#in which scully gets sick and mulder buys rings

[silhouetteofacedar]

Pearl, Ch. 4: Sea Legs on 7th

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

It’s only a ten minute walk from the bureau to the courthouse, but Mulder is starting to regret not insisting they drive.

Scully’s having a rough day, if her sallow face and pursed lips are any indication. She’s uncomfortably quiet.

“You alright?” Mulder asks, hovering over her as they walk.

“M’fine,” she answers, because that’s all she ever says. “Just queasy today.”

“Let me know if you need to sit down for a minute,” he says, and she bristles.

“We have an appointment to make, Mulder,” she reminds him. “We’re almost there anyway.”

Mulder’s stomach is unsteady too; not from chemotherapy, but from nerves. They’re applying for their marriage license today.

It’s happening, it’s all happening, and all he can do is shorten his steps to match Scully’s pace as they walk. She senses this and starts walking faster in response. Scully has an incredible talent for pushing Mulder away in the smallest ways possible, telegraphing with her body that she doesn’t need his help or his pity or his accommodation.

And yet they’re heading to the DC Marriage Bureau. Funny, that.

Scully’s face is clammy by the time they enter the Moultrie Courthouse.

“Hey,” Mulder says softly, drawing her aside, “Scully, you don’t look too good.”

“Thanks,” she says stiffly, digging around in her purse and pressing a tissue to her lips.

“I mean… I-I think you should go home. We can do this another time.”

She shakes her head carefully, taking a deep breath. “We’d have to walk back to the office either way, Mulder. I’ll be fine. Do you have any gum or a mint, by the way? Something I can suck on. It… it helps with the nausea sometimes.”

Mulder rummages through his jacket pocket. “Just sunflower seeds,” he admits, “And… a nickel.”

Scully holds out a hand, and he places a few seeds into her palm.

“Thank you,” she says tightly, placing the seeds in her mouth.

In sickness and in health, Mulder thinks, giving her shoulder a squeeze. Her body feels rigid beneath his hand.

They file their license request without incident or fanfare, and Scully’s stride is clipped as they head back to the office.

Halfway up 7th Street, she stops walking abruptly and steadies herself with a hand against the rough brick of a building.

“Don’t ask me if I’m fine,” she whispers before he can say anything. “Just give me a moment.”

She takes a few slow, deep breaths. “Okay,” she says huskily.

“Shall we walk? If you need to lean on me, you can,” Mulder says gently.

“Despite how I feel right now, the world isn’t actually tilting sideways,” she replies. “I can walk on my own.”

He feels like a kicked puppy trailing after her, but dammit, she’s sick and being stubborn and his heart is turning to pulp beneath her low-heeled pumps and their names are next to each other on a piece of paper a quarter mile behind.

And Dana Scully, doctor and scientist and meticulous planner, manages make it all the way into the little basement bathroom before being sick.

Sometimes Mulder waits outside the restroom for her, to hand her a cup of water and make sure she’s alright; but today she’s spiky and tense and radiating that she doesn’t want him near. So he waits in their office, loitering by the filing cabinet, flicking through folders and pretending not to worry about her.

She walks into the room a few minutes later, and Mulder takes one look at her face before dropping the act.

“Scully,” he sighs. “Please. Go home.”

She looks up at him with watery eyes. “It’s just the chemo,” she rasps.

“Dana,” Mulder says, crossing the room and clasping her shoulders. “You need to rest. I can manage alone for the afternoon, I promise. You finished your report, our license application is in, things are stable.” He changes tack, infusing his words with forced levity. “Go sleep it off, have some tea, watch shitty TV. Play hooky for me, okay?”

She’s silent, then he feels her deflate under his palms. “Fine, I’ll go,” she says hoarsely. She clears her throat. “But I’m going make arrangements with an officiant when I get home, because-”

She abandons her sentence, and Mulder drops his hands to his sides. Because time is ticking, he thinks. He can read it on her wan, pinched face.

“I’ll stop in at a jewelry store on my way home, get us some rings,” he offers, wandering behind his desk and nudging his chair awkwardly with a knee.

Scully ducks her chin in an abridged nod. “I doubt we’ll have much need to wear them outside the ceremony, so they don’t have to be anything special. Plain bands are fine.”

Mulder nods. “I’m on it. What’s, uh, what's your ring size?”

She looks up at him, blinking. “I- I don’t know,” she admits. “I’ve never had occasion to find out.”

Mulder purses his lips in thought before leaning down and opening one of his desk draws. He digs through a clutter of office supplies before finding a ball of string. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning her over. “Give me your hand.”

She holds her left hand out, and he loops the end of the string around her ring finger, pinching the cord where it overlaps.

“Do me a favor and cut it right there,” he says.

She grabs a pair of scissors out of the pencil cup on the desk and snips the string, leaving him with a short piece the circumference of her finger.

“Good enough?” he asks.

“It’ll have to do,” she replies.

Mulder hadn’t put ‘shopping for wedding bands’ on his bingo card for 1997, and he’s admittedly out of his depth. The guy behind the counter at the little jewelry store on Prince Street in Alexandria isn’t helping his confidence.

“You want a wedding band?” he says, sizing Mulder up with a once-over. His eyes pause on Mulder’s tie for an uncomfortable two seconds too long, and his nostril flare with what could be disgust.

“Yeah, uh, one for me and one for my partner- fiancé,” Mulder stumbles, correcting himself unnecessarily. “Nothing flashy.”

Picking out his own ring is as easy as pointing at a plain gold band and slipping it on his finger. It fits well enough, and the jeweler packs it away into a tiny box.

Mulder feels somewhat ridiculous handing a jeweler a tiny piece of string and saying ‘this is how big my fiancé’s finger is’. The look the man gives him doesn’t ease the feeling.

“I can’t guarantee correct sizing with this,” the jeweler cautions, gingerly holding the string between two pinched fingers as though it’s a live, writhing worm.

Mulder shrugs. “I’m, uh, sorry, but that’s all I have to go on.”

The jeweler huffily wraps the string around a ring-sizing mandrel, and Mulder thinks he catches the man rolling his eyes. What a dick.

“Alright, so according to this highly sophisticated piece of string, she’s a size six,” the jeweler says flatly. “That’s the average size we carry for women. We can resize most ring styles for you later if it’s the wrong fit.”

“Right, thanks,” Mulder mumbles, scanning the glass case for a suitable ring.

His eyes wander over to slightly higher-end territory, and he immediately sees It.

It’s a simple ring, a thin gold band with a single pearl bracketed by a trio of tiny diamonds on each side.

He has a sudden vision of Scully tucking her hair behind one ear, wearing those delicate pearl stud earrings he secretly loves, and he feels a slosh behind his kneecaps at the image.

Fuck it. She deserves something pretty.

“I’d like that one,” Mulder says, pointing to the pearl ring in the case.

“That’s a promise ring,” the jeweler informs him. “A bit subdued for an engagement.”

“We’re a subdued couple,” Mulder replies, pulling out his wallet.

We.

Scully gave him no budget; and besides, this was his gift for her. That’s how tradition goes, right? Man buys woman ring. And from the sour look on the jeweler’s face, this ring isn’t even that expensive.

The man snaps the little velvet ring box shut and puts it into a crisp bag with the other box. “Will that be all?” he drones.

Mulder holds out his debit card. “I’ve done enough damage for one day.”

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 10

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

From: dscully@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28, 1997 10:46am

To: mreyes@fbi.gov

Subject: Coffee?

Hi Monica,

It’s Dana, from pathology. I was wondering if you’d like to get coffee tomorrow around lunchtime? I have a break in classes from 11-2, so anywhere in there would be fine.

I hope things are going well with VICAP.

-Dana

From: dscully@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28, 1997 10:48am

To: fmulder@fbi.gov

Subject: Wednesday/Thursday

Hi,

I’m mildly shocked that you hadn’t already emailed me before I got in today. Are you alive?

If you’d like to meet up for lunch or coffee this week, I can do Wednesday or Thursday, sometime in the 11-3 timeframe. Let me know which works for you and I’ll block the time out so nothing else ends up on my schedule.

From: mreyes@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28, 1997 11:12am

To: dscully@fbi.gov

Subject: RE:Coffee?

Hi Dana,

I’m so glad you reached out. I’d love to get coffee tomorrow; I can meet you just outside the autopsy bay at 1pm, if that works?

I look forward to it.

-Monica

From: fmulder@fbi.gov

Sent: April 28th, 1997 12:16pm

To: dscully@fbi.gov

Subject: RE:Wednesday/Thursday

Hi Scully,

I see that my exceptional self control has paid off in spades. I am alive, and have resisted emailing you this morning through a combination of sheer will and a two-hour budget meeting.

Wednesday sounds perfect, I’ll be there at noon. Don’t ask me how many hours that is from now because I haven’t calculated it and I have no idea.

———

About an hour after returning from her coffee date with Monica, which was very pleasant and is something she hopes to repeat, she starts to feel just a little bit achy. She pushes through the rest of her work for the day and by the time she slumps through her apartment door at six, there’s no denying that she’s sick. She takes some Tylenol and goes to bed, hoping it will have passed in the morning, but when she wakes up it’s even worse. She calls in sick to work and goes back to sleep.

When she wakes again, the phone is ringing. She ignores it, only for it to start ringing again the moment the machine picks up. Dragging herself out of bed with a pained moan, she trudges to the hallway, retrieving the cordless phone and walking back to her bedroom as she answers.

“Hello?”

“Scully! Are you okay?”

“What? Yes. Mulder?” She burrows herself back under the covers with the phone tucked against her ear.

“Yes, it’s me, you didn’t answer my emails all morning and never showed up for our coffee date. I was worried.”

“Shit, Mulder, I’m sorry. I came down with something yesterday and called out sick. I totally forgot we were having coffee today.”

“You’re sick?” he asks, clear concern in his voice.

“Yes, just a virus or something, I’ll be fine.”

“Can I bring you something? Soup? Juice? Bad movies?”

She chuckles a little. “No, you don’t need to do that.”

“Who's gonna take care of you?”

“Mulder, I’m a grown adult with a cold, I can take care of myself.”

“Are you sure?” She can tell by his tone that he wants to do this more for himself than for her.

“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want you to see me all sick and disgusting, Mulder. It’s too soon to ruin your image of me,” she says somewhat sarcastically.

“Seeing you sick is not going to change how I feel about you, Scully,” he says very tenderly, and she knows he means it. Still, she doesn’t like the idea.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Sorry to make you drive an hour for nothing. Rain check?”

He sighs noisily. “Okay, fine. I think you inadvertently left ‘stubborn’ off your list of flaws, though.”

“Well, I didn’t want to ruin all the surprises,” she replies with a smile.

He reluctantly says goodbye, and as soon as he hangs up, she calls the first number on her speed dial.

“Hello,” calls Missy in her typical singsong greeting.

“Missy, can you come over?” she whines, little sister mode in full effect, “I’m sick.”

Missy arrives forty five minutes later and fusses around, gathering a glass of water, Tylenol, and the thermometer that is buried in the bottom of a bathroom drawer. Dana has relocated to the couch, and makes a face around the thermometer propped under her tongue when Missy sets four crystals of different shapes and colors on the coffee table, along with two herb-filled capsules. The thermometer beeps angrily and Missy plucks it out of her mouth, shaking her head.

“One hundred and two,” she says with a frown, “here, take these,” she holds out two Tylenol and two of the herb capsules with a glass of water.

Dana takes the Tylenol and leaves the others.

“Whatever those are, I’m not taking them. And you can pack up your crystals,” she says to Missy as she pops the Tylenol and chases them with a big gulp of water.

“They’re just echinacea, Sis, they won't kill you. And neither will the crystals.”

“But they also won’t help,” Dana says dryly, setting her water on the coffee table and burrowing back under her blanket.

“Well, I’ll just leave them right here,” Missy says, standing and going to the kitchen. “Why’d you call me, anyway? Shouldn’t playing sick maid be Mulder’s job now?” She’s looking through cupboards, pulling out a pot and a can of soup.

“It’s too soon for him to see me all congested and disgusting,” Dana replies, stifling a shiver. “He wanted to come over, but I told him not to.”

There’s a knock at the door. Dana sits up, exchanging confused looks with Missy.

“Did you order food?” Dana asks, and Missy shakes her head, moving to the door.

Dana watches from the couch as Missy opens the door to find no one on the other side. She looks at the floor, then down the hall one direction and the other. She stoops down and picks something up, then walks back to the couch with a paper bag.

“What is that?” Dana asks, and Missy shrugs, setting it on the coffee table and sitting at Dana’s feet. There’s a sheet of paper stapled to the bag, and Missy plucks it off, opening it while Dana explores the contents; a carton of tom kah gai soup.

Missy’s face is a mask of confusion as she reads whatever is written on the paper.

“What does it say?” Dana asks, and Missy hands it to her.

Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still.

Dana’s chin puckers as her bottom lip sticks out in a pout. “Oh my god,” she gushes, “it’s Mulder.”

“What the hell does this mean?” Missy asks, taking the paper back and reading it again. “Does he write poetry or something?”

“No,” Dana answers, pulling the lid off the container and breathing in the spicy coconut smell, “it’s a quote from Jane Eyre.”

“Oh my god,” Missy says with a disgusted look, “you two really are meant for each other. This is sickening, Dana, you realize that, right?”

Dana is smiling, taking sips of the hot Thai chicken soup that he somehow knew she needed. “Yes, he’s also a giant nerd, if that’s what you’re saying. But beyond that, I don’t think we have much of anything in common, actually.”

“You both work for the FBI,” Missy offers.

“Yes, but in totally different areas. And he’s an atheist, and believes in unverifiable phenomena like aliens and spontaneous human combustion. And he’s impulsive and easy going, and he makes decisions with his gut,” Dana lists off Mulder’s attributes like she’s describing the trim level on a car. He’s cute, and he has a leather interior.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t use any of those words to describe you,” Missy says pointedly, setting the note on the table, where Dana plucks it back up and reads it again. “But there’s something to be said for being with someone who’s different from you.”

“I don’t really buy into the idea of ‘opposites attract,’” Dana says flatly. “I think that’s just a lie people tell themselves to justify horribly mismatched partnerships.”

“I think ‘opposites attract’ implies that your qualities clash, like the odd couple. One is messy and the other is clean,” Missy replies, propping her elbow on the back of the couch. “But I heard about this idea of ‘perfect opposites’ which is more like someone who complements you, or helps kind of level you out. So perhaps you lean to the extreme in some areas where Mulder leans to the other extreme, and you learn to meet somewhere in the middle.”

Dana gives her a doubtful look. “What is the middle between believing wholeheartedly that Bigfoot exists, and knowing that he doesn’t?”

Missy takes this under serious consideration. “I think,” she says without a hint of sarcasm, “that the medium would be accepting that it’s possible that he exists, and possible he doesn’t, but there's no way to know for sure.”

“So a Bigfoot agnostic?” Dana asks, and Missy nods in confirmation.

Dana shakes her head. “Maybe you should have gone out with him, I think you two might be better suited.”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Missy says with a coy smile. “Speaking of which, does he have any single friends?”

Dana shrugs around a gulp of soup. “I don’t know, I haven’t met any of his friends.”

“Well, when you do, keep an eye out would ya? Now that I’ve lost my single buddy, I may as well get back out there. God knows it’s torture enough hearing your lurid tales from the bedroom.”

“Missy, I haven’t told you a single lurid tale,” Dana chastises.

“I know, what’s up with that?” Missy retorts in mock offense, “speaking of, what happened when he took you out to dinner Sunday night?”

Dana shakes her head.

“Oh come on, Dana. I have no life, let me live vicariously,” Missy whines.

Dana shakes her head again. “The only thing I’ll say is; maybe don’t eat off the kitchen counter,” she says before giving Missy a guilty look.

Missy’s mouth drops open.

“Wow, I’m not sure if I’m more grossed out or jealous,” she says as she stands, “I’m gonna get out of here, if you’re good. I think I need to go pick up a guy at a bar for some meaningless sex.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for coming by. If you need a condom there are some in the bathroom,” she adds with a sarcastic smile, and Missy sneers at her.

“Ha, ha,” Missy replies as she slips on her shoes and opens the door, “last time I checked, you can’t get pregnant from a vibrator.”

Dana gives her a sympathetic pout and Missy pulls the door closed behind her.

———

It’s a quarter past eight when the phone rings, and he pushes Priscilla onto the floor to retrieve it from his desk.

“Hello?”

“I can’t find it,” says a garbled voice.

“Hello?” he asks again, “who is this?”

“It’s really cold. It’s also too hot,” the voice says around a sound like fabric moving over the mouthpiece.

“Scully?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

There’s a pause. “Mulder?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Are you okay?”

“Mulder, where are you?”

“I’m at home. You called me at home. Is Missy there?”

“No, she had to take her vibrator to a bar,” she answers, and it’s clear that she’s completely delirious.

“Scully, I’m coming over,” he says, standing up to find his shoes and wallet. “Hey, Scully, I need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can you stand up, and walk to your front door?”

She sighs. “That’s very far.”

“I know it is, but I need you to unlock the door so I can get in. I don’t think your super would be very happy if I broke it down.”

He hears her groan and her voice becomes quieter, then disappears. He waits, and just when he thinks she may have hung up, she picks the phone back up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, did you unlock the door?”

“Mulder?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Mulder, where are you?”

He snickers a little. “I’m on my way over, did you unlock the door?”

“I...I don’t remember,” she says, and she sounds exhausted.

“That’s okay, go back to bed. I’ll figure it out. See you soon, okay?”

“Okay, bye, Mulder.”

He waits but the line doesn’t go dead. He hears her shuffle around a bit and then it’s quiet for a long time. Setting the phone on its cradle, he drives over to her apartment.

The door is, thankfully, unlocked, and all the lights are off.

“Scully?” he calls out, not wanting to scare her. “Scully, are you awake?”

When he gets no response, he slips off his shoes and makes his way to her bedroom, calling out her name intermittently. He finds her twisted up in her sheets, and one touch to her forehead has him jerk his hand away with how hot she is. He strips the blankets off of her, finding her in only a T-shirt and panties underneath. Next he finds a washcloth in the bathroom and soaks it with cold water, then grabs two Tylenol and a glass of water. When he returns to the bedroom and drapes the cloth over her forehead, she starts and opens her eyes momentarily, but then closes them again.

“Scully,” he says softly, shaking her shoulder, “I need you to wake up, honey. I need you to take these.”

Her eyes open slowly and she blinks at him with heavy lids.

“Mulder?” she asks groggily, and he gives her a sympathetic smile.

“I’m here. Can you sit up and take these?”

He helps her prop herself up just enough to swallow the Tylenol and a sip of water before she collapses back against the pillows.

“I feel like shit,” she complains, but her eyes are already closed and she’s on her way back to sleep.

“I know. Get some rest. I’ll be here.”

———

She wakes up to harsh beams of sun pouring directly through her eyelids. Her first thought is that Ethan forgot to close the blinds again, but then she remembers that she and Ethan aren't together anymore and he doesn’t live here, so she must have forgotten to close them. She moves to roll out of bed and is met with the shock of aching muscles, and remembers that she had been raging with fever last night. She probably shouldn’t have let Missy leave, but thankfully the fever seems to have broken during the night. She rolls away from the window, no longer motivated to get up and close the blinds, and finds herself nose to nose with a sleeping Mulder.

“What the hell?” she says out loud, and he opens his eyes and smiles at her.

“Hi,” he says softly, “how do you feel?”

She gives him a perplexed expression. “Confused. How long have you been here?”

He chuckles “I knew you were out of it, but I didn’t think you were that far gone. You don’t remember?”

She shakes her head ruefully.

Mulder rolls to his back and stretches, then turns back to face her. “You called me last night, totally out of it, and I came over to make sure you were okay.”

“How did you get in?” she asks skeptically.

“You let me in.”

Her eyes widen.

“You were burning up, I just force fed you some Tylenol and kept an eye on you. Around 3am you started shivering, so I think that’s when the fever broke.”

She is quiet for a moment, taking in her surroundings. “Mulder...am I not wearing pants?”

He holds up his hands in self defense. “That’s how I found you, Scully, Scout’s honor.”

“What time is it?” she asks, feeling disoriented.

He peeks at his watch. “A little after nine.”

She sits up too quickly and gets dizzy. “I’m late for work,” she says, one hand to her head.

“Scully you were delirious with fever six hours ago, you’re not going to work. I called for you,” he says, sitting up too.

She gives him an incredulous look. “You called out sick to work for me?”

He nods.

She sighs and looks away from him. “I got the soup, and the note,” she says, “thank you.”

“Of course,” he answers, rubbing a palm over her back.

She looks back at him, taking in his sleep rumpled hair and second day stubble. She furrows her brow, a slight scowl on her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You’re my boyfriend, aren’t you?” she says with a defeated tone, and he laughs.

“I’d sure like to be, if you’ll have me.”

She groans and slumps against him, sighing as he wraps his arms around her, petting her hair.

“Okay, fine,” she says flatly.

“Well don’t sound so excited about it,” he teases, and she pulls back and smiles at him.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” she says softly.

“Thanks for letting me,” he replies.

[sapphicscullyy]

With You

100. “We could... you know, go together, if you wanted.”

Thank you so much for the prompt @bitshortforastormtrooper. I’m sorry it took agessss to get around to but please enjoy. This can also be read for your convenience on ao3. Tagging @today-in-fic

+++

8:29 am 27th August J. Edgar Hoover Building

Scully blustered her way into the office and shut the door behind her, slumping back against it with her eyes closed. She took several deep breaths before opening them again, attempting to cool the flush in her cheeks, only to find Mulder staring at her, concern in his eyes. The bastard. He didn’t say anything, just waited to see if she would explain her strange behaviour. Scully sighed.

“I just spoke to Skinner in the elevator,” she began slowly.

“If it was about the late case report, don’t worry,” he said quickly, “I was just about to head up there now to hand it in.”

“No, it wasn’t that.” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “He asked me if I was attending the Director’s Ball on Friday evening. Of which Skinner informed me that he had given you both of our invitations several weeks ago.” Her tone implied that this was more of an interrogation than a statement.

At least he was smart enough to look slightly guilty. “He may have mentioned it.”

“Mulder…” she groaned in exasperation. “It’s in three days,” she stuttered, “and I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Scully, you could wear anything, even one of your old pantsuits with the massive shoulder pads, and you would still look amazing.” 

She glared at him even as the blush returned to her cheeks. “I am not wearing a suit.”

“Why don’t you take the afternoon off?” Mulder suggested lightly. “We only have paperwork to do today. I can deal with it.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

She huffed a laugh, deciding not to think about the answers to his question. “Thank you,” she said.

Silence filled the office for a moment, then the rustling of paperwork as Mulder collected some files from the desk.

“Are we-” Scully faltered, then continued tentatively. “Do we have to bring dates?”

“I think everyone has a plus-one invitation; I’m not taking anyone, though.” He stood, not meeting her gaze as he shuffled the papers in his hands.

“Why not?” 

“I’m not sure anyone would want to go with Spooky Mulder.” He laughed as though he had told a joke. 

“We could… you know, go together, if you wanted.” Scully swallowed, suddenly overly conscious of the lump in her throat, barely daring to breathe in wait of his response.

“It’s alright, Scully. You don’t have to stick with me. You could have any man you wanted.” He stood from behind the desk, file in hand, and walked over to where she was still standing by the door. He gently moved her aside as he opened it. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, flashing her a grin, the one that made her go weak at the knees every time, and shut the door behind him.

“What if I want you?” she whispered to the closed door, her words too loud in the empty office.

+++

2:43 pm 

That afternoon, Scully pulled into a parking space in front of a small boutique shop that she often eyed as she drove past on the way to work each day. She had only been inside once before, and it had been a few years ago when she had treated herself to a day of therapeutic shopping after a particularly gruelling case. She had bought a new pair of heels, which she had only worn two or three times since, but the feeling of buying them had been worth it. 

A small bell above the door chimed as she entered. A woman popped her head out from behind a rack of clothes, greeted Scully, and told her to yell out if she needed any help. Scully smiled at her in thanks and wandered along the rows of dresses, running her fingertips lightly across the fabric. 

She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to wear to the event, so she chose a few dresses at random to try on, hoping to find something that would work, or at least narrow down her choices. 

“Would you like to try those on?” the voice of the saleswoman behind her made her jump. She had a hand outstretched for the dresses draped over Scully’s arm. “Let me take them to the changeroom for you while you keep looking.” 

“Actually, I’m ready to try them on now.” 

“Of course, come this way.” She led Scully to the changeroom, drawing aside the large curtain for her, but she paused before closing it. “May I make a recommendation?” She didn’t wait for a response. “There’s a dress that’s out the back and I think that it would look perfect on you. I’ll go grab it while you try these ones on.” With that, she closed the curtain, leaving Scully by herself. 

The first dress was a red, strapless number that came to just below her knees. The fabric pooled nicely around her figure, and she had a pair of heels and a clutch at home that would go quite nicely with it, but she was concerned that there was too much skin being shown to be considered ‘proper’ for a work event, though she knew Mulder would most likely appreciate it. 

As would every other straight male in the room. She silently chastised herself for letting her mind wander to such a dangerous topic. 

The second dress she had picked up was a shade of green that she knew immediately would not suit her as she held the dress up to her body in the small changing room mirror. She replaced the dress on its hanger without even bothering to try it on. 

As she slid on the third dress, she thought it might be the one. The black fabric was smooth against her skin and the neckline and figure were modest yet flattering. But as she stepped out from behind the curtain to admire herself in the larger mirror, she noticed the slit along her left leg, nearly going up to her hip. She sighed at her reflection. She didn’t particularly want to be that exposed in front of her male colleagues, especially since she knew Skinner would be amongst them. She wouldn’t be able to meet her boss’s eye for days afterwards. 

At that moment, the saleswoman walked back in, another dress draped over her arm. She stopped when she saw Scully.

“Oh honey, you look absolutely stunning,” she exclaimed.

“Thank you,” Scully dipped her head at the compliment, “but I’m attending a work function and I’m not entirely convinced by this.” She gestured to her exposed leg.

“Of course,” she shook her head knowingly. “Here, give this one a try. I think it will suit you perfectly.” She handed Scully the dress from her arm.

Ducking back into the change room, she removed her current dress and slipped on the one the saleswoman had given her. Black, silky fabric that clung to her skin but almost appeared to be cascading down her body and onto the floor. The straps were thin and the neckline was low, although not dangerously so. The back dipped just low enough that she wouldn’t be able to wear a bra, but so that her ouroboros remained hidden.

The woman gasped quietly as she emerged from behind the curtain. “That dress looks like it was made just for you.”

Scully examined herself in the large mirror and felt her own breath catch in her throat. She did look amazing. Even with her hair and make-up having deteriorated throughout the day, she felt as though she could walk into any ballroom and fit right in. 

She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Mulder would react upon seeing her in this dress. Would he stop short at the sight of her? Or perhaps he would only give her a quick once over before he swept her into his arms, unable to keep away for any longer than necessary. 

The shrill ringing of her cell phone pierced through the fog of dangerous thoughts that had filled her mind. 

“Excuse me,” she said, stepping back into the changing room. She rifled through her belongings and found her phone. “Scully,” she answered.

“Scully, it’s me,” he said, as a loud crash came through the tiny speaker.

“Mulder? Is everything alright?”

“Just fine,” he replied unconvincingly. She heard the crackling rustle of papers being shuffled. “Do you know where you put the file on Cordelia Knox?”

“Mulder, you put that file on the massive pile on your desk, which I strongly suggested that you sort out before you lose something.”

She heard more rustling. Then a muffled bang. “I found it.” She laughed quietly even as her head fell into her hand. 

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

There was a pause. “Have you finished shopping?” he asked tentatively.

“Not quite.” She may have found her dress, but she wanted to buy a nice pair of heels to go with it.

“Then I have everything under control.” Another crash sounded through the phone. “Go enjoy yourself, Scully. You deserve it.”

+++

8:29 am 29th August FBI Director’s Ball

Scully was bored, tired, slightly drunk and extremely sick of the hot and clammy hands of the men who, because she had agreed to dance with them, believed that it was in their right to put said hands wherever they pleased on her body. She had been passed between the arms of the FBI’s worst perverts and creeps for the past hour and the only thing she wished for was a warm bath to wash away the lingering feeling of the many hands off her body. The man she was currently dancing with was no different from the others, in fact, they were all beginning to blend together. His hands sat hot and heavy on her lower back, making the skin itch and boil beneath the fabric. 

There was a small, fickle part of herself that thought of that spot on the small of her back as Mulder’s. It was the same part of her that made her continuously scan the crowds over the shoulder of her dancing partner in the frail hope of seeing him. The same part of her that desperately hoped that he would see her despondence and sweep her far away from this place and all the people in it.

There was a high chance that he wouldn’t turn up at all; perhaps struck by a sudden ailment in the hours between leaving the office and the expected arrival time of the event. She usually didn’t mind his near-perfect streak of missing work events, as usually, he dragged her along with him to wherever he thought was a better place to be, which was anywhere else, really. All she wanted now was to be with him wherever that may be.

She snapped out of her thoughts as she felt the hands of her dance partner slip dangerously low on her back and she was so focused on attempting to keep them in a more respectable place that she did not notice Mulder step forward from the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes flying from face to face. She did not see the way he stopped dead at the sight of her in the wandering arms of another man. How his eyes sparked first with wonderment, then with indignation. 

But then he was there, standing at her shoulder, politely asking for a dance and sweeping her away without waiting for an answer from the other man. He was inconsequential now that Mulder was there.

In the instant that he pulled her towards him, there was not a single soul present in the room that they were aware of, besides each other. He held her close, but his touch on her back was light and innocent, his fingertips deliciously burning the skin where her tattoo resided. 

“Hi,” she whispered, tilting her head back so that their faces were aligned, noses only inches apart. 

“Hi,” he responded, and she heard everything that he wanted to tell her at that moment. In the way he breathed that single word. She heard his wonder and his passion, and she heard his apology. She could see it reflected in his eyes, swimming there and exposed for her to see. An apology for letting her go alone, for being an idiot, and for all the arms that have held her tonight that weren’t his.

And she forgave him. 

The music was slow and steady, a heartbeat thrumming in the air. She slid the hands which had been resting on his shoulders further up and looped them around his neck. They remained completely oblivious to the world around them as they swayed in place together, unaware of the stare and murmurs of their coworkers, not noticing how they diverted their attention to something else with a quick glare from AD Skinner. Men came up to them to ask Scully to dance, but they went unheard and ignored, skulking away after it became obvious they had no chance of interrupting.

He pulled her closer to him, and she turned to rest her head against his chest, listening to his heart beating out of sync with the music, so she danced to his rhythm instead. Both of them shifted slowly from side to side in synchrony, creating their own metronome. 

She was pulled out of her trance-like state as the music changed to an upbeat song which she was no longer able to drown out with the sound of his heart beating in her ear. She extracted herself slightly from his arms and looked up at him, meeting his eyes. His face was clouded in an indecipherable storm of emotion, but when she smiled softly up at him, it cleared and he returned her small grin.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, and his smile grew even wider. He moved the hands that had rested on her back and took her hand in his own, holding it tight as though he might lose her in the crowd, and led them off the dancefloor. They wove through the tables and people surrounding it, ignoring the people who looked their way in curiosity. 

The heavy doors to the event hall closed firmly behind them and an instant deafening silence filled the foyer. But it was quickly broken by the echoing sound of her heels clicking on the tiles as Mulder tugged her towards the revolving door at the entrance. A tiny laugh, one that could almost be described as a giggle, escaped her lips. They tumbled out of the door onto the street, both attempting and failing to hide their grins.

He hadn’t let go of her hand.

A cool evening breeze drifted down the street, curling around her bare arms and shoulders, so she stepped closer into him, stealing his warmth by proximity. But, for the second time that night, he pulled her closer, an arm wrapping around her waist, hands still entwined.

She tilted her head up and he tilted his down so that their noses were only an inch apart. 

“Where are we going?” he whispered, his breath tickling her lips.

“Does it matter?” she breathed.

“No.” 

There were words that remained unspoken, but she heard them all the same. 

As long as I’m with you.

[slippinmickeys]

Of the Eight Winds, Part 6

This is part six in who knows how many from the prompt from @sunflowerseedsandscience : “Mulder is unhappily married when Scully is partnered with him, and while he doesn’t cheat (because sorry that’s not romantic), he falls for her so hard that he finally gets the courage to end the marriage and start fresh.”

Links to parts one, two, three, four and five.

1

Mulder’s mother-in-law was sick. Terminal cancer, from what Scully gathered from the little he talked about it. He was gone a lot, accompanying Lauren back and forth between her parent’s house in Newport News and the hospital and home.

Their basement office felt cold, empty without him in it. She felt like every small noise she made echoed off the walls. One Friday, she left early, unable to stand it any longer.

She went home, but felt alone there, too. She drifted out into her neighborhood, the warm sun of the afternoon laying long shadows through the streets.

There was a farmer’s market set up a few blocks from her apartment— an entire block’s worth of a street closed off, with tented stalls lining both sides of the road, selling everything from fresh eggs to flowers to jewelry.

She was looking through the selection of breads and baked goods on the edge of one of the stalls when she felt a light tug on bottom of the sundress she had changed into. She looked down to find a small black feline paw had reached through the bars of the cage in the next stall and had hooked a claw into her dress. Her laugh alerted one of the women working the rescue group’s stall, who rushed over to help release her from the kitten’s grasp, with an “oh honestly, Trouble.”

“His name is Trouble?” Scully asked, laughing.

“Her,” the woman said, smiling at the little black fluff affectionately, “she’s sweet but has an excess of personality.”

“How old is she?” Scully asked.

“Ten weeks,” the woman answered, then narrowed her eyes, seeing a prospective cat rescuer suddenly in her midst. “Here,” she went on, handing Scully a feather-on-a-stick cat toy, “play with her. She’s a hoot.”

Scully bobbed the toy about Trouble’s head, who took one swat at it and then jumped into the air and caught it, growling like a dog. Scully laughed, delighted.

“She plays fetch, too,” said the woman, who was still hovering nearby.

“You’re kidding,” Scully said, tugging on the feather, which Trouble refused to give up.

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” the woman said, “wadded up paper ball. And when she brings it back, she drops it better than my retriever ever does.”

Scully was thoroughly charmed.

“You in the market for a new friend?” the woman asked with a smile.

“Oh! No, not really.”

“Well, we’ll be here if you change your mind. Our rescue group has a stall at the Farmer’s Market on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

Scully smiled at the woman and turned away, thinking of buying a bag of apples and a bouquet of flowers.

“Miss?” the woman said, and Scully turned back to look at her, “Trouble won’t be here long. The cute ones get adopted quick.”  

Scully smiled indulgently and walked on. On her return trip through the market to head home, carrying a bag of greens, two cartons of strawberries and a small bouquet of yellow calla lilies, she saw a small girl playing with Trouble and a slightly larger orange tabby kitten. The girl’s parents were standing a few feet away and the girl turned to them. “I want the orange one,” she told them.

Scully was insulted on Trouble’s behalf. It was no fun coming in second. She veered back toward the cage and stuck a finger through the bars. Trouble rubbed her face against her finger and sat down, purring.

“Can I get an adoption application please?” Scully said then, and found that the woman was already behind her with a clipboard and a pen. The woman winked.

Two hours later she tumbled into her apartment laden with her haul from the farmer’s market, twenty five pounds of kitty accoutrements and a cardboard cat carrier that had little black paws popping out of the holes in the top.

She opened it up and looked down at its lone occupant, who sat, looking back at her, as prim and proper as a posy. She looked like a ball of black puff with two green eyes, as round as the moon.

“We’re going to change your name, Trouble,” Scully said, “A friend of mine once told me about self-fulfilling prophecies.”

2

Scully didn’t go to Lauren’s mother’s funeral, but she did send flowers. She tried to strike the right tone with the arrangement, somewhere between work acquaintance and best friend, and leaned into one that was more on this side of ostentatious than not.

She got a thank you card from Lauren, but it was written in Mulder’s scrawling hand.

3

Scully had voiced a craving for a mid-afternoon latte, and the day was bright and clear, the first in almost a week. He volunteered to accompany her to a nearby coffee shop.

He waited in the back of the shop next to a stack of high chairs and a small creamer station dusted with spilled Sweet’N Low and cinnamon. He watched as she gave her order to the barista, laughing at something the girl had said as she handed over her money. Her face shone amongst the other patrons, brighter and clearer than anyone else’s. It was like she alone was in focus, everyone else in the world walking in an ill-defined blur.

Why had he waited so long, he wondered. Some misplaced sense of loyalty? Things with Lauren had always gone from bad to worse, waiting certainly hadn’t made them better. It wasn’t to spare Lauren’s feelings. It certainly wasn’t to spare his own.

Scully turned from where she stood in line and caught his eye. She smiled at him with a radiance that hit him square in the solar plexus.

How many years had he wasted? How many breaths had he taken, how many nights spent alone in a bed of two?

He smiled back at her, a delicious ache in his chest.

4

Their first meeting with Skinner after Mulder informed him of their relationship was a budgetary meeting. Kimberly smiled at them in a knowing way when they walked into the front part of Skinner’s office, at which Scully blushed. Mulder wondered vaguely how much Skinner and his assistant talked.

Just before Skinner adjourned the meeting of roughly ten people, he said “Please consider this a reminder to make sure your current address, emergency contact information, and any other pertinent personnel file data is updated and filed with Human Resources.”

Mulder shot a look to Scully, who shot a look back.

The skin at the base of his left ring finger was bare but indented with years long pressure.

5

One morning, Mulder woke up to find Blackwell sitting on his chest, the end of her fat, fluffy tail twitching slowly up, keeping time like a metronome. The cat regarded him coolly for minute, then yawned once and flopped down to lay atop him, purring gently.

Scully awoke about ten minutes later and cracked a sleepy eye to look at the domestic tableau before her.

She smiled.

“She likes you,” she said.

“I have a way with women,” he rumbled, scratching a nail under the cat’s chin.

“I’ll remember that the next time she needs her claws trimmed,” Scully said, stretching.

Mulder considered the animal.

“Why did you name your cat Blackwell?” he asked.

“Have you heard of Elizabeth Blackwell?” she asked back. He shook his head. “She was the first woman to graduate from Medical School in the United States,” she said.

He nodded, running his hand along the velvet coat of the black cat.

“Perfect,” he said. Blackwell purred. So did Scully.

6

He had dreams. Terrible dreams. He dreamt that he hadn’t made it in time to the top of Skyland Mountain. He dreamt that Melissa had been shot dead in Scully’s doorway. Dreams where he showed up at the hospital to visit Lauren’s mother and found Scully in her bed.

In the mornings, he woke to find Scully next to him and pulled her close. She generally woke when he did this, but never once complained.

7

Blackwell had stopped growling when playing with toys after a week or two of living with Scully, but would still occasionally play fetch. Mulder was so taken with the idea of a dog-like cat, he offered to open an X-File on her and swore he would teach her tricks.

True to his word, as the years passed, Mulder taught Blackwell several, including a high five, “speak” and a version of “play dead” in which he would pull an imaginary service weapon (complete with correct form and safety procedures) say “bang” and over she would keel. True her status as a feline, Blackwell would perform these tricks only five times out of ten, which Scully did have to admit, was pretty good.

On a lazy Sunday morning when Lily was nine months old, Mulder, Scully and their daughter were whiling away in their rumpled bed (Mulder with a book, Scully with a crossword, Lily with an orange teether) when Mulder set the book down on his bedside table and turned to Scully.

“Lily and I taught Blackwell a new trick,” he said.

Scully set down the newspaper and pencil where Lily couldn’t get to them and turned toward him.

“I’d like to see it,” she said, smiling.

“What do you think, Lil?” Mulder said to the baby who babbled a bit in response, a string of drool sliding down to soak into her already damp onesie.

Mulder nodded, pursed his lips and whistled.

A light tinkling sound came down the hallway, and Blackwell jumped up easily onto the bed and sauntered up to Mulder to give him a gentle headbutt.

Scully clapped softly.

“She comes when whistled for now? I’m impressed.”

Mulder pet the cat affectionately and then looped a finger underneath the cat’s collar to bring it up and over her fur.

“And check out the new accessory,” Mulder said.

Scully clicked her fingers and Blackwell walked over to her.

“A new collar, I see,” Scully, said, eyeing the new black collar with equal parts humor and distaste -- it had a repeating pattern of alien heads and ufos.

Mulder nodded as Blackwell sat in front of Scully and then he thrust his chin up and towards the cat.

“That’s not all,” he said, “check out the hardware.”

Lily made a grab for the cat, but was scooped up by her father who lifted her to his shoulder as Scully leaned down to take a closer look at Blackwell’s new collar. Where the bell usually was, hung a platinum ring with three diamonds and an aged patina. Scully sucked in a breath and fingered it, flicking her eyes to Mulder, who looked at her with affection.

“What do you think, Scully? Make an honest man out of me?”

Blackwell sat patiently as Scully unhooked her collar and slid the ring off of it. She held it in her palm, her eyes shining.

“Was this…?” she said, and Mulder knew what she was asking.

“It was the ring I gave to Lauren,” he said, “it was my grandmother’s. She returned it to me a few months ago. She thought you should have it.”

Scully smiled sadly.

Mulder rushed on.

“I understand if you would rather not wear it. I’d be happy to buy you a new one. But I wanted to give you the option. Mulder women have been wearing this ring for close to a hundred years. It maybe doesn’t have the best mojo, but…”

“I love it,” Scully said, as Lily reached up and patted at Mulder’s cheeks. Scully slid it over her finger and it seemed to fit perfectly.

“So is that a yes?” Mulder asked, nuzzling their daughter’s head.

“It’s a yes,” Scully smiled. “And Mulder?”

He looked at her.

“I don’t believe in mojo.”

8

They buried Blackwell under the dogwood tree in their backyard, eleven year old Lily crying into her mother’s shoulder. Eight year old William, who had inherited his mother’s stoicism and his grandmother’s stiff upper lip stood next to them, watching his father blankly as he patted the soil flat with the back of a shovel.

“She was good cat,” William said somberly, and Mulder reached out and pulled him into a hug. He could feel a wet spot start to soak into his shirt.

“She was, buddy,” he said, and swung his eyes to Scully, who was absently rubbing Lily’s back, her eyes still on the ground. “I think maybe we should celebrate her life with ice cream, what do you say?”

William snuffled loudly, wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“Vanilla, dad?” he said on another sniffle, “chocolate is bad for cats.”

Scully finally cracked a smile.

“It’s what she would have wanted,” she said, and tucked a strand of bright red hair tenderly behind Lily’s ear.

A blossom detached from the tree and fell gently to the ground, landing softly on the freshly turned earth.

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Someday Your Child May Cry

Previous: Question | Preparations | Irrational | Confession | Collateral | Thoughtless | Interrupted | Recovering | Irresponsible | Possibility | Devastation | Confrontation | Generous

14. Confirmation

Autopsying and identifying every single body recovered from the hangar at El Rico Air Force Base takes three full days and an entire team of pathologists. By the end of it, Scully’s feet are covered in blisters in spite of her comfortable shoes, and she’s relatively certain that the cramps in her neck, back, and shoulders are going to be with her for at least a week.

(She's also had to leave the table to vomit in the bathroom three times today alone. She could put it down to the horror of having to autopsy the bodies of small children who had been burned alive, but, she’s never gotten sick over an autopsy before, and anyway, she’d been nauseous before she’d even picked up her scalpel on the first day.)

Two weeks ago, Scully would have whispered her suspicions in Mulder’s ear, savoring his excitement over the idea that this time, it might work… but right now, even though he’s been buzzing around the morgue constantly, getting underfoot, it feels like there’s miles of empty space in between them. Scully assumes that all of Mulder’s attention is focused on waiting to find out whether or not any of the remains will be identified as having belonged to Diana Fowley (they won’t, of course), and it’s unlikely he has any space in his head for her just now.

When the last victim has finally been identified, Scully peels back her gloves, tosses them into the biohazard bin, and approaches Mulder, who is leaning against the wall near the door, having given up his restless pacing at last.

“She’s not here, Mulder,” she sighs. “None of these bodies were hers. You’re sure she went to the hangar when she left you?”

“Completely,” he says. Scully nods and looks down.

“Well, then… either this all happened before she arrived, or… she found some way to escape it.” She pauses.  “The smoking man isn’t here, either.” Mulder scowls.

“Doesn’t mean anything, Scully,” he says stubbornly. “So if you’re gonna start in on that crap again, you can just-” Scully holds up her hands, forestalling him.

“Mulder, I don’t want to fight with you,” she says. “I just want to go home, wash this stink off of me, and sleep.” She rubs at her neck as Mulder continues to glower at her. Another surge of nausea begins churning in her gut, and she knows she needs to get away from him before he realizes anything is wrong. “We’ve got an early meeting with Spender, Skinner, and Kersh tomorrow morning. I suggest you go home and try to sleep, too.” She turns and walks quickly away before he can say anything else, and makes it to the toilet in the changing room just in time.

Scully doesn’t go and find Mulder before she leaves the morgue; she doesn’t have the stamina to get drawn into another argument just now, not when the hurt of his accusation and his dismissal of her at the Gunmen’s is still so fresh. She buys a pregnancy test at the pharmacy near her apartment and uses it as soon as she gets home.

It’s positive.

Scully picks up the phone, about to call Mulder... when suddenly, his voice sounds in her head again, telling her that she’s wrong, telling her she’s making all of it personal.

Very slowly, she puts the phone back down.

———————————

They’re busy reclaiming their office when Mulder’s cell phone rings, and much to his surprise, it’s Frohike. He and the Gunmen hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms after the scene in their offices over a week ago, when, according to Frohike, he’d behaved like “a self-righteous, self-centered, stubborn son of a bitch.”

“Mulder, we need you to get over here,” Frohike says, his voice grim. “Bring Scully with you.”

“What’s going on, Melvin?” Mulder asks.

“We’ve done some more digging, and we found something that we think you should see. Both of you.”

A half hour later, the five of them are standing in a semicircle around one of the Gunmen’s computers. On the screen is what appears to be a hospital hallway.

“What is this?” asks Mulder, frowning.

“This is from a security camera at Holy Cross Memorial Hospital,” says Byers. “Where Agent Fowley was taken after she was shot last summer.” Mulder scowls.

“Come on, guys, not this again,” he grouses, but Byers talks over him.

“This footage is from the hallway outside of her room in the ICU,” he says. “The day that she was admitted.” He leans over and sets the footage rolling with a click of the mouse, and Mulder heaves a sigh and turns his attention to the screen.

For about a minute, there’s nothing but the normal bustle of a hospital corridor, nurses rushing this way and that, doctors carrying charts, and the occasional visitor. But then, at the top of the screen, two figures come into view, walking towards the camera, their faces completely visible for ten full seconds before they turn left and enter Diana’s room. The one on the right, whose face is completely unfamiliar to Mulder, is built like a linebacker.

The one on the left is unmistakably C.G.B. Spender.

Byers reaches down and clicks the mouse again, fast-forwarding the recording.

“They stay in there for maybe five minutes,” he says as he returns the recording to normal speed. “And when they leave, Spender is on his cell phone, and the tall one is clearly slipping something into his pocket.” He pauses the tape and, with several more clicks of the mouse, he zooms in on the man’s right hand, which is tucking a cylindrical object out of sight.

“That’s a syringe,” says Scully. “They gave her something while they were in there.” Byers nods.

“We think,” says Frohike, watching Mulder carefully, “that they slipped her something to speed up her recovery, and that’s why she got better so quickly.” Byers shuts off the computer monitor and stands, turning to face Mulder.

Everyone in the room is waiting for him to speak... but the realization that he’s just come to is even worse than the truth that Scully had been trying so hard to convince him of.

“It was her,” he says, almost to himself. “She told them.” He looks up at Scully, barely able to meet her eyes as the guilt crashes through him. She merely looks perplexed for a moment... but then, understanding breaks, her face going from confused to horrified to downright furious in seconds.

“You told her?” Scully’s anger fairly explodes outward at him, and it’s all he can do to keep from cowering under the intensity of it.

“It slipped out,” he says, fully aware of how pathetic of an excuse it is. “I didn’t mean to. I knew it was a mistake the second I said it.” Scully opens her mouth to speak, but her rage seems to be beyond words. She turns sharply on her heel and races for the door. Mulder has just enough time to see the identical looks of disgust on all three of the Gunmen’s faces before he turns and races after her.

“Scully, wait!” he calls, as he runs out of the door and sees her striding down the sidewalk towards her car. He doesn’t think she’ll listen, but quite suddenly, she turns and charges at him.

“How could you, Mulder?” she shouts. “I didn’t even tell my own mother what we were doing, and you, you go and tell some woman I don’t even know?” She’s so livid that she actually reaches out and shoves at his shoulder. “And then you treat me like I’m nothing more than a petulant, jealous girlfriend when I have the audacity to question her loyalties? And I was right, Mulder! She was with them all along, and you refused to see it!”

“I know you were right, Scully,” he says. “I know that now. But you have to understand, I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe that of her, not after-” He cuts himself off. This is the final secret, the one he’s never told her, at first because it didn’t seem important... and later, because he knew how hurt she’d be that he’d kept it from her for so long.

“After what, Mulder?” Scully asks. “What possible reason could you have to trust her that much?” Mulder looks down, the shame of it all pressing heavily on him. He’s failed her so thoroughly that maybe, just maybe, he can’t possibly hurt her any worse.

“Diana is my ex-wife, Scully,” he says quietly. And when he looks up and sees her face, he knows immediately that he was wrong, that his capacity to inflict pain onto the people he loves may well be limitless. She says nothing, and he doesn’t try to call her back as she turns and rushes back to her car, climbing in and taking off so fast that the tires actually squeal. 

His shoulders slumped, Mulder digs his cell phone out of his pocket and calls for a cab.

[h0ldthiscat]

How To Talk To Your Son

Read it here or on AO3. 

2016. Look in his eyes for the first time in nearly fifteen years. He doesn’t look the way you thought he would. More like Mulder than you anticipated, which is startling. He also looks a little like the dumpy woman fluttering about the porch, still in disbelief that a government helicopter just landed on her front lawn. He looks like her in way that old married couples are indistinguishable from each other, in the way that dogs start to look like their owners. Or is it the owners who start to look like the dogs?

“William?” you ask, even though you know.

“Yeah?” His voice hasn’t dropped yet.

“I’m Agent Scully, I’m going to need you to come with us.”

He looks to the woman on the porch, her colorless brown hair coming loose from its braid. “What is this about?” he asks.

“There’s not much time to explain,” you say, “but there’s a man in this helicopter who’s very sick and we think you might have a certain… element in your genetic makeup that can help him.”

His blue eyes flash--at least those are yours--as he tries to process. Then he says, “Okay.” Just like that, he believes you, and finally you think you understand how Mulder feels, after all these years.

2015. “Just think about it,” Walter says, and you do. You really do.

You have forgotten what it would be like to come home not smelling faintly of antiseptic and bile every day. You and Mulder are friendly. It wouldn’t be terrible to work with him again.

2014. Don’t think about him as much as you used to. Recall less and less the way his tiny fingers seemed curved in a perpetual half-fist, ready to close around anything that came into his path.

You can’t remember anymore whose father you named him after. Yours, Mulder’s, or your son’s own. Well, you could hardly name him Fox. I mean, really.

2013. Do not answer the phone when Mulder calls. Talk to your mother every day, like some sad woman in a book you read once. Silently assess the measure of her. She’s survived everything you have, but she had to watch it happen to her daughter. It’s worse, somehow, to see your suffering through your mother’s eyes. Guiltily, remember how long you waited to tell her about the cancer.

“I thought it would just go away,” you say one night on the phone in your new apartment, your mother an arm’s length away in Bethesda. “That if I didn’t tell you it wouldn’t be real.” Don’t tell her how you pictured it shriveling up like a grape and becoming a raisin and one day sneezing it out into a tissue, curling your lip at the dark mass in your mucus, and then tossing it into the trash.

“Dana, dear, you’re a doctor. You know that’s not how it works.”

She is the only person who calls you Dana anymore. You asked everyone at work to call you by your last name years ago. Tell them you’re used to it. They comply, except for one intern who calls you “Doctor D.” For some reason, it doesn’t bother you.

Huff: “I know that’s not how it works, Mom.”

She suggests, not for the first time, that you get a cat. You try to laugh it off even though the thought grips you with a cold hand and makes your stomach roil. To get a cat would be admitting defeat and you are not there yet. Quickly think of a reason you have to go and wish her good night with a smile in your voice.

Answer the phone without looking two minutes later when it rings again, assuming it’s her. Start to apologize for your quick sign off. Realize it’s Mulder. Grip the phone with both hands like you used to when a phone was big enough to hold with two hands. Listen to each other breathing for a while.

Say his name, Mulder, like an invocation. When you worked together you learned that many demons can be summoned by the mere utterance of their name at a certain time of day under specific conditions. Allegedly. Feel as if you are summoning him now. Say it’s nice to hear his voice, because it is.

Meet up for coffee two days later and enjoy yourself.

2012. Leave. Take his picture, nothing else.

2011. Feel as if the world is coming to an end when the internet connection goes out one night at the house. Mulder hems and haws, fiddling with the router. He’s emerged from his study. He can’t hole up and scour the deep web without an internet connection, of course.

Say: “It’ll probably be back in an hour or so. You know reception is spotty up here.”

Lounge on the couch with a book for the first time in ages. Notice the swell of your breasts beneath your tanktop and feel incredibly sexual all of a sudden. Stand and take off all your clothes, chilly in the breeze from the open window. Feel like a different person, the kind of woman with a name like Jacquelyn or Isobel with an o. Go to the front room, where the router is. Pose behind him in the doorway and say something ridiculous like, “Why don’t you quit working on that and come to work on me.”

He looks up and says, “Come on, Scully, quit messing around and help me with this.”

Wipe your eyes with the backs of your hands and put your clothes back on. Announce you are going back to the hospital, there is something you forgot to do and it’s got to get done before morning.

Stay there for three or four days until you spill coffee on both your extra sets of scrubs and can’t justify going out to buy new ones. Say you’re sorry and almost mean it when Mulder clutches you and says he was so worried.

Then why didn’t you call me? Don’t say that.

2010. Go to a support group for parents who no longer have children. That’s how they word it, a carefully constructed aphorism because no one wants to say they’re dead. No one wants to talk about tiny faces caked in pallid makeup, every indentation on their lips outlined, little boys buried in their boy scout uniforms, girls in their first communion dresses.

You and Mulder worked a case once--somewhere in the midwest--where a series of graves were upturned and their clothes stolen. Men, women, and children thrown haphazardly back into their padded box-beds in various states of decomposition. Local law enforcement had found a ripped piece of a communion veil on a tree. You touched it without gloves on because you needed to know what it felt like. Soft, impossibly soft, more precious than the top of his head with his swirl of dark hair like his father’s.

Dana, would you like to share today, the group leader asks. You say no thank you and get yourself another cup of coffee. You are jittery on the drive home. When you pull up in the driveway, all the lights are turned out. In the living room, pick up a pillow and scream into it until it feels like your throat bleeds.

2008. After the snowiest winter you can remember (although your memory’s not so good these days), go somewhere warm. Bermuda. Puerto Rico. Belize. Hawaii. The week before, stand in dressing rooms at the mall and tilt your head at your reflection in the mirror. Is that you? Is that what you look like? She’s not so bad, you suppose. Turn profile and admire the curve of your ass. Push your breasts together, then apart.

Decide you have aged well. Buy a long, flowing coverup. “Forget” to pack it.

2006. You begin to write him letters, advice for primary school and how to talk to kids who seem mean. How to do taxes and establish a line of credit. The lyrics to a Dionne Warwick song. You never send them. They live in a box in the guest room. You paint it a bearable sort of green and during a fight you accidentally refer to it as “William’s room.” Mulder just sort of stares at you, stunned.

2005. Buy a house. Pay in cash. Pick out furniture at Pottery Barn and Pier One. Think that things are finally looking up. Knock on wood. Lay between sheets you finally own again and think blissfully, I could get used to this.

You do not.

2004. Toast miserably to nothing on election night.

“Four more years,” Mulder intones sarcastically.

Snap at him, “What do you have to be miserable about? You can’t even vote.”

2003. On his second birthday, stare at a stain on the hotel wall while Mulder takes you from behind, his hands like vice grips on your waist. Let him finish quickly and sloppily kiss your shoulder and then go to the bathroom to clean up. Think about finishing yourself off. Slide your hand between your legs and realize you don’t feel like you used to. For years you were the only one who knew yourself, but it’s different now.

2001. Split in two with the weight of him, the size. When Monica wipes the sweat from your brow and tells you you’re doing great, you’re doing wonderfully, Dana, joke: he has broad shoulders like his father. Do not scream where the hell is Mulder, even though you want to. Breathe the way you’ve been taught, the way they do in movies and the way you did on a yoga mat in that studio above an Indian restaurant on K Street, imagining this moment in a hospital bed and not some shantytown near the thirty-third parallel.

Wonder why John has that terrible accent if he was born here, where they drawl their r’s and their e’s sound like i’s. Try to scream. The pain is a bubble in your throat and you want to bite something, want to push your shoulders back and together until your arms snap off and you dissolve into stardust. But you don’t, and neither does he, all eight pounds nine ounces of him, wailing into the darkness in late spring.

He is perfect.

2000. Feel him growing inside of you. He is the size of banana, your obstetrician tells you. Hate how people always liken fetuses to fruit. Why not little animals or the shipping boxes at the post office? Your baby would fit in a standard large overnight envelope, the kind with the accordion sides. You’ll take it? Lovely. And how will you be paying today?

1997. Nod somberly at the diagnosis and wonder how to tell your mother that you won’t be giving her any grandchildren.

[thegirlsinthefirehouse]

yatesbert

who hogs the duvetNormally, this is Erin, because Abby knows all she has to do is cuddle up behind Erin, who’ll automatically curl into Abby and she can regain the blankets. Though when Abby is sick, she becomes a blanket burrito. Erin has learned to hide a blanket in the closet just for these occasions.

who texts/rings to check how their day is goingIf they’re just in the firehouse, then all they have to do is go find the other. But if one of them is out speaking, Abby gives a play by play of the day. Erin thinks it’s adorable.

who’s the most creative when it comes to giftsErin, hands down. She always ends up feeling guilty about something and either overspends on one big gift or many, many smaller gifts. Abby is very practical.

who gets up first in the morningErin has a routine and sticks to it. She can barely get Abby out of bed.

who suggests new things in bedAbby, most of the time. Though Erin did surprise her once with a clit stimulator that has become a constant in their activities.

who cries at moviesErin cries at romantic movies, and although she never will admit it, Abby cries watching people helping each other work through issues or overcome large obstacles.

who gives unprompted massagesAbby always knows when Erin has overworked herself and is the only one who can get the kinks out of her neck. She basically turns Erin into a big limp noodle when she’s done.

who fusses over the other when they’re sickErin is like a mother hen when it comes to any of the Ghostbusters getting sick, but she really eyes Abby hard whenever she sneezes. Abby has taken more than a couple of times to hiding in Holtz’s lab when she has a cold just so Erin will leave her alone, lol.

who gets jealous easiestAbby. Erin still gets charmed and easily flustered when people flirt. Although once Erin came up and forcibly removed Abby from a pack of fangirls that her wife did not realize wanted more than to just talk about the paranormal.

who has the most embarrassing taste in musicAbby, and Erin blames Holtz for it.

who collects something unusualThey both do. Abby collects notes and personal journals from known ghost hunters, looking for any insight they might have had. She gets them from estate sales, eBay, and such. Erin loves finding out her family history, so she is very into genealogy. They also are both fond of their small but growing X-Files collection, which was started when Holtz gave them the Mulder and Scully Barbie dolls for Christmas as a joke and they loved it.

who takes the longest to get readyErin.

who is the most tidy and organisedErin is definitely the most tidy, but she has the bad habit of not remembering where she puts something after cleaning up. While Abby might be a little messy, she knows exactly where her stuff is which annoys Erin to no end.

who gets most excited about the holidaysErin and Abby are about the same. They love Christmas, and Erin loves watching Abby get dressed up with Holtz and giving out candy in the firehouse. They love getting a bottle of champagne and snuggling up on the couch for New years.

who is the big spoon/little spoonThey switch up, although most of the time Abby slips her arms around Erin just to make sure she’s still there.

who gets most competitive when playing games and/or sportsErin gets the most exasperated when playing games with the others and flails the most in general, especially when she realizes both Abby and Holtz cheat.

who starts the most argumentsAbby, which is a bad habit for her. She automatically toes the anger line and she doesn’t mean to. It’s a thing she has to remain conscious of.

who suggests that they buy a petErin surprises Abby with a dachshund puppy for her 40/45th birthday. It is automatically named Zorp. :)

what couple traditions they haveThey have a date night once a week. It was Abby’s idea so they could spend time reconnecting. Erin loves it because Abby is a little possessive when they go out and she can’t get enough of Abby ‘claiming’ her. It’s a turn on for her, really.

what TV shows they watch togetherRe-watching X-Files, obviously. Looking into the new shows that everyone raves about. They love finding a new science fiction or paranormal series to get into. They are fond of Stranger Things.

what other couple they hang out withToltzmann of course! ;)

how they spend time together as a coupleOutside of work, they enjoy spending time at home. They’re not really outgoing people, but they do go out for dinner, movies, and to go to flea markets for fun. 

who made the first moveErin. She knew Abby was ready and willing, but she also knew she had to push the issue. Her dummy of a wife would have just been happy to have her best friend back in her life. Erin thought she was going to have to buy a ring and surprise Abby with a wedding to make her intentions known that she wanted more than just a friendship.

who brings flowers homeAbby. She loves surprising Erin.

who is the best cookErin. She learned to cook for herself so she could stay healthy and has kept up the habit.