#angry mulder is my kink

[baronessblixen]

"I really want to die, Mulder." Her face is dry, her tone is cold. She makes another step towards the cliff.

Character death or comfort fic, I'm good with either. Thanks.

Angst! Set in "Redux II".

Fictober Day 29 | Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2022 | Wc: 1,209

I'm Not Giving Up

He watches her from a distance, walking slowly toward her. The breeze tousles her hair, a perfect firestorm against the endlessness of the sky. She looks mighty standing there, the complete opposite to how the world sees her. His tiny partner, who is constantly underestimated. If only people knew how strong she is. He knows. He’s seen it.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks her, looking around. Shouldn’t he know where they are and why they’re here? Scully must have brought him here. She takes his hand and squeezes it once. Just a sign that she’s still here. As soon as she lets go, his skin turns cold.

“Just looking at the waves. There isn’t much time left for me. I wanted to be here once last time.”

“It’s not your time yet,” he says, realizing how close they are to the edge of the cliff. Down there, the waves crash noisily against the rocks. As children, Samantha would say the water was angry with the rocks because they were in the way. She was scared of the ocean and never ventured too far, always clinging to his hand.

Unlike Scully.

He imagines her as a young child, carefree but cautious, knowing that the ocean was her friend as long as she respected it. Once, he talked to Mrs. Scully, her reminiscing about her children, about her little Dana. Always the smallest, she made up for it by being the bravest.

“I really want to die, Mulder,” she says, her words crashing against him, threatening to carry him away.

“No, you don’t.”

“Hmm,” she hums, a soft smile on her face he can’t decipher. “It’s better this way. Why prolong it?” She takes a step forward, closer to the edge. He reaches out his hand, but there’s only the breeze caressing his skin.

“You can’t give up,” he says and she turns to him, her blue eyes bigger than he’s ever seen him, looking young, looking healthy. At first, it’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth, but soon it’s a full-blown smile. He hasn’t seen her smile like this in so long. He offers her his hand, asking her to stay with him, to trust him.

“I’m not giving up,” she says. “I’m just letting go.” She takes that final step and disappears right in front of his eyes. He screams, his words taken away by the wind and he jumps forward, not caring about anything but her. If he falls, he falls. He’s not doing it without her.

Mulder startles, his head shooting up and making him dizzy. It takes him a moment to realize where he is.

“You’re awake,” Scully says with a rueful smile, sitting up in her hospital bed.

They’re at the hospital. They were never anywhere else. There’s no ocean, no cliffs. All of it was just his imagination. Wasn’t it? His brain is trying to catch up, still out there. He can hear the wind whistle its song, taste the saltiness. He licks his lips, trying to wake up, but the saltiness remains. Tears, he realizes. The saltiness comes from his own tears.

“Bad dream, huh?” The way she asks him gives him pause. It’s as if she knows exactly what happened in his dream.

“Yeah,” he replies with a grave voice. He’s hoarse as if he’d been screaming. In his dream, he was. “Did you sleep too?” She nods.

“Woke up a moment before you and when I saw you there, I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” she says. “You looked like you needed sleep.” Mulder groans as he tries to work out the kink in his neck. His body is angry with him for falling asleep with his head on Scully’s hospital bed, the rest of his body jammed into a plastic chair.

“Did I- did I talk in my sleep?” He asks her. He can’t shake the feeling that what he just witnessed in his dream was more than that. Her nervous expression gives credence to his apprehension.

“You might have mumbled a few things.”

“You had the same dream, didn’t you? We were together in that dream.”

“I didn’t dream anything.” He can tell she’s lying.

“Well, you were in my dream,” he says, trying not to be angry with her. Of course, his rational and logical Scully doesn’t believe in shared dreams. But he knows. They were both there. Standing there on the cliff together. Saying things they don’t dare to voice in the real world.

“You said- no wait. What you said, Scully. You said you wanted to die. You really said that, didn’t you?” There’s no hiding anything on her body anymore. She’s too weak, her defenses lowered. Without looking at him, she nods.

Everything they said in his dream – their shared vision – transpired. Every word. He reaches over and takes one of her hands that she has neatly placed in her lap as if waiting for something. He knows now what she’s waiting for. He won’t utter the word. Won’t even think it. Holding her hand, he wills her strength to return.

“You can’t give up, Scully. You can’t. This isn’t the end.”

“It is the end, Mulder. There is not going to be a miracle. There is no cure.”

“There has to be.” She chuckles, shaking her head. When she turns to him, her eyes are wet with tears.

“I don’t want to spend whatever time we have left fighting.”

“I’m not giving up, Scully,” he vows. “I can’t give up. I will fight. I will find a way to make this right.” He will grab her arm before she jumps off the cliff. He will catch her. This is not her time. There’s so much life left inside her. There’s so much she still needs to see and experience. If he could, he’d trade his life for hers in a heartbeat.

“What if the roles were reversed, hm?” He asks her. “If it were me in that hospital bed. Would you give up on me?”

“That’s not fair,” she whispers.

“None of this is fair. So tell me, would you? Would you let me die without a fight?” He knows the answer. He knows because she’s saved him a thousand times over from certain death. Not once did she give up. Not a single time. He won’t either. He can’t give up. Not when it’s about Scully.

“What would you do, Scully? If it were me. Would you really let me give up?” Half a lifetime passes before she gives him her answer.

“No,” she says, her voice stronger than before. “I wouldn’t let you give up.”

“So why do you think I’d let you?”

“Mulder, this is pointless.” He shakes his head so hard that it’s dizzying, taking her other hand, too, because he’s greedy.

“I will find a way. We will find a way, Scully. I know you. You’re not a quitter. Just hold on a while longer. Whenever you feel like you can’t… take my hands.” He squeezes both of hers. Unlike in the dream, she doesn’t let go this time. She holds on.

She’s gonna make it. He knows she will because there’s no other way. He won’t accept anything else.

#fictober2022 #a bit experimental maybe #i had so much fun writing this omg #msr #xf fanfic #my writing #my fic

[cock-holliday]

For the headcanon ask game! I randomized these again, hehe.

First one for Mulder: 🍫 A headcanon about food Second one for Scully: 😺 An animal related headcanon Third one for Skinner: 👽 A headcanon about a weird quirk of there Fourth one for Krycek: ❤️‍🔥 A romantic headcanon

Mulder: 🍫 A headcanon about food

This is funny cause in the last one I HC'd that Mulder has some weird food habits. Man can't stock a fridge to save his life and he's gotta survive on something. I feel like some of his travel foods horrify Scully and he's supremely insistent that no--you've gotta try it, yeah it looks bad but it tastes good!

Scully: 😺 An animal related headcanon

Between her adoption of pets, her behavior around weird creatures, her lack of fear about bugs...I feel like she goes kinda ham for odd animals. She might secretly want a kind of strange pet that she wouldn't actually get, she'd like the zoo/aquarium. She humors Mulder on watching documentaries but is quietly like "I already know all this about x creature."

Skinner: 👽 A headcanon about a weird quirk of theirs

I get the vibe that my man Walter is into some weird movies. Some odd experimental indy films that are just wrapped in six layers of metaphor and deep fried in melancholy. But maybe he hate-watches them.

Krycek: ❤️‍🔥 A romantic headcanon

Oh, Krycek. He's the "gay but homophobic" post. That dude is so repressed and angry about so much. Does he have a humiliation kink? Does he just love destruction? Idk what his damage is but if his story doesn't end a la Hannibal (2013) then idk what is in store for him romantically. What a damaged little boy.

#ask #ask meme #annablume #thank you for sending these!!!

[admiralty-xfd]

Culmination

This is chapter 6A. To start at the beginning please click here.

CONVICTION

SCULLY

(En Ami)

She hates that she lied to him. Absolutely hates it. The thought of any kind of wedge between them is abhorrent to her. He seems to know she had very little choice, but he is hurt, betrayed. And she understands.

“He could have done something to you, Scully. He could have killed you!”

The car ride home from the fake offices of C.G.B. Spender has been an uncomfortable one. She appreciates Mulder’s protectiveness to a point, but his belief he’d been so close to losing her has ratcheted up to anger. She rarely sees him this angry, especially with her.

Even though she believes everything she did was the right course of action, now is not the time to be defensive. Now is the time to let him be angry, to ask for forgiveness.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Did you even think about how I might have felt? When I learned you were alone with him?”

“Of course I did.”

She stares at her hands in her lap. She wants to look him right in the eye and tell him she knew what she was doing, and he doesn’t need to protect her. But she doesn’t. He needs to feel this way right now, and she wants to give him what he needs the only way she knows how.

“I wish you’d realize I didn’t have much of a choice, Mulder. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you what was going on but the whole thing was on his terms. I figured we’d sit down, have a conversation like this, and you’d understand.”

“Well, I don’t. I don’t understand how you could go off with him and not tell me about it. Especially after... Diana.”

She can tell he didn’t really want to say it. She feels bile rising in the back of her throat. Even from the goddamn grave, this woman will not leave them alone. She bites her tongue to keep from saying something she’ll regret.

“This is not even close to the same situation. I am not, and never have been, like her.”

Mulder stares at her, hard. “You’re right. You aren’t. I never said you were.”

He looks back at the road and grips the steering wheel. She doesn’t like the direction this conversation is going so she changes tack.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Mulder. Never. You have to know that by now.”

He doesn’t say anything. She can see his jaw moving in frustration as he grinds his teeth. She knows he’s mad but she can’t help but find it thoroughly hot.

“I would hope that after all we’ve been through, you could trust me in this type of situation. As your partner. That you’d do the same, and know I would trust you, if you were in my position.”

“Never. I’d never trust him.”

“But you did,” she responds quietly. She regrets the words even as they leave her mouth, but she’s said them now.

He pulls the car over to the side of the road, puts it in park, and shuts off the ignition. He turns to her. “What are you talking about?”

“You did. You trusted him enough to want to go to that Air Force base. You were headed there with her. You would have been killed, burned up with the rest of them. There would have been nothing I could have done about it if you hadn’t changed your mind.”

Mulder is stunned. But she’s right, and she knows he knows it. He doesn’t know what to say. The air in the car is still, and tense.

His face looks conflicted. “Everything he said to me made sense. It was the truth. About what happened to my sister, about the deal that was struck, all of it had to be true.”

“How is that any different than how I reacted? You trusted him. You believed him. Something in what he said made you believe him.”

“It’s not the same, Scully. You should have told me about this.”

“How is it not the same?”

“Scully-”

“Why are you allowed to act alone, but I’m not? Why, Mulder?”

“Because-“ he stops himself.

“What? Because why?”

“I don’t know!” He explodes. “It’s just… it’s just different.”

“Because I’m a woman? Is that what you were going to say?”

He shakes his head. She can’t tell if he’s lying. She hates when that happens.

“I’m so mad at you right now.” It’s all he can muster. She is unimpressed.

“Really? Great. I’m getting a little pissed off at you, myself,” she retorts. Nothing like a little misogynistic bullshit to further ruin an already horrible evening.

He grips the steering wheel with his fingers again, staring straight ahead. She laughs to herself and shakes her head, this situation such a metaphor for their own relationship. Stuck in this car together, facing the right direction but never getting anywhere. As always.

“It’s not because you’re a woman.” He’s still looking straight ahead. “I can’t tell you what it is. I don’t know how.”

“Well, by all means, please try, Mulder.”

He turns to look at her. There’s a fire in his eyes she hasn’t seen before. It’s anger, but maybe also something else.

Without any warning, he throws his body over the console and his mouth is on hers, moving insistently, fiercely. She wants him so badly that her hands go instantly to the back of his neck, pulling him in even harder. Her mouth opens for him for the first time and he does not hesitate. His tongue is aggressive and crushes her own. She feels the kiss throughout her entire body.

His hand moves with intent underneath her shirt and she can’t help her body from responding but just as quickly as this happened, she decides she doesn’t like what’s happening.

No, this is wrong, all wrong.

“Mulder.” She tries to say his name while his mouth is devouring hers, but either he isn’t hearing her or he’s choosing to ignore her.

She places both hands on his chest and pushes him off her, hard. “Mulder, stop!”

He pulls back, stunned. Her lipstick is smeared across his mouth and she tries not to like it. The last thing she wants is to stop but the only thing she can think of right now is that this is definitely not the way this should begin. He’s angry and confused, just as much as she is. There’s only so much self control they can exercise anymore. Something like this was bound to happen, she just wishes it were under different circumstances.

“Please, not like this. You’re upset.”

She worries they’ve fucked everything up irrevocably and she wants to make light of this as quickly as possible but her eyes are welling up. She doesn’t want him to see her cry so she turns away from him to look out the window.

“I… I’m sorry, Scully.” She can’t see his face but she knows him well enough to know he means it.

“Just take me home, okay?”

She hears the car turn back on and they start to move. They drive in silence for awhile.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says quietly. She still can’t bring herself to look at him. She’s not mad at him, there was nothing he did that she didn’t welcome in the moment. She’s embarrassed, and angry at the both of them for continuing to fuck this up over and over again.

“It’s fine, let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.” Like we always do, she thinks miserably.

Without any more conversation they arrive at her apartment. She’s so confused and upset and she wants him so badly she has to get out. She doesn’t want to leave things like this but she wants nothing more than to get out of this car as fast as possible. She goes to open the door and feels his hand grab her wrist gently.

“Scully.”

She turns to face him, eyes red. She hates that he’s seeing her like this. “It’s fine, Mulder. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He looks at her intently, his eyes are so sad. He looks completely miserable. “That wasn’t me. I… don’t know what that was. I hope you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, okay?” She’s trying to sound kind but firm. She wants to stop talking about this. “I’ll see you later.”

The car door slams behind her and she heads up the steps and into her building, not looking back.

She has never wished more for a reset button in her life. They’d been making such progress lately, she thought some way, somehow soon things were going to finally change. Now she worries it will never happen, not after this.

Did she make a mistake? Should she have just let it happen? Should she have just let him fuck her right there in the car out of anger? Why couldn’t it have happened a different way? What the hell is wrong with them?

Loneliness is a choice.

The words she heard herself say to Philip Padgett last year in a moment of vulnerability come back now to haunt her. She’d told him she wasn’t lonely but it was a lie. She’s chosen loneliness over and over again, all her life. And Mulder is choosing it too.

Why do they keep making that choice?

Thanks for reading! See you back here tomorrow with “all things...”

#txf #the x files #msr #msr fanfic #en ami #culmination #angry mulder is my kink

[edierone]

26 and 77 for the mash up list

Five Miles Is a Long Way to Walk In Florsheims

She really did it. 

She — she just pulled over, told me to get out, and — kept on driving. 

I know I was pissing her off this entire case (but especially today), I know I probably (definitely) pushed it too far when I did the vehicular version of Dutch-ovening her just now, a little juvenile humor to lighten the mood … ok, honestly, with the heat on, it was really kind of nauseating, even for me. 

She’s threatened to dump me out before, like a dad yelling at the kids to pipe down or he’ll make ‘em walk home. 

But — this time, she really did it. And here I am, by the side of a two-lane road in the far yonder of cow country, in a cold drizzling rain, in my suit (minus the jacket, which is … still in the car) and cheap dumb dress shoes from JC Penney — thank god I left my Nunn Bush oxfords at home, I guess? — watching the rented Ford’s taillights recede in the far distance.  

I’ll wait a few minutes. She’ll come back. 

Nope. It’s been fifteen already. New plan: Walk till I’m just over that next rise — probably she’s sitting there, waiting for me to catch up, parked on the narrow shoulder with the radio on one of her channels (theory: might’ve been the fourth airing of “Livin’ Lovin’ Maid” that pushed her over the edge; note to self, that’s enough classic rock for today). I’ll show up, she’ll forgive me, and we’ll get back to finding the Phantom Murderin’ Cowboy of BFE. 

*************

Nope. Fox and his tired old dogs are walkin back to Cowburg. 

*************

Five miles is a long way to walk in Florsheims, especially when the seams start to give and your socks are soaked and your hair is in your face and even your belt is ruined. It’s enough time to get titanically self-righteously angry, then run out of steam on that and rethink your position, then feel like utter dogshit for the way you’ve treated the most important person in your life, then script and rehearse your most abject apology speech dozens of times, refining it to remove all traces of self-pity and accusation and adding a few jokey lines so she knows it’s you and not some shapeshifting asshole wearing you as a skin suit or something. 

I’m — I’m properly chastened, is what I’m saying, and all I want is to get back in her good graces. And maybe get some dry clothes on; my balls are rubbed pretty raw at this point. 

Room 27, adjoining room 28, the last two on the end farthest from the road. I start to feel just how bad off I am as I cross the parking lot: I’m freezing, my left knee hurts like a bastard, my ankles feel swollen to the point of sloshiness, my back is killing me, and my feet — oh god, my feet … I limp to good old 27, then realize with a wave of despair that my key is in the pocket of my suit jacket, which I can see crumpled on the floor of the Taurus’s backseat. 

Shit. 

Rather than add “broken rental car window” to my list of crimes and expense items, I gather what’s left of my dignity — there ain’t much — and shuffle over to 28. 

“Knock knock, it’s the bog monster of Black Rock Creek, I’m here to —”

The door swings open so fast I almost fall through it. 

There she is, keys in hand and coat on — that determined/worried little furrow between her eyes quickly smoothing out and hiking skyward as she takes in my bedraggled state. I don’t get a chance to give my apology speech, because she’s already launched into hers: “Jesus, Mulder, you look like a drowned rat! I’m so sorry — I thought it was only a mile or so, but it took you so long, I got worried — you — I was so angry, I guess I just didn’t realize how far it was — oh, look at your shoes! I was coming to get you — god you must be so cold —”

The whole time, she’s dragging me inside, running to the bathroom to grab towels which she tosses at me, bending to help me shuck the worthless bits of leather that used to be size 11 Fed footwear, checking through my sopping-wet hair for head trauma — at least I think that’s what she’s doing, but I don’t really care cause it feels pretty good. 

But I can’t let her do all the apologizing, so all the while, I’m trying to interject with my own mea culpa — about how it’s OK, I’m OK, I was being a dumbass and I deserved it and I’m sorry for questioning her take on the third vic’s cause of death (she was right, I was reaching, and being a dick about it besides), if she wants to Dutch-oven me as revenge, I’ll take it like a man … 

That one finally makes her stop fussing and laugh, her big surprising Scully-laugh that makes me feel like a god for bringing it forth. 

“Mulder …” she finally says, looking me up and down with a mixture of pity and amusement that kinda makes me tingle. “I’ll save that idea for another time. Why don’t you go get a hot shower and I’ll — try to find something to eat. I’m already dressed to go out anyway.” 

I agree to this plan, and in less than an hour, we’re side by side in comfy warm sweatpants on the surprisingly decent couch, eating some of the best tortilla soup I’ve ever tasted. She brought icy cold glass bottles of Coke, too — “Hecho in Mexico, oh man, Scully, that’s the stuff!”

She puts hers down and hops up, going to dig something out of her trench pocket. “I almost forgot! I found something else to warm you up.” She holds it out to me — a pint bottle of Jameson’s. 

“Heyyyyyy!” I reach for it, cracking it open and smelling it. “Where’d you get this? I thought this was a dry county.” 

“It is,” she smiles, with an arch aren’t-I-clever look. “I bought it off the front desk clerk — smelled something on her breath and took the big investigative leap. She charged me a pretty big markup, but I thought it was worth it, under the circumstances.” 

I agree, and ask if we have glasses — but this isn’t the kind of place that furnishes barware, so I guess we’ll have to swig it like a couple of winos under a bridge. 

“I don’t mind swapping spit with you, Scully, if you’re ok with mine,” I say, landing a pretty ill-timed glance at her lips that I hope she doesn’t notice. 

She does. It makes her blush a little, which she brazens through with a big manly belt of the Jameson’s. She hands the bottle to me and dares me with her eyes to do better. 

I can’t, of course, but I try, and as the first gulp slides down my throat, warming me from the inside, I have one of those hot pulses of the deepest kind of affection for her — the kind that just shouts in my head, iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou, so loud that I almost give it voice for real. 

But, of course, I don’t; we finish our dinner, taking occasional nips of whiskey, calling out increasingly sloppy answers at Jeopardy! and then Wheel of Fortune on the crummy motel TV. 

The news is next and neither of us is in the mood, so I click through the five working channels and get lucky: North By Northwest is just starting. I scooch around to get comfortable, but I must’ve stiffened up — both of my hip joints and something up high in my back crack audibly, and the girly scream whistling out of me at the way my calf just seized would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much. 

Well, I guess it’s funny to Scully — she laughs, but apologizes. Then laughs again. She’s ruthless, not to mention mean. I tell her so. She laughs harder. I pout dramatically, and eventually she relents.

“All right, all right — you’ll be useless in the morning if I don’t get you fixed up, and I don’t plan on carrying your bag through DFW airport. Get up on that bed, I’ll massage the kinks out.” 

I swear I do not even have time to open my mouth before she warns, deadly serious: “And if you say one word about this is how some of your favorite movies start —”

Ahh, she knows me, doesn’t she? 

I make like a totally innocent man — pure of heart, mind, and deed — and lie down on my stomach with my feet toward the headboard, propping my chin up on a pillow so I can keep watching the movie. Scully gets to work. 

And she’s good. Got those doctor hands. Whoever’s in 26 must think we’re making the world’s weirdest sex tape in here, or else that we’ve kidnapped a moose that sometimes converses with Cary Grant. 

By the time she gets to my feet, I feel like a melted marshmallow.  

Scully says dreamily, “I remember watching this once somewhere when I was about twelve, and thinking Eve Kendall was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.” I make an inquiring noise. “You know — this scene —”

They’re on the train. Eva Marie Saint’s lookin ol’ Archibald in the eye, telling him she’s twenty-six and unmarried and likes his face, how it’s gonna be a long night, and

“And I don't particularly like the book I've started,” Scully murmurs along. I crane my neck to look back at her; her lips curve upward in the most delicious-looking arc, her eyes twinkling with that sort of mischievous/impressed look she gets toward me sometimes. 

I love it, but it makes me a little jealous, so I tell her so. She just giggles and says, “Oh, don’t be jealous of old crushes!” I want to ask her who’s the crush, Eva Marie or Cary, but she grabs the other pillow and flops down on her stomach beside me and suddenly I can’t talk — I just lie there, grinning like a fool. 

She passes me the one-third-full Jameson’s — one more sip each before she caps it for the night. We watch for awhile longer. During the next commercial break, she turns to me, studying me with a gentle smile.  

“You look a little dopey,” she says fondly, and I laugh. 

“I’m also happy, sleepy, and tipsy — wonder where the other three dwarfs are?”

Her eyes are on the TV again. “Doc … Bashful … Horny …” 

Suddenly my heart is thumping way too hard. When I talk, it comes out softer than I meant it to. “I don’t think ‘Horny’ is one of the original septet, Doc …”

She shifts a little. She’s smiling but she won’t look at me. “Neither is ‘Tipsy,’ but I spotted you that one — fair’s fair, Mulder.”

“Oh, we’re being honest?” Where did this voice come from, the one that makes her shiver? There — just then — she did, she did shiver. I saw it. “Well, maybe there was a Horny. And a Woody, and a — Smitten, and a —”

“I think you better stop there, Prince Charming,” she interrupts, finally half-turning her face toward me. She still won’t make eye contact; maybe she knows, like I do, that if she does that, we don’t stand a chance of keeping this from happening. 

The thing is, I want it to. I have for a long, long time, and I think — so does she, so has she. 

That’s the source of so much of the tension between us; that’s really why we fought earlier, why there’ve been so many of these little flareups lately, embers dropped into dry grass and then stomped out with such vigor. We’ve been careful not to get into situations like this one, where the space separating us is so small that we can feel the other’s exhales on our own skin. 

I drop down from my elbows to lie flat, facing her. I can see her eyelashes silhouetted against the washed-out lights of 1959 onscreen. “Scully,” I say, barely above a whisper. 

It’s a long moment before she finally whispers back, “Not here.”

I know what she means, of course I do. Not on a case, not in a janky motel, not even a little bit under the influence. 

“Then where?” 

She shakes her head, a tiny movement that makes her hair fall forward, obscuring any part of her I could read. 

She doesn’t know? Or she doesn’t want to say? I can’t tell, so I try another question.

“Soon, do you think?”

She tenses, and for a second I think she’s going to get up, or order me out of here. But then she drops her head to the pillow, facing me. Her eyes are huge, serious, full of something unnameable that I nonetheless understand. 

“Soon,” she agrees. 

I nod, nearly overwhelmed by my love for her, the tremendous weight of this moment, the desire that’s been there for so long I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t. 

She reaches to touch my face, skimming lightly along one side, barely barely barely there on my eyelid, so softly; I close my eyes as she traces where she likes. 

Her hand falls eventually, coming to rest in the little valley between us. I take hold of it, gently, risking a glimpse at her. Her eyes are shut now, but I’m not sure she’s asleep. 

“I love you,” I say, but silently, the coward’s way. “So much.” 

If she hears me, it’s only subliminally; that’s all the daring I have tonight. Sweet dreams, Scully, I think as I drift off. Sweet dreams. 

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

[Thanks for the long-ago prompt, anon -- from the Fic Trope Mashup list, Massage Fic and In Vino Veritas]

[mulder-krycek]

I'm not necessarily a slash fan but I can try. How about Mulder coming out to Scully introducing his boyfriend? And less G-rated: Mulder gets a sex toy and can't wait to try it out with boyfriend. I suppose Krycek?

I did the first prompt but am going to save the second one for a different post.  the two stories have such different feels, I didn’t want to put them together.  can we all give cred to poor @baronessblixen who struggled against her shipperness to send me these prompts? lmfao.

I sort of twisted the first prompt into something more… well, sad.  What can I say?  Breaking Mulder’s heart is my kink.  Enjoy. not beta’d ‘cause i’m an arse.  set sometime in early season 3.

Dana Scully sits in her car outside Hegal Place and she thinks.  It’s almost two in the morning and she’s been sitting there for maybe fifteen minutes.  She just can’t bring herself to turn on the ignition and drive yet.  She’s asking herself something.  She’s asking herself and she’s hoping she’ll find the answer… but she doesn’t think she will.

She wants to know how much.  She wants to know how much more Fox Mulder has to suffer.  How much more pain he has to sit through, even in the overwhelming eclipse of love… he feels nothing but sorrow.  And she hurts for him, too.

Four stories up, he’s sleeping, exhausted from the emotional upheaval he’s experienced tonight.  The sleeve of her shirt is still damp, where his tears saturated the fabric at the wrist, when he laid his head down on her lap.  He had clung to her, aching for some sort of absolution and yet resistant to anything but complete penitence.  He gave the Nuns of her youth a run for their money.

“What is wrong with me?” he cried softly into her lap, droplets rolling from his eyes, “What have I done?  What have I done?  Forgive me, Scully, please, forgive me.”

She forgave him, of course she forgave him.  Her fingers stroked the thick, dark hair.  It had happened so suddenly and yet it seemed undefinably inevitable.  The joy on his face when he’d seen her, when she’d woken up from her place far way, had been nothing if not pure compassion.  He’d treated her like glass afterwards.  Her abduction a heavy mark on his card, a trauma he hoped to carry all on his own.  Along with everything else.

Everything broke.  Eventually.  Even Mulder.

Dana had grown up Catholic.  A traditional Catholic and she’d read the Bible many times, listened to the Priest when he gave his sermons.  It was the word of God, who was she to deny it?  To correct it?  Once, her mother had taken her aside, in a private moment, and spoke about such a subject.  She said it was important to remember the tenants of Christ, to respect the church but to remember that it was run by men.  God was infallible, men were not.  Remember that, she’d urged her, remember that.

She remembered more, her brothers and her father talking about it at the dinner table.  It was a good thing, they agreed, it was good that they were kept from the military.  They’d agreed: they couldn’t be trusted.  Certainly not in the line of duty, not as a man at your back, not when they needed to be counted on.  They just simply could not be trusted.

Fox Mulder was the only man she trusted.  Homosexual or not, she’d have no one else at her back.  She’d told him that, she’d held him and she’d told him that; she hoped he’d believed her.

“There’s no shame in love, Mulder,” she’d whispered, cradling him in her arms, nose buried in his hair.  Her partner, her friend, her child.

“They were right, they were right,” he’d sobbed, clinging to her. Desperate, battered by circumstance.  His parents.  Wealthy and poised, they turned their noses up at anything that seemed problematic.  

“He looked at me,” Mulder recalled, wiping  his nose, holding it together as best he could, “He looked at me and he just said… he just said, we weren’t that kind of family.  My mother agreed.”

Dana Scully had never felt so angry, she’d never felt the bitter, un-quenchable disgust until she’d heard Mulder’s recollection.  She could see him in her mind’s eye:  Mulder, lanky and awkward, at sixteen, just trying to understand himself, trying to understand the wave of aggressive feeling that swept over all teenagers.  Hoping, praying, he could look to his parents for help.  Only to have them turn in disappointment.  Bastards.  The both of them.

It wasn’t just men who broke Mulder’s heart.  It was man.  One man.  

“Forgive me,” he’d asked her, begged her, “Forgive me, Scully.  I didn’t know.  He… he tricked me.  I thought… oh, Jesus,” he buried his face in his hands, squeezing his eyes against the tears, trying to block out the pain.

“I’m so ashamed, Scully, I’m so sorry.  I thought he loved me.  I thought… I thought he loved him and I, I, I…”

Alex Krycek.

The year they’d been partners, the year of illusion and trickery.

“It wasn’t sex, Scully, we… the sex it was secondary.  He just… he made it all seem so natural.  I didn’t have the X-Files but I had you.  And, and,” he seemed to hesitate to add but honest longed to be free, “I had him.  And now he’s laughing at me, Scully.  They all are.  I fell for it.  I fell for it and they’re laughing.”

One droplet, then another and they began to fall.  She stroked his hands.  Scully didn’t know what hurt him more; the hollow love or the admission he’d felt anything at all.  The shame he felt facing her.

“And he hurt you,” Mulder choked out, an angry grit through all the sorrow, “And he hurt you and I’ll never forgive him.  I hate him, Scully, I hate him.”

“And he hurt you,” she came closer, to pull him to her.  She felt him crumble in her arms, sinking into her embrace, “And I’ll never forgive him for that, Mulder.  You don’t need to ask for my forgiveness,  there’s nothing to forgive.”

Scully pressed a soft kiss to his temple and his grip on her tightened.  She held him on his couch, resting him against the cushions.  Soothing the pain, or trying.  She didn’t know if she could ever really sooth him, not like she wanted–there would always be pain in Mulder but she just wanted to ease it.

“I love you,” he whispered against her, eyes closed.  He did, she knew he did.

It wasn’t just sex that made love, it was so much more.  And she’d never deny it existed between them.

“And I love you,” Scully replied, stroking his hair.  She stayed there until he fell asleep and then she tucked him in, wrapping him in his second-hand indian blanket.  

Fox Mulder.  Her partner, her friend and her child.  The mother he’d needed, the friend he’d deserved, she kissed at the hairline and left him, locking up after her as she left.

Scully finally started her car, letting out a breath.  Mulder had told her of Krycek’s involvement in her abduction, and she’d soured on him understandably but she knew there forces bigger than him, men who held more blame then Krycek could ever hope to accumulate.

Now?  Now she hated him with her whole body.  When she saw Alex Krycek again, if she saw him again, she’d kill him.  For Mulder, she’d kill him.  Because that was love.

#mulder x krycek #fox mulder #dana scully #alex krycek #the x-files #13