#and shows scully as morally grey in her past

[sweetteaandpie]

i'm doing an x-files rewatch now and let me tell you... "all things" hits differently now at almost 43 than it did when i first watched it at 18. it's like it was specifically made for woo-believing, hippie, middle aged me. i was intrigued by it the first time i saw it and it became my favourite episode. it still holds up all these years later.

[crossedbeams]

History - Trinity Ch. 9

Genre: Casefile | Fandom: The X-Files x The Fall x Sreetcar | Rating: Mature | Setting: Circa 2012. Canon compliant | Chapters: 2/6 of Part 2

Trinity Part I

Chapter 1 - Perfume || Chapter 2 - Impression || Chapter 3 - Connection Chapter 4 - Delusion || Chapter 5-  Confrontation || Chapter 6 - Post Mortem

Trinity Part I

Prologue - Purgatory || Chapter 2 - Animosity

TRINITY: PART II CHAPTER II - History

Blanche Dubois sways slightly in her seat, so frail in the halogen brightness that it seems that an especially assertive huff from the air-conditioner might blow her away. Scully tries not to let her feelings show on her face, trying to retain her bedside manner, but seated next to the marble-composure of Stella Gibson, she feels like an open book. Scully has expressed concern to both the officer-in-charge and to Blanche herself that this interview is too much, too soon, that the post-nightmare sedation received has barely left her system, but it seems Blanche’s mind is made up. There’s a set to her jaw that stills the usual nervous flutter of her hands, as if her determination to verbalise the perceived threat gives her the power to escape it. Yesterday they were treated to a flurry of words, images and half-truths about her past but today is different; today she flits between periods of haunted silence and scuds of hard words, heavy with exhaustion and bitter with truth.

‘I met him in Miami one Christmas.

I had to get out of Laurel. I couldn’t breathe for the rumours and the boiler was as played out as I, so I figured why not fly south with the birds. I had a friend in Miami, Mrs. Meghan Sands, a girl from school who still sent pretty letters and empty invitations from time to time, and was far enough away that she wouldn’t know any better than to let me stay a while. The first few days were golden, like in that song. The fates allowed us to get along and I didn’t need to go out looking for someone like I’d planned to… I didn’t even need the bourbon I’d stowed in my suitcase. I thought my luck might be changing, she had a bachelor friend who was kind and attentive and the climate suited me well. It was my little Christmas miracle... until the night Meg had a headache and went up early, and Mr. Sands poured us both one too many drinks and then tried to kiss me. I screamed and that was the end of it. Women don’t like to keep other women that their husbands think of kissing under their roofs, regardless of who started it.’

Blanche smiles wanly at her sad philosophy, threading her fingers through her hair to push it off her face, searching Scully’s face for some flicker of understanding and ignoring Stella completely. Normally Stella commands the room, a cold clear light of absolute certainty, but Blanche’s narrative is a firelight flicker, unpredictable and prone to flare or fail. After yesterday’s experience, the British detective seems reluctant to push her witness to the point of hysteria, so she simply sits, waiting for Blanche to arrive at her destination and leaves Scully alone in the half-light of half-truth. 

Nodding her encouragement, Scully squeezes her hands together under the table, trying desperately not to fidget and betray her discomfort to either her witness or her colleague. The grey areas between belief and proof have always belonged to Mulder and his absence makes her feel both incomplete and an imposter. Her relief shakes past her lips on a long-held breath when Blanche finally breaks the silence to continue; claiming back the spotlight before it can reveal too much of her questioner.

‘There's something about me that makes people think I’m trying to seduce, even when I’m not, some scarlet letter that burns through my purest intentions and draws down the worst of men. It seems Hester Prynne and I both wear clothes cut from the same cloth. Maybe she was forced and I bought mine, but nobody made me stay in Miami. Nobody forced me into that hotel, through those bars, into those dresses that covered less than they ought. There were men, some of them as rich as I’d dreamed they would be, but all just window shopping while they waited on a younger model, and as the New Year rocketed in my money was gone and all hopes of finding that elusive millionaire dwindled with the fireworks.

I’d decided I was washed up, that I’d have to go to my sister, when he slid into my booth and paid off my tab. He was younger than me, not exactly handsome but somehow imposing, and he took my hand with the gentleness of a child and kissed it.’

The thin white hand on the table shakes at the memory, at the hard bones of truth hiding just under the fragile skin of her memory.

‘I asked if he was a knight in shining armour and he said no. His voice was caught between accents and soft. I could hardly hear him over the music in the bar but his body curved round like a shield and I thought perhaps I could be safe there.

I asked him if he was a millionaire and he said he could be and smiled.

I knew he wasn’t. After two more drinks I knew he wasn’t there to rescue me, but in his smile, in his hand and his eyes, there was something more intoxicating than liquor or wealth; he needed me. Not in the way that all men need a woman when their libido is high and their morals low, but on some deeper level. He looked at me like a baby looks at its mama holding it, like a man looks at his wife at the altar, as if I were the only one who could give him what he needed and he would die without it. Without me.

I went with him willingly, legs unsteady enough that I leaned on his shoulder even after we got in the cab. He held my face in the crook of his shoulder and neck, hiding me from the world, and I didn’t think anything of it when he pressed his handkerchief into the gap between my face and his neck. At first I was pleasantly surprised he carried a handkerchief, I thought they died out with chivalry, so when I found I was getting dizzy I assumed it was the drinking. I tried to move, to get some fresh air, but he shushed me and held me still until everything dissolved to nothing.

I woke up in an unfamiliar place, naked, cold and tied to a mattress with plastic sheets on it by my pantyhose and underwear. He was standing at the end of the bed and crying. He still looked young, but no longer innocent, the blankness in his eyes frightened me more than the surroundings and I cried out. He didn’t move, just kept staring; not at my body but at my face, so I screamed until he did move. An alarm went off somewhere out of sight and it seemed to break the spell. He forced another cloth against my mouth and held my nose closed so I had to breathe through the copper-sour fabic. It choked me, stealing my sound and my air until I passed out again.

The next time I woke up I was alone and the whole place stank like cooking. Something greasy and burned, a poor man’s hell. I stayed quiet a few minutes, until I was sure I couldn’t hear anyone around so I started trying to get free. My arms were tied to a grille over the window and when I pulled it bent before my arms did, but it was loud, the metal screaming or maybe it was me. Either way I panicked, freeing my hands as fast as I could so I could at least scratch and hit when the moment came. Except nobody came. Only quiet.

The room had a door but it was locked and when I threw myself at it, the whole placed swayed and creaked. I realised then I must be in a trailer, there was no sound of the sea for it to be a boat but I was just as marooned as if it had been. I couldn’t shift the door, the windows were boarded tight, so all I could do while I sat in this trap was look for a weapon. The little kitchen was almost empty, plastic over everything but the oven door which was leaking the acrid burning smell. I wondered if I was being poisoned while I looked for the knives, you know the poem? “An ecstasy of fumbling,” and I had Wilfred Owen but no knives. No nothing but the built in furniture and something blackened and unrecognisable smoking in the oven.

Perhaps he meant to burn me. but there was no flame, just as there was no gas...no sign of his intentions at all. I was the mouse in his humane trap, captured and waiting for some other, undecided death. The trailer was small but I never felt so exposed as I did then, shut in this empty living, dying space with no protection and no way out.’

Blanche has shrunk in her chair, muscles contracting her down to her smallest self as though she can hide now as she couldn’t then, and Scully fights the urge to try and comfort her, to try and heal. But they need their truth and from the sounds of overzealous punctuation and seat shifting to her her left, Scully suspects Stella’s patience is wearing thin.

‘I shut myself in the bathroom. The door was barely solid but it locked from the inside and I felt safer in the tiny space, there was less room for fear especially when I found an old shirt stuffed between the shower and the toilet. I had clothes, I had a locked door, I was still alive and there was a cold, clean draft that helped me to clear my head. I sat there until I started shivering, wishing I could dissolve into atoms and escape with the air rattling through the vent. It took me much too long to realise that maybe I could, that cold air meant outside and outside might mean escape. When I stood on the toilet I could see stars around the ventilation hatch, just a few spots of light where things didn’t fit together properly, I can’t count how many times stars have showed me my way, but I caught Orion by his belt and followed one hunter away from another…

I don’t remember jumping down, but I must have because I do remember running; my feet shredding on the rough ground, losing myself in the night time under the stars with no plan or direction in mind other than other than away. Far away. I didn’t even look back. That’s the first thing they teach you when running track you know? Looking back slows you down. So I ran until I saw lights besides the stars, and then the lights were a road and the road had cars and I tried to stop them but nobody would help me until the police came.

I tried to tell them, tried to explain who I was and what had happened but they thought I was drunk. And then they took me into the station and looked me up and my record made them think I was really drunk.’

Scully interrupts then,

‘They didn’t take a statement? Or make any attempt to corroborate your story?’

Blanche regards the table with unnecessary interest.

‘They called the bar where I was and the barman said I’d left willingly with a guy. Just like the last few nights. I said that was true but what happened after was different. And they said I’d only been gone a few hours. And I said a few hours that I didn’t want to be gone! And then… they said they could do a test... To find out if I’d been… forced... because then there was a crime.’

She starts making nervous circles on the table with one slim, white finger.

‘I told them no. I told them…. I told them… I hadn’t. I knew I hadn’t. I know what - and then they said that there was no crime to investigate, that what people did in their bedrooms was their business, that maybe I should drink less and be more careful about who I “kept company” with.’ Blanche ceases making the circles and replaces them with sharp, slashing lines across the grain of the wood. Scully’s stomach has hollowed out and she glances sideways to see Stella’s lips set in a thin, furious line, the first time they have both responded to their witness in the same way.

‘I got angry then.’ Blanche admits, though her fury is written in every line of her pposture and the bitter strikes she is marking on the table. ‘And I shouted at them, told them that I might have started out drunk but that they were the ones who weren’t seeing clearly. They were the deluded ones! They laughed at that until I called them some very vulgar things. Then they put me in a cell and in the morning they gave me some pants out of lost property and let me go. I went back to Laurel that night.’

The fight drains out of her then, remembered anger giving way to resignation as Blanche finally widens her focus to include Stella, and then leans in a little, voice low with something not far from exhaustion and laced with the shame of defeat.

‘I thought about staying... about trying to prove myself. But I thought I was more likely to be found by the boy with the dead eyes than to find the truth and get anyone to believe me. You know it as well as I do Detective Gibson, all stories have power, but there’s danger in the telling. My love of magic, of fairytale colours in a bleak world makes me an “unreliable witness.” In this man’s world people are supposed to be one thing or another, beauty or a bitch, a wife or a wastrel. I tell stories, drink cocktails with strangers, dance alone until last orders and therefore I am judged a liar, a drunk and a floozy. There’s no place for those women in the witness stand so instead I ran.

I’ve always run. I’d like to run now but I’m so very, very tired.’ She looks to the door as if it leads to some far-flung escape and not just another corridor, her body leaning towards the imagined escape before retreating with a sigh. ‘Everything looks better when it’s moving fast, and the bad things pass sooner. Sometimes they even hurt less.’

‘Did the bad things pass?’ Stella’s voice is the calm after the storm of the story and Blanche looks up and laughs, though the sound holds no humour.

‘Detective Gibson… Stella... in your line of work you must know that people like me are never far from disaster. If I were a ship, my anchor would be calamity, weighing the end of a long chain that sometimes I can lift enough to move a little but that always pulls me back. But yes, for the purpose of this meeting, the bad thing passed. I never saw that person again. That bad thing became one more shadow in my past and other things, some of them better, took over my days. A little colour in all the whiteness, a little warmth to hold back the dark...’

‘Until last night?’ Stella clarifies, and Blanche nods.

‘He’s older now, not much but there are deeper lines and a scar where there didn’t used to be. He burned his face into my nightmares when he stood and watched me scream. I’d know him anywhere.’

‘I hope she’s right,’ Stella mutters absently as they go over their notes in an empty interview room. Next door, Blanche Dubois is sitting with a police sketch artist.

‘About what?’ Scully can’t quite keep the incredulity out of her voice. She’s still haunted by the desperate hold of Blanche’s gaze across the table, by the unspoken plea in her voice that cut straight through the veneer of police detachment Scully had painted on in preparation. That story, half-hidden though it was behind poetic embellishments, had connected with both her doctor’s need to heal and the long dormant hunger for justice, truth and fairness that Mulder had always appealed to to convince her of a tenuous case. Blanche Dubois has made her believe, and the idea that Stella can remain unmoved, unaffected by the scars laid bare before them...

Stella looks up, confused by the harsh edge to Scully’s words and somehow sees and understands all that she cannot verbalise in the shared space of a conflicted blue gaze.

‘I was talking about being able to recognise her attacker’s face anywhere. Not the rest of it. I…’ Stella pauses, caught between instinctively presenting her most resilient self and sharing an honest moment.

Screw it.

Dana Scully has forgiven several misreadings, has proved herself invaluable to the investigation and she doesn’t seem the type to exploit a crack in another woman’s armour. Her trust is worth the risk, and so Stella sighs, leans forward to massage her temples and lets her words fall softly into the quiet of the room.

‘I wish that I didn’t think the rest of it was true. It would be much, much easier to squeeze Ms. Dubois for information if I hadn’t seen that same face in a thousand interviews. But I have, I’ve seen it all, I’d recognise that truth anywhere; the eyes pleading to be believed, the hands holding the tension of the trauma, legs pressed tight together as if it weren’t already too late to protect what has been taken. And the voices… I’m halfway across the world but it’s always the same. Fear and anger, sadness, hurt and shame... that’s the worst, the fact that any woman anywhere could blame herself for what an assailant took from her. That chord of desperation, denial and survival? That victim symphony? You can’t fake it.’

She looks up, cate sight of the personal question forming on Scully’s lips and folds her arms to fed off any further intrusion.

‘Blanche Dubois is a victim, I know that that much is true, though I still don’t know of whom. But even if I did, I have to force that knowledge to the back of my mind to do my job. I have to separate the woman from the witness, the same way you pathologists view a cadaver as a case and not a person. Perhaps at times I go too far in that separation, when the stakes are high…’ Stella stops, head bowed, and tries to push away a memory of Blanche Dubois’ agonised face when confronted with an identity parade of the dead, to stop herself feeling the disappointed blaze of Dana Scully’s protective instinct.

And then there’s a small hand on her elbow, a note of forgiveness at her side.

‘Sometimes we all go too far trying to do the right thing.’ Scully’s words are heavy with years of experience and her smile is sad. For a brief but binding moment the air in the room is one of sisterhood, and then a wash of boisterous male voices swings past in the corridor and reality crashes back into the foreground.

Stella shakes herself and turns her smile professional while Scully’s hand retreats to close up her notes.

‘I think you should be looking for your possible first victim in Miami’s Jane Does,’ she says, as if nothing has happened. ‘Your perp had a kill room set up, and I think it’s unlikely he walked away from it. With that timeframe, we may be looking further back than we thought.’

Stella nods her agreement.

‘Let’s go tell Stanning,’ she says. ‘That should give him something to be petty and pissed-off about in the afternoon briefing.’

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Thank you as always to @therobbinsnest @stellagibsonisalifeforce and @carrie11 without whom this would be an utter mess.

[greyelven]

Fandom 5k Letter

Dear Writer,

To begin with, thank you for writing for me! I really appreciate the time and effort, especially for this exchange, and I want to emphasise that I’m going to love whatever you come up with, so write what you want to write and don’t stress about it. All I ever really want from exchanges is more fic about my favourite characters so I’m very easy to please. The genre tags I’ve picked are probably bordering on the excessive but that’s just me liking a lot of different things. As always, prompts are just there if you need a little inspiration, if you already have your own idea then go for it. My previous letters can be found here; I’ve recycled a lot of old prompts in this letter but you’re welcome to draw on any I haven’t as well.

Likes – AU settings (modern, steampunk, sci-fi etc, go wild!), canon divergence AUs, grey morality, gothic vibes, fantasy elements (creepy fairies, enchantments etc), character studies, backstory, banter, road trips, found family, femslash, ladies working together, ladies kicking ass (literally or figuratively)

Dislikes – torture, depictions of rape/dubcon/sexual assault (implied/discussed is fine), pregnancy, homophobia

Ghostbusters

Erin/Holtzmann, Abby & Erin & Holtzmann & Patty

This movie was such an unexpected delight and I just want more of these ladies, kicking spectral ass and being friends and not giving a damn about what anyone else thinks of them. I loved the light tone of the movie but I also love creepy ghost stories so feel free to take these prompts in any direction.

-what’s one of their most memorable busts? Are there any particularly scary or irritating ghosts? Do they ever go beyond New York? Perhaps to investigate a ghost town, or abandoned buildings in the middle of nowhere…

-how does their ghost research progress after the events of the movie? Any big scientific breakthroughs? Do they find out more about the world through the portal? Any big mishaps that lead to more ghosts rather than less? I wouldn’t be surprised if Holtz’s unstable equipment malfunctioned somehow

-the team hanging out in their downtime (movie nights, celebrating each other’s birthdays, Patty taking them to interesting historical sites around the city…)

-there are a lot of genre AUs I’d love to see for this fandom but the first ones that spring to mind are Victorian gothic (ghost hunting would fit so perfectly) and cosmic horror (what creatures live on the other side of the portal?)

All of those could have an Erin/Holtz bent but for some more specifically shippy prompts:

-everyday moments between the two of them, slowly getting closer the longer they work together - cleaning off slime after a tough bust, late nights at the lab, long uneventful stakeouts of ghosts that may or may not be there

-established relationship moments - lazy mornings, date nights (bound to be some odd ones with Holtzmann around), culinary adventures, trips away together

-I’m dying for a San Junipero au of these two, if you’ve seen it (if you haven’t, it’s a standalone piece and a really lovely story - Black Mirror season 3, episode 4)

HTGAWM

Annalise/Bonnie

I’m not caught up on the second half of season 3 but I will be soon, though tbh I’m here for character dynamics - there are so many freaking plot twists I’ve forgotten much of what happened earlier in the show anyway. What I love about this pairing is how complicated and co-dependent it is; their personal relationship and working relationship bleed into one another, it’s messy as hell and it’s never not going to be like that.

In the meantime, shameless copying and pasting of prompts from the last exchange I did, with a few new ideas:

- they finally kissed and then the freaking house burned down, so maybe a quiet moment between those things happening when Annalise is wide awake and sober (seriously that whole situation was so ficcy, with Bonnie taking care of her – might as well mine it to its full potential)

- I like how effective a team they are as lawyers and the contrast with their complex messy personal relationship, so like, maybe casefic with a side of dysfunction

- backstory! all the backstory! good moments, bad moments, just anything exploring how their relationship came to be as it is

-assuming Bonnie gets Annalise out of jail, how does their relationship change going forward?

-in terms of genre shift, I would love a political au - Annalise runs for office, or maybe she’s a career politician, with Bonnie as her right-hand woman (of course), and they take a similar approach as they do to law - occasional good intentions, regularly dirty methods, a string of bodies in their wake

Rogue One

Jyn/Leia, Jyn & Leia

All I want from Star Wars is a proper relationship between two women and it has yet to materialise. So give me Jyn and Leia as friends, girlfriends, reluctant allies, whatever, as long as they’re interacting. They’re from very different backgrounds - polished princess and petty criminal - but they’ve both been trained for rebellion from a young age, and if they met around the time of A New Hope, they’d both be grappling with loss; there’s a lot of potential to mine.

-they’re sent on a mission together at some point during the war - how well do they function as a team? Who’s in charge? How does the other deal with that?

-Jyn surviving Scarif and standing beside Leia when the Death Star gets destroyed - what does it mean for each of them? What would Jyn’s involvement in the rebellion be like going forward?

-building on that, what would Jyn do if she were still alive during the Force Awakens? Would Leia turn to an old friend/old flame for support after losing Han?

-college au, where they’re both involved in student activism but have very different methods of getting shit done (Leia working from within the institution, getting elected to various student offices and delivering impassioned speeches at committee meetings, while Jyn goes for more subversive tactics)

Wolf 359

Lovelace, Minkowski, Lovelace/Minkowski, Eiffel & Minkowski

My new favourite thing! I started listening about a month ago and was immediately hooked. I love the show’s effortless switching between humour and much darker material, the insular character dynamics set against the big empty galaxy, and the bleak underlying scenario of being stuck on a spaceship that’s falling apart while nobody on Earth really seems to care.

I requested my favourite characters and combinations of characters but I like Hera and Hilbert too and most of the prompts could apply to the Hephaestus crew as a whole, so if you want to take more of a group approach that’s totally cool. What I’m really interested in is how the characters function and develop meaningful relationships under the circumstances.

(I’m less a fan of the SI-5 team; the angle I’m interested in there is the disruption they present for the original crew , so if you want to include them in that capacity, go ahead. Also, feel free to ignore the whole Lovelace = alien thing cos that’s mostly what I’ve been doing.)

Prompts!

-if the crew do make it back to Earth, what then? Do they stay in touch or drift apart? Is it difficult to re-adjust to ‘normal’ life? Or for a lighter approach, the crew indulging in all the things they’ve missed most about Earth

-wacky space shenanigans! The first time Minkowski brought out the jetpack and Eiffel got excited, an experiment of Hilbert’s going wrong and everyone helping with damage control, ways Eiffel has attempted to alleviate his boredom...

-exploring pre-canon - the characters’ first weeks of life in space and how it was the same/different from what they thought it would be, moments where characters realised their first impressions of each other weren’t quite accurate, etc

The X-Files

-what I’m really after here is casefic, weird happenings with a side of Mulder & Scully banter. One of my favourite things about the show is how many genres it managed to incorporate so effortlessly, sci-fi/horror/thriller etc, and I love the monster of the week episodes that their own distinctive feel - the claustrophobia of Ice or the melancholy of the Field Where I Died. Some of my favourite X-Files tropes are small creepy towns, isolated mountain forests and strange lights in the sky, if that helps :)

-I’m not a huge fan of the revival - I think it was a missed opportunity, because it was a) a mess and b) didn’t really use aspects of the 2010s that make the show still relevant today - government spying, distrust of authority, etc. So a modern au done right would be really nice.

-the show’s pretty noir-ish already but I would love a full-blown noir au, Scully as the straight-laced detective who gets reluctantly entangled in her partner’s wild goose chase

-or complete opposite direction, take out the aliens and have Mulder & Scully as office co-workers