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oohnotvery · 3 days

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Edges of the Night (Chapter 10)

Read here on AO3.

Someone’s gone missing in Glacier National Park, Scully tells herself. That’s why the helicopters are out. It’s the only possible explanation.

It couldn’t be—there’s no way—it can’t be that those helicopters are for them. No one’s tracking them anymore. Mulder ditched the ring back in Utah. It flew out of his hands and landed in six feet of snow. Right? Right?

“We can’t stay in this house,” Mulder mutters, dragging her by the shoulders to the front door.

She stumbles in the dark, her brain spinning. “Wait, wait, stop,” she says, laying a hand on his chest. His heart is racing. “Mulder, stop a minute.” She draws in a long breath, trying to collect her thoughts. “Why can’t we stay here? We won’t fare much better if we try to take the car out. They know what vehicle we’re driving. They’ll spot us the minute we get on the roads.”

Even though it’s dark, she can sense the moment Mulder pauses to consider it. For a time, everything goes still and silent. Even the beat of the helicopter blades grows quieter.

And then he starts pacing.

“We’re sitting ducks in this damn house, Scully,” he grumbles angrily. “No weapons, nowhere to run. They’ll find us. It might take a few days, but if they were able to track us to this area, they’re eventually going to figure out we’re in this cabin.”

She swallows hard, nodding in agreement. As he walks by her, he reaches out to squeeze her waist.

“So,” she says after a long minute, “I guess the ring wasn’t tracking us after all.” She rubs subconsciously at her empty ring finger.

Mulder doesn’t respond.

When she contemplates the fact that her engagement ring is gone forever because of Mulder’s mistaken assumptions, she feels a pang of regret. But other thoughts and feelings quickly overshadow the pain of that particular loss. Finding out that Alan was planted in her life; questioning whether his feelings for her were real; wondering what things will look like when she gets back to that life.

A keen sense of self-pity ripples through her as she recalls her life in California, how she believed she was happy, how she believed in her feelings for Alan. But as usual, being around Mulder has thoroughly disrupted her belief system.

She shakes her head to clear her mind. Now isn’t the time to think about these things.

As the minutes pass by, their tentative decision to stand their ground and hunker down in the house starts to seem less and less appealing. If they don’t run, they’ll almost certainly be found here. But if they do run, there’s a chance they’ll be caught sooner. Right?

“Can you please stop pacing?” she finally barks. “You’re making me nervous.”

He ignores her and she scowls irritably. He’s a caged lion, a ticking time bomb.

“Do you have any idea how they’ve found us again?” she asks after a few minutes, wringing her hands.

He grumbles a no.

She’s hesitant to even speak again, but she has to give voice to her thoughts. “Do you think—is it possible—” He glances at her through the darkness. “Did someone we know give us away?”

The caged lion goes deathly still.

“Frohike would die before doing that,” he breathes with conviction, and he sounds so sure of it, she nods too.

“Skinner?” she whispers hesitantly, hating herself even for the suggestion. But her logical mind demands she consider all the possibilities—no matter how unlikely.

“I don’t—” he sighs, his shoulders crumpling. “I don’t think he would give us up either.”

She purses her lips and nods. There’s a dark, chilling thought niggling at the back of her mind. It’s been there on and off during this entire escapade of theirs, but she’s vehemently refused to consider it, has continually denied it access to her conscious mind. Because if she takes it out and examines it, the results will feel devastating. Horrific. Life-altering.

With the distant beat of helicopter blades nearby, though, she really has no other choice but to face the unthinkable. She licks her lips unsteadily.

“Mulder,” she murmurs, and she feels his body turn to face hers. He must be able to hear the panic in her voice because he takes two steps into her, his hands falling to her waist. She tips her forehead to his chest and his hands travel up her spine to cup the back of her neck. She huffs a painful laugh. It’s like he already knows what she’s going to say. “Mulder, the chip . . . the chip in my neck.”

He swipes a tender finger across the raised bump above her spine. “It’s not that,” he says decidedly, and she instantly knows he’s already considered it too.

She scoffs, pulling away. “And how do you know that? They found us without the ring. Clearly it wasn’t that, so this is the next most logical explanation we have.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “It’s not your chip, Scully. It can’t be—”

“But what if it is?” she exclaims, pushing against his chest. “Mulder, we could be running forever and they’d still always find us!” She sucks in a lungful of air. “We need—we need to split up. You need to get away from me. If they catch me, so—so what? They’ll dangle me as bait for you, they wouldn’t hurt me as long as you’re still running—”

He grabs her wrists so hard she flinches. “No,” he growls. “That’s not happening. I’m not leaving you.”

“Then we cut the chip out of me,” she says confidently.

His hands dig more painfully into her skin and she cries out. “Mulder—”

He releases her with an apology on his tongue, crushing her head to his chest. “That is not an option, Scully. We’re not even sure if they’re using the chip to track us. Get that out of your mind, because I’m sure as hell not removing that chip from you. It saved your life.” She grabs at his shirt, bunching it up in her fists. “We can fight this, Scully. We can—we can keep running. We just have to stay one step ahead of them.”

She huffs exasperatedly. “We can’t run forever, Mulder. It’s only been a few days and we’re already—we’re exhausted, emotionally wrecked. We—this running—this isn’t a life. It’s barely even survival.”

“Bullshit,” he says, and she glances up from his chest. His eyes blaze with conviction through the darkness. “I’ve learned a lot these past nine months. Most importantly, that what I’ve been living isn’t a life. Not without you. It’s only a life if I get to spend it with you, Scully.”

Her mouth falls open, but before she can respond, he’s dipping his head down to press his lips to hers. She moans into his mouth and pushes her hands beneath his shirt. All her earlier uncertainty slips away. With time pressing in on them at every angle, she’s realizing that this may be her last chance to experience anything good. Forget Alan, forget fidelity, forget her life back in California. Those don’t exist, not in this space, not when there’s helicopters hunting them down and a chip in her neck and Mulder’s desperate confessions whispered against her lips.

He peels off her shirt and she yanks his off too, stretching on tiptoes to reach above his head. Her hands tremble as they touch smooth skin and firm muscle, and she wishes they could turn the lights on so she could look and feast.

His hands don’t hesitate to roam to her pants, releasing the zipper and shoving them down her legs. She shivers in the cold air and he draws her in, slipping his hands over her ass to pull her close. And then he’s hooking his hands under her thighs and lifting her off the ground, and she scrambles to link her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist.

He tilts his mouth to trail down her jaw and neck as he stumbles in the dark to find the couch. She laughs in surprise when they tumble onto the cushions together, her hands flying out to brace herself against his chest. In his lap, she lifts her hips and fumbles inelegantly at his jeans, breathless when he finally swats her hands away and does it himself. They shimmy his pants off together and then she’s sitting half-naked on his boxers, which leave no room for imagination. She can feel everything, and it’s delicious. She wraps her arms around his neck and grinds down into him, enjoying the way his head falls back against the couch at her movements.

She’s about to drag his head back up for another kiss when she feels it.

Right there, along the top of his spine.

A rough line of raised skin. It’s thin and small. Very small. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it-small.

Small, thin, raised . . .

It’s a scar.

For the second time today, she freezes in his lap. And for the second time today, Mulder begs her not to stop.

“Please,” he whispers, and it’s so desperate that she can almost convince herself to keep going. Just put it out of your mind until you’ve done this one thing, she thinks. Just wait a little bit longer to unravel the true horrors of tonight. Let yourself enjoy him for just these next few moments.

“Mulder, stop,” her higher logic demands, and it’s authoritative enough that he immediately retracts his hands from her thighs.

“You okay?” he asks nervously, running his fingertips across her biceps. She still has her arms around his neck.

His featherlight touches distract her momentarily, and she again convinces herself that she could just keep going right now. With unwavering self-control, she drags her focus back to the more pressing issue.

“There’s something in your neck,” she says, and he too goes still.

“What?” he whispers incredulously. Slowly, his hand rises to meet hers, which is poking and prodding the top of his spine. Gently, she guides his finger over the place where she feels it, the very slight, very unremarkable protrusion right under his skin. An incision scar, just like hers.

He flies off the couch, sending her lurching to her feet. He grabs her hand and drags her towards the bathroom, where he shuts the door, turns on the lamp, and stuffs a towel in the door crack to block out the light.

They blink at each other for a long second, two sets of eyes dragging lustfully across half-naked bodies. God, he looks gorgeous. Tousled, muscular, clearly aroused.

They snap out of it and she motions for him to turn around. He stoops low and she stretches to her toes, fingers quickly finding the place on his neck.

Sure enough, there it is. A very small incision, just like hers.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, her hands falling away.

He turns around slowly, eyeing her meaningfully. “You’ve got to cut it out of me.”

She starts to nod, because that is the next logical step. Take out the tracker in his neck, then flee.

“Scully?” he says urgently, motioning for her to leave the room, probably to get her medical bag.

She shakes her head. “No, Mulder.”

His eyes widen. “What do you mean no? This is obviously what’s been tracking us this whole time—”

She holds up a hand to interrupt him. “Would you let me take it out of my neck?”

He scoffs. “Are you kidding? If it was just a—a tracking device? Of course I would. It’s tracking us, for Christ’s sake—”

“How do you know removing it won’t kill you? How do we know what it really is?” she says softly. “How do we know it’s not like mine?”

His expression falters. “It’s just a tracking device,” he repeats, but he sounds less sure of himself.

She shrugs. “We don’t know that. For all we know, it could—it could release some toxin into your body the moment you remove it. It could—it could be a slower-acting agent, like cancer, like what I was given—”

“We’re taking it out,” he says decisively, pushing past her to shove open the door.

Apparently, all thoughts of keeping the place dark have gone out the window. He rushes to the bedroom and grabs her medical kit, yanking it open and rifling through it until he produces a sharp tool. It’s the wrong one for this job, but she doesn’t bother correcting him.

He turns on her with a madman’s eyes. “You’re taking it out of me, Scully.”

“Let’s just think—”

“Stop,” he yells, thrusting the tool into her hands.

Her hand trembles in a way she’s not used to while holding surgical instruments, and she can see the conviction in his eyes.

“You’re taking that goddamn chip out of me or so help me God, Scully, I’ll—” he pauses, unable to continue his toothless threat.

She almost laughs at the absurdity of it. “It might kill you,” she argues quietly.

He reaches forward and squeezes her shoulders, his eyes burning into hers. “If that thing doesn’t kill me, they will, someway or somehow. Either way, I very well may die. But there’s another possibility, Scully, don’t you see?” His eyes crease wistfully. “There’s a chance it’s just a stupid tracking device, nothing more. And that gives us the chance to run, to get away from here.”

“But where do we go? The car—”

He shrugs. “Into the woods. Get lost in that national park.”

“But the bears,” she protests weakly.

He laughs and she sees hope rising in his gaze. This is really it, she realizes. This truly is their biggest chance for survival.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispers, not stopping to marvel at how quickly he’s once again become the only person she can’t live without.

He grimaces. “Take out the fucking chip, Scully.”

Mulder doesn’t burst into flames or ooze green jelly or die from a fast-releasing toxin. In fact, the chip removal is relatively unremarkable. He flinches at the initial cut and Scully hides her nerves by teasing him about his pain intolerance. And then she removes the little fucker from his neck.

“How long do you think you’ve had this in?” she asks as she cleans the wound.

He grits his teeth. “I was conscious the whole time I was in San Diego, even after they found me at the airport,” he muses. “So it must have been before that. I would have known they put something in me, right?”

She nods. “This incision is well-healed. I’d say it’s been months at least.”

He turns to face her and she tosses a cotton pad into the trash. His eyebrows crease. “At the hospital, then. When I was in the psych ward.”

She swallows, dropping his gaze. “They must have known, then,” she says.

He hums a question.

“They must have known that they wanted to continue using you. Destroying the files was never enough, not even from the very beginning. What they’ve always wanted—”

“Was me,” he interrupts, smoothing his hand across her waist. Her lips part at the warmth of his palm against her bare skin. He squeezes her hipbone and briefly, she remembers what they were about to do right before she discovered the tracker. She shivers. “They always planned for me to die in disgrace. So they stuck a chip in my neck in case I ever did anything they didn’t like, like follow you to San Diego, or run away with you to Utah. That way, they could always drag me back and bend me to their will.”

“And me?” she asks, cupping his elbow and drawing him closer. “Just a pawn to get you to cooperate?”

His eyes darken. “I’ve said it before. You’re my Achilles heel, Scully. Everyone knows it.”

She bites her lip, flushing. “Do you think they were ever really planning to ship me off to run more experiments? Or was that all bluff?”

He eyes her carefully but doesn’t answer.

“I haven’t forgotten, Mulder,” she says meaningfully. “You still owe me the contents of that letter.”

His eyes close briefly, and then he steps forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Later,” he promises.

After dressing, they gather their modest supplies in a bag and then start arguing about the car. Mulder insists they risk driving; Scully fears it will be the death of them.

In the end, Mulder wins again, convincing her that if they don’t take the car, they’ll just inevitably end up lost, starving, and exposed to the elements smack-dab in the middle of grizzly territory. It’s the threat of bears that eventually convinces her.

It takes Mulder five tries before he manages to get the car up the hill without headlights on. The vehicle bump-bump-bumps over terrain it was never meant to climb and Scully clings to the dashboard with a dizzying lack of optimism.

Once they reach the road, though, they both heave a sigh of relief. They’ve agreed to avoid driving into the park—it will be manned by park rangers, who may or may not be keeping watch for two FBI agents on the run. Instead, they head west towards another set of mountains, the plan being to bunker down in northern Washington’s remote Cascade Range until they’ve determined whether they’re still being tracked. They still haven’t worked out a plan for getting basic supplies or accommodations; by now, their faces are probably plastered over every news outlet in every town. They can’t just walk right into a gas station or motel.

On the road, they are completely silent as they fly through dense forest, headlights still off. The driving is treacherous—a mixture of snow and ice still covers the roads and without light for guidance, Mulder is barely keeping them on the asphalt. Scully keeps looking in the rearview, waiting for the inevitable moment when a car flies up behind them, or a helicopter drops out of the sky. But nothing happens. Eventually, they pass a sign for a national forest and without hesitation, they pull off the main road to head deeper into the wilderness. It is nearing dawn when they decide to stop and hunker down in a vacant campground.

Mulder mumbles something about needing to get gas and Scully shoves that concern to the back of her brain. They’ll worry about filling the car later. Right now, they need rest.

She climbs into the back while Mulder reclines his seat as far as it’ll go. They make eye contact as the sun starts to rise, flooding their car with light.

He reaches back to take her hand and she loops her fingers loosely with his.

“If anything happens,” he tells her solemnly, “you run. Leave me. Get as far away from me as you can.”

She frowns. “Not gonna happen, Mulder.”

He cracks a wistful smile, squeezes her fingers, and leans back in his seat. She shuts her eyes, listens for the sound of helicopters. But the forest is silent, save for the singsong of birds and the hum of insects.

She sleeps.

Scully wakes with an unbelievable urge to pee. Groggy, disoriented, and crick-necked, she rises from the backseat. Mulder is sleeping peacefully, his arms crossed over his chest. She smiles fondly. He looks for all the world like the version of Mulder who spent every night falling asleep on his couch in front of the T.V. She resists the urge to reach over and push his hair off his forehead.

Instead, as quietly as she can, she opens the car door and sneaks outside, silently cursing the fierce chill in the air. She hunkers down behind a tree to relieve herself, eyes scanning the quiet morning for signs of trouble.

Sensing nothing out of the ordinary, she rises to her feet. Ten feet away, she sees Mulder stirring in the front seat. He glances in the backseat and startles at her absence, then flings open the door.

“Mulder!” she calls quietly, and his eyes race to find hers across the forest. She smiles as relief crosses his face.

Sunlight warms her skin and she is suddenly filled with an incredible sense of optimism. The tracking device is gone. They escaped the cabin without notice. They seem to have reconciled, mostly.

And perhaps most thrillingly, Mulder wants to get her naked.

She takes a step towards him.

There’s a pop, a distant echo.

Something strikes her shoulder so hard she falls backward, the breath forced from her lungs.

She opens her mouth to call for Mulder’s help, but the pain hits her. Fire—raging, burning, roaring fire—races down her body and she screams in agony.

She hears Mulder shout, distantly notices the sound of footsteps approaching, but all she really knows is extreme, acute, blinding pain.

Against her will, her eyes flutter closed, and she realizes she’s losing consciousness. Her screams turn weak, then faint, and then she can barely open her mouth at all.

Someone’s hands reach roughly under her armpits and she is momentarily comforted by the thought that Mulder is saving her. He knows how to treat gunshot wounds. This is a gunshot wound, right?

Wait—why the hell was she shot?

As she’s lifted to her feet, her eyes blink slowly open, and in that brief moment, she realizes that the arms around her don’t belong to Mulder.

Because he is writhing on the ground in front of her, two men wrestling to keep him pinned to the earth. His eyes are glued frantically to hers and she realizes, even through the agony, that this is it. They’ve been caught.

A sob escapes her throat and the person holding her tosses her violently over his shoulder. She cries weakly at the renewed pain, her eyes tearing away from Mulder’s.

She strains to hear his shouts, but her hearing is starting to fade. Her vision goes in and out. Her attacker jostles her on his shoulder and another wave of pain jolts down her body.

She faints.

#mulder x scully #the x files #dana scully #x files fanfic #msr fanfic #x files #fox mulder #msr #txf #xfiles fanfic

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stephy-gold · 2 days

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Do anyone has middle aged MSR fics??? Hehehe 😅😅😅 I can’t take the recent pictures of GA and DD of my mind because they look so good

#dana scully #the x files #fox mulder #txf #x files #msr #xf fanfic #ao3 fanfic #xfiles fanfic #mulder x scully #smutty middle aged msr #they still look so fine #family fic

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cecilysass · 8 months

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XF Fanfic Writers Who Went On To Professional Writing Careers

Clearly these are just the folks I know.

Johanna Schaffhaussen (@syntax6) - She wrote fanfic as Syntax6 and is now a crime novelist. Check out her fanfic (very, very good casefiles). Check out her novels.

Claudia Gray (@claudiagray) - I don’t hear XF fandom bringing her name up as much, but I heard her talk once and even mention her background in fanfic. She wrote XF fic as Amy Vincent and now does paranormal YA romance / Star Wars novels as Claudia Gray. (Side note: CC said in a podcast interview last year that an author who had written Star Wars novels approached him with an idea for an XF novel, and he liked it and approved it. I really hoped it might be her, but I never heard more.) Check out her fanfic. Check out her Wikipedia page. Check out her novels.

Laura Bontrager (@writingwell) - I mentioned her recently because @randomfoggytiger is such a fan! She wrote XF fanfic as RocketMan, and she's gone on to write romance / mystery novels. Check out her fanfic. Check out her novels.

Sonny Whitelaw - She wrote as Spider and became an ecothriller / speculative fiction author. She apparently also teaches classes at the New Zealand Writers' College. Check out her fanfic. Check out her Wikipedia page. Check out her novels.

Y'all, I bet there are more. There are probably anonymous authors we'll never know. But add to the list if you know some. Including yourself, obviously.

#xfiles fanfic #x files fanfic #the x files #fanfic #fanfic history

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lilydalexf · 26 days

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👽 X-Files Season 7 Fic, Part 11

There are so many great stories set in season 7 of The X-Files! Here are even more, following seven prior sets of season 7 fic recs. There are a lot of good season 7 stories. Enjoy! Parts 1 ** 2 ** 3 ** 4 ** 5 ** 6 ** 7 ** 8 ** 9 ** 10 Aquinnah by Anjou Axiom by allimarie Birthday Series by @syntax6 Hallowed by OnlyTheInevitable (@gaycrouton) Harmonice Mundi by @aloysiavirgata Into the Light by @msrafterdark keeping count by scullyism Learning Curve by JLB Mezzo Luna by msk Secret Spots by @baronessblixen Strangers and the Strange Dead by Kipler throat, eye and knucklebone by audries (@audriesfic) Untitled by @aloysiavirgata Untitled by @aloysiavirgata Untitled "Millennium" fic by @aloysiavirgata Untitled "Orison" crossover fic by @aloysiavirgata Wishes by @baronessblixen

#fic rec #roundup #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #season 7 #new post

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numinousmysteries · 2 months

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Handfesta

He wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God.

MSR/S7ish/Explicit

@today-in-fic [on Ao3]

Although they’d been involved, entwined, inseparable, cosmically linked (take your pick, really) for years, he feared actually being with her would mean making promises he couldn’t keep. He’d want to give her the world: A husband who didn’t feel the urge to drive across the country at the mere suggestion of strange lights in the sky. A home to fill with as many blue-eyed babies as she wanted. Or, at the very least, a dog.

But he can’t marry her. They can’t live together. The babies are a moot point—an especially painful one after their failed IVF attempt. And look what happened to poor Queequeg.

In the end, though, pretending he didn’t love her proved more painful than admitting that he did.

***

If the world didn’t end in the early hours of the new millennium, it certainly shifted on its axis. The sun had yet to rise on the first day of the year and Dana Scully had already let him kiss her, insisted on staying the night at his apartment on the flimsiest of pretenses (to look over his barely fractured radius), and is now—assuming he isn’t hallucinating—naked, astride him, and riding his cock.

He isn’t ready to rule out a drug-fueled hallucination quite yet, although this feels pretty fucking real. Underneath the fingers of his one useful hand, the delicate skin on her hip feels soft and warm. Her scent envelopes him like a halo. Moving his thumb to the wet bud of her clit elicits more of the breathy moans that he could listen to for the rest of his life.

She throws her head back, exposing her pearlescent neck. Earlier on his couch, he lavished the skin there with hungry kisses as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She pulled away briefly to put him out of his misery by freeing herself from her clothing. Then she dragged him by his good arm into the bedroom. She helped him out of his jeans but they didn’t bother getting his t-shirt off with his sling in the way so he kept it on as she got on top of him. The thin gray fabric covering his chest makes him feel oddly chaste like an actress who kept her bra on during sex scenes.

There’s nothing chaste about the way Scully is writhing above him, though. She’s so wet that he’d be nervous she'd slip off of him on each upstroke if she wasn’t also clinging to him so tightly. They shouldn’t fit together this well—fuck, they shouldn’t even get along—but they’ve seen phenomena far more difficult to explain than this, so why not?

She folds forward to kiss him and he sucks greedily at her mouth. Her lips are plump, swollen from the barrage of kisses he assailed her with the moment the apartment door shut behind them. Their New Year’s kiss at the hospital had been restrained, but it was enough to crack open the floodgates between them. They barely spoke on the drive back to his place, both sharply attuned to the new dimension of their partnership. He’d become an expert at reading her moods from across a car’s center console. He knew when she was angry or tired or hungry. Now he knew how it felt to sit beside her and feel raw need emanating off of her. And he knew she sensed it from him as well.

He wants this to last forever, to live in an endless time loop of watching her perfect breasts bounce in sync with the rhythm of her hips and her face contorting in pleasure. He wants to take up permanent residence here and have all his mail forwarded in care of Dana Scully’s glistening, velvety vise of a vagina (although she’d certainly shoot him again if she heard him say anything of the sort out loud). But they’re both so close now and when she arches her pale belly toward him and reaches back to stroke the seam between his rigid balls, he lets go. Seven years of pent up desire rush out of him in desperate hot spurts. She comes in stride, squeezing him dry as her inner walls frantically contract in pleasure.

Once he feels all of her muscles surrounding him relax, he half-expects she’ll disappear like a phantom in the night, the delirium of a love-starved man. She lifts up her hips and rolls over next to him. With her chest flush against his side he can feel the hammering of her heart. Alive, alive, alive is all he hears with each beat. He’s come too close to losing her too many times. The simple mechanism of blood pumping through her body is a holy sound to him. A prayer, an incantation, a vow.

“Let’s get married,” he says, testing his luck.

He suspects she’ll blame it on the painkillers, the orgasm-induced euphoria, the sudden rush of blood away from his brain, but instead she says, “Okay.” Her voice is quiet yet resolute and he questions if he’s been propelled into an alternate reality.

“Okay?” he asks, turning to her and squinting in disbelief.

“That surprises you?”

“Scully, I’ve seen you take more time deciding what you want from a vending machine.”

She shrugs. “You’re my best friend. The only person I’d want to spend every day of my life with. We’ve already made it through the sickness and health part more times than I’d like to count. And we love each other.”

She ticks off the reasons with the same confidence she’d use to explain why a pair of tracks in the woods couldn’t possibly belong to a sasquatch. She loves him. In the first two hours of the new millennium Dana Scully has kissed him, fucked him, and said she loved him. Now he’s even less sure he isn’t hallucinating.

“You know we can’t…really…” he trails off, feeling the heft of reality settle back over him like a dark cloud heavy with rain.

“I know,” she says. She bites her lips and glances down. “But we can be married in all the ways that count.”

“You don’t want a big church wedding? A cake with fondant flowers? A taffeta gown?”

“Taffeta, Mulder? Really?” she smirks.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I haven’t been to a wedding in at least a decade. I suppose bridal fashion has evolved.”

“Clearly.” She smiles. “But I’m serious. Marriage is a union based on love, companionship, and trust. We have all of that. I don’t care about the window dressings.”

“We’ve even consummated that union,” he says, trailing his fingertips along her upper arm.

“Yes, we have,” she responds. She rests her palm on the flat of his abdomen just below his t-shirt hem. “For what, I hope, will be the first of many, many times.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I can do with two hands.”

“You were married before,” she says, somewhere on an empty stretch of highway. Of course she brings it up when he’s stuck behind the wheel and can’t escape.

“How did you—”

“The Gunmen told me.” She’s staring shyly at her hands. It’s the first time they’re speaking about Diana since her death.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Scully. I should’ve told you. But it only lasted a few months. I was young and stupid. I convinced her to go down to the courthouse mostly because I was terrified she would leave me. Not that it made a difference. I only told my parents after she fled to Berlin and I needed help from their lawyers to get an annulment. They were scared she’d try to get a big settlement, but I just wanted to forget about it.”

“It’s okay,” she says, still examining her lap and not looking at him. “We met as adults. We’ve been in serious relationships before. There’s no reason to be ashamed.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Honestly,” she turns to face him now. “Not as much as I thought it would.”

“Scully, what we have is so much more—” he pauses to find the words but comes up short.

“I know,” she says, bringing her hand to rest on his thigh. “I know.”

After a few miles of silence she asks slyly, the corners of her mouth arcing into a smile, “Did she wear taffeta?”

“I don’t remember,” he says, and it’s true. An eidetic memory and you’d think he’d remember what his bride wore on what was supposed to be the most important day of his life, but he draws a blank. All he can picture is staring at the gold band she slipped on his finger and trying to convince himself it meant he’d never be alone again.

She has to know he’s up to something when he starts applying his Socratic style to global wedding traditions instead of astral projection or lizard-eyed cryptids.

“Did you know the bouquet toss originated in medieval times and was meant to serve as a distraction so the bride and groom could slip off to their private chambers unnoticed after the ceremony?” He asks her on an airplane on the way back from Chicago.

“I know my cousin Nora once elbowed Missy in the gut to push her out of the way so she could catch one.”

“Ouch,” he winces. “How’d that work out for Nora?”

“She actually did get married the following year to some guy she met on a singles’ cruise. Last I heard, though, he ran away with his secretary and left her with reams of credit card debt,” she says. “And he went bald.”

“You win some, you lose some,” he says. “Did you know wedding rings are traditionally worn on the fourth finger because of the belief that a vein in that finger ran directly to the heart?”

“Well, that’s just inaccurate,” she asserts with a smug smile.

“Did you know that Congolese newlyweds aren’t allowed to smile for the entirety of their wedding day? Or that brides in ancient Rome used to paint their faces red?”

“I did not,” she says, scooting closer to him.

“In the Chinese Yugur culture, the groom shoots his bride with three headless arrows before the ceremony then breaks the arrows in half to symbolize unbroken love.”

“I already shot you once, I don’t think you need to return the favor.”

He playfully reaches for his shoulder and winks at her. “Jews, of course, break a glass for the same reason, while the Greeks smash plates. Did your parents do the whole full Catholic mass hoopla?”

She shakes her head. “My father’s commanding officer married them on base in Norfolk. We pretend not to do the math, but it was only six months before Bill was born.”

Mulder whistles. “Oh, Maggie. Remind me to thank her again the next time I see her.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For you.”

“What about your parents?” She asks.

“Oh, the Kuipers-Mulder wedding was the social event of the summer of ‘59. I think some distant Kennedy cousin even showed up. My mother’s parents didn’t like that he was nearly two decades older than her, and my father’s parents didn’t like that she was Jewish but they had enough money to throw a nice party so it all evened out. Not that any of that pomp and circumstance did them any good when the shit hit the fan.”

“And yet you still believe in marriage,” she ponders.

“I believe in marrying you.”

Even though they have a row to themselves on the plane and everyone around them seems to be asleep or absorbed in a book, he’s still surprised when she leans over to kiss him on the lips. It’s a quick, close-mouthed peck but still more than she’d typically allow in public. They interlock their fingers under the arm rest and he wonders what he ever did to deserve her.

They’re curled toward each other on the motel bed like a pair of parentheses, too wired to sleep. He tells her about seeing the spirit of his sister in a field of dead children. She kisses his brow and pulls his head into her chest. She thankfully doesn’t suggest his vision is the result of a mind warped by grief and stress. The silk collar of her pajama top darkens with his tears and she holds him closer. He’s been cold for so long and her touch is thawing him.

He first told her about his sister in a motel room not unlike this one. Even then, Samantha had already been dead. She’d already been dead when Scully embraced his quest as her own. She’d already been dead when Scully was abducted, when Scully lost her chance at motherhood, when Scully nearly died in a hospital bed from a cancer that had been given to her. He finds it’s this that stings the most—that he made her suffer for nothing.

“She’s been gone this whole time,” he whispers into the hollow of her throat.

“I’m so sorry, Mulder.” She presses her warm lips to the crown of his head, her words muffled in his hair.

It’s been a long day and he can smell her skin and sweat through faded layers of powdery deodorant and woodsy perfume. He likes that she chooses to smell like a forest and not a flower. He likes her natural scent even more.

He’s an orphan now. The last of his kind. And yet, cradled in her arms, this moment feels like a beginning and not an ending. The ties that held him to this earth have been severed and it’s only her firm grasp that’s keeping him from floating away.

“Be my family, Scully,” he says, raising his head up to the pillow so he can meet her gaze.

“Always,” she swears. Her lower lip is quivering and her eyelids are heavy. New tendrils extend, stretching between them, twisting around and around each other, serpentine. They’re interwoven and he never wants to break away. He can stand to lose anything except her.

He kisses her lips softly and feels her starting to cry. Tears stream down their cheeks and it’s impossible to tell which are hers and which are his. She is his home and everything about her feels right. Deepening the kiss, he rolls on top of her.

She brings one small hand to his chest to stop him. “Are you sure, Mulder?”

She asked him the same question in his apartment after autopsying his mother. That night he was seeking numbness and she, rightfully so, wouldn’t give it to him. She bore witness to his pain, holding him as he wept and slipped into a fitful sleep. Tonight, though, he is sure. He’s coming to her purely out of love, to rededicate himself to her.

He nods solemnly and she brings her hands to either side of his face, pulling him in so she can probe his mouth with her tongue. The taste of diner coffee lingers under the artificial mint of her toothpaste.

He takes his time unbuttoning her pajama shirt, revealing the milky skin of her chest. Tracing a trail down the valley between her breasts with his tongue, he pauses at the scar on her abdomen. It’s a reminder of her fragility and her strength. He kisses it to pay tribute to the duality of her nature.

She gasps when he reaches the hem of her pajama bottoms. Lifting her hips up, she lets him ease the silk down her legs and slim ankles. Her presence feels so powerful and all-encompassing that he sometimes forgets how small her actual physical form is. Her feet are so delicate he can’t believe they have the endurance to carry her to crime scenes and autopsy bays and wherever he asks her to follow him. He kisses the arch of each one in gratitude and then lets her pajama pants drop to the floor.

As he works his way back up, she starts spreading her thighs apart in anticipation. He can feel the heat of her sex radiating on his face like the sun before he even reaches the space between her legs. He inhales deeply and takes in her intoxicating essence before dragging his tongue up from the folds of her labia to the nub of her clit. Her thighs tighten around him and she rakes her nails through his hair.

“Mulder,” she begs of him quietly, his name an invitation on her lips.

He answers by latching onto her sex with his mouth, sucking and releasing her clit with increasing speed and intensity. Breathing feels unnecessary when he’s devouring her like this. He can’t be sure if the swirl of dizziness in his head stems from a lack of oxygen or a surge of adrenaline. Either way, he doesn’t come up for air until he sees her clenching the sheets between her fists in his peripheral vision and hears the high-pitched whimper from the back of her throat that lets him know she’s close. He loves making her come this way, knowing he’s able to give her this much-needed release, but now she’s tugging on the sleeves of his t-shirt, pulling him up to meet her.

Rising to his knees, he sheds his shirt and peels off his boxers, freeing the erection that’s been throbbing to the beat of her moans. He pulls a pillow from the other side of the bed and slides it under her hips.

She reaches down between them, taking his length in her hand and confidently guiding him inside her. They’ve done this 12 times in his bed, nine times in hers, thrice on his couch, and now in their sixth motel room (the eidetic memory works when it counts) and yet each time feels like a new discovery.

Tonight feels endowed with a singular significance. He has finally laid his sister, and therefore his quest for her, to rest, and can give himself to Scully fully. The rules feel like loose suggestions now. Why not quit the bureau and run away with her? Why not stake his claim to her in the light of day and marry her in front of everyone they know?

But he’s getting ahead of himself. Right now, there is only this moment—only their bodies gliding together in this timeless dance. They are prehistoric cave dwellers mating on a pelt of wolf fur. They are medieval peasants copulating under the thatched roof of their cottage. They are federal agents making love on the polyester duvet of a budget motel room in Sacramento, California. Plunging into her, he knows he has loved her in every lifetime.

Their bodies find a rhythm that feels as natural as their age-old verbal tête-à-tête. Perhaps after all this time it shouldn’t be such a surprise that they’re so good at this.

“What?” she asks, breathily, and it tears him from his stream of consciousness.

“Hmm?”

“What are you smiling about?”

He must’ve had a shit-eating grin on his face by the way she’s staring at him. It makes him laugh and he collapses on top of her and chuckles into the side of her neck.

“I just can’t believe how lucky I am,” he whispers into her ear.

“We finally found something you don’t believe in,” she says.

He doesn’t know if he wants to smile or cry or keep thrusting into her. Somehow, he manages to do all three and soon they’re both coming hard and likely earning a noise complaint in the process. Fuck it, he thinks, let everyone hear.

After he slides out of her, they’re too mentally and physically exhausted to move so they stay lying atop the covers side by side. The window air conditioning unit kicks on, cooling the damp sweat that coats their skin. Feeling the goose pimples rise on her skin, he maneuvers them onto their sides so he can hold her from behind.

“I officiated a wedding for two of Sam’s Barbie dolls once,” he tells her. The scene surfaces from the hazy sea of his memory. It was months before her disappearance. They’d heard their parents fighting nearly every night that summer and he imagined Sam’s precocious mind grappling with the knowledge that marital bonds could be so brittle.

“Yeah?” she asks hesitantly.

He wants her to know that it’s alright, that talking about his sister feels lighter now.

“Well, I started anyway but I wasn’t taking it seriously so she made me stop and kicked me out of her room.”

“She couldn’t have asked for a better big brother,” she says. He wraps his arms around her and chooses to believe.

His lungs are mostly healed, although he isn’t cleared for active duty yet, when he insists they head back to North Carolina for a “personal mission” over the weekend. She doesn’t want him to risk flying so she agrees to let him pick her up early on Saturday morning for the long drive. They’re on the road before the sun rises.

“I know you’re feeling better, Mulder, but you’re really not up for anything too vigorous,” she says as he steers the car south.

“Well, it’s up to you how vigorous you plan on being on our wedding night.”

He looks over to find her eyebrows predictably raised.

“Open the glove compartment, Scully.”

He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to watch her remove the pamphlet for the Irish-themed bed and breakfast in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the braided ivory rope he’d sent away for.

“What is this, Mulder?” Her skeptical tone is replaced by a light, hopeful voice as she examines the rope.

“It’s for our handfasting ceremony.”

Looking over at her again, he sees even more questions in her eyes.

He doesn’t tell her he’s chosen this because their bond is so pure and elemental that he wants to marry her in a primeval fashion that transcends man and law and God; that he wants to tie his soul to hers like the stars are tethered to the sky; that he needs to know that even when their bodies have long decayed and reverted back to base matter, even when the sun has burned out and the universe has collapsed back within itself, that their essences will still be bound together.

He only shrugs and says, “It’s Celtic. Like your ancestors.”

Her smile breaks his heart wide open and he knows she understands.

“We missed May Day—you know, the feast of Beltane, the lusty month, and all of that—but Ewan says the old Neolithic hunter gatherers weren’t too picky about auspicious dates.”

“Ewan?”

“Byers’ cousin. He owns the B&B and does these things from time to time” he says. “But don’t worry, the other two Stooges don’t know anything. I didn’t want to hear Langly’s spiel about the evil capitalist roots of marriage—nor did I have the heart to let Frohike know you’re officially off the market.”

“I appreciate that,” she says with a toothy grin.

“I hope you’re not upset I sprung it on you like this,” he says.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs. “A pagan ceremony preceded by a mysterious seven-hour road trip with a 5 a.m. wakeup call is the only way I would ever expect to marry you. Truly, if you got down on one knee with a diamond ring after a candlelit dinner I’d probably immediately order a CT scan to check you for a cerebral hemorrhage.”

The old stone home that houses the B&B looks straight out of a fairy tale. It’s drizzling when they pull up and he starts humming a few bars of Alanis Morisette. She catches his eye and he winks at her.

“Rain is considered good luck in Italy and India,” he says.

He fetches their luggage from the trunk of the car and follows her inside. There’s no check-in desk, just a cozy living room with overstuffed floral furniture, a wood-burning fireplace, and Ewan waiting for them.

He’s only a little disappointed when Byers’ cousin turns out to be a gentle-looking older man dressed in a flannel shirt and hiking boots and not a bearded druid priest clad in white robes and a crown of antlers.

“Agents Mulder and Scully,” he says, shaking their hands. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. John has told me so much about you. I’m honored to be a part of your sacred day. Why don’t I show you to your room and give you some time to freshen up before the ceremony?”

He leads them up a creaky flight of stairs to their room. It isn’t much larger than their standard roadside motel room but has far more character. A linen bedspread with Celtic knots woven in emerald thread covers the four-poster bed and there’s a wooden rocking chair in the corner that looks like it’d made the journey from the old country.

“Take your time,” Ewan says as he heads out. “You can meet me downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

After he closes the door behind him, Scully crosses the room to envelope Mulder in an embrace, resting her head under his chin.

“This is perfect,” she mumbles against the fabric of his sweater. “Thank you.”

They take turns using the bathroom and then head back downstairs. Ewan leads them through the B&B’s tidy eat-in kitchen and out the back door.

“Did any ancient mystics speak of the significance of a bride wearing jeans?” Scully whispers to Mulder as they follow Ewan to a clearing in the woods.

“I’m sure if any of them ever got a chance to see what your ass looked like in that pair, white dresses never would’ve made the cut.”

They’re walking hand-in-hand and she gently nudges his upper arm with her shoulder. After months of playing platonic in public, getting to touch her out in the open like this—even with the woods and John Byers’ cousin as their only witnesses—feels like taking a deep breath after being submerged underwater for too long.

“We’ve made it,” Ewan says, leading them to the center of a circle made from small stones. He guides them to stand face to face and take each other’s right hand.

Mulder recalls the first time they touched—shaking her hand on the morning she entered his office. He remembers her fresh-faced energy and how she met all his theories and hunches with fully formed counterarguments; how they improvised the steps of a dance that would become second nature over the years. Locking eyes over their hands, she smiles at him and he knows she’s reliving the same moment.

Despite whatever attempts she made to tame her hair into submission back in DC, the humidity and light drizzle in the woods bring out the soft frizz he loves to run his fingers through. He thinks of a downpour in an Oregon graveyard, the first time the peal of her laugh struck a chord in his soul.

He hands the rope over to Ewan who starts wrapping it around their linked hands and explaining the meaning of the ceremony. The words—commitment, love, intention—wash over him. He knows he could spend years studying the OED, the works of Byron or Neruda, and still never find a combination of letters that describe how much he loves the woman standing in front of him. For two people who rely on words to explain, argue, dispute, and affirm, they’re shockingly bad at expressing what they mean to one another using language. Or perhaps they’d reached as far as words could take them and only stumbled when they had to take the next step without any.

Ewan has looped the cord around their wrists and tied it in a string of nautical-looking knots that make Mulder wonder if Scully is reminded of her father. Ewan has them repeat a series of vows to each other. The words echo through their lips but Mulder knows they can only begin to encapsulate the commitment they’ve already made to each other. There’s no point in the ceremony where they’re instructed to kiss, but he does it anyway when Ewan stops speaking, leaning in to open her lips with his and feel the slick warmth of her mouth. Does it feel different now that they’re married (at least in some spiritual sense)? He isn’t sure, but he plans on conducting more experiments once they’re back in their room alone.

They break apart and Ewan looks up from the ground where he’d been staring in respectful silence.

“A first handfasting represents an engagement or a trial marriage. The ceremony is repeated in a year and a day to formalize the union,” Ewan says. “It’s tradition, I promise. Not just a way to stir up repeat business.”

“Well, same time next year, I suppose. Put us in the books,” Mulder says, looking down at their bound hands and then up at Scully’s wet eyes. She gives him the softest smile and a gentle laugh. A year, a day, and a millennium from now and, he knows, they will still be tied together.

They wear no rings. They sign no papers. Their union isn’t documented in any official records. By the time they get back inside and warm up with cups of coffee, the faint lines left on their wrists by the cord have faded. The interstitial fluid under the skin has redistributed itself, restoring equilibrium, but their internal balance has been forever recalibrated.

***

A year and a day passes. He dies and she brings him back to life. She gives birth to their son and then begs him to leave.

Their anniversary does not find him reunited with her in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains but alone in the desert of New Mexico. Of the few personal belongings he took when he fled, the one he holds most dear is the braided ivory rope she pressed into his hands on their last day together. I’ll bring it back, he vowed.

The cord is yellowed from the oils of his fingertips constantly worrying over it and the dust of the desert, but he holds it tighter on this day. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to safely return to her and to William, but he intends to keep this promise.

#xfiles #txf #the x files #msr #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #x files

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benoitblanc · 25 days

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everywhere is the middle of nowhere when you're losing your lover

on the road. hostess snoballs. nosebleeds. the interrupting mothman.

read middle of nowhere on the ao3 or below the cut:

“Hey, Scully.”

“...”

“Scully. You awake?”

“Well, I am now. What is it?”

“Knock knock.”

“Mulder, I swear, if you woke me up just to tell me a knock knock joke—”

“Humor me. Knock knock.”

“...Who’s there.”

“The interrupting mothman.”

“ Mulder .”

“Come on, Scully, haven’t you ever wondered what noise the mothman makes?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, today could be your lucky day.”

“Where are we?”

“About one level up from the middle of nowhere. You’ve been out for a while. I stopped at a gas station, got you one of those godawful pink coconut things. Seriously, Scully, I don’t understand how a medical professional such as yourself can in good conscience put that crap in your body.”

“Says the man who ate a full sleeve of Oreos for dinner last night.”

“Touche.”

“Thanks anyway. I’m not that hungry.”

“You said that last night too. When was the last time you ate?”

“I’m fine.”

“Scully—”

“I’m fine , Mulder, quit asking me if—oh, damn it.”

“Tissues in the glove compartment.”

“Thanks.”

“...”

“Scully.”

“Don’t look at me like that. The doctor said there was no change from my last scans.”

“Would you tell me if there was?”

“What do you want me to say, Mulder?”

“Ideally ‘yes, of course I would, because I understand that you as my partner care about me, and I also understand that I don’t have to prove anything to anyone by doing everything all by myself.’”

“...”

“Ah, jeez, Scully, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you—”

“It’s fine.”

“I swear to God—”

“No, it really is fine. I just—Mulder, of course I know that. It’s just… it’s hard.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Scully, I know you better than anything. Take all the time you need, okay? I’ll be here, however you need me, whenever you’re ready.”

“...I know.”

“...”

“The interrupting mothman who?”

#arwen writes #the x files #txf #the x files fic #xfiles fanfic #txf fic #msr #fox mulder #dana scully #todayinfic #userscully #i wrote this in ten minutes as a prompt fill in creative writing today. how are all of you doing

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soft-thrills · 4 months

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XF Fic: Mean

Rating: Smut. Smut smut smut.

Summary: “I think I’d also like it once in a while if you were a little… mean,” Scully says.

Content warnings: dirty talk, name-calling, toeing the edge of degradation, but all in good kinky fun

Smut after the cut. Hope your holidays are happy, friends! Ubeta’ed. I intended to sit down and write something with some redeeming value to society but alas, I could not get this out of my mind, so instead: shameless smut.

They’d had a conversation about a month ago in which he’d asked her if there was anything she wanted that he wasn’t doing.

“I want you to keep your travel receipts in chronological order,” she’d wryly replied.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he’d said, and the hint of an edge in his voice got right to the core of the thing that she wanted that he wasn’t doing.

And so she’d told him, after a half glass of wine too many.

“Well, I like it when you’re a little rough, which I think you’ve kind of figured out. But I think I’d also like it once in a while if you were a little… mean.”

He grinned. “Mean how?”

“I don’t know, just… you know, don’t hurt my feelings, but maybe you could tease, or kind of, talk dirtier. Jesus, this is so embarrassing, forget I ever mentioned it, ok?”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Although I get the sense that maybe that’s what you’re after.”

His ability to see right through her was kind of embarrassing in and of itself, and she knew she was blushing.

They’d had sex then — and he hadn’t been mean, not at all. Instead he’d devoured her, praising her for sharing something she felt shy about, telling her there was nothing she could ask for that would make him think less of her or upset him — not him, a man who’d spent years frequenting porno theaters and calling phone sex lines.

For weeks, the conversation lurked in the back of her mind. She’d almost convinced herself he’d forgotten, except Fox Mulder is not a man who forgets these kinds of things.

And so she finds herself beneath him as he holds both her slender wrists in one of his big hands, pinned above her head. He looms large over her.

“I didn’t forget our conversation last month, you know,” he says, taking her left nipple between his fingers and pinching until she gasps. “You remember it, don’t you?”

She nods, at a loss for words.

“Good. If you don’t like anything I do or say, Scully, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll stop, okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, okay. I understand.”

“Good girl,” he praises her. “Although I think we both know that’s probably not what you want me to call you. I think you want to be a bad girl.”

She arches her pelvis up toward him, silently asking him to touch her there, to slide inside her.

“Already getting to you, huh? You weren’t kidding, Scully. I haven’t even touched your pussy yet and look how desperate you are.”

Mean.

“Oh my god, Mulder, please,” she whimpers. “Please touch me.”

He smirks at her. “All right, but only so I can judge how much my words are getting to you.”

His fingers trail down her body and he dips his index finger between her lips, dragging back and forth a moment before pushing inside her. She arches up into his touch and spreads her legs wider, as best she can beneath him.

“You like spreading your legs for me, don’t you?”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. She can’t believe he’s talking to her like this, she can’t believe she asked him to. But she’s more turned on than she’s ever been in her life.

“I can feel how much you like it, Scully. You’re so wet for me. Such a dirty girl.”

Suddenly, his finger is gone from her pussy, and a second later, she feels his wet fingers grip her chin.

“Open your eyes and look at me when I talk to you, Scully.”

Her eyes fly open. There’s something about him talking to her like this while still using her last name that makes it feel even dirtier, which she suspects he realizes.

He kisses her, deeply, a reward, a reassurance. He can talk to her like this and still love her. And he can certainly still want her — she can feel his erection against her belly.

“Please, fuck me,” she says. “I want you.”

That grin again. “I know you do. But I’m not done playing around with you. That’s what I’m going to do: play with you like the toy that you are.”

His fingers find her pussy again, and then her clit, a few quick circles. She feels like she could shatter at any moment.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt you this wet, baby. I’m so glad you told me how to treat you. Now I know what you need. And I’m having a lot of fun putting you in your proper place.”

He takes his fingers away from her clit.

“No,” she moans, screwing her eyes closed again. “Don’t stop.”

His wet fingers on her face again but this time, a soft tap on her cheek, the barest suggestion of a slap, sending her eyes back open in shock.

He laughs a little. “I told you to keep your eyes open. If I have to tell you again I’m not going to let you come.”

Mean. She whimpers and nods. Unable to close her eyes, she instead gives voice to the terrible, wonderful feelings warring inside her - the hint of humiliation and the arousal fueling one another.

“Why do I like it so much when you treat me like this?” she asks.

Straddling her, he brings his hands to her breasts and pinches each nipple. He looks bemused, like she is a problem to be solved, and then looks back down at her tits.

“Well, I could tell you it’s because kinky sex is subversive, a way to play with the gender roles we push back against in everyday life. I could tell you lots of people like things in bed they wouldn’t like outside it and there’s nothing wrong with that. I could tell you it’s because you trust me and know that I love you and respect you and we’re just playing around.”

His hands move to her sides, and he drops down to his elbows, briefly kissing down her sternum between her breasts.

Then he looks up at her face, making eye contact.

“But we both know that’s not why you like it,” he says. “You like it because you’re a dirty little slut.”

And then suddenly, his cock is pushing inside her, and his finger is on her clit, and she comes harder than she ever has in her life.

“Well that didn’t take much,” he teases her, and it only extends her pleasure. “So easy.”

His cockiness aside, it doesn’t take much for him to come, either — she’s still thrashing around with the aftershocks when he comes inside her after a few more hard strokes, moaning into the crook of her neck.

When she comes to her senses, he’s rolled off of her and is looking at her with the sweetest smile.

“Wow,” she says, still catching her breath, blushing as she thinks about what he said to her.

“Good wow? Or you never want to talk to me again wow?” he asks.

“Good wow. Thank you for giving that to me. I wouldn’t have been able to let go like that without anyone else,” she says, rolling over and curling into him.

He cuddles her protectively, hands stroking up and down her back, through her hair, wherever he can reach with comforting little touches.

“You did so well,” he says, and while she doesn’t really feel like she did anything, the praise warms her. “But sometimes things like that can hit you after you come down from endorphin rush. If it starts to feel bad, promise me you’ll let me know.”

“I will,” she says.

They lounge a while and it does, indeed, start nagging at her a little.

“You’ll still be able to look me in the eye at work after that, right? It won’t change —”

“Scully, nothing could ever change how I feel about you. I love you more than anything. I respect you more than anyone. I’m honored you’d share your desires with me and I’d never betray that.”

“I know,” she sighs. “I guess it’s just good to hear it.”

It occurs to her he hasn’t said anything about whether he enjoyed himself.

“Did you like it?” she asks gently. “Because I don’t want to ask anything of you that you don’t —”

“You couldn’t tell if I liked it?” he jokes. “It was so hot, Scully. Seeing you melt like that.”

She smiles, and then feels his hot breath on her ear.

“I’ll treat you like a dirty slut anytime you like,” he promises.

She laughs. “Thank you,” she says, and she means it.

#xfiles fic #xf fic #xfiles fanfic #msr #xf fanfic #msr smut

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darkesttimelinestuff · 6 months

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"That's all? Easy."

On day 22 of Fictober Mulder and Pendrell are having a drink when they spot Scully with another man. Hopefully it's a little fun and a little silly.

Prompt #29 - "That's all? Easy."

Find my other mediocre, mostly MSR fic here.

Pendrell slammed his glass down in frustration.

“Don’t take it so hard, buddy,” Mulder said.

“Oh, sure. Easy for you to say,” Pendrell grumbled.

Mulder was taken aback. “What does that mean?”

The scientist shot him an incredulous look. “You’re kidding. Mulder, you’re tall, traditionally handsome, mysterious,” he replied, eyeing Mulder and taking a long drink from his glass. “Women love that.”

Mulder chuckled and gave him a wry smile. “It doesn’t get you as far as you’d think, my friend,” he said, slapping Penrell on the back.

“Oh, come on.” Pendrell, tipsy and loose, rolled his eyes. “Women love a brooding man. Just look at Angel.” Off Mulder’s puzzled look, he added, “From Buffy.”

Mulder nodded, not quite understanding. He didn’t want to argue with his friend, who was clearly heartbroken at the coincidence of seeing Scully drinking with another man. It’s not what Mulder had expected to see either when he invited Pendrell out for drinks. Now they were commiserating their unspoken affection for a certain redhead.

“Besides, once Scully told me that ‘smart is sexy.’ She likes a brainy man,” Mulder replied, and hoped his friend would leave it at that.

They sat for a long moment, sipping their whiskeys.

“Yeah?” asked Pendrell.

Mulder nodded.

“Who is that guy, anyway?” Pendrell wondered.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him at the F.B.I. Maybe an old friend from Quantico,” Mulder offered.

“Boyfriend?”

“Maybe,” Mulder agreed. “Or date.”

They continued to watch Scully and her mystery man as they drank. They watched the man pay the bill. They watched him get up and put on his coat. They watched him give Scully a friendly peck on the cheek. And then, they watched him walk out of the bar, while Scully remained.

“Maybe not a boyfriend or date!” Pendrell said, excitedly.

“I guess not. Unless it didn’t go well,” suggested Mulder.

“As odd as it sounds, I would feel bad if that were the case.”

“Same,” Mulder agreed.

“You should go ask her out for a drink,” Pendrell said with determination.

“What?” Mulder asked.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at her, Mulder? Takes one to know one. You need to go over there and ask her to have a drink with you. And when you’re done, you ask her out for another drink this weekend.”

“That’s all? Easy,” Mulder scoffed, and leaned back in his seat.

“Your loss, Mulder. Because one of these days… One of these days…

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heatherwentwest · 2 years

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TXF Recs: My Favorite Newer Mulder/Scully Fics 🛸

The X-Files canon may be complete (for now), but the fandom has kept right on evolving and creating beautifully original stories that center Mulder and Scully’s emotional journey. Much as I’ll always adore the 13 classic Mulder/Scully fics I first recommended, I am also thrilled to regularly discover new favorites from the many talented writers continuing the agents’ story. Allow me to introduce a few that have won my heart in the past few years…

Includes must-read stories by @cecilysass, @sisterspooky1013, @leiascully, @silhouetteofacedar, @dreamingofscully & more, plus links to entertaining book club discussions on @audiofanficpod!

#mulder and scully #the xfiles #the x files fanfic #txf fic recs #msr #msr fic #mulder x scully #xfiles fanfic #the x files #txf #xf fanfic #xf fic #txf fanfic #fic recs #otp: one in five billion

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mulderwearingglasses · 1 year

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Scully would be a guilty pleasure Candy Crush fanatic.

It started when her therapist recommend a mindless phone game to help distract herself on planes when she was getting anxious over turbulence, and then she realized a mindless phone game was good for other sorts of anxieties, too. The kinds about bright lights she can’t quite remember and cramped trunks she can’t quite forget.

She plays it lazily while Mulder watches basketball as they eat pizza together, and he teases her for being like the old folks who lose their retirement money to the silly but addictive game.

One night, her eyes are getting heavy as she’s playing and she dozes off. Mulder doesn’t realize until the phone slides out of her hand. He smiles and swipes the hair from her face, pulls the covers up over her.

He takes her phone and rolls his eyes when he sees she was playing that stupid game.

“What’s it all about, anyway?” He wonders. He picks up where she left off and soon the basketball game is long over, and Mulder is still occupied crushing candy. He plays late into the night, the bright colors of the phone screen illuminating his face in the darkening hotel room.

The next day, when the pair get to the airport and have some time to kill at their gate, Scully pulls up her game and is surprised to see she’s skipped several dozen levels from the last time she’s played.

She turns to Mulder who is sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“Let’s get you your own account, OK?” Scully says, swallowing an I-told-you-so and taking his phone to get him set up on his own game.

#txf #xfiles #the xfiles #msr #mulder #the x files #scully #txf fan fic #fox mulder #txf fanfic #xfiles fan fic #x files #dana scully #xfiles fan fiction #xfiles fanfic #candy crush

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aloysiavirgata · 7 hours

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prompt Gunpowder coconuts and lip gloss

It’s another two hours to Albany.

“Everything north of the Bronx is Canada,” Mulder grouses.

“You’re from New England.” Scully remarks, a map draped over her narrow lap.

“Shut up,” he says, chipper. “Grenades.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “Really? You’re such a boy.”

“You’re such a boy,” he chirps back, in a mocking falsetto. “What do you want? Lip gloss? Tampons? A push up bra?”

“Shut up,” she echoes back. “Fine. The Professor could absolutely have made a coconut grenade.”

Mulder merges left, scoffs. “Where’s he getting the gunpowder, Annie Oakley?”

“Potassium nitrate from guano,” she says, prim. “Turn left in four miles.”

“You need a lot of piss for that,” Mulder observes. He sets the trip odometer.

Scully rolls her eyes. “He can collect that in coconuts too. Honestly, Mulder.”

“Sulfur?”

“You absolutely KNOW Mrs. Howell packed Epsom salts,” Scully says.

“On a three-hour tour?”

“On a three-hour tour. Mulder pull over, that coffee went right through me.”

He does, at a nondescript convenience store with a FOOD MART!!! sign taped to an out-of-order pump. “Don’t forget to save your urine in a coconut,” Mulder calls after her.

There’s not even a break in her stride as she flips him off over one tailored, charcoal shoulder.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #my fic #prompt #inbox

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oohnotvery · 2 days

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I absolutely adore TXF fandom. I really do and I love writing for it. I love the other writers on here and I love the people I’ve formed relationships with on Tumblr and AO3.

Since November 2022, a few anons and AO3 guests have been pretty heinously attacking me. I tend to overshare about my family, work, life, etc., and I stopped doing that for a while because I got some scary messages when writing On Marriage after I portrayed revival Mulder as depressed. Similar stuff is happening while I write Edges of the Night, which I acknowledge isn’t everyone’s cup of tea 😂 I write angst and I get that some people just don’t like it. Totally fine.

Does anyone else in this fandom deal with stuff like this? And if so, how do you handle it? In 2022, I reported the scary stuff because it dealt with my child. But for just downright mean stuff—what is the approach? Ignoring? Not engaging?

#msr fanfic #x files #txf #mulder x scully #dana scully #the x files #x files fanfic #fox mulder #xfiles fanfic #msr

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cecilysass · 2 months

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Milagro Fic Recommendations

These are good for any time of year, of course, not just February 14. But here are my favorite fics related to the season 6 episode Milagro, a long time favorite. (And @sisterspooky1013's favorite episode of all time: happy VD, girl!) I’ve been reading and sifting through these for some time, and I have tried to include some from all eras: newer AO3 fics, some written right after the ep aired, etc. But I'm sure I've missed some, so hit me with your own faves, please.

Because of Milagro's ending, this entire genre of fic tends to be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst (which is fiiiiine by me), but that’s not all that’s here. Many of these are smutty, but not all.

Adagio - Terma99 A meditative, peaceful take on the aftermath of Milagro by a veteran author that includes both agents realizing something they had learned. Lovely.

Alma - 6hoursgirl (@sixhours) A lovely hurt/comfort Milagro piece. This one is Mulder POV, which is a little less common for post-Milagro, I think, and I like this characterization of Mulder as desperately wanting to help Scully, desperately wanting to protect her, but also a tiny bit scared of the intimacy and relationship he feels they’re on the cusp of. He’s so good-hearted and also a little dysfunctional here, and I love it.

Bated Breath - dreamingofscully (@dreamingofscully) This one has an original take on Scully's experience; it leaves Scully with clarity and new direction in her relationship with Mulder. DreamingofScully tends to write a more confident, in-charge Scully in the MSR than some do, and I appreciate it.

Beyond the Strokes of a Typewriter - storybycorey (@storybycorey) When Scully is stricken and ashamed that it’s been so long since anyone has seen her as a woman as Padgett did, Mulder is pushed to revelations. Mulder 3rd person POV. Very good smut build up. And nobody does a gorgeous feelings reveal from Mulder like storeybycorey, man.

I Believe - Diana Battis There are a lot of lovely, heartfelt hurt/comfort fics about the aftermath of Milagro (for obvious reasons), but this one is especially well done. Viewed from Scully’s third person point of view, it focuses on Mulder’s capacity for tenderness and guilt. Plus some smut.

Don’t Look Up - ArtemisX5 After Padgett's hallway revelation, Scully is horrified that she has no secrets left. But you know, Mulder is much slower on the draw than she gives him credit for. There is also such moving hurt/comfort in this.

Intimacies with Strangers -mldrgrl (@mldrgrl) This mid- and post- Milagro piece has Mulder and Scully simmering in tension and then boiling over. Their relationship is complex and painfully entangled, and I love how it plays out. There is also excellent Scully characterization. This one helps me to get more fully why she might have been drawn to Padgett initially, something I struggle with in the episode.

La Madrugada - h0ldthiscat A carefully told tale of RST that takes both characters seriously and is sincerely moving. Excellent.

Lacuna - Aloysia_Virgata (@aloysiavirgata) This is a longer work, not really a classic post ep per se. But I love this moody, angsty casefile set right after Milagro. This Scully has not come to terms with her emotions, is thoroughly freaked by how she reacted to Padgett, and hasn't even entirely worked out how she feels about Mulder. There is Scully/other here, but the ship is steering home. The end of this is so moving, but cw: dark themes in the casefile, extreme violence against children, traumatized agents.

Still Life - Seek_Its_Opposite (@seek-its-opposite) Ah, this is such a thoughtful and exquisitely written Scully character piece — and it contains some truly beautiful insights about Mulder, too. It suggests the heartbreaking idea that Mulder’s way of showing Scully respect (giving her distance) is continually hurting her. So tragic (and consistent with canon, e.g. Never Again.) One memorable line: “Every one of their fights is about how to care for one another, every last one.”

Alma Gemela - matchingfabric (@matchingfabric) After the events of Milagro, Scully (and Mulder) get accustomed to platonically sharing a bed for comfort. This is a slightly different take on post-Milagro. Exceptionally, irresistibly sweet. Oh, and smutty.

What did I miss? Tell me. And yes, I'm working on my own short Milagro fic that will be coming soon-ish.

#x files fanfic #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully #msr #milagro #fic recs #fic rec list #love fic recs #season 6 #xf valentines day #valentines day

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lilydalexf · 5 months

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hi! do you know of any fics where mulder or scully (i think this fits either of them well) ask the other "can i kiss you?" ? its my favourite fic "trope" but i think ive only found one xf fic that does it and i cant even remember it, please help!

Thank you for this ask! I have (many) older asks I maybe should've answered first, but it was very fun compiling this rec list of fics where one of Mulder and Scully asks the other "Can I kiss you?" Enjoy! Anamorphosis by Megan Reilly Assigned to find a horrifying serial murderer, Agent Scully discovers things about herself and her past that she never suspected. City of Light by Bonetree On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them apart. (Part of the Goshen universe) Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton Some feeling defy the confines of time. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by Jenna Tooms Scully comes to Mulder with a wound only he can heal. general conundrums by @intrepidment Nonsense fluff. Impulse by Suzanne Schramm Mulder and Scully investigate some strange doings in a little town where people seem to have no control over their actions. Let's Bee Together by @baronessblixen Set during IWTB: Scully comes home from the hospital to find a bored and restless Mulder has picked up an interesting new hobby: apiculture. Little Notes by aRcaDIaNFall$ Mulder and Scully are bored in a meeting and start passing notes... The Mad Physicist & The Lab Rat by littlemisfit5290 (@alittlemissfit) "Who said I was even going to the party?” “I said you are if you plan on knowing whether I dressed up as a sexy alien or that beast woman.” MSR, pre IWTB, Halloween fluff. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) For the first time ever, the FBI is doing a secret Santa exchange. But what do you do when you're not paired with the only person you can imagine exchanging gifts with? You do everything in your power to rig the game. Nuptiae Sub Rosa by SisterSpooky1013 and XFMaweezy (@sisterspooky1013 and @xfmaweezy) A series of canon-compliant missing scenes showing that some dynamics of Mulder and Scully’s relationship may have changed much earlier than previously thought. radiant by kittenscully (@kittenscully) Under normal circumstances, her vulnerability would shock him. But things are different now, the shift tectonic and undeniable. He owes her the same trust that she’s showing him. Saying the Words by Karen Rasch Mulder and Scully finally confront their feelings for the first time. (Part of the Words series) Tender Intent by A.I. Irving When Scully returns to work after recovering from her illness, Mulder discovers that she isn't quite the changed woman she claims to be. Untitled by @baronessblixen “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” / “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?” Untitled by @broadcastnews1987 a “what if one breath never happened au.” Untitled by @msrafterdark scully puts the moves on mulder post-millennium. What Happens In Vegas (Sometimes Finds Its Way Into Official Documents) by tiredmoonlight (@myshipsintheharbor) When some interesting news about the marital status of two agents finds its way to back to the FBI, questions are raised, the main one being that the agents don't actually remember getting married. While You Were Sleeping by Skinfull Mulder falls for an intoxicating red head he spots in the park, then saves her life but not before she is injured and put into a coma, then he meets her sister! Den den dehhhhhh! Seraphim by chekcough (@chekcough) After Mulder returns from the dead, Scully tries to pick up the pieces. AU, with Mulder/Scully relationship pre-established after FTF. Implied character suicide.

#fic rec #roundup #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #anon #asks

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numinousmysteries · 3 months

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Legacy

This goes AU post-Je Souhaite. Kind of an expansion of what I was exploring in this post on how Mulder and Scully could have had a satisfying ending without children.

[on Ao3] @today-in-fic

Mulder told her to never give up on a miracle. He was right in the end although their miracle wasn’t a child but something far more rare: Two discordant souls coming together to create a union stronger than the sum of its parts.

Once in a Los Angeles hotel room, champagne bubbles fizzing in her mind, Scully whispered in his ear, “I wish we could make a baby this way.”

He froze. He was on top of her, buried deep inside her, his body enveloping hers, and his abrupt pause made her gasp.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

“Shh,” he soothed her. Shifting to balance on one hand, he used the other to tuck a shock of auburn hair behind her ear. “I wish we could, too.”

She tilted her chin up to meet his eyes. He kissed her hard and started moving within her again. If yearning and conviction were strong enough to overcome biological reality, they would have easily sparked life on that plush king bed with its 1,000-thread count sheets. Alas, science defeated faith. She cringed at the irony of wishing for a different outcome, and hoped he wouldn't blame her for not believing enough.

Arriving at the hotel room after midnight and tipsier than either of them had been in years, they neglected to close the blackout curtains. The harsh sunlight woke her far too early the next morning. A pounding in her head and an acidic churn in her stomach weighed down the buoyant rosiness of the previous night.

He stirred alongside her. Both of their bodies were damp and sticky with sweat. The air conditioner kicked on and she felt goose pimples rising on her flesh.

“Morning,” he whispered, squeezing her tighter against him.

Last night, she felt as if she couldn’t get close enough to him. In the backseat of the car on the way back from the movie premiere, her hands were on his chest, his thighs, the bulge in his lap, as his tongue probed her mouth and she inhaled his heady blend of aftershave, cologne, and natural musk. She couldn’t remember how they shed their clothing, just her evening gown and his tux falling away as their bodies sought contact.

In the morning, though, she craved to be alone. Not to escape him, but to run from the implication of her words.The alcohol had smudged certain details of the evening but she remembered what she said to him about conceiving a child. And, as much as she wished he didn’t, she knew he had to as well.

With her head on his sternum, she felt him clearing his throat.

“I know we never really talked about it, the IVF, afterwards,” he started. “But if that’s still something you want, I would want it, too.”

“There’s not going to be another round of IVF,” she said, her voice raspy. “No more ova, remember?”

“I didn’t mean that specifically,” he said. They’d been intimate for months but this was the one topic they still danced around with their old, overly formal remoteness. “I meant having a child another way. There are donor eggs, surrogacy, adoption—”

“I know,” she cut him off. “It’s still so raw, though.”

“I understand,” he said. He kissed the top of her head and she realized they were both crying. “But I want you to know I’m open to any of it. If and when you’re ever ready.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

And yet, weeks turned to months and she never felt ready to face another loss. She still dreamt of little girls with her hair and his bottom lip; little boys with his nose and her eyes. But the pain lessened as time went on. Once she let him in, she felt less alone. Together, their lives felt full.

II.

She knew he hadn’t been close to his mother, but after Teena’s death—and the concurrent shift in their relationship—she made more of an effort to involve him with her family. At first, he resisted. She suspected he feared being an imposition or, worse, a tangible reminder of all his quest had taken away from her and her family. She could meet his stubbornness with her own, though, and in the end he couldn’t turn her down.

They began with casual dinners at her mother’s and, just short of a year into their relationship, she managed to convince him to fly with her to Bill’s for Christmas. Matthew, nearly three, had been joined by a younger sister, Caitlin, only a few months old on their first visit. With Caitlin in her arms, Scully shifted her gaze between the unbroken peace of the infant’s sleeping face and Mulder’s worried facade. With her widest smile and honest eyes she attempted wordlessly conveying to him that she was truly happy. No one offered the baby to Mulder to hold and he didn’t volunteer. For that, she felt thankful. As content as she was, she wasn’t ready to face the image of what might have been.

They visited more frequently over the years, becoming regular fixtures in her nephew and niece’s lives. They went to kindergarten graduations, birthday parties, little league games, and dance recitals. When the kids were a little older, they took them out for the day, just the four of them, to the zoo, the aquarium, the beach.

Bill was a football fan but his son preferred the slower, cerebral rhythm of baseball.

“Good,” Bill said, eyeing Mulder on the couch discussing the Padres odds of making it into the playoffs with Matthew. “You can watch this with him. It’s too boring for me.”

And Mulder did, for hours at a time even though it wasn’t his team. The boy’s wonder and curiosity in the game mattered more than who won or lost. He saw so much of Scully in her nephew’s precocious, methodical nature. Matthew even corrected his math.

Everyone else was surprised by how good Mulder was with the kids, but she never had doubts. She’d seen him on cases interacting with children at the worst possible moments of their lives—after losing a parent or a sibling, or witnessing a heinous crime—but he always approached them with respect, kindness, and patience. Knowing what it was like to feel alone and misunderstood, he gave them the space they needed.

Aware of her infertility, her family knew better than to whisper to her that he’d be a wonderful father, but that didn't stop her from hearing the words reverberate in her own mind. But they were merely echoes bouncing off the cold walls of a barren canyon. Unable to find purchase, they dissipated and faded away into the ether.

It was only once when a three-year-old Caitlin became inconsolable for reasons that were impossible for adult minds to decipher and would only accept comforting from her mother that Scully felt the emptiness in her arms as she handed the toddler over to Tara.

An hour later, the girl’s mood lifted just as mysteriously as it fell and she was eager to show her aunt her Barbie doll’s new wardrobe. Scully sat cross legged on the floor switching out outfits for so long that her legs fell asleep and Mulder had to help her up. As he lifted her to stand, he softly kissed her neck, just beneath her ear.

Once, Tara was even able to wrangle the kids on her own when Bill was at sea, and they flew out to DC to visit. They stayed at her mother’s—Scully’s apartment that she now shared with Mulder was too small to house them all—but Mulder and Scully spent nearly every waking moment with Matthew and Caitlin. The city they walked every day took on a new tint through the children’s excited eyes. Who knew there were so many interactive exhibits at the National Air and Space Museum? That the pizza place on her block threw in candy with your order if you picked up a child’s size pie?

They fell into bed exhausted but giggling over the silly comments the kids had entertained them with each day.

Their visit ended with airport hugs and kisses. As they returned to their car in the parking lot, she felt a sinking sense of guilt.

“You could have this for real, you know,” she said. “With someone else.”

For an instant, their roles reversed and he looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “It’s only you,” he vowed. “You and me. Forever.”

As jet planes soared above them bringing families together or drawing them apart, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. This was family, too, she knew. Two hearts that had found each other.

III.

The only time she ever felt glad they weren’t able to have children was when they learned the date of colonization. She’d already seen one daughter’s life cut short by the work of these horrible men and she couldn’t watch another die. If the IVF had worked, their child would only barely have made it to its teenage years.

By the time they learned the date, they only had five years left to fight. To thwart their efforts, their enemies had them both framed for crimes and they became fugitives. Cut off from the resources of the bureau and even the power to use their own names, their struggle intensified, but they never gave up.

The Gunmen helped them go deep underground. For years, they exchanged old fake identities for new ones and took up disposable backstories in dozens of nameless towns across the country. Once either of them picked up even a passing whiff of threat, they’d pack their bags and leave one life behind for the next. She thanked God she didn’t have to force a child to live like this.

In another life, these would have been the years she devoted to bedtime stories, school pickups, and soccer practices. Instead, she spent them corresponding with others in the resistance through encrypted emails sharing research findings and making plans.

With a year to go, she finally developed a promising vaccine formulation using samples of the extraterrestrial virus stolen from a syndicate lab by a scientist sympathetic to their cause. She tested her inoculation on mice and stray dogs. All the creatures showed immunity.

Mulder insisted on being her first human test subject.

“Absolutely not,” she argued. “You were exposed to the virus in that gulag. There’s no way to know how either the vaccine or this particular strain of contagion would interact with your existing antibodies. Besides, the resistance can’t afford to lose you. I can’t afford to lose you.”

Ultimately, Frohiked stepped up.

“I’m the eldest,” he said, when the five of them met up. “I have the least time remaining.”

The rest of them started to dispute but he waved his hands to cut them off.

“I’m disposable,” he continued. “Scully’s the only one with the medical know-how, Mulder’s got his connections and that spooky sixth sense that’ll come in handy. Byers’s has the bland face of comforting authority that’ll convince everyone to line up for this wacky new shot, and Langly’s a decent enough hacker to break down all the digital fortresses you’ll need to penetrate.”

“This better not be some ploy to get me to admit your kung fu is so far superior to mine that we can’t possibly lose you,” Langly deadpanned.

“Not a chance, hippie,” Frohike huffed. “It’s just that you’re allergic to bees so we all know the anaphylaxis would take you out long before the virus had a chance.”

So he rolled up his sleeve and let her give him the injection. She waited for a crude joke as she swabbed his deltoid with alcohol and then depressed the plunger of the syringe, but Frohike remained serious and stoic. He’d been a good friend to them over the years and she didn’t underestimate him.

They waited two weeks for the vaccine to take effect, and then she tested his antibodies. According to her research, his levels appeared high enough to fend off the virus. They locked him in the basement of a rural home they’d rented with a reliable Wi-Fi connection, a week’s worth of food and water, and a hive of genetically engineered Africanized honey bees.

Stung to shit, he texted the rest of them later that night.

Any symptoms? Scully wrote.

All copacetic so far, he responded. My faith in the good doctor remains.

Godspeed, Byers replied.

A week later, they unlocked the basement door. With the exception of scattered pink welts from the bee stings that had already begun to heal, he emerged unscathed. No gelatinous tissue. No gestating alien.

“Dr. Scully,” he said, grinning. “Your patient lives.”

Byers and Langly whooped and applauded.

Mulder kissed her on the forehead. “I knew you could do it,” he said. There might be hope after all.

Scully argued they had to find a way to deliver the vaccine surreptitiously, that no one would believe their claims of an upcoming alien invasion. But Mulder insisted it had to be a choice. That if they inoculated the population without consent, they’d be no better than the syndicate of men who secretly carried out their tests on unwilling, innocent citizens for decades. Although she feared his plan would result in unnecessary death, she didn’t deny he was in the right morally.

As word of a successful vaccine spread, more and more scientists defected from the syndicate to join the resistance. Mulder and Scully never fully trusted them, wary that they’d found their consciences a little too late, but still welcomed the information they had to offer. They mapped where the bees would be released and charted the timeline of the ships’ arrivals.

In the months leading up to the date, Scully became the public face of the resistance, using her scientific background and medical credentials to plead their case and insist on widespread vaccine uptake. She published their old case reports, not sparing the public any of the gory imagery of what laid ahead if they failed to act.

Miraculously, it worked. Enough of the populace accepted the vaccine that, paired with a syndicate significantly weakened by the resistance, they were able to ward off the invasion. The ships were picked up on radar systems but they must have been able to detect their accomplices’ failure on the ground and they quickly reversed course.

Mulder and Scully’s names were cleared and they were lauded as heroes after spending years as outlaws.

As they sat on their porch and watched the sun set on that unseasonably warm but otherwise unremarkable December evening, the old emptiness threatened to temper the joy of victory.

“Our children could have had a future,” she said.

“Scully, you gave all the children a future.”

He leaned in to kiss her. The world didn’t end.

IV.

Life went on, which meant its shadow, death, kept up its work as well. It didn’t feel fair that she only got to enjoy a few more years with her mother after they were free to come out of hiding, but at least Maggie Scully maintained her sharp mind until the very end.

Only in these last few days, on a steady morphine drip to ease her transition into the next world, did the loving relatives streaming in to visit her bedside start blurring together.

“You’re such a good mother,” she said to Scully, after spending an afternoon with her, Matthew, and Caitlin. “You’ve raised them so well.”

Scully didn’t have the heart to correct her, to remind her that these were Bill and Tara’s children, not her own. So she smiled and kissed the thin skin on her mother’s brow.

“I learned from you,” she said.

Her life was rich, even without children. She had Mulder, her extended family, and her work. She didn’t know if her mother would ever understand that, so she let her die believing her daughter was happy in a way that she could comprehend.

After his stroke, she knew they didn't have much time left together. He was still the same man she met and fell in love with so long ago, still possessed his wit and encyclopedic memory of all things paranormal, only operated at a slightly slower frequency.

So it didn’t surprise her when she woke up one morning and his body was next to her, but he was gone. She had nearly lost him so many times over the years, but when it finally happened she felt oddly at peace. He had lived a long life. He had been vindicated, defeated his enemies, and even saved the world. They had spent decades at each other’s side, the intensity of their love never fading. Still, a lifetime together was not enough time.

She wanted to stay in the house, it was theirs after all, but it became harder and harder to keep up on her own. Caitlin offered for her to come live with her and her husband in Southern California. Their own children were all grown up and on their own, so they had plenty of room for her. She liked the idea of returning to the Pacific of her youth, so she agreed and began clearing out the house.

They didn’t have much. There was no fortune, no priceless family heirlooms, but there was neat, lawyer-signed paperwork dividing what they did have between Matthew, Caitlin, and their children. She was glad to help them in some way, however small.

She didn’t mind getting rid of their belongings. Her childhood as an itinerant Navy brat and her years on the run with Mulder had taught her not to value material things. But then there were the files. Their life’s work, cataloged in dozens of cabinets in their home office. Their true legacy.

A few weeks before moving, she got the email.

Dear Dr. Scully,

My name is Tegan Marks and I’m a special agent with the FBI. I read about your husband’s recent passing and I wanted to express my sincere condolences. I must admit that I’ve long been an admirer of both of you, ever since learning of your work in preventing the alien colonization of 2012.

As you know, the X-Files division has been closed since you and Agent Mulder departed from the bureau. However, that hasn’t stopped reports of unexplained phenomena from coming in. We just don’t have a unit or any resources devoted to investigating them. While I’m currently assigned to the violent crimes section, I’ve petitioned my supervisors to reopen the X-Files and they’ve been receptive.

In order to establish a thorough database of this type of phenomena and its history, I was hoping to access your files to scan and digitize. I would happily return the physical copies to you once I’m done.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Best, Special Agent Tegan Marks

Scully replied that Agent Marks was welcome to come and pick up the files anytime, no need to return them.

She showed up excitedly a week later. She was so young—probably no older than Scully was the day she was assigned to the X-Files herself—and so full of passion and curiosity. If aliens had colonized the planet in 2012, Agent Marks never would have been born. Scully led her to the home office where wall to wall filing cabinets held the secrets of her life’s work.

“Oh wow,” Marks said, surveying the office. “I think this is more than I can fit in my car. I might have to make a few trips.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Scully said.

“And I’m happy to bring them back once I’ve digitized them.”

“No,” Scully stopped her. “Please, keep them. They belong with someone who will put them to use.”

Scully watched as Marks hauled folder after folder to her car. She loaded the backseat and trunk to the brim but had barely reached the M’s for Mothmen.

“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” she said.

“I should be thanking you,” Scully said. “I know nothing would make my husband happier than to know that these were with someone who wanted to carry on our legacy. Before you head back, would you like to join me for some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Marks said and followed her back into the kitchen.

“I’m honestly glad you reached me when you did,” Scully said as she boiled the kettle. “I’m in the process of downsizing and I didn’t know what to do with all of these.”

“Well, I’m glad I got in touch,” said Marks. “I’m looking forward to diving into these.”

“I can’t believe they’re reopening the X-Files after all these years.” Scully shook her head. “Do you have a partner?”

“I’m in the process of selecting someone now. It’s been challenging, though.”

Scully nodded, indicating for her to go on.

“Well, I’m obviously very open-minded about the paranormal but not many other agents are. I imagine this work would be much easier with a fellow believer.”

“Hmm,” Scully said, pausing to sip her tea. “You might be surprised. Mulder and I rarely saw eye-to-eye on our cases but I think that challenging each other is what made us such a good team. Just make sure you find someone you actually enjoy disagreeing with.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Marks said. “Although I don’t think partnerships like that are all that common.”

“No,” Scully said, smiling. “I don’t suppose they are.”

After they finished their tea, Scully saw the younger woman to the door and watched as she drove away; their legacy in good hands.

#xfiles #txf #msr #xf fanfic #the x files #xfiles fanfic #x files

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