#give me accidental green hair gerry

[gingerbreadpopsolo]

Imagine doing a dye job bad ONCE, and now everyone thinks you have this look forever. How embarrassing. You can't escape it. You either do the job properly or grow out natural, and as SOON as someone hears your name, they go. "Oh! You're the guy with the bad dye job!" Despite that being years ago.

Godspeed man godspeed

[starrypawz]

AO3 Finally I have written the all important Nemo helping Gerry dye his hair fic

“Are you sure they won’t mind?”

Nemo snorts as they continue to gently brush his hair as they use the closed toilet as a seat, “Trust me this bathroom has seen way worse-” Nemo gives a theatrical shudder, “Freshers will haunt me forever-” 

Gerry snorts, “I can imagine,” 

He sits on the floor of a bathroom that’s probably really too small to be shared between several university students. (Or to be more precise… four students and one… former student whose exact specifics of their existence on several levels including legal, physical and metaphysical is a bit… fuzzy to put in simply). Actually, the whole house really isn’t big enough to be shared between several university students. And although he doesn’t really have any experiences of the finer points of student housing he has a feeling that’s probably pretty common. 

But he’s not thinking about the finger points of student housing. He’s actually more than a little lost in how Nemo brushing his hair feels. They’re gentle with him (And he tries not to think too hard about the fact how rare someone being gentle with him is) and there’s something about the whole experience that’s making him feel a little… floaty. 

“Bobble,” 

It takes him a moment to register Nemo said something and then he reaches for one of the soft brightly coloured ones from their supply run to a nearby Superdrug and Nemo ties his hair. 

“That’s not a bad look on you…” “Really?”

“Yeah,” Nemo chuckles as they flick the small ponytail, “It’s really cute half up like this,”

He swallows and manages to shrug and play it off with a “Might have to do it more often-” 

(And he can blame the reddening of his cheeks on the warmth of the bathroom, right?) 

Nemo toys with his hair a bit more playfully and actually he’d be quite happy to stay like that forever as Nemo bats at his hair like a kitten. 

“It’s… at a weird length right now… Need to decide if I should cut it”

“I mean I think you should let it grow-”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’d be nice-”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it-” 

Nemo runs their fingers through his hair once more and oh that feels so good, 

“I think we’re ready,”

“Oh… oh good,” He snaps back into reality again and pulls a towel around his shoulders and it takes him a few moments to open up the pot of vaseline and work it around his hairline and ears  before he passes Nemo the bowl of mixed up red dye and the brush. 

Nemo starts to work the dye into his roots. 

“It… took me a while to find out I was meant to do that,” Gerry offers up, 

“Oh?” “Yeah…” Gerry snorts, “Early on I accidentally made my hair go green-” “Green?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, “First time went ok… then I think I wasn’t really paying attention to the dye I grabbed the next time and guess what happens if you put blue over yellow-” 

“Oh-” 

“Yeah,” Gerry sighs, “Felt a right idiot for that one… But I guess I was the sort of age where you’re legally required to be a right idiot-” 

“How old?” 

Gerry pauses as he tries to think back 

He was feeling brave, or stupid, probably both. Black ichor splotches on the porcelain (He hopes those will come off) his gloved hands shake and he grips the sink as he dares to look up into the mirror at the progress of his first real act of rebellion and he can’t help but grin from black splattered ear to black splattered ear. 

“Thirteen?” 

Nemo snorts, “Yeah that’s about right for being a right idiot-” 

“Yeah didn’t make that mistake again… still took a while to find the right colour though,” 

“I think I can see that”

“Is it that bad?”

“No…” Nemo pauses “I can just see from where its faded out a bit at the bottom… the colours are a bit different,”

“This is where I find out my hair is patchy-”

“It’s… not really, there’s just like a few bits,”

“Oh,” “I mean it’s not like it’s bright blonde or anything, it’s just sort of… reddish brown? It’s on the underside and I can only see it since I’m staring close-”

“Goth's honour?

“Goth's honour?’ 

“I mean it’s kind of hard to dye back there on your own,” 

He feels the slight pull as Nemo moves to work on the top of his hair. And he gives a little shiver as he feels Nemo fingers run through his hair as they work.

“You ok?” “Yeah,” Gerry clears his throat, “Just… feels nice-”

“Ah,” Nemo then seems very invested in taking their time in running their fingers through his hair (Hust to really make sure the dye is in there right?) and he wishes for a moment Nemo didn't have gloves and his scalp wasn't covered in dye so he could find out what their nails against his scalp would feel… like what if he had his head in their lap and… 

Would that be weird? They've shared a bed more than once by this point. And there's only so much room on the sofa in Nemo's room and…

Oh he can't blame the heat in his cheeks on the bathroom anymore. 

He's blushing, hard. 

I’m probably as red as the dye right now 

Gerry shrugs and then more awkwardly than he plans , “Kind of surprised I haven’t totally fried my hair-” 

“Hmm…” He feels Nemo gently pull on his hair and that doesn’t help, “It’s… not that fried really, just at the ends a little, I’ll just throw some of the conditioner I use in when we’re done,” 

“Oh?” “Yeah it’s curly hair stuff so it’s extra hydrating,” Nemo hands him the dye bowl and brush and he carefully puts it on the floor, hopefully just out of ‘accidentally kick it when I have to stand up’ range. 

“Right,” Gerry snorts, “Now here comes the stupid part,” As he picks up the roll of cling film… borrowed from the shared kitchen and he’s very glad for Nemo’s help as they wrap up his hair. 

“Very chic,” Nemo snorts “Front cover of Vogue right?” Gerry grins, “This summer’s trends take inspiration from the leftovers in your fridge-” 

They both descend into laughter at that, and he’s caught up for a moment in how good it feels to laugh and how good Nemo’s laugh is and how everything just feels… lighter when he’s around them and-

“So… want to go back to my room?” Nemo cuts into his thoughts. 

“If I stay on the floor any longer my arse is going to fall asleep,”

Nemo chuckles, “Right come on then Little Miss Scare-All,”

“Wait what?”

“You know… “ Nemo giggles, “We’re gonna dye your roots black, black, black, black number one?” 

Gerry groans and (carefully) shakes his head. 

“Anyway… Mighty Boosh is probably on-” 

“Cool-” 

[bisexualkramer]

Hi! I participated in @pilesofnonsense‘s 2020 Rusty Quill Big Bang this year, and I’m so excited to share my fic with all of you!

I’d like to thank @aibari for betaing this monstrosity and @cthulu-time for making a REALLY COOL ART PIECE FOR THE FIC LIKE HOLY SHIT IT’S AWESOME!! It was such a pleasure to work with both of them!

Hope y’all enjoy it!

The End of All Things - A Magnus Archives Lord of the Rings AU

Part One: Fellowship

Part Two: Towers

Part Three: King

Summer had come to the Shire at last. The green grass was soft underfoot, as gentle as the breeze that danced through the air, bringing with it the scent of wildflowers and tilled earth. The skies were blue and filled with clouds that drifted lazily about. Children wove daisy crowns and danced through the streets in preparation for the midsummer holiday. The old dozed; the young worked; everything was peaceful and good.

Not that Jonathan Sims would have known. His summer habits were no different than his winter ones. He awoke before the sun rose—quite the feat, in those long days of summer—and trudged down the lane to the Shire’s old archives, where he dutifully toiled until after the sun had set. The only variation in his routine was the thickness of his jacket and the presence or lack of an old woolen hat, a gift from his gardener that had kept him from catching his death of cold for at least the past three winters. Jon, bless him, had never thanked the man for it, but he was still willing to wear it, and that was quite enough for Martin Blackwood.

On the eve of the midsummer feast, Jonathan was down in the archive basement again, digging through a waterlogged box of paper and finding the documents that needed to be replaced. The head archivist, Gertrude Robinson, sat beside him, dutifully copying down an old deed that had been damaged in a spring flood. They worked in a quiet tandem, satisfied with the comfortable silence that came from years of friendship.

Jon had been very young when his parents had died in a boating accident. His grandmother hadn’t been keen on raising another child, but there had been no one else to take him. He’d grown up a lonely child in the country, kept company only by books, until his grandmother had died, leaving him her house. He’d sold it immediately and moved to the Shire, and his job application to the town archive had been accepted within a week. He’d been working there ever since, though he’d only become one of Gertrude’s close assistants in the last couple of years. Still, the two got on like a house on fire, and Jon liked to think that Gertrude would ask him to take over when she eventually retired.

A knock at the door brought Jon out of his thoughts. A young man stepped in, his blonde hair falling down around his cheeks in ringlet curls that made even Jon jealous. He handed a sheaf of paper over to Gertrude with a smile.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said. Michael Shelley had only been working in the archives for a few months. He had a bad habit of leaving his red cardigan in the archives. Jon was beginning to suspect he was doing it on purpose, if only because of—

“Hey, guys?” asked a voice from the back. “I’ve found another one with water damage. Where are we putting it?”

“Bring it here,” said Jon resignedly.

Gerry Delano was a short, broad-shouldered hobbit with badly-dyed black hair that hung in greasy strings around his face. He had a permanent scowl that occasionally lifted into a smirk. Every time he spoke to Michael, Michael would erupt into nervous, grating laughter, which did little to improve Jon’s mood but seemed to make Gerry much cheerier.

Jon hated working with them.

Gerry dropped the box in front of them and exaggeratedly wiped the sweat off his brow. He met Michael’s eye and smirked. Michael giggled. Jon tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

“Right,” said Gerry. “Think I’m off for today. Anyone fancy the Green Dragon for a half-pint?”

“Oh, ah, that sounds fun,” said Michael. “Uh, would either of you care to join us?”

Jon scowled, but Gertrude shoved at his arm. “Go have fun,” she said. “I’m expecting a visitor soon. I don’t need you moping down here next to me.”

“But the deeds—” Jon began, only to be hauled to his feet by Gerry in a feat of strength that stole the words from his throat.

“None of that,” said Gerry. “C’mon. Besides, I think your boy’s usually there on Fridays.”

“My what?” Jon scoffed, but he was already being firmly escorted out the door.

“Lord,” said Gertrude. “Youth is wasted on the wrong people.”

...

The Green Dragon was always lively around the end of the week, but it was even more so before holidays. Gerry crept to the bar for drinks and brought them back to the table, cursing as he set them down.

“Nearly lost one,” he said, passing them around. “Anyway, cheers to another year in the archives.”

“Cheers,” said the rest of them absently.

Jon peered around the room as Gerry and Michael began to flirt rather obnoxiously. He felt his stomach drop as he accidentally met eyes with Martin from across the room. Martin’s expression brightened, and he began to head toward the table. Jon tried not to scowl.

The truth of the matter was, Jon had spent a very, very long time hating Martin. Martin had apparently been the gardener at Bag End since before the previous inhabitant had left (very mysteriously, and no one in town would say anything about it—there were rumors that he had been close with Gertrude, but she refused to say anything about it). Jon kept him on because his rates were good and it felt like the right thing to do, and not because he had often heard Martin chatting quietly with the bees while he worked, oblivious to Jon’s watchful eye on the other side of the kitchen window. As Martin approached, Jon quickly realized that the only remaining seat was the one next to him. He tried to ignore it when Martin’s leg brushed very lightly against his own, but couldn’t quite manage to get it out of his head.

“All right, Martin?” Gerry asked, giving him a smile.

Martin blushed a bit at the attention, which made Jon want to commit murder, or possibly arson. “I’m all right,” he said. “And you?”

The two of them struck up a friendly conversation, which they roped Michael into fairly quickly. Jon buried his face in his drink for a while before finally allowing Michael to draw him in with a well-aimed question about the old books he’d found in his home when he moved, which led to several hours of debate over the whereabouts of the mysterious owner, and then a conversation about Michael’s sister, who had sold the property, and then the state of the small library in Hobbiton, and soon Jon found himself ranting about the properties of various waxes for almost a quarter of an hour.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly when he realized no one had stopped him.

“No,” said Martin, his face flush with alcohol. “No, it was interesting. It was really interesting.”

“Christ,” said Gerry. “Right. I think I’m done for tonight.” He glanced at Michael. “Care to walk me home?”

Michael stuttered a response and pulled on his sweater, leaving Jon and Martin sitting beside each other.

“Well,” said Jon, just as Martin said “Anyway…”

“Oh,” said Jon.

“Sorry,” said Martin. “I mean, uh, go ahead.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Jon stuttered. “You first.”

“Right,” said Martin. “Uh, I was just going to say it was getting late. Maybe we should go.”

Jon stared at him blankly for a moment before the words made it past his ears and into his head. “Oh, yes,” said Jon. “Of course. Yes.”

“Unless you don’t want to…?”

“No, it’s really fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Jon tried not to let too much annoyance creep into his voice as he said “Yes, Martin. I’m quite sure.” From the look on Martin’s face, he was fairly certain he had failed.

“Right,” said Martin. “Um… I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay. Night, then.”

Jon gave him a thin smile. “Good night, Martin.”

The walk home was colder than Jon had expected. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly wishing he had brought a jacket to the archives that morning. The night sky was clear and star-filled, broken only by the slightest sliver of the moon. As he walked, a small group of fireflies flitted through the bushes by the side of the lane.

He passed by the archives on the way home. The lamps inside were still lit, and Jon could hear hushed voices from within. Never one to miss a chance to eavesdrop, he slowed his step and quieted his breathing, listening with all his might.

“… power grows ever stronger,” said Gertrude. “I’ve felt its draw for the last thirty years. I think soon I shall have to leave it behind.”

“I just hope we’re wrong,” said a familiar voice that Jon hadn’t heard in years. A silhouette appeared in the window, wearing a pointed wizard’s hat. Forgetting himself, Jon flung open the door with a smile.

“Sasha!”

She whirled toward him, her dark hair whipping out as she did. “Jon!”

Gertrude looked rather grumpy to have been interrupted, but Sasha’s eyes were full of delight. She wrapped Jon in a tight embrace, laughing all the while.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” she said. “I was going to stop by in the morning. I wasn’t sure if you were asleep.”

“Gerry and Michael dragged me out,” said Jon. Sasha’s face lit up at the mention of Michael’s name.

“I’m glad they’re getting you out of this dusty basement,” she said. “Don’t want you withering away down here, eh?” Her glasses and her many rings glinted mischievously in the lamplight.

Gertrude glanced at him over her reading spectacles. “I’m sorry to interrupt the reunion,” she said, “but I really do think we need to continue this discussion, Sasha.”

“All right, all right,” said Sasha. “Listen, Jon, I’ll talk to you at the festival tomorrow, yeah?”

“Very well,” said Jon. “I’m very glad to see you again.”

“I’m glad, too,” she said. “Take care of yourself, Jon.”

Jon turned to leave, then glanced back at Sasha. As she glanced at Gertrude, her smile vanished, and Jon’s heart filled unexpectedly with fear.

...

The midsummer festival was a full day and night of merrymaking, complete with the finest ales and pipeweeds that could be found in the Shire. People baked for days to prepare enough pies and pastries for the whole community. Everything was shared at the festival, from food to old stories. Even Jon, for all his curmudgeonly ways, could admit that it was a rather wonderful day.

A flowery banner had been erected across the entrance to old Eric Delano’s field, where they’d held the festival in memory of his late wife for the past ten years. (Gerry tended to complain about it, if you could get him drunk enough to recount the tales of his childhood with her—apparently, she’d been rather cruel, and he didn’t feel she deserved such a nice party.) Jon arrived in the early afternoon, far later than most of the Shire, as large crowds tended to make him nervous. It wasn’t long before he was accosted by Martin, who was camped in a corner, sipping at his ale.

“Oh, Jon!” he said, nearly knocking it over. “Hi! Nice to see you here.”

“Hello, Martin,” said Jon. He cast about awkwardly for something to say, landing on, “Uh, are you having fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Martin. “I was just helping set up this morning, and then I’ve been sort of running around with everything. D’you need anything?”

“No, thank you, Martin,” said Jon. “I was just, ah, going to see Sasha. Have you seen her or Gertrude, by any chance?”

“Uh, no,” said Martin. “D’you think they’re just running late?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would have seen them. I’ll ask around.”

“Okay,” said Martin. “Um, you’re here to stay, right?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good! Because, you know, I was thinking we could get a drink—uh, with Michael and Gerry, I mean, and maybe Sasha, not just the two of us, haha, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon said distractedly, still searching the crowd for Gertrude and Sasha. “I’ll be seeing you.” He turned and began to shove through the crowd of hobbits once more.

He didn’t make it far. There was a large booth on the northern border of the property, near where he had come in, that sold beautiful pastries topped with intricate spiral designs. There were two people manning that booth. One was Michael, who was chatting with old Eric Delano by the fence. The other was his sister, Helen, who was handing out sweets to anyone who walked by with a smile and a nod.

Michael and Helen didn’t look very similar at all. In fact, they weren’t siblings by blood; their parents had married when the two were nearly twenty, and they’d instantly started to bicker like any other siblings. Contrary to Michael’s fair skin and hair, Helen’s skin was dark, and her hair was a deep black. The only similarity between the two was their hair. Both had hair that curled in tight coils around their heads. Michael kept his back in a ponytail with a fair bit of effort and oil; Helen let hers grow out around her head, leaving her with a spiral halo that could be quite disorienting if you looked at it for too long.

“Jon!” she shouted, waving him over. “Jon, over here!”

Jon rolled his eyes but made his way over to the stall. He and Helen had a somewhat tumultuous relationship; she enjoyed teasing him (though Jon likely would have said “torturing him), and he tolerated her jabs with the best humor he could muster on any given day. Often, this meant that he stormed away fuming, followed by her very distinctive cackle of victory.

It was as good a friendship as any, he supposed.

“Hi, Jon,” said Helen cheerfully when Jon arrived at her stall. “Here, try a hot cross bun.” She shoved the pastry at him forcefully and laughed when he took it and instantly swore at just how hot it was.

“Hello, Helen,” said Jon. “Have you seen Sasha?”

Helen pouted. “Don’t want to stay and talk to me, Jon? How very rude!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that. I’ll come back later, if you like. I just need to speak with Sasha.”

Helen’s pout didn’t disappear, but she pointed a long, slender finger toward an innocuous tent that was hidden behind the many barrels of ale that had been prepared for that evening. “I saw her setting up in there,” she said. “I think it’s her fireworks, but I’m not sure. She didn’t even stop and say hello.”

“Right,” said Jon. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

He made his way quickly to Sasha’s firework tent, shoving through the crowds until he was able to duck inside. Sasha was there, thank heavens—Jon was just about ready to leave the party entirely if he had to talk to one more person.

“Jon!” said Sasha as she fiddled with the fuse of a long, red rocket. “I was looking for you earlier, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. Where have you been?”

Jon sighed. “Socializing,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Sasha laughed. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You love it.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but he let his expression soften. “So what brings you back to the Shire?”

Sasha’s smile faded slightly around her eyes, which Jon noted and tucked away. “I needed to talk to Gertrude,” she said. “And I thought it would be nice to see everyone again. You know I miss you all when I’m on my travels.”

“Ah, your mysterious voyages,” said Jon. “Any chance we’ll get to hear some stories tonight?”

“Perhaps,” said Sasha, waggling her eyebrows.

“Speaking of Gertrude,” said Jon, “I should probably go and find her. I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Really?” Sasha asked. “She said she was planning on showing up early. Apparently, her and Eric had a bit of a fight last week, and she said she wanted to apologize before the festival really kicked off.”

“A fight?” Jon asked. “What about?”

“I don’t know. You know they haven’t been as close since Eric left the archives,” she said. “And he hasn’t been the same since the whole Mary thing, or since he lost his eyes.”

Jon hummed. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen her,” he said. “When are the fireworks?”

“Just after sundown,” said Sasha with a sparkle in her eye. “You won’t want to miss them.”

“No, I won’t,” Jon agreed. He glanced up at her. “I’ve missed you, too, you know.”

Sasha’s smile grew. “Oh, Jon!” she said, and she threw her arms around him. Jon squawked in protest as he was smothered by her flowing wizardly robes, but Sasha paid him no mind. She squeezed his shoulders tightly. “I know how hard that was for you to admit—”

“I am capable of talking about my feelings, you know.”

“—and I want you to know that I’m very, very glad to have you as a friend.”

Jon laughed, then pulled away, trying to extricate himself from a truly ridiculous amount of fabric. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’m going to go and find Gertrude. I’ll meet up with you later.”

“Go on and have fun. And, hey, try not to cause any trouble.”

Jon scoffed. “I do not cause trouble.”

“Sure, you don’t. Enjoy the party! Have some of Helen’s pastries. They’re delicious.”

Jon made his way out of the tent and back into the midst of the festivities. The sun burned in the sky, and the air was humid and heavy. Most of the party-goers had retreated to the relative shade of the small copse of trees in the northeast corner. Jon spotted Gerry sitting there with old Fiona Law, who was regaling a small group of children with a fairy tale that seemed to have put Gerry halfway to sleep.

“Gerard,” said Jon as he approached, “have you seen Gertrude?”

Gerry shook his head sleepily. “Figured she was with you,” he said. “She must have gotten caught up in the archives. Want me to go and look?”

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” said Jon. “I’m sure she’ll show up eventually.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Gerry. He closed his eyes once more. Jon left him to his nap.

It seemed the whole Shire had fallen into the afternoon daze. Jon took it upon himself to clean up some of the mess while everyone around him slept, then decided he could return to the archives and do some work before the fireworks that night. He doubted anyone would notice him leaving, sleepy as they all were.

When he reached the garden gate, a horrible, wriggling sort of sound brought him to a stop. He glanced around, looking for its source, and settled his gaze on a ball of silver worms that were intertwined so tightly with each other that they almost looked like one creature. Normally, Jon didn’t have a problem with worms–only spiders were enough to set him shivering–but something about the worms seemed wrong, reminding him of rot and decay and illness rather than good soil and the smell of summer. He suppressed a sudden bout of nausea and carefully stepped past them, keeping his distance as best he could.

Hobbiton was largely abandoned, as everyone was at the party. The sun had settled into that lazy mid-afternoon place where everything looked a bit like a dream. Jon brushed away a bit of sweat and then paused, hearing the wriggling sound once more. There were more of those silvery worms in the soil beside the main road, though not in nearly so high a concentration as the ones by Delano’s farm. Jon hurried on.

As he rounded the last corner, he heard something that made his heart drop in his chest: a panicked scream, coming from inside the archives.

Jon ran down the lane toward the scream. As he ran, he accidentally squashed a few silver worms underfoot. The sensation of their segmented bodies bursting against his toes made him shudder, but he did not slow his speed. He flung open the heavy wooden doors to the archives with a desperate groan, shoving against years of rust that had grown across the hinges.

Martin was pressed against the wall inside the door, clutching his chest as though trying to keep his heart inside. His face was white as a sheet.

“Martin?” Jon asked.

Martin whirled around, curls bouncing against his forehead. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was wider.

“Jon!” he said, clutching one hand to his chest.

“What’s the matter?” Jon asked urgently. “I heard a shout.”

“I— it’s—”

“For God’s sake, Martin, spit it out!”

“It’s Gertrude,” Martin gasped. “Jon, she’s dead.”

[mldrgrl]

Are you taking prompts? If so, the handcuff conversation made me think. Mulder and Scully have both dealt with abductions and kidnappings where they were held against their will. I imagine that it took a while for them to feel comfortable with any type of bondage. I think it’d be interesting to explore how or when they became comfortable with that and if it felt really empowering the first time. I especially see Scully having reservations at first but maybe requesting it.

Anon, this is probably not anywhere close to what you want from this prompt, but it’s all I can do.

Possession:by: mldrgrlRated: PG (yeah, you heard me)

I’m fine, she tells herself.  I’m fine, except for the nightmares.  If not for the nightmares, everything would be fine.  It’s easy to hide in the daylight, but not in the night.  Not since she now shares a bed with Mulder most nights.  She almost wishes for a case to take them away so their self-imposed rule of separate rooms during work hours would make things easier, but she fired her weapon a week ago; killed Donnie Pfaster in her living room a week ago, and she’s on mandatory desk duty for a month, which means, no going out of town and since her place is both a crime scene and a wreck, she’s been sleeping (or not sleeping) at Mulder’s for the last week.

He’s too attuned to her for it to go unnoticed.  A fact she expected, but finds disconcerting nonetheless.  It’s as though he has a sixth sense about her body that even she lacks.  He knows she’s hungry before she does.  He knows when she has a headache before she does.  He knows when she’s going to cry before she does.  She’s grateful for it and hates it at the same time.

So, he knows when she’s having a nightmare before she knows what’s real and what isn’t.  She wakes several times a night in jolts and jerks, the heavy weight of fear on her chest, making it hard to breathe.  He’s never been fully awake beside her, yet still he murmurs soothing sounds and his warmth absorbs her tremors.

The cuts and bruises marring her skin have prohibited him from touching her the way in which she knows he’d like, but they’re fading fast, and his hands, though gentle, become incrementally more unbearable to take.  It’s not that she doesn’t want him to touch her, but when she’s fighting demons in her sleep, she’s unable to discern the difference between hands that hurt and hands that heal.

Otherwise, she’s fine.  She’s fine when the paramedics tried to check her over.  She’s fine when Mulder asks if she needs anything.  She’s fine at work.  She’s fine when Dr. Koseff asks how she’s doing.  She’s fine at the meetings with Skinner.  She’s fine with whatever takeout Mulder wants to order for dinner.  She’s fine with watching whatever movie happens to be on HBO.  She’s fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.

She uses the shower as a small reprieve from the day, staying well after her hair has been washed and legs have been shaved, until the water runs cold.  A cloud of steam lingers in the bathroom, fogging the mirror.  It drips with heat, but she didn’t care to check her reflection anyway.  She towel-dries her hair and slips into blue and green plaid flannel pajamas.  The blue pinstriped pair - her favorite - was bagged as evidence a week ago and she knows she’ll never see them again.

“Your cheek looks better,” Mulder says.  They pass by each other in the doorway of his room, she on her way out, he on his way in.  His knuckles brush over the fading scrape on her face and she tries not to flinch as she pulls away.

They sit together on the couch for Shakespeare in Love, but Scully can’t keep her eyes open for the movie.  She goes to bed alone knowing it won’t be long before Mulder joins her.  She’s too tired though, and falls asleep almost immediately.

Her dreams are disjointed, but connected by an insidious thread of terror.  She’s being chased through a forest by a winged demon with red eyes.  She’s caught up and slashed by razor claws on her back and face.  She’s in a tub of ice cold water, her head held down, eyes open, watching the bubbles burst up to the surface as she struggles to breathe and sucks in water.  Her arms are wrenched behind her back and she can’t move.

She’s conscious of Mulder’s voice, telling her to wake up, but the more she strives to get out of the nightmare, the more paralyzed she feels.  She can feel pressure on her wrists, but she’s unable to fight it off.  She gives up, gives in, allows the paralysis to take her, and then she wakes with a sharp jerk of the shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Mulder whispers, his hand sliding up and down her arm.  “You’re okay.”

Her breath comes in quiet, shallow gasps, doing nothing to fill her lungs the way she needs it to.  She’s feverish and sweat-drenched.  Her eyes that had been frantically darting back and forth under her closed lids finally come to rest on the dim silhouette of trees outside the window beyond Mulder’s bed.  She’s about to tell him she’s fine, before he can even ask, but his hand moves further past her elbow and as soon as his fingers brush her wrist, her hand flies back and smacks him soundly in the face.

“Jesus,” Mulder says.

“I…”  An apology sticks in her throat.  She starts to kick the covers away, feeling overwhelmingly constricted in the moment.

“Stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Let me help.”  He reaches over her struggling body and pulls the bedclothes down for her.  Almost immediately, she starts to shiver from the cold.  He covers her again, but only with the topsheet, careful not to touch her.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” she says.

“That’s one wicked backhand you’ve got there, Scully.”

She’s still having difficulty breathing normally, but it’s getting better.  Her heart rate has slowed somewhat and though she shivers with the cooling of her sweat, she’s not trembling.  She’s awake and aware that she’s safe, her body just needs a little more time to realize it.

“When are you gonna tell me about it?” Mulder asks.

“You read the report.”

“I’m talking about this.  The nightmares.”

Up until now, he hasn’t asked or pressed her for details.  She’s been wondering when he’d finally break.  She’s surprised it took a week.

“Just nightmares,” she says.

Mulder sighs.  She feels him sit up behind her and then lean back against the headboard.  She watches the silhouette of the tree and thinks it must be windy outside the way it quivers and wavers.

“I’m helpless,” she finally says, voice low and quiet, part of her hoping that maybe he can’t even hear her.  “What more do you want to know?”

“Why are you helpless?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“I beg to differ.  It’s your subconscious.  You can be anything you want.  Why are you helpless?”

She actually pauses to think about this.  In the bits and pieces of the dreams that she can remember, it hasn’t been about the actual incident, but only about the palpable fear.  The fear that comes from being vulnerable and defenseless.  

Scully hears the snap of the bedside lamp turning on and she reflexively squints, even though the light is soft.  She feels Mulder get out of bed and she turns her head to watch him over her shoulder.  He stands at his dresser in nothing but a pair of boxers, his back to her.  When he turns around, he’s got his handcuffs in one hand and the key in the other, which he shows to her.  She sits up and scrambles backwards until her back is pressed to the headboard and digging painfully into her spine.

Her heart is pounding and already her wrists began to burn as though chafed.  She mutely eyes the set of cuffs, her mouth suddenly too dry to protest.  She can smell the fear oozing from her pores and she thinks it’s possible she might still be locked in a nightmare.  But then, Mulder sets the key down on the nightstand and tosses the cuffs onto the bed next to her.  Without a word, he turns around at the side of the bed and crosses his wrists behind his back.

“What’re you doing?” she asks.

“This is about control, isn’t it?  Not having it, wanting it, needing it.  Take it back.  Start with me.  If you need to control something, control me.”

“I can’t…I can’t do that.”

He looks at her over his shoulder, just for a moment.  “I trust you,” he says, and she’s left staring at the back of his head.

It takes her some time to move.  Mulder just stands silently the whole time, his hands resting at the small of his back.  Something holds her back from picking up the handcuffs.  She knows he wants to help, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to have been pinned down, tied up, gagged, thrown into the trunk of a car, locked in his own closet, strapped to a chair, or pulled himself through shards of glass to escape.  He’s had his own ordeals, to be fair, but nothing like Pfaster.  Like Duane Barry.  Like Gerry Schnauz.

With her index finger, she traces the inside loop of one of the cuffs.  The metal is cool against her fingertip.  She picks them up, the weight familiar, but foreign.  She’s never considered them as more than an accessory of work, never stopped to contemplate what it means to subdue and restrain beyond the initial adrenaline-fueled moments of locking the bracelets on someone’s wrists.  If she cuffs Mulder, he’ll be powerless.  And what will she do with her power over him?

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she says.

“I trust you, Scully.  You need to take control.”

She walks across the bed on her knees and then sits back on her heels behind him.  He’s standing patiently and she doesn’t know how he could possibly be so calm.  She isn’t going to hurt him though, and of course he knows that, which has to make a difference.  Still, though, even knowing she would be safe, she doesn’t think she could do that.

She locks the cuffs on his wrists one at a time, keeping them loose.  He tugs against the chain when she’s finished and twists his hands a little.

“Tighter, Scully,” he says.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t want them to slip off accidentally.”

Scully tightens the cuffs a few clicks and this time, when Mulder tugs at them, they don’t slip so much over his wrists.  His arms go still and she watches the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.  She looks for tension in his muscles, but there is none.  He cocks his head towards his shoulder as though he’s listening for something.

“You could-”

“Shut up,” she snaps.  He jumps slightly and so does she.  They’re both startled by her harsh tone.  She doesn’t even know where it came from.  “I…”

Mulder straightens his head and lifts his chin up.  He stands a little taller, but he’s still relaxed.  She flattens a hand against his back in apology.  His skin is warm and soft, like always.  When she touches him, he pulls at the cuffs just a little and she realizes this may be more difficult for him than she thought.

Since the very first day she’s known him, Mulder can not help but touch.  Even when he’s not guiding her out a door or plucking at her elbow to get her attention, he’s whispering case notes in her ear, or just invading her personal space in general.  He’s always conveyed so much to her by touch or by eye contact.  Giving that up now is like giving up his voice.  He’s forcing her to talk to him, since he can’t talk to her.

“Get on your knees,” she says.

He bends, kneeling first on his left knee and then brings his right down as well.  She has no idea why she asked him to do that, but once he’s lowered himself, she does as well, sitting on the side of the bed.  Even though Mulder’s bed is low, her feet don’t quite touch the ground.  She reaches out with her foot and runs her big toe along the back of his calf.  He clenches and she stops.

“I have all the control?” she asks.

Mulder nods.  Scully slips off the bed.  She puts her hand in Mulder’s hair as she circles him and then kneels down in front of him.  He looks down at her as she puts both hands on his shoulders.  She only takes a glance up at him and then circles his waist and lays her head against his chest.

“Why do people have nightmares?” she asks.

“Insecurity,” he answers.  “Anxiety.  Repressed fear.  Frustration.  There are some that theorize nightmares are a way of punishing ourselves for aspects of our lives we find unacceptable.  It’s also possible that the dream itself represents something we’re not willing to face in waking life, but are able to confront and identify in the subconscious realm of sleep, transforming that which we’re afraid of into something less horrifying.”

“Post traumatic stress?”

“That too.”

Scully moves her hands down Mulder’s back to his arms and down to where his wrists are joined in the cuffs.  She holds on to the undersides of his forearms and pushes the tips of her fingers into the gaps between his palms and the metal bracelets.  He drops his head down and nuzzles the hair above her ear.

“What do you think of me now?” she asks.

“In what sense?”

“What do you think about having a partner that can’t defend herself?  That let’s a convicted killer take her off guard, throw her against a wall, hog-tie her, and who kills him where he stands when she could’ve arrested him.”

“You’re changing the narrative.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“My partner is the best agent I know.  She was surprise attacked, in her own home where she’s supposed to be able to have her guard down.  She was overpowered, beaten, and after freeing herself from the restraints he bound her in, used her weapon in self-defense.  She did exactly what she was supposed to do.”

“What was I supposed to do, Mulder?”

“Survive.  Sometimes it’s all you can do.  And you did just that.  You’re here, you’re fine, you’re-”

“But, I’m not fine,” she whispers.  “I’m not fine, Mulder.”

“You will be.”

Scully’s eyes close against the pull of her brows.  She can feel the crease of tension form above her nose.  She wants the confidence that Mulder has.  His faith in her is greater than what she has in herself.  Deep down somewhere, she knows she’s stronger than this.  She can’t let Pfaster break her.  She won’t.

“Uncuff me?” Mulder asks.

“What if I like you like this?”  She squeezes his wrists and turns her head to rub her face against his chest.

“Then I better get used to it.”

She tips her head back and Mulder bends his to press his lips to hers.  She misses his hands in her hair, but it’s still a powerful kiss.  His lips pull at hers as though he can also pull her doubt from her as well.  He leans into her and she leans back until she has to slip her arms free and push him back.

She gets up off the floor even as Mulder leans back in to try to kiss her again.  She swipes the key to the handcuffs from the nightstand and bends over him to unlock his wrists.  He rolls his shoulders a little and rubs his wrists as she runs her fingers over the grooves that lock the bracelets into place.  He stays kneeling on the floor and reaches up to hold her forearms.

“Your dreams are yours to control,” he says.  “Just like I am.”

Scully arches her brow.  Under different circumstances, he might mean that some other way.  Under different circumstances, she might entertain it some other way.  She looks at Mulder’s hands, cuffing her arms not so unlike the metal ones she holds.  She feels no fear in how he holds her.  Her thumbs trace the inner arc of the cuffs.

“Do you think you can sleep?”  Mulder asks.

“I don’t know.  Can I ask you to do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Hold me.  Don’t hold me down, just hold me.”

“I can do that.”

Mulder gets up from his knees and Scully keeps her grip on the handcuffs.  She looks down at them with a bit of awakened curiosity.  

“I’m not ready yet,” she says.  “But, next time, I want you to put these on me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m not sure.  But, I’ll tell you when I am.  I trust you.”

Mulder nods and takes them from her hands, placing them gently on the nightstand.  “Let’s go to bed.”

Scully nods as well.  She’s tired.

The End

[miphastudies]

17 Questions for 17 People

Thanks @its-bianca​ for tagging me in this! Sorry it’s taken so long, we’re in a third lockdown and I’m pretty sure my body thinks that time no longer exists.

Nicknames: Kim, Kimbo, Kimberlim, Kimothy, Kimberley Dibberley (For some reason my family thought that a nickname based off Cat’s other personality from Red Dwarf, Dwayne Dibberley, was funny and it’s stuck with me my whole life), as well as KIIII (shouted by my sister when she was about 2 and couldn’t pronounce my name, my best friend now yells it when she wants my attention) and Kim-Kim by my Dad who refuses to believe I’ve grown up (beats Kimberley Dibberley any day) 

Height: 5'9 - towering over most men is fun, I suggest it to all of you, I’d rather round it up to six foot, but I probs stopped growing at 20.

Hogwarts House: Well I got Gryffindor when I first went on that site, but being my goth self I had to take the test again until I got Slytherin - as far as I remember I had unicorn hair (or horn?) or something of the like in my wand but I’m not gonna fuel JK’s anti-trans pockets by visiting Pottermore ever again. 

Last thing I googled: The soundtrack for Futurama’s Luck of the Fryrish episode, I knew Simple Minds were on it but I could’ve sworn Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty was on it, but apparently not. I spent a good half hour trying to sing it into google with their new song-analysis thing to no avail, so I ended up siphoning through all the songs Lisa Simpson has ever played on her Sax to find out what it was (I should be doing my dissertation proposal but my tutors haven’t got back to me yet so what can ye do).

Song stuck in my head: yknow wha I’m just gonna list the songs that have been stuck in my head so far today because it’s too many to be just one as I keep cycling through them (also gonna link them so you can see how garbo weird my music taste is)

Run - Joji Alive - Pearl Jam Clinging On For Life - The Hoosiers Tension - Avenged Sevenfold  Boots of Spanish Leather - Bob Dylan Nutshell - Alice in Chains Jaded - Aerosmith  The Sea of Tragic Beasts - Fit For an Autopsy 

I’ll add my current favourite at the bottom too for good measure (Honestly I spend way too much time listening to music and I regret nothing)

Number of followers: Currently 85. I’ve got about 2k on my main blog but I’ve not touched that since July 2017.

Amount of sleep: Good lord, so I aim for 8 hours, sometimes I only get 5.5 or something along those lines, other times I depression nap during the day and can’t sleep at all, sometimes (like this morning) I’ll go to get up at a normal person time such as 9am when my body naturally wakes me up, but it’s so dark and gloomy outside and cold in my room that I just stay in bed and end up accidentally falling back asleep. 12pm gang rise up xo 

Lucky number: 7

Dream Job: Hopefully I get somewhat successful in monetising my hobbies, I’m working on it all atm (I don’t know why but I really hate telling people about my plans because I’m deathly afraid they’ll mock me or do whatever they can to ensure it doesn’t happen, I’ve got this list of things I need to do for my own mental health sellotaped to my laptop stand that had things like when to clean the house, do my laundry, shower, exercise etc, and my old flatmate/friend saw it the other week and mocked me, so I haven’t followed it since and need to find some sort of other way of organising my life instead). But yeah, hopefully hobby based, I don’t want to be stuck in an office job all my life, and I want to leave the UK (although I don’t want to leave my family) so hopefully I’ll be successful enough to bring em all with me.

Wearing: Well I was gonna wear jeans and my Unus Annus longsleeve but I decided to go full kitchen witch and wear this black milkmaid looking dress with long sleeves that I’d bought for work when I got my thigh tattoo started (all the old men appreciated the legs but I didn’t make any more tips, oops)

Favourite song: My favourite song of all time would be The Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony , the band formed at my college, has great meaning and has resonated with me since I first saw the music video after it was played at my Stepdad’s funeral in 2002. Weirdly enough on my last day of college, right after my last exam, I went to get the bus home - put my Spotify on shuffle (bearing in mind I’ve got 805 songs on this playlist) and this came on straight away. That’s probably not important to most people, but being pagan, I like to think that small things like these are signs from loved ones that have since passed. Not too happy that it’s used as the England Rugby theme because it gives me anxiety every time as though I feel like everyone hearing it doesn’t have the same emotional connection with the song as I do, but idk. I saw Richard Ashcroft live and he played this and I legit bawled my eyes out in public, safe to say I’ll try and hold it in next time. I suggest you all have a listen to the song or even watch the music video for it, it’s the most simple but most meaningful music video to me. 

Favourite Instrument: I’m left handed and I had this Yamaha acoustic guitar that my stepdad gave me - and taught me to play when I was about 5, a few months before he died (it’s still weird to me that I had no idea he had cancer at that point and instead spent his last few months teaching me his favourite hobbies) all he had was right handed guitars, so he taught me to play Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters upside down on this 20 odd year old right handed acoustic. He hadn’t played upside down himself before but did it so I could see what he was doing. I remember sitting in our green living room on the couch with him moving my hands to the right position (I don’t know where my mum was in this scenario, probably in the kitchen). He’d brought this guitar with him the first day I met him, it was probably like 11pm but I was 4 and thought it was 3am or something, but I heard voices coming from the living room and had gone to investigate - there sat my mum and my stepdad having Chinese on the living room floor, laughing together, my stepdad saw me and had brought sweets for me and my brother for when we woke up, but he beckoned me over, gave me a lollipop, stuck a two litre bottle of tizer in front of me and told me to dip the lollipop in the drink and lick it (not a good idea as I would’ve been bouncing off the walls, but I think I must’ve had a sugar crash and fallen asleep). My mum had no idea he was coming as he’d sneakily been texting her, asking what her favourite drink was, her favourite food and flowers etc, after they met in a pub when my mum was at a hostel with my brother after my Dad had taken me. My mum told him that the council had given her a place and he decided to show up and surprise her with all her favourite things and play guitar for her after my brother and I had gone to bed, I don’t remember much time passing before we’d moved into his house (where my mum and her new husband live to this day), but they got married a few months later and I still can’t play that Metallica song (I did try to teach myself more of it though). I also had this black left handed Ibanez prestige that my Dad got me for Christmas about 9 years ago, I could play quite a lot on it but eventually just stopped. Very good at piano though. 

Aesthetic: I’m not sure what this entails but I’m a sucker for neon/RGB/cityscapes and that type of malarkey. Also space. Love da space.  Also whatever Cornwall would be considered as. Cottagecore? I think that’s only an animal crossing related aesthetic but I’m claiming it nonetheless. 

Favourite Author: I’m a big goth so it has to be Stephen King by default. I’ve got copious first editions of his books from the 70′s and 80′s that my Mum bought when she was a teen. At my flat I’ve got Carrie, Christine, Salem’s Lot, Misery and The Shining first editions and the others are in my room at my Mum’s house. I don’t tend to read for joy like I used to, or write for fun either but I’m hoping I do more in 2021. Currently reading The Outsider by King, it sounds eerily familiar to a novel I wrote for coursework in college in 2014 and I’m half pressed to think he’s stole my brain ideas. I’m watching you Stephen. Always watching. Always. 

Favourite animal sounds: I don’t have favourite sounds, but my husky Nanook is my favourite animal because he’s dumb and I love him. Also Kookaburra sounds are terrifying and you all should go listen to what a koala sounds like. When I go to Adelaide (hopefully this year, if not next) I am NOT stepping foot in a nature reserve unless I’ve got an anti-kookaburra noise suit on. They obviously don’t exist so I’m gonna have to make one.

Random: I’m part of a viking reenactment group where they use actual swords and fight each other, and we have to basically sign our lives away when we join, to say that if we die, it’s not the groups fault. I don’t actually do the fighting though, I’m part of the villager group, so I do all the crafting and food making and most of the teaching when we do shows. I’ve not yet been to a show as I’ve had uni to go to, but my parents, sister and brother do - They stayed within Whitby Abbey last year during the Viking festival where everyone did the show and the adults got drunk round campfires in the castle grounds. Zacky Vengeance once complimented my shirt if that’s something. I’m also colourblind, got glared at by Liam Gallagher in the Liverpool Echo Arena parking lot and have too accurate a sense of smell.

Sorry this was so long, obviously I felt like word-dumping and my brain has a lot to say as I find too much meaning in these things.  Thanks again for tagging me! I’ve not got 17 people to tag as I don’t interact with anyone at the moment but I’ll come back to this and add people as the week progresses :)