#msrlibraryboost

[debbierhea]

xf fanfic

this little drabble was written super quickly, no editing! it doesn’t have a name but it was inspired by the beautiful and talented @noamchimpsky​‘s drawing which you can find here! hmu in my ask box here if you have any comments/criticism (i love both!) or find the rest of my writing on ao3 here! thanks for reading babes xxx

They pull up the drive to the house. It’s dark, but the porch light reaches across the front yard’s patchy grass, creaky front steps. She sees the porch swing swaying in the evening breeze. As he exits the vehicle, she remains in her seat. Usually she’d put up a fight, push through the pain, refuse to let him see her too weak to even heave herself from the passenger seat. Instead, she rests her head on the black leather of the seat, waiting. She allows his arms to lift her from the car, to support her weight as she limps up the steps, relishes the weight of them around her waist.

He deposits her on the couch with a soft, “I’ll get you some tea, Scully.”

She feigns a smile, her lip cracking open again while he shuffles to the kitchen.

It burns.

She tastes metal in her mouth, salt from her tears and bitter regret burning in the back of her throat that her life didn’t end on the floor of that fucking hospital room two hours and twelve minutes ago. She’s still here, still drawing ragged breaths through her bruised trachea, blood pumping through her battered limbs, thoughts racing through that injured, beautifully brilliant brain of hers.

“Her brain is on fire,” the doctor had said. In that room, she’d thought she was finally going up in flames, as she had always thought they would. She’d just never imagined that she would be burning down all alone, cold tile pressed to her shoulder blades, calloused hands pressed to her throat, a nameless man panting above her as he squeezed the life from her lungs.

She’s still here, though. Which means, she realizes, releasing a sigh that originates somewhere deep in her old bones, that she must continue to fight.

Another drop of blood pools on her cracked bottom lip. She runs her lip across it, catches it before it can fall. A rush of tears overtake her, surprise her, piss her off just a little. She huffs out a breath, something between a sob and a strangled laugh.

And suddenly he is there.

He’s standing just to the right of the couch, eyes wide and wet and red. He’s been crying, she thinks. A tear falls down her own cheek.

“I thought you were making us tea…,” she whispers, not meeting his eyes.

He says nothing, simply takes the seat next to her on the couch. 

Another tear falls and she doesn’t have the strength to try and stop it. Mulder, gently, as he does all things involving her, reaches out and brushes the tears away with the pad of his thumb. Her face softens. He cups her cheek. She closes her eyes.

They remain there a moment, still, each relishing the presence of the other. Then, Mulder’s arms are around her, lifting her battered body into his lap. His arms wrap around her, embrace her fiercely.

He whispers into her neck, “I was worried about you.”

She shudders as she breathes him in, adjusts to her new position, to his words. Pulling from his embrace, she rests her head on his shoulder, places her hand on his forearm and squeezes as she replies, “I’m okay, Mulder.”

He bends to kiss the top of her head, lingering there. She nuzzles into his chest.

They stay that way for a long while.

#my fic #msrlibraryboost #todayinfic #xf fanfic

[nowwhateinstein]

Fic: Seeking Warmth

Notes: FTF Missing Scene of Mulder & Scully’s return from Antarctica. Written for @leiascully‘s OctoberFicFest Challenge

Summary: We have to keep warm. Slowly, painfully, I crawl towards him. He’s unresponsive, no doubt due to exhaustion and exposure. I pull his body to mine, clutching him like a drowning swimmer would a life ring. Stay with me, I plead silently. Stay with me. I can’t do this alone, I think, echoing the words he told me not long ago.

++++

“Aren’t we a pair of ragamuffin Eskimos.” Mulder says the words quietly, just loud enough for me to hear over the crunching cadence of our feet as we trudge across the ice towards the hulking mass of a C-130 aircraft. Despite the geographic faux paux, his words are oddly encouraging, and I do my best to ignore the curious stares of the well-insulated, hale and hearty passengers who stream by us. Compared to them, we do make for a shabby duo: Mulder’s parka is ripped in several places, and the duct tape he used for patching only draws attention to that fact. My jacket isn’t much better. It’s a men’s extra large, the only suitable jacket Mulder could scavenge from the Station’s lost and found. Since all visitors to Antarctica are issued cold weather gear prior to their arrival on the continent, spare parkas are hard to come by. It hangs on me like a sleeping bag - all the better to conceal the fact that the only thing I have on underneath is Mulder’s spare change of long underwear and the extra boots he’d left behind at the Station before setting out to find me.

Perhaps I could’ve managed to locate some more appropriately-sized clothing if our stay at McMurdo Station had been longer, but by some bureaucratic miracle, we made it to the top of the passenger flight manifest for today - a mere four days after our rescue from Wilkes Land. Given the strange circumstances surrounding our rescue - and the ongoing mystery of my clandestine arrival on the continent - I suspect we’re personae non gratae with the US Antarctic Program; the sooner they can get us off the continent and out of their jurisdiction, the better.

We’re far behind the rest of the group, now. I’m still weak from dehydration and exposure, and have difficulty maintaining my usual “brisk pace,” as Mulder describes it. The over-sized boots aren’t helping, either. I have to stop and catch my breath for a moment. Despite the thick layers I’m wearing, I can feel the pressure of Mulder’s hand against the small of my back. He hasn’t left my side since my release from the Station's sick bay, and he clearly won’t leave me now. Once, such hovering would have earned him a swift “knock it off, I’m fine” glare from me. Now, though, I welcome the close proximity. His touch is warm and comforting: a talisman that wards off the lingering nightmare of my infection by the virus and my captivity below the polar ice.

Compared to the other passengers - most of whom have been here for months - we’re traveling light. Mulder tosses his pitifully small duffel atop the mountain of larger luggage and cargo in the center of the hold. I, possessing nothing but the borrowed clothes I’m wearing, bypass the cargo queue and manage to snag two seats together near the front of the aircraft.

Once all of the passengers have strapped themselves in, the engines roar to life and the plane begins its taxi down the ice runway. As the C-130 accelerates, I manage a glimpse outside the tiny porthole window. Nothing but a flat white surface, occasionally punctuated by black mountains.

The lights dim in the cargo hold. I rest my head on the thick nylon webbing that serves as a backrest. I’m exhausted, but my mind, still reeling from the events of the past one hundred and twenty hours, refuses to let me sleep.

*** I don’t remember much of my ordeal or rescue. I remember being stung,of course, of Mulder catching me as I collapse outside his apartment. The paramedics arrive and I’m carted away in an ambulance. Then, nothing but black oblivion.

The next memory I have is the fevered sensation of a needle piercing my skin, waking me from my comatose state. Of struggling to breathe as I fight to expel the icy liquid that fills my lungs. Of being cold - so cold, I have trouble focusing my eyes on the man standing in front of me. It’s his voice that I first recognize.

“Breathe.”

Mulder. He’s real, standing in front of me, his hand - blissfully warm - stroking my frozen face. His voice, his touch wills me to life. I see relief in his eyes when I manage tell him that I’m cold.

“Hang on. I’m gonna get you out of there.”

And by some miracle, he does. Down green, nightmarish corridors, past once-human bodies that writhe with creatures that want to kill us, he carries me.

But my heart, already taxed by effects of the virus, fails in the distressingly frigid temperature, and once more, I’m pitched into the void of cold blackness. Then: pressure on my chest, warmth on my lips, in my mouth - his lips, his mouth, breathing his life into mine.

“Breathe!” His voice again brings me back, forcing me to focus on him and only him. His face hovers inches above mine, frantic worry written across his features.

“Had you big time,” I say, in an effort to reassure him that I’m still alive. He smiles again, and that gives me just enough strength to keep going.

Through pipes and up perilously slick ladders, we crawl and climb. “Keep moving, Scully!” Mulder’s urgent tone tells me that we’re not alone, that someone - something - is in pursuit. We squeeze through a tiny hole in the ice near the surface, narrowly avoiding the collapse of the substructure that buries whatever it was that followed us.

The sun blinds me as we emerge onto the surface. Mulder is pulling me forward, now; I can barely stand, much less walk. The ice shakes violently beneath our feet and I see his eyes widen in alarm. His fear triggers whatever last reserve of adrenaline my body still possesses, and together, we run.

The ice collapses beneath us. We drop for what seems like an eternity, but in reality must be only a few seconds. The dizzying feeling of free falling is abruptly replaced by the equally disorienting sensation of rising, then sliding, then falling yet again.

I slam into the ice with a force that nearly knocks me out. I lie there, willing my lungs to expand as I struggle in inhale. One side of my face is numb from being pressed against the ice. Mulder lays beside me. I close my eyes. So tired.

“Scully, you gotta see this. Scully…”

I hear his voice, but I’m too exhausted to even lift my head. All I can do is look at him. Wonder and awe wash across his face at whatever it is he sees. He turns to look at me, smiles, then his head drops to the ice.

We have to keep warm. Slowly, painfully, I crawl towards him. He’s unresponsive, no doubt due to exhaustion and exposure. I pull his body to mine, clutching him like a drowning swimmer would a life ring. Stay with me, I plead silently. Stay with me. I can’t do this alone, I think, echoing the words he told me not long ago. I hold him for what seems like hours, days.

The last thing I remember before losing consciousness again are voices pleading with me. “Let go of him, ma’am. We got him. He’ll be ok.” I then feel several hands try to pry Mulder lose from my arms. Too weak to resist, I wearily allow them to take him away; his warmth flees from me, replaced by a frigid blast of air kicked up by what I can barely make out as the blades of a helicopter. Then, nothing but white ice and blue sky.

I awake in what looks like a rudimentary medical clinic. Someone is holding my hand. It’s a hand I recognize immediately: it’s gripped the steering wheel of countless rental cars I’ve ridden in; it’s passed me hundreds of cups of coffee on early mornings and late nights; it’s held my hand before, in other hospitals, through other illnesses.

“Mulder.”

He looks up when I speak.

“Scully,” he says, smiling. The relief and tenderness with which he says my name simultaneously alarms and comforts me. His face is covered with what appear to be frostbite burns beneath a week-old growth of beard. His eyes are sunken, tired.

“Where am I?”

“McMurdo Station.”

That name, plus blurred memories of snow, ice, and impossibly freezing temperatures... “We’re in Antarctica?”

He nods. “It’s a long story. One I’ll tell you about once they release you from sick bay.”

I’m silent for several moments as the enormity of what he’s saying sinks in. Somehow, I ended up nearly ten thousand miles from DC: at the bottom of the world. And somehow, by some miracle, Mulder made it down here. He managed to find me - out in that vast wilderness of ice - and saved me from a nightmare I’m too afraid to contemplate. All because of a damn bee.

“How did you find me?”

He smiles and squeezes my hand. “I promise I’ll fill you in. But right now, you need to rest.”

*** Everyone around us on the plane is either reading or sleeping. I glance over at Mulder. He chews thoughtfully at his bottom lip, the way he does when he’s deep in thought. Perhaps he’s thinking about the thing he saw out on the ice: the thing that left a crater five hundred feet deep and a half-mile wide. The thing I didn’t see, much to his chagrin. Or maybe he’s musing on what fate awaits us back in DC. I have an awful premonition that it’s not what either of us hope it will be. I must catch his eye, because he turns his head to look at me.

“You should get some sleep, Scully,” he says, his tone one of concern.

“If anyone needs it, it’s you,” I respond, raising an eyebrow at him. Now that we’re finally homeward bound, I’m beginning to feel more like myself again. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I caught some shut-eye while you were in sick bay.” He says it with the faintest trace of a smile, as if he, too senses the change in me.

“That was over twenty-four hours ago, Mulder. We have six hours until we land in Christchurch. Let’s both try to get some rest, deal?”

He laughs, and I silently marvel at the ease with which we both slip back into familiar patterns of dialogue. “Deal,” he says. This time, he can’t hide his grin.

“Oh, I almost forgot…” Mulder reaches into his duct-taped pocket. With his other hand, he takes mine, gently turning it so that my palm faces upward. Wordlessly, he deposits something small and gold in it. I have to squint in the dim light to see what it is. My mouth opens in amazement when I recognize my cross necklace. I’d given it up for lost: forever hidden in some dark hole or icy crevasse. The fact that Mulder’s made it appear now, after all we’ve been through, is a miracle. A small miracle when compared to the larger one he pulled off finding me down here at the bottom of the world, perhaps, but a miracle nonetheless.

I look at him. He’s regarding me with a gaze that is both familiar and thrilling. Tenderness and desire are present in his eyes. It’s the same look, I realize, he had moments before he went to kiss me in the hallway outside his apartment - a moment that seems like a lifetime ago. Then, I found myself hesitating, afraid to reciprocate his acknowledgement of a truth we’d both known. Now, however, in light of everything that’s happened in the past week, it seems like the most natural thing in the world to lean over and kiss him.

His lips are blistered and chapped, just like mine, from hours of exposure. His stubble feels rough against my face. Those sensations, however, are quickly replaced by a feeling of warmth that starts at my mouth and travels the length of my body. Perhaps it’s the paradoxical realization of just how close to death we both were - and how alive I feel at this moment - but kissing him is exhilarating, even intoxicating. Mulder responds by leaning into me, as if he, too seeks and senses the same drunken warmth. He brings his hand up to cup my face; his thumb gently strokes my frostbitten cheek. We savor each other for a few moments more, then our lips part.

I feel his hand go to the nape of my neck, pushing my hair back as if he’s looking for something.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just checking for bees.”

I laugh and rest my head on his shoulder. He responds by putting his arm around me, drawing me close. If the other passengers have noticed our overt displays of affection, they don’t show it. Nor would I care if they did. Once we’re back on US soil, we’ll resume our mantles as Special Agents and its requisite responsibilities and restrictions - if only long enough to see the X-Files - and our partnership - officially dissolved. For the moment, however, we’re just two beaten and battered Antarctic voyagers seeking warmth in each other. Ragamuffin Eskimos, I think, smiling at the thought. I settle in against Mulder as sleep finally overtakes me.

#xf fanfic #octoberficfest #msrlibraryboost #missing scene

[melforbes]

on his birthday

when he wakes, she’s in her rarest form, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before eight in the morning has even struck. though they’ve become morning people over the years, she typically communicates in grunts until she’s had her morning cup of english-breakfast, but now, she stares straight up at him from the base of his pillow, wears a nightgown of all things. then again, the weather is warm, has been warm for days now, and they both know how much she hates shorts. 

he bought her that nightgown, he remembers, when they went to the vineyard on vacation a few years back. he popped into one of those expensive boutiques along the shore, bought her a sundress and a nightgown as a...late birthday present, or maybe an early one. regardless of the occasion, he had the nightgown monogrammed in classic vineyard style, her initials written in a way that make her ask why the s was in the center while the k was on the end, but the ordering never matters to him, not in comparison to the way the light blue fabric of the tee shirt style dress brings out her sleepy eyes in the morning.

“good morning,” she says, sounding much more chipper than usual as she kisses his shoulder and smiles against his skin.

glancing to her bedside clock, he ponders, “it’s eight-oh-one in the morning, you’re awake before me, and you’re smiling. all of that can mean only one thing.”

wrapping an arm over his stomach, she pulls herself up toward him in bed, says, “happy birthday.”

he smiles, laughs under his breath, then draws her into a kiss, one filled with morning breath and early-autumn warmth and something soft that only scully can contribute. though he’s familiar to kisses like these, he’ll never become accustomed to them, not ever.

“now, get up,” she says, out of bed faster than his sleepy eyes can process, faster than he thought her limbs capable of. leaning in the jamb of their bedroom door, she looks back at him, says, “i already brewed the coffee.”

ah, yes, that gets him up. slowly, he puts on a shirt and follows as she scurries down the stairs, the pep in his step waiting to come alive after it’s fueled with beautiful, gratuitous caffeine. as he walks down into the kitchen, he watches while she sticks colorful candles on a cake, little wisps of her hair falling out of her messy bun while she searches for a lighter.

“second drawer on the left,” he yawns while he pulls a mug from the cabinet, fills it up with beautiful, warm, wonderful coffee. based on the scent, she brewed the good stuff, some kind of craft roast they bought at the farmer’s market. it’s his birthday, so apparently, folger’s won’t suffice. there’s a gift bag sitting on the kitchen table as well.

she takes the lighter out, starts lighting the candles, and after a long swig of black coffee, he grits his teeth at the bitterness, looks back toward her. lighting all the other candles using an already-lit candle, she works precisely, concentration furrowing her brow; he smiles, wants to kiss the each of the little wrinkles on her forehead. each year, she bakes him the same cake, a recipe of her mother’s that he enjoyed many years back, triple-layered yellow cake with chocolate buttercream. as he walks up behind her, she places the last lit candle on the cake, looks behind herself to meet his gaze. 

“what’re you going to wish for?”

the reality is that there is nothing more he wants right now, nothing more he knows he can have. of course, he wishes for things like world peace and...he wishes things were never so dire or dark for either of them, summarizes all of those wishes with just that line. however, of the things he could wish for or want for his future, there is nothing, not when he has their life together. however, that’s all beside the point, so he asks, “don’t people usually sing before you blow out the candles?”

sucking her lips in, she eyes him. each year, she pulls this, and each year, he calls her out for it, so she mumbles a few lines of happy birthday, and as she does so, he kisses her neck, makes certain lines of hers come out on a ticklish laugh. yeah, he wouldn’t wish for anything else. 

she steps over, lets him take a deep breath and blow out the candles. he finds something so optimistic about the scent of birthday cake and blown-out candles, a feeling that until that scent dissipates, everything is safe and okay and warm. pulling out one of the candles, he licks the frosting and cake-crumbs off of the bottom while scully grabs a cake knife. 

“so, doc, we’re having cake for breakfast,” he surmises. 

“yeah,” she says, plating a piece of cake. she takes the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer, the strawberries out of the fridge. “it’s your birthday, after all.”

“seems awfully early, doesn’t it?” he asks, taking another candle out.

she plates another piece. “we always have cake right before we open presents.”

“so we’re opening presents early as well?” he questions.

“yes,” she says, not elaborating despite his pleas. 

“huh.”

she scoops melty vanilla ice cream onto each plate, adds a handful of strawberries as well. topping each plate off with a fork, she slides one plate over to his spot at the kitchen table, sits down at her own with the other. he sits down as she pushes the gift bag toward him. before he goes to pull out the tissue paper, he gives her a look, watches as she closes her eyes in annoyance.

“don’t,” is all she mutters.

“is it a puppy?” he asks.

“no.”

“socks?”

“no, but that would’ve been a great present. i’ll remember that one for next year.”

“a real-life functioning light saber?”

“you know, physicists are currently studying solid light.”

“is that a yes?”

“studying, mulder, not creating.”

“bummer.”

finally, he pulls out the tissue, finds a card and a mason jar. opening the card first, he smiles at a cartoon alien on the front, along with the hope your birthday is out of this world! written on the inside. he would insist that the card is unnecessary if he didn’t still get butterflies at the sight of the love, scully written at the bottom. then, he pulls out the mason jar, sees that it’s filled with purple-colored water and something settling on the bottom.

“it’s a glitter jar,” she explains at the sight of his obvious confusion. “at the hospital, we have some for when patients are nervous. you shake it up and just breathe until the glitter all settles. just don’t shake it too hard; when i was making it, i couldn’t find the right glue, so i’m scared the top might come off.”

softly, he shakes the jar, sets it between them as they watch the glitter start to settle. within the purple water are flecks of silver and blue, making for a galaxy of colors; trying the method, he takes a deep breath while he watches the glitter settle, but his thoughts drift away from relaxation and to images of her making this for him, knowing that he gets so immersed in his work sometimes and needs a chance to slow down. he’s already thought of a spot for this on his desk by the time that the glitter settles. 

“thank you,” he says, a small smile on his lips. 

she smiles back.

“you know, it’s a lovely day out,” she says, standing up. “we should go eat out on the porch.”

though he agrees, she’s already at the front door by the time he has a chance to respond, so he picks up his plate, follows her out onto the porch.

“okay, scully,” he says, stepping outside, “but there aren’t many places out here to-”

then, he sees it, a brand new hand-woven hammock hanging from one porch-support to the other, a hypotenuse to the porch’s railings.

“i couldn’t possibly hide it, so we had to do cake and presents early,” she explains from earlier, but he’s too excited by the hammock to care, so he walks over, runs his fingers along the intricately-woven ropes. 

a couple of months beforehand, he mentioned getting a hammock or a couple of chairs for the porch, but she brushed him off back then, said that they barely used the porch for anything other than...yoga. yes, yoga. either way, he had pushed the hammock to the back of his mind, but now, here one was.

“we’ve got to try it out,” he says, looking back toward her. “can it hold us both?”

she gives him look because of course it can hold them both, so he smiles, carefully gets on top despite the plate of cake in his hands. joining him, she gets up on the other side, nearly dribbling ice cream onto his shirt. while he lies on his back, she curls up against him on her side, picking at her cake with a fork as the hammock rocks back and forth.

“best birthday ever,” he whispers into her hair, presses a kiss to her scalp.

she laughs lightly, says, “some assembly had been required.”

“i was wondering if you could’ve reached all the way up there to hang this.”

she side-eyes him while he takes a bite. licking buttercream off of his fork, he smiles, thinks of how many birthdays he’s spent doing similar things and eating that same cake. though he can’t remember them all, he can remember this feeling, the same one he feels when he hears “ramblin’ man” on the radio or when he plays “listen to the music” off of their doobie brothers record. out in this world, there are hundreds, maybe millions, of artists who, he figures, search for this feeling, one of breathless happiness and of love that hangs in the air like the scent of blown-out candles. sopping up some ice cream with a morsel of cake, he hopes that next year can be just as wonderful as this year, and the one after that, and the one after that, and so on and so forth. when she takes some frosting onto her finger and pokes some onto his nose, he dares to believe in forever.

“so,” she asks, laughing as she looks at the dollop of chocolate on his face, “what did you wish for when you blew out the candles?”

“nothing,” he says, and it’s the truth. 

there is nothing more he needs.

#also it's still about food so shame on me #food // #it's a long'en #msr #msrlibraryboost #mulder didn't get a really cool backpack sorry about that #mulder scully relationship #mulder x scully #the x files #the x-files #txf #x files #x files fanfic #x files fanfiction #x-files #x-files fanfic #x-files fanfiction #my writing

[regardstosoulandromance]

“You look hot in plaid.” MSR

send me dialogue prompts!

“You look hot in plaid,”

Scully’s head snapped up.

“Uh, I mean,” Mulder shifted, “You look warm? It’s kinda warm in here? Is it just me? Yeah, I’m kinda hot...”

Scully licked her lips, “I guess it is kinda warm in here.”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“Too warm for this shirt,” She continued, unbuttoning the plaid shirt as she crossed towards Mulder’s bedroom.

Mulder was still gaping when she disappeared across the threshold and threw the shirt back, where it caught on the door knob.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

#msr fanfic #msrlibraryboost #answer #princessslayy-a #ficlet #xfiles fanfic #my fanfic

[about-bunnies]

It’s our smoking gun but hey, we’re still alive (MSR fanfic)

{this thing has been sitting on my hard drive in various half-finished states since before the revival. perusing @leiascully ‘s #xfwritingchallenge prompts finally got me to finish it. this goes with the “for better or for worse” (life on the road/wifegate/bad motels) prompt. post- the truth.}

It’s our smoking gun but hey, we’re still alive

They eat cheap Chinese out of cardboard containers, with plastic forks instead of chopsticks. He steals bites of her General Tso's when he thinks she's not looking, and in retaliation, she manages to drink nearly half of his beer, though she'd declined when he'd offered her a bottle of her own.

They're sitting cross-legged against the bed, shoulders touching, on the questionably clean floor of yet another poorly-lit motel room in Nowhere, Nebraska. Her hair is newly blond – the chemical smell of the dye still wafts faintly from the bathroom  – and his face sports three days of new beard growth.

She sighs. Already, she's tired. How long can they sustain this, she wonders, this strange anonymous life that's been thrust upon them? How long can they run, can they hide? How long before it all catches up to them?

How long before one or both of them goes crazy, throws in the towel, just plain gives up?

She turns her head and rests her cheek on his shoulder, lightly. Whenever she catches herself with these thoughts, she looks at him. Touches him. Revels in the knowledge – the truth – that she can look at him, can touch him. That he has not been taken from her, not this time.

How long?

As long as it takes.

Her mouth curls into a smile as she feels his lips on her forehead, and she hums her wordless gratitude to him: her partner, her best friend, her lover. Somehow, every time he knows, and she's grateful he allows her the time, in silence, to work it out in her mind.

“Scully,” he finally ventures, his breath warm against her skin, “you okay?”

“I'm fine, Mulder,” and it feels like she's been saying this one particular line to reassure him for the better part of a decade now, but this time, at least, it feels true.

He smiles at that, relief palpable between them, and he wraps an arm around her, invites her to lean fully into his body. She sets the carton of mostly-cold chicken on the floor to accept the invitation, pads her fingertips against his chest as she revels in his nearness. She may tire of the chase, of the running, of this cruel game they never seem to win – but she will never, she thinks, tire of this.

After several long moments, he starts fidgeting, fingers tapping against her back, foot twitching against the floor. She knows the signs, has known them for years, and can practically hear his mind working, the wheels spinning. It thrums through him and she starts the countdown in her mind – five, four, three – and decides to preempt whatever it is he's going to spout at her this time.

“Mulder, what --”

“Scully,” he cuts her off almost immediately, pulls back to look at her then, suddenly serious, the fidgeting stilled. “Scully, marry me.”

Her eyes widen and she thinks he must be kidding, but then, his expression is solemn; his eyes hold no humor. She feels her pulse quicken, but still, she shakes her head. “Mulder, you know we can't.”

(She's been saying this for a decade, too: No, Mulder, we can't drop everything to go investigate possible crop circles. No, Mulder, we can't write 'Mothman' in a case report for the FBI. No, Mulder, we can't submit an expense report containing Yankees tickets and a lobster dinner...No, Mulder, we can't get married while we're on the run from the US Government.)

He knows her too well. He's clearly anticipated her response and jumps in immediately, all earnest hope, making her throat tighten. “I'm not saying we go down to the courthouse and sign papers,” he insists. “Obviously, we can't do that. But who says we need it on paper?” He shifts, pulling away slightly so he's facing her, takes both of her hands in his. “We love each other,” she nods at this, though he hadn't been asking. “We had a son together, Scully.”

He soothes his thumb over the top of her hand as he mentions William, and she blinks rapidly, turning her gaze down to their joined hands. He squeezes tighter. “I'm in this for the long haul, Scully, and I'm pretty sure you are, too. Marry me.”

(The problem with her decade of No, Mulders, is they've always ended in her following him. In her walking beside him, into the unknown.)

When she looks up at him again, her answer must be on her face, because a sudden smile blooms over his; he tugs at her hands. “Can't do this sitting down,” he says, as if that's obvious. And then he's getting to his feet and pulling her to hers, never letting go of her hands.

She opens her mouth in half-surprise (here? right now?) but any hesitations disappear as his smile is replaced with a nervous chuckle and he squeezes her hands. “I, ah, didn't really plan this part out,” he stammers and oh, how she loves this man.

“Oh, you didn't?” she teases lightly, and is gratified to see the tension ease in his face. “It doesn't matter what you say, Mulder,” she encourages, and she's surprised to feel her heart begin to beat faster. This is it, she thinks. Remember this.

He closes his eyes and tips his face up towards the ceiling, lets out a long breath. When he returns his eyes to her, she shivers slightly at the intensity in his gaze. “I, Fox, take you, Dana,” he begins, and for some reason the formality, the traditional words sound right in his voice, “for better or for worse...in sickness and in health,” and he raises her hand and presses his lips, with a slight tremble, to her skin.

“I, Dana, take you, Fox...Until death do us part,” she finishes for him, and for once, neither one of them denies this particular inevitability. But his grip on her hands tightens and she squeezes his fingers in response, holding on hard and fierce.

He clears his throat and his eyes are shining, even as he offers her the start of a half-smile. “It's always you, Scully. It's always been you. My friend, my constant. My truth.”

“I'm in this for the long haul, too,” she whispers, belatedly answering his proposal. “You are...you always have been, mine. My Mulder. My touchstone.”

They've said these vows before, she realizes, time and again, over lifetimes: in their basement office, in rental cars and motel rooms, at far too many hospital bedsides. In the hallway outside his old apartment and in her old bedroom, their son between them. She hears the echoes, now, and she breathes out slowly, tremulously, at the reminder. As she cups his cheeks in her hands, she sees the memory in his eyes, too. She raises on her toes to kiss his forehead, lingering.

His breath is warm on her throat and his voice is rough. “I do, Scully.”

Then she lowers from her toes, hands still cupping his face, thumbs brushing his lips before he kisses her the way she'd wanted to kiss him, in the hallway outside his old apartment, so many lifetimes ago. And she murmurs it against his mouth, finally:

“I do.”

So this is how she becomes, for all important intents and purposes, his wife: standing in the middle of a seedy motel room in Nowhere, Nebraska, her hair still damp from dye, white takeout rice spilled on the floor where his foot had nicked the carton in his haste to haul her to her feet.

Eventually she opens her eyes and sees the spilled rice in her peripheral vision; she smirks and tugs lightly at his hand, nods to the floor so he sees it, too.

He laughs, then, wide and happy, and her heart swells to hear it. “I always thought the rice was a weird tradition,” he admits.

And she laughs, too, and kisses him again.

He tastes of takeout and beer and always, always of coming home.

{notes:

The title is from Over the Rhine’s Infamous Love Song. Go give it a listen - you won’t regret it. Promise. Baby, our love song must survive.

My first attempt at XF fanfiction. Hope I did ‘em justice. 

Also, this is so much more fluff than I usually write. I’m sorry not sorry.

And yes, if you’ve sent me an ask with a prompt, that’s totally coming. You can send me a prompt here. I’m just slow about it. Fair warning.

This can also be read on AO3.}

#xfwritingchallenge #msrlibraryboost #the x files fanfiction #dana scully #fox mulder #msr #fanfiction #otp: you're my one in five billion #i made this

[ghostbustermelanieking]

x files fic: smoke and mirrors 

What’s your truth, she thinks idly, and is surprised to find that she wants to know the answer.

She’s always had a close relationship with death. It feels much too close now, seeping in through the walls and under the door. Her father’s ashes were scattered into the water. He’d always been one with the sea, it seemed. She traces lines on Mulder’s palm and listens to the rhythmic beep of the monitor.

read

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #msr #msrlibraryboost

[nowwhateinstein]

Fic: Fox Mulder’s Final Wish

Title: Fox Mulder’s Final Wish Rating: PG Category: VA, Missing Scene Timeline: Season 7, with references to events in Season 8 Summary: “Don’t you want to save yourself?” Author’s Note: Missing Scene from Je Souhaite. Mulder POV. Spoilers for end of Season 7 through beginning of Season 8. Inspired by @all-these-ghosts musings on Mulder being terminally ill during Season 7 (as revealed in Within).

“My formula for human greatness is amor fati: that one wants nothing to be different, not in the future, not in the past, not for all eternity. Not only to endure what is necessary, still less to conceal it... but to love it.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

++++

My eyes follow Scully as she grabs her jacket and leaves the office. Jenn's voice sounds behind me as soon as she's gone.

“She feels the same way about you, too, you know.”

Jenn says it so casually, as if we were neighbors discussing the weather: They say it’ll rain tomorrow, and oh, by the way, Dana Scully loves you.

I suppose five hundred years of granting wishes has made her an expert in reading human desires - even the ones that are never spoken aloud. Still, her acuity catches me off guard; I look up at her from my desk, unable to hide my surprise.

“Does she know?” I ask, fearful of the answer.

Somehow, she’s able to intuit the object of my question immediately. “About your condition?” She pauses, as if listening to something far away, then: “No. She doesn’t know.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I can’t bring myself to tell Scully about my diagnosis. She already has so much weighing on her mind.

“I could do it, you know,” she says. “I could make it go away, as your final wish.”

Make it go away. The paralyzing headaches that increasingly plague my waking hours. The gut-churning sensation I get every time I look at Scully and am reminded that my days with her are numbered. The despair I feel when I hold her in my arms after making love. The knowledge that I’m a dead man walking. To be able to wish it all away feels overwhelming, intoxicating.

“Or, since you’re so bent on being ‘altruistic,’ I could give her what she so desperately wants… what you tried - and were unable to give her.”

I close my eyes and try to swallow the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. Jenn pulls no punches when it comes to pointing out options. Six months of trying, and Scully remains barren. I wonder if Jenn is this scathing with her other keepers.

Once again, she seems to read my mind. “My last master was too stupid to realize that what he really needed was a new set of working legs - not bringing his moronic, invisible brother back from the dead. He didn’t figure it out until it was too late. You, however, seem to have come to your senses after your fiasco of a first wish. I don’t have to be a jinni to see that you love her, and would do anything to see her happy. Life is full of choices, of crossroads. This is yours.”

If I can give back to Scully what’s been so violently taken from her, I will do so unhesitatingly. I’m the reason she’s barren. I’m the reason she nearly lost her life to cancer. My illness is a consequence of my search to uncover the truth; if it results in my death, I’m ready for it.

Something does make me hesitate, though: Scully’s voice echoing through my head. Maybe that’s the whole point of our lives here - to work to make the world a better, happier place. Maybe it’s a process that one man shouldn’t try to circumvent with a single wish.

Is this wish really mine to make? I wonder. Am I playing God, opposite to the men who took Scully and robbed her of the chance to give life? I certainly lack God’s supposed omniscience; I inadvertently wished the entire human race out of existence this morning, after all. The unintended repercussions may be beyond my ability to foresee, but given how badly things ended for Jenn’s previous masters, it’s now clear to me that there will never be a fool-proof wish. Still, to give Scully the one thing she desires, to fill that void with the life she’s always wanted…

Jenn interrupts my musings. “Are you ready?”

I stand up to face her. “Yeah, I’m ready,” I say. I take a deep breath. “I wish for your release.”

She smirks. “You know how many people have promised to use their final wish to set me free, only to change their minds at the last minute? Don’t you want to save yourself? Or give your partner a child?”

“Of course I do. But not like this. These wishes aren’t gifts - they’re curses. That’s what they’ve always been. It’s my wish to put an end to it. For your sake, and for all of ours.”

Jenn’s smirk transforms into genuine smile. “You’re the first person in five hundred years who’s managed to catch on.” She pauses. “Is that your final wish?”

“It is.”

“Done.”

At first, it appears that nothing’s changed. Jenn’s still standing there, leaning against the bookcase, looking at me. Then I realize that the jewel on the corner of her eye is gone.

“Welcome back to the human race,” I say.

“Finally.” Her sarcasm is tempered by a sigh of relief.

I pull out my wallet and hand her all the cash in it. “Something to get you started,” I say. “Go live your life, moment by moment.”

“As long as you do the same.” She fixes me with a pointed look. “Make the most of the time you have left.”

I nod. I already have an idea of how I’d like to spend my final days - and with whom.

Jenn gives me a knowing wink before she disappears down the hall.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #msrlibraryboost #msrlibrary

[bimulder]

twice (mulder/scully drabble)

“I... I thought we said that was a one time thing.”

“...We did,” he agrees, legs lowering even more; she can see his neck now, and a hint of his chest peeking through his t-shirt. He's blushing all over. “But I...” he trails off, clearly still wanting her to say something.

“You disagree.”

Her eyes travel back up to meet his, and he nods slowly, “Um... well... yeah.” he licks his lips, “Pretty much.”

(read here on ao3)

#msr #msr fic #msrlibraryboost #gonna try out that tag for the first time ! #anyway here's a quick little thing i wrote #i might write a continuation at some point ? who knows #c a t fic

[regardstosoulandromance]

introductions

rating: pg wc: 306 an: mulder and scully in their little house, pre-revival. inspired by an au idea from @lunasink

Their house was yellow. The paint was chipping around the windows but it had always been. It creaked in a delightful way when there were storms, leaking slightly in the kitchen.

Their bed also boasted yellow sheets, a strange phenomena since neither Mulder nor Scully had a particular affinity with the color. But none of this was what Dana Scully thought about while she laid still, listening to Fox Mulder's shallow breathing as she pretended to sleep.

“I know you're not asleep Scully,” he whispered.

“It's 2am,” she replied.

“It is,”

“What are you thinking about Mulder?” Scully asked.

“We never had a first date, or any date really,” he said. To her surprise, he sounded a little sad.

“Yes we did,” she said, “You took me to Oregon and we yelled at each other in the rain.”

He chuckled, “Have you ever thought about what our lives would have been like if we hadn't been in the FBI? If we just met like normal people?”

“As much as I don't like to admit it, I don't think there's anything normal about us, Mulder.”

He grinned at her, rolling over, and sticking out his hand, “I'm Fox Mulder and I'm going to buy you a drink.”

“Oh is that your pick up line?”

“Is it working?” he asked, getting out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you a drink,” he stopped at the doorway, “Hey, Scully, you haven't told me your name yet. How are we supposed to have a first date if I don't know your name?”

She laughed, stretching out on the bed, “Dana Katherine Scully, pleased to meet you.”

“You know what?”

“What Mulder?”

“I think this is true love.”

“Just buy me the damn drink.”

#msr fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msrlibraryboost #my fanfic #i've only seen up through s2 + the revival so i'm sorry if this is inconstant with stuff and things #but it's cute and i'm feeling crappy so here's some pick me up fic

[hesperideswriter]

you are trapped in your city. shoes pounding the streets, breath ragged in your chest, and there he is on the street corner. how could you leave if he is here? how could you stay if he is here? (the answer is that it would be even worse to find him in a small town in texas than in washington where his ghosts already walk the streets.) if you go too far you will break. if you live another thirty years and see him again you will surely shatter. you’re an acrobat, in the dip of the tightrope. someone has you in a wheelbarrow halfway across niagara falls and you can’t go back so you must die or go forward. take the step. if you die, you will die with a splash. (at this point, death would be preferable. at this point, it is not an option.) here you are, trembling on the precipice, hanging by your fingertips, and you look up and the paint on your nails is chipped. you look up and he is a child, prying up your fingers from the edge of a cliff and smiling with gapped teeth as you fall. you’re his first lost tooth, dangling from a thread until something snaps. tie it to a doorknob and slam the door. take the leap. go for it. it hurts but you’ll get a quarter. if you open your eyes and see him again you will break. if you see an old soul in another pair of young eyes you will surely shatter. there he is, on the street corner. you are going to walk across niagara falls to him and you are going to drop and be dashed against the rocks, but who cares? you will never break. you are made of styrfoam and you can be easily torn but you will never die. you will sit in landfills until you are eternally recycled. you will sit in landfills and outlive the world. what does it matter? you have outlived him four times over. the world has nothing on him.

given a choice of death and eternal love, choose death and laugh // o.n.h. (for immortal scully)

#my writing #immortal scully #txf #msrlibraryboost

[sunlightscully]

MSR, 22 pls

22 - “i’ve seen the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice”

he is hideously obvious. she turns his bruised hand over gently and his feelings for her are written in the swell of his knuckles, the smear of someone else’s blood on his skin. his nailbeds, probably.

she knows. she must know.

“did you break his nose?”

“probably.”

and she’s angry. he knew she would be.

come on, he finds himself thinking, because she has not taken her hands away from his and his palm is starting to sweat. i know you know. say something about it.

there is a silence in which he holds her hand and listens to her heartbeat on the monitor. it’s the same as the flutter he can feel in her wrist, but he’s feeling it for real and the machine is not so he wins.

and then.

“i see the way you look at me,” she says quickly, into the silence, and she’s trembling like they’re still freezing in the cemetery rain in oregon. in a way they are, in a way they have never moved from there in all these years (even then she could read his thoughts). if he had a choice they’d end up there again at the finish.

please, he thinks distantly, because he hasn’t prayed since she stopped having nosebleeds but now he’s praying for the next expression on her face. anything but pity, he thinks, please, anything but pity.

but she has never pitied him. not even in oregon when he’d spilled his guts to her after knowing her for only a day.

it’s not dark. he always thought it would be dark when they had this conversation. but here they are, in the hospital, and light is spilling in through the window and making the air dance. her face, lit up pale and gold, says nothing. he is suddenly sure that his face says “i love you,” or something equally damning in neon letters.

he’s still holding her hand. he should let go so he doesn’t seem so pathetic.

she’s staring at him, mouth slightly open, and since she is not going to say anything else he thinks about saying, you almost died and i don’t know what i would’ve done if you had. i hope i broke his nose and if i didn’t i’ll try again.

but she knows already.

#i kind of cheated but it's 1 am #sorry it took so long! also i'm weak for tithonus fic and i've wanted to write one so #my writing #xf fanfic #msrlibraryboost