#dana scully's shoulder pads

[aloysiavirgata]

THERE IS A FICLET AT THE END OF THIS!

I just checked my inbox. There are 8 Henry prompts.

EIGHT.

I want to tell you a little story about the Henry universe and how I came to write it. The short version is that it was inspired by Mrs. Doubtfire.

When I got the prompt that initially made me write Henry in the first place I was like Oh! It would be so easy to make him unlikeable and have her longing for Mulder. Write a character like Daniel who just wants her to be a stunning and brilliant accessory, but who could never APPRECIATE her.

But for whatever reason I recalled watching Mrs. Doubtfire as both a kid and an adult, and how those experiences differed. I thought, what if Scully got Pierce Brosnan’s character? A really wonderful guy who adores her and is a great dad and isn’t like…idk…gonna disappear to Patagonia for 6 months.

As a kid I wanted Sally Field/Miranda to go back to the Fun Dad. As a woman? Scully, my darling love, let him go.

And that conflict is what makes it fun and challenging to write. If the choice feels obvious then what’s the fun in doing it? But if you have to struggle along with her and decide if you/Scully/Sally Field want stability or adventure, it’s a better journey.

***

It’s two in the morning and Wicket, the impossibly fluffy dog, is whining at a thunderstorm. She strokes his lush head, palms the hot silky flap of an ear.

Her phone rings and she closes her dry eyes.

She answers it without a word.

“You always loved storms,” he says. “I knew you’d be up.”

Wicket mouths her hand gently. The thick of her palm.

“Remember Darin Oswald?” he goes on. “That motherfucker. I still think of him when there’s lightning.”

The silence after is long and lazy and safe, like a July afternoon hammock or miles of Colorado highway.

Thunder booms and Wicket huddles against her.

She last fucked Mulder in a storm like this, on his last birthday, with her husband’s blessing, and it shames her like nothing she’s ever done. Not even William.

What shames her is the rightness of it, the way she so easily said yes, Dana, yes, all the gods of Olympus and Asgard and Tir Na Nog want it for you, lass.

She swallows into the thunder again when she wants to scream. She cants her face to the cold, cold moon.

“Scully?” His voice, his voice; she’d followed it to the grave and past.

Scully opens her eyes. “Yes,” she breathes. “I remember.”

Hears him smile in the dark. “The nineties,” he muses. “What a fucking time.”

“My bangs,” she laughs. “My shoulder pads.”

“My ties.”

Lightning like the primordial earth, like millions of years of volcanoes and oxygen emissions and gorgeous, promiscuous carbon.

Wicket panting.

Her twins - Joan’s twins - safe in the dark. Viv, blonde and beautiful.

Fucking him - no, Dana, be honest - making love - on that sticky couch. Leather-bound books and Mulder’s rich boy wardrobe and the way she’d gotten a better stylist and a better tailor because he was so goddamn beautiful.

Kissing him before 9/11 when you could wait at the airport with balloons, Jesus, kissing him between the millennium and 9/11 in that hot, sweet bubble and -

“Scully?”

The dog keens into the night. Her dog, Henry’s dog, and thunder and thunder and thunder, rolling like the drums of Moria.

She hangs up the phone and weeps her divided love into Wicket’s plush ruff.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #my fic #prompt #Henry

[skelavender]

“You okay, Scully?” Mulder asks, concerned. She just grunts in response. “Do you want to get ready for bed first?” She sighs into the ugly bedspread. “Yes, thank you.” She grabs her duffle, and mere moments after closing the door, lets out a loud “FUCK.” “Scully?” Mulder knocks on the bathroom door, immediately concerned. “I’m fine.” She insists through the closed door. “My damn period started.”

read chapter three of you are in love on ao3, or below the cut!

You can hear it in the silence, silence, you

You can feel it on the way home, way home, you

You can see it with the lights out, lights out

You are in love, true love

***

December 1996

Fox Mulder is not a goddamn idiot. He knows when his wife’s period is. Even if he wasn’t astute enough to notice the slight changes in her behavior, or what she packs when they travel, or when the bathroom trash gets changed, she puts little black circles in her datebook which eventually get filled with little red dots when the day comes. Since they moved in together, it’s become their datebook. He would have to be pretty damn stupid to ignore that. 

So when they’re gearing up to head out of town two days before the little black circles would normally appear in the datebook and Mulder notices the heating pad hasn’t moved from its spot in the bathroom cupboard, he shoves it into his duffle at the last minute. 

Scully’s a bit snippy in the car, which he could attribute to hunger, since they haven’t eaten yet. But when she orders a mocha instead of her usual black coffee with one cream, it’s locked in for him. That is a bona fide Dana Scully PMS drink. 

When they make it to the motel, Scully flops facedown onto the queen bed as Mulder sets their bags down on the dresser.

“You okay, Scully?” Mulder asks, concerned. She just grunts in response. “Do you want to get ready for bed first?”

She sighs into the ugly bedspread. “Yes, thank you.” She grabs her duffle, and mere moments after closing the door, lets out a loud “FUCK.”

“Scully?” Mulder knocks on the bathroom door, immediately concerned.

“I’m fine.” She insists through the closed door. “My damn period started.”

Okay. Mulder had known this was coming, but apparently Scully hadn’t.

“Do you need me to run out for anything?”

“Tampons and Midol?” She requests, exasperated. “Thank you, Mulder.”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

He lays the heating pad on the bed before slipping out the door. When he returns, Scully is in his sweatpants, which he honestly can’t remember if he packed himself or if she had stolen when getting her own bag together, and has the heating pad clutched to her abdomen.

“How did you know?” She asks.

Mulder shrugs, “Usually happens around the middle of the month, doesn’t it? I saw it in the bathroom when I was packing and figured it was better to be safe than sorry.”

“I think I forgot to mark ahead in my calendar when it ended last month.”

He shrugs, “Blame it on the holidays. It happens.”

He hands her the box of tampons and she retreats to the bathroom to, er, take care of that bit. When she returns, she contemplates the heating pad. 

Scully sighs. “I can’t decide if my back or my front needs it more.”

“Here,” Mulder sits against the headboard, legs spread and arms open wide, “I run warm. I’ll be your heating pad for your back.”

She smiles and crawls into place between her partner’s legs. She settles the heating pad into place, and he wraps his arms around her abdomen to press it into her aching body for good measure. Mulder clicks the TV on for background noise and Scully snuggles into his body, her head falling back on his shoulder with her nose nestled into his neck. 

They’re asleep within minutes. 

*** 

Though he won’t admit it, Mulder can not see for shit. He had mistakenly grabbed Scully’s glasses this morning, and hadn’t noticed until he got to the office that his blurry vision was due to that instead of the general morning bleariness he had blamed it on. He had made it through most of the day dodging Scully’s notice, but somehow, the porch stairs of his own home are what do him in.

He steps too far back, and his toes send him slipping forward, nearly face planting into the brick. Luckily, he catches himself on the railing. Unluckily, the railing had only been put in when they moved in, and has yet to be stained or sealed. He’s been meaning to call someone to do it, but hasn’t gotten around to it. So instead of smashing his nose in on the hard step, the palm of his hand stings, and when he lifts it to inspect the damage he sees a small red welt with something stuck under his skin.

“Mulder!” Scully steps forward to catch him, and places a hand on his arm. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Ouch,” he says belatedly, punching at the wound, “Ouch.”

“What is it?” Scully, now in doctor mode, takes his hand in hers to evaluate his injury. She runs a thumb over the welt, and Mulder flinches. “Oh, God, Mulder, I thought you were actually hurt!”

“I am!” he protests, pointing to the tiny red welt, “I got a splinter.”

“All that over a splinter? Really?”

“Don’t make fun!” He pouts, “It hurts!”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “C’mon, let's get inside and I’ll tweeze it out.”

Scully sets her things down in the entryway before washing her hands and retrieving the first aid kit. The small, standard one, not the one specifically stockpiled for their frequent injuries from work.

She sits next to him at the kitchen table and lays out an alcohol wipe, antibiotic ointment, tweezers, and a bandaid on a tissue in the same organized manner she would a surgical tray. She holds her hand out between them, and he lays his own on it for her examination.

She dabs at Mulder’s hand with an alcohol wipe, then brushes a finger along the lesion to determine the direction. Mulder flinches. “Scully, has anyone told you recently that your bedside manner could use some work?”

“My patients don’t tend to complain, being dead and all.” She points out.

“If you don’t ease up, I might become one of them.”

“Mulder, it’s a splinter.”

“It’s ouchie.” Mulder gives an exaggerated pout, and Scully takes the chance to go for the splinter again, this time successfully catching it with the tweezers and getting it out.

“Aha!” Mulder exclaims as if the victory were his own. Scully shakes her head with fond exasperation and places the sliver of wood on the tissue. She dabs some ointment on the bandaid and adheres it to Mulder’s palm. It’s overkill, but if Mulder’s going to demand medical care for such a small injury, then he’s going to get it.

Mulder inspects the bandage on his palm. It’s adorned with stars, planets, and a little UFO. “Aw, alien bandaid? You shouldn’t have.”

“They were on sale,” she explains, standing and putting away the contents of the first aid kit. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Thanks for kissing it better, Scully.”

She takes his hand in her own again and bends her head to press her lips to the cartoon UFO in the center of the bandage. “Of course.” She moves her hand to run through his hair and pulls him close to press a kiss to his hairline. She turns away to put the kit away quickly, and misses the expression of wonder on Mulder’s face. 

***

Scully is, quite literally, elbows deep in the corpse of Laura Gillyberg. Mulder is across the room, far enough away to avoid the worst of the stench. He had meant to be productive and had brought a stack of potentially relevant X-files to review, but instead he’s bouncing a ball against the wall and contemplating the tip they had gotten connecting the victim to an organization called the Excelium Medical Group. Scully has long since learned to tune the routine thwap, thwap, thwap out. He does this all the time at home.

Then suddenly, there’s a different thwap sound and Scully’s hair falls around her face. Shit, her hair tie must have snapped. 

“Mulder?”

“Hmm?” The bouncing of the ball stops.

“Can you give me a hand? My hair tie broke, there should be a spare in the office.” She tilts her head to motion towards the door behind her.

Instead of going where Scully instructs, Mulder approaches her directly, sticking two fingers under his, miraculously still cuffed, sleeve. He slides it under the hair tie that rests there, and pulls it out. Gently, he brushes Scully’s hair into the middle of her occipital bone, where her ponytail usually lays. He gathers it into his fist, and wraps the hair tie around it, careful not to get any tangled up. Scully gets grumpy when her hair gets tangled. 

When the band is securely in place, Scully lifts her head to look at him. “Where’d that come from?”

“That’s the one you gave me in the hospital.” He says simply, like that explains everything.

“The hospital? I don’t remember giving you a hair tie last time–” Then it hits her. “Oh. You mean–”

“Yeah,” his voice is quiet, shy. “When I got hit by that car.”

“I didn’t realize you kept that.”

“Of course I did. You proposed to me with it.” Mulder steps back, the moment a little too full, a little too revealing. “And look at that, it came in handy.” He forces half a laugh, and retreats to his seat across the room. This time, he opens the file on top of his stack, and pretends to read it. Scully’s eyes don't leave him. 

He kept it. 

***

Scully doesn’t even realize what she’s doing when she plucks the tissue from the dispenser behind the couch and holds it out towards Mulder. She isn’t even conscious of it until he reaches for it a moment later, and sneezes. 

He grunts into it after he blows. “How did you know I had to sneeze?” He asks, voice stuffy.

“I don’t know,” She replies, surprised herself, “I just did.” 

“Careful, Scully, if you keep up like that I’m going to have no choice but to put you in another X-file, this one on your psychic abilities, woooooo.” He teases. 

She closes the book she’s reading around her finger and hits his shoulder with it playfully. He laughs, and removes her feet from his lap to stand up and toss the tissue in the trash. When he returns, he sits a couple inches closer, and Scully’s knees end up bent over his lap.

This contact is growing increasingly common. At home, mostly, but it’s leaked into the office more than a few times. Not where anyone can see them, just in the basement. In their own space. 

He’s always been more likely to initiate physical contact than she is, but she’s growing more comfortable with being the one to touch him. She knows he can read her tolerance for touch well, and he lets her decide their level of contact without even talking about it. She’s usually the one to settle onto the couch first, and he will find a place around her, exactly where she wants him. He can always just… tell. It astounds her. The odd time that he ends up in the middle of the couch before she can find a spot, she either curls into her armchair, or directly into his side. There’s variety. 

Except at night. They always hold each other at night, even if it’s just his hand in hers.

Therefore, when Mulder is tossing and turning and coughing and sneezing while Scully is trying to sleep, it keeps her up as well. 

Just past midnight, she finally sits up on her elbow and looks down at him. “You’re sick.”

“No I’m not.” He insists through a very, very stuffy nose. 

Scully places a hand on his head. “Yes, you are. You’re burning up.” She peels the covers back and slides out of bed. “I’m going to get you some medicine.”

“I don’t need medicine,” Mulder tries to say, but it comes out as “I done neet medithine.”

“Shut up, Mulder.” 

When she returns with a bottle of Nyquil a minute later, Mulder accepts defeat and swallows it down. She places it on his nightstand and settles her head on his chest.

In the morning, Scully rouses as usual. Mulder is still sleeping soundly thanks to the medication, and snores as Scully bustles around the bedroom getting dressed and ready for the day.

When she has everything together, she returns to the bedroom to write a note instructing him when to take more meds and not to try and come into work, but when she sees him curled onto her side of the bed, shivering and seeking her warmth… she just can’t do it. She can’t leave him alone here, sniffling and miserable. Even if she did, it seems unlikely that he would stay home when he rose, and even less likely that Scully would be able to get anything done at the office anyways.

Scully drops her briefcase back in its place and changes into casual clothes. She calls Skinner, informing him that neither of them will be in the office today, and promptly crawls back in bed.

This time, her movement does rouse Mulder. “Wha’ timzit?” He asks. He blinks blearily at the alarm clock and when he realizes it’s past 7:30, he scrambles, which makes him cough. “Thcully, we’re gonna be late!”

She puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “You’re not going in. Neither am I. Get back in bed, Mulder.”

“I’m fine. I’m not sick.” He protests. Scully reaches for the tissue box on her nightstand instinctually, and Mulder sneezes a moment later. “How do you do that?”

“That’s the X-file we’ll investigate today, Mulder. How do I know when you’re about to sneeze? I guess we’ll have to study it to find out.” Scully rolls her eyes, and tries not to think about just how attuned to Mulder’s presence she’s gotten, or what it might mean. 

<- previous chapter next chapter ->

#LTWrites #LTW: you are in love #fall into place series #.txt #the x files #fics

[randomfoggytiger]

X-Files Collector’s Edition: Fics That Deserve More Comments (Part III)

Here we are again: Part III, a list dedicated to all the fics that are (unfortunately) not given enough attention for their different achievements.

Loose chronological order below~

@pilotinthestars's (Ao3) a green nursery (Ao3)

The convenience store worker said and did nothing but eye him up and down. He supposed most tuxedo-clad men didn’t come into this establishment for the purpose of buying pregnancy tests for the little black dress-clad women they had brought with them.

AU-- Hollywood A.D. Mulder realizes Scully's new symptoms add up to pregnancy. He convinces her to take a test; and both are relieved and delighted that the night ends-- literally-- on a positive note.

@enigmaticdrblockhead's

Mountains Crumble to the Sea

...I’m scared.

God?

//God is a spectator-//

Ah, right, I remember. Is He watching, are You watching, is anyone watching? //He just reads the box scores.// Baseball, I loved- no love, baseball; I’m not dead yet.

But I can’t remember and it hurts. I can’t remember what your voice sounds like, it hurts so much. I can’t remember what anything sounds like. All I can hear, is pounding in my head. Loud and slow, once methodical but now erratic.

What will happen to me after this?

TINH Mulder is relentlessly tortured, thoughts rambling away as his body slowly "dies."

AliveDead

He is nothing but empty pockets. Leaning against the stone building he sits and watches them go by. Moving forward and walking past, they ignore his plight and give only isolation....

His right hand almost seems stiff. Fingers are curved upward to show a gray palm. He begs for whatever they can give. He is never lucky.

AU-- Deadalive Mulder was returned, sick and amnesiac, to wander the streets without knowing where to go.

Darkness (brief)

I feel like I’m falling down to earth and floating up to the heavens at the same time.

I’m tempted to blame someone but I can’t. My training exposed me to this, but like most things I chose to ignore it.

Three Words Mulder has risen from the dead horrified, not awed.

Ascension

He must be weak, either that or they drugged him. His feet drag towards me and his masked face hangs low. He trips on a bump in the carpet and tumbles at my feet. The father kneeling before the son....

The way his body lunges forward every second or two, tells me that he’s out of breath or perhaps he’s in pain. The blanche, plastic mask with small slits fixates on me. It doesn’t stop and he doesn’t struggle. He isn’t shaking or attempting to break free like all the others. He just breaths and watches me. 

Stop it. Stop watching me. Look down. Look away. Don’t watch me in this moment. The moment where I kill you.

AU-- Colonization was thorough and unyielding; and Will, like all other children under the regime, must kill his father to "ascend."

Looking Forward to the Abyss

“People think when you die, you go to heaven or hell. But people never think about what happens if you come back.

“Well, Mrs. Scully…I do. Because I did die, on a case. They killed me, and they foolishly thought to bring me back. They were religious too…although…”

He couldn’t help but smile now. It was a joke and he knew the punchline. How could he not smile.

AU-- Mulder, demonic and unrepentant, recounts the horror he was forced to inflict on Scully... and the unhinged revenge he doled out afterward.

@spookytheory's Fire, But Better

Fox Mulder’s sharp smile strikes across Dana. She ignites, the flames spelling out her new titles: FBI Agent. Spy. Scully. Scully emerges from the fire, brushing the ashes of deference from her shoulder pads.

Pilot Scully is trying to put Daniel Waterston and her past behind her, easing into the newness of being referred to constantly by her "father's" name.

@fabulouspatsystone's

I don't want that anymore

His heart sinks into his entrails and becomes heavy as stone. Who is she talking to and, even more important, what is she saying? The air around him seems to disappear and all he can hear is a distant muffled humming. He feels like he’s under water and everything just rushes by. All he manages is to hold on to the mail he collected with a tight grip.

S1 Mulder overhears and misinterprets Scully's phone call. He fumes, then silently figures it out.

Unnamed

She was gone all day. They hauled her off to Quantico early this morning leaving him with a short message on his answering machine that she will not be in today. She sounded sleepy and a little cranky, probably hadn’t have her coffee yet. And she sounded adorable.

Mulder, bummed after a case, thinks about his love for Scully's smiles, notes, and little quirks and habits.

Unnamed

Mulder’s voice sounded way to chipper for this hour. He pretended and she knew.

Mulder messed up the filing system; and successfully bribes Scully to help him out later.

Something Better

“A curious fella you got there, sweetheart. And very handsome...how do you get anything done?”

“Excuse me?” The surprise about this question made her choke on her last bite.

Even the old lady handing out gingerbread cookies asks why Scully and her young man are investigating Christmas trees instead of enjoying each other's company.

On the Outside

He walks by her apartment. Not by accident or by chance, but on purpose. He's never been in there but he's been here on this side of her street looking up. It is usually dark, no sign of life, just glass windows that hide her loneliness behind closed curtains.

Breakup Mulder roams to Scully's, surprised to note how dull and Christmas-less it looks.

@pedalinginhummus's

Happened Before

"Oho, Scully!” He said as he lifted her arm by the elbow towards the ceiling. “Don’t get too comfy as the medical doctor on this team. I think I can give you a run for your money with this,” he said proudly, admiring his work.

Mulder helps Scully bandage her wound; and the two start their tradition of thumb warring after injuries.

Unnamed

With a muffled voice she says “If only you could grow another hand out of your chest,” aching to feel pressure at every angle.

Mulder chuckles. “Kind of like in Alien?"

Post Memento Mori Scully has a headache; and allows Mulder to massage it away.

@blackcoffeeandteardrops’s (Ao3)

XF episode: Die Hand Die Verletzt?

“The human mind can be very persuasive, Scully. There are documented cases of people under hypnosis or otherwise suggestive activities doing things they report they normally wouldn’t do. Things like driving a car four hours away in the dead of night, buying an excessive amount of cheese, and in one case, even getting married,” he said, not missing the way she sighed.

Post Die Hand De Verletzt Scully calls Mulder, nervous about Mrs. Paddock out and about.

I know it’s probably been done before but Three Words for your episode prompt

There’s a silence that settles between them, a solid weight that somehow does not feel heavy. For a few moments, Mulder swears his ears are ringing. “In Oregon,” he replies, leaning in. He furrows his brow, slowly putting the pieces together.

AU-- Three Words Mulder wants space but goes to Scully's apartment with a frog blanket, anyway. He has no memories of his torture; and is thrilled to find out that the baby is his.

Home To Me

“Hi baby,” she said, planting a kiss against his hair. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him close, drinking in the scent of of his No More Tears Shampoo. She tucked the tag of his pajamas back in and carded a hand through his auburn curls, preemptively mourning the day his hair would straighten out. They did the best they could with him, but she knew they couldn’t keep him young forever.

AU-- Mulder, Scully, and Will enjoy life as a family, bedtime stories and Quantico opportunities included.

Better Now (Ao3) 

“I know it sounds odd, Mulder, but considering everything we’ve been through, I’m glad to see us facing something so...normal.”

“Be that as it may,” Mulder replied, setting the bowl of soup in his lap. He held a spoon of broth to his lips, blowing on it before taking a taste.

AU-- Scully catches a cold; and Will brings her purple flowers.

Dulcet (Ao3)

Beside her, William gasped, his eyes honing in on a water gun that had been left on the ground a few feet away. He sprinted to get it and ran right back to Scully, shaking it near his ear, listening for the sound of water sloshing around inside. “Here, mom, it's still got water in it,” he said, his cheeks red and his breathing heavy from the exertion of running. “Get him!”

AU-- Will's 5th birthday: water balloons and Toy Story reruns.

Reprieve

Tucked between the pages of the books was a picture of William and Scully, one he’d taken the day before he left. He knew it was in the book, knew it because every night before he fell asleep, he’d hold the picture and stare at their faces, and he’d hope he’d see them soon. The picture had been a source of comfort before, a talisman that kept him grounded and reminded him why he had to keep fighting, but seeing it again filled him with something kin to sadness mixed with anger. He closed the book as the bus took off, and he stared out the window, trying to convince himself the anger wasn’t at Scully, but rather at the impossible situation they’d been faced with.

AU-- Post William Mulder calls up Skinner for information, tracking down Will just in time to save his son from murderous operatives. Scully panics, angered, at first; but the two eventually reconcile.

Small Steps

 Still, the ice between them had been thawing, especially since they’d returned to the FBI together, but Mulder remained afraid that he’d somehow be overstepping his bounds. He turns to offer something lighthearted instead, but stops, reaching out to grasp her arm & get her to stop walking. “Scully, you’ve got a little something--” he trails off, free hand gesturing up to his own face.

Revival Scully's nose bleeds after she and Mulder conclude a case. He panics, dabbing at it with his tie. Both hope it's just the high altitude.

Mashed Potatoes

“My mother used to make mashed potatoes every year. Some of the other side dishes would change, depending upon what ingredients were available or how many people would be present, but her mashed potatoes stayed the same,” she said, worrying the surface of the coin as she stared off into the distance. She didn’t come to until she felt something pressing against her waist, not realizing at first that William had crossed the room to pull her into a hug.

AU-- My Struggle II William and Scully talk about their individual losses fondly, eventually waking up a recovering Mulder.

Enough For Now

When Scully brought in the flyer advertising for the local county fair, she never expected anything to come of it. She’d laid it on the table with the other junk mail she’d go through whenever she had the time, taking care to save any coupons that might prove useful. But when William sat at the table one night for dinner, he pulled it from the stack, talking about how back in Wyoming they’d go almost every year when he was a kid, and she knew before he even asked that they’d go.

AU-- My Struggle III Mulder, Scully, and William start bonding as a family while visiting the fair: basketball, roller coasters, and pizza.

Keep On Wanting

 Mulder reaches for her seatbelt, unclipping it, and when he gets out to open her door, she lets him lead her inside.

Mulder takes her coat, hanging it on the rack by the door, before doing the same thing with his own, even though it’s still caked with blood. He’ll handle it later, either by having it cleaned or burning it, he’s not sure which. 

Post My Struggle IV Mulder calms a chilled, anxious Scully. Both feel hopeful after a good night's rest.

Livewire (Ao3)

“Who says I need protecting? I was just shot because that creep thought I was you,” Jackson replied, trying but failing to push away from him.

Any other time, that response would’ve pained Mulder more than it did, but he looped an arm around his son’s shoulders and started wading back toward the docks, determined to get them there with or without Jackson’s help.

AU-- Post My Struggle IV Mulder drags Jackson out of the water, refusing to let his son leave before they've all ironed things out.

Commonplace

He couldn’t see her face, but if he could, Mulder was almost certain there would be tears in her eyes. After everything they’d been through in the last year, that fact wouldn’t be a surprise. “I’m just as concerned as you, Scully. The best thing we can do for him now is to work as hard as we possibly can to keep him safe. To protect the best thing that’s ever happened to either of us.”

Post My Struggle IV Mulder and Scully are delighted to have Jackson around, lightly parenting him about bedtime and schooling.

Little By Little

Despite the added inch or two the skates gave her, as Scully caught up to William and he laid a hand on her shoulder, it occurred to her again of how much taller than her he was. “Are you having a good time? If you want to go faster, you don’t have to wait for me or Mulder, you know. Just be careful,” she said, though she secretly hoped he wouldn’t.

Post My Struggle IV Jackson bonds with his parents over ice skating and last names.

Signs of Light

 It wasn’t until several months passed, until they’d begun to creep past the awkwardness that came with getting to know the teenage son whose entire life they’d missed, that she even mentioned the headaches.

It’s nothing, Mulder, I’m fine, Scully had said, pinching the bridge of her nose and fanning her face with a file as they sat outside a warehouse, waiting on a suspect to exit the building. 

AU-- Revival Scully's cancer returns. Mulder refuses to promise to stop searching for a cure; and Jackson slowly starts hanging around, warming up to his parents.

@mchalowitz​’s (Ao3)

fic; un-mulder

It’s so un-Mulder, embellished with white detailing, small pine pones. There’s little gifts attached and a few are just hanging swatches of metallic paper, the clear result of curious fingers in years long past. 

The wreath rustles against the door as it swings open. There’s a bright smile on Mulder’s face. 

Pre-TGTSC Mulder surprises Scully with a Christmas door wreath.

after

Being the believer in the office is exhausting. 

Scully is telling him as much, even giving some actual merit to being one with the unbelievable views, when she notices Mulder is sleeping upright, his head propped up with his hand.

She slides herself to the edge of the couch to push herself up but feels his hand on her arm. 

“I’m awake,” Mulder insists, “I was listening.” 

Post Vienen Scully is glad Mulder is back, even if he is pushing and pulling away from impending parenthood like a pendulum.

34 + 28 msr for the OTP prompt List 💚💚

Remain calm. That’s what all the pregnancy books say.

AU-- S8 Mulder and Scully are horrified over a pregnancy complication.

hack job

Scully’s rarely frantic. The peaceful foil to her overwrought partner. Russians seized their home and she careened over the side of the porch level headed. 

She’s pulling drawers open so hard they’re coming off their tracks. They crash to the floor. She finds a pair of scissors in the third one. They’re not for hair cutting but they’ll have to work. 

Revival Scully gives herself an emergency haircut while Mulder burns critical evidence.

fic; a little snow

She heads down to start the coffee maker and adjust the finicky heater. Every morning she descends those stairs, thinking the man she loves will have returned to her.

Pre-IWTB Scully, though worried for her partner, is heartened a little when Mulder warms up her car and shovels out the driveway.

@lovesicks4pphic's (Ao3) Effective Communication (Ao3)

“Sir, you can’t seriously think this is a good use of our time?”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t think, Mulder. Besides, I know full well the two of you bailed on the last seminar you were supposed to attend.” 

Scully felt Mulder’s eyes dart in her direction. 

AU-- Post Triangle Kersh forces Mulder and Scully to attend a conference, which causes Scully to unduly overthink in anguish. Mulder is clueless; but the two work it out and take their relationship to the next level.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #fic #Collector's Edition #Fics That Deserve More Comments #Part II #xf fic #xf fanfic #x-files #the x files #xfiles #mine #spookytheory #peddlinginhummus #enigmaticdrblockhead #fabulouspatsystone #pilotinthestars #blackcoffeeandteardrops #lovesicks4pphic #mchalowitz

[starwalker42]

febuwhump day 23: "you'll have to go through me"

season 1 | tw: blood | general audiences

There’s no way I’m getting out of this one. Mulder thinks to himself, looking up into the eyes of a very large, very hungry, very, very angry, wolf.

It’s already clawed him once, across the back of his thigh as he’d crawled away from its jaws – he can feel the blood sticking to his pants as he edges backwards now. His gun is out of reach, lost somewhere in the bushes where he fell, and even though he thinks – he’s 90% sure – that the wolf was, at some point, a human being who could be reasoned with, he’s not sure if there’s enough of a human left inside of it right now to respond to negotiation. He’s well and truly screwed.

As the creature approaches him, creeping forward so slowly it’s almost like it’s biding its time, almost as if it’s enjoying toying with him, Mulder wonders how long it might take to bleed out from a bite wound. Maybe the pain will be strong enough that he won’t make it that long, anyway – maybe he’ll pass out before it gets to that point. Maybe those jaws will tear right through him, and he won’t feel anything but a flash of pain and the sensation of his body being ripped apart.

Bang! A cloud of dirt flies up into the wolf’s face, and it turns away, whining in surprise. After a moment of confusion, Mulder realises someone’s fired a gun.

He looks up, to his left, in the direction of the gunshot, and sees – who else? – his partner, handgun gripped steadily in a perfect Weaver stance, approaching him with sure, steady paces. She reaches him before the wolf recovers, positioning herself between its jaws and Mulder.

“Scully - ”

“You okay, Mulder?” She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even risk a glance over her shoulder, eyes fixed instead on his would-be attacker.

A low growl cuts off his reply. From around Scully’s legs, he sees the wolf raise its head, teeth gleaming menacingly as it snarls deep in its throat.

“You want him?” It takes Mulder a beat to realise that she’s speaking to it, not to him. “Then you’ll have to go through me.”

The wolf snarls again, louder.

“Back off. Or else.”

He wants to tell Scully to stop being stupid. He’s supposed to be the one with a complete lack of self-preservation, not her, and it doesn’t do either of them much good if they both get killed by this thing. Somewhat selfishly, he also wants to tell her to stop because he doesn’t particularly want to watch her die like this, getting torn to pieces by a wild animal. Dana Scully probably doesn’t deserve to die like that.

But - and he has to blink a few times to make sure his eyes aren’t lying to him - the wolf is listening to her. It’s backing down, hackles still raised and teeth still bared, but it’s not growling anymore. Scully steps back until she’s almost by Mulder’s side, and asks him again.

“You okay, Mulder?”

There’s blood, warm and sticky, pooling underneath him, but he nods. He’s not sure if he can talk, not sure if he wants to – he’s too afraid of breaking whatever spell Scully’s put on this creature that as of a minute ago was hellbent on tearing him limb from limb.

The wolf watches them for a long, final moment. Scully matches its gaze. Eventually it turns and pads back into the woods, without a single backwards glance, and Scully drops to her knees, reaching for Mulder’s pulse.

“Lie down, Mulder, you might be going into shock.”

“How…?” He asks a thousand questions in that one word, not resisting as she guides him down to the ground.

She presses her hand to his wrist, counting his heartbeats under her breath. His eyes slide shut, trying to focus on her touch rather than the steady thump of blood oozing out of his wound. The last thought he has before slipping into unconsciousness is how thankful he is for his partner, and for the lengths she goes to to protect his sorry ass.

@today-in-fic

#xf fanfic #txf fic #msr #my writing #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday23 #blood tw

[dragonanne4fun]

I would like to formally thank the x-files and Dana Scully for getting me into my blazers and shoulder pads era. I feel cool and look pretty 😌

#at least i feel pretty. so i assume i look pretty 😆 #the ramblings of a dragon #personal #the x-files #so glad I never got rid of all of those blazers that were handed down to me or i thrifted for church plays

[baronessblixen]

The Year of Firsts

Summary: It's a new year and Mulder experiences a number of first times. Post-ep for "Millennium". MSR. Wc: 819

Bingo square: breakfast

Tagging @xfilesbingo and @today-in-fic

This is the year of firsts, Mulder decides. The year has barely started, is still trying to open its eyes, take in all the new, prepare for all that's to come. And yet, Mulder has already experienced several firsts.

His first kiss with Scully, for one. At least their first real one. No bees, no 1939 alter egos, and no hallucinations. Just a first kiss. A second, third and tenth, too. All he has to do is close his eyes, pick his favorite, and replay it in his head. Again and again. Or he could wake her, kiss her softly, whisper good morning, and experience another first.

But she needs her sleep. She's ethereal there on the pillow, strands of red hair caught by scarce January sunbeams. He could watch her sleep for hours. If he could, he'd paint her. He could learn how to paint just for her.

If she were awake, she would call him crazy. The thought puts a huge grin on his face. One that Scully would probably assign to remnants of painkillers in his bloodstream. Mulder knows better. It's because of her. It's the Scully effect.

Their first kiss led to their first time making love. An act so long in the making that it felt like pure magic. It was. Mulder didn't think anything could ever compare. Then they made love for the second time.

Now, it's time for another first: breakfast. Sure, they've had breakfast together plenty of times. Not like this, though. Not after making love. Not Mulder making pancakes for her.

Unlike his own fridge, Scully's is well stocked and he finds everything he needs easily enough. Cooking with one arm, however, is not easy. His determination and love for Scully make up for it.

He's as quiet as he can be, hoping Scully will sleep through it all. He wants to surprise her in bed, make this special. Just as he's about to flip the first pancake, there's a key turning in the door, and a moment later, a baffled Margaret Scully staring at him.

"Fox," she says. "I did not- good morning, dear. Where are my manners? Happy New Year. Dana didn't tell me you'd be here."

"Happy New Year, Mrs. Scully," he replies, glad that he's wearing a shirt and not just his boxers. "We- this wasn't planned." He points to his injured arm and Mrs. Scully drops her purse on the kitchen table to examine it more closely. Like mother, like daughter.

"Oh Fox," she says, gently patting his good arm. "You two really know how to get into trouble. Dana? Is she-"

"She's fine," he assures her. "She's just sleeping. It was a- um, a long night." He's blushing. From the way his face feels, he'd say he's blushing furiously. And he can't be entirely sure, but he thinks he sees a subtle, knowing smile on Mrs. Scully's lips.

"I can imagine," she says, turning away from him and towards the pan, where one of the pancakes is burning. "Dana and I had plans to meet up for breakfast this morning." She turns down the heat and takes over, expertly pouring dough into the pan.

"Now, Fox, would you mind waking Dana? I wouldn't want her to miss out on warm pancakes." Mulder nods, blushing again when Mrs. Scully winks at him. Winks at him! He pads to Scully's bedroom, replaying the encounter again and again. Another first. One he could have waited for a while longer.

"Hey you," Mulder softly says as he slips into bed with Scully, kissing her bare shoulder.

"Hm?"

"Don't freak out," he mumbles against her skin, his lips traveling to her neck. "Your mom is here. She caught me making pancakes in my boxers."

"I forgot she was coming over," Scully says with a sigh. "She saw you?"

"Yeah. She probably saw more of me than she ever wanted to see." Mulder chuckles and Scully groans.

"What are we gonna do?" She asks.

"Have breakfast with your mother. Unless you- do you regret what-"

"God, Mulder, no. I don't regret what happened last night." She presses a soft kiss to his lips. "I just- I thought we had more time."

"We have all the time in the world," he says, kissing her. "After breakfast, that is."

"I hope you're ready," Scully says, stroking his arm.

"Ready for what?"

"For my mom's interrogation. She loves you, you know."

"The feeling is mutual," he says with a grin. "Let's go get out there and have breakfast with your mom, hm? I don't know about you, but my partner gave me a workout last night and I'm starving."

"Did she?" Scully smiles at him. "Let's do this then." She touches his cheek before she gets up, picks up her clothes and goes into the bathroom. Mulder just watches, a smile plastered on his face. The year of firsts has only just begun.

#xfilesbingo #msr #xf fanfic #so happy i wrote! #returning with my favorite episode to write for #hope you have as much fun reading as i had writing

[spookytheory]

Fire, But Better

Summary: It's Dana's first day on the job and she hopes for a fresh start. WC: 425

Bingo square: Fire

Tags: @xfilesbingo @today-in-fic

In the grey hall, seasoned FBI agents pass her like minnows and Dana exhales. She rubs her sweaty palms along what she hopes is an appropriate and professional skirt and lets the ready-to-please smile drip off her face.

First ring of fire: cleared. Blevins seemed content. The strange man in the corner seemed non-plussed. Both fit her preconceived notions of what FBI higher-ups were like. Old, stand-offish, starchy, and, dare she say, predictable? Dana is used to bland men: soulless nurses and aides who seemed to give life and hope to patients from their own personal stores. Some salt-and-pepper doctors were exceptions. Her heart clenches as her mind whispers the name Daniel.

She shakes it off with a roll of her shoulders. I chose this.

She lets this assurance distill into confidence and begins walking down the hall, smiling and nodding at her new co-workers. They blatantly ignore her.

What had Blevins said? Basement. Fox Mulder. Right. Once again, she is starting at the bottom, and minus the formaldehyde (and the sordid love affair) she assumes it will be much the same.

~~~

“Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted,” a man says.

She blinks, deja vu knocking against her gently like a wooden wind chime. His voice, the cadence, the wryness: it reminds her of someone, somehow, though she swears she’s never heard a tone quite like it.

Shaken, Dana tries to summon her dinner-with-extended-family smile. She pushes open the basement door and the smile vanishes.

I WANT TO BELIEVE a poster proclaims. Her eyes drift past countless UFO photos before landing on the man, the myth, the surprisingly good-looking Fox Mulder.

Dana introduces herself, shrugging on politeness. He shakes her hand like a dead fish.

“So, who’d you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?” he asks.

In that moment, she smells the ocean, hears waves lapping against the side of a boat. A sailor calling to her father, “Scully!” A quick, harsh conversation on deck. Her father would be tossed a rope. He would be turning the wheel, guiding them to exactly where he wanted them to be. Where they needed to be. He had been Scully, Captain Scully. Always.

Fox Mulder’s sharp smile strikes across Dana. She ignites, the flames spelling out her new titles: FBI Agent. Spy. Scully. Scully emerges from the fire, brushing the ashes of deference from her shoulder pads.

She looks down at Mulder, tilts her head, lets a new smile creep onto her lips.

“Actually,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to working with you.”

#xfilesbingo #txf fic #xfiles fic #scully #bingo #my writing #spooky chatter #xf fanfic

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Whumpay Day 27: "I don't have a choice"

not necessarily a sequel, but goes with Day 22 | William AU | Monica POV | @today-in-fic, @whumpay2022

Monica takes William, pacing around the apartment with the baby on her hip once Dana has finally collapsed, exhausted, on the couch in the living room. The computer is still open to research on adoption, and that's what scares Monica the most. When Dana says I don't have any choice, she means it. John is in the kitchen, one hand resting on his gun. He looks up when Monica pads in, reaches automatically for William.

She passes him the sleeping baby, staying close enough that it's like they're holding him between the two of them. Dana's apartment has an open layout, and Monica doesn't want her to wake up and hear them talking. She'd be angry, or more scared; she's already been through enough.

"We have to get in contact with Mulder," Monica says softly. "Dana, she's- falling apart. If she gives William up," she hesitates. "I'm not sure she could come back from that."

"I know," John sighs, a shadow briefly falling over his face. "But how do we even find him?"

Monica gives him a look, then glances over her shoulder. Dana lies motionless on the couch, only asleep because her body forced her to be. "I have an idea," she replies, "But it involves Spender."

Jeffery Spender is not a trustworthy man, but he is a genuine one. If it weren't for the limited amount of functioning muscles in his face, he'd probably be a terrible liar. When Monica asks him, she can feel the nervousness coming off him in waves the one time he tries to redirect her. She's banking on the assumption that having Scully give her baby up isn't part of any plan; Spender seems surprised enough when she admits it that she knows she was right. And when he tells her what she wants to know, she believes him.

Skinner is the one to fly out on the first flight to New Mexico, because Monica refuses to leave Dana right now and John won't leave either, in case something happens. They get a phone call from a burner cell the next day, the line crackling and staticky but Mulder's voice clear as day.

When Scully starts crying, Monica knows that they're relieved tears this time, not desperate ones.

#monica reyes human lie detector??? #Lu writes #txf #the x files #txf s9 #dana scully #monica reyes #john doggett #fox mulder #william #whumpay2022

[sisterspooky1013]

The Family Scully, Chapter One

Not Rated | Read it here on AO3

This is an homage to the movie The Family Stone. Relationship tags and rating will be updated as chapters are posted to avoid spoilers for those who have not seen the movie.

Samantha.

“Can I help you find something?”

The saleswoman who materializes at her side sports a bright smile that pushes her eyes into barely-there half-moons and her perfume is sickly sweet.

“No, thank you,” Sam answers, but then second guesses herself. “Actually, I’m looking for a gift for my girlfriend’s brother, do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, what does he like? What are his interests?” the woman asks, stepping closer and further invading Sam’s nostrils.

“Um, I’m not sure,” Sam admits, looking over the rack of nondescript hats and scarves. “I’ve only met him once. He’s in the military…”

The saleswoman blinks, waiting for an elaboration that never comes. Finally, she pushes her mouth into a more sympathetic smile and asks, “Which branch?”

Gift in hand, Sam weaves her way through the bramble of holiday shopping crowds back towards the women’s section. Meeting the family, on Christmas nonetheless, is a big step, and one she should be excited about in terms of what it means for the future of her relationship. But as the day has drawn near, all she feels is gut-twisting dread.

If there’s one thing Sam knows about herself, it’s that she’s too much. Too talkative, too crass, too opinionated and way too “new age” for polite company. Most of her life has been spent actively tempering the parts of her personality that drive away friends and potential partners, learning through trial and error what leads to wide eyes and thin smiles, and the realization that she said the wrong thing again.

She seems to have gotten it right with Dana. She’s beautiful and insanely smart, and a doctor of all things. If Sam had any relationship to speak of with her parents, they’d be impressed that she landed such a stable, functioning woman. Dana seems to write off her eccentric ideas as personality quirks, and Sam feels like she’s found in Dana just what she needs: someone to balance her out and bring her down to Earth, which includes subtly tipping her off when she’s wandered outside the bounds of what is considered normal conversation.

She spots Dana’s ginger head peeking out over a clothing rack and makes her way through tables of neatly folded jeans and sequined holiday party tops to join her.

“Did you find something?” Dana asks absently, metal hangers screeching across the rack as she searches for something suitable for Missy.

“I think so. Does Bill like blue?” Sam asks, and Dana turns to give her an appraising look.

“Sure, he likes blue,” she says gently, reaching out to give Samantha’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry about it too much, Sam. They’re going to love you.”

“Bill didn’t love me when we had dinner,” Sam says, and that sick, churning feeling starts to creep back into her belly.

Dana shakes her head dismissively. “He’s protective of me; he’ll come around. I promise Missy and Charlie are much easier to get along with.”

“That still leaves your parents,” Sam points out, and she catches the way Dana scrunches up her nose before she looks at her.

“My mom is great. My dad…is my dad,” she says, too full of integrity to lie and say her father will welcome Samantha with open arms.

“Is it the gay thing? Does he think I made you gay?” Sam asks, leaning against the rack until it starts to roll, and then straightening up and pulling it back into place.

Dana chuckles, selecting a long red sweater and holding it up for closer examination.

“No, thankfully Missy blazed that trail years before I came out, so it was old hat by then. Don’t say anything about me being bi, though. Somehow that’s worse, although I don’t really understand why.”

“I do,” Sam says flatly, pulling the scarf she purchased for Bill out of the bag and running the pad of her thumb over the soft woolen yarn. “It’s like it gives them some hope that they can turn things around. If they can just find the right guy, he’ll fuck the gay right out of you.”

“Samantha,” Dana admonishes her, looking around to see who may have overheard. “Remember that my parents aren’t big fans of coarse language.”

Samantha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know, D. But they aren’t here, thankfully.”

Dana smiles at her fondly and grabs her hand, threading their fingers together.

“It’s going to be fine,” she reassures Sam. “I promise, they’ll love you as much as I do.”

Bill Jr.

“I’m not exaggerating, Charlie. I think she’s a witch,” Bill Jr. says in a warning tone, and his younger brother snorts, spewing bits of half-chewed cereal across the table.

“That’s quite an accusation, Junior,” Maggie says sternly as she tosses a washcloth at Charlie, an unspoken request that he clean up after himself.

Junior shrugs. “If you heard the wacky woo woo stuff she was saying when I had dinner with them, you would agree with me, Mom.”

“Just what kind of wacky woo woos are we talking here, Junior?” Bill Sr. asks as he exits the bathroom, a rolled up newspaper tucked under his arm.

“Something about mother earth and the four winds, and she asked me when my birthday was and then told me a bunch of weird stuff about myself,” Junior explains with a pensive expression. “I cannot for the life of me understand what Dana sees in her.”

“Is she hot?” Charlie asks, and the three of them shoot him nearly-identical dirty looks.

Junior has always thought that his little brother looks strikingly like Dana with a short haircut, sporting the same blue eyes, red hair, and smattering of cinnamon freckles across his fair cheeks. Dana, however, would never say something so crass.

“Is who hot?” Missy asks as she lumbers into the room, a bag hanging from each shoulder and a potted poinsettia in her hands.

“Melissa!” Maggie says with a smile, taking the plant and hugging her elder daughter around the waist.

“Dana’s girlfriend,” Charlie answers, and Missy raises her eyebrows.

“I’ve seen a picture,” Missy says as she drops her bags unceremoniously on the floor. “She’s pretty. Curly brown hair, just a little taller than Dana. She looks nice.”

“She’s strange,” Junior says, glowering.

“Some might say you’re strange, Junior,” Missy retorts. “Who irons creases in their jeans? Now that’s strange.”

“Tara irons them,” Junior grumbles. “She likes to do it.”

“Nobody likes ironing,” Missy says flatly, then drops into the chair Maggie vacated.

“How is Tara doing, Junior?” Bill Sr. asks, changing the subject, and Junior’s face lights up with a smile.

“She’s great, ready to pop. She wishes she could be here, but her doctor didn’t want her to fly so close to her due date.”

The echo of car doors slamming in the driveway catches their attention, and they look at each other expectantly.

“That must be Dana and Sam,” Charlie says, pointing out the obvious, and they all rise to meet them in the foyer.

Dana.

Dana takes a deep, steadying breath and puts on a brave face for Sam’s sake.

She’s been looking forward to this day, but not because she expects it to be pleasant; she just wants to get it over with. From the moment she met Samantha at a book signing, she knew that they made an odd pair. Sam is flighty, and whimsical, and carries tarot cards in her purse as a standard practice. But despite their differences, she found herself drawn to Sam’s inherent kindness and optimism, and what started as a friendship soon blossomed into something more.

“Remember to call my parents Mr. and Mrs. Scully until they tell you to call them something else,” Dana says quietly as they retrieve their suitcases from the trunk. “And don’t call Bill Jr. Junior, even though everyone else will. He doesn’t like it when people outside the family call him that.”

“Yeah, I got that the first five times you told me,” Sam says, nervousness and irritation commingling into a tension so thick Dana can feel it radiating off of her.

“Hey,” Dana says, bumping her shoulder against Sam’s. Sam looks at her and they hold eye contact for a beat, and she watches Sam’s shoulders drop a little as she relaxes. “It’s going to be fine,” Dana says, offering her a reassuring smile. Sam smiles back, and they make their way up the neatly shoveled walk to the front door.

“Dana!” her family greets loudly, standing in a half circle just inside the foyer like a welcoming committee. She sees Sam startle a little at the boisterous greeting, but quickly her best “meet the parents” smile stretches her mouth from ear to ear.

“Everyone, this is Samantha,” Dana says, gesturing to Sam, and then to each of her family members in turn. “This is my mom, Maggie, my younger brother, Charlie, my sister, Melissa, my dad, Bill Sr., and you remember Bill Jr.”

Sam sets her bag down and approaches Maggie with wide-open arms.

“Mrs. Scully, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” Sam gushes, and Maggie accepts her hug with a surprised but unperturbed expression. She does the same to Charlie and Missy, who smirk at Dana over Sam’s shoulder as they receive their hug. “It’s nice to see you again, Bill,” Sam says as she moves forward with arms outstretched, but Junior shoves his hand forward to cut her off. Sam stops abruptly and wraps both her hands around his in a sort of hand-hug. Next she turns to Bill Sr., who has his hands clasped behind his back and is standing in his requisite “at ease” posture. “Mr. Scully, Dana has told me so much about you,” Sam says, wrapping her arms around him and giving him a squeeze, which makes Dana cringe. His expression remains stoic and unaffected.

“It’s nice to meet you, Samantha,” Bill Sr. says levelly. “We’re glad you were able to join us.”

“Let me show you upstairs to your rooms,” Maggie says, moving things along as she takes Samantha’s bag and heads up the staircase. “Dana, you’ll be in your old bedroom, and we’ll put you up in the sewing room, Samantha.”

As they trail side-by-side up the stairs behind Maggie, Sam tugs on Dana’s sleeve to get her attention and whispers, “We’re sleeping in separate rooms?”

Dana gives her a tight lipped smile and a curt nod, the flash of her eyes saying that they ought not have this conversation here.

“I’ll give you girls some time to get situated, and dinner is in about forty-five minutes,” Maggie says before heading back downstairs.

“I have to sleep by myself?” Sam asks in a decidedly whiny tone, and Dana grabs her by the wrist to pull her into the sewing room, closing the door behind them.

“I told you my family is old-fashioned, Sam,” she explains. “Unmarried couples don’t sleep in the same bed: house rules.”

Sam openly pouts, her lower lip jutting out and her eyebrows knit.

Dana sighs, then steps closer and rests her hands on Sam’s shoulders.

“It’s just for a few nights. I know it might seem silly, but they did the same to Tara and Bill before they were married.”

“I don’t think your dad likes me,” Sam says sadly, and Dana wraps her up in a hug.

“My dad hardly even likes me, Sam,” she says, pulling away slightly to kiss her on the cheek. “Try not to take it personally.”

They unpack their things and meet downstairs for dinner, Maggie and Bill Sr. at either end of the table with their four children sat two on each side, plus Sam wedged in between Dana and Maggie. Sam’s stomach growls loudly and Dana realizes she's hardly eaten anything all day due to her nerves. Right when they sit down, Dana watches Sam snatch a roll out of the basket in the center of the table and take a big bite out of it before Dana has time to stop her.

“We say grace before we start our meal, Samantha,” Maggie says gently, and Sam sets the roll down on her plate, throwing Dana a mortified expression.

They join hands and bow their heads, and Dana recites the blessing she’s said before every family meal her entire life.

“For food, for raiment, for life, for opportunity, for friendship and fellowship, we thank Thee O Lord. Amen.”

Dana lifts her head and looks over at Sam, whose expression is wan and mildly horrified. Dana follows her gaze to the glistening, oven-fresh ham perched in the middle of the dinner spread, and her belly drops.

“Crap,” Dana says under her breath, and Maggie shoots her a look. She leans toward Sam, bringing her mouth to her ear and whispering “I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell her.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, picking up her abandoned roll. “Bread and butter is fine.”

“Something wrong with the meal, Samantha?” Bill Sr. asks, slicing off a slab of ham and plopping it loudly onto his plate.

“No,” Sam insists, feigning a cheery demeanor. “Everything looks wonderful. I’m not all that hungry, though. I think maybe just this roll is fine.”

Junior frowns. “Mom worked hard on this meal for us all to enjoy together,” he protests, and Dana shoots him a dirty look before turning to her mother.

“Mom, I’m so sorry,” she says softly, trying to avoid her dad and Junior overhearing. “I forgot to tell you that Samantha is a vegetarian.”

“A vegetarian?” Maggie repeats loudly. “What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t eat meat, Mom,” Dana clarifies.

“Oh this is ham, honey, not beef,” Maggie says brightly, and Dana cringes.

“Not just beef, Mom. Any meat.”

“What do you eat at Thanksgiving?” Charlie asks, more curious than judgmental.

Sam smiles the polite way she’s learned to do when asked questions about her dietary choices.

“Mashed potatoes, vegetarian gravy. Stuffing cooked outside the bird. Most of the typical things, just not turkey,” she says, buttering her roll.

“What’s wrong with meat?” Junior asks, though his tone is dripping with all the judgment that Charlie didn’t show.

Sam looks at Dana, unsure how or whether to answer, and Dana slides her hand onto Sam’s knee under the table.

“Nothing’s wrong with it, Junior,” Dana says sternly. “She just doesn’t eat it.”

“A lot of people don’t eat meat, Junior. It’s not exactly considered alternative anymore,” Missy adds, and Sam smiles at her gratefully.

“So what, you think we should keep pigs as pets? Walk them on leashes or something?” Junior asks, and Dana squeezes Sam’s knee in a plea that she not answer the question.

“Some people do that, sure,” Sam says cautiously. “I just think they deserve to be treated humanely, even if they are raised for consumption.”

“This isn’t polite dinner conversation,” Maggie warns, but Junior persists.

“Humanely?” he repeats derisively. “Do they deserve voting rights? A seat in congress?”

“No,” Sam replies, her tone much more assertive. “I was thinking more like they deserve not to have their throats slit and be left to bleed out, or have their skin blowtorched off while they’re still conscious. Stuff like that.”

A hush falls over the table, and Dana lets her hand slide off Sam’s knee. Missy slurps her wine and Bill Sr. clears his throat.

“Dinner is great, Mom,” Charlie says. “The ham is perfect.”

Dana closes her eyes.

Missy.

Missy has never brought a girl home, and she’s suddenly very glad for that fact.

Dana and Sam are sitting on the sun porch, which has to be nearly as cold as the air outside, speaking animatedly. Sam is clearly upset, and Dana is, as usual, remaining cool as a cucumber while she tries to smooth things over.

Though she’s not surprised that the rest of her family didn’t immediately take to Sam, Missy liked her right away, and not just because her long flowing skirt and peasant top would be right at home in Missy’s own closet. Sam has good energy, and her bouncy curls and upturned nose give her a childlike quality that Missy finds endearing. The fact that she wasn’t afraid to stand up to Junior certainly doesn’t hurt either.

“You could be a slightly smaller asshole, Junior,” she says to her brother, who is slouched down in an armchair with a beer in his fist.

“Watch your language, Melissa,” he sneers before taking a swig.

“Why do you hate Sam so much?” she challenges him, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “She seems perfectly nice, and Dana clearly cares about her.”

Junior scoffs.

“Dana doesn’t know what she wants,” he says, punctuating the statement with a belch. “She’s always latching on to the underdog and trying to make them better or something. This woman is just her latest project.”

“Dana is an adult, Junior. She’s capable of making rational decisions about who she dates. Maybe you should trust her judgment; she’s not sixteen anymore,” Missy replies.

Junior shrugs, but whatever he was going to say in reply is cut off as Sam and Dana re-enter the room. Dana has her hand on the small of Sam’s back, her expression encouraging as she nods and looks at Junior.

“I need to apologize to you, Bill,” Sam says, her stiff posture and formal tone clearly forced. “What I said during dinner was inappropriate.”

“It’s fine,” Junior mumbles, hardly looking at her.

“Junior?” Dana asks sharply, and her older brother gives her the courtesy of eye contact, and then sighs heavily.

“Sorry for asking you all those questions,” he says, though not at all sincerely.

Dana looks from Junior to Sam and back, gauging the success of their reconciliation. Deciding it’s as good as it will get, she steers Sam into the kitchen, where Missy overhears apologies being issued to Maggie and Bill Sr. for her dinner behavior.

Bill Sr. enters the living room and claps his hands once before rubbing them together in anticipation.

“Okay, Scullys, let’s bring our best this year,” he says as though they are about to take to the field for a playoff game.

Maggie, Sam, and Dana join them in the living room and everyone pulls chairs up to encircle the coffee table, where Bill Sr. is setting out the Pictionary game board. Maggie props up an easel with a large pad of paper pinned to it, and Missy catches the look of trepidation on Sam’s face as she watches them set the scene.

“We always do family game nights around Christmas,” she explains, and Sam does not appear to derive any comfort from that information.

“Are we going to have uneven teams, or should someone sit out?” Charlie asks.

“I can sit out,” Sam says hopefully. “I don’t mind. I’m not very competitive.”

“Oh, no, we can’t exclude our guest,” Maggie insists from her spot right behind Sam’s chair, resting her hands on Sam’s shoulders and giving them a squeeze. “I can sit out, you know I’m terrible anyway.”

Sam smiles thinly, and Missy bites her lip to stave off a laugh.

“Okay, then Samantha will take Mom’s spot on our team,” Charlie declares. “So that’s me, Samantha and Junior on team Chargers and Dad, Dana and Missy on team Ravens.”

The game commences, and Bill Sr. correctly identifies Dana’s drawing of a phoenix just before Charlie uses a series of small comics to demonstrate the idea of “head over heels,” which Junior correctly guesses. Missy watches Sam’s demeanor shift from wary to uncomfortable as she contributes nothing to the guessing portion of the game, and then fails miserably at drawing a helicopter, losing her team the chance to advance on the board. Dana is, in true form, fully immersed in the game and doesn’t seem to have any awareness of Sam’s increasing discomfort, even when Junior scoffs and slams his beer down after Samantha can’t figure out how to depict an Amtrak train, leaving the page blank as the final grain of sand slips through the timer.

The Ravens are holding a steady lead, not that Missy can claim much ownership in that fact, while the Chargers trail embarrassingly behind. Charlie has never been a sore loser and doesn’t appear bothered, but Junior is red and sweaty as he confronts the possibility that he will lose to his dad and little sister. It’s the Charger’s turn to draw, and Samantha is up again.

“Okay, let’s get this one, Samantha,” Junior says, clearly going for encouragement but coming off as threatening.

Sam takes a card from the back of the deck and looks at it, and then the board to confirm what color they landed on, and then back to the card again. Missy thinks she catches Sam’s lip trembling just slightly, but she recovers with a heavy sigh and picks up the pen.

She starts with a series of barely recognizable music notes, and Junior and Charlie shout “Music! Song! Band! Orchestra!” Sam shakes her head, dismissing their guesses, and begins to draw an oblong circle, and then a triangle at one end. “Funnel! Swimming pool! Pitcher!” the brothers guess, but Sam shakes her head again, dropping her arm away from the paper. Missy can see her cheeks growing red with embarrassment and she shoots a look over to Dana, who is whispering something to Bill Sr.

“Come on, Samantha, draw! Keep drawing!” Junior shouts angrily.

Sam turns sharply to face the group, tears welling under her eyes. “I’m fucking trying, okay?!” she yells back at Junior.

Maggie’s jaw drops open, her hand flying to her throat as if to clutch a strand of nonexistent pearls. Bill Sr. sits up taller, drawing air into his lungs in a way that Missy knows to be a harbinger for a lecture, but Dana sets her hand on his arm to stop him, her own embarrassment creeping up her neck in a blotted, crimson blush.

“Excuse us,” Dana says sternly, then wraps her hand around Samantha’s wrist and leads her out of the room.

Missy looks around at the stricken, angry faces of her family, Charlie seemingly the only one who found Sam’s outburst to be somewhat amusing.

“Should we just call it a tie, then?” he suggests cheekily, and Missy throws a couch pillow at his head.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #x files fanfic #x files #xf fanfic #the x-files

[regret-breathing]

dana scully’s shoulder pads.

#regret posting

[relatablepicturesofscully]

#Dana Scully #x files #the x files #2x15 #she's drowning in shoulder pads

[slippinmickeys]

Another Twitter prompt:

1. It was a weird thing to think, but it was odd that they'd put the new chemistry professor in Old Chem. The building -- cramped and dusty with an unreliable heating system -- hadn't actually housed the chemistry department in 35 years. It was now filled mainly with graduate students who either didn't mind that the clanking basement furnace would give up the ghost thrice every February, or just felt lucky to have office space and didn't complain. Dr. Fox Mulder, a tenured and often traveling research professor liked Old Chem, for what it was worth. Its bricks were the same orangey-red of the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon and it sat stalwart and proud on a rise above the river that purled through campus. The offices were small, and they lent everything in them -- from papers written in '82 to the newest state-of-the-art computers -- an aged patina that made you want to smoke a pipe and contemplate philosophy.

In any event, he never seemed to run into the new chemistry professor, even though his office was right next door.

2. One of the kids that rode on the same school bus route on the Vineyard had been a guy named Dana Dupree. He was five years older and a baseball star, and while Mulder hadn’t thought the kid was all that bright, he still worshipped him anyway, until the day Dupree graduated and Mulder never thought about him again.

He supposed that was why he thought the new professor was a man until she showed up at his door with a sheepish looking undergraduate he vaguely recognized from his Tuesday/Thursday lecture.

"I believe this may belong to you," said a caramel-soft voice from his doorway.

He looked up to see a short statured titch of a woman looking at him expectantly. Next to her was said undergraduate, who was hitching his backpack on his shoulder uncomfortably and looking anywhere but Mulder's face.

"Does it?" Mulder asked without standing.

"These are office hours, right?" the kid said, looking up through a thick hatch of shaggy hair.

Mulder looked at his watch. "Indeed they are," he said, and motioned for the boy to sit in one of the chairs opposite his desk -- the only one not covered in sheaves of paper and books. The kid slid into it and the woman in the doorway raised a hand and started to retreat into the hallway when Mulder said:

"And who do I have to thank for the saving of wayward students?"

The woman gave him a small, closed mouth smile that nevertheless reached all the way to her eyes.

"Dr. Dana Scully," she said, nodding at him and taking another step back. "Your new neighbor." With that she was gone.

3. He didn't see her again for almost a month. He was heading down the narrow back stairway that led from Old Chem's parking lot to the third floor hall of offices when he heard a forceful expletive followed by the sound of several light things hitting the floor. When he rounded the next landing, Dr. Scully was carrying an overfilled and close-to-disintegrating cardboard box and looking helplessly down at a wash of manila folders and dot-matrix printouts that were scattered across the floor and accordioning down three steps.

She was bending to put the box down when Mulder came trotting down the last few steps.

"Let me get that," he said, bending down to pick up the sheety detritus which he tapped into a neat stack.

"Thanks," she said, sounding reluctant to accept the help.

When he stood holding the papers out a little awkwardly, she gave him a grudging smile and he tucked the stack carefully into the box she now had balanced on her hip.

"Would you like help carrying all this up?" he asked, "I can get the box?"

"I can manage," she said, and Mulder thought she probably could -- she only had one more flight to go.

"Then at least let me get the doors," he said, bounding back up from the way he came, and seeing her safely to her office.

She gave him a small sideways glance as she unlocked the old Schlage, and when she fumbled with the keys, he reached out and wordlessly took the box from her hands so she could open the door. She gave a last hard shove with her shoulder and she was in, and he entered and put the box gingerly on her desk.

"Wow," he said, taking a look around the room. It was spotless and bright, airy in an effortless sort of way that was near impossible to find in the stuffy confines of Old Chem. "If Professor Abernathy saw this place, I think he'd want to move back in."

She smiled at him and he noticed for the first time that her eyes were a bright liquidly aqua, as cobalt as the Caribbean. His heart beat once, hard, then returned to its normal cadence.

"Then where would I go?" she asked, and he thought he detected maybe a hint of flirt.

"Next door," he offered, "it would be tight and wouldn't be good for much beyond a good game of Battleship, but wayward undergrads wouldn't get lost."

She laughed, a sheath of hair falling into her face, her locks the same color as the sandstone in Utah -- the same color as the bricks of Old Chem.

He felt something in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time.

4. He normally didn't stay this late, but his TA was out sick and he needed to get the grades turned in by noon the next day.

The moonlight coming through the single window in his office was pale and diaphanous, and it shone in a small rectangle on the grungy berber of his floor, the small desktop lamp illuminating only the papers in front of him.

There was a sharp knock on his door.

"It's open!"

It swung in to reveal Dr. Scully, holding a couple cartons of what looked like Chinese food and two paper-wrapped chopsticks packs, her face looking hesitant but hopeful, her hair a muzzy halo backlit by the fluorescents in the hallway.

"Your light is on a lot later than normal," she said, holding up the cartons, from which drifted the tangy waft of Pad Thai. "Thought you might need some sustenance."

His stomach gurgled in response.

“Partay,” he said, gesturing her in.

She smiled and shuffled in, setting a carton in front of him and the chopsticks on top.

“Apologies for the dimness, the overheads were giving me a headache,” he said, reaching behind him for the large pillar candles he kept in his office -- the building was notorious for losing power in the summer months, and he’d learned to be prepared. “Too weird to eat by candlelight?” he asked, fingering a lighter.

She shrugged and plopped down into the free chair across from his desk and folded her feet under herself, somehow looking cozy in the notoriously uncomfortable chair. He lit the candles and placed one on the desktop between them, unwrapping the chopsticks and rubbing the handles together. He considered her for a moment and she seemed to do the same.

“Do you always order for two?” he finally asked, opening the top of his container and letting the steam puff up gently around his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled dreamily. It smelled wonderful. She opened her own, deftly spearing a bean sprout and delicately nipping it in half. “It makes great leftovers,” she said, then expertly twirled a small bundle of noodles onto her own utensil and took a happy bite. “And I’ve been curious about you,” she finished around a mouthful of food.

“Me?” he asked, surprised. He shoveled in a mouthful with far less finesse and she chuckled at him.

“Yes,” she said, “you. The enigmatic Dr. Mulder. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Normally, he probably would have said something like oh really? and then made a smartass comment about her spying on him, but something held him back. Instead he said, “...what do you want to know?”

She looked at him, chewing thoughtfully. The candlelight gave her a fresh-faced look, her skin dewy and glowing. She had cupid’s bow lips, the color of overripe raspberries. A thought flashed through his head that they would probably taste as good as they looked.

“How long have you been tenured?”

“Five years.”

“Undergrad?”

“Oxford.” She raised an impressed eyebrow.

“Married?”

He choked and covered for it by coughing. She was still looking at him earnestly, expecting an answer.

“Ah,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Almost.”

“Narrowly avoided the institution?” He felt like he was being interviewed by a seasoned criminologist. She was unruffled and laser focused. Normally he would have had sirens going off in his head by now, abort! abort! but he was into it. Really into it.

“Narrowly avoided the spouse .” She grinned and took another bite and he decided to lob one back at her. “Why, you in the market?”

She looked at him levely, chewing no faster or slower than before. When she swallowed, he kept his eyes on the elegant column of her neck, watching her throat work.

“I’m a professor of chemistry, Dr. Mulder,” she said, quirking one eyebrow in a way that charmed him even more. “I’d never rule out adhesion.”

5. It was a tempest. A Goddamn tempest, and it had come rushing off the plains and, propelled by the jet stream, roaring into campus with the force of a freight train. He was halfway to the building that held his evening lecture when the wind picked up, and he was just passing Old Chem when the rain came. A torrential downpour that would have felled even the strongest umbrella. A streak of lighting followed immediately by the crash of thunder and he darted into the Old Chemistry building just to escape it. He was standing in the small foyer looking out the small beaded window panes in the old oak doors -- there were still a few students darting haphazardly into random buildings -- when his phone dinged. He pulled it out of his pocket.

UNIVERSITY EMERGENCY ALERT -- STORM WARNING -- STAY INDOORS -- ALL EVENING CLASSES CANCELLED

Sighing, he turned to head into his office to wait out the storm. He was thinking he had lab results in his briefcase he could probably go over when the power suddenly -- though perhaps not surprisingly -- went out. He drifted up the stairs to his office in the uncomfortable beam of the stairwell’s emergency light box, the bulbs shining brightly in two different directions like some kind of demented wall-eyed robot.

When he got to his door, he saw a small light flitting about the office next to his, then heard a thud and a muffled curse. He knocked lightly.

“Everything all right in there?” he called out.

The door was flung open and a frazzled-looking Dr. Scully stood before him, the too-bright glow of her cell phone flashlight pointing somewhere around his belt buckle.

“Hi,” she said, then rather needlessly added, “the power is out.”

“Welcome to Old Chem,” Mulder said with a trace of sarcasm, just as another flare of lightning highlighted her dressed-down outfit. Unusually, she was wearing jeans, a white tank top that rather nicely showcased the twin pillows of her decolletage and an old chambray shirt, shirtsleeves rolled to her elbows, unbuttoned in the front.

“My phone is about to die and I can’t find my portable charger,” she went on, a bit flustered, “and I also can’t see a god damned thing. If I was near my lab I could probably improvise some kind of glow stick, but I’m… not,” she finished lamely.

“You want some help?” he offered, setting down his briefcase in the hallway. There was an emergency light at the far end, but its light barely reached them. They were mainly highlighted in the red glow of the Exit sign that hung from the ceiling just to their left.

“I was actually on my way out. I give up. I can charge it in my car.”

He’d just noticed that her laptop bag was slung over one shoulder. A crash of deafening thunder shook the building.

“I, uh, wouldn’t go out right now,” he said, holding up the emergency alert on his phone, “it’s biblical out there.” Her shoulders slumped. “Come into my office,” he went on, digging his keys out of his pocket, “I don’t have Pad Thai, but I still have those candles.”

She smiled and he flushed a bit at the memory. It had only been a week and a half ago. She’d been pretty forward, and he’d been about to ask her out when the janitorial crew came rolling down the hallway. They’d quickly emptied the trashcans in the various offices on the floor, but when they kick-started the industrial floor polisher out in the hallway, Mulder had been fairly sure his window had closed.

She passed by him while he held open the door, and was forced to back herself up to the wall so he could squeeze by a moment later to get to the pillar candles and lighter he kept on top of his file cabinet. Their hips grazed ever so slightly as he brushed by her and he caught a heady whiff of her perfume, a spicy, floral scent studded with hints of white musk and bergamot. He had to keep himself from leaning into her to get another sniff.

“You want to have a seat?” he asked, indicating the guest chair.

“Not on your life,” she laughed, “it took three PIlates classes to work out the kink in my back from the last time.”

“Take mine,” he said, and settled himself into the chair across the desk, shifting to try to get comfortable.

After several moments she let out an undignified guffaw and stood.

“Come on,”she said, still chuckling as she rose from his office chair, “let’s go into my office. We’ll be a lot more comfortable.

Slightly chagrined, he grabbed the candles and followed her obediently. She had two nice looking chairs sitting side by side with a small, tasteful side table in between them, and they both settled in.

“Well,” she said, looking at the candles, “this is romantic.”

He chuckled.

“Any idea how long this is supposed to last?” she asked, nodding toward the small window. The sun hadn’t quite set, but the sky was a frightening velvety grey and the branches on the ancient maples outside Old Chem were bending sideways in the thrash.

Mulder pulled up a NOAA app on his phone.

“Radar shows three cells coming through,” he said, pinching the screen to get a bigger picture. “One on top of the other.”

She smirked at the innuendo, but made no move to do or say anything. He tossed the phone on the desktop next to a candle.

“Well,” she said, “any chance you’re up for a game of Battleship?”

XxXxXxXxXxX

She’d actually bought one. He was delighted when, from under her desk, she pulled out a brand new, still-in-the-cellophane, honest-to-god game of Battleship. They were twenty minutes into their second game and she was absolutely handing him his ass.

“How are you so good at this?” he asked her, after he put the last red peg into his submarine.

She studied her board.

“My father was a naval officer,” she said, not looking up, “a Captain when he retired. He was gone a lot. As a kid I would play this game with anyone who would play with me. Even the old lady next door. It made me feel closer to him.”

“Where does he live now?” Mulder asked, then, “C8.”

“Miss,” she said, “He and Mom are in Maryland. B12.”

“Hit. Any siblings?”

“Three.”

“E1?”

“Miss. You?” she asked. “B11.”

“A sister,” he answered, then leaned back and sighed. “You sunk my battleship.

She smiled victoriously. “You giving up?”

“I know when I’ve been bested,” he said.

He looked out the window at the storm as he helped her pack up the game. There was a brief lull in the weather while one cell moved off and another moved in. One of the trees in the diag out her window had been uprooted by the wind and was leaning into one of its compatriots like a soldier limping off the battlefield.

“It’s been nice being stuck here with you,” she said, finally leaning back.

“I’m glad,” Mulder said, nodding to the window, “because we may end up being stuck here all night.”

She put her thumbnail in her mouth and tilted her head. “I can think of worse things.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, swallowing hard.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think you should ask me out.”

He felt himself flush. Again. “If I asked, what would we do?”

“Drinks,” she said, “dancing. Maybe see where the night takes us.”

He nodded at her, considering. He briefly bit the inside of his cheek. “Will you go out with me?” he finally said.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “When?”

He stood. “Right now,” he said, getting a flash of inspiration, a jagged line of lightning streaking outside the window. “Stay right there.”

The candles sputtered as he swung open her office door. The dim red from the Exit sign gave just illumination for him to go into his own office and pull out the bottom drawer of his desk. When he returned, she was sitting up, intrigued. On her desk he deposited a bottle of Lagavulin and two small rocks glasses.

“You like Scotch?” he asked.

She nodded, smiling. He returned her smile and poured her a finger. He did the same and held it up in salute.

“To our first date,” he said.

“Slainte,” she said, tapping her glass into his own and then taking a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his.

The spirit was as smooth as high C, but burned its way down his esophagus, filling his belly with the warm haze of nerve.

He reached for his phone, which was still sitting on top of her desk, swiping and tapping until the soulful purl of Nina Simone’s Feeling Good began to leak through the tiny speakers. He upped the volume so that the sound of the singer’s velvet voice swelled over the roar of the rain outside, set down his glass and held out his hand to her. She took a large swallow, almost finishing what was in her glass, and set it down next to his, taking his hand. He pulled her to him.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, pressing his hand into the amati curve of her back. There wasn’t much room in the small office, certainly not enough for a good dance, but if they swayed, turning in place like a couple of kids at an eighth grade dance, it would get the job done.

She canted her face up to his, blinking slowly. “Yes,” she said in a voice as low as his had been, and then pressed her head to his chest. He pulled her in even more, pulling their clasped hands in close.

She fit perfectly into the lee of him, and something just felt right about it as she settled in, sighing contentedly. It was like a key sliding into the right lock. Click .

The song was over before either of them were ready for it to be. Mulder didn’t move as the brassy sound of the big band faded into nothingness. He scarcely even breathed. Dr. Scully shifted in his arms, but made no move to step back. After a moment, he worked up the nerve to look down at her and found her looking right back.

“What happens next?” he muttered, tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

“Next?” she said, voice barely a whisper. “We see where the night takes us.”

#it won’t let me post after the jump #im sorry this is so long on your dash #tumblr I swear to fucking god #fanfic #msr #my fic #the x-files #au #fanfiction #prompts

[nephrosoupp]

Is Dana Scully really Dana Scully without the shoulder pads

#mulder you better take notes #i dont think ive drawn shorter hair scully #its a crime fbi please arrest me #msr #txf #mulder and scully #the x files #fox mulder #gillian anderson #dana scully #xfiles #xf fanart #txf fanart #my art #art #fan art #david duchovny

[burritoscully]

Unsung Melody

1.3k | angst | ao3 | tagging @today-in-fic

Summary: Mulder finds a letter addressed to him in a box of Scully’s old things.

-- 

Mulder closes the attic door behind him quietly. The cardboard box labelled Dana stares at him so menacingly, he can barely take the three steps needed to reach it. He does it. He drags his feet, but he does it.

He takes deep breaths to stop his heart from racing, to stop his throat from clogging. To stop his eyes from watering. To stop him remembering.

The box has not been opened since it was sealed shut in November of 1997. It has been staring at him for the better part of three years, pressing into the back of his mind, tormenting him. He has to though. He needs to move on. He needs to be able to be happy without thinking of it.

He makes his decision.

The box had been cleared of dust when he moved his things into his new place, but had remained untouched since 1997. Unopened since 1997.

He runs his fingers on the creased, crackling masking tape, hoping it will peel itself open. Hoping the effort needed to even touch the box is the hardest part of what he is about to do.

If he repeats it, maybe it will make him feel calmer about it.

1997.

He scratches the tape off with his nails but it tears, leaving the box as it had been, closed. He tries again and again and only on the third try does the tape come off, taking the first two layers of cardboard along with it. He runs the pads of his fingers along the torn cardboard, squeezing his eyes shut and taking slow deep breaths.

This is so much harder than he expected.

The first item in the box he has no memory of ever seeing. It is an envelope, addressed to him. In her handwriting. His hands start to shake as he flips it in his hands and eases the envelope open. As expected, it tears and a shaky breath leaves his mouth. He pulls out a letter that he was unaware ever existed.

May 1997

Dear Mulder,

As I’m writing this, my health is deteriorating rapidly so if you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it. It means my illness has taken me and that I haven’t had the chance to tell you everything you deserve to know.

His eyes start to burn rapidly, his pulse quickens and he feels his fingers go numb.

I— this is very hard for me to say. Write. I’ve always pictured telling you in person, not like this. Not when I’m no longer here with you. I always worried over how you’d react. So much so that I’ve left it to the very last minute. And it has only harmed. This was always supposed to be happy — well, I’d always hoped it would be happy, anyway — but I’ve gone and made it painful.

Mulder squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to calm his heart and stop his nose from running. He doesn’t want his tears smearing her words. Her letter. Not this one. Not if it is what he thinks it is.

I figured it would be cruel to tell you like this, when I’m not here with you, but would it really be more merciful that not telling you at all? My feelings for you… they’re complicated.

No. That’s a lie. They’re very simple. They’re just complicated for me to process.

Mulder wishes he’d told her about his. About the way his heart sped up every time she entered the room, every time he picked up the phone and she muttered “Mulder, it’s me,” every time she so much as raised her eyebrow at him. He wishes he’d told her about the way he loved seeing her blow that strand of hair out of her eyes. That he loved the little smile she got when he said something ridiculous and he loved the little yawns she tried to stifle on night-long stakeouts. He still does.

You see, it didn’t take long for me to know you were different. At first, I just thought you were spooky. Then I met you. I thought you were incredibly intelligent. I was right. Then, my feelings started to shift. You see, within the first year that I’d worked with you, I’d started to become nervous about the idea of seeing you every day. I was so confused but— Melissa had to spell it out for me — it was not a bad nervous. It was a good nervous.

Mulder smiles at the shift in handwriting that Scully’s words go through in those very few, yet significant words. He can tell that she was nervous when she wrote this. That she wanted to get it right.

She did get it right. To Mulder, Scully could do no wrong. Ever.

You see, I was falling in love with you. There, I said it. It’s out. Now you know. It’s too late, but at least you know. I’ve been falling in love with you — slowly but surely — since the day I met you. I just wish I’d had the guts to tell you when I was still healthy. When I was still around. When I could still show you.

Mulder puts the letter down. The burning behind his eyes becomes overwhelming and he is unable to stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks. He violently rakes his sleeve across his face, not wanting to spill tears on the precious words Scully had written. Words that he had so desperately wanted to hear from her.

At least he knows, now.

I could sit here and write pages and pages about everything you do that makes my knees weak. I could sit here for the literal rest of my life trying to tell you just how in love with you I am, Mulder. I should have told you sooner. I really should have.

Mulder tries so hard to hold in the whimper, but it tears through his chest like a rabid animal. The emotion that had been building up finally set free. He is no longer able hold the tears back. He sobs audibly and the sound echoes through the attic, bounces off the walls and down the stairs.

Mulder I don’t want you to be miserable. I want you to live a long and happy life. I want you to know that you, Mulder, are and will always be the love of my life and I can only hope that you love me, too. That being said, Mulder, I have one request.

He doesn’t hear the gentle footsteps over the sound of his hiccupping cries. He doesn’t hear the door creak open and footsteps getting progressively louder.

I want you to be happy. I want you to find someone that makes you as happy as you have made me these past four years. I want you to live a long and fulfilling life. Please, for me.

Please, don’t forget me too soon, Mulder.

I love you,

yours,

Dana Katherine Scully

He feels small hand wrap around his shoulders, then across his chest and up to stroke his cheek. He pushes the letter away from him and wraps his arms around his legs, burying his face in his knees. When he is ready, he looks up at her.

His eyes are bloodshot and wet, his nose runny and his face contorted with distress. His breathing is heavy and the tears are relentless. Her hands creep up his face, to the back of his head and bring it to her chest. She takes his hand and presses it to the warmth of her chest. She presses it over her heart so that he can hear the thump thump thump of her heart beat. Alive. Healthy. In love.

“Mulder,” she whispers, “Mulder, it’s me. I’m here, I love you”

She continues to whisper sweet, calming words into his ears. Continues until his loud and violent sobs are just tears falling silently down his cheeks. His and hers, too.

“I love you, too, Scully. Forever.”

#the x files #the x files fanfic #cancer arc #angst #happy ending #don't worry guys #msr #dana scully #fox mulder #x files #txf #gillian anderson #david duchovny #Bianca writes

[danascullyslookbook]

This French Twist reminds me of the hairstyle I wore to the Prom. It’s lovely but I don’t think you need to get that dolled up to watch a suspect perform a polygraph test. Again I am not complaining.

This look is the definition of classy. A well-tailored suit, white blouse (I believe this is the same as this white blouse), almost statement earrings, and probably the heaviest makeup Dana Scully would ever wear to work. Of course, I left one thing out...

This. Damn. Necklace. This interaction has my heart going like oh my god. Take notes, this is how you woo a woman. But yeah, we know this is literally only part of her costume because it is part of the plot. If this plot had been a later episode, you know they would have used her cross, but it would be hard to slip that off without noticing.

You wanna see something really 90′s? Even her blouse has shoulder pads. I stan. 

#lookbook #dana scully #txf #s01e03 #s01 #1993

[gaycrouton]

post-one breath

scully angst | 2.5k | ao3

scully is having a hard time feeling normal after returning from the hospital after her abduction.

(these were written for my five times exchange story, prompted by the always wonderful @mmeadowlarkk, but I wanted to post them here too!)

It was usually one of two things that woke her up: the sound of a drill or feeling like someone was shining a light into her eyes. Neither was actually happening of course, but she'd start up in bed, sweat covering her body and a scream caught in her throat.

It had been like that since she returned home. Granted, that was only five days ago, but even in the hospital her sleep was always restless. In total, she'd been out of her coma for two weeks, but it was hard to tell with how trapped she felt in her own body.

"Are you okay?"

I'm fine.

"How are you?"

Fine.

"How's recovery?"

Going fine.

Fine was all she could manage during the barrage of questioning she received every day from seemingly everyone in her life. It seemed to placate her mother, her sister would smile in response, but Mulder's eyes would bore into hers while he searched for the real answer within their depth.

It was when he looked at her that she realized just how absolutely not fine she was. While her family and the doctors saw a shocking story of recovery, Mulder could see she was struggling. The title of survivor had been bestowed on her before she could even process the extent of her victimhood. She didn't even have a full understanding of what she was a victim of.

With a shaky hand, Scully drew back the dampened covers and sharply inhaled as her bare feet touched the cold, wooden floor. She padded over to the bathroom, flicking on the light before discarding her sweaty clothes. When she turned, she caught sight of something she'd been avoiding for a while now: her reflection.

However, in the soft lighting of her bathroom and the full length mirror precariously tucked in the corner, she couldn't look away when she caught sight of the woman on the other side, for surely that couldn't be her.

Walking over on unsteady legs, she stood on uneven ground with one foot on the linoleum and one foot on the plush bath mat as she took in the sight. Her skin was ghostly pale barring the ruddy flush of her cheeks. She could see the blue spider web of veins spreading like a grid underneath her skin, cobwebs in an empty shell.

Her face looked different than it had for the past few months, as if her slight, lingering baby fat had been taken from her but her face had yet to compensate for its loss. She was thinner when she came back, she knew that when she looked at her chart. Within three months she'd lost enough weight that the doctors had to monitor her intake so she didn't overdo it and make herself sick with the sudden adjustment.

Even though she'd lost the weight, her stomach looked slightly different to her, slightly swollen and tender to the touch. There had been a sharp pain in her lower belly that over time had become just a dull ache.

It felt like a menstrual cramp, like her uterus was screaming at her.

Like every other aspect of her life, she wasn't certain if her menstrual cycle was still regular since she had yet to get her period. Scully hadn't gone back on birth control since her return, partially because the dull pain was concerning to her and she didn't want any dependent variables taking away from her ability to monitor her body's recovery.

She knew from the test run by her doctors upon her admittance that she wasn't pregnant. It was a relief, but it was only one concern addressed with a hundred others still unanswered.

After admitting her discomfort to the doctor at the hospital, they'd both reached the conclusion that, while odd, nothing appeared to be wrong. He offered to do a more in-depth pelvic exam since they'd been too worried about keeping her alive when she first arrived to try and gather evidence of anything, but she refused. She didn't want anyone else touching her.

And she knew she had been - much like her hair had been maintained to stay the same length over all these months, her pubic hair had also been trimmed, a detail she'd kept to herself.

Scully felt a wetness on her sternum and she looked up to see she was crying with a shell-shocked expression on her face. She raised a shaky hand and smeared the tear into her skin and rubbed her eyes.

She was alive. Scully knew she should be grateful for that miracle, but she'd lost a lot more than three months when she was abducted.

A sob escaped her throat as she flicked the lightswitch off and walked over to her boudoir, grabbing an old grey sweater with "FBI Academy" embroidered on the space above her left breast. It was slightly scratchy from being mass produced for all the Quantico trainees, but it would have to do. Her favorite University of Maryland sweater was retired to an evidence bag covered in Duane Barry's blood - another loss.

She slid the matching oversized sweatpants up her legs, satisfied when her body was shrouded and hidden from her own view. An irrational part hoped the polycotton blend could act as a metaphorical cocoon, and when she shed it off later maybe she'd come out a different person. But she knew from past nights' experience that it wouldn't happen.

Knowing she was too worked up to go back to bed, she made her way to the living room. While she knew it hadn't been a drill or blinding light that woke her up, she couldn't help but hear the similarities between her nightmare and the storm currently brewing outside. The wind sounded sharp against the side of the building, and every two Mississippi's the cracking of nature's whip would follow a bright lightning strike.

It hadn't stormed this hard since-

"Mulder! I need your help! Mulder!"

The sound of glass shattering ricoheted through her mind, and she took a sharp breath as she told herself that no one was breaking in. It was just in her head. Looking over, she could see the spot it had happened, the weather outside macabrely setting the scene.

Scully felt her heart hammering in her chest as what once was her sanctuary quickly became her mental prison. She wanted to be better. She was tired of this affecting her in this way, but she couldn't help it. For what felt like the thousandth time since she'd been back, she felt the overwhelming, albeit irrational, panic that someone was going to come and take her again. She didn't feel safe.

She hadn't even processed she'd moved. One minute she was breathing heavily in the middle of her living room, and the next she was pressing her back into the crevice where two walls met while she held her phone in trembling hands. She was rubbing the number two with the pad of her thumb, and in her state of hypersensitivity, she felt like she could feel the grooves of her thumbprint catching against the silicone of the button. The printed numerical "2" felt like braille against her thumb, but it also felt like a life preserver and she was drowning. If she pressed that and the accompanying nine other digits she knew by heart, she knew she'd be safe.

Mulder would answer.

She looked down and pressed the buttons, the key tones sounding deafening in the silence as the pitch went up and down with the different numbers.

202-

The sound of something tapping against her window made her jump and she looked up and saw a shrub outside was being knocked against the glass in the storm. Mulder had gotten the windows replaced while she was gone, and it would be nearly impossible for someone to shatter them as easily as Barry had. He'd invested in her safety because he knew it would come in handy for when she returned. Because for Fox Mulder, it had always been a matter of 'when' and not 'if'.

Her eyes were drawn to a blinking red light on the opposite side of the room, and she realized it was past three in the morning. Her confidence in her plan faltered as the landline started beeping from the rest of the number not having been entered.

She was too late.

During one of the first times Mulder visited her at the hospital, she'd been chatting with her mom while Mulder and Melissa sat in seats against the wall. Apparently she'd gotten too wrapped up in the conversation because by the time she looked back to Mulder, he was out cold, slouched in his seat next to Melissa who was trying not to laugh at the way his mouth gaped open with his head resting on her shoulder.

"Mul-" she'd started, intending to wake him up only to be hushed by her mother.

"Let him sleep, Dana. I'm quite certain that man didn't sleep once while you were in your coma," she chided.

"I don't think he slept since you disappeared," Melissa corrected, her eyes widening comedically as Mulder snored loudly.

When she asked him how he'd been doing a few days later, her insomniatic partner even himself said, "I've been sleeping better this past week than I have my whole life."

Because she was safe.

Scully couldn't bring herself to call him and shatter that illusion. She couldn't think of him laying sound asleep on the other side of town, only to be woken up to her sobbing, causing him to rush across town to be with her. Because that's exactly what he would do and she knew it. Mulder was concerned about her now, but she played it off as him worrying too much. If she confirmed his fear and admitted that an hour hadn't gone by that she hadn't been scared, he wouldn't be able to rest until she felt better. She didn't know if she could promise she ever would.

Part of her considered calling her mom or Melissa, but the same concern was still there. They wouldn't be as relentless with the information as Mulder would be, but she knew if she called them now at this low point, she'd have to field questions down the line. She'd have to be fine even more than she already was.

Heat started burning uncomfortably on her face as she thought of someone she wanted to call who wouldn't have made her feel fragile. Who would have told her Scullys can get through anything, and she was one of the toughest of the bunch.

She wanted her dad to hold her and make everything better.

A hot tear slid down her cheek as she felt more alone than she had in her entire life. Every sniffle and whimper she made echoed against the walls of her large apartment and it made her feel small. She'd come back to the people she loved and she was too stubborn to let them in.

Her chin trembled as she made her way to her couch, tripping slightly when plastic caught her foot. Scully regained her balance and looked down to see she'd gotten caught on the brown plastic sack Mulder had given her. Bending down, she took out the VHS tape that lay inside. Superstars of the Super Bowl.

A small smile erupted on her face, her cheeks protesting as the tear tracks that had dried against her skin shifted uncomfortably. She stood up with the bag and VHS in her hand, popping the latter into her VCR. Scully listened to the clicks and whirs of the machine starting as she turned on the television, basking her couch in an indigo blue haze.

Scully pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her, sitting cross-legged on the middle cushion while the roar of an audience filled the empty space, making her feel a little less alone. Her hands found their way back into the plastic bag as she sifted through the miscellaneous other presents Mulder had brought to her over the stint at the hospital.

She chuckled as her hand came in contact with what she was looking for, and she pulled a bright pink Hostess Snoball out of the bag. These were her favorite treat to indulge in, and during one particularly long road trip with Mulder, fueled by period cravings, she'd picked up three at a gas station and eaten them all within an hour. Mulder had been so tickled by it that any time he picked her up for a road trip, he grabbed her a pink fluffy cake to go alongside her rootbeer. When she lamented that she only could indulge once in a blue moon, he'd scoff and tell her she deserved to have one every day if it made her happy.

The memory lightened the thick miasma that had brewed around her, and she wiped the remaining wetness from her cheeks. The coconut ball had been dented by the corner of the VHS tape, but it was delicious all the same. Scully watched as men wearing various colors of spandex ran around the field. She didn't even know what team Mulder rooted for, she thought he was more of a baseball or basketball guy if anything, but watching this silly tape he probably pickled up at a bodega made her feel close to him. She reached back into the bag to pull out another snack, but as her fingers grazed the bottom, she felt something had spilled. She scooped it up in one hand, pulling it out and looking at her palm. Sunflower seeds, little tokens of Mulder left in his stead.

Scully picked one up between two fingers and brought it to her lips, the salt burning the part of her lip that was raw from her worrying it between her teeth. She moved the seed around her mouth tentatively, not having the same dexterity Mulder did. After a few seconds, she cracked the shell and the meat of the seed fell onto her tongue.

She continued that with the next few seeds and she started to find a groove with it. Her worry and anxiety started dissipating as she got lost in the comfort of the game on television, she felt like she was just a member of the crowd like the people on screen. It made her feel less alone than she had backed against the corner of her living room, despite nothing really having changed. Mulder was just somehow able to make her feel better, even without physically being here.

For an hour, she continued imbibing in Mulder's brown plastic bag of gifts, and she felt connected to him in a way she hadn't anticipated, and it made her feel strong and unafraid. After all, he had been brave for three months, she could be brave for tonight.

#x files #one breath #msr #scully #angst #x files fanfic #fanfic