’s wider now and knowing, surprised and grateful she is able to bloom again.

***

Anonymous asked: So even though Scully and Henry have this perfect life, which I love, what kind of things do they fight about? Is Scully relieved it's not about conspiracy or monsters in the dark? How do they handle arguments and disagreements? Also, I love Mulder dearly but Henry is kind of perfect....which is a little scary but awesome at the same time.

They really don’t fight much. They disagree (Henry’s a bit more liberal than Scully) they annoy each other on occasion (he constantly fails to put his laundry in the hamper and she moves all the papers he leaves on the kitchen island) but fights? No, no fights.

N.B. Before anyone messages me to say how boring that sounds, let me explain that I have been with my husband for upwards of 17 years. In that time, we have had 2 fights. Like, ugly unpleasant ones. Lots of arguments and disagreements, but two fights. Our relationship isn’t boring, and I refuse to even entertain the validity of the notion that relationships need drama to be exciting.

One of the things I love best about Iolokus is that Rivka and Sally show Mulder and Scully figuring that out, that conflict isn’t necessary for intellectual stimulation.

***

Anonymous asked: So I know Mulder and Henry aren't hanging out playing poker together every Thursday night, but are there any occasions where they do find themselves in the same room? What was that first size-up like from either guy's perspective?

Scully has scheduled the dinner at a restaurant so it isn’t on anyone’s turf. Besides, Mulder’s house would be torture and she finds Henry’s elaborate kitchen somewhat daunting. She agonizes over reviews and menus, trying to eliminate as many variables as possible. Henry had tried to help, but her snippiness drove him off in short order. She is nauseous for a week beforehand, asking Henry if she had lost her mind and should cancel, asking Mulder the same.

“I want to meet him,” Henry says, passing her a glass of wine. “He’s part of you, so he’s important to me.”

“If this is to get my blessing, Scully,” Mulder says over the phone, “you already have it. But yeah, I’d like to meet the guy wonderful enough for you to ignore the fact that his job title contains the words tax and attorney.”

***

She puts on a black sheath dress, then decides it looks too much like the one from their movie premiere. My god, the movie…has Henry seen it? Or Viv? She is afraid to ask, and afraid not to know. She pushes the thought from her mind for now, pushes her and Mulder and that limo away. Scully rummages through her closet with increasing anxiety, finally settling on a burgundy pencil skirt and fitted navy sweater. Her hair is being impossible, and after half an hour with the curling iron, she opts for a French twist. She keeps her makeup light and tosses back a handful of Tums to quell the acid tide in her stomach.

Henry’s in jeans and a blazer, drinking coffee with Viv and her girlfriend. There’s a heated argument about Iron Man taking place. “You look great,” Henry says. “Ready?”

“No. But let’s do it anyway.” She plucks at invisible fuzz on her skirt.

He takes her arm and they head to the garage.

“Have fun at the circus, kids!” Viv calls after them.

***

They are seated at a table for four, Henry and Mulder facing one another, herself between. She holds a multigrain roll from the breadbasket in her lap, using her nails to pull out every tiny piece of millet, extract every last pumpkin seed. She drops them to the floor like daisy petals.

“I read your book,” Henry says. “Really impressive research. I recommended it to some colleagues.”

Mulder stirs his drink. “Thanks. Spend a lot of time on the dark web between billable hours, Henry?”

Scully kicks him lightly under the table, nostrils flared.

Henry chuckles. “No, I’m just a dilettante.”

The silence is thick and heavy as they peruse their menus, and Scully curses herself for this egregious decision. The back of her neck prickles, her face is hot and itchy. Moments stretch like saltwater taffy on a summer day.

“So, uh, Henry,” Mulder says at last, rubbing the side of his face.

Henry looks up. “Yep?”

“My, uh, my finances are pretty complicated due to some trusts and inheritances, plus my pension. The accountant I’ve been using is retiring. You think you could recommend anybody trustworthy?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve got a great guy in Alexandria,” Henry says. “He’ll save you a fortune.”

Mulder nods thoughtfully. “”I’ll put it towards my post-apocalyptic underground bunker. To which, of course, you’re all invited when the end times come upon us.”

Henry’s eyes crinkle at the corners, Scully sees, and her chest loosens. “We’ll bring a pie,” Henry says.

Mulder smiles. “Don’t let Scully make it. Great cook, lousy baker.”

The waitress comes for their orders, and they are chatting easily by the time the food arrives.

***

Henry sits outside on the porch, staring up at the sky. He names the constellations to himself as he sips a tumbler of Macallan. Dana perches on the arm of his Adirondack chair, knees drawn up to her chest.

“I like him,” Henry says at length. “Very funny guy.”

Dana nods slowly. “He is.”

Henry crunches an ice cube. “He’s still in love with you.”

“Does it bother you?’

He looks at her, ethereal in the moonlight. He is afraid at times that he will awake to find she has disappeared, burned off like the mist. “I want everyone to love you.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “Henry.”

“You love him too,” Henry says.

She hunches her shoulders, glances down. “Does that bother you?”

It might, he’s not sure. He felt the ineffable thing between them, but he understands the weight of history. “Love doesn’t have to be a zero sum game. Is there space in you for both of us?”

“It is impossible for more than one object to occupy the same space at the same time,” she says. “There are different spaces for each of you.”

Henry considers this. “Why’d you leave, Dana?”

She cants her face to the sky, eyes wide. “There’s a…a recklessness in me, Henry. A self destructiveness you haven’t seen.”

Is this where his gentle doctor ends and Mulder’s sure-shot partner begins? “Scully,” he says, trying it out.

Her eyes slide closed. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…please keep going.”

“That part of me blooms with him. It thrives. And I knew, I know, I couldn’t live like that. I couldn’t survive it another year. And I…I ripped it away and left it behind. That’s the place in me for you, Henry. That wound. You and Viv and Alice and Simon; you heal me there.”

He hears the thickness in her voice, feels it rising in his own. “Dana,” he says roughly. He knows about wounds and empty spaces. A piece of him went into the dark earth with Joan.

She turns her head to look at him, a slice of her lovely profile. “If that’s too much, I understand. I do. It’s a lot to ask.”

He shakes his head. “I’d rather share you than lose you,” he breathes. “If I….if I can make you feel whole, that’s a privilege.”

She makes a small noise, a hiccup or a sob, and crawls into his lap.

“It’s okay,” he says, arms wrapping around her. He kisses her temples, her eyelids.

She curls tight against his beating heart.

***

They don’t bother with the superfluity of hellos. She calls, he answers, they talk.

“I liked him,” Mulder says, bouncing a basketball. “I didn’t particularly want to, but he seems like the kind of person people just like.” Mulder finds this a kind of character flaw of its own, but does not mention as much.

“Yes,” Scully says, her voice soft. “He is.”

“A tax attorney though, Scully. Ouch.”

“Mulder, please.” The note of actual pleading in her voice startles him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sincere. “I know this isn’t easy.”

“It’s okay.”

He shoots the ball into the hoop at the end of the driveway. “Three-pointer,” he tells Scully.

“The crowd goes wild.”

There’s a long silence, just one another’s breathing.

“Listen, I don’t know if you know this, but I have a bit of a background in psychology and behavioral science.” He makes a foul shot.

“You don’t say.” There’s a smile in her voice.

“Truth. So I want you to know that my impression of Henry is that he, um, he knows the value of what he has. With you.” It hurts to admit this to her. To himself.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Mulder, I didn’t exp-“

“No, I just, let me finish. And he, um. He’s really a good guy. His life is, you know, well. Your life, really, I guess. It’s good. It’s what I wanted for you and I’m just, you know. I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you.” His eyes sting.

Silence.

“Scully?”

“I’m here.”

He hears tears in her voice. “Okay. Okay, good. This is hard, but we, um. We’re always friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course. Always.” She sniffles.

“I feel like Henry, he understands that. He seems like he really wants you to be happy, that he’s not the jealous type.” Shit, shit why did he say that? “Not that he should be jealous, I don’t mean to imp-“

“It’s okay. And you’re right. He knows that I’m…that we…he knows how we are.”

Mulder swallows hard. “How we are,” he repeats.

They never say goodbye, either. The silence grows and drifts, then she finally disconnects the call.

***

Anonymous asked: What would you do if Henry rocked up in season 11 (other than sue)?

Wait for him to die, I guess. That’s Chris’s MO.

***

Anonymous asked: I love Henry. I know it's sad that in this fictional world she's not with Mulder, but as much as they deeply loved each other, I must admit it's lovely to read a world where Scully is appreciated in the day to day. I'm sure that perhaps Mulder did, but we didn't see too much of that. It felt like it was only when she was kidnapped or in hospital with cancer that he realised how much she meant to him. Henry is what she deserves, and it seems to make Mulder step up too. I'm on board for this.

I feel this way too. Listen, I am diehard MSR and was a shipper before fandom had even settled on the term! I am here for Mulder and Scully hobbling across that bridge like everybody else. 94% of what I write is MSR, either set within canon, or trying to give them a happier AU. Even in this story, their love is still palpable. I don’t think it works otherwise.

But the challenge of trying to create this unconventional AU in a way that is relatable to people is really enjoyable to me as a writer. MSR is inherently easy. It exists. It’s fun and satisfying as a fan, but it’s not a hard sell. This is really pushing me to approach the characters in a new way. I’m just immensely surprised it has gone over so well, and endlessly grateful to everyone who has been willing to engage in the narrative. Especially to @kateyes224 for the idea and @mangokiwitropicalswirl and my 10/13 anon for fleshing it out.

(10/13 anon, got your message. Just developing an answer in my head.)

—

Anonymous asked: How would Henry cope if Scully's cancer returned? And how would Mulder? OR... how would Scully cope if something happened to Mulder, but she isn't free to drop everything and go to him? Would she want to, or would she have closed the door on that reaction? How would Henry deal with that? #TeamHenlly

Henry paces the hallway outside her room, one hand to his forehead, the other holding his phone. “Pick up, pick up,” he mutters.

Mulder does, finally. “Henry?”

“Yes. Yeah. Listen, this isn’t easy, but I’m at the hospital with Dana and I’ve got some, uh, some bad news.” He is proud of his steady voice, his steady hands.

“Is she hurt? Is she sick?” Mulder sounds almost accusatory, as though Henry has been derelict in a simple task.

“She’s sick. They…” he runs his hand through his hair, circles around the vending machine again. “They found a mass in her sinuses, Mulder.”

The silence on the other end goes on too long. “Mulder, are you there?”

“Do you know her medical history?” The words are clipped.

“She told me, told the doctors this isn’t new. But she said something about a chip, about that scar on her neck. What the hell is going on here, Mulder? I’ve never pushed her about her past, but I’m seriously in the dark here.”

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end. “It’s not my story to tell you.”

Henry, his frustration peaking after hours of obfuscation and obliqueness from Dana, slams a fist into the wall. “She’s my wife, goddammit! Whatever you two have, Mulder, whatever it is, I never pried. I trust her and I trust you and I accept it. But you need to tell me, right fucking now, what I don’t know.”

People are staring, but he doesn’t care, he feels righteous and productive.

“Henry, I-”

“You tell me,” he growls, “or I will drive over right now and beat the living shit out of you. I have a lot of impotent rage I’d like to direct somewhere.” He’s not entirely sure he can make good on this, but he thinks adrenaline will give him an advantage.

Nothing.

“Mulder.”

Breathing.

“It’s medicine,” Mulder says slowly. “The chip in her neck is some kind of medicine that stops her cancer.”

Henry is appalled, “That’s it? That’s the secret you couldn’t share? Am I losing my goddamned mind? Call the fucking manufacturer right now and get another one, for Christ’s sake!”

“It’s not that simple,” Mulder says, his voice soft. “It’s, ah, not on the market.”

“You’re telling me you know of a medicine that treats cancer effectively and you can’t get it? Is it foreign? Illegal?”

“It was a sort of custom design,” Mulder says.

“Give me an answer, a real answer. You two and your doublespeak, I swear to god…” He’s gripping his hair by the roots.

“Fine, Henry. Here it is.” There is anger in Mulder’s voice now, and Henry finds it satisfying. “Her cancer was specifically engineered to manifest if she ever took the chip out. The chip is a tracking device. I don’t know why it stopped working, but before you come over and kick my ass, you have a lot of fucking questions to ask your wife.”

Henry’s mind is reeling. He leans against the wall. “A tracking device?” he repeats. “Engineered cancer? How do you engineer cancer? Why do you engineer cancer?” He can’t process this, not this and Dana asleep in the hospital bed with a demon behind her eyes.

“Shit,” Mulder breathes. “Goddammit, Henry. How bad is she?”

“She’s weak, very thin. She kept saying it was the flu, you know how she is. But she had a few nosebleeds and went in. And here we are.”

“Yeah, I know how she is,” Mulder says, and Henry hears the pain in his words.

“There’s a man,” Mulder says. “Who knows about the chip. He might, uh, he might arrange a deal.”

Henry is baffled, but tries to swim with the current. “A deal? Why would an- never mind. Call him. I’ll pay whatever he wants, no questions asked.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can pay what he’ll want,” Mulder says. The words are measured, heavy. “But I can.”

The line goes dead.

***

Anonymous asked: In the Henry universe, how does Scully react when Mulder finds someone else?

She’s sorting lunch components for the twins into plastic bins in the refrigerator; bags of chips and carrot sticks and foil-wrapped triangles of pizza. Her phone rings as she picks up a webbed bag of clementines.

“Hey,” Mulder says, his voice a warm pulse.

Scully lets the oranges slump back onto the counter. “Hey.”

“I’m, uh, I’m headed up to New York to talk to my publisher this afternoon,” he tells her.

She can hear the noisy old dishwasher going in the background, imagines Mulder fidgeting at the kitchen table. There’s a chair with a wobbly leg he likes to rock in. “They still talking about the miniseries?”

“Yep.”

Scully chews her lip, considering. She tucks the phone against her shoulder. “That’s not why you called, though.”

A long pause. “No.”

“Okay.” She shuts the fridge and begins assembling sandwiches on the counter. Teasing information from Mulder can take a quiet, steady patience.

“I met someone,” he says at last.

Scully sets the knife down, knuckling the cool granite. “Did you?”

“I just, you know, I wanted to call you. You were very open about Henry so I thought I should extend you the same courtesy.” In the background, the squeak of the chair leg.

“Mulder, that’s great. I’m happy to hear it.” She is, she is, she doesn’t want him alone.

He coughs. “Thanks. Um, well, I guess that’s it, really. I should go pack.”

“No!” she exclaims. “Mulder, I need some detail.” As a friend. As a concerned friend who is wary of his general taste for women who will betray him.

“Oh, Scully, you don’t have t-“

“Really, I do. Let’s have the 411.” She hopes she sounds casually interested, and begins spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread.

Mulder guffaws. “The 411? Scully, let me tell you about the internet.”

She blushes, waves her hand. “Whatever. Details, something.”

“Ummmm…”

Scully imagines him pacing now, tossing and catching an invisible baseball. “You know, it’s okay, I don’t want to pressure you.”

“No, hey, I’m sorry. Just trying to generate a quick dossier. Uh, well, her name is Elizabeth. She works for the EPA, coastal ecology.”

“Science nerd, huh?” she says, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. She swallows, stabs a spoon into the jam jar.

“Yeah,” Mulder says. “She does something with zebra mussels and ship ballast water that I need to brush up on.”

“Probably invasive species in coastal communities. I’ll give you a crash course if you like.” She picks up the sandwich to tuck into a plastic bag.

‘It’s okay. I’ll Google it; you remember that internet thing I mentioned before. It’s got lots of stuff on it.”

She is stung, and words sticks in her throat like lumpy oatmeal. “Oh,” she manages. “Okay, then.”

Mulder coughs again. “I just figured you’re pretty busy, with work and the kids and everything.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty crazy.” She toys with the jam jar, rolling it in her hands. It is cool against her palms “Well, you know, enjoy your research. Look up copepods too.”

“I will.”

Seconds tick by on the kitchen clock.

“When’s the second book out?” Scully asks. She picks up the sandwich, zipping and unzipping the plastic bag.

“Around Thanksgiving, I think. You want an advance copy? I’ll sign it for you.”

She laughs. “No, don’t give them away. I want to buy it, boost your sales.”

“In that case, stock up and send them out with the Christmas cards. Even mine.”

“I’ll pre-order on the….what did you call it? The in-ter-net?”

Mulder chuckles. “Have them shipped right to your house, or take your velocipede down to the book-seller to fetch them.”

“Okay.”

A lengthy pause, but they don’t hang up.

Scully finds that the sandwich in her hand has been wadded into a dense ball, peanut butter and jam squeezed all over the inside of the bag. She hastily shoves it into the trash can. “Mulder, um, when you get back in town, why don’t you give me a call? We’d love to have dinner with you and Elizabeth.” She says it so smoothly she believes it.

“Oh,” he says. “That sounds nice, that sounds really good. Yeah.”

“Okay.” She squeezes her eyes closed, her stomach sour.

Mulder breathes for a long moment. Then he says, “Well, hey. I’ve got to get going, but thanks for listening. I know how busy you are.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Sure.” She holds back this time, doesn’t say she always has time for him.

An empty silence now, the call disconnected.

Scully sits on a bar stool, hands clasped beneath her chin, elbows on the breakfast bar. She sees the absurd expectation she’s held onto, the cruelty of it. Mulder like a sundial in the garden of her life, static and reliable as she moves through the seasons around him. Ticking off her hours as she spends them.

Scully goes to the sink and slaps cold water on her face. She sees Elizabeth in her mind’s eye. Lanky and brunette, of course. Long legs and khaki shorts, probably lots of trips to REI. She assigns her a sporty dog too. Maybe with a bandanna.

She says a prayer for his happiness, and leaves it to God to sort out what exactly she means by the idea.

***

Anonymous asked: 10/13 Henry anon here, dearest Mrs. Virgata and mangokiwimagicswirl, either or both of you please feel free to flesh it out. It delights me my little something could turn into a bigger something. I'm not above begging. *begs*. Look what you all did, my MSR heart really does belong to MSR, but I can carve a little spot out for Henry/Scully/Mulder. Mulder is earth, Henry is the stick, Scully is Archimede's point bc we all know she makes the choices and drives the consequences.

A Saturday in late September, and Henry and Scully sit on the back porch watching the twins lob lacrosse balls at Viv. She catches them expertly, flicking her wrist to send them flying back at her younger siblings. They dodge them, squealing and chasing one another and Wicket, who makes off with one on occasion. He exposes his preposterously fluffy belly in hope of scratches.

Scully pours herself a glass of sangria, pours Henry another two inches of Macallan. She is pleasantly buzzed, work blurring out of her mind’s eye. Henry is somewhat more than buzzed, she suspects. Joan’s parents had been over, which exhausts him.

“There’s, ah, there’s something I want to discuss with you,” Henry says. “And with a bit of liquid courage, there’s no time like the present.”

Anxiety rises in her like a barometer. “That’s quite a lead-in,” she says, keeping her tone light while her stomach churns.

“Sorry,” Henry replies. “It’s not, it’s nothing bad.”

“Let’s have it, then.”

“Mulder’s birthday dinner,” Henry begins. “I know what he…I know that you two are…dammit.“ He trails off in frustration.

The anxiety is now constricting her throat. “Henry?”

He shakes his head, still watching his children. “What I’m mangling here is that if you, um, if you ever felt a need to, you know, take a night off from all this-“ here he nods at the yard, “I’d not hold it against you.”

Comprehension begins to dawn, and Scully is aghast. “You’re not suggesting that I….no. Henry, no.”

Henry shrugs. “It’s not a moral failing, okay? I asked you once if there was a place for both of us in you and you said there were two places. And I said I’d rather share you than lose you. I know a marriage is a compromise, and I’m, you know, I’m trying to figure out what that looks like here. You took on three kids and a guy with some heavy emotional baggage.”

Scully’s cheeks burn. “So your solution is that I offer myself up to him as a birthday gift? Is this some kind of magnanimous man-to-man gesture, sharing your woman as a show of friendship?”

Henry turns to her now, mouth open. “Oh god, oh….shit. I had no idea it sounded that way. I’m sorry.”

Scully drains half her glass in one gulp. “This is the life I committed myself to, Henry. It’s not a job I need a sick day from, and you and the kids aren’t baggage, for heaven’s sake.”

Henry stares into the yard, watches Wicket play tug of war with Viv’s lacrosse stick. “I’m terrified of losing you,” he says. “Partially because of Joan but partially because…” he shakes his head.

“Because what?”

He swallows the rest of his Scotch. “Because there are these dark places in you I can’t see, places that have been redacted. And I told you I wouldn’t pry, and I won’t, but I have this fear of them. That they’ll swallow you one day, and you’ll just disappear. I guess I hoped that if I offered you a night to visit, so to speak, you might not feel tempted to run away to them.”

Her sinuses burn. “Henry…”

“I wasn’t trying to offer you to Mulder as a birthday gift, Dana, that’s really fucking sick. But I was trying to offer you a night in the parts of yourself you haven’t let me go to yet.”

She reaches for his hand and grips it hard. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“A vacation home,” he says, smiling weakly at his own joke. He squeezes her hand back.

“I don’t need a vacation,” she assures him. She tugs Henry closer, pulls him down so that his head is resting on her lap. His legs dangle over the armrest of the wicker settee.

“I just want you to know I meant it,” he says.

She nods. “I do. But you can’t keep me by giving me away.” She traces his face with her fingertip, his eyelashes and tragus and philtrum. She etches him deeper into her heart.

***

Anonymous asked: Original 10/13 anon here, I suppose i'm down for consummation of free pass too. Heck, you can do both versions for all I care!

aloysiavirgata:

Oh @perplexistan and @kateyes224…

A continuation of this

***

It’s sticky outside, a mid-Atlantic fall day not fully committed to the reality of October. A late season hurricane has been stirring up the ghosts of summer off the Carolinas, the air close and heavy. Scully steals hairpins from Viv’s vanity to help tame her bun, and is reasonably pleased with the results.

It’s just Mulder, she tells herself, zipping up her navy dress. It has a boatneck that shows her clavicles to good advantage, cap sleeves that feel feminine but not frilly.

It’s just Mulder, she thinks, choosing beige kitten heels that lengthen her legs, swiping Lancome’s Perfect Fig across her mouth. She skips perfume.

The sky is thick with shaggy clouds, the sun slipping away nearly undetected. Scully slides behind the wheel of her car, and leaves tire tracks on the grass when she swerves backwards down the driveway.

***

The restaurant is new and well reviewed, with nothing served in Mason jars or on slate tiles. She asked when she made the reservation, as these things leave Mulder snarky and cross.

Mulder arrives at the table a few minutes after her, wind-whipped, mud on one of his loafers. They embrace, a quick kiss on each cheek, and she breathes shallowly. It would not be good to inhale the scent of him.

“Happy birthday,” she says, settling into her chair, napkin spread across her silken lap. “I’m sorry the weather’s so ominous.”

“I blame you entirely.”

She smiles. “I should have e-mailed Holman Hart, called in a favor.”

Mulder peruses his menu. “Next time. I’m just glad you got to come out and play for an evening.”

Scully frowns. “This isn’t the fifties, Mulder, and I’m not a kept woman. Don’t make it sound like that.”

He is taken aback, but nods. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

Scully sighs. She doesn’t want to begin like this. “It’s fine. I’ve had a long week and I’m a bit snappish. I just don’t want things to be strained between us because of….well. It’s your birthday, Mulder.”

A waitress comes by with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. She sets it on the table, handing them each a flute.

Scully looks at her in confusion. “I didn’t order this,” she says.

The waitress nods her head towards Mulder. “The gentleman called earlier, ma’am.”

The gentleman denies this, and the waitress furrows her brow. “Sir? Someone called earlier and ordered this for Dana Scully’s table. For a birthday celebration.”

Scully blushes, twists her wedding ring around her finger. “It’s fine, thank you,” she tells the waitress. “Just a misunderstanding on my part. Sorry for the confusion.”

“Shall I open it?”

“Please.”

The cork makes a wonderful popping sound, the champagne golden and sparkling as it flows into their glasses. The waitress tucks the bottle back into the ice before she leaves.

Scully stares at the silver bucket, the frost of condensation on it, the mounds of crystal ice. She runs a fingertip along the rim of her flute, making it squeak.

Mulder raises his glass in a toast. “Many thanks to Henry,” he says, without a trace of irony.

***

Mulder is clacking his empty mussel shells like castanets. The champagne is gone and so is half a bottle of Sancerre. The candle on their table has burned low.

Scully is laughing helplessly, her napkin pressed to her mouth.

“I can’t believe you never told me this,” she manages. “The Spanish ambassador, how could you?”

He drops the shells back into the bowl, grinning. “It’s was university and I was an asshole. Plus my girlfriend was semi-psychotic. Phoebe,” he clarifies.

Scully groans. “Oh, God. Phoebe. She was a mess, Mulder.”

He laughs. “Gorgeous though. My main requirement at the time.”

She wipes her eyes. “I’ll grant you that, yes. I was a little intimidated, I won’t lie.”

“You were looking pretty good too.”

Scully wrinkles her nose in reply.

A boom of thunder comes suddenly, making the chandeliers rattle. Seconds later, a jagged fork of lightning splits the sky. Gasps come from the other diners when the lights go out.

Mulder dribbles wine onto the candle, extinguishing it. “Pouring one out for my homie Zeus.”

***

They make a mad dash to their cars in the rain, Scully nearly diving into her SUV. She slides on the wet leather, blasting the air to dry herself off.

Across the lot she spots Mulder’s car, his battered old two-tone Land Cruiser 70. It has not been started. Worried, Scully drives over, hydroplaning on the slick asphalt. She parks parallel to him, oriented nose to tail.

She sees him through the downpour, scowling at his phone. She waves to get his attention and he frowns at her, shrugs. A round of hurried texting reveals that the car won’t start and he’s got at least a 2 hour wait per the AAA app.

Scully reaches behind her seat for the huge wood-frame golf umbrella she keeps there. Opening the door, she unfurls it into the storm. The wind nearly drags it from her hands. She makes it to her trunk before Mulder sees what she’s doing and leaps from his car.

“Are you out of your fucking MIND?” he yells into the wind.

“JUMPER CABLES,” she shouts back. “YOU CAN’T STAY HERE FOR TWO HOURS!” Scully rummages around, then hoists them victoriously.

Thunder crashes, and the hail begins.

Mulder shoves her into his open driver’s door and she clambers into the passenger seat so he can get in. Hail the size of quail eggs bounces in with him.

He slams the door, panting. “You have a degree. In physics.”

She twines the cables around her hands, shamefaced. “I know.”

Mulder starts to laugh. He rests his head on the steering wheel, shaking with laughter while hail rattles around them.

Scully glares at him. “Let’s agree it wasn’t my finest moment, okay?”

He catches his breath. “No, it’s fine. It’s good. I appreciate the laugh. But we picked the wrong car for this little adventure.” He clicks the useless ignition to demonstrate.

Scully groans. “My phone’s in mine too.”

Mulder peels his jacket off, his shirt mostly dry underneath. “Scully, you’re soaked. I’d offer you my jacket, but…” He holds it up, letting it drip water onto the floor.

“I’m good,” she says. “Just turn on the - oh.”

“Yeah.”

She folds down the visor, inspecting herself in the mirror. She looks like the undead prom queen from a slasher flick, straggling hair coming loose, smudged rings of waterproof mascara.

She snaps the visor back up.

Mulder brightens. “I think there’s a blanket in the foot locker. I’ll climb back and get it.”

She waves him off. “I’ll get it, I’m smaller.” Scully turns, her silk dress clinging like wet paper as she wriggles. She and Mulder studiously ignore her hip against his shoulder. Her shoes drop beside him to the floor.

She squelches into the back, feeling clammy and uncomfortable. There is loose grit on the floor, which hurts her knees. She tugs a quilted moving blanket from a folded-up seat onto the floor, then opens the foot locker. Inside is his old Navajo blanket. She touches it, smiling.

“You find it?” Mulder asks.

“Yeah, thanks,” she says. Scully unfolds the blanket and wraps it around herself. It smells of dry wood and motor oil, GoJo hand cleanser. “I forgot how much room there is back here with the side seats up.”

He adjusts the rearview mirror to see her, and they hold one another’s eyes for a beat. Scully looks away, watches the storm shred leaves off the trees. She twists her wedding ring.

Mulder climbs through the seats, grunting, then sits next to her on the moving blanket. “I texted Henry,” he says. “Let’s him know you’re safe, just waiting out the storm. Thanked him for the champagne.”

“I appreciate that,” she says, touched

“I’d want him to.”

Scully pulls the blanket tighter.“I’m sorry your birthday is going like this,” she says.

He looks at her, surprised. “Good dinner, great company, spooky storm. You wanna tell ghost stories and creep each other out?” He bumps her shoulder.

Scully smiles. “I’m don’t think we can surprise each other anymore,” she says softly. “We’re like two magicians trying to show each other card tricks.”

“You can always surprise me,” he says.

She holds her left hand out for his inspection. The diamonds reflect scraps of yellow streetlight. “This?” she asks.

Mulder shrugs, looks away.

Scully touches the rings. “He told me to go home with you tonight if I wanted. He said he would understand, like shore leave. That it wouldn’t change anything.”

Mulder swallows, closes his eyes. The air is becoming steamy with evaporate, the windows fogged. The smell of damp silk, damp wool hangs about them.

“I told him I couldn’t, that I didn’t need it anyway. And that I certainly wasn’t going to offer myself to you like a gift from the lord of one manor to another.” She reaches out to touch his face, to turn it towards her.

“Don’t,” he rasps.

“Mulder, look at me.”

He shoves her hand away, stares at her. “I’m getting in your car,” he says. “Before we do something really stupid.”

Scully drops the Navajo blanket to the floor. She unpins her hair, lets it fall down her sticky neck to just past her shoulders. She sits back on her heels, wet dress like seaweed. “Mulder.”

“One of us needs to get the fuck out of this car,” he whispers, his voice ragged. He doesn’t move.

She unzips her dress, but it doesn’t fall away like she’d planned. It clings to the tops of her arms, the tops of her breasts, the back gaping open. Gooseflesh rises.

“I thought I could get out of the car,” she says. “ But maybe a joyride every so often isn’t such a bad idea. Henry says it’s not a moral failing, Mulder. And I’m quoting directly.”

They stare at one another, her face tipped up, her mouth swollen. Mulder gazes down at the shadow between her breasts.

Scully runs her tongue across her top lip.

He reaches forward, slides his hands down her shoulders, scraping the ruined silk away. His breath, his heart, are louder than the thunder.

She is bare to the waist now, her chest heaving, her dress a puddle between her hips and the quilted grey blanket. Her nipples ache.

Hail smashes against the windshield, and the wind howls.

She unbuttons his shirt, her fingers trembling, and his chest is deeper, broader than she remembered it. His scars are just as she left them.

Scully moves closer, her breasts grazing his skin when she kisses his neck, bites at it. He shudders, fingers tangling in her hair.

She cups his erection through his trousers.

“I thought you said…” he gasps, hands sliding down to plane her back.

“I thought I meant it,” she mumbles, unbuckling his belt, unfastening his fly.

“I wish you had,” he groans when she pulls his boxers to his knees.

Scully lays back on the blanket, her dress still rucked around her abdomen like a painting of Venus. She reaches beneath it to pull her underwear down, kicks them away.

Mulder is on top of her then, his hands on either side of her head, his shirt tenting her torso. He moves one hand against the hot skin between her thighs, comes away slick from even so little contact.

She whimpers as the storm roars, and he presses his wet fingers to her mouth.

“Scully,” he says, his eyes searching hers. “We can’t undo this, you know that.”

She knows, she knows, she saw what happened to Daniel’s family, what she had done.

“Please,” she says, raking her manicured nails down his back, her pelvis arched against his. “Please.”

Mulder is not her conscience, and enters her in one thrust.

He cries out to her god.

***

It’s past one when she stumbles into the kitchen, past one by the little clock above the sink.

Henry jumps up from the ladderback chair. “Dana, thank God,” he says. “Mulder called about 45 minutes ago, said you’d left, but I couldn’t reach you.”

Scully holds up her phone, the screen black. “Ruined in the rain,” she says. She slumps into a chair, drained. “And the hail cracked my windshield.”

Henry watches her, concerned, then takes his robe off. “Look at you, you’re soaked.” He tucks the thick cotton around her, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. “Dana?”

She leans up, kisses him. “I’m sorry, the roads were awful and I’m exhausted. I don’t remember a storm like that since Sandy.”

He runs his thumb over her cheekbone, smiling at her freckles. ”I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Scully nods, pressing his palm to her face, to her lips. She’d stood outside in the rain, after the storm burned itself out, to wash the yeasty scent of sex from her pores. She’s afraid, somehow, that it has lingered. That she is marked, tainted forever.

“Probably too much wine, too,” she admits ruefully. “I drank more than my fair share and my head hurts.”

“I got his text,” Henry tells her. “I’m glad he liked it.”

Scully looks back at him, her heart aching with how much she loves him, how much she despises herself. “Oh, yes,” she replies. “He loved your gift.”

—

For everyone who asked.

***

He rattles up the driveway, the rattling a function of his automobile rather than the O'Keefes’ smooth asphalt. He parks under the basketball hoop, blocking the garage.

Fallen branches litter the yard. A shutter is down from one of the dormer windows, and the landscaping looks threadbare in places. A Japanese maple is split down the center.

Henry is gathering this debris from the storm, hauling it into a large pile in front of the house. He wears a Princeton sweatshirt and jeans, a Nationals cap pulled over his hair. He pauses in his work to greet Mulder. There are wet leaves on his hands.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” Mulder says, stepping over a rake to shake hands. “I was planning a drop-and-dash.” He holds out Scully’s wooden umbrella, her jumper cables.

“Well, you can just, um, set that stuff on the bench I suppose. Dana’s in surgery all day, but I can put it in her car when she gets home.” Henry jams his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels.

“Okay,” Mulder says. He lays the items on the bench, then surveys the yard with a kind of awe at the destruction. “Hell of a mess.”

Henry sighs. “I know they were calling for it, but I guess I wasn’t prepared for what we got. You know Dana has a big crack in her windshield.”

Mulder’s eyebrows go up, as this is news to him. “She okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine, but she was pretty shaken when she got home last night.” He studies Mulder carefully. “Must have been a rough drive home, huh?”

“Must have been.”

They are silent for a time.

“You need any help cleaning up?” Mulder asks. “It’s the least I could do after you were nice enough to buy me birthday champagne.”

Henry shakes his head. “No, thank you for the offer though. Glad you had a good night despite the weather. You’re hard to shop for, though Dana said you wouldn’t want a gift.”

Mulder looks away. “I don’t need much.“

Henry picks the rake up, leans on the handle as he presses the tines into the soft earth. “I love my wife,” he says. “And so do you. Some people might say that puts us at odds, Mulder.”

Mulder meets Henry’s gaze. “It would be an understandable, if incorrect assumption.”

Henry shifts. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. You….you’re her friend. You represent a part of her life I can never fully understand. When I lost Joan I thought I’d…well. I know we all have our ghosts.”

“Nothing happened last night, Henry.”

Henry stiffens. “Pardon?”

Mulder holds his hands out, open. “I feel like I need to just say it, okay? Nothing inappropriate happened. My battery was dead and we realized we both had too much to drink, so we waited the storm out in my car. Her phone got wet and ruined so she couldn’t call. She adores you and your kids and that Ewok of a dog.”

Henry closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them. “Thanks for bringing her things back. I’ll tell her you came by.”

Mulder nods. He gets into his car and backs down the driveway, navigating fallen limbs as he does. On the radio, Tom Petty’s singing about his last dance with Mary Jane. Mulder turns the volume up and sings along.

***

Anonymous asked: We can just blame love for the Henry saga. Loved fucked all of them over. In Victorian times, after the free pass, Scully would've killed herself, Henry would remain unmarried for the rest of his life and refuse to talk about Dana, and Mulder would go on some stupid quest as penance and probably get himself killed.

I think I saw this movie and Gillian was very good in it.

***

Anonymous asked: I beginning to feel like eventually Henry is going to realize Scully's connection runs so deep emotionally that he's just not going to want to deal with it anymore. He says he's fine with how things are, how Scully doesn't tell him much about her past, that she is still very close to Mulder and gives her a free pass, but eventually he'll want more for himself in a relationship and leave her. In my mind, Scully want want that life and deserves it, but she unintentinally sabotages it.

I think you’re right. Scully has a deep self-destructive streak that rears its head on occasion. I think there’s a part of her that doesn’t feel like she deserves familial happiness after William, and that she doesn’t deserve Mulder or Henry. She’s almost created a perfect storm for herself where she can lose them both by capitalizing on their feelings for her.

***

Anonymous asked: How did Henry and Scully meet?

She wore navy peau de soie and nude stilettos, a beaded bag on her wrist. Her hair hung in sculpted waves just covering her collarbones.

She chatted, she mingled, and she ducked into the kitchen with unnecessary frequency to check the flow of the food.

“Everything’s fine, Dr. Scully,” the staff assured her each time. She pursed her lips, scanning the bison tartare and vol au vents. She sampled a grilled shrimp, nodding tersely.

Scully calmed herself with a third vodka tonic, a poor decision, she knew, but the bar was open and her nerves jangled.

“It’s perfect, Dana,” her intern said, a glass of white wine in her manicured hand. She was a child, scarcely old enough to legally consume her drink. Her father was Someone.

Scully smiled, thanked her. The crowd was too dense, the room too warm, and the talk too loud. There was drunken laughter, cloying perfume. She longed for home, for the reliability of solitude.

Next to her, a man in a grey suit ordered a 15 year Macallan, neat. Scully appraised him out of habit, saw the fine tailoring and coordinating pocket square. The haircut was good, the shoes excellent. She sensed funds for her pet project.

“Dana Scully,” she said, holding out her free hand.

He took it with his left. There was no ring. “Henry O'Keefe,” he said. “You’re on the committee, aren’t you?”

Scully blinked in surprise. “I am,” she said. “Have we met?”

He shook his head. “My firm’s the title sponsor and I recognized your name.”

She smiled in the way she knew people liked, all her teeth on display. “Impressive. Have you checked out the auction items yet?”

He nodded. “There’re a few things I’d like for my kids, I put in some bids. Quite a variety this year.”

“It’s much appreciated. I hope you win them.” She left a tip for the bartender, turning to go.

Fingers at her back, and she sucked in her breath at the ghost of a memory.

“Dr. Scully?”

She turned back to Henry O'Keefe. “Yes?”

He looked into his drink, then at her. “It’s a very good cause.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps…perhaps you could tell me more about it. About how you got involved. It would be nice to hear from someone with passion rather than just a calculation for client endearment.” He offered her a hopeful smile.

Scully set her empty glass on the bar. “I’d love to,” she said. She rested her hand on his offered forearm, and waded back into the fray.

***

Anonymous asked: Henry story: if Mulder and Scully were asked to consult the FBI on a strange case (and a once only basis), what would happen?

She’s got a stack of patient files next to her, dog-eared, the corners grubby. Scully dutifully logs their contents into her computer, wishing the hospital would spring for software upgrades. Her phone rings, startling her from the mind-numbing task.

“Mulder?”

“There’s a case.”

She pecks at the keyboard. “I’m sorry, but the person you’re trying to reach is no longer available. Please hang up and try your call again.”

“I’m not kidding. You’ve gotta make arrangements, you’ve gotta-”

“Mulder, slow down. What the hell is going on? What case, why are you freaking out like this?”

A pause. “It’s Skinner.”

***

“I realize the government is slow with the red tape, but they are aware that they no longer employ you, correct?” Henry’s fingers tap his forehead as he paces the kitchen.

She traces her nail along the grain of the kitchen table. “Strictly consulting,” she says. “All behind the scenes. Probably no longer than a week.”

“Forgive me, but why you two? Why now?”

She looks down. “It’s classified.”

“Of course. And where will you be going? Can I know that at least?”

“Classified,“ she whispers, still not meeting his eyes.

Henry throws his hands in the air. “Of course. Of. Fucking. Course. Your whole life is classified, why shouldn’t this be too?”

Scully squeezes her eyes shut. Any other case and she would have said no. Anything else and she would have hung up on Mulder, gone back to her filing, eaten Viv’s outstanding lasagna, and gone to bed.

“Are you allowed to say no, even? I mean, you’re a civilian, right? They can’t force you to do anything.”

“I have to,” she says, heartsick. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But I have to.” Her throat is tight.

Henry knuckles the counter, his back to her. “I have never asked you anything, Dana. Not a single goddamned thing. I agreed to leave the past behind and move forward, but it seems to keep popping up. Flying off with your ex husband to your ex job? I’m supposed to be fine with that when I know…” He shakes his head.

“When you know what?” she breathes, nauseous. She is afraid he will say it, even though she knows he knows.

Henry turns, his eyes hard. “Enough, okay? I know enough.” He considers her. “What would you do if I said no?”

She is taken aback, this possibility not having occurred to her. “I didn’t think we forbade each other things, Henry,” she says slowly.

“The requests are getting pretty one-sided. So what would you do?”

She presses her trembling hands flat to the table, palms cool against the lacquered wood. “I’d go anyway,” she says. “Not for anyone else, but for Ski-” she bites off the end of her sentence, furious with herself.

Henry sits across from her at the table. “For whom?”

She remains silent, shaken.

“Classified,” he says, with faint contempt. “Right.”

Scully chews her lip until the inside of it bleeds. Experience has taught her that there are reckonings, crossroads past which a life can take on an entirely new direction. She does not want this to be one of them.

They look at each other for what seems like a very long time.

“Henry,” she says carefully. “What I’m about to do is completely illegal, all right? I’m putting your life and my life in danger by telling you this. But you’re right; I owe it to you. To us.” She reaches across the table for his hand.

Henry nods. “I understand.”

He doesn’t; he can’t possibly, but she plows ahead before she loses her nerve. “FBI Director Walter Skinner has been taken by a militia group called the New Spartans. We believe he’s being held inside their compound, located near Casper Mountain, Wyoming.”

Henry gapes. “The Director. Of the FBI. Has been kidnapped?”

“So it would seem.”

Henry shakes his head, appalled. He withdraws his hand from hers to run through his hair.“Why isn’t this national news, why isn’t the, uh…who? The SEALS or the Army Rangers all over this? Why are they pulling two agents out of retirement to deal with a huge fucking disaster? Were you hostage negotiators, what?”

“No. But we….um. We, along with Director Skinner, have dealt with this group before. Mulder infiltrated them undercover at one point. August Bremer, their former leader, spared Mulder’s life at one point.” She looks at him sadly, reminding herself of all that he doesn’t know.

“Shouldn’t they be making demands, on TV or something, I don’t know…. Bragging?” Sweat beads on Henry’s brow, and he wipes at it with a paper napkin.

Scully shakes her head. “Maybe in a Bond flick. These are not people who want attention. They see themselves as the last true patriots and this is symbolic for them, for their followers. They don’t want to cut a deal with the federal government. They’re anarchists, and see no difference between the FBI and the KGB, Henry. This is a power move.”

Henry, dazed, shreds the paper napkin into minuscule fragments. “How the hell did they get him, anyway?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, she figures. What’s a little more treason between husband and wife? “A member of the group had been leaking plans to the Director for about eighteen months, all of it credible. The source claimed that the New Spartans had been working with anti-federal groups overseas to plan an attack that would take down power grids in 20 major US cities. Based on our prior dealings with the group, the Director found this consistent with their MO. He agreed to meet with the source to obtain satellite footage of the other groups’ headquarters. But it turned out to be a setup, an ambush. Four agents were killed and the Director was badly injured.”

Her husband looks ill. “My god,” he mumbles. “And you’re wading back into this? And I’m supposed to just nod and wave like it’s fine?”

“Just consulting, Henry, I promise.” She speaks softly, like she does when the twins wake up from nightmares they can’t remember. “I’m past fifty, and hardly in peak form. Intel only.”

“But why, Dana? Can’t someone else do this?” His voice is pleading.

“I owe him my life, Mulder’s life,” she says. “He risked himself to save us. And when I had no one, nothing, he was there.” She shrugs. “It’s a debt I never thought I could repay.”

Henry frowns. “No one and nothing? Dana, what happened to you?”

And now, Scully knows, now is the crossroad. She gulps air, takes her husband’s hands again in her own.

“I have a son,” she says.

***

@perplexistan asked: I need something from the Henry-verse. Something happy, though. Maybe Scully finally divorcing Henry and going back to Mulder. I know that's not the point of this AU, which I truly do love, but I just want it. Sue me.

You are asking a lot of our friendship. Can’t I just send you cookies?

***

Anonymous asked: Who is being eaten up by the repercussions of free pass more Mulder or scully?

Scully for sure. I think that, particularly post IWTB, he’s stopped taking responsibility for her decisions. I have a line in there where I say that Mulder is not her conscience, and I think he really feels that way now. She’s a grown woman capable of making her own choices. I think he knows what they did was wrong, but Scully isn’t some wide-eyed innocent anymore.

***

Anonymous asked: Does Viv know about Emily and William? Has she met/seen Mulder?

Henry doesn’t know about Emily and William. Viv has met Mulder twice. She thinks he’s a compelling, charming weirdo but, given her stepmother’s tendency to organize closets by color and make spreadsheets for every conceivable topic, she’s baffled that they were together as long as she’s heard they were.

***

For all the anons who have so sweetly asked after Henry, here’s a little intersection with Ghouli.

***

Simon and Alice run squealing from the living room, slamming into Scully when she comes around the corner from the kitchen.

She staggers back under their combined weight, bumping into the dog. “What’s wrong?” she asks, steadying herself against the counter.

Viv stalks in behind them, waving her phone. “I told them it was too scary,” she says. “But they hid behind the couch to read over my shoulder, and now they’re all freaked out.” She punches Simon in the arm. “Serves you right.”

“We’re never sleeping again,” Alice asserts, cuddling against Scully.

“Ever,” Simon adds, punching Viv back.

Scully rubs Alice’s small back, running her fingers through her thick hair. The irrational squabbles of children are still hard for her to follow, but she tries. “What was too scary?”

“Ghouli,” Viv says, crunching into an apple.

***

Scully is curled up on the chaise longue in her bedroom, lost in reading, when Henry comes in. He’s shed his suit for pajama pants and a Georgetown sweatshirt. Scully smiles at his mussed hair, an untidy silver haystack from wrestling with the twins. The nails of his left hand are painted with purple glitter polish.

“You get them settled?” she asks.

He rubs his face. “Yeah, finally. Alice is good, but Simon’s still pretty sure this Ghouli thing is coming to eat our family.” He sits at the edge of the chaise, reaching out to massage Scully’s neck. His hands cover her shoulders, thumbs meeting at the base of her cervical spine.

“Mmmmmm,” she says, rolling her head forward. “You’re going to distract me.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, trailing butterfly kisses along her jaw, then stops when he notices what’s on the screen. “What the hell is that?”

“Ghouli, apparently. Viv showed me the site. it’s pretty well done, actually. I can see why they’re freaked out.” The drawing of the monster has the clean, architectural lines of a scientific sketch.

Henry stretches out on the chaise, wrapping himself around her. Scully tucks herself into the solid warmth of his body and adjusts her laptop so that they can both see. Late night cuddling over images of cryptids brings back memories that she shakes off.

As though reading her mind, Henry says, “So whatcha thinking, Agent Scully? This is your former wheelhouse, right?”

She shrugs. “Not exactly It’s fascinating from a cultural standpoint, I suppose. I was talking to Viv about it. There’s an internet phenomenon called ‘creepypasta,’ kind of like urban legends with a paranormal bent. Some of them have taken on a sort of folk-tale quality.”

Henry tucks her head beneath his chin. “Is this that Slenderman thing? Those two girls in Wyoming?”

“Wisconsin,” Scully corrects. “Yes, like Slenderman.” She switches tabs, pulling up a new post. “Ceci n'est ce pas une pipe,” she reads, in her bad French.

“This is not a pipe,” Henry translates, musing. “What the hell does that mean?”

Scully taps her lips. “It’s a reference to a painting by Rene Magritte. He did, um, a painting of a pipe with this phrase below it, as a reminder that the symbol of the thing is not the thing itself. The map is not the territory. It’s a semiotic concept addressed by Alfred Korzybski.”

Henry kisses her temple. “You didn’t even have to Google that, did you?”

She, grins, admits that she did not.

“So hot,” Henry says. “Anyway, so what? Some emo kid who’s read too much Sartre decided to make some of this, uh, creepypasta stuff.”

Scully scrolls around some more. “Probably. It’s just impressively complex. Like, here. Look at this. It’s got a Baconian cypher, it references atomic bomb tests,it’s got sketches of RNA…which. That’s odd, actually.”

“Hmmm?”

“Well, the post with the RNA base is by a user named K/OMouse. I’m guessing it refers to knockout mice. Those are mice whose DNA has been altered, so why include RNA nucleotides instead of DNA? And an RNA nucleotide shouldn’t contain a diphosphate, but there are two phosphate groups here, plus that terminal oxygen should be double bonded to this carbon, or be a hydroxyl, or at least have a negative sign.” She doesn’t notice that her voice has grown agitated.

Henry has. “Uh, Dana? I think maybe you should avoid this site with Simon and Alice. Go play Neko Atsume for a while, hmmm?”

Scully takes a deep breath. He’s right, of course he’s right.

It’s nothing.

She closes her laptop, laughing a little. “I guess I’m Rever’s target audience.”

Henry grins. “I’ll try to distract you again.”

She ignores the little itch in her amygdala, in her entorhinal cortex, and follows him to bed.

***

It’s two AM and Henry is sleeping, bare-chested and peaceful on the other side of the room. Wicket, dense and furry, is sprawled like a wolf pelt over his feet. Their breathing is even and steady, a lulling hum in the back of her head. It steadies her like a heartbeat. Like the sea.

Her eyes flit back and forth between tabs, her face bathed in the blue glow. She looks at the post by K/OMouse again. The alien head, the RNA.

Alien head, RNA

RNA, virus.

Viral replication occurs via mRNA.

Something tickles her brain again, that little itch.

A virus.

An alien virus.

Purity control.

She grabs a notepad to organize her thoughts.

Baltimore classification?

Two phosphate groups = diphosphate nucleoside? Or non-terrestrial?

It is not the pipe - it is not the territory - what does Ghouli represent?

She looks at KO/Mouse’s post again, copies down the code he’s written. She begins working on it before seeing that user Elizabeth has helpfully done this work for her.

weseeyouwilliamvandekampweknowwhoyouare

andifweknowthentheyknowwhichyoushouldknow

crossroadswasonceanatombombandnowitisyou

WilliamWilliamWilliam pounds in her head.

Her vision is black, suddenly. And just as suddenly she sees a farm, idyllic and flat beneath an Ansel Adams sky.

Back to her room in a flash, gasping for air. Back to Henry dreaming in the safe warmth of their bed.

It’s 2:37 by her watch, but time is only a human construct. She pads out to the hall and down the stairs. She dials, and he answers on the third ring.

“Mulder, it’s me.”

#my fic #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf revival #au #henry

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