#sometimes I think too hard about mulder and scully and my brain just does this

[k2ulhu]

thinking about that line in existence when mulder is asked how he found scully and william without coordinates and he says "there was a light. I followed it" and I really love that line because just...look. the man has been chasing lights in the sky since he was 12 years old. he's been running after ufos trying to find his sister, trying to find the truth, searching for a meaning in it all. he has been following lights his entire life and they led him to scully. they led him to his son. they led him to his family. like he always wanted to believe they would.

[sapphirebones-ao3]

warning buzz

read on ao3

Rating: Explicit

Chapter 1/2

Summary:

"Can I kiss you?"

She raises an eyebrow at him, "You didn't ask when we were in the hospital."

"Well– That-That was different, this is different." He brings his hand up to scratch the back of his neck, averting his eyes for just a second before bringing them back. "Sorry- I just-"

"Yes."

He blinks and his eyes widen, "Yeah?"

Scully tilts her head to the side and brings a hand to his cheek, careful not to bump into his injured arm. "Yes, Mulder. You can kiss me."

“So Scully, any New Year's resolutions?" Mulder looks down at her in the elevator, the new millennium just welcomed with a kiss. Scully presses the button to the parking garage and crosses her arms, "A few," she says, and stares back up at him "how about you?"

"C'mon Scully, don't leave me hanging!" he makes a show of waving his cast around as much as possible and wiggles his eyebrows at her, she cracks a smile but makes no move to speak. "Fine, guess I'll go first," he pouts, "my first New Year's resolution is to buy you a drink!" he winks at her as the elevator doors open and skips out, dangling the car keys in his good hand.

"Mulder, you can't drink on painkillers!" Scully calls after him, "And I'm driving, you've had enough excitement for one night." she runs up to the car door and snatches the keys from Mulder's hand, shooing him off to the passenger side and getting into the driver's seat.

“So why my birthday? Not going by dog years anymore?” she quips, glancing at him and putting the keys in the ignition.

“I’ve decided I need to come back to the human realm, Scully, dogs and zombies just aren’t as compelling to me anymore.” he shudders, thinking about the zombies he’d fought off just a couple hours prior.

“Wow, it’s a New Year’s miracle, Fox Mulder admitting he doesn’t find zombies interesting.” Scully chuckles, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel as the car pulls out of the garage.

“You can have that admission only if you give me one of yours! You still haven’t told me your resolution, Agent Scully.” he pokes at her shoulder over the console and turns himself towards her, listening with rapt attention.

Scully sighs and drives in silence for a couple of seconds, and Mulder can almost hear the gears turning in her brain before she speaks “I want to be more open this year, and before you say anything regarding aliens–” she flicks her eyes to him and half-heartedly glares, “–I mean emotionally.” her lips purse in thought before she continues. “I haven’t let myself experience much lately, I want to be more honest about what I feel.” He sees her clench the steering wheel tighter for a moment before turning to look at him, “Does that make sense?”

“Scully, you’re the most honest person I know. I think if you got any more honest they’d finally arrest me.” he says, quirking a smile at her. “In all seriousness, I think I understand what you mean, it’s hard for me too sometimes.” He briefly squeezes her elbow and leans back into his seat, thinking about just how much he wants to tell her. The new millennium may not have ended the world, but it’s definitely eroded his patience, will he wait for the next one to finally tell her how he feels? The kiss felt like a good start, but she might just chalk it up to a New Year’s tradition, and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to survive another seven years for the next.

Despite Mulder’s mind racing the whole way there, the two of them do fall into a comfortable silence, occasionally humming along to the radio as Scully drives them to his apartment.

---

Some cheesy romcom plays on the TV set in front of them, her head on his shoulder as they both nurse a beer, Scully having finally given in to his pleas to have a drink and celebrate the new year. After a while, she feels him shift above her and feels him staring. Tilting her head up to meet his gaze she sighs, "What is it, Mulder?" he’s looking at her with an unreadable expression, something twinkling there in the dim light of his living room.

"Can I kiss you?"

She slowly raises an eyebrow at him and brings the beer to her lips, "You didn't ask when we were in the hospital."

"Well– That– That was different. This is different." He brings his hand up to scratch the back of his neck, averting his eyes while she sets the beer down before bringing them back to her. "Sorry- I just-"

"Yes."

He blinks and his eyes widen, "Yeah?"

Scully tilts her head to the side and brings a hand to his cheek, careful not to bump into his injured arm. "Yes, Mulder. You can kiss me."

And so he does, he tilts his own head down and brings his lips to hers in a small, chaste, kiss. Almost reminiscent of the one they shared in the hospital lobby, except this time he pulls back and watches her face, as her eyes open slowly and her thumb strokes his stubble.

"Can I kiss you again?" he whispers, and she chuckles and leans into him once more.

This time, she opens her mouth to his and they explore each other slowly. Mulder runs his tongue along Scully's teeth, her lips pillowy around his, he brushes against her own tongue and it ignites something within her. She brings her other hand to his face and smashes herself into the kiss, her tongue running along his palate, then pulling back and along his plush lower lip. He sits in a daze, mouth open, as she nips at his stubble and along his jaw and then returns to his mouth, she finds his tongue and sucks. A groan makes its way out of his throat and send a bolt of arousal down, down, down.

"Scu– Scully..." He says, barely catching his breath as he pulls back and raises his hand to the one on his cheek. They look at each other, eyes half lidded and mouths wet. "I appreciate the enthusiasm but I uh- That- That uh-"

"Too much?" She drops the hand that Mulder isn't holding and looks up at him, smiling with her gums on display.

"No– I just–" he smiles and squeezes her hand, bringing it down to the couch, palm up, so he can hold it. "I want you, Scully."

He goes to lean in again but freezes, as if just now realizing the implications. Gripping Scully's hand tighter, he snaps his eyes up to hers as he stutters "I– I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Scully sighs and brings her other hand on top of theirs. "You remember what I said in the car?" He nods, listening. "I said I wanted to be more honest, and that means being honest even when it scares me. You scare me, Mulder."

His face twists into a frown and he sighs, pulling his hand away, "You could've said no. I wouldn't have pushed."

She doesn't let his hand get far before grasping it tightly in between her own and looking up at him, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "Listen to me, Mulder. You're not listening."

She brings his hand up to her lips and places a kiss on his knuckles, "What I mean is, I'm scared if I let myself hope, then it'll all go to hell. I'm scared you'll find some other piece of the truth and go out to chase it, only this time you won't come back." She looks up at him again and he sees tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

"I couldn't live with that. I couldn't live with having you like this–" She gestures between them "–just to have you taken away from me again. I wouldn't survive it." Her head drops down to her chest and she breathes shakily.

Mulder pulls her close and kisses the top of her head, his lips resting in the soft strands, he cradles her against his chest with his one good arm, “Scully…” he breathes, “I hope you know that I would never leave you, not on purpose.” he strokes her back and feels the rise and fall of her chest against his own, their breaths and the soft murmur of the TV the only sounds in the room. “I’m scared too, if that’s any consolation.” he whispers, “The amount of times you’ve had something happen because of me…” his words trail off as he speaks them into her hair, and she lifts her head up and plants a soft kiss to his cheek.

“None of that was your fault, Mulder. I chose to stay with the X-files, to stay with you.” she plants her hands on his shoulders and moves into his lap, bringing herself almost eye-level with him. “I want to try this, Mulder. I don’t want to run away anymore.”

“Scully I– Are you sure? Me?” his eyes are wide and searching, roaming over her face to try to find any trace of uncertainty, “You could have anyone you want, anything– God, Scully, you deserve so much.” He sees a twinge of anger flash in Scully’s eyes and her gaze hardens, her hands come up to cup his jaw and she runs her fingers through the hair at his temples, it feels possessive, as if she’s making sure he won’t run away.

“Mulder, we’ve had so much taken from us, don’t we both deserve this?” her thumbs lightly scrape through his five-o’-clock shadow, her eyes following the sound, “What if what I want– Who I want, is you?” she whispers.

He closes his eyes and chuckles lightly, breathing through his nose, “Scully? Are we sure there are no bees around this time?”

The only noise in the apartment now is the bubbling of the fish tank, the movie having ended long ago, the soft glow of the TV illuminating their faces on the couch.

“Not that I can hear.” Scully whispers.

“Then, Scully, can I kiss you again? Or I guess, again– again?”

“Please.”

[scullydubois]

Only the Light: Ch. 8

8/? | AU where Melissa moves in with Scully after Scully’s abduction | angst, msr slow-burn, some fluff | currently: s2, ep 12, Aubrey | T (for now?) | 2.3k | previous chapters | read on ao3 | tagging: @today-in-fic

Scully deals with the trauma of her nightmare when she and Mulder meet BJ in the park; a migraine leads Scully to breakdown to her sister.

[this is an especially angsty part...TW for mild implication of rape]

------------------

The rest of their breakfast passes without fanfare. After their conversation about love languages, neither feels like diving into particularly deep topics. Mulder spends their meal providing commentary on the songs other customers picked off the jukebox, turning Scully into a captive audience who occasionally nods, chuckles, or otherwise utters a phrase of approval. It’s not that they’re bored of each other, but that they feel they should preserve their energy for the taxing conversations sure to come along with the case. The electricity between them lingers in the air, waiting for a match to spark it. When the waitress asks if they want to split the bill, Mulder gallantly insists that he will take care of it, then pulls out the Bureau credit card with a wink his partner’s way. To Scully, his wink feels like a lighter flaring into flame. A brief moment of blaze, there and then gone again. One day, she swears to herself, one day she will let him ignite her heart. 

Back in the car, they buckle up and reacclimate themselves with 1994. The local country music station hums in the background, too low to make out any lyrics. It’s just a few stoplights to the park, not even long enough to get through an entire song.

They find BJ at a picnic table nestled among Aubrey’s fall colors. She notices them first, waves them over. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Mulder says as he and Scully take a seat across from the detective.

Scully is struck by reality’s intrusion on the version of BJ she met in her nightmare. BJ is not heavily pregnant; she does not even show. She’s not covered in blood either, but looking polished in a pantsuit. Yet the sight of her conjures up vivid images from the dream, ones that Scully hoped would stay hidden in her psyche forever. The resolute darkness of Duane Barry’s eyes, like his soul had been sucked out of him. The way droplets of blood splattered when he pulled BJ by the collar. And the image of her own body, how it had been desecrated and she hadn’t felt a thing. She felt nothing.

“How are you, BJ?” she asks, her voice stiffer than intended.

BJ rests her hands on the wooden table. “I’m okay.” Then-- “I’ve made some decisions.”

Scully nods, not wanting to pry. The three of them sit with the silence. Sometimes this is all you can do. Her courage gathered, BJ looks to Mulder. 

“I don’t know if Agent Scully told you, but I’m pregnant. It’s Tilman’s. It’s made things...complicated.”

“I’m sure,” Mulder replies, not particularly moved by this announcement. 

“I don’t think it will impact the case in any way, but I wanted to be open with you. Staying quiet about it was only making the situation tougher.”

“Well, thanks for sharing.”

Scully shoots Mulder a look, as if to chastise his blase attitude toward BJ’s courage. He doesn’t see it, which makes her feel oddly guilty, like she had talked about him behind his back. 

Across the park, a little girl plays with her dog. They run through a pile of leaves together, and she takes a tumble. 

“Ow!” the girl exclaims loud enough to be heard throughout the park. BJ stands up, her gaze snapping toward the sound. Scully turns, fighting the urge to join BJ. The girl’s mother bends to check the girl for injury and seeing that she’s okay, sets her on her feet. BJ exhales, joins the agents back at the table.

“The mothering instinct,” BJ monologues. “I've been feeling it a lot lately. I used to hate it when my mother hovered over me. I swore I'd never be like her.”

Scully’s throat tightens. She felt the gravitational pull too. I mean, she’s always liked kids, but she’s not sure she would be a good mother and so she’s tried not to think much about it. Certainly her situation is unfavorable for motherhood. What kind of life would it be for a kid to have their mother gone all the time? She knows what it’s like to tuck herself into bed without a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story...to feel like an afterthought in a parent’s life. It made her push herself harder, trying to shed the inadequacy her father must have seen in her. And still she fell short. Is it all in her head, this fledgling maternal instinct? Or is it a sign of changing brain chemistry?

“I think we all feel that way at some point or another,” Mulder says. For a moment, Scully thinks he’s read her mind. She’s about to ask him whether there’s such thing as a paternal instinct when BJ continues on--

“My father was a cop. A good cop. That's all I ever wanted to be. He'd say what we're doing here is nonsense. That you can't solve a crime from a dream.”

Scully is somewhat relieved to know that she’s not alone in failing to measure up to a father’s expectations. This is not the point of the conversation, but this is what her mind latches on to. Her own father felt that the X-Files was a waste of time,, and she could never put into words why the work was so fulfilling to her. It’s not medicine; the results aren’t as obvious. Yet she can’t help but feel like she and Mulder are tuning into a rarely heard frequency, listening to its message, and passing it on. Little by little that will change the world, won’t it?

“Well, I've often felt that dreams are answers to questions we haven't yet figured out how to ask,” Mulder offers, rising to meet the gravity of the moment. Scully wonders what question her nightmare was answering. She shudders at the thought.

---------

Her skull feels like it’s being cut in half with a chainsaw, there is no other way to put it. She’s lying stretched out on her motel bed, a washcloth over her eyes, praying the pain away. Migraines aren’t a common occurrence for her, but she recalls all the times her mother would turn off the television, pull the curtains, and lay flush in her recliner in an attempt to ward off the pain. As little as she was, Scully would pull a step stool over to grab a glass from the cabinet, then fill it with water and bring it to her mother like a dog itching for a treat. She’d get a ‘thank you’ from her mom’s quiet, steady voice and sometimes a pat on the head, but nothing she could subsist on. She always wished for a little more to fill the deficit in herself. Now she understood. Pain chips away at your capacity for love.

What had started as a dull roar now felt more like the scream of a banshee. It came on suddenly around 4 while she and Mulder were reviewing the evidence of the 1942 murders. Their day had been pretty slow, one of paperwork and manila folders and bureaucracy. Not a lot of progress on the case. It’s as if her brain weren’t working hard enough, and so decided to punish her by making work impossible. She let on nothing of her plight until the way back to the motel when she leaned her head against the window and Mulder asked if she was okay. She responded nonchalantly, saying it was just a headache, and he in his savior complex offered to stop for Aspirin, but she insisted she had some in her suitcase. She did--a bottle with only two left--and she took them both. So far they’ve done nothing to combat the pain. 

It occurs to her that her ardent desire to avoid coming off as a damsel in distress doesn’t exactly mesh with Mulder’s tendency to be the hero. What is she to make of that? Nothing, not in her current state of mind.

She lies there, wonders if it’s reached a late enough hour to change into her pajamas. She can’t deal with the monotony of the shower tonight, not even if Mulder’s on the other side. She turns, glances at the digital alarm clock. 8:09pm. Certainly that’s appropriate pajama time, right? She can never be sure that Mulder won’t come knocking on her door with a new interpretation of the evidence for her to shoot down or a theory somehow more outlandish than his original. She likes that they keep each other on their toes, but tonight that’s not where she wants to be.

Her head berates her for sitting up. She figures that if that’s wishful thinking, changing clothes will be too, so she lays right back down. She has gotten very used to ending up back where she started.

Seeing as modern medicine is failing her, she decides to try meditation. Missy swears by it, but Scully doesn’t see the benefit of willingly turning off your brain. She can hear her sister now: “It’s not about turning off your brain, it’s about transcending your thoughts and being present with the world.” Since when am I not present with the world, she always wants to reply. She can’t afford not to be present with the world.

But the older sister always has some semblance of sway over the younger one, so Scully closes her eyes and listens to the nothingness of the room around her. Well, it’s not exactly nothing, but nearly so. The mini-fridge, which she doesn’t dare touch even if the bill isn’t her responsibility, hums like it has something to prove. The remaining leaves on the trees in the parking lot rustle with the wind. In the adjacent room, Mulder’s TV is on. She can hear the droning chitter-chatter of sports commentators. Baseball, probably. That’s played in the fall, right?

She slips out of active listening and into mindless musing on her lack of sports expertise. Her father was never a sports junkie himself, but her brothers were. She was often made the referee of their wrestling matches or t-ball games, having been deemed more impartial than Melissa. And yet her understanding of plays and pitches and batting averages never progressed from there. She could name all 206 bones in the body in alphabetical order, but she couldn’t tell you what 3rd down meant. Usually she doesn’t care, but at the moment, this is making her indescribably sad.

Overcome by her isolation, she grabs the phone off hook, dials her own number. Melissa picks up right before it stops ringing.

“Hello?”

“Missy…” she doesn’t know it’s going to happen until she opens her mouth and tears fling themselves down her face.

“Dana, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Are you safe?” Missy’s voice is concerned but controlled, like a 911 operator. 

“I-I’m okay,” Scully manages, in probably the least convincing delivery ever.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the motel. Mulder and I are safe, we’re okay,” she stammers. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Melissa says with utter calm. 

“My head is pounding, Missy, and I know mom used to get migraines, but I’ve never felt anything like this before--” Her voice catches, a sob slips out. “And I’m scared, Missy. Something’s wrong with me.”

“It sounds like you need medical attention, honey.” Melissa always knows when to slip in a term of endearment. “Can Mulder take you to the hospital?”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” She squeezes her eyes shut, sees stars. She hopes Mulder can’t hear her crying. The embarrassment of hurting is almost worse than the hurt itself. She pulls the bed sheet over her head like some over-dramatic teenager. She wouldn’t be able to look Mulder in the eye if he heard this next part. 

She sniffles. “I’m six days late, and I’m never late, and I can’t be pregnant unless…” She wonders what would happen if she just stopped the sentence there and never spoke of it again. Could she do that? Would Melissa mind? 

She lets the bottom drop out from under her. “...unless they did something to me.” The words are barely audible, she hates to have them on her tongue. Worse still, she’s not even the subject in her own sentence. She’s the object, of course. 

She hears Missy take what she’s deemed “a cleansing breath.” Then--”Can you come home? Tonight, tomorrow morning?”

“I...What would I tell Mulder?” Her tears have stopped flowing, but her brokenness still lives in her voice. 

“Anything. That I locked myself out of the apartment, that it’s mom’s birthday, maybe the truth. That man will listen to whatever you say. He’s not gonna stop you.”

“Well, I have to tell the FBI something.” 

“Say you have a family emergency. Or that you’re experiencing trauma from work-related events. You don’t owe them anything, Dana.”

Scully knows this, but could never operate as if she actually believed it. The FBI is her job, her duty, her choice. How can she be up in arms about something she wished upon herself? 

She takes as deep a breath as the pain in her head will allow. “I’ll fly out tomorrow morning.”

“Call me with the deets before you take off. I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay.” Scully feels a rush of safety, of being held & supported. “Thank you,” she breathes. Missy has saved her from herself.

“You’re welcome. And Dana…?”

“Yes?”

“We’re gonna figure this out. Whatever it is, we’re gonna figure it out.”

Scully flutters her eyelids shut, feels the temptation of tears at the back of them. “I know...Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Missy echoes. “Get some rest, and try not to worry. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Scully wonders what gene her sister has that gives her such a distinct ability to say the right thing every time. She wishes she hadn't missed that boat. How much easier would life be? 

She notices that Missy has refused to hang up first. “Goodnight, Missy,” she says into the phone.

“Goodnight, Dana. Sleep well.” Her words are a balm to the soul. 

Scully puts the phone back on the hook, feeling like Missy just put hope back in her vocabulary. Hope or belief? Which is stronger?

[scullysexual]

Time Can Heal (2/ )

Season Two | Abduction Arc | Canon Divergence | Angst 

Chapter One | 

Mulder realises his quest for the truth costs too much.

CHAPTER TWO

Read these tags if you’re interested in knowing what my plan is with this fic. If you don’t want to basically the version you get here is a first draft kinda thing. I’m posting as I write. Ao3 will be a more refined, final version which you are free to read as well. I’ll post the ao3 links onto here when it’s time so these chapters you read won’t be perfect but it’ll be something and you can all be my betas. You can read this, wait for the ao3 version, or read both- it’s up to you. 

- - - 

Dana lay awake in the darkness. Wrapped up in her cocoon of blankets, staring at the ceiling. The clock ticks on beside her but the sound of it just sets her on edge, the repetitive noise doing nothing but irritate her yet she’s too drained to reach over and turn it off.

There are no more tears left to cry. Crying can cure insomnia, your body beyond exhaustion that it finally stops fighting and lets you fall asleep.

Of course, one needs to cry in order for that to happen.

Mulder would call her when he couldn’t sleep. Not often but sometimes. He would tell her stories of past cases before she was assigned, or tell her some obscure fact about some obscure thing and she would listen, her eyes closed, occasionally muttering something in a sleepy response. She would hear a faint smile in his next sentence as he jokingly asks if he’s keeping her up. Maybe she should call him now, repay the favour…

NO!

She rolls over, staring towards the wall. No, she won’t give him the satisfaction of chasing him, of pining after him. She won’t beg him stay again, not after her post-mortification after doing that the first time had turned out to be for nothing. If he cared about what she had to say he would have listened to her and stayed then, not just upped and left like he did.

She wants to hate him. She does hate him. How many times did he ditch her? Left her to deal with the consequences of their various trespasses. Or all the paperwork he would dump on her counter for her to deal with? How many arguments he would get into with local law enforcements because they didn’t agree with what he had to say and her name would be dragged into the complaint made by them to the Bureau when she did nothing wrong.

Or how about never putting her name on the door? Never giving her a desk? Never giving off any indication that there were two of them fighting this.

Mulder was right. He had done her more harm than good.

But you chose to stay with him. You should’ve asked for a transfer if it bothered you that much and you never did.  

Mulder gave her an out after the Bellefleur case. He said he wouldn’t take it personally if she decided that another field would be more suitable for her. She stayed because it excited her, challenged her, made her realise that these were the victims she wanted to protect. The real people hurt by monsters that nobody believed in. Real people who wouldn’t  be given justice because most looked at the statements, saw the words ‘abduction’, ‘UFO sightings’, ‘mutants’ and toss them into a filing cabinet never to be looked at again.

And now Mulder had done the same.

She kicks the sheet away in frustration, pretends its him she’s kicking over and over again until she’s pushed the bedding onto the floor, huffing with anger and exertion.

The coldness of the room covers her as Dana switches onto her other side and curls up into a ball. Wherever he’s gone she’ll find him. They’re FBI agents, their whereabouts are always on a record, he can’t run from her.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Missy visits on the Saturday. Dana makes an effort to get out of bed, forces painkillers down her throat, and sit downstairs.

She knows Melissa isn’t here on her own volition. Maggie had called her, asking for her to come round. Dana knows this because she listened to the phone call. Melissa may love her but she has never been able to stay still for very long.

It doesn’t matter. Sometimes Dana found it stifling with just her and her mother in the house. Maggie knew something was up, knew Dana was spending too must time trapped away but Dana could never talk to her mother like she could her sister. Maggie would try to offer some help, some way to resolve the problem when she didn’t want that, she just wanted someone to listen and Missy would listen.

Missy was good at that, at knowing when it was time to offer advice or time to listen, to be a soundboard and absorb information.

Mulder had been good at that, too.

Her head falls back against the side of the couch in frustration. Does everything she think really have to lead back to Mulder?

Melissa arrives, Maggie goes out, and Dana is finally free to talk.

She confesses everything; Mulder telling her that he was leaving the X-Files, leaving Washington. How shitty it’s made her feel, how she doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat anymore and as predicted Melissa listens all the way until Dana’s finished.

“He just left?!” Missy’s furious herself. Equally as confused to his motives.

Dana nods, feeling the pang in her stomach at the thought of going back to work and not seeing him. It was so stupid. They are separated, the X-Files were closed and they were reassigned. Why is this bothering her so much?

Because there was always the knowledge she could see him whenever. A day trip to the Hoover Building and she could say hello like she did the first week they were reassigned. That had kick-started it. They were no longer working together but he still called her, still asked for her opinion, for her expertise. They would always be a team even if higher ups tried to keep them away from each other.

But this wasn’t the higher ups decision. This was Mulder’s. Mulder’s choice to leave, to get away from her.

Can’t you see I’m giving you a way out? A chance to get away from me?

He had said that to her but now she feels like he was getting away from her.

Was it because they took me, Mulder? Am I a hinderance? Something you need to keep out of arms reach so it doesn’t disrupt your mission?

It didn’t matter if he said he was leaving the X-Files. He still had his badge and gun, he still had his sources, he didn’t need the cases in the drawer, his quest could still be completed with or without them. He’d proven that in Arecibo and he hadn’t needed Dana there either.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Minnesota. He was moving to Minnesota. Minneapolis to be more exact and what was in Minneapolis? The Metrodome was in Minneapolis, that could have its bonuses.

Other than that, Minnesota was a far-cry from Washington DC but maybe that was what Mulder needed- get away from the dregs of this city and start anew in that city.

Anyway, he didn’t have a choice. He asked for the transfer and a transfer was what he was getting.

Guess it was time to start finding a new apartment in Minneapolis.

His eyes do a sweep of his current apartment. He’d have to find someone to lease it to. Scully? Scully doesn’t have an apartment anymore, maybe her?

Don’t be stupid. She’s not going to want anything from you.

Maybe The Lone Gunmen then. Surely one of them could use their own place rather than all sharing the Den. It wasn’t like he had any other friends he could lease it to anymore, he burned all those relationships some time ago.

His eyes move across the living room, landing on the X taped on the window. He sighs, striding across the room towards it. His stubby nails scratch at the tape, fighting to get it off the pane. He scrapes and scrapes at it, cursing, getting frustrated as only tiny bits off tape come off and get stuck to his fingers until finally a corner comes loose and he’s able to pull the rest off in one go.

No need for that anymore, Mulder thinks as he scrunches the tape up into a ball and throws it into the bin.

He turns back to the window, only the faint outline of an X in its place and it suddenly dawns on him what it means, what removing it signifies. His chest restricts, he becomes overwrought with emotion, tears pinpricking in his eyes and why? It’s just some damn tape, nothing but pain and lies and anger.

Still the tears come, he cannot stop them and Mulder collapses onto the couch, cries into his hands and wonders why.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

He’s half-asleep on the couch, TV playing loudly to drown out his thoughts while he tries to go to sleep. His neighbours hate him; the downstairs neighbour hates him for bouncing his basketball, his neighbours either side of him hate him for how loud he has the TV. Not that it matters anymore, he’ll be gone in five days.

There’s a knock on the door. His sleep-addled brain gets excited. For some inexplainable reason he thinks it’s Scully but why would it be? Scully hates him and she’s never knocked on his door in the year he’s known her.

There’s a mind to ignore it. He’s not home even though the TV can clearly be heard. He’s asleep, then.

But the knocking is persistent.

And what if…

Mulder gets up from the couch, his bones protesting as he moves but he pays them no heed. He deserves the physical pain for the pain he’s caused other people. He’s not deserving of a bed when there’s so many people who will never sleep in one again.

He drags his self-hating, painfilled body to the front door and unlocks it.

His heart leaps at the sight of the person behind it. In the darkened hallway he thinks it’s her and he can barely believe it. She doesn’t hate him after all…

Until the old hallway lights flicker on and his heart deflates inside his body. It’s a Scully but not his Scully.

It’s Melissa Scully and she looks pissed.

“Can I help you?” Mulder asks wondering why Melissa Scully would be paying him a visit at this time.

“Can I come in?” Her voice is hard, like it was when she told him to drop his cynicism on her last visit

“Sure,” Mulder says moving aside as Melissa steps in.

He closes the door, switches on the light, mutes the TV, and sits down on his couch.

Melissa stands.

She doesn’t take her coat off.

She’s not here to stay long.

“So,” says Mulder breaking the silence. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Dana told me everything,” she tells him.

Mulder’s heart sinks. Of course she did. He’s not angry. Scully let’s nobody in. Nobody but Melissa. What did he expect?

“Did she send you here to try to convince me to stay?” He keeps his voice levelled, controlled. He’s not angry, he’s really not but this is his choice, and whether Scully wants to believe it or not, it is to keep her safe, keep her alive. “Because if that’s the case my mind is made up. Nothing she can say or you can say will change it. I’m doing it to keep her safe.”

“Dana didn’t tell me to do anything. I came here on my own.” She regards him coolly. “Dana used to speak highly of you. She tell me how brilliant you were, how grateful she was that she had someone as caring and thoughtful for a partner. Someone who put others before himself yet since I met you I’ve not seen any of that. I mean, look how long it took you to put your gun down and just sit with her.”

Mulder looks to the floor. He can’t believe it. Scully’s really said those words about him to someone? When was the last time anyone has ever referred to him positively?

“You can’t even look at me, can you?” Melissa says and Mulder moves his eyes from the floor to the woman.

He has nothing to say. He’s being all those things right now. He’s doing this to protect, why is everyone refusing to see that?

“It’s to protect her,” he says.

“How? How is this protecting her? Please, tell me.”

Mulder looks away again, towards the window. Through the light, at the outlined X.

“Because this is my fault,” he mumbles. “I didn’t tell her the consequences.”

“What consequences?” Melissa asks, thoroughly confused. “The consequences of being an FBI agent? I think she knows the consequences, Mulder.”

Mulder shuts his eyes, breathing heavily. People still think her abduction was some FBI related incident. Scully probably believes it was too. Nobody believed Duane Barry, only Mulder and that will be everyone’s downfall.

“It’s more complicated than that.” He looks away from the window, and the X, to Melissa. “And Scully knows that, she just refuses to see it.”

Melissa sighs, looking down at her feet before looking back at Mulder.

“She needs you right now. Whatever it was that happened to her, you’re the only one she feels that can help her.”

I am helping her. I’m helping her by getting away from her before I cause more destruction.

“But you’re not going to, are you?”

Mulder swallows. “It’s for the best,” is all he says.

Melissa scoffs. “Fine. If you think so.”

She stuffs her hands into her pockets and walks herself to the door. Mulder’s eyes fall back to the floor but they follow her shadow.

“She loves you,” Melissa says, hand on the door handle. “Did you know that?”

No, he didn’t.

“She never said it outright but I heard it. And I think you love her too.”

Yes, he does.

She yanks the door open. “I hope you figure out your life, Mulder, before you lose her forever.”

She leaves then, the door slamming behind her. Mulder sinks into the couch, his hand rubbing down his face.

Maybe losing her is the best way to show her he does love her.

- - -

Tagging: @bevh78 @mypanicface @weseeusinthefall

[frangipanidownunder]

Objects in the Mirror: fic

This is for my anon who asked: ‘what happens when Scully sees Mulder kissing someone else during their “separation”. This is set pre-season 10.

Willowy. That’s the first word that pops into Scully’s head. The second thought is that at least the woman isn’t a brunette too. Type, much, Mulder? The third thought is that it’s none of her business what Mulder does these days. None. At all. Unless it’s a health issue, he’s an adult. He’s not her…The mental conversation doesn’t supply a word so her brain leaps to the fourth thought, which is how the fuck could he do that? She stops short of adding ‘to her’, so she pulls herself back to the third thought, repeating like a mantra as she strides out, eyes to the sidewalk, desperate to unsee what she saw.

But now there’s a burning itch in her gut, the kind that used to see her pumping more rounds out at the firing range or sending local law enforcement officers running for cover with her machine-gun observations of their sub-par work. Pity she can’t blow her anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy off like that anymore; she’s no longer FBI.

Pity she can’t blow off being Scully.

She takes her writhing anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy into the café over the road and orders a large latte and a white chocolate and raspberry muffin. She knows she’ll regret it almost immediately and spend a week denying herself any other treats but she needs the sugar hit. Mulder’s still talking to Willow-Blonde, so while Scully’s waiting, she teases ‘Louis’ the barista with a slow smile, holding the seam of her wallet against her cheek, hugging her waist with the other arm and slowly twisting her torso side to side so that her hair falls over her face, then swings back off it again.

It’s a pointless mating dance. It’s reactive. She’s aware of that, but tries not to fall further down the Mulder-profiling-her rabbit hole. The slow-combustion of what she recognises as a misguided sense of dispossession is still taking place in her veins. She hates herself for this weakness but here she is swaying for a bearded barista. Louis blinks her way, finishing the latte art on her order with a flourish. For him, this ritual is part of his training. Keep the customers happy. Especially the older, professional women. They’re the ones who’ll return to the same café time and again, spending their disposable income on cakes and romantic hopes. She’d fuck him though. He’s pretty enough. She wonders what the male equivalent of willowy is. And then tells her mind to shut the fuck up.

Outside, where people are actually living with purpose, instead of imagining petty sex-revenge scenarios, the street is busy. Through the thrum, she spots Mulder again. His outline, his figure, is imprinted indelibly in her mind’s eye. She believes she could find him anywhere, in a ballgame crowd, in the darkened corner of a jazz club behind drifting dry ice, through the misty rain at the end of the yard, arm raised against the twisted apple tree, raging at the brutal sky above him. There was a time when she so desperately wanted him to return home from her imposed exile that she saw him everywhere: in the parking lot, at the line in the bank, across the street pushing someone else’s baby in a stroller.

“Latte for Day-nah,” Louis sings, and as he hands over the cup his fingers brush hers. They’re thin, girlish, two knuckles decorated with calligraphy tattoos. She doesn’t hold his eye, just whips the coffee and cake bag from his hand and heads outside.

The woman has gone but Mulder’s still there, brown paper cup in hand, sunglasses (those ugly sports ones he got from eBay because they were called SpookMeister, what? they’re so me, Scully) across that familiar, broad nose, hair an inch past unkempt and stubble on his chin that hides that fat bottom lip just a little too much. She dips her face to her own cup and watches a moment longer before a car pulls up and he climbs in.

He calls her later. She doesn’t answer the first time, lets the cell buzz and slide over the table top while his name flashes at her. When she does pick up, she feigns breathlessness and gets the desired response.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, Scully?” There’s disappointment laced through his words.

“No, it’s fine. Just doing a workout.” She wheezes out a cough for extra measure.

“Keeping fit for all those kids, huh? You’re a good doctor, Scully. Always going above and beyond for that place. I hope they know how deep your affections lie. Is there some kind of Olympic Games for paediatricians? The Doctors Games?”

It’s hard not to bite back, but they’ve played this game for so long their dysfunction is beat-perfect. “Keeping fit for one’s own personal health and wellbeing is a key component in living a fulfilling life, Mulder.” If only she could convince herself as easily as the words flow.

There’s a shuffle, a few clicks and bumps. He’s changing channels. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve found a new therapist. One that seems to really get me, you know?”

His tone seems genuine and she softens. “That’s good, Mulder.” Despite their issues, she’s only ever wanted him to be well. “I do want to know these things. As your physician…”

“Not that I didn’t like the other one you recommended, but,” he takes in a sharp breath as if to punctuate his point, “we’d run our course.”

She sinks into the chair, letting her head flop back on the rest. One step forward, two steps back. “How often do you see him?”

“You’re letting your unconscious bias show, Scully. Her.”

The small word stings like a needle. She refrains from asking him if she has blonde hair and legs like a foal.

“Fortnightly. We’re still at the heady getting to know you stage.” There’s a small silence where she imagines he’s assessing if he’s done enough damage yet. “She’s young enough to understand Instagram but mature enough to get Prince.”

She laughs gently. The tension diffuses again and she feels a rush of emotion. She can’t help herself. He drags her down then lifts her up with a simple switch of tone. “I saw you today. In town.”

“I do go out in the wild without my Ghillie suit sometimes, Scully. Why didn’t you say hello? I don’t bite.”

Not literally, she thinks. Well, not for a long time. She crosses her legs at the unexpected surge of arousal but the image of him kissing another woman creeps behind her eyes again. “It felt…” If he were here with her, in the same room, he’d lean in to her, tilt his head, quirk his lips, draw the truth from her. But there’s a distance more than miles between them and she can’t say the words. “I was running late.”

“That’s unlike you, Dr Punctual. Is everything okay?”

The way he switches from teasing to caring leaves her off-balance. She waits for the world to right itself.

“Can you schedule me in for an appointment, Scully? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Not medical. Are you free on the weekend?”

Tightness in her chest makes her breathing hitch. She adjusts the phone in her grip, gives herself time to respond. She’s faced mutants and monsters, her own mortality and his death, the loss of her children. Surely, his confession shouldn’t be elevated to those ranks. Yet her hands tremble and nausea roils in her stomach. Her brain rocks. It’s stupid, dumb to feel like this. She left him. She turned her back one last time and got herself away before the darkness swallowed her whole. The guilt that followed stripped her bare like a never-ending winter but recently she’s begun to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin again.

“Sure. I’ll come over,” she asserts. That way she can simply leave again. Walk the same walk.

“No, let me take you to dinner,” he says, unexpectedly. “That Thai place you like.”

Her sigh is sharp enough to graze her throat. He can’t be that insensitive as to invite her to eat at the same place they celebrated getting the keys to the house or her news about the job at Our Lady of Sorrows.

“Or the Ethiopian restaurant. You loved their shiro wat.”

“We could order pizza and stay home.” Home. She says it without thinking.

He chuckled. “Like the old days?”

“Something like that,” she says, knowing it will be anything but.

In the end, they agreed on a lunch at the vegetarian café and she orders an omelette she knows she won’t eat. He tucks into his feta and pumpkin quiche with salad and tells her he’s trying to eat cleaner. She doesn’t ask what’s brought on the change.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, Mulder? If it’s just to prove you’re finally paying attention to your diet, you’ve demonstrated it adequately. I believe you.” Her fingers clasp around a napkin and she twists it to a sharp point.

His expression is the same one he used for the victims of the most bizarre kind of crimes. She feels panic welling in her throat and crushes the napkin into a tight ball.

“I wanted to tell you that I met someone. I figured I owed you an explanation. Not an explanation, I mean I haven’t done anything wrong…fuck, this is hard,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Jeez. I feel like a teenager. I…I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else.” He pauses and she nods her head at him, encouraging him to finish, not only because he’s clearly still got stuff to get off her chest, but also because she just wants it over. “Not that anyone else knows because I don’t have friends…so, anyway. I…” The noise he makes is a sad laugh. For her or for him? “That’s, that’s my news.”

His fingers have crept across the table and they’re drumming on the surface, disturbing the small jug containing packets of sugar so that it chinks in time with his beat. He adds a low “sorry.”

If she takes a deep breath, what signal will that send? If she speaks too quickly, would that show a callous disinterest? She tries to smile but her lips refuse to co-operate. She’s never been good at hiding negative emotions, despite her tendency to stoicism. “How did you meet her?”

“Online,” he says. “Where else does someone who spends days at a time in his den meet other humans?”

He’s blushing and it’s charming and she hates it. “Is it serious?” The words are dry on her tongue.

He looks away and she tries to interpret the clench of his jaw. A beat. It softens and his mouth changes from grimace to lop-sided grin. “What does it mean if she left a copy of Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps on the coffee table?”

“Well,” she starts, trying to hold his eye despite a rush of conflicting emotions churning through her. “I would jump in the car and take it back to her, but I’m not sure how to get to her place.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, then his head tips back and he laughs. She sips her tea and enjoys the sound. It always pleases her so profoundly to make him laugh. Not many people could claim to draw out true joy from Fox Mulder.

When he’s collected himself, he rubs his chin. “She took me out last week for coffee, took me out to tell me it was over. At least she did that, I suppose. She…she told me I was too insular. Can you believe that, Scully?” He plays for light. “According to her expert opinion of my psyche, that, I might add, she gleaned from two coffee dates and a meal at some over-priced French place where a dessert the size of a pin cost $50, I was still stuck in the past. With you.” He lowers his eyes and she rolls her lips together to stop herself from adding ‘and your demons and truths’. His shoulders move as he chuckles. “She didn’t really leave me that book, Scully. She didn’t come to the house.”

She’s stupidly relieved to hear that.

“It seemed wrong, somehow,” he says. “And it got me thinking, after her Dear John speech, that maybe this is what we’re…I’m destined for. A kind of relationship limbo. Prevented from going forward because I’m still snagged on a Scully branch. Do you think she’s right? If you…if you met someone, Scully, do you think you could give your whole self to that person?” He blinks slowly. “Or will there always be a small part of you left here?” He pats his chest with the side of his fist.

Her own heart speeds up. She’s had a few dates, a few flings. She hadn’t told him because he wasn’t in the headspace to process her attempts at moving on. And she can see now they were just ‘attempts’. There was an emptiness to the experience. And there’s a grain of truth to his question. It’s exposed just how indelibly tied they are because of their past.

She doesn’t answer him and he plays with the lollo rosso on his plate. “I like the weight of you in here.” He looks down to his heart. “It keeps me balanced.” A waiter retrieves their plates and Mulder watches her for the entire time he’s cleaning the table.

Her chest constricts, burns with such intensity that she’s certain her face is aflame. His fingers meet hers, mid-table, and she lets him squeeze them, such tenderness, such affection, so far removed from the angry, impotent man she’d left.

“Have we fucked each other up entirely, Scully?”

“Is that how she put it, your mystery woman?”

He grins. “I told her I liked being fucked up. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. That’s when she threw in the towel.”

“I don’t blame her,” she says, rubbing his knuckles. “Imagine meeting Spooky Mulder all grown up. At least back in the day your paranoia was justified. Government conspiracies and all.”

“If Dr Dana Scully had met me now, she wouldn’t have lasted one date with Ole Spook, would she?”

She lowers her head as she giggles. “You showed me many things, Mulder. Opened my eyes to wonders and closed them to the black and white life I’d known. I’m a better person because of you. I wouldn’t change a day.”

“You told me that once before.”

“And I still mean it.”

Outside, the day is cooling, sun leaching away behind thickening cloud. They walk in amiable silence down the street. There’s a bookshop she loves and he nods as she lingers at the door. Inside, the comforting smell of words on pages wafts over her and she browses the dark-shadowed shelves.

Mulder emerges with an armful of books from Squatchin’ for Novices to Meals for One. She swallows at the sight of that one. She’s picked up a mystery thriller, and couple of romances that he side-eyes. She bats him over the arm with one. Then she spies the main prize. She picks out two copies. A his and her pair. The teller scans them through and she hands one to Mulder.

He’s still laughing as they walk to their cars. He puts the other books on the passenger seat of his car and clasps his copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck to his chest.

“Shit is fucked,” she says, reading from the blurb.

“And we just have to live with it.” He drops a kiss on her head and smiles a full-wattage beam. “You’re still a good date, Scully.”

“You too,” she says. “And I’m glad you told me about…your…”

“Tiffany. That was her name.”

She can’t help the sharp burst of laughter that comes out. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That…was unexpected.”

He snugs a hand in his jeans pocket. “I know. It should have been a warning.”

“Well, unfortunate name aside, it’s good that you’re getting out there.”

“Out there. Where the truth is? I don’t think I’ll be doing it again in a hurry.”

She pulls a sympathetic face, reaches out to touch his arm. “I don’t want to be your snag, Mulder. I thought I was setting you free.”

“We’ll never be free of each other, Scully. And I don’t want to be free in that sense, not if it means never having days like this. I…miss you.” He bounces his toe off the ground and the lump in her throat wedges itself firm.

“I’d better be going,” she whispers. Turns to leave.

“Maybe we can make this a weekly thing,” he says after her. “Just two fuck-ups having lunch, you know?”

She stops, turns back around, smiling through her tears. “Maybe.” And she watches him in the rear-view mirror. Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are, she thinks as she drives away, and sometimes, they actually are.

[admiralty-xfd]

Culmination

This is chapter 7. To start at the beginning click here.

COLLISION

(all things)

SCULLY

Their worlds are colliding. Her world, his world.

There’s no other way she can describe it. The force of gravity pulling them both down to earth. Two meteors crashing into each other. Magnetic poles fusing together.

She doesn’t remember exactly how it started. She only remembers waking up alone on his couch, his fish tank bathing the living room in a pale green light, the ugly blanket from his couch around her, smelling like Mulder. She loves that ugly blanket.

What if there was only one choice, and all the other ones were wrong?

She’s been making the wrong choice for years. Now the only thing she wants to do is make the right one and she doesn’t want to wait any longer. She is done waiting and wondering. So she goes to his bedroom in the middle of the night like a moth to a seven-year-long burning flame.

There is no more hesitation. She runs to him and it begins.

They are sitting on his bed together, a frenzy of tangled limbs. Their clothes come off fast enough to make her head spin. All she can sense is him, his heat, his mass, his every atom.

A flurry of thoughts invade her mind, first oh my god I can’t believe this is finally happening.

Then this is a mistake, we shouldn’t be doing this.

Then stop.

Stop.

But she doesn’t want to stop, she knows she’s not going to stop. She banishes these thoughts because even though her mind is screaming at her to stop she knows her heart will not listen.

She’s made her decision.

Physically, this is what she wants, she knows this is what both of them need. But emotionally, she worries what it might mean. What if this really is a mistake? What if they can’t be like themselves after this, can’t go back to being them?

Tears prick her eyes and she admonishes herself. It’s exhausting, hiding your feelings from the one person you want to tell the most. Fantasies of this very moment have permeated her thoughts for years, and every day that passed without it happening made that exhaustion exponentially worse.

And what about him? What is he thinking? What is he feeling?

God, he feels amazing. This is amazing.

He feels exactly like she always imagined he would. Her fingers trail along his arms, his back, his shoulder blades, all the places she’s never been allowed to touch this way. Her mind tries to focus as stray thoughts from over the years fill her head: his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of an autopsy bay. His steely hazel eyes locked onto hers for just a few moments too long. The heat of their mouths just inches apart as he pulls her forehead to his but never crosses that line.

All those times she wanted him to.

Sometimes nothing happens for a reason.

Well, that line has certainly been crossed now. She rationalizes that it’s pointless to stop even if she were capable of doing so. There is no going back now. None of this is rational anyway; all her rational thoughts have left the building. His building. His bed. His body. His hands. His mouth.

Him, him, him.

Finally.

It’s dark, but the moonlight is bright, almost otherworldly. She should feel self-conscious about her body but she doesn’t; they���ve seen each other naked on multiple occasions over the years. Never in this context, admittedly, but she can’t bring herself to care. There simply isn’t enough bandwidth in her brain right now to go there.

He’s kissing her deeply, hungrily, all over, like he’s discovering her. She lets him. He’s nothing if not single-minded when it comes to his passion. As frustrating as it can be in moments when they don’t see eye to eye, she admires that about him.

She loves that about him.

“Is this okay?” He is the first one to speak. It’s an odd thing to say, considering she's the one who started everything. He must notice the tears in her eyes. Maybe he’s thinking about what happened in the car. She worries he’s misinterpreting.

“No. I mean… yes, it’s fine,” she smiles. “It’s better than fine. Just ignore me.”

He smiles and pulls her in again. His hands sink into her hair, his fingers entangle and disappear.

He tells her he’s ignored her for too long, he won’t make that mistake again. Something like that. Her head is swimming and she doesn’t hear exactly what he’s saying. She’s never felt so wonderful in her entire life, she knows that much. The actual fulfillment of the one thing she’s wanted more than anything else is overloading every single one of her senses. Her stomach contracts until it almost hurts.

The rain is pounding on his bedroom window, the trees whipping against the glass. She still can’t believe this is happening at all and wants to live in this moment, wants to make this go on forever, but a familiar ache is telling her this preliminary dance can’t go on much longer. It’s been years since she’s been with anyone and she’s more than ready for him.

Rarely are they on the same page, however, and tonight will be no exception. He’s kissing her everywhere, slowly, taking his time. But she needs him right now.

She pushes him back against the wall and her hand moves down in expectation, first touching him softly but then grasping him firmly. Hard evidence, her favorite kind, she jokes to herself. She suspects Mulder would appreciate a dumb science joke but she tucks that one away for later. Now really isn’t the time.

“Wait.” He pulls away, holding her face.

She looks into his eyes and sees exactly what she’s been hoping for so long to see: desire for her, maybe even love? He’s looking at her with wonder, like he just saw his first UFO. But then:

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Fuck.  What is he doing?

Maybe he’s considered this so many times and stopped himself so many times because he knows it’s probably not a good idea. Does he really want to stop? Does she?

No. There really is no turning back this time. She’s made her choice. Whatever he believes, she wants to believe everything will be okay, no matter what, because it’s them.

They can take on the world.

“I’m sure.” She says it clearly, assuredly. “Are you?”

Possible consequences are not driving her at the moment. He is like air, like water. Her need is primal and urgent. God, she hopes he’s sure.

He nods and smiles. That smile. The one she’s tried to ignore all this time. The one that stirs up these feelings she’s pushed away year after year until she finally realized that smile was all she ever wanted to see.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life, Scully.”

“That’s certainly saying something, for you,” she says, grinning, as she climbs onto his lap.

It’s the first time they’ve made contact in this way and their eyes lock. The significance of the moment isn’t lost on her, but all she can think of is how he can’t get inside her fast enough. She berates herself for feeling so powerless to these urges, because the Scully he knows doesn’t behave like this. That Scully isn’t impulsive, especially with Mulder. It’s how she’s kept her hands off him all these years.

As she looks into his eyes, though, she realizes she’s actually very much in control. She’s more in control than she’s ever been. For the first time with him, she’s going after what she wants. This Scully, the one holding onto him now, is real, and she wants him to know her so badly.

This is what she wants, he is who she wants. He is all she’s wanted ever since she walked into his basement office all those years ago. Her life started at twenty-eight and she hasn’t realized it until now.

Suddenly they are one, and she closes her eyes, marveling at its exquisiteness. It has never felt this way for her before. The symbiotic dance that has gone on for so long between his beautiful mind and hers has finally manifest in their bodies and it’s every bit as divine as she imagined it.

She remembers what he said to her years ago in his hallway: You made me a whole person. She never knew until this moment she had not been whole without him.

The rain continues to pummel the glass. Her hands are in his hair, his hands are everywhere. They find a rhythm and time and space don’t exist anymore; only they do.

She holds his face and studies it: his perfect bottom lip that she can’t help but stare at whenever he’s rattling off a theory he’s excited about. The stubble on his face he’d neglected to shave for some reason that probably had something to do with her absence. And his eyes, the same eyes that have looked directly into her soul for years, now looking more closely into her own than ever before. The only reality she can perceive right now is him, wrapped around her like he belongs there.

This feels so right, and so real, and as their bodies move against each other, his familiar voice an unfamiliar groan in her ear, she wonders why it took them so long to get here. But as she wonders, she simultaneously believes deep down within her that this, right now, was worth every single second of waiting.

She doesn’t want it to end but eventually, it does for them both, at the same time. That never happens, she marvels. She can’t believe how perfect everything is.

Her eyes close and she pulls his mouth to hers again, drinking him in. Her lips dance around his face, tasting the sweat dripping down his forehead, the sweat she helped put there. His body starts to relax, his eyelids close and he looks completely spent.

“ScullyScullyScullyScully….” he whispers into her ear, as if her name is the only word his brain can locate. It’s the best thing she’s ever heard him say. And he’s said a lot.

She holds him tightly, their bodies still joined upright. Her chin is resting on his shoulder, her knees locked around his hips. She studies the texture of the wall behind him as reality starts crashing in around her, and decides extracting herself from his arms is something she wants to put off as long as possible. Mostly because this feels like heaven, but also because then she will have to face him and think of something to say.

She doesn’t know what to say.

She wants to tell him the truth, she wants to say the words, but she can’t. She’s terrified. Just because he’s said yes to sex doesn’t mean he loves her the same way she loves him.

What if she says it and he can’t say it back? It would ruin everything that hasn’t already been ruined.

She can’t help but hope they’ll ruin it again. And again.

It’s too soon to say it, she tells herself. Seven years and it’s too soon. How fucking stupid is that?

She thinks of the millions of people who say it all the time without meaning it, and here she is, meaning it and not saying it. She prays to whatever God is listening that he says something first.

“That was incredible,” he murmurs into her ear, in that tired voice he uses while discussing a case and they’re on round four of one of their bantering sessions. “You have no idea, Scully… no idea how much I’ve thought about this, how much I’ve wanted this.”

She thinks she probably has some idea. She says nothing, but clings to him even tighter and kisses his temple. He’s breathing quietly into her ear as he holds her, and she is more happy and content than she’s ever been. She’s never been this close to him before and she wants to savor it before the moment is over and they have to try to go back to doing whatever it was they did before this.

The rain has begun to slow down, as if the storm itself was waiting for them, only for the two of them, to swell and subside as they did. As if the world had been holding its breath. They embrace each other quietly for what feels like an eternity, their breath slowing, their hearts pounding, the rain outside. Finally, reluctantly, she unravels her body from his and slides off the bed.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom, I’ll be right back.” She hears him flop back down onto the bed.

She closes the bathroom door behind her and looks into the mirror. She likes what she sees. The tableau of Mulder’s bathroom mirror framing her wild hair, her puffy lips, face red from the scruff on his chin, that just-fucked look in her eyes.

This feels good, this feels right. She smiles at her reflection.

She turns on the sink and splashes water on her face. She tries to turn off the faucet but a stubborn drip protests.

After a couple minutes, she emerges into the soft moonlight of his bedroom. He’s already asleep, of course. The jet lag from his flight from England that afternoon combined with their activities would be plenty to send him off to dreamland.

She considers climbing into bed with him, holding him all night until their breathing falls into sync like everything else, and staying there with him until morning. But she doesn’t. She can think of a million reasons to go and only one reason to stay. And that one reason is something she’s not ready to tell him.

She decides to leave that for another night. Because as awkward as this all may be, deep down she knows there has to be another night.

She softly pads around his bedroom, collecting her clothes. Her skirt is on the floor near his head, and as she crouches down to get it she watches him sleep for a moment. She presses her thumb to her own lips, then his, and says what she’s not ready to say, quietly. He won’t hear her, but she tells him anyway, because it’s the only thing left to do to make everything truly perfect.

She returns to the bathroom and gets dressed, the sink still dripping, unfinished business. Like they will have tomorrow.

After exiting the bathroom she notices the wind has picked up again. She tries not to read too much into it. She pauses at the foot of the bed to grab her jacket and looks at his naked sleeping form, half obscured by sheets. A tiny, triumphant smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

MULDER

He’s talking too much, as usual, the droning sound of his voice starting to bore even himself. So he stops and lets his gaze rest on her face, asleep on the couch next to him.

With one finger he gently tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.  She’s so heartbreakingly beautiful. Once again, the bad thoughts he’s been fighting against rise up inside him.

You don’t deserve her.

You’ll never be good enough for her.

Oh, and you’ve completely fucked up her life, by the way.

He doesn’t want to think these things but he can’t help it. He’s a fucking disaster and he loves her so much it hurts.

He briefly considers waking her up so she can go home, but he wants her here, as near to him as possible. So he tucks a blanket around her shoulders and after one more lingering gaze, reluctantly leaves her side to go to bed.

He’s tired, anyway. A whirlwind trip to England to investigate crop circles that all ended up coming to nothing. And he and Scully had a stupid argument before he left, not to mention that whole awful thing that happened in the car the other night. It was a shitty weekend.

At least she’s here now, and everything seems to be okay. They’ll move on like always, in the numbing embrace of the status quo, because as usual, he’s too chicken shit to do anything about it.

He brushes his teeth, takes off his pants and gets into bed. He’s tired but his mind won’t rest. How can it while she’s here in his apartment, so close, right now?

He’s lying there, his mind racing. He should wake her and offer her the bed. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Fuck it, maybe he should just scoop her up and bring her into the bed with him. Be romantic, do something unexpected.

Ugh, no. She’d probably slap him or leave or something. It just isn’t him, it’ll never work.

As he mulls his options over, she appears in the doorway. At first he thinks he’s dreaming, that he’s willed her into existence, some gorgeous fiery haired tulpa. A corporeal being turned physical by sheer imagination.

“Mulder.”

Her voice is husky, unfamiliar. He’s never heard her say his name this way, and he’s thrilled to add it to his list. He’s amazed that one word uttered by her has already stirred something deep in his groin.

He props himself up on his elbows and blinks.

“Scully?”

Before he can even comprehend what’s going on she’s across the room and in his space, kissing him wildly, her hands in his hair. He kisses her back.

And just like that, they’ve changed. They’ve become something else.

Of all the times he pictured this happening, and there were many times, he was always the one to make the first move. He’d thought about it in their office. He’d thought about it in the field. He’d thought about it at home, at times when he felt so lonely he could hardly stand her absence even though they’d already spent twelve hours together that day. Some nights he’d call her up for no reason at all, just to hear her voice. Other nights he’d turn to the stash of adult videos he’d tried and failed to keep a secret from her.

Hell, he’d actually tried to make a move, on more than one occasion. All of them failures.

It feels pathetic how long he’s been unable to act on his feelings in this way and now, here she is, finally doing it for him. Like she does everything for him, always.

What she’s doing now isn’t like his lame attempt on New Year’s Eve. This isn’t some arbitrary excuse to press her lips against his. This is the exact opposite of chicken shit. She’s so much braver than him and he is in awe.

He knows he doesn’t deserve her but he feels so goddamn lucky that for now, just for now, he tries to forget that.

He’s sitting up now and they are pulling, tearing each other’s clothes off. Everything falls to the floor until they’ve eliminated all the barriers that have ever been between them.

This is it, he thinks. This is really finally happening.

Just then he sees tears in her eyes. Is she crying? He asks if this is okay. After what happened in the car the other night he would never want to make her feel that way again. She says it is okay, and he believes her. He will always believe her.

He starts talking into her neck but then shuts up. They talk too much. All he wants to do is kiss her, a thousand kisses he should have given her so many times before: dozens of stakeouts where they were so close together he found it impossible not to wonder what it would be like. That night he took her hand and they danced together at a concert. The time their hands entwined around a bat as they hit baseballs in the cool night air, his arms wrapped around her. When he told her she was his constant, his touchstone, and he knew, he knew that time if he’d gone for it she would have probably gone there with him. But still, he hadn’t.

That goddamn fucking bee in the hallway that interrupted them, just outside of his apartment, mere yards from where they are now, gasping for breath and tracing every inch of each other with their fingertips.

He can hardly believe it but now her hands are moving downward, and suddenly his rational brain snaps to attention. This is headed exactly where he wants it to go, but...

What if she regrets this?

What if it affects our partnership?

What if what if what if?

He looks into her eyes, knows he has to ask if she’s sure.

She pauses for a moment and he’s having trouble reading her face. He’s so sure about this he now wishes he hadn’t said anything at all and he’s painfully aware he’s given her an out.

Please don’t take it.  Please stay with me, Scully.

She takes his face in her hands, looking deeply into his eyes. It nearly takes his breath away.

“I’m sure,” she says, with the same certainty she reserves for the scientific facts she recites for him daily, and his heart almost bursts with relief. She crawls into his lap and his world spins off its axis.

Before it’s over, he adds three new “Mulders” to his list. The very last one she screamed out is his new all-time favorite.

Afterwards, she clings to him tightly, both of them breathing heavily. He wants her to know he loves her, that she means more to him than anything in the world. But he doesn’t tell her, not right now. His brain hasn’t caught up to his body and he can barely process how incredible this all is. How incredible she is, how much he’s wanted this for so long.

He can tell her that much, so he does, softly, into her ear.

Suddenly he’s completely exhausted. He knows they’re going to have to figure this all out but he can’t think about that right now. All he can think about is how amazing her body feels next to his, just the way he’s always imagined it. Better, actually.

For the moment, he is utterly content. He would be perfectly happy just holding her like this forever.

After a while she releases him to head to the bathroom and he feels a pang of sadness to let her go. He flops back onto the bed, the sheets still tangled from his attempt at sleep before she pounced on him.

He shifts over to one side of his bed to make room for her. He’s not used to having to do that, his long limbs usually stretched out across the entire bed. His couch has been the only place he’s slept for so many years; sleeping in an actual bed has been relatively new for him.

He could get used to having her in it, he thinks, and he’s picturing such a scenario when he drifts off to sleep, the wind beginning to whip the leaves against the windows once again.

Thanks for reading! To continue, click here. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow for the next chapter!

[baronessblixen]

Thanksgiving. Stranded on a case. How does that go?

Let's pretend Thanksgiving in season 7 was somewherearound "Hungry". Tagging @today-in-fic

Happy Thanksgiving!

Cold Turkey

"Scully, I'm sorry."

He's said it at least a hundred times now,repeating the sentiment every five or ten minutes. As if she could forget it. Muldervaries it each time, puts some additional flavor in; sometimes adding her name,sometimes saying he's really sorry or very sorry. No matter how often heparrots the words, though, they don't change anything.

"Can you just stop?"

"You mean driving?"

"I mean apologizing."

"Oh. Sure, I can do that. I'm sor-,"Scully gives him a look and she sees him swallow the rest of the word."I'm sore," he says, his face almost triumphant. "From all thedriving, you know," he adds as though it would make her believe it. Shenods anyway, giving him this.

To be fair, they have been driving four hours, tryingto make it home after all. She's finally decided to give up. In Arkansas. Mulderoffered to keep driving until they made it home, but there's no use to it. Evenif she let him – and with his still fairly recent head injury she reallydoesn't want him to forego sleep – they'd never make it back in time forThanksgiving dinner. Her stomach grumbles, reminding her that she hasn't eatenin hours. It's not late yet, but the roads are empty. Everyone is home,celebrating, stuffing their faces, spending time with loved one. Mulder andScully are alone, in some shady motel in Arkansas.

They're the only ones here today.

"Don't say it, Mulder. I mean it." They'rein her room and she's going through her overnight bag, trying to decide what towear. It's too early for pajamas probably, though that's the only thing shefeels like wearing. When she turns to Mulder, she sees the apology on his face.It's as if it were written on his forehead.

"I know you wanted to spend Thanksgivingwith your mom." She groans and falls backwards onto the surprisinglycomfortable bed. "I know you don't want to hear it, Scully. But I reallyam sorry." This is it. She can't take it anymore; not his guilt trip, nothis puppy voice, none of it. She sits back up, stares at him.

"Stop it, Mulder. You decided to take on acase this close to Thanksgiving. I told you that I didn't want to fly out hereand you said we'd make it back home with plenty time to spare. I appreciateyour apology, but it doesn't change anything. I'm still here and not home withmy family. So please just stop apologizing." He's quiet, shuffles hisfeet. He looks lost, everything about him defeated. But she's too exhausted,too furious. "You never take anything I say seriously. The only person youcare about is yourself." She goes for the kill. Scully knows Thanksgivingis hard for him, the most difficult of all the holidays because of Samantha.But she just can't take it anymore.

"You're right, Scully. You're right."She expects him to say more, to specify what he means. Go on a rant andapologize even though she told him to stop. He doesn't. Instead he withdraws.Without looking at her, his hands buried in his pockets, he walks out of hermotel room like a kicked puppy. The door falls shut behind him silently and shewatches it, anticipates. Nothing happens. The door remains closed, the roomstays quiet. Scully hugs her knees and puts her head on them like a littlegirl. She shivers and hugs herself tighter. Meanwhile her eyes are glued to thedoor, closed and motionless. A fixture in this cheap motel room. She is not sureshe'd apologize if Mulder were to return now. But she does want him to comeback. Desperately.

Right now.

It takes almost an hour until her wish isgranted. She hears a soft knock on the door; he won't just barge in, not afterwhat happened earlier. Her anger is long gone and has made space for a stingingemptiness inside of her. Neither of them should be alone on Thanksgiving and ifshe's honest, she misses Mulder already. Her pain in the ass, apologizes toomuch for who he is, puppy-eyed partner. Her friend. Her best friend even. Andmaybe, if the last few months are any indication, finally something more. Asmile sneaks up on her face as she opens the door for him. Mulder's expressionis decidedly uncertain and she wonders show long he's been standing outside,debating whether he should knock at all or leave her alone. He holds up a smallplastic bag, an obvious olive branch.

"I thought you might be hungry."Scully makes room for him to step inside. Cold air surrounds him and she shiversagain, craving warmth and coziness. But she doesn't want to pressure him aboutwhere he's been or what he's done. Leftover guilt and disappointment stillhangs in the air, like a guest no one invited. Instead of addressing it, sherummages through the bag.

"Turkey sandwiches?"

"It's all they had left." She takesout a big bag of potato chips, a bottle of cranberry juice and a small bag ofcandy corn that looks like it might be from last year's Halloween.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Mulder says,the rasp in his voice yet another apology. He shrugs; he tried. It's not afeast, but they won't go to bed hungry.

Scully hands him one of the turkey sandwiches.She bites into her own and she is surprised how good it is. The turkey istender and she moans, tasting it on her tongue. Mulder's mouth hangs open, hishand suspended in mid-air as he watches her.

"Sorry," she mumbles with her mouthhalf full. "I didn't expect it to be this good. Try it." His handmoves to his mouth, but he doesn't take his eyes off her as he takes a bite.His eyes flash in surprise and Scully chuckles. "Told you so."

"This really is good. Let's have somecranberry juice." They don't have any glasses so they share the bottlelike two vagrants, passing it back and forth. "I've had worse Thanksgivingdinners." Scully opens the bag of chips and snacks on them, the crunch loudin the small room. Neither of them is ready to talk about what transpiredearlier. She isn't sure they'll talk about it at all tonight. Or ever. They'retoo good at ignoring their emotions. They can just push them aside again andagain. Tonight the thought saddens her.

"I know you don't want to hear this,Scully." Mulder wipes his face with a napkin, hands her one as well. He'ssaid the same thing earlier and she wants to roll her eyes at him, but stopsherself. "But I really am sorry. I am. I wasn't thinking when the caselanded on my desk. I just wanted to do something. We've only had one casesince…" Since he's returned from insanity. Since he almost died – again.For days after she had nightmares of Mulder dying on that table, his beautifulbrain nothing but grey matter spilled on the floor. Simply because she was toolate. She hasn't mentioned any of this to Mulder, knowing he'd feel guilty aboutthat too.  

"I needed to get out of the office and I wasn'tthinking." About her, he means. She hears it loud and clear even though hedoesn't say it. "I thought we could make it back in time. We didn't andthat's my fault. So one last time… I'm sorry, Scully. For ruining your Thanksgiving."

"Apology accepted and you didn't ruin itcompletely." She motions at the food, of what's left of it. She'spleasantly full. "But we're not going anywhere before Christmas. I meanit, Mulder." She licks her salty fingers, revels in the taste from thesandwich from the chips and the sandwich.

"I promise," he answers, putting hishand over his heart.

"I want to spend Christmas with my family."A shadow passes over his face and takes his smile away. She said the wrongthing. He thinks she doesn't consider him her family. No matter how often sheinvites him over, he won't believe it. This man, Oxford-educated psychologistand brilliant profiler, doesn't understand the simplest things. She scootscloser to him on her knees, crushing the candy corn under her. She wasn'tplanning on eating it anyway.

"I haven't told you yet what I'm thankfulfor this year." They're so close now that Scully can smell the cranberryjuice on him, the turkey too. A few crumbs are on his shirt, but she doesn'tcare about those now. "I am thankful you're alive. This past year hasn'tbeen easy for many reasons." They both swallow hard, almost in unison.

Diana.

"But you're alive. We're both alive. I amthankful that you're here with me, Mulder. I'm thankful you're my…friend." Color rushes into his cheeks.

"I am thankful for the same things,"he says, his words rushed. "I am thankful for you, Scully. That you're inmy life." She nods, agreeing with him. She feels the same. As if she'd behere with him in this motel room if she didn't feel the same way.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mulder." Sheleans forward and gives him a quick peck on his lips. It's acceptance, it's athank you and it's a promise. One she hopes he'll follow up on and soon.

[not-poignant]

14 for Game Theory (I think I came to late into the party to have that answer easily accessible) and Spoils of the spoiled (though not if that's spoilery) ? I'm curious about 45 and 49, too, if they have not been asked yet. Aaaand, maybe 20, but you come across as someone who think a lot about your stories so I'm not sure you have one.

Ooooo okay let’s go :D

14) How did you come up with the title for the Game Theory / Spoils of the Spoiled? - You can ask about multiple stories.

This one I actually already have so here’s the post for that one. I went and talked about how I titled other things in that one too :D

As for Spoils of the Spoiled, it’s based off a song by Matt Pryor when he was in The New Amsterdams. All the chapter titles are also Matt Pryor songs. You can listen to the song here. I suppose in general, I liked the lyrics and the title for what I was trying to convey.

45) What spurs you on during the writing process?

Ahaha, well, partly that I have a schedule and I’d like to have something to put up from week to week. But also just...it’s my job, and I just kind of sit down and do it. It’s hard to explain how that’s done. Music helps, and so does setting aside chunks of time specifically for writing, and having wordcount goals for the day (even if I don’t meet them). Being excited about the material I’m writing is the main one, but I’m often excited about it, so that one I can often take for granted.

I have never really believed in ‘waiting for inspiration to strike.’ That’s like, a fine way of doing things when it’s your hobby, but when something becomes like, a daily thing (or a mostly daily thing, I don’t have a daily wordcount so much as a monthly wordcount target to account for days I don’t write), you invite inspiration to come to you, by just kind of sitting down and writing. I have a brain and personality suited to doing that. I’ve always been lucky and fortunate enough to be good at sitting at a desk and just working on something creative (I worked as an artist before this), I don’t know how I do that, and I suspect it’s some combination of hyperfocus and just enjoying being immersed in other worlds, tbh (and a super fast typing speed, typing at 125 words per minute on a lazy day doesn’t do me any harm at all).

49) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?

I cannot remember the first fic I read. (It didn’t feel like a momentous occasion and nothing special happened, it was just ‘yet another new thing’ I discovered on the internet, and I had no concept of the time it would become anything at all in the future). I don’t think I can remember the first fifty, honestly. But I’m pretty sure it was an X-Files fic, and it was Mulder/Scully as the pairing. :D

20) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?

Hmmm.

HMMM.

The only ending that I’ve written that I don’t actually really love is for Into Shadows We Fall, but that’s partly because I intentionally wrote a lot more fluff into the last 4-5 chapters specifically for readers who had basically been hurting for Jack and Pitch for like a year and a half, and you know, deserved some goddamn happiness and nice feelings. I just don’t love reading (or sometimes writing) fluff.

But I don’t know if that means I should change the ending? It just means I don’t usually read the ending. And I’m not sure that I would change it or do anything differently. Jack and Pitch earned their increasing amounts of happiness. I tend not to read the endings for a lot of my stories. (And I tend not to watch the endings of a lot of films I’ve seen before).

*

From this writerly meme!

[timeisacephalopod]

Moral Alignment

My parents were watching some dumbass reality cop show and I got an idea lmao. So here’s a soul mate thing with Sam/Steve because I really don’t write them enough. This is basically just a long ass crack fic tbh.

Steve kind of hates being a cop. When he was a kid he had all these delusions about saving people and being a good person but all he does is deal with people being assholes and do a lot of running mostly. And the useless calls because some parent wants to teach their fucking kid a lesson. Ugh, if he never gets another one of those calls it’ll be too soon. At the moment he’s stuck patrolling around, which is literally doing nothing for a stupid amount of time but whatever. 

He’s driving down a darker street just to waste his own time when he notices a guy walking along the side of the road dancing a little to whatever is playing in the headphones he’s wearing. When he walks under a street light Steve’s eyebrows go up because wow that guy is hot.

So, like a complete moron, he pulls off to the side of the road where the guy is walking, noting that he’s pulled his headphones off and Steve asks for his name. Technically its something he can do not that he does it often because he thinks its mostly a waste of time but it works for him now. Or at least it does until the guy looks at him, going from somewhat confused to absolutely irritated in a matter of moments as he feels it too. 

That warm, pleasant feeling in the heart that indicates you’ve met your soul mate but there’s also the words, barring that. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” the guy says and Steve’s cheeks heat a little in embarrassment. He had always sort of hoped his words would be wrong but apparently he’s not so lucky. No one ever is but it’d be nice to cheat the system given his um... rocky start to things.

“I mean I’m not that bad...” he says in his own defense.

“‘Not that bad’? You just randomly stopped a man minding his own damn business to ask for his name and you have that nasty mustache,” he says.

Steve touches his face gently, “I busted my razor this morning and I haven’t had time to buy a new one,” he says. “And I only pulled over because I thought you were cute,” he adds, a little embarrassed.

His soul mate rolls his eyes and honestly its the most dramatic thing he’s ever seen and he knows Tony Stark personally. And Clint, for that matter. And Bucky. “You pulled me over because you think I’m attractive? You are a complete waste of my tax dollars,” he says, arms crossed in annoyance.

“I can’t even argue with that,” he mumbles. “I’m a shit cop. Also my name is Steve Rogers, and I still kind of want yours. For soul mate purposes, not cop purposes,” he clarifies.

“Sam Wilson. Are you always this easy to throw off guard? Because that seems like a bad trait for a cop,” he points out.

Steve sighs, “I am unflappable. I once had a woman throw actual turds and vomit at me and I was fine, everything worked itself out. But talking to people I find attractive? Never been good at it.” God knows how the hell he and Peggy managed a relationship when he constantly tripped over his words. She found it endearing until she met Angie but Steve thinks they’re a sweet couple. Very loving.

Sam squints, “and what, you never find the people you arrest attractive?” he asks.

Yeah, its happened. “Usually I have a partner with me so you know, he does stuff. Not much stuff, he’s a way worse cop than me. Once we were trying to deescalate a situation and he hid behind the trash cans with the civilians and left me to it. Thankfully raging drug addict with a gun is not my type.” Bucky though... should not be a cop. Usually Natasha sticks him on desk duty because his ability to organize paperwork is actually pretty good.

“Are there any not shit cops that you work with?” Sam asks, squinting again.

“Pretty much everyone but me and Bucky. Ever seen Brooklyn Nine Nine? We’re Hitchcock and Scully even though we both want to be Rosa or Holt. In that order.” They suck at the job mostly because they have no passion for it, which is what makes anyone good at their job, but now they’re kind of stuck with this so whatever. 

It pays the bills and sometimes Steve gets to rescue kittens from trees so that’s decent. That time he had to chase that one woman through a haunted house with his easily scared best friend and completely useless cop though is far less ‘decent’ as far as career choices go. Bucky damn well knew they were all fake, why did he keep screaming at the ghosts? And everyone thought they were wearing costumes. Fuck Halloween, Steve’s tired of being mistaken for a stripper gram.

“Hmm,” Sam mumbles. “Well, at least you don’t seem racist even if you’ve got all the makings of a ‘go back to your own country’ starter kit going on,” he says, waving an arm around at the car and his face. Steve so resents that but the mustache is a little much. When Natasha saw him this morning she told him he looked like he’d be willing to dry fuck a truck’s tailpipe and Bucky laughed so hard he almost choked to death on his donut.

“Did I really give off that racist of a vibe? I want to know because I don’t really want to give that vibe off,” he says seriously. He might hate being a cop but he doesn’t want to be intimidating either, especially not in a racist way. Though if anyone knew about the Princess Bubblegum and Marceline bobble heads in his car they’d probably not find him intimidating in any kind of fashion.

Sam gives him a look that indicates he’s 200% done with Steve and he really doesn’t know what he did aside from generally being a useless cop. “You pulled over because a black man was dancing around a little on the side of the road? I know I’ve got the rhythm of a drunk white girl grinding on some guy to ‘shake it off’ by Taylor Swift in a club but that’s not illegal,” he says.

Steve lets out a groan and drops his head to the steering wheel, ignoring the sharp ‘beep’ that sounds from the car. “Oh my god you thought I racially profiled you,” he mumbles.

“Bingo,” Sam says. “But... in your slight defense I’d arrest me if I witnessed that too,” he admits. “And also in your slight defense I guess I could have looked like someone you were trying to arrest.” He’s intentionally reaching but its sweet that he’s trying to let Steve off the hook especially since he out and out admitted to pulling him over because he thought he was cute.

He should probably find a new job. “So um. When we tell people how we met we’re telling them I heroically saved your life,” he says.

Sam snorts, “hell no, we’re telling them the truth- that your useless cop ass pulled me over to get my name because you thought I was cute and what were you even going to do after that?” he asks.

Steve winces again, “I didn’t think that far ahead, I was just hoping to strike up a conversation and get your number,” he admits.

“Alright honey, I’m taking pity on you because you are clearly a clueless, yet harmless, human being. Don’t hit on people in uniform, they’ll feel obligated to flirt back. What are you doing?” he asks and Steve lets out another groan.

“God damnit I am not usually this clueless, I swear. I think I might have sensed the soul mate thing because I’m not this stupid normally.” Jesus, he can’t believe he hadn’t thought of that. Thankfully Sam is the brains of this operation of god knows where this would go.

**

Bucky grins, enthused by Steve’s utter embarrassment regarding how he met his soul mate. “Natasha!” he calls, “come here, Steve’s got his best ‘dumb gay slut’ moment yet and it involves his soul mate!” And it’ll probably be his last so he’s pleased that this one is a damn good one.

Natasha immediately sticks her head out of her office, “on a scale of Clint and Phil meeting to you and Tony meeting how good is it?” she asks.

“Better than me and Tony, for sure,” he says and Nat grins, plodding over immediately. Yeah, he would too if the story was better than that time Bucky met Tony literally falling out of the sky and using Bucky as a cushion. He pities Tony for having the noise he made permanently tattooed on his body. Its worse than that noise in that song by Imagine Dragons- Radioactive- after breathing in the chemicals. The good news is that Steve finally topped his ridiculous story with his own.

He explains to Natasha what happened and from start to finish its a damn ride. Natasha snickers, considering Sam for a moment and the man is brave because he stares back. Sometimes when they have trouble getting confessions they send in Nat and most people are so scared they give up basically five seconds into her stare down. “So,” she says, “where do you fit in the Moral Alignment Test?” she asks.

Steve gives Sam a panicked look because this is a trick question- they all made up their own types years ago but Sam just smirks. “I’m chaotic asshole,” he says and Steve’s eyebrows fly up as Bucky gasps.

“You’re my mortal enemy. I’m lawful scared,” he says.

Sam squints at him for a moment before he turns to Steve, “I hope you don’t like this one much because I hate him already. Where do you sit on the alignment?” he asks Steve, who sighs.

“One, that’s the best friend I told you about. The Scully to my Hitchcock even though he’d rather be the Scully to my Mulder. Actually he’d be Mulder. Anyways I’ve been told I’m lawful super slut,” he mumbles, obviously hoping that would get lost in the rest.

Sam snorts, “guess that explains you ‘dumb gay slut’ reputation. Actually, you know what, pulling over to question me because you thought I was hot gave you away. And your lawful scared best friend needs to go,” he adds.

“Don’t be rude, I became a cop so I can arrest annoying people and you’re getting on my nerves,” Bucky tells him.

“How’s that going for you?” Sam asks, deadpan.

“See any annoying people around here?” he asks and from the look on Steve’s face he’s just pulled an Icarus, except he’d flying into the sun, not too close to it.

“I see you,” Sam says, power bombing him verbally through the precinct floor. Well, ok. He set himself up for that.

[ghostbustermelanieking]

roaring like the ocean (1/2)

summary: Scully deals with her worsening cancer as tensions run high between her and Mulder.

spoilers for elegy and demons. part of my series i rewrite as i rewatch txf. warning for major angst/mention of suicide/slight suicidal thoughts.

Scully has dreams of the college girl's smooth throat being severed, her pleading eyes in the mirror. She fights off a nurse in the bathroom and wipes the blood off of her hands with scratchy paper towels while Mulder hovers nervously. He tells her, later, that Harold is dead and attributes his visions, his death to the lack of his medication. “Well, Harold Spuller wasn't dying, Mulder,” she says. “He-he was killed as a result of what that woman took away from him.”

“Is that your medical opinion?” he asks, and something in his tone hits her the wrong way, stiffens her spine. It has been a long few days.

They stop on the ramp and she turns to face him. Her hands are slick with cold sweat over the patches of dried blood. “I saw something, Mulder,” she says.

“What?”

“The fourth victim. I saw her in the bathroom before you came to tell me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” he says, and the annoyance in his tone surprises her. Suddenly she is twenty-nine again, telling him that she followed the words of a psychic and he is mad at her for endangering herself. But at least that had made sense. At least he'd had a reason.

“Because I didn't want to believe it. Because I don't want to believe it.”

“Is that why you came down here, to prove that it wasn't true?” he asks, tension in his tone.

At the time, over four years ago, she'd been disappointed that he hadn't been proud of her for pursuing a supernatural lead, but now it just annoys her. Her life does not revolve around pleasing Fox Mulder. Except maybe it does, because she is here instead of doing other things, things that maybe she should be doing with her remaining time. “No, I came down here because you asked me to,” she says wearily.

“Why can't you be honest with me?” he asks, and she stiffens even more.

There are things she wants to say, harsh things, but she settles for snapping: “What do you want me to say? That you're right, that-that I believe it even if I don't? I mean, is that what you want?”

“Is that what you think I want to hear?”

She hadn't thought so. “No,” she says softly.

“You can believe what you want to believe, Scully, but you can't hide the truth from me because if you do, then you're working against me... and yourself,” he says.

There's more, she thinks, but she doesn't hear it. There's a roaring in her ears like the ocean, a kind of fury and incredible sadness combined inside her. He says something about being afraid of the same thing she is, and she swallows hard. She cannot do this, not now. How dare he. “The doctor said I was fine,” she says.

“I hope that's the truth,” Mulder says, and her stomach clenches.

Her eyes sting, her nose burning. She whispers, “I'm going home.”

Mulder doesn't follow her to her car and she's glad. She's going to cry and she hates crying and she hates crying in front of people. She climbs into the front seat of the car and clutches the wheel but she can't bring herself to start the car. She trembles, dissolving into brief, soft sobs. She can't put into words what she's crying over. The college girl in the mirror, maybe. Her doctor's appointment, the fact that she is inching closer and closer to inevitable death. She doesn't want to die. The fact that her best friend accused her of lying to him, of working against him. She sniffles.

Ahead of her, the ambulance carrying Nurse Innes springs to life, wailing as it pulls out onto the street. Her eyes follow it until they land on the rear view mirror. Harold Spuller stares back at her from the back seat.

Jolting in place, eyes widening, she turns around quickly. The back seat is empty. God, she thinks, trembling. I don't believe in ghosts. I don't. But she is dying, and she has seen the recently deceased. Just like Harold, just like Angie Pintero. She is dying.

Somehow she manages to drive home. She doesn't remember the trip; she just remembers staggering out of the car, unlocking her door and crawling into bed. She doesn't dream. She wakes up to blood sliding out of her nose, pain reverberating through her skull, and calls in sick. It's Friday. She can have the weekend to regain her dignity.

Mulder notices. Of course Mulder notices. He calls her near the end of the day, when she's wrapped up in blankets on her couch with a book her mother recommended. She answers without looking, and the all-too familiar, “Hey, Scully, it's me,” makes her stiffen from head to toe. “Are you okay? You were out of work today.”

“I'm fine, Mulder,” she mutters, setting the book face-down on her lap.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and his ton is exactly the same as last night. She closes her eyes, resting her head against the side of the couch, and resists the urge to snap at him. “You don't seem fine. Last night, this morning…”

She sighs heavily. “I don't want to talk about this right now, Mulder. I'll see you Monday.” Her thumb goes towards the button to hang up.

“Scully, wait,” he says, and his voice is urgent enough that she doesn't hang up. Silence for a minute before he says, “Look, I… I know I screwed up. I'm sorry. I just… There's a lead I'm following this weekend, and I wondered if you'd want to…”

“I'm not particularly interested,” she snaps, more viciously than originally intended. “And I'm not sure why you would want my help. Not if you can't trust me. Not if I'm working against you.”

Silence again. She can hear his breathing, can hear the hurt in his inhales and exhales. “I'll see you later, Scully,” says Mulder finally, quietly. Defeated. He hangs up before she can decide whether or not she wants to say anything.

She puts the phone down on the coffee table. Wipes her eyes and opens her book.

---

She should've expected the phone call summoning her to Rhode Island at five a.m. Sunday morning. Things are never simple with Mulder, and she can't just go the weekend without seeing him and go into work on Monday. The sound of his voice--disoriented, feverish--is enough to sway her, but her mind is made up when he says, “I've got blood all over me.” His blood or not, something bad has happened and she is the only one who will come.

She forgets the fight on the way up there, forgets almost everything of the previous weekend. She finds him in the shower in the hotel room, wraps him in a blanket and checks him for injuries. He doesn't remember anything after their conversation Friday. His gun has been fired.

They track Mulder's movements to Amy and David Cassandra, to the Mulders’ old summer house. Mulder has something like a seizure outside and they find two bodies inside. Mulder is arrested for murder. It happens too fast for her to stop any of it.

“I'm going to get you out of here,” she tells him, and she means it. She finds ketamine in Amy Cassandra and in Mulder. She works all night, autopsying, gathering intel on the Cassandras and a dead police officer. Her phone rings sometime around eleven; it's her mother, wanting to know where she is. She can feel the disapproval leaking through when she explains. Maybe she should feel the same way her mother does, maybe she should be upset at another weekend lost to some crazed goose chase. “I have to, Mom,” she says instead, stubbornly white-knuckling the phone. “Mulder needs me. No one else is going to help him.”

Her mother sighs on the other end of the phone and she pretends she doesn't hear it. “Just don't overexert yourself, Dana,” she says quietly. “And come home soon. I miss you.”

Scully clutches the phone so hard it hurts. “I will, Mom,” she whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” her mother says sadly. “Goodbye, sweetie.” She hangs up and tears spring to Scully's eyes; she wipes them away firmly. After this is over, she'll spend as much time as possible with her mother. She puts down the phone and picks up the scalpel.

Finally she finds what she hopes she knew all along: proof of Mulder's innocence. A murder-suicide. By the next morning, Mulder's reached the same conclusion and is determined to track down the truth with no signs of stopping.

She's seen this look of absolute determination, of closing everything else out on his face before; a few months ago, she saw it in Allentown as he hunted down answers to why she was sick. He had wanted to keep going with the investigation, had brought it up for weeks ago, had a running file and everything, but eventually she shot him down. (The answers may be out there but they are unattainable, just as they always have been. And she knows better than to believe that there's a cure for brain cancer. She was too exhausted to look any further.) Maybe the reason he's plunging into these wild causes is because he needs a pursuit, and if it can't be her illness it might as well be the usual. Maybe it's a distraction. Or maybe it's just the way he is and she can't expect any different. He barely speaks to her on the ride to Warwick, and she can't tell if it's the fact that he's sick or because of everything that's happened between them as of late. She's not sure he's entirely forgiven her for what happened with van Blundht.

She starts to understand at Goldstein’s office: Mulder walked away from their conversation on Friday (from the things she said) and did something insane. She doesn't understand, she doesn't fucking understand. “Why would you do that, Mulder?” she demands as they leave the office. “Why would you undergo something as crazy and dangerous as this?” He doesn't answer. As soon as they step out into the sunshine, Mulder groans sharply, his hands to his head. “Mulder?” He crumples, nearly bent in half. “Mulder!” She's at his side in a second, touching his arm. “Mulder?” He's groaning and convulsing, hot and quivering under her hand. He finally stills, on his knees on the pavement next to her, and she strokes his forehead, prodding gently, “Mulder?”

“I'm fine,” he says, getting to his feet, and irritation courses through her. She's starting to understand why Mulder gets so mad when she says she's fine. He is not fine. Not at all.

“No, I am not going to take that for an answer,” she says fiercely as he walks away, right on his heels. “You do not belong at work. You need to be somewhere where you can be monitored.” No response. She tries, “You are a danger to yourself and a danger to me.” She thought if anything would get through to him it would be a threat to her, but he shows no sign of having heard her. “Are you hearing me?”

“Give me the car keys,” he says stubbornly.

“No, you're not driving. You're not doing anything until these symptoms go away.” She should have fucking come with him on Friday. Anything is better than this, this fucking mess.

Mulder turns to face her, says, “Scully, I don't want these symptoms to go away. Whatever's happening to me, whatever treatment I've received, is allowing me to go back into my unconscious. The truth is in there, recorded, and I've gotten access to it. What happened to my sister--the reason she was taken--is becoming clear to me, and I need to know that.” She exhales; there's nothing she can say to him that would change his mind. She knows him. “Now give me the keys,” he adds firmly.

She inhales, exhales again. “To go where?”

“To my mother's, in Greenwich.”

She should say no. She should demand that he go to a hospital, tell him they'll pursue this later. She should demand that he stop putting himself in danger, goddamnit, because she'd do anything to have a few more years, to live to see Christmas. But all she can hear is his voice saying, You're working against me. He'll go either way, whether she gives him her approval or not. The least she can do is make sure he's safe.

“Okay,” she says, wearily. “But I'm driving.”

---

It's a fucking cycle, she should've seen this coming. The Mulders disappear into a side room, and a few minutes later, Teena Mulder comes bursting out of the room where she and Mulder were talking, not giving Scully a second look before storming up the stairs. Thinking maybe she can comfort Mulder, Scully draws closer to the room, nudging the curtained doors open gingerly, and immediately sees that it's empty. She hears the clunk of a closing car door and comes to the window just in time to see their car speeding away from the house. “Fucking bastard,” she hisses through her teeth. “Goddamn fucking bastard.” She knows exactly where he's going, what he's doing.

Anyone else might say that she should leave him to himself, that he clearly doesn't care for his health or wellbeing. She can't. The tug in her stomach is too strong. She has no idea what he'll do, who he'll hurt--be it someone else or himself. She calls a taxi to a rental car place--her car is still back in Providence--and waits at Teena’s door anxiously, hands clenched around her elbows.

“Are you going to find him?”

She turns to see Teena Mulder standing on the stairs, looking distressed. “I hope so, Mrs. Mulder,” she says quickly. “I'm sorry for… I've called a cab, it should be here any minute.”

Teena nods. Her eyes travel over Scully’s face before she says, “You're bleeding, Miss Scully.”

She feels the trickle of blood too late. “Damn,” she mumbles, hand traveling fast to her nose. “Do you have, um… may I use your washroom?”

Mulder's mother shows her to the bathroom and stays in the doorway as Scully cleans up. She studiously avoids eye contact, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. “Whatever Fox did to himself,” says Teena suddenly, “did you do the same thing? He was bleeding, too.”

A combination of irritation and worry comes up to the surface. Of course Mulder's mother wouldn't know. “I'm ill,” she says behind crumpled Kleenex. “Not the way Mu--not the way Fox is.”

Teena nods. “I slapped him,” she murmurs. “I am sorry for that, no matter how mad he made me. Will you tell him that?”

She slapped him? Scully stares at herself in the mirror, too pale, a wad of red-stained Kleenex held to her nose. She swallows hard before turning to Teena. “Yes, I will.”

The other woman nods, face unchanged, before turning and heading back down the hall. Scully can hear her footsteps on the stairs. When she exits the bathroom and goes back into the corridor, she can see the taxi waiting on the curb.

---

The police are already at Goldstein’s when she arrives. The police car is pulling away as the detective who headed Mulder's investigation looks on. She runs to him, demanding, “Where's Mulder?”

“He's not here,” the man says.

“Did you ask Dr. Goldstein?”

“Goldstein wouldn't say one way or the other.”

She focuses in on the police car and determination suddenly courses through her like a drug. “Hey, stop the car!” she shouts, running after them. She catches up to the car as it stops, as other officers crowd the car with her. “Open the back door,” she tells one of the officers. As soon as it's open she leans in, demanding, “What did you do to him?”

Goldstein turns his face away, closing his eyes as she continues harshly, “Look, I know he came back here. This is the only place he would have gone. Did you treat him?” Nothing. She seizes a handful of his shirt and yanks him up go meet her. “Damn it! Answer me!”

“Yes,” he says quickly, fearfully.

“Where is he now?”

“I don't know where he went,” Goldstein scrambles, shaking his head wildly as he looks worriedly up at her.

She shoves him back on the seat with disgust, watches as he gasps for breath, for composure. “What was the last thing he said to you?” she snaps.

“He said he was going to exorcise his demons.”

She knows where he's going to go. She turns away from the car, shoes clicking on the pavement. “Agent Scully.” The lead officer, Curtis something, is following her. “Where are you going?”

“I'm going to find Mulder.” She rummages in her coat pocket for her keys. “He needs medical attention.”

“That man is armed and dangerous,” Curtis snaps. “His actions are unpredictable. You're putting yourself and others in danger by refusing to reveal his location.”

“Mulder would never hurt me,” Scully says stubbornly. “He's hurt and he needs help. I can calm him down, convince him to go to a hospital. He doesn't need the calvary swooping in, it'll agitate him.”

“If you're certain he wouldn't hurt you,” says Curtis, in a way that suggests he doesn't believe her, “fine. But we don't know that he won't hurt others. We need to be prepared for the possibility that he will. We can't sacrifice innocent lives for one man.”

Scully bites her lower lip. She'd like to say she can take care of this entirely on her own, but she isn't sure. “Quonochontaug,” she tells him, feeling like a traitor. “His childhood vacation home. He'll go back there.” Curtis nods, satisfied, and she takes a step towards him, eyes hard. “I'm coming with you. I'm taking care of this. No arguments.”

Curtis nods absently, turns away from her, pulling out his radio. “It's an hour away, we’ll never make it. I'm going to send the local police on ahead of us.”

“Tell them not to go in!” Scully says quickly. “Tell them to wait outside. I don't even know if Mulder's there yet, I don't know how much of a head start he had. But they can't arrest him. They can't let him know they're there. Tell them to wait for me and I'll talk him down.”

Curtis studies her for a moment before sighing and saying, “You do seem to be the only person who can get through to him.” He turns and heads toward his car, calling, “Ride with me, we'll get there faster,” as he goes.

She can't relax the entire way up there, even with the added benefit of the siren for speed. Her fingers drum restlessly on her knee and she watches out the window, looks at the blur of headlights ahead. She can't stop picturing Mulder hurt, Mulder dead, Mulder gone before her. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. She thinks back to when Mulder had held her in the hospital and kissed her forehead, when he'd smiled goofily at her over a pink birthday cake and given her a key chain. Maybe it's selfish of her to want him to be that Mulder all the time, but she needs him. Needs his support. But god, crazy drilled-a-hole-in-his-head Mulder is still Mulder and she can't lose him.

She instructs the waiting police not to shoot before entering the house alone. She opens the door quietly, cautiously, and goes for her gun before she changes her mind, mentally berating herself. It's Mulder and he would never hurt me, she tries. But the statement feels void as she moves through the dark house like a character in a horror film. Two people died here while Mulder watched. A murder-suicide, and Mulder did the same thing to himself that Amy Cassandra did before her death. She hopes history doesn't repeat itself here, tonight. “Mulder?” she calls.

“Leave me alone, Scully,” he calls back harshly from somewhere upstairs. He sounds angry, on edge, unpredictable, but he is still alive and that's all she needed to know. She follows the voice.

She finds the room, finds him sitting in it, head tipped back and eyes closed, rocking slightly. “Mulder, it's me,” she says quietly.

“Scully, leave me alone.” He doesn't stop his motion, trembling in place, and he makes a sudden sound somewhere between a choke and a gasp. She sees the gun in his hand as she draws closer, as he shakes and rocks. He is falling apart right in front of her. “It's… all falling into place,” he says.

“Mulder, put down the gun,” she says calmly.

“No. Don't try to stop me.”

She thinks of Amy Cassandra and murder-suicides, and no, damnit, they are both walking out of this house alive tonight. “Please, Mulder…” she pleads.

He trembles and trembles. His hand suddenly shoots out to the gun, clenching around it, and he turns furiously and points it at her as if she is a criminal, shouting, “Get away!”

Modell in a hospital room and he's fighting against it, shaking with the force of not shooting her, telling her to get away but in a different context. Icy Cape and he wants to trust her and he's only doing it because she pointed the gun at him first. “Are you going to shoot me, Mulder?” she asks, evenly, and she never, never expected him to nod so determinedly like this. He's sick, she reminds herself, he doesn't know what he's doing, but that doesn't stop it from feeling like something inside her has shattered. Mulder, it’s me, she wants to say. It’s me. “Is that how much this means to you?” she continues. She is picking her way through the shards. She hears herself say, Mulder would never hurt me. “Mulder, listen to me. You have been given a powerful hallucinogen. You don't know that these memories are yours.” He doesn't lower the gun. Her eyes are burning and, oh god, she is going to cry. She cannot cry here. “This is not the way to the truth, Mulder,” she says softly, forcing her voice to remain steady. She's shaking her head a little, partially out of disbelief. Murder-suicide, murder-suicide. He may not shoot himself now, but if he shoots her she knows he will eventually follow. It's her biggest fear in her impending death, what will happen to him. “You've got to trust me,” she tries. The same thing she said to him all those years ago in a rainy hotel room; maybe it'll get to him.

“Just shut up!” he roars.

“Put down the gun,” she says. He doesn't move. He's looking at her and not really seeing her. For a second, she wishes he would pull the trigger. Her head hurts and she is dying and she wants it to end. Make it stop, Mulder, just do it. Would he end her pain by shooting her if he asked? Maybe she won't have to.

“Let it go,” she says. His fingers tighten around the gun. She closes her eyes and readies herself for the gunshot.

The loud sound is startling but she feels no pain. Her eyes fly open, terrified she'll see Mulder dead on the ground, but the shots continue and Mulder is standing, facing away from her. He is emptying his clip into the wall. She watches. She is going to cry. She swallows hard and thinks of her mother. Whatever happens to lead to her death, she needs a chance to say goodbye.

When he's finished, he crumples in on himself. She approaches him slowly, touching his arm. He doesn't move. She gives in to it for once, her unexplainable need for him, and wraps herself around him, resting her cheek on his back. He is warm and she wants to sob. “It's okay, Mulder,” she whispers. “It's over. It's okay.”

Feet pound the steps angrily. It's the calvary. She pries the gun out of Mulder's hand and throws it across the room before leaning back over him like a shield. The police burst in, guns drawn, scanning the room. “Don't hurt him!” she calls to them, tightening her awkward hold on him. “He's sick. He needs help. Call an ambulance.”

A few of the men lower their guns, but most do not. The leader stares at her incredulously. “Call a goddamn ambulance!” she snaps.

Someone pulls out their phone and starts dialing. The bundle of officers disperse, rattling around the room looking for evidence. “You're not going to arrest him,” she snaps at a few who draw closer, and they leave them alone after that.

Mulder is still unresponsive, stiff as a board under her embrace. He's hot and feverish. She sniffles and smooths his hair, rests her head on the strong surface of his back until the paramedics come.

She won't let them touch him; she coaxes him onto the stretcher herself. “We just want to help him, miss,” says one.

“I'm riding with him,” she tells them firmly and they don't argue. She lets them carry the stretcher, following right on their tail.

Ambulances always remind her of Leonard Betts now. She answers the paramedic’s questions as she takes a seat beside Mulder, gripping his hand in hers. “He doesn't know what he's doing,” she says again and again. “He's sick.”

“Are you okay, miss?” the paramedic in the back with them asks kindly. “You're bleeding.”

She clasps her free hand to her nose and feels the trickle of blood. She suddenly feels the exhaustion in every part of her body, in her bones. “I have brain cancer,” she mumbles. “This is normal. It's nothing.”

“I think maybe you should let someone check you out at the hospital, miss,” says the paramedic. “Along with your friend.”

Scully nods, barely knowing what she is saying.

Mulder's fingers tighten around hers. “Scully?” She looks down at him; he looks terribly confused, but responsive. He's actually responsive. His free hand comes up to touch her face. “You're bleeding. I didn't… I didn't shoot you, did I?” he says unsteadily.

She drops his hand. “No, Mulder,” she whispers. Tears are springing up to her eyes, finally. Murder-suicide, but they are still alive. They are still alive but she won't be. Not for much longer. “You didn't shoot me.”

The paramedic doesn't comment when she dissolves into sobs behind her hand.

---

The oncology department at the hospital recommends that she see her personal oncologist when she gets home. “And take it easy,” they recommend. Somehow, she doesn't foresee that happening. They tell her she can see Mulder, that they have him on sedatives while the ketamine leaves his system, but she doesn’t. She gets a hotel room and sleeps until the next evening.

Scully doesn't think of the backlash from the Bureau until Skinner calls, demanding answers. She explains warily, cross-legged on the bed and rubbing her temples. She leaves out the part where she really thought Mulder was going to shoot her. Skinner doesn't seem very satisfied with her explanation, but then again, it's the truth. “I'm sure Agent Mulder can explain it to you more fully, sir,” she says, palm pressing into her forehead.  

“I expect a full report from you, Agent Scully. In writing,” says Skinner sternly. She wants to protest that it wasn't even a case, not officially, that Mulder just did something stupid and she had to track him down and pick up the pieces. As usual.

After hanging up with Skinner, she is in no mood to go to the hospital and check on Mulder. She orders a pizza and manages two whole slices, lies in bed and watches rerun after rerun of I Love Lucy to clear her head.

She goes to the hospital in the morning simply because it is unavoidable. The nurses tell her that he is fine, that the ketamine is out of his system and the wound on his head is healing fine, that the seizures have stopped and so has his irrational behavior. They wave her on back and she tries to ignore the worry knotting in her stomach. The uncertainty.

Mulder is sitting up in bed while the TV plays quietly in the background. He looks up when she enters and she sees the shame spreading over his face before he looks away, quickly. “Hey, Scully,” he mumbles.

She's torn between hugging him and hitting him, so she settles for a neutral (if not slightly hard), “Hey, Mulder,” as she goes to sit in the chair beside his bed. He won't look at her; he picks at the hem of his blanket, brow furrowing. He's embarrassed. She's hurt. “What do you remember?” she tries. Maybe conversationally, maybe confrontational--she's not entirely sure.

“I don't… I don't know.” He rubs his face in distress. “I remember my mom and Samantha and… the smoking man… but I can't give any context to it all. Now that it's all stopped.”

“No,” she says, her hands fisting in the material of her coat. “I mean, what do you remember from the past few days.”

“Oh.” He swallows, staring at the blanket. A laugh track plays in the background. “I… I remember everything.”

She looks down at her hands curling in the dark material of the coat, at the pale, freckled backs of them. Remembers how they'd held Mulder not even two days ago, how she'd held his hand and wouldn't let anyone else touch him. He didn't know what he was doing, she reminds herself. He wasn't in his right mind. He wasn't…

“And how do you feel about… about everything that's happened?” she asks her hands.

“Are you kidding me?” His voice is sharp in the empty hospital room. “I feel like fucking shit, Scully.” He's still not looking at her but his shoulders are rigid, his hands clutching the blanket in the same way hers are clutching her coat. She thinks about taking his hand. She thinks about confronting him about the emotional roller coaster this past week has been.

She clears her throat instead, running her thumb over her fingernails. They're gnawed practically to the quick; when did that happen? “Are they discharging you today?” she asks.

“Yeah,” says Mulder bitterly. “Apparently I'm not a danger anymore. Any charges against me are cleared; I guess I should thank you for that.”

She gulps, squirming in her chair. She can't tell if he's madder at her or himself. “I'm planning on driving on back today,” she says. “Do you… do you want to…”

“My car’s still up here,” Mulder says. “I need to drive it back.”

“Oh.” She's caught a loose thread between her fingers; she pulls at it, frustrated. “Yes. Well… I should head on back, I guess.” She doesn't know why she's saying this. She's never left him alone in the hospital, not once, before now, but. She can't stay here and awkwardly talk to him. She can't do this. She is a coward and she is running.

She looks up at him and he doesn't look back at her. “Get well soon, Mulder,” she says softly, hating herself for sounding like a Hallmark card. “Drive safe. I'll see you at work.”

Scully drives home in a daze, listening to talk shows on the radio until the voices blur into a motionless rhythm. She doesn't go home right away; she goes to her mother's house. “Dana,” her mother says with surprise when she opens the door, like she wasn't expecting her. Of course she wasn't expecting her. “What a lovely surprise.”

Scully hugs her mother tightly and lets the weekend fall away in her warm embrace. She is not dead yet.

[soft-thrills]

X-Files fic: Philadelphia

Mulder and Scully drive to Philadelphia after her mother’s death. A missing scene for “Home Again.”

Rated R

With thanks, as ever, to @agoldenpalace

*

i walked the avenue ‘til my legs felt like stone

i heard the voice of friends vanished and gone

at night i could hear the blood in my veins

just as black and whispering as the rain

on the streets of Philadelphia

-Bruce Springsteen, “Streets of Philadelphia”

*

“Mulder, let’s drive to Philadelphia,” she says, gripping at his shirt with the same hand that clutches the mystery her mother has left her. Her fingernails work for traction on the slippery material, and she throws her body up against him, half begging and half demanding. “I need to work.”

“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”

“Yes. Right now.”

“No, I get it, Scully, I do. But not right now.”

She remembers, for a moment, the night his mother died. The night he asked her to cut Teena open. No, she had said, no, no, no. But she couldn’t refuse him anything, not even that, when he was so full of raw need. She would have cut herself open to soothe him.

“Mulder, right now,” she says, picking up her briefcase, putting an end to the conversation. “I need to work right now.”

She walks out of the hospital. She doesn’t look back because she knows he will follow. He'd never refuse her anything either.

*

Mulder drives them to Philadelphia in rainy silence.

She doesn’t care for Pennsylvania. When she was younger, a friend was scoping out big affordable homes in quaint towns and Scully told her not to move there. “Too many X-Files per capita,” she’d joked.

Scully doesn’t really have friends anymore. She doesn’t joke anymore.

For a long time, she looked for meaning in the bad things that had happened to her. She believed that she was meant to learn from them, that they were meant to teach her something. She had searched so hard to give them purpose, to understand, even when she came up empty time and time again.

As the tragedies big and small piled up, she wondered if each one was meant to harden her for the next. Her cancer helped her to know how to cope with her infertility. Mulder's disappearance and three-month stint in a coffin — a vision of her worst nightmare, and most awful of all the possible endings to their story—made it easier for her to survive when he left after William was born. From the loss of Emily, she was a bit more weathered to withstand the loss of William.

She began to believe that she had lost so much, been tested so much, because she was meant to know the truth, meant to help people, meant to save the world with Mulder by her side. That was worth suffering for. But then 2012 ended and the world didn’t. So she convinced herself that she had gone through these trials to bring her to Mulder, to bind them together. But then he shut her out and she left the house and she had nothing: not the X-Files, not a master-plan to save the world, not her partner.

Maybe she was like Job. Maybe she’d done nothing to deserve her misfortunes and she’d ultimately learn little from them, other than that God is cruel and cavalier and what he gives he can take away. Naked we came out of our mothers’ wombs and naked we will depart.

Nothing will come from her own womb and she will never see her own mother again. She will never see her son again. She will never forget her mother’s last words, to somebody else, about the son she gave away.

But Mulder is back; he is holding her hand where it rests in the center console of the car, not far from where he keeps his sunflower seeds.

That is something.

*

She feels tense from the moment the skyline rises into their windshield.

Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love and the city of her grandest mistakes, at least where sex is concerned. The dingy place where she got her tattoo is probably long out of business, gentrified into a coffee shop. The Russian who wielded the needle is probably gone, too.

Ed Jerse is still in prison. She used to get little postcards when he was up for parole, until they lost track of her on the run. But every couple of years some part of her, the dangerously curious part that missed the FBI while she was a doctor, looks him up. Her tattoo is still on her back, catching her eye sometimes as she moves past a mirror.

She’s not sure she regrets sleeping with Ed, even after how it all ended. She knows she doesn’t regret the tattoo. It reminds her to keep moving, even when she’s fucked something up seemingly beyond repair.

As she and Mulder walk through the lobby of a nicer-than-usual hotel, she feels herself moving like a train on a doomed track, ready to collide with someone. Only this time it's not a stranger and that’s really the problem. It’s been years since she was this unsure of what she and Mulder were to each other. She feels not unlike she did when she was in Philadelphia all those years ago, adrift and alone.

Mulder tells the woman at the front desk that he’d called on the way and been told the hotel had vacancy.

“One room, or two?” she hears the woman ask.

It is the city of brotherly love. As complicated as her feelings for Mulder are, Scully is sure of one thing: they are not fraternal.

“One,” she says, a woman who feels like making a mistake, a woman who probably won’t regret this one, either.

*

She doesn’t want to talk, not yet, so she tries not to give him the time.

She stalks behind him as he places their bags on the luggage rack, and when he turns she’s there, pressing her body into him the way she did a few hours ago in the hospital. But she isn’t crying now. She is staring up, on her tip toes even in her heels, ready to kiss him.

“Scully, I—” he begins, but she knows from his face where he’s going.

“Don’t,” she whispers, unable and unwilling to accept rejection, even if it is well meaning. “Please.”

He hesitates. She watches the conflict play across his face as he tries to chart his course: He doesn’t want to refuse her or make her ask for what she needs (though he’s reveled in making her beg before, she remembers with a flush, it would be uncouth of him to do it now). But he is balancing that with the need to be sure he isn’t doing something she will regret tomorrow, something to make her pain worse. She knows because she has been there, stood in his place and wondered the same thing, how to navigate an emotional minefield and walk away unscathed.

So she tries to explain.

“When your mother died, Mulder, that night, when we were together—I didn’t understand it,” she says, shaking her head. “But I do now. I need… I don’t know.”

She shakes her head softly. His hand finds her face, a thumb strokes her cheek. She wills herself not to cry, afraid it will scare him off.

“Tennessee Williams wrote that desire is the opposite of death,” Mulder says.

She should roll her eyes at him for quoting a play, or at the very least point out that the one he is referencing ends pretty badly. She could think of her last misbegotten trip to Philadelphia and wonder if death — the specter of it lodged between her nose and her brain — was what fueled her desire then. But she does not want to think.

“Yes,” she says instead, because he has managed to sum up the feeling thrumming inside her pretty well.

Mulder nods, a little too solemn for her liking but then he puts a hand in the hair at the nape of her neck and he kisses her, offering himself up to be another distraction from her grief, just like the case would be. He’s more to her than that, and her heart makes her brain promise to tell him so. Later.

They have kissed in a hundred hotel rooms, and if she shuts out her grief, his touch in this place feels nostalgic. There were years of this, fucking in nondescript rooms with weird carpets and boring pictures on the walls. Even the grief inside her isn’t unfamiliar in their history of rented-room romance. She remembers the way he’d kissed her softly and sadly that first night on the run in New Mexico; she remembers the way he’d fucked her after their first real discussion about William had devolved into their first real fight about William.

This is somewhere in between, she thinks as his hands move across her body and she responds on autopilot. He is hitting all his marks: hand in her hair tugging just a little, touching her just demandingly enough to make her melt. He is not gentle but there is no anger in it: he is playing the role she needs him to play right now.

She feels stupidly, deliriously, dangerously alive. Her heart pounds. She doesn’t think about her grief for her mother or her endless doubt and aching sorrow about her son. She doesn’t think about why they’ve started fucking again since they returned to the FBI, or why she didn’t return home once they started fucking. She doesn’t think about what it means or what comes next or what it says about her or him.

She thinks about Mulder, a man who wants her and loves her despite the things she has done that have made it so hard for her to love herself. She thinks about how good it feels to be desired, to desire someone — then she stops thinking about it and just feels it. She is unvarnished and undone, splayed open for him in all the ways a person can be.

This, the two of them together like this, is the only time she has ever been able to shut off the rest of her brain. She feels safe, and whole, and at home in this strange hotel where she’s never been and will never be again.

He is her dark wizard that way.

*

Later, they sit on the bed, their legs spread out and their backs against the headboard, and drink bourbon poured from expensive mini bottles over too-small ice cubes in unimpressive hotel glassware.

She is wearing his t-shirt again, the one she wore on the last case, when his eyes had lit up while talking about monsters and, as soon as his rant was done, had raked appreciatively over her bare legs. They had slept together after that case, a happy and easy thing they did while a no-longer-stray dog scratched at the bedroom door.

She thinks, disjointedly, about her mother's coin and how completely you can think you know someone, only to turn over a new mystery about them when you’re out of time to solve it. She thinks about her mother and her brother, the things big and small that kept them apart from one another for so many years.

“I want to come home,” she says, before she really realizes she’s saying it.

As soon as the words are out of her mouth she regrets it — not because they aren’t true, but because of when she’s said them. Despite his propensity to believe anything, he won’t believe her. He’ll chalk it up to emotion and exhaustion the way she had when he’d told her he loved her after he almost died at sea.

She suppresses her urge to apologize for her admission and watches him consider his response.

“I want that, too,” he says evenly. “But I won’t hold you to anything you say right now, Scully.”

It is the right thing to say to a woman whose mother just died, a woman who is momentarily desperate for some semblance of a family. It is careful of him. He is careful with her lately, the way he was when all this — them— first started. A lot of things feel like they did back then, as they work in the basement and chase monsters and live in separate households and quietly sneak away to bed together now and then. She feels ready to close the circle again.

She thinks of the circle at her back. The circle her mother wore around her neck. The circles her mind will travel to try to understand, before she’ll accept that sometimes your parents aren’t exactly who you want them to be — her mother has always been unassailable to her, but she left behind a son, too, for reasons Dana never really agreed with but never questioned. She’ll have questions her mother will never answer. Her own son will have questions she’ll never answer, questions she’ll probably never even know.

The thoughts leave her off-balance, adrift. But Mulder, despite his eyes being turned ever upward, grounds her.

She wants to tell him that, but she’s not sure how. So she settles for making a promise and deciding to keep it.

“You can hold me to it, Mulder.”

[bucketslutz]

“Date.”

Requested by: @alwaysforyouscully​. Submit your prompts here.

A/N: Takes place sometime after All Things.

Mulder was, at this point, somewhat used to all of the random romantic gestures by Scully. He smiled at the pink or blue sticky notes on his desk that would enclose some random jokes about aliens or ghosts. One time she handed him a file and once he opened it, there was a pink note that just read “Okobogee,” and she didn’t even bother to glance up to meet his eyes; she just stared at her computer with a straight face knowing full-well that Mulder saw the note. He prefers to use his words more often than a pen and paper, due to the fact that he had to hide his feelings from Scully for so long, he just wants to tell her how amazing she is all day, every day. Scully told Mulder that the only limit to their relationship was no PDA at work. 

“There goes all my office fantasies,” he joked, earning a rare, genuine Scully-smile and a light blush on her cheeks.

They haven’t exactly discussed what exactly their “relationship” was. They weren’t sure how they should refer to each other. Should she call him her boyfriend? Should he call her his girlfriend? Are they even dating? Or is it just casual sex? Friends with benefits? They both don’t quite know where they stand, so it causes them to fumble around their words when they’re together at each other’s apartments. Mulder wants her to know how much he cares for her; he wants to tell Scully he loves her, but he’s not sure if that’s what she wants. He could just talk to her about it…but since when do Mulder and Scully ever communicate their feelings towards each other? It’s one of their biggest relationship faults. He’s waited so long for this, so why does it not feel like it was worth the wait? He doesn’t want to just keep Scully’s bed warm; he wants to be hers. He wants to wake up every morning next to her and have her pick out his tie and leave cute little notes in his lunch and he wants to put cute little notes in hers. He wants to do all the sappy bullshit that normal couples do.

But that’s the thing; they’re not a normal couple. They’re Mulder and Scully. They invented The Soulmate. Their relationship is so important and special for so many different reasons. They don’t need to show their affection in sappy romantic gestures. It’s always little things. Or even big things; like saving each other’s lives. There’s not much else that could top that. He couldn’t ask any more of Scully. She does so much for him as it is and he’d hate it if she felt she was being taken advantage of. 

“You ready for our little trip tomorrow,” Mulder asks Scully with his big goofy grin; in which she replies with an internal eye roll.

“Mulder, what even makes you think we’re going to find Mole People in New York City?” she asks, with classic Scully-skepticism.

“We might not…but hey,” he pokes her shoulder with his pen that he’s been fiddling with. “At least it’ll be a nice vacation. We won’t have to stay in some half-alive motel with a flirty receptionist that winks at me with her one lazy eye.”

Scully chuckles at his reference to a previous case, “Luckily I got you out of there in time, or else I would’ve had some serious competition.”

“Oh, c’mon. I don’t think anyone could outdo my very own Doctor Dana.”

She smiles at his use of alliteration.

“I’ve heard Enigmatic Doctor Scully, but I can’t say I’ve heard Doctor Dana.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

There’s a palpable silence for a few moments. She’s fiddling with the hem of her blazer and is contemplating her next move. Mulder wants to say something, but he senses that she’s thinking of saying something. So he waits. Waits for hours, actually. He sits at his desk and makes sure everything for their trip is set for tomorrow. He tries to busy himself while he waits for Scully to speak up. Each time she’d say something he’d hope that it was what he wanted to hear, but it was just questions about the reports he still hasn’t finished or about when they will leave for New York tomorrow. The anticipation gnawed at him for hours and he didn’t want to make the first move. He wanted to do whatever was comfortable for Scully. If she just wants sex, then that’s all he’ll give her. If she wants to get married and settle down in a small suburban neighborhood with two kids, then he’ll pack up their things and go. It brewed in the back of his mind for the entire day and when Scully finally stood from her desk, he had hoped for more than a mere, “I’m heading home, I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He sighed in solemnity and put his files in his briefcase. He hoped she would’ve stayed the night and then leave with him in the morning, but she must not want to spend too much time with him. She is going to spend the next four days with him in New York City looking for something that probably isn’t there. Honestly, Mulder doesn’t even think there are Mole People living in New York, he just wanted an excuse to go somewhere with Scully and maybe do more couple-y things. He wants to walk with her in central park and stay close to her to keep her warm; he wants to take her to the Museum of Natural History and see the excitement in her eyes as she looks at all of the exhibits and try and coax her to leave because he’s inevitably bored. He wants to take her for hotdogs and pizza and take her to some fancy five-star restaurant and let her order whatever the hell she wants because that’s what boyfriend’s do for their girlfriend’s. He wants to take her to see a broadway show and hold her hand throughout the entirety of the performance without worrying about who will see them. 

He wants to wake up next to her in the mornings and order room service and try and convince her that pancakes will taste much better than fruit, but still let her have some of his blueberry pancakes because he knew that she still would’ve wanted some. But he’s almost one-hundred percent sure that Scully wants her own separate room and would much rather chase the nonexistent Mole People through the old subway stations.

The TV almost makes him forget about New York City. It’s numbing his brain and melting the Oxford education from his mind and he lets it drip from his ears. He was falling asleep to random sounds of a cheesy romance with Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock loving some random white guy that they will obviously end up with. His eyes began to droop shut and he jumped at the sudden sound of a knock at his door. He stretches his arms and legs and as he walks to the door he can hear his knees and ankles crack. He opens the door and smiles brightly once he sees that it’s Scully. She obviously decided to come here last minute due to her lazy attire. She held two plastic bags full of Chinese food and he quickly grabbed one from her hand and let her in.

“I was hoping to see you, Doctor Dana,” Mulder greets as she sets the bag of food on his coffee table and begins emptying its contents. She rolls her eyes at his new nickname for her as he sat next to her.

“Why didn’t you just call me then, Fox?” she asks, knowing full-well that he hates it when she uses his first name.

“Because I knew you’d come; I knew you just couldn’t resist me for much longer.”

“Trust me, I could resist you for as long as I want. Remember, I grew up Catholic in a family that condoned celibacy. I believe that it’s you who couldn’t resist me.”

He smiles and doesn’t try and argue her because he knows she’s right.

“You got me,” he held his hands up defensively with his chopsticks between his fingers. “But why did you come here? Not that I mind the company, you just sounded like you wanted some alone time as you left the office.” He poked at his fried rice and looked at her expectantly.

“As hard as it is to believe, Mulder, I don’t always like my alone time. I thoroughly enjoy spending time with you. And I’m looking forward to the next few days in New York. And I know I’m most likely going to enjoy New York’s historic roots by myself with my begrudging partner tagging along, so…” she trails off and pulls something out of her purse. “I figured we could do something that you’d enjoy doing.” 

She hands him two rectangular slips of paper and he looks at them with furrowed brows and once he realizes what they are, they raise up and his eyes widen.

“You got us Knicks tickets?” he asks with a big grin. He studies them thoroughly. “Courtside? Scully, these must’ve cost a fortune. You didn’t have to do this….”

“Just an arm and a leg. No, but I actually know a few people. I almost gave them to you at work, but I thought about doing it later when we were alone…in case you wanted to thank me.” She smiles downward.

“Of course I want to thank you.” He sets his food down on the coffee table and grabs Scully by both of her cheeks and plants a lingering kiss on her lips. Scully is smiling into the kiss and Mulder is giggling uncontrollably. “Thank you, thank you,” he says in-between kisses. “God, I love you.” Before he can register what he really just said, Scully begins giggling into the kiss and pulls away with the biggest, most genuine, smile Mulder has ever seen from her. 

“I love you too,” she whispers, and she means it. 

[scullysexual]

Gone

Chapter One: Goodbye.

Chapter Two: Twenty-Four Hours Missing.

Chapter Three: Death.

With his sister’s fate now confirmed, Mulder is determined to get answers so the other two missing kids don’t succumb to the same fate as Samantha. 

It’s his least favourite part of the job. He’s fortunate he doesn’t have to do it regularly but it’s still difficult all the same.

Skinner raps against the door. Stepping back, he begins rehearsing the words in his head. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we found your daughter’s body in the forest tonight.

He removes his glasses, rubbing a hand across his face. No amount of academy training ever prepares a man to deliver this type of news.

He schools his expressions, retaining his straight-faced cop look, as a figure approaches the door.

“Detective Skinner, what can I do for you?” Mr Mulder asks upon opening the door and seeing him.

Skinner swallows. “May I come in please, sir?” he says, controlling his voice. “I have some…unpleasant news I must share with you and your wife.”

 .:.:.:.:.:.

 It felt good to be able to speak to someone who was going through the same thing as you. Mulder would change everything about that night just for Scully to have her brother back if he could but he felt grounded knowing there was at least one other person who truly understood.

They had spent the majority of the evening sat on the deck, just the two of them with no interruptions. They mainly spoke about the year- his time spent in England, hers spent here. He wanted to ask her about Ethan, at what point did they become a thing, but he decided against it, instead choosing to put Ethan in a box and out the way, opting for this moment to just be about him and Scully.

It wasn’t unlike the summer before he went away.

“What time does your dad get here?” he asks now walking towards the direction of her house.

“Tomorrow morning,” Scully answers. “Bill and Missy are coming back in two or three days.”

Mulder nods. He tries not to feel envious that Scully has so many siblings to share her pain with. He has his parents and that’s no better than just having himself.

“Are you happy he’s coming back early?” he continues.

She throws him a look and he looks away, guilty, realising his mistake.

“I mean, just to see him. Despite the circumstances,” he recovers.

Scully sighs. “Despite the circumstances, yeah.”

Mulder nods again. His own father was away when Sam disappeared. Mulder hadn’t been looking forward to him returning.

“Mulder,” Scully says, tapping him on the arm and pointing towards his house.

Mulder follows her finger and sees a dark police car sat outside his house.

“That’s Skinner’s car, isn’t it?”

A deep, unsettling feeling pools in his stomach. Feeling something off, he says goodnight to Scully and runs towards his house.

His mother, father, and Detective Skinner all sit in the living room, all looking sombrely at the ground. They turn to look at him when he appears in the doorway, his eyes searching everyone.

“Fox…” his mother begins but is unable to finish as she starts crying again.

Mulder looks towards Skinner who gives him his own look of I’m sorry and Mulder knows, Mulder knows what it is.

 .:.:.:.:.:.

 He sits on his bed, hunched forward, eyes staring at the floor, his brain repeating the same sentence over and over again.

Samantha is dead. Samantha is dead. Samantha is dead.

Skinner had confirmed it, privately in the hallway just before he had left. Spoken truth to the words. Mulder had wanted to see her, go to the morgue and see her one last time.

He could see in Skinner’s eyes how much he wanted to tell him no but with his own eyes, Mulder had begged and he’d been granted his wish.

Monday, after school, he would go to the morgue.

Unable to sit any longer, he stands. His foot collides with the trashcan beside his desk, knocking it over and spilling out the contents on the carpet. It ignites something within Mulder, a wave of rage overcomes him and before he knows it, he’s opposite his wall, punching the shit out of it. Too concentrated, he doesn’t feel the pain, just continues punching like he’d been taught in those brief boxing lessons his father had made him attend when he was younger to “get his head away from fantasy books of his”.

He punches and punches, tears streaming down his face, letting out his rage at Skinner, at his parents, and most importantly, himself for not being able to protect her in the first place.

He punches and punches until a familiar voice his telling him to stop. And he stops. His knuckles now pulsing, he looks down, seeing them bloodied and bruised, an impressive dent in the wall.

 .:.:.:.:.:.

 SUNDAY

He wakes in pain the next morning.

Slumped on top of his covers, his head barely on the pillow, and harsh sunlight streaming into the room. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

His nerves are banging against his skull, his knuckles are throbbing. Another stupid mistake made.

Mulder stretches, his muscles aching (another pain to add to the list) and heads for the medicine cabinet.

Samantha is dead.

Has been for almost half a day now.

All that worrying, all that hoping, all that time spent wondering where she was…

He chucks the pills down his throat, not even bothering with water.

All that is over now. He has his answers. He doesn’t need to look anymore.

But there are still two kids lost out there and if he couldn’t save Samantha, maybe he can save them.

His mind set, Mulder goes back into his bedroom, grabbing any old clothes and throwing them onto his bed.

He has a mission now.

 .:.:.:.:.:.:.

 The night- or as much as he can remember of it- plays in his mind as he peddles. There was the growl, the rustling, and Charlie said something.

There’s something in the well.

He didn’t see anything. Scully didn’t say she saw anything when they spoke about it last night. He’d yet to ask Ethan or Phoebe.

Reaching the well, Mulder hops off his bike, letting it crash onto the ground. He stalks up to the well, touching the roof with his hand. The wood cuts into his skin but he ignores it and peers down.

“What did you see, Charlie?” he mutters to himself.

Mulder continues to stare down into the dark hole, willing whatever Charlie saw to show itself to him.

But nothing. It’s just a well. An old abandoned well.

Defeated, Mulder walks away. He picks up his bike, throwing one last look at the well and the wall not far behind it and rides off.

 .:.:.:.:.:.

 “How are you?”

Mulder could tell him it’s a stupid question, maybe even throw him a look, but he doesn’t have the energy. The well had given him nothing, no indication of how Charlie and Duane Barry could’ve disappeared. What was he expecting?

“Fine,” Mulder answers, looking down at the floor.

“Yeah, your knuckles seem to say that,” Ethan laughs, taking a swig of his beer.

Mulder looks down at his knuckles. They’re still red and raw but they look better than they did covered in blood.

“Just…shock, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Ethan answers. “Want one?” he holds a joint out towards Mulder.

“Duane’s stuff,” Mulder comments.

“Wasn’t about to pass it up,” Ethan says, rolling himself his own joint. “All the hassle it caused.” Ethan pauses for a moment, his fingers stopping their task but he shakes his head and resumes again. “Have you spoken to Dana?”

“Yeah,” says Mulder, nodding, finding no reason to lie. “Last night.”

“How is she?” He pulls a face. “She still won’t answer my calls.”

Mulder shrugs. “She’s holding up I guess,” he answers, not thinking about the way she cried into him last night. “It’s hard for her.”

“Yeah,” Ethan half-scoffs. “I mean, really, I should be smoking this with her, right?”

Mulder looks to the bag of weed as Ethan lights up.

“I don’t know if weed is what she needs right now.”

Ethan takes a drag then falls back against the head of his couch.

“I don’t know what she needs because she won’t answer my calls to tell me what she needs.”

Mulder’s at a loss of what to say. Slightly repulsed that Ethan seems to be making this all about him so he just reiterates what Scully told him.

“She’s not good at relationships,” he says shrugging.

“She’s not good at talking, is what it is.”

“She’ll talk, just give her time,” Mulder says, intending on ending this conversation.

They fall silent, just smoking, until Ethan speaks again.

“She talks to you, though.”

He tries to ignore what he thinks Ethan is implying. He is aware of that summer after all.

So he shrugs, “We have stuff in common, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Ethan simply says.

Mulder ignores the signs, the implications. He wonders for a moment if the weed has made Ethan paranoid. Maybe he should tell him to stop but thinks better of it.

Intent on changing the conversation now, Mulder asks.

“What do you think is behind the stone wall by the well?”

Ethan shrugs. “My dad says it’s an abandoned mine or a storage room.” Ethan sits up then, reaching into the bag beside. “I think I found Barry’s drug dealer.”

Mulder whips his head up. “Seriously?”

Ethan nods and holds out a piece of paper with a number on it.

“I called it earlier, some man answered. I’m meeting him tonight.”

Sometimes the dude could be a massive idiot.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

Ethan shrugs him off with his hand. “Be fine,” he says. “It’s nowhere near the well.” He turns to Mulder then, unsure. “But, just in case, will you come with me?”

Mulder thinks for a moment. He had all intentions of going back to the well, seeing if he could climb the wall, and really see what was behind it. But he couldn’t let Ethan go visit this person on his own.

“Sure, what time?”

“Ten.”

Mulder nods, he’ll be there.

 .:.:.:.:.:.:.

 He isn’t there.

He chucks his bike on the ground and walks past the well towards the wall. It’s made of big pieces of rocks rather than an average brick wall. He did rock-climbing as a kid and now his feet and hands grip onto the crevices in the wall.

Mulder hoists himself up it. Once at the top, he stays low, careful of the barbed wire that lines the top of the wall.

Beyond he sees an abandoned building. Next it to is an entrance to a cave or something of the sort. The lettering has fallen off, only a few remain.

St u h ld Mini g  omp y.

Mulder looks back to the well, a thought in mind.

He climbs back down the rocks, jumping down onto the ground when he nears the bottom. His mind swirling, he situates himself in the middle of the wall, beginning to walk towards the well in as straight a line as possible.

He walks the few steps until the well stands in front of him.

Guys, there’s something in the well.

He peers back down, seeing nothing but a dark bottomless pit. He turns back to the wall he’s just walked from, thinking of what it’s concealing.

Mulder bolts back to his bike, his mind racing with what everything could mean; what Charlie saw, the well being right by that wall, the abandoned mine.

Maybe it’s all piecing together.

 .:.:.:.:.:.:.

 He hammers on the knocker of the Scully’s house. Impatient, needing someone to answer and someone to answer now.

A light is switched on and Mulder sees a person nearing the door. As they get closer, the shadow becomes that of a small female.

Mulder smiles as Scully answers the door.

“Mulder, what are you doing here?” she’s asking immediately.

Out of breath from how fast he’d peddled back, desperate to tell her of his theory.

“I need to tell you something. Can I come in?”

He sees her glance an unsure look towards the living room door before she’s turning back and nodding, opening the door wider and allowing him in.

“Upstairs,” she tells him. “But be quiet, okay.”

He nods, making his way upstairs. When he reaches the top, he waits for Scully to lead the rest of the way. She guides them to a door furthest away from the stairs, a door Mulder can only assume is her bedroom.

Fairy lights run around the edge of her ceiling, casting the room in a cosy off white glow. Records and posters of bands cover her walls. Mulder smiles as he looks around.

Scully sits on an unmade bed littered with duvets and blankets. His smile drops when he realises this is probably where she’s been spending a majority of her time, holed up in her safety blankets like he was in the early days Sam was taken.

She looks at him with concern. “We heard the news,” she says. “Are you okay?”

Surprisingly, he’s fine. After his outburst last night he’s come to terms, accepted that this is it now, the mystery is over, his sole focus in finding Duane and Charlie.

“I’m fine,” he says, nodding but her eyes are falling to his knuckles and she gasps at the sight of them.

“Mulder, what did you do to your hands?” she asks, coming towards him and taking his hand, cradling them in both of hers.

Mulder shrugs, “Practiced some boxing on my wall.” She looks at him like he’s an idiot before turning her attention back to his hand, gently running her fingers around the cuts.

“Do they hurt?” she asks.

He shrugs again. “Not as much as they did.” He takes his hand out of her grasp, missing it immediately. “They’re fine, not much you can do for them now anyway.”

Scully nods. “So what did you want to tell me?”

He begins. He tells her about the mine and how it lines up perfectly with the well.

They’re both sitting on her bed when he’s finished.

“So, what? You think Duane and Charlie are in the mine?”

Mulder shakes his head. “Not exactly. But I think the mine might be linked to it. Charlie said he saw something, I didn’t see what it was, I was hoping you did.”

Scully shakes her head, defeated. She looks away. “I don’t remember much about that night.” She looking at him then and he sees the fear on her face. “Mulder, why don’t I remember?”

Mulder shakes his head again, wishing he had an answer for her.

“Sometimes our bodies react strangely to stress. Sometimes something traumatic happens and our minds want to forget it so we can heal and move on.”

She bites the skin on her thumb. “Is that what happened to you when Samantha when missing?”

He nods. “It came back in the form of nightmares but it took me being under hypnosis to fully recount what happened.” He looks at her. It’s been almost two days since Charlie went missing. “You’re not having nightmares, are you?”

“No,” she answers, shaking her head so fast that her curls bounce around her shoulders. “I want to go to the well with you, Mulder,” she says, looking directly at him. “I want you to show me what you found.”

Mulder nods. He’ll do that.

 .:.:.:.:.:.:.

 Ethan waits on the edge of the forest. He looks around, checks his watch, taps his foot.

Maybe he should have realised Mulder would ditch him.

Things had started falling apart since his friend got back. The year he was gone, it was great- in the nicest way Ethan can put it. It gave him a chance to talk to Dana, to take her on dates, and finally ask her out without Mulder being there, without her gaze always moving over to Mulder.

Ethan was well aware of the summer. He was there for the most of it, after all. Sat on the sidelines watching Mulder and Dana grow closer, listen to the way they’d playfully argue with each other about some scientific fact. They talked about things that excluded him, things he had no interest in. He liked stories, gossip, his interests was journalism, and knowing what was happening when it was happening. He didn’t have the patience or the love for Science like Dana did.

But then Mulder went away and it was just him and Dana. It was finally his time.

Now he’s back. Now his girlfriend would rather talk to his best friend than him.

We have stuff in common, I guess.

Bullshit! He angrily kicks a rock aside before grabbing his bike and riding off. I’ll go visit this man with or without Mulder.

 It begins to rain as Ethan reaches the sideroad. Slamming on his brakes he sees a car sat in the middle of the road.

Apprehension sieges him. For the first time since calling the number he feels uneasy about the situation. Kids have gone missing, stranger danger, and all that. He debates turning back but instead grips his handlebars tighter, dead-set on proving to himself (and Mulder) that he can do things on his own.

With an exhale, he rides his bike down the hill and towards the car.

Once at the bottom, he places his bike down, walks to the car, and taps on the tinted window. Immediately the car window rolls down.

An old, well-dressed man sits in the back seat. He smiles. Ethan gulps as the rain picks up weight and speed.

“You must be Ethan,” the man says, his smile not leaving his face.

Ethan nods, trying not to let his nerves show through.

“My name’s Michael.” He taps the seat beside him. “Take a ride with me, would you, Ethan?”

Ethan gulps, wanting nothing more than to bolt but his feet keep him glued to the spot.

“Thought I was just here to pick up the dope,” he says, hoping the quiver he hears in his voice isn’t evident to the man.

“Do you believe in alien abductions, Ethan?”

Ethan shrugs.

“Well, let me help you decide.” Michael removes his hand and the doors unlock.

[frangipanidownunder]

Dancing in the Dark: part 3

For an anon prompt: five times M&S danced in the dark. This turned out much longer than I anticipated, so I’ve broken it into five parts, each told from an alternating POV; independent, but with a clear narrative arc. 

This part responds to @xfficchallenges prompt: Mulder tries to ask Scully out on a date.

Part one  Part two

Three: Bad Blood

She strides ahead to her car and she can’t work out if she’s still mad at him or suffering from the effects of the drugs. Or both. But he has to run to catch her.

              “Scully,” he calls but she doesn’t answer, just blips her car and opens the door. He stops it with his hand she snuffs out air through her nose. She sounds like a freaking horse.

              “I…just…did that really happen?”

              “I can only confirm my version of events, Mulder.”

              “But…Ronnie Strickland, the sheriff, they were…”

              “They’ve disappeared and I want to go home. I’m feeling…”

              “Light-headed? Strange? Kind of loosely tethered to this world.”

              She stops and looks at him. Sometimes she forgets he’s adept at reading people. Sometimes she forgets she’s got emotions. He smiles in that irritatingly arresting way of his. “Yes.”

              “Did you want to…”

              Whatever he’s about to suggest, she should just put a stop to it. “Probably not, Mulder. I want to go…”

              “Home?”

              “Yes, home.” She looks away, off to the distance, vague. Where is home?

              “Scully?”

              “I’m going.” She does. She gets in the car and drives away.

She’s about to draw a bath when she hears him open her door. He didn’t even knock and she hears herself make that loud snorty-breathing thing again. Perhaps if she had hooves she’d scrape them on the floor before launching into him. “What are you doing here?”

              He doesn’t answer, just walks in. “I think I’m still drugged.”

              “It’s possible,” she says, and finds herself unbuttoning the top of her blouse. He looks right at the V of her collar. She doesn’t actually care. In fact, she wants to unbutton more of her blouse, to shuck off the constraints of the day but he’s in her space, her home and she’s feeling a little like that time they went to Comity and the stars aligned or mis-aligned or whatever happened. Like that. And that’s bad.

              “Scully, do you like me?”

              She fills the kettle. The plumbing sighs. “What do you mean?”

              He hesitates, eyes rising to the ceiling as he searches for the right way to say something even more vague. In the dark, with just the light from the living room he looks all angles and planes, that neck stretched taut, Adam’s apple outlined.

“Do you, do you find me good company?”

              “I suppose.” She finds two cups and drops in the teabags. “I mean, I don’t actively dislike you, if that’s what you’re asking.” If he can be obtuse, so can she.

              “You liked the sheriff despite his…”

              “He didn’t have buck teeth, Mulder.” He was good-looking, in a country sort of way.” She leans against the bench. “He made me feel…”

              “Drugged?”

              She folds her arms. “He made me feel validated. He listened to my theories.”

              “And I don’t?”

              He’s really going there. “You…you’re always ready to dismiss them.”

              “I am not.” Incredibly, he sounds incredulous. 

              “My whole assignment is to debunk your work. I think it’s clear that you feel under no obligation to take what I say and seriously consider it.”

              He steps forward. She stiffens. He’s all contradictions: sharp in the strange light but softening with uncertainty; arrogance competing with humility as he closes the space between them. The counter top digs into her back. There’s something utterly compelling about Fox Mulder coming at you like this but it’s entirely too distracting.

              As they’re just inches apart, he loses his footing and half-trips, half-slides into her. Crash, bang, wallop, he’s pressing her up against her kitchen counter and she’s bent back like a banana with one palm flat against his chest and the other gripping his shoulder.

              His apology is soft, vibrating against her neck and together they right themselves, still moulded along the length of them. He moves back but she goes with him, somehow unable to let go. They dance their awkward waltz until they’re back in the centre of the room and he lets out a small chuckle that blows at the wispy strands of her drying hair.

              “Can I ask you something else?”

              She’s snug against his warm body and there’s a feeling of security humming through her, rendering her powerless to refuse. Somewhere in a small part of her brain there’s a warning sign, a flag popping up, but she’s become adept at ignoring things in Mulder’s company. It’s another contradiction of their relationship: he’s opened her eyes yet sometimes she thinks she sees less.

              She doesn’t answer him, anyhow. Just lets him move her around. Lets him talk.

              “Would you…would you, uh. This is hard. Harder than it should be. I haven’t done this…I…” He takes a shuddering breath in and she feels every tremble. “Would you like to go out with me sometime, Scully?”

[admiralty-xfd]

Culmination

This is Chapter 5. To start at the beginning please click here.

ANTICIPATION

SCULLY

(The Rain King)

A bee had ruined their moment, and now a cow was bringing them a bit of honesty.

They are in Kroner, Kansas. The unfortunate animal had been caught in a tornado caused by the pent-up emotional frustrations of one Holman Hardt, and Mulder’s motel room had been the main casualty. With no more rooms available, he and Scully have been forced to share her room.

This has happened before a few times and it’s never been an issue. A broken shower here, a booked up motel there, Mulder on the pull-out couch, letting Scully take the bed. He’s always been respectful, and it’s never felt awkward.

This time, however, she feels a little strange about the whole thing. They still haven’t acknowledged that he’d tried to kiss her in his hallway. There was a line, a hard line that had always been present and he’d tried to cross it.

She’d wanted him to, badly, but he hasn’t attempted it again and now she’s starting to feel like he won’t. Like maybe the entire thing was a mistake, and they both know it.

She’s confused, and the longer they take to talk about it the more confused she gets.

You made me a whole person.

God, had he really said that? It was the single most romantic thing any man had ever said to her, and they aren’t even in a romantic relationship. She’ll never forget he said that to her. What is she supposed to do with that now?

They’re off the X Files, but that hasn’t stopped Mulder from pursuing every lead he has the good fortune to come across. And it hasn’t stopped her from getting in the car and following him wherever he goes. She knows she will always go with him. In spite of everything, she loves this work. It energizes her, excites her, especially in the face of all the scut work they’ve been reassigned to after getting kicked off the X Files. Background checks and surveillance are not her idea of an enlightening day at the office, not after all she’s seen.

Mostly though, she just misses Mulder. It’s weird not being his partner anymore. She misses his crazy theories and his sunflower seeds and his sexy gray T shirts.

This isn’t getting any easier, that’s for sure.

That near-kiss has changed something. She suspects why they haven’t mentioned it. Acknowledging it will force them to make a decision: go this way, or go that way. She’s not sure if that’s a better route than the one they seem to have chosen, which is to do nothing at all. But she also isn’t sure she’s ready to make that decision.

Her brain is telling her it’s stupid, they have too much riding on their partnership, they have to get the X Files back, and this could ruin everything.

But her heart is telling her without a doubt that she loves him, and not in the way she’d always thought she loved him. No… she loves him. Isn’t that worth something? Isn’t that more important than anything else?

She’s trying her hardest to convince herself otherwise.

If he hasn’t made a move since the bee fiasco, he probably doesn’t feel the same way. She has to believe this, because she has no other choice. There are a million reasons she can think of to explain why he tried to kiss her in that moment. Maybe he did it to make her stay. Maybe he was attempting to satisfy a curiosity. Maybe he got caught up in the moment. Maybe he’s just… a guy. Every one of these reasons is a more likely scenario than the one where he is in love with her too and everything suddenly becomes perfect.

They are not that lucky. She should be used to this disappointment by now.

But she has to admit something is definitely different. His honesty in the hallway that night was something she'd been waiting for, and she didn't even know it. And she’s having trouble denying there was something there. Something physical between them that she knows has always been there. What she felt with him in that moment was something even she wouldn’t need scientific evidence to prove.

He felt it, too, she’s certain of that much. If she isn’t quite sure of the emotional impact of what Mulder started that night, she definitely knows the physical. He’s always trying to touch her now, even more than before, and she’s noticed.

They’ve been dancing around this for years. And continuing in this limbo after experiencing what she felt in his hallway is making things awkward.

Making things like sharing a motel room awkward.

Right now, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed surrounded by local Kroner newspaper articles, poring over them with that ferocity she admires. It’s amazing how involved and animated he can get over every single one of these cases. Sometimes she can’t quite get there, but he always can, and it’s pretty remarkable. He’s trying to explain to her his theory of what’s causing the strange weather in Kroner.

“Maybe the way someone feels can affect the weather, maybe the weather is somehow an expression of Holman Hardt’s feelings? Or better still, the feelings that he’s not expressing?”

She’s skeptical, but what he’s saying does make a lot of sense. He’s probably right. Why does he always get to be right?

She doesn’t really know why, but she suddenly feels a tiny spark of courage. She has to know, she has to put it out there.

“Mulder, can I ask you something? Something unrelated to the case?”

He distractedly looks at the article he’s holding. “Yeah. Hmm?”

“A while back. Outside your apartment. In the hallway.”

He puts the article down and looks up at her. He rests his elbows on his knees, propping his chin up, and puts his index fingers together against his lips, his eyes daring her to continue.

“Mm-hmm?”

Suddenly she doesn’t know what to say. But now the cat’s out of the bag. “What was that about?”

He inhales, then exhales. “We’re doing this, I guess?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He thinks a minute. “I don’t know, Scully.”

What was she thinking? Of course he’d say that. Why would she expect anything else? “You don’t know?”

“I’m not gonna lie, I wanted to do it.” His eyes search hers, and she wants to tell him she wanted him to, too, but her mouth has gone completely dry. “Something came over me… I did want to kiss you. I’m attracted to you, Scully. I am. I said it.”

Her heart is in her throat and she can’t reply. She stares at him, her face frozen.

He continues. “But… I was careless, I think… it would have been a mistake?”

He’s saying it as a question, like he’s feeling her out. She should have said something and she blew it. What the hell is she supposed to say to him now? She has to agree it would have been a mistake. He’s practically forcing her to.

He’s probably even right.

She has the distinct impression he’s waiting for her to give him permission to go for it. She really wants him to go for it but her mouth cannot form the words. God, why is she such a wimp? Why is he such a wimp? Why can’t they get their shit together? She wants to shake him. Hell, she wants to shake herself.

“You’re attracted to me?” is what she blurts out.

Oh, my God, where did that come from? How is this a thing that is happening? This is beyond embarrassing.

Mulder cocks his head and gives her a slight smile. “Is that a crime?”

He’s being so calm, so charming about all this, all she can do is smile back and raise a brow. “No. Not a prosecutable one, anyway.”

This is nothing too revelatory, if she's being honest. They both know the other is attractive. Saying it out loud is merely a baby step towards something else, something neither of them will step up to. She wishes she could tell him everything she’s feeling, but she can’t. This is not easy. Nothing is ever easy when it comes to the two of them.

But the way he’s looking at her has taken her so off guard she’s worried she’s losing the upper hand. For some reason that feels very important right now. Before she realizes what’s happening, she’s made the decision to retreat.

“But... you’re probably right. About it being a mistake.” She can’t be entirely certain but she thinks she sees a flash of disappointment in his eyes. “I mean,” she continues, “we probably shouldn’t let that kind of thing interfere with our partnership.”

He nods, smiling. His eyes don’t leave her own. “Probably shouldn’t,” he agrees slowly, tapping his fingertips against his bottom lip.

He’s doing that on purpose, she thinks. There’s definitely something here. We both feel it.  She doesn’t know exactly what “it” entails, but it’s the sliver of hope she’s been waiting for. Maybe he’s been waiting for it, too. Their timing has never been the greatest.

He grins at her, and she grins back.

“It would be the wrong time to… pursue something like that, I think,” she says carefully. She’s toying with him right back. She knows it’s probably stupid but she does it anyway.

“Couldn’t agree with you more.”

“Right.”

His eyebrows go up. “I mean… it wouldn’t be the end of the world or anything, but… it would complicate things.”

“Uh huh.”

They are still grinning like idiots. They both know what’s going on. They wanted to kiss each other, and it’s brazenly obvious. Part of her wants to leap across the room and push him back down onto the bed, but another part of her thinks what they’re doing right now is actually kind of fun, too.

She can’t deny the irony of sitting in this shared motel room with the man she’s in love with, who may or may not be in love with her too, having just been discussing Holman Hardt’s inability to express his true feelings. She wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.

Like so many conversations between them, this one will end in a stalemate. But they’ve come to an understanding, a tiny one, that someday this could be in the cards for them.

Apparently there was a third option open to them: go this way, or that way... or this other way.

Huh.

“So.” He can’t stop smiling and it’s chipping away at her resolve. She has a sneaking suspicion they’re both fishing for something, but neither of them are biting. Neither of them will make the first move. They’re convincing themselves not to do something they both really want to do and she doesn’t want to forget the reasons they aren’t going to do it. Whatever the hell those reasons are. So she needs to put a stop to this, now.

“Well.” Scully stands up. “I’m going to take a shower. Can you move all this stuff off the bed before I get out?”

His eyes don’t leave hers as she stands. “Absolutely. You enjoy yourself,” he winks.

Okay, she thinks. I see what we’re doing here. This could be fun.

She smirks at him and turns around to head toward the bathroom, grateful he can’t see her face flush. Her stomach is full of butterflies.

They’ve backed themselves into a corner now. Something is going to happen at some point, there’s no avoiding it. They’ll both be anticipating it. And now that they know this, the tension is going to be agonizing. It’s going to be unbearable.

It’s going to be fucking hot.

As she undresses and gets into the shower, she can’t stop smiling. She thinks of Mulder smiling back, his eyes bright, looking into hers. Her partner. Her best friend. And now, just maybe, she can look forward to the possibility of something else too.

MULDER

(One Son/ Arcadia)

Ever since they’d had their little chat, Mulder has felt oddly at ease around Scully. It’s as if they’d both communicated something to each other that they already knew, but putting it out there has lifted a huge weight off their shoulders.

Although, it’s strange… it’s as if he’s been given permission to feel a certain way but not necessarily permission to act on those feelings. At least, not yet. He isn’t sure what to do about them, either. Just because they both sort of decided not to act on them doesn’t mean the feelings would disappear.

He wasn’t avoiding the topic either when he told her it wouldn’t be a good idea right now. He genuinely believes that. He and Diana were a couple before they’d become partners, and when they did, she became more of a distraction than anything else. It makes him uncomfortable to imagine the same thing happening with Scully.

He wasn’t able to get all the information he wanted from her that night, however. He wonders if it’s possible she just wants something physical, some release, a way to ease the tension of their work. And while he certainly isn’t opposed to that in theory, he wants more. He is opposed to sending her mixed messages about how he feels about her.

These feelings are different than the way he felt about Diana; he’s older now, and wiser. This could be something, really something, he can’t deny that. But he also can’t deny the possibility that pushing this relationship into nonprofessional territory could affect their work, or worse, their partnership in general. If they change, everything could change. He’s not sure he wants that, at least not right now.

And Diana… where the hell is she, anyway? He’s a bit ashamed of how easily the cancer man got to him, convinced him to just give up. And then he and Diana both just disappeared.

Is it a coincidence? He hopes so. It’s not that he doesn’t want Scully to be right about Diana. He just doesn’t want to be wrong about her. Diana had almost completely left his mind until the moment she decided to enter his life again. That’s how it always was with her, she’d decide. Her decision. It had never been about them, just her.

She even called him Fox, because she liked it. Fox, she still says. Like none of the times he asked her not to ever even mattered. He hadn’t told Scully the whole truth… that the real reason he doesn’t want her calling him Fox is because it’s what Diana called him.

You knew her. You don’t anymore.

Scully’s words had gone right to his core. He really doesn’t know Diana anymore. The Diana he knew wouldn’t abandon the X Files like that. She’d abandon him, of course, but not the work. Never the work.

He’s disappointed in himself for shrugging off Scully’s concerns so quickly. He’d interpreted her digging up information on Diana behind his back as a betrayal of his judgment, when he should have suspected she was simply being territorial; the two of them tended to do that with each other from time to time.

But still, he’d closed himself off to her very valid concerns. He’d allowed old feelings to come rushing back and he’d become guilty of the very thing he had tried to avoid for so long: blind trust.

Without the FBI, personal interest is all I have. And if you take that away, then there is no reason for me to continue.

Scully was right, and he should have listened. He should have known better. He feels guilty now for making her feel that way. Six years into their partnership and he trusts Scully more than anyone he’s ever known… certainly more than Diana. How had he let Diana get to him this time? Even before, this was how she’d always operated. She was a manipulator. And he’d fallen for it again.

Well, Diana is out of their hair now. It’s not like he’s surprised at her sudden retreat. She’s done it before.

Right now he only wants to think of Scully. One day he will have to tell her how he feels about her. But for the moment, he hesitates. They are in the midst of starting back on the X Files and throwing in a new wrinkle wouldn’t be wise at this juncture.

There’s definitely something dark and mysterious afoot in this suburban neighborhood. He’s not sure if they are in actual danger yet, but his hunches about these cases have always been fairly accurate and he’s definitely feeling one now.

He does know this perfectly manicured house might just give him hives if they have to stay here much longer.

Mulder hasn’t been on many undercover assignments and he isn’t a great actor, so instead he’s just decided to be himself and annoy Scully endlessly with over-the-top affection. He likes hearing her say the “exasperated” version of his name, at least when they are alone. But it seems like she’s having a bit of fun at his expense, too.

He’s in the bedroom next door to Scully’s, and he’s having trouble falling asleep. There’s only a thin wall between them. He can visualize the master bedroom and knows her head is on the other side of it, mere inches from his. It’s oddly exciting.

He knocks on the wall behind him. “Scully? I can’t sleep.”

Her voice is muffled, probably face down on her pillow. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mulder.”

“Will you sing to me?”

“No.”

“Come on, you did before.”

“Only because you were dying, or something.”

“Can I come in there?”

“Muuuuulderrrrr. I’m trying to sleep.”

“So am I! You’re not going to help out your fake husband?”

“Oh my god. Fine.” Ah, Exasperated Scully.

He chuckles and grabs his pillow. Rounding the door jamb and entering her room, he flops down on the king sized bed next to her.

“Mulder! What are you doing?”

“Ooh, your bed is comfy. The mattress is better than mine.”

She sighs, loudly. He can tell, even in the dark, that she’s rolling her eyes. “Stay on your side.”

“Are we in a fight, Laura?”

He hears her laugh and is reassured he hasn’t made her uncomfortable.

She sighs. “Why can’t I ever say no to you?”

“Because it’s your wifely duty?”

She playfully swats at him. “I’m serious, Mulder.”

“Okay, okay.” He gets under the covers and settles his head on his pillow, looking at the ceiling, shamelessly giddy to be sleeping next to her tonight. He has no idea how that happened, but here they are.

He hears her take a deep breath. “What’s wrong, Mulder? Why can’t you sleep?”

He doesn’t know. “I don’t know.”

They lay there quietly together for a minute.

“Scully, is this really what you want to be doing?”

“What, trying to sleep with you hogging the covers?”

He releases some of his covers for her and flips onto his side. “I mean working on the X Files.” It’s something he’s been wondering since the day she almost walked out on him at his apartment.

“Of course it is,” she says. “I think… regardless of how it may appear sometimes, this is where I’m meant to be. On this journey, with you.”

“I do think about the alternative sometimes,” he admits.

“What alternative?”

“You, being somewhere else. Doing something else. This... place has got me thinking. About what you said about wanting a normal life.” He thinks of a car ride in Groom Lake, Scully looking out the window wistfully, him not really taking her too seriously. Maybe he should have.

“Really? You think about that?”

“Not because I want you to be somewhere else. It’s just… well, being stuck down in the basement isn’t exactly a career objective. You should be my boss by now, Scully.”

She laughs. “I wonder what I’d let you get away with if that were the case.”

“I wonder.”

He hears her shift in the bed and now they are facing each other. “I don’t know, Mulder. Maybe you were right when you said this is normal. Maybe it is, at least it is for you and me.”

You and me. He likes the sound of that when she says it.

“I’d hate to think you were changing your definition of normal because of me,” he says.

“I meant what I said after they reopened the X Files. My work is here now, with you.” Her hand is reaching out, looking for his. She finds his forearm and slides her hand up to find his in the dark, and as she closes her fingers around his, he squeezes back. He feels a jolt of electricity, like he usually does when they do this, and is keenly aware that they are in bed together, inches apart, holding hands. It feels so intimate, but so comfortable.

“This is where I want to be, Mulder. I promise.”

He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear her say that until the words came out of her mouth. It’s a relief, they are finally back where they need to be, and she wants to be here with him.

“I’m glad to hear that, Scully.”

It’s taking every ounce of his willpower not to pull her into him. For a million reasons he can think of, primarily that what they’re currently doing is already an extremely inappropriate flouting of Bureau regulations, he doesn’t.

He knows even that’s a lie because since when does he give a shit about the rules?

The real reason is that he’s afraid. Afraid of what it will mean, of where it will lead, of possible rejection, of consequences, all of the above.

While he’s pondering this she makes the decision for him, turning her back to him and scooting her body into his until he’s spooning her from behind. His stomach flutters and he prays to the God he doesn’t believe in that his body doesn’t react the way it wants to. In any case, she doesn’t seem to mind. She exhales deeply, contented.

“Goodnight, Rob.”

He grins. “Good night, Laura.”

They fall asleep like little baby cats.

Thanks for reading! See you back tomorrow with Chapter Six.

[tessatechaitea]

Kid Eternity #1

I swear to God I ruined my underwear when I saw Ann Nocenti wrote this.

I like the vague ambiguity of the phrase "ruined my underwear." Did I come in them or shit myself? Probably both since it's Ann Nocenti! Her writing is fucking terrible but in that way that I can't get enough of it! And I have no memory of this comic book so I'm actually pretty excited right now. Like the first time I realized I could make my own dick hard by shoving a finger up my ass. The story begins with three homeless men having a philosophical discussion about how terrible women are. You know, the way men do. Men like to defend this kind of talk as "locker room" talk, as if the locker room is some kind of special out-of-bounds timeout area where nothing said or done actually counts. Which, if it were true, would mean I was never bullied in 8th grade for having man tits. I will say this: boys and men behave like monsters in a locker room. Some of us have avoided locker rooms, to the best of our abilities, for most of our lives because of men who somehow think it's their safe space to act like the sociopaths they truly are. Fucking thank God women exist if being in the presence of women means terrible fucking men think they can't be themselves. Because nobody needs a society of men acting in public the way they act in a locker room. And anybody who uses the phrase "locker room talk" as an excuse for certain types of behavior are telling on themselves. Because that person in the locker room is who they truly are and the person hiding behind the mask is the one who leaves that locker room and knows they have to hide some secret, terrible side of themselves. What I'm trying to say by way of Ann Nocenti's homeless people is that Donald Trump and his defenders are sociopathic monsters who would tell me to get over it and it's just a joke after they came up behind me in the locker room and grabbed one of my man boobs in 8th Grade. Fuck them and fuck you, Steve Garcia. One of the homeless men, Josef, is all, "I love the way you sing, Willie, but you call women a lot of derogatory names in your songs!" And Willie is all, "Oh, you know I love them so much! We're the bastards and they're the best for loving us!" And then the last one whose name I don't know yet is all, "Josef, you're a bigger chump than your Biblical namesake." Which made me think, "That's not cool! Why call poor Joseph a chump? How was it his fault his brothers were jealous pricks who stole his beautiful coat and threw him in a pit to be devoured by wolves?!" Was that what happened or am I mixing my Biblical stories with Aesop's fables? Anyway, it turns out he meant Joseph as in Mary and Joseph. But why would I think of that Joseph before the Old Testament Joseph?! Mary's Joseph is practically the least important character in The Bible! Probably because he was such a chump. Does "chump" mean "a super understanding and sweet and compassionate and not at all jealous (although maybe a little naive and gullible?) kind of person"? After the nameless homeless person makes their joke about how Josef would buy the virgin birth excuse, he laughs uproariously. People who laugh at their own jokes confuse me. Sometimes I'll laugh at something funny I've said but generally only after other people laugh at it and then their laughter might be infectious. Or because I've said something that I didn't know I was going to say and it catches me by surprise as well. But you know how many people say a thing and then laugh immediately after? It's like they've been trained by laugh tracks to think that other people won't know something is funny if you don't chuckle at it immediately. I know a few people who sort of chuckle after everything they say and it infuriates me! Sometimes it just feels like they're doing it to say, "Ha ha! I know what I just said is nonsense and wasn't worth uttering and shouldn't be taken seriously so here's my apologetic chuckle." I'd prefer the statement without the laugh just as I prefer my sitcoms without the audience laughter. And while it might be forgivable for a person to laugh or chuckle at their own statements while in conversation with others, it's absolutely reprehensible when somebody writes something on Facebook or Twitter and ends with a "lol" or the crying while laughing emoji. The level of hilarity in your statement ain't for you to decide, bruv.

"I wish I were alive." Wait. This homeless guy's dead?

Across the street from the homeless encampment stands a warehouse where strange things have been going on. Or, at least, one strange thing has been going on: a guy that looks like John Lennon reincarnated has been squatting there. That's a strange enough premise for a comic book, right? Maybe the looking like John Lennon isn't the strange bit. That's just the descriptive bit. The strange bit is that he dreams about finding water in a toilet with a divining rod while a little kid shoots him in the stomach. He wakes up with a bullet wound while some paranormal government investigators drop by to get help him on a case. And don't think they're just clones of Scully and Mulder because of their hair color. The guy, Jerry, is a dead comedian returned to life in the body of a homicidal killer (no, he's not Shade the Changing Man) and the lady, Val, has been chased by demons and serial killers who never had a proper father transference and loves to quote psychologists. They've got a real Bud Abbott and Lou Costello vibe going. Kid Eternity (the John Lennon clone) squats with an angel named Keep. I don't know what's going on yet but it'll truly be weird seeing as how Ann Nocenti wrote it. Not because she's good at writing weird things. She just writes things that sound like a non-native speaker translating something from their language into English. You know, Engrish. Ann Nocenti writes in Engrish.

Weird how the guy is into a plan that he'll only be involved with for five minutes and the woman who will have to deal with it for the rest of her life is all, "Fuck this nonsense!"

One of Kid Eternity's super powers is to yell the word "eternity" which summons a historical personage. He tries to summon Cupid to get the FBI agents to fuck but it doesn't work. Probably because Cupid isn't real but also maybe because Cupid is dead, according to Keep. He reminds Kid Eternity that gods die when people stop believing in them. Which is weird because you'd think Cupid would still have quite a bit of life in him. Isn't Valentine's Day practically a holy day dedicated to him? If Cupid isn't still alive, no way is The People of the Book's god, God, still alive! I bet there's more actual worship of Cupid and love on Valentine's Day than all the religious fervor for the monotheistic God during the whole year. And that God has three big religions worshiping his ass! I just think a large percentage of his worship is lip service (which is also a large percentage of Cupid's worship, if you get what I'm saying (oral sex)). Next there's a scene in a church where a Reverend Murphy gets drunk on confirmation wine and gropes a nun. She then hides a thorny cross in her underwear and he grabs it and gets cut. She then says, "See?" And he's all, "See what?" And that's it. That's the scene. I suppose it sets up Kid Eternity in the confessional but I don't know why. Also I don't know if the nun hides the cross in her underwear. But you have to make your own calls when reading an Ann Nocenti scene. Often, two characters who seem to be having a dialogue (based on my years of experience reading comic books where if two people are in the same panel and both have word balloons, that means the people are speaking to each other) wind up having two separate conversations in which neither seems to be responding to the other. Maybe Ann Nocenti has only ever had conversations on Internet messaging systems? Knowing that Ann Nocenti has never talked with another living being face to face would go a long way to explaining her writing. Actually, nothing can explain her writing. I keep trying to explain it but I'm really in over my head here. Maybe this is what it's like being a dumb ass? Maybe Ann Nocenti is so much smarter than me, I'm like a mentally disabled person trying to parse Shakespeare. I just don't have the brain power to understand this stuff so my natural defenses kick in. "I'm not too stupid to understand this; Ann Nocenti is stupid! She writes dumbly! Like a huge dumb moron dumby!" Since the FBI agents won't fuck to produce a special Buddha Christ child, Kid Eternity needs to search the world for the next step in human evolution. So he screams "Eternity!" and summons Madame Blavatsky to help. I began reading the Wikipedia page on Madame Blavatsky so when I make a joke about her fraudulent spiritualism, I could do it being well-informed. But I was immediately derailed when I read that her mother translated into Russian the novels of Edward Bulwer-Lytton. How do I get past that?! I'm fucking flabbergasted. I'm fucking stunned that this is a thing. The cogs in my brain ground to a halt. Now I'm never going to understand Blavatsky's theory of Theosophy because this fact has rerouted all of my processing power to mull it over. Even if I read about her spiritualism and belief in Theosophy, I won't retain any of it. I can only learn one fact per day as extraordinary as this Edward Bulwer-Lytton/Madame Blavatsky connection. The more I read about Madame Blavatsky, the more I feel like maybe Ann Nocenti considered herself a modern day version of the spiritualist. Maybe she even thought she was the reincarnation of the woman. I suppose I only think this because Blavatsky was so well educated (both by others and by her own insatiable reading habits) and Ann Nocenti's writings, while confusing and off-kilter, are full of things a well-educated person would mention if they wanted people to know they're well-educated. I know this because I don't understand most of it. The worst part about reading about Madame Blavatsky is thinking, "What the fuck have I done with my life?" after every single sentence of her biography where she's learning something new, or going someplace new, or convincing more people that she's traveled astrally and been visited by a mysterious Indian man in a mystic vision. Although reading that a lot of historians mark about 10 to 25 of her years as being "unreliable" and "largely uncorroborated" makes me feel a little bit better. I suppose if I had to make an accounting of my life without worry of anybody offering a conflicting opinion, my life would be super exciting too! Just think! I could get people to believe I've slept with more than four women! Or three women. Is four already sounding too unbelievable? Maybe two? Well, at least one! And it was so good! Madame Blavatsky's Wikipedia article contains the most uses of the word "allegedly" right after O.J. Simpson's. I wish I'd lived in an age where people couldn't corroborate anything I said I'd done and the only reason people wouldn't simply outright believe it would be because none of the things I said happened were ever mentioned in anybody I knew personally's diary. "Well, sure, Grunion Guy said he had marital relations with more than four women but we couldn't find proof of his relations with any of those women written down in their diaries. Maybe the mysterious entry 'Had a terrible night. Will not repeat that experience' possibly backs up the assertion but, if so, a night with Grunion Guy was no more memorable than a night of eating bad seafood." I'm sorry. This is now becoming a review of Madame Blavatsky. But I feel like I need to know everything that Ann Nocenti knew to understand her story.

Err, or maybe I don't. Maybe I'm reading too much into Nocenti's work.

Madame Blavatsky's first question to Kid Eternity is "What's to eat in this century?" That's because she's fat. It's funny, right? Speaking of being fat, I was watching some Community last week and they're discussing whether a name sounds like a fat girl's name. Mostly Pierce is discussing that because the others are too young and woke to think in those terms. But Pierce says the name is a fat girl's name, "like Gravy Jones." My cat's name is Gravy so now I keep telling her that she has the name of a fat girl. Which is probably appropriate because she's such a coot widdle stocky lady with the shortest little back legs and oh my God I'm so in love with her.

It's only fair that if I mention Gravy, I have to supply a photo of Gravy.

Being a Vertigo title, there are tits. Lots and lots of tits. But only in a scene of the Greek Gods as they awaken from a two thousand year old orgy coma. Kid Eternity woke them up by calling for Cupid. Except Cupid isn't the first to wake for some reason. That reason is so that Hermes can switch his love arrows with Ares' hate arrows. Who knew Ares had hate arrows? Zeus doesn't care about any of it because he just wants to rape something. But Hera is all, "Rape is way too hard now! They made, like, laws against it!" Which seems like a weird thing to say. As if rape would be acceptable without a law against it? Hmm, what am I saying? Even with laws against it, it's almost acceptable with all of these "boys will be boys" banner waving frat boys running our world into the ground. Meanwhile, Madame Blavatsky stuffs Twinkies down her throat followed by Coke chasers. She jumps to a lot of conclusions while trying to figure out who Kid Eternity is and why he summoned her. But since she thinks up those conclusions, they must be true. You need somebody in a comic book who somehow knows more than they should know to explain things to the reader. I find it an annoying shortcut because it just spits out a bunch of truth from an absolutely trustworthy source instead of finding a reasonable way to present the information through actual events in the story. It's like in the HBO series The Outsider where they're investigating the murder of a child and things are getting really weird. So as the show moves from a seemingly normal murder investigation into the paranormal realm, an unknown woman happens to overhear one of the investigators talking to a lead, takes her aside, and explains exactly what the fuck the murderer/monster is. Did the writers think that this just looked like hard work by the investigator paying off as opposed to what it really was: random luck that the investigator happened to run into some omniscient character who isn't a mental patient with a crackpot theory at all but the one person who knows the absolute truth of one of the craziest mysteries of the universe? At least Madame Blavatsky's revelations are just mild speculations about Kid Eternity's part in the universe and who might have created him to be a key player. She doesn't just hand out the answers for free. Speaking of characters who give the answers to the mystery, the only acceptable one was M. Night Shyamalan's character in Signs. The characters should have believed that he knew what he was talking about when he said the aliens were probably susceptible to water because he was the writer and the director. I mean, why aren't you listening to that guy?! Although I still hate the movie because the whole point is that all the "signs" point to a proof that there is something greater in the universe (like, you know, God) directing our movements and lives. But that only makes sense because the story was written by a person and so that person is basically the God setting the events in place. Of course everything in the script happens for a reason because it was written that way. Life isn't a fucking M. Night Shyamalan script (thank God!). Double meanwhile, some Catholic priests and nuns are releasing a bunch of demons they've kept in captivity because the Pope said they should. I'm sure it has something to do with Kid Eternity and his search for the new age Buddha Jesus but I can't logically connect the dots. Reading an Ann Nocenti story is like looking at a magic eye painting. You can't really understand it by simply looking at it. You have to cross your eyes until your head hurts and hold your breath until you nearly pass out and maybe ingest some bad oysters to boot. You know there's probably a recognizable image in there somewhere but fuck it if you have the patience to see it. I just grabbed a Magic Eye picture at random on the Internet and screwed up my vision to see what it was and it said, "I

A typical Nocenti page. She just throws every idea in her head at the page and hopes it sounds profound. I suddenly feel like I have a lot in common with her.

Oh, the demons were let out to kill anybody who might have a Buddha Christ child! I finally fucking understand Ann Nocenti! It took some work (I've been reading this comic book for five days now) but I got there! She's working on a sort of a "spirituality is good and can save mankind but religious dogma is bad and wants to keep them in the dark" theme! That's probably why she brought in Madame Blavatsky. Because she founded that whole Theosophical Society which believed the answers to everything would be born out of religion, science, and philosophy. There were some truths in all religions (having been, she believed, based on one Ancient Wisdom) but none of them practiced it correctly and most were frauds to keep elites in power. Maybe she was a fraud as a spiritualist and as an autobiographer but she might have been on the right track in the core truth of existence. Not that I believe there's a core truth of existence. Einstein said that God doesn't play dice with the universe. But I say it's dice all the way down! Most of life is us trying to maintain the illusion of control. It's why we seek answers. We want to have as much information as possible so that all of the choices we make have an absolute 100% known outcome. But we can never have that and that's what makes life a tragedy. The proof of my theory is Pulp Fiction. The arc for most of the characters in the film depend almost entirely on random happenstance. We might control every aspect of our lives as much as we can but can we control when we need to take a shit? Fuck no. I mean, a little bit! But not to the degree that our lives won't be affected by taking one. Vincent dies because he takes a shit at the wrong time. Jules manages to stop the diner robbery because he's in the bathroom when it breaks out. That one guy almost kills both Jules and Vincent because he's in the bathroom when they come for the glowing briefcase. And it's not just that we can't control our bowels. John McClane runs into Wallace at a crosswalk. It's all fucking random, man! And if you don't accept pop culture entertainment as theoretical proof of the workings of the universe, I have a personal anecdote! I once applied for a job at a comic book store. A day or two later, I was taking a shit when I heard the phone ring. It was the store leaving a message to call them back about the job. I tried to call them back but either had the wrong number or couldn't get through somehow. So taking the shit made me miss my dream job! Taking a shit is the worst thing you can do for your health and your dreams.

I totally get where you're coming from, Gregory, but the "enforced" part of your plan might be a problem.

That plan by Gregory was considered a woke thought in the early 90s. Pretty sure I had it in college. Not the enforced part! Just that vision of the future we've all had or heard somebody come up with while drinking late into the night and feeling particularly melancholy. That vision where everybody has mocha skin and brown eyes and beautiful, thick black hair and nobody hates anybody for superficial differences. Although as Anthrax pointed out, "Would we hate each other by the sound of our voice? Tell me how it feels to be hated! Tell me how it feels to be loved! Tell me what it means to be respected! Or is the answer none of the above?!" Have I hit on what makes Ann Nocenti's writing both interesting and not very good? She somehow has a photographic memory for every profound thought she's ever had throughout her life and when she sits down to write, they all crowd up to the front clamoring to be added to the story. And so her story becomes a jumble of mixed up theories and random shower thoughts that never quite fit together into a coherent narrative. Holy fuck! I think I've finally cracked her and the reason why I love reading her terrible stories! Do I love the heart and determination of her need to profess profundities while lacking all control of the story?! Fucking hell. She's my Tommy Wiseau, isn't she/ "The stranger" in the above comic book caption is Cupid. He's been summoned by Kid Eternity but he arrived late because he had to wake up from a God coma. Plus he has hate arrows on him instead of love arrows. Oh man, just think of all the mischief he's going to create!

Fuckin' amen, Gregory. And by the transitive property, fuckin' amen to Ann Nocenti too.

I refuse to believe that Ann Nocenti's writing has moved me in any way. I have just hit myself in the side of the head with a hammer and am blacking out. When I come to, I shall have no memory of this every happennaodgigk Man, my head hurts! I guess I was reading this Ann Nocenti comic book and I had a stroke! I guess I'll never know even if the me having the stroke typed something about it in the previous paragraph because, as anybody who has read anything I've ever written knows, I don't fucking proofread, edit, or rewrite. Keep and Madame Blavatsky have gone around putting a huge 'X' on the door of every person who might produce a Buddha Christ child. The demon angel babies have gone around murdering all of the people behind those doors. And they're working for the church! I love a good story where the church is the bad guy. So close to real life!

Either the murderer is Madame Blavatsky or this panel is part of a Hostess advert.

Actually, the demon angel babies are also into 20th Century snack food because all the church ever fed them was the blood of innocents and priestly confessions of pederasty. Although if those were Oreo flavors, I'd be all over them. Somehow Kid Eternity has convinced the feminist (who spent at least one full page discussing how much she hates dicks and erections) to consider carrying the Buddha Christ child. She's totally against dicks getting anywhere near her love portal but when she sees the dead guy, she's all, "Oh! Never mind! He's cute! Maybe do that He-man yell where you summon somebody from the past to this guy and I'll fuck the fuck out him." But instead of Kid Eternity remembering he can bring anybody from the past by raising the Sword of Grayskull over his head and screaming like a maniac, he decides to not remember that. Guess what happens that you've already guessed by all the clues in the story so far? That's right! Cupid shoots the two FBI Agents with his hate arrows! And now they want to fuck each other even less than before! Now they want to Human Centipede each other! But not in a hot way like the term "Human Centipede" suggests. Kid Eternity has a dream that Jesus is old and getting drunk at a bar. He's expecting Kid Eternity to save the world. Jesus can't do it because he's just a dream. I think the real Jesus has turned goth and been sent to Hell.

So is this Satan? He's different than Lucifer in the DC Universe, right? Maybe Satan is also Andrew Bennett!

If not for the "I've gotten a bum rap for all the evil ever" speech, I was hoping this was Jesus Christ in Hell. But I get the whole Last Supper thing but for Satan is some kind of analogy or metaphor that's supposed to make me think. So let me think. Oooh. Ahhh. Profound! Kid Eternity and Suzie the Feminist meet a guy named Dog who hunts the little dirty angel demon babies. He acts like an animal and quotes Susan Sontag. I probably went through a phase where I quoted Susan Sontag. But then my critical lit theory course ended and I was all, "Why was she so afraid of flying?" That was a joke that I'm leaving in even though the few people who understand it will simply think I'm an ignorant moron. And even after understanding it was a joke, it probably will just downgrade "ignorant moron" to "asshole misogynist." Still, it made me chuckle. Suzie points out to Kid Eternity that Madame Blavatsky was a charlatan and he's all, "Dammit! I spent my whole budget for the month on Hostess snacks!" And then Madame Blavatsky pops in eating a Twinkie and a Ding Dong and is all, "It was all worth it for the delicious creamy center and spongy golden cake!" Also, they discover Suzie's computer is now pregnant with the Buddha Christ child. Thank God! That takes care of the problem of finding a woman to incubate the thing. Who would fucking want that job?! Even Mary probably would have turned down the job if God had asked for consent. Later, Kid Eternity finds a baby in a trash can beneath his window. A woman runs up and is all, "My baby!" And Kid Eternity is all, "Oh, yeah. Here you go. You must have left it in the trash." And she runs off with it and Kid Eternity finds the baby healed his bullet wound. It was the Buddha Christ child! Thrown out like last week's tampon! Is that how long a tampon stays in? A full week? Kid Eternity #1 Rating: B. While confusing at times because Ann Nocenti really has a lot to say and seems to think it all needed to be said in this comic book, I still sort of enjoyed it. The dialogue wasn't as confusing as some of Nocenti's dialogue can get although there were times I clearly recognized Nocenti's handiwork. Mostly in the way characters methodically explain what they're doing so the reader understands exactly how the plot is moving forward by the character's actions. It's such pure Nocenti that had I not known she wrote this, I'd have assumed it was her. Some of her ideas, she just throws out there in a way which you can tell she isn't going to explore them any further. Those ideas are some of her best in this book. But even the ones that seem to be making up the foundation of the book (more abundant than you would expect. This comic was dense and long) have the potential to be interesting. I only bought three issues of this book before I came to my senses which either means it gets absolutely confusing or I just couldn't follow a story with this much going on in month to month intervals. Hopefully the next two issues just get worse because I don't want to feel tempted to seek out the rest of this series. Oh, and judging by the "Next Month" blurb at the end, the Satanic figure is Beelzebub. Although wasn't he a fly-shaped demon in The Demon?