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imaginedreamwrite · 3 years ago

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Like My Father: Part 4

The soft clutch of your fingers along the spine of the book was just one of the many sensations that had been hitting you head-on as you watched the endless stretch of land to your left. The nearly uninterrupted view of the sweeping highs and lows of the hills that had led to a deep valley was just as breathtaking as the clear and spotless sky that had been the ideal day for flying. It was almost as captivating as the book in your hands, the unfolding story that you had read many times over and never seemed to grow tired of. It was the captivating views of the physical world around you that had endeared you to the experience of flying from one destination to the next.

Much like the carefully crafted words that had filled the pages of the closed book in your hand, you were lost in the moment. You were lost in the rumble of the plane that was quiet enough not to be distracting and the feeling of the soft yet well-used blanket that had been draped across your lap. It was a spontaneous trip, a spontaneous destination that had brought you to the beautiful and thriving countryside, the breathtaking scapes of green that had seemed as if they had pulled directly from some otherworldly fantasy novel or some fairytale retelling.

It felt as if this trip you were making to the bustling English city had already been for naught, and yet you hadn’t turned back when you had the chance. It wasn’t as if this alpha was entirely a stranger to you, the two of you had some shared classes while was doing a year in the States before he had returned to London, however, this trip had seemed to be a big step for what the two of you had not yet registered. The two of you had gone on a date when he was still on campus, mostly just to get to know each other as friends however your connection was not to be denied. He was a pre-med student and had done a few years in the States before returning to finish his degree in the UK.

“It’s a long way to go to meet an alpha. Promise me you’ll have fun without spending your entire trip pining over him.” Your mother wanted you to have fun, she wanted you to explore the city and not bide your time with an alpha you haven’t seen for a while. Though she would never try and stop you, nor could she, there was reservations there that had resonated with you, and you had debated the decision to keep going.

“I’m going to see him, that’s it.” You had confirmed your plans to follow him, to meet him just because you could and that would be the end of it.

It had started with a view of the rolling hills, an eagerness about you to meet the alpha you had been pining over, however it ended far more pathetically.

Your mother’s insistence that you not waste all your time on an alpha like him should have been heeded. You should have taken that as a sign and left before you even arrived. Your stubbornness could not and would not be stopped. Your insistence that this was a good idea had taken you directly toward his place, the plans set to meet, and yet when you had arrived, you saw him balls deep in another omega, through the open window of his flat.

‘I can’t wait to see you, beautiful.’ Had been the last message he had sent after wishing you a safe flight.

You were quick to realize you had been played tonight; maybe you had been played by him the entire time. Maybe you were just a little toy he thought he could dangle along, an omega he could sleep with because he was the kind of alpha you hated. He was the kind of alpha that was contemptible and revolting; still, you had fallen for him.

Your anguished state had taken you to the nearest pub where you had chosen to spend your time trying not to cry into a pint of beer. You had sat in the corner and tucked your head, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you mourned your hopefulness. There had been a distinct burn that had started in your chest and moved to your belly, the sharp sting of being toyed that had been quantified by a single moment that you were not meant to see.

“He’s not worth your time,” the confession had come from a table to your left, another alpha who was sitting nearby, a similar pint in his hands that was almost gone, and an adornment of rings on his right hand, “anyone who makes a pretty omega like you that miserable, isn’t worth it.”

The alpha had lifted his pint to his lips and gulped down the rest of the dark coloured ale until only the remnants of the head were visible, and then he had stood and walked toward you. Your eyes had followed the motion of the alpha as he moved toward you, your fingers gripping the mug as he stopped before the table and glanced down at you.

“You wanna get out of here? There’s a place nearby that’s good for working out your aggression.” From one distrustful alpha to one that had glanced upon you as if you were the only light in a thousand-mile radius, you had felt convoluted.

And yet, you had stood and placed your hand in his, trusting that deeply rooted sense of yours that had told you to take this chance; to trust this alpha.

You had let him help you up, you had let him grasp your hand and lead him out of the pub, and as the two of you had started walking down the streets of London, he had given you his name in a quick, short breath.

“James.”

The benefits of your natural curiosity as a child had paid off, all those days running the halls with Curtis, playing hide and seek had allowed you to figure out and discover every perfect hiding place in your father’s estate. Every perfect place you could find, every hidden door that led to a room separate from the house had truly been a wonder when you were a child. However, you thought those moments in your past with Curtis, the countless hours you had spent trying to navigate from one secret room to the next, could have paid off until you were willing yourself out of the eyes of your parents, of every alpha that played a part in this decision.

You had remembered the paths, you had remembered what doors needed to be opened and pushed to lead you to a different room. It was your memories that led you from the room that would be yours, since you couldn’t leave, to the simple yet seamless door halfway down the hall. It was a single push of a wood panel that had unlatched the door and allowed you to slip inside. As you had closed the panel behind you, you had crouched and followed the small path between rooms until you needed to take a small drop. When you reached the edge, you had braced your hand upon the edge and tipped yourself over and landed with a softened thud. You had continued on the path, following until you had hit another small door, and with a quick jolt of a hinge, access had been granted.

You had placed grabbed the edge of the door and pulled, leaving you enough room to step through the secret entrance into one of the many rooms that had acted, or could act, as a panic room if the house was breached.

For you, however, it was a safe place. For you, it was a refuge that had been turned from a lifeless and plain yet secured room into something that had felt like it was your own. Even as a child, you had known the value of having something for yourself and had taken the opportunities to bring comforts here. It had become to feel less like the panic room you knew it was, and more like a closed-off nest with access to food and water, a bathroom and a small entertainment system.

Through the years, you had filled it with your favourite comforts. You had thought at one point that maybe your father didn’t know what you were doing as a child, but it was only with age and maturity that you had realized that not only had your dad known, he had commissioned some of the omegas that had been running around with alphas, to help transform it with small and added details. The kind of details and comforts that you, as an itty bitty omega, would not have noticed.

Now you were grateful for the additions they had made, like the thick and fuzzy blankets that were infused with lavender and lilac, natural scents meant to calm and relax omegas. There was a series of pillows and cushions that could be laid out as a bed on the floor, a bookcase stuffed with things you had read and wanted to re-read. There were beanbag chairs you had managed to drag up as a younger omega, happy to sit for hours and watch a slew of Disney movies or read all afternoon.

This was your hide-out, this was your safe space when the world had become too much to handle.

“What I need.” You had kicked off your shoes and strode toward the wicker bin stuffed with blankets and had lifted the lid, grateful to have the blanket you needed and wanted, on the top. You had grasped the folded side and draped it over your arm and had just closed the lid when a faint scent of an alpha approaching, had made you freeze.

You stood rigid and slowly glanced over your shoulder like a deer caught in headlights when the door had opened again, bright and brilliant baby blues focused on you. You were quick to turn and face him, your eyebrows furrowed as he had stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, a small bag in his left hand.

“What do you want?” You hissed, fixating your anger toward the brunette alpha as he glanced around the room. His scent, albeit soothing, was equally as frustrating and irritating. “How did you even find this place?”

“The scent blockers are a nice touch,” he had shrugged and rolled his shoulders back, the tension in his neck and chest temporarily distracting you. “Though you’re not as nearly as elusive as you try to be.”

“Noted. Now go away.” You huffed and staked toward one of the oversized chairs with your blanket in hand, sinking to the cushion.

“You forget what he does? You’re not the only one who knows the ins and outs of this estate. It’s his job-“

“Nick Fowler can fuck off too.” You bit at him, your eyes narrowing in his direction as the comment rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. “What do you want, Barnes?”

“Despite what you want, Curtis and I are part of your guard. Where you go, we go.” Bucky had approached one of the other chairs and had sat down, just as you had. “Only Curtis knows that if he comes near you, you’ll stab him.”

“Bold of you to think I wouldn’t stab you too.” Your jaw ticked as you unfolded the blanket and draped it around yourself. “I’m not partial to just stabbing that asshole.”

Bucky had only glanced at you as you settled yourself, his iridescent blue eyes centred on you while you had opened the book in your lap and started reading. It was a few moments of silence, of him watching you with intensity while you had kept your attention on the words on the page in front of you. Though it may have appeared that you were working on reading the book, that you had been focused on the words written on the page and colloquial meaning explored via the text, your mind had not agreed with what your body was trying to do.

There was a clear divide as you reread the same sentence, again and again, not truly taking in the message of the story as it was unfolding. Instead, you were puzzled by the arrival and silence of Bucky Barnes to your little safe place. He had arrived and annoyed you with his mere presence and that irritatingly addictive scent, yet he had said very little in the grand scheme of this situation.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” You huffed and snapped the book shut, tossing it onto the floor. “Or are you going to stare at me?”

You had folded your arms over your chest and stared at him with just as much invigoration as him, your gazes piercing each other’s while silence had reigned between you. There was no sound, no motion of anything to be said as you stared at him and he had stared at you.

“You come here into my little safe space and then stare at me. What is your problem?” You had broken the silence, you had attempted to get him to retaliate in some way.

Instead, he remained in his silence and you had an opportunity to study him. His hair had been cut short since you had seen him in your father’s office, and the new cut had given him a much harder and intimidating spect. His blue eyes were crinkled slightly at the corners and his eyebrows has barely started to furrow, but it was his lips that you had been fixated on. It was the touch of light pink below the cupid’s brow that seemed a stark contrast with the intimidating persona he heralded. The softness of his lips, both top and bottom, even from where you had been sitting, was free from any cracks from any sign of abuse or dry skin.

“I swear to God-“ You growled under your breath, frustrated from his silence.

“I know you don’t want this, you didn’t expect any of this,” Bucky had finally spoken after he had angled his body toward you, his hands resting on his knees.

“I didn’t and I don’t.” You had bit back, your frustration at all of them, at your father and Curtis, at Ari for lying to you and hiding things from you, had grown exponentially. “I was completely blindsided.”

“I think you’re a perfect choice.” Bucky’s admission had taken you by surprise, and you had physically recoiled.

“What?” You spoke with shock. “Why?”

“So many men, so many families think alpha is the best choice for this. Alphas are aggressive, they act without thinking. Alphas are intimidating and headstrong, and driven by the need for power.”

“How does his equate to making an omega a good mob boss?” You were more than just a little interested and your curiosity had grown.

“Omegas are often overlooked and underappreciated. Omegas are often passed over and unsuspecting, cast off as sensitive creatures.”

“Yeah, you’re selling the idea of a stabbing.” You scoffed.

“Omegas are also brilliant and capable, they can think without letting their tempers and the drive for control get the best of them. An alpha could butt heads with another alpha and take it personally, wanna square up for a territory battle. An omega could square up against an alpha, become intimidated sure, but the omega knows so many ways to undercut the alpha and no one would be wiser.”

“No one’s gonna listen to an omega like me.” You countered, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“No? You don’t think so?” Bucky had prosed. “You had completely smacked the shit out of Curtis and reduced him to a shell of himself, even temporarily. You had shoved a beta out of your way to get what you want and you didn’t think twice.”

“Curtis is…Curtis and the beta-“

“You are stronger than you think. You’re braver than you feel, smarter than you know. You, with the right alphas to back you, could be the strongest leader this empire has ever had. I mean it.” With that, Bucky had stood and departed from the chair, from your little area and moved back toward the secret door, propping it open. “You could be unstoppable, Y/N. Give yourself the opportunity to at least try.”

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ghostflowerdreams · 3 years ago

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Audio Drama Recommendations

Recently, I’ve been on a audio drama binge and there’s a couple that I found that were really good, interesting or just fun and enjoyable to listen to. They’re not in any particular order.

DUST -- each season contains an interesting and immersive sci-fi audio story. I first started with Season Three: CHRYSALIS, which is a 14-part drama that begins with an AI that awakens after the genocide of the human race by an unknown alien species. [COMPLETED]

It’s very well produced and it’s got an impressive voice cast of Corey Hawkins (Straight Outta Compton, 24: Legacy), Toni Collette (The Sixth Sense, Knives Out), Lance Reddick (John Wick Series, Fringe), Haley Joel Osment (What We Do In The Shadows, The Boys) and Matthew Wolf (The Royals, Missing Link), Shea Whigham (Boardwalk Empire, Perry Mason), Chris Diamantopoulos (Silicon Valley), Dominic Rains (Chicago Med, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.) and Jaboukie Young-White (The Daily Show, Someone Great).

Note: Chrysalis is a Science Fiction Web Serial Novel posted to the subreddit /r/HFY (short for "Humanity, Fuck Yeah!") by the Redditor BeaverFur. Everyone enjoyed it so much that it was then turned into a audio drama.

Season Two: FLIGHT 008 (of DUST), is a 11-part drama created by 11 of the biggest writers in science fiction. Each episode contains unique stories that all follow a single thread: a non-stop flight from Tokyo to San Francisco that passes through a wrinkle in space-time and lands in the year 2040. So you don’t need to follow the order of when the episodes were aired. [COMPLETED]

It has performances by an all-star cast too: Dan Stevens (Downton Abbey, Beauty and the Beast), Calista Flockhart (Ally McBeal, Supergirl), Reid Scott (Veep, Venom 2), Keith David (Barbershop, The Princess and the Frog), Alfred Molina (Frozen 2, Frida), and Danny Trejo (Con Air, Heat).

Old Gods of Appalachia -- is a horror-anthology set in the shadows of an Alternate Appalachia, a place where digging too deep into the mines was just the first mistake. [ONGOING]

In the mountains of central Appalachia, blood runs as deep as these hollers and just as dark. Since before our kind knew these hills, hearts of unknowable hunger and madness have slumbered beneath them. These are the oldest mountains in the world. How dare we think we can break the skin of a god and dig out its heart without bringing forth blood and darkness?

It’s got a fantastic and immersive atmosphere that I could almost feel like was sitting at a campfire in the middle the woods as the narrator does an excellent job at delivering a well written spooky story.

The Phenomenon -- is a serialized sci-fic horror audio drama based on the book by R.K. Katic. It follows people from around the world during a major cataclysmic event which drives mankind to the point of extinction. It starts off with an ominous warning, “Do not go outside. Do not look at the sky. Do not make noise.” [COMPLETED]

It’s got a huge cast, full sound design and the episodes are about 20 minutes in length.

We’re Alive -- it follows a large group of survivors of a zombie apocalypse in downtown Los Angeles, California. Twelve chapters make up one season, and there are four seasons with a total of forty eight chapters. Each episode is approximately twenty minutes (sometimes even 30 minutes), making each chapter about an hour long. [COMPLETED]

It’s definitely a movie for your ears with it’s excellent audio production and great voice actors. There’s also two spin-offs, titled “We’re Alive: Lockdown” and “We’re Alive: Goldrush.”

The Angel of Vine -- is a 10-part fictional true crime audio story about a present day journalist that uncovers the audio tapes of a 1950s private eye who cracked the greatest unsolved murder mystery Hollywood has ever known... and didn’t tell a soul. [COMPLETED]

It stars Joe Manganiello (True Blood, Magic Mike), Alfred Molina (Spider-Man 2, Frida), Constance Zimmer (Entourage, UnREAL), Alan Tudyk (Firefly, Doom Patrol), Camilla Luddington (Grey's Anatomy, Tomb Raider), Mike Colter (Luke Cage, Evil), Misha Collins (Girl, Interrupted, Supernatural), Khary Payton (The Walking Dead, Teen Titans Go!), Nolan North (Uncharted, Pretty Little Liars), and Oliver Vaquer (Andi Mack, Jane the Virgin).

Malevolent -- is a eldritch horror, mystery in the 1920s and the story follows Private Investigator Arthur Lester in Arkham, Massachusetts as he unravels the mysterious circumstances that have befallen him. It heavily features the horrors of Lovecraft as well as the mechanics of Chaosium’s famous system without the inclusion of rolls. [ONGOING]

How it works is that patrons of the audio drama decide on what happens next or what Arthur does. So something as simple as choosing which lead to follow first could have deadly results. Additionally, making a choice may not only lose time but valuable resources such as money and objects. Every choice has a consequence. Listeners know when a choice was decided on when you hear the cue of dice dropping onto a table.

Darkest Night -- is a binaural audio drama that places you, the listener, at the center of a recovered memory that sounds as though it’s happening around you in real time. Each chapter delves into the last memories of the recently deceased, slowly revealing a horrifying master plan. Who is weaving this master conspiracy, and what is their ultimate goal? [ONGOING]

Darkest Night is narrated by Lee Pace (The Hobbit, Guardians of the Galaxy, Pushing Daisies) and features acting performances from Denis O'Hare (American Horror Story, The Nevers), Maynard James Keenan, Missi Pyle (The Artist. Dodgeball), RuPaul, Michelle Visage, and Jeffery Bowyer-Chapman.

I’ve only listen to season one and it was great. It’s got great sounds effects, acting and they don't hold back on the grimness or gore. I’ve also heard from others that seasons two, especially season three are lackluster, but make of it what you will.

The Phone Booth -- is a superhero drama that takes place in a world where 15 years ago, a girl named Beca Orlofsky stepped into the sky and exploded. Over the course of the following week, 99% of every living human on the planet gained a super-power. Now, podcaster Joe Pollard gives us interviews with people who went to sleep ordinary and woke up as something else. [ONGOING]

We Fix Space Junk -- is a dark sci-fi comedy that follows seasoned smuggler Kilner and reluctant fugitive Samantha as they travel the galaxy, dodging bullets and meeting strange and wonderful beings as they carry out odd jobs on the fringes of the law. [ONGOING]

#podcast #audio drama #listen to #Old Gods of Appalachia #The Phenomenon #The Angel of Vine #DUST Chrysalis #DUST Flight 008 #Darkest Night #The Phone Booth #We Fix Space Junk #podcasts #audio dramas #We're Alive

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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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lonelyheartsclubhaze · 4 years ago

Text

Chilly mornings away from home

January 2019 // Chapter 4

Soft piano notes waded their way into my mind, rousing me from sleep. Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédie No. 1” complemented streaks of sunlight that seeped in from cracks between the window shutters.

I rolled onto my stomach, patting along the bedsheets, searching for the alarm’s source. Locating my iPhone under a fluffy body pillow, I quickly tapped the snooze button, earning myself nine more minutes of repose.

Mornings were always so disorienting. I still had yet to remember where and when I was. Such things could wait. Clinging onto that snoozy state of nonexistence, I didn’t want to wake up. I was eager for unmindfulness.

Inevitably coming to, dizziness hit like a military grade tank as I realized that my bed was facing the wrong way. My morning senses spun westward from their southern-facing expectations. Cracking my eyes open a few nanometers more, baby blue walls, rather than white, met my gaze. I faced a medium size flatscreen TV set atop a brown cabinet bordered by cream, cushioned seats and a black mini-refrigerator.

It was so easy to be surprised by mornings. Here I was, expecting one thing and receiving another. It wasn’t a huge deal, and they were natural mistakes, but jeez, was I caught off guard. My bed typically faced a window on the southern side of my room in Berkeley, confined by white walls under high ceilings. Unlike my room in Berkeley, however, the ceilings in this place were much lower with windows much wider. My forgetfulness fading, I remembered why I was in this barely decent Denver hotel room, namely, for a job interview.

Grimacing, I also remembered that the aforementioned job interview had taken place yesterday—giving me a sense for why I might have preferred snoozy states of nonexistence to waking life. It was for some technician role at a Pharma-lab. And while they didn’t pay anything close to what Ajay would be receiving at Facebook (while still remaining just as controversial), money was money. Plus, it seemed like a good way to boost my med school app during the summer. Worst case scenario: I’d just spend the upcoming summer studying for the MCAT, which had to happen sooner or later. At this rate, however, it was looking like the worst case scenario would be my only scenario.

Oh well. With a redeye flight the next morning and the interview out of the way, I had a day to kill in Denver. Classes were still on hold for another week-and-a-half and since everyone was home for the holidays, Grace had offered to put me up at her place for the day. She was supposed to come by around nine AM to pick me up.

I rubbed my eyes and pulled up the blanket. The AC units at hotels were always freezing cold—particularly on especially inconvenient occasions, like now, right smack in the middle of a January morning. I flipped over my phone and turned off the alarm. The clock read seven-twenty-one AM. Just enough time to get ready and grab a quick bite before Grace was to arrive.

My hands smacked against the headboard of the bed mid-stretch, my wrists rolling as I struggled to fully wake up. Sitting up, I checked my phone for missed messages, sending out short, succinct text messages where they were needed. I cracked my neck and thrust my legs off the tall bed, my feet grazing the hotel carpet. I stood up, stretching my arms toward the spinning fan that hung from the low ceiling, and started toward the bathroom, tossing my iPhone onto the bathroom counter.

The shower roared to life with the turn of a knob. I grabbed a hotel-provided toothbrush and some paste on my way to the shower, along with a travel-size bottle of CeraVe foaming face wash. Inside, water rushed over my short, black hair, splashing onto medium broad shoulders and size ten-and-a-half feet as I washed my face. After mopping my chest, toes, and everything in-between with an ivory bar of soap, I squirted some toothpaste onto the brush and got to work, counting out one-hundred-twenty seconds in my head. Finally, I turned off the water and reached around the shower curtain for a towel. Drying myself off, I stepped out of the shower and packed up my bath supplies into a compact travel bag.

I shook the towel over my head to dry my hair and tapped on my iPhone screen to find one new notification. Hovering my face over the phone to unlock it, a blue message from Maddie read:

To which I replied:

She followed with:

Heart racing, I replied:

Two minutes passed. I held my breath.

Four minutes—then, a small blurb of text underneath my last message read:

Read 7:46 AM

I sighed and put down my phone. My face contorted as a profusion of expletives rushed my thoughts. Shouldn’t have double-texted her.

I supposed that it didn’t matter too much. She was with someone, anyway. When I’d seen her in December, before we’d left for winter holidays, she’d been at Bear’s Ramen House in the Asian Ghetto—the food hub a block from Sproul Hall—eating with some guy I’d seen around, probably on campus. He was a moderately wealthy, white kid from Marin studying one of the various biology sub-majors offered by Cal. He was also a junior, like Maddie, so a year ahead of me, as if his towering six-foot-three-inch figure wasn’t enough to give him a leg up on me with regards to Maddie. I didn’t know him all that well, despite having had a discussion section or two with him, though we greeted each other with a polite nod of the head when passing by one another in the Valley Life Sciences Building (VLSB) or in the library. To be honest, I didn’t even remember his name, just his face. His outfits often consisted of athleisure wear from Nike and/or Champion, giving off the impression that he played sports. I wasn’t quite sure whether or not this impression was accurate, but I did sometimes see him on the Glade or other grassy campus sites playing Spikeball, accompanied by peers with faces I vaguely recognized.

We’d often talk, Maddie and I. Sometimes I’d run into her on the spiral staircase at VLSB—the stairs that’d curl around the large, plaster T-Rex model to face broad windows on the east, granting access to the morning sun. She’d be on her way to a bio lab downstairs; me, on my way to the private, grad student bathroom that I’d secretly gained access to on the second floor. The restroom upstairs was protected by a keypad, but the code was too obvious: 362 362, or DNA DNA.

“Wonder where you could be going,” she’d say.

“Just need to make sure my hair is okay. I’ll do whatever it takes to get a few extra points from Professor Meighan,” I’d joke back.

“Do you poop here everyday?” she’d ask with wide eyes. “Or maybe you just like seeing me, huh? Is that it?”

I’d freeze up.

She’d laugh, saying, “Maybe a little bit of both, right, J?”

“Nothing gets past you,” I’d mumble.

“You’re funny,” she’d say. “You should have your own TV show. Maybe once you’re done with your residency you can join Grey’s Anatomy, or Scrubs. Or maybe you can have a talk show! Like Dr. Phil, but more funny and less depressing.”

“What about me gives off the impression that I’d ever want to have a TV show, at all, in any way whatsoever?” I’d say, shaking my head.

“See? Just like that! Always asking the right questions! Like Ellen DeGeneres but all doctor-like.”

She tended to tease me a lot. I didn’t mind. In fact, it was probably part of her appeal—definitely was, on second thought.

Like a good portion of the many pre-med students out there, Maddie was a biology major. Berkeley offered a few different options for bio students, and I’m pretty sure she was studying molecular and cellular biology, though it’s hard for me to say. If I wanted to remember something about her, I’d write it down in my iPhone notes. Otherwise, my hippocampus tended to toss it out, preferring to form memories of her nose, her lips, and those low cut shirts that left me off balance.

We’d text back-and-forth about classes, sometimes. A lot less after I saw her eating with what’s-his-face. I didn’t blame her.

My phone read eight AM. I tossed on a waffle knit shirt and long johns, then a Columbia fleece and Levi jeans, topping it off with an aged ski jacket that I’d ‘borrowed’ from Adam, who was up in Tahoe at least twice a month in the winter. I slung the beaten, black JanSport backpack containing my belongings over my shoulders and headed out the hotel door, making for the elevator.

The room door shut quietly behind as I banked right into a narrow corridor housing four elevators, two on each side. I pressed a button to summon one and within a minute, the light above the furthest elevator on my right blinked on. The door opened and I entered, clicking the button indicating the main lobby of the hotel. The door shut and the elevator fell five floors before slowing to let in an older, Black woman wearing a fitted, bell-shaped hat.

“Ground floor?” I asked.

She smiled sweetly. “Yes, honey. Thank you.”

We descended the final four floors in silence. Arriving at the ground floor, the elderly woman smiled and nodded at me before exiting first. I followed her out, glanced down at my iPhone, then diverged from her path as I headed toward the central lobby to check out. After snapping my room key card in half, I left the hotel, walking toward a Caribou Coffee a few blocks north.

Under the warm skies of Seal Beach, California, where I was born and raised, people tended to take their coffee with ice more often than here in Denver, Colorado. Every Friday, my mother would pick up an americano for herself—black, with no cream or sugar—on her way to work. I’d tag along as a kid, but sooner than later elementary school drop-offs morphed into middle school bike rides, then high school walks with pretty girls I swore I had a chance with, and then the here-and-now, flying Economy for interviews that wouldn’t yield job offers.

It’s funny—when I was a kid I practically hated being seen with my parents. At back-to-school events—the evenings when parents conglomerated to celebrate the annual accomplishments of their children—I wouldn’t be caught dead near my family. Somehow, I thought it made me look childish, or immature. After graduating from high school, however, I started seeing them less and less, and I began to find myself missing mom’s morning espresso runs more and more.

It seemed as though I must have picked up my mother’s coffee drinking habits, because when I arrived at the Caribou Coffee on sixteenth street at approximately eight-twenty-five AM, I too ordered an americano with no cream or sugar.

“That comes out to three-thirty-nine,” said the female barista. She wore a black apron over red and black striped under-layers, with a white wool beanie on her head, and deep black mascara on her eyelashes.

I thanked her and handed over three dollar bills along with some loose change from my jacket pocket.

“On second thought,” I said, retracting my hand. “Can I also get one of those?” I gestured to a blueberry scone behind the glass counter.

“Sure. Just three extra dollars.” she said.

I counted out three extra dollar bills, handing the money to the barista. Then I walked over to a small rounded table situated near the entrance and sat down. Scanning my iPhone, I saw that Grace had texted me, so I responded, asking her to pick me up at the Denver sixteenth street Caribou Coffee. Then I put my phone away and tapped silently along the underside of the table, slightly impatient for my pastry and drink.

I wondered what Grace had in mind for the day. I hadn’t seen her since—well, I suppose it wasn’t that long ago—final exams last semester. Personally, Grace and I had yet to have a class together, but Adam always took one or two bullshit classes with her, so she was often around my house anyway—especially during the week of final exams, when they’d study together all day long. As an English major, she had it pretty easy schedule-wise. She hardly stressed, at least outwardly, and was rarely overburdened with work, so she never missed a chance to chat it up with my housemates or me when Adam brought her over. She was really likable too. Even Albert got along with her, making small talk about Proust or the latest Pulitzer Prize winning novel from Jennifer Egan, and that’s saying a lot.

She always made it a point to stop by my room upstairs, at 2231 Dwight, waving ‘hello’ to me before vanishing for hours into the recesses of Adam’s single downstairs. I really liked that about her.

A small vibration from my left pant pocket convinced me to reach in. I pulled out my iPhone and saw that Grace had texted me. She was to arrive a bit early, in fifteen or so, around eight-fifty-five AM. She was driving in a black Honda Civic, she’d said. I texted her back to let her know that I’d be ready.

“I’ve got a medium americano and a blueberry scone!” called the barista.

I stood up, pulling my jacket over the chair to mark my temporary territory, then hurried over to the counter to grab my order. “Thanks,” I said before hurrying back to my table, balancing the warm, paper cup in one hand with the scone in the other.

Sitting back down at the table, I huffed down the scone. Then I took off the lid of the cup, wisps of steam condensing on the furl of my lip. I blew gently, cooling the drink.

I sipped slowly, then decided to put on my jacket and wait outside. Grace would be here any minute and I didn’t want her to miss me. I was getting sick of waiting by myself anyway. Walking outside, an icy burst of air cut right through me. I shivered, then zipped up Adam’s ski jacket. It was a good thing that it wasn’t snowing, because it was cold enough as it was.

I paced around for a bit, rubbing my hands to keep warm, until finally, a black Honda Civic with a freckled girl at its helm slowed to a stop slightly ahead of the sixteenth street coffee shop.

Grace rolled down the passenger window. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said back. My pace quickened as my feet approached her car.

“I missed you, dude,” she said. “Come on, let’s go. It’s freezing outside.” A crimson hoodie hid most of her delicate contours, though the graceful arcs that formed over her breasts hinted at something more. The left side of her chest housed a star-shaped sports logo with the words ‘Broomfield Soccer Club’ below in a decorative typeface.

I opened the car door and hopped into the passenger seat. Gusts of warm air ruffled my hair.

She reached over the center console and squeezed me in a close hug. “How was break?”

“Pretty good. I mean, I was finally able to—”

“Bruh,” she groaned. “Did you read Science?”

“What?”

“The magazine,” she said, squinting her eyes.

I cocked my head to the side. “Was I supposed to?”

Grace rolled her eyes and sighed. “Can you?”

“Is there something I should be looking for?”

“Oh my god. Take out your phone.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now. Jesus-fucking-Christ, J.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling the iPhone from my jean pocket.

“Okay.” She cracked her finger knuckles. “Google ‘butterflies’.”

“Grace—” I started.

“Come on. Look it up.”

“Okay. Just because you’re asking.” I opened Chrome’s mobile browser on my phone, typed in ‘butterflies’, and pressed ‘search’.

She cleared her throat.

“Butterfly,” I read. “An insect from the ma-cro-lep-id-opt-er-an clade Rho-pal-o-cer-a, from the order Lep-id-op-tera—”

“No!” She snatched my phone and scrolled down. “Here. California’s monarch butterfly count drops by eighty-six percent, just last year!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is butterfly watching a hobby you picked up over break or something?”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

I coughed to cover a laugh. “I mean, I didn’t know you took butterflies so seriously.”

“God, and I’m supposed to go to a guy like you for my yearly checkups?” she gasped.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Grace—”

“I don’t want to hear it, insect-killer.” She blew aside a tuft of hair from her forehead. “So, how was it?”

“How was what?”

“How was break?”

“Oh. Right,” I said. “Well, I finally got around to watching that show you and Adam were talking about last semester.”

“Peaky Blinders?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh my god, it’s really good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I really like Tommy’s brother, Arthur. I think he’s funny. I’m not too sure how I feel about Polly yet, though, but then again I’m only on season three.”

“Adam fucks with Arthur too. Personally, I’m more of a John-kinda-person. I think he’s less murderous than Arthur. Kills too much. How’s Adam doing, though?”

“Honestly, you probably know better than me. Haven’t seen him since we left for home.”

“I feel it.”

Grace made a sharp right onto the I-25 freeway, accelerating until our speed plateaued around ninety miles per hour. I gripped the sides of my seat—ninety was a little too fast for my tastes. I considered myself a defensive driver. Dull buildings bordered the freeway shoulders, and I tried to focus on them to distract myself from Grace’s driving.

“What do you say we stop by a park or something, J? Not really tryna see my parents right now.” Grace glanced at me, her hands still on the wheel.

I felt a bit queasy watching her take her eyes off the road. “Yeah, works for me. Something going on?”

“Eh, the usual. Just get sick of ‘em being home for so long,” she said. “But anyhow, I have a ball in the trunk. We can kick it around or some shit.”

The road grew bumpier as we drove over a waterway on the way to Grace’s neighborhood. Spoiled by scenic coastal sights on the drive up to Berkeley, the glum scenes around me felt sobering. I tapped my foot, eager to get out of the car.

Eventually, Grace took exit 225 on the right, keeping left to merge onto East One-hundred-thirty-sixth Avenue. We passed a stucco structure with a sign that read ‘Broomfield’.

“Almost there,” said Grace. “I know just the spot.”

Finally, Grace made a left into a small parking lot bordered by bright green, grassy fields on one end and unkempt trails on the other. “Quail park. I grew up playing soccer here.”

I looked around. I was glad to be there—it certainly yielded better views than the drive had. “It’s pretty.”

Grace popped open the trunk and pulled out a soccer ball and pump. She filled it with air quickly, then gestured for me to carry the ball. We walked over to the open fields, brushing permafrost aside as we squished the grass beneath our feet. Back and forth, we kicked the ball to one another, Grace showing off every now and then by booting the ball over her head and onto her knees, juggling it for ten, maybe twenty bounces before passing it back to me.

“So?” she said. “Did you kill the interview?”

I winced. “Not exactly.”

Grace toed the ball inward, using its momentum to whip the ball onto the flat of her foot. With a touch of force, she tapped the ball into the air and into her hands. “Come on, J. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

I smiled a bit. “It really was though.”

She laughed and dropped the ball to her feet. Passing it back to me, she said, “Ah, whatever. You don’t want to work in Denver anyway. You’re not cut out for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at you. You’ve been shivering your ass off since I picked you up, dummy. And I have heated seats!” she said.

“Hey,” I started. “You’re not wrong.”

“Rarely am. Anyhow, how are things with, uh, you know . . .”

“Maddie?” I finished.

“Yes, right, Maddie.”

“She texted me this morning.”

“Oooooh,” said Grace. “How’s Brandon gonna feel about that?”

Ah, right, Brandon. How could I forget?

“Brandon . . . Right. Well, I doubt that it’s a major concern of his at the moment. She left me on read anyway.”

“Oh. Well, it’s her loss anyhow. She’s missing out on a star athlete!” said Grace as she punted the ball, knocking me square in the chest.

“Fucking shit!” I howled.

“You sound like Adam more and more everyday,” she said.

“So dreams do come true.”

“Isn’t it funny,” said Grace, juggling the ball on her quads. “Don’t you feel like certain words belong to certain people?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like, don’t you associate certain words with certain people? Like every swear word with Adam, for example, and or maybe, I’m sure there are some you have in mind for Maddie or whoever.”

“You sure you’re not projecting, Grace?” I asked.

This time she threw the ball at me, and it proceeded to hit me right on the head. We kicked around for another hour or so, talking about this or that—how final exams went; our plans for the semester; and Pac-12 Women’s soccer, despite an utter lack of knowledge regarding the sport’s conference on my part. Around five-thirty in the late afternoon, we decided to get something to eat, so Grace drove us to a Vietnamese spot called Golden Bowl Noodle House which she heralded as the greatest phở restaurant on the west coast.

We sat down in blue booth seats across from one another, red and gold walls bordering us on my left. A large, square, green painting depicting an ocean scene lined the wall between us. I ordered the same thing as Grace, the Combo Number One, which consisted of a small rare steak phở, 2 spring rolls, and an iced tea. Grace asked to change hers to a warm tea, which was probably the better move in hindsight. Our drinks arrived first, and we sipped on them slowly. I was hungry—blueberry scones could only provide so much sustenance.

A robed Asian woman, with a slight hunch in her back as she hobbled over, arrived with a tray carrying two bowls of soupy noodles; four translucent wrapped appetizers; and a small dish with bean sprouts, Thai basil, and other add-ons. She bowed slightly and left us to our meals, so I looked over at Grace who had already taken her first bite from a spring roll. I followed her lead, feeling the cool cloak of rice wrappers over fresh shrimp, cilantro, and basil. Taking a bite, my teeth met shrimp with just the right amount of snap, the unexpected tang of hoisin sauce gifting a pleasant surprise.

Grace smacked my hand. “Use the peanut sauce! You gotta appreciate it properly, cuz some people can’t. Did you know that the rate of food allergies is increasing rapid as fuck—especially in developed nations like the US?”

I did as she said, dipping the spring roll into the gloppy, brown sauce. She wasn’t wrong—it was better that way. After swallowing my last bite of the spring rolls, Grace tossed some bean sprouts into my soup and squeezed lime juice over my bowl.

“You know this isn’t my first time eating phở, right?” I said.

Grace hushed me and continued eating. I watched her twirl a handful of noodles into her chopsticks, lifting them to her mouth over a soup spoon. Noisy slurps concluded with sapid bites followed by quick sips of tea. Rinse and repeat.

I opted for a fork, twisting firm noodles around its prongs as best I could, gulping down spoonfuls of savory soup in between steak and noodle bites. I watched the red meat cook to a brownish hue, the hot broth’s steam parting like sea waves under my chin.

“I’ll give it to you,” I said. “It’s good.”

Grace glanced at me, nodded, and continued eating. Finishing promptly, she leaned back into her chair and exhaled heavily.

I rushed to keep up with her, but it took me significantly longer to finish. Sooner or later, the robed woman limped over with the bill. I rose to my feet and met her halfway. I pulled out a Mastercard and slipped it into the folded check before handing it back to her and sitting back down with Grace.

“Real gentleman, aren’t you?”

“It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me today. Besides, you’ve just introduced me to the ‘best phở on the west coast’, right?”

“Suppose that’s true. Okay, you’re right, dinner on you.”

The restaurant owner signaled that I could take back my card, so I walked over, tipped four-and-a-half dollars, tucked away my card, and we left for the car.

Grace’s eyelids were a bit heavy, so I asked her if she wanted me to drive. She handed me her keys and jumped into the passenger seat. After I buckled into the driver seat and turned the key in the ignition, she directed me to make a right out of the parking lot. I drove slowly back to her house, which was only ten or so minutes away, then pulled into her garage. The garage led into a two-story, vinyl sided, upper-middle class home with a comely, green lawn out front.

“Come on. I’ll show you to the guest room.”

I followed her over hardwood floors into the living room, where a tall, white man with square sunglasses over his eyes and a black beanie atop his head shuffled through TV channels with a remote. The lights were off in the room even though the sun had set a little less than an hour prior.

“How are you doing, sir?” I asked.

“Wassup?” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “How are you today, sir?”

“All good.” He took a long draw from an IPA resting on the coffee table in front of him. “Catch y’all. Gracey—you got trash, yea?”

Before Grace could reply, a voice called from the kitchen around the corner, “I got today, hun!”

We nodded in acknowledgment to the man and turned to leave. “Must be your dad?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said. And that was the end of it.

I followed Grace into the kitchen. A woman—her mother, presumably—with a polka dot apron around her neck and a noticeable accent in her voice greeted us warmly. I was surprised by the speed of the woman as she rushed me with a sturdy hug, a tactic she then repeated on her daughter.

“Are you Filipino?” she asked, placing a motherly hand on my shoulder.

“No, ma’am.”

“Ayo,” she said. “No problem. Sleep good, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for letting me stay—”

“Sorry about him, mom,” said Grace. She hit me on the back playfully and the two women burst into laughter in unison. “You’re always welcome, J.”

I smiled, said goodbye, and trailed Grace as she led me up a winding staircase to a small bedroom encapsulated by canary yellow walls laden with rooster prints. The room housed a twin bed and two lamps with cube-ish shades. The bedsheets matched the walls, realistic rooster designs corresponding with the overarching theme of the bedroom.

“Don’t ask,” said Grace. “Night, J. Sleep up.”

I hugged Grace and thanked her. “Night.”

It was still early, only six-thirty or so, so I plopped onto the bed and pulled out my iPhone, intent on watching YouTube videos to pass some time. I chuckled to myself as I admired the chicken print theme of the room.

Clicking my phone to life, I was surprised to find text messages from Maddie that read:

I sighed and put the iPhone down as my heart rate spiked into the mid eighties.

#fiction #newadult #new adult #contemporaryfiction #na #youngadult #ya fiction #yafiction #young adult books #ya books

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scullyfemme · 5 years ago

Text

Tasting More Than Wine

From the prompt sent in to @baronessblixen: M&S going to Napa Valley for a case, eventually they visit the wineries, get drunk and make out like there’s no tomorrow

I hope you like this!

s7 | 2k words | Mature | Tagging @today-in-fic | Read it on Ao3

---

In hindsight, they probably should have expected this from a case involving a winery.

“Oh, please stay for the wine tasting!” Mrs. Lancaster clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture that didn’t quite fit her upper-crust style and demeanor. “It’s the least we could do after you saved our crops. Free of charge!”

Mulder and Scully both stumbled over their words as they tried to refuse the offer.

“Oh, that’s-”

“We just-”

“We have our-”

“Our flight.”

Mrs. Lancaster simpered. “Why, that’s not until tomorrow!” She moved between the two and hooked each of their arms in one of hers, surprisingly strong as she led them into the ornate building. Inside, a crowd of other upper-class strangers were mingling before the tasting.

“Mrs. Lancaster, we couldn’t-”

“Oh, what the FBI doesn’t know won’t hurt them!” She winked before slipping back through the doors and closing them, virtually locking the two in with some of California’s most affluent.

It was one of the top wineries in the region with very “exclusive” tours and tastings. And by exclusive, they mean expensive. So much so that it was nearly only millionaires who could afford to attend in their crisp linen shirts and thousand-dollar sundresses. Which meant that Mulder and Scully — in their department-store business wear — stuck out like sore thumbs.

Everyone in the room seemed to give them a once-over at the same time. All drew the same conclusion that whoever these two were, they were not worth their highly valuable time. But the tasting soon started, which gave them something to do.

Mulder and Scully, as usual, stood apart from the crowd. They hung near each other and made no attempts to try conversing with the people who likewise were not interested in conversing with them.

Mulder looked around at the women in the room, who reminded him of his childhood summers at the Vineyard. The older women resembled his mother’s DAR friends in their pristine dresses and perfect, sparkling jewelry. The younger women — who were few and far between — made him think of the privileged, prissy rich girls from his boarding school and Oxford days. Ignoring the five S’s of wine tasting, he downed his next sample like a shot. Scully noticed.

Scully, meanwhile, observed the men in the room. Unlike Mulder, she hadn’t had much childhood experience with rich people. But she’d rubbed elbows — well, more like jabbed elbows — with a fair few in med school. The older men who used their status as esteemed doctors to try and take advantage of her, who didn’t care one lick about a patient’s well-being as long as they got their paycheck. The younger men who slept in class while their fathers paid for their grades, then would shamelessly hit on her as if she wanted anything to do with them. She downed her next sample like a shot. Mulder noticed.

Half an hour later, the two were on the verge of tipsy when one exceedingly brave soul decided to debase himself by speaking to them.

“So, are you two…” The younger man eyed them both up and down in assessment. “Businessmen?”

“Uh, FBI agents, actually,” Mulder said while Scully bristled at the fact that the man’s eyes had lingered on her chest for far too long.

“Ah.” They could both see the man’s mind failing to connect the dots between FBI agents and super-expensive wine tasting. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.” He left without waiting to see if they would.

“Must have been hoping to close a deal,” Mulder muttered.

Scully rolled her eyes. “If it weren’t for the alcohol, I’d say this is the worst thanks we’ve ever gotten for a case.”

He chuckled. “Then what would you say is the worst thanks we’ve ever gotten?”

She thought for a moment. “That time we were drugged and the whole town left.”

“I wouldn’t call that a thanks.”

“Well, it was still a pretty shitty end to a case.”

His eyebrows shot up at her curse. Her tongue must have been loosened by the alcohol.

“I’d say chasing a bug man through the California vineyards is pretty shitty,” he countered.

“Mulder, it wasn’t a bug man. It was a swarm of bugs.”

“No, I told you, Scully, it dissolved into a swarm after I shot the bug man.”

“Mulder, that doesn’t make any sense. How could one giant bug — or bug ‘man,’ as you put it — just dissipate into thousands of smaller bugs? Just because you shot it?”

“Wh- It left after that, didn’t it? And what about those fish that, uh, that school together to form one big fish?”

“They don’t actually form one big fish, they just look like one big fish in order to scare away predators.”

“Okay, well what if these bugs did the same thing? Or used to do the same thing, but now actually forming one big bug was the next step in the evolutionary chain?”

“That’s not how evolution works. And where does the ‘man’ part come in? You specifically said it was a bug man, Mulder.”

An older woman wearing a pearl necklace shot Scully a horrified look as she walked by, overhearing the conversation. Scully resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her just to show her what she thought of this upper-class decorum.

“So you’re saying you’d rather believe it was...what? A plague of locusts? In Napa Valley?” Mulder asked.

“I never said it was a plague of locusts, Mulder. But infestations happen all the time. I still don’t even know why we were called out for this case in the first place instead of an exterminator.”

“Well, apparently if you own the best winery in the Valley, you can have the whole of the FBI at your beck and call.” Mulder’s tone was dry as he sipped his wine.

“Here, take mine.” Scully offered out her glass.

“You don’t like it?”

“Smells like vinegar.”

He had to agree, but at this point alcohol was alcohol. He knocked it back and put her glass down nearby, not noticing how she eyed him.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The man who was leading the tasting spoke gently but still managed to gather everyone’s attention. “If you’ll gather ‘round, our next bottle is quite the specialty.”

Mulder went to follow the crowd, but was stopped by Scully pinching his jacket sleeve to hold him back. He looked down at her curiously, and she tilted her head as she turned away, indicating for him to follow her. He obliged, watching with raised eyebrows as she checked to make sure no one was looking before swiping an open bottle of wine and ducking out the side door. Stomach twisting with giddiness at her behavior, he quickly followed.

The side door led to the large processing area of the winery, which was thankfully empty at this time of day. Their quick steps slowed to a leisurely stroll as they got farther from the door, both feeling fueled by adrenaline as if they’d escaped some monster as opposed to rich people who couldn’t care less that they were gone.

“I hope you didn’t grab the bad wine,” he joked, sticking his hands in his pockets as they moved through the warehouse-like space.

Scully sniffed the open bottle before taking a large swig, making a loud pop sound as she pulled it away from her mouth and offered it to him. “S’alright.”

He tried to ignore how his heart skipped a beat as he watched her drink, clearing his throat before taking the bottle. “Where are we going?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I just figured you were getting as tired of being around those people as I was.”

He nodded thoughtfully, taking a swig from the bottle. As he handed it off, he noticed her eyeing him with an unfamiliar expression. He thought he knew all of Scully’s looks, but this one was different. It was a cross between intrigue and...desire? No, that couldn’t be right.

But the way she averted her gaze, her cheeks flushed, made him wonder if maybe that was the right guess.

They rounded a turn and found themselves in a surprisingly secluded corner with a machine that could easily function as a bench for the two of them to sit on. Scully sat casually with her legs apart — the way she often did while in pants — and drank from the bottle.

They sat quietly for a while, passing the bottle between them. It was a companionable silence, both mulling over their separate issues with the people at the wine tasting. At one point, mind slightly numbed by the wine, he spoke up.

“We should probably stop drinking if we want to be able to drive back to the motel.”

With a look of defiance, Scully swiped the bottle from him and took a large gulp, holding eye contact the entire time. Mulder shifted in his seat, wanting to look away but feeling trapped in her gaze. She pulled the bottle away with another pop and continued staring him down. The room felt hot — nearly suffocating — and he wondered if she could hear how irregular his breathing was.

She arched a brow. “Only one of us needs to drive.”

He dropped his jaw in mock offense, grateful for the opportunity to play off how turned on he was. “So you’re just gonna keep drinking without me?”

“Mulder, this is thousand-dollar wine. It shouldn’t go to waste.” She smirked. “No matter how bad it is.”

He huffed a laugh and stole the bottle back, watching her raise her eyebrows in question as he took a sip. Eager to remark, he pulled the bottle away too quickly, a drop of wine rolling down the neck. He quickly caught it with his tongue on instinct, used to doing so with his beer bottles. What he wasn’t used to was Scully’s expression, which had rapidly switched from curiosity to something drastically different. He stared back at her, thinking how his desire was mirrored in her expression, as he slowly lowered the bottle to rest beside him.

In the blink of an eye, they both leaned in, lips crashing together with the urgency of two people who wanted each other more than they cared to admit. Her nails dug into his shoulder as his hand gripped her hair. They’d kissed before — minor ones, like the one at New Year’s. But this was messy and hungry, nothing at all like their previous encounters. She was straddling him before he’d even realized she moved, her hands grasping at any part of his torso she could reach. His hands moved in a similar way, both of them desperate to touch each other — to feel each other — as much as they could.

Scully moved from his lips to his jaw, then down his neck with fervor. He let out a sigh that was almost a moan. He swore he felt her grin against his pulse before grinding down on what was now a prominent erection. His moan wasn’t stifled this time as he tugged her back up by the hair and captured her lips with his again. Her hands wandered down to palm him through his pants, eliciting another moan before she started working at his button and zipper. Was she—?

The loud sound of a door slamming shut on the other side of the large warehouse interrupted them, making it so he wouldn’t find out what she was about to do. They both froze, then jolted apart for fear of whoever was here finding them like this. They righted themselves as quietly as they could, then ducked down in hopes of staying undetected by the intruder. Mulder didn’t dare look over at her as they both tried to calm their heavy breathing that was caused by multiple types of adrenaline.

Heels clicked loudly on the concrete floor, never coming near them as their owner briskly walked from one door to another. The second door clanked shut just as loudly.

They stayed stock-still, listening for any hints that there was anyone else in the room. After a few moments, they both let out equal sighs of relief. Mulder looked over at his partner, who was eyeing him with what he could clearly identify as lust. But there was reservation there, too. Maybe due to almost being caught. Maybe due to the fact that they’d almost just fucked for the first time in a winery. After seven years, it was far from how either of them had probably imagined their first time.

“We should-”

“Yeah.”

They stood up straight, fixing their hair and clothes even further. Scully glanced up at him, then mimed wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb, a sheepish expression on her face. Mulder took the hint and ungracefully wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He eyed the lipstick that came off with a small smile.

They started heading for the nearest exit but Scully stumbled a bit, grabbing his arm for support as she steadied herself. She kept a hold of his arm as they continued walking.

“Jeez, Scully, how much wine did you have?” He teased.

She didn’t respond, instead turning her head away from him so he couldn’t see her expression. Maybe it wasn't the wine.

“I think we should get back to the motel.” Her tone was casual, but her grip on his arm was suggestive of something else.

He swallowed thickly. There was no way he could drive their rental in this state of inebriation and arousal. And Scully was definitely in a similar — if not worse — way.

“Maybe we should call a cab.”

She smirked. “Maybe Mrs. Lancaster would be oh-so-grateful enough to lend us a limo.”

#kai.fic #xf fic #msr fic #time to post this when no one is online ;P

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mrs-dr-reid · 4 years ago

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Holiday Romance

Introduction

Jessica Lewis loves living in Seattle. She has a great job at the Children’s Hospital as a pediatric nurse, she has a cute little apartment, and plenty of great friends. With the holidays coming up fast, the fact that she hasn’t been home to her family’s ski resort in Glacier Valley, Colorado in the five years since she graduated med school is really starting to weigh on her.

So when an invitation comes in the mail for her cousin’s New Year’s Eve wedding, she leaps at the opportunity, cashes in her vacation days, and books the first flight to Denver she can. When she arrives at the airport, she is met with a welcome brigade of all her closest friends from childhood, and when she gets back to the resort, she runs into a familiar face that she hasn’t seen since she left for Washington: Bucky Barnes.

Jess had a GIGANTIC crush on him their last two years of high school, but she thought the feelings faded away after graduation. So she’s pleasantly surprised when she runs into him again. Needless to say, the rest of her visit home goes off without a hitch. With snowball fights, cookie decorating, gift exchanging, and Christmas karaoke, Jess has more fun in the span of two weeks than she had the last five Christmases she spent in Seattle.

But when the wedding comes around, all the love in the air starts rubbing off on her, and she starts to wonder: “Am I really over Bucky Barnes?”. Keep reading to find out if she goes back to Seattle without ever telling him how she feels, or if she stays in Glacier Valley with the secret finally out.

———————————————————————

(Idea was inspired by BeccaAnne814 on Wattpad)

MCU Taglist: @earth2bucky, @spilledkauffie, @libraryofloveletters

Let me know in the comments if you want to be added

#logan writes #oc #mcu #alternate universe #bucky barnes #fanfiction #passion project #holiday romance

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upperpeninsulabreakingnews · 7 years ago

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Boats or some type of lights three miles offshore "disappeared" off Stonington Peninsula - Coast Guard boat, helicopter headed to Lake Michigan waters off southern U.P. in major search operation

Boats or some type of lights three miles offshore “disappeared” off Stonington Peninsula – Coast Guard boat, helicopter headed to Lake Michigan waters off southern U.P. in major search operation

URGENT URGENT URGENT URGENT U.P. Breaking News Bulletin – 4-7-18 – 11:32 p.m. ET

Major midnight search just launched offshore from southern U.P. in the waters of Lake Michigan – the U.S. Coast Guard is launching a helicopter and bringing a large search boat from USCG Station Green Bay Witness on Stonington Peninsula saw lights out in the lake about three miles offshore – that “disappeared”

By…

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desertdollranch · 6 years ago

Video

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A traditional St. Lucia celebration at Oskar Fredriks church in Gothenburg, Sweden. The procession of girls is led by one girl representing Saint Lucia herself. This comes from the legend of Saint Lucia, who brought food to the Christians hiding in the catacombs of ancient Rome. She would wear a crown of candles so she had her hands free to carry what she needed.

Her crown also represents the return of longer days after the winter solstice. In the far northern latitudes of Sweden, this is a cause for plenty of celebration.

The song is sung to the tune of the Italian folk song “Santa Lucia”, but it is replaced with Swedish lyrics:

Natten går tunga fjät runt gård och stuva. Kring jord som soln förgät, skuggorna ruva. Då i vårt mörka hus, stiger med tända ljus Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia

Natten var stor och stum, nu hör det svingar i alla tysta rum, sus som av vingar. Se på vår tröskel står, vitklädd med ljus i hår Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia

Mörkret skall flykta snart, ur jordens dalar så hon ett underbart ord till oss talar. Dagen skall åter ny stiga ur rosig sky. Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia

Night walks with a heavy step Round yard and hearth, As the sun departs from earth, Shadows are brooding. There in our dark house, Walking with lit candles, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Night walks grand, yet silent, Now hear its gentle wings, In every room so hushed, Whispering like wings. Look, at our threshold stands, White-clad with light in her hair, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Darkness shall take flight soon, From earth's valleys. So she speaks Wonderful words to us: A new day will rise again From the rosy sky. Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

#holidays #kirsten larson #saint lucia #saint lucia's day

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deathbyvalentine · 6 years ago

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LARP Prompts

Hors d’ouvere

He popped the grape in his mouth, turning away from the dance floor and making his way through the clusters of people chatting and laughing and twirling. He was alarmingly sober, none of the punches or mixers nearly alcoholic to hit him even a little. Noble parties weren’t fun if you were sober. Everyone was shallow or spiteful or boring. Nobody just relaxed, it was a hotbed of politics and scandal and backstabbing.

The observatory deck was blessedly quiet and cool. When the doors shut behind him the peace was almost oppressive. There were plush benches and he lay on one, gazing up at the sector through the clear ceiling. It was possibly the only time he felt anything close to being jealous of psykers - the stars and planets were gorgeous enough, to add the light of the astronomicon into that mix would render the view rapturous. As it was, it already moved him.

The view both calmed and excited him. It was like a reassurance that there was a future waiting for him, away from all this bullshit. One day he would travel and explore and it wouldn’t matter who he was. It would matter what he could do.

He wondered if his mother had did the same thing. Felt restless and trapped by the family she had married into, and followed her career into the stars. He flipped open the compass in his pocket as he often did in his more melancholy moments, looking at the scrawled note inside he had memorised. Maybe she had decided that exploring was more important than her son. He didn’t blame her. He just wished he could have joined her.

Washing (Ancient Greek AU)

Callum slipped their feet into the cool water, sighing as they did so. It was going to be a hot day - you could feel it in the air. Dust was coming up from the roads and hanging in clouds, refusing to disperse. The sky was blameless and blue. Golden morning light touched every leaf and stone. The valleys were starting to wake up and soon the pilgrims would be snaking up the mountain, people seeking prophecies and solutions. But for now, there was peace.

The vapours have rendered them weak, dark circles painted under their eyes, a thinness about them that verged on spirit like. The oracles always seemed more of the next world than this one. But the water did their part in healing and refreshing them, as it always did. It sparkled like crystal, throwing light with every ripple. They leaned down to scoop up a handful, pouring it over their head. Their chiton stuck to them wherever the water fell, becoming almost translucent.

They were expecting someone today. But then, they had thought that every day this month. Someone that kept flickering in and out at the edges of their visions. A man with two voices but one face, eyes that flickered with fire. Whenever they tried to seize on him, the smoke disappeared between their fingers. They had no idea who it was. But they couldn’t stop thinking about him, intrigued.

They stood, pulling back from the pool and taking a deep breath. Time to go prepare, give the people the truth they sought, whether they were prepared for it or not. They closed their eyes and turned their face upwards towards the sun, letting the blessing of Apollo touch their skin and warm them from the inside out.

Dreams

Everything was drenched in gold light all over again, the sector and it’s problems very very far away. This was home, Cal’s heart told them. Nothing could hurt them here. And they slept.

Distantly, they felt something. Someone saying their name, murmuring it in prayer. It troubled them and they wanted to reach out and heal whatever ailed - what were they called again? The name seemed unimportant. It slipped from their fingers and disappeared into the golden air. And so they slept.

In their sleep, deep dark dreams troubled them. Images of violence ravaging planets, Mitra hopping from body to body, Bridge struggling, Nic gasping for breath. But they were only dreams.

And so they slept.

Stealing Practice

The first thing he learnt is that this bloody standard uniform needed more pockets. He was getting rather tired of tucking things into the back of his trousers only to slip down. His pilot coat was similarly useless in holding anything of worth. However, the ultimate combination looked absolutely incongruous but was a treasure trove of hiding places; his flight suit with his noble coat over the top. He had managed three ash trays, a pair of boots, Nic’s bolt pistol and Med’s scanner in this outfit. He had to walk extremely carefully for fear of injuring himself and/or rattling.

After he had nailed the simple ‘lift and conceal while the person is turned around’ method of stealing he decided to expand his repertoire. It had been a while since his skills had been honed after all. His teenage years were a little while behind him. He set himself challenges, partly to amuse himself in lieu of actual duties, partly just to see what he could get away with.

It was a shame Jones was Off-Limits as Lance frequently eyed up his cases of Voidman’s Friends, wondering how quickly he could palm them before he noticed. He gave it a good whole two minutes. Hawke however, he was fair game. Lance got a rather cigar case from him with nothing but a lean against his shoulder, feigning interest in the weapon he was fitting. It sort of seemed too easy. Anya’s goodwill rendered her similarly simple quarry. He got two icons from her, a calligraphy pen and a set of gloves before he realised it wasn’t due to skill and more her lack of realisation she should give him zero benefit of the doubt.

It was time to level up.

Esme was first. She had joked about stealing the necklace from her throat and that sounded like a challenge to him. He had been expecting it to be more difficult, but leaning in close to her and resting a hand on the back of her neck had clearly flustered her beyond all reason. It had been easy to unclip the icon and let it slip down his sleeve before grinning at her and leaning back, disappearing a few minutes later.

One of Nic’s cats proved rather resistant to being stolen and he decided that if it was a living, autonomous being it counted for double points. Triple, he amended, once he saw the bloody scratches on his forearms.

Then, there was the ultimate challenge. Gwyn’s prayerbeads, always hanging from their waist. There was a none zero chance he would get stabbed attempting this. But he would do it. For the art.

The first three times they grabbed his wrist so hard he got a bruise around his wrist, which of course he demanded be kissed better. His moments had been chosen mostly when they were looking the other way but they seemed to have eyes on the back of their head.

So maybe it was low, but he ended up succeeding when he had his arm around them, covers pooled around their waist, lying in bed. This was always when they were at their most relaxed and occasionally closed their eyes. With his free arm he fished the prayer beads from the pile of clothes and shoved them casually under his pillow.

It didn’t take them too long to notice and when they did there was a long moment when Lance was faced with the very real possibility of having his nose broken again before they burst into laughter and told him to keep them.

Then it was time for step two of his grand plan, the one he refused to analyse or consider in depth. He didn’t want to think about why he wanted to impress the man or if this was an elaborate flirting ritual or just the product of boredom. Each item he carefully placed outside Bridge’s quarters, balanced in a somewhat precarious pile. The cat was a particular obstacle but with the liberal application of treats decided to stay put. The armscrew just tutted and rolled their eyes but decided not to interfere. Lance was clearly too stupid to be dangerous. He left a note balanced on top: “Training, Round one.”

Tomorrow

He practically vibrated with excitement as he sat on the bed, legs hanging over the edge and jiggling with barely contained energy. There was a small twinge of guilt in amongst the excitement, guilt that he was so excited about flying something other than the Devout. He’d make it up to her later.

His medical was going well so far, as he knew it would. The augmetics had more than corrected any problems he had had, and he hadn’t been ill from anything worse than a hangover in recent memory. His heart was still pretty damn strong, his lungs only a bit battered from iho. No addictions, no real vices. There was no reason that he’d be unable to fly her.

Meeting a craft for the first time was always a magical experience. By turns it was like meeting a partner, a companion, a lover or a pet. He had no idea what the Spiderwidow would be, but he was willing to bet his life she was nothing like a pet. She was too vicious for that, too deadly. He was going to have to be careful. Which was exciting enough to make his heart speed up.

He was impatient for the paperwork to be signed off and introductions to be made. One more sleep until a very belated Candlemas present. He would be touching something made for the Astartes. He would be interacting with the ghosts of angels, buried deep inside the manifold.

Pacific Rim DuD AU

The water rushed in where the metal had severed and cracked, making electronics fizzle and spit. It was pouring like blood from a wound. Cal gasped at the shock of the impact, feeling it as though it had hit their flesh. They looked over at Baris who had his teeth gritted tight, trying to resist the urge to panic. At least if they were going down, they were going down together. Or so they thought.

A moment later there was a roaring screech, the kaiju lurching forward with its claws, sending a wave of water that knocked them a little off balance. They struggled to right themselves and that few seconds made all the distance. The creature lunged forward again and ripped through the entire jaegar, ripping Baris from Cal’s mind and body.

Excruciating pain crackled across their body like lightening, a broken circuit pressing into their shoulder and shooting down every muscle, making their hand clench tight. Their balance was now completely broken in more than one. The jaegar stumbled and crashed into the sea, unable to support itself on one pilot. Water soon covered Cal’s head, one by one the lights of the circuits and machines disappearing out.

It didn’t matter. Baris was gone.

Sober - T67

Astrid woke up, mouth feeling like a desert. She rolled over in Syn’s bed, finding it empty. Syn must have already went off to work. She had got very diligent since the syndicate had decided they wanted the Saints. She had to. The stakes were higher than ever.

On autopilot, she reached for the bedside table before realising that she would not find any pills there. She let her hand fall on her face and groaned out loud. This was day three of this utter bullshit. She sat up, letting her curls fall behind her like a pink waterfall, a highly tangled one. She had not been sleeping well. She had not been doing anything well. The past few days had been a testament to that.

She was forgetful, tearful and ill. She tossed and turned all night, wanted to fuck constantly and had no appetite. She had turned from bubbly and warm into withdrawn and anxious. Her nails were bitten down to the quick. She didn’t like who she was when she was just Astrid. She didn’t like being clear headed, seeing everything as it was, without the soft bubblewrap drugs gave her. It made everything softer and kinder. And this world was anything but kind.

Already, she missed Syn. Since Rei had died she had become lonelier, clinging to whatever family she had left. But with this new insight, she was rather aware that to many of them she was something of a liability. She didn’t like knowing that. She didn’t like it at all.

She would dress up so tonight Syn would have something to really look forward to coming home to. She may not be good at a lot of things but she was good at looking good. That was like a skill. If you squinted. She had to believe that because if that wasn’t true, what else did she have?

Fresh Hell - T67

Her fingers were dyed indigo, the flimsy gloves nowhere near enough to protect her skin. She stretched her fingers out in front of her, wondering if she could pull it off as an intentional look. Oh well. It was too late. The deed was done. She wasn’t quite sure if it suited her yet.

She definitely looked paler, a few of her softer curves seeming sharper. Her eyes looked more green, her freckles more like stars. The blue framing her face was new and frightening but she thought she might like it. She knew Rei definitely would have, had they been around to see it. This way they actually would have looked like siblings. For the first time she could see the ghost of their sibling in her face, the same cheekbones, the same shape eyes. It was terrifying to know that the only physical evidence of Rei left on this world was herself.

Rei should have lived. Rei was smarter, tougher, more loved. Maybe they didn’t have to be gone entirely - maybe Astrid could be more like their sibling. They could learn. They could grow. They could be tough. They shrugged on one of Rei’s jackets, admiring the effect in the mirror.

The companies and press and syndicate might be able to forget Rei. Astrid would make sure the Saints never would.

Huntsman/A Brand New Adventure - HEA

He stood on the branch, barely breathing. He notched the arrow, bringing the bow up, drawing the string back. He was every inch the hunter, dirt streaked down his face, leaves tangled in his hair. The cart was about to trundle underneath the tree where he was lying in wait. His gang were hidden in the other trees lining the dirt road, in hoods and dresses, with swords and daggers.

He held up one hand, the universal signal for ‘wait for it’. He gave a low, keening whistle, it carrying easily on the wind. One of the horses below looked up, ears flicking curiously. One of its riders followed its gaze up to the tree, and his eyes widen in surprise. That moment is all Peter needs.

He lets the arrow loose and it hits it mark, right in between the rider’s eyes. With a whoop he somersaulted out of the tree and fell upon the cart like a carnivorous beast. It was over in a matter of minutes, blood mixing with the golden coins as the Merry Men shovelled them into sacks.

Morose, Peter sat on the broken wheel and picked at a scab on his knee. Robert clicked his tongue as he pulled the short straw to go and check on their mercurial leader.

“What’s up boss? I thought that went well. No casualities, tons of cash, sticking it to the Sheriff.” Peter mumbled something. “What was that?” “I said it was too easy.” Robert blinked. “What?” “It only lasted like, two minutes, nobody did a dramatic scream, I didn’t see any bones or anything!” “Most people count that as a win.” Peter returned him a withering stare. “I’m not most people.” He stood, letting his legs stretch. He had gotten a little taller from when he had first alive, his cheekbones a little sharper. He looked more teenage like than child like.“No point in a fight if it’s not even fun.” “Tell you what. When you get back to camp, we’ll find you a proper bear to wrestle with, okay?” The younger man immediately lit up, flashing a grin, bad mood forgotten. “Yes! What a good idea I’ve just had! We’ll find a bear!” Robert rolled his eyes but smiled, amused. “Right you are boss.”

Rescue - HEA

The rock on which he had almost drowned had become something of a refuge for Peter. When the world got too noisy or his head too confusing, the world was quieter there. It made him melancholy, the light sadness settling on his chest like fresh snow. It was sadness without a name or cause, the type that felt as essential to the human condition as breathing. It was too big to name, and even a philistine like Peter could feel it.

He let his feet sit in the lapping water of the lagoon, for now ignoring the flashly glints of a mermaid’s tail or the light tickle of their fingers. Sometimes he would snap from his reverie and play. Today though, he would not be stirred from his dark thoughts, and he did not even look up from the spot at which he stared.

Something was troubling him.

The worst part he wasn’t quite sure what it was. The boys were dancing around their campfire, celebrating the latest batch of dead pirates. The fairies were organising their latest orgy, the mermaids were feasting on the bones of the lost and the various tribes were either at war with him or celebrating his victory with him. So why was his mind circling in on itself, like something had scented blood in the water?

He leaned back, looking up at the stars. Unless he was in a bad mood, the stars were always visible in Neverland. He finally siezed upon what exactly the problem was, though it did not add any sort of clarity to the situation. He had forgotten something.

This was of course, not in and of itself a particularly spectacular affair. He forgot things frequently and with relative impunity. What was unusual was the fact he remembered forgetting something. It hadn’t just danced out of his brain with no announcement - it had left a mark. And like a missing tooth, he couldn’t quite stop tonging at it.

He would be distracted for a short while, but he would keep remembering that absence and on and on it would go. He finally stood, scowling at the sky as though it was personally responsible for his plight. He’d get to the bottom of it, he always did.

Glass/Flame - Parador Hanging Out

Mattias leaned back, placing his feet in Sol’s lap and stretching. The land hadn’t quite fully recovered from the presence of the invading forces, but it was getting there. The family’s forest had remained standing throughout it all and being The Coast, there wasn’t exactly any irreplaceable structures to loose. The parador had been restored to very almost its former glory.

Mattias was happy to return after his sailing adventure to the Broken Shore. He sat in Sol’s lap and showed him the few cuts and scrapes he had gained, the story between every one. The excitement from him was clear. His first real scrape with violence and it had been an abundant success the likes of which the Empire had rarely seen. It didn’t seem to occur to the younger man that not all wars would be like this and perhaps he had been lucky. Of course he had put it down to his own skills and prowess despite knowing next to nothing about fighting or strategy.

He clung to Sol as the evening drew in. He had missed him, and he made that clear, kissing his neck and occasionally incautiously catching him with his gilded antlers. It had been to him ages since he had seen his lover, several seasons. Mattias (who’s attention span was somewhat short) had stretched this into eternity. As the sun set over the mountains, he fell asleep against his chest, exhausted merely from recounting his adventures. Glass wondered how Flame managed to expend so much energy on merely existing, though he wondered fondly.

The Fragile, Initial Concept

He cuddled into his side further, stealing even more warmth from him, seemingly oblivious to the fire crackling in front of them. The night was not cold - he would not freeze but this was his pretence for closeness. The Hunter knew this, this small attempt at guile and did not bother hiding his affectionate smile.

The Innocent seemed to thrive much more on warmth of the heart than warmth of the flesh. Wherever he was, with whoever he was with, he sought touch and affection. Hugs, nuzzles, hair pets, with seemingly little awareness of the concept of personal space. He certainly didn’t have any himself and it didn’t occur to him anybody else would either. It was one of the ways he needed to be protected, The Hunter yanking him back from creatures or creations that would rather not be lavished with attention.

The Hunter’s eyes were focused on the forest around them, ears pricked up for threats, looking for the darkness moving in a way it was not supposed to. The Innocent’s eyes were trained up at the sky, marvelling at the endless wonder that was the network of stars and planets, drawing patterns between them. Everything was art, if you looked at it in a special way. He pointed out some of the patterns he had found, explaining the stories he had made up to go with them. Stories free of bloodshed or lies. Mostly they seemed focus on exploration and friendship. The horse was friends with the bear who was friends with the lily flower who grew brightly in the sky. It was laughably childish, no real structure or plot, but he seemed to enjoy telling them all the same. And the Hunter enjoyed listening.

They seemed an odd pair, curled up close, one broad and one slight, one dream like and one grounded in reality. Like a deer and a lion spending time with each other.

#prose #larp #prompts

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maealbert · 6 years ago

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The Liaison // Revenge

AU Characters: Team x OC (Lucy De Luca) A/N: So I’m watching One Tree Hill (for the third time through) and I got inspired to write this part. Mentions of sexual assault and drugs. Master List The Liaison

tag list: @idkbutspencer @literallyprentissstwin @remember-me-forever-silent-angel @cynbx @tenaciousarcadeexpert @rawritsmolly @dontshootmespence @princesswagger15 @drspencerreider @illegalcerebral @marvelfanlife @rt8815 @punkpenguin2019 @extremeobsessions101

The day was coming to an end. College kids were getting ready for a party in the senior dorms. It was going to be a night to remember. And boy would they remember. The street lights were coming on and the last coffee shop was closing. A group of friends were heading out of the shop laughing amongst themselves, clearly drank too much coffee. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” One of the girls ask the only employee left. “We can wait for you.”

“No, no. You guys go ahead. I’ll meet up with you there.” She says leaning on the open door. “I have to close up and lock everything down. It’ll be a while.”

“You better show up, Payton. I mean it. Cory’s supposed to be there.”

“And we now how much you like him!” Another girl said in a sing-song voice. Payton rolls her eyes as she steps back into the empty coffee shop and locking the door behind her. Turning the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’, she walks back to the counter and clocks out. Locking the cash drawers and the safe, she heads to the back office to grab her things. Shutting the light off she heads for the back door. Stepping out into the alleyway, she hears something clanking at the back of the alley. Glancing in that direction she sees a cat rush in the opposite direction. Rolling her eyes she walks down the alley towards the street. Shooting her friends a quick text in the group chat, she drives off to her own dorm to get ready for the party.

The music blares from the dorm building. How they’re getting away with this is mind boggling. Fixing her jeans and her shirt she steps into the building and immediately being sprayed with silly string. She hears the familiar laughs of her friends as she pulls the string out of her hair and off of her face. “Very funny guys.”

“Late arrivals get sprayed!!” Cory shouts as he rushes down the stairs to Payton. “About time you showed up.”

On the other side of the lobby where the punch bowl sat, a different guy pours two cups of spiked punch. Digging in his pocket he pulls out a pill bottle and pops the lid. Shaking a pill out into his hand, he drops it into one of the cups. He puts a smile on his face and walks over to the group. “I saw a late straggler come in.” He says handing her a drink. “I’m Draven. Nice to meet you...”

“Payton.” She says giving him a small smile. He tips his drink to her before taking a sip of it. She nods her head keeping the cup lowered to her side. Payton wasn’t much of a drinker. She wasn’t planning on drinking tonight either. She’d like to get back to her dorm without being caught by campus police.

As the night progressed and the students got drunker, Payton looked down at her drink. “Might as well..” She says with a sigh. Downing her drink she tosses the empty cup on the floor and heads for the door. Getting to the corner of the street, her vision soon begins to spin. Stumbling over her own feet, she grabbed hold of the bus stop sign to hold herself up. “What the...hell?”

She felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist. Hoping to see Cory holding her up she only finds a masked face looking down at her.

“N-No.. Let go..of me..” She says trying to push the person away from her. “Let me go.” Not a word come from the person’s mouth as they hoisted her up over their shoulder. Her body going numb and her vision growing dark, she couldn’t fight the person.

As she woke up the next morning with a pounding headache piercing her brain and looked around the dorm. “P?” She calls over to the bed on the other side of her dorm room. Climbing out of the bed she walks over to Payton’s bed and pulls back the covers only to find Georgia.

“What the hell, Kasey?”

“Georgia, where’s Payton?”

“I don’t know, I thought she was asleep in your bed.”

“No.. She’s not..”

“Maybe she stayed over at Cory’s dorm.”

“Maybe..” Kasey sighs as she looks around the room. Slipping her shoes and a hoodie, she leaves the dorm and heads over to the senior boys dorm where the party was held last night. Knocking on Cory’s door she waited for an answer. The door slowly opened to reveal a rather hungover Cory. “Hey is Payton here? I woke up and didn’t find her in bed.”

Cory shook his head as a yawned escape his mouth. “No... I hadn’t seen her after she came in to the party.”

Suddenly sirens wailed outside as a couple campus police cruisers sped past the building followed closely by an ambulance. “What’s going on?” Kasey questions as she and Cory leave the building. Following the crowd of students to where the flashing lights had stopped, Kasey and Cory pushed their way to the front of the crowd. “Payton!” She cries out as the paramedics wheel her friend past on a stretcher. An oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose and an IV already hooked up to her.

Coming back to Elizabeth’s hospital room, she was met with Emily. She still looked unsure of what was going on. “How is she?” Lucy asks as she hands Emily a cup of coffee.

“Awake and alert. Still in pretty bad shape though.” Emily explains to Lucy. “I have to call my dad and tell him what happened. He’ll probably have to get her things. Do you mind if he goes to your apartment?”

“I don’t mind.” Lucy says nodding her head. Her phone buzzes in her pocket and it’s a text from Cruz. “Duty calls.”

“I have to stay here with my mother, at least until my father gets here.”

“No problem, we can handle it. You stay here and be with your mother. We’ll call if we need a consult.” Lucy says as she rushes down the hall and out to her car.

“Cruz sent me this case.” Lucy says as she passes the files out to each team member. She hands one to Hotch just for fresh eyes. “Campus Police at Union College in Kentucky are requesting our help after finding a third victim.”

“Sedated and raped.” JJ says, anger evident in her voice.

“Except their third victim, Payton Fuller, is the only surviving one. She is currently being cared for at the hospital and willing to talk but doctors are ordering that she fully recovers from the drugs before any law enforcement can speak with her.” Lucy continues. “The two previous deceased victims was a sophomore med student, Mitchie Klein and a junior, Lacey Smith who was studying to be a preschool teacher after her two tours with the Marines in Afghanistan.”

The room fell silent as the team looked around at each other. “Soooo who’s in charge?” Luke says breaking the silence. Everyone looked over at Hotch.

“Me?” He says raising an eyebrow. “I can’t be in charge. I don’t work for the Bureau anymore.”

“You will for now.” Cruz says as he walks into the room. “I have placed Agent Prentiss on personal leave to tend to her mother, so until further notice, I am reinstating Aaron Hotchner as temporary Unit Chief until Emily comes back.”

“Thank gosh it isn’t me this time.” JJ says sighing in relief.

“Alright well..” Hotch says closing his case file. “Wheels up in thirty. I’ll meet you all the airport, just have to grab a few things.” He says as everyone disbands. Catching up to Lucy in the hall in front of her office he grabs hold of her arm. “I guess I get to see how well you really do.” He says.

“Yes well, I’m still as tough as I was when we first met.” Lucy says smirking at him.

“Well then let’s get to it. I’ll see you on the jet.”

“See ya then, boss.”

“Cruz reinstated Hotch?” Emily asks.

“Yes, yes he did.” Lucy says as she walks around the conference room table laying out update files on their three victims.

“Can he do that?”

“Apparently so.. The director approved him as a temporary fill-in until you come back.”

“Well keep me in the loop. I’ll call you later. My mother’s being discharged so I have to get her to your place as soon as possible so my dad can take her home.”

“Back to Italy?”

“No.. He’s bringing her to their place in Spring Valley until the doctor approves her to fly back to Rome.”

“Good, I agree with the doctor. While you’re at my place, be sure to let Anca know she’s welcome to stay there until I can find her a flight back to Romania.”

“Will do. Stay safe, alright?”

“I will.” Lucy says before hanging up. Hotch walks into the room with Rossi. “Was Payton able to give any information about her attacker?” She asks both men.

“Bits and pieces right now. Her doctor says that her memory will be back to normal soon, so until then all we have are the two prior victims.”

“Well I did get the rape kits reports back from Payton and the two others. All three kits tested positive for the same DNA. Male DNA was found in each of them.” Lucy says as she picks up a report from the table.

“So this is a serial rapist.” Rossi says. “Hard to deny it. Same place, same display, same drugs, same DNA.”

“That is true but remember The Angel Maker in Lower Canton, Ohio?” Hotch says. “A female was using the DNA of a deceased serial rapist-killer.”

“But a female wouldn’t have been able to carry all three victims that far of a distance without dropping them at least once or twice.” Rossi says as he sits down at the table. “But the question is... Why?”

“The question we always know how to answer.” Hotch says. “But there isn’t much more we can do without Payton’s memory.”

“I don’t even know where do start first.” Lucy says resting her chin in the palm of her hand. “All we have is that there is a constant MO and male causing all of this.”

“Well until Payton is ready to talk again, go on to the hotel and get some rest.” Hotch says. “You’ve been on your feet too much today.”

Lucy rolls her eyes as she stands up from the table. “You’re worse than Emily.” She starts to head for the door when she feels a sharp pain in her stomach.

“Are you okay?” Rossi says as he turns around his chair.

“Lucy..” Hotch says.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Lucy says. “It’s normal.”

“Braxton Hicks?” Hotch questions.

Lucy nods her head. “This isn’t the first.” She says. “But I’ll be fine. As long as I don’t hit five than there’s nothing to worry about. So far I’ve only been having one a day.”

“Do you want me to drive you to the hotel?” Rossi offers.

“No, no. I’ll be fine.” Lucy says waving her hand around in dismissal. Reaching the car she started the engine when a knock came on the window making her jump. Rolling down the window, she saw Spencer. “Hey.. Find anything from the security footage?”

“Yes we did. It’s all sent to Garcia. She might able to give us an idea on what to do next.” He says. “Where are you headed?”

“Back to the hotel. Hotch wants me to rest.”

“You look drained, everything okay?” Spencer asks leaning on the door of the SUV.

“Just had a contraction so it’s good that I’m going back to the hotel. Stay off my feet for a while.”

“Move over, I’m driving.”

“What? Spencer, no. You need to be inside working on this case.”

Spencer shakes his head. “Oh no, they can survive without me for a few hours. You’re more important to me right now. Now move over to the other seat.” Knowing that it was pointless to argue with him, she moves over to the passenger seat. Spencer climbs into the SUV and drives away from the station. Reaching the hotel room she felt another contraction. Doubling over the bed she sits down and presses her hand to her stomach. “Hey hey hey, just breath.” Spencer says.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. These are nothing.” Lucy says.

“Luce!” Spencer says pointing to the floor by her foot. Lucy looks down to see blood staining the carpet. “We need to get you to the hospital.” He says picking her up from the bed.

“I came as soon as I got your call.” Emily says as she rushes down the hall. “Where is she? What happened?”

“She’s right in there but she’s resting..”

“And the baby?”

Spencer clears his throat as he looks down at the floor. “Ummm.... That’s where it gets tough..”

“Oh don’t tell me..” Emily says. Spencer nods his head. “We thought it was just braxton kicks and that’s what her doctor even said. But then she started bleeding so I brought her here and I haven’t seen her for two hours and she’s been there after the surgery and I still haven’t been in there yet. I just.. I don’t know what to do. What do I say?”

Emily sighs as she walks Spencer over to the chairs against the hallway wall. “You just have to be there for her. Sometimes just holding her is better than saying any words.” Spencer buries his face in his hands. Emily rubs his back. “And we’re all here to help you both get through this.”

“Well..” Spencer says as he gets up from the chair. “I’d better get in there. See how she’s doing. Want to join?”

“I didn’t get a red eye out here for nothing.” Emily says as she stands up and follows him into the room.

“Luce?” Spencer calls as he steps into the room. Lucy kept her back turned to them. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even her own boyfriend. She felt the bed lower behind her. “How’re you feeling?” He asks.

“How do you think I’m feeling?” Lucy says wiping away a stray tear from her cheek.

Spencer glances over at Emily. She nods her head towards Lucy. He lays his hand on her shoulder but she only shrugged it off. “Luce...”

“Don’t touch me...”

“But Lucy--”

Lucy gets off the bed hoping the bed would be the force standing between them. “H-How can you touch me after what just happened, Spencer? I-I-I mean, the baby. Why would you want to touch the body that lost your daughter?” Her eyes started to water up. Rushing around the bed, Spencer threw his arms around her as she started to cry. “It’s not fair! Why me? Everything was going so good!”

“I know, I know.” He says holding her tighter. “But we can get through this. I know we can.”

Lucy pulls away from Spencer. “I just want to be alone.”

Emily walks over placing her hands on Spencer’s shoulder from behind. “And this when you should give her some space to collect her thoughts and relax herself.”

Spencer looked at Lucy as she stood by the window, her arms wrapped around her waist. “Come on.” Emily whispers. “Let’s go get some coffee so you can clear your head too.”

“I heard you did a fantastic job on your first case with the BAU.” Emily said nudging Hotch’s side.

He chuckles shaking his head. “It’s like riding a bicycle.” He says making Emily smile. “So I was filled in on Spencer and Lucy..”

“Uh yeah...” Emily says as she sits down at her desk. “It’s going to be some time before they come back. Would you like to stay with the team? We could an extra set of hands.”

“Tempting..”

“Well..”

“But I’ll have to pass.”

“Aw come on. I know I’m back a little sooner than planned but my dad has taken over my mother’s every want and need, even though he’s been doing that for over fifty years. But..” She says shaking her head as she stands up from the desk chair. “I don’t want you to just go away again.”

“You see me almost every day.” Hotch chuckles.

“But we don’t work together anymore.” She says walking up to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Please? For me?”

“I don’t have revenge to unleash onto anyone.”

“Oh funny..” Emily says rolling her eyes as she pulls away from Hotch. “How someone can be so sick in their minds still baffles me! I mean.. He got away twice, almost three times! Boy if Lucy wasn’t going through this she’d probably unleash hell on him and frankly I wouldn’t stop her either.”

Hotch sighs as he sits down on the couch. “I really miss you guys.. All of you.. But I have Jack--”

“Jack is in high school--”

“Which is the most crucial time of any teenagers life.”

Emily huffs as she crosses her arms over her chest. “He’ll survive, I promise. Plus, isn’t Jessica still in town? I’m sure that she can stay with him if we’re ever called out on a case, not only can she but i’m sure she’d be happy to.”

“You just won’t let it go, will you?” He says standing up and walking over to her.

“Not until you say yes. I’m sure Cruz will be happy to make your temporary stay a little longer.” Emily says as she fixes Hotch’s tie. “Please?”

“You, miss stubborn, need to quit that.”

“Well for twelve years, you should know how to combat this.” Emily says before pecking his lips before going over to her desk. “But if you don’t want to, then I guess we’ll struggle short handed.”

“Not this too..” Hotch groans rubbing his temples. “You really know how to get under my skin.”

“And on top too.” Emily says shooting him a wink. “But you’re not going to stay, then don’t forget to shut the door on your way out.”

“Can I have Lucy’s office until she gets back?”

Emily looks up at him, a smile spreading across her face. Pulling open the top drawer of the desk, she pulled out a set of keys. “Big one unlocks the door, the second opens the file cabinet. I keep a spare just in case.” She says before tossing the two keys to him. “Thank you.”

“You owe me.” He says as he exits her office.

So I’m sorry.. I really am.. It was tough for me to write this but if you know me, you know that I write mostly whatever comes to my head.

If you liked this part than please be sure to leave it some love and feedback! :)

Oh.. and i had to bring hotch back. I missed him.

Thank you! :)

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