#diagnosis yet and everyone was still on the “shes just badly behaved” train

[caterpillarinacave]

"like track and field day from elementary school" I say, to form a connection with my peers, as if I ever participated in a single track and field day in my entire life

[lucymacculloch]

Love, From

You’re at the beach and you’re wearing your dead grandmother’s blue raincoat. For once it’s the tourists that have dressed for England’s pretence of summer, so while the people with British accents are walking along the port in jeans and long coats, the voice that sound American to you but you know are Canadian are talking about shorts were a mistake and whether they should buy longer pants. You’ve heard that it’s supposed to rain later.

You finally understand why English people like Australian beaches.  You were waiting for the sudden glitter of blue and a blur of golden sand, only to realise that the sea had already been trickling past the train for five minutes, its dark blue only distinguishable from the grey shore by its resting boats. So far, you have not seen a single wave. 

You can't remember what an overcast day at a Sydney beach looks like. You haven't even been to the beach in five years, and how un-Australian is that? You wonder how the water would look now if the sun was brighter and the sky was bluer. Before you got to the coast, the train windows had cut Norfolk into ready-made postcards of trimmed hay with rounded trees and fields of yellow flowers. It was quaint - diorama worthy, with pulled cotton hanging from fishing line as clouds above pig figurines held in paddle-pop fence pens - romantically and fancifully rural. And then the colours had lost their saturation and the clouds had grown, until you had arrived at the station and were met with only an absence of colour.

Ok, you're not actually at the beach yet. You are a fifteen minute walk away from the actual shore. Apparently, England builds houses near beaches instead of building carparks. Ten minutes of explore has revealed that your first impression of there being fuck all to do in a small port town was accurate. There are three arcades, all two minutes away from each other, as well as one of those spirituality shops that sells mood rings and quartz stones and smells of lavender. There are two cafes but only one fish and chip shop, whose takeaway boxes sit in the laps of almost everyone sitting on the boardwalk. You smelled the oil from the chips before you smelled the sea salt itself, and now they mix together with a bit of tomato sauce and vinegar thrown in. You have no idea why anyone would put vinegar on chips, but at least they don't call them fries here. 

Another store, more toy shop than tourist centre has a write rack of postcards sitting out the front. You twirl it around, scanning them more out of obligation than interest. You've been writing about postcard for years (it seemed like an underused metaphor for something meaningful at the time), but it didn't occur to you to send one until your mother emailed you asking you to. Not to her, but to both of your great aunts, one of whom you've never met but hope to receive part of an inheritance from. You got your mother's most recent email yesterday, this one containing a self-diagnosis for Asperger's syndrome and how it differs between men and women, only you read it as Alzheimer's for two minutes. Same difference. You'll ring her this afternoon when it's 1am over there because you know she'll be awake and it will save you from replying.

The last postcard you received was from Jasmine. She handed it to you a week after she'd gotten back from New York, the edge at the top starting to split. You found it again only recently, when you were doing your annual room clean. You read it and it made you sad, but right now you can't remember what it said. You think the photo on the front was blue. You're not sure where you put it, but it's probably safely in a box. Or it went into recycling. It's hard to tell what you've done, sometimes. 

Jasmine is ten minutes late, as you both expected her to be. Either that or you got the wrong time, or the wrong place. Or the wrong date. It doesn't matter if you did: just take sixty or so photos of the beach and its colourful houses, the bunting hanging above the street for zero reason that you can see, and a bright cone of gelato, and post three out of four of them on Instagram and the two hour trip will have been worth it. You might even have left before it starts to rain. The wind smacks your hair into your face and it feels like straw. It's been more of a lost cause than usual, as has your face with its constellation of red mounds. You're suddenly aware of how soft the flesh on your arms is, how when you press against it you can barely feel the hard bone. Your stomach doesn't feel soft at all, just unavoidable.  You're wearing your mother's jumper that's supposed to be two sizes too big for you, but it doesn't feel big enough. You want to draw your hood up, rest the wool over your face and sink into the warm dark. It's only midday; you've been awake for four hours at most. This is why you don't go out.

Jasmine is on her phone when you see her, leaning against the town map. You still expect her to dress in bright floral patterns, but she's just wearing a blue shirt and dark jeans - something you would wear, have been wearing for the past two weeks - with her in the low ponytail she wears when she's working. At least she didn't straight it. Her lipstick is nice, fuchsia, but you don't know how frequently she wears makeup and if it means you should have made more of an effort, too. She's more happy than tired, and you wonder if that's still a rarity for her. You've started to drift towards her when she sees you, gives more of a nod of recognition than a smile, and you both stop for a moment to see if one of you will go in for a hug. Neither of you do.  

The how are you's last about four minutes before food gets brought up. Ten minutes ago you wouldn't have been able to eat anything other than fairy floss; would have needed to feel the sugar granules dissolve one by one, feeling the sticky grit on the ridges of your fingers for your throat to accept anything at all, but now you're desperate for one of those takeaway boxes becoming transparent with grease. Jasmine just shrugs, and you know she'll try to get a salad.

Your mum talked about how chip oil was better here, so you think that the chips might melt a little more smoothly on your tongue, not hot enough to burn but still warm, soft. Jasmine asks about your trip just as you're licking the salt and tomato sauce off of your fingers. You start to answer as you wipe the grease from your fingers on your grandma's raincoat. You can feel the words starting to pile up at the back of your throat as you run out of script.

- How was Canberra? Did your team win? How is your boyfriend? You ask. She waves off each question like they're nothing.

You want to get her talking. After all, you only have two stories to tell and she's already heard them, years ago.  You are no longer looking at her, eyes drifting to edge of the dock where people, families mostly, are dropping their lines into the water to catch crabs. You suddenly remember just how busy the dock is, the surrounding voices returning in a jumbled rush. Overhead the seagulls flap their wings, swooping to perch on the flag mast of a boat. You comment that they seem better behaved here than in Australia. Jasmine murmurs in agreement.

A crab plops into a bucket overlaid with a sticker of a smiling cartoon crustacean. The water has a yellow tinge and the crabs are sitting on top of each other. Further on, a boy hold a crap up to his sister, finger and thumb wrapped around the middle. The crab barely moves its legs and the girl only tilts her face away from the boy's teasing. Their parents watch from the sidewalk, smiling. Eventually, he puts the crab down, where it immediately shuffles to the edge of the dock and falls off.

- You been crabbing? Jasmine asks, eyebrow cocked.

You shake your head, and both of you turn away from each other again, looking out to the sea.

- Rob used to take me fishing, occasionally. When I was a kid. I wasn't very good. I could never bait the line. I forgot about going, actually. What about you?

Jasmine tilts her head like it's an answer.

The takeaway box on your lap is no longer warm. The smell of salt is stronger now and there's a hint of salt though you know it's from the plastic bags of bait. A boy of about ten is sitting with a fluorescent orange net, barely moving as he waits. He looks up and he's wearing a bright pink wrestling mask. You and Jasmine turn to each other with bemused smiles.

Eventually you both decide to get coffee, only Jasmine gets a chai latte and you get a hot chocolate, trying not to feel too childish next to her, pulling the sleeves of your jumper over your hands and pressing them against the warmth of the mug. Jasmine starts telling you about a movie she saw recently that you might like, actually, and you nod and smile into your mug and hope you look attentive and sophisticated enough as melted marshmallow sticks to the corner of your mouth, the dip in your top lip. You're trying to talk about a TV show you like when you let slip a do you remember when and she nods, and you quickly fill in the silence with a badly-told joke.

You're somewhere between walking to the bus stop and down to the shore when Jasmine stops outside one of the shops, twirls a rack of postcards around her finger as she tilts her head.

- Should I get one for Libby? she asks.

You shrug, come up next to her and pick up a few, showing her to the ones you deem pretty enough. Most of them are blue, or pale green.

- I never know what to write on them, Jasmine says.

You don't either.

- Just stick a 'wish you were here' or 'love from' on them, you reply.

Jasmine puts the postcards back and says she'll buy one in London.

You don't end up going to the beach. Instead, Jasmine catches a bus to go back to her hotel and you think you should hug her to say goodbye but you don't, just brush your shoulder against hers and wish her a good trip. She waves to you as she gets on the bus but doesn't sit by the window. Two days later will she post a photo on Instagram of her and another friend you used to know who happened to be in England at the same time as her, and sadness will settle over you like a worn blanket. But only for a few minutes. In the meantime, you walk back to the edge of the dock and peer over it, picture yourself falling to the bottom like one of the captured crabs. Nearby, the boy in the wrestling mask rustles a crab out of his net, dunks it into his bucket. You feel one, two, drops of rain splash your face and pull your hood up as you walk back to the station.  

[mangokiwitropicalswirl]

Paging Dr. Scully chp. 7: Ice (3)

Paging Dr. Scully 1: Squeeze / 2: Jersey Devil / 3: Shadows / 4. Ghost in the Machine / 5. Ice / 6. Ice (2) 

Ice (3) 

The door clangs shut, reverberating through the corrugated tin walls of the bunker. She pauses a moment, the sound of his “goodnight, Doc,” dissipating in the darkness. She takes in the details of the empty dorm, the cluttered desk and hutch, family photos, posters and an unwrapped birthday gift. A mini mausoleum.

A chill runs down her spine and she shoves the desk against the door. “Don’t forget, the spots on the dog went away.” She leaves the light on.

To say the trip has not been what Scully expected would be a drastic understatement. She’s not sure what she imagined — cozying under a blanket with her notes, Mulder looking up at her from a pile of evidence, snow fluttering down outside the windows? Had she pictured a roaring fire? Had there been a big soft rug in front of that fire? — she’s mortified her subconscious got things so wrong. Whatever she’d imagined, it never included getting snowed in in a bunker, or a growing collection of mysterious corpses. Or unidentifiable black boils erupting on man and beast alike.

The flight in on the jostling plane should have been the first clue that she might be getting in above her head, but she had been too preoccupied by the sensation of Mulder’s hand over hers where it gripped the armrest. It wasn’t like her to be swept away by novelty and adventure, but she’d be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t liked the feeling of respect and deference emanating from the other investigators when they understood she was there at the FBI’s behest. She was used to commanding a room in her ER, but these credentials were something even headier and intoxicating.

But when Mulder begins behaving erratically, the impulsiveness of her choice to come along hits her full force. After the pilot dies and the storm keeps closing in, she listens open-mouthed in awe to him arguing why they shouldn’t kill the organism that is laying waste to everyone it touches. He sounds crazy.

“The meteor that crashed here a quarter million years ago could have carried that type of life to earth. If we kill it now, we may never know how to stop anything like it in the future!”

His argument is that of a curious bystander, not someone facing the possibility of his own harm — or hers. She almost admires the detachment, that his enthusiasm for the arcane and undiscovered creatures of the world extends to parasites and worms. Almost.

“I don’t want to waste a minute figuring out how to kill this thing,” she shoots back, stone-faced, a wall going up between them, for the first time insurmountable by their usual flirtation.

“Aren’t you curious about what this all could mean?!” he counters, “how we could use this information for the greater good?”

“Honestly? No.” She barks.  “I just want to get out of here alive. I don’t share this insane need of yours to hunt down and preserve every multi-celled organism that science might have overlooked!”

He looks more wounded at her words than she intended. The stress and lack of sleep have gotten to her, made her punchy and unguarded.

“Well, I’m sorry you can’t see the possibilities,” he huffs and turns away back toward the pilot’s corpse.

Now she’s the one who’s wounded. He thinks she’s by-the-book. Unimaginative. Square. She pushes past him and heads back down the hall, stepping over the corpse as she goes. At the door she stops and looks at him pointedly. “I shouldn’t have come along.”

“Dana, wait,” he follows her into the corridor. “I’m sorry. I never should have gotten you involved in anything like this.”

“No.” She swallows, eager to both end the argument and to put some distance between them. “You shouldn’t have.”

The thump of her dorm room door is louder than she intends, but it’s effective. On the other side of it, she hears him take a measured breath and walk away.

In the morning, she manages to conduct herself professionally, honing some rusty differential diagnosis skills without the benefit of laboratory tests or the scanning technology that she usually relies on. Mulder is polite, appropriate, but edgy. She hates that he’s still carrying his gun.

When they find Murphy dead, his throat slit and his body in the freezer, her whole insides go numb. She thought she knew Mulder— knows him — but could he kill a man? Has she come this far without weighing the possibility that she doesn’t know him yet at all?

When the others start to blame him and his eyes beseech her —“Doc, it’s ME!” he shouts — she wants to run, or cry.

“Mulder, you may not be who you are!”

When they confine him, she’s relieved. She hates herself for feeling it, but she does. Relieved she doesn’t have to look at him with the mixture of confusion and desire that clouds her judgement when it comes to him.

They busy themselves with experiments. The air inside the bunker seems to thicken and turn. She feels like she’s choking, like she can’t explain herself clearly. Like it’s the inside of a tomb. All the ER training in the world cannot have prepared her for what she’s doing now, peering at prehistoric parasites through a microscope and hoping her wits will be enough to get them home.

And nothing prepares her for the look in his eyes when she flicks the light on in his darkened room. He squints back like a cornered animal. “Doc, I’m not infected. It’s one of them.”

She takes a deep breath, wanting to believe him, but clear in her understanding of the situation. “No one’s been killed since you’ve been in here…. and we’ve found a way to kill it.”

She watches the way his eyes widen fearfully as she explains the plan to infect him with another worm. She tries to see some evidence he’s in there, whole, that these outbursts haven’t been the fault of some grotesque creature that has latched onto his brain stem.

“I don’t trust them,” she hears him plead. “I want to trust you.”

She swallows, the air in the jumbled storage room somehow thicker than it was a minute ago. She’s sweating, the hair at her temples curling, her uncertainty pulling her voice into a stretched whisper.

“Okay. But they’re not here now.”

He nods, meets her gaze and turns around. She’s reminded of how tall he is, she has to stand on tiptoe to run the pads of her thumb along his spine. She hears him let out a little gulp of breath as she yanks down the back neckline of his shirt. His skin feels clammy, damp, and for a minute she imagines other, better scenarios when she might want to run her hands along his neck. His muscles quiver underneath his skin, holding something in check as her fingers run across his shoulder blades and she settles back down on the balls of her feet.

A look of relief spills across her face as he turns to look at her. For a half-second, she wishes he would smile, but his expression’s still intense. When she turns to go and he grabs her arm, she gasps. Now it’s his hands on her body that makes her sweat, makes her weak-kneed. His fingers lift the damp tendrils at the base of her scalp and he cups his hand along the plane of her neck.

She’s quivering and her mind reels in a carnival of imagined gestures — his hands on her waist, her hands on his jaw, his mouth on her neck, her breath at his ear. It’s completely inappropriate to the gravity of the moment, given what they’re facing, but she can’t help it. The air is choked with tension, as if the atoms in the room have rearranged themselves in waves that spill off one another, threatening to subsume her.

He pulls away and she looks back up at him. His eyes are wide and full of the same relief that she had felt moments ago. “Looks like we’re both okay,” he smiles, letting his hand linger at her elbow, but not stepping back out of her personal space. She nods and places her hand briefly on his chest, meaning to tap him gently in acknowledgement, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. It rests on the curve of his pectoral, and she feels the gallop of his heart beneath his skin.

Before she can meet his gaze completely, fully intent on backing away and out the door, Mulder’s lips come down on hers and he’s crushing her to him so tightly she almost can’t breathe. Scully nearly squeals and grabs the back of his neck with her other hand, gasping into the ferocious kiss. Mulder moves them toward the wall with the energy of a freight train, awkwardly stumbling them both into the cold metal frame of a storage shelf. He’s nearly dragging her, and her body responds by hooking a leg up onto his hip as his arm comes underneath her ass.

When they’re pressed against the shelf, Mulder tilts his head as if he’s just beginning to get down to business, and she opens her mouth to answer the prodding of his tongue. Both her legs are wrapped around his waist now and her hands are in his hair, as if she could pull his entire smugly handsome head into her mouth.

She wants him. Badly. Like she has never wanted anyone in her life until this moment. His mouth leaves hers and moves toward the tender flesh beneath her ear. She’s glad for a moment to breathe, but already misses his kiss.

“Oh god!” she squeaks when his tongue flicks along her pulse.

“Mmmmm,” is all he responds, his hands now working over the curve of her ass and up along her back.

If they hadn’t just examined each other, she would swear they were possessed by something virulent burrowing into both their brains. They’re a tangle of arms and roving hands and the heat in the room has edged up a few degrees and Scully feels her brain shut down when

BANG BANG BANG

Hodge and DeSilva’s urgent voices cut through the fog as they pound on the heavy door. “Agent Mulder! Doctor Scully! Are you okay? Let us in!!”

[danielskatelyn1990]

9mm Tmj Ammo All Time Best Cool Ideas

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Xeomin Bruxism

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All On 4 Bruxism

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