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bakedbakermom · 7 months

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Stained

Epilogue: Sagacious // start at the beginning

tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

sagacious adjective 1. keenly perceptive 2. farsighted; wise -- Saying goodbye to Sunnydale

The hospital cleared Scully for release the next day, every test and scan having come back with no indication of anything being wrong to begin with, let alone any reason to keep her longer; she doubted a test existed that could explain what had happened to her, to them, in this quiet coastal town with monsters and miracles creeping beneath the streets. Who could read the secrets of her heart, written in pure light, on a blood slide? Who could look at an image of her brain on a CT and decode the line she had walked between life and death, or explain how she’d found her way back?

She was brushing her hair in the small metal mirror above the bathroom sink when a voice behind her made her jump. “Looking delectable as always, Red.”

Scully whirled, heart in her throat, adjusting her grip on the brush in case she needed to throw it or use it as a bludgeon. Spike leaned against the door jamb, the perfectly posed picture of nonchalance in a scarlet shirt and his signature leather coat. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips in clear violation of the “no smoking” sign behind him.

She rolled her eyes at him, glancing from him to the mirror and back again. “It’s rude to sneak up on people, Spike, especially if you don’t have a reflection. That’s just cheating.”

“No harm intended, love, I just love to see your cheeks get all pink when you’re startled.”

She squeezed past him through the door and dropped her brush into her open suitcase, which Mulder had brought from the motel; their flight was in just a few hours, and half her mind was buzzing, trying to figure out what she could possibly write in her report to Skinner that would even begin to explain the events of the last week. A vampiric serial killer who committed a series of violent murders every decade on the anniversary of her own gruesome death; Mulder transformed into a vampire and nearly draining her before his soul was restored by a group of college kids; Scully sacrificing her own life to save him, not knowing it was her willingness to die for him that was the secret to the spell, rather than her actual death. Giles had finally translated the last of Vroomen’s journals, revealing that the disgraced Watcher’s wife had also survived the ritual; but he postulated that had either of them known they would live, the spell wouldn’t have succeeded. “The key was believing your death was the only way to save him, and giving up your life willingly,” he had explained.

Scully shook her head, marveling—not for the first time—at the strange intricacies of the magical world that had been lurking just out of sight this whole time. She turned to Spike with a lifted eyebrow. “How did you get in here, anyway?” She nodded meaningfully at the window, the pale threads of morning light filtering through the blinds. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Underground tunnels. Sunnydale’s chock full of them, a big dark maze under the whole town. Makes it easy for the sun-averse of the population to get about during the daylight.”

“Seriously? That makes no sense, at least from a city-planning point of view.”

“It does if you consider that the town was built by a quasi-immortal madman literally hellbent on becoming a giant snake.”

Scully squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed at her temples. She really needed to get out of this town. “Of course. Completely reasonable, in that case.”

“Anyway, I just popped in to say goodbye to you and Spooky before you went galavanting off to your real lives again.” He glanced around the little room. “Where is our man, anyway? Still in night shift mode or something?”

She shook her head. “He’s out getting coffee that didn’t come from a vending machine. We spend too much time in hospitals to keep torturing ourselves like that.”

“I’ve got this theory that they make it crappy on purpose; it burns a hole in your stomach, keeps you coming back.”

“Now that’s a conspiracy theory I’d believe.”

Spike cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncharacteristically serious. “It really is amazing, what you did for him. Not many people in this world lucky enough to have someone willing to step under the knife for ‘em. I hope he knows just what he’s got.”

“Oh I do.” Mulder entered the room, a cup of coffee in either hand—not a drop of blood or creepy, self-cannibalizing pig logo to be found. He pressed a chaste kiss to Scully’s cheek as he handed her her cup, then turned to exchange a complicated handshake with Spike. She grinned as she sipped her coffee. He’s got a secret handshake with a vampire. Skinner would faint.

The handshake ended with one of those back-thumping man-hugs, then Spike took Scully’s hand and touched it to his lips. He stared pointedly at Mulder. “You take good care of this one. I mean it; you hurt her and I’ll pull your entrails out through your nose and string ‘em up like Christmas lights around my crypt.”

Scully wrinkled her nose at the graphic imagery, but Mulder only laughed. “If I hurt her,” he answered, clapping the vampire on the back, “I’d deserve it. Take care of yourself, Spike.”

“First and always,” he replied. Spike moved to the door, then stopped for a moment, hand on the frame, considering. He turned back to them, something soft and contemplative in his eyes. “You know, there’s one thing that’s nagging on me. Dana here made a little joke about immortality the other night, got me thinking: if she’s gonna live forever, and now she’s given you some sort of… metaphysical life-force transfusion, what’s that mean for your eternity, Mulder?”

He twitched his brows, then vanished down the hall in a flap of leather.

They stood frozen, staring after him, for a long moment. Scully thought of the prayer votives she had lit, of the taper passing the fire from one candle to another, doubling the flame rather than extinguishing it.

…the flame kindles life… to share it… no greater gift…

Finally Mulder said, “I think he’s got a little crush on you.”

She ran a hand along his jaw until he met her eyes, then pushed up on her toes to brush her lips over his. “Too bad my heart belongs to someone else.”

Couldn't let this end without a little more Scully and Spike :) Thank you thank you thank you for taking this journey with me. Thank you for reading, for your kudos and comments, for your reblogs on tumblr. IT means everything to me. I hope you laughed, cried, laughed so hard you cried. This fic was a blast to write (most of the time) and it was great for me, personally, to see how I've grown as a writer between my first attempt 20+ years ago and now. Comments will be printed, laminated, and placed lovingly in a scrapbook to be read over and over again.

#stained #my writing #my fanfic #crossover #txf #the x files #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #fox mulder #dana scully #buffy summers #willow rosenberg #tara maclay #xander harris #rupert giles #spike btvs #anya jenkins

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bleakbluejay · 8 months

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top five women

the hardest ask i've ever gotten as a lesbian. "all of them" is a funny answer but i will try to pick 5.

hmmmmm.

in no particular order:

Lara Croft from the Tomb Raider series

She's smart, she's strong, she's witty, and she's hot. What else is there? I loved the Tomb Raider games as a kid. I used to make her do flips and swan dives and play around with her outfits (most relevant in Anniversary and Legend). She was so so cool. I'm not as big a fan of the reboot Lara, other than they made her queer, but :)

Anna the Huntress from Dead by Daylight

My wife. The game lore did her kinda dirty, but that's what headcanon is for. She's a big strong tall Russian lady who lives in the woods and hunts people. She kidnaps little girls from villages so she can take care of them in her little cabin and give them toys. She kills nazis. She sings. I'm so, so in love with her.

Ellen Ripley from the Alien series

Sigourney Weaver in general... but Ripley in particular. Brave, adaptable, intelligent. A girlboss if there ever was one. She's one of my favorite Final Girls (topped only by Nancy from the original Nightmare on Elm Street). Everything Ripley ever says is 100% correct and for some reason nobody wants to listen to her.

Leia Organa from Star Wars

A princess. A general. A rebel leader. And a badass bitch. Leia was one of the earliest examples of a good, strong-willed and fearless female character I had as a kid. Even if she needs rescue from time to time, she does plenty of rescuing others herself. She takes no guff from scoundrels like Han Solo or fascists like Grand Moff Tarkin. Her parents would be so, so proud of her.

Nani Pelekai from Lilo and Stitch

The relationship between Nani and her little sister Lilo reminded me a lot of my mom and me. And it takes a lot to raise a little kid on your own (especially one that is a little special needs like me and Lilo both were), working a crappy job, having no time for a social life, and having to fight against Child Protective Services. Being poor + indigenous + a broken family fucking sucks. But Nani held it together, just like my mom did. I can't forget a character like that.

#eli answers #eli talks #there's infinite honorable mentions i could make #i love women in a lesbian way sure #but i also love women in a “wow they are so cool and strong” way too #some honorable mentions include:#olenna tyrell “queen of thorns” from the song of ice and fire #inej ghafa from the six of crows (though i wouldnt call a 16yo a woman really)#nina zenik also from six of crows (also only 17)#asha greyjoy from a song of ice and fire #samantha carter from stargate sg 1 #dana scully from the x files #dr. mrs. the monarch from venture bros #tara maclay from buffy the vampire slayer #kimiko from the boys (show)#susan ashworth from the cat lady #i love you women

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agent-troi · 3 months

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Saw your tags--

Oh, yes, he's Selfish, not gonna deny that.

I just see him as a man who is kept in check by the people he respects the most-- Tara and Maggie-- and not so much Scully. I got the impression he backed off during the Emily arc; and he wouldn't like (or probably respect) Mulder after; but there'd be a "do not touch sign" between he and Scully concerning that topic and he'd stay clear of it. At least, that's my headcanon. ;)))

I did include the nurse's annoyance at him for a hint that he might not be coming across as nicely or rightly as he thinks he is.

hard agree with all of this!

#definitely think he’d be truly insufferable if not for tara and maggie lol #asks #bill scully

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littlesolo · 2 years

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Box Fall

I need this for Kate and Lucy. Need it. I don't care what context.

#kacy #kate x lucy #kate whistler #lucy tara #monica reyes #dana scully #box fall

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blackbird-brewster · 10 months

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I miss old OTP/ship nomenclatures. Before everything turned into a portmanteau á la "Brangelina"

I understand how portmanteau are usually easier to use in fandom tags, because OTP names are usually more personal to each fan, but dang, I still miss it.

"OTP + ship reference" (ex. JJ x Emily are OTP: Blackbird) is just such a perfect way to sum up a ship, yanno?

#Fandom culture #I was talking about this today while watching Doctor who #Ten x rose will forever be #Otp: I'm burning up a sun #Tara X Emily are #Otp: I thought we'd get lucky #And JJ x Tara are obviously #Otp: I will and you won't #musings #about me 2k23 #Although mulder x Scully will forever be MSR bc I'm old

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ncvywife · 2 years

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"I can't help but think that life before now was somehow... less. Just a prelude."

INDIE | PRIVATE | SELECTIVE

Tara Scully of The X-Files { ship exclusive with @thecavclry’s Bill Scully Jr }

#∴ self!promo #tara scully rp #xfiles rp

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baronessblixen · 6 months

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Prompt: 8. "Give me that, before anything happens."

Sequel to day 22 "Cookie Theft And Other Crimes" but can be read as a stand-alone: What happens when Mulder wakes up with Scully in his arms? (Fluff all the way! wc: 1,137)

Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2023

Fictober Day 27: Christmas With You By My Side

This could be a dream come true; he’s slowly waking up, Scully soft and warm in his arms, still fast asleep and snuggled against him. It would be a dream if it weren’t for the indistinct chatter becoming louder and clearer.

Mulder blinks his eyes open and loses himself in the sight of Scully with her mouth partly open as if she fell asleep in the middle of an argument. He brushes a strand of hair out of her face, afraid it’ll wake her. He’s hoping she’s so used to her family chattering about that they won’t wake her. He was not as lucky.

“Let them sleep a moment longer. It’s still early.” He hears the whispered hiss. That’s distinctively Mrs. Scully. He cracks a small smile. She of all people knows that her daughter needs all the rest she can get.

“Did you not see them?” Bill Jr. is awake too. Mulder is almost sad that he was blissfully asleep when the other man must have seen them down here on the couch together. He takes it all in. There’s a blanket over them so Bill Jr. couldn’t have seen that his sister is draped over him, her leg between his. Her head is resting on his chest, and he tries to keep his breathing even so that she slumbers on. Knowing Scully, she’d feel if something was wrong even in her sleep.

“I think they look cute.” That must be Tara, Bill’s wife.

“Cute? The guy showed up here in the middle of the night and no one even knew about it.”

“Bill, your sister wanted him here.”

“She doesn’t know what she wants.” Mulder takes a deep breath and tries to stay calm. Another glance at Scully to make sure she doesn’t hear any of this. Last night was hard enough. The throbbing in his jaw reminds him of when Bill Jr. discovered him here and showed him exactly what he thought of him. Mulder just took it and he knows he’d do it again. Maybe he shouldn’t have said the thing about him spending the night in Scully’s bedroom, but he couldn’t help himself. They ended up sleeping together anyway. Not in her bed, but why would they do any of this like normal people might? They left normal behind long ago.

“Bill!” Tara says, remembering too late they’re supposed to be quiet. “That’s your sister you’re talking about.” Mulder finds he likes Tara. How she ended up with someone like Bill Jr. remains a mystery. Maybe they can open an X-File on it.

“He’s caused her nothing but pain.” The disdain in Bill Jr.’s words hits Mulder unexpectedly. His eyes find Scully’s face, so peaceful in sleep. Last night all he saw there was hurt and weariness. He held her, let her know she wasn’t alone. And never would be. He made her smile, too. Elicited a small laugh even. Scully has reminded him more than once that none of what’s happened is his fault. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult to remember. What if Bill is right? The guilt gnaws at him.

“It’s not your place to decide who your sister spends her life with.” Mrs. Scully interrupts his pity party. “Fox and Dana have something special. She loves him and he loves her.” Mulder hears a gasp and for a moment isn’t sure if it came from Bill Jr. or out of his own mouth.

“But Mom…”

“You’ll be nice to him at breakfast.” It’s an order so harsh that even Mulder nods. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mulder chuckles and that’s when he sees that Scully is looking up at him with a curious expression and the smallest of smiles.

“How long have you been awake?” he asks in a whisper, their faces close together. He should care about morning breath, but he doesn’t.

“Just a moment,” she says, her voice still sleepy.

“I hope I didn’t wake you.” She shakes her head, stretching, but not leaving his side. Instead, she snuggles closer and he has to control his breathing again. This time to not let her notice how excited he is. In more ways than one.

“No. It was Bill.” Her tone is laced with annoyance. “His voice has that effect on people.” Mulder just grins at her. “You know he’s wrong, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“When he said that you cause me nothing but pain.”

“You heard that, too?”

“I did, and I want you to get it out of your head. It’s not true. I see that worry line on your forehead there, Mulder.” She touches his forehead with the tip of her finger. “It’s not true.” She says, looking into his eyes. “You hear me?” He nods solemnly, trusting her. If she says it’s not true then all he can do is believe her.

“What about the thing your mother said?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She’s so obviously lying that he has to laugh. Scully covers his mouth with her hand, not wanting to be found out. For the rest of the house, they’re still fast asleep. “Fine, I heard it.”

“You know it’s true on my end. I told you.”

“We’d just fished you out of the ocean, Mulder. I bet you said I love you to every nurse.”

“I didn’t, and I can just say it again now, Scully. I love you. Your mom is absolutely right about that. And you don’t need to say anything else now. I know how you are in the morning before your coffee. I don’t need the words from you. I know it in here.” He puts his hand on hers, close to his heart. “You follow me to haunted mansions and you let me comfort you when things get too much. I have everything I ever could have asked for.”

Scully doesn’t say anything, but he sees the wheels turning in her head. And then, completely unexpectedly, her mouth is on his. It’s a soft and tame kiss, appropriate for Mrs. Scully’s living room couch. But it’s still the best, most perfect kiss he’s ever received.

“Eww, there are grown-ups on the couch and they’re kissing!” A kid yells and suddenly it’s mayhem.

“They’re what!” Bill Jr. yells.

“Better give me that, before anything happens,” Tara says to either one of the kids or her husband.

“You get back into the kitchen, right now,” Mrs. Scully interferes before Bill can make it to the living room where Mulder and Scully still cling to each other and this moment. More and more people of all ages appear in the living room and Mulder doesn’t know who they are or where they came from. He can’t quite care either because Scully is still smiling at him. It’s already the best Christmas he’s ever had.

#fictober23 #fluff!#i feel happiest when i write it #and a sequel cause people asked for one #msr #xf fanfic #my writing #my fic

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carefulfears · 9 months

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thinking about "you have a life" / "i don't know what i have" + "what do you want, dana?" / "i want everything that i should want at this time of my life" + the perceived shame in scully's loss of normalcy... "unlike you, mulder, i would like to have a life" + "do you believe in the afterlife?" / "i'd settle for a life in this one" + "don't you ever want to just stop? get out of the damn car? settle down and live something approaching a normal life?"

her friend ellen saying, "well, first you have to get a life." tara, pregnant with their christmas gift, saying that life before one grew inside her was "somehow...less, just a prelude," while barren dana cries in the kitchen. "i know you and dad were...disappointed...that i chose the path that i'm on."

thinking about how mulder said, "this is a normal life," and how she smiled. (he doesn't know any different). how, in the end, he said, "hey, scully? i know it's not your normal life, but thanks for coming out there with me."

(christmas before quantico, "i guess i'm afraid of making a big mistake. dad thinks i am." and missy's response: "it's not his life, dana.")

her application to adopt emily was rejected: "you're a single woman who's never been married or had a long-term relationship. you're in a high stress, time intensive, and dangerous occupation."

bill's reaction: "sounds like something your partner would say. this isn't about any little girl, dana. this is about you. it's about some...void, some emptiness inside you that you're trying to fill."

and mulder to the judge: "the fact that she can adopt this child, her own flesh and blood, is something i don't feel i have the right to question, and i don't believe anyone has the right to stand in the way of."

(that last christmas with missy before everything: "there is no right or wrong. life is just a path...just don't mistake the path for what is really important in life. the people you're going to meet along the way. you don't know who you're going to meet when you join the FBI. you don't know how your life is going to change, or how you're going to change the life of others.")

and ultimately, it all leads to a leather couch. and after contemplating that sacrifice of normalcy, what she should want, the decisions she could have made, she says, "i once considered spending my whole life with this man...what i would have missed."

she could've been a doctor, like her father wanted. she could've settled down, married waterston, had a normal life, like her friends and brother wanted. but what would she have missed?

"what if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong?" / "and all the...choices would then lead to this very moment. one wrong turn, and...we wouldn't be sitting here together."

#i truly believe that what's made this show so lasting and rich to so many generations #is how completely in touch with raw human experience it always was. there was always this kind of bleak undertone of...this is how it is...#and very rarely was it ever overcome or accepted or boldly subverted. it just was.#the pressures and the grief and the traps of abuse and trauma and power structures. this is how it is. this is how it feels.#'people thought the storyline and characters for x-files made it a 'dark' show but i never saw it that way.#i always thought mulder and scully were the light in dark places.'#my favorite quote about the show and why i think it's so comforting. it's the harsh reality of the world #of which mulder and scully are not exempt #but it's also mulder and scully going wherever they are needed with their unending kindness and their perseverance and their passion #and they bring all of those things to each other too. that's why she chose THIS life. despite it NOT being normal.#despite it NOT being what her father wanted for her. despite it NOT being easy. she chooses it over and again #because he is bringing light to dark places and she wants to be where he is and she wants to be doing important work. she wants to be #'on the side of the victim'#and that's rarely supported by societal structures and it's hard. but like she says #what would she have missed??#txf.txt #you people make me crazy when you dismiss her decisions and act like she Ruined Her Life or mulder Ruined Her Life #congratulations! you've missed the point!#all things #emily #dreamland

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aloysiavirgata · 7 months

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For all of the anons who have asked for more in The Fisher King universe, here you go. New chapter below, main fic linked.

***

A man takes a woman and she disappears. It’s an old story.

The media will tell you she’s pretty, always. Sometimes she is and sometimes she isn’t, but she’s given the grace in her tragedy.

Dana is, though. In the way of Celtic priestesses and Roman goddesses and Renaissance women so achingly beautiful they were allowed to let their hair flow like corn. Like gold. Like rivers.

She has cheekbones like granite hillsides in winter.

Like Persephone in spring.

***

“She’s dead,” says the Captain. Says Margaret. Says Bill. Charlie calls with non-committal love from from Venezuela. Charlie calls with non-committal love from Norway.

If she’s alive she’s raped. She’s tortured, she’s broken But Catholics love the sanctified dead.

“She’s alive,” says Melissa, over an uncut celadon nested in a swirl of tarot cards..

Tara looks away in disgust. In fear.

****

Duane Barry was Mulder’s own particular monster, his brother in arms and paranoia.

An empty place in him wants to welcome Barry, wants him to fill the lacuna of Samantha. He imagines smoothing neatly over him, like spackling drywall.

But Barry takes Dana and, that, Mulder cannot forgive. He wants to hurt Barry for a long time in a way that they discuss in hushed awed voices after battlefield frenzies. He wants all of Barry’s insides on the outside, twitching and wet.

He gathers Dana’s animals to him, brings them into his home. He strokes their fur in his bed, he loves their angled predators’ faces that, like his, have eyes at the front of their heads.

***

Mulder fucks a suspect with the mindless short term satisfaction of scratching a mosquito bite until it bleeds. He hates himself and god, it’s good, the hating. He fucks her below the pagan sun and the Captain’s god and dares the universe to punish him. It’s a ripped hangnail, it’s his tongue against a toothache, it’s boxer briefs against a hardon at his desk.

He suffers with relish and, like most of the Scullys, he believes that his suffering will provoke tenderness from the universe. He bites the golden cross like an X-ray plate.

He wonders if anyone can see inside him at all.

***

He claps Bill on the back at the airport. He kisses Tara’s silky cheek, smells her knockoff Chanel #5.

Bill looks at him like a boy at Christmas, like Mulder’s the Grownup and can promise him everything.

“I love my sister,”. Bill says, as though it’s a shibboleth.

“So do I,” Mulder replies.

It’s the first time he talks about someone else’s sister and means it.

***

She turns up at the hospital like a message in a bottle. She is soft and pale and bloated and alive. He kisses her cheek like a Torah. He kisses her cheek like the earth of his true homeland.

***

Mulder holds a vigil for her as though she’s bound to Yggdrasil. Nine days and nine nights and perhaps she’s gained all knowledge. Perhaps she understands the runes.

Or maybe he does - who is the sacrifice and who is the sacrificed? Odin, spear-pierced, died for himself like Dana’s own god.

Melissa holds her sister’s hand. She holds his hand too, at the same time, her mass of red hair like ivy in the fall. She murmurs nothingness to the cold white stone of the moon.

“The moon is female,” Melissa confides to him at 2 AM over cheap wine and shrimp fried rice. “She’s the spiritual mother-guardian off all women.”

He says that he agrees, because it’s as true as any other fucking thing.

Margaret’s gaze is the sky before a shuttle launch, the Captain’s handshake the last thing you feel before your soul is ferried across the Acheron and the Styx.

Odin gave up his eye for the deep knowledge. Mulder would give up his eye for surety of her safety. He’ll give up both for what he brought to her. He understands why people suffer for communion with their gods now.

He understands why they surrendered hearts to bleed down the stones. He understands that prayers are a way to articulate fear.

***

Dana opens her eyes like a Marian apparition.

“Mulder?” she says, frowning.

He feels her voice the way magnets feel true north. “Hi,” he breathes, after days of planning the perfect response for this moment.

She blinks. “Did I fall asleep?” she mumbles. “Where are we? What happened?”

He kisses her knuckles, the delicate papyrus inside of her blue-tinted wrist. He marvels at the engineering of her thumb.

“You took a nap,” he says, rather breathless. Rather choked.

“Mmmm,” Dana says. She laces her fingers through his, she curls onto her side. She takes in the hospital room, frowning.

Then she seems to remember. “Ohhhh,” she whispers, eyes wide. “Am I okay?”

He nods. “Nothing serious.”

Mulder watches her breathing, watches her come back to life. He’ll press the call button in a moment, will alert the cavalry. He will make the Appropriate Telephone Calls.

Through the open blinds he sees the moon peer in. He says a prayer of thanks to its blank silver face, just in case Melissa is right.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #my fic #msr #au #coffee shop au #the fisher king #duane barry

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randomfoggytiger · 25 days

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I have a prompt idea! Any character reacting to the episode of COPS that Mulder and Scully appear on when it finally airs.

Decided to make this part of the Bill Scully POV series (on Ao3, or Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V.)

Charlie hadn't bothered to call or catch up since New Years; nevertheless, the phone went off an hour after Matthew's head finally hit the pillow.

"Bill, you catching the COPS episode night?"

Bill, wrist-deep in receipt sorting, was not.

"Dana and her partner are on the air." And Charlie laughed and laughed, tears mingling with his wheezes while Bill yelled "What?" and stumbled from the kitchen to the couch.

Agent Mulder. He should have known. "Catch... catch him?" Dana's partner mumbled, pointing diffidently at a sketch of.... No.

Bill's stream of consciousness must have broken a new record because Charlie was now guffawing and Tara was whispering violently from the other room. Meanwhile, his eyes remained glued to his sister's awkward mannerisms while she relayed their superior's directive.

"'Nothing to hide'?" he exploded. "Wasn't Skinner the assistant director at the--" Bill caught the word back before the moment soured over past cancers and absences. "Why's he-- why's Dana still participating in this--"

"C'mon, Mulder, do the werewolf stance again!" Loud slaps echoed through the wire: Charlie was either smacking his thigh or the wall in unbridled ecstasy. "She hid behind the EMT door, Bill, you should have seen it."

Bill, unable to contain himself after Mulder's irrepressible ramble over werewolf technicalities, bellowed, "OH, for crying OUT--"

"Bill!" Tara hissed, head shooting through the doorway. He jolted, mouthed a sorry, and miserably watched her eyebrows scrunch skywards in recognition. "Hey, isn't that Dana on the tv?"

"Always wanted to be a cop when I was younger," his brother drawled, voice touched with regret. "Just couldn't trust 'em after their behavior during my truancy period."

"And you thought Wall Street was a more honest profession?" Bill scoffed. The anger of losing a hundred-dollar sure investment-- how many years ago was that? Too many-- would burn until his dying day.

"Can it, Bill."

But Charlie said it like he used to; and they hung up friends.

***** Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic

#txf #fic #prompts #writing #mine #Bill Scully Jr.#Bill Scully POV #he's back!#Charlie Scully #X-Cops #S7 #xfiles #x-files #the x files #xf fanfic #Tara Scully #Melissa Scully #(although it was only a mention)

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darkesttimelinestuff · 7 months

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"If you don't stop now- "

Day 12 Fictober

Prompt #14 - "If you don't stop now —"

Find me on Ao3

Dinner at Maggie’s was always a treat for Mulder. He saw how traditional families ate together, joked together, discussed current events that didn’t involve world and life-threatening conspiracies. It was just a normal day at a normal house with a normal family.

Even Bill Jr.’s jobs about the X-Files couldn’t stop the feeling of home and belonging that washed over Mulder.

“When are you coming out to visit San Diego, Day?” Bill asked.

Scully looked from her brother to Mulder, and couldn’t imagine the two of them together for more than a couple of hours “I’m not sure,” Scully replied, rubbing Mulder’s thigh. “Work has been busy lately.”

“Oh,” Bill waved a hand, “work will always be busy. You have to take time out for yourself.”

“He’s right,” Maggie agreed, swirling the wine in her glass. “It’s important to enjoy your time together.

Mulder nudged Scully with his leg. “Could be good for us to get away. A week in California. I’ve never really seen your old stomping grounds, Scully. You’ve seen all of mine.”

She rubbed his knee, imagining the two of them at the beach, staying up late and indulging in one too many drinks. Her hand drifted higher up his thigh and Mulder choked on his wine.

“You know,” Bill said, “they just opened this great new restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter.”

Mulder dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. Scully’s fingers teased the bulge in his pants.

“Oh, the tapas place?” Maggie asked and Bill nodded. “Oh, I just love tapas. Have you ever had them, Fox?”

Scully’s palm pressed into the crotch of his jeans. Mulder cleared his throat, attempting to sound calm. “I love tapas, Mrs. Scully.” He felt sweat beading his forehead. “They’re great. I don’t think Scully here has ever had them.”

“Oh, you have to try them, Dana!” Tara exclaimed. “Even Matthew likes them and he’s very picky. I’m sure there’s a great restaurant here in D.C.!”

Scully’s fingers squeezed around Mulder’s growing cock.

“We’ll uh… we’ll look into it.” Mulder’s voice was strained.

“Fox, are you feeling okay?” Mrs. Scully asked, concerned.

“Yeah, Mulder,” Scully chimed in, rubbing the head of his now very erect penis. “You’re looking a little sweaty.”

“Oh, dear. I hope it wasn’t the food,” Mrs. Scully added.

“No, it wasn’t,” Mulder reassured. “I’m fine.”

Scully stroked him over the rough fabric of his pants from root to tip and his hips involuntarily flexed into her warm hand.

When Maggie asked what Matty likes to eat at the tapas restaurant, Tara was more than happy to share adorable anecdotes about her grandson. Mulder had ceased to respond to the rest of the conversation, too engrossed in the pleasure of Scully’s special attention.

She looked so calm, smiling when necessary, laughing when Tara told them all the cute things Matthew did. Though Mulder had known Scully for nearly a decade, it was clear he had much to learn about her.

This was a side of Scully he rarely saw. Today he saw the rebel. The girl who smoked her mother’s cigarettes, who stole out in the middle of the night to meet a boy. He saw the young woman who would sneak boyfriends into her room while her parents were asleep, the one who defied her parents expectations and joined the F.B.I.

Precum dripped from his cock and he throbbed against Scully’s firm hands. She was so good, so careful to touch him in just the right spot, but not hurt him through the fabric and zipper. She’d tease the head and caress this length, tease his inner thigh and balls before paying special attention to his head again.

He leaned over and whisper into Scully’s ear, “"If you don't stop now —"

“Fox, are you sure you’re okay? Bill asked. “Your face is very flushed. You should have Dana take a look at you.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Maggie. “Why don’t you take him upstairs to the guest room and have him lie down? Let him rest.”

“That’s a good idea,” Scully agreed. “Thanks, mom. Come on, Mulder.” She reached for his hand and pulled him toward the stairs, walking in front of him to cover his massive erection.

“Okay,” Mulder muttered, barely able to walk. “Sorry, everyone.”

“It’s okay, Mulder,” Bill called. “My sister will take good care of you. She’s very good at what she does.”

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bakedbakermom · 7 months

Text

Stained

Chapter 7: Sublime // start at the beginning

tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

sublime verb: to convert something inferior to something of higher worth; to transform adjective: beauty which inspires awe -- Scully remembers; Scully chooses.

Content warning for violence that, while not sexual in nature, does have sexual undertones. I went just a smidge farther than either show does in canon with the sexuality and violence, but only a smidge. Proceed with caution.

Scully wasn’t sure how long she lay there in the quiet dark beneath the earth, with only the distant dripping of water and her own, lonely heartbeat for company. She cried until her eyes were hot and dry, until her throat was raw and her nails had dug little half-moons into each of her palms. Mulder’s body grew cold beneath her cheek; the blood soaking his shirt was thick and sticky and would have pulled at her skin if she had the strength to move.

Guilt raked her with jagged claws. He had saved her—they had saved each other—so many times, arriving on that knife edge where “just in time” threatened to become “too late.” How many times had they kicked down the door, brandishing guns and a righteous fury that blazed away the darkness and left the nightmares with no place to hide? How many times had they pulled each other back from the brink of death, cleaned their wounds and brushed away their tears? And now, when he had needed her the most, she had been helpless to do anything. In her mind’s eye she watched him die again and again: the spill of blood, his frightened and pleading stare, that last echoing whimper of her name.

The little part of her mind not lost to grief kept screaming at her to get up, to find a way to escape, to get to Mulder’s friends back in town and figure out the next step. But she could not bear to leave him here: in the cold, in the dark, all alone. She could not lift her head from his silent chest, because to do so would be to admit that he was gone.

When he twitched under her cheek, she thought it was her imagination, that she had begun to shiver from the cold leaching into her from the damp stone floor.

Then he moved again.

Scully bolted upright, staring at him in disbelief. “Mulder?” she asked tentatively.

“Easy, love,” came a slithering voice from the corner, and Scully jerked around to see Lettie coming back into the cavern, still in the tattered wedding gown it had been wearing—though some of the stains were new. “Some of us are cranky when we first wake.”

“‘Us’?” she repeated. “‘Wake’? He was—he’s dead . Y-you killed him and…” She shook her head, trying to clear it, but her mind was reeling and her heart was skittering and he was dead, she had watched him die but Mulder was moving and it couldn’t be, couldn’t be…

“Not dead, girl. Just another naughty boy, another naughty boy who breaks the thing he loves, like all naughty boys do.” The thing was playing with a ring around one pale, bony finger, and its voice was sad. “They always break their favorite toys. And then they must be punished.”

It moved across the floor like a whisper; Scully scrambled away from it as best she could. It leaned down close to Mulder’s body; he was definitely moving now, his eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, his head moving from side to side like an infant rooting for mother’s milk. Its dark, dirty hair spilled over his face, partially hiding him from view as it whispered to him. She couldn’t hear what it said, but his eyes popped open and he was dead but he was staring at her now, mouth open and nostrils flaring like he could smell her.

“Hey, Scully,” he purred, in a voice her Mulder would never use, and her mouth went dry. The vampire slipped a key into his hand; he rose with an unnerving grace and stalked towards her. The hunger in his eyes kicked her panicking heart into a higher gear. He leaned down close to her, so close she could smell the vampire’s blood on his breath. His smile was a cruel knife between her ribs. “Miss me?”

“Mulder, what happened? What are you—?”

“I’ve got you, Scully. Just relax.” He reached behind her to unlock the cuffs around her wrists, and then did the same for her ankles. She rubbed the bruised flesh around her arms. “There. That’s better. Now, where were we?”

His hand was around her throat before she could answer, shoving her across the room; her back slammed into the wall and he lifted her until her face was level with his, her feet scrambling for purchase in the air. His thumb found the pulse point below her jaw and pressed, cutting off the flow of blood to her brain; her vision swam and her head pounded. She couldn’t speak, but she pleaded with him with her eyes overflowing with tears. Please, don’t. Not you, not to me.

He only smiled.

Behind them, Lettie was crying. “Naughty boys and broken toys,” it said over and over, clasping its arms around its body and rocking back and forth.

Scully’s eyes rolled back in her head, the pounding oblivion of unconsciousness filling her vision, when he finally loosened his grip. “Mulder, what—please...” She searched his eyes for the man she knew, hoping he was in there somewhere, hoping she could reach him. Tears traced hot lines down her cheeks. “Mulder, you don’t want to do this. You have to fight it.”

All she saw in his eyes was darkness. The Mulder she knew was gone.

This was a monster under his skin.

He touched his finger to her lips and leaned in so close his coppery breath stirred the fine hair behind her ear. “Shh, Scully. I just want to play.” He nipped at the skin of her jaw and she yelped. “Don’t you want to play with me?”

“You’ve got to let me go, Mulder. I can get help. Buffy, the others—”

“Don’t need help,” he growled. He slammed her backwards into the wall so hard her skull bounced; her ears rang, and she felt the warm trickle of blood in her hair. His nostrils flared as the smell of it hit him. “Need you.”

She sagged when he released her throat, unable to do more than keep herself upright as he gripped her wrist tightly and yanked it to his face. He ran his nose along the delicate ridge of her tendon, flicking his tongue out to taste the little blue vein. The shackles had left deep, purpling bruises, like a bracelet hung with jewels of blood where the metal had cut her. He licked at them, then suckled, and then moaned as he closed his mouth around her and bit down.

Scully cried out and tried to wrench her hand away, but he gripped her arm fiercely, squeezing the fine bones of her wrist until they creaked, driving his teeth deeper into her flesh. She grabbed his hair with her free hand, pulling with all her strength; he finally released her with a snarl and she screamed in pure, animal terror at the sight of his monstrous, yellow-eyed face.

This was not her partner. This was the thing that had killed him.

“What’s the matter, Scully?” he asked, his consonants muddled around the new, long teeth filling his mouth. “Don’t you have a kiss for me?”

He slammed her wrists into the wall above her head, gripping them in one large hand and lifting her until her feet were off the floor again. He yanked at the collar of her shirt hard enough to rip the buttons off; the thing that had been Mulder snuffled like an animal against the pale skin of her collarbone, tonguing the swell of her breast. She thrashed and kicked, but he only pressed his body against hers and wedged his knee between her thighs, pinning her in place.

“Come on, Scully,” he crooned. He scraped the tips of his fangs against her skin, leaving little red trails down her sternum. “Won’t you be a good girl for me?”

“Mulder, please—”

“Mmm, that’s right, beg.” He bit her again, burying his fangs in the soft flesh above her breast and drinking deeply. She was beginning to feel woozy and nauseous, breath coming in shallow pants. Her head rolled weakly, loose on her neck, and she stared up at the blood trickling down her arm from the wound at her wrist. Her fingers started to tingle. Hypovolemic shock , her mind supplied from some distant place.

Time began to slip away.

One moment she was pinned to the wall, a butterfly writhing helplessly as her wings were torn off; the next she lay on the floor, Mulder shoving her skirt roughly up her legs and kneeling between them to rip into the delicate flesh of her thigh. Femoral artery , she thought as her blood gushed into his mouth. Another swoon and he was on top of her, the bulge of him digging into her hip, his mouth fastened to her throat, moaning and rutting as he drained her. His tongue caressed the edges of the wound almost delicately, lapping at her veins like a kitten with a bowl of milk.

Again and again he bit her, her anatomist mind cataloging each one: iliac vein, radial artery, great saphenous vein, carotid, jugular. No single bite deep enough to be fatal, but the combination leaving her faint, cold, unbearably dizzy. Her screams turned to whimpers, her whimpers into breathless, begging whines. Hot, stinging tears leaked from her eyes, and her strength bled from her limbs with every swallow he took, until she could do nothing but lie there, helpless, as he devoured her.

Her body slipped away from her, the pain becoming a distant dream. She was fading, dying—

The Morrígna are there beside her, three hands and one holding hers tenderly. She watches what comes next from inside her body, through the dark gauze of the veil falling around her; and from outside it, tears streaming down her face.

Lettie creeps up behind Mulder, pulling a tarnished, blood-stained knife from the folds of its dress. He is nestled in the crook of her elbow, her spent veins trickling weakly into his mouth; Lettie’s long, tangled hair brushes her skin like the writhing of maggots as it leans in to purr into Mulder’s ear. It slips the knife into his hand.

Then Lettie jerks, its spine twisting as it claws at its back; it wrenches a crossbow bolt from its shoulder and whirls with a hiss to face the opposite side of the cavern.

“My God.” Giles steps into the cavern, a flashlight in one hand and a large wooden cross in the other. The Scully on the floor hadn’t met him in person yet, hadn’t known his face, but she does now; his eyes widen in shock and recognition. “I was right. That’s Leticia Crane! On her wedding night in 1871—”

Buffy comes sailing out of the darkness, her feet landing in a flying kick squarely in the center of Lettie’s chest and sending the vampire crumpling to the floor. “Save now,” the girl grunts as she rolls back up into a fighting stance, “history later.”

Scully had missed this the first time around, slipping in and out of consciousness, hearing the fight more than watching. Even now it unfolds almost too fast for her to see. Buffy moves like a whirlwind, her fists and feet flying with inhuman speed, a one-woman army with a singular focus. Lettie slips between the blows like a wraith, a boneless and unnerving grace, here one moment and gone the next, slashing jagged nails toward the Slayer’s eyes to keep her from getting too close. Then it stumbles, caught in the tattered remnants of its dress, and that’s the only opening Buffy needs; she closes in, landing a series of punches and kicks that quickly force the vampire to the floor. She plunges a wooden stake into the monster’s heart.

The vampire’s eyes widen with shock and rage; it fumbles weakly at the stake protruding from its ribcage, helpless against the death that is coming for it at last. A grim satisfaction blooms in Scully’s chest as Lettie’s flesh crumbles into dust, its bones flake away, and finally the entire creature collapses into a heap of gray ash. It takes less than a second—over a century of bloody death, countless lives snuffed out to feed its hunger and pain, gone in an instant. It was too quick, she thinks. It wasn’t quick enough.

“Buffy, there’s another one!” cries Willow, cringing against the wall with a ball of light glowing between her outstretched hands. The other Scoobies crowd close behind her, draped in weapons and holy symbols.

The light spills across Mulder as he turns, snarling, to face them. He rises into a crouch, Scully’s spent and failing body forgotten as he scents fresh meat. He spins the knife in his hand and a slow smile blooms across his blood-smeared face as he advances on them.

Buffy is on him in an instant; her first kick knocks the blade from his hand, but he has the advantage on her in reach and mass. Though his new strength makes him clumsy, his combat training is evident in the smooth ripple of his body, in the swift volley of blows they exchange. The Slayer backs away, circling, studying him with cold and calculating eyes. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth.

The Scoobies take advantage of his distraction to rush to Scully, lying in a pool of blood, breath shallow and eyes glassy. Tara drops to her knees beside her as the others take up defensive positions, a wall of flesh and crosses between Buffy’s battle with Mulder and Scully’s own, quiet struggle against the encroaching darkness. “Oh my god,” Tara says, fingers slipping and sliding in Scully’s blood as she probes her neck for a pulse. “Willow, she’s still alive! I need my bag!”

Willow turns, letting the light in her hand float upwards as she unslings a heavy canvas bag from her shoulder. She rummages through it and passes Tara a small jar, and they smear some kind of salve over Scully’s wounds. She remembers the smell of mint, the unbearable way it had itched. She watches her own body twitching as she tries to scratch, too weak to move.

“This will help stop the bleeding,” Tara whispers. “We’ve got you, okay? Stay with me.” Her arms are stained red up to the elbows, and her voice trembles with fear.

“We’ve got to put pressure on,” Willow pants. Her skin has gone green and a faint sheen of sweat covers her forehead, but her hands are steady as she begins to wrap long bands of cloth around the wounds on Scully’s arms. There are symbols written on the fabric in a rainbow of inks; Scully recognizes the caduceus and ankh among them—symbols of life and healing. Her blood seeps into the cloth and the symbols flare to life, their light throbbing in time to her weak and thready pulse. Enchanted bandages , she realizes. They saved my life with magic bandaids.

“Move her hair, there’s one on her throat that—”

“Please.” Scully is shocked at the strength in her voice, coming from that broken doll of a body. She is so pale—eyelids and lips blue, cheeks ashen, her blood-matted hair shockingly dark against her skin. Her hand lashes out with startling strength to clamp around Willow’s wrist. Her eyes flutter open but roll in her head, unable to focus, and her whole body shakes with cold and shock. She has to force the words out through teeth clenched to stop their chattering. “Please, help him.”

Willow pushes a clump of sticky hair off Scully's face. “Miss Scully?” she gasps. Her mouth hangs open as she makes the connection, the horrible realization, then she yells over her shoulder. “Buffy! That’s Mulder!”

Buffy’s eyes widen and she freezes for half a second, just long enough for Mulder to land a solid punch to her jaw. They clash, break apart, come together again in a dizzying flurry of fists and fangs. Scully knows how this fight ends—Buffy manages to subdue Mulder, binds him in chains, and she and the Scoobies drag them both back to the surface. But she cannot stand to watch Buffy beat him halfway to oblivion, to watch him try to murder one of his friends. She turns away.

“It wasn’t him,” she finally manages to say. Giles had said as much, in those first dark hours after Mulder’s soul was returned, when she had finally allowed them to take her to the hospital; as she had lain in a nest of IVs and monitor wires and listened to him explain how the world she thought she understood was barely more than a thin skin to hide the incomprehensible horrors beneath. How what had woken in that dark, cold hell was not her partner, not the Mulder she had known, but a demon wearing his face. They’d brought him back, restored his soul, but the demon would always be inside him, lurking and tempting and thirsting for blood. Like an infection that could only be managed, but never cured.

Until now.

For a dizzying moment, Scully is in three places at once—on the stone floor deep beneath the earth, her blood trickling out of her in fits and starts as she flickers back and forth across the line between life and death; in the crumbling graveyard church, her skin glowing with starlight and a blade plunging toward her heart; and in the strange place in between that the Morrígna have made for them.

The world goes still as a photograph.

The Mulder in the cave is a snarling monster, crouched and foaming pink at the mouth as he circles the Slayer, looking for the opportunity to strike. His hands twist into claws, still dripping with Scully’s blood; his face a mask of twisted rage, smeared with red. That Mulder is a terror, a demon wearing his skin, empty of everything but bloodlust and rage.

The Mulder in the church is the picture of agony, his mouth opening in a futile cry and tears brimming in his eyes. The muscles of his neck and shoulders strain as he fights Buffy’s grip, trying to wrench the knife away from its deadly descent—trying until the last to spare Scully’s life, even though it will cost him his own.

That is the Mulder who held her hand as she held her dying daughter, the only thing left to do for a life doomed before it began. Who had nearly lost his life trying to save her from Duane Barry’s trunk, and gave up everything to sit at her bedside when she was returned. The one who refused to let her sully her name and reputation even as she lay begging him on her deathbed, blood in her nose and on his hands. The one who found her at the edge of the earth and breathed life back into her frozen body.

Memories cascade through her again, with that same strange sense of the Morrígna paging through her mind like a book. She opens, welcomes them, lets the sensations spill out of her—vibrant as life, ephemeral as love. Mulder dragging her ghost-busting on Christmas Eve, so she wouldn’t have to be alone on a grim anniversary, exchanging gifts they’d both sworn they wouldn’t buy. Mulder sitting with her on a rock in the middle—or not—of a lake, cracking jokes about cannibalism five minutes into their stranding, dissecting the nature of obsession. Mulder’s voice on the phone no fewer than seventeen times the one weekend she tried to go on vacation, just to tease her about black magic while he threw pencils into the ceiling. Mulder’s hands on hers, wrestling over a baseball bat, hitting line-drives into a diamond field of stars. My constant, my touchstone.

Mulder, laughing madly with her in the rain.

That is the man she knows. That is the man she would die for.

That is the man she…

Certainty washes over her, warm as the tears on her cheeks.

Scully touches her chest and her flesh parts like water around her hand. There is no pain, not exactly—only the ache of a life unlived, of words never spoken. She reaches inside herself, seeking out the flame in her heart, and her hand emerges cupped around a mote of brilliant, golden light. It is blinding in its intensity, like a captured star, and she knows it should burn and scorch and sear her flesh from her bones; but it is soft as sunlight through a dusty basement window, tender as a hand in hers. It pulses gently in her palm.

She reaches for Mulder, for the center of his chest where the light from the knife has not yet spread to the symbols she had painted above his heart. A wound filled with shadow blooms in his chest; sludgy tendrils of black smoke writhe inside it like a living thing, spreading to wrap his body in darkness. A hideous cold radiates from it with a force that makes her want to recoil. It hurts her just to look at, just to stand in its aura of blackest winter that bites and tears and howls for the hot gush of fresh blood.

She can only imagine how he must feel with it living inside him.

Scully forces herself forward into that icy shadow, brandishing her flaming heart like a weapon. Every place the light touches, those coils of piercing darkness shriek and shrink and wither away. She knows now why the Morrígna would not let her proceed without all her memories intact; there can be no place for darkness or doubt as she presses forward, no shadow that this blight could hide behind. The fire she wields was not born from a single spark; it is born from the striking heat of flint and steel that has defined their every word and touch and gaze, every fight for and against each other, every brush of their fingers since that first fateful handshake in the basement, banked and kindled and built for years into the blinding incandescence that pulses in her hand with a life of its own.

What darkness could stand against that?

The shadow in Mulder’s heart crumbles into ash and flakes away before light in her hand, until she is staring at the empty wound in his chest. “He’ll be okay?” she asks at the last; she can no longer see the Morrígna through the blinding light, through the stinging veil of tears in her eyes, but she can feel them close by; the weight of their sadness and hope rests like a cloak over her shoulders.

They answer in one voice, in a chorus of voices, in her own voice. “The light casts out the darkness. The flame kindles life where once was death. To share it freely with another, to yield it unto him that he might live: there is no greater gift, no more perfect sacrifice.”

Scully nods, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat, and tucks the light into Mulder’s chest; the symbols on his skin glow and begin to pulse with the same slow, steady rhythm as the flame. She lays her hand over the wound, watching as the edges knit themselves together, but rather than fading away, the light instead grows even brighter, flooding through the symbols burned into his chest and stomach and arms until they burn too brightly to look at. It fills his eyes, shines through his skin until she can see the shadowy ghosts of his bones beneath; the world turns gold, then white, until she can barely make out his face in the blinding radiance. She feels the heat of it now, as if she is a wisp of cloud, a bubble of sea foam, dissolving in its brilliance. She lets it subsume her.

As her last sense of self evaporates in that overwhelming light, she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Goodbye, she tells him. Live .

I promise I'm done killing people after this. Y'all when I say this chapter almost killed me! It took by far the longest to write, because landing a plot plane is hard. And then. AND THEN. I LOST like 90% of it in a pebcak error (Problem Exists Between Chair And Keyboard, aka it was my own damn fault for not saving) and cried for hours. I almost threw up. Haven't felt that level of slow-dawning visceral horror since the last time I accidentally deleted a paper in high school. It took even longer to reconstruct than it did to write the first time, and I'm not entirely sure the second try is as good as the first, but here we are. I hope it broke your heart! <3 My immense and eternal thanks to@perpetually-weirdening and @storybycorey for putting up with my insanity as I struggled with the same 4 lines for a solid week. I was lost in the trees and they helped me see the way through the forest. We're in the home stretch now! Comments, scrapbook, you know the drill. (I am 100% literal about this. I keep it by my computer for motivation.)

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cecilysass · 1 year

Text

Gingersnap

Read on AO3 | Rated M | Tagging @today-in-fic

“So I was thinking, Scully,” Mulder says without prelude as he lets himself into her apartment. He unfastens his coat and tosses it on to a chair as he walks into her kitchen. “What if the problem is that we’re thinking about this wrong? What if we’ve been thinking about this as a crime of motive, when really it’s more of a crime of opportunity? What if each of these killings have been about where he happens to be at the right moment?”

He spots the triangular remains of her turkey sandwich still on a plate on the table, and he’s starving. “Mind if I finish this?”

He starts pulling images out of his manila folder with one hand, stuffing the sandwich in his mouth with the other. “I’ve spent the past two hours looking at the crime scene photos again—” he pauses to swallow his bite, “—and I think I see evidence that the choice of victim was more impulsive than we thought. I want to see what you say, though. Can you take a look at the September 3rd photos and then the …”

He breaks off, because he is finally looking up, fully taking in Scully for the first time. She is leaning over her kitchen counter, staring down at something, her shoulders oddly slumped.

“Uh, what are you doing, Scully?”

In a hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice: “I’m baking cookies.”

“At eleven-thirty at night?”

Scully raises her head to look at him. There is a punk rock streak of flour in her hair. Her eyes are glassy and pink. There is some flour clinging to her eyelashes, giving her an unearthly look.

“Scully …” Mulder is flabbergasted. “Are you crying?”

“There’s a holiday cookie exchange at my mom’s house tomorrow,” Scully says dully, wiping her face with the backs of her hands, which only adds another smudge of flour to her cheeks. “I’m supposed to make 96 cookies, and my mom wanted me to make my grandmother’s gingersnaps, and when was I supposed to make them, Mulder?”

“It’s … are you … having trouble?” Looking around, he now observes that her countertops are chaotic. There are two large bowls, a dusting of flour everywhere, a stack of dishes, measuring cups, and empty containers precariously balanced. He doesn’t think he has ever seen her kitchen so messy.

Scully is wearing an apron, a white apron with some kind of frilled details on the edge, which would normally strike Mulder as funny. Especially because there is flour in splotches all over her black clothing, all over her, and not visibly on the apron at all. But he isn’t going to laugh, because Scully seems to be having some kind of breakdown.

“I’m supposed to mix six cups of flour in gradually,” Scully says. “But I was thinking about the case, and I was tired, and I lost count. I couldn’t remember how many fucking cups of flour I put in already. So I had to start the whole batch over. All those wasted ingredients. All that wasted time. And then, just now … I did it again, Mulder. I did the exact same thing when you came in. I lost count. I don’t know how many fucking cups of flour I put in.”

“Oh,” Mulder says, peering around her at the bowl heaped high with flour on the countertop.

“I took calculus,” Scully says. “I once won the award for Outstanding Math Scholar in eleventh grade. Why can’t I count, Mulder?”

“Is calculus about … counting?” Mulder asks cautiously.

“Bill and Tara are in town, and Tara will be there with some … gorgeous cookies that should be on the cover of a magazine. She’ll have sugar cookies individually cut out and intricately iced—they will be a whole Nativity scene, or the entire cast of A Christmas Carol or It’s A Wonderful Life or something…” Her voice is starting to crack.

“Scully,” Mulder says, trying to speak as calmly as possible. “Can’t you just tell your mom that you couldn’t—”

“No,” she says. “No. I can’t do that, Mulder, because then no one would bring Grandma’s cookies to the exchange, and Mom would be upset. I - I can handle this. I’ll just … start again. In a second, after I pull myself together.”

Mulder doesn’t even know what a cookie exchange is. He is, however, starting to understand that his thoughts about the case are going to need to wait until tomorrow.

She looks down at the recipe on the counter again, and he can’t help but notice how especially small and defeated she looks.

“I could call Byers,” he suggests impulsively. She gives him a doubtful look, running her hand through her hair, which he doesn’t dare tell her is only spreading the flour further, turning her hair phantom white. “I know he sometimes makes the guys’ birthday cakes from scratch,” he adds, “so he bakes. He might be able to help.”

“I don’t need advice,” Scully says sullenly. “It’s my own grandmother’s recipe. I’ve made it dozens of times. What I need is a good night’s sleep and just a few fucking hours of uninterrupted time to concentrate.”

“Mmm,” he says, with a significant little nod.

“What’s that look supposed to mean, Mulder?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says. “You’re just using the word ‘fuck’ an awful lot for you. And for the holidays. That’s all.”

She seems to deflate further, her gaze falling to the floor, her shoulders slumping.

“I could help you,” he says.

At that she raises her eyes. There is a look of unmistakable hope there. It surprises him, even dazes him a little. He’d expected her to reject his suggestion out of hand.

“Is that something you’re capable of doing?” she says tentatively. “Baking cookies?”

“No,” he admits. “At least there’s no precedent for it.”

“Sounds useful.” Her eyes are still cautiously on him.

“But I can definitely count,” Mulder says. “I took calculus, too.”

“Calculus turns out to not be as helpful in baking as you would think.”

“And I’ll do whatever else you tell me to.”

“Is that right?” Scully says, tilting her head, lifting her eyebrows. The pitch of her voice almost sounds flirtatious, which gives Mulder a little twitch in the groin that’s hugely out of place in the situation.

She turns around to search through a drawer for a pad of paper. He bites his lip, wondering what kind of breakdown this is, exactly, that Scully is having.

She leans over the counter, her back to him, to write something hastily down on the paper, and Mulder’s eyes land on the perfect, upside-down flour handprints pressed on each curved cheek of her rear end.

“Your first job,” she says decisively, turning back around and putting the list in his hands, “is going to the grocery store. The one three blocks away is open 24 hours a day. I need more flour. And butter. While you’re gone, I’m going to order us some food, because all I ate for dinner was half of a turkey sandwich.”

“Yeah. Okay. Food sounds good,” he says, guiltily eyeing the empty plate on the table. “Anything else?”

“Get us something to drink.”

“Alcoholic or caffeinated?”

“Use your own discernment,” she says.

***

“All-purpose flour, unsalted butter, granulated sugar — just in case,” Mulder lists, pulling items from the grocery bag one at a time, presenting them triumphantly to Scully. “Root beer. And also — beer beer.”

She has spent the time he was at the store tidying up the kitchen, which does not look nearly as chaotic as it did before.

He is secretly delighted to see that she has not tidied herself up. Her hair and face still have that ethereal flour sheen. The ass handprints aren’t visible at this angle, but he’ll definitely check the moment she turns around.

“Good work,” she says, biting her lip in approval. “Food is on its way. Oven is preheated.”

“What’s my next job, boss?”

“We need eight sticks of butter and three cups of sugar in this mixing bowl,” Scully orders. “You put them in, and I’ll operate the mixer.”

“Eight sticks of butter? Holy shit,” Mulder says. “Your grandmother didn’t play around.”

“Ninety-six cookies, Mulder,” Scully says firmly, turning around and leaning down to a lower cabinet to get out her mixer. “We’re not playing around either.”

Handprints still present, he notes discreetly.

“No, no,” he says. “No playing here.” He sidles up next to her at the counter to start unwrapping sticks of butter and plopping them into the bowl.

“Am I doing it right?” he says. He may accidentally speak a little closer to her ear than he normally does.

Her eyes flash up at him through a flour-dusted lock of hair. “Don’t lose count.”

“So this is a treasured family recipe you’ve reportedly made dozens of times,” Mulder says, “and yet I don’t recall you making them for me even once.”

“I haven't had as much time for baking in recent years. Can’t think why.”

“Are you a good baker, Scully?”

“Ha.” She shoots him a quick sheepish smile. “Clearly not.”

Mulder unwraps the last stick of butter. “Well,” he says, keeping his eyes on the measuring cup and the sugar bowl, “we can probably deduce all kinds of meaningful things about you from that.”

Scully brushes her hands off on her apron, glancing at him again, something warm in her expression. “Probably.”

Mulder scoops the measuring cup deep into the sugar, bringing it out heaping. Scully watches him closely. “Do you know you’re supposed to level the sugar off with something flat?” she says.

“No,” Mulder lies. He frowns, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?”

“Take the edge of a butter knife — here, like this,” Scully says, stepping next to him to show him. Her tone is businesslike but quiet, as she gently places the butter knife in his hand, and then guides his larger hand with hers, moving the knife over the surface of the sugar. “Use the flat side to make the sugar smooth, perfectly level to the rim of the cup. It makes the measurement more precise.”

Mulder nods foolishly. He wonders if he can feign such total ignorance of junior high home economics that she’ll be convinced to keep demonstrating baking tips in that soft and mesmerizing voice. He thinks she might catch on eventually.

“There you go,” she says, watching his knife glide over sugar crystals. “You’re a natural.” He feels the soft slope of her hip pressing into his thigh. She lingers there a moment. “Hey, did you want a drink, Mulder?”

“I’ll have a beer beer, please,” he says, trying to keep his sigh from being audible as she moves away.

***

“Look,” Mulder marvels, as he leans over the hot tray, inhaling ginger and cinnamon. “Just look at them. They’re beautiful, Scully. We should do this more often. Or maybe we should quit our jobs and open a bakery.”

Scully, sitting at the table with her legs tucked up under her, nursing a half-full to-go carton of chicken and broccoli, regards him with weary amusement. “We still have 72 cookies left to come out of the oven, so we’re not really done with this batch, Mulder.”

“What an underappreciated miracle baking is,” Mulder says rhapsodically, gesturing to the cookies. “From the most lowly and humble ingredients—from baking soda, of all things! and molasses!—you get this divine amalgamation, this totality that is greater than its parts.”

“Ah,” Scully says, drinking her beer. “I see you’re reacting to this like a totally normal person.”

“I’m just a proud father, Scully,” Mulder says, leaning over to pinch a cookie off the tray with his fingers. The cookie is hot, so he flips it quickly from palm to palm to cool it off, hopping around from foot to foot as he does.

“73 left to go,” Scully amends, as Mulder decides it’s cool enough to risk a bite.

“Oh Scully,” he hums, chewing. “Hmmmmm. It’s perfect.” His eyes roll back dramatically.

“That’s a relief,” she says, watching him closely. “Because I don’t know how I was going to react if we had to start over.”

“Here, try it,” he says, holding the cookie out to her.

“I’m still eating dinner.”

“Come on, just a bite, while it’s still warm.” She has the chicken carton in her hands, so he holds the cookie up to her lips for her.

Limpid blue eyes focus down on the cookie. Then up at him. She leans forward, hesitantly, and takes a little nibble.

The edge of her lip brushes slightly against the tip of his finger. A delightful shiver runs through him.

“It’s delicious,” she says softly, chewing, her eyes wide and no longer meeting his. “Like I remember.”

He can’t think of anything to say in response right away, distracted by watching her swallow the bite.

“You’re really going to trade them all away, huh?” he says, after a pause. “Once you get to your mom’s?”

“At the exchange you try everyone’s cookies,” Scully says. “It’s like a tasting party. Then you end up taking a bunch home in a box.”

“Oh,” Mulder says, his eyes lighting up. “I didn’t realize—that’s serious business. You should write down notes as you taste. So you leave with the best of the best.”

“Honestly, I’ll probably do well just to stay awake, considering it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning now,” she says.

“Scully.” Mulder says. “What kind of a scientist are you? You’re just going to come home with a random assortment? You need to have some kind of system. Investigate all the cookies. There could be another recipe there we need to try next time.”

“You should come with me to the exchange, Mulder,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It sounds like you’d like it more than I will.”

Mulder is about to ask what time, but he decides she is probably kidding. He smiles and polishes off the gingersnap in a large mouthful.

“You could, you know,” she adds, suddenly looking intently at her food. “I don’t see why not. Mom wouldn’t mind. And everyone else brings their spouse.” She shakes her head quickly. “I mean—you know what I mean.”

“Don’t you need a break from me, g-woman?” He speaks with a mouthful of cookie.

Her smile is slow-moving. Watching it spread over her face, aimed squarely at him, sends a sloshy, giddy feeling through Mulder. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

The timer on Scully’s oven buzzes, and she sets her beer and the carton on the table as she stands up.

“That’s 48 more done,” she says, reaching for the oven mitt.

Mulder clears a heatproof spot for the new cookie sheets to cool on the counter. She leans over to pull them out of the oven, and he can’t resist tipping his head a little to check out the status of the flour handprints on her ass. Important question: were they smudged when she sat down?

When he looks up again, she has set the cookie sheets down, and she has noticed the direction of his stare. There is a cocked eyebrow, a question there.

“It’s not what you think,” he says hastily. “It’s just you’ve had these flour handprints on your ass all night. I was just checking to see if they’re still there.”

Her expression suggests some skepticism, and he’s not sure he blames her. It sounds made up as hell.

“They are still there,” Mulder adds, scratching the back of his neck. “Not really smudged at all. Intact.”

“Okay,” she says at last, looking over her shoulder to try to see her own butt. “How do you think they got there?”

“I think you probably had some flour on your hands and you grabbed your own ass,” Mulder says mildly. “Unless someone else did. A ghost, maybe.”

“Mulder,” Scully says, laughing.

“I would never judge you, Scully. I’m a lonely guy, and I’m not above grabbing my own ass in the privacy of my own kitchen.”

“Sounds unhygienic.”

“I’m not the one with handprint evidence.”

“You know,” she says, her eyebrow moving upward again, “it’s very conscientious of you to keep checking on the status of those handprints for me.”

“Yeah.” It’s Mulder’s turn to flush. He knows when he’s being called out.

There is a little pause. Scully leans back against the counter and seems to be mulling something over, something swiftly calculating behind her eyes.

“But if they are the work of a ghost,” she says, taking on her determined work expression, “have you considered the possibility that you might have been targeted yourself?”

Mulder looks down at his own hands, which besides a stray gingersnap crumb or two, are pretty damn clean. He scowls at her. “No,” he says.

Scully steps towards the open tub of flour on the counter, and she lifts the sifter casually, shaking flour over her palms.

Her hands now dusted, she turns around with both hands lifted, the same intense and focused expression she has when she is about to begin a Y-incision.

“Well, we better check,” she says, starting to walk behind him.

He whirls around to keep his front facing her. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing?”

“Mulder,” she says with stone-faced seriousness. “There is possibly an apparition in this kitchen with a proclivity for grabbing asses. We need to rule out that you haven’t been a victim.”

“The flour on your hands,” Mulder says. “What’s your plan for that, exactly?”

Scully shakes her head, trying to walk around him again. “I’m surprised at you, Mulder. Afraid of flour?”

Mulder chokes a nervous laugh, backing protectively against the counter. “Is that — is that what I’m afraid of?”

“You tell me,” she says, tipping her head and smirking.

It’s almost painfully attractive, this flour-coated aggression. Mulder realizes there is no reason on earth not to call her bluff.

“Well, okay,” he says softly, “I guess you’re right.” He steps away from the counter, shifting his hip to give her full access to his ass. “Go ahead.”

Her eyes dip to his rear end and back up to his eyes. She doesn’t move. The smirk has faltered.

“No?” he says. “Don’t see handprints, Scully?”

“No handprints,” she says, her voice suddenly pitched lower.

Her flour-y hands are still extended in the air, like she is surrendering. He reaches out and, without stopping to think about it, pins one of her small hands in between his palms.

She stares at their hands, her expression unreadable, as he slides his wide palms slowly over the surface area of her tiny trapped hand, coating his hands entirely with the flour. Her fingers, slick with flour, feel unbelievably soft in his. He abruptly lets go. Repeats the action with the other tiny hand.

Then he takes both of her hands in his, and he drags them around his waist, looping them all the way around his back.

Which means, of course, that he is pulling her towards him, tugging her flour-covered body nearly flush against his.

He doesn’t stop until he has planted her hands on his ass.

She’s staring up at him, shocked, her eyes running quickly all over his face as if searching for clues for what to do next. Her hands stay placed where they are, lightly pressed on each cheek. She makes no move to pull away.

Emboldened, he reaches around and places his own newly-floured hands tentatively on the curves of her ass, watching her expression closely as he does.

Her eyes remain locked on his, as though waiting. He tightens his hold on her backside and moves his thumbs back and forth against the curve there.

She inhales quickly in response, her mouth falling slightly open. He leans down and kisses her through the flour dusting their lips.

Ever-so-slightly, he feels her hands squeeze the back of his pants, and that’s enough to set Mulder on fire.

He clutches her ass and kisses her harder, covering her mouth with his and tilting his head hungrily to improve the angle. His cheeks brush repeatedly over hers, her clothes rub against his, and he knows there’s fucking flour everywhere. He would normally put his hands on her cheeks or head to kiss her in some more precise, controlled way, but the feel of her round little ass in his hands is too amazing to abandon.

A tiny whimper from her. And fuck, fingernails clutching at his ass cheeks. Her tongue in his mouth, darting with movements as greedy as his. For several heart-stopping minutes they stand there and make out like frantic kids in the storage room of a bakery. Her hot breath is ginger and cinnamon, and her body is warm and squirmy against his. Mulder begins to feel like he’s fallen into some alternate dimension.

Then, abruptly, her hands drop and she stares at him, bewildered, her eyes blinking rapidly. Something seems to have occurred to her.

“We have to…” His mouth, dipping in for a quick spiced kiss again, interrupts her sentence. “…put more cookies in the oven.”

“Do…we?” He kisses very softly down the side of her neck, headed for where the strap of that apron sits on her shoulder at the opening of her shirt. He can feel flour tickling his lips and the tip of his nose and on the stubble of his chin, and he‘s thinking he’s definitely 100% into flour now. Flour is a whole new kink.

“Yes,” she breathes. “The rest of the cookies.”

He stops and peers at her face, which is now stained pink under the flour dusting.

“For the cookie exchange,” he says, trying to hold the thread of what she’s saying. There seems to be some flour trapped in his eyelashes. He blinks it away.

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding solemnly, her gaze shifting away.

He reluctantly releases his grip on her. “All right,” he says. “Yeah. Cookies.”

She slips away, and as she turns around, he sees the prints on her pants now are chaotic echoes.

“You get the trays,” she says, swallowing, pushing her hair back nervously behind her ears. “The dough is in the fridge.”

“Yep. Yep,” he says, trying to pull himself together. It feels like he just woke up too fast from a very intense erotic dream. He absentmindedly grabs the cookie trays without oven mitts, but luckily they are only a little hot.

Side by side they begin the process of filling the trays. Scully scoops the dough into little balls, then hands them to Mulder, who rolls them in white sugar and arranges them on the sheets.

The kitchen is suddenly too quiet; the scrape of her spoon against the bowl suddenly jarring. He wishes she’d make a joke. Or that he would. There should be some light conversation to normalize what just happened, and they should make it right now, before it is too late.

When the trays are full of brown dough balls glittering with sugar, he tries to meet her eyes, but she darts them past him towards the oven without sparing him a glance. It has to be on purpose. He’s certain it is.

After she closes the oven door, she stares at it a moment, her back to him, and he sees her shoulders rise and fall just slightly. Then her small hands reach out and set the oven timer.

“Okay,” she says flatly. “Ten minutes.” She doesn’t turn around.

“It’s late,” he says in a low voice, testing the waters. “You could probably handle getting this last batch out on your own, huh?”

She turns around, her eyes level, revealing nothing. “That’s true.”

“Maybe I should go?”

A half-second pause. “Probably.”

If her clothing didn’t look a little extra disheveled, if her lips didn’t look a little wet, he would almost believe it didn’t happen, that it was his momentary late night flight of delusional fantasy.

“Well,” he says, keeping his voice as everyday and casual as he can, heading past her to the table to pick up his folder of photos and his coat. “I need to talk to you about the case at some point tomorrow. Maybe after your cookie thing. Give me a call.”

“Okay. Thank you for your help,” she says in a distant, too-formal voice.

He pauses to look at her again. Is it his imagination, or did her lip just tremble? It’s hard to say, because her expression seems so stoic.

“I didn’t mind helping,” he replies carefully. “It was no problem. It was fun.”

This is where he should leave. He reaches for his coat. But instead of picking it up, his hand rests on it a moment—no doubt getting some fucking flour on it —and he looks back up to meet Scully’s gaze again. Her eyes are wide and wet.

“A quick question though.”

“Okay.” Caution falls like a curtain over her face.

“I guess I was just wondering if that—“ He gestures to the kitchen counter, to the location of their makeout session. “If that was something you think we might ever do again,” he says. “Or if that was it. Late night mistake, holiday stress, et cetera.”

“Mulder—”

“You don’t have to decide now,” he says. “No pressure. I was just wondering. I’m going to want to know at some point.”

She runs a hand through her hair, which again just sends more stormy swirls of flour through it. Her tongue darts out lightning fast over her bottom lip, her nervous tell.

“All right,” she says finally.

“Good,” he says. “Well, then I’ll be—”

“Mulder,” she continues, interrupting.

“Yeah?” he says, frowning.

“Stay and help.”

He steps around the table, over his bag sitting on the floor. “Stay and help. With … taking the cookies out?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Okay.” He doesn’t move, uncertain. “If you want me to.”

There’s a pause. She looks at her feet, and then lifts her eyes, slowly, to lock on his. The determined look there, one he’s not sure he’s seen before, startles him.

“It just seems to me that if you’re going to start a project in the kitchen,” she says precisely, “you should be prepared to finish it.”

Mulder stares at her, processing her statement.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh.”

He has her pressed against her kitchen counter in seconds, this time his hands cupping her jawbones, some part of him wanting to eat her whole. Her hands are dragging at him, pulling him closer and closer, although he is really as close as he can be at this moment. He kisses her fiercely; she doesn’t yield an inch.

***

Twenty minutes later, they realize the timer has been going off for quite some time. Mulder has his hand slipped down her pants, which are unfastened, frilly apron hitched up.

“That’s–that’s the cookies,” she hisses into his ear. Nodding tightly, he fishes his hand out from between her legs. They stare at one another forehead to forehead for a moment before the need for haste sinks in, and then they kick into action.

They rush to the oven, Scully’s pants undone and Mulder’s awkwardly tenting. Scully scrambles to find the oven mitts and takes the trays out, setting each down on the stovetop with a clatter.

It’s immediately clear that the cookies are far too brown at the edges. A few have what look to be blackened underbellies. Not exchange worthy.

“Shit,” Mulder says, eyeing Scully nervously.

She’s looking down at them with a shell-shocked expression, her hair a snowy mess and her pants drooping around her hips.

“You’re short 24 cookies, Scully,” he adds. Probably unnecessarily, he realizes. She can count.

Almost imperceptibly she nods, continuing to stare at the trays.

Then, slowly, she looks up. Her eyes lock on his. To his astonishment, her face transforms. It’s like she is remembering some incredible, delicious secret.

Taking a step towards him, she runs her fingers up the length of him through his jeans, where he is still very noticeably hard. With bright eyes, she pushes up on her toes and catches his bottom lip between hers, taking a teasing nibble.

“It’s okay,” she says, her words barely more than a whisper. “We can make more cookies.”

He likes this attitude, he really does, but he can’t help but look at her quizzically. “More cookies? Tonight? Are you sure?”

“In the morning,” she says, her lips now grazing his jawline. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“Oh … yeah?” He likes the sound of being there in the morning. He also likes the feel of her plush lips moving along the lines of his face and her hand running up and down the fly of his jeans.

“Before we go to the exchange.” She leans in and kisses him, then draws back to study his reaction. His face erupts into a ridiculous, giddy smile.

“We sure fucking will,” he says. “We’re an unstoppable baking team, Scully.”

He places a hand on each cheek of her rear end and hoists her against him, her legs curling around his waist. She smiles and wraps her arms around his neck as he carries her towards the bedroom. They leave a trail of flour behind them.

#x files fanfic #xfiles fanfic #the x files #holiday fic

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