#xfwritingchallenge

[danadeservesadrink]

My first official X-Files fanfiction! Please give it some love and tell me what you think!

[sportsnightnut]

because this is yours

Once upon a time, I was really good at keeping up with the XF Writing Challenge prompts from @leiascully​. And then grad school happened, and I lost all interest in reading and writing for fun. But now that I’m getting back into it, I want to return to these awesome prompts. So, having said that, here’s my work for XFWC prompt #68, forgiveness.

This story takes place pre-revival, shortly before Season 10, in the same personal headcanon as “rivers and roads” and “i can’t do this alone.” You don’t need to read either of those for this one to make sense, but they give a little more backstory that you might enjoy. Y’all remember wifegate and ringgate? That was a good time. ;)

I am a little nervous about this one because I don’t usually write in first person, but I felt that it worked well for Scully to tell this story.

Last but not least, tagging @fictober and a few lovely folks: @i-gaze-at-scully (who gave me some terrific advice re: this fic yesterday--thank you!), @baronessblixen, @scully-eats-sushi, @because-they-dont-exist, & @megk18​.

I didn’t mean to take this from you.

You might have forgotten it. Accidentally left in the cupholder in my car. Maybe I brought it to the hospital one morning and kept it in my locker without thinking about it.

It’s most likely that I grabbed it from the cupboard when I was packing other things and neglected to consider that it was technically yours. Before I reached for it, touched it, held it, put it in a box, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what was yours or what was mine. Everything in that kitchen cabinet was ours.

But now there is a delineation. A boundary. My things versus your things.

I took what is mine and left behind what is yours. I left behind many of the things I’ve come to think of as ours.

A separation of our belongings along with the separation of ourselves.

Temporary as I hope it is.

Wednesday morning. 5:51 am. Nine minutes before my shift begins and I’m staring at this object in my hands, trying so very desperately not to let something as trivial as a coffee cup be my undoing.

But as soon as I realize what I’m holding, I can’t stop staring at it. This isn’t an inexpensive, indistinguishable cup. It’s a titanium tumbler, double-walled, with your initials engraved on the bottom. Practically indestructible. You could drop it off a cliff and it would survive the fall. I gave this to you. I spent fifty-something dollars on this piece of metal for you.

It wasn’t about how much it cost. It was about what I wanted it to represent. I wanted it to represent the fact that I knew you needed to be out there. Driving down dimly lit Midwestern highways at eighty miles per hour. Searching for answers. Clinging to every shred of evidence, every small piece of information that might bring you closer to the truth. And as foolish as it seemed, I wanted you to have this because I knew it could endure all of that alongside you.

What I didn’t know at the time is that I wouldn’t be able to.

I didn’t know that despite everything we had survived together, this diagnosis would break me.

Except it wasn’t the diagnosis. It was your reaction to it. Your unwillingness to accept it. To treat it. To do something about it.

I don’t discount the fact that I shouldn’t have been the one to do it. To diagnose you, that is. It was acceptable for me to serve as your physician for the simple things like cold remedies and flu shots. It was even fine for the more serious ailments that required stitches or bedrest.

Being the physician who diagnosed you with clinical depression was not acceptable. I should have known better. I’m just not certain you would have taken it any more seriously had it come from another doctor. It was more of a nuisance to you than anything else. A distraction. It took you away from your work.

It also took you away from me.

I urged you to seek treatment. I begged you to, and I so rarely beg anyone for anything. I don't think you heard me. I don’t think you could.

Some nights, you came to bed at three, four in the morning. Other nights, you didn’t come to bed at all. I would be waking for an early shift at the hospital and you would just be climbing into bed. Sleeping during the day and working long into the night.

We lived together, but we weren’t living together. You were immersed in your search. Paralyzed by your obsession. So isolated from the world that I could barely get you to sit at the kitchen table and have dinner with me.

I made the decision to leave not because I wanted to, but because I felt I needed to. Because I believe the physical distance is necessary for us to heal. You need to work this out by yourself, at least for now. You need to find yourself again before I have any real chance of helping you.

But I am also frightened by the thought that I may not have made this clear: it isn’t just you who needs to get better. I am broken, too.

We have to heal for each other.

I turn the mug over in my hands, feeling the cool surface against my fingertips. Titanium is known for its strength despite the fact that it’s a lightweight metal. You once pulled this mug from the shelf and told me I was the personification of titanium. “Lightweight but strong, Scully,” you said, smiling. "That’s you.”

Then you kissed me on the cheek and reached for the pot of coffee.

It’s also why your wedding band is made of titanium. The wedding band that now hangs on a chain around my neck, tucked neatly underneath my scrubs. The night I left, you removed it from your finger and placed it in the palm of my hand, folded my fingers around it, and let go.

The way you removed it with such ease and precision told me you’d practiced that maneuver already. It was, in some way, a confirmation that I, too, had failed. Because you anticipated it. You knew that I was going to leave.

“Take it,” you told me. “When I deserve to wear it again, you can bring it back to me.”

I grasp the chain and pull it out from underneath my top so I can hold the ring between my fingers. The metal has been warmed by my skin, as the chain is long and the band rests somewhere near my heart.

These objects make me miss you because they are yours.

This mug is yours, and the hands that hold it are yours.

This ring is yours, and the heart that beats near it is yours.

Because I am yours.

I take my phone out of my pocket and stare at it for just a few seconds because I think perhaps I should call you, just to hear your voice and know that you’re alright.

But I decide against it. It’s 5:57. I have to start rounds in three minutes, scrub in for surgery after that. I haven’t talked to you in over three weeks. Three minutes isn’t going to be enough, because I know you’re not alright. And neither am I.

I tuck the ring back underneath my scrubs and set the mug in my locker before closing it gently.

I didn’t mean to take something of yours.

I hope you know that, Mulder.

And I hope you’ll forgive me.

[leiascully]

XF Writing Challenge Prompt: Museum

What’s the most interesting or weirdest museum our agents visit?  Biggest ball of string?  Most haunted corn maze?  Favorite art gallery?

Rules:

Anyone is welcome to participate!  I reblog all stories tagged #xfwritingchallenge (put it in the first five tags or I won't see it) or @ me.

If you’re feeling blocked, block out an hour or a half hour.  If you’re feeling extra blocked, Write Or Die is very motivational (the “try” button gets you the free web version).

Send me an ask if you need an extra-specific prompt, and feel free to write previous prompts.  

Have fun!  Write fic!  

[mulder-krycek]

artwork by @spengs / @spengsart who makes m/k stuff that makes me want to cry into my pillow. high school au will be my death. 

i wanted this to be a silly piece but then it turned into... well, this. idk what happened.  don’t blame me.  not beta’d, cause i’m a lazy bastard.

Mulder was on the phone, walking the floors of his apartment.  He’d been holding the clunky, plastic cordless piece to his ear so long, there was heat and sweat between his skin and the receiver.  He’d had just about enough of talking into it, as did Scully, who listened intently on the other end but Mulder had... just a few more points to make before he hung up the phone.

“Furthermore,” he continued on, making a leisurely pace from out his kitchen into the small room connecting it with the living room, “it’s unlikely that /anyone/ from the Merkle house has ever been witness to, or experienced themselves, any form of telepathic or para-telepathic abilities.  Scully, did you know, in 1951, a doctor by the name of Joseph Culpepper began work on examining the hereditary connections between telepathies?  Not only did Dr. Culpepper discover that a family member of a telepathic is four times as likely to be a telepathic themselves but that they were also able to--what Dr. Culpepper called ‘melding’--into the minds of their family members, creating a brain pattern so perfectly in sync, it defied all known medical logic?”

“Uh... huh,” Scully sounded incredulous.  He could tell.  She went on, “So, if the Merkle family aren’t telepathic than there’s no X-File here, Mulder.”

“Dr. Culpepper later went on to amend his statements regarding the telepathic family he’d been studying.  He called them ‘Family X’, how fitting, right, Scully? Anyhow, Culpepper went on to say that he did not believe Family X to /be/ really telepathic, at least not in the true sense of the word, and instead, upon closer inspection, determined that their high-end functions were not the result of a global cerebral synapse flair with external stimuli but /instead/ found that it was purely a response to continual, familiar hormonal responses.  Namely...” Mulder trailed off for only a moment, to see if Scully was following.

“... when their family members were around,” Scully completed and there was, Mulder heard, a tiny spark of interest in her voice.  Just a tiny one but it was there.

“Exactly, when their family members were around.”

“Mulder, are you suggesting that the Merkle family is--” there was hitch of laughter, like she couldn’t believe she was giving credence to the idea, “is /not/ telepathic with... the outside world?  Just each other?”

“That’s how Georgia Merkle knew where to find her sister Rebecca.  And that’s how Anthony and Wynn knew exactly how to play the law enforcement.  They didn’t have to be together to match their stories--they figured it out silently.  They had a whole conversation and we didn’t even know about it.”

“Why didn’t we get any of that on the charts?  Wouldn’t we have seen some sort of reaction?”

“We recorded the brain scans of each one individually.  Who knows how far the connection goes?  Maybe... maybe they have to be near each other?  Maybe they were just too far away?  Family X refused any more tests after Dr. Culpepper’s second study was published and then he passed shortly after.  Unfortunately, no one has thought to take back up his research.”

“Probably too busy trying to cure cancer,” Scully replied dryly.  Mulder had been walking in a circle the whole time and he finally padded his way into the living room, eyeing the body on his couch.

“Yeah,” Mulder agreed than added, “Or making a pill that gives old men boners.” 

Mulder knew she was smiling even as she said, “Well, Mulder, Merkle family abilities aside, I think they’ve taken up just about enough of my night as it is.  Get some sleep, Mulder.  Maybe tomorrow we’ll see if we can mind meld our lunch orders.”

“Yogurt and bee pollen.  There, now we don’t even have to meld,” Mulder grinned, “Goodnight, Scully.”

“Goodnight, Mulder.”

Beep.  And Mulder dropped his head back, standing in the remains of his clothing, on the outskirts of his living room.  His tie had been discarded somewhere, probably slung over the lone chair in his kitchen and his shoes had been taken off at the door.  He’d managed to get the first few buttons of his shirt undone before his ideas about the Merkles had struck him and he’d called Scully.  That had been almost three hours ago.

“Is this what you two do all night?”

Mulder brought his head back down to look at Krycek, who lounged on the leather seats of the couch, in a comfortable shirt and jeans.  At his feet, which propped on the coffee table, there was an empty Shiner Brock bottle.  In his hand, there was another.

Mulder spoke his mind, off topic, “You look like a hillbilly husband.”

“You work on X-Files all day, then you come here and talk on the phone together about them all night,” Krycek went on, unfazed by Mulder’s change of subject.  He sipped his beer, “That’s weird.”

“A lot of things are weird, Krycek,” Mulder tossed the phone to the cushions where it landed with a muted thump against them, “Some people would say this was weird,” he motioned with a finger between them, already turning to head into his bedroom, adding as he left, “a lot of people, really...”

Krycek had been here when Mulder had gotten home.  He’d come in to find him sitting on his couch, finishing a movie.  And Mulder hadn’t batted an eyelash, he’d just started the routine of undressing from the day.

Sliding around boxes and stacks of files, Mulder weaved his way to his dresser and began to rummage for his pajama pants.  He grabbed a t-shirt while he was at it and crossed through his cluttered bedroom to the tiny adjacent bathroom.  Mulder was brushing his teeth when he heard the soft sounds of a Ed Wood’s “Plan 9 from Outer Space” seeping in from the living room.  Krycek must have slipped it into the VCR, he mused as he spit the foamy mess into the sink.  Mulder had just watched it recently so the VHS was probably sitting out for him to find.  He was alright with that, he wouldn’t mind viewing it again although he traditionally reserved it for when he needed to clear his mind.  Perhaps that was alright, perhaps that’s exactly what he needed to do.  Or he’d feel sick from the guilt he already knew was building up inside of him.

Mulder knew he should have never let him in.  He never should have absolved him.  But, he had, and now Alex Krycek was watching a movie on his couch.  This realization heated his face with shame and sent a guilty shrill of pleasure up from the base of his spine.  He liked knowing he was there.  And absolutely hated himself for it.

There was an invisible rope tied to him, that tugged him back towards the sounds of the film, towards the man in his house but Mulder tried to struggle against it as long as he could.  He took his time in the bathroom, changing out of his work clothes and stepping into his yellow pajama pants.  His dress shirt was even neatly folded and his old t-shirt was tossed in the hamper, replaced by the new one he’d pulled.  After he’d washed his face and taken a piss, he really had no more excuse to wait and he rejoined Krycek in the living room.

“You know, Mulder, I gotta’ tell you,” Krycek started as soon as Mulder reappeared, “this movie’s a real piece of crap.”

“Yeah, I think that’s kinda’ the point,” came Mulder’s reply as he took a seat on the couch, tucking himself into the far corner.  Krycek had closed his blinds and flicked on the light besides Mulder’s computer.  That light, along with the television and the fish tank, made this area of the apartment bright but rest seemed shrouded in darkness.  It made Mulder feel isolated, normally something he enjoyed, but this time he felt closed off with Krycek.  Wouldn’t it be nice, he wondered, if that were true and there was nothing outside of this room?  Nothing to judge him or look at him in disgrace.  Just him, Krycek and this terrible movie.

“Here,” Krycek pulled Mulder from his thoughts and offered out his beer bottle.  Mulder hesitated a moment before taking the Shiner Brock and taking a swig.  He handed it back to Krycek when he was done, who also took another sip.  They watched the movie in silence for a while, sitting next to each other on the couch.  Mulder could tell Krycek was stealing glances at him, like he always did on the rare occasions he was there, but Mulder chose to ignore it.

Mulder knew what Krycek wanted.  It wasn’t why Krycek was here, but it was what he wanted.  He wanted to fuck him and, Mulder thought bitterly, that he’d never let that happen again.  Those days were long past them.

The last time they’d been together was almost six years ago.  Mulder had been young then.  And stupid.  In his defense, he reasoned, he’d been tricked.  Alex Krycek had not been Alex Krycek, at least not in the way he thought he knew him.  The Alex Krycek who’d touched him at night, who melted him with searing desire and forced from him the wanton cries of man consumed had been a fantasy.  He’d been a mirage of smoke and lies, summed up by darkness and guided by moral ambiguity.  He’d humiliated Mulder; the real Krycek.  He’d gotten him naked and begging and quivering.  And it’d all been a joke.  Something him and that cigarette smoking bastard could cackle over.  

Mulder didn’t really believe that.  Not in it’s entirety anyhow.  Or, maybe, he wondered, he just /wanted/ to believe it.  It couldn’t be possible it’d meant nothing to Krycek, that’d it just been work.  That time, the time when they’d been partners and lovers in a memory from far away, had been so intense, so overwhelming to Mulder... Krycek must have felt it, too.

Either way, when Krycek needed a place to lay his head, Mulder’s apartment was always open to him and his lockpick.  Every few months, Krycek would show up out of the blue, hoping to hide away while he worked in DC, and then he was gone.  They would eat together, drink some beer, watch a movie, basically what they were doing tonight.  Krycek would take a shower at some point.  It was simple.  Domestic.  They just existence in each other’s presence and it was satisfying, just for the night.  Sometimes, just once or twice, Krycek had stayed a day or two longer.  Mulder hated to admit it, but those times he felt lucky.  He always told himself he wanted Krycek gone but he felt hollow when he did.

Once Krycek had been gone for almost an entire year.  Mulder had thought that... he’d realized he had to accept the fact that, maybe, Krycek wouldn’t be back.  That, perhaps, he was dead.  He knew Krycek would always come back, if he could.  Year after year, blow after blow, and always still, Krycek never left Mulder’s life.  When he’d seen him again, after that long year without, that long year of wondering, Mulder had held him.  It was brief but when he’d seen Krycek again, he’d taken him in his arms and they’d stood together, clinging to each other in the entrance of Mulder’s apartment, silent.  He’d let Krycek kiss him then, just once, on the temple.  Mulder savored that memory.

There was movement next to him and Mulder was once again yanked from his reverie and he looked over at Krycek, who struggled to pull something out his pocket.  When he finally got it, Mulder saw it was  cigarette case.

“You’re not going to smoke, are you?” Mulder asked, “You kill me when you smoke.”

Mulder had kicked the habit while still in the BSU but it was never really gone.  Watching Krycek puff away had more than once threatened to make Mulder break. 

The cigarette case had a latch that allowed Krycek to snap it open with one hand, pressing the button with his finger.  It swung open and he set it on his lap to get out what he wanted.

“Well, not a cigarette,” he had a grin that Mulder lovingly wanted to smack.  Krycek slipped the joint out from the case and Mulder couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“You’re really going to smoke weed, Krycek?  How old are you?  Better do it before the PE teacher finds us skipping laps.  We might get suspended.”

There was a sparkle in Krycek’s eyes and he laughed listening to Mulder, just a small chuckle, “Is that how the great Fox Mulder spent his high school years?  Behind the bleachers smoking dope and kissing the boys, no doubt.”

Mulder shook his head, attempting to suppress the smile he felt threatening to break through his disapproval, “No,  I actually spent my time in school /learning/, Krycek.”

“What about college?”  Krycek was fumbling again, trying to get the lighter from his pocket while keeping the cigarette case on his lap balanced.  Instinctively, Mulder reached over to help him and, digging into his jeans, produced Krycek’s lighter and passed it off.  Krycek quickly added, “Thanks.”

“Sure, and no.  Not really.  Surprisingly, Oxford had a particularly low tolerance for drugs.  Now, of course, we were all consenting adults and if we wanted to drink away our very expensive educations at the pubs, they were perfectly fine with that.  Just no...” Mulder gestured to the joint in Krycek’s hands with his chin.

“Besides,” Mulder shrugged his shoulder, “I was too busy for it anyway.”

“Right, gotcha.  Did you kiss any boys?”

That made Mulder smile and he hated himself for it.  He turned his eyes back to the television and, after a moment of reflection said, “A few boys.”

“I knew it,” Krycek was enjoying himself.  He brought the joint to his lips and said around it, “You slut.”

Mulder laughed then and shook his head but made a point not to respond to the comment.  He heard Krycek flick the lighter several times then, out of the corner of his eye, saw the little shimmer of light.  Mulder looked over and watched him bring the flame to the joint end and inhale.  Krycek dropped the lighter immediately upon getting the paper lit and pinched the joint with his fingers, taking short little puffs, trying to get an even burn.

“You know,” Mulder started, examining him, “I could tell you about the effects marijuana has on the brain.  Not only physically, but psychologically.  It’s a depressant, you know.”

“Sure makes me feel good,” Krycek’s voice was tight as he held back the smoke.  Krycek knew his pot etiquette and, after hitting it, he reached out to hand it off to Mulder, who refused.

“Noooo.  No, thank you.”

“What’s wrong, Mulder?” Krycek spoke as he released his breath, grinning, “Don’t you wanna’ be one of the cool kids?  Come on.  Just take it.”

“I’m not going to take it, Alex,” Mulder returned, “Don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, we’re just a little too old for this?  Besides, marijuana slows your reflexes, numbs your mind.  That doesn’t seem like a wise move in your field of work, Alex.”

Krycek went quiet then and Mulder immediately felt guilty.  There seemed a glumness that suddenly shrouded Krycek, who took one more hit, turning back to watch the movie.  After a little bit of quiet, he released the rancid smelling smoke and said, “I’m not at work and I don’t get a lot of opportunity to get high like this.  Figured I’d enjoy it as I could.”

Mulder watched him.  Alex Krycek, slouched on his couch and smoking a joint, drinking a beer and watching Ed Wood.  It was so ridiculous, it was preposterous.  What killed Mulder even more was the sense of comfort he was brought by seeing it and the sudden realization that Alex felt safe.  He felt safe here with /him/.  The thought was... softening. 

“Okay,” Mulder conceded, signaling Krycek with a wave of his hand, “Fine. Give me the joint.”

“Fox Mulder on weed.  As I live and breathe,”  Krycek’s eyes were foggy but at Mulder’s words they lit up with sudden clarity.

“Shut up, Alex.  Just give it to me.”

Krycek didn’t hesitate to lean over, offering it to Mulder, who took it between his fingers with a twisting of uncertainty on his lips.  It wasn’t like he /hadn’t/ smoked pot before but it wasn’t something that Mulder considered a favorite pastime, even as a young man.  It was true, he’d had a late introduction to marijuana, trying it for the first time in college.  Phoebe’s friends--his friends--loved it and Mulder had been a slave to peer pressure back then.  He remembered it made him feel lightheaded, a little giggly and, most of all, he remembered wishing he could go to sleep--and then doing just that, leaving Phoebe still laughing with her friends.

Mulder examined the roll before bringing it to his lips to take a hit.  He inhaled so deeply, for a moment he had tunnel vision but it began to dissipate and Mulder passed it back to Krycek.  Just like a cigarette, Mulder felt the smoke in his throat and chest.  He always imagined it swirling around the pink, tight tissue of his lungs.  He held it as long as he could before he released it and was proud, oddly enough, just to cough a little when he did.  It would have been embarrassing if he’d ended up red-faced and sputtering in front of Krycek.

“You’ll feel better in a minute,” Krycek said, hitting it again around his pleased grin.  Cheshire cat.

“I felt fine before.”

“No, you didn’t.  You’re tense, you’re always tense.  Or maybe that’s just when I’m here.”

Nothing was said after that.  They didn’t talk about that or their arrangement.  Krycek handed the joint back to Mulder but it was just so he could use his good arm to re-shift on the couch, scooting down into more of a relaxed position.  He picked up his beer again and took a sip, blurry eyes on the movie.  Within the first few minutes, Mulder felt that easing haze begin to descend over him.  He relaxed back against the cushions and tried to watch the film.  Something, perhaps the air of quiet that had settled over them, made him speak up.

“You know, the first time I smoked pot,” he began, looking at it in his fingers.  Mulder opted to take another drag.  When he released it, he finished, “I feel asleep and when I woke up, my girlfriend was giving a hand job to some other guy.”

Either surprised by the story or the candid nature in which Mulder was talking, all of Krycek’s attention turned to him, eyes wide, “Jesus... that’s really shitty.”

Krycek took the joint back and added before puffing, “Breakups have a way of ruining a high.”

“Oh, we didn’t break up,” Mulder admitted, feeling the growing affects of the THC.  His words were coming easier.  Personal moments weren’t traditionally his favorite subject, especially not with Alex, but it seemed now that all that hesitation was silly.  Mulder even managed to chuckle about it, “I dated her for about a year afterwards.  Great love of my Oxford life.”

“You dated her for a year /after/ you woke up to her blowin’ some guy?”

“It was hand job.”

“What’d? You like... come to an agreement or something?” “No,” Mulder sighed, turning his face from Ed Wood to Alex.  He laughed again, more at himself than anything else, “No, we didn’t.  We just didn’t talk about it.  I never brought it up.  I think she was doing a lot of stuff like that, now that I think back on it.  I think I sort of knew then, too.”

“I would /not/ have tolerated that shit.  I would have dumped her on the goddamn corner.  Why’d you put up with it?”

“I don’t know,” Mulder shrugged, “I was young and... she was... uh, Phoebe was very...” he searched for the word, “experimental.  She was very... sensual, I guess.  I guess I just got caught up in it, like a lot of other men, I’d imagine.”

This had Krycek’s full attention and he was smiling wide with unmasked interest, “Sensual?  Did she deflower you, Mulder?”

“Not everything is about sex, Krycek,” came the retort, “It was more than sex.  She was sensual about everything.  Everything was some new experience, some new sensation, some new angst or drama.  Sometimes good, sometimes bad.  It was this whirlwind all the time and when it was pleasurable, it was /really/ pleasurable--” “But when it was painful, it was /really/ painful,” Krycek finished.  The two had been passing the joint between them, lighting up and taking short drags.

“Exactly.  I suppose I should have broken it off with her,” Mulder sighed, taking a sip from Krycek’s beer again--he was beginning to feel dry, “but she was my first girlfriend and, I guess, I just...  I liked the validation.”

The comment was vague but neither one of them said anything else and Krycek didn’t question it.  When Mulder looked at him, Krycek seemed reflective.  He seemed to be considering the story he was just told and how it related to Mulder.  His eyes were downcast, thinking.  When Mulder couldn’t take it anymore, he asked,

“Do you want another beer?  I’m going to get one,” he stood and began to walk towards the kitchen.

“Cotton mouth?”

“Oh, yeah.  Big time.”

“Yeah,” Krycek said after him, “I’ll take another.”

Mulder returned a few minutes later, he’d lingered in the kitchen, and handed off an uncapped beer to Krycek.   He plopped himself back down on the couch, although this time there was a comfort in his movements, unlike before.  His knees touched Krycek’s briefly but it didn’t bother him.  He didn’t want to admit it but maybe Krycek had been right; he could have used this.  He did feel better, better then he had in a long time.

“What about you?  When did you first smoke pot?”

“Me?” Krycek acted surprised to be asked.  The joint was smaller now and Krycek crushed carefully, with it between his lips, used his fingers to crush out the tip.  He seemed to be thinking, “Oh, well, Jesus... I was... 13? 14?  I remember feeling so big, like I was Tony Montana.”

This made Mulder smile wide and he laughed with Krycek.

“I think some older boy had it.  I don’t really remember him all that well.  I think he was in the grade ahead of me.  We were all sitting out behind the, uhhh, the science labs, I remember.  Anyway, they offered and who was I, just some punk kid, to deny myself the chance to show the older boys I was just as cool?”

“Aaaah,” Mulder tipped his head back and laughed, “and I’m the slut?  You’d do anything to impress the boys, apparently.  Which one did you like?”

Krycek was laughing too and it was a sound that wasn’t often heard.  His laugh was low and clear.

“No, no.  It wasn’t like that.  I just wanted to hang out with them, wanted to be part of their clique. Besides,” he let his laughter die to an easy smile, “you’re the only boy I like, Mulder.”

Mulder felt his eyes drop away, feeling a flush of something warm in his face.  He ignored the comment, just as Krycek knew he would.

Krycek went on, “We got caught, anyway.  Headmaster was... not very pleased.”

“What did your parents say?”

“They were dead by then.”

“Was it hard?  Going to boarding school.  You were so young,” Mulder asked, rolling his beer between his hands.  He remembered once, long ago--maybe even when they’d been partners--talking to Krycek about his youth spent in boarding schools. Krycek had told him a wealthy uncle had paid for him, an uncle with no interest in raising children but whom felt obligation to Alex.

“You get used to it.  It was just my life.  Kinda’ like now.  It just... is what it is.  Just keep movin’.  That’s what I tell myself now and that’s what I told myself then: just keep movin’,” Krycek brought his bottle to his lips.

Maybe it was the pot.  Mulder was feeling something verging on sadness, his heart felt near to swelling for Krycek.  He wasn’t a man prone to being sympathetic towards him but that filter seemed gone from him tonight.

“Do you miss your parents?”

“Not anymore.  I did.  I did back then, yeah...” Krycek eyes were unfocused, partially because of the weed and partially because of the memory.  He lingered in that misery for just a short while and Mulder watched his face reflect a billion different, little things. “You were just a kid, I’m sure you did,” Mulder’s voice was soft.  His eyes lingered on Alex and he allowed himself he vision of a boy with no one to watch over him, in and out of schools and never a place to really call his home.  His gaze trailed along Alex’s jaw, along his eyes and their dark lashes, around his mouth and the stubble of his cheeks.  He looked so different, Mulder realized, from the last time he’d looked at him like this.

When they’d been partners and lovers and Mulder had longed to absorb every part of him, every angle and hair.  He remembered laying beside him, the weight of Alex’s body on top of him and he remembered tracing a finger along his face, smiling when Alex would kiss the tip when it skimmed his lips.  The thought made Mulder... nostalgic.  It made him want again.

Abruptly Krycek threw up his hands, the prosthesis remaining unnatural stiff as he did so, “Jesus, you really know how to kill a buzz, you know that, Mulder?  Come on, Alex, let’s get high and talk about your dead parents.”

His words were irritated but he tried to ease back from them with another small laugh, but this time there was bitterness in it.  Mulder looked away, the spell having been broken. 

“You’re the one who wanted to get high,” Mulder retorted.  The movie was almost over, he saw, but he hadn’t been watching, “I distinctly remember saying we were too old for it.”

“Are we too old neck on the couch?”

“Sorry, Alex,” Mulder said, “maybe if this was my mom’s basement, we could have talked about it.”

Krycek began to move and came closer to Mulder as he shifted.  Mulder’s heart began to beat and a whirling of thoughts ran through his head in just a moment; was he going to kiss him?  Would he kiss him back?  What would happen afterwards?  How far would they go?  How far did Mulder /want/ to go?

It was for naught as Krycek began to attempt to strip himself from his shirt.  The motion surprised Mulder but as Krycek got it off, managing the motion with efficiency despite his missing arm, Mulder saw the reason for his actions.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“No, no, I can do it.  I do it almost every night by myself anyhow.”

There was a pause and Mulder asked tentatively, “Do you /want/ help?”

Silence and then, “Yeah, okay.  Thanks.”

Krycek shifted again to expose his broad back to Mulder, who crept across the cushions to sit behind him.  Reaching up, Mulder began to work the leather straps of the prosthetic arm, unhooking the them.  He worked slowly and deliberately, and his fingers brushed Alex’s skin as he did.

“These are so worn, Alex,” he said after moment, regarding the small shreds and how it was weaker in certain spots.  He rubbed a thin patch of leather between his fingers, “It’s too old.”

“Yeah,” Krycek sighed, “It was old when I got it.”

Mulder resumed his work at removing it, helping him bring away the plastic piece to reveal the bandages over the stump, “Where did you get?  A doctor gave it to you like this?”

Krycek gave a throaty laugh, “A doctor?  Oh, man, Mulder, the pot really /has/ gone to your head.  No, no,” Krycek let his laughter die to a smile, “A friend.  It’s a little shorter than my other arm but the base fits my bicep so I guess I can’t complain.”

There was a little Mulder could think to say so he didn’t.  He just began to unwind the wrappings.  They were old too and Mulder casually mentioned in a low tone, “I might have some more gauze.  Before you leave tomorrow, let me re-bandage it.”

“Okay,” was all Krycek said with a heavy sigh.  He was tired.  When Mulder sat back, Krycek worked to get his shirt back on.  There was shuffling on the leather as the pair resumed their positions but this time Krycek swung his legs up, resting them on Mulder’s lap.  The action was met with some objection.

“Hey, this is my bed, Krycek.  You can go take the actual bed.  Just move the boxes to the floor.”

Krycek didn’t move, he just lifted his arm to wave Mulder over, “Come here.”  Mulder did not.

“I am here.  I’m already here.  I’m as close as I’m going to get.”

“No, come /here/.  I can support your weight, come lay with me.”

Pot or no pot, Mulder shook his head.  Without thinking, Mulder took hold of one of Krycek’s bare feet.  The grip was light, not aggressive, “Absolutely not.”

Krycek didn’t move, he just sighed, watching Mulder for a long moment.  He licked his lips before dropping his hand, which had been held out for Mulder to come to.

“Don’t do this,” he said.  The movie was ending but neither one of them noticed.

“Do what, Krycek?”

“What happened to ‘Alex’?”

Mulder didn’t say anything, he just twisted his lips again, refusing to break eye contact with the other man.  Krycek shifted a bit and his face registered something like irritation and... disappointment.

“Come lay with me.  I’m asking you to.  I want you to,” Krycek asked again, carefully.  Mulder knew what would happen if he said yes so he continued to hesitate.

What was he thinking?  Mulder began to move, crawling his way up Krycek’s body.  He was being foolish, he knew, but he felt the longing in Krycek and he felt it in himself, too.   Resting down his body, Mulder found a comfortable place despite the limited size.  The truth was, without his arm, there was a well-fitting crevice between Krycek and the cushions that allowed Mulder to rest easy, his head against Krycek’s strong shoulder.  Krycek brought up his other arm to cross and stroke Mulder’s hair, gently massaging his ear when his fingers touched it.

They didn’t say anything about the re-establishment of intimacy between them, they just let it linger there without explanation, enjoying it.  Mulder could feel his eyes closing, his body feeling heavy from the weed until he felt Krycek’s fingers run down his face to his chin, gently urging him to look up.

Just as he said... he knew this would happen but he let it follow it’s course.  Mulder turned his head up and felt the soft touch of Krycek’s lips to his own.  It was chaste and sweet.  Mulder wiggled just a little to move up, to allow the kiss to deepen, opening his mouth to Krycek’s persistent tongue.  Mulder breathed into the kiss, feeling warmth in his neck and face.  It was easy to blame the pot, saying it had let his ambitions down, had allowed him to ignore the consequences but that wasn’t true and he knew that.  Krycek knew that, too.

When the kiss broke, Krycek kept him close.  He brushed his nose with Mulder’s and spoke in a rough, quiet tone, “You’re so beautiful.”

Mulder didn’t respond except to accept the small kiss he was given after the comment.  He didn’t know what to say.  Was Krycek beautiful?  No.  He was... erotic, sensual.  His body, as maimed and scarred as it was, was nothing but sexy.  Sometimes he reminded Mulder of a big cat, prowling and very dangerous.  It worried and thrilled him.

“You...” Mulder brushed his lips against Krycek’s again then, slowly, smiled, “You taste like pot.”

Krycek laughed, low in his chest, and his fingers still stroked Mulder’s hair.  He kissed him again and Mulder felt the urgency of this kiss now.  The way Krycek moved to press his groin into Mulder’s leg and Mulder, feeling himself filled with a similar passion, opted to pull away.  Krycek knew, he didn’t have to be told.

Mulder just couldn’t.  Not tonight.  Not now.

Krycek accepted it and sighed, laying his head back against the armrest. Mulder resumed his place on his shoulder.

“Tell me something, Mulder.”

“Hmm?” Mulder responded, breathing in the scent of Krycek--sweat and evergreen soap.  He’d let his eyes close, absorbed in the feeling of his body against his own.

“Anything.  Tell me what you think at night, when you sleep here on the couch by yourself.”

The VHS has finished and now there was nothing but a black screen to view on the screen, although neither one of them regarded it.  Each man was falling into the ease of sleep, holding each other in the descent.  Krycek’s fingers in his hair, Mulder’s fingers stroking his chest through the thin shirt.

Krycek thought Mulder had fallen asleep, his breathing was even and steady, until Mulder finally spoke, “I think... I wonder why it had to be like this, Alex.  I wonder why you did what you did.”

Silence.

“I wonder that, too, Fox.  I just...” Krycek searched for his words, “I just thought I was--”

“Don’t,” Mulder cut him off, reaching up to touch Krycek’s lips to stop him.  He brought them back down to his chest, “I don’t want to talk about it now.  Let’s just lay here.”

“I love you, Fox.  Believe me.”

“I know,” he did.  What he didn’t know was if it was enough for him to forgive.  And he knew he loved Alex.  He knew he’d be the only man he’d ever love.  He just didn’t know if they’d ever be together--but they were tonight.  Mulder only sat up enough to lean over Krycek and turn off the lamp besides his fish tank and return to his place.  

His grip on Alex tightened.  Regardless of what would happen from here, tonight nothing else existed and they were together.

[frangipanidownunder]

Bangs

Written for @leiascully‘s XF Writing Challenge Prompt: Hair. And for @baronessblixen who wanted it to be fluffy. I’m not sure it qualifies as that fluffy but it was fun to write.

Sunday 8.47am

She heard his voice, muffled and thick.

“Scully, you’d look good with bangs, I really think you’d look good with bangs.”

“What?”

The air in her mouth tasted like the worst autopsy she’d ever done. Her face was stuck to the pillow. Was it a pillow? She wasn’t sure.

“Bangs, Mulder?”

Saturday 8.39pm

The Bureau credit card was certainly a generous host. The drinks were fuller, tasted smoother, offered a better burn. The hotel bar afforded them a cosy nook with luxurious padded seats and a mahogany table so shiny she could see her own reflection.

“Did I tell you how handsome you look tonight, Mulder?”

“Several times, but I’m always happy to be indulged.”

“Well, let me tell you again. You look so sharp that all the vixens will be after you, Fox-y.”

“Are you a vixen, Scully?”

Saturday 11.56pm

The casino was a wild ride. She couldn’t lose. Mulder just stood with his arms folded wearing a lazy smirk.

           “When I said naughty, I didn’t mean fleecing punters, Scully,” he said, whispering into the point of her neck where it met her shoulders. Who does that?

           “What did you have in mind, then?” She linked her arm through his. “Lead on, MacFox.”

           “What’s the most daring thing you’ve ever done, Scully?”

           The night air was humid, a warm wind drifting over them. He pulled her close and she pondered the question.

           “I could say that it was taking the assignment to spy on you, Mulder.”

           “But?”

           “That turned out to be the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I think the most daring thing we could ever do is doing something entirely for somebody else.”

           He stopped and pulled her into an embrace. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and she could feel his pulse against her cheek as she lay against his chest. “Let’s do something daring.”

Saturday 10.03pm

She knew she was being outrageously flirty but she couldn’t seem to muster up enough fucks to give. He was lapping it up. He’d managed to shift himself closer to her so that their legs were pressed hard together. His hand rested on her thigh, sliding the fabric of her dress up and down in a maddeningly suggestive rhythm. She let the Champagne bubbles pop and fizz on her tongue. When was the last time she’d drunk the real stuff?

           “Scully, your hair is this amazing burnished copper colour tonight, I mean, it’s like the fire inside of you is emanating from within and bursting out of your head to light up your aura.”

           “What the fuck, Mulder? Is that supposed to be a come on?”

           He pouted. And for an awkward moment she was mortified. Like was he actually serious? Was that Mulder hitting on her? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Saturday 11.21pm

She really shouldn’t have had that last glass of brandy. Not after she’d already had the other two that were going to be the last glass of brandy. But crazy people can be very persuasive. She knew that. And he smiled at her when he loosened his tie. He was draped across the crimson velvet upholstery of the booth, swirling the fiery liquid in his glass. She watched his lips as he sipped the drink. The way his upper eyelashes brushed his lower eyelashes. His fingers, so elegant, clasped around the crystal-cut. What was that Eagles lyric? He was brutally handsome. Was she terminally pretty? Maybe.

“Want to do something naughty, Scully?”

Life in the fast lane.

Sunday 2.07am

They fused, they sparked, they flamed. She watched his chest as it shone and rippled below her. He held his breath but he kept his eyes on her and she loved him so hard in that moment that her lungs compressed and her heart stopped.

           After, she fell beside him. His eyes were wide, glistening. His lips cherry-red stained. His smile lazy and sated.

Saturday 10.05pm

He blushed and she held her breath. “I’ve never been any good at this stuff, Scully. I just…I’ve always…what I mean is…”

           She picked up his hand and pressed her lips to the soft skin on the back. “Just say it, Mulder.”

           “I love your hair, Scully. I always have. It’s the most beautiful shade of red and the way it frames your face is perfection.” His voice was breathy.

           She licked her lips. “I like your hair, too, Mulder.” What the hell?

           He had the decency to chuckle. “Remember when I had bangs?”

           “That cute little floppy fringe that wouldn’t behave? Of course, I do. I always wanted to brush out of your face.”

           “And now I don’t have a fringe for you to brush away. Does that make you sad, Scully?”

           “There’s no reason to live now, Mulder.” She waited a beat before she collapsed into giggles, falling into him.

Sunday 12.11am

The place he chose was weirdly cold, dank in places, fluoro-bright in others. She should have turned right back round and walked out onto the warm and welcoming street. But he wore that expression of his, the one that burned with desire and an intensity so powerful that she shuddered with the  urge to shed her G-woman soul and step into that sultry, daring spirit-being she kept pushing away.

“I like this one,” he said.

“So do I.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Something for you,” she said, winking.

Sunday 2.58am

She kissed the Malin arrow that darted across his pectoral. “Why did you pick this one?”

           “The story goes that you have to face setbacks before you can move on.”

           She kissed him again, deeper and deeper. His fingers clutched at her neck and gently, slowly he rolled her on to her back. He brushed the fringe away from her forehead and she pulled him forward.

           “Fuck!”

           “Oh, Mulder. I’m sorry!” She pushed him back and watched as he looked down at his tattoo.

When he grinned, she straddled him. “Let’s move on, Mulder.”

[greekowl87]

Fic: Gardening

Disclaimer: Usual drill, I own nothing, merely borrowing.

A/N: Written for @leiascully  ‘Cultivatation’ fic challenge. Pre IWTB.  

The idea was to cultivate a life for them. To make something more permanent. She was tired of running after four years. She was tired of the different names, endless motel and hotel rooms, changing her hair (she missed her red hair), she detested the handful of times her hair dying attempts backfired, she missed what she used to do and who she used to be. He would not openly admit it, but he was tired of it too. He noticed her unhappiness and that only made his depression and his own unhappiness even worse. And then the fighting. Oh, God, the fighting. The fighting was only getting worse too.

They never used to fight like that. They would banter when they had the X-Files together. But ultimately, it would lead to an ending they arrived at, together. But now, they could not even work together much less stay in the same room without an argument erupting. They still had sex, but it had become primal and devoid of feeling and emotion. They say angry sex was the best, but both of them found it impersonal and more like a burden than anything else.

He wanted her back. He wanted them back. He wanted to cultivate and nurture the little they had left with each and try to bring whatever they were back.

It was supposed to be a surprise. He suggested an unremarkable farm house in the country of Virginia as a rental for a few months, where in reality, using cash to buy it and putting it in their name, covertly of course. The last thing he needed was the FBI to come howling in and throwing him in jail.

He remembered her look of surprise when he mentioned staying in a place for a few months and instead of a few weeks. He shrugged and suggested it would be a nice change of pace for them. She just gave a Mona Lisa smiled and said nothing.

She was smiling even more when she saw the house for the first time. He remembered standing in the doorway nervously as she inspected each room in her meticulous Scully-esque way. She came back, smiling. Tears in her eyes. Why was she crying, he wondered helplessly. What did he do wrong?

She smiled at him as if reading his thoughts. "Nothing," she had said, "this is perfect, Mulder. This is perfect. Everything is perfect."

He smiled. "Well," he replied, shifting uneasily from foot to foot (he remembered how nervous he felt). He wanted to tell her outright but he wanted to keep surprising her, making her smile. "It's ours."

She had looked at him funny, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow in contemplation. "Ours?"

"Ours."

"As in we are staying here for more than a few months?"

"As in we own this home. This is our home, Scully."

He dangled the keys in front of him and gently sought her hand. He remembered the coolness of the palm of her hand as he pressed the house keys and enfolded her hand and the keys in both of his hands. "Ours," he repeated.

"Ours," she repeated smiling, tears in her eyes.

It was their home. Their life. Their future to cultivate. She found a job in the local hospital and underwent a new medical residency. Even though he could not go out in public as easily as himself, he felt freer than he had in a long time. They could walk their extensive property without fear of being caught. He did not have to hide in the open. He worked during the days she was gone, making small home improvements here and there. He painted the living room, added a fancy faucet to their bathroom tub, fixed the leak in the kitchen ceiling, unjammed the second-floor window that never closed all the way, and they found time to make the beginnings of a small garden.

She came home early from the hospital one day to find him shirtless in the humid spring sun out back, digging away on his hands and knees. To his left sat various seeds and various small garden flowers. She shook her head as he continued to work. He had become so engrossed his project, he failed to hear her drive up. She was able to change in old jeans and a gray t-shirt and step out back to find his latest home improvement project.

"Gardening," she called out questioningly.

He looked up and sat back on his heels. He was smiling. "Your shirtless garden boy at your service, Ms. Scully."

She laughed. A real laugh that he had not heard in ages. She caressed his bare shoulders fondly, lingering on the scar of the bullet wound on his left shoulder before kneeling down next to him. She nodded wordlessly to the seeds and flowers next to him.

"We aren't going anywhere," he shrugged, "why not put down some roots and cultivate a little something-something."

She thought back to when they took the physical step in their relationship and briefly of William. But it was now. She was happy, as happy as she could be given the situation. She still had Mulder. She would always have Mulder. She smiled and wrapped her arm around his sticky shoulders and kissed his neck softly.

"What are we planting? Sunflowers?"

"Of course," he laughed. "I'm going to be a sunflower seed farmer." He focused at the fresh dirt and Earth. He pointed as Scully followed his finger. "There, we're planting cucumbers, over there tomatoes. Maybe potatoes in the fall. Are potatoes in the fall?"

"I have no idea, Mulder."

"Well, I can find out. And we can plant pumpkins and carve them on Halloween. Also, we can plant different vegetables seasonally. I love how you love strawberries and we can plant some for next spring. But I also have other flowers," he replied pointing to the small flowers and bulbs. "Tulips, pansies, iris, and I know you love yellow roses."

She could not find the words. He looked at her nervously, taken back by her silence. She hugged him more and felt a tear in her eye. Quietly, she kissed his cheek and nuzzled his temple. "It's perfect. All of it is perfect."

He smiled and sought her lips again. "Just remember that when I start making dinner for us when you get home at night."

She chuckled softly and nudged him gently. "Got an extra pair of gardening gloves? Just don't get angry if I don't have a green thumb." She slid on an old pair of gloves and looked fondly at Mulder. "I'm happy, Mulder. I really am."

"I know," he smiled, unspoken love being felt between them. "Let's get started on those sunflowers, hm?"

[baronessblixen]

60! :))

I combined the prompt 60. “Oh, do thatagain.” with @leiascully exercise challenge. 

Set after “MyStruggle” most likely; around that time anyway. 

His fist raised toknock, Mulder pauses a moment, realizing he’s never been here before.

Scully’s apartment.

The first time theywere partnered, before they were ever anything else, how long did it take himto come to her place? A week, maybe? Two? He can’t remember. The forgetting, herealized early in his treatment, is a side effect of his medication. Some dayshe curses it, like he curses so many things. Other days, he accepts silently,almost joyously. When it comes to Scully and their past, though, he doesn’twant to forget even the most insignificant moment.

He knocks, finally.His knuckles tingle as he waits for her to open the door. Gone are the timeswhen they lived in the same place, coming in and going out with a kiss hello orgoodbye; gone are the days he has a key to her place. Scully has invited himover, though, for the first time in almost a year so maybe this means they’remaking progress. Or she is just tired of constantly driving out to their – nowhis, as she likes to remind him – house. Either way, he won’t complain. Hewon’t ask either, though. Mulder is not sure he’s still allowed to ask; theirrelationship, in whatever form it is, twists anew at every turn and right nowhe can’t tell where he is, where she is. Where they are. So he stays quiet,masks it with a smile, and he is certain she does the same. He’s learning totake baby steps, do one thing to get to another. The days where he jumped in,no questions asked, no action thought through, those are gone, too.

“Oh hi.”Scully greets him when the door finally opens. She stares him up and down as ifshe’s been expecting someone else.

“Why are you dressedlike that, Mulder?”

“I’m wearingcasual clothes.” He explains slowly, looking at her. Of course she’sdressed for the occasion already: tight black running shorts and a very formfitting, short sleeved running top in a deep, dark blue. Mulder tries not tostare, tries not to react, but he’s like a Pavlovian dog when it comes to her.She clears her throat and he swears he hears her amusement. Some things simplynever change. His eyes meet hers and the twinkle he sees there lets him thinktoday might be a good day for them.

“Why are youwearing casual clothes, Mulder? You can’t run in jeans.”

“I can run wearingan Armani suit, Scully, so the question is I can’t or you won’t let me?” Justlike that her mood shifts; there’s the slightest quiver around her lips thatwould go undetected by anyone who hasn’t spent the last twenty years observingher, loving her.

“Mulder…”

“I know, Iknow,” he apologizes, “I just didn’t want to scare away my Uber withmy tights.”

“Mulder, you needa car.” She finally opens the door wider and Mulder, albeit hesitantly,steps in. The apartment, he realizes, is not at all what he expected or feared.There is nothing here that screams Scully at him. A few picture frames are upand the book shelf carries a few medical journals, a couple of books. There areno personal trinkets. He sees none of the novels she still claims not to own,the ones that are full of fairytale romances, tropical settings and atrociouswriting. Mulder stumbled upon one of her dog-eared paperbacks a couple of daysago when he tried to tidy the place up. Just in case, he tells himself. In caseshe ever wants to come home.

“That’s why Itook this job, Scully. Skinner promised me a car.” She rolls her eyeswhile massaging oil into her legs. The smell reminds him of lazy Sundays yearsago when she, not him, wanted to go running. Just in case, she’d told him. Incase of what, he’d wondered even then. Unbeknownst to them it had been the beginningof the end. Yet, the sweet scent fills him with a longing. At least back thenthey’d been living together, sharing their lives, such as they were.

“If you want tokeep said job, Mulder, you need to get back into exercising.” She pats hisstomach, which he believes is still firm enough.

“Are you saying Ilook fat?”

“No,” shecontinues her pre-run routine with stretches that make Mulder hot for entirelydifferent reasons than exercise, “I’m saying you need to get back intoshape. Which is why I’m asking you again: why are you wearing this? Where areyour running clothes?”

“Like I toldyou,” Mulder says, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans patiently andslowing down even more when he sees Scully watching him intently, “Ididn’t want to scare away the driver. I came prepared.” Taking his jeansoff all the way reveal his running tights. Scully bought them for him a coupleof years ago and he protested, preferring his much looser shorts, but she toldhim to try it anyway. He’s been wearing the tights ever since.

“They stillfit?” Her voice, as well as her eyes, soften, the memory though unspokenseems almost palpable in the small room. Afraid to break the spell and unableto form words anyway, Mulder just nods.

“Well then,”Scully raises her arms into the air, her top riding up and revealing theslightest peek at her stomach. The need to touch her there is almost unbearableand he straightens his own shirt to distract himself and his hands. Scullylowers her arms and the moment is gone, leaving only the lingering sense oflonging. “Let’s go?” Her hands are on her hips and she’s staring athim, challenging him. Some things really do never change, he thinks, and nods.

*

They return an hourlater with Scully hobbling on her feet and clinging to him. Mulder offered tocarry her and upon receiving the eyebrow withdrew his offer and instead put hisarms around her. He’s essentially carrying her this way, too, but he knows shelets it count because her feet are still on the ground. Her body is warm, hoteven, after their intense run. She tried to outrun him knowing that despite hersmaller physique, she is in much better shape. They didn’t speak at all, justran, and somehow always fell into step with the other. Until they suddenlydidn’t.

“I’m fine,Mulder,” she’d told him through gritted teeth, trying to stretch her leftleg and keep running. “We can keep going.” She’d said then, her wet,teary eyes betraying the strong resolve in her voice.

“The only placewe’re going is your place – and slowly.” She had not protested then,except for when he tried to carry her, and now here they are. Scully lets go ofhim and he almost reaches out to stop her, not ready to lose the close contact,and wobbles into her bedroom. She doesn’t tell him to follow and Mulder standsthere, half in, half out. His eyes wander about, searching for his jeans, so hecan leave. Maybe. He doesn’t know what the protocol is in this situation.

“Mulder?” Amuffled voice comes from the bedroom. He takes a few steps and stops in the doorway.The room is as sparsely decorated as the living room, maybe even more so. Itreminds him of a hotel, not the ones they used to stay in, in a very sterile,very impersonal way.

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uhm…I hate to ask this of you, but…” Scully is sitting on her bed; she’s takenher shoes off, but she is still wearing the rest of her running gear. She looksyoung and cute and as much as Mulder wants to voice this, his feelings for her,he keeps quiet and waits for her to go on.

“My leg reallyhurts and… it’s just a kink. I had it before and uhm, the best way to get ridof it is a massage.” She’s unable to meet her eyes so his grin goesunnoticed. He clears his throat and nods. Which of course she doesn’t seeeither.

“Sure, Scully.Just tell me what to do.” She sends him into the tiny bathroom to get oil.There are several small bottles and Mulder doesn’t want to think about why sheeven has them. He picks the one that smells like peppermint, knowing sheprefers that for her after run routine. At least he hopes this still rings true.By the time he comes back, Scully has taken off her running tights. The sightshould not paralyze him like this; it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, touchedbefore. He used to kiss down her legs, tickling her behind the knee and makingher laugh out loud in delight.

“Mulder? What areyou doing?” Her question jolts him back to the present time.

“Nothing. I justgot the oil.” He joins her on the bed and wonders if he should take offhis own clothes. He is positive that he reeks. But his hand lands on her thighand she moans – loudly. Mulder forgets everything else after that. He uncapsthe small, green bottle and pours some of the oil into his hands. He’s donethis before, of course. As he puts his hands on her soft skin and startskneading gently, he can’t help but think of other times they did this. When shemoans again, in a way that reminds him of a different situation altogether, hecloses his eyes as if in pain only to realize it’s even worse, his mind feedinghim unwanted memories. No one, least of all Scully, taught him to navigatethis; the remains of their relationship. I need time, she had told him oncewhen she came by the house to pick up a few things, and you need to get betterwithout me here, she’d finished, leaving him again, alone and waiting. No manualto sift through; even if, as Scully would most certainly remind him, he neverreads the manual anyway.

“Oh, do thatagain!” Scully moans and that’s when Mulder stops.

“I can’t do this,Scully.” His hands remain on her leg, warm and firm, oily and soft.

“You’re doinggreat, Mulder,” she assures him, her face sideways on the pillow, her eyesclosed, “Just keep going, please.”

“No, I mean Ican’t do this, whatever this is.” One eye opens, then the other as sheshifts to look at him. “Why did you even ask me to come here? I can gorunning at home, you know. You used to do it there, too. It’s a much nicerneighborhood.”

“You’reright,” she sits up with difficulty, “Maybe I wasn’t completelyhonest when I asked you come here to exercise together.”

“Are you going tomake me guess?” Mulder asks when he can’t stand the silence any longer;his therapist implored him to work on his patience, and he has, but right now,he can’t wait when his heart beats faster with a sense of hopeful longing hehasn’t felt in a while.

“Maybe I finallywanted you to see this place,” Scully admits, biting her lower lip; heknows her, reads her easily, and he knows she’s still holding back something,and so he waits, one eyebrow raised, “Do you like this apartment,Mulder?” For a moment he considers lying.

“No. I hateit.” He tells her honestly and she nods.

“I hate it,too,” she admits, her eyes never leaving his, “I miss ourhouse,” she hasn’t called it that in a long, long time, “But I wantedyou to see it and well, give you a key. I didn’t mean for my leg to be thisbad. This – the massage was not part of my plan.”

“You had aplan?”

“Kind of,”she chuckles, “I thought I’d give you a key so you could consider thisyour home away from home, too.”

“That’s what thisis for you? A home away from home?”

“No,” shetakes his hand into hers and stares at his fingers, gently running her own overthe back of his hand, “It’s a refuge. I needed one, Mulder. At least for awhile. I’m keeping it because… it’s so much closer to work than the house, Mulder.”

“I’m not sure I understandwhat you’re saying.” Scully rolls her eyes at him, but then smiles.

“I want us tostay here during the week and then… go home for the weekends.”

“Together? Youwant us to live here together?”

“Unless you don’twant us-”

“Scully, as longas there’s an us, I want it all.” She grins at him coyly then and lets goof his hand.

“You’ll keepgoing to therapy, though.” It’s not a question and he nods. “You’llkeep taking your meds.” Another nod follows as a huge grin appears on hisface. “We’re not… we still have a long way to go, Mulder.” He wantsto take her into his arms, hold her tight and never let go, kiss her and nevertaste anything else ever again, but he stays put, waits for her.

“You came up withthis whole you need to exercise ploy to make me come to your apartment? Scully,you know you could have called.”

“I know,”she tells him, leaning into his space and he can’t wait until they’re ready totake the next step, when this is not just banter but foreplay, “but let’sface it Mulder: you really are out of shape.”

“Says the womanwith the leg injury.”

“It’s not aninjury, it’s just – why are you grinning like that, Mulder?”

“No reason,Scully. No reason at all.” It’s happiness, he knows, and when she returnshis smile he knows she sees it, too.

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

X-Files Fic: But Always Together

For @leiascully‘s X-Files Writing Challenge: “List.”  This is basically a big ol’ “FUCK YOU” to The Field Where I Died.

1. 1890 B.C.

He is a shepherd, the youngest of six sons, tending to one of his father's many herds.  She is the oldest daughter of a priest, and he sees her fetching water at a well one day and loses all power of speech in the face of her beauty.  He knows who she is- his father and hers are known to each other- and even though she smiles warmly at him, he cannot bring himself to speak to her.  As the youngest of six he has nothing to offer her, and he knows she'll be married off to some oldest son, some fortunate man who stands to inherit much when his father dies.

One day when he's out with his flock, he sees her approaching in the distance.  She's carrying a lamb in her arms- one of his that, it transpires, had managed to wander off without his noticing (he's been spending more time than he should dreaming about her).  He thanks her profusely, stumbling over his words, expecting her to laugh at him at any moment, but she doesn't.  She's sweet and kind and sits with him for hours, talking, until the sun in low on the horizon.

After that, they meet nearly every day, at the well or in the fields.  It takes him months to get up the nerve to ask her if she's promised to anyone, and in response, she quirks an eyebrow at him and says, "I had assumed you would be asking for my hand, but maybe I was wrong."

So they approach her father, and of course, he's against the match, because he has nothing to offer her.  He goes to his father to ask him to intervene, but there's no help to be had there: his father tells him he'll find someone more suitable to his station.

They leave, together, that very night.

It's difficult, far more difficult than either of them could have anticipated, and nearly every waking moment is consumed with ensuring their continuing survival- especially when children start to come- but at the end of every day, there are brief, fleeting moments of peace and love together, and it makes the rest of the hardship worth it.

2. 582 B.C.

She is a queen, and he is a servant in her household.  He prepares her bath each evening, then stands silent and respectful on the other side of the screen as she bathes.  There is always a peculiar energy in the air between them and she feels it acutely, even though he never meets her gaze, forbidden as he is to raise his eyes to hers.  

One night, curious to know what would happen, she summons him to her side of the screen, and he comes.  She orders him to look at her... and the charge that flies between them is so sharp and powerful that neither can resist it.  He's in the bath and in her so quickly that it's over before either has the chance to wonder whether or not it's a good idea.  Certainly the smart thing to do, in the future, would be to have someone else draw her bath, but as intelligent as she may be, this is one smart idea she rejects out-of-hand.

Eventually she makes an appropriate political marriage, of course, to the second son of the ruler of a neighboring kingdom.  Her husband has more than one occasion, over the years, to remark on her dedication to cleanliness, her absolute refusal to give up her ritual evening bath (or to ever deviate from having the same servant prepare it, night after night).

And if the new king notices that some of his children do not resemble him at all, he's smart enough not to comment on it.

3. 43 A.D.

They are both slaves in neighboring households in Rome.  His master is a kind, learned man, and his life is a happy one.  He catches a glimpse of her through the window and is immediately smitten.  She is shy at first, only looking back at him in quick, fleeting glances, but as time goes by, she comes to expect seeing him each day at the same time, in the same room.

It's from watching this window that he learns that her master is nothing like his own.

The first time he sees her master strike her, he is downstairs and out the front door before he realizes that intervening is likely to get them both killed.  So instead, he begins to save money, as much as he can, in hopes of helping her buy her freedom.  When at last he has enough, he motions for her to meet him in the back garden.  He passes the money over the wall and explains what it's for, and she thanks him amidst her tears.

It's the first time they've heard each other's voices.

But when she gives the money to her master, he takes the coins from her, then beats her, then pretends the entire conversation had never taken place.  When she tells him what's happened, he goes to his master, begging him to help.  His master approaches hers and offers to buy her, naming such an exorbitant amount that he can't possibly refuse.

They live out their days together in happiness in the kind master's household.

4. 1275

He is a monk, and she is a woman living in the village adjacent to the monastery.  He glimpses her while in town during a religious ceremony, and afterwards, he makes excuses to go back and see her again and again.

They are not as cautious as they should be, and before long, they're caught.  She is accused of being a witch, because it's the only possible explanation for her having convinced him to break his vows, and they are both put to death.

5. 1590

He is a writer, and she is a noblewoman, her husband one of his patrons.  She inspires him with her wit, her intelligence, her beauty, and her kindness, and sonnets and plays pour forth from his pen in an endless stream.  He composes poem after poem in praise of her, and her husband (though he is a good man who values her every bit as much as he should) never suspects that she is his true muse.

She knows, though.

She comes to his home one day while her husband is out and thanks him for his beautiful words... but it goes no further.  She is rigid in her morals, terrified of the effect a scandal would have on the lives of her children, and devoted to her husband, who has never done anything but right by her.

In time, he marries another, and while they are happy, he never gets over the feeling that his life is not quite right, that by not meeting her earlier, before she married, he has missed a rare opportunity to truly know the sublime.

6. 1781

He is a colonel in Washington's army, and she is a soldier under his command, a woman posing as a man in order to fight for her newly-birthed nation.  He discovers her true identity when she is wounded, and against his better judgement, he promises to keep her secret for her.

She saves his life in battle, taking down an English soldier aiming at him from only a few yards away while he's busy re-loading his own weapon, and he never forgets it, not for the rest of the war, and not for the years that follow.  When the conflict is over, he returns to his father's farm, which he runs after his father's passing.

One day, he is in Philadelphia on business, and on the street outside of the bank, he sees a woman whose face is incredibly familiar, though he can't quite place it.  He starts across the street without checking for oncoming traffic, just as she is turning to look at him.  She sees the carriage barreling towards him, though he does not, and she cries out his name, making him pause on the curb... saving his life for a second time.

The moment he sees her terrified expression, he knows exactly who she is.

They are married the following spring, though both his mother and her father insist on coming up with a fake story of how they had met, and his father's farm is passed down through generations, flourishing all the while.

7. 1863

He is a soldier in the Confederate Army, and she is not a she at all; she's his sergeant, and he is engaged to marry a woman named Sarah Kavanaugh... but something in his sergeant's eyes captures him, and he cannot stop thinking about the man, no matter what he does.

The first time is in the woods, unplanned, and they tell each other after that it was wrong, a sin, repeating the things they've been told repeatedly by their fathers, by their churches.  But neither truly believes it, and it happens again, and again, and again.  He feels guilty for deceiving Sarah, whom he loves dearly, but he feels that somehow his soul and his sergeant's, their very essences, are knit together in such a way that they can never be truly separated.

Both men die in battle in Hamilton County, and their final thoughts are of each other, both speaking an unheard promise as their lives expire: I will find you again.

8. 1993

He is an FBI profiler fallen from grace, tormented by the loss of his sister, and she is a green, young agent assigned to debunk his work and bring him back into the bureau mainstream.  At first, he's wary and mistrustful and she's exasperated and skeptical, but as time passes, they come to trust one another without reservation (though she remains, to the end, skeptical- and often still exasperated).  Together, they uncover a conspiracy that goes deeper than either could ever have imagined, and they make it their lives' work to bring it down.

And somewhere along the way, they fall in love.

They overcome abductions, illnesses, injuries, and multiple separations that should, by all rights, have torn them apart.  They have- and eventually have to give up- a son, and for a time, a darkness grows up between them, and it seems as though their relationship might be broken... but it's not.  They find their way back to one another, and eventually find their way back to their son, and when the forces they have fought against for their entire lives are finally vanquished, the happiness and the peace they find together make all the suffering worth it.

9. 2194

They are scientists on the team selected to be a part of the first manned mission to the Trappist-1 System.  They share a nervous joke on the cryo-deck, right before being put in stasis for the trip out, and the last human contact either of them have before being frozen is when they shake hands and introduce themselves.

There's a malfunction with his cryo-tube on the other end of the journey, and it's her quick thinking and medical knowledge that save his life.  She tends to him in the infirmary, and when he's well enough, they make the trip down to the surface of the habitable planet- creatively named "New Earth," much to the disgust of every member of the team.

Originally, he had been a part of the team that is scheduled to return to Earth, while her team remains on the new planet, but when the time for departure arrives, he finds that he cannot possibly conceive of leaving her behind.  So he stays, and they build a life- and a family- together.

At the moment of his death, he has a fleeting thought, born of a deeper knowledge that is far, far older than his body: What if she's on Earth in her next life, and I am here?  Will we find our way back to one another with so much space between us?

10. 2942

But they do.

11. 4729

They always do.  No matter how great the distance, they always find one another again.

12. 10,284

Forever.

[mldrgrl]

Scully’s Reasons Why Not

by: mldrgrl Rated: PG Summary: Written for @leiascully‘s “Lists” challenge

Scully sat at the table in her kitchen, tapping the top of her pen against the blank yellow legal pad of paper in front of her.  She had sat down with a cup of tea, intending to prepare a list of pros and cons to the proposition Mulder had given her, but so far, the paper was still blank and the tea had gone cold and untouched.  She sighed and clicked on her pen, putting the ballpoint to the page.  Finally, she wrote a header.

     Should Muld we become lovers?

Even writing it down made her cheeks burn.  She dropped the pen and got up from the table, swiping the tepid mug of tea up and taking it to the sink.  She ran cold water from the tap and wet her hands before bringing them up to her cheeks.  A dishrag lay crumbled on the counter and she took it up to dry her hands.

At the back of one of her cupboards was a bottle of whiskey.  She could never remember why it was there or who it belonged to, but it had been in her cupboard for years, nearly full and collecting dust.  There were no shot glasses on hand, so she poured an estimate of a shot into a mug and took that back to the table and sat back down.

She was only able to down about half the whiskey she poured, which was followed by a few moments of coughing and sputtering.  She wiped her watering eyes with the back of her hand and picked up the pen again.  Already, her limbs felt warm and loose.

I think it’s against the rules

They would use it against us

Would the work suffer?

Could he give me what I want?

What do I want?

We could hurt each other

We can not go back

That was as far as she got before she put the pen down and licked her lips.  The taste of the whiskey was still sharp on her tongue.  She tapped her pen again until there was a knock on her door and her shoulders jerked in surprise.  It was after ten and she was in her pajamas and a robe, not dressed for visitors, but who else would knock on her door at ten o’clock on a Thursday night but Mulder?

Lethargically, Scully went to open the door.  Her senses were a bit dulled from the alcohol and her fingers slipped on the chain latch.

“Hey,” Mulder said, slipping past her once she’d gotten the door open.  He was still in the suit she’d left him in at the office, only his tie was loose and he had his hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat.

“Hey,” Scully said, shuffling away from him to go back to the table.

“I thought we could talk.”

“It’s late.”

“I know it’s late, but I thought maybe our conversation got a little out of hand today at work and...we should talk.”

“You told me it was my decision to make,” she said, chair creaking as she sat down.  “That the ball was in my court.”

“I know,” he said, taking a seat across from her and taking his hands out of his pockets to fold them on the table.  “Maybe I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“About it being your decision alone.”  He glanced down at the legal pad on the table and Scully held her breath, but didn’t move.  Two fingers went to the top of the pad and he slid it closer to him and turned it around.  “Seems like I got here just in time.”

She didn’t say anything as she watched his eyes dart across the page.  He glanced up at her and then over at the mug.  She followed his gaze and licked the corner of her mouth as he picked up the mug and gave it a little sniff.

“Liquid courage?” he asked.

“You can have the rest,” she said.

“No, thanks.”  He put the mug back down and then picked up her pen.  “It’s not against the rules, by the way,” he said, drawing a line through number one on her list.  “Unless I was your superior.”

“How many times have you reminded me that you’re the head of the x-files division and I just work there?”

Mulder’s eyes went wide for a moment and his adams apple bobbed as he swallowed.  He took the mug back up and downed the rest of the whiskey with a slight hiss.

“You’re my partner,” he said, scratching another line across number one.  “End of story.”

“When it’s convenient,” she said, calmly lacing her fingers together in her lap.  She could feel a fight brewing, but Mulder was focusing all his attention on her list.

“They use us against each other all the time, Scully.  They already know I would go to the ends of the earth for you, I kind of literally, already did.  And you, you once willingly got yourself held in contempt of congress by refusing to give them my whereabouts.”

“I didn’t even know your whereabouts,” she argued.

“They didn’t know that.”  He crossed out number two as well.

“Are you going to do this for every item?”

“You bet.  Would the work suffer?  Is that a joke?”

“How do you know it wouldn’t?”

“Because, I know.  It never has before.”

“Hold on,” she said, reaching across the table and putting her hand over his as he went to cross it out.  “That’s not true, Mulder.”

“So, we’ve had a few rough patches.  We always get through it.”

“What if there’s more at stake?”

“Now you’re skipping ahead to number six.”

“So what if I am?  They don’t have to be mutually exclusive.  I mean it, Mulder.  If I disagree with you about one of your theories, what’s going to stop you from blaming it on a lover’s quarrel we had the night before?”

“What was the lover’s quarrel about?”

Scully took her hand from his wrist and sat back with a sigh.  “They’re legitimate concerns.  Don’t belittle them or dismiss them so easily.”

The pen hovered over the list in Mulder’s hand and then he set it down.  “What do you want?” he asked.  “What do you want that I might not be able to give you?  Because, I’ll tell you right now, I would give you anything.”

“Even time to figure it out?”

“If time is what you need.”

“It might be.”

“You know what I don’t see on this list?”

“What?”

“Whether or not you want me.”

“That’s not something I have to question.”

Mulder got up and went around the table to her side where he knelt down at the side of her chair.  She sighed as he turned her chair towards him and then put his hands on her knees.  He looked up at her with a puppy dog gaze until she sighed again and put her hands over his.

“I just think it’s time for us, Scully,” he said.  “I’ve been fighting it for so long and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“And you know I have to think about everything.  It’s what I do.”

Mulder nodded and then he pulled one hand from hers and put it on the back of her neck.  He stretched his neck up and tipped his head while bringing her face closer to his.  

“Mulder,” she whispered.

“Shh,” he breathed against her mouth.  “I’m giving you something to think about.”

Her eyes drooped half-closed as his lips brushed hers.  She felt a rush of heat move up her body and a coil of desire move down through her abdomen.  A tiny whimper escaped from the back of her throat as he deepened the kiss and brought his arm around her waist.  She had just let her eyes fall completely shut when he pulled away, rubbing the back of her neck with his thumb as he moved back.

“Dammit, Mulder,” she whispered.

“Take all the time you need,” he said, slowly letting go of her and getting to his feet.  “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

He walked over to the door to let himself out while Scully sat quivering in her seat.  “Have fun with that list,” he said as he walked out the door.

She sat looking at the closed door for a long time before she turned back to table and pulled her list back from where Mulder had left it.  She picked up the pen and licked her lips.  The taste of whiskey from Mulder’s tongue was in her mouth.

     8. Resistance is futile

The End

[scully-loves-ruthie]

One Last Wish

This is for @leiascully “Resentment” challenge

  You’re sitting alone at the kitchen table, your mind buzzing like a hive.  Full of memories of the first seven years you and Scully spent on The X-Files.  Your memory regurgitating images, conversations, near misses, and almost disasters.  As so often is the case on nights like this, one conversation, one case, one moment in particular is clawing it’s way to the forefront.

  You and Scully were investigating a case centered around a Genie, you being you, you somehow ended up the lucky recipient of three wishes.  Wanting to be sure you were making the right choices, but ultimately to curry favor, you asked the Genie what she would wish for.

  “I’d wish I never heard the word wish before, I’d wish that I could live my life moment by moment, enjoying it for what it is instead of worrying about what it isn’t.  I’d sit down somewhere with a great cup of coffee and watch the world go by.”

  You were getting a handle on the situation now, make the wishes more about the fulfillment of others not just yourself and you’d succeed.  The first two wishes you had fouled up, but the third one you weren’t going to waste.  Oh no you were going to plan it, having the wording perfect.  You were finally going to get that elusive happy ending for you and Scully.

  When the Genie asked, “ Are you ready?” you weren’t filled with a single doubt, this was going to fix everything for all of you.

  “How bout I tell you what I’m thinking first?”

  “Go for it.”

  “I’d want you and Scully to each get what you desire most.  For you it would be freedom from your mark.  For Scully it would be to have a child.  Our child.  Is that something you can do?”

  “You wish it, I can do it.”

  “OK well I wrote it out, so I guess I’ll, I’ll just read it then.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “I wish for you and Scully to have what you both desire most in life right now.  For you, your freedom from the mark of the Genie.  For Scully I wish for her and I to conceive a child.  A child who is born happy and healthy.  A child who’s life is filled with unending love, great successes, boundless intelligence, and prosperous joy.”

  “Done.”

  As quickly as she had dropped into your life she was gone, leaving you full of questions.  Questions like was Scully pregnant now from the previous encounters you two shared, or would it be the next encounter that sealed the deal.  Why bother wondering you’d thought to yourself when you can go make it happen.

  Your mind is yanked back into the present as you feel tears begin to form along your lashes.  You never told Scully.  You never will tell Scully.  The resentment and hatred you feel towards yourself is enough.  Like tiny little sandbags coursing through your veins forever weighing you down.  Keeping you rooted at the very bottom of the darkness.  Just out of reach, always keeping Scully at bay lest she ever find out the truth.

  Not to say you don’t blame the Genie herself because you do.  The resentment you feel towards her lays thick like tar in the back of your throat, hot and sticky, you taste it everyday.  What a fool-hearty mistake to think that if she had got exactly what she wanted, she’d ensure you would too.  But it didn’t work like that, she was simply the conduit.  A mere pawn on life’s chessboard.  Such hubris to think you alone could provide a miracle.  Looking back you understand it all, one cannot simply alter fate expecting no repercussions.  The universe will always come calling, demanding payment for what you stole. 

  Still, sometimes you torment yourself and think if only I had wished all those things to be true with us.  For Scully and I to be his parents, to be the ones raising him, loving him, watching him succeed.  If only, if only.  As your tears fall to the kitchen table you can her the Genie’s voice mocking you,

  “You should have been more specific.”

[ghostbustermelanieking]

x files fic: under the stars (minimal fate required)

or: ways mulder and scully could’ve been happy

for @leiascully‘s challenge: list sort of

01.

The X-Files are never shut down and Scully is never abducted.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm of partnership: an incredible solve rate, an easy repertoire. (He never convinces her to believe in aliens, and she never convinces him not to.) They start spending time together outside of work - getting drinks, watching movies over long-abandoned paperwork. It’s at least two and a half years before Mulder realizes that she is his best friend. (Even over the Gunmen, he thinks about telling her, but how would that go down? They don’t say things like that to each other. She’s only ever called him Fox once, and he’s called her Dana a total of six times before she asked him to stop; what kind of friends are they?)

She almost dies - goes to pick up a witness while Mulder stays at the tiny local police station, doesn’t come back; he finds her five hours later in a basement with a gun pressed to her head from behind, has to negotiate for twenty tense minutes before the witness shoves her to the floor and tries to run out the back door, where the local police are waiting. His heart rate doesn’t slow down the entire time. He helps her off of the floor and pulls her into a fierce embrace. We never do anything like this, he thinks. She might smooth his hair, take his pulse, rub his neck, check for head injuries if he’s hurt, but they never full-on embrace each other. Her arms are pinned between them; she wasn’t expecting the hug. You must really like me, she teases, poking him in the arm. If you’re this relieved.

Nah, he says. I hugged Frohike like this that one time we brought him on a case and he almost took a bullet; remember?

Glad I measure up to Frohike’s standards, she says seriously. Like she really thinks he likes him better than her. He hugs her tighter because his heart is still pounding too hard and she could’ve died, really; his best friend dead in a crummy little basement because he didn’t go with her to pick up a witness or he didn’t negotiate right.

They keep meeting with Skinner, and he keeps looking at them disapprovingly over his glasses, and Scully keeps going head-to-head with people for him. Mulder, I wouldn’t put myself on the line for anyone but you, she’d said, and goddamn it, she was right. She’s vicious in a subtle, professional way that makes people want to look to her for authority, especially him (he’d make her the supervising agent if she’d take any good cases, or if it wouldn’t ruin her career).

You should ask for reassignment, he says one day over beers, studying the stem of his bottle seriously.  

She flicks her bottle cap towards the trash can, and it lands perfectly. Tired of me, Mulder? That might be hurt in her voice, because she isn’t looking at him.

No. Just worried you’re never going to be able to go anywhere else. That you’ll be stuck with me forever.

Her ocean-colored eyes meet his. What if I don’t want to go anywhere? she says, taking a sip from her bottle.

He watches the motion of her throat as she swallows the beer. He smiles. So, I’ve finally convinced you of my paranormal beliefs, Scully?

She smirks. I didn’t say that.

(When she grabs his hand later, it’s not as much of a surprise as he thought it’d be. It feels right.)

02.

Melissa doesn’t die and neither does Scully. She and Melissa arrive at the same time, and as she’s unlocking the door, she hears the rustle of people inside, the cocking of a gun. She tells Melissa to keep a low profile and runs to Mulder’s apartment where she finds Skinner, and then Mulder. Skinner refuses to give them the tape and they run.

Skinner tries to negotiate the tape for their reinstatement, but it doesn’t work. Skinner meets them the next day, covertly, wearing a hood in the park. (He looks ridiculous, like he’s trying to be hip with the kids, Mulder whispers in her ear, and she has to jam her hand in her mouth because it’s definitely not a convenient time for laughing.) There are warrants out for the both of your arrests, he says. They have proof, they say, that Mulder killed his father and you’re hiding him, Scully.

Mulder pales. It’s not true, Scully says firmly, standing her ground. The evidence must’ve been manipulated. They’re trying to take us down.

Skinner looks uncomfortable, but he says he believes them. I’m going to work on clearing your names, he says (awkwardly, because, you know, he’d pointed a gun at her the other day). In the meantime, you need to disappear.

(I’m sorry, Scully, Mulder says in the car. They’re both grimy, in need of sleep and bathing. I didn’t mean for this to happen to both of us.

She tells him it’s okay; she’s sacrificed so much for this, the truth, that this feels almost mundane in comparison. Her family will be worried, but at least she isn’t dying. She thinks maybe she will resent him later, but for now, she’s just relieved he’s alive and okay.)

(She hugs Mulder for the first time since his return from the dead when they stop for gas; says I’m sorry instead of I missed you into his smelly shirt. She’d thought maybe he’d killed his father but knows it isn’t true, knows how much he must be hurting.)

The Gunmen get them fake IDs and Scully cuts and dyes her hair a dark brown in their crappy apartment bathroom. She asks them to get a burner phone for Melissa, something she can use to check in and reassure her family that she’s okay. She and Mulder leave with the burner’s twin and hastily packed suitcases with cheap Walmart clothes in a car paid for with cash from Mulder’s father’s will. What’s our identity? Married couple? Mulder asks casually from the driver’s seat, raising an eyebrow at her. (He’s been joking around since they left that gas station, after embracing for what seemed like forever, and she recognizes it as a coping mechanism. That night, when they’d stopped, she’d put her hand on his knee and asked him to talk to her - I can see you’re hurting, Mulder, please, this isn’t healthy. He got mad at first, stalked off into the darkness. He returned upset, later, cried and let Scully hold him, buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. He was a bastard, but he was my father, he’d whispered hollowly against his skin. They don’t discuss it the next morning, but they can tell a barrier’s broke. Since then, she’s let him joke, pretend that nothing is wrong.)

We don’t have any rings, she says, fingering the ends of her dark, shorn hair. (It hasn’t been this short since 1993, at least, and never this dark. She yanks it back in one of the half-ponytail things she used to wear all the time then, and Mulder smiles familiarly and tugs at it. She’s glad he’s not dead.)

They get a ratty little hotel room with one bed (married couple, remember, Mulder says, waggling his eyebrows). Scully calls her sister and pulls at the comforter with her overlong fingernails while Mulder showers. She smiles as soon as she hears her voice.

You’ve gotten yourself into a pickle here, Day, Melissa says, and it sounds like she’s teasing, but it comes out strained because she’s worried about her sister. I blame your partner.

Oh, me too, Scully says loudly as he comes out of the bathroom. He’s impossible to live with, really. She giggles - giggles, my god, has she gone off in the deep end - when Mulder lobs a balled-up t-shirt at her head.

Seriously, Dana, Melissa says. Are you okay?

Yeah, Scully says. Mulder flops on the bed beside her, mattress rippling under his weight. It’s beyond bizarre to be actually sharing a space with him. Are you? she continues, tugging a thread loose from the duvet. I’m worried about you and Mom. (Because maybe the people who were going to kill her, and probably Melissa when they saw her, won’t hesitate to go after her family. Leverage. Punishment. She thinks about convincing Skinner to put them in witness protection.)

We are, Missy says. They… question us about you a lot. About Fox. About where you are.

Scully bites her lip. Skinner swore he was doing his best the last time they talked, but she hates putting her family through this. It’ll all be over soon, she promises. I’ll be home someday. I love you.

Love you, too, Day. Melissa sounds less relaxed than Scully’s ever heard her in her entire life when she hangs up.

You okay? Mulder says.

Yeah, she says. She’d say what she’s thinking - that she’s just happy Missy’s alive, that she heard what she did before opening the door - but it seems selfish, considering what’s happened to Mulder’s father, considering Samantha. She ignores the thought. They’ve been ignoring a lot, here; sleeping in seedy hotels is an easy escape, they can joke and flip channels on the TV and pretend nothing from the outside world exists. It’s the most mundane existence she and Mulder have ever shared, and it’s somewhat blissful: Mulder is fun, almost, when he’s not absorbed into the monster of the moment, and this is the first time they’ve ever hung out, at least without work as a pretense/distraction. (Even if hanging out involves sharing a bed to keep their identity in place.)

Are you sure you don’t want me to sleep on the floor? he asks, almost nervously, as she stretches out beside him.

No, you just came back from the dead, she says. It’d be cruel. She flips off the light.

(On the first night, she ends up curled against his back, face pressed in the space between his shoulder blades. On the third night, he rolls back against her, burying his face in her chemical-y hair, soft from the hotel conditioner. By the seventh, she’s unintentionally grabbing him in their sleep and he rolls closer instead of away. They don’t talk about it.)

On their fourth week as fugitives, they’re playing Blackjack on the cracked concrete under the street lights, feet dangling in the five foot end of the pool. Mulder’s been quiet, chewing on a straw in his mouth. Hit me, Scully says.

He starts, sets a card down absently. She resists the urge to swear: 24. Are you happy, Scully? he says softly.

She’s startled by the question, tempted to say as happy as anyone can be in this situation. I’m thinking of it as an overdue vacation, she says instead.

He nods, straw bobbing in his mouth. I just feel bad about tearing you away from your life, he says. You didn’t ask for this.

Scully deals them a new hand, trying to meet his eyes. I didn’t ask for it, but they involved me when they abducted me and tried to kill me and my sister, she says. And hurt you, poisoned you, killed your father, she adds silently. And besides that, even if I wasn’t dismissed from the FBI, I would’ve come with you anyway.

He looks up at her in shock. She smiles shyly, setting the cards down between them, pokes his foot with hers in the pool.

I guess it’s just for the X-Files credential, he says finally, waggling his eyebrows. A real life man come down from the dead.

Shut up, she says, splashing him. They play cards until a family comes out with grouchy kids wrapped in striped beach towels; they never want to risk being recognized.

(Eventually, Skinner gets their names cleared and they come home and get their old jobs back and Scully hugs her sister gratefully. But for now, they play cards under the stars. It’s almost good, almost perfect.)

03.

Hey, Scully, he says, watching the curve of her neck as she puts files away.

Yes, Mulder? she replies, somewhere between amused and irritated.

He scuffs his shoes on the floor. Would you, uh. Like to get dinner with me? Jesus Christ, he hasn’t been this nervous asking anyone out since college. Of course, he’s only dated Diana since college, and that didn’t go over very well.

Sure, she says, not looking up. I get to pick this time, though. And can I put a veto on discussing certain cases? It’s Friday night, Mulder.

I know, he says. I, um, actually. Wanted to know if you wanted to go out. With me.

She looks up at him with surprise, although not rejection or disgust. His stomach flips like a pancake. On a date, he supplies, and immediately wants to slap himself.

You’re asking me on a date, Scully says. Matter-of-fact. Clarifying tone.

Um… He scuffs his shoe again, looking at the floor. They need to sweep in here; the janitor only comes down by request and he has a vendetta against Mulder for his discarded sunflower seeds. Yes? he says questioningly, and waits for the end of their friendship.

Okay.

He looks up; she’s replacing files in the cabinet calmly again, as if he’s asked her to pick up a candy bar at the store or something. Okay? he repeats.

She looks up, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. Okay, she echoes, warmly.

The relief is overwhelming. Okay, he says another time, smiling. Okay.

04.

They kiss in Mulder’s hallway, and Scully doesn’t go to Utah.

(I wish you wouldn’t quit, Mulder whispers against her scalp that morning in bed, and Scully tugs his t-shirt and says, I’ll keep fighting. This isn’t over.)

Mulder tries to get the X-Files back, tries to convince Skinner to let Scully come back, but it nevers works. Scully becomes a doctor, takes up permanent residence in his bedroom. (She goes to Nevada with him, on a dare, and when they come back, there’s a waterbed, and she agrees to stay over at his house; every once in a while, she says sternly over his pillows. [It’s a lot more than every once in a while, and he never lets her forget it.]) He steals X-Files from their old office under Spender and Fowley’s noses and they argue about them over takeout.

(I miss it, sometimes, being at the FBI, she tells the space between his shoulder blades one morning, hugging him tightly from behind. She’s become clingier since, doesn’t quite know why. She didn’t know she could love someone this catastrophically.

I miss you being there with me, he tells her, clasping her hands and pulling them up to rest against his chest.)

After they’re dragged to quarantine and the Syndicate dies off in a fire, Spender doesn’t recommend Mulder be reassigned to the X-Files. Quit, Scully says that night. The FBI hasn’t done anything for you but ruin you. They don’t deserve you, and you don’t need them.

I don’t want to quit, he says. I don’t want this to be over.

We aren’t over, she tells him. We’re both still here. We don’t need the FBI. We can still find the truth.

It’ll be dangerous, he says into her mouth. (She’s pressed him up against the cabinets, kissing him so hard he thinks he’ll melt.) Without their credentials, there’ll be a lot more roadblocks; and no one cares if two ex-FBI agents die in a random accident. They’ll be vulnerable.

She smiles. When has that ever stopped us before?

05.

The IVF works.

Mulder doesn’t expect it to, because honestly, how the hell could anything happen in their lives that’s as perfect as this? They are the type of people who don’t get to kiss, whose sisters stay lost and whose daughters die before they get the chance to know them. He expects this to end in tragedy, expects it to end with Scully crying into his shirt and him unable to comfort her - although he doesn’t want it to. He wants to make her happy, to be able to do one damn thing right. He waits for her on her couch. The Christmas tree she’s set up in the corner sits dormant and dark; he thinks about plugging the lights in.

Scully comes home, and his stomach twists when he turns over and sees the smile on her face. She looks happier than he’s seen her in months; the last time she smiled like that is when he opened his eyes in the hospital at some point after she woke him up from Spender’s botched brain surgery; she’d smiled like he was the entire world, squeezed his fingers. Scully? he whispers in wonder, shifting on the couch to sit up.

She smiles, hand ghosting her abdomen. It worked.

He gapes at her, mouth hanging open a little. Scully, that’s fantastic! He moves towards her, expecting a hug or a chaste kiss to the forehead, but she kisses him first, hands cupping the side of his face.

She pulls away a minute later, red already spreading across her face. I’m sorry, Mulder, she whispers, I don’t want to obligate you to anything, you didn’t agree to…

He kisses her again before she finishes; he’s wanted to do that for years now. Scully, I want this, he says. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t.

She smiles again, eyes welling up, and buries her head in his shoulder. He rubs circles on the small of her back, trying to remember how he ever got here. This is all I’ve ever wanted, she says into his sweater, so quietly he almost can’t hear her. This is it.

06.

Mulder doesn’t go to Oregon, or he doesn’t leave three days after their son is born, or he comes home to find them waiting for him and he and Scully cry in the threshold of her apartment, or Scully never gives William up and the three of them disappear into the sunset after breaking Mulder out of prison. They get to raise their son, watch him grow up to morph into a child who inherited their looks and intelligence and Scully’s snark and Mulder’s curiosity. In some cases, there is another baby, and in other cases, there’s only ever William, their miracle baby. But in every case, there is the three of them and they are happy. A family.

07.

The IVF doesn’t work, and Scully never gets pregnant. (She gets uncontrollably sad about it, sometimes, like when Bill and Tara call to announce that their second child is on the way, or she talks to an old friend who has to go in the other room because her kids won’t let her talk on the phone in peace, or - one time - because they see a baby in a dingy small-town diner, and she gets teary and tries to hide it with scratchy napkins. Mulder tries to comfort her every time, although he’s worried he’s just making it worse - it’s his fault she can never have a baby. He has his moments of teary-eyed weakness himself.)

They go to Oregon, but Scully isn’t sick and Mulder isn’t abducted. Two months later, the X-Files are shut down. Too much money towards a dead-end project, the man who comes to tell them says. Scully surprises them both by being the one to retort sharply, standing up and glaring at him like he is the scum of the earth and sliding in a sir at the end to barely pass it off as respectable. Scully, it’s okay, Mulder says quietly when they’re alone in not-their-office.

Mulder, this is your life’s work, she says, still breathing a little hard and glaring at the door.

He reaches down and takes her hand. It’s okay.

They’re reassigned to the VCS - Skinner fights hard for them to stay partners. (They go to his office to thank him, and he looks at them critically, says, As long as you don’t let… whatever this is… interfere with your work, then we won’t have a problem, agents with a spastic motioning towards them and red spreading across his cheeks. Which leads to a ten-minute bickering about who is the reason Skinner knows.)

They stay at the FBI for two more years. Things are different, darker, in the VCS, but Scully still does autopsies and they still have to travel out of town sometimes (it’s almost more exciting to be in a hotel with ten other agents; it makes sneaking into one of their hotel rooms more risky, and Scully seems to like it) and they still are a singular unit no matter how many people are in the room.

(Things come to a head when they are both taken by a serial killer, found bound and bruised and traumatized together just before the man starts to kill them.)

Let’s quit, Mulder says in the hospital that night, tracing her fingers with his. Their hands haven’t stopped shaking since they were rescued; they’ve held hands since their wrists were untied, in front of the entire task force, and don’t care.

Mulder, she says, astonished.

The X-Files are gone. And besides that, we can’t keep doing this, Scully. We can’t keep almost losing each other. He kisses the back of her hand, a small, warm patch on her chilled skin. Remember what I told you in Oregon? There has to be an end. I’m ready.

(Skinner looks almost sad when they hand in their resignations. He shakes their hands and tells them their services will be missed and not to be strangers. I’m surprised he didn’t hug us, Mulder says in the elevator. Skinman’s gone soft.

Let’s invite him to our wedding, Scully says slyly, and can’t stop giggling at the expression on Mulder’s face.)

They buy an apartment together, one that doesn’t have bloodstains or monsters in the corner, where no one has ever died. They get jobs teaching at Quantico - Scully teaching pathology and Mulder teaching profiling, at first, but eventually an additional class on paranormal investigations that takes a large amount of fighting to receive. He writes books at night, putting his insomnia to good use. (Thank God you have something to do at night, Scully says, or I would never get any sleep.) The X-Files are eventually reopened by an eager agent, Monica Reyes, and a more reluctant agent, John Doggett, who have some dark past no one asks them about and no one wants to - they’re good friends, good partners. Agent Reyes insists on Mulder consulting, which leads to them being semi-regular appearances at the apartment (there are usually arguments where Reyes and Mulder gang up on Doggett; Scully feels sorry for the guy, has to intervene at least 70% of the time; she grows an affection for these outcast agents that remind her of she and Mulder when they were young).

Let’s have a baby, Mulder says one lazy summer night almost three years after they’ve left the FBI. They have a habit of taking blankets up to the roof of their building and watching the stars (or looking for UFOS, as Mulder calls it), and Scully’s curled beside him, nearly asleep.

We can’t. The IVF process didn’t work, she says sleepily, sadly into his shoulder.

So we try again. I have more money than I did when we tried the first time - my mom left the entire estate to me. We can afford it. His palm nearly covers her forehead, brushing hair away from her face. Or we could adopt. Save someone. We could get Skinner to write a letter of recommendation.

I love you, she says. At his sharp breath of pleasant surprise, she realizes she’s never said it. She rises up on her knees and kisses him under the stars.

08.

Mulder doesn’t join the FBI because Samantha is never abducted. Dana joins the FBI, stays at Quantico. They meet by accident - she’s guest-lecturing at the university where he teaches. There’s a teacher’s lounge and a friend of hers tugs her towards him, saying she needs to try the coffee loud enough for everyone to hear, but whispering something about how she should go talk to the psychology professor because he’s cute and exactly her type, she swears.

Her friend tugs her forward and she stumbles, almost crashing into him and the table at the same time. Sorry, she says sheepishly, reaching for a mug on the rack.

It’s fine, he says. Although the coffee isn’t nearly that good. He smiles; he has a nice smile. I’m Fox Mulder. He extends his hand.

She takes it. Dana Scully.

[leiascully]

XF Writing Challenge Prompt: Shopping

Tis the season, right?  We know Scully celebrates Christmas, and that Mulder gets her presents.  How and when do they go shopping?  What do they buy?  Or there’s always grocery shopping, clothes shopping, lingerie shopping, appliance and furniture shopping - the mall is your oyster.

Rules:

Anyone is welcome to participate!  I reblog all stories tagged #xfwritingchallenge (put it in the first five tags or I won't see it) or @ me.

If you’re feeling blocked, block out an hour or a half hour.  If you’re feeling extra blocked, Write Or Die is very motivational (the “try” button gets you the free web version).

Send me an ask if you need an extra-specific prompt, and feel free to write previous prompts.  

Have fun!  Write fic!  

[nowwhateinstein]

An Old Friend

Notes: Written for @leiascully‘s XFWritingChallenge: Toys Timeline: Sometime after SUZ+Closure

It’s a rainy Saturday when he finds it going through some old boxes: Mr. Beans, Samantha’s stuffed rabbit. She’d named it for the beans that weighed down its bottom and made it sit upright. 

Gently, almost reverently, he extracts it from the box’s other contents. It’s shabby and worn in several places; he runs his thumb over its once-pink - now threadbare - nose. The rabbit’s left ear bears conspicuous black stitch marks. The ear ripped during a fight they’d had, he remembers. Samantha had tearfully sewn Mr. Beans’ ear back together while he, refusing to apologize, shut himself in his room and pretended to forget the incident by organizing his baseball cards. He feels ill at the memory. 

*** It’s the morning after her disappearance. 

After the police leave, he ventures into her room. Mr. Beans lies face-down in the middle of her unmade bed, forgotten by everyone but him, it seems. Mr. Beans was Samantha’s entire world. He went with her everywhere when she was younger: to school, to the grocery store, to the beach. She talked to him as if he were a real person, confiding in him her hopes and fears. Not anymore. He thinks about how frightened his sister must be without it, wherever she is. That’s when it hits him that she is really gone.

He picks up the bunny and hugs it to his chest. His tears fall on its soft head, as her tears must have done countless times in the past, when she was angry, or hurt, or sad. “I’m sorry,” he tells Mr. Beans, not sure if he’s talking to his sister, or to this object that holds so many memories of her, or both. “I’m sorry.” 

He sleeps with Mr. Beans every night until he’s sixteen. He doesn’t want to forget her: her smile, her laugh, the way she’d hug him around the waist (when he’d let her) and call him “Buttmunch.” Mr. Beans links him to those memories, to her. If his parents notice this odd habit, they don’t say anything; they are too wrapped up in their own grief to notice or care about how their son handles the loss of Samantha. 

Mr. Beans accompanies him to Oxford, where it sits on his desk as he studies, reminding him of what he’s lost - and what he hopes to one day find again. It earns him a few jokes from his friends, who can’t resist pointing out the the parallels to Lord Sebastian and his teddy bear, Aloysius in ‘Brideshead Revisited.’ A few years later, at the Academy, he’ll see his Oxford friends’ ribbing as a benign foreshadowing of the name-calling he gets from his peers: “Spooky,” for believing that his sister was abducted by aliens. He’ll be grateful for the opportunity it afforded him to grow a thick skin and cultivate a “don’t give a shit” attitude. 

When he moves into his new apartment in Alexandria, he doesn’t bother to unpack Mr. Beans. He’s too preoccupied with his discovery of the X-Files and what it means about the possibility of finding Samantha. At last, he has the time and resources to devote to finding her. His work becomes his new hope - and his obsession. His sister’s bunny remains tucked away in a box in back of his bedroom closet. Forgotten, until now.

*** Later that day, he takes Mr. Beans with him into the office and places him besides Samantha’s photo. On Monday, he walks in and sees Scully holding the rabbit. “I remember reading about him in your sister’s diary.” She speaks to the stuffed animal, but the words are for him. “She missed him almost as much as she missed you.”

“He was her constant companion as a kid,” he says, reaching out to stroke Mr. Beans’ head. “He became mine after she disappeared.”

“And now?”

He smiles sadly as he takes the rabbit from her. “Now, he’s an old friend who deserves to be with the girl who loved him.” He puts Mr. Beans back on the desk, next to Samantha.

[lilydalexf]

I have multiple requests for X-Files undercover fics! Here are some very good fics with Mulder and Scully going undercover and posing as a couple. Though I cheated and included general undercover fics too. ("Arcadia" fics aren't included even though being undercover is the episode's premise. Same with "The Pine Bluff Variant" - look here for my PBV fic recs.) Across the Rubicon by Anne Haynes Once you cross the line, where do you go from there? Amish Country, part 1, part 2 by Lolabegood A serial rapist on the loose in Amish Country causes Mulder and Scully to go undercover and test the limits of their relationship. Amor Caritas, parts 1, 2, 3 by Marguerite The death of Mulder's mother sends Scully undercover to unravel a mystery...and determine her own destiny. Controlled Substances by Kel Those nanites have to go. Skinner is willing to risk it all to be free of the microscopic parasites that Krycek uses to control him. Failure to Die by Kel An undercover assignment lands Agent Jerry Luskin and his colleagues in a “cursed” hospital. Can Dr. Scully handle an emergency without calling for the paramedics? Just watch. Five Years and One Night by Shalimar This starts post “Kitsunegari” and is full of spoilers including all of season 5. It deals with the events in “Emily”. (alt text file link) Grand Gestures by Revely Disappearing jocks, soaring temperatures and a sweaty Mulder and Scully. All of this and still safe for the underage! Hallowed by OnlyTheInevitable (@gaycrouton​) In order to get a dangerous, misogynistic cult shut down, Mulder and Scully have to go undercover as a married couple to destroy it from the inside. When they get a little too involved, how will they manage to come out alive? The Honeycruise by @wtfmulder  Mulder and Scully go undercover on a honeymoon cruise to investigate the deaths of two newlywed couples. In the Dark by @frangipanidownunder​ Silly semi casefile fic written for several reasons. For @leiascully’s XFWritingChallenge: Exercise and also for an anon prompt on Tumblr who asked for a story about Scully being given an undercover assignment as another agent’s wife. Little Green Women by Jean Robinson Scully's undercover assignment poses unexpected challenges. The Marfa Murder Mysteries by Katie Phillips Mulder gets tied up working on a case with VCU so Scully is forced to go undercover on her own down in Texas investigating mysterious deaths involving the world famous Marfa Lights. Problems arise and Mulder also goes undercover to make sure his partner is safe. Midori No Me by FridaysAt9 When several couples go missing from a 55+ community in Florida, Mulder and Scully are once again assigned as an undercover married couple tasked with solving the case. Mulder can’t wait to play house as a retiree, but because of the nature of their relationship at its current state, Scully isn’t so sure. Set post Plus One. Miracle and Mystery by Tesla MSR (no summary provided) Never by Allison Kinney No clever summary. Smut biscuit, pure and simple. Secret World by Bonetree Scully goes deep undercover to find the secret behind a mysterious death. But with what she learns, will she ever be able to come in from the cold? (Part 2 of the Goshen Universe) She's Beauty, She's Grace by @sunflowerseedsandscience​ I was asked to write a Miss Congeniality/The X-Files mash-up… so here goes nothing. Sore Luck at the Luxor by Anubis (@rivkat​) MSR. Not enough plot to summarize. Sub Rosa by Parrotfish Mulder and Scully go undercover to rescue a kidnapped child from a white supremacist militia group. Success could mean the salvation of the duo's partnership -- if it doesn't destroy them first. (Part 3 of the Caught in the Act series) Swingers by ScullyLovesQueequeg (@suitablyaggrieved) Mulder & Scully are assigned a case and have to pretend to be a couple to get into an exclusive swingers’ club. At first, Mulder isn’t fazed but when he notices that men are paying attention to Scully, Mulder starts to become jealous. Thank You, Drive Around by nevdull An undignified stake-out ruffles Scully's feathers. This House is Burning by Tesla MSR casefile (no summary provided) Under Covers by Skinfull Mulder and Scully seem to be on the cusp of a change in their relationship when one of them is assigned undercover. We're Married Now by Skinfull Mulder and Scully go undercover as a married couple to infiltrate a cult in Arizona. What Was Taken, What Was Lost by @sunflowerseedsandscience​ Mulder and Scully, still reeling from the events of Christmas, 1997, go undercover as a honeymooning couple at a romantic retreat in upstate New York to investigate a series of suspicious suicides and accidental deaths.

[greekowl87]

Fic: Resentment

Author’s Note: writtern for @leiascully resentment fic challenge. Hooray wine!

i. 1993

He resented the fact they forced a new partner on him.

He remembered his stint in VCU and under Bill Patterson. Partners did not suit him well. He was a loner and made every single attempt to appear as so to anyone who may or may not try to entangle themselves into his tragic life. He did not want a partner. But he got one.

But the moment she walked into that basement office…wow.

He won’t openly admit it. To do so would assume that they won on some level. She was just too…green. She argued with him whenever she could…Agent Scully and her science. While he resented her, her science, and why she was sent down into this abysmal hell hole of an office, he secretly rejoiced to have someone in search of the Truth.

ii. 1994

She should resent him. For everything.

Scully sighed heavily as she shifted restlessly in her hospital bed. How did she get here? What had happened? It bothered her. She did not know. It scared her. Fear of the unknown. It was funny. That was why she was on the X-Files. To discover and investigate the unknown. But she was scared with what had happened to her. She should resent her new partner. But she couldn’t. Not after he showed up with that stupid VHS tape.

iii. 1995

She shot me, he thought numbly.

He blinked, trying to clear his eyes from the pain and drugged induced his. He resented her for shooting him. Who the hell would shoot their partner?

But, she was a great shot. The best shot in the Bureau.

He winced and gasped for air as she applied pressure to the new gunshot wound.

“Ssshhh,” she whispered, caressing his cheek.

“You shot me.”

“If I wanted to kill you, you would’ve already been dead,” she said, taking care of him. “Stay still.”

“Scully.”

“Hm.” She was distracted by his bleeding shoulder.

“I don’t resent this.”

iv. 1997 pt. 1

Cancer. Fucking cancer.

She sighed and hung her own x-ray up onto the lightbox to see exactly what she was up against. What was the cancer again? She couldn’t remember. All that she could remember is that is was rare and normally affected Asians who smoked cigarettes. But look at her. She took a piece of metal out of her neck and she was dying.

Did she resent the risks? Yes. Did she resent him? No.

v. 1997 pt. 2

She resents me. She hates me.

Mulder bent down in the dark of the hospital room, trying to silence his sobs.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say.

But all he could do was sob, grasping her hand lightly. She was so small. Tinier than normal. The cancer had ravaged her body. Feeling guilty, he crawled into the the small hospital bed and swallowed her small form.

“Mulder?”

“Ssshhh,” he whispered, kissing her brow.

“I regret nothing,” she breathed, relaxing against him. “I resent nothing.”

vi. 1998

Resentment. Her brother resented him. Her mother, obviously too kind to say anything, resented him. The FBI resented him. But she didn’t. His quest had become his. Her quest to find out who and why had done this to her had become his. It consumed them both. Did she resent him? No. If anything, she felt herself growing more trusting of him and him alone.

vii. 1999

How did she not resent me, he thought, or does she?

Mulder nuzzled her naked shoulder blade and sighed happily. His hands traversed her nude body, like an explorer marking his territory. So much had been taken from both of them. But they had each other. How did she do it?

viii. 2000

I hate you, Mulder. I resent everything. I hate everything. You took everything.

She rubbed her swollen belly absently as she wandered her cold Georgetown apartment in search of ice cream at three a.m. He was supposed to be here. That was always the plan. He was always supposed to be there, with her. Now it was just her and their unborn son.

Why did you abandon us, Mulder?

viiii. 2001

Do I resent all the lousy curve balls I have been thrown in my life for this moment? No. Hell fucking no. I have all that I ever wanted. I have my son, I have Scully. I am loved and I love the two most important people in the world. Do I resent what I had to go throughout to get there? Hell no.

x. 2002 pt. 1

Do I resent giving him up? Of course, I do. He was my miracle. Our miracle. But I had to give him up, Mulder. Don’t you understand that? I couldn’t keep him safe. I couldn’t do it alone. Do I resent giving him up? Yes. Oh god, yes. If I realized we were on the run…together…we could have taken care of him and kept him safe. Together. As a family. Do I resent my choice? Hell yes. Do I resent us? No.

xi. 2002 pt. 2

I’ll never resent you, Scully. Never. We’re on the run together. You gave up everything. For me. You gave up your life and freedom. For me. You gave up our son to keep him safe. Do I resent you? Never. Never doubt that. I’ll always love you.

[baronessblixen]

Don’t Resent Me

This is the sequel to Forgive me, which was written for the forgiveness challenge. You have to read that first cause it picks up right where that one ended. I’m not sure it *really* fits with this week’s resentment challenge, but let’s say it does. Also, I used one of the prompts from my inbox for this:

@ladymegg asked for: 43. “I swear to god if you touch me...” This is probably not quite what you imagined? I’m so sorry!

Now on with the actual story which got so long you’re getting a read more.

The woman, William's new mother, clings to the boy she considers her son. When her arms tighten around him instinctively, Will starts to squirm. Mulder wants to see it as a sign that Will recognizes him, which is silly, or Scully, which seems likely; but in the end, he doesn't know. Mulder has to stop himself from sprinting over there and grabbing his son out of the woman's clutch. This is his son, he thinks, but this woman, this Mrs. Van de Kamp, she loves the child, too. And, as much as even the thought burns him, Will must love her as well. Mulder glances at Scully, quickly, before he turns away again. Her face is pale, ashen almost, and fixated on their son. Both her hands are on the car door; she's ready to run away, to flee. Leave their son here and never talk about it ever again. They're good at that, after all. He's brought her here without any warning; he couldn't have told her, he reasons, because she would never have come had she known. When her knuckles turn white from grabbing the door, Mulder winces and averts his eyes. Forgive me, he thinks again; his forever mantra now. Maybe one day she will. Maybe one day his son will as well.

The thing is that Mulder doesn't know if he can do this without her. He knows he doesn't want to. What he's not sure about, though, is whether or not he'd do it anyway.

"What do you want from me? This is my son. Mine." Will squeaks loudly, still kicking his tiny legs. Scully makes a sound Mulder has never heard before. It carries a hurt that cuts right through him. He knows that if he turns to her now they'll leave here, without their son, with more wounds than either of them could ever heal. So he keeps his eyes on the other woman; the other mother.

"Not according to the law, Mrs. Van de Kamp." She gasps when Mulder speaks her name. What she doesn't know is that Mulder knows everything about her and her husband. Too many years in the shadows, a plaything for a global conspiracy and here he is, using the same methods to right a wrong.

"How do you know my name? Leave us alone. Please. This is my son."

"He's my son, Mrs. Van de Kamp. I never signed my consent and I know your last court date is next week."

"No." She cries, tears falling into the boy's hair; when Will was born, his soft tuft of hair was reddish and the softest thing Mulder had ever touched. He wonders what it feels like now that it's longer, a bit darker. There's a bit more of himself in the boy, but if he's honest he only sees Scully in the cherubic face. Startled by the wet drops on his head, Will stares up at the woman he has come to know as his mother, his eyes big and blue. Scully's eyes, of course. Mulder reminds himself that he's doing the right thing. Their son, their miracle, should be with them.

"Mulder…," Scully's voice scratches at his resolve; he's not going to look at her. Not until he's holding their son. Not until he can give her something back; they've lost so much and they're not losing this. "Let's… we should… go. Let's go." Scully's voice is no more than a whisper that the soft Wyoming air carries away.

"Don't take him. Please, Mr…. don't do this. He's our little miracle," Scully's wrenched sob gives her pause, "We love him. He's ours. He's my baby boy. What gives you the right?" She spits at him. Nothing gives him the right. Guilt, he thinks. Justice, he wonders.

Love.

"I understand, Mrs. Van de Kamp… I know you love him, but… he's ours."

"No, he's not. She gave him up! She gave him up!" Scully jiggles the car door; it won't open. Mulder feels the weight of the keys in his pocket. He doesn't even remember locking it up.  

"She didn't have a choice. Now we do. We can take care of him." Mulder hears the rattle of the car door and Scully's desperate fight. It reminds him that this is a lie. He has no idea if they can take care of him. All they have is this car and a suitcase full of guilt, resentment and fear.

"You should have thought about that before you gave him away." Will's whimpering intensifies and his small arms reach out. Not to him, no. He's reaching for Scully, who is not looking at her son, but still trying to get into the car.

"Look, Mrs. Van de Kamp, William wants-"

"Michael. His name is Michael. You got the wrong house, Mr. This is my baby. This is Michael. Right, Mikey? My baby?" But the boy doesn't react to the name.

"What is going on here?" The screen door gently flaps open to reveal what Mulder presumes is Mr. Van de Kamp. He's never seen a picture. The man puts his hands on his wife's shoulders and Will looks up at him briefly.

"He wants our son."

"My son." Mulder reminds her.

"Excuse me, Mr… but this is our son. We're in the middle of finalizing the adoption process."

"That's why I'm here. I'm the boy's father and I never gave my consent. My… his mother… it wasn't supposed to happen like this." In all of this, his great plan to get William back, Mulder hardly ever thought about these two people. William's new parents. His thoughts revolved around Scully, himself and the boy. He should be happy that their son was played in such a protected, loving environment. But he isn't. When Skinner, not Scully, told him about William's fate, part of him had been relieved. He's safe. No matter what happened now, to him and to Scully, their son would be safe. But it didn't last. Guilt burnt him every time he looked into Scully's eyes, piercing blue and full of pain. He was taking her away from what is left of her family, from the life she knows. He was always just taking and destroying. This time he needs to do something right. Even if Scully resents him for it.

“They told us there was no father. No one else.”

“I’m on his birth certificate.” Scully’s shy smile, his own lips quivering with emotion, as she handed him the document is carved into his memory.

“No, you’re not.” Mrs. Van den Kamp hisses. Mulder almost asks Scully if she took his name off, but she is not there, not really. She’s standing there clinging to the car door, her eyes empty, her mouth open; frozen in place.

“Actually…” Mr. Van de Kamp clears his throat. His eyes land on Mulder and narrow. “I didn’t want to… I didn’t want you to worry. You were so scared we were going to lose him again and so I… didn’t want to tell you. They told me that a father was listed.”

“No.” Her voice breaks as tears stream down her face. It’s not a conscious choice when Mulder takes a step forward. Mrs. Van de Kamp screams, startling William.

“Please hand him over.” Mulder feels the need to hold his son everywhere in his body. His arms tingle in anticipation, in memory.

“He is our son! We will fight this!” Her voice is screeching and scaring Will. In her desperation she barely notices that her husband entangles her hands from the baby. In a quick movement, Mr. Van de Kamp takes the few squeaking stairs with Will on his hip.

“Take him,” he spits loudly, “It never felt right.” He finishes quietly, softly so that his wife can't hear him. On the porch Mrs. Van de Kamp is on her knees, screaming and crying. Mulder takes his son, revels in the boy’s weight, and immediately takes a step back. He’s never going to let go of him again. He can’t help but watch Mr. Van de Kamp walk towards his wife, his life in shambles, and all he can think is forgive me, please.

Will, as if knowing who Mulder is, doesn’t even fuss. His small hand grabs at his shirt and holds it tightly for a moment until he sees Scully. His arms stretch out as far as they go. He makes baby noises, sounding happy and exciting. But Scully doesn’t react.

“Scully? Hey, Scully. I need you to take the baby so I can drive.” He wants to get away as soon as possible.

“Scully, come on. Look at Will. He just wants his… he wants you.” Her eyes, so cold, meet his for the shortest moment before she opens her arms. He puts Will there and he expects tears, a whirlwind of emotions; anything. Scully barely looks at their son, holds him at arm’s length, as if he were a doll, just a figment of Mulder's vast imagination.

Mulder unlocks the car and opens the door so that Scully and Will can get it. He sprints to his side, stealing a last look at the remnants of the family he just broke up. Forgive me, he whispers, before he gets into the car and drives off.

Staring the car, Mulder listens to Will babbling happily in Scully’s arms. He seems to tell her everything he’s experienced these last few months without her. Scully’s arms tighten around the boy when Mulder maneuvers the car over the gravel path, hitting a few tough spots. They’ll need a car seat. They’ll need so many things. Mulder glances at his son. He knows nothing about him. What food he likes, if he’s allergic to anything. They have no clothes for the boy or toys.

“I guess we’ll need supplies. Huh?” Scully stays quiet.

“Scully, I know you’re-“

“No, Mulder, you don’t know. You don’t know anything.”

*

They stop at a Walmart where Scully hauls several things into the cart and Mulder feels like everyone is watching them. He holds William, who despite not knowing him, seems to like him enough to stay quiet. At least that way they don’t look like kidnappers. And as much as Mulder wanted this and justified this, he’s beginning to understand that this is exactly what they are. What he is, anyway. He’s afraid that if he turns around, Scully will run. Leave him alone or worse: turn him in. One year, he thinks, and his trust in her is nothing but a chip on a cherished cup.

“We need clothes for him. And diapers.” Mulder stares at the different sizes displayed before him. Then at his son, who grins back. A Scully grin that distracts Mulder from his task and the gloom surrounding them.

Scully, without a word, without having to check, grabs a few packages and puts them in the cart. He follows the clickety-clack of her heels into the clothing section.

“Should we have him model for us?” No comment and no reaction as Scully rummages around the small collection and picks several tiny outfits.

“Is that all we need?” He dimly remembers a similar cart a lifetime ago. He can still hear Scully’s giggle when he presented her with a very tiny Knicks shirt that one, and only, time they found themselves shopping together for their baby. His face still shadowed by his ordeal, his mind momentarily quieted by the beauty bestowed on him against all odds.

“For now.” Her cold voice jolts him back to this new reality. She takes William from him, conscious not to touch Mulder in the process, and lets him steer the cart. You’re paying for all of this, she is telling him without any words. Mulder knew he would be.

They check in as a family for the first time. The receptionist smiles at Will, who buries his head into Scully's neck, shyly. Mulder hopes she doesn't see Scully startle.

"If you need anything for the baby just give me a call." The receptionist lets them know and Mulder nods absent-mindedly. His hand reaches out to settle on Scully's back, his spot, but she moves away from him, leading the way instead. He just follows.

It's a strange scene of twisted domesticity when Scully feeds William while Mulder tries to get up the cheap travel crib. The one they bought for him back home, back when everything still seemed right, came assembled. I'd rather pay the extra fee, Scully had told him with a coy smile, than have to worry about your hurting yourself. He'd kissed her then, his hand on her protruding stomach. Now he huffs, trying to rip the snapshot up in his mind. That, however, is not how his mind works.

To distract himself, Mulder steps away to look at what he's accomplished. The crib is up and it looks sturdy enough for a child. All Mulder can do is hope. He turns to ask Scully to check it out, but when he sees her, he stops. There she is, her back to him, holding Will. She's gently humming and Mulder is not sure she even realizes it. His son's face is against her shoulder, fighting to keep his eyes open. They land on Mulder for a short moment, unseeing yet trusting, before exhaustion defeats the small boy and takes him away into a land that Mulder prays is full of happy dreams.

"The crib is ready." Mulder whispers when he and Scully are finally face to face. Her eyes are wet with tears spurred on by happiness, or anger. Right now he can't tell. He offers to take Will from her, but she ignores him, and puts him down herself. The crib holds, much to Mulder's relief. The baby, however, starts whimpering and Mulder stares at Scully, looking for a clue. She doesn't give him one. Her arms are tightly swung around herself, hugging herself, as if she's cold.

"Scully, should we?" Mulder has never been a father. He's never taken care of a baby before, not like this, and if he ever thought he could do this without Scully by his side, he must have been in denial. Scully turns away from him, starts undressing; it's as if she's not hearing the child, not seeing him. Will cries out loudly and Mulder doesn't know if it's wrong or right; if there's ever a right or wrong in anything. He picks up his son, cradles him close and the boy relaxes immediately. Will sighs against his shoulder, sleep already tugging at his small body again.

There's no right, no wrong and so Mulder takes the baby and puts him down on the bed right between himself and Scully. This time Will doesn't fuss. His eyes are closed tightly while his lips suck at the air, search, before they finally settle down. Mulder watches in amazement; he's only done this once before and now he knows he'll do it for as long as he walks this, or any other, earth. His hand reaches out by instinct, just like Will's mouth searched for something to latch onto, to touch Scully. If he can't share this with her, then it's only worth half of it. If even that.

"I swear to god if you touch me…" Her ice cold voice makes him stop; his hand hovers above her hip and he can still feel the heat emanating from her. Slowly, he withdraws and puts his on Will's leg instead.

"Scully, I don't know what to say. I knew that if I told you what I wanted to do… you would have tried to stop me." Her eyes wander from him to William in turns. They never stay long, always in motion; trying to run away.

"I can spend the rest of my life telling you that I'm sorry. I am, Scully. Not for taking William back, never that. You know he belongs with us. We can keep him safe. I know we can."

"You resented me for giving him up. You'll always resent me for that." The ice in her voice thawed, nothing but tears are left. His hand itches with the need to touch her, but he knows better.

"No, Scully. I resented myself for leaving you and William. I would have resented myself for the rest of my life – our life."

"I made you leave to keep you safe, to keep… all of us safe."

"Say his name, Scully."

"What?"

"Say his name. You can barely look at him. It's William. He's with us and I'm gonna make damn sure it stays this way forever."

"Mulder…"

"Come on, Scully."

"You have no right to do this, Mulder. I gave him up to keep him safe. This life – this is no life for a child. You took him away from his family, they-"

"We're his family, Scully. He was with them what? Two months? Three? We're his family."

"You've been with him three days, Mulder. You had no right! How did you even know where to find him? No one was supposed to find him!"

"Shhhh." Mulder points at the baby sleeping between them.

"Fuck you, Mulder. This isn't fair. None of it." Sculls bolts from the bed and for a moment he is convinced she's running out into the cold even clad in a tank top and an old pair of boxer shorts that must have been his once. Making sure that William is safe on the bed, Mulder joins her. Standing behind her, her face towards the small, dirty window, he makes sure not to touch her. Mulder knows he's close enough so that she can feel him. He hopes it's enough; he hopes it's not too much.

"I know it isn't fair, Scully. I know. But don't you think we deserve this? Well, maybe I don't. I may not deserve this, Scully, but you do. You do deserve to see your son grow up. You deserve to be his mother. And maybe it's selfish, hell, I know it is, but I want this for us. Whenever I couldn't sleep, I imagined you and Will at home. I knew that… no matter how lonely I was, you had a part of me with you always. That's what kept me going. That's what always kept me going."

"We can't raise him on the run, Mulder. I didn't want this for him. What could we possibly give him? What if we can't keep him safe?" At least she's talking to him, he thinks. She may not be able to look at him yet, may not be able to forgive him ever, but she's talking.

"What can we give him? Love, Scully. As someone who's been loved by you, how can I deny my son this? He might not have been safe there either, Scully, and what would that have done to you? Hm? I only asked a favor and that was all it took to find him." A sigh escapes her lips and then she's there; her back presses into his chest as a peace offering. His arms carefully come around and rest on her flat stomach. They've done this before, he remembers, when Scully was pregnant. The baby that kicked against his hands back then, when he promised that he'd do everything to keep both of them safe, is now sleeping peacefully in their bed. A true miracle.

"What if they… his… William's, uhm, other parents, the Van de Kamp's? What if they come and look for us, too? Try to get him back?" Her finally uttering their son's name, after all this time, sounds like music in his ears that runs right through his soul and into his heart.

"They have no case, Scully, and I know – I feel – like… they know this is right. Trust me on this?" Mulder listens to her even breathing, tries to decipher her stillness in the absence of words.

"You once said that you didn't believe me when I first told you about Samantha," he begins, "and you followed me anyway, Scully, because you trusted me. Just like I always trusted you. Can you do it now, please? Trust us, Scully. You said you were fighting for us. William is part of that us and he belongs here with you and me, Scully. How could we ever have lived with each other, with the guilt of not knowing, of not taking care of him ourselves? So Scully… all I'm asking is… can you trust me?" Finally, she turns in his arms, her face tilted up.

"I do trust you, I want to, but-" Mulder puts his finger on her lips and she quiets immediately; this is enough. This one concession is enough. For now. It's not I forgive you. It's not a this is going to work. It's never been that with the two of them. Mulder is aware of her lips under his finger, feels her gently kissing his skin, and now he knows it's right.

This is their new beginning.