#and scully is just next to him giggling and holding his arm like…they’re dead mulder! they don’t care!

[carefulfears]

I just love how carefree mulder and scully are in david’s episodes, it’s a side of them we so rarely got to see… 😔😔😔

yeah, me too. david writes journeys for mulder, with clear morals and arcs. the unnatural is about valuing “life on this planet,” finding space for joy and connection in the midst of blinding pursuit. amor fati is about commitment to your purpose, realigning to who you are at the core, who you were as a child. the promises that you made to yourself then. hollywood a.d. is about legacy, what we leave behind: does it matter if it’s warped, or if it’s nothing, so long as we loved and were loved well?

david’s episodes are classic hero’s journeys, active lessons for mulder as a character. but these are all things that scully already knows, so she gets to be passive and lighthearted and wise. they aren’t having anything beaten into them; they’re growing through storytelling, through play, through identification. they’re growing through watching a movie at 3am and rambling to each other. they’re growing through eating gross fake ice cream and reading old newspapers on a saturday morning. they’re growing through swinging a baseball bat, hips before hands, all night under the stars.

[baronessblixen]

Emily's adoption comes through on March 17th, St. Patrick's Day, so Mulder declares it an annual holiday for the Scully family (including one Fox Mulder).

"Like Christmas?" Emily asks, clinging to the fox plushie he bought her while she was still in the hospital, while he and Scully were waiting for a miracle.

He nods. "It's perfect because your mommy, and therefore you, are part Irish." He shares a look with Scully, tentatively; it's the first time he's called her Emily's mother.

One year later, Mulder takes his two Scully girls out for St. Patrick's Day ("told you it's a holiday, Scully. We have to celebrate."). They're all wearing matching green sweaters and Emily swings between them, holding their hands. Mulder tells Emily about Irish folklore, about fairies and the leprechaun. "I want to know about pirates," she says, interrupting him.

"Pirates?" he mouths at Scully.

"She's just learned to swim," she says, shrugging and biting her lip to hide her smile. "So she loves pirates."

"How about," he says, picking the girl up and putting her on his shoulders, "I teach you a good old sea shanty that you can sing in the bathtub?" Emilly giggles; it's a yes.

They get home late, Emily asleep in Mulder's arms. He helps Scully get her into pajamas and into bed. They're both yawning all through the motions, dead on their feet.

"You can stay here," Scully whispers. They share a look, a long one.

"On the couch," he says, his words half a question, and Scully nods.

"For now." A blush that touches him deeply. He takes her hand, squeezes it. It's a thank you and a promise. He won't go anywhere, tonight or any other day.

The couch is too small for Mulder but that's not what wakes him way too early. It's the little girl with a blanket around her shoulders like a cape, her hair a messy firestorm.

She's grinning at him with a full set of baby teeth and an expression that's one hundred percent Scully.

"What shall we do with the drunken sailor," she sings the words he taught her the day before with gusto. Mulder pretends to still be asleep, but his eyes flutter and his lips twitch into a smile.

"What shall we do with the drunken sailor." Her voice is rising in volume.

"What shall we do with the drunken sailor." She takes a deep, noisy breath before she leans over him and yells, "early in the morning!"

She holds her stomach, laughing loudly and Mulder just watches, laughter bubbling up inside of him too. He picks the girl up easily and sits her on the couch next to him. Her face is pink with glee.

"Woke you up," she says proudly.

"You sure did. Why are you awake?" He asks with a yawn. It's barely past six.

"Because it's morning," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Of course. Let's let your mommy sleep a while longer, though, hm?"

"But I want cereal."

"I can do that."

"And I want to talk about pirates."

"I can do that, too."

Waking up early has never felt so good.

[starwalker42]

And The World Keeps Spinning [3/3]

It’s finally here! Part 3 of the fic I started a year ago for the @xfilesfanficexchange! You can find part 1 here and part 2 here, or read the whole thing on AO3! Tagging @today-in-fic Happy Valentine’s, everyone!

I think I’m dreaming. That or I’m dead, and I’ve somehow been granted access to heaven. Or it’s possible that I’m still trapped in an underground fungus and this is all a hallucination I’m being fed as it digests me.

Or maybe, just maybe, this is actually happening.

Maybe Scully is in my arms, still straddling my lap, and breathing heavily in my ear.

She’s resting her head on my shoulder and has one hand on my neck- the other lies limp between us, resting just next to mine. Mine, which was up until a few moments ago inside of her.

Jesus. I’ve been inside of Scully.

She stirs against me, her hand on my lap edging a little too close to the danger zone as she moves to take mine. My body jolts in response to her touch, and I will it to hold on just a little bit longer. What I said to Scully is true- I really, really, don’t want to end tonight by coming in my pants.

She clearly has other ideas, though- she’s reaching for the zipper to my jeans, seemingly intent on giving me a taste of my own medicine, right here right now. There is no way in hell I can survive a handjob right now- part of my wonders if I’ll ever be able to survive Scully’s hand on my cock- so I find myself trying to talk her out of it.

“Scully.”

Her eyes fly up to mine, so beautifully wide and eager that my chest constricts a little. How the hell did I get this lucky?

“I don’t know if I can do this right now.”

She blinks, then slowly removes her hand. The look in her eyes makes me realise I’ve made a mistake, and I quickly backtrack, stumbling over my words a little.

“I didn’t- I mean- if you touch me right now I don’t think I’ll last very long.”

Scully raises an eyebrow. “I told you I don’t mind. I mean it.”

“I know.” I squeeze her hand, then bring it to my mouth and press a kiss to her palm. “But I want… I want to do this with you. All of it. And I don’t think I can do that tonight if you keep touching me like that.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and I panic, worrying that I’ve crossed a line.

“I mean, only if you’re okay with that-”

“Mulder,” she laughs and cups my cheek. “Of course I am. I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember.”

The admission seems to stun us both. Never in all my wildest dreams did I imagine her saying that. I want to ask how far back the desire goes, but there’s time for that later, when we’re inevitably going to cuddle in bed and laugh at our past selves for being so oblivious. So instead I just bring my hand to the back of Scully’s head and bring my forehead to hers.

“Me too.” I confess inches from her lips.

She gives me a shy smile. “Then what’s stopping us?”

And the answer, right now, in this immediate moment, is nothing, as I hope I confirm by leaning forward and pressing my lips to hers. She melts against me, yielding to my tongue as it seeks hers, and I feel the world slowly fade away under the touch of her mouth. Before, with others, this has always scared me: the feeling of being cast adrift, thrown into the abyss, with no clear sense of up or down or if anyone would be there to catch me. But right now it feels like none of these things.

Right now I just feel free, like I’m floating, like Scully has taken everything that makes the universe so confusing and has pushed it away, leaving only her in its place. And the only emotion I feel right now is the complete opposite of fear.

I feel safe.

I feel loved.

She hasn’t said it, but she hasn’t had to; I’ve been inside her head, I’ve already heard all I need to. But now I can feel it, too, and that is making it all the more real. Can she feel me telling her the same back?

She pulls back just as the words reach my lips, thankfully interrupting me before I can embarrass us both.

“How did you want to do this?”

Part of me wants to say right here, on this couch that I’ve began associating with her since the first night I woke up from a nightmare and could smell her scent on the cushions, the one we’ve both broken apart and been put back together on, but that’s not the right thing for our first time. I want to try and go slow, I want to make her feel safe and comfortable, and give her all the time and attention she deserves so neither of us can ever forget a single moment of tonight.

“Bedroom?” I hoarsely suggest. “I think if I have sex in front of a shirtless Patrick Swayze I might get a little confused.”

She smirks. “I’ve never seen your bedroom before.”

“How about we head over and I’ll give you the guided tour?”

I wiggle my eyebrows and she giggles. Dana Katherine Scully giggles in my arms, still sat on my lap, and these two things combined do very little to help with my erection. In fact, if anything, I can feel my body start to tremble again, not used to this kind of teasing. Okay, bedroom it is. Right now.

“You’re going to have to move.” I murmur as she leans in to capture my mouth again, her arms tightening around my waist.

There is the tiniest of spaces between us when she pulls back to reply- I can feel her breath dancing across my lips.

“You want me in your bedroom, you carry me, G Man.”

She swoops in again for a kiss while my brain hurries to catch up with her thinking. I never had Scully down as a traditionalist- she hates when anyone makes comments about her height, or somehow implies she’s less capable because she’s a woman- but if that’s what she wants…

I wrap my arms around her and stand, feeling her legs grip my hips even as she gasps in surprise.

“This okay?”

As I raise my eyes from the floor to meet hers, I see a combination of shock and excitement.

“You always keep me guessing,” she murmurs as she tucks herself into my neck, holding on tight.

Her open mouth slides across my jugular and I take that as my answer. Yes, this is more than okay. This is perfect.

                                                          xXx

How dare Mulder ask me if this okay. He’s carrying me to bed- his bed, his bed, his bed- with his arms wrapped around my waist, his strong, capable hands holding me steady as my legs grip around him, and I can feel him hard and hot even through his jeans. I have never been this turned on in my life, and Mulder is asking me if it’s okay.

I love him.

I think I’d marry him if he asked.

I want to kiss him again but if both of us get distracted I don’t think we’ll make it to the bedroom. Somehow I manage to get even wetter at the idea of Mulder just putting me down and just driving into me against the wall, all of his body pressed against me. As much as I want that to happen- and suspect that sooner or later it will- that’s not how I want our first time to go. Mulder and I aren’t exactly a traditional couple by any stretch of the imagination, but I think we deserve this.

As I’m thinking this, Mulder taps my hip, bringing me back to the present. I realise that like this, tucked against his neck and breathing in his scent, I’ve let my eyes drift shut; when I open them I realise we’re in his bedroom already, and he’s trying to get me to let go and sink to the floor.

I pull back and brush my nose against his before kissing him again. How have I gone so long without this? All I know is that I’m going to do my best to never be without it ever again.

His hands flex against my back as he turns us around and drops himself to the bed, so I’m back on his lap with my legs still wrapped around him as my tongue frantically seeks his. Blindly, I fumble to undo more of his buttons until I can run my hands down his chest all the way to his abs, which are tense and trembling against my touch. I want to laugh a little at his response, but then his hands are under my sweater again, big and warm against my spine, and I suddenly realise that I’m in no position to judge.

I can feel my skin sparking and my blood burning as he makes his way further up my back, until his fingertips are just brushing against my bra. Oh my god, Mulder’s going to take off my bra. Mulder has been inside of me, but for some reason the thought of him touching my bare breasts seems dirtier than that. It means he’s going to see me- to lean back and gaze with those eyes and that familiar set of his jaw, and if I’m lucky then he might taste me too, with that tongue and that beautiful lip…

“Scully,” he takes his perfect mouth from mine and laughs. “It’s been a while, and, ah-”

“You need a hand?”

I’ve already moved my hands so they’re next to his, which are currently fumbling with my bra clasp. I might arch a little too much against his chest as I quickly do the job for him, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining.

In fact, as I let the straps fall down my arms and slide myself out of my bra, I can hear his breathing shake. He can’t see anything new- my sweater is still covering everything- but I’m also suddenly aware of how exposed I am in front of him, only one layer of clothing separating my naked skin from his touch.

“I feel a little overdressed,” he confesses with a chuckle.

“We can change that.” I run my hands over his shoulders and feel my cheeks flush when he leans back and lets me pull the shirt off of him.

There’s something so erotic about this- crossing this last barrier with him, meeting each other’s eyes in the dim light, and touching warm, welcoming flesh for the first time in a way I’ve only dreamed of. He kisses me again, hands in my hair, and as his lips trace a delicate trail down to my clavicle I let myself moan his name. I want him to touch me everywhere, in every way, until there are no more barriers between us.

So I reach for the waistband of his jeans. This time he doesn’t protest.

This time he lifts his hips so I can strip him, which with me sat on his lap is no easy thing to do- after a few moments of awkward shuffling we both realise the best thing is for us both to stand up. We don’t talk about it, but the instant I climb off him we both focus on ourselves, him taking off his jeans as I pull my sweater over my head.

I’m almost scared to look- not at him, or at his body, but at his eyes that will tell me everything I want to know and more besides. Does he like what he sees? What if he’s looking at me and realising that I’m nothing like the other women he’s been with, that my breasts are small, and my legs are short, and that I’ve got so many scars that even I’ve lost count? I’m beginning to regret drinking wine, because I know it makes me emotional. If Mulder rejects me now, I think I might break down in tears.

“Scully…”

When I glance up, he’s looking at me the same way I’ve seen him look at any number of supernatural phenomena, childlike wonder in hazel eyes and an awestruck smile on his lips. Before it’s been endearing, has made me fall even more in love with him and his beautiful mind, and this time it does all that and more. He’s looking at me. He’s stunned by me. If there was any doubt left in my mind, it’s suddenly and swiftly evaporated.

He loves me.

He wants me, in every way I want him. I feel tears welling up and hurriedly blink them back. I am not going to cry like this. I’m not. But then when I meet Mulder’s eyes again, they’re glimmering, too, even as he beams at me. I manage a nervous smile back.

“Don’t start, or you’ll set me off.”

If possible, his grin widens, although his eyes remain soft. “You’re so beautiful.”

I bite hard on my lip, but I think a tear escapes anyway.

“Hey.” He steps forward to brush it away, cupping my cheek and bringing my face back up to look at him. “Same rules, or this game isn’t fair.”

I laugh and place my hand over his. “Sorry.”

“Scully, you’re naked in front of me right now. You have nothing to apologise for.”

He kisses my forehead as I feel my face break out into a smile again, and then takes a step back and reclines himself on the bed, making all of my thoughts vanish. Oh my god.

“And you want to talk about not playing fair?”

That smirk again, this time with a cheeky eyebrow raise. “Is there a problem, Agent Scully?”

Well, that’s being added to the list of unexpected things that turns me on. Mulder calling me ‘Agent’. Now I think about it, the majority of the list is some variation of Mulder doing something. I think his current expression might have to join them.

My feet carry me to the foot of the bed, so I’m standing between his legs as he lies back, propped up on his elbows. If he sat up a little his mouth would be level with my breasts. But instead he stays right there, not moving, and I realise suddenly why. He’s giving me control. He wants me to be comfortable, and he knows that right now the best way to do that is to let me call the shots. I want to kiss him and hold him and tell him how much his trust and love mean to me, but I know that right now is not the time. Afterwards, perhaps.

Right now I have one plan, and it involves a couple fewer pieces of clothing.

                                                          xXx

For a moment I’m worried I’ve pushed it too far, but when she walks to the end of the bed and meets my eyes I can see the trust there, and the silent agreement. She still wants this. And she wants to have a little fun with it.

“There’s a problem.” She answers my earlier question. “You’re still overdressed, Agent Mulder.”

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. My dick twitches within my boxers at her tone, and I silently curse myself for trying to get the one-up before. I already know that Scully’s more than capable of payback. She notices my body’s response, and my brain finally regains enough sense to remind me that what she said isn’t strictly fair.

“I think we’re about even, actually.” I look pointedly at where her body is still hidden from me, the thin line of black fabric clinging her hips a stark contrast to the pearl glow of her skin.

She just smiles. “The female breasts are a sexualised part of the body, Mulder. Some would say more so than the vulva.”

I can’t exactly argue with her point, especially because something about hearing the word vulva from her lips seems to have taken all my words away. Even if I could speak, I don’t think I’d have a response- in a desperate attempt to avoid coming across as a chauvinistic stereotype, I’ve been trying not to stare, not to touch. Ever since she bared herself to me, I’ve felt my entire body shaking from the struggle of resisting, but I can feel my control eroding. She’s just… beautiful.

And now she’s climbing onto the bed, and crawling up my body, and without even thinking I’m grabbing her waist to pull her closer. We both gasp with the contact, and I take her open mouth with mine as I press her against my chest. She lets me chase her tongue with mine for a painfully short time, before pulling back away from my reach and sliding her hand down my side to play with my waistband.

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”

“That sounds fair,” I concede.

She rolls off of me to pull her own underwear off as I kick my boxers down my legs. My cock is impossibly hard, and it’s already leaking; I wish I was surprised, but I know by now that if even thinking about Scully is enough to get me excited, it’s a miracle this hasn’t already ended embarrassingly. There’s a soft sigh from next to me, and I turn my head just in time to see Scully’s shy smile. I feel my heart flush with sudden warmth at her expression- I hadn’t realised until now how nervous I was about this part, but that look evaporates any worry I’d had.

“Scully…”

She nods, immediately understanding and reciprocating, still with that smile on her lips. When she takes my hand and brings it towards her, I feel the last traces of anticipation disappear, replaced by an overwhelming sense of rightness. This is supposed to be happening. This is the only thing I need. This is perfect.

And… oh. When Scully guides my hand to rest on her stomach, it’s somehow even better. Over the years, her suits, her body, even her hair, have become harsher, sharper, with all straight lines with any trace of softness carefully masked. Occasionally she’s let me see past all of it- when she’s answered motel room doors with her hair still damp from a shower, or when we’ve ordered take out together and sat crossed legged on the floor of her apartment. I know her well enough to know that the version of her the rest of the world sees is nowhere near the version she lets me see, but I’m still stunned by the feel of her bare skin.

She’s the softest thing I’ve ever touched.  

Her fingers flex against mine as I hear her shaky exhale. I glance up at her, checking in, and she catches my eye.

“I’m okay. Just… don’t stop,” she breathes.

It’s only now that I notice the tremble in her body, feeling it against my palm and the energy radiating off of her. Oh god, are we going too fast?

“Are you sure? I-”

She manages a short laugh. “Mulder, if you don’t touch me right now I think I might die.”

Oh. Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever- not even during everything that’s happened tonight- actually thought about the fact that I turn Scully on. That she finds me as arousing as I do her. That all of this… is because of me. That she’s fighting to stay still because the need in her body is burning her up, the same way mine is.

I press my hand more firmly against her, and I’m rewarded with another quiet gasp. You don’t get a degree in psychology without learning about positive reinforcement, but this might be the first time I’ve realised how accurate of a theory it is- I want to touch my partner like this for the rest of my life, and all that’s triggered it is that tiny noise. And I already want to hear it again.

She’s given me permission to touch her, so I grant it to myself, too, and slide my hand up her body until I reach her breasts. At her nod, I cup one in my palm, letting my thumb rest over her areola. There it is again, that sound, and I decide to go one step further and gently squeeze her nipple between my thumb and first finger.  

This time there’s definitely more of a moan- it thrums against my open lips as I press them to the delicate column of her throat, followed by a low murmur of my last name. I squeeze a little harder as I work my way up to her mouth, and moan a little myself when I feel her hands find my chest and her nails beginning to lightly scrape over my abdomen.

When our lips meet, it’s fire, like she’s been craving this as much as I have. How the hell I went so many years without kissing her is beyond me, because currently I can’t imagine lasting longer than a few minutes without this. I wonder if she’ll let me kiss her at work. I wonder if we’ll even go back to work after this- right now I can’t think of a single reason not to spend the rest of my life just like this, my best friend warm and soft and pressed against me as she touches me all over with those careful physician’s hands, minutes stretching to hours as we learn the intricacies of each other’s bodies that we’ve kept from each other for so long.

Speaking of hands, I’ve been so lost in my own mind and our kiss that it’s only now that I realise Scully’s nearly touching my cock. I’m still on my side, and the hand that was tracing my abs is now wrapped around my hip, pulling me closer. I can feel the heat from her arm; only a fraction of an inch closer and she’d be touching me. I’m painfully aware that I can barely survive that contact right now, much less any kind of movement, but her hand is shaking with a need that I understand. My hands are drawn to her body at the best of times, to the way it grounds and comforts me, and now my senses are heightened to the point where every part of my skin not touching hers is aching for contact.

But she wants permission.

I take my hand from her breast and reach down to hers on my hip. The mirroring of earlier is not lost on me, but it makes sense, I think, for it to be this way- we’re equals in everything else, why not this? My own hand touches my cock first, but even that makes me grit my teeth. If I can’t deal with this, how am I going to- oh, fuck. Not well, apparently.

We both shudder as she wraps her hand around me, her grip gentle but firm, sensing the need for restraint. I bury my face in her hair, distantly aware of the soft pants escaping my lips as she explores. Her breaths are quiet but shaky next to my ear, and the sound does little to help with my erection. If she keeps this up, I might come.

“Mulder?” She whispers.

Her voice brings me back from whatever heaven I’ve been floating in, and I manage to make a noise in reply that’s somewhere between a gasp and a grunt.

“Can I be on top?”

Even if I wanted to, I’d be incapable of replying to her with anything other than a resounding yes. I try to disguise the urgency I feel- if she knew this was a way to get my agreement, I have no doubt she’d use it against me at every opportunity- but I don’t do a very good job. The words stumble out of my mouth, not helped at all by the feel of Scully’s hand still wrapped around me.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

I clench my mouth shut to stop myself from pleading aloud, but in my head all I’m saying is please. Please, please, please.

                                                          xXx

I feel Mulder’s body wilt when I release my grip on his cock, and I watch as his hips pump the air in time with his staccato gasps of the painful pleasure of being so close, and yet denied. I know that feeling. My body burns with need for him, a need to be completely filled and surrounded by him, and our joint need is a living thing in the air around us. We both need this. Now.

My hands are shaking, but I force them to steady me as I bring myself to my knees and throw one leg across Mulder’s hips. His lips fall open with a silent moan, and his eyelashes flutter at the sensation, even as I feel his chest muscles tighten under my hands in an effort to control himself. I make a mental note of how beautiful he is like this, desperate and flushed and responding to my every touch, and how at some point in the near future I ought to properly test his willpower. Right now, though, I want to be nice to him, and give him a reward. He deserves it, after all this, we both do.

My hand slides up his chest to cup his cheek.

“Mulder.”

He opens his eyes and they widen, unabashedly taking me in. I feel a little self-conscious, sat on his lap like this with my body exposed to his searing gaze, but when his eyes find mine I forget to be nervous. His expression shows nothing but pure, unadulterated love, and that same look that he gave me earlier tonight- the one that makes me feel like the only thing in his world, like he’s just found the thing he’s been looking for all these years. The look that tells me this is my best friend. My partner. It’s Mulder.

I lean down and capture his lips with mine, sinking my teeth into his full lower lip as he moans in reply. His hands are in my hair, his fingers blindly threading and pulling as mine slide over his shoulders and down his arms. There’s an overload of sensation rushing to my brain from my nerve endings, so much I can’t focus on it for too long or I threaten to get carried away. Random bursts of pleasure rush past me: the wet heat of Mulder’s tongue, the beautiful ache in my lower body, the way the friction against his chest brings my nipples to attention, begging for relief.

I don’t want it to stop, but I need him inside me. I don’t think I can last another second without it.

So I reach between us and grip his cock again, pulling back less than an inch from his lips.

I check in, my voice catching in my throat. “Yes?”

Mulder’s hands have found their way to my waist, and he squeezes me tight as he nods. “Yes.”

I rest my forehead on his as together we guide myself down onto him, and I’m glad for the support because I feel my body shake as he pushes into me. He whimpers my name into the space between us, and I press my lips to his to try and mute a similar sound from myself. Because… oh my God. My mind briefly drifts to Ed Jerse again, the last man I had inside of me, and the difference to right now is astounding. I’m not fantasizing about Mulder anymore, he’s actually here, and this is better than any one of my fantasies.

I am wet, so wet, almost embarrassingly so, and Mulder slides all the way into me so easily it’s like he’s done it a thousand times. In this position I can control the speed, and while part of me wants to start riding him right away, I also want to take a moment for us to both adjust and feel this connection between our bodies. Of course, what I told Mulder earlier is true: we’ll do this again (many, many times if I have anything to say about it), but we only get one first time, and I want to remember every moment of it.

“Oh, Scully…” he whispers to me as we break apart from our kiss. His hands are still on my waist, and grip tight when he glances down at where we’re joined. “You feel so… so good.”

“So do you.”

My voice catches in my throat as I focus almost unconsciously on just how good he feel inside of me, hot and hard and so deep inside that I’m struggling to think about anything else. Mulder pushes himself onto his elbows, then all the way up, shuffling us both backwards gently to prevent shifting too much inside of me until his back is against the headboard. Like this, he can pull my torso closer to his until I’m buried against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as his hands stroke over my spine.

We sit there for a long moment, breathing together and letting all of this sink in. I’m having sex with my partner. If you’d told me even a few days ago that this would be how I spent my Valentine’s night, I would’ve laughed. But it’s happening. It’s finally happening.

“Scully.” My name has never sounded so right on his lips. “I don’t want this to end.”

He leaves the truth, that we both need this to end, however good it feels, unsaid. He’s been so patient tonight, we’ve both been- hell, we’ve been patient for years- and we need it. It’s not going to take much, which is good because I feel about ready to explode, and I’ve no doubt Mulder feels the same. I need to move.

I grip his shoulders and push my body up before plunging back down onto him again. This time we both moan, loud enough that I imagine we might wake the neighbours. I don’t have the time or space in my mind to feel shy. It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m getting laid. Let them hear.

I go slow a few more times, then up the pace. Mulder’s head falls back with a groan, and I latch on to his exposed skin, possessed with a need to mark him as mine. One of his hands is back in my hair, stroking with a gentleness that’s in perfect contrast to the way his other palms my ass and thighs. I want to kiss him again. I want to kiss him as we come.

As if he’s read my mind, the moment I pull back from his neck Mulder is tilting his head back up to find mine, sliding his tongue into my mouth with a force that erases all other thought from my mind. The sensation in my body continues to wash over me, though, and soon I’m trembling from his touch and a desperate need to come. Mulder’s always been able to sense what I need, and this is no different- he pulls me impossibly closer to his body, so my breasts rub against his chest as his pelvic bone provides the same perfect pressure to my clit, and then I’m flying, no longer in control of the sounds escaping me.

I can feel Mulder still pumping inside of me, and before I come down and have the chance to double guess myself, I let the words that have been on the tip of my tongue all night finally slip free.

“I love you, Mulder.”

There’s a sudden rush of warmth as he empties himself into me, gasping my name, and as I go limp in his arms I hear him whisper the same three words against my jaw, followed by a series of kisses that end with a flick of his tongue against my earlobe. We’re both panting with exertion, and I tilt my head up to press a kiss to the hollow of his clavicle, tasting the salty tang of sweat along with an undertone of his natural musk. His scent has always driven me crazy, and even though I feel completely sated, part of me still wants to throw him down on the bed and do this all over again. I have doubt he’d let me, too.

But right now I feel content to sit here in his arms, trembling with aftershocks and letting the afterglow run through me. There’s going to be plenty of time for everything else. Speaking of…

“Mulder?”

He kisses my hair. “Yeah?”

“Next time, do you think we could skip the formalities?”

My heart runs warm with love as he laughs. “If you’re trying to tell me you don’t like my cooking, just say.”

“I love your cooking.” I pull back and meet his eyes. “And the flowers. And the fact that you sat through half of Dirty Dancing with me even though I know you weren’t paying attention.” Here he looks a little guilty, and I smile. Gotcha. “But Mulder, you’re the best present I could’ve asked for. You’re the only one I need.”

His eyes shimmer in the dim light, and he leans in to kiss my forehead.

“Same here, partner.”

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

(Full Version, A-Z)

author: @storybycorey

rating: R

word count: approx. 8000

summary: The ABC’s, as told by Fox Mulder.

For those of you looking only for part Z, just scroll a bit more than halfway down!  (or take a read back through the whole thing- there are references back to the first 25 letters in the final installment!)

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for XFiles

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z is for Zipper

He’s awoken by the sound of her skirt zipper, the dip of the mattress as she sits on the bed.

“Scully?” He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but the stillness in the air and a new moon slanting through the blinds suggest hours.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I tried not to wake you...” He’s never heard her voice in his bedroom this late at night. It’s softer than he’d imagined. Younger. “It’s late.  I’m not sure I should drive.  Do you mind if I—” 

“Sure, yeah.” He props up on an elbow. “Do you want me to…” He motions toward the living room, still half-asleep but awake enough not to assume anything he shouldn’t. Hotel room sleepovers (which they’ve partaken in) are in a different category than apartment room sleepovers (which they haven’t), and he knows this.

“I don’t mind,” she answers in silhouette, slipping off her skirt, “…not if you don’t.”  She’s stolen her way beneath the sheets before he has the presence of mind to offer her something to wear. 

“Of course not.”  He can’t think of anything he’d mind less than Scully lying beside him in his bed, near enough he can smell this morning’s perfume still on her skin.

She settles, and is so close, her breaths tickle his bare shoulder. Once, twice, three times.  He shudders. 

They’re quiet.  He listens to her nighttime sounds—the swish of her hair against the pillow, the cadence of her breaths, the occasional wet slide of her tongue across her lips. He wishes he had his little recorder on the nightstand. He’d make a mixtape, label it Sounds of Scully and play it every night for the rest of his life.  

He longs to touch her.  A hand, a foot, even just the tip of a finger. 

They lie there long enough and silently enough he thinks she may have fallen asleep, but then she shifts. Or he shifts. Or maybe they both shift, but out of nowhere her still sweater-clad back spoons perfectly against his chest.

A quiet gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t readjust. Neither of them breathes.

“Is this… okay?” he asks finally.

“Yeah, it’s…” The heel of her foot brushes his shin. “It’s nice.” 

Quiet again. His arm finds a place to rest wrapped around her waist.  His thighs nudge her bottom.  Her skirt is off, and possibly her nylons, too, but he thinks instead about her hair tickling his nose, her sweater against his belly.  He doesn’t think of other things—won’t let himself.

It’s nice was an understatement though. It’s so much more than nice.  He’s needed this, wanted this, for such a long time.  Even if this is all it is—the two of them spooned together in his bed until morning.

She snuggles a bit closer, slips a small, cold foot between his legs. He thinks about her pale pink toenails, he thinks about Dulcinea, he thinks about being number sixteen on a list he’s sure he was never meant to read.  He adds to his mixtape the sound of her hum when his thumb brushes the rose-petal skin of her arm.

“Foxtrot,” she murmurs sleepily.

“Hmmm?” He nudges the back of her head with his nose.

“Nothing,” she chuckles, “Just a passing thought...”

“Can’t have passing thoughts without sharing.  Bedroom rules.”  It’s strange how natural this feels, bantering with her in his bedroom, pretending this sort of thing happens often enough that rules have been made.

“Oh, in that case, maybe I’ll…” She makes to leave, pushing away covers and beginning to pull from his arms.

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, tugging her back, wasting no time in snuggling her in even closer, wrapping himself around her like a question mark, which seems almost comically apropos on a night like this. She giggles, just barely, but it’s perfection, the sound of Scully giggling in his bed late at night.

“No, it was just…,” she continues, turned serious again.  “My father was obsessed with the military phonetic alphabet—Alpha, Bravo, etcetera...  He named my brother Charlie.  It just occurred to me that if your father had been the same, maybe you’d be Foxtrot instead of Fox.”

He chuckles. “Guess I should count myself lucky then.  Would’ve been a lot to live up to in the ballroom classes my mother made me take…”  She hums in amusement, and the vibration travels all the way through to his chest.  “Sounds like you’re a bit lucky, too.  Unless I’m mistaken, it was Dana, not Delta, who snuck into my bed tonight...”

“Hmm,” she ponders, “Maybe Delta's not as brave as Dana is....” He sometimes thinks nobody’s as brave as Dana Scully is, least of all himself. “Frankly,” she adds, “I always fancied Juliet anyway.”

“Juliet—I like it.”  He pictures her out on a balcony, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, lover’s name tumbling from her lips.  “You’d need a Romeo…”  He doubts Wherefore art thou, Mulder is quite what Shakespeare had in mind.  

“Who says I haven’t got one?” she flirts.  Her hand rests just inches from his own, and he twines their fingers together, curls them against her abdomen. He sometimes wonders how his heart can possibly contain the amount of love he feels for her. People die of broken hearts; do they ever die of ones so full, they’re overflowing?  

“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair, “What’s got you thinking about all this at…,” he tilts back his head to squint at the clock, “…one o’clock AM?” Her body is warm and impossibly perfect against him.

“I guess…,” she says, a contemplative tone to her voice, “I don’t know. These last few days have been a lot.  I’ve been forced to consider things I haven’t thought about in years. My past, the way things used to be... What I used to assume my future looked like.”

“How’d it look?” They’re both nearing that point these days, where their paths can’t just keep continuing in the same straight line. They’re nearing a fork, he can feel it.  Question is, will they both continue in the same direction?

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, “I was surrounded by Navy men, Navy wives, Navy families.  We were taught call letters before learning our ABC’s.  I always felt that sort of life was expected of me, too.” His air conditioner kicks on, fills the room with a gentle whirr.  She burrows even closer. “It’s just funny how far we stray from what’s expected…”

“No more call letters, huh?” His lips catch on her hair as he talks.  It’s wonderful.

“No, I guess not…To be honest, I sort of miss them.  Things were simpler then.  There were right choices and wrong choices, or at least it seemed that way.”

He realizes as they lie there that this moment is the fork in his path.  That though the line between right and wrong choices may be blurred these days, there’s one choice he’s never once questioned.  Dana Scully is the rightest choice he’s ever made.  With her mouth full of questions and her head full of answers, her ever-arched eyebrow and her ever-open heart—she’s been his choice, his only choice, from the very beginning.  

Scully is the Juliet to his Romeo—hell, she’s the Delta to his Foxtrot.    

“Scully,” he murmurs, heart beating bravely in his chest, “Have I ever told you about the Fox Mulder alphabet?”

“Hmm, let me guess...” There’s humor in her voice, that wry Scully humor he adores. “A is for Alien, B is for Bounty Hunter, C is for….  Am I close?” Christ, but he loves this woman.

He pokes her gently in admonishment, answers, “Good try, smartypants, but no… No, you’re actually not close at all.”

“Tell me then, Mulder.” She pulls their hands up to rest beneath her cheek. “Tell me about your alphabet.”  

And so he does. He takes a deep breath and he does.

He begins at the beginning. A is for Apple.

He tells her how watching her eat an apple once made him ache for her, how he can’t bite into a Red Delicious, or a Fuji, or even a Grannysmith anymore without thinking about her lips.

It scares him, being this honest, but there’s something in the air tonight, something in her mood, in the way she slipped off her skirt and climbed into his bed after falling asleep on his couch.

She’s quiet while he speaks, still—eerily so. Her breaths fall quickly against his hand. He’s sure he can feel her heart beating, or maybe that’s just his own, pounding much too dramatically within his chest. There’s a lump in his throat as he finishes, the No that’s terrified him for close to seven years dangling above like an anvil from some misguided Loony Tunes short.  

He waits.  And he waits.  And is about to apologize for assumptions he shouldn’t have made when—

“More,” she breathes.

Not no.  More.

He burrows his nose in her hair, presses a kiss of relief to her ear.

He gives her more, he gives her everything—he pours his entire heart out into silly little stories about a basketball game, about candlelight illuminating the skin of her back. The words spill out more quickly than he intends them to, but the dam has been breached; he cannot stop it.

She’s quiet through the basketball game, quiet again through the candles. Her little body doesn’t move. He understands. He knows it’s a lot to take in—the flood-like musings of Fox Mulder’s mind.  Her ears are all he asks of her tonight.

By the time he’s reached D though, she gives him more than her ears. “D is for Dana,” he begins softly. And instead of more silence, she whispers his name.  

By E, there are tears at her cheek. He wonders for an instant whether that long-ago jewelry store could possibly still be open, whether she’d wait for him here while he makes a quick trip.  

By F, she’s pressing barely-there kisses to his knuckles. Friends don’t do that, he’s sure.  Their relationship may be uncertain, but friends don’t press kisses to knuckles, they don’t lie in beds at one in the morning, tell stories in hushed whispers with backs pressed to chests.

By G, she’s murmuring my God against his palm, Mulder against each of his fingertips. His basement globe spins and it spins. Never could it have predicted an adventure like this.

H… I… J... Her toes slide along his shins, they follow the curves of his arches. Her long-lost jacket hangs nestled in his closet not ten feet away.

K... “New Year’s Eve, Scully… That kiss…”  He tells her she’s all he could want from this millennium, or the next, or even the next (that’s illogical, Mulder, he expects her to say).  She doesn’t though. She doesn’t say that.  Instead, she turns in his arms, raises big, wet eyes up to his.

“Keep going…,” she urges him on when he pauses, “Please, Mulder, keep going.” Her fingers tremble as they move across his chest.

And so he keeps going. L... (“Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully,” he breathes)… M… N… With each new letter, her touches grow surer—small, gentle hands find his ribs, his shoulders, the wildly-beating pulse at his neck.  By O, those same hands are in his hair, they’re cradling his cheekbones, they’re fingering the soft, curved shells of his ears.

P... “That plum,” he whispers, “…the juice…your thumb...” Her thumb (the same one he sucked into his mouth so many months ago) skims over his stubbled chin, makes its tentative way to his lips. His tongue steals out for a taste, and she sucks in a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. She drags her hand away before he can swallow her whole.

Q... (“Dulcinayyy-uhhh,” he sings quietly)… R… The heat of her breath hits his neck, hovers beneath his jawline until he can barely speak. “Don’t stop,” she whispers when he falters.  Her mouth slides against his throat and he groans.

S… T...  By U, he can’t keep from touching her.  A hand tangles finally in her hair, the other slips beneath her sweater and molds to the warmth of her back. She whimpers, her body arching sharply against him.  Umpteen is the number of times this very scenario has played itself out in his dreams.

By V, his lips are at her temple, “V is for Volume” spoken directly against her skin. She turns the dial all the way to the left, sighs so softly he almost misses it.

W and X fall between kisses, his lips on her eyelids, at her jaw, wrapped around the lobes of her ears. Barely-there whimpers slip from the back of her throat, and he reaches for that imaginary recorder, adds them to his mixtape as well.  Her legs tangle with his and he pulls her even closer.

“Y is for Yawn,” he murmurs against her hairline, “Tonight, out there, while we sat on the couch…”

“I’m not…,” her voice is low and husky, so close to his ear that he shivers, “…m’not yawning now, Mulder…”

He shifts, rests his forehead against her own.  Hot, ragged breaths collect on the pillow between them.  He can hardly believe a few hours ago, they were out on his couch drinking tea, a few years ago, they were meeting in the basement for the very first time.

“What about…,” she breathes, the tip of her nose nudging his, “What about Z?”  Their hands roam freely now, sensuous and slow.  She angles her pelvis against his, presses softly.

“Z…,” he barely gets out, “…is for Zipper.” She’s trembling against him, and it’s the sexiest thing in the world.  “The zipper from your skirt that woke me half an hour ago, the zipper that—”

She swallows the rest of his words with a kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, body melting against his.

Her lips, her tongue, the flutter of her fingers at his cheek… He forgets about candles, about earrings, about Rick Channing and Don Quixote and even about the wristwatch lying just across the room on the dresser.  He forgets about everything in the world except Scully and her mouth, about the way she kisses him with her whole damn body, with hands in his hair and toes flexed at his shins and hips arched so divinely against his, he worries he’ll faint.

As her sweater slides over her head, he marvels at the way everything has fallen into place, how a crisp, juicy apple led to a basketball game, how sleepy, sexy yawns led to the undoing of zippers, how all of it combined led to them being here, now, discovering each other for the very first time.

Their lovemaking is slow, achingly so.  It’s the Standard English Alphabet, the Military Phonetic Alphabet, and the Fox Mulder Alphabet combined—whimpers and sighs and Romeo and Juliet and ice cream and globes and… Amazingly, in the end, it all makes perfect, wonderful sense.

As they move together, the beginnings of a new alphabet emerge in his head—A for the arc of her hips as they rise; B for her short, quickened breaths; C for her cries, for her moans, for her whines; D for the softest derriere he’s ever held in his palms; E for her elbows, laid either side of his ears; F for fuck, for oh holy fuck, Scully, sweetheart, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…

“It’s crazy really, isn’t it?” he murmurs afterwards, Scully tucked beneath his arm, her leg slung sweetly over his sweat-damp thigh.

“Hmm?”  Her fingers play at his lips, trace over and around and between.  

“That it took us seven years…,” he mumbles around a pinky, “…when in the end, it really was as easy as learning our ABC’s.”

She hums, presses a kiss to his chest right above a nipple. “You could have had me all the way back at C if you’d wanted to, Mulder...”

He smiles, pulling her impossibly closer.  Her breasts are soft against his chest and her chin rests at his shoulder, and for a moment, all is right in their windmill-riddled, impossible dream of a world.  

“I think Z was perfect,” he says, kissing the disheveled part of her hair, “Absolutely perfect.”

[middleearth2asgard]

Halloween with the Avengers

“Here you go, sweet cheeks,” Tony said with a wink and a smile as he handed you an envelope over your breakfast.

“What is this?” You asked once you’d finished chewing.

“Open it and find out,” he replied simply before turning and heading back out the door, humming a happy tune as he did so.

With a shrug, you tore open the envelope to find a party invitation inside. It was for an Avengers-only (What was that about? That was very unlike Tony), costumes-required Halloween party that was to be held at the training facility on the evening of October 31st.

You were in the middle of reading all of the costume rules (which clearly stated that wearing your superhero uniform did NOT count) when Natasha entered the kitchen holding her invitation in the air.

“Well, do you have any idea what this is about?” She asked.

“You mean why is Tony throwing a party here at the facility and not inviting anyone but us? No idea. He rushed out of here before I even got the thing open.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks it’s odd, right?”

“No, he’s probably up to something. At least that’s my guess.”

“You going to go? Well, it’s here, but you know what I mean.”

“Don’t know of any reason not to. It’ll be fun. As long as no one kills each other, that is.”

——————

 

“I’m not going,” was Clint’s answer to your question about what he was going to wear to the party.

“What do you mean you’re not going?” You asked.

“I mean I’m not going. I’ve got better things to do,” he replied, plopping down on the couch across from you.

“Like what?”

“Like not go to the party of the guy that put me in jail.”

“Clint, come on, you know he wasn’t responsible for that. Not really.”

“He’s got a point, y/n,” Bucky said. “He gave me an invitation too, and considering our history, it was awkward. I just said ‘thanks’ and decided I was definitely not going.”

“Guys,” You began, “I talked to him. He wants all of us to have a fresh start. Try to become a team and all that. The least you can do is show up and give it a go. Please?”

You gave them your best puppy dog eyes and Clint was the first one to cave.

“Fine, I’ll go,” he said with a sigh.

“Me too,” Bucky added.

“Good! So, do either of you have any ideas for your costume?”

“Are you talking about Tony’s party?” Steve asked as he entered the room.

“Yeah, I was asking them what they’re going to wear. What about you, Steve?”

“I don’t have a clue. Neither does Sam. I thought about some kind of soldier’s uniform, but that seems sort of predictable.”

“I could help you guys out, if you want?”

“Did I hear you say you were going to assist them with their party attire?” Thor asked from where he had just appeared in the doorway. Without giving you time to answer, he continued, “Would you mind helping me as well?”

“Of course not, Thor. I’d be happy to.”

“Too bad you decided not to go, Loki. Y/n is going to help me dress for the evening,” Thor said over his shoulder.

“Well, I never actually said I wasn’t going,” Loki said as he slid past his brother to give you a large smile. “I am putting myself into your very capable hands.”

Clint let out an annoyed groan from where he was lying on the couch.

“What about you, Hawk? Do you also require my assistance?”

“I appreciate the offer, baby, but I’ve already got something in mind.”

——————

You only had a few days to figure out six different costumes, including your own. Why did you ever offer to help any of them? This was going to be a disaster.

By the time the evening of October 29th rolled around, you still hadn’t come up with a single idea. You were lying in bed, trying to decide what to watch, when you suddenly had an epiphany. You hopped up and ran out of your room to find that Bucky, Sam, and Steve were thankfully still up.

“Ok, I have three questions for you guys. Steve, do you have a good suit?”

“Yeah.”

“Great! Do you and Bucky mind shaving?”

They looked at each and shrugged before saying “no.”

“Awesome! Sam, are your ears pierced by any chance?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll have to find clip-ons then. Thanks!”

Then you ran back to your bedroom as quickly as you had left it, leaving three confused men in your wake.

Smiling happily, you said to yourself, “Four down and only two to go.”

——————

On the night of the party, you spread each of their outfits out on their beds, complete with written instructions on how to perfect the look. Your own costume was relatively simple. The only difficulty was the hair, but you managed to get the overall effect close enough that it shouldn’t matter.

As you looked over yourself in the mirror, you were interrupted by a knock on your door. You opened it to find a clean-shaven Bucky standing there.

“Well, how do I look?” he asked.

“The hair is all wrong. Come here,” you said, pulling him over to your vanity and pushing him down on the seat.

“You told me to pull it up,” he said defensively.

You snatched the ball cap off his head and pulled the tie out of his hair, ruining his ponytail.

“I meant pull it up in a way that the cap would hide how long it is,” you said as you ran your fingers through his dark hair.

He sighed softly and leaned his head back until it was resting against your body.

“This is nice,” he whispered, smiling up at you.

Returning the smile, you replied, “I can’t fix your hair like this.”

He let out a playful huff and sat up straight so you could finish styling his hair. When you were satisfied, you put the cap back on his head and nodded your approval. He stood up and you studied him from head to toe. From the blue cap all the way down to the black and white Converse, he looked perfect.

“You look great,” you said.

“Just great? I was hoping for drop dead gorgeous,” he said, earning a laugh from you.

“That compliment is reserved for me,” Steve interjected from where he now leaned against your bedroom door.

His assessment wasn’t far off. He wore a dark suit and blue tie that was a spot on match for his eyes. He made for a truly stunning sight.

As you stared at him, you actually found yourself at a loss for words. Luckily, you were saved by Sam coming into view. Honestly, if you hadn’t been so distracted by Steve, you probably would have heard his pounds of gold chains jingling long before he reached your room.

Steve’s eyebrows shot up when he saw him, and Bucky snorted before breaking down into laughter.

“Shut up,” Sam growled.

Walking towards him, you placed your hands on his arms and said, “I think for tonight, ‘Shut up, fool’ would be the more appropriate response.”

“I hate you,” he muttered.

“No, you don’t,” you said, reaching up and thumping his large feather earring with one finger.

Pulling a cigar out of your breast pocket, you put it between your teeth and said with a grin, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

—————

“Oh my god, you came as the A-Team,” Clint said when he saw the four of you. Directing his next comment to you, he added, “And I didn’t think I could be any crazier about you.”

“Oh, shut up, Clint,” you said with a laugh while giving him a hug. “Or do I have to call you Indiana Jones tonight? That costume is spot on. You even have the whip.”

“I was hoping you’d notice that part,” he said in a low voice that made your cheeks feel hot.

Before you could think of a response, Natasha and Bruce walked over to join you.

“Hey, your costumes turned out great!” Bruce said. “Can you guess who we are?”

You stared blankly at the pair of them. Bruce was wearing a suit and Natasha had on a 90’s era pantsuit, neither of which gave you any idea who they were dressed as. You noticed Bruce’s hopeful expression and quickly turned to look at Natasha, hoping she’d give you some kind of hint. She silently mouthed something that you didn’t catch, then crossed her two index fingers over each other to form an “X”.

“Mulder and Scully, of course!” You blurted out as if it was completely obvious.

“Yeah! See, I told you people would get it, Natasha. She thought it looked too ordinary.”

“Not at all,” you lied.

“Oh, excuse me,” Bruce said. “I’ll be right back.”

After he was out of hearing range, Natasha said, “You didn’t have a clue, did you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good evening, ladies,” Tony said as he slid up next to you with a pipe hanging out of his mouth.

“Sherlock Holmes?” You asked.

“Mmhm, What do you think?” he asked, holding his arms out and doing a little spin.

Glancing over his shoulder, you said, “I think I see two of you.”

He turned quickly towards the entrance and swore under his breath when he saw Stephen Strange wearing the exact same outfit.

“What the hell?!” Tony called out.

Even from that distance, you saw Stephen’s face drop as his features took on a disappointed and annoyed expression.

“Seriously?” Stephen asked once he had joined you. “We look ridiculous. People are going to think we matched on purpose.”

“Uh, they’re definitely not going to think that about me. You maybe, but not me,” Tony said. “And, by the way, that’s the worst attempt at a British accent I’ve ever heard.”

“So, What did you pick out for Thor and Loki?” Natasha asked, changing the subject.

“They were actually really tough to come up with good ideas for, so if you say their costumes suck it won’t hurt my feelings. Well, you can see for yourself. There they are.”

Thor was still sporting a large grin in spite of the fact that you made him wear his eyepatch to go along with his pirate costume. Beside him, Loki seemed to be having a hard time adjusting to his fake vampire fangs. He kept pushing them back up like a child with an oversized retainer. Thor waved to you above his head before the two of them crossed the room to join you.

“Don’t you two...I’m sorry, you three...look handsome tonight,” you said, petting the fake parrot that sat on Thor’s shoulder.

“It is all thanks to you, y/n. You did a truly excellent job!” Thor said. He reached over, took your hand in his, and gave it a playful kiss which made you giggle.

After shooting his brother an angry glare, Loki grabbed your other hand and said, “Yes, you did wonderfully. Thank you, darling.”

He pulled the hand he was holding up to his mouth, but before his lips made contact with your skin, his fangs fell out enough to bump you. He sighed in annoyance, pushed them back in, then planted a soft kiss on your hand that lasted much longer than his brother’s had.

You tried not to show your embarrassment at their attention and muttered a quiet, “You’re welcome.”

“So, What am I supposed to be exactly?” Loki asked you.

“A vampire. You bite people on the neck and drink their blood. And by people I mean young, attractive women usually.”

“Oh, really?” he asked with a heightened level of interest to his voice as he eyed your neck with a fanged smile.

“Down, Boy,” Tony said. “Or I’ll have Mulder and Scully here drive a wooden stake through your heart.”

“Uh, Tony?” Bruce said as he rejoined the group almost on cue. “If this is a party, where’s the food and everything?”

“I’ll explain that once everybody is here.”

“Hey, guys!” Scott yelled as he jogged over from the entrance. Everyone stared at the red, white, and blue clad man who was carrying a painted cardboard shield.

“Oh, so I’m the only one who thought it’d be cool to dress up as one of my teammates, huh?” he asked as he looked over the other costumes in the group. Pointing to Tony and Stephen, he added, “You two match. That’s...cute.”

——————

After the rest of the team had dragged in, Tony gathered everyone around and said, “Okay, since this is Halloween, I’ve got some activities planned before the actual party begins. First, the entire facility, except for this room and the living areas, has been turned into a haunted house. Don’t go crazy and assault any of the actors. I don’t want a lawsuit. The goal is to make your way to the main exit on the backside of the building. There, I’ve had a giant, enclosed outdoor maze constructed. It’s completely dark inside, no cell phones or flashlights are allowed, and each of us enters alone. I didn’t design the actual path so I don’t know the way, either. Once you make it out...if you make it out, that is....you’ll find the party waiting for you on the other side. So, let’s get started.”

Although not as cool as being one yourself would have been, having a billionaire as a friend was pretty awesome. The haunted house was absolutely spectacular. The special effects and attention to detail were amazing. And even though it wasn’t that scary (you were an Avenger after all), it was still a lot of fun. There was only one part in the whole thing that made you jump. It was when a man in full body paint came crawling out on all fours from around the corner. He startled you, and he would have gotten an instinctual kick in the face if not for someone wrapping their arms around you from behind.

“Remember what I said about a lawsuit, honey,” Tony whispered in your ear.

“Of course. Sorry, Tony,” you said with a nervous chuckle, still jumpy from the scare.

It wasn’t until you had all reached the entrance to the maze that an uneasiness settled over the group. Looking into the dark, quiet tunnel seemed to have a sobering effect on everybody.

“Tony?” Clint began. “This is just a maze, right? You didn’t set any rats or snakes or anything loose in there?”

“Just a maze, Barton. Who’s going in first?”

His question was met with several moments of silence.

“I’ll go,” Peter said at last.

“Way to go, kid. You’re making all of us look bad.”

Every few minutes, another Avenger would enter the maze until it was your turn. You wandered through the darkness with your hands outstretched, feeling along the walls as you went. The first thing you noticed was how eerily quiet it was. You should have been able to hear someone else walking around, right?

“Tony?” You called out.

No answer.

“Steve?”

Nothing.

“Anybody?”

Still more silence.

You kept moving, running into one dead end after another. After awhile, you began to lose track of time and started getting fed up with the whole thing. You were tempted to sink down to the ground and wait for someone else to come along, but how long might that take?

As you contemplated your options, you ran into something hard. But unlike the metal walls that surrounded you, this one apologized for getting in your way.

“Steve?”

“Y/n?”

“Oh my god, I’m so glad I found you! I was so sick of wandering around this place by myself. Do you have any idea where we are?”

“No, I was headed that way,” he said, pointing in the dark even though you couldn’t see him, “but I ran into a dead end.”

“Here,” You said, reaching down and feeling until you found his hand, “I’m going to hold onto you so that neither one of us gets lost. It’ll be so much nicer than being alone.”

“Yes, it will be.” If it hadn’t been so dark, you would have noticed the sweet smile and warm blush on his handsome face.

You pulled him along behind you through the many twists and turns. Having Steve around for company boosted your confidence, and you were walking at a much faster pace than you had been previously, which turned out to be a bad decision. In your rush, you ran nose first into something very solid.

“Son of a bitch!” You cried out, rubbing your nose while your eyes welled up with tears.

“Are you alright?” a concerned Steve asked.

“Yeah, I ran into the wall.”

“Sorry, doll, but that wasn’t the wall. It was me,” Bucky said.

You reached out and rested your hand on what had to be Bucky’s metal arm.

“It’s alright, Buck.”

“How are we going to get out of here?” He asked. “I’m about ready to punch my way through the walls.”

“Bucky, we don’t know how many walls there are,” Steve said calmly. “Not to mention we don’t know what direction to go in. We might just get in deeper.”

“So we keep tearing up the place until we get out.”

“This is supposed to be fun. We aren’t punching our way out,” you said. “Now, let’s go.”

You grabbed Bucky’s arm and let Steve lead the way, with you in the middle, and Bucky taking up the rear. After a few minutes, you stopped dead in your tracks, let go of both of them, and said, “Shhh! Listen!”

Somewhere in the distance, you heard the faint sound of bickering. As it drew closer, you recognized Thor’s deep voice. If anyone could pierce the soundproof nature of this place of course it would be him.

“Thor!” You yelled as loudly as possible.

“Y/n!!” he bellowed in reply.

Once your group met up with him, you asked, “Who’s with you?”

“It’s just me and my brother, darling,” Loki purred beside your ear. You jumped in response, surprised at how silently he could move in the darkness.

“Well, our little group is growing” Steve said. “Of course, that doesn’t seem to be helping us get out any faster.”

“I still say we punch our way out,” Bucky muttered.

“That’s not a bad idea!” Thor said.

“Yes, it is. We already threw out that suggestion.”

Before Bucky could respond, a high-pitched, girlish scream pierced the air.

“Wanda?! Is that you?”

“Uh...no that was me,” You heard Scott say from a few yards away. “Something brushed against my leg.”

He walked forward with his hands out until he felt something with his right palm.

“That’s my face, Lang,” Loki hissed.

“Sorry, man.”

“Ok,” You began, “I vote that we all stick together and keep moving. We have to be close to the exit by now. We should all hold onto each other so no one gets separated from the group.”

Your statement was met with a few moments of silence before Bucky said, “I’m not holding hands with anyone unless it’s you.”

“I second that.”

“Definitely.”

You sighed and rolled your eyes while the rest of the guys murmured in agreement.

“Fine, do whatever makes you happy.”

You grabbed onto Loki and Scott, who led the way, and once again started walking. Not more than ten minutes later, you were outside and felt the chilly fall breeze hit you in the face. You were pleasantly surprised to find a big campfire surrounded by tables of food and a full bar.

“You guys finally made it. Took long enough.”

You looked to find Clint perched on top of a picnic table working on a candy apple.

“We can’t be the last ones?” you asked as you glanced around, not seeing anyone else.

“Nah, it was just me before you guys showed up.”

“How long we were in there?”

“It took me about ten minutes. You were in there...about forty five,” he said, squinting at his watch.

“Only forty five minutes? I thought it was at least an hour and a half.”

“It felt like an eternity,” Scott said.

As you looked around, you noticed that your little group was one person short.

“Shit! Where is Bucky?”

“I thought he was behind me,” Steve said.

All of a sudden, the loud sound of metal hitting metal rang through the air. About eight feet down from the exit, the wall of the maze warped outward. On the third hit, his fist broke through. Everyone stared as he ripped the metal until there was a hole large enough for him to climb through.

Amazed by what you had just witnessed, you simply shook your head and climbed up beside Clint who passed you a candy apple. The rest of the team eventually found their way out in groups of two and three. After that, there was plenty of drinking and laughter. You witnessed civilized conversations between people who normally wouldn’t even take the time to tell each other to go to hell.

As you sat next to the fire watching your friends, Tony came up beside you and handed you another drink.

“You can go ahead and say it,” he said.

You responded by giving him a questioning look.

“You’re a genius, Tony. You’re absolutely brilliant, Tony. You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met and I need you, Tony.”

You cut your eyes at him before breaking out into laughter.

“Okay, maybe I’m stretching it,” he said with a chuckle. “But, you’ve got to admit, this thing seems like a success.”

“You did good,” you said. With a soft smile, you added, “And you are brilliant, Tony.”

Wrapping an arm around your shoulder, he said, “This feels like a toast-worthy kind of moment. To new beginnings? Nah, that sounds pretty cheesy.”

Looking out over your team, you clinked your plastic cup against his and said, “To the Avengers.”

“To the Avengers.”

————Epilogue————

“Okay, even with the fire, it’s getting pretty cold out here. I vote we go to the screening room and watch some scary movies,” Tony announced to the group.

While the other Avengers murmured in agreement, you studied the group with furrowed brows and a frown and asked, “Hey, where’s the kid?”

“What?” Tony asked.

“Where’s Peter? Has anyone seen him lately?”

No one spoke up.

“Is he still in the maze?” You asked.

“That’s been like three hours now,” Clint spoke up.

“Tony, are there emergency exits or lights installed that we don’t know about?” Steve asked.

“Uhh...no.”

When his response was met with a disapproving glare, he continued defensively, “How was I supposed to know someone would get stuck in there?”

“Ugh, I guess there’s nothing else to do but go in and find him,” you said, rubbing your hand across your face. “I take back what I said earlier, Tony. This party really stinks.”

“I can’t be blamed for this!” he cried out as he followed you into the maze.

****Elsewhere****

“Wait, where is everybody?” Peter said out loud. “Am I—how did I get back to the entrance?”

With an exasperated sigh, he headed back inside the facility, grabbed the giant bowl of Halloween candy out of the kitchen, and set himself up in the screening room.

“I guess there’s nothing else to do but have my own party. Happy Halloween, Peter.”

[ghostbustermelanieking]

#32: It looks good on you.

32. “It looks good on you.”

thank you to everyone who advised me on this premise!! i owe you everything and you owe me nothing

---

It's a chilly morning in October when he says it. They're lying in her bed, the curtains thrown back and sunlight streaming in through the windows when he says it, her head on his shoulder and most of the comforter bunched up around her. He says it slow, his voice deep and barely teasing, so she knows he means it. He says, “Wanna get married today?”

She lifts her head to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise and maybe an ounce of caution. She says, “You're kidding.”

“Dead serious, Scully.” He strokes the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, cupping the shape of her skull. He smiles a little, the sides of his eyes crinkling, his thumb nudging the side of her cheek. “If you want to,” he adds carefully.

She shifts next to him, her stomach pressing awkwardly against his side, their faces bent together but not too close. Her palm slipping over his chest. “Mulder, we've been hiding our relationship because we don't want our partnership to be terminated. I guarantee you the FBI will terminate it if a marriage shows up on their court documents.”

His smile thins, but only a little. “They're putting our section up for budgetary review, Scully,” he says gently. “They've closed us down once. They'll do it again.”

“Oh, Mulder, how many times have they shut us down and changed their mind? We've kept at this for seven years and it still hasn't ended.” She lowers her head back to his shoulder, still sleepy in the way she can only be on a Saturday morning, curled up in bed with her partner. “And marriage,” she adds muffedly into his neck, “marriage won't help the cause.”

“I dunno that there's a cause to help.” He scratches her spine gently in a way that makes her hum pleasantly in the back of her throat. “What I'm saying is,” he says quietly, mouth bent down towards her ear, “we don't have to not do this because of the Files.”

The blinks in surprise, several times. That was one thing that she never, ever expected to hear. She lifts her head to look at him again in astonishment. He's still looking at her, his face dead serious, his eyes dark and soff. “Mulder… you're not saying you want to do this because you think the Files might be closed…” she says cautiously.

“No, no, of course not,” he says quickly. “I… It's something I've wanted to do for a long time, I think, and I just… it seemed like the right time. But not because of the Files.”

She shakes her head, almost in disbelief. “Then why'd you bring it up?” she asks softly.

“You brought it up, Scully,” he says, really teasing now, and she bites back a grin. He pushes hair behind her ears, leans up to kiss her temple. “I knew that our jobs would be your first argument, and I wanted to let you know that it might not be a problem,” he amends.

She'd thought he was joking. She'd really thought he was joking because this is exactly the kind of joke he would make. She lets her head drop bonelessly to the pillow, overwhelmed. “Oh, Mulder,” she whispers again, her eyes half-shut, her palm still pressed over his chest. She can feel his heart under her fingers.

She'd thought he was joking, but maybe she should've known. By the way he smiled that night on the couch, at her words: I'm fairly happy. By the way he's been looking at her lately, like she is everything that matters in the world. By every little moment they've had in the past year, and every moment that preceded it. There'd come a moment where she had more or less dismissed the idea of marriage—it hadn't seemed sensible, after a few years. But now… now it doesn't seem so crazy. It doesn't seem crazy at all.

He rubs his nose against her scalp, one hand touching the side of her head, his warm, callused palm. He whispers, “It's okay if it's not something you're interested in right now, Scully. Or ever. I just… being the last man left on Earth puts some things into perspective, you know?” He kisses her hair, in the spot just behind her ear. “I wanted you to know I was willing,” he murmurs. “But… I don't want you to feel obliga—”

The rest of his words are swallowed as she rises up on the mattress, seizes his face in her hands and kisses him. “Okay,” she mumbles into his mouth.

He draws back from her, hand on her jaw, looking a little dazed as if he's been hit by a truck. Like he didn't really expect her to say yes. “Okay?” he repeats, dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” she says, and she can feel a grin breaking out over her face. A part of her is tempted to analyze this further, to question whether or not it's a good idea, but she finds she doesn't want to. She doesn't want to question it. She kisses him again, briefer this time. “Virginia has no waiting period, you know,” she adds, and the look on his face is enough to wash away every ounce of doubt in her body.

---

They're at the courthouse within two hours. It feels like a rush, like time moving too fast. They both dress in more of a hurry than they do for work—ironically, Mulder thinks, when there isn't any sort of deadline. He doesn't have any idea how to dress, so he dresses as if it were a work day, knotting a horrible tie around his neck that he remembers Scully complimenting a while ago. He's shrugging on a coat when Scully enters, in a sweater and jeans, her hair straight and tucked behind her ears, the light dusting of freckles across her nose. She blushes a little when she sees him. “I feel a little underdressed,” she says, spreading her palms a bit self-deprecatingly. “Especially considering the occasion.”

He shakes his head immediately. He feels a grin coming on again; he's going to be smiling like an idiot the rest of the day. “Don't be ridiculous,” he says. “It looks good on you. It looks excellent on you.”

Her face turns a little redder, her head bent down, the corners of her mouth upturned. She lifts her hands with the car keys, jangling, and murmurs, “Should we get going?”

“Yeah,” he says. He leans down to kiss her cheek as he passes her.

The drive feels too brief and too long all at the same time. He finds himself restlessly tapping his fingers on the wheel. Scully watches things flit past the window, her head tipped absently against the glass. She bursts out laughing as they drive through a suburban neighborhood, passing a house decked out in Halloween decorations. “What's wrong?” Mulder asks, suddenly worried that she's going to snap to her senses and tell him to turn around and go home.

“We should've waited a few days, Mulder,” she says, giggly. “For Halloween.” When he shoots her a blank look, she clarifies, “Mr. and Mrs. Spooky? We're playing right into people's expectations of us.”

He shakes his head ruefully, chuckling. “I wouldn't give them the satisfaction,” he says. “We're doing this for us, not for them.”

She smiles, reaches out and rubs her thumb over his knuckles. They ride the rest of the way to the courthouse in silence.

The line for the marriage license is about as long as one can expect in a legal building. They stand restlessly and wait, Mulder leaning close and making up idle stories about the people around them to make her giggle. He thinks about reaching down and grabbing her hand, and then he realizes that there is nothing stopping him. This is their wedding day. It sounds so strange, but it feels right. It feels like, silly as it sounds, that this is where they were supposed to end up.

He reaches down, brushing his fingers over the soft underside of her wrist before intertwining their fingers. She looks up at them in instinctive surprise—they usually try to avoid showing affection in public out of habit—but it fades immediately. She squeezes his hand and leans absently into his side.

After they've signed the license, black ink smeared on their hands, they linger a bit. Mulder can't stop staring at the looping letters of their names. He rocks back on his heels and looks up at Scully, who is still staring at the piece of paper. “Do you want to call your mom?” he asks.

She swallows and looks up, shaking her head. “I'll call her later,” she says. “But this… this is just for us.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder and squeezes her close, tucking his nose into her hair. Her hand presses against his ribs, her fingers spreading as if playing a xylophone. “You ready?” he murmurs, cupping her elbow in his palm, and she nods.

---

The wedding ceremony is low-key. It's so overwhelming that Mulder doesn't even register most of it. He says what he is supposed to say, but he isn't listening. He is mostly looking at Scully. Watching the tip of her chin, the way her hair falls across her forehead, the deep blue of her eyes. He loves her more than he can put into words. They don't hold hands, but they're standing close enough that their thumbs are touching.

When the judge pronounces them husband and wife, a lump builds up in Mulder's throat as if he's going to cry. He links thumbs with Scully and finds that her hands are trembling. They stand, as if spellbound, until the judge directs them to leave. She doesn't kiss him in the room, but as soon as they've exited the courthouse, she turns towards him, facing him. Her hand wraps around his tie; she tugs him down to kiss him. He pulls her flush against him, hugging her tight. “Thanks for marrying me,” he says, and she chuckles low in her throat. He hugs her close on the steps, ignoring the people passing them. “I love you,” he says.

She's quiet for a long moment—a moment so long, it might make him nervous if she hadn't just married him. But then she looks up at him, her hand on the back of his neck, her eyes full of tears. “I love you,” she says.

His tie slips through her fingers. They stand closer together as an icy wind blows past. Mulder shivers, immediately thinking, I should give her my coat. And then he stops. He stops to correct himself: his wife. He should give his wife his coat.

---

He does give his wife his coat, slipping it over her shoulders, and she tries to talk him into taking it back all the way to the car, and he just keeps refusing until she rolls her eyes so hard it hurts. She climbs into the driver's seat of the car and he climbs into the passenger seat, and he buckles his seatbelt, expecting her to drive off, but she doesn't. She shifts awkwardly in her seat, clearing her throat and lifting her chin nervously. “I have something for you,” she says, her voice quivering, just a little. Almost indecipherably. “I-I probably should've given it to you in there, but…” She breaks off mid-sentence, dipping her head again and reaching into the pocket of her jeans.

She's so serious it almost scares Mulder, and he is about to make some crack about the coat he gave her just to lighten the mood, when she brings her hand back up and the words get caught in her throat. Sitting in the palm of her hand is a gold wedding band, simple and too large for her fingers. It looks old, like it's some sort of heirloom. He doesn't know what to say.

She clears her throat awkwardly, the ring cradled in her palm like a precious thing. “This… this was my father's,” she says, her voice wavering between steady and unsteady. “He left it to me in his will. They wanted me to have it… and I dug it out of my closet this morning, before we left.” She gulps. “And I-I know it's not very traditional, but I want you to have it.” She looks up, and her eyes are teary again. “If you want it,” she adds gingerly.

He's shellshocked. He can barely speak. “Scully…” he bites out, astounded and honored and on the verge of tears himself. “Are you sure? I… I don't know that I…”

“Yes, you do,” she says stubbornly, as if reading his mind. “I want to give it to you. And you do deserve it, Mulder. You do. You're my husband now.” Her voice cracks on the word husband, as if she can't believe it either.

He can barely breathe, his chest is too tight. He really is going to cry. “Scully,” he whispers shakily, and leans forward to hug her, but the seatbelt tightens, locking him in place. “Shit,” he mutters, and they both chuckle wetly. Scully thumbs tears from her own eyes and moves in to wrap her arms around his shoulders. It's an awkward hug, the seatbelt cutting into both of their necks, but neither of them notices.

She holds him tightly for a minute before leaning back and grabbing his hand in hers, sliding the ring over his fourth finger. It bumps over his knuckles before settling into place. She holds his hand in both of hers and smiles wobbily at him. His wife. “It looks good on you,” she says.

[lokisgame]

Black Forest

A/N: Happy B-day Fox Mulder

[baronessblixen]

For fictober, can you write Mulder surprising Scully at work post IWTB and her coworkers are stunned by how handsome he is? I can see her getting unnecessarily jealous that she’s had him all to herself until now.

Look, it’s me answering a prompt I got for last year’s Fictober... thank you all for your patience. Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober

Fictober Day 4

“Would you look at that hottie?” Scully barely registers what her colleague is saying as she is hastily scribbling down notes, thinking about lunch. Her stomach grumbles, reminding her that it’s been long hours since breakfast. Who has time to ogle visitors, no matter how hot they may be?

“There you are.” She may not have time for, or interest in, random hotties, but she knows – and loves – the one that’s walking towards her. His voice, even after all this time, still makes her heart beat faster. 

“Mulder?” she asks, surprise evident in her voice. He is grinning from ear to ear, looking fabulous. When he briefly hugs her and kisses her cheek, she hears a gasp right next to her.

“Um, Andrea this is…,” Scully stops, holding Mulder’s hand in hers, nervously playing with his fingers. They haven’t discussed this. At all. Who is he? What is he to her? Mulder must sense her inner conflict and slips an arm around her waist.

“Fox Mulder,” he says, extending his hand. “Dana’s husband.”

“Her- I had no idea,” Andrea says, her eyes darting between them. There’s a blush creeping into her cheeks as she shakes Mulder’s hand. “I’m Andrea Novak, I work with Dana. She’s never mentioned you so I doubt she’s mentioned me.” Both Mulder and Andrea laugh and Scully wonders if she should leave them alone. She knows there’s no need, none whatsoever, to be jealous and yet... 

“Dana likes to keep me to herself,” Mulder says, squeezing her side.

“I, um, it’s… new. We… Mulder, what are you even doing here?”

“Ah, I thought I’d take you to lunch. You’ve been so busy lately and I wanted to make sure you eat.”

“Aww,” Andrea says, clutching her heart. “He’s handsome and thoughtful.”

Mulder beams at her.

“We should get going,” Scully says, trying to get out of the situation – and Mulder away from Andrea. The other doctor is her friend, and she knows how she is around men – especially ones she finds attractive – but Mulder has always been oblivious to the effect he has on women. He hasn’t been around people for so long that he’s like a puppy, just dancing and jumping around everyone who gives him attention, wanting to make new friends.

“You could join us if you’re free,” Mulder says and Scully wants to groan.

“That’s a- hey, Alex!” Andrea stops mid-sentence and waves at another doctor who is watching them with eagle eyes. Oh no, Scully thinks. Dr. Alexandra Tanner is her superior and she loves to gossip. She comes over, smiling brightly, her teeth as white as her scrubs.

“Dr. Novak, Dr. Scully- and who are you?”

“Dr. Fox Mulder,” Mulder says, sounding dead serious. “But my friends just call me Dr. Spooky.” There’s a pause and Scully thinks he might have blown it, but then both Alex and Andrea start laughing.

“He’s hilarious,” Alex says to no one in particular.

“He’s Dr. Scully’s husband,” Andrea says, the slightest hint of awe in her voice.

“Oh?”

“Where have you been hiding him? And why?” Now even Mulder is quiet, though he recovers quickly.

“We both lead busy lives.” Scully is the only person who knows he’s lying and as far as she can tell, the other two women believe him. Why wouldn’t they? They’re impressed by him, bedazzled even. Scully feels love swell up inside her. He’s her partner, her man. Her… husband. That’s something they need to discuss.

“You need to come to our annual Christmas party this year. Say you’ll be there, please.” It’s as though Scully is no longer there. It’s all about Mulder. She bites her lip to keep quiet. She’ll give them this moment. They’ll be on her later, wanting to know every little detail about Mulder and their relationship. Once again they’re gossip fodder, cheap watercooler talk.

“I’ll pencil it in,” Mulder says with a smile and he gets another laugh. “If you’ll excuse us now, I’m starving. I’ll bring her back in an hour. It was nice meeting you.” He shakes their hands again and finally they’re off.

“That was… something,” he whispers into her ear. His arm is still around her, keeping her close to him. “I really did surprise you, huh?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles.

“Bad surprise?”

“Oh Mulder,” she says, stopping. She faces him and cups his cheek. “You’re always a wonderful surprise.” 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, sounding impatient. “I wanted to do it as soon as I saw you, but your colleague looked at me as if she wanted to eat me.”

Scully smiles up at him. “I think you might be right. And yes, you can kiss me.” His lips are soft against her, feel right, taste perfect. Even if the whole hospital is watching them now, she doesn’t care. Her and Mulder, that’s what counts.

“I’ve always wanted to kiss you in public,” he says against her lips.

“You have kissed me in public.”

“Not in a while,” he replies, nuzzling her nose and making her giggle.

“You told them you’re my husband.”

“Does that bother you?”

“We’re not married, Mulder.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Excuse me? I think I would remember us exchanging vows.”

“Not in the traditional sense maybe,” he says with a grin. “I feel married to you,” he continues, his face and voice serious. “Should I have said I’m your boyfriend? That’s not us, is it?”

“We’re still partners,” she says.

“In crime,” he nudges her shoulder with his.

“Is this something you want?” Scully asks him. People keep rushing past them, but she fears that if they take one step, whether to the left or right, it will destroy this moment. They should have talked about this a million times over. But they’ve always done things their own way.

“Right now I want to take you to lunch. In the future? I meant what I said, Scully. I feel married to you. I don’t need a paper to confirm it – unless you do. You’re it for me. You’re stuck with me.”

“There’s no one I’d rather be stuck with, Mulder. You’re it for me, too.”

He leans down once more, kisses her softly, and she closes her eyes, reveling in the fact that he’s hers, that she’s his. And they’re finally allowed to show it to the world. 

“And you say we haven’t exchanged vows,” he says against your lips. “Now come on, wife of mine. Let’s go eat.”

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

Finale posted tomorrow!  

We’ve made it from A-Y, and I know some of you have been waiting for the whole thing to be posted before reading, so thought I’d gather it all together in anticipation of the finale tomorrow at 7 PM!

Each of the letters up to this point have been approx. 200 words, but Z is close to 2700 words, so I promise it will be a satisfying end to our alphabet!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet, Letters A-Y

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 4612

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for X-Files

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z posted tomorrow night (9/25) at 7PM EST!

[storybycorey]

Happy Halfway Point, guys!  

Thanks so much to all of you who’ve been following along with this fluffy, romantic alphabet of Mulder’s!  I hope you’re all enjoying reading Mulder’s thoughts about Scully as much as I enjoyed writing them!

Since we’ve gotten to M (halfway through the alphabet), I thought I’d post the fic up til this point, for anyone who may have seen the individual letter posts floating around and been intrigued. Here is A-M all in one place, for easy reading!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 2163

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days. Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.  

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably. Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they’re getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try. 

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas? He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.” 

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:  

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe…”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then. Tomorrow…”  

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

to be continued- we still have N-Z to go, and I promise Z will have been worth the wait!

[ghostbustermelanieking]

x files fic: under the stars (minimal fate required)

or: ways mulder and scully could’ve been happy

for @leiascully‘s challenge: list sort of

01.

The X-Files are never shut down and Scully is never abducted.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm of partnership: an incredible solve rate, an easy repertoire. (He never convinces her to believe in aliens, and she never convinces him not to.) They start spending time together outside of work - getting drinks, watching movies over long-abandoned paperwork. It’s at least two and a half years before Mulder realizes that she is his best friend. (Even over the Gunmen, he thinks about telling her, but how would that go down? They don’t say things like that to each other. She’s only ever called him Fox once, and he’s called her Dana a total of six times before she asked him to stop; what kind of friends are they?)

She almost dies - goes to pick up a witness while Mulder stays at the tiny local police station, doesn’t come back; he finds her five hours later in a basement with a gun pressed to her head from behind, has to negotiate for twenty tense minutes before the witness shoves her to the floor and tries to run out the back door, where the local police are waiting. His heart rate doesn’t slow down the entire time. He helps her off of the floor and pulls her into a fierce embrace. We never do anything like this, he thinks. She might smooth his hair, take his pulse, rub his neck, check for head injuries if he’s hurt, but they never full-on embrace each other. Her arms are pinned between them; she wasn’t expecting the hug. You must really like me, she teases, poking him in the arm. If you’re this relieved.

Nah, he says. I hugged Frohike like this that one time we brought him on a case and he almost took a bullet; remember?

Glad I measure up to Frohike’s standards, she says seriously. Like she really thinks he likes him better than her. He hugs her tighter because his heart is still pounding too hard and she could’ve died, really; his best friend dead in a crummy little basement because he didn’t go with her to pick up a witness or he didn’t negotiate right.

They keep meeting with Skinner, and he keeps looking at them disapprovingly over his glasses, and Scully keeps going head-to-head with people for him. Mulder, I wouldn’t put myself on the line for anyone but you, she’d said, and goddamn it, she was right. She’s vicious in a subtle, professional way that makes people want to look to her for authority, especially him (he’d make her the supervising agent if she’d take any good cases, or if it wouldn’t ruin her career).

You should ask for reassignment, he says one day over beers, studying the stem of his bottle seriously.  

She flicks her bottle cap towards the trash can, and it lands perfectly. Tired of me, Mulder? That might be hurt in her voice, because she isn’t looking at him.

No. Just worried you’re never going to be able to go anywhere else. That you’ll be stuck with me forever.

Her ocean-colored eyes meet his. What if I don’t want to go anywhere? she says, taking a sip from her bottle.

He watches the motion of her throat as she swallows the beer. He smiles. So, I’ve finally convinced you of my paranormal beliefs, Scully?

She smirks. I didn’t say that.

(When she grabs his hand later, it’s not as much of a surprise as he thought it’d be. It feels right.)

02.

Melissa doesn’t die and neither does Scully. She and Melissa arrive at the same time, and as she’s unlocking the door, she hears the rustle of people inside, the cocking of a gun. She tells Melissa to keep a low profile and runs to Mulder’s apartment where she finds Skinner, and then Mulder. Skinner refuses to give them the tape and they run.

Skinner tries to negotiate the tape for their reinstatement, but it doesn’t work. Skinner meets them the next day, covertly, wearing a hood in the park. (He looks ridiculous, like he’s trying to be hip with the kids, Mulder whispers in her ear, and she has to jam her hand in her mouth because it’s definitely not a convenient time for laughing.) There are warrants out for the both of your arrests, he says. They have proof, they say, that Mulder killed his father and you’re hiding him, Scully.

Mulder pales. It’s not true, Scully says firmly, standing her ground. The evidence must’ve been manipulated. They’re trying to take us down.

Skinner looks uncomfortable, but he says he believes them. I’m going to work on clearing your names, he says (awkwardly, because, you know, he’d pointed a gun at her the other day). In the meantime, you need to disappear.

(I’m sorry, Scully, Mulder says in the car. They’re both grimy, in need of sleep and bathing. I didn’t mean for this to happen to both of us.

She tells him it’s okay; she’s sacrificed so much for this, the truth, that this feels almost mundane in comparison. Her family will be worried, but at least she isn’t dying. She thinks maybe she will resent him later, but for now, she’s just relieved he’s alive and okay.)

(She hugs Mulder for the first time since his return from the dead when they stop for gas; says I’m sorry instead of I missed you into his smelly shirt. She’d thought maybe he’d killed his father but knows it isn’t true, knows how much he must be hurting.)

The Gunmen get them fake IDs and Scully cuts and dyes her hair a dark brown in their crappy apartment bathroom. She asks them to get a burner phone for Melissa, something she can use to check in and reassure her family that she’s okay. She and Mulder leave with the burner’s twin and hastily packed suitcases with cheap Walmart clothes in a car paid for with cash from Mulder’s father’s will. What’s our identity? Married couple? Mulder asks casually from the driver’s seat, raising an eyebrow at her. (He’s been joking around since they left that gas station, after embracing for what seemed like forever, and she recognizes it as a coping mechanism. That night, when they’d stopped, she’d put her hand on his knee and asked him to talk to her - I can see you’re hurting, Mulder, please, this isn’t healthy. He got mad at first, stalked off into the darkness. He returned upset, later, cried and let Scully hold him, buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. He was a bastard, but he was my father, he’d whispered hollowly against his skin. They don’t discuss it the next morning, but they can tell a barrier’s broke. Since then, she’s let him joke, pretend that nothing is wrong.)

We don’t have any rings, she says, fingering the ends of her dark, shorn hair. (It hasn’t been this short since 1993, at least, and never this dark. She yanks it back in one of the half-ponytail things she used to wear all the time then, and Mulder smiles familiarly and tugs at it. She’s glad he’s not dead.)

They get a ratty little hotel room with one bed (married couple, remember, Mulder says, waggling his eyebrows). Scully calls her sister and pulls at the comforter with her overlong fingernails while Mulder showers. She smiles as soon as she hears her voice.

You’ve gotten yourself into a pickle here, Day, Melissa says, and it sounds like she’s teasing, but it comes out strained because she’s worried about her sister. I blame your partner.

Oh, me too, Scully says loudly as he comes out of the bathroom. He’s impossible to live with, really. She giggles - giggles, my god, has she gone off in the deep end - when Mulder lobs a balled-up t-shirt at her head.

Seriously, Dana, Melissa says. Are you okay?

Yeah, Scully says. Mulder flops on the bed beside her, mattress rippling under his weight. It’s beyond bizarre to be actually sharing a space with him. Are you? she continues, tugging a thread loose from the duvet. I’m worried about you and Mom. (Because maybe the people who were going to kill her, and probably Melissa when they saw her, won’t hesitate to go after her family. Leverage. Punishment. She thinks about convincing Skinner to put them in witness protection.)

We are, Missy says. They… question us about you a lot. About Fox. About where you are.

Scully bites her lip. Skinner swore he was doing his best the last time they talked, but she hates putting her family through this. It’ll all be over soon, she promises. I’ll be home someday. I love you.

Love you, too, Day. Melissa sounds less relaxed than Scully’s ever heard her in her entire life when she hangs up.

You okay? Mulder says.

Yeah, she says. She’d say what she’s thinking - that she’s just happy Missy’s alive, that she heard what she did before opening the door - but it seems selfish, considering what’s happened to Mulder’s father, considering Samantha. She ignores the thought. They’ve been ignoring a lot, here; sleeping in seedy hotels is an easy escape, they can joke and flip channels on the TV and pretend nothing from the outside world exists. It’s the most mundane existence she and Mulder have ever shared, and it’s somewhat blissful: Mulder is fun, almost, when he’s not absorbed into the monster of the moment, and this is the first time they’ve ever hung out, at least without work as a pretense/distraction. (Even if hanging out involves sharing a bed to keep their identity in place.)

Are you sure you don’t want me to sleep on the floor? he asks, almost nervously, as she stretches out beside him.

No, you just came back from the dead, she says. It’d be cruel. She flips off the light.

(On the first night, she ends up curled against his back, face pressed in the space between his shoulder blades. On the third night, he rolls back against her, burying his face in her chemical-y hair, soft from the hotel conditioner. By the seventh, she’s unintentionally grabbing him in their sleep and he rolls closer instead of away. They don’t talk about it.)

On their fourth week as fugitives, they’re playing Blackjack on the cracked concrete under the street lights, feet dangling in the five foot end of the pool. Mulder’s been quiet, chewing on a straw in his mouth. Hit me, Scully says.

He starts, sets a card down absently. She resists the urge to swear: 24. Are you happy, Scully? he says softly.

She’s startled by the question, tempted to say as happy as anyone can be in this situation. I’m thinking of it as an overdue vacation, she says instead.

He nods, straw bobbing in his mouth. I just feel bad about tearing you away from your life, he says. You didn’t ask for this.

Scully deals them a new hand, trying to meet his eyes. I didn’t ask for it, but they involved me when they abducted me and tried to kill me and my sister, she says. And hurt you, poisoned you, killed your father, she adds silently. And besides that, even if I wasn’t dismissed from the FBI, I would’ve come with you anyway.

He looks up at her in shock. She smiles shyly, setting the cards down between them, pokes his foot with hers in the pool.

I guess it’s just for the X-Files credential, he says finally, waggling his eyebrows. A real life man come down from the dead.

Shut up, she says, splashing him. They play cards until a family comes out with grouchy kids wrapped in striped beach towels; they never want to risk being recognized.

(Eventually, Skinner gets their names cleared and they come home and get their old jobs back and Scully hugs her sister gratefully. But for now, they play cards under the stars. It’s almost good, almost perfect.)

03.

Hey, Scully, he says, watching the curve of her neck as she puts files away.

Yes, Mulder? she replies, somewhere between amused and irritated.

He scuffs his shoes on the floor. Would you, uh. Like to get dinner with me? Jesus Christ, he hasn’t been this nervous asking anyone out since college. Of course, he’s only dated Diana since college, and that didn’t go over very well.

Sure, she says, not looking up. I get to pick this time, though. And can I put a veto on discussing certain cases? It’s Friday night, Mulder.

I know, he says. I, um, actually. Wanted to know if you wanted to go out. With me.

She looks up at him with surprise, although not rejection or disgust. His stomach flips like a pancake. On a date, he supplies, and immediately wants to slap himself.

You’re asking me on a date, Scully says. Matter-of-fact. Clarifying tone.

Um… He scuffs his shoe again, looking at the floor. They need to sweep in here; the janitor only comes down by request and he has a vendetta against Mulder for his discarded sunflower seeds. Yes? he says questioningly, and waits for the end of their friendship.

Okay.

He looks up; she’s replacing files in the cabinet calmly again, as if he’s asked her to pick up a candy bar at the store or something. Okay? he repeats.

She looks up, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. Okay, she echoes, warmly.

The relief is overwhelming. Okay, he says another time, smiling. Okay.

04.

They kiss in Mulder’s hallway, and Scully doesn’t go to Utah.

(I wish you wouldn’t quit, Mulder whispers against her scalp that morning in bed, and Scully tugs his t-shirt and says, I’ll keep fighting. This isn’t over.)

Mulder tries to get the X-Files back, tries to convince Skinner to let Scully come back, but it nevers works. Scully becomes a doctor, takes up permanent residence in his bedroom. (She goes to Nevada with him, on a dare, and when they come back, there’s a waterbed, and she agrees to stay over at his house; every once in a while, she says sternly over his pillows. [It’s a lot more than every once in a while, and he never lets her forget it.]) He steals X-Files from their old office under Spender and Fowley’s noses and they argue about them over takeout.

(I miss it, sometimes, being at the FBI, she tells the space between his shoulder blades one morning, hugging him tightly from behind. She’s become clingier since, doesn’t quite know why. She didn’t know she could love someone this catastrophically.

I miss you being there with me, he tells her, clasping her hands and pulling them up to rest against his chest.)

After they’re dragged to quarantine and the Syndicate dies off in a fire, Spender doesn’t recommend Mulder be reassigned to the X-Files. Quit, Scully says that night. The FBI hasn’t done anything for you but ruin you. They don’t deserve you, and you don’t need them.

I don’t want to quit, he says. I don’t want this to be over.

We aren’t over, she tells him. We’re both still here. We don’t need the FBI. We can still find the truth.

It’ll be dangerous, he says into her mouth. (She’s pressed him up against the cabinets, kissing him so hard he thinks he’ll melt.) Without their credentials, there’ll be a lot more roadblocks; and no one cares if two ex-FBI agents die in a random accident. They’ll be vulnerable.

She smiles. When has that ever stopped us before?

05.

The IVF works.

Mulder doesn’t expect it to, because honestly, how the hell could anything happen in their lives that’s as perfect as this? They are the type of people who don’t get to kiss, whose sisters stay lost and whose daughters die before they get the chance to know them. He expects this to end in tragedy, expects it to end with Scully crying into his shirt and him unable to comfort her - although he doesn’t want it to. He wants to make her happy, to be able to do one damn thing right. He waits for her on her couch. The Christmas tree she’s set up in the corner sits dormant and dark; he thinks about plugging the lights in.

Scully comes home, and his stomach twists when he turns over and sees the smile on her face. She looks happier than he’s seen her in months; the last time she smiled like that is when he opened his eyes in the hospital at some point after she woke him up from Spender’s botched brain surgery; she’d smiled like he was the entire world, squeezed his fingers. Scully? he whispers in wonder, shifting on the couch to sit up.

She smiles, hand ghosting her abdomen. It worked.

He gapes at her, mouth hanging open a little. Scully, that’s fantastic! He moves towards her, expecting a hug or a chaste kiss to the forehead, but she kisses him first, hands cupping the side of his face.

She pulls away a minute later, red already spreading across her face. I’m sorry, Mulder, she whispers, I don’t want to obligate you to anything, you didn’t agree to…

He kisses her again before she finishes; he’s wanted to do that for years now. Scully, I want this, he says. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t.

She smiles again, eyes welling up, and buries her head in his shoulder. He rubs circles on the small of her back, trying to remember how he ever got here. This is all I’ve ever wanted, she says into his sweater, so quietly he almost can’t hear her. This is it.

06.

Mulder doesn’t go to Oregon, or he doesn’t leave three days after their son is born, or he comes home to find them waiting for him and he and Scully cry in the threshold of her apartment, or Scully never gives William up and the three of them disappear into the sunset after breaking Mulder out of prison. They get to raise their son, watch him grow up to morph into a child who inherited their looks and intelligence and Scully’s snark and Mulder’s curiosity. In some cases, there is another baby, and in other cases, there’s only ever William, their miracle baby. But in every case, there is the three of them and they are happy. A family.

07.

The IVF doesn’t work, and Scully never gets pregnant. (She gets uncontrollably sad about it, sometimes, like when Bill and Tara call to announce that their second child is on the way, or she talks to an old friend who has to go in the other room because her kids won’t let her talk on the phone in peace, or - one time - because they see a baby in a dingy small-town diner, and she gets teary and tries to hide it with scratchy napkins. Mulder tries to comfort her every time, although he’s worried he’s just making it worse - it’s his fault she can never have a baby. He has his moments of teary-eyed weakness himself.)

They go to Oregon, but Scully isn’t sick and Mulder isn’t abducted. Two months later, the X-Files are shut down. Too much money towards a dead-end project, the man who comes to tell them says. Scully surprises them both by being the one to retort sharply, standing up and glaring at him like he is the scum of the earth and sliding in a sir at the end to barely pass it off as respectable. Scully, it’s okay, Mulder says quietly when they’re alone in not-their-office.

Mulder, this is your life’s work, she says, still breathing a little hard and glaring at the door.

He reaches down and takes her hand. It’s okay.

They’re reassigned to the VCS - Skinner fights hard for them to stay partners. (They go to his office to thank him, and he looks at them critically, says, As long as you don’t let… whatever this is… interfere with your work, then we won’t have a problem, agents with a spastic motioning towards them and red spreading across his cheeks. Which leads to a ten-minute bickering about who is the reason Skinner knows.)

They stay at the FBI for two more years. Things are different, darker, in the VCS, but Scully still does autopsies and they still have to travel out of town sometimes (it’s almost more exciting to be in a hotel with ten other agents; it makes sneaking into one of their hotel rooms more risky, and Scully seems to like it) and they still are a singular unit no matter how many people are in the room.

(Things come to a head when they are both taken by a serial killer, found bound and bruised and traumatized together just before the man starts to kill them.)

Let’s quit, Mulder says in the hospital that night, tracing her fingers with his. Their hands haven’t stopped shaking since they were rescued; they’ve held hands since their wrists were untied, in front of the entire task force, and don’t care.

Mulder, she says, astonished.

The X-Files are gone. And besides that, we can’t keep doing this, Scully. We can’t keep almost losing each other. He kisses the back of her hand, a small, warm patch on her chilled skin. Remember what I told you in Oregon? There has to be an end. I’m ready.

(Skinner looks almost sad when they hand in their resignations. He shakes their hands and tells them their services will be missed and not to be strangers. I’m surprised he didn’t hug us, Mulder says in the elevator. Skinman’s gone soft.

Let’s invite him to our wedding, Scully says slyly, and can’t stop giggling at the expression on Mulder’s face.)

They buy an apartment together, one that doesn’t have bloodstains or monsters in the corner, where no one has ever died. They get jobs teaching at Quantico - Scully teaching pathology and Mulder teaching profiling, at first, but eventually an additional class on paranormal investigations that takes a large amount of fighting to receive. He writes books at night, putting his insomnia to good use. (Thank God you have something to do at night, Scully says, or I would never get any sleep.) The X-Files are eventually reopened by an eager agent, Monica Reyes, and a more reluctant agent, John Doggett, who have some dark past no one asks them about and no one wants to - they’re good friends, good partners. Agent Reyes insists on Mulder consulting, which leads to them being semi-regular appearances at the apartment (there are usually arguments where Reyes and Mulder gang up on Doggett; Scully feels sorry for the guy, has to intervene at least 70% of the time; she grows an affection for these outcast agents that remind her of she and Mulder when they were young).

Let’s have a baby, Mulder says one lazy summer night almost three years after they’ve left the FBI. They have a habit of taking blankets up to the roof of their building and watching the stars (or looking for UFOS, as Mulder calls it), and Scully’s curled beside him, nearly asleep.

We can’t. The IVF process didn’t work, she says sleepily, sadly into his shoulder.

So we try again. I have more money than I did when we tried the first time - my mom left the entire estate to me. We can afford it. His palm nearly covers her forehead, brushing hair away from her face. Or we could adopt. Save someone. We could get Skinner to write a letter of recommendation.

I love you, she says. At his sharp breath of pleasant surprise, she realizes she’s never said it. She rises up on her knees and kisses him under the stars.

08.

Mulder doesn’t join the FBI because Samantha is never abducted. Dana joins the FBI, stays at Quantico. They meet by accident - she’s guest-lecturing at the university where he teaches. There’s a teacher’s lounge and a friend of hers tugs her towards him, saying she needs to try the coffee loud enough for everyone to hear, but whispering something about how she should go talk to the psychology professor because he’s cute and exactly her type, she swears.

Her friend tugs her forward and she stumbles, almost crashing into him and the table at the same time. Sorry, she says sheepishly, reaching for a mug on the rack.

It’s fine, he says. Although the coffee isn’t nearly that good. He smiles; he has a nice smile. I’m Fox Mulder. He extends his hand.

She takes it. Dana Scully.