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mldrgrl · 2 months ago

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What Once Was Broken

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG-13 (violence, imagry) Summary: A sequel/prequel to Broken Things - absolutely imperative to have read to understand this story Notes: Special thank you to @carrie11 for officially being a cheerleader and unofficially ending up as Beta-extraordinaire for this piece! <3

He knows the precise time he first saw her. One, twenty-four in the afternoon. He’d just tucked his pocket watch back into his vest and as he’d looked up, his heart nearly stopped. In that moment, he was positive there was an apparition bumping towards him in a rickety wagon that looked like it had seen better days.

The red hair and fair skin had caught his eye from afar, but as the wagon neared, it was the slumped shoulders, the lowered head, the sullen and exhausted look of her that painfully squeezed his heart and made him short of breath. He was all too familiar with that look.

“Luisa,” he’d murmured, taking a step forward to the edge of the boardwalk and squinting into the sun.

Even before the man driving the wagon pulled the mules to a stop in front of the bank, it was obvious he was trouble.

*%*%*%*%*%

William and Katherine Mulder had recently celebrated their first anniversary and Katherine had never been happier in her life. She had friends, she had a position as an assistant to the town doctor, and a husband who supported her ambitions and wanted to make her dreams come true. It had taken time, but eventually she grew comfortable and confident in the independence her husband freely gave to her; driving her own buggy to and from town, doing her own banking, making her own purchases at the general store, and managing the household at the ranch. Even so, as joyous as she was now, she could never forget what she’d been through to get it.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Doctor Black made house calls and Katherine tended to his office. Mostly, she took inventory of supplies, transcribed patient notes, and occasionally treated minor wounds or infections. At first, some of the townsfolk had protested that a lady had no business in a doctor’s office, not unless she was nursing or tidying up the place, but Doctor Black had made it clear that if anyone was uncomfortable being treated by Katherine, they were free to ride on out to the next available doctor over in Abilene.

Only her third shift alone in the office, there’d been a drunken gunfight at the saloon and Katherine had to extract a bullet from the shoulder of one of the participants. The other had lost a finger. Both were hauled off in shackles by Sheriff Doggett to recover from their wounds, and their hangovers, in jail cells. After that, no one that ended up in the office questioned her skills or abilities, though of those that had before, none had said so to her face. Doctor Black was well-known in the area and highly trusted, so if he was vouching for her, so would they. Perhaps she took it for granted that she’d faced little to no opposition for so long, even though she still looked for it over her shoulder at times.

It was a Thursday when Walter Skinner knocked on the office door. She was in the midst of drafting a requisition for medications to be ordered from Fort Worth at the time. She greeted the bank manager with a smile. He was no longer as imposing of a figure as he’d once been when she’d first met him, having seen and spoken to him regularly for the last year. He’d always been polite and kind to her.

“Mr. Skinner,” she said, holding the door open for him to enter. “What can I do for you today? I heard from Doctor Black that Joey got himself into some poison oak recently.”

“He’s fine now, the rash is almost healed.” Mr. Skinner’s eyes darted around the room as he spoke and he stayed hovering in the threshold. “Is Doctor Black not here?”

“He’s on house calls today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I…I wanted to speak with Doctor Black.”

“Why don’t you come in and you can speak with me. I assure you that any treatment you might have, I can-”

“Not me.”

“Joey?”

“My wife.”

Katherine had never met Arlene Skinner, but had heard of her through Monica Doggett and Susannah Byers. They told her she wasn’t very social and rarely came to town, and when they did see her, she hardly spoke and was very meek. Consequently, they didn’t know much of anything about her aside from the fact that she and her husband came to town with their infant son six years ago so that Walter Skinner could open and manage the town bank.

“I’d be happy to see your wife,” Katherine said.

“No,” Skinner said, quickly, frowning. “No…I was hoping that maybe Doctor Black could provide more of the morphia he prescribed before.”

“The morphia he prescribed? What was that prescribed for?”

“Head pain.”

“Does she often have head pain?”

“No.”

A chill came over Katherine at the abrupt and harsh tone of Mr. Skinner’s voice. Muscle memory set her shoulders back and she flinched as though expecting a blow. She took a glance at his hands, looking for bruises or swollen knuckles. Her throat constricted and rose in pitch. “Has your wife…had an accident?” she asked.

“Accident?”

“Suffered head trauma of some kind.”

“No…nothing like that.”

“Well, I can not prescribe morphia to a patient without having seen them.”

“I’ll be on my way,” Mr. Skinner said, taking a step back from the door. “I’ll just come back when Doctor Black is available.”

Katherine started to follow, even though her knees had begun to shake and she felt somewhat breathless. “You’re out at the west end past the Morgan’s farm, aren’t you? I have my buggy with me. If your wife is ill, I should-”

“She’s not ill!” Mr. Skinner barked, turning sharply and glaring down at her.

She stumbled backwards, catching herself on the doorframe before she completely lost her footing. “I…”

The banker had the decency enough to appear chagrined. He lowered his eyes and then adjusted his spectacles. “She’s not ill,” he repeated, quieter this time. Sweat prickled his brow and an angry vein pulsed like a lightning bolt down his forehead. “Good day, Mrs. Mulder.”

Katherine’s throat had become too pinched to respond, not that Mr. Skinner had waited for her to reply. He marched down the steps and away from the office without a backwards glance and it was only after he’d disappeared that Katherine realized that she was trembling. She had to force her legs to move and she fell into the door as she slammed it closed, gasping for breath. She hadn’t felt that frightened in some time. She put her hands to her burning cheeks and then smoothed the wild hairs she felt curling up from the heat and perspiration accompanying her fear. When at last she felt her composure return, she pushed herself from the door and went to the filing cabinet.

The file on Arlene Skinner was thin. The last prescription, for morphia, was written eight months prior and a notation was made about patient’s adverse reaction to chloryl, but as she flipped through the records, she noticed a pattern: the middle of every February and in the first week of every October for the last four years, Arlene Skinner complained of melancholy and head pain. Each time her husband had made the complaints on her behalf. Each time she had refused physical examination. Low doses of morphia were recommended, as needed, since chloryl was not an option.

Katherine put the file back in place and then pulled the one for Joey Skinner. There was nothing of concern there that she could find. Earlier that week he’d been treated for a mild case of poison oak. Aside from a few runny noses and a case of tonsillitis, the only injury was the broken wrist from his fall during recess at the schoolhouse that she herself had helped set and wrap the year prior. There was no file for Walter Skinner.

Though the biannual regularity of which Mrs. Skinner made complaints and her refusal to be examined was peculiar, nothing in the reports seemed terribly concerning. Still, her exchange with Mr. Skinner had alarmed her and was too reminiscent of experiences she’d had in the past for her not to be suspicious.

*%*%*%*

Walter Skinner was born on the third of June of 1838 in Baltimore, Maryland, the only son of Edward Skinner, a Scottsman and a professor of mathematics, and Annegret Rossel Skinner, a match that her stern, German father did not approve of. Walter had two older sisters and two younger sisters, which meant he was equal parts doted on and depended upon by the women in his family. He’d become man of the house at the tender age of seven when his father, möge er in Frieden ruhen, as his mother would say, was killed in battle in the Mexican territory.

His father had been a staunch pacifist, enlisting under duress from the cajoling of his own father and four older brothers. Ironically, though all brothers succumbed to battle, Edward had lasted the longest. Walter only remembers that his uncles were loud, burly men and that his father had always seemed like the calm center of the storm.

His mother was of strong, Bavarian stock, and although she’d been widowed at the age of 26 with five small children to care for, she’d refused to feel sorry for herself. She’d gone to work as a seamstress, a milliner, a washwoman, taking on just about any job that could keep her home with the children, but also allow her to earn a wage at the same time. The children were allowed to help at times, but his mother was adamant that they receive an education and school was prioritized above all else.

Even for all her strength and determination, his mother had been a woman that had deeply loved her husband. She carried her grief with her at all times, trying hard not to let it get the better of her, but the loss impacted her greatly. For the rest of her life she’d had an intense and irrational fear of something terrible happening to her children and she’d fretted over them constantly, smothering them with her love, and her paranoia.

Though his father’s softness and pacifism had irritated the old man, Walter’s paternal grandfather had noticed how meticulous and fastidious his grandson was from a young age and took a keen interest in him. Authoritarian by nature and difficult to please, nevertheless the two were close. Having come from a long line of soldiers, he devoted himself to Walter’s training, using his connections to enroll his grandson at West Point at the age of fourteen, against his mother’s wishes, to prepare him for a prestigious career.

Walter began as an enthusiastic pupil, thriving on repetition and regimen. He excelled in sums and philosophy and ethics, and although he received high marks in military strategy, those courses made him uncomfortable. The trouble was that he’d grown up in the shadow of the effects of war and he had no desire to contribute to the cause. His grandfather had been furious when he’d ultimately declined to pursue a career in the military and instead moved back home with his mother after graduation, taking a job as a junior teller in the local bank.

Within weeks of his return home, he’d met the woman he would soon marry, Arlene Sullivan, a classmate of his younger sister, and the most charming and beautiful woman he’d ever met. He proposed a month later and they were married a week before Christmas. Life was peaceful, and routine, just the way he liked it. In short time, he moved up the ranks at the bank, promoted to manager by the time he was twenty-two, just as the war between the states broke out.

On his twenty-third birthday, Walter begrudgingly kissed his new wife good-bye, leaving her in the care of his mother and sisters, and boarded a train, along with other conscripted men, only to spend the next four years of his life in a waking nightmare. By the grace of God, he managed to survive through the end of the war and at long last was honorably discharged as Brigadier General under the command of Ulysses S. Grant. By unspoken agreement, no one asked about where he’d been or what he’d seen, even his grandfather, and he wasn’t eager to share the details of the hell he’d been through.

Walter never expected to make it out of the war alive, never expected he’d see his new bride again, or expected he’d return to the job he loved, but he survived, even though he felt like a shell of the man he’d once been. The war had hardened him, made him an angry, short-tempered, and restless man. And just when he thought he’d never find joy again, there was Luisa.

*%*%*%*%*%

The best part of William Mulder’s day was the nightly conversations he had with his wife on their front porch. On the days she worked for Doctor Black, he always enjoyed listening to what she’d done and who she’d treated. He was always baffled by how casually she relayed the stories to him, speaking so matter of factly about how she’d pulled a bullet from a gunslinger’s shoulder in the same manner she might tell him she bought a new bolt of fabric from the general store. He thought that being a doctor was extraordinary. He thought that she was extraordinary.

Those days that she worked in town, upon returning home she usually immediately put her apron on and tried to help Melvin with supper, but he would always try to shoo her away and tell her to go on and put her feet up. The ranch hands were proud of their lady doctor in training and if it were up to them she probably wouldn’t lift a finger, ever, but Katherine never liked to feel like she was pulling less than her weight.

He saw her come home that day from where he was working in the training pen. She gave her horse and buggy over to Trevor just outside the barn and seemed to trudge to the house with her head lowered, which was unusual, but he wasn’t that concerned. She was also quiet at supper, pushing her food around her plate, which did concern him, but he tried not to let on. Melvin seemed to take notice of her behavior as well and told some boisterous tales that night to distract them all.

Mulder hoped that whatever was weighing on Katherine’s mind, she would tell him all about it during their nightly porch talks. He waited for her after seeing that the horses were bedded down for the evening, but she didn’t come. Finally, he grabbed the candle he’d brought with him and went looking for her. She wasn’t in the second bedroom that they’d converted to a parlor during the expansion and she wasn’t in their bedroom either. She wasn’t in the washroom and she wasn’t in the kitchen. He finally found her in the little study he’d had made for her through a door hidden in the pantry, reading a textbook by the dim glow of a single lantern.

“Kate?” he asked, gently pushing the door open. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she murmured, and then sighed. “No. I don’t know, actually.”

“Did something happen at Doctor Black’s today?”

“It did.” She sighed again and pushed the textbook away.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then she got out of her chair and stepped closer to him. He could see tears in her eyes before she wrapped her arms around him so hard it almost knocked him back. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment to set the candle down and then he returned the embrace.

“What is it, Honey?” he asked.

“Mr. Skinner dropped in this afternoon to see Doctor Black about his wife.”

“Is she unwell?”

“I don’t know. He became evasive, wouldn’t even entertain letting me go out to make a house call and see her.”

“We talked about the fact that some folks might be uncomfortable being treated by a woman. I never thought it would be Mr. Skinner, but-”

“That’s not it,” Katherine interrupted, shaking her head. “At least I don’t think so. It was the way he…he was very…very adamant. Very…gruff….” Her voice had dropped to a whisper and she squeezed him even tighter.

Mulder felt his jaw tighten and his back straightened. His stomach dropped and his chest burned. He took Katherine by the shoulders and pushed her back just slightly to look her over, but the neck on her blouse was too high and her sleeves were too long. Her downturned face was all shadows and he gently tipped her chin up to look at him.

“Kate, did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered, with a shake of her head. “No, he didn’t hurt me, but I thought that he might be hurting his wife.”

“He…are you sure?” he asked.

“No, I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I’m not sure at all, but I do know that something isn’t right.”

A wave of relief washed over Mulder, but then he raised his brows in surprise and Katherine sucked in a breath and came back into his arms, hugging him even tighter than before. He rocked her gently as he held her. It was hard for him to imagine Mr. Skinner being violent. He’d known the banker for six years and hadn’t even heard him raise his voice a single time. Then again, he hadn’t known the banker had a wife or a son until after he was married to Katherine. They weren’t exactly discussing their private lives to each other in their business transactions.

And then he remembered the day that little Joey Skinner broke his wrist at the schoolyard and he’d gone down to inform Mr. Skinner the boy was at Doctor Black’s office. The banker had gone white, rushing out the door so quickly he’d slammed his knee into his desk and hadn’t even flinched. And when Mulder had tried to calm him, to slow him down just a little, Mr. Skinner had flung him away like he was swatting a housefly. Mulder had thought nothing of it at the time, so palpable was the man’s fear, but now he could view it with concern.

“What about…what about the boy?” he asked. “Do you think…?”

“No, it doesn’t seem likely.”

Mulder puffed his cheeks and blew out a tuft of air as he nodded. “Kate, I know you enjoy doing your own banking, but maybe it’s best that you let me handle it for now, just until we’re certain about what’s going on.”

She tipped her head up, her chin on his chest. “You’re not thinking of confronting him about it, are you?”

“I might be.”

“And then what?”

“And then what?” he repeated, actually not sure of the answer. “And then…and then I’m not going to do business with a man that hurts his wife, I’ll tell you that much. I’ll ride out to Fort Worth every month if I have to.”

Katherine raised her brow and then pushed up on her toes and kissed the side of Mulder’s jaw. “You’re a good man,” she said. “But, I think that’s rushing things a bit. I’m going to ask Doctor Black for a more complete history when I see him. And I’m not going to let Mr. Skinner intimidate me.”

“But-”

“This is a medical issue, and I’m going to treat it as such.”

“Yes, but…” Mulder was hesitant, but the tone of Katherine’s voice told him she’d made a decision and that it was final. He was bothered, but he wasn’t going to argue. “If you think that’s for the best.”

“I do.” She nodded and then eased her grip on her husband, but he pulled her back up against him, his hands pressed to the small of her back.

“If I have a medical issue, would you treat it as such?” he asked, swaying her softly.

“What kind of issue do you have?”

“I haven’t been kissed in over twelve hours now. I’ve quite possibly forgotten how.”

“Oh no. That sounds serious.”

“What do you recommend, Doc?”

“Well, let me think…” She reached up and he closed his eyes as she caressed his face with both hands. His lips twitched as her thumbs brushed over his mouth. Her hands went to his chest and she nuzzled her face into his neck. “Bed rest,” she said. “Lots of bed rest.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, leaning into her. “You know I’m notoriously bad at that.”

“I think you’re quite good at it, actually.”

He opened his eyes with a smile. That was another thing he enjoyed about his wife. She wasn’t one to demure from his flirtations, she gave them right back to him. He scooped her up with a soft growl and she laughed, looping her arms around his neck. When he bent his head to kiss her, she leaned away, reaching back to put out the lantern on her desk and he ended up with his nose in the crook of her neck.

She giggled. “Let me just…”

He looked up as she stretched her arm out for the candle, but he leaned past her and blew it out once she’d had her finger looped around the brass holder. He found her lips in the dark and whirled her around through the door. He didn’t need a candle to guide him to bed, the moonlight and her little encouraging whimpers were enough.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter Skinner had only been to the Broke In once before, going on four years ago, to see about a horse. He was friendly with William Mulder, but didn’t consider the man a friend. Walter Skinner had no friends. He had business associates and customers, but he hadn’t had a true friend since he was a boy.

He was nervous to leave his teller in charge of the bank for the afternoon, more nervous than he let on, but even more nervous to ride out to the ranch. He knew it must be done, though. He’d behaved badly in front of Mrs. Mulder yesterday and he owed her an explanation. He owed them both an explanation that was a long time coming.

The changes to the place came as no surprise to him. All the billing for materials and labor went through the bank for payment. He knew down to the penny how much it had cost to put in the expansion and that Mulder could afford ten times as much as he’d spent, but it was nice to see that the ranch was thriving.

As he pulled up towards the house, he saw Sheriff Dogget’s boy out by the first barn, planing wood. He knew Luke Doggett had stayed on past the expansion as a carpenter. After opening an account at the bank, every second Friday the boy deposited his handsome salary into a savings and one day hoped to earn enough to open his own business. Mulder had already spoken to Walter about the possibility of backing him as an investor when the boy was old enough and had a bit more experience under his belt.

Melvin Frohike came out of the barn at the sound of horse hooves and waved his hat at Walter. Walter nodded to him and turned his horse in the smaller man’s direction.

“Hullo, Mr. Banker,” Mr. Frohike said. “Ain’t seen you ‘round these parts in a coon’s age. Charlie Horse givin’ you any grievances?”

Walter dismounted the horse in question and stroked him under the jaw. “No trouble here, Mr. Frohike. Best horse I’ve ever had.”

“Mulder’s got a knack for pickin’ the right temperaments for the man that needs ‘em.”

As though he knew he was being talked about, William Mulder suddenly appeared from Skinner’s left, wiping his hands on a ragged bandana. “Mr. Skinner, what a surprise,” he said, in a tone that didn’t sound all that genuinely surprised. By now, Walter presumed that Katherine had told her husband what had transpired yesterday.

“Mulder.” Walter shook hands with the rancher.

“Well, hey Charlie Horse,” Mulder said, running his hand along the white blaze that ran down the horse’s face. The horse knickered and pushed his nose into Mulder’s shoulder. “Frohike, take Charlie Horse into his old stall and get him some water and oats. He might appreciate a carrot or two while he’s there.”

The horse followed Mr. Frohike into the barn, trusting the familiar man in a way that was unusual. Let anyone but Walter try to lead him, and he wouldn’t budge. This had been the horse’s first home, though, and the ranchers his trainers, so Walter wasn’t surprised by it. When it was just the two of them, Mulder and Walter, and the sound of Luke Dogget scraping wood in the distance, Mulder shoved the bandana in his pocket and then tipped the brim of his hat just slightly to squint at Walter’s face.

“I’m here to apologize to your wife,” Walter said. “I believe we had a misunderstanding that I’d like to clear up. If you’ll allow me, of course.”

“If she’ll allow you.” Mulder adjusted his hat and then bounced his head towards his right shoulder. “Katherine’s inside. You can go on in.”

“Actually…” Walter looked towards the house and then at the rancher, trying to get a read on the situation, but the man’s face was blank, revealing nothing. “I’d like to speak to the both of you. Not just your wife. What I have to say, it…pertains to you as well.”

“Well…come on in, then.”

Walter followed Mulder through to the back entrance of the house. The younger man called out for his wife and she emerged from a hidden door inside of the pantry. She looked startled by Walter’s presence and gave her husband a questioning look.

“Mr. Skinner’s dropped by to have a word with us about something,” Mulder said. “Should we go on in to the parlor?”

“Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Skinner?” Katherine asked. “I made fresh lemonade this morning. We store it in the new ice box now so it should be nice and cool.”

A cool drink sounded like a good idea to Walter. The dust was thick on the ride out and it would probably help him find his voice. “I would appreciate a glass, thank you,” he said.

“I’ll help you pour,” Mulder said. “Mr. Skinner, let me show you to the front room and we’ll be just a minute.”

Mulder took Walter’s hat to hang on a peg in the hallway, beside his own, and then the banker was shown to a tidy parlor at the front of the house and he sat down in a chair upholstered with a soft green fabric to wait. He could hear low voices from the kitchen, no doubt the Mulders discussing why he had come, but they were quick to return, Mulder carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade and a pitcher. The drink was perfect, not too sweet and not too sour, and blessedly cool. Mulder and Katherine sat beside each other on the love seat, across from Walter.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your day, so I’ll get right to it,” Walter said. “Mrs. Mulder, I want to start by saying how sorry I am for my behavior yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Katherine said, politely, but her gaze was critical. “My concern, however, is for your wife. If she has a chronic illness, she should be examined.”

“She has been examined.”

“That isn’t what her records indicate.”

“Doctor Black is familiar with her history.”

“That’s all well and good, but Doctor Black isn’t always available. If it’s my qualifications you’re concerned with, I can assure you that-”

“I’m sure you’re qualified,” Walter interrupted. He sighed and put his lemonade back on the tray on the table between them before removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments. Finally, he put the glasses back on and picked up the lemonade glass to take a long drink. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s difficult to talk about.”

“Take your time,” Mulder said.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter wouldn’t learn he was a father until well into his second year in battle, when letters from home finally made their way to him. It came as a shock, as he was not even aware his wife was with child, but she must have been several weeks or months along when he’d been called up. Luisa Anne Skinner, a happy and healthy little girl that, according to the letters from both his wife and his mother, had a shock of red hair and the sweetest disposition on God’s green earth.

After the war ended, Walter strongly considered returning to West Point and never coming home again. He was afraid of who he was and what he’d become and he didn’t know how to be a husband or a father after all he’d been through. He was tired, though. He knew he’d never be able to quiet the nightmares of war if he went on being a soldier. He needed the monotony of home if he ever hoped to find peace.

He’d told no one of his impending arrival back in Baltimore, but the army must have sent word on ahead, for as soon as the train pulled into the station, he saw his wife and his mother waiting on the platform. He’d taken no more than two steps off the train when a tiny slip of a thing ran towards him, a blur of pink petticoats and red curls. Papa, Papa, Papa. His army issue duffle fell to the platform as he knelt down and tiny arms wrapped themselves around his neck. His heart felt like it had burst open that moment and he immediately understood why his mother had smothered her children with so much love and concern.

Walter Skinner was determined to give his daughter everything in life, even though she asked for nothing. He outfitted her with new dresses from the best tailors in town and bought her new dolls and trinkets. He did his very best to spoil her and she did her very best to remain unspoiled. She had the purest heart of anyone he’d ever known and her schoolteachers always commented on how kind and empathetic she was. She was a friend to all she met, believing in the best of the world and in everyone in it, and Walter never tried to dispel her of the misguided notion, preferring that she remain naive to the harsh realities of life. In hindsight, that was probably his biggest mistake.

It was the day before her seventeenth birthday that Luisa met Edward Jerse, a sewing machine salesman from Philadelphia. Walter remembered the day precisely. When he’d returned home from the bank, the young man was in his parlor, demonstrating the machine to his wife and daughter, who had been planning for Luisa’s party at breakfast that morning. Though the young man was well-mannered, Walter did not like him, even though he couldn’t articulate why. He just knew that man was trouble.

Luisa was smitten, begging her father for the first time in her life to purchase one of the machines, even though she’d always had little interest in needlework and he could not recall the last time she’d done sewing of any kind. She’d clasped her hands and gone to her knees beside his chair as he read the evening paper. Please, Papa, please can’t we get one? He couldn’t refuse, and so the sewing machine sat largely untouched, as he knew it would, and it gave the young man an excuse to call on them for maintenance purposes, which is what he suspected his daughter was truly after.

Walter thought that the infatuation would fade quickly, but as the months went by, it only deepened, much to his dismay. By that point, both his wife and daughter were enthralled with Mr. Jerse, and Walter was forced to hold his tongue on the matter. The singular time he’d spoken up that he thought Mr. Jerse was spending too much time at their house and he should be on his way, Luisa had been devastated and fled from the room in tears and his wife had scolded him for being so harsh.

And then Mr. Jerse had proposed marriage, without even speaking with him no less. He was furious, but careful to rein in his anger when he told his daughter it was out of the question. She was too young and besides, Mr. Jerse had not yet established himself. No, marriage was out of the question. Luisa had quietly accepted his refusal to grant her permission and then promptly eloped with Mr. Jerse the very next day.

If only Walter hadn’t spoiled his daughter so obviously, perhaps none of it wouldn’t have happened. If he’d just put his foot down that one time then maybe it wouldn’t have been so much of a shock when he cut his daughter off financially and forbade his wife from contacting her. He’s certain that Mr. Jerse had counted on him to have a change of heart. After all, Luisa was his only child and beloved daughter.

Months passed and Walter’s wife was slowly deteriorating; prone to weeping, spending days in her bed, and suffering greatly from the separation from her daughter. He tried to cheer her with those things he knew she loved the most - tickets to the symphony, a bouquet of flowers, having the cook prepare her favorite dinners - but she would not be cheered.

Before Walter had the chance to relent, one dreary day in September, a breathless errand boy showed up at the bank with an urgent message from his housekeeper, imploring him to come home at once. He ran all the way there, leaving his hat and umbrella behind in his haste, and by the time he arrived he was soaked through.

At first, he did not recognize the strange lady in his parlor, but it only took a few moments to realize this pale, drawn, bedraggled girl clutching a bundle of dirty rags was his daughter. Her cheek was bruised and her lip was split, red with fresh blood, and it was apparent she had recently suffered a blackened eye. He knew, even though she stammered over weak excuses that she’d been clumsy and had taken a fall down some steps, that that no-good, sonofabitch Ed Jerse had done this to her.

Walter felt a rage bubble inside of him that he hadn’t felt since his days in the war and though he once considered himself a pacifist, in his mind he already had one foot out the door to track down that rotten excuse for a man and show him a real fight. It was then that he noticed that what he thought was a bundle of dirty rags in his daughter’s arms was a loosely swaddled infant. The baby raised its arm and let out a pitiful squawk. Walter was too stunned to even move.

This time, when Walter put his foot down, his daughter dutifully bowed her head and agreed. She would not be going back to her husband. She and the baby would stay with her parents. The family physician was called for and Walter made it known he wanted his daughter’s injuries to be meticulously recorded. He’d wanted to summon the police, but Luisa was adamant that she would not speak with any officers.

Though their daughter had returned to them, she was no longer his sweet, innocent little girl. A year apart was enough to harden her, to dull the light that had always been in her eyes, to hollow her cheeks and round her shoulders. She was easily startled and weepy and shrank from the slightest touch. The housekeeper, who had been with them since Luisa was born, was the one who confided in him about faded bruises and fresh scars after she’d drawn the girl’s bath. Walter had gone to the clapboard alley house where Luisa had been living, accompanied by his army pistol, but Edward Jerse was nowhere to be found. Lucky for him.

Three weeks passed and every day was a struggle. Luisa lacked the strength, and it seemed the interest, in caring for her child, but that was understandable. Walter’s wife, his sisters, and the women that so deftly ran his household, all took part in trying to help his daughter recover. Unfortunately, all their efforts were for naught.

Walter was at work when Edward Jerse showed up looking for his estranged wife. When Arlene Skinner tried to turn him away, he kicked in the glass-paned door and cast her aside. Their cook ran to the neighbors to summon the police. His youngest sister, who had been visiting with her young daughter, had the good sense to grab the infant and flee out the back of the house. Their beloved housekeeper took a protective position on the stairs in an effort to stop Mr. Jerse and she suffered a broken collarbone when he shoved her down.

Witnesses said that Luisa put up a hell of a fight, even as Edward Jerse dragged her down the front steps. She bit and she clawed and she screamed until she was tossed to the ground and silenced by a crushing blow to the skull under Edward Jerse’s boot. Neighbors rushed to stop the assault, but they were too late. A brawl ensued when they attempted to prevent him from fleeing, but he managed to escape before the police arrived.

The scene that Walter came home to could only be described as chaos. Policemen were everywhere, blowing whistles, yelling at neighbors to stand back, threatening to use their bully sticks on the crowd that gathered. Nervous cart-horses whinnied shrilly and stamped their feet. His wife was wailing on the porch while their family physician tried desperately to calm her. The county coroner was already rounding up eligible men for an inquest and to make matters worse, hadn’t even bothered to cover his poor daughter’s crumpled body with a blanket or a sheet.

An overzealous journalist picked the wrong moment to appear at Walter’s side and ask if he knew the victim and wanted to give a quote. Walter had him by the throat in an instant, his clawed fingers digging roughly into the man’s neck. He wanted to kill him and probably would have had a constable not intervened and pulled him off.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine felt a sting of tears and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That could have been her story. She knew exactly what Luisa had gone through. She felt her husband’s hand slip into hers and she squeezed his fingers tight. Mr. Skinner had stopped speaking for a few moments, staring down at the lemonade glass that was sweating on his knee.

“You know where the sonofabitch is now?” Mulder asked.

“Rotting in hell, hopefully.” Mr. Skinner finally looked up. “They caught him at the train station that night. Murder’s a hanging offense. Justice was carried out swiftly, though part of me wishes he’d suffered a little longer.”

“And then you moved west?”

“Towns are small and people talk. We didn’t want Joey to grow up in the shadow of it all.”

“Joey is your grandson,” Katherine stated, softly. She remembered Mr. Skinner’s panic when Joey had been injured at school and his fear now made sense to her.

“He is. Though he’s not aware of that fact. Luisa had named him Edward Jr., but we couldn’t call him that, under the circumstances.” Mr. Skinner paused and he seemed to struggle for a moment, his face contorting slightly as a frown tugged his mouth down. “My wife blames herself. She was the one that let Mr. Jerse into the house to sell that blasted sewing machine. She tried to…join Luisa in the hereafter several times. They wanted me to have her institutionalized. I refuse to do that.”

“Has she made recent attempts?”

Mr. Skinner shook his head. “The melancholy comes and goes, particularly around Luisa’s birthday, or the day she was taken from us, but she hasn’t harmed herself in quite some time. There’s an Indian woman that cares for her during the day. She’s been a godsend. You might know her, Mulder, Albert Hosteen is her brother.”

“The Navajo translator?” Mulder gave a brief nod. “We did some trading awhile back, but I don’t know him well.”

“His people have a settlement a few miles outside of town. They keep to themselves, mostly.”

“Mr. Skinner,” Katherine said, trying as gently as she could to bring the conversation back to Arlene. “I am deeply sorry for what you and your wife have been through, but it does not explain why you won’t allow her to be seen. Do you believe Dr. Black would try to force her to be committed?”

Mr. Skinner stood and slipped his hand into his vest pocket. He took out his pocket watch and opened it up, staring at it for some time before passing it to Katherine. She hesitated briefly, glancing at her husband first, and then gasped slightly when she looked at the photo insert under the lid.

“I…I don’t understand,” Katherine said, staring intently at the photo.

“We had this likeness made for Luisa’s sixteenth birthday,” Mr. Skinner explained.

Katherine showed the watch to her husband, who raised his brows in surprise and then looked at Mr. Skinner. “This is your daughter?” he asked. “But, she…”

“Bears a striking resemblance to your wife. I know.”

“And you think that if Mrs. Skinner were to see me, it would cause an upset?”

“I know it would. Arlene begged me to remove all the portraits of Luisa from the walls because she found it unbearable to see them. That likeness is all I have left.”

Katherine passed the pocketwatch back to Mr. Skinner. He sat back down, but kept the watch in his hand, running his thumb over the lid. The room fell quiet and it seemed that none of them knew what to say after that. Finally, Mulder cleared his throat and shifted forward.

“Uh, when we were outside earlier, you said what you had to say concerned both Katherine and I,” he said. “I’m not a medical expert like my wife, so was there something else?”

Mr. Skinner took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Something I need to confess.”

*%*%*%*%*%

Jack Willis made no effort whatsoever to even pretend to be personable. Walter Skinner had all sorts of men in his office looking for land, but very few that didn’t try to charm him, especially when they were begging for a homestead. He watched the detestable man surreptitiously as he made like he was perusing his files. Watched him suck tobacco juice from his yellowed teeth and pick at the dirt under his fingernails with a small knife as he waited.

Walter could have easily refused Mr. Willis and sent him on his way. The man had no collateral to speak of, only a small purse of coins that didn’t amount to half a downpayment on a lease. He didn’t claim to have any prospects in the area, wasn’t a farmer or a rancher or a craftsman. Walter was certain, by the stench of whiskey that seemed to ooze from the man’s pores, that his only profession was drinking. When the man asked about the saloon in town, and if the hands were hot there, he knew he was dealing with a gambler as well.

Rarely was Walter distracted by the window in his office, but that day he couldn’t help but keep his eye on the young woman in the wagon outside. She was still as a statue most of the time, head down, shoulders slumped. Every so often she would start to rub her fingers and thumbs together, but then quickly pull her hands into fists in her lap. He gave her one more glance before he was going to break the news to Mr. Willis that there were no leases available and she suddenly tipped her chin up and the afternoon sun highlighted a fresh bruise on her cheek. She had a blank expression on her face, staring off into the distance, but without truly seeing a thing. He’d seen that look on many men during the war, usually after a hard battle. Some of them never recovered. His chest tightened and his heart hurt.

There was a lease available, he told Mr. Willis, which was not entirely the truth, but nor was it a lie. There were plenty of leases available, but he knew that if he put Mr. Jerse’s name on any of those, the bank would be repossessing in short time. The lease that he would draft up would be on a piece of land that he owned, one he’d purchased a few months before the former owner had passed on. The old man had known he hadn’t much time left and Walter had seen fit to relieve Bob Goodwin of his burden. Installing a surly drunkard and his abused wife on the property might not seem wise, but it would give him the time he needed to make an informed decision.

When Walter’s professors at West Point had praised him for his abilities to strategize, he’d humbly chalked it up to the hours he’d spent playing chess with his grandfather, but he also knew that the reason he took to the game at such a young age was because of the way his mind worked. He planned and he calculated and he did it quickly. He also wasn’t a gambler, by nature, but when he bet on something, he did it with the same certainty as moving a chess piece.

He drafted a standard five-year lease with an option, knowing he’d be lucky if he saw a single penny from Mr. Willis, not that it mattered. The land was bought and paid for and he didn’t need an income. He just needed a chance to do what he should have done for Luisa all those years ago.

Taking into account the little he did know of Mr. Willis, Walter offered to buy the man a drink later that evening at the saloon and just as he suspected, the man was more than happy to take him up on it. He gave him a copy of the lease, a rough map of how to find the place, and watched him turn his mules to the east, out of town. By the end of the night, after several rounds of whiskey and losing a few hands of poker to Mr. Willis, he’d devised a suitable plan.

*%*%*%*%*%

“Did you kill Jack Willis?” Mulder asked.

Mr. Skinner did not seem in the least phased by the question. “Do you play chess?” he asked, in return.

“Not much.”

“Chess is as much about manipulating your opponent’s movements as it is making your own. The same as battle.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

“I had a mind to.” The banker nodded to himself. “But, I didn’t have to.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know what it means,” Katherine murmured, quietly. “The whole time we were here, Jack was either too drunk, too hungover, or not there at all. It means you kept him occupied. Away from me or incapacitated.”

“I simply worked out a deal with the saloon owner that Jack Willis should feel free to spend as much time there as he pleased, whether it was drinking or gambling or in the company of the working women.”

Mr. Skinner paused at that and an awkward silence followed. Mulder was feeling a mixture of emotions; appreciation and regret and heartache and confusion. Katherine, pressed next to him on the couch, was silent, but her grip on his hand was tight and firm.

“Anyhow,” Mr. Skinner continued. “I only told Mr. Smith that he was to see me about any debts that Mr. Willis incurred and I would see they were paid.”

“Then you should…we should compensate you,” Mulder said, stuttering slightly. “I’ll pay for Jack Willis's debts.”

“I don’t want compensation.”

“But, what about the land? I…I assume you were after a profit if you bought it, but then why didn’t-”

“You own the land,” Mr. Skinner interrupted, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “The property was transferred to your wife, you just happened to purchase it from me and not the bank. Fortunately for me I happen to know how terrible you are at scrutinizing paperwork.”

Mulder grimaced, sheepishly. “Still, you should get a fair price for all you’ve-”

“I wasn’t after a profit, Mulder.”

“What then? You’re not a rancher, you’re a banker.”

Mr. Skinner shifted in his chair as though the question had made him uncomfortable or embarrassed. “I had it in mind that, should we become neighbors, that perhaps…perhaps my grandson might find his way here.”

“You want him to work on a ranch? But, he’s far too young to even consider-”

“No, not work. Just…to pass the time. I try to spend as much time with him as I can, but I’m at the bank most of the day, though I do try to shield him from my wife’s…my wife tries to love him in her own way, but I know she fears becoming too attached and Joey is so pure at heart. So much like his mother. He just…he just deserves a place where…” Mr. Skinner trailed off and he shook his head, quickly averting his eyes. “Anyway, he has school now to keep him occupied. It was a foolish notion.”

“Does he know how to ride?” Mulder asked.

“I’ve put him on Charlie Horse a time or two.”

“Well, it’s too far of a walk for the little fella. What if we sent Trevor out on Saturdays to come collect him?”

“I’m not going to put you out like that, Mulder. You asked me why and I wanted to answer plainly. I think that fate intervened and God saw fit that land be used for a higher purpose.”

Katherine sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and almost reared back as though spooked by something. Mulder turned to her, but she stared straight ahead, wide-eyed. He squeezed her hand and she startled and then pulled away, blinking rapidly.

“Kate?”

She gave a slight shake of her head and pulled her lightly-fisted hands into her lap. Mulder pursed his lips, wanting to know what had just happened, but he wasn’t going to press her in front of their guest.

Mr. Skinner rubbed his hands over his knees and then stood. “I should probably be on my way,” he said.”

“I’ll…get your hat,” Mulder answered. Normally, he might implore Mr. Skinner to stay, to have another glass of lemonade, but he hurried down the hall and back and handed the banker his hat, eager to get his wife alone.

“Thank you for the lemonade,” Mr. Skinner said, shaking Mulder’s hand.

“Anytime. And please think about sending Joey out.”

“I’ll think it over.” Mr. Skinner gave a slight tip of his hat to Katherine. “Mrs. Mulder. I hope I’ve resolved things for you.” He was about to walk out, but Katherine suddenly jumped to her feet and called out to him.

“Wait,” she said. “Things are not resolved. What about Mrs. Skinner?”

“I can’t let you see her, I thought I made that clear.”

“What if I’d run into her in town one day?”

“Impossible. Arlene doesn’t go into town. Her nerves are too unsteady for it.”

“Then we must do something about that. I’m…I don’t know the answer right now, but I will. I will write away for the appropriate texts and I’ll find something. I promise.”

“I do need to get going,” Skinner said, putting his hat on. His voice had gone low and husky. “You know, in the back of my mind I thought that perhaps out here on your own, with Mr. Willis occupied, you might find your way to a friendly neighbor’s place that could give you more help than I could. I’m happy things worked out the way they have, just sorry it didn’t happen a little sooner.”

“Mr. Skinner…” Katherine touched the sleeve of his jacket and when he turned towards her, she put her arms around him. He hesitated and then brought one hand up and put his hand very lightly at the back of her head. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They stayed in the embrace for a few seconds more and then Mr. Skinner stepped away. He gave a brief nod and then he was out the door on his way to the barn.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine stayed on the porch as her husband walked the banker out to the barn to collect his horse. His visit had brought forth her own recollections of the day she arrived in town with Jack Willis. A memory that she’d locked away not because she’d tried to forget, but only because she hadn’t tried to remember it.

The morning before they arrived, she had lost another baby, one she didn’t even know she was carrying. She’d awoken in pain, her skirts soaked through with blood down to the hard ground she’d been sleeping on beneath the wagon. She’d stumbled to a stream that was nearby to wash herself, retching a few times on the way there, and the bruise on her cheek was punishment for having woken Jack and for not having made up any breakfast.

She was still bleeding when they’d rolled into town, every bump of the wagon seemingly forcing another painful contraction of her womb, ridding itself of the burden that had proven impossible for her to carry. She wondered how much blood she would have to lose to pay for her sins, how much blood she’d already lost. She thought about how peaceful it might be not to even try to stop the flow.

It was those kinds of thoughts that turned her to prayer, but Jack had sold her rosary beads at the last town they were in to some gunslinger who thought his favorite whore might like them. She recalled sitting in the wagon outside the bank, asking God’s forgiveness for needing to end her suffering. One of the mules had shifted and the wagon creaked and she had the idea that when they were on their way again, she should throw herself under the wagon, let it roll over her, let it crush her and let the blood ooze out of her all at once until there was nothing left. Yes, she decided, that would be best. She had nothing left, no reason to keep going.

Just as she’d resolved to end her life, a breeze had ruffled her hair and set the back of her neck to tingling. She looked up, but the dusty road was still. Quite plainly, clear as day, a woman whispered in her ear just then, ‘don’t give up.’ Katherine turned, but there was no one there, only a glimpse of her own sad reflection in the window of the bank.

Jack returned to the wagon and shoved a piece of paper into her hands, which she recognized as a map. She studied it as Jack rambled about pulling the wool over on the idiot banker. He figured the town must be full of idiots if the smartest man there was that friendly. Maybe he’d see if he could start a new life as a bank robber.

Katherine didn’t say anything. Jack was never in favor of her speaking, even if it appeared as though he were trying to engage her in conversation. There was a little ‘X’ drawn onto the map and then a wavy line beside it that she determined to be a creek or small river of some kind. On the other side of the line was the word ‘horses.’

Once, as a little girl, Katherine had a dream about a horse. It was just after she’d read about Hippocrates, The Father of Medicine, and about how the ancient Greeks had once prescribed horseback riding to improve health. She’d thought that was silly, but that night she dreamed about riding a lovely chestnut horse with a red mane, running fast and free through an open field of grass as far as the eye could see, towards a setting sun. She felt sad when she woke up, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she knew it was impossible to ever be that free.

“Hey,” Mulder said, startling Katherine as he came up to the porch. The banker was already past the sign of their ranch, his horse kicking up the dust on the main road and lost in her reverie, she hadn’t even noticed.

“Hey,” Katherine replied.

Her husband reached for her, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “You looked a million miles away just then. What were you thinking?”

“Just about divine intervention.”

“So, nothing too complicated or existential?”

She gave him a small smile and he rubbed his bottom lip against her knuckles. She pulled her hands free and he opened his arms for her. Sighing, she stepped into his embrace.

“I’m sorry too, so you know,” he said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“That your friendly neighbor didn’t find his way to you sooner.”

She hummed lightly and crossed her arms behind his waist. “No, I think Mr. Skinner was right. Things happened exactly as they were supposed to.”

“I think you just said you believe in fate, Honey. I’ve been telling you that since Faithful Jenny threw that shoe.”

“I admit nothing.” She chuckled. “I’m only saying that by keeping Jack otherwise engaged in town, it did give me some months of peace I think that I needed. It made me stronger. I wanted to get away, but until then I thought my only way out would be if Jack had killed me or if I…did it for him.”

Mulder tightened his embrace and Katherine squeezed him gently in return.

“I’d like to think it’s providence,” she murmured softly. “That God put Mr. Skinner in my path that day for a reason.”

“So that he could help you.”

“No, so that I could help him. His wife.” Katherine tilted her head back to look up at her husband. He looked down at her with an expression she hadn’t ever seen, like someone pleasantly stupefied. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Fate, providence, divine intervention, kismet, destiny, serendipity, whatever you want to call it, how lucky I am to have such a wife.”

“Yes, you are.”

He chuckled as he lowered his mouth to hers.

*%*%*%*%*%

If anyone had asked him, the banker would say he did not believe in any such thing as fate. He had too much experience with the hubris and folly of man to believe that any bad or good that happened in the world wasn’t the direct result of free will. Besides, there wasn’t a philosophy on God’s green Earth that would have him believe that his daughter’s death was designed as part of a higher plan. As though God was maneuvering the human race like pawns in a game of chess. That would be illogical, and Walter was not an illogical man.

A few short weeks after his visit to the ranch, Katherine had convinced the banker to get his wife a kitten. She quoted a nurse named Florence Nightingale to him about the benefits of animal companionship. He thought it was silly. Arlene had never had an interest in cats, but Katherine was very convincing, and suddenly this gray ball of fluff that looked like he’d been in the dustbin, so he was called Dusty, had been acquired and he saw his wife laugh for the first time in years. She also managed to obtain a tortoise, a pair of lovebirds, an injured crow that she nursed back to health, and he was fairly certain she was trying to tame a family of prairie dogs in the fields behind their house. While the melancholy still took hold of her at times, it seemed that having Dusty close to her made it more bearable and her demeanor had been much improved.

Walter had finally let Doctor Black speak with his wife and he found her to be in overall fine health, but perhaps a bit of exercise would help with her nerves. Just a nice walk in the garden each day for fresh air and flowers. Monica Doggett helped with that, bringing fresh baked bread down as often as she could and teaching her the names of local herbs and how they’re used. It’s how she found the poor crow with the broken wing and the prairie dog tunnels.

The following April, the banker brought his wife to the Broke In on a Sunday morning, a day that had been arranged in advance. Joey was disappointed that it wasn’t his day to go to the ranch. He’d been spending Saturdays at the Mulder’s all winter and looked forward to brushing the horses every week and learning how to ride.

Arlene had been prepared to accompany her husband to the ranch. It had been weeks since even the mention of her daughter’s name had sent her into a fit of tears. She’d allowed Walter to hang the family portrait in the house and he had finally sat Joey down and given him a sanitized version of the truth. All the boy needed to know, at his young age, was that his mother, their daughter, had gone to heaven, and that she had loved him very much.

Walter slowed the gig down as the sign for the Broke In came into view. It seemed to him that he was more nervous about this meeting than his wife. She sat beside him almost serenely, her arm looped loosely around his elbow, Dusty purring on her lap. He hadn’t intended to bring the cat, but his wife had insisted and he knew the Mulder’s, of all people, wouldn’t mind the unexpected, additional guest.

Katherine was first to emerge from the house, followed by her husband. They waited on the porch while Walter guided the horse to the hitching post. Mulder stepped down and welcomed them warmly, saying how pleased he was to meet Mrs. Skinner and the little friend she cuddled close as he took her hand to help her from the small carriage.

Katherine approached cautiously and Walter held his breath when Arlene passed the cat to him and then reached out to touch the young woman’s face. She told her how pretty she was. She told her how she’d heard so much about her from Walter, and from Monica. She told her that her daughter had red hair as well, gently touching the ends of one of Katherine’s curls that coiled down by her jaw. And then she asked if she might put her arms around her, just for a moment.

Of course, Katherine answered, and Arlene brought her arms around her, placing her hands just behind Katherine’s shoulders and very softly, just for a moment, rested her cheek against the younger woman’s. She pulled away and then took Dusty back into her arms and rubbed one of his ears. She said that she would like to see the horses now.

The End

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #historical au #broken things #first time writing a Skinman POV!

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randomfoggytiger · 2 months ago

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"It's Not a Choice, but a Calling"

(Thanks to the Discord prompts for: beach, sickfic, family vacation with William, and Scully wearing Mulder's shirt~)

Mulder, Scully, a nameless child, and their last night at a beach.

*****

The world, for once, is silent.

The horizon separates its light from its dark, the cool, pristine black of the water rising up to consume the last embers of a dying sun. Shadows scurry across the shore while a curious giant explores the chasms of life below-- a finger poked here, a foot kicked there-- and its watchers rise behind like pillars in the dusk.

In this celestial space between endless lines and the end of all things, paths stretching forward become another frightening possibility. Another road not traveled, another tragedy undiscovered. Every moon bears a face of the dead, every whistle an echo of their pain.

“Scully, if,” breathes, dies the first voice, consumed by the power of that fathomless darkness.

“Hm,” answers the second. Stronger, coming alive from the stupor of old thoughts. “No, Mulder. Not a day.”

The sun is consumed; and the stars blaze light, illuminated.

*****

The cold stays by their heels, misting their windows and guttering their fire. Scully consults the old magic, silently searching for a lighter while Mulder winds up the stairs and to the left, tucks away their tuckered miracle with a chilly kiss and silent retreat. Tomorrow, they face a drive littered with pit stops: burgers and fries and sunburn salve bought and consumed between each pull-off highway shop. For now, she prays that the logs will ignite, hopes to spend one more night surrounded by homestead incense instead of the dry burn of artificial heat.

Her one-in-five-billion reappears, face drawn in nonchalance, heater clutched in his left hand. He pauses, she pauses. “You wanted the fire tonight?”

“Yes,” Scully replies, tossing the wand somewhere conscionable, “but it won’t start, anyway.” Standing, she watches her partner bend at the waist, fiddle with ancient dials nearly rusted into antiquity. “Why? Is your cough back?”

“No,” Mulder drawls, warm and preoccupied. “Just feeling a little mucusy.”

“I see.”

“Thought I’d take it a little easy, tonight,” he adds, eyes down, ashamed to admit weakness. To come close to admitting weakness.

There are days, she knows, when it is impossible to face one’s frailties. When the sound of the bath tap makes her want to run, run, run away until that paralyzing fear is gone. When she catches a glimpse of her inescapable horror in the mirror. When her panic is mirrored by Mulder’s slack face or shaking hands.

Gripping his shoulder, she bends, too. “We don’t need the fire tonight.” Watches an exhale plume from his mouth in relief.

*****

There is nothing much to watch, and nothing left to read.

Scully leaves him on the couch, darting from room to room until she finds her potion jar and a pair of long, woven socks. “For your mucus,” she instructs, pulling at Mulder’s shirt until he hands it over, disappointing him by transferring the goop on her fingertips to his. Divesting him of his beach sandals, she sets to work slathering the fleshy part of one foot, then the other, with Vick’s while Mulder sniffs, then snorts, behind her. “Don’t eat it.”

“Unlike our kid, Scully, I learn from my mistakes.”

“Uh huh,” she parries, without bite. The marvel of this body, she muses. Protecting him from callouses, rot, and infection, no matter how he abuses it.

“Scully, I can feel you thumbing my big toe.” His eyebrows, she knows, are dancing wickedly. “There something you want to share with the group?”

Thumbing his foot once more, in reproof, Scully's too late to catch her chin tuck. She feels his triumphant chuckle tremor down before she hears it-- an all-too-rare shaking followed by its squeaky wheeze.

The floor is still chilly, the stones cold under her cold-blooded limbs. Expediency dictates that Scully cover Mulder’s feet with his socks and reclaim her perch on the couch. The old, haunting clock of an older, daunting age ticks in time with her movements, ringing out the hour once she's settled against her personal heater.

Mulder holds out a hand for his shirt; but she curls defensively, triumphantly, away from his reach while slipping it over her head. “Wh-- hey,” he grins, charmed by her blatant thievery, “that’s my shirt.”

“Mm.”

“My favorite t-shirt.”

“Mm,” Scully hums, lazily blinking at his side grin and crinkled lines. At the razed haircut he’d wanted before they came here. At the path in his eyes she’d tumbled down, countless times, to his heart. “You’ll get Vick’s on it.” At his furrowed brows as he remembers her cure-all on his chest.

Sighing with a smile under his breath, Mulder maneuvers her between the couch and his restless limbs, luring her past her protests by generously sharing heat. “I don’t think it’ll mind, Scully.”

*****

Dawn will ultimately claim the dark, sending its shadows to wait in their corners, beaming upon its victims with a little word called hope.

In a few hours, the heater will switch off and the house will whirl with final checks and final feasting.

But, for now, all that is needed are dreams.

*****

Thanks for reading~ Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic, @illaisland, @agent-troi.

#randomfoggytiger's fic #txf #fic #mine #thanks to my Discord group's prompts¬#xfiles #x-files #the x files #xf fanfic #“It's Not a Choice but a Calling”#S9 #AU #or whichever timeline you prefer

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atths--twice · 7 months ago

Text

Saw this on Twitter and had to write a little something. ❤️

Their car began to overheat at mile marker 203, barely making it to the service station.

He sighed as he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves while she called for another rental car.

“They said about thirty minutes,” she told him, hanging up as she joined him.

“Great,” he said with another sigh. “It’s blazing out, no wonder the car overheated.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, fanning herself and looking around. “Least we made it here and we’re not stuck on the side of the road.”

“Hmm,’” he hummed, as he also looked around. “Look at that.” He pointed to a dirt field with bases laid out to create a small baseball diamond. “Come on.”

“But the car…”

“Thirty minutes you said,” he told her, grinning as he started to walk toward the field. “We got time.”

She nodded, taking his offered hand to step over the path of half tires that had been set up as a barrier between the parking lot and the loose gravel walkway. He squeezed it as he let go and they continued to the field.

“Man,” he said, shaking his head as he looked at the dirty and stained up bases. “This takes me back.”

“You play a lot as a kid?” she asked, looking around with a small smile.

“Not really on a team as my folks couldn’t afford it, but neighborhood pick up games? Hell yeah.”

He spied a ball in the grass at the edge of the dirt lot and he smiled. Picking it up, he stared at it and then smelled it, his eyes closing. God, it smelled like summer and bologna sandwiches, warm sunshine and the tired feeling you got from riding your bike from morning till night.

It smelled like childhood.

“You ever play baseball as a kid?” he asked, smelling it again.

“Yeah,” she said with a small nod. “I was a pretty fast runner.”

“Smell that,” he said, holding the ball out to her. “What does it make you think of?”

She took a small sniff and hummed.

“Running through sprinklers. Eating sticky, melting popsicles. Riding my bike through the neighborhood and stopping by people’s houses without calling ahead.”

“Exactly. Like childhood,” he said with a grin and she nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Wanna have a catch?” he asked, popping the ball off of his forearm and catching it in his hands.

She stared at him and then looked down at her attire. He anticipated hearing a no and was taken by surprise when she nodded as she began to unbutton her blazer.

“Let’s see what you got,” she said, dropping her blazer outside the diamond without a care that it would get dirty. He grinned and stepped toward the pitcher's mound, rolling the ball around in his hand.

She stood at home plate, awaiting his throw. When he let it go, she caught it easily, tossing it right back to him. She smiled and he smiled back, throwing the ball once again.

By the time the replacement rental car pulled into the station, they were both hot and sweaty, but smiling from ear to ear. He tossed the ball up one more time as she collected her blazer.

“Thanks,” he whispered, setting it onto the middle of home plate and walking over to join her.

Their luggage and other personal items transferred to the new car, they got in and turned the air conditioning up to high.

Leaving the rental agent behind to figure out what to do with the broken car, they waved and made their way to the driveway of the parking lot.

They both glanced at the empty lot just as a group of kids rode up on their bikes. All of them dropped their bikes, shouting and laughing as they took out baseball bats and more balls from backpacks or even pockets. Two teams were quickly formed and they began a game, the ball making contact with the bat with a loud crack! and then cheering.

“Nothing replaces that feeling,” he said softly, turning on his blinker to turn left and leave the dirt lot in the rearview mirror.

She covered his hand with hers briefly and he smiled as he nodded.

Well, almost nothing, he thought, glancing at this new partner of his, wondering when it would be a good time to tell her he was falling head over heels for her.

“Let’s find a place to eat,” she said, turning the vent to blow the cool air more directly onto her. “I’m starving.”

“Me too,” he agreed, smiling with a nod, the memory of her happy laughter, as he ran the bases with his hands over his head in mock celebration, echoing in his head. “How about burgers and shakes?”

“Yes!” she agreed. “Something chocolate and deliciously cold.”

“Your wish is my command,” he said, stepping on the gas as her laughter rang out once again.

#the x files #xf fanfic #msr #happy #ficlet #inspired story #baseball #like a kid again #playing catch #au… ish#new partners #falling in love #laughing #car trouble

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nachosncheezies · 24 days ago

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The Bet - Chapter 9

A canon-adjacent “pilot wedding” fic. Previous chapters can be found here.

The Wager

8x15 - Deadalive; also on AO3. tagging @today-in-fic

PLEASE NOTE: tw on this chapter for a suicidal thought & canon pregnancy.

~~~~~

"I don't truly believe that Mulder’s the last," Skinner - Walter - their ally - her friend - said to her in the snow.

So, he knows, she thought. She didn't ask how or when he had found out.

The note his lawyers sent with his will felt like a joke. If there is something beyond this, be it your Heaven or starlight or some heretofore unimagined quantum state, know that I love you still. P.S. - Please don't give up on laughter.

Actually, it didn't feel like a joke at all.

She had been wearing his sweatshirt - her sweatshirt - to sleep whenever the weather and the tiny furnace in her belly would allow it. With each week she grew a little more, and the waist of it (what would've been the chest of it on him) fit a little more closely, until her extra girth pulled on the fabric in a way that made a miniskirt of it in the front, a little too short to be comfortable or decent, even for sleep. The day she gave it up, she looked in the mirror and let herself cry.

I could die, she thought. His picture tucked into the corner of her mirror seemed to say, Bet ya won't, though.

What's the wager? she wondered, and felt his son kick.

#oops 💔#another tiny one #x files #the x files #the x-files #txf fanfic #xf fanfic #married on a dare au #nachos writes #is this a bad moment to say i might be gone for a while? 😅

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enigmaticxbee · 2 years ago

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XF AU - Fic Recs

When the world was unrecognizable and upside down, there was one thing that remained the same. You... were my friend, and you told me the truth. Even when the world was falling apart, you were my constant... my touchstone (or, alternate universe and canon-divergent fics):

Contemporary AUs:

A Companion Unobtrusive by @slippinmickeys - She needed a roommate. He needed a room.

The Annapolis Grant by @slippinmickeys - Fake relationship! Scully hires Mulder to pretend to be her boyfriend.

Aprons and Scrubs by @lokisgame - Scully’s a doctor and Mulder runs a bar.

Five Years and a Lifetime by @monikafilefan @slippinmickeys - One night stand AU. Five years later, Scully and Mulder work at the same pediatric hospital, and Scully's four year old daughter bears a striking resemblance to the picture of a dark haired girl that sits on Mulder's desk...

Skin by Annie Sewell-Jennings - In a world where Mulder and Scully have never met, fate intervenes and brings two worlds colliding in the city of Charleston, as a vicious murderer reigns and a storm approaches.

Sinners Come Down by aster_risk - Six years into her marriage to Daniel, Scully meets Fox Mulder at a bar one night, and they get talking and fucking over alcohol and self-pity.

In the Best Interest of the Child by @mldrgrl - When tragedy strikes, Mulder is forced to take guardianship of his young niece, but the matter is complicated by the arrival of a sister-in-law he's never met.

Historical AUs:

By the Dim and Flaring Lamps by @sunflowerseedsandscience - Civil War AU. Captain Mulder befriends Private Scully who’s hiding a secret…

The Countess and The Earl by @slippinmickeys - Regency Romance!

Old Growth Forest by Andrea - Mulder and Scully travel back to frontier times

Rocky Mountain Interlude Part 1 and Part 2 by Jacquie LaVa and Tess - Mulder and Scully travel back in time to solve the case of a Colorado mining ghost

The Science of Sex by @if-the-seascatchfire - Masters of Sex AU. Mulder and Scully are doctors in the late 1950s who undertake a years-long study about human sexuality, and as part of the research, they also have sex with each other - you know, for the science.

Out of this World:

The Magician by Suzanne Bickerstaffe and Jennifer Lyon - Fantasy series where Mulder and Scully travel to another world full of magic (one of the first fanfics I ever remember reading!)

Out of the Little Grove by @slippinmickeys - Crossover with His Dark Materials (a mashup truly made just for me, my 13 year old self would have been over the moon)

Blinded by White Light by @dashakay - Post-colonization. What are we, but the sum of our memories? A classic.

Julia and Gabriel by Mish - Post-colonization. A new identity, a new, dangerous society, an unchanged heart and soul. Gave me Hunger Games vibes for some reason (although written years before that was published)

Canon-Divergent: Pre or Early Series

Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton - Mulder travels back in time to find college-aged Scully and change everything.

Belphagor’s Prime by Prufrock’s Love - When Scully disappears Mulder travels back in time to a pre-X-Files Scully for help.

In Another Life by @mldrgrl - What if there was no conspiracy? What if Mulder was just a regular FBI Agent? What if Scully was just a bureau pathologist?

How They Met by @peacenik0 - After an encounter at Scully’s FBI academy graduation party they must determine how to deal with their past and their undeniable attraction to one another when partnered up.

One Week at Quantico by CrossedBeams - What if Mulder had been teaching at the Academy when Scully was training…

Paging Dr. Scully by @mangokiwitropicalswirl - Mulder keeps ending up in Dr Scully’s ER.

Only One Choice by @sisterspooky1013 - Scully was never assigned to The X Files.

The Way Things Are by Sukie Tawdry - A season 1 one night stand changes everything. Baby-fic.

Departures & Arrivals by anarchybeauty - After the X Files are closed in 1994, Scully moves on. Two years later, she runs into Mulder in an airport.

Right Hand Return by humphreywrites - Scully is returned from her abduction with a baby, no memories of anything prior to her captivity and some PTSD.

12 Rites of Passage and 12 Degrees of Separation by Anne Hayes - mytharc story written very early in the series run.

parent_1 by @markwatneyandenesemble - It’s 1996, Mulder’s been off the X-Files for three years, and not speaking to Scully. They’ve almost moved on with their lives. Almost.

Canon-Divergent: Mid Series

A Different Place by @myownsuperintendent - When Mulder successfully brings one of the Samantha clones back from the farm with him in Herrenvolk, she must learn to adapt to a different life.

Once More With Feeling by skinfull - While on a stakeout Mulder is shot in the head and loses his memory.

Iolokus by rivkat and MustangSally - Mytharc AU. Painted across the barren and desolate reaches of Texas, the shadows of the Project put additional pressure on Scully and Mulder's already fragile relationship. After a hostage crisis raises more questions about the Project's breeding program, Scully begins her own investigation, leaving Mulder to choose between saving her and saving himself. Pretty disturbing but fascinating, a classic.

Arizona Highways by Fialka - Mytharc AU. Visions of Melissa lead Our Heroes on a case confirming the existence of a series of Emilys. But does Melissa really have a message, or is it all in Scully’s head? Another classic.

Heuvelmans' On the Track by @mashnotesofthemythopoeic - post-FTF mytharc AU, truly a ride you’ll never forget.

The Leap and Landfall by Ambress - Scully has a one time opportunity for motherhood, given to her by the Kurt Crawfords.

All That Is Dark and Bright by @malibusunset-xf-blog - Emily lives AU.

Five Years and One Night by Shalimar - Scully leaves the X-Files post-Emily but gets drawn back in when Mulder discovers Emily wasn’t the only child created.

Cubed by Louise Marin - Mid-season 6 Scully does a little body-swapping of her own. Can she and Mulder make it back to each other? Do they want to?

The Boy on the Beach and Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's 1999 by @cecilysass - One moment she was sitting in the chair. Her chin up, her expression ice. And the next moment she was gone. Fantastic exploration of the Samantha storyline.

Canon-Divergent: Late or Post Series

40 Weeks by @malibusunset-xf-blog - What if the IVF attempt in Per Manum had been successful?

Mobius by L.A. Ward - Post-Requiem while investigating the disappearance of a physicist, Scully finds someone she didn't expect - Mulder. But is it her Mulder?

By the Wind Grieved by Karen Rasch - Mulder is returned several months post Requiem but he doesn't know who he is or what Scully and he are to each other. Together they must reclaim the past before their enemies take away their future.

Deadalive AU by @markwatneyandenesemble - Mulder is returned but is missing several years of memory.

The 13th Sign and 7 Days in May by Prufrock’s Love - Post-Deadalive. Mulder saw no reason for life, death, sex, Armageddon, or emotional dysfunction to stand in the way of true love.

Hurricane Season by rah and beduini - Post-Existence week at the beach with the Scully family and baby Wim.

Terra Firma series by @malibusunset-xf-blog - Post-Existence domestic family drama, a classic comfort read for me.

2008 by MystPhile - With the quest at an end, the X-Files closed in the year 2000. Our heroes went their separate ways. In 2008, they meet in Bloomingdale's and the past, present, and future are explored.

Dr. Scully's School for Exceptional Boys by Prufrock’s Love - More than a decade had passed. Mulder had no reason to hole up in his apartment alone, wearing a Three Dog Night T-shirt with dried mustard on the hem and blue jeans that had seen better days. He wasn't "saving himself" for anyone. Especially not Her. Though she remained epically, beautifully, brilliantly kick-A-S-S.

Machines of Freedom by Amal Nahurriyeh - post-IWTB. The end of the world is coming. And they're doing everything in their power to stop it.

North of Zero by @slippinmickeys - Post-IWTB, post-colonization. The bombs have fallen. The aliens have come. What’s next?

Canon Parallel AUs:

I've got you under my skin by cuits - In a universe where soulmate identifying marks exist and affect a part of the population, would Mulder and Scully's relationship evolve any different? Unfinished but complete through Existence so it still ends in a satisfying place.

Half-light by skuls - Mulder and Scully get a second chance.

The Family G-Man by Neoxphile and FelineFemme - A double tragedy strikes Mulder the week before Christmas of 2003. What if he could go back and change things, save the son one lost and give the other the family she wanted? Could it keep them safe?

#xf fanfic #au #alternate universe #long post

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fullmetalscullyy · 1 month ago

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never thought we'd ever have to go without (i)

summary:

Their breakup was amicable. They were both going in two different directions with their lives and where Roy was going - the military and the numerous off the grid sites for weeks or sometimes months on end – he wouldn’t ask her to wait for him. She deserved to live her own life, not wait around for him and his ambitions.

When a tragedy befalls their child, Roy and Riza are left devastated. They come together to work through it while waiting for her to wake from her injuries

rated: t | words: 2948 | tags: royai, angst, au, modern au, kid au, parental royai, tragedy, injury, angst with a happy ending, separated parents

read on ao3 | read on ffnet

snippet:

Hey Dad, I'm on the plane. I know you won’t get this for a while, but I still wanted to send you a message. Hope all is going well with you. Mum was freaking out at the airport. She was worried I’d forgotten something again, but she literally emptied and repacked my bag for me so many times, so there’s no way that would happen. I think she’s scared about me going off by myself. Could you give her a call when you get out? I don’t want her to feel alone while I’m gone, and I know she’ll love hearing from you. I’ll speak to you soon. I love you.

read on ao3 | read on ffnet

#royai #royai fanfic #royai au #royai fanfiction #never thought we'd ever have to go without #emma writes #wips from 5+ yrs ago seeing the light of day???#who'd have ever thunk it #im literally just yeeting it out into the void to finally get it written lol #if u ever heard or saw me talking about “divorced royai” years ago then this is the little ditty lmao #i've only ever done happy royai kids so what about.... what about something more proper angsty owo #also that pic lol as soon as i thought 'hm need to up my fic posts once again and include a graphic' my brain immediately thought #of this xf scene LMAO both worlds colliding 😌

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novakiart · 2 years ago

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xf au wardrobe reference for nancy 💖

#nancy wheeler #stranger things #xf au #ronance #if u squint:-)#mine

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aloysiavirgata · 3 months ago

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Fisher King prompt: dark crescendoing to light. Daniel Waterson and his baggage come back into her now-married life; maybe by way of the autopsy table. A dark case comes across Mulder’s desk. You pick. A happy surprise at the end to bring them both out of it?

Thanks, lady.

It is the dead nurse that catches his attention. Two days back from his honeymoon, attaboys and filthy jokes and cigars and a stack of manila folders on his dust-rimed desk.

Pendrell whistles when he sees Mulder, makes a predictable playing-doctor joke. He leers as though it obscures the soulful puppy wetness of his face. As though he hasn’t noticed Dana at crime scenes before, the autumn bonfire of her hair. Her tourmaline eyes.

Mulder thumbs the band on his left ring finger, spins it a little in the cool morning light. Flips them all off with good-natured grouchiness as he makes his way to the elevator. He thinks it might be fun to be an old man, to listen to the slap of his bedroom slippers on the grocery store linoleum.

The air in his office smells like cardboard boxes, like ghosts of lo mein and forgotten pizza. Copier toner. Pencil shavings.

His wife says, “Honestly, Mulder,” and makes chicken sandwiches from dinner leftovers, makes him salads with salmon and almonds and avocados and says he needs to gain eight pounds. He’s taken to her demands like a stray cat adjusting to life indoors. He’s growing glossy and sleek, full of essential amino acids.

Full of life.

***

There is no congestion in any of the organs. No petechiae in her eyes, no blood clots in the fragile slices of brain. Lips, mouth, esophagus free of corrosion, not an aneurysm the size of a poppy seed. The bruises and claw marks on her gray throat are her own doing. There are over a dozen witnesses.

Her nails are clotted with her own crumpled skin.

Dana pokes her finger into the aorta, sniffs the dead, butcher-shop air of Ludovica’s mouth. She prods at the lungs and hunts for lesions and surfactant. The nurse’s stomach contains a half-digested bagel and tuna salad. The muscular walls are in the very pink of health. She has lungs like freshly chewed bubblegum.

Dana huffs a strand of hair off her lip. She does not want to call him.

***

“What killed her?” Mulder asks, around a mouthful leftover quiche. God it’s good. She caramelized the onions, used two semesters of organic chemistry on the pastry and can declaim on the Maillard Reaction in a voice fit for Showtime.

“I’m working on it,” his wife says, brisk. “Thus far it seems to be nothing, which is a bit of a problem, medically speaking.”

“How embarrassing,” Mulder says, hunting around for another chunk of broccoli. “To die of nothing. You talk to this Waterston chappie yet?

Silence.

“Dr. Scully?”

A sigh.

Mulder’s brow furrows. “Dana Katherine, what gives?”

She sighs again. “You remember that med school professor I told you about? Funny story…”

***

He gazes at her the way tourists gawp at the Mona Lisa; not with a particular appreciation, just a bit awed that they can check it off their bucket lists.

Twice, for Daniel. A certain chumminess. A hint of inside jokes and favorite restaurants and that-lovely-inn-we-stayed-at. Of possessiveness. Territoriality.

Mulder shakes his head, just a twitch. Just enough to clear Daniel’s smug carnal knowledge of his wife away. Mulder’s fucked people’s daughters as well. People’s wives. There was one at Oxford, Honora, her husband a full professor and he -

Mulder doesn’t say this. He doesn’t say anything as Daniel stares at his Rossetti wife, undoubtedly thinks about the determined twitch of her twenty-one year old ponytail and her scuffed Keds and her slipshod Navy brat graces and her body like Artemis bathing by moonlight.

But Daniel’s alone and Mulder isn’t.

Dana isn’t alone either because, against all reason and karma, she’s married him, married Fox Mulder, like it was an absolutely sane thing to do, and her family simply went along with it.

“Tell me what you saw,” says Mulder, with the gentle absolution of a priest. “No judgement here,” he lies. She was hardly more than a girl, she was an innocent, she trusted you, you fucking asshole, you predator, you-

Daniel looks at Dana. Looks down at his surgeon’s hands. No ring on any of his fingers.

Daniel closes his eyes and looks at nothing.

“We began a midline sternotomy, absolutely routine, Suddenly Ludovica - Nurse Giordano - grabbed her throat and said she couldn’t breathe. She…she screamed Diavola! Said there was sulfur, said it was mustard gas, but none of the rest of us smelled a damn thing. But she was thrashing on the floor of the OR and our patient was-“

He looks around then, catches Dana’s eye, shyness in his expression. Shyness in his fatherly face. Dana had looked up at it for approval, no doubt. In what she probably thought was passion. Maybe even love.

Dana nods encouragingly and Mulder feels it then, the weight of years. He understands in that moment that time really is the fourth dimension; that it has a hot, heavy plasticity into which you can sink. He understands the realness of an event horizon, that they are all being pulled towards the unfinished thing between Daniel and his wife, Ludovica Giordano’s corpse included.

His wife was a physics major, his wife rewrote Einstein with the ebullient narcissism of the young.

He understands that his wife and Daniel speak the same primal, arcane language of science. He is a lowly psychologist, the major you pick when you can’t get into dental school but still want to Help Others.

Kepler’s Third Law tells us that intensity equals the inverse of the square of the distance from the source.

And he’s brought Daniel back into her orbit.

***

“I can’t believe you fucked him,” Mulder gasps into her tender seashell ear. An inch from her extraordinary brain.

“I was a child,” she hisses back. “Essentially. Don’t stop, Christ, don’t - I was a child, I-“

She was, she was, she was Eos newly born, she was radiant and young, she was Persephone to Daniel’s Hades, she was fresh milk at Ostara, and a sunrise over the Atlantic.

“Did you love him?”

Her thighs so taut and pale and quivering. Her wedding dress, her misty veil. Her palimpsest skin, on which he can rewrite himself.

“I thought I did but but it wasn’t this, it was never this, it was never you, I-“

Mulder comes in her, groaning, feels the tiniest sting of shame at how good it is to reclaim her from this other man.

***

“Dana,” Daniel says, heavy-tongued for Mulder’s consecrated, Catholic wife. He is hard; he shifts in the uncomfortable chair.

Mulder knows and Dana knows and the air is thick with this knowledge but strangely not unpleasant. The air is July just before a thunderstorm. The air is dense and verging. Primal, fecund, cataclysmic.

Hot.

Green.

Alive.

The air tastes like a 9-volt battery. He wants to put a baby into his wife.

“You were there,” Mulder says, his buckskin hands woven and laced. “What did you see?”

Daniel looks at Dana, Daniel is here for Dana, because he believes she is cold and lonely and alone in the way of the outer planets. He still thinks only he can warm her.

(He doesn’t know, Daniel, not really, that there is a solid core beneath the icy mist.)

She’s too distant and abstruse and Daniel doesn’t know.

***

Daniel smirks at Mulder, this old man who felt briefly alive in the hot juncture of his wife’s thighs; smirks as though he’s done anything real at all. They view the human heart so differently, he and Daniel.

Dana - Dr. Scully - rests her palms against her sharp tweed knee. She only wants to know what stops any human heart from beating. What shuts the brain down, from prefrontal cortex in a cascade to the lowly lizard stem.

“What did you see, Daniel?” She is poised and tensed. She is waiting. She is untouchable.

Mulder - Fox - is disarmed by the chill of her haughty face. Her Plutonian eyes are so very, very cold . So very, very far.

Ice could never be so warm.

***

“‘Maggie,” he breathes, into her amber light. Into her aura, in her husband’s office, after Mulder went out for their lunch order.

“No,” Dana says. “I don’t care. Tell me about the nurse.”

Daniel huffs. “I don’t know, it was nothing, Dana, Maggie said-“

“I don’t care,” Dana says, crisp. “I don’t care about your daughter. You certainly didn’t, when you brought me to your bed.

Daniel is appalled. “Dana, you were-“

“I know what I was,” she replies. “I knew what I was doing and I don’t regret it, not really. But I didn’t understand what you were, not then. And you should regret me, Daniel.”

He looks at her, his brows drawn.

He looks away, back through the years. Dana, all sharpened Ticonderogas and her mouth an unplucked apricot. Skin like fresh-churned butter.

“She was…she was gasping,” he says to the wall of of clippings. To the Flatwoods Monster and wendigos and little lost girls and stills from the Zapruder Footage. “She was clawing at her throat, she…diavola.”

Diavola.

Daniel looks at the ceiling. “She clawed her throat to ribbons,” he says. “She said our patient was full of demons, she said…” He shakes his head and looks at Dana again.

Dana knows. Dana has seen. Has read and wondered and wondered, considered the Gerasene demoniac in the synoptic gospels. Tooms at her belly on the chilly tile of her bathroom…

It will do no good. Whatever her husband says, the truth is not always a panacea. The patient has lived and Ludovica has died and all anyone wants is official paper with Dana’s name at the bottom.

A reckoning, now. A choice.

“Anaphylaxis?” Dana murmurs, in the perfume and cashmere of a different rich man’s wife. She puts a little throatiness in her voice now, like she did after Dr. Waterston spoke to her in private about Starling’s Law. She can give him this. She can give Ludovica’s family this.

Diavola.

Mulder is right, Mulder is almost always right. But Mulder is right in his own time and Ludovica’s family needs her home.

Daniel catches the lifeline she throws, grateful.

Humbled.

Daniel, when his gaze returns, is a bit smaller in her eyes. “Yes,” he says. “It must have been.”

***

They’re eating dinner at the Peruvian chicken place on the corner because Dana is hollow and Mulder has moderately weaponized his own culinary incompetence.

“Ansel died today,” she says, poking at her rice.

Mulder nearly chokes on a mouthful of black beans. “What?!”

“Died. Massive coronary at his desk. Dead within seconds.”

Mulder gapes. Ansel Jordan, Chief Medical Examiner in DC; the alpha and omega of the unexpectedly dead in the District. “He ran marathons.”

Dana nods into the middle distance. “He ran marathons. He had a treadmill in his office. He was 57 and he was my boss and I split his chest apart with a Stryker before his body had even cooled this morning. My god, I forgot what warm tissue feels like.”

She looks up with her wide, delphinium eyes. “They asked me, Mulder.”

They asked? He is appalled. “They asked you to autopsy him? That’s really fu-“

She shakes her head. “No, nobody asked me that. No one would ever. I volunteered, it was the right thing to do, for my colleagues. For Ansel. We were hardly close but I had tremendous respect for the man.”

Ansel was a runner. He ate well and drank in moderation. He cared for his body like a classic car; starting to slow down but with lots of miles left.

The human body is strange and unpredictable.

“Are you okay?” How do you cut open a man you know? He cannot believe she didn’t call this morning but also of course she didn’t call this morning. She is an eternal riddle, a beautiful enigma.

“I’m surprisingly fine,” she says. “I mean, it’s horrible and pointless and tragic. But the process of an autopsy…it soothed me. I knew what to do and there was a…a checklist.”

He smiles, soft. “You’re always a doctor first.”

Dana shrugs, fluid and dismissive. “I guess.”

He realizes then, awed. Adoring. “They want you to… to step in, to be Chief. Dana, that’s incredible, that’s a huge honor. I’m sorry it’s come at the cost of Ansel, but Christ. It’s tremendous.”

He will never achieve this in his own career and is delighted that she can.

Dana nods slowly, a blush creeping up her fine, pale cheeks. She spears a plantain and examines it on the end of her fork. “It’s obviously not a formal offer yet, my god, he’s only just been released to the family, but yes. It’s tremendous.” She bites into the plantain.

He thinks back to that feeling of wanting a baby, wanting her to have it, and knows that the new Chief Medical Examiner of DC will have other pressures, other concerns.

She’s expressed interest in babies in a vague sort of way, but doesn’t want them like he does. Dana grew up with hand-me-downs and home haircuts and spaghetti the last week of every month. She knows that babies grow into scraped-kneed children who need lunch money and trombones and French tutors and football uniforms.

He’s rich enough for it all, for night nurses and nannies, but he knows her body is not a rental property. He wants a baby, he does, but he also doesn’t care if it means this for her. He doesn’t care if her star can rise.

“I love you,” he says, raising his plastic cup of horchata. “And I’m so goddamn sorry about Ansel.”

She lifts hers back, his wife, her old-master face and her slapdash smile. “Thank you,” she says, still pained. “And slaínte.”

“L’chaim,” he replies. To life.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #my fic #prompt #daniel waterston #the fisher king #coffe shop au

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just-another-star-47 · 11 months ago

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Auror Special Force

💠 Mission: Build a snowman (complete)

There was a knock on the door to Sebastian's office and, looking up from the papers he was working on, he signaled for whoever it was to come in.

"Sir...?"

MC pushed her way into the small room, which was crammed with books and folders, the walls hung with awards and trophies that Sebastian had already collected despite his young age. Her gaze flitted briefly in the direction of the basilisk tooth, which stood in a glass cabinet in the cupboard, before her eyes fixed on Sebastian, who was looking at her in anticipation.

"Sir... would you build a snowman with me?"

Instead of an answer, silence settled in the room as Sebastian looked at her, furrowing his brow and blinking several times. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, only to close it again and make another attempt.

"You're asking your commander to build a snowman with you, recruit?"

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and shrugged her shoulders.

"None of the others wanted to."

"And so you thought it would be appropriate to disturb me at work - to build a snowman?"

Her gaze flitted briefly out of the window, only to meet Sebastian's penetrating gaze again.

"Otherwise I wouldn't be standing here, sir."

Sebastian's jaw tightened for a split second before he shook his head and wiped the slight smirk off his face with his left hand. Sighing, he stood up and grabbed his coat, nodding his head towards the door as he threw it on.

"Come on then, I've got some paperwork to do today."

With a broad grin, she clapped her gloved hands together, "You won't regret it, sir."

"I'm not so sure about that."

Turning to him again and again, she ushered him out.

"Think of it as a well-deserved break.

"I'm quite sure I wouldn't be doing anything like that during my break."

Ignoring his objections, she formed a ball with the firmly caked snow and pressed it into her troop leader's hand.

"Roll it."

Sebastian's eyebrow shot up as he replied in amusement.

"Oh? I see you've taken command, recruit?"

Grinning, she readied the second ball in her hands.

"Perhaps you will discover completely new abilities in me."

Rolling the small snowball on the ground into a larger globe helped Sebastian hide his grin from her and for a while the gusting wind and the crunching of the snow was the only thing that could be heard.

"Your instructions were imprecise, recruit, what globe am I moulding here? Head, torso, legs?"

"Which globe would you like to mould, sir?"

This time Sebastian couldn't help but laugh, and he straightened up to watch her, as she slowly drew her circles, rolling the snow globe in front of her.

"I think my snowball would make a good torso."

"Then stay where you are, I'll come to you."

She accelerated her movements and pushed the ball in front of her. More and more snow clung to the surface, steadily enlarging it. When she reached Sebastian, he carefully placed one ball on top of the other. While Sebastian was now moulding the snowman's head, she was improving the existing body.

"Now we just need stones and sticks for the face and arms."

With their hands on their hips, they both tilted their heads and looked at the basic structure of the snowman.

"We're in a wasteland of ice and snow. Stones and sticks are a bit scarce."

"Have you ever been told that you are extremely pessimistic?"

The troop leader stood puzzled while she scraped through the snow in search of the aforementioned materials.

"That's simply the truth."

She snorted and shook her head: "I expect more drive and motivation, sir! After all, you've done very well so far."

Watching her silently, Sebastian remained motionless: "I have a sinking feeling that you're making fun of me, recruit."

"I would never dare, sir," she hid a mischievous grin.

Mumbling to himself indistinctly, Sebastian shook his head again and finally trudged back into the house.

Her wide-eyed gaze followed him, and for a moment she stood rooted to the spot, unsure whether she had gone too far. Chewing on her lower lip, she shovelled the snow aside with her boot, but her gaze was not directed at the ground in front of her.

As the door slammed shut again and the snow began to crunch under the weight of a person, she spun around, and a wide smile lit up her face.

"You're acting like Father Christmas just stepped in front of you."

His comment made her look down and bite her bottom lip as his eyes lingered on her form, slowly travelling over her face.

"MC..." he tapped the underside of her chin to get her to look up, but the utterance of her name had been enough. Their eyes found each other for a moment before Sebastian held out a carrot to her.

"For the nose..."

She looked down at the vegetable in amazement, her brow furrowed until she understood what he was talking about.

"Oh...wonderful!"

She placed the carrot in the centre of the face and then reached for the pieces of cabbage that Sebastian held out to her in his open hand - forming eyes, mouth and buttons. Then they both stood in silence in front of the snowman and looked at it closely.

"Maybe a scarf is what's missing...".

She didn't even get round to unwrapping her own from her neck, as Sebastian had already taken his off and wrapped it around the snowman.

"Satisfied?" He looked at her, his expression soft and attentive, earning a warm smile from her.

"It's perfect."

❆⋆❆⋆❆⋆⚔⋆❆⋆❆⋆❆

LOGBOOK: All missions here.

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy mc #sebastian sallow xf!reader #sebastian sallow x f!mc #sebastian sallow x reader #auror special force au

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sigritandtheelves · 1 year ago

Text

All Along, Like Fire (Part 7)

FINAL PART!

Mature | 3.4k words | MSR, AU

—

October 13, 1995

Mulder sat alone in his apartment, head in his hands, staring at the floor and thinking. Diana was gone—her things gone, most of the furniture, even the crock pot his mother gave them for their wedding. He wanted to believe that all of this wasn’t his fault, but he felt like a failure for the way their marriage had ended. And for the decisions he’d been forced to make because of it. At his feet was a lone cardboard box of photocopies, the most important documents he was able to salvage. It was the all he had left of the X-Files.

His clothes were also boxed up, along with his books, his trophies, his diplomas and knickknacks. Tomorrow morning, a moving truck would arrive, and he would say goodbye to this place forever. He wasn’t sorry. Just sad, a little ashamed. He’d let Diana make a fool of him here, let her seduce truths out of him while he was blindly manipulated for years. He’d planned to sulk alone until it was time to load the truck, but a knock on the door startled him. He opened it to three familiar faces.

“Well well well,” Frohike said. “If it isn’t the spooky birthday boy on Friday the 13th.” The little man shoved a bottle of Jack Daniels into Mulder’s chest and pushed into the apartment.

“Happy Birthday, man.” This from Langly who toted three pizzas, which he tossed onto the coffee table. Byers echoed the sentiment, carrying a mysterious white box under his arm.

“What are you guys doing here?” Mulder asked, not unkindly.

“Couldn’t let you sit alone on your birthday, could we? We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

“We do?”

Frohike was digging around in the kitchen cabinet for glasses, but they were almost all packed away. He settled for a quartet of coffee mugs and plastic novelty cups. “Yes! Imminent divorce and new beginnings! Fighting the good fight!” He carried the dishes in and passed them around.

“We’re gonna miss you, Mulder,” Byers said. “But we all agree this is a good step. You can do some really good work this way.”

“Then why do I feel so crappy?” Mulder poured shots of the Jack Daniels into the mismatched cups.

“When’s the last time you saw Scully?” Langley asked, flipping open the first pizza and digging in for a slice.

“Last week.” Mulder frowned.

“Well, there’s your answer. Cheers.” Frohike knocked mugs with Mulder and threw back a shot. “All in good time, my man.”

Mulder downed his shot with a wince and reached for a slice of pizza. “What’s in the box?”

Langley waggled his eyebrows. “Goodies,” he said.

“Open it up,” Byers tapped the lid of the unmarked container.

Inside were several gadgets, one of which looked like a large gray brick, and at least two bulky phones with fat antennas.

Byers explained, “Those are hacked satellite phones that will connect from anywhere. They’re essentially untraceable and should hold their battery for several days between charges. Good for off-grid work.”

Langley was too excited to wait for him to ask about the brick. “And this one’s a hacked satellite modem. You’ll have internet no matter how remote you are. New tech, definitely not consumer hardware.”

“So you can stay in touch,” Byers added.

At the bottom of the box was a new laptop, which Mulder was sure had a range of nonstandard additions and upgrades.

“And we’re gonna come out to visit,” Frohike said. “Soon. Maybe this winter if that’s okay.” If Mulder didn’t know better, he’d think the man was choking up. He was touched, and another wave of sadness washed over him.

“Thanks guys,” he said, voice thick.

—

San Diego, CA

The warm California air made Scully think of her childhood—fond memories with Melissa on base housing, sticky summers when freckles appeared on all the Scully children’s noses. She drove up in front of a small house that was so like the one in which she’d spent those years. She double checked the address against the one on her paper; it was right, though she couldn’t imagine this unassuming abode as the site of any secret research. There was a small garden out front, wind chimes hanging from the porch roof. She breathed in deeply. There was no reason not to go in now except the terrifying thundering of her heart and the sense that there was no going back after this. She opened the driver’s side door and got out.

On the porch, she was greeted by two unsmiling men—not hired muscle, she thought. Maybe doctors in plainclothes to blend in with the suburban atmosphere. They wore khakis and polo shirts and the looked around, suspicious, before letting her in. Beyond the foyer, the inside of the house couldn’t be any more different than its outside. It was sterile, white, and filled with beeping machines and medical equipment.

“This way,” one of the men said. He led her up the stairs to the second floor landing, where a woman in scrubs was backing out of a room, closing the door behind her. The man led Scully to the left, to an open bedroom door that was just as sterile, just as white as the downstairs. Here, though, a crib sat in the corner—also white—with a mobile of farm animals hanging over it. In the center of the room stood Diana Fowley. Scully’s eyes ping-ponged between the crib and the woman she didn’t trust at all.

“Agent Scully,” Diana said.

“Not anymore.”

The other woman’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Right, of course.”

“Where is she?” Scully’s heart was pounding, and she wouldn’t allow herself to think about what—or who—was behind the other doors of this nightmare suburban experiment.

“In the crib,” Diana said, stepping aside to let Scully see. “She’s sleeping.”

Scully took three steps closer. She couldn’t breathe. As she approached, she saw a tiny figure in a onesie covered in stars, little fingers curled into fists on either side of her auburn head. “Oh my god,” she whispered.

The child looked perfect. She moved her lips into a subtle dreamy frown, and her long lashes lay against pink cheeks. Scully bent over to lay a hand on the baby’s chest, to feel the movement of her steady breathing and the tiny flutter of her heart.

“You can pick her up,” Diana said. “She’s yours now.”

Tears were blurring Scully’s vision. She tried to blink them away, but one slid down her cheek. She swiped it quickly. “And she’s well now? She won’t get sick?”

“She’s healthy,” Diana confirmed. “But she’s chipped. Like you are.”

A brief wave of anger flared through Scully, but she swallowed it down. She knew what she’d bargained for. She’d accepted the price. She brushed a finger against the baby’s cheek, and the child turned into it, as though seeking out comfort. “Does she have a name?”

“The nurses were calling her Emily, so that’s the name we put on the paperwork. You could change it, but that might take some time.”

Scully shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I like Emily.” She couldn’t imagine giving up a single minute with this baby for the sake of another hoop she’d have to jump through. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, then reached both hands into the crib to scoop the child up. Emily wrinkled her little nose and let out a whimper, but didn’t wake. Scully held the baby against her chest, buried her nose in the impossibly soft skin of her neck, her downy head.

“Hello Emily,” she said, and closed her eyes against the enormity of it.

—

Traveling with an infant was a new experience for Scully, and not easy while alone. She was terrified that the baby would stop breathing in the back seat while they drove, that she’d be too hot, too cold, too hungry. But little Emily seemed happy enough, and slept for much of the first day’s drive. Scully had bought a pack-and-play, formula, bottles, and diaper packages in two sizes. Instant motherhood was even more frightening than leaving the job she’d worked so hard to prove herself in.

At a rest stop in Santa Rosa to change the baby and get some caffeine, Scully discovered something hard buried in the package of clothes Diana had sent with her. It was a small cryo-package containing three vials. One was clearly blood: Emily’s, she thought, dated July of this year. Before she’d been cured. Another was mysteriously green and unlabeled. The third looked familiar, an amber liquid she’d seen before. It was labeled Purity - 3.9506. A dated code: the current iteration of the vaccine. She almost didn’t notice the note tucked below the package:

To get you started.

- DF

Scully wanted to hate Diana, but she found herself unable to conjure the same fury she’d felt last year. This was a gift that Diana taken great risks to provide. Whatever bargain she’d made to keep herself safe, it was clear that the woman was still ensnared by the Syndicate’s poisoned grasp. Scully allowed herself to feel grateful to her, despite everything she’d done. Scully placed the vials back in the chamber and made a note to store them with her own recovered ova. Emily had woken up when the car stopped moving, and was beginning to fuss. Scully shoved the clean onesie into the diaper bag and unbuckled the baby, hushing softly to her and humming.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she murmured.

Scully was unaccustomed to the number of strangers’ smiles that greeted them. An elderly couple stopped to coo over the chubby infant, to remark how like her mother she was. Scully’s smile was tight-lipped and nervous. They weren’t wrong—the child did look like her. She had the same blue eyes, the same fair coloring. She tucked Emily’s warm little body against her chest and nuzzled her head.

“Let’s get you some food, hmm?”

By the third and final day of driving, fear had turned overwhelmingly to love. When the baby woke in the morning light, she greeted Scully with a wide, two-toothed grin. She sat up in her pack-and-play and pushed at the mesh sides.

“Good morning!” Scully laughed and felt a flood of warmth accompany her own smile. The little girl babbled a steady “yah yah yah.”

They had six more hours on the road, and then a whole new life ahead of them.

—

Lummi Island, WA

October 20, 1995

Beyond the mainland, the salt air reminded Mulder of chill mornings on the Vineyard. He could go fishing here, or watch the sunrise from a boat, every day if he wanted. Though the coastline and the island were different from the ones where he’d grown up, the place felt like home. The closer he drew to his final destination, the more the melancholy that had clung to him in the last two weeks melted away. He was nervous, but it felt more like excitement than anxiety now. He fiddled with the radio—there wasn’t much signal to pick up on the island, but he needed something to fidget with. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

He rounded a grove of trees and finally caught sight of the little house up a short driveway: blue clapboard, a tiny porch, a brown shingled roof over the cozy two-story cottage. He pulled up alongside a white fence—honest-to-god picket—and climbed out, stretching his limbs with a massive heave of his chest outward.

This was it. This was home, now.

The front door of the house opened, and he felt his heart stutter, then swell. There she was. There they both were. Dana Scully walked toward him with an impossibly cute baby on her hip, smiling broadly in jeans and a woolen sweater.

Mulder couldn’t help the grin that broke out over his face. He pushed through the waist-high gate and walked up onto the porch.

“There are my girls,” he said.

Scully blushed. “You made it.”

“I did,” he said as he reached them. He leaned down to kiss the woman he’d ached for over two long weeks. Her lips were soft and sweet, and her eyes dropped closed at the contact. He cupped her cheek, curled his other hand at her waist, and felt the pull of her middle toward his. “I missed you,” he said into her mouth.

Scully breathed deeply, eyes still closed for a moment, and nodded. Then he turned his attention to the baby.

“And you must be Emily.” The infant eyed him curiously and reached a finger out to touch his nose. “Hi baby.” She pulled the hand back and tucked two fingers into her wet mouth. Mulder booped her own nose in return, which earned him a shy half-smile as she tucked her head against Scully’s neck. “She looks just like you said. Just as perfect.” Mulder palmed the baby’s downy head, where blonde hair was growing in soft and fair. The little girl didn’t pull back or object, just watched him with something like awe.

“She’s been really good,” Scully explained. “I think she’s only cried twice since I brought her here. I mean she fusses, but…” Scully shrugged.

Mulder tickled the baby’s belly, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a tiny stuffed fox about the size of his hand, and Emily’s eyes went wide. “You like him? That’s Mr. Fox.” He handed over the toy, which Emily grasped with both hands. “He’s like me.”

Emily pressed her little fingers into the fox’s button eyes, her tiny fingernails scritching at the plastic. Then she brought the fox’s head toward her mouth and bit down on the pointy nose.

Scully laughed. “She likes it.”

Mulder bent to kiss the top of the child’s head, then added another to Scully’s head for good measure. “Let’s go inside, hmm? I can’t wait to see how it looks in person.”

—

Later that night they lay facing each other on her bed—their bed now, Scully realized, and the thought made her heart beat faster. They were tucked under quilts and printed flannel sheets against the autumn chill. Emily slept in the second tiny bedroom next door, warm and safe with a mobile of colorful planets and her little fox beside her.

Scully felt the momentousness of this night, now that it was just them, now that they were really together. She found herself watching Mulder for doubts, for guilt, for regret. She held her own small sorrows: leaving her mother, leaving her job. But she feared most that Mulder would come to resent her for the loss of their work in D.C., their resources, their allies inside, as it were.

Mulder pursed his lips in a frown. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Everything, everything. Her mind was spinning: What if we fail? What if we lose her? What if they take back the bargain and come for us all in the night? What if you never forgive me? But Scully just shook her head. It felt like too much to talk about now. “It’s nothing. It’s okay.”

She knew he wouldn’t believe her, and he didn’t. He moved his face closer to hers on the pillow. “It’s not nothing.”

Scully’s fingers fidgeted under the blanket. She heaved a deep sigh, and decided not to begin their new life by hiding things, by keeping anything bottled up. “I know we have a plan,” she said. “I know we’re not giving up and that our work will just be different here, but… it’s pretty enormous change—all of this. You must have doubts. I just don’t want you to… regret this. Because of me.”

Mulder was quiet for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “I understand why you might think that,” he said finally. “I know that in a lot of ways, this feels crazy.”

It did, Scully conceded. Two months ago, they woke up in their separate city apartments and put on suits to go to work for the government. Mulder was married to another woman. Now they were on a remote island off the west coast, with a baby for god’s sake, planning a resistance to a global colonization in secret. Their lives couldn’t be more different.

Mulder reached an arm across the space between them and took hold of her hand under the blanket. “It’s hard for me to explain why, but this feels right.” She could barely make out his features in the dim light, but she sensed how serious his face was, how intense his look. “Scully, all of this started for me, because my family lost a little girl, and it ripped us apart. I lost her. I lost my family. I needed something to fill that emptiness, and I did it with work, which I thought might help me find her again. I wanted so badly to fix what happened to us.”

Scully nodded. She felt her chin wobble at the profundity in the pause between his words.

“But the same evil that took my sister also gave me another little girl. And it gave me you.” He squeezed her hand. “I still need to know what happened to Samantha after my father used her as a bargaining chip. And I will find out. That hasn’t changed.” He swallowed hard, and Scully wanted very badly to lean over and kiss comfort into him. “But this,” he motioned between them, “is a real chance at family, and that’s something I never thought I could have again, not even with Diana. I don’t know what kind of father I might make, if that’s even what you want from me. I didn’t have a good role model. But… I want us to try.”

Tears were dripping down Scully’s nose now into the flannel pillowcase, and she found it hard to speak. She sniffed. Nodded. Bent her forehead to touch his. “I want that too,” she managed to say. “And I want… Emily to think of you as her father. If that’s okay, I mean. If you want it.” She shook her head at her nervous rambling. “I just know you’d be a really good dad.”

Mulder nuzzled her nose with his own , unmindful of the damp. Then he tipped his chin to kiss her lips, sliding his arm around her middle and pulling her toward him. They held each other tight in the near-dark. “Yeah,” he croaked, and Scully realized he was on the verge of tears, too. “I want that.”

Her head fit perfectly, tucked under his chin. Her face pressed against his t-shirt where she could feel his heart beating, and she pressed a kiss there. She pushed one knee between his and breathed deep, letting the smell of him, of them together, fill her with warmth and need. God, she loved him so much. It was like she’d been holding her breath her whole life, and now she was gulping in oxygen. She knew, then, that they would make this work.

“Well,” Mulder said, his tone lighter now, “if I am any good at it, we’ve got all those little frozen uber-Scullys in storage. Maybe we’ll just make a whole tribe, huh?” His hand was on her waist, and he slipped it between them to poke her belly.

She laughed through her tears, nodding. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

And then he was kissing her and she was kissing him back and it was getting too hot under the blankets for all these pajamas. They were hungry for each other. He touched her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted, like this was the only thing that mattered. They made love in tear-streaked desperation: clutching, dizzy love—though they were quiet and mindful not to wake the baby (their baby) with too much noise. After, when they’d slept an hour or so, he woke her gently with more kisses. This time their lovemaking was slow and gentle and reverent—like they had the rest of their lives.

— END —

A/N: I had many ideas about what their big plan was to save the world, how they’d build a network of allies through the Hosteens (and the Lummi people that they are so close to now), because who better to help them survive colonization than the people who have already survived it? But this ending also felt right and I think I’m happy with it. Thank you so so so much to everyone who has read and left hearts and kudos and comments. This was supposed to be a one-off little thing. It’s no novel, but it’s more than I’ve been able to write in a while.

#a thing i wrote #xf fanfic #msr #au #all along like fire #part 7 #FINAL PART!#it's done y'all

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