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randomfoggytiger · 2 months

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Writing Patterns

Thank you for the tag, @virtie333~! :DDD

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

"I Know You. It’s What I Do."

The hulking shadow had vanished from the tunnel mouth, slipping through cold, faded stone as easily as mist; and taken her partner with him. Mulder’s ferocious “FBI--” wilted into an unanswered echo while she yelled for him, hit the rock, hit it again, and began pushing, shoving each of the weathered corners to find a weak spot.

"You're Not Here, Dana-- You're a Million Miles Away"

He didn’t know what had gone wrong.

The Hospital Where You Slept

The world shrank to his beating heart, desperate inhalations, and freezing sweat.

“Think He’ll Call You Tonight”

Charlie was the one that convinced their father.

"You Up For Joining Us?"

Bill had arranged it with Dana ahead of time: Dad’s first mates guarding the perimeters while Charlie, Hessa, and the kids stood inflexibly in the middle.

"Mr. Mulder, I Know Something About You"

The first time Bill heard the name Fox Mulder was the day after his sister and her partner were sucked almost dry and hospitalized in Washington State for nearly two weeks.

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 8, Lights

Lights catching and sliding off of files, lots and lots of files, hearts beating in time with their feet, breaths hitching with the heady flurry of the past few days-- wondrous resurrections and answers in their hands and dangers rumbling quick and powerful behind them.

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 7, Latkes

Mulder stopped mid-signature, holidays at his grandparent’s house slamming into focus as Agent… as one of the agents swept by with a wide smile and a plateful of food.

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 6, Dreidel

“Yes, Mom, yes, I will-- what? You… what? Yes, yes I-- yes, Mom, I got it. Yes, I’ll tell him. Mom, Mulder’s here I have to go--”

Eight Nights of Mulder: Day 4 and 5, Endurance and Miracles

Mulder stood as far as he could from the blood and the gore and the rotting scent of failure, willing the ocean air to leech the exhaustion from his bones.

and

“Mulder? We need to follow the ambulance back.”

Tagging (if you want~): @baronessblixen, @welsharcher, @agent-troi, @amplifyme, @suitablyaggrieved, @pennyserenade, @deathsbestgirl, @settle-down-frohike, @cecilysass, @slippinmickeys, @aloysiavirgata, @storybycorey, @sigritandtheelves, @invidiosa, @thescullyphile, @darwin-xf, @numinousmysteries, @skelavender, @television-overload, @nachosncheezies, @wexleresque, @sagan-starstuff, @writingwell, @incidental-ao3, @tofuttim, @stephy-gold, @jessahmewren, @whovianderson, @oohnotvery, @syntax6, @teethnbone, @chavisory, @two-microscopes, @piecesofscully, @sharpestasp, @freckleslikestars, @spidey-is-tired, @leiascully, @mulderwearingglasses, @frogsmulder, @danascullysjournal, @unremarkablehouse, @xxsksxxx, @redteekal, @sarie-fairy, @agentwhalesong, @dreamingofscully, @cutelilcurtain, @thatfragilecapricorn30, etc.~!

#Writing Patterns #tagged #fanfiction #fanfic #the last ten I've written #txf #xf fanfic #Mulder #Scully #xfiles #x-files #the x files #mine #writing #Bill Scully #Tara Scully #Maggie Scully #Charlie Scully #Eight Nights of Mulder

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baronessblixen · 5 months

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Look For The Light

My prompts: Eight Nights of Mulder, day 8 (last day!) - lights X-Mas Files Challenge - Scully loves presents

Summary: It's William's first night at home and Mulder reflects how lucky he is. (fluffy fluff; wc: 851)

Tagging @today-in-fic @eightnightsofmulder

There is so much he wants to say. So much he thinks he should explain. There’s so much, and yet, he can’t stop staring at this tiny human being in his arms, a miracle from head to his ten toes. William is sleeping, his breathing going fast as if trying to catch up with the world now that he’s seeing it from the outside.

“How do you like it out here, hm?” Mulder asks, gently swaying. Time has lost all meaning to him. It might be late at night, or early morning. It doesn’t matter. In the bedroom, Scully is asleep, needing every second of shuteye she can get. He’s here for all these moments. That’s something that a few months ago seemed impossible.

“There’s nothing that’s impossible when it comes to us Mulders, right? Well, you’re half a Mulder and half a Scully. Makes you twice as awesome.” Mulder has been amazed by Scully ever since he’s known her, but now, she’s a certified hero in his eyes.

“Your mom is the most amazing person in the world. You probably know that already.” The child’s eyes remain closed, and his body slack. “Already not listening. Yeah, you’re my son.” He chuckles softly, just watching. This tiny nose that Mulder hopes will take on Scully’s shape as it grows. The tuft of reddish hair on his small head that’s softer than anything Mulder has ever touched. He has never felt so whole, or so much at home with himself, and in the world. He didn’t think he’d get here. Decades of running after the truth, of following every light in the sky, and this time, the light led him here. To William, and to Scully.

He tried explaining it to Scully earlier, with their son between them. The light. How all he did was follow it. But she was just smiling, probably not listening at all, and then, a moment later, she was asleep, looking so much like William. Mulder picked him up, hoping he’d, too, sleep a while. So far, he’s in luck. That same luck that has been following him ever since he set out to find Scully.

The light that led him. He looks at William and he feels it. It’s there. It’s a warmth, a bond. Love. If Scully were awake, if he said this to her, he knows she would roll her eyes at him. He’ll stick to his story. There was a light and he followed it. That, to him, is William. He has brought light into his and Scully’s life, leading them onward from now on. His son chooses that moment to open his eyes. They’re still unfocused, lost in this big, big world, but Mulder can’t help but smile.

“Knew I was thinking about you, hm? You’re clever like that. We should wake your mom.” He will never tire of this. Scully is a mom and he’s a dad. The product of their love is in his arms, just waking up, just getting to know the world around him.

“You know what? We should think of a gift for your mom. I’m gonna tell you a secret, Will.” The baby shuffles in his arms, his eyes closing again. “Your mom loves presents. Oh, she pretends she doesn’t, but she loves them.”

“Are you talking about me?” There she is, his Scully. She’s leaning against the door frame, looking utterly exhausted and happier than he’s ever seen her.

“Just explaining some things to our son. I can’t stop looking at him.”

“He really is cute,” Scully agrees, joining Mulder and leaning against him now.

“Hey, why are you up? You should be sitting down. Come on.” Together they make their way back to the bedroom. “How much did you hear?”

“Just you saying I love presents. And Mulder, who doesn’t love presents?”

“Knew it,” he whispers to a fussy William before he kisses his downy head and hands him to Scully, who expertly nurses William. She leans against the headboard, her head tilted toward Mulder.

“Hey you,” he says, grinning. “I meant what I said when you were eavesdropping.”

“Wasn’t eavesdropping,” she says, smiling.

“You just tell yourself that.” He kisses her hair, her temple.

“You already gave me a gift, Mulder.”

“Courage, yeah. You said that.”

“That and Samantha’s doll. You came back to me. Because of you, there’s William. I already have everything I could possibly want.” Tears roll down her face and he realizes he’s crying too. “All I want is more moments like these.”

“You can’t get rid of me. You'll have to share these moments with me. Unless… do you think we can find space for my fish tank here?”

“I think we can arrange that.”

“Then that’s settled.” He leans his head against hers, watching as their son nurses happily, half falling asleep. Like his mother. They will have a million more moments like these - he'll make sure of it. Every single one will feel special. Next year, and every year after this, Mulder will tell William about the night he was born, and the light he followed.

#ficmas2023 #eight nights of mulder were so much fun #i hope they will happen again next year <3 #this is my fever dream story #wish i had written it down right away #all i remembered were the lights lol #msr #xf fanfic #my writing #my fic

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agent-troi · 5 months

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Eight Nights of Mulder, Night 5: Miracles

Summary: Scully finds out she’s pregnant… but this time, Mulder is there to share her joy.

@eightnightsofmulder @today-in-fic

ao3 link

“Scully, they’re taking abductees. You’re an abductee.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Do you want to become one yourself, Mulder? Because that’s what could happen if you go back out there.”

“I can’t let it happen to you again. I won’t. I’m not gonna risk…” he paused to swallow around the lump in his throat. “...losing you.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, and he could feel his doing the same. In unison, they moved into one another’s embrace.

“Don’t go back,” she whispered. “Please.”

Before Mulder could respond, he felt her suddenly go slack against him. He stumbled as he caught her limp body in his arms. “Scully? Scully!”

He saw her eyes twitch beneath half-closed lids. “M’ld’r…” she murmured sluggishly.

“I’m here, Scully. I’m here, and I’m not leaving. You hear me?”

“Mmmm…” There was a light sheen of sweat on her forehead. His panic escalated, and he bent at the knees to scoop her up in his arms and cradle her against his chest. She’s so small…

“Agent Mulder?” Skinner had emerged from the conference room, followed closely by the three Gunmen. Their eyes widened when they saw Scully. “What happened?” Skinner asked.

“I don’t know, I think she fainted.” Mulder could barely hear his own voice over the sound of his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m taking her to the hospital. You guys stay here with Krycek and Marita and see what else you can find out.”

He made it to the hospital in record time, Scully regaining consciousness along the way but still weak enough not to raise more than the faintest objections when Mulder told her where he was taking her. When he told the admitting nurse that he was her boyfriend, Scully raised her eyebrows at him but didn’t say anything. Thankfully, the nurse believed them, so he was allowed to wait with her while they ran a series of tests.

“I know it’s technically true, since we’re together now,” she remarked as she sat on the examination table, her legs swinging back and forth as they were too short to reach the ground. “But ‘boyfriend’ just sounds so… juvenile. No, that’s not the right word. It’s just not… enough… to describe what you are to me.”

Mulder sat in a chair which he’d pulled up right next to the table, squeezing her hand gently as he looked up at her. “If I’d said I was only your ‘partner’, they wouldn’t have let me in here.”

Scully chuckled. “Half the time people assume we mean that in a romantic sense anyway. I think it’s fitting. It describes every aspect of our relationship, personal and professional.” She paused to let out an adorably enormous yawn, and Mulder couldn’t help but smile despite his lingering concern. “And it would’ve described…”

Her voice faltered as she suddenly looked away from him, down at her feet. “If we’d gotten our miracle, we would’ve been partners in that too.”

Regret and agonized longing pierced his heart, just like it had back in Oregon when he’d watched Scully hold Teresa Hoese’s baby. He’d wanted that for her– with her– so much, but whatever cruel God was in charge of dispensing miracles had decided it wasn’t meant to be.

The door to the exam room opened, and in walked the doctor, who looked like she was trying not to smile. “Miss Scully?”

She handed her a manila envelope, which Scully immediately opened. Mulder looked at the doctor anxiously, too afraid to read it himself. “What is it? Is she okay?”

A gasp caused him to turn his attention back to Scully, who was pressing one hand to her mouth as if she were trying to hold in laughter or tears, or both. “Scully?”

His partner looked up at him with an unreadable expression. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

She laughed softly as tears of joy slid down her cheeks. “I’m having a—”

“We’re having a—”

“A miracle,” they finished in unison. Mulder pulled Scully into his arms and spun her around, laughing and crying with her.

“I told you not to give up, Scully.”

“You did,” she murmured into his shoulder. “I’ll never doubt you again.”

He snorted. “Liar.”

Scully laughed again. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I thought you believed in miracles?”

“I thought you didn’t?”

Mulder smiled and kissed her forehead, cradling her face as she gazed up at him with wide-eyed joy and wonder. “Well, maybe now I do.”

#today in fic #eightnightsofmulder #x files #fox mulder #dana scully #mulder x scully #msr #txf s7 #requiem #miracles #hanukkah

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sisterspooky1013 · 6 months

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Gaslight: You Send Me

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Note: when I started writing this story, I knew that Scully was going to have a memory of Mulder that would come to her in a dream, tipping her off to the fact that there was someone important she knew before her accident but couldn’t remember. I needed to be able to “see” this dream/memory, so it’s the first thing I wrote. I figure I may as well post it, so here is that memory you’ve seen glimpses of in full.

Scully plunges her hands back under the hot, soapy water and sighs. Her belly is full of good food and good wine, her heart full of hope and the promise of something exciting and new. She runs a scrub brush around the perimeter of a pan and then lifts it out to rinse it with fresh water before setting it on the drying rack beside the sink.

She smiles to herself at the adolescent buzz in her bones, the expectant tightening in her stomach. She’d forgotten how it feels in the beginning: sickly sweet and terrifying, the best kind of fear. From that first tentative kiss it’s only gotten better with each passing day, and she’s found herself almost embarrassed by the way her belly tumbles when he catches her eye across his desk and holds it for just a beat longer than necessary.

Even the invitation for this evening, dinner at his apartment, felt loaded and thrilling. They’ve kissed dozens of times, made out until her chin burned from his stubble, and, most recently, his hand found its way under her shirt. Not since she was sixteen and still a virgin has a boy feeling her up over her bra been so incredibly arousing that she touched herself later just thinking about it. But it’s not a boy, it’s a man. Mulder. Her Mulder. Her partner, now something more.

He’s in the living room fighting with the CD player. The selection of decidedly romantic albums he’d pre-loaded into the eight-disc changer had been abruptly interrupted by the Beastie Boys during their meal, making him blush and her laugh, and he is now presumably ensuring that they don’t suffer any such interruption during whatever he has planned for the rest of the evening.

She feels a rush of heat to her pelvis at the thought.

She’s ready. More than ready, beyond ready. She’s wanted him for so long, she can’t quite decide if this feels more like an ending or a beginning. Perhaps that’s not his intention for the night at all—he seems to be set on taking things slow. But seven years is slow enough, in her mind, and if he doesn’t make the move to activities beyond necking like teenagers, she will.

She hears the CD player click and whir, and the slow wail of soul music floats into the kitchen.

Darling you send me. I know you send me. Darling you send me, honest you do.

She sways her hips gently to the music, running her hands over the bottom of the sink to find forks and knives. She doesn’t hear Mulder enter the kitchen, but suddenly he is standing right behind her, his hands resting on her hips. Her heart leaps, and she forces herself to lean into him rather than stiffen and pull away. Seven years of habits die hard. He moves with her, threading his arms around her waist. His body feels warm and firm against her back, solid as a rock. He is her rock, her safe place, her one reliable thing in a world that’s always changing before her very eyes.

Mulder removes his arms from her waist and wraps his hands around her forearms, sliding them down and under the water until his fingers are interlaced with hers. She lets go of the butter knife she’d been scrubbing and he lifts their joined hands out of the water, crossing both their arms around the front of her body as he walks them two steps back into the middle of the kitchen. Dishwater runs down her elbows, but it somehow feels romantic rather than obnoxious.

Letting go of one of her hands, he twirls her around to face him, then pulls her body flush to his. His free hand finds her waist, and hers his shoulder, and they begin a slow dance. She glances up at him, feeling both charmed and foolish, and sees him smiling down at her with that familiar impish one-sided quirk on his mouth. Her heart swells and she looks away, resting her cheek on his chest. She closes her eyes and breathes him in: the orange-vanilla musk of his deodorant, the warmth of his skin through his T-shirt. His heart pounds urgently against her ear and she smiles, relieved to know that he is also at least a little bit nervous.

He presses his lips to the crown of her head and then holds them there, singing along to the music as his voice vibrates in his chest and his breath tickles her scalp.

At first I thought it was infatuation, but ooooo it’s lasted so long. Now I find myself wanting to marry you and take you home.

A flash flood of every emotion shocks through her veins, heightening her senses. Fear, excitement, arousal, love. Of course she loves him, and she hopes he knows even though she’s never been brave enough to tell him. She hopes he can feel it, as intuitive as he is.

He drops her hand, touching her chin with his still-damp index finger until she looks up at him. His pupils are bottomless pits, his mouth slightly parted. This way he’s been looking at her, not bothering to hide his wanting, is as potent as a drug. She rises up, using posture and tiptoes to bring her mouth close enough to kiss. And he does, again and again. Sucking at her lower lip, cupping her bottom eagerly in his palms, arching his pelvis into her so she can feel him stiffening.

They walk clumsily to his bedroom, kissing all the way. She tugs at the hem of his shirt until he removes it, then touches the button on his jeans. He hums, deep and throaty, and she suddenly becomes aware of how wet she is. She can’t wait for him to discover her, to see just how much she wants this. She pulls off her own shirt, unclasps her bra, and his mouth is wrapped around her nipple by the time her bare back hits his bedsheets.

He takes off her pants, looking up at her as he tugs them off her hips, and she can feel her own heartbeat between her legs. His thorough inspection of her panties with his eyes, and then his hands, and then his lips, is agonizing and perfect. He’s so deliberate, so thorough, as he is with all things. She can’t bring herself to rush him, as much as she wants to, but when he drags her panties down her legs, bunching up the damp fabric in his hand and licking his lips as his eyes rake over her vulva, she sits up and reaches for him.

“I want you,” she confesses shyly, feeling his abdominal muscles twitch against her fingers as she pops the button on his jeans.

There is a flash of regret on his face, but it’s short lived—there will be time for that later. She pushes her hand under his boxers and squeezes him firmly, enamored with the way his entire body slackens in response.

He stands at the foot of the bed, she sitting on the edge with her open legs bracketing his, and pushes his jeans and boxers down to his knees. She leers at him, openly gawks as she runs her comparatively tiny hand over the thick length of him, and then looks up with a coy smile. He laughs nervously, running his fingers through her hair and cradling the base of her skull in his palm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says reverently, and now it is she who laughs.

“Right this second?” she asks, flashing her eyes to his stiff cock hovering inches below her chin.

“Always,” he says with a sigh. “Though I will admit that I’m partial to this view, yes.”

She blinks languidly, considering taking him in her mouth, but that wouldn’t be entirely fair.

“Lie down,” she directs him instead, and he does.

She drapes her body over his, their bare skin hot and electric as she wriggles up until his shaft is nestled in the valley of her thighs. She rocks her hips gently forward and back as he cranes his neck up to kiss her, humming and sighing. She’s so wet, and they’re so ready, he finds his way inside her without the use of their hands. She pauses to acclimate to the sweet, stinging stretch of him, taking minutes to kiss between each added inch until she sits fully impaled in his lap.

Mulder sits up, cradling her face in his hands and kissing her firmly, urgently, as her hips begin to flex.

“Fuck, Scully. I love you,” he groans, and she feels herself rise up to meet him.

“Mulder,” she whimpers against his mouth, a plea and a proclamation and a confession all at once.

She kisses him back, just as urgently, just as firmly. Her lips feel swollen and bruised, and her fingers dig into his neck as her hips snap, grinding her clit against him on each thrust. It’s frenzied, but still somehow feels so romantic she could cry. Because he loves her, and she wants this so, so much, and she never thought it was possible for them.

“I’m gonna come,” she whispers, and he places one of his hands on the bed for stability as she unravels around him, their open mouths held against one another.

He gasps and arches up into her, and she can feel him, hot and forceful. They continue to rock against one another until the height of intensity has passed, and then Mulder slowly reclines back onto the bed, taking her with him.

She rests her cheek on his sweat damp chest, her heart rate slowing steadily. She notices the music again, the same song that must be playing on repeat.

You thrill me. I know you, you, you thrill me. You thrill me, honest you do. At first I thought it was infatuation, but oooo it’s lasted so long. Now I find myself wanting to marry you and take you home.

She lifts her head, propping her chin on his sternum, and finds him looking at her. He smiles at her and she smiles back, then crawls up his body until he slips out of her. She kisses him once, twice, three times, then tucks her face into the crook of his neck.

“I love you too,” she says softly, her heart hammering again.

She feels his smile widen by the way his cheek presses into her nose. His hands rub wide circles on her back, and a wash of contentment overcomes her.

You send me. I know you send me. You send me, honest you do.

Tagging @today-in-fic

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

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phillippadgettwrites · 8 months

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The First Time, Every Time: Eve

Rated X / 2567 words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

She feels like a world class idiot, partly due to being manipulated by a pair of homicidal eight year olds. But they managed to pull one over on everyone—including their own parents—so she can’t hold herself too much at fault there. What’s really bothering her is that she knew, or at least had her suspicions, that something was off with the girls, and she let her guard down anyway. She ignored her instincts, and it nearly got both her and Mulder killed.

She sinks down onto the bed in her motel room and rubs her hands roughly over her face, cringing at the memory of how stupid she was. How naive. How uncharacteristically girlish. Allowing herself the tiny thrill of playing house with Mulder while the Eves were under their watch backfired gloriously, and as intelligent as the children are she has to imagine that was their intent. They capitalized on the vulnerability they saw in their adult escorts, stopping just short of directly calling them Mom and Dad, and it had worked so well it almost landed her in the autopsy bay. If a couple of prepubescent psychopaths can see it, it must be fairly obvious that she has a teensy little crush on Mulder. Hell, he’s a behavioral profiler, so it must be obvious to him, too.

It’s not that she has any illusions that something might happen between them, and she honestly wouldn’t even want it to. They’re completely incompatible, and that’s to say nothing for the potential impact to her career were she to act on her urges. But he’s cute, and he only got cuter when he was playing the role of doting father, ushering his gaggle of girls into the truck stop for a bathroom break and a soda. Maybe she flirted a little, and maybe he flirted back, and those damn Eves saw right through them. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She knows that it’s Mulder knocking on her door, and she briefly considers pretending that she’s not in. But it’s late—or early, depending how you look at it—and he has the keys to the rental, so where else would she be? She hauls herself up off the bed and reluctantly opens the door just wide enough for him to see her face.

“Soda?” he asks, holding up a can of Diet Rite from the vending machine. “Factory sealed for your safety,” he adds, wiggling the can temptingly.

She smirks, despite her best attempts to suppress it, and opens the door the rest of the way. Mulder walks in and sets the soda down in front of the TV, along with a second that he fishes out of the pocket of his suit jacket, and gives her an appraising look.

“Wild night, huh?” he says, popping the tab on one of the cans.

An hour ago she was sure she’d never drink soda again, but the crack and hiss of the can opening sets off a Pavlovian response, making her mouth water. Mulder hands it to her and she takes an experimental sip. Not too sweet.

“That’s one way of putting it,” she says.

She sits on the end of the bed and he plops down beside her, close enough that his thigh brushes up against hers before he scoots millimeters away. He has a particular end-of-day smell that’s becoming familiar to her: remnants of cologne and deodorant, and the damp salted musk of sunflower seed hulls that line the bottom of his jacket pocket. She has an overwhelming urge to lean into him, but she doesn’t.

“You okay?” he asks, and she looks up at him sharply, wondering what he sees that she hadn’t meant to show him.

“Yes,” she says, perhaps a little too emphatically. “I was just thinking about Cindy Reardon’s mother. I have no idea how we’re going to explain this to her.”

“You don’t think she knew?” he wonders aloud. “Maybe on some subconscious level?”

Scully shrugs and looks at the floor.

“That little girl was the embodiment of all her hopes and dreams,” she says sadly. “Even if she knew something was off, she probably explained it away. I know I did.”

She feels him looking at her, but she keeps her eyes on the faded paisley carpet under her feet.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says, pulling in a deep breath, “that I knew something was off about the girls, but I attributed it to the recent trauma they’d been through. I allowed my preconceptions about what innocent-looking eight year old girls are capable of to override my instincts, with nearly disastrous results.”

He bumps his shoulder against hers and she looks up at him to find a deliciously boyish smile on his face.

“Don’t go stealing all the credit, Scully,” he says, leaning in. “I demand that my contributions to the truck stop disaster be accounted for.”

His breath smells sweet and his cheeks are becoming rough with stubble. She smiles, and his smile broadens in response. He really is very charming, and she doesn’t get the sense that it’s disingenuous.

“And which contributions were those?” she asks cheekily.

“Well, for starters, slapping that soda out of your hand,” he says ruefully. “Not my smoothest move.”

“Fair enough, though in any future circumstances where you see me actively drinking poison, you have my blessing to slap it out of my hand,” she counters.

“Actually,” he says, sitting up, “I think my real mistake was saying I wanted to open your door for you. Way too unbelievable; even eight year olds know that chivalry is dead.”

She studies the side of his face while he takes a long drink of his soda, trying to decide if he’s being facetious.

“You’re actually quite chivalrous, Mulder,” she says, careful with her tone so that he doesn’t think she’s teasing him. “You open doors for me all the time. The only odd thing about it was announcing your intention to do so across a parking lot.”

He gives her a long sideways glance that sets off a nervous flutter in her belly, though she couldn’t say why.

“Does that bother you?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice. “Is it too patriarchal?”

“No,” she says immediately, and she can instantly see relief in his face. “Maybe it would if I felt like you didn’t respect me, or saw me as inferior, but you’ve never made me feel that way.”

She watches him fight off a prideful little smile before he lifts his soda can and hides it behind a drink. When he lowers the can back to his lap, his mouth is arranged into a neatly neutral expression.

“Can I confess something?” he asks, his eyes flitting between her face and the wall behind her.

Her stomach does a backflip and her mouth goes dry. She takes a drink of her soda before answering

“Sure.”

“When we were with the Eves, I kept thinking about Samantha,” he says, pausing to gauge her reaction. She’s surprised, though she shouldn’t be; the Eves are eight, the same age Samantha was when she was taken. She smiles at him sadly, and he lowers his head. “It probably contributed to me not picking up on some red flags,” he continues. “I think I was having a little too much fun with it.”

She can’t allow him to wallow in his shame alone, as much as it terrifies her to consider admitting to her own flights of fancy regarding Mulder, herself, and a couple of kids. She slides one hand over his back and gives him a reassuring pat.

“It was kind of fun,” she admits. “Until it wasn’t, anyway. And you were really good with them, Mulder.”

When he lifts his head to look at her, his face is much closer to hers than she was prepared for, and she resists the urge to move away. His eyes lock on hers and her heart picks up a little, anticipating something.

“You really think so?” he asks, his eyes narrowing in self-doubt.

Scully swallows and nods.

“Yeah,” she says, but her voice comes out in a barely audible rasp.

Two beats pass. Three. It starts to become awkward. It feels like they’re waiting for something, but neither of them appears to know what. By the fourth beat it’s unbearable and she looks away, withdrawing her hand from his back.

“I should let you go,” she says, her entire body humming.

“You kicking me out?” he asks playfully. “You have a boy coming over?”

She looks at him sharply.

“What? No,” she says insistently, finding herself extremely bothered by the idea that he’d think that.

Mulder laughs and shakes his head as he stands, tossing his empty soda can into the wastebasket and then holding his hand out to her. Slowly, cautiously, she slips her hand into his. For a second he doesn’t do anything, but then his fingers close around hers and he pulls her up in one sharp tug, and she lets out a surprised squeal just before the front of her body crashes into his. She wraps her other arm around his waist to avoid losing her balance, the half-empty soda can still in her hand, and then looks up at his face.

He’s smirking devilishly, his hooded eyes full of mischief, and she suddenly feels like prey that’s fallen into his trap. The rational part of her mind is warning her to put a stop to this immediately, but she’s too hypnotized by the hungry way he’s looking at her to move. They’re pressed together from chest to pelvis, though their height difference means that his belt buckle is digging into her belly button, his groin bracketed by her hip bones.

“I was just offering to take your can,” he says, a little bit sheepishly, and Scully feels the hot rush of embarrassment flood through her veins. Too ensnared to quickly get away, she drops her forehead against his chest to hide her face.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes screwed shut tight and her mouth grimacing. “Sorry.”

She feels the vibration of Mulder’s chuckle in her skull, and then his hand running from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back. She shivers involuntarily, and he pulls her increments closer.

“Don’t be,” he says, the pitch of his voice deeper than moments before.

He doesn’t let go, and neither does she. Their joined hands are still pinned between the front of her shoulder and his rib cage, her soda-carrying arm wrapped around his waist. His hand on her back shifts down a little, and she only realizes that her body has at some point drawn an invisible line that Mulder’s casual touches never cross when he crosses it. She feels her skin tingle just above the crack of her ass, and she slowly lifts her head off his chest.

His expression is somewhat vacant, his eyes zeroed in on her mouth. She lifts her chin and closes her eyes, allowing herself to believe that she won’t be responsible for what happens next. When she feels the heat of his mouth against hers, she begins to melt and simply doesn’t stop.

Her body softens and leans into his, her neck bending languidly to the side as his lips warm her skin. She keeps her eyes carefully closed, suspending her own reality and receiving whatever reality this is. The one where a man who she trusts implicitly, who respects her, who looks damn good in a suit and tie, is tugging her blouse out of the waist of her slacks and running his rough fingertips up her bare back. The one where he asks for her consent half a dozen times, and she gives it over and over. The one where he strikes the perfect balance of dominance and deference, where he picks her up like she’s made of air and lays her down on the bed, then turns the lights off without her having to ask.

It’s not that she has any illusions that it’s more than sex, and she honestly wouldn’t even want it to be. They’re completely incompatible, and that’s to say nothing for the potential impact to her career were she to become entangled in some kind of romantic relationship with her partner. But he’s cute, and he eats pussy like a god, and when she finally gets her hands on his dick she’s unable to stop herself from moaning in anticipation.

They don’t have a condom, but she’s still on birth control after her breakup with Ethan, and she trusts him to pull out. She also trusts him when he tells her he hasn’t been with anyone in years, that he’s been tested. She trusts him with her body, her life. She trusts him more than she’s ever trusted any man she’s allowed inside her.

He stretches her wide and she gasps from the pain, her fingernails digging into his shoulder. He stops, waiting until he feels her relax, and then rocks his hips slowly as she adjusts to him. She can’t comprehend how instinctively he touches her, how well he seems to know her body after such a brief introduction. He teases her to the edge and back more times than she can count until she finally shatters into a fit of gasps and wails, every cell in her body taking part in her orgasm. He pulls out of her sharply, the thick head of his cock brushing against the sensitive nerve endings around her opening and setting her off again as she feels the wet heat of his cum streaking across her belly. He slumps down beside her and they catch their breath in the murky dark, still too hopped up on dopamine to consider the impact of what they’ve just done.

Eventually, Mulder feels his way into the bathroom for a towel, but instead of handing it to her he presses it between her legs, gently swiping up and then mopping his semen off her belly. It’s so tender, it catches her off guard, and she suddenly worries whether this means something to him that she’s not ready for.

“Mulder—” she starts, but he lays a heavy hand on her naked hip to quiet her.

“It’s okay,” he says, not sounding nearly as concerned as she does. “Wild night.”

Scully heaves a relieved sigh, nodding in the dark.

“Yes. Wild night,” she agrees.

He waits until she’s dressed to turn on the bedside lamp, and they both squint as their eyes adjust. He’s still shirtless, his pants on but unbuttoned, and she’s surprised to feel her clit throb at the sight of him. He smiles at her fondly, plucking her soda can off the floor and tossing it into the trash can with his.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks, pulling on his undershirt.

“Yep,” she says.

It’s a little bit awkward, but not as much as she would have thought.

She sits on the bed as she watches him leave, precluding an attempt at a goodnight kiss, and he pauses halfway through the door, looking back at her expectantly.

“What?” she asks, a flush of worry making her belly tighten. Maybe this was a mistake.

“You were really good with them too. The Eves, I mean,” he says, a nervous smile on his mouth. “You’re a natural.”

“Thank you, Mulder,” she says, feeling her cheeks warm. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he says, and then he is gone.

#x files fanfic #the x files #xf fic #xf fanfic #dana scully #fox mulder #smut #xfiles #the xfiles

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oohnotvery · 1 day

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Edges of the Night (Chapter 17)

I swear this story—if I’m not sick every time I promise a chapter update, it’s something else. This time, my daughter went to the ER for a head injury. She’s totally okay but it was awful.

So . . . some of you astutely noticed that I told AO3 this story would end at 18 chapters.

That was true until I spent a day in the ER, and now I know there’s no way I can get Chapter 17 out in its full form tonight—but I really wanted to give you all something to read today. So, I’m cutting Chapter 17 into two pieces, which means there will be 19 total chapters of this great beast.

All this to say, we’re reaching the end of a very long, very convoluted road. I want to really thank everyone for following along, even though I went through multiple spells of not writing/posting.

Also, we’ve heard a lot from Scully these past 16 chapters . . . so I thought you all might be interested in seeing what Mulder’s up to :) :) :)

Every time his axe splits open a new log, Mulder cringes at the loud whack that reverberates through the forest. He’s officially been in hiding for eight days now here in this lakeside cabin, and he hasn’t quite gotten over the feeling that someone is watching him, waiting to swoop in and carry him off to a gruesome death.

In the growing twilight, he wipes at his brow and stares at the lake spread out before him. It’s frosty and bitterly cold and the shoreline is studded with heavy chunks of ice. Over the past week, he’s gotten decently good at making fires to keep himself warm in the unheated log cabin, and even though those fires send up smoke signals through the chimney, he’s pretty confident no one has been following him. Plus, it’s far too cold to go to bed without a fire. Scully would be so proud.

Scully.

A lancing pain sings through his chest.

He still has to shut his eyes every time he thinks about that last day in the house. He hadn’t actually expected Scully to fall asleep with him, but he couldn’t have planned it better if he tried. Neither of them would have lasted through a tearful goodbye. More likely, she would have run after him, and the Gunmen, Skinner, and Alan would have had to hold her back. It would have been violent and painful. It was nice, instead, to simply listen to her deep, peaceful breathing for several long minutes, to savor the feeling of her warm body pressed to his, to inhale her scent, to trace the line of her nose with his eyes, to commit it all to memory. And then, to softly, softly press his lips to her temple before quietly, gently extracting himself from their tangled limbs. He allowed himself only one parting glimpse at her, and then he left.

When the memory of that moment begins to overtake him, he turns his thoughts to all the ways Scully probably wants to kill him now. If he knows anything about Scully, it’s that she was raging mad when she woke up and found him gone. Hell, she probably took it out on the Gunmen and Skinner. That would’ve been fun to see. He huffs a laugh, setting down his axe. If she ever did find him somehow, she’d probably shoot him in the shoulder again just for the hell of it.

After not saying goodbye, Mulder then spent a day and a half chugging up the coast in a discrete little Taurus the Gunmen provided. Once he was deep into northern Maine, he spent a few long hours anxiously searching for the house Frohike had assured him existed near this particular lake. Unmarked roads, misleading snow-packed paths, crumbling one-lane bridges, and steep, muddy inclines made the house nearly impossible to locate, and only by pure luck did he finally spy it just as the sun began to set. It was a good thing, he had to admit, that this cabin was so difficult to find. Out here in the blasted middle of nowhere, with thick pine forests and snow drifts six feet high and not a single other soul for miles and miles and miles, he could be undiscoverable forever.

But as safe and remote as it is, it’s not in this lakeside cabin that he plans to spend the rest of his days. No, he has to get out of the States and into friendlier fields. Every time he thinks about the next phase of his escape plan, a nervous pit settles in his stomach. Tomorrow morning, he will depart this cabin forever and drive into Canada, crossing the border with documents that Frohike himself created. Any time he starts to get anxious, it’s this part of the plan that gives him the confidence he needs to go forward. Frohike wouldn’t fail him.

So tomorrow when the sun rises, he will leave, bidding a final farewell to all the ties that bind him to his former life. Once inside the borders of Canada, he’ll be totally on his own. No one will know where he goes next, not even Frohike. It’s for his own safety, and theirs, he reminds himself. But still . . . from tomorrow on, he will be untraceable. Even if someone wanted to find him, they wouldn’t be able to.

His heart clenches painfully at the thought of taking that final, treacherous step into total isolation. Up until this point in his journey, he has still been tethered—somewhat tenuously, through Frohike—to his old life, his old existence. But tomorrow, he’ll be lost forever. Tomorrow marks the point of no return.

He shoves away the thought as brutally as he can, forcing himself to recite the mantra that has helped him get out of bed every morning since he got here. She’s safe, she’s happy, she’s safe, she’s happy.

But, god, at what cost?

He tries not to curse himself for the things he failed to do with Scully. For pushing her away when she reached for him on the bed. For telling her no, no, they can’t take that final step together, they shouldn’t be intimate with each other . . . why the hell did he do that again? He swears out loud, angered by the memory. She was desperate for him, begging with him, her pleas like something out of his most erotic fantasies. She wanted him just as badly as he wanted her. And he should have just had her, just that one time. Just for the memories, if nothing more. He shouldn’t have ever left her with any doubt about the way he loved her.

A bird screeches high in the trees and he startles. His eyes search the treetops before settling on a pair of magpies pestering a giant hawk. With cold, aching hands, he gathers a bundle of split logs in his arms and trudges up to the house, locking the door behind him. Because old habits die hard, he’s been sleeping on the living room couch right beside the main fireplace, and it’s here that he starts building his fire. In an hour, he’ll make yet another PB&J and try to read a book he found in the home’s voluminous bookshelves. His go-bag is stored right beside the door, and his weapon rests under a pillow on the couch. He sincerely hopes that he never has to use it again.

Many hours later, Mulder wakes to a frigid house. Cursing under his breath, he stands creakily and adds a few logs to the dying fire, tending to it as carefully as he would an infant. Darkly, he wonders what would even happen if he froze to death in this cabin. Who would find his body? And how long would it take for him to be discovered here? In what stage of decomposition would they find him? Would they ship him off to Scully for an autopsy? Would there even be a funeral?

He snorts and a flame licks up through the logs, sending a burst of heat into the room. He won’t be dying tonight. He glances at his watch in the firelight and notes wryly that it is nearing three a.m. The witching hour. Chills that have nothing to do with the cold run up his spine and he settles back onto the sofa, suddenly wide awake.

It is a near-constant battle not to think about her. He imagines that someday, far in the distant future, he will no longer think of her every minute of every hour. That maybe someday, he won’t wake up to a strange mixture of relief and regret: relief that she is safe; regret that he didn’t have enough of her.

A noise outside catches his attention and every muscle in his body freezes. The fire sparks and crackles and he strains his ears, listening intently. Prey that he is, he has become carefully attuned to every type of sight and sound and smell out here in the woods. Most noises can be attributed to nature—animals scrounging nearby, branches breaking off of trees, melting ice cracking on the lake.

But this particular sound has a different sense about it. It’s the creeping, hulking sound of something heavy moving across snow.

A car. And it’s driving very slowly, very quietly up the ridge to the house.

His brain slips instantly into FBI mode. He snatches up his gun, shucks on his jacket, and slips into his boots. Throwing the go-bag over his shoulder, he crouches low beneath the front room window, adrenaline pumping so hard through his veins he feels like he could crush steel between his hands.

How did they find him here? And how will he escape? Should he run for the car? It’s parked out front, which means any escape would necessarily involve passing by the car coming up the hill—

With unblinking eyes, he peers into the blackness outside until it finally comes into view, an unfamiliar black sedan, headlights killed, tires inching meticulously along the ground, as if the driver doesn’t want to make a sound. When the car comes to a stop at the front of the house, Mulder raises his gun, surprised to find his hand shaking.

How did it come to this already? Should he run into the woods? Or stand his ground and fight?

For a long minute, nothing happens, and he wonders if he should preemptively shoot at the driver’s side window. But that would be a mistake. He would give away his position. What he’s going to do is wait for the person—or people—to exit the vehicle, and then he’ll fire—

The car door swings open smoothly, soundlessly. A person steps out, their aspect unrecognizable in the dark. They shut the car door quietly and begin to walk towards the house, scanning their surroundings furtively. He can’t make out facial features because of a dark mask pulled up over the person’s nose and mouth and a hood cinched tight over their head. Loose clothing hangs off their body and a gun dangles from their right hand.

The person is close now, just five feet away. Now four feet, now they’re climbing the stairs. Mulder swallows thickly. When that door opens, he’ll have one chance to shoot. And if there are others waiting in the car . . . he’ll have to run. His entire body tenses. He’s a coiled snake, a viper waiting to inject the venom—

There’s a quiet knock at the door.

It surprises him so much that his brain sputters.

What the hell kind of assailant announces their arrival with a pleasant knock?

Stealthily, he rises and makes his way to the door. He knows this could very well be a trap. There could be machine guns on the other side of that door, ready to blast him to bits; or a host of feds could crawl out of the sedan and swoop in the minute that door opens—

The door handle jiggles and he startles. Jesus Christ, they’re trying to get in now. He raises his weapon again. His heart is beating hummingbird-fast.

Another knock, this time louder, and another try at the door handle.

And then—

“Mulder? It’s me.”

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

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numinousmysteries · 5 months

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All the Seeds

@eightnightsofmulder

@today-in-fic

Eight Nights of Mulder Day Six: Dreidel [on Ao3]

December 1998

He almost kissed me in his hallway. He lets her call him Fox. He loves me. He loves me not. He came all the way to Antarctica to save my life. He ditched me with Gibson Praise to drive off with her in Phoenix. He loves me. He loves me not. He said he loved me when he was high on painkillers. He probably told her that countless times while sober. He loves me. He loves me not.

Being off the X-Files is bad for us. Running background checks on fertilizer purchases uses up too small a fraction of my brain power and frees up too much of my energy to think about other things…like what the fuck is going on in my partner’s head. He’s moody and more impatient than normal. His behavior borders on flirtatious at times but if I play along, he recoils.

When we worked on the X-Files together, Mulder and I were in sync. We rarely shared an opinion, but we had our routine well-established: Theory, countertheory, hunches, wild goose chases, and typically ending up just as clueless as when we started. It was a well-choreographed dance. We could do all the steps with our eyes closed.

Now, we’re stomping all over each other’s toes. Our rhythm is off. Sometimes it seems like we’re having two different conversations at the same time.

I don’t want to say it’s all Diana Fowley’s fault, but she sure as fuck isn’t helping. She tends to always have an excuse to call him down to the basement with a question about a case. She inevitably makes her way up to the bullpen around lunchtime to see if he wants to get something to eat. Mulder usually asks if I’d like to join, but I know it’s an empty invitation.

I’m not proud of it, but I do have a jealous streak. It isn’t even always romantic, either. I remember competing with my siblings for my father’s attention, and burning with anger if he seemed more impressed with one of them at any given moment. It was the same in school, from the time I was a child all the way through Quantico. I had such a desire to please my teachers and needed to be the favorite in every class.

Needless to say, being the subject of Mulder’s undivided attention—with the exception of the weekly cryptid or the occasional busty entomologist—for nearly six years felt good. Having to share him with Diana Fowley does not.

I know they have history. And I know she’s attractive. But it’s not even that. It’s the effect she has on him. The way he’ll believe anything she says without a scrap of evidence. The way she makes me feel like a nagging shrew. The way she gets to call him Fox.

He’s coming back from lunch now, striding across the bullpen towards me, and, is he…whistling? I sincerely hope all he had to eat was a sandwich.

“Hey, Scully,” he says, smiling. “It’s unseasonably warm out. What do you say we get out of here for a bit?”

“You’ve been gone for nearly an hour. Weren’t you at lunch with Agent Fowley?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says. “She got an urgent phone call before we made it out of the building, so I just went back to my apartment to pick up this book on cryptozoology that’s been on my mind.”

I notice he’s empty-handed. “But you didn’t find it?”

Mulder shakes his head. “I think it might still be in our old office. But I found something else.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small wooden top.

“A dreidel?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “This was mine when I was a kid. Ended up in the back of my bookcase somehow. Come on, I’ll teach you how to play. ‘Tis the season, after all, and I promise it’ll be more fun than running another background check. Although that isn’t saying much.”

I could use a break. This work is mind-numbingly dull and playing hooky for an afternoon with Mulder sounds much more intriguing. I return his smile and shrug on my coat.

As I’m following him through the bullpen, he calls out to me, a little too loudly, “I hope we’re not stuck on this stakeout the rest of the day, but knowing our perp I wouldn’t bet on making it back before sunset.”

“That’s too bad, Agent Mulder,” I reply, matching his volume and trying not to grin. “I was hoping to get ahead on all this paperwork.”

The elevator down to the lobby is crowded but he gives me a conspiratorial wink and I feel myself blushing. I’m pressed up close to him and can smell his musk and aftershave. We both can’t help but laugh once the lobby’s revolving door propels us onto the sidewalk. He’s right. It’s warm out for December and in the sun I barely need my coat.

We wander until we’re a safe distance from getting spotted and find ourselves a bench near the reflecting pool. Thanks to the temperate weather, the Mall is busy and we can easily blend in with the crowd of tourists and office workers.

“Ever played dreidel before, Scully?” he asks.

“I can’t say I have.”

“It’s easy.” He holds the top out to me in his palm.

“This is nun,” he explains, pointing to the side of the dreidel embossed with a character that looks like a backward letter C. “If your spin lands on nun, you do nothing, which is easy to remember. But nun looks deceptively similar to gimel”—he turns the top to a side with a nearly identical symbol, but this one has a little leg sticking out of the bottom, “and if you land on gimel, you get the whole pot.”

“What’s in our pot, Mulder?” I ask.

“Sam and I used to play with gelt but since we don’t have any, we can use these instead,” he says, pulling a bag of sunflower seeds out of his jacket pocket.

“If you land on shin,” he says, showing me a character that looks like a W, “you have to add a coin, or a seed in our case, to the pot. That leaves hey”—now he shows me the final side of the dreidel— “and that means you take half the pot.”

“I think I got it,” I say.

He starts divvying up a pile of seeds between the two of us. He brings one to his mouth, cracks open the shell with his teeth, and eats it. I’ve seen him do the same motion hundreds of times and it always makes me wonder what else his nimble mouth is capable of. I’m sure Diana has intimate knowledge of that.

“For good luck,” he says.

“Sure, Fox,” I say teasingly.

He cringes.

“Sorry,” I say, my eyes drifting to my pile of sunflower seeds. “That’s what Diana calls you.”

“Yes, and I hate it,” he says. “I’ve asked her not to, but it’s not a battle worth fighting. I think she does it just to irritate me.”

“I know you two were,” I pause. “Together.”

Why am I prying? He knows that I know. I know he’ll never say anything outwardly negative about her as much as I wish that he would. And I don’t want him to think that I’m fishing. But I can’t resist.

“A long time ago,” he says quietly.

“It must be nice to have her back, though” I say. “An old friend.”

He shrugs and plucks one seed from each of our piles to start the pot.

“You go first,” he says, handing me the dreidel.

I give it a flick with my fingers but my spin is too enthusiastic and the dreidel ends up falling off the bench.

“Easy there, tiger,” Mulder says with a laugh, leaning over to pick it up off the ground.

I try again more gently, and land on hey. “Nice, Scully,” he says, as I take one seed back from the pot.

We go back and forth like this for a while, our respective sunflower seed piles growing and shrinking.

“I never did this with Diana,” he says absentmindedly as he adds to the pot after landing on shin.

“You don’t need to tell me that, Mulder,” I say softly, once again avoiding his eyes.

“It’s true,” he says, bringing his fingertips to my chin, encouraging me to look up and face him. “I’m not going to lie to you. We were very close for a while and, at the time, I would’ve said she was the love of my life—”

I flinch and hope he doesn’t notice.

“—but that was before I met you.”

“Oh, please, Mulder,” I say, leaning back and away from him. “You were in a relationship with her. You lived together. You were…intimate. I’m just your partner.”

“I hope you don’t believe that, Scully,” he says sternly, and I realize he’s serious. “I thought I loved Diana because she was the first person to accept me for who I am, but it didn’t take long to realize that she didn’t really see me. She saw a version of me that she felt she could mold into someone she’d want to be with. When I didn’t want to go along with that, she picked up and left. But you see me, Scully. You really see me for who I am and you haven’t run away yet.”

He reaches across our sunflower seed piles to hold my hand. His touch is gentle yet firm, as if to reassure me. My lips are trembling and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I’m scared to speak, not knowing what sounds will come out.

“And I see you,” he continues. “You’re so fucking loyal and honest and you fight for what you believe in. You’re principled and kind and even though you challenge me every day, there’s no one else I’d rather argue with. You give my life meaning.”

He squeezes my hand tighter. I try to hold back my tears but it’s no use. I blink and they’re streaming warm down my face. My heart and my mind are racing. Passersby are milling all around us but we’re frozen like statues.

“Mulder,” I gasp. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, smiling as he passes me the dreidel. “Just spin.”

Catching my breath, I give the dreidel one last spin on the bench.

“Gimel!” he shouts excitedly. “You get all the seeds, Scully. And all of me. Don’t forget that.”

“Too bad I don’t like sunflower seeds,” I say, smiling at him shyly.

“Well, I can take those off your hands,” he says, sweeping all three piles of seeds back towards him. “But you are stuck with me, unfortunately.”

We lock eyes. “I can live with that,” I say.

He returns the seeds to the plastic bag and tucks it back into his jacket pocket. As we walk back to the Hoover building, he drapes his arm around me. For the first time in months, we’re back in sync.

I think he just might love me.

#eightdaysofmulder #eightnightsofmulder #8dom #txf #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr

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aloysiavirgata · 5 months

Text

THERE IS A FICLET AT THE END OF THIS!

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

EIGHT.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Her phone rings and she closes her dry eyes.

She answers it without a word.

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

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

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

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

Thunder booms and Wicket huddles against her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My ties.”

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

Wicket panting.

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

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

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

“Scully?”

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

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

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

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scullysexual · 3 months

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You're Never Just Anything To Me (8)

@today-in-fic | ao3 | Prev. Chapter

A look into Mulder and Scully’s relationship starting from Millennium going all the way up to Requiem.

VIII. Closure

PART TWO.

He is dead on his feet.

His body aches all over, his eyes tensing with tiredness but Mulder knows no sleep will come to him tonight.

Scully keeps glancing over to him, every so often he’ll see her flex her wrists. Shame washes over him, the action a reminder of what had transpired the night before.

Skinner had been sent to them as an errand boy, forced to drag them out here and solve the case. Wrap it up in record time and if it couldn’t be solved then to let it come to a natural end where it could comfortably sit in the Cold Case drawer where nobody would pick at it for the next 20 years.

All three of them stand in the motel lobby. Skinner, quiet and stoic, here to do a job. Mulder and Scully, exhausted from the night before, made weary by this depressing case.

“Two rooms please,” Skinner asks the receptionist at the desk. “Twin and a single.”

The receptionist keys in some details, types down the accompanying names of Mulder and Scully. She holds the card reader out and then hands two keys numbered 15 and 16 towards Skinner.

“16 is the single,” the girl says and Skinner passes that one to Scully rather awkwardly, Scully takes it rather bashfully. Mulder is reminded that Skinner knows about them but rules are rules and this man was sent here to do a job.

Mulder looks longingly towards Scully as she unlocks her door. She smiles sadly and bids the other two goodnight. Mulder follows Skinner into the room. It’s an adjoining room with the door not too far from the bed Mulder claims. When he sits down, slouching under…everything he swears he hears the slight snick of it being unlocked.

…

There’s a dip in the mattress.

Scully rolls into it. The smell of Mulder floods her senses, the warmth of his body warming her up. Her arms naturally go around him off their own accord even if her words are protesting.

“You shouldn’t be in here, Mulder.”

Yet she didn’t want him to go either.

“I know I just…I needed you.”

The words send a warmth through her chest and down into her stomach. To be needed, to be sought comfort from, it made her feel useful.

They are quiet for a few minutes. She feels Mulder’s thumb soothing back and forth over her wrist and after a moment he brings it up to his lips and kisses over the bruises he can’t see but knows are there. He doesn’t say anything but the press of his lips against her skin says all: I’m sorry and Thank you. Scully snuggles into him, her own silent response: You’re welcome.

Then, Mulder speaks. “What do I do, Scully?”

He sounds exhausted, tired beyond belief. There’s pain in his voice, he is lost. His battered body from the onslaught of grief overwhelming him.

“74 means something, Mulder. I know it.”

“Scully…”

“Go home,” she says gently. She’s awake now, sitting upright. “Me and Skinner can finish the case, you go home.”

But he is shaking his head.

“I can’t…” he says and Scully can hear the tears that are starting to fall. “I want to but I can’t…”

She gathers him into her, holding him against her chest. She says nothing, instead letting her own tears fall down as well. Tonight wasn’t the night. Tomorrow is a new day.

Everything will be clearer tomorrow.

Hopefully.

…

His sister’s diary lays open on the table.

Mulder has no reason to believe it isn’t hers. The boy took him into that room, he was meant to find it.

He had wanted to be alone, save for Scully. He sent Skinner and Harold Piller away, took hold of Scully’s hand, diary clutched in the other, and the two of them drove all the way to this little diner.

Food and drinks are served but they remain untouched. Scully nibbles at hers here and there but Mulder can’t take his eyes off the words still written in her illegible eight year old handwriting despite her being fourteen years old here.

He reads each page, reading the torture that is inflicted upon her. His insides twists up and around, the whole thing makes him feel sick but like a car crash he can’t look away.

An old suitcase they can just drag around and open up when they want to.

He thinks of Scully, then, looks at her for a moment longer than necessary. Is this how you feel, he wonders. He turns back to the book and starts to read it aloud to her in the quiet diner. When he is finished, Scully takes his hand.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says. He waits outside while she pays the bill.

Now he stares up at the night sky, the stars. He always thought she was up there, travelling through light years of space and time, waiting for the moment she could return home. When in actual fact, she was here, locked away for six years. He had just finished high school at that time.

He is still staring at the night when Scully comes out of the diner. He doesn’t look away, just keeps staring. He talks of stars, of souls, he wonders what his mother saw, what she was trying to tell him. He is rambling, overtalking as he’s prone to do when he’s tired. Scully knows it, she tells him to go to sleep. That’s when he’s reminded of three years ago, of John Lee Roche, the cloth hearts, the Wonderland dreams. That wasn’t too far off now, was it, he thinks with a gentle smile.

When he sleeps tonight there is no flashing lights, no cries of Fox! Not even a red laser or a trip to Wonderland. He is dreamless. The only thing is the sound of whispered words in his ear.

The next morning, he wakes to the sound of knocking. It is noon. He doesn’t recall the whispered words.

…

Samantha hugs him. Fourteen years old, a child forever. Her glow is bright, like a star. When her arms wrap around him he swears he can feel it. When she pulls away and they look down at each other, something realises inside of him; the guilt, the fear, the longing, all of it, it washes away like a current.

For the first time in almost 30 years he feels free of all of it.

Scully and Harold wait for him by the car. He is smiling for the first time in days, there’s a bounce in his step, he is no longer hunkered down by it all.

“Are you okay?” Scully asks.

“I’m fine,” he answers still smiling. “I’m free.”

And Scully smiles back.

#the x-files #the x files #txf fic #xfiles fanfiction #soss #season 7 #scullysexualwrites

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gaycrouton · 1 year

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Scully’s first and last lines in every season of The X-Files - a thread ✨

Season One

Agent Dana Scully.

What are you going to do?

Season Two

It is advantageous to begin an autopsy with removal of the cranium. The cranium is opened with a horizontal division an inch above the eyebrow ridges.

Mulder...

Season Three

What happened?

But how?

Season Four

Mulder, he knows about your sister.

Agent Mulder died late last night from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

Season Five

Mulder? What are you doing? Why are you sitting in my bedroom in the dark?

Mulder, whatever you may believe, this time they may have won.

Fight the Future

Mulder, it's me.

I can't. I won't. Mulder, I'll be a doctor, but my work is here with you now. That virus that I was exposed to, whatever it is, it has a cure. You held it in your hand. How many other lives can we save? Look... if I quit now, they win.

Season Six

Mulder, I was hoping it wouldn't come up.

Dr. Sandoz? Hello? Dr. Sandoz?

Season Seven

I came in search of something I did not believe existed. I've stayed on now, in spite of myself. In spite of everything I've ever held to be true.

I'm pregnant.

Season Eight

What is this?! Excuse me. Can somebody please tell me what's going on here?

Which is what?

Season Nine

It's going to be okay...

Then we believe the same thing.

I Want to Believe

The deficiency in lipid metabolism and the severely diminished enzyme output.

Yes.

Season Ten

Yes?

I don’t know where he is.

Season Eleven

Mulder? Mulder, you have to go.

I know. I know it is. It’s more than impossible.

#msr #x files #scully #dana scully #gillian anderson

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eightnightsofmulder · 6 months

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Celebrating the Eight Nights of Mulder

In the spirit of celebrating Mulder’s (canonically loose ties to his) Jewish heritage, @welsharcher, @agent-troi, and @randomfoggytiger have teamed up to create an event running concurrently with this year’s Hanukkah: The Eight Nights of Mulder!

The prompts were created from themes we believe honor the spirit of Jewish culture while also incorporating the importance of Mulder’s quest in life.

The event begins December 7th and runs through to December 15th.

If you would like to participate, please tag this account, one of our main accounts, or include the hashtags #eightdaysofmulder, #8daysofmulder, or 8DoM (because you know Mulder would enjoy that one!)

We’d love if you joined us -- no matter if you choose to write fic, draw fanart, or create with any other artistic expression!

#Eight Days of Mulder #Announcement #eightdaysofmulder #8daysofmulder #8DoM #fox mulder #x files #welsharcher #agent-troi #randomfoggytiger

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randomfoggytiger · 2 months

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Find Five Lines Tag

Thank you for the tag, @television-overload~!

Rules: find any lines in your WIP that fit each parameter given by the person who tagged you. Then change one of the parameters and tag five or more people. Can be lines from multiple WIPs. If you can't find a line that fits, feel free to change the prompt.

My lines: a line about family, a passionate line, a line expressing dread, a line that is screamed, a funny line

Your lines: a line about family, a passionate line, a line expressing relief, a line that screamed, a funny line

Family line: "You Up for Joining Us?"

“I should call Melissa,” Bill rasped, rubbing a hand across his eyes, wondering if his father would already have done so.

Passionate line: Eight Nights of Mulder, Day 1: Gold

Alarmed, her pupils widened as her brain scrambled; and the only thought her mind could conjure through the static was gold, gold, gold on sluggish repeat.

Dread line: Son of Egypt

And if closed, found, 2000, died, resurrected was a possibility, then there was an equal chance that born, adopted, given a new identity could be true as well.

Screamed line: The Hospital Where You Slept

“Paramedics, now!” Mulder yelled, vaulting forward and pumping, pumping, pumping to keep her soul from leaving once more.

Funny line: Chariots of Fire

Above the thundering chaos, Krycek could have sworn he heard an angel jamming "Chariots of Fire" on his harp.

Tagging: @baronessblixen, @welsharcher, @agent-troi, @suitablyaggrieved, @amplifyme, @cecilysass, @slippinmickeys, @aloysiavirgata, @invidiosa, @writingwell, @pennyserenade, @virtie333, @two-microscopes, @storybycorey, @numinousmysteries, @xxsksxxx, @skelavender, @neednottoneed, @settle-down-frohike, @frogsmulder, @ghostbustermelanieking, @o6666666, @sigritandtheelves, @unremarkablehouse, @leiascully, @bakedbakermom, @freckleslikestars, and anyone else who wants to participate~

#txf #fic #mine #xf fanfic #xfiles #x-files #the x files #writing #“You Up for Joining Us?”#Eight Nights of Mulder #Day 1 #Son of Egypt #The Hospital Where You Slept #Chariots of Fire #Mulder #Scully #Bill Scully #Krycek

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baronessblixen · 5 months

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The Best Christmas Yet

Prompts: Eight Nights of Mulder, day 7: latkes / potatoes X-Mas Files Challenge: best Christmas ever

Summary: Post "HTGSC": Mulder is reluctant to join Scully at her mother's for Christmas for many reasons - until he realizes that everyone is happy he's there. (fluff, wc: 1,320)

Tagging @today-in-fic @eightnightsofmulder

If he's honest - and he can be in the safety of the dawning morning and its protecting darkness - he has to admit that he doesn't want to wake Scully. She's the cutest thing he's ever seen. Another thing he couldn't admit in the light of day.

Her hand is tucked under her cheek and she looks as if she was listening attentively before she fell asleep. Her feet are tucked into his side and he never thought he'd appreciate being kicked awake. With Scully, everything is different.

He couldn't have asked for more than this. Luring her to a haunted house, disguising his desire to spend time with her over the holidays behind a romantic ghost story, was a spur-of-the-moment thing.

When they got out of there and she drove off, he didn't blame her one bit. He blamed himself, though. Then she showed up here at his apartment. The book she got him is a nice touch. Having her here sleeping on his couch, however, is the real gift.

As much as he relishes the sight, he knows he can't let her sleep. She's due at her family soon, and he's not going to get in the way of that.

"Scully," he whispers, gently tracing his finger against her cheek. Her skin is rosy and feels warm against his own. Butterflies take flight in his stomach as he watches her nose scrunch before she blinks her eyes open.

"Did I fall asleep?" she mumbles. "What time is it?"

"Early something. I didn't want you to miss Christmas with your family." She groans and stretches, her sweater riding up and revealing milky white skin. He's trying not to stare and knows he's failing.

"I need to get going." She uses Mulder's shoulder to heave herself up from the couch, leaving him in a cloud of her scent. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, intoxicating him.

"Are you- have you thought about it?" Before she fell asleep, she asked him to accompany her to her mother's. Like every year. And like every year he said he'd think about it, knowing well he's going to decline. That was before he woke up to a sleepy, adorable Scully on his couch, whose face is so disarming that he's no longer sure what he should do.

"It would make my mom happy," she says. "It would make me even happier," she adds quietly. He can't say no. Not when she looks like she does. Or when she looks at him like this.

"How about," he begins and he sees her face fall. "I drive you to your mother's and then when you and her still want me there-"

"Mulder," she cuts him off, exasperation in her voice that he decides to ignore.

"Then I might stay an hour or two. What do you say?"

She observes him for a long, languid moment before she says, "let's go."

The roads are empty and they get to her mother's easily. And way too quickly for Mulder to have made up his mind. He parks the car and Scully throws him a smile, sweetly asking him to help her with the gifts. There's no way he can deny her.

They make their way to Mrs. Scully's house, their arms full with gifts. He's carrying a few more so that she can ring the doorbell. He hears a happy "Fox!" and mumbles a hello as he's ushered inside.

"Put the gifts over there." Maggie Scully pushes him into what he presumes is the living room. Once he's put down the boxes, he finds himself looking at a brightly smiling Mrs. Scully. Mulder has never seen her this delighted.

"I'm so happy you've finally decided to join us for Christmas, Fox." She engulfs him in a hug so tight that he's afraid he won't be able to catch another breath. A typical Scully hug. But usually, he receives them from her daughter and after he's almost died. He prefers it like this.

"I told you," Scully says smugly once her mother lets go of him.

"I had a feeling," she says, taking his hand into hers and pulling him toward the kitchen where various pans and pots are filled with pleasantly smelling delicacies. His stomach grumbles. Neither he nor Scully have eaten in a while.

"Dana said you're half Jewish," Mrs. Scully explains. "And I asked around, wanting to make something that would show you how much we appreciate you, Fox." With every word she says, the noose around his heart tightens. "I made latkes. Now, this is the first time I made them, but I had my neighbor try one and he said if you don't show up, he'll eat every single one of them. Do you like latkes, Fox? Oh, I hope you do." The knot in his throat prevents him from speaking, so he just throws his arms around Mrs. Scully, hoping she understands what this means to him.

"He loves everything that's made from potatoes," Scully says to her mother, and both women smile at him. A feeling of warmth spreads in his stomach. It feels very much like love.

"First things first," Mrs. Scully says, clapping her hands. "We have several little children - and a few adults - who want to open their presents. Come on you two."

In the next few hours, Mulder experiences a Christmas like he never has before. People he's never met treat him like he's part of the family. When Bill Jr. shows up, he grumbles exactly three times and then his expression softens. He pats Mulder on the back, lets him hold baby Matthew, and if he's heard right, gives him his blessing. For what, Mulder can only guess.

Scully remains by his side like a shadow. She falls asleep on him once while they're waiting for dinner. When she wakes up, and he moves a strand of hair off her forehead, her smile is like the first breaths of spring after an ice-cold winter. It takes his breath away.

She brushes his cheek with a finger, wiping away an invisible piece of lint, and her touch lingers. He still feels it when he stuffs himself with latkes, unable to stop himself. He thanks Mrs. Scully profusely in between bites, making her grin from ear to ear.

"Leave some for the rest of us," someone says to the amusement of everyone. He holds his breath while Bill Jr. tries one and only lets go of it once he announces that he likes it. There's laughter and joy, happiness and love. To Mulder, it feels surreal, like a dream. He barely dares to blink, afraid that if he does, he'll wake up in his cold, dark apartment, all alone.

"You look like a deer caught in the headlights." Scully is leaning against him and has her face tipped up. She's smaller than either of them is used to without her heels.

"Not to be pathetic," Mulder says, "but this might be the best Christmas I've ever had."

"Does that mean I won't have to talk you into this next year?" When she laughs, he feels it vibrate through his own body. Her eyes are sparkling and he's sure it's from the mulled wine they've had. He feels the effect of the alcohol, too, and can't stop glancing at her berry-red lips that are so deliciously inviting.

"You're going to get sick of me."

"Hmm, not gonna happen." She wobbles and he puts his hands on her waist to steady her. "I like having you here."

"I like being here."

"Then it's settled," she says, sighing. She turns in his arms, looking up at him. Should he dare? Should he try and make this night perfect?

"I wish there were mistletoe here," he whispers.

"Just pretend there is." Their mouths meet in the middle and Mulder thinks he hears music and cheering while he kisses her, his tongue tangling with hers.

#ficmas2023 #work is making it harder to write i wanna cry #but fluff!#msr #xf fanfic #my writing #my fic

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agent-troi · 5 months

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Eight Nights of Mulder, Night 1: Gold

Summary: Mulder helps Scully put on her new earrings as they’re getting ready to go to an FBI gala. (inspired by the gorgeous earrings I bought this past weekend only to find it's almost impossible for me to put them on by myself🤣)

@eightnightsofmulder @today-in-fic

ao3 link

“Mulder, can you come over here and help me with this?”

He paused in the midst of tying his tie and poked his head into Scully’s bathroom. “We’re gonna be late, you know.”

“Not if you get in here and help me.” She sighed and gestured at the shiny gold hoops dangling from her earlobes. “It’s these goddamn new earrings. They looked so gorgeous in the store, but when you’re actually wearing them it’s impossible to find the right angle to connect both ends together. I need you to close them for me.”

Mulder grinned and cracked his knuckles dramatically. “My sausage fingers and I are at your service.”

Scully rolled her eyes as he stepped closer and gently grasped both ends of the little gold hoop, being as careful as he could not to tug too hard on her earlobe. “Where…?”

“It’s supposed to just slide right in.”

Mulder leaned in closer as he slid the narrow end of the earring into the wider end, noticing as he did so how incredibly wonderful she smelled. “Is that a new perfume?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said affirmatively as he moved to her other ear, lingering over her neck as his fingers danced delicately through the wisps of hair that lay there. “Jasmine and honey.”

“I like it.” He closed her other earring and gently nudged his nose into her hair. She giggled, and he slid his arms around her as he made his way down to her neck and nuzzled it, which only made her giggle harder.

“We’re gonna be late,” she admonished him while simultaneously pressing her body against his.

“Don’t care anymore,” he murmured into her skin. “In fact, I think we should skip this thing altogether.”

“You rebel.”

“Your rebel.”

He felt her giggle again in his arms, and he thought his heart might burst. How did he get to be so lucky?

“Skinner’s gonna be mad if we don’t come again this year,” she said.

Mulder shifted his position so she could feel his erection poking through his pants. “Trust me, coming is not going to be a problem.”

Scully let out a soft, sensual moan, and he somehow managed to get even harder. “Not for me, either…”

#today in fic #eightnightsofmulder #x files #fox mulder #dana scully #mulder x scully #msr #season of secret sex #gold #hanukkah

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slippinmickeys · 7 months

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Madam Scully’s Spiritual Services, Inc. (4/?)

“I was twelve when it happened. My sister was eight. She just disappeared out of her bed one night. Just gone. Vanished. No note, no phone calls, no evidence of anything.”

The sun was finally below the horizon and the streetlights around the parking lot began winking on. They sat at the picnic table as the evening insects emerged, buzzing above the shimmer of heat off the asphalt.

Dana waved one away from her face. “You never found her?”

Mulder shook his head. “It tore the family apart. No one would talk about it. There were no facts to confront, nothing to offer any hope, except…”

Dana found herself hanging on his every word. The paleta in her hand melted, forgotten, dripping onto the dirt beneath the picnic table in little yellow drops, collecting dust around the edges.

“Except?” she asked.

He turned to look at her. “Except when we received a package in the mail, months later. In it was a red scarf that had belonged to her. One my grandmother had knitted. We didn’t even realize that it was missing until we opened the package. We took it to the police, but they never got anywhere with it.” Mulder swallowed thickly and looked away.

“My parents were murdered,” she blurted out, unaware that she intended to say anything until the words were out of her mouth. It was the first time she’d said it out loud. Mulder, surprised, turned to her with a look of such tenderness and sympathy that she could feel the burn of tears behind her eyes. She inhaled sharply and sat up straighter. “So I just…” she started, “I know what it feels like when the police can’t or don’t help,” she finished lamely.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder said then, and she could tell he really meant it. “Were you able to… you know, talk with them… after?”

“That’s the thing, Mulder,” she said, turning to him. “I can’t talk to the dead. Or I couldn’t. Not before you…” she sighed, shook her head. She was finding it impossible to reconcile what had happened with her beliefs. “I don’t really believe in that kind of thing.”

At this, Mulder did the most unexpected thing in the world. He threw his head back and laughed. Dana, only just seeing the humor in it all, could only manage a smile.

“You work in a fortune teller shop, you heard the voice of what I have to assume is my dead sister, and you don’t believe?”

She turned slightly incredulous. “Do you?”

His laugh faded as Mulder appeared to sober a little. “I want to believe,” he said, and in the air around them, a cosmic tumbler seemed to click into place. Behind Dana’s sternum, her heart gave an extra beat. When she looked over at Mulder, he had a queer sort of look on his face. They both shifted uneasily and then Mulder spoke.

“Do you think you could do it again?” he asked quietly, flicking his eyes up to meet hers. “Talk to Samantha?” Dana could see the shadow of a lost twelve year old boy in his face.

The sound of voices honed in on the moment, and Dana looked up to see Melissa and her client in the doorway of the shop. The women hugged briefly before the client waved goodbye and made for her car. Melissa glanced over to where Dana and Mulder were sitting and gave a silent wave before ducking back in through Madam Scully’s door.

“My sister is the professional,” she demurred, regretting the words the instant they were out of her mouth, but unable to take them back.

Mulder looked at her for a long minute, his gaze frank and uncomfortable.

Finally, he said, “Then I guess I should talk with your sister.”

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #au #wip #psychic au

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