#in my youth i shipped mulder and scully so hard

[recurring-polynya]

For the AU request, whichever one(s) you prefer (for RenRuki of course):

the X-Men universe

the Mafia/criminal underworld

the circus

as FBI agents (the X-Files world perhaps)

So, I got this ask, and I immediately wanted to go for X-Files, because I was hugely into X-Files when I was a tween/teen, and I think that my actual first published work of fanfic on the internet might actually be X-Files. (I didn’t even post it myself, I was like 12 and I didn’t have the internet at home, but a friend of mine posted it on Usenet for me, I have no idea whatever became of it). Anyway, I was going back and forth in my head who I wanted to be Mulder and who I wanted to be Scully, and then I got this ask:

@ulkoilla​ said:

I though the 10 would be full in about 1 microsecond so I didn’t even try :D This is maybe not AU enough for the purpose but I'd love to see your take on Bleach world where the shinigami work among humans as if they were in gigai -> they'll have to balance the supernatural, perhaps violent elements of their life with the modern day laws and such (like in Supernatural). Renji and Rukia have ofc gotten in trouble with the non-supernatural law (meet: Detective!Aizen?) and are on the run…

It suddenly occurred to me, What If: X-Files World, but Renruki are the cryptids. And it suddenly popped into my head exactly who I wanted to be Mulder. Anyway, I am sorry missrambler, if I messed it all up, I hope you like it anyway.

Also, I somehow thought that I would save myself some trouble by combining two prompts, but then it ended up… really long. (Forty! Eight! Hundred! Words! Go to Talks-Too-Much-Jail, Polynya!!)

PS: This takes place in D.C. because it’s X-Files and also because I am familiar with D.C. and I never get to write about places I know about. A half-smoke is a local delicacy that’s halfway between a hot dog and an Italian sausage. They are delicious.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

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Ichigo Kurosaki had known that an office with a view of the Smithsonian might be too much to ask, but he had not expected to take have to take two separate elevators down to sub-basement C, and walk past a storage room, two broom closets and a weird old vending machine full of brands of snacks he swore he hadn’t seen since he was a child.

Maybe Agent Inoue has a huge lab, he told himself. Maybe it needs to be 50 meters below ground because she collides large hadrons down here or so that her work can’t be picked up by spy satellites.

He had to turn sideways to get past a rack of wire shelves full of banker’s boxes, but there, on the other side was a door sporting a handwritten cardboard nameplate reading “Special Agent Orihime Inoue.”

“Come in!” a voice called inside, just as he raised his hand to knock on the door.

Ichigo blinked twice, and then went in.

The office was cluttered, mostly with more cardboard boxes, but books were also stacked precariously on top of boxes on top of books. The walls were plastered with maps and graphs and photographs of hazy blurs in front of staircases. There was a large poster showing a UFO, with the words “I WANT TO BELIEVE” in block caps below it.

A woman with long chestnut hair twisted up into a bun and held in place with three pencils was hunched over a metal box full of diodes and transistors and other things you would buy at Radio Shack. Or rather, that other people would buy at a Radio Shack. Ichigo had never set foot in a Radio Shack in his life.

“Er, good morning,” Ichigo said, as the woman looked up and blinked at him owlishly. “Agent Inoue? I’m Ichigo Kurosaki. I’ve been assigned to work with you.”

“To spy on me, you mean,” Agent Inoue corrected, cheerfully shaking his hand with great vigor.

Ichigo bristled. Yes, he had been directed to ‘provide additional documentation on Agent Inoue’s activities,’ but that hardly counted as spying. She was known to be somewhat scatterbrained, and having an organized person around would probably be a great benefit to her. “If you have any doubts about my qualifications or motivations--”

“Oh, don’t take it personally!” Inoue replied, slotting a lid onto her electronics project, and attacking it vigorously with a jeweler’s screwdriver. “Just because you’re a spy doesn’t mean you aren’t a nice person. Also, I read your file, you have a very interesting background! Degree in literature with a focus on folk legends. Teaching at the academy for the last few years while working on your book.” She took a momentary break from her screwing to fix him with her big, soft brown eyes. “Tell me, Agent Kurosaki, what do you think happens after you die?”

Ichigo froze. “I would be buried? Maybe there would be a funeral first?”

Inoue started laughing so hard that Ichigo was sure he caught a tiny, adorable snort. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t clear!” She sniffed, and wiped a tear from her eye. “Do you believe in continued existence after the death of the body? An afterlife, religion-based or otherwise? The existence of ectoplasm, cold spots, spirit photographs, EVP?”

“Are you talking about… ghosts?” Ichigo asked hesitantly.

“Yes!” Orihime replied with a nod. “Ghosts.”

“We-elll…” Ichigo drew out. “I believe that people believe they observe certain phenomena, as part of the cycle of grief and--”

“Just say ‘no’ if you don’t,” Inoue interrupted him.

“Er, no. I don’t.”

“That’s okay. Are you good at carrying heavy things?”

“Am I... I guess?”

“Perfect!” She shoved the box into his arms, and Ichigo’s knees almost buckled under the weight. “Let’s walk and talk, I want to go get a reading over near Franklin Square before 9 am. We’re gonna pass a really good half-smoke cart on the way, do you like half-smokes?”

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“Take a look at this,” Inoue said, her cheek half stuffed with sausage, jabbing a finger at the LED read-out of her mysterious box.

It was rather hard for Ichigo to see, because he was holding the box and the readout was on the other side, but he did his best to crane his neck around. “What am I looking at? The squiggles? I’m sorry, it looks like nothing to me.”

“Exactly right!” Inoue announced, waving her half smoke in the air. “Not a sniff of spiritual residue!”

Ichigo pressed his lips together. “Um… is that good?”

“It is interesting,” Inoue corrected. “Five days ago, a sixty-four year old woman had a heart attack while sitting in that bus shelter.” On every day since, I have been able to record EMF fluctuations, and on Sunday, I was able to get a voice recording that sounded like a woman reciting a grocery list. But this morning, nothing! Nada!”

“Well, uh, ghosts gotta move on eventually, right? Otherwise, just about everywhere would be haunted, right?” It’s not that Ichigo had suddenly started believing ghosts or anything, but there was something about Agent Inoue that just made you want to go along with her and see where all this panned out.

Inoue shot him a finger gun. “Or, they get moved along.” She shoved a folded paper map at him. “You can put that thing down.”

Ichigo eased the Spirit Detect-O 9000, or whatever it was called, to the grass and accepted her map. It was a street map of DC, meant for tourists, emphasizing all the local transit routes and popular attractions. There was also a great loop marked on it in orange highlighter, zig-zagging back and forth through the city. There was a little ‘x’ marked on Franklin Park, with “Tuesday, early morning” written in a bubbly hand.

“What is this?” Ichigo frowned. It didn’t seem to match up with any of the metro or bus lines. It didn’t even match with the sidewalks, it appeared to cut straight through large buildings like the convention center.

“As far as I can tell,” Inoue said, her brown eyes very solemn, “that is the patrol route of our local grim reaper.”

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“So I actually got interested in grim reapers,” Inoue explained, once they were back in the office, “while I was investigating violent ghost phenomena.” She was eating a bag of corn chips that she had gotten from that ancient vending machine by punching it and then shoving her own arm up the chute. (She’d gotten Ichigo a bag, too, but he was too afraid to eat them.)

Ichigo was sitting at a cluttered table that Inoue had told him “could be his desk.” Half of it was taken up by a large aquarium full of rocks and a water bowl, but no life forms that Ichigo could detect. The other half was covered with back issues of “Ghost Hunter Technology” magazine. “You mean like poltergeists?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Poltergeists are noisy, but they aren’t usually able to kill their targets.”

“Kill? Ghosts can’t kill people, aside from, like scaring them to death,” Ichigo scoffed. “I mean, folklorically speaking. As we established earlier, I am not a ghost-believer.”

Inoue tipped her head to the side. “They do, actually, it just tends to get blamed on something else.”

“By ghost-non-believers.”

“By everyone, really, and that’s what’s so strange.” Inoue pulled a fat binder from a stack of seemingly identical ones, and tossed it open in front of Ichigo. “Edison, New Jersey, 2014. An elderly woman dies ‘of a broken heart’ a week after her husband dies of cancer. Coincidentally, a telephone pole falls on her house the same night and rips a hole in her house.” She turned a page. “Norfolk, Virginia, 2017. A young woman dies in what the police rule as a suicide, despite the fact that she made a 911 call 48 hours previous, expressing fear of her ex-boyfriend. Three days later, the boyfriend is dead of mysterious causes. Coincidentally, his apartment complex suffered significant damages from ‘a wild cougar.’”

Ichigo squinted at the pictures. The walls of the building were scored with what did appear to be scratch marks. “Hell of a cougar.”

“Exactly! And I’ve got dozens of these historic cases. But about four months ago, I was able to investigate one myself-- a young man named Joe Wallace. He lives here in the city, over near Dupont Circle. Wallace had cut off his toxic dad years ago, and refused to visit him in the hospital as he was dying. Four days after his father’s death, a truck crashes into his house in the middle of the night and then drives away before the police can arrive.”

“And he died.”

“No!” Inoue held up one finger. “Scratches and bruises, but he doesn’t die!”

“Okay, great. So what does he remember?”

“He remembers a truck crashing into his house.”

Ichigo scratched his chin. “I am confused.”

“Look at this!” Inoue stabbed a finger at the pictures. “These are claw marks, not vehicular wreckage! There’s damage on the second story window! Wallace had scratches and defensive wounds, as if he had been fending off an animal! And look here, at the damage to the walls of the bedroom!”

“What am I looking at?” Ichigo asked, squinting at a photograph that looked like it had been blown up past the point of recognition.

“There were cuts and slashes in the walls and bedding as though someone had been fighting with a sword.”

“Like a Medieval Times sword? Was the guy a Medieval Times enthusiast?”

“More consistent with a katana. Do you like Medieval Times?”

“No one likes Medieval Times.”

“I like Medieval Times. You’ve probably never even been. But back to the ghost! Why would Wallace remember a truck crashing into his house, when nothing about the scene is consistent with that story?”

“He was...lying?”

“His memories were replaced.”

“His memories were replaced,” Ichigo echoed.

“Yes.”

“By… aliens?”

Orihime heaved a deep sigh. “By a grim reaper.”

“A grim reaper with a samurai sword.”

“How on earth did you come to this conclusion?”

Inoue raised one eyebrow. “Because when I placed him under hypnosis, Wallace didn’t remember anything about a truck. He did remember a monster with batwings and a mask made of bone and his dead father’s voice who tried to kill him, except that he was saved by a tall man dressed in black. The man had bright red hair and fought the monster with a sword that was also a whip and then he wiped Wallace’s memories.”

Ichigo stared at her. “You can hypnotize people?”

Inoue gave him a long-suffering face. Ichigo had the sudden flash that he was going to be seeing that face a lot in the days to come. “Yes, I am a certified hypnotist.” Inoue’s phone suddenly started playing “Tubular Bells”. “Oops, that’s an alarm. Come on, we have a meeting with some important people. Do you like diners?”

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Agent Inoue apparently did not care for public transit, but she walked very quickly. Ichigo was concentrating so hard on keeping up with her that he nearly collided with her back when she stopped very suddenly.

“You don’t mind if we make a quick stop, do we?” Inoue asked.

“You said the meeting was with important people.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them!” Inoue pursed her lips. “You see that bodega right there?”

They were in a part of downtown that was mostly mid-to-upscale restaurants and government buildings and FedExes. But sure enough, there was a dingy little bodega nestled between a Mexican-Indian fusion place and an Au Bon Pain, the windows stuffed with t-shirts from the last administration and a variety of cell phone chargers. The overhead sign read “Urahara Shop.”

“Y...eah…” Ichigo replied.

“That place is a hotbed of supernatural activity.”

“Is it?” Ichigo asked.

“I am almost positive that it is a supply point and meeting place for grim reapers, monster slayers, cryptids, alien hunters, and lycanthropes, but the owner is on to me.”

“I see,” Ichigo said levelly.

“Can you go in and pretend to be a customer? They have lots of good candy you can look through. Inoue dug in her purse and came up with a fiver. “Here. Buy a scratch ticket or something.”

“I’m not buying a scratch ticket, they’re a scam.”

“If the big guy is working the counter, he’ll glare at you until you buy something, so be prepared.”

As Ichigo pushed open the door, he realized he’d never actually agreed to any of this. Agent Inoue’s secret hypnosis powers, once again. Whatever. It was a bodega, there were a thousand of them in DC. They all had the same Nats t-shirts and coffee mugs with pictures of the Washington Monument on them. Ichigo pretended to be interested in a rack of comics. He tended to prefer indy comics over the big publishers himself, but even so, he didn’t recognize any of the books. Maybe they were by local authors.

Up at the front of the shop, a tiny, dark-haired woman was giving whatfor to the man behind the counter, a tall fellow with pale, straw-colored hair sticking out in tufts from under the saddest hat Ichigo had ever seen, a shapeless, battered bucket, striped green and white.

“Well, I can sell you a new battery for your phone, Miss Kuchiki, maybe that would help.”

“Not if it only lasts as long as the last one you sold me! I really need to get in touch with my partner, except that even if I could get my phone working again, his battery is probably dead because everything you sell is the same crap!”

“Ah, that’s too bad! You know, I think Mr. Abarai was in here a few days ago… I wasn’t in at the time, but Jinta said he came in, asking about…”

The man trailed off, and Ichigo glanced up to see the shopkeeper looking directly at him.

“...metrocards. But as you know, we don’t sell metrocards anymore.”

The woman made an aggravated noise. “You’re so useless! If I write him a damned note, will you give it to him if he comes in?”

“Oh, of course! Anything for you, Miss Kuchiki!”

The conversation trailed off as the woman hunched over the counter to angrily scratch out a note.

Ichigo stuffed the comic he was flipping through back on its rack. He skipped the enormous display of bedazzled flip-flops and started perusing the surprisingly extensive selection of gum.

“Here!” the woman finished and shoved her note at the shopkeeper. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Have a wonderful day!” the shopkeeper tootled, giving her a little finger wave.

Ichigo felt bad for the woman. “Er, excuse me?” he said as she passed.

She turned to scowl at him. For such a tiny person, she seemed to contain a remarkable amount of rage.

“Do you need to call someone? You can use my phone, if you’d like.” He held it out like an offering.

The woman blinked at him for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to be nosy! You were just kind of loud and you sounded worried about your, um, partner.”

“I’m not worried about him, I just need to find him.” Her face softened. “Thanks, Mister, but I can’t reach him on a regular phone. Don’t worry, I’ll track him down eventually.” She turned to leave, then stopped to jab an accusatory finger at Ichigo. “And that’s professional partner, not… you know! Whatever!” She stomped out.

What a strange, tiny person.

Ichigo selected a gum and walked up to the counter.

“Oooh, dragonberry lime, good choice!” the man trilled. “Anything else I can get you? Bottled water? Fanny pack? Spare phone battery?”

“I’ll pass,” Ichigo replied dryly.

“I imagine it’s against FBI policy to let a stranger use your cell phone,” the shopkeeper said sweetly.

Ichigo’s brows furrowed. “This is my personal phone. And how did you…?”

The man gave a chortling laugh that sent shivers down Ichigo’s spine. “Because headquarters is three blocks away and only an FBI agent would wear a suit that square.”

Ichigo took his change and his gum and shoved them both in his pocket. “Yeah, well, your hat sucks.”

The man laughed harder. “Doesn’t it, though?”

Once he was outside again, Ichigo handed Inoue the gum and her change. “The owner of that place is a creep.”

“The guy in the green and white hat?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Urahara. You’re right, he’s the owner. Were there any other customers?”

“Just the short lady. You must have seen her come out. She was ripping Urahara a new one for some dodgy cell phone battery he sold her. I think she must have been NSA or something. She said she was trying to get ahold of her partner, but she needed a special phone.” As he said it, Ichigo realized it would be pretty odd for an NSA agent to be buying cell phone batteries from some shady bodega.

“No one came out,” Inoue replied.

“She definitely did! I heard the bell over the door ring.”

Inoue regarded Ichigo very seriously. “Agent Kurosaki. I was standing here the whole time. You were the only person who went in or out.” She looked at the gum. “Ooh! Dragonfruit lime! Do you want some?”

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They were late to the meeting.

Two men were waiting for them in the back corner booth. One of them had pinched, pointy features and piercing blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His chin-length haircut was pretty dramatic, but not as dramatic as his pure white trench coat. A cup of black coffee sat on the faded Formica table in front of him, but it didn’t look like it had been touched.

His companion was an enormous, good-looking Latino who was shoveling pancakes into his face.

“Inoue,” the dramatic guy said. “Who’s this?”

“This is my new partner, Kurosaki,” Inoue replied. “Kurosaki, this is Uryuu Ishida,” she indicated the white trenchcoat guy, “and Chad,” Mr. Pancakes.

“Also known as the ‘Lone Archers,’” Ishida specified. “We are apolitical actors who are interested in revealing the truths that are regularly hidden from the general populace by secret forces that conspire within the machinery of the American government.”

“You can just call me Chad,” said Chad.

“Good morning!” the waitress said. “Can I get you folks anything?”

“Oh, yes! I’m getting mozzarella sticks! Do you like mozzarella sticks, Kurosaki? They’re so good here!”

“So’re the pancakes,” added Chad.

“I’ll just have a coffee,” Ichigo announced. He glanced at Ishida’s cup. “Black.”

“Double mozzarella sticks, please!” Inoue chorused. “And a cherry coke!” She leaned over to Ichigo and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “I’ll give you a mozzarella stick.”

“Do you want some pancake?” Chad offered to Ishida. “I never think to offer.”

Ishida waved him off with a hand. “Agent Inoue. At great personal peril, I was able to obtain a sample of the item we discussed.” He slid a small paper packet across the table. “There are two tablets inside, but one should be sufficient for your purposes.” Ishida leaned forward, his mouth set in a firm line. “I was cautioned very strongly against using this, unless one had a firm plan for handling the… consequences.”

“I understand,” Inoue replied, stuffing the envelope into her purse.

Ichigo wanted to ask more questions, but the conversation shifted very quickly to some USGS floodplain maps that Ishida wanted Inoue to obtain for him that were apparently not available from the public webportals, allegedly because of filesize. Ichigo could practically hear the air quotes around the word “filesize.”

“We’re going to look for Jersey Devils next weekend,” Chad explained, sounding pretty excited about it.

“There’s only one, Chad,” Ishida corrected. “It’s just ‘Jersey Devil.’”

“There could be more than one,” Chad shrugged.

Thirty minutes later, they departed. Inoue had an order of mozzarella sticks in her purse. Ichigo had an armload of backissues of the Lone Archers’ ‘zine, which was, conveniently enough, titled The Lone Archer. There was no doubt in his mind that at least Ishida was completely off his rocker. The jury was still out on Chad… he struck Ichigo as the sort of guy who just went along with Ishida’s nonsense because he was a good friend and also liked taking camping trips and doing layout for ‘zines.

“So what was that thing they gave you?” Ichigo pestered. The idea of that little paper packet had been burning a hole in his brain the entire time.

“You busy tonight?” Inoue asked, raising an eyebrow slyly. “Between 10 and 11?”

“What are we doing?” Ichigo asked cautiously, wondering if he would be able to charge his time.

“We’re going to try and attract an angry ghost.”

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“Are you… sure this is… a good idea?” Ichigo asked for the sixteenth time, as Inoue focused the thermal camera on him.

They were in an old, abandoned lot that had formerly served as a Metro service facility. It was pretty spooky all on its own, filled with train cars too dilapidated for salvage.

It was 10:25pm. Inoue had set up no less than 17 different pieces of ghost detection equipment. Ichigo was questioning his life choices.

“You told me you don’t believe in ghosts. If ghosts don’t exist, then what could possibly go wrong?” Inoue posed.

“Well… that’s true,” Ichigo granted. “And, for the record, I still do not believe in ghosts. But in the Pascal’s wager sense of things, I am considering the ramifications of what happens if there are ghosts that exist, regardless of my belief in them.”

“And?” Inoue asked.

“Well, you said that these ghosts have hurt and killed people before. It seems like trying to attract one without having any method of, um, fighting it, seems kind of… irresponsible?”

“Ah, but you see, I’ve specifically picked this time and location to coincide with the grim reaper patrol routes I’ve been mapping out. Our friendly neighborhood psychopomp ought to show up just on schedule to fight the angry ghost for us. We’re doing them a favor, as I see it.”

“How so?” Ichigo exclaimed.

“It’s not like we’re creating an angry ghost out of nowhere. We’re just attracting an existing one to our location. We’re saving the grim reaper the trouble of having to hunt it down.”

Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was it so difficult to argue with Inoue? Possibly because she was so incredibly earnest in all her beliefs, and all her arguments were in completely good faith, it’s just that her logic came from some other dimension. This woman has solved multiple, high-profile murders, including several that were ice cold, Ichigo reminded himself. So she’s quirky. I am sure I can learn a lot from her.

“Okay, everything is in place!” Inoue announced, placing her hand on her hips. “Go hide behind that pile of moldy seats!”

Inoue took Ichigo’s place at the center of her recording equipment. “Agent Orihime Inoue speaking,” she said, for posterity. “It is 10:28pm. I am crushing one tablet of a substance called ‘Hollow Bait.’” She crunched the little white tablet, which looked an awful lot like an Alka-Seltzer, between her fingers, and then made a flying leap for the rotting pile of damp, orange upholstery that Ichigo was crouched behind.

“So, just out of curiosity,” Ichigo started. “How long would we have to wait, theoretically, with nothing happening, before we would declare this a bust?”

Inoue pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Usually, I would give it about two hours, but if you’ve got somewhere to be, I don’t mind if you leave early. It is nice to have company for a change.”

“No, I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Ichigo replied. “I mean… sleeping, I guess.”

Inoue gave a charming little laugh. “I don’t sleep very well. And hunting for ghosts is more interesting than most of the stuff on Hulu.”

The way that she said it gave Ichigo the distinct impression that Inoue was, well, lonely. But that didn’t seem correct. She was weird, sure, but she was also friendly and talkative, and, er, well, she was extremely cute. Surely she had tons of friends.

“How’d you get into ghost hunting, anyway?” he tried to be conversational.

“Hmm,” Inoue hummed noncommittally. “Let’s just say there was an incident in my teen years, where my memories don’t match up to the property damage.”

Oh. Ichigo wondered if he should apologize, when suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine and a sound like a roar echoed in his ears, except he didn’t actually hear anything. “Did you hear that?” he gasped.

“It’s the EMF detector,” Inoue nodded, scrambling for the reader and Ichigo realized he could hear a faint beeping.

“No, not the beeping, it was like a… a… scream…”

“You heard a scream?”

“I didn’t exactly…” Ichigo trailed off as he heard two more, coming from different directions. “There’s more than one. Monster screams. Not human screams.”

Inoue stared at him, eyes wide. “I don’t hear anything. Have you ever been tested for latent psychic ability?”

There was a sudden change in the air pressure, and a fetid, rotting smell, even worse than the Metro seats. Ichigo grabbed Inoue by the shoulders and rolled out of the way, just as the pile of junk they had been crouched behind compacted like it had been through a car crusher. Or smashed by a giant foot.

“Whoa!” Inoue exclaimed, trying to push Ichigo off of her so she could see what was going on.

Ichigo blinked through the night. He couldn’t see anything, but there was an area of space that looked thick and hazy, like it wasn’t refracting the harsh glow of the sodium street lights quite correctly.

“We have to get out of here,” Ichigo gasped.

“Can you see it?” Inoue asked, her eyes wide and excited.

“Not-- not really,” Ichigo replied, pulling at her arm. The air blurred, and Ichigo had the sense the thing was jumping at them. He could tell it was fast, but he couldn’t see it, he didn’t know what to--

“Howl, Zabimaru!”

It was both there and not quite there, a liquid blade made of glass and starlight, that snapped through the air at the invisible thing. The monster bellowed, and whipped around, charging at a dark figure standing atop one of the old Metro cars.

“Pick on someone your own size, ugly!” the man bellowed, and as Ichigo squinted, he realized that their savior was dressed all in black. He was tall, and his hair was pulled back in a spiky ponytail. It was bright red. He was also wearing sunglasses, even though it was the middle of the night. They were pushed up on top of his head, to be fair, but Ichigo had a feeling this detail would stick with him.

“You can see that guy, right?” Ichigo asked Inoue desperately. “The guy who’s fighting the ghost? The guy that looks just like the guy in your report?”

“There’s a guy?” Inoue asked. “No. Where is he? Can you usually see ghosts?”

“I don’t even believe in ghosts!”

“Well, maybe you don’t believe in them because you can see them and you don’t want to, did you ever think of that?”

“I don’t think now is the time to interrogate my personal traumas!”

Suddenly, there was another drop in pressure, and Ichigo had the sense of heavy breathing and sharp teeth. “Inoue. I think there’s another one.”

“Well, can you get the guy to come fight this one, too?”

“He seems busy,” Ichigo squeaked.

Something black flashed by his vision, and there was a loud crack and a sound of something screeching in pain. A second dark-clad person had arrived, landing softly on sandaled feet. There was the same unreality to her, a sense that she wasn’t entirely there, as well as a certain familiarity that Ichigo couldn’t place. Her sword was bright in the darkness, like moonlight reflecting on snow.

“Oi, there you are, you big dummy!” she shouted at the first man and Ichigo realized with a jolt that it was the angry woman from the bodega. “I’ve been looking for you for four days!”

“I had a problem with my gigai and maybe you should check your texts once in a while!” the tall guy shouted back. Ichigo refused to think of him as a grim reaper. A grim reaper would not wear sunglasses.

“My phone died!”

“Can we-- ow! -- discuss this later? I’m glad you’re okay, I missed you. Why are there so many Hollows in this train yard?”

“You’re such a sap! And the Hollows are here because some stupid humans got ahold of some Hollow bait.” The woman turned, and glared at Ichigo. Her eyes burned with blue flame, like the burner of a gas stove.

That would have been the last thing Ichigo remembered, if he had actually remembered it, or any of the things that came before it.

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Ichigo was sitting at his desk.

Inoue was sitting at her desk.

The sun was streaming in the window. The clock on Ichigo’s phone read 7:12am.

Inoue frowned. She examined a coffee cup on her desk. She took a hesitant sip, and then made a face. “Why are we here?” she wondered softly.

“I hate to pull an all-nighter,” Ichigo said, stretching, “but it sure does feel good to be caught up on paperwork!”

Inoue regarded him. “Kurosaki,” she said, “how long have you worked here?”

Ichigo frowned. “Well, I guess this is my second day.”

“Right. So… how much paperwork did you have to catch up on?”

Ichigo blinked. He very distinctively recalled working through the night-- his hand cramping, the incredibly spicy Thai food they’d ordered, Inoue’s seemingly infinite Boy Bands of the 90’s playlist. “I… was helping you, I guess?” Come to think of it, why was he filling out paperwork by hand, anyway? His laptop sat next to him, the lid closed. It wasn’t even plugged in.

Inoue’s fist slammed down onto her desk. “Gosh darnit! They wiped my memories again!!”

[m-a-salter]

fic writer interview

tagged by @talldecafcappuccino and @chainofclovers; how delightful!

name: m-a-salter

fandoms (i write for): Ted Lasso lately, but I’ve also posted little stories for Hunger Games, Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, Death in Paradise, and Star Trek: Voyager. If we’re counting total number of words written (not posted, and of course you should not care about my unposted writing), I have been most prolific in Battlestar Galactica. Just haven’t gotten any of it out the door yet! I’ve also got some WIPs for Doctor Blake Mysteries (all Malice). In my youth I wrote in X-Files and West Wing.

two-shot: I have never posted anything but one-shots! Someday...

most popular multi-chapter: I am working on my first one, a (probably 4-chapter) bit of fluff giving Ted and Rebecca an alternate first meeting. I never would have guessed I would still be working on its first chapter on the eve of the start of season 2, but I am feeling grateful that it is an alternate timeline that cannot be disrupted by new canon.

actual worst part of writing: Proofreading? I usually experience a fairly sudden transition from feeling like a story is never going to be ready to feeling like it is so ready and I can’t wait to get it up. Once that happens, I find it very hard to have the patience to really read the thing a few more times. 

how you chose your titles: I don’t have one system. A line or phrase from the story that I think represents the theme is probably my modal style (Never Too Late, Century Partnership), but I am also partial to a bit of lyrics from the song that inspired the story (Whenever You’re Ready), and when I can’t think of anything clever, I go with straightforwardly descriptive (One Evening on the District 12 Train, Richmond Sunday Afternoon). 

do you outline: Sometimes, usually somewhere in the middle of the writing process. I tend to begin with a scene or a bit of dialogue I can’t stop thinking about, and then I use outlining as a method of brainstorming something resembling a plot that can contain that first little nucleus. Basically the amount of outlining I do is in proportion to the length of the finished product.

ideas I probably won’t get around to but wouldn’t it be nice: I really would someday like to finish this series of BSG stories I have planned and partially written (Earth turns out to be perfectly habitable, nobody dies, happy endings for all in a Roslin/Adama-Kara/Lee kind of way). But I find it hard to muster the energy to write in a fandom when I’m not at least somewhat actively watching the original, so realistically it won’t be until I do another re-watch. And that might go like the last one, generating 60,000 words of notes and disconnected scenes, but not finished stories! I am still trying to figure out when in my day/week to put my writing time, and as long as it is not a fixed routine I am more subject to the whims of my own obsession. So it would be nice to get my clockwork muse up and running. 

Callouts @ me: Folks often ask me to write more. I love a first-kiss, or first-confession-of-love fic, and often have little interest in what happens next (or, what happens next is smut that I don’t feel capable of writing). My primary criticism of myself is that I don’t write consistently. Which is probably the real reason for all my unfinished work. 

best writing traits: I think my best strength is not about the writing so much, but about my attitude toward it. I am good at writing to please myself, and I generally believe that that is enough. I can easily just decide something is good enough, that it scratches a particular itch I had, and I don’t worry too much if other people are into it. And then when some people are, it’s impossibly lovely. I write fanfic in large part to try to train my brain to be more relaxed about this kind of thing in my other (non-fiction and professional) writing. The downside of this, of course, is that sometimes the half-written WIP is enough to scratch the itch. 

spicy tangential opinion: I have never cared very much about whether the  ‘ships I ‘ship becomes canon. Perhaps this is a result of some of my earliest ships: Toby/CJ, which never came close to happening, and Mulder/Scully, which was done very oddly. If TPTB aren’t going to do it exactly right, I would often rather they not do it at all, so one doesn’t have to contend with their weird takes. I don’t like to give the owners of the IP too much power over me. It seems to be an important premise of this avocation. This is not to say I don’t like using canon as a writing constraint--that is a fun exercise. And I do usually like to see my ships come to fruition in canon because I like to see hot people making out on my screen. But in my mind that is a separate payoff from knowing that the relationship is canon. And to some extent one can get one’s kicks in that way through other means: 

I would love to hear from: @allisonwithcats @professortennant @rahleeyah​ @theodore-lasso @doctoraliceharvey

[leiascully]

Fic:  Between A Rock And A Hard Place (Part Four)

Timeline: Season 10 (replaces My Struggle in the All The Choices We’ve Made ‘verse - Visitor + Resident + etc.) Rating: PG Characters:  Mulder, Scully, Tad O’Malley, Sveta (established MSR) Content warning:  canon-typical body horror (mentions of abduction, forced pregnancy, etc.) A/N:  I’m collecting all the related stories that go with Visitor/Resident under the title “All The Choices We’ve Made”, because it felt right at the time.  This story is an alternate My Struggle that reflects M&S’ growth/change in the ATCWM ‘verse. I’m weaving canon dialogue into the stories in an attempt to keep the reframing plausibly in line with canon.  

Part One  |  Part Two  |   Part Three 

It seems inevitable that Sveta and O'Malley will want to meet with them again, so Mulder short-circuits the whole thing.  He's impatient in his old age.  He was impatient in his youth.  He texts O'Malley and asks for the name of Sveta's hotel.  He's waiting in the lobby with a coffee when she comes down.  Scully's back at Quantico.  He expects O'Malley to find her in the morgue.  A tv personality shouldn't have that kind of access and yet.  O'Malley clearly knows which strings to pull.  Sveta wanders down eventually, startled when he waves at her as she crosses the lobby with halting purpose in her step.  She turns to him and wavers, like she's torn between wanting his help and fearing that no one can help.  Another symptom for his checklist.  He waits and finally she steps toward him.  

"Agent Mulder.  Hello."

"Hey," he says.  "Dr. Scully asked me to check on you."  It's as close to truth as he can get.  

"That's so kind," Sveta says.  "I knew she was kind."

"Can I buy you a coffee?" Mulder asks.

"Thank you," Sveta says.  They order and he pays, and they return to the table he claimed, his newspaper still open to the half-done crossword.  

"I had a few more questions for you myself," he says, after some small talk.

"I know," she tells him.  "You can ask."

"There was a moment when we were talking to you about your abductions - about your pregnancies.  We asked you a question and you looked at Mr. O'Malley before you answered.  Why?"

She laced her fingers around the heat of her coffee cup.  The barista hadn't even tried to get her name right.  There was just a Z and a scribble.  "Because it's not exactly the right question."

"I'm sorry," Mulder said.  "I don't understand."

"Mr. O'Malley told you it was aliens who took my babies," Sveta said.  "But I don't believe it's aliens who are taking them."

"If aliens didn't abduct you, who did?" Mulder asks, already certain of the answer.

Sveta's lip trembles and her eyes shine with tears that threaten to brim over.  "It's difficult to talk about.  The memories are difficult and the answers you want...they're dangerous, Mr. Mulder."

Twenty years ago, they would have sent a girl like her to distract him.  Twenty years ago, it would have worked.  He was a knight errant then, imagining he could save every damsel in distress.  He's learned not to gallop off in all directions now, though he paid more than he should have for the lesson.  

"Everything stays between us, Sveta," he promises.  "This isn't an interrogation.  It's not on the record.  It's just a conversation."

"The things I've experienced," she chokes out.  "They've affected my entire life.  They've made it impossible to have anything like a normal existence."

Mulder leans forward, reminded that therapists guide a conversation in much the same way interrogators do, and he's trained in both.  "What are you afraid of, Sveta?"

"That it only gets worse," she says, and the tears spill over at last with perfect cinematic timing.  He believes in her pain.  He also believes in O'Malley's showmanship.  

"Who took your babies?" he asks in his most soothing, most confidential voice.

"Men," she says in a hoarse whisper.  "They took me aboard their ships.  Their human ships.  I was afraid they would kill me if I ever told anyone the truth.  When I saw Mr. O'Malley...he seemed like my best chance to find out what happened to me."

"You didn't see a doctor because doctors did this to you," Mulder says.

"Who could I trust?" Sveta asks, tears running down her cheeks again.  "They would erase the evidence.  Call me a liar.  They're the liars."  

"You can trust me," Mulder says.  "You can trust Dr. Scully.  Our job is to protect you while we bring justice to those who harmed you."

"You work for the government," Sveta sniffles.

"Sometimes the best place to find the lies is inside the house," Mulder tells her.  "They call me a liar too.  They call Dr. Scully a liar."  

"How do you keep going?" Sveta asks.  Her eyes are wet and she looks so young.

"One step at a time," Mulder says.  "Right now, your trauma is an open wound.  You'll heal with time.  And you'll help us bring these men to justice."

"I want to believe you," Sveta says.

"Me too," Mulder sighs.  

He calls Scully from the car.  She sounds distracted as she answers.  

"Is he there?" Mulder asks.  "Why am I even asking, of course he's there."

"Of course, Assistant Director," she says.  "Just finishing the preliminary notes.  Let me wash up and I'll be right there."  He hears her turn her face away from the speaker.  "So sorry, but I've got a meeting."

"What a shame," says O'Malley's voice, distantly, muffled.  "Let me know if you ever want to grab dinner sometime.  I'm sure you're a veritable library of information.  I'll bring the Scotch and you bring the weird science."

She laughs politely and he hears the door close behind her and then the sound of water running.  "Sorry, Mulder.  I pretended to hang up and put my phone in my pocket."

"At least you got offered dinner," Mulder says.  "You going to go out with Tad O'Malley?  The Tad O'Malley?  He'll show you a good time."

"I'm married," she says casually but firmly, and his heart flipflops in his chest.  "How was Sveta?"

"Rattled," he says.  "You were right.  The same story about humans abducting her, and O'Malley just running with the notion of aliens.  No one can really explain the craft without ET, but everything since then - all the work after the initial abduction, anyway - that's been us.  Humans."

"Does that surprise you?" she says after a pause.

"No," he says.  "You?"

"No," she says.  "I seem to recall you having a meltdown over the same revelation sometime circa 1998."

"I seem to recall you being next to Cassandra Spender as she vanished off a bridge the same year," he counters.  

She sighs.  "There are days I don't regret getting that tattoo."

"We've been chasing our tails for decades," he agrees.  

"They'll reopen the X-Files if he asks them to," she says.  "You know they will.  And then what will we do?"

"That was my next question," he says.

"We can't help her without access," Scully says.  "But it's highly probable we can't help her at all.  Ten year of unraveling the lies and we never got any definitive proof we could take to the public."

"You were right," he says.  "We need help."

"He brought me a collection of photographs," she tells him.  "He wanted me to tell me if they were alien hybrid children."

"Were they?" Mulder asks.

"I can't make that kind of designation based on a photograph," she says sternly, "but my medical opinion, which I shared with Mr. O'Malley, was that they shared a rare disease called microtia, which causes children to be born without the external apparatus of the ear.  Rare, but not unearthly.  Alien in appearance, but not in origin."

"Did he ask you about the X-Files?"

"Of course," she says.  "He wanted to know if I missed the work."

Mulder taps on the steering wheel.  "What did you tell him?"

"I told him it was some of the most intense and challenging work I'd ever done," she says.  "I told him I thought I had felt most alive when you and I were working together."

He swallowed against the lump in his throat.  "Laying it on thick, Dr. Scully."

"I told him that working with you had led to the most intense and challenging and impossible relationship of my life," she says.  "And after all of that, he still tried to ask me out."

"Intense and challenging and impossible aren't necessarily positive," Mulder tells her.  "You left an opening."

"He wasn't really listening," Scully says.  "But you know I love a challenge, Mulder."

"Yes, you do," he says.  

"We need to talk to Skinner," she says.

"I'm on it," he tells her, and hangs up.

Skinner meets them after hours at the elevator.  They all ride down together.  Scully kissed Skinner in this elevator once, Mulder seems to remember, but he only heard about it later from the security guard watching the video feed.  He doesn't remember much from that particular adventure anyway, except kissing whoever Scully was in 1939 and getting a gaudy bruise for it.  They don't talk on the way to the basement.  The place smells the same.  The office still has pencils in the ceiling.  Somebody's taken the trouble to gut and repaint the place, and it still has pencils in the ceiling.  

"Where are the files?" Scully asks.

"I don't know," Skinner says, but he looks away as he says it.  Play the game, Mulder thinks, and they'll find out later.

"You said no one had been down here, that it hadn't been touched," he says, letting a little anger color his voice.  Skinner will forgive him.  They all have to play their parts.  New paint means new bugs.

"Not since you and Agent Scully left the Bureau," Skinner says.

"We're back now," Mulder tells him.

"You certainly are," Skinner says.  "As of this morning, you're reassigned to the X-Files, pending approval."

"Whose approval?" Scully asks.

"It's above my pay grade," Skinner says.  

"We need access," Mulder says, "and we need backup.  We need a staff.  If the X-Files are so important, there should be more than two agents."

"I'll see what I can do," Skinner mumbles.  "Your mysterious benefactors seem willing to allocate whatever resources are deemed necessary."

"Who do you take orders from, sir?" Scully asks sharply.  

"All you need to know is that I'm looking out for you," Skinner says dismissively.  "I've always looked out for you."

"We've been led through one dark alley after another, and all of them dead ends," Mulder says.  "What makes this time different?"

"The world is different," Skinner says.  "Since 9/11, this country has taken a very big turn in a very strange direction.  I'm not the only one who wished you were still down here.  You've got friends in high places."

"All the better to spy on us," Scully says.  

"The danger is real," Skinner tells her, "but the opportunities are too.  You can do something about it, agents.  Together.  You may be the only ones left who can."

"Do we have a choice?" Scully asks.  She's gotten better at lying in the intervening years.  Mulder isn't certain whether he should be grateful for that.

"Do you ever?" Skinner says.

"We'll need desks," Mulder says.  "And a new poster."

"I'll see what I can requisition," Skinner tells him.  "Welcome home, agents."

Scully goes back to the hospital after they finish the paperwork, murmuring about test results.  Mulder doesn't mind.  He has his own contacts, even after fourteen years out of the game.  Tad O'Malley isn't the only one with a fan base, not that he likes to think about his informants that way.  It's evening by the time he gets to the Mall, but he enjoys the walk. He's missed working down here: the bustle and the restaurants, the museums and the tourists.  He walks toward the Washington Monument.  

"Is the hour absolutely necessary?" says a voice at his shoulder.  "I had dinner reservations."

"It was important that I see you," Mulder tells him.  

"We made an agreement about our meeting in unsecured environments," grumbles the doctor.   Apparently working in Area 51 makes a person paranoid forever.  He can relate to that.  He's just lucky that anyone who was in Roswell when the crash handed is willing to speak to him.  

"I can't provide a high-security cordon like your former establishment," Mulder jokes.  "For one thing, I don't have a couple hundred square miles of desert to drop the facility in the middle of or a guard to patrol the perimeter.  But anyone who's out here isn't looking at us.  I called you because you said if I ever put the pieces together, you would confirm."

"And have you put them together?" the doctor asks.  

"I've met someone," Mulder hedges.  "I've seen something."

"You weren't even close before," the doctor scoffs.  "Warring aliens lighting each other on fire.  Weaponized bees.  Every distraction they organized for you, you swallowed hook, line, and sinker."

"I was being cleverly manipulated," Mulder says in a tone even he hears as sulky.  "I admit to a certain credulousness in my youth."

"And what brings this new clarity?" the doctor asks.  

"I saw an ARV running on free energy," Mulder tells him.  "I touched it.  I saw it disappear."

"That's what they all seem to do," the doctor grumbles.

"Their scientists said the materials were salvaged from Roswell."  Mulder paces back and forth.  "The technology exists.  And it's been in use, being used on humans, for human testing that has been consistently misreported as alien abductions."

"So you believe you know how," the doctor muses.

"Yes," Mulder says.  "And I think I know why."

"That 'why' is more complicated than you may ever know, Mr. Mulder," the doctor tells him.

"I've heard that a lot over the years," Mulder says.  "Try me.  Sixty years ago, we were warned about the military-industrial complex gathering too much power.  Now alien technology is being used against us.  Not by aliens or with aliens as I believed in the past, but by a venal conspiracy of men against humanity."

"You're wasting my time," the old man said dismissively, turning away.  "There's always a bad man in the shadows or a monster under the bed."

"What are the tests for?" Mulder demands.  "The babies?  The samples?  The implanted DNA?"

The doctor squints as he steps under the streetlight.  "You tell me, Mr. Mulder."

"Ten years ago you came to me, saying you couldn't take your secrets to your grave, that you couldn't live with it."  Mulder steps into the doctor's personal space.  

The doctor sighs.  "I"m a man of medicine.  I didn't know how my work would be used.  The lies are so great, Mr. Mulder.  I imagined that I would come forward, but I knew that the truth must be unassailable.  I am not sure that kind of truth exists anymore."

"Let me tell the world," Mulder tells him.

"They'll make a mockery of us," the doctor says sadly.  "They'll pillory us in the town square."  

"So what else is new," Mulder says.  "I've been a punching bag before.  I can take it."

"These men are capable of knocking you out," the doctor says.  "You're nearly there.  You're close."  He turns away.  "You listen to me because I was there in Roswell, but Roswell has become a smokescreen."

"So I've been told," Mulder says to himself.  He wonders when all the informants began to sound the same.  They promise him the truth but only speak in riddles.  They offer him the world, but won't give him the map.  He'd have better luck with a sphinx, and she'd probably be more coherent.  

He goes home.  That, at least, is new, that after submerging himself for hours in the kind of paranoia his younger self lived and breathed, he gets to emerge from it and go home to spend his life with Scully.

She's reheated the chili and she's sitting at the table in the kitchen, stirring sour cream into her bowl.  "I wasn't sure when you'd be home," she says.  

"Sorry," he says.  "I meant to text you, but I had to talk to someone."

"Just like old times," she says.

"Except I get to come home to you," he says, and leans down to kiss her.  "How were the test results?"

"Strange," she says.  

"But you expected that," he says, ladling chili into a bowl and joining her at the table.  "Didn't you?"

"They're in line with the results from around the time of my cancer," she tells him.  

"You're disappointed," he says.  

"I don't know what I was thinking," she says, dropping her spoon.  "I thought maybe the chip had removed the junk DNA, or that something about the pregnancy had rewired my system.  Dr. Parenti told me that all of my test results were normal.  But I suppose he lied about almost everything."

He aches for her, thinking of her going through all of that alone.  “I’m sorry, Scully.”

She lifts one shoulder.  It isn’t quite a shrug.  “I never quite learned to trust no one.”

He smiles at her.  "And Sveta's results?"

"Like mine," she said.  "Anomalous.  Like purity control, all those years ago, and all those women in Pennsylvania."  She looks at him across the table and reaches for his hand.  "I wish it weren't always so personal."

"Me too," he says.  

"Do you still believe we can save the world?" she asks, her voice just slightly shaky.  

"I want to believe," he tells her.

"So do I," she says.  "I badly want to believe that there is some point to all of this, if we take up this cause again.  We've come so far, Mulder."

"One foot in front of the other," he says.  "That's how you walk through the desert, Scully.  Or the fire."  

"It's always worked for us," she says, smiling at him.  "I just hope that Sveta's all right.  I don't trust O'Malley's intentions.  She's vulnerable.  She wants answers as badly as I do.  I know what that can do to a person."

Mulder sighs.  "He'll contact us again.  He's had his chance to influence us separately.  Do we play along, pretending to be true believers, or do we reject his tangled web of conspiracy theories so flimsy and fringe even a teenager would be ashamed to believe it?"

"To be fair to teenagers, they're ashamed of most things," Scully murmurs.  "It is the part you were born to play."

"We all have our faith, Scully," he jokes.  "Our belief in things unseen."

"I know," she says.  

[amerraka]

i didn’t have internet or a ship when i was 12

i did, however, have internet when i was 13 on an old clunky computer mom got for her work. i got to look at it after my school work and her work. i didn’t look for anything about any ships... but I did look for x-files fanfiction, which I was really into. i mean i loved x files. my uncle introduced me to it, that one with the vampires with buckteeth... i mean that one where mulder and scully tell dif versions of the same story. i found some random site, it had a good x files fnafic, i still remember it was about lightning. and some more. i wasn’t into shipping at all, romance was barely on my radar. i mean it was barely on it til ... i started writing aio fanfic only a few years ago. then suddenly this romantic side blossomed in me somehow, along with shipping jason and connie out of the blue. i mean, in the process of writing Fallout.

idk if i’ve ever been OK... as a kid i was. or thought i was, except for the times i had to talk to strangers and my bossy ‘friend’ would come over after school when i’d rather play imaginary horse games, and my dad always had depression and would yell at me for keeping the fridge door open too long and call himself a lump on a log...

i would listne to aio and read read read and watch PBS shows like arthur and carmen sandiego and reading rainbow and play my imaginary horse ranch game roping my sister into it, i would do school work and go to parks.

as a teen, tho... got Angst. i rmember getting a white in the fair for my 1st horse show, 3rd place, and i was so mad/sad i went and cried in the car for like an hour. i mean-- not just 3rd place but it’s the danish system where ppl who are most worthy get blues no matter how many there are... and lots got blues and reds and i was like the only one who got a white. that was a first emotional episode

actually the 1st was when i had to go to camp to teach kids bible clubs and mom wanted me to and i didnt want to and cried against it but went anyway. mom said she didn’t force me but she was the director and it was Expected .... and it was horrible. supershy kid gahh i hate thinking of that time... hate hate

ok

then at my 14th birthday we went to New York through canada wiht my grandparents and we stopped at a hotel and i wanted to watch tv. bc they had cable! but mom wanted me to go walking on the beach not stay cooped up in the hotel. but it was my birthday, why shouldn’t i get to do what i wanted? so i was verrry upset then...

and most of teenagerhood was shoving anything down and doign what mom said and going to horrid youth group where i had nothing in common with anyone, and having to talk to Strangers and that horrible time when i went to church convention for 2 weeks with my youth group and the person i had most in commmon with ws the 7 year old daughter of one of the youth leaders. who is married now and has a life unlike me.

then college was... fun. studying the things i liked. hard but i got good grades, graduated... and was adrift adn still am. writing, writing fanfic occasionally, have a lovely cat and warm family... but i’m not ok. bc i have no place in the world and its getting later and later and.... i have nothing to show for being alive.

so i immerse in imaginary games, just like i did as a kid, bc i don’t know how to do anything else. i know how to hide, not cope. I mean-- i love fiction. it’s more fun and interesting than real life, at least the life i’m capable of. i wish i could exist solely in it. unless i can possibly have the life i want... and i dont know how that’s possible even tho i’m trying but trying my best i fear will never be enough...

so i immerse in fanfic and tv shows and it doesn’t get better in the outside world and i get less and less compatible, lol, if i ever had any chance in the first place, an extremely sensitive extreme introvert, can’t even make and keep friends online, get freaked out by every mean word some random person says...

retreat into stories. when my story should be ruling my world. at the top of my game... writing my life story.... moving toward something grand. what i imagine each day for myself but seems to get farther and farther away as my sisters get closer as they are normal....  not some weird obviously homeschooled awkward socially inept person who failed her internship out of college and crashed cars 6 times before she learned how to drive decently.... um...

i could go on forever bc this story has no solution and isn’t a good one.

fiction is my only salvation, such as it is, only temporary, til i’ll have to go out into the cold world that i don’t fit in, don’t want to fit in such a harsh manipulative thing, and probably fade away as a homeless person

"are you okay" girl i am on ao3 looking for fanfiction from my comfort ship when i was 12 what do you think

[poeticsandaliens]

Old Classics

Pairing: MSR

Rating: Explicit. Porn

Timeline: Season 11, in between episodes but before Plus One

Summary: Part 3 of the Attractions of Youth smut collection that was intended to only be one fic. Oops. This one is for @kateyes224​, who posted about “Can’t Fight This Feeling” coming on the radio while Mulder and Scully are on some dusty, two-lane highway, and how they might combat the ensuing awkwardness. I can’t decide whether to thank you or blame you. I got carried away on emotional wings, and this turned out way longer than I expected. Prepare for the feels.

Attractions of Youth  Part 1 and Part 2

Tagging @today-in-fic​.

She always thought of Idaho as a flyover state. A endless expanse of hay bails and silver-bearded men wearing flannel, more cows than people and more deer than cows. The perfect ambience for a UFO abduction.

Their destination is somewhere on a horizon that vanished with the Idaho sun. It blazed like a tangerine in the rearview mirror, then cast them into darkness between the Sawtooth mountains and the fields of Asphodel.

Now, they’re half way to dawn.

Scully drives through starlight with her brights on, the silence thickening as time goes on. They’re two hours out of the mountains, rolling past rotted fences and trading places in the driver’s seat to catch some semblance of a good night’s sleep. When Mulder drives, Scully dozes off, but now that she’s at the wheel, Mulder stares out his window as if he’s expecting Sasquatch to leap in front of their car. Twenty-five years and he still has trouble sleeping on the road.

She yawns loudly and drums her fingers on the wheel. She used to be able to drive all night, hundreds of miles down foggy interstates running solely on coffee. She’s older now; by midnight, exhaustion seeps into her bones, and her eyelids begin to sag.

“Do you want me to drive?” Mulder mumbles from the passenger seat.

“No, I’ll be fine. Maybe we should put on the radio, though,” she admits. She presses a button on the speakers that she thinks might (possibly) be a power button.

“Doesn’t this car have a phone-cord or something?” asks Mulder when the speaker scratches to life, white noise intermixed with the occasional piano note.

“Probably, but I can’t find it.” Even if she could, she doubts he’d be too thrilled to listen to her collection of NPR podcasts, and Mulder’s taste in music isn’t especially appealing on late night drives.

So she flicks through the radio channels until she finds something tolerable. “Knock Three Times” reverberates inappropriately through the shadows. The pitch of fake trumpets fills the car, and Mulder chuckles quietly.

“This was one of those songs you loved until you hated,” he informs her with a smile. He runs his hand over his salt and pepper stubble and looks up at her with eyes like little planets, lit warmly from a million miles away.

Scully snorts. “I feel like they played this song at my high school homecoming.” It’s bad, but it’s the fun kind of bad. Finally distant enough to be nostalgic, reminders of high school make her sigh rather than cringe.

As the unforgettable chorus fades into silence, a radio host with a coarser voice than CGB Spender hacks gutterally into the microphone. Folks, this is channel 91.5, Old Classics. We’ll be right back after these brief advertisements.

“Old Classics,” she repeats aloud. That’s what they are—old, sure, but they’re still kicking. And maybe, she hopes, they’re en route to a comeback.

Mulder sits up and stretches as much as he can in the Taurus’s passenger seat. He is all rumples and loose limbs after six hours in the car. “Sounds about right,” he concedes with a grunt.

The Honda ad dies out, and a cheerful keyboard riff startles her back to reality. It’s the electric-disco kind of riff, and the song is on the tip of her tongue, ringing like the soundtrack of a too-emotional porno. It’s only as the lyrics ring out, and the Taurus starts to feel thick and stuffy, that she recognizes it:

I can’t fight this feeling anymoooooooore, the stereo belts like a punch in the gut. Scully stiffens, gripping the wheel for dear life, and sneaks a glance at Mulder in her peripheral. He looks as uncomfortable as she feels, squirming in his seat and staring resolutely out the window.

It’s time to bring this ship into the shoooooooore.

Shit, she’s not prepared for this. She is reminded, completely out of left field (maybe not completely if she’s being honest), of the first time they had sex. They took a sledgehammer to six years of sexual tension in a car not unlike this one. A rental car, putting its way through fields of juniper. They topped off the encounter with even better sex in their shittiest motel to date.

“Do you remember—” she stops herself, but it’s too late. The words are out of her mouth. “Do you remember that Mexican restaurant, the one in Scipio Utah where I ordered a margarita, and then we…” she can’t finish. Fucked in the backseat because they just couldn’t stand it anymore, because it was a hundred and two degrees, and they were in their thirties and still had the stamina for wild, shirt-ripping sex.

“Eduardo’s,” says Mulder, sitting up straight again.

“What?”

“Eduardo’s Authentic Mexican Drive-in. That’s where we stopped to eat. There was a petting zoo next door. What a day, am I right Scully?” he jokes awkwardly. “I guess we just couldn’t fight that feeling.”

She pretend-laughs to cut the tension. Inside, she’s all butterflies and wooden limbs. She’s not sure what it says about their relationship that Mulder remembers the name of Eduardo’s. She’s not sure what it says that she’s forgotten. She remembers that margarita, though—an alien green concoction of ice chips and cheap cocktail mix, and she definitely remembers the way Mulder’s eyes grazed her entire body as he sipped it with a plastic straw.

The radio croons again. I can’t fight this feeling anymore….

She ignores the heat between her legs and the blush creeping up her cheeks. She ignores the way Mulder’s stare bores into the side of her head, waiting for her to say something.

“We were so young back then,” she sighs. It’s a cop-out line, but that doesn’t make it untrue. They’re aging with the car radio—loud and relevant, but only in the middle of clusterfuck nowhere. They dance expertly in the cobwebby corners of life, where people still don’t have cell service. Where fairy tales thrive, and landline gossip births monsters, and the basement is an appropriate place to make love.

She watches Mulder’s lips twitch. When was the last time they had sex? It must have been six years ago, that awkward limbo after she’d left him but was still listed as his attending physician. She checked his physical health, cried in the master bathroom at the sight of him, then polished off his wine and let him fuck her on the decrepit couch he’d owned since 1994. The one stained with his cum and her beer and their son’s spit-up.

They fucked like orgasms were a currency, and somehow it was rough and underwhelming at the same time. They panted into the musty air, not daring to speak each other’s name. They came silently, and when the transaction was finished she left just the same, tearing half-dressed out of their—his—driveway. It felt like a one-night stand in undergrad, the thought of it more enticing than the execution. She found him a new physician by the end of that week.

“Scully?”

“What?” Scully snips, and her features soften when he recoils like hurt puppy. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m just stressed.” The exhausted drag of her own voice alarms her. She sighs again. That damned song is still playing, relentlessly goading them with their youth.

“In the old days car trips relaxed you.”

“In the good old days, Mulder, I didn’t tell you how much I hated night driving. In the good old days you probably wouldn’t have asked.”

“In the good old days, we would have pulled over here,” Mulder murmurs under his breath.

In the good old days, her hips wouldn’t have ached after sex; she was wetter and softer more pliable. Still, she taps her finger on the wheel. Still, she squeezes her thighs together and feels her sex tingle. Still, she wants him. Not like six years ago, just trying to pound out the pain. No, she wants him with the wrinkles he has aquired in her absence and the back-aches they’ll undoubtedly suffer in the morning. She’s not seeking in him the ghost of Mulder in 1998, but loving the flesh-and-blood Mulder of 2018. Falling in love with him, all over again.

I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for.

“Do you want to have sex?” If not now, when? The universe grants these moments sparingly. They wasted one already, thanks to a goddamn bee, and it was another year before they talked about it like honest adults.

Mulder’s eyebrows shoot up, and he eyes her skeptically. Speedwagon wails obnoxiously; he adjusts his tie and tries to discern if she’s just messing with him. “Aren’t we a little old for that?”

“Yes,” she says simply. She licks her lips, lets her voice go husky. “But Mulder…” she croons. It rolls off her tongue in a lilt she hasn’t used since they called themselves ‘platonic.’ Back when they fucked with words, and she could get him hard just by saying his name because she didn’t dare go further than that.

The ensuing silence might be suspenseful, were it not for the building chorus of can’t fight this feelin’ anymore that she’s afraid to turn off. Once the song ends, she’ll have to fill the quiet and acknowledge how badly she needs him. Not just here, now, but tomorrow in the hotel room and at home when the case is finished and over and over until they die.

“I’ll pull over,” she whispers before he can respond. She stops in a dirt pullout, basking in the utter darkness as her headlights go out. She turns off the car, and that stupid song cuts off before it can hit the final note. When it’s quiet— “I mean it, Mulder.”

“The last time we—”

“This isn’t like that time,” Scully interrupts. “I’m not talking about a one night stand. I’m saying, let’s have sex in the car and then… go from there.”

She can see the hurt in his eyes as he recalls their lackluster final tryst in the unremarkable house, and tries not to be offended. It hurt her too, fishing around the living room carpet for her underwear and then leaving him again. It was the only time she ever regretted sleeping with him, and it took her months of hindsight to realize the damage it had done to them both.

“I hope you know how much I love you, Scully.” His voice cracks.

She gazes at him with earnest owl’s eyes, skillfully fighting the urge to cry. “I’m working on it.”

Mulder reaches over to turn off the car. His hand skims hers, fingers interlacing. “Are you sure, Scully?” he asks, stroking her palm with this callused thumb. “We’re not exactly the young handsome spitfires we were the first time.”

Scully leans over until her forehead rests against his, twisted awkwardly against her seatbelt. Inhaling the smell of chocolate on his breath, she says solemnly, “that’s the point.”

When he kisses her, it’s sweet and ponderous, a weirdly new sensation. His lips stand out like a refurbished antique. They are Mulder and Scully, but they’ve replaced every skin cell since the last time they kissed like this; they have rearranged their atoms into new molds. She likes it.

She pushes the lever on the passenger seat and chuckles as it slides backward, leaving them an open space in the front. She crawls recklessly over the emergency break to kneel over him, still fighting to keep his lips on hers and his tongue on her teeth. She cups his cheek, lets her fingers drift across the old scar on his temple where she once stitched him up in her kitchen. She moves to kiss the smile lines around his cheeks, the wrinkles in his forehead, studying the his skin like it’s a well-worn paperback. Gone with the Wind or Pride and Prejudice, or some other intersection of the tender and the passionate.

That’s the real difference, she thinks as Mulder lifts her t-shirt and unclasps her bra. Before, they flickered between frantic fucking and fragile lovemaking. Sticky and transgressive, or moving together like their bed was made of fine China. Now is something in between.

Mulder’s lips expertly trace the peak of her nipple, and she arches her back against him. She lets him brush feather-light over her breasts with well-trained hands, cupping them like holy water and memorizing the face that 2018, fifty-four and fighting Scully makes when she loses herself in arousal.

She adjusts her position on Mulder’s lap and bumps his nose out of the way to kiss him again. He grunts as she kneels on either side of his legs, his erection grazing the crotch of her slacks. Just to tease, she grinds against him fully clothed, and he groans into her lips. He reaches for his belt buckle, but she stops him.

“Not yet,” she whispers. “It’s not about that, not yet.”

It is her way of demanding, make love to me Mulder, rather than fuck me, because she’s not ready to say it outright, not just yet. She didn’t just stop the car to slice their sexual tension and have a quick, desperate romp in the back. She could’ve waited hours for him, and they could have fucked on clean hotel sheets after a bottle of Merlot. But it’s not about that.

Mulder’s lips linger on her, marking her breast scarlet and moving on to her collarbone. She rests her head on his shoulder, hiding the pleasure on her face and giving him access to the soft skin of her neck. Mulder leaves hickeys as spectacular as Scully did in high school, when the concept of making out was groundbreaking.

He holds her tenderly; even his cock— restricted in slacks, grinding against her, is subdued, languid. They cannot move as frantically as they did when they were young. They won’t even move to the back seat; she’ll make love to him here. She has planned this already, if she’s being honest.

She pulls a lever on the seat. The back and headrest slowly lower, until the Taurus’s passenger seat offers them ample space. Mulder lays back on it, tie undone, shirt untucked. Pants tight. His erection strains against the zipper.

Scully fumbles to remove her slacks, curled up between Mulder’s outstretched legs as she struggles with the black, pinstriped beast. Her boots are strewn God knows where, and the pants are sticking to her thigh like latex, and wasn’t she wearing a skirt last time? She mentally applauds 1999 Dana Scully for having the foresight to wear a pencil skirt that fateful day in the desert.

Finally stripping off her pants, she tugs open Mulder’s fly with trembling fingers and draws him out, sliding her hand along the length of him and savoring the groan that escapes his lips. She strokes him slowly, doesn’t spring any surprises. It’s the softest handjob she’s ever given, but she doesn’t expect him to come before the main event.

“Scully,” he murmurs, “You need to stop soon…. if you want me…. to last.”

She releases him with a wry smirk. “Fair enough.”

Then Mulder’s mouth is on hers again, searching her lips for 1999. But Dana Scully doesn’t taste like cigarettes and strawberry chapstick anymore; she tastes like Green tea and spearmint gum. And if Mulder once tasted like black coffee with Altoids, now he tastes like coffee with too much sugar. He has softened; she has hardened. Scully doesn’t mind the change, but it takes Mulder a few seconds to adjust to the woman he’s kissing now, whose cotton-smooth skin has weathered elegantly. Whose once-cheeky profile has turned stern and dangerous.

The way Mulder looks at her when he pulls away… she feels the years. But if the sexuality of her youth has vanished, in its place has grown something brazen, mature. She finagles her way out of the soft scarlet thing between Mulder and her pussy. There’s smoke in his eyes, and her body bares itself before him like hot steel. Sure, they’re not humping raggedly in the backseat, but she’ll ride him slow and heavy and press her forehead to his when he comes in her, and what it lacks in vigor it makes up for in devotion.

She kneels over him, hovering on the tip of his cock, gripping fistfuls of his shirt to keep from quivering. For a second, he picks at his buttons and tries to rid himself of the only article of clothing not rumpled about the car, but she gently guides his hand back to her hip. It sits on the sharp knob of her pelvic bone, his other hand curled around her neck. He laces his fingers through her ruffled hair. She takes him inside her with frustrating patience. In their years apart, she forgot the feeling of him moving within her, the unique sensation of Fox Mulder. It floods back to her now, as she hits bottom with the smack of her ass against his thighs and her thighs against his hips.

“Mulderrrrr…” she keens, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and using his shoulders to push herself up. She raises her hips and rocks, before allowing him to thrust fully into her once more. He moans, and she can feel his chest rumble like the purr of a lion. The more she moves, the stickier they become, melding together and peeling apart. Two clay creatures, carved from the same mold and animated vibrantly.

As he falls into their rhythm, leisurely thrusting in and out of her, she reacquaints herself  with his body. Her tongue dips between his pectorals and up to the hollow of his clavicle. She sucks the tender skin and winds her fingers into his hair. A cry escapes her as he presses against her clit, and a wave of sensation courses through her. She runs appreciative hands down his abdominals, dances down them like a piano exercise and drags two fingers down his V to feel it bow and flex with every thrust of his hips.

As she picks up the pace, she disentangles herself from his body and reaches between them to press against her clit. Her partner is all pent-up sexual frustration, and he won’t last. She can already feel Mulder’s arms tighten around her. His fists clench and dig into the muscles rippling along her spine. She lets out a high-pitched whimper when Mulder follows her lead and cups her hand in his own. He traces quick circles over her clit with his thumb, and she can see the grin on his face as her breaths turn to shallow pants. His fingers are relentless, his rhythm constant. She mewls a yearning, erotic thing, a sound her vocal chords haven’t been able to form in decades. Her knees bore lasting dents in the Taurus’s seat.

Mulder shudders beneath her weight with a husky moan, his shoulders falling against the backrest. To his credit, he pumps her with this hands while his cock stills and she continues to tighten around him. He drags across her swollen labia, pulses her clit for a few seconds until she seizes. He coaxes every second of sensation out of her, rocking his hips to side to side to keep the friction going. She opens her lips, tosses her head back like a wolf to the full moon and breathes. And breathes, and breathes, in rapturous little gasps. Her chest heaves, fresh freckles and crucifix bared before Mulder’s awestruck eyes. She bites her lip so hard she can taste blood.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs into her hair, “that’s my Scully. Fuck, you’re so beautiful when you come, Scully.” He says her name like he can’t believe it’s on his tongue.

Finally, she settles. She doesn’t climb off of him, not just yet. He plays with the cross around her neck and then her loose hair and then her nipple. He entertains them both while they catch their breath. She observes him, expectant, until he’s ready to talk.

“That was really something, Scully.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah. I missed you more than I care to admit.”

His eyebrows shoot up. That’s her patented look, excuse him. “Big Spooky or Little Spooky?”

She giggles. It’s been too long since she’s done that, too. “Both of you.” Little Spooky isn’t all that little, but Mulder’s ego certainly doesn’t need her to reaffirm how well endowed he is.

“In all seriousness though, Scully, I missed you too. I missed this, but most of all I missed having you by my side.”

It’s ‘by my side’ that almost makes her cry. He wants her next to him, not hanging back in a morgue or ditched on a whim for some half-baked lead. She would march to the Underworld with Fox Mulder if the alternative was to sit by the ferry and wait for his return.

“You have me now,” she promises softly, brushing a strand of her own hair off his cheeks. “Do I have you?”

“I can’t remember a time you didn’t.” He offers her a radiant smile. Scully welcomes it.

She kisses him chastely and extracts herself from his lap, back into the driver’s seat. Mulder passes her her button-up, panties, and a scratchy blanket he snatched from the backseat. She finagles the underwear over her legs and buttons up her shirt. She wraps herself in the blanket as Mulder dresses.

“All these years,” he muses, zipping up his fly, “and we finally have a song.”

“Mulder, “Can’t Fight this Feeling” is not our song.”

“It is,” he insists. “This song inspired a romantic escapade.”

“Maybe it did, but Speedwagon is eighties rock. It’s metallic and objectively bad.” She rolls her eyes and steps on the gas. The car roars to life, the radio once again blasting static. They’ll have to pull into the next rest stop, so Scully can pee. Theoretically, she could wait until sunrise, the comforting privacy of their hotel room. She’d waited that long before. But she shouldn’t have to.

“Scully… where do we go from here?”

She asked him that once, in a post-coital haze, curled up in a dingy Utah motel. It’s possible she has something to prove when she makes love to him for the time in years on the side of the road. Like the first time, it’s a fresh start. It’s not the same as when they were young; they can’t stomach shit margaritas or bear the desert heat. We’ll figure it out, he promised back then. It’s what they always do at a crossroads, after their foundations quake and their lives shift irreversibly.

She watches him lazily, tries for nonchalant but can’t choke back the emotion. “We’re figuring it out.”

Mulder accepts this answer. Laying his head against the windowsill, he sleepily hums “Can’t Fight this Feeling” under his breath. Scully drives. She drives until the pitch darkness of Idaho swallows them and drives until it spits them back up.

[poeticsandaliens]

A Pirate’s Life For Me Ch. 9

Pairing: Stella/Scully

Rating: M?

Summary: Aboard Spender’s ship, Stella makes a bargain for Mulder and Scully’s release.

Previous Chapters: 

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Full Story on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11405793/chapters/25547709

This chapter owned me for so long; I’m relieved to see it finished. We’re getting towards the end, and boy it’s a journey. Tagging @today-in-fic.

Stella’s eyes swept the ship dangerously, softening as they met Scully’s unbandaged one. She hopped from the ropes, landing with a thump between Spender and Scully. Scully felt half a dozen swords poke into her back as the pirates surrounded them.

Stella, I hope you know what you’re doing. The odds stood unquestionably against them. If Stella made a sudden move, Scully was certain a rapier would stick her through. Maybe Stella couldn’t be killed, but the rest of them certainly could.

Spender blew a puff of smoke in her face. “You must be the Dutchman’s illustrious captain,” he drawled, gazing at her lazily. He licked his lips, and his cheeks crinkled into a sneer. “I know a man who’d pay any price to see you dead.”

Stella lifted her sword point to the old man’s neck. The redcoats closed in, bayonets raised, but Spender calmly held up his hand. He dragged from his pipe.

“Fetch me Paul Spector,” she snarled, low and dangerous.

Spender chuckled, clicking his tongue. “Now, Captain Gibson, you’re in no place to make demands of me. Even if I were to acquiesce, Captain Spector is on shore, digging up your heart. Davy Jones won’t dare chase her enemy onto dry land.”

He broke off into a hacking cough, doubling over, one withered hand on his knee, the other clutching his pipe. “Captain,” he rasped, his hunched body rising to meet her eyes. “What will you give me in exchange for your revenge? A heart, perhaps?”

“Only your own heart, still beating. I could kill you; I have nothing to lose.”

“Captain Gibson,” he clucked hoarsely, “let me tell you what I think. I think you’re bluffing, and in fact, you have everything to lose. I think that pretty little redhead came here on your ship, and I think you’ve come to care very much about her safety.” He nodded to a scruffy sailor beside Scully. “She’s already missing one eye. Even her out and take the other.”

Stella whirled like a viper, blocking the buccaneer’s strike. “Don’t you touch her.”

Scully writhed against her restraints. “He’s playing you,” she growled, shoving her captor with her shoulder. “He’s a coward.”

Mulder shifted uncomfortably. Careful, Scully. She knew he was thinking it, even if he dared not speak aloud.

“The captain knows I’ve played her, Miss Scully,” Spender said coldly. “Who would have guessed the Dutchman’s deadalive bastard could love something through those hollow ribs of hers?”

Stella returned her sword to Governor Spender’s throat. “Where is Paul Spector?” she snarled. “Tell me where he is and I’ll make you a bargain you can’t refuse.”

Spender cleared his throat. “Spector is ashore.”

“Liar. You would never send Spector to shore alone. He would put that knife through my heart without hesitation, and you want me alive. Spector, though…” she tilted her head, studying the enemy with an unnerving stoicism.

Slowly, Spender reached into the pocket hanging from his belt and procured a small, silver blade rusted at the tip and crooked from abuse. “You’re right. I would never send him ashore if he could kill you. But if Spector wants to stab your heart, he needs this knife to do so.” His lips curled into a distorted grin. “No hard feelings, Sea Devil.”

Stella lifted her chin. “Perhaps a bargain. Quid pro quo. You let Mulder and Scully free, and I take their place. You bring me Paul Spector and walk away the most powerful man alive.”

Spender eyed her, smoke curling about his withered cheeks. “You seem adamant that Captain Spector be at your mercy.” He studied her, then blew another puff of smoke. “Why?”

“He’s a murderer who will serve his punishment.”

“We are all murderers, Gibson,” Spender patronized, clicking his tongue.

“He raped and murdered a woman aboard the Ophelia, and as its former captain, it is my duty to serve him justice.”

Spender snorted. “There is no justice among thieves,” he drawled. “Allow me to clarify my meaning: why do you think I will hand over Paul Spector at the snap of your fingers? You have many demands, Gibson, and I’ve no reason to acquiesce to such an unfavorable bargain.”

“Oh, I think you do,” growled Stella. “Captain Spender, you wither before our eyes. You are old, marching toward the death that will take us all, and you never knew enough about pirate myths to find my heart on your own. You needed Spector; you needed his youth and physicality, and his pirate roots. Now, though, you need him out of the way. If he got his hands on that knife he would turn on you in a heartbeat, but you can’t let that happen.” She leered at him. Scully had never seen this Stella—the vengeful Stella, tracing circles about Spenders body with her sword. It discomfited her to witness the lawless, no-holds-barred pirate in Stella, even if it manifested to earn their freedom. Perhaps it was a flawless performance, but Scully suspected that while dramatic, this Stella was not altogether a fabrication. She could feel Mulder shiver, mirroring the tingles on her spine.

Stella turned on her heel, her gaze sweeping Spender and his crew. “You couldn’t command the Dutchman; you couldn’t live alone with yourself in exchange for immortality. No, you only want to hold me under threat and use the Dutchman as your pawn, to destroy any competition to your country and company’s trade under the guise of bloodthirsty pirates. You’re not a corsair; you’re a statesman.

“And for that reason, you would do anything to make Spector disappear. At the first opportunity he’ll make off with the heart and ship himself and leave you bleeding to death beneath his flag. You knew that when you recruited him. You don’t have the manpower to kill him and his crew, so until he’s gone he’s a wrench in your plan.”

She lowered her sword. “Let me propose this: you let Mulder and Scully free. The Dutchman brings them home, and I remain your prisoner. Then, I duel Paul Spector to the death. With him out of your way, you take my heart, and the ship of demons sails under your command.”

“Scully,” Mulder whispered sharply.

She craned her neck to hear him. “What?”

“I need to know—” his voice was urgent— “do you really trust her?”

For an agonizing moment, Scully hesitated. She had trusted Stella nearly the night she’d met her, but somewhere down the line she’d come to desire and even love Stella Gibson. Love was dangerous, volatile, would gamble her heart in the hands of strangers if it thought they would love her back. Stella, though—she trusted Stella before she loved her, not because of it.

She angled her lips to his ear. “Yes Mulder. I trust her.”

Governor Spender seemed to shrivel beneath Stella’s glare, his face sinking haggardly into itself. He pursed his lips, and his wrinkles folded into something bitter and unhinged. He teetered on the precipice of temptation—it was so much easier to give into her demands than to resist. It was so much more pragmatic, and Scully could see Stella had backed him into a corner. He sighed raggedly and dipped his head in ascent.

“All right, Sea Devil. You have yourself a deal.” He nodded to his men. “Free the prisoners, but not until the moment you have her in cuffs.”

Stella dropped her sword and held out her wrists, but as Spender’s men reached for her, she backed into the wall of the ship until she stood between Scully and the crew. Scully could smell the sea on her hair and the gunpowder on her skin, she was so close. She breathed in the comfort of Stella.

“I want their weapons down,” Stella ordered.

Scully could see Spender redden impatiently. “Very well,” he croaked, snapping his fingers.

Slowly, the redcoats dropped their swords and pistols on the deck. A young man stepped forward with cuffs, and Scully winced as they clicked around Stella’s arms.

Stella turned to face her, coat brushing coat, skin brushing skin, if only for a moment. “Pirate’s life,” Stella whispered hoarsely. “Don’t worry for me.”

Scully tilted her head, to catch a glimpse of Stella’s face through her unbroken eye. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m saving your life,” she murmured, tightening her lips, “and I’m avenging the Ophelia. We’ve both done what we came here to do, Scully. We can ask for nothing more.”

Scully felt her own cuffs come loose, and beside her, Mulder let out a relieved breath. A gruff pair of hands tugged Stella’s shoulder.

“Go home,” she said calmly, as Spender disappeared into the Captain’s cabin, and three of his men guided Stella below deck. They carried her rapier, her pistol, her hat, reaping her history like market goods.

Another man in a scarlet uniform pushed Scully toward the plank. She doubled over. “Stella—” but a rough shove cut her off.

“The Dutchman will come for you,” promised Stella’s rolling voice. And that was the last Scully saw of her before she vanished into the brig.

The Dutchman will come for us, she repeated as she and Mulder were hoisted onto boxes.

“Whatever happened to walking the plank?” she heard Mulder grumble. He stood to her left, but where her peripheral vision might have captured him, there was only a bloody bandage and an emptiness that consumed her if she focused for too long.

The Dutchman will come for us, as their captors pushed their shoulders over the wall, tossed their swords and pistols into the waves, piece by piece. As crystal water churned and lapped for them, straining against the ship. The Dutchman will always come. She didn’t give Spender’s men the satisfaction of seeing her flail when she leapt into the water.

The waves were comfortingly cool, but she struggled to stay afloat in drenched clothing. Her eyes squeezed shut, she dove to the bottom and felt around the sand for her possessions. A pistol brushed her palm almost instantly, and she recognized its engraved handle as her father’s. Otherwise, all she felt was silt and salt, engulfing her in clouds.

She rose again, sputtering. “Mulder!” she shouted, wiping the salt water from her eye. His blurry shape emerged further from the retreating ship, and she swam toward him frantically. “Mulder, are you all right?” She ran her hand over his soaked cheek and clung to him like a lifeline.

He coughed and shook out his hair. “Yes,” he croaked, “although it hardly matters.” He treaded against the Caribbean sea, exhaustion settling into his features. “We’re going to die here. Either we’ll be killed when we set foot on that island, or we’ll drown.”

“No. We will not die here. I came to save your life, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” She pulled him out to sea by his shirt, putting distance between them and the Claudius. Spender’s men stood like slender trees along the wall of the ship, watching them flounder at sea.

Stella. She couldn’t help but look back at the foreboding vessel. Stella, Stella, Stella, her lover’s name crawled up her throat and into her ears, and all she could imagine when she glanced over her shoulder at the Claudius was Stella locked in its brig. Or perhaps seated across from Spender’s lecherous face, inhaling his pipe smoke. She thought of his wrinkled hands mishandling Stella’s beating heart while she wasted below deck, bent to his orders. Would Stella ever let Spender take the Dutchman from her? Or would she rather he let some hapless soldier stab her heart, and be bound to her ship for eternity? She would think of holding them off until the Dutchman returned Mulder and Scully to Port Washington.

No. They wouldn’t go to Port Washington. Not without Stella Gibson.

The water bubbled beneath her feet, as if something—or someone—moved beneath her. Mulder startled from her grip, limbs flailing. He probably thought it was the fucking kraken. He swam out of the way of rising water column, coming to rest a few meters away.

“Mulder, come back!” she rolled her eyes. It was a familiar current, rolling beneath her. She knew what the bubbling surface of the sea churned up, and she welcomed it.

“Scully, you may not believe in merfolk,” he called to her, “but we don’t know what unearthly creatures live in this lagoon.”

The curled bow of a rowboat broke the surface with zeal, creaking and spraying sea foam into the air. Scully felt it rock against her feet as it lifted her out of the water, and its bucket began to empty the ocean from its confines. She was relieved to see her possessions—sword and all—tucked safely at her feet and didn’t bother to question their presence. Scully shivered at the sudden touch of wind as the boat slapped waves and drifted steadily toward Mulder.

Mulder was motionless but for his treading legs. His jaw hung open as he took in the barnacle-laden rowboat, elaborately crafted, its oars rowing themselves forward. Scully reached over the side of the boat and offered her hand. Wordlessly, he took it, and together they hauled him into the boat. A shiver slid his spine, and he drew his knees to his chest. Again, Scully was struck by his lanky frame, the weight he had lost and the dramatic sharpness of his angles. Composed of dark circles and tough bones, he needed rest. He needed food.

“Scully,” he breathed, shaking the saltwater from his hair and face. “Scully, where the hell are we?” He gazed at her through earnest eyes, always questioning.

She took a long, slow breath and looked at him—really looked at him, right through his skull the way no one else could. “We’re going to the Flying Dutchman, Mulder.”

She wasn’t sure, after months without him, if Mulder’s silence signaled acceptance or disorientation. There was something unfathomably lonely about his features in this light, and she softened to his attitude. Instead of puzzling over him, she watched the cliffs pass them by as they arced around a rocky peninsula. Slowly, the cliffs gave way to open ocean. Slowly, the Dutchman’s bare masts and Jolly Rodger fell into view. Its greened boards, suffocated by barnacles and slick seaweed, its bundled sails, its proud stern reaching for gulls overhead.

The Dutchman will always come.

The rowboat tucked into the side of the ship, and she reached for the rope ladder to pull herself over the wall. Mulder followed her lead, still quiet, still stunned. As soon as they had boarded the ship, the sails dropped around them, and she heard the anchor rise. Wind billowed toward the island, beating their sails relentlessly, and the Dutchman braced against it.

Mulder craned his neck to the flag. Scully remembered the owl perched atop the crow’s nest, now nowhere to be seen. As she gathered her sword and coat from the rowboat, where it hung over the side of Stella’s ship, Mulder wandered aimlessly about the deck, soaking wet and utterly confused.

“Mulder,” she called and angled her head to the Captain’s cabin. “Come on.”

He followed her into the lush cabin. Stella’s clothing was still strewn to dry over the fireplace. Stella’s bandanna rested on a chair. The bedroom door hung open, revealing tousled sheets, the smell of candles and rum. She hung her coat by the fire and went into the bedroom to change.

When she came out, bearing clean clothes and bottle of rum, she found Mulder seated in a dining chair, resting his chin on his hand and focusing intensely on nothing in particular. She tossed him an oversized linen shirt, the same shirt of her brother’s that she had stolen the night she stowed away. It landed on the table in front of him. “It’s dry,” she explained nonchalantly. A pause. “Mulder?”

He shook himself from a stupor. “I’m sorry, I just… I’m not used to this.”

“Not used to what?”

“This place.” He sounded affronted that she’d even ask. “This ghost ship, this pirate life, this—” he gestured between them. “—thing of getting used to each other again. I don’t know what to make of it yet.”

She felt for a moment as though she’d taken his place. Mulder was the man of myths and archives, and here she was striding about the home of Davy Jones, loving a living legend. And here Mulder sat, mere hours out of captivity. There was the loneliness again, seeping into his hazel eyes, and it only then struck her how long they had both been away from home.

Mulder had been gone for months, and the Scully who found him was not the Scully he left. She’d seen monsters of which he could only dream. She knew the sea like he’d never had a chance to learn, and now, he was alone in the Caribbean, re-learning the woman he once knew best.

“Mulder,” she said softly, sitting down beside him and taking his hands into hers. “You don’t have to be accustomed to me yet. I’ve lived like a pirate for the last few moons. Hell, I’ve lived with an undead pirate. I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through, and you cannot understand what I went through to get you back, but I would do it all over again. Every day, every fucking day of it.”

 At that, he grinned, lopsided and child-like. “You’re crasser than the Scully I left behind.” Gingerly, he touched the bandage wound around her eye, and his lip trembled. “I’m sorry for what happened, Scully. I’m sorry for your eye, and… I’m sorry for Stella.”

The cadence of his voice gave her pause. He was apologizing, but also asking—how close was she to Stella Gibson? She faltered, unsure whether she was prepared to answer.

“It’s okay,” she promised. She leaned forward until her forehead balanced against his. “It’s okay. I’m going to get her back.”

Mulder lifted his head, just barely. He nodded and asked, still running his thumb comfortingly over her hand, still holding her like he had so many times, “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

She couldn’t swallow the sob that seized her. It squeezed her throat like a kraken’s arm. Tears welled in her eye, threatening to spill and pool into the sleepless bags above her cheeks. Her lip trembled, and she allowed herself to sink into Mulder’s arms as she wept. Not just for Stella, but for her bloody eye socket, for Mulder’s gaunt face, for the life they were walking into. She wept for her mother alone in the house on the hill, for the nameless woman who died at Spector’s hand, and for Dani and Tom on the Ophelia listening to their captain sing as she sliced out her own heart.

Maybe, maybe, Scully understood now, why Stella locked herself alone in that cabin. Why she hunched against a rocking cabinet and sang to drown out her own pain when she shoved Padgett’s knife into her sternum. Why she took the chest from her father’s nightstand, why she sequestered herself on a ship of ghosts.

“I don’t know,” she croaked. Maybe she loves her. Almost, if only with more time and less urgency.

“Oh, Scully.” Mulder engulfed her in a hug, settling her chin on his head and stroking her shorn hair. “She would only do that for someone she loves unequivocally, you know that.”

She whimpered, tried too hard not to. “I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

What Stella would do. “I’m going—” a painful hiccup— “I’m going to save her. We’re going to save her.”

Mulder released her with a warm smile. “That’s the Scully I know and love.”

Shakily, Scully got to her feet. Her eye was beginning to throb, like tiny bullets pulsing through her skull. She swallowed hard and ignored the sting of salt on blood. “The Dutchman was ordered to take us home,” she told Mulder, slowly regaining her staunch confidence. “We’re going to change its mind.”

She snatched Stella’s bandanna off the chair and with delicate fingers, pulled the soaked rag off her face. That was where the rum came in—it would clean the salt and dirt from her wound, at least temporarily, and prevent the worst infections until she could properly look after it. One hand covered her good eye; the other topped the bottle with her thumb and dribbled it messily into where she thought the bloody socket would be. She winced as it touched her skin and squeezed Mulder’s hand. If she was hurting him, he didn’t protest. Satisfied the booze had done its job, she tied Stella’s kerchief around her head. It seemed the bleeding had stopped, at least, because all she smelled in the new tourniquet was alcohol.

She inhaled through her nose and exhaled through tight lips. “Let’s go.”

Ropes flew about the deck, and sails twerked and flapped, lusting after a tailwind. Scully climbed the stairs to the wheel and grasped its spoke, just as she’d seen Stella do so many times, wrapping her fingers around the smooth wood and angling her body to the horizon. Today, though, she tore the Dutchman away from the dome of a setting sun. She tugged the wheel toward the Hall of the Moerae, but it resisted.

Mulder hurried up the stairs. She beckoned to the wheel, “Mulder, help me out,” and he grabbed onto another spoke, pulling with all his might. The wheel didn’t budge.

“The Dutchman wants to go to sea,” he said defeatedly, letting go of the wheel and resting his hands on his knees. “Stella told it to take us home, and it only listens to its captain.”

Scully narrowed her eye. She folded her arms over her chest, arched her eyebrow skeptically. If this ship would obey Stella, it could listen to her. “Not today.” She lifted her arms and swept the ship with a hardened visage and a challenging eye. “You hear that?” she shouted. “You will listen to me! All of you! Every ruined soul on this ship will stop what it’s doing and listen!” She unsheathed her sword—Stella’s father’s sword—with a smooth snick, and raised it to the sails, curling her fist around the railing and planting her feet on the stern.

“If you ever want to see a Heaven or an Underworld, you will obey my command. Davy Jones isn’t here! I am! The wind’s on my side, and the Dutchman will sail for me. Now I want a full canvas, and every cannon at the ready.” She approached the wheel and gave it an experimental thrust. It creaked and spun, humming like a cricket on its axle, and the ship groaned beneath her feet as it banked starboard.

Scully narrowed her eyes at the approaching cliffs. “Mulder!” she snapped. He looked at her with a combination of pride and awe. “Get up to the crow’s nest, now!”

He nodded and with neither pause nor question hurried down the stairs, hopping on to the foremast webbing. He climbed like a spider. Scully followed him, clambering up the stale ropes until she reached the glorified bucket where she could overlook the island. “Now,” she told the ship, “Sink, undetected, until the only thing above water is our heads.”

Mulder looked at her as if she’d gone insane, but he didn’t protest. Slowly, the sea approached them, the Dutchman disappearing undersea as if it had never been more than a mirage. The sea lapped at her chest, but she kept her feet planted firmly atop the mast. They drifted past the white cliffs, past hordes of screaming gulls and back into the lagoon. The Claudius hadn’t budged. Then, as she surveyed the shoreline, her breath caught in her throat.

Specks of men in rowboats, approaching the Claudius. In the front boat, a man stood stiff against the whitecaps, carrying what looked like a treasure chest under his arm. So, he had found Stella’s heart after all. She stiffened, and underwater Mulder clasped her hand. “They knew where to look,” he murmured gravely.

Scully clenched her jaw. “He won’t open it. Not before I blow him to smithereens.”

“What about Stella?”

The wan smile that passed Scully’s lips was chilling, and she allowed it to be. “Stella can’t die.”

They closed in on the unsuspecting redcoats, creeping up until they nearly paralleled the Claudius. “Hold on, Mulder,” she muttered, then to the ship, barely louder— “Cannons at the ready, rise for battle.”

She gripped the flagpole with both hands as the mast rumbled, and the water at her neck roiled violently. The ocean shook like its gods were rising from the sand, and all Hell was coming loose. The Dutchman erupted toward the sky, arching backwards and then hurling its weight toward the bow. Scully could hear Spender’s men shout and curse, and in her peripheral, she spotted some of them scrambling chaotically about the Claudius’s deck. Others stood stone-still, as if they hadn’t believed the Dutchman truly existed. A surge of electricity ran through Scully’s veins, towering as she was beside the Jolly Rodger. Her lip curled; the ragged, rum-soaked ends of her bandage flapped in the breeze; she faced head-on the men who took her captain and her eye, as she bellowed from deep in her chest, “Fire all!”

Cannons rattled. The Claudius didn’t even have time to open its gun ports before cannonballs ripped through its flank. Flames erupted from the ballast first, barrels of gunpowder shooting into the sky. The ship’s starboard flank shone like a foreboding dawn, before it burst into splinters and ash with a force that rocked the Dutchman. Soldiers and buccaneers alike leapt into the water; wreckage flew in all directions. The sky turned the color of rotting wood as the ship smoldered. The mizzenmast was the first to fall, toppling into the quarterdeck with a resounding crack. Then, the other two poles, the black flag flailing with them. The ship split in half; fire burst from its underbelly.

The Dutchman fired its last row of cannonballs and sailed out of its way. Scully watched the destruction, her mouth set in a grim line. If you want to live, you have to be able to live your own actions, Stella’s voice rang in her head. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of burning wood. She could live with this.

[lynmars79]

I certainly remember seeing Mulder paired with other male characters in various fics in my youth; usually Skinner, sometimes Krycek, occasionally CSM—but the mlm ships were always a minority compared to Mulder/Scully.

A lot of that has to do with the actors’ chemistry, the will they/won’t they platonic early seasons where they tried hard to avoid a romantic relationship at all between the two leads, and also the writing for Scully being fairly decent at the time in terms of treating her like a person and a respected doctor and agent (though her bodily autonomy and reproductive ability were misused a lot, it wasn’t unusual in the course of the show, either, and male characters were also in similar situations of non-consent).

It’s been a good 15 or so years since I’ve seen anything X-Files related though. Maybe I should delve back in and see how bad it makes me eye roll now or if it holds up. I do recall some terrifying episodes when they just did mystery of the week instead of the grand overarching conspiracy.

Honestly, the weirdest thing about The X-Files is that the writers spent several seasons deliberately trying to establish a homoerotic subtext between the male lead and his male rival-slash-frenemy, and the fandom just went “no, thank you, we prefer the straight ship”.