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nimmy22 · 3 years

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A Mistake: Chapter 12

~ The following day, Saturday ~

"Do something, Wesker! These fucking imbeciles at the papers are starting to question my competence as chief all because of a pathetic group of boys you can't seem to dispose of." Irons seethed, slamming his cup of whisky on the desk, knocking his nameplate to the ground.

Wesker gave nothing away of his emotions, save for a tick in his brow. His hands craved to wrap around Irons’ neck, giving it a swift snap. It's how he felt most of his days at the station. Irons was replaceable. The man didn't realize just how worthless he was to Umbrella. His replacement could arrive this very afternoon.

"We are working on finding the gang's nest. The big players keep using young boys for the jobs but tell them nothing about insider information. There are too many eyes watching us right now. We cannot use any special means to dispose of the group in order avoid questions."

"Just Do your fucking job right. I can't stand the news conferences anymore. the journalist's questions make me look laughable." Irons clutched his glass, throwing it hard against the wall. Tapping a finger on the armrest, Wesker didn't bat an eye at the behavior of the chief of police. One couldn't expect much from such a lowly creature.

"You seem to forget why Umbrella put me as captain of STARS. It isn't to keep up your public appearance but to protect theirs. I'm not the one who isn't doing his job. Deal with the journalists while I handle the little boy scouts." pushing back his chair, Wesker made sure to leave deep grooves on the freshly varnished floors. The scraping sound was like music to his soul. He didn't miss the deathly glare on his way to the door like hot iron rods.

Returning to the STARS office, Wesker ignored the gossiping of Chris and Jill about the newest trouble between their captain and Irons. Shutting the door to his office, he took a seat behind his desk. Through the office blinds, he eyed each present member of STARS. of course, no one was getting any work done, lazing around the office, making meaningless bets.

This simply will not do.

It was time they did some undercover work, gathering information about Raccoon city's newest crime family. These boy scouts wouldn't last long around here, especially since they fell on the radar of the real monsters in the shadows of Raccoon.

---------------

She sat alone on the staircase, elbows resting on her knees, wondering how the hell she got here. The house was familiar to her. How many times has she looked after Sherry here? Still, it felt strange. It was his space, and she was invading it.

This was now supposed to be her home. The place gave no hints as to who lived here, lacking any personal touch. It was likely the work of an anterior designer following the most fashionable trends. The home of a bachelor.

Speaking of Wesker, he left after dumping her here last night and vaguely pointing her towards the guest room with a 'help yourself' to any food. As always, he gave her the bare minimum of info, not that she asked what he was up to. She didn't care whether he spent the night hiding bodies or doing legitimate police work. She was too terrified to sleep under the same roof, only a few walls apart. Does the man ever sleep? Shower? Eat?

She won't lie. She was glad Wesker left. But even with him gone, she couldn't stop thinking about what happened. More so the kiss than almost becoming a guinea pig. It was a lot to process, and she couldn't even begin.

For the nth time, she forcibly pulled her fingers away from her lips, scolding herself for replaying the memory again. This man was absolute bad news. She needed to get out of the house, and an incoming call from Claire had her scrambling to answer as quickly as possible. Her friend presented an idea, and Cara was all too grateful to join in.

Pulling up Wesker's name in the contacts, Cara's fingers hovered over the letters, unsure of what and how much to tell him. Where did they stand? Did he really mean everything, or was it a trick? Was she free to leave? Did he give up completely on the idea of killing her?

"Going out with Claire. I will be back late." she texted, fully knowing a lot of info was missing. But it's not like he ever gave her a ton.

"Stay out of trouble.' came a replay moments later.

The words were unsaid, but Cara definitely heard them. 'I don't have time to drop everything and run over to the rescue each and every time you get in trouble,'

'I asked for help only once. The other time's nobody asked you to come.' Cara grumbled but deleted what she wrote. she could've gotten herself out of those situations...with a little bit of thinking. Actually, a lot of thinking.

----------------------------

Cara had to walk several blocks away from Wesker's house to prevent suspicion. If by any chance, Claire knew the address of her brother's captain, it would be a hole she did not want to leap into.

Standing in front of an old bookstore, she waited for her friend. The building was slightly rundown, its walls covered in graffiti, but the owners were a kind elderly couple. They pushed discounts her way, and she was guilted to buy something. She ended up buying a useless cat plushie toy after seeing that most books were non-fiction or raunchy romance novels. She would rather die than have Wesker coming across an erotic novel lying around his house.

She stared at the plushie as she leaned against the wall outside the shop. Cara considered giving it to Sherry the next time they met. This would be the first present she ever gave the young girl, and she could almost imagine the excitement on Sherry's face. It made her smile.

A helicopter passed overhead, sleek black and adorned with the Umbrella white and red symbol. Cara watched the chopper get smaller and smaller until it disappeared, heading in the direction of the Arkley mountains. she wondered about their business up there was. Looking around, no one else seemed to notice nor care. Maybe it was best to keep all knowledge to herself.

Seeing a familiar redhead and a motorcycle, Cara waved as Claire pulled up, handing her a helmet.

---------------

The barn smelled of sweat, dust, and old wood. The unmistakable smell of alcohol was thick in the air as it was passed around freely in cheap red plastic cups. She recognized kids from school, but many more were older, likely from Raccoon university. A light disco machine was nailed to the wall, casting the barn in a series of flashing lights. Tall Straw piles of hay distributed across the barn ensured there was no shortage of dark corners for people to disappear to. For a moment, Cara considered hiding in the straw and then going home when the party was over. But seeing the sparkle in Claire's eyes about hanging out with her best friend threw the idea out the window. With a sigh, she followed her friend.

Over the course of the night, the girls danced and drank, carefree. A blond-haired boy was staring at her, Cara noticed. He attempted to walk up to her but turned around before getting within ten feet. He tried multiple times but always chickened out despite his friends constantly cheering him on. Claire thought it was cute and refused to stop openly staring at him and giving a thumbs up. Cara swatted Claire's hands before holding them behind her back in a pretend arrest, pushing her against the straw pile.

"Sorry Officer! I was just trying to help you get laid," Claire giggled. "I hope you're into blonde's though,"

"This is so embarrassing. Stop, or I'm leaving," Cara snapped, feeling a blush heat her face as Wesker crossed her mind. Fuck, why now?

"Oh? so you are into blondes," Claire's smile was cunning. "Let me help you,"

"No. Bad Claire, bad, bad girl. No treats for you tonight." Cara scolded, Stealing the can of beer her friend stole from a guy before cracking it open and downing its contents. She wouldn't yet consider herself drunk, just pleasantly buzzed.

The boy ran off again. Cara felt bad for him and was actually tempted to go up to him instead. His friends kept a steady stream of alcohol into his hand.

"H-hey, " And then he did it, with the help of liquid courage, of course.

For the effort, Cara decided not to openly embarrass him with rejection but not lead him on either. Walking away backward, Claire gave her a thumbs up along with a suggestive motion of the eyebrows, making horrid shapes with her hands. Cara covered her face, hoping to purge the image out of memory. She'll get her back in no time.

Ben was a bit shy at first, but soon they got talking and enjoyed themselves. His hair was a few shades darker and shorter than Wesker's. She didn't have to look up at him as they stood at a similar, comfortable height. Slender and skinny, he would shrink to nothing beside the captain. Cara grimaced, realizing she had been comparing the poor guy to a demon. It wasn't his fault that her mind was occupied with someone way out of her league... the legal kind.

The barn was becoming more and more crowded, and the dancing crowd swallowed them. Sticking out like two sore thumbs, they did their best to dance. Cara felt awkward but seeing the dimples in his smile made her feel better even as it became a tighter fit among the crowd. They had to dance closer lest they got separated.

She wondered what it would feel like to dance with Wesker. He seemed like the sophisticated type. The awkward moves of a teenager would never be adequate for him. Did he ever do anything that was remotely recreational? What do villains even do in their spare time? Manipulating the feelings of underage girls looks like. What stupid, stupid thoughts.

She prayed all these ideas would go away soon, as the thrill of the kiss wore off, and everything went back to normal. Did she want to go back? Why in the world would he like her? she knew who he really was, and he still let her live. Why take the risk with her? she was just a seventeen-year-old. Useless to everyone, with no connections and no money.

Fuck it. Cara refused to think about Wesker anymore tonight. There was a perfectly alright guy in front of her, someone her own age, someone in her league, someone she wouldn't have to hide. Someone who was looking at her with a soft expression, blinking slowly.

Cara placed her hands on either side of Ben's face and pulled him towards her, connecting their lips. He reacted instantly, kissing her back. His hands awkwardly hovered over her arms before stroking them softly.

He was a nice guy, not a terrible kisser, but she hated it. Hated every touch because it wasn't as good as with Wesker. She couldn't stop comparing, and it was frustrating, spurring her to kiss Ben harder.

She continued, out of spite, to kiss the boy who looked at her with affection. in the background, she heard a few boys cheering, likely his friends. This was wrong, very wrong.

A firm hand gave her waist a painful squeeze before it was gone, and she thought it was Ben. Her eyes flew open as she felt a warm breath by her ear. It wasn't Ben.

"If I was not undercover right now, this lesser specimen of a boy would've made some unforgettable acquaintances a lot sooner. You could've done so much better, yet you have chosen to this..." Wesker seethed by her ear, sending shivers down her spine. Her body froze, but Ben didn't pick up the cue. Wesker's muscles were tense as he pressed against her back. She could almost hear the exhale through clenched, grinding teeth.

Then he was gone, slipping through the crowd just as he came. No one notices anything. Cara broke the kiss and shoved Ben away. "I'm sorry, it isn't going to work out." She hurried after Wesker, but he was already lost in the crowd.

She shoved her way through the throngs of people but only managed to find other members of STARS in civilian clothes. None seemed to notice or recognize her. They must've been here on undercover work, but why? she put that question aside as there were more pressing things to worry about.

She felt sick and wanted to throw up, but nothing was coming up. she burst through the doors of the suffocatingly hot bran, raking her hands through her hair. The cool night air hit her heated skin, but she couldn't find relief. She wanted to be swallowed by the ground.

She needed to find Wesker. But then what? Apologize? Apologize for making her own choices? They weren't a couple.

She continued to look for him nevertheless. She walked further from the barn towards an old car junkyard. She thought perhaps a fuming man would need some privacy. A strong feeling in her gut told her this was the right way.

Cara walked far enough from the party that the music was nothing but a distant noise. It was dark and quiet, the perfect place for an assault. If Wesker decided to murder her, no one would find her for at least a week, stuffed in the trunk of a car. If ever.

Grabbed from behind, she was thrown against a car. Sliding to the ground, she cradled her aching arm, squinting in the dark to see her assailant. Wesker kneeled beside her, his civilian clothes dark and expensive.

"Why cut it short? You should've kissed him more while you still can because he will be the last boy you will ever kiss." squeezing her cheeks harshly, he dragged his thumb with heavy pressure over the flesh of her lips, still swollen from kissing Ben.

As Wesker let go of her face, she felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressing against her temple. Her heart skipped a beat, but she glared at him straight in the eye. Daring.

"I don't know what you want from me! You told me to keep out of trouble, and I did. Yet here we are," Cara lied. She knew what he wanted but didn't know why he wanted it.

"Were my intentions not clear enough? Do I have to spell it out for you? But I suppose intelligence was never your strength,"

Wesker pressed the gun harder against her temple, her glare unwavering. "Go ahead. Shoot me. why do you even bother?"

Neither moved, naked eyes locked with no shades between. Cara reached up and pulled the gun out of his hands with ease. He didn't resist, glaring at her with a tense jaw. Looking down, she almost laughed, seeing the safety was still on. This man couldn't bring himself to kill her. It was all a show of intimidation, and she wasn't falling for it. Not anymore.

As she made to stand, his hand pushed her down. Thinking he wanted the gun back, she returned it to his hand and tried to stand. again, he pushed her down. "Can I get up now?" she scowled, staring up at him.

Things happen too quickly for her to process. The hands on Cara's shoulder grabbed her legs, lifting her off the ground as Wesker wrapped her legs around him before slamming her against the car. She was winded, gasping for breath as he watched her with a smirk. She grabbed his arms, digging her nails into his defined muscles.

"You're up now," he whispered before his lips kissed her neck, sucking and nibbling the skin. A moan escaped her lips, and she covered her mouth immediately.

Grabbing both her hands, he pinned them against the car. "I need to clean your mouth of all traces of that boy,"

"Are you going to rinse my mouth with soap or something? This is childish and-" Cara's words settled in a moan as Wesker began grinding a very defined length against her growing sickness. She tightened her legs around his waist, drawing him closer.

Trailing his nose across her skin, he followed the curve of her neck to the ear, taking the lobe between his teeth. She melted against him when his hot tongue entered her ear. His tongue plunged in and out repeatedly like a preview of what he could do to her. Her heart went on an overdrive.

"Just kiss me," Cara breathed, a tension building in her belly. She wanted to taste him. in addition to sparing any additional marks on her neck to hide.

"No,” nuzzling into her neck, he grinded harder against her, earning a series of moans.

"You know who else wouldn't mind kissing me-" Wesker slammed his lips to hers, kissing her roughly, their teeth clashing. Cara melted further, a smile on her lips as her tongue danced with his. She savored everything, The taste of him, softness of his lips, his warmth, and the building friction between their bodies. There was nothing more she wanted.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Three gunshots were fired.

Cara was barely steady on her feet when Wesker dropped her to the ground, his eyes scanning their surroundings. What little they heard of the music was drowned out by distant screams of the partygoers.

"What's happening?" she questioned, grabbing his arm, but his attention was fixed on the barn.

"Stay here," Wesker warned, already talking to someone by an earpiece she hadn't noticed before.

With his gun ready, he took off, running towards the barn. Cara made to follow him but was pulled back towards the car by her hand.

The fucker handcuffed and left her in the middle of a junkyard in the dark.

#resident evil #claire redfield #albert wesker #Albert Wesker X OC #oc

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lyra-rey · 6 years

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Villain Name: ↳ Scythe

Face Claim: ↳ Adria Arjona

Age: ↳ 510 (looks 25)

Species: ↳ Demigod

Powers & Abilities / Specialities: ↳ Life-Force Manipulation (specifically regenerative healing, age manipulation, resurrection, minor healing and life-force absorption)

What was once a latent power, her ability of life-force manipulation was surfaced after almost century of torture. Most of it is completely unconscious such as her regenerative healing and age manipulation, but over the years she figured out how to use many of its other uses. She can absorb people’s life-force with her touch, though she cannot take all of it (thus killing them). The best she can do is suck their life force until they go unconscious then kill them that way. Taking someone’s life force also gives her a burst of energy. She is unable to create life force, meaning that in order to resurrect someone, she must use her own life force, or there must be just enough latent life force for her to amplify. She can heal through a similar way that she brings someone back to life, though she hasn’t truly tempted the limits of this power and usually only uses it if she happens to hurt an innocent in the crossfire.

Backstory: (Trigger Warning for mentions of sexual assault and torture)

↳ She was born Yamanik, in a different time as the reincarnation of the fabled Hero Twins. Her brother never did believe the legends, but she did. She yearned to wear the important title, to be someone important in their world. When news spread of their lineage, she jumped at the opportunity, even as her brother, Kasakir, wished to remain at their dying farm. Their village treated them as gods and as news of them spread, she prepared herself for the K'iche' leaders, convincing herself that she and her brother would be able to take them down if they so wanted to. As it turned out, the Spanish conquistadors did that for her. In the fight that broke out, she lost sight of her brother and just as she was going to call out his name, her vision went black.

The conquistadors did not know of the Hero Twins; they didn't care that she was a reincarnated god. They saw her as a woman first and used her as such. She became one of the many to be treated as "free labor" and no matter what she did to escape, they always managed to catch her in the end. It was never the labor she feared, but the men who believed owned her. They were the ones to stare longer than they ought to or pulled her out of her sleep in the middle of the night.

By the time they realized she was not aging, she yearned for death. She was given to holy men who wanted to purge the devil out of her. When fire did not kill her (despite her screams), they tried water. When water wouldn't work, they tried rocks. So many different ways for her to die and not one of them worked. As the time in between their attempts to kill her became longer, she found herself meditating. She mulled over the stories of the Hero Twins, reminding herself that she was them, she was more powerful than the humans who continued to try to manipulate her. Even as they starved her and used her body, she held more power than they could have ever imagined. In the dark cell, she discovered her true power. She bided her time and when the priest went to her with another attempt to purge the devil out of her, she killed him without batting an eye. And then she brought him back to life. Her words to him were "I want you to feel death as many times as I have."

She didn't know what to do with herself after escaping her cell. She thought about her brother, who must still be alive somewhere in the world, but without a way to track him down, he left her mind instantaneously. Instead, she just walked. She didn't know where she was going, but she vowed to never become someone's slave ever again.

In her aimless wandering, she saw many horrible things, countries brought to ruin, wars crushing innocent people. She hated this world, hated every man who believed it was their right to kill another. It wasn't their right; it was hers. She killed for sport, whenever there was a man who stared at women the wrong way or said something she didn't like. She seduced them, lured them in, stabbed them as many times as she could, and brought them back to life to see what she had done. Sometimes she killed them again, other times she let them live in fear of her return. Any man who killed another was her victim and she had so many to choose from. Never mind that they changed their ways or started a family to atone for their crimes. The world was unforgiving and she was only playing by its rules.

She was already at Newhaven when she saw her brother for the first time in centuries. He wore a silly outfit with a silly name and dubbed himself a hero. One look at him and she could see that life had been much kinder to him than it had been to her and she loathed him for it. The world always did treat men better and she thought it good to remind them that she wouldn't accept being pushed aside any longer. She wore her own ridiculous outfit and proved to all of them that she was stronger, that she was better, and she would kill anyone who tried to tell her otherwise.

Moral Alignment: ↳ Lawful Evil

Criminal MO: ↳ She usually kills or attacks murderers or those who have shown serious violence against others. She predominantly goes after men, though she has been known to kill women who are particularly heinous. She has maintained her normal MO of luring in whoever she intends to kill, taking their life force, murdering them, then traumatizing them by bringing them back to life. Most of the time, she will kill them again after, but occasionally, she will flip a coin to decide if they will stay permanently dead or not.

Extra Info: ↳ In case it wasn’t obvious, she is the twin sister to the guild member, Daybreak.

↳ She never bothers to give herself a new name as the woman she once was has definitely died. She currently goes by the name Ava, but will most likely change it whenever she forgets what she is supposed to be called or grows bored of it.

↳ She thinks of the vigilantes as even more ridiculous versions of the guild, but incredibly more dangerous. She keeps her eyes on the ones with questionable morals *cough* Red River and Puck *cough* and might even have them on her long list of potential victims.

↳ Her symbol is that of a scythe, both to represent her small beginnings as a farmer and the image of death she now takes on.

↳ She lives by a woman’s shelter and is often seen volunteering there. A great deal of her victims are the abusers of the women at the shelter.

↳ As for money, she’ll usually take whatever she wants. She has gathered several priceless artifacts over the years that she sells whenever she doesn’t feel like taking something.

↳ She has a strange appreciation for Anima and is a fan of her work.

↳ Fun fact: her given name Yamanik means emerald in the K’iche’ language.

#talkvig #task6 #scythe #; i wasnt gonna do daybreak's sister but the opportunity was too good #taskvig

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ghostbustermelanieking · 7 years

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28. When I am dead :')

i had this idea a few months ago and wasn’t ever going to write it but i really liked it with this prompt. cross-posted on ao3 because it got overlong and i had to use a cut.

warning for discussion of suicide.

gethsemane au

“It him?” the detective asks, and she says, “Yeah,” and leaves the room on wobbly legs.

This is not happening, something in the back of her mind says. She doesn’t know if she feels dizzy because of the cancer or because her partner’s dead on the floor in there. Her heart thunders unevenly in her chest. This cannot possibly be happening, she tells herself. Her fingernails bite into her palm. She doesn’t let herself cry until she gets to the elevator.

(Two years ago, he came back from the dead here. It has gone full fucking circle.)

She’s not at all surprised when she collapses in a meeting, not at all surprised when they tell her she’s dying. Someone mails a chip to the hospital - some anonymous donor - and Scully agrees to replace the one that used to be in her neck with it because all she can think is that Mulder would want her to try it. She’s not surprised when they tell her she’s dying, but she is surprised when they tell her she’ll live. She is grateful when she sees her brother’s smile and her mother’s grateful sobbing, but her chest clenches when she thinks about telling Mulder. He would’ve wanted to know; wanted to know that his conspiracy was the one that saved her. When her family leaves, she pulls her sloppily written journal into her lap and flips to the back. She’s written something in a sloppy hand that she doesn’t remember writing. She swallows hard and writes one more thing: I never really blamed you. I’m so sorry.

—

He wakes up in a cell, the last thing he remembers being the gun in his lap. No - he blinks the sleep from his eyes and reaches further. He remembers standing with the gun in his hand and deciding - he had to go underground, to find a cure for Scully. Maybe she could help him, if she didn’t completely hate him; or if she couldn’t, the Gunmen would. He started to turn, and then he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. And then nothing. And then here.

Someone comes into the room and he tries to fight him, but of course it’s some kind of fucking alien who looks like a human. Kristchgau was wrong and Scully is still dying. Fuck.

The alien thrusts a hand out and pins him to the wall with some invisible push. “Calm down, Mr. Mulder.”

“What the hell is going on here?” he spits, struggling against the force holding him to the hard cement. “What do you want with me?”

“People believe that the conspiracy is false, and now the only living proof is allegedly dead,” the alien says matter-of-factly.

“And what about my partner?” Mulder hisses. (She’s the only weapon he has at this point; maybe she won’t really believe he’s gone, maybe she’ll come for him. No, fuck, she can’t do that, she’s sick, she’s dying. He is as selfish as he’s always thought himself to be.) “What does she believe?”

The alien pauses before continuing with some kind of self-satisfaction. “Dana Scully died last night at Trinity Hospital.”

When the alien finally loosens the force that has him pinned against the wall, he doesn’t even try to stay upright; he just lets his knees hit the ground.

—

They release Scully from the hospital a week after she goes into remission. With Bill and her mother surrounding her and being generally happy that she isn’t dead, she can almost pretend that there’s not a void inside her, some sort of black hole in the pit of her stomach. When they leave, it’s quieter, and the image is unavoidable.

(Mulder’s blood on the floor, the sheet draped over his body, the gun on the table, they gave me this disease to make you believe…)

Scully lies on the couch with a throw blanket draped over her lap. It feels too much like the period of time after her coma, where it seemed like all the strength had been sucked right out of her. Except for the fact that this was much more severe - she has a much longer recovery period, a two-month sick leave from work. And her mother is still here to fuss over her, but Melissa isn’t here to sit on the end of the couch and tease her about her partner or make fun of TV shows with her or offer to paint her nails like they did when they were kids, and Mulder isn’t here to awkwardly visit and offer her videotapes or treat her like she is something delicate and sacred or look at her the way he looked at her in her hospital bed when she thought she wasn’t looking. She doesn’t even have her dog to keep her company. She’s lost almost too much to count.

She watches bad TV for three days, breaks down just once:in the bathroom, after she picked up the phone to call him and remembered he wasn’t there anymore. This is too hard, she thinks then, looking down at the phone, on its side on the floor where she dropped it. I can’t do this.

She calls Skinner and asks him to keep the X-Files open. She doesn’t entirely trust him but who else is going to keep the unit open? He asks her why, and she says, “In honor of Agent Mulder’s memory, to continue his work.” It’s the truth and a lie; she’ll continue it in a different way than he would’ve wanted, probably, because she’s never been a believer in her life, but still. She owes it to her sister and his sister and herself and him to find the people who did this, do this. They killed him, essentially, and she is going to take them down.

She calls an old friend who owes her a favor and asks to see Mulder’s autopsy report. “Oh, Dana, I guess they didn’t tell you,” her friend says.

When would they have told me? Scully thinks irritably. “No.”

“They went over my head. I never even saw the body. It was taken away as evidence.”

Scully thanks her absently and hangs up, mind racing. The fuckers; they didn’t even have the decency to give her or his mother any closure. His mother, damn, she has no idea how Teena Mulder is doing at the moment. The last time she saw Teena, it was when she slapped Mulder. She calls her, hands shaking as she clutches the receiver. Teena calls her Agent Scully and doesn’t seem to want to talk for too long. Scully understands. She tells her that Mulder is buried in Martha’s Vineyard and thanks her for working with her son before hanging up. She could thank me for protecting him if I’d done my job right, Scully thinks. She thinks that between the two of them, neither of them are what he needed.

—

He always thought he’d fight if he were ever abducted. He thinks the circumstances are probably a little different than what happened to Samantha and Scully - he didn’t see a light, for one thing - but still, it’s clear where he is. (Scully fought, he knows she did, instinctively, because she never went down without a fight.) He always thought he’d be making plans, looking for his sister. He always thought he’d fight if Scully died.

He doesn’t fight.

Scully’s death is more than he can take. He’s known this - known it since he stared down at a gun barrel at her and tried to fight Modell’s voice in his head, known it since he saw her stiff and almost lifeless in a hospital bed, known it since she got her diagnosis. He was going to fight for her, and he couldn’t even do that right. He killed her, whether aliens are real or not, because even if they aren’t, she never would’ve been involved in all this if it weren’t for him. She would’ve lived. And he never would’ve known her, but it would’ve been better this way.

He lies on the dirty floor of his cell, doesn’t get up when the aliens enter. He tries to sleep, but can’t. He tries to remember what her voice sounds like and can only come up with the last time he saw her. When she told him it was his fault.(The men behind this hoax… behind these lies… gave me this disease to make you believe. The last thing she said to him. It was his fault, and she knew it. She died knowing it.) But he’d rather have her alive and blaming him then dead.

He was in love with her and he didn’t want to tell her because he was scared and then she was dying and what kind of person would he be if he waited until then? He’s waited too long. He whispers it into the skin of his arm (Iloveyou) just once, like the ground she’s buried in might carry the message to her and she’ll come back. He says I’m sorry more, because he is and he needs her to know that more than anything. He doesn’t know if the dead can hear the living, doesn’t know if ghosts are real and doesn’t know if she’d haunt him if they were.

The smoker visits him once, and Mulder shouts at him, tries to pin him to the wall of the cell but he’s too weak, he hasn’t been eating. He collapses on the ground in front of him. The smoker looks down at him curiously before grabbing him and dragging him across the dirty floor, wheezing the entire time. He manages to haul and drop Mulder on the tiny bed, the cot rocking with the force of his weight. “Agent Scully was your weakness,” he says. Was, Mulder thinks, and wants to vomit. “Maybe it wasn’t a wise idea to assign her to you.”

“You motherfucking bastard,” Mulder says, trying to find the malice in his voice and failing. He is pathetically tired. “You killed her.”

The smoker takes a long drag of his cigarette. The fucker; the smell won’t come out, with no windows, will continue to be a stomach-turning reminder. “Perhaps,” he says, and leaves. Mulder listens for the sound of the lock in the door, but he doesn’t hear it. He must be imagining things, the smoker would never let him leave like that.

He sleeps, weightless. But not dreamless. Scully is there. He’s starting to think she’s everywhere.

—

Maggie takes Scully to Massachusetts to visit his grave. She doesn’t want Scully to go alone, and the doctor in Scully agrees. But she insists that her mother let her go to the grave alone, at least.

The sun is shining, which feels wrong. It feels like clouds should be choking the sky and she can’t breathe when she sees his headstone. She doesn’t want to touch it but she does - gingerly with outstretched fingers. It’s cold to the touch.

“Mulder,” she starts, uncertain. She had a speech prepared, she went over and over it in her head on the drive up, but all the words have left her. She has nothing to say. She presses her palm flat against the headstone. “Mulder, it’s me,” she says. She is awkward in the way that she hasn’t been with him since 1993; what do you say to a dead man? (Mulder would know, she thinks. Mulder would know what to say.)

“I’m so sorry for… everything.” The stone is new and smooth under her fingers; a reminder. She swallows back nausea or a sob, she’s not sure which, and whispers, “It wasn’t your fault. I miss you.”

There is nothing else to say. She didn’t bring flowers. She should’ve brought flowers, he brought her flowers when she was dying and didn’t know it. She runs her hand over his engraved name before turning and walking out of the cemetery on shaky legs.

Her mother is still sitting dutifully in the car seat; she mentioned something about paying her own respects after Scully was finished. “Dana,” she says when Scully climbs into the passenger seat. “Are you…”

“I think I loved him.”

She doesn’t know where the words come from, but her mother’s face immediately crumples with sympathy. “Oh, Dana,” she says, enfolding her in a hug.

“I didn’t know what to… I don’t… I never…” She’s crying. She wipes the tears from her cheeks with her fingertips.

“Shh, it’s okay,” her mother soothes her, rocking her. “It’ll all be okay.”

She doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. She thinks she loved him and they say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know much of anything anymore.

They drive home and Scully stares at the trees flitting by outside the window. She lets them go out of focus, into blurs of green and brown. It is summer. She holds her breath and pretends Mulder is driving. It’s a case, and they have all the time in the world.

She goes to his apartment when they get to DC, which isn’t really his anymore. It’s in the stages between crime scene and on the market, but his things are still there. Someone will have to sell them. She searches for and fails to find anything not expired in his fridge. She goes in a wide berth around the couch and shakes food in the fish tank. She walks to the couch, heart in her throat.

The rug with the stain on it is gone; it’s just bare floor now. Her stomach twists as she sits on the spot where Mulder took his last breath. Fuck, she thinks. She wants to vomit. I cannot do this, she thinks.

She lies on the couch, lies in his shadow, curled on her side with her arms wrapped around her torso. One night to see if his ghost comes. Maybe that will give her closure.

—

Mulder wakes up to his cell door hanging open.

Dizzy, he stumbles to his feet and towards the door. The hallway outside is empty; no visible traps. If it is a test, he doesn’t care. Either way, they are going to pay for Scully, even if it’s as small as whoever gets caught in the crossfire of his escape. He shoves out of his cell and runs down the hall, his gait clumsy and wobbly; he should’ve eaten, he’ll be pathetic in a fight. But no fight comes. He finds a door and opens it. No alarm goes off. He trails into the summer warmth, running until the building is far behind him.

It’s over and it’s just beginning. He has work to do.

He’s somewhere in Virginia, he figures out quickly by a small convenience store run by a kindly woman who calls him a cab and lends him the money. “I’ll pay you back, I swear,” he says, and she tells him not to worry about it. She probably feels sorry for him.

He’ll go home, he decides; get some sleep, eat something, try to regain something resembling strength. In the morning, he’ll call the Gunmen and figure out their next move. (He should call Maggie and apologize; he should visit Scully’s grave.) The alien told him that the only proof was allegedly dead - him, he assumes. He’ll probably give everyone a heart attack, with his return from the dead. He’ll be lucky if his apartment isn’t a crime scene. (Did Scully think he was dead before she died?)

The streetlights and headlights almost look like blurred stars from the wet windshield of the taxi. Maybe that’s where Scully is.

He doesn’t have his keys, he realizes after he’s already gotten to his apartment, and buzzes his landlord to let him in. Mrs. Alridge seems stunned and genuinely happy to see him. “My goodness, dear, what did you manage to get yourself into?” she says, astonished but not out of the realm of reason astonished - this isn’t his first return from the dead. If things were different, he might stand around and humor her, but they aren’t so he thanks her for letting him in and trails into his dark apartment alone.

It’s not empty. Someone - an anonymous figure - jolts up from their spot on the couch and says, “Who’s there?” in a harsh voice.

His throat closes up. It’s Scully.

It’s Scully, out of her suits, in jeans and a Quantico t-shirt. She turns sharply to face him, eyes furious, and freezes, mouth agape and eyes wide with horror. She’s looking better than she has in months which is impossible because she’s dead and he can’t breathe.

His first thought is that it’s a clone, they’ve sent it here to kill him, this is all some test. But no, it can’t be, because a clone wouldn’t react like this, would they? And besides, he rationalizes frantically, why would a clone be lying here waiting? Did they figure out I escaped fast enough to have her waiting for me? It makes more sense for her to come find me instead of me to find her. He’s grasping at straws and doesn’t care, wants so badly for her to be real. The alien could’ve lied, he thinks. Spender said “perhaps” when I said he killed her, it could be…

“Sc-” he starts.

“Who the hell are you?” Her voice cracks, like she’s going to cry.

He takes a sharp breath. So her mind went to the same place his did.

“van Blundht?” she says sharply. Her eyes are red like she’s been crying. “I know you’re not a clone, that bullshit’s not real, they told me.”

It is real; maybe she’ll know him if he tells her that. “It is real,” he says.

She recoils like she’s been slapped. “What?” she hisses. Her hands are shaking. He’s never seen her like this before.

He amends quickly. “Scully, it’s me,” he says softly, and his own voice cracks (because Jesus Christ, he never thought he’d get to talk to her again). “I’ve been in a Syndicate cell for a few weeks now… they… god, they told me you were dead…” He can’t go on, he’s choking on his words (she’s alive, she’s alive).

Scully is shaking. She wraps both arms tightly around herself. Her jaw clenches, unclenches. “It’s not real,” she says. “It’s not real, Mulder, I have another chip in my neck that’s keeping me alive and there are men out there doing injustices but goddammit, there is no such thing as aliens and you shot yourself…” She makes a small sound he hasn’t heard her make since Melissa. “You fucking shot yourself, you bastard,” she whispers.

“That was… I didn’t…” he tries to explain.

“Fuck you, I know,” she hisses.

He doesn’t know who moves first but they crash into each other. She wraps herself fully around him, nails digging into his back; he buries his face in her neck. She’s crying, he thinks; he thinks he’s crying, too. He holds her tighter. She’s muttering something into his hair, he doesn’t understand it, her words are running together, but he doesn’t care because she’s here. She’s here and…

“Scully?” he rasps against her skin. “Scully, are you sick?”

“Remission,” she mumbles, a little louder so he can hear it. Her hands fist into the back of his shirt.

“Oh my god.” He kisses her collarbone. “God, Scully, I wanted to… I was going to find a cure but they got to me first… I wanted…”

“Shh.” She’s still shaking; she pulls him backwards until they both land on the couch. She doesn’t let go. “It’s okay now,” she murmurs.”You’re back. We’re fine.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“Shh.” She pulls him closer so he’s halfway on top of her, his head on her shoulder. “You’re alive,” she whispers. “You’re alive.”

They lay together in a tangle of limbs and hot breath on the couch. They don’t let go.

#im sorry i just love the [both think the other is dead] trope and then i got this idea and i liked it #and it really worked for this prompt.#suicide mention tw #suicide tw #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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