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amplifyme · 2 years

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Quonochontaug - Snapshots

The X-Files. MSR. Mature. WC: 8,063. Established Relationship. Post-Je Souhaite. Alternate Series Finale. Read on AO3 Tagging @today-in-fic

One of my newer pieces. The first TXF fanfic I managed to write after a seven year bout with writer’s block.

Loose Ends

He answered on the seventh ring, just as she was about to give up.

“Mulder, where are you?”

“Headin’ up the I-95.” There was a soft crack of a sunflower seed between his teeth and then nothing.

“I just spoke to Skinner. He said you called him at five o’clock this morning and requested a week’s vacation.”

His measured reserve was louder than the faint music coming from the car radio. She thought she recognized the song.

Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you. There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do.

“Mulder… Mulder what are you doing?”

“End of the road, Scully. Just tying up loose ends.”

She dipped her head and accepted the inevitable. She’d been afraid from the onset that his fragile peace wouldn’t last. Had felt the unsettled aura that’d enveloped him the last few months, the indigo shimmer of his dissatisfaction.

She knew it was in small part her unfortunate adventure with CGB Spender; the full details of which she’d chosen not to disclose to him. But Mulder had discerned her flimsy ploy and instead of pressing her, meted out punishment by withholding his affections. There was an end to that impasse only after she’d gone to his bed the night of his return from London; seduced him slowly with her mouth and nimble hands, dragged him back into the cradle of her thighs, made him fuck her for the first time in almost a month.

But the larger part, the root of his sadness, was what it’d always been. His proclaimed freedom after his ghostly reunion with his sister hadn’t come without a small kernel of doubt. He’d always wanted to believe – but that didn’t preclude the moments when he couldn’t.

She pulled up a road map in her head and asked, “The summer house?”

The last time he’d been there he’d had a gun tucked under his chin.

“Ding, ding, ding,” he intoned. “We have a winner.” There followed another long silence. She refused to fill it for him. Their relationship was based on an implicit and equitable give and take. He’d not been holding up his end of the deal lately. He finally gave in and told her, “I’m putting it on the market. I need to get it cleaned out before I call the real estate agent.”

“I thought you’d decided to keep it.”

“Why, so I have somewhere to spend my forced yearly vacations? Anything good about the place died a long time ago, Scully. Better to get out from under it. At least the proceeds will pad my retirement fund. Maybe we can take a trip to Mexico sometime soon. Sip margaritas, bake ourselves on the beach, get sand in uncomfortable places. Whadda’ya think?”

She caught an edge of humor in his tone and softened hers to match.

“I wish you’d called me, Mulder. I would have come with you.”

“You’ve got that thing at Quantico later this week. Wouldn’t want to disappoint all those fresh young faces waiting for your wisdom.” He let loose a sigh. “I’ll be fine, Scully.”

“You’ll call?”

“Don’t I always?”

No, not always. But enough that she didn’t feel the need to point it out.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispered, as though she were sitting in the basement office surrounded by fellow agents.

“Yeah,” he responded. “Same.” He ended the call and she sat listening to the silence on the other end, vaguely unsettled.

Chasing Ghosts

Mulder tossed the phone on the passenger seat and dug another seed from the bag resting in the console. He glanced at his watch. Tuesday morning traffic was light; three more hours should see him there. And then would begin the work of what he hoped would be a final exorcism, a purging of the last of his demons.

He allowed himself a beat or two of regret for not forewarning Scully of his plans. But in his defense his final decision hadn’t come until just hours ago, when caught in the teeth of the night’s wolf, he’d reckoned this could be the resolution he needed. If he was wrong, no need to pull her into another nightmare-scape of his creating. She’d been yanked through too many of those already. Better to put enough miles between them to serve as cushion before he spoke to her. He’d hesitated to answer the call, knowing it would be her, knowing she’d want answers. He had none to give her, not yet anyway. Still, it was incredible how their brief conversation had centered him, corrected his course. She was light and purpose. Scully was clarity.

To say he’d been distracted of late would be an understatement. Theories shuffled and tumbled through his head twenty-four-seven, rolled and bounced like pinballs; faces and memories with their jagged edges had sliced through thin skin and burned the back of his eyelids.

His father. Dead. Sacrificed on the altar of a global conspiracy of monsters.

His mother. Dead. Sacrificing herself to escape another fact too painful to admit or fight against.

His sister. Dead. Sacrificed… or saved?

Samantha.

He’d spent twenty-seven years chasing a ghost. What might his life have been like if he’d known at eighteen what he thought he knew now? What choices might there’ve been for him.

Jung believed that a persistent attachment to those lost to us could make life seem less worth living. Mulder had, aside from a few extreme moments, felt life to be worth every ounce of labor. Because if he gave up his quest, who would find his sister?

He was struggling to fit into the unfamiliar clothing of an orphan, of a solitary child, that circumstance had handed him. He felt uneasy in them, rubbed raw. He was the last one. The only one left.

He stopped just outside New Haven for gas. Took a leak and bought bottled iced tea and a couple Slim Jims. He ripped open the wrapping on one of them with his teeth and bit into it. The greasy, salty taste brought another flood of memories. He and Samantha on Quonnie Beach, skipping rocks across the water, racing down the shoreline, their skinny wet calves painted with sand as they raucously yelped like odd, prehistoric birds.

He forced down the bite and threw the rest of it onto the floorboard of the car. His hand smoothed over the weathered cover of the journal lying next to his cell before he turned the key in the ignition and got back on the road.

Creatures of the Night

“Did you know Rhode Island was once considered the vampire capital of America?”

“Vampires, Mulder?”

“Yeah. Hear me out. In 1892 on a cold March afternoon in Exeter, a group of men exhumed the bodies of the family members of a farmer named George Brown: his wife, and their two daughters. All three had died under mysterious circumstances over the previous years and his only son and the last of his children, Edwin, once hearty and hale, was now suffering from the same malady. The village doctor was convinced that the underlying cause was consumption.”

“Tuberculosis, “she interjected. Rolling over and forcing one eye open, she registered the time on her alarm clock. 1:52 A.M.

Mulder had no circadian rhythm to speak of. He just kept going until he dropped. His occasional afternoon naps in the lab area of their basement office were a long-standing secret they shared.

“Right. But despite the doctor’s diagnosis many of the country folk were convinced their deaths were caused by a much more malevolent force.”

“Let me guess. Vampires.”

“Right again. They were certain that one of the members of the family was rising from the grave and taking midnight strolls to slowly suck the life out of Edwin.”

“Mulder, these were poor, uneducated people, raised on folk tales brought over from their home countries. I mean, the Irish alone have a wide range of folklore surrounding vampires. There’s Dearg Dur, the female vampire; the Abhartach, who was purported to be a dwarf and was defeated only after he was killed for a third time and his body buried upside down.”

“I love it when you talk dirty. Keep it up, Scully, and we may have to try phone sex.”

She chuckled. “I’m sorry. Go on with your story.”

“Well, as I was saying… They exhumed and examined the wife, Mary, and the older daughter, also named Mary.”

“How original.”

“The two Marys passed muster in so far as they were moldering appropriately.” He snorted a fraction of a laugh, amused at himself. “Then they got to the youngest daughter, Mercy, who’d been interred two months previously and hit paydirt, so to speak. She was curiously well-preserved, and when they poked at her corpse with a shovel, they found it filled with fresh blood.”

“Oh, Mulder, come on.”

“No, no, no, listen. They removed her heart, burned it to a crisp on a nearby rock and then mixed the ashes into Edwin’s medication, hoping to stop the curse and cure the boy.”

“And did it?”

“Of course not. He died a few months later. But the tale spread and soon Rhode Island was considered a hot bed of vampiric activity. As a matter of fact, it still is.”

“And you called to tell me this, why?”

“I just find it interesting, the obstinacy of the human mind. People will latch onto the most farfetched idea and convince themselves that it’s true, even when all evidence points to the contrary.” He went quiet and she considered the scrap of insight handed her, a piece of a puzzle he’d been trying to solve. A large piece, if she was reading him correctly.

“Don’t you find that interesting, Scully?”

Prod, or no? She landed on a subtle approach. “How are you, Mulder, really?”

“Hanging in there,” he murmured. “I decided to call an auction house, have them do an estate sale, take care of the furniture and stuff. That way I don’t have to fuck with it. I just need to go through the papers and personal things. My folks bought this place just after I was born. Living large, y’know. It’s amazing how much shit accumulated over a few decades of summers.”

A noisy yawn came through the line and crept in her ear. She shifted and settled deeper into the bed, comforted by his familiar nocturnal sounds.

“Well, I guess I better let you go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

“Getting?”

He snickered softly. “You got me there. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep.”

“It’s okay. It’s good to hear your voice. I thought you might call sooner.”

“Up with the sun, gone with the wind,” he sang off-key. “Just have a lot to do.”

“I know.”

“I miss you, Scully.”

She’d never understood how he managed to slip right under her skin with a few simple, whispered words. She pressed her eyes tight against the burn of sudden tears.

“Same here.”

“Sweet dreams, hon’.”

Her bed was too empty and sleep returned slowly, stepping in on reluctant tiptoe.

Darlene

The Blue Whale Diner was an institution, open long before he was born and likely to outlive him. The smell of strong coffee and bacon grease engulfed him like a wave when he came through the door, the bell hung above it chiming his arrival. The place was half-empty, a lull between breakfast and the lunch rush. He contemplated a stool at the counter amongst the old men sipping coffee and talking shit and a couple pimply teenagers ditching school, grabbed a booth against the back wall instead. He slid across the faded and cracked red leather and gazed out the window. There wasn’t much going on in the street this time of day, either. He’d forgotten how small the village was, remembering instead the hustle and bustle of the summer people, the tribe he’d been part of.

How many times had he sat in this diner, first with his family intact and later just him and his mom? How many cheeseburgers and pieces of fried chicken, how many sticky ice cream sundaes and fresh slices of strawberry pie had he downed here? How many kicks under the table delivered to Samantha and retaliatory smacks across the back of his head from the old man? They used to talk then, the four of them. Making plans for the day or taking a break from the unrelenting heat of the little summer house, back before it was air-conditioned.

Simple times. Effortless and carefree. When the days went on forever and the nights were spent under the stars in the cool grass just off the back deck; foregoing the loft he’d shared with Samantha, too ungodly hot to sleep under the eave of a roof that’d soaked up the sun.

“Hi there.” Mulder looked up as a laminated menu was laid down in front of him and the upturned cup beside him was righted on its saucer. “Coffee?”

He saw kohl-rimmed hazel eyes and round cheeks, curly dishwater blonde hair pinned in a messy bun; the face of a pretty woman a few years younger than him. Ample curves filled out faded jeans and a green t-shirt above a food-stained white apron informed him that ‘Life’s a Beach’. She had an order pad in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other, and an inquisitive tilt to one eyebrow.

“Yeah, please.”

“Sugar’s right there next to you. You need cream?”

“No, no thanks. Are you still serving breakfast?”

She worked a wad of gum tucked in her cheek before answering. “All day long. You need a minute?”

“Nah. Two eggs over easy, double order of bacon, toast, hash browns.” Scully chattered deep in his brain, reminded him he was getting too old to eat like a college kid. He shushed her. “Some ice water, too?”

“Comin’ right up, darlin’.”

She spun away and sashayed toward the narrow order window behind the counter, stopping after a few steps and throwing him a quick look over her shoulder. Mulder grinned into his coffee and took a cautious sip.

He made a few calls while he waited for his food, glancing up now and then and catching more sidelong looks from his waitress. She came around to refill his cup, bring his water, and he focused on his phone, not wanting to encourage whatever had captured her attention.

Scully’d told him once that he was like catnip to women, and she couldn’t believe he wasn’t more aware of it. He’d been rewarded with a stinging slap on his bare ass when he’d responded that the only pussy he was interested in attracting was hers. That brought back his grin. He was still wearing it when his breakfast was placed in front of him.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Uh, no,” he glanced at her name tag, “…Darlene. I used to spend summers here a long time ago. My folks have… had a place on Quonnie Beach.” He salted and peppered his eggs, splattered the hash browns with Tabasco. “I’m out there now, getting it ready to go on the market.”

“I know you,” she declared. He stopped, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, and shifted his attention from his breakfast to her. “I grew up on the Quonnie.” She gave him another long study before announcing, “I remember who you are. You’re Samantha’s brother. What was your name? It was a weird one.” She snapped her fingers a few times and he flinched with each crack. “Fox, that’s it! You’re Fox Mulder, aren’t you?”

His fork hit the plate and he gave her a tight smile. “Guilty. How’d you know; was it…?” He tapped the side of his nose.

“Oh, no, darlin’, it’s that mole right there on your cheek. I remember that. I used to have such a crush on you. Your sister and me are the same age. We used to play together when you folks were here. Don’t you remember me? I lived just down the road. I was at your place just about every day. ‘Course I was a hell of a lot younger and skinnier back then.”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Well, that’s okay. It was a long time ago. I sure felt bad when I heard what happened. She was a peach, your sister, just a sweet girl; never hurt a soul. I remember her spending the night once or twice a summer. We’d have sleepovers, y’know? We’d stay up half the night gigglin’, making up stories, braiding each other’s hair. Yeah, she was my best friend those summers. It’s a shame what happened. Did you, did she… did she ever turn up?”

He pushed his plate aside and ducked his head, throat gone tight, and muttered, “Uh, no... no, she’s gone.”

His teeth latched onto his bottom lip when she cupped his shoulder. “Oh, sugar, I’m so sorry. What a terrible thing.”

A benign Pandora’s box beckoned him with the promise of solace too seductive to ignore. Standing there in front of him was someone who remembered Samantha, who’d known her the way he had, in that innocence of childhood and long summers. He’d thought he was the only one.

“Darlene, will you sit with me for a minute while I eat, maybe take a break? I’d like you to tell me about my sister.”

Possessions

He’d stopped at a grocery store after breakfast and begged some cardboard boxes from the kid stocking produce, bringing them into the living room to start sorting the detritus within the brown clapboard house. Black trash bags for things he’d toss in the burn barrel out back, boxes for smaller items to be sold, another for things to keep.

He worked steadily through the afternoon, at first carefully sorting through stacks of old utility bills, appliance manuals, scraps of note paper; words written and forgotten long ago, their significance lost to time. Grocery receipts, Mom? Really? he’d thought once, finding stacks of them two and three inches deep, neatly bundled with rubber bands that disintegrated when he tried to remove them. And then the day grew late, twilight stretching fingers of russet and gold across the sky outside the grimy windows. His patience waned with the sun, and soon he was stuffing trash bags and boxes indiscriminately, not really seeing what he held in his hands.

Twice before he’d labored at this sort of task. The first at his father’s house in West Tisbury, the second not long ago, caught in a miasma of anguish as he’d waded through the leftovers of his mother’s life in her small, meticulously kept condo. She’d given up the house in Greenwich a few years earlier, overwhelmed by the weight of meaningless possessions and advancing age. She’d taken on the culling in Greenwich by herself; his time and attention then focused solely on Scully and the work.

He found himself wondering if people were creations of what they’d chosen to surround themselves with or if those things were simply a reflection, a way for others to remember you. What memories would he trigger, then? He once bore a singular obsession, driven to find the truth, to learn everything there was to know about everything, a curiosity fueled by a mind hungry for knowledge. That aspect of himself had become blunted, worn down with the passage of years and the gradual discovery that not all he’d sought to know had brought him satisfaction. Most times it’d offered only pain.

But there remained an unquenching passion in him. For justice, for a measure of peace, for smaller truths that’d become ever more precious. Passion and need for simpler things, one in particular: his partner, his love. The sound of her girlish laughter, the sharply honed edges of her intellect scraping along his, the sparkle of her eyes. Scully’s silken skin beneath his hands, the scent of her, the taste of the delicate folds between her legs. He wanted to tuck her in his pocket and slip away with her, go be with her somewhere else, in another life, safe and mostly whole.

And then he wondered if such a thing was even possible.

After a dinner of take-out pizza and Shiner Bock he moved to the loft, pulling boxes from the small closet where he and his sister had kept their summer things. There was an old baseball glove, the leather cracked from disuse. Samantha’s Barbie dolls, draped in dust and cobwebs, clothed in the last things she’d ever chosen for them to wear. Board games, frisbees, stuffed animals, 500-piece puzzles. Handfuls of Webbles, Matchbox cars, and G.I. Joes. Then he found a banged-up shoebox covered in colorful wrapping paper and Day-Glo stickers jammed in the back corner of the closet. Sams Stuff. Keep Out! was scrawled in pale red magic marker on the lid.

Mulder retreated until the edge of one of the twin beds stopped him and he staggered, reaching with one hand to steady his clumsy descent onto the bare mattress. With reverence he slipped the lid from the box, twisting on the bed until the angle of the overhead light fully captured and presented its contents to him.

Small seashells, a dozen or more. Samantha had favored the rounded clamshells, mottled with smears of soft silver, ivory, and gray. A few rocks, none of which seemed particularly unique to his eyes, except that she’d seen something in them that warranted squirreling them away. A desiccated bottle of what had once been bright pink nail polish. Plastic purple and green butterfly hair barrettes. Ponytail elastics, one with several strands of dark hair still tangled around it. A corner of red construction paper with an angry stick figure head and I hate my brother! written on it. He flipped it over to find a smiling moon face and I love my brother! there.

His next trip into the box brought up a short stack of faded Polaroids. There were a few of him: skinny with angular arms and hairpin legs, shirtless and crouched on the beach in his swim trunks, poking at the sand with a stick. One taken from behind, his back tanned to dark honey, his long legs hanging over the edge of a dock.

There were several of Samantha and a girl he knew instantly was Darlene. They were laughing in one, sticking out their tongues in the next. In a third, their arms were around each other’s necks, heads pressed together, sporting delighted gap-tooth smiles. He’d never seen these. That there could be photos of his sister that’d existed without his knowledge shocked him, though it shouldn’t have. She’d had a life that was bigger than just him and his memories of her.

He didn’t realize he’d been weeping until he couldn’t breathe through his nose anymore. He tugged the hem of his t-shirt up his belly and used it as a snot rag.

The last two photos were of his parents. In one they stood peering out the front window of the house, side by side and shoulders back, their profiles immutable, young in a way he could barely recall. The last, he recognized, taken from behind the loft’s open railing. His mother was on the couch, eyes down and hands folded primly in her lap. His father was on his feet at the opposite end, shoulders hunkered forward, a stiff finger pointed at his wife. He might not have remembered Darlene, but moments like the final photo were etched deeply in Mulder’s cerebral cortex. Especially the ones after Samantha was gone.

He glanced into the box at what the photos had uncovered and took the stairs three at a time, grabbed the baluster at the bottom, swung around and centrifuged his way into the living room. A few moments later found him panting under the roof’s eave, a journal in each hand.

He and Samantha had been gifted one every year on their birthdays, their first arriving as soon as they could print. Their mother had been the list maker, the storyteller, the one who was always with a pen in hand, encouraging them to write something every day. He’d known all along that those journals hadn’t been their father’s idea.

Except that maybe one had. The one he’d found behind a bookcase at April Air Force Base. But how… and why? And which father?

He thumbed the latches, opened the journals, and got to work. Mulder had seen enough handwriting comparisons at the bureau to know they were from the same hand. One rounder and more effortless, redolent with premature wisdom, doused in anger and pain, in confusion. The other the sloppy but earnest scrawls of an eight-year-old whose life was about to become hostage to a cabal she neither knew existed nor could ever understand.

So, there it was. His proof irrefutable. The truth. Samantha Mulder was well and truly gone. And had been for twenty-one years. He sank slowly onto the bed as he pulled his cell phone from his back pocket.

“Scully?” He swallowed a sob when she responded with his name. “I need you.”

He went down like a snapped tree limb, curling in on himself when she promised, “I’m on my way, Mulder. I will be right there.”

Immutable

She was on a flight to Providence within two hours of his call. In a rental car by midnight. Less than an hour later sprinting up the uneven cobblestones leading to the little house, and straight into his needy arms.

She cradled him on the couch, surrounded by papers and boxes in the dark, half the furniture still draped in ghostly sheets of plastic. He wept a tidal wave into the front of her jacket, his face folded up in an origami of grief. She didn’t speak and neither did he. He just cried, strangled howls leaking from him like helium from a balloon. She was tremulous under the weight of his anguish, holding fast to her barb-wired core so she wouldn’t tumble into the depths with him.

She didn’t know precisely what had happened and thought to herself that it didn’t matter anyway. Something had broken in him and would need repaired. The part she would play in that reconstruction wasn’t apparent to her; not yet.

Scully ordered him to the bedroom when he eventually ran out of steam, tears transforming to ragged sighs against her neck, the tremors rolling through him lessening in frequency and strength. She pulled herself out from behind him and grabbed his hand, guided him down the hall like a sleepy toddler. Undressed him in the dark and tucked him into threadbare cotton sheets. He rolled onto his side and was out not a minute later.

She sat at the kitchen table, dunking a twenty-year-old teabag into a mug of hot water, staring out at the darkness beyond the window. Something was coming, she knew. Things were soon to change. What she perceived of that within herself was elemental and absolute; what was without remained unknown. But the immutable would always be Mulder.

He lived in her. He’d seeped down through her skin, her muscles, blood and bone. Coiled himself within her brain and nervous system, reached graceful tendrils like fingers into the messy viscera where hidden was the heart of her. Mulder had taken it in his hand, and she’d let him.

She’d fought so hard not to want him, not to give in. In doing so she’d discovered, when she finally stopped fighting, that the wanting of him had become a need. A vital element of who she was.

He was an acerbic bastard a lot of the time. But curious and whip-smart, with a sense of humor as dry as a martini. He was self-absorbed and arrogant. Generous, compassionate, kind to children and the elderly. He suffered from tunnel vision and bore a lofty sense of entitlement. But he also spent long nights enchanting her with stories only so he might be rewarded with her rare, belly-deep laughter. He could be a selfish lover sometimes. Then again, so could she. They used each other that way and never felt the need to apologize or explain.

But when things were good, which had been more frequent of late, when nothing dark or angry festered between them, Mulder was magical. She could find no other word for it. He played her like an instrument, knowing just where to pluck, to strum, to make her sing for him. He was beautiful and repulsive, an Adonis and a selfish beggar, astonishingly violent and endlessly tender. And she loved him beyond measure.

She washed her face and brushed her teeth, slipped into pajamas and joined him in bed. He didn’t rouse when she pressed herself against his back, weaving her arm under his to place a hand over his heart. This night, she’d hold his. This night, that was how she’d begin to fix him.

Ahavah

She woke slowly to sunlight leeching through her eyelids, grudgingly forced them open and found Mulder on his side next to her, mapping her with familiar scrutiny. There was a moment or two of discomfort; waking to his penetrating gaze wasn’t something she’d ever grown used to. She scrubbed hair out of her face and rubbed gummy eyes. “G’morning.”

His mute observation continued, and he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. Even rumpled with sleep, face shadowed with two days of stubble, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, he was infinitely stunning.

“Thank you,” he eventually whispered, “for last night.”

“You’d do the same for me.” He nodded in answer as his fingers combed through her hair and curled around her skull, pulling her close as he leaned in. “Mulder,” she whined, twisting away. “Morning breath.”

“Hush now... it’s like garlic. As long as you both have it, it’s okay.”

“Mul –“ He slid his mouth across her lips and prodded them open, silencing her. He tasted of salty tears and bitterness as his thick tongue brushed across hers, warm and inviting. She took his offering and allowed his curious hands a short journey before rolling away and standing. He groaned his disappointment behind her.

“Bathroom first,” she explained over her shoulder.

“No tooth brushing while you’re in there,” he warned, and she grinned because she knew he wouldn’t see it.

She emptied her bladder and cleaned up, splashed water on her face and slipped out of her pajamas. She presented herself in the frame of the bedroom doorway wearing only panties.

He lifted a hand and beckoned her with a wolfish smile. “C’mere, Scully. Lemme show you how beautiful you are.”

She went to him, and he did.

He was markedly gentle with her. He touched her as if she might shatter. Sipped at her mouth and tenderly bathed the peaks of her breasts with his pliant tongue. Skimmed his palms up and down her ribs and arms, her legs, back, and bottom. Carefully opened her thighs and slid down to lap at her with the flat of his tongue. Her orgasm, when it came, was in direct contrast to his delicate ministrations: it violently roared to life, sudden and overwhelming, and left her dizzy and gasping for air. He eased up over her and shared the essence of the ocean and musk of her in a long, wet kiss. He wrapped his arms around her, rolled and brought her atop him, and she gratefully reached down and sheathed him within her soft and humid sex.

He let her set the pace when she’d settled fully onto him and rolled his hips up against her in encouragement. She mirrored him, pulling back and then rocking up, swiveling her hips on each stroke. Mulder barked a delighted laugh. He braced her hips and helped her along, bent his knees up and splayed his thighs wide, and she was enclosed by the cradle he’d made for her.

She rode him slowly for a while, until she could see the need flaring in his eyes, and his hands slipped to her waist, lifting so he could slam her back down again. Prying his fingers away she raised his arms to bracket his head, holding him there by the wrists and grinding her breasts against him. She dropped her forehead to his and rocked in measured strokes as he began to moan deep in his throat. Then she sped up and dipped low, fingers digging into the forearms she braced against.

She could feel the spiraling tension in him, knew he was close, lifted from his chest and waited. Kaleidoscope eyes opened to hers, dazed with arousal, gray-green and speckled with gold. Mulder blinked slow and she fell into the small universe there and gave him what he needed. Lifting her head from his shoulder when she could breathe again, Scully kissed the tears from his eyes.

Later, he pulled her from the bed and took her to the loft to show her what he’d found.

Persuasion

They spent most of that morning in sloth mode, drinking coffee in the sun-dappled kitchen while he made breakfast. He’d picked up a few provisions when he’d gotten the boxes and managed to whip up decent plates of scrambled eggs and toast. He taunted Scully into splitting a Pop Tart as dessert and couldn’t keep his enjoyment hidden as she tongued sugary icing from the corners of her mouth, her expression bordering on orgasmic. Then he took her back to bed and made sure she made that face again.

Cliché as it sounded, Mulder felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. Maybe part of it was allowing himself to grieve so fully in her arms the night before. The simple act of sharing his sister’s treasures with her had been freeing as well. Now there would be another person who knew these specific things about Samantha; he didn’t have to carry it all by himself. He’d encouraged her to compare the journals and fidgeted like a streetwise junkie until she finally looked over and told him the handwriting would need to be analyzed but she was fairly certain he was on to something. He hadn’t expected anything more than that. She was his Scully, and she would always hedge her bets until she had absolute proof. He depended on her for that.

He impulsively called Skinner mid-afternoon and requested another week off. Slotted his phone in his pocket and declared, “Your turn.”

She was poking through his mom’s cookbooks setting aside the ones she wanted to keep, and it took her a second to reconnect. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why don’t you call Skinner, request vacation. He’s in the office. Jesus, you’d think the guy would learn how to take a weekend off every once and a while.” His attempt at self-aware humor fell flat.

“Mulder, I can’t,” she said, turning to him.

“Why not?”

“Well, because.”

“Have we got anything going on next week other than the usual? Any reports due, paperwork to file, meetings scheduled, unexplained phenomenon requiring our immediate attention?”

“Well, no, but… “

“Do you have anything penciled in on your personal calendar that can’t be postponed?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You just want free labor.”

He shot her a toothy grin.

“Mulder, I can’t call Skinner and ask for time off now.”

“Why not? I just did.”

“Exactly! What’s he gonna think if I call him right after he gets off the phone with you?”

“Probably the same thing he’s thought for going on a year now.”

She looked aghast and gave him an owl-eyed face. “You think so? But, but we’re always so careful.”

“The man’s not stupid, Scully, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Well, I can’t.”

“What, you didn’t bring a bag?” he asked innocently.

Deep pink spots of color flooded her cheeks, and he knew he had her.

“C’mon, Scully, it’ll be fun. And if you get tired of me you can always hop in your rental car and leave me behind.” He sidled over and pulled her into a loose hug. “Pretty please with sugar on top? You know you want to.”

She impatiently pushed him away. “I’ll think about it. Now get back to work; there’s still a lot to do around here.”

“You got it, G-woman.”

She called Skinner a couple of hours later and then went on sorting and packing, sporting an interesting flush. She didn’t tell him what Skinner’d had to say other than his approval for the time off, and Mulder didn’t ask.

Keeper

Both freshly showered and in clean clothes, he took her to the Blue Whale for a late dinner. They had the place to themselves, and he led Scully to the booth he’d taken the last time. She chose to sit across from him, her back to the door. They heard the banging of pots and pans from the kitchen, two or three voices joined in laughter, but no sign of any wait staff. Hungry and impatient, he started to rise to investigate just as the door to the kitchen swung open and Darlene stepped through. Mulder was surprised to see her. He’d figured she worked the day shift. Then again, his food service labor-related knowledge was sorely lacking.

“Well, look who’s here,” Darlene chortled, headed toward them. “Couldn’t get enough of me the first time, darlin’? Had to come back for more?” She cut her eyes at Scully as she reached the table. “I see you brought somebody along this time.” The two women sized each other up and he felt obligated to make introductions.

“Uh, yeah. Darlene this is… this is Dana. My partner.”

“And friend,” Scully added.

“Yeah, absolutely.” He lifted an open hand. “Dana,” he said formally, “this is Darlene. She’s the one I told you about this morning.”

“Well, aren’t you just the prettiest little thing,” Darlene chirped. “I can see why Fox looks better than he did last time he was in here.” She shifted her eyes to him. “You were in rough shape, my man.”

He could only nod in agreement, feeling weirdly tongue-tied. Scully stepped up and saved him further embarrassment. “It’s nice to meet you, Darlene.”

“You too, sugar.” She glanced back toward the kitchen. “I’d bring you menus, but we had a nice little dinner rush. Not a lot to choose from right now. Why don’t you tell me what’s soundin’ good and I’ll see what we can do.”

He decided on a burger and fries and Scully a turkey club, no mayo. Darlene set them up with coffee and hot tea and left them alone.

He propped an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand, angled a look at her. “Are you jealous?”

“Oh, please,” she groaned into her tea.

“’Cause I think I might have a shot with her.”

“Mulder, statistically speaking, you have a shot with just about anyone you set your sights on. All you have to do is bat those eyes and you’re in.”

“I do not bat my eyes, Scully,“ he huffed. She offered a tiny smile. “Although now that I think about it, Darlene did say you were pretty. Maybe she plays for the home team.”

“Maybe she plays for both,” she mischievously suggested, one sleek brow creeping up.

“Oooh, now I’m intrigued. Do you think she’d be interested in a– “

“Don’t. Not a chance. Don’t even say it.”

“Not even for me, Scully? Just once?”

“What has gotten into you, Mulder? You’ve been bordering on giddy all day.”

That set him back in his seat a little. Because he had been, he was. And the odd part was that it’d been so long since he’d felt that way that he almost didn’t recognize it. He leaned up, reached across the table and took her hand, waited until he had her full attention.

“I guess…” he hesitated. “I think I’m just happy. I’m just really fucking content.”

It started in her eyes and moved down to become a lazy, brilliant smile, with teeth and everything. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we? Whatever would I do with a happy Mulder?”

He didn’t get a chance to answer. Darlene delivered their plates with some small talk directed at Scully that he only halfway paid a mind to, and then remembered just as she was walking away.

“Oh, hey, Darlene,” he called out, reaching in his jacket, “I almost forgot. I’ve got something I want you to have. I was gonna leave it for you. I didn’t think you’d be here.”

She turned around and eyeballed the small manilla envelope he extended. “Darlin,’ I’m here all the time. Me and the old man bought this place about five years back. Might as well sleep here for all the free time we get. Now, what’s this?”

He watched as she opened the envelope and reached in, pulling out one of the Polaroids he’d found, the one of her and Samantha embracing. Darlene’s eyes flitted from the photo to him and then back, and he saw that they were damp.

“I found it yesterday, going through things at the house. I thought you might like to have it.”

Her eyes slid back to the photo. “She was such a sweet girl,” she whispered. “Thank you for this, I’ll treasure it. And you, you’re a good man, Fox Mulder.” Then she leaned across the table and grabbed him by the cheeks, planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth. “You take care of this one, Dana,” she directed Scully. “He’s a keeper.”

He couldn’t do anything but smile at Darlene’s back as she walked away. Scully plucked a fry from his plate as he shifted in his seat and found her soft gaze on him.

“She’s right, Mulder. You are a keeper.”

He let her steal more of his fries and managed to eat the burger despite the goofy-ass grin he couldn’t seem to get rid of.

Closure

By Wednesday the following week they had everything wrapped up at the house. The broker had a key, and the estate sale had been scheduled. Mulder had been shocked when told he would likely get considerably more for the house than he’d thought possible. Ideas for the windfall slowly coalesced over those last few days.

They planned to leave the following morning. The back seat of his car was loaded with two cardboard boxes, one containing books and a few other items that’d caught Scully’s eye; the second smaller one held Samantha’s shoebox and a file of loose papers he’d deemed important enough to hang onto. And that was it. Almost forty years condensed to two boxes. It felt good to him. It felt right.

His unfamiliar sense of contentment hadn’t waned, as he’d thought it might. Instead, it seemed to spread even deeper within him. He’d realized a few nights back, lying in his parent’s bed with Scully softly snoring in his arms, that he hadn’t thought about work in days. He’d even begun to send calls straight through to his voicemail, Chuck Burke’s and Langley’s among them. That, too, had felt right, at least for the time being. Unfortunately, Scully’s cell had taken the brunt of it, people reaching out to her when they couldn’t get to him. He’d eventually suggested she turn it off. She eventually had.

He sensed the change in her, too. She’d become looser in the days following her arrival, was less tightly wound, less fundamentally rigid in her bearing. She laughed more and took frequent naps and was even adapting her diet to include more of his questionable favorites. She didn’t bring up the work, either. Instead, she was simply his constant and steady companion, his partner in all things, in all the ways that mattered.

He had come to Quonochontaug seeking answers and the hope of laying down burdens he’d carried for most of his life. But he’d come to know that he’d unconsciously been seeking more than that. He’d needed a path forward. He couldn’t live in the past any longer. It was time to plan the future.

They took a walk on the beach after dinner and watched the seagulls swoop and dive as the sun made its slow crawl down to meet the horizon, painting the sky in smears of vivid pinks and oranges. He lifted their clasped hands and kissed her chilly knuckles.

“I’ve been thinking, Scully.” He didn’t have to look at her to discern the face she was wearing. “I know, I know, but bear with me, okay?” He stopped and turned to her, waited until she faced him, took her other hand so he was clasping both. Her eyes were startlingly blue. “You know I love you, right? But do you know how much? That’s okay, I didn’t either, not for a long time. But I do now. And I think… I think it’s time for both of us to get out of the goddamn car. It’s time for you to go be a doctor.”

“Mulder,” she breathed.

“No, no, just listen. I’ll be fine, better than fine. I can teach, pick up consulting gigs, write a book. I can write two. And you can finally do what you were meant to do, what you’re so good at. No more mutants, no more flukemen, no more alien conspiracies, no more autopsies in the middle of the night. No more hopping on a plane with an hour’s notice and sleeping on bad motel beds and eating shitty food and dealing with hostile local law enforcement.

“No more risking your life at the beck and call of a crazy man howling at the fucking moon who’s convinced that nothing’s more important than getting answers that aren’t his to find anymore. I don’t want to be that man. I’m not that man anymore. I want you. That’s all. I want peace and a place to call home and I want you there with me. Let’s build a new life, Scully, anywhere you want. I got more money now than I could ever spend. Let’s have that life. Let’s make ourselves a home.”

He leaned in and kissed the wet spots on her cheeks, kissed her runny nose, kissed her forehead and laid his against it. “Just think about it, okay? Take as much time as you need.”

She sniffed and nodded, pulled one hand loose so she could wipe the edge of it across her nose. She patted his chest and fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. Ducked her head so he had to follow her down to get a good look at her. Her features were hidden in shadow.

“Mulder,” she whispered, “you are the smartest person I have ever known. But sometimes,” she lifted her face and locked her laser-beam eyes onto his, “you can be the stupidest, too.”

“Yeah,” he gulped.

“Oh, Mulder, you didn’t have to say anything after ‘get out of the goddamn car.’ Let’s do this thing. I’m all in.”

He lifted and spun her as she squealed in his ear and wrapped her arms around his neck. He got dizzy and tangled up in his own feet, and they dropped like wet sacks onto the beach.

“Is this where I get sand in uncomfortable places?” she asked when they finally stopped laughing.

“No, that’s gonna be our first stop after we put the X-Files to bed. You, me, Cabo San Lucas.”

“You’re a very smart man, Mulder.”

“I know I am. I fell in love with you, didn’t I?”

He worried just a little, as he followed her to the airport to return the rental car the next morning. What if she’d changed her mind? He wouldn’t blame her for backing out on him. He wasn’t easy to put up with, he’d be the first to admit it.

They were several miles down the I-95 heading home when she reached over and turned off the radio, slipped her fingers through his.

“I think we should look for a place in the same area we’re in now,” she declared. “Maybe still in Virginia but smaller, somewhere rural but close enough to drive to civilization. How does that sound?”

He glanced over at her and that damned goofy grin of his settled back into place.

“Nothing’s ever sounded better, Scully. I’m all in.”

#xfiles #msr #x-files fanfic #quonochontaug-snapshots #mine

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